⋆katya⋆

biblically accurate me btw

[everynightillbeyoursign]

✧ tiktok ✧ insta ✧ telegram ✧

I'm also leaving my other socials here mwah mwah <3

I had so much fun designing this lol, did that instead of my uni assignments

I might post some of my edits here from time to time aand if I’m lucky and finish my drawings, I’ll share those here too ayee🫀🍒

[everynightillbeyoursign]

OMG, i love your Yunho art! Well done. keep up the hard work!

THANK YOUUU SO MUCHHH!! It means a lott and I will mwah mwah❤️‍🩹

[everynightillbeyoursign]

MY NEW YUNHO ART ✦ heartonsleeve_ on ig!!!!

[everynightillbeyoursign]

i misss these looks on them, literally so gorgeous

✦

artpiece already on my Instagram page: fanart post (<-link)

[everynightillbeyoursign]

i misss these looks on them, literally so gorgeous

✦

artpiece already on my Instagram page: fanart post (<-link)

[everynightillbeyoursign]

heyyy just finished my new wooyoung art, the way I started with colour, but changed my mind and did greyscale first AND THEN coloured it LOL but I'm pretty satisfied with how it turned out 🫀

✦

it's already on my Instagram page: heartonsleeve_ (link)

[everynightillbeyoursign]

heyyy just finished my new wooyoung art, the way I started with colour, but changed my mind and did greyscale first AND THEN coloured it LOL but I'm pretty satisfied with how it turned out 🫀

✦

it's already on my Instagram page: heartonsleeve_ (link)

[minkieater]

what's the difference between wanting something so badly that you'll take it, and only wanting something if it's given to you?

🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 9/? 🎤︎︎ 18+ | 8.1k words | reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, yunho is an angel sent from god above | smut minors dni fingering, pinv, dirty talk, big girl/good girl, yh is so close to tapping into his dom side. like so close

WOOYOUNG WOKE UP AN HOUR AGO. Sleep has been lost on him for days and last night wasn’t any fucking different. He watched the sun move over the horizon through his window, waking up from the slumber that was stolen from him, feeling it slowly warm his bedsheets with every passing minute of sunrise. Three hours, maybe, that’s all his active mind would allow him the past week.

He can’t figure out why he’s so unsettled. He has pieces of the puzzle, but it feels impossible to put them together to see the entire picture. He doesn’t know why he went to your apartment that night, what he was expecting to get out of it, what any outcome would have done to benefit him. He wasn’t expecting you to kiss him– he sure as hell wasn’t expecting to deny you, but you weren’t kissing him for the right reasons. You were trying to prove his words, the very real and obvious facts he knows about you, wrong. How the fuck does he even know so much about you in the first place? Why does he give a fuck about your intentions?

He’s never considered himself to be one of those people who can read others. He’s never cared that much about others’ feelings, their emotions, their personalities. But it bothers him, how easily he can see you when you can’t see yourself. You’re transparent to him, the fake confidence, the control you work so hard to keep locked in your jaw when he knows you don’t possess a lick of it. You have the ability to, but you don’t trust yourself enough to lean into it, to step into those shoes. He wonders about you. But the more he wonders, the more he seems to understand less.

He lays flat on his back, sighing. What did he even say all of that shit for if you were just going to turn around and repeat history? What was it all for? He doesn’t care if your relationship or whatever the fuck with Yunho doesn’t have a label on it, he hears the way Yunho talks about you, he saw just last night how you two look at each other. That’s not casual, that’s so fucking far away from casual it makes him feel stupid for even attempting to help you out of the box you put yourself in. Your rules, your morals, your standards, they’re all a shield so no one sees the real you.

But Wooyoung has seen it, the you who doesn’t back down, the you who refused to let him leave, who grabbed his wrist, pulled him down by his chain. A part of him misses it, seeing that version of you, just a little. The volume of your voice, even if it’s spitting words in his direction, even if it’s reminding him he had fucking chlamydia. The nasty smirk painted on your lips, eyes sparkling with amusement, shoulders pushed back, proud when your words hit their mark. Even if both of you would die before admitting it, there was something forming, and Wooyoung can feel the loss of it. 

He kicks the sheets off his body, pushing himself up until he’s sitting, rubbing at his face with his rough, callused palms. He’s been lifting more lately, spending more time in the gym, just after dawn. He hates hypocrisy, when people say they’re one thing and act differently, he hates when people lose themselves in another person, but not enough to lose sleep over it. Not enough to think this fucking hard. But all the alone time, he and his headphones blaring music so loud he can feel his eardrums crying, he can’t stop thinking about it.

He wills his brain to shut up while he’s in his bathroom, but it refuses as he throws a tank over his head and grabs his gym bag from the floor. Headphones hugging his neck, he pulls his bedroom door open, bothered by the fact that you’re three fucking rooms over. He shakes his head, huffing a short, tight breath as he jogs down the steps, searching for the familiar itch in his chest from moving his body.

“Oh.” He hears from his left, a very you sound coming from the kitchen. A smaller, watered down version of you. “Hi. Morning.”

He glances, but only because he can’t help himself. Your– Yunho’s shirt swallows you down to mid-thigh, like that night in your apartment. Instinct wonders if you’re wearing anything beneath it, he knew that night a week ago, you weren’t. His jaw locks as he takes a few steps toward the counter, ripping a banana off the bunch sitting beside the refrigerator, then turns to leave again. 

“So now you won’t even speak to me?” The edge in your voice is back, still softer than what he’s used to. “I don’t get it. You said shit to me, I said shit to you, I thought that was our thing. Now you hate me for it?”

A huff of amusement tumbles out of his nose, but he keeps his back to you. “Our thing doesn’t exist. There is no we, remember?”

“We came to the conclusion of friendship. That, I remember.” He hears your glass of water hit the counter. “Did I hit a soft spot? See you too clearly? Now you have to shut me out, just like you do everyone else?”

Yet another thing he can’t get off his mind. How easy it is for him to see you, how transparent you are to him, he hates that it seems to be the same for you. You’ve curated your own reputation, and it’s for a reason. His lips tighten, frustration making his spine straighten out.

He turns around. “Now you’re direct? How is it that you only have a fucking backbone when it comes to me?”

Your face twists in confusion. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re still fucking doing it, Virgin,” he argues, and inside himself, he can’t find a single reason why. “Hiding behind choices made for you.”

“I’m not,” you argue too quickly to have thought about his words. Blinking, cheeks flushed, you sputter like you weren’t expecting him to bring it up again, “Yunho– he and I– I’m single… we’re–”

“I don’t care what you’re doing,” Wooyoung snaps, and he can taste the lie on his tongue. “I don’t care what you do. This conversation is pointless, and a waste of my time.”

You laugh, a punched sound that has no warmth, no amusement in it. You take a step closer to him, and he can feel the heat of anger swimming toward him. “A waste of your fucking time? It was a waste of my time when you came to my apartment to chew me out for shit that has nothing to fucking do with you.”

“Exactly,” he turns back around, heading for the front door. “None of it has anything to do with me, so why are you still talking to me?”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you grit out harshly from behind him, following him to the door. “I can’t believe I ever put any trust in you or valued your opinion. All you care about is yourself.”

“That’s how it should be,” he sighs, grabbing the handle. Looking over his shoulder, your arms are crossed, your skin flush with anger. “If you were a little more selfish, your ex never would have hurt you. You wouldn’t be down here arguing with a fucking wall.”

He gives it a second, warming the brass knob with the heat in his palm, but you have no argument. You stare at him, no rebuttal, no curses thrown, just angled brows and pointed eyes and arms that are either crossed in defense or hugging yourself for comfort. He peels the banana on the walk to his car, chewing hard enough to crack his fucking teeth on his drive to the gym. 

Your chest aches.

You’ve been staring at the door for what feels like ten minutes, even if you can still hear the roar of his engine down the road. It’s fucking frustrating that you can’t figure it out, you can’t figure him out– you don’t even know what went wrong. Where this all came from, why it’s blowing up in your face, why you’re hurt over someone you never cared about, and never cared about you. He’s right.

None of it ever had anything to do with him, you made all of your problems his, but he helped you. He helped solve them, even if he didn’t owe you anything, even if you never would have interacted with each other if it wasn’t for chance. You don’t like him, you aren’t friends, there are no factors in your association that hold any weight to either of you.

He’s always been a fucking asshole, but his words, his body language has never felt so angry. So mean. You wish you argued, you wish you said something to keep him here longer just to force an explanation out of him. You didn’t know what else to say, and that might have been a first for you when talking to Wooyoung.

“Morning, sunshine,” the softest voice in the world sings brightly from behind you, embedding light back into your chest, your skin. You turn on your heel and he’s shirtless, in nothing but boxers, grinning with tired eyes like he’s still half-asleep. Aware he always is, naturally, he asks, “What’s wrong? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you shake your head, meeting him halfway, swinging your arms around his middle, laying your cheek against his soft, warm skin. Comfort personified, he pets your hair, scratching your scalp lightly. You look up when he doesn’t answer, his brows furrowed like he doesn’t believe you, which he shouldn’t. You insist, “I’m fine, Yun.”

“Okay,” he says softly, lips curving. He doesn’t press it. “I didn’t know where you went. It’s early.”

“I came down to get water,” you press your chin to his chest, keeping your gaze upward. You should go home and try to map out your next episode of Unscripted, but instead you ask, “Do you have anything to do today? I’m free if you’re free.”

“My turn to grocery shop,” he says before craning his neck, pressing his lips to your forehead. “That’s it, though. Wanna come with?”

“Grocery shop on a Saturday?” Your nose crinkles. “I’d rather die.”

He uses both hands to push your hair away from your face, “I want to do something just you and I today.”

You pop a bow, teasing him, “And your idea is to grocery shop?” 

“It’s simple,” he shrugs as you peel yourself off of him. “Domestic.”

“It’s going to be a fucking zoo in there.” You move toward the kitchen again, wanting the water you barely got to drink before you were interrupted. 

“But we’ll be together.” Yunho comes up behind you as you take a long sip. You stare at the bunch of bananas on the counter, the ripped stem revealing one missing, lips scrunching to one side. His hands find your shoulders, squeezing, “I want to be together.”

You smile absentmindedly, eyes still glued to the bananas as you lean back into Yunho’s chest, “Me too.”

Turning, you reach up for his neck, pulling him down to kiss you. He makes a noise of surprise as his palms land on your hips, dipping you backward. “What is it about a kitchen that makes you so horny?”

You laugh into the kiss, reaching up into his hair, “Cutlery, appliances.”

He snorts, hands sliding down your back, squeezing your bare ass beneath your tee. “My theory is that you have an exhibitionist kink you accidentally forgot to tell me about.”

You try to trap your laughter, but fail as miserably as you always do. Your head tips backward as his lips trail down your neck, “Maybe I do and I just don’t know it.”

He hums a note, muffled against your skin, vibrating your throat. “Maybe I should help you figure it out.”

“Maybe you should,” you whisper as he kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips, holding your hips like he’s trying to make a belt with his fingers. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to see me?”

“They’re all asleep.” He looks up like he could see through the ceiling into everyone’s rooms. When he looks back down at you, his eyes have darkened, slipping into that heavy stare that makes your spine scream, your toes curl. “It’s still early enough that they won’t get up for a while.”

“You want to?” you ask, looking up at him through your lashes, head tilting. 

“Why are you even asking?” His brows furrow as he bends down again. He whispers against your lips, “I’ll give you anything you want.”

When he kisses you again, it’s his pace you’re following. His body swallows yours, shifting you backward with his hands on your hips until you hit the counter, hands sliding up to your waist under your tee, hiking it up your torso. You arch into him, one leg lifting to hook over his hip, gasping as he starts kissing down your neck again. 

You grip the counter between your fingers, squeezing your eyes shut, jaw locking. Rolling your hips into his, you moan softly, “Yunho.”

“You want more?” he asks, voice heavier now, layered with arousal. “You want me to fuck you right here? Where anyone could come down and see you?”

Your stomach flips with excitement, adrenaline, arousal all bundled into one swirl in your gut. You nod, panting now, rolling your hips again. An almost-groan, quiet and short escapes him as his hand slides between your spread legs, his two middle fingers adding pressure against your clit. Even if it’s too light, even if it’s teasing and nothing more, you hiss sharply, looking up at him with brows high, a pleading look. “More.”

“Ask nicely.”

You pick your head up. “Please?”

His cheeks are pink, a short, rough noise falling past his lips. He presses harder, cracking your jaw open, brows knitting together in pleasure. “Say it again.”

“Please, Yunho,” you whine, hips rolling into his hand, grinding yourself against his fingers that he holds flat out. “Please give me more.”

He slips his hand beneath the waistband of your panties, lips parting when he feels you pooling onto his fingers. “Fuck,” he groans out, quiet but clear. “This wet for me already?”

You spot yellow in your periphery again and the reminder is starting to get on your last fucking nerve. “Inside,” you squeeze your eyes shut, reaching for his shoulder with one hand, grinding yourself into his fingers, aching to get them further, deeper. 

He slips his two middle fingers inside with ease and your body nearly bends in half. A sharp moan falls from your lips and immediately he’s shushing you, using his own body to keep you upright, your forehead on his shoulder with your spine curved in a perfect arc. 

“Gotta be quiet for me,” he whispers, keeping his fingers still while you twitch around them. 

“Yes, yes,” you whisper, clawing at his shoulder and the counter, body begging for more. “I’ll be quiet, I’ll be good, please.” 

Your voice cracks on please and he starts moving his fingers, curling them into your walls, making another sharp moan fall past your lips. He uses his other hand to move your head by your jaw, pulling you upward to meet his lips, swallowing your sounds by shoving his tongue past your lips, both of your arms wrapping around his shoulders to meet the thrusts of his fingers. 

Every time he does this it renders your brain quiet. How long his fingers are, how he curls them so perfectly, like his fingers were made to hit every single spot inside you that makes you see stars. It's inconceivable every time, how much pleasure he can give you with only two fingers, he’s spent most of the last week showing you just how easy it is for him. 

You moan again when the edge of his palm makes contact with your clit, making you whisper apologies into his mouth, and his grip tightens on your jaw. Your eyes fly open as his thumb presses on your bottom lip, testing the waters like he might slide it inside. 

You watch him debate, his eyes flickering to your eyes to your mouth, the pad of his thumb pushing on your bottom row of teeth, opening your mouth wider. Your eyes tell him to do it, saliva pooling in the space behind your teeth, you want to feel it. You want him to lose that last shred of control, to give you a reason to call him sir. You want to know what it’s like, what he’s like. You want to learn.

His hand leaves your jaw to land on your waist, pushing a sharp breath past his lips, holding onto that last shred of control like his life depends on it, just like he has all week. Like there’s something still stopping him, like he’s scared of showing you who he is, what he wants. You swallow your spit, head tipping backward, bending toward him, disappointed at how empty your mouth feels, but the feeling is fleeting with the pleasure building in your gut. Your clit grinds against his palm with every roll of your hips, his fingers fucking into you now, reaching deeper than anyone’s ever been with one hand. 

“Wanna fuck you,” he whispers, then looks over his shoulder at the living room, then to the ceiling again like he could see if anyone has woken up. Slipping his fingers out, quickly he grabs at your hips, “Turn around.”

He does it for you, flipping you smoothly until you’re facing the backsplash on the wall, getting an eyeful of their toaster, two half-full bottles of whiskey. You glance behind, only catching a glimpse of him rolling his briefs down, spitting into his palm before spreading it over the length of his cock. Your heartbeat picks up, saliva pooling in your mouth again, gut rumbling with anticipation, aching to feel full.

 “Remember what I said,” he reminds you as he grabs the hem of your panties, rolling them over your ass until they fall down to your ankles. Lifting your leg up onto the counter, spreading you, he says, “If you make a sound, I stop. Okay?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding, feeling the cool air of the kitchen on your folds, your clit pulsing. A part of you is nervous, you haven’t fucked him yet without finishing at least once, he’s stretched you out every single time before even glancing at his own cock.

One hand holding your thigh up, he prods at your entrance, and you quickly realize you couldn’t make a sound if you tried with how wide he’s stretching you by just pushing inside. “Good,” he praises, his voice quiet but full of warmth. “Takin’ me so well, baby. Knew you could do it.”

Your face scrunches, jaw slack, the smallest squeak sneaking out because his length feels never ending. His cock is so fucking long, so thick, you felt full an inch ago, maybe two. His hand rubs at your thigh, still soothing you, praising you, “A little more, doing so good for me. So proud of you.”

The praise sets you ablaze, hips bucking backward to meet the rest, clamping a hand over your mouth to moan into your palm when he’s seated fully. “Yes,” he moans quietly. “Holy fuuck, you’re so fucking tight.”

You curse under your breath, nails scratching at the counter with your other hand, forcing the sounds clawing at the base of your throat to stay there. He doesn’t move, letting you adjust to the stretch, grip tightening on your thigh with every pulse of your walls. “I can’t–” you croak, the sound ragged, embarrassing. You grip the edge of the counter with both hands, “Move.”

He obliges, of course he does, his pace agonizingly slow. The only sound in the room is your breathing, the creamy noises of him slowly dragging his cock through your walls, setting your cheeks, your ears on fire. You can hear his smile, words coated in awe as he says, “Listen to how wet you are, holy shit.”

He thrusts back inside, sharper this time, angled perfectly, and the moan that sneaks past your lips is anything but voluntary. It’s loud, too loud, you clamp a hand over your mouth, but it’s too late. He pauses, sheathed, slowly leaning over your back until his lips graze the shell of your ear, “Did I miss something, baby? Do you want me to stop?”

He sounds teasing, no, taunting, your toes press into the hardwood beneath you, gut boiling with arousal. You shake your head, stuttering, “N-no.”

“Then don’t let me hear another fucking sound,” his voice is too even, his tone too calm. You’re reeling with curiosity, you know there’s so much more under the surface than what he’s shown you, you need him to rip the Band-Aid off and show you who he really fucking is. From that first be careful after the Penny to the first night you slept together, he’s given you snippets, small tastes of what he’s capable of, what he likes. You need him to give you everything.

He speeds up, gripping your thigh tighter, hips snapping into the plush of your ass. Your breaths are staggered, chest tight with how hard you’re holding back your noises, nails clawing at the fucking counter because his cock is carving into you like there was never space for him to fit in the first place.

“Yun– ho,” you whimper, reaching behind you, the knee that’s holding you up bending, folding. There’s nowhere for you to run, the only thing you can do is take it and the pleasure is fucking excruciating. 

He catches your wrist with a tight grip, pinning it to the base of your spine. “Take it.”

“I can’t,” you cry, head dropping, the tip of your nose grazing the counter with each thrust. “I can’t, ‘s too good, Yunho. I can’t!”

You must have not realized your volume growing, your pitch, because his body bends over yours, his other hand clamping around your mouth before pulling you up to his chest in a quick, sweeping movement. Your eyes go wide, babbling apologies into his palm as he grits harshly into your ear, “You wanted to be fucked in the kitchen. You asked for this, take it like a big fucking girl.”

You curse into his palm, spine bent in half, eyes squeezing shut as he keeps fucking into you, cock dragging against your walls like he knows exactly what to touch, where to hit, what’ll make you scream. Maybe after the past week he does know. Your free hand claws at his forearm, your other arm still pinned behind your back pushing against his grip, the pleasure growing unbearable.

“I’m gonna let go of your arm,” he says coolly, but his voice is shaky, the only hint that he feels just as good as you. “Keep it there, don’t move.”

You nod into his palm, first curling and uncurling, nails digging into the edge of your palm as he swings his now free hand over your front, between your legs, drawing harsh circles over your clit. You thrash against him, babbling against his palm, the heat of pleasure turning to heavy, building pressure.

“Need you to cum for me,” he whispers into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. You shiver, hips twitching, your head still pinned backward by his palm over your mouth. “C’mon, baby, let me feel it. Cum for me.”

With a few more strokes of his tip over your walls, a few more circles over your clit, your legs shake as blinding, white pleasure steals all of your senses. Your ears ring, breath caught in your throat, your arm behind your back clawing at Yunho’s torso as your orgasm tears through your body.

“Good girl, so fuckin’ good for me, fuck, oh my god,” you finally hear when your ears stop ringing, his voice rough, heavy like he was about to finish, too. You can’t stop clenching, so oversensitive, his cock still massaging your walls with purpose, all you can do is whimper into his palm, your brain emptied of anything coherent.

He lets go of your mouth only when he pulls out, you slump over the counter with a soft moan, listening to the slick sounds of him pumping his length, his biting breaths, until you feel him paint your ass, your lower back, over your shirt, white. You don’t know how you’re keeping yourself upright, panting, hands braced on the counter beneath your torso, both your legs back on the hardwood.

Your head is still spinning, body still coming down when you hear him turn the sink on, running something under the faucet. You jump when a warm paper towel wipes at your back, your ass, between your thighs, then you hear him huff a small noise of amusement through his nose. “Good thing this is my shirt and not yours.”

“Is it ruined?” you ask, barely recognizing your own voice. Rough, battered, like he just put you through hell. You push yourself up off the counter, grabbing at the hem, twisting it around to see the streaked stains.  

“Nothing a load of laundry can’t fix,” he shrugs, throwing the paper towel away. Quickly walking back to you, he grabs you by your cheeks, holding your face up to look at him. “Are you okay? I wasn’t too rough with you, was I?”

You shake your head, or try to, your cheeks squished by his pressing palms. He smacks his teeth, “Words, sunshine.”

“No, you weren’t,” you whisper, slowly blinking. You could take a nap right now. “‘m tired.”

His cheeks are still flushed, chest still covered in splotches of red, crescents and lines of red from your nails covering his torso. He smiles like it was a job well-done, proud of himself, proud of you. He presses his lips to the top of your forehead, “Should we nap and then go grocery shopping?”

You groan, grabbing his hands from your cheeks. “Do we really have to go?”

“We can wait until later,” he grabs your hand instead, pulling you toward the staircase. 

You grab your glass of water from the counter before letting him pull you along. “I promised Jen I’d go out with her later.”

“Then we’re napping and going,” he says certainly. “You’re stuck with me.”

At the top of the staircase is Hongjoong, arms crossed, hair shooting in every direction on the top of his head. You both stop in your tracks, your heart picking up speed at the sight. He asks, “Am I free to use my own kitchen now?”

Heat blooms, skin erupting in flames. Yunho laughs, continuing up the stairs again, “My bad, you’re good.”

“Sorry,” you mumble in a small whisper as you walk past him, mortified. When you shut Yunho’s bedroom door behind you, you tear his shirt off your body, hissing, “You were the loud one, so you can’t even blame that on me.”

All he does is giggle from the bed, holding the sheets up to welcome you in.

Part of Wooyoung feels guilty. In the way that eats at him, bothers him incessantly, like a dog that won’t stop following him around, begging for a treat he doesn’t have. He isn’t completely sure why, maybe it’s because of the look on your face earlier, how obvious it was that you were reaching out for him and he didn’t let you in, not even a little. You shouldn’t be reaching for him, though. If you’re reaching for anyone, it should be Yunho. You shouldn’t need him, want him for anything, even friendship. He doesn’t need you. 

San stares at him, face completely flat and void of emotion from behind the register. “Do you know how much you’ve talked about her in the past week?” 

Fuck him. “I’ve brought her up, like, twice,” Wooyoung defends himself, immediately aggravated. He is at San’s job right now just so he could talk about it again. “It’s annoying, she won’t leave me alone, like a mosquito buzzing in my fucking ear.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe she considers you her friend?” San asks. “Also, from what I understand, she’s spoken to you literally one time since she started hooking up with Yunho. How is that annoying?” 

“I’m not her friend,” Wooyoung’s eyes thin, bringing his drink up to his lips. Taking a sip, the cold coffee does nothing to cool his boiling blood. “I don’t want her to talk to me at all. Are you on her side now because you’re fucking Yunjin?” 

“Jen told me a lot about her,” San shrugs simply, grabbing the stained towel from over his shoulder, wiping at the counter below his palms just to look like he’s doing something. “Nothing crazy, just stuff with her ex, personality shit. She seems like she deserves someone like Yunho.” 

A huff of something sarcastic sneaks out from between Wooyoung’s lips, even if he knows that somewhere inside him, he agrees. “Yunho is basically the same as her bum-ass ex, San. Minus the cheating with a dude thing, although, technically, that isn’t impossible—”

San cuts him off, “Yunho would never do that, don’t even say that shit.” 

“Still,” Wooyoung urges. “You don’t know her like I know her.” San’s brows raise, pausing his wiping. “Not like that, dickhead. She’s quiet around him.” 

San stares at him for a second, blinking twice. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“Yes, I hear myself—”

“Maybe she’s quiet because she’s happy. Jen said Yunho makes her feel safe, wouldn’t you want that after you caught your boyfriend cheating on you?”

“I guess, but—”

“I don’t know why you’re so bothered by it,” San finally says, like he’s pressing the real issue. “Do you even know why you’re bothered by it? Are you just irritated that your little bickering partner is too busy for you? Did you want to fuck her before Yunho got his hands on her?” 

“No,” Wooyoung answers too quickly to be convincing, and then backtracks when he realizes disagreeing is worse than agreeing. “I mean, yes, of course I did, but that’s not why I’m bothered.”

He should have known it would be impossible to get his point across without mentioning you riding his face, kissing him in your apartment. Now he just sounds jealous or something, and it might be the most humiliating hole he’s ever dug himself in. 

“It sounds like that’s why.” San’s brows raise, lips flattening like he knows something Wooyoung doesn’t. “Maybe you should think about that instead of wondering why she wants to be your friend. You could use a girl friend who’s just a friend.”

Wooyoung’s jaw tightens. “I don’t need her to be my friend, I already have seven.” 

San laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “I love Yunho, and I really like Jen so I don’t want to say this, but I’ve never seen you so involved with a girl, especially without fucking her.”

“I don’t know what she wants, San, but it’s not fucking Yunho,” Wooyoung argues, heart pumping in his chest, heat kissing his cheeks. “Yunho presented himself to her, of course she’s gonna hop on it. She didn't choose him herself, she just accepted it.” 

San looks up, eyes squinting ever so slightly like he’s trying to piece it together but he can’t. “Then what does she want, Wooyoung?” San’s fists find his hips. “Does she want you? Is that what you’re getting at?” 

“No!” Wooyoung nearly shouts, exasperated. He looks around to the heads that have turned, swallowing down his embarrassment. He lowers his voice again, “You don’t get it, you don’t know the whole story.” 

“I don’t think I need to,” San laughs a little, smirking like he knows enough. His smirk drops almost immediately like realization hit him, replaced with an expression much more grave. “I’m sorry you’re going through this, but Woo, just because your parents—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Wooyoung raises his finger, cutting San off completely. “Don’t bring them up.” 

“There’s a reason you’re talking to me,” San crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m the only one that knows that shit and you’re here, talking to me. Why did you come here then?”

“I made a mistake coming here,” Wooyoung grits out, anger clear in the hinge of his jaw. “I told you that in confidence, not for you to bring it up whenever you fucking want. Forget it.” 

“Wooyoung—”

He’s already turning around, making for the front of the shop, angry at the fucking jingle over his head when he pushes the glass door open. He left his fucking drink inside. He’s sure as hell not going back in to get it. 

Fuck that. Absolutely fucking fuck that. It was pointless going there, if he can’t figure his own shit out himself, then how could he expect someone else to do it for him? San is so fucking far off the mark it’s laughable. He swings open his car door, throwing himself into the driver's seat, and barely waits for the engine to roll over before he’s tugging the gearstick into first. 

Picking up his phone, there’s a text from Sana on his lock screen. An invitation, short and sweet, most likely the outcome of liking some of her old Instagram pictures while he wasn’t sleeping last night. And even though he’s not one to fuck the same person twice, it feels like a gift from god, divine intervention, exactly what he fucking needs to put his head back on straight. He texts her back an equally short response, eyes half on the screen, half on the road, and turns down a side street that’ll take him to her house.

There’s a part of Wooyoung that feels like maybe stepping into a house where six women live, especially when he’s slept with five of them, is kinda like walking into a lion’s den. Maybe he doesn’t have the sense to care, or maybe he’s so frustrated that he’ll fuck whoever looks at him first upon walking through the front door. It’s likely that all five would fuck him again, and if he’s really honest, he’ll be happy if all five do fuck him as soon as they see him.

Parking out front, walking inside like he owns the place, he quickly learns that Sana is the only one home. Not that he’s disappointed about it, because fucking her does exactly what it’s supposed to: it takes the edge off, makes him forget his anger, his frustrations, she even tires him out after two rounds. Two. Laying on her bed, still there after she showered for some reason, too tired to get up and join her, she jolts him out of his almost-slumber by announcing, “Get up. I’m going out and you’re coming with me.”

Wooyoung huffs his amusement. “You could have just told me to leave, I’m about to head out anyway. Did you know your bed is hella comfortable?" 

Butt-ass naked, she rests her hands on her hips. “The girls are out, we’re meeting them. You’re being weird and I think you need to get drunk.”

His brows furrow. “Weird?”

“I feel energy radiating off of you,” she shivers, rolling her shoulders as she walks toward her closet. “Don’t argue with me. Put your clothes back on.”

Wooyoung might be more tired than he thinks he is, because he gets up and changes back into his jeans, his hoodie that it’s too warm outside to wear. It’s comfortable. He doesn’t know what ‘energy’ he’s giving off, but he’s too tired to think about it, laying flat on his back on her bed again while she does her hair, her makeup. He thinks he might have fallen asleep when she yells, “Jesus Christ Wooyoung, what is wrong with you? Get up.”

He snaps in half, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m awake, damn.”

She’s in a tiny little skirt, a tiny little top. His dick doesn’t even jump. He should really go home and go to bed.

Hands on her hips again, she tells him, “You’re driving, I don’t feel like waiting for a ride.”

“You said I needed to get drunk,” he argues.

“Then leave your car there,” she shrugs. “I don’t care. Let’s go.”

He’s still blinking sleep out of his eyes when his engine turns over, he doesn’t even know when it got dark outside. He’s confused, exhausted, but he’s comfortable, and he keeps fucking driving all the way to the Penny. 

It’s busy when he trails inside behind Sana, busy enough that he pulls his hood over his head, not wanting to be bothered by anyone’s eyes or offers. He’s not in the mood, and it might actually be a fucking first for him. 

He follows Sana toward the bar and buys her a drink just because he fell asleep in her bed. The first sip of his beer goes down like shit, so he takes another gulp just to make it easier, trailing behind her to a tall table that’s full of women he’s fucked. Probably. He doesn’t even really look. 

“Ladies,” he announces, his only form of greeting accompanied by a short nod.

No one pays him any mind except Yunjin, “You look like dog shit.”

He curses under his breath, blinking his eyes open, actually paying attention to who’s at the table now. Sana, Chaeyoung, Tzuyu, Nayeon, Momo, the dark-haired girl he shared a car with that one time, there’s a space between her and Yunjin, a half-drank martini on the table. Great. Cool. 

“Thanks,” his lips tighten, feeling regretful already. “Is Sannie here?”

“Girls night,” she answers, tipping her beer toward him. He tips his back and takes a swig, sighing when the bottle meets the table in front of him.

“Is anyone gonna mention why he’s here and hanging out with us? Or are we just gonna ignore it?” The dark-haired girl asks the table, refusing to even look at him. He doesn’t care enough to make a snarky response.

“We had sex,” Sana points to him with her thumb. “He seems miserable and I feel bad for him.”

“Jung Wooyoung can feel emotion?” Chaeyoung taunts with an evil grin. 

He shoots her a fake, irritated smile, “Ha ha.”

“Why are you miserable?” Yunjin cuts in again. “Sannie mentioned you were down, but wouldn’t tell me why.”

San’s real as fuck. That just made Wooyoung at least thirty-five percent less pissed at him. He shrugs it off, “I’m fine.”

“What the hell?” he hears, still far enough away that his head perks up. You approach the table with your brows furrowed, your jaw locked, top lip lifted in disgust. “They let dogs in this place?”

The table laughs. Wooyoung’s eyes thin out, but part of him feels just a little satisfied that you’re still insulting him. Sana says your name like a warning, “Be nice.”

Your brows tie together as you sip your martini, arming yourself for a response, but Wooyoung beats you to it. “I’ll go.” He grabs his beer from the table, bidding everyone a nod in farewell. “There’s gotta be women in this bar that I haven’t fucked yet, right?”

“Good luck,” Yunjin calls after him. “Don’t catch chlamydia again!”

He curses under his breath, already walking toward the bar. He should just leave, go home, go to bed. He should go. He chugs the rest of his beer before leaning over the bar in a rare, open space, flagging down the bartender for another. He should go home.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He groans out loud this time, rubbing at his face with his palms before turning his head. You’re standing there, arms crossed, brows furrowed. He looks you up and down before saying, “Nothing. Go back to your friends.”

“You didn’t fight back,” you press, wiggling into the space between him and another guy waiting for a drink. “You always fight back, why are you being weird?”

“Fuck, I’m not being weird, why does everyone keep saying that?” he spits out, grabbing the beer he doesn’t even really want from the bar, taking a long gulp. 

“Because you fucking are,” you argue, leaning your side over the bar, trying to put yourself in his peripherals. “Why are you here? Where are the other guys?”

“I came with Sana,” he points behind him, mumbling. “They’re not here.” He turns to look at you after a second of silence, no response. Your brows are still tied together, staring at his sleeve like there’s something on it. “Go back to your friends.”

“No,” you say with certainty, finality. “Not until you tell me why we’re weird. Did I do something?”

“No, Virgin,” he groans out, bored with the conversation. 

You press him anyway. “Something had to have happened, Wooyoung. I don’t get… ever since that night, you’ve been off.” He doesn’t need to ask which night. He twirls his beer bottle, staring into its mouth while you keep talking. “This is what we’ve done since we met. I say shit, you say shit, we banter, we bicker, that’s our routine. Is it because I kissed you? I was out of my mind–”

“Shut up, Virgin,” he cuts you off, looking at you. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to stop acting like you fucking hate me,” you urge, voice raising.

He meets your volume, “I don’t hate you!”

“Well, you’re acting like it,” your shoulders shrug. 

He sighs, long and heavy. “I don’t hate you, I’m just– you piss me off.”

“And you piss me off, I thought that was normal,” you laugh a little, but it’s a clear reach for normalcy, ground to stand on when there is none. “Can you be a little more specific with the current anger?”

He doesn’t have an answer for you. Instead, he shrugs it off. “I don’t fucking know, Virgin.”

You cross your arms over the bar, still standing beside him. He wishes you would just fucking leave.

“I’m sorry for this morning,” you offer, voice strangely soft. “If what I said upset you.”

“It didn’t upset me,” he counters, and at least that’s honest.

“It’s unfair that I acted like you were wrong, and got mad at you for it,” you mutter so quietly that he can tell it’s killing you to say it. He swallows. “But I meant what I said, about valuing your opinion, trusting you. Even if it might make me stupid for doing so.”

“Stupid for trusting the sex guy with sex advice?” he asks, a slice of humor in his tone. “That might be the only smart thing you’ve ever done.”

You laugh. He turns his head, confused, just to see you smiling, head tilted while you play with the silver ring on your finger, fully amused. You look up at him, still half-smiling, “I need your advice again.”

“Don’t tell me it’s about Yunho.” You nod, lips tightening in a grin. He groans, “Come on, are you serious? You’re not even dating the guy.”

“Shut up, Wooyoung,” you smack your teeth, nudging his elbow with yours. “It’s sex-related.”

“This is what we’re back to? Sex advice?” his brows raise.

Your lips scrunch to one side. “Apparently trusting the sex guy with sex advice is the only smart thing I’ve ever done.”

He takes another long swig of his beer, and finally, it’s refreshing. “Hit me.”

“He’s dominant,” you say, like it explains everything. Wooyoung nods, waiting for the rest.

When you don’t continue, he pops a brow. “Okay?”

“Did you know that?”

“I’ve always known that.”

“Fuck,” you cover your first with your lips. “Okay. He obviously… is into that, but I feel like he’s holding back with me. Like he won’t be who he is, or do what he wants.”

“What do you want?” Wooyoung asks, and the question is like instinct for him at this point.

“I just told you,” you say simply, blinking at him.

“No, you told me he won’t do what he wants,” Wooyoung explains, shifting so he’s leaning his side into the bar, facing you. “What do you want?”

You groan, head tipping backward before you mimic his stance, defeated as you lean into the bar. “You know what I fucking mean, don’t start with this shit again.”

Wooyoung laughs under his breath. “Your mind is fascinating, Virgin.”

“Can you just help me?” you throw your elbow onto the bar, leaning your head into it, and it just makes Wooyoung laugh more. When you scowl, he apologizes, straightening himself out.

“Okay, what do you mean by holding back?”

Your cheeks flush, eyes dancing around where you stand, checking for listening ears. Your voice lowers, leaning closer, “For example, earlier, he wanted me to be quiet. He was about to put his fingers in my mouth to… shut me up–”

“To gag you.”

“Fuck you. He didn’t do it, he stopped like he was scared or something.”

His head tilts, thinking on it. “So you want him to put his fingers down your throat?”

You smack your lips together, deadpanning. “I want him to not have to think about doing what he wants. I want him to just do it if he wants to do it.”

“You just fucking did it again,” Wooyoung fires back, standing a little straighter, he feels like he’s about to lose his fucking mind. “I just asked you what you want and you told me what he wants.”

You blink at him. “Is that not the same fucking thing?”

He tugs his hood down, running his hands through his hair. He takes a breather, forcing his heart rate into submission by taking a long sip of his beer. Thankfully, you’re silent, if you spoke he thinks he might have actually ripped all of his hair out. 

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks, leaning against the bar again. You nod. “Did you think this fucking hard before we hooked up?”

Your eyes go wide, shushing him, looking around like you’re praying no one heard him. “Shut the fuck up, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Also… no, but that was different.”

“How am I different?” 

“Because you just are. We didn’t fuck.”

His brows furrow, because that makes no fucking sense. “That doesn’t mean– Virgin, you didn’t give a fuck about what I wanted when we hooked up.”

Your lips part, offended. “Yes I did!”

“No you didn’t,” he laughs a little, like it should be obvious to you. “You pulled my hair hard enough that I thought you were gonna rip it out. You were riding my fucking face like you didn’t care if I could breathe–”

“Wooyoung!”

“Which I couldn’t, by the way, but I like it like that. My point is that you took what you wanted from me, you didn’t wait for me to give it to you. You won’t even talk to him about what you want. Are you sure you even want what you think you want?”

Your brows furrow, thinking about it. You look longingly at the table you left, your friends, “I should have brought my drink over here.” He hands you his beer, which you take happily, throwing a long gulp of it back. After wiping your lips with the back of your hand, you ask him, “Does it not sound like I want it?”

“It sounds like you don’t know what you want. From what I’ve experienced, you aren’t the type who can be tamed, you’re the kind of person who needs someone who can handle you. Someone with really healthy, strong hair who can hold their breath for a long time.”

You snort, “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

He grins, “I wish I had a dollar for every time you’ve said that to me. I would have, like, at least five bucks by now.”

“You could buy three beers with that kind of money.” You cross your arms, turning until your back is leaning into the bar. “I don’t know what I want, Wooyoung.”

“I know, Virgin,” he crosses his arms over the bar, trapping his beer between them, sighing. It sits with him that you finally said something he can’t argue with. “You’ll figure it out one day, though. Maybe.” 

You reach for his beer, stealing it from between his arms, taking another long gulp. “I know I just drank all your beer, but you should really buy me another martini for insinuating that we weren’t friends this morning.”

Wooyoung’s head drops, chin meeting his chest as laughter sneaks through his lips. “You’re right. We’re friends, Virgin.”

“Yes we are,” you nod, satisfied. “You’re definitely buying me that drink, though.”

masterlist 🍬

[everynightillbeyoursign]

i feel that greed in me they talk about in the bible MOREE I NEED MOREE OF THAT😩😩😩😩😩

[everynightillbeyoursign]

i finally decided to finally create an account for my artwork on insta (@heartonsleeve_) so I'd be really grateful if you supported me there xoxo

kay ✦ (@heartonsleeve_) • Instagram photos and videos

0 Followers, 8 Following, 2 Posts - See Instagram photos and videos from kay ✦ (@heartonsleeve_)

not me talking to no one lol

[minkieater]

unscripted, the podcast that talks about everything sex, is the bane of wooyoung’s existence. he hates her snarky voice, her tips that he can guarantee are baseless, he hates that all of his friends are jumping on the fucking bandwagon when wooyoung can give them the same goddamn advice from experience. never in a million years would he guess that the person behind the voice, the girl in a sexless, boring, long-term relationship, is you.

🎤︎︎ ONE — UNSCRIPTED, AS ALWAYS

🎤︎︎ TWO — VIRGIN

🎤︎︎ THREE — BEOMGYU

more to come 😋 | masterlist

[everynightillbeyoursign]

TO SAY I'M SCREAMING, WOULD BE AN UNDERSTATEMENT!!!!!!! GIMME MOOOOREEEE

[thetidesthatturn]

Just Pretend

Pairing: non-idol best friend Wooyoung x freader

Warnings: use of Y/N, and they were roommates, sexual content (head freceiving , unprotected sex), alcohol use, mentions of cheating (not by Woo), heartbreak - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

Tag list: @idknunsadly

You’re halfway through a tedious report when the door to your room flies open with a dramatic thud.

“I hope you weren’t planning on doing something tragic like staying in tonight,” Wooyoung announces, already halfway across the room like he owns the place—which, technically, he does.

You glance up from your laptop, brow furrowed. “I am doing something. It’s called surviving my fourth Teams call of the day and recovering with a tub of cookie dough and a full-bodied relationship with your couch.”

Wooyoung scoffs, unapologetically flopping onto your bed. “You’re not eighty, Y/N. You need to rejoin the land of the living.”

“I got cheated on by a man who unironically calls himself a ‘sapiosexual,’ Woo.”

“All the more reason to come with me,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. “It’s not even my usual crowd. No club bunnies, no glow-in-the-dark cocktails, I promise. Just a chilled party, a few people from the studio, decent music.”

You narrow your eyes. “Studio?”

“Dance studio,” he clarifies, wiggling his brows. “Don’t worry, I already told them I’d be bringing a hot, emotionally unavailable plus one, who bites.”

You groan. “I’m not—ugh. No. No thank you.”

And that’s all the invitation he needs. With a wicked grin, he launches himself across the room, pinning you down on your bed in a blur of limbs and laughter.

“WOOYOUNG—get off—”

“Nope. Not until you agree.”

“Get—ugh—stop it!” You writhe underneath him, trying to push his weight off as he smothers you with a pillow and the infuriating sound of his laughter.

“Say you’ll come.”

“I hate you.”

“Say it.”

“Fine!” you gasp, kicking your legs in defeat. “I’ll come, you menace.”

He rolls off you dramatically, lying on his back like he’s just won an Olympic event. “God, I’m such a good influence.”

You glare at the ceiling. “You’re the worst. You owe me ice cream.”

Wooyoung grins, already scrolling through his phone. “Only if you wear that dress that makes you look like heartbreak in heels.”

You chuck a pillow at his face.

You end up lying side by side on your bed, legs dangling off the edge, both of you catching your breath from the struggle.

“I still can’t believe you’ve been living here for almost five months,” he says suddenly, voice softer now. “Time’s weird.”

You hum in agreement, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Yeah. Feels like it’s been five years and five minutes all at once.”

There’s a pause, the kind that only settles between people who’ve known each other longer than they’ve known themselves.

“You remember that time in Year One,” he starts, a mischievous grin already tugging at his lips, “when you bit that kid for stealing my crayons?”

You groan. “I didn’t bite him—”

“You absolutely did,” he says, laughing. “Left a mark too. You were feral. Tiny, violent, and terrifying. I knew right then we were going to be best friends.”

You smile despite yourself. “I was defending your honour.”

“You were defending glitter gel pens, let’s not romanticise it.”

“Same thing,” you mutter.

The nostalgia settles over you like a blanket. You’ve been by each other’s side since pre-school, through scraped knees, detention slips, teenage heartbreaks, and drunken post-exam rants on rooftops. You’ve seen each other through it all—his chaotic flings, your catastrophically bad taste in men, the ugly crying, the bad hair phases, the nights when neither of you could sleep and just lay on the floor, talking about everything and nothing.

This… this version of living together was never planned. You were supposed to be engaged by now—maybe not happy, but at least not living in your best friend’s spare room, wondering what the hell went wrong.

But Wooyoung never hesitated. The moment things blew up, he was there. No questions. Just “bring your stuff,” and a key pressed into your palm like it was always meant to be yours.

You glance at him now, his arm draped over his eyes, dark lashes fanned out across his cheeks, his mouth curved into that smug little smile he wears like armour.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” you say quietly.

He peeks at you through one eye. “Obviously. Where else would you go, huh? Some sad little Airbnb with weird lighting and sadder wallpaper?”

You snort. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

He nudges your arm with his elbow. “You’re not just staying here, Y/N. You’re home. You’ve always been.”

Something flickers in your chest at that. Something warm, something scary.

Before you can reply, he rolls to his feet and claps his hands. “Right! You’ve got approximately one hour to look disgustingly hot and emotionally unavailable. I’m gonna shower. Try not to overthink your entire life while I’m gone.”

You throw another pillow at his back as he disappears down the hall, still grinning.

You’re halfway through curling your hair when Wooyoung appears in your doorway again, this time freshly showered, dressed in his signature party fit—loose black button-down, rings on his fingers, and just enough cologne to make you consider poor life choices.

He whistles low. “Damn. You’re gonna make someone fall in love with you tonight.”

You smirk into the mirror. “Hopefully it’s the delivery driver bringing my pizza after I bail halfway through.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re coming. You look hot. I look hot. We’re gonna be the hottest duo there.”

You snort, grabbing your lip gloss. “We always are.”

The party’s already buzzing when you arrive. Warm lights spill onto the street from the open windows, bass thrumming faintly through the walls. Wooyoung nudges you with his elbow as you both step inside.

“You good?” he asks.

You nod, tugging at the sleeves of your jacket. “Yeah. Just… new people.”

He throws an arm around your shoulders and leans in. “Lucky for you, I’m incredibly charming and will carry every conversation while you vibe silently with your drink.”

He guides you through the crowd until a girl with honey-blonde hair and a cropped corset top spots him and throws her arms open.

“Woooyoung!” she sings, grabbing him into a hug.

You blink. She’s gorgeous in the intimidating, social-media-famous kind of way. The type you’d normally assume he hooked up with at least once—but the way he’s smiling is completely platonic.

“Y/N, this is Sienna,” he says, arm still slung around you casually. “Sienna, this is my best friend and live-in gremlin.”

You elbow him sharply, but Sienna just laughs. “So this is the famous Y/N,” she says, offering you a hand. “He never shuts up about you.”

You manage a polite smile. “Hopefully only the good things.”

Sienna winks. “That depends on how many drinks he’s had.”

Before you can respond, another voice calls from behind her.

“Babe—who are you talking to?”

Sienna lights up. “Oh! Come meet Wooyoung and his friend!”

Your heart drops. You know that voice. You know that casual tone, the slight arrogance that always bled into everything he said. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

He steps into view, and your world tilts sideways.

Him. Your ex. The one who shattered you and left you picking up the pieces in Wooyoung’s spare room.

Time freezes. He doesn’t see you at first, not until he’s standing right in front of you—and then his eyes widen, recognition blooming behind his smug expression.

“Y/N?” he says, startled.

Wooyoung’s arm tenses around your waist. Subtle, but you feel it.

You swallow, trying to keep your face neutral, your spine straight. “Hi.”

Sienna blinks, confused. “Wait… you two know each other?”

He recovers fast, too fast. “Yeah. We… used to date.”

Sienna smile falters. “Oh.”

The silence hums.

Wooyoung clears his throat, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly. “Didn’t realise you were the infamous ‘other friend,’” he mutters low, just enough for you to catch it. He steps forward with a practiced smile. “Anyway, we were just going to grab drinks. Nice to meet you… whatever your name was.”

Your ex flinches at that, and you nearly choke on a laugh.

You let Wooyoung steer you away from them and deeper into the party. But your hands are trembling, your chest tight, and everything inside you screams that you need to leave—until Wooyoung pulls you to a stop in a quiet corner.

His face softens as he turns to you. “Hey. You alright?”

You hesitate, eyes wide, breath uneven. “I can’t do this, Woo. I can’t let him see me like this. Like I’m still… not over it.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear and leans in just close enough that your breath catches.

“Then let’s give him something to look at.”

You blink. “What?”

His voice is calm. Assured. “Pretend I’m your boyfriend. Just for tonight.”

You try to move your mouth, to form words, but you just gape at him blankly instead.

“Pretend I’m your boyfriend,” he says again, eyes locked on yours. Calm. Unflinching. Like this is just another harmless game.

You stare at him. “No. Wooyoung, no—absolutely not.”

He raises an eyebrow, as if that’s not even a real answer. “Why not?”

“Because,” you hiss, glancing over your shoulder toward the crowd, “Sienna already knows I’m your best friend. You literally introduced me as your best friend. She’s not going to believe we’ve suddenly decided to start playing house.”

Wooyoung shrugs, the picture of ease. “So? Best friend. Partner. Girlfriend. All the same thing to me.”

You gape at him. “That’s not how words work.”

He grins. “That’s exactly how I work.”

Your jaw clenches. “It won’t be convincing.”

He steps closer, voice dropping low. “Y/N, if I wanted to, I could convince them you were my wife. Trust me.”

You’re about to argue again—but his expression shifts, just enough to make your breath catch.

It’s the way he’s looking at you now. Like you already belong to him. Like there’s no one else in the room, no one who could possibly take his attention away. You know it’s an act. You know it’s Wooyoung playing a part, but damn if he isn’t good at it.

Still, you hesitate. “It just feels… messy.”

He softens. “Look, if it’s too much, we’ll leave. I mean that. But if you’re worried about what he thinks? Let me handle it. Let me give you the upper hand for once.”

You swallow hard. “You really think you can sell it?”

Wooyoung leans in again, so close your noses almost brush. His voice is nothing but smoke and honey. “Babe,” he murmurs, “I am the product.”

You blink. “Did you just—”

“Too much?” He flashes a devilish grin. “Too much.”

You let a moment of silence stretch just slightly. Then, slowly, you exhale. “Okay. Fine. But don’t make it weird.”

He smirks, already sliding his hand into yours. “Never. Now follow my lead—and maybe hold on tight.”

And just like that, Wooyoung flips the switch.

As you re-enter the crowd, his hand wraps firmly around your waist, fingers brushing the exposed skin above your hip. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second guess. When Sienna spots you again, her eyes flit from your intertwined hands to the way he’s looking at you now—with a quiet kind of possessiveness, like you’re the most captivating person in the room.

“Oh,” she says, blinking. “Wait, are you guys…?”

Wooyoung doesn’t miss a beat.

“It’s new,” he says smoothly, eyes still on you. “Not that new. But… y’know. We didn’t feel like explaining it to everyone. Best friend, girlfriend—lines blur.”

Sienna glances between you, and for a second, you’re certain she’s going to call your bluff.

But Wooyoung tilts his head, presses a kiss to your temple, and flashes her that award-winning, heart-stealing smile.

She softens instantly. “Wow. Okay, I guess I totally misread the vibe before. You two are… actually kind of adorable.”

He winks. “Kind of? We’re nauseating, babe.”

You almost choke, but play along, fingers tightening in his. The way he’s guiding this—light on his feet, totally in control—you can’t help but marvel at it.

Your ex, still lingering nearby, catches it all. And his expression hardens.

You don’t relax right away.

Even after Sienna’s moved on, even after Wooyoung leads you into the kitchen and hands you a drink like it’s a peace offering, your shoulders are still rigid, your smile tight. His hand rests on the curve of your back like it belongs there, and you try not to flinch every time someone glances your way.

Wooyoung notices, of course. He always notices.

He leans in, murmuring low, “You’re doing great, babe. Really convincing. So natural.”

You elbow him lightly. “Shut up.”

He grins. “See? That’s the spirit.”

You take a sip of your drink. It’s something fruity and dangerous, the kind that goes down too easily. The first burn of alcohol cuts through your nerves just enough for you to breathe again.

He guides you through the party like a well-rehearsed duet—introducing you to his dance crew, cracking jokes that make everyone laugh, throwing in little things like “Y/N actually saw me practice that routine at 2am” or “She keeps me humble… which is exhausting, by the way.”

At first, you struggle to find your rhythm. You keep your hand wrapped around your glass like a shield, your responses clipped, a little too quiet. The words “my boyfriend” catch in your throat when one of his friends casually asks how long you two have been together.

“Uh… a couple of months,” you manage, eyes flicking to Wooyoung.

He jumps in immediately, nodding. “Yeah. We kept it lowkey. Didn’t want to ruin the vibe, y’know? But it’s been a long time coming.”

He shoots you a look then—quick, conspiratorial, like you’re in on some grand joke together. And you don’t know what it is about that look, but it loosens something in you.

The second drink goes down faster than the first. You start to smile more easily, even laugh when he throws an arm around you and announces to a group of strangers that “Y/N’s the reason I’m still somewhat emotionally stable. Don’t know what kind of spells she’s using, but it’s working.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm, and not just from the alcohol.

By the time you’re finishing your third drink—something blue and fizzy and far too strong—you’re leaning into him more than you mean to, your arm hooked lazily around his waist. He doesn’t comment on it. Just leans down to say something against your ear, voice low enough to make your stomach flip.

“I told you this would work.”

You glance up at him, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I’m starting to get it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Get what?”

You shrug. “Why people fall for you.”

He pauses—just for a moment—but it’s long enough to notice. Then he smirks, but there’s something else in it now. Something unreadable. “Is that what’s happening to you, sweetheart?”

You open your mouth to retort, but it comes out more breath than sound. He’s looking at you with that same infuriating confidence, but there’s a softness beneath it now. Less performance. More… something else.

You down the rest of your drink instead of answering.

He chuckles, low and dangerous. “Smart girl.”

You’re mid-conversation with Sienna, half-listening while she rambles about some yoga retreat she and your ex are considering when she hits you with it.

“I mean, he’s just such a gentleman. Always so respectful, y’know? He’s still kept it up, almost six months later. It’s so rare to keep that spark, don’t you think?”

Your blood runs cold. Six months. You broke up with your ex five months ago. You blink at her, but she doesn’t even realise what she’s said. Just keeps sipping her drink like she didn’t crack your world open with a single sentence.

You force a smile—tight, fake. “Excuse me for a sec.”

You don’t wait for her to answer.

You push through the crowd, tunnel vision blurring everything around you until you’re in the kitchen. You spot a half-empty vodka bottle on the counter and immediately pour a generous amount into a red cup. No mixer. Just burn.

The first sip stings. The second numbs. You’re gulping down a third when you feel a hand on your shoulder.

“Hey,” Wooyoung says gently.

You don’t look at him.

“I saw your face,” he murmurs. “What happened?”

You shake your head, the liquor sloshing slightly in the cup. “Nothing. Just Sienna being accidentally honest.”

He steps closer, hands now resting on both of your shoulders. Grounding. “Talk to me.”

You finally meet his eyes—and whatever he sees there makes his jaw tighten. “Do I need to kill someone?”

You almost laugh. Almost. “No murder. Just vodka.”

He nods. “Fair. But I’m here, yeah?”

“I know.”

He rubs his thumb along the slope of your shoulder, and it’s so achingly familiar, so safe—and yet, it does nothing to steady the storm inside you.

And then you see it. Over his shoulder, through the open arch of the kitchen doorway—the silhouette of him.

Your ex. Walking toward the kitchen. Toward you.

Your heart skips. Panic blooms. The air feels sharp in your lungs. And without thinking, without planning, you act. Your hand snakes around Wooyoung’s neck, fingers threading into the soft hair at his nape.

You pull him towards you, your lips crashing into his.

He stiffens at first—just a heartbeat of surprise. But then he melts.

His hands find your waist, gripping tight like he’s been holding back all night. Your mouth moves against his, hungry, desperate. His lips part, and your tongue slips against his, tasting the faint bitterness of rum and something sweeter. His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you closer, anchoring you to him like you’re something precious, something claimed. The kiss deepens, grows hot and messy and all-consuming—every unspoken word, every buried feeling surfacing in the crash of lips and tongue and breath.

Your ex clears his throat.

The sound cuts through the fog like a blade, and you jerk back instinctively, lips still tingling, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Wooyoung’s hands remain on your waist a second too long before he slowly pulls them away, blinking like he’s just been snapped out of a dream.

His head turns sharply toward the door.

Your ex stands there, arms crossed, an unreadable look on his face—but there’s something simmering behind his eyes. Something smug. Or maybe threatened. You can’t tell.

“Anything I can help you with, bro?” Wooyoung asks coolly, voice sharp enough to draw blood.

“I’d just like a moment with Y/N,” your ex replies, gaze flicking briefly between the two of you.

You stiffen.

“No, thank you,” Wooyoung says immediately, stepping slightly in front of you.

“I think she can answer for herself,” your ex says, eyes settling on you now.

You hate the way your stomach twists, the way your throat tightens like you owe him something—an explanation, an apology, space—when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place, vodka burning in your chest, Wooyoung’s taste still clinging to your lips.

Your voice is quiet but steady. “What do you want?”

“Just to talk,” he says. “Privately.”

Wooyoung doesn’t move. “She’s not interested.”

You lay a hand gently on Wooyoung’s arm. “It’s okay.”

He turns to you, eyes searching. “You sure?”

No. Not even remotely. But some part of you needs to hear whatever bullshit excuse your ex is about to spin—just to finally shut the door yourself. Not for him. For you.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding once. “I’ll be fine.”

Wooyoung doesn’t look convinced, but he steps aside, jaw clenched. Before leaving, he leans in close, voice low and firm against your ear.

“I’ll be right outside. You say the word, and I’m back in.”

Your heart twists. “Thank you.”

You turn back to your ex, jaw tightening.

“Make it quick.”

He scoffs, arms folding tighter across his chest as he glares past Wooyoung’s lingering presence. “When did you start fucking your best friend, then?”

The words hit like a slap, but not because they’re true—because they’re so predictable. So typical.

You laugh. Short. Bitter. “I don’t think you’re in the position to ask me when I started fucking someone, Leo.”

He bristles. “Don’t make this about me.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Are you actually serious right now?”

He steps closer. “I just—” He sighs, frustrated. “I needed something, Y/N. Some kind of excitement. You were always working. You didn’t want to go out, didn’t want to party with me. We barely even had sex anymore. What was I supposed to do?”

The breath leaves your lungs. Rage bubbles just under your skin.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you spit. “Was I supposed to perform for you? Keep the house clean, cook dinner, work full-time, and make sure you didn’t get bored?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the floor.

“Yes, you did,” you snap. “You meant every word. You wanted someone shiny and new, someone to stroke your ego and party with your idiot friends. And you found her. So why the hell are you even here?”

He looks up again, softer now. “Because I miss you.”

You freeze.

“I miss the way things were. I miss you.”

He tries to step closer, reaching toward you, but you move fast.

You shove his hand away, fury tightening your every muscle. “Back off.”

He blinks. “Y/N—”

“I’m happy now,” you say, louder than you meant to. Your voice cracks, but you don’t stop. “I’m with someone who doesn’t make me feel small. Someone who remembers how I take my coffee and listens when I talk about things that matter to me—even the dumb stuff.”

You don’t even notice that Wooyoung is still within earshot.

“He walks me home when it’s late, makes me laugh when I’ve had the worst day, and lets me cry without acting like it’s some inconvenience. He tells me when I look good, even when I don’t feel it. He knows me.”

Leo’s face twists. “He’s just your friend.”

You stare him down. “No, he’s not.”

His mouth opens, but whatever retort he had dies in his throat. You wait. He doesn’t say anything.

He just exhales sharply, scoffing as he turns. “Whatever. You’ve changed.”

You watch as he stalks off through the hallway and disappears into the party.

Silence falls like a weight in the kitchen.

You let out a shaky breath, pressing your palms to the counter to steady yourself. It takes a second to notice him again—Wooyoung, standing in the doorway, where he’s clearly been the whole time.

You turn toward him, heart in your throat. “How much did you hear?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke. Just walks toward you slowly.

“All of it.”

“Convincing, huh?”

You glance up at him, trying to ignore the way your heart is still racing from earlier.

His lips twitch like he’s holding back a comment that’s too dangerous to say out loud. Instead, he reaches out, links his pinky with yours, and pulls you back toward the party.

You’re immediately swept into a small circle of people on the floor, laughter bubbling from a group settled around a beanbag throne. Someone suggests a game of Never Have I Ever, and you barely have time to protest before you’re being tugged into the centre and dropped—unceremoniously—into Wooyoung’s lap.

“Claiming what’s mine,” he whispers in your ear.

You roll your eyes, but don’t move.

The game starts innocent enough. Never have I ever been skinny-dipping. Never have I ever called in sick just to sleep all day. You drink more than you mean to. Warmth blooms in your chest. And in your thighs. And, quite possibly, lower.

Wooyoung’s arms wrap lazily around your waist, holding his drink in one hand and resting the other casually on your leg. Too casual.

You lean back against his chest, your head finding a spot just below his collarbone. The bass of his laugh thrums through you when someone makes a dumb joke. He smells like cologne, spiked fruit punch, and something that’s just him.

The questions keep coming, getting more daring, and so do the drinks.

Then someone—one of the dancers, with glossy lips and a wicked smile—grins as she says, “Never have I ever had more than three orgasms in one night.”

You don’t even hesitate.

You knock back your drink.

There’s a moment of silence. A few gasps. One or two high-pitched “damn!”s. Your ex, still lingering with Sienna on the far edge of the circle, gapes like you just punched him in the soul.

You feel the corner of your mouth lift, slow and smug. You shrug one shoulder, utterly unapologetic. “What? Wooyoung is just that good.”

The room erupts into laughter and scandalised giggles.

“Damn girl,” one of the dancers whistles, shaking her head in admiration. “You’re so lucky.”

“Tell me about it,” you reply, knocking your knee against Wooyoung’s teasingly.

He chuckles into your ear, voice low and unreasonably hot.

“Careful,” he murmurs, the pads of his fingers brushing slow circles on your inner thigh. “You keep talking like that and people are gonna start thinking it’s true.”

You feel his breath warm on your skin. His hand creeps higher, just slightly, but enough to make your breath hitch.

You turn your head to glance at him, eyes half-lidded, your own pulse betraying you. “It’s your fault. You’re the one who wanted to be convincing.”

His fingers press into the soft flesh of your thigh, just once—firm enough to leave a message.

“That good, am I?” he whispers, his voice almost smug.

You bite your lip, daring yourself not to moan in front of everyone. “Apparently... Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

The game spirals after that.

Every “never have I ever” seems designed to push the limits—of shame, desire, memory. And Wooyoung’s hands, always somewhere on you, are the one constant through it all. A palm on your thigh, a finger brushing the underside of your knee, the heat of his breath whenever he leans in to whisper something cheeky in your ear.

You can’t think straight anymore. You’re melting into him. Every touch, every glance, every teasing word is sending you tumbling further. You laugh too loud at something someone says. Your head lolls back against his shoulder. His fingers slide a little higher. No one notices. But you do. God, you do.

You can’t stay like this.

You mutter something about needing to use the bathroom, rising quickly and slipping away before anyone can stop you.

The hallway feels too bright. Too loud. Your heart is hammering in your chest like it’s trying to break free. You find the bathroom and close the door behind you, pressing your palms to the cool porcelain of the sink basin.

Get a grip, you tell yourself.

You stare at your reflection. Your lips are a little swollen. Your pupils blown wide. You look like someone on the edge of something dangerous. And maybe you are.

This was just a game. A cover. A night of pretending. But the way his hands felt on you? The way you leaned into him without thinking? That kiss in the kitchen?

That wasn’t pretend.

Wooyoung is your best friend.

You’ve known him since the sandbox. Since he used to trade his juice box for your crackers at lunch and draw on your arm with scented markers. He’s the one who patched you up after scraped knees, who held you when you cried over every failed relationship, who made you feel safe when the world didn’t.

He’s not supposed to make you feel like this.

You exhale sharply and grip the edges of the sink harder. Then—just as you start to regain some control—

The doorknob turns.

Your breath catches. “Occupied,” you say quickly, voice too tight.

The door creaks open anyway.

It’s Wooyoung.

He steps inside and closes the door behind him, locking it with a soft click. His eyes find yours instantly. You don’t say anything. You can’t. He moves slowly at first, like he’s making sure you won’t bolt. But when you don’t move—when you just stand there, still breathless, still unraveling—he crosses the room in two strides.

He doesn’t touch you. Just stands close, his chest nearly brushing yours, the air charged between you.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod. Lie. “Fine.”

He raises a brow. “You ran off like you were about to combust.”

“I just… needed a minute.”

“To breathe?”

“To think.”

“About?”

You swallow. Your gaze drops to his mouth, then back up to his eyes. “Us.”

His eyes darken. “There is no us.”

“Exactly.”

The word hangs between you—biting, bitter, scared.

Then, softly, he says, “But that didn’t feel fake.”

You don’t respond. Can’t. Because it didn’t. And he knows it.

And now he’s here. In front of you. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to shatter whatever line you’ve been clinging to.

He leans in, lips barely grazing your cheek. “You gonna tell me to leave?”

You should. You should.

So you do.

“I think the party’s over, Woo,” you say softly, stepping back just enough to put space between you.

His eyes don’t leave yours. But he nods.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I think it is.”

You both stare at each other for a moment—too long, not long enough—before you turn and unlock the bathroom door. The moment it opens, he’s back in character.

“Think someone’s overdone it a bit,” he calls out with a cheeky grin, wrapping an arm around your waist like you’re a tipsy girlfriend who just needs a little help walking. “Gonna get her back into bed.”

Sienna giggles, completely buying it. “Aw, well thanks for coming! Hope she’s okay!”

“She’s in the best hands,” he says smoothly, already guiding you toward the door.

You manage a smile, nodding to the room. “Thanks for having us.”

As soon as the door closes behind you and the cool night air hits your face, his arm drops. The performance is over.

Neither of you say a word.

The cab ride back is silent. Not the comfortable kind you’ve shared a thousand times, but sharp and heavy—like everything that wasn’t said in that bathroom is now pressing into the space between you. The only sound is the quiet hum of the engine and the distant city lights passing by.

You glance at him once—just once. He’s staring out the window, jaw tight, thumb rubbing absently along his palm. Like he’s thinking too much. Or trying not to.

When you step inside the apartment, it’s all muscle memory. You toe off your shoes in the entryway. He walks straight to the fridge, a soft click as the door opens.

He pulls out a bottle of water and hands it to you, eyes unreadable.

“Here.”

You take it without thinking. “Thanks.”

He stands there a moment longer, like he wants to say something.

Instead, he just nods once. “Goodnight.”

You try for a smile, but it doesn’t quite make it to your eyes. “Goodnight.”

He turns and disappears into his room, the door shutting quietly behind him.

And for the first time since moving in… You feel alone.

You toss and turn, your sheets tangled around your legs, your pillow flipped a dozen times for some phantom “cool” side that never seems to stay that way.

Sleep won’t come.

The events of the night circle your mind like a swarm of hornets—buzzing with a venomous edge. That kiss in the kitchen. The way your body responded to every single touch. The heat in his voice. His fingers on your thigh. The silence in the cab. You keep telling yourself it was just for show. Just a stupid performance to get back at your ex. A way to take control.

But if that were true… why are you still thinking about the way Wooyoung looked at you? Like you were more than just a role to play?

You flip onto your back, stare at the ceiling.

This is ridiculous.

You throw back the covers with a sigh, deciding that maybe a shower will help. Something to ground you. To make your skin feel like your own again.

You pad toward the door, rubbing at your eyes, still trying to shake the weight sitting in your chest.

When you open it—

He’s there.

Wooyoung stands in the hallway; shirtless, his chest rising and falling steadily in the soft glow from the kitchen light. A pair of grey sweatpants hangs low on his hips, the waistband slung in that careless way that makes your mouth go dry. His arm is raised, fist suspended in midair like he’d been about to knock.

He freezes. So do you.

Neither of you moves. The silence between you sharpens, cuts deeper than anything spoken could.

“I—” he starts, then drops his hand slowly, eyes flicking to your face. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You nod. “Me neither.”

His eyes search yours, quiet, cautious. “I was gonna check if you were okay.”

You glance down, suddenly very aware that you’re standing in an oversized t-shirt and nothing else. “I was just gonna shower.”

He swallows. “Yeah.”

Another pause. It stretches too long. Too tight.

You should say goodnight again. You should step back and shut the door. Let him go. Let this go. But neither of you move, because neither of you want to.

You don’t breathe. Not when his gaze drifts down your body and back up again, slower this time—lingering on bare thighs, the curve of your hip beneath the hem of your shirt.

Not even when he takes a step closer. He doesn’t speak, he just moves.

One heartbeat. Two.

Then he closes the gap between you in a single breath, one hand rising to cup the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist. And before you can think, before you can second guess any of this—

His mouth is on yours.

It’s not soft, or careful. It’s nothing like the kiss at the party. This is urgent. All heat and hunger and barely-restrained need. You gasp into it, but he doesn’t slow down. His lips part yours like he already knows the answer, tongue sliding against yours with a groan that vibrates through your whole body.

Your back hits the doorframe as he presses into you, and you melt, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the feel of him. His hands roam—down your sides, over the backs of your thighs, gripping like he can’t bear to let go.

It’s overwhelming, and it’s real. There’s no pretending now. No performance. No party to act for. It’s just him, you, and the months—no, years—of something simmering beneath the surface finally boiling over.

He kisses you like he’s starving, and you kiss him like you’ve been starving, too.

Wooyoung’s hands slip under the backs of your thighs, fingers digging into your skin like he’s been waiting to do it forever. Then, without warning, he lifts you. A small gasp escapes you as your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your arms clinging to his shoulders. He carries you into your room with ease, his mouth never leaving yours for long. Just enough to trail kisses along your jaw, to breathe your name like a secret only he’s allowed to know.

When he reaches your bed, he pauses for just a moment—enough to look at you, really look at you—and then he lowers you gently onto the mattress.

The softness of the drop contrasts the heat burning between you.

His body follows, settling over yours, warm and solid and real. His lips find your neck, kissing down slowly—pausing, tasting, breathing. Your fingers grip at the fabric of his sweats, tugging him closer, needing more.

But then he stops.

His weight still pressed into you, his mouth hovering at your collarbone, he lifts his head and meets your eyes. There’s heat in them—but also something gentler. Something uncertain.

“This is a line,” he murmurs, voice rough. “We don’t come back from this.”

You stare at him, breathless.

You know he’s right. You know this changes everything. But you don’t care.

Because he’s looking at you like you’re everything. Like he wants this, not just tonight—but always has. And you want to know how it ends. What it feels like to finally be wanted by the person who’s always seen you.

“I know,” you whisper. “But I need this.”

His jaw tightens, like he’s holding back a thousand things he’s never let himself say.

His mouth finds yours again, but this time it’s slower. Deliberate. Like he’s savouring every second. His tongue slips past your lips, coaxing a soft moan from your throat that he swallows greedily. You arch beneath him, needing more—needing him. His hands slide beneath your shirt, fingertips skating over the curve of your waist, your ribs, until he reaches the swell of your breasts. He pauses there, like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

Instead, you tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head. You’re bare underneath—no bra, just skin, and vulnerability—and the look on his face when he sees you sends a fresh pulse of heat between your legs.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes darkening as they roam over you. “You’re beautiful.”

You flush, even now, but before you can hide from it, he leans down and presses a kiss between your breasts, then lower, worshipping you with lips and tongue until you’re gasping, clutching at his shoulders.

His hands are everywhere. Stroking, kneading, learning your body like it’s familiar and new all at once. When he finally peels your underwear down your thighs, he does it slowly, watching you the entire time, like this is some sacred thing he’s unwrapping. You reach for the waistband of his sweats in return, and he lets you. He kicks them off, revealing skin and heat and the kind of want that’s impossible to fake.

When he sinks down between your thighs, his mouth tracing a path along your inner thigh, you forget how to breathe.

“Wooyoung—” you gasp.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, just before his tongue replaces his words.

Your hips jerk, a cry slipping from your lips before you can muffle it. He eats you out like a man possessed—like this is his only purpose. Tongue curling, lips sucking, fingers pressing in deep. He builds you up fast, merciless and precise, until you’re shaking, your thighs trembling around his shoulders. Your orgasm crashes over you hard, your fingers tangled in his hair, mouth open in a silent scream as you ride the waves, one after another, until you’re limp and breathless beneath him.

But he’s not done.

He kisses his way up your body again, his skin sliding against yours, and you feel the hard press of him between your legs.

“Still want this?” he whispers, voice rough and trembling.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

He slides into you slowly, carefully, stretching you inch by inch until he’s fully buried inside. The breath he exhales is ragged, like he’s holding himself together by a thread. You both still for a moment, foreheads pressed together, hearts thundering.

And then he moves.

The rhythm starts slow—deep, unhurried thrusts that leave you gasping, clinging to him. His name slips from your lips like a prayer, over and over, each syllable tangled in pleasure and disbelief.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

You do. And what you see in his eyes unravels you more than anything else ever could. This isn’t just sex.

It never was.

He leans down and kisses you again—slow, sweet, lingering—and then picks up the pace, hips snapping harder, deeper. You wrap your legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, and it’s everything. Raw. Real. Years of tension poured into every breath, every moan, every kiss.

You come again with a cry, body shaking beneath his, and that’s all it takes. He follows you over the edge with a groan, spilling into you as his arms wrap tight around your body, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The silence after is soft and heavy. His weight stays on top of you, grounding. His lips brush your shoulder, your cheek, your forehead.

His breathing slows against your skin, chest rising and falling in time with yours. The weight of him—both physical and emotional—grounds you, anchoring you to the moment. His forehead is still pressed lightly to yours, the tip of his nose brushing yours every few seconds like he’s not ready to move away just yet.

The room is quiet except for the hum of the city outside the window and the soft thrum of your shared heartbeats still catching up. His fingers, which had gripped you so tightly minutes ago, now trace slow, absentminded circles on your hip. Gentle. As if your skin might break if he presses too hard.

You stare up at the ceiling, skin warm and flushed, but your mind is racing. It wasn’t supposed to happen. But God, it felt inevitable. It felt like the only thing in the world that made sense.

You shift slightly, and he lifts his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are soft now, stripped of performance and charm. There’s no smirk. No teasing. Just Wooyoung. The boy you’ve known forever. The man who just touched you like he’s been waiting his whole life to.

His thumb brushes the side of your face, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You okay?” he asks, voice low and hoarse from the things he moaned into your skin not long ago.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Are you?”

He holds your gaze a moment longer, then gives the barest smile. “Yeah. Just… making sure.”

You bite your lip. Your hand reaches for his on instinct, fingers lacing together. It fits too easily. Always has.

“I don’t know what happens now,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

He exhales, resting his forehead against yours again. “Me neither.”

There’s no panic in his voice, no regret. Just truth.

“I wasn’t acting,” you say suddenly. The words tumble out before you can stop them. “Back there. At the party. I know it started that way but… when I said those things to Leo, they were all real. I didn’t have to fake any of it.”

His fingers squeeze yours, but he doesn’t say anything. So you go on.

“You really do remember how I take my coffee. You do walk me home. You always look at me like… like I matter.”

You finally meet his eyes again, your voice smaller now. “That wasn’t pretend for you either, was it?”

He hesitates, only for a moment.

Then, softly—quietly, but with no room for doubt—he says, “It never was.”

You stay like that for a while—limbs tangled, bodies bare, hearts still beating faster than they should. Time feels suspended. Like the universe is holding its breath just for you.

Eventually, he shifts. Carefully, reluctantly.

“I should… uh…” Wooyoung murmurs, starting to rise, muscles tensing like he’s bracing for something.

“No.”

Your voice is soft, but it cuts through the silence like glass. You reach out and grab his wrist, fingers wrapping around him, anchoring him in place.

“Stay,” you whisper. “Please. Only if you want to.”

He pauses.

Then he laughs—barely, breathily—like the idea of wanting you could ever be a question.

“Of course I do.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes locked on where your hand still grips his.

“Y/N,” he says, voice cracking slightly, “I’ve loved you since we were five years old.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

He lifts his eyes to meet yours, and there’s no shield left. No act. Just Wooyoung, heart in his hands, offering it like he doesn’t even care if it breaks.

“I—” you start, but the words vanish as emotion floods your chest. “Stay,” you repeat softly instead.

That’s enough. It always has been.

He exhales, the tension bleeding from his body, and sinks back down beside you. You turn into him, your hand lifting to cradle his face, thumb brushing gently along his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed at the touch, like it’s the first time he’s been held like this. Like he’s home.

You lean in, pressing your lips to his—slow and tender and real. The kiss is nothing like the others. It’s love, laid bare. When you pull back, your forehead rests against his, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

He smiles softly, and this time, you smile back.

Because there’s nothing to hide from anymore.

The light filters in slowly.

Soft and golden, it spills through the half-open blinds, casting long stripes across the sheets and the curve of his back where it rises and falls beside you.

For a while, you don’t move.

You just lie there, watching the steady rhythm of his breathing, his hair a mess against the pillow, lips slightly parted in sleep. One arm is curled under your waist, still holding you like his body doesn’t quite know how to let go yet. And maybe it never will.

Last night lingers in every part of you. In the soft ache between your legs, the warmth still curled low in your stomach, the ghost of his mouth on your skin. But more than that—it lives in the stillness. In the weight of what didn’t need to be said. In the safety.

You shift slightly, and his eyes flutter open.

He blinks against the light, then turns his head toward you, smile lazy and half-asleep. “Morning.”

Your heart flips.

“Morning.”

For a few seconds, you just stare at each other. No tension. No roles to play. Just you and him and the echo of everything that changed.

Then, softly, he says, “Are you okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah.” He reaches up, brushing your hair out of your face. “You didn’t run away in the middle of the night, so I’m counting that as a win.”

You laugh quietly. “Did you think I would?”

He shrugs one bare shoulder. “Wasn’t sure. Thought maybe you’d pretend last night didn’t happen.”

“I couldn’t,” you say. “Even if I tried.”

His expression softens. “Me neither.”

Another pause. But this one feels different. Anticipatory.

Then he sits up, resting against the headboard, eyes suddenly more serious. “Y/N.”

You push yourself up beside him, drawing the blanket around your chest. “Yeah?”

He hesitates. And you know this is the moment—the one where everything shifts for good.

“I don’t want to go back,” he says finally. “To pretending. To calling you my best friend and pretending that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Your breath hitches.

“Because it’s not,” he continues, voice low but certain. “I want more. I am more. And so are you.”

You stare at him, eyes wide. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”

Your heart swells. This should feel terrifying—but it doesn’t. It feels like home.

You shift onto your knees and lean over, cupping his face in your hands. “Okay.”

His brow furrows, just a little. “Okay?”

You nod, tears threatening. “Let’s stop pretending. Let’s stop calling it friendship. Let’s just… be.”

He exhales, the kind of breath that sounds like relief, and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into his lap.

“I’ve wanted to call you mine for years,” he whispers.

You kiss him, slow and sure.

“You have,” you say. “You always have.”

And this time, there’s no going back.

[everynightillbeyoursign]

HELL YEAH I BLUSHED LIKE A SCHOOL GIRL

[lcvejjoong]

my muse

pairing : stranger! wooyoung x art student! fem! reader

synopsis : You unexpectedly find inspiration in a boy you see at the park and chooses him as your muse—but as you both start talking, it becomes harder to tell where your assignment ends and your feelings begin.

genre : slice of life, romance, slow-burn, fluff, comedy, drama

warnings : none

author’s note : you know how when you look at someone and just know that they’re god’s favourite? that is my exact thought whenever i look at wooyoung 🫠 anywaysies thank yew to those who requested for my 1k event! 🥹🫶 keep them coming in tho im really excited to fufill them 😍

word count : 2.9k

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─────────

There were exactly three reasons you regretted taking Advanced Studio Art.

Number one: Your professor believed sleep is an option, not a necessity.

Number two: Critiques. Public ones. With feelings involved.

And number three—currently the bane of your existence—

“Find a muse,” your professor had said, clasping her hands like she had just bestowed enlightenment upon the class. “Something—or someone—that moves you. Obsesses you. Haunts your thoughts.”

Haunts your thoughts?

You had blinked at her from your seat, paint-stained fingers hovering mid-air. That sounded less like an assignment and more like the beginning of a psychological thriller.

“Capture them,” she continued, pacing slowly. “Not just their appearance. Their essence.”

Right. No pressure.

Just capture someone’s entire soul on canvas.

Easy.

Later, you stared at your blank canvas. 

It stared back.

You tapped your paintbrush against your palette.

Nothing.

Your roommate poked her head into your room, chewing on a granola bar. “Still staring at that thing like it owes you money?”

“Yes,” you replied flatly. “It owes me inspiration.”

She snorted. “Have you tried… going outside?”

You turned slowly.

“Outside?” you echoed, as if she had just suggested skydiving without a parachute.

“Yes. Fresh air. Grass. Sunlight. People.”

“I hate people.”

“You’re literally doing an assignment about people.”

“Exactly why I hate it.”

She rolled her eyes and walked in, grabbing your wrist. “Come on. Park. Now. If you don’t find your muse today, you’re going to start painting your coffee mug and call it ‘existential despair.’”

You paused.

“…That actually sounds kind of good.”

“No.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The park wasn’t anything special.

Just a wide stretch of green with scattered trees, a jogging path, and people minding their own business.

You hated how normal it was.

“Okay,” your roommate—Mina said, clapping her hands. “Muse-hunting time. Go.”

“I feel like a predator.”

“You’re an art student, not a hawk. Relax.”

You sighed, dragging your feet along the path. Your eyes scanned half-heartedly—someone walking their dog, a couple arguing softly, a kid crying over a dropped ice cream cone.

None of them screamed muse.

More like background characters in a sad indie film.

You were about to give up—fully prepared to go home and paint that coffee mug—when it happened.

You noticed him.

He was sitting under a tree.

That was it. That was all he was doing.

And yet—

The sunlight filtered through the leaves above him, scattering across his hair like it had been specifically designed for him. His skin looked almost luminous, like he was holding light rather than reflecting it. There was a softness to him—something calm, something warm.

He wasn’t doing anything extraordinary.

Just sitting. But somehow—

Everything else in the park faded.

Your steps slowed. Then stopped.

“…Oh.”

Mina, who had been walking ahead, turned. “What?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because your brain had just completely shut down.

“Hello?” Mina waved a hand in front of your face. “Earth to—”

You grabbed her arm.

“That one,” you whispered, eyes locked onto him.

She followed your gaze.

“…Oh,” she repeated.

“Right?”

“Okay, yeah. I see it.”

“Do you see the lighting? Mina, the lighting.”

“It’s the sun.”

“No, it’s not just the sun. It’s—he’s—”

You gestured helplessly. Words failed you.

Which was rude, because you needed them right now.

“He looks like he walked out of a painting,” you finally managed.

Mina squinted. “Or like a skincare commercial.”

You smacked her arm. “I’m being serious!”

“I am too! Look at his skin. That’s not normal.”

It really wasn’t. It was unfair, actually.

You narrowed your eyes slightly.

“Do you think he’s real?”

“…What?”

“Like, genuinely. Because if he turns out to be some kind of forest spirit, I wouldn’t even be surprised.”

Mina snorted. “Please go talk to your ‘forest spirit.’ I need to witness this.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, I can’t just go up to him and say, ‘Hi, you look like divine inspiration, can I paint your soul?’”

“…You absolutely should say that.”

“I will not.”

“Coward.”

You inhaled slowly. Exhaled. Looked at him again.

He shifted slightly, leaning back on his hands, face tilted toward the sun.

And that was it. That was the moment your fate was sealed.

“…I have to paint him.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Step one: Approach him.

Step two: Don’t embarrass yourself.

Step three: Somehow convince him to let you paint him.

You stared at him. He remained blissfully unaware of the artistic crisis he had just caused.

“…Okay,” you muttered. “I can do this.”

Mina leaned in. “If you run away, I’m telling everyone you got rejected by a guy you never even spoke to.”

“That’s not even possible.”

“Watch me.”

You glared at her.

Then—

You walked forward. Each step felt heavier than the last.

What were you even supposed to say?

Hi, I’m an art student and you’ve accidentally ruined my life? Hi, are you aware that you look like you belong in a museum?

Hi, are you human?

You stopped a few feet away. He hadn’t noticed you yet.

Good.

That gave you time. Time to think.

Time to—

He turned his head. And looked straight at you.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

Abort mission. Abort—

“Hi,” he said.

Your brain disconnected.

“Hi,” you echoed.

Brilliant. Incredible. A conversational masterpiece.

He smiled.

And that somehow made everything worse.

Because now he didn’t just look angelic. He looked approachable.

“I feel like I’m supposed to know why you’re staring at me,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “But I don’t.”

Your soul left your body.

“I wasn’t staring,” you said immediately.

You were. Very obviously.

He raised an eyebrow.

“You weren’t?”

“…Okay, maybe a little.”

He laughed. And that was it.

That was the sound that ended you. It was light and easy, like it just existed naturally in him.

“You’re honest,” he said.

“I try,” you replied weakly.

There was a pause.

This was it. Now or never.

You straightened slightly, clutching your sketchbook like it was a lifeline.

“Okay, this is going to sound weird,” you said.

“I’m ready.”

“You might not be.”

“I believe in myself.”

You took a deep breath.

“I’m an art student,” you began.

“So far, so good.”

“And I have this assignment where I need to find a muse.”

He nodded slowly.

“And?”

“And I saw you.”

Another pause. His expression shifted—curious now.

“And?” he repeated.

“And you look like sunlight,” you blurted.

Silence. Complete silence.

You closed your eyes.

This was it. This was how you died.

Right here in a park, after telling a stranger he looked like sunlight.

Mina was going to put that on your tombstone.

She said something weird and never recovered.

“…Sunlight?” he said.

You opened one eye.

He wasn’t horrified. If anything—

He looked amused.

“Yes,” you said, doubling down because there was no going back now. “Like… soft sunlight. Like an angel.”

“…That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” he said.

You blinked.

“Really?”

“No,” he said. “But it’s definitely the most creative.”

You let out a breath.

Okay. Okay, you weren’t completely doomed.

“So,” he continued, “what does that have to do with me?”

You held up your sketchbook.

“I was wondering if… I could paint you.”

There it was. The question. Hanging in the air.

He looked at the sketchbook.

Then at you. Then back at the sketchbook.

“…You want to paint me because I look like sunlight.”

“Yes.”

Another pause. And then—

He smiled again.

“Okay.”

You blinked.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Wait—really?”

“Yeah.”

“…That’s it? No questions? No concerns about being turned into art?”

He shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s muse. Sounds kind of cool.”

You stared at him. Suspiciously.

“Are you sure you’re real?” you asked.

He laughed again.

“I think so,” he said. “Do you want to check?”

“I wouldn’t even know how.”

“You could start by asking my name.”

Right. Names.

“Yes. That would be helpful.”

He extended a hand.

“Wooyoung.”

You hesitated for a split second—

Then shook it.

His hand was warm. Of course it was.

Everything about him was warm.

“Nice to meet you.”

Then immediately forgot how to function again.

This was going to be such a problem.

“So,” Wooyoung said, leaning back against the tree again, completely at ease. “When do I become your sunlight painting?”

You sat down across from him, pulling out your sketchbook.

“Now, if that’s okay.”

“Wow,” he said. “Straight to work. I respect that.”

“I have deadlines,” you muttered.

“And I have free time,” he replied cheerfully.

You glanced up at him. He was already looking at you.

“Do I just… sit here?” he asked.

“Yes. But, like—naturally.”

He blinked.

“What does that mean?”

“Just… be yourself.”

“That’s a lot of pressure.”

“You said you wanted to be a muse.”

“I didn’t realize it came with expectations.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“Do you want me to find another muse?”

He immediately sat up straighter.

“No. I’m the best option you have.”

You huffed.

“Confidence.”

“Obviously.”

You shook your head, but you couldn’t help the small smile that crept in.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. You lifted your pencil. 

And started to draw.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

If there was one thing you prided yourself on, it was your ability to focus.

When you painted, the world narrowed. Sounds fade. Time slipped. It was just you, your subject, and the quiet hum of creation.

That ability?

Gone. Completely gone.

“Am I doing it right?” Wooyoung asked.

You didn’t look up. “You’re sitting.”

“Yes, but am I sitting artistically?”

You paused. Lowered your pencil. 

He was sitting exactly how he had been before—back against the tree, one knee bent, sunlight catching on his hair like it had signed a contract to make him look ethereal at all times.

“…You’re fine,” you said.

“Are you sure? Because I feel like I could be doing more.”

“Please don’t do more.”

“Okay, but what if I—”

“Wooyoung.”

“Yes?”

“If you move, I will replace you with a rock.”

He gasped softly. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. You narrowed yours back.

A beat.

He relaxed again, dramatically sighing. “Fine. I’ll be a still, obedient muse.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I expect this to be reflected in the painting.”

“You’re getting stick figures at this rate.”

“That’s disrespectful.”

You started with rough lines.

Structure first. Always structure first.

You mapped the angle of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips—

And then you stopped. Your pencil hovered.

“…This is annoying,” you muttered.

“What is?” Wooyoung asked immediately.

“Your face.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“It’s too…” You gestured vaguely. “Balanced.”

“That sounds like a compliment.”

“It’s not. It’s inconvenient.”

He stared at you, clearly trying to decide if he should be offended.

“I’ve never been told my face is inconvenient before,” he said slowly.

“Well, now you have.”

“Should I mess it up a little? Would that help?”

“Yes. Can you just—shift everything slightly to the left?”

He let out a laugh. “I don’t think that’s how faces work.”

You sighed, rubbing your temple.

“This is why I paint objects,” you said. “Objects don’t have symmetry issues. A mug doesn’t wake up and decide to be perfect.”

“Mugs don’t have personalities either.”

“Exactly. They behave.”

“Wow.”

You glanced up at him again.

He was smiling. Of course he was.

“You’re enjoying this,” you accused.

“A little.”

“You’re making my assignment harder.”

“I’m making it memorable.”

You paused.

“…That’s worse.”

Then comes another issue. A much bigger issue.

You couldn’t stop looking at him.

Which, in theory, was part of the process. You had to observe your subject.

Study the details. Capture them.

But this? This wasn’t studying.

“…Why are you looking at me like that?” Wooyoung asked.

You froze.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m observing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m an artist.”

You inhaled slowly.

“Do you want me to paint you or not?”

“I do,” he said quickly. “I just didn’t realize I’d be psychologically analyzed in the process.”

“You’re not being analyzed.”

“Then why do I feel like you’re seeing into my soul?”

You paused.

“…Because I am.”

He blinked. Then laughed again.

“You’re scary,” he said.

“You agreed to this.”

“I didn’t read the terms and conditions.”

“That’s your fault.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

After about twenty minutes, your hand started to cramp.

You flexed your fingers, frowning.

“Break?” Wooyoung suggested.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You’re literally shaking your hand.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“You’re talkative.”

“That’s because you’re quiet.”

“I’m working.”

“And I’m being ignored.”

You looked up.

He was pouting. Actually pouting.

“…Are you serious?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re pouting because I’m focusing on my assignment.”

“I’m your muse. I deserve attention.”

“You’re getting attention. I’m drawing you.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It is the same.”

“It’s not.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

You sighed.

“…Five minutes,” you said.

He lit up immediately. “Yes.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told that.”

You set your sketchbook down beside you, stretching your arms slightly. Wooyoung shifted, turning a little so he was facing you more directly now.

“So,” he said. “How long have you been doing art?”

“Since I was a kid,” you replied. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”

“That’s not true.”

You frowned. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“How?”

He gestured at you vaguely. “You don’t seem like a one-skill person.”

You blinked.

“…That’s a weirdly nice thing to say.”

“I’m a weirdly nice person.”

“I noticed.”

He grinned.

“What about you?” you asked. “Do you just sit in parks and wait for art students to find you?”

“Obviously. It’s my full-time job.”

“Ah. That explains everything.”

“No, I just come here to relax,” he said. “It’s quiet.”

You glanced around.

“It’s not that quiet.”

“It is if you ignore people.”

“…I like that philosophy.”

“I can tell.”

You huffed a small laugh.

There was a pause. But it wasn’t awkward.

It was calm. Comfortable.

Which was strange. Because you had just met him.

“You’re easy to talk to,” Wooyoung said suddenly.

You blinked.

“I barely talk.”

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does to me.”

You stare blankly, trying to figure out what he meant. 

But you had work to do.

“Okay,” you said, grabbing your sketchbook again. “Back to being a professional muse.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Stop talking.”

“No.”

You sighed. But you didn’t argue. Because, for some reason, you didn’t mind anymore.

You started sketching again, refining the lines, adding more detail.

And this time, it was easier. Not because his face had become less inconvenient.

But because you were starting to understand it.

The subtle asymmetry. The way his expression shifted constantly.

The warmth in his eyes.

You paused again.

“…Don’t smile,” you said suddenly.

“What?”

“Don’t smile.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to draw your neutral expression.”

“But I’m happy.”

“Be less happy.”

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

He pressed his lips together, attempting to suppress his smile.

It lasted exactly three seconds. Then he broke.

“I can’t do it,” he said, laughing.

You stared at him.

“…You’re impossible.”

“And yet, I’m your muse.”

You groaned softly.

Somewhere between his constant talking, your constant pretending-to-be-annoyed, and the sunlight slowly shifting across the park—

You realized something.

You weren’t just drawing him anymore.

You were enjoying this. A lot.

More than you should. More than it made sense.

And that was dangerous.

Because this was supposed to be an assignment. Just an assignment.

Nothing more.

“…Why are you smiling?” Wooyoung asked.

You froze.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You turned your sketchbook slightly, hiding your face.

“Stop looking at me,” you muttered.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you look like the sunlight right now.”

Your brain short-circuited. You looked up.

“…You did not just say that.”

He grinned.

“I did.”

“You stole that from me.”

“I improved it.”

“That’s plagiarism.”

“That’s inspiration.”

You stared at him.

Then, despite everything—

You laughed.

And just like that, the assignment didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

As the sun started to dip slightly, casting softer, warmer tones across the park, you finally lowered your pencil.

“That’s all for today,” you said.

Wooyoung stretched his arms above his head. “Freedom.”

“You were just sitting.”

“It was emotionally exhausting.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m expressive.”

You rolled your eyes, closing your sketchbook carefully.

“…I’m going to need more sessions,” you said.

He looked at you.

“Good.”

You blinked.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” he said, standing up and brushing off his clothes. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“…Why?”

He shrugged lightly.

“Because I like this.”

You stared at him.

There it was again. That strange, warm feeling in your chest.

“Oh,” you said.

Very eloquent. Very cool.

He smiled.

“So,” he continued, “same time tomorrow?”

You hesitated. You should say no.

But instead—

“…Yeah,” you said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His smile widened.

“Cool.”

And for some reason, that felt like the start of something.

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© lcvejjoong, 2026

taglist [open!]: @darjeelinglemontea ❤︎ @fluffypuddingatz ❤︎ @luumiinaa @snow0-0fairy @snow0-0fairy-writes @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @unfxrgetwble @hope122598 @maidenless-soul @leewayout

[everynightillbeyoursign]

as an artist myself, as a person who always answers to the question "why are you pursuing art?" - it's the only thing I've been good at my whole life...THIS STORY TOOK MY HEART AND SOUL. I'M IN AWE. IN LOVE. THAT WAS BEAUTIFUL THANK YOU

[minkieater]

BROKEN CLOCKS — jwy ⋆˙⟡

[ex-husband!wooyoung x ex-wife!reader] third & final part of the wifey series! (for real this time) smut minors dni 18+ | spoilers in the warnings: pregnant reader, mentions/thoughts about abortion, divorce, walking wooyoung like a dog, wooyoung being wooyoung lol, tooth rotting fluff, pinv, fingering, creampie, in-love sex | wc 19K thank you so much for reading and interacting with me during the stretch of this series, it's kept me motivated and excited to write, i am so grateful to every single person who reblogged or commented or sent me an ask. i love u fr and i will miss them BADDD

“Did you know mommy’s sick?”

Just past five thirty on a Tuesday night Wooyoung finished eating dinner with Kyungmin, a meal he threw together quick and easy after he picked his son up from after-school care. Standing at his kitchen sink, he turned around to eye his eight year old with a singular eyebrow raised. “Sick?”

“She keeps throwing up,” Kyungmin, eyes focused on his screen laid on top of the kitchen island counter, didn’t spare Wooyoung a glance as he spoke. “All. Day. Long. Yesterday, she threw up while she was driving me home from school.”

Wooyoung fully turned around at that, brows knitted together, kitchen sink still running, the titanium holding three more dishes he still had to wash. “While she was driving? Or did she pull over?”

His son looked at him with such an incredulous look it made Wooyoung feel a little stupid for asking the question. With a little giggle, Kyungmin answered, “She pulled over, duh.”

“Okay, attitude,” Wooyoung is always amused whenever he sees you in your son, even if he thinks Kyungmin is all him. Sitting in the same clothes he wore to school today, a tee shirt, loose jeans that Wooyoung bought him, his favorite Elsa and Anna socks, his eyes went right back to his tablet, the case bright green against the deep granite countertop. “Did she go to the doctor?”

His kid shrugged. 

“Kyungmin,” Wooyoung’s tone was stronger, beckoning for his son’s attention. The boy lifted his eyes away from his screen as Wooyoung asked, “Has she said anything about it?”

“Just said she’s sick,” Kyungmin shrugged again, sounding irritated that Wooyoung was taking him away from his screen time, “she told me not to tell you.”

Wooyoung’s smirk was anything but involuntary. His son, indeed. “But you’re telling me anyway?”

“It’s stinky,” he uttered, crinkling his nose as he said it. A little quieter, a little smaller, he mumbled, “And it’s scary.”

“Don’t be scared,” Wooyoung soothed, turning off the kitchen sink before leaning his elbows on the granite, leaning over the countertop so he can be eye-to-eye with his son. “Mommy’s okay, I promise.”

Kyungmin lifted his eyes, a twinkle of fear swirling in whiskey, eyes that were identical to his own. He whispered, “How do you know?”

It made sense then, why he hasn’t been served papers. Even if it fills him with hope, he knows there’s a long fucking way to go before actual progress is made, although it’s already been over two months since that dreadful night on your living room floor. He expected to be served within two weeks, maybe three, but nine have passed and nothing, not a whisper about his least favorite word that starts with D. 

God knows he hasn’t brought it up. 

“Because daddy’s always right,” Wooyoung gleamed, and the smile made the corner of Kyungmin’s lips curve upward. Wooyoung’s head tilted, “Aren’t I?”

Kyungmin shook his head, “No.”

“Boo,” Wooyoung’s lip lifted, dragging out the word in a sneer. “Come on, I was right this morning when I said making bunny ears with your shoe laces is easier, right?” Kyungmin’s lips pursed like he was trying to fight his smile from growing. Wooyoung made his way around the kitchen counter, coming up behind Kyungmin, “And I was right earlier when I said you’re still ticklish, wasn’t I?”

His hands jumped for Kyungmin’s sides, and his heart sang listening to his son’s loud, wild giggles. He stopped tickling to wrap his arms around him in a tight hug, planting a kiss to the top of his head. “Daddy’s always right, and I said mommy’s gonna be just fine, so trust me, okay?”

Just fine. Nine weeks of pick-ups and drop-offs damn near silent, everything was so fucking far from fine he’s barely slept in weeks. He finally came clean with his therapist, who he hoped and prayed had something legally binding her from reporting his lawyer in some way, which might be the result of leftover anxiety from doing such a thing in the first place. 

He should have waited. He probably shouldn’t have done it at all, but he did, and he should have fucking waited to tell you. If you’re pregnant, which he’d place a million dollar bet on if you’re throwing up–if this pregnancy was anything like your pregnancy with Kyungmin–he could have waited until you were farther along. Hell, he could have waited until the baby was born. 

Any time would have been better than the time he chose. When you two were on better terms, smoother terms, he should have told you then. When it might’ve felt like everything was falling into place. Instead he ripped things apart all over again, and now they’re worse than they were to begin with and fuck he was back to square one or even something before that. Square negative ten. 

His therapist wouldn’t agree with any of that, but whatever. He’s losing his mind. But the little boy in his arms is keeping that singular thread of rationality stronger than steel. 

“Come on, stinky, shower time.”

“I’m not stinky,” Kyungmin huffs, “you’re stinky. You smell like… you smell like my butt.”

Wooyoung raises his brows at the little’s head tipped backward into his stomach, “So your butt is stinky?”

Kyungmin smiles, “No.”

“Okay, so maybe we’ll go to bed early tonight, since you forgot how to make sense,” he lifts his son by his armpits onto the floor, and the tablet dangles from his right hand, which Wooyoung scoops up with his own. “This screen is frying your stinky brain.”

“You have a stinky brain,” Kyungmin points, then turns on his heel, giggling just as wild and just as loud all the way to the bathroom. 

“This stinky brain created you,” Wooyoung calls after him. “If I’m stinky, you’re stinky!”

“You’re the stinky one!” 

Wooyoung can’t help the snort that rips from his nose as he throws the tablet onto his couch, making his way towards the bathroom in the middle of the singular hallway in his entire apartment. Almost-bachelor-pad, Yunho and Aurora had called it. “Then I’ll take a shower after you, stinky boy. Do you need help with the faucet?”

“Yes, please!”

His smile doesn’t leave the entire time he’s in the bathroom. Turning on the faucet to the right temperature, helping Kyungmin with his shirt that got stuck going over his head, even smelling Kyungmin’s stinky socks that really were fucking stinky. Hearing his son laugh again, his favorite sound in the world, he remembers the days he could hold the boy over one forearm like it was yesterday.

Fuck, and he might have another? Another shot at creating a life? Hearing his baby laugh for the first time? Take their first steps? Hear their first word? Another child to see himself in, to see you in, a life created by both of you, by the time he’s spread out on the couch half-listening to Kyungmin singing a song from Kpop Demon Hunters, somehow he mindlessly got his phone out, your contact information on the screen. 

Somehow. 

You don’t pick up on his first try. So he calls again. 

“Is Kyungmin okay?”

You sound like summertime. Even if your voice is ebbed in panic, burnt at the edges like you’re trying to contain the flame, you sound like the morning of August twenty-third, the morning he met you, fifteen years ago.

“He’s fine–”

“What do you want?”

The flame burns freely once more. 

He didn’t really think this far. Tongue-tied, he sputters over his next words, “I- um, just- uh–”

“Wooyoung,” your voice is stern, a warning. It doesn’t help how each one of his limbs has seemed to lock up. “What do you want?”

“You.” Fuck his brain and his vocal chords for not working as a team. He lets the following pause settle, hoping you’d take it as a joke, at least. If this was a month ago you would’ve hung up as soon as he said Kyungmin’s fine. 

“Well you fucked that up,” you say matter-of-factly, as if he didn’t know it down to his very fucking soul. Closing his eyes, bringing his palm to his forehead, he sighs. “Is there anything in particular that requires you calling my phone at six o’clock on a Tuesday?”

“Am I allowed to talk to you?”

“No.”

“What?” There’s a part of him that feels like throwing the same tantrum Kyungmin threw yesterday. “Why not?”

“Because you’re a deceitful, selfish asshole, and a pain in my fucking ass.”

His lips thin, face going flat. Can he blame any of this on pregnancy hormones yet?

“Look–”

“No.”

“Please–”

“No.”

“Holy shit can I please just fucking–”

“No.”

And the line runs dead. Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair, throwing his phone on the couch beside him. He groans after watching it bounce to the floor, sinking deeper into the tough, barely broken-in cushions, knees spreading, he’s really fucking close to throwing that tantrum. 

“About nine weeks.”

“Nine?!” Your eyes blow wide, staring at your doctor who’s brown hair curls deliciously around his ears. The word came out no prettier than a loud shriek of terror. “Jesus fucking Christ, I didn’t realize I was that far along.”

“You don’t sound particularly joyful,” Yeosang’s smile doesn’t quite reach his assessing eyes, your doctor but also one of your closest friends. “Which brings my next question, where’s your husband?”

Your eyes thin, “Where’s your wife?”

He lifts the probe from your stomach, popping a brow. He sounds like he’s choosing his words carefully, despite the spark of curiosity in the smooth rasp of his voice, “Got it, won’t ask any more questions in that department. She’s at home with the girls, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah, happily married and whatever the fuck,” you huff, the paper beneath your head crinkling as it falls back onto the examination seat, chair, table, whatever it is that’s abhorrently uncomfortable beneath your body. “Please wipe the jelly off me before I flip shit.”

Yeosang laughs at that, a tiny giggle under his breath, “Does he even know you’re pregnant?”

“Hell no,” you respond, cringing as he takes a towel to your lower belly, wiping softly. 

Yeosang’s head snaps to yours, “Is it his?”

You pull your shirt over your stomach, tugging the paper towels out of the waistband of your leggings, threatening to throw them at him by crumpling them up and holding them over your shoulder. “Whose else would it be, motherfucker?”

“Damn,” Yeosang mumbles, taking a step back, “you’re a bundle of sunshine right now.”

“I’m irritated,” you grind out. “I’m pregnant and still fucking married to my stupid fucking husband.”

“You don’t have to be pregnant,” Yeosang sits back on his stool, a small, blue cushion on wheels. He rolls toward the counter across the room, grabbing his clipboard, “You don’t have to be married, either.”

You sit up on the table, arms planted behind you, knees spread, head tilted. “I know.”

“I’m not gonna ask for details,” he looks up at you over his clipboard, eyes deep, comforting, radiating intelligence. Doctor’s eyes. “But you have options, and support. Obviously you have my silence, too.”

“Thanks,” you shoot him a grim smile before running your fingers through your hair. “Do you and Keni ever think about having more?”

“Two girls is enough,” Yeosang laughs a little. “Winnie is bad as hell. Nina’s good, though, she sleeps like a fuckin’ tank.”

“Kyungmin slept, too,” your smile is a little more genuine at the mention of Kyungmin, but knowing there’s more to discuss brings the frown right back. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I guess I should tell him first.”

Yeosang stands again, “You have some time, do whatever feels right. He doesn’t have to know, either, it’s your choice. Call me and I’ll write you a script if you need it, okay?”

“Thanks, Yeo,” your smile is so close so being real it almost surprises you–the amount of real smiles have been few and far between for the past nine weeks. “Do you need anything from me? Am I good to go?”

“Call me with a decision and then we’ll have the baby talk,” he nods, so sure of himself, so unlike the guy who’s lawn you used to loose your guts on after hazy nights at the bar. Anything before Wooyoung feels like nothing but a fever dream now, any life you had, any experiences. 

You sure as hell haven’t gotten any more after him, if after him ever even existed. 

With a few waves to some nurses and technicians in goodbye, you trudged your pregnant ass back to your car. An SUV, one big as shit and black, the interior was a sauna after forty-five minutes inside Yeosang’s practice. You were lucky to have him, your friend of a decade now; you met him when he was still studying to get his PhD, when his wife was still his girlfriend, and the two were just happy to be out of their university and settled into something small while Yeosang finished out his schooling. Nights out at the local bars when you were still on the prowl for a man, before you ended up stuck with stupid fucking Wooyoung the moment you walked into corporate city. 

It didn’t feel good, knowing there was a life forming inside you, and he wasn’t there to hold your hand through it all. That was easy to admit, but to get over the breach of trust, to ruin all the growth you thought you made with three words, we’re still married. You still spent a year alone, taking care of Kyungmin without any help from him, but you thought you were alone. No ties. 

Just to find out you were still married the entire time. 

Call me with a decision. 

You sighed, feeling the sweat forming at the base of your neck, taking it as a sign to flip the engine and get out of Yeosang’s parking lot. A dim hum of music pours through the speakers, a stupid love song playing, you bare your teeth as a low curse sneaks from between your lips. Even the universe wanted you to call him. 

He answers on the first ring. 

On speaker, his already loud voice is amplified in your car, filling the cabin of the SUV. “Are you okay?”

You make a face, brows twisted, lips curled, not that he could see you. “Yes? I’m fine. What are you doing?”

“I’m working.” You could almost see him, making the same confused expression that you wore. “Why?”

You glance at the time at the top left corner of the screen before asking, “Can you meet me for an early lunch?”

“Ofcourseareyoukiddingme–”

You try to scowl, but your lips lift at the corners without you allowing them to. “‘Kay. You know where.”

“You know I do.”

It took every single second of your twenty-two minute drive from Yeosang’s practice to Genesis to calm your heart rate, to get all of your thoughts in order. You haven’t spoken to Wooyoung other than a few small arguments over the past nine weeks, all resulting in you hanging up the phone before he could get more than six words out. You didn’t want to hear his explanation, whatever reasoning he’s made up in his brain that’s convinced him any of this is okay. 

He’s waiting in the same booth you always shared. And for a second, maybe less, he looks like he did fifteen years ago. Face smoothed out, not a line or a wrinkle to be seen, his hair is longer, his eyes are brighter– but the illusion is gone as soon as it's created. 

Because he’s there, he’s smiling, he’s waiting for you. And fuck your heart for picking up speed, for the trickle of sweat at the back of your neck, fuck your brain for remembering that shred of hope you had nine weeks ago. For thinking everything would fall into place, that you could be normal again, that your divorce might’ve been a mistake. 

“Hi, wifey.”

He’s surrounded by brown leather and sunshine, the worn, wrinkled booth making his two-piece suit look out of place. Tall windows douse him in warmth, whiskey eyes glowing amber where the sun catches, his skin so glossy it's almost wet. Fuck him, most of all, for being this fucking beautiful, for becoming impossibly more gorgeous with age.

Your top lip curls, “It’s not funny or cute anymore, Wooyoung.”

“There was a time when it was?” He wears a pretty smile, one corner of his mouth lifted in that sinful fucking smirk, showcasing his pointed teeth. 

You slip into the other side of the booth and you wish the movement was more graceful, but after years of use the leather isn’t as flexible as it once was, and neither are you. You can remember coming here when you’d just started working three doors down, seeing Wooyoung morning after morning, you can still remember his coffee order, not that it's changed.

If the walls only knew what they created, what would become of the two of you. Maybe they would’ve whispered a secret to you, maybe they’d say don’t let the pretty boy buy you a coffee. Not that you would’ve listened. 

“I’m not here to catch up,” you huff a breath, throwing your purse into the space beside you. He’s watching you intently, taking in every detail, every expression, every movement like he’s waiting for something. 

“Okay.” It’s an absent-minded word, his eyes dancing around your face, your body, distracted. 

Your brows knit together, “Hello?”

His eyes find yours, and like you’d pushed the on button, his smile returns. “Hi, beautiful.”

“We need to talk,” you cross your arms over the table in front of you, back slouched. He nods, face blank of any expression, ready for whatever you’d throw at him. Ball in hand, prepared to pitch, a waitress cuts you off before you even had the chance to speak, placing two plates between you. 

Then you notice the water placed just to your left, the coffee already half-drank before Wooyoung. Your brows furrowed so fucking far together they might as well be considered a unibrow. 

Thanking the waitress, Wooyoung looks at you warily for a second before he speaks. “I didn’t know if you… wanted coffee, so I just got you water. And what you always used to order when we came here for lunch.”

“The same trick won’t work twice,” your eyes thin, remembering the dinner you shared nine weeks ago. “But thank you.”

His smile is small, his lips mostly flat, pulled up ever so slightly at the edges. “Figured you needed a bite to eat, but I know you’re just here to talk. Go ahead.”

A meal you’ve eaten a thousand times, one that’s always smelled so fucking good your mouth watered, now smelled… wrong. Different, gross. You feel the familiar curling in your stomach, the same one you’ve felt four times a fucking day for the past two weeks, you grab the glass of water and bring it to your lips before your body forces you to gag. 

Wooyoung, two hands already curled around his sandwich, halts his movement entirely, like someone pressed pause. “You okay?” You nodded mid-sip, swallowing down the water like it’d fix the issue. Slowly, Wooyoung lowers the sandwich back to his plate, “Are you sure?”

All you can get out is a measly “Yeah.” It wasn’t convincing. 

The smell hit your nose again– worse, your stomach flipped, skin going hot, blood sizzling. Panic floods you, heartbeat picking up, you look over your shoulder, finding the bathroom where it’s always been, stored in the corner. 

You can hear ceramic sliding against wood, Wooyoung sliding your plate toward himself. He juts his chin in the direction of the bathroom, “Go. It'll be gone when you come back out.”

You find his eye, being met with understanding so fucking clear you wonder if Yeosang called him. You know he didn’t, he wouldn’t break your trust– there was no time to think about it, you sprinted to the fucking corner with one thought on repeat in your mind: Hold it until you reach the bathroom.

You can barely feel your knees crunch against tile for the entire six minutes you’re in the clean, air-conditioned space. When the wave of nausea washes away and all that’s left is the lingering, mild dizziness and slight embarrassment from emptying your guts in a public bathroom, you wash your hands, cup some water into your mouth to wash out the taste of stomach acid, then take a few steadying breaths before walking outside again. 

It feels brighter, somehow. Loud, music playing, people dressed in business casual keeping the place buzzing, servers running around, yelling orders over the counter. It eases you further, knowing that no one knows, that no one heard. 

When you get back to the booth, he’s quick to let you know that one person knows. He knows. 

With full confidence, he says it like he was the one telling you, “You’re pregnant.”

“Surprise” is all you can say, it’s flat, void of warmth or joy. You fall into the booth, bones heavy, forehead still sweaty. You reach for the water again, sucking down more of the ice-cold liquid, willing it to flush out the disgusting feeling that refuses to leave just yet. 

“Holy shit,” he says under his breath, eyes widening as he sinks into the booth, drowning in brown leather. “How long have you known? How far along?”

You smack your teeth, “I’ve known for two weeks, but I’m nine weeks along.”

“Nine?!” His eyes nearly fall out of his head, leaning forward again, his upper half hanging over the now cleared-off wood. “Have you seen Yeosang yet?”

“I just left.” You prop an elbow onto the table, leaning your temple into your fist, your tone coming out casual. 

Wooyoung’s breath catches, his voice shrinking. “You went without me?”

You nod, “We didn’t really talk about the baby, just that I’m pregnant with one. He told me to call him back with a decision and then we’d discuss.”

“A decision?” Wooyoung’s perfectly maintained brows furrow. “What kind of decision?”

“Whether I’m having my liar husband’s baby or not,” you answer quick, sharp. Your words land like a blow, you watch his face bend, softening into something less excited, less shocked. 

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes finding the table, processing your words, letting them sink in. There's a beat of silence and you can hear the room again, the music, the chatter, dress shoes against the floor, servers yelling orders. You let him sit in the silence, in the thought. 

He looks up again, voice small, nervous, curious, “Are you leaning a certain way, or…?”

You shrug. “I don’t know what the fuck to do, Wooyoung. I don’t want to have a baby alone, but I don’t want anything to do with you, either.”

“I know.” His elbows find the table, rubbing his face with his palms, heaving a rough breath into his hands. Finally sinking back into the booth, he takes another pause before he says, “I fucked up bad, and again, I’m sorry. I’ll be here for you no matter what you decide.”

Your face morphs into surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” he nods, but he doesn’t smile. “Whatever you want, I want.”

“Damn, fuck you for being a good guy,” you smack your teeth, and his brows furrow, a smile daring to curl his lips. “You’re fucking stupid, but you’re like, morally good. And you’re not helping with my decision-making.”

A laugh pushes through his lips, one relieved and confused all at once. “Did you expect me to flip the table and demand you keep it?”

“I don’t know what I expected,” you shrug, shaking your head. “Not that, but I don’t know, maybe a little push back, I guess. Not that I want that, please don’t do that–”

“I had a friend,” he cuts himself off, “Aurora went through that, I went through it with her–”

“You went through it with her–?”

“No!” It comes out loud, sudden. “No, it was Yunho’s–”

“Yunho’s?” 

“Jesus Christ let me get one sentence out.” He waits for your sheepish nod before he continues, “Yunho got her pregnant before she was ready to have a kid, we were still in school and really close at that time, I helped her through it, the whole thing. Decision-making, actually doing it, I was in the room with her, I was present for the whole process, start to finish. The choice is very much yours.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “How was she… after?”

“Not pregnant.”

“Wooyoung,” you warn.

He sighs, “Not good, but she didn’t regret it.”

You sit back in the booth, sweaty back hitting the cool leather. Your lips scrunch to one side, “It’s too heavy, all of it. I don’t know if I can forgive you for lying to me, Wooyoung.”

“I can’t blame you,” he answers simply with a shrug, like he knows he’s made in his bed and he’s willing to die in it. “I wouldn’t forgive me, either. But please just… don’t forget I didn’t have any bad intentions. I love you and Kyungmin so fucking much.”

Your face finds your palms, elbows propped up on the table, fingers sliding back into your hair. “I know you didn’t, I know, that makes everything so much more confusing. We’re not kids anymore.”

“Take your time, jagi,” he leans forward onto the table, one arm laying across the wood, fingers landing beside one of your elbows, ghosting your skin like he was scared to touch you. “You don’t have to make a decision today. Sleep on it, sleep on it for a few days, for as long as you can.”

Your eyes land on his palm laid open, wanting so badly to put your hand in his own, to feel the comfort only he can give you. You cross your arms over the table instead. 

Throat feeling tight, you will your emotions to stay deep below the surface as you whisper, “I’m tired of making decisions by myself, Wooyoung.”

“I can’t help you with this one, baby,” he frowns, head tilting, keeping his open hand as close to you as he can without touching you. “You know where I stand, how I feel, and you know I’ll be beside you every step of the way with whatever you choose.” 

Your face scrunches ever so slightly, “Will you? Because you not being beside me is what got us here in the first place, Woo.”

He pulls his arm back into himself and you can feel the loss of heat even if he hasn’t touched you. “I have a lot to make up for,” he sounds solemn, but not apprehensive. Confident like he knows he’ll have the opportunity to do it. “I meant everything I said when we went out to dinner that night, every single word. I still mean it, I still want to do everything I can to fix us.”

You swallow down your tears, but they still fill your waterline, heavy and hot and salty. “I don’t know if you can fix us, Woo. I don’t think… I don’t think you can.”

As if he wasn’t going back to work in less than a half hour, tears fill his waterline, too. He tightens his mouth to stop his bottom lip from quivering, but you catch it, and you understand the feeling so fucking deeply it makes your own tears fall. 

You sit in silence, the world resuming around you all over again. Shouts and shoes and bass, filling the space between you, the wooden table feeling a mile long. Too far away, too much space, too much time spent in grief to come back together. Two people with a past and nothing more.

“Alright,” he says after a few minutes, voice distraught. Swallowing down his tears, ignoring the red that’s bloomed across his cheeks, his neck, he acts like you can’t see that you just shattered his entire world. “If you need anything, if you need me to take Kyungmin, whatever you need, I’m a phone call away.”

Guilt swirls, heavy and leaden and too similar to the nausea you’re nearly used to at this point. Immediately you want to take your words back, even if they’re true, even if you mean them, your heart fucking aches, everything aches. He gets up from his side of the booth, walking around to your side, leaning in with one knee digging into brown leather just to press a kiss on the top of your head.

It feels too much like goodbye. 

“I love you,” he says quietly, small enough that you aren’t sure you were supposed to hear it.

Looking up at him, you can’t bring yourself to say it back. He waits for it, lingering just long enough, but he nods with the silence, with the finality of it all, and then he’s gone. Just like that. 

Wooyoung stares at the stack of papers on his desk.

On the first read, his heart was so deep in his ass it almost emptied out on the desk chair beneath him. On the second read, tears fell, so many fucking tears he had to reschedule his one o’clock and his two o’clock meeting. On the third read, he decided you’re creative, serving him divorce papers with the same exact disclosures and framing of the fake-divorce Wooyoung curated over a year ago. 

An hour later, he’s just pissed off that you served him. That you had some random fuck drop off legal documents at his job, where forty other people work in very close capacity. They can all go fuck themselves if they had anything to say about him, about his marriage, but for you to do that to him? You couldn’t have just handed them to him when he picked up Kyungmin yesterday? This must be why you hid from him, why you’ve been fucking hiding from him, sending Kyungmin out to his car before he had the chance to get out of the driver’s seat. It feels petty, childish. Maybe he deserves it.

His jaw clenches harder the longer he stares, molars grinding to the point of near-injury. His fists curl over his thighs, the rest of his body so locked up he isn’t sure if he can even move right now. He has thirty days to respond. Thirty days to process the fact that he’s no longer a married man. Thirty days to try and fix what he uprooted at his job almost four months ago, with the idea that all of his newfound spare time would be going to you. Thirty days to process that he ruined the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him.

His anger’s gone straight to his head by the time he picks up his phone. Holding it up to his ear, he waits for it to go through before he says, “Can I ask a favor?”

There’s noise in the background, a baby crying, fabric or something rough bristling against the speaker. After a moment of nothing but noise, Aurora’s voice comes through, out of breath as she says, “What’s up?”

“Can you take Kyungmin home with you when you pick up Aden from school today? I’ll pick him up later.”

There’s a pause before she carefully responds, “Yo’s picking him up, but yeah, I’ll tell him. Can I ask why?”

“She served me papers. She’s divorcing me.”

Aurora gasps, “You’re fucking lying.”

Wooyoung runs his free hand over his face, groaning out his frustration, “I need to go over there and talk to her. I haven’t seen her, haven’t talked to her other than a few texts, I don’t even know if she’s still fucking pregnant, Ro.”

“Yes, absolutely, go over there.” Wooyoung can hear her nodding, her voice reassuring as ever, already in plan-mode, search and rescue. “I’m so sorry, Wooyo.”

His heart still laying heavy in the pit of his stomach, he sighs, sitting back in his chair, the tips of his fingers meeting his eyes. “I should’ve seen this coming, but it’s only been two weeks since I met with her at Genesis. Two weeks, and it’s been almost three months since the night I told her we were still married.”

“You said it felt like the end, though, didn’t it?”

Wooyoung deflates in his rickety office chair. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“It’s either you fight for it, or let it end, Woo.” She sounds as sad as he feels, even if he can hear the thirteen other things she’s doing while talking to him. “But you should definitely talk to her before you do anything.”

He sits with the notion for a second: fight it, or let it end. He’s been fighting it, discreetly for over a year, he only got a chance to do it loud and proud for what, six weeks? Not long enough. There’s so much fight left in him that he nearly gets up from the chair and walks to your office building. Letting it end isn’t even a fucking option.

“I don’t want it to end,” he says, twirling the chair around, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of his office. Eyes landing on the building across the street, he stares at the tiny square that’s yours, wishing he could see you in the room behind the tinted window. 

“I know.” She sighs, then mumbles something cheery to Sunnie before adding, “It might be what’s best for the two of you. Especially if she isn’t having the baby, you’ve already been co-parenting with Kyungmin for over a year, maybe this is best, Woo.”

“No,” the word comes out harsher than he intended. “It’s not about the baby or Kyung, it’s about us, and I’m not letting her go. I’m not giving up.”

Wooyoung can see her frown, her lips pinned to one side, knowing exactly where the giving up part came from. “Talk to her,” she keeps her voice light, positive before her mom-voice comes out, “but don’t go in there with guns blazing, Jung Wooyoung. Fill me in later when you pick up Kyungmin.”

“Thanks, Ro.”

“I mean it, Woo,” she warns. “Don’t flip out.”

“Got it.”

Easier to say than do, when the stack of papers on his desk was as thick as two of his fingers. His teeth grind again, jaw clenching, he decides he’s done with work today, he can finish whatever the fuck he didn’t do today, tomorrow. Work will be here tomorrow, but he won’t have a wife tomorrow if he doesn’t do something. 

He’s already in your driveway when you get home from work. Pulling your car onto the blacktop, your heart pounds in your chest as you kill the engine, legs already shaky as you hop down from the lifted seat. You hear him before you see him, and not one word out of his mouth sounds happy. 

“What is this?”

Comfortable clothes, basketball shorts on his legs, a hoodie over his chest, he holds up the thick file you sent directly to his office. His hair was already blowing in the breeze, long strands flipping over to the other side of his head, framing his face that’s angled in frustration. 

“Papers,” you answer simply, walking around to the other side of your car, opening up the passenger side door for your purse. At least he hasn’t noticed yet. 

“You’re divorcing me?” He follows, standing behind you, voice strained, edged in stress, anger. 

You close the passenger side door behind you, “We’re already divorced, Wooyoung, I’m just making it official this time.”

He follows you up the side of your driveway, through the path leading up to your small porch, speaking with each step. “You couldn’t have just told me? Why the fuck did you serve me at my job?”

You’re the epitome of patience as you unlock your front door, walking inside like he wasn’t steaming behind you. “I didn’t want to speak to you, just like I haven’t wanted to speak to you for the past two months. Nothing new.”

He follows, you don’t stop him. “You could have talked to me about this. You didn’t need to make a spectacle out of me, you know how many people work in my building.”

You spin on your heel, spitting every single word, “You could have told me we weren’t really divorced. You could have told me Aurora named her kid after you and made you the godfather. You could have just been here in the first place and I never would have had to fucking divorce you!”

His jaw clenches, fist curling around the stack of papers at his side. “This could have been as amicable as it was the first time.”

“The first time wasn’t fucking real!” You turn again, heading toward your kitchen. “Leave, Wooyoung. Actually, sign the papers and leave them here.”

He stops on one side of the island, you on the other. He throws the stack on the marble countertop, “I’m not signing them.”

You put your purse down on the counter, staring at him over the space of the counter. “What do you mean, you’re not signing them?”

“I don’t want a divorce,” he says so simply it makes you laugh in disbelief.

“You don’t want one?” Your brows raise, the smile on your lips anything but amused, “Too fucking bad, I do. If you don’t sign then it’ll default and you can’t fight anything.”

“Then I’ll fight it,” he shrugs, whiskey eyes wide and wild, “I’ll fight all of it.”

You sigh, grabbing your water bottle, turning around to empty it into your sink behind you. With your free hand holding your back, one leg holding all your weight, you hear his shoes against the hardwood as he walks around the island. 

“You’re fucking pregnant,” he says it like he can’t believe it. Looking over your shoulder, his eyes are glued to your middle, impossibly wider now, filled with shock, disbelief. He meets your gaze again, repeating himself, “You’re fucking pregnant.”

You look down, frowning as you realize the dress you put on this morning wasn’t the tiny, almost invisible bump from your insane fucking husband. Of course he noticed. “No shit,” you say as you flip your empty water bottle on the rack to let it dry, completely unphased. Turning to face him, you hold the fabric tight to your belly as you admit, “Eleven weeks now.”

Slowly, one of his hands covers his mouth, his brows furrowing as he stares at the tiny bump that could be confused with constipation beneath your dress. It’s only seconds before his eyes turn glossy, then he takes a step forward hesitantly, waiting for you to stop him.

He stops himself instead, voice shallow as he asks, “You’re keeping it?”

“Kyungmin wants a sibling,” you shrug. “He said he wants someone to play Fashion Runway with at home.”

Wooyoung’s smile is slow as it takes over his entire face. His eyes meet yours, still glossy, full of tears that you aren’t sure are fully happy. “Thank you,” he whispers before his voice gets louder, more sure, his hand still wrapped around his jaw in awe. “Thank you so fucking much. Thank you.”

“Touch,” you say as your arms find your lower back again, a smile threatening to creep across your cheeks. “I know you want to.”

He closes the distance between you, hands out as he takes two steps forward, softly laying them over your belly. “Holy shit,” he whispers. “I can’t believe we’re doing this again.”

“I’m doing this,” you remind him, voice firm, full of indignation, “by myself.” You point your chin towards the paper on the counter, “The papers are waiting for you.”

“You think I’m signing them now?” He pops his brows. “Can we at least talk about it? Especially now, you’re– that’s my kid inside you.”

Your face falls flat, his hands still on your belly. You swat him away as you snap, “There’s nothing to talk about, everything I want is in the packet. I think I’m being pretty fair.”

“You’re being a copier.” His top lip lifts. “Everything in that packet is what I decreed in the first place. At least be original.”

“Stop being funny.” You cross your arms. “Sign the papers.”

“No,” he responds, crossing his arms back. “Now what?”

“You’re a pain in my ass,” you huff, turning around, walking towards the living room. 

He follows, “Can we wait? Put a pin in it or something? Come back to it later?”

“Wait for what?” You ask, plopping down on the couch casually, a relieved breath escaping you as you settle in the plush. “Wait for me to push the thing out?”

“It’s not a thing,” he argues as he sits on the opposite side, one leg bent up, his arm stretched along the back. “That’s my daughter in there. I don’t think you should do all of this alone.”

“Well that’s not really up to you, is it?” Your elbow meets the back of the couch, holding up your head. “How do you know it’s a girl? I haven't done the test to find out the gender yet.”

“Stop seeing Yeosang without me,” he frowns, “I want to come, I want to be there.”

“You had your chance to be here.”

“I was there for every appointment with Kyungmin and you know it,” Wooyoung argues, sitting a little straighter. “I’m serious. That’s my baby, too, and I want to be there.”

You groan, head falling back into the cushions. “Fine, Wooyoung. My next appointment is on Monday at nine.”

“Thank you,” he nods, “I’ll pick you up.” After a pause, a moment of silence from you, he adds, “I still don’t think you should do this alone.”

You pick your head up just to snap, “I’d rather do it alone then do it with you.”

“Ouch,” he winces, “I was good to you when you were pregnant with Kyungmin, don’t do that.”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, followed by a tired groan, letting your head fall back into the cushions again, he’s right. “I know, I remember. I think all the meetings with my lawyer are getting to my head.”

“Why now?” He asks, voice softer, all the anger, amusement from earlier, reshaped into vulnerability. “You’ve had time to divorce me, why do it now?”

You turn your head to see him, what part of his face you could see over the cushion. “I thought we were in agreement the last time we spoke. I thought that was it, and we were moving on.”

“That was only two weeks ago, jagi,” his voice is still soft, comforting as he moves a little closer, inching himself toward you, using one hand to push the cushion down where it blocked your vision. His eyes are clear now, his expression level, serious. “Do you really want to do this by yourself?”

The slightest pout bends your bottom lip. “No,” you answer honestly, “I wish you never told me that we were still married. I could’ve gotten over the Aurora thing, you broke my trust, but that’s doable, y’know? I can get past that. Keeping our marital status a secret is… detrimental. I wish you never said anything. I want you here. I want to do this with you, Wooyoung.”

He’s shaking his head before you finish speaking, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about all of it, and I wish I could take it all back, but I can’t.” His voice cracks as he says, “Please let me fix this. Please let me at least try.”

You stare at him for a second, seeing the determination behind his eyes, the heartache, the love he always wears like a loud accessory when he’s looking at you. Something that’s never changed in the fifteen years his eyes have spent on you. You have every intention of going through with the divorce, every fucking intention to be done with it. Be done with him. 

You don’t know what part of you sighs and looks away. “I spent a lot of fucking money on that attorney, Wooyoung.”

He’s quick to answer, giddiness threaded in his words, “I’ll pay for it.”

Your palms meet your face, rubbing at your tired eyes. It’s so frustrating, him coming here and jumbling up everything you’ve been so confident about. Two weeks of meetings, of phone calls, of paperwork, of finally landing on the track of being actually divorced. Again. Hearing the seriousness in his voice, the confidence, knowing he meant everything he’s said in the past few months, all of that combined with the hormones swarming your body and the baby fucking growing inside you.

You groan out, “Fuck, I can’t believe this is happening again. You’re impossible to divorce.”

“You won’t regret it,” his words are excited, all jumbled together, “I swear to god you won’t regret it, I’ll be so good to you and Kyungmin and the baby oh my god we’re having another kid–”

Your hands leave your face, paused in mid-air, brows furrowed as you glance at the man who’s still your fucking husband, “Where is Kyungmin?”

“Aden’s,” he shrugs, “I needed to talk to you and he couldn’t be here for it, not when I didn’t know how it was going to go.”

“Good,” you say through a relieved breath. “He has fun there.”

“They’re good to him,” Wooyoung’s voice is smaller, apprehensive, “Yunho and Aurora.”

“I know,” you agree, “I don’t hate them, Wooyoung. I was pissed at you, big fat liar, not them. Your college girlfriend doesn’t make me jealous, either.”

He stifles a snort, looking down to his lap, “Sounds like something a jealous person would say.”

“Don’t piss me off,” you argue, but a smile tugs at your lips, “my hormones are raging and you’re the only person here to take it out on.”

He laughs at that, a genuine belly laugh, his body sinking into the cushions as he physically relaxes. “I missed you.”

You raise your brows, “Yeah? I don’t think I’ve said one nice thing to you in weeks. Months, maybe.”

He turns his head to you, a lazy grin on his cheeks, “You can say something nice now.”

You look up to the ceiling, lips scrunching in thought, “Hm, weird. Nothing’s coming to mind.”

“You’ll think of something eventually,” his smile doesn’t leave, his tone finally settling into something comfortable, casual as his gaze lands on the details of your living room across from him. After a moment of silence, his head turns to you again, “Are you actually gonna file to dismiss the divorce?”

It’s your turn to smile again, one as mischievous as his signature smirk, “You think it’s that easy? That I’m not gonna make you work for it?” You watch his face morph into something like fear before adding, “You have thirty days, Woo.”

The smell of coffee and food wakes you up.

And the sound of a tiny voice that’s suspiciously far away.

Fear surges through you, jumping out of your bed, racing out of your bedroom and down the main staircase of your house like you were still your high school’s track star. Calling your son’s name, panic searing through your tone, you come to a hard stop in the entryway to your kitchen at the sight before you. 

“Morning, mommy,” Kyungmin grins, sitting in his Minecraft pajamas at your kitchen island, a full fucking breakfast half-eaten on the plate in front of him. Beside him is your husband, dressed for work, suit on his body, hair styled back, ready for the day like he’d gotten ready upstairs. 

Your hand lands over your heart, adrenaline winding down, are you dreaming? Is this a dream? 

“Morning, wifey,” Wooyoung grins, and all you can do is blink. He slides the mug of coffee in his hand over the kitchen island, toward where you stood, “Sorry for breaking in, but at least I made coffee. I brought over some stuff.”

Your brows furrow, slowly stepping closer until your hands wrap around the mug, assessing if you can feel the warmth. “I can’t tell if I’m awake right now.”

Wooyoung laughs, turning on his heel, grabbing the reusable grocery store bag you didn’t even notice sitting on your counter. “You’re very much awake.”

“Why are you here?” You ask before bringing the mug up to your lips, blinking away the crust in your eyes. Before taking a sip, you ask again, “What time is it?”

“Six forty-five,” Wooyoung says casually, so casually you feel confused like this was normal and you’re forgetting something so regular. He turns again, placing the bag between you. 

“Daddy said he brought you gifts,” Kyungmin sounds too awake for it to be so early. He usually didn’t wake up for another fifteen minutes, and usually your alarm goes off at six-thirty. He made your coffee, even if he was drinking it already, it’s your coffee, how you make it, how you order it. 

“Gifts?” You ask again, meeting Wooyoung’s warning eye, popping a brow. 

“Gifts,” Wooyoung repeats with a roll of his eyes like they aren’t really gifts at all, that’s just what he told Kyungmin. “Groceries,” he says, wrapping his hands around the handle of the grocery bag, “I figured I’d come over and make dinner for you guys a few times this week, if that’s okay. Oh, and flowers.” He turns, grabbing the vase you didn’t even notice sitting beside the kitchen sink, an arrangement of all your favorite flowers, your favorite colors. “Spring is nearing, so… flowers.”

Lips parted, eyes wide and blinking, you don’t know what to say, there’s not a single word that comes to mind other than a very unconvincing, “Thank… you?” 

Wooyoung looks like he’s trying to hide his grin, lips folded inward, cheeks straining not to show his giddiness. “Small stuff, nothing crazy. Effort.” 

“Effort,” you repeat, paired with a slow nod. “Groceries.”

God, why was this like pulling teeth?

“Thirty days,” he points toward you to remind you of your deal before starting to pull groceries out of the bag, as if you’d forgotten. Part of you did, even if it happened three days ago.

“What to expect when you’re expecting,” you sing through a contented sigh, mindless as you pull out a stool to sit on, forgetting who else is in the room. 

Kyungmin quickly reminds you he’s very much present by asking you, “What’s expecting?” He glances at Wooyoung, “What are we getting? Are we getting a dog?”

“No,” you respond quickly, “no dog. We’re getting…” You glance at Wooyoung with a look that says help. 

You asked Kyungmin how he felt about having another sibling, not that he was getting one. It was too early in the morning to drop a bomb that huge, especially if he didn’t take it well. 

Wooyoung’s forearms meet the counter, leaned over the island, eye to eye with your son who’s still glancing back and forth between you with curiosity twinkling in his eyes. “Want me to come over later? I’ll make dinner and help you with vocabulary homework. We can play the multiplication game again.”

“Yes!” Kyungmin shouts, piercing your still-asleep years. “Will you make my favorite?”

“Duh,” Wooyoung rolls his eyes with a smile, like he was already planning it. “Don’t tell mommy,” he whispers, “but there’s ice cream in the bag with your name on it.” 

Your smile grows watching Kyungmin’s eyes light up, flaring with excitement and sheer fucking joy before he whispers his agreement. Heart wrenching at the sight of the two together, Wooyoung and his miniature twin, you have to look away to not fall into the rabbit hole of what it would’ve been like if you never separated. 

A spiral you’ve been down too many times before. 

You sip your coffee while watching Wooyoung maneuver around your kitchen like it was still his. Putting groceries away where they belonged, keeping conversation with you and Kyungmin about your day ahead, you tried to let yourself exist in the same space without feeling completely confused and slightly weirded out about the normalcy of it all. 

Coming unannounced, bringing groceries, flowers, telling Kyungmin he’ll be here later without asking you but instead expecting you to be okay with it… as much as the rabbit hole of what-ifs calls to you, you have an eight year old son who doesn't need to be confused. 

“Time to go get dressed,” you say to your son with a small smile that you know Wooyoung is seeing right through. Slowing his movements, coming to a standstill on the other side of the island in preparation for the conversation he knows is coming, he nods toward Kyungmin who looks at him like he’d keep him home from school. 

After quickly realizing this wasn’t a special day and his father was just here for no apparent reason, he scoots off his stool and makes for the staircase with a gruff. He definitely thought you were going to keep him home, and the three of you were doing something today. The thought makes your chest feel heavier.

When he’s out of earshot, you quirk a brow at your husband, “What are you doing?” 

He’s quick to respond, “You gave me thirty days. Today’s day one.” 

“So you break into my house?” You whisper-shout.

“I still have a key,” he points to the hallway leading to the front of your house, where you know his key is sitting on the table beside the front door. “And technically it’s still my house, too.” 

“Don’t give me technicality bullshit,” you huff, “it’s seven in the fucking morning and you woke up our son for breakfast completely unannounced. You don’t think that’ll confuse him?”

“Confused? I'm his dad,” he argues, “and he woke up on his own, I didn’t wake him up. My plan was to have you wake up first and be all excited that I was bringing you goodies.” 

“Goodies,” you quirk a brow, “flowers and food?” 

He smacks his lips. “I thought it was cute.” 

The snort that escapes you is completely involuntary. Voice half-amused, the fight isn’t quite gone from your soul as you say, “You can’t just come here unannounced, Wooyoung.” 

“You gave me thirty days,” he says, dumbfounded. “Are we gonna repeat last time? Fuck until you consider seeing me in daylight?” You scowl, but he doesn’t let up. “This is asking a lot, but just go with it, please. I know what I’m doing.” 

“You know what you’re doing,” you repeat, mocking him, “my ass.”

“I thought the flowers would butter you up at least a little,” he turns, grabbing the vase, then places it in front of him, lowering his body so just his pouting face was visible on top of the colorful, blooming petals. “They’re pretty, just like you.” 

That pulls a laugh straight from your chest, shaking your head, “You’re beyond helping, Jung Wooyoung. Down to your soul you’re batshit insane.” 

“Only for you,” he’s grinning now. “Wouldn’t do this shit for anyone else and you know it.” 

And you do know it, as much as part of you wishes he was bothering someone else at seven in the goddamn morning. Rolling your eyes, you turn, “I’m going to get ready for work.” 

“Can I come watch?” 

“No, but you can take Kyungmin to school.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Monday at nine came and went with surprising ease. Not that you thought Wooyoung would act ridiculous at your doctor’s appointment, but you didn’t think he’d be as normal as he was. A blood test, an NT scan, he stood by your side through the whole thing, nodding and joking with Yeosang as if the doctor didn’t know about anything going on between you. And technically, he didn’t– not the details, at least, the only surprise he showed was the glimmer of shock in his deep chocolate eyes upon opening the door and catching Wooyoung looking through his cabinets. 

“Beautiful Monday,” Wooyoung sighs with nothing but unadulterated joy, grinning ear to fucking ear with his eyes closed, standing still on the sidewalk in front of his SUV as he lets the sunshine beat down on his skin. “Your levels are even, I’m gonna be a girl dad, I just found out I’m psychic, everything is good in the world.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, “Everything?”

He cracks one eye open, “Am I missing something?”

“An open civil case,” your lips are tied up on one side with an evil smirk. 

Wooyoung opens his eyes to scowl, then pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the door. Before he moves to the driver’s side, he asks, “Do you need help getting in?”

“I’m only twelve weeks.” You roll your eyes again, something you’ve done so many times in the past week you think your eye muscles are now made of steel. “She’s gonna be big, though, I can smell the back pain from here.”

You and Wooyoung climb into his car at the same time and you grimace when the stale heat engulfs you whole. “Holy shit, turn on the AC.”

“What’s the back pain feel like?” He asks, turning on the car, hands immediately shooting for the knobs to put the air conditioning on full blast. “Similar to standing on your feet all day?”

You pull your seatbelt over your chest, clicking it into place. “It’s usually in my lower back, kinda like boob-carrying back pain, but worse. Like having a watermelon strapped to your front all day, you’re in a constant arch, it burns and you can’t really do anything for it if you’re out and about.”

He winces like he can feel phantom pain in his back. Turning to you, face solemn, he asks, “Do you think it’ll be better or worse since it’s your second time?”

You shrug, “Give me a month or two and I’ll have the answer for you.”

The air finally turns somewhat cold and you sink into the seat like it was a blessing from the heavens, it starts washing the heat off you, dusting away the idle air. Eyes closed, head lolling towards your husband who starts pulling out of the parking spot, you ask, “What are you making for dinner tonight?”

Wooyoung snorts, “That’s all you care about? We aren’t gonna debrief how we’re having a girl and the fact that I was right?”

“First time being right in your life, you must be excited,” you peek an eye open to tease, and he looks at you with his face bent up in offense. 

“Rude,” he scoffs in response, but it doesn’t hide the amusement in his tone. “I never even said I was coming over tonight. Should we tell Kyungminnie he’s gonna have a sister?”

You can feel the heat of shame crawling to the tips of your ears for assuming he’d be over tonight. He came over twice last week, and did just as he promised, made dinner, let Kyungmin have his ice cream, then helped him with homework and played the multiplication game that you found yourself inadequate at playing. It’s been a long time since you’ve done third grade math– Kyungmin multiplied the numbers faster than you did.

Wooyoung’s been… strangely aware. First and foremost, with what he’s been cooking the three of you for dinner. Balanced meals, healthy but still delicious, things you enjoy eating now that the wave of constant nausea has let up. Careful with what he says to Kyungmin, never hinting towards there being more to the picture than you’re letting on, reminding Kyungmin he was coming over for him and him only. In a kind way. In an unsuspecting way. A way that kind of made you feel sour, even if you knew the reason behind it, even if you didn’t want him to say anything else. Hormones. 

It’s been too easy to slip into routine, to find comfort in him being around. Having eyes watching over you, your son, to feel safe in a way you haven’t felt in so long. It’s different than the weeks you spent sleeping with him, you haven’t so much as kissed him in the past week, you haven’t given him eyes, not a single sexual remark or joke has been made from either of you. It’s been strictly domestic, a husband coming home from work, a husband cooking dinner for his wife, a father doing homework with his son. You hate that you’ve been loving every goddamn second of it.

“Sure,” you respond with only half of your consciousness attached to it, too in your head to give him your full attention. 

He side-eyes you, popping a brow. “Sure? You’re about to tell your son he’s gonna have a sibling, and all you can say is sure?”

“Well, are you even gonna come over?” It slips out before you can think about it, sounding impatient. Almost desperate. Irritable in the way that means you’re hopeful. 

Coming to a stop at a red light, Wooyoung glances at you in the passenger seat with the quickest-spreaking smirk he’s ever worn. Like an accusation, all too proudly he says, “You want me to come over.”

There’s heat on the apples of your cheeks. Unconvincingly, you defend yourself, “No.”

“Yes,” he argues, his smile mischievous. “You like having me there. Admit it, you miss me.”

“No!” You sit a little straighter, brows furrowing, voice pitched and so obviously lying your entire body fills with embarrassment. “I just like not having to cook.”

“Sure,” he doesn’t sound like he agrees. Turning back to the road, to the light that turns green, he cruises forward with two hands on the wheel.

“You clean my kitchen.” You sound too defensive. “And you’re helping Kyungmin with his homework. And you did my laundry last night. Three things I no longer have to do if you’re there.”

“Right,” he nods, brows furrowing, bottom lip bending over, looking like he agrees but you both know it’s pretend. Sarcastic, even. Leaning his head towards you but not looking at you, he says, “Just say you miss me, baby. I won’t make fun of you for it. I miss you too.”

You swear under your breath, arms crossing, head turning to look out the window. You do miss him, you’ve missed this part of him for so long, the part you didn’t get to see the last time you were trying the whole Wooyoung-comes-around-again thing out. Maybe you should have started here last time, instead of getting caught up in the way it felt to have him inside of you again. 

You might miss that most of all. 

You shake off the thoughts, eyeing Wooyoung in the barely-there reflection in the window, his smirk still present. Still incriminating. Still proof that he knows you better than you know yourself. 

“It’s still not enough to call it off,” you mumble, so quietly you aren’t sure if he’ll be able to hear you. But he does, with how his smirk falters, his lips settling into a line. It didn’t feel as good as you thought it would to say the words. 

“I know,” he responds, voice softer now, all amusement gone. “Trust me.”

You frown, guilt settling into cracks you didn’t know were there. He lied to you, kept things from you, then threw them at you like a fucking bomb and expected you to come out of the other side unharmed. You shouldn’t feel guilty.

But you do. To soften the blow, you turn again, arms uncurling from your chest, hands landing in your lap with a sigh, toying with your fingers. Voice coming out uneasy, you ask, “So… you wanna tell Kyungmin?”

“If you’re ready for it,” he fakes a smile, a bending press of his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We can wait a couple weeks, ‘til we’re out of the danger zone. You’ll be in your second trimester next week.”

Your cheeks heat at the awkwardness you created when there’s never fucking been awkwardness between you, like, ever. “That’s smart,” you say, not at all convincing, pulling your lips together. “Will you still come over tonight?”

His head turns to the left, arms crossing over one another as he makes a turn, and even though you know he’s driving the both of you to work, it still feels intentional. “To make you dinner, clean your kitchen and do your laundry?”

You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth. You deserved that one.

“To spend time with your son,” you try, turning your head to face him, sounding optimistic. “And your daughter… And your wife.”

His demeanor cracks with that, a smile blooming across his cheeks, and it settles something in your chest. Smiling back, you lean a little closer, “You can brag to everyone at work about your psychic abilities.”

“I hand-picked that fucking sperm,” he says, full of conviction, picking back up the discussion you’ve had twice now like you never put it down. “I knew exactly which one was fertilizing that egg, jagi. I knew it.”

And you really can’t stop–nor do you want to stop–the easygoing laugh that spills from your lips, nodding along, agreeing with him. “I know you did, I believe you.”

“I’m at the store.” 

“What store?” You ask into your phone, twirling your hair around one finger, knees bent up to your chest on the couch.

“The store,” he responds like it was the only answer, his voice clipped through the speaker of your phone. “I’ll be there soon, let me check out.” 

“What are you getting?” You ask again, lowering your hand in front of you, examining your nonexistent manicure. You need one. 

“Things,” he answers, voice tight. Your top lip curls, eyes finding the ceiling. “I’m literally checking out now, I’ll be home in ten minutes.” 

You sit up a little, sly grin curving your lips, “Well what if I need things from the store?”

He swears under his breath, “Baby, why do you think I’m here? I already know what you need.”

You watch Kyungmin on the living room floor, belly pressed flat to the rug, feet dangling in the air as his little fingers work his tablet better than you ever could. 

Your cheeks heat, smile growing, “You have no idea what I need, Jung Wooyoung.” 

Kyungmin whips his head around, “You’re talking to daddy? Is he coming over?”

“Yes, he’s coming over,” you answer Kyungmin just as Wooyoung barks into your ear, “You’re a fucking pervert.”

You laugh, picking up the same piece of hair to twirl around your finger again. “See you soon.” 

“When I get there you better—”

You hang up the phone, sly smirk still warm, etched into your cheeks. All week it’s felt like you have an itch you can’t fucking scratch, an itch you want Wooyoung to scratch, but he won’t even try to reach it. 

You think the hormones might be blinding you, maybe taking over your entire nervous system. Maybe your hormones were in charge of your brain entirely at this point.

Texts, phone calls, other than the three times he’s been over this week already, it’s like dangling a treat in front of a dog who doesn’t fucking want it. Close proximity is driving you insane, you think, or maybe it’s just the effect of having Wooyoung around, acting so normal and so domestic it’s sinking you deeper into the fantasy of what could be. What could’ve been this whole time. What you miss so badly. 

You pick yourself up off the couch to the kitchen, needing something to do with your hands to get your mind out of the gutter, where it’s seemed to have taken permanent residence. Why doesn’t he want you? It’s the question you’ve been asking yourself since Monday night, like as soon as you noticed the lack of sexual tension, it showed itself like it’s been waiting in hiding.

Ten minutes of washing the dishes, all from Kyungmin’s school lunch and the lunch you brought to work, Wooyoung was walking through your front door as promised. You heard Kyungmin yell, Wooyoung’s excited greeting, and then your son’s following giggle that you’re convinced could cure anything. 

It’s only seconds before he makes his way to the kitchen, you look over your shoulder as he sets two reusable grocery bags on the marble island, a soft smile already on his sculpted, bronzy cheeks. 

“Wow,” he starts, already amused, “not leaving the dishes for me?” 

You turn off the faucet, grabbing a dish towel to dry your hands on before turning around, your coy smile tucked to the side. “Thought you might want a break from scrubbing my Tupperware.” 

Dressed in business casual, clothes a little wrinkled, hair disheveled like he ran his fingers through it forty five times today, you don’t hide the fact that your eyes are scanning every single inch of him. With the way his smile spreads, how his eyes lower, you know he can see right through you. It’s not like you’ve hidden it well— or tried to. 

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were buttering me up now,” his thick brows wiggle over his mismatched eyes. 

A small sound of amusement is all you can conjure before taking a step towards the island, pressing your forearms against the marble, leaning over your crossed arms. “What’s in the bags?”

“Things,” he answers, eyes sparkling with mischief. You thin your eyes, moving like you’d start opening them yourself, but he stops you with a palm facing you. “Stay away from my things, I know what you need and where they go. Go sit down or something.”

You stand up straight, crossing your arms over your chest, scowling. “No, I’m bored and I want to know what things are in the bags.” 

He laughs under his breath, “You’re bored?”

“I’ve been waiting,” you huff, “you took a long time at the store.” 

“Look at you,” he muses, “you’re pouting.” 

“So?” Your head tilts. “Maybe I am pouting.” 

His brows raise before he starts digging into the first bag, pulling out produce while he shakes his head, “Look how the turn tables.”

You’d laugh at the joke he’s made a thousand times if you didn’t know just how true it was. He’s supposed to be the one proving himself to you and with every passing day you’re losing the ability to hold onto your certainty, your hormones driving you to near insanity, your will as strong as thread at this point. There’s a tiny voice inside you that reminds you you’re not above begging for it. 

And yet he gives you nothing. 

“For you,” he says casually, pushing a bag towards you and two bottles. Quirking a brow, your hands find the things, holding them up to read the labels. 

“You said you were running low on prenatals,” he explains as he continues emptying the bags, not even looking at you. “Plus epsom salts for a bath, I read online somewhere that the soap is good for pregnancy, there’s herbs in it that soothe aches and make you sleepy or something. Figured it could help the back pain before it really starts.” 

Your eyes flicker upward, watching him as he empties the bags like it was no big deal. Thick, focused brows, veiny hands moving fluidly, a singular strand of hair thickened by product laying over his face, you can feel your heart beating. When your silence hits him, he glances upward, meeting your stare, and he pauses his movement to ask, “What?”

You shake your head, just once, barely anything more than a small movement. “Nothing, I just… I’m lucky. And I appreciate you.”

One brow raises, smirk rising on the same side of his face, “Now you’re really buttering me up.”

You laugh because it’s funny, but your heart throbs in your chest like it knows that Wooyoung is in front of you, like it beats only for him and it’s waiting for your mind to catch up. 

Your mind is far past catching up. You walk around the counter, steady feet bringing you to his side, and you force yourself between him and the counter to wrap your arms around his middle. Your arms squeeze tight, burying your head in his chest, forehead meeting right where his shirt is unbuttoned, your skin pressed against his. 

Spicy, woodsy, a hint of outside… sweaty, just a little. In the way that makes you want to eat him. But you don’t let your mind drift just yet, savoring the smell of him, the feeling of his skin pressed against yours, how he feels in your arms. 

It takes him a second to process, but his arms wrap around your back, engulfing you in his hold as he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head in the same exact spot he did three weeks ago. When you thought it was over. 

How the fuck could you ever think it was over?

Mumbling into his chest, coming out muffled, you say, “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” He doesn’t need a second to process that, the words coming out before he could think about them, he doesn’t need to think about them. Never once did he have to think about them, not with you. 

Your grip loosens a little, but you don’t let go. He seems perfectly content holding you to him, flat palms sliding up and down your back, a smile you can’t see quickly crawling across his cheeks.

Finally looking up, into his whiskey eyes burnt by the dim lighting of the kitchen, you whisper, “Thank you.”

He’s looking at you like you’re his entire world. Like nothing before this moment has ever mattered, and nothing after it will matter either, because right now it’s you and him and that’s all he’s ever wanted. 

“Anything for you.” He leans down to press a small kiss to your forehead. “You know that.” 

A smile tugs at your lips, “Anything?”

He smacks his lips, “Don’t ruin the moment, that was sweet.” 

Your grin spreads, head dropping until your forehead meets his chest again, hands falling from around his back to drop down to his hips. “Why is it always me?” You look up again, lashes fluttering, “It’s always me who’s begging to get in your pants.”

His face morphs into cockiness, his shoulders shrugging casually, “Guess I’m that good.” 

You try to scoff, but it comes out like a laugh as you smack your palm against his hip, “I’m serious, Wooyoung. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

His amused smile falls, hands sliding down to your hips, pushing your back against the counter. He keeps himself close, eyes scanning your face, gaze dropping down to your lips. Small, quiet yet full of lust, he asks, “You think I don’t want you?”

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes widening. Your hands fly up between you, pressed against his chest as you stutter over your thoughts, “A- um, a little, kinda.”

His head drops down to your neck, the curve of his nose ghosting against the shell of your ear and your whole body shivers in response, back arching against the counter. 

He keeps his voice low, “You don’t realize that I think about fucking you every time we’re in this kitchen?”

Your heart picks up speed, breath going heavy and ragged, body twitching as he speaks like he’s fucking touching you. All you can mumble is his name, soft but drenched in arousal, fingers clutching onto his shirt.

“Lifting you up on this counter,” he drawls, voice like honey, hands reaching for the marble, arms caging you in. “Just like I did a few months ago, except I think about taking it slow this time, teasing you until you’re begging. Touching you until you’re crying for it.”

Your skin touches, his lip against the spot below your neck; his breath warm and inviting, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand, goosebumps raise on your skin. The smallest noise escapes you, pitched and needy, you’d be embarrassed by it if the arousal wasn’t intoxicating.

He brings his face back to yours, so close your foreheads are almost touching.

“Look at me.”

You do, eyes full of anticipation, his lips so close you could taste them. He grins.

Then he’s pressing a kiss to your cheek and moving off of you like nothing ever happened. Sliding the bags down the counter so he can keep unloading groceries, you blink at him, dumbfounded, terrorized. 

“What the fuck?” You whisper-yell. 

He looks at you casually over his shoulder, “What?” 

“You’re an asshole,” you spit, “you’re such a fucking asshole.” 

He cracks a smile at that, going back to his groceries, "Didn't I tell you to go sit down ten minutes ago?” 

All you can do is scowl, all the way back to the fucking couch where you tuck your knees up to your chest.

Kyungmin looks over his shoulder from the floor, wearing raised, curious brows as he asks, “Wanna play with me?” 

Friday has been your favorite day of the week since you could remember. In college, it meant classes were over, you had your weekends free to drink your bodyweight in liquor and party anywhere and everywhere without the looming dread of classes in the morning sitting on your shoulders. When you started working, Friday’s clockout time called to you at a mere seven in the morning, reminding you that when you go home, you get to change into a cocktail dress and your clubbing pumps and go out with the girls from your office. When you met Wooyoung, Friday meant that you got to spend your weekend with him, partying, fucking, learning each other down to the bone.

When you got pregnant the first time, Friday meant you got to go home and sleep.

Now you’re pregnant a second time, and Friday no longer means you get to go home and sleep.

You get to listen to your eight year old with a chronic case of the zoomies, especially after an abnormally warm day full of sunshine that radiates upcoming spring, instead of being tired, he’s ready to share all the adrenaline he’s felt all day with you. And you love it– every single second of him racing around your backyard with a widespread grin, shouting giggles that could cure any foul mood you’ve ever been in, but you’re especially tired today, and you don’t have it in you to do anything but sit in your patio chair and watch.

“Mommy, play with me!” He shouts across the lawn, the sound piercing your eardrums even if there’s yards of breeze intercepting it. “Let’s play Runway,” he starts, feet bringing him closer to you, dropping the bat he was just swinging against the tee you still owned because he aged out of tee ball just one year ago. “It’s like Fashion Runway, but instead of Fashion, we walk.”

You can’t help yourself, the snort that rips from your nose is inevitable. “You wanna walk with me?”

“Runway, mommy,” he corrects you, a hand on his denim-clad hip. Jeans and a tee shirt, one you realized an hour ago is stained with the condiments you put on the sandwich from his school lunch. “You have to walk like you’re walking down a runway, and I’ll judge it. One is bad, ten is good.” 

Your brows raise over the sunglasses sitting on the bridge of your nose, amused and actually interested, “Oh, is it a competition?”

Kyungmin smirks, “Yeah, and I’m gonna win. You go first.”

“Excuse me, mister runway model,” you say, pushing yourself off the patio chair by the armrests. You think you’re nearing popping, your belly definitely… protruding now. Not big by any means, at your fourteen weeks of pregnancy, but you think you’re almost visible. Obvious. Maybe. You wonder how Kyungmin hasn’t said anything yet, when he usually asks a thousand questions if you style your hair differently. 

Kyungmin sits in the patio chair after you’ve stood up, and claps his hands together as you walk through the lawn, standing facing him just a few feet away. “Okay mommy!” He yells from the chair, “You can walk now.”

Damn, impatient, too. You flip your hair over your shoulder, one hand on your hip, and conjure up the sassiest walk, imagining yourself on a runway, putting in effort for the sake of your kid. The same kid who loses his fucking shit, clapping and giggling like it was the funniest thing he’s ever seen. 

When you walk up to the edge of the stone patio, Kyungmin is still giggling, but he says, “It’s good that you’re not a model, mommy.”

You scoff, standing straight, but the laughter that comes from your back door sliding open steals both of your attention before you have the chance to talk back to your son. 

“Daddy!” Kyungmin squeals.

Wooyoung walks onto the patio, grinning like he knows he wasn’t supposed to see that but he loved every second of it. “What do you mean? That was the best model walk I’ve ever seen.” He’s eyeing up Kyungmin now as he says, “Tell mommy she could be a model before you hurt her feelings.”

You try to interject, “He didn’t–”

“You’re a good model, mommy,” Kyungmin says, and he almost sounds like he means it. “You should see Aden do it,” he pushes himself up off the patio chair, “he does it like this.”

You’re shaking your head as you walk towards Wooyoung, ready to greet him, but Kyungmin’s screech of “Look!” has you turning right back around. 

Your jaw drops as your son puts his hand on his hip and sways his hips as he walks toward the patio. You scoff, “You just did exactly what I did!”

Wooyoung snorts from beside you, “He might’ve done it better than you, jagi.”

“What number?” Kyungmin asks, grin as wide as his eyes, his arms wrapping around your middle when his quick moving feet bring him right to you. “Judge time.”

You bend down and press a kiss to his sweaty hair, “Ten. What’s my number?”

Kyungmin’s eyes slide to Wooyoung, and out of your peripherals you can see Wooyoung holding up ten fingers. Your son giggles, looking back at you, “Nine.”

“Y’know what?” You bring your palms to his cheeks, squeezing, “I’ll take it.”

“Let’s play again,” Kyungmin squeezes you a little tighter, making you choke out a noise. “Daddy has to walk this time, too.”

“I think that’s a beautiful idea,” you smirk, side-eyeing your husband from beneath your shades. Expecting pushback, his grin turns feline. Your brows raise.

“Scared of a lil’ competition?” He wiggles his own brows, “I’m about to win, just so you know. Kyungmin, you’re going down.”

“I’m gonna win,” Kyungmin fights back. “Mommy’s gonna lose, though.”

“Damn, was my walk really that bad?” You ask, brows coming together as you turn to Wooyoung. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He leans closer when Kyungmin runs off into the lawn, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I thought it was perfect. Hi, by the way.”

“Hi,” you’re smiling already, and you know the flush on your cheeks isn’t from the afternoon sun anymore. It’s his fourth time here this week and it’s only Friday, by this point there’s not a bone in your body that isn’t okay with it. The opposite, actually, staring at him in his business-casual clothes, dress pants loose and elongating his strong legs, dress shirt unbuttoned and untucked on one side, sleeves folded up to his elbows. His pants black, his shirt a deep gray color, the silhouette, the colors, it all contrasts against his build and his sickeningly sweet-looking skin, making you salivate. 

This is the third day in a fucking row that just looking at him has made you weak in the knees. You’ve been curbing your cravings well enough since last week against your kitchen island, you’ve kept a safe distance since, not looking at him for too long, you don’t want to risk the rejection that you still aren’t sure was rejection, again. But the more insatiable your thirst grows, the more it feels fucking impossible, especially when he looks like that, when he’s doing tasks for you around the house, when he’s making dinner and eating it with you, when he’s showing up at your house right after work with his belt already off and his shirt halfway untucked.

You’re still not above begging. He’s still not giving you an inch. 

Kyungmin walks first, as attitudey and sass-filled as you imagined it would be, and both you and Wooyoung shout ten. You walk next without an ounce of embarrassment, and Wooyoung shouts ten, but Kyungmin shouts eight. Then Wooyoung walks, using his hips like he had a rope attached through his belt loops pulling him forward, like a real fucking high-fashion model. 

With your jaw pressed to the stone of the patio, you yell, “You motherfucker, why are you good at this?”

“Mommy!” Kyungmin shouts, disapproving of your swear.

A belly laugh leaves Wooyoung, head dipping down, palms clutching his stomach before they land on his knees in a doubled-over crouch. You scoff, “I’m serious, what the hell is going on? Do you have a history in modeling that I should know about? Something else you’re hiding?”

“I think… nine,” Kyungmin says from your side, ignoring you with his hands on his hips, brows slanted, hiding his smile like he knows Wooyoung’s walk was perfect but refuses to outright admit it. 

You snort, “That was a ten if I’ve ever seen a fucking ten.”

Kyungmin shouts again, “Mommy!”

“Stop swearing, you’re bothering the boy,” Wooyoung ushers a hand in Kyungmin’s direction, face still bent up in laughter, tight from trying to hide his smile. Just a moment passes of his lips tucked between his teeth before he laughs again, “I’m sorry– I’m sorry, that was so fucking funny.”

Kyungmin’s voice is stern as he warns, “Daddy.”

“I’m sorry!” Wooyoung shouts, his palms flying up in defense, laughter still laced in his words. “Come on, let’s go inside.” 

Kyungmin makes for the door first, mumbling like he didn’t think you’d hear, “I told you mommy would lose.” 

Wooyoung catches up to you in a light jog, one hand pressed to the small of your back as you cross the threshold to walk inside your kitchen. Your head snaps sideways at the touch and he looks blissfully unaware at how the heat from his palm shoots electricity up your spine, reminding you of just short of a week ago, his arms on the counter behind you, caging you in, whispering nasty shit in your ear…

There’s happiness in the air, bleeding between you and him and your son, even the girl growing steadily in your belly. You don’t want to ruin it by sinking your mind to the gutter, where it was a week ago, how you sulked the entire night and yet he still left your house with a kiss to your cheek and a smirk on his lips. He won’t fucking give in and your body is reacting to every look, every touch like a livewire. 

He meets your eye, mischief twinkling in chocolate, he knows. You take a quick step forward, too fast for his hand to stay on your body, it’s purposeful.

“Homework, dinner, showers, bedtime,” you mumble under your breath as if you needed to remind yourself of the schedule, using it like a bucket of cool water, the words ice in your veins.

And that schedule you continued to repeat to yourself all night. Homework was swift with Wooyoung’s quick-working mind helping Kyungmin, and other than making dinner, having him here to help with math was something you desperately needed and never even thought of. Third-grade math was a nuisance to you, mortifyingly irritating, and sometimes you remember that it's just going to get worse. More complicated. It’s been a long time since you’ve attempted long-division and you’ll avoid it at all costs if you can.

You ended up ordering takeout, the three of you sat on the floor of your living room, eating from containers on the coffee table, watching the movie playing on the TV across the room. Frozen, again, for the thirteen-millionth time, more than once Kyungmin began singing along, and you instinctively sang along with him, then Wooyoung, too. You think the three of you might know this movie word for word. 

By the time the end credits were rolling onto your screen, your back was pressed to the edge of the couch, your head lolled onto the cushions, eyes half open. You supposed singing along to the movie took the last bit of energy right out of you, exhaustion sitting heavy on your chest, your shoulders. 

Kyungmin was still wide awake, bouncing from watching his favorite movie yet another time. Sitting beside Wooyoung on the floor, his legs thrown over Wooyoung’s lap, his head turned sideways, towards the screen across the room, you could barely hear his fast-moving mouth about how much he loves Elsa. How he wanted to be her, have her magic, ice powers, how he wanted a sister like Anna– all things you’ve heard a thousand times before, but they landed differently this time, and as Wooyoung’s head turned sideways to look at you, you know you were both thinking that you hope to give him a sister like Anna.

His gaze lingered, though, taking in your half-awake state, low-lidded eyes, slouched body that you’re sure did not look comfortable. It was, at least, as comfortable as it could be for movie watching on the floor.

“Shower time,” Wooyoung rips his gaze from you to look at Kyungmin. Your son whines, pulling his legs from Wooyoung’s lap to roll over on the floor. Wooyoung’s face stays straight, an unmovable force, “Come on, you’ll feel better when you’re clean.”

“I already feel good,” Kyungmin whines, “I’m clean. I showered last night.”

“Are we gonna have the stinky conversation again?” Wooyoung asks, amusement playing in the line of his lips. “Mommy’s gonna cry if she gets a whiff of you.”

You crack a grin at that, even if Kyungmin refuses to take the bait. He sits up, arms stretched out behind him, brows slanted downward as he asks, “Can’t I shower in the morning?”

“No,” you interject, “you already don’t want to wake up in the morning, I’m not fighting you to shower.”

“I won’t fight!” Kyungmin counters. “I’ll get up, mommy, I promise.”

“I don’t even believe that,” Wooyoung reaches forward, grabbing him by his ankles and tugging the boy towards him. “Go shower.”

Kyungmin giggles as his butt slides against the floor, toward his father. “Can I eat ice cream after?” 

“Sure,” Wooyoung nods. “But only if you smell clean. Remember to wash your hair twice, with shampoo.”

Kyungmin stands from the floor just to scowl at his father, “I know how to wash my hair.”

Wooyoung just raises his brows like this was an argument they’ve had before, one you have no knowledge of. He doesn’t respond, though, and Kyungmin doesn’t argue as he turns for the staircase, running two steps at a time so he can get to his dessert as fast as humanly possible.

Wooyoung wastes no time as soon as the shower turns on. He slides closer to you, eyes zeroed in on your tired expression as he asks, “Why don’t you go take a bath?” 

You pop a brow, “Are you saying I smell, too?”

“I’m saying you look like you need to relax,” he says smoothly, easing you with a soft smile. “I’ll get him ready for bed, ice cream and all.”

Like it was meant to be or something, you yawn. Your back arches, arms stretching over your head, neck turning away from Wooyoung. “I don’t feel like walking all the way up there.”

“I’ll carry you?” You turn back to see him grinning, playful, eyes flaring amusement. You can see his collarbones beneath the collar of his shirt, fully untucked now, his pants that were once pressed now wrinkled and littered with tiny balls of fuzz. “I’ll even start running the water for you. Use the new soaps I got you, see if you like ‘em.”

“I’ll wait until Kyungie goes to bed–”

“I’ll put him to bed,” Wooyoung cuts you off. “And by put him to bed I mean I’m gonna close the door and let him fall asleep on his own, like a big boy.”

You roll your eyes, smile growing, “Are you gonna drill that into me forever?”

“I’m not drilling anything else into you,” he responds, too quick for him not to have been waiting to use that response. 

Your face falls, lips bending into a frown. “I know,” you respond, a bite to the words, sounding like that’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. “Why not?”

“Because we tried it the other way already,” he slides down on the floor, head lolling backward, mimicking the way you’re sitting. “That didn’t work, so I’m using my thirty days wisely. No sex until you have a ring on your finger again.”

“They’re upstairs, on my dresser,” you say, jutting your chin towards the staircase. “Go get them, I’ll put them on.”

He side-eyes you. “You know what I mean, asshole.”

“Oh, now I’m the asshole?” You sit up a little. “You’re the one who won’t fuck your wife.”

“Because you’re only my wife legally,” he mumbles, voice quieter. “I want to have sex when you want your husband, because I’m your husband, not because you just want to have sex. Does that make sense? I think I confused myself.”

Your palms find the floor on either side of you, pushing upward until your legs are under you before you stand up straight. Tilting your head, ignoring his rambling, you ask, “Has your lawyer called you?”

“No,” his brows furrow as he lifts his head. “Why?”

You shrug, “Just wondering.”

He was right, you did need to fucking relax.

The smell of lavender and chamomile fills your bathroom, steam fogging the white gold-lined mirror on your marble vanity, turning the once crystal-clear glass shower door cloudy. Bubbles surround you, popping every few seconds, swirling with each slight movement of your body. Your neck stretches over the back end, eyes closed, body submerged beneath the water that teeters on the edge of hot. You’ve already drained some water and refilled the white, ceramic tub once, not wanting to escape serenity just yet. It’s been too long since you’ve properly relaxed without worrying about work, your husband, your son, anything. Everything. 

You were content on staying here, letting your body soak in the water, in the sweet smells, for as long as you possibly could. The first your eyes have opened is when you hear a hand on the door handle, pushing it open quickly and then closing it even quicker. Wooyoung walks in, eyes on you as soon as you’re in view, silently crossing the bathroom in a few long strides before crouching beside the tub. 

“Care to join?” You ask, head turned toward him. 

He cracks a smile, head dropping down to huff a laugh under his breath. It’s empty, like he had something on his mind. His hands reach over the side of the tub, bronzy fingers playing in the warm water, “Do you like the soaps? The salts?”

You nod, “Mhm, ‘m very relaxed.”

“Good,” he nods, lips scrunching to one side. He had more to say.

“What’s up?” You ask, searching his face for the answer before he had a chance to verbalize it.

He takes a beat. “We haven’t talked about it,” he finally says, eyes meeting yours, pupils big and dilated. “Us. At all, not once during these past few weeks.”

“Okay,” you say assuredly, then readjust. Sitting up a little taller, using your hands pushing against the bottom of the tub, the water covers just above the apex of your breasts. “Let’s talk.”

He swallows, eyes dancing across your face, your shoulders, like he’s fighting for his life to not let his gaze drop past your collarbones. You smile. 

“Where’s your head at?” he asks, forcing his gaze upward. “Do you wanna do this?”

You lean over the side, throwing an arm along the edge of the tub, laying your cheek on your forearm to look up at him. “Do I wanna do what?”

He shifts, sitting on the floor, legs bent, criss-crossed. He keeps his face close to yours, just slightly below you. “Be with me,” he wonders, “have another baby with me.”

You crack another smile, one so genuine it takes over your entire face. “I’ve wanted to the whole time, dummy.”

“Don’t toy with me, jagi,” his lips fall to a line. “Be serious. Are we doing this or are we not?”

You sigh. “You know,” you start, twisting your legs, the fluid noise of water sloshing following. “That day you brought me the soaps, the gummies, things I didn’t ask for but you know I needed…” Wooyoung nods, eyes twinkling with optimism. “It reminded me what kind of man you are. Who you used to be, before your priority became work–”

“I told you–”

“Let me finish,” you cut him off, eyes stern. He nods. “Even though you weren’t here, I know it was for Kyung, for me. I knew it, and even though I divorced you–the first time–I hoped you’d fight it. That you’d fix everything as soon as I brought up divorce, admit your wrongs and fucking grovel or something.” He frowns, but you don’t give him a second to respond. “I’ve missed this part of you. I’ve missed the part that’s present, that supports me as a partner and not just a checkbook. That’s what matters to me.” His frown deepens, eyes glazing over. You lift your head, reaching for humor, “Crybaby.”

“You’re the crybaby,” he counters, but a smile tugs at his lips. He wipes two thumbs under his eyes as he says, “Don’t forget we have to send two kids to college.”

You bark out a laugh, a genuine laugh. “We’ll figure it out. I just want— all I’ve ever wanted is you here, Wooyoung.”

He leans forward, pressing a short, sweet kiss to your lips. Keeping himself close, barely a millimeter between your faces, he whispers, “I will be.”

“Good,” your smile grows, “because I called my lawyer like, two days ago. I think we need your signature before the judge can sign off on the motion.”

He snaps his head backward, eyes wide. “Are you serious?”

“Why would I lie?” You laugh a little, leaning your chin on your forearm again. “Are you really that surprised? I thought I’ve been making it pretty clear.”

He shakes his head ever so slightly in disbelief as he stutters, “I don’t– I guess, I don’t know. You’re pregnant.”

Your eyes droop in a scowl, “Are you about to call me horny and hormonal?”

His lips tighten, trapping his smile, “No.”

You laugh again, leaning back into the tub, letting your head lay against the ceramic. “I love you, idiot. I don’t want to do this without you, you’re my best friend.”

“You’re my best friend, too,” his bottom lip bends over in a pout, eyes glossy all over again. “I’m sorry for everything I put you through, baby. I swear to God I never had bad intentions with any of it.”

“I know,” you mumble, reaching your hand over the side of the tub. He tangles his fingers with yours, squeezing your wet palm, reveling in the silence, the shifting, the togetherness both of you fucking ached for. You smile, eyes twinkling with the idea, “Do you wanna go get my rings?”

He beams, muttering an excited yes before he pushes himself upward. It takes him all of seven seconds to run out to your bedroom, connected to your bathroom, to grab your wedding band and your engagement ring from the ceramic box atop your dresser and to run back into the bathroom. The movement was so Kyungmin you couldn’t help but laugh when he knelt beside the tub again. 

Wordlessly, you hold your left hand out, and he slides your wedding band on your ring finger first, a silver ring encrusted with diamonds. Then your engagement ring, a simple silver band, at the center a recently polished diamond set with four prongs. You hold it up to the dim light of the bathroom, admiring how the diamonds catch the amber hue, sparkling, shining, immediately regretting ever taking them off. 

“You really did a good job,” your head tilts in admiration. “I’ve missed this fuckin’ rock.”

He snorts, lifting himself up and over you, planting both hands on either side of the tub as his upper half stretches over the side, pressing his lips against yours. Your other hand leaves the water to cup his cheek, savoring the taste of him, home. Knowing it was real this time, knowing you were choosing this. Him, all over again. You deepen the kiss as the feeling blooms, pushing your tongue between his lips, using your hand on his cheek to bring him closer. 

“I love you,” he says into your mouth, voice cushioned by the remnants of relief.

You moan the softest sound of pleasure into his parted lips, “I love you.”

You feel him smile against you, one mischievous and him. “Should we consummate our renewed marital status?”

Keeping your hand on his cheek, you push him away a singular inch, popping a brow. “You really have to ask me that?”

“Mm, I know,” he leans forward to kiss you again, his outstretched arm leaving the ceramic to hold your cheek, running a thumb over your skin. “All that blood pumping down there, I’ve been so mean, denying my pregnant wife.”

His hand falls to your neck and you gasp, legs twitching in the water. You don’t have it in you to respond, already lost in the way his touch feels, just a few months without him should be nothing compared to the year you spent apart. But you weren’t pregnant then.

“Come to bed,” he purrs against your lips. “As much as I’d love to fuck my wife in the bath, I’d rather spread your legs as wide as I can get ‘em.”

The idea makes you snort, “How flexible do you think I am?”

He plants another kiss to your lips before responding. “Doesn’t matter. I’m stretching you out anyway, aren’t I?”

You pull the plug from the drain with a roll of your eyes before Wooyoung helps you up by your arms, then grabs the white towel that sat folded on the toilet lid. Holding it open for you, he wraps you in white cotton until your back is pressed to his chest, his arms snug around your front, fingers still holding the towel closed. 

Leaning into him, his scent, his warmth, even if you’re already standing in your home, it’s never felt more like it. Quietly, you mutter, “I missed you.”

He presses a kiss to the side of your head instead of responding. You tilt it to the side, looking up at him, his beautiful, sculpted face you’ve spent fifteen years loving. Clear skin, soft and smooth, whiskey eyes, the freckle perfectly centered beneath one of them, there’s a wrench in your gut and it hurts. You love him so much it aches.

Wordlessly, you press your lips against his, and it relives the ache ever so slightly. Til’ death do you part, he’s yours, he always has been, he always will be. And like he’s confirming it, his tongue slips into your mouth, his hands leaving the towel to turn you by your hips, the cotton falling to the floor. Your arms reach over his shoulders, back arching into him, your bare front pressing into his clothed one, you didn’t care.

“Easy,” he mumbles into your mouth. “Let me get you on the bed first.”

You respond by kissing him harder. Your mouths move melodically, your fingers finding the soft, ebony locks on his head, his palms leaving your hips just to start undoing the buttons on his shirt. You help him push it off his shoulders, panting into his mouth as your fingers dart for the button at the hem of his slacks, fingers sliding the zipper down. 

He grunts when your palm meets his clothed length. “Jagi,” he grits out, chest heaving. “Baby, fuck– wait.”

“No,” you huff, kissing him again. Fingers meeting the elastic of his briefs, you push them over his hips, gripping the base of his length and tugging.

He groans, breaking away just to suck in a harsh breath, his abdomen flexing.

“Fuck me.” You’re staring up at him, and you’re positive you look crazed; eyes wide, unblinking, lips swollen and wet, chest heaving.

He doesn’t seem to care. He pulls your wrist from his cock, bending at his knees to scoop his other arm under your legs, lifting you in one quick motion. You stop yourself from yelping, arms swinging around his neck, holding on for dear fucking life as he opens the door with the hand that was supposed to be cradling your back.

So strong, the realization shoots straight to your throbbing clit. He lays you down on the bed, wet body soaking the comforter, neither of you care as he gets his pants, his briefs off his body, crawling over you. He keeps his voice quiet, barely above a whisper as he says, “What do you want?”

“You,” you quip, breathless. “Inside, inside, please.”

He studies you for a millisecond before he moves. Palms splayed over the underside of your thighs, he pushes them upward as he leans down between them, tongue poking out to lick a stripe through your folds. Hissing quietly, you watch his mouth bend, angled cheeks sucking in before he parts his lips in the smallest O to land a glob of spit on your core.

Grip loosening on your thighs, he sits on his calves, taking one hand to the base of his cock, smearing the spit along your folds. You release a breath, eyes screwing shut, fingers curling into the sheets, reminding yourself you need to be silent.

“Take a breath,” his voice is damn near silent, too. You obey, sucking in deep as he prods at your entrance, releasing the breath as he pushes in, agonizingly slow. You open your eyes to see his face twisted up in pleasure, jaw slack, muscles flexed, veins protruding in his sculpted arms.

You curse under your breath and he opens his eyes. “So good,” he whispers, sheathing himself fully, cock buried to the hilt. “Nothing fuckin’ feels like you.”

Your head tilts a singular degree, “You have much to compare me to?”

His lips flatten, eyes following suit. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

Your lips bend in a smirk, legs spreading further. “Move.”

“Be nice,” he mutters, cock twitching inside you. “Been awhile.”

“Gonna cum if I’m mean?”

He bends at the hips, elbows landing on either side of your head, arms close enough that you might as well be scooped beneath his elbows. His forehead pressed against yours, he whispers, “Gonna cum if you’re nice, too.”

“Then what do I do?”

“Lay there,” he smiles, then presses a short kiss to your lips. “Let me take care of you.”

When he starts moving, it takes everything in you not to moan. Not to squeal, not to squeak, not to cry. Jaw falling open, brows furrowing, your fingers fly to his arms, nails cutting crescents into his skin. 

“Oh my god,” his voice is low, quiet and ragged, his head dipping into the pocket of your shoulder. Your legs wrap around him, the smallest whimper escaping your mouth, in chorus to the slick sounds of his cock sliding in and out. Instead of the loud slapping of skin against skin, it was raw, a quiet, creamy noise filling the quiet room, each grind of his hips to the same beat as your breathing. 

It’s almost worse than being fucked mercilessly. Caged beneath him, body a livewire, arching and jerking just for every movement to be stopped, forced into stillness, it’s almost worse. You’re panting, hips fucking back into him, toes curling over the expanse of his back, the pit of pleasure in the base of your gut spreads heat through each limb.

“Woo,” you pant, “I need, I need– oh my god.”

His lips find your neck, but he doesn’t pick up speed. Cock curving upward, massaging against your walls, his tongue spreads flat against the curve of your neck, lips closing over the stripe of spit. Mumbling, so quiet it’s a murmur, he says, “You need me.”

“Yes,” you whisper, eyes screwing shut, fingers clawing into his arms harder. Your body tightens, muscles strained, but he rocks into you with the same rhythm, unbothered by your body clenching. “I need you– I, I love you.”

His teeth find your skin, a rumble of a groan melting into your neck. “I love you.”

“No,” you urge through a hiss. “I love you.”

His hips rock a little harsher, a twitch in his rhythm. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” you’re whimpering, “I love you, I love you.”

He picks up speed, cock still brushing the spot on the inside of your walls. “Say you’re mine, jagi, ‘h my god.”

Your hips tilt, breath turning ragged, voice rising in pitch as your pleasure blooms. “I’m y-yours, I’m yours. Always will be.”

He lifts his head to press his lips against yours messily, tongue slipping into your mouth, hips grinding into you, pulling you closer to the line he drew for you. The one he made for you, because you’ve always been his, and he’ll always be yours.

His hands cup your cheeks, pulling his lips from yours, hips never once breaking their rhythm. His cheeks cave again, lips pursing, and you open your mouth in waiting. A droplet of spit dribbles slowly from his mouth and you catch it on your tongue, never once taking your eyes off of him, unblinking, letting him see that you’d take anything he gave. He watches your throat bob as you swallow.

“Mine.” He sounds on the brink, his voice a quiet, hardened thing. “Cum for me.”

It doesn’t take long, not when your feet hit the mattress, pushing your hips upward, allowing him to hit that spot in perfect rhythm. After a week or two of denial, you’ve been on the cusp since he’d walked inside the bathroom.

“So perfect,” he says. It’s primal, how he stares at you coming undone around his cock, jaw pried open and eyebrows knitted together. “I fucking love you.”

You can feel him twitching as you clench around the width of him, nails slicing into his skin, hips jerking wildlessly under his own. He keeps you pinned as he reaches down, picking up a thigh to push it upward, knees spreading to fuck into you harder without slapping his hips against you. 

You whimper, overstimulation looming, pleasure unending and all-consuming. “Wooyoung– Wooyoung.”

“Close,” he grinds his teeth. “Fuck, need to fill you up, jagi. Need to fill you up.”

His words make your hips rise to meet his, small squeaks escaping as his other hand finds your hair, knuckles finding purchase in your roots. Not hard, but enough, claim in another form; he needed it, needed you, in any way he could get you. Any way he could have you. 

“Cum,” you cry. “Please, please please. I need it.”

“Say you love me.”

“I love you!” Your fingers find the duvet beneath you, curling into the plush, nerves beyond fried. Rambling, your voice a winded whine, “I love you, please fill me up, cum inside me until I’m leaking, made me feel so good, Woo. Need it inside.”

He moans, and it’s small, but it’s verbal. Cock twitching, hips losing rhythm, his abdomen clenches as he finally unravels, painting your insides with ropes of white-hot heavy warmth. You sigh in relief, in the warmth, the comfort of his release like an embrace. 

He lets go of your thigh to reach for your cheek, pressing his lips against yours. Whispering into each other’s mouths, mumbles of I love you and thank you and I missed you, over and over and over, all between kisses and tastes of each other’s tongues.

It feels like forever that you stay like that, far past his cock softening inside you, his release leaking out, ignoring the tickle as it races for the duvet beneath. You didn’t care, not with his lips on yours, your hands in his hair, his scent in your nose, the world could end around you and you still wouldn’t fucking care. Like stitching time back together, seam by seam, when you’re both wearing flushed cheeks and swollen lips, you finally part with lazy grins and cheeks aching from giggling. He kisses down your chest, two of his palms splayed over your tummy, peppering a hundred, a thousand kisses to the skin circling your belly-button.

“I’m so excited,” he says, like he’d been waiting to say it. “I can’t wait to see you bursting, belly all full ‘n round. I can’t wait to have another.”

He lays his head on your stomach, body stretched out on the bed. Your hand finds his hair, scratching at his scalp as an easy sigh falls from your lips. “Me too,” you smile, and you mean it. “And I’m excited for you to be here. Normalcy.” 

His fingers dance over your skin, featherlight, his cheek pressed to your tummy. “Can I move back in tomorrow?”

A quiet laugh tumbles off your lips. “We’ll take it slow, we have an eight year old who notices things, Wooyoung.”

“He literally wants me to live here,” his eyes slide upward. “He’ll be happy.”

“We’ll talk to him,” you nod in confirmation, fingers continuing to scratch in his hair.

He purrs, the vibration tickling your belly, making you twitch. “I love you,” he says softly, a pause before he adds, “wifey.”

Your grin spreads at the nickname. “I love you too.”

masterlist

[everynightillbeyoursign]

THIS SERIES WILL BE LIKE MY FOREVER FAVOURITE AYAYYA

[lcvejjoong]

the black cat nero 

pairing : cat companion! wooyoung x witch! fem! reader

synopsis : A witch’s quiet life shifts when her familiar accidentally takes human form, blurring the line between magic-bound companionship and real love. 

genre : slice of life, fluff, comfort, slow-burn, fantasy au, romance, soft domestic

warnings : none

author’s note : it was rlly nice knowing you red haired wooyoung 🤧 ill miss you lots ❤️‍🩹 anywaysies in honour of mischievous wooyoung, here’s a fic about him 😛 ill post some bonus scenarios tmr so yall can look forward to that 😆🩷

word count : 2.9k

before

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The first sign something is wrong is the silence.

Your cottage is never silent.

Even when the forest outside settles into its afternoon lull, even when the wind forgets to stir the chimes hanging from your eaves, there is always something—the low hum of magic in the walls, the crackle of wards humming contentedly, the soft padding of paws against wooden floors.

Wooyoung’s paws.

So when you step inside and hear nothing at all, your heart stutters.

“Wooyoung?” you call, nudging the door shut with your foot. Your basket of herbs thumps softly onto the table, bundles of thyme and moonflower rustling. “I’m home.”

No answering meow. No offended chirp.

No dramatic flop onto your feet like you’ve committed some unspeakable crime by leaving for three hours.

Your brow furrows.

Magic lingers in the air—familiar, warm, threaded with your own—but there’s an odd tension to it, like a spell stretched too thin. The wards hum, but unevenly, as if confused.

You take a step further inside.

“Wooyoung?”

Still nothing.

A prickle runs down your spine.

He never ignores you.

Wooyoung is many things—dramatic, mischievous, catastrophically curious—but he is never quiet when you come home. Even when he’s sulking, he makes sure you know it.

You move slowly through the cottage, fingers brushing instinctively against the charm at your waist. 

Not fear—just caution. The kind a witch learns early.

The kitchen is empty. The hearth is cold. No black tail flicks from beneath the table. No golden eyes glare at you from atop the cabinets.

Your bedroom door, however, is ajar.

A soft pull tugs at your magic.

You push the door open.

And freeze.

There is a man on your bed.

For half a second, your mind refuses to process it. Some absurd thought flashes through your head before the details snap into place.

He’s tangled in your blankets like he belongs there, dark hair mussed, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. One arm is slung over your pillow. The other is tucked close to his chest.

He’s wearing your sweater.

Your favorite sweater.

The one Wooyoung likes to knead with his claws when he’s sleepy.

And perched atop of the man’s head. 

Two very familiar black cat ears twitch.

Your breath leaves you in a whisper.

“…Wooyoung?”

The name does it.

His eyes flutter open.

Golden. Startled.

For one suspended moment, you simply stare at each other.

Then he yelps.

He bolts upright, promptly getting tangled in your blankets and nearly rolling off the bed. He catches himself at the last second, clutching the sweater to his chest like it might protect him.

“I—! You—! This isn’t what it looks like!” he blurts.

You don’t move. You don’t blink.

You just stare.

Finally, very carefully, you say, “Why is my cat a boy.”

He winces.

“…Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds worse.”

“Explain,” you say flatly.

His ears flatten. His tail—tail, oh gods—flicks nervously behind him.

“So,” he starts, and already you know this is going to be bad, “you know how you said don’t touch the transformation charms?”

“Yes.”

“And you know how I’m very bad at listening when you say that specific sentence?”

“Yes.”

“Well—”

He gestures at himself again, helpless and sheepish and annoyingly adorable.

You press your fingers to your temples.

“Wooyoung.”

“I didn’t mean for it to stick!” he rushes. “I swear! I just wanted to see what it felt like. You’re always turning mice into teacups and back again and I was curious and then I found the charm and it looked lonely and—”

“You activated a human transformation charm,” you say slowly.

“Yes.”

“Without supervision.”

“…Yes.”

“Inside my house.”

“…Technically it’s also mine, but yes.”

You let out a long breath.

Silence stretches.

He peeks at you through his lashes.

“…Are you mad?”

You look at him. Really look.

It’s still him. You can feel it in the magic—his presence woven into your own like it has been for years. 

The same warmth. The same spark. The same soul that chose you, curled up at your feet the night your magic first manifested and refused to leave.

“I should be furious,” you say.

He nods miserably.

“But,” you add, stepping closer, “you’re not hurt.”

“No! Not at all. Honestly, this is great. Stretching feels amazing.”

You snort despite yourself.

That makes him grin, ears perking, tail swishing in a way that makes something warm bloom in your chest.

You reach out before you can stop yourself and flick one of his ears.

He purrs. Out loud.

Your heart gives up entirely.

“Oh no,” you murmur. “You kept that.”

He beams. “Perks of being a shifter.”

You sigh, but your lips curve upward.

“Get comfortable,” you tell him. “This might take a while to undo.”

He brightens instantly. “Does that mean I can stay like this?”

“For now.”

He flops back onto the bed with a pleased hum, immediately curling into your blankets like a cat returning to a sunbeam.

“…Can I keep the sweater?”

You laugh.

“Only if you don’t shed on it.”

He looks offended. “I do not shed.”

His tail flicks.

You don’t call him out.

Instead, you sit beside him, magic already stirring as you prepare to figure out what, exactly, your familiar has done to himself—and what it might mean that the bond between you feels warmer than ever.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

By morning, you’ve learned three things.

One: human Wooyoung sleeps like a cat.

Two: he snores.

Three: he is physically incapable of respecting personal space.

You wake to warmth pressed flush against your back, an arm slung over your waist, fingers curled lazily into the fabric of your nightdress. His face is buried between your shoulder blades, breath slow and even, the softest little purr vibrating against your spine.

For a long moment, you don’t move.

Your cottage glows faintly with early light, magic drifting through the air like dust motes. 

The wards hum softly, content. Everything feels… peaceful.

Dangerously so.

You glance down.

Black tail. Wrapped loosely around your thigh.

You inhale. Exhale.

“Wooyoung,” you whisper.

He hums, nuzzling closer.

“Wooyoung.”

“Five more minutes,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “Sun’s warm.”

“That’s the window.”

“Mmh. Knew that.”

His hand tightens slightly at your waist.

Your face burns.

You gently pry his fingers away and sit up. Instantly, he whines.

“Nooo,” he protests, blinking up at you with bleary golden eyes. His ears droop. “You left.”

“I am right here,” you say, swinging your legs off the bed.

He watches you like you’ve personally betrayed him.

“You don’t usually leave,” he says quietly.

Something in your chest softens.

“I usually don’t have a human familiar attached to me,” you reply gently.

He perks up at that. “Human familiar,” he repeats, pleased. “I like that.”

You shoot him a look. “Its are not permanent.”

He just smiles, entirely unconcerned.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Breakfast is… an experience.

Wooyoung insists on helping, which you immediately regret when he nearly sets the curtains on fire trying to light the stove with magic that is very much not his anymore.

“I used to just think about warmth,” he complains, hopping back as sparks fizzle. “Why do humans have to do things manually?”

“Because the universe hates us,” you mutter, taking the flint from him.

He hovers nearby, peering over your shoulder, tail swaying dangerously close to open flame.

“Wooyoung.”

“Hm?”

“Tail.”

“Oh—!”

He yelps, jumping back and knocking over a jar of sugar. White crystals scatter everywhere.

You stare at the mess.

He freezes.

“…I can clean that.”

“You don’t have thumbs for cleaning instincts,” you say dryly.

He gasps. “Rude.”

Despite everything, you find yourself smiling as you sweep the sugar away. He follows you around the kitchen, curious about everything—opening cabinets, poking at jars, sniffing herbs like he’s expecting them to run away.

“What’s this?” he asks, holding up a bundle of dried flowers.

“Moonflower.”

“Can I eat it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll hallucinate and climb the ceiling.”

“…Tempting.”

You give him the look.

He grins.

Eventually, you manage to sit him down with a bowl of porridge and fruit. He eats like he’s never seen food before, eyes lighting up with every bite.

“Oh,” he says reverently. “Oh this is good.”

“You’ve eaten it before,” you point out.

“Yes, but this is different,” he insists. “It tastes… better.”

You laugh. “That’s just having a human body.”

He hums thoughtfully, then glances at you. “You made it.”

“Yes.”

His ears flick forward.

“…I like when you make things for me.”

The warmth returns, low and steady.

Later, you spread your spellbooks across the living room floor, diagrams and notes scattered everywhere. Wooyoung lounges nearby, half on the couch, half on the floor, tail flicking lazily.

You mutter under your breath as you flip pages. “The charm shouldn’t have bound this tightly…”

He rolls onto his stomach, chin in his hands. “Is it bad?”

“No,” you say honestly. “Just… unusual.”

“Unusual how?”

You hesitate. “The familiar bond is responding to your new form. Adapting.”

“To what?”

You meet his gaze.

“To you being… closer.”

His ears flush pink at the tips.

“Oh,” he says softly.

The air between you shifts.

He clears his throat and flops onto his back dramatically. “Well! Guess I’m just irresistible.”

You snort. “You were like this as a cat too.”

“I know,” he says proudly. “You still let me sleep on your chest.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“…You weighed less.”

He laughs, bright and warm, and the sound fills the cottage in a way you didn’t realize you’d been missing.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

That night, as rain taps gently against the windows, you sit together by the fireplace. Wooyoung curls into your side without asking, head resting against your shoulder, tail tucked neatly around both of you.

You absently scratch behind his ears.

He melts instantly, purring loud enough to rival the rain.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you accuse softly.

He doesn’t deny it.

“You’re very good at it,” he murmurs. “You always have been.”

You lean your head against his.

For the first time, the thought flickers through your mind—quiet, dangerous, tender.

What if he stayed like this?

The fire crackles.

Wooyoung shifts, fingers brushing yours.

He doesn’t pull away.

Neither do you.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The first kiss is not planned.

It’s not dramatic, or moonlit, or accompanied by some great surge of magic. It happens on an ordinary afternoon, with rainclouds looming low and the cottage smelling faintly of cinnamon and wax.

It happens because Wooyoung trips.

Again.

“Why are human legs so far apart,” he groans, sprawled on the floor at your feet. “As a cat, I had four. This is a downgrade.”

“You’ll learn,” you say, not even looking up from the potion you’re stirring.

“I’ve been human for two days.”

“Exactly.”

He huffs, pushing himself up—and promptly slipping on the rug.

You reach out on instinct.

He grabs your wrist just as quickly.

The pull sends you stumbling forward, potion forgotten as the ladle clatters to the floor. Wooyoung’s other hand comes up to steady you, fingers warm and firm at your waist.

You end up chest to chest.

Too close.

You can feel his breath. His heartbeat. The way his tail freezes, then curls slowly around your calf like it’s acting on instinct alone.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Wooyoung swallows.

“You smell like cinnamon,” he murmurs.

“That’s the potion.”

“I like it.”

Your magic hums, responding—bright, electric, suddenly aware of his proximity in a way it’s never been before.

You should step back.

You don’t.

His eyes flick to your lips.

“So,” he says quietly, voice no longer playful. “Witches… they can kiss their familiars, right?”

Your breath catches.

“…You were a cat.”

“Still me.”

The truth of it lands softly, undeniably.

You nod.

He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to stop him.

You don’t.

The kiss is gentle—almost hesitant. His lips are warm, a little clumsy, like he’s not sure how much pressure to use. His hand tightens at your waist, just slightly, as if grounding himself.

Magic flares.

Not wild. Not dangerous.

Just warm. Familiar. Like home.

When he pulls back, his eyes are wide, shining.

“…Wow.”

You laugh, breathless. “Was it that bad?”

“No,” he says quickly. “It was— I just—”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

Your chest aches.

“You used to lick my face,” you point out.

“That was different,” he says solemnly. “That was love.”

You freeze. He does too.

“Oh,” he adds, belatedly. “I said that out loud.”

You should probably address that.

Instead, you kiss him again.

This time, he smiles into it.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

After that, things change.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just in the quiet spaces between moments.

He starts sitting closer. Touching more—your sleeve, your hand, the small of your back when he passes behind you. You find yourself reaching for him too, fingers brushing his hair, his ears, the base of his tail where it makes him melt instantly.

“You’re doing that again,” he purrs one evening as you scratch just right.

“You’re encouraging it.”

“Obviously.”

You learn his human habits quickly. He still curls up when he sleeps, knees tucked to his chest. He still startles at loud noises. He still seeks warmth, sunlight, you.

And when a spell goes wrong—when a charm crackles too loudly, sending a shard of magic ricocheting through the room—he’s there instantly, shoving you behind him without thinking.

His body tenses, protective.

You blink at his back.

“Wooyoung?”

He glances over his shoulder, sheepish. “Instinct.”

Your heart does something complicated.

Later that night, you find him perched on the windowsill, staring out at the moon.

“You miss it,” you say softly.

He hums. “Sometimes.”

“You don’t have to stay like this,” you remind him. “Once I unravel the charm, you can go back.”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

“And if I don’t want to?”

The question lingers between you, fragile and terrifying.

You don’t answer.

Not yet.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The choice comes quietly.

Not with thunder or prophecy or some dramatic snapping of fate—but on an evening so gentle it almost feels unfair.

You’re standing in the clearing behind your cottage, the one ringed with stones and wildflowers. Fireflies blink lazily in the dark. 

Your spell circle glows faintly beneath your feet, chalk lines steady and sure.

The reversal spell is ready.

All Wooyoung has to do is step into the circle.

He stands just outside it, barefoot in the grass, your sweater hanging loose on his frame. His tail flicks behind him, betraying his nerves.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say for the third time.

He laughs softly. “You’ve said that.”

“And I’ll keep saying it.”

He turns to you then, golden eyes warm and earnest. “I know.”

Silence settles between you, filled with the hum of magic and the chirring of insects.

“When I was a cat,” he says slowly, “loving you was easy. It didn’t ask anything of me. I just… stayed. Curled up. Protected you in the ways I could.”

Your throat tightens.

“And now?”

“Now it asks more,” he admits. “Its demanding.”

He steps closer, stopping right in front of you, close enough that you can feel his warmth.

“I could go back,” he says. “Be your familiar again. Nap in sunbeams. Knock things off shelves. Guard you in quiet ways.”

You reach for his hands without thinking, threading your fingers together.

“But,” he continues, voice softer, “I don’t want to love you quietly anymore.”

Your breath shudders.

“I want to stand beside you,” he says. “I want to kiss you without spells allowing it. I want to argue with you and cook with you and hold you when you’re tired. I want you to choose me too.”

Tears burn at the corners of your eyes.

“You’re already chosen,” you whisper.

His ears twitch. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Human or cat. Familiar or not. You’ve always been mine.”

Something in his expression breaks—then reforms into something brighter, surer.

He steps away from the circle.

The spell fizzles, harmlessly dissolving into sparks.

Your magic hums—not in rejection, but acceptance. The bond shifts, loosening where it once tethered, tightening somewhere deeper.

Equal.

Wooyoung exhales shakily, then laughs. “Guess that answers that.”

You laugh too, through tears, pulling him into your arms. He hugs you back immediately, burying his face into your shoulder, tail wrapping around your waist like it’s always belonged there.

“I still get to nap in sunbeams, right?” he murmurs.

“Absolutely.”

“And steal your sweaters?”

“You’re wearing one right now.”

“Good.”

You pull back just enough to kiss him—slow, warm, sure. He kisses you like he’s had a lifetime of practice loving you, because in truth, he has.

Later, you curl up together on the couch, fire crackling softly. Wooyoung’s head rests on your chest, your fingers tracing lazy patterns through his hair and behind his ears.

He purrs, content.

“Hey,” he says sleepily.

“Hm?”

“Thanks for letting me choose.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Thanks for staying.”

Outside, the forest breathes. Inside, magic settles—soft, steady, home.

Your familiar is not supposed to steal your sweaters.

But your lover?

That feels exactly right. 

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

© lcvejjoong, 2026

bonus scenarios (ft. hongjoong)

taglist: @darjeelinglemontea ❤︎@fluffypuddingatz ❤︎@luumiinaa @snow0-0fairy @snow0-0fairy-writes @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @jiuchip

[everynightillbeyoursign]

gimme a black kitty RIGHT NOW

[bananayuyu-deactivated20260331]

pool boy (j.wy)

pairing: wooyoung x f reader genre: fluff and smut wc: 11.9k

it's almost Valentine's Day, and for the first time in your life, you're on your own. an empty house with no parents seems the perfect opportunity for anything; your best friend wants a party, and your cousin hopes for the chance to slow down. but all you want is for your sly, stunning pool boy to finally act on what his eyes have been promising

chapter warnings: smut, MDNI, fingering, vaginal sex

a/n: this fic is written for the lovely @vampzity! I really hope you enjoy <333 the hugest shoutout to @everyonewooeverywhere for setting up this fic exchange event!! can't wait to read everybody's work! <3

my masterlist | fic exchange masterlist

Sunday, February 1st - 4:59am

"Good morning sweet pea!"

The air inside Twisted Treats was a rush of much needed warmth. You squinted as you closed the back door with a click; it was Sumin, your best friend, calling, but in the early hours of the morning the light was too low in the bakery to see her. You followed your ears; the only sound was coming from the coffee bar, hissing and the soft hum of the grinder. The air smelled of fresh dark roast and the promise of a little more energy. With sleepy eyes and heavy legs you dragged yourself there.

"Morning," you mumbled as you spotted her, already busy and prepping, her black hair tied back in a perfect high pony. Running a hand across your jaw, you tugged at the sleeves of your huge winter coat, blinking in an attempt to wake yourself a bit.

"You sound chipper," she joked, grabbing a mug from the cupboard above and setting it below the just-starting drip of the machine.

"Just need some coffee and breakfast." You gave her a small smile, yawning for the millionth time that morning. You had more trouble sleeping last night than expected; it was so uncomfortably quiet in the house. You tried not to think about it as you turned to your left, hanging your coat in the back closet and setting your bag in your cubby.

"I'll make us some breakfast burritos," she said once you appeared again, and you nodded. Sumin was in her bee mode, buzzing from one thing to the next, normal for her at this time of the morning. Even in winter, the cold desert wind whipping her red cheeks as she ran in from the car, she was here and ready. Nothing could deter her; she had the kind of work ethic most could only dream of. It was the reason her mother, the owner of this quaint little bakery, trusted her to open all on her own. 

"Your mom get to California in one piece?" she asked.

"Yeah, she texted me last night when she landed. It's such a quick flight, barely two hours." You were tying back your own hair, trying to ready yourself.

"Someone better have made me some coffee!" a grumbly voice called from the back door, Hongjoong waltzing in with messy hair and dark under-eye bags, his shoulders hunched.

"I call dibs on that one," you pouted, grabbing the mug as it almost overflowed, replacing it with another.

"But I'm your favorite cousin."

"You're my only cousin."

"Only and favorite."

Sumin flicked on the back kitchen's light and it seeped all the way to the front counters, where stacks of heart-shaped rolls and empanadas sat waiting for the morning rush. Hongjoong's face looked pale and dull in the harshness of it, the yellow fluorescent twinge reflecting off his cheeks, hollow. You rolled your eyes at him but handed over the mug, feeling a pang of concern.

"Works every time," he laughed, before wrapping an arm around your shoulder, kissing your temple. "Your mom's in Cali now, right?"

"Mmhm."

"Was it weird having the house all to yourself last night?" It was so like him to worry about you, even though it was he who really needed the worry. 

"Yeah, I couldn't sleep," you sighed, rubbing your eyes. "I'm sorry if I make no sense today, my brain feels like scrambled eggs."

"You know you can always come stay with me."

"Me too!" Sumin called from the stove.

"Both of you live with too many people already, I don't wanna impose. It's fine, I'll be fine." You waved them off, saving the second cup of coffee from overflowing, setting it aside to cool. You grabbed the key from the drawer, unlocking the register, setting everything in motion. Not an hour from now the first customers would be shuffling in, and that meant one thing; take the dough Sumin had already started for the bagels and start forming them. There wasn't time in the morning for drawn out conversation, no chance to fret over each other. They both knew that as well as you did.

The three of you worked in practiced silence for the next half hour; every move choreographed, breakfast done as soon as the bagels were ready for their second proof. It was inhaled, not a second to waste, and you scrambled to gulp down the last half of your coffee, it having gone lukewarm and somewhat unpleasant. But you didn't really care, it was all for function; you just needed that little boost of energy before the rest of Sumin's sisters arrived, all their eyes droopy with sleep.

"I need coffee," Yoon whined from the back door, walking towards you with a targeted look of desperation, her eyebrows turned up. She and Sieun were working the front today first thing, the shift a strange mixture of rush and absolute dead silence.

"No coffee till you're twenty, you know that," Sumin scolded from the back.

"But I'm tired."

"Why didn't you trade shifts with Isa today?"

"She was out late last night with a boy," Yoon pouted.

"Boys ain't shit!" Hongjoong called from the back, the clang of something punctuating his words.

"Pipe down, we're about to open!" you called back, eyeing the start of the short line that formed every morning out front.

Yoon looked too, sighing and suddenly dropping the act. She really was quite mature for eighteen, but she liked to try her luck when she could; oftentimes her doe eyes and button nose, mixed with the right tone of need, could sway a decision. But with her older sister it rarely worked, especially when it came to the family business.

"Is Sieun here?" Sumin called, just as the back door swung open again, then slammed shut.

"Sorry, my fucking alarm didn't work this morning for some reason and this little butt-" she pinched Yoon's arm, then pulled her head down to place a kiss on her cheek, "-didn't come and wake me."

"You always wake up later than me, I thought you were still getting dressed," Yoon called.

"It's all good, I'm here now," she sighed, throwing her stuff into the back closet, then running to the front door. "We ready guys?" she called. Taking the largest key from her set and turning it in the lock, she opened the door with a flourish as the morning regulars shuffled in.

As soon as they did the bagels finished, and the rush began, not a moment to think. It was a satisfying way to start the day; no chance to ponder or worry about anything, your energy needed here and there, an extra set of hands or a measuring cup frantically washed. You loved seeing how productive you all were; Hongjoong's strong arms kneading, the girls at the front making lattes so fast it seemed they were stuck in double speed. The hours flew by and before you knew it your stomach was grumbling; it was late morning, time for another meal, the rush finally over.

"Hey," Sumin said, coming over to sit with you at the one table in the back, wood benches long and open. She put her arms around you, finally having the chance to really say hello. "You doing okay? You seemed kinda down this morning."

"Oh, yeah, I'm alright. I just didn't get much sleep last night. It's weird being in there alone."

"That house is so huge," she sighed, nodding. "Seriously, you can come stay at mine, my mom won't care. She already wants you to come over every night for dinner."

"I know, but I just think it's time for me to be on my own, figure it out, you know? I feel like I've been so pampered by my parents. I need to mix things up, need to learn to do shit on my own."

"You do tons of shit on your own, what do you mean?"

"Yeah, but, I don't know, I just feel so juvenile sometimes. Never had a real boyfriend, never lived away from home..."

"Well most boys kinda suck, and frankly, if I grew up in a house like yours I'd never want to leave. A pool, a hot tub, a theater, I'd be throwing parties all the damn time."

You snorted. "I bet that's what my parents are expecting me to do."

"Did someone say party?" Hongjoong asked, sliding in across from you with his sandwich in hand.

"I was just saying, mom and dad probably think I'm gonna throw tons of parties now that they're gone. Which is funny."

"Why?" Sumin asked.

"Cause I'm not going to, obviously."

"Okay, but your best friend sort of has a birthday in hmm, let me think, about a week, isn't it? And she maybe sort of really would love it to be a pool party in your heated, luxurious pool."

Hongjoong chuckled, a hand jumping up to cover his full mouth.

"You could just ask me like a normal person," you laughed, poking her in the ribs.

"Mm yes, and I am of course the epitome of highly normal-"

"Shut up, of course you can have a party at my house. I thought you wanted to go to that bar by the university, though."

"I want J to be able to come, she felt left out last year. I was thinking of just having it at our house but honestly with everything going on recently I think it would be a bit awkward."

"So your dad's visit went well?" you asked, grimacing.

"Um, it's still going."

"What?" you and Hongjoong asked in unison, utterly shocked.

"Yeah, I really can't stand being there right now. Like, if they want to get back together for real this time, maybe my dad could get his own apartment here in town and they could spend time together there? But no, of course not, he's way too much of a user for something as sensible as that."

The three of you sat in a deep silence, letting the energy settle.

"Sorry," she mumbled, picking at the sandwich on her plate.

"Hun, it's okay. I'm sorry he's there, that sounds fucking awful. You should come stay with me if it's that bad."

"You'd let me do that?" she asked.

"Sumin, a million times over. The guest room is empty or we can sleep in my parents giant bed or even the couch in the living room. Anything at all, if it would help."

"I think they'd get pissy if I actually started staying with you," she answered, biting her lip. "Mom and Dad, I mean. I don't want them getting weird with all the girls because I'm not there. But after the party I'll stay over for sure, that would be nice."

"Wait, isn't there a guy staying with you now though? In the guest room?" Hongjoong piped up.

"What?" you asked.

"The one who cleans the pool and stuff."

"Oh, Wooyoung, he's staying in the guest house."

"Damn, the whole thing to himself? Aren't your parents letting him stay for free?"

"Mom was feeling generous I guess, I think she feels really bad about leaving me. She wanted to make sure there was someone there to take care of the pool and the yard and everything. I could have done it myself, but you know her."

"That lucky, lucky boy," Hongjoong laughed, shaking his head.

"He seems kind of indifferent about it, honestly," you sighed.

"He still hasn't talked to you?"

"Barely."

"What about Yeonjun?"

"Nothing." You pulled up your phone, showing the text to both of them, left on delivered. "I'm being ghosted again."

"You should invite Wooyoung to the party," Sumin said, her eyes suddenly flashing with the excitement of a new idea.

"Really? But you've never met him before, you really want him at your birthday?"

"We've met him, I know not like, actually, but we said hi at that one party in the student village, remember? Like two years ago?"

"Yeah, I mean, we know he's at least not totally insane-"

"I just want people there, lots of people, please invite anyone who wants to come. I want a big party, I haven't had a big party since high school. I'm about to be twenty-five." She slumped forward, the heel of each palm shoved in her eyes.

"Just wait until you're twenty-seven," Hongjoong replied, forcing a smile.

"You both need to get over yourselves, you're not even close to old."

"You don't get to say that, you twenty-three year old baby," Sumin pouted, laughing as soon as the words tumbled out of her mouth.

You laughed too. "If it would make you feel better, we'll have a big party. I don't have that many friends but I'll invite a few. Joongie will probably be a better help on that front."

"I haven't seen my friends in fucking ages," he sighed, staring off.

"Seriously? When's the last time?"

"Before finals for sure, I can't remember exactly."

"How come?"

"I've had like no days off and I have the sleep schedule of a senior citizen these days," he deadpanned, blinking rapidly.

"Joong, if you need more days off it's no biggie. We've appreciated the extra help but we'd be fine without you, I promise." Sumin's head was tilted to the side, held up with her chin on fists.

"I need the money, our rent went up again."

"Again? What the fuck, your landlord is so damn greedy," you replied. 

"I know, I don't know what I'm gonna do when it's time for clinicals. I won't have the time to work here anymore."

"Joong, stay with me," you said.

"You know I can't do that-"

"Why?"

"You know what my parents will say if they find out. And I know your mom would tell my mom in passing or something-"

"Then we don't tell her. My dad's contract was extended for another six months, and she told me she'll be out there at least until the start of summer. She hates flying, she doesn't want to be back and forth constantly. She doesn't have to know, it's fine." You emphasized the last word, imploring him to believe you.

"She'd find out somehow. A neighbor or something."

"I'd just tell her you've been visiting me and staying over a lot to keep me company. And no one's gonna do that, no one gives a shit like that in my neighborhood. They're chill, they wouldn't snoop and gossip to my mom or anything like that."

"You're sure?" he asked.

"Promise."

"Okay."

"Okay what?"

"I'll consider it."

"Hongjoong, you are crazy not to take her up on this," Sumin added beside you.

"I can't deal with the accusations from my dad, he'd have a fucking field day if he found out I was staying somewhere for free. At his sister's house no less."

"Well, thankfully they live on the east side of town."

"Far, far away," he sighed, nodding. "Fuck, it does sound nice to live with you. Yoongi has this new boyfriend who's been staying with us and he’s been driving me crazy."

"Wait so there's now five of you in that little place? Why isn't that making your rent cheaper?" you asked.

"Oh, the guy isn't paying anything."

"No, no, you come and stay at mine, that's ridicul-"

"Where is that cake you decorated this morning, the heart shaped one?" Isa cut you off, whipping around the door to the back kitchen area.

"Oh, top shelf of the fridge!" you called back, standing to make sure she found it.

"Oh it's beautiful," Seeun added as she joined you all, running to grab a giant order of bagels that were set aside this morning, now ready for pickup.

"Are things crazy up there right now?" Sumin asked them, standing too, just as Hongjoong did, all of you ready to jump in as needed.

"No, it's actually pretty chill today. You guys can head out early if you want. Oh, Hongjoong," Isa started, searching her pockets with her free hand to find the piece of paper she was looking for. "That guy who always comes in for cherry empanadas, he left his number for you."

"Ooh la la," you chuckled, peering over the table to read the note as the two girls headed back to the front to deliver the waiting customers their orders. "Oh my gosh, Seonghwa's that guy with long black hair, right?"

"Yeah," Hongjoong sighed, eyes stuck on the crumpled paper in his hand, his body frozen.

"Are you happy about this?" Sumin asked, sounding out the words slowly.

"I don't have time to date right now," he answered, suddenly shoving it in his back pocket. "I don't even have time for a little hookup."

"But you're moving in with her, right? And quitting working here because you're in nursing school and really should just be focusing on that?"

"Oh. Yeah. Right," he blinked. "I forgot we just talked about that. My mind is so fucked right now."

You scooted around the table to hug him, running a hand lovingly through his short hair. "Let's all go to mine, I've got tons of leftovers my mom left me. We can move you into the guest room tomorrow if you want."

"You two go, I'm gonna keep an eye on the girls for a few more minutes," Sumin answered, coming over to give you both hugs too.

"Okay, see you in a bit," you called, as you dragged Hongjoong to the back closet, and then out the back door.

Sunday, February 1st - 2:13pm

The house still felt eerily empty, but at least with Hongjoong and Sumin chattering away upstairs, your mind didn't have the chance to panic like it did last night. The kitchen still smelt of delicious curry, the homemade masterpiece you'd reheated for your second lunch. Days worked at the bakery were tough when it came to food; meal times got wonky, 4:30am an early time to rise, even for the early riser you were. It was a means to an end, and a fun job, you reminded yourself; one day you'd be the pastry chef at one of those insane, opulent restaurants in the upper east side of town, open four days a week, reservation only.

But until you graduated from culinary school, until you'd worked the hours required to finish your internship, it was early mornings at Twisted Treats with your best friend. Not so bad, as internships go; some of your classmates were far worse off than you if their stories were truthful. Your life had often seemed to turn out that way; luck was on your side, or something like it. Nice house, loving parents, a stable, mostly fun, not too stressful upbringing. You always had friends, several for life, like Sumin and Hongjoong, and got along just fine in school.

But growing up with two parents in love had made you so hopelessly unsure of one thing: boys. You wanted to find someone perfectly right, wanted the excitement of a first date, and eventually the calm joy of years spent together. You knew it was possible, that good men like your father existed, and could love and cherish their partner in all the right ways. It just never worked out for you; there was the nice boy from freshman year, who promised pleasure but lasted ten seconds. There was the less nice one a year later, who actually knew how to use his fingers, but his words could be vicious and all too quickly you had to dip. It just never seemed to be the case that a guy had all you wanted; the brains, the kindness, the face and the touch.

And then your mom hired Wooyoung. He caught your eye at that party when you met him, but he caught everyone's eye, of course; stunning nose, pouty lips, those dark eyes that seemed to say a million more things than his mouth ever did. He was sly and cunning and had a whip smart mind, you could tell right away; an observer, he spent most of that evening watching people from the wall, just as you did. You could have sworn his eyes caught on yours several times, that he was sneaking glances at you just as you were sneaking them at him, but the chance never arose to swap numbers or even really say hi, and then the night was over and life went back to what it had been.

When he walked in the front door that January day his hair was long, and in a wave of deja vu, your feeling of intrigue returned. He was so fucking pretty, damnit, and so polite with your mom, staring over your way whenever he could, his facial expression not changing. When she showed him to the guest house you sat out on the porch, wrapped in your coat and biggest scarf, staring through the small line of trees that separated your parent's property from the next. Your dad was already in California, and you realized for a moment this is how it would feel once your mom left; a huge house behind you, completely vacant, a new stranger staying a mere fifty feet away.

But your mom was still there, and around her he was especially quiet, doing his job diligently, only speaking in your presence when absolutely necessary. His glances were still there, but he was always looking over his shoulder too, as if expecting your mom to walk in at any minute and scold him for eyeing her precious daughter. You felt an awkwardness too when she was around, having never talked to her much about boys. You'd never had a real reason too; nothing had gone further than a few dates, nothing had seemed worth mentioning.

You hoped, in the back of your mind, that would change once she left. You worried about missing her, worried that you'd be a basket case and completely unable to handle yourself, but you also felt an excitement at what the freedom might allow. Your mom had been known to be intimidating, and you hoped that was the only reason Wooyoung was so hesitant with his words. There was a chance now to really get to know each other, and even if he technically worked for you (as your mom had reminded you for weeks now), you didn't want it to limit anything.

The back door swung open, and there he was, gloves on hands, his face sweaty, cheeks flushed. His hair was distractingly messy and his breaths were strong. "Oh, hey."

"Hi," you smiled, wiping the last of the mess from the marble counters.

"How's it going?" He pulled off the gloves, tossing them on the kitchen’s island, before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, swiftly uncapping it.

"Good," you replied, feeling the awkwardness of the conversation, but also feeling the excitement. "How's the pool?"

"All good, all good," he answered, taking a swig, his adam's apple bobbing. 

"You haven't managed to break anything yet?" you ventured, stepping towards the drawer with the trash can to throw away your paper towel.

You were now only feet from him, his white tee hanging off his chest in a way that caught your gaze completely.

"Is that what you're hoping?" he laughed, tipping the bottle up again, taking a long, deep swallow and staring at you as he did.

"Of course not," you laughed in response, one foot twisting nervously around the other. You moved your gaze back to his; you were determined to show him the confident side of you, the side that could flirt and joke just as well as he could.

"You're not looking for a chance to get me fired?" he asked, cocking a brow.

"Don't be stupid," you gasped, feigning shock with an open mouth. He stared at it a beat too long, his distraction obvious, before starting to chuckle.

"I should say the same to you." He finished the final sip of his bottle, sliding even closer to you to throw it in the trash.

"What, you don't like my joking?" you asked, eyes wide and innocent, loving the little game.

"I love it," he sighed, clasping hands behind his back as he readjusted his feet. "Just don't know if you know what you're in for."

"Oh, I think I know." You maintained your eye contact, smiling ever so slightly at the look of intrigue that passed through his eyes.

"So you're not just some little princess?"

"Is that what you think of me?"

"You've got your own castle, all to yourself," he smirked, looking around the place.

"If that makes me a princess, then..."

"You are." He smiled with closed lips, his cheekbones high.

"I don't know about that."

"You are, you totally are." He started chuckling, almost like he couldn't help it, his head turning slightly to the side.

"I'm just a girl," you answered, trying to look stern, hold the frustration of what felt like lost ground. But you kind of liked it, you had to admit.

"And I'm just a guy," he shrugged, turning back to you straight on. "Who works for you."

"Oh please, don't let it be like that."

"Like what?"

"You don't work for me, you work for my parents, and I'm just here, just happen to be here."

"Hmm, I see," he replied, holding back a laugh.

"Fuck off," you huffed, closer to genuine shock this time, not sure what to make of the implication. You didn't even realize your hand was moving until it hit his solid torso; a playful punch, nothing really, but the brush of contact was electric.

He leaned in further. "I'm your pool boy, your poor, lowly pool boy," he uttered, deep and sultry, an obvious attempt to rattle you.

And it worked. "You're insane," you laughed, unable to keep the pink from sprouting in your cheeks.

"You like when I call myself that," he chuckled, biting his lip.

"What are you talking about-"

"You know what, princess," he laughed, leaning in, the invitation obvious. You weren't sure what about the nickname did it for you; maybe it was just because it came from his lips, but it sounded right, so perfect, not at all as embarrassing or infuriating in the way you thought it would. It was all too easy to fall into the kiss; how inviting his lips were, the little freckle pulling you in. His hand came around your head and you felt the slightest tug, your bodies coming flush, your hand finding his abdomen again.

But just as it was starting to really go there, his tongue brushing your bottom lip, you heard the unmistakable sound of feet tumbling down the stairs.

You pulled apart suddenly, his eyes widening slightly as he stared towards the hall, not sure as you were where the noise was coming from.

"So you're not alone," he said, a hand on the counter, his face unreadable.

"Sorry, some of my friends-"

"You know my gay ass would hate th-" Hongjoong stopped as soon as he spotted Wooyoung, pulling up short as he hit the ground floor. "Hi, sorry, I didn't think you'd be down here."

"This is my cousin Hongjoong, he'll be staying here for a while," you explained, smiling to try and assuage the obvious awkwardness everyone felt.

Wooyoung turned. "Nice to meet you man," he said, stepping towards him to give a friendly shake.

"And this is my best friend Sumin."

"Nice to meet you too." He shook her hand as well, nodding slightly as he did so.

"Did you tell him about the party?" she asked.

It all suddenly felt like a bad idea, something about his sudden change of demeanor concerning you. "No, do you really think-"

"Yes, come on, it'll be fun!" she pleaded. "And I really need the distraction right now," she added from the corner of her mouth, making you laugh despite your worries.

You sighed, trying to brush the concern from your mind. "Okay, well, Wooyoung, you are invited to the birthday party I am throwing here for Sumin this coming Friday. We'll be ordering pizza and hanging out in the pool and hot tub and probably drinking, I don't know...?" You were usually the one mixing, enjoying the use of the bartending set your mom bought for your dad two Christmases ago.

"Martinis!" Hongjoong called. 

"With what gin?" you asked, staring into the very empty liquor cabinet behind you.

"With the gin I will steal from that annoying guy who is suddenly living in my apartment rent free," he replied with a cheeky smile. You laughed and shook your head at him. "We've got a week, we can get what we need."

"We're all kind of busy. Plus, is that what the birthday girl wants?"

"Martinis sound good and fun to me. You know I love olives," Sumin answered.

"Alright, martinis it is," you relented, turning back to Wooyoung with a smile. He'd stepped away but not far, still only feet from you, his gaze strong. "If you'd like to come, you're more than welcome."

"Friday night you said?" he asked. 

"My sister is making me a giant red velvet cake!" Sumin blurted, her eyes lighting up. "And you can bring as many friends as you want, the more the merrier. They're both bringing people, it'll be a big bash."

"I'll invite some guys from the swim team, I'm sure they'd like to come," Wooyoung nodded to her. "If you're sure it won't be too many people," he added in your direction.

"Of course not. You're for sure coming?" you asked, eyebrows raised.

"Sounds fun," he shrugged, eyeing you sharply with a smirk. "I like a pool party." His eyes grazed up and down your body, then landed on your eyes again.

Your skin sizzled. "Alright, well, we better start making some plans." You smirked back at him, holding his gaze until you couldn't any longer.

"Well, food's already taken care of," Sumin replied. "It'll just be the drinks and whatever else we'll need, probably should get solo cups, right? Your parents wouldn't want us using all their nice glasses. Unless we're getting beer, do your friends like beer Wooyoung? I know most of Hongjoong's don't so we usually don't..."

As she prattled on you could barely follow. Your mind was stuck on one thing, and one thing only: you couldn't be happier that you bought that blue bikini on sale two months ago. At the time it seemed frivolous, a pointless purchase made on a boring day, something to be shoved in a closet and never seen again. But now, as you stared at Wooyoung, as he pulled his gloves back on and stared back, you couldn't wait for the look in his eye when he finally saw you in it. Your heart raced with all the potential; this was finally happening, and you hoped and prayed it wouldn't be another let down. 

Saturday, February 7th - 5:53pm

"Is it weird having a birthday so close to Valentine's Day?" you asked as you curled a thin strand of Sumin's hair, soft in your hands.

"I guess so," she answered. In the guest room next door you could both hear Hongjoong scrambling through piles of clothes to try to find something to wear; he'd been too busy to fully unpack yet, boxes and a few random trash bags still littering the floor.

"I always thought it would be weird." You let the strand go, and it bounced as it joined the others. The whole day you'd been in silent preparation mode, decorating and picking out outfits, the three of you thoroughly exhausted by the early afternoon. Now you all were attempting to rally, to find that needed energy for the party tonight. It was set to start early, 6:30pm, as most of you worked at the bakery and rarely stayed up past nine. But you and Sumin had the next day off, so there was no telling how late things might go. 

"Has anyone ever tried to weasel their way back into your life with a happy birthday text?" she asked you suddenly.

"No. Wait, who?"

"Mingi," she answered.

"Oh wow, what did he say?"

She turned her phone to you, and you squinted to read it. Happy Birthday Minnie, I hope you treat yourself today. 

"Were you not expecting it?" you asked, hardly feeling shocked by the message. It was about as unremarkable as a birthday text could be.

"No, cause I know him, and I know he's only sending it to piss me off or force me to talk to him again. If he felt neutrally towards me he wouldn't say anything."

"Well how can you expect him to feel neutral after you broke up with him?"

"Okay, whose side are you on?" she whined, whipping around as you set down the curling iron, turning it off.

"Hun, you know I'm on your side. And you know how I feel about him," you replied, taking her hand in yours, squeezing. "I'm sorry that text upset you so much. You should just delete it, forget about it."

She turned away, her eyes finding the floor. "I don't get why everyone liked him so much, he's just a guy." 

"He just seemed nice, and treated you really kindly. That's all," you answered her. "But it's not anyone's choice but yours what you do with your life. If he's not the right guy for you then he's not the right guy. Simple as that."

"It's never simple as that," she sighed, looking up. "Love is always a clusterfuck."

"No it's not-"

"Except for your parents," she cut you off, smiling in frustration.

"It really sometimes is calm and easy," you continued, moving behind her again to brush out the curls. "I swear."

"So how's the Wooyoung thing coming along?" 

"Throwing it back in my face, wow," you laughed, shaking your head. A little flicker of anger flashed over Sumin's eyes, and you knew then you'd pushed it earlier; she was still cut up about Mingi, even if three months had passed, and you really shouldn't have tried your luck in singing his praises. She was right, too, that your own desire for a relationship was far from fulfilled, and she deserved all the gossip, no matter how frustrating. "Nothing's happened since that kiss, it's like you guys walking down scared him so badly he's avoiding me or something."

"Calm and easy, hmm," she answered, staring at the ground again.

"Maybe he's just busy, or stressed with school," you reasoned. "I've barely seen him at all this past week."

"When you do see him, does he still barely talk?"

"He says more than he used to, but not like that day. He still stares like he's going to devour me," you chuckled, trying not to feel the worst of your disappointment. "Maybe he looks at everyone like that and I've just never noticed?" Your face scrunched up in a look of defeat, and Sumin, spotting it in the mirror, shook her head.

"No, no, he does not look at everyone that way. You know that. You know what you're seeing," she said. You turned from her hair to set down the brush, satisfied with the beachy waves you'd achieved, framing her face perfectly. She turned in the chair, eyeing you directly. "I'm sorry I just got weird with you."

Your head popped up, brows furrowed in confusion. "You're fine, what do you mean?"

"I'm all sensitive about Mingi talk still," she sighed. 

"I know, I'm sorry I said what I said. It's not my place."

"No, it is," she answered. "I get it, he was nice. He was too nice. It freaked me out and I didn't trust it and I didn't know what the hell to do. So I broke up with him at his best friend's birthday party. I'm cruel."

"You are not cruel," you replied, leaning down to hug her. "You didn't want to be with him anymore. It's good to tell someone that as soon as you feel it. Not drag it out."

"Hmm," was all she replied with and you pulled back, hands on her shoulders. She couldn't meet your eyes, her face painted with discomfort. There was something more she wasn't telling you, but just as you went to ask her what it was, Hongjoong appeared in the doorway.

"How do I look?" he asked, spinning to show you his floral swimming trunks, paired for now with a loose blue button up that he left wide open, his chest and abs on full display.

"Like any man's wet dream," you replied, singsong. Sumin turned and laughed, nodding in approval.

"The room is a fucking mess, sorry," he said as he entered, coming to sit on your bed to watch the two of you finish your preparations.

"It's fine, not like anyone will need to be up there anyway." You shifted over to the mirror, checking that your hair was still as fluffy as you'd made it this morning. You peered at your outfit again; the blue bikini top sat tight on your chest, your boobs out in all their glory, and over the bottoms sat little jean shorts, the hems cut-off. You hadn't yet had a chance to tell Hongjoong what happened, his week horrendously busy with moving and classes, and with the news Sumin had just shared with you, there was determination in your chest to forget your woes and just have a good night with them both.

You pulled back with a final flick of your hair.

"You look so good," Sumin said, staring.

"So do you girl," you replied, her outfit nearly identical to yours, only with slightly longer shorts and a pink bikini top.

"Isn't it crazy we can dress like this in winter?" Hongjoong chuckled from behind, staring down at his bare legs and abdomen.

"Ah, the desert. Gotta love it," you laughed, taking mascara from the top drawer of your desk and quickly applying it. 

"Not in July," Sumin replied.

"Let's not think about that right now," you laughed, finishing your application with a few blinks. "Isn't it almost time?"

"I think so," Hongjoong answered, realizing he left his phone in the other room. He stood quickly, about to leave, when he saw the look on both of your faces. "Are you guys okay?"

"Yeah, just, stuff," you sighed, smiling at him in the mirror.

"Girl stuff," Sumin added, rolling her eyes.

"You can tell me about girl stuff, did something hap-"

The front door bell rang, loud through every speaker in the house, and you all jumped.

"I guess it's time," you smiled, laughing at the frazzled look on your face in the mirror. "You ready?"

"I suppose," Sumin said, forcing herself to stand and take your arm, Hongjoong taking the other.

"We'll tell you tomorrow," you told him, nudging your head against his shoulder. "Let's just have fun tonight."

Saturday, February 7th - 7:45pm

He was standing across the room from you again, beer in hand, chatting to his friend.

That was the one introduced as San, with wide shoulders and a sharp jaw, his demeanor tough and stoic. It quickly became apparent that they were best friends, or at least the closest of everyone, and you pondered it as you hung back and watched on.

The pizza and cake had already been devoured, but not everyone set to come had shown up. All of Sumin's sisters had, and the gaggle of Hongjoongs friends. Momo and Sana you knew, the rest you didn't; it was hard to keep all the names straight when he introduced them in such quick succession.

Your two friends from culinary school, Suzuka and Mizyu, had taken over drinks duty from you as soon as they noticed all the available ingredients, and the other two you'd invited texted last minute cancellations, citing early morning shifts at the respective bakeries they worked for.

The rest of Wooyoung's friends were the rowdiest, the only ones yet to brave the pool, playing games involving drinks and swimming and holding breath that you couldn't understand even if you tried. There was Jongho, San's younger brother, who J eyed with obvious attraction. There was Yunho, the tall one, and Changbin, Felix, Yeosang, and Han. You were fairly sure you remembered the names correctly, but if you turned out to be wrong, you wouldn't be surprised.

You'd never seen so many people in the house, not since maybe a birthday decades ago that you hardly remembered. And apparently, according to Wooyoung, two of his friends were running late, still on their way. You'd been excited for the party, thinking it would present the perfect situation for flirtation; unfortunately the same thing happened last time, the two of you wall bound, just staring. A week had passed and it was starting to feel like the kiss hadn't even happened.

"I wanna go to the hot tub," Sumin called to you, stepping away from the little circle of her sisters, all chattering away.

"Ooh, hot tub," Mizyu sang, finishing another drink, running it over to Isa.

The room was teeming with balloons and streamers, some of which had already been snagged and lay crumpled on the floor. Outside, string lights hung across every available surface, twinkling in the darkness. The sounds from the pool games were a comforting sort of cacophony, and getting to witness the fun from the comfort of the hot tub sounded mildly pleasant. It was at least something; indoors you felt utterly underwhelmed, despite everything.

"Let's go then," you smiled, taking her arm in yours, walking to the back door. There were of course other things that could turn the night from borderline boring to completely enthralling, but you weren't sure they would happen after all. Wooyoung and San were standing just to the left of the back door, and as you passed you eyed him, frustration written all over your face.

"You guys going to the hot tub?" he asked, cutting San off, who turned abruptly and watched the interaction with interest.

"This is a pool party," you replied, giving him a sidelong glance as the two of you tumbled outside. 

"The hot tub's not a pool," you heard in response, his tone high and joking, and you fought the urge to turn around and roll your eyes at him.

"Wow, you guys are bickering now," Sumin laughed, pulling two towels from the chest outside.

"Shut up," you laughed back, smacking her with yours.

"It's cute!"

"It's immature, we're not 15," you chuckled.

"Don't be like that, just enjoy it. He's probably nervous as hell to actually make a move."

The two of you pulled off your shorts, setting them on the pool chair nearest the tub, and stepped in.

"I'm trying," you replied after a second, shuddering as the warmth of the water swept through your body. "But I'm getting frustrated."

"Ahh that feels good," Sumin sighed, sitting down beside you. "Listen, you make the first move if he's being so cagey. You already know he likes you."

"I know I should, I just need a good opportunity-"

"There you guys are!" Hongjoong called from the back door, prancing over with his drink in hand, ripping off his shirt. "It's so time for a soak."

He sat down beside you, but Sumin nudged him out of the way, wanting to maintain a space next to you in case bravery suddenly struck Wooyoung.

"I see how it is," Hongjoong joked, but moved comfortably, his friend Sana joining you all.

Finally Wooyoung poked his head out the door, catching your eye with the look of a question, which you answered with your eyes. You were attempting to make up for the somewhat harsh look you'd just given him moments ago; you softened your gaze, imploring him to move already.

He seemed to get the message. He turned San and started pushing him outside as he made some grand point, bickering with Woo for pushing him, but once the tub came into view he dropped his act and went rather silent. The other three in the tub had fallen into light chatter, and you watched as he and Wooyoung both stripped off their shirts, setting them right where Hongjoong had set his.

Woo stepped into the tub slowly, setting himself down beside you, leaving just a foot or so of space. It was close enough to make your heart race a bit; close enough to mean more than nothing. His lean arms and chest glowed in the colored lights, and his nose curved distractingly, catching your gaze.

"I hope my friends aren't being too crazy," he said, glancing over to the pool with the slightest furrow in his brow.

"Oh no, they're fine." You pulled your gaze away, forcing yourself to look too. The tall one, Yunho, and San's younger brother, Jongho, seemed to be racing.

"They're insane," San added.

"I kind of like it," you chuckled, smiling at them both.

"That's good news," Wooyoung chuckled back, slowly looking more relaxed, reaching an arm behind you, resting it on the ledge.

"Aren't more of them still coming?" 

"Yeah, they said they'd be here now. Must be taking their sweet ass time."

"As always," San laughed, his eyes clearly catching on Sana, who smiled back with the sweetest blush.

"You know her name is almost the same as yours," Hongjoong piped up, noticing the quick moment.

"I do," San laughed, the rest of you chuckling too, Sana looking embarrassed.

"I just think that's pretty funny," Joong continued.

"What a sophisticated sense of humor you have, Joongie," you teased, Sumin smiling in full on laughter, the tub feeling warmer by the minute.

"I gotta make fun of her somehow, she's literally perfect," Hongjoong pouted, turning to Sana and poking her.

"That she is," San added, and you and Sumin fell into each other, giggling with hands covering your mouths.

"Damn, San, you got game," Hongjoong nodded approvingly.

"Do you want another drink?" San asked in Sana's direction, ignoring the comment.

"Another martini would be nice," she smiled, moving subtly in his direction.

"Coming right up," he nodded, stepping out. You could see her eyes tracing the lines of his abdomen.

"San, bring me another beer!" Yunho called from the pool, downing the last of his current one.

"Me too!" Jongho added.

"Get your own damn drinks!" San yelled back, disappearing inside. 

"Do you want anything more?" Wooyoung asked once the laughter died down.

"No, honestly. Thanks for asking though."

"Neither do I," he smiled, scooting the littlest bit closer.

"You don't have to say that just cause I did," you laughed.

"I don't want to get sloshed tonight, I should really take it easy," he laughed. "Even if it sounds fun."

"I think they're getting sloshed enough for the rest of us." You nodded towards the pool.

"Definitely," he laughed. 

The two of you were silent for a moment. His gaze fell to yours, your body curling into him, ever so slightly, and you bit the inside of your bottom lip.

"You having a good time?" he asked.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" He smiled, shaking his head. "What's not up to your standard?"

"Nothing," you sighed.

"Tell me."

"I said it was nothing-"

"Tell me." You liked how it came out as almost a demand.

"You've barely talked to me."

"I'm talking to you now," he chuckled, his gaze stronger, so piercing it felt like he could see your soul.

"Yeah, but you didn't for like, an hour and a half."

"You were keeping track?"

You playfully punched at him again, sending splashes of water rocking through the tub.

"Woah, if it's gonna be like that go get in the pool," Sumin playfully scolded.

"Might as well," you sighed, pushing out of the tub with one hand on Wooyoung's shoulder. Things had chilled out a little at the pool, a few of the boys inside getting another round of drinks, so it seemed like the perfect time.

Just as you began to walk down the steps, shivering with the change of temperature, you heard a voice call out.

"Woo, we're here!"

You thought you recognized it, and whipping around, you realized you did. It was Seonghwa, the regular at the bakery, clad in the most casual clothes you'd ever seen him in.

"Finally," Woo answered him, walking over to greet him. Your eyes shot right to Hongjoong, still in the tub, doing an expert job of not appearing shocked. But you'd known him his whole life and could tell, just from that little flicker in his eyebrow, that he was practically shitting himself.

'You invited him?' you mouthed when he caught your eye. Joong shook his head furiously for a moment, before Seonghwa spotted him and everyone went a bit silent.

Until the next man tumbled out the back door.

"Mingi, show Wooyoung what you got-"

Mingi cut off his friend's words with a hand to the chest. He had spotted Sumin, there in the hot tub below him, and his face was pure shock he wasn’t even trying to hide.

"Oh, fuck no," you heard her mutter, jumping out of the tub and grabbing her towel, darting past him inside.

"Minnie, wait," you heard him say as he slunk in after her. Eyes were wide around, looks of confusion on everyone's faces. Wooyoung slowly made his way over to you.

"They used to date," you said, answering the question clearly in his eyes.

"I didn't realize she was his Sumin," he said, shaking his head.

"He told you about her?" you asked, settling on the top step of the pool.

"Of course." He sat down next to you. "He's crazy about her."

"I wonder if I should go after her."

"Let them figure it out," he said.

"She was already stressing this morning, I'm just worried-" you cut yourself off with a harsh breath.

"I think she'll be okay."

"But what if they have a fight, what if, I don't know, something happens?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know." You pouted at him, then looked down at the twinkling water, sighing.

"I think you need to stop worrying so much." You shot him a glare. "Or not, my bad."

But he was right and you knew he was. You could feel yourself spiraling, ever since your mother left, the unknowns of this new chapter of your life striking worry through you at every turn.

"She'll be fine," you sighed, coming back to yourself.

"How can I make it up to you?"

"What?"

"I've upset you, what can I do to make this pretty face happy again?" He brought a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, half wet from the tub.

"Let's have some fun," you smiled, before splashing water at him, diving away as quickly as you could to try and avoid his retaliation.

It was so much better to be fighting in the pool than thinking so much, his friends joining in on your side and splashing relentlessly. There were screams and laughs, attempts to knock you off balance; he was successful with many of these, being a far stronger swimmer than you were. Grappling under the water, you felt the electric fire that you wanted. All muscle and hands and veins popping out, the warmth of the pool doing wonders. Finally he relented, and breaths ragged, you both chilled out on the steps again.

"I like your tattoo," you said, raking your fingers along his inner forearm. 

"Yeah?" His body was buzzing with energy, you were almost sure he would kiss you again, right there in front of everyone, with how pent up he felt. Faces close, dripping with sweat and anticipation, his mouth was wide open, eyes taking you in. But he just spoke again. "Do you have any?"

"One, somewhere I can't show you out here," you chuckled, seeing his pupils dilate in front of your very eyes.

"Where?" he whispered.

"My hip," you whispered back. You pointed to the spot, right below the hem of your bikini bottoms, and his finger moved over yours, pulling it down slightly.

"Wooyoung," you gasped, shoving his hand away. You could hear titters behind you, looking back to see Hongjoong, Seonghwa, San and Sana lounging comfortably in the hot tub still, happy as can be.

If only Sumin and Mingi could make up, and Wooyoung could finally make the move you were hoping for, it might be a perfect night.

You stared longingly at him, almost awe struck, before his friends tumbled back outside again. So too did a bunch of the girls; it seemed everyone had started drinking games inside, and were bringing them out to the pool. Suddenly it was full, every person still present at the party jumping in.

“Everyone pair up, we’re gonna play chicken!” one of the boys called, giggles following in a giant chorus.  You could see J and Jongho already standing together, and everyone else was teasing and jostling for who they’d go with.

“Everyone wants Yunho cause he’s tall,” Wooyoung chuckled to you, watching multiple of Sumin’s sisters beg for his partnership.

“This is gonna be such a disaster,” you laughed, shaking your head.

It all started normally enough, the losing pair each round having to chug a beer between them.  Most of the boys took it upon themselves to take one for their team, but Isa wouldn’t let Yeosang take a singular sip; she had a weird thing about beer and chugging.

But soon enough it devolved into mostly just laughing and drunk chaos, and you really weren’t feeling it anymore.  Maybe it was because your normal bed time had passed and you just felt tired, but you couldn’t stand the noise.  You walked back to the tub to soak again, at least getting a little distance from it all, but Wooyoung didn’t follow.

“How are things?” Hongjoong asked as soon as you were in earshot, making space beside himself for you.  You could already see he and Seonghwa were far more comfortable than before; little touches, body language that was calm, serene.

“Good,” you smiled as you sunk in, smiling at Sana across the way.

“What exactly are they doing over there?” Seonghwa asked.

“I don’t know, they were playing chicken, but I’m not even sure anymore.”

You all watched as Wooyoung dove in after Jongho, the two tussling under water amidst the huge crowd that still stood in the shallow end of the pool.

“They’re crazy,” Seonghwa said, San laughing, and it seemed like some kind of inside joke.

“Does that include Wooyoung?” you asked, trying not to sound too desperate for more information about him.

San laughed.  “Definitely.  But not like the others.”

You watched as Yunho downed another beer, and blinked with surprise, wondering how many that was now.

“If they get too rowdy we can take them back to campus,” Seonghwa said, and San nodded.

“Oh, no, they’re fine.”  You tried to feel that way; why was it irking you so much that Wooyoung was over there with the drunk group?  “Have you guys seen Sumin and Mingi at all?”

“No,” was the response from everyone, heads shaking.

“Weird,” you sighed, the tub falling quiet, almost uncomfortably so.  You weren’t sure why this little nagging feeling of concern had come back so suddenly when just minutes ago you were certain of the evening’s near perfection.

“I’m gonna head in,” you suddenly decided.  With one more look at the pool you spotted Woo talking with Seiun, and it was enough to send your legs padding along.  You didn’t even bother drying yourself, just wrapped your towel around your back and headed in.

It was dead quiet, but the kitchen looked tornado stricken; most of the streamers were down now, deflated balloons dotting the floor, and along every counter were dirty plates and cups and empty beer bottles.  You swept a few into the garbage before stopping yourself; this was not the point of tonight, cleaning was supposed to happen tomorrow.  But that anxiety nipped at your heels and forced you to do something to assuage it; finally you decided you needed to find your best friend.

She didn’t answer a text right away, but you’d sort of figured that would happen.  She might not even be here anymore; there was no telling where her and Mingi had gone off to.  If she stayed you were pretty sure she would have come out hours ago, and you knew Mingi had a single dorm all to himself, a place she spent many nights those months ago.

You wandered.  Your parent’s master bedroom was down the hallway on the bottom floor, along with the small guest bathroom and a storage closet.  You peered into all three; no Sumin or Mingi in sight.  You walked upstairs; your room was empty, and so was the guest room.  You saw the mess Hongjoong had mentioned and chuckled to yourself, finding his total lack of organizational skills endearing as always.

There was only one more place to check.  The small theater was in the basement, a room originally designed as a cellar and extra storage space.  Your grandparents had helped your parents install the screen and couches that filled the space now when you were just a kid, and you had always thought what a fun hide out it would be if you actually had a boyfriend.

The stairs were carpeted, perfect for your covert operation, and you didn’t even need to hit the basement floor to know they were there.

It wasn’t anything dirty; just the bright sound of Sumin’s laugh, punctuated by a low voice, lilting as it almost certainly teased her.  You headed upstairs immediately; it felt too intimate, almost worse than hearing them fuck, but at least you knew she was safe and sound in the house, and sounded happy.

And her happiness would be enough for you.  Things just felt weird with Wooyoung, you couldn’t put your finger on it, but maybe they weren’t meant to be as you wished they were.  That was how it always went with boys, didn’t it; they were cute, or sweet, or utterly gorgeous, yet they hardly ever could be what you needed them to be.  He seemed more interested in his friends, in his life, than you.  Or he seemed scared to start something; you really couldn’t tell what it was, but there was some stumbling block, something you were tripping up against.

You took yourself upstairs to your room, deciding it was time to wash the chlorine from your hair and maybe lay down for the night.  You were tired, and you knew that exhaustion always clouded your thoughts in unhelpful ways.

You entered your bathroom, staring at your face in the mirror, water-proof mascara still mostly in place.  There was something in your eyes that you hadn’t seen before, and a wave of frustration hit you; a meltdown was coming, you were doing just what you thought you would.  Coming apart at the seams, you could see it in your eyes, your mother’s absence driving it all.  How could you have thought you could do it, that you were mature enough for this next step of independence?

You threw the towel on the floor, tired of thinking, tired of the confusing machinations of your brain.  Just as you began to untie your bikini bottoms, there was a knock at your bathroom door.

“Fuck, you scared me,” you jumped, a hand clutching at your chest.  Wooyoung stood in the doorway, a towel of his own around his back, wet hair clinging to his face.

“Sorry,” he chuckled, entering the room, resting a hip against the counter.

“Did the games end?”

“No,” he answered.

“They’re all still going?”  There was judgement in your tone that you couldn’t hide and a look on your face that mirrored it.

“Did you not have a good time tonight?” he asked.

“No, it was fine.”

He took in a sharp breath.  “Why would you have a party here if you don’t like parties?”

“I do like parties, you’ve seen me at one before,” you shot back, eyebrows low.

“I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“Sorry,” you sighed, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“What did I do?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve upset you, what did I do?” His tone was soft and his eyes were too, something you hadn’t seen from him yet.

“I just- it’s nothing, I’m being insane.”

“And I made you feel that way, didn’t I?”

“Maybe,” you relented, taking a deep breath.  Your heart rate was skyrocketing; you weren’t prepared in the slightest for this conversation.

“Why?”

“Cause it feels like you’re avoiding me.”  The words tumbled out in a rush.

“I’ve been busy this week-”

“Not just this week, I mean here at the party.  You barely talked to me until we got in the hot tub.  Then when your friends are playing crazy drinking games you’d rather hang with them than with me.”

He stood still a moment, just staring.  “You really hate drunk people, don’t you.”

“I guess I do,” you chuckled, his tone breaking the ice enough for your tension to begin to dissolve.

“If you want my attention, you just have to ask for it baby.”

“Well maybe I don’t want to ask.”

“Well how else am I supposed to know?”  He was smirking, leaning forward.

“What do you mean, you kissed me, of course I want your attention!” you laughed, mouth agape.

“I wasn’t sure if you did, you jumped away from me so fast when your friends came down the stairs-”

“You jumped away from me!” you broke in.

“And today-” he continued, stepping closer, “when everyone started arriving, you barely even looked at me.  You were just with the girls, making drinks.  You hardly seemed interested when I introduced my friends.”

You sighed.  “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was being like that.  There’s just never been so many people here, and I guess I don’t really like hosting.”  The realization washed over you in a rush.

“Then don’t ever do it again,” he smiled, stepping closer again, reaching his arms around you.

“Okay,” you smiled, melting into him, the kiss tender for a moment, but quickly deep, tongues and teeth, your hands pulling at each other.

“Of course I want to hang with you,” he chuckled, nipping at your neck, making your breath hitch.

“If you say so,” you joked, pulling back from him, resting against the counter too.

“What were you doing up here?”

“I was just gonna shower, I hate when chlorine’s in my hair too long,” you answered, playing with the strings of your bikini as you stared into his eyes.

His gaze sharpened, eyes narrowing a little at the corners.  He didn’t say a thing, but his lips tensed just the smallest amount, making you curious.

“What?” you asked.

“I think you know what.”  You thought you did too; you’d put the invitation out there, and were pretty sure it was fairly obvious, but were just waiting for him to take it.

“Just say it.”

He stared, taking another breath.  “Can I join you?”

“In the shower you mean?”  You were seconds from laughing, giddy with his admittance of interest.

And instead of answering he just put his lips on yours again, pulling you in through the shower door, closing it.  He turned on the water, breaking the kiss a moment; it was cold for a second, making you squeal and jump, knocking into him.  Once it turned to its comfortable warmth you were kissing again, his long hair trapped in your fingers, his own hands trailing down to untie your bottoms, hastily messing with the knots.

Once the spell of nervousness was broken it all happened so fast.  Your bikini fell to the floor, and so too did his trunks, kicked to the back corner.  You’d ripped off your top without even bothering to untie it; his hands were all over you, teasing every possible sensitive place, your nipples pebbling under his brief touches.  His lips moved to your neck and your head tipped back, warm water flooding over you, intoxicating you with its punishing heat.  His breaths were strong and ragged in your ear, his cock hard against your leg, twitching.

You reached down for it, making a satisfying whine rip from the depths of his throat.  It was an exhilarating moment of power, but one he ended quickly; reaching down to your core, he found you soaking and silky, running two fingers along your slit and making your whole spine go fuzzy with pleasure.

“Fuck,” you breathed, body almost going limp against the wall behind you.  He bit his lip and almost smiled, you could see through your hooded eyes, but kept his motions steady and certain, his fingers finding their place at your clit and rubbing slow, steady circles around it.  His lips found your neck again, then your mouth, his tongue sending waves of pleasure through you all the way to his hand.  It was pure fire you felt, completely enthralled; never had a simple touch felt so good, left you so devilishly high.

The orgasm came with a speed you didn’t expect; searing and electric, it trickled through the nerves of your fingers, toes, everywhere.  Once you came down your hands were all over him, pulling him in, almost crashing into the shower head.  He reached a hand out to hold you both steady, laughing as he bit down on your neck, nearly losing himself.  Something about the steam of the room was clouding everything, in a perfect haze that promised no thinking, only touch.  He needed you more than words could explain, and he couldn’t wait another second.

He turned you around, hands against the wall, and lined himself up.  Bending over you, he kissed up your back, your shoulders, your neck and your ear, as he slid in slowly, bottoming out with a satisfied groan.  You were already noisy, unable to help it; he fit like a glove, so utterly perfect, and his thrusts had the perfect level of force that left nothing more to possibly be desired.

It lasted longer than you could account for, really; so slow, sensual, pulling at the very essence of your being.  Every worry and confusion quelled, every question answered.  He reached down between your legs, your body flush and close, rubbing your clit as he fucked you, your body reacting in need.  The orgasms were one after the other, each stronger than the last, your legs spent and shaking by the end, hardly holding you up.  His groans became stronger, and you pulled his head to your neck again, trying to stifle them, but it hardly mattered with the water raging above you.

He finished with a few strong, fast thrusts, your cunt fluttering around him, so spent.  He held you up, turning you, kissing you strongly again as you rested against the wall.  You pulled back and dropped your head against his chest, holding on as you grounded yourself, and suddenly felt his hands moving through your hair, shampooing it.  You nearly collapsed again from the way your heart squeezed; his fingers on your scalp completely tantalizing, you breathed softly, letting him rinse it out too.  He then squeezed some on his own head, cleaning his hair in haste, moving you out of the way to rinse it so it wouldn’t get in your eyes.

That night, curled under the sheets of your bed, it happened again.  Touches, kisses led to so much more, and soon you found yourself under him, legs wrapped around his hips, his hair brushing over your face as he buried himself in you again.  

Saturday, February 14th - 12:21pm

“Wait, so you were happy to see him?” you asked Sumin.

It was nearing the end of your shift, Valentine’s always a busy, crazy day at the bakery, and you finally had the chance to sit down.  Hongjoong had come just for the day to help out, even though Sumin had tried to fight it, but in the end you all were thankful.  The extra pair of hands had really come in handy, and the whirlwind had left you all a little delirious.

“Well, yeah, honestly,” she answered, sliding into the bench beside you.  Hongjoong sat across, downing a cup of coffee and a quesadilla, listening with rapt interest.

“They why did you run inside when he came?”

“Cause I didn’t want him to be all mushy and shit in front of everyone.”

“But you did want it.”

“Yeah, that text pissed me off.  It was nothing.”

You laughed.  “It was.”

“Like truly don’t text me anything if that’s how it’s gonna be,” she answered, laughing.  “You know? I knew he wanted to say more but he just didn’t.”

“You guys back together now?” Joong asked.

“Yeah, we are,” Sumin smiled.

“And you and Seonghwa?” you asked him.

“We’re hooking up,” he smiled.

“Men,” you laughed, shaking your head.

“What about you and Wooyoung?”

“We just started dating, we’re not officially together yet,” you answered him, sticking out your tongue.

“Wow, having sex before you’re officially together, how could you,” he teased.

“I’m gonna slap you,” you answered.

“Hey guys,” Seiun stumbled in from the front, whipping around the door.  “Three guys are here to see you.  Can I let them back?”

“How the fuck do they know we’re all here?” you laughed.

“I told Seonghwa.”

“Joong!  So you’re hooking up and texting each other constant updates?”

“He just asked this morning, I don’t know,” he shrugged.

“Let them back, it’s fine,” Sumin answered, her opinion the only one that really mattered.  It was rare for non-employees to be let back here, but she was certainly allowed to break that rule when she wanted.

The three shuffled back in almost embarrassing silence, so tense and awkward, and you couldn't help laughing at them, Sumin and Hongjoong breaking into giggles too.

“What the hell is this?” Hongjoong laughed.

“Just give us a second,” Mingi answered, one hand coming up, the other seemingly stuck behind his back.  You realized the other two had their hands clasped the same way, and you gave Woo a questioning look.  His hair was soft and fluffy, and the puffy jacket and loose jeans he wore were the picture of coziness.  You really just wanted to get up and hug him, but as you stood Mingi interrupted.

“Wait, stay seated,” he said.  “Ok guys, ready?”

The other two looked at him sideways and nodded.

“One, two, three,” he continued.

“Happy Valentine's Day!” they all cried, whipping huge flowery bouquets from behind their backs, each finally approaching.

“Oh my god,” you laughed as Wooyoung handed you yours, bright white and purple flowers filling it, the smell sweet and beautiful.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he chuckled, leaning down to place a peck on your lips.  “I know this is kind of silly but Mingi really wanted us to do it,” he whispered, sitting down beside you.  

Sumin had risen already and was kissing Mingi by the fridge, and Hongjoong and Seonghwa were full on laughing, a less domestic but still cheerful picture.  There was nothing about the scene that you could hate; your two best friends happy, and you getting what you want, the sweet and smart and sexy boy, pretty as can be.

“It’s perfect,” you answered him, kissing again, nuzzling tight into the crevice of his shoulder.

[minkieater]

THIS IS SO CUTIEEEEEE oh rough around the edges dont judge a book by its cover wooyo how much i love you. smut was so sexy hot i want him so badsnsnsbsbnasnja i loved this so much nana omdf i Love Jung Wooyoung

[minkieater]

MET YOU ONCE UNDER A PISCES MOON ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

THE WORLD MAKES MORE SENSE IF YOU STAND ABOVE IT.

The faraway coastline could be heaven, you think, blinding lights of still-lit buildings exploding stars in your vision, much less beautiful than the ones overhead. So close you could touch them, a dance with Andromeda, a kiss from Orion, they waltzed with the moon, making the sun jealous in her slumber.

Maybe it's you who's jealous, so high off moonlight you might ascend to sway with them, too. They smile down at you, though, keeping you where you stand, elevated just enough to make out the glass of your eyes, they tell you where you’re supposed to be like they lined the path.

Everything seems small where you stand. Looking down upon a city that should be sleeping beside the sun, it was awake as you, cars and streetlights and people who might yearn to dance with the moon, too. What seems so big when you’re down there, among them, walking in stride, so meaningful. Now so… insignificant. Particles of dust compared to what looked down on them from above.

“Careful.”

It doesn’t surprise you, like his voice carried a message. Your neck cranes, glassy eyes on display, the air feels colder, maybe you’re just now feeling it. Coming out of the darkness, he might be shadow himself, dark hair and dark clothes and high resting features that sparkle under the evening spotlight. Your lip curls upward— a polite gesture at most.

“There’s a party inside, you know,” his voice is playful, light, he leans sideways against the fence, a steel rail that corners around the squared rooftop. It's sturdy, cold to the touch, enough to burn; a reminder of what’s beyond.

“There's a party out here,” you respond in one breath, head tilting upward again, a deep, polluted cloud steadfastly riding the wave of night, as if the constellations closed the curtain on their performance.

He doesn't look up to follow your gaze, instead he drinks you in, deep gown bleeding into the concrete beneath you, hair blanketing your body. He shifts on his feet, turning so his arms bend over the fence, mirroring your stance.

You give the man a sideways glance, “Do you smoke?”

He nods once, dark hair falling over his eyes as he does, “Need a light?”

Pulling the carton from your clutch, placing a stick between your lips, you take a step toward him, facing him to take his lighter from his fingers. You look up at him as he keeps his lit cigarette between his curled lips, really look at him as he flicks the lighter.

He lights your cigarette for you with galaxies in his eyes. As if he stole from the sky just so the constellations could see you closer, darkness swirling in silver theft, Sagittarius stared back, smiling, gleaming. You took a step back, two fingers pulling the stick from your lips, smoke and wonder filling the space between you.

He smiles, ashing the cigarette over the ledge, you watch as particles of black and gray float through the frigid air, carried by the translucent cloud of charcoal he pushes through his lips. His voice rips you awake, huskier now, layered by menthol and tobacco, “Not one for parties?”

“Not work ones,” enough honesty slips through your tone to surprise yourself, “not in the mood to get drunk with the guy who sits in the cubicle beside mine.”

“I don't think Yunho’s all that bad.”

Your eyes snap to him as you bring the cigarette back to your lips. He knows you, then— the cunning smile on his smooth, pink lips tells you he knows more than you think he does. You pop a brow, head tilting, smoke blowing from your wind-chapped lips straight into his face. He doesn’t react.

“Do you look at the stars often?” He asks instead, forgoing an answer from you, still vying for more information while you know nothing of him.

You shift to your other heeled foot, “What do you see when you look at them?”

Elbows over the ledge again, his body turned straight, he has three fingers on the cigarette. His eyes squint, brows furrowed, he stares at the red tipped cherry as he blows smoke above his head, away from you. Turning only his head to eye you, over his suit-clad bicep, “Space, I guess. Constellations, maybe, if I could remember any.”

You hum, disappointed, flicking the butt over the ledge. You don’t watch as it soars past stories to the ground below, you don’t guess which direction the wind takes it.

“Which one is your favorite?” he asks, dropping the butt of his cigarette to the concrete, the heel of his boot muddling it to a splatter of ash and a single frayed, yellow-stained filter.

“Stars tell a story if you stick around long enough to listen,” you keep your clutch between your hands, braced at your waist like you’d turn on your heel in a moment. Something inside you keeps your mouth moving. “It isn’t which constellation is my favorite, but which story. Perseus and Andromeda.”

“You're a romantic, then,” a curve to his lips, amusement, another fact learned. “You look to the stars for love.”

“You won’t find love in the stars,” a short, bitter laugh pushes past your lips, you almost snort on the inhale. “You might find guidance, if you know where to look.”

“Do you know where to look?” He leans into the rail again, elbowing it, curious as a cat.

“So many questions,” you sing, head tilting in amusement, “from a man I don’t even know.”

“There are no strangers here, only friends you haven’t met yet.”

Your jaw ticks, “Do you often recite poet’s lines to women you meet on rooftops?”

“When opportunity allows,” he shrugs, the face of nonchalance. A face that’s quite beautiful, you allow yourself to realize. Skin still deeply bronzed beneath pale moonlight, faint city glow keeping him golden, he seemed muscular beneath the layers of his two piece suit. “Do you often hide on rooftops during work parties to meet with men who recite poets?”

“I must admit, this is a first,” a smile is clawing at your cheeks now, and you wish you could shove it down. It's always been this you couldn’t fight, with any man that had a silver tongue.

“Tell me, Stargirl, do you know where to look?”

You don’t like the tumble your tummy takes at his question, the voice he used to ask it. Velvet smooth, silky, it pulls you inward, the only realization you have of movement is the sound of your stiletto against concrete. You look upward to find the cloud has cleared, the curtains reopened to a show you had become the star of, a path aligned for you alone.

“To find Perseus and Andromeda,” you begin, turning Northward, finger pointed at the sky, “first you look North, sometimes it’s easier to find the North Star first, but, find Cassiopeia, kind of a W shape, which sits next to its family.”

He leans closer to you, enough so you could smell the smoke on him, mixed with something heavier, nostalgic, perhaps sandalwood. You lean into it instinctively, moving your pointed finger to show him, “Perseus is below, then Andromeda. Cepheus kind of looks like a house, Andromeda is connected to Pegasus, which makes sense because Pegasus helped rescue her with Perseus, but that’s a whole thing, and– I’m rambling now.”

You only need to turn a singular degree to find him smiling at you, all warmth, the lines in his cheeks proving it's entirely affectionate. Your stomach sours, heat suffocating you, you think it could also be butterflies. Opting for the former feels safer.

“Cute,” his voice is quieter, soothing, “you really are a Stargirl.”

You’re too aware of your closeness. The wind pushes against you like it’s moving you, a frigid and fleeting gust of wind, it slides your dress enough for ice to nip at your ankles. His hair covers his eyes, he runs a hand through it, it lays perfectly framing his cheekbones. You bite the inside of your cheek.

“What’s your name?” You finally ask, looking up at him through heavy lashes that took you ten full minutes to apply earlier this evening.

“Wooyoung,” he keeps your closeness like he invited you into his space himself. “What other stories do you know?”

“Are you writing an essay and using me as a source?” You tilt your head, playful smile on your lips. Your gut tells you one thing and your body does another, an act of ignorance that has never once in your life ended well. Maybe Wooyoung was for breaking cycles under December moonlight.

A chuckle leaves his lips, head dropping forward with his shaking shoulders. Lifting his head, he makes it a show to let Sagittarius eyes drop to your lips for a second, “Just a guy who recites poets trying to learn more about a beautiful girl.”

“Maybe if you recited some more I’d be further inclined.” Are you flirting back now? The idea feels ridiculous. You shift on your feet again, licking your lips, looking toward the steel door that would bring you back to reality. “Somewhere less cold, I’d prefer.”

A glance back up at the stars. You could have sworn Andromeda frowned.

There was no room in your life for a man with eyes like the stars. You were practicing constraint now, too much heartbreak beneath your belt, you’ve already spread yourself too thin. History tempted you tonight, masked by bronzed skin kissed by the moon, smooth words and the comfort of menthol, cheekbones carved by someone who lived long, long ago. And he knows you. Wooyoung.

You wouldn’t fall for it again. You wouldn’t spare him a second thought.

masterlist

[everynightillbeyoursign]

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I'm also leaving my other socials here mwah mwah <3

I had so much fun designing this lol, did that instead of my uni assignments

I might post some of my edits here from time to time aand if I’m lucky and finish my drawings, I’ll share those here too ayee🫀🍒