mascara running down her little 𝓫ambi eyes am i that girl that you 𝓭ream of?

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@dolluvsyun
mascara running down her little 𝓫ambi eyes am i that girl that you 𝓭ream of?
─ ✧ 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐏𝐓. 𝟐
ー this is part 2. read part 1 here if you'd like, but it can be read as a standalone.
PAIRING : roommate!riki × fem!reader × roommate!sunghoon
IN WHICH : After breaking the most important rule by letting Riki fuck you without Sunghoon present, your brother's best friends - and your current roommates - decide to establish new rules for you. Only then they fuck you senseless until you're completely dumb and ruined for anyone else
⚠︎ WARNINGS : explicit content - smut (mdni) including: threesome, possessiveness, dirty talk, degradation, praise kink, spanking, use of vibrator, fingering, oral (giving), face fucking, nipple play, handjob, squirting, unprotected sex, creampies, cumplay, cum eating, risky sex during phone call, sex next to sleeping person, multiple orgasms, aftercare, hickeys.
A few days have passed since Riki fucked you on the couch and Sunghoon claimed you in his room because of the rule you broke. The memory still haunts you constantly.
You step out of the bathroom with damp hair, wearing nothing but an oversized shirt that belongs to one of them—you can’t even tell whose it is anymore. You’d be wearing panties too, if the rule “no panties on weekends” didn’t exist.
You walk through the living room on your way to your bedroom, but they’re already there on the couch, waiting for you.
"There’s our little rule-breaker. Come here, baby." Riki crooks his finger, beckoning you.
Reluctantly, you approach. "What is this about? I know I messed up that day, but—"
Sunghoon cuts you off before you can finish your excuses. 'You broke the main rule like a desperate little whore, so now we’re setting new rules."
"What? That doesn’t make any—" You try to protest again, but Riki interrupts you this time, already dictating the first new rule.
"No touching your own pussy when we’re not around. You can get horny, you can ache, but you wait for us like the good girl you’re trying to be."
"When we want you, you stop whatever you’re doing and make yourself available immediately. No hiding, no excuses," Sunghoon adds.
Riki’s smile turns cruel as he continues. "Every day when you get home, you put on the toy we choose—vibrator, plug, whatever—and keep it in until one of us removes it."
You stare at them in complete shock, even though a dark thrill runs through you. "These are too much. I can’t wear toys all the time… this feels humiliating."
Sunghoon laughs and grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. "You don’t get to negotiate, baby. You broke the trust, so now your body belongs to us. Say you understand and accept the rules."
You whisper softly, knowing you have no choice. "I understand and accept the rules."
"Such a good girl for us," Riki praises. "Now sit on the coffee table, legs spread wide."
You obey, sitting on the edge with your legs parted. Sunghoon helps spread your thighs wider, holding them open while Riki pushes the black remote-controlled vibrator deep inside your pussy, making you whimper. "Oh fuck…"
Chuckling, Sunghoon turns it on to the lowest setting. "Perfect. Now we need to make dinner, remember?"
The kitchen becomes pure, delicious torture.
The toy vibrates steadily inside you as you try to chop vegetables. Riki presses his torso against your back, sliding his hand under your shirt to grope your breast. "How’s that toy treating my baby? Does it feel good?"
You whimper, the knife trembling in your hands. "I’m getting so wet, Riki. I can feel it dripping down my thighs."
Sunghoon approaches from the other side with a wickedly wide smile.
Without warning, he pushes two fingers into your pussy alongside the vibrator. "This sloppy little hole is sucking my fingers in like a desperate whore. You’re dripping all over the kitchen floor just from a toy. How pathetic."
"Hoon… please, it’s too much," you moan, rolling your hips toward his fingers. "I need a real cock, please."
But they don’t listen. They keep you on the edge the entire time, raising and lowering the vibrations while forcing you to describe every sensation so they can laugh at how desperate you sound.
By the time dinner is served, you’re shaking, soaked, and your legs can barely hold you. At the table, they make you sit completely naked between them. The vibrator stays on while they feed you and continue teasing your clit and nipples.
Sunghoon pinches your swollen clit. "Maybe you still don’t deserve our cocks tonight."
You’re practically crying at this point, eyes blurry with frustrated tears. "Please, I need your cocks so bad. I’ll do anything. Just fuck me."
Riki chuckles, clearly loving how broken you look. "She’s so fucking cute when she begs like a needy little slut."
After dinner, they carry you to your bedroom. Sunghoon sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you face-down over his lap, ass up. Riki sits beside him, his hard cock already out, stroking himself slowly.
Sunghoon rubs one of your ass cheeks. "You thought your lesson was over? Sluts like you need to be spanked hard to learn."
He brings his hand down hard on your right cheek. The sharp smack makes you jerk and cry out from the burning sting.
He rubs the red spot gently for a moment, then smacks the left cheek even harder. SMACK!
He continues without mercy, alternating between cheeks with increasingly powerful slaps until your ass is glowing red and throbbing.
He pauses to squeeze the sore flesh, spreading your cheeks and exposing your dripping pussy with the toy still buried inside. "Count them, slut."
"One, two, three…" You moan loudly as the consecutive smacks rain down, setting your entire ass on fire.
Riki, still stroking his cock, watches intently. "Open up, baby." His voice is surprisingly soft as he guides your head toward his length.
You take him into your mouth while Sunghoon keeps spanking you. You suck sloppily, bobbing your head up and down his thick shaft, swirling your tongue around the head every time you pull back. "Suck harder, baby. Yeah… just like that."
Sunghoon’s hand never stops. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! The rhythm matches the pace of your mouth on Riki’s cock.
Sunghoon only stops when Riki fills your mouth with thick, hot cum. It spills down your chin as you try to swallow everything.
Grabbing your hair, Sunghoon pulls your head back. "Good girl. Now it’s my turn. Suck me properly. If you scrape me with your teeth, you already know what happens, right?"
You nod quickly and get on your knees, taking his hard cock into your mouth. You start slow, licking from base to tip, pressing your tongue against the thick head, then suck harder, hollowing your cheeks as you bob.
He grips your hair tighter and starts fucking your mouth at his own rhythm. "That’s it. Choke on my cock."
Riki moves behind you and yanks the vibrator out with a wet sound. Three fingers replace it, pumping deep and curling against your g spot. Soon he pulls his fingers out and thrusts his cock into you in one smooth stroke.
You moan loudly around Sunghoon’s cock, which only makes Riki fuck you harder. He’s not gentle. His deep, punishing thrusts make you see stars. "Fuck, your pussy is creaming so much around me, baby."
Sunghoon fucks your throat until he cums, flooding your mouth with hot spurts. You swallow as much as you can.
He pulls out with a wet pop, finally letting you moan freely as Riki’s cock keeps slamming against your cervix. "Oh my fucking God—"
Riki reaches around and rubs your clit in fast circles, matching the brutal pace of his hips. "Cum with me, yeah? I know you’re close."
The coil in your belly tightens unbearably. The pleasure is overwhelming. You cum hard, your walls clenching violently around him as your whole body shakes.
Riki follows right after, groaning as he fills your pussy with thick ropes of cum. "You did so good for us, my baby."
They don’t give you time to recover. As soon as Riki pulls out, Sunghoon flips you onto your back and throws your legs over his shoulders.
He rubs his thick cock over your cum-slick folds, teasing your clit one last time before burying himself deep. "Fuck, Riki’s load is still so warm inside you."
Riki kneels beside your head, twisting and pinching your sensitive nipples. "Use your hands, baby." You obediently wrap your fingers around his cock and stroke him. "That’s it. Squeeze tighter."
Sunghoon fucks you harder, his cock hitting your g spot with every thrust, driving you into the mattress. The pressure builds differently this time—stronger, deeper.
"Wait, I feel weird… it’s too much, I’m gonna—" you cry out.
Riki laughs and pinches your nipple harder. "Don’t you dare hold back. Squirt for us like the messy little whore you are."
Sunghoon’s relentless thrusts, the way his pelvis grinds against your clit, and Riki’s cruel fingers on your nipples push you over the edge. You explode, gushing clear liquid all over Sunghoon’s cock, stomach, and the sheets. Your body convulses as wave after wave of squirt drenches everything.
"Fuck yes," Sunghoon groans, fucking you through the mess. "That’s so hot, baby."
Riki watches proudly, thrusting into your fist until he cums hard, painting your tits with his load. Sunghoon follows soon after, burying himself deep and filling you again.
But they’re still not done.
Riki lies on the bed and pulls your trembling body on top of him. "Ride me, baby."
You sink down onto his thick cock, moaning at the stretch. You start bouncing, lifting until only the tip remains inside before slamming back down. Riki grips your hips and starts thrusting up to meet you, your tits bouncing with every movement.
Suddenly, your phone rings on the nightstand. It’s your brother, Jake.
Sunghoon grabs it with a cruel smile, flashing his sharp canines. "Answer it. And don’t you dare stop riding Riki’s cock."
You pick up, trying to keep your voice steady while still bouncing. "H-hey Jake…"
Riki deliberately fucks you harder, making it difficult to stay quiet. Sunghoon strokes his own cock, clearly entertained.
Jake talks about a family dinner next weekend. You keep riding, your pussy clenching every time Riki hits deep. "Y-yeah… that sounds good. I’ll be there for sure."
Both boys laugh at your wrecked state as you struggle to sound normal. The moment the call ends, Sunghoon cums across your face and into your open mouth.
Riki grabs your hips tightly and fucks up into you until you cum again, your walls squeezing him. He fills you with another hot load right after.
You collapse onto Riki’s chest, completely destroyed, covered in cum with your pussy overflowing.
Sunghoon leans down and kisses your forehead surprisingly gently. "You did so fucking good for us… such a perfect little slut." Riki carefully lifts you off his cock. A thick string of cum drips down your thighs.
"Look at the mess we made," Sunghoon says, scooping some of the leaking cum and bringing it to your lips. "Open, love."
You part your lips and suck his fingers clean, moaning at the salty taste. "Such a good girl."
He uses his other hand to push the leaking cum back inside you. "We’re gonna keep you full tonight. You deserve it."
Riki licks your breasts clean before pulling you into a deep kiss, making you taste them on your tongue.
"Come on, let’s get you cleaned up properly," Sunghoon says softly.
They carry you to the bathroom. Under the warm water, they wash you gently, whispering praises the whole time. "You were so beautiful riding me while talking to your brother." "I loved how you squirted all over me." "You make us so proud, baby."
They take you back to bed, laying you in the middle between them. Sunghoon spoons you from behind, resting a possessive hand on your stomach. Riki faces you, stroking your cheek and peppering your face with soft kisses.
"You should rest," Sunghoon whispers against your neck.
You fall asleep quickly, feeling warm and protected between them.
A few hours later, in the middle of the night, you wake up.
You shift carefully, trying not to wake them, but Riki is already awake. He smiles sleepily, running his fingers through your hair. "Can’t sleep, baby?"
You nod. "Everything hurts… my whole body."
"Poor baby. Come here."
You lean in and kiss him lazily. His hand starts wandering, caressing your breasts and sensitive nipples, drawing soft sighs from you. Your own hand travels down until you find his half-hard cock. You wrap your fingers around it and stroke slowly, feeling him harden.
The kiss breaks so he can whisper in your ear. "Let me help ease the pain, okay? I’ll be gentle."
When you nod, he lifts your leg and slides his cock between your thighs, rubbing the head against your folds before pushing in slowly, careful not to wake Sunghoon.
You bite your lip hard, trying to stay quiet. "Please… we have to be silent."
He buries his face in your neck, kissing you there as he starts moving. His thrusts are slow and lazy, barely making the bed move. He reaches down to circle your clit gently. "Shhh… just relax, baby." His mouth finds yours, muffling your whimpers.
You move with him in the same slow rhythm. The sex is gentle and intimate. You cum first, your walls fluttering around him. He follows soon after, staying inside you as he kisses your face until you both catch your breath.
You wake up slowly, wincing as you try to move. Your entire body is sore.
Riki is already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching you with a proud smile. Sunghoon stirs beside you, pulling you closer against his chest before sitting up.
You smile sleepily and whisper, "Good morning…"
Riki grins, full of mischief. "Good morning… Sleep well after our last round?"
Your eyes widen. Before you can react, he turns to Sunghoon. "Hey Sunghoon, you missed something. Our girl woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t keep that greedy little cunt to herself."
Sunghoon raises a thick eyebrow as a cruel smile spreads across his lips.
"She was so cute, whispering about how sore she was… so I fucked her slowly right here while you were sleeping like a rock," Riki adds.
Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. "Riki! You weren’t supposed to tell him."
Sunghoon grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him. "Oh? So you were planning to keep it a secret from me? And here I thought you’d learned your lesson."
You whimper, pouting because you already know what’s coming. "It was the middle of the night… I didn’t mean to—"
"On your knees." Sunghoon’s command leaves no room for argument.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
MILF HUNT! ― P.JS
Jay, a favorite among classy wives to hire during the hot summer season for a nice, thorough pool cleaning, seems to have a favorite wife of his own. You. Or the one where Jay was the pain-in-your-ass son of the family you used to babysit for, but now he’s making it his mission to be the pain-in-your-ass pretend husband that you never asked for, but very clearly need.
minors dni
PAIRING ― park jongseong x afab milf!reader
WORDCOUNT― 18.9k
CONTENT― age gap: reader is 29 and jay is 22, milf trope/single mother reader, college pool boy jay (turned part time babysitter), reader has 1 kid and jay really wants to give her another, reader has morals!! jay just doesn’t see it as a moral issue, he is actually very sweet
!WARNINGS! ― age gap, jay is somewhat of a manipulator, he’s gentle but won’t take no for an answer. dub-con in one instance. major breeding kink and kind of a mommy and daddy kink (domesticity), angst regarding reader and her ex husband, reader has huge tits
NOTE ― this was supposed to be a toxic jay fic but it turned into this instead because i love him so bad…………. NOT PROOF READ, mind the typos. i'm insane for him.
nsfw tags under cut
nsfw tags― big dick jay, masturbation, small instance of dubious consent, tit obsessed jay, groping and grinding, mommy/daddy kink, breeding kink, unprotected sex, cum stuffing-ish, pussy eating, fingering, basically it’s jay doing stuff to you, this ain’t smut this is making love, also reader doesn’t shave her coochie and jay fucking loves it.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
Having a stray eye isn’t typically something you afford yourself when it comes to men. Things tend to change with time though, that much you know is true.
It was proven to you for the first time when your ex husband decided to up and leave you three weeks before your due date for a woman–well, girl, fresh out of high school. Years of trust and promises crushed with just a single sentence and a slam of the door. Time must’ve changed you for him to leave so heartlessly. Time must’ve changed him to become so cold.
It was proven again when you were able to heal despite never believing you could. Seconds of pain turned to minutes, to hours. Days. weeks. Months. Years of pain before being able to wake up and feel somewhat numb to it all. Like a flip switch in your head that told you that you can be happy now even if as a single mother. After all, the hard part was over.
It took some four to five years, but it did happen. Time did change you, it healed you, it matured you. As your child grew, so did you. And for the better, you think. You count your blessings of living a life far more lavish than you ever could have anticipated given the circumstances that had been thrown at you. Even to the point of nesting, wanting another child, wanting a big and happy family. But alas, your ex husband had better things to do.
At the end of the day, you’d never be able to call this home yours if you had stayed with your ex husband. He didn’t like this kind of “flashy” lifestyle, and to him, everything you wanted seemed too flashy for him. Perhaps he was right to some extent, as you recognize the brand name goods you now own, solely because you had promised yourself in the depths of your despair that you’ll get to a point in life where you can buy yourself everything you not only need, but want. So, here you are, owning an expensive home, in a nice neighborhood, with a nice car and a nice pool.
Your daughter has everything she could want and need too, aside from a sibling, it’s certainly still more than what you had growing up and it’s all because of you. A fully decorated bedroom drenched in glitter, purples, creams, yellows, and pink, her favorite color. All sorts of play houses, costumes, dolls, a few lego sets, and even some plastic swords and knives for the days she wants to pretend to be her favorite movie characters. Clothes she can grow into, and a nice little fund building up for her as she grows up. Her first car, college, help for a down payment on her own first house.
Both of you have everything you could ever want or need and for that, you’re so proud. Especially knowing your husband would have never believed you could make it this far without him. Still, despite having everything you could ever ask for, there’s something in you that feels empty.
Time changes things.
Time changes a lot of things, you note more than usual, as the man you’ve been ogling for the past three weeks makes himself far more known to you than you ever wished he would.
The interaction with him was always so quick before today and given the fact that he was a complete stranger, you never quite invited him into your home considering–you know, small child and all. You had hired him over text. Jay, your neighbor said his name was. His handsome features didn’t offer you anything more than a clean pool and a wandering eye.
Your neighbor apparently has a friend who has a cousin that has an even nicer pool than you do. Given, it’s only a nicer pool due to the fact that this young man, Jay, tended to it weekly and made damn sure it could be drunk out of if a person had a craving for chlorine.
You feel like an idiot now that it didn’t dawn on you quick enough. Sure, he looked a bit familiar to you but who doesn’t when you’re always out and about seeing so many different faces on a daily basis? His name, Jay, didn’t ring any bells. Now though, the shame of staring at his sweaty pecs and biceps came crashing down the moment you realized who Jay actually is.
He didn’t do a damn thing to remind you either, if anything, all he did was walk around all sweaty in the afternoon heat with his tank top either sticking to him, or off entirely. It appears that you had just been too busy running errands with your child, considering his shifts were always when you were home. Too busy cooking, cleaning, reading, lounging. Too busy looking at…well, not his face.
Too busy to give the man a glance more than that of a slice of pie behind a bakery window.
Jay.
Since fucking when was that his name?
“Park Jongseong.” You whimper near mortified, three weeks too late as you hand him his pay with nervous hands. “Spray-cheese in my hair Jongseong?”
“Ah, was wondering when you’d pick up on that.” He smiles at you with that crooked grin, a knowing look that any man at a bar would give you if he had caught you checking him out. Then, he pockets the hefty amount of cash that you hand to him. “I go by Jay more often these days.” He trails off, an amused smirk half-falling as he looks at your expression of realization. “You can call me whatever you want though.”
He’s well aware of how often you’ve checked him out since he started intentionally taking his clothes off. After all, it’s mid-july by this point and the sun baring down on him doesn’t quite call for a fucking turtle neck sweater. Or a T-shirt, or a tank top, for that matter. It calls for all skin baby, beautifully tanned and toned for you and any of your neighbors to look at if they so wanted to.
Jay doesn’t work out for nothing, after all. Summer after summer, he’s found himself to be quite fond of the rich women that hire him for their pool services. Always wanting an attractive young man to wander around half naked and satiate their lack of sex life with their husbands, or boy-toys, or what have you. He knows all that extra pay isn’t because he does a good job either. He’s gotten winks, small comments, even a few offers of his body for more pay.
He’s turned them all down, of course. For a full-on affair, anyway. Jay has gotten a few blow jobs and quickies as a tip before though, and a lot of that is why he keeps getting referred to more women. Richer women. Never single women.
Until you.
He quite enjoyed catching you looking at him. Especially given the fact that he knew exactly who you were when you introduced yourself to him via text. That little childhood crush on you came back within an instant upon actually seeing you again. Truly, he had forgotten all about you up until that fateful day three weeks ago.
If he’s being honest, he’s been pining something fierce since he first stepped foot on your property. Excitement swelled inside of him just to see you again. To see if you’re still hot, to see how you’re doing, what you’re doing. How your life is going.
He knew you didn’t recognize his nickname through text, and he definitely knew you didn’t recognize him to be eating him up with those eyes of yours either. So, he played along, enjoying it while he could before it would inevitably dawn on you. Still, he remembers you so well from back then. Crazy to know that he rarely thought of you for the past twelve years or so, and how all those little butterflies of his came back in a far more mature way. He was only ten back then, but he’s a man now.
Twenty two and perfectly sound as a man who knows what he likes. The fact that you happen to fall into that category is no fault of his own, honestly. It’s your fault if anyone’s at all. Jay is a man that likes a specific type of woman too. Woman. Not a girl, not a young lady, not a free spirit, nor a prude. He is drawn to the idea of experience, to the idea of settling down. It’s not easy to find that at his age, in college, surrounded by party girls and casual drug use.
And, well, imagine his smile upon seeing your lovely, lavish home with the large pool, no ring on your finger, a whole fucking child, and your motherly instincts when you buckle her into the car for an errand. Oh and the broken fence in the far back of your yard.
You’re a single mom.
A hot single mom who lives lavishly. One who could probably use a man’s help around your house.
He half expected you to be able to recognize him when he appeared for work the first time. He even had a monologue in his head on what to say to you, and how to present himself. You didn’t seem to take notice though, introducing yourself to him as if you hadn’t spent all that time in his childhood home when you were a teenager. Like you never mothered him, or put him to sleep with the soft lul of your voice when you let him watch all those scary movies before bed.
Clearly you’re too busy experiencing life to notice the way he fawns over you too. Hating how you’re more reserved than the other lavish, fixed-up women. You seem to have standards, or maybe it’s just priorities ... that's so hot. Truly, it only makes him want you more because by now, the other women would already be rubbing all over him. The ones who shouldn’t be wanting him the way they do. So, yes, he’s always stealing glances at you with sparkling dark eyes, fantasizing in his head that this pool is his to clean now, because that’s what a good man would do for you, right? With him around servicing your pool and lawn, you’d never need to hire or spend money on another broke ass college student again.
Yes. That’s how quickly he fell into this infatuation solely because you looked at him like you want it without realizing who he was. Hell, without realizing how perfect you are in terms of what he wants.
God, how are you still single?
Like, why do you have a child and a house so beautiful without a man wandering around doing all of this work for you? Not that you couldn’t do it on your own, it’s just, you clearly have the means to make a man do as you please. Why haven’t you?
You happen to fall almost perfectly into the categories of what he’s looking for. Save for the fact that now you recognize him as that kid you used to babysit rather than the man who tries to be sexy while cleaning your pool. Which is a fucking shame, if he’s being honest, to be written off as that same ten year old child rather than a fucking man who very clearly has needs and desires.
The point is– Jay wants you and he parades around your pool for you to look at him. So what if you used to babysit him? It’s not like you’re an old swamp-hag trying to lure him with candy. You’re just…a woman. And he’s just a man.
“Well, thank you for cleaning again,” You trail off in an awkward tone, shifting your eyes to anywhere but him. He watches you though, smiling a smile you know all too well from his childhood antics. It must mean something different now, or maybe not. “I guess I’ll see you next week?”
“Well, actually,” Jay offers, “Would you be opposed to–” You cut him off instantly with an awkward wave of your hand.
You don’t know why you make assumptions, maybe from that damned smile on his face, but you do recall your ex husband reminding you time and time again that it’s one of the things he hated about you.
Assumptions. Always thinking the worst, or perhaps the most filthy of situations and expressions. To be fair, you feel guilty about how you’ve been looking at him, you can’t help but panic trying to pretend like it never happened, and that he never saw it happen.
“I’m not interested, Jongseong.” You respond hastily, pressing your thumb to your bottom lip to bite the skin on it, keeping your eyes away from him with the awkward words. After all, he knew who you were this whole time and paraded around like that?
Even before recognizing him yourself, you know men well enough to know when they’re trying to flaunt. Is it so wrong to assume?
“Interested in what?” Jay tilts his head knowingly, seeing the way you buckle under the guilt of staring at the very man you used to tuck into bed every night. He can see the way you try to push those sexual thoughts you had away in the quick rejection to a simple assumption.
“I was just going to ask if you want me to fix your fence.”
Ah, you did get ahead of yourself through the guilt, and you’re far too aware of it as you draw your eyes back to him and note the expression on his face. Amused, maybe a bit of concern in his eyes, even?
“Ah, um–” You start, trailing your eyes down your fence line never once noticing a break in it. Jay is quick to point though, leaning to you with a whisper of “right there.” And well, you did not need to hear that tone in his voice the way you just did.
God, it’s so awkward.
“Well, how much would that cost me?” You question with an empty voice, staring at the broken fence.
“Free.” He uses the same tone, leaning away from you now and smiling wide. “That is, if you provide lunch.”
Well, despite the awkwardness, that break over there would cost you a pretty penny to fix, and your daughter needs the safety of playing in her own yard without random animals or worse, people, making their way in. Plus, you’re quite fond of saving money. How else would you be here if you weren’t good at it? And now, given that you’re most definitely not interested in Jay, what's the harm in making a few sandwiches for someone you already know well enough? It’s not like you’ve never made him lunch before.
The awkwardness will pass and your guilt will subside. You both will laugh at it over a cold glass of iced lemonade, surely. It’s not like you realized who he was anyway, it’s not like you’re just gonna keep looking at him like that. You should just push forward and it’ll all be fine.
“Hell, I’d even watch the kiddo so you can have a break every now and then.” He watches your reaction, wanting to ask so many questions about why you’re single, who the father is, where he is, why he isn’t here. “After all, I learned quite a bit from you.”
For a second you consider that too.
And there’s three reasons as to why you should. The first being that you were literally just looking for a new child care facility due to learning of the staff coming to work while sick. Your poor daughter came home with a fever just last week, and you’ve had little luck in finding a place with the same educational benefits for her.
The second being that, well, while you’re not hurting for cash or anything, it wouldn’t hurt to be able to put a little more back for her college fund. Or for fun little vacations.
And lastly, despite your guilt of lusting over someone you shouldn’t have, you know Jongseong and you know his family even better. No background check would be needed, your daughter could be in the comfort of her own home rather than a classroom setting that she’s sure to see for at least twenty years of her life in the future.
So, yes. You consider it instantly, and Jay sees it.
You only know of the childhood version of him and, well, the slutty pool-side version of him apparently. If only you knew of that other side of him and how fond he is of watching his own younger cousins. How good he is with children, and how much he clings to the idea of being a father one day.
Jay is great with kids, with or without them having a hot mom.
And well, he knows that he’s fond of looking at you at least. Besides, as long as you can work with his class schedules, he’d be willing to do just about anything to play pretend-husband, even if you’re unaware of it.
“Is that so?” You finally ask, curious eyes looking at him with a furrowed brow. “Shouldn’t you be out living the life? College parties and such?” You add, wondering why such a great deal has managed to flop down on your lap. The idea of even cheaper childcare without the risk of unvaccinated children, and sick caretakers being far too good of a deal to pass up.
“Well, yeah I guess.” He shrugs, leaning backwards to stretch and roll his shoulders. “Not really my scene though. I have classes Monday and Wednesday all day, Tuesday and Thursdays my classes are online. If you can work around that, I’d rather just be making money and chilling.”
You think about it just for a second more when he continues.
“I can be here on weekends too. Maybe you should be the one out relaxing and having some drinks.”
“Well, I don’t quite need that, or for you to be here on weekends.” You think as you say it, knowing you have given up on going out to try and meet men two years ago. “I could pay you though, let’s say, thirty an hour?”
Well, shit, that’s not too bad at all, especially considering he’s about to give up on cleaning the pools of a few women in his contacts for this. It’s a major pay cut, but still enough to get by comfortably if you’ll have him multiple times a week. That plus the pool cleaning money? And free lunch?
“Oh, you don’t go out at all? I don’t see why not, could probably get a man in no time–” Jay ignores the wage offer and pushes to note the singlehood he had been noticing for the past three weeks. “and the pay is fine.”
“Ah, well, the dating pool isn’t so great in this neck of the woods.” You scratch the back of your neck when you say it. “That aside, I'll have her in day care on the days you can’t be here, but it really would be a big help. Thank you for the offer, Jongseong. And for the fence too.”
He watches you with a firm nod, shoving his hands into the pockets of his basketball shorts, still entirely shirtless in front of you.
“And the pool.” You add quietly after a moment.
“I think you’d be surprised about the dating pool.” He smiles as he pushes the subject back to what you had previously said, hoping you believe those words before continuing. “So, when do you want me to start?”
“Is tomorrow too soon? You’re okay to set up here with your online classes?”
“Tomorrow is perfect.” He smiles.
“I’m sure she would be so happy knowing she won’t be going to daycare–” You clap, feeling a bit less awkward despite the boldness of the man in front of you. You’re sure he’s just teasing you for knowing you checked him out. “I know I am.”
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
It’s a little too perfect, actually.
After that first day of watching your child and making a lazy attempt at “fixing your fence,” he’s settled in like it’s home. He wishes it was, with the lavish lifestyle in a house far too pretty compared to his own living space with piles upon piles of laundry he’s too lazy to pick up for himself.
It’s different for you though. Different when he’s here.
Truly, he feels like he’s living the life after a couple of weeks with decent pay and a comfy space to do his homework. He watches your child, which is arguably the hardest part of the job but she’s well behaved for him. In fact, she seems to have taken a shine to him.
He’s starting to be very intentional with taking far too long to work on your fence too, and still maintaining your pool. He’s trying to drag this out for as long as he can. Even if just to see if you still look at him when you come home the same way you did before recognizing him. You never do though. When his shirt is off and he’s wiping his forehead in the sun, you don’t look at him anymore.
Hell, he’s even considered breaking things in your home just to give himself more jobs to do. More things that make him feel needed, like a husband. More things that you thank him for fixing, even if it breaks again two days later.
And ah, the food in your fridge is always free reign to him, that large television in the living room too. God, sometimes he dreads going home, and by sometimes, he means all the time. Who in their right mind would ever fucking want to live outside of this lifestyle? He really can’t believe you’re single, nor can he believe that he has the opportunity to be in your home, close to you. It shouldn’t take too long now to convince you, right? That you don’t necessarily have to be single? That you need him around to live even more comfortably?
In short, Jay is in his head about how he’s practically just roleplaying as your stay-at-home husband before having to go back to his shitty little apartment and remind himself that he’s just a fucking college student with no interest in the people on campus. And like, even with the way you come home from work, all groggy and exhausted on the days he’s there, you always thank him before giving him his pay. What he likes best about those nights is when you’re too exhausted to even pay him and you promise to do it next time.
In his mind, that’s you promising to see him again.
He could give less of a shit about the pay at this point, as long as he gets to be in this house, smelling your favorite candles and dish detergents, seeing you, being a semi-father to a child who deserves more love than the two of you combined can give…he’ll fucking do anything you want for free.
It’s difficult sometimes, like he really can’t help it. Some days wandering around this house and imagining how the two of you could have landed on buying it together. How the rooms would be organized if he were here from the start. Claiming his spot on your couch like any dad would. Playing dolls with your daughter, laughing with her, letting her paint his nails and put his hair in little pigtails. He even cleans your pool as if it were his own, meaning, he genuinely cleans it.
He has taken it upon himself to mow your lawn, confusing the yard workers that you apparently hired years ago. Did he accidentally fire them? Maybe, but any good husband would save you money, right? He checks your mail, waves to your neighbors and lets them make assumptions.
And every single fucking night it’s harder and harder to go back home.
Especially after a full day of playing dad then seeing you come back home so tired. Turning off that switch in his head isn’t easy. He wants to greet you like the husband you don’t have. He wants to ease your hard days in so many ways. Tell you he’s proud of you, that you still look so pretty after an exhausting shift of whatever the fuck you do. He wants to serve you dinner, run you a bath, fix your hair, lay you down– oh, he’s fantasizing again. Unfortunately, he has to settle with seeing the relief on your face when he lets you know in a soft voice that he’s cooked dinner and he will heat it up for you before leaving, kiddo is in her room sleeping, no dishes in the sink, and laundry is folded and put away.
He loves the appreciation in your eyes, and sometimes even sees a glint of sadness. He can tell you wish you had this from a person who isn’t here for pay. Someone who loves you, and loves your child, and feels joy in making your life easier.
Fuck, if only you knew.
And you’d be lying if you tried to say Jay isn’t a godsend to you on the days he babysits. Many times you find yourself wishing he’d just move in and do everything that you can’t do. You’d pay him well, give him a guest room, whatever. But it’s just…not viable to support a full time employee like that, nor is it fair to your daughter.
She needs a parent, not a paid college student who needs some extra cash. You have to be that parent, you have to make time for her and witness all of her joys in life. You have to protect her and never bring in faces of men who claim to want to be a father, only to run and break her heart more than your own.
For now, you settle with this godsend of a little shit you used to babysit. Still you can barely believe that’s the same person, but again…time changes things. And thankfully, the awkwardness of what you did has died down drastically.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
Today, you’re more thankful for Jay than you have been previously. After a heavy workload has been lifted off your back with the approval of this project, you need a night out. For the first time in years, you’re giving yourself a night out, all because you have someone you can trust to be here for your daughter.
He was so understanding when you called, even happy to come over right then and there to put her to bed and mostly just house-sit for the night. Even without an end time for him, and even without asking for extra pay, he just…accepted with an understanding tone and that stupid breathy chuckle he gives to you when you ask for favors. “What? You need me there right now? I’m putting on my shoes.” He had said.
It’s the fact that now, as he sits on your couch looking at you in your chosen outfit– he seems a little off. Maybe it’s because you asked him where the best spots in town are because it’s been so long since you’ve gone out, or maybe he just feels awkward seeing so much skin on your body.
To be fair, he didn’t realize you were going out out. He thought that maybe you were gonna go stay with a friend to celebrate and have a drink or two.
In reality though, he’s just awestruck. Already you look great even after your busy days at work but…this is a different level. The way your tits look in that push-up bra and tiny ass top, when he’s used to seeing you head out in some sort of business casual outfit without an ounce of skin showing save for your ankles or wrists…jesus. He’s struggling more than usual to keep himself calm around you, hopping up on one leg when you walk away to try and adjust the chub in his pants, and releasing a small sigh before you’re looking at him again.
His skin feels like it’s on fire knowing you’re going out looking like that.
“You sure you're okay to sleep over? I figure it’ll be easier since I’m not sure when I’ll come home, or if I come home.” You smile with a wink, your stomach in knots over the two shots you’ve taken for the first time in years. “I can call my friends and tell them not to come if you’d rather focus on your studies.”
Jay shakes his head, waving his hands in defense for you as if he didn’t just see the way your tits bounce and squish against your shirt with each move you make.
“No, no! Go on, have fun.” He says, encouraging you to go out despite hoping you come home with no luck of finding a man out there.
Just, look at you. Fuck, he’s staring again. He hates knowing that he could be one of the guys at whatever bar or club you’re landing on tonight. He could be the person that makes sure you don’t come home, getting to plant his face right there. He could be whatever you want him to be if you’re looking like that.
But no, he has to play husband again, which is normally something he’s all too excited to do. Tonight though, he feels like a fucking cuckold. After everything he does for you, after not mentioning how you’ve skipped a few of his payments, after slaving away for hours over your pool, your household chores, fixing and breaking that fucking dishwasher, cooking you dinner every single night he’s here just to make sure you have a meal when you get off of work…you imply you may not come home tonight?
And you’re dressed like that?
And you’re…
God, you just look so good right now. It pains him to know you didn’t dress like this for him, the only man who cares enough to make your life easy. He’s not mad at you, per se, but he’s pissed that you don’t see him as an option despite showing you time and time again that not only is he an option, but the right choice.
This is what you look like when you want to impress a man? This is how you act? How you talk? Fuck, god, fuck– maybe he’s just too deep in his one-sided roleplay but it really, really fucking feels like he’s watching his woman go off and look for someone else to fuck.
“Thank you, Jongseong,” You smile, walking over to him with a saunter in your step and a gentle smile across your lips.
He’s never heard you speak his name so sensually, the way his cock twitches forces him to wince away from you. He’s never even seen you saunter before. Fucking hell, somehow it feels worse seeing you act like this after how many times he’s imagined it, all alone in his room.
A slow walk from you, with the strap of your shirt slipping off your shoulder, fat tits threatening to spill out, lifting the hem of your skirt, or dress, or whatever you’re wearing in his fantasy at that point. Your voice, so soft, so sexy. And you’re practically bringing his fantasy to life right now, except he knows you’re going to fucking walk away from him like this. Into the fucking arms of some random dude at a club.
Probably some loser he’s seen on campus too.
“It means a lot.” You add, popping a quick, platonic kiss to the top of his forehead.
Ah, lipgloss. That little kiss on him is enough to ignite him to the point of no return. He almost wants to skip the part of asking you not to go and straight up just beg that you pick him, that you choose him. It’s not just your home, or the luxuries that come with it. It’s you that he wants. You’re the fucking luxury and you’re just gonna go to some sticky-floored club and pretend he’s not clearly checking you the fuck out right now? Like he’s not about three seconds from dropping to his knees just to see you from the angle you deserve?!
“It’s no problem.” Jay relents, dropping himself onto your couch instead and adjusting his body to sink deep into the cushions just to keep himself from arguing against everything he’s giving you permission to do right now.
Hah. Permission.
“Be safe.” He adds in an even more monotone voice. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
And god, he seethes in his thoughts after you close that door and hop into the car with your friends. You don’t look like a mother tonight, and he wonders if you’ll be upfront and forward with anyone you intend to hit on too. Probably not. He’s well aware of the men in this city, after all, he’s one of them.
It’s really not something he can control after seeing you like that either. Your child is already in bed and he’s just sitting here on your couch with a throbbing, fucking weeping cock thinking about you. What’s stopping him from taking care of it? You’re not here, after all.
You’re not fucking here. But everything about you is.
And that’s how he finds himself in your bedroom for the first time, barely making it a foot into the room before closing the door and dropping to the floor. The scent in your room is different. It’s feminine, gentle, like the energy is kissing him all over and sending goosebumps straight to the head of his cock. He couldn’t even pull it out, already holding his breath with his hand down his pants, vigorously trying to get what he wants so badly yet knowing that his hand will never compare to you.
And it’s here where he feels like a husband. Spilling against his pants with a silent, choked back sob as he stares forward at your bed, and the way you didn’t make it this morning. It’s messy, and he wants to be in that mess of sheets with you more than anything.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
Jay hates that he’s now forced to get used to your late night ventures. Every weekend now. Every. Fucking. Weekend. You ask if he’s willing to stay over so you can go unwind, and despite his better (or worse) judgment, he accepts. The only solace he finds in these ventures is knowing you consistently come back home right after usual closing times, and you’re mostly sober. Sometimes a bit whiny that you’re not lucking out, worrying that maybe you’re too old now, or maybe you’re just not as desirable. There have even been a few times where you’ve exposed your ex husband during your rants, giving Jay little hints to follow as to why you’re single, and how he left you.
Still, he knows in your tipsy state that you usually wouldn’t talk about these things with him, but he’s all too happy to get the details once you come home. Mostly because it calms his rising rage at how you’re doing this to not only him, but yourself. It’s mostly because you’re technically coming home to him though.
And every single time, you go back to your bedroom to grab his payment even though it could wait until morning, considering he’s been sleeping in the guest room– all he can think about is how he’s been in your room. He’s gotten off countless times by now by the smell of your room alone, still barely able to even reach your bed to lay in it himself for a better experience. God, he’s probably memorized each little fray in your carpeted bedroom floor by now with how much he’s zoned out on it mid-jerk off session right there on his knees at your door.
He’s truly pathetic for you.
This time though…three in the morning has passed and normally you’d have been stumbling through the door an hour ago. Normally, he’d be fighting back the need to tell you that you’re beautiful, not too old, and entirely desirable. Normally, he would be fisting his cock again in your guest room before sleep, getting off on the idea that he can cum in a house that you live in, smothered by the sheets you meticulously picked out to match the walls of the room. Moaning for you, practically crying for you to let him do it all.
Have you really done it this time? Gone off with some man? Are you getting railed right now in some hotel, or car, or someone’s shitty man-cave? God, his mind is racing, both aroused at the fact that you must be horny to be constantly wanting to go out like this, but equally as devastated because like…he’s right here.
Who the fuck cares if you babysat him? He’s a man. No longer that child who sprayed cheese in your hair or dumped salt into the bag of sugar. He’s a fucking man, cooking you dinner when you work, parenting your child, cleaning your house, maintaining your pool and fence….He does everything for you, why the fuck don’t you see it?!
Click.
Jay’s ears perk up instantly at the sound. He sits up on the couch from his depressed slump of scrolling through his phone, quickly fixing his hair and clearing his throat.
In you stumble, right into the little entryway table with a whisper-screams “Shit, fuck–”
Jay looks at your state before standing to his feet and rushing to you, helping you balance on your feet despite your footing not quite being grounded even with his help. You lean on him closely, letting out an alcohol scented sigh.
His nostrils flare as he holds his breath, feeling your tit press against his arm, smelling the drinks, the sweat, and the dulled perfume on you. Then, a hint of something else. Musk.
You’ve been with a man.
He holds back a gesture at the way you lean on him. Nothing more he could want at this moment but to hold you tightly and tell you that he’s got you, despite the panic in his stomach at the way he sniffs out another man. Out of lust, love, desperation, frustration. This is the closest you’ve been to him for this long. You feel clammy and cold, a clear indication that you drank far, far too much. Your tank top is sticking to you, your eyes are a bit glassy–
“You’re late.” He says shortly.
“Late?!” You raise your voice before looking at him with drowsy eyes, furrowing your brow. “I don’t have a curfe-”
“Shh–” He shushes you, helping you get to the living room. “She’s sleeping and you’re going to have her make a fuss about waking up.”
You giggle to yourself as he drops you onto the couch, now aware that yes, you are not a single college student anymore. You’re a single woman. A fucking mother.
You should’ve just gotten a hotel for the night and slept there to dream a little longer.
“Right.” You laugh, slouching, spreading out wide against the couch and trying to fix your gaze on him. “Why’re you still awake?”
Jay fixes his eyes on you, swallowing around a lump in his throat. The way you’re slouching…seemingly forgetting that you’re wearing a skirt and basically flashing your panties at him. God, the things could do to you right now. The things he could get away with if he wanted to. He tries to shake those thoughts for now, and instead, inspects you from head to toe.
He’s never seen you look so relaxed. Chest raising and falling with each breath, hair a little messy, lipstick stains smeared on the outsides of your lip line. He chooses to ignore the faint swell against your neck indicating someone has been sucking on you. But, well, he can’t ignore it. Both his cock and heart aches at the very thought.
“You’ve been kissing?” Jay tries to ask nonchalantly.
“A lot more than that–” You smile, feeling a flush cross your cheeks before the disappointment hits you square in the gut.
Jay watches your face fall, and he mimics it by falling onto the couch and sitting by your head…you know, allowing you to lay your head on him if you want to. You’d probably not notice his arousal anyway, given your state.
“Oh?” He asks gently, the disappointment now showing plainly on not just your face, but his own.
“Thought I was gonna go home with him, turns out he decided to be done after a blowjob in the parking lot.”
Oh, the way his blood boils. Not for the fact that you were used or rejected, but for the fact that you found someone that you were interested in and genuinely intended to leave your home life in his hands for however fucking long. Really? Just gonna leave him here all alone? Like he couldn’t do better for you?
“It’s for the better–” Jay says as he shivers with irritation, struggling to keep his façade up. It’s definitely not what you wanted to hear, and definitely not what you’d have expected to hear from a college guy at all either.
“This happened last time too, except he didn’t even get me to the parking lot.” You huff, unaware of how much you’re sharing right now.
He bites back the anger yet again, inhaling deeply before releasing a calming breath through his nose just to contain it. So…it has happened more than once?
“Why don’t you let me take you out someday?” He says suddenly, well aware that you’ll probably never remember he said it in the first place.
If anything, he’s testing the waters for his own sake. He’d hate himself forever if he didn’t at least take advantage of this moment a little bit.
“Then who will watch my daughter?” You respond in slurred speech, not even comprehending who it is that’s asking you this question right now. Not even thinking about your history with him, or the family ties.
He, on the other hand, is quite entertained by the way you don’t bring the history up like he expected. His cock twitches at it, bumping your head just a bit, not enough for you to notice apparently. Fuck, it would be so easy for him to pull it out right now, and just…tap your lips with it.
Maybe you’d even open your mouth for him.
“I’ll skip class on a Wednesday, we can go while she’s still in daycare.” He continues through an almost-moan, encouraging the conversation to stay positive.
“Jongseong–” You slur before clearing your throat and sitting back up in a dizzy show of how drunk you are. “You know I can’t do that. It’s too weird.”
In all fairness, you know he has like…a thing for you. After all, why else would a college dude be spending his weekends here babysitting your kid? It’s not like you haven’t noticed the way he checks you out before you go out for the night. Why would he do all of this if he didn’t have some sort of attraction to you? Sure, you’re taking advantage of it as best as you can despite how you didn’t recognize him at first.
Despite how deep down, you very well know how attracted to him you are too.
“Only because you make it weird.” Jay rolls his eyes as he looks at you, spreading his legs out to adjust his comfort, noting the way you glance down to his lap and see it. “I’m a grown man–” He starts, spreading his legs wider, pressing his cock against his pants to the point you can practically see the outline. ”you know this.” He continues, trying to be bold now by reaching forward and moving a strand of your hair from your cheek.
“You’ve seen it.”
You freeze, suddenly feeling entirely too sober to be talking about this kind of thing with him. With Jongseong. God, his mother would fucking kill you if she found out he’s in your house while you’re out trying to get fucked by whoever is willing to love you temporarily.
Jay sees you thinking though, and continues to take the advantage now that he’s feeling brave. Now that you’ve seen the twitch in his pants and haven’t moved off the couch, or told him to go home.
“I saw you watching me when I was cleaning your pool, multiple times.” He whispers snidely. “You stopped when you realized who I am. Why?”
“Jongseo–…” You trail off. “You know this isn’t okay. What would people think of me? There are rules, and I will not go down this route with you.”
A rush of air hits your face and suddenly, warmth hits your cheek. You feel him so close, closer than ever before. It’s dizzying. Jay is over you, hovering with one hand ghosting over your hip.
“You want to though, don’t you?” He gets even closer now, darting his eyes down at your chest and unable to pull them away. “Knowing how good I am with your daughter? How well I clean up? How strong I can be–”
You swallow hard. For a moment, you almost lean into him. You almost melt right then and there, the need for intimacy so heavy inside of you after being left high and dry, knowing that you’d accept it from just about anyone at this point. But– this is Jongseong. You can’t.
You really, really, can’t.
The look of disappointment in his eyes kind of hurts when you’re pushing him away. That playful smirk falling faster than you think your sanity did the day your ex husband left you.
“This–” You pause, realizing all too well how he’s used your drunken state against you for this conversation. “This is your last paycheck.”
“I don’t think so.” The smirk is back now, except…it’s different. “You know I promised her a Barbie dream house next weekend.” He smiles fully now. “She’s a bit attached, you know, even called me dad by accident the other day.”
You’re shocked.
“She…what?”
“You know she’s attached to me already, don’t be selfish.” Jay shrugs at you while rolling his eyes, leaning against the couch again and turning his head to look at you. You try to pretend that you don’t see his hand slightly groping himself. “Guess she misses having a father around. Can’t be too easy for her, especially with her mom going out every weekend trying to fuck guys who would run the second they learn about her.” He ticks his tongue now, as if he’s pitying you more than your daughter.
“Jongseong, that’s not–”
“That’s not, what?”
“That’s not what I’m doing…” You lower your voice to a near whisper, upset that you couldn’t even enjoy the drunken state you came home in, now feeling entirely too sober, and a little sick in the stomach.
“Oh, so you haven’t gotten laid since I’ve been here–” He leans closer again now, trying to resume what he was going to do just moments ago. “They haven’t even touched you, have they?” His hands move to your thigh and presses down as if to hold you in place. “Why?”
“I try not to just sleep with anyone.” You lie, knowing you’d sleep with anyone just to feel wanted for once. And you’re trying to ignore his hands on you right now, trying desperately not to like it. It’s the first time a man has touched you in this house since your husband left you. As expected, you almost feel your knees buckle despite sitting comfortably. “I have to be careful, you know?”
“Mm, I know more than you think.” He leans into you, hovering yet again with his upper half over you as he whispers it. “Don’t need to be careful around me though.” He adds, this time trailing his voice right against your jaw, up to your ear. “You must be so frustrated.” He ghosts his lips there for a moment, waiting for you to push him away, or say something, anything, really.
“Why would I be frustrated?” You lend the smallest of whispers, feeling the goosebumps against your skin rising at the mere thought of giving in just this once.
“Not having anyone to please you.” He adds now, landing a very slight kiss right under your lobe. “Always being used for someone else’s pleasure, maybe?”
You almost nod, feeling weak in your state and thoughts swimming with what if’s, morals, and anxieties. You’re frozen in place despite knowing a simple push would create the distance you need to breathe.
“Your fingers will never be enough, will they?” He continues, essentially chaining you to this couch with his words alone. You can’t help the fight in your head, you need to feel wanted, and you want so badly to feel needed. “I bet you wish someone would love you for all that you are, not all that you have.”
It’s silent as you feel his lips press down again, this time moving his body over you almost entirely. You can feel the couch dip a bit as he places all of his weight on a knee, moving his other leg to stand between yours.
“You must need someone to fill that hole in you by now, right? That pussy of yours?” He continues, his tone a bit more snide now as you give in to his hold with shaky breaths.
And truthfully, Jay has never let himself come on this strong towards someone before. Usually the wives are doing this to him. They’re trying to convince him, encourage him. He’s so fucking horny right now though, with that daze in your eye, your legs spread around his knee, blinking up at him like a cheating wife. As if you want to apologize, as if you need him to forgive you. Need him to make everything better.
“I heard you the other day, you know, talking to your mom–” He smiles, tilting his head to look into your eyes, seeing a small shine in them. “You want another, don’t you?” He continues, moving his lips now just over yours as he, now, presses you firmly against the couch. “You must hate knowing that I’m the only person who can do that for you.”
“God, Jay.” You immediately buckle, not realizing how suddenly he’s not Jongseong at this moment. He’s someone else. He’s Jay.
“Why don’t you go for girls on campus?! Don’t you have parties to be attending on the weekends instead of being here, trying to parent my chil–”
“Lower that voice of yours,” He whispers, eyes now hooded as he looks at you. “You know she’s asleep.”
God, he’s right.
“Besides, why would I want them when I have you right here under me–” He tilts his head. “Looking so disappointed that you like it, too.”
Right then, your moral code shines into the front of your mind at the consideration of giving in.
A weight on one shoulder chanting, “No! What would people say?! What would people think?!”, and then little to no weight on the other shoulder, echoing in a sweet song of “Finally! Someone who will love you! Finally! Someone! Finally!!! Finally!”
You pause, not knowing at all what to do. Your body wants to push him away, even your mind and soul wants you to push him away. But you know deep down, you’d only push him away to see if he will try again. No man has ever tried for you like this, and you need more of it.
To feel desired after so long of neglecting this side of yourself, it’s enough to make a person lose their footing in reality. To give in to just about anyone willing to look at you the way he is right now. It’s the fact that you go out to try and find it, and even with this alone, Jay has satisfied you more than any stranger promising to make you cum.
“I…don’t know what to say–” You stutter. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I do.” Jay smiles, glancing at your lips before meeting your eye again. “Why not hand over the reins and relax for a–” His hand dips under your skirt, cupping your sensitive cunt in one hand alone. “Ah, I knew it.” Then, his other hand finds purchase on your chest, lifting your heavy breast in his hand with a blatant, hard squeeze.
After a sharp inhale you look away from him in shame, afraid to admit it despite the truth of it leaking through your panties and onto his palm.
“Wet.” He smiles, no longer looking at you but flicking his eyes back and forth from between your legs, and to your chest. Still, he fumbles around the wet spot, wanting so badly to lift these fingers to his mouth and taste. He’s fantasized about it, about how you’d taste, how warm it would be, what your pussy would feel like against his fingers–
And just as he’s pushing your panties to the side, pads of his fingers touching right where you need them with his eyes hooded and watching you closely, something snaps.
You push his hand away, only to feel him push back, holding you down with more force, gripping your tit tighter, sliding his fingers in before massaging the slit with a blatant moan on his lips. Then, you try again, shoving him back only to hear him chuckle and continue his antics until– you jump to your feet. It felt too good, too grounding to have him touching you like this. You nearly stumble back over the coffee table, but you manage to stand tall and firm despite the fact that even though your mind feels sober, your body is fucking wasted.
“Jongseong.” You argue immediately, using his name the same way you did when he was a child. “Stop.”
He throws his hands up in defense, raising his brows in surprise.
“I–” He pauses, staring at you. “I thought you were enjoying it, my mistake.”
It’s the fact that you were. You were enjoying it too much, and there would have been no defending your actions if you had given in to the feeling.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid. That’s what you are.
Your ex husband was right all along. Out of everything you’ve accomplished since your heart was shattered, ripped to shreds, stomped on, you’d think it would take a lot more to break you.
“You ask for too much.” Your ex husband had said once. “You can’t even stand to be alone for one day.” He had said a year or so later. Small digs on who you are and what you need sprinkled into small arguments, only to come more and more from the lips that you kissed and promised to kiss until you die. Until all of his words were to make you feel inadequate. Until everything he said to you stuck with you, forcing your confidence to bury itself six feet under.
Are you to blame? As it stands, maybe. Why else would you be allowing yourself to consider it? Consider Jongseong, you mean. Never in your life would you have considered him of all people to be the one that you need.
Never in your life would you have thought he’d be interested in a woman like you, in a situation like yours, with a child. Why did that night with him stick in your head more than every single mean thing your ex husband said to you? Why did his words seem more believable?
Because you were drunk at the time? Wet, neglected, and drunk?
Then why is it that you’re sitting here on your day off with your beautiful, bright-eyed daughter rummaging through your purse for whatever catches her eye….and you’re thinking about him? About what he's doing right now, how he’s feeling, if he’s eaten.
Why is it that you’ve gone the entire week ignoring his texts, asking if you need him to come resume his job as babysitter? Why the fuck do you want to accept after how he took advantage of your state of mind? After he came onto you and tried to manipulate you?
Despite all of his words ringing true in the back of your head. That was a dirty tactic he pulled on you. Yet, still…you want him back, and god fucking dammit you could cry knowing your daughter called him “dad.” You hadn’t believed him at first, but after this week alone it slipped from her mouth several times.
“He’s not your dad, baby, that’s just Jay.” You remember correcting her more than once, and all she responded to you with was a confused expression.
“Why not?” Is what her little voice gave back to you after her child-like brain decided it was fed up with you correcting her very right assumption of the guy who promised her the Barbie Dream House.
Why not?
Why not?
Well, if you could have an adult conversation with a five year old it would be much easier to answer that. Because he sprayed cheese in your hair. Because you were seventeen and his babysitter when he was ten years old. Because you ogled him without recognizing him as your pool boy. Because of a lot of things.
“Uncle Jay.” You finally corrected her again.
She shook her head, and continued doing and saying as her little mind pleased. It made you miss having a father around for her though. You think she needs it more than you do.
And that fucking Barbie Dream house is what brings Jay back.
Right at your doorstep today, with a gentle knock to the door and a timid smile on his face. He doesn’t even look at you when you open the door, and instead crouches down in front of you with the big, flashy box. He ignores you, tilting himself to look past you and straight at your daughter.
You hold your breath when she runs to Jay, arms spread open and laughter shrieking in your ears. Your heart aches so much at this moment.
Given your work schedule, you’d never gotten to see them interact much. He always came over as she was eating her breakfast, and you always came home after she was put to bed. You guess it’s fair that they have a bond now. She doesn’t even run at you like she does for Jay. In fact, the only time she ever did was when she had a bad day at daycare and had a tummy ache.
She runs to you when she needs you, but she runs to Jay like she wants to. Like she genuinely is attached to him, and his kind smile, and his eyes, and probably that warm embrace that you’ve never let yourself experience.
You watch them, not allowing yourself to melt at the moment because you did not invite him over, nor did you give consent to bring that fucking doll house here. But you can’t say no now, as she clings to his leg when he stands up and looks at you with an almost irritated glint in his eye.
His eyes trail all over you briefly too, as if checking for any new spots or marks that a man could have put on you. You feel seen, dipping your head to not meet his eye and scratching the back of your neck as if to hide a spot there. There isn’t a mark, it’s just…fear? nervousness? anxiety?
And then he hauls the box in for her without saying a word to you. You watch him hard now that his back is turned. His voice sounds so loving when he speaks to your child as if she’s an equal. Plopping down on your living room floor with her and opening the large box.
He Ooo’s and Aahhh’s with her as he pulls each piece out, connecting the walls, the doors, handing her little things to help him with. And both of them are so focused on the task at hand to create a safe space for all of her abused barbie dolls that… you feel invisible.
For the first time ever in front of them both, you feel like you are nothing but a ghost. That he is the single parent. As if you’re forgotten, less loved, not wanted, not even needed.
There’s a bubbling in your gut when you tear up, reminding yourself that what Jay did that night was probably just, well, he’s a man. Men aim to fuck at all times usually, and you guess you should have expected it at one point from him because, again, you’re aware that he’s attracted to you. Even more aware now.
But the way you feel right now outshines that. He’s ignoring you to keep your child happy. She is ignoring you because it seems Jay does a better job at it than you do.
And, well, he’s not holding you down, whispering things in your ear, letting out frustrated little sighs at your drunken or drowsy words now. So, you say nothing. All you can do is go to the kitchen and prepare a snack, trying to force the tears to stay inside of you with quiet sniffles, hoping you can join their little picture perfect moment so that you can be helpful too.
Your heart swells when they both look at you as you present a plate of snacks. You have to hold back tears again at the way their eyes shine, thanking you for the snacks. Jay’s eyes stay on you a bit longer though, as if saying “See? See what you’re making her go without?”
You do see it.
But…it can’t be him. As much as you wish it could be, you just can’t. There has to be another man out there just like him, one that doesn’t have a history with you that would cause whispers and questions. There has to be.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
That moment you witnessed seems to have solidified Jay’s place in your home. Whether it be for babysitting or simply so your child can see him when she’s asking for him (which is often.) It’s kind of an issue, actually, because now the choice isn’t yours anymore and it appears Jay knows that.
You hate that you’re forced to see him for what he is now. How he proves himself over and over again to be the man you need. The issue is that you still don’t want it to be him. The bigger issue is that he’s breaking down your walls, doing little things for you, looking at you with those dark eyes– your resolve cracks and reminds you every time he’s here that maybe it could work. Maybe you’ll give him a chance. Maybe you won’t have to go out anymore looking to fill a void that no one else fits into.
It’s the way that now, you can’t help but to compare him to your ex husband. The man who you loved for so long, who you genuinely thought you’d spend your life with happily and safely. Now, compared to Jay, your ex seems like…nothing. Like a little crack in your resolve. He was older than you by just two years, took care of you for so long, impregnated you, and slowly but surely throughout all that time grew to resent you too.
You still don’t know why, but perhaps it’s just because you were growing into your own. You were becoming more independent, though he never had the capability to realize just how much you depended on him during the very time he left you.
“I just don’t want to do this anymore.” Your ex had said to you on that fateful morning.
Your belly was big as you tried to waddle up to him when he said that. You can’t help but think back now and wonder how pathetic you must have seemed when he yanked his arm from your grip, especially due to the difficulty of your pregnancy already. You were sick through most of it, only having a few good days here or there where that pregnancy glow would make your ex husband second-guess himself.
The slam of the door after that was more exhausting than the months of pregnancy you’d gone through. It felt loud, so loud you could hear it vibrate throughout your whole body. You recall falling to the floor and carefully holding your stomach. It’s like all of the heartbreak pooled there. The loss of your husband three weeks before he got to meet the child he was supposed to love. Her little heart must have been breaking inside of you too.
Double the pain.
And then you were mending yourself on your own. Going into labor early from stress, your family helped take care of you more than her. You were needier. You were broken.
And never, fucking ever, did you think you’d find yourself sitting comfortable in your lavish home realizing that your ex-husband didn’t deserve all of that pain from you. He left you for that girl, and not two months later did she leave him.
Never did you think you’d find yourself thinking about Jay as a replacement either. Well, not a replacement, but like, maybe just…he’s the idea of a perfect dad if you pay attention to how your child talks about him. How they act together. How she cries for him before bed when he’s not there, asking you why you don’t read to her the way Jay does. Why don't you sing to her the way he does? Why don't you use the same voices for her dolls? Why you don’t cut her food like he does, why you don’t do this or that.
That’s what makes it click the most you think. The fact that Jay has given her something you never can. The love of a father. It doesn’t even feel like he’s babysitting at this point, he’s parenting, teaching her lessons, bandaging small boo-boos, fixing her hair,…cooking dinner, cleaning…existing here like he belongs.
Jay has done more for your daughter than your ex husband ever could have, more than you could have done for her too, you think.
Even now, as you come home night after night and see him, you struggle to see him as anyone that isn’t who your daughter needs. Maybe who you need.
His summer semester is coming to an end too, and it’s hard to see him as a college student now. He really does coursework and everything that needs to be done at your home all within a single work day? With no complaints at all? Lately, you’ve noticed that he’s been more focused on studying when he babysits too, but still your daughter listens to him better than she listens to you.
Yet, still, it’s like you’re avoiding each other as you go through the motions, but you notice him more. You feel more discomfort because of it, mostly because you know your resolve about this is breaking. There’s a fear inside of you that revolves around him.
What if you missed your chance?
What if it does end up being a mistake if he still wants you?
You don’t know what to do, but you know you want him.
Some nights, Jay does sleep over due to exhaustion and you don’t even ask him to leave because you know he’s not doing it to try anything. The avoidance is loud. Lately, you come home from work and there he is, sitting up with his laptop on his lap but sound asleep, softly snoring. Each time, you remind yourself of how he’s sacrificing his study time to babysit. You know your child can be distracting and needy when she wants something too, but he doesn’t complain even a little bit. The least you could have done was bring him a blanket, which you did. And you woke the next morning to find him curled up on the same couch, laptop toppled over onto the floor.
Small, gentle acts of kindness towards each other but never face to face. You’ve woken to fresh coffee countless times, made exactly the way you like it because you know he’s watched you make it yourself. You’ve come home to re-stocked items, like milk and eggs, laundry detergent, and even toothpaste. It’s nice, and a small indication that he doesn’t resent you. Even through face-to-face avoidance on your part.
Tonight seemed different though, compared to all of the other nights when you can’t go out. You walked through the door to the smell of dinner and your child still awake, sing-songing at you the moment you walked in.
“Dad said I can stay up late!”
You quirk a brow, her calling him that now becoming a regular occurrence to the point it goes through one ear and out the other for you. You recall discussing her bed time though, with absolutely no exceptions.
“Did he now?” You hug her before taking off your coat, walking with her to the kitchen where you find Jay, placing down a small plate on the table with cartoon characters on it, right in front of two bigger plates with bigger portions of delicious looking food placed neatly on it.
Your heart swells, but your anxiety grows twice as big alongside it. This.
This is what you’ve wanted for so long. This is what you never thought you could find. So, why is it that you still have push-back in your mind? Despite knowing that Jay has proven himself time and time again, you want to argue?!
Perhaps it’s because you like the way he tries. Maybe you’re not ready to lose that feeling of being chased in some way, of being begged to let him stay. Maybe it’s because you begged your husband, desperate for him to keep you, but he left anyway. It feels like Jay gives you power over yourself, over your love-life, over everything, really.
And if you were to actually accept his advances, even just a dinner on your table, what if he stops? What if he gets bored once he gets what he wants? After all, he’s still young, you can’t truly imagine he wants to do this forever.
Not with you, and not with your daughter either.
“What’s all this? Isn’t it a bit late for her to have dinner?” You question him instantly, anxiety bubbling up out of assumption alone.
“We had a small snack a few hours ago.” Jay reassures you. “I finished my exams and had a burst of energy to celebrate, besides, it’s a Friday–” He goes to pull out a chair for you. “You don’t need to be up early either. A late dinner every now and then never hurt anybody.”
The way this is the first time the two of you have had a face-to-face conversation since…that night. His voice calms you, and that’s scary.
You huff, happy because you could easily melt into this chair and pretend you’re having a family dinner, like you always wanted, like you never rejected a touch from him that you desperately wanted. You could just play along and pretend Jay is everything you need. Except, it wouldn’t even be pretending at this point. The whole idea of him has changed. But, again, that anxiety. You still have that little voice holding you back, no matter what you want, or what you need, you fear it’ll be ripped from you again if you were to let yourself be weak for another person.
“I’m really tired, Jongseong.” You explain, walking past the kitchen and towards your bedroom. “Thanks for dinner but I’m not too hungry and I just want to lay down.”
And with that, he watches you leave. No real appreciation, no congratulations on him finishing his exams, not even a kiss to your child’s forehead. Is he still expected to be the one to put her to sleep?
Why is he even here? Why did he do all of this?
His patience is running dry.
So, he eats with your child as your plate goes cold and he leaves it there. If you can’t even handle a dinner at the table with the person who cooked it, you can deal with your own fucking plate. Throw away your own fucking food, wash your own fucking dish. And if you can’t tuck your child into bed, he’ll do it, but you can shove that fake ass exhaustion right up your ass for all he cares.
He knows you’re not exhausted. He’s seen you when you are. You’re just being an asshole to him at this point, trying to appear like you’re perfectly happy with the life you live when your drunken rants prove otherwise. You treat him like everything he does has an ulterior motive. Which, yeah, maybe it does, but he was genuinely excited to have someone celebrate the end of this semester with him. Maybe assuming you’d indulge him went too far. For the first time, he wasn’t doing it to impress you.
By the time Jay gets your daughter to bed, all tucked in with a little tune to fall asleep to, he closes her door and just stands there in the silence on the other side of it.
You must really enjoy being a single mother, huh? This is why too. He always questioned it. You’re so attractive, so well-adjusted. You work hard, your daughter is a sunshine in this world, and you’ve not managed to find anyone to love you yet? He thought he was lucky to be the one getting to spend time with you.
Turns out, you refuse to let anyone in despite Jay knowing, fucking seeing straight through you. You want something from someone. You need it, yearn for it, even. But it’s almost laughable at the way you refuse it.
Excuses, excuses, excuses.
It’s the fucking audacity you have taking advantage of him. You’ve practically led him on. You lend him everything he wants in life. That’s it. You lend it. From flaunting yourself before you go to bars, to exposing all the marks you allow other men to leave on you. Letting him stay in this house, father your child, cook, clean, mend, fix, heal.
From being a faux-father to being minimized to a college student that you used to babysit. He’s offered you relief in so many ways including sexual, and all you fucking do is avoid, deny, fucking reject him. You still go out to bars, later and later you’ll come home with new swells against your skin, but always looking so empty and disappointed. Sometimes he thinks you try to make him jealous. Sometimes, he thinks you want him to try again.
Sometimes, he thinks you get off on the fact that he keeps trying.
And he has tried. Albeit more gently lately, but he has. Small, lingering touches when he hands you your coat to help you get out the door and to work quicker. Starting your car for you before you leave. Fuck, he even opens the goddamn door for you. Anything to make you feel appreciated, respected, and fucking wanted.
The silence is loud in his ears due to the sheer irritation as he drops his head, staring at his feet and knowing it’ll only take a few strides to reach your bedroom. A room he still craves to be in.
He’s raided those drawers by now, because of course he has. Soiling your panties, your sheets, anything that still smells like you when you’re gone for the day, all so he can act normal upon seeing you when you come home. He’s laid in your bed by now too, wondering what it would feel like to have your weight beside him. He fantasized about anything and everything he possibly could in there.
And he’s always warmer. Always cums the hardest with weak, muffled moans as he stuffs your pillows into his mouth to keep quiet. All before cleaning every trace of himself there, closing the door, and wishing he was allowed to exist in there with you.
Right now will be the first time Jay enters your room to your knowledge, and it sucks for him because he has essentially trained himself to get hard every time he opens this fucking door. Still, he composes himself, and it’s a bit of a shock if you’re being honest. You thought he’d go home after this, you were kind of hoping he would after you made it so awkward.
You felt guilty the second you saw his expression fall to your rejection of eating dinner like a big fucking happy family. You want it so bad, you want him so bad.
When you left the kitchen, you immediately went to your room and hopped in the shower, well aware that he wouldn’t follow you. You thought hard while the hot water made attempts to wash away your feelings. Would it have been so bad to just eat with him? With your daughter? With both of them? The way his eyes fell, it burned your heart a little bit.
Still, no answers came to you because you know part of you just wants to see what else he will do for you. Despite the history with him, and despite knowing his entire family would question and scoff at you for it…Is it really so wrong? To want to give him a chance just to see if he’ll leave you too?
Just to see if it’ll hurt when he does it too?
Inviting him to your home almost every day of the week isn’t wrong, right? Forgetting to pay him all those times before, hoping to see him again and get that confidence boost, that wasn’t wrong. Letting your daughter attach herself to him when you swore he wasn’t permanent, no longer having the energy to correct her use of “dad” towards him… none of that is wrong.
It’s all Jay. He’s the one in the wrong for willingly following along, not you. Right?
And as you’re sitting on your bed in your towel, zoning out and staring at your floor, Jay swings your bedroom door open without a single knock, mindfully closes it, and immediately goes off on you.
Somehow, you really expected him to accept your rejection but your heart swells that he didn’t. You don’t think he ever will, and you’re exhausting yourself hoping he’ll prove you wrong.
He’s shown you enough by now. This is what breaks down that wall inside of you, isn’t it?
“What am I doing wrong?” He shoots his first question out in a desperate whisper shout, eyes searing into you before continuing without a single breath. “Because I do everything for her, and i do everything for you, does that really make you so fucking uncomfortable?”
“J–” You try to respond, feeling your skin prickle at the sheer irritation in his expression.
He’s fighting for you.
“Isn’t that what you want?!”
“After everything I do–” He throws his hands up now, running his fingers through his hair as if you make him feel like he wants to rip it out. “After trying to make your life easy while making mine harder, for what? You to not eat the fucking food I made? For you to go to the bar all the time just to come back disappointed like I’m not right here waiting for you to come back?”
“What ar-”
“Don’t ask me any stupid fucking questions, Just answer me.” He drops his hands, stepping up to you, placing both hands on either side of your hips, doing his best not to react to your near-naked body. “Why?”
You lean back, trying to create more distance to try and give him an answer that you don’t even know yourself, but he just keeps closing in. Not letting you escape this time. You’ve never seen him so riled up before, it’s…
Well…
“Because I came onto you? Because I tried to do what no one else will do for you?” His voice shakes when he says it, and you can feel the heat radiating from him. Is he…about to cry?
Only now, seeing him so close with an entirely sober brain do you realize an answer. Maybe not to his question of why, but to the same question you’ve been asking yourself. It’s because of that look in his eye. You’ve never been able to put a word to it, but now with him demanding you explain yourself so closely, you see it.
He’s desperate.
Arguably as desperate as you’ve felt to fill the void. Except, he’s trying to do that for you and you won’t let him out of what? Fucking fear? Hell, at this point the history means close to nothing when it comes to all the new memories he’s made in this home, even without you. The history of babysitting him, the history of your ex husband leaving you. It doesn’t matter.
You think hard, so hard that you feel your eyes burn as you stare up at him. Glancing without intention to his jaw when he clenches it, to his neck when he swallows his words, to his lips, his eyes, the hair falling in his face…and you just–
You reach up, running a soothing hand through his hair to get it out of his face. Then you see those same desperate eyes somehow grow more desperate as he lowers them, leaning into the touch, as if you’ve been starving him the same way you’ve been starved for years. He falls silent too, cutting himself off mid-question just to feel you touch him for the first time.
“I don’t know.” You say, which seems like a better answer than having an excuse. What can you say otherwise? That it’s because it shouldn’t be him? That you’re afraid he’ll realize he’s not ready to settle? To be a dad? He’ll ask why, and it’ll be the same answer you gave on that drunken night. An answer that you no longer care about.
You babysat him when he was a child, but you were still a child too.
You were still a child, and time changes things.
Your ex husband left you, and you’re afraid he will too, especially because he’s so much younger? Who cares?
Your answer seems to fly right past his head though, because he’s still leaning to feel your fingers in his hair, and he’s looking at you as if nothing you say will matter unless you make it hold some weight to him.
“Jongseong–” You pause, scratching right at his nape, uncaring of how you can feel your towel loosening on your body. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
Somehow, his name on your lips is what he needed to hear. The tone of it, the rasp in your voice, your fingers in his hair. Actions speak louder than anything the two of you could say right now, and he can’t help it. Nothing can stop him, not even you at this point.
He hasn’t done anything wrong you say? It’s because he fucking knows what you need.
You inhale deeply, holding your breath when you feel your back hit your mattress, his warm hands instantly taking advantage of your freshly-showered state and tugging at the towel just slightly to let it fall open. You hear a slight breath from him at that moment, an inhale. There, he climbs onto the bed, nudging himself between your legs and trapping you there under him, both hands holding your arms down.
Like he’s afraid you’ll reject him again.
“You’re going to let me take care of you now.” He demands, though to him it sounds more like a plea solely due to the fact that he’s so fucking turned on it’s unreal. That feeling of when your fingers were in his hair? Seeing your naked body? Unshaved pussy? Being in this fucking room with you? It throws him into overdrive, especially with the way you just lay there blinking up at him in surprise. The anger melting away only amplifies it more.
How could you do this to him? Genuinely, how could you have let him fucking suffer for you like this?
Still, you blink up as if you’re a deer caught in headlights and it makes his heart thump against his ribcage. Your eyes are so bright, that glint of sadness he had seen so many times isn’t there right now. And there’s so much adrenaline inside of him, like he needs to move fast before you change your mind again. You’ve not let him do this for some fucking reason or another and now you’re just laying here for him.
There, with your entire body on display, and you appear to be docile. Fucking obedient? Like he always knew you would be if you’d just drop the fucking act?! You were meant for him and him alone, and he’s going to show you why.
In all honesty, you’re tired of denying yourself by now. From the moment you saw him that day cleaning your pool for the first time, you’ve wanted him on some level. It wasn’t an emotional attachment, but a hope, a fantasy for you. And when you recognized him, you were more impressed with him than embarrassed. You tried not to let your eyes wander out of guilt, out of feeling like a pervert.
And then, that day when he came onto you, he was just a man to you. Your faux guilt kept you from letting him, and your hope to be chased kept you from it too. As if you’ve never pleasured yourself to the thought of him, shamefully in this very bed. As if you’ve never called out his name with a silent breath. If you keep going at this point, you’ll lose him before ever knowing what he could really be for you.
This is his last ditch effort to beat you at your own game, and you’re ready to lose.
So, now, you let yourself get lost in him. In his eyes and the way he pleads and makes his demands. He probably doesn’t recognize his strength against you right now, or how much it’s turning you on. With the way he has both hands on your wrists, probably bruising them, and there’s nothing you could do even if you wanted to. His weight holding you down feels better than you imagined.
After so long, with so many failed hookups where you’ve told them of your daughter and all they’ve done in return is get their orgasm then leave…Jay. He wants to take care of you?
He wants to…give you what you need?
Fuck, you know he can. That’s the fucked up part. He’s proved it so many times to you in so many ways. You’ve watched him, the way he moves and acts around you. He’s exactly what you need. You pushed him to this point, where his sanity is on the brink of crashing. Taking it away from him again feels wrong, because it’s exactly what you want.
And when he presses his leg between yours, he knows.
“Again?” He comments, now releasing your wrist from one hand and running it down, able to slip his fingers right into the slick of your bare pussy. “You’re wet.”
You still just blink up at him with an intake of breath at the pleasure, thoughts running left and right on what to do, finally realizing you don’t want to do a damn thing. He’d do it all if you let him. Clean your house, be a father, fix all of the breaks, make you wet.
And you just feel him, the way his fingers play around with what he does to you. You can practically feel his confidence rise at the way you spread your legs a bit more, as if to give him more access. When you look at him, his expression remains harsh, but slowly he moves himself down, lips brushing over one of your nipples while keeping eye contact.
Still that irritated look, like he’s mad you haven’t let him do this before now.
“How many times are you going to pretend like I’m not the one who gets you wet?” He asks before rubbing circles around your clit, tongue flicking in the same way around your nipple. “Like I don’t have a right to take care of you?”
Your breath is still caught in your throat, trying to be careful about what you say right now despite knowing you can’t speak. You focus on what he’s doing instead, losing yourself to something you’ve not felt in far, far too long.
He’s right. He’s gotten you wet more than once by now. More than he knows.
And goddamn, he knew your tits could bounce, but the way they move without the support of a bra, the plush, soft feeling of your nipple growing erect in his mouth, all for him to bite and pull at. He does it too, listening to the little seething sound of pain from you when he pulls all the way back with your nipple between his teeth. Only to let it fall from his mouth and break eye contact with you to see the jiggle as it falls.
His cock twitches, at everything that you are right now, feeling more pleasure through seeing you like this alone compared to fucking his own fist on your bedroom floor. He notes how your legs squeeze him more at the nipple stimulation than his fingers too, memorizing the way your labia falls open between them. He smirks, flicking his tongue more, quicker.
There. There it is.
A low rumble in your chest falls from your lips. Soft, a moan. A very small, delicate sound.
“You like this?” Jay asks, looking up at you, letting his tongue fall from his mouth again and flicking the erect nub. “When I play with your tits?”
You nod, throwing an arm over your face in embarrassment that this is actually happening. You’re letting him. Already you feel yourself heat up more, even when he takes his fingers away from your clit and instead, uses them to flick your other nipple.
And he does this for a few minutes. Paying special attention to your tits, going back and forth with his fingers and tongue to each bud, trying so hard to not stop just to shove his cock between them and use them the way he’s always wanted. He focuses on drawing out more and more little sounds from you instead, slurping his own saliva from your painfully erect nipples, pulling back, blowing cold air, then warming it up again with his lips. All while simultaneously groping, flicking, and pinching with his other hand.
“Jesus, Jay–” You moan quietly, chest rising and falling as he squeezes and licks against you.
That’s right, say his name. Let him fucking know he’s doing what you like. Jay thinks, feeling his cock weep in his pants as he does it. Wondering just how sensitive you are to be reacting like this to simple nipple stimulation. God, he’s wanted to suck on these for so long, and now you’re letting him. They’re so big, so plush. He wants to fucking cover them with his mouth, he wants to bury his face in them, kiss them all over them.
And if they were to get bigger? He moans at the thought, remembering that conversation you had with your mom. You want another. He bets they’d swell up–Oh, fuck yeah. They’d probably hurt to rub against your shirt. God, fuck, he can’t control his thoughts right now.
Finally.
Fucking finally, he has you and he’s not going to let you run away again.
He doesn’t fucking care if it’s forward. He wants what he wants, you want what you want. That want just so happens to line up. Besides, he’s already proved himself to you, he knows it. If you’re letting him do this, maybe you’d let him stay like this.
“Did they get bigger?” He moans briefly as he swaps to your other nipple again. “So full, so heavy, were they leaking all over you?”
You listen to him, trying not to feel the pit in your stomach bubble with even more arousal at his blatant and dirty words, feeling your clit throb at the stimulation your tits are getting right now.
“Makes my dick fucking throb just thinking about it. Fuck–”
“Let me give you another,” He mumbles now, almost mindlessly before looking up at you with an intense gaze as he bites down, indicating that he’s not mindless about it at all.
“Swell you up, make you glow–”
Oh.
Why is that– why are you dripping?
He hears that moan you let out. Different from the others, almost desperate.
“Mm, yeah.” He encourages it, now allowing his hand to travel back down to witness how much wetter you’ve gotten at those words. So messy, so perfect. “Knew you’d want it raw.”
You can’t help the nod, as it comes before you even process his words solely because you feel his fingers slip inside of you. You haven’t been this wet in so, so long. You want to feel it. To be full again, of anything. Of him.
“Ye-” You start, interrupting yourself with a bite of your lip and your eyes rolling back.
“That’s right mama,” He coos, tilting his fingers up and amplifying the pressure inside of you. “Gonna let me take good care of this pussy, yeah?” He adds, lifting from your tits and ghosting his lips over yours.
He watches you closely, that daze in your eye. God, you look so horny right now. There’s nothing more he wants than to see this time and time again. To let you wake up every morning with his warm cum inside of you, to see your belly swell with his child, to see your tits grow until they hurt.
He’d take care of you. He’d take good fucking care of you.
“Say something.” Jay whispers against your lips, darting his tongue out against your lips, angling his fingers up and making you moan. “Say you want me to give it to you raw.”
You open your mouth, feeling his tongue lick and swallow up that moan you just gave him before you try to compose yourself. You can’t help it, you’re so, so sensitive right now and you can’t help but find it incredibly sexy to be here, laid bare, while he’s still fully clothed.
Like he really is doing this for you. He’s not trying to get his own orgasm and leave. You’re weak and those words of “let me give you another” shines in your head. Weak, you’re weak. You should be thinking about condoms, you should be thinking about the consequences of this.
But you’re not.
You do like it raw.
“Jay–” You stutter as you try to grasp the reality of his words, feeling his fingers repeatedly hit right where you need it. “I’m…not protected.”
He moans. Loudly, before huffing out an irritated groan.
“You must really want it then.” He narrows his eyes at you. “Going out all the time trying to get fucked–”
He plunges his fingers in again, deep, and holds them there as he pulls back to look at you. To really look at you, then he glares.
“You’d really let just some fucking dude give you a baby?”
You repeatedly shake your head.
“No!” You retort, thrusting your hips up. “I just–”
“Mhm,” He pulls his fingers out now, sliding himself down so fast that you can barely comprehend him sucking your clit into his mouth before pulling back in a moan at the taste of you. “If mama wants another, daddy will give her one.” He says now, as if to pacify you.
As if to give you everything.
And you’d argue, really, you would. You want another child so bad, but this is– it’s too soon. You haven’t even established a relationship with him yet. Boundaries haven’t been discussed. His college plan– but fuck it’s not entirely your fault that you’re like, super turned on by the idea of it. To the thought of being so filled with cum that there’s no possible way you couldn’t end up pregnant. An indication that, no matter what, no man at a club could fulfill the arousal for you even if they cared to do it.
You’d never have let them actually fuck you raw.
Jay though…how can you keep telling him no?
How could you reject him again when you want it so badly?
Fuck now, think later.
“Yeah–” You say against your better judgement, hands reaching down to his hair so you can grind up against his mouth, lost to the arousal as you mimic what he referred to himself as. “Daddy?”
You feel his mouth fall slack at that, as if you’re accepting him in full now. You feel your clit hit nothing in his open mouth, but it throbs harder.
He knew you were slightly into him for letting him do this at all, but now, you’re truly accepting it. Like you know he’ll fucking do it, like you want him to fucking do it.
“That’s right,” He moans against your clit as he licks at it, barely able to comprehend your voice calling him that but clinging to it all the same. “Gonna let daddy do it all for you.”
Yeah. You are. You’re gonna let him do it. All of it.
And then, the room is enveloped in quiet moans, more from Jay than from you due to your breath being stuck in your throat. His tongue, licking every part of your sensitive cunt, his hands reaching back up to your tits, fondling, pinching, painfully tugging at them as he moans louder, louder, louder for you to want him.
He presses his hips up and against your mattress as he tastes you, so deeply it hurts his cock to neglect it like this. Each rub feels raw, twitching and pulsing to be let out, to be inside of you, on you, against you. Filling you up with his cum, plugging it in as a promise that you can’t leave him even if you wanted to.
He’s going to fucking do exactly what he said he would.
And only when you feel his tongue lap against your hole do you finally release your breath, “Daddy” coming out in a choked back sob. It breaks him, his body going into overdrive as he pulls back and just– stares at you with wild eyes.
You stare back up at him, knowing that calling him that means something more than a cringe little roleplay kink. It means something deeper to him. He wants to be a dad, a real one.
“Oh yeah?” He finally says, hands going straight to his button and zipper.
You can’t help it, biting your lower lip as you blink up, watching his shoulders move, the veins on his arms protruding as he rushes to pull it out and– oh. You moan at it, the way his heavy, slicked up, cock falls out, heavy, needy.
“Daddy–” You urge him on, knowing that it’s driving him absolutely insane.
“Mhm?” He shuffles himself off the bed, letting his pants drop as he lifts his shirt off of him and fucking glares at your tits. “You want daddy’s cock?” He adds now, shooting his eyes up to you as both of his hands land on your legs.
Your mind goes blank when you feel him slide his hands around to the back of your thighs, pushing your legs forward, curling you in on yourself, forcing your pussy to be out and on display for him.
And you watch him, the way he stares down at it. It’s embarrassing to be so seen right now, not having expected to get fucked open by anyone tonight, let alone him. You probably should have shaved or something, or like, not gotten out of the habit in the first place. But he moans at it, mouth falling open at the fact that you are entirely a fucking woman.
A fucking mother.
The prettiest pussy he’s ever fucking seen let alone tasted.
And he moans, breaking the silence, forgetting only for a moment how long he’s been wanting this. It boosts your confidence more than you’ve ever felt. His reaction to this is more than your ex husband’s reaction to you when you were pristine and borderline pornstar quality.
Jay doesn’t see you as used and neglected, he just sees you. And this. This is the pussy he wants. This is what he wants to put his baby in.
When he flicks his eyes back to you, with that same open mouthed expression, it knocks the breath out of you. There’s so much love in his eyes, or maybe lust, you don’t care. You think you’re matching that expression for him too, because it’s like he can’t hold back anymore. He can’t just sit and look at you anymore.
He just can’t.
And you feel it, his thick head pushing past the tightened, pulsing hole and not stopping. He pushes in slowly, painfully slow, to the point you’re both looking at each other with a slack jaw. Finally. The pain of it, the pleasure, the fucking need you’ve been trying to fulfill.
That look on your face drives him wild too, he knows he has you by now. You like it, you love the way he slides in and makes damn sure you feel it the way he does. Every second of the slide pries you open, and he wants to remember this moment forever. He wants you to fucking remember too.
Wants you to know that no one will ever fit inside of you so perfectly, so deeply.
When he finally bottoms out, he leans forward to keep himself buried deep as he ghosts his lips over yours. He feels the way you try to kiss him, but he pulls back with a confident smirk.
“When was the last time you’ve felt a cock so deep in you?” He whispers hotly, knowing you need not answer. Knowing you won’t answer, not with the way you’re instantly lifting your head and kissing him.
Your pussy pulses around him when you lick into his mouth, the first real kiss sending his heart soaring. He twitches inside of you with each squeeze, and kisses you harder, deeper. And somehow, it brings tears to your eyes.
The way he kisses, the way he makes you feel him. Fuck, the way he makes you feel whole, so wanted, like you’re amazing to him. In more ways than just a body to fuck, but he’s stuck around despite all of your avoidance and rejections. You hope you’re making it worth it.
Fuck, you need to feel worth it to him.
“You’d better not fucking pull out.” You groan through a breath, his lips still kissing you through your words as he finally pulls his hips back, fucking in once.
Hard.
Honestly, could you have said anything else at this moment? He’s trying to make this last, he needs it to last. If you keep fucking talking, saying everything he’s ever wanted to hear–
“Fuck,” He moans, his hands moving up to your cheeks as he licks into your mouth. “You can’t–” He continues, fucking in again, moving your body up with each thrust do to the sheer force of him trying to plunge in as deep as he can. “You can’t fucking say that to me right now.”
You’re seeing stars though, unable to say anything else as your eyes roll back at the way the head of his cock practically kisses your cervix with each push into you. He’s so rough, so desperate for it.
You don’t think he expected you to respond either, with the way he keeps his lips on yours, his body pressed so closely that having your legs to your chest means nothing to him now. Mating press be damned, he’s lost his mind to the feeling, not the aesthetic of being a fucking dad.
Your legs wrap around him instead, and he’s all to happy to feel it. Your legs hug him the same way your arms do, the same way your pussy does, and he’s fucking in love with you.
He braces one hand back against your leg, holding it against his hips as he continues to fuck forward, still at the same pace. Deep and with purpose. Every few seconds the bursts of pleasure run through him, making him shiver and moan into your mouth. Little grunts, near whimpers for you to let him give you the world.
More than this. More than fucking, more than taking care of you, more than anything he could ever possibly give you. He’ll find a way.
And then, you’re clenching hard, matching his near-whimpers except moaning in full pants, babbling and drooling cries against his mouth.
“Mama–” Jay soothes, continuing his pace as he tilts his head back to get a good look at that lost gaze in your eyes. “You’re crying?”
You nod with a laugh, tears rolling down the same way the wet of your cunt slips down your ass. You’ve never felt so good, so fucking full. And for some reason, that does him in. Making it last be damned, he genuinely thinks he’s won you over. He can make it last next time, he can do more next time, he can–
He leans back all the way now, onto his knees as your legs try to hug him back to you, and his eyes go straight back to those tits. The way he made a promise. The way they bounce, slick with his sweat from pressing against you.
“Fuck, you’re so pretty.” He grunts in a breath, now quickening his pace and snapping his hips. Pulling out all the way briefly to plunge into your again. “Can’t get any deeper–” He continues, flicking his eyes from your face, to your tits, to that beautiful pussy of yours swallowing him up.
Now his eyes roll back, hands going back to your thighs to push you back into position. No way in hell can he last, not at a pace like this, inside of a woman like you.
“Don’t pull out.” You repeat again in a breath, seeing his face and the way he focuses solely on you. You know he’s going to cum, and you want him to. You want to feel it, every single fucking drop of it.
“Yeah?” He nods his head with laser-focus on your pussy now, staring down as he points tight, short thrusts inside of you. “Momma wants my cum? Hm?”
Oh, he’s fucking gone.
“She likes it?” He continues to talk himself up. “Likes being so fucking full of it? Yeah?”
Goddamn, fuck, he’s insane.
“Yes, daddy!” You whisper-shout, fingers shooting to your clit, other hand raising to your mouth to silence the moans as to not be too loud.
“Fuck, yeah you do.” He lets out a near growl, his voice low and rumbled as he slaps your hand away, pressing hard on your clit with his thumb as he buries himself in you once more and stiffening his abs. “That’s right.”
And instantly upon feeling him pulse, that first spurt of cum painting your insides, you lose yourself with him. Your fingers drop from your mouth and you release a pornographic moan for him, rutting yourself against him, as if to fuck it deeper into you.
It only prolongs the orgasm though, for both of you.
Jay is silent, trying to keep his eyes open through the pleasure as you pulse and squirt around him, his thumb pressing so hard into your clit, his cock cumming so deep, filling you up so well– He wants to see it. Wants to watch you fall apart for him. Wants to witness the way you let him do this.
And he holds himself there, so hard and so full of pleasure for you. Keeping himself practically impaled against your cervix until your body falls slack. Still, he fucks it into you, holding you in place with a softer moan now. No longer guttural or deep from his chest. His breathing is rough, a soft, near feminine moan leaves his lips as he falls forward onto you.
You wince along with him at the sensitivity, panting, a sweating tangle of a mess the two of you have become. And it’s the fact that it’s the first time you’ve ever gotten off at the same time as someone else. You feel…soft.
Your hands find their way to his hair as his face squished against your tits while he regains breath, not daring to move his hips because your pussy is too warm to leave right now. You brush the sweat-slicked hair out of his eyes, running your fingers all the way back to his nap, and then slowly down his back to rub and scratch.
He shivers at the feeling, humming the same feminine-tone he had released previously. And all he can do is hear your heart thumping against your chest, even through these soft tits of a pillow he’s lying against.
Jay never wants to move again, not from this spot, ever.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
“You know I’m in love with you, right?” Jay mentions briefly after a long moment of silence, looking up at you with his wet hair.
Deep in the night, your food still cold and on the table, you’ve found yourself freshly showered and on your living room couch with Jay’s head on your lap. He made sure to have stayed long enough inside of you to implant…something if it was going to happen. So he didn’t argue a shower, and you didn’t argue letting him join you either.
He had washed you, gently running his hands between your legs with what you can only describe as the softest, most alluring face a man has ever given you. Like he won the lottery, or found the answer to eternal life or something. You repaid him by letting him admire your tits again while you jerked him off, but that’s besides the point.
“Like, I’m not going to leave. I hope you know that.” He adds with a soft groan to your hands still in his hair. His new favorite thing.
You look down at him, hand moving to his cheek as the words hit you in the chest.
There’s anxiety along with happiness, at all of the boundaries and serious conversations that will need to be had now, but still, you feel like you’re glowing when he looks at you.
He didn’t even have to say it, and arguably you probably don’t need to say it back either. You think he sees it in you. Even if he didn’t, you think he’d take anything you give to him and cling to it. After all, it only took one time for you to break entirely for him.
“Are you now?” You smile with a chuckle, looking back to the tv and pretending to watch it. “Well, that’s good. Otherwise I’d be making you go get a plan B or something.”
His eyes narrow at you.
“Like hell I’d let you, even if I didn’t love you.” He groans. “But I do, so don’t ever say that shit again.”
You chuckle, feeling the calm in your home that once felt so chaotic. It’s quiet now, both inside and outside of your head.
“Congratulations, by the way.”
He looks at you with question, quirking a brow.
“For finishing your finals, I mean.” You smile, going back to petting through his hair and feeling like you’re on top of the world, despite what you assume to become half of your world lying his head on top of you.
“Oh, right.” He smiles, now turning his head to watch the tv. “I probably failed them.”
You don’t believe that, but even if he did, you think you could be what he needs too. He wouldn’t have to work if he didn’t want to.
If he’s really in love with you, all he’d have to do is…not leave.
“Are you sure you want to be having these conversations with me? You can just call it a hook-up.” You finally say, hoping he means it, knowing it breaks your heart a bit to give him an out. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m going to trap you here just because I’m a little smitten too.”
Jay glares, blinking up at you.
“I literally just tried to put a baby in you.”
That’s fair.
“And you’re not going to run off? Get cold feet?”
“Can you stop doubting me and just let me do what I want for once?” He argues playfully. “Do you even know how much that barbie fucking dream house costed me? I couldn’t run even if, for some stupid ass reason, wanted to. I love her too.”
Silence for a moment.
“Maybe even more than I love you.”
You really, really, want to believe him.
So, you do. ・・・・・・・・・・・・・・ please remember to like and reblog! feedback would be lovely too, of course ; 3 ; i'm not below begging.
l.hs 𝚂𝚄𝙲𝙺𝙴𝚁 | OctopusHybrid!Heeseung x Human!Reader
MDNI (SMUT)
Synopsis: Pissing off your nepo baby coworker may not be the best idea, but neither is his way of putting you back in your place. For you, he sucks—and him? He'll show you just how much of a sucker he is.
w.c: 6.9k
Warnings!! unprotected p in v, dubcon, teratophilia, hybrid erotica, tentacle play, anal sex, dirty-talk, degradation, overstim, finger gag, nipple stim, oral sex m! receiver, fingering, cum facial, spit play, breeding kink, mindbreak, restriction, dacryphilia. (maybe more idk)
note: this is my first fic ever! im still in the phase of improving my skills so criticisms are welcome (just pls be kind :>) i wish i could fill the taglist and stuff before releasing this, it felt really empty before the more blockings. anyway, hope u have fun guys!
The 16° C displayed in the thermostat of the meeting room didn't seem to be enough to cool down the lingering tension between you and your co-worker slash enemy, Lee Heeseung—had he been blocking the view in front of you, the floor-to-ceiling windows show a busy horizon with your neighboring buildings’ lit windows and the full moon just above the traffic.
The clock already ticked past 11 PM, and the only light left in the office was the few fluorescent lights in the hallway and the dim light inside the room where the two of you were locked in for overtime.
You sat there, the familiar bloom of irritation worsening by the slow progress of the report you're grinding together with your enemy. You couldn't take it anymore yet all you could do was to shoot daggers at the man sitting across you.
Your frame is much smaller compared to his tall, lean one, but your tongue? Oh, it's sharper than any knife, and you decided to unreasonably shove it in him. Every. Fucking. Time.
This is Heeseung, a blue ringed octopus hybrid who remained calm in his seat despite your brattiness. Except his eyes—those ironically deer-like features that should have been gentle—were beginning to darken.
“How about you hurry up? dead weight burden” you provoked with intent rudeness as you slammed your laptop shut. your voice an absence of softness, carrying poison tailored just for him.
But Heeseung remained unfazed as though he's already immune to you. He didn't even look up. His dark hair fell slightly over his forehead as he just continued looking through his screen.
"Do you fucking want me to take away your badge, best employee of the month? Don't be too complacent, y/n. It takes one word from me and you're back to the pits.”
You laughed out loud, plump lips curling into a defiant smile, daring him further. “Really? Go ahead then. You’re all bark, no bite, Lee. Go ahead. Show me how you can use your father’s influence to get me off my badge.”
Oops.
Heeseung stopped what he was doing at the mention of his father. The air in the room shifted from light bickering to something heavier you couldn't pinpoint. You pressed his buttons, and a strange smell began to waft—Heeseung’s scent; It was heavy, intoxicating, and slowly weakening your knees, but you're more stubborn than ever, holding your nerve and pretending unfazed.
“Are you provoking me?” He stood up, slow steps circling the table towards your side. He asked calmly, but his voice had an unfamiliar depth that's slowly terrifying you.
“Yes, Heeseung. Because you are getting boring,” You snarked, pointing fingers sharp at him. “I've had enough of you bossing me around as if you're not merely an incompetent-ass-nepo-fucking-baby.” Your fingers daggers towards him together with your words.
The entire room fell silent. The lingering tension seemed to grow worse, suffocating only you. Heeseung took closer steps, eyes dark and sharp towards you now. His figure loomed above you, limiting your personal space. “Repeat what you said.”
You didn't budge. Instead, you stood up too, trying to match the man's gaze while disregarding the gnawing fear in your stomach. "I said, stop bossing me around as if you're not an incompetent-nepo-baby.” You repeated, mockingly complying to his ‘request’.
“Fucking say it again. I dare you.” He asked once more, eyes narrowing as much as his steps until he finally ate the remaining space between you. His tall height can't help but look at you with such belittlement from above.
“I fucking said, you're nothing but a nepo baby. Are you deaf or just plain stupid?"
That's when Heeseung's patience snapped. It only took a second before his hidden thick tentacles emerged from behind him. You took way long to process the sight before you, so before you could even take a step back—they already moved quick, way too fast, like shadows with minds of their own. These tentacles covered and wrapped around your legs that were unfortunately exposed by the short length of your skirt.
“Ah—!” A small gasp escaped your lips as you felt the cold, slippery feel of the tentacles gripping your skin. Your hands, initially pointed at him, were also caught and bound behind your back by another tentacle, causing your chest to press against Heeseung's hard one.
“You’re so brave, aren’t you?” He whispered right into your ear. His breath was warm, a contrast to the cold feel of his tentacles. “Peasants like you, are beneath us.”
Heeseung pushed the surrounding chairs before he yanked the tentacles coiled around your legs, forcing you down onto your knees in front of him. Your skirt rode up further from the motion, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs and he couldn't help but eye the way they trembled.
“I could ruin you so easily, fucking whore,” Heeseung muttered, his once soft-spoken voice now thick with restrained fury. “You really want to see what I do to people who forgot their place?”
His venom was beginning to take effect. Only now you could feel the strength quickly draining from your body, vision blurring at the edges as each of your breath turned shallow and uneven. The defiant you from moments ago was slowly giving way to something far more vulnerable beneath your predator’s gaze.
“H-Heeseung.. let me go,” You whispered, voice cracked and fragile. You couldn't scream—not like you will—but you couldn't help the tears that were already beginning to gather in your eyes.
“Why?” Heeseung fake cooed, barely kneeling to meet you eye level as he gripped your chin and forced you to look up at him. “Are you scared now?” His thumb brushed against your jaw, possessive and cold. Eyes looking at you with contempt.
“Stay down there, y/n,” he said softly. “Because that’s where you belong. Beneath me.” His tentacles didn’t stop moving. Instead, you felt one of them slowly slip beneath your skirt, gliding along the inside of your thighs, creeping dangerously close to the most sensitive part of your body.
You jerked, uselessly trying to shrug it off, but you only grew more nervous as every touch sent a sharp current through you, a confusing mix of fear and something far harder to name pooling low in your stomach.
“You’re so small. So fragile,” Heeseung continued, watching the flush spread across your face. “But that tongue of yours is too sharp.” His gaze darkened, fingers gripping harder on your chin. “Maybe I need to teach that thing when to stop talking.”
It's obvious the tension between you was no longer fueled by anger alone. There was no denying the lust and desire into it now. Every movement Heeseung made was calculated, carefully chosen to wear you down. And you know no matter how hard you try to resist, will inevitably slowly be consumed by the presence of the venomous octopus hybrid standing before you.
Heeseung mocked your fear, treating your surrender as a prize to his predatory gaze. When he saw your freezing state, your own nerves paralyzing you into a pathetic, little woman, he couldn't help but smirk in satisfaction.
“What happened, baby?” Heeseung asked again with fake simpathy, his face only inches from you. “Where’d all that courage go?”
His scent grew stronger the closer he got, clouding what little focus you have left. You squeezed your eyes shut, a weak whimper slipping past your lips. You couldn’t answer—more so your body no longer obeyed your mind and all you could feel was the tight, suction of the tentacles wrapped around you and Heeseung's looming presence, threatening to take hold of every part of you.
You remained kneeling but only for a short while, because in an instant, Heeseung's tentacles tightened its grasp around your ankles and knee, pulling your legs apart without any effort, forcing your thighs open until you completely lost your balance and fell butt down onto the cold floor of the meeting room. The movement pushed your skirt up to your hips, exposing the thin white lace panties clinging to your heat.
You heard Heeseung let out a quiet laugh, low and mocking at the sight. He stepped closer before slowly crouching between your thighs while his tentacles kept your legs spread wide, refusing to let you close them.
“Well, would you look at that,” Heeseung drawled, his gaze lingering between your legs. “Who doesn’t wear safety shorts these days on a skirt like this, baby?”
His lips curled faintly. “Straight to lace panties, y/n? What, were you expecting someone to gawk on you?” His eyes lifted to yours, sharp with amusement and something darker. “Or maybe.. the office siren wants to be fucked through easy access?”
“Fuck you, Heeseung! Let me go!” You struggled against him, but your voice trembled with fear, betraying your ego. The octopus venom spreading through your system was slowly weakening you, turning your muscles soft and unsteady beneath the grip of his tentacles.
A cold smile touched Heeseung's lips. “Giving me orders now?” he asked quietly. “And here I thought you were smart. Do you really think you still have any say in this? Or maybe I should remind you again,” He tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed on your trembling form.
“Right now, you’re just a toy, y/n. My toy.” Heeseung didn’t wait for an answer before his long fingers trailed slowly along the smooth skin of your thigh, shamelessly slipping beneath the thin fabric of your panties. A sharp gasp escaped you the moment you felt the heat of his touch against your folds.
“You’re too loud for someone whose panties are already wet,” Heeseung whispered as he began to play with your clit with his thumb, the tip of it circling the center with a light touch. “What’s this, baby? You’re angry but here’s your body, pleading for me?”
“N-no... n-stop,” You can't help but moan, yet your whimper only made Heeseung's gaze darken even more. You forced your eyes shut, trying to hide yourself in shame, but you couldn’t escape the sensation the man was giving you.
He busied his hand playing your heat when one of his tentacles—a mind of their own, slowly moved over your chest, wrapping on its roundness before squeezing your tender and perky tits beneath your office blouse. Each squeeze and caress seemed purposely done to remind you how small and defenseless you truly were under Heeseung's dominance.
“Look at me, whore,” He commanded, his voice authoritative, a rush of lust evident in his tone “Look how I'm making you do this. Don't you want to be the 'best employee'? Show me how good you are at taking punishment then.”
Heeseung pressed his finger harder, forcing you to feel every warm slick on your plump folds. His other hand gripped your jaw, forcing your eyes open to see your own state—open, bound, and being played with in the middle of the office.
“You look so pathetic like this,” He taunted, his breath already quickening. “The office rolemodel, but here she is, trembling at my touch. Tell me, y/n... who's the boss now?”
A soft cry escaped your lips, tears finally falling as your body uncontrollably arched closer to Heeseung's hand. The shame gradually mixed with an insane need that only your enemy could fill. “Y-you... you,” You replied almost inaudibly, your toes curling at the intensity of the feeling.
“Say it again. I wanna hear it clearly.” He insisted, looking at you with heat while his fingers sped up playing your womanhood. He didn't falter, not even when the creamy liquid began to stain his fingers.
“You... you're the boss, Heeseung. Please..” You said in surrender, dignity completely crumbling under the power of the hybrid before you.
Heeseung smirked at your compliance, but it wasn't enough to forgive how sharp the words you'd thrown at him earlier.
In a sudden, he let go of your jaw and instead buried his large hands in your soft hair. He held his fist tightly—not enough to hurt you, but enough to force you to look up and feel his power and it seemed he's not planning to let go soon.
“What did you call me earlier, hmm? Nepo baby? Incompetent?” His voice was low, like the hiss of a monster ready to inject its venom.
“You have the nerve to step on me when you know so little. Maybe I should teach this mouth of yours to know its place.” He spat out in anger, pulling out his other hand from your tight heat only to press the thumb against your lower lip, forcing it open while his other hand remained tugging at your hair.
He pushed his finger deeper, urging you to tongue kiss the tip of it. The muscle circled around the last of his knuckle and as merciless as he is, he didn't stop even when you gagged.
Meanwhile, his tentacles below widened the gap between your legs even more until you felt your inner thighs slightly tear from the excessive stretch. “Look at your cunt, y/n. Your mouth is babbling but this one below is crying, you're fucking dripping, baby” He cupped and teased before he slapped over your clothed core. He pressed his finger against your wet folds again. Making sure you'd understand that the motions are meant to be rough than a gentle caress.
“You're so dirty. A lowly employee, but here you are… spread wide open in front of the 'nepo baby' you claim to fucking hate so much.”
“Heeseung... stop... p-please,” you pleaded, eyes filled with tears as your body trembled under his mild paralytic venom.
“Stop? Why? Weren't you so brave earlier? You told me to ‘go ahead’, right?” He pulled your hair even harder, causing you to let out a faint moan in pain and pleasure. “Here, I'm doing it. I'm showing you how easy it is to control you. One flick and you fold. One touch on your cunt, and you beg.”
He slid two fingers inside you without warning. A sharp gasp escaped you, eyes closing shut yet your small body arched towards him—pleading to be saved. But he wouldn't let you go; his tentacles were like iron bars enclosing your legs.
“So fucking tight, I love punishing you” Heeseung whispered as his fingers made deep, fast thrusts inside your cunt.
“You like this, don't you? To be humiliated in front of me? To feel like you're defenseless? Tell me, who's incompetent now?”
He brought his face closer to your exposed neck, his fangs ghosted your skin, toying to emit the tickling sensation on you before gently biting the soft flesh there as his fingers continued to torture your cunt with eased depth. He could feel every twitch of your walls around his fingers, every whimper music to his ears.
“Answer me, y/n. Who's incompetent?” Heeseung asked again, voice soft and slow—a contrast of his fingers accelerating their rhythm until he could feel the pulsating heat radiating from you.
“I-I... I,” you sobbed, hands tied behind your back trying to clutch something for support. “I-I am... ahh!... please, Hee...”
“Good girl. Stay there. Don't move until I tell you to,” Heeseung said, slowly releasing his fingers buried on your hair, only to replace it with a tight chokehold on your neck, “M’ wanna fucking ruin you.”
He curled his digits in that come-hither motion on your deep spot making you cry out in bliss, but just as you thought it's enough, one of his tentacles slid between your bodies, crawling at the center of your heat—every tiny suction cups leaves your skin a slight damp feeling, you didn't realize what it meant not until you witness one of it stop right before the engorged foreskin of your clit.
Before you could even react, you felt it wrapped around the nub, imitating like that of a tongue and you could only shriek out in return, “What the fuck, Heeseung!”
You couldn't handle the extra sensation of the muscle sucking you just right. You felt your orgasm nearing—cumming soon and harder.
The tingling sensation on your slick heat increased as you spent your remaining energy by shamelessly rocking your hips back and forth in Heeseung's hands and the tentacle sucking you.
The man watched you fall apart. You don't fucking care anymore, you just wanna ride out the high as your orgasm hit you intensely—hot, white flashes pooled in your stomach, legs trembling despite being restraint.
Heeseung's head tilted back slightly as he watched tears and sweat trail down your flushed cheeks. His other tentacles tightened around your legs, digging into the soft skin of your thighs just enough to keep you still—just enough to make sure you wouldn’t miss a single feeling he wanted to give you.
“Open wide” Heeseung's voice was dry and emotionless, yet heavy with authority. You shook your head weakly, forcing your trembling lips shut. Even with your own pride cracking apart beneath him, you still tried to hold onto some shred of control.
To Heeseung, though, that resistance only fed the anger simmering beneath his calm exterior.
He grabbed your jaw again, fingers pressing firmly until pain forced your mouth open. “Open wide when I tell you to, slut,” Heeseung's soft voice spoke firmly, his delicate features sharpening into something colder, more dangerous. “Did you really think you could humiliate me and I’d still go easy on you?” Before you could react, Heeseung already leaned closer and spat into your open mouth.
Your eyes widened instantly, shock freezing you in place as the warmth hit your tongue. his face hovered inches from yours, close enough for you to feel his breath against your skin. “Swallow,” he whispered. “Go on, y/n. Taste it.” His grip on your jaw tightened slightly.
“Dare spit it out and I'll shift your fucking womb.”
You forced yourself to swallow, your throat bobbed hard as your eyes remained fixed on the man's cold eyes. Each swallow was like an acceptance of your complete defeat—of the erasure of your dignity.
“This is your place, this is where you belong.” He taunted. He then removed his hand from your jaw and slowly lowered it again between your thighs where his fingers were already soaked with your juices.
He also spat on his own hand before pressing it again against your heat. The sound of wet grinding echoed through the quiet meeting room.“I'll spit all over your cunt too, slut”
His digits quickly toyed with your clit, shoving your juices back where it belonged. His spit pooled between his lips before it landed on your wet heat. “Look, baby. Dripping just for me.”
Heeseung lifted you as though you weighed nothing before slamming you onto the long conference table. The cold wood bit into your back, a sharp contrast to the burning heat you felt between your thighs.
Before you could even recover from the shock, his tentacles once again twisted around your wrists behind your back, binding them tightly like iron restraints, pinning you into the table.
“Careful, y/n. Keep squirming and you’ll ruin your clothes even more.” Heeseung whispered as he slowly unbuttoned it. The seconds felt long with each button getting undone, ironically handling it with grace for someone so rough.
He smirked, watching the thin fabric stretched tightly across your chest before finally parting enough to expose the smooth skin beneath.
His warm hands quickly slid down beneath you, clicking your bra’s hook apart as he discarded it like trash across the room. Now, the soft and plump shape of your breasts were displayed like a perfect gift for him—just right for him.
Your nipples were hard and sensitive, quivering with cold and fear. You instinctively tried to turn away, humiliation burning across your face, but Heeseung only watched you more intently.
"Nice view," He teased, his eyes fixed intently on your chest. Maybe obsessively so. “Did you really think I'd let you be wrapped? I want to see this shit bounce while I watch you suck.”
He then moved one of his tentacles to gently caress your left nipple—its suction wrapped at the hard and sensitive peak, the bliss of that nibbling sensation made you helplessly moan as it toyed with the nerve endings that made your back arch.
You shivered from the pleasure, unfamiliar spark running its course down to your heat. You didn't know playing with your tits could feel this good before.
While his eyes were busy above, the others of his tentacles below spread your legs wider. Your heat was dripping in its own juices, especially since Heeseung had already spat on it earlier.
He circled the table and stood his place right above your head, forcing you to gaze upward toward him. The view of his sharp nose and dazed eyes hyperfocused on you made all the sensation more overwhelming.
Heeseung is very handsome, there's no denying that. More so with his A-class hybrid status paraded like a pride. Venomous. Most. But you couldn't swallow the thought that such a title would make his ego inflated.
“Look at that mouth of yours, baby. You've been talking too much earlier,” He tried to insert the tip of his tentacle into your mouth. You shook your head, forcing your lips shut as though to reject this part of Heeseung's nasty foreplay. But both his hands tugged your hair hard, refusing to let you move, so you accepted your fate in defeat.
The tentacle moved closer again and you couldn't do anything but choke slightly as it finally entered your lips.
“Suck it. Train your tongue for me cause we might as well make it useful, hmm?” Your eyes glared at him with anger above you. Heeseung only chuckled in return, his fingers tapping your lips in mockery.
That scent of his messed your sanity even more. You reluctantly toyed his tentacles with your tongue, closing your eyes in hopes of easing your nerves amidst the chaos—of pushing away the disgust.
But just as you busied yourself sucking the tentacle in your mouth, You felt Heeseung's other tentacles crawling further up your thighs, one of it stopping right in front of your wet heat, tip looming right at the entrance.
Feeling the thin tip of it knocking on your hole, you already get what it wanted. So you did your best to shake your frame, determined to yank it away only for the other ones to coil your legs back tighter—and worse, spread your legs even wider hanging past the table ends.
You couldn't scream or complain with a tentacle stuffing your mouth. Tears pooled your eyes when it finally entered you—straight, without a word, forcing your slit open. You felt it, starting from its thin tip til thicker, its textured shaft rubbing your walls, suction gripping you from the inside.
Bliss and disgust pooled your lower stomach once again yet the intense pleasure was undeniable. You cried out helplessly.
“Mmm… look at you. Filled to the brim in both holes.” He smirked while his hand was on your tits, playing and rubbing the soft flesh like it's his personal stress ball. “You're like a doll, baby. Just a cheap entertainment for a nepo baby like me, aren't you?”
He pressed his palm against your nipple, squeezing it as he quickened the rhythm of the tentacle inside your womanhood.
The sound of wet squelching below and your weak muffled moans above were like music to his ears.
He continued with great consistency, nearing you almost at the edge, you felt the peak pleasure enveloping your whole body.
Just then, you felt the tentacle stuffing your mouth slowly crawl its way out the same time the one below stopped.
You coughed hard, gasping for air. Your own spit trickled down your chin, as you muttered gratitude for finally being able to breathe freely.
Down below though, disappointment loomed over you from your orgasm being denied. Still, you sighed in relief—finally calming down.
You closed your eyes in hopes of grounding yourself only to be doomed by the faint interruption of a belt clinking together with that familiar sound of zipper and fabric shifting.
Above you is the sight of Heeseung slowly pulling out his hard cock, thick and slick down to the shaft while its tip tan and angry. You swallowed hard—a tingling sensation erupted in your hole from the sight before you.
He is beautiful but scary. Volatile hybrids like him are known for their libido and girth—their pride belonged to their shaft, to their ability to mate and wear down—they don't take belittlement lightly, and you should've known that before you started your beef with Heeseung.
He proudly pumped it above you. The thick length casting shadows on your laid face while he shamelessly ran his gaze all over your body—it only took the sight of your tits before he fisted himself harder while throwing his head back in pleasure.
“Suck.“ He said in between his breaths, words more like that of command than a request. You have no choice (and if you do, you'd still choose this) but wrap your lips around his thick shaft which made him hiss.
His thin lips mumbled an incoherent swear from the warm pleasure of your mouth—had he been fantasizing stuffing that mouth full ever since it first talked back—to him, the sight is a dream come true.
He watched every movement of your body on the conference table. He wasn't fulfilled yet; he wanted to see the complete defeat of your pride.
His tentacles, having a mind of their own, slowly crawled over every sensitive crevice of your body. One tentacle entered your hole again, filling you while the other two played—one caressed your clit, eventually nibbling the nub, while you felt the other one slowly descending your ass, testing the tightness of your second hole.
"H-hng—! Mmph!" your complaints remained muffled by Heeseung's cock in your mouth. Limbs tangled and restraint, you could not do anything to resist the invasion of his tentacles on all your holes.
Your eyes were tightly shut, tears streaming down your cheeks. You didn't know whether to curse Heeseung or thank him for every jolt of electricity his tentacles sent.
“Look at your cunt, baby. It's fucking clenching. You're sucking it back,” Heeseung teased as he watched his tentacles slide in and out of your wet hole. The other one glided in your ass the same way—you shivered, holes clenching simultaneously.
The sight of your overstimulated body only made him feral. He picked up the rhythm until only the sound of grinding and wet flesh filled the entire room.
“More. No teeth” Heeseung commanded as you forced yourself to suck his thick cock. The man's hands landed both on your tits. He grabbed your nipples—hard and trembling—and began to twist and pull them hard. He rubbed on the nerve endings, rhythm flowing with the thrust of his hips. as if he were driving your every moan and movement.
“Ah—! Heeseung, ‘s too... much,” You tried to mumble, complaining between your sucks, voice cracking. Your small face felt as if it would be swallowed by his size, yet you could do nothing but accept every inch of it.
Heeseung, on the other hand, enjoyed the vibration down your throat with every complaint and cries.
The sensation made him press his cock deeper into your throat as his fingers mercilessly squeezed your tender breasts. His tentacles below sliding in and out deeper, deliberately sucking the soft spot inside you.
Soft sobs escaped your lips more. The shame of seeing yourself being made into a toy was gradually drowned in the intense pleasure brought by the hybrid's dominance.
You wanted to curse, wanted to fight, but all that came out of you was obeying your enemy's every command.
“Go cry, baby. I get even more horny when I see you like this—sopping wet, blouse ruined, holes filled and sucking me,” He whispered, his eyes seeming to sting with the intensity of his selfish desire.
Heeseung felt that familiar strong pulse running from his stomach up his entire body. His dark hair was slightly damp with sweat, and his deer-like eyes had completely turned dangerous—dark, piercing, and full of lust.
Along him are his tentacles that seemed to go wild as well; two slid in-out your ass and cunt, the other busied itself rubbing your swollen nipples again, while the other tightened the gap between your thighs further.
Heeseung could only close his eyes, the sight too, is too much for him to take.
He moaned, his previously calm voice turning into a soft, whiny groan. With the intensity of pleasure, he slowly grabbed your hair and began faster and deeper thrusts into your warm mouth.
Each thrust of his thick cock brought muffled gasps from you, who was almost drowning in his size. You could feel every pulsating vein throbbing against your tongue.
“f-fuck,” A tingling shiver ran through him. At the exact moment he was about to release, he quickly pulled his cock out of your mouth. A thick, hot blast of his liquid sprayed out loudly—not just on your lips, but all over your face. Your smooth skin was drenched in his white, thick cum.
A long, trembling whimper escaped Heeseung as he pumped his cock to milk himself dry before using his fingers to paint his cum onto your face.
He smeared it on your cheeks, your forehead, and even your wet lips that were still quivering. To him, you looked like a piece of art—hair was messy, eyes wide with shock and shame, and drenched in the cum of the man you hated.
“Look at your face,” Heeseung whispered, panting and admiring his masterpiece. “This is for you, baby. You look beautiful when you’re covered in my shit. Does ‘nepo baby’ cum taste good? Hmm?” He watched you gasp for breath, breasts rising and falling rapidly.
His tentacles slowly released, leaving you sprawled on the table, blouse torn.
Heeseung couldn't wait any longer. Seeing your face covered in his cum made his blood boil even more.
In one swift motion, he climbed the table before pulling your thighs closer to the edge, shifting until your plump cunt was directly against his hard cock.
“Let's see if you can talk when I've filled all your holes,” He whispered, voice hissing as he forced your legs together until your knees almost kissed your own chest—he folded you into two, his limbs caging you.
He slid his cock in your fold, his tip occasionally nudging your clit with that delicious friction. He did it with rhythm. Without warning, he finally pressed his thick cock into you with a deep, fast thrust—burying himself into the hilt.
You cried out softly, soft voice broken by the intense sensation—the fullness of him inside. Your body arched, toes curled as you struggled to take in every inch of Heeseung.
But the hybrid didn't stop there. As he only began his heavy, deep thrusts, his tentacles began to move on their own.
A thick tentacle slowly positioned itself in your second hole. Using your own fluid as a lubricant, it suddenly shoved iteelf into your ass.
“N-no... n-not there..!” You almost lost your breath from the intensity of the double penetration. The feeling of being filled from the front and back caused a severe overload in your system.
“Why not? Don't you want to feel how incompetent I am?” Heeseung teased as he accelerated the rhythm of his cock. Each of his thrusts was accompanied by the sound of wet flesh squirming, while the tentacle on the back also moved in and out, trying to break your tightness.
Not satisfied yet, he used his fingers to vigorously rub your clit that had been swelling since earlier. The combination of his cock gliding on your walls, the stretching of your ass, and the torturing caress on your clit made you give in.
“please!” your complaints were now mixed with intense moans, crying was no longer just out of shame; it was the plea of your body surrendering to the intensity.
Heeseung’s eyes were fixed as your tits bounced with every impact of his body.
“Feels good?” He brought his face closer to your neck, showering it with kisses accompanied by bites. His scent became even more intoxicating, as if poisoning your every remaining desire.
You cursed endlessly, dignity completely melting away as your body moved with every thrust.
Heeseung deliberately changed the rhythm—from quick, shallow thrusts, he suddenly pressed very slowly and deeply, angling his hips so you could feel every vein of his cock rubbing your spot before burying deep in your cervix. The tentacle on the back also went deeper, trying to find every sensitive corner in your gut.
The friction of the skin was creating a sticky, wet sound that filled the entire meeting room. Every thrust of cock inside you seemed to measure the depths of your womb.
Heeseung could feel every twitch and clench against his shaft—a tight and desperate plea of your cunt that seemed to refuse to let go.
Your back arched, fingers gripping the edge of the table as your thighs trembled from the intensity of the overload.
The double penetration—his thick cock in front and the cold tentacles behind—brought you to a climax you never thought you could reach with your mortal enemy.
"Does it feel good? Hmm? Answer me, baby" He whispered, voice soft, whiny, and full of trembling as he accelerated his rhythm. "You like this, don't you? Being fucked mercilessly by the person you hate?”
In the midst of his cruelty, he suddenly grabbed your face, Heeseung kissed you passionately. A mixture of tongue, moans, and a strange tenderness—that it almost made both of you forget that you were enemies.
His kiss tasted of poison and desire, trying to suck your breath away while his hips continued to thrust violently.
He let go, lips parted slightly, his forehead remained pressed on yours. His deer-like features softened slightly, even when his tentacles still slid in and out of your two holes.
“Do you know how stupid you are?” He whispered, panting. “You make me crazy. You test me every day. But while you curse at me, all I could think about was how much I wanted to silence you.”
He paused in his thrusts for a moment, pressing his cock against your lowest part as his eyes stared deeply into yours.
“You're bullshit, y/n. I'm so annoyed with you but only you, I'm this needy. I'm only this needy for you,” he confessed.
Before you could answer, he resumed his violent thrusts, harder and deeper than before. His tentacles on his back curled even more, as if keeping up.
“Say it... say my name, y/n,” Heeseung ordered as he pressed his lips to your neck again, savoring every cry and moan you made.
“H-heeseung- please, hurry up!” you replied in surrender, arms slowly crawling around his neck, trying to pull it down as your body completely drowned in the poison of the hybrid.
Your small body seemed to tremble with his every thrust. Heeseung spread your legs wider, wrapping it in his waist as he aimed to slide his thick cock the smoother way.
“you're so tight... fuck”** Heeseung moaned, his eyes tightly closed in pleasure as his hips faltered with deep thrusts.
At the same time, Heeseung's tentacle in your ass became even more aggressive. It moved in and out rapidly. The sensation of filling both of your holes all at once gave you the feeling of being sucked up into the sky.
Your toes curled, and your back almost bridged the table with the intensity of it all.
Amidst the clashing of your pelvis, Heeseung grabbed your lips again. A loving kiss but a violent one.
Both of your mouths opened wide, tongues knotted and fought. With the intensity of your moans, you could feel the slight clash of each other's teeth, but neither of you cared. Every bite Heeseung took on your lips was answered by your limbs holding him tighter. You moaned into the kiss, tits were bouncing, and Heeseung can't help but squeeze them again.
His saliva and yours mixing and dripping down the sides of your mouth. The tentacle on the back began to twist inside your ass, hitting every nerve ending making you cry out in pleasure.
Your entire body gave out. With Heeseung's last deep thrust, along with the rapid rotation of the tentacle in your ass, your system experienced a severe short circuit.
Your eyes rolled back, you could only see flashes of white as your body began to convulse on the table and beneath him.
A long, broken scream escaped your throat that quickly turned into a series of gurgling whimpers due to the intensity. Your cunt began to clench violently—shaking, crying orgasm—each contraction seemed to be trying to crush Heeseung's cock inside. Your legs spasmed, bound hands struggled to dig into your own skin.
Heeseung let out a perverted chuckle at the sight. He watched your every move—you're breathing like that of a prey, poorly hot and fast. To him, it was the most perfect art he had ever seen.
He held your face, wiping away your tears as his tentacles tightened their hold even tighter. He saw your spit trickling down your mouth and he could only tease you in response, “You're drooling, baby.”
He couldn't think straight anymore. Feeling your cunt hugging and drowning him in warmth, he felt his rut completely explode.
His cock thickens even more inside you, squirming and throbbing. He thrusted, pace faltering as he kept chasing the climax—each one perfectly rubbing the soft ridge of your cunt.
With a loud groan from deep within his chest, he finally released.
“F-FUCK!” He came into you with a hot, thick, endless stream on your walls. You could feel the heat coursing through your womb, melting your insides.
Each thrust of Heeseung's cock to ride out the high released more of his cum, filling every nook and cranny of your slit until it overflowed and dripped onto the table.
The scent grew heavier—a sign that his territory had been completely conquered. You remained laying on your back, legs still shaking and breathing ragged.
The silent meeting room was filled only with the sound of your heavy breathing and the sticky drops of liquid on the floor.
Heeseung remained buried inside you, savoring every pulse of the wall of your womanhood that refused to let go of him.
His tentacles, though, were not as fierce as before. They crawled out of you, while the others remained tightly wrapped around your legs and waist—a cage that reminded who owned you at this moment.
Heeseung slowly lifted his body, just enough to see your ruined appearance. Lips were swollen, face was stained with dried cum, and your eyes remained dull and tired.
“Look at me, y/n,” He commanded, his voice soft.
“Listen to me carefully.” He used his finger to brush away a few strands of hair that were stuck to your sweaty forehead. He pressed his face against your neck, inhaling your scent which was now tainted with his own.
“Let’s seal it. You are mine now. My property, my toy, my subordinate,” he whispered, each word like a needle prick in your ear.
“No matter what you do, no matter where you go in the office—or in this world, every fiber of your being smells of me. You can’t get rid of it.” He gave your face small pecks—around your nose, cheeks, and lips.
You felt the slight movement of his cock inside you, a reminder that he could hurt you or please you anytime he want to.
“So starting tomorrow… you’re going to be nicest, hmm?” He teased as he slowly caressed your soft cheeks.
“I don’t want to hear your sharp tongue against me anymore. What I want is the modest you... the you who follows my every move. Because if I ever hear those words from your mouth again...” He stopped and bit the tip of your ear slightly, causing you to flinch.
“...I’ll fuck you even worse than this. I’ll poison your entire system until you have nothing else to do but crawl in front of me. Understood?”
A weak, barely audible “O-yes...,” came out of your mouth, pride completely buried under that table.
“Good girl,” Heeseung said with a smile. “I like that. Obedient. That’s where you belong, y/n. That’s where you belong.”
As he slowly pulled away, you felt his venom drain from you body as he left you slumped and still shaking on the table. His tentacles crawled back on his body like they weren't there at all before he adjusted his tie and his dark hair. He cleaned himself like nothing had happened.
He pulled a box of wipes from his briefcase before gently pressing it against your dripping cunt. He cleaned you up with meticulousness—the unfamiliar care blooming a seething feeling within you.
“Get ready. We still have a report to finish,” He finally whispered as he walked to his seat, leaving you like a rag that existed just to serve him.
mark me yours - l.hs (part 3)
— a spin-off from love me (k)not
main masterlist | part 1 | part 2
synopsis. heeseung finally knows the taste of betrayal.
pairing. alpha!heeseung x omega!female reader
genre(s). omegaverse, fated mates, strangers-to-lovers, fluff, angst, smut
warnings. MDNI (there'll be a warning cut), heavy angst, alpha!jay being our target again i'm so sorry this is the last time i promise!, tw: nosebleed, softdom!heeseung because i love soft doms, p in v, fingering, missionary AND doggy because why not, unprotected sex (haih pls just don't), loss of virginity, nipple sucking, body worshipping, BITING, MARKING, BITE-MARK, heeseung cries a lot good lord but he deserves it lowkey, LIKE BONNIE AND CLYDE MAKIN' LOVEEE (insert hoonwon's voice), yes they make love your honour, and yes it's a happy ending your honour, not beta read we die like injang, tumblr pls stop with your 1000 blocks limit im gna come at you!!! lmk if i missed anything :>
word count. 15,175 words
note. i'm sorryyyyyyy for the delay sjshidshk here's the last part!!! thank you for showing this series your love and support <3
It’s finally the day of the competition.
Yet you haven’t heard from Heeseung for days.
You try not to make it obvious, nor to show how much you care. Not when Jungwon wouldn’t say anything either.
The younger alpha has been replacing Heeseung instead, walking you home while chatting about anything but the elephant in the room.
Or, in your case, the wolf in your universe.
There’s a lump of disappointment lodging in your chest whenever you think about it. You think that Heeseung has finally given up on trying to make up. You think that you’ve been too indifferent and unintentionally have pushed him away further than the two of you have ever been.
You don’t know why the thought makes you feel bitter.
“Our pitching is next,” Jungwon whispers next to you, snapping you out of your thoughts. You watch the group before you begin their pitching presentation.
In the first stage, the pitching was done in separate rooms to make it less time-consuming. But your group has advanced to the final stage, and now you have to convince five professionals from the business industry why your business idea is better than three other groups in front of hundreds of audience.
The image makes your blazer suddenly feel too tight around your ribs. You shift, trying not to think about the eyes watching every movement of the participants sitting on the far end of the stage.
Where the hell did this many people come from, anyway? You never see this crowd in lecture halls!
“Y/N. You’re nervous.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“Well, you don’t really smell like you’re relaxed right now.”
You purse your lips. Jungwon is right, of course, except you actually feel like your nerves are on the edge of bursting.
You’re not exactly good with stage fright. Especially in front of all these people whose names sound way too dramatic, like they don’t belong to the normal citizens like you. Their eyes are too penetrative, like they’re already figuring out every single doubt and nerves in your body, ready to tackle with impossible-to-answer questions.
You move in your seat again, trying to find comfort. But the seat is too hard for your tailbone. Beside you, Jungwon leans closer, speaking over the speaker blasting by your ears.
“Are you going to Jake hyung’s after party tonight?”
“His after party?” your eyebrows shoot up. Then you remember the invitation and something inside you sinks.
“Oh. Right. It’s his birthday today, right?”
And Heeseung must be there, you think bitterly, unaware of the withering daisies now wafting from your neck. They’re close friends, after all.
You don’t understand why, or you maybe actually do, but the lump in your chest only gets bigger. Really, you shouldn’t expect much by a man. They’ll always prioritise their homeboys over you in every way, your brain adds to the fuel.
Jungwon chuckles when he sees your frown, showing off his perfect dimples that could disarm any opponent.
Something clicks in your mind. Yeap. That’s right. You just need to force Jungwon to smile in front of the judges and surely—
“Relax, Heeseung hyung’s daisy. Look to your right.”
You don’t know why. Maybe it’s because of his name finally being mentioned by the younger alpha, or the flutter in your chest at being called his daisy—but your head whips so fast in that direction, heart ramming behind your ribs.
Seated at the front row, standing out too much due to his handsome features and not-so-subtle hair colour, is Lee Heeseung. From where you sit, you can’t really make out his expression.
But the alpha is already staring at you, burgundy hair swept back neatly to expose his forehead. A small curve of his lips quirks up like he’s been expecting you to notice him.
You sit dumbly as he gives you a tiny wave, not sure what to do now that the alpha is actually here.
Here. To watch your group presentation and not there: To celebrate Jake’s birthday at his party.
For the first time in weeks, you feel your omega stirs and you almost choke.
“It’s our turn!”
You inhale sharply, snapping your eyes back to the centre of the stage. The previous group is already receiving applause and walking towards the other end of the stage to join the audience.
Okay. It’s actually your turn.
You feel sick to your stomach. You almost miss it when Jungwon nudges at you to stand, smoothing down his own blazer as he shoots you a dimpled smile. On the way to the centre of the stage, your mind is nothing more than a whirlwind of overthinking.
Trailing after Jungwon in your heels is nerve-wracking because what if you trip?
Bowing down to greet the judges and audience is scary because what if you lose your balance?
Staring back at the audience is distressing because what if they silently judge your makeup?
But all thoughts fly out the window when you meet eyes with Heeseung again.
As if the noise in your head suddenly vanishes, you can feel your frantic mind quieting down and your breathing, previously quite erratic, steadies without so much effort.
And it only happens when Heeseung holds your gaze, trusting and comforting all at the same time.
It’s like the stage was a tidal wave and Heeseung was the shore that keeps you safe.
Your omega stirs again.
Before you know it, Jungwon is already passing the mic to you. You take in a shaky breath, sweaty palms almost slippery, and imagine that every cell in your brain is filing up your speech in a neat line.
Despite your worries, everything goes well.
Your presentation goes on without a hitch and it ends exactly the way your best-scenario imagination does. You even manage to answer one out of five questions from the panel, and you can’t help the pride swelling in your chest when your group is announced as the first runner-up of the competition.
It’s a national-level competition, so being in the top three is already satisfactory for you and your group members, who were lowballing to only bring home participation certificates.
“First runner up is good enough! Congrats!” you squeal, almost hugging Jungwon in your excitement. The alpha dodges you as if you were a bullet, eyes darting to somewhere behind your head.
“Hey. You dodged my hug,” you huff.
“I have no intention to challenge a dominant alpha,” Jungwon gives you a teasing smile and wiggles his eyebrows. You raise yours, and before you can ask what he means by that, Jungwon is already raising his hand and waving at someone.
“Heeseung hyung! Your daisy is here!”
Your daisy. Heeseung hyung’s daisy.
His daisy.
Crimson red blooms across your cheeks, and your heart decides to skip a few beats you think it’s going to fall to the floor from how fast it's pounding.
Jungwon is fast to grab your shoulders and turn you around, like a proud parent introducing their child to their conglomerate friends. Your protest dies in your throat once your eyes settle on Heeseung’s approaching figure.
He’s donning a white dress shirt with slightly rolled-up sleeves, exposing his smooth forearms and athin silver bracelet. A dark gray vest, tailored and buttoned neatly hugs his frame snugly, showing off his narrow waist. There’s a big bouquet of pink roses held close to his chest, handled delicately like it’s something sacred.
His eyes, round and soft around the edges, are already trained on you. A wide smile curves up his lips, charming and disarming you’re sure the omegas around you are stealing glances.
Inside, your omega stirs again.
“Hi, Y/N.” He holds out the bouquet to you, his smiling turning shy. “For you.”
You take it slowly, admiring the beautiful petals. There are tiny daisies filling up the spaces between the roses and you feel something tug at your heartstring.
“Thank you, Heeseung. How’ve you been?”
Closer, only now do you notice the lack of colour in his face. His cheeks are losing its radiant flush, and his lips are void of its usual pinkish hue. There’s a slight delay before he responds and his smile comes slower than usual.
Something feels off. Not obvious enough to name, but it’s enough to make your chest tighten.
As if noticing your stare, Heeseung tries to cover his face. He raises his hand and pretends to cough.
“I was quite sick,” he says after a moment, trying to sound casual. He gives you a reassuring smile. “I’m sorry that I didn’t show up without any updates.”
“It’s okay,” you softly say. You don’t know if it’s truly okay, though, because now your heart thinks that there’s something wrong.
Is he hiding something from you?
“I came to see you,” he says, like it’s the only place he’s ever meant to be. “I didn’t want to miss it. Congratulations, Y/N.”
He really came for you. Not for Jungwon or anyone. Not to Jake or anyone. But for you.
You can faintly hear your omega murmuring something, but your racing heart is louder than any noise in your head.
You’re about to reply when Jungwon inserts himself into the conversation, announcing his presence like a royal entering a ball.
“Thank you, hyung! I know we were great.” Jungwon says way too loudly, forcing Heeseung to shake hands with him. You let out a laugh while Heeseung only rolls his eyes.
“You too, Jungwon.”
“Anyway, why don’t we take a picture?” Jungwon, ever the trusted wingman, wiggles an eyebrow at Heeseung, hoping that you won’t notice. You actually do, but for some reason, you don’t say anything against it.
Heeseung studies your face. “Can I take a picture with you, Y/N?”
You hesitate for a second, heat sweeping across your cheeks before you nod. “Sure.”
Jungwon instantly pushes you in Heeseung’s direction. The dominant alpha, not expecting his accomplice to take such a bold move, catches you by the elbows instinctively. His fast reflexes are proving to be useful in the situation.
“Okay, look at the camera. Y/N, don’t be so stiff!”
Jungwon, that menace. One of these days you’re gonna beat his ass for sure.
“Heeseung hyung, is that a GDP gap? Get closer!”
“I’m sorry about him,” Heeseung whispers into your ears and chuckles breathily. Something kicks in your heart. “He’s a bit annoying, right?”
You just cannot hold your tongue. “He is, and I had to stick around with him when you weren’t around,” you catch yourself saying and silently curse yourself. Beside you, Heeseung stills for a second.
Why are you already whining to him? Fuck these stupid feelings, man. You’re still mad at him!
But Heeseung doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, his grin only gets wider. He leans down further, hot breath brushing against the shell of your ears.
“I’ll keep trying,” he murmurs, edged with his usual determination. “Even if you don’t let me.”
You try not to notice that Jungwon has been silently snapping the candid moments. You also try to ignore the way your heart beats like a war drum. You try not to think too much about the manly pheromones coming from Heeseung—the cinnamon and sea salt that are awakening old memories, and the way his taller shoulder brushes yours.
“On three!” Jungwon interrupts, a boyish smirk on his face. You quickly clear your throat and smile at the camera.
“Two!”
Heeseung’s left shoulder bumps into you softly from behind, angling his body to face you. His hand hovers a safe distance from the back of your waist, not touching you even by accident like he’s afraid even that would be too much.
“One!”
As the flash goes off and you hold the bouquet dearly to your chest, you quietly wonder when it stopped hurting so much.
The next morning, you’re awakened by the sound of Yujin squealing and thumping on your door.
“Y/N! Get your fucking ass out now!”
The urgency in her voice makes you jolt awake and scramble to your feet. With sleepiness still clinging to your lashes, you stumble to the door, mentally preparing yourself to punch a robber.
“Yujin! What is it?!” you ask, voice hoarse but still laced with panic.
“Did you already make up with Heeseung?!”
You pause and stand there dumbly, hazy mind slowly clearing up at her sudden interrogation. With the biggest question mark on your face, you blurt out, “Huh?”
“Heeseung posted you on his Instagram!”
“Huh?”
“Y/N! He never posted girls on his account!” Yujin screams in your face, looking more excited than ever. “Fucking hell, open your damn phone!”
Yujin rushes into your room, flipping your pillows where she knows you always keep your phone despite the electromagnet radiation that she warns you about. She unlocks the screen by shoving it into your bleary face and hits the pink-purple-orange gradient icon quickly.
“There!”
You blink the blurriness away from your eyes, adjusting to the bright screen in your face. Yujin waits impatiently, gauging your reaction with wide eyes.
On the screen is the picture you took last night. You haven’t checked the result yet because you were quickly ushered away to take group pictures with other participants after and by the time you reached home, you were out the moment your head hit the pillow.
But now, you realise, the picture turns out really well.
Heeseung stands taller than you, a close-lipped smile spreading wide across his face as he stood proud and protective beside you. You have a similar smile mirroring his, leaned into him in a way that hinted at familiarity and domesticity. The pop of colour from the roses makes the picture look more alive, and the colour filter he used makes it look almost nostalgic.
An ancient feeling, like a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled, blooms in your chest. You stare at the picture longer than intended, then read the caption he typed in cursive.
‘smarty daisy did it again.’
You re-read it once. Then twice. The soft declaration, the hints on intimacy makes your omega purr in delight. Nobody has ever called you daisy, especially their daisy, but here Heeseung is: calling you his daisy like he’s just found a new favourite flower.
“Yujin…”
To your surprise, Yujin replies with a sniffle. When you look up, her eyes are already glossed over.
“Yujin? Why are you…”
“I’m sorry I got emotional,” Yujin cuts in, laughing it off like a funny joke with a shaky voice.
“It’s just—I never met true mates. And while the circumstances between you two weren’t great, I’m just so glad that you have an alpha willing to amend his mistakes.”
You can already feel your eyes watering.
“Yujin…”
Yujin takes your hands in her hold and urges you to sit on the mattress with her. It’s silent for a moment, and you take the chance to stare at the picture again.
It’s an Instagram story, but there is already a long line of comments. You read through each one of them, curiosity getting the best of you.
narin.kim no fucking way
jakesimisimiya hey so u ditched me ON MY BDAY
jeyipark @jakesimisimiya talk to me i am his lawyer
just.jungwon cute cute cuteeeee wonder who took the pic tho
evanlee @just.jungwon she is cute
nishimurariki welcome to the simp club
sunooyaa it’s time to ask me if my back hurts from carrying this ship
Every comment makes your breath feel shorter. You try hard to bite back a smile and ignore the small flutter in your chest, not noticing the way Yujin observes everything. When she eventually speaks, her voice has dropped to a serious tone.
“Have you forgiven him?”
You tear your eyes away from your phone, taking a moment to reply. Then, with a shake of your head, you reply, “No. Not yet, I think.”
It’s not a whole lie. While the human part of you has already forgiven him, your omega is still giving you radio silence. But for now, you decide to keep it to yourself first—the way your omega has been more responsive these days, albeit slowly and slightly.
“That’s good,” Yujin nods. “Forgiveness should come from your heart. You shouldn’t force it just because you feel bad for him.”
The words land like a gentle reminder tucking you in a warm blanket. You don’t say anything and look back at the screen, thumb hovering over the reply box. The gears of your mind start turning, looking for a polite way to thank the alpha.
Then, softly, Yujin continues, making your head spin with the weight of her words for the rest of the day.
“But when it’s really time to forgive him, I hope you don’t run away from it too.”
You end up reposting Heeseung’s story and hide.
The attention is quite heavy for you, to be honest. You’ve never been the centre of that many eyes, not since in the backyard of Jake’s frat house.
You never dare ask Heeseung as well. A reply of, ‘Thank you Heeseung’ is all you can manage, keeping the rest of the sentence to yourself.
‘Why did you post only me?’
You’re not blind. You see the chaos he created from that single post. The notorious alpha who doesn’t do relationships, who always prioritises his friends over girls is suddenly skipping Jake’s birthday to see a boring competition and posting a picture with the omega he came for. You become a hot sensation overnight—people just can’t stop talking about it.
Because of that, thoughts about him become even more frequent and inevitably, your heart starts to melt at how persistent he is.
It’s been more than a month yet Heeseung doesn’t falter. He keeps choosing you in routine. He keeps choosing you in public.
And, apparently, he chooses you in private, too.
You don’t mean to overhear the conversation, really. You’re just leaving the restroom during practice break, about to have lunch with Rei when you see two shadows disappearing around the corner. Your heart almost stops.
Seeing Heeseung and Narin together brings back old wounds that almost makes you lose your mind. Your quiet omega has been tugging you to follow, to see what the alpha is doing with the omega that your wolf has marked with a red ink on her forehead.
So you follow them quietly, covering your scent gland with a hand in hope to hide your presence. With your back to the wall, you hold your breath as you hear the conversation between the two of them.
“—on, Heeseung. You left things unfinished that night.” Narin’s voice is the one you hear first, frustration spilling into her tone.
“I don’t intend to finish it,” Heeseung replies, always sounding calm and composed. It painfully reminds you of the talk you had with him after the tournament.
“Why? You always sleep with different people. Why did I never get a chance?” Narin scoffs, disbelieving. “And they've been saying that you’ve stopped!”
“I have. I don’t do that anymore.”
“Is it because of Y/N?”
Your ear perks up. Damn bro, they’re now talking about you. It slips from your mind sometimes, about how childish Narin can be. Something akin to anticipation builds up in your chest, waiting for Heeseung’s reply.
“Yes,” he answers, firm and fast. “I’m pursuing her right now. I hope that’s clear.”
There is silence from Narin, but the spike in her scent sours the atmosphere almost instantly. While you, well, you try not to feel so giddy about it.
“Are you stupid? Her? Didn’t she cut the—”
“What happened between Y/N and I is a private matter of our hearts. It’s not your business,” Heeseung cuts in sharply with a bite to his voice. Your omega shifts inside you. “Are you done? Because I’m leaving.”
Panic ensues in your system at the thought of being caught eavesdropping. Your mind scrambles for escape, so without thinking you almost sprint to the vending machine at the end of the hallway and pretend to buy a drink.
Acting like you don’t notice them while catching your breath proves to be the hardest sport for you yet. You stare blankly at the vending machine, unaware of the grape juice sitting right under your nose and fully aware of the manly pheromones approaching you.
Thank Goddess that he smells like himself only. You think you’re going to break down if Narin’s scent clings onto him.
“Are you thinking of a different drink?” Heeseung murmurs softly, standing beside you and mimicking you staring at the machine.
You steal a glance at him, feeling the movement of your wolf becoming more responsive and bold. Behind your ribs, your heart is galloping like a horse.
“No. I still like grape juice.”
“Mhm, okay,” Heeseung fishes out his wallet and makes the purchase like it’s routine. The impact of the can dropping can’t even beat the loud pulse racing in your ears. Heeseung opens the can with one hand.
“For you.”
“Thank you.”
You take it, fingers brushing his. You try not to overthink the sparks the touch sends to your system and quietly drink, feeling his eyes boring into the side of your face.
“Y/N, I have something to tell you,” he begins, this time sounding slightly nervous. “Narin and I talked just now.”
Oh. Okay. He’s actually coming clean about it.
You didn’t expect that at all.
You nod, still not looking at him. Heeseung takes a second to himself, like he’s plotting something, then before you know it, he’s already moving to stand in front of you, bending his body to be on your eye-level.
You almost choke and take a step back.
“Heeseung?”
“I need you to look into my eyes,” he licks his lips, holding your eyes with his intense gaze. “Because I need you to know that you’re the only omega I like and I’m pursuing.”
The sincerity in his voice is almost too much, but you find savouring it instead.
“And I made that clear to her just now.”
Is he trying to reassure you?
You search his face, and all you can see in those dark eyes is utter devotion and determination.
It makes your chest tighten.
“I’m serious, Y/N. I will keep trying no matter what.”
You can only hum and nod, failing to find your voice.
“Okay.”
Heeseung shoots you with a small grin and straightens up. He glances at his smartwatch and frowns.
“I have to skip tonight’s practice. There’s a meeting about the upcoming music festival,” he says, looking at you with furrowed eyebrows. “I’ll find someone to walk you home.”
“It’s okay. I’ll use the Safe Night Walk service,” you politely decline, already sick of hearing Jungwon talking about his lifelong crush on some noona that won’t see him as a man every time he walks you home.
Seriously, you don’t blame that omega. Jungwon is really cute, it’s hard to see him more than a kitty cat.
Heeseung’s face, on the other hand, twists into confusion before a look of understanding crosses his face.
Safe Night Walk is a service provided by the omega activist club of your university. The purpose is pretty self-explanatory, where any omega who’d like to go home at night can request an alpha to keep them safe. It’s pretty well-known for how rigid the alpha selection process is, seeing as the new president of the club is the fiercest to hold the title yet, making the service the most credible it has ever been.
Which is probably why Heeseung agrees to it too easily.
“Oh, right. Jay also tried for the selection, but he never told me if he passed or not,” Heeseung pauses, pondering about something.
“Sunghoon also signed up for it and we know each other. Do you want me to contact him?”
You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I’ll get someone when it’s time to go home.”
It’s quite hard to convince the alpha that you don’t need his friend’s service, but Heeseung eventually relents. He gives you a fond smile, walking backwards and not breaking eye contact.
“Call me if no alpha is available.”
“Okay.”
“I will run to you in ten minutes. No—five minutes.”
Your heart stutters, but your face remains neutral. “As if you can do that.”
Heeseung grins. The easy affection etched in his features is almost too scary for you to bear.
“For you, I will.”
The shared apartment is quiet save for the track playing from his producer room. Heeseung lies down on his couch, staring at the ceiling in silence. His lyrics notebook sits idly on the coffee table, open and now forgotten. Outside, the rain pouring down does nothing to wash down his guilt.
He had lied to you.
He just came back from a doctor appointment, not a meeting about any festival. A checkup meant to follow up with his condition after the night he collapsed in Jay’s arms.
‘You only have two weeks to win the omega back. If nothing succeeds, you must cut the one-sided bond, Heeseung-ssi.”
Heeseung only wants to do one thing and cutting the bond is not an option.
It’s better for him to die being yours than to live being nothing to you.
“I’m sorry,” he quietly mutters to the empty space.
“I ran away again,” he swallows thickly. “I’m still the old Heeseung in some ways. I’m sorry, Y/N.”
The pitter-patter of the rain is the only sound he receives back, thickening the guilt spilling over his chest.
He grazes the scent gland with the tip of his finger. It pulses slowly, faintly, like a calm before a storm. A storm that is just turning the key and entering the door.
“I’m home,” Jay announces, toeing off his shoes. There are tiny droplets of rain in his hoodie, but that’s not what catches Heeseung’s attention.
It’s the scent that lingers in his citrusy pheromones.
Soft daisies and sweet honey—unmistakingly you.
Jay smells like you.
Something churns violently in his stomach.
Every silent breakdown, every secret insecurity of his best friend comes crashing down on him. His blood roars in his ears that Heeseung believes he’s seeing red.
In that one single sniff that he picks up with his sensitive nose, Heeseung almost thinks that the floor holding his weight is crumbling down.
He springs up to sit, eyes narrowing down in his friend’s direction. His alpha is already growling, ready to take the other alpha down in a fight.
Jay, still oblivious to the storm building inside the house, throws Heeseung a smile.
“Hee, just now—”
“Park Jongseong,” Heeseung starts slowly, trying to hide the hurt in his voice as he stands and approaches him slowly. “Why the fuck do you smell like her?”
Jay’s expression turns into confusion. He sniffs at the collar of his hoodie and—oh.
Oh.
Heeseung can’t stand the look of realisation on his face. It’s like being left out of something that should be his, something that only he should know and have. His chest twists sharply and before he can stop himself, he’s already shoving Jay into the wall, fists trembling with restraint.
“Jay,” he breathes out, his voice treading the edges of fear and heartbreak. “Please tell me why the fuck am I smelling Y/N on your right now.”
Despite his anger, Heeseung’s voice sounds way too broken. Anxiety cracks through his demeanour, and for a moment, Heeseung’s not sure if he wants to hear Jay’s answer. There is a thin veil of tears glossing over his eyes and his scent gland is throbbing violently, shooting pain all over his body.
It’s almost like he was back in the backyard, watching you scream in pain as you smelled another woman on him. Heeseung sobs, hating himself even more than he ever did.
Was this how you felt that night?
Jay claws at the hands around his collar, almost gasping for air.
“Heeseung—it’s not what you think—”
“Then tell me! Fuck!” he shouts, eyes pleading Jay desperately to prove him wrong.
The longer he smells the blend of your scent with Jay’s pheromones, the dizzier his head gets. His frantic heart is buzzing with the thoughts of being replaced, of losing yet another chance to make things right, of losing you.
His self-esteem, already in pieces since that tragic night, is filled with doubt and uncertainty to the brim.
Not you, please. Heeseung quietly prays. Please not you, Jay.
“I walked her home!” Jay yells, face red from how tight Heeseung’s gripping his collar. His wolf whines at the unexpected aggression from his closest alpha, confused and wounded from being treated like an enemy. “She used the Safe Night Walk service and I was one of the alphas on duty.”
Hearing that, Heeseung’s grip loosens a fraction, trying desperately to believe his friend.
“It’s raining so I lent her my hoodie.” Jay quietly mutters, losing the previous edge. There’s a look of hurt on his face now that he fails to mask. He searches Heeseung’s tearful face, dread growing in his chest.
Despite the aggression, Jay cannot find it in him to be upset when all he can see in his friend is fear and hurt.
“Please, Heeseung. I will never betray you like that.”
Heeseung bites his lips until it bleeds and finally lets go. Jay almost drops down to the floor, clawing at his throat for relief. His neck has turned deep red, bruised from Heeseung’s grip.
Heeseung is strong even when he never admits it, the dominant traits in him giving him the advantage when his wolf is riled up. Jay is lucky that Heeseung didn’t use his commanding voice—he would’ve been helpless if it happened.
But deep down, Jay knows that Heeseung would never do that to him. They’re best friends, after all.
The air is thick and heavy with a dominant alpha’s wrath. Heeseung doesn’t even realise how sharp his scent has turned until he finds himself struggling to breathe.
There’s a ringing silence between the two alphas. Jay is still on the floor, chest heaving rapidly as he tries to process. Heeseung, on the other hand, is on the verge of breaking apart.
Quietly, the alpha mutters an apology.
“I’m sorry.”
Heeseung leaves the house in a storm of cinnamon and tearful bergamot, slamming the door so hard the frame rattles.
He’s never felt closer to death than tonight.
You take your time with your skincare. Or rather, you’re actually zoning out while tapping toner into your skin.
Your conversation with Jay still lingers in the back of your mind.
“Thank you for giving him a chance, Y/N. I was scared that you wouldn’t.”
What would happen if you didn’t?
You sigh and stare into the mirror. You’re freshly out of the shower and in your comfiest pajamas, yet a hint of Jay’s pheromones is still there. It seems that the rain doesn’t wash it away; it only makes it stick longer.
Inside, your omega shifts uncomfortably, unsettled by the scent of the foreign alpha. You roll your eyes.
“I know you hate it, but it can’t be helped when we haven’t forgiven him yet.” You grunt, capping your bottled product. “I mean, I already did, but since you’re like, my other half, I can’t just—”
Forgiven.
The toner slips from your hand and clatters on the floor.
Your lungs freeze.
“...What?”
I want to forgive him.
Slowly, a habit that you’re already accustomed to since that night, you place a hand on your chest. Your omega’s presence is more tangible now, like she’s finally arose from her deep slumber.
And she’s finally talking to you.
“Are you sure?” you start slowly, not wanting to offend the fragile soul. “We can take more time, you don’t have to feel rushed—”
I want my alpha, Y/N. I forgive him and I hope you do, too.
Every word fails you in that moment. You stand alone in your room, with only your wolf as your lifelong companion. There’s a strange feeling in your heart.
Something ancient. Something sacred. Something freeing.
A ghost of a smile grazes your lips.
“Idiot. I told you, didn’t I? The stubborn one out of the two of us is you.”
He hurt us badly, Y/N. Of course I had to stand on business.
“It’s better that you did,” you hum, finally feeling like a weight has been lifted off your shoulder. “Or else I probably won’t see this side of him and will only remember him as a bad alpha.”
Your omega doesn’t reply. In return, there’s a soft pulsing in your scent gland; something that hasn’t occurred in so long. You gasp.
But before you can process it, your phone rings, the noise slicing through the atmosphere sharply. You frown when you see that it’s your next-door neighbour, a fellow floormate that likes to borrow your detergent.
“Hello?”
“Y/N, oh my Goddess. Don’t come out!” she whisper-shouts, panic evident in her voice. “There’s an alpha outside of your door right now and he smells so bad. I think he’s dangerous. We’re about to call the security.”
Your heart drops. “What? Who?”
There’s a sound of movement and whispering before you hear a gasp.
“Okay, what the hell. It’s actually Heeseung and he’s crying,” your floormate says in disbelief. You, on the other hand, are in bigger disbelief.
Heeseung? Didn’t Yujin already let him know that you’re home?
Your feet are already padding across the tiles of your apartment, heart beating in your lungs.
“Y/N…I think you need to come out. He’s not moving at all.”
“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
Your sweaty palm trembles at the doorknob. Heeseung’s pheromones, thick and definitely smells distressed—which explains why your neighbour said that he smells bad—seeps through the gap between the door and the floor. But he doesn’t knock, like he’s here only to feel your presence.
Your omega whines, restless from the distressed pheromones, eager to comfort. You take a deep breath before you yank the door open.
The scene that greets you almost makes you speechless.
Heeseung stands in front of you, head hanging low like he’s trying to make himself smaller. The hallways are filled with slightly open doors and heads peeking out; all the omegas and betas living on this floor are definitely curious about the distress-smelling alpha and his omega.
“Heeseung?”
He doesn’t respond at first. His breaths come out uneven—too sharp, too shallow—like his lungs have forgotten to work properly. For a second, you think he doesn’t hear you.
But then, he lifts his gaze slightly, holding back a storm behind his eyes as he looks into yours. His nose flares, and then his scent turns more sour.
“Heeseung?”
There, lingering too faintly under your body wash, your lotion, and your own scent like it’s already fading out slowly—is Jay’s pheromones.
Something finally shatters in his chest.
“You smell like him.”
His voice is grim and shaky, tugging at your heartstrings. You immediately know what he’s referring to and for some reason, an ugly feeling twists in yiur gut.
But before you can respond, Heeseung already drops to his knees.
A chorus of gasps is heard across the hallways. The bystanders are no longer caring about being seen eavesdropping. You think you even see a phone directed your way, but it’s the least of your concern now.
“Heeseung—”
“I can take anything you do to me,” Heeseung’s voice cracks, barely holding it together. “I can take any punishment you want to give me but not this.”
Heeseung cranes his neck. Trails of tears clinging to his lashes are falling his nose, his cheeks, the side of his face, down to the floor.
“Please, not him. Please—I beg you.”
His face crumples, like he’s imagining the sight of you and Jay together in his mind.
“I can’t—” his breath stutters, chest heaving like it’s caving in on itself. “I can’t do it, Y/N. I thought I could take it. I thought I deserved it, but—”
His fingers curl into the fabric of his pants, knuckles turning white.
“It hurts,” he chokes out, voice breaking into something almost unrecognisable. “It hurts so fucking bad.”
Your heart lurches.
Because you know.
You know exactly what he’s feeling.
The suffocating ache. The betrayal that sits in your lungs and refuses to let you breathe. The way your mind spirals, painting images you don’t want to see but can’t stop imagining.
It’s the same pain.
The same one he put you through.
Heeseung lets out a broken sound, shaking his head like he’s trying to rid himself of it.
“I get it now,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “I get why you looked at me like that. I get why you—”
Heeseung cuts himself off. This time, a more pained, more broken noise slips past his lips.
“I get why you ended it.”
Everything hurts. His scent gland is angry red, throbbing endlessly like a sign of the real ending. His head pounds sharply and his lungs—oh Goddess, Heeseung can’t breathe.
His body sways. Instinctively, you crouch down to his level and catch him before he can fall. Panic fills up your system when a trickle of crimson blood starts peeking out of his nose.
No. No, please no. Not this again.
You cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks shakily. You turn your face and shout at your neighbour to call the ambulance or anyone—you just can’t let this happen.
You can’t let Heeseung go through the same pain you did.
“Heeseung, please don’t close your eyes.”
His head weighs heavier as he lolls forward, eyes almost snapping shut. You let his head rest on your shoulder, not caring about the blood now staining your shirt. Hot tears brim along your lashline.
“Heeseung, please—”
“Please forgive me,” Heeseung whispers weakly into your ears. The pain is unbearable, crushing his bones and penetrating his system like a sharp-end disease—an inevitable reaction from smelling another alpha on you.
So this is what you went through, he thinks wistfully. You must be in so much pain.
“Please forgive me, Y/N.”
“Where’s the ambulance?!” You finally break, cheeks wet with tears. Heeseung has completely gone still in your embrace, adding panic to your system. You reach out to hold his face.
“No, no, please.”
The lower part of his face is smudged red. His eyes close shut, still leaking out his tears even in his unconsciousness.
You let out an ugly sob, feeling utterly broken and scared.
“I forgive you, Heeseung. Please.”
You’re so fucking scared. Scared of losing yet another life you could’ve had when you were so close to having it.
Scared of not having the chance to love and to be loved again, this time with the person your soul chooses and not because fate says so.
“Please don’t leave me again.”
When Heeseung comes to, you’re holding his hands, zoning out.
There’s a distant look in your expression. A thin air of sad, wilted daisies lingers, no doubt wafting from you. His wolf, having just woken up like him, immediately shifts restlessly in his chest at the scent.
Your thumb brushes over his knuckles absentmindedly, tracing the veins like you’re memorising something before it disappears again.
He stays quiet, letting his eyes trace every curve of your features. The pretty slope of your nose, the soft swell of your cheeks, the petals of your lips. Then they stop at your puffy eyes.
Something inside him twists uncomfortably.
Why does he always make you cry?
You don’t even notice that he’s awake yet, too lost in your head as you stare at the beige wall of the ward. Not until he squeezes your hand back, eager and nervous to see if you’ll return it back or let go.
When you feel the grip tighten, your eyes snap back to him. And then, like a small win that heals something in his heart, you squeeze his hand back.
Heeseung almost breaks down.
“You’re awake,” you say in relief and move to stand. “I’ll get the doctor.”
Heeseung obeys, never finding it in him to go against your words anymore. But his hand never lets go. He savours every second that you let him hold you—the closest he’s ever touched you since the night he saved you.
He doesn’t let go even as the doctor does a checkup on him. The doctor comes in with Jay, who looks as disheveled as he is. There’s an awkward atmosphere between the two alphas, but neither dares to say anything and lets the doctor do his job.
He was unconscious for twelve hours, apparently.
“The scenting from your omega helped speed up the recovery process,” the doctor elaborates. Heeseung steals a glance at you, gauging your reaction, but your face remains neutral.
It’s no wonder that he’s been feeling at peace since waking up—you had been scenting him when he was out.
“You just need to stay for a blood test and then you’re good to go,” the doctor continues, flashing him with a reassuring smile.
Murmurs of thank-yous ripple in the room as the three of you watch the doctor take his leave. Shortly after, the tension returns, and it’s almost obvious to you that the suffocating air comes from the two best friends.
Jay shifts on his feet awkwardly, avoiding eye contact. “I’m gonna grab us lunch.”
Which leaves him alone with you in the room.
Heeseung braves himself and takes a look at you, but you’re already staring at him. Your stare unsettles him, like you’re waiting for him to confess for a crime he didn’t know yet he committed.
“How are you feeling?” you ask instead.
“I—I think I’m good. Yeah,” Heeseung says quickly, a bit taken aback. He watches as you nod, then inspect his face by blinking closer, oblivious to the way he almost explodes from the proximity.
When satisfied, you lean back slightly, but still keep a close distance with him.
“Heeseung.”
The temperature suddenly drops, and the serious look on your face damn near makes him cry. Heeseung tries to mask his panic.
Did he do something wrong again? Fuck. He messed up, didn’t he?
“Hm?”
You take a shaky breath. “Jay told me about everything.”
Heeseung freezes. Everything?
Everything as in the fight that almost broke out last night? Everything as in how pathetic he is for you, which shouldn’t be so shocking or earth-shattering because he is pathetic and a loser for you?
Or everything as in his worsening health condition?
For a moment, you just stare at him. But the more seconds pass, the more obvious it is that you’re holding back tears.
“About the two options you had.”
Heeseung stops breathing. True to his speculation, it is about his health condition. About the fate that he has to choose, about the options that stand between mercy and cruelty.
“Why didn't you tell me? No—” you shake your head, your grip on his hand trembling greatly. His lips remain shut.
“Why didn’t you just cut the bond?”
The sadness dripping in your scent feels almost physical. You hang your head low, enveloping the two of you with the distressed scent of your pheromones. A low whine echoes in your chest, not heard but felt. Your omega is just as destroyed as you are, utterly horrified from the choice he made.
What if you never forgive him? What would become of him?
Heeseung brushes his thumb over your hand consciously, trying to seep his own calming pheromones into your troubled scent. It helps, he notices, as the tremble in your hands subsides, breath evening out.
Then, with a raw honesty, he answers.
“Because I didn’t want a life where you don’t exist in it.”
There’s a lump in your throat but you swallow it down, refusing to break now that you have the chance to understand. To understand the equally wounded alpha in front of you, flawed yet still trying.
“I know that sounds selfish,” he adds quickly. “It is. I was choosing myself when I said that.”
You shake your head, tears threatening to escape. “You could’ve died, no—you almost died, Heeseung.”
“I know.”
Heeseung doesn’t argue. He looks down to your joined hands, branding his brain with the image. A soft smile appears on his lips. He wishes he could hold your hands more often.
“I just…” he exhales shakily. “I thought if I let go of the bond, it would be like I never got the chance to love you at all.”
You squeeze his hand. Your alpha, you realise, is just as soft as you are. He’s always been. It was just misunderstood and misdirected—his flaws that almost cost you your life. You resented him for it, ran from him to avoid it, made it hard for him to save yourself.
But in the end, quietly, tenderly—you find yourself forgiving him.
You understand now; what he was afraid of.
For Heeseung who used to live in short-lived attachments and practiced detachment, loving someone would sound like a too-big responsibility for him. Too lost in his own fear—fear of loving someone so much they could have power over you—he made choices that hurt you.
It doesn’t justify his actions, nor did it undo everything. But understanding him softens the pain.
“You’re so stupid,” you finally whisper, but it breaks halfway through. Heeseung looks almost hurt from your comment.
“I already forgave you.”
His head snaps up but you don’t look at him.
You take your time to speak. “I already did for a while. I was just waiting for my omega to open up her heart,” you chance him a glance and smile wistfully.
“And she did just before you came to my door last night.”
A beat of silence passes by. Heeseung can’t seem to find his voice, too stunned with the sudden grace being granted upon him.
He searches your face. For any lies, for any possible fabrication. He’s desperate to know if this was all just fragments of his dream, if you were just a manifestation of his desperation to be forgiven.
But you’re real. You’re breathing, and you’re telling him that you’ve forgiven him.
“Is this…true?” he asks, voice sounding breathy. “Don’t forgive me just because you feel bad, Y/N. I can’t live with that.”
“No, you didn’t force me,” you shake your head, returning his gaze with built-up courage.
“You earned it.”
Your scent softens, sweeter now that you finally let it out. Like the anger finally loosens its grip on your chest, you can feel your omega melts, her walls crumbling piece by piece.
Heeseung stares at you, mouth slightly agape. The weight he’s been carrying finally cracks and finally, finally—breathing finally comes easy for him now that his chest loosens.
His alpha paws at him in joy.
“Thank you, Y/N. I—” his voice cracks, and so do the tears he’s been holding back. “Oh my Goddess—thank you for forgiving me.”
Heeseung hesitates before he slowly wraps an arm around your shoulder, gauging your reaction. When you don’t push him away, he pulls you closer and you let yourself fall into his embrace.
Heeseung buries his nose in your hair, and the familiar scent of daisies and honey and your hair wash only makes him sob harder.
“Can we try again? Please?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his waist, smiling into the hug.
“Mhm. Let’s try again.”
Trying again with Heeseung is soft and gentle.
Heeseung doesn’t change. If anything, he becomes more present than ever. If there was hesitation in his action before, he seems more confident to initiate things now.
Holding hands when you’re together. Tucking your hair behind your ears because ‘it hides your beautiful face’. Carrying your bag before you can even greet him properly. Bringing you food and trying to bake, even when you receive complaints from Jay about his oven almost catching on fire. But honestly, out of every failed experiments he did in the kitchen, it’s his ramyeon that you love the most.
And you always get it for free, presented like a five-star Michelin with radish and perfectly-made half-boiled egg. ‘Girlfriend privileges’ is what Sunoo called it, as he and the other alphas eat from their cup noodles.
With forgiveness, conversations come easy. Talking about everything and nothing with Heeseung is like trying to map a land. You finally get to know the story behind his jersey number.
‘My mom always tells me that I’m her number one,’ he told you when you asked, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. ‘It sticks until now, but I know that he said that only because I was sulking about being the second son—they love my brother more, to be fair!’
You never thought that Heeseung could be cute and adorable. But the two now fit his description perfectly.
Sometimes, his old habits crawl back. Heeseung still finds it hard to tell you about things that bother him, still trying to run away from ugly emotions that make him feel vulnerable.
Just like right now, Heeseung is trying so hard not to pout as he watches his teammates grab a cookie from the Tupperware you bring.
When Riki reaches for a third, his resolve finally cracks and he slaps the alpha’s hand away.
“That’s enough, you greedy alpha. Shoo!”
You stifle a laugh, basking in the rare occasion where Heeseung shows his emotion almost openly like this. He doesn’t like sharing, of course, but he says nothing—which unsettles you a bit.
“Are you mad?” You finally ask after pulling him out for some privacy.
He doesn’t reply. Heeseung takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, then shakes his head.
“I’m not mad.”
“Please tell me what’s wrong,” you coax him again, reminding yourself that Heeseung is still trying to unlearn some of his bad habits. “I can’t fix anything if you don’t tell me.”
Heeseung gnaws at his lips and avoids your eyes. He knows, with a devastating resignation, that he could never refuse if he looks. So he doesn’t look.
But your scent does the same damage anyway. It’s sweet, it’s too intoxicating and Heeseung can feel himself melt even before he can protest.
He finally relents. “Okay,” he sighs.
Heeseung reaches out and takes your fingers in his, clutching at your smaller ones like a lifeline.
“Y/N…” he starts, contemplating his words, unconsciously pouting. “Can’t you bake only for me and not…share?”
You bite back a grin.
“See? It isn’t hard to tell me,” you squeeze his hand. “You can tell me anything, Heeseung. I will always listen.”
Heeseung gives you a pouty nod.
As for him, Heeseung thinks he was never happier than he is right now.
There’s a strange satisfaction blooming in his chest every time he does something for you.
Be it walking you home, or waiting at the lobby of your apartment to walk to the campus together. Or feeding you food and having a can of grape juice always ready for you.
All the things he used to avoid—doing domestic things, having one person to devote all his attention and affection to—they become things that bring his heart at ease now.
And Heeseung loves being taller than you. He loves when you have to look up to talk to him, or the way you can easily hide your face in his chest when he says something corny. The way he can reach the higher shelf for you and become useful to you. He loves towering over you because every time he does it, he can’t help but notice the sweet spike in your scent.
You love it too.
Over time, the two of you get closer than ever. Every brush of hands, every bump of shoulders, every laughter shared—they only bring you back to him, and him to you. And slowly, like a prophecy finally meeting its destiny, the red thread finds its way back to you.
“Are you sure about this?”
You’re now standing in between his legs while Heeseung sits on the mattress of his bed, craning his neck to search your face.
Your fingers pause in his hair when you feel a faint pulse beneath his skin.
A reminder that he’s still hurting from the one-sided bond. A reminder of the weight of fate tying the two of you.
Heeseung could’ve walked away like you did. He could’ve defied his wolf and cut the bond. But he did nothing of those.
He’s still here, still choosing you in every way you keep choosing him.
“I want this, Heeseung,” you whisper back, carding your fingers through his burgundy hair. “I’ve never been so sure.”
One of the things that the both of you learn more about the relationship is the importance of the sacred bond. This time, you’re no longer running away or denying it—you and Heeseung take time to learn about its history, about the nature of the bond—and in your case, about how to fix the broken bond.
“It must come from your wolves,” you remember Jay’s mom saying. “And only then can you commemorate the bond and heal it for good.”
Commemorating, in this context, is to finally mate with your alpha.
It’s a big leap in the relationship, especially since you’re every way inexperienced. Heeseung knows this; which is why he never rushed you and let himself take the hit of the broken bond.
To the Goddess, without the commemoration, the bond is still considered one-sided. It results in Heeseung still experiencing pain from time to time and, after another nosebleed pre-game and out of care for your alpha, you decide you’re done taking your own time.
Your omega holds the sentiment as you, not having the heart to let the alpha suffer for your own sake.
Noticing your silence, Heeseung grabs your wrist gently and brings it to his nose. He starts nosing at the tender skin, pumping out his calm pheromones as he bathes you in his scent.
“Have you been with anyone else before?”
You hesitate. Then, with a shy smile, you shake your head.
“No.”
Contrary to your expectation, Heeseung stills immediately. His face crumples slightly and his phereomones—previously calming and comforting—suddenly takes a sour turn.
You frown. “Heeseung?” You hold his face, heart clenching at his trembling lips. “What’s wrong?”
When he looks up to you, there are silent tears spilling down his cheeks. It alerts you almost immediately.
“Hee?”
“I—” Heeseung takes a deep breath, but his lips wobble, betraying his effort to remain calm.
“I touched people like it didn’t mean anything,” his voice breaks. Heeseung closes his eyes, like the mere looking into your eyes was too much for him to bear. “And now you’re standing here like this is something sacred and I—”
When you understand what he means, you can feel your own heart breaking.
“Heeseung…”
“Why are you letting me handle something this—precious? I—I don’t deserve you, Y/N. I never did.”
“Please don’t say that,” you coo at him, wiping his tears with the pad of your thumb.
“I chose you knowing everything you’ve done,” you whisper. “Not because you’re perfect, but because you’re trying.”
Heeseung leans into your touch, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t. Like the warmth of your touch is the only thing that keeps him grounded. A comfortable silence falls upon you two, full of warm understanding and acceptance.
“Thank you,” Heeseung kisses your palm, long and gentle. “Thank you, Y/N. I mean it.”
A smile creeps up your face. You lean down to kiss his forehead.
“Come and sit here,” Heeseung pats his thighs. You pause for a moment, already getting shy from the proximity. But deep down, you can’t deny that you want this.
Slowly, you descend onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Heeseung pulls you closer by your hips, eliciting a soft gasp from your lips. He lets out a breathy chuckle.
“Are you comfortable?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” then you pause. “I’m not heavy, am I? Are you comfortable?”
Heeseung hums. “Your weight is perfect for me, baby.”
The term of endearment makes warmth bloom across your cheeks. Heeseung gazes at you fondly, his nose already inching closer to where your scent smells the strongest.
He takes a lungful of your sweet scent—daisies and honey—and almost groans from the feeling of it. His favourite scent in the world. It’s been so long since he got to have you like this, so he keeps scenting you like he’s taking his fill.
“Your scent—you smell so good, Y/N.”
He lets his nose graze your scent gland. Once, twice, before brushing it with small, slow licks. You clutch at his shoulders, sparks bursting from the touch.
“Mhh!”
Heeseung trails up wet kisses up the column of your neck, dragging his tongue along your skin, savouring the soft gasps leaving your parted lips. His grip on your waist tightens, nails digging into your camisole while you try not to lose your mind over the foreign sensation.
Everywhere Heeseung touches with his lips is hot, sending strange, tingly feelings up your spine. It’s wet and it should make you recoil, but you find yourself loving it, already wanting more.
Heeseung stops when he reaches your lips, hot breath brushing against the soft pair. His eyes, now hooded and dark, are losing their round shape, like he, too, is already unraveling from just this.
“I’m gonna kiss you now, my daisy,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to your parted lips, open and so inviting. Something churns inside your stomach, always keening when being called his daisy.
Then you nod, granting him permission.
“Please kiss me, Heeseung.”
There’s a tiny quirk of a smile, before he finally closes the gap between your mouths. He’s careful, caressing the plump of your lips with his own, tentatively and slowly at first, before he captures your mouth in his. You close your eyes.
Heeseung kisses you like it’s sacred. He moves slowly, allowing you to follow his pace and getting used to the feeling of his mouth on yours. It’s gentle and sweet. It’s everything you have imagined sharing a kiss with a lover.
His lips, soft and wider than yours, easily dominate the kiss with a flick of his tongue.
Your lips part in a gasp and Heeseung takes the chance to prod his tongue in, licking into every corner of your mouth like he’s been starved for you. You clasp a hand in his hair, losing your pace as Heeseung takes over.
With each passing second, the kiss turns into a needier one and you grow hotter. It’s messy now, with drool leaking down your chin and the noises you make getting louder. When you start to feel lightheaded, you tap his shoulders, lungs burning from the lack of breath.
Heeseung lingers for a second, as if he never wants to let go, before detaching from your lips.
He looks absolutely wrecked. His lips are shiny with spit, panting into your mouth like he needs more.
“Need some air?” he whispers, voice hoarse, caressing your waist tenderly. You nod, catching your breath before you lean in and try to kiss him again.
This time, Heeseung lets you take the lead, grabbing your hips tight enough to ground himself. You mouth at the corner of his lips, peppering kisses across the pinkish skin before he loses his patience and starts kissing back, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth.
Pulling you flush against his own hips, Heeseung is desperate to feel you closer. The scent of his pheromones is taking a richer, darker tone, dripping with building arousal. He wants to stay like this forever—wants to memorise every taste, every curve of your lips, and carve it into his memory.
You’re unraveling just as fast. Driven by a deeper need to feel each other and more, you pool your arms around his neck and pull him closer, instinctively bucking your hips to soothe the ache between your legs.
Beneath you, Heeseung freezes. A strangled groan catches at the back of his throat, his fingers digging into your hips. His head is on cloud nine; he can’t believe you just did what you did, feeling his own lust slowly getting thicker.
Then, as if testing, you roll your hips again.
This time, the sound that leaves his throat is deep and ragged. Heeseung bites his lips, brows pinched together, his restraint visible through the veins popping in his neck.
“Y/N,” he rasps, voice strained. “Good? Comfortable?"
Your eyes, dazed and glossed over, look into his eyes and you nod. You move your hips again, chasing the delicious friction like a lifeline. “More.”
“Fuck,” Heeseung curses under his breath.
Wordlessly, he snakes an arm around your waist and flips your position. Your back meets the mattress before you can process it, the impact punching a breath out of your lungs. Heeseung hovers over you, chest heaving rapidly, heated gaze raking over your body like he’s already dreamed of this many times.
“Heeseung,” you sigh, lifting your arms to his nape, already hating the distance. “Want you closer.”
Heeseung thinks he’s still in a dreamland, because there’s no way you’re lying down under him, hair splayed like a halo, asking him for more. Your lips, kiss-bruised and bitten-raw from the previous makeout session, are parted in a soft gasp, looking every bit like his wet dream.
No. This is better than any of his dreams.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes out as if he’s in a daze, a willing hostage to your magical spell. “Fuck, I just—I just love you so much.”
The confession lands like a feather drifting through the air. Your breath catches in your throat, searching for Heeseung’s eyes and almost tearing up when you see only devotion and sincerity in his gaze.
“Heeseung…”
“My precious daisy,” Heeseung lowers down and gives a smooch to the back of your ear. Your breath hitches. “My sweet, sweet honey.”
Another wave of heat pools between your legs. His voice—oh Goddess, his sweet and sultry voice in your ears, accompanied by such adoration is almost too much. You whine, clutching his shirt in a desperate grip.
“What do you need, baby?” Heeseung breathes hard into your ears, his own voice almost cracking from restraint. “Tell me, hm?”
“Need you to touch me.”
He barely stops nibbling on the sensitive skin of your earlobe. “Where do you need me?”
You grab one of his wrists and bring it to where you need him most. The moment his fingers touch your soaked sweatpants, Heeseung lets out a deep, throaty groan. He pulls away slightly just to catch the expression you make—mouth agape, eyes closing shut—as he presses a finger on your cunt.
“Here? You like it here?”
“Y-Yes—” You purse your lips, pleading eyes peering into his dark gaze. “Please—More, please.”
Heeseung holds back a smirk. “You’re so good to me,” he purrs, his alpha swelling with pride and arousal. “I’m gonna give you everything you ask for, hm?”
Heeseung slips his hand into your panties and curses out loud at the wet sensation on his fingers.
“Fuck, Y/N—you’re leaking.”
He props himself on one arm. His long, slender fingers stroke your folds, the wet sound of your arousal filling the room. You claw at his upper arms and arch your hips, letting out a broken breath.
“H-Heeseung!”
A deep growl rumbles in his chest. Heeseung leans down and peppers kisses all over your cheeks as he flicks his thumb over your clit. The high-pitched, whiny moan that you let out makes his twitching cock kick and drool, already begging to be freed.
“Does that feel good?” he rasps, nudging at your hole with the tip of finger. The tight hole is almost sucking his finger in, eliciting a breathless moan out of your lungs.
You nod frantically, desperate to feel anything inside.
“‘Feels so good, alpha.”
“Mhm,” he purrs, circling your gaping hole lightly, teasingly. “I’m gonna put it in slow and nice for you and you’re gonna take it, ‘kay?”
You suck in your bottom lips, heat pooling low in your stomach at the deep timbre of his voice.
“Yes. Please give it to me.”
Heeseung almost melts at the big eyes you’re giving him. He gives you a soft peck and speaks against your mouth, “Tell me if it hurts, Y/N. I will stop immediately.”
When you give him the green light to go, Heeseung slowly pushes his middle finger in, fighting back a loud moan at the feeling of your walls sucking him in. He pauses for a moment, gauging for any discomfort in your face, and then starts pumping in and out gently when he sees only pleasure.
It feels strange and uncomfortable at first; having something inside you. But the subtle feeling of pain is slowly disappearing the longer he shoves his finger in. His thumb, eager to please you, keeps circling your swollen nub, adding to the building sensation in your stomach.
Before you know it, you’re already leaking out more slick. Your head thrashes to your left and right, breathy moans spilling out of your lips.
“Ngh—fuck—Hee—“
Heeseung forces himself to stay still; forces himself to breathe at the sight of you unraveling and so, so pliant under his touch, even when all he wants to do is ruin you. He inserts another finger, the additional stretch burns so good that you almost cry.
“Heeseung!”
The alpha lets out a heavy, ragged breath as his fingers skillfully scissor you open, willing your walls to loosen for him. His lips fall open as he watches you fist the mattress with a tight grip, eyes fluttering shut from pleasure.
Heeseung thinks he’s about to come just from watching your erotic expressions alone.
“Ah—ah—ngh!” You squirm and whine and writhe, throat scratchy from how long you’ve been keeping your mouth open.
Heeseung’s eyes darken as he takes in the way the straps of your camisole fall down your shoulders. The soft swell of your chest moves up and down in a rapid breathing, nipples peeking out just enough to tease.
Fuck—you’re a sight to behold.
He can’t think straight, not when every sense is filled up with your thick, heady scent. Your slick, where it smells the strongest, is now pouring out of your gaping hole in waves and drenching his fingers down to his wrist, making the tent in his pants tighten painfully.
“I’m gonna add one more—fuck,” Heeseung almost chuckles in disbelief at the way your body sucks him in. “Your cunt is a little greedy, baby. Might just take all my fingers in.”
You’re already a mess of broken moans and high-pitched, ‘ah—ah—fuck’. The sensation is becoming too much. You have fingered yourself before, but they don’t have the girth of Heeseung’s long and slender ones; reaching deep inside where you can’t get before, or the roughness of the pad of his thumb circling on your clit relentlessly—bringing you closer to the edge faster than you can think.
Heeseung can already feel it. Your greedy little hole is catching at his fingers even tighter, signalling how close you are to cumming. He leans down, latching his mouth on your neck and littering it with bruising kisses that are going to leave marks, increasing the speed of his wrist until your hips lift off the mattress.
“H-Hee—! I’m—God, fuck—“
“Give it to me, my daisy,” he whispers, voice hoarse and rough from arousal, thumb flicking faster. “That’s it. Give everything to me.”
Heeseung watches closely as you close your eyes and mouth falls open as you come, the erotica of everything almost makes his neglected cock bust out. A feeling of intense ecstasy floods your system, crashing through your body, slick gushing out in waves upon delicious waves.
The alpha slows down the movements of his wrist, thumb circling lazily as he lets you ride out the high. He’s already dizzy from your pheromones, so sweet and inviting, that he almost pushes you into oversensitivity.
He plops out his fingers and puts it into his mouth, tongue lapping at the nectarine of your slick like a thirsty dog. His alpha hums in satisfaction at the sweet taste of his omega’s come, all drenched and warm just for him.
“Fuck, Y/N,” Heeseung hovers over your body again, now kissing you hard in pent-up hunger. “I wanna eat you out so badly but I just can’t wait anymore.”
You hum into the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Heeseung parts for a moment, jagged breathing hitting your lips warm as he stares into your eyes. His gaze softens.
“Are you okay?”
You nod. “‘M’kay.”
Heeseung nuzzles his cheek against yours, hands sliding up and down your waist before slipping under your camisole and cups your breasts. You let out a half-shocked gasp.
“Can you take more, baby?” He murmurs against your ears, teetering on the edge of sanity as he listens to the sinful sounds leaving your mouth. “Can you take my big, fat knot this time?”
You can’t find your voice, too lost in pleasure as Heeseung kneads your breasts and plays with your nipples. Heeseung drags his tongue along your earlobe, desperate to hear you more.
“Look at these perky tits,” he says as he drags down your camisole, letting it bunch around your waist. His mouth gapes at the way the plump flesh spilling over his fingers, so soft and yielding. “Fuck—you’re so beautiful, Y/N, I will fucking cry.”
“Nnggh!” You cry out when he latches his mouth on your left nub. He sucks and grazes his teeth on your hardened nipple, never breaking eye contact, the wet sensation sending heat straight to your core.
“Hee!” Your hand flies into his hair when he sucks particularly hard at the bottom swell of your breast, marking his territory. His rough fingers fondle your right tit, rolling the perky nub with reverent attention that makes you clamp your thighs shut.
You squirm, feeling another pool of slick gathering. “H-Heeseung—!”
“Oh, fuck, baby,” he lets go with a pop, lips shiny and slick with his own spit. “Please say my name like that again,” he requests, simultaneously rolling his hips to gauge your reaction.
As he expected—your body, so sensitive and pliant in his hold—immediately writhes from the friction. Heeseung watches with awe, nose twitching as another wave of your scent floods the room, mixing with the sultry accent of his cinnamon and seasalt almost too perfectly.
“Heeseung!”
Heeseung feels so dizzy. His thoughts are only filled with your name, your voice, and your pretty, pretty face that contorts in pleasure when he grinds more. His crotch area is already so fucking wet from pre-cum and your arousal that he thinks he’s losing a chance at any decent and coherent thoughts.
He gives you another roll, and when the name that leaves your swollen lips comes out broken and high-pitched, Heeseung decides that he can’t take it anymore.
“I’m gonna fuck you now, my daisy,” he rasps, leaving one last mark on your cleavage before sitting up. He helps you out of your clothes, marvelling in the way your body trusts him completely.
You’re all soft lines and gentle curves. Heeseung loses his breath as he traces his eyes from the soft mounds of your chest—littered red from his markings, to the narrow pinch of your waist, and the flare of your hips. He caresses the flesh with his hands, gripping it like a love handle as he revels in the contrast of his tanned, big hands on your soft, unblemished skin.
And your pussy—fuck, it’s still glistening from your previous climax and his ministrations, and is now getting wetter under his heated gaze alone.
But it’s the look in your eyes that completely undoes him—pure trust and devotion only for him that he so damn near cries.
“So beautiful,” he praises again, unable to stop the word from flowing out of his mouth. He slides down his hands down your thighs, groping the supple flesh, almost moaning from the sheer softness of it.
“Every inch of you is perfect, baby,” he husks, intoxicated by your pheromones invading his senses.
You hold your breath, peering up at the dominant alpha through your lashes. In a moment of such vulnerability, your chest is filled with affection and trust only for the man now handling your body with care, as if your body was made of porcelain.
My alpha, your wolf purrs inside, heart pounding into your chest.
You spread your thighs wider, so inviting and pliant.
“Alpha,” you mewl, nervously looking up at him. “Please.”
Heeseung can feel his dick twitching from the sight alone. With a swift movement, his shirt is already discarded, thrown somewhere on the floor.
“Say it clearly, baby. Tell me what you need.”
Heeseung fumbles with the strings of his sweatpants as his hooded gaze bores into your hazy one, hissing when his aching cock is finally springing free from the confines of his pants.
You almost drool at the sight of his weeping cock, standing tall and proud against his abdomen. Its tip is angry red, leaking precum down the length of prominent, bulging veins. Your hole flutters with dripping need.
The words come out so easily now that your pussy is pulsing with an aching need to be filled.
“Please fuck me, Heeseung.”
Heeseung’s lips are bitten raw from restraint, his jaw tight as he forces himself not to move—not to give in to the urge to push forward and lose himself inside you. But before he can move to get a condom from the drawer, your hand snaps to his wrist, shaking your head no.
“Just—just do it,” you bite your lips trying not to squirm under his darkening gaze. “I want to feel you.”
It takes everything in him to stay still—to not reach for you, not pull you back, not ruin this by losing control. Heeseung looks for any doubt in your face.
“Are you sure, baby?”
“Mhm,” you tug at his wrist, guiding his hand to cup your pussy. Heeseung almost combusts right then and there.
“Quick, Heeseung. Need you here.”
“Oh my fucking God—” Heeseung curses under his breath, trying to remain calm. But his body betrays him, his muscles tensing, breath unsteady, as he forces himself to stay where he is.
He sits taller, his thumb rubbing your clit teasingly. His other hand strokes his cock lazily, flicking his wrist around the erection and hisses when more precum drools out.
The whole time, he doesn’t let go of your eyes, taking in every micro-expressions you make like a greedy man. You’re so sensitive, so expressive, and so, so wet—always so eager to shower him with more slick and more of your sultry moaning.
He aligns his cock in between your folds, grinding the bulbous head against your swollen clit. A choked moan escapes both of you, too fucked over the pleasure. Another gush of slick trickles down your hole, intensifying your scent.
“Heeseung—”
“Shh, baby, I know,” Heeseung coos at the tears pooling along your lashline. He reaches out to wipe it, torn between guilt and absolutely fucking pleasure that he feels from seeing you break apart at his hand like this.
“I’m gonna be gentle, yeah?” He rasps, still rolling his hips, gathering your slick around the tip of his cock.
He trails his fingers down your wrists before pinning them over your head, hovering over you completely like an eclipse. Then, after what felt like a lifetime, Heeseung finally pushes in.
He doesn’t move after that.
A broken breath leaves him, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if the effort of holding himself back is physically weighing on him. His grip on your wrists tightens just slightly, seeking something to ground him to the moment. Beneath him, you’re trembling from the mix of pain and pleasure, the latter outweighing the former.
“Y/N…” he exhales, voice rough, almost unsteady. “Look at me.”
There’s something in the way he says it. It’s not commanding or urgent, like he really needs to see you or he’ll fall apart.
You turn your head, meeting his gaze, your expression soft but overwhelmed, lips parted as you try to steady your breathing. It stings, but not enough for you to pull away. Heeseung did a good job at preparing you.
He searches your face like it’s the only thing anchoring him.
“Am I—” he swallows, jaw tightening. “Am I hurting you?”
You shake your head, even though the feeling is new, intense, more than you expected. But the way he’s holding himself back, the way he’s watching you like this could fall apart at any second—it steadies you. Heeseung is so careful, so scared of hurting you that it almost makes you cry.
“It’s… okay,” you whisper, fingers twitching under his hold. “Don’t stop.”
His eyes squeeze shut for a second, like he’s bracing himself, like your trust is something he has to deserve in real time.
“Slow,” he mutters to himself more than to you. “Gotta go slow…”
He barely shifts, testing, careful, measured. Like every movement is something he has to think through instead of give in to. He sinks in another inch, mind floating from the tight sensation of your hole. A strained sound slips past his lips, low and wrecked, his control slipping just enough to show.
“God…” he breathes, almost shaking. “You feel—”
He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard, like even finishing that sentence would push him too far.
Instead, his hand comes down to your waist, grounding himself there, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your skin like he needs something soft to hold onto.
You can feel it—how much he’s holding back. Not just physically, but everything. The way his body tenses with every tiny movement, the way his breathing keeps stuttering like he’s constantly pulling himself back from the edge as he pushes inside, inch by inch.
And something in your chest tightens.
“You can move,” you murmur softly, a little unsure, but still wanting. Wanting him, wanting every side of him and not just this careful version of him.
His head lifts immediately.
“No,” he says, almost too quickly. Then his voice grows softer. “Not if you’re not ready.”
Your brows knit slightly, a small shake of your head.
“I am,” you insist, voice quiet but certain. “I trust you.”
Your declaration hits deeper than anything else.
For a moment, he just looks at you—really looks—like he’s trying to understand how you can still say that to him. Then his grip tightens again; a firm grip that anchors you to the moment.
“Okay,” he breathes.
And this time, when he moves, it’s still slow—but there’s something underneath it now. Not just restraint, but a crack in it. A quiet, dangerous edge that slips through no matter how hard he tries to hold it back.
His forehead presses to yours, breaths tangling, uneven.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, softer now. “Anything—you tell me, yeah?”
You nod, already clutching onto him, already feeling yourself giving in to the rhythm he’s so carefully trying to control.
God, Heeseung tries not to lose himself completely. Chanting ‘Go slow, go fucking slow,’ like a mantra in his head is proving to be the hardest test he’s ever been through.
But he still tries—even when it starts slipping crack by crack.
You can feel it in the way his pace stays measured, like every pound into your walls is a calculated move. It makes your heart flutter, really, but you want more.
You don’t know how to say it without sounding desperate, but your body knows you better. Instinctively, you clench around his cock. The action is not fully registered in your head until Heeseung’s rhythm falters.
“Y/N…” he exhales, your name catching in his throat like it’s too much for him to hold.
“More,” your fingers tighten around his arms, pulling him impossibly closer. “More, please.”
You tighten your walls again, drawing a shuddering gasp from him. His head drops forward as his control stutters, cock twitching inside you.
“Don’t,” he starts, half-warning and half-whining, “Don’t do that or I’m—”
You can’t stand it anymore. You meet his thrust, hitting his navel with yours, gasping because the sensation feels too good. A broken groan leaves him, deep and absolutely fucking wrecked.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, gripping your hips tighter. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Heeseung kisses up the length of your neck, leaving more marks before he props his arms. When you catch his eyes, something flickers in that heated gaze, like his control is finally slipping away, snapping with the way he pistons his cock into you. You choke out a breath.
“Okay?” he asks, still worrying. You nod frantically, desperately.
“Yes—please—more—”
Heeseung does it again. Again and again and again until all there’s left is the sound of your broken gasps and the wet, filthy noise of his balls hitting your hole.
“Still—fuck—still okay?” he asks, voice rough, barely held together.
You can’t form any coherent thoughts, so you nod again, breathless and more certain this time. “Please…don’t stop.”
Heeseung lets out a curse, lifting your hips slightly before continuing pounding into you, faster and harder. A high-pitched moan rips from your throat, the new angle hitting the spot that has you seeing stars.
He watches your face, his own contorting in pleasure, setting a pace that has you blabbering out broken words and more drool.
You feel so full. His cock is so deep inside you, filling you up to the hilt. It’s a strange feeling, but it’s also so, so addictive that you just want more, more, and more. It’s the only thing you can ask for: “More, more—Heeseung—ah—please.”
Heeseung leans down, taking your earlobe into his mouth, alternating his pace between achingly slow rolls of his hips and harsh, sharp thrusts, whispering hotly into your ears.
“You’re taking me so well.”
“So fucking tight, baby, fuck.”
“My daisy. My honey. My everything.”
The heat in your stomach intensifies, building up like a tidal wave waiting to crash. Your nails dig into his biceps, meeting his heated gaze with your glassy one.
“Mate with me, Heeseung. Please.”
Heeseung almost stops, but you’re fast to hook your legs around his waist, urging him to continue. He continues with slower grinding, locking eyes with you.
It’s finally time to seal the bond for good. But even in the haze of pleasure and nirvana, all Heeseung cares about is your well-being.
“Now, baby?” he whispers in between thrusts. He catches your jaw in his hand, thumb brushing your cheeks softly. He knows it’s bound to happen tonight anyway, but if he can save you from the pain longer, he will. “It will sting, sweetheart. I don’t want to hurt you.”
You nod, never felt more sure than now. You lean up to kiss him, breath mingling hotly before you look into his eyes.
“I trust you, Heeseung,” you whisper back. You grind back into him, hips stuttering when his cock thrusts almost sharply into your cunt.
With broken gasps, you finally say it. “Please mark me yours.”
Heeseung almost tears up from the sheer weight of your words.
Trust. Yours. Mine.
Something that the old him would’ve never imagined wanting and needing.
But here, as your starry eyes gazing into his teary gaze, Heeseung’s never felt so full and complete. He doesn’t even know that he was capable of loving someone this much; of this overwhelming affection that he has only for you.
A single drop of tears slides down his cheek as he kisses you again, trying to convey his emotions into the sweet touch. You respond just as reverent, understanding him without words being spoken.
“Do you trust me?” he murmurs against your mouth. His hips are slowing down, getting lost in the warm sensation of your breath and your sweetening scent.
You give him a peck. “I do.”
Heeseung smiles fondly. He leaves one last kiss on your forehead before he sits up, pulling out of you at the same time. You almost whine at the loss of touch, but he’s quick to reassure you.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
Then, with a dominating strength that makes your stomach flutter, he grabs your waist and flips you over. You arch your back almost instinctively, shoving your ass in the air. Heeseung groans, his alpha howling in pride at seeing his omega presenting like this. His jaw clenches from restraint, absolutely close to losing his mind over this sight of you.
His cock slips back in easily. Heeseung splays a hand over the skin between your shoulders, pushing you gently into the mattress.
You glance over your shoulders, wiggling your ass and pushing it further into his face. “Like this, Heeseungie?”
Heeseung bites his lips, mouth salivating from the sight. “Yeah, baby.” He is so fucking turned on. “I’m gonna move now, yeah?”
At the single movement of your head, Heeseung is already thrusting inside, barely holding himself back. The new angle gives more access to his cock to hit places you didn’t know exist in your walls, sending sparks of electricity to your nerves.
“Ah, ah—nnghh!! Heeseungie!”
“Keep saying my name like that, baby,” Heeseung drools over the jiggles of your round ass. He kneads the flesh with his thick fingers, moaning at the dimples his nails make by digging into it.
“So soft. So beautiful,” he grinds and rolls his hips, leaning down to bite down on your buttcheeks. You clench around him. “So responsive for me. God—you’re perfect, Y/N.”
“I’m—I’m close—”
“Oh, I can feel it, baby,” Heeseung grunts through his teeth. Your walls keep sucking him back in, as if refusing to let go. “I’m close too—fuck.”
Heeseung picks up his pace, his muscles flexing as he, too, almost reaches his high. He leans down, broad chest meeting your back and noses at your pulsing scent gland, sweat dripping down his chin.
It’s intoxicating, the way your scent blends in with his pheromones, like a perfect match made in heaven—which might not be so far from the truth. He is your true mate, after all, written in the prophecy for God knows how long.
He can feel how close you’re getting, your whining turning needier and messier. His canines sharpen slowly, readying himself to mark you.
You drool into the mattress, incoherent words leaving your mouth. The coil in your stomach tightens, so close to snapping, so close to bringing you over the edge.
And it’s with a flick of his thumb over your clit that you finally give. You go still, shockwaves of your release rippling through your body, pulling Heeseung with you as he cums, spraying your insides white.
Following his promise, Heeseung chooses that exact moment to sink his teeth in your nape, right over where your scent gland is. You yelp, body trembling from the intense feeling of pain and pleasure.
The feeling is otherworldly—like something inside you finally clicks into place.
A warmth blooms from where he’s marked you, spreading through your body in slow, overwhelming waves. It’s not just the sensation—it’s him. You can feel him in a way you’ve never felt before, like his presence has settled beneath your skin, threading into every part of you.
Your fingers clutch at the sheets, breath stuttering as something inside you tightens and softens. You feel complete, like the quiet ache you never noticed has finally disappeared.
Heeseung groans softly against your skin, almost like he feels it too—like the bond snaps into place just as strongly on his end. His hold on you tightens, not possessive, but grounding, as if he needs to make sure you’re real, that this is real.
He quickly laps at the blood and the wound, tongue gentle now, almost reverent as he soothes the mark he’s just made. His hips slow down, now grinding into you lazily to ride out the wave before you mewl from oversensitivity.
He pulls out after a while and gently turns you back to face him. As soon as he locks eyes with you, Heeseung’s composure breaks instantly, tears spilling down his cheeks. He catches your lips in a wet kiss.
“My daisy,” he cries, cradling your jaw and never intending to let go. “Oh Goddess—I love you so much.”
His voice, broken and gasping with gratitude and relief, moves your heart in ways that unravel you just the same. You kiss back just as hard, heart finally full and complete.
Your omega purrs in satisfaction, and to your surprise, you can almost hear another wolf echoing back to yours.
It doesn’t take a genius to know that it’s Heeseung’s wolf—your alpha, finally and wholly yours.
Heeseung breaks the kiss only to rest his forehead against yours. Your scent gland pulses, but this time, it’s gentle and grounding, like a mark of a new beginning; a bond now finally healed and sealed.
“Y/N,” he breathes out against your mouth. “Don’t get tired of me yet, okay? I… I cherish you so much. ‘I love you’ doesn’t feel like enough.”
You let out a soft giggle and pull him closer, sealing your lips with his again.
“Then don’t say anything. Show me, my alpha…show me that we belong to each other.”
As moonlight spills into the bedroom, a blessing from the Goddess for the mated pair, the sheets bear witness to the moment two fractured souls finally become one.
You wake up before Heeseung.
Trying to remove his arms from your waist proves to be a real challenge; the alpha refuses to let you go even in his sleep. You chuckle softly and plant a kiss on his forehead before slipping out of the blanket.
Standing on slightly wobbly legs, you drift into the kitchen, your throat screaming for water. You let the sunshine hit your skin, highlighting your afterglow, as you down a whole glass of water.
The house is quiet. Jay, with the intention to give the two of you privacy, has gone to visit his parents for the weekend. You silently thank him for it. You don’t want to know how awkward it’d be if he has to hear all the noises you made last night.
Just as you’re about to return to Heeseung’s warm embrace, your eyes catch a sign on another door. It’s located at the end of the hallway, a few paces away from Heeseung’s and Jay’s bedrooms. It’s almost unnoticeable, but the name on the sign is what intrigues you to go closer.
EVAN LEE
Evan? That’s Heeseung’s English name.
You know it’s an invasion of privacy, but your wolf is nagging at you to go. So, with almost zero reluctancy, you let yourself inside.
It’s his producer room, you guess, judging from the equipment filling up the space. You let your eyes roam, smiling to yourself when you catch random things that just scream Heeseung.
There are two frames of pictures hanging on the wall, one of his family and another one of him and Jay. The two looked younger, more reckless, a given when you notice the uniform they were wearing. High-school Jay with a neat shirt, tucked in and collar buttoned up while high-school Heeseung was missing his tie. They were smiling bright, already so handsome from such a young age.
You look at the random stickers on his PC—basketball, white cats, and alphabet stickers that are arranged into ‘NI-KI’.
A pair of headphones sit on the table, each ear decorated with different aesthetics. The left one is full of flowers, tiny stickers of ‘ddeonu’ are left as watermark, while the other is just one big orange cat sticker, and instead of leaving his name in a way that doesn’t stain, Jungwon actually signed with a marker pen.
You laugh, wondering what might be Heeseung’s reaction when that menace did that. It’s Sony, after all, and judging from the sleek design—it’s definitely pricey. But knowing how soft Heeseung is for Jungwon, he probably just let it slide because ‘Jungwonnie is cute’.
This room is so full of everything Heeseung loves. His passion for music and basketball, his affection for his close friends. A thought, not unkindly or bitter, crosses your mind: you cannot wait to leave traces of you here, too—something of yours, beside everything he already loves.
Just as you’re about to leave, something in the corner stops you in your tracks. It’s a notebook, hidden under a keyboard, like it’s never meant to be found.
You walk over and look at the notebook, breath catching in your throat when you read the cover.
For my daisy.
Is this for you?
With trembling fingers—a result from your pounding heart—you flip the cover. There’s handwriting, unmistakably Heeseung’s, filling up the first page.
These are my silent apologies to the girl I lost. I was too late to love you when you still loved me, but I promise myself that I will start and continue loving you, even when I can no longer hear your echo until the very end.
P.s. park jongseong stop making fun of me this will become a hit album TRUST!
Just like what the note has said, the notebook is full of song lyrics. Each line, each intended melody, each scribble left in the margin—every one of them is meant for you, intended for you, and just for you.
Your vision blurs, heart tightening so painfully it almost aches—because this wasn’t just regret. It was love. Quiet, enduring, and yours all along.
Heeseung didn’t know how to stay or to cherish—but he’s been unlearning every single bad habit for you. Through your resentment, through your tears, through your silences, until finally, your omega was willing to open up and give him another chance at love.
Your chest swells with affection and pride, echoing with only the name of the alpha.
You reach for a pen and flip back to the first page, leaving your first ever trace in his producer room.
p.s. i love you more, my cinnamon alpha.
andddd that's the end of it!!1 thank you once again and until next time <3
dividers from: @cursed-carmine <3
permanent taglist: @kristynaaah @seungiesdoll @in-somnias-world @rikismists @loviseamms @ikeupop
fic taglist 1: @bingka @twocupsofsuga @rayofsunshineeee @all4moi @cutehoons02 @barbiecuedotcom @kitteaasstuff @sosocide @lhspeachie @sooooobean @vmpiricou @st4rg1rlies @itsmesofia @dazedinadream @yenienha @fullsunncity @kookieterry @isa942572 @jikookvfans @corroprisz @taesnumber1 @goosemantheweeb @wndrlndhee @jakey1115 @d0llddeonu @zijoan @mheretoreadff @ezekiel-bublz @pomeranyan @mono-for-real
mark me yours - l.hs (part 2)
— a spin-off from love me (k)not
main masterlist | part 1 | part 3
synopsis. heeseung regrets everything, but his regret comes too late.
pairing. alpha!heeseung x omega!female reader
genre(s). omegaverse, fated mates, strangers-to-lovers, angst, fluff warnings. angst angst angst!!, everyone cries a lot, heavy angst..., slowburn, vomiting, insecurity, depressive behaviour, hyperventilation and panic attacks, attempts (just one attempt), heeseung is so fucking desperate, featuring: alpha!jay (our target again), alpha!jungwon, wolf hybrid!sunghoon, fake-omega!sunoo (pls i love him), beta!jake, beta!ahn yujin, omega!rei, not beta read we die like injang, ok just hmu if i miss anything!!!
word count. 17,837
note. girl wtf tumblr didn't let me post the whole fic!!! im crying, part 3 coming right up!!
For the first time in his life, Heeseung wants to stay.
No. He wants you to stay.
But he doesn’t dare say anything. He doesn’t even know if he deserves to open his mouth. It’s like a knot of uneasiness has lodged itself in his throat, preventing him from moving even an inch of his muscle.
Not that he can even move, honestly. His entire body is on fire, his scent gland is pulsing in pain. But nothing, nothing can compare to the hollowness in his chest.
Nothing comes close to the gravity of the situation, slowly settling in his mind.
Heeseung can’t breathe.
Across from him, you’re leaning on your cheerleader friend for support. Someone he vaguely recognises as Riki’s cousin—Rei, if he’s not mistaken. She has rushed out of the crowd when people had stopped dancing to watch a literal romance suicide happening in the backyard.
“Oh my Goddess—you’re bleeding—Riki! Call the ambulance!”
“Let’s just drive her to the hospital,” Jake, a beta who belongs to the frat house, emerges from behind Riki, looking more sober than the other guests. “It’s faster.”
Among the chaos, of people murmuring in surprise, of your friend and his friend fussing over your condition, you stand there silently. If you were pale before, you’re looking even more ghostly now that if someone were to cut your cheek, there’d be no blood coming out.
He watches you, eyes never leaving your face, begging, pleading through his gaze for you to meet his eyes. But you never do.
You keep your head low and let Rei and Jake usher you away, steps wobbly and unsteady.
Heeseung can’t breathe.
It feels like he’s underwater and his lungs have turned to bricks.
“—seung! Breathe!”
Heeseung snaps out of his thoughts and realises that his knees have finally given up. He’s on the ground, the tiles bruising his knees as Jay crouches beside him, shaking his shoulders. He realises, as his chest burns and moves rapidly, that he’s been hyperventilating.
Heeseung can’t breathe.
“Oh God—” he chokes, clawing at his burning throat. Sweat dots on his forehead, his face turning red with each passing second. Beside him, Jay is shouting at someone over his head, but the sound is muffled to his ears.
All he can hear is the echo of your voice.
‘I ended it.’
The pain cracks through his chest. The tears are unstoppable now.
‘There’s nothing between us anymore.’
Heeseung thinks he might die.
A violent sob racks through his chest, both of his palms touching the ground. He can faintly sense Riki’s presence around him, the younger trying to lift him up with the help of Jay, but Heeseung’s body is dead weight.
His wolf refuses to move.
This is all your fault, his alpha growls in his mind.
You defied fate and now we lost her. This is your fault, Lee Heeseung.
Heeseung covers his face, feeling the wetness on his cheeks. His body shakes with every sob, showing no signs of stopping. On either side of him, Jay and Riki have given up on trying to help him stand. The two watch as their friend cries his heart out.
Out of sorrow. Out of grief.
Out of regret.
“I’m sorry,” Heeseung sobs to no one, the words dripping with remorse.
He looks up, chasing the ghost of you with his guilty eyes—but you’re long since gone. The weight of the abandoned bond now sits heavy on his chest, pulsing in pitiful longing.
“I’m really sorry.”
The space swallows his words, the emptiness a permanent reminder of his too-late apology.
Hospitals aren’t exactly a place you look forward to visiting.
But right now, you are willing to take anything to escape the eyes. You silently curse yourself for pulling that scene in a place where privacy is a luxury, but at least now you have escaped from it.
From Heeseung.
Most importantly, from the consequences of your actions.
You bring your finger to your nape and graze the scent gland gently. The pain it has borne for the last two weeks has finally stopped. It brings great relief to you, really—not having to feel the slow death of being an unwanted mate. But freedom has its cost.
You’ve never felt so empty.
You don’t know how your omega did it, but the bond is severed. Traces of Heeseung’s pheromones are nowhere to be found. Gone are the warm, spicy cinnamon and the cool, salty sea air that used to linger around your sweet scent faintly.
You no longer smell like him. You no longer feel the need to see him. You no longer feel the agonising pain shooting up your spine every time he kisses someone who isn’t you.
Yet you feel empty.
You expected more pain. You expected longing. But your body feels quiet. Your omega, previously hysterical and loud, is dead silent inside. A protest to the Goddess or she’s just genuinely exhausted, you don’t know. You can’t put it past her if it’s both.
You sigh, dropping your hand on your lap as you stare at the blood stain on the sleeves of your cardigan. You pay no mind to the nurses and patients passing by in front of you. Jake and Rei left not too long ago, after you managed to convince them that you’ll be okay and that Yujin is on her way.
As if on cue, your nose picks up the smell of green tea among the sterile and sharp odour of the hallway. Yujin.
“Y/N!”
Your friend greets you with a slightly breathless voice, clearly running her way into the hospital. She bends down and immediately makes a show of inspecting you, turning your body left and right frantically. When her eyes drop on the dried blood staining your sleeves, she nearly shrieks.
“Who the fuck must I kill?!”
“Shh! Keep your voice down!” You hush her, sending apologetic looks to the nearby people who have become alert of Yujin’s death threat. “And no, you’re not killing anybody.”
“Please tell me what happened before I lose my mind,” Yujin pleads, the worry on her face softening her features. You halt.
Before you know it, your eyes have turned glassy. The weight of everything—the constant pain, the relief, the broken bond—you finally feel the full force of it. As if the gate has been completely destroyed, it’s so easy to cry now.
You let yourself get pulled into a hug, clutching at the fabric of Yujin’s shirt desperately.
Your bitter scent washes over her, smelling of heartbreak and guilt. You think of Heeseung; of how devastated he looked when you broke the bond, like he had lost something precious—which should be a lie, shouldn’t it? He never acknowledged the bond. He never admitted to it.
Then you think of yourself; of the way you used to carry the pieces of your heart everywhere, begging for him to see the bond that used to tie the two of you together. The bond that you treasured, the bond that bloomed hope in your heart, making you believe in a future together with someone who was supposed to love you.
Something inside you breaks again.
You had lost something precious.
“I—I ended the bond with him,” you choke, the words struggling to get out. “It’s over. Yujin, it’s over.”
You feel Yujin freeze for a moment before she tightens the hug, feeling her lips touch your hairline.
“But why does it still hurt?” Your chest heaves with a new wave of tears, voice completely broken. “Why does it hurt so fucking much? I ended it, and—and he hurt me,” you hiccup, trying to arrange the string of your sentence properly.
“But I still want to hug him,” you whisper wetly, feeling your wolf stir inside you. “I still want to hold him and tell him I’m sorry for doing this to him.”
Yujin remains quiet, rubbing a hand at your back in an attempt to comfort you.
“It’s okay, Y/N. You did the right thing.”
She holds you and never lets go. She holds you the way that you wish you could’ve done to Heeseung; in the way that you wish he could’ve done to you.
That night, you let yourself surrender to the grief of something that you almost had. The grief of the tale of true mates that you used to hold close to your heart, longing for the wreckage of potential love that is damaged beyond repair.
You grieve for the love you could’ve shared, the life you could’ve had if only the world was on your side.
You grieve for Heeseung.
For the past of the warm embrace that he once gave you and for the pain he inflicted on you.
Heeseung never knew how hard it was to find you outside of the court and practice room until now.
He realises, with a regret that has become all-too-familiar now, that he knows almost nothing about you. Other than the fact that you can bake, that you’re friends with almost everyone on the cheerleader squad—he doesn’t know much about you.
And it kills him.
It takes him two days of losing sleep, of dragging his legs to classes, of forcing the pain in his chest down, before he finally catches a glimpse of you.
It’s completely accidental. He’s on his way to a group discussion, walking past the cafeteria when a breeze of air passes by him, carrying the soft scent of your pheromones.
Light, blooming daisies and sticky, sweet honey.
Heeseung halts in his steps, his alpha already whining in longing.
Across the hall, at one of the tables, you sit with your friends. A pair of chopsticks presses against your lips as you listen to your friend animatedly talking about her clumsy professor—something that’s only possible for Heeseung to hear had it not been for his dominant trait.
Heeseung doesn’t know what to expect once he sees you.
A small part of him foolishly hopes that you’d look back to him just as quickly, the way you used to do whenever he steps into the same room as you before.
Another part of him wishes that when he senses your scent, the usual undertone of his own scent would still linger underneath.
But you do nothing of those, completely oblivious to his presence, to his scent—like the mere his walking into the same space as you’re in doesn’t affect you anymore. And your scent is completely bare from any traces of his pheromones, the daisies and honey are completely and only you.
Right, Heeseung swallows thickly. Of course you can’t feel him.
The bond is no longer there.
You cut it a couple of days ago.
The wound is still fresh, pulsing in his scent gland like a reminder of his sin. His heart squeezes painfully, but Heeseung only presses his lips. Not a sound comes out of his mouth. Not even a breath.
He lets the pain course through his body, enduring it for as long as he can. He deserves this, he quietly thinks.
He deserves watching you from afar, feeling the one-sided bond punish every fibre of his being.
He deserves this; sensing your scent whenever you’re near, but no longer having the privilege to hold your eyes and share the same feeling only true mates understand.
Deserves the silence. Deserves you not looking up. Deserves being nothing to you.
There’s a gaping hole in his heart when he realises that nothing is tying him to you anymore. There’s no safety net of the Goddess of the Moon’s fated mates tale. There’s no longer the string that connects the two of you—no reason he can find to be anything to you.
A stronger, more desperate part of him forces him to take the leap. To just take over and charge. His feet shift forward slightly, the dominant alpha in him wanting to just grab you and tell you how sorry he is. He’d beg on his knees if he must, so long as you’d at least spare a glance his way, even if it meant you would look down on him forever.
But you look happier.
His eyes trace the curve of your lips as you laugh at something your friend says. The selfish part of him stubbornly stays to steal the moment, letting his undeserving ears hear your voice like a secret.
You look happier.
Heeseung takes a step back, angling his body to leave. He looks at you one last time, hoping to catch your gaze at least once. Just something—anything to soothe his anxious wolf, even when he doesn’t deserve it.
But you never look back. And something inside him cracks.
He can feel it—the incoming suffocation building up in his chest, like a storm waiting to happen. Before his scent could turn bitter, Heeseung forces himself to leave, eyes frantically searching for exit.
Heeseung is slowly breaking apart, and he does nothing to stop it.
“You’re so—” Jay stops himself, then sighs loudly. “I’ve called you stupid way too many times that I’m actually starting to feel bad now. Why did you skip your group discussion? Jungwon won’t stop asking me for you.”
Heeseung doesn’t react. After catching sight of you at the cafeteria, he’s rushed back to his house, deliberately skipping the group discussion with an apology over a text. The hyperventilation—an occurrence that is frequent now—comes back, and Heeseung doesn’t intend for you to see him unravel like that.
Not out of pride or shame. God, no, there’s nothing left of him to care about those. Heeseung just doesn’t want you to feel bad seeing him like that. Because you shouldn’t feel bad for cutting off the bond.
After all, he did hurt you to the point of death.
Jay studies his friend, watching as Heeseung sits in his producer chair and stares blankly at the monitor. He was just about to go for a gym session with Riki, but decided to stay at home after Heeseung burst through the door, gasping for air with a red face. And it broke his heart.
Calling out Heeseung for his ignorance is one thing that he’s not sorry for, but seeing him in this condition? It kills him. He just wants everyone to stop hurting each other. But first of all, he knows he has to start with Heeseung.
“Hee,” he calls, but Heeseung barely moves. Jay presses his lips. “Hee—”
“I saw her.”
Jay pauses, holding back his tongue when he hears his voice. He waits patiently, giving Heeseung the space he needs.
But Heeseung doesn’t say another word for a few extended seconds, just sitting there like he was talking to himself. If it weren’t for the small movement of his chest, Jay would’ve panicked and thought that he’d lost his friend.
It is quiet until his voice, smaller and quieter, echoes inside the room again.
“She always looks prettier than the last time I see her.”
There’s a heavy silence between them. Jay takes the chance to look around the room.
It’s Heeseung’s producer room, the room Jay let him take to do whatever he wanted with it. The lighting inside this room is moody, dim purple and blue LED lights alternating every minute.
The glow washes over everything in slow pulses—across the mixing console, the twin monitors, the mess he never bothered to clean. Cables snake along the floor like they’ve settled there for good, curling around the legs of the desk. A track sits paused on the screen, its waveform frozen mid-breath, like it, too, is waiting for something to break.
Jay slowly exhales, his chest tightening as his gaze drifts from a closed notebook to the abandoned headphones hanging at the edge of the console. This room feels less alive—not like what he last remembers of it.
It used to pulse with passion. Whenever he walked in, Heeseung was always up to something. The bass would play like a behind the scene, his sweet voice would sometimes blend with the strum of his newly-bought acoustic. There’d be balls of crumpled papers rolling on the floor, rejected lyrics that he’d still pick up and look back before he went to sleep.
But now, the room is too clean. Ever since he carried Heeseung on his back from Jake’s frat house a few days ago, this producer room has been nothing more than a haunted house.
And at the center of it, is his dying friend.
“Hee,” Jay starts, breaking the silence. He gives his words a lot of thoughts, carefully curated to make it clear that he cares. “Heeseung, you must do something. Or you’ll die, and I won’t let you die.”
Jay grabs his shoulder and turns him around, the chair spinning to face him. Heeseung’s face is void of any colour, sunken eyes looking like faded embers. His lips are dry and chapped, his skin dull and grey. Inevitably, something sharp twists in his chest at seeing his best friend in this state.
“God,” Jay breathes out, trying to hide the tremble in his voice. He’s so fucking scared. “You’re dying, Heeseung, and I—”
Jay hangs his head low, closing his eyes as he tries his best to compose himself. Heeseung needs me, he whispers in his head, Heeseung needs me.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Jay takes a deep breath and lifts his gaze. Heeseung is looking away, blank face staring lifelessly at the wall like a portrait of emptiness and grief. His grip on his shoulder tightens.
“I talked to my parents,” Jay tries again, “there is a way to fix this. Two, actually.”
The moment stretches without any reaction from Heeseung. Jay takes it as a sign to continue.
“We can save this if you…if you can win her back and make her omega want to patch the bond back up.”
The tiniest flicker of something crosses Heeseung’s eyes. His jaw twitches almost imperceptibly.
“Or,” Jay licks his lips, preparing himself. “You can cut the bond from your side, too,” he finishes.
Heeseung turns his head to look at him, wide eyes watering with unshed tears.
“Cut it clean once and for all, Heeseung.”
His lips part, but nothing comes out. Despite his passive façade, Heeseung’s mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and regret.
Fix the bond and face you, which he doesn’t think he deserves.
Or cut it off and lose you for good.
For the first time in his life, Heeseung doesn’t know which option is worse.
The nightclub is still as noisy as he remembers it. Blinding lights that hurt his eyes, loud bass that pierces his ears. People are dancing with their company, seeking friction and heat between slicked bodies.
Heeseung used to be in the center of it all, basking in the attention of perfectly-manicured nails on his chest and the alluring scents enveloping him. A perfect distraction from a rejected demo. A relief for his frustration over a losing game.
The escape he always chose to run from facing negative emotions.
But tonight, he stands motionless in a corner, lips pulled in a tight line.
There’s an old pull coming from the crowd. After all, having people worship your body does feel addictive at one point—and Heeseung is no exception to that. He’s used to showcasing his dominance whether it was on the court or in a bedroom, a drug he kept feeding his alpha to the point of no return. He’s used to command and dominate, a trait that helps him as a captain and as a pleaser.
Like facing a withdrawal, his hands twitch by his sides, itching to inch forward.
You are feeling bad now, a voice whispers in his head. Go on. There are plenty of omegas that can make you feel better.
Heeseung forces his gaze down. No, he counters.
No more of that life.
Heeseung is dominant in every aspect of his existence—from biological traits down to his own personality and mindset. But when his mind drifts back to the thoughts of you, he finds himself crumbling in submission.
It hurts his pride. God, it hurts so much.
But the ache doesn’t compare to the look on your pale face when you break the bond you shared with him, like cutting an infected part of a root that’d destroy your field of daisies.
Nothing hurts more than being the reason you had to resort to such a critical decision, that might cost you your own life.
The urge finally quiets down after a few seconds of redirecting his thoughts to the more pressing matters at hand. Heeseung smooths down his clothes in an attempt to calm himself.
He’s wearing one of his baggy graphic T-shirts, black and bigger than his frame. A picture of The Strokes, stretched and scratched from use clings to the fabric. Beside him, Jay stands tall in his usual button-up, always looking out of place in the nightclub thanks to his distinguished gentleman image.
On the other side of him, is a cute menace.
“Okay!” Sunoo claps his hand, adjusting the collar of his yellow sweater. “This is a bad idea, but since you’re a masochist, let’s do what we’re here for!”
The sass in his speech doesn’t go unnoticed by both alphas. Jay lets out a big sigh, already massaging his temple, while Heeseung only gives him a side-eye, hardly offended by his words.
He’s right, of course. Sunoo’s never wrong.
The brown-haired boy, feigning ignorance to the stares he’s receiving, continues. “Since you want to cut the bond clean—”
Jay interrupts sharply. “Try to cut it clean.”
“Right,” Sunoo gives a small smile. “Since we want to try cutting it off clean,” he makes a show of slicing the air with his hand, “let’s find you an omega and see if you can kiss her or him without throwing up.”
Heeseung lets the bass swallow his voice, already hating the idea inside his head. Which is ironic, because just a few days ago, he was adamant on trying to convince himself that he didn’t have a mate.
Oh, well. Just look at him now.
Jay seems to share the same sentiment as him. “This can either turn worse or better. Are you sure you’re doing this?” Jay looks back from Heeseung to Sunoo. “Can’t we find other ways?”
Sunoo taps his chin, looking serious for the first time that night.
“I don’t think we can. The one breaking the bond should be his wolf,” he starts, pointing to Heeseung’s chest. “And since he’s been giving Heeseung a silent treatment, we have no idea where he stands now. This is the only way to trigger a reaction.”
Heeseung thinks he’s had enough of being talked about like a case study. “What do you mean? We don’t know where he stands now?”
Sunoo pats his shoulder, understanding his confusion. “Yeap. We don’t know whether your wolf is okay with cutting the bond with Y/N and finding another mate, or if he still wants Y/N and wants to fix the bond with her.”
Heeseung blinks, confused. “But she’s already cut—”
“It’s one-sided, Heeseungie hyung. Your wolf didn’t agree with the breakup,” Sunoo then lowers his voice, now talking softly when he notices the gloomy look on his face. “That’s why we either cut it or fix it,” the alpha fidgets with the sleeves of his sweater, already feeling emotional.
“Or you could die, hyung. That’s the reality of true mates.”
He’s right. Heeseung knows, despite being a little devil that he is, Sunoo will never lie about something as serious as this. Especially when it involves life and death.
But Heeseung hasn’t been on good terms with his wolf. They’ve been clashing since the night that he met you, always debating whether you were his fated mate or not. And each time, it was Heeseung who never listened. It was Heeseung who refused to give in, in denial to the possibility of a mate and…love.
Even tonight.
“Let’s just cut it off,” he grunts, his voice grim and clipped. Sunoo and Jay whirl around and look at him like he’s just lost one eye.
“I just told you, we can’t just—”
“He’s not responding, and he never will,” Heeseung exhales through his nose, frustration spilling into his scent. “My wolf—”
“That’s because you never wanted to listen to him, Hee.” Jay finally speaks up, cutting the conversation short. Heeseung pauses, his voice dying in his throat.
From his left, Jay’s citrusy pheromones—bergamot and lime with a soft undertone of amber and metal—swirls into his senses with an air of authority. Heeseung recognises this. It’s the accent that Jay uses when he wants someone to relax and listen to him.
The dark-haired alpha plays with his whiskey, watching the liquid swirl and the ice spin as he speaks.
“Or to me. To us.”
He lets the words linger, as if begging Heeseung to finally understand. Jay meets his eyes, looking into him with desperation. There is a flicker of something there; something that makes the wall inside him rattle.
“Please. Just tonight. Please try for us. For you,” his voice is lower, shaky, “I don’t want to lose you, Hee. Please.”
“I just don’t want to hurt her anymore.” Heeseung hesitates. “What if I touch another omega and I hurt her again?”
“You won’t,” Sunoo convinces. He nudges Heeseung’s shoulder with his. “For now, she won’t feel anything because the tie is broken. It won’t be easy, but saving yourself means saving her too.”
A heavy silence falls upon them, filled with unspoken tension and pleading eyes. Jay and Sunoo share a look, each of them on the edges of their nerves waiting for Heeseung’s answer.
At last, Heeseung finally relents. A small sigh escapes his lips and he takes a step forward.
“Okay. Let’s give this a shot.”
It isn’t hard to find someone to kiss. It was never hard for Heeseung. He manages to mask his gloomy scent that could shoo people away from him and gets into his flirty mode. His smile, though a little strained on the edges, still looks pretty as ever.
Soon enough, he already has an omega in his arms, tucked away in a dimmed corner near the bar. Sunoo and Jay keep a safe distance from him, not too close to intrude but not too far out of his sight.
“You’re so tall,” the omega purrs, gliding her pretty nail up his arm. Heeseung barely responds. “Tall and so handsome.”
His heart is telling him how out-of-place the touch feels. The familiar feeling comes back. The same feeling he ignored for two weeks in fear of confronting his own destiny. The same feeling he buried for the sake of proving to no one but himself that he’d do fine without you; without the sacred bond that connected you both.
He wants to flee. He wants to push her away and scratch at the spot where she’s touched him. Where her skin meets his skin, Heeseung feels the strongest urge to recoil. The same nausea returns, clouded by her scent that doesn’t sit well in his nose.
But his rational mind reminds him of the intention behind this.
“Yeah?” He tries, struggling to look her in the eyes. He tightens his grip on her waist and hesitates before pulling her slightly closer. “I’ll need to bend down to kiss you, then.”
The girl lets out an airy giggle. She circles her arms around his neck and pulls him down, peering at him through her lashes seductively. “Mhm, bent down enough?”
Heeseung freezes. It’s going to happen. Heeseung fights the urge to turn his face away, but Sunoo’s words serve as a reminder that stops him from doing so.
Saving yourself means saving her, too.
Shakily, he exhales, closing the gap between their lips as slowly as he can. His heart is angry behind his ribs, his pulse rushing loudly in his ears. Heeseung braces himself until the pout of her lips brushes against his.
The kiss starts gently, mainly initiated by her. Heeseung tries to follow, tries to lead, but the feeling of her mouth on his feels so wrong. It doesn’t feel right. It’s like fitting a triangle puzzle with round pieces.
He opens his mouth, trying to deepen his kiss when something inside him stirs.
No. His wolf finally speaks. It’s no longer distant and muffled.
Like a wolf being reborn from the first death, this time, his voice is sharp and clear.
Not her.
Heeseung closes his eyes, feeling a bile rising behind his throat. But instead of darkness, what he sees instead is an image of you. Your soft features, your silky hair, and your pretty, pretty eyes that he can only see in his memory.
The eyes that used to look at him with sparkles of hope, waiting for him to notice the magnetic force of a bond that you shared with him. The same grateful eyes that looked at him under the moonlight, when the convenience store was empty except for the two of you.
His stomach turns sharply he might actually be sick.
Oh Goddess, what has he done to you? Why did he do you so wrong? Why did he think so highly of himself that he thought he was above love and fate?
A drop of tears slips down his cheek.
Before he knows it, Heeseung is already crying into the kiss. Hot, fresh tears seeps into the lock of their mouths, making the kiss taste like salt and grief; just like how his scent smells right now.
I want Y/N. His wolf echoes again, firmer than he’s ever been. We want Y/N.
At last, after weeks of battling himself, Heeseung finally listens to his wolf.
He breaks the kiss with a breath, pushing her gently by the shoulders and putting a distance between them. Head dipping low, Heeseung lets himself cry, watching the tears drop from the tip of his nose to the sticky floor. The omega is left confused, but she doesn’t say a word.
If anything, Heeseung looks so pitiful that she forgets about feeling upset.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“I’m sorry,” he hiccups, bringing his hands to his face. He doesn’t realise how hard he’s shaking until she places her hand on his shoulders. “I’m so sorry, I can’t do this—”
“Hey, it’s okay,” the girl convinces, pursing her lips into a straight line. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
Heeseung doesn’t answer. Drops of grief and regret keep pouring out like a broken faucet, staining his cheeks wet. The sound that leaves him isn’t even a sob; it’s something raw, broken, pulled straight out of his chest.
“My heart belongs to her.”
Heeseung feels his wolf paw at him, finally winning the prolonged war of love and pride. A war whose price may be greater than the sin he’s committed.
His scent gland is pulsing even harder, as if reminding him of the bond still barely alive.
With a shaky exhale, like he’s at last allowed himself to be free, Heeseung tries to let it out.
“I think…” his voice breaks, softer now, like he’s afraid of the truth even as he says it.
“I think I finally accepted that my heart has always belonged to her.”
For the first time, Heeseung doesn’t try to deny it. His wolf purrs, almost crying from relief.
“And she doesn’t want it anymore.”
It is very early in the morning. Rays of orange glow cracks through the horizon, bleeding light into the ground. Somewhere in the distance, the moon is slowly getting swallowed by the sky and soon enough, the sun is proudly ascending.
It’s a Saturday, which means, there’s no classes scheduled today. But Heeseung finds himself stepping foot on the campus ground. Faintly, from where he’s standing at the car park, he can hear whistles coming from the field. His wolf, who’s done giving him the silent treatment, nudges him to hurry.
Right. He’s here, abandoning his usual sleep-in on the weekend to find you. It’s the only place he knows where you’d be and he might’ve just bribed Jake to tell him when his football friendly match is going to be.
Taking a deep breath, Heeseung finally moves his legs. His ribs rattle with how fast his heart is beating. He purposely chooses to come fifteen minutes before the match ends—he’s not exactly here to see Jake play (sorry dude). He doesn’t know what to do with himself if he has to wait around for hours just to talk to you. He might go crazy.
Well. That is, if you want to talk to him.
“Don’t discourage me now, you dog,” he mutters under his breath, berating his alpha.
The field is not that far from where he parked his (Jay’s) car. A few paces more and he’s going to see the vast green-grassed space where a bunch of alphas are running around chasing a ball using their legs.
But to his surprise, the field and the bleachers are almost empty.
“Fuck,” Heeseung curses under his breath and checks his watch. He still has three minutes left before the game ends—if what Jake told him was true. Did they end it earlier than planned? He could’ve sworn he heard whistles just now!
You spent too much time on your pep talk, his wolf rolls his eyes.
Heeseung doesn’t waste time. He whirls around and forces his brain to think quicker. His legs move faster, turning corner after a corner in search of you.
Where would the cheerleaders go after a game? To the locker room? No, that’s for the athletes. To the car park? That’s possible, but he didn’t cross paths with anyone on the way here. To the practice room? He rounds a corner. Okay, that actually—
A subtle wave of daisies and honey washes over him almost instantly. Heeseung immediately stops, his breath catching in his throat.
Standing in front of the vending machine, just a few feet away from him, is you. You’re wearing your usual costume—sleeveless top that cuts right at your waist and pleated skirt that ends just above your mid-thigh. But today, the theme seems to be pink. You have your hair up in an updo, a blue ribbon—the official representative colour of the college—is tied neatly around the silky strands of your hair.
There’s only a glimpse of your side profile visible to him, but it’s enough to quiet the prideful alpha in him. He’s not even sure if he’s said it enough, but every time his eyes land on you, you just get prettier.
For a second, Heeseung thinks he doesn’t mind dying at that moment.
You don’t look up to him instantly, or sensing his presence by his pheromones—another reminder of the broken bond that you used to share. Heeseung gulps down the hurt, clenching his sweaty palms into fists.
A clang of a can dropping in the vending machine booms through the hallway. You bend down to take it.
Call her name. His wolf urges. Idiot, just call her name!
Heeseung gathers his breath.
“Y/N?” Your name leaves his name like a sacred prayer, tender and delicate, like a whisper only the Goddess can hear. You freeze in your spot, finger brushing the can only a fraction.
The silence stretches for a few seconds. In waiting, Heeseung holds back his breath, afraid that another sound from him will scare you away.
But you only straighten up, abandoning your can of drink and turn to him. The edges of your eyes harden at the sight of him.
You hold his gaze, lips unmoving before you finally say his name.
“Heeseung.”
It’s flat. It’s polite. It’s cold. It’s nothing like the night when you ran into his arms. It’s not warm like the way you called his name before falling asleep on his shoulders, back when your wolf trusted him with your life.
Back when the bond was still there. Back when his name was still written in the stars beside yours.
Heeseung thinks this is worse than death.
“Can I…” he pauses, already fearing your rejection mid-sentence.
Saving yourself means saving her, too.
He pushes through.
“Can I talk to you?”
The words finally leave his lips, and Heeseung doesn’t move. It’s as if he was intruding; like he was poking your safe bubble and he wasn’t allowed to move without your permission.
Your eyes assess him, like you’re deciding if he was a threat. Then, with a firm tone he never heard from you, you reply. “I have practice.”
“I won’t take long,” he rushes out, the words tripping over each other. “Please—just for a moment. Please.”
Please.
The one word you’d never expect coming from a dominant alpha like him. Someone who seems prideful in everything he does, who commands attention wherever he goes with his voice alone.
So he does have the courage to talk to you. He does know what he did was wrong on so many levels—and yet.
Yet it took you almost dying for him to learn.
Yet it took you bleeding on the floor for him to realise.
For once, you really thought you could be the bigger person. You really believed that your heart, as soft as it always has been, would fold and melt the moment his honeyed-voice greets your senses again.
But you were wrong.
Your resentment still lingers, caging your chest in a protective embrace, not daring to lose its heartbeat for the second time.
“No.”
You take a step back, and this time, you make sure it is a line being drawn.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
Your verdict echoes like a gavel tapping against a sound block. It’s straightforward. It’s clear. But to Heeseung, it’s a punishment too small to what he did to you.
He tries his best to school his expression, swallowing the lump in his throat with force. He then nods, weakly, then a bit too fast.
His wolf cries, not willing for him to back down so easily. His human part, on the other hand, is split into two.
Old Heeseung is ready to isolate and never reach out again. Same old habits that used to bring him comfort and distractions.
This is why you don’t do commitments. Just forget about this.
Another Heeseung, a new side that feels awkward but is still slowly growing, is trying to rationalise your decision and understand your boundaries.
Give her time, Heeseung. The wound is still so fresh.
“Okay.” He finally breathes out, the heavy word weirdly sending relief to his system. “Okay. I understand.”
You don’t move for a moment, just staring at him blankly like he might change his mind, before you nod. You honestly don’t know what to expect, but this is a pleasant surprise. You don’t think you can handle a pushy alpha now—especially the same alpha who had pushed you too far.
You leave without another word, feeling his eyes boring into the back of your head as you round the corner. Once out of his sight, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding,, gripping the wall for support.
Your heart pounds like a war drum, threatening to break out of your chest. Seeing his face after actively avoiding him seems to be harder than you’d thought. You didn’t know he’d come looking for you on the weekends like this.
The Heeseung you remember always leaves first.
You put a hand over your chest, trying to calm your frantic heart, and realise one thing with a sinking feeling.
Your quiet omega is still silent, lips sealed shut. Not even a word was heard from her since that tragic night.
You sigh. Heeseung’s got a really long way to go.
On the other side of the wall, Heeseung trails after your steps with his gaze—longing, hopeful, and sorrowful.
He’ll wait. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed yet, but he’ll wait.
Heeseung heaves out a long sigh, his throat feeling dry. The vending machine suddenly looks interesting to him. Rows of canned drinks lined up the interior but Heeseung already has his mind set on his go-to Zero Coke.
The can drops with a loud clang. Heeseung reaches down, ready to feel the coldness of the red-canned drink, only to pause when he sees green instead.
Grape juice.
Oh, right. You forgot your drink.
He takes both cans, but his attention on his Zero Coke is long gone. He inspects your drink instead, eyes lingering on the brand like it’s something precious, his fingers wet from condensation.
So you like grape juice.
Heeseung finally learns something about you today.
But waiting is easier said than done.
Anxiety lives under his skin, prickling in his system like thorns in flesh. Every time he closes his eyes, the memory of you bleeding in the frat house haunts him back. He’d wake up gasping, lungs burning like he just survived a drowning.
Your silence has turned his longingness into a desperation so deep you practically could smell it on him. Heeseung can’t be with himself, not when he’s been spending every hour fighting every instinct to scream your name and throw up.
And that’s exactly how Heeseung finds himself lingering around the business building not long after the last time spoke to you.
He doesn’t know your schedule, he doesn’t know what classes you’re in, or the circle of friends you have other than the cheerleaders. He only knows where you live because he sent you home the night you fell asleep on his shoulders—but he doesn’t think going to your house is appropriate. It’s too private and he doesn’t want to stain your safe abode with his presence.
Which is why he decided to wait at the campus, at the building he’s not familiar with.
Heeseung never hated himself more than he does now.
Fuck. How ignorant had he been towards the person who was supposed to be his mate?
Is it too late to learn about you now? Is it too late to knock on your door and hold his heart in his hand like a beggar right now?
So Heeseung spends hours waiting for you without even knowing if you’d come to campus today. He messaged Sunoo for help, but it has slipped from his mind just how busy a med student can be. Sunoo’s probably losing his mind over human anatomy again. The text remains delivered until the night falls.
Black sky takes over the horizon, only lending lights from the moon and the stars as a mercy. Heeseung’s feet are numb from walking around and standing for too long. He looks around the emptying hallways, not sure where exactly he is other than the fact that he’s at the business compound—a path where most students use to get to their classes.
He glances at his watch. It’s almost 8 pm. Most classes have already ended, and the last session would have ended half an hour ago.
You’re probably not here anymore.
Heeseung bites back a groan, licking his dry lips as he turns around to leave. Meeting you at the court is not possible until a few weeks more for a friendly match with that eastern university team again. He can’t possibly wait until then—so he’ll come back tomorrow.
Heeseung knows that he’s a walking contradiction. He vows to respect your decision, to let things go with time. To step back when he’s asked to, to wait around until the tide dies.
However, wasn’t this the way he lost you?
For being too passive. For being too cowardly. For running away.
Heeseung really wants to give you time, but at the same time, he doesn’t know if your ‘no’ yesterday is still applicable today. He should at least try today, right? Or should he wait more?
Fuck. With self-hatred thicker than before, Heeseung curses himself for not knowing. For not understanding. He’s only well-versed about omegas when it comes to sex, but other than that, he doesn’t fucking know. His carelessness and ignorance are biting him hard in the ass right now.
Though, the desperation persists.
He just needs one thing: closure.
Not for himself, but rather for you.
You deserve to know only the truth.
But it’s getting late, and the thin layers he’s wearing aren’t doing a good job to protect him from the chill. Now, he hopes you’re already home, safe and tucked in warmly in your room.
He will try again tomorrow.
Just as he’s about to leave, as if the Moon Goddess finally hears his prayers, Heeseung catches the sound of your voice drifting down the hallway.
You’re here.
God, you’re actually here.
Before he can overthink it, Heeseung is already on his feet, following the trail of daisies and honey using his sharp senses. And he sees you—just rounding the corner, talking to your classmates while heading towards the exit.
He can no longer hold back the instinct to call your name.
“Y/N.”
You freeze in your spot, recognising his voice in a heartbeat. You hate that you do.
He’s already on his way, closing the distance between the two of you with a look of desperation that seems foreign when he wears it. Beside you, your classmates are already whispering, equally surprised as you are.
“Is that Lee Heeseung?”
“Isn’t the music faculty so far from here?”
You pretend you don’t hear anything and frown instead.
“What are you doing here?”
“Can we talk?” Heeseung blurts out the moment he’s close enough. There’s still an elephant distance between you and him, but he doesn’t dare step closer.
Can he even be near you? Is he allowed to?
When there’s no answer from you, he tries again. “Please, can I please talk to you?”
“Just go home, Heeseung.” You mutter, already walking away. You send an apologetic look to your classmates and start to leave, but Heeseung is already hot on your tail.
“Y/N,” he croaks out, the tremble in his voice almost going unnoticed. “I just need ten minutes. No—give me five minutes, please.”
No response from you. You don’t even know where you’re going anymore, taking a turn after a turn to lose him.
How did he know where you were? Did he find out your schedule from someone else? What is he doing here? How long has he been waiting for you?
It doesn’t seem like he has another reason to be here. So did he wait around for you?
You bite your lip, not entirely prepared for the inevitable confrontation to happen so fast.
But you underestimate how desperate Heeseung is because he keeps following you like a lost puppy, long legs slowing down slightly so as to not crowd you from behind. Being this close to him allows your nose to pick up on his sense—eye-watering cinnamon spiking with anxiousness with an undertone of a brewing sea storm.
Heeseung can’t stand the silence any longer.
“I was wrong.” Fuck. If you won’t even look at him, that’s fine. But he needs you to know how sorry he is. “I know what I did was terrible and I—”
“Terrible?” You finally come to a stop and whirl around, your scent brimming with anger. “Terrible? I almost died, Heeseung!”
Heeseung catches himself before he crashes into you. He stares at you, wide-eyed, as you crane your neck to look up at him. The unwanted memory comes flashing back—of blood and tears and regret he’d never move past.
Your eyes glisten with angry tears, fists trembling by your sides.
“What you did was almost criminal.”
Heeseung flinches. He doesn’t expect the word to land so heavy in his chest, so sharply in his gut. His hand flexes by his side, urging him to cradle your soft, soft face in his hold and pour out every single apology he’s been carrying but he stops himself.
“I know, and I’m not asking you to forgive me,” Heeseung murmurs, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “I just want you to allow me to fix the bond.”
You let out a laugh. A hollow, humourless laugh. The emptiness doesn’t even echo in the air.
“So now the bond is real to you?” You spit out, venom leaking into your voice. “Wasn’t it all just in my head, Heeseung? Wasn’t it all just my heat messing with me.”
Heeseung is hit with a pang of shame, not expecting you to throw his words back at him. He cowers and lets the full impact of his hurtful choice of words consume him to the bone.
You put a fist over your heaving chest, your tongue getting loose now that the inevitable has come.
“I thought I was losing my mind,” your voice trembles slightly, treading along something dangerously close to a breakdown. “I thought something was wrong with me. I was sick for weeks and none of the doctors could cure me! And the whole time it was just…”
You swallow, blinking back tears furiously.
“The whole time it was just you choosing someone else over me.”
It’s like sand has filled up his mouth. Every answer tastes wrong and bitter on his tongue. He doesn’t even know what to say to that for how true it is.
How was he supposed to atone for a sin that nearly killed his mate?
“I know,” is the only thing he can whisper. Shame spreads across his chest like a disease. “I know. I—I did that. I’m sorry for not choosing you, Y/N.”
There it is. The truth, bare as it is, lies there like a final verdict. It feels almost tangible for how suffocating it is. It feels almost too cruel for how much it hurts you. It feels almost alive for how hard it is pulsing in your ears.
The dam finally breaks. “How long have you known that we—” your voice catches, silent tears gliding down your cheeks. “That we were fated mates?”
Guilt gnaws at his chest. “Two weeks before the tournament,” he quietly answers, already feeling small.
So since the beginning of your streak of pain.
You feel sick to your stomach.
“How many of them?”
“What?”
“How many omegas did you fuck to convince yourself that I wasn’t your mate?”
Defensiveness flares up in his chest. “I didn’t fuck them. I couldn’t. I tried—”
“But you still stayed there, trying to prove to everyone in this world that that’s what you wanted and not me!” Your voice booms, no longer holding back on the pain.
Silence rings so loud afterwards, it stretches and stretches until the tension is left in a tight thread waiting to snap.
You stand there, shoulders shaking from sobbing quietly. Long, silky hair cascades around your face as you look down, biting back any sound.
And every hitch of your voice rips his heart apart.
His wolf, wounded as he is, thrashes inside. Shivering daisies and acrid honey droops around him, eliciting another whine from his alpha. Heeseung braves another step forward, hesitation edging on his heels.
“I messed up. I hurt you all because I tried to prove to myself that I didn’t need you.”
His hands twitch, hovering mindlessly on his sides.
Heeseung has promised himself that he’d only say the truth from now on. Harsh as it is, bitter as it is—it’s the only thing you deserve to hear. He couldn’t conjure any more lies to protect himself.
God. Even his lies are killing him now.
“I never slept with them. I couldn’t touch them without feeling like I was about to throw up,” he goes on, voice softening around the edges. “I couldn’t even walk into a room without hoping that it’d be you.”
You shake your head. “But you still did.”
He nods weakly. “That doesn’t erase the fact that I did. I chose to run away because I couldn’t handle the fact that our fate is bigger than what I was willing to hold.”
Our fate.
Heeseung inhales shakily.
“I forced myself to enjoy the touch because I was so fucking busy proving the Goddess wrong.”
A sob escapes your lips.
Why does our fate have to be so tragic, Heeseung?
“I was dying, Heeseung,” you whisper wetly. “Your actions were killing me.”
Heeseung bites his tongue. “I know. I was wrong.”
A minute passes without any words. The hallway is only filled with the soft sobs and sniffles coming from your lips. Heeseung stands, wretched and torn. One leg is urging him to go to you and hold you. Another leg is forcing him to stay because he doesn’t think he deserves to touch you.
What he knows, for sure, is that this image of you crying in front of him will haunt him in his sleep.
After a moment, you finally speak, your voice hoarse.
“I don’t think we can ever come back from this.”
Heeseung’s throat closes up, a sudden stab lodging its pointy end into his chest. No, his wolf cries out. Please, no.
He lifts his hand, longing to touch you, but then decides to drop it. “Y/N. Please—”
“I don’t even know how we can fix this,” you sniffle, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand. “My omega has been silent since the day she cut the bond.”
In response, his wolf whines, trying to get a reaction. But you feel nothing.
Not a stir. Not even a shift. Your omega is deadly unresponsive. If it’s not for your beating heart, you’d think that you’d been dead since that night.
“I don’t know if she still wants this or not. This—bond. You.”
“But do you?” Heeseung can hear his voice cracking, and he thinks his heart is facing the same fate too. He’s sure of it.
“Do you still want this?”
You are silent for a moment and it’s the longest second Heeseung has ever gone through.
“I—I don’t know,” you quietly mutter. “You hurt me more than anyone ever did, Heeseung.”
Heeseung would have preferred you shout at him than this. He’d rather have the heat of your hatred than this.
This cold winter of your uncertainty. This soft, subtle turndown, like you’re already resigned to the fate of not having him in your life anymore.
Heeseung’s knees hit the ground with a thud before you can stop him.
It’s not weak, or pathetic. It’s utter devotion, surrendering his heart stripped bare from pride and lies to you. It’s complete submission, one that his dominant side has always found it hard to do but done it so easily when it comes to you.
Heeseung doesn’t do worship, but you’re the only altar he will ever kneel to.
His head hangs low, burgundy hair falling over his eyes as his shoulders shake once.
“I know,” he mutters, sounding wrecked.
Heeseung has his hands fisted on his lap, as though it’s his only source of strength, shaking from the overwhelming desperation brimming in his scent.
“I was a coward.”
You gasp, not expecting such action. “Heeseung, get up—“
“Not until you hear me out,” he pleads.
He lifts his head. Heeseung’s wide, bambi eyes look up at you, veiled with a thick layer of tears.
“I fought the bond because I was afraid. I was so fucking scared. I was always the one to leave first, to run and detach fast, but you, Y/N…”
His fingers twitch, fighting the urge to reach out.
“You made me want to stay.”
Your breath catches.
“I’m scared because giving in would mean finally belonging to someone.”
His eyes find yours again, looking soft and destroyed all over. Your heart traitorously skips a beat.
“But right now, I’d give up everything to belong to you.”
His vulnerability, raw and edged with hopelessness, tugs at your wounded heartstrings. You instinctively step back from the sheer weight of it.
“Y/N, please. If your omega never forgives me,” he chokes out, feeling the distance like a slap in the face. He bites back the instinct to take your hand, but he doesn’t dare touch you.
Not until you allow him to.
“If she never forgives me, I’ll spend the rest of my life earning forgiveness from you.”
A teardrop spills from his lash line, staining his cheeks wet.
You give a helpless shake of your head, your resolve slowly crumbling.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“Then I’ll show you. I’ll show you that I mean this.”
His knees scrape against the floor as he inches closer. Tears stream down his face in relentless waves, the lower part of his lips trembling greatly.
“I’m not asking you to take me back. I just need permission from you,” he begs, almost sobbing into his speech.
“Please let me try. I want to become the man that deserves you, Y/N.”
Your lips part, a ghost of a shaky breath escaping your lips.
You’re not used to this kind of devotion.
Not from those alphas who wanted you because they thought having the shy girl who barely talks to men was trophy-worthy. Not from those men who see you as nothing more than their kink fantasies. Not from those guys who thought you were boring and not exciting.
But tonight, as moonlight leaks through the glass of the windows and spills across the floor as if the Moon Goddess has decreed this to happen herself—Heeseung sits there, bruising knees digging into the marble tiles, and begs you to give him a chance.
You’re not used to this kind of devotion, yet you let a small part of your heart, a traitor that it is—flutters from the impact of his words.
You take another step backward, as if being physically away from him would help recover your resolve.
“I…” you can’t find your voice, not when he’s looking at you with regret spilling from his round eyes. Not when he’s gazing up at you like he was a sinner and you were his only saviour.
“I don’t understand, Heeseung,” is the only thing you can whisper, deciding to be truthful. “You were so—so hellbent on trying to deny the bond. You even went to Narin after I confronted you,” you lick your lips, gut twisting sharply at the mention of your captain. You still haven’t spoken to her until this day.
“Why now? Why…change your mind? I already made it easier for you—I cut the bond!”
Heeseung flinches. The reality slaps him in the face again, presenting him with the consequences of his actions on the table.
He knew it won’t be easy, but God—hearing the hurt in your voice pains him more than the ache in his knees.
Heeseung almost crawls forward.
“I’m a coward, Y/N,” he breathes out. “Losing you made me realise that I was never trying to escape the bond.”
His head dips lower, shaking it slowly to himself.
“I was trying to escape what the bond demanded of me.”
Heeseung lifts his gaze, raising his hands, gesturing to you like a priceless painting. There’s a sad smile on his face.
“Settling down, staying, being devoted only to you…those are the only things you deserve. Nothing less.”
His voice is somehow louder than the racing pulse in your ears. You know what’s coming, yet you’re still not prepared for the sting of the truth.
“I am everything less than that,” he finishes. He closes his eyes, not willing to see the look you might wear on your face.
There’s a long pause. The world is quiet outside, not even a sound of cars passing by can be heard. Heeseung doesn’t know how late it already is, or how long he’s been on his knees, but he doesn’t care.
Hurting his knees is the kindest punishment you can ever give him.
You, on the other hand, are beyond devastated. Truly, you don’t think Heeseung could ever hurt you more than he already did. But his confession—fuck.
Heeseung wasn’t ready to step up and become the love that you deserve and it’s killing you that he chose to run instead of try.
It’s killing you that you weren’t an option until fate decided to twist everything around.
With resentment and resignation, you finally decide.
“The bond is no longer there. You can just forget about this, Heeseung.”
Heeseung thinks being shot to death would hurt less than this.
You, however, are already shutting him out.
“If you need closure, just know that one day I will forgive you. It’s not now, not next week, and probably not in months.” Or years. “But I will.”
There’s a strange ache blooming in your chest. One that comes as a price of letting something precious go.
“I hope that’ll help ease your mind.”
God, the bond was precious to you. Heeseung was precious to you.
How did it come to this?
Across from you, Heeseung is crumbling down.
“No, please—” he chokes, scrambling for some air. He can’t breathe.
“Please, Y/N. Give me a chance to be forgiven.”
“You don’t have to try so hard, Heeseung. The bond is gone.”
“I don’t care about the bond!” He hits his chest with a fist, the pain becoming unbearable. “I hurt you, Y/N. With or without the bond, nothing can change the fact that I hurt you and I can’t live with myself knowing that I hurt someone innocent.”
Heeseung can feel the sting of his nails digging into his palm. Anytime now and he’ll be drawing blood from how hard he’s fisting it.
The tears are welling up in your eyes again but you hold your ground.
“Please, I beg you, and I beg you hard, Y/N.”
Heeseung clasps his hands, the pink of his nails turning white from how hard he’s doing it.
“I beg you—please let me try to fix this. Please let me earn your forgiveness. Please, Y/N.”
Your heart breaks at the determination in his voice.
“It won’t be easy.”
“However long it takes,” he pushes, searching your eyes with his glistening ones, his voice raw with urgency.
“I won’t wait for you.”
His eyes burn with more hot tears.
He’s lost you for good, hasn’t he?
“You don’t have to,” he quietly whispers. “I just need your permission to try.”
You swallow down the urge to scream. His promise sounds bigger than his whole existence, yet your heart foolishly roots for him.
“You can try. But I can’t promise you anything.”
You don’t wait for his reply. Quickly, as if your heels were on fire, you turn around and leave him.
Alone, still kneeling. Traces of his regret are still wet on his cheeks.
You hear him sniffle, but you don’t look back.
Heeseung sits alone in the darkness of his producer room.
The space resembles a shipwreck. If Jay didn’t see any crumpled papers the last time he was here, he’d be surprised to see the growing pile of them now.
Heeseung has tried to write something. Or anything that could get this remorse out of his system. He wants to translate his grief into something that is at least listenable. Not whatever mess he is inside.
But nothing really comes out.
The bullpoint of his pen ends up writing your name instead. In round letters, in cursive. In shaky hands, and in tears.
Y/N.
I’m sorry, Y/N…please forgive me.
A word of your name turns into long written words of regret and silent confession. Letters that he will crumple and throw, then pick it up to read back and add more.
There is a dull ache in his knees, turning purple from the time he spent on the floor for you. He lets the bruise pulse, making no attempts to ice it or stop it. It’s a reminder to him.
A reminder of the ticket of mercy you barely granted him.
A reminder of the bond still hanging limply by his finger.
It’s not even a pain if he put it beside the suffering you went through because of him.
You’re a coward.
His wolf suddenly speaks, adding salt to the wound.
Heeseung closes his eyes shut.
“Shut up,” he grumbles, not appreciating being reprimanded when he’s already a wreck. But his wolf, justifyingly so, seems to hold a grudge against him because he doesn’t stop.
I lost my mate because of you. You ran away from her.
“Yes, I did. I know that,” he grunts. He already resents himself for it, why is he wolf making it harder for him as if they weren’t two halves of one soul?
Knowing isn’t enough. Remember the night you made her bleed.
The memory, as if summoned, crawls its way back into his mind. As if he was brought back to that fateful night, Heeseung can feel his gut twisting sharply inside.
Remember the night she trembled and cut the bond because you went too far.
“Stop,” Heeseung whisper-shouts.
It feels like the room is shrinking and the walls are closing in on him because the air can’t seem to reach his lungs. Heeseung cowers, covering his ears with both hands. The sting of hot tears starts to burn at the corners of his eyes.
Your face, pale and ghostly, haunts the edges of his thoughts. He still recalls how hard you shook from shock. He still recalls the tremble in your legs as you hold onto the door for dear life.
He really went too far.
And if proving his point, his wolf taunts more.
Remember the omegas you touched while she was dying when I kept telling you to stop.
The pen drops and clatters on the floor. Heeseung stands and sways, his vision blurry from unshed tears.
He remembers it.
The nights he spent trying to bury any attachment towards you and the bond. The nights he spent pleasing other omegas despite not enjoying it at all. The nights he spent ignoring the ache in his chest, the voice of his wolf—as if running away would ever be enough to excuse him from his fate.
While all the time, you had been suffering alone.
Nausea creeps up the back of his throat.
“No, please stop—”
His wolf snarls, pent-up anger and frustration finally spilling out.
She could be in someone else’s arms now. Someone gentler. Someone braver than you.
The nausea punches through his chest.
Heeseung scrambles for the door, yanking it open and stumbles out of his producer room to the bathroom. He barely makes it before his stomach churns violently and doubles over.
He throws up his long-forgotten lunch because he missed his dinner, the bile unforgiving to the spasms in his gut. Heeseung knees over the toilet until his stomach empties and grief starts to taste metallic on his tongue.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and slumps onto the floor. It’s a ringing silence in his ears before a sob escapes his lips.
Then another.
Before he knows it, it has turned into a full-on wailing. The tears are finally giving up, now streaming endlessly down his cheeks like tiny rivers.
Heeseung lets himself remember the faces of the omegas he touched. A betrayal of the bond he’ll never forgive himself for.
Heeseung lets himself remember the person you are—someone who deserves protection and affection. Someone who can be literally with anyone; any deserving alpha who knows how to treat you right.
Anyone in this world. Anyone from his campus. Anyone from his team. Anyone from his house.
Heeseung is fast to turn around and vomits again. The image of Jay being the perfect alpha for you makes his chest caves and breaks.
Fuck. Fuck, no. Please—no.
He always made fun of Riki when the younger complained about their too-good alpha friend. He never really understood why Riki is still on edge whenever Jay is around his girlfriend, despite knowing that him agreeing to help with his girlfriend’s heat was purely out of kindness.
But now he knows. Now he fucking knows.
Jay is just too good to be true. Jay never touches omegas carelessly. Jay lowers his voice when he speaks to them. Jay likes taking care of people like they’re his own.
Jay also cares about you. He knows that. The punch he almost threw at Heeseung that night was proof enough.
And in a peak of complete crumbling from his desperation to be forgiven, from his humility to admit to his mistakes—a fast-growing insecurity is piling up in his chest.
Heeseung can’t breathe.
He’s suffocating again.
A sudden thought flashes through his head. His frantic mind, desperate for some relief, entertains the thought without thinking further.
Just cut the bond too. End this suffering and cut the bond.
Heeseung raises his finger to his scent gland, still thudding violently from the rush of his emotions running in his veins.
Could he really cut the bond?
Don’t you dare.
“But it’s too painful…” he cries.
She’s my mate! If you end it now, I will tear you apart myself. You will fucking die, Heeseung.
Heeseung folds in on himself, crouching lower on the floor. His whole body shakes from the force of his tears.
“Why her?” he whispers helplessly.
“Why someone so precious? Why her?”
His wolf doesn’t answer. Heeseung is left sobbing to himself, already resigned to his fate and the silence from his alpha.
Because he knows, only the Goddess of the Moon has the answer to that.
Only she knows why he was sent something holy when he’s too ruined to hold it.
You never would have expected to get hurt from the one thing you wanted the most.
Love.
The tale of true mates.
Maybe that’s the reason why most people dislike it. Maybe all this time, it wasn’t because of envy or ridicule. Maybe all this time, people had already realised how destructive it could be before you did.
Something intangible that can only be felt has the power to destroy you through someone else’s actions and decisions? It’s no wonder, really.
You were just too blind and too delusional for even dreaming of it in the first place.
Life hasn’t been easy since the breaking of the bond.
You went on autopilot for the first week, just trying to save yourself from a bad attendance record and getting kicked out of the cheerleader squad. The latter proved to be harder to overcome since the source of your pain and the current centre of your universe—Heeseung—was always there on the court, glancing at you at every chance he got.
It’s almost laughable, the way he’s trying to catch your gaze now when he used to avoid it so much.
You dated people a couple of times before, but the breakups were never this bad. They hurt, of course, but this bond seemed to amplify every emotion you felt for Heeseung and yourself. Again, one of the reasons you believe why most people started hating it.
The whole time, you only had yourself. Sometimes Yujin would come into your room to cuddle you and let you cry into her shoulders. She’d stay as long as a med student could—watching movies together, painting your nails, crying with you.
All the time when you thought you craved love, you sometimes forgot that love doesn’t always mean romantic relationships. Sometimes it comes in the form of Yujin waking up before her alarm to make you your favourite pancakes.
Sometimes love comes in the form of Rei, despite the two of you having only gotten closer recently, checking up on you every meal time to make sure you eat well.
Sometimes love comes through a phone call with your parents, asking about your day and showing you the small garden they’re growing in the backyard.
And slowly, eventually, you realise that love also means choosing yourself over the bond.
Choosing yourself means stop clinging onto the bond. Choosing yourself means not waiting on Heeseung to get his acts right or for the right apology. Choosing yourself means you stop letting the bond and Heeseung dictate how you go about your life from now on.
Heeseung can try all he wants, and you might or might not see his efforts—but you won’t wait for him.
You’re done waiting.
Strangely, it doesn’t feel bitter. The thought of finally letting go of the bond sounds more freeing. Like the air is finally settling in your lungs after weeks of drowning.
You find your way back to the pieces of you since the bond broke. For the first time since you cut the thread, your world revolves around something other than pain.
Life comes back in fragments. In trying out pilates with Yujin and laughing when the instructor turns her back to you because Yujin just sucks at stretching.
In late-night convenience store runs with Rei to eat extra spicy noodles that’ll upset your stomach the next morning.
In falling back to your old study habits and excelling a difficult pop quiz.
In helping the squad choreograph for the upcoming routines—because alphas just run hot and can’t seem to stop challenging each other in sports.
You laugh freely now. You don’t have to spend the night worrying about a thread tugging at your ribs.
You don’t have to overthink about…Heeseung. Not anymore.
For a moment, he becomes a maybe. For a few days when you successfully avoid him, he becomes an ‘if only’. A background noise. A consequence.
A wound becoming scarred.
Nothing more.
Or so you tell yourself.
There’s been barely anything from Heeseung since he fell to his knees for you a few days ago. For a while, you think maybe you scared him too much—frightened him with the possibility that you may never come back, until he decided to let silence become his apology.
But apparently, you just don’t notice him trying.
Heeseung, you realise, moves in quiet devotion.
It starts with a can of your favourite grape juice sitting beside your tote bag every time you come back from the restroom. You assume it’s Rei being sweet as always—the omega has taken a great liking to you since the day you first spoke.
You don’t notice how consistent its appearance is with Heeseung’s promise.
You overlook the fact that it starts showing up the very next day after your painful conversation.
“But how did he know?” you whisper to yourself, staring down the can like it’s a threat now.
You turn it in your palm, feeling the coldness seep into your fingers. Then, faintly, you smell him.
His pheromones. Cinnamon and sea salt clings to the can like an afterthought. Like Heeseung didn’t mean to leave his traces but the scent lingers anyway.
It’s been quite a while since you smelled it. Ever since you cut the tie, you no longer can sense his pheromones from afar. It only happens when you’re in close proximity to him, which is very rare to happen now.
Now, as his scent drifts to your senses, you find yourself actually missing it. Missing the warmth and safety it used to offer. Missing the familiarity of it.
Your heart aches.
No matter how forward you’ve moved in your healing progress, there’ll always be a big why living in the back of your mind.
You really could’ve had it all.
But you don’t let it get to you. In all honesty, it is a sweet gesture and a nice start, yes, but it’s not enough. Even your baby cousin knows that you’re crazy about grape juice. Heeseung didn’t exactly make a groundbreaking discovery with this one.
The thought still counts, though.
It slips from your mind faster than you’d like to admit. Apart from the upcoming great friendly match between your basketball team and their sworn rival the eastern university, you have a business case study pitching competition set in two weeks.
Meetings become more frequent, time spent at the library becomes longer. You wish they would pick another place to do the discussion because the library is literally an air conditioner reincarnate—always too cold for your body.
The chill autumn air only worsens the cold. Winter is coming and you can’t help but keep adding more layers to your clothes each time you walk out of the apartment to visit the library.
Except today, there is someone already waiting by the library door. A face that you recognise with a single glance. Features that you memorise by heart, stopping you in your tracks before you reach the door.
Heeseung.
His body is adorned with a brown trench coat that reaches his calves, outlining his proportions and tall figure perfectly. He has one hand resting in one of the pockets, while another is holding a pink paper bag.
Burgundy hair curtains his forehead, a complement to his already-handsome features. But the look on his face is forlorn, distant eyes staring into space, looking lost in his own thoughts.
You try not to pay him any mind and start walking again.
As if he was wired to only sense your presence, Heeseung snaps out of his trance and whips his head to you. His eyes soften, lips parting slightly. You avert your eyes.
“Y/N.”
This time, you pretend you just notice him and give him a nod. “Heeseung,” you reply, already moving away to get inside. But Heeseung is fast to stop you.
“Wait! I–I have something for you.”
Heeseung holds out the paper bag to you, his own ears turning the same shade. You blink up at him before trying to peer inside, not yet accepting it.
“What is this?”
“Something to keep you warm,” he breathes out, like he can’t believe you’re actually talking to him. “It’s getting chiller. Please accept it.”
For a second, you just study his face. His round eyes look at you like he’s appreciating and memorising your face all at once. There is something about his expression that looks like he’s hopeful that you’d accept the paper bag, but at the same time, already expecting you to reject it.
After a few seconds of no signs of you accepting his gifts, Heeseung slowly lowers his extended arm. His face falls, but he quickly schools it into a neutral expression.
“It’s okay, Y/N. You don’t have to,” he licks his lips with a swipe of his tongue, already foreseeing the rejection.
“Why are you doing this?” you ask and instantly regret your tone. It’s unintentionally clipped, very unlike you.
But Heeseung isn’t fazed. If anything, he looks shyer now.
“I don’t want you to catch a cold,” he mumbles, averting his eyes. The pink in his ears has turned bright red—from the cold or from his own shyness, you’re not sure.
One thing you know is that you’re not used to this side of the dominant alpha.
The side that he showed you once before he dipped. That night when he held a heat pack in your hand, insisting on keeping you warm. For a split second, you wonder if it was instinct or if he really meant it, already knowing the answer to it.
It was probably the former.
A gush of chill air passes by and you shiver. Right, you’re still standing outside of the library with two layers of sweater and are still trembling.
Finally, you take the paper bag from him. Heeseung startles, not expecting the sudden gesture and definitely not expecting the graze of a touch of your finger brushing his. It makes him shudder, like your touch is bigger than the cold autumn air.
“Thank you,” you give him a tight-lipped smile, watching as his expression brightens up. Without waiting for his reply, you’re already heading to the door, ready to leave the alpha behind.
Before the door closes, you hear a whisper of his voice, carried by the bone-chilling air.
“Good luck with your competition, Y/N.”
You wonder how he knew about it, but the moment you sit at the table right in front of Jungwon—one of your teammates—you finally remember that they’re somehow friends.
The alpha gives you a dimpled smile. “Hey, Y/N. You’re early.”
“You too.” You pause, weighing the words in your head. “Jungwon, do you know Heeseung?”
Jungwon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he eyes the pink paper bag now placed on the table, then nods to himself.
“Yes. Please don’t get mad at me, though. I’m kind of rooting for him.” He peeks into the paper bag and whistles. “Wow, hyung really doesn’t play.”
You snatch the paper bag and put it on the chair beside you. You’ve peeked inside, and is it a surprise to say that you were surprised?
A bunch of heat packs. A pair of blue mittens. A pack of tissue. A minty inhaler. And the one that contributes the most weight—a can of grape juice, already unchilled.
It’s that night all over again. The paracetamol that you downed because you did get a headache after a whole night of crying. The wet tissues that you used to wipe your tear-stained face. The heat pack that kept you warm the whole time you sat outside of the convenience store.
Everything Heeseung picked out has always been too…thoughtful.
While waiting for the rest of your group members to arrive, with Jungwon already typing on his laptop and talking about something you’re too distracted to hear—you’re swamped with your own conflicting emotions again.
Heeseung has always had the capability to care for people. To care for you. He was gentle with you that night. And fuck, you still hate what he did to you—but even the day he called you delusional, he was very soft with the way he talked to you.
The cruelest part is that Heeseung was never incapable of tenderness.
He had simply been too afraid to offer it where it mattered most.
He told you he wasn’t ready to step up to be the man that you deserved, but that sounds like a flimsy excuse now.
What was he so afraid of?
You really don’t want to make it easy for him, and you’re already ahead of the bond and the concept of love. You’ve already learned your lesson. You still remember the pain.
But, dear Goddess, sometimes you really wish that he was brave enough.
The rest of your group members arrive shortly after, each wearing thick layers like you do. As Jungwon begins the discussion that will continue on until late evening, you reach inside the paper bag and grab one of the heat packs.
Silently, you thank Heeseung in your head.
Just as you have expected, the discussion wraps up when night has already fallen. You stretch in your seat, taking your own sweet time as your group members tidy up.
Jungwon is the last one to leave, carrying his backpack on his wide shoulders. He looks at you finally standing up with a cheeky smile on his face.
“See you tomorrow for the consultation, Y/N. I would’ve offered to walk you home but I don’t wanna ruin the chance for a certain alpha.”
Your brows furrow, not really catching the meaning behind his teasing smile.
“What do you mean?”
“Just make sure to use the front door,” Jungwon is already walking away, giving you a dismissive wave of his hand. “Night!”
You stare at his retreating figure and then something clicks in your mind. Like an instinct, your heart starts racing fast.
Did he mean Heeseung?
Your hands quickly gather your stuff and toss them into your tote bag. The paper bag from Heeseung hangs tightly in your grip as you near the entrance of the library.
True to your speculation, Heeseung is already waiting outside. He has ditched his trench coat, now wearing his jersey that shows off his arms. The number ‘1’ and ‘HEESEUNG’ on the back of his jersey stares at you, unmistakingly him.
You quickly move past him as if you didn’t see him. Almost less than a second after, his footsteps are already echoing from behind you.
“Y/N, wait!”
Heeseung is barely panting in front of you, blocking your way home. You sport a blank expression despite the skips your heart is making.
“What are you doing here?”
“I,” Heeseung catches his breath, and you can’t help but notice the goosebumps in his skin. You almost frown.
What the hell was he thinking, wearing that sleeveless jersey in this weather? The trench coat must be inside his duffle bag, because you don’t see it hanging in his arms.
But the thought remains in your mind. And will probably stay there forever.
You almost miss it when he continues.
“I want to walk you home. No.” Heeseung gathers his voice, now sounding softer, asking for permission.
“Can I walk you home?”
Your answer is quick. “No.”
You can almost feel the pause in his breath. Heeseung blinks once, regaining his composure after a few seconds.
“...Okay,” he nods, eyes slightly distant like he’s not even sure if he means it. “Okay. But can you let me call you an Uber?”
You shake your head, standing your ground.
“My dorm is not far from here.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
“I want to walk.”
Silence passes by, along with the air that’s borderline freezing. You don’t know if alphas just naturally run hot, because you’re close to turning into ice despite the layers, but Heeseung doesn’t even flinch.
He finally takes a step back, slightly dipping his head as he nods.
“Okay,” he says again, more like convincing himself. But then he meets your eyes, and the wistful glint of his gaze doesn't go unnoticed by you. Something tugs at your heart.
“At least let Jungwon know when you’re home. Please?” he pleads. “You don’t have to text me. I’ll just—hear from him.”
You purse your lips, giving the alpha a once-over before finally giving in.
“Fine. I will.”
The corner of his lips quirks up but Heeseung covers it quickly. He steps aside, clearing the path for you to go home. You don’t waste time and begin walking, feeling his eyes boring into your skull.
“Please be safe, Y/N.”
You never reply.
The next day, the alpha is not waiting by the door. Jungwon stands in his place instead, the paper bag now has been upgraded to a reusable lunch bag with flower motifs on it.
“Your alpha has a producer meeting today.”
You’re quick to deny.” He’s not my alpha.”
Jungwon ignores you like you’re a wall and opens the lunch bag for you to see.
“Two thermos there. One is chicken porridge, another is hot tea. Not sure if you’re a coffee-person or not, so Heeseung hyung wanted to be safe.” Jungwon speaks like he’s rehearsed it, and to be honest, he kind of did (Heeseung forced him, but you don’t have to know that).
You’re stunned. “What?”
“Don’t worry, it’s grape tea. I don’t know where he got it from, though,” Jungwon shrugs then continues his duty as Heeseung’s greatest accomplice. “More heat packs. I didn’t see you use the mittens yesterday so I told him maybe you didn’t like blue…? So he prepared the red pair for you.”
“Wait, Jungwon—”
“And lastly, a lunch bag with daisies prints, for his most precious daisy in this world.” Jungwon beams wide, dimples curving deep and shoves the lunch bag into your bag.
“How’s his performance?”
“You’re insufferable,” you scoff and snatch the lunch bag from his grasp. You quickly go inside, ignoring the warmth in your cheeks betraying your indifference.
Your mind, another traitor, is filled with the thoughts of Heeseung.
Is this him trying?
You’re not sure how to feel about it, but your heart surely knows her shits—fluttering like you’re a virgin being courted.
Which, technically, in every way possible—you are.
You try to ignore it. During break, you remember to control your expression as you eat the porridge, aware of Jungwon’s hawking eyes gauging at your reaction.
Heeseung is sure smart to pick him as his wingman. That alpha is a persistent menace.
But no. You’re not going to fold easily.
Your omega is still silent, and the damage has been too severe. For all you know, Heeseung might be just performing remorse. Only time can tell if he was really sincere and serious or not.
After all, consistency is a great telltale of devotion.
However, as if the world was suddenly eager to prove you wrong, Heeseung keeps showing up.
He comes again at night, this time fully covered up and looking dashing in his white button up and loosened tie. You guess he just came back from the meeting, judging from the formality of the attire. But you can’t help but let your eyes linger longer on his face, suddenly too conscious of his height.
Okay, what the fuck. He’s always been handsome. There’s nothing surprising about it.
“Can I walk you home?”
You’re snapped out of your thoughts when his voice, low and soft, reaches your ears. You shake your head.
“No.”
“I’ll keep my distance,” he says quickly. “You won’t even notice I’m there. Please?”
You keep your walls steady. “Why are you doing this?”
The question hangs in the air. Heeseung’s gaze softens, but there’s a cloud of doubt swirling behind his eyes now. For the first time, you see the alpha shivers in the cold.
“You gave me a chance,” he says, voice clear and crisp. Like it’s a conviction. Like it’s something he’s deliberately chosen.
“I want to try until you can forgive me. And I know it’ll never be enough. I know I’ll be too selfish to hope…”
Heeseung swipes a tongue across his lips. He gives you a nervous glance, but seeing how attentive you look despite your indifference, Heeseung almost breaks down.
You’re still kind even in your resentment.
“But I still hope that one day you can accept me as your alpha.”
You hum, trying to sound unimpressed despite the loud thumping of your heart. The bitterness still leaks when you speak.
“You were my alpha.”
Heeseung shakes his head and gives you a humourless smile.
“No, I wasn’t,” his voice is strained, like he’s holding a storm of emotions with his palm.
“The Goddess might’ve assigned me to be your alpha. But I failed my duties. You were just forced to deal with what fate had chosen for you.”
The moonlight shining on him highlights the tired lines at the edges of his eyes. For the past few weeks, you have no idea how Heeseung was doing. And you know no one can hold it over your head for not caring.
But something in him feels altered. Not gentler—Heeseung had always been gentle in ways he never admitted.
He seems more humbled. Like the weight of pride is finally bowing his head down, his gaze always sanded down by grief. Every word now sounds chosen, as if he has learned the cost of speaking carelessly.
Heeseung holds your eyes, sincerity spilling over the edges.
“But now I want you to choose me. Not out of obligation, or because fate said so. I want to be chosen because you know I’m the right alpha for you.”
Isn’t it unfair?
You want the resentment to turn into fiery hatred, but your traitorous heart still melts at his devotion. How can you hate him when he makes you sound like you were the centre of his universe?
Still, you hold your ground.
“You know I won’t wait for you. What if I choose another deserving alpha?”
Heeseung’s face goes white. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows, but he still nods.
“I will break,” he admits, the most honest he’s ever been. “But I’ll still pray that he shows you the love I failed to give when I had the chance.”
The sheer weight of his speech almost renders you breathless. Remorse, as if it’s been a lifelong companion, drips heavy in his voice. For a short moment, you can’t hold his gaze—it looks so intense and longing, you don’t know if you can hold this newfound devotion. It’s too deep and full of regret.
It’s after a minute of silence that you finally find your voice.
“You can walk me home from behind.”
You turn around first before he can see the change in your face. Your stupid human heart, as if awakening from the slumber from weeks ago when things were still all butterflies and stolen glances—seems to recognise the alpha now trailing after you ten paces away and fluttering around shamelessly..
The moon shines exceptionally bright tonight, as if the Goddess herself is watching her war-torn lovers patching up the bridge once broken by pride and fear.
“Are you still angry?”
Once you’re home and stripped and showered, you stare at the dark ceiling of your bedroom. The moonlight cracks through the small space you leave open, decorating your bed with stripes of pale blue.
You put a palm over your heart, trying to feel your wolf.
“Are you still mad at him?”
Silence. There’s no response from your omega. You wait for a few breaths before sighing.
“You’ve always been the hard headed one out of the two of us,” you comment, suddenly missing the other half of your soul that’s been so long quiet.
“But it’s good that you are,” you slowly whisper.
“Because if you’re as soft as I am, then Heeseung would be forgiven already.”
This time, there’s no resistance as the memory of the burgundy-haired alpha comes back—not that he ever left, anyway.
“I’m still mad at him, too.”
You remember the time Heeseung actively avoided your gaze. You used to wonder why, but knowing the answer also didn’t help ease the pain. Knowing that he avoided you because of the bond never makes the pain feel less hurtful.
But the way he searches your eyes now, holding your gaze with a tenderness you’ve never seen before…it softens the pain.
Where he used to run from you, he’s now seeking you every chance he gets. After practice, after meetings, after classes. In sleeveless jersey, in suit and tie, in his usual baggy graphic T-shirts.
Heeseung used to be nowhere to be found, but he’s everywhere now.
The reality of his efforts to try patching up the bond suddenly feels too scary. Because if he’s changed for good, if he’s really putting his all to win back your heart—are you confident that you still can move past everything?
The sufferings you endured. The omegas he slept with. The sleepless spent chanting his name in pain. The night when everything fell apart.
Can you really let them go?
“I don’t know,” you whisper to no one, a knot of uneasiness tightening in your chest.
“I don’t think I’m ready yet.”
Heeseung seems to find you easily nowadays.
At first, you doubt the people around you. Everyone is suddenly related to him in some ways somehow. There must be an insider that tells him your whereabouts.
Whether it’s Jungwon or Yujin, you don’t know. You hope it’s not Yujin, though. You know she despises what Heeseung did to you, but the beta is also quietly rooting for him. She hid it well, too.
But her cover was blown one night when you were having a movie night in your bed. She was so close and she was typing something on her phone. You accidentally looked, but honest to Goddess your heart almost dropped when you saw Heeseung’s name.
“Why are you texting with Heeseung?” You forced your face into the screen, deliberately ignoring the sudden seeds of jealousy in your chest.
Yujin scrambled to sit up, but it was too late. You had already seen them all.
Lee Heeseung
did she arrive home safely?
You
Yeap!
Safely tucked in bed!
“Yujin, you traitor!”
“Ow! Ow!” Yujin ducked the pillow you threw at her, but she wasn’t fast enough to avoid your punches. “Girl, hear me out first!”
“Why are you helping him?” you heaved out, glaring daggers at her. Yujin rubbed her arms, jutting out an apologetic pout.
“I’m so sorry…he just wants to know if you get home safe, Y/N. I don’t see anything wrong or invasive about that.”
Your heart stuttered. Did he really do that? But you feigned an angry look.
“So you just agreed to be his accomplice? You’re no different from Jungwon.”
“I mean, I lowkey ship you guys. But he has to grovel first, and I hope he’s been doing it right.”
You rolled your eyes and settled back under the covers. “How long has it been?”
“Don’t get mad at me please.”
“Yujin.”
“He’s been asking me if you reach home safely for more than two weeks now.”
Your breath hitched.
That’s…since before he started appearing at the library.
And today, as you see Heeseung lingering around the business compound, donning a thin brown cardigan that highlights his body snugly, you’re contemplating whether to assault Jungwon or Yujin through the phone after this.
But there’s no time to think, as Heeseung—curse his dominant trait, really—easily senses your scent and catches your eyes. He gives you a small smile and walks up to you. The grip you have on the strap of your tote bag has turned knuckle-white.
“Y/N.”
“Hey.”
“Have you eaten yet?”
You swallow, trying not to fold. “Yeah, just now. You?”
Heeseung nods.”I have too.” Then he extends a hand towards your tote bag.
“Let me hold your bag and walk you home.”
You hesitate for a moment before giving in.
Fuck, you curse the universe.
Why is he so consistent?
Heeseung knows he’s not being slick when he suddenly makes a detour to the convenience store under the pretense of feeling hungry.
But you follow him anyway, gullible enough to believe that he has more space for more food. Which, actually, you’re not completely wrong. Heeseung loves food. But he’s not exactly here to eat.
He’s here to steal more time to be with you.
The fluorescent lamp hums overhead, the convenience store smells like cooked noodles and microwaved pastries. Under this light, you look shorter than him, reaching not taller than his chin.
Heeseung holds back the urge to reach out and caress your head. He can’t ruin things now that you finally let him walk you home side by side. That’s progress. A couple of weeks ago, you didn't even let him follow.
He really can’t afford to ruin it.
Heeseung trails after you to aisle number two where rows of snacks and chips line up the shelves. There’s something almost domestic about watching you hum as you skim through the options.
It feels more intimate than kneeling at your feet ever did.
“What do you usually get?” he asks, trying to sound casual.
You hold up a bag of snacks, a small grin unknowingly splits across your face.
“This one,” you shake the plastic with eyes shining bright. Heeseung thinks he’s lost his breath. “These seaweed tempeh chips.”
Heeseung stares at you like you just handed him a sacred relic, eyes dripping with silent, genuine surprise.
“These are your favourite?”
You blink and tilt your head, not sure how to make sense of his stunned reaction. “Yeah…?”
A small smile breaks on his mouth. Heeseung looks down at the bag of chips, feeling his chest tightens just from that simple information.
She likes grape juice. She likes tempeh chips.
God, I’m learning about her.
His silent meltdown goes unnoticed by you. You walk further and stop by the drinks fridge, already reaching for your favourite grape juice.
This time, Heeseung couldn’t stop the chuckle that leaves his lips. “You really love drinking that, don’t you?”
“I sure do,” you glance up at him. “Since kindergarten, by the way. It’s just so good and cheap. What about you?”
Heeseung’s heart nearly stops.
“I’m sorry?”
“What’s your favourite drink, Heeseung?”
Heeseung forces himself to reply when you’re already looking at him suspiciously.
“Zero Coke.”
“Ah,” you nod, then reach up to where a line of Zero Coke is put on display. You pluck the second can in the line and hand it to him.
“Hygiene tips: always take the second or the third can,” you casually say and tap on the can. “Because everybody touches the first one.”
Then you turn around, drifting toward the candy aisle, blissfully unaware of his turmoil.
Leaving Heeseung stunned, standing like a statue of racing heart and quiet breakdown as he holds the can close to his chest.
Later that night, after sending you home safely, Heeseung enters his shared apartment wordlessly. He can hear the F1 sportscaster from the living room—Jay must haven’t gone to bed yet.
“Hey, Hee,” his friend greets, sprawled on the couch with a can of beer in one hand. But his focus on the television stops once he notices Heeseung’s red-rimmed eyes.
“Fuck. Heeseung!” Jay rushes to him and holds him just before his knees finally give up.
The anchor of sorrow and grief that has been weighing heavier since the convenience store run is finally pulling him down. Heeseung drops to the floor, already feeling the tears wetting his cheeks.
“Hee, what’s wrong?” Jay asks, trying to keep the worry in his voice. “Did something happen? Tell me!”
Heeseung shakes his head, curling up into Jay’s hold and sobs even harder.
“Jay-ah,” Heeseung chokes, unable to hold back his sobs.
“Her favourite chips are seaweed tempeh.”
Jay is rendered speechless by the unexpected revelation.
“...What?”
“Seaweed tempeh,” he sobs, voice cracking. “Seaweed tempeh chips, grape juice, gummy bears. She bakes when she’s stressed. She hates mornings but wakes up early. She has hygiene tips for canned drinks.”
His voice splinters, like a branch breaking down from the tree.
Jay blinks. “You’re sobbing over…basic information?”
“That I should’ve known.”
Heeseung clutches Jay’s shirt, the sadness now palpable.
“Simple things about her that I never made any effort to know because I was so fucking busy being an asshole.”
In that moment, it finally clicks in Jay’s mind. It was never about snacks.
“I was her mate and I didn’t know.”
It’s about regret.
Jay’s expression softens instantly, understanding settling in his features. He sits on the floor with him, letting Heeseung cry into his shoulders, shaking like a dead leaf. The distressed accent of his spicy and salty pheromones is drenching the air, but Jay fights the urge to scowl. Alphas don’t exactly respond well to another alpha’s distressed pheromones.
Beside him, Heeseung is still sobbing like a child experiencing a trip of his foot for the first time.
“Somebody else could’ve been in my place,” he cries softly. “She could’ve been asking another alpha, ‘What’s your favourite drink?’ and I almost made it not me.”
Heeseung cries for what it’s worth. For the regret and grief of the what-ifs that could’ve happened if only he didn’t mess up. For the gratitude that you’re finally letting him the access to the information only privy to those who are close enough with you.
For the unexpected relief when you asked him back.
“So you’re crying because she let you know her,” Jay concludes once Heeseung has calmed down enough to talk properly.
They’re still sitting on the floor. The F1 show that Jay was watching prior to his sudden breakdown is now playing like background noise.
Heeseung nods weakly. “Yeah.”
“What did it feel like?”
Heeseung gives him a wistful smile.
“Disbelief. Because I can’t believe it feels so easy to just…have this affection for someone over knowing what their favourite drinks are.”
Heeseung looks into the distance, lost in thoughts and memory.
“I never feel this way for anybody. It’s scary, because now I want to know more.”
He stares into the space in front of him, absentmindedly playing with the hem of his cardigan.
“I want to know how she likes her eggs. I want to know which detergent she likes to use. What side of the bed she sleeps on,” Heeseung whispers, voice trembling. “I want to know everything about her and it’s so scary, Jay.”
There’s a pause before he looks down, sounding more broken than he has been tonight.
“It’s so scary because I realised it wasn’t the bond that terrified me.”
Heeseung remembers how happy he felt when you still rub your nose every time you get shy. How excited he felt when you cover your mouth as you laugh—little things he used to know about you that still makes you you.
“It wasn’t.”
Knowing someone has never felt this easy and freeing.
“It was how badly I could love her.”
The confession doesn’t land hard. It settles slowly, like a missing puzzle finally finding its place. His wolf stirs inside, yipping happily at the declaration.
Jay takes a moment to process everything before he sighs. He reaches out a hand and pats Heeseung on his shoulder.
“There, there. You’re making progress, Hee. You’re starting to see her more than the bond you guys shared.”
As if summoned, his scent gland pulses sharply. Heeseung yelps, clutching his nape with a quick hand. His scent spikes dangerously, spicy cinnamon burning the atmosphere.
“Hee!”
“It hurts,” Heeseung chokes, the pain quickly spreading to other parts of his body. “Fuck, Jay—”
Drip.
Both alphas instantly freeze.
On the carpet where they sit, is a drop of blood, staining the cream-coloured material with crimson red.
Jay slowly looks up, heart beating fast, chanting ‘No, no, no. Please, not you, Heeseung. Please,’ in his mind.
To his horror, the blood came from Heeseung’s nose.
Jay can feel his gut sinking to the floor.
“Hee,” he grabs his shoulders, eyes trained on the trail of blood dripping down his philtrum and his chin. “Hee, listen to me and answer me, okay? Please don’t panic.”
Inside, Jay is already panicking.
Heeseung tries not to, but his body feels scalding hot. The pain comes in waves, not once stopping even if he were to rip his heart open.
“Heeseung, answer me. Did you tell Y/N about the two options or not?”
Jay’s voice is muffled to his ears, but through his hazy mind and blurry vision, Heeseung can still make out the words.
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Why?” Jay whispers, breathless and shaken.
“I didn’t want to pressure her into thinking she has to choose me to save me.”
Heeseung’s unfocused eyes find him, desperate and so pitiful that his heart clenches painfully. Jay drops his head on his best friend’s shoulders, fear consuming his being.
“You idiot,” Jay sobs, the dam breaking almost instantly. “She might’ve chosen you anyway.”
Heeseung feels lightheaded. Jay’s voice is like a distant dream—something he’s not sure if he hears or not. Dark spots start appearing on the edges of his vision, almost turning black no matter how hard he blinks.
“Jay-ah…”
The last thing Heeseung remembers before he loses consciousness is Jay screaming his name, voice cracking and hoarse.
okay dang tumblr said this post has reached its limits wtf im gna kms!!! anyway posting a part 3 real soon!!!
divider from: @cursed-carmine
permanent taglist: @kristynaaah @seungiesdoll @in-somnias-world @rikismists @loviseamms @ikeupop
mark me yours - l.hs
— a spin-off from love me (k)not
main masterlist | part 2 | part 3
synopsis. heeseung loves omegas, but he doesn’t believe in mates—especially fated ones. that kind of destiny is reserved for people like riki and jay. but then he meets you. and the first thing you ask him to do is scent-mark you: an intimate activity shared only between mates. a spin-off from love me (k)not!
pairing. alpha!heeseung x omega!female reader
genre(s). omegaverse, fated mates, strangers-to-lovers, fluff, angst
warnings. slightly suggestive, fated mates-coded, power imbalance, unjust system and society, harassment against omegas (not by heeseung), &team cameo but they're assholes here sorry! i love them though dw, mating mark, scent-marking, heeseung is a dominant alpha, and a bigger asshole i fear, reader is a cheerleader, alpha!jay being our target again (sorry), alpha!riki, alpha!sunghoon, beta!ahn yujin, omega!rei, sunoo is bi, heeseung is also bi, this omegaverse is partly made up by me! but it’s just a tiny portion of it just to keep the plot going, denial, rejection, angst, not beta read we die like injang, please let me know if i missed anything!
word count. 21,280 words
note. please read this before proceeding 🤎 everything here is purely fictional and it has nothing to do with the members as a person outside of this fanfiction 🤎 also idk how cheerleading works so pls bear with me...
In a private booth of a nightclub, a group of long-legged, broad-shouldered alphas huddle around the table, drinks in hands. The air is layered with pheromones and adrenaline, occasionally flashing with neon lights and blurred with thin smoke.
In the middle of the couch, Heeseung sits leisurely, manspreading with ease. On either side of him, Jay and Riki lean back in a similar posture, each of them engaged in the conversation bouncing between the team.
The team has just won a friendly match against their long-sworn rival, a university from the east, after a frustrating streak of loss for two consecutive tournaments. It wasn’t really a landslide win, considering their competitive skills, but a win is a win. A satisfied smirk curls around Heeseung’s bow-shaped lips, his alpha purring with pride.
Friendly or not, the whiskey surely tastes extra sweet tonight.
“Did you see K’s face just now?” Riki pipes up from his left, still buzzing with adrenaline. Being the last man to score and secure the win for them, it’s obviously hard for Riki to contain his enthusiasm. He’s beaming wide. “I did that. I wiped that smirk off his face, gentlemen!”
The rest of the team roars in reply, infected by Riki’s contagious excitement. Heeseung and Jay wear a fond smile on their lips, clearly delighted to see the younger alpha’s happiness. Glasses clink again as they toast to their win, and to their future wins, and to the sexy, beautiful cheerleading omegas that played a part in keeping their spirits up just now—to which Jay grimaces and Riki rolls his eyes at. Heeseung snorts.
He forgets that he’s friends with a prude and a loyal, claimed alpha.
“Speaking of omegas,” Heeseung tilts his head at Riki when the chatters break into small groups of conversations among the team, leaving him to talk to two of his closest friends. “It’s a surprise to see you here, Ki. Like seeing a four-leaf clover.”
Jay joins in, his signature lopsided grin on display. “I half-expected you to run home to your girlfriend. It’s hard to see you hang out with us at the club now, pup.”
Riki crosses his arms with a dramatic huff. His bottom lip juts out in a pout. In this light, when Riki shows this side of him, free from fake nonchalance and his cool persona, Heeseung sees him ten years younger than his actual age. Riki is so cute.
“I fully expected to run home to her too, hyung. But she forced me to come here. Said something like I should celebrate my win with y’all,” Riki sighs, messing with his newly-dyed hair and tipping his head back. “So here I am. Drinking with you idiots when I could’ve cuddled with my sweet, sweet omega at home.”
Jay feigns offence while Heeseung laughs. The both of them know too well of Riki’s devotion to his girlfriend. Maybe it’s the alpha-omega bond, or just the fact that they’ve known each other practically their whole lives, but Riki is never at ease whenever she’s not around.
But tonight, the alpha seems more relaxed than usual. He’s not playing with his fingers or toying with the hem of his shirt like he always did when his girlfriend is absent. Heeseung wonders why the sudden change until he catches a glimpse of something at the back of Riki’s neck.
His brows furrow. His movement falters mid-air.
“Riki? Is that…” Heeseung squints his eyes, trying to see better while the tips of Riki’s ears slowly redden. From his right, Heeseung can hear a soft gasp from Jay.
“Holy shit. Is that your mating mark, Ki?”
It is. It is a mating mark, Heeseung realises, when a purple neon light flashes on Riki’s wounded skin. The alpha is rubbing his neck sheepishly now, heat sweeping across his cheeks. Despite his sudden shy demeanour, Heeseung can smell the pride in his sandalwood scent, and in that moment he finally notices the subtle layer of sweet vanilla—Riki’s girlfriend’s scent—in Riki’s pheromones.
“Yeah,” Riki confirms, still red like a tomato. “I mated with her last night.”
“Wow,” Jay breathes out in amazement, eyes sparkling in the dim light. “About time, man! You’re finally mated!”
Jay’s exclamation attracts attention and soon, the whole group is congratulating Riki on the milestone. The said alpha is red down to his neck now, clearly not expecting the sudden shift of focus on him but still relishing in the pride of having his mating mark, if the musky lilt to his pheromones is anything to go by.
Heeseung remains a quiet observer, watching as Riki pulls down the collar of his shirt to proudly show the mark. Two other alphas join him as they speak fondly of their omegas, relishing in their identical mating mark on their napes. Beside him, Jay listens with an adoring smile. There’s a certain longing in his gaze when he stares at the mated alphas that doesn’t go unnoticed by Heeseung.
Heeseung averts his eyes away, trying to forget that familiar look on Jay’s face. He almost scoffs at the image.
He knows that look like the back of his hand.
Jay, too, yearns for a mate. Like Riki. Unlike Heeseung.
Mate. It’s the word that is so common in omegaverse but so foreign in Heeseung’s little world.
If Jay is a walking green flag that effortlessly attracts omegas with his gentleman charms, Heeseung is a running red flag that chases after willing omegas. If Jay stays away from wild sex life, Heeseung lives by it. If Jay dates to marry, Heeseung fucks to breathe. He’s everything Jay’s not that Riki was so bewildered when the two first met him.
Don’t get him wrong—he’s not the creepy kind of chaser. Rather, he likes to call himself the sexy one. It’s not hard for him to pull; just a few flirty comments here and a couple of filthy whispers there and the next hour he’ll have an omega to bring home and under him.
He doesn’t know if he’s the only one wired this way, but where territorial instincts stream in his alpha blood, his sexual desires run even harder and faster. It’s like an itch that just won’t get away if he doesn’t scratch at it. He’s an attractive alpha with a high sex drive, he admits it, but is he really wrong to accept any omegas with his long, eager arms?
He thinks not.
Plus, they’re omegas. Heeseung tries not to objectify them, but gosh, the scent wafting from them is always so sweet and inviting. They’re curved softly, meant to hold and love the right, physical way that he’s known how to. He’s a weak man, and an even weaker alpha; Heeseung can’t resist a good fuck between two consenting adults and he always, always consents to being sucked off dry and scratched to bleed.
Fuck, just thinking about it is already making him excited.
Heeseung’s eyes wander, tuning out the conversation about mate as he scans for any attractive omega. It’s starting to bore him—the talk about mate and having a mate and being mated—so he’s entertaining himself with the exposed skin and swaying hips of dancing omegas on the dance floor.
For someone like him that gets off on having sex with omegas and being drunk on their sweet pheromones, mating culture is a big no for him. The idea of being tied to only one omega makes him laugh; it sounds ridiculous to him. He’s an alpha capable of giving and his knot is not limited to only one hole, so why should he settle?
Only hopeless-romantic alphas believe in the belief of fated mates. And unfortunately, two of his friends do. Heeseung mentally rolls his eyes.
He decides that he’s had enough when the mated alphas start talking about having pups; another commitment that makes goosebumps rise in his skin. Wordlessly, he places his shot glass on the table, having sipped only half of it throughout the night.
“Leaving already?” Jay asks, craning his neck when Heeseung stands. The latter only cocks his head to the dance floor with a knowing look. The corner of his mouth curves into a playful smirk when Jay makes a face.
“The usual.”
Jay shakes his head. “Whatever. Just don’t do it raw.”
“I’m always clean and safe, Jongseong.” Heeseung retorts, already taking his leave. “Call me when you’re leaving.”
Whatever Jay replies is muffled by the loud bass and Heeseung couldn’t care less to know what the alpha has said. Probably throwing him insults for using him as his personal chauffeur again. Heeseung only shrugs. Jay’s not his concern tonight. He has a bigger fish, or rather, a pretty wolf, to catch.
His eyes sweep across the space. From where he’s standing, his nose can pick up different scents of alphas and omegas. Even the faint scent of betas are visible, usually amplified by alcohol and adrenaline. He’s still deciding between two male omegas throwing asses back on the dance floor and a group of female omegas giggling at a table not far from him when a spiked scent stabs at his senses.
His nose instantly scrunches, frowning as he tries to detect that smell. An omega in distress. It’s faint, coming from the direction of the exit door, but he can’t see anyone crying or visibly uncomfortable in his line of sight.
Heeseung looks around, momentarily distracted from his initial mission. Nobody seems to notice the scent, however, and Heeseung blames his dominant traits for this. He sometimes forgets that he’s a dominant alpha. Unlike Jay and Riki, his senses are more sensitive and developed, which is a blessing when he’s looking for a hookup and a curse when he’s inside the locker room after a game when the air is drenched in his teammates’ pheromones. Heeseung shudders at the memories. He’s always the first to shower and leave the room because only Riki smells good when sweating.
His thoughts are brought back when the scent intensifies. Heeseung keeps sniffing and blindly follows the trail of wilting daisies and burnt honey, his shoulders braced and jaw tense. He doesn’t know why, but the scent has awakened his senses to a new degree. His alpha is on full alert now.
He passes by dancing bodies and tables to get to the exit door but he’s stopped by a hand on his arm. Heeseung looks down.
A soft, seductive voice reaches his ears. “Heeseung-ssi?”
Heeseung blinks at the smiling omega. After a second of stunned silence, he finally recognises the logo on her varsity jacket and the makeup on her face. Realisation dawns upon him.
She’s part of his college’s cheerleader squad.
The omega is running a hand up and down his arm now, arching her back to flaunt the soft swell of her chest. Behind her, her fellow cheerleaders watch closely, hiding eager smiles behind their palms. Heeseung looks down at her hand, gulping despite himself.
“Spare me a few minutes, will you, my precious, capable alpha?”
Her voice is so enticing, dripping with the kind of allure Heeseung’s so much familiar with. There is a strong wave of her sweet scent—bubblegum and cotton candy, Heeseung notes—coming from her in full force. She’s fluttering her lashes now, hoping he’ll get the message.
Heeseung does; oh does he get the message so well. He knows what she’s hinting on and on any other nights he’ll succumb to the temptation without putting any efforts to think, melting into a puddle of juices at the slightest touch of seductive omegas. It’s a no-brainer decision for him, usually, because he’s always ready to fuck and he always brings a pack of condom with him for this sole reason.
But tonight his wolf is restless. And the reason is none other than the bitter scent still clinging to his nose.
Heeseung gives a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and removes her hand from his arm. The omega frowns, brows almost uniting at the center when the alpha takes a step back.
“Next time, yeah?”
Without waiting for her reply, Heeseung slips away from the crowd, ignoring the sour turn of her pheromones. He can feel their eyes boring into his back, but that’s not his concern now. Following the haunting scent and the sudden flaring instincts to get closer to the owner of it, Heeseung lets his legs bring him closer to the exit door.
Heeseung hates to admit it, but right now, his wolf is thrashing at the bitter scent and his chest feels like caving in. He can feel the itch in his nails; his claws are threatening to sharpen. He frowns.
He’s never reacted this way to any omegas in distress. So why now? Why this particular scent?
When he reaches the door, Heeseung doesn’t waste a second to push it open and steps outside. As he does so, a weight suddenly crashes into his chest, pushing him slightly backwards from the force.
“Oof—”
Heeseung reaches up to steady the figure by the arms. At this sudden proximity, the scent is thicker, the wilting daisies are more prominent it's making his heart constrict. Heeseung lets out a deep exhale and looks down to the person practically in his arms.
A female omega. Clearly in distress, judging by the unshed tears and the tremble in her lips. A familiar varsity jacket drapes across her frame and Heeseung feels his breath stop when he recognises that face.
It’s you. One of the cheerleaders. Heeseung knows many cheerleaders, having been in bed with most of them; but even the most forgetful alpha will remember an omega like you.
A sweet face with a sweeter scent to match, but you are always detached from alphas and their advances. You’re the shy cheerleader his teammates always talk about. The untouchable one. The politely-smile-and-then-reject omega. Heeseung remembers you too well, being one of those rejected alphas himself.
He still remembers how disappointed his wolf was, whining and pouting when a pretty omega he had his eyes on rejected him. But Heeseung is a respectful alpha. He’ll take a no as a no. And you were also so kind when doing so that he moved on from it pretty fast and well.
That was one year ago.
Now you’re crying in his arms, for whatever reasons he doesn’t know and is determined to find out. He can feel your hold on his arms tighten, the spike in your scent when you recognise him, and the hitch in your breath that follows. The bitter scent is definitely coming from you.
“H-Heeseung?” Your voice is so small, like you’re not sure if you can call his name. It’s shaky and breathless. “Please help me.”
Behind you, Heeseung can see three shadows entering the alleyway. Even from the distance, his nose immediately picks up the pheromones of aroused alphas; thick and unpleasant. Your scent lingers amidst the stench, wavering in fear, so heavy he can practically taste it on his tongue. Heeseung instinctively pulls you closer.
“Are they bothering you?”
You nod frantically, the tears now spilling freely down your cheeks. When you speak, your voice is wet from tears and fear.
Nothing can ever prepare Heeseung for the words that are about to leave your mouth.
“P-Please…Please scent me.” You sob, clutching the sleeves of his T-shirt tighter. Heeseung’s breath stutters. “Please, Heeseung.”
Scent-mark. A low rumble sounds from his chest.
You’re asking him to mark you. To…claim you. It’s basically you asking him to bond with you, to shower you with his pheromones and make you smell like him. Smell like you’re his.
This is not what Heeseung’s looking forward to tonight. The fantasy of saving an omega in distress and scent-marking belongs to Jay, an alpha that was even willing to help an omega in heat out of the goodness of his heart. But not Heeseung. That’s never Heeseung. Heeseung doesn’t play the hero; he’s the one stealing the female lead from them.
Scent-marking is way…too intimate to share between two complete strangers with no interaction—that is, if you consider being rejected to having sex together as zero interaction.
Heeseung looks between you and the shadows closing in, then licks his lips. “I can’t,” he tries, and the broken look on your face damn near makes his heart take the same fate. Heeseung schools his expression, forcing himself to push you slightly away from him.
“I—This is not right. You don’t want this.”
He can’t take advantage of you. This is just your scared omega speaking. Outside of this situation, he’s damn sure you’d refuse any kind of bonds with him. Heeseung might be a sex addict, but he’s not an asshole.
But you pull him with you, shaking your head as you keep taking a glance at the approaching alphas. “I do! Please,” you choke, failing to keep your voice steady as you plead at the alpha in front of you. Heeseung forces restraint to his instincts. “Please just scent-mark me, Heeseung. I-I can’t—They will—” You heave a deep breath, your scent taking a sourer lilt at his refusal.
“They won’t back down unless it’s another alpha.”
Something sharp stabs at his chest, rendering him speechless and frozen for a moment. Heeseung stares at your trembling figure, at your shrinking body as if to make yourself disappear, and it suddenly hits him how disgusting the whole situation is.
They won’t back down unless it’s another alpha.
Alphas only take a no when it comes from another alpha.
Heeseung feels nauseous. His throat closes in and there’s a quiet ringing in his ears. In that heavy, stilled silence, everything is muffled to his senses. Only the echoes of your words ripple in his mind.
Unless it’s another alpha.
It’s a hard pill to swallow; one that Heeseung finds it bitter to believe—because it’s so, so easy to walk away from omegas than force yourself on them. It’s so, so easy to shoot your pride down than dwell on it and go feral over a rejection. It’s so, so easy to respect an omega, even for a fuckboy like him, so why is it hard for other alphas to do so?
And the result of this harsh world, of this fucked up power imbalance is sobbing in his arms, shaking and forcing herself to be okay with an unwanted bond just to save herself. Heeseung’s heart breaks for you, for the fate that follows a beautiful being like you just because of secondary genders and because the world says so.
“Please, I-I don’t—”
“Shh, it’s okay,” Heeseung whispers, rubbing a soothing circle on your arms. Your crying subsides a fraction. “I’ll scent you if that makes you feel better. Is that…okay?”
You blink at him tearily, streaks of salty tears tainting your unblemished cheeks. Even with a swollen face, you still look as pretty as he remembers.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he nods, taking a hold of your wrist when he senses those alphas getting near. “Or we can just get inside and call the cops on them if you change your mind. You can find—”
“No,” you grip him tighter, your previously-calmed scent spiking again. “Cops are useless. T-They won’t—please, Heeseung. You know how they are.”
You know how unfair the system is.
Heeseung swallows hard before he nods, the burnt honey in your pheromones starting to get really thick and sticky. He rubs the inside of your wrists, slow and deliberate, before bringing the scent gland to his nose. It’s the most appropriate point to scent, less intimate than scenting at your neck, which he guesses the last thing you want from him right now.
The tip of his nose caresses the delicate skin tentatively, testing and tasting before he takes a deep inhale. Immediately, the scent of daisies and honey fill up his senses and Heeseung’s eyes flutter shut at the feeling. There is a rush of energy bursting through his veins, his senses tingling and his wolf purring at the sweet combination of your pheromones. Heeseung feels his wolf hum, almost singing and sighing, like his muscles are unknotting in a hot spring.
It’s strange. It’s new. But Heeseung pushes the thoughts aside.
He runs his nose over your wrist over and over again, blanketing you in his pheromones and starting to feel you relax in his arms.
The tension in your shoulders visibly disappears as you let yourself melt into Heeseung. You sigh. Heeseung’s pheromones are just like him; warm spice of cinnamon carried by cool air of sea breeze. It symbolises his fierce persona on the court and his calm demeanour when he’s out of his jersey perfectly. You lean into him further, your squirming wolf unknowingly calms down when being washed by his pheromones.
If Heeseung notices the change in your demeanour, he doesn’t say anything about it, shoving the thought to the back of his mind. His singular focus is entirely on your pulse, nosing at your wrist and pumping out his calming pheromones. When he opens his eyes, they mirror the look in yours: dazed and slightly glassy. The air is now loaded with daisies and cinnamon, intertwining with each other in a perfect, balanced mix of scent.
Heeseung tries to ignore the loud pounding of his heart, but it’s all he can hear. He tries to ignore the stars in your eyes, but it’s all he can see. He tries to ignore how perfectly balanced the mix of your scent is with his. His grip on your wrist tightens, breath caught in his throat. His wolf refuses to let you go, wanting to keep you here, tucked safely in his embrace for as long as he can.
And that thought is so foreign and scary. He really hopes that’s just his wolf and not him.
“Hey, little bunny.” A sick, twisted voice interrupts.
Oh, right.
Those fucking, disgusting alphas.
Heeseung is always slouching, making him appear shorter than he actually is. But in that moment, he’s standing so tall, dominating the space around him like the air is making room for him itself.
He instinctively pulls you behind him, shielding you from the hungry eyes of the approaching alphas. His shoulders are braced like they’re ready for an impact and Heeseung has to force a snarl down his throat when his eyes land on the wolves.
When the shadows step under the light, it takes less than a second for Heeseung to see the jerseys clinging to their bodies before he realises who he’s looking at.
They’re the players from the opposing team that his team just beat tonight.
K, EJ, and Nicholas.
Heeseung grinds his jaw so hard he might pop a vessel.
“If it’s not the mighty Lee Heeseung,” K taunts, wearing a smug smirk like a badge at the sight in front of him. He cocks his head, trying to see you over Heeseung’s shoulders. You cower. “Mind sharing your pretty little cheerleader? She’s exactly my type, shy but slutty.”
Shame spreads across your skin and you screw your eyes shut. Shy and slutty, you bite your lips. You’re nothing but a kinky fantasy for alphas like them.
As if sensing your turmoil, Heeseung stands taller, his eyes narrowing thin.
“Get lost.” Heeseung tries to hold back, but the rage he feels seeps through anyway. “And cover your gland, for fuck’s sake. You stink.”
K’s eyebrows shoot up, his grin turning cheshire. “Come on, man. Are you gatekeeping your cheerleaders?” K tries to take a peek at you, but Heeseung moves and covers you with his whole body. His frown deepens. “You had fucked her already. Don’t be greedy, captain.”
His alpha minions laugh, and Heeseung is now seeing red. Something hot spreads in his chest, burning in his vein like wildfire at the insult. Was it a hit to his ego and his shameless sexual routine? Definitely, but Heeseung never takes it to heart. Rather, it’s the way you gasp and sob into his back, shaken by the disgusting assumption of your dignity and your virginity. The storm of the ocean spikes in the air, taking his pheromones to a dangerous peak, gathering a tide to a new height.
Heeseung doesn’t think he’s ever released pheromones this bad. But something about seeing the same pattern of omegas falling victim to empty-headed alphas makes his blood boil.
Behind him, you whimper, your omega reacting to the agitated alpha in front of you. But Heeseung is now relentless. He holds out an arm around your waist, protecting you from their sight in a tight, almost-possessive grip.
“Watch your fucking mouth. Don’t you get it?” Heeseung seethes, pupils thinning as the laughter dies down. “She doesn’t want you. In what fucking language must she say no for your stupid brain to understand? She’s—”
Mine. She’s mine, his wolf howls. My omega.
Heeseung grits his teeth.
No, she’s not. Get a fucking grip, Lee Heeseung. You don’t have a mate.
“...not a toy.”
The sea-salt bite of his pheromones thickens in the alley. K scoffs, stepping forward in offense but is stopped by Nicholas. The latter has his arm shot out against K’s chest, preventing him from approaching the couple.
“No, K,” Nicholas murmurs, nose sniffing at the heavy pheromones in the air. Underneath the eye-watering spice of cinnamon and the raging storm of Heeseung’ sea breeze scent, there is a tangled sweetness of daisies and honey clinging to it. He visibly gulps. “They’re together. And Heeseung…”
Nicholas throws him a side eye, giving him a once-over briefly. He takes in the sharp glare directed his way, the downturned curl of his mouth, the tense shoulders ready to pounce. Nicholas shudders imperceptibly and shakes his head.
“…He’s a dominant alpha.”
His statement, though meant to deescalate the situation, only rages Heeseung on further. The alpha takes a menacing step forward, eyes narrowing thin at the trio. They falter back.
“Get this in your empty brains you freaks,” Heeseung grits, fuming beyond reason. Nicholas swears he sees something red flickering in his irises.
“When someone says no, you back the fuck off. Dominant alpha or not. Omega or not.” He spits out the word, the venom in his voice nearly poisons the air. “Do you fucking get it?”
His raging pheromones are turning physical, pressing on each pair of lungs like lead on a mattress. Nicholas fights the urge to cover his nose and pulls his two friends backwards with him.
“We get it. Sorry, captain.”
“Not me,” Heeseung hisses. A low growl rumbles in warning. “Her.”
Nicholas licks his lips and nods. He bows down quickly, forcing the other alphas to bend despite it hurting his pride. K reluctantly follows, though his eyes return the glare Heeseung gives him in a similar intensity.
“We’re sorry, omega. Shit, I don’t know your name, but—we’re sorry.”
In the next moment, the three alphas are already retreating. Nicholas aggressively whispers something among them while K visibly restrains himself from running back to Heeseung. He clearly doesn’t mind taking up a challenge with the dominant alpha and Heeseung finds himself not minding to dirty his hands too.
A beat of heavy silence falls upon you. You stay rooted in place, pulse racing in your ears. Heeseung is still facing away from you, ragged breathing slowing down. The air of dense pheromones is thinning out, leaving behind trails of spicy cinnamon and soft daisies.
You let out a breath and your knees buckle.
Heeseung is by your side in a flash, the same, now-familiar arms caging you against his tall frame. You put your hands on his chest, trying to steady the wobble in your legs.
“Hey, hey. You’re okay now. They’re gone.”
They really are. You cry. They’re actually gone.
An ugly sob racks through your chest and soon, the wilting daisies are back, staining the air with crumpled petals and sad flowers. Heeseung tightens his hold. He doesn’t like seeing people cry, but his alpha apparently despises it the most when he sees you in this state.
His calming pheromones pour out in waves, hands carding through your hair gently. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re safe now.”
You’re safe with me.
Your crying slows down. For a few seconds, you let yourself savour the warmth of Heeseung’s embrace. Closer, his pheromones, layered with a faint trail of his body wash, are stronger, filling up the almost-nonexistent space between the two of you. Strangely, the spice and the salt work wonders on calming you down.
Your wolf—previously anxious and distressed—is now quiet.
Heeseung adjusts his hold on you, and in that moment do you only realise in horror how long you’ve been shamelessly hugging him. Like a reflex, you pull away from his embrace, cheeks now flaming red when his shirt is now stained with two big spots of your tears.
“I’m sorry!” Your palms instinctively rub at the stains, as if they can dry out the tears out of the fabric. “I’ll buy you a new shirt.”
Heeseung looks down, silently watching the small of your palms against his broad chest. There’s a strange flutter that follows, quiet and unfamiliar. He hopes that you can’t feel it through the fabric.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Heeseung murmurs, eyes finding their ways back to your face. Red nose, swollen eyes, blotched cheeks. You really went through it, still sniffling as you still try to fix the stains on his shirt. A small part of him twists uncomfortably.
Heeseung catches your wrists, his thumbs moving almost instinctively against the soft skin.Your breath catches as you lift your gaze to look at him.
“Are you okay?” Heeseung asks, voice soft and gentle. You immediately nod, admittedly feeling better after being bathed in his calming pheromones.
“I’m okay. Just a bit thirsty.”
He searches your face, as if trying to detect any kind of discomfort or distress. But in the end, he ends up staring into your eyes, counting the lashes that guard your beautiful eyes.
It should end there. He really should just escort you back into the safety of your friend group and leave you be. Perhaps, he can go find the previous omega, seduce his way back and bring her home. The normal. The usual.
But something inside stirs in protest to that idea, and so instead he finds himself saying: “Let’s get you something to drink.”
The convenience store is bright under the dark sky, located just two blocks away from the nightclub. It’s already past one in the morning, but to the people of the night, it’s only the beginning of fun. From a distance, the queue line is only getting longer.
Beside you, Heeseung is walking on the edge of the pavement, looking out for cars despite the slow traffic. He’s been quiet since the alleyway, seemingly lost in thought. Occasionally, his hand will brush yours, a quiet graze that sends electricity in your system. You try not to react.
The convenience store is empty, save for a group of partygoers sobering up around the round table outside, leaving only a long bench beside the door empty. You stop when Heeseung does, his hand already tapping on the sensory handle.
“Wait here. I’ll buy you something to drink.”
You nod, obediently sitting down. Heeseung takes one last look at you before he enters the store, the harsh lights greeting his tired eyes. He grabs the coldest mineral water and stops in front of the necessities shelves.
Without thinking, his hand moves like it has a mind of its own, grabbing whatever his eyes land on—a heat pack, chocolate, a pack of wet tissues. It’s only when the cashier scans the items that he pauses, staring at the items with wide eyes.
Since when does he…do this?
“Anything to add, sir?”
Heeseung gulps, looks past the cashier’s head, and lands on the rows of pills behind him.
She cried too much, she might have a headache.
And so, as if on instinct, Heeseung adds paracetamol to his receipt.
Outside, the air is cooler, biting at exposed skin like a bug. Heeseung wordlessly sits beside you, placing the plastic bag on his lap. You curiously peek into the bag.
“That’s a lot. Are you hungry?”
Heeseung pauses, realisation dawns upon him. His instincts flare again. “No. Are you? Do you want ramyeon? Or packed rice? I can—”
“No! It’s fine, Heeseung,” you laugh softly, the sound like a melodious chime of a bell to his ears. “I had dinner.”
Heeseung visibly relaxes and nods. He hands you the bottle first, twisting the cap open before passing it over without a word. He watches you drink, takes the bottle from you, and gives you the heat pack next.
You blink at him. “It’s cold,” Heeseung shrugs, pulling your hand towards him and placing the heat pack on your palm. He closes your fingers over it. “This will warm you up a bit.”
For a second, you just stare at him. The warmth in your hand spreads from your fingers up to your chest, where your heart is thumping wildly at his gentle act.
You bring the heat pack to your neck, a gentle smile gracing your lips as you stare at him, cheeks blooming red. They put him in a trance, your eyes, as Heeseung finds himself unable to look away. His gaze then drops to your lips when they move, already clinging to every syllable without even knowing it.
“Thank you, Heeseung.”
The flutter comes back, now more frantic and aggressive than before, like a caged bird trying to escape. This time, Heeseung forces himself to look away, the plastic bag wrinkles under his tightening grip.
“Don’t mention it.”
“I mean it, though.” You counter back, gazing at the passing cars as you feel a gust of chilling wind breezing through. You scoot closer to the heat beside you. “It was really scary. Thank you for helping me out.”
There’s a bitter tone, faint and subtle, to your scent, as if you’re recalling the ugly incident that just happened almost half an hour ago. Heeseung clenches his jaw.
Before he can stop it, his pheromones spill out like soft waves, calming and comforting, cocooning you again like a safety blanket. His wolf hums in quiet satisfaction, watching the way your shoulders loosen, the tension melting off you bit by bit.
Heeseung doesn’t know when or how it happened, but there’s no gap between you now. But he doesn’t hate it like he thought he would. Here, you’re so close to him, your shoulder practically glued to his, seeking warmth from his body heat.
It’s a foreign feeling. A comfortable, foreign feeling.
You stay in that position, slowly getting drunk on his pheromones. Your eyes droop, fighting sleep, but the exhaustion from running away from scary alphas has finally caught up to you. Before you know it, your head dips against his shoulder, breath evening out as your fingers lose their grip on the heat pack.
Heeseung swallows. He doesn’t dare move. From the proximity, he can smell your fruity hair wash, blending smoothly with your scent.
It’s so unfair. Every inch of you smells really good, whether it’s your natural scent or the products that you use. It’s like every inch of your skin decides that you only deserve to smell the best, and Heeseung himself can’t help but agree too. It’s so unfair.
Heeseung finds his hands hover awkwardly in the air, hesitating for a second before settling carefully on your head. His fingers thread through your hair, slower this time.
“Don’t feel scared anymore,” he mumbles, gently caressing the dark strands of your hair.
It’s me who should feel scared.
His fingers freeze in your hair.
Scared. He is scared.
This is not him. If Riki or Jay were to walk in to see him in this state, they’d drag him to the nearest police station and demand they find the real Heeseung. The normal Heeseung. The usual Heeseung.
The Heeseung that doesn’t stay, or spend his time watching people breathe in their sleep. The Heeseung who’s out the door before the sheets even cool down. The Heeseung that dislikes small touches like these; like caressing the hair of the girl he just saved, because the only physical touch he brands himself with is sex.
Not this. Not whatever this is.
He wants to move, but his body doesn’t listen—he stays despite himself. His wolf, like it’s found something it’s been looking for all along, settles deeper instead, quiet and satisfied. You nuzzle closer into his body and Heeseung feels his chest tighten.
Something uneasy creeps up his spine.
This should feel suffocating. It should itch under his skin, make him want to pull away, shake you off, leave.
But it doesn’t. It feels easy. Too easy, in fact.
And it scares the shit out of him.
When your senses return to you, the first thing that greets you is someone’s scent.
Warm, spicy cinnamon and calm, salty sea air.
The memory follows not long after; of angry frowns and disgusting smirks that make your skin crawl. Amidst it all, a familiar face flashes in your mind and you feel your heart stutter.
Heeseung.
The pulse in your wrist thuds violently, as if not letting you forget the owner of the pheromones now wrapped around you like a soft blanket. You faintly remember, in your subconscious, being carried to a car and your roommate, Yujin, hugging you in panic. Unconsciously, you pull your blanket closer to your chest.
Did Heeseung send you home? Did he really…scent-mark you to help you?
You bite your lips between your teeth. The clarity is palpable now that the haziness of pheromones and distress are no longer around. There’s no way an alpha—a dominant one, at that—is willing to scent-mark an omega he has no connections to. The implications are more than the action itself. Heeseung surely knows about that, right?
It feels like a dream. It has to be a dream.
What a capable alpha, your wolf preens. Shut up, you hiss.
Then, as if the universe was insistent to prove you wrong, your eyes land on a plastic bag placed neatly on top of your vanity, a damning evidence of last night’s incident.
No way.
Your brain swirls with possibilities and your own made-up theories that it has started to throb faintly. Before you could lose your sanity, thread by unraveling thread, you rush to the bathroom to, hopefully, get rid of his scent, even when your omega begs you not to.
Unfortunately for the human-you, the cinnamon trails after you even post-showers. It clings to your clothes when you change and it doesn’t let you go even as you sit for breakfast prepared by your doting roommate. It’s strange, really. No one’s scent ever clung to you so stubbornly like this, like a chewing gum latching on shoe soles. You always cuddle with Yujin and even her green tea pheromones never stay with you after washing up.
“It’s a bit odd, yes,” Yujin munches through a mouthful of her own signature pancake. “But it’s not totally out-of-this-world. His scent will fade by this evening, I promise.”
You chew painfully slowly, eyes going wide at another possibility. “You don’t think that I conjured some kind of bond with him, right?”
It’s common knowledge that a thin, fragile bond can be easily formed when an alpha and an omega scent each other, mated or not. After all, context and intention are greatly considered, whether it’s meant for familiarity, protection, or possessiveness—each one will determine how long it’ll last.
You pull at the sleeves of your cardigan, a telltale sign of your anxiousness. The same wilting daisies accent of your scent from the night before comes back, signalling your impending distress. Yujin drops her fork and reaches a hand to yours.
“Hey, hey. Calm down for a sec, Y/N.”
“It’s just,” you swallow harshly, your traitorous mind replaying the scene from last night. Your heart thumps at the base of your throat. “I don’t know—fuck. I forced him to do this. And—and despite the circumstances, he still helped me and now…now I think…”
Your eyes turn glassy, reminded of the wolf residing deep inside you.
“I think my omega might like him.”
Yujin is silent for a moment, assessing the right words to say. It’s obvious to everyone on campus of the nature of Lee Heeseung. He’s not exactly the alpha you’d seek for companionship or commitment; he seems to be allergic to those things.
And to get your wolf to like him…well, let’s say that you’re already set for thousand-words of angst and a life of yearning. Yujin isn’t exactly fond of the idea of dishing out what you already knew. You already seem restless enough with your own thoughts.
“Okay. That’s valid.” Yujin starts slowly, treading through every syllable like a mother to her kindergartener son. “He’s super attractive. It’s understandable. But you can, you know—unlike him.”
You perk up at that, though the doubt clouding your face is more prominent now. “How?”
“Find a better alpha,” Yujin shrugs, as if explaining the world’s simplest equation. “For the record, I do think Heeseung’s a good guy, just not in the romantic department. I don’t know why your wolf is picking a fuckboy out of all alphas, but taste is subjective.”
“It’s because he stepped up and protected me!” You deflect and pause, realising how defensive of him you have become. Yujin raises a brow and you sigh, defeated, slumping in your seat.
“Fuck. Now my omega hates you for badmouthing him.”
“Sucks to be you.”
“Just kill me.”
Yujin shoots you a small smile, pushing your now-cold plate closer to you. You reluctantly take a bite. “Why not someone else, though? You could ask literally any other alpha, like—” Yujin pauses and it takes her less than a second to pick a name. “Jay. Like Jay. He’s like, the safest option, the greenest flag. But why Heeseung? And don’t tell me it’s because he was the only one there—you could’ve just barged in and found someone else. It’s a freaking nightclub.”
You freeze, unmoving for a slow second. There is, of course, an answer to that. One that you admittedly avoid to admit, because admitting it will admit that there is something underneath that only you know, and you admit that it’s scary to admit that. Fuck this admission! Yujin wouldn’t make fun of you, right?
“I…” You trail off, second-guessing your decision. Should you really tell your roommate? Seeing the eager look on her face, with her sweet, cute dimples showing up, you decide that people with dimples should be banned from this world. Promptly, you’re reminded of your junior—an alpha with Jungwon or something as his name. The both of them possessed dimples that could make any alpha (or omega) drop down to their knees.
Alas, you force yourself to tell the truth.
“I smelled him for afar.” You watch carefully for Yujin’s reaction. “Like, from outside. While I was running from those scary alphas.”
Yujin contemplates. “Did you feel some kind of a pull towards him?”
You don’t even contemplate. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” Yujin laughs, her grin turning giddy. “This shit is actually real?!”
“What is?!” You frown, not liking being kept in the dark. A playful punch lands on Yujin’s shoulder, who’s now throwing her head back in laughter. Unconsciously, a pout is formed on your lips.
“What is it? Tell me!”
“It’s just, there’s this joke going around,” Yujin hiccups between every inhale, “that an omega will eventually crave for his knot. I can’t believe it’s happening to you!”
The lines in your forehead deepen. You regard your roommate with a look of contempt, thinking of the best spot to hide a body.
“That’s not true. I don’t crave his knot, or whatever it is.” You sigh, bringing a hand to pinch the bridge of your nose. “You know what? I’m just gonna pretend last night didn’t happen.”
Resigned and defeated, you rise and bring your plate to the sink. Your class doesn’t start until the next three hours, and then the evening is reserved for your new routine practice for the upcoming tournament. The ninety-two unread messages from the group chat are still left unopened; you haven’t had time to review the routine video yet.
You put on your apron and reach for the cabinet. When in distress or deep thoughts, other than nesting in your bedroom, you often opt to stress-bake instead. The scent of baked goods always puts you at ease, and it blends sweetly with your daisies and honey pheromones. Everyone who knows you knows to empty their stomach and be ready for a mass sweet-feeding whenever you’re in your stressed baker mode.
Behind you, Yujin’s laughter dies in her throat. Then, a question that stops you in your tracks comes.
“Hey, you don’t think it’s because you and Heeseung are fated mates, right?”
Fated mates. The words settle like a heavy blanket, pressing you down with its weight and keeping you warm altogether.
It’s sacred. It’s ancient. It’s something that you never speak of lightly, afraid that a slip of a tongue would taint the purity of such a bond. Against all odds and critiques on the concept of fated mates, you’re part of the minority who believed in it, no matter how foolish or ridiculous it may sound.
You believe in fated mates. You believe in the name written in the stars, in the love that has been shaped and created just to cherish you. You believe in spending the rest of your life looking for a face that your heart would recognise in a heartbeat, feeling that inevitable pull like you’re each other’s missing half.
But after last night, do you think it’s because you and Heeseung are fated mates?
Heeseung, who’s always made it clear to everyone about his relationship with commitments?
Heeseung, who never shies away when the boys tease him about the girls he sleeps with?
You’re never one to judge someone’s sex life, but you might be a little too concerned about how they view a long-term, committed relationship. Because that’s what you’ve been looking for.
An alpha who’s not afraid to love you loudly. An alpha whose instincts are to love and protect you.
Sometimes, you really envy mated couples. You envy how loyal Riki is of his girlfriend, craving the same kind of devotion to be directed to you. You envy how proud Taesan is to show off his mating mark, like it’s a badge of honour and love that promises forever.
Eventually, your mind drifts to Heeseung. The captain of the basketball team. Someone who deceives people with how approachable he seems, but is actually the most detached.
Heeseung is a perfect and capable alpha. You’ve seen it.
He leads his team with the kind of leadership that becomes a glue, keeping the team together no matter what challenges they’re going through. You know that he’s from the music department, and there are a few songs with his name being credited as the producer, composer, lyricist—you name it. Heeseung is a dominant alpha and uses his authority well, and he knows how to fend for himself.
You admire him, you really do.
But will he devote himself to you? Will he look only for you in a crowd of beautiful omegas, and beautiful omegas who have spent the night with him? Does he share the same sentiment as you when it comes to fated mates?
The churn in your stomach provides an answer clearer than any of your exams had ever done.
You let Yujin’s question fade in the background, letting yourself lose in your element—baking and baking and baking until it feels like you could feed a whole team of athletes. Which is what Yujin has suggested before she leaves for her lab session, after saving a big jar of cookies for herself.
Fated mates.
What a scary thought.
For the first time in his life, Heeseung is actively avoiding omegas.
It’s not any omegas, though. It’s only you. But since it’s you, it’s actually a pretty big deal to him.
Heeseung doesn’t play favourites. He doesn’t believe in fated mates, remember? But last night left a lasting impact in the form of your scent still clinging to him this morning, even after showering. Not to mention how excited his wolf has been when realising that it’s you.
It’s you, for fuck’s sake! The one who rejected him one year ago, and, admittedly, one of the prettiest omegas on campus. You might as well be every alpha’s ideal type. Well, maybe not Riki, that man is proudly claimed and fiercely loyal to his mate. But it’s definitely the case for him and Jay.
Knowing his best friend, Heeseung’s sure you’re just Jay’s type. And his. No. He didn’t say that. He doesn’t have a type, remember?
As if to make it worse, you also have a scent that might just be his favourite one yet. The same scent that is currently invading his senses, dampening other pheromones in the court despite being on opposite ends from you. The same scent that his wolf decides to pick up and single out the moment he steps foot in the campus, recognising you before his eyes can even see you first. The same scent that still lingers in his lungs, mingling with his cinnamon and sea breeze notes like dancing partners.
Yeah, Heeseung is starting to think that he’s slowly going insane.
“Dude, stop staring. You’re scaring them.”
Heeseung blinks, Jay’s voice successfully snapping him out of whatever omega-spell that you have casted on him. Yeap, he nods. It’s definitely that. You’re actually a witch. There’s no other explanation to this other than that.
A blob of freshly-dyed blonde hair pops up beside Jay. “Hyung showed up smelling like daisies and honey and suddenly he’s staring at the cheerleaders like they owe him money.” Riki teases, then grins when he realises something. “Wait, that kinda rhymes—”
“I’m not staring!” Heeseung almost shouts, belatedly realising that he, indeed, has been staring at the group of cheerleaders stretching across the court. Or, to be more precise, he’s been staring at you. He glares at Riki.
“Okay. So why do you smell like one of them then? What’s her name again, Jay hyung?”
Heeseung grumbles. “It’s no one—”
“Y/N.”
“Yes, that one. The shy one.”
Heeseung groans. He kicks Riki’s shins and makes a show of turning his back facing the cheerleaders. But for some reasons he refuses to admit, as if he has eyes on the back of his head, he still can point where you’re standing just from his senses alone.
These stupid, useless alpha senses.
At least Jay takes pity on him. “Your Heeseung hyung saved her from perverts last night. He scented her to calm her down because she was reacting pretty badly.”
Heeseung mentally thanks Jay and continues warming up. He opts to just watch his teammates dribble and stretch just like him. The faint hum of scent neutraliser—a new, advanced one, thanks to that incident with Riki’s girlfriend—rumbles slowly. Somewhere behind him, he can hear you laugh and taste the sweet spike in your scent on his tongue. Heeseung grits his teeth.
What is wrong with his wolf? Please get your tail together.
Riki, on the other hand, is intrigued. “Really? Did it happen after I left? Who were those alphas?”
“Some idiots from that team we beat last night.”
Riki frowns, clearly displeased with the news he just heard. “Well, I’ll keep my eyes on them. How did Heeseung hyung find her?”
Jay shrugs and shoots him a look. Heeseung really hopes he can slap that annoying smirk off his face one day. “Dunno. Ask him. His alpha probably recognised her from miles away.”
Heeseung doesn’t like what that sentence implies. “Shut up. It’s just instinct. Normal alpha-omega reaction.”
“Keep lying to yourself. I can practically see your tail wagging when you smelled your pheromones on her just now.”
“I didn’t—” Heeseung closes his eyes, forcing himself to calm down despite the sudden flare of defensiveness exploding in his chest. He doesn’t know why he’s so reactive and not in his usual calm composure, but he’s pretty sure it has something to do with you. Jay and Riki snicker.
“The only people that believe in fated mates are you two idiots. Do you know that?”
“Yeah, I know,” Riki snorts and looks at him, amused. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean I have a fated mate. That shit is rare. It’s like finding my size in Calvin Klein.”
Jay frowns. “I don’t see the correlation.”
“There is. My dick is just too big, hyung. There’s no size for me—”
“I don’t need to know that!” Jay slaps at Riki’s shoulders while the younger alpha only lets out a full-body laugh. “Save that information for your girlfriend, Riki. I didn’t raise you like this.”
“She already knows that.”
“Nishimura Riki!”
Heeseung is back to zoning out, his energy is suddenly drained out of his soul. That’s usually the case when you have to deal with a Nishimura Riki and a Park Jongseong on a daily basis. His mind, choosing to move at the pace of a snail today, is replaying Riki’s words back like a broken loop.
The realisation hits him five seconds late. “Wait. Did you mean that you and your girlfriend are not…fated mates? I thought you were!”
Riki is trapping Jay in a headlock when he answers. “Nope. We only imprinted on each other from early on because we’re childhood friends.”
“So like…what’s the difference?” Heeseung pauses and hesitates for a moment. He glances at you and then thinks, fuck it. If curiosity didn’t kill the cat then it’ll definitely kill him. “Can you smell your girlfriend in a sea of people?”
Riki scrunches his nose, his hands busy play-fighting with Jay. Heeseung ignores them like it’s a daily occurrence to see them act this way. Which is probably not far from the truth. “Not really? If they’re too many people, like right now, with your stench and too many omega scents—it’s difficult to find her.” Jay tackles his side and Riki yelps. “B-But it’s getting better after the mating bite, though—Jay hyung! I just got my tattoo there!”
“So…you can’t like…” Heeseung licks his lips, his throat suddenly dry. He has a feeling that he’s not going to like the answer Riki’s going to give him once he finishes his sentence. Jay is now on the floor while Riki is pulling him by the legs and dragging him around like a used rug.
“You can’t single her out from her scent alone?”
There. He said it. His two idiotic friends will catch on it and grill him for the problem he partially caused. The other part is, no doubt, his wolf’s fault for deciding to like one single scent. You’re not at fault at all. Never. Wait, who said that?
Riki is breathless from the laughter and play-fight, but he still manages to listen and answer, thanks to his alpha senses. If he finds Heeseung’s questions strange, he only shares his suspicion through a knowing look with Jay.
“Sometimes. Like I said, it’s only when the crowd isn’t too big and when she’s in the same room as me.” Riki finally spares Heeseung a glance, tilting his head in a feigned curiosity. “Why are you asking, hyung? Did you smell Y/N from miles away or something?”
How the fuck did that idiot know?
Heeseung looks away from the teasing grin thrown his way. He really doesn’t like this. “No,” he grumbles. “I’m just afraid if I might be Jay’s fated mate because his pheromones are fucking everywhere.”
“Hey! What the fuck did I do to you?!”
Riki bursts out laughing and high-fives Heeseung with a cheeky smile. On the floor, Jay is already huffing and sulking, mumbling something about ‘always catching strays’ and ‘citrusy pheromones aren’t smelly’. Heeseung sighs quietly when the topic takes a turn into a debate about who has the best smelling pheromones, which is an easy win for Riki, if Heeseung’s going to be honest.
Don’t tell Jay though. Heeseung doesn’t want to lose his passenger princess privilege so soon.
Much to his relief, it’s already time for practice. Heeseung tries to ignore the prickle in his neck coming from your direction as you and your fellow cheerleaders leave the gym to go to your own practice room. He fights the urge to look back, to stride forward and ask you to stay—which is insane, by the way, what the fuck is wrong with him?
Before he slips into his captain mode, however, Jay approaches him with a more serious look on his face. “Calm your flat tits, Hee. It’s normal for her scent to linger; you kinda scented her aggressively to protect her last night.”
Heeseung weakly nods. Jay pats his shoulder. “A deep bond can’t be conjured just from scenting alone, unless you’re fated mates.”
This time, Heeseung doesn’t move, his tension visible in the rigid lines of his posture, the frantic movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
“Yeah,” he croaks, his pulse louder than his own voice. “Hope not.”
Practice goes on for the next two hours. Heeseung eventually falls into routine, finding himself lost in adrenaline and competitiveness. The thoughts of you cease for a moment, replaced by his quick-thinking strategy and sharp reflexes. He keeps dribbling, scoring, and making passes, not even aware of the ticking clock or when the cheerleader squad comes back in to take a break.
The last whistle finally blows before the players dramatically fall in a heap of sweaty, breathless alphas. The practice was particularly grueling, which made his body ache and his shirt clung to his skin. The coach is on fire today, all because his wife has been giving him a silent treatment. Apparently, he forgot to buy diapers on his way home last night.
Source: Nishimura Nosy.
“I think I might die,” Jay huffs, claiming a bench all to himself. His chest rises and falls in a rapid motion. “But even as a ghost, I bet the coach would still unearth my grave to force me to practice.”
“I’ll be Ghost Number Two.” Heeseung deadpans, lying down on the bench next to Jay. The latter continues to talk about something else, which Heeseung would know and remember if he didn’t get distracted by daisies and honey.
Fuck. You’re in the court again.
The urge to corner you, to grab your wrist and ask if you were okay, crawls under his skin again—restless, unrelenting.
Heeseung isn’t stupid. He knows last night, ugly as it was, doesn’t just fade by morning. His alpha has been clawing at him since then, sharp and impatient, demanding he go to you.
But Heeseung doesn’t move.
For once, he’s a coward.
He shoves it down, buries it deep, treating his own wolf like a disease he refuses to catch.
Heeseung blinks at the ceiling in an active effort to not start looking for you and staring at you like a creep. This time, he wonders quietly why your scent smells stronger than before. Perhaps the adrenaline from your routine. But even so, you don’t only smell strong, but you also smell closer—
“Free cookies!”
Heeseung jolts in surprise and whips his head in the direction of that voice. Or, precisely, your voice. His heart, as if trying to shorten his life span, decides not to take a break from the session just now and continues beating even faster.
There, just a few paces away from him, is you, standing in the middle of the court with one of your cheerleader friends. In her hold, there’s a purple Tupperware, its lid nowhere to be found. You stand slightly behind your friend, shyly looking over her shoulders as she talks to his teammates.
“Oh my God, they brought us cookies?!” Jay is already standing up, stretching lazily like a cat. “C’mon, Hee. It’s free cookies.”
Heeseung’s quick to refuse, despite his wolf begging him to go. “Nah—”
But before he can spit out any excuses, Jay is already dragging him, his weeks spent in the gym working out with Riki are finally paying off. “Don’t be ridiculous. Take your portion and give it to me.”
Heeseung groans. He really should start joining their workout session. He can’t be manhandled by his two best friends easily like this.
Distracted, Heeseung fails to register the decreasing distance between you and him. It’s only when your scent spikes sweetly, which hits him in the face like a fucking tidal wave, does he catch your eyes and realises that, fuckfuckfuck she’s here ohmyGod—
“Hi, Jay. Hi, Heeseung.”
Wait hold on, why does his name sound even more beautiful coming from your voice?
He stands like a flag pole beside Jay, actively avoiding your eyes while being fully aware of that pretty pair staring at his face. The floor suddenly looks very interesting, with skid marks from their shoes and some sweat trails. Okay. Ew. That’s gross.
“Hey, pretty ladies.” Jay greets, flashing his attractive smile as he gestures at the container. “Heard there’s free cookies for the taking? Mind if we have some?”
Smooth as ever, Jay doesn’t even realise how easily he has charmed your friend with his simple greeting. Poor omega is already blinking rapidly, almost bouncing on her toes as she practically shoves the Tupperware into Jay’s chest.
“Yes! Yes, of course you can, Jay. There’s only little left! Take them all!”
Your eyes, fixated on Heeseung since he arrived, tries to search his face as you shyly interrupt, whispering into your friend’s ear.
“Offer some to Heeseung too…”
Heeseung doesn’t know whether to curse or thank the Goddess for his advanced dominant-alpha senses, because overhearing those words…it makes his chest feel warm and tight at the same time.
But your friend doesn’t pay you any mind, urging Jay to take the Tupperware from her. Jay, ever the gentleman but still a little shameless shit when it comes to food, takes it from her eager hands. He takes one bite and immediately lights up.
“This is so good! I love that it’s not too sweet.”
Like a mirror reflecting light, you beam widely, returning Jay’s enthusiasm. Heeseung tries to ignore the ugly twist in his chest. “Really? That’s…good to hear.”
“She made these, by the way!” Your friend proudly announces, which makes red blooms across your cheeks, ducking your head down slightly. You’re so shy, so pretty, Heeseung can’t stop staring.
And so good at baking. Such a perfect omega, his wolf continues. Shut the fuck up, Heeseung hisses.
“You’re really good at this, Y/N,” Jay interrupts his internal war, his voice sounding wrong in his ears. “Care to share the recipe?”
Now, is Jay flirting with you? Since when does his voice sound like that?
Heeseung tries to inhale, attempting to calm his fucking irrational wolf down, but all he can smell is the sugary scent of yours, tangling delicately and blending seamlessly with his spicy cinnamon and salty sea breeze. Somewhere in his chest, his heartstrings soften, drunk in the perfect mix of your pheromones, a ghost of a mark from last night.
Maybe that’s what possessed him to snatch the Tupperware from Jay.
Heeseung wastes no time and starts munching two cookies at once, ignoring the gasps from you and your friend and the bombastic side-eye from his fellow alpha friend. The flavour of buttery vanilla and sweet chocolate chips melt on his tongue and Heeseung almost purrs at the taste.
Outside, he makes an effort to look calm.
“These are good,” he comments coolly, trying to make it sound more like a statement than a compliment (he’s failing). This time, he dares himself to meet your eyes, and has to force down another purr when he sees the sparkles in your eyes. “Thank you, Y/N.”
There’s a strange satisfaction blooming in his chest when the blush in your cheeks deepen. You quickly look down to the floor, mumbling softly that could’ve been missed had it not been for his senses.
What kind of pull is this? Why is every sense of his attuned to you? Heeseung swears he can smell the subtle spike of your scent, the sound of your heartbeat and your soft breathing. It’s like his whole body has decided that it wants to worship you.
And Heeseung doesn’t worship. Fuck. This is terrifying.
“Thank you, Heeseung…”
There. Your voice again. Heeseung swallows. His grip on the Tupperware tightens. Seeing you under this light, flushed and softly smiling to the ground while sneaking glances at him—it undoes him in ways he never dared imagine.
The question is already at the tip of his tongue without his realisation. ‘Are you okay? Does what happened last night still bother you?’ The urge to comfort and soothe, now growing like a rolling snowball, threatening to spill from his mouth.
And the scary part is: Heeseung isn’t sure if that desire comes from his wolf or himself.
However, he never gets the chance to, because Jay with his perfect, universe-timing is already pulling him backwards. “Thank you for the cookies! We’ll eat them well!”
Heeseung reluctantly nods, the grip he has on the Tupperware turning knuckle-white.
“What the fuck was that?” Jay whisper-yells when they’re out of earshot, walking back to their previous spot. “And those are not only for you. Give them back to me!”
Heeseung dodges his grabby hand. “Why the fuck are you eating more?” He asks, failing to mask the bitterness in his voice.
“Didn’t they give all ten of them to us?”
“You’ve had two.”
“And you’ve had five!”
“I don’t care. These are mine.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
That’s what it takes for Heeseung to freeze in his tracks. Seeing an opening, Jay quickly snatches the Tupperware from his grasp and runs back to his spot on the bench, not forgetting to flip off the burgundy-haired alpha as he does so.
Heeseung is losing his fucking mind.
Sighing, Heeseung closes his eyes, a faint trail of daisies and honey still clinging to his senses. Even across the room, among the murmur of the gossiping cheerleaders, it’s your voice, the only one clear and crisp to his ears.
I’m being ridiculous.
This isn’t me.
Slowly, his human side starts taking over, all flowery images of you vanish within seconds.
Fuck, he curses. He wishes this scent-marking will be gone by tomorrow morning.
Three mornings later, much to his dismay, your scent still clings to him. On the bright side, it has been notably fading, now only the remnants of daisies and honey underneath cinnamon and sea air; like crunched petals along the shoreline, waiting to be washed away.
Against his own judgment, however, his wolf is fucking devastated.
He’s been whining like a kicked puppy ever since he walked to practice this morning and couldn’t smell his scent on you instantly. He still can spot you from two buildings away, which is still strange, but the lack of spice and salt in your scent is what does it. Heeseung has to fight the urge to march towards you and start scenting you.
His wolf has been restless. And, inevitably, it puts Heeseung in a terrible mood, too. He never knew his wolf was that desperate.
Practice ends late that night. With the tournament just around the corner, everyone is being a little shit at managing their emotions and competitiveness on the court—the downside of having an all-alpha team that people rarely talk about.
Heeseung is not excluded from the equation, though. He almost threw the ball to Taesan’s knot and made his omega pups-less and pregnancy-free when he accidentally made a bad pass. The court had smelled like tension and a barely held-together brotherhood when he left before a cheerleader came up to him to flirt and he wasted no time to drag her to an empty classroom.
Now, Heeseung finds himself making out with that omega, tongue licking up into her mouth while she breathlessly moans into his. It’s been five days since his last fuck, and while he usually can go on without sex for weeks (one month was his best record), he’s been at his wit’s end today. Add the confusion and silent wars he’s been having about you into the mix, and Heeseung is nothing more than a stressed body waiting to be relieved.
Weirdly enough, the frustration he hopes to get rid of stays as frustration. The old sparks he usually feels when having this intimate moment with an omega seems to disappear tonight. In the back of his mind, like a looming cloud carrying a storm, is a hazy image of teary eyes and red, trembling lips.
Something stirs uneasily in his chest.
His huge, veiny hands slip under her skirt and find purchase on her cunt, gathering the slick leaking from her arousal. Her scent spikes as she bucks up her hips and, to Heeseung’s own surprise, he recoils from the smell of it and breaks the kiss. The girl doesn’t stop her advances, switching to kiss down his long neck instead.
He subconsciously scrunches up his nose, his finger halting its movement for a second.
“What perfume are you wearing?” He asks, voice hoarse from the makeout session. He tilts his head back, allowing access and finding stimulation, but the usual thrill is a bit dull tonight.
“My pheromones,” she manages between kisses, “you like it?”
It’s quite the opposite, to be honest. Heeseung finds himself hating it. It’s too sweet. Too sharp. It sits wrong in his nose, burns at the back of his throat, like inhaling smoke for the first time. His eyes water.
There’s something wrong. He’s not enjoying this.
And to make things worse and more confusing, his chest hurts. It constricts, like his lungs decide to shrink into a ball of unexplained pain. Heeseung’s breath stutters, almost doubling over. His mind is a frantic buzz of noise, chanting something that he can’t seem to fully register yet.
Not my omega. Not daisies. Not honey.
Heeseung feels something twist in his gut.
The nameless omega—he forgot to ask for her name—doesn’t notice the shift yet, the way Heeseung is already a frozen statue of confusion and frustration in her embrace. She continues, trailing down hot, wet kisses along the prominent line of his collarbone and sucks the tender skin.
“Ow!” Heeseung yelps, instinctively pushing her away. The spot stings like a pulsing heartbeat, void of any pleasure that it usually would give. He staggers backwards once.
The girl frowns, clearly not happy being pushed like that. “What’s wrong? Is everything alright?”
“I—” Heeseung hisses, his shirt sitting wrong on his skin, her scent smelling wrong in his nose. He shakes his head. “Shit. I’m sorry, I—I have somewhere to be.”
The girl scoffs, disbelieving. “What?! Heeseung, you can’t just—”
But Heeseung can, and he already does. The alpha is out of the room in the next minute, deliberately the calls of his name and the strings of insults that come from behind him. He makes a run for it.
What the fuck did just happen? Heeseung is never one to refuse a good time with omega, but his wolf is quiet tonight. Too quiet, like it’s being silent on purpose in solidarity for something he’s yet to know—or yet to realise.
The hazy image comes back to his mind, slowly becoming sharp and clear. Heeseung thinks his lungs have turned into bricks when he realises that he’s been imagining you. That his head has been loud with the thoughts of you, even when he’s with someone else.
Why? Why is this happening? Why you?
Heeseung makes a turn to where the locker room is, planning to grab his duffel and leave, when he bumps into Riki and Jay, freshly out of the shower.
“Heeseung hyung?” A shirtless Riki calls his name, then raises a brow when he sees his condition. “Was wondering where you were. But those lipstick stains told me enough.”
Heeseung wipes his neck harshly. Wordlessly, he yanks his locker open and checks himself out in a mirror. He turns his face left and right, yanking down his under eyes, then sighs. Riki and Jay exchange looks. The air is slowly thickening with the pheromones of a distressed alpha, coming from none other than Heeseung.
“You good, mate?” Jay decides to ask him. Heeseung doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he’s as good as he wants himself to be. The alpha lets out another sigh and slams the door closed.
“I think something is definitely wrong with me.”
“Is it practice?” Jay softens his voice, already switching on his therapist-friend mode. “Hee, today’s just that day. Everybody was losing their shits, it’s not just you.”
Heeseung leans his back on the locker and tilts his head upwards. “It’s not that. I mean it biologically. Ever since—” Heeseung pauses, suddenly unsure if saying out loud would make things right. But Riki and Jay have already caught onto it.
“Ever since what?”
Heeseung chooses to deflect. “Look, I was trying to make out with this one pretty omega just now. But no matter how much kissing we did, I just couldn’t enjoy it.” Heeseung points to his sweatpants. Riki and Jay curiously follow with their eyes. “She was practically sucking my tongue and I’m not even bricked up, man!”
Riki furrows his eyebrows. “Not even a spark?”
Heeseung shakes his head. “I couldn’t feel anything. At all. Only,” he swallows harshly. “I only felt disgusted. By her.”
Silence hangs in the room at his revelation. Riki’s expression morphs into something akin to genuine surprise, while Jay only stares at him with a gaping mouth before he starts typing on his phone.
“This is dead serious. You can’t have sex without your dick. That's like a banana cake without bananas.”
Heeseung and Riki grimace. “Please don’t ever compare my dick to a banana again.”
“Or a banana cake.” Riki slaps his shoulder. “That’s my favourite, hyung. Don’t be gross.”
Jay waves a dismissive hand, eyes still glued on his phone. “Right, right. Anyway, I texted Sunoo.”
Heeseung’s eyes go wide like saucer plates at the name and groans. “Sunoo?! Jay, you know he’s still mad at me.”
“I know, but he’s the only one who probably knows the answer to this.” Jay smacks his lips when he reads a new text from Sunoo. “He’s staying back for a lab session. Let’s go to the medicine building.”
And that’s how Heeseung finds himself cramped into a tiny booth of a ramyeon stall, located by the road near the faculty of medicine. A pouty Sunoo is sitting across from him, shooting him his foxy side-eyes as he whines at Jay.
“Jay hyung, why did you bring this traitor with you?” Sunoo pulls at the sleeves of Jay’s hoodie, sulking away from Heeseung. It’s only the three of them since Riki had gone home with his girlfriend just now. “I thought the three of us would include you, me, and Riki.”
Jay sighs exasperatedly. “I had to, Sunoo. That traitor is having a critical dick malfunction and he needs your help.”
The waitress arrives with three bowls of steaming ramyeon. Jay and Sunoo pause their not-so-quiet argument and help her place the bowls on their table. She clears her throat awkwardly, and takes a quick glance at Heeseung before leaving. Heeseung groans internally.
Great. Now words about him and his dick problem will spread around the campus.
“Is STD finally catching up with you?”
Heeseung should know that it was never that easy to get Sunoo off his back. That boy is a professional pouty sulk-er, he’ll never let Heeseung go easily. Not after harassing him with his sass, at least. Heeseung holds back a sigh, already resigned and defeated.
With a grim voice, he apologises to the brown-haired alpha. For the fifth time.
“Sunoo, I am so sorry. I know it was my fault, but for the record, I didn’t know you were serious about pretending to be an omega. Why would you even do that, anyway?”
“Because I like the attention!” Sunoo is fast to defend himself, his pout only deepening. “And because alphas will only spoil me if I was their pretty little soft omega—which I am not! And you exposing my secondary gender to that alpha just ruined my chance to be with him. Who would even call their friend, ‘my cutie little fake omega’, anyway?!”
“I was drunk!”
“A drunk traitor is still a traitor!”
Heeseung turns to Jay, sending him signals to help him out. But his best friend deliberately ignores him, too engrossed in his own bowl, pretending to be a wall. Heeseung rolls his eyes and looks back at Sunoo.
It might not be that easy to console the sulky boy, but Heeseung is labelled a sweet talker for a reason.
“You’re already a pretty alpha, Sunoo. Prettier than any omega I know. Anyone would drop everything for you even if they knew you weren’t an omega.”
Like a switch being flipped, the frown on Sunoo’s melts away, replaced by a beam so wide it shows off his perfect teeth.
“Aw, Heeseungie hyung. You’re now forgiven. Now tell me about this dick problem of yours.”
Jay and Heeseung look at each other and relax into their chairs in relief. Heeseung sends him a look of, ‘That was easy,’ to which Jay raises his eyebrow, ‘Why hadn’t you done it sooner?’
Now, with Sunoo not threatening to kill the burgundy-haired alpha anymore, Heeseung can finally enjoy a few bites of his untouched ramyeon. It’s already a bit cold and soggy, but the broth makes up for it. He retells the story to Sunoo between bites, watching the ever expressive boy react to it with various expressions.
“It’s not uncommon, though. But since it’s you, it must have felt very concerning.” Sunoo hums in thought, tapping his full lips with the thinnest tips of his chopsticks. “Well, Heeseungie hyung, did you imprint on any omegas?”
Heeseung hesitates for a moment before he shakes his head, feeling Jay’s eyes on him.
“No.”
“Hm, okay. Even if it’s due to imprints, it has to come from both sides,” Sunoo rubs his chin, now looking every bit a live action of Detective Conan, minus the glasses. “Did you conjure a bond with anyone? Maybe accidentally?”
Heeseung’s lips part. “I…would’ve known, right?”
“Right.” Sunoo nods firmly, then tilts his head. “Did you scent one of your hookups, then?”
“An almost-hookup,” Jay cuts in, clearly enjoying this interrogation. Heeseung shoots him a look. Jay is always out to rat him out and he’s actually so close to disowning him.
He grunts. “Just…someone.”
Sunoo smiles in amusement. “So you did scent someone. Was it someone you like?”
“Define like.”
“Like them enough to want to kiss them. Like them enough to want to fuck them. Like them enough to even want to scent them to begin with.” Sunoo shrugs. “Pick one.”
Heeseung closes his eyes. Does he like you? Wanting to kiss and fuck someone don’t equal to liking them. Because if that was true, then there’s no other explanation to Heeseung ‘liking’ every omega he has fucked other than him having an insanely big heart—which he doesn’t. He liked the sex and their company; that was all there was to it.
Which leaves him option number three.
Heeseung’s never the guy to sit with his feelings—at least not the romantic kind. You’re an unfamiliar territory; something that he deliberately avoids his entire life, simply because he never sees settling down with a mate as a desirable goal or accomplishment. And, perfectly hidden under his fuckboy persona is also a thin layer of fear.
Fear of getting hurt by the thing that’s supposed to be love.
But does he like you?
Maybe he does. He’s always liked the way you laugh; you always cover your mouth with one hand when you do, like your smile is only visible in the privacy of those who really know you. He’s always noticed the way you touch the tip of your nose when people’s eyes are on you. He’s always thought the natural blush that you have when you’re shy is adorable.
In that one single minute, Heeseung realises that he’s been paying attention to you more than he thought he did.
Fuck. He does like you.
But does liking have to lead to being mated?
That responsibility is way taller and heavier than him and Heeseung is beyond freaked out.
“Earth to Heeseungie hyung?”
“Why does it even matter? What does it even have to do with me not getting a boner during a makeout session?” Heeseung demands, frustration bleeding into his voice. Is Sunoo punishing him for being the reason he fumbled that tall, hot alpha two weeks ago? Will Sunoo truly ever forgive him? He already apologised five times!
Sunoo, seeing enough of his hyung’s suffering, finally relents. “Geez, relax. I wasn’t playing with you. I asked because most of the time this happens,” he gestures at Heeseung and his crotch. Heeseung instinctively closes his long legs. “It’s because the wolf has already liked one omega. An omega they recognise as their mate. It’s the only explanation why you felt disgusted just now.”
Mate. That cursed word again. Beside Sunoo, Jay is whistling.
“Sorry. You mean my wolf, my alpha, likes one omega and decides I shouldn’t fuck around anymore?”
Sunoo nods. “Basically, yeah. But it usually isn’t that easy, hyung. A bond has to have been conjured between your wolf and their wolf by any kind of markings.”
“Like?”
“Like biting. Or scenting.”
Scenting. Heeseung didn’t just do scenting with you, he was scent-marking you.
“But that’s impossible,” Jay interrupts, confusion etching onto his handsome features. His leaning forward now, his empty bowl pushed to the center of the table, which reminds Heeseung of his own bowl. The alpha quickly finishes his noodles. “Scenting between unmated alpha and unmated omega will only conjure a temporary, fragile bond. It should’ve been gone by now—the scenting happened five days ago.”
“Are you sure about that? Because I can detect some floral scent in Heeseungie hyung’s pheromones.”
Heeseung almost chokes on his noodles. “You do?”
Sunoo leans forward, squinting his eyes at him like he’s some kind of lab specimen. “Yeah. It’s faint, but it’s there. Sweet. Floral. Clingy.” He tilts his head again. “It’s weird.”
Across from him, Heeseung is frozen. His grip on the chopsticks tightens. He swallows harshly.
“That’s not supposed to happen…right?”
“Exactly,” Sunoo points at him. “That’s why I’m saying it’s weird.”
Jay leans back, arms crossed. “But if it’s still there after five days—”
“It doesn’t automatically mean fated mates,” Sunoo cuts in quickly, tone sharper this time. He shoots Jay a look before turning back to Heeseung. “Don’t jump to that conclusion. That’s, like, extremely rare. And also very dramatic.”
Heeseung exhales, shoulders dropping just a little.
Right. Dramatic. His alpha begs to differ.
“It could just be a stronger-than-usual temporary bond,” Sunoo continues, more thoughtful now. “Maybe your alpha overdid it when you scented them. Or the omega was in a heightened emotional state, so the bond lasted longer.”
Jay hums, not entirely convinced.
“But the whole not getting turned on thing?” He gestures vaguely. “That still doesn’t explain it fully.”
Sunoo taps his chin again. “Mhm. That part’s interesting.” He levels Heeseung with a curious look. “Who is this girl, anyway? You seem pretty fucked over her.”
Heeseung groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Can you not say it like that? Like I’m some kind of a broken alpha?”
“You kinda are right now,” Sunoo says bluntly.
“Sunoo.”
“I’m serious!” He leans forward again, eyes lighting up. “Your body is rejecting other omegas. That’s not normal for you. Like, at all.”
Heeseung slumps deeper into his seat. As if it’s not already obvious enough, Sunoo just had to spell it out loud.
“I noticed,” he mutters, defeated.
Sunoo softens slightly at that, sighing as he rests his chin on his palm. “Okay. Look. Don’t panic yet.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You’re literally here because your dick stopped working.”
“…Okay, I’m a little panicked.”
Sunoo waves his chopsticks dismissively. “It’s probably not fated mates. If it were, you’d be way worse right now.”
Heeseung stills. “Worse?”
“Yeah,” Sunoo shrugs. “You’d be obsessing. Unable to stay away. Your senses would go crazy. You’d feel everything they feel, more or less.”
Jay slowly turns to look at Heeseung. Heeseung immediately avoids his gaze. That fucker is always eager to catch his ‘Gotcha!’ moment, it irritates him to the core.
“That doesn’t sound like me,” he says a bit too quickly, the lie tasting acidic on his tongue.
Sunoo mustn't know about the knot of uneasiness in his chest. Sunoo mustn’t know about the face that comes to his mind when he’s kissing someone else. None of his friends must know that he’s obsessing right now, itching to flee and find you in the middle of the night.
“Exactly,” Sunoo nods, unaware of his friend’s turmoil. “So relax. I’ll look into it more, yeah? Might be some weird hormonal response or delayed imprint reaction.”
Heeseung lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah, okay.”
“Or you can do a try-and-error,” Sunoo suggests, reaching over to pat Heeseung’s shoulder. “Just do what you always do—try hooking up with different omegas. Maybe the one you made out with tonight was just a bad compatibility for you.”
Heeseung perks up at that. Sunoo and Jay, not noticing the shift in the air, are already moving forward with a different topic, completely oblivious to the newly-lit determination now burning up his body.
Just do what you always do.
Right. Heeseung has a high body count for a reason. He decides, with a final resolution, that he should solve this his own way.
If Heeseung spends every night for the next two weeks trying to bed different omegas, Sunoo and Jay don’t have to know.
If Heeseung fails each time, unable to enjoy every kiss and friction, Sunoo and Jay don't have to know.
If the pain in his chest worsens every time he leaves the barely-warm beds, Sunoo and Jay don’t have to know.
If Heeseung avoids looking at you, avoids bumping into you, avoids speaking to you—he hopes you don’t know about it.
A quiet voice from his wolf whispers something that he refuses to acknowledge: He hopes you’ll forgive him for being unfaithful.
You’ve been sick for two weeks.
At first it was subtle, like a faint throb in your heart that makes you stop whatever you’re doing. The first time it happened, you were in the middle of a group discussion for an elective subject.
A quiet alpha, or a wolf hybrid named Sunghoon, to be exact, had noticed the way you winced from the pain. He didn’t say anything, but you guessed he told an omega about what he saw because right before you exited the library, one of the girls had passed you a free menstrual pad.
He thought you were experiencing period cramps. You wished it was just period cramps.
Then, it gradually grew to something worse. A sudden stabbing pain in your chest. A twist in your gut, like you were expecting something bad to happen. Sometimes it was random palpitations, where your heart was skipping huge beats, as if you were about to go down on a roller coaster.
Each time it happened, you only placed your palm over your heart, hoping it’d go away. You never understood why, but those pains only came at night, preventing you from getting any good sleep and rest. And each time you tried to close your eyes, there was only one face flashing behind your eyelids.
Heeseung.
Yujin had dragged you to the clinic, but the doctor came to a conclusion that you were just having pre-heat symptoms—which couldn’t be further from the truth, because you just had your cycle one month ago. You’re not supposed to go on your quarterly-cycle of torture for another two months.
“Oh my Goddess, you’re burning up.” Yujin’s palm is cold against your forehead. Her face is pulled into a tight expression. “Let’s just skip today’s classes, okay? I’ll stay with you.”
You weakly nod, barely registering Yujin’s movement around the room. Your body feels like a furnace, the heat simmering in your veins almost rivaling a volcano’s lava. You discard the blanket to get some sort of relief, only to shiver in the cold when the air touches your skin.
After a few minutes of exiting and entering your room, Yujin finally sits by your bed. She helps you with a glass of water and a dosage of paracetamol, careful to wipe any loose drops like a concerned mother. It doesn’t get better, but at least your throat doesn’t feel like it’s being scrubbed with sandpaper anymore.
“How’re you feeling now?”
“Dying, but a bit less dramatic.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want to give Suho from True Beauty a run for his money, would we?”
You chuckle softly, though it sounds more like a seal with a sore throat.
“But seriously, though. It’s been two weeks.” Yujin purses her lips, the worriness still marring her beautiful face. “I’m so worried, Y/N. What’s happening to you?”
You don’t answer right away. “It’s my omega.”
Yujin’s eyebrow jumps. “What about her?”
You also wonder the same thing. Swallowing, you finally let your friend in on the torturous days you have been going through. “One night, after our practice ran quite late two weeks ago, she went a bit hysteric. I couldn’t stop vomiting.” You recalled, eyes distant in memory. “She kept yelling something about a traitor, about rejection. I don’t know, really. But that’s how it started.”
“Two weeks ago, at night, you say?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Yujin is quiet for a few extended minutes, caressing her thumb over your knuckles. The motion puts you at ease, and slowly, you feel the pills begin working their chemicals.
“Did you, perhaps, hear about anything that happened that night?” You shake your head, unsure if your cheerleader squad had mentioned anything. Yujin hums. “Because I think I did.”
“What?”
“So I’m friends with this one omega named Sunoo from my faculty. A pretty boy and a petty gossiper.” Yujin starts, now treading her words slowly as if walking on eggshells. “He knows everyone on this campus. Especially the hot stuff, you know—student body, athletes, cheerleaders.” Yujin eyes you but not unkindly. “He knows you too. Just the basic stuff.”
“Like?”
“Your name, your major, your Instagram account.”
You let out a breath, a bit unsure where this is heading, but listen anyway. “Okay.”
“And because of his impeccable knowledge of gossip, I heard from him about a cheerleader breaking down in the group chat after a certain alpha left her mid-making out, all slicked and horny while he didn’t even pop a borner.”
You hold onto her every word, but for some reason, a dread has settled deep in your bones, like your body is already anticipating some bad news. Your heart, previously beating fast, is now sprinting like it might escape your rib now.
“And that alpha was Heeseung.”
It hits before you can even think.
A sharp, twisting pain lances through your chest, knocking the air out of your lungs like you’ve been struck. Your fingers curl into the sheets, clutching at nothing.
Your omega whines—hurt, betrayed. And suddenly, you understand why. The cries about betrayal. His face haunts you every night, like a painful reminder of the destiny you're subjected to.
You try to swallow once, then twice, before you find your voice back.
“Heeseung?” You try. His name now tastes bitter on your tongue.
Yujin, ever the empathetic, senses it, and tightens her hold on your hand. “Yeah,” she nods. She lets a moment of quiet pass, fidgeting and swallowing like you. Like the news has more stories that she’s yet to tell; an extended part to a nightmare that’s been keeping you up at night. You brace yourself.
“And two nights ago I saw him at Jake’s frat party with a girl. Doing sexy stuff. The usual.” Yujin can’t look at your face, choosing to stare at your intertwined hands instead. “The frat boys told me that he’s been at it almost every night. For two weeks.”
Is it possible to hurt someone this much in a span of five minutes? Getting shot multiple times would’ve hurt less than this.
There’s a heavy silence, then there’s your small, quiet voice, laced with unfiltered hurt.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“I’m saying, Y/N, that you might be facing bond rejection symptoms right now.” Yujin licks her lips. “I’m saying that you and Heeseung just might be fated mates. That night he scented you? You guys conjured a half-bond. And him fucking around with other omegas like this hurts your wolf because she knows—only this kind of bond can do that.”
Is having a fated mate supposed to hurt like this? Like your chest is caving in, collapsing under the torment of unwanted love. Can you even call it love? Whatever it is that you and Heeseung unknowingly have been sharing—Is it even love?
It’s not. It’s just…fate.
You shake your head. There’s hot pain behind your eyes, a sign of an impending doom. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s okay. It’s a lot to take in.”
A drop of tears rolls down your face and in the next blink, everything is already blurry. “I—I think I already knew it.” Your voice is wet from despair, the pain almost feels tangible. “He never meets my eyes anymore and—and every time I see him, I feel like I might die.”
A warm pair of arms pulls you close, and instantly the scent of green tea fills up your senses. Your roommate holds you tight, letting you rest your head in the crook of her neck as you sob into her chest.
Your wolf, the contradict that she is, hopes that it was Heeseung embracing you. Still hoping it was the alpha comforting you, soothing you with his voice and that calming pheromones of his. Still foolishly longing for him despite everything.
You feel pathetic.
Your crying subsides after a while, still curling up against Yujin like a hurt puppy. You’re already losing track of time, if it’s still proper to have breakfast or if it’s already time for lunch. It is Yujin who finally speaks first.
“Do you hate it?”
You let the question linger in the air, turning it over in your thoughts like what you’ve been doing the past hour since you woke up. “I don’t hate the bond. Nor him.”
You pause, gnawing at your lower lip. Then you exhale.
“I just hate that I was never given a chance to do this properly.”
Yujin pulls away and makes you face her. She wipes your tears using her sleeves, murmuring sweet words as you feel your chest slightly loosening at her kind gesture. “You might still have it. Go and talk to him, Y/N. If he’s avoiding you like this, he might’ve felt something too, right?”
“If he’s avoiding me like this, he might just not want anything to do with me.” A humourless chuckle escapes your lips. “And to think that I thought I had a chance.”
“Wait, I never asked you this. Do you like Heeseung? Both of you; your wolf and you.”
You don’t answer right away. The question sits between the two of you, heavy and fragile; like a mark refusing to be looked over.
Do you like Heeseung?
Your wolf stirs immediately. Yes, I like him.
The answer is quick. Certain. Definite.
But you purse your lips, forcing yourself to think harder, deeper. Forcing yourself to think about you, not her. You can only come to one conclusion.
“I don’t know,” you whisper, honest. It sounds weak even to your ears. Beside you, Yujin keeps rubbing small, grounding circles over your hand.
“I already know my omega likes him,” you admit softly. “She decided that the moment he stayed and took care of me that night.”
Oh, how pathetic is it to fall for someone for doing something as mundane as staying and taking care of you?
It’s laughable. But it makes your chest ache even more, like your heart was an empty can and fate was crushing it with its tight grip.
“But me…” you continue, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know him like that.”
You shake your head, frustration flickering through your expression.
“I don’t know what he’s like when he’s not surrounded by people, or when he’s not—” you gesture vaguely, like you can scoop up every rumour tied to his name. “That version of him everyone talks about.”
You stare at your hands. “But I wanted to.”
Yujin follows, voice soft. “Wanted to?”
“I wanted to get to know him,” you continue, voice trembling. “When I first found out how my wolf feels for him, I thought it could be like how I’ve always imagined having a fated mate would be: slowly falling in love with them. With him.”
A wistful smile graces your beautiful features, soft and vulnerable. “I wanted to know which game he remembers the most. I wanted to know if the number on his jersey means anything. Silly things like that. Not this.”
Your hand moves to your chest unconsciously, rubbing the surface softly.
“Not like this. Not when it hurts every time I—” you cut yourself off, breath shaking. “Not when it hurts every time I look at him.”
You still remember, after one grueling routine, when the pain was still kind enough to let you come to practice. The players had just finished their practice too, slicked with sweat and looking exhausted as ever. Among the tired alphas, your eyes locked onto Heeseung’s.
You had the instincts to go to him and pass him the cold mineral you’d unknowingly saved for him. But the look in his eyes—it was unreadable. Cold. An abyss that was enough to make you stay rooted in your place.
Then, without even a graze of a smile, he looked away, taking a bottle from Riki’s hand.
It had hurt more than you’d like to admit.
“I think…” you try again, more carefully this time. “If things were different, I would’ve liked him.”
Your throat tightens. This time, you’re reminded of that night before everything turned cruel like this. The warmth of his embrace that lingered. The spice of his scent that clung. The safety of his company that comforted you.
Was any of it real?
“And if things were the same…I think I would've still liked him anyway.”
That’s the truth. A quiet, terrifying truth that settles deep in your chest like an unshakeable ground. The kind of truth that makes even your most grounding friend sit still in your bed.
“And that’s what makes it worse,” you whisper.
Because now it’s not just your omega.
It’s you, too.
The one-week intervarsity basketball tournament has finally begun. Around seven universities have sent their representatives, leading to a flood of humans in different-coloured jerseys wandering around on your campus, its official host.
You’re excused from the whole week’s classes, seeing your cheerleaders and bunches of alphas more than you have ever seen your classmates since the tournament started. It was exciting at first, to participate in such a prestigious tournament that is always the talk of town. But the tight schedules between games is becoming more taxing and demanding.
It doesn’t help that the bond rejection symptoms have only gotten worse, hindering you from giving your best potential at each routine. Which, of course, catches the attention of your captain, and she’s not very amused with it.
“Y/N. If you’re not telling me what is wrong with you, then don’t make me find excuses to put you on the bleachers.” Narin once whispered to you on the third day of the tournament. You merely nodded, trying hard not to scrunch your noise at the sour smell of bubblegum and burnt cotton candy. She eyed you up and down, before she scoffed.
“Don’t get too butt-hurt that Heeseung’s fucking other cheerleaders,” she grunted. You froze. “At least you got your round that night. He fucking rejected me.”
What? The confusion must be clear on your face, because then Narin rolled her eyes, fixing the blue ribbon in her hair before she turned to face you.
“You smelled like him for weeks, Y/N. Don’t think people didn’t know that you two fucked after they won against that eastern university that night.” And then she left, leaving a dumbfounded you in the hallway, standing still like a lifeless statue.
Realisation starts settling in. Did people think you and Heeseung—fuck. You should’ve known.
No wonder many eyes were on you during those days when you still smelled like Heeseung. You thought it was just because Heeseung was one of the most sought after alphas on campus. Not this. Not whatever allegation this is.
Still, the bomb Narin had dropped wasn’t enough to stop yourself from pushing yourself past your limits. You don’t even know what your limits are anymore. They seem to keep expanding with every new pain that blooms in your chest.
You’re still a bit sluggish, but at least Narin is off your back. Whatever bitterness she harbours for you, though not forgotten, is at least tamed on the last day of the tournament.
You knew she wouldn’t understand, but you couldn’t help it if the pain worsens. You wish, for once, that Heeseung would take it slow with the cheerleaders from the opposing teams. Because the pain has become unbearable; cracks turning into holes of emptiness in your heart, faint pulsing turning into straight-up invisible stabbing in your gut. You’re actually surprised that you’re not already bleeding from how real it has felt.
However, deep down, there’s a small, barely-there gratitude for Heeseung for not doing it in front of you. At least you can spare yourself from whatever possible torment this fate has destined for you to face if you had to watch Heeseung fucking another omega in the empty locker room.
But you guess it’s time you finally, actually reach your limit, and your body can’t seem to be more dramatic to choose the last game as its last straw. As Heeseung hoops in the last score for the team, sealing their title as the champion, the audience erupts into the loudest cheer you’ve ever heard. You quickly get to your feet to perform the celebratory routine, but the world is spinning and your head is light when you stand up. You stagger backwards.
“Oh my Goddess, are you alright?” One of your cheerleader friends catches you in her arms, shaking you out of your pained daze.
“I…” you cough, your voice only scratching at your throat. “I just need to. Sit. Yeah. I need to sit down and talk to Heeseung.”
“Heeseung?” The girl, who you finally recognise as Rei, looks over at the center of the court, where almost the whole school is hooting and hollering in joy. “Wait—let me sit you down first. You’re pale as hell, damn.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you’re finally seated. Rei has passed you a bottle of mineral water and fans you with her pink hand-fan. She stays by your side, looking after you as the rest of the world celebrates the first champion of your university team. You’re painfully grateful to her for it.
“Hey. Can I call one of your friends? Or maybe, do you have an alpha I can contact?” Rei starts when you’re not speaking, too focused on not focusing on the pain to remember to talk. “You asked for Heeseung just now. Is he your alpha?”
Is he?
You wish you knew the answer to that too.
Instead, you shake your head. “He’s not my alpha. I just…need to have a few words with him.”
Rei purses her lips, clearly not pleased with your priority at the moment but obliges anyway. “Alright. Let me text my cousin real quick.” She says, already rummaging inside her bag for her phone.
Her statement intrigues you. “Cousin?”
“Nishimura Riki. And he’s not replying. Gimme a sec.” You watch as Rei presses the call button on her phone and puts the device over her ear. You follow her line of sight as she turns to look at the court again. The crowd hasn’t calmed down from the high of the win yet.
“Hello, adopted fuck. I need you to read my text ASAP—Nobody’s stealing your girlfriend, Riki! You can go back to kissing her face after you read my text—Okay, okay! My friend, Y/N, needs to talk to Heeseung. President-level urgent.” Rei pauses, taking a quick look at you before she continues. “Yes. It seems very important. Just get his ass here fast. Yeah—Congrats, by the way. I’m not buying you that Chrome Hearts chain. Bye.”
Rei sighs as she pockets her phone. “Heeseung will be here in five minutes. You good? Do you still need anything? I feel like I should call someone else. You’re friends with Ahn Yujin, aren’t you?” She rambles on. For someone who barely speaks to you, Rei sure is a caring omega.
You give her a small smile.”I’m alright, Rei. I’ll rest after seeing him.”
Rei hums, checking her phone when it vibrates. “Aight, if you say so. I’ll be around here until they move to celebrate at Jake’s frat tonight.” She gathers her stuff and stands up, brushing her pleated skirt with practiced elegance that you know is instilled in every cheerleader’s demeanour.
“You take care of yourself. And I better not see you at the party.”
“Thank you, Rei.” You wave at her and watch as the lines of her frame get smaller, disappearing into the crowd.
Now alone, the weight of reality is finally hitting you square in the chest. You curse, pulling your hair when you realise your stupid, impulsive decision, made in the whim of desperation to get the pain go away.
“This is stupid,” you whisper. Without thinking further, you grab your bag and stand to leave. But before you can flee the scene, a heavy presence with the familiar scent of spicy cinnamon and salty sea breeze drifts into your senses.
“Y/N?”
The sound of your name leaving his lips has locked you in place. The haunting familiarity of his voice, one that follows you into your restless sleeps and every waking hour, engulfs you almost like the night he held you in his arms.
Except this time, there’s a piercing pain in your heart that comes with his presence. A dull, throbbing ache that’s been a constant company to you, manifested into the shape of the man that your wolf yearns for.
Lee Heeseung.
“Y/N?” He repeats, but you don’t dare to face him just yet. “Riki said you wanted to, uh, talk to me.”
Licking your dry lips, you turn to Heeseung, and the sight has almost rendered you breathless.
Heeseung’s still wearing his jersey, standing tall to his height like he’s dominating the air around him. His burgundy hair looks softer under the light, some small strands sticking to his forehead from sweat. His shoulders are squared up, still lined with pride and the high from winning the tournament. He looks at you calmly, but the edges of his eyes are somewhat gentler; if the lights weren’t tricking your eyes.
You gulp, already losing the battle before it has even started. Why does he have to look so handsome?
You force yourself to say something. “Yeah. I did. I mean, I do. It’s important. I think.”
Heeseung is patient. If your nervousness is something unusual to him, he doesn’t comment on it. After all, you’re indeed known as a shy girl among the cheerleaders.
“I’m…I’m going straight to the point and be honest with you.” Is this really happening? You’re scared that if you were to speak more, your heart might leap out of your mouth from how hard it is pumping behind your ribs. You hold your bag tighter, trying to ground yourself.
“I’m listening,” he hums.
The words are simple. His voice is calm. Too calm, like he’s unaffected, like he doesn’t have a clue about what you’re about to say. It almost makes you falter.
For a second, you just stare at him. At the same face your mind has been haunted for weeks, at the same eyes you’ve been avoiding because they make everything feel too real.
Except everything is actually real. You’re just not ready to admit it yet.
Your fingers curl tighter around your bag.
“Did you…feel anything?” you ask, voice smaller than you intended. “That night.”
Heeseung’s brows pull together, confused. “What do you mean?”
Your throat burns. Stop. Turn around. Leave.
“When you helped me,” you stubbornly continue, ignoring the self-preservation act your wolf’s pulling. “When you scented me. Did you feel something? Anything?”
There’s a shift in the air. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Heeseung’s shoulders stiffen. His jaw tightens a fraction. A flash of something that leaves your heart hopeful crosses his face, but it leaves as soon as it comes.
“I was just helping you,” he finally says, almost too quickly. “You were in a bad state.”
The ache in your chest pulses, turning alive with each passing second.
“I know that,” you nod, almost too fast, the throbbing in your head comes back. The headache is well-guaranteed after this, you’re sure of it. “I know. I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I just—I just need to know if you felt it too.”
“Felt what?”
You stare at him. God, he’s really making you say it. Is he truly clueless or is he playing with you? Whatever he is trying to do, he’s succeeding at making you feel smaller and…desperate.
“The pull,” you whisper after a while, “the connection.”
Silent stretches between the two of you. Heeseung returns your gaze, but his black eyes reveal nothing about his thoughts.
You try again. “You felt it too…right?”
There it is. For a fleeting second, you think you see it. That flicker in his eyes. The subtle hesitation. The twitch in his jaw. It almost makes you feel hopeful.
Heeseung exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair.
“Y/N,” he starts slower this time, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “There’s no such thing as that.”
If your heart was made of lead, you’re sure it’d clang to the floor so loud for how fast it drops.
“What?”
“Fated mates. Bond. Whatever you’re thinking.” He shakes his head, like he’s making a show of how ridiculous you sound. “That’s not real.”
The cracks finally shatter, allowing a big, gaping hole filled with utter anguish to take place in where your heart used to reside. Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens.
“But—” you try, voice undeniably trembling now. “Then, what is this?”
Your hand presses weakly against your chest.
“Why does it hurt like this? Why does,” your voice cracks, your omega thrashing wildly inside you, “why does it hurt so much?”
For a split second, panic flashes across his face. There’s a change in his scent. A sharp, biting spice that’s stinging your nose and thick, briny salt that leaves your throat itchy.
Because he knows. He knows this isn’t normal. He knows how he almost went psychosis the moment it happened to him three weeks ago.
But Heeseung’s always been good at leaving—it’s the one thing that’s been keeping his heart in a safe chest without any chances of getting hurt. It’s almost cruel that he never really cares if leaving right after sex would hurt any of the omegas, but he’s never felt bad enough to stop.
And you feel like someone who will make him stay.
So he does what he knows best.
“It’s in your head,” he says, firmer now. “Probably just your heat cycle messing with you. Or stress.”
The moment those words leave his mouth, your chest feels hollow. Your omega, previously hysterical and angry, is now awfully quiet and wounded.
Right. It’s just stress, he said.
You wish it was just stress.
“Oh,” is the only word you can utter. Heeseung nods, as if convincing himself too, and takes a step back.
But for you, it feels too much like a line being drawn.
“Maybe you should get some rest. You look kind of pale,” he suggests, though his voice is slowly getting small the longer he watches the changes in your expression. You’re not looking at him now, just staring at your feet with trembling fists.
The wilting flowers are back in his senses, filling up his nose and beating at his heart like a bat. Heeseung bites his lips, swallowing down the guilt.
“I’ll see you around, Y/N.”
The sight of his retreating back…why is it so blurry?
“You are so fucking stupid, Heeseung.”
Heeseung’s always wondered how his best friend’s citrusy pheromones are going to smell like when he’s mad. Because Jay never gets mad at him. His friend has so much patience that every playful banter always stays as just a playful banter.
But tonight, Heeseung finally senses it. Jay smells bitter, like overripe lemon left too long in hot water. There’s a sharp, metallic tang to it too, representing the control that he’s trying so hard to keep in check. In response to the alpha’s irritated scent, Heeseung’s dominant wolf is itching to draw his claws out, sensing it as a threat.
They’re standing at the backyard of the frat house, where the pool is glowing blue and the night sky is blinking stars. It’s quieter here, with less people hanging around. Many guests have preferred to dance inside, still in celebration mode post-winning.
“What the fuck were you thinking, trying to get into someone else’s pants right after her—her confession?” Jay scoffs in disbelief. He has his back facing Heeseung, the tense muscle of his shoulders visible through the outline of his Polo shirt.
Heeseung, on the other hand, looks more disheveled. The collar of his shirt is misplaced, and there are faint lipstick marks staining his neck and the corner of his mouth. Jay had heard from Riki about what happened between Heeseung and you and the alpha was determined to drag Heeseung out of the bedroom, not before muttering a small apology to the omega he was with. It was all shouts and aggressive whispers between the two alphas until Riki managed to shoo them out.
Which brings them to this moment, where Jay is a ticking bomb and Heeseung is trying his best to calm down. Jay didn’t exactly know who she was, just that he’d seen her face among the cheerleaders. While Heeseung, well, he’s too worked up to explain.
“Confession? What made you think—”
“You guys are fated mates, Heeseung. Can’t you fucking see it?” Jay whips his head around. “This pull you’re feeling is because you guys are fated mates. There’s no other explanation to it.”
Heeseung clenches his jaw. “Those things don’t exist, Jongseong. Not to me.”
“Oh, come on. Then explain your sex problem.” Jay hisses, his eyes turning sharper. “You think I don’t know that you still can’t get your dick wet with other omegas?”
The burgundy-haired alpha doesn’t blink. “It’s none of your business.”
“It is when she could’ve died!” Jay snaps, his scent flaring with his nose. Heeseung grits his teeth, feeling challenged.
Then, softer, like vulnerability leaking through his anger, Jay continues: “You could’ve died, Heeseung.”
Heeseung stills. “What?”
Jay lets out a harsh laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think so little of this matter, don’t you?” His voice drops, tight and furious. “A half-bond between fated mates when left too long can cause death. And with the speed you’re going with all these nameless omegas, I bet it’ll be her turn to die first.”
Heeseung scoffs, but it’s weaker now. There’s a new fear settling in his chest. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” Jay cuts in sharply. “You’re being stupid. I saw her just now. She’s pale as fuck.”
Heeseung’s quiet for a moment, staring into his friend’s eyes with almost the same amount of resentment. “It has nothing to do with me.”
Like a punishment to his lie, something twists sharply in his chest. But Heeseung is quick to mask his pain under a calm facade, gritting his teeth so hard he might break his jaw. Jay scoffs and rolls his eyes.
“Oh, so you’re doing this again.” Jay steps closer, not backing away. “You’re running away again, like the coward that you are. You’ll just run and run, deflect and disappear. Typical Heeseung.”
Jay knows he’ll hit a spot if he says it, but he couldn’t care less. He watches as the expression on Heeseung hardens, giving away the emotions he kept locked in his chest.
“Don’t.”
But Jay doesn’t stop. Of course he doesn’t.
“You think I don’t see it?” Jay presses, voice rising. “Every time something starts to mean something, you bolt. New omega, new bed, new distraction—anything to avoid actually feeling something real.”
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly what this is!” Jay gestures wildly, frustration spilling over. “You found your mate, and instead of dealing with it, you’re out there fucking anything that moves just to prove you’re still in control.”
Silence slams between them, heavy and ugly. Both alphas are holding back from spiraling, neck straining from self-control and simmering anger.
Heeseung’s laugh this time is cold. “Mate?” he repeats, like the word tastes disgusting. “You really believe in that shit?”
Jay stares at him, disbelief flickering across his face. “I believe in what’s right in front of me.”
“There’s nothing in front of you,” Heeseung shoots back. “She’s just an omega I helped. That’s it.”
“Then why her?” Jay fires immediately. “Why can you find her in a crowd? Why does your scent stick to her for days—for weeks? Why can’t you even touch another omega without looking like you’re about to throw up?”
Heeseung falters, his words failing him as Jay hits him with those facts. His shaky stance doesn’t go unnoticed by the alpha, though. He’s quick to seize the chance.
Jay inhales sharply. “You know I’m right, Heeseung. You and Y/N share a bond.”
“So what?!” Heeseung snaps, frustration finally cracking through. “So what if there’s a bond? You want me to just—what? Drop everything? Play house? Act like I’m suddenly someone I’m not?”
Heeseung meets Jay’s fiery gaze head-on and shoves his friend harshly. “Stay out of it, Jay. I swear to fucking God.”
“And what? Watch you let her die because you couldn’t care less to acknowledge the bond?” Jay lets out a hollow laugh, pushing Heeseung back just as hard. “And then I watch you die?”
“Shut the fuck up. You know nothing about this.”
Their scents clash; sharp citrus and aggressive spice filling up the space like a warning siren. It almost turns physical, Riki almost bursts through the door when he sees their chests almost touching. But it is Jay who stops first.
Not because he wants to. But because he’s thinking of you.
“My parents are fated mates, Heeseung.” Jay starts, quieter, his voice losing its harsh edges. “Doesn’t mean you don’t believe in it, it isn’t real to other people.”
Heeseung remains quiet, his chest still moving rapidly.
Jay’s eyes turn glassy. He retreats one more step away from Heeseung. “If you don’t want her, reject the bond properly,” he says, breathing hard. “You’re letting someone know that you don’t want her as your mate. At least have the decency to be kind about it.”
Jay unclenches his fists.
“Don’t drag her through this half-assed bullshit where you keep hurting her just because you can’t make a decision.”
Heeseung freezes. Out of all words being shouted tonight, it is this quiet resignation from Jay that hits his heart the hardest.
Am I being cruel? Heeseung lowers his gaze. Am I a coward?
Heeseung doesn’t wait too long for an answer.
“Stop being a coward, Heeseung. I beg you.”
The words hang between them, like unwanted vines curling around a trunk of a tree. Heeseung’s gaze stays rooted to the ground, trying to find his voice.
But he doesn’t get the chance to.
“...Heeseung?”
Your voice, soft as it is, cuts through the air like a blade. Both alphas turn to where you’re standing by the door. The faint light spilling from the moon only highlights how pale your face is, void of any warmth and colour.
You stand there, one hand gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, your other pressed weakly against your chest. Your eyes, God, your eyes. They’re glassy, unfocused, yet locked onto him like you’ve found something you’ve been searching for your entire life.
Beside him, Heeseung can sense the way Jay’s body tenses the way his does.
“Heeseung…” you call for him again and move to get closer.
But then you flinch. Your entire body recoils, your nose scrunches.
There, lingering around Heeseung like an unwanted mark, is a scent you know too well. Fruity bubblegum and cloying cotton candy; a scent that flashes pink in your head, turning into a female rage that hits too close to home. Your gaze catches the shape of someone’s mouth staining his golden skin, and something inside you breaks.
Narin.
Heeseung smells like Narin.
Your hand instinctively goes to cover your nose, eyes slowly going wide. The room goes silent, holding its breath as Heeseung feels it.
The fleeting second where something inside you shatters.
Heeseung steps forward. “Y/N—”
But you retreat faster, away from him like he’s a disease that could kill you.
“No,” your voice cracks, shaking your head as if trying to physically deny what your body is already registering. “No, no, no…”
Your breath comes out in shallow bursts, your fingers clawing at your shirt.
It hurts. It hurts so bad.
It’s like every system in your body is collapsing, failing to cope with the ultimate rejection that comes in the scent of another woman. Your fist hits your chest, forcing the air to flow in because it suddenly feels almost impossible to breathe.
Heeseung feels it now—really, really feels it. The bond is thrashing, frantic, like it’s holding onto something that’s slipping through its grasp. The pained scent of withering daisies starts filling up the air, suffocating both alphas instantly. Jay shifts uncomfortably, looking back and forth from Heeseung to you in alert.
“Hey, hey—Y/N,” Heeseung tries again, softer this time, reaching out instinctively. “Look at me. Y/N—”
“Don’t!” Your voice spikes, sharp with fear. Heeseung freezes, his throat closing up when he sees something you’re yet to realise.
That’s when you feel it—something warm trickling down your nose. You instinctively wipe it and stare at the red liquid smearing your fingers.
Blood. Then another drop falls on your palm. Before you can react properly, it already spills down your chin, past your fingers, dripping onto the floor, tainting the white tiles like a crime scene.
“Fuck.” Jay curses under his breath, his wolf perking up in alarm.
Beside him, Heeseung is beyond agitated. “Y/N!”
He doesn’t think. Heeseung lunges forward, longing to be close to you at that moment. But you’re already shaking your head rapidly, tears spilling uncontrollably now.
“Stop!” you gasp, pale lips trembling like dying petals. “I can’t do this—I can’t—”
Inside you, your omega is screaming in pain. In betrayal. In self-preservation. Her voice, raw and jagged, torn by pain, echoes in your head.
An instinct, primal and desperate, takes over your being.
Cut it off.
Cut it off before it kills you.
You clutch at your chest, lungs burning up like a wildfire. Tears spill out freely, drenching your face in anguish and agony.
Cut it off!
And finally, you let go.
Across from you, just a few paces away, Heeseung feels it like a force, stopping him in his tracks.
It doesn’t come gradually, or slowly. It rips through his body. A violent, invisible force tearing straight through his chest like something sacred being forcibly severed. His breath is knocked out of him.
“Fuck!” Somewhere behind him, Jay is also spiraling, realising what’s going down.
But Heeseung doesn’t know. He staggers, his knees almost giving up as excruciating pain spreads from the scent gland in his neck down to his chest. Something inside him—something he never fully acknowledges—finally snaps. He almost screams.
A thick veil of tears wells up instantly, blurring his vision faster than he could process it.
“Y/N,” his voice breaks, the cracks showing up like poison in daggers. Across from him, you’re already sobbing.
It’s loud and raw, a wailing that stops even the loud music from inside. Your scent, bitter and beyond distressed, is now flooding the space like a broken dam. Your body folds in on itself as if trying to contain something that’s already shattered beyond repair.
Inside of you, your omega goes silent completely.
And it terrifies him. A lot.
Heeseung clutches his neck, where his scent gland is pulsing violently, throbbing in an indescribable pain that feels like it could kill him. And when his eyes find yours, he realises with dread that the pull is no longer there.
He can’t feel you. His wolf can’t feel your wolf.
The constant, aching thread that’s been tying him to you; it’s gone.
You cut the bond from your side.
The half-bond, already fragile with doubt and cowardice, is hanging by its loose thread. If it was a red string like many people had said, Heeseung’s sure it’d waver pathetically by his finger, trembling like a thread losing its kite.
“What…What did you do?” he whispers, voice hollow and shaky.
Heeseung takes a step forward again, ignoring Jay’s warning voice from behind him. His focus becomes singular on you, not minding the many pairs of eyes watching from the other side of the door.
This time, his step is slower and careful, like approaching something fragile. Something that is already broken.
Someone wounded.
You don’t move toward him. You don’t even spare him a look. You just cry, quietly, as now it feels empty where the bond used to be. You can’t feel him.
You can only feel pain.
“Y/N…”
“...I want to leave.”
You wipe your nose, the blood still fresh and wet. You lean on the door for support, still trying to hold yourself up despite the urge to just collapse. Heeseung has to force restraint on himself, holding himself back from running to you. He searches your face, trying to catch your eyes, terrified beyond reason.
The silence is deafening.
At last, you lift your gaze, misty eyes meeting misty eyes.
“I ended it.” Your voice, used to be soft and warm, is now cold. Heeseung feels his lungs stop functioning.
“There’s nothing between us anymore.”
And that’s when it hits him brutally.
Heeseung didn’t just push you away.
He’s lost you.
sorry for the cliffhanger! part 2 coming soon 🔜
dividers from: @cursed-carmine 🤎
perm taglist: @kristynaaah @seungiesdoll
fic taglist: @twocupsofsuga @rayofsunshineeee @all4moi @cutehoons02 @barbiecuedotcom @vmpiricou @kitteaasstuff @sosocide @lhspeachie @sooooobean @bingka @yenienha
i will never ever get tired of basketball hee x cheerleader reader but making it omegaverse?? omg this is insane
the summer i got horny - s.jy
main masterlist
summary. nerdy sim jaeyun is sweating buckets when the baddie he's been crushing on sits in his lap on a two-hour road trip.
pairing. nerdy!jake x baddie!female reader
genre(s). oneshot, smut, big porn with a small plot
warnings. MDNI, jake is a professional yearner, jake is very shy and repressed (and a bit insecure), masturbation, pervert!jake, unprotected sex (pls don’t), subby switch!jake, top or bottom he's always a sub, reader is a bit mean, jake cries a lot and begs a lot, slight sunsunki if you squint, handjob, blowjob, nose-riding, jake eats her out as well, reverse cowgirl, cowgirl, missionary, BRO WHY IS IT NEVER-ENDING, but like it's messy, EDGING EDGING EDGINGGGG, reader calls him jaeyun, reader is jealous and possessive, implied aftercare, enhypen ensemble, hmm please let me know if i missed anything! not beta read we die like injang
word count. 14,807 words
note. oh boy! this used to be a veeeery old, 8k-word draft, my take on nerdy jake that i decided to polish and give life to. it is also a gift for my bestie and fellow jake's wife: dr. @twocupsofsuga 🫶🏼 congratulations on passing medschool! you're so smart mhm here's my lap dance for you 😏
Women make Sim Jaeyun nervous.
Especially someone as bold and confident like you.
There's something about the soft lilt of your voice that makes him feel ashamed to even speak in your presence. There's something about your enticing eyes that makes him stutter and stumble with his own words, his grammar-police persona flying out the window. There's something about the sure sway of your hips that makes him want to avert his gaze and look more all the same time; like something sinful he shouldn't want but crave for anyway.
You're the kind of woman that makes Sim Jaeyun nervous.
Park Jongseong's cousin from the States that always comes to visit for summer, with that bold show of your body that'll usually often get frowned upon in his neighbourhood, that honey tint of your skin that's far from the local society's beauty standard. You're upfront and so unapologetically you, something he admires and makes him overly conscious if his hair looks nice or not.
It's another summer and you're here again. You're always a welcome addition to their annual trip to Jay's beach house, a road trip that's usually joined by the other five plus you and him. But this year, Nishimura Riki had a last minute decision to cancel his flight to Japan and opted to spend the summer with them instead of with his family.
Which leaves all of you with no space for one person inside Jay's SUV.
"I call dibs on the rear seats," Heeseung says before anyone gets the chance to and disappears into the car. Riki opens his mouth, about to follow the eldest of the group, when Jungwon shoots him a sharp look and blocks his way with his hand.
"No, Riki. You're not getting a seat."
Riki's face morphs into horror. "What?! Am I excluded from this trip?"
"You cancelled your flight this morning. You were never included in the trip."
Seeing the look of hurt on his face, Sunoo actually takes pity on Riki. Peering inside, the blonde mumbles with a pout when he sees a small ice box sitting beside Heeseung. "Surely we can squeeze him into the rear seat, right…?"
"All of his six-feet-one ass? I'd like to see you try, Sunoo hyung." Jungwon shakes his head. He leans on the passenger door, already the assigned co-pilot of the car, in charge of Spotify playlist and Waze and moral support to his Jay hyung. "Either one of you sits in another's lap, or we can Uber Riki to the beach house."
Hearing that, Riki immediately throws his hands. "It's a two-hour drive, hyung, I might just be paying for the Uber's car loan! It's gonna be so expensive!"
"If you can afford cancelling your flight with no refunds, then I think you can afford an Uber to Sokcho."
Riki whips his head to his Sunoo and Jake hyung, jutting out his lips in a pout that's borderline pitiful. Jake mirrors his expression, not really having the power to go against Jungwon's verdict—as if anybody could. Jake pities him, really, but it's Yang Jungwon. There's a whole menace behind those cute dimples and boba eyes.
Beside him, Sunghoon lets out a long sigh. "Then one of us will have to sit in another's lap."
It's an option that has everybody darting their eyes around, afraid that any eye contact with Jungwon will make them become the sacrificial thighs for the two-hour road trip. They're all men packed with mass and muscles, a result of a gym routine that unexpectedly becomes a problem today. Each of them at least weighs one hundred-forty pounds. Jake's sure that if he was chosen, he'd lose his legs by the time they exit Seoul.
Just in time, a loud thud is heard from the car boot. You and Jay walk into the scene, just having finished loading all of their stuff into the car. Jake adjusts his glasses instinctively, unknowingly fixing his appearence when his eyes land on you.
You've abandoned your cardigan, now only wearing a yellow camisole top that only reaches your belly button and a pair of jeans shorts that ends at the bottom swell of your ass. Your outfit choice hides nothing about your figure—your perfect body that admittedly has always been on his mind.
Jake gulps and lets his eyes trail down to your legs. You're seriously one of the most beautiful and hottest girls he's ever seen, and unfortunately, he has a severe problem of having a crush on baddies who are completely out of his nerdy league. You're definitely one of them.
When he looks up, Jake almost faints when your gaze catches his eyes with an unreadable expression. He quickly averts his eyes, adjusting the thick black rims of his glasses that didn't need adjusting.
Did you notice him staring?
"Car seat problem?" Jay asks when he senses the tension among the boys, already foreseeing this issue the moment Riki told him that he was joining their road trip over the phone this morning. They hesitantly nod.
"So what's the solution?"
"Riki takes an Uber to Sokcho—"
"Which will cost him his tuition fees," Jay comments, ever the hyperbole-user.
"—Or someone has to sit in another's lap."
Judging from the expression on Jay's face, he, too, doesn't think it's a comfortable position to be sitting in on a two-hour road trip.
But apparently, someone thinks otherwise.
"Oh, then let's do that!" You pipe in, flashing them with your charming smile. "I don't mind doing it!"
There's an elephant silence that follows your statement. Upon seeing their gaped expression, your smile slowly dies down, unsure if you had said the right thing.
"…Or not."
"Or yes!" Riki interrupts, relief flooding his senses. His eyes lit up as he looks around at each one of his friends. "Guys, she's offered to sit in anyone's lap. We can do that, right?"
Jungwon narrows his eyes. "It's a two-hour drive."
Riki blinks nervously. "But noona wants it."
"Then let Y/N noona sit in your lap."
Now, there's a rosy blush blooming across Riki's cheeks. Jake frowns. Lucky bastard. "I-I mean—"
"Not him," you cut in, a small smile playing on your lips. Jake can feel the exact moment everyone holds their breath, as if the air pauses on its own accord and waits for the rest of your sentence. Either they're anticipating or dreading to be your exclusive seat in the car—he's not sure. He's certain that he's the former, but he's also certain you'd pick someone more your type—Sunghoon or Riki, who are loyal gym buddies that possess strong thighs for you to sit on—or even Heeseung who's abandoned his nap and is eavesdropping the conversation now.
He doesn't know why, but surely someone hot like you would pick someone just as hot, right? And hot in Sim Jaeyun's definition is someone who matches your confidence (not him), someone who has a good body and is not shy to show them (Jake thinks his body is nice, but he's also always wearing long-sleeves), or just anyone but him.
Jay pinches the bridge of his nose. "Then who?"
When your eyes meet Jake's, the brown-haired boy almost loses his breath.
A smile curves up your lips. Jake thinks he's hallucinating because there's no way you are smirking at him.
"With Jaeyun."
There's a ripple of gasps, disbelief and shock mixing with a hint of betrayal (no doubt from Riki). Jay's brow disappears behind his hair.
"Seriously, Y/N? You don't have to—Riki's rich enough to pay for the Uber."
Riki's protest is muffled when Jungwon pulls him into a chokehold and slaps a hand over his mouth. Jake wants to pity him, really, but this time he thinks he's the one who needs help because what do you mean? There's no way—
"I'm serious. Jaeyun-ah."
—Oh my fucking God. Jaeyun. Jaeyun. Who's Jaeyun? Who the fuck is Jaeyun?
Jake has a trouble hearing you over the loud roar of his blood, heart threatening to jump out of his throat. But he manages a small, airy, 'Hm?' when all eyes are on him.
You tilt your head slightly, eyes never letting go of his, holding him hostage in your gaze alone. This, paired with the way you call his government name—a name you prefer over Jake because 'it's cuter' (according to you, not him) when he first introduced himself to you four years ago, and Jake had let you because he could never say no to you—are the most perfect, never-before-seen formula to unravel the physics genius Sim Jaeyun.
Yeah. Jake is a goner. And will soon have a boner if no one stops you from picking him as today's sacrificial thighs.
"Can I sit with you, Jaeyunnie?"
Someone please say no. Someone please stop you. Someone please tell this Jaeyun to say no because—because why him? Is this some kind of a cliché ploy that popular girls do to play with men's feelings, especially a physics nerd like him? Because if it is, Jake hates to admit that he'd be a willing participant (even if it'd break his heart a little).
"Yes, sure," he squeaks, finally recognising that Jaeyun is his name. He's still trying to process that you chose him—not Sunghoon with his ridiculous broad shoulders, or Riki with his ridiculous long legs, or Heeseung with his ridiculous charm—but him, who's sweating buckets and dampening his armpits underneath his long-sleeved T-shirt. His glasses almost glide down his nose from how sticky it is.
"It's settled, then!" Sunoo claps once, already red and irritated from having to stand under the unforgiving sun for longer than necessary. "Jake hyung and Y/N will sit together. So I will be sitting with—"
"Me!"
"Me!"
Sunoo ignores Sunghoon and Riki, and walks straight to the rear seats. "With Heeseung hyung!"
Soon, there's shuffling and then everyone's already inside the car. Riki sits in the middle with a pout, a penalty for causing the minor disruption and losing rock-paper-scissors to Sunghoon and Jake. Sunghoon is happily humming to a song from the 80s, occassionally turning around to tease Sunoo who's been trying to join Heeseung in his mandatory road-trip nap. Jay and Jungwon have settled into their designated seats as the drivers of the day, already talking about the route they're taking and traffic condition. While Jake—well, he's preparing himself for the inevitable.
You're still standing by the door, overseeing the situation at hand, and Jake tries to ignore the way his cheeks burn under your weighted gaze.
"Can I sit now?" You softly ask. Jake hesitates a moment before nodding his head frantically.
"Y-Yes."
You, on the other hand, do not hesitate at all. Jake instinctively spreads his legs when you climb into the car, already aiming his lap as your throne for the next 120-minute of the ride. His senses heighten, overly aware of his friends' eyes watching his every move, and the soft scent of peach from your body wash that invades his nose when your weight finally settles on him.
In a split second, Jake goes from never daring to touch you to having you resting your ass comfortably on his clothed dick, thanks to a certain Japanese who's now queueing songs like he didn't just commit a fatal crime against his Aussie hyung.
His slightly longer thighs bracket your exposed ones in a hesitant cage, every point of your skin meeting his seems to burn through the fabric of his jeans. Your hair and neck are one breath away from his nose now, where he's inhaling lungfuls of peaches and creams and your vanilla-ish perfume, and Jake chooses to blink at the ceiling to avoid looking over your shoulders and possibly flashing himself with the swell of your chest under that thin camisole top. The already-cramped space feels even smaller, and Jake doesn't think he can breathe properly.
While at it, Jake hopes his prayers could break through the car roof and reach the heavens.
God, please have mercy on me and let my other head not have a brain of its own.
God answers him shortly in the form of you shifting around.
"You comfortable?" You ask innocently, adjusting yourself on his lap. Jake nearly inhales his tongue, feeling blood rush to his ears and south. A strangled noise escapes his throat instead.
"Mhm."
From the front, he can hear a snort coming from none other than Jay. "You sound constipated, dude."
'Try having a pretty girl sit on your dick then!', is what Jake wishes he could say to his friend, but he knows that this is more of a him-problem. Someone like Jay won't get flustered in this kind of situation—at least not as bad as he is, who doesn't even fucking know where to put his hands, hovering in the air like he's about to conduct a choral speaking.
So, Jake resorts to conveying his rage through the rearview mirror instead, hoping that his glare and frown are enough to make Jay feel bad. (They don't, Jay finds him cute instead).
Jungwon comes to save the day as he turns to the backseat. "Do you have everything with you?" All of them except Jake hum. He thinks he doesn't have his sanity anymore, but of course the younger boy pretends to ignore him.
Jungwon eyes each one of his friends, his gaze stopping longer at the sight of Jake gripping the leather seat, the white of his knuckles almost matching his face, and you smiling innocently at him. Jungwon badly wants to laugh.
Jake widens his eyes at Jungwon. Help me!
The younger boy gives him an indecipherable look before turning to face the front. "Alright. We're not turning back for you even if you forgot your PlayStation."
Jake wants to say that they might want to leave a certain Sim Jaeyun to save him from this misery, but all words are gone from his mind when the car starts forward with a sharp jolt. Your back meets his chest in a soft thud, punching air out of his lungs. Your ass pushes deeper into his lap and Jake nearly pierces the leather with his nails from how desperately hard he's gripping it.
"Oops, sorry!" Jay chimes from the driver seat, sounding far from sorry.
You straighten up and turn around, looking more sorry than your cousin. "You okay? Sorry about that, Jaeyunnie."
Oh, fuck. Please don't use that voice on him when he's one bump away from kissing your lips. You're so close it feels like you're breathing in the same air he exhales, so close he can see the faint, tiny freckles dusting your cheeks and the bridge of your nose.
"Yeah," he manages, voice hoarse like he's just swallowed a bucket of sand. "I'm okay."
There's a halt in your movement, like you're actually seeing him through the calm façade he's exuding. His breath catches when your eyes drop to his lips briefly, the bitten-red skin tingles under your heated gaze.
Then, after a moment, you smile at him so easily; as if the tension never existed, as if the pull was only one-sided.
"If you say so."
When he's met with your shiny hair again, Jake lets out a breath he unknowlingly held. Your voice fills up the space softly as you begin talking to Jungwon and Jay, all cheery and unrestrained while he's exerting mental training equivalent to physical labour of a building constructor to stop his dick from hardening every time you move.
He hears a snicker from his left and immediately meets with Riki's mischievous eyes. The younger boy mouths something that has Jake closing his eyes and leaning on the headrest in defeat.
'Don't get horny now, Jake hyung.'
Jake is worried that if it's not now, it'll be the next time Jay hits a bump.
Instead of a road bump, Jake's personal enemy turns out to be you.
Ten minutes in, everything is still going fine. Jake is still breathing, alive, and hasn't popped a boner that could traumatise you and get him banned from the car permanently. You also seem okay, still engrossed in a conversation with the cat-duo driving the car, talking about college and your winter trip to Japan.
For a moment, Jake selfishly thinks if his lap was that…sitable, seeing as you haven't shown any signs of discomfort yet. Or, to be fair, it has been barely ten minutes since they're en route, and though those minutes are enough to pull the others into a car nap, ten minutes feel like one round of orbit around the Sun when he has you sitting on his lap.
Jake can feel himself melt into the seat. Maybe this isn't so bad at all. Maybe he can make it to Sokcho without having to cut his dick off before anyone could see his hard-on. He just has to sit really quietly and will his mind to avoid teetering dangerous territory.
Yeap. Everything is fine.
Not until you decide to put your hands on his thighs.
Jake almost jolts at the contact, flexing his thighs instinctively when you place your perfectly manicured fingers on the surface of his jeans. It's a brief touch, one that can pass as accidental, but the lingering heat it leaves behind feels almost physical.
His eyes dart to the back of your head, trembling with nerves nearly frayed at the edges, gauging your reaction, and bites the bottom of his lips when you resume your conversation as if nothing happened. Or nothing really happened to you.
It's just a touch, for God's sake. Calm your dick down.
If a simple touch from you could unravel him this fast, what about other things? What if you hug him, or-or if you hold his hand, or—wait, is he wishing for other things to happen between you and him? (He does, but he knows that it won't happen.)
Jake gulps harshly and decides to enjoy the scenery instead. He stares hard out the window, so intense like he's memorising every species of the trees they pass by, mind lost in a whirlwind of horny thoughts clashing with rationality, when you do something again.
This time, it isn't an innocent touch on his thigh. It's an innocent move to hear Jungwon better. You lean forward, pushing your ass deeper into his lap simultaneously, offering your ear to Jungwon who seems to be sharing a secret about Jay. Jake's breath hitches and his hands almost come up to hold your waist, the friction sending heat through his body.
Fuck. He peels his eyes away from the window forcefully and follows down the dip of your spine to where your ass meets his crotch. Your position highlights the narrow of your waist and the width of your hips, all sinful curves that have him swallowing harder, something inside his pants threatening to stir alive. Jake closes his eyes.
Think of Jesus, Jake. Think of Layla. He absentmindedly fixes his glasses. Think of quantum physics. Think of—
"—Oh!" You squirm excitedly, round butt wiggling slightly against his cock. "Yes, I met her before!"
Jake hisses before he can stop himself, the sound serving like a knife cutting the conversation. You and Jungwon instantly turn to look at him, the latter wearing a mischievous expression when he sees the heat painting Jake's face red.
"Are you okay?" You prompt in concern, noticing how stiffly Jake is nodding at you.
"Y-Yeah. Good. I'm horgoony."
Freudian slip is gonna be the death of him.
Jay and Jungwon burst out laughing, catching the slip as fast as any dirty-minded man would. Jake's face turns a darker shade of red, avoiding your eyes whose brows now pinching in confusion.
"Horgoony?" You echo, pretty confident you have never heard of that strange word spoken before. Jake immediately shakes his head, panic creeping into his chest when Jungwon shows a sign of opening his mouth.
No! Do not let that orange cat speak! Jungwon only cares about his downfall!
"I feel horribly good! Yeah," Jake stammers, to hell with any logical reasoning. "Like, I feel good because we're on a road trip. But also kind of horrible because I get motion sickness sometimes."
Now that the string of the sentences has flowed out of his mouth, Jake thinks he is kind of making sense. Satisfaction blooms in his chest when you nod in understanding, because two conflicting emotions—feeling good and horrible—can exist simultaneously, right? Like the way he wants to push you from his lap and hide in the deepest part of the Sokcho forest forever but also craves to just grab your hips and pull you close and have his way with you—wait stop.
What a horrible, horny, nothing-good man you are, Sim Jaeyun.
"That does sound horrible." Jake snaps out of his thoughts when he registers your voice, nodding fervently to amplify the faux pity that he's just orchestrated.
You give him a sorry look, the one where it pulls the corners of your mouth down into a frown. Jake sighs in relief. You bought it. Thank God for his smart brain.
"Yeah. I think I'm just gonna take a nap," he adds, voice turning softer when you still look at him in concern. He feels a strange need to overexplain.
"Motion sickness happens because your eyes see one thing while your inner ears and muscles feel another. If I take a nap, it'll eliminate the visual stimuli that causes the conflict…" Jake trails off, catching himself before he could go on and on and on on why humans experience motion sickness, and possibly bore you to death. He shakes his head imperceptibly. "So—yeah. I should take a nap."
To his surprise, you only give him a warm smile. "I never knew that, Jaeyun. Then what's the correlation between motion sickness and playing your phone in a moving vehicle?"
Jake blinks behind his glasses, genuinely taken aback that you're actually listening instead of zoning out halfway through his rambling.
"Oh. Um." He clears his throat. "It's kind of the same concept. Your eyes are focused on something stationary—your phone—but your body still feels the movement of the car."
You hum softly, leaning back against him slightly, prompting him to continue. Jake immediately forgets how lungs work.
"S-So your brain gets confused because the signals don't match," he continues weakly. "Your eyes tell your brain you're sitting still, but your inner ears are like, 'No, we're moving.' It's like mixed signals, and our body doesn't like mixed signals."
His ears are warming up from how true the words are to the situation he's having with you.
"And right now you're seeing my stationary body while the car's moving," you continue with a subtle tilt of your mouth, "so you're nauseous and all dizzy now, right?"
Jake almost chokes to death. Did you know about his little problem? He blinks at you rapidly, hand itching to touch his glasses in a fit of nerves.
Oh my God. He's going to die. He's going to die and Jungwon will write 'Sim Jaeyun was a smart friend, died a horny man with a dick that never went down, a standing ovation to his contribution to Seoul National University' as his headstone epitaph. You know about it so Jake is going to die!
He stumbles with his own words. "I-I mean—It's actually—"
You give him a cheeky smile. "I'm just joking with you, Jaeyun. You're probably sick because you're having me on your lap like this."
You start digging into your front pocket, frowning when it's empty. Jake holds his breath when your hands move to your back pocket, looking for whatever it is that gets you so determined and his dick so excited whenever your finger brushes against his crotch. Jake is almost blue from not breathing.
He thinks this time he's really going to die.
"Found it!"
You offer your palm to him, where two mint candies sit idly on the soft surface. Jake's chest slowly feels lighter as air rushes in, no longer collapsing under the pressure of your searching hand accidentally brushing against him moments ago. He clears his throat.
You beam at him. "These will soothe your sickness, Jaeyunnie. Please take them."
Jake studies your face.
Do you know what you're doing to him? Was everything done on purpose, or are you really oblivious to everything?
He swallows and forces a nod, taking the candies from your palm, feeling a spark of electricity in his system when his fingers brush your skin.
"Thank you, Y/N."
You turn your back on him, resuming your conversation with Jungwon and Jay. All sweet and cotton candy, unaware of the turmoil he's going through. Jake stares at the candies in his hand, a mocking sign to his misery, and heaves out a quiet sigh. He glances at his wristwatch.
It feels like two world wars had happened but it's only been twenty minutes into the drive. An hour and forty minutes of horny torture remains for Sim Jaeyun to endure, and he's not sure if he's going to survive.
He slowly closes his eyes. Maybe sleep can help with horniness, too.
It does, but only for a moment, because Jake could swear he just blinked when you tap his shoulder a few times.
Jake blinks, half-groggy and half-alert. Did he have a wet dream of you and get hard in his unconsciousness? Is that why you woke him up?
But he's met with your apologetic face instead. "I'm sorry for waking you up," you whisper, trying not to wake other boys who are fast asleep. "But my back's sore. Can I lean on you for a moment?"
In a flash, all incoherent thoughts fly out the window. Guilt starts lodging in his chest as he realises—glancing at his watch—that you've been sitting straight for one hour. Before he knows it, Jake is already nodding at you, adjusting his seat to accommodate the new position.
"Y-Yes, you can."
God, he's such a loser. The word 'no' seems to disappear from his dictionary whenever you're around.
You reward him with an appreciative smile and waste no time to turn around and lean back softly on him. The moment your back touches his chest, Jake can feel his system kick start, a chemical reaction that he can never understand no matter how hard he studies Biology.
You physically relax into his chest. "This is so much better," you sigh, a dreamy smile on your face, resting your head in the crook of his neck. Then you tilt your head upwards to glance at him. "Is this okay for you?"
Jake hopes you can't feel how fast his heart is beating through the fabric of his shirt. The brown-haired boy nods wordlessly. "More than okay."
For a moment, you just stare at him, brilliant eyes holding his in a soft gaze. It's a silent minute full of everything unspoken, rendering him speechless and even more restless because no matter how smart he is, he could never decipher the meaning behind this look you're giving him. There's something you hide that he feels like he should know, like an open secret waiting for the right time for him to catch.
This time, Jake is even sure that you can hear his heartbeat.
Then, as if that moment never happened, you close your eyes and get comfortable.
"We should sleep, Jaeyun. Don't want you to get carsick again."
You nuzzle closer and Jake holds his breath, feeling the silky strands of your hair brushing against his jaw. His hands hover, not knowing where to land, though the pinch of your waist is where he wants to hold the most. Eventually, Jake settles on his thighs, watching the difference between his veiny hands and the smooth span of your thighs.
Is he still sleeping? Is he dreaming or are you really sleeping on his chest?
It seems that sitting in his lap really tired you out, because you're fast asleep in less than five minutes. The guilt in his chest amplifies at the sight of your closed eyes, breathing evening out as sleep overtakes your being. Jake bites his lips.
He's so shameless, napping to avoid getting turned on instead of caring for your being. He’s so horrible, worrying more about his hard-on than the fact that you’ve been uncomfortable for an hour. Jake wants to cry so bad.
Jake spends the rest of the ride watching you sleep. He fixes your hair when it falls over your face, tucking it behind your ear carefully, and then smiles to himself when he sees your pout. He blocks the sunlight with his hand when it's glaring on your skin through the window, not minding letting his hand redden from the harsh light. He instinctively holds your waist at a sharp turn, firm and secure, though he lets go just as fast as if it burns, afraid that it's not a touch you'd receive had you been conscious.
Other than the carnal desire he has suppressed for you, this road trip also makes him realise the depth of the feelings he actually harbours for you. He's so doomed. He's so doomed because in what universe would a hot, sweet, popular California girl like yourself, return back the feelings of a bland, studious, quiet Korean-Aussie boy like him?
In fictions. In another lifetime. But not in Sim Jaeyun's current universe right now.
However, the Sim Jaeyun in this universe also will never know peace.
Because just as he's getting comfortable with the you-watching routine that he just recently discovered, the road has another plan for him when Jay finally, and actually, hits a bump this time.
The first bump is a mild surprise. Jake gathers it's a small bump, one that Jay overlooks while getting excited over Bon Jovi playing on the rodeo. But the aftermath brings you settling deeper into him, pressing on him in a way that has his breath hitching. Jake holds your waist on instinct.
"Oh my God, I didn't see that," Jay mutters from the front.
Jake tries to steady his breath. That's…a shock. One that shatters the soft atmosphere he created while watching you, now replaced with the same tension he's been fighting the last hour.
Jake lets go of your waist when he assumes that it's just a one-time thing. But then the bump happens again, and instead of a solid, big one—it's shaky, like they're sliding through endless, tiny jagged rocks.
"Damn bro, this road needs fixing," Jay makes another commentary. He glances at the rearview mirror. "You good, Jake?"
Jake doesn't know what to answer. "I think I am," he mumbles, voice clipped.
Is it good that you're practically bouncing in his lap, adding more pressure with almost no interval for him to recover mentally? He thinks not. But Jay doesn't have to know that.
"We're almost there," Jungwon chimes in, navigating the map. There's a shakiness in his voice that comes from the vibration caused by the bumps. "Fifteen minutes at most. We found a shorter route just now and traffic was smooth."
Fifteen minutes.
Jake thinks he might actually die in fifteen minutes.
Another bump sends your body rocking against him softly, your sleeping face scrunching for a brief second before relaxing. His grip tightens.
Fuck.
If Jay doesn't stop the car and fix this damn road himself then he's definitely going to pop a boner soon.
Jake squeezes his eyes shut when another bump rattles through the car, and then again, and again, and again until Jake can barely separate one sensation from another anymore. Until he doesn't know where he starts and where you end anymore. You shift unconsciously, settling heavier against his chest before Jay hits another bump.
This time, Jake makes a mistake of looking down at you.
He didn't notice it before, too lost in his sappy, romantic feelings for you. But right now, it's actually so damn obvious that the angle from where he sits taller than you and you lean against him, he can easily see your cleavage past the neckline of your camisole.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The road doesn't stop shaking beneath the tires, and so does his pulse as he watches your breasts bounce with every bump that comes their way. Jake averts his eyes, so stiff and so strained, but can't help letting his gaze drift back to watch the soft mounds shake.
This is bad. This is very, very bad, and Jake is nothing but a bad fucking pervert.
A particularly rough patch of road sends the entire car jolting. Your body bounces against him harder this time, more pressure and more friction that Jake almost whimpers. He tips his head back, gulping harshly as the line of his long neck glistens with a sheen of sweat.
Inside his jeans, he can feel his cock kick.
Oh, fuck—he's definitely hard now.
Oh my fucking God.
"This is the last one, promise!"
Jake doesn't even register Jay's words, or the way your head hits his jaw from impact, because his internal system is flooded with horny-filled panic. He can feel it: his dick twitching and getting semi-hard from the continuous stimulation from your bouncing. He doesn't even realise that he's now clawing at his own thighs, seeking strength that could neutralise his blooming lust, or that you are finally awake.
"Are we almost there?" You ask groggily, blissfully unaware of the raging boner forming under your ass. You sit up when the coastal view greets your blurry vision, mouth gaping in awe.
"Oh, wow!" You gasp, always excited to visit Sokcho no matter how many times you've been there. "It's beautiful as always!"
The road is smooth now, but Jake's final torture arrives in the form of you bouncing, excitedly and consciously, in his lap. You wiggle in enthusiasm, urging Jungwon to pass your phone that's been charging at the front to take some pictures and send it to the family groupchat.
"Jungwon, Jaeyun, look at those seagulls!"
Jake is seeing no seagulls. He's only seeing white hot, painful pleasure as you move in his lap, his brain dissolving into useless static. His fingers twitch, itching to grab your waist and force you to stay still, but you're so excited that he almost didn't have the heart to do it.
"Did you see that?" You lean to the window, and then shift happily when you spot kites in the sky. "We should do that too! Hey, Jay, do you think you can—"
Jake finally has had enough.
The restraint that he's been holding onto finally breaks like a taut wire getting cut. His hands snap to your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, hips almost bucking up from the delicious friction alone. His lips drop to the shell of your ears, hot, ragged breath brushing the sensitive skin as his voice lowers an octave.
"Y/N," Jake licks his dry lips, the tip of his tongue peeking through. He watches with dark eyes as the hair on your neck stands straight under his unforgiving proximity.
"Stop fucking moving."
And that's the moment you feel it.
A bulge, hard and rigid and big, poking your ass from where you rest in his lap.
Oh my fucking God.
Sim Jaeyun is hard.
You freeze, breath hitching.
Neither of you dare to move. Not even your excitement of being back to your uncle's beach house, or Jay's questioning look from where you cut your sentence, can bring you to move. No.
You couldn't, not when Jake's hard dick is nudging at you right now, so tangible and unmistakably his.
The brown-haired boy is still panting in your ear, shooting tingles through your system. His grip on your waist is almost bruising, like he's trying very, very hard to hold back from overstepping lines that shouldn't be overstepped.
You hadn't meant for this to happen. Sure, Jake is fun to tease. That boy is all broken words and nervous glances whenever you're in his proximity, and it can't be helped when he blushes prettily too.
You just can't stop yourself from seeking his attention in your own way, because aside from being a pretty boy, Jake is also such a sweetheart and so, so smart. And in an age where intellligence is a scarcity, you absolutely adore smart guys.
Especially the one who isn't condescending and is actually eager to help people like him.
So, really—you hadn't meant for this to happen. Offering to become the one without a seat is a decision you made when you consider yourself to be lighter than most of the guys, but offering to sit in Jake's lap is definitely a decision born from personal bias. You kind of knew what it would cause—seeing how stiff and awkward Jake had been—but you let it go halfway through when the soreness in your back outweighs your desire to tease.
Which has now brought you to this situation.
The car's still moving like nothing happened, and the boys are slowly stirring to life one by one. Everything is normal, except for the nails digging into your waist and the deep timbre in your ear.
You swallow harshly, not daring to move. Jake is so close, so close that you can feel every movement of his chest. You sit still in his hold, trying not to wince from how hard he's gripping your hips, and how hot you find the situation is.
His dick, despite no movement is being made, only hardens further. Jake gasps almost imperceptibly, almost matching the way your breath leaves your mouth when you notice, again, just how big he is.
Fuck. Fuck, that's so hot. Sim Jaeyun is so hot and you can feel yourself slowly getting turned on.
Without any warning, as if driven by an invisible force that urges to look at him, you finally turn around.
And Jake looks absolutely wrecked.
Beads of sweat dot on his forehead, the furrow of his eyebrows showing restraint and constraint. His lips are red from how hard he's biting them, and his previously clean, smooth glasses are now fogged up and hazy. His eyes, glazed over with tamed lust, lock into yours, half-lidded and dark.
A breath catches in your throat.
This is not the Jaeyun you know.
Or, more accurately, this is not the Jaeyun he usually shows.
This is another side of him, like seeing Jake wearing short-sleeves and showing his arms for the first time. Gone are his round, puppy eyes, now replaced with this narrowed, slit gaze that makes you shiver under his heated stare. He used to be so nervous around you, and you can feel that he's nervous now, too, but his pent-up sexual frustration seems to outweigh any rational daily-Jake thoughts.
This is still Sim Jaeyun. Just a different, never-before-seen side of Sim Jaeyun.
"Are we finally there?" Riki, the last one to awaken, stretches beside the two of you. You don't even notice that the car has pulled up into the driveway of Jay's ridiculously huge beach house from how piercing Jake's gaze is holding your eyes captive now.
Jake bites his lips, the fog in his head slowly clearing up now that the car has stopped. As if snapping out of a daze, he quickly maneuvers you into Riki's lap instead, showcasing his strength that he often hides. The latter yelps at the sudden weight and grabs your waist on instinct, before Jake darts out of the car without looking back.
"Sim Jaeyun! Bring your own fucking luggage!" Jay shouts from the car boot, but the brown-haired boy has already disappeared behind the door.
You sit, stunned in silence, still frozen and unable to speak. Not until Riki nudges at you, Heeseung and Sunoo impatiently asking the both of you to move so that they can get out.
"Are you okay, noona? Is hyung okay?"
You nod. You give the youngest a strained smile as you slowly move out of his lap and out of the car, careful not to start another war of hormones.
"We're okay."
The lie tastes bitter on your tongue.
Jake is avoiding you.
It's a foreseeable aftermath. It's inevitable. But it pains you regardless.
It gets to the point where he straight up refuses sitting next to you at dinner, which raises some eyebrows and teasing from the boys. But you know better.
He is deliberately avoiding you.
It frustrates you, really. Because every summer, it is your thing with Jake to sit in silence in the morning and read at the porch, enjoying the sunrise over wordless, comfortable silence. But now he purposely sleeps in, waking up later than usual, leaving you alone in the cold of dawn, your paperback copy of The Inheritance Games left untouched on your thighs.
At movie nights, he'll be the last one to join, just to see where you sit first to avoid being near you. He'll become extra quiet when you speak, acting like the floor is more interesting than your face, not even sparing you a glance.
And your patience is wearing thin. Almost thinner than the bikini you're wearing right now.
Fine. He can ignore you all he wants, act like he didn't just pop a boner after letting you sit in his lap. He can pretend like you never affected him, pretend like nothing happened, but one thing you know is that Jake could never betray his attraction for you.
So, be fucking it. You don't care if it's petty to pick the skimpiest bikini you own today, the one in hot pink that always contours the line of your cleavage, perfectly bunching up your tits and making them look rounder. The one that you know will drive Jake crazy from how bouncy your ass looks, basically confirmed when his eyes can't seem to stop trailing after you even after you dive into the pool.
You come to the surface with a gaping mouth, letting the water slide down the lines on your body, and make no show of hiding yourself from looking straight at Jake.
That coward has the nerves to look away after staring at you like a touch-deprived teenager.
"Is Sim Jaeyun single?"
The reason why you always agree to join the all-boys road trip is because it's not exactly all-boys. There are girls who live nearby. Girls you're acquainted with from how often you follow your cousin to his beach house every summer. Spoiled rich girls whose parents come from the same tax bracket as your and Jay's family.
And one of those girls is shamelessly checking Jake out now, hungry eyes drinking in the way his wet, long-sleeved shirt sticks to his torso, outlining the faint lines of his abdomen that he never shows. She's sitting on the edge of the pool, feet-dipping while you take a break from your swim.
You narrow your eyes, an ugly spark of jealousy blooming in your chest. You don't like the implication of the question, and you absolutely hate the way she's looking at him now.
"Don't even think about it."
Your neighbour only shrugs and continues her eye-fucking. "He's so my type. So nerdy, so smart. I wonder how he'll look like without the glasses?"
You will poke her eyes before she gets the chance to. "Use your own imagination," you hiss, almost bitter when you realise that you also have barely seen him without his glasses.
Jake has sensitive eyes that react badly to contact lenses, which explains his preference for thick glasses than going out without them. Even now, when everyone is fooling around Jay's enormous pool, his thick, black-rimmed glasses perch on the bridge of his tall nose—the nose you hope you can put into good use one day.
The girl only hums, half-listening to you. She sighs dreamily. "I can't believe that I have his number."
At this point, the jealousy has turned so ugly you're actually seeing green. Or red. Or whatever that Cortis song sounds like. "You have his number?"
She finally pays attention to you. "Yeap! I asked him yesterday. I don't know what I should say to start the conversation though," she pouts, glancing back at Jake who's now sitting on the side with Sunghoon, sipping on coconut water. "Should I ask him if I can join dinner at your house tonight?"
Jake gave his number to her?
You grit your teeth. The hurt has materialised into a knife, twisting in your chest in a sharp pain disguised in jealousy. So, while Jake's been avoiding you like a fucking plague, he's been spending his time giving away his number to any curious girl? He's been talking with other girls while leaving you with radio silence, one that you didn't deserve because it was him who popped that boner?!
You are the one who's supposed to ignore him—not the other way around!
What a fucking loser.
You can't stop the bitterness from leaking through your voice when you finally speak.
"It's me and Jay that you should ask—not Sim Jaeyun. And no, you cannot join dinner at my house tonight."
You leave her dumbfounded by the pool, seething in anger that the water on your skin could steam from the heat alone. You march to the slide doors, giving Jake and Sunghoon the nastiest side-eye you could ever give when the latter calls out to you, and slam the door behind.
Whatever. Or not whatever. Sim Jaeyun is a fucking pervert and a jerk and a coward, and stupidly hot while being so oblivious to how hot he actually is. Whatever! You don't care.
You don't care that he barely speaks a word to you. You don't care that he leaves any room you walk into. You don't care that he's flirting with other girls and giving away his number willingly when you had his on default for being Jay's younger cousin, and from Jay himself at that.
The corner of your eyes burn.
You wish you didn't care.
You're ignoring Jake.
Jake knows this the moment you no longer come to the porch to read. Instead, every morning is now spent in the garden with Jungwon, tending to Jay's mom's flowers. After, you'll brew some hibiscus tea that you pluck from the garden and share it with Sunoo and Riki.
And when he walks into the kitchen to get some food, you no longer meet his eyes, or save that apple that he knows you know he likes to eat for breakfast. You let Heeseung eat all of them! It's so—so unfair, because he likes apples and you know it!
It sends Jake to the end of a cliff. Why are you suddenly being like this?
His sanity is stretching thin as he tries to work his brain. Why the sudden change? Is it because of his silence? But he's just embarrassed to face you! Or—did you find out about it?
Genuine horror floods his mind when he thinks, oh no, you must've realised how disgusting he truly is. How dirty-minded and perverted he is, that every day he has to take cold showers three times a day whenever he catches a glimpse of you.
You in your sleepwear. You in your casual shirt. You in shorts.
You in bikini.
Jake has fallen out of any point of salvation, because God, could any man get this horny just from a mere look? In the back of his mind, he knows it's the image of you sitting in his lap that ignited the beginning of his undoing, but the continuous hard-on he gets whenever he's around you is definitely, entirely on him.
And Jake, oh so sweet Jake, doesn't dare touch himself to the thought of you. No. He'd rather leave his balls blue, take cold showers every morning, every evening, and every night, and let his dick go from standing tall like a national anthem was being played to becoming flaccid under the cold water without any action. He doesn't even have the guts to touch his own fucking dick, the guilt blocking him from doing anything to relieve himself.
So—did you find out about it? Because if you did, then Jake could understand the cold shoulders you're giving him.
But Jake is a mere man—maybe a bit perverted, and a bit too horny despite his image, so he couldn't stop himself from getting hard the moment he sees you walking into the living room in nothing but an oversized white tee that falls off your shoulder. He grabs the nearest cushion and places it on top of his crotch, blood already rushing south when he sees the strap of your black bra.
This is why he has to go to church sometimes; to balance everything out. Because Einstein never talked about the solution or formula to cure men's (Jake's) sexual desires that seem endless. And sexual desires that come from seeing a strap of a bra alone.
Whatever it is, Jake's soul has almost left his body, already tuning out of his surroundings. He doesn't even realise that Jay and Riki are wrestling for the TV remote, and accidentally sending said remote flying onto the floor just a few feet away from him.
He only comes to when you stand in front of him, back facing him, and bend over to pick up the remote.
You. Bend. Over. In. Front. Of. Him.
In a second, Jake has a full view of your ass. The shirt rides up slightly, revealing white shorts that stretches across the round flesh as you bend over to reach the remote and Jake feels like he's brought back to the car when he was fighting demons as you unintentionally ground his crotch with every movement.
His grip on the cushion tightens, head dizzy from the way you practically shove your butt in his face.
Jake releases a shaky exhale.
He can see the outline of your panties and wonders if it matches your black bra.
And he can see the outline of his doomed future if he stays in the living room any longer.
"Whose turn is it to pick the movie?" You casually ask, now straightening up as if you just didn't flash Jake with your perky ass.
"Jake hyung," Jungwon replies from the center of the long couch, carding his hand through Sunoo's silky hair, the blonde who's now laying down his head on his lap. "It's his turn."
Your face remains expressionless as you turn to the glasses boy. But instead of taking the remote from your hand, Jake stands up, avoiding eye contact and clutching the cushion tight over his crotch.
"I-I suddenly feel sick! Gonna skip tonight's movie, bye!"
Then he flees the living room, leaving behind six confused men and one very angry, very upset girl.
Jake thinks he deserves a medal for surviving the living room.
Or perhaps an exorcism.
The moment his bedroom door clicks shut behind him, Jake drops the cushion onto the floor and drags both hands down his face with a groan. His glasses nearly fall off his nose in the process.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
He paces once across the room, then twice.
Outside, he can still hear the muffled sounds of the movie downstairs—Riki yelling dramatically at a character, Sunoo complaining about spoilers, Jay laughing too loudly. Normal sounds. Normal people.
Meanwhile Jake feels like he's one accidental glimpse of your shoulder away from committing a crime.
His eyes squeeze shut.
That white shirt.
The black bra strap.
The way you bent over in front of him so casually, completely unaware that Jake nearly ascended right there on Jay's living room couch.
"Fuck," he whispers weakly to himself.
Jake drops onto the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees.
Maybe he should take another cold shower. That would make four today.
"I should sleep," he mutters to himself, breath shaky. "S-Sleep can help with motion sickness and horniness."
With a newfound resolution, he turns off the lamp and settles under the blanket. His movement is stiff and awkward, overly aware of the tent straining his shorts. Once he pulls the blanket over his chest, Jake closes his eyes, forcing sleep into his system.
Only, the image of you swimming in your hot pink bikini flashes behind his eyelids.
"No, stop. Not that," he whispers, brows scrunching in protest. He shakes his head, as if physically removing the image away, and tries again.
This time, the image of you in his lap comes back, stripped down to heated skin and soft breaths, your body moving against his in ways that make his stomach twist.
His eyes fly open. The image is so clear and vivid, thanks to his photographic memory and insane imagination—the very thing that's been saving him in the academic department now serving as the tool that brings him to his downfall.
His cock twitches involuntarily.
"N-No," he pants, chest moving rapidly. He grips the edge of the blanket, knuckles turning white. "I—Stop—"
Then he remembers just now: you bent over, giving him a delicious access to his ass-shaped sufferings, and Jake almost whimpers from the flashback alone.
The room rises in temperature, the air conditioner doing nothing to tone down the feverish lust spreading through his body. Jake finally relents and discards the blanket, glasses all fogged up as he stares at the bulge under his shorts.
"I'm sorry," he whimpers, slipping off his shorts and boxers until they bunch up around his knees. "I'm so fucking sorry."
His cock springs free, standing tall in the dimness of his room. The tip glistens, already drooling with precum that shows no sign of stopping. With shaky hands, hesitance still edging around his lust, Jake finaly touches himself.
He has to bite down hard on his lips to muffle the sound threatening to escape. His hand stutters, the feeling of finally rubbing some relief after days of holding back comes crashing down on him. His head spins from how heavy his cock is in his hold, veins protuding like they're going to combust.
He slowly starts moving his hand, lathering up precum to ease the glide. His head tips back, a strangled sound catches behind his throat.
"Oh, God," his head spins, sparks of lust bursting at the tip of his fingers. "Oh, fuck—"
Through his hazy gaze of the blurry lenses, Jake tightens his grip slightly. A moan escapes his lips at the force, his cock only getting heavier in his hand. He plays with the mushroom tip of his dick, thumbing the slit and hissing when it sends pleasure up his spine.
"Ngh—" his eyes squeeze shut, brain putting up pieces of his memory of you. His body jerks when the rough pad of his thumb touches the underside of his cock, and as if on cue, the image of your jiggly breasts inside the car flashes behind his closed eyes.
"Fuck—Y/N," Jake sobs, picking up his pace. His wrist turns and flicks, biceps flexing hard at the speed he's going. Guilt starts accumulating inside his chest the more he thinks of you, of your voice, of your gaze, of your scent—but guilt isn't enough to stop Jake from chasing his own release.
"'So sorry," he chokes, letting go of his bottom lip, bitten-red and swollen. He imagines it was your hand instead of his, smaller and softer, with those manicured nails that he loves so much. How tiny your hand would look around his hard dick, trying to grip his length in its fully erect state.
Jake isn't inexpereinced. He's had his own fair share of sexcapades with a few people, and he's always been told that he's bigger than average. The big dick that he hides under his pants, further concealed by his nervous persona that only certain girls find cute.
But seeing his state right now, Jake thinks he's the furthest thing from cute.
He's pathetic.
Pathetic and gross and disgusting, feeling bad for jerking off to the thoughts of you but still unable to retract his hand and stop. The sound of his cries that he fails to hide fills up the space, and for the first time in days he's very glad that he won paper-rock-scissors during room assignment.
"Oh, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N," he chants, mouth gaping open when he can feel himself close. His wrist is already tired and numb from the relentless pace he's set, the slick sound of his sinful act matching the roar of his blood rushing in his ears.
"Please, please, 'm gonna cum," he sobs, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. His hips lift off the mattress. "Please—"
"Do not fucking cum, Sim Jaeyun."
Jake's entire body locks up.
His wrist stills immediately, pleasure crashing into horror so fast it makes his stomach twist. For a second, he genuinely thinks his heart stops beating.
The room goes dead silent except for his ragged breathing.
Through fogged-up lenses and teary eyes, Jake stares at you standing by the door, unable to process the fact that you're actually here.
That you heard him.
That you saw him.
Oh my fucking God.
His hand jerks away from himself like he’s been burned, chest heaving violently as he scrambles to sit up straighter. The blanket tangles around his legs from how abruptly he moves.
"I—"
Nothing comes out.
Jake has never felt this level of humiliation before.
Not when he failed his chemistry olympiad in tenth grade. Not when he tripped in front of his entire lecture hall. Not even when Jungwon found his hidden Pokémon card collection at nineteen.
This is worse. So much worse.
Because it's you.
You, standing there in that oversized white shirt slipping off your shoulder again, eyes dark and unreadable as you look at him sprawled across the bed like something shameful.
Jake feels sick. His face burns so hot he thinks he might actually pass out.
"S-Sorry," he chokes out instinctively, because apologising is the only thing his brain knows how to do right now. "I didn't—I wasn't—I—"
His voice cracks miserably.
Jake is going to cry.
What should he even say in this situation? Sorry that you caught him jerking off to you? Sorry that he's such a nerd, such a loser that the only time he could talk smoothly with you was when he was defining what motion sickness was, but never had the courage to tell you how much he likes you and how much you affect me? Sorry that he's such a pervert that he thinks of you in positions way too inappropriate to be just friends?
The weight of his arousal sits heavy against his thigh, a testament to a newfound, lifelong embarrassment that he'll carry to his grave.
Jake squirms under your heated gaze, and quickly covers his crotch with his blanket when you slip into his bedroom wordlessly. The door clicks shut, the sound amplified by the heavy silence hanging in the air. His body tenses up.
Oh my God—he messed up, didn't he? Jake hangs his head low in shame, tears gathering along his lashlines.
"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to…"
His vision turns blurry. Fuck, you must hate him now.
"I-It's wrong—I know that—I'm sorry—ah!"
Jake looks up in surprise when your bold hand cups his erection. There's angry lines in your forehead, a sneer on your mouth, but the nasty look you're giving him does nothing to soothe down his arousal.
If anything, twisted as it is—it turns him on even more.
"Couldn't even look me in the eye downstairs," you begin, "but you here you are, jerking off to me like I wouldn't find out?"
The venom in your voice hurts him. You're being mean with your words, and it hurts his feelings but Jake couldn't care less. His mind is a messy jumbles of guilt and pleasure and shame, so all he does is cry and shake his head.
"I-I'm sorry, Y/N—"
"Are you really sorry?" you tighten your grip on his cock, one knee dipping into the mattress. "Your dick doesn't seem sorry though."
Jake wants to cry—oh, he's already crying. His hand curls into the sheets beneath him, unable to form coherent words when you start rocking the heel of your palm on his hard-on. The friction from the blanket and the pressure from your hand only spark electric pleasure through his system.
Within seconds, Jake is all hard again—even harder than before.
"Tell me, Jaeyunnie. Did all of this happen because I sat in your lap?"
Jake whimpers pathetically. You knew. Of course you knew. You're not only hot and pretty and kind, you're also smart like him, so in tune with your surroundings. You're a little mean right now, but it's okay because Jake believes that he deserves this after avoiding you without any explanation.
"Answer me, Sim Jaeyun."
"Yes," he croaks, shame burning his face red. His eyes screw shut. The admission sets his being on fire, skin flushed from embarrassment. "O-Oh, God, y-yes."
He cracks one eye open when you don't reply. Instead, he's met with your fiery gaze. The edges have softened with lust, like you're also affected by this, but you're good at keeping your control.
Unlike him, who's unraveling like a loose thread under your touch alone.
Jake almost whines when you retract your hand, but the sound is muffled with a gasp when you yank the blanket open. He instinctively closes his crotch area with his hands, but you're fast to slap his wrists away.
"I'm so pissed off, Jaeyun," you mutter, swinging your leg over his thighs so now you're straddling him. You fix him with your sharp eyes, hand finding his dick again.
"You've been acting like we're strangers and it hurts me so bad."
Jake's mouth hangs open as you gather his precum and start working your wrist around his cock. His brain barely registers your words, too lost in a cloud of lust, but when he finally processes it, he desperately shakes his head.
He wants to apologise again and again and again, because he is truly sorry—he didn't know how affected you were. How could he not, when you're always described as everything out of his league, but he's always described as everything that doesn't fit your type?
"I'm sorry, I was just—fuck—just ashamed—" he gasps, hips bucking into your touch. "Didn't mean to—t-to hurt y—ngh, Y/N, faster please."
You coo at him, feigning sympathy as you set a ruthless pace on his cock. Jake is big—something that isn't a surprise anymore since that day you sat in his lap—but the sheer size of him is enough to make your mouth water and your panties damp.
Damn these nerdy boys. Acting all shy and innocent when they have this monstrousity hiding behind those ugly glasses.
"Faster? You wanna cum, Jaeyunnie?" you tilt your head. Jake nods frantically. "I don't think you deserve it, though. Why not ask from those girls you gave your number to?"
Something sharp twists in his stomach. Jake's eyes fly open, almost cowering when you give him a distasteful look. He grabs your arms desperately and shakes his head.
"N-No! She asked me first—" you put more pressure and Jake damn near loses his mind. "—said she needs—help—w-with Physi—cs—"
You roll your eyes. It's that easy to fool him? Can't he see the way those girls fuck him with their eyes? Without waiting for his sentence to finish, you sink down and take him in your mouth.
"Oh, fuck!" Jake screams, accidentally thrusting up his hips. He bites his lips, glasses crooked on the bridge of his nose as you take him deeper, tracing the line of his veins with your sinful tongue. "Oh, Y/N—please."
You hum around his length, tongue swirling as you hollow your cheeks to deepen the suction. Jake nearly busts from that alone, mind melting into a puddle of your name, the wet heat of your mouth serving as a better pleasure than his own hand.
You start bobbing your head up and down, marveling in the way the weight of his dick sits on your tongue. He's so big that you're so close to choking, but you don't care. You need to remind Jake how stupid he's been acting and how stupid he is if he thinks that you were not just as attracted toward him.
Jake sobs into his hands, hips jerking with every touch of his tip hitting the back of your throat. His head is getting dizzier, he can feel the coil in his stomach getting tighter and he knows that anytime soon, he will come undone on your skillful tongue.
But just as he's about to reach that high, you let go of him with a pop.
"No!" Jake whines, tears sliding down his cheeks. You're so mean. "P-Please let me cum."
"Not yet, nerdy boy." You mutter, red lips slick with saliva and precum. Jake can only sob, dick throbbing in need and desperation.
This is the punishment he deserves for being a jerk. He knows that, but he can't seem to stop crying. God, he's so pathetic.
Then he feels movement on his thighs. He blinks through the foggy lenses and lets out a breathless moan when you lift up your shirt and shorts and discard them away, leaving you in nothing but a pair of bra and panties. His mouth starts salivating at the display of your beautiful body, and Jake swears he almost cums when he sees that you're indeed wearing black panties.
Oh, fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Just as he imagined—God, you're so perfect he wants to kiss you.
But instead of a kiss, you push his at his chest instead. "Lie down."
And like the obedient puppy that he is, Jake follows your word, carefully descending his back onto the mattress. He's still sniffling from the previous denial, but now it's mixed with anticipation of what's to come when you hover above him.
You trace a gentle finger along the tall bridge of his nose, a barely-there touch that makes him shiver. With a slow tap on the tip of his nose, you finally speak.
"Did anyone ever ride your nose, Jaeyunnie?"
H-His nose?
Girls always compliment his nose, but he's never given it many thoughts as to why they did that. "N-No. Never."
There's a wicked smile on your face as you stand on your knees. Jake watches with a mouth gaping open as you make a show of shimmying down your panties, painfully and traitorously slowly that he almost rips it with his hand.
"Ah, what a shame," you sigh dreamily. "Guess I have to be the first one then."
Once your panties are out of the picture, Jake is instanly hit with a wave of your arousal. Your pussy glistens under the moonlight, soaked with slick and dripping with need. Jake inhales shakily, stopping himself from darting out his tongue to get a taste.
Fuck. He's sure he has actually died in the car and this is heaven because not even in his wildest dream did he get to have you like this.
Too lost in his reverie, Jake belatedly notices that you have removed his glasses. Despite your mean words and your mean actions, the caresses of your thumb on his cheeks are so gentle that he thinks he's hallucinating.
"You're so handsome, Jaeyun," you murmur. "But I bet you'll look better buried between my thighs."
You give him no time to recover from your crude words when you slowly move to straddle his head. Then, with a hand in his hair, you descend, letting the tip of his nose nudge at your clit.
And oh my fucking God—you smell so divine.
"Ah, Jaeyunnie," you moan, rocking your hips slowly to test the waters. "Your nose feels so good."
You sound even more divine. Jake's eyes roll to the back, savouring the way your sinful moans fall on his ears as you use his nose to get off. The bridge of his nose slides through your folds—wet and sticky and so sweet that he can't get enough of it.
Jake wraps his arms around your thighs to give you support, and another moan escapes your lips upon seeing his veiny arms around your supple skin. He stares at you through half-lidded eyes, groaning despite your cunt suffocating him, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure to your system.
"Ngh—Jaeyun—"
He can't breathe, and he can't hear properly from how hard you're clamping his head with your legs, but he can't deny that this is the best way to die. Being suffocated by your leaking pussy sounds like a dream death compared to dying in Jay's old SUV.
You keep your rhythm, rocking your hips back and forth, grinding your clit on his nose and dragging your folds on the tall bridge until the sharp tip of his nose catches at your hole. The grip you have in his hair hurts his scalp, but everything is worth the pain when Jake can watch you fall apart on his face, his own cock pulsing with a trembling need to cum.
"Ah—ah—Jaeyun oppa—"
Fuck. Fuck that sacred nickname.
The dynamics between you two often makes Jake forget the fact that he is indeed older than you. Coming from the States, it's uncommon for you to address people with such honorifics.
But right now, using that very honorific against him ignites something inside him; a carnal desire that's been thrumming low in his guts, waiting to be unleashed.
This time, Jake barely stops himself from stealing a taste. He darts out his tongue, prodding your hole with the tip, and hums in satisfaction when your stance falters slightly.
"Don't," you hiss, but there's no heat in it. Jake takes it as a sign to continue, licking more into your weeping cunt until your pace turns sloppy.
He doesn't care. You're probably gonna be so mad at him and punish him more, but whatever it is you have prepared can wait. Right now, Jake is having the best pussy of his life—barely breathing but still eating so, so fucking well.
"Jaeyun—stop—"
"No," Jake protests when you try to get up, pulling you down until the full weight of your body rests on his face.
Oh God, choking on pussy has never felt so good.
"Sim Jaeyun!" You squirm, feeling the stirring inside your belly getting wilder. Despite your weak attempts, your hips keeps grinding on his nose, showing no signs of stopping. You throw your head back.
You knew his nose would be the best thing to ride on, but hearing the slurps of your slick and his saliva—the sinful noises of him feasting on your cunt—makes you almost regret not letting him eat you out first.
"Ngh—Jaeyun—I'm close—"
Jake pulls your hips harder, letting you grind your clit on the tip of his nose as his tongue pushes into your hole mercilessly. You let out a high-pitched scream, muscles pulling tight at his ministrations. The double stimulations are fast pushing you over the edge.
Soon, white hot pleasure crashes into you, your vision turning black momentarily. It's so blurry and messy that you haven't realised that you've been screaming his name raw, hips unrelenting to chase the high. Jake swallows every drop of your sweet nectar, moaning into your spasming hole as he licks it clean.
Fuck. He's already desperate to have another round.
When you come down from your orgasm, hair matted to your forehead, you look down at him furiously.
"Let me go! I told you not to do it!" You attempt to sit up, but Jake doesn't let go, shaking his head with a pout. His nose and chin are drenched with your release, it's so sinful and filthy and you can't lie that you like seeing him so wrecked and fucked over like this.
"Can I have more? Please," he begs, kissing your inner thigh unhurriedly. He's already so addicted to the taste of you, Jake thinks he's gonna die if he doesn't have another fill. "I'll be so good to you, Y/N. Wanna eat you out so bad."
You grit your teeth, pushing away the temptation to save your pride. "No. Get up, Jaeyun."
But Jake is stubborn. He's so desperate to have more of you that he doesn't mind if he's leaving his own cock neglected and balls blue. "Please, I need it bad," he nudges at your pussy with his finger, pupils blown wide at the strings of sticky cum decorating your folds. "Fuck, please, Y/N, I want to eat you out."
"I said get up, Jaeyun."
"Y/N—"
"Jake."
The sharpness in your voice cuts through the haze instantly.
Jake stills immediately.
The desperation in his eyes flickers into something softer, more uncertain, like a scolded puppy finally realising he’s crossed a line. His grip on your thighs loosens at once, chest rising and falling hard beneath you.
The sound of his English name on your tongue feels foreign and almost painful, because it lacks the usual warmth and intimacy that your 'Jaeyun' usually holds. Yet, something inside him pulses harder, liking the change more than he'd like to admit.
“S-Sorry,” he whispers automatically, voice rough. “I just…”
He doesn’t even know how to explain it. How could he? That hearing you moan his name made him lose every coherent thought in his brain? That he’s spent days trying to stay away from you only to end up here, beneath you, completely ruined anyway?
You study him for a long moment before finally shifting off his face.
“Sit up.”
Jake obeys instantly.
The movement is clumsy and needy. His hair is a mess, lips swollen, face still flushed from lack of oxygen and desire. Without his glasses, his eyes look unbearably open like this—too honest, too vulnerable.
You cup his jaw gently, the touch losing its cruelty. Jake melts into it.
"There he is," you murmur softly, fixing his bangs that are obscuring his eyesight.
Jake can feel his heart stutter traitorously. This version of you—tender and sweet—a glimpse of the usual-you, is always more dangerous than any teasing.
Wordlessly, you tug at his shirt, and Jake obediently holds up his arms to let you peel away the fabric. Your eyes flick downward, amusement tugging at your lips.
"You know," you start, fingers trailing slowly down his sculpted chest, "for someone who acted terrified of touching me in the car…"
He groans softly, already embarrassed.
"…You were pretty damn desperate down there, Jaeyun."
His face burns hotter. Fine, he's just a touch-starved man, desperate for you in every way possible. But how could he not? Have you even looked at yourself?
"I-I can't help it…" His eyes drop to your lips. "You tasted so good."
A breathy chuckle escapes you, quiet and fond. But to Jake's ears, he's already hearing the wedding bells chime.
And suddenly the humiliation twisting in his chest eases into something warmer when you climb into his lap again, turning slowly until your back presses against his chest.
The exact same position. That fucking position in the car that has his mind on an endless frenzy that he thinks he was genuinely getting crazy.
Jake goes completely still beneath you.
“Oh,” you whisper, settling against him deliberately. “Now you’re quiet again?”
His hands hover uncertainly near your hips, like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you.
“You’re mean,” he mumbles weakly against your shoulder. You laugh, one hand patting his hair as the other one aligning his neglected cock on your entrance.
"But I know you like it, Jaeyunnie."
At the same time you presses on the nickname, you sink onto his cock slowly, letting the bulbous head of his length spear you open.
The both of you moan simultaneously. Jake's hands find puchase on your waist, trying his best to stop from manhandling you to just fucking bounce on his dick and letting you adjust. You, on the other hand, let the stretch burn, your walls spasming to accommodate his length.
"S-So big," you stutter, taking him inch by inch. Jake drops his head on your shoulder, his own breathing ragged. "So—full—"
When he finally fits inside you to the brim, you let out a long, drawn-out moan. He fills you up so good that you can feel every vein against your walls, every pulse kissing your insides. It's a dizzying experience that prompts you to start moving your hips.
Jake’s fingers dig into your waist, trembling.
Not because he wants to stop you.
Because he’s trying so hard not to lose himself completely.
The position alone is enough to send him spiraling—your back against his chest, your body in his lap exactly like the car ride, except now there’s no seatbelt digging into his side, no boys teasing from the front seat, no restraint left between the two of you.
Just you and him.
And the devastating realisation that you wanted him too.
Jake lets out a broken sound against your shoulder when you move again, his forehead falling against your skin. His entire body feels feverish, overwhelmed by too much sensation and too many emotions crashing into him at once.
"Wasn't this what got you so hard, Jaeyunnie?" You pant between breathless moans. "Me in your lap, bouncing on your cock like this?"
"Ngh—" A strangled noise escapes his throat. Jake watches with bated breath as your hands find the clasp of your bra and finally let the two soft mounds free. Now, he badly wants you to turn around, eager to relive the scene of your bouncy breasts in Jay's car.
"Did you not—ah—crave this?"
You arch your back, pleasure tingling every nerves as his cock drags against your walls. Jake feels his dick throb inside your hole, the same position that ruined him now had him completely at your mercy.
"S-So tight," he whimpers, mouth falling open at the way you clench around his cock and roll your hips. "S-So fucking tight, Y/N, fuck."
Jake clings onto you desperately, bucking his hips to chase your movement. But you hold down a firm hand on his thigh, completely in charge.
"Don't," you warn, grinding down on him in a way that makes your ass ripple. "Or I'll get up and leave."
Jake freezes instantly.
The warning slices straight through him, sharp and effective. His hands tighten on your waist, but he forces his hips back against the mattress despite every instinct screaming at him to chase you harder.
“O-Okay,” he breathes quickly. “Okay. Sorry.”
God, he sounds wrecked.
You can feel the way his thighs tremble beneath yours, the strain in his breathing every time you move your hips slowly against him. Jake drops his forehead between your shoulder blades with a weak groan, like simply holding himself back is physically painful.
"I'm still mad at you," you murmur. You roll your hips again, faster this time, and Jake nearly whimpers into your shoulder. His jaw clenches so hard he might pop a vessel.
"Are you sure you're not the one—" you moan, your thighs burning from how fast you're exerting yourself. The wet sound of skin hitting skin starts getting louder the harder you slam down your hips. "The one who's being—mean?"
Jake sobs into your skin, half-regretting, half-dizzy. The tight heat of your cunt pulses and flutters around his dick and he genuinely feels horrible for only thinking using his other head now.
Even so, he still manages to apologise again. "I'm s-sorry—"
You clench around him on purpose. Jake digs his nails deeper. "Fuck—"
"Stop fucking apologising," you seethe, voice trembling as you feel your release getting near. "Delete her number or I'll sit in Sunghoon's lap when we get back to Seoul."
There's no bite in your threat. It's just a spur-of-the-moment kind of things, one that you say just to rile him up.
But Jake takes your words like a verdict. He snakes an arm around your waist, lips worshipping your skin in desperate, wet kisses.
"I'm sorry, Y/N, darling," he begs, tears clinging to his lashes. He bites his lips in an attempt to stop himself from moaning because he's so, so close. "I will block her. Fuck—I will delete her number. P-Please don't sit with S-Sunghoon—"
His speech is interrupted by a high-pitched whine. Jake hasn't come all night, he's nothing more than a thread waiting to snap. The moment you bounce harder and faster, the supple skin of your butt jiggling wilder, Jake can feel that he's about to come.
"Y/N—ah—p-puh—lease—" he whimpers, voice scratching at his throat. "'M close, 'm g-gonna cum—"
But he should've known that you're so, so mean.
The moment you lift off his cock, Jake genuinely sobs out loud, thrashing under you.
"No! No, please—" he chokes, hiding his crying face behind his hands, too shattered when his orgasm being denied again. "Please, no—I wanna cum, please."
You turn around and the sight of him—red-faced, wet cheeks, lips trembling—it softens your heart. You quickly pull his wrists and rest his hands on your hips, your own cupping his cheeks.
"I'm sorry, baby," you shush him, blowing kisses to the tip of his nose as you take him again. Jake whimpers quietly. "I'm so sorry—I'll let you cum this time, hm?"
Jake weakly nods, then lets out a soft moan at the familiar feeling of your walls enveloping him. You move again, already sore, but you no longer have it in you to torture your poor, poor Jaeyun. This time, you immediately begin with a fast pace, giving him a show of your tits bouncing with every thrust.
"Ah—fuck—Jaeyunnie—" you bite your lips, expression so erotic that it has the brown-haired boy drooling. "Glasses—like you better with glasses."
Jake is too dazed to register your words, so you pick the glasses on your own and put them on him. And there he is—your sweet, sweet boy, your Jaeyunnie that you adore so much, your Jaeyun that thinks it's bad for wanting you this much.
"S-So—handsome, Jaeyunnie," you roll your hips, chest arching into his face. "My nerdy boy, you're mine, hm?"
Jake physically cannot take it anymore. The sight of you on top of him, bouncing on his cock like your life depends on it, putting on his glasses and calling him yours—it's too much for Sim Jaeyun who's never been given this kind of attention and affection.
Especially from you.
His lips move, but you can barely hear him.
"Hm? What did you say?"
"I said I'm sorry, Y/N," his nails dig into your waist. "I'm so fucking sorry, please don't be mad at me."
Your brows furrow in confusion, but before you know it, Jake is already flipping you around, changing your position in one swift movement. You have half a second to gain your breath before the boy hovering over you pulls you closer by your ankles and throws your legs over his shoulders.
"I'm s-sorry," Jake stutters, slipping his dick back into your cunt and starts thrusting fast. "I-I can't hold it anymore."
Despite the showcase of his strength, Jake looks absolutely ruined. There's a flicker of guilt in his eyes, but from the pace he's railing you, you know that his lust ovverrides whatever little guilt he has.
Soon enough, the air smells so thickly of sex. The sound of his balls slapping your ass, accompanied by your high-pitched moans and his groans are the only one filling up the space, to the point that you're sure one of the boys must've heard you.
It's so hot and filthy that Jake's glasses are all fogged up again. His grip on your waist is now leaving bruises, but you don't care because all you can think of is Jake, Jake's big cock, Jake's stupid glasses and just Jake, Jake, Jake.
"F-f-f-fuck," he exhales shakily, splitting you open with his cock. "I-I'm so—close—"
You thrash around, fisting the sheets until it tears from the force of your nails. "Jaeyun—" you gasp when he keeps abusing that spot that has you seeing stars. "Oh, fuck—Jaeyun—harder—"
Jake leans forward, straining his arms on either side of your head. His glasses slide down his slick nose slightly when he bends down to capture your lips in his thick ones. You both moan into the kiss, finally getting the taste of each other, tongues already clashing for more.
Jake licks into your mouth, hips never faltering, and sucks on your bottom lip. You whimper, the sensation becoming too much until you're just breathing against his lips, all heat and teeth and saliva. Jake groans.
"I-I'm gonna—cum—" he gasps against your mouth, face scrunching in pleasure when you clench around him. "O-Oh my fucking God, Y/N, fuck—please let me cum inside."
His hands find your waist again, thrusting harder than before. His head drops to your shoulder as he begs, again and again.
"P-Please let me cum inside, please," he whimpers, voice needy and whiny. "Please—I'm gonna—I wanna—"
"Just cum," you moan when his teeth scrape against your skin. "Jae—Jaeyunnie—"
Jake groans. With last few, deliberate thrusts, he finally cums—a full-body orgasm that has him shuddering, his cock spurting out rope after thick rope of his release, painting your walls white.
You follow him just a second after, vision blurring for a moment as your second orgasm rips through your body. Your mouth falls open on a silent scream, eyes rolling back from how delicious your climax is.
Jake takes a long moment breathing into your ear, grinding his hips slowly before he's finally pulling out. He hisses as he drags out his cock, careful not to overstimulate you, and watches in awe as white fluid flowing out of your pulsing cunt.
"Oh my fucking God."
You breathe out a laugh, sounding breathless and disbelieving. Seeing Jake sitting still by your legs, you open your arms toward him.
"C'mere, Jaeyunnie. Let's cuddle for a moment before washing up—I'm too sore to walk."
Jake perks up at that. Gone is the hungry, lust-driven boy a few moments ago, now replaced with the shy, kicked puppy holding his tail between his legs.
"Cuddle?" he echoes, unsure. "Are you not mad at me?"
"I could never be mad at you for too long," you reply, giving him a reassuring smile.
It gives Jake a flicker of hope. He scoots closer, still cautious and observing, like approaching a scared animal.
"But I avoided you…"
You drop your arms and pretend to think, making a show of tapping your chin with a finger.
"You're right. You were mean for that. Why don't you carry me to the bathroom and clean me up so we can cuddle afterwards?"
Hearing that, Jake finally relaxes, his tight muscles loosening. With an eager smile, he scoops an arm under your knees and your back, and then lifts you up easily as if you weigh nothing.
"Your wish is my command, my princess."
The next morning, you receive knowing looks from the boys. There are lingering stares on your neck from where Jake was mauling your skin last night, but you have no problem showing them off.
Jake, on the other hand, is on the edge of another breakdown.
"So, Jake," Jay starts, already planning a mischievous teasing inside his head. "How did it feel like to get railed—"
"I did not get railed!" he squeaks, ears blushing red. "I-I was the one who railed her! Right, Y/N?"
There's a laugh bubbling inside your chest as you watch Jake squirm under the relentless teasing of his friends. It felt good to be the one in charge, but after that display of strength and the way he manhandled you last night?
You don't mind having him on top of you.
But the both of you know who's truly in charge.
And if you choose to sit in his lap again, this time grinding and shifting on purpose that he gets hard until the car reaches Seoul, nobody has to know that.
Well, maybe Riki knows. But who cares.
wow okay
permanent taglist: @kristynaaah @seungiesdoll @in-somnias-world @rikismists @loviseamms @ikeupop @k3nza @heezeunx @ot7archives @petulapetula
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no kiss is a... punishment? ─ ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊
𓊆박성훈 x fem reader𓊇 💌 heavy making out, spit play, tongue play, teasing, edging, dildo/vibrator use, sunghoon's tied, light bondage, grinding, reader is not a dom, sunghoon is not a sub but he sure as hell act like one here... very whiny, needy, obsessed sunghoon!
𓆩♡𓆪 eeekk part two of !! a kiss is a sex !! >w< sunghoon is CRAZY here oml this might just be some of the filthiest non-penetration thing i've ever written lol. if you enjoy pls give it lots of love and feedbacks! tysm <3
“no.”
“please?”
“no.”
you rolled your eyes, trying to stay focused on the book in your hands as you snuggled deeper into the sofa. your boyfriend was kneeling on the carpet in front of you like a pathetic puppy—both of his hands gently holding your feet, thumbs pressing slow, soothing circles into your soles.
sunghoon had been massaging the for the past twenty minutes—which was so, so nice—but not his attempt to butter you up.
“please, baby,” he murmured. “just one kiss,” he whispered, voice soft and sweet as he leaned to place a kiss on your feet. “one tiny little kiss, baby. i’ve been good, haven’t i?”
you glanced at him, eyebrows pinched together. “you’ve been begging and i don’t appreciate that,” you replied, focusing back on your book to flip to the next page. “the whole point of this is to stop you from kissing all over me every two fucking seconds.”
yeah—that’s right.
you put sunghoon on a timeout.
it’s not hard really, and it could’ve easily been avoidable if he hadn’t acted like a complete child the other day.
you two had been at your family house. one minute you were just sitting together on the couch, watching a christmas movie on a summer night, and the next sunghoon had pulled you onto his lap and started kissing you like he’d been starved for days.
and when sunghoon kissed—he really, fucking kissed.
“my baby,” sunghoon murmured, cradling your face in his bigger hands, tilting your head exactly how he wanted while his lips moved slow and deep against yours. he kept sighing softly into your mouth, licking along your bottom lip before sucking on it gently.
letting out a soft moan, he took that opportunity to slide his tongue inside. it was messy. wet. the kind of kiss where he kept changing angles, chasing your mouth every time you tried to breathe, humming in satisfaction whenever your lips parted more for him.
it went on for a couple of minutes, until mixed drool hung from both of your lips and chins—until sunghoon’s hand started wandering underneath your shirt and he was about to take it off when—
your grandmother came down the stairs.
to be fair, the two of you were so lost in it that neither of you heard. and you probably shouldn’t be making out in the living room—but everyone was fast asleep!
she saw everything.
she saw sunghoon’s hand creeping underneath your shirt.
she saw your boyfriend was still greedily making out with you, lips swollen and glossy and his eyes were hazy and almost droopy. your shirt fell on one shoulder, and sunghoon’s shirt was wet with drool.
and it didn’t help that you were on his lap too.
your grandmother had cleared her throat loudly, and you wanted to die from embarrassment on the spot. she just chuckled and said something of—young love—before walking away like it was nothing.
the humiliation burned, and that became the final straw.
“but she didn’t even mind! she smiled—i saw her smile!”
you gave him a deadpan look, shaking your head. “i minded. it’s not your grandma—so you don’t know how that felt for me. she raised me for god’s sakes.”
he leaned forward, resting his cheek on your knee, now massaging your calf.
“i’m sorry,” he mumbled, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. then, sunghoon kissed your knee. “i just… i can’t help it. your lips were right there, and they looked so soft and…” he glanced at your mouth again.
gosh, that honey wax lip balm was really making your lips extra shiny and plump, huh? he thought, licking his own lips. he ought to get you more lip balms so you can wear them at home, from now on.
“please? just one kiss. i’ll be so quick—i swear!”
you sighed, smiling as you extended your arm to caress his cheek.
“sunghoon,” you hummed, thumb brushing the apple of his cheek. your boyfriend’s eyes widened slightly before he nodded eagerly, smile widening.
“get off me, and don’t piss me off.”
——
it truly gets to the point where he’s doing just about anything to get your forgiveness.
the next morning, you woke up to the smell of breakfast. when you walked in, still half–asleep in his oversized tshirt, the sight that greeted you was almost comical.
sunghoon was shirtless, setting up the table with favourite fruits, iced coffee, meal, and there was even a small vase of flowers he clearly ran out to buy earlier.
“good morning, baby,” he said, rushing over to pull out your chair. “please have a seat… i made all your favorites."
you raised your eyebrows, taking a seat nonetheless. “... what are you doing?”
“repenting,” he answered, kneeling beside your chair and resting his chin on your thigh and looked up at you with those sparkling eyes. “i know that now—i embarrassed you in front of grandma.”
you hummed, clearly not buying it.
“right.”
that wasn’t all.
sunghoon was acting like you had sentenced him to life in prison.
throughout the next two days, his desperation only kept growing. what started as sweet gestures turned into sneaky little attacks. he’d kiss the top of your head when he walked past you sitting on the couch. he’d snuck behind you while you were washing dishes and planted soft kisses along the side of your neck before you swatted him away.
gosh—he was insufferable.
“sunghoon!” you scolded, turning around with a frown. “when i said no kissing, i meant anywhere! stop trying to find loopholes.”
he blinked at you innocently, lips still hovering near your shoulder with his hands resting on your hips. “but that wasn’t on your lips… it doesn’t count, right?”
“yes, it does,” you said sternly, holding him by his shoulders and pulling him away. “you’re being ridiculous. it’s only been—what?—two days. you’re not dying.”
“you don’t understand,” he whined, following you back to the couch like a puppy with his leash behind. when you sat down on the couch with your legs up, sunghoon gripped your thighs, kneeling between them. “it feels like i’m dying.”
you ignored him and picked the remote up, but he wasn’t done.
your boyfriend leaned in and pressed a kiss to your bare knee, then another higher up on your thigh. you immediately closed your legs, using your toes to push at his shoulder.
“no!”
he looked up at you with the most pitiful expression, eyes big and pleading.
“just this once,” he begged, voice soft and shaky. “please, baby. one real kiss—and after that you can put me on another timeout for a whole week. just let me kiss you properly right now. i’m going insane.”
you stared at him in disbelief. he couldn’t even survive two days, let alone two weeks? talk about nonsense.
“babe—it’s just kissing!” you exclaimed. “it’s not like you can’t talk to me, or touch me, or be near me. you’re acting like i’m torturing you when all i asked was for you to stop mauling my face every few minutes.”
“but kissing you is my favourite thing to do,” he mumbled, pressing his forehead against your thigh. gosh, he’s such a fucking kid. “i really, really need it. i miss how soft they are… how they taste… i miss the little sound you make when i suck on your bottom lip—”
“sunghoon—”
he lifted his head again.
“yn, i’ll do anything.”
you stared at him for a long moment—this five–foot–evelen tall, composed and deemed cool man literally on his knees begging for a… kiss?
you let out a sigh.
“...okay. fine.”
sunghoon’s face lit up instantly with pure hope. a bright, relieved smile started to form.
“but we’re doing it my way,” you added quickly, cutting off his excitement. “one chance, park sunghoon. you follow my rules. if you pass, timeout ends tonight. if you fail… that’s four more days.”
he nodded frantically, his selective hearing stopped listening after the timeout ends tonight.
“yes, anything! i’ll do anything.”
——
what…?
sunghoon frowned as he’s left completely naked, lying on his back in the middle of the bed, wrists bounded tightly to the headboard with his own silk tie. his chest was already heaving, abs flexing under you as you sat comfortably on his stomach, wearing nothing but a thin pair of panties.
his cock was painfully hard, aching, and leaking against his lower stomach, twitching every few seconds with spurts of precum shooting out—but he couldn’t do anything about it. not with his bounded wrists—he couldn’t touch you. couldn’t pull you down. and most importantly—
he’s still not allowed to kiss you.
you reached over to the nightstand and picked up your favourite toy—a small vibrator—before turning it on. the low buzzing filled the room.
sunghoon frowned, his eyes darkened as he watched you slowly pulled your panties to the side, positioning the vibrating head right against your clit. his breath hitched—he thought he’d thrown it out—
“ngh,” a low, soft moan left your lips as you settled back down on his toned stomach, using him as your seat.
“baby…” he breathed out, voice already strained. his hips twitched uselessly beneath you. “this is just mean.”
the corner of your lips twitched into a smirk, looking down on him. “you said you’d do anything,” you reminded him sweetly, slowly rolling your hips as you pressed the toy harder against yourself. “so behave. if you can stay still and quiet until i cum—you win.”
his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes locked on your face, then your wet lips that you kept licking and biting, then the way your tits moved every time you grinded down on his abs.
you’re so fucking wet, it smeared across his stomach. the sight of him tied up and desperate underneath you was affecting you more than you expected…
sunghoon bit his lip harshly, eyes fluttering when he felt you wet folds rubbing back and forth on his stomach. his wrists pulled against the tie.
“fuck—you’re dripping on me,” he groaned, head falling back for a second before he forced himself to look at you again. his voice cracked. “don’t do this—shit,”
you clicked your tongue and pressed the toy harder against your clit, letting out a pretty moan that made his cock jump.
“you can always say you give up, and suffer four more days.”
sunghoon whined loudly, a broken, frustrated sound low from his stomach went straight to your core. his eyes were glassy, lips parted as he watched you with desperation.
“baby… fuck, please,” he rasped, voice strained. “at least let me touch you. or let me touch myself. shit—”
his cock twitched.
“no,” you cut him off, rolling the vibrator in slow, teasing circles over your swollen clit. “you don’t get to touch me anything. that’s the deal.”
a pitiful groan left his throat as you started grinding your soaked pussy against his toned stomach, spreading your wetness all over his abs. lewd, wet sounds of you rubbing yourself filled the room. sunghoon’s eyes rolled back for a second.
“you’re getting so wet,” he breathed, abs flexing underneath you every time you rolled your hips. “i can feel it dripping down my sides… why are you doing this—?”
you ignored him and only moaned louder, grinding down harder, using his body like he was nothing but your personal toy. the vibrator buzzed relentlessly against your clit while you rocked back and forth, leaving a shiny mess all over.
sunghoon looked wrenched.
his cock was painfully hard, flushed dark and leaking onto his skin. every time you moaned, his hips jerked up instinctively, but he couldn’t reach you.
he thought he could still hold it back. after all, you’re not that hard to please. you’d probably cum in just a few minutes, and sunghoon could relieve himself in the bathroom. and the timeout would be called off.
then you reached over to the nightstand again.
sunghoon’s eyes widened when he saw what you pulled out—a dildo.
“baby, no,” he breathed, shaking his head. “no, no, no—wait, what the fuck?”
you didn’t answer. instead, you brought the toy to your lips, looking straight at him while you sucked on the tip. you swirled your tongue around it, taking it deeper into your mouth with wet, obscene sounds, hollowing your cheeks.
he frowned even deeper—he looked like he was going to burst.
“babe, what the fuck—?!” his wrists yanked hard against the tie, the headboard cracking. “don’t do that. why are you sucking that shit? that’s not fair—yn, please—!”
his voice was full of pure jealousy as he watched you lube the dildo up with your mouth, eyes dark and frustrated and pissed the fuck off and annoyed. you pulled it out with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to the toy.
sunghoon looked like he was going to lose his mind. his breath quickened.
you lifted your hips, panties now fully to the side, and slowly dragged the thick head of the dildo along your folds, teasing yourself right above his stomach.
“no, no, no—don’t ride that. yn, i’m literally right fuckin’ here. i’m literally right here,” he begged, voice hoarse and whiny. “why the fuck would you use that when you have me? you’re so fuckin’ mean—and now you’re gonna fuck yourself on that thing on top of me?”
you lined the dildo up with your entrance and began sinking down onto it with a long, satisfied moan, right on his lower stomach—like it’s his dick. the sight of you taking the toy so easily made sunghoon’s cock twitch violently, a fresh bead of precum rolling down his shaft.
“fuck… this is torture,” he groaned, head falling back against the pillow as he watched you ride the dildo. “i hate this—i hate this so much. that should be me, fuck!”
you smiled down at him sweetly, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles, letting the toy drag against every sensitive spot inside you. while it’s nothing compared to your boyfriend’s, you figured you’d settle for this for now.
“mmh… but this feels so good, though?” you sighed, voice breathy and teasing. you braced your hands on his chest and started bouncing on it faster, making sure your ass brushed against his aching cock. “it’s so thick… filling me up just right.”
sunghoon’s eyes twitched, glued to where the toy disappeared inside you. his abs flexed hard everytime you sank down.
“baby, shit—” he groaned. “take it out. use me instead. i’m right here, i’m so hard for you—”
you ignored him and rode the dildo harder, moaning louder on purpose. your wetness was dripping all over his stomach. you reached down and rubbed your clit in time with your movements, putting on a full show just for him.
“look at you,” you cooed. “does it hurt, hoonie? knowing this could be your cock but you’re too greedy to behave?” you groaned, tipping your head back. “i would’ve ended the timeout anyway—but you couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”
sunghoon let out a broken whine, yanking harshly on his restraints. his hips bucked up uselessly, trying to chase any kind of friction.
“i can’t—i can’t do this anymore,” he gasped, eyes glassy and desperate. “please let me fuck you—shit, let me kiss you, baby. i’ll—i’ll do anything, i don’t care anymore.”
you slowed your movements and leaned forward, bracing your hands on either side of his head. slowly, you lowered yourself until your face hovered right above his. your lips were so close—just centimetres away. you cupped his flushed cheeks with both hands, thumbs gently stroking his skin.
sunghoon’s breathing hitch then stopped. his lips parted, eyes wide.
you tilted your head slightly, lips brushing the tiniest bit against his—just a ghost one. you could feel his hot breath trembling against you.
sunghoon let out a soft, needy sound.
but right before your lips could properly meet, you pulled back.
you sat up straight again, still cupping his face for a second longer before letting go with a soft chuckle.
your boyfriend’s expression shattered.
“no… no—!” he groaned. “don’t do this to me. you were so close—baby, please!”
with one last hard yank on the tie, the headboard creaked loudly—
“i can’t anymore,” sunghoon hissed. “i give up, yn. i fucking give up—please just kiss me. i don’t care about the timeout anymore. i’ll take that four fucking days. please, i’m begging you.”
sunghoon looked up at you, chest heaving.
“i surrender.”
you watched him for a second—flushed, desperate, utterly ruined. a part of you was disappointed with how bad his restraint was, another part of you knew who to blame.
“alright then.”
you reached up and untied the silk tie from his wrists. the moment the fabric loosened and fell away—he surged forward. his hands grabbed your waist as he flipped you both over. you let out a surprised gasp as your back hit the mattress, and suddenly he was on top of you—caging you completely with his bigger frame.
his breathing was ragged as he hovered over you. one of his hands immediately slid to the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip.
“none of this bullshit anymore,”
then he crashed his lips onto yours.
it was pure hunger.
sunghoon kissed you like he was trying to devour and suck the living shit out of you—deep, messy, obsessive, starved. he tilted his head, sucking on your bottom lip before pushing his tongue into your mouth, licking and tasting every inch like he’d been denied oxygen for days.
wet, filthy sounds filled the room as he kissed you harder, groaning loudly against your lips.
“fucking finally,” he gasped between kisses, barely pulling back an inch. “missed your lips so much… so fucking much.”
he didn’t let you breathe. every time you tried to pull back for air, sunghoon chased your lips and punished you by kissing you even deeper, tongue sliding against yours with wet, desperate strokes. his hand cradled your jaw, keeping your face right where he wanted so he could indulge himself fully.
his body pressed you down into the mattress, hard cock rubbing against your thigh as he kept making out with you. your boyfriend’s fingers pressed your cheeks together, making your lips pout for him.
“mmph—!” you muffled.
sunghoon hummed at the ecstasy, eyes half–lidded in bliss as he kept your face squished between his slender fingers. he pulled back just enough to stare at your forced pout, then started peppering greedy, wet kisses all over your pushed out lips—soft at first, then harder, sucking on your bottom lip.
“fuck… look at you,” he whispered. “so fucking adorable—you’re so fucking cute.”
then he dove back in, kissing you deeper than before. his tongue pushed past your lips, licking into your mouth messily, tasting every inch while his spit mixed with yours. he was so greedy—sucking on your tongue, licking the roof of your mouth, then pulling back just to let strings of spit connect you before he licked them away and kissed you again.
you couldn’t utter a single word—not with the way sunghoon kept your cheeks squished the entire time, occasionally changing the angle so he could kiss you from a new side. his hips never stopped moving, grinding his leaking cock between your pussy lips, the tip nudged and kissed your little clit.
“shit—gonna make you my wife,” he moaned between messy kisses, breathing hot and heavy against your mouth. “wanna be my wifey, baby? fuck—legally bounding you to me forever.”
his cock twitched.
sunghoon liked the sound of it.
he squished your cheeks tighter, sealing his mouth over yours once more—deep, filthy, and so wet that drool was starting to drip down your chin. he licked it up without hesitation and fed it back to you with his tongue, moaning loudly when you whimpered.
“mmph—” you muffled, nails dragging red lines over his toned back.
sunghoon groaned at the sting, the sound vibrating into your mouth. finally, he loosened his grip on your cheeks and pulled back just enough for you to gasp desperately for air, chest heaving. “hah—!”
you barely managed three shaky breaths before his hand came back to your jaw, thumb pressing on your bottom lip.
“stick your tongue out,” he ordered.
you hesitated for half a second, still catching your breath. sunghoon frowned.
“baby,” he said. “i said, stick your tongue out for me.”
you swallowed the lump and saliva in your throat before letting your tongue slip past your swollen lips. sunghoon leaned down and immediately pressed his own tongue flat against yours. it’s so disgustingly filthy. he licked it slowly, then started playing with it shamelessly—curling, stroking, sucking on the tip before licking it again.
“that’s it,” he murmured against your mouth. while your eyes were shut, sunghoon occasionally opened his just to see the flushed look on your face. “just like that.”
he kept your mouth open with his thumb on your chin, tongue sliding, curling, dancing against yours in the most obscene way possible. he was so completely lost in it.
it didn’t take long.
“ah—fuck, baby!”
sunghoon kept kissing—making out, french kissing, wet mouth fucking—you desperately. and with a broken moan that vibrated against your mouth, his hips stuttered. his whole body tensed as he came hard, thick ropes of cum spilling against your lower tummy. he kissed you through it—whimpering into your mouth as he rode out his orgasm.
only when he finally stopped shaking did he pull back slightly, breathing heavily against your lips.
you laid there completely spent, chest heaving, staring blankly up at the ceiling as your mind spun. your body felt like jelly.
there is no fucking way, you thought. i’m ever putting him on timeout again.
who knows how crazy he’d get next time.
meanwhile, sunghoon collapsed half on top of you, burying his face into the crook of your neck. his arms wrapped tightly around your body, pulling you flush against him.
“i love you,” he mumbled against your skin, dripping with affection. “ugh… i love you so much.”
sunghoon pressed soft, lazy kisses all over your cheek, then your jaw, then back to your cheek again, nuzzling into you like a clingy pup.
“i love you, i love you, i love you…” he kept whispering between little kisses. one of his hands gently stroked your hair while the other rubbed circles on your waist. “let’s just forget about the timeout and never do that to me again, okay? i’ll actually go insane.”
you let out a weak, tired laugh, still dazed, but couldn’t help threading your fingers through his messy, sweaty hair.
sunghoon smiled against your cheek, giving you one last long, soft kiss before sighing.
“you’re all mine.”
© ⌞dollyhoon⌝ ⁞ all rights reservedㅤ please don't share, copy, or translate my work.
hesitation — part three
pairing: yang jungwon x f reader
genre: university au, younger jungwon x older reader
word count: 5.5k
warnings: veeeery suggestive like this is almost a mortaldreams fic, slight age gap (reader is 3 years older) insecurity, jealousy, jungwon is piningggg he's yearningggg, swearing, the word noona makes an appearance, jungwon is very much a Boy
note: I say it every time, but this jungwon really is a menace... enjoy!!!!!!!!
part 1 | part 2 | part 3
⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖
With a resigned sigh, Jungwon spins his phone between his fingertips for the twelfth time in the span of a minute. As if that motion alone can somehow signal to you that he’s still here. Still waiting for you. Still bored out of his goddamn mind.
But no matter how many times he flips the worn case of his old phone between his fingers, the message thread between the two of you remains painfully stagnant.
After another three agonizing minutes of waiting, he checks it again. Just to be sure.
The last message he sent you is still there.
what time are u done? im still on campus let’s grab dinner together
As is your answer, which had come nearly five minutes later. A standard time for you. After all, graduate students with such busy schedules can hardly be expected to respond instantaneously, as you’ve made sure to remind him more than once.
my girl: Class is over at 5:30 but I have to stay for a few minutes after with my project partner. You can wait in my car if you want. Door’s unlocked
Jungwon took you up on your offer. It was decently generous, after all. Especially since he knows that you usually do lock your car. And most of the time, he doesn’t mind waiting for you.
Besides, it’s all he seems to do these days. Wait.
First, it was the six months he waited before you would give him the time of day, much less admit that you found his presence anything other than incredibly annoying.
Then it was the three and a half weeks you made him wait before finally agreeing to let him take you on a date. After that, it was a full proper six dates before he finally, finally let himself touch you the way he’d been having rather graphic dreams about since the first time he saw you across the quad late in his sophomore year.
And all of it – the dates, the conversations, and certainly, the heavy petting – had been so much better than he ever imagined, of course, but also impossibly worse.
Because Jungwon had suspected it for a long time, but he truly knew it then. The first night you smiled at him, laughing, really truly laughing at some joke he told you over the restaurant table. And then, weeks later, the first night he got his hands on you. He put all of the pieces together, one by one, and when he was done, he realized once and for all that this was never about winning.
That you weren’t someone he was ever going to get over or get sick of, no matter how many times you tried to convince the both of you that it was the inevitable ending for your unlabeled little fling you refused to call anything but a situationship.
He didn’t know how to make you understand. How to make you get it, that none of this was a game to him. That your age had nothing to do with it. Hell, before you, he’d never even thought about older girls like that.
Girls were just… girls to him. He liked them, of course. But until he met you, he didn’t understand obsession the way he does now.
It’s absolutely insane just how much of his mind you take up. He thinks you’d be terrified if you ever found out how much he thinks about you, so he’s made a habit of feeding the truth to you in small doses. Things he's pretty sure you can handle. And even then, sometimes he misjudges it. Gives you a bite too big for you to chew.
At first, the snail’s pace didn’t bother him so much. He was happy to win your affection in tiny doses, even when it came with a heavy share of eye rolls and easy dismissals.
At first, he was fine with being the wide-eyed undergrad that followed you around like a lost puppy. And when he finally got tired of that, all he had to do was rearrange his strategy. Become bolder. Start inserting himself into your life in more intentional ways.
He knew you were scared. Of what exactly, he wasn’t sure. But if you needed to be handled like a skittish kitten, he’d bring himself up to the task. It was worth it – you were worth it to him.
So when he thought you were ready, he started letting you see the way he noticed you, the way he picked up on your needs and your feelings and your fucking moods like it was second nature.
He knew you hated Tuesdays and loved your personal space. He could tell that you craved the validation of your peers as much as you pretended to resent them for all of their ideological differences.
Jungwon could tell that you wanted him to be sweet. Easy to handle.
And he was patient. For you, he could be those things. It’s not like it was entirely an act, after all. Jungwon was sweet and patient and unrelentingly kind. But there were other sides of him, too. Ones with far more urgency and desires than you were ready to find out about.
But when all of his patience and gentleness eventually led him straight to a dead end, he knew what he had to do. Jungwon went in for the kill.
One date was all he needed. One night of your undivided attention to prove to you that he wasn’t just some kid. That this wasn’t just a passing infatuation, a playground crush based on nothing but puppy love for him.
He’s not sure if it’s because of the trashy romance novels you pretend you don’t read or maybe it’s the deep seated insecurity you deny with a passion whenever he gets too close to prodding at it, but he’s pretty sure you were half convinced that he was asking you out as some kind of dare from one of his idiot friends.
He wasn’t, of course. Jungwon knew that. But you didn't.
He could read your hesitation all over your face. Could see it in the way you turned mean whenever you felt cornered. The way you tried to run every time he got close to uncovering something real.
And that was a problem.
So he used his date and he used it well. Saved up the extra change from his part time job for the better half of a month just to take you to the nicest restaurant he could find near campus. Brought you to a park afterwards, all lit up with fairy lights because he knew you’d think it was magical, even if you’d never admit it. Called you the prettiest girl he’d ever seen while the lights danced across your face and let you bury your face in his chest when you started flushing at the compliment.
He was happy to do it, then.
Despite your assumptions, Jungwon knows he’s not an idiot. He understands that his age is a point of contention between the two of you. Mostly because it makes you feel like you’re giving something up, like you’re falling behind the grad school peers you’re so desperate to impress.
But being aware of your feelings doesn’t make his feel any less real. And sometimes… well, sometimes it fucking hurts.
Jungwon would be lying if he said it didn’t bother him, the way you still insist on keeping him hidden. The way you still question his intentions no matter how many times he makes them as clear to you as he can.
The way, again, you’ve asked him to just wait for you in the passenger seat of your car instead of coming to meet you outside of your class.
You think he doesn’t notice the way you always turn your face whenever you see one of your classmates while you’re with him. You think he’s oblivious to the way that even now, even still, you’re embarrassed to be seen with him.
Hell, you’d even flipped your shit on him a few weeks ago when you caught your contact info on his phone screen out of the corner of your eye.
“My girl?” You were fuming and Jungwon couldn’t for the life of him figure out what the issue was.
“Yeah.” His brow was furrowed. In confusion, not anger. Jungwon had discovered quickly that was usually the best course of action with you, no matter how unreasonable you were being. He didn't get upset with you. He didn’t raise his voice.
Instead, he just let you get whatever you needed to off of your chest. Then, he would take a long, deep breath and use all of his big boy words to explain his side of things.
“Why?” he had asked that night, far more patiently than he felt. “Does it bother you?”
You’d rolled your eyes then. All bark, all bite. Full speed ahead. So defensive that you could never pause for even a minute to just think about why he wanted to save your name as something sweet. “I just think it’s a little presumptuous—”
“How?” Jungwon had pushed his hair back out of his eyes. He was looking at you, even as you pointedly avoided eye contact. “We’ve been going on dates for almost three months now.
“So what?” You’d scoffed, still refusing to believe every bit of truth he was always laying out in front of you. “You save every hookup as ‘my girl’? How many identical contacts do you have on that thing?”
Jungwon wasn’t angry. His voice was even, volume controlled. But something simmered in it now. Something that you still refused to acknowledge. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not hooking up with anyone else?”
The conversation ended there. And you’d left his dorm room for the night. Because no matter how many times you pretended not to, you knew the truth.
That’s the hardest part of it all, Jungwon thinks. It’s so, so painfully obvious to him that you care about him. That you like him. That despite your age and your pride and all the lies you love to tell yourself, you’re just as obsessed as he is.
But for some reason, you have it in your head that there’s no way he’s serious about you.
He does his best to lay out his intentions in plain terms. To tell you and show you and prove to you that none of this is a joke to him. That he may be younger, but that doesn’t make his feelings any less real. Doesn’t make his desires any less genuine.
There’s just something exhausting about watching the way you’re constantly reforming and rebuilding the walls he works so hard to gently disassemble. The way your own insecurities and doubts twist his words into something that makes you afraid instead of comfortable.
He tries not to take it too personally. And it’s not like you make him miserable. You have your own ways of showing that you care, of course. For one, you dote on him. Even if you pretend not to.
Even now, he knows that if he opens the glove box in front of him, he’ll find a stash of his favorite strawberry flavored jellies waiting for him.
These are the kinds of compromises you make, after all. You make him hide in your car, but give him something sweet to chew on while he waits for you. Like a puppy that can’t be trusted to behave in proper, grown-up conversations.
Jungwon tries to be understanding. He really, really does. He knows it’s hard for you. He knows that you’re sensitive.
After all, even though you’re the older one, even though you dote on him, it’s always him that’s taking care of you.
Usually, he doesn’t mind so much. He likes the way your shoulders relax a little every time he brings you a coffee after your class, every time he reminds you to eat proper meals instead of just intermittent snacks between study sessions. He likes that way you get flustered from his attention. The way you can never quite hide your smile whenever he does something thoughtful, no matter how hard you try to stifle it .
And he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel a little more like a man, the way you’ve come to depend on him.
He especially loves the way you get when you really let him take care of you. When all the stress and frustration and just sheer fucking annoyance of the day builds into something only he can fix for you.
Jungwon, after all, is a man. And he loves the way you look when you’re under him. On top of him, too, but something about getting you beneath him is just… he’s not quite sure how to put it in words. You’re so fucking soft, so unbelievably pliant, he can hardly believe you’re the same girl that gives him hell just for texting you one too many times while you’re studying.
Jungwon was already far gone, already infatuated enough before the sex ever started, but the sex is… yeah. The sex is something else. Jungwon’s never felt so connected to another person before. Physically, mentally emotionally. He craves it, just for that sense of closeness.
It goes so far beyond just fulfilling a need, following pleasure to its inevitable end. With you, it feels like a manifestation of all the things he tries to tell you. A way to show you, to reassure you that he’s here to stay. That every tiny whimper he pulls from your throat is something he treasures, something he values. Something he’ll put up with all the other ridiculous shit for.
It’s reassuring for him, too. Reminds him that beneath it all, you do trust him. With your body and your pleasure and in the quieter, more vulnerable moments, your heart.
Because deep down, you know that all he wants to do is take good care of it. Of you.
And there are other, slightly more devious pleasures he earns from his place in your bed, too.
Jungwon is good at paying attention. He always has been. He notices things. What makes you tick, what makes you sigh, what makes you roll your eyes. And what makes you cum so hard around him that he thinks he might actually be seeing god.
He knows you.
And he knows that all it takes is one little breathy good girl whispered against the shell of your ear, and suddenly you’re melting under his touch. Whatever attitude you have, whatever mood you’re in, whatever high-nosed, snobby little insults you love to throw his way, Jungwon has discovered that with a few well-timed touches, he can fuck them all right out of you.
And yeah, he’s kind of fucking obsessed with it. With you.
So usually, he just grins and bears it. Stays put when you ask him to and only hints at his dissatisfaction in small, palatable doses. But tonight, something about the passenger seat of your car has him feeling extra antsy.
He checks his phone again. Still nothing. And now, the clock on his screen flashes a bold 5:57.
It’s been twenty-seven minutes since your class ended. Twenty-seven minutes and you haven’t reached out to give him an update even though he told you he wanted to see you. Even though you know he’s waiting.
Jungwon doesn't know much about this particular project you’re working on, other than the fact that it's made your headaches more frequent than usual. Still, he can’t imagine what you need to discuss with your partner for twenty-seven minutes. What could possibly be so urgent and all-consuming that you can’t even spare him a text message.
He’s sick of it. Of constantly being relegated to your passenger seat, to the secret parts of your life. He’s tired of not being able to tell people that you’re together. It’s not a status thing. Jungwon doesn’t give two shits about any of that.
He just… he likes you. And he really wants to do it out loud.
So, already steeling himself in preparation for the earful he’ll probably get after this, Jungwon slides his phone into his pocket. Leaves the strawberry flavored jellies in your glove box untouched. And then he slides out of your passenger seat and closes the car door behind him.
The building is quiet when he enters. It’s evening, and most classes have wrapped up for the day. Half of the rooms he passes already have their lights turned off.
Jungwon’s not exactly sure which classroom is yours, but he knows that the clock on his phone now reads 6:08.
And he knows that no matter how used to it he’s gotten, he’s tired of always waiting.
Finally, as he approaches the end of the hallway, Jungwon starts to hear voices. Stepping closer, he recognizes one of them as yours. It has that same self-assured tone he’s grown so used to. It’s the kind of voice you use when you know that what you’re saying is important. When you want someone to really shut up and listen.
Despite himself, Jungwon smiles. He likes the idea of you like this. Taking up space in the graduate program you earned your way into and giving all the other idiots in your department hell whenever they make you listen to a particularly stupid idea.
You pause for a moment. Jungwon takes a few more steps.
A second voice emerges, this one distinctly male.
Jungwon’s steps falter. The smile falls from his face.
Between the two of you, he’s not the one with unfounded trust issues. Still, the thought of you being alone for now nearly forty minutes with a male classmate is enough to have his feet moving a little faster. His heart sinking a little further.
Rounding the corner, he doesn’t bother knocking on the slightly ajar classroom door. Instead, he pushes through it, lets it fall open louder than strictly necessary.
His presence won’t be quiet tonight, he’s decided. It won’t be hidden or tucked away in the shadows. He’s announcing it, like he belongs here, in this classroom he’s never seen the inside of before.
Two sets of eyes turn to him immediately.
“Jungwon?” You, at least, only look confused. There’s no trace of the malice or the thinly veiled warning he expected to see from you. He watches as a furrow forms between your brows and fights the urge to soothe it away with his fingers.
At the evidence of your recognition, your partner’s eyes leave Jungwon. And turn right back to you.
“You know him?” he asks, doubt carrying even in his hushed tone. As if he doesn’t quite believe it. As if he can tell Jungwon doesn’t belong here. Doesn’t belong with you.
That doesn’t sit well with Jungwon. He isn’t angry, not exactly, but something unpleasant is starting to twist in his gut. He’s tired of it all, of constantly being underestimated, of being dismissed.
Eyes narrowing on your partner, he decides immediately that he hates him.
Mostly because of the way he overlooked him so easily. Partly because of the way his hair falls so perfectly over his dark, charming eyes. A little bit because of the strong jaw and undeniably handsome features that shape his face.
This is your project partner? This is who you’ve been alone with? For the last forty-five minutes?
Jungwon’s never had an affinity for violence, but there’s something fueled by rage that starts to sing in his veins.
He’s tired of being pushed to the side. He’s tired of fucking waiting.
“I should hope so,”Jungwon answers the question for you, voice far lighter than he feels. “I’ll know she’s been working herself way too hard if she can't even recognize her own boyfriend.”
At that, your eyes widen. Not in anger, not exactly. Jungwon knows that expression well enough. This is different. This is… something else. Something he doesn’t entirely recognize.
The man, your partner, is still looking at you. As if Jungwon isn’t even worth a glance. “You have a boyfriend?”
Jungwon doesn’t think he’s imagining it – the disappointment muddled with disbelief.
He hates it. He fucking resents it. This presumptuous dickhead of a partner and the way he’s probably the exact kind of person you’ve been envisioning yourself with this whole time.
For starters, he’s your age. Maybe even a couple of years older. He probably has a better job and probably makes more than ten fifty an hour. He probably has a fucking 401k or whatever the fuck it’s called, and he probably wouldn’t have to pinch pennies for a month and a half just to take you out to a nice restaurant.
He’s on your level. He’s probably smart, too. He knows about all your grad school stress, because he shares it. He can laugh at inside jokes about your least favorite professors and do more than just offer to hold your flashcards while you study for midterms.
He’s your peer. He’s your equal, and Jungwon has never felt less solid on his own two feet.
The guy hasn’t really done anything, has hardly even looked at him, and yet Jungwon is suddenly having quite vivid fantasies of strangling him half to death.
And you still haven’t answered his question. Jungwon almost wants to just swallow what’s left of his pride and leave the way he came before you get the chance to.
He can already imagine what you’ll say, the way you’ll deny it.
Jungwon is not your boyfriend, after all. The two of you have never defined anything about your relationship. Anytime he tries, you refuse to touch anything resembling a label with a ten foot pole.
Hell, until a few weeks ago, you’d been convinced that Jungwon was still seeing, was still sleeping with other people.
He’d never felt so helpless, so entirely out of his depth. He didn’t know how to make you get it. He didn’t understand how someone could experience it – the relationship the two of you were building, the sex the two of you were having – and still have any room for doubt left in their mind.
He still doesn’t know what he has to do to prove himself to you.
So no, he’s not your boyfriend. You don’t have to help him cover his poorly executed lie to your perfect project partner, whatever the fuck his name is.
In fact, you’re probably pissed at him. For not just waiting for you in the car. For not just staying hidden and out of sight while you have your grown-up grad school conversations with your grown-up grad school partner.
You’re probably furious at him for throwing around the word boyfriend without your direct approval first. Not that he could get it even if he tried.
Jungwon’s never been particularly advantaged in the height department, but standing here now, he feels all of two feet tall. Too small, too dumb, too young to be here.
Still pining over a girl that won’t give him anything unless he asks for it in baby steps. Still desperate for the attention of someone that won’t ever truly take him seriously.
All he can do is look at you, eyes wide as he prepares for the worst.
But then, something in his heart lurches when he sees your confusion soften instead of freeze solid. When he watches you sigh gently instead of frown.
“Yeah,” you turn to your partner, eyes leaving Jungwon for only a second. “This is my boyfriend, Jungwon.” Turning back to him, you’re not smiling, not exactly. But he can’t find any of the anger he was so afraid of either. “Jungwon, this is Mark. We’re working together on that midterm project I’ve been telling you about. The one that Professor Lee assigned partners for.”
It’s a small concession. Tiny, really. But Jungwon doesn’t miss it. The way you’re sure to bring up again the fact that your partner was assigned, not chosen. The way that you read all of his jealousy and unease and insecurity clear as day and decided to assuage his fears instead of stoking them, instead of letting him draw his own doomed conclusions.
And he certainly didn’t miss the way you fed into his lie. The way you didn’t even hesitate to call him your boyfriend.
“Sorry,” you apologize, soft under the overhead light of the classroom. Your feet are pointed to Jungwon now, your entire body angled away from your partner. “Professor Lee just updated the rubric today, and we realized we need to change the whole middle section. I didn’t see how late it had gotten.” An explanation, not a defense. Simple, open, honest. Considerate. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
“It’s okay,” Jungwon mumbles. All his hard edges are starting to feel smoother now, too. “Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
You nod. “I am now.” Still looking at him, you add, “You wanted to go eat, right? Let’s go. Mark and I can finish later.”
A dismissal. And not towards him. Jungwon has to resist the suddenly very strong urge to punch his fist into the air in celebration.
He’s probably pushing his luck, but the high he’s riding has him feeling a little insane. “Okay, baby,” he nods. Out loud, mostly for you, but he’d be lying if he said some part of him didn’t take great pleasure in the fact that Mark was bearing witness, too. “Let’s go.”
You don’t say anything. Don’t even acknowledge the pet name. You just go with it, treat it like it’s nothing out of the ordinary.
You look at Jungwon, and you just smile. And when you leave, not even bothering to give Mark a second glance back after your half-hearted goodbye, your hand is interlaced with his, fingers warm against his own.
And later that evening, long after dinner is done, Jungwon finds himself back at your apartment.
With kiss-swollen lips, mussed hair, and hands that can’t seem to stop wandering where he leans against the cushions of your couch, he pulls back for a moment.
You’re still wrapped in his embrace, tucked between his legs, back pulled flush to his chest. His fingers are still teasing along the tiny strip of skin between the shirt you borrowed from his closet and the underwear he’s stripped you down to.
It’s a quiet kind of intimacy. Familiar, comfortable.
Behind you, Jungwon says in a voice so quiet it’s nearly a whisper, “You didn’t correct me earlier.”
“Hmm,” you hum, not entirely taking in his words. Your neck tilts slightly, as if trying to chase the sudden absence of his lips. Part of him wants to just give in, pick up where he left off and continue scattering heavy kisses down the column of your throat.
But the other parts of him need to know. Because here on your couch, hours later, he can finally admit to himself that he needs reassurance, too. That this evening wasn’t just a figment of his imagination.
“When I said I was your boyfriend,” Jungwon says lowly. His hands dip just beneath the lace band that sits low on your hips. He’s not instigating, not really. He’s just never been good at keeping his hands off of you. And once he has them where he wants them, it’s almost impossible for him to keep them still. “You didn’t correct me.”
“Oh,” you respond, far too flippantly for his liking. Your hips shift under his touch, almost subconsciously. Like you’re just as prone to this urgent, magnetic obsession as he is. “Yeah.”
“Why?” Jungwon’s brow furrows. His thumb brushes against your hip bone, and he feels you shudder against him.
“You wanted me to.” Your answer is plain, leaves no room for misunderstanding. Despite the simplicity, Jungwon feels his heart lurch in his chest just as surely as he feels himself twitch in his boxers.
“What do you mean?” He thinks he knows. He hopes he’s right. But god, he has to be sure.
You don’t leave him hanging for long. “You wanted Mark to think that we’re dating. That you’re my boyfriend. You wanted me to say it. So I did.”
Jungwon’s fingers dip lower still. You sigh, a breathy little thing, as you melt further back against him. It’s a chilly evening, but he can feel your warmth everywhere. Can smell the lingering remnants of your shampoo, of the body lotion he keeps a bottle of at his dorm now because he’s so fucking obsessed with how sweet it makes you smell.
Jungwon has to remind himself in very firm language that it’s not becoming of a man in his twenties to come untouched.
“And if I wanted more people than just him to think that?”
“Think what?” you ask. “That you’re my boyfriend?”
“Yeah,” Jungwon nods. He can’t quite help himself now. The kiss he presses, just below your ear, has a sound escaping your throat that he’s suddenly desperate to swallow. But he needs to hear your answer.
“Hm,” you hum again. “Then maybe we should just make it official.”
Jungwon wants to scream. Wants to get up and start doing backflips around your living room.
Baby steps, is all he can think. Months and months of fucking baby steps, and he’s finally here. Even has you convinced it’s your idea, because of course it has to be.
He’s got his hands on you, and you’re melting under his touch. You, his favorite girl. The most stubborn, ridiculous, strongheaded person he’s ever met in his life and you smell so good, sound so fucking sweet, just for him.
“Yeah,” he goads, a little bit patronizing now. It’s not entirely untoward, though. Like he said, he knows you. You like the contradiction of it all. Of being older than him and still letting him talk you through it, boss you around within the constraints of very particular contexts.
And, oh, this is one of them. It’s his favorite too.
“Yeah,” you agree, voice more breath than sound. So shy. So fucking sweet.
You can feel him beneath you now. You can tell that he wants you to, with the way he pulls you back against his lap a little more firmly.
“You’d like that, wouldn't you, noona?” You whimper at the name. Jungwon doesn’t think he’s ever been more hard in his life. “Walking around telling everyone you’re my girlfriend. Making sure your hair is down so none of those idiots in your lecture can see what’s on your neck.”
Part of him wants to mention Mark, but he thinks better of it. He doesn’t want another man’s name on your lips while he’s got you in his lap.
Instead, Jungwon lets his lips ghost over your skin, tracing over all the places he’s dying to leave marks.
“Uh-uh,” you whine. “Not on my neck.” But you’re leaning back into him anyway. “Thesis defense starts next week.”
“You’re killing me,” Jungwon groans against your skin, the sound reverberating somewhere deep. “You finally let me be your boyfriend and now I can’t even get my mouth on you?”
“I didn’t say that,” you shake your head, hips still moving like they can’t decide if they’d rather chase his fingers or the unmistakable hardness in his lap. “Just not where people can see.”
And in case that wasn’t enough for him to get the hint, Jungwon feels your hand cover his own, the one that rests against the outside of your thigh while his other stays tucked under the lace of your waistband.
Slowly, with intention, you begin to drag it upwards. Underneath the fabric of your borrowed shirt. Over the planes of your stomach until you’ve finished guiding it to one of Jungwon’s favorite places.
His hand flexes against the curve of your chest, gripping lightly like it’s second nature.
“Anywhere else,” you intone, voice heavy with an implication he can’t miss, not with his hand still wrapped around you, eyes rolling back with the way you whine whenever he squeezes softly, “is just fine.”
And sure, boyfriend might be a juvenile label. Something that middle schoolers chase with more fervency than Jungwon has any real right to, but he’s still nearly beside himself at the revelation.
He’s not just anyone’s boyfriend, after all. He’s yours.
Tonight, with his hands on your skin and reassurance finally starting to feel solid under his feet, boyfriend feels like the best word he’s ever heard. No matter how childish it sounds.
You sink back into him a little further, and Jungwon decides right then and there that it was all worth it. That he’d do it all again if he had to. That he’ll keep putting up with your assumptions and your moods for as long as he needs to.
That even after one too many nights waiting in your passenger seat and one too many months months of your hesitation that felt so long they nearly fucking killed him, he thinks that when it comes to you, waiting just might not be the worst thing after all.
i was reading hesitation for the bajillionth time today and in pt 2 when jungwon is trying to say he doesnt sleep with anyone else ohhh my gosh im just imagining it from his pov like he finally got the girl hes been wanting and hes been taking her on dates and she somehow still doesnt get it my heart is breaking
She really just can’t get it through her head that he genuinely likes her and isn’t trying to play with her feelings 😭😭 lord save us all
Hiiii this was a big part of the inspo for hesitation 3 and I wanted you to know 🤍 @dolluvsyun
OH MY GOD NO WAY i actually feel so honored stop 🥹🥹🥹 i cant wait to see what u cook up
EYES DON’T LIE
PAIRING: brother’s best friend!jay x fem!reader
GENRE/CW: smut, angst, fluff if you squint, porn with plot, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), semi-public sex, car sex, shower sex, oral (fem receiving), fingering, marking, dry humping, slight choking, making out, multiple orgasms, mentions of jealousy, possessiveness, mentions of racing, smoking, drugs, cops. lmk if i missed anything!
WORD COUNT: 26.5k words
SYNOPSIS: You return home after three years of exile only to find your brother’s cocky best friend Jay still acting like he belongs more than you ever did. What starts as pure hatred and endless fighting quickly turns into something dangerously addictive, but the real question is, how long before you stop pretending you want him gone?
A/N: hihi loves <3 happy jay birth omgg <3 all likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated! it keeps me motivated! iloveyou all and happy reading <3
Familiarity was a curse you couldn’t quite grasp.
Being trapped into a series of situations where non-familiar grounds made you feel more at ease than the comfort of your home messed you up more than you’d like to admit, granted, you wanted to label it as the worst experience of your life. Was it because it made you miserable for three years of your life—the life where you were supposed to be enjoying your Uni like a normal young adult?
Or because your family sent you away with simply one thing in mind—your uncanny behaviour, which only stemmed with neglect they provided you with, so, who was to blame for this?
The answer was clear in their faces, filled with tremendous guilt of not being able to take the right decision. Three years had passed by, and it was time for you to be home. It was faintly surprising when you found your favourite childhood dishes ready on the table—your brother pulling you into a hug that you couldn’t quite accept without feeling awkward. Sunghoon despised what the situation had come down to, but he was ready to give you the time to adjust.
Your parents were the next to engulf you in a bigger embrace, “we missed you,” your dad mumbled, making you chuckle at the fact that it was indeed too late to say it.
“Have you not been eating well?” Your mother asked, scanning your face with such delicacy—reminding you of your childhood.
“I have,” you replied simply, trying to get out of the situation without causing more drama, “I’ll go freshen up first.”
You moved past them swiftly, grabbing your luggage, but your brother was quicker to carry it to your room, oh wow, now everyone wished to be nice to you? You bit the inside of your cheek, walking up to your room, completely missing the presence of another person in the house as he chose to stare at you from the sidelines.
The place was different now, having undergone a few renovations here and there, but your room remained untouched to maintain the sanctity of it. Nothing had really changed per se, but everything had. Yet, you had the luxury to find humour in it, in privacy at least, because your mouth worked faster than your brain in public. Which is exactly why you took your sweet time to rest in your room, till a solid knock on your door took away that peace.
You were pissed, reading the well decorated journal you’d somehow managed to keep when you still had the gentle thoughts within you. Now? Not so much. Each turn of the page had you laughing—mourning the person you used to be and what you got roped into, finger caressing every word of that one page which you wanted to rip apart, but also shove it deep into your memory, not wanting to face the consequences of relieving it.
Regardless, you stood up with a groan, expecting it to be your brother calling you for dinner simply because you had lost the track of your time wrapped up in the blue coloured bubble. You didn’t even realize you had a nasty frown on your face as you managed to open the door with too much force.
“Welcome back.”
The scoff that left your mouth was loud, coming across the man, the voice you didn’t wish to hear again. Of course he was here, why were you even surprised when this man was more a part of your family than you were? He fit in perfectly, as if he was the child your parents had wanted all along.
He leaned against the door with ease, running a hand through his hair, feigning boredom at your reaction of absolute disbelief, the cockiness surrounded him like spikes, reaching close enough to pop that very bubble you’d been resting in, and you hated it, you hated him for taking away everything you’d never gotten a chance to explore.
Jay stared at you without any shame, as if you’d been the one intruding his me time, making you shake your head, tongue poking your cheek with annoyance bubbling through. It was the same look he had a few years back, when you’d try to act tough in front of him and he’d see straight through it in seconds, and the worst part was that he still looked just as sure of himself now, like three years hadn’t done a thing to shake his confidence in knowing you, if he knew you at all, that is.
“Your parents must’ve kicked you out of your place, granted you still spend all your time here, like a dog we didn’t ask for,” you crossed your arms, watching him sucking on a lollipop with amusement, as if he knew you’d snap the second you’d see him.
“You sure about that?” He whispered, stepping in as you stood in your place, not wanting to provide him with the satisfaction of getting to you, “y’know, this dog knows this house better than you do.”
It was to provoke you, yes, but that was enough to make you laugh in his face, unimpressed at the new low he’d sunk to.
“Yeah, so fucking move, or did you forget how the doors work while I was gone?” You deadpan.
“No, but I did forget how bad your attitude issues are,” he raised his brows, “thought you’d come back more gentle, dainty even.”
“Aw? Sorry Mr. Park I’m not altering my personality to fit yours, go find someone else to bother.” You provided him with a clipped smile that held no respect whatsoever, not that he deserved it anyway.
He lets go of the lollipop with a smack, wetting his bottom lip as he stared at you yet again, as if pondering on whether he should push more or just see you break without saying anything, because gosh—you hadn’t changed at all, those years away meant absolutely nothing, if anything, you’d gotten worse with your walls up high, having no space to break in, no, now you talked back freely, effectively pushing him out physically and emotionally.
It was a given that he wasn’t going to move, and you rolled your eyes at the audacity of this man who just happened to be your brother’s best friend. With how close they were, anyone could’ve mistaken them for being boyfriends. When he still didn’t move, didn’t speak, you started pushing the door shut in his face.
You barely register his arm coming full force to hold the door open, not budging, making you realize that he had indeed changed, that once lanky nerd now stood up straight and strong, veins prominent on his pathetically big arms. You try again, and he laughs, he actually fucking laughs out loud at the poor attempt, vaguely surprised at how you’re not holding back, you genuinely want him gone.
“Y/N! Jay!” You mom calls out from the kitchen, and your hold falters at how she took your name first—a thing that you did not expect.
It’s stupid, really, the way your grip loosens like that, like your body reacted before your pride could catch up, and you hate that he notices it, because of course he does, of course his eyes drop for half a second to your hand on the door and then back to your face as he stood right in front of you, stopping the door before it hits you.
“Fucking leave already,” you muttered, head hurting now as you turned around.
He chuckled, “what? Gave up already?”
“You can’t be that bored, Jay,” you sighed, “go bother your boyfriend instead.”
Just as you walked outside, you felt his hand wrapping around your wrist, pulling you back against his chest—something you did not expect, a groan leaving your mouth at the impact, barely registering the movement at first, “the fuck?”
“Are you gonna leave again?” He murmured, breathing against the shell of your ear.
You thrashed in his hold, “let me go before I call Hoon,” you clenched your jaw, warning him but he found it amusing.
“C’mon, I mean no harm here, yeah? Just answer my question and you get to go, baby,” he whispered, you could hear the smile in his voice.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” You managed to push him off, chest heaving.
“Park Jongseong,” he shrugged, and you were annoyed at how he didn’t lose composure no matter what he did.
“Yeah no fucking shit idiot,” you sneered, “and you have no right to ask me that when you were the damn reason why I had to leave in the first place.”
That was the first time he diverted his gaze, that being enough of a reaction for you cause god, you did hate him and had no intentions of letting him get in your way again. If you could, you’d just slap him off his high horse and watch him fall with nothing but pure satisfaction on your face, and just like him, you wouldn’t feel an ounce of guilt within you.
“Dinner’s getting cold!” Your mother called again, the clatter of cutlery following, making your head hurt even further.
Jay cleared his throat first, stepping back as if nothing had just happened, running a hand through his hair, staring at you with the same infuriating ease that got you worked up—not in a good way, never in a good way, and you simply scoffed at the lack of reply, as if he didn’t admit to your accusation by any means.
But his eyes said it all.
“After you,” he gestured toward the stairs, jaw tight.
You stared at him for a second too long, clicking your tongue before brushing past him without another word, making sure to bump into him hard enough he stumbles back, eyes still on your figure heading downstairs, “ah—fuck,” he mumbled under his breath.
Things weren’t any better at the dining table with Jay sitting right in front of you, grinning at the joke your father made. It was endearing how your family tried to make everything seem okay, but it wasn’t a one day process and they seemed to realize it too.
“There you are,” Sunghoon had said, smiling, standing up slightly as if he might hug you again before thinking better of it, ruffling your hair as if that was any better, earning a punch on his arm for messing up your hair, still happy to have you around finally, initiating small talk.
“How was the Uni?” You father asked, granted you had stopped contacting them after a while.
“It was busy,” you replied, and technically you weren’t lying, the classes did keep you busy, amongst the other activities you took part in.
You stiffened the second you felt a feeling creep up your leg, a slow brush against your ankle. It happened again, more deliberate this time, his shoe nudging lightly against your calf before retreating as though he were gauging your reaction. You kept your expression blank, lifting your glass calmly, eyes fixed ahead at the man who made your blood boil.
Across from you, Jay looked perfectly composed, nodding at something your father had said, offering a quiet laugh to humour everyone. If anyone looked at him, they would see nothing unusual, of course, they trusted him too much anyway.
“Don’t,” you mouthed, jerking your chin forward to the food so that he focused on eating.
His grin widened, and you swore you were one touch away from kicking him, which surprise surprise, is exactly what you did when his leg started trailing up, and you fucking hated how a shiver went up your spine at that measly touch, a choked laugh leaving your mouth as he grimaced.
Sunghoon paused mid sentence at the sound that slipped out of you, brows lifting. “What?”
You cleared your throat quickly, lifting your glass to drink some juice, “nothing.”
Jay had already withdrawn his leg, adjusting in his seat as if nothing had happened, glaring at you right after and didn’t bother sparing him a glance.
“How were your grades?” Your father asked.
“Good,” you replied, even though they had seen your grades already.
“We’re proud of you,” your mother said softly.
The words sat strangely in your chest. You nodded once, not trusting yourself to elaborate further, and fuck, why were you so emotional today? All over the place and it was just your first day back.
Under the table, Jay’s foot nudged yours again, not teasing this time, just a brief press before he pulled away. You looked up sharply, but he was already listening to Sunghoon, expression composed, as though he hadn’t done anything at all, asshole.
You set your fork down soon after, “I’m tired.”
“You barely ate,” your mother frowned.
“I’m fine, mum, the food was amazing, thank you.”
You stood before anyone could insist otherwise. Sunghoon looked like he wanted to follow, but he stayed seated when you shook your head lightly. As you stepped into the hallway, you heard the scrape of a chair a moment later.
Jay’s voice came quietly from behind you, “that kick hurt y’know?”
You didn’t turn around, “you should’ve learned by now.”
After getting no reply, you started walking again, ready to sleep, mull over your day and frost into dreamland, shaking Jay’s scent off your mind and body, but he didn’t want that.
“Stay,” he said finally, softer than before, “at least this time.”
Your fingers tightened around the railing as you climbed the stairs, eyes closing at the tone, “that depends on me, not you,” you replied without looking back.
And you left him standing there, jaw clenched at how ignorant and distant you’d been, and he knew that he deserved it.
Two days had went by and you were frustrated being confined in your room, it was your own decision yes, however it was better than going down and interacting with the man who had forgotten he had his own home to go back to. It did get better when your mother had come up to check up on you—and fuck, you missed being taken care of, missed being the daughter who was loved unconditionally each passing day.
However, Jay was adamant about bothering you, the lunch being full of him reminiscing about the old days, to the point he made your father bring out old albums just so he could see how you were as a kid. It was odd how he smiled at a certain picture of you and Sunghoon playing in the tent house you owned, but you knew better to mistake it for fondness, he was too good at acting anyway.
He was simply there to bother you.
Sunghoon was leaving for a competition, and you did your best to wish him luck, the happiness clear on his face at the statement.
Which brings you back to now—the dinner was done, and Jay had left somewhere, thank fucking god. But now, you were bored. It was that familiar itch you had, your fingers tightening around your phone as you scrolled through your contacts that you’d never bothered to delete all this while. It was valid, right? To let loose every few days, to meet up with old friends.
Nipping at your bottom lip, you pulled up the chat, not expecting the reply to come as fast as it did.
You: alive? Jake: who’s this
You rolled your eyes, as if this man would ever delete your number.
You: you’re so fucking annoying jake Jake: that’s what you get for leaving me You: so dramatic, i’m back Jake: as in, back in the town? You: yes obvi Jake: yeah? and you didn’t bother telling me?
You could picture it clearly, him smirking at the phone, leaning back with a chuckle. It was easier for you to smile at it too.
You: now i did Jake: where are you? be ready in ten You: home, be quick
So, you were actually doing it again, and you didn’t care, a smirk pulling at your lips, grabbing your leather jacket as you changed into something that fit your image better, applying a layer of makeup, knowing it would Jake fifteen minutes to reach, having done it before, way too many times that your body remembered the thrill of it all. Without bothering to turn on the lights, you slipped outside into the cold air, thankful for the absence of Jay who usually sat around the living room at this hour.
The low rumble of a bike cut through the quiet before you even saw the headlights, that familiar sound rolling down the street, Jake slowed near the curb, one foot dropping to the ground as he pushed his visor up, eyes landing on you without surprise, and you knew he sported that lazy smile under the helmet.
He let out a short breath through his nose, “so it’s true, you’re back.”
“Unfortunately,” you replied, stepping closer, “you came quick.”
His gaze dropped briefly to your jacket, your makeup, then back to your face, something unreadable flickering there before he handed you the spare helmet, which you wore without thinking twice.
“I was nearby,” he answered, which was an absolute lie and both of you knew it.
You climbed on behind him without another word, hands settling at his waist as he pulled away from the curb, the ride swallowed conversation whole, wind cutting through the quiet yet familiar streets slipping into darker roads until the city was distant. And god you smiled, living in the present and radiating happiness that even Jake could feel.
He slowed near the warehouse, parking off to the side where the line of cars broke unevenly along the road. The building looked dead from the outside, but the bass leaked through the walls, the ground faintly trembling under your boots when you stepped off, going inside while he stayed close, watching you take a drink from someone without even asking what it was.
A lot of people were pleasantly surprised seeing you back, pulling you into hugs, inquiring about the shit that went down.
“You haven’t changed,” he murmured, and you shook your head, taking a big sip to feel that warmth around your throat.
“Neither have you,” you replied, though you didn’t look back when you said it, because you found something far more interesting barely hidden behind all those intoxicated bodies.
Of fucking course—the man you’d been trying to escape was already here, a hypocrite through and through. He gave you so much shit for surrounding yourself with this crowd as if he wasn’t still an active part of it too. To no one’s surprise, he was staring at you, a scoff leaving your mouth as you focused back on Jake.
“Will he ever leave you alone? He even joined racing because of you back then.” He asked, leaning in.
“I fucking hope he does. I swear, out of all places, he just had to be here? Two minutes and he’s gonna come pick a fight with you,” you sighed.
“Two minutes? He’s already walking over,” Jake smirked, straightening his jacket at the new arrival, and god you did feel the warmth of him approaching, standing right beside you.
“You didn’t even last a week,” Jay said smoothly, and you gripped the glass tighter, biting the inside of your cheek. Who was he to even keep tabs on you?
“Yeah, so? Gonna go and snitch again?” You turned to look at him, taking another sip of the awfully strong drink.
He chuckled but there was no humour behind it, “you’re coming home with me,” he muttered under his breath.
“Says who?” You asked, incredulous at his ability to never shut up, especially when he made decisions for you as if he had any right to do so.
Jay didn’t answer immediately, which was rare for him, his gaze lingering on your face like he was trying to find something familiar there and coming up short every time, because as familiar as the setting was, you had changed. The music boomed around you, people brushing past without noticing the tension sitting between the three of you.
“You don’t belong here,” he said quietly, sighing finally in hopes that you’ll listen for once.
You let out a dry laugh, tilting your head slightly as you looked at him. “And you do?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“That’s exactly what you meant, that’s how you’ve always been.”
Jake shifted beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours, presence warm as always, him being someone you could truly trust. You didn’t miss the way Jay noticed it, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the brief flicker in his eyes that disappeared almost instantly, well, this was the only place where he lost composure.
“She’s not going anywhere,” Jake said lightly, just stating it with a shrug.
Jay finally looked at him properly then, “I wasn’t talking to you,” he replied.
Jake gave him yet another shrug with an amused smile, unfazed by his hostility, and you could feel the irritation building in Jay in quiet layers. He exhaled slowly through his nose, attention returning to you.
“You’ll regret this,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear it.
You smiled without warmth, “then I’ll deal with it, not you.”
That seemed to be the point where something in him gave up trying to reason, his expression settling back into something distant in a way that felt worse than anger. He held your gaze for one last second before stepping back, making it clear he was done trying, watching Jake’s arm on your waist as his tongue poked his cheek, walking away.
He wasn’t even putting up a fight, and somehow managed to sour your mood further, but you let Jake take over and dance with you, taking your mind off of the man who had left a few minutes back. Time moved strangely after it, and you weren’t sure how long you’d been there, catching up with your friend, but you realized it was late when you took another puff of the joint you and Jake shared, only to hear sirens blazing outside.
“Oh fuck,” you muttered.
Someone had warned the police, making people surge towards the exit without much care about shoving each other. Jake’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, “come on,” he nodded, and you just followed him, but it was useless with how everyone had jammed the exit.
A hand shoved into your shoulder from behind and you stumbled forward, catching yourself against Jake’s arm, the movement twisting your ankle at a strange angle when you tried to steady your weight. Pain shot up fast and sharp, stealing your breath.
Jake felt you tense up immediately. “Hey.”
“I’m fine,” you said automatically, but your step faltered again when he tried to move you forward. You were, in fact, not fine by any means.
Which is why you found yourself at the police station alongside Jake, who’d refused to leave you behind. It was rather funny if you took your mind off what would happen if your family came to know about this ordeal. You’d chosen to call Sunghoon despite knowing he wasn’t in the city, and it did not end well—not because he was angry, but he was scared, and that was worse.
You ended the call before he could ask anything else, before the concern in his voice could turn into questions you didn’t want to answer, especially when he knew exactly what was going on, staring at the dark screen for a moment longer than necessary.
“He’s worried, y’know? I’m not close with him, but he did shut everyone out after you left,” Jake broke the silence as you both curled up in the corner of the cell.
“Didn’t bother reaching out regardless, I was waiting,” you chuckled, and Jake pulled you into a half hug with a dull ache in your ankle, talking about everything and he was probably the only person you could truly confide in.
Which is why you didn’t notice someone staring at you with the intensity that could burn holes. He looked disappointed, especially with how you had a smile on your face even after this—especially curling up around Jake as if you were sitting on your bed and not in the police station. He knew this would happen.
You only noticed Jay when Jake’s voice faltered mid-sentence, eyes on him now, jaw clenching as to build the walls around you yet again. He simply waited for the officer to open the door.
“Here he comes playing your knight in shining armour again,” Jake mumbled, pulling you closer under his gaze.
“I’m fucking screwed, he’s gonna tell everyone,” you sighed, body heating up as you remembered how it went the last time.
“Not this time, trust me,” Jake muttered into your ear.
The officer was quick to tell how Jay had been gracious enough to bail out you and Jake? You stood carefully, the pressure on your ankle sending a sharp protest upward before dulling into something manageable. Jake’s hand hovered at your back for balance, but Jay was already there, fingers closing lightly around your forearm firmly, preventing the stumble you would never admit might happen.
“Weight off it,” he said quietly, making Jake roll his eyes and honestly, you didn’t have it in you to argue any further, signing the paperwork without much chatter, stepping outside finally which had you realizing just how suffocating it was to be inside.
“Get home yourself,” Jay nodded towards Jake, grabbing your hand, pulling you towards his car.
“For fucks sake, she’s hurt,” Jake groaned, having had enough of this attitude, taking you to the car instead, “be careful.”
This couldn’t be happening at four in the morning, you didn’t wish to think about it, and you certainly didn’t wish to see the look on Jay’s face, who only opened the door and waited, eyes lowering down to your ankle which seemed to be swollen—and he cussed cause fuck he shouldn’t have left you alone. What would Sunghoon say?
“Text me, okay?” Jake asked and you nodded, squeezing his hand and thanking him.
You chose to look out the window, “Hoon called you then?” You asked, a few minutes after he started driving, nearing home.
“Yeah,” he replied, eyes on the road.
It was clear he didn’t wish to speak further, and you shook your head, “you didn’t have to come anyway,” you seethed out.
“You’re unbelievable—getting into trouble and what do I get? Not even a thank you?”
“Oh i’m sorry, you wanna be thanked? I didn’t ask you to come here, Jay,” you replied, nails digging into your palm.
“Well, I still fucking did.” He was frustrated, steering the car into the parking, stopping now, staring at you, “I always will.”
“What—”
He got out before you could even ask what he meant by it. Well, that was intense, your eyes closing as you leaned against the seat. The door on his side shut harder than necessary, the sound echoing through the quiet street, and you stayed exactly where you were, fingers still curled against your palm. He came around to your side a moment later, opening the door.
“I can get myself out,” you muttered, shifting forward.
“Yeah, whatever,” he replied, stepping closer when you limped, and it was humiliating the way his warm arm closed around you, “stop fighting everything.”
“I’m not—”
You were braced up against the car for the second before Jay decided that he’d had enough, he was tired. His arm slid behind your back, and under your knees in one swift movement that left you breathless more from shock than anything else. He lifted you like it was nothing, walking ahead.
“Put me down,” you snapped immediately, fingers gripping the front of his jacket with a fear of falling down.
“Walk then,” he said flatly, not slowing.
“You’re so—” you cut yourself off, jaw tightening, because struggling would only make you look worse and you already hated the position you were in. His hold was firm, and fuck, it was so annoyingly careful, and you could feel the tension in him, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he refused to look at you as he carried you up the steps.
The front door opened with a quiet click and he stepped inside, nudging it shut behind him with his foot. The house was dark and silent, your parents were asleep. He didn’t really speak as he carried you through the hallway, and you just hoped he didn’t feel how your heart was beating out of your chest.
He didn’t slow down until he reached your door, shoulder nudging it open because his hands were still holding you, and the quiet inside your room felt too normal for how loud your pulse still was. He lowered you onto the edge of the bed without a word.
The second your balance settled, he stepped back enough to put space between you and whatever had passed in the car earlier.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, fingers braced against the mattress, ankle throbbing and you wondered how it all went so fucking wrong. His attention dropped straight to your feet, to the heels still strapped on despite the pain.
You moved first, reaching down when you saw him doing it, you have had enough for the night, “I can take them off.”
His hand closed lightly around your wrist before you could touch the buckle, “don’t,” he said quietly.
You stared at him for a second, irritation flaring again but you didn’t pull away, watching how different he looked with shorter hair, jawline sharper now. He crouched in front of you, fingers moving to the strap, undoing it as his fingers caressed the skin over the swell gently, a focused pout on his face which looked cute, juxtaposing the feeling within him—and gosh you could never call him that to his face. The clasp clicked open finally, and he slid the heels off slowly, one at a time, setting them aside near the wall instead of dropping them where he was.
It was such a small, stupid detail and it made your throat feel tight for no reason you wanted to examine.
“Happy?” You muttered, leaning back slightly, watching him instead of the ceiling.
“No,” he replied, already standing again, turning and leaving because he knew if he stayed a second longer, he’d overstep the boundaries.
You took in a deep breath once he was gone, “he’s crazy,” you mumbled to yourself, “crazy, crazy, crazy.”
For a moment you just breathed and wondered why he was always around, why didn’t he let you forget about his existence, why did he have to be so awful about his presence, and act so fucking nice when you were vulnerable, actions never matching his words. You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring at nothing until the door opened again, softer this time, like he was making sure not to wake anyone.
He didn’t turn the light on. The faint spill of dim lights from the hallway followed him in, enough to see the towel in his hand, already damp around the edges where the ice pressed through the fabric. You pushed yourself upright a little before he even said anything, because of course he would come back, because of course he wouldn’t just leave it alone.
He set the ice on the bedside table first, then looked at you properly for the first time since the car, “move,” he said quietly.
“Jay, why are you doing this?” You asked, shifting your leg toward him without arguing this time, too tired to fight something that would happen anyway. His hand slid under your ankle just long enough to lift it, settling the cold against the swelling with careful pressure. The chill made you inhale sharply.
He didn’t comment on it, or on the question you asked, he just adjusted the towel once, making sure it stayed in place before letting go.
“You didn’t have to come back,” you said after a moment, voice lower now.
“I know.”
You almost laughed, because he kept saying that like it explained anything, typical Jay—him and his two word replies.
He stayed where he was for a few seconds longer than necessary, caressing the softness of your skin, then straightened, hands falling uselessly at his sides before he shoved them into his pockets like he needed somewhere to put them to ground himself, because whatever was happening felt way too serious, too intimate.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“You should go home,” you replied automatically.
His jaw shifted slightly, like he almost said something else, then decided against it, “yeah,” he said finally.
He moved to the door, paused with his hand resting against the frame, and for a second you thought he might turn around, might finish whatever sentence he’d left hanging downstairs, but just as usual, he didn’t.
“Jay,” you called out before you could stop yourself, making him stop and turn around, “will you tell my—my parents?”
He chuckled, cause why did he even bother to expect you saying any other thing, “I won’t.”
“Thank you,” you replied, looking elsewhere, “for everything, for the night.”
Turns out, you still could surprise him with nice words.
You missed the way the corner of his lip twitched before he nodded, leaving yet again. The hallway light disappeared when he closed the door behind him, leaving only the faint cold against your ankle and the quiet hum of the house settling back into place.
You lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling again, body finally heavy enough to believe the night was over. The space he’d left behind didn’t feel empty, yet it was unfinished in a way that indicated how it wasn’t the end, just the start.
You woke up to a very concerned Sunghoon, barely realizing it was nearing evening and you’d so easily slept through the day. What you didn’t expect was to see Sunghoon rushing back home, nearly in tears at the thought of you being in trouble.
“Are you okay? Hurt anywhere? Fuck—”
“Sunghoon—I’m okay,” you gulped, sitting up straight, gasping when he pulled you into a warm hug.
“I’m sorry, won’t leave you alone again,” Sunghoon mumbled, all his brotherly instincts coming back.
He remembered that day when he was seven and you’d thrown a tantrum, wanting to visit the park and feed the ducks. He had taken the responsibility to take you out without informing your parents about it, and he felt the most guilty little kid alive when you fell down and scraped your knee—he was scared. It didn’t compare to the day when your parents found out about your drug usage and illegal racings, even though he was just as clueless, he hated himself for not convincing your parents enough to let you stay.
He called you each day for the first month, but once he started with his own uni lectures, it was hard to do so—and when he tried again, you’d given up, feeling abandoned.
“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, clearly regretting a lot.
Your bottom lip quivered, and at that point, it was you coddling Sunghoon as he went on describing how much he’d tried to stop your parents, how he missed his sister, each word making your chest tighten with sadness. That conversation was really important, especially with Sunghoon practically begging for forgiveness and you accepting his apology, trying to turn a new leaf. However, him saying he wouldn’t let you go out alone made you groan before you both started chuckling.
Jay watched it all happen, the door being slightly ajar, smiling without even processing any bit of it. This was the second time he’d seen you truly smile after coming back, he didn’t like that the first one was with Jake of all people. Jay rushed to leave the second he saw Sunghoon standing up, almost tripping in the process, but he somehow managed.
It was easier to lie to the family after having Sunghoon onboard with you, as he’d promised to not tell anyone. Your excuse? You tripped in the bathroom. As horrendous it sounds, it was plausible, and well, you got extra chicken nuggets for dinner! Alongside the absence of Jay, who had apparently gone back home to get some work done, which is why the house was more silent than you’d like to admit.
The extra nuggets didn’t do much cause by the time the house settled, the ache in your leg had deepened into a heavy pressure that made sleep feel irritating. You tried to sleep an hour before giving up, and gosh—even standing up took effort because of your ankle. You waited until the dizziness passed, then eased your weight onto your good leg and moved toward the door, keeping one hand along the wall for balance.
The hallway was dark, the kitchen darker. You were a few steps from the counter when your foot slid slightly on the tile, just enough for your balance to be tipped forward, and you could barely make out what to reach out for in the darkness.
Then a warm hand caught your arm, another steadying your waist, holding you steady, and a bit too close for your liking—making you yelp in surprise.
“Shh, calm the fuck down,” Jay muttered as you breathed hard, pushing him off of you, which did not work out.
“The fuck are you doing here? Mum said you went back home,” you huffed.
“Plans change,” he hummed, the vibration of his chest rumbling against your side because god, he was still holding you that close. He didn’t even sound apologetic, just bored as usual, “and lucky for you I did, or you’d be face-planting into the linoleum right now.”
You tried to wrench your arm out of his grip, but his fingers only tightened—reminding you of that irritating strength he’d developed while you were gone. “I didn’t ask for your help. I was fine.”
“Sure. So you asked your mum where I went?” He smirked, catching on to what you’d mentioned.
“Oh fuck no, they just told me without having to ask,” you muttered, lying because, you did in fact as them about it. You started moving, trying to get out of his grip.
“Stop squirming, Y/N. You’re going to hurt yourself more, and I’m not explaining to Sunghoon why his sister is crying on the floor at three in the morning.”
“I’m not crying,” you hissed, though the throb in your ankle was making your eyes water. You pushed at his chest again, palms flat against the hard muscle that shouldn't have felt so warm through his shirt. “Let go, Jay. Seriously.”
“Fine.”
He didn’t step back. Instead, his hands slid from your waist to your hips, and before you could even process the indignity of it, he hoisted you up. You gasped, hands instinctively clutching his shoulders for purchase as he made you sit on the kitchen counter with effortless ease.
“You’re such a dick,” you whispered, though the bite was lacking because your heart was hammering against your ribs—from the scare, you told yourself. Definitely just the scare.
“And you’re welcome,” he countered smoothly, stepping into the space between your knees before you could close them. It was a rather possessive move, trapping you against the granite. He leaned in, one hand resting on the counter beside your thigh, trapping you in. “Now, are you down here for water, or were you planning to escape again?”
You couldn’t see him, but your eyes had adjusted enough to gather his silhouette, the sharpness of his jawline. He smelled like mint and that faint, expensive tobacco scent he seemed to carry now, intoxicating in the small space.
Without having to answer, Jay gathered that you were hungry when he heard that small rumble from your stomach, and he found it funny when you moved in embarrassment, but he didn’t let you move.
“Classy,” he murmured, his thumb grazing the side of your hip, a ghost of a touch, “I take it the dinner wasn’t enough.”
“Shut up,” you hissed, face burning. You tried to shove at his chest again, but it was like pushing a brick wall, “I swear I’ll scream and Sunghoon will kill you if he sees us like this.”
“Like what? Like you’re enjoying spending time with his best friend?” The words were a whisper, dangerously close to your ear, sending a shiver down your spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold kitchen tiles. He didn’t wait for you to answer—didn’t give you the satisfaction of stuttering out a denial. Instead, he finally pulled back, the loss of his body heat leaving you feeling strangely exposed in the dark.
Jay had already grabbed two packs of ramen, and you wondered just how well versed he was with the kitchen to be doing all this in darkness.
“I’m going back to bed.”
“Try it,” he challenged, not even looking at you. “You hop one step on that ankle and I’ll tie you to the counter. Don’t test me, Y/N. I’m fucking tired.”
You stayed put, seething, watching the way his shirt pulled taut across his shoulders as he cracked an egg into the boiling water with one hand. It was annoying how competent he was. How very steady.
A few minutes later, he was done. He didn’t bother with bowls. He grabbed the pot handle and two pairs of chopsticks, balancing a water bottle under his arm, leaving you in the dark, asking you to stay put as he went upstairs to keep the food in—your room?
“We’re moving,” he stated, walking back toward you now.
“I can eat here. It’s a fucking kitchen.”
“And your parents’ bedroom is directly above us. Unless you want to explain why we’re having a midnight feast together, we’re going to your room.” He said, stepping into your personal space again.
“I can walk,” you insisted, sliding your good leg off the counter, “I don’t need you to—”
“You can limp,” he corrected, cutting you off. “And I’m not waiting for you to drag yourself down the hallway.”
Before you could even plant your feet, he moved. One arm hooked behind your knees, the other around your waist, and he swept you up against his chest like you weighed absolutely nothing. You gasped, hands instinctively clutching his shirt, your face buried in the crook of his neck. That scent flooded your senses, and you hated it, hated him.
“Put me down, you jerk,” you whispered harshly, though you didn’t struggle. You couldn’t when his grip was practically iron.
“Shut up,” he grunted, kicking the kitchen door open. He carried you down the dark hallway with ease, he went straight to your room, maneuvering you through the door before kicking it shut with his heel.
The way he dropped you on the bed was gentle, keeping in mind your bruised ankle, grabbing the pot he kept on the table.
“Eat,” he ordered, placing the steaming pot on a magazine in the center of your duvet.
“I’m not eating out of the pot with you,” you glared, though the spicy steam was making your mouth water.
“Suit yourself.” Jay climbed onto the bed opposite you, sitting cross-legged. He claimed his side of the mattress with an arrogance that made your blood boil, his knee knocking against yours, he didn’t pull back.
He took a bite, chewing slowly, eyes locked on yours. “More for me.” He shrugged.
Your stomach growled again, louder this time. Jay smirked around his chopsticks, and gosh, was it embarrassing.
“Fine,” you snapped, snatching the other pair from the tray. You leaned in, fighting for space over the small pot. “Move your big head.”
“Watch your elbows,” he muttered, but he shifted slightly, just enough to let you in.
“You’re hogging the egg,” you accused, eyeing the single poached egg floating in the chili oil. You reached for it, Jay’s chopsticks clattered against yours instantly.
“I cooked, I eat,” he murmured, not even looking up.
“I’m the injured party here—I need protein for healing!” You shoved his hand aside, or tried to, leaning in further, “give it up, Jay.”
“Make me,” he challenged, his voice dropping an octave, slipping from annoyed to amused.
You huffed, abandoning strategy for speed, and lunged. You managed to snag the yolk, but before you could pull back, Jay’s hand shot out. He didn’t grab the chopsticks—he grabbed your wrist.
The contact was electric. His fingers wrapped around your pulse point, halting you mid-air. The sudden stop made you gasp, and you looked up, ready to snap at him—but the words died in your throat. He wasn't looking at the food, he was looking at you. He had leaned in to block you, and now his face was terrifyingly close, eyes dark, dilated in the dim light, tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. The playful arrogance was gone, replaced by that heavy, suffocating intensity that gave you goosebumps.
“You are,” he whispered, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of your inner wrist, “such a brat.”
“And you’re a fucking bully,” you breathed back, but you didn’t pull your hand away. Your heart was thudding so hard against your ribs you were sure he could hear it in the silence.
Jay’s gaze dropped to your lips, the air between you thickened, charged with three years of resentment and something else you couldn’t quite name. He leaned forward, just a fraction of an inch, and your breath hitched.
“Jay,” you exhaled, a warning or an invitation? You weren’t sure which at this point.
He tilted his head, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second as if he was fighting for control, or maybe losing it. His face was so close now that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against the corner of your mouth, his voice rough, “tell me to get out.”
You stared at him, lips parted, your brain screaming at you to push him away, to dump the noodles on his lap, to do something. But your body was frozen, leaning into his gravity. You stayed silent as his lips brushed against yours, just barely, but enough to make you gasp, the silence only making it worse.
Just then, the sudden vibration of your phone against your thigh brought you back to reality, as you both froze, especially Jay who stared at the lit up screen displaying Jake’s name, making him pull back in annoyance. He didn’t say a word as he slid off the bed, standing up and smoothing his shirt down with a jerky motion, his face twisting into that cold, unreadable mask you hated.
“Jay, wait—”
“Answer it,” he cut you off, his voice flat. He didn’t look at you. He was already retreating, putting distance between you like the last five minutes hadn’t happened, “don’t let me keep you.”
You blinked, the whiplash of his mood making your head spin. You grabbed the phone just to stop the buzzing, silencing it, but your eyes were glued to his back. He stopped at the door, one hand gripping the frame, knuckles white.
A sudden, stupid urge to provoke him bubbled up—maybe to get a reaction.
“You know,” you started, forcing a breathless laugh as you leaned back against the headboard, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re jealous.”
You waited for the retort, the scoff, the keep dreaming, princess.
But Jay didn’t say anything. He didn’t even turn around, just stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind him with a soft, final click, leaving you alone in the dark with a silenced phone and a heart that was beating way too fast.
The door clicked shut behind Jay, yet he didn’t have it in him to walk away just yet. His hand hovered over the cold brass handle, knuckles white, as he stood frozen in the hallway, listening to the silence on the other side. He half-expected—maybe half-hoped—that you would chase after him, fling the door open, and yell something bratty that would give him an excuse to turn around and finish what he started.
But of course, you didn’t.
Instead, he heard the faint thud of your phone hitting the mattress, followed by a heavy, frustrated sigh. Jake.
The name twisted in his gut like a knife, and it was ugly. It wasn’t jealousy—he told himself, forcing his feet to move, forcing his breath to even out. He wasn’t jealous of a guy who looked like he peaked in high school. It was just annoyance. By the time he reached his own room (well, guest room), slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame, he had convinced himself that the heat pooling low in his stomach was nothing but anger. You were a problem to be managed, not a temptation to be indulged, and gosh, he was done slipping.
It was when you entered the kitchen the next morning, things began to get worse. Jay didn’t even look at you, didn’t pass a snarky comment, nor did he bother bringing up what had almost happened last night. In fact, Jay didn’t even look up from his coffee. Apparently he thought silent treatment would help, and boy did he stretch it—for four whole days.
He became a ghost in your own fucking house. If you walked into a room, he walked out. When your mother asked him to help you change the ice pack because you were struggling to balance, he did it without a word. He knelt at your feet, his hands warm and efficient on your skin, but he stared at the wall the entire time. He didn’t tease you about your swollen foot. He didn’t thumb the sensitive skin of your arch like he had in your bedroom. He simply acted like he was doing his job, which he didn’t even need to do actually.
It effectively drove you insane.
You tried to provoke him. You played music too loud, you wore the short shorts he hated, you even talked loudly on the phone to Jake in the living room, laughing at jokes that werent exactly funny, just to see if his jaw would tick.
Jay just turned the volume up on the TV, his expression bored, completely unmoved, so unbothered.
He was denying you the one thing you craved more than his kindness—his attention. He was starving you out, weaponizing his indifference to put you back in your place, and the worst part was, it was working. The silence made the memory of his breath on your lips feel like a hallucination, making you question if he had ever looked at you with anything other than annoyance.
By the fifth night, the itch under your skin was unbearable. Your ankle could finally hold weight. The swelling was gone, leaving only a stiff ache when you turned too fast, but you were done being the invalid, and you were absolutely done being ignored.
If Jay wanted to pretend you were invisible after the shit he pulled then you were going to make sure you were the only thing he could see, ditching the sweatpants for a pair of shorts and a cute tank top, just casual enough for dinner. The roasted chicken smelled amazing for sure, the light conversation going on as Sunghoon urged you to sit next to him.
And then there was Jay, looking infuriatingly at ease with his hair styled back, specs on, clad in a black button up with sleeves rolled up for the Uni presentation he had for some module earlier today. He didn’t bother looking up when you entered—of fucking course.
“Finally,” your mother smiled, gesturing to the empty chair across from Jay. “We were waiting for you. Leg feeling better?”
“Much better,” you said, your voice clear and bright. You pulled the chair out—the wood scraping loudly against the floorboards, a jarring sound that made Sunghoon wince—and sat down, “I think I’m fully healed, actually.”
Jay’s gaze remained fixed on the water jug in the center of the table. He reached out and poured himself a glass.
“That’s great news,” your father beamed, passing you a plate.
“It means I can finally go out again,” you replied, locking your eyes on Jay’s profile. “Catch up on everything I missed.”
Jay took a sip of his water, not reacting as he placed the glass down with a soft clink and turned to your mother. “The chicken tastes excellent, Mrs. Park.”
Oh the fucking audacity.
You stabbed a piece of potato with your fork. He was really going to do this? He was really going to sit three feet away from you, in your house, eating your food, and act like you were a ghost? Two could play a game. And you remembered exactly how he played it.
You pressed your toes against the side of his calf, just above his sock line, making him freeze mid bite, jaw tightening but you didn’t stop, dragging your foot up slowly, mimicking the exact move he had pulled on you the night you returned.
“So, Jay,” you said, your voice dripping with innocent sweetness, “You’ve been quite busy working on the presentation, how’d it go?”
Jay set his fork down, clearing his throat, reaching for his water again, but his eyes stayed glued to your father, “uh—yeah. It went pretty well.”
You hummed, nodding as you pressed harder, digging your arch into the muscle of his calf. He flinched—a tiny jerk of his leg that rattled the table.
“Everything okay, Jay?” Sunghoon asked, mouth full of potatoes.
“Fine,” Jay gritted out, his voice tight.
You almost laughed, letting your foot slide higher, hooking your toes behind his knee. Jay choked on his water. He coughed, slamming the glass down a little too hard, water sloshing over the rim. Your mother looked concerned, reaching over to pat his back, but Jay waved her off, his face flushing and god it was amusing.
He shot a glare across the table—finally. It was brief and filled with a warning that made you shiver. Stop it.
You smiled back, taking a calm sip of your juice. Make me.
He tried to shift his leg away, but the table legs boxed him in. He tried to trap your foot between his ankles, clamping down hard, but you were quicker. You slipped free, grazing the inside of his thigh—dangerously high—before retreating to his shin. His composure was cracking. You could see the strain in his shoulders, the way his knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table.
He stood up abruptly, “I’m done,” he mumbled, “I forgot I have a deadline for an assignment.”
Everyone sat there all confused, especially Sunghoon with a comical expression on his face, “what is his problem?” He asked.
“I’ll go check on him,” you rolled your eyes, knowing that Sunghoon won’t get up mid dinner, he liked food way too much to abandon it midway.
You followed him upstairs, knowing he’d be in the guest bathroom, opening the door without knocking. Jay was standing at the sink, gripping the marble edge so hard the veins on his pathetically big arms popped out. His head was hung low, shoulders bunched, his breathing heavy and ragged in the small, tiled space.
“That was a fast exit, Jongseong,” you smirked, leaning against the doorframe before closing the door behind you with a small click.
Jay looked at you, his bored, indifferent mask now gone, replaced with this dark look you knew so well. He took two long strides, invading your space until your back hit the cold tiles of the wall.
“You think you’re so brave when there’s a tablecloth to hide behind, huh?” He hissed, his voice dropping, sending a shiver straight up your spine. He slammed his hand against the wall next to your head, trapping you, “you spent all of dinner trying to get a rise out of me. Well, here I am. What now, Y/N?”
“Was just asking about your presentation,” you shrugged even though your heart was hammering against your ribs, “or were you too distracted by my foot to remember that?”
Jay let out a dry, humorless laugh, his face inches from yours, “ah—you want to play games, baby? Fine. But you’re all talk, y’know?”
He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his thumb grazing your chin to tilt your face up harshly. “Touch me right now. No table, no parents, no Sunghoon to distract you. Prove you aren’t just a brat looking for something you can’t even handle.”
He expected you to chicken out, but instead, you reached out—hand flattening against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his black button-up. You could feel the frantic rhythm of his heart beneath your palm—matching yours beat for beat. You didn’t stop there, sliding your hand upward, your thumb brushing over his pulse point at the base of his throat before gripping the back of his neck, pulling him down just that extra inch.
“I’m not scared, Jay,” you whispered against his lips, and for a second you even forgot what was the purpose behind this, just what exactly did you wish to achieve here? But that didn’t stop you, “are you?”
“You have no fucking idea,” he rasped out, voice breaking as he leaned his forehead against yours, “how much I wanna ruin you right now.”
Jay swore he heard you whimper, something you stopped before it could get out, but the way your thighs pressed together was a dead giveaway.
“Then do it,” you challenged, trying to sound normal, “if you’re not scared, then fucking do it.”
He didn’t need to be told twice, the last syllable barely left your lips before his restraint shattered. He didn’t lean in, he came full force, one hand tangling into your hair to yank your head back, exposing the expanse of your throat, while the other arm slammed against the door behind you, muttering something like fuck it.
His mouth crashing onto yours, a gasp leaving your mouth at the taste of him, the sound swallowed by his mouth as his tongue swept inside, deepening the kiss with a starving rhythm that made your knees buckle instantly, gripping your waist harder, fingers digging into your skin through the thin fabric of your top.
“This what you want?” He groaned against your lips, biting down on the bottom one before soothing it with a gentle swipe of his tongue, “want me to kiss you? Teach you some manners? Do more, hm?”
You couldn’t answer, couldn’t think past the friction of his thigh slotting between yours with a pressure that made you whimper for real this time. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down, needing to be closer, needing to erase the distance he’d kept between you with nothing but heat, because this didn’t mean anything.
“You’re shaking,” Jay mumbled, tilting your head before slotting his lips onto yours again, “because you know you want me.”
“I don’t,” you lied, the denial breathless and weak against his mouth, but your body betrayed you instantly. You arched into him, a desperate move that brought your hips flush against his, the friction sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
“Liar,” Jay hissed, his hand leaving your waist to slide down the curve of your spine, gripping your ass. He hauled you up, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist, pinning you against the door so that every inch of you was at his mercy, “you’re dripping for it. I can feel it.”
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, sucking hard enough to leave a mark that would scream his name to anyone who looked. One hand kept you anchored to him, fingers digging into your flesh, while the other slid under the hem of your tank top.
“Is this better?” He rasped, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast, teasing just barely, enough to make you whimper his name, “Is this the attention you were begging for at dinner? Being pinned up in a bathroom like a desperate little thing?”
“Jay, please,” you moaned, your head falling back against the wood, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him harder against you. You didn’t know if you were begging him to stop or to never let go.
“Please what?” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes blown wide and dark with a hunger that looked terrifyingly like—love? His hand moved higher, cupping you through the thin fabric of your bra, his thumb flicking over the hardened peak, “please stop? Or please ruin you?”
He didnt bother waiting for an answer, kissing you again, messy and wet, swallowing your cries as he ground his hips against yours, the hard ridge of him pressing against your cunt. It was too much—the sensation of his hands on your skin, the taste of him, the overwhelming, suffocating reality that you belonged to him completely in this moment.
The pleasure was a sharp, blinding spike that cut through the anger, but right behind it was the terror. He was consuming you. He was taking everything you had to give and breaking you down until you were nothing but a trembling mess in his arms, and the worst part was, he knew it. He was in control, and you were unraveling. The realization hit you like a fucking slap.
You shoved at his shoulders, a frantic, jerky movement born of sudden panic.
“Stop,” you choked out, breaking the kiss with a ragged gasp.
Jay froze, his chest heaving against yours, his lips red and swollen, glossy with your spit. He looked dazed, like a man waking up from a fever dream, his hand still possessively claiming the curve of your breast under your shirt.
“I can’t do this,” you whispered, scrambling down from his hold, your legs shaking.
“Y/N—”
You pulled the door open and fled into the hallway, running for your room, leaving him standing alone in the clinical white light, the wreckage of his composure—and yours, scattered all over the floor.
You weren’t sure if you even got a wink of sleep last night, especially when you were sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was a stupid decision to push him, because now you could only think about the kiss—which was weird granted it wasn’t your first, yet it felt like one. You groaned, throwing the duvet off your overheated body and dragging yourself to the vanity mirror.
The reflection that stared back was a mess—hair tangled, lips still swollen and bitten red, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, but your gaze dropped lower, and your breath hitched.
It was a bruise, actually, it was a possessive stamp that screamed Park Jongseong. You traced it with a trembling finger, flinching slightly at the tenderness, oh this fucking man had given you a hickey. With a deep sigh, you grabbed your old journal from the nightstand, scribbling down every bit of your dilemma, right after the page where you’d written out your past feelings for your brother’s best friend—something you felt before he snitched on you.
You slammed the notebook shut, shoving it deep into the drawer as if the leather cover could contain the messy, bleeding ink of your confession. You barely had time to splash cold water on your face and throw on an oversized hoodie—hoping the fabric was thick enough to hide the evidence—before the chaos of your parents leaving filtered up the stairs.
“Y/N! We’re heading out!” Your mother called from the foyer.
You dragged yourself downstairs, watching your parents taking their suitcase out, now standing by the open door with Sunghoon, who looked only half-awake in his sweatpants.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Your father asked, adjusting his cufflinks. “The Kims would love to see you. It’s been years.” He continues, but you genuinely didn’t wish to attend any wedding full of relatives who’d love to dissect your life.
“I’m sure,” you lied smoothly, “i’ll just spend time with Hoon.”
“Alright, sweetie. There’s food in the fridge. Be good,” your mother kissed your cheek, oblivious to the fact that being good was the last thing on your mind after last night, but it felt nice, being taken care of and not abandoned again.
Your parents finally left, warning Sunghoon to take care of you and the house. “Finally,” he mumbled, yawning. “I thought they’d never leave. Do we have any—woah.” He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening as they locked onto your neck.
You froze. You had forgotten to pull the hood up. The hoodie had slipped, just enough to show the bruise on your neck.
“What is that?” Sunghoon asked, his voice dropping an octave, the sleepy brother persona vanishing instantly, “is that a hickey?”
“It’s nothing,” you snapped, pulling the fabric up frantically, “I burned myself with the curling iron.”
“That is not a burn, Y/N,” Sunghoon scoffed, looking at you with a mix of disbelief and protective annoyance. Then, his expression darkened. “Did Jake do that? When did you even meet him? Did you sneak out again?”
“Oh my gosh—no! Just shut up, shush.” You put your hand on his mouth but he didn’t stop.
“I knew it,” he muttered, pacing away from you, running a hand through his hair. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you go out with him. That prick. I’m going to kill him.”
“Kill who?”
Jay stood there. He looked wrecked as if he hadn’t slept much either. He looked at Sunghoon pacing, gaze flickering to you right after, then to the hand you still had clamped over your neck.
“Jake,” Sunghoon spat out, gesturing vaguely at you, “he gave her a hickey. Can you believe the audacity?”
Jay’s eyes snapped to you, “Is that so?” He asked, stepping fully into the room. He didn’t look at Sunghoon. He stared straight at you, challenging you to lie, “Jake gave you that?”
“Y’know, it doesn’t even matter,” you hissed.
“It does, I need to meet him,” Sunghoon still paced around, now with a toast in his mouth, “and knock some sense into him—when did you even meet him again? Call him right now.”
That is exactly how you found yourself calling Jake, ignoring sharp glares coming from Jay who was leaning against the kitchen island with his arms crossed, looking like he wanted to snap the phone in half with his mind.
“Hey, baby,” Jake picked up on the second ring, his voice raspy, likely just waking up. “Everything okay? Miss me?”
“Not really,” you muttered with a small smile, turning your back on Jay’s burning gaze to whisper into the receiver. “Sunghoon saw the burn mark on my neck, and uh—he thinks it’s you. He wants to talk, just tell him the truth.”
“Oh,” Jake paused, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice, “so I’m taking the fall for your secret boyfriend? Jay perhaps? Damn, you’re cheating on me already?”
“Never say that again, okay? Now please get your ass here,” you mumbled.
“I’ll come by the evening, hm? I have some errands to run,” Jake replied, unbothered by the fact that Sunghoon wanted to kill him.
And so, you said your goodbyes and announced how Jake will come by the evening, much to Jay’s dismay as he walked closer before you could run again.
“This is fucking ridiculous, you’re gonna let him take the credit for my work?”
“It’s not credit dumbass,” you whispered back, leaning away from him as Sunghoon finally stopped pacing to glare at the both of you, “It’s a cover story. Unless you want to explain to my brother why his best friend had his tongue down my throat in the bathroom last night?”
“What are you two whispering about?” Sunghoon demanded, narrowing his eyes, and you rolled yours, going back to your room to, well, dissociate until it was evening and Jake was about to come.
Sunghoon marched to the door, pulling it open before Jake could even knock. You followed nervously, with Jay trailing behind, leaning against the archway with dark eyes. Jake stood on the porch, helmet under his arm, looking effortlessly cool in his leather jacket. He blinked at Sunghoon’s aggressive stance, then offered a lazy, charming grin that made your stomach flip—mostly because you knew Jay was watching it.
“Where is it?” Sunghoon demanded immediately, pointing at your neck where your hoodie was pulled up tight, “did you do that?”
Jake looked from Sunghoon’s furious face to your terrified one, and finally to Jay. Jay’s expression was terrifying, as if he was daring Jake to say yes.
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Jake said smoothly, stepping inside, completely ignoring the death glare from the corner, “but I come bearing gifts.” He held up a plastic bag. “And the new Mario Tennis Fever, if you’re not scared of losing, that is.”
Sunghoon faltered, his eyes darting from the plastic bag to Jake’s face. The protective brother act cracked down the middle, revealing the competitive gamer underneath who had been complaining about that specific game being sold out for weeks.
Just like that, the trial was over.
You stood in the hallway, blinking at the sudden shift in energy, while Jay let out a dark, disbelief-filled exhale from the corner. He looked like he wanted to murder someone, and since Sunghoon was currently plugging in the console, his eyes landed on you.
“You’re sitting with me,” Jay muttered, grabbing you along with him. He steered you toward the plush leather sofa in the back of the room, shoving you into the corner cushion before dropping down right next to you. And he meant right next to you.
The sofa was huge, big enough for four people, but Jay sat so close that his thigh pressed heavily against yours, he spread his legs, claiming the space with an arrogant entitlement that forced you to shrink back, effectively boxing you in between the armrest and his hard, imposing frame. Sunghoon and Jake were already lost to the world, sitting cross-legged on the rug three feet away, screaming as the game menu music blasted through the speakers.
“I’m serving first!” Sunghoon yelled, aggressive competitive mode fully activated.
“In your dreams, Park!” Jake shot back, laughing.
Jay let out a sharp, derisive exhale through his nose, slumping back against the cushions. He crossed his arms over his chest, his dark eyes boring into the back of Jake’s head with enough intensity to burn a hole through his skull.
“This is my hell,” he deadpanned, “stuck in a room with two idiots fighting over a virtual tennis ball.”
“They’re having fun,” you whispered back, keeping your eyes glued to the screen, terrified that if you looked at him, you’d do something stupid like lean in. “You should try it sometime.”
“I am having fun,” Jay murmured, and the tone of his voice sent a shiver straight down your spine.
He uncrossed his arms, draping along the back of the sofa behind your head—casual to anyone watching, but to you, it felt like a cage closing shut. His fingers began to toy with the fabric of your hoodie near your shoulder, an idle motion that was maddeningly distracting.
“Nice shot, Jake!” You blurted out as Jake’s character scored, desperate to break the suffocating tension Jay was building.
The hand on your shoulder tightened instantly.
“Don’t,” Jay warned, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in.
“Don’t what?” you hissed, glancing nervously at Sunghoon’s back.
“Don’t cheer for him,” he whispered, his hand sliding up from your shoulder to the nape of your neck. His thumb slipped under the heavy cotton of your hood, finding the warm skin there, pressing directly against the sensitive spot right next to the bruise he’d left. “Don’t smile at him. And don’t act like you aren’t thinking about whose hand is on you right now.”
“Jay—”
His fingers stroked the bruise, a possessive, claiming touch that made your breath hitch in your throat. Sunghoon and Jake were screaming about a tie-breaker, completely oblivious to the fact that Jay was dismantling you inches away from them.
“Does he know?” Jay asked, his voice dropping, “does your little fake boyfriend know that the mark under this hoodie is shaped like my mouth? Or does he think you got it from a curling iron too?”
You turned your head to glare at him, but it was a mistake. He was too close. His eyes were dark, dilated, and focused entirely on your lips.
“He knows enough,” you lied, trying to sound brave.
“He knows nothing,” Jay corrected, his thumb digging in slightly, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through your system.
“Jay!” Sunghoon shouted suddenly, making you jump. “Pizza’s here! Go get it, I’m in a match.”
He kept his gaze locked on you, a cruel, satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he saw the flush rising on your cheeks. He pulled his hand out from under your hood slowly, letting his knuckles drag against your spine one last time before standing up, “saved by the bell,” he murmured, walking past you to get the door.
The reprieve was short-lived. When the boxes were sprawled open on the coffee table, the dynamic shifted from the sofa to the floor. You tried to sit next to Jake, hoping for a buffer, but Jay was faster. He slid into the empty space between you and the wall, his long legs sprawling out to cage you in.
“Move over,” you muttered, nudging his knee.
“Make me,” Jay replied, taking a slice of pepperoni without looking at you.
Under the concealment of the low table, while Sunghoon and Jake argued about the merits of pineapple on pizza, Jay’s hand dropped to your thigh. It wasn’t a gentle touch. His palm was heavy and hot, gripping the flesh just above your knee with a possessiveness that made your breath hitch.
“So, Y/N,” Jake asked, leaning in, “the fuck is Jay up to?” He asked, staring at Jay’s hand.
“Uh—I,” you stammered, your mind going blank as Jay’s thumb began to stroke the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, inching higher with every word you spoke.
“Need an escape? Or do you like it?” Jake asked with a smirk.
You glared at him, but he just took a bite of his pizza, his eyes dancing with dark amusement. The friction of Jay’s hand against your jeans was becoming unbearable, a secret heat building low in your belly that had nothing to do with the food.
“I need some air,” you blurted out, scrambling up before his hand could go any higher.
You didn’t wait for a response. You grabbed your hidden pack of cigarettes from your pocket and bolted for the back patio, sliding the glass door shut behind you. The cool night air hit your flushed face, a welcome relief from the suffocating tension inside. You fumbled with the lighter, the flame illuminating your shaking hands as you took a drag, the nicotine hitting your system with a dizzying rush.
You barely got the second drag in before the door slid open again. You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. The scent of tobacco and expensive cologne washed over you before he even spoke.
“I thought we agreed on you stopping this,” Jay’s voice was low, coming from right behind you.
Before you could react, he reached over your shoulder and plucked the cigarette from your fingers. But instead of crushing it, he brought it to his own lips, taking a slow, deep drag while staring at your profile.
“I needed it,” you whispered, refusing to look at him.
“You didn’t need this,” Jay murmured, exhaling a cloud of smoke, stepping closer, crowding you against the railing until your hips dug into the cold metal. “You needed to escape because you couldn’t handle me touching you while he was right there.”
“You’re delusional,” you snapped, turning to face him.
“Am I?” Jay challenged, flicking the cigarette into the garden below. He gripped the railing on either side of you, trapping you in the circle of his arms. “You were trembling at the table, Y/N. You think because he’s in the other room, you’re safe? I could bend you over this railing right now, and by the time he paused the game to look for you, you’d already be finished getting the best pleasure of your life.”
“You wouldn’t,” you challenged, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you instantly, “Sunghoon is ten feet away. The glass is right there.”
“And yet,” Jay murmured, stepping in until his body was flush against yours, pressing you so hard into the wrought iron that the metal bit into your lower back, “you’re not pushing me away, princess.”
He didn’t wait for a retort. His hand slid from the railing to your throat, his thumb pressing directly over the bruise he’d left, pulsing with a steady, heavy rhythm. The contact was electric, a live wire connecting his possession to your submission.
“Open your mouth,” he ordered softly, his eyes dropping to your lips.
When you hesitated, he used his grip on your jaw to tilt your head back, his other hand sliding down your spine to grip your hip, fingers digging into the denim. He crashed his mouth onto yours, and this time, it tasted of the smoke he’d stolen from you and the dark, bitter desire he’d been marinating in all evening.
He kissed you like he was trying to erase the very idea of Jake from your mind, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a possessive, rhythmic cadence that made your knees buckle. You gasped, the sound swallowed by his mouth, and he took advantage of it, grinding his hips against yours in a slow, deliberate friction that made a jolt of pure heat shoot straight to your core.
“Tell me who you belong to," he groaned against your lips, biting down on your bottom lip hard enough to sting, “say it.”
“Not you,” you whimpered, your hands clutching the lapels of his jacket, “never you.”
“So pretty when you’re in denial,” he spat against your mouth, his hand sliding aggressively between your thighs, the denim of your jeans the only thing saving you from his fingers as he grounded the heel of his palm against your center with a pressure that made your vision white out, “If I don’t own you, why are you trembling? Why are you so wet you’re ruining these shorts?”
You choked on a sob, your head falling back, exposing your throat to him. He took it, burying his face in the crook of your neck, sucking a fresh mark right over the old one, claiming you all over again while his hand worked a rhythm against your seam that made your knees give out completely.
“Tell Sunghoon, tell Jake. Scream for them right now, Y/N. Let them see you like this, hm? Desperate and dripping for the man you claim you hate.”
He waited, his hand still applying that maddening friction, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. He gave you the chance, he gave you the out, and you didn’t take it, you couldn’t. You just gripped his jacket tighter, your nails digging into his shoulders, surrendering to the humiliating truth that your body had chosen him long before your mind ever would.
“That’s what I thought,” Jay whispered, the cruelty in his voice mixed with a terrifying tenderness.
He pulled away abruptly, the loss of his heat leaving you gasping and cold in the night air. He didn’t look back at the mess he’d made of you, didn’t offer a hand to steady you as you slumped against the railing. He just smoothed down his jacket, fixed his hair in the reflection of the glass door, and slid it open.
“Better hurry up,” he called over his shoulder, his voice terrifyingly normal as the sound of the game flooded back out. “Pizza’s getting cold.”
“I actually like your boyfriend, I approve,” Sunghoon nodded once you composed yourself and sat down yet again.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” you blurted out.
Sunghoon paused, a slice of pepperoni halfway to his mouth, blinking in confusion. “What? But the neck thing—the hickey?”
“He’s just—ugh, I told you that’s from the curling iron,” you muttered, refusing to look at Jake, who was currently grinning like the cat who got the canary. You focused intently on the grain of the coffee table, anything to avoid the eyes, “and he’s just flirty. I haven’t seen him in three years, Sunghoon. We aren’t dating.”
Jake clutched his chest, feigning a dramatic heart attack, slumping slightly against the sofa. “Wounded, truly. And here I thought we had something special. I brought you video games and everything.”
You risked a glance at Jay. He wasn’t looking at Sunghoon or Jake, he was looking right at you. He sat back against the sofa, legs spread with that infuriating arrogance, slowly chewing his pizza. He didn’t look angry anymore, he looked—satisfied? He knew. He knew exactly why you were denying it. It wasn’t for Sunghoon’s benefit, It was submission, a direct answer to the question he’d forced out of you against the railing. Not him. You were denying Jake because Jay’s touch was still burning on your skin, because five minutes ago you were begging him not to stop.
“Well,” Sunghoon shrugged, chewing thoughtfully, completely oblivious to basically everything, “he’s cool anyway! You should date him, just keep the circle small. Plus, he’s better than those other guys you used to hang out with.”
“I’m not dating anyone,” you snapped, grabbing a slice of cold pizza just to have something to do with your trembling hands.
“Suit yourself,” Jake hummed, leaning in closer, his arm brushing yours just to test your reaction, and well, Jay’s reaction, “but I’m still the favourite.”
He reached out, his thumb grazing your cheekbone, “you’ve got a little smudge right—”
Jay dropped his glass onto the table forcefully, the sound was sharp, silencing the room instantly.
“You’re practically crowding her,” Jay said, “back off, Jake. She needs to eat.”
Jake froze, his smile stiffening at the edges. Sunghoon looked between them, brow furrowed, sensing the sudden spike in temperature but misinterpreting the source.
“Relax, Jay,” Jake laughed, though it sounded hollow. He pulled his hand back, surrendering the space, holding his palms up in mock surrender, “just trying to help.”
“Just saying,” Jay murmured, picking up his glass again.
He took a slow sip, his gaze sliding over the rim of the glass to lock onto yours, looking at your swollen lips, then down to your hands shaking around the pizza crust, and a ghost of a smirk touched his lips.
“She looks exhausted,” Jay finished smoothly, his voice dropping an octave, “let her breathe.”
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. He was protecting you. Wait, was he actually? Oh no—he was claiming you right in front of them.
And God help you, you liked it.
The rain had been hammering against the floor-to-ceiling windows for six hours straight now, which was honestly horrible since you were stuck dreading the fact that you couldn’t go out, it was kind of a relentless, suffocating downpour that made the house feel less like a home and more like a cage.
It was just past 1:00 AM on Friday.
Sunghoon had gone up hours ago, mumbling something about his class tomorrow, which was odd because why does he have classes on Saturday? But that left you alone in the sprawling, dim living room. You were sitting on the plush rug, your back pressed against the base of the sofa, knees pulled up to your chest. The only light came from the faint, ambient glow of the garden lights filtering through the rain, casting long, distorted shadows across the hardwood floor.
In your hand, a heavy crystal glass rested against your knee. You took a slow sip, letting the amber liquid coat your tongue before swallowing. It helped unclasp the knot of anxiety that had been tightening there all day. It was the good stuff, the twenty-year-old single malt your father kept hidden in the back of the mahogany cabinet, reserved for, well, business deals and celebrations. You weren’t really celebrating, just trying to numb the static in your head.
Every time you closed your eyes, you saw it—the flash of Jay’s eyes on the balcony, the way his hand had looked wrapped around your throat—large, veined, and god terrifyingly possessive. The way he had looked at you when you denied Jake, as if he had reached into your chest and pulled the truth out of your beating heart.
Not him.
You hated that you had said it, you hated that you had given him that satisfaction. But mostly, you hated that sitting here, in the dark, with the taste of expensive whiskey on your lips, you were waiting for him.
“That’s a waste of a good vintage.”
The voice was low, wrapping around you in the darkness, and you didn’t react, just tipping the glass back, finishing the swallow before lowering it to your knee, staring steadfastly at the rain-streaked glass.
“I’m not wasting it,” you muttered, “I’m appreciating it. Go away, Jay.”
You expected him to lecture you saying put the glass down, Y/N. Instead, you heard the soft clink of crystal against crystal.
Jay walked around the sofa, coming into your peripheral vision, and for a change, he wasn’t wearing his stiff button-down, no styled hair, no watch. He was in a loose gray t-shirt that hung off his broad shoulders and black sweatpants that sat low on his hips. His hair was damp, falling into his eyes, messy and unkempt in a way that made him look somehow prettier.
He sank down onto the floor next to you, leaving barely a foot of space between your arms—but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. He held up his own glass next to yours.
“I didn’t ask you to stop,” he murmured, taking a slow sip, his eyes fixed on the window, “just said don’t waste it. Sip it, hm?”
You turned your head to look at him, suspicion narrowing your eyes, “since when do you encourage my so called bad habits? I thought your job was to police me or whatever.”
“My job is to keep you safe,” he corrected calmly, resting his head back against the sofa cushion and closing his eyes, “If a drink keeps you from climbing out the window and breaking your other ankle, then I’ll pour it for you myself.”
“I’m not going to climb out the window,” you huffed, turning back to the view, though your grip on the glass tightened, “it’s raining anyway.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not a child.”
“Debatable.”
“Shut up.”
He chuckled, and you sat in silence for a long time, just the relentless drumming of the rain and the occasional rhythmic clink of ice shifting in the glasses, but your heart felt warm. It was terrifyingly domestic. This was your enemy, this man was your snitch, this was the man who had ruined your life three years ago. And yet, sitting here in the dark, stripped of the audience and the expectations, the hatred felt rather heavy. You were so tired of carrying it.
“You’re shaking,” Jay said.
He hadn’t even opened his eyes, but somehow he knew—he always knew.
“I’m cold,” you lied, taking another sip.
“Yeah sure. You’re a liar,” he countered softly.
He opened his eyes then, turning his head on the cushion to look at you, watching you for a moment, tracing the line of your profile, the curve of your neck, the way your fingers curled around the glass.
“Why are you down here, Jay?” You whispered, “you have a whole house to avoid me in.”
“Maybe I’m tired of avoiding you,’ he said simply.
The honesty knocked the wind out of you, making you gulp. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, looking away, heart hammering.
“You’re just bored—you like having a punching bag. You like proving that you’re better than me.”
“Is that what you think this is?” Jay shifted, turning his body fully toward you, “you think I enjoy fighting with you?”
“Oh please, you seem to love it,” you muttered into your glass, “you practically vibrate with joy every time you get to tell me what a disappointment I am.”
“I don’t think you’re a disappointment, Y/N.”
You looked up, eyes wide, searching his face for the lie, for the sarcasm, only to find that he wasn’t really joking about it, not this time.
“Don’t,” you warned, your voice trembling, “don’t do that, don’t pretend like you care.”
“I’m not pretending.”
He reached out for you, and you flinched instinctively, making him pause, his hand hovering in the air between you. A flicker of something pained crossed his face, there and gone in a second. He waited, giving you the chance to pull away. When you didn’t move, he continued the movement, but slower this time. His fingers brushed against your temple, tucking that same loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles grazed your cheekbone—a touch so agonizingly gentle it made your breath hitch in your throat.
His hand didn’t pull away. His thumb rested on your jaw, the calloused pad of his finger ghosting over the corner of your mouth.
“You’re still swollen,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough timbre that sent a shiver straight down your spine.
“And whose fault is that?” You breathed, turning your face slightly into his palm without meaning to. You were starving for this, you hated him, but god, you were starving for him to touch you like you weren’t a mistake.
“Yours,” he replied, but the word was a caress, “for making me go crazy.”
The air between you thickened, the whiskey making you brave, making you soft. You looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the way his eyes dropped to your lips, the way his pupils blew wide, swallowing the iris.
“I hate you,” you whispered, but it lacked its usual bite, sounding more like a plea.
“I know,” Jay whispered back, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip, tugging it slightly, “tell me again.”
“I hate you.”
“Good.”
He leaned in, just an inch. The scent of him filled your senses, drowning out the logic that screamed at you to run. You found yourself leaning forward too, the magnetic pull of three years of obsession dragging you in. You wanted him to kiss you. You wanted him to erase the last three years with his mouth.
Thump.
A heavy footstep creaked on the floorboards directly above you. Sunghoon rolling over in bed.
The sound shattered the world like glass.
Jay pulled back instantly, the loss of his touch physical, leaving your skin cold and aching. He cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet room, and grabbed his glass, downing the rest of the liquid in one swallow.
The mask slammed back into place. The vulnerability vanished behind a wall of composed indifference, though you saw the tension in his jaw, the way his knuckles were white around the glass.
“Don’t stay up too late,” he said, his voice tight, rough with regret. He stood up, towering over you again, putting miles of distance between you in a single second, “Sunghoon has an early lecture tomorrow. He insists on taking you with him.”
“Jay—” you started, reaching out, your hand trembling.
“Go to sleep, Y/N,” he cut you off, refusing to look at you, “before one of us does something stupid, again.”
He turned and walked away toward the guest room, the darkness swallowing him up, leaving you sitting on the floor with a half-empty glass of whiskey and a heart that was beating fast enough to bruise.
The morning light was harsh, unfiltered, and utterly unforgiving as it streamed through the kitchen windows, burning your retinas. You sat at the kitchen island, nursing a black coffee that tasted horrendous, wearing oversized sunglasses to hide the fact that you had stared at the ceiling till 4 AM, replaying the way Jay’s thumb had felt on your lip.
Sunghoon was bustling around the kitchen, shoving textbooks into his bag, looking annoyingly fresh-faced and energetic.
“Come on, let’s go,” Sunghoon said, tapping the counter with a spoon, “I have a lecture in twenty minutes and if I’m late, Professor Kim will burn me alive. And you—” he pointed the spoon at you, “—are not leaving my sight.”
“I am not a child, Hoon,” you groaned, dropping your head onto your folded arms, “I can stay home, I won’t burn it down. I promise not to let any boys in.”
“Last time I left you alone, you ended up in a police station,” Sunghoon countered cheerfully, tossing an apple at you, you caught it blindly, “get in the car.”
You looked up, ready to argue, but your eyes landed on the doorway.
Jay was leaning against the frame, keys in hand.
He was back in his armor, a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows to reveal the veins in his forearms, black slacks, hair styled to perfection. He looked immaculate, he looked like he hadn’t spent the night drinking whiskey on the floor with you, he almost looked like a stranger.
He caught your eye, his expression being blank, bored even.
“Let’s go," Jay said coolly, spinning the keys on his finger, “traffic is going to be hell.”
You grabbed your bag, scowling as you walked past him, making sure to bump his shoulder hard enough to be annoying but not hard enough to start a fight.
“You’re in my way,” you muttered.
“As I’ll always be,” he murmured instantly, low enough that only you could hear.
You suppressed a shiver and marched to the car.
The ride was suffocating, Sunghoon sat in the front passenger seat, talking about his lectures for the day while you sat in the back, staring at the back of Jay’s head. You watched his eyes in the rearview mirror and he was watching you back. Every time you looked up, he was there, checking on you, his gaze heavy and unreadable.
When you finally pulled up to the University, the campus was a chaotic sea of students. It was loud, crowded, and overwhelming. You stepped out of the car, adjusting your bag, feeling small and out of place in your leather jacket and boots among the sea of polished students.
“Okay,” Sunghoon said, checking his watch as he slammed the door, “I have to go to the biochem lab. Guests aren’t allowed inside, please stay safe here.”
“So I can wait in the car?” You asked hopefully.
“No,” Jay answered before Sunghoon could. He locked the car, pocketing the keys, “it’s too hot inside. Just wait on the bench near the quad. It’s right in front of the building. We’ll be sixty minutes.”
“Sixty minutes?” You groaned, leaning against the car, “I’ll die of boredom.”
“Stay put,” Jay ordered, stepping into your personal space. He reached out and fixed the collar of your jacket, a gesture that looked brotherly to anyone watching but felt possessive to you, “don’t wander off, don’t talk to strangers, and don’t make me come find you.”
“Yes, dad,” you rolled your eyes, slapping his hand away.
Jay’s lip twitched, but he didn’t smile, “be good.”
He turned and walked away with Sunghoon, the two of them disappearing into the crowd of students.
You sat on the bench, sighing, pulling your phone out to doom-scroll. You lasted about ten minutes before the boredom became unbearable. You stood up to stretch your legs, pacing a small circle around the bench, kicking at a loose stone, then a guy approached you when you least expected it.
“Excuse me?”
You stopped kicking the loose gravel, looking up to find a guy in a navy windbreaker standing there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he was debating whether to run or stay.
“I know this is random,” he started, offering a lopsided, dimpled grin that was charming, “but I saw you waiting and I just thought—are you a student here? Or maybe waiting for somebody?”
You let out a breath, offering him a polite smile, the kind you used to let people down gently, “I’m just waiting for my brother, he has a terrible concept of time.”
“Ah—I’m Jungwon by the way,” he offered, stepping a little closer, confident but not aggressive, “if your brother doesn’t show up, or if you get tired of waiting, maybe I could get your number? There’s a decent coffee spot around the corner, way comfy than this curb.”
You blinked, realizing he was harmless, just a guy shooting his shot, so you softened your expression slightly, “I’m not interested, sorry, but thanks for the offer, Jungwon.”
“Ah, worth a try,” he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck, seemingly unbothered. “Have a good day, then.”
“You too,” you replied, keeping the small, friendly smile on your face as he turned to walk away.
Then the air pressure dropped, a sudden shift in the atmosphere that made the hair on your arms stand up, and you turned your head toward the main building to see Jay standing at the top of the concrete stairs. He was about forty yards away, with Sunghoon next to him checking his watch, completely oblivious, but Jay was motionless, one hand jammed deep into his pocket and the other gripping his phone so hard his knuckles were bleached white.
He wasn’t looking at Jungwon, he was looking at you. He had seen the exchange, the lean in, the easy body language, but mostly he had seen the smile, that soft, unguarded expression you had offered a total stranger, a look you hadn’t given Jay in three years.
“Finally,” you muttered as they reached the car, trying to ignore the knot forming in your stomach.
Jay didn’t even look at you, walking past you like you were invisible, unlocking the car with a sharp chirp and sliding into the driver’s seat without a word. The drive home was a masterclass in suffocation, Sunghoon chattering about his lab partner and filling the void while Jay drove with a dangerous focus, refusing to turn on the radio or check the rearview mirror, just staring at the asphalt while radiating a cold, dark silence.
The atmosphere in the house was no better, it was worse.
For hours, Jay orchestrated a silence so loud it rattled the windows, existing as a ghost in your periphery. If you entered the kitchen to grab water, he would immediately set his glass down and walk out without a word. If you sat on the couch, he would stand up and move to the armchair, angling his body away from you as if your very existence offended him. It was a stark, violent contrast to the blurred lines of last night.
Last night, the air between you had been thick with whiskey and reckless candor, his knee knocking against yours under the table, his eyes tracking the movement of your throat when you laughed. Last night, he had poured your drink with this soft attentiveness, looking at you like he wanted to devour you.
Tonight, he looked at you like he wanted to erase you.
By 9:00 PM, the toxicity was choking you, the whiplash of his mood swings making your skin crawl. You couldn’t breathe in the living room anymore, the air too thick with his unspoken judgment and the memory of how warm he had been only twenty-four hours ago. You stormed into the garage, the motion-sensor light flickering on to reveal the sleek, matte-black body of your motorcycle, and you were surprised to see how your parents hadn’t thrown it away.
You yanked the tarp off, dust motes dancing in the harsh overhead light. You grabbed your helmet from the shelf, your hands shaking with a mix of adrenaline and fury, and zipped up your leather jacket, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet concrete space. You needed wind, you needed speed, you needed to outrun the headache Jay was giving you.
Straddling the bike, you kicked the stand up and turned the key. The dashboard lit up, and you hit the ignition, the engine roaring to life with a guttural growl. You walked the bike down the driveway, the heavy tires crunching over the gravel, the exhaust puffing white clouds into the cold night air. You were just about to kick it into gear when a shadow detached itself from the porch.
“Turn it off.” Jay stepped into the ring of amber light cast by the streetlamp. He was still in his clothes from earlier, looking pissed, his eyes fixed on the revving engine with cold disapproval.
“Oh now you’re talking to me? Move, Jay,” you snapped, flipping your visor up so he could see the glare in your eyes, your gloved hands gripping the clutch.
“It’s late,” he stated, his voice flat, “and you’re not riding alone. It’s not safe.”
“I didn’t ask for permission.” You revved the engine, “and I’m certainly not asking you. You’ve been treating me like a ghost for six hours, you don’t get to pretend you give a damn about my safety.”
“I’m not pretending,” he said, stepping right into your path. He reached out and grabbed the center of the handlebars, “I’m just not letting you run off just because you’re in a mood.”
“I’m in a mood?” You let out a sharp, disbelief-filled scoff, “I’m leaving because you’re impossible. Last night you were fine, and today you’re looking at me like I committed a felony. I don’t even know what I did, Jay.”
He didn’t answer immediately. His jaw locked tight, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He looked down at your hands on the grips, then back up to your face, his gaze darkening.
“You’re too loose,” he muttered, the criticism slipping out low, “you let people get too comfortable too fast.”
You froze, the engine purring beneath you. Too comfortable? You hadn’t seen a soul all evening except him and Sunghoon. Unless. The realization clicked into place. The wait at the university, Jungwon, the polite smile you gave him when you turned him down.
“Wait.” You leaned forward over the tank, searching his face, “Is that what this is? You saw that guy at the pickup spot?”
Jay didn’t say anything, but his eyes narrowed, giving him away completely.
“You’re kidding,” you scoffed, the absurdity of it hitting you, “you’ve been acting like a psycho all night because I didn’t tell a stranger to go to hell? You’re fucking jealous—oh my god.”
“I’m not jealous,” he snapped, the denial coming too fast, “I just don’t like watching you be naive.”
“You are,” you challenged, pointing a gloved finger at his chest, “you’re jealous, Jay. And it’s pathetic.”
He stared at you, his chest heaving slightly, caught in the lie but refusing to fold. He didn’t move and didn’t bother defending himself further. He just tightened his grip on the bike, his knuckles turning white, staring at you with an intensity that said everything his pride wouldn’t let him speak.
“Get off the bike,” he warned.
“No,” you retorted, done playing his games.
You shifted your weight, kicking the bike into neutral for a split second to stare him down. You looked back at the empty passenger seat behind you, then back to him with a dare carved into your expression.
“I’m leaving, Jay,” you warned, your voice steady over the purr of the engine, “so either hop on or fuck off.”
Jay scoffed, but did he have any choice? You were too stubborn for your own good and so, he snatched the helmet from the rack, shoving it over his head, not bothering with the clasp. He swung a leg over the seat behind you, the bike dipping aggressively under his sudden, heavy weight.
The suspension groaned, and suddenly the space was gone. His chest pressed flush against your back, a wall of solid, suffocating heat that cut right through your leather jacket. His thighs clamped against yours, locking you in, and his arms wound around your waist, his hands gripping your stomach not to hold on, but to restrain.
“Drive,” he commanded, his voice muffled by the helmet but vibrating directly against your spine, “before I drag you off this thing myself.”
You didn’t hesitate, a scoff leaving your lips as you kicked the bike, the rear tire spinning on the gravel, spitting stones before biting into the asphalt. You launched forward, the G-force throwing Jay back against the sissy bar before his grip tightened, crushing the air out of your lungs.
You drove just how you felt, it was angry, tearing through the suburban streets, banking the bike so low on the turns that the footpegs scraped the pavement, sending showers of orange sparks dying in the wind. You pushed the RPMs into the red, the engine screaming, weaving through the late-night traffic with a recklessness that bordered on a death wish.
You wanted him to be scared. You wanted him to tap your shoulder, to beg you to slow down, but Jay didn’t flinch, he knew you liked speed, and how reckless you got with it. He just knew he had to be here, providing some kind of anchor to it.
Twenty minutes of adrenaline-fueled chaos later, you skidded into the empty lot of the old industrial park near the river—a wasteland of concrete and shipping containers. You killed the engine while the bike was still rolling, letting it jerk to a halt. Silence crashed down instantly, ringing in your ears.
You kicked the stand down and shoved his hands off your waist. You swung your leg over and ripped your helmet off, gasping for air, the cold night hitting your sweat-dampened skin. Jay was already off the bike, slamming his helmet onto the seat, his hair messy, his eyes wild.
“What the hell was that?” He snapped, voice rough as he stared at you being so normal about it.
“That’s called a bike ride, Jay,” you shot back, trying to appear calm, but you weren’t even close to it.
“That was not riding, you have a fucking death wish,” he said, stepping closer and into your personal space before you could even process your bearings.
“Aw, you’re scared, hm? You wanted to come along, Jay, you knew very well what you were getting into.”
“I knew you liked to speed, but fucking hell—i didn’t think you’d lose your mind like that,” he hissed, eyes dark and fixed on yours—he looked as if he wished to shake you and pull you into a hug at the same damn time, “all this cause what? You’re pissed at me.”
“I’m pissed because you’ve been a ghost all day!” You yelled, the frustration finally boiling over, stinging behind your eyes. You stepped closer, your boots scuffing against his, refusing to back down, “honestly, what even do you want Jay? You treat me like I’m some problem, yet you keep looking right through me for hours, and then you hop on my bike and act like you’re my shadow? Pick a side, Jay!”
He opened his mouth to bark back, his jaw locked so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek, but then he just—stopped. He saw the way your hands were shaking against the side of your legs, the way your chest was heaving not just from anger, but from the adrenaline crash that was about to hit you like a freight train. The fire in his eyes changed—shifting from pure rage to a heavy, exhausted sort of focus.
“Shh,” he muttered, the sound rough and low.
“Don’t shh me, I’m not done—”
“I said shh.” He didn’t give you a choice. He reached out, his fingers locking around your wrist with a grip that was absolute. He simply ended up pulling you toward the low concrete barrier that lined the river’s edge.
He sat down first, the heavy fabric of his jeans brushing against the stone, and before you could even think about sitting next to him, he tugged you forward by the waist, pulling you directly down onto his lap.
“Jay, let go, I’m not doing this,” you grumbled, trying to twist away, but his arms wound around you like iron bands, locking you against his chest.
“Just stay put,” he commanded, his voice muffled against the shoulder of your leather jacket. He sounded wrecked. He didn’t let go of your hand, either; he caught it, interlacing his fingers with yours and pinning them against his thigh.
You tried to yank your hand back once, then twice, “I’m serious, Jay. Let go.” You weren’t sure if you even wanted that, especially when this moment felt too intimate for two people who claimed to hate each other.
“No.” He squeezed tighter. “You’re still shaking, just stay still.”
You let out a sharp, frustrated breath, rigid against him, but the cold wind off the river was starting to bite, and his body was radiating a heat that soaked right through your jacket. You eventually slumped against him, the fight draining out of you as you rested your head near his neck, surrounded by the scent of his cologne and the lingering smell of exhaust.
For a long time, the only sound was the wind coming off the black water and the faint, metallic tick-tick-tick of the bike cooling down behind you. The adrenaline had completely burned out of your system, leaving you feeling hollowed out and heavy. Jay didn’t move, his thumb just kept tracing a slow, repetitive line over the knuckles of your gloved hand, a steady rhythm that matched the heartbeat thudding against your spine.
“I wasn’t going to crash, you know,” you murmured, hating how small your voice sounded.
You felt him let out a slow, jagged breath, “could’ve fooled me,” he muttered, his voice rough.
“I’m not stupid, Jay. I wouldn’t do that shit with you sitting at the back, and you know it.”
The rhythmic movement of his thumb paused, “so you’d do it without me? Are you hearing yourself right now?” His voice held anger but it came out rather quiet, which was scary, “is it because you are pissed, huh? Because of what happened earlier.”
You pulled back just a fraction, frowning at the side of his neck, “what happened earlier? You mean you acting like I didn’t exist for six straight hours?”
“You know what I mean,” he finally turned his head, his eyes were dark in the dim light of the lot, searching your face, “the guy at the coffee cart.”
You let out a dry, tired scoff, shaking your head slightly, this was incredulous, “are we really doing this? He just asked for my number, Jay. I didn’t even give it to him.”
“But you smiled at him,” he said it like an accusation, but it lacked the vicious bite from your argument, It just sounded heavy.
You stared at him, the realization slowly washing over the lingering anger in your chest. The brooding, the silent treatment, the way he’d gripped you on the bike like he was terrified of letting go, “you were jealous of a smile? Jay, what’s wrong with you?”
Jay swallowed hard, his jaw clenching, not bothering to lie this time, “I hated it,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a rasp, “seeing him get to talk to you like it was nothing—like he didn’t have to wade through three years of absolute hell just to get you to look at him, you don’t even look at me unless it’s to fight back.”
You stared at him, pulling your hand free from his, but instead of pulling away, you rested your palm against his chest, pissed still because he was the one who riled you up each time, calm because communication was a foreign concept when it concerned you both.
“Jay,” you said softly, “you irritate me so fucking much, then you want me to smile at you when you ignore me?” Jay groaned at this, yet you continued, “and yes I tried to run cause i was tired of this back and forth, but you won’t even let me drive, you piss me off I swear.”
He leaned forward, shifting your position now, resting his forehead heavily against yours. His eyes fluttered shut as he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since the university, “don’t do it again,” he breathed against your skin, not even sure if it was about the guy or the speeding, or well, both, “don’t drive like that when I’m right here.”
“Then don’t freeze me out,” you countered, your voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t answer with words. He just shifted his grip, one hand sliding up your back to press you a fraction closer, holding you there until the last of the tremors finally left your hands, staring at you as you rested against his chest, looking so pretty, so peaceful, and Jay swears he’d have done anything to have you back like this.
His eyes drifted back to your lips, gulping before he looked elsewhere.
Eventually, he pulled back, the cold air rushing in to fill the space between you. He looked exhausted. He reached out, his fingers brushing the zipper of your jacket before dropping to your hip, where your keys were clipped.
“Give me the keys,” he said quietly.
You didn’t argue, you unclipped them and dropped them into his waiting palm. Jay stood up, bringing you with him. He swung his leg over the front of the bike, taking the driver’s seat. You climbed on behind him, the dynamic instantly shifting. You wrapped your arms around his waist, sliding your hands into the front pocket of his hoodie, and pressed your cheek flat against his back, and Jay was just glad you couldn’t see his face at the moment.
He kicked the engine to life, and the ride home was entirely different. He drove with a smooth, protective precision, his body naturally leaning to shield you from the worst of the wind. By the time he pulled into the garage and killed the engine, sealing you both in the warm, amber light, the hostility was gone. He stayed seated, resting his hands on his thighs, and covered your hands with his own.
“We’re home,” he whispered into the quiet.
“Yeah,” you murmured back, squeezing his waist. And for the first time all day, it actually felt like it.
The heavy, amber light of the garage clicked off, plunging the space into darkness, but the warmth between you didn’t fade as you both finally stepped off the bike and walked inside. The mudroom was quiet, the sleeping house wrapping around you, but the suffocating hostility that had choked you for the past three years was completely gone.
Jay stopped at the base of the stairs. He didn’t walk past you. He turned, his dark eyes searching your face in the shadows. Before you could even think to put your walls back up, he stepped into your space and wrapped his arms around you.
You let out a shaky breath, your hands hesitantly coming up to grip the soft cotton of his hoodie as you buried your face in his chest. Your heart did a violent, frantic stutter against your ribs, a sudden swarm of butterflies erupting in your stomach. It felt painfully nostalgic and terrifyingly real.
He pressed his cheek to the top of your head, holding you tight enough that you could feel the steady, heavy thud of his own heartbeat mirroring yours, “I’m tired of fighting you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice stripped of all its armor.
“I’m tired too,” you whispered into his chest.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand slid up to cup your face, his thumb brushing along your jawline—agonizingly soft, before he leaned down. The kiss was slow, barely a press of his lips against yours, sweet and hesitant. It wasn’t fueled by anger or jealousy really, it was a quiet apology for the last six hours, and maybe the last three years.
When he pulled away, he kept his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet hallway, “tomorrow,” he promised, “no more running, princess, we’ll figure this out, yeah? We’ll talk.”
“Tomorrow,” you agreed softly, leaning into his touch for one last heartbeat before he finally let you go upstairs, eyes not leaving you till the door of your room closed with a soft thud, him trying his best to bite his lip, not letting the goofy smile spread on his face.
The next morning felt entirely different. You woke up without that familiar dread sitting on your chest, instead, the butterflies were back, fluttering wildly at the thought of facing him. You actually took your time getting dressed, catching yourself smiling at the mirror as you replayed the soft press of his lips and the absolute certainty in his voice. You were ready for that talk, you were ready to finally put the bitterness away.
When you walked downstairs, however, Jay was already gone. Sunghoon was in a complete panic, tearing through the kitchen looking for his notes for a weekend seminar. Before you could even ask where Jay had gone, Sunghoon had practically dragged you into the passenger seat of his car, on a fucking Sunday, insisting he couldn’t leave you home alone and that dropping off his project would only take twenty minutes.
You didn’t mind the detour honestly, leaning against a concrete planter in the campus quad while Sunghoon ran inside, letting the crisp morning air wash over you. You were mindlessly looking around, but your thoughts kept drifting back to the hallway. To the way your heart had hammered when he kissed you. To the undeniable feeling that after three years of hell, you were finally on the verge of something beautiful.
You allowed yourself a small, secret smile, fingertips absently tracing the faint bruise still hidden beneath the collar of your hoodie. Then your gaze caught on a familiar silhouette across the quad.
Jay stood near the library steps, sleeves of his black button-up rolled to the elbows, the morning light catching the sharp line of his jaw. He was not alone. A girl lingered close beside him—long dark hair swaying as she laughed at something he said, her hand resting lightly on his forearm in a gesture that spoke of easy familiarity. She leaned in as she spoke, the kind of effortless closeness that made something sharp and unwelcome twist deep in your gut.
Moments later Sunghoon reappeared, project folder tucked securely under his arm, his expression already easing into its usual relaxed state, “all done,” he said, nodding toward the car, “let’s head back before I remember I have another deadline breathing down my neck.”
You swallowed, keeping your voice deliberately light and casual as you gestured with your chin, “who’s that with Jay?”
Sunghoon followed your gaze and let out a low, knowing chuckle, shaking his head as if the sight were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, “that’s his girlfriend, Professor Kim’s daughter, Mina. Jay’s been stuck tutoring her for weeks now. You know how it is with him and these academic obligations.” He ruffled your hair in that familiar, protective way, already steering you back toward the car, “c’mon, let’s get you home.”
Girlfriend, tutor, Professor’s daughter. The words blurred together into the same bitter refrain—he had already moved on. Then why was he even actively chasing you? Why did he kiss you? None of it made any sense.
You offered Sunghoon a tight, reassuring smile and slid back into the passenger seat, the morning air suddenly too sharp against your skin. The entire drive home passed in silence on your end while he rambled about his seminar. Your mind had already raced far ahead, heart pounding harder than the engine.
The house had fallen into the deep, heavy silence of true night by the time the waiting finally broke you.
You had spent the hours after returning home drifting through the rooms like a ghost, ears tuned to every distant engine hum on the street, every faint creak of the front door. Jay never came back even when the clock ticked past midnight, the lights in Sunghoon’s room eventually went out. The whole house grew still, leaving only the low tick of the clock and the unbearable weight in your chest.
Girlfriend.
The word wouldn’t leave you, it wrapped around the memory of his desperate kiss until the contradiction felt like it would split you open. Why chase you so fiercely if he already had someone else? Why kiss you like you were air and he was drowning, only to vanish the very next day?
You were exhausted by the hope, exhausted by letting him unravel everything you had spent three years rebuilding.
At half past three you stood up in the dark, pulled on your leather jacket, and slipped downstairs without a sound. The back door clicked shut behind you like a quiet goodbye, right now you only needed your bike. You swung a leg over, kicked the engine to life, and twisted the throttle hard.
The wind slammed into your face, cold and merciless, ripping the tears from your eyes before they could fall. You leaned forward and let the road swallow you whole, chasing the only thing that had ever made the ache feel smaller.
You didn’t look back at the house, not even once.
The city thinned out behind you, streetlights stretching into long ribbons of gold as the road opened up. Every mile felt like another promise you were breaking—to yourself, to the fragile peace you had tried to rebuild. But peace had never felt like enough when Jay was involved, it never had.
Headlights flared in your mirror, bright and unrelenting. At first you thought it was just another late-night driver, then the black car surged forward, pulling level with you on the empty stretch of road—Jay’s car.
Your stomach dropped, he leaned across the console, window down, hair wild from the wind rushing through the cabin. His face was tight with panic and something darker, something that looked too much like fear.
“Y/N!” His shout cut through the combined thunder of engines, “slow the fuck down! Pull over!”
You clenched your jaw and twisted the throttle harder, the bike surging forward. The wind whipped his voice away, but you heard the raw edge in it. He matched your speed effortlessly, one hand white-knuckled on the wheel. “Stop the bike—you’re going to get yourself killed!”
The accusation in your chest finally tore free, “go home to her!” You screamed back, voice cracking against the night, “your girlfriend, your student, whatever the hell she is! I’m done being the one you chase when it’s convenient!”
Jay’s expression shattered, “what? Who?”
“I saw you at the uni!”
It took a few seconds, but Jay eventually realized, “she’s not my girlfriend! Mina is Professor Kim’s daughter—I’m only tutoring her because he’s writing my recommendation letter. That’s fucking it. I was driving home from her place when I saw you fly past, pull over, damn it!”
The words should have softened something inside you, but they only fed the storm. You were too raw, too tired of half-truths and disappearing acts. “Liar!” You shouted, the wind snatching the sound.
“Fine—whoever wins the next mile decides. If I win, you’ll talk to me, If you win—leave me alone forever. Deal?”
You didn’t even hesitate, “deal.”
The road became nothing but speed and fury. Your bike screamed beneath you, tires eating asphalt, the world narrowing to the white lines blurring past. Jay’s car roared beside you, dangerously close, his engine fighting for every inch. You leaned lower, pushing harder than you ever had, tiredness creeping up, but also reckless that matched Jay’s desperation—which made him faster. His car shot ahead, cutting sharply in front of you and slamming on the brakes.
Tires shrieked, as your bike fishtailed wildly. You fought the handlebars, skidding to a stop inches from his rear bumper, the sudden silence ringing in your ears like a gunshot.
You ripped the helmet off and hurled it to the ground, legs shaking as you dismounted. Jay was already out of the car, door hanging open, chest heaving.
“You almost got us both killed,” he yelled, stalking toward you across the empty road.
“Good!” Your voice cracked, raw and trembling with everything you’d held back for years, “maybe if I’d actually crashed you’d finally feel it—what it’s like to be left standing there wondering why the hell you even mattered to someone.”
Jay’s steps faltered for half a second, rain already starting to fall in fat, cold drops that darkened his shirt. He kept coming anyway, stopping so close you could see the way his jaw worked, the frantic rise and fall of his chest. “You think I don’t feel that every single day?” His voice was hoarse, cracking, “you think I haven’t spent the last three years replaying that night I told your parents everything, wondering how the fuck it all went so wrong?”
You shoved at his chest, hard enough that he rocked back on his heels, but he didn’t step away, “then why disappear again? Why kiss me like I’m the only person you’ve ever wanted and then spend the whole next day with somebody else? I waited for you, Jay. I sat in that dark house like an idiot while you were off doing whatever the hell you do with Professor’s perfect daughter.”
“I wasn’t with her like that!” The words tore out of him, loud and desperate, rain now pouring steadily between you, “Mina is just some girl whose dad is holding my entire future in his hands. He asked me to tutor her because she’s failing and he knows I need that recommendation letter. That’s all it is. I was driving home from her place when I saw you fly past on that damn bike. I wasn’t choosing her. I was literally coming back to you.”
You laughed, but it sounded more like a sob, “coming back to me? You always say that. You always make it sound like I’m the one running when you’re the one who—”
“I never meant for you to leave!” Jay shouted, voice breaking completely. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead, water streaming down his face, but he didn’t blink. “I told your parents about the races because I was terrified, Y/N. You were getting in too deep and I panicked. I thought they’d ground you, talk to you, anything but send you away for three fucking years. I begged them. I told them it was my fault too, that I should’ve stopped you sooner, that’s literally fucking why I joined in too, you know it—you literally fucking know it. I sat in your living room and cried like a fucking kid while they packed your bags. And every single day since you left I’ve hated myself for it.”
His hands came up to grip your shoulders, not hard, but like he needed to hold onto something real, “I’ve only ever liked you. Always. Even when you hated me, even when you looked at me like I was the reason your whole life fell apart. It’s been you—only you.”
You opened your mouth to throw it all back at him, the years, the silence, the way he still made you feel small—but Jay didn’t give you the chance. The second your lips parted he surged forward, crashing his mouth against yours mid-retort.
The kiss was messy and frantic, all teeth and desperation and three years of everything you’d both swallowed down. Rain poured over you both, soaking your clothes, making his shirt cling to the hard lines of his chest as he backed you against the car. One of his hands slid into your wet hair, gripping tight, the other pressed flat against your lower back, pulling you flush against him until you could feel every shaky breath he took. You kissed him back just as wildly, nails digging into his shoulders, tasting rain and salt and the raw edge of his apology.
He groaned into your mouth when you bit his lip, the sound low and broken, and the tension between you snapped into something hotter, heavier. Your soaked bodies slid together, hips pressing instinctively, his thigh nudging between yours as the rain hammered down around you like it was trying to wash everything away.
When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against yours, his voice was wrecked and trembling.
“Don’t run from me again,” he whispered, thumb brushing a raindrop from your cheek with a gentleness that made your chest hurt. “Please, baby—just stay.”
You opened your mouth to throw it back at him, but Jay kept going, voice cracking louder over the downpour, “and that night, years ago, when the cops came—I got on a bike too. I raced straight into their path, drew every single one of them after me so you could get out clean. I risked everything because I couldn’t stand the thought of you getting caught.”
Your breath caught hard, eyes widening in genuine shock, “you what?”
Jay’s hands came up to grip your arms, fingers digging in like he was afraid you’d vanish, “I never meant for you to leave,” he said, voice raw and desperate, almost pleading, “I thought they’d just ground you, talk some sense into you. I begged them not to send you away, I told them it was my fault, that I should’ve protected you better. I’ve only ever liked you, Y/N. Only you. Even when you looked at me like I was the enemy, even when I hated myself for what I did.”
You tried to speak, tried to tell him it still hurt, that it didn’t erase the years, but the words barely formed before Jay surged forward and slotted his lips against yours—hard, cutting off whatever you were about to say.
The kiss was messy and urgent, rain pouring between your mouths as his lips moved against yours like he was trying to pour every regret straight into you. You gasped into it, and he swallowed each fucking sound, one hand sliding into your soaked hair, the other gripping your waist hard enough to pull your body flush against his. His soaked shirt clung to his chest, the heat of his skin burning through the cold fabric as he pressed you back against the car.
“I’ve only ever wanted you,” he mumbled against your lips, voice wrecked, before kissing you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your knees weak, “every fucking day.”
You tried to pull back to breathe, to argue, but he chased your mouth instantly, kissing you again, slower this time but no less desperate, hips rolling into yours with a slow, deliberate grind that made heat flare low in your belly despite the freezing rain.
“Jay—” you managed between kisses, voice shaky, but he cut you off again, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his hand slipped under the hem of your jacket, palm hot against the bare skin of your lower back.
“Don’t,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, rain dripping from his lashes, “don’t push me away right now, I can’t take it.”
Your fingers tightened in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. The rain hammered down around you, soaking every inch of you both, but all you could feel was the frantic thud of his heart against yours, the way his thigh pressed between your legs, the desperate way his mouth kept finding yours like he was scared this moment would disappear.
“I never stopped wanting you,” he whispered between kisses, “not for one second.”
The words cracked something deep inside your chest, a raw, aching fracture that had been waiting three long years to split open. You kissed him back harder, teeth nipping at his bottom lip, tasting rain and the faint salt of everything you’d both buried for so long. Jay’s hands slid down your sides, fingers digging into the heavy, rain-soaked leather of your jacket as if he needed to hold onto something solid before he lost his mind. The denim of your jeans was plastered to your thighs, cold and heavy, clinging uncomfortably, but the heat radiating from his body burned straight through the wet fabric.
You grind against his thigh without thinking, a needy little sound escaping your throat. Jay groaned, low and rough, and pressed his leg firmer between your legs, giving you something solid to ride as the rain poured harder. His hands slipped under the hem of your jacket, palms hot against the rain-chilled skin of your waist, then higher, cupping your tits through your soaked shirt. Your nipples were already tight from the cold and the adrenaline, and when his thumbs circled them slowly, you moaned into his mouth, hips rolling harder, chasing the friction he was offering.
“Jay—” you gasped, voice shaky and raw, barely audible over the roar of the rain, “I was so fucking angry at you, I still am, but I—”
He cut you off with another deep kiss, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, filthy drag that made heat pool low in your belly despite the freezing rain, “I know,” he murmured against your lips, breath hot and ragged, “I know I hurt you, I know I fucked everything up. But right now—let me fix it. Let me make you feel good. Please, baby, I need to taste you.”
You nodded, barely able to speak, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs. Jay dropped to his knees right there on the wet road. Puddles splashed around him, soaking his jeans instantly, but he didn’t care. Rain streamed down his sharp features—dark eyes locked on you with raw hunger, water tracing the sharp line of his jaw, strands of wet hair plastered to his forehead. He looked up at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, and for him, that was true.
His fingers worked the button of your jeans open with shaking hands, then dragged the heavy, rain-soaked denim down your thighs along with your panties. The cold night air hit your bare skin, making you shiver violently, but Jay’s warm palms steadied your hips as he peeled the clinging fabric away, taking his time, kissing every new inch of skin he revealed. He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, leather jacket creaking with the movement, and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, then higher, breath ghosting hot over your core.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, voice hoarse with need, “been thinking about this—dreaming about it every single night.”
The first slow drag of his tongue up your slit pulled a broken moan from deep in your throat. He licked you like he had all the time in the world, savoring every inch, groaning against your folds as if the taste of you was better than anything he’d ever had. Rain dripped from his lashes onto your skin, cold little shocks that only made the heat of his tongue feel sharper, more overwhelming. He circled your clit with the flat of his tongue, then sucked it into his mouth, gentle at first, then with more pressure, more hunger.
“Jay—oh god—” your hand flew to his wet hair, fingers twisting tight as your other palm slapped against the car roof for balance. The rain kept pouring, running in rivulets down your stomach and mixing with the slick heat between your legs. Your leather jacket felt heavier with every second, water streaming off the shoulders and down your back, but all you could focus on was the way Jay’s sharp jaw worked against your thigh as he devoured you, the way his tongue flicked and swirled and pressed.
He slid two fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep while his tongue flicked faster. The stretch was perfect, the wet sounds of his mouth and fingers mixing obscenely with the roar of the rain. He added a third finger, scissoring you open slowly, carefully, like he was learning every part of you for the first time, like he wanted to memorize how you felt around him.
“You’re so wet,” he groaned against you, voice vibrating through your core. “All for me. Fuck, I love how you taste. I could stay here all night, just like this, making you come over and over until you can’t even stand.”
You whimpered, hips jerking against his face. The rain made everything slicker, colder, more intense. Jay’s fingers pumped steadily, curling against that spot inside you that made sparks explode behind your eyes as he sucked your clit harder, moaning like he was the one falling apart, like tasting you was undoing him completely.
“I’m—Jay, I’m gonna—” your voice broke, thighs shaking around his head, leather jacket creaking as you tried to hold yourself upright.
“C’mon, let go for me,” he rasped, not stopping for a second, “let me feel it, baby. I want it all, right on my tongue.”
The orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing hard and sudden and overwhelming. Your back arched against the car, a loud, broken moan tearing from your throat as you came on his tongue and fingers, thighs clamping around his head, body shaking violently. Jay kept licking you through it, gentler now, drawing it out, prolonging every aftershock until your legs were trembling so badly he had to stand and catch you, pressing you back against the car with his body.
He kissed you immediately, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss was slower this time, deeper, his hands cupping your face like you were something precious.
“You okay?” He whispered against your lips, voice soft but still rough with need, “tell me if it’s too much. I’ll stop if you need me to.”
You shook your head, breathing hard, fingers still tangled in his wet hair, “It’s not too much, I want more. Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop.”
Jay’s eyes darkened, something almost feral flashing across his sharp features. He kissed you again, slower, like he was savouring every second, then dropped back down to his knees without another word. This time he was even more deliberate—tongue tracing lazy, teasing patterns over your clit while three fingers pumped deep and steady inside you.
“Jay—fuck, that feels so good,” you gasped, voice cracking. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop, need it.”
He hummed against you, the vibration making you jolt, “I’m not stopping until you cum again. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
He curled his fingers just right, sucking your clit into his mouth at the same time, and the second orgasm built faster, sharper, coiling tight in your belly. Your hips rocked against his face, leather jacket creaking, rain pouring down your body as you chased the feeling, completely lost in the heat of his mouth and the cold rain and the way he was touching you like he never wanted to stop.
“I’m close—Jay, I’m so close—”
“Come on, baby,” he murmured, voice muffled against your pussy, “let go, I’ve got you, cum for me.”
You came again with a sharp cry, thighs shaking violently around his shoulders, the pleasure so intense it bordered on overwhelming, wave after wave crashing through you until you were trembling and oversensitive and barely able to stand. Jay worked you through it, tongue gentle now, fingers slowing until you were a shaking, gasping mess against the car.
When he finally stood, his sharp jaw was glistening with you and rain. He kissed you slow and deep, hands cupping your face like you were something precious.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered against your mouth, voice wrecked, “so fucking perfect.”
You were still catching your breath, legs weak, when he pulled you closer, forehead pressed to yours under the pouring rain. The rain kept falling, cold and steady, but the heat between you two felt like it could burn the whole world down.
Jay’s hands trembled as he helped you toward the open back door, “inside,” he rasped, voice wrecked, “now—I need you.”
You barely had time to nod before he guided you into the cramped backseat. The space was ridiculously tight—his broad shoulders brushed the roof, his knees dug into the leather, and there was almost no room to move. But the moment the door slammed shut behind you, the world narrowed to nothing but the two of you. The windows fogged instantly from the heat of your bodies, turning the glass opaque, the rain a constant heavy roar on the roof that sealed you both in your own private storm.
Jay settled between your spread thighs in missionary, his sharp jaw clenched tight, dark eyes locked on yours in the dim, foggy light. Rain still dripped from his hair onto your chest. Your jeans were tangled around one ankle, your leather jacket half-off and sticking to the seat, but none of it mattered. He braced one hand beside your head, the other gently cupping your face.
“We don’t have a condom,” he said again, voice low and serious even now, thumb stroking your cheek, “I can stop, I can pull out—whatever you want, baby. Just tell mw.”
You shook your head, pulling him down by the back of his neck, “I don’t care,” you whispered, honest and aching, “I don’t want anything between us, please, Jay—I need you inside me.”
Something in his expression shattered—raw hunger and relief and so much love it made your chest hurt. He kissed you deeply, then reached down to free himself. His cock was heavy and thick, flushed dark at the tip and already leaking. You swallowed hard at the sight.
Jay stroked himself once, eyes never leaving your face, “we’ll go slow,” he promised, voice strained, “tell me if it’s too much. I’ve got you, baby.”
He lined himself up and pressed the head against your entrance. The stretch was immediate and intense—he was big, thicker than you’d expected, and even after everything he’d done with his mouth and fingers the burn made you gasp. He pushed in just the tip, then stopped, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.
“Breathe for me,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, “that’s it—you’re doing so good, so fucking good for me.”
You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders through the wet shirt, “Jay—you’re so big. Fuck—”
“I know,” he murmured, voice shaking with restraint, “I’ve got you, just relax, hm? Let me in, baby.”
He eased in another inch, slow and careful, eyes locked on yours the whole time. The car was so cramped that every tiny movement made the leather creak beneath you as the rain hammered the roof. The fogged windows trapped the heat and the scent of rain-soaked leather and sex. Your soaked jeans were still tangled around one ankle, your leather jacket half-off and sticking to the seat, but none of it mattered. Another inch. You gasped, thighs trembling around his hips.
“Talk to me,” Jay breathed, pausing again, thumb stroking your cheek, “does it hurt?”
“A little,” you admitted, voice small and honest, “but don’t stop. I want it.”
He groaned softly and kissed you again, deep and slow, as he pushed in further. It took long, careful minutes — every inch earned with kisses and whispers and his thumb circling your clit to help you relax. When he finally bottomed out, buried to the hilt inside you, you both let out shaky, broken moans.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered against your neck, voice cracking, “you feel—perfect. So warm around me, I can’t believe this is real.”
He stayed still for a long moment, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours while the rain continued its endless rhythm on the roof. Then he started moving, slow, deep rolls of his hips that made the car rock gently beneath you. Every thrust dragged against that spot inside you that made sparks burst behind your eyes.
You wrapped your legs around his waist as best you could in the tight space, pulling him closer, “Jay—harder,” you gasped, “I can take it, please.”
He gave it to you, still careful at first, but deeper, faster, the wet slap of skin and the creak of leather mixing with your moans and the roar of the rain outside. His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together above your head as he fucked you.
“Look at me,” he whispered, voice raw, “I need to see you.”
You did, and in that cramped, fogged-up car, with the rain pouring down around you, you reached your high again—hard, clenching around him, crying out his name like it was the only word you knew. Jay followed soon after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a broken groan, hips stuttering, face pressed into your neck like he never wanted to let go.
He stayed there, still inside you, breathing hard against your skin while the rain continued its endless rhythm on the roof. Neither of you moved for a long time.
He stayed there, still buried deep inside you, breathing hard against your neck while the rain hammered the roof like it was trying to drown out the world. The fogged windows had turned the car into a small, steamy cocoon, the leather seats slick beneath your bodies, the air thick with the scent of rain, leather, and sex. Jay’s sharp jaw rested against your collarbone, his breath hot and uneven, one hand still laced with yours above your head like he couldn’t bear to let go even for a second.
Eventually he lifted his head, dark eyes soft but still burning as they met yours in the dim light, “you okay?” he whispered, voice hoarse, “did I hurt you?”
You shook your head, a shaky, breathless laugh escaping you, “no—it was perfect. You were perfect, but I’m not done with you yet.”
Jay’s eyebrows lifted, that familiar cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth even now, “oh? Greedy tonight, are we?”
“Shut up,” you muttered, pushing at his chest until he sat back against the seat. The cramped space made it awkward, but you didn’t care. You swung one leg over him and straddled his lap, settling on top of him in the tight backseat. The position put you in control and you liked it. You reached between you, wrapping your hand around his thick, still-hard cock, stroking him slowly. Jay hissed, head falling back against the seat, sharp jaw tight as he watched you with dark, hooded eyes.
“Fuck, baby—you’re really gonna ride me like this?” He groaned, hands gripping your hips, fingers digging into the wet denim, “after everything, you still wanna be in charge?”
You leaned down, brushing your lips against his ear, “you had your turn,” you whispered, voice bratty and breathless, “now it’s mine—unless you’re scared you can’t handle it.”
Jay laughed, low and rough, but his grip on your hips tightened, “scared? Of you? Never, but if you think you can take all of me again so soon, go ahead. Show me what you’ve got.”
You lined him up and sank down slowly, the stretch still intense even after everything. You gasped, thighs trembling as you took him inch by inch, the cramped space forcing you to stay close, chest to chest. Jay’s hands stayed on your hips, guiding you but not forcing, his breath hitching every time you sank lower.
“Easy, my love,” he murmured, voice strained, “don’t rush it. You’re so fucking tight around me—fuck, just like that.”
“Shut up,” you hissed, even as you moaned, sinking further. “You’re so big it’s ridiculous. How the hell do you fit?”
Jay’s sharp jaw clenched, a smirk flashing across his face, “you’re the one who wanted it raw, remember? No complaining now, princess. Take it.”
You bottomed out with a broken moan, both of you cursing under your breath. For a moment you just sat there, forehead pressed to his, breathing the same air, the rain still hammering the roof like white noise. Then you started moving slow, rolling your hips in teasing circles at first, testing the angle, feeling every thick inch of him inside you. Jay groaned, hands sliding under your jacket to grip your bare waist, thumbs digging in hard enough to leave marks.
“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed, eyes dark as he watched you ride him, “so pretty when you’re on top of me like this. Taking every inch like you were made for it.”
You picked up the pace, rising and sinking faster, the wet slap of skin mixing with the creak of leather and the roar of the rain, “don’t get cocky,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, “you’re the one who’s been chasing me for days. Who’s the desperate one now?”
Jay laughed, but it came out broken as you ground down hard, “me. I’m the desperate one. Always have been for you.” He thrust up to meet you, making you cry out, “but you’re the one who ran out here in the middle of the night just to get fucked by me, so who’s really desperate?”
“Asshole,” you moaned, but you rode him harder, bouncing properly now, the angle hitting that perfect spot with every drop. The car rocked noticeably, the fogged windows completely opaque, the confined space making every movement more intense.
Jay’s hands roamed, one sliding up to squeeze your breast, the other gripping your ass to help you move, “yeah? Call me an asshole when you cream all over my cock, hm? That’s my girl.”
You leaned forward, biting his neck, making him hiss, even though you fucking loved hearing that, “your girl? You wish. You don’t get to claim me after disappearing on me again.”
He groaned, hips snapping up harder, “too bad, baby—I’m claiming you right now. Every inch of this pussy is mine, say it.”
You laughed breathlessly, even as you clenched around him, “make me.”
Jay cursed, one hand tangling in your wet hair, tugging your head back so he could kiss you filthy and deep while you kept riding him. The kiss was all tongue and teeth, messy and angry and perfect. You kept moving, rolling and bouncing, the leather creaking beneath you, the rain a constant roar that made everything feel even more private.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned against your mouth, “so wet, I can feel you dripping down my balls, baby. You’re making such a mess.”
“Shut up,” you moaned, but your hips stuttered, the dirty words going straight to your core, “you talk too much.”
“And you love it,” he shot back, smirking, “you love when I tell you how good you’re taking me. How deep I am inside you. How no one else will ever feel this good to you again.”
You rode him harder, chasing the edge, thighs burning but refusing to slow down, “you’re so fucking full of yourself.”
“Yeah?” He thrust up sharply, making you cry out, “you’re the one who’s full of me right now, baby.”
You came with a loud, broken moan, nails raking down his chest, body shaking as the orgasm crashed through you. Jay followed right after, groaning your name as he spilled deep inside you again, hips stuttering, arms wrapping tight around your waist like he never wanted to let go.
You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with rain and sweat. The rain was still hammering the roof, the car still fogged up, the world outside completely forgotten.
After a long minute Jay kissed the top of your head, voice soft but still rough, “we should probably head home—but first, your bike.”
You lifted your head, still dazed, “shit—my bike.”
He smiled, small and tired, and kissed you gently, “It’ll be safe. No one uses this road at night. I’ll come back for it first thing in the morning myself, I promise. Right now I just need to get you home with me. Where you belong.”
You nodded, melting into him, “hmm—take me home.”
The drive was quiet and peaceful. The rain tapped softly against the windshield, the wipers moving in a gentle rhythm. Jay didn’t say much at first, just held you closer whenever the car turned a corner, like he was afraid the night might steal you away again. The warmth of his body seeped through your damp clothes, chasing away the last traces of the cold rain. Every so often his thumb would press a little firmer on your thigh, a silent reminder that he was really here, that this was real, that you were with him.
When he finally pulled into the driveway, the house was dark and still. He turned off the engine and turned to you, leaning in to kiss you slow and sweet, like he had all the time in the world now, smiling into the kiss.
Inside, you left a trail of wet clothes behind you as he led you to the bathroom. He turned the shower on hot, steam quickly filling the small space. He undressed you with gentle hands, peeling the soaked leather jacket from your shoulders, then your shirt, then the heavy jeans that had clung to your legs all night. Every touch was careful, reverent even. He stepped under the shower with you, pulling you against his chest, the hot water cascading over both of you like a fresh start.
His hands soaped your skin slowly, washing away the rain, the road, the fear. He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, murmuring soft things between each touch. The water made everything feel warmer, safer, more intimate. He lifted you gently, your back against the tiled wall, legs wrapping around him, and slid into you slow and deep. There was no rush this time, just long, tender strokes, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked as he moved inside you. You moaned softly into his mouth, clinging to him, the steam and the heat and the love making everything feel safe and overwhelming all at once. You came with his name on your lips, soft and trembling, and he followed right after, spilling inside you with a quiet groan, holding you close like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held.
Afterwards he dried you with a warm towel, wrapped you in one of his big hoodies, and carried you to your bed. He tucked you under the blankets and climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms. You curled against his chest, his hand stroking your back in slow, soothing strokes. The room was quiet except for the distant sound of rain against the window. Jay’s fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, his breath warm against your hair. After a long moment he spoke, voice barely above a whisper.
“I love you,” he said softly, the words slipping out like they’d been waiting years to be said, “I love you, Y/N—I’ve loved you for so long. Even when I thought I’d lost you forever, even when I thought you hated me. I love you.”
Your heart started beating out of your chest, heat creeping up your neck. You lifted your head to look at him, fingers tracing the line of his sharp jaw in the dark, “I love you too,” you whispered, the words coming out easy and true, “I love you, Jay. I never stopped, not even when it hurt.”
Jay’s breath caught. He searched your eyes for a second, almost disbelieving, “you don’t have to say it back just because I did, baby,” he said quietly, voice gentle, “I know I hurt you. I know it’s going to take time. You don’t have to say it if you’re not ready.”
You smiled softly and cupped his cheek, “I’m ready,” you told him, voice steady and full of warmth, “I mean it, I love you.”
Jay’s eyes softened completely, and he leaned in to kissed you slow and deep, like he was pouring every feeling into it. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again, a small, grateful smile on his lips.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, but there was no sadness in it—only quiet wonder, “but I’m going to spend every day trying to.”
You smiled against his chest, already drifting off in the safety of his arms, “good, because I’m not going anywhere.”
With that softness surrounding your being, you both fell asleep in each other’s warmth, smiles never leaving your faces. Jay watched you sleep, planting a soft kiss on your forehead as he tightened his hold on you, drifting into the dreamland.
So, when the next morning you woke up to an empty bed, you wondered if it was truly a dream, or a joke of some sort. The spot beside you was cold, panic hitting you instantly. Your heart slammed against your ribs as you sat up, clutching the sheet to your chest. Had he left?
That’s when the door creaked open.
Jay stepped in, hair messy, wearing the same clothes from last night, now dry. He was holding a key in one hand and your helmet in the other, and when he saw your face all wide-eyed, worried, a little scared—his expression softened immediately.
“Hey, baby,” he said gently, setting the helmet down and crossing the room in two strides. He climbed onto the bed and pulled you into his arms, kissing you slow and deep, like he was trying to erase the fear, “I’m right here, I just went to get your bike before anyone else could. It’s safe in the garage now, yeah? I’m not going anywhere, my love, I promise.”
You melted into the kiss, fingers curling into his shirt, the panic fading under the warmth of his mouth as he got under the covers with you again.
Right then the door opened again.
“Y/N?” Sunghoon’s voice called out as he stepped inside, still half-asleep, rubbing his eyes, “what do you want for breakfast—”
He stopped dead when he took in the scene in front of him—you and Jay frozen, lips still inches apart, bodies tangled under the sheet, Jay’s hand still cupping your face. It would have been rather comical how Sunghoon’s eyes had widened, but nothing seemed funny at the given moment.
You and Jay looked at him, then at each other, the words leaving your mouth at the same time.
“Oh no.”
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Open Heart, Open Mind — s.jy x f!reader
summary — After years of terrible dating experiences, you've come to the conclusion that men only want one of three things: sex, a mother, or a therapist. Jake, however, is the only man whose intentions you can't seem to sniff out.
18+ mdni ⚠︎ Smut, Fluff, Humour, kinda bratty!reader x soft dom!Jake, reader hates men, strangers to lovers, blind dating, Jake is a little shit but he's sexy and kind so that's ok, sexually frustrated reader, p in v sex, brief mentions of oral (m and f receiving), cowgirl (riding), thigh-riding/dry-humping, mild size kink, handjobs, fingering, creampie, no condom but on the pill, cuddling, alcohol consumption, allusions to shitty past partners
words — 6.5k
a/n — I literally had to restrain myself from writing a daddy kink in here... anyway. Here is green flag Jake to cleanse myself from the absolute depravity that was my last work.
Jake is confusing.
See, in all your experience as an unofficial, uncertified expert in dating— or in other words, a woman who has been on far too many failed first dates that she tries to cope with her disappointment by statistically analyzing them— you'd come to the conclusion that men only want one of three things: sex, a mother, or a therapist. And if they don't want just one of them, they want all three.
Men are no strangers to being greedy, nor are they particularly adept at hiding it. All it took was a few sweet words into leading questions to get your prey to crack, to reveal their true intentions. You’ve gotten so good at it, in fact, that the prospect of dating had become almost entirely undesirable— entirely, painfully boring.
So how exactly did you find yourself sitting in a taxi in your heels and dress, dreading the moment you’d have to sit in front of your date and listen to him chatter to himself for hours while you pretend to listen? Your friend, who foolishly believed she could revive the beating of your cold, dead heart, swore up and down that her boyfriend knew a guy who is perfect for you.
“Just give him a chance,” she pleaded with you, with that all too hopeful look in her eyes. It didn’t take much for you to cave. It had been a long time since you’d been out, after all, and maybe you’d have a little fun playing with a new toy like Jake.
Though truthfully, you didn’t think he would be nearly as interesting as you’d hoped. You’d already stalked his Instagram page, and it was nothing short of normal. He was, however, abnormally good-looking, and clearly seemed to know it by the number of shirtless beach photos and gym selfies he had in his monthly photo-dumps.
You remember sighing to yourself in defeat. Hot guys who know they're hot almost always fall into the first genre of men in your unofficial dating hypothesis: the ones who are looking for sex. And though you were consoled by his gorgeous face, you already knew his personality would be nothing short of cocky and bland. But, hey. You didn’t hate the thought of letting him hit it if he turns out to be at least a little bit bearable.
However, he then shared the restaurant's location. The name, a place you couldn't even pronounce, the price, way out of your humble budget. Right then and there, your first baseless assumption about Jake crumbled before your eyes. Because let's be honest, no man is trying that hard to impress you if all they're looking for is pussy— especially a man as good-looking as him.
A mother, you then decided, as the taxi pulls up in front of the restaurant location. You step out of the taxi, stilettos clicking against the concrete, smoothing down the length of your silk black dress.
Men who try too hard are always looking for a partner who will mother them. They want a capable, responsible, but tender and caring woman who will soothe them through their temper tantrums, pack their lunchboxes for work and tuck them into bed like the man-children they are. They want a woman who will manage their schedules, who will remind them when they have a dentist appointment in two weeks, but still call him the man of the household to make him feel important.
Men like this have to try harder because they know that a partner who tends to their every aching need is doing twice the expected labour than the ones who only provide sex. And though they'll spoil you with attention at first, the connection will slowly fade into annoyance as you start to realize how incompetent they are at simply taking care of themselves as a grown adult.
But a man-child doesn't show up to his date early, as Jake does. Nor does a man-child get up to pull out your seat, or pour you a glass of the red wine bottle he's already ordered. Which means that now, you’re back to square one.
Your eyes narrow at his frustratingly handsome face from across the table as he smiles back at you. You despise how genuine he appears, carrying himself with confidence, and yet, without arrogance. Then, you look down at his hands clasped together on the table, catching a glimpse of his Armani watch. Wealthy but tasteful, too. That fact only irritates you more.
"So, Jake," you form as gentle a smile as you can.
The softer you appear, the easier it is to disarm them. Especially, the ones that are looking for the third thing: a therapist, as that is the only remaining thing left on your list.
These ones are the hardest to spot, as they often don't start to pile their emotional baggage onto you until after they've gotten you invested. But, you're a seasoned professional at this point, and you know that if you play your cards right, you can get him to show his true intentions early.
"You must make a lot of money," you finally say, your tone playful enough to get away with the bluntness of your statement. Your intention is to grant the illusion of familiarity. By being upfront, you are essentially laying your cards down on the table, which in turn, should make him feel that there is nothing to be afraid of when speaking to you.
"You have your priorities straight, don't you?" He teases back, meeting your sharp gaze directly, "That shouldn't come as a surprise. You already know what I do for a living."
And you do. You were well aware that he's an engineer, and that his entry-level salary alone was likely twice that of your current one. He's also single and has been working for many years now. That fact alone means he has more than enough to enjoy these types of luxuries.
"I mean to say, this," you gesture around, "is quite the investment for a first date."
"It's like you said. Money isn't a problem for me. I happen to like this restaurant, so I chose it," he affirms. Again, no hint of conceit, no shift in his tone. You begin to simmer in your annoyance at his resistance to bending to your will. But then, he continues, "And I wouldn't describe this as an investment. That makes this whole thing seem so transactional, you know? We're just two people getting to know each other."
Bullseye.
A smile spreads all too quickly across your face.
"You don't think dating is transactional?"
"It shouldn't be."
So he views dating as an emotional ordeal. How adorably sweet of him. Well, that certainly crosses him out as a man who is only looking for sex, right? Now you're getting somewhere, you think, your French-manicured finger nail mindlessly tapping the white tablecloth.
At your silence, he cocks his head, "Do you?"
You’re caught off guard by his question— or rather, the fact that he was even asking you a question at all.
"I don't think it should be, either. Actually, it's very refreshing to hear that." You hum, pretending care, as if you have any desire to get to know him beyond research purposes. "I take it, you're looking for something serious, then?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. But if we have a connection, then I don't see why we shouldn't explore it."
You frown. Damnit. If he were looking for a therapist-girlfriend, he would've given some kind of sappy, false promise to sweep you off your feet and assure you that he takes you seriously. Now your entire theory is being flipped on its head.
This man... why is he so normal? You start to backtrack, brushing the thought aside. No. You've dated enough men to know that none of them are normal. He might have a genuine smile, adorably expressive eyes, and the loveliest voice to ever grace your ears, but he cannot fool you. He must have ulterior motives. They always do.
A soft laugh interrupts your analysis, and you look up.
"Do you treat all your first dates like this?" He's leaning forward now, his chin resting in the palm of his hand.
"Sorry?" You fold your arms.
"You asked me three questions in a row, and now you're glaring at me like I'm an equation you can't figure out," he raises a brow. "I came here with an open heart and open mind. Can you say the same?"
"You don't know anything about me."
"You're right. I don't," he concurs. "So tell me about yourself."
Sex. There. That has to be the thing that he wants from you, and it's final. Most men fall into that category, anyway. Just because he spent a little extra spare money on you, and took his time to actually ask you thought-provoking questions, and actually appeared to listen when you spoke, doesn't change a thing. Sometimes, they like to play with their food before eating it.
Your prediction is affirmed by his offer to drive you home, and you glare at him each time he opens the car door for you, acting like the gentleman you know he isn’t. You have to hide your smug grin as he walks you to the steps of your building, thinking of what kind of silly excuse he’d come up with to invite himself inside. But in the midst of your thoughts, you skip a step, and you find yourself slipping.
"Careful, sweetheart,” he says, reaching for your arm, steadying you straight. Too distracted by his rather firm grasp, you barely register the nickname. “Are you alright?
You blink, then furrow your brows.
"Sweetheart?"
"Because you’re so sweet,” he says with a cheeky smile, and you can’t even pretend not to roll your eyes. “Still haven't warmed up to me, yet, huh?”
"Yet?” you scoff, “You sure have a lot of faith in yourself."
"I have a lot of faith in you, too," he starts, hand sliding from your arm down to your hand, "faith that you'll come around to me by our next date."
"I don’t do ‘next dates’."
“Sure, you don’t.”
You face him beneath the small, dim light that hangs above the entrance. Your expression is pulled into a frown, while his remains relaxed, almost pleased. He's ridiculously gorgeous in person, and even more so up close. It’s a shame that, in only a few moments, you are sure the whole gentlemanly facade would come crashing down. Except, it doesn't.
He doesn’t lean in to kiss you, he doesn’t move his hand down to your ass or try to whisper something obscene in your ear. Instead, his fingers interlock with yours, and he gives your hand a gentle squeeze before exchanging goodbyes.
You spend the rest of the night tossing and turning, your sheets too suffocating, your skin too hot. You replay the feeling of the warmth of his hand in your head, wondering what it would feel like to hold you, to touch you. Your own thoughts make you want to scream.
Jake is confusing, because only he can make you that fucking horny from just touching your hand.
You find yourself sitting in yet another restaurant that is way out of your price range, in another dress and pair of heels, glaring straight at Jake like you want to kill him. Or fuck him. Or both. These days, you’re not really sure what it is that you want. But regardless of what it was, it somehow possessed you to agree to see him again.
"Why did you ask me on a second date?" You finally ask, picking at your food.
"Because I like you."
"Why?"
"Because I do,” he brings his glass of wine to his lips, and you feel your eye twitch.
"There's nothing to like about me,” you say with a huff, setting your utensils down.
"Now, that's not a very nice way to talk about yourself.”
"The first thing I asked you about was your wealth and status. You really want to date a woman like that?"
He pauses, thoughtfully.
"The way I remember it, you were making a valid observation,” he affirms, without even a hint of sarcasm, “To me, that indicates honesty, perceptiveness and intelligence."
You stare, dead silent.
"You can't be serious."
"See, that's the only bad thing about you. The fact that you don't seem to believe a single word I say."
"I have my reasons."
"Which are?"
"Look,” you clasp your hands together, leaning close to make sure he meets your gaze, “I don't care how rich you are. How nice you pretend to be. How stupidly handsome your face is—"
"You think I'm handsome?"
"—None of this is going to work on me,” You seethe, and yet again, he doesn’t waver.
You wonder if it’s even possible to make him frown, or if his face is permanently formed into an easygoing smile forever. You absolutely despise how he carries himself, seeming as if to float through life without a single worry.
"That’s really interesting, considering you’re still sitting here with me," he notes, using his knife to cut another piece of his steak. “You’re acting like I’m forcing you to sit here, but you’re the one who agreed to a second date, sweetheart.”
"Who am I to turn down a free meal?"
"You've barely touched your food," he uses his fork to point at your pasta dish, of which you’d only taken a few bites so far, "If you didn't enjoy our conversations, you wouldn't be taking your time."
"Maybe I've lost my appetite."
"Or, maybe,” he grins, “It’s because you want to stare at my ‘stupidly handsome’ face for even longer."
"One compliment, and it goes straight to your head."
With that, you’re sighing, a hand at your temples. You look to your near-empty glass and grab the bottle at the centre of the table, and to your disappointment, only a few drops remain.
"In my defence, you don't give me very many to work with.”
"How about this?” You place the bottle back down. “I'll give you one more if you order another bottle."
"Just one?"
"Don't be greedy."
And with that, he’s waving down the waiter, and you can't help the warmth that creeps to your cheeks.
You want to trust the facts and statistics you've collected, to remind yourself that getting your hopes up will only lead to disappointment. But then he's pouring you another glass, and you're trying not to laugh at another stupid joke, trying to ignore how your heart skips a beat.
"Okay, sweetheart, let me hear it.” He starts, “And it has to be from the heart. No sweet-talking me, I can tell.”
"I like your voice," you admit all too easily, "Not just the tone, or the accent. But the way that you speak. Sometimes, it sounds like you genuinely care."
"That's because I do.”
You stare him down, burning up inside because you just can’t seem to get the sense that he’s faking this to you, no matter how hard you focus on him. But you just can’t help the feeling that if you believe him, you’ll end up a fool.
"In that case,” you sigh, “I also admire how good of a liar you are. Unlike every other bastard I meet, I can't tell when you do it. So there. Two compliments. Lucky you.”
"I'd feel a little luckier if the second wasn't based on wrongful assumptions about my character, but I'll take what I can get." He’s smiling, raising his glass to yours, "Cheers?"
“To what?”
“To you, learning to play nice with me.”
“I’m not cheering to that.”
He leans his glass over to clink yours anyway, and this time, you can’t fight your smile.
You share a taxi home because you're both far too drunk to drive, and you suppose that’s your own fault for thinking two bottles of wine was an appropriate amount for two people. And yet again, he walks you to your steps.
When you see his beautiful self this close to you again, you can't help but tug him by the collar of his shirt, pressing your lips to his.
You'd long since decided, sometime halfway through the second bottle of wine, that you don't care about his intentions anymore. The only thing that matters now is your intention of getting into his pants and devouring him. But his lips aren't needy like yours. His are kind, controlled, and tender, like nothing you’d ever felt.
While other men kiss to take something, Jake kisses you for the sole purpose of simply kissing you. His hands don’t wander, his lips don’t search for more, and you just melt into him, putty in the palm of his hands.
When he pulls away, he lets his forehead fall to yours, and his hand encompasses your own in a warmth you had been waiting to feel since the last time you saw him. It’s in that moment that you realize you never wanted to be fucked by a man so badly in your entire life.
"You're very beautiful,” he whispers, warming your heart and the space between your legs.
"You’re not too bad, yourself."
You wait with bated breath, and feeling impatient, you open your mouth to invite him inside yourself, but he speaks before you can.
"I'll see you soon.”
You look at him, trying to conceal your shock, as if you aren’t weeping between your thighs, as if you aren’t dreading how you’ll be simmering in sexual frustration for the next few days, until you see him again.
You squirm nervously in your seat as the waiter begins to take your plates away, meeting Jake’s gaze. Everything about this was unfamiliar. The fact that you were seeing the same man a third time, the fact that you were genuinely enjoying your time with him, and the fact that he made you feel happy instead of disgusted or annoyed.
You couldn’t even begin to make sense of it or understand how he had torn down your walls brick by brick without really even trying. But you refused to let it show. You refused to let him crawl further under your skin until you’ve successfully crawled under his first.
"I have a new theory about you,” you say, as soon as the waiter leaves the table.
He‘s leaning forward, "Do tell."
"I think you're a virgin."
He snorts. Loud. A little too loud for a dinner in a candle-lit restaurant, and you nudge him with your foot under the table to silence him. A few other restaurant-goers hear and turn to look at the pair of you before returning to their meals, unfazed.
"Sorry,” he snickers, flashing you a smile, “I don’t mean to disappoint, sweetheart, but if you were looking forward to taking my virginity, then I’m afraid to tell you it's already long gone."
"What a shame," you deadpan, rolling your eyes at him.
"You didn't really think that, did you?" He grins, lowering his voice, "I know I don't kiss like a virgin."
"What am I supposed to think?" You defend yourself, index finger pressed to the table, "What kind of guy doesn't try to have sex on the second date?"
"You wanted to have sex?"
"This isn't about me."
"Isn't it? It takes two to tango," Jake grins, and you can feel your face start to heat up, too flustered to search for a retort. "I hate to say I told you so, but look at you. Already succumbing to my charms."
"In your dreams," you try, rather defensively. And lucky for you, he doesn't press it.
"If you want a real answer to your rhetorical question,” he starts, gazing into your eyes with a look you couldn't quite place, “It didn't feel like the right time."
"Alright, now you really sound like a virgin.”
He raises his hands defensively, "Hey, I prefer my sex sober. What's the point if I can't remember it the next morning?"
You shake your head, recalling all the unsatisfying nights you wish you didn't have to remember. All the men who let themselves finish, only to not return the favour. All the men who pushed your head down while kissing, all the men who didn’t even know where the clit is. The only memorable thing about those experiences is how awful they all were. At least being drunk made them bearable.
"Maybe some people would rather forget."
"Well, sweetheart," he’s leaning forward again, and your breath catches when his hand takes yours across the table, rubbing gentle circles over your knuckles, "You won’t want to forget me."
"Slow down, baby," he hums against your lips, hands moving to halt the movement of your hips.
Annoying, you think as a heavy sigh of frustration escapes you. You've just about had it with Jake, because even after having to be the one to invite him inside, even after being the one to lead him to the couch and mount him, he never caves to your demands. Even now, as he is hard, seated beneath you.
Every time you kiss him with too much urgency, he reels you back in, controlling the pace as he pleases. Every time your hands wander down to his waistband, he raises his knee to the throbbing heat between your legs, your hands flying to his shoulders to brace yourself.
It doesn't help that he's hands down the best kisser you've ever experienced. His lips, soft and warm. His tongue, slow and deliberate. He doesn't poke his tongue around like an idiot or try to swallow your face. He's controlled. Intentional. It makes you want to rip his clothes off like an animal.
"Why?" You hate how whiny your voice sounds, squirming as you try to grind your hips down against his thigh. He doesn't budge.
"Because I want to take my time with you," his lips trail down to your jaw, teeth grazing you ever so slightly as he sucks down on your sensitive skin. "You're so beautiful like this."
"You're an asshole," you inhale, biting down your lip to suppress the whine that threatens to escape you.
His mouth continues to trail downward, worshiping your neck, but never harsh enough to leave a mark, as he had promised he wouldn't— You're a working professional. It would be a pain to cover up.
"You're quite mean for someone so needy," he replies, moving your hips for you at his decided pace, "So demanding."
"You just want to watch me suffer."
"The opposite, actually. I want to make you feel so good." His lips nip at your collarbone, and you grind against his thigh in just the right way. You dig your fingers further into the fabric of his shirt, a timid whimper falling from your parted lips. "Wanna give you everything you need. Just be patient, baby."
You huff. The last thing you want right now is to be patient, and you swear to god, if he doesn't whip it out right now and bury himself so deep inside you, you might start to cry. But you've learned by now that he doesn't heed to your call. With your eyes fluttering shut, despite the distracting, toe-curling friction between your legs, you start to scheme.
You bring a hand to his cheek, guiding him away from where he kisses your neck. And with the tip of your fingers, you lift his chin, meeting him eye-to-eye.
"But Jakey," you pout, "Don't you want me to touch you?"
You lean forward, hand at his chest pushing him a little further into the couch, and this time it's your lips at his neck, nipping his skin, your head spinning at the low groan that escapes his throat. His hands move to the small of your back, rubbing slow, encouraging circles into your skin. And now, without him controlling your hips, you press yourself against him with more fervour.
"I can’t help being mean. It's only because I want you so bad," your hand trails down his chest, slowly, until your finger tips reach his belt. "Should I make it up to you?"
You press your lips to his to cut off his presumed words, desperate and hopeful that your womanly woes are enough to shake his quite frankly terrifying self-control, in the hopes that now, finally, he would let you take what you want. The thought of it alone has your hips stuttering, and you whimper into his open mouth, a familiar pressure starting to build up inside you.
Though, you don't realize what you're chasing until it's too late, and suddenly, you snap, calling out his name against his grinning lips like a bitch in heat as he swallows your sinful moans, legs shaking in the aftermath of your high. And when your hips finally come to a stop, your cries fading into heavy pants, that's when it hits you.
He pulls away, looking at you up and down in awe, watching how your chest rises and falls, admiring the dazed look in your eyes.
"Did you just...?"
You nod, slowly, trying not to shrink under his prideful gaze. To say you were embarrassed would be an understatement. You're both fully clothed, and he hadn't even touched you beyond kissing you, and yet you already finished. He laughs softly, his thumbs still rubbing in slow circles at your back, the simple movement alone setting your body aflame.
"I wasn't expecting that."
"Neither was I."
"Hm, does that make me special, then?"
"Well, I usually have to fake these things,” you admit bashfully, “so I guess that does make you pretty special.”
"You sure know how to flatter a guy, huh?"
"I know a lot of ways to do that," you say with a sly smile, earning a brow raise from him, “If you’ll finally let me?”
Your eyes drop to the tent in his pants, and your mouth parts with want. If you were with any other guy, you probably would've reached down to drop his pants and get on your knees unceremoniously, but something about Jake makes you want to carry yourself with a little more class.
Instead, you move your lips to his neck, and your fingers begin to work at the buttons of his crisp, button-down shirt. But your eyes begin to feel a little heavy, and your fingers start to feel a little too clumsy, struggling with only the first button. Your lips only manage to press a single kiss before you're yawning, exhaustion overtaking you as you mentally start to recover from your high.
"Tired?" He asks softly, with maybe a hint of trying to disguise his amusement.
You finally undo the top button, moving to the next and sigh against the side of his neck.
"A little," you admit, thinking about how you only managed to get a couple hours of good sleep. "Last night, there was this project deadline. Deadweight coworkers did nothing, so I had to pick up the slack, last minute."
"Sweetheart, you should've told me. You must be exhausted," his hands move from the small of your back to your middle, rubbing up and down soothingly. His eyes soften in concern, in a way that makes your pussy throb. Christ, there’s something wrong with you. "Now I feel bad that I've kept you up so late."
"Don't feel bad. It's not your fault that my coworkers are incompetent." You scoff, your head slowly falling to rest in the crook of his neck, and your hand clutching uselessly at the fabric of his shirt. The rhythm of his fast-beating heart is almost enough to lull you to sleep right there, but you will yourself not to. You don't want to be done with him yet.
"Mm. Well, if it makes you feel better, you're not the only one struggling with incompetent coworkers," he laughs softly, and you can feel the vibrations of his chest.
You let out a louder yawn this time. But when you shift to adjust yourself more comfortably in his arms, you're reminded that he is still hard as a rock beneath you— a reminder that you hadn't yet returned the favour. Admittedly, you want nothing more than for him to slip it out and stick it inside you right there, to fuck you until you're wide awake again, but you know he won’t do that. So instead, your hand slides down his chest and fumbles around with his belt.
"Watcha doing?" He hums, “Thought you were tired?”
"You got me off, so—"
"Did I?" He chuckles, and you feel your face burn. Okay. Maybe it was more like you got yourself off. But still. "I don't need anything, beautiful. Save it for when you have the energy."
You're too tired to fight him on that as he lifts from the couch, carrying you bridal-style to your bedroom. And laying you gently on the mattress, you get this overwhelming sadness at the loss of his warm body against yours.
You try to sweet-talk him into giving you what you want, as he helps you rid yourself of your dress and stockings, and though his eyes linger on the matching set you decided to wear underneath just for him, he only offers you a polite, respectful smile. It almost annoys you how considerate he is, asking you where you keep your makeup wipes to help clean your face.
You pout when he kisses your forehead, finally, saying something about how he should be on his way.
"Stay," You tug at his sleeve. You don't want to think about how ridiculous it is that you're asking a guy you've been on three dates with to basically cuddle you to sleep. Since when did you act so clingy? Since when did you want someone to stay in bed with you, if only to keep them close, and nothing more? Timidly, you lower your voice. "Do you... want to stay?"
It's all worth it, at least, to be able to watch him strip down, your eyes taking in his lean, muscular form. He's still hard in his boxers as he crawls into your bed, and you smile when you finally feel him flush against you again, with big, strong arms wrapped around your centre.
He doesn't try to grope your breasts, or grind into you, or whisper dirty things in your ear, and it's almost offensive, you think, because how can he behave so well when you're backing your hips into him, the obscene wetness between your legs staining the fabric of his underwear? What kind of inhuman self-restraint does this man possess?
You quickly give up your shifting movements, realizing he won't budge. And as your heavy eyelids fall shut, you can't help but think that maybe he was right. For now, you would rest. Only so that you could have all the energy in the world to pounce on him the very next morning and take his dick until you can't walk.
"Mm, Jake?"
"Yeah?"
"I can't wait for you to fuck me," the words slip out too easily. He laughs into the crook of your neck, but you don't miss his shaky exhale, and the way his grip seems to tighten around your form.
"Go to sleep."
"You sure you don't want me to make you breakfast first?" He asks, as if you don't have his entire cock in your mouth right now.
If you thought he was gorgeous last night, he was irresistible now, with his dark, messy hair over his eyes, his voice hoarse and sleepy. Naturally, you just couldn’t resist yourself as you'd pushed him back onto the mattress and crawled under the sheets, hungrily stalking the imprint of his cock. And though he tried and insisted that he should be the one getting between your legs instead, it was too early to be manhandling you like that. So he just let you do your thing while providing annoyingly unwarranted, kind and considerate commentary.
You glare at him through your lashes, removing him from your mouth, letting your hand do the work instead.
"Fuck breakfast."
He lets out a half-laugh, half-groan as your mouth returns to the head of his dick, licking away the precum that leaks from him like it's the best thing you've ever tasted. Because really, this was the only thing you were hungry for: getting to finally touch him, and hear those pretty sounds of his amidst his running mouth.
"It's the most important meal of the day, you know," he continues, hands curling in your hair to get a better view of your face, rather than to control your pace this time, "Never good to start the day on a— ah— empty stomach."
"Really?" You can't help the sly grin that curls at your lips, before you're crawling up. You sit yourself on him, grinding against his cock through your lacy little getup, "Then fill me up."
He looks up at you, eyes wandering down your body to admire what you'd worn for him last night, and his hands move to your hips to thumb the fabric.
"Wearing stuff like this on the third date," he smiles, "Flattery really is your forte."
He says, as if having sex on the third date as two fully grown adults is some kind of taboo. Though you suppose he’s right. Never in a million years would you have done something like this for any other idiot guy.
"It's only called flattery if it's insincere, right?" You reply, feeling him hook his fingers around the waistband. He starts to pull them down, and you let the fabric slip down your bare legs. "Trust me. I'm very sincere about this. You deserve it."
"Me?" He smiles ear to ear, like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Yeah, you. You've been very polite, Jake," you sigh when you feel your bare cunt pressed against him, the head of his cock catching your clit. "Let me show you how much I appreciate it."
"Whoa, hold on, beautiful," he hisses, hands flying to your hips as you press his tip to your entrance. He’s panting below you, and you whine in his grasp, trying to press down. "Haven't even prepped you yet, and—”
"Holy shit, Jake, I don't need it," you groan, and he opens his mouth to protest again, but you cut him off, "And I’m going to die if you don’t fuck me right now. I'm on the pill, so don't worry your handsome self over anything else, just let me have you.”
Without much convincing at all, he eases his grasp, and you whine when you start to sink on him, now understanding exactly why he was concerned about prep. He’s huge, and you've never been stretched out like this before, but you don't care. The slight sting of being stretched out is nothing compared to the satisfaction you feel of finally being filled. You close your eyes when you sheath yourself to the hilt, feeling him deep in your guts.
"You okay?"
"Oh, I'm amazing," you sigh, flashing him a smile. You start to move just a little bit, rising and falling in shallow thrusts, slowly working your way up, "I'm riding a hot, respectful guy with a huge dick, is that even a real question?"
He laughs, and it morphs into a moan as you fully raise your hips to slam back down again.
"Well, the most gorgeous little thing I've ever laid my eyes on is trying to ride my dick like it's nothing, so it's only right that I make sure she's okay.”
"Trying and succeeding," you insist, feeling the competitive urge to prove yourself a little more.
Your hands press down on his chest to brace yourself, and you start bouncing on him, your vision going blurry every time you feel him hit that spot inside you just right. The curve of his cock just fits you so nicely, you can't help the chorus of noises that escapes you— nor can Jake, apparently, who only seems to know how to shut up when you’re fucking his brains out. You pray you won't be hearing a noise complaint from your next-door neighbours, but the chances are slim.
"Fuck, you're good at this," he groans, resisting the urge to fuck up into you. His hands move to your waist, and one presses against your lower stomach, where he can feel himself right there. "Feels good? You like feeling me all the way in there?"
You whimper when you feel a hand at your breast, kneading and pinching the soft flesh. His eyes are all over you, worshipping you, and suddenly, you can’t remember the last time you’d even had sex in daylight. Normally, you felt too exposed. Too vulnerable. Right now, you wouldn’t have it any other way. You want to watch him as he falls apart. You want him to see you.
"So good, Jake,” you stammer, your teeth sinking into your lower lip to muffle your sighs, “Fuck, could do this all day."
"Yeah? You're something else, aren't you?" He smirks, "But I don't mind. I'll let you ride me til your legs give out, if that's what my needy girl wants.
"Your girl?"
"Hopefully," His voice is gentle as his hands wrap around your waist, pulling you down until you're flush with him, "but I'll save that question for the next time I take you out."
You want to laugh because, even as he's balls deep inside you, he's still trying to be romantic. And somehow, that thought alone has you trembling, pushing you towards the edge. The wind is knocked out of you when he starts fucking up into you, hands gripping your hips, taking the pace into his own hands.
Just like that, you're crying out, and he's fucking you through your orgasm, his own nearing as you clench around his dick. It doesn't take long for him to finish either, releasing deep inside you, watching it gather at the base of his cock.
You let your head fall to his chest, still twitching inside you, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head— soft, delicate and, somehow, innocent. Then, you hear his stomach growl, and you both start laughing.
"You still want breakfast?" You tease.
He hums, thoughtfully, and you squeal as he flips you over onto your back.
"Fuck breakfast," he quotes you from earlier as he slips out of you, using two fingers to keep his cum from dripping out of you. Overly sensitive, you writhe, and you whimper when you feel his breath hover just above your clit. "I want you."
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THE WAY I LOVED YOU — park sunghoon
Years after a quiet, painful breakup, you are assigned to write a profile on South Korea’s most elusive figure skater, Park Sunghoon, who just so happens to be your ex-boyfriend. What was supposed to be a byline quickly spirals into a collision of unresolved feelings, buried emotions that are edging too close to the surface, and the slow thaw between two people who once meant the world to each other. With every step you take back into his orbit, the line between story and truth begins to blur—and the version of him you thought you knew starts to unravel.
word count: 44k (LMFAOOOOOOO)
pairing: figureskater!ex!sunghoon x sportsjournalist!afab!reader
featuring: yunah, minju, and moka from illit
genre: figure skating au, exes to lovers, the one that got away, sunshine x midnight rain, second chance romance, right person wrong time but also becomes right time(?), opposites attract, slow burn, ANGST
warnings: this story contains miscommunication at its PEAK, emotional distress, mentions of injury, past breakup, abandonment, and themes of regret, long-distance, sunghoon ice prince stereotype, mutual pining, girl putting more effort than guy, hopeless romantic core, emphasis on love language, usage of profanities, slight indication of intimacy (literally like one paragraph if you squint), angst, angst, angst, and oh! angst, also maybe slight inaccuracies to real life sports delegations(?)
disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. If any context is similar to any other stories, it's either inspired (in which credit will be given) or just a coincidence. the characters' personalities, words, actions and thoughts do not represent them in real life. any resemblance to any real life events or person, present or past, are purely coincidental. i apologise in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes. characters are aged up for plot purpose.
notes from nat: ngl. i almost didn't want to put this out. but I know people have been waiting and I can be overly critical with myself sometimes... and 44k words is ALOT to just leave it in the drafts, so here you guys go! highly recommended to read with the playlist i curated in order! without further ado, enjoy!
tags: #tfwy thewayilovedyou #tfwy au
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The office is louder than usual for a Monday morning. Keyboards clatter like a percussion ensemble, and the faint hum of printers competes with the buzz of hurried conversations. The aroma of coffee lingers, sharp and bitter. You sit at your desk, staring at your laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard but typing nothing.
Your new assignment email glares at you with a subject line you never thought you’d see: "Profile Piece on Park Sunghoon."
Park Sunghoon. Even his name feels heavy in your chest.
Memories surge to the surface—his laughter ringing through late-night phone calls, the sparkle in his eyes when he spoke about skating, and the tension in his voice during those last arguments before everything unravelled. It’s been years, but the ghost of him lingers like a song stuck in your head.
“Y/N, you’ve got the Sunghoon piece, right?” your editor, Yunah, calls out, snapping you out of your trance. She’s a whirlwind of energy, dressed in a sharp blazer with a coffee mug permanently glued to her hand.
“Yeah,” you reply, trying to sound casual, though your voice wavers slightly. “I’ve got it.”
“Good,” she says, striding over to your desk. “The story’s got legs. Everyone’s buzzing about his reappearance and return to Korea. Olympic dreams, media darling, potential scandal… you’ve got to dig deep on this one. Make it personal.”
“Personal?” The word makes your stomach churn. “Isn’t that more tabloidy than what we’re used to?”
“Sports tabloids pay the bills, sweetheart,” Yunah says with a shrug. “And you’re the perfect person for this. You’ve got the knack for human stories, and Sunghoon’s story is nothing if not human. Besides, you went to the same university, right?”
The question hangs in the air, deceptively light. You hesitate for a moment too long, and Yunah’s brows lift, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Ah, I see,” she says teasingly. “Well, use it to your advantage.”
Of course. You forgot you're surrounded by people who read body language for a living. There’s no hiding anything from her.
She walks away before you can respond, leaving you with the sinking realisation that she’s not entirely wrong. Who better to cover Park Sunghoon’s meteoric rise—and whatever personal demons he’s carrying—than the girl who once loved him?
By lunchtime, you’ve done enough digging to know exactly what you’re up against.
Sunghoon’s name is everywhere.
His face—still frustratingly photogenic—plastered across articles, feature spreads, and fan-edited clips with dramatic music overlays. They all show a polished, confident man, far removed from the awkward boy you used to know. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his tailored suits scream sophistication, and his trademark smirk has only grown more enigmatic.
You scroll through write-ups that gush about his triumphant return to the ice. They speculate whether he’ll qualify for the next international season, drop cryptic mentions of a “new fire in his eyes,” and cite sources that can’t seem to agree whether his hiatus was due to injury or personal issues. Or both.
There are whispers about a reality show stint during his time in Spain—something lowkey, never officially aired, but leaked through blurry screenshots and strategically placed fan theories. A training arc in disguise, if you had to guess. Classic Sunghoon: disappearing, reinventing, and re-emerging like nothing happened.
And now? He’s starting to make headlines again.
Which makes sense, you suppose. He hasn’t been in the public eye for months. Not since that withdrawal from the Grand Prix final. Not since the buzz about that infamous tussle—the one that sports reporters avoided naming outright but loved to allude to. The speculation only made him more mysterious. More magnetic. The kind of story that writes itself: the fallen star, re-forging his crown.
Yunah’s right—the story’s got legs. You just wish you weren’t the one chasing it.
You stare blankly at the screen, lips pressed together as your cursor hovers over yet another article about him.
You were supposed to be over this.
And yet, you can’t deny the tightness coiling in your chest—not jealousy, exactly. Not regret, either. Just something far messier. The kind of feeling that comes from watching someone you once loved be glorified by the same world that never saw the nights you spent waiting for him to call. The world that didn’t witness the quiet crumbling of a girl who poured so much of herself into someone who didn’t know how to hold it.
You slam your laptop shut.
If he’s back on the ice, fine. Good for him.
But you’re not the same girl who used to cry over his missed calls and make excuses for his silence. You have a job to do. A byline to earn. And if this rink ends up being his comeback stage, then so be it.
You’ll be there—not as the girl who once loved him, but as the reporter who can write his rise without flinching.
The first step is setting up an interview, which means reaching out to his management. This whole thing could very well end here. You’ll send the email, Sunghoon will reject the request—just like he does with every other news agency or tabloid that thinks they can score an exclusive interview with him. Yunah will realise you’re not some journalistic prodigy, and she’ll move on to the next big headline.
That should comfort you. When Sunghoon says no, it’s over—no awkward reunions, no dredging up memories you’ve spent years trying to bury. And yet, you hesitate, fingers trembling as they hover over the keyboard.
The email stares back at you, every word perfectly composed, detached, professional. It doesn’t betray the tangle of thoughts fighting for dominance in your mind.
From: You Subject: Interview Request for Park Sunghoon Profile Piece Dear Ms. Yoon, I hope this email finds you well. My name is Kang Y/N, and I’m a journalist with Manifesto Daily. Our team is planning a profile piece on athlete Park Sunghoon, focusing on his inspiring journey as a professional athlete and his return to Korea. I would like to request an interview with Mr. Park to discuss his career, his aspirations for the future, and any personal insights he’d be willing to share with our readers. The piece aims to highlight his achievements and provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete. Please let me know a time and date that would work best for Mr. Park’s schedule. I am happy to accommodate and can meet at his convenience. Should you require any further details about the story or our publication, please don’t hesitate to reach out. Thank you for considering this request. I look forward to your response. Best regards, Kang Y/N Senior Journalist (Sports Division) Manifesto Daily +82 XX XXXX YYYY
Highlight his achievements and provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete. You scoff. As if you don’t already have enough material to craft an in-depth exposé on Park Sunghoon—complete with anecdotes, vivid details, and a treasure trove of receipts that you’ve kept buried at the back of your mind, and perhaps in a folder on your computer.
You know the kind of person Park Sunghoon is. You’ve seen him at his most passionate, the fire in his eyes when he spoke about mastering a new routine, and at his most vulnerable, when doubts about his own abilities kept him up at night.
You’ve also witnessed him at his ugliest—those moments when he seemed completely disinterested during your calls, only for you to catch glimpses of him laughing unabashedly in his training mate’s Instagram stories. When he sent curt, dry texts that cut to your insecurities, leaving you questioning if you were the problem. And yet, now here you are, facing the daunting question: Who is he today? A polished media darling, exuding poise and confidence, or a jerk who simply broke your heart?
You’re not just writing a profile; it’s about untangling the complexities of the boy you once loved and the man he has become, all while confronting the version of him that’s lived rent-free in your head for years.
When you finally hit send, you lean back in your chair, exhaling deeply. It’s done. Now all you can do is wait.
The reply comes faster than expected.
For a moment, you stare at the screen, rereading the email as if the words might change.
He said yes. The one answer you hadn’t prepared yourself for. A mix of relief and dread washes over you in waves, leaving you momentarily frozen.
From: [email protected] Subject: Re: Interview Request for Park Sunghoon Profile Piece Dear Ms. Kang, Thank you for reaching out. Sunghoon has reviewed your request and is happy to make time to participate in the interview for your profile piece. We appreciate your interest in highlighting his journey and achievements. The interview can be scheduled for this Thursday at 3:00 PM at the Olympic Training Rink in Seoul. Please confirm if this timing works for you. Additionally, let us know if there are any specific topics or questions you’d like Sunghoon to prepare for in advance. Should you require further assistance, feel free to contact me directly. Best regards, Yoon Ji-eun Executive Assistant, Park Sunghoon +82 XX XXXX YYYY
“Happy to make time,” you mutter under your breath, staring at the email on your screen. A bitter laugh escapes before you can stop it. Does he even remember you? Or are you just another journalist to him now, a faceless name lost among the countless people chasing for a headline?
He must remember you. Right? After all, you were together for over four years—four long, formative years that shaped so much of who you are. And out of those four, at least three were good years. Happy years. The kind of memories that even if you wanted to forget, you couldn’t.
He isn’t just part of your past; he is your past. From the moment you met him in freshman year college during orientation, to your graduation, and all the way up to the day he left for Spain to chase his dreams, Sunghoon was a constant—a gravitational force you couldn’t escape.
Late-night study sessions that turned into early-morning phone calls. The excitement of travelling to watch his competitions, where his focus on the ice was matched only by the way his eyes would light up when he found you waiting in the stands. The quiet moments, too—the ones where he’d rest his head on your lap after a long day of training, eyes closed, his walls momentarily lowered.
You remember all of it, vividly. How could you not? It’s etched into the foundation of who you are, whether you like it or not. He alone made up your youth.
And he alone crushed it.
The day of the interview arrives quicker than you’re ready for. The sky is overcast, mirroring the grey swirl of nerves in your stomach as you make your way to the Olympic Training Rink. The moment you step inside, a wave of cold air hits you—crisp and unforgiving, seeping through your coat like a reminder of why you're really here.
The rink is quieter than expected. No coaches shouting instructions, no background music blaring. Just the sharp, rhythmic slice of blades on ice echoing through the vast, open space. The sound is hypnotic.
You spot him immediately. His movements are unmistakable—precise, elegant, detached—just like the version of him the world sees now. It’s surreal. For a moment, you're frozen. He’s always been like this on the ice, as if he belongs to a world the rest of us can only watch from the sidelines.
When he finally notices you, he skates over, his expression unreadable. Up close, he’s both familiar and foreign. The boy you loved is still there, but he’s hidden beneath layers of polished professionalism and years of distance.
“Y/N,” he says, his voice even. “It’s been a while.”
You force a smile, clutching your research papers like it’s the only thing tethering you to professionalism. “It has. Thanks for agreeing to this.”
He nods, gaze unwavering. “Anything for the press, right?”
The faintest curl of his lip accompanies the words, not quite a smirk, but it lands somewhere between sarcasm and civility. There’s a hint of irony in his tone, and you can’t tell if he’s mocking you, the situation, or himself. Either way, it stings in a place you wish was long numb.
You follow him as he skates toward the side lounge near the rink, where a table and chair have been set up for you. You set your things down, press the recorder button, and glance at your questions. But already, you can feel it—the reckoning of something unspoken humming beneath every word, every breath.
The breakup was as cold and sharp as the ice he mastered so effortlessly. Sunghoon’s inability to express himself had always been a quiet undercurrent in your relationship, but distance magnified the cracks until they became impossible to ignore.
At first, you told yourself it was temporary. A phase. Just the price of loving someone whose dreams demanded everything of him. While he trained under the Spanish sun—chasing medals, perfection, legacy—you remained behind, stuck in the grey stillness of routine. Every morning was a quiet scroll through his tagged posts: flashes of sunlight on ice, arms slung around new faces, effortless smiles captured in perfect golden-hour light. He looked happy. Free. And you… you were still waiting, clinging to half-hearted apologies and empty reassurances.
The timezone difference was a fact of life, yes—but it wasn’t the hours that made him feel far away. It was the way he spoke with one foot already out the door. Every call became more strained, the conversation shallow, like he was rationing his energy and you were the last on his list. His words were careful, rehearsed, as if emotional honesty was a risk he couldn’t afford on top of training and public scrutiny.
Sometimes he wouldn’t even call, and when they did come, they hurt more than the silence. His eyes flickered elsewhere on the screen, distracted by movement off-camera or the notifications lighting up his phone. His voice was flat, barely warm, like he was speaking to a colleague—not someone who used to fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. The nickname "Ice Prince" had once made you laugh, made you tease him during post-practice ramen dates. But it wasn’t funny anymore. It became a prophecy fulfilled—he had built walls you could no longer scale, frozen over the places you used to call home.
When the arguments came, they were frigid and brittle, snapping under the weight of unspoken frustrations. You started to memorise the pauses in his speech, the way he hesitated before saying your name—as though he wasn’t sure how to feel about it anymore.
It wasn’t just the miles between you that drove you apart—it was the glacier of his guarded heart, one you couldn’t thaw no matter how hard you tried.
And then one night, wrapped in a hoodie that still smelled faintly of him, you sat curled up on the steep edge of your windowsill, your knees pulled tight to your chest, eyes scanning the city like it might offer you answers. The lights blinked on like constellations you couldn’t name anymore, and you realised—with a crushing, reluctant clarity—you were holding him back.
But more importantly, he was holding you back.
Your lives had become separate timelines that only intersected on screens and stilted calls, and even then, it felt like you were orbiting each other with no gravity left to pull you close again. The connection you once cherished had thinned until it became a thread you had to squint to see, and even then, it felt like a lie.
So you did the one thing that felt more honest than any of your recent conversations: you typed out the words you’d been avoiding for weeks, hands shaking, eyes blurry.
“Maybe we’re both better off letting go.”
And hit send.
Just like that, another four years passed without him.
Time, as always, moved in quiet, unremarkable ways—through the steady ticking of clocks and the dull rhythm of workdays blending into each other. You had slowly, stubbornly, climbed the ranks of your publishing company, carving a name for yourself as a senior reporter. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours.
Unexpectedly, you had found yourself swept into the whirlwind of sports journalism—ironic, in retrospect, considering how closely that world is being tied to him. But you told yourself it was coincidence. That it was your choice now. That your world, your career, your interests, were no longer shadowed by Sunghoon's orbit or shaped by the way he used to talk about the thrill of competing and nailing six-minute routines like they were sacred.
You insisted you were free. And maybe that was true. But in the quiet spaces between deadlines and press boxes, in the few spare seconds before interviews began or crowds broke into applause, you couldn’t stop that lingering, almost shameful thought from blooming: that maybe, just maybe, some part of you had always hoped to run into him again.
Not to rekindle anything. Not to reach for what had already slipped through your fingers.
But to show him. Show him that you had thrived. That you were still standing after everything. That the girl he left behind was long gone, replaced by someone sharper, stronger, more whole.
But now—now that you find yourself in this predicament, frozen in place on the edge of a rink you never expected to be at, watching the familiar curve of his form cut across the ice with the same breathtaking grace—you feel like a fool for ever thinking you were ready.
You want nothing more than for the ground beneath you to crack open and swallow you whole. Because seeing him again doesn’t fill you with triumph. It doesn’t validate anything. It just hurts.
Worse than it should.
And it terrifies you how easy it is to fall back into that ache.
“Hello? Earth to Y/N.”
You blink, startled out of your reverie by the sight of Sunghoon waving a hand in front of your face. You hadn’t even realised you'd spaced out.
“Sorry,” you murmur, clearing your throat. Your fingers fumble with the papers you had so meticulously prepped—highlighted, annotated, sorted in order—yet now you pretend to look for something among them, just to avoid his gaze. You know it’s a weak cover. And karma hits fast.
A gust of air from the heater overhead flutters your stack of papers, and before you can react, a dozen sheets slip from your grip and scatter. Some land across the floor. Others fly dramatically over the rink’s low barricade, drifting like paper snowflakes onto the pristine ice.
“Oh, shit—” you hiss, already scrambling to gather them, crawling after loose pages that slip under chairs and along the skirting of the rink. You’re mumbling curses to yourself under your breath as you pick up the pieces of paper off the floor when your eyes zone in on a particular page that landed upright. Your breath catches.
Reference 4: Compilation of Netizens’ Impressions on Athlete Park
+62 -12 wow as expected park sunghoon! young, rich and handsome. must be a dream to date someone like him Dream or nightmare? Not really sure but okay.
+120 -24 kyaaaa he’s so handsome!! I’m a fan! What’s the point of being handsome? He’s a jerk!
+82 -4 wow how can someone look so perfect… he looks like a disney character Correct. More specifically, that giant ice golem from Frozen -.-
+32 -6 i wonder if he has a girlfriend. There must be so much pressure dating someone as perfect as Park Sunghoon. It’s okay, i’ll volunteer!! No pressure. He doesn’t open up enough for you to feel pressure. Still, may the odds be ever in your favour.
Your stomach drops. You’d forgotten those were even there—your sardonic, late-night annotations scribbled in red pen. Bitter, sharp, personal. And littered all over your research stack.
You snap your head up, and horror freezes your limbs.
Sunghoon is on the ice leaning casually against the rink barricade, one of the annotated pages in hand. His expression is a cocktail of amusement and disbelief, and worst of all—a hint of knowing. He reads aloud in a slow, deliberate tone, his voice dripping with mockery.
“‘Park Sunghoon is a block of ice personified. If you want to know what it's like dating a block of ice, 10/10 recommend.’”
He scoffs, dropping the page slightly to meet your eyes.
“Interesting research.”
Your blood rushes to your ears. You feel exposed, raw, like someone’s just peeled the skin back from every nerve ending and left them pulsing in the open air. You can’t even remember writing that annotation—but of course it’s in red, underlined, and impossible to ignore. One of many off-handed comments scrawled across your notes, never meant to be seen. Certainly not by him.
“I—I didn’t mean for that to—” You falter. What can you even say? You were angry when you wrote those, bitter and alone at 2 a.m., trying to turn pain into sarcasm.
Sunghoon studies you, his expression unreadable again. But there’s something in the way he watches you—like he’s trying to figure out if you’re the same girl he once knew, or someone entirely new. Someone just as guarded now as he once was.
“Didn’t mean for what?” he drawls, raising an eyebrow. “You mean you didn’t mean to write all these berating comments in bold red ink all over your research paper?” He plucks up another sheet from the scattered pile, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Let’s see what else we’ve got.”
You instantly recognise that one. Your heart sinks. It’s that page—the one where you’d printed promotional shots of him modelling for an active sportswear brand. Not only had you annotated it with snide remarks about his ‘unnecessarily photogenic jawline,’ but you’d also drawn little devil horns and moustaches across his face like a deranged kindergartener with a vendetta.
“Oh my god, give me that!” you blurt out, reaching instinctively over the rink barricade in an attempt to snatch it back. But of course, Sunghoon is Sunghoon—a whole seven inches taller and built like someone who only lives and breaths protein. He easily keeps the paper just out of reach, lifting it higher with an infuriating flick of his wrist.
And then there’s the bloody barricade. Cold, unyielding metal pressing against your ribs as you lean further than you probably should. You’re close enough now to see the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, the smug glint in his eyes that says he’s enjoying this far too much.
“Wow,” he muses, inspecting the doodles with mock appreciation. “You even gave me fangs. That’s new.”
“Sunghoon, I swear to God—”
“Relax.” He folds the paper with exaggerated care and waves it around in the air, taunting you. “I’m flattered you still think about me. Even if it’s in your own… special way.”
You feel a slow, rising heat on your cheeks, accompanied by the realisation that you’re no longer sure who’s in control of this interview anymore—you or the boy you once loved who is now laughing at your annotated emotional breakdowns.
You’re burning with embarrassment. Mortification. But more than that, you’re furious—at him, at yourself, at the stupid page still clutched in his hand like a golden ticket. Without thinking, you shove open the rink’s side gate and step onto the ice.
“Y/N—” he calls, warning laced in his voice. But you don’t listen.
Your flats hit the ice and your body immediately regrets the decision. You’re not dressed for this. The soles of your shoes slip against the surface, and gravity betrays you in a matter of seconds.
“Shit—!”
You yelp as your foot skids out from under you. The papers in your hand fly upward in a dramatic arc, and your arms flail as you lose balance completely. A part of you braces for the impact, the cold bite of ice against your back and the guaranteed humiliation that’ll follow.
Four years since you’ve seen your ex-boyfriend, and you’re about to face-plant onto the very place that drove him away from you.
Damn this ice rink. Damn you, Park Sunghoon.
But the fall never comes.
Instead, there’s a sudden blur of motion—fast, practiced, effortless. Arms wrap around you just in time, steadying your momentum as your body lurches forward. You slam into something solid—someone solid—and for a moment, all you hear is the rapid pounding of your heart and the low whoosh of his skates cutting against the ice.
You look up.
Sunghoon stares down at you, jaw tight, one arm around your waist and the other gripping your wrist where he caught you. The smirk is gone now, replaced with something quieter—unreadable.
You’re close. Too close. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the lingering warmth of his touch against your coat sleeve. He steadies you like muscle memory, like no time has passed at all.
“You never change,” he mutters under his breath, but there’s something indecipherable in his tone—annoyed, maybe. Or amused. Or maybe he just doesn’t know what to feel either.
You pull away quickly, too quickly, slipping again slightly before you regain your footing with a shaky huff. Your palms are planted against his chest, and you can feel the familiar beat of his heart under all that armour of fabric and calm. It rattles you more than the near-fall did.
You open your mouth to snap something biting—maybe about how you didn’t need his help, or how you’d rather eat the ice than owe him—but then you see it.
A flicker of pain across his face. A wince.
It’s subtle. So quick that anyone else might’ve missed it. But not you. You’d studied that face for years. You know what his mask looks like when it slips.
He straightens a little too stiffly, his jaw tightening as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. It’s slight, but telling. Your brows draw together as a thought rises, uninvited and stubborn.
The rumours about his injury.
It wasn’t reported officially—just whispers that circulated through the sports journalism grapevine. A rumoured altercation in Spain with another figure skater. A "tussle," they called it. No names, no details, just speculation buried in a few poorly sourced articles and message board threads that vanished almost as quickly as they appeared. Some even said it was the real reason he disappeared from competition for two entire seasons.
At the time, it had seemed like nothing more than gossip. Now, watching the way he stands with deliberate caution, the rumour doesn’t seem so far-fetched.
“You okay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
He pauses, then gives a short nod, not meeting your eyes. “Fine. You’re the one slipping all over the place.”
You bristle. “Well, maybe if you didn’t dangle incriminating evidence over the ice like a Bond villain—”
He actually laughs at that. It’s quiet, caught off guard, and so startlingly familiar that it sends a jolt through your chest. For a second, just a second, you forget everything else—the sarcasm, the history, the sharp words—and remember how that laugh used to feel like home.
But it fades quickly. And in its place is that wall again—the carefully constructed version of him the world sees.
You dust yourself off, avoiding his gaze as you mutter, “Thanks. For not letting me faceplant.”
“Don’t mention it,” he says, voice neutral again. “Would’ve been a liability issue.”
You roll your eyes and crouch to pick up another page, trying to focus on your scattered notes rather than the ache settling low in your chest. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you, can feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down between you.
Your mind also lingers on the way he winced—on the possibility that something deeper still lurks beneath the polished exterior.
“I’m on a tight schedule today. Let’s get the interview started, shall we?” Sunghoon says coolly, handing you the last of your scattered notes.
You take it from him, eyes briefly flickering to the page. Another cringe ripples through you—more scribbled sarcasm in the margins, barely legible under your rushed handwriting. Fantastic. But you school your expression, swallowing the urge to snatch it back and set it on fire.
“Thanks,” you say evenly, forcing composure into your voice as you tuck the page into your folder. “Let’s begin.”
You sit back down, smoothing the creases from your notes as you click the recorder on again. Your pen hovers above the page for a second too long.
“Alright,” you begin, adopting your neutral reporter tone, “let’s start with something simple. You’ve been back in Korea for a little over three months now. How has the transition been, returning after so long abroad?”
Sunghoon leans forward slightly, arms crossed in that easy, guarded posture you remember all too well.
“Busy,” he says. “Familiar, in some ways. But the pace here is different. Everyone’s watching. Everyone expects something.”
You jot that down, even though it doesn’t say much. It’s a good warm-up answer. Controlled. Polished.
“Does that pressure ever affect your performance?” you press gently, eyes flicking up to catch his expression.
He shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “Pressure’s part of the job. If it affects you, you don’t belong here.”
You resist the urge to raise a brow. There it is again—that edge in his voice, so calm it almost passes for indifference. Almost.
You move to your next question. “You’ve recently partnered with Belift for their new activewear line. What drew you to them over the other offers on the table?”
A pause. A flicker of amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. You realise too late that this is the same line of questioning printed on the devil-horned page still sticking out of your folder.
“I liked their vision,” he says, but the glance he gives you is pointed. “Something about... sharp lines and ice tones. Felt on-brand.”
You cough lightly, ignoring the jab. “And the photoshoot?” you ask, pen poised again. “You received quite a response online. Some say it marked a shift in your public image—less ‘Ice Prince,’ more...”
“‘Devilishly handsome and emotionally unavailable’?” he offers, arching a brow.
You shoot him a look. “That’s not exactly what I was going to say.”
“Sure it wasn’t.”
A beat of silence passes before you recover. “Let’s pivot. In Spain, you were training under Coach Morales. How did his style compare to what you were used to in Korea?”
Sunghoon exhales, shoulders dropping slightly. For the first time, his answer comes without a filter.
“He was tougher. Stricter, but less traditional. He didn’t care how I was perceived—only what I delivered. And if I didn’t deliver, he made sure I knew it.”
Something flickers in his eyes—something heavy and lived-in. You don’t push. Not yet.
You scribble a note before asking, softer this time, “Was that hard for you?”
He pauses. “No,” he says after a moment. “What was hard was unlearning everything I thought I already knew.”
The sentence lands with a thud in your chest.
You nod slowly, tapping your pen against your notebook. “Unlearning can be the hardest part,” you say, and you’re not sure whether you’re talking about figure skating... or each other.
You glance at your next question, fingers tightening slightly around your pen. The rhythm of the interview is shifting—balancing between surface-level poise and the weight of everything that hasn’t been said.
“Your return to Korea has been a hot topic amongst our readers,” you begin, tone level. “It’s been a solid three years since the last time you were in the country for the Winter Olympics. Naturally, people are curious—what brought you back? Especially considering the new season is starting soon.”
Sunghoon leans back in his seat, arms loosely crossed. “I can't give away too many details,” he says, gaze cool but not unkind. “Long story short, I’m in the country for some personal reasons that I'd prefer not to disclose.”
You nod, jotting something down even though it’s barely usable. Your next question hovers on your tongue, heavier than the others. “I see. Well, there have been some rumours… surrounding an altercation with another figure skater—someone else under Coach Morales’ regime. Do you have any comment on that?”
His eyes flick to yours—sharper this time. He doesn’t respond right away. You hear the faint rustle of paper, the soft crunch of his skates shifting on the ice. “Is that part of the interview? Or just personal curiosity?”
You look up at him, your expression unreadable. “Does it matter?”
“Well, I assure you there was no altercation,” he says smoothly. “Just minor disagreements.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Care to elaborate?”
“Not really.”
The tension in the air thickens, more palpable than the chill radiating off the ice behind him.
You clear your throat. “Alright. Then what about your injury? How’s recovery? Two seasons is a long time to disappear. Many fans were concerned when you missed the CS Lombardia Trophy in Italy last year. That was a pretty high-profile absence.”
You don’t even know where that came from. The question is not on your list—not even in the margins. But the words slip out anyway, fuelled by instinct more than intention. A part of you just wants to know. Wants to see if he’ll flinch again, if he’ll tell the truth, if he’s still capable of letting someone in—even if it’s just for a moment.
At first, he’s stoic. But then you see it—the shift in his posture, the twitch of tension in his jaw. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch.
Instead, he says, “That’s not the story you’re here for.”
“Maybe not,” you murmur. “But it’s the one people would care about.”
A long silence stretches between you, taut as a drawn wire. He’s no longer smirking. No longer deflecting. Just staring, as if weighing something inside himself.
“I don’t believe I ever mentioned being injured,” he replies, with a short, hollow laugh. “These rumours get way too out of hand and invasive sometimes, don’t you think, Reporter Kang?”
That tone again—playful on the surface, barbed just beneath.
You lower your pen slowly, your professionalism fraying at the edges. “Look,” you say, voice quieter, firmer. “If you're not going to give me anything to work with, why'd you even say yes to this interview in the first place?”
The recorder is still running. The room is still silent. But something in the air has shifted—subtle, but irreversible. The space between you no longer feels professional. It feels personal.
Not reporter and subject.
Just you and him. Two people orbiting the same history, waiting for someone to say the next honest thing.
He moves first. Exhales through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re still the same.”
“No,” you say softly. “I’m really not.”
He studies you at that, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to read a story written in a language he once knew by heart. “You’re bolder now,” he admits. “Sharper around the edges.”
“And you’ve learnt how to talk like a press release.”
He huffs a short breath, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Comes with the territory.”
“Right. Just a clean-cut, polished professional athlete now.” You tuck a paper into your folder, but your eyes linger on him a moment longer.
Still so familiar. Still so far.
You slide the last paper into your folder, but your hands don’t move to close it. You just sit there, the silence pressing down between you again. Your gaze drops to the recorder, still blinking softly.
“Do you want me to turn it off?” you ask quietly.
Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tenses, like he’s debating something with himself. Then, slowly, he nods.
You reach forward and press the button. The soft click echoes louder than it should.
For a while, neither of you speaks. It’s not awkward, but it’s weighty. Careful. Like standing on a frozen lake, knowing one wrong move could crack the surface.
“I didn’t come back for a sponsorship,” he says eventually, his voice lower than it’s been all day. “Or to prep for the season. Not really.”
You glance up, meeting his eyes.
“I came back because I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits. “I needed to feel... something familiar. Just for a while.”
His fingers tap a slow rhythm against his thigh, a nervous habit you remember well. The same one from when he used to sit beside you during exams, whispering under his breath that he was going to flunk—only to ace the paper every time.
You just nod, not sure how to respond to this sudden vulnerability. Truthfully, throughout your four years of dating, he had never truly let himself be vulnerable in front of you. Not fully.
Sure, you’d seen him tired. You’d seen him frustrated. You’d seen the cracks on the surface when pressure pushed too hard—but he always wore his pride like armour, always bounced back with a smirk or a shrug, always insisted he was fine, even when you knew he wasn’t.
But this—this quiet confession, this barely-audible tremor in his voice—it feels different.
Feels like he's reaching out to you.
And it guts you more than you’d like to admit.
You shift slightly in your seat, unsure if you’re meant to comfort him or just bear witness. “Is that why you said yes to this?” you ask. “To the interview?”
His eyes flick toward you, then away again.
“I wasn’t sure,” he says after a beat. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”
Your breath catches. The words aren’t said with romantic flourish, not laced with sweetness or longing—but they still land squarely in your chest, knocking something loose.
You don’t know what to say. For once, your head isn’t filled with questions or comebacks. Just the ghost of a hundred conversations you never had, and the echo of all the things that could have been different if either of you had said the honest thing first.
But it’s too late for that now.
You glance down at your folder, lips pressed into a thin line. “Thanks for your time,” you say, and it’s so formal, so distant, it might as well have come from someone else entirely.
"I'm assuming I'll hear from your legal representative if I use any of these in my piece."
Your voice is calm, steady—too steady. The sentence lands like a wall slamming back into place between you, brick by brick. You don’t say it to be cruel. You say it because you need to anchor yourself in something safe, something distant. Because the moment felt too raw, too real, and you don’t know what to do with the part of you that wanted to reach across the table instead of retreat.
Sunghoon stiffens. Just slightly.
“No,” he says after a moment. “You won’t. Off the record’s fine. Not like it matters now, anyway.”
You nod once, curt. “Got it.”
And just like that, the spell breaks. The weight in the room doesn't lift, but it shifts—muted now, buried again beneath layers of detachment and professionalism. The kind you’ve both grown too good at.
You don’t look at him when you stand. Don’t give yourself the chance to. Your hands move on autopilot—closing the recorder, tucking your pen away, zipping your coat with fingers that tremble ever so slightly. And then you’re moving, steps brisk and deliberate, the sound of your boots against the concrete floor too loud in the quiet.
Behind you, you hear nothing.
No apology. No explanation. No plea.
Just silence.
Sunghoon opens his mouth—his hand halfway raised, like he’s about to call your name. But the words never make it past his lips. He watches you go, jaw clenched, the moment slipping through his fingers before he even realises he still wanted to hold onto it.
For him, seeing you again was something he knew he would never truly be prepared for, no matter how many times he rehearsed this conversation in his head. Because you were never a script he could memorise.
You were always unpredictable. Slipping through moments like sand through his fingers—too quick, too sharp, too full of feeling. He remembers how your emotions came in layers—some loud and impulsive, others quiet and impossible to decipher. And maybe that’s what scared him the most.
Because he never quite knew how to meet you where you were.
You made decisions faster than he could process. You said the things he only thought about. And you demanded a kind of presence, a kind of emotional honesty, that he had spent most of his life trying to avoid. A part of him had admired that about you. Another part? It drove him insane.
Now, as your figure disappears through the doors without so much as a backward glance, he feels that same ache blooming in his chest again—familiar and bitter.
He told himself that this would be closure.
But it doesn’t feel like the end. It feels like a page he never finished reading.
And you’re already gone.
You spend the next few hours drafting the profile piece that was supposedly meant to “provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete.” Though with the material you’ve managed to gather, it’s unlikely you’ll even graze the surface.
Whatever. Just give them the Sunghoon they want: the enigmatic comeback king, the prodigy turned recluse turned headline again. You’ll quote his stats, mention his precision, maybe even throw in a poetic metaphor about how the ice has always been his canvas. You’ll do your job. Professionally. Neutrally.
You’ve done harder things. Covered messier stories. Interviewed athletes who could barely string a sentence together. Sat through twelve-hour matches just to get three lines of gold. Writing about Sunghoon, someone you know—knew—should be easier. Right?
Wrong.
So incredibly, painfully wrong.
Because the moment you sit down to outline your first paragraph, every sentence you draft sounds clinical. Distant. Like you’re trying too hard to keep your voice out of it. But your voice is in it. It’s everywhere. Between the lines, in the phrasing, in the careful omission of details only you would know.
You stare at the blinking cursor on your screen like it’s mocking you. Because no matter how objective you try to be, there’s no deleting the fact that the man skating his way back into the spotlight is the same one who once skated straight out of your life.
And now you have to write about him like he’s just another assignment. Like he wasn’t the one story you never really finished.
Still, you’re a professional—and Park Sunghoon is nothing if not a compelling subject. Enigmatic, polished, untouchable. Every photo released of him looks like it’s been run through three rounds of edits and an entire PR team’s approval. His public image is a masterclass in controlled narrative, curated to the last detail, but his backstory remains a blank canvas to most.
Well, not to you.
You have a folder of photos from when he was still just Sunghoon—before the endorsements, before Spain.
Sunghoon also never said you couldn’t dive into his university life. And it’s not like he gave you much to work with anyway.
That’s fair game.
No media-trained responses, no glossy interview clips—just a black hole of the years he spent quietly grinding through lectures and training sessions, tucked far from the spotlight.
To the public, it’s a blank space. But to you? It’s fertile ground. You were there. You knew the version of him who lived off convenience store food and energy drinks, who stayed up late tweaking final projects and icing swollen ankles at the same time. You knew the boy who forgot to reply to emails but remembered to text you good luck before your presentations.
You know the difference between the way he smiles for cameras and the one that used to slip out mid-yawn, when his guard was down. You know the scar above his ankle—not because it’s ever been mentioned in press, but because you were there when he got it, wrapping it in gauze while he hissed through gritted teeth. You know how he taps his fingers when he’s nervous. How he tightens his jaw before speaking truths he doesn't want to admit. How his laugh used to crack in the middle when something really got to him, how his voice used to trip over words when he was excited or flustered—not like the carefully paced cadence he gives the media now.
He may have grown into a mystery, but once upon a time, he was the most knowable person in your life.
So yeah, you dig. Not out of spite. Not exactly. You’re just doing your job. Sourcing old event flyers, class photos, public records, and a few strategically placed emails to former professors and classmates. You tell yourself it’s just research—nothing personal. Just building a fuller picture for the piece. The audience deserves depth. Authenticity. A glimpse of the man behind the athlete.
Besides, it’s not like you’re digging for scandal. You’re just… revisiting old ground.
Still, there's something undeniably sharp about the way your fingers move as you pull up archived yearbooks and student publication blurbs. How your lips twitch at the memory of him stumbling through a group presentation in first-year psych, cheeks red, voice shaking as he tried to explain semiotics with a skating metaphor. The same boy who once dropped his cue cards and muttered, “I’m better on ice, I swear,” to a room that actually laughed with him.
And maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't hurt to slip the story into the draft. Tactfully. Casually. A humanising touch. A reminder to the world that he wasn’t always so untouchable.
You add a line about his time at university, his balancing act between training and lectures, the quiet discipline that preceded his fame. And though it’s not in your style to get sentimental, you let yourself write one soft line, just one.
You keep it sharp. Clean. Balanced. The words come easily, like muscle memory. You stitch together the facts, layer in the charm, and add a sprinkle of speculation where it’s appropriate—just enough to give readers something to chew on. You reference his decorated track record, his quiet re-entry into the spotlight, the way his name is starting to echo through rinks again like a whispered rumour of greatness returning.
You even write about the growing murmur among commentators: that Park Sunghoon might just be gearing up for a full-blown comeback.
Even though he told you—specifically, clearly—that he wasn’t prepping for the season.
But facts don’t sell as well as fantasy. And he’s always been better as a myth than a man.
So you keep your voice light. Objective. Not too close, not too distant. Just enough ambiguity to make it seem like you’re on the outside looking in. Just enough plausible deniability to protect you from the truth threaded beneath every line. You write him like a legend resurrected. Like someone who left the world breathless, disappeared, and is now daring to return.
Before you know it, you're signing it off.
And as you read over the final draft—flawless, well-paced, and entirely detached—you can’t help but feel the faintest pulse of something beneath your skin.
Because this isn’t just a story about Park Sunghoon.
It’s a story about how well you still know him.
And how expertly you’ve learned to pretend you don’t.
You don’t even attempt to read it over another time. You just hit send.
The email whirs off to your editor, and with it, the story. Not the whole one. Not the one you carry in your chest like an old wound. Just the one the world gets to see.
And if he reads it—
Well.
Let him wonder how much of the truth you chose to leave out.
[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Ice Doesn’t Melt: A Closer Look at Park Sunghoon’s Return to Korea
By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily
Three years since his last appearance on home soil, South Korea’s beloved figure skater Park Sunghoon has returned—not with the fanfare some expected, but with a quiet presence that speaks volumes. After a two-season absence from competitive performance, Park, now 27, has chosen to settle in Seoul again, sparking both curiosity and speculation among fans and professionals alike.
“I needed something familiar,” he said during our brief but telling interview, when asked about his decision to return. He didn’t specify more than that, and true to form, left the rest hanging in the air unsaid.
Park Sunghoon has always been a study in restraint—on and off the ice. From the moment he first captured public attention as a prodigious teen gliding across the rink with terrifying precision, he has maintained an image both pristine and impenetrable. Nicknamed “The Ice Prince” by fans and media alike, Park built a reputation not just on technical skill, but on his ability to keep the world at arm’s length.
His return to Korea comes on the heels of years spent overseas—Spain, to be exact—where he reportedly trained under a discreet but rigorous programme with world renowned Coach Alex Morales.
Park was last seen in competitive skating during the 2023 Grand Prix, where he shocked the world by abruptly withdrawing from the final. At the time, he was considered a strong contender for the gold, making his sudden exit all the more startling. The incident was never formally addressed by his management, and Park himself has avoided discussing it altogether. The silence that followed only fuelled speculation—injury, burnout, conflict—but no answers ever came. Just absence.
Still, those who’ve recently spotted him during early morning solo sessions at the Seoul Ice Arena report that his technique is sharper, cleaner—almost startling in its control. But what truly draws attention is the absence of spectacle. No press conference, no sponsor-driven welcome, no grand statement announcing his intentions. Just quiet re-entry.
“He doesn’t skate like someone preparing for a comeback,” one former coach, who requested anonymity, shared. “He skates like someone trying to remember why he loved it in the first place.”
Yet, it’s not just his time abroad that shaped the man returning now. Long before the endorsements and Olympic buzz, Park had quietly juggled his dual identity as both athlete and student. Few fans are aware that between competition seasons, he completed a degree in media and communication at a local university. Classmates from that time recall him as a quiet presence—always punctual, often reserved, but not unfriendly. He kept to himself for the most part, but those who got close remember his dry humour, his encyclopaedic knowledge of classic film, and a surprising tendency to ramble nervously during group presentations.
“He once tried to explain a semiotic theory using a skating routine as an analogy,” one classmate laughed. “It didn’t make much sense, but he was so earnest about it, we just let him finish. After that, he was known as the ‘semiotic boy’ among our coursemates.”
Those stories paint a softer, more human picture of the man the public still views as near-mythic. But those who knew Park Sunghoon before the spotlight remember someone more boy than myth—equal parts unsure and brilliant, like he hadn’t quite figured out how to carry the weight of his own potential. Just a young man balancing essays and exhibitions. Late-night editing sessions and early morning ice drills.
This return has reignited questions about what Park wants now—what comes after the medals, the global tours, and the silence that followed. His name still commands weight, still trends with the slightest public appearance, yet there’s a noticeable shift in how he carries it. Less prince. More person.
There’s been no official word on whether Park will rejoin the competitive circuit, though murmurs within the skating community suggest he’s been quietly invited to participate in the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics team tryouts. Whether he intends to accept remains unclear—Park has neither confirmed nor denied the rumours, keeping his future as intentionally unreadable as ever.
And perhaps that’s the story. Not a triumphant return. Not a redemption arc. But presence. The act of being. The quiet audacity of choosing stillness in a world that only ever celebrated his movement.
In many ways, Park Sunghoon remains an enigma. But for those who’ve followed his journey, that isn’t new. What’s new is the version of him that doesn’t seek to melt the ice—but instead, has learned to live with it.
Only time will tell what that means for the future of figure skating’s most elusive son.
“Our dear Y/N, you’ve done it again.”
Applause breaks out the second your foot crosses the threshold of the office. It’s 9 a.m.—too early, too loud, and at least three hours behind the amount of sleep you need to properly function. You blink, trying to place what exactly you’re being celebrated for.
“Bravo. That was an excellent article,” Minju, the team’s ever-enthusiastic publicist, grins as he pats you on the shoulder in passing.
Oh.
That was going out today?
You didn’t even have your morning coffee yet.
By the time you’ve dropped your bag onto your desk and opened your laptop, your inbox is already a mess. The subject lines blur together:
[RE] Manifesto Exclusive – Park Sunghoon IS HE BACK FOR REAL?? The Ice Prince has feelings?? Thank you for this. I cried.
You open a few out of morbid curiosity. Fans are flooding your public inbox with praise, speculation, and—because the internet is the internet—several unsolicited theories about a secret marriage and a love child. Your copy editor, Moka, forwards you one with the subject line: “if he doesn’t want to melt, i’ll melt FOR him.”
On social media, it’s even worse. Or better. You’re not sure yet.
His name is trending. #ParkSunghoon.
Followed closely by #IcePrinceReturns, and the truly cringy #TheColdDoesntBotherHoonAnyway.
Tweets fly across your feed:
@/ice_princess: this article just made me want to lie face down in the snow and whisper Park Sunghoon’s name to the frost
@/manifesto_daily_stan: Kang y/n i’m free on thursday if you want to do god’s work again
@/plscomebackhoon: she said he doesn’t need to melt. he just needs to exist. do you HEAR that??? DO YOU.
You rub your temples, overwhelmed, equal parts proud and terrified. It was just a profile piece. A quiet one. No exposés, no scandals—just a man and the silence he didn’t bother filling.
And somehow, that’s exactly what everyone needed.
Editors are thrilled. Readers are emotional. Former skaters are sharing it. Someone on Twitter even called it “the most human thing written about an athlete in years,” and you don’t know whether to be flattered or panicked.
Because it wasn’t meant to be that personal.
Not really.
And yet—how could it not be?
You told the truth, sure. The visible one. But between the lines, there were pieces of you too. Tiny, hidden echoes of everything you remembered and everything you refused to say. And now it’s out there—immortalised in print and pixels—being consumed by people who will never know what you left out.
You’re halfway through scrolling a tweet thread titled “25 Times Park Sunghoon Looked Like a Heartbroken Studio Ghibli Protagonist” when a new email notification pops up.
From: [email protected] Subject: That Article
You squint.
How... tacky.
You open it, already bracing yourself for either legal threats or sarcasm.
Hey. Took your email off the internet, hope you don't mind. Nice article. Although, I don't think I approved any of those pictures you used in it. Especially the one where I’m mid-blink and look like I just saw God. Bold choice. P.S. You really quoted my classmate calling me “semiotic boy”? That’s... deeply unnecessary.
You stare at the screen, lips twitching despite yourself.
It’s so him—passive-aggressive, smug, and annoyingly charming. The kind of email only Park Sunghoon would send instead of just texting like a normal person.
At the bottom, there’s no sign-off. No best regards, no sincerely, not even a name.
Just one final line, added like an afterthought:
You still overuse em-dashes, by the way.
You exhale a laugh. God, of course he noticed that.
You stare at the screen, blinking. Once. Twice.
Of all the emails you expected today—from eager fans, nosy editors, one conspiracy theorist convinced Sunghoon is a time traveller—this was not on the list.
You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, rereading the message like it might change if you blink hard enough. But no. Still the same. Still signed off with zero punctuation, zero emotion, and 100% Sunghoon.
You scoff.
[email protected]. You can’t get over it. You don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he still uses the nickname he’s allegedly “not fond of,” or the fact that he sent this at 9:46 in the morning, as if he’s just casually emailing his accountant and not the ex-girlfriend who roasted his public persona to poetic effect.
Bold choice, he says.
This, from the man who once wore leather gloves indoors during summer and called it “a vibe.”
And semiotic boy? That quote was gold. If anything, he should be thanking you for making him sound like an emotionally tortured academic with cheekbones.
Still… your fingers hover over the keyboard.
The sensible part of you says to delete it. Or at the very least, archive it and go refill your coffee. You already got your exclusive. You did your job. The story’s out there, and it’s done.
But the curious part of you—the one that still knows how he takes his coffee, still remembers the shape of his laugh—can’t help but wonder what this email really means.
You don’t respond. Not yet.
But you don’t delete it either.
You just stare at the screen, lips pressed together, and whisper to yourself—
"I need a coffee break."
With that, you grab your cardigan, slip on your trainers, and leave the email open on your desktop as if stepping away from it might somehow make it disappear. The air outside bites at your cheeks—crisp, early, and a little too cold for spring. Your mind buzzes more from the lack of sleep than caffeine, and your only plan is to make it to the café on autopilot.
The café is still quiet at this hour, the kind of place where the clinking of ceramic cups and the occasional low murmur of conversation hums like white noise. The bell above the door chimes softly as you enter, and immediately you're greeted by the warm, grounding scent of roasted coffee beans and sugar syrup.
You exhale, shoulders easing slightly when you notice the queue is short. You move toward the counter, already calculating how much espresso you can legally ingest in one sitting, when a voice calls out from the seating area.
“Didn’t get my email?” The tone is casual—annoyingly casual. “Or did you read it and purposely decide not to respond?”
You freeze mid-step.
No way…
You turn, slowly—like you're afraid if you move too fast, the moment will solidify into something real you’re not ready for.
And there he is.
Park Sunghoon.
He’s standing just a few feet away, leaning with practiced ease against the edge of a table like he belongs there, like he hasn’t just completely upended your morning, looking frustratingly well-rested for someone who supposedly prefers early ice sessions. He’s dressed casually—black coat draped over a fitted charcoal jumper, those black-rimmed glasses he used to wear in university when he was trying to be invisible. But he was never very good at that.
His gaze locks with yours—calm, steady, unreadable—and it takes everything in you not to let your expression betray the punch of memory hitting you square in the chest.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, half under your breath.
“Sorry?” he says, feigning innocence.
“Nothing,” you say quickly, crossing your arms, trying to compose yourself. “Just… surprised...”
“Surprised to see me,” he says, finishing the thought as if he’s been rehearsing it in his head.
“Yeah, at my coffee spot,” you sneer, narrowing your eyes. “What, are you stalking me?”
He gestures lazily toward the table behind him, where a half-drunk latte sits beside a copy of some obscure paperback you’re certain he’s only pretending to read. “I was here first. Technically.”
You smile, tight-lipped, the professional mask slipping neatly into place. “Well, I apologise if you felt like I had something against you. I get thousands of emails every day—your mail must’ve just gotten lost in the flood of junk mail. If it was really that urgent, you could’ve just texted.”
It’s a big, fat lie. You won’t even pretend otherwise. You read it. Multiple times. But you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
His response is immediate. “You changed your number a few years ago. Didn’t leave much choice.”
The way he says it is deliberate, a little too sharp around the edges, like he’s been holding onto that fact longer than he’d care to admit. And what is he implying? That he’s tried contacting you over the years? What for?
You raise an eyebrow. “Right. And instead of, I don’t know, asking your assistant for it—you know, the same assistant I literally emailed last week—you thought it would be less invasive to go digging through old contact forms and hope I still checked my public inbox?”
He shrugs again, shameless. “It was surprisingly easy. And I figured it’d be less awkward than asking someone for it directly.”
You narrow your eyes. “Because nothing says respecting boundaries like showing up at my local café after sending a mildly passive-aggressive email.”
“Oh?” he says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “So you did read it?”
“No.”
“Then how’d you know it was passive-aggressive?”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just a touch. “Because I know you.”
The silence that follows is dense and immediate, settling between you with the weight of everything left unsaid. It hums beneath the chatter of the café, a fragile thread stretched so tight that you swear it might snap if either of you so much as blinked wrong.
Then, mercifully, the barista calls out for the next person in line—that’s you.
You move instinctively toward the counter, but before you can even begin to open your mouth, he’s already there, casually stepping beside you.
“Long black,” Sunghoon says, voice smooth as ever. “Make it a double shot.”
You turn your head slowly, eyes wide. “You remember my order.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Some things are hard to forget. Especially if it's the most atrocious coffee order known to mankind.”
And just like that, you’re thrown. Not by the gesture, but by the way he says it—like it means something. Like maybe he's not just here to pester you about emails and profile photos. Like maybe there’s something else behind those carefully guarded eyes.
But you're not ready to unpack that. Not here. Not now.
So instead, you nod stiffly, and say nothing.
Not because you have nothing to say—
But because you know, with Park Sunghoon, even the smallest word might start something you’re not sure you’re ready to finish.
You’re still reeling from the fact that he remembers minuscule details—like the exact way you take your coffee—when he casually steps in front of you and pays for it before you can even open your mouth to protest.
“You didn’t have to,” you say, surprised but keeping your voice neutral.
He waves it off, already pocketing the receipt like it’s no big deal. “Still have no idea how you even drink that shit,” he mutters, eyeing the dark brew with a look of theatrical disgust. “But consider it a compliment. For the article. It was… good.”
You glance up at him over the rim of your cup as you take your first sip, letting the heat hit your hands before the taste even registers. “Just good?”
He shrugs, nonchalant, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You didn’t use my best angles.”
You pause, lips curving slightly. “Oh, don’t worry,” you reply smoothly. “I’m saving those for the next feature: Park Sunghoon’s Top 10 Most Smug Expressions.”
That earns a laugh from him—genuine and unguarded—and it catches you off guard. Not the manufactured chuckle he gives in interviews. Not the polite, PR-approved smile. This is real. Honest. The kind of laugh you haven’t heard in years, the kind that used to sneak up on you in moments that felt weightless.
It hits you like hearing a song you forgot you loved—familiar and warm, laced with a nostalgia you weren’t ready for. A reminder of the version of him that existed before all the distance, before the silences, before the press statements and polished answers.
You don’t say anything in response. Just shoot him a look over the rim of your cup. A quiet don’t push it.
He meets your gaze, and for a beat, neither of you speaks. Then he nods, like he understands exactly what you’re not saying.
And somehow, that nod feels like the most honest thing exchanged between you all morning.
You’re back at your desk, the café detour doing little to clear your head. The email is still open, still flashing on your screen like it’s waiting—mocking you, almost. You stare at it for a long moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
You shouldn’t. You don’t need to. But something in you itches to respond anyway.
So you do.
From: You Subject: Re: That Article Hey. Glad you thought the article was good. I’ll be sure to file that glowing endorsement under “career highlights.” Also, I stand by the photos. Especially the one where you blinked mid-sentence—you looked relatable for once. Anyway. Thanks for the coffee. – Y/N P.S. Don’t ambush me at my local café again. Only if it’s urgent: +82 XX XXXX YYYY
Sunghoon is lying on his couch, one arm draped over his eyes to block out the soft afternoon light filtering through the curtains, the other still loosely holding his phone against his chest. The café encounter from earlier keeps playing in his mind on a slow, involuntary loop—your face, your voice, the way your brows lifted when you saw him, and especially that look you gave him when he ordered your coffee like he had any right to still know that.
He knows he probably shouldn’t have emailed. The moment he hit send, there was a part of him that regretted it. But then again, he’s never been particularly good at letting things go quietly—not when it comes to you. Not when the silence between you has always felt more like a wound than a clean break.
It’s been years since the breakup. Long enough, he thinks, that you should both be able to function like civil adults. Maybe not friends, but at least... acquaintances. Whatever that word means when it’s wrapped in history and the kind of silence that’s never quite neutral.
His phone buzzes once against his chest, and he lifts it almost automatically—more out of habit than hope, not expecting much. Maybe a curt response, a one-liner soaked in professionalism, something non-committal that closes the loop without opening any new ones.
But what he finds isn’t quite that.
His eyes skim the message quickly the first time, catching on your usual clipped humour, your dry phrasing. Then he sees the P.S.—and it stops him cold.
Don’t ambush me at my local café again. Only if it’s urgent: +82 XX XXXX YYYY
He stares at the line, the digits at the end anchoring his attention. His thumb hovers over the screen, then lowers.
He reads it again. Then again.
It takes him a moment to process that you didn’t just reply—you invited a reply. Not in so many words, but you didn’t have to.
He blinks, the message still glowing softly in the palm of his hand, and feels something shift—subtle, but undeniable.
You had tried to play it off with that line—“only if it’s urgent”—like it was a formality, a throwaway detail tossed in for the sake of convenience. But Sunghoon knows you better than that.
You don’t do anything without intention.
Even back then, when things were good, your words were measured—never careless. Whether it was drafting an essay or choosing what to say during a fight, you always calculated the weight of your words before you let them go. He used to admire that about you, even when it frustrated him. Especially when it frustrated him.
So no, he doesn’t believe the number was a casual addition. Not from you. Not after all this time. You wanted him to see it. You wanted him to know.
He sits up slowly, the email still open in his hand, thumb brushing absentmindedly over the edge of the screen. For a second, he considers calling. Just to hear your voice again—to see if it sounds any different now that everything between you has changed.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he just quietly saves the number into his contacts—Y/N, no emojis, no titles. Just your name, plain and familiar, like it’s never really left his phone at all.
His thumb hovers for a moment as the screen confirms the entry, and then he leans back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling, letting his mind wander—almost involuntarily—through an absurd list of scenarios.
He snorts softly.
What counts as urgent, exactly?
Would “it was raining and thought of you” qualify? Or maybe, “accidentally bought your favourite chips at the convenience store and they’re expiring tomorrow”?
His mouth twitches at the thought, the corner of a smile he doesn’t let fully form.
He’s not going to reach out—not tonight. Whatever this fragile, undefined space is between you now, he doesn’t want to risk crowding it too soon. He knows better than to force something still learning how to exist.
But the number is there now, quietly saved, tucked away like a folded letter waiting for the right moment to be opened. And that—simple as it is—is more than he had before.
So he stays where he is, stretched across the quiet of his apartment, letting the silence linger—not as a weight, but as something strangely tender. Something almost sacred. Because it no longer feels like the end of something.
It feels like the pause before a beginning.
And he waits.
Just like you did for him all those years ago.
The airport is chaos, as airports always are—the dull roar of overlapping conversations, the mechanical drawl of flight announcements overhead, the clatter of suitcase wheels rolling over the slick, polished floors. But somehow, in the middle of it all, it feels like there’s a bubble around the two of you, a quiet space carved out by the sheer force of everything you’re not saying.
Sunghoon stands a few feet away from the security gate, backpack slung over one shoulder, his boarding pass crumpled slightly in his hand from how tightly he’s holding it. Mr and Mrs Park are with him, tearfully fussing over their son—Mrs Park tugging at the hem of the jacket that's too big for him, hanging awkwardly off his frame in a way that makes him look both older and younger at the same time—like he’s already halfway into another life and trying to pretend he isn’t scared.
You stand nearby too, arms crossed—not out of defiance, but because it’s the only way you can keep yourself from falling apart. You don’t trust your hands otherwise.
When Sunghoon finally turns to you, you force yourself to smile.
“You’ll do great,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady even though the lump in your throat makes it hard to breathe.
He smiles at that—a soft, tired thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I don’t know about that,” he says, laughing under his breath, glancing down at his shoes like the words he really wants to say are hiding somewhere in the scuffed leather.
Your heart twists painfully at the sight.
And then he steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly, close enough that you can see every crease of worry etched into his usually smooth expression.
“Can you…” he starts, then falters, running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s nervous. “Will you wait for me?”
The words hang between you, raw and clumsy and completely un-Sunghoon-like. No flourish. No ice. Just a boy asking for something he doesn’t know how to promise in return.
You look at him then—not the rising athlete, not the polished skater everyone else sees—but the boy who once spent three hours helping you build a wobbly IKEA desk, who remembered exactly how you take your coffee, who mumbled useless astronomy facts at two in the morning when neither of you could sleep.
And you nod.
Because how could you say no?
“Of course,” you say.
He exhales, and for a moment, it looks like he wants to say something more—something that could make this easier, something that could anchor you to the idea that this distance will be temporary, survivable. But whatever it is, he swallows it down.
Instead, he squeezes your hand once, quick and clumsy, like he’s afraid that if he holds on any longer, he won’t be able to let go at all.
Then he steps back. One step. Two. The space between you widens in a way that feels irreversible.
You stand there, rooted to the spot, as he turns toward the security line, his figure blending into the tide of travellers wheeling suitcases and juggling passports. He doesn't look back, and you tell yourself that’s a good thing—that it’s easier this way.
You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until his silhouette finally disappears around a corner, swallowed up by the sterile white lights and directional signs pointing toward Departures.
Only then do you let yourself breathe out, shaky and slow.
The airport continues moving around you—announcements, crying babies, the low thrum of engines preparing to carry people across oceans—but somehow, it feels like everything inside you has stilled. Like the moment he walked away, something small and quiet inside you went with him.
You watch another plane lift off in the distance, disappearing into the clouds. And even after his parents insists you go home, you stay a little longer, long enough for the ache to settle, long enough to be sure you won’t cry until you’re safely back in the taxi home. Pretending that saying “of course” didn’t cost you more than you could admit at the time.
Because if there’s one thing you promised him, and yourself, it’s that you would be strong enough to wait.
Except you didn’t know what waiting would mean at that time.
You were confident this long-distance thing could work.
After all, at that point, you and Sunghoon had been dating for over three years. You knew each other’s routines, each other’s moods, each other’s silences. You had weathered exams, competitions, internships, stupid fights about stupid things—surely, you thought, an ocean between you couldn’t undo what you had built.
You believed that love, real love, was supposed to be enough.
But love, you will learn, isn’t always louder than distance.
And sometimes, people leave—not because they stop loving you, but because their dreams need a bigger sky than you can give them.
You told yourself the time difference was just an inconvenience. That the occasional missed calls, the shorter texts, the longer silences were normal. That he was just busy. Tired. Adjusting.
And for a while, you made it work.
You sent each other photos—your morning coffee, his late-night practices. You had clumsy video calls where the signal dropped and you’d laugh and call each other back like it was no big deal. You celebrated tiny victories over Wi-Fi connections, reassured yourselves that the months would pass quickly, that this was temporary.
You even started saving for plane tickets, bookmarking dates and circling holidays on your calendar, telling anyone who asked that yes, it was hard, but yes, it was worth it.
You meant it.
You meant every word.
But what they don’t tell you about long distance—the thing you only learn the hard way—is that sometimes love isn’t enough when the other person starts building a life you’re no longer part of in the daily, ordinary ways. When your names are still tied together but your days stop overlapping. When missing someone becomes part of your routine instead of your exception.
And Sunghoon—sweet, steady, ambitious Sunghoon—was chasing a dream that required all of him.
There wasn’t much left over.
Not for you. Not for the late-night phone calls he stopped picking up. Not for the promises that started to stretch thinner and thinner until they broke without either of you realising it at first.
You waited.
You waited longer than you should have.
And even now, some stubborn, aching part of you still remembers how sure you were at that airport when you said, of course.
Because you weren’t just waiting for him to come back. You were waiting for the version of him that left—to stay the same.
But some things, you’ve learned, aren’t meant to be held in place.
And some people, no matter how tightly you hold onto them, will always belong to a future you don’t get to walk into with them.
Now, sitting at your desk, staring at the faint glow of the monitor, you can’t help but drag a hand over your face in frustration. God. What was I thinking?
You lean back in your chair, the cheap leather groaning under the movement, and close your eyes for a moment, wishing you could rewind the last ten minutes and snatch the email back before it left your outbox. Before it could make you look like the fool you swore you wouldn’t be again.
Because re-reading it now, all you can see is desperation threaded between the lines. You might as well have stamped please still care about me in bold at the bottom.
You told yourself it was nothing. A witty reply. A polite thanks for the coffee. A number offered up casually—as if you wouldn’t notice whether he used it or not.
But you know better.
And so would he.
The truth is, no matter how many years have passed, no matter how much you've convinced yourself you've moved on, a part of you still folds too easily around him. Still softens at the memory of a boy who once asked you to wait for him, and the girl you were—the one foolish enough to believe that waiting would be enough.
You hate that about yourself sometimes. Hate that a few casual words from him, a coffee, an email, still have the power to make you feel like you’re standing in that airport all over again, arms crossed against your chest, watching him walk away.
You open your eyes, exhaling slowly. The office hums around you—phones ringing, fingers tapping on keyboards, Yunah shouting about deadlines across the bullpen—and you’re struck by how absurd it is that your life has continued without him, and yet he still feels like an unfinished chapter you never really closed.
You tell yourself it’s fine. That he’ll probably ignore the number. That he’ll chalk it up to courtesy and leave it at that.
But deep down, you know it’s too late for pretending.
Because no matter how you dress it up—witty, polite, indifferent—you handed him a door. And now, whether he steps through it or not, you’ll have to live with the fact that you opened it first.
The days pass, slow and uneven, the way they always do when you’re waiting for something you’re trying to pretend you’re not waiting for.
You throw yourself into work—churning out profiles, editing pieces that aren’t yours, picking up assignments nobody else wants just to fill the spaces in your mind. You sit through endless editorial meetings, nodding at all the right moments, scribbling half-hearted notes in the margins of your planner like it matters. You grab late-night convenience store dinners with Minju and Yunah, laughing at their jokes even when your chest feels hollow.
You live.
You function.
You check your email more often than necessary, always under the excuse of work, even though you know exactly what you’re hoping to find. You flick through your phone sometimes too—half-scrolling through newsfeeds, half-wondering if maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a notification that isn’t there.
But Sunghoon doesn’t reply. No email. No text. No missed call.
Nothing.
And slowly, inevitably, you start to fold the hope away. The way you fold an old jumper you know you’ll never wear again but can’t quite bring yourself to throw out.
You told him he could reach out only if it was urgent. And clearly, you’re not urgent.
Maybe you never were.
And you take it as a sign—maybe the only sign you’re going to get—that you should finally do yourself a favour and move on.
Because apparently, you haven’t. Not really. Not after all this time. You didn’t expect his return to unravel you like this—to pull at threads you thought you had stitched up long ago. But it has. And you can’t pretend anymore.
So you’ll move on for real this time. Not the half-hearted version where you paste on smiles and throw yourself into late nights at the office, where you tell your friends you’re fine while secretly checking your phone at red lights, while pretending you don’t still wonder if he thinks about you too. Not the kind where you fold the memory of him into smaller, quieter compartments of your mind, pretending it's just nostalgia, not hope.
No, this time, you tell yourself, it will be the real kind—the clean break, the neat ending.
And for a while, you almost believe it.
Until your phone buzzes, cutting through the quiet.
Just a single, unremarkable vibration against the desk, one you almost ignore—because it’s late, because you’re tired, because you’re used to the world asking for pieces of you at all hours now. You glance at the screen without thinking, already preparing to swipe it away like a dozen other notifications.
But then you see it.
Unknown Number.
For a moment, your brain stalls, fumbling for a rational explanation—maybe it’s a delivery update, maybe it’s a scam, maybe it’s one of those automated text from some subscription you forgot to cancel.
Still, your hand moves on instinct, betraying every rational excuse you try to conjure.
You unlock your phone.
And you read:
Hey. It’s me. Not sure if this counts as urgent. But... I saw something today that made me think of you. Do you have time?
Your breath catches in your throat, sharp and sudden, and the world around you blurs for a second—the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the muffled buzz of printers, the distant tap-tap-tap of someone typing across the office—all of it fading under the weight of those few simple lines.
You read it again. And again. As if the words might rearrange themselves into something else if you look long enough.
But they don’t.
It’s him. Sunghoon.
Reaching out not because he had to. Not because it was "urgent."
But because he thought of you.
And even though your mind races ahead with every reason you should be cautious, with every reminder of how long it took to rebuild the parts of yourself he once splintered, you already know—deep in your chest, in the place you don't let logic touch—that you’re going to answer.
You don’t let yourself overthink it this time.
No typing, erasing, retyping. No staring at the blinking cursor until it mocks you into silence. You just move your thumbs over the screen, letting instinct take the lead before the part of you that’s scared has a chance to intervene.
You type:
You: You should probably introduce yourself next time. "It’s me" doesn’t really help if I don’t already know how you text. And depends. Is it something worth hearing about?
You barely have time to set your phone down before it buzzes again.
Sunghoon: Definitely something worth hearing about.
Another message follows almost instantly:
Sunghoon: I’m free tonight if you are. Just coffee. Nothing crazy. If you want. There's also a favour I'd like to ask.
You sit there, blinking at the last line, reading it twice as your mind scrambles to catch up.
A favour?
It throws you off more than the coffee invitation itself. Coffee is easy—coffee is surface-level, casual, the kind of thing you can chalk up to old acquaintances being civil. But a favour? A favour means intention. A favour means he’s thought about this. About you.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard, your pulse quickening in that annoyingly familiar way you wish you had outgrown by now. You’re not naive enough to think this is anything more than it is. He probably just needs help connecting with someone, getting a contact, maybe even needs something for the press if he’s easing back into the public eye.
Still, a part of you hesitates.
Not because you don’t want to go. But because you’re not sure if you trust yourself not to want more.
You take a breath, steadying your thumb over the screen.
You type:
You: Where and what time?
The message sends before you can talk yourself out of it, and you drop your phone onto the desk, face down again, like it’s too hot to hold onto for even a second longer. You exhale a long, slow breath, staring up at the ceiling, trying to calm the restless beat of your heart.
Because tonight, you realise, you’re going to see him again.
Not as professionals. Not as a lingering what-if. Not as a name floating in your inbox or coincidental meetings.
But real. Present.
And no matter how much you tell yourself that you’re ready—that you’re different now—you know a part of you is still bracing for impact.
Sunghoon arrives at the café first.
It’s your spot—he knows that now. He also knows you probably don’t come here because the coffee is any good—you always made that clear with a scrunched nose and a dry comment about “caffeine being caffeine”—but because it’s close, convenient, easy to fold into your day without having to think too hard.
He settles into a table near the window, where the soft spill of the sunset stretches across the tabletop in muted golds and pinks. He sits with his backpack slung over the back of the chair, a cup of hot tea resting untouched in front of him, and for a brief moment, he looks less like the man you’ve been writing about—and more like the boy you used to know.
He wasn't a hundred percent sure you'd say yes to meeting him. When he sent that message, part of him assumed it would disappear into the void, swallowed up by everything unsaid between you.
But you answered. And you did in the way you always did—dry, sharp, a little guarded—but underneath it all, you answered.
And now, sitting here in this too-bright, too-loud café with a lukewarm tea and a racing heart he can’t fully rationalise, Sunghoon feels the weight of it settle in his chest.
He glances at the door again, even though he knows it’s still early. His knee bounces under the table, betraying the nervous energy he can’t shake, no matter how carefully he tries to hide it under indifference.
Maybe tonight won’t fix anything. Hell, it’s not meant to.
But you’re showing up.
And somehow, that already feels like more than he deserves.
The bell above the door chimes, sharp and familiar, cutting through the low hum of conversation and clinking cups.
Sunghoon looks up almost instinctively—and there you are, stepping into the café with a kind of restless energy tucked into the set of your shoulders, like you’re already bracing yourself for something you can’t name yet.
You don’t see him at first.
Of course you don’t.
Because out of pure, unconscious instinct, you’re scanning the corners of the café—the tucked-away tables, the quieter spots shielded from the main crowd—just like you always used to.
Sunghoon feels a tight tug in his chest, something that pulls and aches all at once, because he remembers.
He remembers how you used to tease him for always choosing the seats against the wall, how you said he acted like a cat looking for the best vantage point, somewhere he could see everything without being seen himself.
He remembers you pretending to sulk when he dragged you to the corner booths instead of the bright window seats you preferred—and how, secretly, you never really minded.
And now, without even thinking, you’re still looking for him in the places where you remember him being.
And without even realising, he had chosen a place where he remembered you liking.
He doesn’t call out to you.
He just watches.
Watches the slight purse of your lips when you don’t spot him right away. Watches the way your fingers tap lightly against the strap of your bag—an old nervous habit he’d forgotten he remembered—like your body is leaking out the anxiety you refuse to show on your face.
And God, you look—
You look pretty.
Not in the polished, deliberate way people try to look when they know they’re being watched.
You look real.
Soft in the fading light, like the world around you hasn’t quite caught up to you yet. Your hair a little mussed from the breeze outside, your cheeks flushed with the leftover heat of the setting sun. There’s a quietness to you, a rawness—like you’re still made of the same stubborn hope and sharp edges he used to love, except time has worn them softer, gentler, more dangerous in ways he doesn’t even have the words for.
You look like a memory he’s been trying not to miss.
You look like the version of you he’s been carrying around all these years—
Real. Tired, maybe. A little guarded. But still luminous in a way he can’t describe without sounding ridiculous, without pulling old, unfinished feelings up from the place he thought he’d buried them for good.
Something shifts in his chest, painful and sweet all at once.
Because in the handful of minutes he’s spent sitting here convincing himself to stay calm, convincing himself that this was just coffee and nothing more—you’ve walked through the door and reminded him, without trying, exactly why forgetting you had never really been an option.
He straightens slightly in his chair, the leg of the table bumping softly against his knee.
And for a moment—just a moment—Sunghoon forgets why he’s here at all.
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, scanning the café with a quiet frown starting to settle between your brows.
Sunghoon watches the hesitation flicker across your face—the way you linger a fraction too long at every corner booth, the way your fingers brush nervously against the hem of your jacket, like you’re grounding yourself without even realising it.
And then—finally—your gaze catches his.
The moment stretches, taut and delicate, like a held breath.
You blink, as if to double-check it’s really him. Your lips part slightly in surprise, a faint hitch of breath visible even from where he’s sitting, and for a second, neither of you moves, both suspended in that thin, brittle space where time slows down just enough to make you feel the weight of it.
You glance at the window beside him, your eyes catching the reflection of the streetlights bleeding into the glass, and for a moment, confusion flickers briefly across your face.
That’s why you didn’t spot him immediately when you walked in.
You weren’t looking by the windows—you never had to.
Sunghoon never sat there. He hated it. Hated having his back exposed, hated being on display. You’d spent years weaving through crowded cafés and restaurants, instinctively scanning the corners, the quiet spaces tucked away from the flow of people, because that’s where he would always be—where he could watch without being watched, where the world couldn’t reach him unless he let it.
But tonight, he’s here.
By the window.
Plain as day.
And without him saying a word about it, you realise it—another small, unconscious version of Park Sunghoon you were still holding onto without even realising it.
A version you thought was set in stone, carved into your memories.
A version you never prepared yourself to outgrow.
Sunghoon doesn’t smile. He doesn’t look away.
He just meets your gaze head-on, steady and quiet, letting the moment settle between you without rushing to fill it with anything easy or safe.
You square your shoulders after a heartbeat too long, forcing your body into motion, and start making your way towards him. Your steps are measured, careful, almost cautious, but there’s no mistaking the way your fingers clench slightly against the strap of your bag, no hiding the guarded look in your eyes that says you’re still ready to turn around and walk away if this goes wrong.
He stays seated as you approach, watching you close the distance between you, something tight and aching lodged in his chest, something he’s too afraid to name yet.
When you reach the table, you don’t sit down right away.
You just stand there, staring at him for a moment longer, as if trying to gauge how much of the boy you used to love is still sitting there, underneath the polished surface he’s learned to wear like a second skin.
Sunghoon clears his throat lightly, a small, awkward sound that feels jarringly loud in the otherwise soft hum of the café.
“You found me,” he says, voice low and almost shy, like he's not sure if he's allowed to sound relieved.
You shrug, shifting your weight onto your other foot. “Didn’t think you’d make it so easy,” you reply, your tone light, almost teasing, but there’s no real bite behind the words—just a tired kind of fondness that feels too familiar, too stubborn to shake.
And just like that, some of the tension splinters—
Not all of it.
Not enough to call this easy.
But enough to remind both of you why you’re here.
Wordlessly, you pull out the chair across from him and sit down, setting your bag carefully by your feet.
Sunghoon’s hand twitches slightly against his cup, the tea inside long cold by now, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
You fold your hands in your lap, lift your chin just a little, and say, “Alright. You’ve got my time. Let’s hear it.”
“You’re not even curious what reminded me of you?” Sunghoon asks, one brow lifted, his voice dipping into that familiar, teasing cadence you used to know so well.
Of course you’re curious. Of course your mind has been spinning endless possibilities from the second you read his first text. But you’re not about to hand that over to him so easily—not when you’re still trying to convince yourself you’re not sitting here half-holding your breath.
You lean back slightly in your chair, crossing one leg over the other in an easy, breezy posture you absolutely don’t feel, and shrug. “What reminded the oh-so-charismatic Ice Prince of me?”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk—the same infuriating, boyish smirk that once had the power to completely undo you, the one you thought time and bitterness would have dulled. It hasn’t. Not even a little.
He doesn’t say anything right away.
Instead, he reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, moving slowly, drawing out the suspense just because he knows it’ll get under your skin.
When he pulls out a small box and sets it gently on the table between you, you blink down at it in surprise.
It’s a Popmart blind box.
The exact kind you used to collect like trophies after long study sessions or bad days, back when you needed small, ridiculous joys to get you through.
You stare at the familiar design, the cutesy pastel art printed on the cardboard, the gleaming plastic seal still unbroken—and for a second, it’s like the years peel away and you’re back in a different time, a different version of yourself. One who used to drag Sunghoon to random mall kiosks and lecture him on the probability rates of getting the secret rare figure, completely oblivious to how patient he was being with you.
He watches your reaction carefully, elbows propped lazily on the table, but his eyes are sharp—searching.
“You’re kidding,” you murmur, finally breaking the silence, your voice somewhere between disbelief and something softer, something a little too close to fondness.
He shrugs, that infuriating smirk deepening. “Saw it at a convenience store on my way to practice this morning.”
You shake your head, the smallest, almost unwilling laugh slipping out of you. “You used to roast me for buying these.”
“And yet,” he says, tapping the box lightly with one finger, “I bought one almost every time I passed that Popmart near my place. For research purposes, obviously.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t fight the smile pulling at your lips, nor the way your chest tightens at the thought of it—him, in another city, another life, still thinking of you in the small, quiet ways that mattered when words weren’t enough.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The box sits between you, unopened, full of some stupid, mass-produced trinket that somehow feels heavier than anything else in the room.
You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you—not with expectation, not with the smugness you were half-braced for—but with something quieter. Something careful.
“Thank you,” you say, the words slipping out before you can overthink them, barely more than a whisper, but somehow steady. It’s the only thing you can conjure in the moment, the only thing that feels honest and real enough to offer. You’re a little surprised you manage to say it out loud at all, your throat tight with all the other things you’re not ready to admit.
Sunghoon leans back in his chair, his eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to amusement as he tilts his head at you.
“It’s the least you could say,” he teases, tapping the box again with his fingertip, “after I spent almost twenty dollars on that.”
The exaggerated grumble in his voice cracks the tension like a hairline fracture, and before you can stop yourself, a laugh escapes your lips—short, surprised, but real.
The sound of it seems to hit him harder than you expect.
For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s been momentarily stunned, like some long-frozen part of him is trying to remember how to breathe properly.
And if you weren’t so caught up in trying to pull your own defences back into place, you might have noticed the way his posture softens, just slightly, as if the laugh is something fragile he’s afraid of shattering.
You smirk, shaking your head as you reach out and nudge the box with two fingers, sliding it just slightly toward you.
“You bought this to bribe me into helping you with that favour, didn’t you?” you say, lifting your gaze to meet his fully now, your voice laced with teasing accusation but your heart still hammering too hard against your ribs.
He has the audacity to look mock-offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Bribe?” he echoes. “Wow. No faith in me at all.”
“You literally showed up with a Popmart like some kind of peace offering-slash-negotiation tactic,” you point out, arching an eyebrow.
“And yet…” he trails off, a slow grin tugging at his mouth, “you’re still sitting here. You’re still talking to me.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way the corner of your mouth betrays you, tilting upward just enough for him to catch it.
He sees it.
Of course he does.
And somewhere, buried deep under the layers of sarcasm and half-healed scars, you know he feels it too—the tiny, reckless flicker of something that neither of you is quite brave enough to name yet.
“So?” you prompt, your fingers idly tracing the rim of the coffee cup in front of you, the casualness in your voice a little too forced even to your own ears.
Sunghoon shifts in his seat, the easy smirk fading just slightly as he straightens, as if the weight of what he’s about to say demands a little more gravity.
“I wanted to ask if you could help me write another article,” he says, the words slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing each one carefully before letting it leave his mouth.
You blink, surprised but trying not to show it. “What about?”
He leans back, exhales once through his nose, and says it:
“I’m going to be participating in the Olympic tryouts.”
The announcement hits harder than you expect, knocking the air from your lungs for half a second. You sit up a little straighter, your mind racing to process it, because the last time you talked he was adamant he wasn’t preparing for the season. He said it so easily, so convincingly, that you hadn’t thought to press harder.
Sunghoon must catch the flicker of confusion across your face, because he adds quickly, almost defensively, “It’s not a comeback. Not really.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “What do you mean?”
He pauses.
You can see it—the hesitation. The way his shoulders tense just the slightest bit, the way he looks down at his hands like the answer is written somewhere in the faint lines of his palms.
“I—” he starts, then stops, chewing the inside of his cheek in frustration. His fingers curl lightly against the table, the same nervous tic he’s had since he was a teenager trying to explain why he bombed a practice session.
“I just need you to write the article for me,” he says instead, voice softer now, almost tentative. “Please?”
Here’s the thing about Sunghoon.
He’s always been good at giving you just enough—just enough smiles, just enough softness, just enough quiet promises without ever saying the words aloud—to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, there was something sturdy here.
Something real.
Something worth holding onto.
And then, just when you reached for it, just when you let yourself believe you were on solid ground, he would pull back.
Carefully.
Effortlessly.
Leaving you standing there, empty-handed, wondering if you were the one who had leaned in too far, if you had asked for too much, if you had misread all of it from the start.
It wasn’t cruelty.
It was worse than cruelty.
It was kindness, just enough to hurt. Just enough to make you doubt whether it was ever real.
You lean back slightly, arms crossing over your chest, not because you want to be defensive but because you need the distance, need something to ground you against the sudden rush of old feelings. “Why me?” you ask, genuinely. “The last time I wrote something for you, you were too busy complaining about the photos I used to actually say thank you.”
It’s a weak jab, but you both know the real question you’re asking has nothing to do with photos.
It’s why now?
It’s why me, when you could have gone to anyone else?
Sunghoon meets your gaze without flinching, his expression surprisingly earnest.
“Because,” he says simply, “I trust you.”
You open your mouth to say something—something sarcastic, something to deflect—but he cuts you off before you can.
“I trust that you won’t spin this into something else. I trust that you’ll tell it the way it is. Not the way people want to hear it. Not the way the sponsors or the federations want it dressed up.” His voice stays calm, but there’s something raw underneath it, something that edges dangerously close to vulnerability. “Just… the truth. That’s all I want.”
You stare at him across the table, your fingers curling slightly around the rim of your cup, and for a moment, you don't say anything. You just sit there, letting the request hang in the air between you, heavy and trembling like a thread pulled too tight.
Part of you—the part that's bruised and still sore from all the years of learning the hard way—wants to say no. Wants to lean back in your chair, laugh it off, tell him to hire a better PR team like every other professional athlete with something to prove. Wants to remind him, and maybe yourself, that you’re not the same girl who would have dropped everything the moment he asked.
Because you know better now. You know how this story goes. You say yes, you step closer, you open the door just a crack—and he slips through, quietly, effortlessly, until you're standing in the wreckage again, wondering how you didn’t see it coming.
But another part of you—the stubborn part, the hopeful part you haven't managed to kill off no matter how hard you've tried—can’t quite look away from him. From the way he’s sitting there, tension riding his shoulders, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his cup. From the way he asked—no bravado, no posturing, just a simple, almost clumsy honesty that feels so rare you almost don't know what to do with it.
You glance toward the window, watching the way the last blush of sunset catches against the glass, and for a moment you imagine what it would feel like to say yes.
Not because you owe him. Not because you’re chasing the past.
But because, somewhere deep down, you still believe in telling stories the way they deserve to be told.
You still believe some promises are worth making again, even if it terrifies you.
Your stomach twists, your chest aching with the sharpness of it, but you find yourself already knowing the answer before your mouth even moves.
You inhale slowly, letting the silence stretch for just a beat longer than necessary, then exhale through your nose, pushing aside the complicated tangle of feelings you don't have the energy to unravel tonight.
"Fine," you say at last, voice even, businesslike, like you're trying to convince both of you that this is just another assignment and not something heavier slipping under your skin. "Get your assistant to email me the details. I’ll personally send over the draft before pushing it to the editorial team."
You reach for your cup as you say it, needing something to do with your hands, something to anchor yourself to this new line you’re drawing in the sand.
But before you can even take a sip, Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his expression soft but firm in a way that pins you in place more effectively than anything else could.
“Don't bother,” he says simply. “You can just publish it directly.”
You pause, the cup poised halfway to your mouth, his words hanging there between you like an invisible thread you’re not sure you want to pull. You lower the cup slowly, setting it back down against the saucer with a faint clink, buying yourself a second to think. To breathe. To understand.
You search his face for the catch, for the usual hesitation he so often laced into moments like this—those little cracks where you could see him calculating the safest move, the one that let him stay just close enough without ever being vulnerable.
But this time, there’s none of that. Just him, sitting there, arms folded over the table, looking at you like he’s already decided.
"Are you sure?" you ask, the words slipping out lighter than you feel them. "No proofread? No management red flags?"
Sunghoon’s lips twitch into a smile—small, wry, but not mocking. If anything, he looks... relieved that you asked. Like he was expecting the pushback, maybe even hoping for it, because it means you’re still cautious enough to take this seriously.
"I’m sure," he says simply.
A muscle ticks once in your jaw, the urge to press further bubbling up, but you force yourself to stop. And in it’s place, a lump forms in your throat, sharp and unexpected, because if there’s one thing you didn’t expect to find tonight—certainly not here, not like this—it was trust.
Not just trust in your professionalism. Not just trust in your writing.
Trust in you.
Because whatever else has changed, you can feel it: This matters to him.
Not the article. Not the media coverage.
This.
Reaching out to you.
Trusting you with the fragile, unfinished thing he's trying to build for himself again, knowing full well you could burn him with it.
And somehow, hearing him say it—so plainly, so quietly—makes it harder to breathe for a moment. Because even after everything, even after the distance and the silences and the growing pains you both carried separately, some part of him still sees you as the person who would protect his story. The way you once protected his heart.
And you don’t know what terrifies you more—the fact that he still trusts you, or the fact that, deep down, you still want to be the person worthy of that trust.
It rattles something loose inside you—the version of yourself you thought you had to kill off to survive him once.
You shift slightly in your seat, trying to hold onto your composure, trying not to let him see the way those simple words—those few inches of offered faith—shake the foundation you’ve been standing on for years.
"Alright," you say at last, keeping your voice light, controlled, even though your hands tremble ever so slightly beneath the table.
"But don't blame me if you don't like how candid I get."
Sunghoon smiles at that, the edges of his mouth curling in that way that makes your chest hurt for reasons you’re too tired to name.
"I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it," he says simply.
You let out a soft breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding and glance down at your watch, the second hand ticking steadily forward. It’s getting late. And even though neither of you says it, you both know this fragile truce you’ve built tonight can only stretch so far before it snaps under the weight of everything you’re still not ready to talk about.
You stand, gathering your bag with slow, deliberate movements, and Sunghoon rises too, out of habit more than necessity. Always the gentleman, even when he had no right to be.
You sling your bag over your shoulder, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and look at him one last time.
There’s so much you could say. So much you shouldn’t.
So instead, you just offer a nod. Small. Measured. Almost formal.
"I’ll be in touch," you say.
And before he can say anything that might make this harder, you turn and walk toward the door, the cool night air rushing in as you step outside.
You don’t look back.
But you feel it—the weight of his eyes following you, lingering in the space you leave behind.
You’re back in that tiny, overheated apartment off campus—the one where the windows always fogged up too easily and nothing ever really dried properly unless you left it near the fan. The scent of burnt popcorn still clings faintly to the air from earlier that evening, and the dull hum of traffic bleeds in through the thin walls, but even that doesn’t distract from the tension steadily rising in the room like pressure before a storm. Sunghoon is slouched on the couch with one hand tangled in his hair, exhaling yet another sigh—his fifth in the past ten minutes. You’ve been watching him carefully from across the room, patiently waiting for him to reach out first. But after three years together, you know better. Park Sunghoon doesn’t do well with vulnerability. He never has. "Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?" you ask, finally breaking the silence as you settle down beside him on the couch. He flinches at your sudden proximity, as if this isn’t your apartment, as if he’s only just realised you’re still here. He doesn’t look at you when he answers. "No, I’m just tired from training, that’s all." You let out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You know, three years is a long time. Long enough for me to know when you’re lying to me. Just because I don’t call you out on it doesn’t mean I don’t see it happening.” That makes him freeze. His hand stills in his hair, and his jaw goes tight. “Park Sunghoon,” you say slowly, letting each syllable settle like a weight between you. The name sounds foreign in your mouth—formal, distant, pointed. He flinches. Not visibly, not dramatically—but you see it. A slight stiffening in his posture. The barest flicker of guilt behind his eyes. Because he knows what it means when you use his full name. You only ever say it like that when you’re done waiting. “You’re keeping something from me.” The words come out flat and exhausted, with none of the softness you’ve been clinging to for weeks—because whatever this thing is, whatever he’s hiding, it’s starting to rot the air between you. And you’re too tired—too frayed around the edges from all the late-night phone calls that ended too early, the dinners where he barely looked up from his plate, the countless conversations that brushed against the truth but never quite touched it. He blinks at you like you’ve just blindsided him. "Babe, what are you talking about?" "Don’t do that," you snap, your voice rising before you can stop it. "Don’t act like I’m imagining things. You’ve been distant for weeks. You barely look me in the eye when we talk, and every time I try to ask what’s going on, you throw me the same half-hearted excuses—‘I’m tired,’ ‘Training’s been intense.’ You expect me to just accept that forever?” His jaw flexes, and this time you see it—clear as day—that flicker of guilt he can’t hide fast enough. Your stomach sinks. You soften your tone, even if it cracks on the way out. "Sunghoon, we’re supposed to be in this together. I want to be there for you. Please." He hesitates, swallowing hard like the words are caught in his throat. "I—I received a training offer." For a second, you just blink at him, caught off guard. "That’s great, Hoon. Why would you hide that from me?" He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second you think—maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he really is just tired from training and you’re overreacting. But then, almost reluctantly, he says it.
“It’s in Spain.”
The words land heavy between you.
Spain.
Not just a different city. Not even just another country. Another continent. Another time zone. Another life.
The air leaves your lungs before you can stop it. Not in a dramatic gasp, not in a theatrical way—but in a slow, silent collapse, like something inside you just quietly folded in on itself.
If the offer’s in Spain… then it’s not just about training. It’s about moving.
Leaving.
Staying gone.
“When were you planning on telling me?” you ask, your voice cracking at the edges despite your best effort to keep it steady. “Were you going to let me find out through someone else? Or just… let me sit here, waiting for you to come clean?”
He winces, just slightly. “I didn’t know how.”
And that’s when it really hits you. The worst part isn’t the distance. You could handle distance. You’ve done long hours. Late-night calls. Time apart.
No—the worst part is that he didn’t tell you. That he’s been sitting with this, carrying it silently, while showing up in your apartment like nothing’s changed.
Because this isn’t just about fear or nerves or awkward timing.
This is about trust. About the fact that somewhere, deep down, he didn’t believe you’d understand. Didn’t believe you’d stay.
You feel the sharp sting of that realisation clawing at your chest. You’ve always known Sunghoon wasn’t great at talking about hard things, but you thought… you thought you were past that stage. You thought you were partners.
“I didn’t want to make you worry before I even knew if it was real,” he adds, and the moment stretches thin between you—just long enough for the ache to settle in properly.
Your voice comes out quieter this time, more hollow. “How long ago?”
He hesitates. Again. And you already know the answer’s going to hurt.
“A month.”
You blink. Once. Twice. Trying to understand what kind of person holds onto something that big for thirty days—sharing meals, messages, kisses—without so much as a hint.
"A month,” you repeat, because you need to say it out loud to believe it. “You’ve known about this for a month, and you didn’t think to tell me?”
He doesn’t answer.
And in that silence, your mind fills the blanks for him: You weren’t part of the decision. You weren’t part of the plan. You were just… something temporary. Something not worth factoring in.
You want to yell. You want to cry. You want to disappear.
But instead, all you can do is ask, barely above a whisper—
“How long would you be gone?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “The contract’s renewable. Season by season.”
So not just gone.
Possibly gone for good.
Your vision blurs for a moment—not from tears, but from the force of everything hitting you at once: the betrayal, the loneliness, the terrible, gnawing possibility that he’s been slowly easing himself out of this relationship long before Spain ever came into the picture.
"I'm sorry for not telling you earlier... I was scared.” His voice is low, almost breathless, like he’s only just admitting it to himself. His hand reaches out, tentative at first, before settling over yours where it rests on the couch. And you hate it—how that simple gesture, plain and quiet and embarrassingly overdue, still makes something inside you soften. The bare fucking minimum, and it still sways you.
"Hell, I’m scared too, Sunghoon," you whisper, not bothering to hide the shake in your voice. "But you should’ve told me. I deserved to hear it from you—not from the silence that’s been stretching between us for weeks."
His other hand comes up to run through his hair, eyes squeezing shut for a second. "I don’t even know if I want to take it up. I mean, I could stay. I could keep training here in Korea."
You shoot him a look—sharp, disbelieving, almost angry.
"Are you crazy?" Your voice wavers on the edge of breaking, not because you don’t mean it, but because meaning it hurts more than you want to admit. "It’s a good opportunity, Sunghoon. One you’ve worked your whole life for. You should go for it."
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares at you, searching your face like it holds the answers to every impossible question he hasn’t dared to ask. And you know the moment he finds it—the flicker of fear. The tightness in your smile. The regret you tried so hard to keep buried shows in every inch and crease of your face and he sees it as clear as day.
"I love you, Sunghoon." You say it firmly. Desperately. "And loving you means being there for you. Supporting your dreams. That’s what this is. It's not like we’re breaking up, right?"
He reacts instantly. "No! God, no.”
His grip tightens over your hands, voice urgent, pleading.
"I love you too, and I never want to lose you."
You hold his gaze. Let yourself believe him—for now. Because in this moment, with his hand wrapped around yours and his eyes wide and scared and filled with something real, you need to.
"That’s all I needed to know," you say softly.
And it is.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You eventually came to terms with it—because you’re good at rationalising things that hurt. You tell yourself that dreams come with sacrifice. That love, real love, isn’t always about staying close—it’s about staying with someone, even when they’re far away. That maybe love isn’t about convenience, but compromise. But still… you guess, even then, even in that moment where you let him go with your blessing—a part of you already had that small flicker of doubt gnawing quietly at the back of your mind. Did he see you in the life he was chasing? Or were you just the thing he had to let go of to chase it faster? The cursor blinks at you, tauntingly. A small, persistent beat on a completely blank page. Like it’s waiting for you to figure out how to write about someone you’ve spent years trying not to think about. It’s not like this is your first article about him. In fact, the last one made the rounds faster than you expected. People called it raw, honest, even moving. They praised your ability to write “authentically,” like you’d peeled back layers no other reporter had dared to touch. Like you knew him. And you do. Or at least you did. Can’t be that hard to churn out another article about him. Your gaze drifts to your desk, where a small, unopened box sits tucked to the side—innocent, pastel-coloured, with a soft shimmer under the lamp light. The Popmart. You blink at it, then let out a quiet laugh. Not bitter. Just tired. Surprised. Of course he didn’t know. You’d already completed this series over a year ago. Bought the final missing figure off some reseller at a ridiculous markup. You’d even double-sleeved it in plastic wrap and stuck it on the corner of your shelf, not because you still cared about the collection, but because it had started to feel like proof of something. Proof that you could finish something on your own. That you could love something—and walk away when you needed to. That you didn’t need anyone else to give you closure. And yet… here it is. Sitting unopened on your desk, brought to you by the very person you spent years training yourself not to miss. A memory in a box. A joke you both once shared, delivered too late and too gently. You pick it up slowly, turning it over in your hand, and smile to yourself—small, worn, a little sad. He still thinks he knows you. Still buys you things like he’s allowed to remember you this closely. And maybe that’s the problem. Because part of you still wants him to.
You're back at the ice rink, your breath catching slightly as the cold air settles into your lungs the moment you step inside. The familiar scent of ice and rubber greets you, sharp and sterile. It’s quieter today—no full team practices or busy skaters gliding across the surface—just the soft, distant hum of the facility and the occasional sharp cut of blades against ice. You texted Sunghoon earlier this week, asking for a favour. A simple photo op, you said—nothing serious. You needed fresh shots for the article. Every news outlet had been recycling the same tired gallery of him from years ago—arms raised in victory at the 2022 Winter Olympics, a candid smile from a post-win press conference, that one dramatic shot with his head bowed in slow-motion grace during a routine. Beautiful images, sure, but outdated. You needed something that showed the version of him now. And if you were being honest with yourself, a small, treacherous part of you just wanted to see him in motion again. To see the Sunghoon that only existed when he was skating. The one who couldn’t hide behind polished interviews and measured words. He agreed with barely a pause.
Sunghoon: Sure. Come by Thursday. I’ll block the ice for an hour.
So you’re here. The camera you borrowed from your illustrator slung over your shoulder, scarf tucked under your chin, fingers already tingling from the cold. You set your things down near the boards, scanning the empty rink until you spot him. And there he is. Sunghoon is already on the ice, warming up with long, fluid strides, his blades carving out familiar patterns beneath him. He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has, and he's just letting you watch first. Either way, for a moment, you forget you’re here to work. Because seeing him like this—alone on the ice, body moving like muscle memory itself—it tugs something loose in you. Something old and buried but not entirely gone. And you remember: this is what he was born to do. Even if it broke both of you along the way. Without wasting another second, you’re already moving to unzip your camera bag and pull your gear out. You work methodically, slipping off the lens cap, adjusting the settings, checking the battery with a practiced flick of your thumb. It’s almost muscle memory—this part of you that lives in quiet attention. The last time you held a professional camera like this was for a university project, one that had taken weeks to prepare and execute. Back then, Sunghoon had been your muse too—sharp lines, steady movement, that inexplicable sense of stillness in motion that made him impossible to look away from. And now here you are again. The lens finds him at centre ice, where he’s stretching out a tight muscle in his leg, movements slow and careful, like he knows you’re watching now. Maybe he does. Sunghoon always had a sixth sense for that—for when eyes were on him, especially yours. You angle your lens slightly, tracking the curve of his body, the set of his jaw. Click. The shutter snaps. He glances over at the sound, a half-smile tugging at his mouth—mischievous, unbothered, almost like he’s posing without trying. But that’s just how he’s always been. You used to call it his camera face. He used to call you dramatic.
Click.
Sunghoon starts skating again. He doesn’t ask for direction, and you don’t offer any. You don’t need to. You track him through the lens as he glides through a spin, body coiled and precise, before he launches into a clean double axel that lands with barely a sound. The shutter clicks with each motion, capturing his lines, the angles, the fleeting expressions that flash across his face like sunlight through a curtain. You capture the way the light reflects off the ice, how the blade flares white against the surface—it’s all a picture you’ve seen before, but never quite like this. Never with this strange ache nestled beneath your ribs. There’s a moment—between the leap and the landing—when he looks directly at you. And it almost knocks the breath out of you. Because in that split second, it feels like the ice disappears, the years disappear, and it’s just you and him again, the version of him that used to look for your eyes in every crowd. The version that used to skate not just for medals, but for you. You lower your camera slowly, heart thudding a little louder in your chest than it should. “Don’t tell me that was your good side,” you say, aiming for lightness, adjusting your grip on the camera as you lower it from your eye. The teasing is automatic, familiar—the kind of banter you used to toss back and forth like a tennis ball, soft enough not to bruise, sharp enough to mean something. Sunghoon coasts to a stop near the boards, blades carving a soft arc in the ice, his breath visible in the cold air. His chest rises and falls steadily, not from exertion—he’s not pushing himself yet—but from the kind of focused calm he only ever shows on the ice. “It was all my good side,” he replies, deadpan. You roll your eyes and let out a soft, incredulous laugh, more fond than you mean it to be. Of course it was. He’s always been like this—smug and quietly self-aware in the way only someone who knows they’re good can be. You roll your eyes, but your lips are already curling upward. You glance down at the display screen, reviewing the shots, already knowing you’ve got what you came for—and maybe a little more than you meant to take. “Tell me I don’t look good,” Sunghoon says, a quiet challenge in his voice as he raises an eyebrow, still watching you. You scoff, lifting the camera again mostly to hide the expression threatening to spread across your face. “Just try not to look like you’re holding a grudge against the ice,” you reply, letting the words land somewhere between playful and pointed. “I don’t,” he says, and this time, there’s something else there. Something softer. A hesitation in the space between his words. And for a second, it sounds like he means it. You lower the camera slightly, eyes on him through the frame but not taking the shot. Your voice drops without you meaning it to, just a notch lower, quiet like a memory surfacing. “You always looked best when you weren’t trying,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. A truth you’ve always known but never said aloud. But he hears it. And he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. He just turns back toward the centre of the rink, pushes off without a word, and starts skating again. You track him as he speeds into another combination—a triple toe loop followed by a clean step sequence, blades carving elegant arcs into the ice. You’re almost lost in it, the way the movements catch light, the shutter syncing to the beat of his pace like muscle memory. Then it happens. It’s subtle. Barely a misstep. But you catch it—the way his landing falters, how his right skate wobbles just slightly before he corrects. It would’ve been imperceptible to most. But not to you. Your fingers freeze on the camera, instinctively holding your breath as you watch him pull out of the sequence early, gliding to the boards instead of continuing.
He’s hiding it. But not well. His right leg drags just a fraction longer than it should with each glide—barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but you’ve spent too many hours watching him skate not to catch it. It’s the kind of minute detail only someone who’s memorised his movement would notice. And it makes your stomach lurch. You lower the camera, resting it carefully at the edge of your bag, the weight of it slipping from your fingers like the moment itself is slipping from your grasp. Your eyes track his every motion as he skates to the edge of the rink, bends low—too low, too carefully—and begins adjusting his laces. A decoy. A deflection. His back is to you, but the lie is written all over the tension in his shoulders. You step closer to the rink’s edge. “Sunghoon.” He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge you with anything more than a vague, distracted, “One sec.” It’s the way he used to respond when you caught him avoiding a question. The same rehearsed calm, the same nonchalance that always made you feel like you were overreacting—until the truth came out in pieces. “Don’t do that.” A pause. Then, reluctantly, he straightens and looks over his shoulder. His face is composed, but you see it—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his hands clench a little too tightly around his laces like he needs them to steady himself. It’s in his eyes too. That flicker of guilt. That stubborn need to pretend. And for just a second, you see it flash across his face—that same look he wore four years ago in your apartment. When you said his name with a tremble in your voice. When you caught the lie before he could even shape it with his mouth. It hits you all at once: the déjà vu, the sick familiarity of it. He’s doing it again. Tucking pain behind a polite smile. Folding the truth into excuses he hasn’t said out loud yet. And this time, it’s not your relationship that’s fraying—it’s his body. “It’s nothing,” he says. You wait for him to add on, say something—anything—to reassure you. A quiet I promise or the don’t worry about it. But he doesn’t. Doesn’t matter if he did anyway. You know he’s lying. And just like that, the rumours—the whispers that had floated through the sports forums, half-buried in speculation and dismissed by press statements—crash into your chest with brutal clarity. The injury. The reason he pulled out of finals. The reason he disappeared. You cross your arms. “That ‘nothing’ looked a hell of a lot like something.” “I just landed weird.” “Bullshit,” you snap before you can stop yourself. “You’re injured.”
He freezes. The sound of your words—sharp, laced with something dangerously close to panic—hangs between you. The silence between you stretches like taut wire, thin and sharp and ready to snap. You watch the way his jaw locks, the way his arms hang stiffly by his sides, like he’s bracing for a blow you haven’t decided if you want to deliver. And maybe that’s what hurts more than anything else—not the lie itself, but the fact that he’s willing to let it hang in the air. Unchallenged. Unexplained. Like your concern isn’t worth the truth. Your hands clench into fists before you even realise it, nails digging into your palms as you watch him turn fully now, the faintest strain in his movement betraying what his mouth won’t say. He doesn’t even meet your eyes. And that—that makes something hot and sharp rise in your throat. Anger. That’s the first thing that hits. Because he knew. Knew this wasn’t something he could hide forever—and still, he didn’t tell you. Not when you asked. Not when you agreed to write the article. Not when you sat across from him in that café, trusting him with something you weren’t sure you even had left to give. And he did this again. Like back then. When Spain was just a pin on a map and you were left in the dark, forced to make sense of a future he already knew he wasn’t going to share with you. But right on the heels of that fury comes something else—something slower, heavier. Worry. Because you know him. You know how much the ice means to him. You know what it took for him to get here. And you can see it now, etched into every tight movement and every silent wince he tries to bury beneath composure. He’s skating on borrowed time. The sadness creeps in after, quiet and cruel. Because maybe you were hoping—foolishly—that this time would be different. That this new version of you and him, cautious but healing, would be built on honesty. And yet here you are again. Watching him lie to you, not with words, but with silence. Because you’ve been here before, haven’t you? Waiting on him to meet you halfway while he stands still. And still, a part of you—stupid, stubborn, impossibly soft—wants to close the gap.
You take a step forward. It’s instinct more than decision, your feet moving before your pride can catch up. The edge of the rink is cold against your palms as you lean over the barricade slightly, just enough to close the space between you. He looks like he might flinch again—like he’s caught somewhere between preparing to argue or retreat. But you don’t raise your voice. You just say, quietly, firmly, “Don’t do this.” His eyes flicker—just barely. But you see it. “Don’t shut me out like I’m just another reporter,” you continue. “Don’t feed me lines like ‘it’s nothing’ when you know I see through that better than anyone.” Still, he says nothing. So you press harder, voice trembling now—not with anger, but with the weight of everything you’re holding back. “I watched you limp, Sunghoon. I saw it. And you think I’m just going to nod and take your word for it?” He exhales slowly, but you can tell he’s holding his breath in all the places that matter. You shift again, trying to find steadiness in your words, even as your chest tightens. “If the rumours were true—if you’ve been skating on an injury this entire time—why wouldn’t you just tell me?” A pause. A breath. A crack. “Do you really think I wouldn’t have cared?” That lands. Because his eyes drop—not in shame, but something closer to fear. Not of you. But of what his silence might’ve already cost him. He doesn’t answer, not yet. He just stands there, your words still echoing in the space between you. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out—just a soft, frustrated exhale. His jaw works like he’s chewing on the words, trying to force them out, but they keep getting caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. It’s like he’s standing at the edge of something—something terrifying and uncharted—and he can’t bring himself to take the final step. You can almost see the war going on inside him: the urge to speak versus the instinct to protect himself, to guard the parts of him that still feel too raw to share. For a moment, you think he’s going to brush it off the way he always does—wrap it up neatly with a nonchalant shrug and a quick change of subject. Like he’s too proud or too scared to let you see that raw, unguarded part of him. It wouldn’t be the first time. After all, that’s what he’s always done—deflect, dodge, build walls where there should be bridges. He couldn’t be honest with you when you were dating. What makes you think he’d be any different now, when there’s even more distance between you? You almost let him off the hook. Almost open your mouth to tell him it’s fine, that you don’t need him to explain himself. You’re already bracing yourself to swallow the ache, to bury it with everything else that’s gone unspoken between you. You’ve become good at that—pretending it doesn’t hurt. Pretending the disappointment hasn’t lingered all this time, festering quietly just beneath the surface of your every breath. And Sunghoon sees it. Sees the way your eyes begin to glaze over, the way your posture shifts—not quite closed off, but tilting in that direction. A half-given-up look that reads like surrender. Like you’re moments away from letting go completely. And something in him panics. A wave of it crashes through his chest, sharp and suffocating. Because if he fucks this up—if he lets you walk away now, after everything—it’s really over. No more second chances. No more waiting. He feels the weight of it settle on him all at once. That this—you—is the moment he can’t afford to lose. So, unexpectedly for you, he speaks.
“A year after we broke up,” he says, his voice quiet but steady, like he’s forcing himself to stay composed. “I was sent onto a new reality programme in Spain. Kind of like a training feature-slash-documentary series. Mostly for sponsorships.” He swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he gathers his thoughts. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks—his eyes fixed on some far point beyond the rink, beyond this moment, as if the memory itself is something he can’t look at head-on. “During our break… there was this skater, Hugo.” The name clicks instantly—Hugo Franchez. You’ve heard of him. He’s one of Coach Morales’ other students, known for his flamboyant public persona and his tendency to stir up drama both on and off the ice. Brash, talented, and unapologetically loud. The kind of guy who thrives on attention, whether it’s positive or negative. Before you can fully process what that connection means, Sunghoon cuts through your thoughts, almost as if he knows exactly what’s running through your mind. “Doesn’t matter who he is,” he mutters, voice sharper now, almost defensive. “One day during practice, that prick made a comment. Said my standards had dropped since you left me.” “I didn’t care at first,” he says. “It was petty. Stupid. I’ve heard worse. And honestly, he wasn’t wrong. I was a mess back then. I didn’t care what anyone said.” There’s something tight in his expression, like he’s forcing himself to stay detached—to treat it like a story he’s telling rather than a wound he’s reopening. You stay silent, but you feel your stomach twist into a knot, cold and heavy. The words settle like stones in your chest, bitter and suffocating. You don’t know what to say—don’t know if anything you could say would make a difference. “But then he said something else,” Sunghoon continues, and his voice tightens like it’s physically difficult to push the words out. “He started talking about you. Joking—if you can even call it that. Said maybe he’d try you out next. That someone like you didn’t need love, just a good—” He cuts himself off, hand flexing slightly at his side. You don’t need him to finish. Your breath catches in your chest, a mix of disgust and disbelief building behind your ribs. Your hands tighten on the rink’s barrier, knuckles turning white. You can’t seem to move, your mind struggling to make sense of the sheer audacity—the venom laced into words that shouldn’t even exist. Sunghoon’s fingers drum restlessly against his thigh, a telltale sign that he’s more upset than he’s letting on. His mouth presses into a thin, unforgiving line, and for a moment, he just breathes—deep and controlled, like he’s trying not to let his frustration seep through, but there’s a tremor in his voice that betrays the anger still simmering under the surface. “Hoon…” you whisper, your voice barely audible, raw with sympathy and anger that doesn’t know where to land. Sunghoon’s heart leaps at the familiar nickname, but the feeling doesn’t last long as he’s reminded of the story he’s telling. “That’s when it happened,” he continues, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. There’s something broken there, vulnerability seeping through the cracks in his usual calm. “I snapped. Took a swing at him. Next thing I know, we’re being pulled apart. Cameras everywhere. People yelling. Coach Morales losing his mind. The programme was discontinued after that.” You take a small, steadying breath, unsure of whether to feel relieved that he defended you or angry that it came to this.
“And your injury?” you ask, the words careful, soft, like you’re afraid of breaking whatever fragile, rare occurrence is happening between you. He hesitates, the tension in his posture growing taut again. “When we went down, I didn’t even notice it at first. Adrenaline, I guess. I thought it wasn’t a big deal. It hurt, yeah, but I could still skate. I figured it’d pass. I didn’t want to make it anything more than what it was.” You watch the shift in his expression—the shame, the defensiveness, the echo of pain he’s tried so hard to bury. “That’s why you pulled out of the finals,” you say, the pieces clicking together all at once. He nods. “Turns out I tore a ligament when I landed wrong. I didn’t realise how bad it was until I couldn’t even put weight on it. Rehab took months. Had to retrain my whole posture. Thought I’d never land a clean jump again.” The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s heavy with everything unspoken. You can feel the ache settle in your chest, not just for him but for the both of you—the version of him who tried to hold it all together, and the version of you who never knew. You want to scream at him for being reckless. For not telling you. For carrying all of this alone when he didn’t have to. But instead, you just stare at him. And he stares back. Both of you standing there, in the middle of a truth that neither of you asked for—but one that’s been waiting, quietly, to be told. “But you’re better now, right?” Your voice comes out more hopeful than you intended, a tight, almost desperate note clinging to the words. “I mean… you’re skating fine. You’re prepping for the tryouts, right?” Sunghoon hesitates, his eyes dropping to his hands where his fingers are still restlessly drumming against his thighs. He swallows hard, and the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease. “Barely,” he admits, the word thick and reluctant. “The injury relapses whenever I overexert. Some days it’s fine, and other days… it’s like I’m right back to square one. There’s no pattern. No warning. Just pain.” You feel a hollow ache forming in your chest, and you can’t help the frustration that bubbles up alongside the worry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He looks up at you then, a flicker of something pained and conflicted crossing his face. “Because it wasn’t your problem to deal with. You didn’t need to know. I couldn’t—” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair in a way that’s almost angry. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you worrying about me. Not after I’d already messed things up between us.” You open your mouth to argue, to tell him that’s not how this works—that you wouldn’t have seen him as a burden. But you can’t find the words, because deep down, you know Sunghoon has always carried things alone. It’s just who he is. Protecting people from his own mess, even when it tears him apart. He’s still watching you, shoulders tense, waiting for the backlash—like he’s already bracing himself for the worst. And you can’t help it—you laugh. Not a happy laugh. Not even a bitter one. Just a short, exhausted sound that slips out before you can stop it. “That’s it?” you murmur, shaking your head. “That’s the reason you didn’t tell me? Because you didn’t know how to believe that I’d want to help you?” Sunghoon’s jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker with something like hurt. “You don’t understand—” “No, I don’t,” you cut in, and your voice wobbles despite your best efforts to sound composed. “I don’t understand how the guy who always told me to be honest, to be open with him, just decides on his own that I wouldn’t care? You didn’t even give me the chance, Sunghoon.” He doesn’t respond. Just lowers his gaze, looking at his own skates like they might hold an answer. You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to ease back the frustration threatening to spill over. “You think I wouldn’t have cared? That I would’ve just—what—written you off as some failure because you got hurt? After everything?” His silence feels like an admission. And it hurts more than it should. “Was I really that easy to leave behind?” you ask, softer now. Your hands curl tighter around the edge of the boards, knuckles turning white. “Did I make it that easy for you?” He finally looks up, and his expression is raw, stripped down to something you haven’t seen in years. “No,” he says, almost too fast. “It wasn’t easy. Nothing about leaving was easy. I just—I didn’t know how to handle it.” You swallow the lump in your throat, letting his words sink in. You’re speechless, your mind a whirlwind of the why and the how and the what ifs that he’s not giving you. Then you zone into what he said: Not after I’d already messed things up between us. He’s aware that the reason for your falling out was because of him. “Never mind after we broke up. In the last few months of our relationship, why were you so distant then? Why wouldn’t you tell me anything? Why did we break up, Sunghoon?” His head jerks up, eyes widening. For a second, he looks like he didn’t expect you to ask, like he thought you’d just let it stay buried. But you can’t. Not anymore. “I didn’t mean to lose you,” he whispers, like it’s something he’s only just now realising. “But by the time I figured out how to come back… it felt like I didn’t deserve to. Not after everything.” You open your mouth, then close it again, the words heavy on your tongue. There’s a long pause—weighted, expectant. You shift slightly, pressing your palms against the edge of the rink as if to steady yourself. And then, quietly—because you need to understand, because you deserve to—you ask:
“What happened in Spain? Please, I need to know.” Sunghoon meets your gaze and for a second, it really felt like he was finally meeting you halfway. He lets out a shaky breath before he speaks again, voice low and unsteady. “When I left Korea, it was like everything just… fell apart. I thought skating would fix it. That if I just pushed through, everything would fall into place. It was going to be worth it, I’d feel like myself again.” His voice is quieter when he continues, almost like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “After we broke up, I kept telling myself it was for the best. That I needed to focus on skating. But… after a while, it didn’t matter anymore. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t even skating because I loved it. I was just… doing it. Because I didn’t know what else to do. Because I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t moving forward. And without you… I just felt stuck.” The weight of his confession presses down on both of you, heavy and unforgiving. You let your hands fall from where they’ve been gripping the rink barrier, flexing your fingers like you’re trying to shake off the cold—or maybe just the ache creeping into your chest. Sunghoon skates closer, not enough to close the gap entirely but enough that you can see the way his eyes are glossed over, the pain he’s too proud to let fully show. “I lost you. I lost skating. And I didn’t know how to come back from that.” You don’t know how to respond. You don’t even know if there’s anything left to say. So you just stare at him, taking in the vulnerability on his face—the way he’s finally, finally letting himself be seen. And despite the anger, despite the sadness, a small part of you—the part that never really stopped missing him—starts to unravel. Because this isn’t the Sunghoon you remember leaving. This is someone who’s been trying—fumbling, falling, but trying—to find his way back. You don’t move, but you don’t push him away either. You just stand there, caught between wanting to reach for him and wanting to protect yourself from being hurt again. And Sunghoon sees it—that hesitation. He takes a shaky breath, his hands falling to his sides, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s still looking at you—eyes wide, raw, like he’s afraid of what your silence means. Finally, he forces the words out, voice rough and unsteady. “I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m really fucking sorry, Y/N.”
His eyes drop again, like he can’t bear to see your reaction. “I was an emotional wreck when I realised I was falling out of love with skating. It felt like I was losing the only thing I’d ever been good at, and I didn’t know how to handle that. And in the middle of that mess… I didn’t know how to give you the love you needed.” The admission hangs between you, heavy and unguarded, and it’s like you’re seeing the cracks in him for the first time—not the public figure, not the professional skater, but the boy who had once loved the ice so much that he didn’t know who he was without it. You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the tremble threatening your voice. “You should have just… told me. You didn’t have to go through it alone. I was right there, Sunghoon. I would have—” “I know,” he cuts in, voice almost desperate. “I know you would have. But I didn’t know how to let you. I kept thinking if I just pushed harder, trained longer, it would click again. That the love for it would come back. But it didn’t. And the more I kept failing, the less I could bring myself to tell you.” You swallow down the hurt lodged in your throat, forcing yourself to stay steady. “So instead, you just shut me out? Kept me in the dark?” “I couldn’t handle it,” he says, a bitter edge cutting through his tone. “All of it. You being so damn supportive. Telling me I could do it when I knew I couldn’t. I was falling apart, and you kept telling me I was going to make it. It just—” He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “It made me feel like a fraud. Like I was dragging you down with me.” You stare at him, disbelief and frustration mixing with the ache in your chest. “You’re kidding. And suddenly it's my fault? That I cared too much?”
“No! I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, voice hoarse, trembling around the edges of regret. “God, that’s not what I meant at all. Fuck.”
He grips the back of his neck like he’s trying to ground himself, eyes flickering everywhere—walls, floor, ceiling—anywhere that isn’t the firestorm in your gaze.
“I meant…” he finally forces out, lowering his hands. His shoulders sag. “I meant I didn’t know how to handle it. You gave so much and I—I didn’t know how to match it. I was scared I’d ruin it. So I pulled back. I shut you out instead of admitting I couldn’t keep up with the way you loved me.” Your heart clenches, torn between anger and sympathy. You take a deep breath, forcing the words out even though they taste like heartbreak. “You didn’t have to make that choice for me. I would’ve stayed, Sunghoon. Even if it hurt. Even if you were falling apart—” “That’s why I didn’t tell you!” The words burst out of him, louder than he meant them to. The sound echoes slightly in the quiet of the rink, raw and cracked at the edges. You flinch—not because you’re afraid, but because it’s the first time he’s raised his voice with you in a fight. Sunghoon’s expression falters the moment it leaves his mouth. His chest rises and falls unevenly as the weight of what he’s said settles between you. He blinks fast, and for the first time, you see the glassiness in his eyes—the way his lashes tremble under the strain of holding everything in. “I didn’t want you to feel guilty,” he says again, softer this time, like he’s trying to undo the sharpness from before. “Or worse… like you had to fix it. I couldn’t bear the thought of becoming something you felt responsible for instead of someone you just… loved.” He swallows hard, gaze falling to the floor as if he’s ashamed of the outburst, the truth, or maybe both. Your chest tightens at his words, but not out of anger. Not even sadness. Just this overwhelming ache for the boy in front of you—the boy who thought love was something that had to be earned only when he was okay. You exhale slowly, trying to steady the crack in your voice. “You think I loved you because you were strong all the time? Because you had it all together?” He doesn’t answer, but the tension in his shoulders says enough. “Sunghoon, I didn’t want to fix you. I just wanted to be there with you.
For a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s trying to understand why you’re still here, still fighting to know the truth. And in that silence, you realise that he’s never really stopped carrying the weight of that decision—never really forgiven himself for it. The guilt. The loneliness. The fear. It’s all still there, buried under years of trying to pretend it didn’t matter. And it hits you then—how much of himself he gave up just to make sure you didn’t drown with him. You’re not sure whether to scream at him for being so stupidly self-sacrificing or cry because he thought pushing you away was protecting you. His next words come out in a whisper, like he’s afraid of breaking the fragile truce between you. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear. I just… didn’t know how to love you and love skating at the same time. And when skating stopped feeling like love, I didn’t know how to love myself either.” Something inside you softens, and you feel the fight drain out of your body. You lean back, exhaling shakily, trying to process it all. Maybe you thought the anger would feel good. Like if you just yelled loud enough, it would drown out the ache that’s been festering since he left. But now, standing here with him—raw, exposed, finally admitting the truth—you just feel tired. And maybe, just maybe, a little relieved. Because at least now you know. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he didn’t know how. Without thinking, you reach out over the barricade, your fingers brushing against his. When he doesn’t pull away, you take his hand in yours. His shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself lean into you—no walls, no distance, just the raw truth of it all between you.
He lets out a rough, almost bitter laugh. “Funny, right? I spent so long trying to protect you from my problems that I ended up creating a whole new one.” You squeeze his hand gently, feeling his warmth seep into your skin. “You didn’t have to go through it alone,” you whisper. “You didn’t have to push me away just because you thought you were sparing me.” His eyes dart down to your joined hands, but he doesn’t pull away. “I know that now,” he says quietly. “But back then, I thought keeping you out of it would make things easier. For both of us.” You swallow the knot in your throat, wondering how many more pieces you’d have to unearth before you finally made sense of everything that went wrong between you. “But it didn’t, did it?” you murmur, half a statement, half a question. Sunghoon’s shoulders sag, like the weight he’s been carrying finally buckles under your words. He breathes out slowly, shaking his head, a rueful, almost self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “No. It didn’t.” Sunghoon takes a deep, trembling breath. The kind that rattles from somewhere deep in his chest, like he’s holding back more than just words. Slowly, carefully, his fingers slip from yours. The absence of his touch is immediate—sharp, cold, like the air around you shifted. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, like maybe that’s the only way to keep them from shaking, from betraying just how unsteady he really feels. His gaze drops to the ice at your feet, avoiding your eyes with an almost boyish kind of shame, as though looking at you would only make the truth harder to say. “And I didn’t reach out to you after my injury because…” He pauses, swallows. His voice when it comes out is brittle, like he’s forcing it through a throat full of glass. “Because I didn’t want you to feel like you were a second option. Like I was only coming back to you because skating was no longer viable.” Your breath catches. The words hit in a place you didn’t expect, a sharp, unexpected pang that lodges deep beneath your ribs. You blink, startled, searching his face like maybe you misheard him. “What?” you whisper, barely audible. The word is soft, too soft. It slips from your lips like a secret, afraid to make the moment any heavier than it already is. He lets out a laugh—but it’s dry, hollow, laced with bitterness and self-loathing. “It’s stupid, I know. But I didn’t want you to think that… that I only wanted you because skating didn’t work out. I thought if I showed up after everything fell apart, you’d look at me and think I was just using you to fill the gap.” You shake your head slowly, the motion dazed, your thoughts struggling to keep pace with the revelation. “Sunghoon… I never—” “I know,” he cuts in, quickly, almost harshly. His voice cracks, raw and unfiltered. “I know you didn’t. But I was so fucking lost, Y/N. I didn’t know who I was without skating. And the idea of crawling back to you, looking for comfort when I had nothing left… it felt selfish. Like I was just dragging you into my mess because I couldn’t handle it on my own. You deserved better than that.” There’s a silence that follows—not the empty kind, but the kind that weighs down the air like fog. Heavy. Still. Unavoidable. Your arms fold in tightly against your chest as if bracing for something colder than the rink air. There’s a tightness there, something fragile pressing hard against your ribs, and it takes you a moment to recognise it for what it is. It’s the part of you that never really stopped caring. “You’re an idiot,” you say, voice thick, the words catching on the knot in your throat. You almost choke on it, the mix of pain and tenderness. “A complete idiot.” He finally looks up.
And it’s the way he looks at you that undoes you. Eyes rimmed red, glassy with unshed tears, but wide open—unguarded in a way he’s never let himself be. The vulnerability in them is devastating. It makes your own eyes sting, and you press your lips together hard, willing yourself not to break down in front of him. You can’t afford to. Not after everything. But the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s baring his heart after years of hiding—it hurts. The ice rink is eerily quiet now. The distant hum of the arena lights above buzzes like white noise around you, but everything else is still. Time feels like it’s slowed down, like the two of you exist in a bubble suspended in grief, in truth, in the aftermath of everything that wasn’t said when it mattered. You don’t know what to say—don’t know how to put into words the mess of emotions clawing at your chest. It’s tangled and bruised and beating far too loudly. There’s relief, yes. A bit of anger too. But mostly, there’s just this deep, aching sadness for the boy who thought he had to fight his battles alone. But eventually, you find your voice. Quieter. Softer. “I never needed you to be perfect, Sunghoon.” Your voice wavers despite how hard you try to steady it. “I just needed you to be honest.” He closes his eyes for a moment, like the words hit him physically. The mess inside his chest doesn’t have clean edges. It’s tangled and bruised and beating far too loudly. His brows pull together, and his shoulders—always so tight, so high, like he’s been bracing for impact for years—finally sink. The tension in him melts, slow and subtle, like he’s deflating under the weight of finally letting the truth out. Then he nods. Once. Barely. But it’s enough. Enough to know that he heard you. And that alone makes your heart ache. You know you shouldn’t give in. Not this easily. But you’ve never been one for restraint. It’s always been your fatal flaw—feeling too much, too fast, letting your heart speak before your head can catch up. And maybe that’s why this moment feels so inevitable. Because despite everything—despite the heartbreak, the silence, the years—you still want to close the distance. It’s a mystery how you and Sunghoon even started dating in the first place, how two people so fundamentally different found their way to each other. You, all fire and instinct, and him—quiet, composed, like he was always walking a tightrope with his heart tucked out of reach. You were sunshine, and he was midnight rain. You wanted comfort, but he was chasing medals and glory. Well… he used to. Back then, he didn’t know you’d come into his life. Didn’t expect that your laughter, your stubborn heart, your ability to see straight through him would start to matter more than medals ever did. Didn’t realise that somewhere along the way, it wasn’t skating he was chasing anymore.
It was you. And by the time he figured it out—by the time he realised you were the thing he’d always been reaching for—you were already slipping through his fingers. Not because you didn’t love him. But because he didn’t know how to stop running. Not for the crowd. Not for the gold. But from someone who would’ve stayed if only he’d asked. Maybe that’s why it worked for a while. Maybe that’s why he never stopped yearning. His eyes are still fixed on the ice, refusing to look at you, like if he stares hard enough, he can will himself invisible. His posture is closed in, like he’s trying to shrink himself, like if he folds in far enough, he can disappear into his regret. You take a step forward. Then another. Your shoes click softly against the rubber mats until the last one slips onto the smooth, glinting surface. You cross the threshold onto the ice without thinking, heart first, fearless—like always. The cold greets your ankles instantly, the faint burn of it rushing up your calves. Your feet come into his view, and he startles slightly, blinking as he realises how close you are now. “What are you—?” His brow furrows, alarm flickering in his expression. “Careful, you’re gonna fall again if—” You hug him. There’s no warning. No speech. No careful calculation. You just move, because your heart gets there before anything else can stop it. Your arms wrap around him—firm, grounding—and his breath stutters as if the contact knocks the wind out of him. He stays frozen for a second, like his body doesn’t believe it’s real, like he thinks if he moves, you’ll vanish. "It's okay," you murmur against his shoulder, your voice soft but steady. "I know you'll catch me even if I fall." And somehow, that’s what does it. That quiet faith in him—even now, after everything—cracks something open. He exhales, the breath hitching on its way out, and you feel the tension leave his body piece by piece. Slowly, hesitantly, he melts into you. His chin dips to rest against the curve of your shoulder, and his arms—those shaking, unsure arms—wrap around your back and hold on. Not tight. Not desperate. But like someone who’s been cold for far too long, and finally, finally found warmth. Like your presence alone is something he's relearning how to deserve. You close your eyes, steadying yourself with the quiet rise and fall of his chest against yours. Then you speak—gently, but with purpose. "Don’t take this the wrong way," you say, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket. "This isn’t forgiveness. I’m not there yet. This is just… me showing you that I still care. As a friend." He stiffens slightly, but you don’t let go. You press on. "I’m sorry this happened to you," you whisper. "I know skating meant the world to you." Sunghoon doesn’t answer. Not out loud. But his arms tighten—just a little—and his breath shudders, and the thought echoes in his mind with a force that nearly brings him to his knees: You mean the world to me, still. He doesn't say it. He doesn’t need to. It’s there—in the way he holds you now, in the way he leans into your warmth like it’s the first real thing he’s touched in years. And for a moment, you let him. You both do. Not as the people you once were. But as the broken, rebuilding versions of yourselves—still trying, still reaching, still here. This quiet moment.
You remember this feeling. The stillness. The unspoken. The way the world seems to hush when you’re in his arms—not because everything is perfect, but because somehow, even in the mess, it feels safe. You used to crave more. Words. Reassurance. The kind of affection you could point to and name. But as time passed, you learned to understand him in these smaller, quieter ways. The way he’d wait for you after late classes just to walk you home, even when he never said why. The way he’d leave extra pairs of gloves in your bag before competitions. The way he never quite let go first. It’s the way Sunghoon has always shown love to you. Not through grand gestures or flowery words, but through presence. Through the way he leans in, silent and steady. Through the way he holds you like you're something he’s afraid to break. Through the quiet weight of his hand resting at the small of your back, like a promise he’s never quite been brave enough to say out loud. This right here—this silence filled with meaning—has always been his way of saying I’m here. I care. I love you. And that’s why, when his presence stopped feeling like love—when the silence turned from comfort to distance—you felt discarded. Unwanted. Like love had quietly exited the room and no one bothered to tell you. His inability to say what he felt, to put to words what you meant to him, only made it worse. Because you were still there, waiting for something—anything—to hold onto, while he kept retreating behind walls you couldn’t climb. But now, standing here, with his arms around you once again, you feel it. All of it. Even if he still hasn’t found the words. You realise then—he never stopped caring for you, too. The silence. The omission of truth. The way he held everything in, thinking he was protecting you by keeping you out. You used to mistake it for distance, for disinterest. But maybe that was just the way he loved you. Complicated. Flawed. Quiet in all the places you needed noise. It wasn’t the way you loved—not loud and vulnerable, not open and all-consuming—but it was still love. Just… his version of it. And you—all heart before reason. You loved like it was oxygen, like holding back would be the same as holding your breath. You said too much, felt too deeply, asked for honesty even when he didn’t know how to give it. You needed presence, yes—but you also needed words. Needed something solid to hold onto when his silence left too much room for doubt. And still—that was the way you loved him. Messy. Unfiltered. Brave in all the ways he wasn’t ready for. You offered him your whole heart without a safety net, while all he wanted was to protect you from his fall. And it hits you then, in a way that’s both soft and sharp—this was always the story. The gaps, the miscommunication, the mismatched ways of showing up. It was never about not feeling enough. It was about feeling too much, in entirely different languages. You, speaking in open wounds and raw confessions. Him, answering in silence and distance. Two people standing on opposite ends of a love that was real—just not always right.
And maybe that’s the tragedy of it.
Not that you didn’t love each other. But that you did.
Just in ways the other didn’t know how to hold.
You and Sunghoon spend the next few hours sitting on the cold bleachers, catching up on the last four years—what was said, what wasn’t, and everything that existed in between. It’s not an invitation to get back together. That much is clear—spoken and understood without the need for awkward disclaimers. This is something else entirely. A truce, maybe. An unspoken agreement to lay the past to rest without erasing it. An invitation to let go of the bitterness. To make sure the four years you spent loving each other—messy and imperfect as they were—don’t go down the drain as nothing but regret. And anyway, nobody ever said ex-lovers couldn’t stay friends… You learn that Hugo Sánchez—the skater Sunghoon had that infamous tussle with—was caught up in a drug scandal just a few months later. It never made headlines, swept under the rug with hush money and quiet handshakes behind closed doors. But word still got around. Coach Morales blacklisted him, and by extension, so did every major name in the circuit. “Guess karma’s real after all,” you mutter, brows raised as Sunghoon nods. “He got what he deserved,” he replies quietly, but there’s no real satisfaction in his tone. Just a kind of weariness. The kind that says it still wasn’t worth what it cost me. You offer a small, understanding smile, then shift the conversation—gently. You tell him about your career. How you fell into sports journalism by accident, how you hated it at first. How you stuck with it anyway. About the sleepless nights, the thankless deadlines, the rush of chasing a story and the heartbreak of killing one. You tell him how strange it is, writing about athletes when you once dated one—how sometimes you catch yourself comparing their routines, their postures, their voices to his. You don’t mean to say that last part. But it slips out, unfiltered. Sunghoon glances at you then, a soft crease forming between his brows, and for a moment, you think he might say something. But he doesn’t. He just listens, the same way he always used to—quietly, intently, like your voice alone is enough to anchor him. You’re halfway through telling him the story about your first major reporting slip-up—something about mistaking a gold medalist for a retired curling coach—when Sunghoon breaks into laughter.
Real laughter.
Not the polite kind. Not the breathy exhale he’s used to giving when he’s holding too much in. But the kind that lights up his whole face. His head tips back slightly, shoulders shaking, eyes squinting in disbelief as he nearly doubles over from how hard he’s laughing.
“You what?” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. “Please tell me you didn’t salute him and ask about his war medals too. He probably thought you were calling him a grandpa, not an Olympian!” You’re laughing too, unable to help it. “Listen, the man had a beard and a windbreaker and that very ‘I peaked in Vancouver 2010’ vibe.” “And that screams retired Olympian to you?” he chokes, still catching his breath. “You probably set athlete-media relations back a decade.” “I was nervous, okay?” you defend, wiping at your eyes, the kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt already fading into little aftershocks. You lean back against the bleachers with a sigh, finally calming down—only to notice he’s gone quiet. You turn to find him just… looking at you. Not with amusement anymore, but something softer. His expression has shifted—gentle, open, a little vulnerable in a way that makes your breath catch. He’s watching you like he forgot what it was like to see you laugh like that. Like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your smile and hold onto the sound of it. You raise a brow, playful. “What? Do I have something on my face?” He blinks, startled, like you caught him in a secret. “No,” he says, quickly averting his gaze. Then, quieter, “Just... forgot what that sounded like.” “What did?” you ask, even though you already know. “You. Laughing like that.” He shrugs, keeping his eyes on the rink. You pause, suddenly aware of how close you’re sitting. How his knee brushes yours every so often when he shifts. How the warmth between you lingers even in the chill of the arena. “Well,” you finally say, nudging his shoulder with yours, “don’t get used to it. I’m a very serious journalist now. No more giggling.” He glances at you with a crooked smile, eyes full of mischief. “Sure. I’ll believe that when you don’t snort the next time you laugh.” You gasp, scandalised. “I do not snort.” Sunghoon leans in slightly, teasing. “You literally just did.” You stare at him, lips parted, fully ready to argue—until you realise he’s right. And then you’re laughing again, shaking your head as you gently shove his arm. “Asshole,” you mumble through your grin. And just like that, the weight between you both lightens again—still present, but tucked neatly beside something warmer. Familiar. Almost like the beginning of something new. Or maybe just the gentler end of something old. Either way, it’s something.
That night, when you finally reach home, your cheeks are still warm. You’re still smiling a little too easily at nothing in particular. The chill of the ice rink has long worn off, but Sunghoon’s laugh—low, genuine—lingers in your ears like a recent vocal stimulation. It’s been years since that sound last came from him, at least directed at you, and it sits somewhere in your chest now, unexpectedly soft and stubborn. You kick off your shoes, shrug off your coat, and collapse onto your couch with a sigh that’s half-exhaustion, half-daydream. Your mind is foggy, a little giddy. Like you’ve just had caffeine on an empty stomach or you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life—one where the world’s been tilted just a few degrees off-centre and nothing’s quite the same anymore. Then your eyes fall on your laptop. Still open. Still glowing. And suddenly, reality tugs you back down. You’d forgotten about the article. The one you had barely started drafting. The one with Sunghoon’s name in the headline. The one meant to announce his participation in the Olympics tryout. You sit up straighter, the comfort in your muscles draining fast as a chill crawls up your spine. Because all you can think about now—over and over, like a stuck record—is the way he said it: “The injury relapses whenever I overexert.” He’d said it so casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was just a fact of life now. A quiet asterisk next to his name. He said he wasn’t planning a full comeback. He said he wasn’t sure. But he’s still showing up to tryouts. Still skating. Still pushing. And suddenly, what once felt like a career milestone—this exclusive, this rare chance to write the first profile on Park Sunghoon’s inevitable return to the ice—feels... invasive. Too sharp. Too personal. Your fingers hover over your phone, the urge to text him immediate.
You type something—delete it. Type again.
Hey. Are you really okay to skate?| | Are you sure you’re not pushing too hard?| | Let me know if there’s anyway I can help.| | But none of them feel right. Because you barely just started talking again. Because one evening of laughter on a set of cold bleachers doesn’t erase four years of silence. Because you’re not sure if checking in now would cross a line you don’t have permission to step over anymore. So instead, you lock your phone screen and place it face down on the table. And you sit there in the quiet, trying not to worry. Trying not to think of the pressure on his leg, the sting in his joints, the way he’d smiled when he told you—not proud, not hopeful, just... resigned. But worry, of course, doesn’t ask permission. It settles in the pit of your stomach like lead. Because you know him. And you know he’ll keep skating—even if it breaks him again. And worst of all, he’ll do it without ever asking for help.
[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] Park Sunghoon Announces Participation In 2026 Winter Olympics Tryout
By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily It’s been nearly two years since figure skating prodigy Park Sunghoon last performed on Korean ice.
Once heralded as one of South Korea’s most technically refined athletes, Park disappeared from the public eye following an abrupt withdrawal from the 2023 Grand Prix Final. No formal statement was ever released. No interviews, no explanations—just a silence that, for a time, swallowed even his most devoted fans’ questions.
Until now.
This week, Park’s name quietly reappeared on the athlete roster for the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics tryouts. And in an exclusive conversation with Manifesto Daily, Park has officially confirmed his participation.
Park’s return marks a significant moment in the national figure skating circuit. Known for his precision, control, and signature composure on the ice, his performances have long drawn praise from both domestic and international judges. His participation is expected to bring renewed attention to the men's singles category in the upcoming season.
Tryouts are scheduled to take place early next month, where top-ranked skaters will compete for coveted spots on South Korea’s Olympic delegation. While Park has kept a low public profile in recent years, anticipation surrounding his return remains high. His past record includes a gold medal finish at the Four Continents Championships, a bronze medal at the Beijing 2022 Winter Olympics, and consistent placements in the Grand Prix circuit, making him a strong contender as the nation gears up for Olympic selection.
Fans and officials alike will be watching closely as Park takes the ice again—not only for his technical capabilities, but for what his presence brings to a new generation of skaters: legacy, poise, and a renewed standard of excellence.
Further details regarding the tryout schedule and national team lineup are expected to be released by the Korean Skating Union in the coming weeks.
For now, one thing is clear: Park Sunghoon is officially back in contention.
The day of the Olympic tryouts arrives cloaked in a biting chill, the kind that slips past your collar and lingers in your bones. You arrive earlier than necessary, nerves already humming beneath your skin. Not as a reporter this time. Not officially, anyway. Sunghoon had pulled strings—quietly, discreetly. A whispered favour here, a signature there. He got you in as “internal support staff,” listed under his team’s management, though you’re carrying nothing but your notepad, your name badge, and a heart that won’t sit still. Reporters aren’t allowed inside the venue during these closed sessions. That’s the rule. But Sunghoon has always had a way of bending the edges when he really wants something. And today, he wanted you there. You flash the ID badge at the security checkpoint, and it works. You’re ushered in with the rest of his team—coaches, assistants, the tech specialist checking his skates for calibration. You keep your head down, hands wrapped tightly around the warm paper cup of coffee you didn’t finish. You don’t think you could stomach anything right now anyway. You find yourself blinking a little harder than necessary as you take your seat in the shadows of the side bleachers, tucked away from the officials and judges gathering near the front. Your hands grip the edge of the bench automatically. Your eyes find the centre of the rink without thinking. And there he is. Sunghoon. Hair slicked back, posture impossibly straight, wearing a crisp black jacket with his country’s emblem stitched just above his heart. He hasn’t noticed you yet—he’s locked in, eyes narrowed, lips set in that focused line you know too well. It’s not his competition face yet, but it’s close. You feel a rush of déjà vu so strong it makes your chest ache. Because you’ve been here before. Not here exactly, but in a hundred different rinks just like this one. Sitting in the same quiet corners. Watching him from a distance. Sometimes holding your breath without realising it. Sometimes the only person in the arena clapping when he stuck a landing during rehearsal. Back then, you knew his routines by heart. Knew the way his fingers twitched before a jump. Knew when he was proud and when he was pretending to be. And now, somehow, you're here again. Only this time, there are four years of silence sitting between you and the memory of who you used to be in his orbit. Still, when he glides to the edge of the rink and spots you in the stands, his expression softens just a fraction. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. But he holds your gaze long enough for you to know: He sees you. The same way he did four years ago.
When you used to wait by the edge of the rink with a scarf and a warm drink. When he’d skate over to you before practice just to tap your forehead with his finger and say don’t blink this time. When he was still learning how to balance pressure and affection—and you were still learning how to love someone who rarely said what he felt. The way he’s looking at you now—it’s not loud. Not grand. But it’s enough to pull at the thread of every memory you thought you’d neatly tucked away. Sunghoon exhales slowly, eyes trained on the centre of the rink as the announcer’s voice fades into the cold, echoing silence. The blades of his skates feel heavy beneath him—not because they’re any different, but because he is. His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath the layers of his costume, fast but controlled. A familiar rhythm he used to draw comfort from. Now, it only reminds him of everything riding on this final run. He flexes his fingers once, then again. The nerves are there—no point pretending they aren’t. They’ve settled deep into his bones, coiled tight like springs. But there’s no fear. Not of falling. Not of losing. Because he already did that. He already lost the version of skating that once consumed him. Already stepped away from the spotlight, already let go of the expectations. What remains now is something simpler. Smaller. This isn’t about medals anymore. This is the end of something. Or maybe the beginning of what comes after. He guesses that’s the one thing he was keeping from you. Not because he didn’t trust you, but because saying it out loud would’ve made it real—that the dream he built his life around had slowly started to unravel. That somewhere along the way, skating stopped being love and started feeling like obligation.
You think he’s here to chase after redemption. To reclaim what was lost. To silence the whispers, the speculation, the question marks that trailed behind his name for years. You think he’s here to prove that he still has it—that the boy wonder of South Korea’s figure skating circuit never truly fell from grace. But you’re wrong. Because redemption implies he owes something to someone. And Sunghoon’s done with owing. This tryout isn’t about reclaiming his reputation. He’s not here for the judges. Not for the headlines. Not even for the crowd that once screamed his name. He’s here for something far quieter. Something far more difficult to earn. Closure. Not the kind that comes with medals or press conferences, but the kind you feel in your chest when you finally stop running. When you stop skating to meet expectations, and start skating to meet yourself again. This is not a comeback. It’s about reclaiming why he ever skated in the first place. It’s about the quiet mornings on empty rinks. The way cold air fills his lungs and clears his thoughts. The ache in his legs after hours of training that no one ever saw. It’s about the pieces of himself he left scattered in every routine he never got to finish. He shifts his weight slightly, grounding himself. This routine isn’t built for spectacle. It doesn’t chase applause. It’s clean. Honest. Unforgiving in its simplicity. And if this is the last time he performs under Olympic lights—if this is the closing chapter of a decade-long pursuit—then he wants to be the one who chooses how it ends. Not the injury. Not the press. Not the silence. He takes one last glance toward the bleachers. And there you are. Watching. Just like you used to---back then, when his world was still laced with possibility, and your quiet presence was the only constant that ever kept him sane.
And with this last performance—with this one final act—it’s not about the world. It’s not about redemption.
It’s about himself. About stepping onto the ice one final time not to impress, but to release. To mourn. To honour everything this love once was
And maybe—just maybe—it’s for you too. The girl who believed in him before the world knew his name. The one who stayed long after the spotlight dimmed.
He wishes he could say that. Wishes he could turn and tell you: This is for you.
But Sunghoon has never been fluent in the language of declarations.
So instead, he skates, The music begins—something classical, restrained, just a touch mournful—and Sunghoon moves. No flourish. No dramatic opening gesture. Just a quiet push forward, blades slicing into the ice with the same precision you remember from years ago. But this time, there’s something different. There’s stillness in him. Control so complete it doesn’t scream—it whispers. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t force it. He lets the music carry him, lets the silence in the arena wrap around him like a second skin. One edge. Then the next. Arms extended, posture flawless, his body slicing through space like he belongs to it. His first jump—a quad toe loop. Clean. Effortless. His landing doesn’t so much hit the ice as it touches it. The blade barely sings as it connects. The motion is seamless, and for a second, no one breathes. Not the judges. Not the staff. Not even the other skaters who’ve trained beside him years ago and know just how good Sunghoon really is. They fall quiet—everyone does—because what they’re seeing isn’t just a routine.
It’s artistry.
His movements are elegant, measured. Each spin folds perfectly into the next, centre tight, shoulders relaxed, neck lengthened. His step sequence flows like water—no excess, no hesitation. And then the triple axel—the jump that sidelined him years ago—comes out of nowhere.
He lands it perfectly.
Not a wobble. Not a check. Not even a breath out of place.
Someone in the stands exhales sharply, as if they forgot they were holding their breath. One of the younger skaters watching from behind the boards drops their phone in shock. Even the coaches—stoic, experienced, always hard to impress—exchange glances. Subtle, but wide-eyed. No one expected this. Not from someone who hasn’t competed in years. Not from someone they assumed was skating on borrowed time. But there he is. Moving like the ice never betrayed him. Like the injury never happened. Like he’s not returning from anything, but arriving exactly where he belongs. The closing spin begins—slow, low, deliberate. He lowers into a final sit spin so clean it looks animated, the motion a perfect blur. Then he rises, centres himself, and ends in silence. No dramatic bow. No fist in the air. Just Sunghoon. Standing still, chest rising, eyes closed. Like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years. And for a moment—just one—no one claps. Not because it wasn’t brilliant. But because brilliance demands reverence. The applause comes late. Staggered. And then all at once. But even then, it feels too small for what they just witnessed. Because what Sunghoon gave them wasn’t just a performance. It was a goodbye disguised as grace.
The moment the tryouts conclude, the applause still echoing faintly in your ears, you don’t hesitate. You’re already halfway down the stands before your brain catches up with your legs. You weave through rows of folding seats, shoulder past lingering staff and curious onlookers, scanning the crowd of skaters, coaches, and judges now spilling onto the ice and rinkside floor. Your heart is racing. Not from excitement. From urgency. Like if you don’t find him now, this moment—his moment—might slip away before you get to say anything. And then you spot him. Near the far side of the rink, his posture relaxed now, his jacket back on and unzipped. He’s speaking to someone. You recognise the man instantly: Coach Im, his university coach. Stern but warm. Always had a thermos in hand and a stopwatch around his neck, even when he wasn’t timing anyone. You saw him often—back when you used to sit through Sunghoon’s practice sessions, bundled in jackets, pretending to read while keeping your eyes on the ice. Sunghoon laughs at something the coach says, his shoulders shaking with a lightness you haven’t seen in years. You feel something stir in your chest as you step closer. Coach Im spots you first. His eyes light up in recognition as you approach, his voice lifting cheerfully over the din. “Oh hey—isn’t this Y/N?” he says, clapping a hand on Sunghoon’s shoulder. “So lovely to see that the two of you are still going strong!” The words hit you like an unexpected gust of wind, warm and jarring all at once. Sunghoon startles slightly, glancing quickly in your direction with wide eyes—like even he didn’t see that coming. You blink, then laugh—just a breath, soft and awkward. “Oh, um… it’s not like that. We’re not—” But Sunghoon doesn’t say anything right away. He just looks at you. Not surprised. Not embarrassed. Just… thoughtful. A crease forming between his brows like he’s considering what to say next—if he should say anything at all. Coach Im looks between the two of you, clearly confused, then lets out a warm chuckle. “Either way, it’s good to see you again. I remember you always being there in the bleachers during Sunghoon’s training sessions. It was nice knowing he had someone by his side. Kept him grounded, you know?” You smile politely, heart doing a strange little dance in your chest. And as the coach excuses himself to greet someone else, you and Sunghoon are left in a bubble of silence.
Just like old times. Only now, everything feels different.
And yet—somehow—exactly the same.
You clear your throat, stepping a little closer, nerves fluttering at the base of your spine. "Hey, I just wanted to—"
"I'm sorry, Y/N," Sunghoon cuts in, his tone gentle but clipped. He avoids your gaze, already half-turning away. "I promised to meet some old friends from uni to catch up."
You pause. Blinking. The words take a second to land.
"Oh. Right. Yeah," you say, forcing a small smile as you nod, even though your chest tightens. "I'll... see you around?"
"I'll text you, yeah?" he offers, already moving backwards, already fading into the crowd.
You nod again, slower this time. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. Okay." And just like that, he’s gone. Swallowed up by the familiar buzz of coaches, skaters, and congratulations. You stand there a beat longer than you should, the cold of the rink creeping back into your fingertips. The moment you thought you were chasing slips quietly through your hands—unfinished. And all you can do is exhale. Pretend it doesn’t sting. Pretend it isn’t you who’s waiting for him again—who’s standing here with something halfway between closure and hope tangled in your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. That he skated beautifully. That this day wasn’t about you. But beneath all that composure, you feel it—the ache of almost. Because maybe you expected too much. Or maybe, for a second, you forgot you were just someone he let in again—not someone he kept.
But the truth is, Sunghoon didn’t know how to face you without tearing up. Didn’t know how to walk toward you without pulling you into his arms and asking you to stay, to say something—anything—that might ground him after what just happened on the ice. But the moment Coach Im said your name, smiled like it was still you and him, like time hadn't split everything in half, Sunghoon panicked. Because he’s not sure what this is. Not yet. And he’s not sure you’re open to confronting it, either—whatever it is, this delicate thing hanging between you like a conversation neither of you has found the courage to start. Maybe he read too much into your eyes during warm-up. Maybe the way you looked at him wasn’t about wanting him back. Maybe it was just nostalgia—soft, forgiving, but not something you wanted to carry forward. Maybe you were just proud of him. Maybe you were just letting go. He doesn’t blame you. Because deep down, Sunghoon knows he never really forgave himself for the way things ended—for the silence, the confusion, the months where he let you carry the weight of a love he couldn't name, let alone hold properly. He knows he hurt you in the worst way: by making you feel like you had to ask to be chosen. And though time has passed, and the ache has dulled, another part of him still isn’t sure—still isn't confident—that he’s capable of giving you the kind of love you deserve. But then again—this. This miscommunication. This habit of circling around instead of stepping in. This assumption of what he thinks you want—what you don’t want—it’s what drove the two of you apart in the first place. All the things he never said. All the things you tried to. All the maybes that built a house out of hesitation and called it home. He thought silence would spare you. You thought silence meant indifference. And somewhere along the way—between protecting and pretending, between misreading and mistiming—you both forgot how to meet in the middle.
And now here you are again.
You, still waiting.
Him, still too afraid to walk closer.
Each of you assuming the other doesn’t want more. Each of you convincing yourselves that almost is close enough.
Even when it never was. Even when it never could be.
And as usual, the text he promised never really came. At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt—told yourself he was probably just busy, caught up in post-tryout formalities, in media briefings, in reconnecting with old friends or navigating the aftermath of a performance that stunned everyone in the arena. But deep down, you knew the silence wasn’t unfamiliar. It never had been. After all, the foundation of your relationship in those final months was built on this same cycle Sunghoon giving just enough. Just enough warmth, just enough apology, just enough softness to keep you waiting—to keep you hoping that maybe if you held on a little longer, he’d choose you fully, finally, without hesitation. And you—God, you—with your foolish heart that had only ever known how to love in full measure, never halfway, never with one foot out the door—you waited. You waited like you always did. And maybe that’s why, when the Korean Skating Union releases the official roster of Olympic athletes and his name is printed boldly at the very top—like it never left, like it was always meant to be there—something in you shifts. You feel it, a spark lighting in your chest, sharp and sudden and wild, and before you’ve even thought it through, you’re already reaching for your coat, already grabbing your keys, already walking out the door with your heart hammering too loudly in your chest. You could’ve texted him. Could’ve called. Could’ve sent a simple message like “congratulations,” could’ve played it safe the way people do when they’re pretending not to care as much as they do. But you don’t. Because something in you needs to see him—needs to see his face, his eyes, the way he stands now that the weight is off his shoulders, now that he’s done it, now that he’s reclaimed skating the way he always wanted to. Because if any part of what you shared still matters—if any part of him still looks at you the way he used to—you want to be there to see it. Not through a screen. Not in a message thread that never starts.
But in person.
So you go. Because maybe this time, you're done waiting.
You stand just inside the entrance of the skating arena, the cold air hitting your skin like a memory. The official delegation is supposed to make a public appearance today—an Olympic tradition of sorts. Which means Sunghoon should be here. Somewhere. Your eyes scan the crowd. Clusters of athletes in sleek national jackets, coaches and press weaving through them like old threads. But it doesn’t take long before you spot him. Tucked away in a corner, half-shadowed by the edge of the bleachers. He’s deep in conversation with one of the national Olympic coaches—Coach Baek, if you remember correctly. The older man’s expression is tight, gestures sharp with frustration. You can’t hear what’s being said, but the energy between them is tense. Sunghoon stands there, arms crossed, nodding slowly, his jaw tight but unreadable. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just listens. When the coach finally exhales, the tension softens—barely. A few more words are exchanged, and then a hand lands on Sunghoon’s shoulder, firm and final. A goodbye, or maybe a warning softened into encouragement. Then the coach walks away. And as Sunghoon turns slightly to see him off—shoulders still drawn tight from the conversation—his eyes land on you. You freeze for half a second, caught mid-step, unsure whether to wave, speak, or turn back the way you came. But before the indecision fully settles, he starts toward you, closing the distance with a familiarity that shouldn’t feel as natural as it does.
“Hey,” he says, breath a little visible in the rink’s chill. “I was just about to call you.” You arch a brow, tilting your head. “You were?” His mouth lifts, half a smile, half something else you can’t quite name. “Yeah,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the weight of his own words. You cough, trying to mask the genuine surprise, and maybe joy in your tone. “What was that about? He looked like he was about to throw you back into juniors. Training hasn’t even started and you’re already pissing the coach off?” Sunghoon laughs, and for a second, it lightens his whole face. “Yeah… about that…” You narrow your eyes. “What now?” He takes a small breath, then meets your eyes. “What do you think about writing another exclusive?” You blink. Once. Twice. “What, that you made the Olympic team? That’s hardly exclusive.” His smile fades into something more serious. “No, that’s not it.” You watch him carefully now. “I’m retiring.” Your breath catches. “What? When?” “Effective immediately,” he smiles as he says. “I’ve officially pulled out of the Olympic delegation.”
You just stare at him, stunned. “But—Sunghoon. You worked so hard for this. Recovery took years. You’ve been training nonstop—” “I know,” he says, not unkindly, but firm. “And that’s exactly why.” You’re still trying to catch up, your brain scrambling to make sense of it. “I don’t understand. Then why did you go through the tryouts? Why fight so hard just to walk away?” He exhales, like he’s been carrying the answer for a while. “Because I needed to know it was still there. The feeling.” His eyes meet yours, steady. “I wanted to remember what it felt like to skate—not for medals, not for judges, not for anyone else—but just for me. To feel that I could still love it, even if it no longer loved me back the same way.” Then, softer—almost apologetically—he adds, “I’ll never be able to skate like I used to, Y/N. I’ve already accepted that.” It hits you then—that his silence, the tension with the coach, the performance that felt too clean, too perfect—it was all part of a farewell. You’re quiet for a moment. “So this was… what? A planned goodbye?” He nods once, steady. “Maybe not from the beginning. But somewhere along the way, yeah. I think I knew I needed to end it on my terms. Not when the pain told me to. Not when the judges did. When I decided it was enough.” “But—skating. It meant the world to you—” Your voice comes out softer than you expect, the disbelief tangled with something else. Not anger. Not disappointment. Just the ache of watching someone walk away from something that once lit them up from the inside out. Ironic, since you were once someone that lit him up—maybe still is. Sunghoon doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you, eyes steady, voice calm in a way that tells you he’s already made peace with it. “It did,” he pauses, breath curling in the cold, as if he's choosing his next words carefully. And in that moment, you realise that his performance wasn’t a comeback. It was a love letter.
And a goodbye. “Which is why,” he continues, quieter now, “this is the last thing I can do for myself. To leave it the way I want to. I didn’t want my last memory of skating to be hospitals, setbacks, or walking away because I had no choice. I want to remember it the way I’ve always loved it. For what it gave me. For who I was when I first stepped on the ice.” And you’re hit with a painful ache in your chest as he says it—sharp, sudden, the kind that lodges itself between your ribs and blooms quietly like grief. Because if this is the ending he chose for skating—on his own terms, with love and clarity and closure—then what about you? Where is your ending?
Where is your closure? The question surges up before you can catch it, before you can bury it under composure or timing or pride—and it spills out of you, raw and quiet and too honest. “In that case, what do you remember me by?” Sunghoon freezes. His shoulders tense, breath catching so subtly that only someone who’s known him—really known him—would notice. “Y/N…” he says, and you can hear it in his voice—how he didn’t expect that. How he doesn't know what to do with it. You didn’t even realise you’d said it out loud. The weight of it lingers in the air between you, heavy, uninvited. You straighten your posture, instinct snapping back into place. Professional. Controlled. Detached, even if your pulse is anything but. “I should go,” you say briskly, already taking a step back. “I’ll email your management the article draft. Or… do I not need to?” He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out fast enough. “Anyway,” you continue, your voice clipped but polite, a shield you know too well, “feel free to have your assistant text me. Thanks.” You don’t wait for his reply. You turn. And this time, you’re the one walking away from something that once lit you up from the inside out. Even if it hurts to do it. Even if every step feels like it’s tearing something open again. Because you can’t keep standing in spaces where you’re only half-held, half-answered, half-remembered. That evening, you write the article. You sit at your desk long after the sun has dipped below the skyline, long after the city has quieted into its nighttime hush, and you start typing with steady fingers—trying, desperately, to be as professional as you can be. Because this is big news. A world-class athlete pulling out of the Olympic delegation at the peak of national anticipation. A retirement no one saw coming. It’s the kind of journalism that gets you recognised. That fills portfolios and lands bylines in places that matter. But none of that crosses your mind. Because all you can think about—despite the ache still blooming in your chest, despite the lingering bitterness of unanswered questions and things left unsaid—is how to honour him. You still feel the weight of him on the page. Still feel the obligation to present him in the best light. To tell the truth, yes, but also the quiet parts—the parts no one else saw. The discipline. The years of pain. The choice to walk away, not out of defeat, but dignity. You write him with care. With empathy. With the kind of understanding that only someone who once stood in the inner orbit of his world could ever give. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop your heart from leaking into the words. Because telling his story means telling yours, too. Not the public version. Not the headlines. But the quiet history of two people who once thought love alone would be enough. The version of you that sat in cold arenas, waiting for him to look up. The version of him that carried the weight of a dream too heavy for his body to bear. The version of both of you that was too young, too scared, too stubborn to survive it back then. It’s almost midnight when you finish the piece. And when you read it back, you realise it’s not just about skating.
It never was.
It’s about letting go of something beautiful—not because it wasn’t enough, but because it ran its course. And for the first time, you understand what he meant.
To end it your way.
To remember the love, not the loss.
So you click send.
And in doing so, you decide—quietly—to let it go.
To let him go.
Ms Yoon (PA): Reporter Kang sent over the article draft. PR said it was good, but thought you might want to read it for yourself. [Attachment: 1 File]
Sunghoon is mid-workout when the message comes in. His hands are chalked, his hoodie damp with sweat, breath still recovering from his last set of strength drills. The notification buzzes faintly against the speaker where his phone sits docked, half-muted beneath the beat of the music pulsing through the rink’s private training gym. He almost ignores it—figures it’s a reminder or scheduling update—until he catches the preview of the sender’s name: Ms. Yoon. He wipes his palms on a towel, walks over, and unlocks his phone, chest still rising and falling in slow recovery. The file is there, bold and unopened. His fingers hover over the screen a moment longer than they should, suspended in a strange quiet. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to feel. Pride? Closure? Guilt, maybe. But whatever it is, he taps the file. And begins to read.
FINAL DRAFT [MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Final Bow: Park Sunghoon Withdraws from Olympic Delegation and Announces Retirement By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily . . . . . In related news, Park’s withdrawal comes just days after the delegation announcement, and in his place, 19-year-old rising star Han Jihoon has been selected to represent Korea in the men’s singles category. Han, who placed fourth at the national tryouts, is widely regarded as one of the most technically gifted athletes of his generation, with a growing fanbase and a reputation for innovation on the ice.
As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to say what words could not.
His career was never loud. But it was unforgettable.
Goodbye, Park Sunghoon, And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.
Before he knows it, he’s halfway out the door—keys clenched in one hand, the other rapidly typing a message to his assistant.
Sunghoon: Do you happen to know Y/N’s address? Forward it to me asap. Thanks.
The article is still echoing in his head, playing back in quiet waves he can’t shut out. Lines that hit too close. Lines that cracked open things he thought he’d buried for good. Words that sounded like truths he never gave you the space—or the safety—to say out loud. Because was it just him—or did your article sound like a defeat? Not the kind written in bitterness, but in surrender. An epiphany dressed in grace. Like you had finally laid everything down—your hope, your waiting, your quiet what-ifs—and decided that telling his story was the only closure you were ever going to get. His heart pounds harder now than it did during his entire workout. Not from strain. From urgency. From the sudden, all-consuming fear that he might be too late—too late to explain, to show up, to fix the way silence unraveled everything. Too late to ask for something he didn’t know he was still allowed to want. Something that had always lingered just beyond his reach—not because it wasn’t there, but because he never dared to reach out and take it. That you were still willing to give after all these years, If only he had asked. If only he had trusted that maybe, just maybe, love wasn’t about timing or pride or silence—but about the courage to choose it anyway. And now, with your words still ringing in his head and the ache of what-ifs pressing into his ribs, he runs. Because for the first time in a long time, he isn’t afraid of falling. He’s afraid of missing the chance to fall with you. A notification lights up his screen, and it’s from his assistant—your full address, no questions asked.
Sunghoon doesn’t waste a second. He tosses his phone onto the passenger seat, starts the engine, and drives like his heart’s pacing him—fast, frantic, barely keeping rhythm. The city blurs past in streaks of gold and grey, and his knuckles grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing holding him together. By the time he reaches your apartment, he doesn’t bother fixing his hair, or the way his hoodie clings to him, soaked from sweat and adrenaline. Or the fact that its well-past midnight and he’s here at your apartment building. He takes the stairs two at a time, too restless for the lift, too afraid the silence will make him second-guess what he’s come here to say. You open the door mid-knock, eyes wide, mouth parting in surprise. “Sunghoon?” your voice is a mix of concern and disbelief. “How did you know I lived here?” You stare at him, bewildered, heart stammering against your ribs. He looks at you like you’re not real. Like he’s been chasing something impossible and suddenly, impossibly, it’s standing right in front of him. There’s yearning in his eyes—raw and unguarded—and when he takes a step closer, you notice it. The limp. Subtle, but there. “Did you run here? God—your injury—” But you don’t get to finish. Because he closes the distance and pulls you into him—arms wrapping around you in one fluid, desperate motion, like his body moved before his mind could catch up. There are no words. No explanations. Just the solid, trembling weight of him anchoring himself to you, like he’s been carrying the absence of this moment for too long, and can no longer bear it. You stand frozen, caught off guard by the heat of him, the quiet urgency in his embrace, the way he fits against you like he’s spent the past four years trying to unlearn the shape of this—and failing. “Sunghoon,” you say, your voice fragile, unsteady, trembling at the edge of disbelief. “What are you—?” But he doesn’t let go. “Don’t leave me,” he chokes out, the words low and fractured, muffled into the fabric of your t-shirt. You feel his breath at the side of your neck before you hear his next words. “Please…” You feel it then—how hard he’s shaking. How tightly his fingers clutch at the back of your shirt like a lifeline. The weight of his body pressed against yours isn’t just exhaustion—it’s grief, longing, guilt—all of it simmering under the surface and spilling out in a single, vulnerable plea. Your hands hover awkwardly at your sides, unsure where they’re allowed to go. Unsure if they’re still his to reach for. And somehow, that hesitation—your silence, that flicker of doubt—it splits something open inside him. “I’ll wait,” he blurts suddenly, pulling back just enough so he can look you in the eye. His own are red-rimmed, glassy, but there’s a sharp kind of clarity there too. “I’ll wait for you, Y/N.” “Sunghoon…” you whisper, your voice unsteady, caught somewhere between confusion and something that feels dangerously close to hope. “Where is this coming from?” His chest is rising and falling against yours, uneven. He swallows hard, and you see it—the way his jaw flexes like he’s trying to keep himself steady. His eyes flicker, not away from you, but like he’s searching for the words he’s never learned how to say out loud. His breath catches once, then again, before he finally forces himself to speak. “I read the article,” he says, quiet but clear. And immediately, you understand. Because you know exactly what part he’s referring to—not the skating analysis, not the announcement of his retirement. He means the parts laced with goodbye. The parts where your words stopped being objective and became soft, tired farewells tucked between the lines that only he would recognise. It was a goodbye to skating. But more pressingly—for Sunghoon—it read like a goodbye to him.
“Let go—” you start, trying to get some space, to breathe, to make sense of the tangle you’ve both fallen into. But his grip only tightens. “That article—” You pause, biting down the rush of emotion rising in your throat. “That article wasn’t meant to change anything.” “I know,” he says, his arms still around you. “But it did. It made me realise just how much I’ve tried to pretend I could move on from you.” You freeze. Not because you don’t understand him, but because you do. Too well. And that terrifies you.
“Let go,” you say quietly, voice strained, like you need to put space between you before you drown in everything he’s saying. “Just… let go so we can talk.” He hesitates, then releases you with reluctance, his hands falling to his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them now that they aren’t holding you. You catch the way his shoulders rise, tense and uneasy. How his hands shake slightly at his sides. And when he blinks, that’s when you see it—his eyes glossing over, the shimmer of something threatening to spill. “I never stopped loving you,” he says, his voice cracking at the edges. “Even when I left. Even when I convinced myself it was better that way. I still loved you. I just… didn’t know how to be with you and still be okay with myself.” “Now suddenly you’ve figured it all out?” you ask, and the bitterness in your tone surprises even you. But it’s real. You’re not trying to punish him—you’re just scared. Scared of falling back into something that once left you hollow. “No,” he says immediately, and there’s no defensiveness in his voice—just quiet truth. “Not suddenly. But I’ve had time. And space. And it turns out neither of those things taught me how to forget you, Y/N.” You look at him—really look—and it hits you just how much effort it’s taking him to say these things. How his shoulders are drawn tight, how he can’t keep still, how his fingers twitch like they want to ball into fists but won’t. He’s not used to this—exposing himself, risking the quiet between you. And you hate how much you want to believe him. How even now, your heart betrays you by leaping at his words, melting at the sound of your name in his mouth like it still belongs there. You press your lips together, trying to swallow the ache building in your throat. You want to scream, to cry, to ask why he’s doing this now—why he always waits until it’s too late. Why he only finds the words once your heart’s already been rearranged around his absence. But all that comes out is, “You’re saying everything I wanted to hear back then, Sunghoon. But that’s the thing—it’s back then. I’m not the same girl you remember. I’m not the girl who was always waiting for you to show up.” And yet, even as the words leave your mouth, you know that was a blatant lie. Because the truth is, you were that girl. For far longer than you’d ever admit.
“You asked me then,” he starts, voice barely above a whisper, “What do I remember you by.” You freeze. It’s not the sentence itself that gets you—it’s the way he says it. Careful. Almost reverent. Like the question has been haunting him all this time, long after you threw it into the air thinking it would vanish unanswered. “I remember you as the girl who poured her entire heart into everything she touched—your academics, your friendships… me, even after I left for Spain. You were relentless in the way you showed up for people, even when they didn’t always know how to show up for you.” He doesn’t look at you immediately. His gaze drifts somewhere over your shoulder, like the weight of the memory is too tender to hold eye contact just yet. Your heart clenches. You hate how easily those memories come flooding back—the all-nighters, the deadlines, the way you clung to structure and control because it was the only thing you could manage while everything with him felt like trying to build a home on sand. “I remember our first day. Freshman orientation. You couldn’t even look at me properly when we got paired up. I thought you hated me,” his lips twitch, faintly, like he’s caught between a smile and something sadder. “But then you offered to carry half the pamphlets because I looked tired from training, and I realised—you were just shy. You were this quiet, nervous girl who still somehow managed to be kind when she was uncomfortable.” Now his eyes return to yours, and there’s something in them that makes your chest ache. He’s remembering you, in detail, like he carried those moments with him even when he left you behind. And that shouldn’t make you feel warm. But it does. And you hate that. “I remember the blush on your cheek when you asked me out for the first time,” he says, smiling faintly. “You were so nervous I thought you were going to change your mind halfway through. But you didn’t. You stood there, eyes wide, hands shaking, and still said it anyway.” You hate how clearly you remember that moment too. The way your heart had raced. The way he smiled at you like you’d surprised him in the best possible way. “I remember you sitting in the bleachers,” he continues. “Head down, focused on your notes, your laptop. But you were watching me, too. Even when you didn’t say anything, you were always there. And God, that meant more than I ever told you.” Your grip tightens over your sleeves, arms crossed to stop your hands from shaking. “I remember how your eyes would light up when you opened those Popmart boxes, like it was magic every single time. You’d show me the little figurine like it was gold. And you’d smile at me like you wanted me to be excited with you. I didn’t always get it. But I remember thinking, I hope she knows how loved she deserves to feel for the rest of her life.” Your eyes sting. He shifts, like the next words are heavier, harder to pull from his chest. “I remember your words,” he says now, gaze locked on yours. ”The ones you gave so freely when I was too buried in pressure to ask for them. I remember your voice when you encouraged me, when you believed in me, when I didn’t believe in myself.” “I remember the warmth of your hugs. I remember the shape of your lips when you kissed me. And everything in between.” His eyes lower for a beat. His tone changes—not dimmer, but honest in a way that hurts.
“And I remember the fights too. The arguments. The silences. The doors that closed too hard, and the words that came out sharper than we meant them to. I remember how frustrated you got. I remember how I pulled away. And I remember that, too—because even those moments mattered. Even those were you loving me in the only way you knew how: by fighting for us.” He looks back at you now, fully, like he’s trying to hand you all of it—every memory, every piece. Your chest tightens, breath caught between inhale and collapse. “You loved me enough to care. Even when it got messy. Even when I made it hard. You cared when I didn’t know how to. You stayed when I didn’t make it easy to be around me.” The tears come then. They track down his cheeks slowly at first, then faster, like something’s come loose inside him that he can’t hold back anymore. He doesn’t wipe them away. He just stands there, crying in front of you like he’s spent years trying not to.
“And I think about that version of us all the time,” he says. “Not just the good. Not just the beautiful. But all of it. The whole you. The real you.” “That’s how I remember you, Y/N. I remember you as the girl who loved me when I didn’t know how to love myself. And even now, I’m still trying to figure out how to be someone who was worthy of all that love."
Your breath catches, but you don’t let it out. Not yet.
Because something in you knows that if you exhale, if you react, you might fall apart entirely.
His words are still hanging in the air, soft but sharp, like silk laced with barbed wire. They’re gentle—but they hurt. Because they’re real. Because they’re him. The him you waited for. The version you wanted to hear from long before all the damage was done. And now he’s here, finally saying all the things you once begged for in silence. And you don’t know what to do with it. You feel a tear slip down your cheek before you even realise it’s there. Your heart is making too much noise in your chest. Every beat sounds like a memory—of those bleacher nights, of ramen cups shared between lectures, of the small, quiet joy of feeling seen, even when he never said it out loud. You remember all those things too.
And that’s the problem.
Because part of you wants to believe it. Wants to step forward. Wants to reach for him and say, I remember you, too. Not the public figure. Not the Ice Prince. But the boy who once laid his head in your lap after a long day and asked you to stay, even if he couldn’t say the words. But another part of you—older now, wearier—pulls back. Because love wasn’t enough the first time. Because his silence hurt. Because you were the one who waited. Who stayed. Who forgave and forgave and slowly lost parts of yourself trying to hold everything together while he figured out who he was without ever asking who you were becoming. And now, here he is. Saying the right things. Crying real tears. Standing still when he used to run. But what does that mean now, when you’ve taught yourself to survive without him? You feel your throat tighten, your arms crossed like a shield, like maybe if you just hold yourself hard enough, the years between you will stop trembling through your spine. You want to speak—but nothing comes out. Because how do you respond to something so tender when all you’ve learned since him is to protect yourself from softness? You blink up at him, your eyes burning, and part of you whispers, He means it this time. And another voice, quieter but steady, asks, But is that enough? So you say nothing for a moment. Just stand there. Your whole body a battlefield between memory and survival. And then, softly, you speak.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” you admit, eyes flicking away from him. “I don’t know how to trust what you’re offering. You hurt me, Sunghoon. You left. And I carried that.” You see the hope falter just a little in his eyes. But he nods. “I’m not asking you to do anything,” he says. “I just… I couldn’t let your words be the last thing between us. I needed you to know that I remember you. That I never stopped loving you.” You don’t respond right away. You don’t know how to. Your heart is loud in your ears, screaming all the things you’re too scared to say. Because this feels like standing on a cliff again, and this time, you’re not sure if there’s anything on the other side to catch you. “I’ll wait,” he says suddenly, voice rough, but steady with something fierce. “If you need time, I’ll give it. If you need space, I’ll step back. But just—please” Your throat tightens. “And what if I don’t have anything left to give you?” “Then I’ll understand,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll carry that. But I had to say it. I had to try. And I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m standing here, telling you I love you, and I will wait—for however long it takes—because I don’t want to live the rest of my life wondering if you ever would’ve said yes.” And just like that, you feel the air leave your lungs in one long, shaking exhale. Not from panic. Not from pain. But from a bittersweet relief. The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable—stripped bare of pride, of performance, of everything he used to hide behind. This isn’t the Sunghoon who pulled away, who stayed silent when it mattered. This is the boy who finally understands what it means to show up.
After four years of silence, a leg injury that will never truly heal, and a heart broken into a million pieces—yours, his, both—shattered by time, by distance, by everything neither of you had the words to fix back then. And Sunghoon—your Sunghoon, the one who knows you better than you’d like to admit—watches you carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll misinterpret everything he’s just said—afraid you’ll think this is another case of bad timing or misplaced nostalgia. Then, after a long, tentative pause, his voice softens—but there’s no doubt in it. “And I know we already talked about this the other day,” he says, his voice careful. “But just so we’re clear… I need you to hear it again.” You look up, heart thudding as he meets your gaze head-on. “This… us… me being here,” he says slowly, deliberately, “it’s not because skating didn’t work out. It’s not some knee-jerk reaction because the ice stopped being kind to me.” His throat bobs as he swallows, blinking back the weight behind his words. “I fell out of love with skating a long time ago,” he continues, “but I never fell out of love with you, Y/N.” The silence that follows is immediate. Heavy. Because no matter how hard you’ve tried to bury the thought—or pretend it never crossed your mind—it still lingers in the quiet, persistent and sharp: If he hadn’t lost skating… would he have come back at all? But now, with that truth laid bare between you, your breath catches.—and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like someone he remembered too late. You don’t feel like the consolation prize. Or the safe fallback.
You feel chosen.
He’s here. He finally ran to you—not out of impulse, not out of guilt, and most certainly not because he had nowhere else to go. But because he wants to stay. In the mess he created. In the aftermath. In whatever comes next.
He made sure to communicate that clearly to you. And for the first time—he’s the one offering to wait. He’s not asking for guarantees. He’s not walking ahead, expecting you to catch up. He’s right here. Meeting you halfway. The same halfway that, truthfully, you’ve never walked away from. Not really. Not fully. Because even in the silence, even in the years you spent convincing yourself you’d moved on, there was always a part of you standing in place—waiting—in every version of yourself you tried to become without him, wondering if he’d ever meet you there. Now he has. And the truth is, you still want him just as much as he wants you. You don’t know the exact moment the clarity came. Maybe it was the way his voice cracked when he said your name, like it physically hurt to speak it aloud. Maybe it was the way he remembered every tiny, unremarkable piece of you—the girl who sat in the bleachers, who lit up at Popmart figurines, who loved so loudly it scared him. Maybe it was the way he cried—openly, without shame—or how he waited for your silence like he was willing to carry whatever your answer might be. But when it hit, it was quiet. Gentle. Unmistakable. You still love him. You never stopped. You tried. God, you really tried. You built a life without him, crafted a version of yourself that didn’t flinch at his name, convinced yourself you were fine—that you could breathe without the weight of his absence crushing your ribs. But even on your best days, there was always that ache. That dull, ever-present ache that no one else ever quite touched. “I’m sorry for making this complicated for you,” Sunghoon says suddenly, voice so soft it nearly gets swallowed by the quiet. “I’ll give you time to think.” He starts to turn away, the line of his shoulders already retreating, his eyes cast to the ground like he’s ready to disappear again. You should say something. But you don’t. You just move—more instinct than anything. One step, then two, and wrap your arms around him from behind like you’re anchoring yourself to the only thing that’s ever felt simultaneously this terrifying and this right. Sunghoon freezes. Completely still. You feel it first in the way his shoulders tense, tension rippling through his body like your touch startles something buried too deep to name—then the slow, excruciating way he exhales, as if he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
You press your forehead lightly into his back. He’s warm. Solid. Real.
Sunghoon shifts, beginning to turn toward you but your grip tightens ever so slightly. “No. Don’t turn around yet,” you say, your voice trembling. “Not yet. Just… listen.” His breath catches again, but he nods, hands limp at his sides, letting you press your heart against the shape of his back like it might finally say all the things your mouth never could. You close your eyes and let the words come—raw and unpolished, everything you’ve buried for far too long. “I hated how you shut down when things got hard between us. I hated how I always had to be the one to reach out, to fix things, to guess what you were feeling when all I wanted was for you to just say it.” His shoulders flinch slightly. You can feel the guilt settle into the line of his spine. His heartbeat picks up, echoing between you like thunder. Still, he doesn’t move. “I hated how you always made decisions on your own—like I wasn’t part of the picture. Like love was something you had to protect me from instead of something we could’ve fought for together.” Your voice cracks on the last word, but you push through. “I hated how you walked away without telling me the truth. How you let me believe I wasn’t worth holding onto.” Your grip loosens as your voice softens. And as you do, Sunghoon’s fingers twitch near yours like he wants to reach for your hand but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
“And worst of all I hate that even after all of that—after the silence, the heartbreak, the wondering—I still can’t forget you.” His fingers curl slightly, not quite fists, but as if holding himself in place. As if your words are the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “I love the way you lace your skates, the way you scrunch your nose when you laugh, the way you never let go of your childhood dreams even when they broke you. I love how you tried to protect me—even if it hurt. I love how you remember everything about me, even the things I thought didn’t matter. Even the things I was sure you forgot.”
You speak.
“I love how you cuddled me in my sleep—I hate how you let the quiet speak for you. I love how you loved me, even when you didn’t know how to show it. Even when I hate the fact you didn’t know how to show it.”
He listens.
And with every word you spill, every confession you finally give voice to, something in him unknots. His spine softens against you, leaning back into your embrace—just enough for you to feel the weight of him, the way he surrenders to the moment. His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath the fabric of his hoodie, loud and alive where your cheek presses lightly into the space between his shoulder blades. “And I hate how I still love all those parts. The beautiful ones, the difficult ones, the ones that tore me apart.” Sunghoon doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t even move until he’s sure you’re done. “I never stopped loving you, Sunghoon. That’s the problem.” When you whisper those words, you swear he stops breathing altogether. You feel it rush out of him, like the weight of that truth floors him where he stands. “I don’t need time,” you add, barely audible. “I just needed to be sure this was real. That you were.” You take a shuddering breath, close your eyes, and press your cheek more firmly against him—hoping, in some impossible way, that you can feel him even closer than he already is. “I’m scared,” you admit. “I don’t know how to do this again. I don’t know how to trust what we were, or what we could be. But I know I still care. I know I still want you.” “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.” God, you want to laugh. Or slap yourself in the face because of how terrifyingly easy it was to believe him again. How a few trembling words and tear-soaked confessions cracked through years of hurt like they were never there to begin with. How your heart, traitorous and stubborn, still knows the shape of him like a story it never stopped rereading. And your stupid, foolish heart—bruised from all the almosts and maybes—is choosing to continue writing that story.
You don’t say anything more.
And that’s when he moves.
Slowly, cautiously, Sunghoon turns in your arms, and the look in his eyes nearly shatters you. Hope. Guilt. Wonder. All of it, all at once. His eyes are glossy, lips parted in disbelief. His hands rise, trembling as he cups your face—so gently, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he blinks. You feel the pulse in his fingertips where his thumb brushes your jaw—still racing, still loud. Like your presence alone is enough to send it surging. Like he’s never been more alive than in this quiet, fragile moment with you. He gently rests his forehead against yours, the space between you shrinking until it barely exists. His hands are trembling, but his touch is impossibly tender—thumb brushing against your cheek, catching a tear, and then another. You hadn’t even realised you were full-blown crying until his fingers found the evidence. And then—just when you think your heart can’t take any more—his next words knock the air from your lungs like a punch and a prayer all at once. “Can I kiss you?” he whispers, voice hoarse and breaking with every syllable. “Please… tell me I still can.” The plea hangs between you, fragile and breathless. His chest is rising and falling in shallow, uneven rhythm, his pulse frantic beneath your fingertips as you reach up—slowly, instinctively—and wrap your fingers around his wrist. You can feel it there: the raw, aching thrum of his heartbeat, louder than words. Like your touch alone is enough to undo him. He’s never looked more vulnerable. Never more real. There’s no mask, no distance, no practiced calm—just him. Just Sunghoon, standing in front of you with nothing left to offer but his whole heart, held out in both hands. You let out a shaky breath, the corners of your lips lifting despite the tears still wet on your skin. And then—soft, quiet, but certain—you say, “Yes.”
As soon as the word leaves your lips—soft, breathless, and trembling with everything you’ve held back for years—Sunghoon moves. There’s no hesitation. No time wasted. The moment he hears your yes, he closes the distance like a man starved for something he thought he’d never taste again. His hands frame your face with a yearning so delicate it makes your heart ache. And then—he’s kissing you. It isn’t hurried or rough. It’s deep and devastating, like an apology and a promise all wrapped into one. Like he’s trying to pour four years of silence, of longing, of every missed chance into a single touch. He kisses you like it’s the first time and the last time all at once. And you—god, you melt into it. Into him. Into the feeling of home rediscovered, of time folding in on itself. Your fingers find their way into the hem of his hoodie, clinging onto him like you’re afraid he might vanish if you let go. But he doesn’t.
He stays.
And so do you. When you finally find it in you to pull away, you do so slowly—reluctantly—as if your body hasn’t quite caught up with your mind yet. As if some part of you still isn’t ready to let go. Your foreheads stay pressed together, breath mingling in the narrow space between you, warm and uneven. You’re both breathless. Messy. His hair is damp at the edges, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes sting with the remnants of unshed tears. His thumb lingers at your jaw, gently tracing the skin as if to memorise the feel of you all over again. You feel the tremble in his breath when he exhales, feel the soft thud of his heart still racing beneath your fingertips. He doesn’t speak right away. Neither do you. Because in that moment, there’s nothing to say that could possibly match the weight of what just passed between you. You’d been broken once. Both of you. But right now—in this quiet, tangled stillness—it feels like the pieces are finally trying to come back together. You lean in again, lips parted, drawn to him like gravity—like your heart still hasn’t had enough. But just as your breath brushes against his skin, he gently places a hand on your shoulder and eases you back. The moment stalls. You blink, startled. A flicker of panic rises in your chest—was this a mistake? Did he change his mind? But then he smiles. Soft. Steady. The kind of smile that anchors you. He pulls you into his arms, wrapping you tight against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he holds you any less carefully. “Believe me,” he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with restraint, “I want you so bad.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb tracing your cheek, his gaze unbearably tender. “But not like this. Not when your heart’s still racing and your thoughts are a blur. I don’t want this to be another moment we look back on and wonder if it was real.” His forehead rests gently against yours again, breath fanning over your lips. You’re stunned by his honesty—by the weight of his restraint, the care in his voice. And you can’t help but compare him to the Sunghoon from four years ago. The boy who never quite knew how to sit still in the presence of raw emotion, who’d grown so used to skating past vulnerability that he forgot how to let someone in.
Back then, he would’ve kissed you anyway. Not out of selfishness, but out of fear—fear of the silence that might follow, fear of what waiting might reveal. He didn’t know how to confront intimacy without flinching. But this—this Sunghoon in front of you now—isn’t running from the stillness. He’s standing in it. Letting the quiet settle between you like a promise. He’s not rushing. He’s not deflecting. He’s choosing you with intention. “I want to do this right. Slow, if that’s what it takes. With all of you—not just the part that’s still reeling from the fall. ” You nod. “You can stay the night if you like… on the couch, of course.” He grins, eyes flickering with something fond, something teasing—but there's warmth behind it, restraint. “Starting from ground zero, I see.” He lets out a breath, gentle and steady. “I’m grateful. Really. But I won’t overstay tonight. I think…” he pauses, gaze dropping to the floor for a brief second before finding you again, more grounded now, “I think we both have some thinking to do too. And frankly speaking, if you look at me like that any longer, I might actually lose my shit.” You laugh, soft and disbelieving, the sound muffled by the sleeve you raise to your mouth. And as much as your heart aches to keep him close, to fall back into the comfort of familiarity, you both know tonight can’t be about slipping into old rhythms too soon. Not when everything between you is still new and fragile in its honesty. He reaches out and brushes a hand over your arm. “Let me put you to sleep,” he says, voice lower now, softer. “And then I’ll go.” And you don’t fight him on it. Because for the first time, he isn’t leaving to run. He’s leaving to give you room to choose. The moment your head hits the pillow, and you feel his lips press a gentle kiss to your forehead, your body sinks into the mattress like it's exhaling. You're not sure if it's the exhaustion from everything that’s unravelled between you earlier, or the undeniable familiarity of having him close again—his scent, his warmth, the quiet hum of his breath near yours—but sleep finds you almost instantly. It's as if your body remembers him. Trusts him.
Sunghoon lingers. He sits by the edge of your bed, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the soft creases of worry smoothing out from your brow now that you're resting. A small, breathy chuckle escapes him as he leans down, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. “So peaceful,” he whispers, almost to himself, “and still somehow managing to look like you carry the weight of the world.” He stays a second longer than he should. Maybe two. And then, quietly, he stands to leave—only to catch the soft glow of your laptop screen still open on your desk. He walks over, intending to shut it, give you the rest you deserve. But as his eyes flicker toward the screen, he recognises the subject line immediately. It's the email to your editor. The article draft. The cursor blinks steadily at the end of the draft—the same paragraph that started it all. Goodbye, Park Sunghoon, And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.| The words land like a quiet echo in his chest. He glances back at your sleeping form on the bed, a faint, solemn smile tugging at his lips. Then he turns, quietly taking a seat at your desk. His fingers hover above the keyboard for a moment. And then—backspace. Letter by letter, he deletes the final paragraph. In its place, he types slowly. Carefully. Like each word is a stitch trying to mend what’s been frayed for too long. When he’s done, he hovers for a moment, rereading every word—then clicks “Send.” The email spins off toward your editor. He stands, casts one last look in your direction, and quietly lets himself out.
The next morning, you wake groggy but oddly clear-headed, like your body is still catching up to the storm of feelings it weathered the night before. The room is quiet. Sunlight spills in softly through the blinds, casting golden slats across your blanket. For a moment, you wonder if any of it was real—if he really came, really stood in your doorway, cried in your arms, asked to kiss you like it meant everything. But the slight indent on the couch cushion. The mug he used. The scent that still lingers faintly in the air—all of it confirms: he was here. It was real. Your heart thumps at the memory, but it’s interrupted by a harsh vibration rattling on your nightstand. You blink at your phone, screen flooded with notifications—dozens of missed calls, texts, and pings from your editorial team.
Chase headlines, not men. Catch exclusives, not feelings. ✍️
Yunah: @/you I know you're off today, but I just wanted to say CONGRATS on your story!! See, I knew you could pull this off. [Attached: 1 Link]
Moka: The internet is LOSING it over the article!!!
Minju: Still can’t believe you landed exclusive on top of exclusive with Park Sunghoon. Legend behaviour.
Yunah: I’m equally shocked he’s been hiding that injury all this time 😭
Minju: I don’t want to stress you out but… our public inbox is full of people sending selfies of themselves crying. Literal tears.
Moka: I mean did you READ that last paragraph??? I sobbed too.
You blink at your phone, stunned. Messages keep pouring in—some from colleagues you barely know, others from strangers outside your publication, all echoing the same thing: the article hit them hard. Which is… strange. Because you don’t remember sending the draft. Brows furrowed, you scroll up through your texts until you find the link Yunah sent. You tap it. The article is live. You hold your breath as you read through the byline—your name, front and centre. The formatting. The intro you agonised over. The quotes, the story, the soul of it. And then you scroll to the end. A smile tugs at your lips, and you pull up your chat with Sunghoon.
You: [Attached: 1 Screenshot] Was this your doing?
His reply is almost instant.
Sunghoon: Good morning :) Maybe? PR said they wanted to switch it up.
You: And by PR you mean... you?
Sunghoon: 😂 I meant every word. It’s what I wanted to say to you and to the world. Why… was it too corny? I’m sorry if I overstepped.
You bite your lip, heart stupidly fluttering as you reread his words.
You: No no. Just kinda mad I didn’t think of that myself 🙄
Sunghoon: Well, you can’t beat years of media training 🤷♂️
You: Sunghoon, I WORK for the media…
He replies almost immediately, like he’s been waiting for your comeback.
Sunghoon: Let me make it up to you for one-upping you. Dinner tonight? My treat.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a beat before you reply.
You: I would not accept otherwise.
You set the phone down, unable to contain the quiet laugh that escapes you. Because despite everything—the heartbreak, the years apart, the mess of it all—you’ve never felt more like you were exactly where you were meant to be.
The two of you walk slowly along the riverbank, hands gently entwined, his thumb occasionally sweeping across your knuckles like he's still making sure you're real. The evening is still, like even the world has paused to listen. A breeze brushes past, gentle and cool, carrying the scent of spring and something sweet that lingers—something that smells like beginnings.
You glance down at your interlocked fingers, how naturally they fall into place—like no time has passed at all. The rhythm of your footsteps syncs without effort, the silence between you not heavy, but full. Comfortable. Honest. Familiar in all the ways that matter.
“This feels like our first date,” you say, smiling without meaning to, the corners of your lips tugged by something warm and indescribable.
He laughs under his breath, a soft, breathy sound that makes your heart swell. “Maybe it is,” he replies. “The first one where I finally know what I’m doing.”
You don’t reply. Not because you have nothing to say, but because every part of this moment already says it for you.
The sky above is endless, dark velvet speckled with stars. The world moves quietly around you—boats drifting in the distance, couples passing by, the faint sound of laughter from a nearby cafe. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like you’re watching it all from behind a glass wall. You’re here. Present. With him.
And he’s here too—really here, not as a shadow of a memory, not as someone you're chasing or mourning. But as a man who's finally choosing to stay beside you.
And you think—if the world ended right now, if the river froze and time stopped still—you would not ask for more than this. Not more than his hand in yours, his voice low beside you, his presence finally steady after years of disappearing acts and empty spaces.
You look at him—not the athlete, not the headline, not the boy who once walked away—but the man who returned with no armour, no excuses, only truths. Who stood in front of you trembling, terrified, and still chose to stay. And when you speak, your voice is quiet but certain.
“You could’ve come back with promises, with charm, with all the right words at the wrong time. But you didn’t.”
There’s a small beat of silence where he stops walking and you do too, feet planted at the edge of the path where the river glistens. He faces you fully now, his hand still holding yours.
“You came back to me with everything I ever needed,” you continue.
He opens his mouth, but no words come—just the subtle tremble of his chin, the storm of emotions flickering behind his eyes. You take a step closer, pressing your forehead against his, feeling his breath shudder out as though even now, this is too much to believe.
“This,” he says, almost to himself, “is what I should’ve fought for back then.”
"All that matters is you are now," you whisper. "You left, and then you learned. You grew. And then you came back.”
And that’s the difference. That’s everything.
This isn’t about returning to the past. This is about two people, standing in the aftermath of everything they weren’t ready for then, finally finding each other in a version of the world where they are. Choosing to begin again—not from scratch, but from everything they’ve carried and learned and lived through.
His hand stays in yours, steady and warm, like a vow made without words.
You kiss him.
And this time, the kiss isn’t a promise or an apology. It’s not an act of desperation or regret. It’s a homecoming.
It tastes like relief. Like forgiveness. Like all the years that tried to pull you apart finally surrendering to the truth that you were always meant to find your way back.
When you pull away, he doesn’t say anything right away. He just holds you closer, like letting go would unravel the universe itself.
You rest your head on his shoulder, and in that embrace—quiet and undramatic, warm and steady—you finally understand what it means to be loved not just in the way you wanted, but in the way you deserved.
Because he loves you now in the way that matters most.
Not as the boy who left. Not as the echo of a love lost to time. But as the man who finally came back to put every broken piece back together with his own hands.
This isn’t the love you spent years waiting for.
It’s the love he had to fight to grow into. The kind born from mistakes, shaped by time, and strengthened through absence. It’s messy. Flawed. Earned. Real.
It's the kind of love that's loud in his words as much as it is in his presence.
It’s the kind of love that sees all of you. Not just the polished, loveable parts, but the fractured ones too—and stays anyway.
And for Sunghoon, this is the love he has worked to deserve. The kind of love that took almost losing everything to understand.
Skating. Himself. You.
Skating was his first love—the kind that demanded everything and gave just as much, until it didn’t. And like most first loves, it burned bright, glorious, then quietly slipped beyond reach.
And when he said he fell out of love with it a long time ago, something inside you aches.
Because you remember. God, you remember how much he loved it. How much it meant to him. You were there for the early mornings, the ice-burned skin, the sacrifices. You watched him speak with his body when words failed, carve art into frozen ground like it was the only way he knew how to breathe. Skating wasn’t just something he did. It’s his compass. His language. His sanctuary.
You mourn the love he lost—because it was beautiful. Because it made him who he was. Because you can only imagine what he must’ve gone through to lose that love. To say it out loud. To bury it. And because it hurts to know that even something so beloved can slip away.
And yet… here he is. Standing in front of you, offering up the ashes of what once fuelled him, just to prove that loving you never burned out. That you outlasted the thing that defined him for most of his life. That somehow, someway, you came out on the other side—not as a consolation, but as a constant.
Even now, you don’t know what to do with that kind of love. A love that gave up the world just to come home to you.
Because you know what it cost him. What it cost you.
And even though some part of you swells at the thought that he never stopped choosing you, there’s another part that grieves for everything he lost along the way.
But one thing is certain:
While skating may have been his first love, Sunghoon intends for you to be his last.
So you’ll love him with both hands open. With reverence for the boy he used to be, with gratitude for the man he’s become, and with tenderness for all the versions of him in between.
You will carry the echoes of the boy who once chased gold on the ice and hold space for the man who let it go.
And that’s the way you’ll love him—
The way he loves you.
[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Final Bow: Park Sunghoon Withdraws from Olympic Delegation and Announces Retirement
By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily
In a move that has taken the sports world by quiet surprise, South Korean figure skater Park Sunghoon has officially withdrawn from the 2026 Olympic delegation and announced his retirement from competitive skating.
Park, who recently stunned audiences with a breathtaking performance at the national Olympic tryouts, was widely anticipated to lead the men’s singles category for Team Korea. His name sat at the top of the final athlete roster released by the Korean Skating Union, cementing his spot after years spent away from the competitive spotlight.
However, behind the seamless technique and poise he displayed during the tryouts, Park had been skating through pain. After sustaining a severe tendon injury to his right leg during training abroad in 2023, he underwent a long and difficult recovery—one that, according to the athlete, never fully restored his capacity to train at the level he once held. Despite managing the condition in silence, Park made the decision to step away before risking further damage to his body.
Having spent the last few years recovering and training quietly overseas, Park re-entered the national circuit not to chase medals, but to rediscover what skating meant to him beyond the pressure of podiums and public expectation. His performance at the tryouts was not only a technical feat but also a statement. A reclamation. A reminder that skating, at its core, was always more than a career. It was a language of feeling.
In his official statement, Park expressed gratitude for the opportunity to return to the ice one last time: “I want to remember it the way I’ve always loved it. For what it gave me. For who I was when I first stepped on the ice.”
Park’s career has never been defined by loud declarations. He was known for his quiet discipline, his ability to translate stillness into power, grace into precision. From his early victories on the junior circuit to his more introspective, mature performances in recent years, he has remained one of the few athletes whose artistry often spoke louder than any press release.
Though his departure from the delegation was unexpected, it wasn’t without intent. Park’s decision to step back at the height of anticipation is a reminder that not all victories are won under stadium lights. Some are claimed in the quiet resolve to walk away on your own terms.
In related news, Park’s withdrawal comes just days after the delegation announcement, and in his place, 19-year-old rising star Han Jihoon has been selected to represent Korea in the men’s singles category. Han, who placed fourth at the national tryouts, is widely regarded as one of the most technically gifted athletes of his generation, with a growing fanbase and a reputation for innovation on the ice.
As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to speak in the spaces where words fell short.
And maybe that was the point all along. Maybe it was never about the podium. Maybe the real victory was simply finding your way back to loving something you once thought you had to leave behind.
Copyright© 2025 thatfeelinwhenyou All Rights Reserved
its 1am and the tears are seeping into my pillow
◟♯ . / fwb!riki 𝝌 f!reader !
─── Y/N and Ni-ki have been trapped in a casual arrangement since she said yes to his half-joking offer months ago. She fell for him the first time they met on their college rooftop, but he keeps her at arm's length — close enough for convenience, far enough to never call it anything real. Now she's caught between wanting more and pretending she doesn't, while he runs hot and cold in ways that feel less like indifference and more like fear.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : college AU, angst, friends with benefits, toxic situationship, smut (mdni), porn with plot 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : fuckboy!riki, swearing, smoking, mention of weed, alcohol, kissing (a lot during sex), unprotected sex, creampie, p in v, fingering, mention of gun shooting, mention of drugs, ni-ki has a bad relationship with his parents, “when it’s good it’s really good, when it’s bad it’s really bad” type of relationship 𝐰𝐜 : 13.1k
𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ── (no specific order, i recommend listening to it while reading)
♪ DIE FOR ME - Chase Atlantic ♪ Issues - Julia Michaels ♪ THINGS AND SUCH - PARTYNEXTDOOR ♪ Boyfriend- Ariana Grande ft. Social House ♪ So High - Doja Cat ♪ Right My Wrongs - Bryson Tiller ♪ Come & See Me - PARTYNEXTDOOR ft. Drake ♪ N 2 Deep - Drake ft. Future ♪ I NEED U - BTS ♪ Casual - Doja Cat ♪ Resentment - PARTYNEXTDOOR ♪ Been Like This - Doja Cat ♪ TBH - PARTYNEXTDOOR ♪ Cinderella - Mac Miller ft. Ty Dolla $ign
note : I was inspired by one of my experiences with an ex of mine lol (i was the biggest bird of the flock, and yes i was exactly acting like Y/N) y’all are going to hate me, I can feel it. Enjoyyyy :)
You push through the door, laptop bag sliding off your shoulder, already mentally clocking out of the first lecture before it's even started.
You’re so focused on going to your lecture that you nearly collide with someone.
Ni-ki is always recognizable through his scent most of the time, always that faint coffee smell to hide whatever he smoked on the drive over. His hand shoots out to hold something up between your faces. A small black clip. You spent 10 minutes looking for it yesterday with the little crack in the plastic from when you dropped it in your shower not so long ago.
"You left this," he says flatly.
Two days ago. You remember exactly where you left it ; on his nightstand, next to the empty can of soda and your phone that he'd moved so it wouldn't fall off the edge. He kept it in his pocket like a psychopath until now.
You take it. Your fingers brush his.
"Thanks," you say, because what else is there.
He's already stepping around you, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, heading to the opposite direction of every single one of his classes. You watch the back of his hoodie disappear around the corner.
Jess is already in your usual seats, two rows from the back, her energy drink sweating onto her notebook. She clocks your face the second you sit down.
"God, you look terrified," she says. "What happened?"
You set the clip on the desk. "Ni-ki just returned my hair clip."
Jess's eyebrows go up. She knows, not everything, but enough to figure out your state. She knows you go over there and she knows you don't talk about it.
"And how was that exchange ?"
"Normal, I guess." You pull out your laptop, even though you know you're not going to take notes. "He said 'you left this' and walked away."
"Romantic."
"Right."
She's quiet for a bit, then leans closer, lowering her voice even though no one near you is paying attention. "Okay, real question. Are you, like... keeping track? I mean, number-wise."
You frown. "Like...body counts?"
"Yeah. Like, since this whole thing started. Are you even seeing other people? Are you counting repeats? Because I've been thinking about it and I genuinely don't know what the etiquette is."
"I don't think there is an etiquette for whatever this is." You tap your fingernail against the desk. "And no, I'm not counting anything."
"You should. For records, at least." She grins, but it fades when you don't mirror it. "Fine. Do you want to count him? Like, in a way that means something?"
The professor walks in and you watch the projector screen flicker to life.
"I don't know," you say. And that's the worst part, you don't know if you want him to mean something or if you just want to stop wanting it so badly. The line between the two has been blurred for months now.
Jess sighs. "Boys are so stupid, like actually brain-dead. I swear my ex thought the clit wasn’t a real thing."
That pulls a laugh out of you, tired and a little rough. "He wasn't that bad."
"Your bar is in hell as I can see."
The lecture starts. You zone out ten minutes in, thumb moving over the crack in your hair clip. He kept it in his pocket for two days. You don't know what that means and you're probably not supposed to know.
It's fine. You'll text him tonight. He'll reply with one word or nothing at all. And you'll go over anyway. Because that's what this is.
───
Break time hits and the courtyard is a mess. You find a spot at one of the picnic tables near the old oak tree, Jess refuses to sit at because she says it gives her anxiety. You don’t mind it. It’s farther from the main walkway, which means fewer people trying to make small talk.
Jess is already inside the cafeteria buying a pastry that she kept talking about during the whole lecture, so you’re alone for a minute, scrolling on your phone without really focusing on anything. The sun is too bright and the coffee you had earlier is making your hands feel jittery. You can’t stop thinking about the way Ni-ki held out that hair clip this morning like it was nothing.
You look up because something in your peripheral shifts, and there he is. Two tables over, diagonal across the courtyard, sitting with Jay and Jungwon and another guy you don’t recognize. He’s not paying attention to whatever Jay is saying ; his elbow is propped on the table, chin resting on his knuckles, and he’s looking directly at you.
You hold eye contact because looking away first feels like losing a battle you didn't even initiate.
He tilts his head slightly, lazy but intentional, and mouths something slowly so you catch every syllable: "My place. After classes?"
Sounds like it’s a statement dressed up like one.
You nod once, enough for him to catch it.
He smiles but not a big one, it's a twitch at the corner of his mouth, making it looks like he’s amused by the whole thing, you just confirmed something he already knew. Afterwards, he turns back to his friends like nothing happened, reaching over to steal Jay’s fries without looking at you again.
Oh you hate what you just felt at that exact moment.
Jess drops into the seat across from you a moment later, biting into a croissant that’s shedding crumbs everywhere. “Okay, so I have a chem lab at 2 and then I’m free,” she says, talking around the pastry. “You wanna grab food after? There's that new Thai place that opened and I’ve been thinking about their spring rolls for days.”
You blink at her, still half-focused on the back of Ni-ki’s hoodie across the courtyard.
“Damn, the wind must be really strong today.”
“Sorry. What?”
“Thai place after classes. You in or not?”
You hesitate for a beat too long and Jess’s eyes narrow.
“Oh Lord,” she says slowly, setting down her croissant. “You’re not free, are you?”
You pick at a splinter on the table. “Not tonight.”
“Let me guess.” She leans forward. “Tall and emotionally unavailable.”
“Is that how you see him?”
“Am I wrong?”
You don’t answer, and she groans into her hands.
“You’re actually killing me,” she says. “One day, you’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been in a situationship with a guy who communicates exclusively through neutral face expressions.”
“He talked to me this morning.”
“He returned your hair clip, that’s not talking. Girl, come on.”
You laugh despite yourself, kicking her foot under the table. “Just text me the menu and I’ll go with you next week.”
She sighs heavily as she picks her croissant back up. “Fine. But you owe me details. Not the weird ones, i don't want to know how he fucks. I just want to know...like his last name. I don’t even know his last name.”
You look back toward the other table. Ni-ki is laughing at something Jungwon said, head tipped back slightly, and for a second he looks younger than 21, less like the version of him that presses you against his mattress and more like the version that offered you a cigarette on a rooftop when you were both strangers.
You still don’t know his last name either.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Me neither.”
───
The last class of the day finally ends. By the time the professor dismisses you, the sun has already set down, letting the sky being painted in purple and orange shades.
You don't rush to the parking lot. Something about walking too fast feels like admitting out loud that seeing him was the only thing you were looking forward to the whole day. Which it was.
The lot is mostly empty now, most students cleared out ten minutes ago, desperate to escape. Your sneakers scrape against the concrete as you weave between rows of beat-up sedans and the occasional overcompensating truck. And you finally spot his car.
His black Camaro is parked in the far corner, the one closest to the exit, because of course he needs a quick getaway. The engine is already running ; you can tell by the faint exhaust curling from the back ; and through the windshield you can see him slouched in the driver's seat, one hand resting on the wheel.
His head is tilted down, probably at his phone, and for a second you think about turning around and walking away just to see how long it would take him to notice. But your feet keep moving because you're pathetic like that.
You pull open the passenger door and the warmth hits you immediately ; he always runs the heat even when it's not that cold outside. The leather seat creaks under you as you slide in, tossing your bag between your feet.
Ni-ki doesn't look up right away as he finishes typing something, locks his phone, and only then turns his head toward you.
"You took forever," he says.
"Class ran late."
He hums, unconvinced, but he doesn't push it. He reaches over and pulls your seatbelt across you, not because he's being sweet, but because he's watched you forget it three times now and he's tired of the car beeping.
His knuckles brush your collarbone.
He puts the car in reverse and backs out without checking his blind spot, which should terrify you but doesn't anymore. The parking lot exits onto a side street and then he's merging into traffic, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping against his thigh to some imaginary song.
You watch his profile. The way his jaw is set, the tiny scar near his eyebrow he's never explained, the way his hoodie sleeve falls just right on his wrist.
"So," you say, because sitting in total silence for the whole drive feels like something a hostage would do. "You had a good day?"
He glances at you, and there's something almost amused in his expression. "You don't care about my day."
"Maybe I do."
"You don't." He says it simply, he obviously assumes that you don't actually care about his day because you're only here for one reason. And the worst part is he's not wrong, or maybe he is wrong and you just haven't figured out how to prove it yet.
You look out the window instead. The buildings blur past, a laundromat, a bodega with a faded sign, a bus stop with one tired-looking person waiting. Just normal things.
After a minute, Ni-ki's hand leaves the wheel and lands on your thigh, resting there.
The car keeps moving.
───
His house is too big for one person. That's the same thing you think every time you walk through the front door, and tonight is no different. The entryway alone could fit your entire apartment, and the ceilings are so high you get a little neck cramp looking up at the chandelier that probably costs more than your tuition.
Ni-ki doesn't bother with the lights. He hits a switch near the door and the living room floods with warm overhead light, revealing a space that looks like something out of a magazine ; leather couches, a marble coffee table that's definitely never seen a coffee ring, floor-to-ceiling windows that face a backyard you've only seen once in the dark. Everything is clean.
He kicks off his shoes by the door and you do the same, lining your sneakers up next to his like a silent compromise between his mess and yours.
You're still shrugging off your jacket when he drops onto the massive sectional couch, sprawling across it like a cat going for a nap. His hoodie rides up slightly and you look away because looking at him in that way would feel criminal.
"So," he says, drawing the word out, and there's something in his voice that makes you pause mid-fold of your jacket. "We've done the bed. We've done the floor. We've done the kitchen counter that one time." He tilts his head against the cushion, eyes tracking you across the room. "What about the couch?"
You freeze with your jacket still in your hands.
There's a crease at the corner of his eye that gives him away. He's enjoying this ; the way your shoulders go stiff, the way you suddenly can't look at him directly. The couch is huge and leather and objectively fine, but something about the suggestion makes your face heat anyway. Maybe because it's different, maybe because it feels less like falling into bed and more like something you'd have to think about.
"Don't get shy now," he says, and his voice is lower, teasing but soft underneath. "You literally said yes before I finished asking last time."
"That was something else."
"How?"
You want to answer, but it's embarrassing. You're not shy about him, not really, not anymore. But the couch feels too exposed, too close to the windows, too close to the part of the house where someone could theoretically walk in even though no one ever does. It feels less like a decision and more like a dare.
You drape your jacket over the back of an armchair, stalling. "I'm not shy."
Ni-ki shifts, propping himself up on his elbow. His hair falls over his forehead and he looks annoyingly handsome like this, all loose limbs and lazy confidence. "Yeah? Then come here."
Three words. And your feet move before your brain catches up. He doesn't even have to beg, when he just says things like they've already happened and waits for you to catch up, knowing you will eventually.
You stop at the edge of the couch, looking down at him. He looks back up at you, and his expression softens a little.
"Or we can go upstairs," he says, and it's not a concession.
You hate how easy it is for him to make you feel seen.
You sit down on the edge of the couch, close enough that your knee touches his thigh. "The couch is fine."
His eyebrow goes up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
His hand finds your waist anyway, pulling you closer until you're half-draped across his chest, and the leather creaks beneath you both. His heart is steady under your palm but yours is not.
"Liar," he murmurs against your hair.
He's right. You are shy, and a really bad liar.
The walk up to his bedroom feels longer than it should, the anticipation is buzzing under your skin. You’re practically vibrating with nervous energy as Ni-ki unlocks the massive door and pushes it open. The room is dark and spacious, lit only by the soft glow of city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He immediately reaches for the hem of his oversized hoodie, yanking it over his head and tossing it carelessly onto the floor. The sight of his bare chest stops you in your tracks. You feel a sudden, overwhelming wave of shyness wash over you, your cheeks flushing hot as you avert your gaze, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed.
"Why are you getting shy again?" Ni-ki asks, his voice low and amused as he steps closer, invading your personal space. He tilts his head, his eyes studying your face intently. "You’re not usually like this. What’s up?"
You look up at him, your voice barely a whisper. "Can we...go soft this time?" you ask, feeling vulnerable. He pauses, a glint of confusion crossing his face, but he nods slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes.
"Okay," he says, his voice dropping an octave lower. "I'll be soft."
He pulls you in by the waist, his hands warm against your skin, and you can feel the tension building between you. He presses you gently against the doorframe, his lips capturing yours in a soft kiss. His hands wander down your back, his fingers digging into your flesh, but you don't want to rush. You want to feel every inch of him, dragging this out.
You kiss him back, your tongues tangling together, a slow and deep exploration. His hands slide up your shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, sending shivers down your spine. His hands move to the waistband of your pants, his fingers teasing the button and zipper. You shiver as he undoes them, letting them pool around your ankles, and you step out of them, kicking them aside.
He picks you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, and carries you to the bed. He lays you down gently, the mattress sinking beneath you. He climbs on top of you, his weight pressing you into the sheets. He kisses you again, his lips moving from the corner of your mouth to your jaw, then down your neck, his tongue flicking over your sensitive skin. You arch your back, giving him more access, his hands exploring your body, mapping out every curve and dip.
He moves lower, his lips trailing down your stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear. He pulls them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He parts your legs, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You gasp, your hips bucking slightly as he touches you there.
He leans down and spreads your legs wider, his fingers sliding into you. He begins to finger you, his movements slow and pleasant, his fingers curling inside you, searching for that sweet spot. You moan his name, your hands gripping a pillow beside you. He adds a second finger, stretching you, his thumb rubbing against your clit. You can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, your muscles tightening around his fingers.
He pulls his fingers out, and you whine at the loss. He looks up at you before bringing his fingers into his mouth, sucking on them. "Sweet, huh?" he says, smiling, before moving up to kiss you again.
He positions himself at your entrance, his eyes locking onto yours. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely. You gasp, his eyes rolling back slightly as he stretches you. He stays there for a moment, letting you adjust to his size, the friction building between you. "Tell me if it hurts."
"It's okay." You barely could answer.
He begins to move. He watches your face, wanting to see every reaction you have to him. He kisses you deeply, the kiss matching the pace of his hips. The feeling of him filling you up is overwhelming, the sensation of being so full and stretched is intense.
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, encouraging him to go faster, but he holds back, his pace steady and controlled. He wants to make this last. He focuses on the sensations, the heat between your bodies.
He pulls out slightly, then pushes back in, his eyes never leaving yours. He leans down and kisses your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. You moan his name, the sound echoing in the room. He smiles against your skin, a small, satisfied smile, knowing he’s making you feel good.
He picks up the pace just a little, his thrusts becoming a little more urgent, but still slow. He wants to be inside you for as long as possible. The friction is delicious, sending sparks flying through your body. He kisses you again, his tongue tangling with yours, the taste of you driving him wild.
You can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, your muscles tightening around him. You look up at him, your eyes glazed with pleasure. "Ni-ki," you breathe out, your voice breathless and ragged. "I'm going to come," you whisper.
He nods, his eyes locking onto yours, and he keeps thrusting, his pace remaining steady, but he focuses on the spot that makes you see stars. You cry out his name as you unravel, your body clamping down on him. He follows moments later, his hips bucking against yours as he releases inside you, filling you completely.
He stays inside you for a long time, the silence of the room broken only by your ragged breathing. He leans down and kisses your forehead, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. "Fuck...that was good," he says, his voice quiet and tired.
He reaches for the bedside table and pulls out a small baggie and a lighter. He packs a bowl, taking a long drag, and then offers it to you.
You take a hit, your lungs filling with the smoke, and you cough slightly. He laughs, his chest vibrating against your back. He leans over you, blowing the smoke directly on your face. He pulls back, a mischievous grin on his face.
"Come closer," he whispers, his voice husky. He blows another cloud of smoke into your mouth, sealing it with a kiss. You feel the smoke swirl in your mouth and then pass it back to him, the taste of weed and mint mixing on your tongues.
"Ayy, that was kinda cool," he says, tracing the outline of your lips with his thumb.
"Was it?" you ask, a smile playing on your lips.
"Yeah," he says, his eyes darkening. "You should come over more often."
You just smile, content and relaxed, feeling the weight of the day melting away.
The bedroom is a mess of tangled blankets and discarded clothes by the time you both settle into the quiet evening. The floor lamp in the corner casts everything in a golden glow, just enough to see the shape of his arm resting above his head, the way his chest rises and falls.
You're on your back, staring at the ceiling, your shirt thrown somewhere near the night table.
Ni-ki hasn't moved to touch you. His hand is draped off the edge of the bed, fingers grazing the floor, and he's looking at the wall with that blank expression that could mean anything or nothing.
You don't know why you ask it and the words just fall out.
"Have you ever thought about getting a girlfriend?"
It sounds almost too casual. You keep your eyes on the ceiling so you don't have to see his reaction.
For a moment he doesn't answer. Then you feel him shift beside you, the mattress dipping slightly as he props himself up on one elbow. When you glance over, he's looking down at you with something unreadable on his face.
"What kind of question is that?" he says.
You shrug with one shoulder. "Just wondering."
He's quiet again, and you think maybe he's going to ignore it, change the subject or reach for his phone like he usually does. He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, and runs a hand through his hair.
"There's this girl," he says, and your stomach drops. "She keeps calling me, texts me like three times a week. She wants to come over and fuck again."
You keep your face neutral. "And ?"
"And I don't really want to. She's kind of annoying, to be honest." He pauses, tilting his head like he's considering something. "But I might consider it. It kinda gets boring doing the same thing all the time."
The same thing. You. He means you.
Your jaw tenses and you look back at the ceiling because if you look at him right now, he'll see it ; the glint of something stupid. Jealousy. Over a girl you don't even know, over a guy who isn't yours and has never pretended to be.
You swallow it down. "So do it then," you say, and your voice comes out steady. "Not like we're exclusive."
"Exactly." He says it so easily.
There's a beat of silence. He shifts again, and you feel his gaze on your profile.
"What about you," he says. "You ever want a relationship? Like, one day."
The question catches you off guard. He's never asked you anything personal before. The closest he's gotten was asking if you wanted water that one time, and even that felt like an accident.
You should say yes. I mean you do want one. Just not with someone else. Maybe with him. But that's not what he's asking and you know it.
"No," you say, and the lie tastes bitter. "That's too much work."
He stares at you for a second longer before he drops back onto the mattress, arm going over his eyes. "Yeah," he says, voice muffled. "Same."
You lie there in the darkening room, his body warm next to yours but not touching, and you listen to the silence stretch.
He reaches for his phone on the floor and you reach for your shirt.
That's how it goes.
───
Friday afternoon, the sky is gray and it looks like it might rain but probably won't. You find yourself climbing the stairs to the rooftop before you've fully decided to go there. The pack of cigarettes in your pocket feels like an excuse, but it's the only one you have.
The door creaks when you push it open, and the air hits you instantly, a little damp, carrying the distant sound of traffic from the main road. You step out onto the gravel, lighter already in your hand.
Ni-ki is already there, leaning against the railing at the edge of the roof, the same spot where you first met him 8 months ago. His back is to you, shoulders hunched, a thin curl of smoke rising from between his fingers. He doesn't turn around when the door closes behind you. Either he didn't hear or he doesn't care.
For a second you think about leaving, turning around and going back down the stairs, pretending you never came up here. But your feet don't move, and neither does he, so you walk over to the opposite side of the railing and lean against it a few feet away.
You pull out a cigarette, light it and take a drag. The smoke burns on the way down.
Neither of you speaks for a long minute. The wind picks up, ruffling his hair, and he finally glances sideways at you. His eyes look tired, you already know he hasn't been sleeping at all.
"You smoke too much," he says, not even greeting you.
"So do you."
He huffs something that might be a laugh but it's hollow. He turns back to look at the skyline, the cluster of buildings and trees and the far-off blur of the highway. His jaw is tight, you could see it.
You should leave it alone. That's the agreement ; you don't do feelings, you don't do problems, you just do each other's bodies and then go home. But something about how his shoulders are set like he's holding something heavy, makes the words come out anyway.
"You okay?"
He takes a long drag, holds it and exhales. The smoke gets carried away by the wind.
"My parents," he says finally, and his voice is flat. "They want to cut me off."
You wait. He doesn't elaborate so you push. "Cut you off from what?"
"Everything." He flicks ash onto the gravel. "Money. My car. My card. All of it." A pause. "They say I've been doing bad things with it. That I'm out of control."
You can guess ; the late nights, the people he knows, the way his eyes look red sometimes when he picks you up. You've never asked before,it never felt like your place.
"So what are you going to do?" you say.
He looks at you then and there's something sharp in his expression. "What am I supposed to do? Get a job that I don't even like? Work at a café like a normal person?" He says it like the words taste bad.
You take a drag, thinking. "Maybe you could talk to them. Explain that—"
"I'm not explaining anything." His voice is harder now. "They don't listen. They never have. They just throw money at problems and then get mad when the problems don't magically disappear."
"Okay, but if they take the car, how are you going to—"
"I don't know." He cuts you off, pushing off from the railing and turning to face you fully. His cigarette is burning down between his fingers.
You take another drag. "You could...I don't know, sell some stuff? Or try to— "
"You don't get it."
His voice cuts through yours sharper than you expected. You turn to look at him. He's still facing forward, but his shoulders are tense now, his hand gripping the edge of the railing.
"I'm not saying I get it," you say carefully. "I'm just trying to help."
"Help." He says the word like an offense. "You can't help. You don't know what it's like to have everything and then have it pulled away. To have people look at you like you're just a spoiled kid who fucks up and that's all you'll ever be." His eyes are darker than usual. "You don't come from that. You don't understand."
It stings. Not because he's wrong about your background, he's not, you've never hidden that you're on scholarships and financial aid but because he's shutting you out in that particular way he does, it makes you feel like you're on the other side of a wall you can't climb.
"I'm not trying to fix it," you say, quieter now. "I just care. That's all."
He stares at you for a long second. His expression flickers, something almost vulnerable, almost soft, and then it's totally gone.
"Care," he repeats. "We're not close, Y/N. We fuck and that's it. You don't have to pretend like there's more, you know?."
He pauses. "I know what you're trying to do." His voice drops. "But you can't. You don't have parents like mine. You don't have...you live in a normal apartment and you worry about normal things. I can't just 'talk to them.' I can't just 'figure it out.' It's not the same."
Your chest tightens, you want to argue, you want to tell him about the hair clip, about the hundred small things that felt like something when you knew it didn't at all.
But you don't. Because he's right, isn't he? That's what you agreed to.
He drops his cigarette, grinds it out under his shoe, and stands. He doesn't look at you again.
You open your mouth to say something but he's already stepping back, dropping his cigarette to the gravel and grinding it out with his shoe.
"Forget it," he says. "I shouldn't have said anything."
He walks past you. The rooftop door creaks open, then shut.
You're alone.
The cigarette in your hand has burned down to the filter. You drop it, watch the last wisp of smoke rise up into the gray sky, and you don't follow him.
That's not your role and it never was.
───
The sand is hot enough to burn your feet by the time you and Jess find a spot near the water. You spread your towels out, anchor them with bags and a half empty bottle of sunscreen, and Jess immediately starts complaining about the seagulls.
"It's fine," you say, pulling your shirt over your head. "They're not gonna attack you."
"You don't know that."
You're about to respond when a volleyball smacks into the sand a few feet away from your towel. Jess jumps in surprise and you look up.
Jay is jogging toward you, already laughing, hand raised in apology. Behind him, Jake is doubled over for some reason, Jungwon is heading towards the shores, and further back, near the water, Ni-ki is standing with his hands in his shorts pockets, watching the horizon.
"Sorry," Jay says, grabbing the ball. "Jake's aim is ass today."
"Jake's aim is always ass," Jess says with a smile. She's known Jay since high school, and some habits don't fade.
Jay waves toward the others. "You guys wanna hang out? We've got a net set up. Well, Jake found a net. We're not sure where it came from though."
You glance at Jess and she shrugs.
"Yeah, okay," you say.
Walking over feels like walking into something you're not prepared for. The sand is soft, slipping under your feet with every step. Jake waves when he sees you. Jungwon is already in the water up to his knees, ignoring everyone. And Ni-ki is standing slightly apart from the group, not looking at you, which is fine because you're not looking at him either.
You haven't talked since yesterday at the rooftop, since he left you there with your cigarette burning down to nothing.
So you don't look at him and he doesn't look at you.
"We should play," Jake says, grabbing the ball from Jay. "Let’s make teams. Y/N, you're with me."
"You're gonna lose," Jess says.
"Bold talk from someone who hasn't touched a volleyball since middle school."
Jess flips him off.
The game is messy, no one really knows the rules except Jay, who keeps trying to enforce them, and Jungwon who doesn't care. You're next to Jake, which means you're laughing more than you're playing because he keeps making stupid comments every time he misses the ball.
"That was on purpose," he says after a ball flies past his head.
"Sure it was."
"I was just testing your reflexes."
You roll your eyes and serve. The ball actually goes over the net, it feels like a miracle. Ni-ki is on the other side, you realize. He misses it and watches it land in the sand next to him.
Jake whoops. "Good job Y/N."
The game ends when someone (no one knows who) decides it's over. Jess is already walking toward the water, pulling her hair into a messy ponytail. Jay follows her.
"Race you," Jake says, and he's already running before you can answer.
You run after him because you're competitive, and the water is cold when it hits your shin, colder when you fall forward trying to dodge a wave. Jake is laughing at you, so you push water at his face.
You two have a full on play fight right there in the shallows, splashing, shoving, Jake grabbing your wrist to spin you around. He's stronger than he looks, but he's also not holding that hard, so you manage to shove him back once, twice. His foot slips on a rock and he goes down, half sitting in the water, still laughing.
"Oh you're so dead," he says.
"You already are."
He lunges for your ankle and you stumble, catching yourself on his shoulder. For a second you're both just standing there, out of breath, water dripping down your faces.
Jake is still loosely holding your wrist.
"You fight dirty," he says.
"Just admit you're slow."
He laughs and lets go, wading deeper, already turning to find Jay.
You look toward the shore without meaning to. Ni-ki is standing at the edge of the water, watching the whole scene. His arms are crossed. His expression is blank.
You hold his gaze for a second but he looks away first.
Jess appears next to you, hair soaked and grinning. "Jake's gonna ask you out by the end of the summer. Watch it."
"He's not."
"Did you see the way he looked at you the whole time ?."
"It was a play fight."
Jess gives you a look. "Sure. And Ni-ki is definitely not standing over there looking like he wants to punch someone."
You glance back at the shore. Ni-ki is walking toward the towels, not toward the water. His steps are quick.
"Hey," Jay calls out. "You’re getting in or what?"
Ni-ki doesn't stop. "Got stuff to do."
"We’re at the beach. What stuff?"
He doesn't answer and grabs his shirt from his bag, shakes the sand off, and starts walking toward the parking lot.
Jake watches him go, frowning. "What's his deal?"
No one answers. Jay looks at you.
"I'm gonna go get some water," you say, because you don't know what else to say.
Jess grabs your arm before you can move. "Don't."
"What?"
"You're gonna chase after him. I can see it on your face. And he's just gonna say something shitty and you're gonna feel worse."
You pull your arm back. "I'm not going to chase after him."
"Okay."
"I'm not."
She holds her hands up. "Okay."
You stand in the water, salt drying on your skin, and watch the spot where his car was parked until the space is empty. Jess is right. You'd only feel worse, but it doesn’t matter since you already do.
───
The door to your apartment clicks shut behind you and you drop your beach bag on the floor, sand already spilling out onto the tiles. Your shoulders are pink from the sun, your hair still damp and tangled with salt, and all you want is a cold shower and an unhealthy amount of time of scrolling on your phone.
You plug your phone in first because it died somewhere between the volleyball game and the drive home. The screen lights up after a few seconds, and you blink at the notification.
13 missed calls.
All from the same number. It’s unknown.
Your first thought is spam. Your second thought is a wrong number. Your third thought, the one you don't want to acknowledge, is him.
You hesitate for a moment, thumb hovering over the call button, you press “call”.
The line rings four time before going to voicemail. A generic automated voice telling you to leave a message. You hang up without saying anything.
You're about to toss the phone onto your bed when it rings again. The same number. You answer. For a few seconds, no one speaks. There's just a slow and uneven breathing, and something in the background that sounds like a TV.
"Hello?" you say.
Still nothing, so you decide to assume that it’s him.
"I know it's you," you say. "You called me thirteen times. You can at least say something."
A pause and you hear his voice, low and slurred around the edges. "Hey."
Ni-ki.
You close your eyes and lean against your bedroom wall. "You okay?"
"Define okay."
"You're high."
"I guess so."
You can hear him exhale, long and slow, probably smoke. It’s definitely weed. His words are sticky, running into each other like he's thinking too hard about each one before it leaves his mouth.
"I didn't like it," he says suddenly. "Today. At the beach."
Your chest tightens. "Didn't like what?"
"You know what. The way you were with Jake. All close and laughing and..." He trails off, and you hear him take another drag. "Whatever, it doesn't matter. I don't care. You do whatever you want."
"You just said you didn't like it."
"I said it doesn't matter."
The line goes quiet for a moment. You can picture him ; probably sprawled on that massive leather couch in his empty living room, the high ceilings and the chandelier that cost at least a kidney. One hand holding the phone, the other holding whatever he's smoking. His eyes half-closed, looking like a hot disaster.
"I really need you right now," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word.
Your heart does a flip.
"That's not fair," you say quietly.
"I’m sorry."
"You can't just call me when you're high and say stuff like that."
"I know."
Silence. The sound of the TV in the background on his end. You can hear your own breathing.
"Can you come over?" he asks, and he sounds smaller than you've ever heard him. Needy like he never lets himself be. "Please."
You could’ve say no, tell him to sleep it off and call you in the morning when he's sober and less likely to say things he'll pretend didn't happen. You have to protect yourself for once.
And here you are, already grabbing your keys.
───
The drive takes twenty minutes. His house is dark when you pull into the driveway, the only light coming from somewhere deeper inside. The front door is unlocked as it always is, and you let yourself in, kicking off your sandals by the entryway.
The living room is a mess. Everything is scattered. There’s a blanket on the floor, empty glasses on the coffee table and his hoodie draped over the arm of the couch. And there he is, slouched in the corner of the sectional, phone on the cushion beside him, a half smoked joint balanced on the edge of an ashtray.
His eyes are red and his hair is a mess. He looks up at you when you walk in and something in his expression changes. It’s relief, you might think.
"There’s no way you really came," he says like he's surprised.
"You called me thirteen times."
"Right."
You drop your bag by the door and walk over to him. The coffee table has a pitcher of water and some takeout containers from somewhere you don't recognize. You push them aside and sit on the edge of the couch, facing him.
"You're an asshole," you say.
"Yeah."
"Like, genuinely an asshole."
He's not arguing back so that's how you know he's really high.
You reach out and take the joint from the ashtray, stubbing it out even though there's still some left. He watches your hands, your fingers, the way you're sitting close enough that your knee almost touches his.
"When did you eat last?" you ask.
He blinks at you like the question requires calculus. "I don't know. Lunch?"
"It's almost ten."
"Oh."
You sigh and stand up, heading toward the kitchen. His kitchen is massive and spotless and useless because he barely uses it. You find bread, peanut butter, a banana that's not too brown. You make him a sandwich without asking if he wants one because he's not in a state to make good decisions. When you come back, he hasn't moved an inch. You hand him the plate and he stares at it for a second before taking it.
"Eat," you say.
"You're bossy when you're annoyed."
"I'm always annoyed. You just don't notice."
He takes a bite, chews and swallows. His eyes stay on you the whole time.
You sit back down, closer this time, and you watch him eat until half the sandwich is gone. You take the plate away and set it on the coffee table.
"Water," you say, pouring a glass from the pitcher. You hand it to him and he drinks. When he's done, he sets the glass down and leans his head back against the couch, eyes closed. His breathing is slower now.
"You didn't have to come, you know." he says.
"You asked me to."
"Yeah. But you didn't have to."
You look at him ; the dark circles, the dried salt on his skin from the beach he barely touched, the way his hands are trembling just slightly. He's a mess. He's always been a mess, yet he's sitting here, in this big empty house, and he called you. Amongst everyone he knew, he called you.
"Yeah, well," you say quietly. "I'm here anyway so..."
He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at you. His gaze is heavy and unfocused.
"You're gonna stay?" he asks. "For a bit?"
You have to go home, because you have class tomorrow. Your hair is still damp from the ocean and you're tired and you know that staying will only make things more complicated.
"Yeah," you say. "For a bit."
He shifts on the couch, making room, and you take the hint. You sit next to him, close enough that your shoulder presses against his arm, and he doesn't pull away. Neither do you.
After a few minutes, his head drops onto your shoulder. His breathing evens out. He's not asleep, heavy and warm against you.
You stare at the dark windows, the empty room, the ghost of smoke curling from the ashtray.
This isn't going to fix anything. You know that and he knows that. But for now, he's not pushing you away, so everything feels fine.
The high wears off slowly. You notice that his breathing changes, it’s less shallow and more present. His fingers stop trembling too. His head lifts from your shoulder and he blinks at the room like he's seeing it for the first time.
He's still loose, still soft around the edges, but he's coming back to himself. You can feel it.
"You okay?" you ask.
He nods, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. "Yeah. Starting to feel human again."
"Good."
A silence settles between you, he turns his head, looking at you with those half-lidded eyes, and his voice is quieter when he speaks. "Did you shower yet? After the beach?"
You glance down at yourself. Your skin still has salt residue, your hair is stiff with dried seawater. "No. I came straight here."
He's quiet for a moment. "We could take a bath."
You look at him. His expression isn't teasing like usual, and it’s almost soft.
"A bath ?" you repeat.
"Uh yeah. The tub's big enough." There’s a pause. "We don't have to do anything. I just—I don't want to be alone right now."
That's the most honest thing he's said all night.
You nod. "Okay."
───
Even if you were already used to every corner of his house, you’d never get over how huge his bathroom is. Marble floors, a tub that could fit three people, candles on the counter that he never lights. He runs the water while you sit on the edge of the sink, watching him test the temperature with his wrist.
He's still in his beach clothes ; shorts, a loose t-shirt and a silver chain with a cross that he never takes off. You're in your bikini top and the oversized button-up you threw on over it.
When the tub is full, he turns off the water and looks at you. "You first."
You slide off the sink and step toward the tub, suddenly aware of how exposed you feel even though you've done much more than this with him. You take off your button-up and step out of your shorts, leaving your bikini on the floor. He does the same ; he pulls his shirt over his head, kicks off his shorts and his boxers.
The water is warm, almost too warm, and you sink into it with a sigh. The salt washes off your skin immediately, and you can feel your muscles relaxing. He gets in behind you, settling against the end of the tub, his legs on either side of yours.
For a minute, neither of you speaks. The water ripples softly. A candle flickers, he must have lit it while you weren't looking. You can feel him shifting, moving closer, and his arms come around your waist from behind. He pulls you back against his chest, resting his chin on your shoulder.
You freeze for half a second. He's never done this before. The fact of having this kind of moment with him doesn’t even feel real to you. You two have been intimate in so many ways but never like this.
"Is this okay?" he murmurs, breath warm against your neck.
"Yeah," you whisper. "It's okay."
His arms tighten slightly, holding you a little closer. You lean your head back against his shoulder and close your eyes.
This is new and terrifying. This is everything you've wanted without letting yourself admit it, but you know that things like that don’t really last. So you have to accept it.
───
The water starts to cool after a while, his thumb is tracing shapes on your stomach, absent-minded.
You think about what brought you here and how he sounded so small when he said he needed you.
"Ni-ki," you say quietly.
"Mm?"
You hesitate. You don't want to ruin whatever this is. But it's been sitting in your chest since all the times you've watched him disappear into himself.
"Those friends of yours that you mentioned before," you say. "The ones who got you into this stuff."
His hand stops moving.
"I'm not trying to start a fight," you add quickly. "I’m just worrying about you. You said they owe you money…And they're always pushing you to do more."
He's quiet for a long moment.
"They're not in my life anymore," he says finally.
You turn your head slightly, trying to see his face. "What?"
"I cut them off, like, a few weeks ago." His voice is steady and clearer. "They weren't friends. They just wanted someone to pay for everything and someone to get high with. I got tired of it."
You don't know what to say. He's never told you this or anything.
"Why didn't you say something?" you ask.
He shrugs, the movement rippling the water. "Didn't seem important."
"Not important? Ni-ki, they were using you."
"I know but," He presses his cheek against your hair. "That's why I stopped answering their calls. They'll figure it out."
You turn in his arms so you're facing him, knees on either side of his hips, water sloshing against the edges of the tub. His face is inches from yours. You can see that his eyes are tired.
"And the money they owe you?" you ask.
"It's just money." He says it like it means nothing. Or maybe to him, it doesn't. "I'd rather lose that than keep pretending they gave a shit about me."
Your hands find his shoulders, thumbs brushing over his collarbones and he lets you touch him.
"You're not going to fall back into that?" you ask. "When things get hard again?"
He looks at you for a long time.
"No," he says. "You’re here anyway. Everything feels different."
Your heart cracks a little.
"You can't rely on me to fix you," you force yourself to say, because you have to say it, you've seen too many people drown trying to save someone else.
"Y/N," He cups your face with one hand, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "I'm not asking you to fix me. I…I don't want to be alone anymore. It scares me more than you think."
The water is barely warm now. Your knees are starting to ache from the position.
"Okay," you whisper.
He smiles at you softly, and you nearly thought it meant something.
"We should get out," he says. "The water's cold."
"Yeah."
He pulls the plug and grabs a towel from the rack, wrapping it around your shoulders before his own. You step out of the tub together, dripping on the marble floor.
───
7:12 AM and your phone is rattling against the wood of your nighstand like it's trying to wake the dead. You grope for it blindly, eyes half-open and your brain still somewhere in a dream you can't even remember.
Ni-ki's name on the screen.
You answer. "Hello?"
"You sound like shit." His voice is rough like he hasn't slept either.
"Thanks. It's fucking seven in the morning."
"Well, no shit. Get dressed, I'm picking you up in twenty."
You sit up, rubbing your face. The memories from two nights ago flicker through your mind ; the bath, his arms around you. You brush it off as soon as the reality catches you.
You push it all down. "For what?"
"Does it matter?"
You're too tired to fight back. And a part of you, the stupid part, just wants to see his face.
"Fine," you say. "Twenty minutes."
He hangs up with no goodbye. Of course.
You throw on jeans and a sweater, brush your teeth. When you hear the engine outside, low and guttural, you grab your bag and head out. It's not the black Camaro. It's a Mustang GT ; sleek, black, newer than anything you've ever sat in. He's leaning against the driver's door, arms crossed, wearing a leather jacket and that same blank expression.
"New car?" you ask.
"Yeah, got bored of the old one." He opens the passenger door for you. "Get in."
The interior smells new and fresh. You buckle up as he slides into the driver's seat and pulls away from the curb without checking his blind spot. Some things never change. The city is waking up around you, coffee shops opening, joggers on the sidewalk.
You watch his profile, observing the sharp line of his jaw and his thumbs tap against the steering wheel like he usually does everytime he drives.
"You're staring," he says without looking at you.
" Am I not allowed ?"
He doesn't respond to that.
You take a breath. "Ni-ki."
"What."
"Why are you so cold sometimes?"
The question hangs in the air between you. His fingers tighten on the steering wheel before he relaxes.
"You think I'm cold?" he asks.
"Sometimes. You disappear, you push me away and...you say things you don't mean or you don't say anything at all." You're watching his face, looking for a crack. "I just want to know why."
He stays quiet for a long moment. The car slows at a red light and he finally glances at you. His eyes are tired again, that's how you know he smoked on the drive over.
Unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth twitches.
"You're cute when you're curious," he says.
"That's not an answer."
"Well," The light turns green, he accelerates. "I'll work on it."
───
The mall is mostly empty this early. A few senior citizens walking laps around the food court, some moms with strollers, employees unlocking gates. Ni-ki walks next to you, hands in his pockets. His presence is heavy but not uncomfortable. You wander past stores without really looking until one catches your eye ; a vintage thrift shop, the expensive kind with every luxury brands where clothes are curated and priced like art pieces.
You step inside more out of curiosity than intention. The racks are organized by color, the lighting warm, and there's a section in the back with dresses probably worn by celebrities considaring their prices.
Your fingers trail over the fabric ; silk, lace, velvet. One of them catches your eyes. A black dress, slip style but not cheap. It makes you think of old Hollywood movies and rooftop parties in the 60s. The price tag is tucked inside, and when you pull it out you actually laugh.
"300 dollars," you say, turning to Ni-ki. "For a thrifted dress."
He's standing a few feet away, watching you with a neutral expression. "Do you want it?"
"I want a lot of things I can't afford."
"That's not what I asked."
You look back at the dress, running your fingers over the fabric again. "It's gorgeous. But no. It's stupid to spend that much."
He pulls the dress off the rack and walks toward the counter without saying a word.
"Ni-ki. What are you doing?"
"Buying the dress."
"No. Ni-ki, come b─."
He ignores you, pulling out his wallet. The cashier, a girl with pink hair, looks between the two of you with mild amusement.
"Sir, would you like a bag?"
"Yes."
"Ni-ki, I'm serious." You grab his arm, but he doesn't stop. "You can't just buy me things like this."
He turns to look at you, and his face is softer than you expected. "Why not?"
"Because—" You don't even exactly know why. Maybe because it's too much or because it looks like it means something. He nods toward the rack, toward a deep red dress you didn't even realize you touched earlier. "You looked at that one first," he says. "I saw you run your fingers over it before you picked up the black one."
You blink. "You noticed that?"
"You touched it for like five seconds. I have to buy it now."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"Too bad then." He tells the cashier to add the red dress too. She does, wrapping both in tissue paper.
You stand there, mouth slightly open, watching him pay nearly six hundred dollars for two dresses you never asked for.
"Try them on," he says, handing you the bag. "If you don't like them, we'll return them."
You stare at him and he stares back.
"Fine," you mutter, grabbing the bag and heading toward the fitting room.
The room is small, with a full-length mirror and a velvet stool. You pull off your jeans and sweater and slide the black dress over your head. It falls perfectly, hitting just above the knee, hugging your waist, the fabric cool against your skin. You turn in the mirror, and for a second, you don't recognize yourself.
You step out of the fitting room.
Ni-ki is leaning against the wall across from the door, phone in hand. His eyes lift to you, and something shifts in his face. His jaw goes slack for just a moment.
"Well?" you ask, suddenly self conscious.
He looks at you ; up and down, slow, like he's trying to memorize every inch of you.
"You look," he starts then suddenly pauses. "It's fine."
"Just fine?"
He pushes off the wall and walks toward you, close enough that you have to tilt your head up to see his face.
"I should return it," he says, there's a teasing edge to his voice now.
"Why?"
"I don't really feel like fighting someone today."
Your face heats. "Shut up."
"I'm dead serious."
"Stop acting like that."
He almost smiles. "Keep the dress. Both of them."
───
The park is small, tucked between a residential street and a community garden. You're sitting on a bench near the pond, ice cream cones in hand ; his is chocolate, yours is strawberry. The sun is higher now, warm enough to make you take off your sweater.
He eats his ice cream in silence, staring at the water. You watch a duck paddle in circles.
"So," he says, not looking at you. "You and Jake seem close."
Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth. "We're friends."
"Friends." He says lowly. "You were pretty cozy at the beach. I mean, sharing towels...wrestling in the water, all of that."
You narrow your eyes. "Are you jealous?"
He scoffs. "No."
"You're deflecting."
"I can't be observant ?" He casually takes a bite of his ice cream. "Just saying. He's around a lot."
"He's your friend too."
"Yeah, but he doesn't look at me the way he looks at you."
"Nothing's going on with Jake," you say finally.
He shrugs. "Doesn't matter. You do what you want."
There it is again ; that same line he always falls back on. He's always trying to make it sound normal but it comes out like a permission, you're always feeling like it's a test he's making you take.
"I don't want anything with Jake," you say. "I want—" You stop yourself.
He looks at you, waiting for you to continue.
You look away. "Never mind."
The ice cream drips onto your fingers.
"You have ice cream," he says.
"Where?"
He leans in.
His lips are cold from the chocolate, but his tongue is warm when it swipes across the corner of your mouth. You freeze, and you find him kissing you, deep and slow, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. It's not the kind of kiss you share in public, so obviously it surprises you.
When he pulls back, you're breathless. You can feel your face burning.
"What was that for?" you manage.
He shrugs, excluding the fact that his ears are pink. "You had ice cream on your mouth."
"That's not a fucking way to wipe off ice cream."
"It is now."
You stare at him and he stares back, expression carefully neutral, nethertheless you can see the cracks. His fingers are still resting on your neck and he's not pulling away.
"You're such a jerk," you whisper.
"Yeah," he says. "Might get strawberry next time."
You shove him in the chest in embarassement, which made him chuckle slightly.
All of this is not making you think about unanswered calls, the days where he decides to be insanely cold or whether he's going to push you away again. So you try to enjoy it as much as you can.
The sun has dropped behind the trees. The bench has gone from comfortable to uncomfortable about an hour ago. Your tailbone is starting to ache and you've shifted positions at least six times, each time less effective than the last.
"I'm bored," you announce.
Ni-ki glances at you from the other end of the bench, one arm stretched along the back, his ice cream cone long gone. "You're always bored."
"Come on, it's been an hour since we sat here."
He watches you with a half-lidded expression. You stand up and brush off the back of your jeans. "There's a playground over there. Let's go."
"A playground." He says flatly, unimpressed by your idea.
"Yeah. You know...swings, slides, kids stuff. Don't tell me you're too cool for swings."
He doesn't agree yet he stands up anyway.
The playground is maybe fifty meters from the bench, a small fenced area with wood chips instead of sand, a plastic slide that's seen better days, and a set of swings hanging from a metal frame. The chains squeak slightly when the wind blows.
You make a beeline for the swings, feet crunching on the wood chips, and plant yourself on the closest one. The rubber seat is cold through your jeans. You grip the chains and kick off just a little.
"Push me," you say, looking back at him.
He's standing at the edge of the wood chips, hands in his pockets, watching you like you from afar. "Push yourself, you're not a kid."
"That's not the point."
He sighs ; a theatrical and put-upon sound ; but he walks over anyway. He positions himself behind you, hands hovering near your lower back for a moment before he gives a firm shove. The swing arcs forward, the chains rattling, and you let out a small laugh. The air rushes past your face. Behind you, he pushes again, harder this time.
"You know," he says, voice carrying over the squeak of the chains, "I've seen this before. Like in a movie. A guy pushes a girl on the swing. Very romantic."
"It's not that romantic. Trust."
"Mm." There's another push. "In the movie, they usually end up doing it in the bushes after."
You kick your feet out, trying to go higher. "What ?"
"You heard it right."
"You're disgusting."
"You're the one who wanted to come here."
He pushes one more time before he steps back. The swing slows gradually, the arc shrinking until you're just swaying. He walks around and sits down on the swing beside you, the chains groaning under his weight. He's taller than you so his legs stretch out longer, boots dragging in the wood chips.
"Be careful," he says, watching you swing forward again. "You're gonna flip over the bar."
"I'm not even that high."
"You could be."
"You worry too much."
He shakes his head. "I just don't want you to stain my new car if you get yourself hurt."
You push off again, swinging higher this time, the chains straining. The wind whistles past your ears. For a second you feel like you could lift right off the seat and keep going.
"See?" you call out. "I'm fine."
"You're gonna eat shit."
"I don't care."
It's a challenge and he hears it. You see him tense from the corner of your eye. You can feel that he's off his swing, boots crunching toward you, and before you can swing back again, his hands are on your waist.
He catches you mid-arc, steadying you, slowing the momentum. His fingers press into your sides through your sweater. The swing creaks to a halt, your feet finding the wood chips, his body so close that you could feel the heat radiating through his leather jacket.
"I know you care," he says quietly. "You just pretend you don't."
You're looking up at him, your hands still on the chains and his on your waist. The sky is almost dark now and a single light on the playground flickers to life somewhere behind him.
"I don't know," you say. "Maybe I learned from the best."
His thumbs press into your waist, just slightly. Something in his face softens.
"Come on," he says, letting go and stepping back. "It's getting dark."
He doesn't wait for you, already walking toward the path, hands back in his pockets, back to his usual distance.
You watch him for a second, then push off the swing one last time, just to feel the air rush past.
He stops and looks back at you. "Are you coming or not?"
"Yeah," you say, hopping off the swing. "I'm coming."
───
One week after, and he disappeared again without a single text, like he always did, but this time it hurt more than usual. It would've hurt less if you haven't hang out with him like there was a title for what you were for each other. But here you are. The lecture hall is half-empty because it's Friday and no one wants to be here, including the professor. You're slouched in your seat while Jess doodles in the margin of her notebook. The guy in front of you is watching YouTube on his laptop with the brightness all the way down. No one seems to care today.
Your phone buzzes against the desk. You glance at the screen. ‘Ni-ki’
Ni-ki [10:22 AM]
going out of town for the weekend
you can fuck anyone u want
don’t wait for me.
You stare at it for a while. You don't know what to say because there's nothing to say. Why is he giving you permission for something you never asked permission for ?
Jess notices your face. "What?"
You turn the phone toward her. She reads it, and her expression shifts from curious to annoyed.
"That's weird," she says quietly.
"Yeah."
"He found another chick, maybe." She chuckled before going back to her doodles.
You lock the phone and set it face-down on the desk. The rest of the lecture drags and sit there, replaying the message in your head, trying to figure out what it actually means.
───
After class, you wait until you're outside, standing under the covered walkway where the smokers hang out. Jess lingers nearby, pretending to check her phone but definitely listening.
You call him.
It rings four times. You think he's going to ignore it, but then he picks up.
"Hey." His voice is flat, sounding like he’s distracted.
"Ni-ki." You grip your phone tighter. "What was that message?"
"What message."
"The one about me fucking whoever I want."
You hear him exhale ; he’s smoking a cigarette. "Just saying. You have options."
"I don't want options."
He's quiet for a second. "Why not?"
The question catches you off guard. You expected him to brush it off, to say it was nothing, to change the subject but not this.
"Because I don't," you say. "I'd rather not, with anyone else."
Another exhale, his voice lower now. "You make that sound like a bad thing."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." You already know it's not nothing. The tone he takes when he says it ; clipped and distant, it sounds like he’s already out of the conversation.
You lean against the brick wall, watching people stream past with their coffee cups and backpacks. Jess catches your eye and you shake your head slightly.
"Ni-ki," you say, " What's happening ? You've been distant again for a whole week without texting me once, even after you said that you would work on it. Are you fucking someone else ?"
He doesn't answer right away. The silence stretches, and you can hear the faint sound of traffic wherever he is, maybe already driving out of town.
"That's not it," he says finally.
"Then what is it?"
"I don't know." His voice cracks a little. "I’m—I don't know what this is…and I don't know why you keep showing up when I keep being an asshole."
You close your eyes. "Could be that I like assholes."
"You really shouldn't."
"Yeah but that's not your call."
He laughs in frustration. "See? That's the problem. You don't let me push you away. You just keep coming back and I don't know how to handle that."
Your chest aches. "So you're leaving for the weekend because you can't handle me staying?"
"I'm leaving for the weekend because my dad wants to have a conversation about my future and I need to get it over with." He pauses. "The text was...I don't know. A test."
"A test for what?"
"To see if you'd get mad."
"Did I pass?"
"You got mad. So yes." He sighs, and you can hear the exhaustion in it. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to not be that guy who sends impulsive texts and pushes people away."
You slide down the wall until you're sitting on the concrete, knees pulled up to your chest. Jess sits down next to you without saying anything, her shoulder warm against yours.
"Just go see your dad," you say. "Text me when you get back."
"You're not going to fuck anyone else?"
"Why do you keep asking me that?"
"Because I need to hear you say it."
You swallow. The words feel too heavy. You say them anyway.
"I don't want anyone else. Just you. Even when you're being an asshole."
Long silence. "Okay. Love you."
"Wait wha—"
He hangs up. And you sit there on the sidewalk with Jess, phone in your lap, trying to process what he just said. You know it’s going to hurt as he doesn’t want you to stay. He’s an asshole and you’re aware of it. But you can’t help but see the broken person he is, wanting to take care of him and give him everything he needs.
───
You've been staring at it for an hour now, counting the seconds between the creaks of the old building settling. The clock on your nightstand says 11:47 PM, then 11:58, then 12:03.
Sunday night. He was supposed to be back by now. He didn't say when exactly, but Thursday to Sunday felt like a window that's already closed.
You checked your phone maybe 40 times since Friday, but no messages nor calls. You're stuck on the same text thread sitting there, his last words about fucking whoever you want that you haven't responded.
Your eyes are heavy but your brain won't shut up. You turn onto your side, then onto your back, then onto your stomach. Everything is wrong.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand and you grab it before the second vibration.
Jake's name.
You don't talk to Jake often, maybe a few times in group chats. He's not the type to call you at midnight for no reason.
You answer. "Hello?"
"Hey, Y/N." His voice is different. "Sorry to call so late. You heard from Ni-ki?"
Your stomach drops. "No. Why?"
A pause on his end. You can hear him exhale. "He left Thursday, right? He said he was going to see his dad and was supposed to be back Saturday. It's Sunday now and no one's heard from him. Not me, not Jay, not even Jungwon. His phone's going straight to voicemail."
You sit up, your heart pounding. "Have you tried calling his house?"
"Yeah. No answer. I don't have the landline or whatever. I just have his cell."
You swing your legs over the side of the bed, already standing. "Okay. Let me try something."
"You think he's okay?"
"I don't know." You're pulling on a hoodie, tucking the phone between your ear and shoulder. "I'll call you back."
"Alright. Be careful."
You hang up and immediately dial Ni-ki's number. It rings once, twice, three times. Then voicemail. You call again. It goes straight to voicemail this time. Not even a single ring.
You try one more time but nothing.
The clock says 12:15 now. You stare at your reflection in the dark window. Your own face looks back, pale and anxious.
You text him.
You [12:16 AM]
Hey
Jake said you're not back
Call me when you get this.
Then you lie back down, but you don't sleep.
───
It's Monday morning. You skipped your first class, you could afford to miss.
You take the bus. You don't know why you bother with the bus when he's not there to pick you up, but walking would take an hour and you don't have the patience for that
The house looks the same as always. Big and quiet. The gate is closed but not locked. You push it open and walk up the driveway, the gravel crunching under your sneakers.
You ring the doorbell. The door opens, but not by much. An older man stands there, maybe in his sixties, wearing a simple button-up shirt. You've seen him before, once, maybe twice, always in the background. The butler, you guess or the house manager, something like that.
"Can I help you?" His voice is polite but guarded.
"I'm looking for Ni-ki. His friends haven't heard from him since Thursday." You try to keep your voice steady. "Is he here?"
The butler hesitates. His eyes scan your face, probably deciding if you're worth talking to.
"Mr. Riki is not currently at the residence," he says.
"When will he be back?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
You feel frustration building in your chest. "Is he okay? Did something happen with his dad?"
The man's expression doesn't change. "I'm afraid I can't discuss the family's private matters."
"Please." Your voice cracks. "I'm not some random person. I'm his...I'm a friend. He's not answering his phone. We're all worried."
The butler looks at you in slience. He then glances over his shoulder, into the dark hallway behind him, before stepping out onto the porch and pulling the door mostly shut behind him.
"He left for his father's estate on Thursday afternoon," the man says quietly like he's not supposed to be telling you this. "There was a scheduled meeting regarding his future. Finances, education, that sort of thing." He pauses. "I have not seen him since. The family's driver returned alone on Saturday."
Your heart drops. "Alone? Where is he?"
"I don't know. I wasn't told." His voice softens slightly. "If you're a friend of his, I would suggest waiting. He tends to...disappear, when things get difficult."
That's totally the opposite reassuring.
"Can you at least tell him I came by?" you ask. "Y/N. He has my number."
The butler nods once. "I'll relay the message."
He steps back inside and closes the door. You stand on the porch for a minute, staring at the wood grain, your hands shaking. Afterwards you turn and walk back down the driveway, gravel biting through the soles of your shoes.
You call Jake on the way to the bus stop. He picks up immediately.
"Anything?" he asks.
"No. He's not there. The butler said the driver came back alone on Saturday." You swallow. "No one knows where he is."
Jake is quiet for a second. "That's not like him."
You want to say that you don't know what's like him anymore. That every time you think you understand, he does something else.
"Yeah," you say instead. "I know."
The bus pulls up. You get on, find a seat by the window, and watch the big house shrink behind you until it's just a smudge in the distance.
───
The best you could was getting to Jess's apartment. You've been sitting on her couch for twenty minutes, not really watching whatever Jake has on the TV, not really listening to Jay argue with him about something related to F1. Your phone is faced down on the coffee table. You stopped checking it an hour ago.
Jess is in the kitchen, the sound of running water and the clink of a mug against the counter. You can smell tea, something herbal.
"You good?" Jay asks from the armchair, not looking at you, because he's learned from Jess that direct eye contact when you're upset makes you clam up.
"No," you say. "But it's fine, I guess."
Jake glances over. "Still no word?"
You shake your head.
The TV is playing some local news channel. A middle-aged woman is talking about a road closure downtown. You tune it out.
Jess comes in with a tray of mugs, setting it on the coffee table. She hands you one without asking if you want it. The mug is warm against your palms.
"Thanks," you murmur.
She sits next to you. "Have you eaten?"
"Not really."
"I'll order something later."
You nod. The TV cuts to a breaking news graphic ; red and white, it seems urgent.
"We're receiving reports of a shooting in the industrial district," the anchor says, her voice steady but grave. "Details are limited, but we understand the altercation occurred around 2:00 this afternoon and involved individuals associated with drug dealing and money laundering operations in the area."
Jake whistles low. "Damn. That part of town is getting worse."
Jay shushes him.
"One person has been confirmed shot," the anchor continues. "According to sources close to the investigation, the victim is reportedly a tall male in his early twenties. He is believed to be the son of a prominent entrepreneur in the region. Authorities have not released a name pending family notification, but we have obtained a photo from witnesses who apparently recognized the victim during the scene."
The screen cuts to a photograph.
Your hand freezes around the mug.
It's him. Ni-ki. The photo is from some event ; he's in a dark jacket, looking off to the side, jaw set, eyes half-lidded.
"The victim's identity has not been officially confirmed," the anchor says as text scrolls across the bottom of the screen. "However, our sources indicate that the body has not yet been recovered from the scene. Police are continuing their investigation."
The mug slips from your fingers. It hits the coffee table and tea spills everywhere, soaking a magazine, dripping onto the carpet. You're staring at the screen, at his face, at the words scrolling past.
Body not recovered.
Jess grabs your arm. "Y/N. Y/N, breathe."
Jake is standing now, phone already in his hand, calling Jungwon. Jay is frozen, eyes wide, looking between you and the TV, still not believing what he saw. The anchor moves on to the next story and the graphic disappears. The screen fills with footage of a city council meeting.
You don't remember standing up but you're on your feet now, and the room is spinning, Jess is saying your name over and over, and all you can think is : His body hasn't been found.
Which means he could be alive, or he could be dead.
You don't know anything at all.
@kookieterry @wonderikii @rikisloverrr @icryforenhypen @hyyhwriter @nodoubtily @teddyberryy @genienha @simjakeyjake @2dolcee @heartheejake
WGFT - Lee Heeseung part 1
Pairing: senior!heeseung x loser!fem!reader Genre: slowburn, college!au, smut MDNI, comedy, fluff, socially challenged fem!reader, misunderstanding, he fell first he fell harder Synopsis: The hopeless romantic you are decided to confess and give a heartfelt letter to your all time crush but fate decided otherwise and made you confess to the wrong person...the so-called womanizer of campus, Lee Heeseung. Maybe you should have just keep your feelings to yourself...or maybe it was a sign from the universe. Warnings: footjob, swearing, oral (fem!rec), fingering WC: 17k Note: This one is a long one guys (just so you know), I really wanted to try putting more efforts in my writing and do something longer than I usually do, I don't know if people tend to read the shorter or longer fics but well... I'm really proud of myself for writing more detailed and polished fics, especially knowing that I'm a lazy person who usually do the bare minimum.
"You're a disaster...but God help me if I don't want to be a disaster with you for the rest of my life"
You’re staring at your own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and the girl staring back looks like she’s about to either throw up or ascend to another dimension. Maybe both. In that order.
The letter is clutched so tightly in your hand that the pale lavender envelope is starting to crease, and you force yourself to loosen your grip before you ruin the one thing you’ve spent three weeks perfecting. Three weeks. That’s twenty-one days of drafting, crossing out, rewriting, Googling “how to write a love letter without sounding like a desperate loser,” and then rewriting again. You’ve used up an entire pack of stationery. You’ve watched so many calligraphy tutorials that the YouTube algorithm thinks you’re training to become a medieval scribe. All for this one moment. This one letter. This one massive, terrifying, possibly life-ruining leap of faith.
You are a hopeless romantic. Hopeless being the operative word.
It’s not that you don’t believe in love. You do. Desperately, overwhelmingly, with every fiber of your first-year STEM student soul. You believe in meet-cutes and slow burns and the exact moment when two people look at each other and the entire world goes soft around the edges. You’ve read about it a hundred times. You’ve watched it play out on every screen you own. You’ve composed entire daydreams about it during particularly boring chemistry lectures. Love is your favorite subject, the one you’ve studied with more dedication than calculus or physics combined. There’s just one tiny, inconvenient, absolutely infuriating problem.
You’re terrified of it.
Not the idea of it. The idea is lovely. The idea is safe. The idea lives in your head where everything unfolds exactly the way you want it to, where you always say the right thing, where you never trip over your own feet or laugh too loud at the wrong moment or stand frozen in a doorway like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. But real love? The kind that requires vulnerability and eye contact and actually speaking words out loud with your mouth? That kind of love makes your palms sweat and your heart race in a decidedly unromantic, fight-or-flight kind of way. You are, and this is the most embarrassing part, a coward. A romantic coward. You dream of grand gestures but can barely manage a coherent sentence when an attractive person so much as glances in your direction.
Which brings you back to the letter.
The letter is your loophole. Your workaround. Your way of confessing your feelings without actually having to say them, because writing them down felt manageable in a way that speaking never has. You can be eloquent on paper. On paper, you can say things like “the first time I saw your smile, it felt like someone had turned on all the lights in a room I didn’t even realize was dark” without immediately wanting to crawl into the nearest hole and live out the rest of your days an hermit. On paper, you’re brave. On paper, you’re the kind of person who goes after what she wants.
In reality, you’ve been hiding in this bathroom for fifteen minutes, and your hands are shaking so badly that a passing person would think you are having an epileptic seizure.
“Okay,” you whisper to your reflection. “Okay. You can do this. You are a woman on a mission. You are a warrior. You are-”
A toilet flushes in one of the stalls behind you, and you nearly launch yourself through the ceiling.
A girl you vaguely recognize from your introductory programming class emerges, gives you an odd look as she washes her hands, and leaves without saying anything. You wait until the door swings shut, then press your forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and contemplate every life choice that has led you to this moment.
His name is Jungwon.
Yang Jungwon. Second year. Undeclared major but leaning toward something in the humanities, which you know because you may have done a bit of light, respectful, completely non-creepy research. He has a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and a laugh that sounds like sunshine if sunshine could make noise, and he holds doors open for people even when they’re still like ten feet away, which creates that awkward situation where the person has to speed-walk to not seem rude, but he never seems to mind. You first noticed him at the campus library during midterms when he quietly slid a pack of gummy bears across the table toward you at 2 AM, muttering something about glucose being good for brain function, and then went back to his book like he hadn’t just fundamentally altered the trajectory of your entire emotional existence.
That was four months ago. You’ve been pining ever since. Pining, yearning, longing, you’ve run through the entire lexicon of unrequited affection, and you’re exhausted. Today, you’ve decided, is the day it ends. One way or another.
You push yourself off the mirror, square your shoulders, and march out of the bathroom with the determination of someone going to war. The envelope is slightly damp from your grip, but it’s still intact, and the words inside are still true, and somewhere on this campus, Yang Jungwon is about to receive the most heartfelt confession letter ever written by a first-year student who has consumed an unhealthy amount of romance media.
Now you just have to find him.
—————
The hallway is bustling with students, the usual midday chaos of people rushing to classes or huddling in groups to complain about assignments. You scan the crowd, looking for a familiar face that might point you in the right direction, and your eyes land on a guy leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone with the dead-eyed expression of someone who has just finished a three-hour lab.
“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out about an octave higher than normal. You clear your throat. “Sorry, um, do you know where I can find Yang Jungwon? Second year?”
The guy looks up, blinks slowly, deciding whether or not to acknowledge your presence, and then shrugs. “PC room, I think. Saw him heading there like twenty minutes ago.”
The PC room. Of course. It’s in the engineering and informatics building, a place you’ve rarely ever been to. But you know where it is, roughly, and you thank the guy with what you hope is a normal smile and not the rictus grin of someone rushing toward emotional catastrophe.
The walk across campus takes approximately seven minutes, and you spend every single one of them rehearsing what you’re going to say. You’ve already written the letter, so technically you don’t have to say anything, you can just hand it over and flee but you want to say something. Something cool. Something memorable.
“Hey, Jungwon, this is for you.” Simple. Direct. Good.
“I wrote you something. No pressure, just read it when you have time.” Casual. Low-stakes. Excellent.
“Hi, I’ve been emotionally compromised by your existence for several months, please accept this paper rectangle of feelings.” Okay, maybe not that one.
The engineering building looms in front of you before you’re ready. You push through the main doors and immediately feel out of place. The students here move with a different energy, less frantic, more focused, the kind of people who probably know what a server is and have opinions about programming languages you’ve never heard of.
You follow the signs toward the PC room, your footsteps echoing in the corridor, and with every step, your heart climbs higher up your throat. This is it. This is the moment. You’re going to walk in there, find Jungwon, hand him the letter, and then whatever happens happens. At least you’ll have tried. At least you’ll have been brave, even if it’s only for thirty seconds.
The door to the PC room is slightly ajar, and you can hear voices inside, multiple voices, which gives you pause. You assumed he’d be alone. Or with maybe one other person.
You hesitate. Your hand hovers over the door handle. Every instinct is screaming at you to turn around, go back to your dorm, and spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been. And maybe you would, if not for the small, stubborn voice in the back of your mind that says: You’ve already come this far. Don’t you want to know? Don’t you want to be the kind of person who actually does the thing instead of just dreaming about it?
Yes. Yes, you do.
You squeeze your eyes shut, take a breath so deep it makes you lightheaded, and push the door open with more force than strictly necessary. It slams against the wall with a bang that makes approximately twelve heads swivel in your direction, and for one horrifying moment, you are the center of attention in a room full of strangers.
But you don’t see any of them. You only see the figure sitting at the computer closest to the door, his back half-turned to you, hair falling over his forehead, the exact silhouette you’ve been looking for. Or at least, the exact silhouette you think you’ve been looking for.
You don’t stop to confirm. You don’t let yourself think. You just march forward, thrust the letter out in front of you like a shield, and launch into the speech you’ve been rehearsing for three weeks.
“This is for you. I’m sorry if this is weird or sudden but I’ve liked you for a really long time and I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. You don’t have to respond right away. You don’t have to respond ever, actually. I just wanted you to know that someone out there thinks you’re wonderful and I wrote it all down because I’m better at writing than talking and honestly I might pass out if I keep standing here so please just take this and I’ll go-”
You finally look up.
And the face staring back at you is absolutely, categorically, one hundred percent not Jungwon.
The boy in front of you is taller than Jungwon. Broader shoulders. Sharper jawline. Different eyes, darker, deeper, currently widened in a mixture of surprise and something you can’t quite read. His lips are parted slightly, as if he was about to say something before you launched into your emotional word-vomit, and he’s holding a half-eaten protein bar that’s now frozen halfway to his mouth.
The room has gone completely, utterly silent.
You can feel the stares of every single person boring into the back of your head. Someone coughs. Someone else whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “did she just-” before being shushed by their neighbor.
And then the boy, the very handsome, very wrong boy, sets down his protein bar, takes the letter gently from your trembling hand, and says in a voice that’s low and smooth and completely unfamiliar: “Wow. Okay. What’s your name?”
This is the worst moment of your entire life. You are going to die right here, in this PC room, surrounded by computer monitors and half-empty energy drink cans and a dozen witnesses who will spread this story to every corner of the university within the next three hours. Your obituary will read: here lies Y/N, the loser who can’t even recognize her ultimate crush.
“Y/N,” you croak, because your mouth is apparently still functioning even though every other part of you has shut down. “L/N Y/N. First year. STEM.”
You don’t know why you said STEM. He didn’t ask for your department. You’re offering information nobody requested. This is a disaster.
But the boy, he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t decipher, his head tilted slightly to the side like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. He’s wearing a dark hoodie with the informatics department logo on it, and there’s a pair of expensive-looking headphones draped around his neck, and his hair is slightly mussed in a way that suggests he’s been running his fingers through it while concentrating. He’s absurdly good-looking, the kind of good-looking that makes you simultaneously want to stare and look away, and you’re only now noticing the way several girls in the room have been watching him since you entered, not just because of your blunder, but because they’ve been watching him.
“I’m Heeseung,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”
Lee Heeseung. The name registers somewhere in the back of your panic-addled brain. It’s familiar in the way that campus gossip is familiar, attached to words like hot and player and don’t get your hopes up because he’ll charm you and then move on. You’ve heard girls in your dorm talking about him in hushed, giggling tones, trading stories about brief encounters and misinterpreted invitations. And you, in your infinite wisdom, have just handed a love letter meant for someone else directly into his notorious hands.
You have to fix this. You have to tell him it was a mistake. You have to-
“I’m flattered,” Heeseung says, and his smile widens slightly, not quite a smirk but definitely approaching smirk territory. “Really. This is... I mean, no one’s ever confessed to me with an actual letter before. It’s kind of old school.” He turns the envelope over in his hands, examining it with what seems like genuine curiosity. “The handwriting is really pretty. Did you do the calligraphy yourself?”
“Yes,” you say, because you are physically incapable of lying when put on the spot, and also because your brain has apparently decided that the best course of action is to just answer whatever questions he asks like this is a normal conversation and not the emotional equivalent of a tornado.
“Impressive.” He looks at you, really looks at you, and something shifts in his expression. The teasing edge softens just a fraction. “A confession is a lot, though. I mean, I’m honored, but we don’t even know each other.”
This is your opening. This is the moment where you say “actually, that’s because this letter wasn’t meant for you, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, I’m so sorry, please forget this ever happened.” The words are right there, lined up on your tongue, ready to go.
But the room is still watching. A dozen pairs of eyes. The whispers have stopped, but the staring hasn’t, and you can feel every single gaze like a physical weight pressing down on you. If you correct him now, in front of everyone, you’ll have to explain. You’ll have to admit that you walked into a crowded room and confessed to the wrong person like an absolute buffoon. You’ll become a campus legend for all the wrong reasons: the girl who was too stupid to even identify her own crush. The story will follow you for the rest of your university career. You’ll never live it down.
But if you just... let him believe it... if you just nod and agree and leave as quickly as possible... you can fix this later. Privately. Without an audience. You can find him tomorrow, or send him a message, or do literally anything other than humiliate yourself further in front of all these people.
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“I know,” you hear yourself say. “It’s a lot. I know.”
Heeseung nods thoughtfully, like you’ve said something profound. “But I’m not against it. Starting slow, I mean. If you want.”
What.
“What,” you say, but it comes out more like a statement than a question.
“I’m okay with starting slow,” he repeats, and now the smile is definitely back, a little crooked, a little curious. “You’re cute. And clearly brave. I like that. So if you want to, I don’t know, get coffee sometime and see where this goes... I’m open to it.”
Someone in the room lets out a low whistle. Someone else says “Heeseung, are you serious right now?” in a tone of utter disbelief. But Heeseung doesn’t look away from you. He’s waiting for your answer, his gaze steady and warm, and you are standing in the epicenter of a complete and total catastrophe with absolutely no idea how to get out.
Say no. Say it was a mistake. Say the truth.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Okay?! Okay?!
“Okay,” he echoes, and the smile breaks fully across his face, transforming him from handsome to devastating. “Good. I’ll find you. Y/N, first year, STEM, right?”
You nod mutely.
“Cool.” He tucks your letter carefully into the pocket of his hoodie, like it’s something precious, like he’s planning to read it later, and the gesture makes your stomach twist with guilt so intense you think you might actually be sick. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”
You don’t remember leaving the room. You don’t remember the walk back across campus or the elevator ride to your floor or the moment you collapsed face-first onto your dorm bed. All you know is that one moment you were standing in the PC room, and the next you are here, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single agonizing second on an endless loop.
You confessed to the wrong person.
You confessed to the wrong person.
And for some reason that you absolutely cannot comprehend, he said yes.
Across campus, in a PC room that has finally returned to its normal hum of activity, Lee Heeseung pulls a slightly crumpled lavender envelope out of his hoodie pocket and stares at it for a long moment.
“Dude,” says his friend Jay from the next computer over, not bothering to hide his grin. “What just happened?”
“I don’t know,” Heeseung says honestly. And he doesn’t. He’s used to attention, he knows how to handle it, how to smile and nod and gently redirect without hurting anyone’s feelings. It’s a skill he’s developed over the years, the only way he knows to deal with the unfortunate side effect of his people-pleasing tendencies. He’s nice to someone, he helps them with an assignment, he holds a door open or offers a pen, and suddenly they’re looking at him with stars in their eyes, and he doesn’t know how to tell them that he was just trying to be polite without sounding like an arrogant jerk. So he lets them down easy, or he avoids the situation entirely, and his reputation grows in ways that don’t reflect the truth at all.
But this, this is new. A letter. An actual, physical, handwritten letter, with swooping calligraphy and a lavender envelope and a girl who looked so terrified that he thought she might actually pass out right there on the linoleum floor.
She looked at him like he was a natural disaster. Like she was watching a building collapse in slow motion and couldn’t do anything to stop it.
And then she said okay anyway.
“She’s interesting,” Heeseung murmurs, more to himself than to Jay, and carefully opens the envelope.
“Interesting how?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy reading, his eyes moving slowly across the carefully penned words, the ink slightly smudged in places where the writer’s hand might have trembled. It’s beautiful. It’s earnest. It’s the kind of letter that someone writes when they mean every single word, when they’ve poured their entire heart onto the page without holding anything back.
He’s never received anything like it before.
And he wants to know more about the girl who wrote it, the girl who burst into his afternoon like a hurricane of nerves and feelings.
“Jay,” he says, still staring at the letter, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I think something interesting just walked into my life.”
He doesn’t notice the way his friend shakes his head and mutters something about “here we go again.”
He’s too busy wondering when he’ll see Y/N next.
—————
The following forty-eight hours of your life can be accurately described as a masterclass in strategic avoidance and tactical regret.
You skip two classes. Not on purpose, exactly, you just can’t bring yourself to leave your dorm room when every shadow in the hallway might be Lee Heeseung coming to collect on that coffee date you apparently agreed to in a moment of temporary insanity. You survive on instant noodles and the protein bars your friend left on her desk with a sticky note that said “FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY,” which this absolutely qualifies as. You watch three entire seasons of Bridgerton without retaining a single moment because your brain is too busy replaying the PC room incident on a continuous, merciless loop.
“I’m Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”
“I’m okay with starting slow.”
“You’re cute.”
You bury your face in your pillow and scream, but it comes out muffled and pathetic, like a small animal giving up on life.
By day three, you’ve developed a system. You only leave your room during off-peak hours, skittering through campus, your head on a constant swivel. You’ve memorized the locations of every vending machine in buildings Heeseung is unlikely to frequent. You’ve started taking the long way to your remaining classes, cutting through the art department and the greenhouse and once, memorably, a service corridor that smelled strongly of bleach and soap. You’ve become a ghost. A phantom. A creature of the shadows who survives on granola bars and instant noddles.
But the problem with running away from your problems is that your problems don’t actually go anywhere. They just wait. And think about you. And eventually, when you least expect it, they catch up.
It happens on a Thursday.
You’re crouched behind a potted plant near the science building, scanning the courtyard for any sign of tall, attractive informatics students, when your phone buzzes with a text from your best friend, Yunjin.
Yunjin: heard you’ve been living like a sewer rat. want me to bring you real food?
You: can’t. i’m in the middle of a crisis
Yunjin: You’re executing what we talked about yet?
You: it’s in process
Yunjin: at the end of the day, you will have to tell him
You stare at the message for a long moment. It’s such a simple solution. So elegant. So reasonable. And yet, every time you imagine yourself walking up to Heeseung and saying “actually, I meant to give that letter to someone else,” your entire body physically recoils like you’ve touched a hot stove. The humiliation would be astronomical. The look on his face, surprise, then confusion, then that horrible moment of realization that he was never supposed to be the recipient would haunt you for the rest of your natural life. And you’d still have to explain the Jungwon part. And Jungwon would find out. And then you’d be the weird girl who couldn’t even confess to the right person, and Heeseung would be the guy who got accidentally confessed to, and everyone would laugh about it for weeks, and-
Your phone buzzes again.
Yunjin: i can hear you overthinking from across campus. just rip off the bandaid. what’s the worst that could happen
You type back a single message: he could tell everyone and i’d have to transfer schools and change my name and become a farmer in New Zeland
Yunjin: dramatic. but valid. good luck with your plant hiding
You shove your phone back into your pocket and peek around the potted plant again. The courtyard is clear. This is your window. You take a deep breath, steel your nerves, and scuttle out from behind the foliage.
The plan for today is simple: find Heeseung, explain the misunderstanding, and disappear forever. You’ve spent the entire morning psyching yourself up for this. You’ve practiced the speech in the mirror seventeen times. You’ve even written a script on your phone that you can refer to in case of emergency. It’s thorough, it’s clear, it leaves absolutely no room for misinterpretation, and it ends with a sincere apology and a polite request that you both pretend this never happened. It’s perfect. It’s foolproof. All you have to do is locate the target.
Easier said than done. You’ve been looking for him since yesterday, not to talk to, but to observe from a safe distance so you could plan your approach and the universe, in its infinite comedic wisdom, has made him completely unfindable. It’s like he vanished off the face of the earth the moment you actually wanted to see him. Three days ago, you couldn’t walk three feet without catching a glimpse of him, but now? Now he’s a ghost. A myth. A concept rather than a physical entity.
You’re going to have to ask for help.
This is, objectively, a terrible idea. Asking for help means talking to people, and talking to people about Heeseung means potentially revealing that you’re looking for him, which means potentially revealing why you’re looking for him, which means the whole campus could know about the letter situation by lunchtime. But you’re running out of options, and you’re running out of granola bars, and you can’t live behind potted plants forever.
You find your informant near the engineering building, a girl with neon green headphones and a laptop covered in stickers, sitting on a bench and typing furiously at something that looks like code. She seems approachable. She seems like she won’t ask too many questions. You approach with what you hope is casual confidence and not the desperate energy of someone who has been living on protein bars.
“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out surprisingly normal. Points for you. “Do you know where I can find Lee Heeseung? Third year, informatics?”
The girl looks up, her eyes flicking over you with mild curiosity. She doesn’t ask why you’re looking for him, which makes you want to hug her. “Heeseung? Yeah, I think I saw him heading to the quad about ten minutes ago. Something about meeting up with some people before his next class.”
The quad. Of course. The most open, public, exposed location on the entire campus. The place where literally everyone congregates. The absolute last place you want to have a conversation about accidental love confessions.
“Great,” you say, and your voice is definitely an octave higher now. “Great. Thank you. Thanks. So much.”
The girl gives you a weird look, shrugs, and goes back to her coding.
You’re already moving, your feet carrying you toward the quad before your brain can catch up and talk you out of it. This is fine. This is progress. You’ll find him, you’ll pull him aside, you’ll give him the speech, and then you’ll be free. You’ll be a normal person again. You’ll be able to walk through campus without checking every corner for a tall informatics student who thinks you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date.
The quad is bustling when you arrive, clusters of students sprawled across the grass and gathered around the stone benches near the fountain. The afternoon sun is bright and warm, the kind of weather that makes everyone want to be outside, which is lovely and picturesque and deeply inconvenient for your purposes. You squint against the glare, scanning the crowd for a familiar dark-haired figure.
No Heeseung.
You circle the perimeter, weaving between groups of friends and dodging a frisbee that comes sailing dangerously close to your head. You check near the fountain, near the big oak tree, near the cluster of food trucks that’s set up along the east edge. Still no Heeseung. Your informant said ten minutes ago, he should be here. Unless he already left. Unless you missed him. Unless this is a sign from the universe that you should give up and commit to the farmer life plan after all.
You’re so focused on your search that you don’t notice someone approaching until a shadow falls across your path, and a voice, warm, familiar, the exact voice you’ve been daydreaming about for four months, says:
“Y/N? Hey, it is you!”
You look up.
Yang Jungwon is standing right in front of you, smiling like the sun just came out from behind a cloud, and every single coherent thought in your brain immediately evaporates.
He’s wearing a soft-looking cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his dark hair is slightly windswept, and there’s a tiny mole near his chin that you’ve never noticed before but is now seared into your memory forever. He’s holding a book, something with a cracked spine and a title in a language you don’t recognize and he’s looking at you with genuine, undiluted pleasure, like running into you is the best thing that’s happened to him all day.
“It’s me,” you say, because you are a conversational genius. “I mean. Yes. Hi. Hello.”
Smooth. Flawless execution. Ten out of ten.
Jungwon doesn’t seem to notice your complete lack of verbal grace. His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in exactly the way you’ve catalogued in your mental Jungwon database. “I thought I recognized you. You’re in my philosophy elective, right? Front row, near the window?”
He knows where you sit. He knows where you sit. This is both the best and worst information you’ve ever received, because on one hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, but on the other hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, and now you have to be a normal human being and not the disaster you currently are.
“Front row near the window,” you confirm, nodding a little too vigorously. “That’s me. I like the natural light. For... note-taking purposes.”
“Makes sense.” He shifts his weight, tucking the book under his arm. “You take really detailed notes, by the way. I sat behind you once, and I was honestly impressed. Your color-coding system is no joke.”
Jungwon has looked at your notes. Jungwon has been impressed by your notes. Your brain is short-circuiting at approximately the speed of light, and you have to physically resist the urge to fist-pump in the middle of the quad.
“Thank you,” you manage. “I have a lot of highlighters. Maybe too many. Is there such a thing as too many highlighters? I don’t think so, but I’ve been told my stationery collection is concerning.”
Oh no. Why are you talking about stationery? You need to say something charming. Something witty. Something that will make him see you as more than the girl with the aggressive color-coding system.
“I don’t think it’s concerning,” Jungwon says, and there’s a teasing lilt to his voice that makes your knees go weak. “Passionate, maybe. Dedicated. I respect it.”
“Passionate and dedicated,” you repeat faintly. “That’s... yeah. That’s my brand.”
He laughs, and it’s exactly like you remember, bright and warm, the kind of laugh that makes you want to do whatever you just did again and again just to hear it on repeat. “I like it. Passion is underrated.” He tilts his head, studying you with an expression you can’t quite read. “So what brings you to the quad? You usually eat lunch in the science building courtyard, don’t you?”
Your heart stutters. He knows where you eat lunch. He’s observed your habits. This is either a sign of mutual interest or you’ve accidentally become the subject of a sociological case study, and at this point you’re willing to accept either outcome.
“I’m, um, looking for someone,” you say, and the confession letter debacle comes crashing back into your consciousness like a wrecking ball through a glass window. Right. You’re supposed to be finding Heeseung. You’re supposed to be fixing the misunderstanding. That’s why you’re here. Not to bask in the radiant warmth of Jungwon’s attention like a lizard on a sunny rock.
“Anyone I know?” Jungwon asks, and there’s something in his tone, curiosity, maybe.
“Probably not,” you say quickly. “Just a... just a person. A random person. Not important.”
Jungwon raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but before he can press further, a new voice cuts through the afternoon air like a knife through butter.
“There you are.”
You freeze. Your blood turns to ice. Every cell in your body screams in unison: run.
Lee Heeseung is walking toward you across the quad, his headphones hanging around his neck and his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket. He looks exactly as devastatingly attractive as he did three days ago, which is deeply unfair. His expression is a mixture of curiosity and amusement, and when his eyes meet yours, that slight smile, the one that’s not quite a smirk but definitely is a smirk’s second cousin, curves across his lips.
“I heard you’ve been looking for me,” he says, coming to a stop beside Jungwon like this is the most natural gathering in the world. “You know, if you wanted to see me, you could have just messaged. I would have given you my number at the PC room.”
Jungwon looks between you and Heeseung with visible confusion, his earlier smile fading into something more guarded. “Wait. You two know each other?”
This is it. This is the moment the universe has been building toward. Every terrible decision, every act of cowardice, every misguided attempt to avoid embarrassment, it’s all led here, to this exact spot on the quad, with the wrong guy standing next to the right guy and your entire romantic future hanging in the balance.
“I wouldn’t say know,” you begin, but Heeseung is already talking over you, apparently immune to the desperate telepathic signals you’re trying to beam directly into his brain.
“She confessed to me two days ago,” Heeseung says, and his tone is so casual, so conversational, like he’s discussing the weather or what he had for lunch. “Walked right into the PC room, handed me a letter, told me she’d liked me for a long time. It was very romantic. Very old-school. I was impressed.”
Silence. Jungwon stares at Heeseung. Then at you. Then back at Heeseung.
“She... confessed to you,” Jungwon repeats slowly, and his voice has gone flat in a way that makes your heart splinter into approximately seven thousand pieces.
“Full confession,” Heeseung confirms, still smiling. “I’m thinking we’ll start with coffee. Keep it simple, you know? She’s shy. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”
This is a nightmare. This is a waking, breathing, actively-unfolding nightmare, and you are trapped in it like a fly in amber, unable to move or speak or do anything except watch as every possible future with Jungwon crumbles to dust before your eyes.
Because here’s the thing you realize in that horrible, crystal-clear moment: you can’t correct Heeseung now. Not in front of Jungwon. Not when Jungwon has just been told, in no uncertain terms, that you confessed to someone else. If you explain the truth, that the letter was actually meant for Jungwon, that the whole thing was a catastrophic mistake, then what? Jungwon would know you’d been planning to confess to him, but he’d also know that you somehow managed to mess it up so spectacularly that you confessed to his friend instead. You’d look incompetent at best and completely unhinged at worst. And Heeseung would be humiliated, and Jungwon would be awkward, and you’d be the epicenter of a social catastrophe so immense that all three of you would have to avoid each other for the rest of your academic careers.
You are trapped. Completely, utterly, irreversibly trapped.
“Interesting,” Jungwon says, and the word is so neutral that it cuts deeper than any insult ever could. “I didn’t realize you two ran in the same circles.”
“We don’t,” you croak. “We really, really don’t.”
“We’re just getting started,” Heeseung says cheerfully, and he has the audacity to wink at you. Like this is some kind of adorable inside joke instead of the emotional apocalypse it actually is.
You have to get out of here. You have to escape before the sob building in your chest forces its way out and makes everything infinitely worse. You can feel it pressing against your ribs, hot and insistent, and if you don’t leave right now, you’re going to burst into tears in the middle of the quad in front of both of them, and then the disaster will be complete.
“I have to go,” you blurt out, and you’re already backing away, your feet moving before your brain can issue any kind of warning. “I have… a thing. A class. A lab. A lab class. It’s very important. I can’t miss it. I have to go.”
Heeseung’s brow furrows slightly. “Wait, I thought you wanted to talk to-”
“Nope! No talking! We’re good! Everything’s fine! Bye!”
You spin around and power-walk toward the nearest exit, which happens to be in the direction of the fountain, which you only realize when your foot catches on the low stone ledge and you go sprawling forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.
Your knee hits the ground. Your dignity hits the ground approximately three feet to the left. Several people turn to look.
“Y/N!” That’s Jungwon’s voice, concerned and moving closer, and you absolutely cannot handle that right now.
“I’m fine!” you shriek, scrambling to your feet with adrenaline-fueled desperation. “Totally fine! Happens all the time! I’m very clumsy! It’s part of my charm!”
You don’t look back. You can’t look back. If you look back, you’ll see Jungwon’s worried expression and Heeseung’s confused one, and you’ll have to confront the full magnitude of what just happened, and your fragile emotional state simply cannot withstand that kind of pressure. So you run. Not jog, not power-walk…run. Across the quad, past the food trucks, through a gap between two buildings, and out onto the main campus pathway like the hounds of hell are snapping at your heels.
You don’t stop until you reach the arts building, and you don’t start breathing normally until you’ve locked yourself in a practice room on the third floor, surrounded by soundproof walls and a piano that’s seen better days. You slide down against the door, pull your knees up to your chest, and let out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a wail.
Everything is ruined. Everything. You had one chance, one single, solitary chance to fix the misunderstanding and salvage your dignity and maybe, just maybe, preserve the possibility of something with Jungwon somewhere down the line. And instead, you let your hopeless romantic heart get distracted by a five-minute conversation about philosophy notes and highlighters, and now you’re the girl who confessed to Lee Heeseung, and Jungwon thinks you’re interested in someone else, and there is no conceivable way to untangle this mess without making everything exponentially worse.
You’re going to have to transfer schools. You’re going to have to move to another country. You’re going to have to fake your own death and start a new identity as a goat farmer in New Zeland.
The door handle jiggles behind you. “Occupied!” you yell, your voice cracking.
“Y/N? Is that you?”
Your best friend Yunjin’s voice filters through the door, muffled but unmistakable, and the sound of it is enough to crack the dam you’ve been desperately trying to hold together. You scramble to your feet, fumble with the lock, and yank the door open to reveal Yunjin standing in the hallway with a cup of bubble tea in each hand and an expression of profound concern on her face.
“I saw you running,” she says, her eyes scanning your disheveled appearance. “Like, truly running. I’ve never seen you run before. You once told me running was for people who don’t appreciate the journey.”
“Yunjin,” you crumble, and your voice is so pitiful that she immediately sets down both drinks and pulls you into a hug.
“Okay,” she says, steering you back into the practice room and closing the door behind her. “Okay. Sit down. Tell me everything. What happened? Did you talk to Heeseung? Did you fix it?”
You laugh, but it comes out wrong, high and wobbly, on the edge of hysteria. “Fix it? Fix it? Yunjin, I made it so much worse. I made it so much worse that I think I actually created new dimensions of worse. Scientists are going to have to invent new words to describe how badly I messed this up.”
“That’s... improbable,” Yunjin says carefully. “But I’m listening.”
She settles onto the piano bench, and you collapse onto the floor in front of her, crossing your legs and burying your face in your hands. The story spills out of you in a torrent, the quad, the search for Heeseung, the unexpected appearance of Jungwon, the conversation that made your heart soar, and then the moment Heeseung appeared like a harbinger of doom and casually announced your confession to the one person you never wanted to know about it.
“And then I fell,” you finish miserably. “In front of both of them. And I ran away. And now Jungwon thinks I like Heeseung, and Heeseung thinks I like Heeseung, and I can’t correct either of them without making everything even weirder, and my life is a romantic comedy written by a petty incel.”
Yunjin is quiet for a moment. Then she lets out a long, slow breath. “Okay. That’s... that’s a lot.”
“I know.”
“And you’re telling me you couldn’t just say, hey Heeseung, sorry for the mix-up, the letter wasn’t for you, my bad?”
You look up at her, your eyes rimmed with red. “In front of Jungwon? After Heeseung already told him I confessed? What would Jungwon think of me?”
Yunjin considers this. “That you’re a disaster, probably.”
“Exactly!”
“But a lovable disaster,” she adds. “Disasters can be endearing.”
“Yunjin, please focus.”
She holds up her hands in surrender, but there’s a glint in her eye that you recognize, the one that means she’s about to drop some wisdom on you whether you’re ready for it or not. Yunjin has been your best friend since orientation week, when you both accidentally joined the wrong club meeting and ended up spending two hours in a competitive gardening seminar before realizing your mistake. She’s practical where you’re dreamy, decisive where you’re hesitant, and she’s talked you down from approximately four hundred anxiety spirals since the semester started. If anyone can find a way out of this mess, it’s her.
“Okay,” she says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “Let me present you with an alternative perspective.”
“I’m listening.”
“Lee Heeseung,” she says, ticking off points on her fingers, “has a reputation. A big one. Everyone knows it. He’s the guy who’s super nice to everyone, especially girls, and then they fall for him and he gets all surprised when they expect something more, and then things fizzle out because he wasn’t looking for anything serious.” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “Sound familiar?”
You blink. “I mean... I’ve heard things. But he didn’t seem like-”
“That’s his whole thing,” Yunjin interrupts. “He doesn’t seem like it. That’s why it works. He likes when everyone is after him. But nice doesn’t equal interested, so girls get the wrong idea and then they get hurt. It’s a cycle.” She pops a tapioca pearl into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “My point is, you don’t need to do anything. You don’t need to fix this. You just need to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For him to get bored.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Think about it. You’re not actually interested in him, right? You’re not going to fall all over yourself trying to get his attention. You’re not going to be waiting outside his classes or accidentally showing up wherever he hangs out. You’re not going to be like every other girl who’s chased after him.”
You frown. “So... what, I just... do nothing?”
“No, you do the opposite of chasing.” Yunjin grins, and it’s slightly wicked. “You make yourself as uninteresting to him as possible. You’re awkward, you’re weird, you’re clearly not trying to impress him. You don’t dress up when you know you might see him. You talk about boring things. You mention, I don’t know, your extensive collection of vintage stamps or whatever nerdy hobby you can think of. You make yourself boring.”
“I don’t have a stamp collection.”
“Then make one up! The point is, Heeseung is used to girls who want him. If you clearly don’t want him, his interest is going to fizzle out faster than a cheap sparkler. He’ll move on to the next girl who bats her eyelashes at him, and you’ll be free. No confrontation necessary.”
You turn this over in your mind. It’s... not the worst idea you’ve ever heard. In fact, compared to your current strategy of blind panic and tactical fleeing, it’s practically genius. If you can’t correct the misunderstanding without making everything worse, maybe you can just... let it die on its own. Let Heeseung’s fabled short attention span work in your favor. Become so aggressively unappealing that he loses interest within a week and never thinks about you again.
And once he’s out of the picture, once enough time has passed, maybe you can try again with Jungwon. Properly. With better aim.
“You’re a genius,” you tell Yunjin, the hope creeping back into your voice. “An absolute genius. I could kiss you.”
“Please don’t, you’re covered in grass stains.” She nudges one of the bubble teas toward you with her foot. “Drink your tea. Hydrate. And then we’re going to brainstorm all the ways you can make yourself seem as unappealing as possible to a hot third-year informatics student.”
You grab the drink and take a long sip, the sweetness settling something in your chest. For the first time in three days, you feel something other than panic. You feel strategic. You feel determined. Lee Heeseung might think you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date, but he hasn’t met the version of you that’s about to emerge, a version so bland, so uninteresting, so aggressively mediocre that he’ll run in the opposite direction before the week is out.
“Okay,” you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Okay. Let’s do this. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested starts now.”
Yunjin raises her bubble tea in a toast. “To being boring.”
You clink your cup against hers. “To being boring.”
Somewhere across campus Heeseung is still standing in the quad with a confused expression on his face and a lavender envelope in his pocket, wondering why the girl who supposedly has a crush on him just sprinted away like she was being chased by bears.
He’s not used to this. He’s not used to any of this.
And that, he realizes with a small, bemused shake of his head, is exactly what makes it so interesting.
—————
Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested lasted exactly four days before it encountered its first major obstacle.
That obstacle is approximately six feet tall, has flowing hair that falls perfectly across his forehead, and is currently walking directly toward your table in the cafeteria with a tray in his hands and a smile on his face that suggests he has absolutely no idea he's supposed to be losing interest in you.
You spot him approximately 2.3 seconds too late. By the time your brain registers the approaching danger, you are already mid-bite into a sad cafeteria sandwich, your mouth full of bread and lettuce and the dawning realization that you are trapped. There is no escape route. Your table is in the corner, surrounded on three sides by walls and on the fourth side by Heeseung's rapidly approaching form. You are a cornered animal. A very stupid, very panicked cornered animal with mayonnaise on her chin.
"Y/N!" Heeseung says your name like it's his favorite word, bright and warm and entirely too enthusiastic for someone who's supposed to be a notorious womanizer with a short attention span. "I was hoping I'd run into you. Mind if I sit?"
Mind if he sits? Of course you mind. You mind immensely. You mind with every fiber of your being. Sitting with Heeseung is the exact opposite of what Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is supposed to accomplish. Sitting with Heeseung means talking to Heeseung, and talking to Heeseung means opportunities to accidentally charm him, and charming him is categorically Not The Goal.
But Heeseung is already pulling out the chair across from you, and his smile is so genuine, and there's a tiny bit of what looks like grease on his cheekbone that suggests he's just come from some kind of engineering lab, and you are weak. You are so, so weak.
"Go ahead," you hear yourself say, and then immediately want to punch yourself in the face.
Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested, Day Four, 12:34 PM: catastrophic failure already in progress.
Heeseung settles into the chair with an easy grace, setting his tray down and immediately stealing one of your fries like you're old friends who share food on a regular basis. You watch the fry disappear into his mouth and feel a small part of your soul leave your body.
"So," he says, leaning back and studying you with those dark, unreadable eyes. "You ran away from me pretty fast the other day. Should I be worried? Do I have something on my face?"
He doesn't. He absolutely doesn't. He has the kind of face that belongs on a billboard, all sharp angles and soft edges and that one little mole on his forehead that you are definitely not noticing because noticing things about Heeseung's face is counterproductive to the mission.
"No," you say quickly. "No, you're fine. Your face is fine. I mean, you don't have anything on your face. I just remembered I had somewhere to be. Very suddenly. It was urgent."
"An urgent… lab class?" Heeseung's lips twitch. "That's what you said, right? An urgent lab class on a Thursday afternoon?"
Your face heats. "Yes. Exactly. Lab class. Very urgent. Science doesn't wait."
"Mmm." He pops another one of your fries into his mouth. "Well, the good news is, you don't look like you're in a hurry right now. So we can actually talk. You know, like normal people who are supposedly getting to know each other?"
Right. Getting to know each other. Because you confessed to him. Because he thinks you like him. Because you're living in an elaborate lie of your own making.
This is your chance, though. This is the perfect opportunity to implement Phase One of the Make Him Uninterested plan: Be Weird and Off-Putting. You just have to be the most boring, strange, unappealing version of yourself that you can possibly imagine. How hard can it be?
Pretty hard, as it turns out, because your brain chooses this exact moment to go completely blank.
"So," Heeseung says, apparently unbothered by your silence, "tell me about yourself. What do you like to do for fun? Besides writing beautiful love letters and then running away from the recipient?"
You choke on your own saliva. Just… straight up choke on nothing, like a cartoon character. "I don't…that wasn't…I do normal things. Normal fun things. Like… watching paint dry. And counting ceiling tiles. Very relaxing. You should try it."
Heeseung's expression flickers, confusion, amusement, something in between. "Counting ceiling tiles?"
"There are forty-seven in this cafeteria," you say, doubling down with the desperate energy of someone who has already committed to the bit. "Forty-eight if you count the one that's partially covered by that vent over there. But some people don't count partial tiles. It's a philosophical debate, really."
"Fascinating," Heeseung says, and the worst part is that he sounds like he actually means it. "What else?"
What else? What else can you say that will make you sound completely unappealing? You cast around for inspiration, your eyes landing on your sandwich. Okay. Fine. If words can't do the job, maybe actions can.
You pick up your sandwich with both hands and take the weirdest bite you can physically manage, mouth open slightly too wide, chewing with exaggerated jaw movements, making an unfortunate amount of noise in the process. You feel like a cow. You look like a cow. You are embodying the spirit of a cow, and surely, surely, this is enough to make any self-respecting hot informatics student run for the hills.
Heeseung watches you chew. His expression doesn't change.
"Good sandwich?" he asks mildly.
"Mmf," you say, still chewing, still being a cow. "Very good. I love-"
And then the lettuce hits the back of your throat.
You don't know how it happens. One moment you're chewing normally, well, abnormally, but in a controlled way and the next moment a piece of lettuce stages a rebellion and lodges itself directly in your windpipe. Your eyes go wide. Your hand flies to your throat. You make a sound that is somewhere between a wheeze and a honk.
"Y/N?" Heeseung's amused expression shifts to concern. "Are you okay?"
You are not okay. You are choking. You are choking on lettuce in front of Lee Heeseung in the middle of the cafeteria, and this is how you're going to die.
Heeseung is on his feet now, moving around the table with surprising speed. "Hey, hey, can you breathe? Do you need me to-"
You shake your head frantically, still making dying cow noises, and grab your water bottle with shaking hands. The first gulp does nothing. The second gulp, by some miracle, dislodges the lettuce just enough for you to cough it up into a napkin with all the grace and dignity of a cat hacking up a hairball.
Silence.
The entire cafeteria, you're convinced, is staring at you. In reality, probably only a few nearby tables have noticed, but it feels apocalyptic. You sit there, red-faced and teary-eyed, clutching a napkin full of your own near-death experience, and want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.
Heeseung kneels beside your chair, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he isn't sure if touching you would be welcome. "Hey. You're okay. You're okay, right? Do you need me to get you anything? More water? A doctor? A new sandwich without lettuce?"
His voice is gentle. Genuinely gentle. Not the smooth, charming tone you expect from someone with his reputation, but something softer, something that sounds almost like real concern.
"I'm fine," you croak, your voice ravaged. "I'm fine. That happens. All the time. I'm very bad at eating. It's one of my traits."
"One of your traits," Heeseung repeats, and the corner of his mouth twitches despite his obvious worry. "Being bad at eating?"
"It's a lifestyle choice."
He laughs. Not a polite chuckle or a mocking snicker, but a real laugh, surprised and bright and completely unguarded. He sits back down in his chair, shaking his head, and looks at you with something that is definitely not boredom or disinterest.
"You're really something else, you know that?"
You don't know how to respond to that, so you don't. You just sit there, still clutching your napkin of shame, and wonder how Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has somehow resulted in him laughing at your jokes and looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's encountered all week.
"So," Heeseung says, propping his chin on his hand, "I've been wondering. What made you decide to confess to me? Was there a specific moment? Something I did?"
Oh no.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
This is the worst possible question he could ask. You can't tell him the truth…I didn't mean to confess to you, I meant to confess to your friend, you just happened to be sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time, please don't hate me…but you also can't just… not answer. He's looking at you expectantly, his dark eyes curious and open, and you have approximately three seconds to come up with a convincing lie before the silence becomes too awkward to recover from.
"Your… kindness," you say, grasping at straws. "You're very… kind. To everyone. I noticed."
Heeseung tilts his head. "My kindness?"
"Very kind," you repeat, nodding vigorously. "So kind. The kindest. I saw you… hold a door open for someone once. It was… inspiring."
"I held a door open."
"A door. Yes. It was a very heavy door. And you held it. For a long time. Multiple people went through. It was very impressive."
Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and you stare back, your face burning, your soul evacuating your body. This is it. This is the moment he realizes you are completely unhinged and decides to never speak to you again. This is the victory of Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested.
"That's…" Heeseung starts, and then pauses. "That's the first time anyone's ever confessed to me because I held a door open. Usually I get compliments about my face. Or my voice. One girl told me I had a nose made to be sat on, which I still don't fully understand."
"Your node is… fine," you say weakly. "I didn't notice your nose. Or your face at all. Just the door. The door was the important part."
"A door," Heeseung says, and that smile is spreading across his face again, the one that makes him look less like a notorious player and more like someone who has just found a particularly entertaining puzzle. "You wrote me a three-page love letter because I held a door open."
"The calligraphy alone took a week," you say, and immediately regret it.
Heeseung laughs again, and this time it's softer, almost wondering. "You're not what I expected," he says. "At all."
"Is that… good or bad?"
"I haven't decided yet." But he's still smiling, and his eyes are still fixed on you with that curious intensity, and you're starting to get the sinking feeling that everything you do, no matter how strange or off-putting you try to be, is having the exact opposite effect of what you intend.
You need a new strategy. Something foolproof. Something so aggressively unappealing that even the most determined people-pleaser can't pretend to be interested.
And then, like a gift from the gods of social awkwardness, the topic of video games comes up.
Heeseung mentions something about blowing off steam after a tough assignment by playing a few rounds of something, and the question slips out before you can stop it: "Wait, do you play League of Legends?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes. You?"
And that's it. That's the moment the dam breaks.
You don't mean to start geeking out. It just happens. One moment you're thinking be boring, be uninteresting, be bland, and the next moment you're fifteen minutes deep into an impassioned monologue about the current meta, the problems with the jungle role, and why Riot Games needs to nerf a specific champion into the ground before she single-handedly destroys the competitive scene.
"-and don't even get me started on the new items, because the balance team clearly doesn't play their own game, which is fine, whatever, it's not like I have strong opinions about it except I absolutely do, and I wrote an entire essay about it on the subreddit that got like two thousand upvotes, so clearly I'm not the only one who thinks the armor penetration scaling is completely broken-"
You stop.
You stop because you have just realized, with dawning horror, that you have been talking for an incredibly long time without letting Heeseung get a single word in. You have been gesticulating. You have been making sound effects. At one point, you're pretty sure you drew a diagram on a napkin to illustrate the optimal jungle pathing route.
This is it. This is definitely, absolutely it. There is no way a hot third-year informatics student wants to listen to a first-year STEM girl rant about video game balance for fifteen straight minutes. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has just achieved its first genuine success.
You brace yourself for the polite excuse, the awkward glance at his phone, the slow backing away.
Instead, Heeseung leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and says: "Okay, but hear me out, what if the armor penetration scaling isn't the problem, and it's actually the base damage values that need to be adjusted? Because if you look at the win rate data across different elos, the issue isn't consistent at all levels of play."
You blink.
"I main ADC," he adds, as if this is a perfectly normal confession. "So trust me, I feel your pain about the jungle situation. Do you know how many times I've been left to solo dragon because my jungler was AFK farming? Too many. Too many times."
"You… main ADC?"
"Vayne and Kai'Sa mostly. Sometimes Jhin if I'm feeling dramatic."
You have no response to this. Your brain has short-circuited somewhere around the phrase "win rate data across different elos," and it's still rebooting.
"Your essay on the subreddit," Heeseung continues, pulling out his phone. "What was the title? I want to read it. I love seeing well-reasoned arguments about game balance, and honestly, most of what gets posted is just people complaining without any actual data to back it up."
"It was… it was called The Current State of Armor Penetration: A Statistical Analysis and Why I'm Losing My Mind," you say faintly.
Heeseung types something into his phone, scrolls for a moment, and then his face lights up. "Found it. Two thousand three hundred upvotes and fourteen awards? That's impressive. Wait, you made graphs? You made graphs?"
"I was very passionate about the subject."
"Passionate," Heeseung repeats, looking up from his phone with an expression you can't quite read. "Yeah. I'm starting to get that about you."
He tucks his phone away and smiles at you, and it isn't the smooth, practiced smile you expect from the campus womanizer. It's something smaller. Something realer. Something that makes your stomach do a weird, traitorous flip that you immediately try to suppress.
"You know," he says, tilting his head as he studies you, "you remind me of a mouse."
Your brain screeches to a halt. "A… mouse?"
"Yeah. A little field mouse. The way your nose scrunches up when you're thinking, and how you get all twitchy and skittish when you're nervous. It's cute. It's really cute."
Cute. He calls you cute. He compares you to a rodent and somehow makes it sound like a compliment, and worst of all, worst of all, you can feel a traitorous blush spreading across your cheeks like wildfire.
"I'm not…I don't…mice are not cute. Mice are pests. They carry diseases. I'm basically a health hazard."
Heeseung laughs, and it's the same genuine laugh from before, and he's looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's seen in years. "A health hazard. Right. Well, consider me warned."
He stands up, gathering his tray, and for one beautiful, hopeful moment, you think the ordeal is over. But then he pauses, looking down at you with that unreadable expression, and says the words that haunt you for the rest of the day:
"I was interested before, but now?" He shakes his head, still smiling. "Now I'm really interested. See you around, little mouse."
And then he walks away, leaving you alone at your corner table with a half-eaten sandwich, a napkin full of regurgitated lettuce, and the sinking realization that Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is not only failing, it's backfiring spectacularly.
You try to be weird, and he calls you cute.
You try to be boring, and he engages with your niche gaming opinions.
You try to choke to death in front of him, and he kneels beside your chair with genuine concern in his eyes.
You bang your forehead against the cafeteria table once, twice, three times, not caring who sees. This is a disaster. This is an unmitigated, unprecedented, absolutely catastrophic disaster. Hana's plan was supposed to work. Heeseung was supposed to get bored. He was supposed to move on. He was not supposed to look at you like you're a puzzle he wants to solve, or call you a mouse in a tone of voice that makes your heart do gymnastics, or read your League of Legends essay and compliment your graphs.
You need to regroup. You need to call an emergency meeting with Yunjin. You need to figure out a new strategy before this situation spirals even further out of control.
But first, you need to go to the library and return the books that are due today before you accrue another fine, because no matter how catastrophic your love life becomes, the university library shows no mercy.
—————
The library is your sanctuary. It always has been, a quiet, climate-controlled haven where the smell of old paper and the soft hum of fluorescent lights can soothe even the most tensed of nerves. After the cafeteria incident, you need sanctuary more than ever. You slip through the main doors with your stack of books clutched to your chest, inhaling the familiar scent of knowledge and dust, and feel some of the tension begin to ease from your shoulders.
Everything is fine. Everything is going to be fine. You return your books, you find Yunjin, you regroup, and you figure out a way to-
"Y/N?"
The voice comes from somewhere to your left, and you know that voice. You know it the way a flower knows the sun, the way a compass knows north, the way a hopeless romantic knows the exact cadence of her crush's greeting.
Jungwon is sitting at a table near the history section, surrounded by a fortress of textbooks and loose papers. He's wearing glasses…glasses…and his hair is slightly mussed from what you assume is hours of intense studying, and he's looking at you with that smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your entire nervous system short-circuit.
"Hey," he says, waving you over. "What are you doing here?"
Existing in the same space as you, you think. Breathing the same air. Trying not to spontaneously combust.
"Returning books," you say, holding up your stack as evidence. "I have some overdue ones. The library fines are no joke."
"Tell me about it. I had to pay fifteen thousand won last semester because I forgot about a book I'd checked out for a research paper." Jungwon winces at the memory. "My wallet still hasn't recovered."
"That's brutal."
"The library giveth, and the library taketh away."
You laugh, and it comes out surprisingly normal, not too loud, not too high-pitched, just a regular human laugh from a regular human person who is definitely not having an internal meltdown about how good Jungwon looks in glasses.
"Hey," Jungwon says, glancing at the empty chair across from him, "if you're not in a hurry, do you want to study together? I've been here for three hours and my brain is starting to melt. It would be nice to have some company."
Your heart stops.
Yang Jungwon, the Yang Jungwon, the owner of the smile and the laugh and the gummy bears at 2 AM is asking you to study with him. This is the kind of moment you've daydreamed about for months. This is a meet-cute in progress. This is the universe throwing you a lifeline after the cafeteria disaster, a chance to actually spend time with the boy you've been pining over since midterms.
"Yes," you say, before your brain can remind you of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. "Yes, I'd…I'd love to. Let me just return these first."
You practically skip to the returns desk, your heart doing a full backflip in your chest. By the time you make it back to Jungwon's table, your philosophy textbook and notebook spread out in front of you, you've convinced yourself that this is exactly what you need. Some time with Jungwon. Some time to remember why you wrote that letter in the first place. Some time to reconnect with the feelings that got buried under the chaos of the Heeseung situation.
The only problem is that you can't focus on studying at all.
You try. You really, genuinely try. You open your textbook to the assigned chapter. You uncap your highlighter. You fix your eyes on the page and attempt to absorb information about ethical frameworks and moral philosophy. But your eyes keep drifting up, against your will, over the top of your book, to the boy sitting across from you.
Jungwon is studying. Actually studying, not fake studying, not pretending to study while secretly watching you the way you're watching him. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his pen moving steadily across his notebook as he takes notes. Every so often, he pauses, taps the end of his pen against his chin, and then resumes writing with renewed focus. The late afternoon light slants through the window behind him, catching the highlights in his dark hair and making him look like he's stepped out of a painting.
He is beautiful. He's so beautiful that it makes your chest ache, a soft, sweet ache that you've been carrying around since the moment you first saw him in this very library. You watch the way his fingers curl around his pen, the way he bites his lower lip when he's thinking, the way his glasses slide down his nose and he pushes them back up with an absent gesture.
"I can feel you looking at me," Jungwon says, not glancing up from his notebook.
Your entire body jolts like you've been electrocuted. "I wasn't…I was just…there's a clock behind you. I was checking the time."
Jungwon looks up then, and there's a knowing glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a slow, somersaulting flip. "The clock is to your right, Y/N. Not behind me."
You look to your right. Sure enough, there's the clock, hanging on the wall in plain view, which you would have noticed if you'd spent even one second actually looking for it instead of gazing at Jungwon's face like a Renaissance painter studying their muse.
"I'm… directionally challenged," you say weakly.
"Uh-huh." Jungwon sets down his pen, and the smile playing at the corners of his mouth is soft and teasing and absolutely devastating. "Come here for a second."
"What?"
"Just come here. Lean forward a little."
Your body obeys before your brain can intervene. You lean across the table, your heart hammering so loudly you're certain the entire library can hear it. Jungwon leans forward too, closing the distance between you, and you catch a faint whiff of something clean and subtle, laundry detergent, maybe, or the kind of fragrance that just smells like him.
His hand reaches out, and before you can process what's happening, his index finger gently pokes your cheek.
"Boop," he says.
You make a sound. You don't know what the sound is supposed to be. Maybe a laugh, maybe a question, maybe a plea for mercy. What comes out is something closer to a squeak, a small, strangled, completely undignified squeak that would be embarrassing if you had any brain cells left to feel embarrassment.
Jungwon's smile widens, and his finger lingers on your cheek for just a moment longer than necessary. "You had an eyelash," he says. "Right there. But also, you just looked really cute staring at me like that. I couldn't resist."
Cute. He calls you cute. That's twice in one day that a devastatingly attractive boy has called you cute, and your hopeless romantic heart doesn't know whether to celebrate or go into cardiac arrest.
"I wasn't staring," you whisper, but it comes out completely unconvincing.
"You were absolutely staring." Jungwon withdraws his hand, but his smile stays, warm and fond and knowing. "It's okay. I don't mind. It's kind of nice, actually. Being looked at like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm something worth looking at."
The words settle into your chest like a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples through your entire body. He thinks it's nice. He thinks you're nice or at least your staring is nice and he pokes your cheek and calls you cute and now he's going back to his studying like he hasn't just fundamentally altered your brain chemistry.
You try to return to your textbook. The words swim in front of your eyes, meaningless and blurry. You highlight a sentence at random, realize you have no idea what it says, and highlight it again for good measure. The page is now approximately forty percent highlighter ink.
"You're going to run out of highlighter at that rate," Jungwon observes, not looking up.
"I have backups," you say. "I always have backups."
"Of course you do."
The studying session continues for another hour, and you absorb approximately zero information about ethical frameworks. What you do absorb is a comprehensive catalogue of Jungwon's study habits: the way he organizes his notes with color-coded tabs, the way he mutters to himself when he's working through a difficult concept, the way he absentmindedly drums his fingers against the table when he's thinking. Every detail is another entry in your mental Jungwon database, another thread in the tapestry of your affection.
By the time you pack up your things and say goodbye, "See you in philosophy," Jungwon says, and you respond with something that might be words or might be a series of enthusiastic nods, you are floating. You are literally, physically floating, your feet barely touching the ground as you drift out of the library and across campus toward your dorm.
Jungwon pokes your cheek. Jungwon calls you cute. Jungwon says he likes being looked at by you.
You are winning. Despite the Heeseung disaster, despite the cafeteria catastrophe, despite everything, you are winning.
By the time you reach your dorm room, you are a mess of giddy energy with nowhere to go. You close the door behind you, throw your backpack onto your desk chair, and then proceed to wriggle across your bed like an ecstatic worm, kicking your feet and muffling your squeals into your pillow.
"He called me cute," you whisper to your empty room, your voice muffled by fabric. "He poked my cheek. He did the boop thing. The boop thing, you guys. Who does the boop thing? Adorable people, that's who. Perfect people. People with beautiful smiles and kind eyes and-"
You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. The ceiling has forty-three tiles in your room. You counted them on your first night in the dorm. But right now, all you can see is Jungwon's face, the way he looked at you across the library table, the way his finger felt against your cheek, the way his voice went soft when he said like I'm something worth looking at.
You are going to marry him. You are going to marry Yang Jungwon and have a beautiful wedding with string lights and wildflowers and a three-tier cake, and you will tell the story of how you stared at him in the library and he poked your cheek and-
You stop wriggling.
Wait.
Wait, wait, wait.
You can't marry Jungwon. You can't even confess to Jungwon, because Jungwon thinks you confessed to Heeseung. Jungwon thinks you're interested in someone else. Jungwon was sweet and friendly and maybe a little bit flirty, but that's just his personality. He's nice to everyone. He gives you gummy bears at 2 AM; he probably gives gummy bears to everyone who looks tired. You aren't special. You are just… there.
The giddiness begins to drain out of you, replaced by the familiar weight of reality. You are still trapped in the Heeseung situation. You are still the girl who confessed to the wrong person. And no matter how many times Jungwon pokes your cheek, that fundamental fact isn't going to change.
With a heavy sigh, you drag yourself through your evening routine: shower, skincare, the episode of the baking show you're halfway through and finally crawl into bed around midnight, your emotions a tangled knot of hope and despair.
Sleep comes slowly, a gradual descent into darkness, and then-
—————
You are in the PC room again.
But this time it's different. The lights are dimmer, the computers all dark, the chairs empty. It's just you, and the door is swinging shut behind you, and there's someone waiting at the computer closest to the door.
Heeseung.
He's sitting in the chair, facing away from you, his headphones around his neck and his shoulders relaxed. When he hears your footsteps, he turns, and his expression isn't surprised or amused or curious. It's something else entirely. Something darker. Something that makes your breath catch in your throat.
"You're here," he says, and his voice is lower than you've ever heard it, a rumble that vibrates through your bones. "I've been waiting for you, little mouse."
"I'm not-" you start, but he's already standing, already moving toward you, and you can't seem to make your feet work. You're rooted to the spot, watching him approach with a mixture of fear and something else, something you don't want to name.
He stops inches away from you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that you can see the individual strands of his hair and the curve of his lips and the way his eyes, God, his eyes are fixed on your mouth.
"You know what I've been thinking about?" he murmurs, and one of his hands comes up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple. "I've been thinking about that letter. The way you said you only had eyes for me. The way you said you couldn't stop thinking about me."
"That wasn't-" you try, but your voice comes out as barely a whisper, and Heeseung's thumb is tracing along your jawline now, feather-light and devastating.
"I can't stop thinking about you either," he says, and his face is getting closer, closer, and you can feel his breath against your lips. "Do you want to know what I think about?"
Your heart is hammering. Your skin is on fire. You can't move, can't speak, can't do anything except stare up at him with wide eyes as his other hand settles on your waist, warm and solid and pulling you closer.
"I think about this," he whispers, and then his mouth is on yours.
The kiss is…it's…
It's intense. It's consuming. It's the kind of kiss that erases every rational thought from your brain and replaces it with pure, unfiltered sensation. His lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a confidence that makes your knees weak. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you make a sound against his mouth, something small and breathless and completely involuntary.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his voice is rough. "You’re what I’ve been looking for my whole life, Y/N. You’re my miracle."
And then his lips are on your neck, trailing fire down to your collarbone, and your head falls back, and his name escapes your mouth in a way you've never said it before-
He kneels before you, his movements fluid and deliberate. His eyes never leave yours as he unzips his jeans, freeing his already hard cock. It stands proud and thick, the tip glistening with pre-cum. He takes your foot in his warm hand, bringing it to his shaft.
"Look what you do to me," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. He wraps your foot around his length, his thumb pressing against your arch as he begins to move your foot up and down his cock. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, a low groan escaping his lips.
The sensation of his hot skin against your sole sends shivers through your body. You watch, mesmerized, as he uses your foot to pleasure himself, his hips thrusting in rhythm with the movements of your foot. His other hand moves to your ankle, his grip firm but gentle, his fingers stroking your sensitive skin.
His eyes open, locking with yours again, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "You're so beautiful," he breathes, his movements becoming faster, more urgent. "You’re perfect the way you are."
His breathing grows ragged, his muscles tensing. With a guttural moan, he comes, his hot release spilling over your foot and his hand. He leans forward, his tongue darting out to taste his own cum from your skin, his movements slow and sensual. He licks your foot clean, his tongue tracing patterns on your arch, between your toes, sending waves of pleasure through your body.
Then he shifts, positioning himself between your legs. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "I need to taste you," he says, his voice rough with need.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He tosses them aside, then leans in, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh.
His tongue flicks out, teasing your clit, and you gasp, your hands flying to his hair. He chuckles, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through you. "Patience, little mouse," he murmurs against your skin.
His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles, building your pleasure gradually. He alternates between broad, flat strokes and quick, precise flicks of his tongue against your clit. His fingers join in, one, then two, sliding inside you, curling to hit that spot that makes you cry.
Your hips buck against his face, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Heeseung," you moan, your fingers tightening in his hair.
He responds with increased enthusiasm, his tongue working faster, his fingers pumping in and out of you. The pressure builds inside you, a coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter until it snaps.
You come with a cry, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure wash over you. But Heeseung doesn't stop. He continues his assault on your senses, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony to bring you to the edge again.
And then you are squirting, your release flooding his mouth and chin as he drinks you in, his movements never faltering. He looks up at you, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he laps up every drop.
When he finally pulls away, his face glistening with your juices, he crawls up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and the intimacy of it sends another wave of desire through you.
"Tell me you’re only thinking of me," he whispers against your lips, his hands roaming your body. "and not Jungwon."
You wake up.
You wake up in your dorm room, in your bed, at 7:43 AM on a Tuesday morning, with your heart pounding and your skin flushed, your panties soaked and your sheets twisted around your legs like they've been through a battle.
For a long moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.
Did you just… did you just dream about… did Lee Heeseung, the guy you're supposed to be making uninterested in you, the guy you've been trying to avoid and ignore and repel, just star in what can only be described as an extremely obscene dream? The virgin you are just cringed at the memory.
You press your hands to your burning cheeks and let out a sound that is somewhere between a groan and a scream.
"No," you whisper to the empty room. "No, no, no. This isn't, this can't…I don't even like him. I like Jungwon. Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon for four months. I wrote a letter to Jungwon. I have a color-coded mental database of Jungwon's habits. I want to marry Jungwon and have a three-tier wedding cake with wildflowers!"
But your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, keeps replaying fragments of the dream, the way Heeseung's eyes go dark, the way his voice rumbles against your ear, the way his hand feels on your waist, the way his tongue is warm and-
You grab your pillow and press it over your face, screaming into it with all the force your lungs can muster.
This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. You are a Jungwon girl. You've always been a Jungwon girl. You don't think about Heeseung like that. You don't think about Heeseung like anything. Heeseung is an obstacle. Heeseung is a problem to be solved. Heeseung is the guy you're actively trying to repel, not the guy who shows up in your subconscious and does things that make you blush in the privacy of your own bed.
"I'm a psychopath," you say to your pillow. "I'm a complete and utter psychopath. Who dreams about this with a guy they're supposed to be making uninterested? A psychopath, that's who. A deranged lunatic. A person with a broken brain."
Your pillow, predictably, does not respond.
You drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face and avoiding your own reflection in the mirror. You don't want to look at yourself. You don't want to see the evidence of the dream still lingering in your flushed cheeks…and between your legs.
This is a problem. This is a Major Problem with capital letters and possibly a warning siren. You can't afford to be having dreams about Lee Heeseung. You can't afford to be thinking about Lee Heeseung at all. Your entire strategy, Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested depends on you being able to keep a clear head and a steady heart, and neither of those things is going to be possible if your subconscious keeps ambushing you with extremely vivid, extremely inappropriate content.
You need to talk to Yunjin. Immediately. Before your brain can conjure up any more unauthorized imagery.
But as you grab your phone and type out a frantic message, EMERGENCY MEETING REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY CODE RED REPEAT CODE RED, you can't quite shake the lingering sensation from the dream.
The way Heeseung's thumb traces along your jawline.
The way he calls you little mouse in that low, rumbling voice.
The way he says you were perfect the way you were like he means it, like it's true, like he's been into you his whole life and hasn't even known it.
You shake your head violently, flinging droplets of water across the bathroom mirror.
"Nope," you say out loud. "Nope, nope, nope. We're not doing this. We're not thinking about this. We're going to go to class and eat lunch and avoid all tall informatics students, and we're going to get our brain back on the Jungwon track where it belongs."
But even as you say it, even as you try to mean it, a small, treacherous part of you wonders if maybe, just maybe, the Jungwon track isn't the only track worth following anymore.
You shove that thought into a mental box, lock it, and throw away the key.
You have a plan. You have a strategy. You are going to make Heeseung uninterested, and you are going to figure out a way to untangle the misunderstanding, and you are going to end up with Jungwon like you were always supposed to.
The dream is just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. It can't mean anything.
You refuse to let it mean anything.
(But when you catch yourself glancing toward the informatics building on your way to class, you walk a little faster, and you definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent do not wonder what Lee Heeseung is doing right now.)
—————
The dream haunts you for three days.
Not in a supernatural, ghost-in-the-corner kind of way. More in an I-can't-make-eye-contact-with-my-own-reflection kind of way. Every time you close your eyes, fragments of it flicker behind your eyelids like a movie you hadn't asked to watch. The dark PC room. The way Heeseung's voice drops to a rumble. The phantom sensation of his tongue on your clit, his hand on your ankle, his look-
You physically convulse every time the memory resurfaces, which is approximately every forty-five minutes. Your philosophy notes become a graveyard of distracted doodles, half of which look suspiciously like the curve of someone's jaw. You have to throw away an entire page because you accidentally write "little mouse" in the margin instead of "moral relativism."
Yunjin is no help whatsoever.
"So you had a wet dream about the hot guy who you’re supposedly getting bored of," she says over bubble tea the day after the incident, her expression thoroughly unimpressed. "This is a problem because…?"
"Because I don't like him, Yunjin! I like Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon since midterms! Jungwon is the goal! Jungwon is the three-tier wedding cake!"
"And Heeseung is…?"
"A temporary obstacle! A misunderstanding with legs! A very tall, very inconvenient plot twist!"
Yunjin sucks on her tapioca pearls with the air of a therapist who has heard it all before and is no longer surprised by anything. "You know what they say about protesting too much."
"I am not protesting too much. I am protesting exactly the right amount. I am protesting a perfectly calibrated quantity."
"Sure." She pats your hand with condescending sympathy. "Whatever helps you sleep at night. Oh wait-"
You throw a tapioca pearl at her face. It sticks to her cheek for a solid three seconds before falling off, and the look of absolute betrayal on her face is the only bright spot in your otherwise nightmare-plagued week.
But now it's Thursday. Thursday, 2:15 PM. You're stationed in the science building's main hallway, crouched behind a bulletin board that is absolutely not wide enough to hide your entire body, waiting for the coast to clear so you can sprint to your next class without encountering any tall informatics students.
Your system has evolved since the early days of the crisis. You now have a color-coded schedule of Heeseung's known movements, courtesy of some light reconnaissance work that Yunjin calls "stalking" and you call "strategic intelligence gathering." You know his class schedule. You know his preferred study spots. You know that he tends to grab coffee from the campus café at exactly 3 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which means the science building hallway should, theoretically, be a Heeseung-free zone at 2:15.
Theoretically.
You're just about to make your move, a quick dash to the stairwell, then up two flights, then a straight shot to classroom 307, when you hear it.
"Hey, is Y/N L/N in there?"
Your blood freezes. Your muscles lock. Your soul briefly departs your body and then slams back into it with force.
That's Heeseung's voice. That's unmistakably, undeniably, catastrophically Lee Heeseung's voice, and it's coming from approximately ten feet to your left, where the door to your department's main office stands open.
You press yourself harder against the bulletin board, praying for invisibility, praying for a sudden power outage, praying for the ground to open up and swallow you into its merciful embrace. None of these things happen. Instead, you hear the department secretary respond with cheerful obliviousness.
"Y/N L/N? First year, STEM? I think I saw her in the hallway just a minute ago. Let me check, oh, there she is! Y/N! You have a visitor!"
The secretary is pointing directly at your bulletin board. Your bulletin board that is not hiding you at all. Your bulletin board that is, in fact, leaving approximately seventy percent of your body completely visible to anyone who happens to look in that direction.
Heeseung turns.
Your eyes meet.
Time stops.
There are moments in life that feel like they stretch into eternity, moments so profoundly awkward, so cosmically embarrassing, that the universe itself seems to pause and take notice. This is one of those moments. You are frozen in a half-crouch behind a bulletin board, your backpack dangling from one shoulder, your hair escaping from the ponytail you threw it into this morning, your expression one of pure, unfiltered terror. Heeseung is standing in the doorway of the department office, looking unfairly attractive in a simple black hoodie and jeans, his eyebrows rising slowly toward his hairline.
A small crowd of students has paused in the hallway to watch. You can feel their eyes on you like a physical weight. Someone whispers something to their friend. Someone else pulls out their phone.
You are going to die. You are going to perish right here in the science building hallway, and your ghost will be doomed to haunt this bulletin board for all eternity.
"Y/N?" Heeseung's voice is a mixture of confusion and amusement. He takes a step toward you, and you instinctively take a step back, which results in you bumping directly into the bulletin board and causing several flyers to flutter dramatically to the ground. "Were you… hiding behind that?"
"No," you say, too quickly. "No, I was…I dropped something. A contact lens. I was looking for my contact lens."
"You don't wear contacts."
"I might! You don't know my life!"
"Your glasses are literally on your face right now."
You reach up and touch your glasses, which are indeed sitting on your nose, clearly visible, doing their job of correcting your vision. You have no response to this. There is no response to this. You have been caught in a lie so transparent it's essentially a window.
Heeseung's lips twitch. "You know, most people who have a crush on me don't run away and hide behind furniture. This is very confusing for my ego."
The crowd is still watching. Why is the crowd still watching? Don't they have classes to go to? Midterms to study for? Lives to live that don't involve spectating your public humiliation?
"I wasn't hiding from you specifically," you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to operate independently from your brain. "I was hiding from… the sun. It's very bright in here. I'm photosensitive."
"You're a STEM student hiding from the sun in a basement hallway with no windows," Heeseung says slowly. "That's… a new one."
"It's a medical condition. It's very serious. My doctor says I need to avoid direct fluorescent lighting."
"The fluorescent lighting is what's getting you."
"Absolutely. It's my greatest enemy. Well, second greatest. After-" You stop yourself before you can say after incredibly hot informatics students who keep appearing in my life like a recurring nightmare.
Heeseung waits. When you don't finish the sentence, that smile, the one that's definitely a smirk's second cousin, maybe even its first cousin at this point, spreads across his face.
"Well," he says, "now that I've found you and dragged you out of the shadows, literally, I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee. With me. Right now."
Every single person in the hallway is looking at you. The secretary is looking at you from the office doorway, her expression one of grandmotherly delight at what she clearly perceives as a romantic overture. The students who stopped to watch are exchanging glances and whispers. One girl gives you an encouraging thumbs up.
You are trapped. You are cornered. You are a mouse being offered coffee by a very tall, very persistent cat.
And just like every other time Heeseung has put you on the spot, you open your mouth and the wrong words come out.
"I love coffee," you say. "Coffee is my favorite liquid. After water. And possibly juice. But it's definitely in the top three."
"Is that a yes?"
"…Yes."
Heeseung's smile widens. "Great. Let's go."
im ctfu 😭😭😭😭😭😭
AW SHIT, HERE WE GO AGAIN; ㅤㅤㅤsim jaeyun
IN WHICH jake keeps telling himself he’s fine with whatever this thing between you is, so he decides that a friends with benefits situation with his best friend's girlfriend's best friend, who also happens to be his other best friend's older sister, is a completely reasonable idea. until he wakes up alone for the nth time and realizes that this friends with benefits situation is not benefiting him at all.
⤷ pairing: jake × fem!reader | ⤷ genre: friends with benefits; college au; romcom; slow burn; situationship dynamics; mutual pining; smut (mdni) | ⤷ playlist: sally, when the wine runs out - role model | casual - chappell roan | calling after me - wallows | whistle for the choir - the fratellis | ⤷ word count: 32k
!! smut warnings: power play / switching; sub jake, switch jake, brat taming, fingering, oral (m receiving), handjob, creampie, cum eating, anal play, spanking, spit kink, praise kink
⤷ ronnie's notes: this fic was originally a birthday gift i wrote for my girl addie @jakesimfromstatefarm <3 even tho her birthday was over a month ago already but a few things happened in between that kept me from finishing it earlier aka i deactivated this blog and also managed to break my thumb lolll but now it’s finally done and i’m posting it here. i know i deactivated my blog and i’m not really active here anymore and this doesn’t mean i’m coming back or anything, i just really wanted to post this as a little love letter to one of my best friends ever !!! addie i love you so much pls come back already, i miss u like crazy and i really hope you like your present 🫶
YOU ALWAYS THINK YOU'RE SMARTER THAN YOU REALLY ARE AT 21, AND THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT JAKE SIM THOUGHT HE WAS. Jake was the kind of guy who had everything figured out before anyone else even realized there was something to figure out. And honestly, for the most part, he was right, even though that was annoying, because Jake had this easy kind of confidence, which made it infinitely worse for everyone around him, because you can't even be mad at someone who's not even aware of how charming they are. Or maybe he was aware and just pretended not to be. Either way, same result.
Jake was doing well, Jake was having fun. He was, by every reasonable metric, absolutely fine. I mean, he was fine – until he decided to be on this friends-with-benefits situationship with you.
Here's the thing about friends with benefits, and you know how this goes, don't you? You've been there, or you know someone who has, or you've watched enough movies to understand the basic architecture of the disaster. It feels logical at the beginning, it feels like two adults making a mature, reasonable decision with full awareness of the consequences, which is almost always a sign that neither person has the faintest idea what they're actually getting into. You tell yourself you can keep things clean, you tell yourself you're not the kind of person who catches feelings over something casual. You tell yourself a lot of things at 21, and most of them are bullshit, but the thing is: you can see all of that coming, you can name every single red flag while it's happening in real time, and you still can't keep it in your pants. That's just the human condition, babe. And obviously, Jake Sim was not immune.
You were a year ahead of him, which at 21 felt like a significant and meaningful gap in the same way that six dollars feels like a lot of money when you're eight years old and then completely irrelevant the moment you grow up. But at the time it meant something, or at least, Jake told himself it did, because he needed a reason to keep things simple, and "she's older and she's got her life more together than I do" was a convenient enough excuse to file away in the back of his head and never really look at again. That should've been his first warning sign. Jake ignored it, because he was 21 and smart, remember?
He knew, on some level, that this was not going to be uncomplicated. And maybe that was the most honest thing about Jake – he didn't pretend he didn't know. He just decided he didn't care. Which, to be fair, is a very 21 year old thing to do, and also, if we're being honest, a very Jake thing to do.
But Jake is not 21 anymore. He is 24 now, which sounds like it's not that different, and in the grand scheme of things, it really isn't – three years is nothing. But the frat parties had lost their charm somewhere around year three of college, when he realized he'd been to enough of them to recognize the exact same playlist and the exact same drama playing out with slightly different people every single time. His liver had filed a formal complaint sometime in junior year and he'd actually listened to it, which was personal growth, honestly. He cared less about being in every room, cared less about showing up to every event, and less about performing the version of himself that he thought a 21 year old was supposed to be. He is a little bit more settled. Jake is still charming (still annoyingly so) but in a way that felt more like his actual personality and less like a habit.
The only thing that hadn't changed – and this is the part where Jake would probably prefer we didn't talk about, but we're going to anyway – was you. Specifically, this weird, comfortable, elastic thing that existed between the two of you that neither of you had ever sat down and properly defined, because defining it would require a conversation, and having that conversation would require one of you to be brave enough to go first, and neither of you had managed that yet. The dynamic was still the same: friends, technically, with all the benefits and none of the labels, which worked great on paper and was actively insane in practice.
But we're getting ahead of ourselves. Let's go back to the beginning.
Because the beginning is important and also kind of embarrassing, and Jake would tell you himself if he wasn't so committed to maintaining a certain image. The beginning starts when he was nineteen, maybe twenty, fresh enough into college that everything still felt enormous and consequential in a way that it really, objectively, wasn't. You ran in the same friend group, which sounds like it should make things easier except it didn't, because you had this presence about you that was not intimidating exactly, but more like the kind of person that everyone in the room was a little bit aware of without quite being able to explain why. Jake would later come to understand that this was just because you were genuinely funny and kind and the sort of person who remembered small details about people and asked about them later, honestly you just had a good personality, but when you're nineteen everything gets mystified beyond reason.
But, there was also the small, significant detail: you had a boyfriend.
His name was Yoongi, and he was older – a senior, maybe already graduated, the timeline was fuzzy – and at the time Jake had constructed an entire mythology around this guy based on approximately four interactions and one very intimidating eye contact across a crowded hallway. In reality, Yoongi was probably fine. In Jake's 19 year old brain, Yoongi was the final boss of a video game. You know how it is when you're that age, everything is heightened, everyone seems more powerful and more permanent than they actually are, and a slightly older guy dating the girl you've been trying not to stare at in group hangs becomes this enormous, immovable fact of the universe. Jake was not going to be weird about it. Jake was totally normal about it, actually.
The first time you two actually talked was at a party, of course. A proper college party, and Yoongi was there doing his whole thing (being mysteriously cool or whatever) and somehow he had ended up near Jake with a shot glass in hand and the very specific energy of someone who finds it entertaining to watch freshmen suffer. It was a hazing thing, one of those dumb tradition adjacent rituals that everyone knows is stupid and participates in anyway because the social pressure of a crowded room is genuinely one of the most powerful forces known to man. Yoongi handed Jake the shot with this completely unreadable expression, and Jake, because he was an idiot and also because you were somewhere nearby and nineteen-year-old boys will do genuinely unhinged things when they're trying to seem cool, took it without even asking what was in it.
Big mistake. Historic mistake. The kind of mistake that becomes a bit in the retelling. Because whatever was in that glass was absolutely not meant for human consumption at that volume, and Jake knew it approximately four seconds after swallowing, when the room did a thing rooms aren't supposed to do. He found a wall. He became one with the wall. And then suddenly there was a hand on his arm and a cup of water appearing in front of his face and a voice saying, "you need to drink this right now and also sit down, oh my god, are you okay?"
It was you. You stayed with him for a while, you got him water, you made him eat something, you were practical and a little exasperated in a way that felt weirdly maternal except not weird at all, and Jake sat there feeling like absolute garbage physically while also, somehow, feeling like the luckiest idiot at the party. You left when he was clearly going to survive the night and you gave him this look on the way out, the kind of look that says I saw this coming and I will not be elaborating further – and that was it. That was the whole interaction.
And Jake, because he was a disaster wrapped in a very appealing exterior, developed a crush immediately. Which, great, great news! Really excellent timing, since you were dating someone and that someone had just handed Jake the drink that nearly killed him, so the whole situation was already a little Shakespearean without adding unrequited feelings into the mix.
Having a crush on someone who's taken is its own specific kind of hell. You see them in group settings and you have to be normal about it. You hear their name and your brain does this annoying little thing. You watch them laugh at someone else's joke and you think, I could've said something funnier, which is insane and also definitely not the point. It's not heartbreak, it's more like a splinter small enough to ignore most of the time, present enough to be really fucking annoying. So Jake ignored it, mostly. He was good at that for a while, at least.
And when I say you think you're smarter than you really are at 21, I mean it in the most specific way possible, because Jake genuinely believed he was smart enough to just decide not to have a crush on you anymore. Like it was a setting he could toggle off or like feelings operated on some kind of rational opt-in system where you could just look at the situation, assess that it was inconvenient and counterproductive, and choose to feel something else instead. He told himself he'd gotten it out of his system, he told himself it was just a moment, just the water and the kindness and the fact that you'd looked at him like he was simultaneously the most pitiful and most entertaining thing you'd seen all week, and that was just a normal human response to someone being nice to you when you felt like death. Totally understandable and completely manageable.
Jake thought he was over it. Well, no, Jake was not over it. But he was, to his credit, respectful about it, which deserves acknowledgment, because being respectful about a crush you're pretending not to have while the person is in a relationship is genuinely harder than it sounds.
He didn't do anything weird or didn't hover. He was just Jake, friendly and easy and exactly the right amount of present, and the friendship between you two grew slowly and naturally in the way that friendships do when you share enough people and enough spaces that proximity eventually just becomes familiarity. Part of it was architecture, honestly – you were Jay's older sister, and Jay was close with Heeseung, and Heeseung was one of Jake's closest friends and his roommate and was also dating one of your closest friends, which is the kind of social tangle that somehow becomes the entire foundation of your social life for three years because that's just how friend groups work when you're in college and everyone is always in the same five locations.
So, yeah, Jake saw you around a lot. He got to know you better, the actual you, not the mythologized untouchable version he'd invented in his head in freshman year. And Jake liked you, genuinely, actually liked you, which was its own separate problem from the crush because it made the crush worse in a way that simple attraction never would have. He also, occasionally, saw you with Yoongi, which, well, he didn't love that. He wasn't going to make it a whole thing, but he didn't love it. Yoongi was fine, probably, Jake just thought he was deeply, profoundly wrong for you in ways he couldn't fully articulate and definitely wasn't going to examine too closely.
But Jake didn't spend those two years pining into the void. He had a life. He went out, he met people, he kissed girls at parties and went on dates that were sometimes good and sometimes awkward and sometimes both in quick succession. He even dated someone for four months and she was lovely, and it ended badly in the way that things end badly when two people are both doing their best but ultimately want completely different things and wait too long to admit it. He learned some things about himself and moved on with his life, which is what you're supposed to do, and he did it. He was genuinely actually doing it.
And then, on a completely unremarkable thursday afternoon when Jake was sitting on his couch doing nothing, something miraculous happened. You posted a photo. It was, and he means this with full awareness of how he sounds, a thirst trap of the highest order.
Jake saw it, sat with it for approximately three seconds, and then his brain did the thing brains do when they've been quietly keeping a file on something for two years – it connected the dots immediately and instinctively. Because you and Yoongi had been very much a unit for a long time, and this photo had a very specific energy that did not read as "person in a happy relationship," and Jake noticed, because he was paying attention in the way that people pay attention when they've been pretending not to pay attention for so long that the pretending has become its own full time job.
He went to your profile just to check out of curiosity. Because he was a normal person doing a normal thing. And every single photo with Yoongi was completely gone, which meant it wasn't an accident and it wasn't recent, it was deliberate. Jake put his phone down. He picked it up again. He put it down. He texted Heeseung.
The conversation that followed was, in Jake's own words, purely informational. He was just asking questions because he was curious, in a totally casual way. Heeseung, who had been friends with Jake long enough to see directly through every single layer of that framing, answered anyway, because he was a good friend and also because watching Jake try to be chill about something he was extremely not chill about was genuinely one of his favorite pastimes. Yes, you and Yoongi had broken up. No, Heeseung didn't know all the details. It had happened a few weeks ago, apparently. It was a quiet breakup, you know when long relationships sometimes end, in a mutual understanding that it had run its course, and then one day it's just over and you're taking photos off your instagram and posting thirst traps? Yeah, in that way.
Jake absorbed this information calmly and maturely. But then he also texted Jay, which was insane because Jay was your brother and therefore the least neutral possible source, but Jake had entered a particular mode of information gathering that had suspended his better judgement. Jay's response was approximately four words long and communicated very clearly that this was not a conversation he was interested in having with Jake specifically, which honestly is fair enough. Sunghoon was more helpful, he gave Jake exactly the information he asked for: yeah, you broke up because Yoongi was being a dick. And then Sunghoon looked at Jake for a long moment and said, "so what are you going to do about it," and Jake said, "nothing, I'm just asking," and Sunghoon made a face that communicated profound disbelief without saying another word.
But then, Jake realized something terrible but also incredibly awesome happened: You were single now. And you know what happens when a pretty girl is single, right? The radius expands overnight. Guys who had been perfectly respectful and well behaved for two years suddenly remembered that they had personalities and things to say, and they started saying them, loudly, in your direction, with this very specific energy of people who had been waiting for their window and were not going to waste it now that it had opened.
And you – and this is the part that was making Jake's life genuinely difficult – you were nice about it. You were nice about everything, that was the problem, you had this way of making people feel like they had a shot without ever actually saying anything that confirmed they had a shot, which is both an art form and a form of psychological warfare and you deployed it completely unconsciously, which somehow made it worse.
The conclusion Jake was slowly, painfully arriving at was that everyone had suddenly decided you were interesting, and he had been here, he had been here respectfully for two years, watching from a completely appropriate distance, and now all of a sudden it was fashionable. It felt deeply unfair in a way he couldn't logically justify and felt anyway. He'd been paying attention since before it was the thing to do, and now half the people he knew were acting like they'd just discovered something he'd been sitting with for ages, and it made him irrationally, disproportionately annoyed in a way that he expressed by being slightly quieter than usual and, also, going to the gym more.
So he watched, from his very appropriate and not-at-all-pathetic distance, as you went about your newly single life with the energy of someone who was doing genuinely great and wanted everyone to know it. And he didn't do anything about it, because what was he going to do? Walk up to you and say hey, so I've had a crush on you since you gave me water at a party two years ago while I was actively dying, want to grab coffee? No, obviously not. Jake Sim had many qualities and complete emotional recklessness was not traditionally one of them. So he did nothing, he just observed and he did nothing, and he told himself this was wisdom and not cowardice, and maybe it was a little of both.
He even ran into Yoongi once in the corridor, and the guy looked – well, not bad exactly, but he had that specific kind of distracted, slightly hollow look that people get when something ended and they haven't fully metabolized it yet. Jake recognized it because he'd had it himself after that one girl, and he felt a brief, involuntary flash of something that might have been sympathy before his brain reminded him of the context and he moved on. He did think, privately, that if he had somehow managed to have you and then let that go, he would probably also look like that in a university corridor on a wednesday. Honestly, Jake'd look worse, so he understood completely, he wasn't even mad at the guy. Well, actually, no – he was a little mad at the guy.
And then there was a party because of course there was a party, there's always a party. Nobody ever makes a monumentally stupid life decision at the campus library or over a quiet coffee place, because if they did this would be a romantic kind of story. And this story is about a lot of things but it is not a romance, and the fact that it consistently takes place in environments with bad lighting and worse decisions and 2000s pop hits should tell you everything you need to know about the choices being made here.
Jake was fine at this party. He was having a good time, talking to people, being his usual self, doing great. And then he saw you across the room talking to Sangwon, and something in his chest did something extremely inconvenient.
Sangwon was – okay, look, Jake could be objective about this. Sangwon was objectively attractive in this very specific way that Jake personally found annoying: the delicate, effortlessly pretty kind of attractive that read as completely unthreatening and therefore somehow more threatening than anything else. Tall-ish, soft looking, the kind of guy who probably had nice handwriting and remembered to water his plants. Girls today would call it twink energy – Jake wasn't entirely sure he was using that word right but he was about sixty percent confident it applied here, and the point was that Sangwon had it, and you were currently laughing at something Sangwon had said, and Jake was standing across a party watching this happen and feeling something he was not proud of feeling.
Jealousy is such a stupid emotion. It doesn't feel like the movies make it look! It's not this hot, dramatic surge of passion, it's more like a deeply irritating pressure behind your ribs that you can't breathe out properly. It makes you look across a room too many times and then feel embarrassed about looking and then look again anyway. It is, in summary, the worst, and Jake was full of it, and he was twenty-one years old and smart, so he made the extremely smart decision to do something about it.
He found the tequila.
If you have ever done tequila at a college party, you already know how this goes, I don't need to tell you. Tequila has this specific evil quality where it gives you confidence that feels completely real and is entirely fabricated, and the worst part is it feels indistinguishable from actual confidence until you're already three shots in and saying things out loud that were supposed to stay in your head. It's warm and it's fast and it makes you feel like the version of yourself that has everything figured out, which is exactly what Jake wanted to feel, and it worked, in the sense that he stopped feeling the jealousy quite so sharply and started feeling like a person with a plan. (Jake did not have a plan. Jake had tequila. These are not the same thing.)
He found you on the balcony, you were alone, leaning on the railing with your drink, looking out at nothing in particular. Jake walked over and stood next to you, and you glanced at him, and he opened his mouth and said:
"Do you think I'm a twink?"
You turned to look at him fully, almost choked on your drink. "I'm sorry," you said, "what?"
"A twink," he repeated, with the confidence of someone who had rehearsed this in his head and it had gone differently. "Do you think I am one."
"I heard you the first time, I just –" you stared at him for a second. "Where did that come from?"
"I'm just asking," he said. "I feel like it's a thing right now. Like girls are really into it."
You looked at him for a long moment with an expression that was doing several things at once. "Some girls," you said carefully, "are into that, yes."
"Are you?"
You tilted your head. "Why does that matter to you?"
"It doesn't," he said, very quickly, which was a terrible answer. "I'm just curious. About the demographic. Generally."
"About the demographic," you repeated.
"Yeah."
"Jake," you said, slowly, like you were choosing each word with intention, "you are the least twink person I have ever seen in my life."
"Okay but is that a bad thing."
"I didn't say it was a bad thing."
"You didn't say it was a good thing either."
You made a face that was fighting very hard not to become a smile. "What is happening right now? How much have you had to drink?"
"A normal amount," he said, which was a lie and you both knew it. "I'm just making conversation."
"You opened the conversation by asking me if you were a twink."
"It's a valid question."
"It's genuinely not," you said, and lost the fight with a smile, and there it was, that thing you did where your whole face shifted and Jake's brain momentarily stopped doing its job. You shook your head. "What are you actually trying to ask me, Jake?"
"I'm asking what you're into," he said, and it came out more direct than he intended, tequila smoothing over the part of his brain that normally installed a filter between what he thought and what he said. "Like. In general. What your type is."
You looked at him over the rim of your cup. There was something in your expression now that was different from the amusement, like more measured and more deliberate, like you were deciding something. "You're asking about my type," you said.
"Yeah."
"At a party."
"Yeah, we're at a party."
"After asking if you were a twink."
"I'm trying to get context," he said, with great dignity.
You laughed then, and looked away from him out in the dark, and Jake stood there next to you feeling like an idiot and also like things were going slightly better than he deserved given the circumstances. You were quiet for a second and then you said, without looking at him, "I don't really have a type."
"Come on, everyone has a type."
"Then maybe mine is just –" you paused, and glanced at him sideways, "– interesting."
Jake's brain was working on a response but the tequila had reorganized his priorities and for a second he just stood there looking at you looking at the city and thought, with extraordinary clarity: I am going to make so many bad decisions. "It's just," he started, and then stopped, and decided to just say it, because the tequila had apparently also reorganized his sense of self preservation. "You were talking to Sangwon in there and I kind of assumed you were into him. Like, into the whole twink thing he has going on."
You stared at him for a second then you laughed, and you tried to cover with your hand when it surprised you. "Jake," you said, "Sangwon is not only a twink. Sangwon is actually gay."
"Right," he said immediately. "Yeah. Obviously."
"Did you think he was hitting on me?!"
"I mean." He shifted his weight. "There's been a lot of that going around lately. It's not an insane assumption."
You turned toward him a little more, and there was something in your expression that was enjoying this more than was necessary. "You've been paying attention to who talks to me at parties?"
"No," he said, and then, because the tequila had completely destroyed his ability to maintain a coherent lie, "I mean. It's hard not to. You know, pay attention to you. Generally. That's – that's all I'm saying."
You were quiet for a second, looking at him with this expression he couldn't fully decode, and he became acutely aware that he had just said that out loud to your actual face with his actual mouth and there was no taking it back now. "Are you hitting on me?" you asked, and your voice was genuinely curious, not teasing, just asking.
"I think I might be," he said, "but I should be transparent that my execution is suffering because I've had a lot of tequila and I feel like I could've come at this with a much better angle sober."
You bit your lip and chuckled, and Jake watched you do it, and his brain said several things in quick succession that he chose not to act on. "You're cute, Jake," you said, and your voice had shifted into something more deliberate. "You're really cute."
And here's the thing – Jake had been called cute before. He had been called significantly more than cute before, by people who meant it and he had received it normally, like a human being. But something about you saying it, on this specific balcony, after this specific conversation, with that specific tone, completely short circuited whatever normal wiring he had for receiving compliments and he just stopped. Jake just stood there and just looked at you. His brain presented him with approximately three possible responses and then quietly took all of them off the table and left him with nothing, just this blank, slightly overwhelmed stillness, because he couldn't tell if you meant it or if this was just the thing you did, this friendly, warm, effortlessly charming thing that made everyone in your orbit feel special without any of them actually being special, and the possibility that he was just another guy on the list of guys you'd smiled at this month was enough to freeze every single instinct he had.
You watched him not respond for what was probably five seconds and felt like significantly longer. And then you laughed again and looked at him. "Okay," you said. "But you're clearly very drunk, so I genuinely can't tell if you're actually hitting on me or if this is just tequila being tequila."
"I'm trying to hit on you," he said, with more clarity than he'd managed in the last five minutes, because that part at least he was sure of. "I've been trying to for – that's a separate conversation. But I'm hitting on you. I'm just not being very good at it right now."
"No," you agreed pleasantly, "you're really not."
"Yeah I know."
You smiled at him, and then you looked down at your drink for a second, and when you looked back up there was something more open in your expression, like you'd made a small decision. "I've been posting on instagram for like three weeks," you said, very casually, "and I was kind of hoping you'd say something. Or do something. Or literally anything." You paused. "You never did."
Jake's brain processed this sentence. Then it processed it again. Then it took it apart and looked at each individual word to make sure he was understanding correctly. "Those photos were –"
"I mean, they were for me too," you said fairly. "But also a little bit for you to notice."
"I noticed," he said, immediately and with feeling.
"Well, I could see when you watched my stories." You said it without any particular accusation, just stating a fact, and Jake made a mental note to turn off his read receipts on instagram stories 30 seconds after they were posted. "I just thought you weren't interested. I figured you'd seen them and moved on."
There were so many things Jake could say to that, starting with the fact that he had absolutely not moved on, had not been moving on, had been doing the opposite of moving on for a frankly embarrassing amount of time, and also that he had literally asked Heeseung and Jay and Sunghoon for information about you like some kind of deranged private investigator, and none of that was going to come out of his mouth right now in a way that sounded good.
"Next time," you said, picking up your drink and pushing off the railing, "maybe drink a little less first and we can figure this out in a way that's slightly more coherent, yeah?"
You said it like it was simple, like it was already decided. Like the next time was a given, a scheduled thing, something that existed in the future that you were both just waiting to arrive at, and then you gave him one last look, the one he was starting to understand was specifically designed to make him lose his train of thought – and went back inside.
Jake stood on the balcony alone. He stood there for a while, by the way. She was posting for me, he thought, with the slow, dawning comprehension of someone receiving information his body couldn't immediately process. She was posting for me and I watched every single story and did absolutely nothing and she thought I wasn't interested. The tequila, which had felt like such a good idea two hours ago, was now sitting in his stomach like a personal insult. There had been a very clear, very explicit open door just now and he had stood in front of it and stared at it like an idiot while you held it open and eventually you'd gotten tired of waiting and closed it and gone back inside, and he had done nothing, nothing, chickened out completely, frozen up like someone had unplugged him.
The next morning, Jake was sitting on his kitchen floor with his back against the cabinet and a glass of water he'd been working on for forty minutes, trying to convince his body that survival was worth pursuing, when he told Heeseung and Sunghoon what happened. They laughed, hard.
"Wait, wait, wait," Heeseung said, holding up a hand, because he needed a second to process. "You opened with – you asked her if you were a twink."
"I was establishing context, dude," Jake said.
"What context? What context requires you to ask a girl if you're a twink?"
"I thought she was into Sangwon–"
"Bro, Sangwon is gay!"
"I know that now!"
Sunghoon had been quietly losing it since the twink part and had not fully recovered. He was sitting against the opposite cabinet with his legs stretched out, shaking his head slowly like a man confronting something he hadn't expected to encounter on a Saturday morning. "So you saw her talking to Sangwon," he said, walking through it, "got jealous, did tequila shots about it, went out to the balcony, and the first thing you said to her was do you think I'm a twink."
"When you say it like that–"
"How else is there to say it?"
"I was building up to something."
"To what? What was the twink question building up to?"
Jake drank his water and said nothing, which was answer enough. "And then," Heeseung continued, because apparently they weren't done, "she told you – she literally told you, with her mouth, using words – that she'd been posting on instagram for three weeks to get your attention. And you stood there."
"I was processing."
"Jake, what the hell is wrong with you, she handed you everything, she did everything except write it on a sign," Heeseung said.
"I panicked, dude, okay?" Jake said, with the quiet dignity of a man who had accepted his losses. "I didn't know if she meant it or if she was just being like that."
"Being like what?"
"You know how she is. She's like that with everyone. She makes everyone feel like–"
"She told you she was posting for you," Sunghoon said flatly. "That's not her being like that with everyone. That's her telling you specifically a thing about you specifically."
"I know."
Heeseung had migrated to the kitchen counter at some point and was sitting on it eating Jake's cereal, which he'd helped himself to without asking, which was normal, which was just what Heeseung did. He pointed the spoon at Jake. "Okay but what are you gonna do now."
"I don't know," Jake said. "Die, maybe."
"Tempting, but no," Sunghoon said. "You should text her."
"And say what?"
"Literally anything. Hey, sorry I malfunctioned, I like you, let's try this again."
"I can't say that."
"Why not?"
"Because it's–" Jake gestured vaguely at the air. "It's embarrassing."
"More embarrassing than asking a girl if you're a twink at a party?" Heeseung asked, genuinely curious.
Jake had no answer for that. Sunghoon stretched his arms above his head and said, in the tone of someone remembering something important, "also, unrelated, but I really hope she doesn't tell Jay about the twink thing. Or any of it, honestly. I don't know what he'd do with that information."
Oh, right. Yeah. That was also another thing entirely: your brother.
Look, Jay was one of Jake's closest friends. They had the kind of friendship that runs on shared history and the specific comfort of knowing someone well enough that you don't have to explain your references, and that is genuinely one of the most valuable things a person can have. Jake loved Jay. Jay was great. Jay was also, when it came to you, a little bit insane.
Jay wasn't the kind of brother who made issued warnings or anything that overt – he was too self aware for that, and also you were older than him, which he was fully cognizant of, and bringing up the age thing would've gotten him absolutely demolished and he knew it. But there was this thing Jay did, this very specific thing, where if someone made a comment about you – like if someone in the group said something offhand, like oh your sister's pretty funny or hey your sister was at that thing last night – Jay's face would do this extremely subtle shift, this microscopic recalibration, like running a quick background check on the speaker's intentions before deciding how to respond. He never said anything directly. He didn't have to, because the shift was enough.
Jake had witnessed this shift several times over the years and had been extremely careful to never be the cause of it, which meant he had spent a non-trivial amount of energy making sure that nothing he said about you, ever, in Jay's presence, could be interpreted as anything other than completely neutral. He had not said you were funny in a way that implied anything. He had not said your name with any particular emphasis. He had been, in this specific arena, disciplined in a way Jake was almost never disciplined about anything else.
The fact that he had been nursing a crush on you for two years was information that Jay did not have and that Jake had every intention of keeping that way, because the version of that conversation he played out in his head never ended in a way he liked. Jay wasn't irrational about it – he knew you were a grown woman who could do whatever you wanted – but there was a difference between knowing that intellectually and finding out that your close friend had been quietly down bad for your older sister since freshman year and had just drunkenly asked her if she found twinks attractive at a party. That was a specific combination of information that Jake did not feel ready to present to Jay at this time.
So when Jake saw Jay again later that evening, he was operating on two simultaneous hangovers: the physical one, which was tequila doing what it was supposed to, and the moral one, which was the specific psychic weight of having had an entire moment handed to him on a silver platter and having dropped the platter, the moment, and his dignity all at once.
The reason he had to look Jay in the face that evening was because Heeseung – his best friend, his roommate, the person who knew everything and had spent the morning laughing at him – had invited everyone over to play NBA 2K, because Heeseung had the emotional intelligence to understand that the best thing for Jake right now was probably to be around people and not sitting alone in his room refreshing your instagram profile, and also because Heeseung just genuinely wanted to play NBA 2K and this was a convenient excuse. Both things were true. That was Heeseung.
Jay showed up at seven with beer and absolutely zero indication on his face that he knew anything about twinks or balconies or his sister telling Jake she'd been posting for him for three weeks. They played for a while and talked shit, the party came up because parties always come up the day after, there's always a debrief, always someone who saw something or heard something or made a decision that needs to be collectively processed.
"Honestly solid party," Sunghoon said, not looking up from his controller. "Better than the last one."
"The last one was terrible," Jay agreed. "Fucking Beomgyu didn't even mind opening the window before making his apartment feel like a hot sauna after smoking 3 tons of weed."
"There was a balcony at least," Heeseung said. "Too much tequila, but a balcony."
Jake said nothing. Sunghoon did not look at him. Heeseung did not look at him. They were both being very normal about this. "Oh, Jay, by the way," Heeseung said, with the casual tone of someone who had absolutely planned this segue, "my girlfriend told me your sister was excited to go, said she seemed like she was having a good time."
Jay made a sound that was half acknowledgment, half something more affectionate that he would've denied if you'd pointed it out. "Yeah, she needed it, honestly. She's been kind of in her own head since the Yoongi thing, I think it was good for her to just go out and not think about it."
"How's she doing with all that?" Heeseung asked, with the perfectly calibrated innocence of a man doing Jake an enormous favor and knowing it.
Jake kept his eyes on the screen. Jay shrugged, the loose kind of shrug that means I've thought about this enough to have an answer ready. "She's good, actually. Better than I expected," he paused. "As far as I know she hasn't hooked up with anyone or whatever, she told me she didn't want anything serious for a while and honestly, I'd be the same way."
"Totally makes sense," Heeseung said, nodding like this was a general philosophical point and not targeted intelligence.
"Mm," Jake said, contributing nothing, which was the correct amount. Sunghoon glanced at him for exactly half a second and then back at the screen. Jake felt it anyway.
Jake lay on his bed that night staring at the ceiling with the specific stillness of someone whose brain is moving very fast. Okay, you didn't want anything serious. And well, you'd said it yourself, to your own brother, which meant you meant it, as an actual position you'd taken on your own life after thinking it through. That's okay, that's valid, honestly. But you had also told him, on a balcony, twelve hours ago, that you'd been posting on instagram for three weeks hoping he'd notice. Which meant you'd noticed him, at some point, enough to want him to notice back, which meant something. He wasn't sure exactly what shape that something was, but it existed, it had been confirmed by your own mouth, and it sat alongside the other thing (the not wanting anything serious thing) in a way that felt less like a contradiction and more like information. Like two coordinates that, taken together, pointed somewhere specific.
Jake'd spent the whole weekend in this horrible intermediate state of wanting to text you and talking himself out of it on a loop, going back and forth, and eventually he'd landed on not texting you, which was a decision he'd made approximately eleven times and kept having to remake every hour or so. He would text you eventually but that was a problem for future Jake. Future Jake would handle it. He had no idea when future Jake was showing up exactly, but present Jake was not equipped and needed more time and also more water.
Future Jake, he thought, was going to have to get his shit together pretty soon. And future Jake saw you on Wednesday, which he had not planned and was not ready for in any capacity. He'd just come out of basketball practice, which, okay, look, Jake played recreationally with a group of guys and it was one of his favorite parts of the week, except for right now, because right now he was standing in the corridor outside the gym in a sweaty tank top with his hair doing something he couldn't see but could feel, smelling like a person who had just done significant physical activity in an enclosed space. He was, by every possible measure, not looking like someone who was prepared to have a conversation with a girl he'd almost-but-not-quite made a move on four days ago while drunk on tequila at a party.
You were coming from the other direction, you saw him before he had any real chance to do anything about how he looked, which was fine, it was totally fine, it was just – he would've liked a second, that's all. "Hey, Jake," you said like nothing was weird, like you were just two people who ran into each other in a corridor, which technically you were but also, come on.
"Hey," he said, and shifted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, which did nothing for the overall situation but gave his hands something to do.
You slowed down without fully stopping and your eyes did this thing where they went from his face down to – look, he was wearing a tank top, that's just context, that's just what he was wearing, but the way you looked at him was not nothing, and he clocked it immediately, and then he clocked that he'd clocked it, and he had to work very hard to keep his face doing something normal. "Basketball?" you asked.
"Yeah. Just finished."
"I can tell," you said, pleasantly.
"Is that a nice way of saying I smell."
"I didn't say that." You were smiling, just a little. "You look good though."
The thing about you was that you said things like that completely straight, not like a joke and not like a big deal, just as a casual, factual observation, and that was so much more effective than if you'd made it into a thing, and you probably knew that, and that was genuinely evil of you. Jake decided the only reasonable response was to match your energy and not make it weird. "I feel disgusting," he said.
"That's fine. You don't look like it."
"You're being very nice to me considering the last time we talked I asked you about twinks."
You laughed at that, a quick one, and stopped walking properly, which meant this was now a real conversation and not a corridor pass-by, and some part of Jake's brain quietly celebrated while the rest of him stayed focused on being a normal human person. "I've been thinking about that," you said, "and I've decided it's one of the best things anyone's ever opened with."
"That's a low bar."
"It really is," you agreed. "But you cleared it." He laughed despite himself, because that was the thing about talking to you – it was just easy, even when it shouldn't have been, even when there was all this other stuff underneath it. "So," you said, head tilting slightly, "you never texted me."
"Should I have texted you?"
"Well, I thought you were going to."
"I'm a thorough person. I was figuring some stuff out."
You looked at him for a second with that expression that meant you were deciding how far to push it, and then you said, "and did you figure it out?"
"Getting there," he said, which was true in the sense that he was standing here having this conversation instead of watching your stories from a safe distance, which was progress, technically. And look, Jake was not exactly proud of what he said next. I mean, he was proud of it, very much so, he just couldn't believe he actually had said it without thinking about it first, but he said it anyway: "Are you free tonight?"
You blinked at him in the way of someone who had been expecting the conversation to go one direction and watched it go another, and were recalibrating in real time. There was a second, just a beat, where you looked at him and then something in your face settled and you said, "yeah, I am."
"Okay, cool," he said, with a confidence he was mostly performing. "Give me like twenty minutes to shower and we can do something, if that's fine."
"Sure," you said, and the corner of your mouth did the thing. "I'll wait."
So you waited outside while Jake went back into the locker room, and yeah I know, the locker room situation was not ideal, because it was still mostly full of guys from his session who were in various stages of packing up and being loud about it, and Jake had to navigate all of that while also internally processing the fact that you were standing outside waiting for him, which was a sentence he hadn't expected to be true today when he woke up this morning. He found a free shower, turned it on, and stood under it trying to organize his thoughts into something resembling a plan.
Jake had no plan. He had asked you if you were free tonight with the energy of someone who had a plan and he absolutely did not. He didn't know where you were going, didn't know what doing something meant in this specific context, didn't know if this was a hang or a date or something in between that didn't have a clean name yet. He was showering at a speed that was not fully compatible with actually getting clean and he was also having what could generously be described as a mild internal crisis, which was a lot to do simultaneously.
He was out in eleven minutes, and that was a personal record and also probably not great for his hair but there was nothing to be done about that now. You were where he'd left you, on your phone leaning against the wall, and you looked up when he came out and you looked at him for just a second before saying anything. "There's a bar near the east exit," he said, because he'd spent eleven minutes in the shower and that was the one concrete thought he'd produced. "They have good beer and it's not too loud."
"Yeah, I know that place," you said, pushing off the wall. "Let's go."
That was the whole planning process, Jake had produced one idea and you'd accepted it and now you were walking side by side toward a bar on a wednesday evening and he still had no idea what this was.
Here's the thing about a first whatever-this-was with someone you've been down bad for – you spend the whole time doing two things at once, which is actually being there and having a good time, and also running this constant background process trying to figure out what category the evening falls into. Like, is this a date? It felt like a date in the sense that you were there and he wanted to be there and there was a thing between you that both of you were aware of. But it also felt like two people getting a beer after running into each other, which is just a normal human activity with no inherent romantic weight. The not knowing is its own specific kind of torture because you can't calibrate how to act. If it's a date you can be a certain way. If it's not a date you have to be a different way. If it's somewhere in between you just have to pick one and hope. Jake picked somewhere in between and hoped.
You talked, and it was good, it was easy in the way that talking to you was always easy even when it was also making him insane. You talked about the semester, about a class you were taking that you hated but couldn't drop for scheduling reasons, about something stupid that had happened in your friend group that week that he'd heard a partial version of from Heeseung and now got the full story on. He told you about basketball, about a guy on his team who took recreational sports way too personally and made everyone's day slightly worse for it. You laughed at that and added something from your own experience and the conversation just kept going the way good conversations do where you don't feel the time passing until you look up and realize it has.
The whole time, his brain was doing the background thing. Because on one hand you were sitting across from him at a bar table being funny and warm and looking like that, and on the other hand Jay had said clearly that you didn't want anything serious, and you'd said it yourself apparently, to your own brother, which was not a thing you say casually. And this was a beer on a Wednesday. Was a beer on a Wednesday serious? By most definitions, no. But you'd also posted thirst traps for him on instagram and told him about it to his face, which was not something you did with someone you thought of as just a friend getting a beer on a wednesday. So what was it then? What was the correct interpretation of all available data? Jake ran the numbers and kept getting different answers and at some point gave up and just looked at you instead, which was the better use of his time anyway.
You were on your second beer when you nudged his foot under the table with yours, just lightly, and said, "you know, you really did just completely ignore every single photo I posted."
"I was being respectful."
You looked at him with an expression that was somewhere between amused and genuinely baffled. "Respectful," you repeated.
"Yeah, you know, I didn't want to just slide into your stories two weeks after you broke up with someone, that feels weird, that's a weird thing to do."
"Okay but who told you I wanted respectful?"
Jake opened his mouth and then closed it because that was a very good question and he didn't have a great answer to it. You were looking at him with this expression that was patient in the way that people are patient when they've already made a decision and are just waiting for the other person to catch up to it, and Jake sat there for a second genuinely recalibrating, because there was a version of you he'd built in his head over two years and it was accurate in a lot of ways but apparently had been missing some information. Specifically this information. The who told you I wanted respectful information.
"I was trying to read the situation," he said finally.
"And what did the situation tell you?"
"That you'd just gotten out of something long and probably needed time."
"I'd had plenty of time," you said, easy as anything, taking a sip of your beer. "The last few months of that relationship were not exactly great, Jake, I wasn't as blindsided as everyone assumed."
Jake was doing a full system reboot. Because there was the version of this he'd been preparing for, and that involved being careful and measured and not pushing too fast because you'd just ended something serious and probably needed space, and then there was the version that was apparently actually happening, which was you sitting across from him telling him that you'd had plenty of time and nobody had asked him to be respectful about it. And those were two very different versions with very different implications and Jake was standing at the crossroads between them trying to figure out which road he was actually on.
What he landed on, quietly, in the back of his head, was that he'd maybe underestimated you a little. He'd been so busy being careful around the idea of you that he hadn't fully accounted for the actual you, who was sitting here being pretty straightforward about what she wanted and had been this whole time, and he'd been the one making it complicated. Which was funny, sort of. Kind of embarrassing, sort of. Did it make things better or worse, knowing that? He genuinely didn't know. Better, probably, in the sense that it clarified things. Worse, possibly, in the sense that he now had significantly less reason to stall and significantly more reason to do something about this, which meant the next move was on him and he was going to have to actually make it.
He looked at you across the table. You looked back at him, completely unbothered, like you had nowhere else to be and no particular investment in how long this took. And then Jake did something he genuinely hadn't planned, which was becoming a theme with you. He looked at the space next to you on the booth seat, looked at you, and said "can I sit there?" with the energy of someone who had made a decision approximately one second before the words came out.
You looked at the space, looked at him, and said "yeah, sure" like it was a stupid question.
So he sat down next to you, close enough that your arms were touching, and he put his arm along the back of the booth behind your shoulders in the way that is technically not putting your arm around someone but is absolutely putting your arm around someone, and you let him, and you turned your head to look at him with this expression that was patient and a little amused and something else underneath that that Jake was trying very hard not to read too much into. He looked at you for a second. Then he said, "what do you want, Y/N?"
You raised an eyebrow. "I thought I'd made that pretty clear."
"You have," he said. "I just want to hear it."
"Seriously?"
"Yes, please."
You looked at him for a moment with the expression of someone deciding whether to find this charming or annoying, and Jake held the eye contact and did the thing – he knew he was doing it, he was fully aware, this was a conscious deployment – where he looked at you like that, a little helpless, a little earnest, the face that had gotten him further in life than he was entirely proud of but that worked, consistently, empirically, and he was not above using it right now.
You saw it, and he could tell you saw it because something in your expression shifted. "Well," you said, and your voice had dropped just enough that he felt it, "I want you."
Jake's brain received that sentence and did several things with it at once, the main one being a kind of full-body recalibration that he had to keep off his face, and then it handed him back one clear thought which was: okay, do something, do it now, you have been waiting two years for a version of this moment and she just handed it to you on a plate so for the love of god do not stand there like an idiot again.
He didn't. Jake closed the distance and kissed you, and Jake had kissed people before, he had a functional amount of experience, this was not new territory, but the first second of kissing you was still enough to make his brain go briefly offline in a way that was embarrassing and also completely out of his control. And then your hand came up and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling slightly, like you knew exactly what you were doing and were in no particular hurry about it, and that was – yeah, okay, that was new information, that was the kind of thing that reorganized a person's entire understanding of a situation. You kissed him back like you'd thought about it, which apparently you had, which was a concept Jake was going to need some time to fully process.
Your lips parted against his and Jake felt the soft slide of your tongue just barely teasing the seam of his mouth. He made a low, helpless sound he didn't even mean to make and opened for you, and the second he did you took it, kissing him deeper, hotter, like you'd been waiting two years too and you were done being patient. The booth was small and the angle was awkward and none of it mattered because you were kissing him hard, harder than Jake thought you would. Jake's hand found your waist, sliding under the hem of your top without thinking, and you made this little approving hum against his mouth that short-circuited half his brain.
You smiled into the kiss, clearly pleased with yourself, and then one of your hands left his shirt and slid up the side of his neck with your fingers threading into the hair at the back of his head, nails scraping lightly. The shiver that ran through him was so obvious there was no hiding it. Jake pulled back after a moment, not far, just enough to look at you, because he'd waited long enough that he felt like he'd earned the right to look at you for a second. "Fuck," he said. "Okay."
You pulled back just enough to look at him. "What?"
"I wasn't expecting this today," he said.
You looked at him for a second with that expression that was doing several things at once and then you said, "well, it's still better than the time you asked me if I thought you were a twink."
Jake laughed, and so did you, and then somehow you were kissing again and the twink conversation was the last thing either of you were thinking about.
You kissed a lot that night. And then, because apparently one night was just the beginning of a much longer pattern neither of you officially agreed to, you kissed a lot over the next three years. That's not a metaphor for anything, that's just literally what happened: you and Jake kissed in a lot of places over a lot of time and it never quite resolved into something clean and it never quite went away either, and that combination of things is basically the entire story, condensed.
But let me give you the highlights, because the highlights are worth it.
There was the time in the library, second floor, which should've been a terrible idea and was, but the terribleness of it didn't occur to either of you until after, which is usually how it goes. There was a rooftop at a party and it felt significant enough that Jake remembered what clothes you were wearing, there was also a cab home from somewhere, and you'd fallen asleep on his shoulder and he'd stayed completely still the entire time like an idiot so he wouldn't wake you up. There was his kitchen at seven in the morning, you in his hoodie, him making coffee badly, and the specific kind of easy that existed between you two in the mornings that he tried very hard not to think too much about because thinking about it led places he wasn't sure he was allowed to go.
And it wasn't just kissing, to be clear. This is a story about friends with benefits and we're all adults here, so, yeah. It was more than that, it was a lot more than that, and it was good, consistently, annoyingly good, the kind of good that makes it harder to keep things in the category you've agreed to keep them in. Jake was aware of this problem. He noted it. He filed it away and took it out occasionally and looked at it and put it back, because what else was he going to do with it?
Because here's where it got complicated, or more complicated, or a different flavor of complicated than it had already been: every time things got a little more real, a little more weight to them, a little more like something that had a name and a shape and a future – you disappeared. One day the texts would slow down, or you'd be busy, or you'd show up to the same group hang and be perfectly warm and perfectly normal and perfectly distant in a way that only he could tell was distance because he knew the other version of you, the close one, and the difference was noticeable if you were paying attention and he was always paying attention.
And every single time, without fail, Jake would feel it coming the way you feel a change in pressure before it rains, and he'd think, with the tired resignation of someone who has been through this enough times to recognize the opening notes: aw shit, here we go again.
Jake could not do this, and he knew it, but he did it anyway. There were moments where he'd lie there and wonder how long a person could exist in something undefined before it started to cost too much. He never landed on an answer. He'd fall asleep and wake up and you'd text him something funny and the question would go back in the drawer where it lived.
But that's all later. That's the three years of it, the accumulated weight of a thing that was never fully named and therefore never fully dealt with. That's twenty-four year old Jake's problem, and we'll get there.
Right now, tonight, it's still that bar, and you've just kissed him for the first time and none of the rest of it has happened yet. And he's not thinking about patterns yet, he just knows that you're here and he finally did something about it and your lip gloss is slightly smudged and you're pretending not to notice and honestly, for right now, that's good enough. It was good enough for a while, actually.
But you know what was really good? What happened between you two later that night.
After the bar closed out and the tab was paid and you were both a little buzzed and grinning like idiots, Jake finally got his shit together enough to say it out loud. He was like, "hey, Heeseung's not home tonight… you wanna come over?" and he said it so casual but his ears went bright red, which was hilarious because you could tell he'd been thinking about it the whole walk to the car. You just raised an eyebrow at him and said "yeah, obviously" and that was it. Heeseung could not find out, like, ever, so the empty apartment was basically a gift from the universe as far as Jake was concerned.
The second the door shut behind you guys he was already kissing you again, hands a little shaky on your waist, but you took over pretty quick. You pushed him back toward his room without even asking which one was his, and the whole time he was muttering stuff like "fuck, this feels good" under his breath. You laughed at him, soft and mean in the best way, and once you got him on the bed you climbed right on top and started peeling his shirt off.
And here's the part that still cracks Jake up when he thinks about it: Jake had always figured he was pretty normal in bed, you know? Take charge, make the girl feel good, the usual. But the second you pinned his wrists down and told him "don't move" he just… folded. Like instantly, eyes wide, breathing all shaky, looking up at you like you'd hung the moon and also maybe ruined him forever. He didn't even realize it was happening until you were grinding down on him slow and he let out this pathetic little whimper and you smiled like you'd won the lottery.
You kept teasing him, hands everywhere but never quite where he wanted, and every time he tried to touch you you'd just push his arms back down and go "uh-uh, ask nicely." He actually whined, and when you finally let him speak he was all cracked voice going "please… fuck, please touch me" and you made him say it again, louder, like he was begging for it. He did. He did it twice. Looked so embarrassed and so turned on at the same time it was actually kind of beautiful. You kept calling him good boy in that low voice and every time you did his brain just shorted out more. He was legit acting like a puppy, pressing up into your hand, following every little movement you made with his hips, mumbling "please, please, I'll be good" while you rode him slow enough to make him lose his mind.
When you finally let him come he buried his face in your neck and shook the whole time, arms wrapped around you so tight like he was scared you'd disappear if he let go. Afterward you just lay there on his chest, both of you sweaty and laughing a little because yeah, neither of you expected it to go down quite like that. Jake kept saying "fuck, that felt so fucking good–" and you'd just kiss him and tell him to shut up and enjoy it.
So the morning after, Jake woke up and reached over without thinking about it, the way you do when you fell asleep next to someone and your body just assumes they're still there, and they weren't. You were gone. The bed was cold on your side, which meant you hadn't just gotten up, you'd been gone for a while, and Jake lay there for a second staring at where you were supposed to be processing that information with the dawning comprehension of someone whose brain hadn't fully booted yet.
He looked for a note. There was no note. He checked his phone, there was no text. He got up and did a lap of the apartment like you might've just migrated to the living room, which you hadn't, and then he ended up in the kitchen where the only evidence that you'd ever been there at all was a glass in the drying rack next to the sink washed. You'd gotten up, gotten dressed, had a glass of water, washed the glass, and left, and Jake stood there in his kitchen at eight in the morning naked looking at a clean glass like it had personally wronged him.
He was, to be direct about it, a little pathetic that week. Not in a way that anyone else would've necessarily noticed, he kept it mostly internal, but he was going over the previous night on a loop with the specific energy of someone trying to figure out if they'd misread something, except he didn't think he'd misread it, he was pretty sure he hadn't misread it, but then why was there a clean glass in the drying rack and no text and no note and nothing. He waited two days, which felt like a reasonable amount of time to not seem insane, and then texted you: hey. had a really good time the other night.
You responded six hours and forty two minutes later. He was not counting, he just happened to notice. You said: me too, sorry been swamped with coursework this week, how are you?
How are you? Okay, normal, friendly, completely unreadable. He stared at that text for an embarrassing amount of time trying to extract information from it that probably wasn't there. You texted back and forth for a bit after that and it was fine, it was good actually, you were funny and easy to talk to like always, but it had this quality of a conversation between two friends catching up, and Jake kept waiting for some acknowledgment of the thing that had happened (you literally had called him a good boy and he came and he couldn't stop thinking about it) so he expected at least some small signal, but it never came. You were warm but you were also just normal, and Jake couldn't tell if that was you being cool about it or you genuinely treating it as a casual thing that didn't require any particular follow up, and not knowing which one it was made him feel insane.
He took a step back after that, more like a self preservation instinct kicking in before he did something embarrassing like double text you about your feelings. He told himself it was fine, casual was fine, he could do casual. He was a 21 year old guy, casual was supposed to be his native language. He was completely miserable about it, but quietly, which he felt was at least dignified.
Heeseung noticed, but Jake had made a decision to keep this one close to his chest for a while, at least until he understood what it was, so every time Heeseung gave him that look Jake just said he was tired or stressed about school and Heeseung let it go with the patience of someone who knew he'd find out eventually and was willing to wait.
Heeseung found out on tuesday. Jake was on the couch doing something on his laptop when he heard the front door open harder than necessary and Heeseung came in with the specific energy of someone who had just received information and had walked home with it at an elevated pace. He looked at Jake. Jake looked at him. "You absolute dick," Heeseung said. "Why didn't you tell me you hooked up with Y/N?"
Jake didn't know how Heeseung got that information. Jake was shocked. Jake closed his laptop. "How did you– I– I didn't know if I was supposed to."
"What does that even mean?!"
"It means I didn't know what it was yet and I didn't want to make it into a thing by telling people."
"I'm not people, I'm me," Heeseung said, dropping his bag on the floor with the energy of a man deeply personally offended. "Also you forgot that she's one of my girlfriend's best friends, so I was going to find out regardless, and instead I had to find out from her like an idiot keeping secrets."
"I wasn't keeping secrets, I was just–"
"You told me about the twink thing in real time," Heeseung said, pointing at him, "like I got a full play by play of the twink conversation the morning after, but then something actually happens and you go completely silent?"
Jake opened his mouth and then closed it because that was a fair point. "I didn't know what she wanted," he said, which was the honest answer. "She left in the morning without saying anything and then texted me like everything was normal and I couldn't figure out if it meant something or nothing and I didn't want to tell you and then have it be nothing."
Heeseung looked at him for a long moment and then came and sat down on the other end of the couch with slightly less aggression than he'd entered with. "Okay," he said. "That's actually a real reason."
"Thank you."
"Still should've told me."
"Yeah, okay, sorry."
Heeseung picked up Jake's abandoned throw pillow and held it for a second and then threw it at him anyway, not hard, more ceremonial. Jake caught it. They sat there for a second in the way that they did when a conversation had finished being an argument and was transitioning into something more useful. "For what it's worth," Heeseung said, in the tone he used when he was relaying information he'd been given permission to relay, "from what my girlfriend said, it sounds like she had a good time."
Jake looked at him. "What?"
"That's what I'm told."
"Did she say anything else?"
"I'm not a messenger service dude," Heeseung said, but he was almost smiling, which meant there probably was more and he was choosing not to give it up yet, which was an absolutely classic Heeseung move. Jake threw the pillow back at him.
"You're useless," Jake said.
"I'm extremely useful actually," Heeseung said. "You're just impatient."
Which was true. Jake was very impatient, and also still confused, and also still thinking about you calling him a good boy, and also apparently you'd had a good time, which meant something, even if he wasn't sure yet what it meant or where it went from here. It was a start, Jake figured. A weird, inconclusive, slightly maddening start, but still.
The first time Jake saw you after that night was at Jay's place, which was, in terms of ideal settings for navigating whatever the hell was happening between you two, pretty much dead last on the list.
He'd gone over with Sunghoon and Heeseung on the weekend and Jake had shown up expecting a normal saturday, maybe some games, maybe they'd order food later, nothing that required him to be mentally prepared for anything. And then Jay opened the door and Jake walked in and saw you sitting on the couch next to Sunoo, and you were wearing this little top that kept riding up just a little every time you moved and those jeans that sat low on your hips and hugged your ass in a way that made his brain immediately supply very unhelpful memories and very difficult to immediately look somewhere else, which he did, eventually, after approximately two seconds too long.
You looked up at the same time he looked away, which meant you definitely caught him, which meant you knew exactly what those two seconds were, and you just smiled and looked back at whatever you and Sunoo were talking about like absolutely nothing had happened.
The thing was, you were subtle about it in a way that was actually not subtle at all, it was just subtle enough that no one else was catching it. You weren't doing anything obvious, you'd say something to the group and let your eyes land on him a beat longer than necessary. Or you'd laugh at something and angle yourself slightly in his direction. Or you'd reach across the coffee table for something so your top pulled tight across your chest, or cross your legs in a way that made the seam of those jeans shift against your thighs. Every little movement felt deliberate, like you were putting on a private show just for him in a room full of people who had no idea. He'd catch the movement in his peripheral vision and have to actively redirect his attention back to whatever conversation he was supposed to be in. It was a very specific, very targeted kind of casual, and Jake was losing his mind about it while maintaining a completely normal facial expression, which was one of the more athletically demanding things he'd done recently.
At one point Jay said something to him directly and Jake had to ask him to repeat it because he'd been looking at the TV but actually thinking about absolutely nothing related to the TV, and Jay gave him a mildly suspicious look and said "are you good?" and Jake said "yeah, sorry, tired" which was the same excuse he'd been using for weeks and was starting to wear thin. Sunghoon, from his spot on the floor, did not look at Jake. He was very pointedly not looking at Jake in the specific way that meant he was fully aware of everything that was happening and had chosen to be Switzerland about it, which Jake both appreciated and found slightly irritating.
Heeseung was on the other couch next to his girlfriend, who was next to you, and at one point his girlfriend said something to you quietly and you laughed and glanced over at Jake for just a second and he caught it and then had to pretend he hadn't caught it, and he looked at Heeseung with an expression that said please help me and Heeseung looked back with an expression that said you're on your own, buddy.
Eventually you got up to go to the kitchen and on your way back you stopped right next to his armchair, leaned down slowly to grab your phone from the side table, and your body was suddenly so close he could smell your perfume. You looked right at him for a second, lips curved like you were enjoying this way too much, and asked the room in the most innocent voice, "Has anyone decided what we're doing for food?" and Jake stared straight ahead at the TV like a man who had seen god and was not ready to discuss it.
"Pizza?" Sunoo offered.
"Pizza it is. Okay, I'm ordering right now. I'll go down and grab it when it gets here," you said, straightening up. "Jake, you can come with me so I'm not carrying it alone."
It was said so casually. Just a totally normal thing to say. Nobody in the room looked up. Jake said "yeah, sure" in a voice that was completely regular and betrayed nothing and then went back to looking at the TV.
The elevator ride down was eleven floors. Jake stood on one side and you stood on the other and it was fine for approximately four seconds and then you looked at him and smiled, not the group hang smile, the other one, the one that meant something specific, and he looked back at you and thought about the clean glass in the drying rack and the six hour forty two minute text response and how you'd spent the entire afternoon driving him insane in a room full of his friends and your brother.
The doors opened at the lobby and you both went and got the pizza and on the way back to the elevator you were walking close enough that your arms kept almost touching, and he held the elevator door open for you and you walked in and he let the doors close and before the elevator had even started moving he said, "what the hell are you doing?"
You turned to look at him with an expression of absolute, practiced innocence. "What?"
"You know what."
"I really don't," you said, which was a complete lie delivered with complete confidence, and you said sweetly, stepping a little closer even though there was plenty of space. Your eyes dropped to his mouth for a second, then back up and somehow you were still managing to seem like the most irritating and attractive person he'd ever encountered in his life. "I just asked you to help me carry pizza, Jake."
"That's not –" he stopped and looked at you. You looked back at him, waiting. "You've been doing that thing all afternoon."
"What thing?"
The elevator was moving, seven floors to go. "You know what thing."
"I genuinely don't know what you're talking about," you said.
Jake looked at the elevator doors then back at you. "You're going to get me killed by your brother," he said.
"Jay's not going to do anything to you."
"You don't know that."
"I know Jay," you said. "He'll be annoying about it for like two weeks and then he'll get over it."
Jake stared at you. "That implies there's something for him to get annoyed about."
"Isn't there?" you said, and the elevator doors opened on Jay's floor, and you walked out with the pizza like that sentence hadn't just happened, and Jake stood there for a second before the doors started to close and he had to stick his arm out to stop them.
And what happened between you two that night was, in Jake's words, the best sex he'd ever had.
After everyone said their goodbyes at Jay's and the group started splitting up, you turned to him with the sweetest, most innocent little smile and asked, "Jake, can you give me a ride home? I don't feel like taking an Uber this late." He just nodded, trying to look normal, and said "yeah, sure" while Sunghoon and Heeseung gave him one last knowing side eye. The car ride was quiet at first, but the second you two pulled up in front of your building you looked over at him and said, "Come up for a bit?"
Jake didn't even pretend to hesitate. Your apartment was cute as hell, by the way. Soft lighting, a big comfortable looking puff in the corner that screamed "perfect for sitting and getting straddled," and a whole shelf full of those little Hirono figures lined up like a tiny army watching everything. He was still busy scanning the place, smiling at how it was so you, when you decided you'd waited long enough. The second the door clicked shut you were on him.
You grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands and pulled him into a kiss that was anything but innocent, even a little bit desperate, tongue immediately sliding against his. Jake made a surprised sound into your mouth but kissed you back just as hard, hands finding your waist. "I couldn't stop thinking about you since last time," you breathed against his lips, biting his bottom one right after. "Kept remembering how pretty you sounded begging." Jake let out a low chuckle, the smugness creeping in now that he wasn't trapped in an elevator with you. He walked you backwards until your back hit the wall, pressing his body against yours.
"Oh really?" he murmured, voice dropping. His hand slid down to grip your ass, squeezing hard. "You spent all afternoon teasing the shit out of me in front of your brother and now you're admitting you were horny the whole time?"
You grinned, and rolled your hips against him. "Maybe. What are you gonna do about it?"
He kissed you again, slower this time but filthier, tongue licking into your mouth while he pinned you harder against the wall. When he pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushed yours. "I think I'm gonna make you beg this time," he said. "Since you had so much fun with me the other night."
You laughed softly but there was a challenge in it. "Good luck with that, Jakey."
"Yeah?" He slipped his thigh between your legs, pressing up just right, and you couldn't stop the little gasp that escaped. "You've been acting like such a fucking brat all day. You wanted me worked up, didn't you?"
You rolled your hips against his thigh again and looked him straight in the eyes. "Yeah, I did," you said, voice already a little unsteady. "I kept thinking about how you'd look trying to hide it in front of everyone. It was hot."
Jake's expression shifted, something hungrier crossing his face and he didn't answer with words. Instead he grabbed your waist, turned you and pushed you back onto the bed in one quick motion. You landed on the mattress with a soft bounce, and before you could push yourself up he was already over you, knees bracketing your hips, one hand catching both your wrists and pinning them above your head against the pillow. He leaned down close, mouth right next to your ear, voice low. "You really like pushing me, yeah?" His free hand pushed your top up slowly, fingers dragging over your skin.
You tugged at your wrists just to test him, but he held them firm. A shiver ran through you when he kissed down the side of your neck, open mouthed and wet, then sucked lightly under your jaw. "Jake…" you started, but he cut you off by pressing his thigh between your legs again, this time with more pressure.
"Tell me what you were thinking about," he murmured against your collarbone. "When you were teasing me in front of your brother. Be honest."
You bit your lip, trying to keep some control, but your breathing was already getting faster. "I was thinking about how you sounded last time…"
He let out a quiet laugh, almost surprised, and pulled your top the rest of the way off. His eyes moved over you for a second before he lowered his head and kissed between your breasts, then lower, across your stomach. He took his time undoing your jeans, sliding them down your legs along with your panties, leaving you completely bare under him. When he settled between your thighs he pushed them wider apart with his hands, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there. He looked up at you, hair falling into his eyes, and there was that smug little edge in his expression again. "You're already this wet," he said, running one finger slowly up your pussy and spreading the slickness. "Just from teasing me all night?"
You opened your mouth to answer but he leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit. Your hips jerked and a moan slipped out before you could stop it. Jake hummed against you, the vibration making your thighs tense. "Fuck… Jake–" He did it again but slower, tasting you properly, then closed his lips around your clit and sucked gently. Your back arched off the bed and you pulled hard at the hand still pinning your wrists, but he didn't let go.
He pulled back just enough to speak, lips shiny. "You taste so fucking good." Then he went back in, licking and sucking with more focus, and every time you tried to roll your hips up to get more he'd press you back down with the hand on your stomach, keeping you right where he wanted. You were breathing hard, little sounds escaping despite yourself.
"Shit– Jake, please…" you gasped.
He lifted his head with his lips wet, eyes dark as he looked up at you. "Please what?" His voice was low, almost sweet. "You gotta tell me, baby. I wanna hear it."
You glared at him even as your cheeks burned, still trying to hold onto that bratty attitude. "Don't stop… keep going."
Jake smiled, slow and knowing. "That's not very specific." He pressed a soft, teasing kiss right above your clit. "You made me beg last time, remember? Fair's fair."
He licked you again, deliberately slow, dragging the flat of his tongue over your clit before pulling away completely. You let out a frustrated sound and tried to move your hips toward his mouth, but he held you still. "Jake, come on–"
"Use your words like a big girl," he said, pressing another kiss to your inner thigh, then biting lightly. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you."
"I wanna cum," you whispered. "Please, Jake… make me cum." The smug little smile he gave you was almost unbearable, but then he dipped his head again and there was no more teasing. He licked you like he was starving for it with hungry strokes of his tongue, then focusing on your clit with steady pressure, sucking gently and then harder when your moans got louder. He kept your wrists pinned with one hand and used the other to hold your hip down so you couldn't squirm away from the intensity. "Fuck– right there–" you gasped, head tipping back against the pillow.
The pressure built fast and sharp, and when it finally broke you came hard, thighs clamping around his head, a broken moan spilling out of you as your whole body tensed and then melted. Jake didn't stop right away, he kept licking you through it, slower and softer, until you were twitching and pushing at his shoulder. Only then did he kiss his way back up your body with open mouthed kisses along your stomach, between your breasts, up your neck, until he reached your mouth. He kissed you deep and you could feel how hard he was against your thigh.
"You sounded so fucking pretty," he murmured against your lips. "Love when you beg like that."
You let him enjoy his victory for about ten seconds. Then you smiled, sweet and dangerous, and in one quick move you pushed his shoulder and rolled, flipping him onto his back so you were straddling his hips. Jake's eyes widened in surprise, a startled laugh escaping him. You settled on top of him, your hands sliding up his chest, he was still fully dressed from the waist down and you could feel how hard he was under you. You rolled your hips slowly, grinding against his bulge, and watched his breath catch. "Think you can just get away with it?" you asked, leaning down to kiss along his jawline. You sucked lightly on the spot right under his ear, the one you already knew made him weak, and smiled when his hands gripped your thighs tighter.
"Baby–" he started, but you cut him off by palming him through his jeans, squeezing just enough to make his hips jerk up.
You kissed down his neck, biting softly, then whispered right against his skin, "You looked so good between my legs… but I like you like this too."
Jake let out a shaky breath, head tilting back against the pillow as you kept kissing and biting along his jaw and throat. His hands slid up your sides but didn't try to take over, he was letting you have this, and the way his breathing kept stuttering told you he was enjoying it more than he wanted to admit. You popped the button on his jeans and slid your hand inside, wrapping your fingers around him. He was hot and heavy in your palm, already leaking, and you stroked him slowly, thumb brushing over the head. "Fuck…" he groaned, eyes fluttering shut. His hips twitched up into your hand, chasing the touch.
You kept kissing his jaw, his neck, the corner of his mouth, while you worked him with your hand with slow, tight strokes that had him breathing through his mouth. "Look at you," you murmured, voice low and teasing. "You like it when I take over, don't you?"
Jake swallowed hard, cheeks flushed. He opened his eyes and looked up at you, that mix of smug and submissive that made your stomach flip. "Yeah… shit, I do," he admitted, his hands squeezed your thighs like he needed something to hold onto. "Keep going… please."
You smiled against his neck and stroked him a little faster, twisting your wrist just how you knew he liked from last time. He let out a broken sound that went straight between your legs. "Yeah," you whispered, nipping at his earlobe. "Be good for me again, Jakey."
And oh boy, he was good. Jake's head tipped back against the pillow, eyes half closed and his mouth open as every slow twist of your wrist pulled another broken little sound out of him raw and helpless. His hips kept twitching up into your fist, chasing the tight heat of your hand, and you could feel him throbbing, getting impossibly harder, the head of his cock slick and leaking over your fingers. "Fuck– baby, slow down," he gasped, but his body was saying the exact opposite, pushing up harder like he couldn't stop himself. You didn't slow down, you stroked him faster and watched his abs tense, his thighs shaking under you.
You leaned down, lips brushing his ear again. "You close already, Jakey? Gonna cum all over my hand like a good boy?"
He made a strangled noise, hips stuttering. "Shit yeah, I'm– fuck, I'm really close–"
You slowed your hand at the last second, squeezing the base just enough to edge him right there on the brink. Jake's eyes flew open, desperate and glassy. "Tell me," you whispered, still stroking him slowly and torturously. "You wanna cum like this or do you wanna cum inside me?"
"Inside you– fuck, please, inside you, I need it so bad," and it came out so fast and desperate it was almost funny. You laughed softly and kissed him once, quick and dirty, before you sat up and shoved his jeans the rest of the way down his thighs.
You didn't even bother taking them all the way off. You just swung your leg over him, lined him up, and sank down in one smooth motion. The stretch was perfect, it was thick and hot and so deep you both groaned at the same time. Jake's hands flew to your hips, fingers digging in hard as you bottomed out, your ass flush against his thighs. "Oh fuck, yes," he breathed, voice hoarse. "You feel so fucking good baby–"
You didn't give him time to adjust. You started moving right away, rolling your hips in slow, filthy circles at first, then lifting up and dropping back down harder, finding a rhythm that made the headboard knock softly against the wall. Every time you sank down he hit that spot inside you that made sparks shoot up your spine, and you let yourself moan loud and shameless, not caring who heard.
Jake looked wrecked underneath you with flushed cheeks, messy hair, lips parted, eyes locked on the way your tits bounced every time you rode him. But he wasn't completely gone, his hand cracked against your ass with a sharp smack, the sting blooming hot and perfect. "Fuck– yeah, just like that," he groaned, voice breaking. He slapped your ass again, harder this time, and you clenched around him so tight he cursed.
You leaned forward, hands braced on his chest, and started bouncing faster, thighs burning in the best way. "You like it when I ride you like this?" you panted, grinding down deep on every thrust. "Like being good to me?"
Jake whimpered and nodded frantically, hips snapping up to meet you. "Yes shit, yes, use me, I don't care– fuck–"
The switch was so easy between you two now, flipping back and forth without thinking. One second he was slapping your ass and thrusting up like he was trying to ruin you, the next he was looking up at you with those big, needy eyes, letting you pin him down and take whatever you wanted. You rode him harder, grinding your clit against him on every downstroke, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the room. Jake's hands were everywhere – squeezing your ass, sliding up to pinch your nipples, then back down to slap you again when you started slowing down just to tease him.
You felt another orgasm building fast and you didn't fight it. You leaned down close and grabbed his jaw with one hand, forcing him to look at you. "Open your mouth," you ordered, voice rough.
Jake's eyes widened but he obeyed instantly, lips parting, tongue just barely showing. You didn't even slow your hips, you just kept riding him deep and steady while you leaned in and spit right onto his tongue. He moaned like it was the hottest thing that had ever happened to him, eyes fluttering shut as he swallowed without being told. His hips jerked up hard, slamming into you, and the slap of skin got louder, messier. "Fuck, that's so hot," he gasped, voice completely shot.
You kept riding him like that for a few more seconds, hips grinding down deep while he swallowed and looked up at you like he was completely gone. But Jake had clearly reached his limit. "Enough," he said, voice low and rough. He grabbed your hips hard and flipped you over in one fast move, putting you on your stomach. "On your knees, baby. Ass up."
You didn't even think about arguing. You pushed yourself up, arching your back the way he wanted, and felt the mattress dip as he knelt behind you. His hands spread your cheeks almost immediately, thumbs digging into the soft flesh. "Fuck, look at you," he muttered. "All wet and messy from riding me. Such a good girl."
He rubbed the head of his cock up and down your pussy a couple times, teasing your entrance, then pushed in deep in one smooth thrust. You moaned loud into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheets. He felt even bigger from this angle, stretching you open perfectly. Jake gripped your hips and fucked you hard with deep strokes that made your whole body rock forward.
"That's it," he growled, one hand sliding up your back to press between your shoulder blades, keeping your chest down. "Take it just like that. Fuck, your pussy is squeezing me so tight." You were slipping fast into that softer, needier headspace, moaning every time he bottomed out. He leaned over you, chest against your back, and spoke right next to your ear. "You like it e when I fuck you from behind, don't you?" He gave you a particularly hard thrust that made you whimper.
His hand moved down, and you felt his thumb circle your asshole, pressing lightly. You tensed for a second, then moaned louder when he pushed the tip of his thumb inside, just a little, while still fucking you deep. "Yeah? You like that?" he asked, as he worked his thumb in and out slowly, matching the rhythm of his cock. "Want me playing with your tight little ass while I fuck this pussy?"
You nodded frantically against the pillow, pushing back against him. "Yes– fuck, Jake–"
He groaned and gave you more, sliding his thumb deeper while he kept pounding into you. The double sensation was overwhelming, making your legs shake. Every thrust pushed you closer, and Jake could feel it. "You gonna cum again?" he asked, breathing hard, still fucking you deep.
"Yeah," you moaned into the pillow. "I'm so close, Jake. Don't stop– please don't stop."
He groaned at how desperate you sounded and picked up the pace, slamming into you harder. The wet slap of his hips against your ass mixed with the filthy sound of his cock sliding in and out of your soaked pussy. His thumb pushed a little deeper, stretching you just right, and the overwhelming fullness made your eyes roll back. "Fuck, you're gripping me so tight," he growled. "This pussy is gonna make me cum if you keep squeezing like that."
You were right on the edge, every hard thrust pushed you closer until you couldn't hold it anymore. "Jake– I'm gonna cum," you gasped, voice breaking. "Please cum inside me. I want it. Fill me up please, please cum in me."
The words barely left your mouth before your orgasm hit you like a wave. You cried out, clenching hard around his cock and his thumb, whole body shaking as pleasure crashed through you. Jake cursed loudly, hips stuttering. "Shit– yeah, take it," he groaned, burying himself as deep as he could. "Gonna fill this pretty pussy up."
He came hard right after you, thick and hot, pulsing deep inside while he kept fucking you through both your orgasms. You could feel every twitch of his cock until you were dripping and messy between your thighs. For a moment the only sounds were both of you trying to catch your breath. Then Jake slowly pulled out, his cum already starting to leak from you. He grabbed your hips keeping your ass up and leaned down. "Stay just like that," he murmured.
He spread your cheeks with both hands and dragged his tongue all the way from your swollen clit up to both of your holes, licking up his own cum in one long stripe. You whimpered at how sensitive you were, but he didn't stop. "Fuck, Jake…" you moaned weakly, twitching every time his tongue passed over your clit.
He hummed against you, clearly enjoying himself way too much. "Taste so fucking good together, can't waste any of it."
He kept licking you lazily from behind until you were trembling and oversensitive, then finally kissed the curve of your ass and collapsed next to you, pulling you into his chest.
And remember when Jake said that was the best sex he'd ever had? Well, he lied. I mean, he didn't, but the thing is he had the best sex of his life with you multiple times after that, so that meant the bar kept moving, which meant he kept revising the statement, which meant at some point the statement stopped being a useful metric for anything and he just had to accept that you had broken something in his brain that was not going back to its original position.
What that night did, more than anything else, was open a door. And once a door like that is open you don't really close it again, you just kind of agree to keep walking through it whenever it makes sense, and then it starts making sense more and more often, and before you know it you've been doing this for five months and nobody has said a single word about what it is. That's not a criticism, that's just what happens when two people are having a genuinely good time and neither of them wants to be the one to introduce paperwork into the situation.
The thing about having that kind of arrangement with someone in your twenties is that it's good in a way that's hard to explain to someone who hasn't been in it. It's casual in the best sense of the word, there's no pressure, no performance, no having to show up as anything other than exactly who you are on any given day. Jake could text you at eleven on a tuesday and you'd say come over or you wouldn't and either way it was fine, nobody's feelings got managed, nobody had to have a conversation about expectations. You'd show up, it would be great, one of you would leave, and then a few days later it would happen again. Transactional sounds like a bad word but it wasn't, it was clean and easy and it worked.
Except for the parts where it didn't.
Jake kept bumping what was the waking up alone situation, and that never fully stopped being a thing. He'd gotten better at it, in the sense that he'd stopped expecting otherwise, but there's a difference between not expecting something and being fine with it, and Jake was operating solidly in the first category while telling himself it was the second. Because, well, you always left. Sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes early morning, once while he was still technically in the shower, which he found out when he came back to an empty room and a text that said had fun, talk later with a little waving hand emoji that he chose not to analyze too deeply.
There were good stretches and weird stretches and stretches where you'd disappear for a couple weeks and he'd go about his life and not text you first because he'd learned by then that pushing got him nothing, and then you'd come back and it would be like the reset button had been pressed and everything was fine again. He'd had enough of those cycles by month three to recognize them as a pattern. Recognizing a pattern and doing something about it are different skills and Jake had only fully developed one of them.
The moments that got him, specifically, were the ones that didn't fit neatly into the casual box. Like that day you showed up at his and Heeseung's place with no particular agenda and that had never happened before, you'd always had a reason, a direction, somewhere to be after. But that day you just came over and sat on his couch and said put something on, and Jake put something on and you watched a movie and somewhere in the middle of it you ended up sideways with your legs over his and his arm around you and you fell asleep for twenty minutes on his shoulder, and he sat there not moving and watching the rest of the movie and thinking, okay, this is a different thing, this is a new category.
He made dinner after, just pasta because it was what he had and neither of you had eaten, and you sat at his kitchen counter and stole pieces of bread while he cooked and complained about your thesis advisor and he gave you genuinely useless advice that you told him was genuinely useless and you both laughed about it, and it was domestic in a way that nothing between you two had been before. It was easy in a different way than the other easy.
You two did have crazy monkey sex afterwards, obviously, a cozy evening apparently had a very natural endpoint when it was you two involved, but the point is the cozy evening happened first, and Jake went to sleep that night thinking maybe this was shifting into something with more weight to it. Jake woke up alone, of course.
By month six Heeseung had watched enough of this play out from a front row seat to have developed opinions about it, which was inevitable, and those opinions had been accumulating for long enough that they required a formal airing. "We need to talk about the Y/N thing," Heeseung said.
"There's no thing. It's casual." Jake said.
"It has been months of casual dude," Heeseung replied. "You haven't hooked up with anyone else in five months. You cancelled on that girl Jungwon introduced you to because you were, and I'm quoting you directly here, not really feeling it right now. You got quiet at that party two weeks ago when she was talking to that guy."
Jake put his hands down. "I wasn't —"
"You were," Heeseung interrupted, not unkindly. "I'm not saying this to give you a hard time, I'm saying it because you're my friend and I've watched you go through this loop enough times and you've gone there anyway and you need to either say something about it or accept that you're going to keep waking up alone and feeling like shit about it."
Jake looked at the table. Then at his cereal. Then at Heeseung, who was looking at him with the patient, slightly tired expression of someone who had been waiting for this conversation for a while and was just glad it was finally happening. "She doesn't want anything serious," Jake said, which was the thing he always came back to.
"Did she tell you that? Directly? To your face?"
"No but Jay said –"
"Jay said that months ago man," Heeseung said. "That's not the same as her telling you now, those are two different infos and you're using the old one because it's easier than asking about the current one."
Jake had nothing to say to that because it was correct and he knew it was correct and knowing something is correct and being ready to act on it are still two different things. So Jake did what he did best, which was absolutely nothing. He filed the whole thing under "will deal with later" and went about his life with the practiced ease of someone who had been avoiding his own feelings since approximately age nineteen and had gotten very good at it. The situation was what it was and he was an adult and adults could handle ambiguous situationships without imploding, that was just a thing adults did, he was doing it, everything was under control. He managed this for about three more weeks.
Then he saw you with Soobin. Now look, Soobin was – okay, there's no way to say this without it sounding insane but Soobin was objectively one of the most disarmingly attractive people Jake had ever met in his life, and he meant that in the most objective, non threatened way possible. Soobin had this face that looked like someone had put in a very specific request with the universe like big eyes, the guy was massive, tall as hell, and still he had this soft energy that made everyone around him feel immediately comfortable and also vaguely like they wanted to protect him, which was funny because Soobin was not a person who needed protecting, he was just built in a way that made people feel that instinct.
And there you were standing way too close to each other and you were laughing at something he'd said with your hand on his arm and Soobin was smiling at you like you were the funniest person he'd encountered all semester. It was objectively innocent and it was probably completely innocent. Jake watched it from across the courtyard for about fifteen seconds and felt his entire chest do something unpleasant.
Jake at twenty two was marginally more self aware than he'd been at twenty one, and that meant he knew that what he was feeling was jealousy and that jealousy was his problem to manage and not a logical basis for any decisions. He knew this. He sat with this knowledge for approximately four days and then went and texted Minjeong, which was either proof that self awareness and self control are completely separate skills or just proof that knowing better and doing better have never been the same thing and probably never will be.
Jake dated Minjeong for a few weeks before, not actually dated but more like the kind of thing that had been easy and low stakes and had faded out naturally because neither of them had been particularly invested, which in retrospect made her a terrible choice for what Jake was trying to do, because Minjeong was smart and she knew him well enough to immediately clock that something was off. She responded to his first text warmly enough but when he tried to suggest hanging out she said, with the directness of someone who had no interest in being a supporting character in someone else's drama, "are you doing okay? you seem weird." He said he was fine. She said okay but you seem like you're in your head about something. He said he wasn't. She said she believed him and also that she was busy this week, and that was pretty much that.
Minjeong was not going to be a pawn in whatever this was and honestly, fair enough. Jake deleted the thread and lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about how even his attempt to be stupid about this had failed, which was a new low.
He'd been doing this for about two weeks, going back and forth and getting nowhere, and then, when he was heading to his car after his last class that week, thinking about nothing except that he hadn't eaten since noon and needed to fix that, he heard his name from behind him and turned around and it was you, slightly out of breath like you'd jogged a little to catch up.
"Hey," you said, falling into step next to him. "You walking to the lot?"
"Yeah," he said. "You need a ride?"
"No I'm good, I'm meeting someone." You paused. "I just wanted to ask you something."
"Okay."
You were quiet for a second in the way that meant you were deciding how to phrase something. "Are you seeing Minjeong again?" you asked, and your voice was totally casual, just a question, except it was not just a question and you both knew it.
Jake stopped walking. You stopped next to him. He looked at you. "Where did you hear that?"
"Around," you said, which was not an answer.
"Around meaning who."
"Does it matter?"
"Kind of, yeah."
You looked at him with this expression that was doing a lot of things at once. "So are you?" you asked again.
Jake looked at you for a second and then almost laughed, not because it was funny exactly but because of the specific absurdity of the situation, of you standing here asking him about Minjeong with that look on your face, after weeks of him watching you with Soobin and saying nothing about it, after months of him waking up alone and saying nothing about that either. "No," he said. "I'm not seeing Minjeong."
"Okay," you said.
"I texted her like twice and she was busy," he said, and he wasn't sure why he was giving you that level of detail except that something about your expression made him want to be honest about it. "It wasn't anything."
You nodded slowly. "How come you texted her then?"
"I don't know," he said, which was a lie, and by the way you looked at him he could tell you knew it was a lie, but you didn't push it, you just stood there with your arms crossed and your head tilted slightly like you were waiting to see if he'd say the rest of it on his own. He didn't, Jake e was not ready for the rest of it on his own.
"Okay," you said again, and there was something in your voice that sounded like it wanted to be more than okay but had decided against it, so Jake filed away to think about later when he was alone and could turn it over properly. You uncrossed your arms. "I'll see you around, Jake."
"Yeah," he said.
You walked off in the direction you'd come from and Jake stood next to his car with his keys in his hand watching you go and thinking, she asked. She came over here specifically to ask me about Minjeong, which means she noticed, which means she was paying attention, which means there is something here that is not nothing and we are both standing right next to it and pretending we can't see it.
Jake got in the car, drove home, and spent the entire ride being quietly, unreasonably annoyed at everything. Not at you specifically, or at least that's what he was telling himself, more at the general situation, at the specific cruelty of the universe for engineering something that felt this close to something real and then consistently making it impossible to get there. He was annoyed at Minjeong for being perceptive, at Soobin for existing and being objectively very pretty, at himself for texting Minjeong in the first place, which he knew was stupid while he was doing it and had done anyway because apparently knowing something is stupid is not sufficient protection against doing it. Twenty two years old. So much growth.
The Soobin thing, to be clear, had no evidence behind it. Jake knew this but he had convictions, not proof, which is the worst possible combination because convictions without proof live entirely in your head and your head is not an objective narrator. He'd seen you together twice and you were touchy with people you liked, that was just how you were, he knew that, he'd watched you do it with your friends a hundred times. The hand on the arm meant nothing, probably. The laughing meant nothing, probably. Soobin was in your friend group adjacent circle and it made complete sense that you'd have a normal friendship with him that involved proximity and laughter and absolutely nothing else and Jake had zero basis for any of the conclusions he'd been drawing for two weeks.
But he wasn't going to say any of that to you. He wasn't going to say anything to you because saying anything to you meant talking about why he'd texted Minjeong which meant talking about seeing you with Soobin which meant explaining why seeing you with Soobin had bothered him which meant having the exact conversation Heeseung had told him to have weeks ago, and Jake was not ready, had not been ready, kept moving the goalposts on when he would be ready, and in the meantime was going to deal with this the way he dealt with everything which was poorly and quietly.
So you two didn't talk, at all. You didn't fight or anything, just because neither of you reached out and the silence settled in the way silence does when two people are both waiting for the other one to go first. It was one of the worst months Jake had had in a while, which embarrassed him slightly to admit because (objectively) nothing had happened. Nothing had been lost that he'd technically had to begin with. You weren't his girlfriend, you didn't owe him texts, the silence was not a punishment and he had no logical claim to feel as bad as he felt about it. But feelings are not interested in your logical framework, they just do what they do, and what Jake's were doing was making him terrible company for approximately five consecutive weeks.
Week one he was mostly just annoyed and told himself he'd feel better eventually. Week two he did not feel better. Week three Sunghoon asked him at lunch why he looked like that and Jake said nothing's wrong I'm just tired, and Sunghoon nodded in the way that meant he did not believe a single word of that but had chosen to let it go.
Week four was genuinely bad. He saw you across the courtyard with a matcha latte and your headphones on, clearly going somewhere, clearly fine, and he had to make a very deliberate choice to keep walking in the other direction and then felt sorry for himself about it for the rest of the afternoon, which was pathetic and he knew it was pathetic and could not stop. He typed a text to you three times and deleted it three times and then put his phone face down on the table and watched TV for two hours without taking in a single thing that happened on screen.
Week five he was sitting in his morning class not paying attention to anything when his phone buzzed with a text from you that just said hey, you good? and Jake stared at it for long enough that the professor made a comment about phones and he had to put it away, and he spent the remaining forty minutes of class with the focus of someone who had something much more important to attend to the second he got out.
He texted back the second he was out the door. Yeah, I'm good. You? and what followed was the most aggressively normal conversation two people have ever had, you talked about nothing for about twenty minutes – something about a class, you mentioned a show you'd started watching and he said he'd heard of it, and that was genuinely it, that was the whole exchange.
The thing was Jake knew what the problem was. He wasn't confused about the problem. The problem was that every time he was actually talking to you his brain split into two tracks – the one that was present in the conversation and the one running in the background doing risk assessment, calculating how much of what he actually wanted to say was safe to say, how much would land okay and how much would make things weird, and by the time the background track finished its calculations the conversation had moved on and the moment was gone. He'd been doing it for years, it was not a new problem. He just couldn't figure out how to turn the background track off.
Jake looked at his phone then. He typed a few things and deleted them, which was a habit he'd developed since you two started hanging out. He typed I miss you mostly just to see how it looked, fully intending to delete it like everything else, and then sat there looking at it for a second too long, and then sent it before the part of his brain that managed his decisions could intervene. He put his phone face down on the cushion immediately after, like creating physical distance from it would somehow change what had just happened.
You'd seen it – no response. So he put it face down again.
The thing about sending a text and watching it get read and then getting nothing back is that it's one of those experiences that is objectively minor and feels catastrophic for reasons that are hard to explain to anyone who didn't live it. The message just sits there read out in the open. And your brain, which is not your friend in these moments, starts generating explanations for the silence at a pace that is not useful and cannot be stopped. She's busy. She's thinking about what to say. She's showing it to someone. She's not going to respond. She thinks it's weird. She's fine with it. She hates it. She hates me. She saw it and put her phone down to do something else and forgot and she'll respond later. She's not going to respond. She wants me dead. I should never have asked her if she thinks I'm a twink.
Jake went to bed without a response and woke up the next day to nothing (he checked before he was fully awake) so that added its own specific layer of bad to the morning. And somewhere around mid afternoon, having run out of productive options, he made the executive decision to smoke a completely unreasonable amount of weed and play video games for the rest of the day, which was not a solution to anything but was at least a suspension of the problem, and that was good enough for right now. He was deep into it, and when his brain finally quieted, the doorbell rang. He paused the game and sat there for a second like maybe if he waited long enough it would sort itself out, and then it rang again and he got up, slow, and opened the door.
You were standing in the hallway with your bag on one shoulder and this expression on your face that he couldn't immediately read, and you looked at him and then did a quick scan of the general situation – the slightly glazed eyes, the very specific energy of someone who had been horizontal for hours – and said: "are you high?"
"A little bit," he said, which was generous. "What are you doing here?"
"You said you missed me," you said, just like that, straightforward, and Jake stood in the doorway and looked at you and felt his brain (which was not operating at full capacity) attempt to catch up to what was happening.
"I did," he said.
"I didn't know what to text back so I just didn't, and then I felt bad about not texting back, so." You gestured vaguely at the hallway, at yourself, at the general situation.
Jake looked at you standing at his door at four in the afternoon because he'd said three words and you hadn't known what to say and had shown up instead, and he thought, not for the first time and probably not for the last, that you were the most confusing person he had ever met in his life and he was absolutely crazy about you and those two things were going to be true simultaneously for the foreseeable future. "Okay," he said, and stepped back to let you in.
You dropped your bag by the door and went and sat on the couch like you'd been there a hundred times, which you had, and Jake went to the kitchen and got two glasses of water on autopilot because he needed something to do with his hands and also because he was dehydrated and still a little high and the combination was making him feel like he was watching the situation from slightly outside himself.
He came back and handed you one and sat down on the other end of the couch, not too close, and for a second neither of you said anything. You were looking at your water glass. He was looking at the middle distance. Very cinematic, very unnecessary. "So," you said.
"So," he said.
You smiled a little at that, and then it faded and you went back to looking at the glass. "I've been kind of weird lately," you said. "I know that."
"It's fine," he said, automatic, and then caught himself. "I mean, it's not, like – I noticed. That's all."
You nodded slowly. "The Minjeong thing threw me off."
"There was no Minjeong thing."
"I know that now." You paused. "I didn't know it then. And I didn't really have a right to care about it either way, made it more annoying to care about it."
That was more than you usually gave him, more direct than you tended to be about anything that touched on the actual situation between you two, and he wasn't sure if it was an invitation to say more or just a thing you were putting down and moving past. He decided to treat it like an invitation. "Why didn't you have a right to care," he asked, and it came out more careful than accusatory.
You looked at him for a second. "Because we're not — this isn't a thing where I get to have opinions about who you talk to."
"I have opinions about who you talk to," he said.
You were quiet, receiving information and sitting with it instead of deflecting immediately, which for you was actually something. "Soobin is one of my best friends, you know, since like sophomore year of high school."
"I didn't know that."
"Well, you didn't ask."
He picked up his water glass and put it down again without drinking from it. "I'm not – I'm not trying to make this into a fight. I just think we've been doing this thing where we're both aware something is going on and neither of us is saying it and I'm kind of tired of it."
You looked at your hands. "Yeah."
"So I'm saying it," he said. "I like you. I've liked you for a long time, like a stupid long time, and I know that's not what we agreed to and I'm not trying to pressure you into anything, I just, I think you should know, because I'm done pretending it's purely casual on my end because it's not, and hasn't been for a while."
The room was quiet. You weren't looking at him and he was looking at you and the weed had not prepared him for this level of conversation but here you were, doing it anyway. You took a breath. "I like you too," you said it plainly. "That's not – that's not the issue for me."
"Okay," he said carefully. "So what is it?"
You were quiet for long enough that he thought you might not answer, and then you said, "I don't know how to do it. Like, how to date someone, not anymore... I think." You said it to the middle distance, not to him, which he'd learned meant you were being more honest than comfortable. "I was in a relationship for a long time and it was fine for most of it and then it wasn't and when it ended I realized I'd spent like two years just, like, going along with something because it was already in motion and I didn't know how to stop it. And I don't want to do that again. And you're –" you paused. "You're someone I actually like being around. Like, outside of everything else. And I don't want to do the thing where we try to make it into something and it goes wrong and then that's gone."
"So it's easier to keep it as nothing."
"It's not nothing, Jake," you said, with a bit more edge, and looked at him properly for the first time since you'd sat down. "It's never been nothing, that's the whole problem."
Jake looked back at you and felt the specific exhaustion of two people who are on the same page about all the wrong things. You liked him and he liked you, but you were both scared of different versions of the same outcome and the overlap between those fears was exactly the space where nothing could grow. He understood it and he hated that he understood it. "So what do we do," he said.
You looked at him for a long moment and he could see you working through it. "I think maybe we should just be friends," you said. "I think we skipped a lot of steps and now everything is – tangled, and I don't know how to... untangle it."
It landed the way he'd expected it to land and it was not great, but not as bad as it could have been either. It wasn't a no, exactly. It was more like a not like this and not right now, so his brain tried to file as encouraging and his chest filed as disappointing regardless. "Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"I mean, no, not okay, it kind of sucks," he said, and you laughed a little at that, surprised, and he felt the tension in the room drop half a degree. "But I get it. I don't love it but I get it."
So that being said, the whole just friends thing lasted for three days.
In retrospect, it was optimistic of both of you. The conversation had been mature and the intentions had been real and Jake had genuinely gone to bed that night thinking okay, this is the reset, this is the thing that changes the dynamic, we talked about it like adults and now it's going to be different. And then three days later there was a thing at Heeseung's girlfriend's place, just a small group and a few drinks, nothing that should've led anywhere, except you were there and Jake was there and at some point the evening got late enough and the drinks got sufficient enough that the careful distance you'd both agreed to maintain started feeling a little abstract and unnecessary, and then you were in the kitchen alone for five minutes while everyone else was in the living room and that was that.
The night ended the way it usually ended. His place, late, Jake came when you called him a good boy, you two had crazy monkey sex, Jake fell asleep next to you and woke up reaching for something that wasn't there anymore. The bed was cold, the glass in the drying rack was clean. Aw shit, he thought, here we go again.
The difference this time, the thing that made this loop slightly different from the one before, was that Jake had promised himself he wasn't going to pretend. He'd done enough pretending, enough filing things away and leaving them for future Jake and treating honesty like it was optional. So when you texted him two days later like nothing had happened he didn't just go along with it, he said can we talk and you said yeah and you did, and it was fine, it was actually fine, you were both adults about it and nobody cried or slammed doors or said anything they couldn't come back from.
You agreed, again, to be just friends, and that lasted about a week. And then it happened again, and you agreed again, and it lasted less time than that, and somewhere around the fourth or fifth cycle Jake stopped counting because the counting wasn't useful and the cycle was the cycle regardless of how many times it had completed. This was just the shape of the thing. You two were apparently constitutionally incapable of maintaining the resolution long enough for it to stick, which would've been funny if it weren't also slowly making him insane.
The loop went like this, roughly: something would happen, one of you would pull back, there'd be a stretch of weird distance, then a conversation, then just friends, then three to ten days of actually being just friends which was fine except for the part where it wasn't, and then something would shift (you were both horny and crazy for each other) and the whole thing would reset. Sometimes you'd disappear after. Sometimes he would, genuinely, just to see if it felt different from the receiving end, which it didn't, it just felt like he was being petty (he was). Occasionally one of you would get weird about something the other one had done and it would surface in a conversation that started about something else entirely.
Like the time Jake saw a guy dropping you off outside your building and spent two days being normal about it until you came over and he was so aggressively, transparently normal about it that you noticed immediately. "What's wrong with you," you said, not even five minutes in.
"Nothing," he said.
"It's clearly something, I know you."
He looked at you. "Who dropped you off on thursday?"
You blinked. "Yeonjun. He's in my thesis group." You looked at him for a second. "You saw that?"
"I was walking back from the gym."
"And you've been weird about it for two days."
"I haven't been weird?"
"Yes, you have?"
He stopped. "Yeah, okay, I've been a little weird about it."
You sat back and looked at him with an expression that was more tired than annoyed. "You can't do that," you said. "You can't be weird about that if this isn't a thing. That's not fair."
"I'm not saying it's fair. I'm saying it happened."
"So what do you want me to do with that?"
"Nothing," he said. "I'm not asking you to do anything with it. I'm just being honest about it because you asked."
Or the time you showed up at his place at eleven on a week day and you'd clearly had a bad day and you didn't really want to talk about it, you just wanted to exist somewhere that wasn't your apartment, and Jake let you in and didn't ask questions and you watched something on TV for two hours and it was easy and comfortable and at some point you fell asleep on the couch and he put a blanket over you and went to bed, and in the morning you made coffee and you both sat in the kitchen and it felt so much like something.
Or the time it turned into an actual argument. You'd gone quiet for two weeks after a particularly good night together that had felt like more than its usual self, and Jake had waited and waited and finally said something about it and it turned into the kind of conversation that starts about one thing and ends up being about everything underneath it. "You always do this," he said, and he hadn't meant it to come out with that much edge but it did. "You disappear every time it gets close to something real so you just check out. And then you come back and it's fine and we don't talk about it and then it happens again."
"I'm here right now," you said.
"You're here now because enough time passed that it felt okay to come back. That's not the same thing."
You looked at him and he could see the thing that happened when you felt cornered, this slight closing off, and he knew pressing wasn't going to get him anywhere but he was tired, genuinely tired in a way that had been building for months. "I told you from the beginning I wasn't good at this," you said.
"You told me you didn't want anyone to get hurt. Those aren't the same thing."
You were quiet for a long time, long enough that he thought the conversation might just end there unresolved like everything else. And then you said, "I don't know how to change it," and your voice was honest and Jake looked at you and felt the specific ache of two people who want the same thing and keep arriving at it from incompatible directions.
"Okay," he said, softer.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"Stop apologizing."
"I don't know what else to do."
"I know," he said. "Me neither."
You stayed that night. In the morning you were still there when he woke up, which was unusual enough that he lay still for a second just registering it, and when you woke up you didn't immediately reach for your phone or your bag, you just looked at him in the grey morning light and said "hi" and he said "hi" back.
And, well, that kept going for two years.
Two years is a long time when you're in your twenties. It doesn't sound like a long time but when you're twenty two and then you're twenty four it's actually enormous, it's the difference between who you were and who you're becoming, and you can feel it in the way you carry yourself, in the things that stop being funny and the things that start being, in the specific peace that comes from knowing yourself well enough to stop pretending you don't. Jake was not the same person he'd been at twenty one, or twenty two, or even twenty three. It wasn't a sad thing, it was just a true thing.
He didn't go to every party anymore, he'd gotten selective about where he put his energy, which is something nobody tells you happens in your twenties but it does. Jake was, by most measures, doing well. He had good friends (Heeseung), a job he didn't hate (Heeseung helped him get it), an apartment he and his roommate (also Heeseung) had quietly made into somewhere worth coming home to. The bones of a life, assembled slowly and without much ceremony, the way actual lives get built as opposed to the way you imagine they will be when you're nineteen and everything feels enormous and provisional.
The only thing that remained exactly as chaotic as it had always been, the one constant in three years of otherwise gradual maturation, was you. At some point over two years of this loop the loop started to look less like a loop and more like a life, and you both settled into it the way you settle into anything that's been around long enough. So you basically started acting like a couple.
He knew how you liked your matcha latte, you kept a charger at his place, and then a hoodie, and then a toothbrush. When something good happened, he texted you before he texted anyone else, even before Heeseung. You showed up to things together and left together and the space between you in a room had narrowed to something that everyone around you could read even when you were across from each other and not touching.
The arguments had quieted down too, which was maybe the most telling thing. Not because nothing was unresolved (plenty was still unresolved) but because the situation itself had worn down through sheer frequency of contact. Jake knew when you needed space before you asked for it. You knew when he was in his head about something before he said anything. That kind of knowledge doesn't come from a label, it comes from time, and you two had put in the time whether you'd meant to or not.
All of your friends knew, they'd known for a while, they'd probably known longer than Jake had known himself. Heeseung had stopped asking about it, which meant he'd accepted it as a permanent condition of Jake's life and had filed it accordingly. Sunghoon made exactly one comment once, which was just "you know this is kind of obvious, right," and Jake had said "thanks, Sunghoon" in a tone that closed the subject, and Sunghoon had let it stay closed but the look on his face had communicated volumes. Even Jay, who had made his peace with the situation through a combination of being a reasonable person and genuinely not wanting to know the details, had stopped doing the subtle check in thing he used to do, had stopped reading the room when Jake and his sister were in it together, because the room was always the same and he'd adjusted.
Everyone had adjusted and everyone could see it. Your friends, his friends, people who barely knew either of you, anyone who'd been in the same space as you two for more than forty minutes. Everyone except, apparently, you and Jake.
You both had an unspoken agreement to keep not naming it that had outlasted all reasonable explanations and was at this point less a decision and more a deeply ingrained habit that neither of you knew how to break without acknowledging that it existed. There's a specific kind of relationship that exists in the space between what it is and what it's called, and it's comfortable there, in that space, in a way that's hard to explain to someone on the outside because from the outside it looks like avoidance, and it is avoidance, but the reason nobody names it isn't always fear of losing it, sometimes it's just that the naming feels like the least important part when the thing itself is already so thoroughly present in your daily life that a word for it seems redundant. Well, that's what you told yourself, at least.
But accommodation isn't the same as acceptance, and acceptance isn't the same as being done with it, and Jake was twenty four now and not the same person he'd been at twenty one, and the things he was willing to keep accommodating indefinitely were getting fewer. He just hadn't done anything about it yet. Which was, if you'd been following along, extremely on brand. Somewhere in those two years a lot of small things accumulated that neither of you addressed directly because addressing them would've required acknowledging what they were, and you two had gotten very practiced at not doing that.
There was the running thing, which started because you had a route along the river near your apartment that you did a few times a week, and Jake had mentioned once that he'd been wanting to run more and you'd said come tomorrow then, casual, and he'd shown up the next morning and then the morning after that and then it just became a thing. He was faster than you over distance and slower than you on hills, and you'd figured out pretty quickly that the route worked better if you didn't try to talk for the first twenty minutes and just ran, and then the last stretch you'd slow down and talk about whatever, and it was one of the most genuinely easy things between you two, which was saying something. He started keeping a spare pair of running shoes at your place but neither of you mentioned it.
Every time he went home to visit his family he came back with food. Dumplings once, vacuum sealed, with a note from his mom that you were pretty sure was in part addressed to you even though Jake claimed it wasn't. He'd hand it over like he hadn't specifically told his mom what you liked, like his mom hadn't specifically made extra of it because her son had mentioned you enough times that she'd started cooking for two. You ate it and didn't say anything about the implications and neither did he.
Jay was around more, which was its own thing. Not because anything had been said between Jake and Jay about the situation – as far as you knew that conversation had never happened – but just because Jake and Jay had gotten closer over those two years in the natural way that happens when someone becomes a consistent presence in your life and you start to actually know them. Heeseung's girlfriend had started referring to the four of you as the four of you, which was something she'd done so naturally and so early that by the time anyone might've pushed back on it the window had passed. Movie nights at the apartment happened at least twice a month, board games that got competitive enough that Heeseung's girlfriend once threw a card across the room, dinner sometimes, the four of you at a table, splitting the bill, walking home in pairs. Heeseung and his girlfriend held hands. Jake and you walked close enough that your arms touched and sometimes his hand would find yours and you'd let it and you'd walk like that for a block before one of you found a reason to need that hand for something else. It was a whole thing, everyone could see it was a whole thing.
You'd started staying over more, and that happened gradually enough that there was no single moment where it became the new normal, it just did. And then you started staying the whole night, not leaving before he woke up, which he noticed the first few times and tried very hard not to make obvious because he didn't want to spook you by making it into something. You'd wake up and he'd be in the kitchen and you'd come out in whatever you'd slept in and he'd hand you coffee already made the way you took it, and it was domestic in a way that should've felt strange given the official status of things and somehow just felt like tuesday. He stayed at yours too, more than before. Your roommate had stopped asking who he was approximately three weeks into this pattern and had started just saying hi Jake when he came in the door and offering him whatever she was eating.
The hand holding happened without ceremony too, his hand would find yours and you'd be holding hands and that would be that. You went to a farmers market once and walked around for an hour and a half and held hands the entire time and talked about produce and absolutely nothing else, and on the way back he'd bought you something you'd looked at twice and you'd told him not to and he'd already paid for it.
You'd gotten into this habit somewhere along the way of always being in the same car. If you were going to the same place, which happened more often than it probably should have given that you weren't technically together, Jake drove or you drove and the other one got in and that was it. It was efficient and practical, he told himself. Good for the environment, even. Spring break came around and it turned out you were both heading back toward the same general direction of the country, your hometown was about forty minutes from his, and the route passed through his anyway, so the road trip thing made sense logistically, he told Heeseung, who did not ask about the logistics and also did not bother hiding his expression. "Have fun," Heeseung said.
You left on a friday morning, your bag in his backseat, matcha latte from the place near your condo because you'd insisted on stopping even though it added twelve minutes and he'd complained about it the entire way there and then drunk half of yours when his ran out somewhere around the first hour. You didn't say anything when he reached over and took it, just handed it to him without looking up from your phone, which was somehow more intimate than most things and he noticed but didn't say anything about it.
The first hour was easy the way things between you two were always easy. You told him about something that had happened with a friend of yours that week, and he asked questions in the right places and you filled in the gaps. Around hour two you'd migrated into the particular road trip intimacy where you'd turned slightly sideways in the passenger seat so you were half facing him. Jake had one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console and at some point you put your hand over his, just placed it there, and he turned his hand over so your fingers could settle into his, and you stayed like that for a while without commenting on it.
The playlist cycled through something slow and you sang along under your breath to a part you knew and he watched the road and listened and thought about how this was just a thing that was happening, a normal friday, two people driving to their hometowns for break, nothing remarkable about it, and somehow it was also one of his favorite days in recent memory and he had no idea what to do with that information.
"You missed the turn," you said.
"I didn't miss it, I'm taking the other way."
"The other way adds like twenty minutes."
"Yeah but the other way has Weendy's."
You stared at him. "You're taking a twenty minute detour for Wendy's."
"Wendeez nuts."
"Jake." You tried not to laugh.
"You want some or not, pretty?"
"Deez nuts or Wendy's?” You asked, smirking playfully.
"Wendy's.” Jake answered, laughing. “Unless…”
You laughed out loud, and you did want some. You both got chips and sat on the hood of his car in the rest stop parking lot for twenty minutes eating them and watching other people's road trips pass through, and you stole from his bag even though you had your own, and he let you because he always let you. The last hour he had his hand on your knee for most of it, not consciously, just where it ended up, and you had your head tipped back against the seat looking out the window at the trees and you were quiet in a good way, and he drove and thought about nothing in particular and everything loosely related to it.
He pulled up in front of your house and your bag was already in your lap and the engine was still running and you sat there for a second without moving. "Thanks for the detour," you said.
"Best Wendy's in the state," he said.
You smiled and looked at him and he looked at you and there was a moment, a couple seconds long, where neither of you said anything and the car was quiet and it would've been very easy to just stay there. Then you leaned over and kissed him, soft and unhurried, one hand coming up to his jaw and he kissed you back. You pulled back and he could still feel the warmth of it. "Drive safe," you said. "Text me when you get there, okay?"
"I will," he said. You got out and shut the door and he watched you go up the front path, your bag on your shoulder, and he lowered the window because there was something – he didn't plan it, he didn't think about it, it came out the same way things sometimes come out when you're not monitoring yourself closely enough –
"Love you," he said.
And then he drove away.
He was at the end of the street before his brain fully processed what had just come out of his mouth. He kept driving. He went through a green light. He merged onto the main road. His hands were on the wheel at ten and two like a person who was being very normal about something.
Jake had not waited to see your face. He had not waited for anything, he'd just said it and put the car in drive like he could outrun it if he moved fast enough, which was insane, which was possibly the most insane thing he'd done in three years of consistently insane behavior, and that was a high bar. His phone was in the cupholder but he did not look at it. He drove for twenty minutes before he accepted that he was going to have to look at it eventually and pulled into a gas station and sat in the parking lot and picked it up. No messages, thank God. Thank.. God?
Okay, Jake thought. Okay. That happened. He'd said it and you'd heard it clearly and he'd driven away before you could respond and now he was in a gas station parking lot forty minutes from his hometown and twenty minutes from yours and he had no idea what came next and his heart was doing something loud and inconvenient in his chest. So he called Heeseung. "Hey," Heeseung said, background noise of the TV behind him. "You get there okay?"
"I told her I love her," Jake said.
A pause. "You did what?"
"Yeah and I drove away before she could say anything."
Silence. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Heeseung said.
"You gotta be more specific," Jake said.
"You said I love you and then you just –"
"I drove away, yes, I'm aware, I was there –"
"Why would you do that, you absolute moron?"
"I don't know, dude!" Jake said, which was true. He genuinely did not know. It had come out and his foot had hit the gas and now here he was in a gas station parking lot having the worst and best moment of the last several years simultaneously. "What do I do now?!"
Heeseung was quiet for a second. "I mean," he said, "you could start by driving back."
Jake did not drive back. He sat in the parking lot for another ten minutes being a coward about it. But eventually he drove the rest of the way to his hometown with the radio on and his phone in the cupholder and the specific stillness of someone who has done something irreversible and is still in the process of understanding what that means. His family's house looked the same as always, his mom had left the porch light on, and he sat in the driveway for a minute before going in, kinda expecting his phone to buzz and it didn't, and he went inside and ate dinner and was normal about it with his family in the way that you're normal about things when you have no other option.
He texted you saying he got home. Delivered. He checked his phone before bed to see if you had texted back, nothing. Woke up the next morning, still nothing. Day two? Yeah, nothing. Aw shit, here we go again.
The thing about being home is that it does something to your memory, it pulls things up from storage without asking permission. Jake lay there on day two and day three with nowhere particular to be and found himself thinking about things he hadn't thought about in years.
He thought about being fifteen and having a crush on a girl in his class who'd looked at him exactly once with any particular intention and he'd spent three months treating that one look like a compass, orienting everything around it, which was a lot of weight for a single look to carry. Nothing came of it but he'd survived. He thought about being seventeen and thinking he understood what it meant to care about someone, the specific confidence of that age where you feel things enormously and interpret that enormity as depth when sometimes it's just volume. He'd been loud about his feelings at seventeen without being particularly honest about them, which is a thing that takes a while to notice about yourself.
He thought about his ex (yeah, sad, I know) who had been genuinely good and genuinely wrong for him in equal measure, and how the ending of that had been the first time he'd understood that caring about someone and being right for someone were separate questions with separate answers. He'd learned something from that. He thought he had, at least. He'd carried it forward, applied it, tried to be more careful about the difference.
And then he thought about you, which was where everything kept ending up regardless of the route it took to get there.
Jake'd spent three years worrying about the shape of what you two were, the category, the label, the question of what to call it and what it meant and whether it was going anywhere and whether anywhere was even a place worth going. He'd had that conversation with himself more times than he could count, lying in various beds in various states of having just woken up alone, and it had never resolved because it was the wrong conversation. He'd been so focused on the uncertainty of the situation that he'd spent three years treating his own feelings like they were also uncertain, like they were part of the question instead of the one thing he'd actually known the answer to for a long time.
He thought about a cup of water at a party when he was nineteen years old and everything felt enormous. He thought about how you'd texted first after five weeks of silence and how that had been enough to make the whole week retroactively survivable. He thought about the way you fell asleep in the passenger seat and trusted him to get you there, the way you said things that were true in voices that were quiet like you were only willing to be honest at low volume. He thought about all the times he'd watched you leave and missed you in the mornings with the tired resignation of someone who'd accepted a situation instead of examining it, and he thought about how for three years he'd framed his own feelings as a problem to manage rather than a fact to just live in, and how exhausting that had been, and how unnecessary.
Jake'd said love you out of a car window and driven away and the world hadn't ended. It was still there, he was still there. You were somewhere not texting him, which was familiar territory and not his favorite place to be, but underneath the silence was still the fact that he'd said it and he'd meant it and meaning it turned out to be the most uncomplicated part of all of this by a significant margin.
Jake loved you. He'd loved you for a long time, longer than he'd let himself call it that, long enough that the feeling had become structural. It wasn't the enormous, operatic thing he'd maybe expected love to feel like when he was seventeen. It was knowing how you liked your matcha latte and your favorite Hirono figures, and the face you made when you were about to say something honest and the specific way, how you played The Sims when you were tired of living life or when you went to the movies by yourself when you felt like it. It was the thing that had made him stay in a loop for three years that any rational person would've exited, because the loop still had you in it and the exit didn't, and that was the math he'd been doing without ever writing it down.
He didn't regret saying it. That was the thing he'd been slowly arriving at across three days and two nights in his childhood bedroom. He'd driven away like a maniac and you'd gone silent and he was lying here in the house he grew up in with no idea what you were thinking and he still, genuinely, did not regret it. Which was new information about himself. He'd expected to feel more like he'd made a mistake and instead he just felt like someone who'd finally said out loud the thing that had been true for a long time.
The silence still sucked, though, that part wasn't better with context. But the thing underneath the silence was solid in a way it hadn't felt before, and he lay there on day three and looked at the ceiling of the room he'd slept in since he was a kid and thought, okay, I love her, that's just a true thing, and whatever she does with it is her thing to do, but I'm done pretending it's a question.
So Jake stopped pretending. And I know this sounds clean and decisive, but it was neither of those things. What it actually looked like was Jake sitting at his childhood desk at eleven at night opening a notes app and typing things I could say to her and then staring at the blank page for twenty minutes before writing one bullet point and deleting it. He tried writing a letter, an actual letter with pen and paper, which lasted about four sentences before he read it back and physically cringed at himself and folded it into eighths and put it in the bottom of his bag where it would never see daylight again. The sentences had been fine, objectively, they just sounded like him trying to sound like someone who wrote letters, which was worse than just sounding like himself.
He watched a movie the next afternoon because he had nothing else to do and his mom had suggested it and it turned out to be a romantic comedy, which under normal circumstances he would've been fine with but in his current state of mind he watched with the attentiveness of someone studying for an exam. It was Crazy, Stupid, Love, and he'd seen it before but not like this, not with this level of critical analysis and thought that it would not work for him because the grand gesture thing required a certain kind of confidence he didn't currently have and also a soundtrack, and real life didn't come with a soundtrack, and without the soundtrack it was just a guy standing somewhere looking hopefully at a girl and that was just a regular tuesday. (But if real life had a soundtrack, he would've picked Mistletoe by Justin Bieber, even though it was spring, and not Christmas).
He watched another one the following day because apparently this was his life now. This one was 10 Things I Hate About You, his sister had put on and he'd stayed for because he had nothing better to do, and there's that part where Heath Ledger sends Julia Stiles a delivery of flowers at school, this whole thing, very public, very committed, with Can't Take My Eyes Off You playing in the background – and he thought about flowers with genuine seriousness before concluding that showing up to your hometown with a bouquet for a girl you'd been sleeping with for three years without ever officially dating was so tonally confused that no flower arrangement could survive it. What did the flowers even say? Hey, I said I love you out a car window and drove away, here are some peonies. No, dude, absolutely not. Also Heath Ledger had also paid a marching band to serenade her on a football field and Jake was not doing that either, he had limits.
He thought about texting, but texting felt small for what this was. He thought about a voice note and then immediately dismissed it because he'd once sent a voice note instead of a text by accident and the experience had been traumatic enough that he'd never fully recovered.
Eventually, Jake picked up his phone and stared at the screen for a solid ten minutes deciding what to do with it. Calling had its own energy he wasn't sure he was ready to sustain, you call someone and they pick up and then you have to have something to say in real time with no editing with no backspace, no fourteen minutes to collect yourself first. Facetime was worse because then you'd see his face, and his face lately had the specific quality of someone who had spent four days watching romantic comedies and writing letters he was never going to send, and he didn't think that communicated the right thing.
He sat there long enough that his screen went dark and he had to unlock it again, which felt like a sign that he needed to just pick something and do it. So he called you because the thinking hadn't produced anything useful in four days. It rang twice and you picked it up. "Hey," you said, normal, like nothing.
"Hey," he said, and settled back against his headboard and felt something in his chest unclench slightly just at the sound of your voice, which was embarrassing and also completely out of his control.
"How's home?" you asked.
"Good," he said. "My mom's been cooking every single meal like I've been away for a year, I've had a full lunch and dinner every day since I got here, I physically cannot say no to her."
"That sounds amazing actually." You said, and Jake could sense you smiling on the other side.
"It is, I'm not complaining, I'm just saying my body is not used to this schedule anymore." He shifted against the headboard. "She made her carrot cake yesterday, with the chocolate frosting."
"Oh my god," you said, more invested. "I love that cake."
"I know, she's making another one before I leave so I can take some back with me."
"Yeah you better," you said. "God, your mom," you said, in the tone of someone genuinely fond of a person. "I love everything she makes."
"I told her that, she said she'd cook for you when you –" he stopped. When you what, Jake. When you come over, which presupposes a version of this situation that hadn't been discussed. He of course corrected smoothly enough. "She said she'd make more of it."
You either didn't notice or chose not to notice, and either way you let it go, and he appreciated it. You told him about your days, and your days sounded genuinely good – Jay had arrived the day before and you'd watched movies until two in the morning, which he absolutely tracked as a Jay thing, and you'd taken the family dog out twice a day and apparently the dog had gotten dramatically more chaotic since you'd been at school, and that took up a full three minutes of conversation. You'd gone to the Target near your house because your mom needed things and you'd ended up wandering for forty minutes buying nothing, which was the Target experience. You'd seen two friends from high school, one of whom had a baby now and that fact had done something strange to your concept of time, and one of whom was exactly the same as at seventeen and that had done a different strange thing to your concept of time.
He told you about his days, and that was a creative exercise because his days had consisted almost entirely of overthinking and romantic comedies, so he gave you the surface version like helping his dad with some stuff around the house, going for a run, and seeing an old friend from school for an hour. All technically true. Jake did not mention the letter. Jake would never mention the letter.
And then there was a pause and Jake looked at the ceiling and thought, okay, just say the thing, you've been doing nothing but thinking for days and the thinking hasn't helped, just say the thing. "Hey," he said. "I miss you."
He heard you go slightly quiet. "I miss you too, Jake," you said, and your voice was soft and straightforward about it.
"Can I come through on the way back? I can like, stop and get you and we drive back together." He said it casually because that was the only register he had left, the planned approach having long since been abandoned. "If that's okay."
"Yeah," you said. "That's okay."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." And there was something in your voice that he couldn't fully name over the phone but that sounded like it had been waiting, like you'd been in your hometown watching movies with your brother and walking a chaotic dog and going to Target and carrying something around the whole time, the same way he'd been carrying it. He didn't know that for sure, but it sounded like that. "And then we can go to the best Wendy's in the state again," you said.
So on Saturday morning, Jake woke up earlier than he needed to, and that was not a thing he did voluntarily under normal circumstances but he was already awake at seven thirty staring at the ceiling and there was no going back to sleep after that so he just got up. He showered, packed his bag, ate the breakfast his mom had made before he could say he wasn't hungry, accepted the tupperware of carrot cake she handed him at the door and got in the car.
The drive to your hometown was about forty minutes and he spent most of it thinking about what he was going to say, which was a thing he'd been doing for a week and which had not produced results yet but his brain was apparently committed to trying one more time. He ran through versions of it like the direct version, where he just said look, I meant what I said, here's what I want, what do you want. The casual version, where he eased into it through normal conversation and let it arrive naturally. The version where he just said nothing and let the drive do whatever it was going to do and trusted that you'd both know what needed to happen.
Jake didn't love any of them, but he was twenty minutes away and the options weren't improving so he was going to have to pick one and commit. He pulled onto your street and saw your house and his brain (that had been running scenarios for forty minutes) went quiet like it just stopped producing options and left him with whatever was actually there.
You were outside already, sitting on the front steps with your bag next to you, and you looked up when his car pulled up and stood and got inside to grab something, and then he saw Jay come out the front door behind you, jacket on, hands in his pockets, and Jake thought, ah. Of course. Obviously.
He got out of the car. "Hey man," he said to Jay.
"Hey," Jay said, and he was doing a thing with his face that was neutral enough to be readable only if you knew him, which Jake did.
"You need a ride back?" Jake asked, because it was the polite thing to ask and also because he genuinely had no idea what else to open with.
"Nah, I got my car," Jay said. "I'm leaving later anyway." He picked up your bag and put it in Jake's trunk. Jake and Jay were standing in the driveway and Jake became very aware of the fact that this was a thing that was happening. Jay looked at him. "She really likes you, you know," Jay said.
Jake felt something land in his chest. "I really like her too," he said.
"Yeah, I know," Jay said, like it was obvious, like it had been obvious for a long time and he was just stating it for the record. "How long has this been going on? Like two, three years?"
"Yeah," Jake said. "Something like that."
Jay nodded slowly. Then he said, "you could've just told me, bro. I'm not an idiot."
"I know you're not."
"You've been acting like I wasn't gonna notice my sister basically living in your place."
"She doesn't live in my –"
"She has a charger and a toothbrush there, Jake."
"That's not –" Jake stopped. "Okay."
Jay looked at him for a second and then did something that was almost a smile. "I'm not gonna do a whole thing about it," he said. "She's older than me, she can do whatever she wants, I'm just saying. Next time skip the three years of sneaking around and just talk to me like a normal human being."
"Yeah," Jake said. "That's fair."
"It's very fair," Jay said. "I had to find out from Heeseung's girlfriend, not ideal, you know."
"I know, I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry, just –" Jay gestured vaguely at the situation, at the car, at all of it. "Figure it out alright? Like actually figuring it out."
"Yeah, that's the plan," Jake said.
"Good," Jay said, and that was apparently the whole thing, because he picked up his coffee from the porch railing and looked at his phone and the conversation was over in the way that conversations with Jay ended when he'd said what he meant and didn't need to keep going. Jake stood there and thought, that was the most reasonable that interaction could have possibly gone, and also, I probably should have just talked to him like two years ago.
The front door opened and you came back out with your charger in hand slightly out of breath, looking between the two of them with the expression of someone calculating how much had been said in the last two minutes. "What," you said.
"Nothing," both of them said, at the same time, which was not suspicious at all.
You looked at Jake. He looked at you. "Huh, okay," you said slowly, and went around to the passenger side. Jay caught Jake's eye over the roof of the car before he got in, and did the thing with his face that said I mean it, figure it out, and Jake nodded once, and that was that.
He pulled out of your street and you were putting your seatbelt on and pairing your phone to his car's bluetooth with the familiarity of someone who had been a passenger in this car enough times to have opinions about the music, and Jake drove and watched the road and thought about what Jay had said, she really likes you, said like it was a fact he'd been sitting on for a while and had finally decided to put down somewhere.
And then you turned to say something to him and he looked at you for a second before looking back at the road, and he understood, in that moment, with the tupperware of carrot cake in the backseat and Jay's voice still in his head and hours of highway ahead of him, exactly why he'd said it out the car window without thinking. It wasn't a slip, it wasn't the kind of thing that comes out wrong; it had come out exactly right, in exactly the right direction, because it was just true. Jake loved you and every time he saw you it was there, this simple, inconvenient, load bearing fact, and last week it had just gotten out before he could catch it, which was maybe the most honest thing he'd done in three years.
"What did Jay say to you," you said, narrowing your eyes at him.
"Nothing," he said.
"Come on, I know he said something."
"He just said to drive safe."
"He absolutely did not say that."
"He said that… and other things."
You looked at him for a long moment. He kept his eyes on the road and tried to look like a person who was not thinking about being in love with you, which was a thing he'd been attempting with mixed results for approximately three years and was not about to crack the code on now. "Other things like what?" you asked.
"I'll tell you at Wendy's," he said.
You made a face. "But that's so far away."
"Twenty minutes."
"Jake."
"Twenty minutes, baby," he said, and turned up the music, and you huffed and looked out the window and he drove and thought, okay, twenty minutes, and then the Wendy's, and then whatever comes after that. He could do twenty minutes.
Jake pulled in and you both ordered at the drive through and he parked facing the road and you ate in the car the way you always ate in the car, just the two of you and the food and the radio on low. You stole his fries before you'd finished your own. You were working through your burger when something dripped and he reached over without thinking and wiped your chin with his thumb, and you went slightly still for a second and he didn't move his hand away immediately, just let it stay there against your jaw for a second, and you looked at him with your burger still in your hands and he leaned over and kissed you, soft and easy, and you kissed him back and you tasted like french fries and he didn't care at all.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. You had that expression that you got sometimes, the open one, the one that didn't have the usual layer of deflection over it, and he thought about how much he liked that face specifically, and then thought about how he had approximately a hundred thoughts like that a day and had been filing them away for years. "Okay," you said, settling back in your seat. "Are you going to tell me what you and my brother talked about?"
"He said he already knew," Jake said after a second. "About us. He just wanted me to know that he knew."
You made the face that meant you were not surprised. "Of course he knew."
"He said he had to find out from Heeseung's girlfriend."
"Oh god," you said.
"Yeah." He smiled and reached over and stole one of your fries, you watched him do it with an expression of betrayal that was entirely performed. "He also said something else," Jake said.
"What?"
He leaned back in his seat, looking at you, and let himself be a little smug about it because he'd earned it. "He said you really like me."
You opened your mouth and closed it. "He did not say that."
"He did."
"No, he did not."
"He really did," Jake said, enjoying this more than was strictly necessary. "Very straightforward about it. Just, she really likes you, you know." Jake mimicked Jay's voice.
"Oh my god," you said, turning to look out the windshield, and your ears had gone slightly pink which he was also filing away. "I cannot believe him. Or you."
"What? I thought it was helpful information," Jake said while he grabbed your hand.
"I'm sure you did," you said flatly.
"Very useful," he said. "Really rounded out my morning."
"Jake, I swear to god –"
He laughed and reached over and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and you stopped mid sentence and looked at him, still flustered in the way you rarely let yourself be, and he kept his hand there against the side of your face and felt the conversation shift into something quieter. "But I told him something too," he said. "That was also true."
Your expression changed, just slightly. "What?"
"That I really like you too," he said. "Which you know. But I wanted it on record with your brother, so."
"Jake…" you said, soft, a little warning in it, the way you said his name when you were about to close off, when you felt something getting close and your instinct was to redirect it.
"Let me say something," Jake said, and his voice was easy but he meant it, and you heard that he meant it because you went quiet and looked at him and didn't redirect, so he took a breath. "I've been trying to figure out for a week how to say this the right way," he said. "I wrote an actual letter and it was bad, like it sucked. I watched like three romantic comedies looking for ideas and none of them were applicable, and oh my God, I even thought about flowers –"
You blinked. "Flowers?!"
"I decided against it."
"Oh."
"The point is," he said, "I've been making this complicated for days and it's actually not that complicated. I said what I said last week because I meant it and I've meant it for a long time and I'm done pretending I don't." He looked at you, at your face in the afternoon light, at the open expression you were still wearing despite your best efforts. "I love you. That's it. That's the whole thing. I'm not asking you to say it back right now, I'm not trying to make you feel like you have to do anything with it, I just – I'm done not saying it. It's been true for long enough that it feels stupid to keep it in my head."
The car was very quiet. Outside, a truck passed on the highway. The radio was playing something neither of you was listening to. You were looking at him with an expression he hadn't seen on your face before, or maybe he had but not this clearly, not without the usual layer of armor over it. Your eyes were a little bright and you blinked once and looked down at your lap and then back up at him, and he waited.
"I hate that you said it and drove away," you said finally, and your voice was a little unsteady.
"I know, I'm sorry," he said. "In my defense, it came out before I decided to say it."
"That's not a defense."
"I know," he said, softer. "I know it's not." He reached over and took your hand where it was sitting in your lap and held it, and you let him, and your fingers curled into his. "I'm saying it now though. Properly. To your face." Jake smiled when you looked up at him. "I love you."
You were still a little bright eyed and you said, quiet and plain, "I love you too, Jake."
He heard it and his brain did something that wasn't quite a thought, more like a full system restart, just a second of complete blank before everything came back online at once. You'd said it back, plainly, to his face, in a Wendy's parking lot on a saturday, and he sat there for approximately three seconds just holding that fact in both hands like he was making sure it was real.
And then he kissed you. Not on the mouth first, he kissed your cheek, and then your other cheek, and then your forehead, and then the side of your face, just going at it, and you started giggling, trying to lean back and not quite managing it because he followed you. "Jake –" you said, still laughing. He kissed your cheek again. "What is happening –"
"Nothing," he said, into your cheek.
"You're insane," you said, but you were giggling now, the kind that you couldn't control, and your hand had come up and was sort of half heartedly pushing at his shoulder while the other one was holding onto his jacket, which was contradictory and he appreciated it.
He pulled back enough to look at you, your face all open and laughing, and he felt so straightforwardly happy about it that he couldn't do anything except be honest. "What? I'm in love, bro, damn." he said.
You stared at him. "So I'm your bro now."
"No," he said, "you're my girl, and I'm pampering my girl with little kisses, those are different things."
"Pampering your girl?" you repeated.
"Yes," he said, and kissed your nose, and you scrunched it and laughed again. "You deserve little kisses. I have three years of little kisses to make up for and I'm very behind," he said, very seriously. "I have a deficit."
"You are so –" you started, and then stopped, and were looking at him with that smile that was softer and he looked back at you and felt the thing in his chest. "Say that again," you said.
"What, that I have a deficit –"
"No," you said. "The other thing."
"That you're my girl?"
"Yeah," you said, quiet.
"You're my girl," he said. "If you want to be." You laughed a little and looked down, and he watched you sit with it for a second, this thing that had been true for so long that naming it should've felt redundant and somehow still felt enormous, and then he said, "Come on, baby, we gotta communicate," because you'd gone quiet and quiet with you could mean anything and he needed to know which kind of quiet this was.
You looked up at him and smiled, and it was the unguarded one. "Yes," you said. "I want to be your girl."
He felt it all the way through. "Yeah?"
"Yes, Jake," you said. "I'm tired of pretending I'm not ready for it. I want you."
He stared at you. "For real? You wanna be my girlfriend?"
"I want to be your girlfriend," you said, a little laugh in it, like you were trying the words on and finding they fit. "I've wanted to be your girlfriend for a really long time and I've been really stupid about it."
"We've both been really stupid about it," he said.
"Yeah but I was stupider."
"I asked you if you liked twinks because I was jealous of Sangwon," he said.
You pointed at him. "Okay, it was even."
Jake laughed and kissed you again, properly this time, and you kissed him back with your hand in his jacket and you were kissing at a Wendy's parking lot, and he couldn't have cared less because you were his girlfriend now and that was the only relevant information. He pulled back and looked at you and you were smiling into the kiss the way people smile when they're too happy to keep a straight face, and he thought, I have been in love with you since I was nineteen years old and you gave me water at a party and I've been an absolute idiot about it ever since and somehow we still ended up here, and somehow here was exactly right.
"Hi," that's all Jake managed to say.
"Hi," you said back.
"Hi, girlfriend."
You covered your face with your hand. "Oh my god."
"Hi, my girlfriend, my baby, my precious," he said again, delighted with himself.
"You're the worst," you said, into your hand.
"You literally just agreed to date me," he said. "You did that. You made this choice."
You looked at him through your fingers, laughing, and said "I know" in the tone of someone who had absolutely no regrets, and Jake thought, aw shit here we go again, but this time he meant it like a beginning.
You always think you're smarter than you really are at 21, and that's exactly what Jake Sim thought he was. And look, he wasn't wrong, not entirely. He was smart enough to know what he was getting into, smart enough to see it coming, the problem was that being smart about something and doing the right thing about it are two completely different skills, and Jake had only developed one of them at 21, and it wasn't the second one.
He's 24 now. And here's what 24 looks like, for the record: it looks like knowing your limits and mostly respecting them. It looks like going to bed at a reasonable hour without feeling like you're missing something. It looks like three years of the most circular, exhausting, wonderful situationship of his life finally becoming something with a name, which happened in a Wendy's parking lot on a Saturday afternoon, which is not how Jake would have written it if he'd been given creative control over the situation, but which turned out to be exactly right anyway.
For Jake, being twenty four looks like you. Specifically, you in his passenger seat, which is where you've always been, except now when you steal his fries he calls you his girlfriend and you tell him to shut up and he does it again. It looks like your charger in his car and your hoodie on his couch and the specific way you say his name when you're trying not to laugh at something he said, which is a sound he's been collecting since he was nineteen years old at a party with a cup of water and an audience of exactly one. It looks like waking up and you're still there, which still gets him every time, which he suspects will keep getting him for a long time, and which he has decided to just let get him instead of filing it away somewhere.
The thing about being 24 and not 21 is that you stop pretending the things that matter don't matter. You stop performing indifference about the stuff you're actually not indifferent about. You get tired of the gap between what's true and what you're saying, and at some point the gap gets small enough that closing it feels less like bravery and more like just, finally, telling the truth. Jake told the truth out a car window and drove away and it was embarrassing and it was worth it and he'd do it again.
He knew, on some level, that this was always where it was going. Not the Wendy's specifically, but the version where you're his and he's yours and the loop finally closes into something that isn't a loop anymore. He'd known it since he was 21 and smart and absolutely full of shit about what he was and wasn't capable of feeling. He'd just taken the scenic route to get here, which, given that the scenic route included three years of you, he couldn't bring himself to regret.
So yeah, Jake Sim thought he was smarter than he really was at 21. Turns out he wasn't smart enough to avoid falling in love with you, wasn't smart enough to keep it casual, wasn't smart enough to protect himself from any of it. But it was the best thing that ever happened to Jake Sim, honestly.
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wow this is beautiful





