GENRE ─ romance. established relationship. intimacy. childhood friends to dating.
synopsis ⟢ you’re in a happy relationship with professional football star — sim jake… but dating an athlete comes with its own challenges, especially when he can’t seem to keep his hands off you.
CONTENT & WARNINGS : sexting (written) explicit sexual content, mature language, consensual intimacy, smut with plot, 18+
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Jake is sprawled across his bed, shirtless and restless, his usual post-practice routine of stretching or gaming abandoned entirely because all he can think about is you. As always. The clock on his nightstand mocks him: 5:47 PM. Only thirteen minutes until your tutoring session ends, and he’s counted every minute like a prisoner.
You’re the schools smartest girl. Top grades, student council president, valedictorian…everything one could aspire to be. Because of this, the school forces you to tutor lower grade students every Friday after school for two hours. Jake is ridiculously proud of you, of course. But he also hates Fridays with a passion. Those two hours belong to someone else instead of him, and in Jake’s eyes, that’s two hours too many.
He doesn’t like it. At all.
His phone lights up with another ignored notification, the fifth in ten minutes, and he groans loudly frustrated, tossing his head back against the pillows. His bare muscular chest rises and falls quickly; his sweatpants are riding low on his hips, straining slightly from where he’s been shifting restlessly for the past hour. The room smells like him, warm skin and that stupidly expensive cologne he bought last month that he only wears when he knows you guys are having sex. He’s extra needy today, fuck all day he’s been absolutely craving you. Your beautiful face beneath him, your beautiful moans, your everything.
He grabs his phone typing for the fifteenth time this hour alone.
jakey 🐶
miss u so bad rn
A pause. He adds a photo: one hand braced above his head while the other rests on his toned stomach near the waistband of those sinful sweatpants. No shirt. Just smooth muscle, which is half threat half plea because holy shit does it take effort not to palm himself through these sweatpants right now. Instead, he shifts onto his stomach with a groan, muscles tense from holding back all day and grabs another pillow to press against the growing heat between his legs. A whine escapes him as friction teases through thin fabric before stopping himself completely. No. Not until you’re here where he belongs inside you not some stupid pillow pretending be your pussy.
He’s been good. so good.
No touching himself yet, because that would be cheating. He wants you , not some pathetic substitute when your body is so much better at making him come undone anyway. But fuck if it isn’t hard (in more ways than one). His sweatpants hang dangerously loose on his hips; there's a very obvious tent forming beneath them as he shifts again just thinking about how long it's been since he last had you pressed under him or above him or bent over (it’s only been two days. but that’s way too long for him anyway.)
The silence from your end makes frustration coil tight inside his stomach, but it’s quickly swallowed by something worse. That loneliness clawing its way up his chest whenever he’s away from you for too long. Too long without seeing you, hearing your voice, touching you, holding you, loving you.
Your phone vibrates again and again… and again.
jakey 🐶
my…. cock ….
On your hand, you finally finish tutoring and the first thing you see is the 50+ messages from jake mentioning his dick. God. This is what you get for dating an athlete.
pretty girl 💕
what the hell are u on about
Jake practically launches off the bed the second he hears your text notification, phone nearly flying out of his grip as he scrambles to check it. His heart is already pounding, blood rushing south at just seeing your name pop up on his screen after what felt like an eternity. The second he sees your name, that stupidly eager grin splits across his face, all frustration forgotten in an instant because finally, you’re texting him back.
He reads: ‘what the hell are u on about", and for a solid two seconds, his brain short-circuits. Because you ignored him for two fucking hours, Two hours of nothing but needy texts and zero replies. And now you’re acting confused? Like he’s the weird one here? His face screws up in a mix of frustration and desperate amusement. He literally sent you 87 needy texts, 10 photos of his dick and about 5 voice notes that are basically just breathy whimpers and moans for an hour straight.
"You're kidding me," he mutters under his breath in disbelief, “she really just—"
jakey 🐶
my cocckkuugggghhhh
ahh it’s twitching
if only i had my pretty girl sucking on it… ❤️❤️
The fifth message follows instantly with another photo: this time zoomed in slightly lower, his sweatpants stretched tight across his thick thighs and a very obvious outline straining against the fabric. No subtlety whatsoever. Just raw desperation. The second he hits send, he flops onto his back again with a groan, one muscular arm slung over his eyes dramatically while the other hand drifts lower on instinct… only to freeze halfway there. No. Not until you’re here, in his arms, where you belong.
But holy shit, he needs you so bad it hurts. He would come pick you up as usual, but he’s too hard to even drive. He’d probably crash remembering how you feel riding him. So laying in his bed like a fucking pornstar it is.
You can’t help smiling to yourself. This is what you have to deal with every single day, your ridiculously clingy (and horny) boyfriend. It’s impossible to stay annoyed at him for long, not when he’s always been like this. Ever since you were little, you’ve called him puppy because that’s exactly what he reminds you of: your own golden retriever, always wanting your attention. You quickly type out a reply, already on your way to his house.
pretty girl 💕
yeah okay 👍
i’m omw
patience puppy
Jake practically vibrates with anticipation the moment he reads your text, your adorable "patience puppy" making his chest swell and his cock throb in equal measure. The nickname alone is enough to melt him into a puddle of goo all the time, You called him that when you were kids playing tag in the park after school, back when he'd chase after you just to tackle-hug and make dumb kissy noises at your cheeks until you giggled too hard to run anymore. Even then, even as children... it was clear: Jake belonged right by your side. Your clingy, over affectionate golden retriever who just happens to also be insanely good at fucking you stupid.
The second he processes "i'm omw,” his entire body tenses like a spring loaded toy. He scrambles off the bed so fast it feels like it spins beneath him, his bare feet hitting the floor as he bolts towards the bathroom without another second wasted.
Shower. Now.
He can't have you arriving to some sweaty post-workout mess (even though honestly? You’d still ride him if that was the case, and have before, but we don’t talk about that). But no, he always wants to smell nice for you. Wants every inch of himself clean and presentable when those pretty hands finally touch him again after hours too long apart.
The water hits scalding hot, the way you always say helps relax tight muscles, and Jake groans as steam fills up around him quickly; scrubbing himself down with frantic efficiency while muttering under his breath about how long this drive better not take… A record time of seven minutes later: dripping wet and towel slung low on his toned hips, already half-hard again just from imagining all things they’re gonna do tonight.
Puppies don't wait patiently.
Especially not ones starved for their favourite person all day long.
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The second the front door clicks shut behind you, jake is on you. No hesitation, no patience left in his body. His large hands immediately find your waist as he crashes his lips onto yours with a hunger that makes your knees weak. There’s no greeting, no soft usual “hey baby”, just pure need as his lips slant over yours in a messy kiss that steals your breath away before you can even form words.
You barely manage to mumble against his starving lips, “What about- ”
Jake doesn't even let you finish your sentence, your muffled protest gets swallowed by his hungry kiss. The bedroom door gets shoved open with more force than necessary. His large hands are everywhere at once, impatiently tugging at fabric like it's personally offending him that there's still clothes separating your skin from his.
"Parents gone," he rasps against your swollen lips—voice wrecked beyond recognition already just from tasting you again after hours apart. "Two days."
Meaning? You're not leaving this room unless it's for food or water, and even then? Only if he carries you there himself so no time is wasted being separated.
A trail of discarded clothing leads straight to the bed, your shirt flung over a chair, skirt dropped somewhere near the doorway, shoes kicked off haphazardly. He breaks the kiss only long enough to yank his own towel off (it hits the floor with a wet slap) ; that thick length of him springing free and already leaking against your thigh. No patience. Not when it's been hours since he felt you wrapped around him. He breaks the kiss only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jawline, nipping at sensitive spots that make you whimper, as one large hand slides between both of your thighs, fingers spreading through your slickness instantly.
"Fuck," he rasps against your lips, "already so wet for me?" Two fingers push inside without warning, hitting the spot deep within has your toes curling instantly while your hips jerk upward into his touch greedily, before he’s meanly pulling out and on you again, mouth hot and demanding against yours while walking backward toward his bed.
He stumbles forward slightly before gently laying you the onto soft sheets already rumpled from earlier when anticipation had him rolling around waiting for this exact moment. The second your back hits the mattress, he’s on you like a man starved: hands yanking at fabric, teeth grazing your lip before diving back in for another searing kiss. There's a hunger in the way his tongue slides into your mouth, possessive and demanding as he devours you in desperate, needy little whimpers.
Jake lets out a low,filthy groan against your lips as you arch into him, his large hands immediately gripping the back of your thighs to wrap them around his bare waist. His tongue swipes over yours in rough, possessive strokes while his hips grind forward desperately against yours.
"Fuck- " he rasps between kisses, "missed you so much..."
A sharp thrust of his hips pins you harder to the bed as the same hand snakes between your bodies again, just needing to feel how wet and ready for him you are already. His thumb circles over that sweet pussy once before sliding two fingers inside without warning just because watching those pretty eyes flutter shut makes him see stars too.
His fingers curl, impatient, and desperate, to be inside you, now but also to tease like the man has all the self-control in the world, and his lips move to your neck, tongue laving over the sensitive skin in hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses. His teeth graze over that sensitive spot just below your ear, nipping playfully where it always makes you whimper as those fingers pump and curl inside you lazily with practiced familiarity. Jake’s breath comes in ragged bursts, his forehead pressing against yours as he watches your face, every flicker of pleasure, every hitch in your breathing*
“Look at me baby,” he demands hoarsely, “Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come on my hand.”
The second your thighs instinctively tighten around his fingers, that barely-there whimper catching in your throat, “Jake-”, his grin widens, sharp and hungry, as he takes your small hand in his free one as he takes your fingers inside his mouth, tongue pressing flat against your palm in one long, deliberate drag. He slows down his fingers under you, on purpose as his tongue drags over your fingertips with torturous precision, swirling around each one before. His tongue darts between your fingers quick mimicking the exact rhythm he uses when he’s buried between your thighs before pulling them from his mouth in a way that makes you swallow.
“Almost whined for me didn’t you baby?” His voice is rough, dripping with smug satisfaction as he leans in his lips brushing your ear with every word. “Bet you’re remembering how good this tounge feels somewhere else hm?”
He pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you, his gaze dark and hungry before dragging his tounge slowly over his bottom lip as his fingers continue sliding through your slick with ease.
Gosh he’s so shameless with you.
He presses a kiss to your jaw, chuckling when your hips jerk against his hand for more, but because he’s a tease, he pulls his fingers from your soaked core before you come just to make you suffer for leaving him dry for those two hours.
You groan already wrecked, pupils dilated, he just knows how to get you all needy and wet before he even does anything. You tug him closer on top of you by his neck, pouting up at him, knowing that’s his biggest weakness. “You’re so mean you know that?”
Jake’s eyes already dark with lust and affection, lock onto yours, pupils swallowing the warm brown as he watches your reaction, your pupils blown wide, lips slightly parted as you stare up at him with that perfect mix of innocence and hunger he loves unraveling. He loves this. Loves unraveling you, piece by piece, until the sweetest girl on earth is reduced to a trembling mess under him.
Without warning, Jake immediately claims your mouth in another bruising kiss. This time it’s messy, all teeth and tongue and barely-contained hunger as if trying to steal back every moan you just made around him. One large hand grips under your thigh while the other tangles roughly into your hair tilting your head back further in the position he loves, owning every inch offered painting a clear message he’s never let you once forget: I own every part of you.
His free hand grips your hip hard enough that bruises might bloom later (not that you guys care because he’ll kiss them better later) while grinding himself shamelessly against you.
“Fuck,” he grits out between filthy kisses. “Need inside right now.”
No more waiting.
He pulls back just enough to look down at you-his breathing ragged, his lips swollen from kissing you senseless. His eyes burn into yours flickering between hunger and love because even now? Even during moments where lust takes over completely? There's still so much love shining through every glance. His thumb swipes across your bottom lip, smearing the saliva there as he studies your face-the flushed cheeks, the dazed eyes full of want that only ever appear for him. The sight punches straight through his chest like always. He knows what comes next. He's done this a thousand times: teasing until you're a writhing mess beneath him, then demanding those little letters like they're oxygen and he's drowning without them. His voice drops lower, a velvet rasp laced with playful dominance as his other hand trails down your side possessively.
“Say it.”
He knows. Of course he knows you want this. He can feel it in the way your body arches toward him, in the heat between your thighs pressing against his hard length, but he needs to hear it. Always has. It’s not control, not really. It's devotion. A ritual only you two share. Him hovering over you like this, breath ragged with restraint even though every muscle is coiled tight with need… and waiting for those three little words from your lips before he claims them properly.
"Say yes," he murmurs—voice thick and low like velvet dragged over gravel, “C'mon baby… tell me."
The request isn’t demanding or impatient, never is, it's soft a whisper of devotion disguised as a command because saying "yes" isn't just permission for him… it's worship. Every time those syllables leave your mouth? His soul fucking ignites. Not because he doubts how badly you want this. Never that. He knows. You’re always wet for him. Your body arches into his touch like a prayer answered without words.
But hearing it? Hearing you say you want him just as much as he wants you? That's everything.
You whisper so quietly he almost doesn't catch it, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. That familiar innocent expression settles on your face, the one that always makes him smile because he knows you better than anyone else.
"I want you, Jake."
The words steal the last of his patience. It's unfair how much power you hold over him without even trying.
One second, he’s hovering above you, the next? He opens your thighs to lay in between them, pinning your back against the bed as he nudges himself in your entrance.A slow, filthy grind of hips has him sinking into that tight heat inch by agonisingly perfect inch, groaning like a man receiving salvation itself when you clench around him on instinct.
“Fuck… always so fucking perfect.” he rasps as he finally sinks in home. His hands grip under your thighs hard enough to bruise, as he starts moving in a brutal pace from the start because patience has never been his strongest suit when it comes to being inside of you.
The slap of skin echoes off the walls mixed with gasps and choked moans ripped from both their throats every time he bottoms out inside you, that sweet spot inside you, he knows you love, getting hammered relentlessly on each forward drive.
”Look at me baby,” he demands again through gritted teeth, his free hand lifting your chin, “Want those pretty eyes watching how good I wreck this pussy.”
A particularly sharp thrust knocks a high moan from your beautiful lips which only makes him growl possessively before crashing his mouth onto you’re again - swallowing every sound you make while fucking up into dizzy bliss. His breath comes in rough, uneven bursts as he pounds into you with his usual relentless stamina, every snap of his hips a claiming thrust with each ragged groan torn from his chest, the sound muffled only by the bruising kiss he keeps stealing from your lips between filthy promises. His hands grip your thighs tighter, not enough to hurt. Never that. But firm enough to leave his possessive imprints on your soft skin. Every time he bottoms out inside of you, a broken moan spills past his lips because that perfect clench of yours around him his fucking maddening. Like heaven squeezing down just for him.
“Fuck- fuck, oh baby,” he rasps against your lips in breathy whimpers. “You were made just- fuck, just for me..”
A particularly deep grind has him seeing stars behind his closed eyelids, the wet heat surrounding every inch of his cock is too much and not enough all at once. A sharp cry escapes you as one particularly brutal thrust nails that spot deep inside you and instantly Jake locks onto it like predator scenting blood.
There.
That’s where I’m gonna make my girl come first today.
"Right there baby?" He growls darkly before repeating the angle over and over again with no mercy whatsoever. "Gonna feel this dick everywhere tomorrow."
Jakes hands grip your hips with bruising intensity as you arch into him, each movement sending waves of pleasure through him. His eyes, dark and hungry lock onto yours, watching every flicker of ecstasy on your face like it’s the most sacred thing in the world. Because to him? It is. He was always obsessed with you. From the moment he realized love existed beyond crayons and playgrounds, it was you. The sweet girl who shared her snacks with him when he forgot lunch. The one who held his hand during thunderstorms because she knew he hated them.
But then puberty hit, and suddenly Jake wasn’t just a clingy kid anymore; he was a teenage boy burning for you in ways that made his chest ache at night, a hunger so intense he practically lost training time studying porn tutorials quietly online beforehand so that he’d be able to give you everything the first time because you’re everything to him. (not that he’d ever admitted to you). He waited (barely) until they turned 18 before claiming what had been his since childhood: your body.
That summer night, when he finally kissed you properly after years of chaste, innocent pecks, and then ruined your innocence in the best way possible. Back when his hands trembled with awe and worship, holding your waist for the first time bare beneath him. Now? He’s a seasoned lover, every thrust precise, every touch designed to unravel you completely. But that same desperate devotion lingers; how his breath hitches whenever your walls flutter around him, how he murmurs sweet nothings between filthy commands.
A groan tears from his throat as you clench around him mid-thrust. that sinful pulse that never fails to wreck his self-control even after all this time together (which says something given how often they fuck). He taught you everything: how to kiss properly against lockers between classes, where hands go during makeout sessions, eventually leading up to this, your first time taking every inch of him.
His fingers dig into your flesh, urging faster movements even as sweat drips down both their bodies. The contrast is everything: this gentle man who brings you breakfast from your favourite cafe every morning without fail, who worships the ground you walk on since they were five… the same one currently growling above you like a feral beast because you clench him so perfectly.
"Fuck—yes," he grits out through clenched teeth, "Take it all baby."
And you do.
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݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ yayaya first post chat how do we feel about it this was my first time writing smut so lmk what i need to improve on !!
୨ৎ Welcome to the Enhypen Campus Series — seven stories, seven different versions of you, and seven unforgettable encounters with the members of Enhypen. Each chapter drops you into a new campus setting, where a different trope takes center stage: from enemies-to-lovers with the aloof student council president, to your typical she fell firdt, he fell harder trope and everything in between.
lmk if u want to be tagged for this series | masterlist @sheseung
- ☆ Heeseung (exes to lovers)
crawling back to you
- ☆ Jay (academic rivals)
secretly yours
- ☆ Jake (popular!fuckboy x reader, just a bet)
pt. 1 love, lies, and sim jake
pt. 2 from dare to you
- ☆ Sunghoon (she fell first, he fell harder, introvert!sunghoon x talkative reader)
pt 1 my voice stops where you begin
pt 2 project: park Sunghoon
- ☆ Sunoo (best friend to lovers) coming soon…
- ☆ Jungwon (sunshine!jungwon x grumpy yn)
the quiet between us
- ☆ Niki (grumpy nonchalont niki x sunshine reader )
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : college AU, smut (MDNI), exes-to-lovers, fast paced
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : swearing, jealousy, possessive behavior, ni-ki is the annoying ex, mention of cheating, mention of alcohol, smoking/vaping, hickeys, unprotected sex, p in v, fingering, orgasm denial, light degradation, condescending praise
𝐰𝐜 : 6.5k {6.509}
❗️ None of the characters are meant to represent their real-life selves. Everything in this story is fictional and created purely for entertainment.
INSPIRED BY : Ur All Mine - Westwood
You sit across from Danielle at a small café table, your sketchbook open but ignored. She stirs her drink and leans in. “Maki’s birthday party is this weekend. You should just make it official with him already. You’ve been flirting for weeks.”
You nod once, eyes on the foam in your cup. Official sounds simple when she says it. In practice, it means another text from Ni-ki, obviously. He coincidentally always finds out about your dating history after him. Last month it was some guy from your art history class. The month before, a barista. Each time the message arrives at odd hours and it's always a question or a rude observation, never asking to get back together nor admitting jealousy. He only wants to remind you he knows.
You set your cup down. “I’ll think about it.”
Danielle raises an eyebrow. “That’s it? Come on. Maki’s pretty fun. You two click.”
You shrug. The real reason sounds so stupid that if you tell her what it really is, she will never let it go. Ni-ki works his underground gigs, tags walls at night, within the fact that he's disgustingly rich. He stays out of your classes and your schedule. You study late in the studio, mix paints, build installations. Neither of you reaches out first anymore and it’s great like that. But your dating life? That pulls him back every time, like clockwork.
The party is two days away. You already know how it will go.
You lean back in your chair and tap your fingers on the edge of the table while thinking. “Yeah, maybe.”
Danielle snorts. “Maybe? Be fucking for real. He’s been texting you every day. What’s the hold up?”
You pick up your cup and take a sip. “It’s not that deep. I’ll see how the party goes.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don't make it a big deal, anyway. You can't let men get to your head.”
You nod once and change the topic to her upcoming exam. Inside your head, you could already picture the message that will come after the party. Ni-ki, jealous as always, pretending he doesn’t care. And of course he will never miss an opportunity to make a mean comment on the guys you talk to, or even try to ruin the beginning of a flirt. Even if he’s the one who fucked all this up and made you who you are now. All of that, without holding an entire conversation with you.
You push open the door to your apartment and drop your bag on the couch. Your phone rings when you’re about to sit down. It’s written Maki on the screen.
“Hey, are you coming to my party Saturday?” he asks right away.
“Of course, I’ll be there.”
“Cool. Do you wanna match outfits? Wear white. We’ll look good together.”
You chuckle. “Damn, bossy as hell. What if I wear black just to fuck with you?”
“Hmm, then I’ll find you and make you change. Or take it off. Your call.”
“Keep dreaming.” you say, smiling despite yourself. The back and forth stays light for another minute and you bring yourself to tell him you need to finish some sketches.
“See you Saturday then, white outfit. Don’t you dare flake.”
You hang up and toss the phone on the bed. A few minutes later you open Instagram. One of your classmate’s stories pops up first. You scroll through it and freeze. In the background, clear as day, Ni-ki stands close to some girl, his hand near her waist while she laughs at one of his stupid joke he probably said. Of course it’s confusing when your ex ; who did you dirty ; exposes himself without an ounce of shame with another girl, and has the nerve to make a single comment on your situationship.
“Fuck.” you mutter under your breath. You close the app, set your phone face down, and turn off the light to drift into sleep.
───
You wake up. It’s Thursday morning and you text Danielle to meet for shopping. By ten you both walk through the mall, racks of clothes between you. You pull out a short plain white dress and hold it up.
“This one?”
Danielle nods. “Try it. Maki said white, right? I think it’ll work.”
You change in the fitting room, step out, and turn to look at the overall. You subtly notice that it bunches up behind your butt when you walk, but it’s not going to be a big of a problem, is it?. Who cares anyway? The dress fits so you obviously buy it. After that you head to the food court and split a large order of fries and two sandwiches at a table by the window.
Halfway through your food you look at her. “Do you think I’ve changed since the breakup?”
Danielle chews and swallows. “Yeah, I do. After Ni-ki you actually moved on. You stopped sitting around waiting for whatever that was. Now you flirt back when guys like Maki show interest. It’s good. You seem so much more lighter.”
You nod and eat another fry. You continue chewing on food while talking about a new series she started watching. You finish eating, pay, and walk out together. By late afternoon you split up at the parking lot. She heads to her car for a study group and you walk the other way toward the row of ATMs on the street corner.
You stand in line behind an older woman counting her cash. Not so long after, a black car pulls up across the street. You could recognize this car model amongst every other one’s. You glance over and see Ni-ki leaning against the hood. A girl stands in front of him and they kiss. You can’t help but gaze back and forth two times, since their kiss was disgustingly agonizingly long. She pulls away to say something close to his ear, and walks off down the block, disappearing. He watches her go before he gets back in the car.
“Ew.” you mutter under your breath. Were our kisses that repulsing to watch?
The car starts and drives straight toward the ATM lane. It stops right behind where you stand. You keep your eyes on the machine ahead, trying to act like you weren’t hoping anticipating for his arrival. The woman finishes and leaves. Ni-ki gets out and stands next to you, so close that you can smell the trace of his signature cologne mingled with cigarette smoke. You’ve had so much memories attached to that scent that it made you slightly squint your eyebrows together.
He stands there and waits. “You saw that earlier?”
You really don’t want to look at him right now. Or you’d rather not see any trace of lipgloss on his lips. “Yes. It was disgusting.”
He lets out a short breath, a laugh disguised in a scoff. You step up to the ATM, punch in your code, and request twenty dollars. The whole time he stays there, hands in his jacket pockets, watching the screen.
“Jealous now?” he asks after a beat.
“No. I was just stating what I saw.”
While he stays still you turn slightly to see him planted beside the machine, eyes on you like he has more to say. It’s only you and him now.
You grab your twenty dollars and the receipt from the slot. Ni-ki steps closer, blocking the easy path back to the sidewalk.
“You don’t care anyway,” he says. “You’re probably flirting with a bunch of guys right now. That’s your thing these days.”
“Fuck off.” you tell him flat. You turn to walk away but he stays at the machine, inserts his card, and selects an amount. The machine whirs and starts dispensing a thick stack of bills that could choke a horse. You pause a few steps away and watch in curiosity.
“Are you planning on buying the whole block?” you ask sarcastically.
He counts the bills quickly and stuffs them into his wallet. “It’s for Maki’s party. We’re tight, so I’m handling the alcohol and the rest of the shit. Bottles don’t come cheap.”
You shake your head. He shuts the wallet and walks past you to his car. The door opens with a loud click. Before he gets in he looks back at you, mouth tilted in that unnerving half-smirk.
“See you at the party. Bring your guys. I’ll be there too.”
‘Bring your guys’ You couldn’t expect much from him. He slides into the driver seat, starts the engine, and pulls away. You stand there a moment longer, cash still in your hand, then head back toward your apartment.
───
On Saturday, you sit on the edge of your bed with your phone pressed to your ear. Maki’s voice comes through clear while you fold the white dress you bought. “That girl from my econ class is definitely showing up even though no one invited her,” he says. “And that dude Anderson? He’s bringing his speaker setup again. Last time it blew out halfway through the night.”
You laugh. “Tell him to keep the volume normal this time. I don’t want another noise complaint.”
The conversation bounces around. Maki updates you on the food he ordered and the playlist he’s making. When you compare him with Ni-ki, you’d obviously think that he was the right guy for you and that your ex wouldn’t stand a chance against him. Nonetheless, you can’t deny the fact that your heart always chases after a particular thing. A thing that maybe Maki doesn’t have that someone else do. After that, he pauses.
“You got a ride? My villa’s pretty far out and I can’t leave to pick you up. I’m stuck setting everything up here.”
You look at the clock. “I’ll figure something out.”
“Ni-ki’s coming from your side of town. It’s basically on his way. I’ll text him to grab you.”
You freeze for half a second. Maki has no clue about your history and that’s weird considering how close he is to Ni-ki. You think about the choices you might have. There’s no bus going that far, and cabs would cost too much.
“Alright,” you say. “Tell him.”
“Cool. He’s reliable for this stuff.”
You both keep talking for a bit and you check the time again and tell him you need to start getting ready.
“See you tonight. Don’t forget. White.” he says before you hang up.
You set the phone down, stand up, and pull the dress from the hanger. You lay it out on the bed and start with your hair. You finish getting ready and check your reflection one more time. Your phone lights up on the dresser. A text from Ni-ki.
Ni-ki [8:07 PM]
Outside in 10.
You read it, set the phone back down without typing anything back. A few minutes later you hear the low rumble of his car pulling up in front of your building. You grab your bag, lock the door, and head downstairs.
He waits by the passenger side, engine still running. You walk over and he opens the door for you out of habit. You slide in. He gets behind the wheel and pulls away from the curb before glancing over. “You don’t usually wear white.” he says.
“It was Maki’s idea. He wanted us to match.”
He makes a small sound in the back of his throat. “Cute. Matching outfits like some high school shit. Really original.”
You buckle your seatbelt and stare straight ahead. “It’s just a color. Drop it.”
He taps his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. “Didn’t say it wasn’t. It’s just funny how you’re suddenly into whatever he suggests. Remember when I joked about bringing another girl around? You lost your shit for weeks.”
The words hit exactly where he meant them to. You remember that night clearly. He had laughed it off as a joke after you found out he actually did bring someone else to one of his gigs while you were still together. Always a joke with him, always something he could walk back. That was the top 1 of the reasons why you should’ve left you listed in your note apps before breaking up with him.
“That wasn’t a joke and you know it,” you say. “You cheated and acted like it was nothing.”
He changes lanes, eyes on the road. “We weren’t even exclusive by then. Or did you rewrite the timeline again?”
“We were.” you answer. “You just didn’t want to admit it when it got inconvenient.”
The car fills with silence for two blocks. He speaks again, voice low.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night. Now you’re playing dress-up for Maki.”
You turn your head toward the window. “At least he doesn’t hide behind ‘it was just a joke’ every time he fucks up.”
That was enough to shut him up.
The villa is still twenty minutes away and the road stretches out in front of you. You watch the passing streetlights without saying anything else. Ni-ki keeps his eyes on the road until the villa comes into view, lights already spilling out from the windows and music thumping low. He parks along the long driveway behind a line of other cars.
He cuts the engine. You unbuckle and open your door at the same time he does. He steps out first, pulls a cigarette from his pack, and lights it. The flame catches quick. As you stand up and close the door, he moves around the front of the car. His hand brushes your side and tugs the hem of your dress down toward your thighs quickly.
“Try not to do anything stupid tonight.” he says around the cigarette, voice so low you almost missed what he said. He takes a drag, exhales smoke to the side, and walks off toward the house without waiting.
You adjust the strap of your bag and head inside on your own. The living room is already filling up and you usually hated crowds. You try to sneak upon people and finally spot Danielle near the kitchen island talking to two other girls from your program. You walk over and join them.
“Y/N,” Danielle says, pulling you into a quick side hug. “You made it. The dress looks so good on you.”
One of the girls, Eunchae, smiles. “We were just talking about who’s already drunk. Anderson started shots twenty minutes ago.”
You smile and lean against the counter. “Sounds about right. Anyone see Maki yet?”
The talk picks up from there. You greet the others, exchange small talk about classes, letting the party noise settle around you.
You leave the group with Danielle and weave through the growing crowd toward the back patio where most of the main action is. Maki stands near the sliding doors talking to a couple of guys holding red cups. He spots you and breaks into a grin.
“I’m so freaking glad you came.” he says.
“Happy birthday again. In person this time.” You step closer and press a quick kiss to his cheek. He turns his head just enough that your lips catch the corner of his mouth for a second. His hand rests lightly on your waist.
“Thanks. You look good in white. That’s exactly what I pictured, even though you look good in any color.”
You pull back but stay close to keep the conversation easy. He introduces you to the guys he’s with, and you chat for a few minutes about the setup and the music. You can already smell the grilled meat from the barbecue and an overwhelming “party” scent. Maki gets pulled into another conversation, so you tell him you’ll catch him later and step away.
Your eyes scan the patio. In the far corner, past the pool lights, sits the designated smoking section. Ni-ki leans against the railing there with a couple of other guys. He’s switched to vaping now. The device glows faintly as he takes a long pull. You watch as he does a slow ghost inhale, holding the vapor in before letting it drift out slowly through his nose and mouth at the same time.
His gaze lifts and locks on you across the distance. His gaze remaining on yours forcefully. The corner of his mouth lifts into a tiny smirk right as the rest of the smoke leaves his lips in a controlled cloud. The light from the string bulbs catches the side of his sharp features. You feel it low in your stomach, that unwanted pull. It looks hot, you have to admit it. How he controls the vapor, and when he watches you while doing it, the smirk signaling he knows exactly what he’s doing.
You turn back toward the house before the moment stretches too long. Danielle waves you over to a new group forming near the drinks table. You join them and focus on the conversation, although the image of Ni-ki in the corner stays at the edge of your mind. The party noise rises around you as more people arrive. You take a cup someone offers and listen to the stories being swapped, forcing yourself to stay present.
You stand with Danielle and the others near the drinks table. Maki walks over a few minutes later carrying a bottle of something stronger. He pours shots for the group and hands you one.
“To another year of making bad decisions,” he says, clinking his cup against yours.
You drink it down and the burn hits quick. You talk about nothing important, laugh at old stories, and pour another round. Danielle refills her cup and gestures toward the patio. “At least Ni-ki’s not causing drama tonight. You two good now?”
Is she serious right now? Maki pauses mid-sip and looks between you and her.
“Wait. Ni-ki is your ex?”
You set your cup down. “Yeah. It was a while ago.”
He blinks once, processing. He looks thrown off rather than mad. “Huh. I didn’t know that. Small world, I guess.”
He finishes his drink and shrugs it off with a half-smile. “I’m gonna go check on people. I’ll be back.” He squeezes your shoulder once and walks off toward the other side of the house.
You shoot Danielle a look. She mouths “sorry” and changes the subject fast. The group keeps drinking, but you can feel the shift. After another ten minutes you excuse yourself and head toward the patio again to get some air.
Maki ends up near the smoking section. He spots Ni-ki leaning against the railing with his vape and walks over. “Hey man, thanks for coming,” Maki says. “And for picking up Y/N earlier.”
Ni-ki exhales a cloud of vapor and nods. “No problem.”
Maki chuckles. “I didn’t know you two had history. Exes, right?”
Ni-ki’s mouth curves. “Yeah. Ancient history. She still acts like I owe her something though.”
Maki laughs lightly. “She’s cool. We’ve been talking a lot lately.”
“That so?” Ni-ki takes another pull from the vape, does a French inhale, and blows the smoke out slow. “She’s not with me anymore. But she’s still my ex. You know how it is.”
The cockiness in his voice could be heard from a mile away. Maki raises an eyebrow, still joking. “Possessive much? She’s her own person last time I checked.”
Ni-ki smirks wider. “Tell yourself that. Just don’t come crying when she ghosts your ass for no reason. She’s good at that.”
They both laugh, a back and forth that stays surface level yet carries tension underneath. Maki claps him on the shoulder once and moves on to talk to someone else. Ni-ki stays where he is, eyes scanning the party again.
You head back inside after the conversation dies down. The party has picked up. Music thumps louder through the speakers and people crowd onto the cleared dance floor in the main room. Danielle pulls you into the group with a few other girls. You move with them, bodies shifting to the beat, hands in the air for the chorus.
Maki finds his way over after a couple of songs. You dance facing him, then turn and press back against him for a few beats, grinding lightly against him. His hands rest on your hips. The alcohol makes everything feel loose. You stay like that for another track before you peel off and tell the girls you need air.
You step out onto the patio again. The night feels cooler now. Fewer people linger outside. Ni-ki still sits on the wide railing in the smoking corner, vape in one hand, a half-empty cup in the other. Two guys talk to him but soon head back inside, leaving him mostly alone.
You walk closer and stop a few feet away. “You’re still smoking that thing. You really can’t go one night without it?”
He looks up, takes a pull, and exhales. “It keeps me from doing worse shit. What about you? Grinding on the birthday boy like that. That’s new.”
You roll your eyes and lean against the railing nearby. The alcohol turns noticeably in your stomach. You breathe deeper, trying to clear your head, eyes focused on the dark yard beyond the lights. Ni-ki notices your light unsteadiness. He stands up and moves beside you, closer than he ever was in your life.
He lifts the vape to his mouth, inhales, and blows a thick cloud of smoke from the corner of his lips so it drifts past your face. His free hand drops to the hem of your dress again and tugs it down from your ass to your thighs with a firm pull.
“Come with me,” he says. “Let’s get you some water before you puke on Maki’s shoes.”
The dizziness lingers. He starts walking toward the side door that leads to the kitchen and you follow him. Most people are still on the dance floor so they’re not going to pay attention if something happens. You lean against the counter near the sink, with your head a little fuzzy from the shots. Ni-ki opens the fridge to grab a cold bottle of water, and hands it to you without a word.
You twist the cap off and take a long drink. He stops vaping, sets the device on the island, and leans back against it directly in front of you. His arms rest on the edge of the counter behind him.
“You’re being nice tonight,” he says. “Even drunk. Not like the old days when you’d tell me to fuck off for less.”
You lower the bottle and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Don’t start acting like you know me. You lost that right a long time ago.”
He watches you take another sip. You set the bottle down with force. “Mind your own business.” you tell him. “Stop trying to ruin my love life every time I talk to someone else.”
Ni-ki pushes off the island and steps forward. He places one hand on the counter beside your hip, the other on the other side, bracketing you in. Without touching you, the space between you shrinks. You can smell the scent of his vape and the subtle alcohol on his breath. He’s not drunk, but neither does he seems sober.
“I don’t give a shit if you choose Maki,” he declares lowly. “I don’t even want you back like that. We both know that. I just don’t like that you’re not mine anymore.”
You stay pressed against the counter, looking up at him. “Then why the fuck can you kiss other girls whenever you want,” you say, “and I don’t have the right to do anything? You get to move on but I can’t even dance with someone without you pulling this shit?”
His eyes stay on yours without moving an inch.
“Because I don’t pretend it’s something bigger,” he answers. “I kiss who I want and it ends there. You start something and suddenly it’s this whole production with matching outfits and rides and everyone knowing your business. It pisses me off that you’re out here acting like you’re free when you used to be mine. That’s all.”
You push against his chest lightly with one hand. He gives an inch but stays close.
“What the fuck am I to you? An object? You don’t own me,” you tell him. “We broke up. Get over it.”
He lets out a short laugh. “I am over it. That doesn’t mean I have to like watching it. Especially not with Maki acting like he’s got a chance at something real.”
Music pulses from the other rooms and it feels distant. He waits for your next words, hands still planted on the counter.
You push past him and walk out of the kitchen. The alcohol still clouds your steps as you head toward the stairs. You start climbing without looking back.
“Stop,” Ni-ki calls after you. “You’re gonna trip like that.”
You ignore him and keep going. Your dress rides up a little with each step, bunching higher on your thighs. A couple of guys standing at the bottom of the stairs turn their heads, eyes dropping to your ass.
“Eyes up, assholes.” Ni-ki snaps at them as he moves quickly behind you.
He follows close on your heels the rest of the way up, his body blocking the view from below. You reach the second floor hallway and stop near an open window for air. He stops right behind you, you feel the heat from him.
You push away from the windowsill, head spinning more than before. The dizziness hits harder. You walk down the hall and open the nearest bedroom door. It’s empty with just a big bed and some jackets thrown over a chair. You go straight to the bed and lie down on your back, eyes closed.
Ni-ki follows you in. “Slow down. You’re drunk.”
“Fuck you.” you mutter, arm over your eyes. “Always acting like you can tell me what to do or like you still have a say. Go find another girl to kiss and leave me alone.”
You hear his footsteps cross the room. The door clicks shut behind him, closing out most of the party noise. He stays near the door for a moment, and then he moves closer to the bed.
“I’m not leaving you up here like this,” he says. “You’ll feel worse if you pass out alone. Drink more water when you can sit up.”
You keep your eyes covered, the room tilting even while lying down. “I hate how you do this. You show up and act like you care only when it suits you.”
He pulls the chair closer to the bed and sits.
You stay on the bed, arm still draped over your eyes. The dizziness refuses to calm down. Ni-ki shifts in the chair beside you. “I know I’m an asshole,” he says after a long pause. “But Maki’s too drunk to take care of you properly. He’s downstairs doing shots and barely standing straight. You think he’s coming up here to hold your hair if you throw up?”
You move your arm and look at him. The room lights feel too bright. “And you think you’re any better? You followed me up here like I need a babysitter.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Someone has to. You drank too much and came upstairs alone. I’m not trying to fuck with you right now. So stay here until it passes a bit.”
You try to move your head on the pillow. The bed feels still under you compared to the floor earlier. Ni-ki gets up from the chair. The mattress dips as he sits down on the edge next to you. His hand lands on the mattress right behind your head, his fingers brushing the pillow.
“You need anything?” he asks. “More water? Something to eat?”
“Fuck off,” you say without opening your eyes. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“Come on. Stop being stubborn.”
“Fuck you, Ni-ki. Seriously. Go downstairs and vape or kiss whoever the hell you want. Leave me the fuck alone.”
You turn your face further into the pillow. He stays seated there, hand still planted behind your head on the bed.
“Do you love Maki?” he asks suddenly.
Why would he ask that all of a sudden? When you try to consider it, you don’t love Maki. You really don’t. Love is a strong word to describe what you’re feeling for him. And when you think about it, you don’t even have a definition for love, since the ‘real’ love you’ve ever experienced was absolutely fucked and toxic. You remain silent and let the question float, unanswered.
He leans in a bit closer. “Have you ever kissed him?”
“Yes,” you confess. “Once on the mouth. And please, it’s really none of your business.”
After your declaration, he softly abruptly kisses you. And weirdly enough, you can’t push him away. The shape of his lips, the curve of his mouth, they all are familiar to you. You’ve kissed him a hundred times and only God knows why it always feels surreal when you do. You stay still under it for a few seconds. When he finally pulls back you wipe your lips with the back of your hand. He laughs low and kisses you again right away. You try to turn your head but he follows, kissing you so you can’t wipe anything off. You manage to get your hand between you for a moment.
“Stop.” you mutter against his mouth. “What the fuck are you doing?”
He kisses you once more, quick and sure. “You told me to go kiss a girl. I’m listening to you.”
You push at his shoulder, a tentative move to use your strength that isn’t even there because of the alcohol. “That’s not what I meant. Can you stop being such an asshole?”
He laughs again, close to you. “You said it. Now you’re mad when I do it. Make up your mind.”
You wipe your mouth again and he’s automatically already leaning in. “This doesn’t change anything.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I aware of that.” He kisses you anyway and you let him once again. You bicker between kisses, words half-formed and cut off. He keeps the pace just fast enough that you can’t keep wiping your lips clean. Your thoughts spin slower by now, caught between telling him to leave and not wanting him to. You can’t decide.
Ni-ki shifts and towers over you on the bed, one knee beside your leg. Your hands find his shoulders and stay there to anchor yourself. The making out gets more heated, mouths open, breaths mixing, just like the good old days. His hand slides down to the side of your hip. He grips it and whispers against your lips, “I can finally slide this dress up.”
If anything scandalous could possibly happen, you can’t allow that to be known by anyone. Not Maki nor Danielle. And knowing how Ni-ki could just spill that in Maki’s face just to fuck with him. It couldn’t be worse than what this is. You pull back to speak, your face a few inches away from his. “If we do anything right now, you forget it tomorrow. You shut your damn mouth.”
He nods once. “Agreed.”
You tilt your head back as he moves to your neck. “Maki’s downstairs waiting for me.”
He makes an irritated sound low in his throat. “Don’t bring him up while I’m doing this.” He kisses your neck harder and sucks stingily on the skin. You feel the pull as he leaves a noticeable hickey. He moves lower, mouth working along your collarbone, leaving more marks. One after another.
You breathe through it, fingers in his hair. He shifts to the other side of your neck and does the same, sucking until the skin blooms under his mouth. Your thoughts keep circling back to how bad an idea this is, but you don’t want to can’t stop him. He covers your neck and collarbones, alternating between kisses and harder pulls that you know will show tomorrow.
“Fuck,” you mutter when he hits a sensitive spot. He keeps going, hand still firm on your hip under the bunched fabric of the dress. The party noise stays far away and for now the room holds only this.
You feel his hand move under the dress. He slides your panties down your legs easily and tosses them aside. His fingers return between your thighs and caress your folds, slow and patient, waiting for you to get wet.
You find it funny, this power you still have over him, and how easily he would react to a mention on the guys you’re talking to. You smile against his mouth and start talking. “Maki kissed me better last time. His hands didn’t shake like yours do when you’re trying to act cool.”
Ni-ki’s fingers keep moving, teasing your entrance but not pushing in yet. “Stop.”
You ignore him and keep going. “He texts me every day. He says he misses me when I don’t reply. You never did that.”
“Y/N, what are you doing?” he says again, voice tighter. His fingers circle your clit once, then back to your folds, spreading the wetness that starts to build.
You chuckle low. “You’re so easy to annoy. Look at you. Already hard and I haven’t even touched you back.”
He leans down closer, mouth near your ear while his hand works between your legs. “And would you look at yourself? Such a needy little slut, getting wet for your ex while your new boy is downstairs waiting. Can’t even stay loyal for one night, don’t you?”
You breathe sharper at his words, body reacting even as your mind pushes back. His fingers stay teasing, patient, drawing it out. You shift your hips but he doesn’t speed up. The marks on your neck throb in time with your pulse, as he sucked on your skin like a vampire. You know you should tell him to stop but the words don’t come out of your mouth. Anyone who would even just see their ex from afar would run away or ignore them. And mostly after them cheating on you and being an asshole. You feel dumb right now. You let him keep touching you, the mingle of annoyance and heat keeping you there under him.
You feel his hands on your waist. He lifts you without much effort and shifts you onto his lap so you straddle him. Your dress bunches up around your hips. He unbuckles his jeans, pushes them down and leaves his boxers on for a minute, and pulls you closer. He grinds up against you, his hard cock sliding along your wetness through the thin fabric.
You reach down between you and wrap your hand around him. You stroke slowly, spreading the precum from the tip down his length. He exhales sharply, like when he exhales smoke. You position yourself and sink down onto him, taking him in inch by inch until you sit fully on his dick.
“I fucking hate you.” you whisper.
He grips your hips tighter. You start to move, slow at first. The feeling of him inside you brings back too many memories. You rock your hips, hands on his shoulders for balance. He meets your movements from below, thrusting up into you.
“You say that but you’re soaking my cock right now,” he mutters.
Even like this, he finds a way to talk back. You keep riding him, the heat raising in the room. Your thighs press against his sides which makes the bed creaks quietly under you both. You hate how right it feels in the moment, how your body responds to him without hesitation, because you’ll always have this weird connection together. He fills you completely and you let yourself chase that feeling, even while the words “I hate you” echo in your head.
You keep moving on him, hips rolling steadily. Ni-ki’s hands slide down to your ass. He fondles it, squeezing the flesh as you ride him.
“That’s it,” he says, voice low and condescending. “You’re taking my cock so well. Such a good little slut for your ex even after all that talking shit.”
He slaps your ass once, the sound sharp below the muffled music. The sting mixes with the pleasure as you clench around him involuntarily. He does it again on the other cheek, harder this time, then rubs the spot right after.
“Fuck, you feel so tight,” he continues, fondling and kneading your cheeks while you move. “Maki doesn’t know how to handle you like this, does he? But here you are, bouncing on me like you never left.”
You bite your lip to hold back a moan. His words irritate you but they also push you closer. He slaps your ass a third time, grips both cheeks and pulls you down harder onto him with each thrust. His hands stay on your ass, fondling, slapping, controlling the pace as you ride him. Your thoughts scatter between the anger and the building heat and you don’t if anything feels right. You hate how much you like his hands on you right now, the way he praises you like he owns the moment. You keep going anyway, letting the cadence take over.
You press down harder, sitting fully on him and stirring your hips in tight circles so his dick moves deep inside you. Ni-ki groans and grips your ass tighter, hips jerking up. You feel him throbbing, right on the edge.
You lift off him suddenly, his cock slipping out wet and You press down harder, sitting fully on him and stirring your hips in tight circles so his dick moves deep inside you. Ni-ki groans and grips your ass tighter, hips jerking up. You feel him throbbing, right on the edge.
You lift off him suddenly, his cock slipping out wet and hard. You grab your panties from the floor and pull them back on quick. He stares at you, breathing heavy.
“What the fuck?” he says.
You smooth your dress down over your hips. “We said forget it tomorrow. I’m done.”
A knock sounds on the door. Maki’s voice comes through. “Y/N? You in there?”
You glance at Ni-ki once before walking to the door. Your legs feel unsteady but you keep moving. The hickeys on your neck burn under the fabric. You open the door just enough to slip out, leaving Ni-ki on the bed behind you. Maki stands in the hallway, looking concerned.
“Hey, I was looking for you,” he says. “You okay?”
You nod and close the door behind you. “Yeah. I needed to lie down for a bit. Let’s go back downstairs.”
Your mind races as you walk with him, getting occasional stares from him on your neck and collarbones. The wetness between your legs a reminder of what just happened. But everything will be forgotten the day after, right?
college!au, frat!au, enemies to lovers!au, friends w benefits!au
warnings: smut (drunk sex, blowjob, eating out, shower sex, car sex, both unprotected & protected sex, choking (m), grinding, bathroom sex, degradation, rough sex, oral (f&m), fingering, just a lot of smut), alcohol usage, sunghoon and the reader being extremely rude to each other, sunghoon is an asshole, lots of sexual tension
genre: smut, angst, fluff if you look close enough
word count: 30.8k+
summary:
if people thought the constant bickering of tom and jerry was something, they’ve never seen you and sunghoon in real life. even the way he breathed irritated you but there was no point in denying the sexual tension between you and him. one drunken night led to another one, and another, you found yourself going back in his bed sober. waking up next to him became a habit that you wanted to keep to yourself. the only thing about sunghoon that you didn’t hate was his capability of making you orgasm more than twice with only his fingers.
or
in which sunghoon found himself falling harder for you but didn’t even have the courage to admit it to himself, not when you hated him with everything you got.
If you told somebody that you and Park Sunghoon used to be best buddies throughout middle school and high school, they would just tell you to quit joking. It was the truth, though, you and Sunghoon used to be close friends before college. But that was before he decided to fuck up and made you hate him with everything you’ve got. The cute dimple on his right cheek when he threw a dashing smile was like a mask to cover his real identity. You admit that his single dimple was cute, but under that façade, he was no longer the pretty boy everyone thought he was. If only people knew Park Sunghoon the way you did. The things he had done to you, making the rest of your high school senior year a living hell.
A TIME TRAVEL CONTRACT MARRIAGE FIC -PART 2 OUT NOW
Synopsis: Fake marriage proposals are a tired billionaire trope.
But when Jay Park—former golden boy of Park Industries, now chaebol exile—comes back from disgrace (and back in time), he’s got one goal: rewrite the past before it destroys him.
When you, an unassuming journalist with nothing to lose, get an offer of a lifetime, you’re sure it’s a mistake.
A contract, a relocation to Seoul, and one fake wedding later, you’re still trying to convince yourself none of this is real. The only problem? Neither of you seem to remember where the performance ends and something devastatingly real begins.
Release Date: 8th March, Part 2 - Monday 10th March
WC: 13K CW (18+ MDNI) : fake marriage, slow-burn romance, power dynamics, corporate intrigue, arranged marriage trope, emotional angst, unresolved sexual tension, longing glances across boardrooms, contract loopholes, financial manipulation, morally gray billionaire!Jay, forced proximity, family expectations, betrayal, public displays of affection (for the cameras, obviously), enemies-to-allies-to-lovers, suppressed feelings, business politics, one bed trope (but make it corporate), dramatic confessions, late-night whiskey-fueled arguments, high society drama, backhanded compliments as flirting, dramatic departures followed by even more dramatic returns, lingering touches that mean too much, feelings clause not included in the contract, deep intimacy, power dynamics in a romantic context, possessive tendencies (but soft), light dominance/submission themes, clothing being undone at a painfully slow pace, tension so thick it could shatter glass, breathless dialogue, interrupted kisses that lead to frustration, and the inevitable realization that this was never fake at all.
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The Original Timeline
Five Years Ago
The first and only time you met Jay Park was at the gallery opening of your college roommate's photography exhibit in New York. You wouldn't have been there at all if Priya hadn't practically begged you to help her make up the numbers.
"Just mingle for an hour," she'd pleaded over coffee that morning, eyes wide with artistic desperation. "Drink free champagne, eat expensive hors d'oeuvres, and pretend to understand modern art. I need this exhibit to succeed. My parents are still convinced I should have become a doctor."
So you'd ventured out into the crisp October evening to a renovated warehouse in Chelsea that now housed the Klein Gallery.
The moment you walked in, you regretted your decision.
The gallery was crowded with Manhattan's elite—people whose casual conversations name-dropped summer homes in the Hamptons and winter getaways in Aspen. You recognized a few faces from glossy magazines—a popular actress, a tech entrepreneur, a fashion designer.
You spotted Priya across the room, surrounded by attentive listeners, looking nothing like the frazzled artist who had practically lived in sweatpants throughout college. Tonight she was transformed—elegant in a silk jumpsuit, her long black hair swept into an artful updo.
Not wanting to interrupt her moment, you moved toward the bar, securing a glass of champagne that definitely wasn't the top-shelf variety promised. Glass in hand, you began the obligatory circuit of the room.
Priya's work had always struck you as technically skilled but emotionally distant. Tonight's collection—titled "Urban Dissolution"—featured black and white images of city landscapes in various states of decay. To your untrained eye, several looked like artistic shots of garbage.
You were examining one such photograph when someone spoke beside you.
"It's quite terrible, isn't it?"
The voice was pleasant—a warm baritone with just the slightest hint of an accent.
You turned to find a man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit studying the same photograph with thinly veiled amusement. He was handsome in that polished, untouchable way of the extremely wealthy—perfect hair, perfect posture, everything about him screaming old money.
Under normal circumstances, you might have nodded politely and moved on. Men who looked like him rarely engaged in genuine conversation at events like these.
But something in his expression—a hint of genuine mischief beneath the polished exterior—made you respond honestly.
"I wouldn't say that," you replied diplomatically. "Art is subjective."
"So is food poisoning, but we can still recognize it when we experience it." He gestured toward the photograph with his champagne flute. "This is visual food poisoning."
A startled laugh escaped you, drawing disapproving glances from a nearby couple examining the same piece with exaggerated intensity.
"That's my friend's work you're insulting," you said, lowering your voice.
"Ah." He didn't look remotely embarrassed. If anything, his smile widened, creating a small dimple in his left cheek. "Then I assume you're here out of obligation rather than appreciation."
You studied him more carefully. There was no malice in his expression, only genuine amusement and refreshing honesty.
"Isn't everyone at these things?" You glanced around the gallery. "Half the people here couldn't distinguish between a masterpiece and a child's finger painting, but they'll all have very strong opinions."
"Touché." His smile reached his eyes, transforming his face from merely handsome to genuinely compelling. "I'm Jay."
"Just Jay?" You raised an eyebrow. "No family name? No title or position that should impress me?"
"Tonight, just Jay." He seemed to appreciate that you didn't immediately offer your name in return. "And you are?"
"Just someone who defends her friends' artistic endeavors, no matter how questionable."
"Loyalty," he nodded, as if noting something important. "An underrated quality in rooms like this, where allegiances change with the season's trends."
There was something wistful in his observation, a flash of genuineness beneath the practiced charm. Before you could respond, a commotion near the entrance drew your attention.
A group had arrived, their entrance causing a ripple effect through the crowd—backs straightening, conversations pausing, attention shifting.
"Duty calls," Jay murmured, his expression cooling. The playful stranger who had joked with you was vanishing, replaced by someone more controlled. "It was refreshing to meet you, Just Someone."
And then he was gone, moving toward the new arrivals. You watched as he transformed with each step—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, smile shifting from genuine to practiced.
He bowed respectfully to an older couple at the center of the group, clearly his family. The woman—elegant, with silver-streaked black hair—examined the gallery with the cool assessment of someone accustomed to making judgments that mattered.
It was only when Priya rushed over that you realized who you'd been talking to.
"Do you know who that was?" she hissed, gripping your arm. "The Jay Park. Park Industries! The Korean conglomerate that's expanding into American markets. Did you get his number?"
"We just talked about your photographs," you said, suddenly feeling out of place in your carefully selected but obviously off-the-rack dress. "He called them visual food poisoning."
Priya's expression didn't even flicker. "Jay Park insulted my work? That's practically a career highlight!" She snapped a discreet photo. "Wait until I tell my parents—they'll finally believe this wasn't a waste of my education."
You watched as Jay circulated through the room with practiced ease, his charisma deployed with strategic precision. The man who had stood beside you making irreverent comments might as well have been a different person entirely.
As you left the gallery hours later, you glanced back once to find Jay watching you from across the room. For just a moment, his public mask slipped, and he gave you a small, conspiratorial smile.
You never saw him again. Not in person, anyway.
Three Years Ago
"PARK HEIR ENGAGEMENT ANNOUNCED: JAY PARK TO WED ITALIAN HEIRESS"
The headline splashed across your phone screen during your morning subway commute. Normally, you'd have skipped past such celebrity gossip, but the name caught your attention—that brief memory of champagne and honesty in a New York gallery.
Curious, you tapped the article.
"Jay Park, 29, heir to the Park Industries empire, announced his engagement yesterday to Seraphina Visconti, 26, daughter of Italian shipping magnate Giorgio Visconti. The match unites two of the most influential business families across continents after a whirlwind romance of six months.
"'Seraphina represents everything the Parks value—business acumen, family loyalty, and global vision,' said Chairwoman Soo-min Park in a statement.
"The couple met during Park Industries' expansion into European markets. Sources suggest the marriage will cement a strategic partnership potentially worth billions."
Below the text was a photograph of Jay with his arm around a stunning woman with olive skin and a camera-ready smile. He looked exactly as you remembered—handsome, composed, untouchable. But something about his eyes seemed different. Harder, perhaps. The smile that had crinkled their corners in the gallery was nowhere to be seen.
You stared at the image longer than was reasonable for someone who had spoken to the man exactly once. There was something almost theatrical about the pose, the smiles, the carefully framed opulence.
"Good for him," you muttered, closing the article as the subway reached your stop. "Hope they're very happy together."
You found yourself wondering if he'd made that woman laugh genuinely, or if their relationship was built on the kind of performance you'd witnessed when his family arrived at the gallery.
You didn't think about Jay Park again for a long time.
Last Year
"PARK INDUSTRIES HEIR DISGRACED: JAY PARK REMOVED FROM FAMILY COMPANY AMID SCANDAL"
This headline caught your eye during lunch break. The photograph showed Jay leaving a building, face partially obscured, expression hidden behind dark sunglasses. Even in disgrace, he wore an impeccably tailored suit, though his tie was loosened and his normally perfect hair disheveled.
Something tightened in your chest at the image. You tapped on the article, pushing your salad aside.
"Jay Park has been removed from his position following allegations of corporate espionage and fraud. The Seoul Economic Prosecutor's Office confirmed yesterday that Park is under investigation for his role in the controversial merger between Park Industries and Hanjin Global.
"'Evidence suggests Mr. Park orchestrated the theft of proprietary information to facilitate the merger on terms exceptionally favorable to Park Industries,' stated Chief Prosecutor Kim. 'This represents a serious breach of corporate ethics and possibly criminal misconduct.'
"Sources revealed that Chairwoman Soo-min Park, Jay's mother, personally signed the termination papers. 'It was like watching an execution,' said one executive. 'The family cut him off completely. No defense, no second chances.'
"Adding personal tragedy to professional disgrace, Park's engagement to Italian heiress Seraphina Visconti was terminated shortly before the scandal broke."
You frowned at your screen. Something about the story felt wrong—the swiftness of his family's abandonment, the convenient timing of the broken engagement, the way everyone seemed to distance themselves simultaneously, as if following a coordinated script.
But what did you know? You'd met the man once, years ago. That brief interaction hardly qualified you to judge the situation or the complex dynamics of global corporate politics.
Still, you couldn't shake the memory of his genuine smile, so different from the corporate mask he'd worn for his family. The way he'd spoken about loyalty as an underrated quality.
"Rough fall from grace," your coworker commented, noticing the article on your screen. "Guess even the mighty Parks can't escape karma."
"I guess not," you agreed absently. But privately you wondered what karma had to do with it. From what little you knew of chaebol families, they created their own destinies—and occasionally, their own destruction.
Over the following months, you occasionally saw follow-up articles. The investigation seemed to drag on without clear resolution. Some outlets questioned aspects of the evidence. Others suggested political motivations behind the prosecution.
But as the story faded from headlines, you found yourself wondering sometimes what had happened to the man who had once made you laugh in an art gallery—the man who, for a brief moment, had seemed genuinely human beneath the wealth and privilege.
Four Months Ago - Jay's Perspective
Jay Park stood at the window of his empty apartment, watching Seoul's lights glitter below. The city looked exactly the same as it had before his life imploded—indifferent to his disgrace. Photographers still camped outside his building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fallen heir.
The penthouse that had once been featured in architectural magazines now echoed with emptiness. Most of the art and furnishings were gone—some seized in the investigation, others reclaimed by his family when they'd cut him off.
His phone—a new one, with a number known to fewer than five people—vibrated on the counter. He ignored it. The nearly empty bottle of scotch beside it held more appeal. He poured another measure into a glass that didn't match the crystal tumblers he'd once collected.
Jay took a long sip, noting with detached interest that his hand no longer shook. Progress, of a sort. The first few months after his downfall, he could barely hold a glass steady.
The evidence against him had been impeccable. Each document, each testimony, each transaction record forming a perfect constellation of guilt. So perfect that, had he not known with absolute certainty he was innocent, he might have believed it himself.
That was the elegant brutality of it—the case was built not on crude forgeries, but on actual actions he had taken, actual meetings he had attended, all recontextualized to tell a story of corruption rather than innovation.
By the time he understood what was happening, the narrative had solidified. His former fiancée had disappeared back to Italy. His family had closed ranks against him. His so-called friends had vanished overnight.
"You always were too trusting, Jongseong."
His mother's words, delivered as she personally collected his company credentials. Not in private—she had ensured there were witnesses. The perfect chairwoman, putting corporate ethics above family loyalty.
He'd spent his entire life trying to prove himself worthy of the Park name, only to be discarded the moment it became expedient.
His phone vibrated again. A text from his attorney: "Prosecutor offering deal. Meet tomorrow."
Jay didn't bother responding. There would be no deal. Not because he was noble, but because accepting a deal meant accepting guilt. And while the world might believe him guilty, he refused to validate the lie.
He returned to the window, scotch in hand. Somewhere in that landscape were the people who had orchestrated his downfall. Were they celebrating still? Or had they already moved on to their next target, his destruction just another successful transaction?
One photograph lay face-down on the counter—Seraphina smiling beside him at their engagement party, her eyes fixed on the camera with practiced warmth. The perfect couple. The perfect alliance. The perfect lie.
"I never saw it coming," he murmured. "Not from you."
That was the truly unforgivable part—not the betrayal itself, but his blind failure to anticipate it. All the signs had been there: her sudden interest when the Hanjin merger was first discussed, her questions about his meetings, her friendship with his cousin.
But he'd been too enthralled with the idea of her—the perfect partner who fit the plan he'd constructed for his life.
Jay drained his glass. He should sleep. Tomorrow would bring more meetings, more denials, more evidence of his spectacular fall.
He was turning from the window when it happened—a sharp, stabbing pain behind his eyes, so intense he dropped his glass. It shattered as he clutched his head, the pain expanding outward like a supernova.
The room tilted sideways. His hand passed through the wall as though it were mist. The familiar contours of his apartment seemed to dissolve, replaced by swirling darkness.
His last conscious thought was strangely clear, cutting through the pain:
I would do it all differently.
Jay opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains.
No—not unfamiliar. His old curtains, from his suite in the family compound. The heavy navy drapes his mother had replaced three years ago.
He sat up with a jolt, banging his head against the headboard with an undignified thud.
"What the—" he muttered, rubbing his forehead while blinking at his surroundings.
This room had been redecorated after he moved out. The traditional furniture, the blue walls, the precise arrangement of his diplomas—all of it had been erased when his mother decided the space needed to "reflect the modern sensibilities of Park Industries' future."
Jay scrambled out of bed, tangling himself in sheets he hadn't slept in for years—1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton in navy blue, not the minimalist white linens of his apartment.
He stumbled to the bathroom. The face that stared back from the mirror made him grip the countertop until his knuckles went white.
"Impossible," he whispered.
The face was his, but not the one he'd seen yesterday. No dark circles. No stress lines. No gray hairs at his temples. This was him from... before.
"I've lost my mind," he announced to the empty bathroom. "This is what a psychotic break feels like."
He splashed cold water on his face, half expecting the hallucination to dissolve.
Back in the bedroom, his phone chimed. Not the anonymous device he'd been using since his disgrace, but his old phone—the one with the Park Industries logo, the one seized by prosecutors.
He approached it like it might explode, picking it up between two fingers.
The calendar notification made him drop the phone directly onto his foot.
"Son of a—" he yelped, hopping awkwardly.
He snatched up the phone again and stared at the date.
Five years in the past.
Another notification: "Meeting with Chairman Kang's team at 11. Merger exploration talks. Confidential."
Kang. The first domino in what would become his downfall. The meeting that would eventually lead him to Seraphina Visconti.
"This can't be happening," he said, running his hands through his hair until it stood in a manner his perfectly-coiffed future self would find horrifying.
The bedroom door suddenly swung open. Jay yelped and grabbed a decorative pillow to cover his chest.
His mother's executive assistant, Mrs. Joseph, stood in the doorway, her expression somehow even more judgmental as she took in his disheveled state.
"Mr. Park," she said with glacial formality, "your mother wishes to remind you that the board meeting begins in forty-five minutes."
"Mrs. Joseph," Jay managed, clutching the tasseled pillow, "what day is it today?"
One perfectly plucked eyebrow rose a millimeter.
"It is Tuesday, Mr. Park. The 17th of October, 2018."
Five years in the past. Confirmed by the human calendar that was Mrs. Joseph, who had never been wrong about a date in twenty years.
"Thank you. Please tell my mother I'll be there."
Mrs. Joseph nodded and closed the door.
Jay stood frozen before bursting into motion, pacing and gesturing wildly.
"Time travel isn't real," he informed his empty room. "This is a complete psychological break."
He stopped in front of the mirror, pointing an accusatory finger at his reflection.
"You are having a nervous breakdown."
His phone chimed again. A text from his cousin Danny: "You look like hell on the security feed. Board meeting in 44 minutes. Pull yourself together."
Jay glanced at the discreet camera in the corner, then back at his phone.
Other people could see him. Other people were interacting with him. This wasn't just in his head.
"I've gone back in time," he whispered, testing the words. "I've gone back in time!"
A hysterical laugh bubbled up from his chest. He had a second chance. A chance to avoid Seraphina. A chance to prevent the merger catastrophe. A chance to protect himself from betrayal before it began.
Then he froze, composing himself. If this was real, he needed to be strategic.
"Park Jongseong," he told his reflection sternly, "pull yourself together. You have a board meeting in forty-three minutes. And then you have a life to completely rebuild."
As he headed for the bathroom, he caught himself whistling. Park Jongseong didn't whistle. Park Jongseong was dignified, serious, and focused at all times.
But then again, Park Jongseong also didn't time travel. So perhaps some new rules were in order.
Forty-two minutes later, Jay found himself seated in the most uncomfortable chair in Seoul—not because of its design, but because of who surrounded it.
The Park Industries boardroom was exactly as he remembered it from before its renovation. Twenty-four seats around a massive mahogany table, each position equipped with a recessed screen and an elegant portfolio. The room smelled of sandalwood and concentrated power.
And around him sat the very people who would one day abandon him without hesitation.
His mother, Chairwoman Soomin Park, presided at the head, her silver-streaked hair in a severe chignon. His father sat opposite, expression fixed in the distant contemplation that had always characterized their relationship. Next to him was Uncle Jiho, whose vote would be first to condemn Jay when the time came. Beside his mother sat Aunt Mina, who would publicly declare his actions "disappointing but not surprising."
They were all watching him. Or perhaps he was just paranoid. Hard to tell which was more reasonable when you'd time-traveled into your younger body.
"The Q3 projections for the semiconductor division," droned CFO Yun. "As you can see, we're exceeding targets by 4.3% despite supply chain challenges..."
Jay nodded mechanically, trying to appear engaged while his mind raced. He kept catching himself staring at people who shouldn't be noteworthy—like Director Kang, who would later introduce him to Seraphina Visconti.
"Jongseong."
He jerked upright, realizing his mother had addressed him directly.
"I—" he began, having no idea what had been asked. "Could you repeat the question?"
A flicker of annoyance crossed his mother's face. "I said, do you have the projections for the European market expansion? The ones you insisted were ready for board review?"
Right. The European expansion. The document that would eventually lead to the Visconti partnership. The first step in his downfall.
"I've been reconsidering those projections," he said, his voice sounding strange in his ears. "I believe we should focus on domestic consolidation before extending into Europe."
A heavy silence fell over the room. In the original timeline, he'd aggressively championed European expansion for months.
"You've been... reconsidering," his mother repeated, each syllable precisely weighted. "Since last night's strategy meeting, where you presented a seventy-page report detailing exactly why European expansion cannot wait?"
Jay cleared his throat, tugging at his suddenly tight collar. "I've had some... insights."
"Insights," she echoed flatly.
"Yes. About... market volatility." Jay caught sight of his reflection in the darkened screen—he looked like someone trying to defuse a bomb while wearing oven mitts. "And geopolitical considerations. Brexit currency fluctuations. You know. Business... things."
Director Kang frowned. "But your analysis specifically addressed Brexit concerns, concluding they presented opportunity rather than obstacle."
"Well, people can change their minds," Jay said, a bit too forcefully.
His mother set down her pen—never a good sign. "Are you feeling well, Jongseong?"
"Perfectly well. Never better."
"You look flushed. And you're sweating."
Jay reached up, mortified to find his forehead damp. Park Jongseong did not sweat in board meetings.
"It's rather warm in here."
"It's sixty-eight degrees, as always," his mother replied. "Your grandfather had similar symptoms before his stroke. The disorientation. The contradictory statements."
"I'm not having a stroke," Jay said, horrified that this conversation was happening in front of the entire board.
"He said the same thing," contributed his aunt helpfully. "Right before he tried to sign a merger agreement with a potted plant."
"I know what day it is," Jay offered as proof of his mental faculties. "It's Tuesday, October 17, 2018."
This did not have the intended effect. If anything, his mother's concern deepened.
"Yes," she said slowly. "Most people with calendars know the date. More relevant is your explanation for this sudden policy reversal."
Jay scrambled for a plausible explanation that wouldn't sound like 'I've seen the future and it ends with all of you betraying me.'
"I received some... intelligence," he said finally. "About certain European partners. It requires verification before we proceed."
This, at least, was the language of business his mother understood. Her expression shifted from concern to calculation.
"What intelligence, and from whom?"
"I'd prefer to discuss that privately," he said, finding his footing. "After I've confirmed some details."
His mother studied him, then gave a slight nod. "Very well. We'll revisit the European strategy next week."
As the presentation resumed, Jay exhaled slowly, only to catch his father watching him with an evaluative expression he couldn't quite interpret.
His phone vibrated. Grateful for the distraction, he discreetly checked the message.
From Jake: Dude, what was THAT? Your mom thinks you're having a stroke, and Danny says you were talking to yourself this morning. Also, Priya's exhibition is Friday, don't forget you promised to come. Her parents are visiting from Mumbai and she's freaking out.
Jay blinked, momentarily confused. Priya? Jake's girlfriend. The photographer. The exhibition.
A distant memory stirred—something about an art gallery in New York, some terrible photographs, and...
He frowned, trying to recall. There had been someone there, hadn't there? Someone he'd spoken to briefly. He couldn't remember a face or name, just a vague impression of a genuine laugh and an honest conversation.
He typed back: Not having a stroke. Just reconsidering some strategies. What time Friday?
Jake's reply came instantly: 8PM, Klein Gallery in Chelsea. Wear something that makes you look less corporate robot, more human person.
Jay tucked his phone away, the half-formed memory already fading as more pressing concerns demanded his attention.
"Jongseong, do you have anything to add to Director Park's assessment?"
Jay looked up to find the entire board staring at him again. He hadn't heard a word of what Director Park had said.
"I think Director Park's assessment is... comprehensive," he managed, having no idea what he was endorsing.
"He asked for your input on canceling the Daewon acquisition."
"Right." Jay straightened. The Daewon acquisition—a company they had purchased and later sold at a significant profit in his original timeline. "I believe we should proceed with the acquisition. Their patent portfolio alone justifies the investment."
Director Park nodded approvingly. "Exactly my point."
Jay relaxed marginally, only to tense again when his mother spoke.
"That's interesting, considering Director Park just recommended we cancel the acquisition due to their overvalued patents."
The room fell silent. Jay felt heat creeping up his neck.
"I was... testing to see if anyone was paying attention?"
His mother's sigh could have withered steel. "We'll take a ten minute recess. Jongseong, my office. Now."
As the board members filed out, his father paused briefly beside him.
"Whatever's going on with you, fix it before your mother decides you need medical intervention. Or worse, reassignment."
With that less-than-comforting advice, Jay followed his mother to what would undoubtedly be the most awkward conversation of his newly-regained past life.
"Close the door," his mother instructed as they entered her office, a minimalist sanctuary of glass and steel.
Jay obeyed, steeling himself for the dissection that was about to occur.
"Sit," she commanded, taking her place behind a desk large enough to land a small aircraft.
He complied, automatically adjusting his posture to the rigid formality expected. Twenty-nine years of conditioning didn't disappear even with temporal displacement.
"What is happening with you?"
"Nothing serious, I assure you. Just a temporary—"
"That was not a board performance worthy of a Park," she interrupted. "You contradicted yourself, failed to pay attention, and gave the impression of someone who is either incompetent or unwell. Neither is acceptable."
"I apologize, Mom. It won't happen again."
The moment the word left his mouth, Jay was surprised at his own casualness. Mom. Not "Mother" or "Chairwoman" as he'd taken to calling her in professional settings.
His mother's expression softened almost imperceptibly—visible only to someone who had spent a lifetime learning to read her minute facial cues.
"It's been a while since you've called me that in this office," she noted, neither disapproving nor sentimental. The Parks might be ruthless in business, but family was family. "Though it doesn't exempt you from explaining your behavior this morning."
"I'm simply... reconsidering certain aspects of my approach."
"Your approach," she echoed skeptically.
"Yes. I've been thinking that perhaps I've been too rigid. Too focused on following a preset path without questioning whether it's the optimal route."
Her expression shifted subtly. "And this revelation came to you when, exactly?"
"Recently," he hedged.
"I see." She tapped one nail against her desk. "And does this 'reconsideration' include your personal life as well?"
Jay tensed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that you've spent five years claiming to be too focused on your career for serious relationships, despite my repeated reminders that a suitable marriage is an essential component of your position. If you're reconsidering 'preset paths,' perhaps this is an area you might prioritize."
And there it was. In the original timeline, this conversation had led to his first introduction to the Visconti family.
"I don't believe my focus should be on marriage at this time," he said carefully.
"And yet you're now suggesting we delay European expansion, which leaves you with considerably more bandwidth." She opened a drawer and removed a slim folder. "I've taken the liberty of updating your candidate dossiers."
Of course she had. In his mother's world, suitable marriage partners were assessed with the same due diligence as potential acquisitions.
"I appreciate your thoroughness, but I'll handle this aspect of my life myself."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "You've been 'handling it yourself' since graduation, with no results. The Kang family has been quite direct about their interest in an alliance through their daughter."
Jay suppressed a grimace. Se-yeon Kang. The woman who had introduced him to Seraphina at her father's request.
"The Kangs are not a suitable match," he said sharply.
"On what basis?"
On the basis that they were integral to his destruction, he thought bitterly.
"I have concerns about their long-term business ethics," he said instead.
"Interesting." She made a note on her tablet. "I wasn't aware you had investigated the Kang operations."
"I make it my business to be thorough."
"Perhaps you're not as distracted as you appeared in the boardroom, then."
Jay recognized the familiar pattern—his mother testing him, probing for weaknesses. In his first life, he'd been so desperate for her approval that he'd missed the manipulation.
"I should prepare for the Kang meeting," he said, rising. "I'll need to review the materials given my reconsideration of our European strategy."
She nodded, dismissing him with a wave. "Don't embarrass yourself again. The board already thinks you're following in your grandfather's neurological footsteps."
At the door, he paused. In his previous life, he'd walked out of this office and directly into the trap being laid for him.
"One more thing," he said. "Who originally suggested the Visconti Group as a potential European partner?"
If the question surprised her, she didn't show it. "I believe Chairman Kang mentioned them at the economic forum in Davos. Why?"
"Just mapping connections. It helps me visualize the relationship web."
Her eyes narrowed slightly—the look she gave when recalculating her assessment. "Your grandfather used to say something similar. Before the stroke, of course."
With that parting barb, she dismissed him.
As Jay left, his phone vibrated again. Another text from Jake:
Almost forgot—Priya says to bring that friend of yours from the investment firm if he's still in town. She needs all the connections she can get.
Jay frowned. What friend from what investment firm? He didn't recall...
And then it clicked. The half-remembered interaction from the gallery. There had been someone else there that night—not just the person he'd spoken to, but someone he'd been introduced to later.
If he attended this exhibition, he might run into that person again—the one whose laugh he vaguely remembered. Not that it mattered particularly. Just a curious coincidence in his reshuffled timeline.
He pocketed his phone, mind already turning to more immediate concerns. The Kang meeting. The European strategy. The trap he needed to dismantle piece by piece.
A random stranger he'd once met at a gallery was hardly worth dwelling on when he had an entire future to reconstruct.
Autumn in New York welcomed Jay with crisp air and streets still gleaming from an afternoon shower. He stood outside the Klein Gallery in Chelsea, straightening cuffs that needed no adjustment.
The city felt different now—full of possibility rather than the shame and failure it would represent in his original timeline. Here, five years before his downfall, no photographers lurked hoping to catch the disgraced Park heir. He was just another wealthy visitor, anonymous in a city that specialized in ignoring the important.
The past three days had been a calculated offensive against his future ruin. Altered procurement strategies. Reassigned personnel. Extensive documentation that couldn't be manipulated later. He'd even faced down Kang himself, politely declining the European expansion that would eventually lead to his destruction.
All while maintaining the perfect Park Jongseong façade.
This trip to New York offered both strategic cover and unexpected relief. For a few precious hours, he could breathe without the weight of his name.
He checked his watch. He was early, deliberately so. Jake and Priya would arrive in twenty minutes, giving him time to assess the gallery and determine if his half-remembered encounter would repeat itself.
But the vagueness didn't matter. What mattered was the opportunity to alter one small variable in the equation of his life.
Since his mother had mentioned marriage in her office, a strategy had been forming in his mind. In the original timeline, the months following this trip had seen increasing pressure about his relationship status. His mother had begun introducing him to eligible candidates—all with their own agendas, all connected to the world that would eventually close ranks against him.
And then came Seraphina. Perfect, beautiful, accomplished Seraphina. The woman who would eventually help orchestrate his destruction.
But what if he removed that variable entirely? What if he preempted the whole process? Elementary business strategy: block your opponent's best move before they make it.
Inside, the gallery was minimalist—white walls, polished concrete floors, strategic lighting. Jay moved through the space with practiced ease, accepting champagne from a passing server.
Priya's work was exactly as he remembered—technically proficient but emotionally distant. Black and white urban landscapes hinting at decay and renewal. He paused before one he remembered discussing in the original timeline—the one he'd compared to food poisoning.
"Considering an acquisition?" a voice asked. Not yours. The gallery owner—Klein himself.
"Just appreciating the composition," Jay replied smoothly.
He scanned the room peripherally. The space was filling with the expected crowd—moneyed New Yorkers performing interest in emerging artists, critics with studied expressions of judgment.
But no sign of you.
A flicker of concern crossed his mind. Had his earlier manipulations altered the timeline so significantly that you wouldn't attend?
"Mr. Park!" Priya approached with nervous energy
"The exhibition looks excellent," Jay said, offering Priya a polite air-kiss. "Your work has evolved considerably."
A kind lie. Her work was exactly as he remembered it.
"That means so much coming from you," Priya gushed. "Jake said you've been impossibly busy with the European expansion plans."
Jay shot Jake a warning look, but his friend merely shrugged.
"Sorry, forgot it was all very hush-hush and corporate espionage-y." Jake clapped Jay's shoulder. "You look terrible, by the way. In an expensive, tailored way, but still terrible. Are you sleeping these days?"
In his first life, Jay would have bristled at such criticism. Now, after everything, he felt unexpected gratitude for Jake's honesty. He'd forgotten this about their friendship—how Jake treated him as a person, not the Park heir.
"Sleep is for those without quarterly projections," Jay replied dryly.
"You're not fine, you're just good at faking fine. The Park family specialty." Jake surveyed the crowd. "Speaking of fake, look at all these people pretending to understand Priya's art when half couldn't tell profound commentary from pictures of garbage."
Priya elbowed him. "My parents will be here any minute. Please pretend to be cultured."
"Fine. I'll practice my 'this speaks to me spiritually' face." Jake grinned and headed for the bar.
"He's impossible," Priya sighed affectionately. "But he's been amazing with my parents. Even learned Hindi phrases for my father."
Jay nodded, remembering with a pang how Jake and Priya's engagement had been "postponed" after his disgrace. No one wanted ties to a pariah, not even his oldest friend.
"Jay?" Priya studied him. "Are you okay? You seem... different somehow."
Before he could answer, the gallery's atmosphere shifted—the crowd parting for Priya's parents. She excused herself, leaving Jay alone.
His mind returned to his strategy. He needed someone who could occupy the space Seraphina would fill, disrupting the timeline ending in his ruin. Someone far removed from his world.
You—if you showed up—would be perfect. Not for any particular quality, but for what you weren't. You weren't connected to his family's web of alliances. You had no ties to competing conglomerates. You carried no hidden agenda.
Your ignorance of his world wasn't a liability—it was your greatest asset. You couldn't be manipulated by the forces that orchestrated his destruction because you existed outside their sphere.
It wasn't personal. He didn't need a soulmate; he needed a shield. The fact that he remembered your laugh was merely incidental. A convenient connection point for his strategy.
The gallery door opened, admitting a gust of cool air and a latecomer—you.
Recognition hit immediately. How had he forgotten so many details? Your self-conscious movements. Your genuine curiosity instead of affected boredom.
Jay moved toward you before consciously deciding to, drawn by the chance to rewrite this small piece of his past. He intercepted you at the photograph he knew you'd examine—the one you'd defended despite its quality.
He reminded himself: this was strategy, not sentiment. Business, not emotion. This was about survival.
"It's quite terrible, isn't it?" Jay said, repeating his original words.
You turned, and he was struck by your direct gaze—no calculation, just human curiosity.
"I wouldn't say that," you replied, amusement tugging at your mouth. "Art is subjective."
"So is food poisoning, but we recognize it when we experience it." He gestured with his champagne. "This is visual food poisoning."
A startled laugh escaped you—genuine, unguarded. The sound hit Jay with unexpected force. For a moment, his calculated facade cracked, replaced by a genuine impulse to connect.
He pushed the feeling aside. Focus on the objective.
"That's my friend's work you're insulting," you said quietly.
"Ah. Then you're here from obligation rather than appreciation?"
"Isn't everyone?" You glanced around. "Half these people couldn't distinguish masterpieces from finger paintings, but they'll have strong opinions borrowed from the last opening."
The conversation unfolded exactly as before—eerie yet comforting.
"I'm Jay," he said, memorizing your face.
"Just Jay? No impressive title?"
"Park. Jay Park. But I'd prefer to be just Jay tonight."
You assessed him with refreshing directness. "And what does Just Jay do when not critiquing photography?"
Another deviation from the original timeline. A small ripple that could grow into a wave.
"Corporate strategy," he replied vaguely. "Nothing as interesting as defending questionable art. And you are...?"
The gallery door opened, and Jay felt a cold jolt as his family entered, causing the usual ripple through the crowd. His mother, father, relatives—all unaware they would eventually abandon him when convenient.
This was the moment. Originally, he'd left without your name, swept back into the path leading to Seraphina and his destruction.
Not this time.
"I should warn you," he said conspiratorially, "I'm about to transform into someone less honest and more boring. Corporate obligation." He nodded toward his family. "But before I do—your name? In case our paths cross again."
Behind this casual request lay his entire strategy. Your name would be the first stone in his new foundation.
As he waited, his gaze intensified slightly. To you, it might seem like normal interest. To him, it was the focus of someone placing extraordinary significance on an ordinary exchange.
This wasn't just about a name—it was about architecture. The careful redesign of his future. And you, unknowingly, were about to become a cornerstone.
"Y/N"
-
The syllables hung in the air between them for a moment. Jay's smile shifted—genuine now, not the practiced expression he deployed at corporate functions.
"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Y/N." He reached for your hand, a brief, professional clasp. "Unfortunately, duty calls."
He slipped you his card—not the formal Park Industries one, but a sleeker personal version with just his name and private number. A deliberate choice. The first move in his new game.
"Perhaps we'll cross paths again," he said. His tone casual, but his gaze wasn't. It held yours a moment longer than social convention dictated.
Then he was gone, transforming with each step toward his family. Shoulders squaring. Expression cooling. The brief glimpse of honest humanity tucked away beneath the polished exterior of Park Jongseong, corporate heir.
You watched him bow to his mother, exchange handshakes with other family members, fluidly inserting himself into their formal orbit. The man who had made irreverent comments about art seemed to evaporate entirely.
"The exhibition demonstrates impressive technical skill," Jay's mother observed an hour later, champagne flute held at a precise angle. "Though the subject matter is rather... conventional."
This assessment came after a methodical circuit of the gallery, during which the Park family had drawn considerable attention without seeming to notice it.
"Priya has potential," Jay replied diplomatically. "Her composition exhibits strong understanding of negative space."
Art criticism wasn't the point of this conversation, and they both knew it. His mother was watching him carefully, calculating something behind her perfect smile.
"I spotted you speaking with someone earlier," she mentioned with practiced casualness. "Before we arrived."
And there it was. Nothing escaped her notice.
"A friend of the artist," Jay said, matching her casual tone. "We were discussing the merits of contemporary photography."
"I see." His mother's gaze swept the room, locating you within seconds where you stood chatting with Priya near the bar. "Not the usual social circle you frequent."
"Perhaps that's refreshing." Jay sipped his champagne, strategic in his mild defiance. "One tires of the same conversations."
His mother's eyebrow arched slightly—the equivalent of open surprise from anyone else.
"Interesting," she said, recalculating variables in her mental dossier. "Does this relate to your sudden disinterest in the European expansion?"
"Not directly," Jay replied. "Though both reflect a broader reassessment of paths worth pursuing."
She studied him with the penetrating gaze that had intimidated business rivals for decades. "You've changed, Jongseong. Since when, I'm not certain. But something is different."
"Growth isn't change, Mother. It's evolution." He'd never spoken to her this way in his first timeline—confident but not confrontational. "The core remains the same."
His father approached, ending their private exchange. "The Visconti Group's representative just arrived," he informed his wife. "The one you wanted to meet."
Jay's pulse quickened. In the original timeline, this casual introduction had been the first seed planted. The beginning of his eventual destruction.
"Another time, perhaps," Jay interjected smoothly before his mother could respond. "I promised Jake I'd speak with some potential collectors. His girlfriend would be devastated if the night wasn't successful."
His father's expression registered mild surprise at this unusual prioritization of friendship over business.
"Of course," his mother said, analyzing this new data point. "Family supports family's associates. That's the Park way."
The subtle reminder of obligation came with her practiced smile. Not a reprimand, but a note being filed away for future reference.
Jay inclined his head respectfully and moved away, circulating through the crowd with practiced ease. He exchanged pleasantries with critics, complimented the gallery owner, and strategically positioned himself near a group of potential collectors, laying groundwork for a purchase that would help Priya's career.
All while remaining acutely aware of your location in the room.
-
Two hours later, Jay found himself in a strategic position near the coat check as you prepared to leave. The gallery had begun to empty, the initial excitement of the opening fading into the routine pattern of a Thursday night in Chelsea.
"Leaving so soon?" he asked, timing his approach to appear coincidental.
You looked up, surprise flickering across your face. "Just Jay. I thought you'd be trapped in corporate obligation all night."
"A temporary reprieve." He smiled. "The family business discussions have moved to dinner at Le Bernardin."
"Very fancy," you commented. "I'm headed for much humbler fare—the subway and takeout."
Jay glanced at his watch. "Actually, I find myself with an unexpected hour before I need to join them. Perhaps you'd allow me to buy you a proper dinner? There's an excellent place just around the corner." He kept his tone casual, the invitation seemingly spontaneous.
You hesitated, studying him with that direct gaze he found so refreshing. "Why would you want to have dinner with a complete stranger when you clearly have more important places to be?"
The directness of the question caught him slightly off-guard. In his world, people rarely questioned Park Jongseong's motivations to his face.
"Because you're the only interesting conversation I've had all evening," he replied, allowing a hint of genuine feeling to color his words. "Everyone else is either trying to sell me something, impress me, or secure an introduction to my mother."
You considered this, head tilted slightly. "And what makes you think I'm not doing the same?"
Jay laughed—a real laugh, not his polished social chuckle. "The fact that you just asked that question, for starters."
Something in your expression softened. "One hour. And it had better be good food."
"I never compromise on quality," Jay assured you, suppressing the satisfaction of a well-executed strategic move. "The restaurant is just three blocks from here."
As you walked together into the crisp autumn evening, Jay maintained the perfect balance of professional distance and personal interest. He asked about your work (freelance journalism), your history with Priya (college roommates), your thoughts on New York's cultural scene (overpriced but occasionally transcendent).
Each piece of information carefully filed away. Each response analyzed for potential complications or advantages to his developing strategy.
The restaurant—an upscale Italian place with discreet lighting and well-spaced tables—provided the ideal setting for his purposes. Impressive without being intimidating. Exclusive enough to require his name for a last-minute table, but not so ostentatious that it would make you uncomfortable.
"So," you said once you were seated and had ordered, "are you going to tell me what Park Industries actually does? Or am I supposed to pretend I don't know you're practically royalty in South Korea?"
Again, that directness. Jay found himself genuinely smiling.
"Technically, we do everything from semiconductors to shipping," he replied. "But that's hardly dinner conversation. I'd rather hear more about your work. Journalism must give you a unique perspective."
"Nice deflection," you noted, but allowed the conversation to shift.
For fifty-three minutes, Jay executed a perfect performance of genuine connection. He asked thoughtful questions. Shared carefully selected personal anecdotes. Displayed just enough vulnerability to seem authentic without revealing anything truly significant.
He studied your reactions, adjusting his approach subtly based on what resonated. When you responded to his dry humor, he offered more. When certain topics sparked genuine interest in your eyes, he explored them further.
A strategic seduction—but not a romantic one. He was securing an ally. Establishing a connection outside the corrupted network that had eventually destroyed him.
When his phone vibrated with a text from his mother, he allowed himself a calculated show of reluctance.
"Duty calls," he said, echoing his words from earlier in the gallery. "I've enjoyed this conversation more than you know."
"It was surprisingly pleasant," you agreed with a hint of amusement. "Despite the suspicious circumstances."
He signaled for the check. "Suspicious?"
"Wealthy heir suddenly interested in random gallery-goer? That's either the beginning of a romance novel or a cautionary tale." You smiled to soften the words. "I'm still deciding which."
Jay laughed again, caught between strategic calculation and genuine appreciation of your perception.
"Perhaps neither," he suggested. "Perhaps just two people enjoying conversation without agenda."
"Everyone has an agenda," you replied, gathering your things. "Even if they don't recognize it themselves."
How right you were. If only you knew the elaborate mental chess game he was playing, with you as a central piece.
Outside the restaurant, he made his final move of the evening—perfectly calibrated for maximum effect without seeming too eager.
"I'll be in New York for another two days," he said casually. "If you're free tomorrow evening, perhaps you could show me a part of the city tourists don't usually see. Something authentic."
The invitation was designed to appeal to your evident independence and local knowledge. To position you as the expert rather than the pursued. A subtle flattery that didn't register as manipulation.
"I might be available," you said, considering. "Depends on my deadline."
"Of course." He nodded respectfully. "You have my number. No pressure either way."
As he hailed a taxi for you, he allowed his hand to brush yours briefly—a manufactured moment of connection carefully designed to seem accidental.
"Goodnight, Y/N," he said as you stepped into the cab. "I hope to hear from you tomorrow."
You smiled through the window, giving a small wave as the taxi pulled away.
Jay watched until the taillights disappeared into Manhattan traffic, then straightened his tie and hailed his own car. His expression shifted seamlessly from warm interest to cool calculation.
Phase one: complete. You had been introduced into the equation. A new variable with the potential to disrupt the entire sequence leading to his downfall.
As his driver navigated toward Le Bernardin, Jay mentally mapped the next steps. He would need to provide his mother with enough information to satisfy her curiosity without triggering her strategic instincts. Plant seeds with his father about potential advantages of connections outside their usual network. Begin building documentation that would position you as a completely independent connection, not part of any competing corporate interest.
His phone buzzed with a message from his cousin Danny: Mom says you're acting strange. She wants intel on whoever you were talking to at the gallery.
Jay smiled tightly. The family machine was already turning its attention to this unexpected development. Exactly as he'd anticipated.
He typed back: Just making connections. Nothing significant.
Let them underestimate this move. Let them dismiss you as a casual interest, a temporary distraction.
By the time they recognized the strategic importance of what he was building, it would be too late. The timeline would be irreversibly altered.
And Jay Park would never again find himself standing alone in an empty apartment, betrayed by everyone he had trusted.
Another message appeared on his screen—this one from an unknown number.
Tomorrow, 7pm. Wear comfortable shoes and nothing that screams "I'm worth kidnapping for ransom." – Y/N
Jay allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction. The pieces were moving exactly as he'd calculated.
Tomorrow, the real work would begin.
-
The next evening proved Jay's instincts correct. You were indeed the perfect variable to introduce into his equation.
You arrived at the designated meeting spot in Washington Square Park wearing jeans, a well-worn leather jacket, and boots that suggested you actually walked places rather than being chauffeured. Jay had followed your instructions, trading his usual bespoke suit for dark jeans, a cashmere sweater, and shoes that would survive more than a board meeting.
"You clean up nicely," you said, appraising his attempt at casual attire. "Almost pass for a normal person."
"My greatest performance yet," he replied with a self-deprecating smile. "Where to first?"
"That depends. What's your tolerance for authenticity? Real New York isn't exactly five-star accommodations."
Jay's smile widened. "Test me."
And you did. For the next three hours, you led him through a New York he'd never seen despite countless business trips. Hidden speakeasies accessed through fake phone booths. A Ukrainian diner where the servers scowled and the food defied description but somehow tasted like memory. A rooftop garden secretly maintained by an elderly couple who'd been cultivating it since the 1970s.
Throughout the evening, Jay maintained his careful balance—genuinely enjoying himself while strategically gathering information. Your job prospects (promising but unstable). Your family situation (supportive but financially modest). Your relationship status (refreshingly unattached).
Each piece of data confirmed what he'd hoped: you were the perfect candidate. Independent enough to make your own decisions, stable enough to be reliable, ambitious enough to appreciate opportunity, and disconnected enough from his world to be safe from manipulation.
"Admit it," you said as you sat on rusty chairs atop the secret garden, city lights spread before you. "This is better than whatever fancy restaurant your family's at tonight."
"Infinitely," Jay agreed, and meant it. The evening had been unexpectedly liberating. Here, he wasn't Park Jongseong, heir and corporate prince. He was just Jay, a guy experiencing New York's hidden corners with an interesting woman. "Though my mother would need smelling salts if she saw these chairs."
You laughed, the sound still as honest as he remembered. "Why do I get the feeling you're not often allowed to just... exist? Without expectations or performance metrics?"
The observation was so accurate it momentarily disrupted his careful strategy. For a second, he considered telling you everything—the time travel, his disgrace, his desperate plan to rewrite his future.
But of course, that was impossible. Who would believe such madness?
"The privileges of my position come with corresponding obligations," he said instead, allowing a rare glimpse of genuine feeling. "My path was charted before I was born."
You studied him in the dim rooftop lighting. "And you've never considered drawing your own map?"
Jay looked out over the city, contemplating how to answer. The strategic response would be something vague but intriguing. But something about this night—about you—made him unexpectedly honest.
"I'm attempting to redraw certain sections now," he said quietly. "It's... complicated."
"Family complications or business complications? Or are they the same thing for you?"
"Inextricably intertwined," Jay confirmed. "The Parks don't separate business from family or family from business. It's all one ecosystem."
"Sounds suffocating."
"It can be," he admitted, surprising himself again with his candor. "But it's also... secure. Structured. There's comfort in knowing your role."
"Until the role becomes a cage," you observed.
The conversation was veering dangerously close to truth. Jay redirected gently.
"What about you? No family business directing your path?"
You shook your head. "Just student loans and rent directing my career choices. Not exactly the same scale of problems."
"Different cages," Jay said. "Different gilding."
A comfortable silence fell between you. Below, the city pulsed with energy—millions of lives intersecting, diverging, each on their own trajectory.
"I should probably get you back to civilization," you said eventually. "Before your security detail reports you missing."
Jay checked his watch, surprised to find it was nearly midnight. The evening had passed with unexpected swiftness.
"I've dismissed security for the night," he said, rising from the rusty chair. "But you're right, it's late. Let me walk you home."
You shook your head. "That defeats the purpose of me showing you hidden New York. I'll walk myself home like a proper New Yorker."
"At least let me get you a car."
"The subway is faster this time of night."
Jay smiled at your stubbornness. Another quality that made you ideal for his purposes. "Then I'll accompany you to the subway."
As you descended from the rooftop, Jay made his decision. The evening had confirmed everything he needed to know. You were perfect—self-sufficient, perceptive, and most importantly, unconnected to the web that would eventually try to destroy him.
It was time to set his actual plan in motion. Earlier than he'd originally calculated, but the opportunity was too perfect to ignore.
Outside the subway entrance, you turned to say goodbye. "This was surprisingly enjoyable, Just Jay. You're not at all what I expected."
"Is that a compliment?"
"An observation." Your smile took any sting from the words. "Maybe I'll see you next time you're in New York."
It was the opening he needed. Jay took a calculated breath.
"What if it were sooner than that?" he asked, carefully casual. "What if I had a proposition for you?"
Your eyebrows rose slightly. "A proposition sounds suspiciously like business."
"Perhaps a merger of interests," Jay said, watching your reaction closely.
"I'm not qualified to consult for Park Industries, if that's where this is going."
"Nothing to do with the company. This is personal." Jay paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Would you have dinner with me tomorrow? There's something I'd like to discuss that could be mutually beneficial."
Wariness crept into your expression. "That sounds ominous."
"It's not illegal or immoral," he assured you. "Just... unusual. But I think you might be the perfect person for it."
"Now I'm definitely concerned."
Jay smiled, allowing genuine warmth to show. "Trust me enough for one more dinner? If you hate the proposal, we part as friends with an interesting story about the time a Korean businessman made you a strange offer."
You studied him for a long moment. "Fine. But a public place, and I reserve the right to walk out if things get weird."
"Perfectly reasonable terms," Jay agreed. "I'll text you the details."
After you disappeared down the subway steps, Jay hailed a car back to his hotel. His mind was already composing the proposal, weighing phrases and possibilities. The timing was delicate. Too direct, and you'd be justifiably alarmed. Too vague, and you'd dismiss it as absurd.
But if presented correctly, with the right incentives and assurances...
It could work. It had to work.
-
The restaurant Jay selected for their final evening was elegant without being ostentatious. Private enough for serious conversation but public enough to meet your safety requirements. He arrived early, ensuring the perfect table—secluded but visible, with clear sightlines to exits.
You arrived precisely on time, wearing a dress that suggested you'd taken this meeting more seriously than yesterday's casual exploration. Good. It indicated you were intrigued enough to make an effort.
"I half-expected to be stood up," Jay said as you sat down.
"I considered it," you admitted. "But curiosity won out. I spent all day trying to imagine what this mysterious proposition could be."
"And your theories?"
"Either you're recruiting me for corporate espionage, or this is an elaborate setup for asking me on a real date."
Jay smiled. "Neither, though the second option is less absurd than the first."
The waiter brought menus and wine recommendations. Jay ordered for both of you—not to control, but to expedite. The sooner pleasantries were addressed, the sooner he could present his case.
Once the preliminary course was served and privacy assured, Jay leaned forward slightly.
"Before I explain, I want to establish context," he began. "My family situation is... complicated. As the heir to Park Industries, certain expectations exist regarding my personal life."
You nodded, waiting for him to continue.
"Among these is the expectation that I'll marry strategically. Someone who enhances the company's position, preferably from a compatible business family."
"Arranged marriage in the 21st century?" You raised an eyebrow. "That seems archaic."
"It's framed as 'guided choice,'" Jay explained. "But the outcome is essentially predetermined. The candidates all fit a specific profile, vetted extensively by my mother."
"And you don't want that," you guessed.
"I've seen where that path leads," Jay said carefully. "It's not favorable."
"So what does this have to do with me?"
Here was the critical moment. Jay took a measured breath.
"I'm proposing an alternative arrangement. A marriage of convenience, with clearly defined parameters and mutual benefits."
Your expression froze. "Excuse me?"
"I know how this sounds," Jay said quickly. "But please hear me out before deciding."
You sat back, arms crossed. "I'm listening, but this better be good."
"What I need is someone outside my world. Someone my mother can't manipulate or compromise. Someone with no hidden corporate agenda or family ambitions." Jay held your gaze steadily. "Someone like you."
"And what exactly would I get from this arrangement, besides the obvious headache?"
"Financial security," Jay said simply. "Complete financial independence. A generous settlement that would eliminate your student loans, housing concerns, and career pressures. You'd be free to pursue your writing without worrying about making rent."
He could see the calculation happening behind your eyes. The journalist weighing an unbelievable story.
"This would be a temporary arrangement," he continued. "Two years maximum. After which we would part amicably, with your financial future secured and my family obligations satisfied."
"You're serious," you said, realization dawning.
"Completely."
"But why me? You could find countless women willing to make this deal."
"Because you don't want anything from me except what we explicitly agree to," Jay explained. "You don't care about the Park name or legacy. You have no connection to our business rivals. You're honest, independent, and most importantly, you see me as a person, not a position."
You were silent for a long moment, processing.
"What would this arrangement involve... practically speaking?"
"A legal marriage. A public relationship that appears genuine. Attendance at certain family and business functions. Cohabitation in Seoul, though with separate living spaces." Jay outlined each point precisely. "No romantic or physical obligations whatsoever."
"And after two years?"
"A quiet divorce with a generous settlement. You return to your life with complete financial freedom. I gain time to secure my position without my mother's interference."
You studied him intently. "What aren't you telling me? This seems too... calculated."
Jay hesitated. How much could he safely reveal without sounding deranged?
"My mother is pushing me toward a specific alliance that would be disastrous," he said finally. "I need to block that move decisively. Your presence provides that blockade."
"Corporate chess using marriage pieces," you murmured.
"An apt metaphor."
The waiter arrived with the main course, forcing a pause in the conversation. Jay waited patiently as you considered his proposal.
"I'd have to move to Korea," you said finally. "Learn a new language, navigate a completely foreign business world, pretend to be in love with someone I barely know."
"All significant challenges," Jay acknowledged. "Hence the substantial compensation."
"How substantial?"
He named a figure that made your eyes widen slightly.
"Plus all living expenses, travel, and a housing allowance upon our separation," he added. "Financial security for the foreseeable future."
You took a sip of wine, buying time to think. Jay remained silent, giving you space to process.
"Why should I trust you?" you asked finally. "No offense, but this sounds like the beginning of a thriller where the protagonist never returns from Seoul."
"A valid concern." Jay reached into his jacket and removed a USB drive. "This contains a draft contract outlining everything we've discussed, plus insurance clauses to protect you. Have your own lawyer review it. Make any reasonable amendments."
He placed the drive on the table between you.
"I don't expect an answer tonight," he continued. "Take time to consider. Research me, the company, the arrangement. I'll be in New York three more days."
You didn't touch the drive. "Are you always this prepared?"
"I don't propose convenient marriages on a whim," Jay said with a hint of humor. "This is a strategic decision for both of us."
"And if I say no?"
"Then we enjoy this excellent meal, I thank you for considering it, and we part as friends with an unusual story."
You finally reached for the drive, turning it in your fingers thoughtfully.
"Two years of my life," you mused. "Pretending to be someone I'm not."
"Or two years experiencing a world few ever see from the inside," Jay countered. "With material for the book you mentioned wanting to write. And afterwards, complete freedom to pursue whatever you wish."
He could see the writer in you considering the possibilities. The practical side weighing the financial security. The cautious part still suspicious of his motives.
"I'll think about it," you said finally, slipping the drive into your purse. "That's all I can promise right now."
"That's all I ask." Jay raised his glass slightly. "To unusual propositions and careful consideration."
You hesitantly clinked your glass against his. "To whatever the hell this is."
The rest of dinner passed in lighter conversation, Jay deliberately steering away from the proposal to give you mental space. As they finished dessert, he sensed you had more questions brewing.
"Just ask," he said gently. "Whatever you're thinking."
"Why marriage?" you asked bluntly. "Why not just date someone your mother doesn't approve of until this mysterious alliance threat passes?"
A perceptive question. Jay had prepared for it.
"Because dating is easily dismissed as temporary infatuation. Marriage is definitive. It removes me completely from the candidate pool and blocks the specific alliance my mother is orchestrating."
You nodded slowly. "And there's really no romantic component to this? No hidden agenda where you're hoping for more?"
"None whatsoever," Jay assured you. "This is a business arrangement with clearly defined boundaries. Any personal friendship that develops would be separate from our agreement."
Outside the restaurant, you paused before parting ways.
"This is insane," you said, shaking your head slightly. "Completely insane."
"From a conventional perspective, yes," Jay agreed. "But sometimes unconventional solutions are necessary for unusual problems."
"I'll call you," you said. "After I've thought about it. And possibly had my head examined."
Jay smiled. "I look forward to hearing from you, whatever your decision."
As you walked away, Jay allowed himself a moment of cautious optimism. You hadn't immediately rejected the idea. You'd taken the contract. You were considering it.
Phase two: initiated.
The path to avoiding his destruction was unconventional, certainly. But with each step, each calculated move, he was redrawing the map of his future.
And for the first time since waking up five years in his past, Jay felt something akin to hope.
-
"He asked you to what?"
Priya's voice carried across the café, drawing glances from nearby tables. You winced, motioning for her to lower her volume. Two days had passed since Jay's proposal, and you'd finally broken down and called Priya. Some things were too bizarre to process alone.
"Keep it down," you hissed. "I haven't decided anything."
"Sorry," Priya whispered dramatically, leaning across the table. "But you can't drop 'Korean billionaire wants me as his contract wife' and expect normal volume control."
You stirred your coffee absently. The USB drive sat heavy in your bag, untouched since the dinner. Every time you considered plugging it in, reality reasserted itself. People didn't just get propositioned for fake marriages by corporate heirs. Not in real life.
"Maybe I imagined it," you said. "Stress-induced hallucination."
"Honey, you don't hallucinate trust fund provisions and prenuptial terms." Priya tapped the table emphatically. "And Park Industries is the real deal. My cousin works in finance and says they're basically royalty in Korea."
You sighed, glancing at your phone. Three missed calls from your editor about a deadline. Two emails from your landlord about the rent increase. A notification about your student loan payment.
Normal life, insistently demanding attention while some alternate universe beckoned from a USB drive.
"What would you do?" you asked.
Priya considered this, stirring her chai thoughtfully. "I'd wonder why me. Of all the women in New York—hell, in the world—why pick someone he met at my mediocre exhibition?"
"He said I don't want anything from him. That I see him as a person, not a position." You shrugged. "And apparently I'm not connected to any rival companies."
"That's... oddly specific." Priya frowned. "Like he's running from something."
A memory flashed—Jay on the rooftop garden, talking about redrawing sections of his path. The wistfulness in his voice when he mentioned roles becoming cages.
"Maybe he is," you murmured.
"Look, Y/N, this is either the strangest fantasy or the most interesting opportunity of your life." Priya grabbed your hand. "But either way, you should at least read the contract. Writer curiosity, if nothing else."
You nodded slowly. She was right. Whatever this was—elaborate joke, midlife crisis, legitimate offer—you couldn't make a decision without information.
"What about Seoul?" you asked, voicing one of the hundred practical concerns cycling through your mind. "My life is here."
"Your life is a studio apartment with questionable plumbing and editor who underpays you," Priya said bluntly. "Seoul has universal healthcare and a subway system that actually works."
"And a language I don't speak."
"And a completely fresh start, financial security, and material for that book you've been talking about writing since college." Priya squeezed your hand. "I'm not saying do it. I'm saying don't dismiss it without considering the insane possibility that this fever dream might actually be real."
Your phone pinged—a text from Jay:
No pressure on your decision. But if you'd like to discuss further, I'll be at the same restaurant tonight at 8. Whether you come or not, I enjoyed our time together.
Priya peered at the message. "Polite. Not pushy. Gives you space." She raised an eyebrow. "For a corporate shark offering a fake marriage, he's surprisingly... decent?"
"That's what makes this so confusing," you admitted. "He seems genuine, even when discussing something completely manufactured."
"Maybe that's why he thinks you'd be good at this. You're both honest about the dishonesty." Priya sat back. "So, are you going tonight?"
You stared at your phone, the mundane world of deadlines and bills momentarily suspended as you considered stepping further into whatever alternate reality Jay Park occupied.
"I guess I'll start by reading the contract," you said finally.
Priya grinned. "That's my practical journalist. Verify, then trust."
"I didn't say I trust him," you protested.
"Honey, you wouldn't have called me if you weren't already halfway to saying yes."
You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. She wasn't entirely wrong.
Whatever this was—fever dream or opportunity—you couldn't shake the feeling that Jay Park had seen something in you that even you hadn't recognized. Something valuable enough to upend both your worlds.
And despite every rational objection, part of you wanted to find out what it was.
-
After accepting Jay's proposal, everything moved quickly, but not without moments that made you question the purely contractual nature of your arrangement.
The first time you caught yourself actually looking at Jay—not as your contractual fiancé but as a man—was during a video call about logistics. He'd just finished a workout, answering your call in a fitted t-shirt damp with sweat, hair disheveled in a way you'd never seen before.
"Sorry for my appearance," he'd said, seemingly unaware of how the thin fabric clung to his chest and shoulders, revealing a physique usually hidden beneath perfect tailoring.
"It's fine," you'd replied, fighting to keep your eyes on his face rather than the defined muscles visible through his shirt. "We were just discussing flight details, right?"
You'd blamed your distraction on the strangeness of the situation. Just a natural reaction to an objectively attractive man. Nothing more.
-
Your Korean lessons began three weeks after you'd accepted his proposal. The language was challenging, but Jay insisted on joining occasionally, his pronunciation impeccable as he demonstrated sounds your English-trained mouth struggled to form.
"Fuck," you muttered one evening, dropping your head to the table after another failed attempt at a particularly difficult honorific. "I'm never going to get this right."
Jay looked up from his laptop, eyebrows raised. "I've never heard you swear before."
"I'm usually more professional," you admitted. "But this language is kicking my ass."
He closed his computer and moved to the chair beside you. "Try again. It's all in the tongue placement."
You made another attempt, mangling the syllables spectacularly.
"No, like this." Jay demonstrated slowly, exaggerating the mouth movement. You found yourself staring at his lips, noticing their perfect shape, the way the bottom one was slightly fuller than the top.
After your third failure, he sighed. "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward your face.
You nodded, not entirely sure what he was asking permission for.
He reached out, placing his thumb gently against your lower lip. "You need to press your tongue here, behind your teeth, not against your palate."
Heat surged through you at the unexpected contact. His thumb lingered, moving slightly against your lip as he demonstrated the position. Your eyes locked, and something shifted in his expression.
"Try again," he said softly, his voice lower than before.
You attempted the word, hyperaware of his fingers still resting lightly against your jaw.
"Better," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your mouth. "Almost there."
The air between you thickened. His hand should have moved away by now. It hadn't.
"Jay," you said, barely audible. Not a question, just an acknowledgment of whatever was happening.
For a moment, you thought he might lean in. Instead, he blinked and withdrew his hand, clearing his throat.
"That's enough for today," he said briskly, returning to his original seat. "You're making progress."
But that night, alone in your room, you caught yourself touching your own lip where his thumb had been, replaying the moment when his professional demeanor had briefly cracked.
-
Three weeks in, during dinner at a restaurant in Tribeca, Jay brought up the public aspects of your arrangement.
"We need to discuss how we'll appear as a couple," he said, his tone practical but not cold. "Physical boundaries. Forms of address."
"Like pet names?" you asked, taking a sip of wine.
"Exactly." He seemed relieved you understood. "In Korea, especially in my position, excessive public displays would seem inappropriate. But certain... intimacies are expected between engaged couples."
"So hand-holding, yes. Making out in boardrooms, no." Your joke earned a genuine smile from him.
"Precisely." He hesitated, then added with uncharacteristic uncertainty, "And regarding names..."
"What do people usually call you? Besides Jay or Mr. Park?"
His expression shifted subtly. "My mother calls me Jongseong. Business associates use Mr. Park. No one has ever used anything... affectionate."
The admission felt strangely vulnerable coming from him.
"What would you be comfortable with?" you asked.
His eyes met yours directly. "I've always thought 'babe' or 'baby' seemed... nice. Natural." The words seemed difficult for him to say, as if admitting to a secret preference. "But only if it feels comfortable for you."
The request surprised you – this controlled, strategic man wanting something so ordinary, so human.
"I can try that," you said, watching as relief softened his features. "Might take practice to say it without feeling weird, though."
"We have time to practice," he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
-
Shopping for your new wardrobe didn't happen in a fairy tale montage. Instead, it involved practical discussions of events you'd attend, climate considerations, and cultural norms.
"These social signifiers matter to my family," Jay explained as you examined a designer dress that cost more than your rent. "But your comfort matters to me."
"To our arrangement," you corrected gently.
He paused, meeting your eyes. "Yes. And to me personally."
The statement hung between you, neither acknowledged nor dismissed as you continued through the high-end boutique. The personal shopper brought Jay a selection of suits to try as well, and despite your best intentions, you found yourself watching as he emerged from the fitting room in each new outfit.
The last one—a charcoal gray suit cut to perfection—made you momentarily forget the contract entirely. The tailor knelt, making adjustments to the trousers while Jay stood in front of a three-way mirror. The jacket emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the tailored pants fitting perfectly across his ass.
You didn't realize you were staring until Jay's eyes met yours in the mirror, one eyebrow raising slightly. You quickly looked away, heat rising to your cheeks at being caught.
When you glanced back, the corner of his mouth had lifted in a small, satisfied smile.
-
Your parents were understandably shocked by the engagement announcement. The video call with them and Jay could have been disastrous, but he navigated it with surprising warmth.
"I understand this seems sudden," he told them, his formal demeanor softened. "I value your daughter's independence and perspective. Those qualities are rare in my world."
Later, alone, your mother had texted: "He's careful with his words around you. Watches how you react. Not sure if that's good or concerning."
"Still deciding," you'd replied honestly.
Six weeks after your agreement, you found yourself helping Jay pack for Seoul in his hotel suite, the reality of what you'd committed to finally sinking in.
"Second thoughts?" he asked, noticing your silence.
"Seventh or eighth, at least," you admitted.
You expected a strategic reassurance. Instead, he sat beside you on the edge of the bed, not touching but close.
"I have them too," he said quietly. "This arrangement... it's unusual for both of us."
"You seem so certain about everything."
"I'm certain about what I'm avoiding," he clarified. "Less certain about what we're building."
The honesty was refreshing. Not romance, but genuine transparency.
"Let's try something," you suggested. "Just to see how it feels."
He raised an eyebrow, waiting.
You cleared your throat, feeling slightly ridiculous. "Could you pass me that folder... babe?"
The pet name hung awkwardly between you. Jay blinked, then a small, genuine smile formed.
"Here you go," he replied, handing you the folder, then hesitating before adding a tentative, "...babe."
You both laughed at the strangeness of it, the tension breaking.
"That was terrible," you admitted.
"Catastrophic," he agreed, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. "But it will get easier."
It was the first time you'd seen him truly laugh. Something shifted subtly between you – not love or even attraction necessarily, but the foundation of something human and real beneath the contractual arrangement.
Eight weeks after the proposal, you boarded his family's private jet bound for Seoul.
As the plane leveled off, Jay handed you a thin folder. "Key family members and dynamics. Not a test, just preparation."
You nodded, grateful for his understanding that you wanted to succeed at this, whatever "this" was becoming.
"Thank you," you said. Then, after a moment's hesitation, added, "...baby."
It still felt strange, but less forced. Jay's expression softened in response.
"You're welcome," he replied, his voice warm in a way it hadn't been during those first calculated conversations weeks ago.
Neither of you were in love. That wasn't part of the contract. But as the plane carried you toward Seoul, there was a growing sense that whatever performance awaited might be built on something more substantial than just legal terms.
Not romance, not yet. But a partnership forming its own unique shape – part strategy, part genuine connection, and all uncharted territory.
-
Arriving in Seoul felt like stepping into another dimension. A fleet of black SUVs with tinted windows. Security personnel with earpieces. Photographers kept at a careful distance by a team of efficient PR staff.
"Ready?" Jay asked quietly, his hand finding yours as the plane door opened.
You nodded, though "ready" seemed an absurd concept for what awaited.
The moment you stepped onto Korean soil, Jay transformed—his posture impeccable, his smile exactly the right blend of pride and discretion. His arm slid around your waist, protective but not possessive.
"Perfect," he murmured, his lips close to your ear. "Just like that."
— as assistant managers at one of the most popular luxury hotels, you and jungwon have been put through the wringer. it is no secret that the two of you harbour deeper feelings for each other, and yet, even after so many years of working together, nothing has happened. perhaps this cycle things will finally change…
or, you receive a promotion offer only an idiot would turn down, but at the cost of moving across the country and leaving everyone behind.
warnings: written section -> fake texts, f!reader, fluff, changes to offer? finally a choice has been made!!
It may have only been a week ago, but sitting here again, in the conference room, with the Board of Directors and Mr. Bang all around you, is giving you war flashbacks.
“Thank you for joining us once more,” Mr. Bang begins. He must sense the tension coiled in your body as he gives you a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, we aren’t retracting the offer.”
Phew. Your shoulders slump in relief.
"We have made some adjustments and added an addendum to the contract." He slides the document across the table toward you. Highlighted below the main clauses is a section labelled Relocation, and beneath it, two choices sit side by side: relocate, and visit your current location twice a month, or stay at your current location, and visit the other twice a month.
"After further discussions, we realized the issue stemmed from the fact that the Board is obligated to remain mainly at one location, which means that location ends up receiving the bulk of the focus, the improvements, while—"
"While the other gets ignored," you finish, before you can stop yourself.
"Exactly that." One of the directors speaks up, and you're fairly certain, from the sharpness in her voice, that she's the treasurer. "Now, you can stay at this location if you'd prefer. But we'll schedule in regular visits to the other, where you'll spend two to three days at a time."
"Of course," Mr. Bang adds, "you still have the rest of the cycle to decide. But hopefully, this change makes it easier."
"Yes," you say, "I think it's completely changed my decision, actually."
Every expression in the room turns toward you, quizzical, intrigued. “I'm going to choose the option to stay at this location," you announce. "I love it here. I can't imagine leaving."
You pause, aware that every eye in the room is still fixed on you, waiting for you to explain yourself further, so you do. "This place is where I built everything that matters to me. The people I work with, the routines I've settled into… I've spent years learning this location, understanding its rhythms, knowing which corners get busy and which ones go quiet depending on the time of day. Starting over somewhere else would mean unlearning all of that." You glance briefly at the document still open in front of you, then look back up. "I know the visits will pull me away for a few days here and there, and I'm prepared for that, but my life is rooted here. I have people who depend on me being present and consistent, and I don't think I can just give that up.
Folding your hands over the table, you feel significantly less stressed than ever now that you've voiced your thoughts. "So yes. I am happy to accept the offer of promotion.”
---
a/n: shortest chapter in the world IM SAWRY also TYPOS but next chap is the final 💔 the starving games reference in the big 2026 ifykyk. thank u for 100 followers !!
𝓦𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐍⠀ ✶ ⠀there isn’t much of a reason for you and yang jungwon to end up showering together. convenience, maybe? curiosity? or maybe neither of you needed an excuse in the first place. either way, neither of you seems eager to be the first to step out.
𝟑𝟏𝟔𝟓 🗯️ ✽ ─── ⏾ 𝗯𝗼𝘆𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱 yang jungwon ⠀ x ⠀ 𝓯 ! rea ´ ꒳ ` 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : established relationship ˒ porn without a plot ˒ shared shower ˒ playful teasing ˒
𝔀𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : explicit sexual content ⋮ 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝘂𝗱𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀, 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁 ✿ fingering ˒ creampie ˒ unprotected p in v ˒ handjob ˒ dirty talk ˒ praise kink ˒ handjob ˒ multiple orgasms ˒ bunch of orgasm denial ˒
𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬⠀ꉂ (˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵)
✴️ 。 𝐞𝐥’𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 guess who just survived their exams (no, i never found my calculator ) (ㅅ´ ˘ `) kind of ass but i need to post okay goodbye all 👋
"You're always so eager, aren't you? Always rushing me. I told you—good things take time, baby." Jungwon muttered out, you couldn't even hear half the words spilling out of his mouth.
The shower runs hot, the kind of heat that turns your skin pink within minutes and fogs the glass walls so thick you can barely see your own reflection. Steam curls slowly toward the ceiling, clinging to the dark stone that lines every surface, the matte slate absorbing the light from the single recessed fixture overhead so the whole space feels smaller, closer, intimate. The glass walls on two sides are the only things keeping the steam contained, and water drums steadily against the stone floor, pooling in thin rivers that snake toward the drain. A broad slab of polished stone juts from the back wall, wide enough to sit on, deep enough to lean back against the wet stone comfortably, the surface slick beneath you. The showerhead above is wide and rainfall-style, and the water cascading from it hits your shoulders and runs down your collarbones in warm, uneven streams.
Your hands are tied together.
The lace of your underwear, chosen specifically because Jungwon's fingers caught on the fabric when he peeled them off your hips, is wound twice around your wrists and knotted tight between them, your palms pressed together in front of you like you're praying. The fabric is soaked, clinging to your skin, the delicate scalloped edge digging faintly into the underside of your left wrist every time you shift.
Jungwon is kneeling on the stone floor in front of the slab, and two of his fingers are inside you — moving so slowly you could scream. They push in, curl, drag out. In, curl, drag. The rhythm is agonizing, each stroke precise enough to press right against the spot that makes your thighs tense and your stomach clench, but never fast enough, never hard enough, never enough. His thumb works your clit in tight circles that keep you right at the edge of something without ever letting you fall into it. His other hand grips your thigh, holding you open, thumb pressing into the soft inside of your knee.
"Jungwon, I swear to—ugh, shut the fuck up and do more fucking," you whine, and your voice comes out thin, swallowed almost entirely by the steam and the sound of the water.
He tilts his head. His wet hair falls across his forehead in dark, uneven pieces, and his eyes, sharp and impossibly pleased, lift to meet yours. His fingers don't change pace. They don't even stutter.
"Mm, use that mouth for me, pretty girl. What were you talking to me about last night? The new boutique by the Italian restaurant we always head to?" he coos, voice silky and warm, and the bastard is smiling. A genuine, easy smile, like he's asking you about brunch plans while his fingers are buried inside you.
You open your mouth and every syllable you attempt to form collapses into a moan halfway out because his fingers curl again, pressing against the spot that has your whole body bow forward and your tied hands fall against his shoulder for balance. The lace drags wet against his skin. A sound rips out of you that isn't a word, isn't a name, isn't anything but want, and Jungwon watches it happen with the kind of attention that has your thighs squeezing against his hand.
He beams up at you. "Oh, yes! Wonderful, baby. Very interesting, I'll take you there soon."
You splay your tied hands in protest, shoving weakly at his shoulder, but his fingers continue to go in and out of you with that same unbearable, glacial patience. The heel of his palm grinds against your clit on every downstroke now and your legs are shaking, the warm water running down your thighs mixing with everything else, slicking the stone beneath you. "Fuck, just shut up and eat my pussy."
Jungwon's smile changes. His eyes go dark and warm at the same time, and his tongue drags slow across his bottom lip like he's been waiting for you to say exactly that. He pulls his fingers out of you so slowly you feel every inch of the withdrawal. The loss of them makes you clench around nothing, a whine building in your throat before you can stop it.
"Since you asked so nicely," he murmurs, his voice stripped of that playful lilt. Then his mouth is on you.
His tongue is hot and immediately relentless. He licks a broad, flat stripe from your entrance to your clit, gathering every drop of you. His lips close around your clit and he sucks, gentle at first, then harder, and the noise that leaves your mouth is mortifying and you can’t even bring yourself to care. The water from the rainfall showerhead runs down your stomach and over his jaw, pooling where his mouth meets you, warm rivulets mixing with your wetness and dripping from his chin onto the stone slab beneath you, and the added heat makes every stroke of his tongue feel amplified, filthy, too much.
"Oh—fuck, Jungwon—" Your tied hands drop to his head, fingers tangling into his wet hair and pulling, and he groans against you. The vibration rockets straight through your clit and down into your thighs and you grind forward into his mouth without meaning to, chasing the pressure, and he lets you. He lets you ride his face, his tongue flattening so you can drag yourself against it, and the friction is blinding.
He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips still brushing you, breath hot against your soaked skin. "Yeah, pull my hair. Show me how bad you want it." His tongue drags across his bottom lip, tasting you, and his eyes are heavy-lidded and black. "You're so wet, baby. All over my face. Fuck." He says it like he's savoring it. Then he dives back in, and this time his tongue is pointed and precise, flicking rapidly against your clit before he sucks it into his mouth again, and the rhythm he builds is punishing. His hands grip both your thighs now and he forces them wider, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, forearms flexing, the muscle in his shoulders shifting visibly beneath his wet skin. The strength of him is casual and devastating, like he could keep you spread like this for hours and never tire.
Your head falls back against the wet stone wall. The water hits your chest and throat, runs in hot streams between your breasts, and your hips move on their own, grinding against his mouth, chasing the rhythm his tongue is setting, and every time you get close, every time the heat coils tight and rising in your stomach, every time your thighs start to tense and your breathing goes shallow — he slows down. Eases the pressure. Licks you soft and open-mouthed until the edge recedes and you're left shaking and dripping, the orgasm retreating just out of reach, your body burning with the denial of it.
"Jungwon, I'm going to kill you," you gasp, and your voice cracks, your hands tugging at his hair in frustration.
He laughs against you. The vibration of it hums through your clit, your thighs clench hard around his head and he doesn't even flinch — he just keeps you pinned open with those hands, keeps his mouth exactly where it is, keeps laughing while you writhe. "You're not gonna kill me. You're gonna come on my face. I just want it to feel good when you do. I want you to feel it everywhere."
"It would feel better if you didn't keep stopping—"
His tongue flattens against your clit and he drags it up, slow and firm. Your sentence dissolves into a broken, high sound that echoes off the stone walls. He does it again. Each stroke heavy, his mouth so wet with you. Lewd sounds filling the small glass-walled space wet and rhythmic beneath the drum of the water. Then he pulls back again, just his mouth, just enough, and his fingers find you again, two of them sliding back inside so easily it makes your face burn, your body still so wet and open from his mouth that there's no resistance at all.
"You're so wet, baby. So fucking wet for me." His voice is rough now, the teasing lilt frayed at the edges. He fucks you slowly with his fingers while his thumb rubs your clit in tight, maddening circles, and he watches your face with that dark, hungry focus. "You taste so good. I could do this all night."
"Don't you dare."
"Mm, where’d you get all this attitude from? What's the magic word?"
"Jungwon."
"That's my name, not the magic word." He curls his fingers. Presses up. Your back arches off the stone wall and a sound punches out of you that you've never heard yourself make before, loud enough to cut through the drum of the shower. "There it is. That's what I wanted."
He lowers his mouth again. This time he doesn't stop. His tongue works your clit in tight, wet circles while his fingers fuck into you steadily, angled perfectly, pressing that spot on every stroke until your vision blurs. The edge comes back fast, coiling tight and hot in your stomach, spreading down through your thighs, your toes curling against the wet stone, and this time when you arch toward him he doesn't pull away. He moans against you, low and genuine, like he's the one being touched, like eating you out is getting him off — and maybe it is, you realize, because when you glance down past your tied hands you can see his cock, hard and heavy between his thighs, twitching against nothing every time you clench around his fingers.
"Yeah, fuck—come on my face, you dirty girl," he mutters into you. The words vibrate through your clit, and his fingers thrust deep and curl, and his tongue sucks, and the coil snaps.
Your orgasm hits you so hard your vision whites out for a second. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands grip his hair so tight your knuckles ache. Your hips jerk against his mouth in uneven, desperate thrusts while the pleasure rolls through you in waves. His tongue works you through it, gentle now, lapping at you while you shake and clench around his fingers, and when you finally still, he presses one last slow, open-mouthed kiss to your clit before pulling back.
He looks wrecked. His lips are glistening, his chin wet with you and the shower water, his hair a mess from your hands, and his chest is heaving, each breath shuddering out of him like it costs him something. His eyes are black. His cock is hard, achingly hard, flushed dark and heavy between his thighs, the tip flushed and leaking, and the sight of him kneeling there, desperate and still holding your thighs open with steady hands, makes something raw and hungry twist in your stomach. He got like this from eating you out. That thought alone makes you throb.
"Get up here," you breathe, and you reach for him with your tied hands, the soaked lace stretching between your wrists. "Come here. Come here."
He rises from the stone floor in one fluid motion, water streaming down his chest and stomach, and you grab his shoulder and pull him in. Your mouth finds his and you kiss him hard, open-mouthed, tasting yourself on his tongue, and he groans into it, his hands bracing on the stone wall on either side of your head. You can feel his cock against your thigh, hot and slick. The fact that he's this hard, this desperate, because he spent the last twenty minutes with his mouth between your legs makes you dizzy.
Your tied hands slide down his chest, over the hard planes of his stomach, his abs jumping beneath your touch, and you wrap your fingers around him. Both palms press together around his cock, the lace binding tight between your wrists. He's slick with precum and shower water, hot and rigid in your hands. He throbs against your palms when you squeeze gently.
"Oh fuck—" His voice cracks. His forehead drops against yours, his eyes squeezing shut. "Baby, fuck—"
"Feel good?" you murmur against his lips, and you stroke him slowly, both hands working him together, the soaked lace dragging against the sensitive underside of his cock with every movement. His hips thrust into your grip involuntarily, chasing the sensation, and his breathing goes ragged and uneven.
"So good, fuck, you feel so good—" He's whining. His voice pitching up on every exhale, his hands fisting against the stone wall, his abs clenching tight with every stroke of your palms. His cock is throbbing in your hands, and you can feel him getting closer — the way he twitches, the way his thrusts lose rhythm, the way his moans fracture into desperate little gasps.
"Such a good cock, baby," you breathe against his jaw, pressing kisses along his throat where his pulse is hammering. "So thick. You're so hot, Jungwon, you're so fucking hot—got yourself all worked up eating me out, didn't you? Loved it, didn't you? You absolutely loved making me come on your face."
A moan rips out of him, his hips jerk forward hard, fucking into your hands, his cock sliding through your grip slick and fast. "Yes—fuck, yes, I loved it, you taste so good, I love it here, I love—"
You can feel it. He's literally right there. His thighs are trembling, his breathing is gone, his cock is twitching constantly in your hands, and his whole body is coiled tight, seconds from snapping.
You pull your hands away. His hips thrust into empty air and a broken, devastated sound leaves his mouth. Before he can protest, you guide him forward, position him at your entrance — you're so wet, so open from his fingers and his mouth, and the blunt heat of him pressing against you makes your breath catch. You hook your tied hands behind his back and pull him in closer, pull him into you, and he sinks inside in one long, deep thrust that steals the air from both of you.
"Fuck—" Jungwon's voice breaks. His arms give out. His chest hits yours, warm and pressed flat against you, and his face buries into your neck and he shudders so hard you feel it in your teeth. "Oh my—shit, baby, you feel—fuck, you're so—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. His hips pull back and snap forward and the sound that comes out of him is broken and beautiful, his length dragging slow and deep out of you before thrusting back in. He’s thick enough that you feel every inch of the stretch, thick enough that your walls clench around him involuntarily and he groans like he's dying.
"Good boy," you gasp into his ear, and his hips stutter and slam forward harder. "Fuck, you feel so good inside me. Such a good fucking cock, baby. So thick. You're doing so good."
He whines into your neck, thrusting into you deep and hard. The water runs down his back and over your joined bodies and every thrust sends it splattering against the stone floor. His hands find your thighs and he grips them, forces them wider apart, opens you up with that casual strength so he can sink deeper and the new angle makes you cry out, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every thrust now, relentless and deliberate.
"Good boy," you gasp into his ear, and his whole body shudders, his hips slamming forward harder. "Fuck, you feel so good inside me. Such a good fucking cock, baby. So thick. You're doing amazing."
"Jungwon—there, right there, fuck, don't stop—" Your hands drag down his back, the lace catching on his wet skin, your nails scraping red lines into his shoulders. He's pounding into you now, the teasing control from before completely gone, replaced by something raw and hungry.
"I won't stop—I've got you, baby, I've got you—" He pulls back enough to look at you, and his face is devastating. Wet, lips swollen, eyes glassy and dark. His forehead presses to yours and his breath comes in ragged pants against your mouth, his hips never slowing. "Am I doing good? Tell me I'm doing good. I need to hear it."
"Such a good boy," you breathe, and you watch his face crumble with it, watch his eyes squeeze shut and his hips lose their rhythm entirely, thrusting into you deep and uneven. "You feel so fucking good, baby. So good. You're so hot, you're so perfect, you're—fuck—right there, don't stop, harder—"
He fucks into you harder, deeper, his hands gripping your thighs so tight you know there'll be bruises tomorrow, his cock throbbing inside you, and you can feel yourself building again, the edge coming back fast, coiling tight with every thrust, every drag of him against that spot, every desperate whine spilling from his mouth.
"Come inside me," you gasp, and his whole body seizes. "Come on, baby, give it to me, you've been so good—"
"I'm—fuck—I'm gonna—" His voice pitches high and breaks. His hips slam forward one last time, deep, burying himself fully inside you, and he comes with a sound that's barely human. The heat of him filling you pushes you right over the edge and your orgasm crashes through you for the second time, your walls clenching around him, your tied hands gripping his back, your body arching against his.
He keeps thrusting through it, riding out every wave for both of you, his breath hot against your throat. The water drums on. The steam fills the glass-walled space. His hands loosen on your thighs and slide up to cradle your hips, gentle now, and he stays inside you while the aftershocks roll through you both in diminishing tremors.
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are soft and hazy and his lips curve into that same easy smile from before. "So," he murmurs, voice hoarse and wrecked. "About that boutique."
You stare at him. Then you laugh and shove his shoulder with your tied hands. "We can talk about that after this."
He presses a slow, soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. He reaches down and tugs at the lace knotted between your wrists, working the wet fabric loose with careful fingers until your hands are free, the skin beneath pink and faintly marked from the pressure. He brings your wrists to his mouth and kisses the inside of each one, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Let me wash your hair," he says quietly, already reaching for the shampoo on the stone ledge, and you lean back against the warm wall and let him, the water cascading over you both, the steam soft and close and safe around you.
✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !
I kicked off my heels the second the apartment door clicked shut behind me. My feet throbbed, soles burning from the long walk home.
The straps had dug in so deep I could already see angry red lines across my skin. Normally Riki would have been there to scoop me up, carry me the rest of the way when my feet gave out, but we were broken up again, so I had to hobble the whole way by myself. I wobbled straight to the bathroom, already tugging at my clothes.
Underneath I wore a full lingerie. Black with lace with garter belt and stockings. Not for the guy i went on the date with; no. Just for me. I wanted to feel pretty again after the fiftieth stupid breakup with Riki. The date had just been an excuse for free wine and a reason to leave the house.
I was halfway through peeling off my clothes when three loud knocks rattled the front door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Open this door!”
I froze; standing in nothing but the lingerie. My stomach dropped. I knew that voice too well.
Another hard knock. “Aria. Open the damn door.”
I rolled my eyes, yanked an oversized shirt from the hook, and pulled it on fast. It barely covered the panties. I walked to the front door without unlocking it. “Go away, Riki!” I shouted through the door.
“I know you just got back!” My stomach flipped. I hadn’t posted anything. “Who told you?” “It doesn’t matter. Open this—”
“It does matter, Nishimura!”
“I said open this damn door, Choi.” He was already jiggling the handle.
“Go away!”
“So you really went on a date?” Another heavy knock. “One date!” I yelled back. “So that’s it, huh? We break up for a week and you’re already letting guys take you out?!”
“We’re broken up, Riki!”
“WE ALWAYS BREAK UP ARIA!”
“It’s late. Go.”
Silence again. Then his voice dropped, softer. “Just… open the door, Ariana. Please. I’ll get on my knees.”
I sighed, unlocked the door, and there he was, on his knees in the hallway. I crossed my arms. “Get up, Nishimura.”
He stood, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him. I leaned against the kitchen island, watching him scan the apartment like he was looking for someone else. Then his eyes finally landed on me, traveling from my bare feet up to my face.
I reached up and pulled my loose hair into a messy ponytail. The motion lifted the shirt just enough to flash the black lace panties.
“You have to be kidding me?!” Riki said, staring at them. “What?” I asked not fully understanding.
“You fucked that date in the lingerie I got you for my birthday?” He stepped closer, grabbed the hem of the shirt, and yanked it up. “And the bra?! This is the set I bought you.”
“First of all, I didn’t fuck him—”
“Then why were you wobbling when you walked in? Huh?” He let the shirt drop and stepped back.
“God, Riki! I wore heels. We only ate something. I just got home and had to walk the whole way. Shut up.” I was getting irritated again. “I don’t even know why I let you in. Go!” I grabbed his wrist and tried to drag him toward the door.
“Stop yelling.” he hissed.
“I hate you, Riki! We’re broken up, remember? Go!” I kept pulling but he didn’t budge. “I’m not going.” “Yes you are!”
“You know what I think? You did this on purpose to piss me off. Went on a date, wore the lingerie I bought you, opened the door in my shirt, put your hair in that messy ponytail you know I love to pull while I fuck you—”
“Shut up.” I hissed.
“No. You know what I think.” He walked toward me, cornering me against the front door until my back hit the wood. “I think you want me to fuck you right now. Fuck this whole attitude out of you.”
His face hovered inches from mine. “Go.” I said, voice shaking with anger.
His hand slid slowly down my side and settled on my waist. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to my neck, finding the exact spot that always made my knees weak. I let out a small, annoyed moan before I could stop it.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
“Oh we will definitely fuck, princess.”
He kissed me hard, tongue pushing past my lips. My hands fisted in his shirt even while I tried to shove him away. He pressed his body flush against mine, grinding his already hard cock against my stomach through his jeans. I could feel the thick outline of him and hated how fast my body reacted.
Riki’s hand slipped under the oversized shirt, fingers tracing the lace edge of the panties he had bought me. He hooked a finger under the waistband and snapped it against my skin. “You wore this for yourself, huh? Bullshit. You knew I’d find out.”
“I didn’t.” I gasped as his teeth grazed my collarbone.
He spun me around so my front was against the door. One hand stayed on my hip while the other yanked the shirt up and over my head in one rough motion. Cool air hit my bare back. He pressed his chest to me, lips at my ear.
“Hands on the door.” he ordered.
I hesitated. He slapped my ass, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment. I slapped my palms against the wood.
“Good girl.”
He dropped to his knees behind me. His fingers hooked into the lace panties and dragged them down my thighs slowly, letting the fabric catch on my skin. Once they were around my ankles I stepped out of them. Riki spread my legs wider with his knees and leaned in, tongue dragging a long, slow stripe from my clit all the way back to my ass. I jerked forward, forehead hitting the door.
“Riki—Fuck—”
He didn’t answer. He just buried his face between my cheeks, licking and sucking at my pussy like he was starving. His tongue pushed inside me, fucking me shallowly. One hand reached around to rub tight circles on my clit. My thighs started shaking almost immediately.
I came hard against his mouth, legs buckling. He held me up by my hips, licking me through it until I was whimpering and trying to pull away. When he finally stood, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and spun me to face him again.
He unbuckled his belt, shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was already leaking at the tip, thick and flushed dark. He grabbed my thigh, hooked it over his hip, and lined himself up.
“Look at me.” he said.
I met his eyes right as he thrust in deep. One smooth, hard stroke that buried him to the hilt. I cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. He didn’t give me time to adjust. He started fucking me right there against the door, hips snapping forward, the wet sound of my pussy taking him filling the apartment.
Every thrust knocked the breath out of me. His hand stayed on my thigh, keeping me spread open. He pulled my head back and kissed me messy, teeth clacking, tongues sliding together.
“You feel that?” he growled against my mouth. “This pussy is mine. Always has been.”
I couldn’t answer. All I could do was moan and take it. My second orgasm built fast, heat coiling low in my belly. Riki angled his hips and started hitting that spot inside me that made my vision blur. I came again, clenching around him so tight he groaned and buried his face in my neck.
Before I could catch my breath he scooped me up, carried me to the bedroom, and threw me onto the mattress. I landed on my back, legs spread. Riki climbed over me, grabbed my thighs, and pushed them wide apart. He lined his cock up again and thrust in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke.
“Shit—Riki—” I moaned, nails digging into his back.
He started fucking me in missionary, hips snapping forward, the wet slap of our bodies filling the room. “This pussy is mine.” he growled, pounding deep. “Say it.”
“It’s yours-” I gasped, legs wrapping around his waist. “You know I still fucking hate you.” I said while he slammed himself in me.
“Sure you do. That’s why you’re letting your ex fuck you after you had a date.” Riki leaned down, biting at my neck as he fucked me harder. “You wore my lingerie for that loser? Pathetic. You knew I’d come find you.”
I clawed at his shoulders, meeting every thrust.
“Fuck you—”
“Already doing that, princess.”
He reached between us and rubbed my clit fast. I came again, walls clenching around his cock, vision going white.
Riki pulled out, flipped me onto my stomach, and yanked my hips up. He shoved back inside from behind, doggystyle, one hand gripping my ponytail tight exactly the way he said he would. He pulled my head back and started pounding into me, the force making the bed creak. His other hand came down hard on my ass, the slap loud and sharp.
“Fuck—Riki—harder—” I moaned, pushing back against him.
“Take it.” he growled, slapping my ass again. “This ass is mine too. Say it.”
“It’s yours—Fuck.” I cried out as he yanked my ponytail harder, forcing my back to arch. “My pussy, my ass—everything.”
He fucked me relentlessly, the head of his cock hitting deep with every thrust. Another orgasm built fast. I came screaming into the sheets, body shaking. Riki followed right after, burying himself deep and filling me again with hot cum.
He stayed inside me for a long moment, breathing hard, hand still tangled in my hair. When he finally pulled out, he turned me onto my back and kissed me slow, tongue sliding against mine. Cum leaked down my thighs. I pulled him closer, legs wrapping around him again.
As I dozed off, Riki pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.
𑣲⋆ ⌗ (🚬) You’re the kind of girl who gets peonies for breakfast, so Riki Nishimura would really like to know why you’re buying weed from him.
西村 力 riki nishimura x cheer captain! reader
˗ˏˋ riki as a plug, i promise its not as bad as it sounds, romcom, fluff, crack, profanity, homewrecking but not really, cheating (not really) but not on riki dw, explicit content, smut, oral sex, m receiving, porn with plot, unprotected sex, dom ni-ki, size kink lowk, weed, toxic, mdni !
wc: 20 766
p: d.a.m. - fetty wap ; homewrecker - sombr ; i get lonely - drake ; lowkey - niki (fcking hilarious)
Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means possible, and even prides himself as a law-abiding citizen to the normalized standards.
He does think some fractions of the government system can totally be tweaked, but he isn’t some reformist that would go out of his way — he actually really likes the stability of society and how it’s structured. He’s comfortable with the status quo.
That includes knowing who to follow on Instagram, who not to approach in the hallway, who to invite in group projects, and who to sit with in lunch. He goes by what makes sense and knows who the hell doesn’t belong in his circle, who rightfully has his phone number, and who can comment on his Instagram posts.
Except when it comes to substances. He’s not a drug addict but he does enjoy good weed.
He did listen during chemistry lectures, which basically means he knows a thing or two about pharmaceutics — at least the important parts like which produce larger surges of dopamine and intense euphoria. So while they get drug orientations every start of the school year and the addition of the entrepreneurial mindset of a businessman his father has passed down to him; Riki’s a fucking a jackpot. He simply believed every structure had blind spots, and if someone was smart enough to notice them, then maybe they deserved to profit a little.
Maybe that made him a hypocrite. He knew that. Sometimes, in the middle of his own judgment, the thought would occur to him that he was not exactly living inside the moral boundaries he pretended to respect.
So with all of these in mind — weed-seller and social scale follower — imagine his surprise seeing a text from you.
You, an A-tier cheer captain with perfect grades and perfect friends and a perfect boyfriend and someone he doubts even has ever touched weed within a 10 feet radius because of how goody-two-shoes and slightly more socially-conformed you are, texted him:
you:
hi
you sell right
The kind of surprise a priest might feel if the Virgin Mary asked to borrow a dildo.
Riki stared at his phone for a full thirty seconds. Not because he was shocked by the question itself — he’d gotten worse, far more incriminating messages from people with nothing to lose – but because of who it was from. Your name sat there, attached to a profile picture he never thought would sit on his chat log. Someone who followed the rules so well she barely seemed to touch the ground and practically flew up the school field with the school banner.
This was not how the structure worked. Nope.
He knew you didn’t look at people like him unless it was to borrow a pen or unwillingly get assigned to a lab partner. You definitely weren’t supposed to be asking him this.
Riki leaned back in his chair and rethought the logistics. He wasn’t paranoid – paranoia implied irrationality. This was risk assessment, you’re high visibility, you’re a liability, you’re a cop in disguise, you’re a prig who’ll ruin his cloak and dagger, you’re holier-than-thou. You’re interesting.
riki:
????
is this a test loll
you:
?
its a question
riki:
u fr????
you:
js tell me if its a no
i have money
riki:
3pm behind the science building
you:
ok thanks
But more than whatever you are, he knows this was stupid. This was the kind of deviation that got people caught and into the most flouting position he’ll ever be, therefore ruining his very wish to stay within a lawful system. It was, unequivocally, a very bad idea.
And yet he finds himself at the back of the building while he reevaluates the measures of bad-ness in the idea. If math really has been on his side along with his really athletic stature, he can run when you pull out as witness to his little dissenter mood. It halts when he sees you rounding the corner in your cheer uniform — ponytail perfect, knee tape slightly crooked, eyes darting like you weren’t sure you belonged back here — he realizes something his knees will give out before he can even try to walk away.
You stop a few feet away from him, awkward, out of place, glowing like a wrong answer circled in red. You stare at him with your arms crossed, hyperaware when his eyes follow the silhouette of your frame like he’s finding a covert surveillance device underneath your pleated skirt.
Riki talks calmly, like this wasn’t insane at all, like he hasn’t been in his head for the past hours: “So,” he starts, hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie. “What do you need?”
The question should’ve been easy. You’d rehearsed it in your head on the walk here, timed it with your steps, told yourself not to sound like an idiot. But standing this near — near enough to notice the faint, clean smell of cologne and something green and earthy — you blank.
You shift your weight, arms tightening across your chest. “Um. Weed.”
Riki blinks once, and immediately he knows what this is. He studies you the way he did with lab results that didn’t line up with the predictions — or maybe it did exactly, and he can’t believe it was that easy.
“…Okay,” he said. “What kind?”
Your mouth opens. Then closes.
“What kind.” he repeats.
You felt heat crawl up your neck. “Just… normal?” you say, immediately hating yourself. “Like. The kind people use?”
A corner of his mouth twitches before he can stop it. Then he licks the inside of his cheek, shaking his head when he realizes that yeah, his guess is right. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” he says.
You bristle. “So?”
“You don’t even know dosage. Or strain. Or why you want it.” His eyes flick up to yours. “Do you?”
Your confidence wobbles, the polished composure you wore so easily in hallways cracking just a little now. He pulls out a small, neatly labeled bag and holds it between his fingers instead of handing it to you. “This is low THC,” he explains. “Won’t make you freak out. But I need to know what you specifically need so you don’t… panic.”
This was supposed to be transactional, quick, something you could tuck away and forget about. Yet every risky glance you take, he doesn’t look like someone who’d hold anything against you.
Riki sighs, about to put the bag away. “Look, let’s just forget —“
“I just,” you start, then sigh because there’s no cool way to say it. “I don’t know. I had a bad week. I wanted to try something.”
When you finally look up, he’s watching you differently. Not like you’re stupid or embarrassing, though you feel plenty of that on your own. His brows have lifted slightly, the faint amusement in his mouth fading into something quieter as he takes you in properly: your tight grip on your own arms, the way your eyes keep darting away.
And it makes it worse.
You meet his eyes for half a second before looking away with a small huff, embarrassed by the sudden attention.
He puckers his lips slightly, staring at the thing in his hand like he’s thinking. At first, you think he might be deciding if you’re worth the trouble, but then he nods once. “Okay,” he says. “So you’re not becoming a stoner. You’re just trying a new cuisine.”
You blink at him, then laugh under your breath before you can stop yourself.
His mouth twitches, but hides it. He steps closer, just enough that you can see the smoothness of his skin, like he owns expensive skincare. He’s very tall, in a way that surprises you maybe because you’d just never stood this close before.
Really, you never spent time looking at Riki Nishimura. You’ve known the name, because who can ever look past the opulent sound of it, but to know the man behind it didn’t matter. After texting him, you don’t know what you expected either, maybe someone grubbier and smelled like smoke, someone with dry lips from all the ash. You thought he’d smell like one of those hippie guys who sold sketchy shit while wearing the same beanie for three years.
But no, he smells like a familiar perfume your father owns in his fragrance wardrobe.
And his clothes are annoyingly nice, like the hoodie is probably more expensive than it looks and the loose pants are intentional, not lazy.
Also, he’s 6’1.
“This,” he taps the bag lightly, “will help you relax. Body high, mostly. You’ll still be functional. But since it’s your first time, better not fuck around too much.”
He’s still standing in front of you, close enough for you to notice the way his lashes lower when he looks at the bag in his hand, and you feel deeply, horribly stupid for only realizing now that he looks like that.
Your gaze lingers, and he catches it. Riki clears his throat, spine straightening a little. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you say too fast.
He only hums. You tighten your arms across your chest. “Just give me the thing.”
He finally hands you the bag, and you eye it once you feel its weight in your palm; leafy and green and brown and not you — but it doesn’t look so bad right now. It looks enticing, even, which you won’t try to admit out loud.
“Twenty,” he says, not planning to converse himself with the sudden discount.
You dig into your bag, finding for the vintage pink wallet that screams the contrast of cannabis in your palm right now. “You know,” you say, hesitant but honest, “I don’t know. It’s weird how we’ve never talked before.”
That gets him. He chuckles even if there’s nothing funny about what you said, but there is something humorous about the fact he remembers shit you obviously forgot. He’s quick to question the lack of indifference, because he remembers it well that this is definitely not the first time you two talked.
“We were partners in freshman year,” Riki says.
He watches your face blank in real time, and something about it makes his mouth lift again, but not kindly enough to be mean. More like he expected it and still finds it a little funny that you are proving him right.
“English lit,” he adds. “The mythology presentation.”
For a second, he looks at you like someone who’s always known you, and you look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. He sees it flash in your eyes, that maybe you remember him more than just some guy who sells weed to irresponsible decision-makers.
“Oh,” you say.
Riki nods once, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh.”
Until your phone buzzes to drag you back from this little bubble you’re in – your boyfriend’s name lights up the screen and Riki notices it too.
“Oh,” you say again, clearly out of your own head. “I — sorry.”
Something shifts, like the structure rebuilds and reasserts itself back into proper footing. You pull the bills from your wallet and press them into his hand. “Thanks,” you say. “For, um. The stuff.”
He closes his fist around the money, nods once. “Yeah.”
You hesitate like you might say something else, so you just tuck the bag away and step back. “I’ll go,” you say.
You turn the corner first. Riki exhales only when you’re out of sight, and chews on his bottom lip before hitting the side of his fist against the wall without real effort. He turns the other corner, parting from the rendezvous kept between eng lit and discounts.
The thing is, Riki knows you before whatever you are now. Miss Perfect who buys weed from Mister Lowkey Weed Seller — it’s a whole tangle in his brain in which he can’t exactly comprehend, but while he smokes a joint and music blasts through the speakers from the house party he’s dragged into, your picture’s pinned with red strings.
He’s known you since third grade. You’ve been part of the cheer team before puberty, and since then you’ve accumulated likable girls your age into your circle, then the guys from the football team after. It becomes a whole coupling session when the age came right, which Riki is convinced is just some orgy labeled friendship goals in curated Instagram. He thought you were mean mostly because that’s what someone like you would be — but he does know a thing or two about you, other than the assumption of character. You’ve been in the same group projects against your will, sometimes you’d stand next to each other by the queue lines in the cafeteria, sometimes you’d bump against him in the hallway when you’re chasing time.
Is it weird he kept tabs? Maybe.
He always noticed, obviously, why wouldn’t he? You are not exactly unnoticeable. You’re nicer than your friends, you say sorry when you accidentally bump into someone, you say thanks to the staff, you say good morning to strangers, you’re pretty, you’re talented, you’re smart, you laugh at his jokes, you bought weed from him, you’re pretty, you’re perfect, you’re funny, you’re ridiculously pretty —
Riki takes another puff, too fast and too harsh, earning a rough cough from his throat. Heeseung chuckles, giving him an aggressive pat on the back when he leans his elbows against his knees. “Geez, first time?”
Riki shoves his arm away with a laugh, unsure where this is coming from. Because on top of every other noticeable trait you have, you have a boyfriend. So. Yeah. He knows better than to think about you.
He sinks deeper into someone else’s couch — leather, cracked at the seams — while the bass rattles the walls and bodies blur together in the dim lights. Smoke hangs thick in the air, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his thoughts. He takes another drag, slower this time, lets it sit in his lungs until the noise dulls around the edges.
Across from him, someone’s laughing too loud, then a couple is making out like it’s an Olympic sport. Heeseung steals the joint from his fingers and flicks the ash into an empty cup.
“You look fucked,” Heeseung says.
“I’m not,” Riki replies automatically.
“Mhm.”
Riki pushes himself up from the couch, suddenly restless. He just wants a drink — something cold, something that doesn’t make his head spiral because even the thought of weed pulls him back to this cheerleader. So he goes to the kitchen, instinctively saying half-assed sorry’s to strangers without meaning them.
Until he bumps into someone.
For half a second, he genuinely wonders if the side effects are finally catching up to him, because his head feels several feet away from his eyes and the kitchen lights look more hazy than they should.
But it’s you, he knows that because your kind voice apologizes; the way you always do, the way your friends don’t. Your shoulder knocks into his chest and you’re already stepping back, eyes wide a fraction of a second when you look up. Riki freezes too, unsure what to do with his hands or his feet or where to look without threading too close to the sternum your lowcut top exposes. Up close, under dim kitchen lights instead of school hallways, you look unreal — hair loose, lips parted like you’ve been laughing.
“Riki,” you say, breathless, like his name slipped out before your brain could catch it.
His name on your mouth does something stupid to him.
“Hey,” he says, too softly. He’s just thankful you don’t notice the slight roughness of it.
You smile, small and polite — but there’s something else underneath it now. Recognition that shouldn’t exist, not in the structure where you’re meant to forget that you know; one where he looks up at you from beneath your echelon, now he’s standing close enough that you have to tilt your chin to look up at him.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I didn’t either.”
You glance past him, toward the other room, toward where your friends probably are — or your boyfriend. Then back at him, polite in a way he’s sure is because you’re you and not because he’s him.
“I don’t usually see you in… parties,” you say.
He puts both hands in his pant pockets, shoulders loose, eyes on yours like the noise around you doesn’t have enough authority to interrupt.
“You don’t usually look,” he says.
It’s not said rudely, just calm, like he’s stating something obvious enough that both of you should stop pretending around it.
Your fingers tighten around your cup. “That’s not true.”
Riki tilts his head, eyes moving over your face. “Yeah?”
You hate how it sounds coming from him, low and slow and almost amused, like he knows you’re lying before you do. You scoff a quiet laugh, eyes looking away because you can’t keep looking at him.
“I mean, I know you exist.” You look back up at him when you say it, bottom lip catching between your teeth before you can stop yourself.
His eyes drop for half a second, then he smirks and looks away, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to say something.
When he looks back, his face is calmer. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
The question is casual enough that it almost sounds harmless. You glance elsewhere instinctively, like you’re going to find him close. “Somewhere.”
“Specific.”
“He’s with his friends.”
Riki just nods, doesn’t wanna push, even though he’s pretty sure you don’t actually know where he is. Leaving is the smarter and normal thing to do. The thing a girl with a boyfriend and a reputation and a phone full of unread messages from her friends would do.
Instead, you stay there. And Riki’s got that tabbed already.
You hesitate, fingers worrying at the rim of your cup. “I, um. I haven’t — used it yet.”
Riki blinks. “The stuff?”
You nod, cheeks warming. “I just… don’t really know how.” It’s weird being this honest with someone you barely know, yet your bones don’t buzz with the prompt demand to pause. It must be the slight slosh, it’s the only real thing to excuse why you’re not pulling away.
For a second, he just looks at you. Then his mouth curves, slow and amused. “You bought weed without knowing how to use it?”
Your face warms, but you try not to look embarrassed. “Okay, well.” You lift your cup a little, like that somehow helps your argument. “You can teach me.”
Riki grimaces immediately, playful but clear. “Sounds like a bad idea.”
You blink. “Wow. Rude." You huff, looking away, but you’re smiling a little because he doesn’t sound scared of you. Or impressed by you. Or desperate to keep you there. He just sounds like he already knows better and hates that he has to be the one saying it.
He sighs, looking away for a second. “Fuck, fine.” his jaw clenches. “But not here.”
You try not to smile and fail almost immediately. You take one step back, still looking at him. “I’ll text you. Maybe later?”
Someone calls your name from the other room and you exhale, dragging back through the fracture. The music spikes and someone bumps into you again, closer this time, and Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, hovering over your waist without touching.
Your eyes flick down, then back up to his. “Nice seeing you,” you say finally, voice softer now.
“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”
You step around him, brushing past just close enough that he catches your scent — which is bad, because now he’ll have to remember that too. When you disappear back into the crowd, Riki stays rooted in place for a beat too long.
He exhales, rubs a hand over his face, and laughs quietly to himself.
He really, really knows better.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Riki glances back to see you’re sitting on the couch now, legs tucked in, your boyfriend’s arm slung easily around your shoulders. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, which makes you smile and ease back into him. Riki turns away to open the fridge and grabs the coldest beer he can find. He lifts it and downs it in one go, throat burning at the coldness and bitter taste.
He shouldn’t do this.
He really shouldn’t.
Later, in that strange lull when the party has gotten worse and louder — you text him.
You:
bathroom upstairs
The bathroom is cramped and clean but gross in concept: flickering light, foggy mirror, the smell of cheap air freshener. You’re perched on the edge of the sink when he slips inside and locks the door behind him, eyes bright, a little nervous, because being in a bathroom with you feels worse than any sketchy deal he’s made.
“Okay,” you whisper, like you’re conspiring. “So. Teach me.”
He winces, glancing around. “This is… not ideal.”
You just grin. He laughs despite himself and sets the weed down on the closed toilet lid, grimacing when he starts rolling paper against it. Once he’s done, he holds the roll up to your mouth and he tells you to lick it. You follow through, leaning down and sticking your tongue out to lick the side. He clears his throat, trying not to think about the way you looked doing that, trying not to imagine anything else.
He’s careful, not clinical or a lecture when he instructs, just calm and reassuring like he’s trying to keep you comfortable more than correct. When he hands the final roll to you, your fingers shake a little as you take it.
“Like this?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Slow.”
You cough immediately after trying, sharp and sudden, bending forward with a surprised laugh. “Oh my god — why does it — ”
“Hey,” he says, too fast, stepping closer, hand hovering at your back. “You okay?”
You wave him off, still laughing, eyes watering. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
He watches you like you might disappear if he looks away. You’re laughing, which isn’t comforting Riki even in the slightest because the last thing he needs is to not be a conformist and end up in jail for accidentally supporting your homicide.
You try again, better this time. You still cough, laugh, cough again, but way more manageable as time goes by.
“Sorry,” you say, breathless.
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”
You keep at it, stubborn in that way of yours, until the coughing eases and something in your shoulders loosens. You lean back against the wall, head tipping gently, eyes half-lidded.
“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s… actually really nice.”
Riki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a nervous laugh slipping out. He leans back against the wall, hand through his bangs, exposing the skin of his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ,”
You nod slowly, smiling to yourself. “My brain’s quiet.”
He watches you for a moment: relaxed, unguarded, glowing in this tiny bathroom because you don’t belong here at all, holding a joint Riki himself rolled for you. Really, you never belonged anywhere that tried to put you in a box, and he wasn’t going to make himself an exception to that opening.
He tries thinking about who you really are, beyond what most people would take you as. Though he knows not to fantasize a tale where he saves the damsel from her golden label. He takes you with memory and not assumption: cheer girl, disciplined afternoon drills, academically smart, socially competent, good. But tonight, while you lean against the cracked sink and stand diagonally across him, he sees a side he never thought he’d secretly behold.
Your eyes flick to him. “You’re a good teacher.”
He swallows. “You’re an easy student.”
Riki rolls another one for himself, hands steadier now that you’re settled, and lights it with a quiet flick. The bathroom fills with a softer haze this time, the kind that wraps instead of hits like a downer high school series. He takes a drag, exhales toward the ceiling, letting the room reek with shouldn’ts and endorphine boosters.
You smoke more confidently now, less harsh and rough when you let the smoke run down your throat. Your eyes are a little red, lashes heavier, the sharp edges of you blurred into something warmer and looser, less polished and picture perfect the way your boyfriend would like. Riki thinks — stupidly — that he’s never seen you look better.
You lean your head back against the wall again, staring at the ceiling like it’s just told you a secret. He doesn’t stare, actually. He keeps his eyes narrowed to the broken tile in front of him like he’ll discern the reason it’s cracked (maybe someone opened the door too hard, maybe someone once stood there trying to look normal while his heart acted stupid over a girl, which was especially humiliating when the whole point of being high was to feel less insane). Sometimes he’ll permit himself to glance, but even the very glimpse of your smudged lipstick makes him look away and inhale the fuck outta that weed.
Then, suddenly, with eyes still trained to the dim bathroom light — “I thought you were,” you start, then laugh, a little too loud before clapping a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. I thought you were, like… this weirdo.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “Wow. Honesty hour already?”
“No — ” you groan, waving the joint like you’re conducting an orchestra. “I mean it nicely. You always stayed away from everyone. I figured you were judging us.”
“Us?” he repeats, amused, cocking a brow when he glances at you.
“You know. People like me.” You squint at him, trying to focus. You gesture at yourself ineptly, clearly out of the ordinary intellectual capacity you clench tight, not when rickety makes up for your feet.
He quickly looks away, trying not to smile.
“Loud. Annoying.” you clarify, hand gesturing around.
He tilts his head, considering. “Was I supposed to be friends with people like you?”
You blink, like you’re thinking about what he said and calculating the rationale behind his causes. It was a hit, one that steadies a thought in your brain.
“Is that so bad?”
The question knocks the breath out of him, especially when you look up at him like that, eyes bright and wide. He blinks, and then he laughs, coming out quieter this time, looking away because he can’t keep eye contact with you. “I didn’t think you’d want that.”
“Why not?”
Because there’s a system. Because there’s levels to this shit. Because you have a boyfriend. Because you’re untouchable. Because you’re perfect and he’s whatever this was. Because people like him didn’t get pulled into your orbit unless it was transactional. Like weed exchanges and favors on the toilet.
For now, he shrugs. “Seemed like you already had your people.”
You hum, nodding slowly, then smile. You tap the joint, watching some ash fall to the tiles. “They’re loud.”
He smiles back despite himself. “Yeah. They are.”
The bathroom feels like it’s floating away from the music that pumps loud through the pipes, a constant reminder that there’s more than the stinky bathroom you two share as a secret. It’s risky because it’s merely wood that separates the crypticity of Mary Jane from the Average Joe you two function in individually.
You glance at the joint, then at him. “You’re not weird, by the way.”
“Oh?” he says, eyebrow lifting. He even scoffs, because he (un-admittedly) finds you adorable.
“You’re just… quiet. You keep to yourself, but that doesn’t make you… eccentric.” You grin lopsided, cheeks warm but you ignore that. “You’re nice.”
That one gets him, more than he’d ever admit to anyone. Riki looks over, and for half a second, his gaze slips lower before he forces it back to your face. You’re already looking at him, all soft eyes and honest mouth, like you have no idea what you’re doing to him.
He looks away first, rubbing the side of his jaw like that might help. “You’re high,” he says.
“Maybe,” you confess. “But I mean it.”
He’s been called quiet and nice all his life, but that was never the full truth. He just knew who deserved access to the rest of him, and most people didn’t. It wasn’t personal. He could talk when he wanted to, laugh when something was actually funny, keep a conversation going if he cared enough. He just didn’t feel the need to prove he had thoughts by saying all of them out loud.
Riki takes a drag, exhales slowly, looking over the tiles of the bathroom while he rethinks the decision he’s about to drop. He clears his throat before speaking, “You’re not mean either.”
Your eyes widen a little, gaze recklessly steady at his side profile. “You thought I was?”
“Everyone did,” he says honestly, smiling a little.
You make a face, frowning at him even though he refuses to look at you. “That’s rude.”
He laughs, really laughs this time, head tipping back. When he looks at you again, you’re smiling up at him like you’ve discovered something new and decided to keep it. For a moment, it feels like maybe there was always a version of this where you talked in bathrooms and shared smoke and didn’t belong where people expected you to.
You take another small drag, then suddenly straighten when you decide to take him in. He’s wearing a jacket over his hoodie, simple sweats loose around his hips. Only a few strands of his dark blonde hair graze over his forehead, leading down to the sharp features you only really notice now.
You never thought Riki Nishimura was ugly. Now, you can’t help but think that he’s… kinda hot.
You’re high, you’re just gone. That’s why. It also explains why you nudge closer than you have been before, letting your skirt brush slightly against his pants, thighs grazing slightly against his.
You’re both still smoking — slow now, like the room itself has decided to breathe with you. The bathroom feels even smaller than before, shrinking with every second the music downstairs gets louder but muffled through the wooden door keeping you a secret. Your head feels light, buoyant, like you’re floating a few inches above your body. Maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the half-drinks you’d taken before this. Maybe it’s neither.
He stares at the tile beneath his boot like it holds the secrets of the universe, or like it had the equations for him to understand gravity’s intentions and how it led to him feeling your softness against him.
“Is there something on the floor?” you laugh.
He just huffs, shaking his head because that’s all he can do right now. You’re still leaning back and he’s still standing just a little too close. Your knee brushes his again, accidental but not corrected.
He looks down at you then. The red in your eyes, the crooked smile, the way you’re leaning just a little toward him like gravity’s doing something new. You lean closer because you’re completely zooted and smart-Riki who knows better, leans away and only lets his chest tighten. His eyes drop traitorously down to your lips, and he’s not fast enough to look back up. You notice, of course, which makes you both look away and straighten back on your feet instead of the wall.
Riki clears his throat, smoking the last of his before he rids of it against the sink. “You gotta go?” he asks out of the blue, which makes you frown a little. It wasn’t exactly a statement, but you know when things are implied and telling, so you shove back the nerves and remember that he’s different from you.
You’re not his type of person. He probably likes more chill people who actually know how to roll this shit — not the sheltered ones who’s clueless with THC or terms alike it.
“Yeah. I guess.” you smooth out your clothes even though nothing’s wrong with them.
He realizes what he just did, especially now that you’re not even looking back at him. He tries correcting himself, to backtrack, but the moment you glance back up, he’s silenced. You put your unfinished joint in his hand. “See you.” You say just before unlocking the door, slipping through it, and accidentally slamming it too hard.
Riki reels in from the solitude of the silence, like he’s now just realizing the ruins he broke himself. He sighs in resignation, head falling forward in defeat. “Shit.”
He stares at the thing in his hand, unfinished and yours, half-burnt and still warm.
“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, dragging a hand down his face. He can still feel the ghost of your skirt brushing his leg, the way you didn’t look back because he gave you a reason not to.
But the bathroom still smells like you — sweet perfume tangled with smoke — and the joint is there, remaining as an accusation wrapped in paper. He turns it between his fingers, thumb brushing the spot where your lipstick smudged faintly against the edge.
Riki exhales, then lifts it.
He wraps his lips around it carefully, stupidly aware of the fact that yours were there first. The thought alone makes his chest tighten, heat creeping up his neck and pelvis as he takes a slow drag.
He closes his eyes as he exhales, leaning his head back against the wall, heart thudding too loud for a room this small. For a split second, he imagines you still there — tilted smile, red-rimmed eyes, saying his name like it belongs to you, all while your boyfriend waits in the living room.
He laughs shakily under his breath. It’s so wrong.
After that, you two haven’t really talked for weeks.
That part isn’t weird. You both have lived the majority of your lives settling with the insouciance despite recognition, and one night in a bathroom, smoke and secrets and red eyes, isn’t enough to reroute that kind of muscle memory. Riki tells himself that over and over, like it’s a theorem he’s already proven.
He hasn’t been worried. He still goes to class, still shows up on time, still hands in assignments with some effort. The only difference — although barely worth mentioning — is that he’s been dipping into his stash more often than usual. A little before bed. A little after.
Riki exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, telling himself — again — that this doesn’t mean anything and it doesn’t have anything to do with the cheer girl he kinda had a moment with in the bathroom.
It’s so fucked, even if you don’t think being his friend is bad, because you’re not meant to be a part of this. He was simply curious that Miss Cheerleader bought weed from him and kinda trusted him way too fast and that wasn’t just some everyday occurrence — that’s the only best psychological explanation why you’re here even when you’re not.
You have a boyfriend. He’s not about to be a homewrecker. Yet it’s not helping.
No talking for weeks, reaching a month even. That says enough. He has to stop.
“Probably about Little Miss Perfect.”
Riki flinches like someone just snapped a rubber band against the back of his neck. He sits up, glaring at Heeseung. “What the fuck,” he blurts. “How do you know that?”
Jake slowly looks up from his laptop, eyes lighting up like he just unlocked a bonus level.
“Oh my god.” Sunghoon’s grin spreads and Heeseung laughs, clapping like he’s won because technically he did, at the mental betting at what keeps Riki Nishimura downing his marijuana greenhouse.
“Ohhh,” Heeseung says, taunting and annoying. “So it is about her.”
Riki blinks. “No.”
“That was the weakest no I’ve ever heard,” Jake says immediately, pointing a finger at Riki. “You’re a guilty man, aren’t you?”
Riki scoffs, scrambling, fingers rubbing against his temple in attempts to cool. “You’re literally insane. Why would it be about her?”
Heeseung shrugs, casual. “I saw you two talking at that party.”
Riki’s stomach drops. “You — what?”
“Relax,” Heeseung says, laughing. “I wasn’t spying. You two just kinda had a freeze frame by the kitchen. Wasn’t so hard to notice.”
Riki opens his mouth, just to close it. Then he runs a hand through his hair with the irritated slant of said illegality stamped in your name. “We were just talking. Nothing happened.” Riki snaps, defensive again, hands up like he’s caught.
Jake squints at him. “Then why are you acting like that?”
Riki looks away. Usually, it’s enough answer to more teasing and mocking, but maybe not this time. Because now, it raises actual questions that regard his very bearing at this monumental association with you — a damn unicorn of a scene snatched out a comedy fantasy movie.
Heeseung asks carefully, “Are you, like, her boy toy or something?”
Riki whips around with the flush of unpredictability and utter shock. “What? No!”
Heeseung grins again, gentler this time. “Okay, not her boy toy. What now?”
Riki exhales, long and slow, falling back supine against the floor with the decency of a man with boundaries and the understanding of someone brilliant to keep himself away. “Nothing. She has a boyfriend. She lives in a different world.”
It’s realistic. He thinks he’ll drag the shit out of his stash to get his mind off this, because Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means.
You’re where you’re supposed to be.
You laugh at the jokes while dawdling down the hallway with girls you actually consider your friends, your boyfriend’s arm heavy around your shoulders like it belongs there. You learned how to roll your own joints now, practiced with irritated little shrieks until it stopped being embarrassing, until they came out neat and perfect between your fingers. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone, actually. Independence always looked good and natural on you.
Then Riki walks past with Heeseung and Jay.
Backpacks slung low, shoes dragging lazily against the floor, laughing about something stupid like someone’s terrible quiz score. Riki’s eyes stay forward like always, keeping his business private from everyone. Especially from you.
You don’t acknowledge each other beyond the bare minimum of peripheral awareness of two classmates that happen to be in the same class and two planets in the same orbit. Your boyfriend tightens his arm around you, leaning down to murmur something about lunch plans. You nod, glossed lips wrapped around a lollipop, sugar sweet and cherry-flavored on your tongue. You should be listening, you’re sure you are, until he passes.
Your eyes follow Riki — not openly, just enough to catch the back of his neck, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the same boy who leaned against a bathroom wall while you were high and laughing too much, knees brushing his because the room was small and neither of you moved away.
The lollipop slides down your tongue: all artificial sugar because the substance stays at home in the back of your secret drawer, while some of it just passed you down the hallway.
“I’ll catch up,” you say lightly, lifting your boyfriend’s arm off your shoulders. “I forgot something.”
You slip away before anyone can think too hard about it, weaving through the hallway with your lollipop still between your lips. You keep enough distance to make it look accidental, watching as Heeseung and Jay split off with quick fist bumps and loud voices. Riki keeps walking and pushes open the door to an empty lecture hall before disappearing inside.
You stop outside, remembering that this is probably the part where you’re supposed to turn around. Where the perfect, reasonable version of you remembers her boyfriend, her friends, her place in the hallway. Where the status quo reaches for your wrist and pulls you back into line.
Well, you push the door open.
Riki is near the front row, one hand still on the strap of his bag when he looks up from his seat, legs spread wide, thumbs midway to scroll through his phone. His eyes widen slightly, posture going still like he did not think you’d actually follow him.
For some reason, it thrills you. Because now he’s looking at you.
You pull the lollipop from your mouth, twirling the stick between your fingers as the door clicks shut behind you. “Hey.”
His eyes flick briefly to the door behind you. “You lost?”
This isn’t a bathroom of some random houseparty. There’s no smoke, no music, no excuse, just you, Riki, and an empty lecture hall in the middle of the school day — which means you came here on purpose.
“You should roll a joint for me again,” you say, like it’s so simple. “One of these nights.”
Riki blinks once. Then he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “What, you haven’t learned since last time?”
You step closer anyway, slow and unhurried, allowed to exist wherever you want. He leans back against his seat, still careful and invisibly (but truly) restless. “I did.” you answer, then you smile small and lazy. “You’re just better at it.”
That gets him (because you’ve been knowing what to say to get him). His eyes lift to you, amused now, something low and unreadable settling there which sets you on fire because you have no idea what he’s thinking, not even a little hint.
“Flattery,” he says, then scoffs.
You hum and step closer, close enough that his knee is almost in front of your thigh. Riki leans back in his seat, one arm loose over the desk beside him, phone forgotten in his lap.
“There’s another party this weekend,” you say. “At McKay’s. You and your friends should go.”
He tilts his head. “Should we?”
“I think so.” You shrug. “Good music, large pad, beer games.”
He chuckles, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before meeting yours again. “And you’ll be there.”
“Probably.”
“And you’ll want me to roll one for you.”
You pull the lollipop from your mouth, tapping it lightly against your lower lip as you think. “If you’re offering.”
“I’m not,” he says, but his mouth twitches.
You lean back against the edge of the desk beside him, copying his ease like you have any right to be comfortable around him. From far away, it would look casual, just two classmates talking before class. Except there’s only you standing between him and the empty rows, him sitting back in his seat, looking up at you with that unreadable expression while you try not to smile too much.
He should probably feel insulted that you only do this when nobody can see — maybe he does, if he still believes in self-respect. It’s just hard to stay offended when you’re looking at him like that.
Riki nods once. “I’ll think about it.”
Satisfied, you push off the table and head for the door. “Cool.”
When the door shuts behind you, he thinks about red eyes and smoke, about how your usual crowd will be there, your boyfriend’s arm around you just before you sneak away to Riki’s.
You’re trouble, which makes Riki smile. ‘Cause he knows damn well he’s going to that party.
-
McKay’s house is already vibrating when Riki gets there with Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon — bass rattling the windows, someone yelling about cups, someone else yelling back about something incomprehensible. Riki isn’t a frat boy at all, and he doesn’t really go to parties, but the perfume layered on top of alcohol is basically familiar territory.
“This place is a fire hazard,” Jake mutters, stepping over a discarded heel.
Riki scans the room pretending he doesn’t mean to, observing layouts and people, when really he’s actually looking for one specific designer wardrobe of a person.
He doesn’t see you, but he sees your usual crowd scattered around the room, posing with red cups they barely drink from and laughing a little too loud whenever someone points a camera at them. You’re not there, nor is your boyfriend, and that usually speaks for itself already.
Heeseung nudges him, already mischievous with the smile Riki can’t see. “Little Miss Perfect?”
“Fuck off,” Riki replies, flat.
Jake’s halfway to disbelief when he narrows his eyes at Riki. “You’re already staring.”
“She’s not even here,” the former hisses.
“Looking for her, though.” Sunghoon teases, practically grinning widely.
Riki pushes past them. “I’m getting a drink.”
He doesn’t get a drink. He goes through hallways and in between bodies that nudge abruptly into him, half-assed apologies going through one ear and out the other while he properly finds footing again and again. When he gets to the bathroom and finds it locked, he groans and leans back against the wall. For now, he flicks the light on his own joint and smokes away while he waits — for you, for the bathroom, for anything to make him think going here was worth it at all.
Too many girls brush against him, too many of them apologizing with tilted heads and lashes batting. He has no interest in rewarding the performance, not tonight, not when the party is already crawling under his skin, all bass-heavy music, sticky floors, smoke in the air, perfume clinging to his throat, and people packed so tightly he can’t move without touching someone. It’s too much at once; too loud, too hot, too bright, too dark. Then he sees it, and everything in him goes still.
Your boyfriend has another girl pushed against the bedroom wall.
Riki sees this through the crack of the door, just slightly opened enough for him to see how he moves his hand underneath her skirt really fucking aggressively. They’re kissing too, and it’s not at all sweet or even arousing; it’s just straight out gross. He chokes, coughing so rough and loud and forward he has to lunge himself off the wall and straight through the crowd because his first instinct is you.
Your boyfriend is cheating on you.
What the fuck is happening? Why’s your boyfriend fucking a girl like someone who knows nothing about clits? Now, Riki isn’t an expert about pleasing women but he’s watched porn enough to know that Exhibit A over there was straight-up persecution.
He finally spots you near the kitchen, talking to one of your friends with a cup in your hand. He starts toward you, but someone shoves past from behind, and he bumps lightly into your shoulder. You turn, already halfway to apologizing until you see him, your face already changing before you can stop it.
“You came,” you say, eyes flicking around before coming back to him.
He’s kinda out of breath, from the smoke and from hurrying, but he smiles too. “Yeah.”
While you’re still smiling, Riki clears his throat. It’s casual like he’s asking for a lighter, not like he’s abput to derail your night, ‘cause truth be told, he’s not sure he knows how you’ll react to the information. To be honest, he thinks about how it’s only fair — maybe — because he doubts your boyfriend knows you sneak into bathrooms with another guy. And sure, his hand isn’t performing DJ on your pussy, but the shared secrecy of eye contact with loaded tension is much more intimate than whatever the hell that was.
“Uh,” he says, hand rubbing on his jeans. “Can we talk? Like. Somewhere quieter.”
You blink. Then you nod, already stepping closer so he has to lean down to hear you.
“Bathroom or outside?” you ask, half-teasing.
“Outside,” he says easily.
The night is cold enough to make everything feel quieter, like it’s only the two of you standing under someone’s porch light while music leaks through the walls behind you. It’s strange, because you’re not even friends, not really, but the little space between you feels private in a way Riki doesn’t know what to do with. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since the second he walked into the house, then leans back against the railing and looks at you standing across from him.
He tries finding the words first, but the way you’re looking at him tightens his chest faster than his brain can work out. Is this karma for your cheating boyfriend? Is he the instrument God has given you to slam notes back to the guy you’re practically cheating on too?
Then Riki clears his throat, casual as hell. “I saw something inside,” he continues, tone still chill but eyes a little sharper now. “Your boyfriend.”
Your smile falters. “What about him?”
“He’s, uh.” Riki taps ash off the joint. “He was fucking a girl. On a wall.”
You stare at him for a while, and he’s half-expecting you to lash out, on him, on the crowd, on your boyfriend, on something.
Instead, you laugh this small, amused breath that slips out of you before you shrug, like he told you your boyfriend spilled punch on his shirt and not that he had just seen him with another girl.
What the fuck is happening?
It feels a lot like you don’t care and that surprises Riki leading him down a rabbit hole of introspection. He was already expecting you to cry and sob or scream in the party about how much of a dick he is, how you trusted him and gave him everything — all things they do when they find out their boyfriends are cheaters.
No, you just, “Wow.” then huff a laugh. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
He blinks once, watching you carefully while you regather your thoughts as a woman who’s been said something paltry rather than an admission of an affair. To be honest, Riki doesn’t understand, so now he just stands there and looks stunned. And confused. Very confused, actually.
Riki squints at you like he’s trying to solve a trick question. “That’s it?” he asks. “That’s your reaction?”
You shrug, lifting your cup to your lips for a sip. “I mean. It’s been happening. “We’re just sorta together for our parents. They’re friends so… but that’s a story for another night.”
Oh. He never thought fake relationships were a thing.
That makes sense. How come Riki didn’t know? Was he so out of touch from school gossips hat he genuinely didn’t know that you’re actually not the perfect couple he thought you two were? Is that why Heeseung and Jake and Sunghoon didn’t react so badly? Has this been a thing? Oh my God, Riki’s ecstatic and he hasn’t even finished a joint yet.
He lets out a quick, unguarded sound. “Jesus.”
You lean back against the railing across from him, far too relaxed for a revelation that should have ruined someone’s eyeliner. Riki watches you for a second, waiting for the anger, the hurt, the sharp inhale before you turn and storm back inside. But you just stand there, cup in hand, looking more inconvenienced than heartbroken.
That’s when it hits him, slow and weirdly humiliating, that you might not care about the relationship at all.
“But,” you say lightly, “thanks for telling me.”
He blinks, then shakes his head a little. “Yeah.” His voice comes out slower than usual. “No worries.”
You glance at the joint between his fingers, your eyes lingering a second too long on the veins along his hand. “You always this heroic when you’re high?”
“No,” he says, deadpan. “It’s just who I am.”
You laugh, and despite everything, his mouth twitches. He looks back toward the door, half-expecting your boyfriend to come out and make the night complicated. When no one does, he relaxes, shoulders easing, but not completely.
Because this is new information.
Someone inside screams the chorus to a song, and the night’s way too cold for the silence that buzzes. Riki offers the joint without looking at you, just holds it out between two fingers like it’s nothing.
You hesitate for half a second. But you take it.
“You have a car?” you suddenly ask while you take a puff.
Riki blinks once, then lets out a quiet laugh, dragging his thumb along the bridge of his nose. Right, so this is his life now. He sells you weed one time, and somehow he’s standing outside a party while your boyfriend (?) cheats inside and you look mildly bored about it.
It’s stupid. It’s also the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in months.
So he just sighs and slumps back a little. “Yeah. I do.”
“Let’s go,” you say, completely not a question, flicking the finished joint on the pavement and trampling it beneath your heel. “I wanna smoke.”
He lets you trail after him through the side yard like this is already something you do, like he isn’t silently praying no one sees you following him away from the party. Gravel crunches under your shoes, the bass growing duller behind you as you cross the street toward his Supra, parked sleek and dark under the streetlamp. Riki unlocks it without looking back, rounds the hood, and opens the passenger door for you like it’s nothing.
You notice. You just don’t say anything.
Inside, the car actually smells clean and like coffee, for someone you’ve assumed is mad about marijuana and sorts alike (well, again, he’s proven how neat he is just for smelling so fucking good). He slides into the driver’s seat and just sits there for a second before turning the engine on, heater clicking low.
The silence settles, but it doesn’t feel awkward, which Riki finds suspicious. Maybe it’s because you’re not acting like the version of you he’s used to, all neat edges and perfect timing. Now your heels are on the floor of his car, your hair is loose around your face, and you’re curled into the passenger seat of a Supra you’ve never sat in before like your body decided to trust him before your brain could argue. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of the warmth at the back of his neck, but you only glance at him like you don’t notice. The hem of your skirt rides up consequently, and he tries his hardest not to look.
“Thanks. For caring.”
He shrugs, one hand resting loose on the steering wheel. “Didn’t feel right not to tell you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
The radio flicks on — some pop song bleeding through the speakers. He then pulls out pre-rolled joints from his pockets, which he sheepishly apologizes for hygiene and, well, it’s a bit delated, although you just smile and take one. He lights yours up and you two stay there, settled in his warm seats, dissolving the chill with cannabis down your system like two people who doesn’t give a shit about the system and fucking power dynamics and popularity status.
Again, weird. Hanging out in his car like you’re old buddies who smoke in free time on the usual.
If he told himself a month ago that he would be smoking weed with the team cheer captain, he would have laughed his ass off about inhaling too much narcotics that totally screwed mental frameworks. Yet now, he’s stealing a few glances at you beside him, getting high off his greens, and he doesn’t feel completely off-center about it. It’s the weed obviously, but he feels steady. It’s charged because you’re not talking but your thoughts are everywhere, and even if you protrude the profile of indifference — he knows you care. Then again, what does he know about you, right? You are the odd in the equation, the alternative hypothesis that proves the difference in variables, and talks about the impact on the situation.
Now, conformist Riki Nishimura, who has spent his whole life respecting the ladder, is starting to wonder what happens if he climbs high enough to stand beside someone like you.
He stares through the windshield the second before he speaks. “You’re not what people think you are.”
You blink, caught off guard as you turn to him. “Is that good or bad?”
He huffs. “Depends who’s thinking it.”
You smile a little, your eyes moving over him before you can pretend they didn’t. Riki isn’t brawny in that loud, gym-mirror way, but he’s taller than he should be, broader than he looks from a distance, and unfairly very put together. His throat moves when he breathes in, and you catch yourself watching it for one embarrassing second too long.
You chew on your bottom lip. “And what do you think?”
Riki shifts in his seat, hand fidgeting against the wheel like he’s weighing how honest he’s allowed to be. “I think you’re quieter than your reputation.”
You study him now — the calm posture, the way he never overdoes anything, the way his voice stays even like he’s learned not to tip his hand.
He glances at you, then back ahead. “Makes it easier.”
You look at him for a second too long. “Easier for who?”
“You tell me.”
The car feels smaller and the windows are fogged enough that the streetlamp outside is just a blur of light now, like you’ve been sealed off from everything else. Away from the reality that boxes you two into something that makes sense rather than accepts.
You laugh once, but it comes out softer than planned. “You always psychoanalyze girls in your car?”
“No.”
“Just me?”
His mouth twitches. “You asked.”
You turn your head toward the window, trying to keep your face normal. “You don’t know me that well.”
“I know.”
Riki finally turns to you, one hand still resting loose on the steering wheel. His eyes are a little low, a little unreadable, but not careless — that might be the problem.
“I’m not saying I do,” he says. “I’m saying people don’t either.”
Your fingers fidget with the joint, rolling it carefully between them even though you’re barely paying attention to it anymore. The tip glows faintly, forgotten for a second, and Riki reaches over without thinking to tap the ash into the tray before it can fall on your skirt.
You look down at his hand, then back at him when he hands it to you.
“Don’t you think that’s weird?” you ask. “Like, what kind of girl is cheer captain and smokes weed? Who gets into a fake relationship because of her parents? Doesn’t that sound kind of fucked?”
He looks at you for a moment.
Then he leans back, eyes returning to the windshield. “I sell weed.”
He says it from the driver’s seat of a spotless car that smells like coffee and cologne. It’s stupidly funny, actually, the whole contrast of him that kinda looks like you.
You laugh before you can stop yourself. “That’s different.”
“How?” he snickers.
You open your mouth, then close it again because you don’t actually have a good answer. “I don’t know,” you admit, laughing a little. “It just is.”
He hums like he expected that. Then he glances at you before back through the windshield. “I don’t think you’re weird,” His eyes flick over your face. “I think you’re bored.”
Obviously, that makes you furrow your brows. Obviously, you let him continue speaking.
“Of your boyfriend. Your friends. Your parents already knowing what you’re going to do.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Probably bored at being good at the same shit every day.”
You should probably deny it. It surprises you that you don’t, even though you’ve sworn hatred towards men that think they can assume your personality because of one little circumstance.
“That’s why you’re here, right?” Riki’s eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face.
Your throat tightens.
“With me,” he adds.
He doesn’t smile like he won, he just sits there with one hand loose on the wheel, like he already knows the answer and is kind enough not to make you say it.
The air between you feels worse, like the moment before a storm cracks open into his car, and electrocutes you with a spark you’ve never experienced in your life. Which is eccentric considering you’re not the type of girl who’d be in Riki’s car instead of a party dominated by your friends, getting high off shit that would make your parents pass out.
You scoff and look away, shaking your head like the whole thing is ridiculous. “You talk like you know everything.”
“I just guessed one fucking thing.”
You roll the joint between your fingers again, slower now. “Maybe I just wanted to try something.”
“With me?”
Your eyes cut to him, and you see there’s a slight curve to his mouth, like he heard the shape of your answer before you even made it.
You huff. “You’re so annoying.”
Neither of you moves. Just suspended there, breathing the same warm air, the song on the radio dissolving into background noise, the world narrowed down to inches and intent and maybe weak will and strong urges. The tension’s palpable, solid enough that you could feel it grow between your thighs.
You’re probably one more joint away from being zooted, and Riki knows this of course, which is why he keeps his eyes narrowed across him and not the woman who’s audibly shifting in her seat.
He’s high too — faster than usual — and it makes the moment stretch in this you know kind because he’s thinking bad. He keeps his gaze trained somewhere between the fogged windshield and the blur of your reflection in it, like it’s the only thing keeping him at bay.
For the record — you’re both twenty, obviously adults, even if the world still insists on calling you kids. Which is also the very age people let you experience the paradox of being too grown and too immature for anything consistent, so the underestimation you endure as an adult, smart woman, cheerleader, and a kinda-child — wow you’re in deep detestation for that system.
So you take control of things you can handle.
You’re a conformist, no doubt. Except in areas you loathe men’s freedom in yet expect restraint for women. So… in diminutive ways, you indulge. Like weed. Like running council. Like wearing short skirts. Like Riki Nishimura.
You glance at him sideways, voice light, almost bored. Almost. “So,” you say, like you’re asking about his major or what song’s playing on the radio. “I will ask you something kind of personal.”
Riki exhales a quiet laugh. “You’re already in my car smoking my weed. I think the line’s gone.”
You smile, satisfied, then tilt your head back against the seat.
“Are you a virgin?”
The question hangs there. Unembellished and very dangerous in its simplicity. Also, of course, bold, which makes Riki actually freeze — a half-second pause where even his breathing stutters. Then he scoffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you just dropped that between the heater hum and the low bass leaking from the house.
He blames the weed, though part of him wishes it isn’t from that.
“You always ask things like that?”
“I’m curious,” you say easily. “And a little high.” you gesture with your thumb and forefinger.
He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking to you now despite himself. “Why?” he asks. “Does it change your opinion of me?”
You meet his gaze, unblinking. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I asked.”
He huffs a soft laugh. He admits to embarrassment, even if it doesn’t cover his entire skin with flush and heat, he’s never found himself in this position. But honestly, nothing from the past few weeks has ever been something he prepared for — which he has you to blame, of course.
“Yeah.” he licks the corner of his lips, refusing to meet your eyes while he taps the steering wheel. “I am.”
Your eyebrows lift, impressed but not shocked. “Huh.”
Riki looks over. “Huh?” he mocks.
You bite back a smile and turn toward the window, but the reflection gives you away. “I just didn’t expect that.”
He scoffs, looking back at the windshield. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” You shrug, still smiling a little. “You sell weed. And you drive this car.”
“And?”
“And you look like that.”
For one second, Riki’s fingers still on the steering wheel, and he learns to shut up. He lets out a quiet laugh after, but it sounds different this time, lower and almost embarrassed. “You’re so fucking high,”
That makes him quiet, makes him adjust on his seat. He’s touched a woman before, but no one’s ever sat on his dick, nor has he ever been in anyone. So maybe he’s half a virgin, maybe he’s just a sore loser. He watches you as you move, as you turn in the seat, knees pressing into the leather, facing him fully now. The space changes instantly, the air recalibrating around your movement and maybe even pushing you further toward him.
Riki stiffens — just suddenly very aware, and perhaps a little scared. “Uh,” he says, brows knitting. “What are you doing?”
You tilt your head, resting your hands casually on the seat, perfectly balanced. “Bored, like you said,” you say. “And my boyfriend’s cheating on me. Again.”
He swallows. His gaze drops, then snaps back up to your face, like he’s trying very hard to stay respectful and failing in slow motion because you’re especially gorgeous tonight. “That’s… not a great combo,” he says.
“Not really,” you agree.
You lean in just enough for him to feel it — not touch, not yet. Just close enough that he can smell your gloss, the faint sweetness still clinging to you, and the cannabis that if he warrants himself the scary concept, is his mark on you.
“At least you don’t think I’m boring.”
Riki exhales, a real one this time, like he’s surrendering to the moment instead of fighting it because what can a simple guy like him do, right? His eyes flick to your mouth again — longer now — and when he looks back up, there’s a decision there, from someone who’s tired of conforming.
You close the distance then, slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. When he doesn’t, your lips meet in a kiss that’s brief and soft at first. Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, stopping just short of your waist, hovering there like he’s giving you the choice.
When you kiss again, you’re pressing harder, with the very intent to steal the air from his lungs. So that is what happens, you inhale and climb over the console and close your knees around his waist and he’s breathing shakily against your mouth, fighting for the oxygen he’s willingly giving away.
Your cunt presses against the zipper of his jeans, and when you roll, he pulls away like he’s burnt.
“W-wait — this isn’t — we can’t do this.” He shakes his head insistently, looking down your joined thighs while he regains composure.
You frown. “Why not?”
He looks back up at you, eyes wide and glossy from the taste of your cherry gloss and his greens in your mouth. He looks like he can’t handle this. You’re high, he’s high, this isn’t a good idea. You’re perfect, he’s not, this isn’t a good idea. You’re pretty and he sells weed, this isn’t a good idea.
“Because you have a boyfriend.” he says weakly.
You smile, fingers brushing into the hair at his nape. “Not really.”
He stares at you before he laughs, quiet and disbelieving, like the whole situation is so stupid he has no choice but to let it be funny for half a second. You’re in his lap, his car is fogged, your party is across the street, and apparently your boyfriend is more of a family arrangement than an actual person you care about.
“This is so fucked,” he mutters.
Still, he kisses you anyway. His hand finally settles at your waist, firm enough to make your breath catch. His fingers press into your flesh just before he pulls you closer and his hips thrusts up underneath you.
His bulge presses hard against your clothed cunt, and a small whimper slips out his mouth. Your thighs practically clench around him, your core tightening as you rub yourself on him. Beneath the jeans secured around his hips, the start of his v-line peeks, in which you softly graze with your thumb.
“F-fuck,” he whispers, resigned while he lets his head fall back against the headrest.
When you kiss him again this time, it’s slow and languid and licking into his mouth, and your hips start rolling against his while he unconsciously bucks into you. You gasp at the feeling of his growing erection despite the jeans, and you can’t help but feel rushed because it’s been way too long.
His body’s hot and he doesn’t understand why he can’t even talk properly. “Are you okay?” you ask, kissing his cheek. He just nods.
“This is so wrong,” Riki says softly and raspy.
You just smile and kiss him again, feeling how sloppy he’s starting to become when your tongues meet. You set the pace, careful with how you bite and suck, more of a learning curve with what you like best rather than devouring. Riki realizes this and slows down too, relaxing underneath your thighs while his cock remains bulging against you. Your soft fingers slither at the back of his hair, tugging and caressing, while he finds the courage to sneak his tongue into your mouth.
When you pull to breathe, he’s practically panting. “You can touch me.” you whisper.
His gaze practically flicks up to look up at you, silently asking for clarification. You don’t use words, you instead take his wrists and start dragging his hands from your waist to underneath your shirt. His breath hitches at the feeling of your soft skin against his, watching intently as you guide his hands further beneath your cotton top, until his fingers slightly grazes the soft swell of the underside of your breasts.
“Shit.” Riki mutters, his breath unstable when you let go. He looks for your eyes, asking for instructions, except you just smile and lean in to kiss him again with your hands on his jaw.
So he takes it upon himself to move by his own. His fingers grazes the soft skin, careful and learning, testing the underside swell by gently squeezing. After that, he gains confidence, hands going further up until they touch your nipples.
You gasp, pulling away to breathe when he starts gently pinching them, rolling them against the pads of his fingertips. He plays with them for a little while, watching your reactions when you sigh heavy, when your eyes close, when you lean further against his touch. It’s so good, he doesn’t even notice how painfully hard he is when he can feel just how sensitive your nipples are, when he can feel the weight of your breast as he cups them.
After a while, he finally stops, hands gliding down your ribs instead, thumbs still grazing slightly at the curve. Your kissing eases, reduced to pecks and softness. At rest and caress, you giggle and he chuckles, finally reeling in from the moment at how high he feels.
From your taste, your softness, your clothed pussy still pressing against his hard-on.
“You’re good for a virgin.” you say.
At that, Riki huffs and leans his head back against the rest, caressing your waist while he watches your face. You’re very pretty, even when your lipsticks smudged and you’re clearly teasing him, not touching him at all.
He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’ll mind for a long time. “I’m trying to make decent decisions.”
You tilt your head. “And kissing me is one?”
His jaw tightens a little, but he smiles. “It’s a very bad decision.”
“Mm.” You lean closer, but you don’t kiss him this time. “You stopped.”
“Because I don’t want to be your rebound,”
The teasing fades just a little. Your fingers, which had been lazily tracing the back of his neck, slow, and now you look at him too, at the way he’s looking at you like something cliche is about to happen now that he’s tasted something better than marijuana.
“You think I’d use you?” you ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
You study him for a moment. His nose and ears are still pink, which admittedly does something to you. It makes him look shyer somehow, less untouchable, like all that quiet control has slipped just enough for you to see he’s not as unaffected as he wants to seem.
He looks back at you, thumb moving once at your waist. “Let me take you out.”
You stare at him. “You’re asking me on a date right now? While I’m sitting on you?”
His mouth twitches despite himself. “Not my best timing.”
You laugh, soft and surprised, but he doesn’t laugh with you right away. You lean in again, slower and softer, just lips meeting and staying there, but his breath still hitches. You lets it last for a few seconds before you pull back, still close enough that your noses nearly brush.
“Ask me when we’re not high.”
Then he laughs once, quiet and disbelieving, his hand flexing at your waist. “Fine.”
Riki drives you home that night and you arrive at around 3 am, friends completely unaware of where you are or who you’re with — but you don’t care, even when your phone’s blown out of weird proportion. You laugh when he insists on walking you to your front porch, just to make sure you don’t slip and fall and he wouldn’t lose his favorite weed customer.
“You’re ridiculous, Riki Nishimura.” you shove at his arm weakly.
“And you,” he leans down enough that his nose nudges yours. “are so pretty.”
You laugh harder, admittedly a little flustered the way you never have been before. He tells you to eat something real when you head in, and you mock him for it but he just smiles and nods, agrees with the idea he is so, very stupid and funny for you.
Riki thinks the universe is testing him. Because ever since last night, every single thing reminds him of you.
The cherry gloss taste still ghosting his mouth when he wakes up, the faint perfume lingering on his hoodie, even the stupid heater smell in the car feels different now, like the seats remember the way you climbed over the console and kissed him until his dick ached for you.
“Dude,” Jake says, throwing his duffel bag. “You look like shit.”
Riki drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”
Jake doesn’t push it, which Riki appreciates for about three seconds before he sees where the cheer team is practicing. On the other side of the gym court, you’re standing with your friends, ponytail tied high, hands on your hips while you go over counts as the captain. You’re not doing anything special, occasionally laughing at something one of the girls beside you says, but Riki still feels his attention pull toward you like it has no discipline left.
He looks away first.
PE is already starting by the time he reaches their side of the court. He pulls his sleeveless shirt down properly and rolls his shoulders once, mostly because he needs something to do with his body. His hair keeps falling near his eyes, and he can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck before class has even properly started.
He tells himself not to look. But then he looks.
You’re already looking too.
It only lasts a second. Your eyes meet his, then drop briefly to his arms before you turn back to your friends like nothing happened. Riki presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek and looks at the ball in his hands, suddenly way too aware of himself.
Jake notices, but all he does is glance between the two of you. “Since when do you know her like that?”
Riki bounces the ball once. “I don’t.”
Jake gives him a look. Riki doesn’t look back. “Not like that.”
“Okay.”
The drill starts, and for a while, it’s just run, catch, dribble, pass, move. Riki focuses on the court, on the PE teacher’s whistle, on the ball against his palms. It works for half the time, until your voice cuts across the space, counting with the rest of the cheer team, and he misses a pass by half a second.
“Pay attention,” Jake says, not even laughing.
“I am.”
“You’re really not.”
Later, when the class breaks for water, Riki walks toward the drinking fountain and finds you there already, refilling your bottle. Your friends are a few steps away, talking among themselves, close enough to notice if either of you makes it obvious, far enough that neither of you has to pretend not to see each other.
He stands behind you to wait for his turn, and from afar, it doesn't look scandalous. You take your time refilling your bottle, eyes forward, one hand steadying the plastic under the stream. He keeps his gaze on the wall in front of you, jaw working once, because he knows exactly what you're doing when you lean a little farther than necessary and let the silence stretch.
Your skirt shifts when you bend, showing the backside of your thighs and the slight swell of your ass, and he sighs through his nose like he's deeply disappointed in both of you. Then he looks away completely.
You bite back a smile.
When the bottle finally fills, you straighten and cap it slowly, still not moving right away. He doesn't meet your eyes when you step aside, he just moves in, bends toward the fountain, and presses one hand against the edge for balance.
Then it's your turn to look away. But you don't, not even shamelessly. Because you’re the girl who got things her way and never got scared of the repercussions.
His sleeveless shirt pulls against his shoulders when he leans down, arm tense from holding himself there, the veins along his bicep showing under the gym lights. Water hits his mouth, and you watch the way his hair falls near his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. It's stupid, actually, how normal he's being and how much worse that makes it.
Riki finishes drinking, straightens, and wipes the water from his chin with the back of his hand. Only then does he look at you.
You're still staring. And for a second, neither of you says anything.
His expression barely changes, but something in his eyes does, like he caught you and decided not to make it easy. "What?"
You blink, then lift your bottle a little. "You took forever."
He looks at you, calm, unreadable, except for the faint color rising at the tips of his ears and the slight lift on the corner of his mouth. "You're one to talk."
Your friends laugh at something behind you, and the sound snaps the moment thinner, not enough to break it, but enough to remind you both where you are. You glance over your shoulder, then back at him, only to find he's still watching you. Not obviously, just enough to show that he knows exactly what that night did to you, and worse, exactly what this day is doing too.
And that he’s enjoying the view.
You tuck your bottle against your chest and step back. "Try not to miss another pass."
His mouth curves. "Then don't distract me."
The second he says it, your smile gets bigger, like a shared inside joke between you two now. Then you turn back to your team, and he stays by the fountain for one extra second, pretending the afternoon heat is the reason he can't stop feeling warm. In the locker room, he pretends it’s celibacy that’s making his cock hard again, and not the picture of you bending in front of him, the fat of your ass presenting itself to him so adorably.
In the cafeteria, while pages turn and keyboards clack for an upcoming test for biology, you try your best to stay focused the way you can on the usual. Riki was right about you — you were smarter than what people thought, and the merit beside your name is shocking to a whole lot when it’s pasted on the board.
You think you’re no longer smart. Not when you’re staring at the open reviewer in front of you, color coded with little sticky tabs but you’re still distracted.
You grab your coffee and drink, just to try if that could help with your lost concentration. Something about protein synthesis and cell division. Something about how Riki’s hands looked wrapped around the steering wheel that one night while he called you weird and interesting in the same breath.
This is so inconvenient.
“Babe.”
Your boyfriend slides into the empty chair beside you like he owns the furniture, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though the cafeteria lighting could barely offend a bitch. His hand settles automatically on your thigh beneath the table, casual and familiar, and you almost flinch.
“You disappeared last night,” he says casually.
You lean back in your chair. “I told you I left.”
“Yeah, but where?”
You think briefly about Riki’s car parked under the streetlamp — fogged windows, heated air, cherry gloss smeared on his mouth, plump lips smirking in restraint, hands squeezing you in the right place, keeping you in place.
“I just went home,” you reply smoothly.
Your boyfriend hums, clearly unconvinced, but also has about three seconds of emotional stamina left for the topic, so he lets it go and steals one of your fries instead. “My parents want dinner with you this weekend.” he says instead.
He continues talking about it but you’re staring at the flashcards and reviewers in front of you, imagining what your parents would say if Riki would’ve showed up to a family dinner instead. Maybe he’d appear in different clothes, a white button-up just to sit there and attempt to look polite in ways he isn’t with you — which makes your heart jump a little.
Dinner drags on for three excruciating hours.
Three whole hours of crystal glasses and polished silverware and your boyfriend’s parents discussing investment portfolios. The restaurant is one of those stupidly expensive places where portions are microscopic and every waiter looks vaguely judgmental — you don’t complain, you’re rather very grateful for his parents (sometimes).
You sat there in a pretty dress your mother picked out. Your boyfriend talks over you twice when you try contributing to the conversation, his mother asks about your grades before asking how cheerleading is going, like academics and aesthetics are the only two things remotely interesting about you. At some point, your boyfriend likes another girl’s Instagram story right beside you at the table and everything about the night is just bad.
You just feel tired, especially on the way home.
Tired in the way performances always leave you feeling like you’ve spent hours acting inside a role you got stuck with years ago — because it mostly worked in your favor, until that one time you decided to jump out of your comfort zone and try weed. It’s the worst thing you have done, but it’s the only thing that made you feel good.
Your heels click quietly against the marble floors when you enter your house and you make it halfway upstairs before the pressure behind your eyes finally cracks. Obviously, you don’t sob out of sadness, just frustrated tears slipping down your cheeks while you struggle with the zipper of your dress. “Fuck,” you mutter.
Your makeup’s ruined now; mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes, lipstick mostly gone except for traces still staining your mouth.
Before you can think too hard about it — which is kind of bad — you open Riki’s contact, and your fingers move faster than your dignity can intervene.
you:
he actually sucks so bad
like genuinely i think talking to drywall has more nuance
You exhale through your nose and laugh weakly at yourself because obviously Riki probably has better things to do than babysit you after 9PM, not when you’re just another weed customer and smoking buddy he had. You toss your phone onto the bed and sit in silence for a second, still in your dress, earrings discarded somewhere.
You try not to think about anything for the minutes you’ve spent staring at the ceiling: not about Riki, or your dumb boyfriend, or your (im)perfect life, or the way Riki kissed you, or the way he looked at you, or the way he thought about you.
Because that's the part that bothers you most. Not the kiss itself, not even the fact that you wanted it, but the way he seemed to actually think about you before touching you. Like you weren't just pretty or convenient or someone people liked because you made sense beside them. Riki looked at you like he was trying to understand you, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything you've ever had.
And maybe that makes you painfully average.
Maybe you’re not special at all, maybe you’re just another girl in the long, embarrassing history of girls who developed feelings for the first boy who looked at them like they were a person. Congratulations, really. Very original and groundbreaking, for being part of the emotionally confused teenage girls.
You turn onto your side and press your face into your pillow, immediately hating yourself for how dramatic that feels.
Until something taps three times against your window.
Your brows furrow immediately because your bedroom is on the second floor and nobody normally knocks on windows like some suburban horror movie, you don’t even try to look because of what could be there. For a second, you genuinely think you’re hallucinating from emotional exhaustion and expensive restaurant food and maybe (you did not do prior research) the possibility of the long term hallucinations of marijuana.
Then it happens again. Three deliberate taps.
You sit up slowly from the edge of your bed, the strap of your dress slipping off one shoulder while your heels remain abandoned somewhere near the door. When you turn to the window, your heart practically falls from your chest when you see Riki standing outside like a fucking delinquent moron. He’s standing on the roof of the first floor near your window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, while one hand steadies himself against the frame.
You burst out laughing while fumbling with the lock of your window. Riki’s entire expression softens the second he hears you laugh and that does something unhealthy to him.
Because he drove for twenty minutes thinking about you crying over some guy who doesn’t even look at you properly, wondering if climbing a house at this hour officially qualifies as insanity (he’s never done that before, and it doesn’t sound so conformist right now either). Riki’s usually good at self-restraint, at risk assessment, at understanding what makes sense and what doesn’t.
For the record, this doesn’t make sense. Yet here he is anyway.
“Hi.”
You stare at him in disbelief once you finally open your window. “What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper-yell.
“You sounded sad.”
“Is that supposed to be an answer?”
“What?” he says defensively while climbing inside carefully. “You said your boyfriend sucks. That sounded shitty.”
The second he lands properly inside your room, he looks at you before anything else. He’s used to seeing you fixed with perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect posture, like you just stepped out of a university brochure about good conduct and that the school cheer spirit is something one definitely needs for personal development.
This version of you feels familiar, and traitorously and selfishly, he thinks it’s for him.
Your dress is wrinkled now, your jewelry sits slightly crooked against your skin, your makeup’s smudged enough to expose the eyebags underneath, and your hair’s started falling from whatever expensive style you wore to dinner.
Riki swallows once before he can stop himself. “You were crying?”
Immediately, you look away, a bit embarrassed when you realize what you look like. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird,” he says quickly, hands lifting instinctively. “I just.”
He cuts himself off because he suddenly realizes he has no idea how to navigate this. Girls usually don’t text him while being miserable and summon him to their bedroom windows like some modern romance movie directed by a bad romcom enthusiast. Nothing is romcom-y about this.
So instead, awkwardly, he holds the backyard vegetation toward you.
“I got you these.”
Flowers. They aren’t roses and lilies, especially not the peonies your boyfriend orders because it looks better in pictures. They’re not anything arranged like the bouquets your boyfriend’s family sends during competitions and birthdays and events where impression matters. They usually screamed ‘I have money’ so I had my manager fix these for you.
Riki brought you wildflowers, which are tiny white, yellow, and purple ones bundled unevenly together like he picked them himself on the side of the road and decided, yeah, these ones are perfect. They’re crooked and asymmetrical and a little pathetic, and it weirdly looks a lot like you.
You take them carefully, looking down at the tiny flowers bundled together with what suspiciously resembles a broccoli rubber band.
“Oh my God,” you laugh quietly. “These are so ugly.”
He looks offended immediately. “Okay, first of all, fuck you.”
You laugh, open and loud. “They’re literally weeds.”
“I mean. Matches us, no?” he argues.
You’re still smiling when you bring them closer to inspect, and he notices your eyes when you admire them because he notices everything when it comes to you now, apparently.
“He made you cry?” he asks quieter this time.
You look up at him, flowers resting against your chest while you slump a little. “Not exactly.”
He raises his brows. “That means yes.”
You sigh, gaze dropping to the petals between your fingers. “He’s just…” You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m really sick of it.”
Riki stays quiet — not because he doesn’t have thoughts, but because he has too many.
The thing is, he understands that social hierarchy is basically one giant theater production and he’s spent his entire life studying how to survive inside it correctly — he’s admitted to live in it quite comfortably. Which people to talk to, which ones to avoid, what behavior keeps life stable and uncomplicated, who not to sell weed to.
You were supposed to be part of that stable world, the part that he shouldn’t have had any associations with. Instead, you’re now standing barefoot in front of him holding ugly flowers with watery eyes while confiding in him like he’s become something safe. Now he’s giving a girl weeds for flowers, while his own cannabis has become untouched for quite a while now.
You narrow your eyes up at him suddenly, a teasing smile on your lips. “You could’ve used the front door.”
“And say what?” he snorts. “‘Good evening, your daughter texted me so I’m here to comfort her?”
You laugh again and Jesus Christ, he thinks he’d probably climb ten more roofs if it meant hearing that sound a second time.
Which is not good at all.
He looks around your room now, and he finds that is not in the dramatic movie sense where he’s overwhelmed by femininity and candles or whatever bullshit directors think teenage girls do in bedrooms. It’s just your space and that feels undeniably you in a way he’s never gotten access to before — never thought he would, actually. There’s a stack of annotated reviewers on your desk beside skincare products, then a half-folded cheer uniform hangs over your chair. Your bookshelf is organized by color at first glance, but he notices that some books are stuffed sideways and doubled-up like gave up halfway through organizing.
You’re contradiction after contradiction. Which feels fitting considering Riki’s currently inside the bedroom of a girl he once categorized under absolutely not my problem.
This is exactly why social structures exist. To prevent situations like this where a guy who sells weed ends up standing in the bedroom of a girl who looks expensive enough to kill him.
You set the flowers carefully on your vanity like they’re not random plants held together by produce rubber. Riki watches how gentle your hands are, watches the way your dress slips slightly higher on your thigh when you move.
You step closer to him after, eyes peeking through your lashes, and he starts to feel drunk from your perfume. “You really came all the way here because I was sad?” you ask softly.
Riki opens his mouth automatically with something sarcastic prepared because that’s safer, because joking is easier than admitting the truth. But then he looks at you looking at him like he’s become something important frighteningly fast.
Honesty slips out before he can stop it. “Yeah.”
Your eyes soften in a way that completely wrecks him, because nobody’s ever looked at him like this before — like he did something meaningful instead of useful.
You step even closer now until there’s barely space between you. “You’re really bad at being casual,” you murmur.
He huffs a laugh. “You climbed into my lap the first time we kissed.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I was high.”
“And what’s your excuse now?”
Your lips twitch and his gaze drops there instinctively.
Big mistake, because now he’s thinking about kissing you again and suddenly being in your bedroom at midnight feels significantly more dangerous than it did when he drove here. Riki clears his throat and looks away first. Usually he’s good at eye contact, good at keeping composure, good at staying levelheaded even when situations become complicated, because he knows emotional regulation keeps things orderly, predictable, and safe.
You are none of those things anymore.
Standing this close to you feels like someone slowly dismantling every sensible thought process he’s ever had and replacing it with bad decisions and pretty girls in wrinkled dresses.
Riki swallows, eyes still not fully on yours. “Do you know what you’re gonna do?”
You sigh, shoulders dropping a little as you look away. “I don’t know.”
Riki nods, though he doesn’t look surprised. “Well,” he says quietly, “you aren’t happy.”
The honesty in his voice catches you off guard, because it isn’t dramatic or possessive or demanding — it’s actually the complete opposite. He says things carefully. Your boyfriend never talks to you carefully.
You study Riki for a second — the slight flush across his cheeks, the hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fact he literally climbed your house because you sounded sad over text.
Clearly, he’s lost the plot somewhere. He might find it in your room, but why would it be there?
You look at the boy who notices everything about you, who reads you better than anyone ever did. And maybe that’s pathetic, but after a long time of performance and image, you can’t quite find irrationality when something finally sees you so clearly.
You don’t even realize you’re crying again until his expression changes. The tears just spill over quietly, slipping down your cheeks before you can catch them, and for a second, you don’t understand why his eyes drop there with so much concern because you aren’t sad, nor overwhelmingly happy.
His hand lifts and his fingers touch your cheek lightly and carefully. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it reaches your jaw. Then the other hand comes up too, steadying your face with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten worse than the crying did. You stare up at him while he wipes your face like it’s something important, his hands warm, his touch steady even though his breathing isn’t. He just keeps his palms against your cheeks, thumbs soft under your eyes, focused on you.
Riki’s thumb slows beneath your eye, his gaze moving over your face with something almost pained. “You’re too pretty to cry over him,” he says quietly.
Your hand lifts before you can think better of it, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist to keep him there. His skin is warm beneath your palm, and for a second, his whole body seems to still when you touch him. You look up at him because he’s so tall this close, broad enough to block out half your room, and he’s holding your face like you might bruise if he moves wrong.
“I’m not crying over him,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter, “I think I’m crying because I want someone else.”
His hand stays against your cheek, but his thumb stops moving entirely. He has no immediate answer right now, no dry comment waiting in the back of his throat, no clever way to make the moment smaller than it feels. He just looks at you, like he heard you perfectly and still needs another second for it to reach the rest of him.
He shifts closer, but only slightly, careful enough that you notice the restraint. “Are you sure?”
You let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Yes.”
Then your gaze drops from his eyes, not because you’re embarrassed exactly, but because looking at him straight on feels like standing too close to something bright. Your eyes settle on his chest instead, on the front of his hoodie rising and falling with a breath he’s clearly trying to control. His hands move from your cheeks, careful and slow, until his palms settle just beneath your jaw while his fingers slip behind your ears, curling gently at the back of your neck.
For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.
Actually, you know he is. You can feel it in the way his breathing changes, in the way his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there this time, no pretending it was an accident. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne and whatever terrible decision-making brought him to your window.
Then something in you panics — not because you don’t want him to.
That’s the problem. You want him so much it feels insulting to every sensible part of your life (even though you’ve made many irrational choices that have shamed them anyway). You want him in your room, in your space, in the middle of all the pretty, curated pieces of yourself nobody else gets to see messy. You want him, and it would be so easy to lean up and let that be the answer. But there is still one stupid, technical, irritating thing standing between you and that, so you pull back a little.
He freezes immediately, hands dropping like he thinks he did something wrong. “What?”
“I need to do something.”
His brows pull together. “Right now?”
You turn away before you can lose your nerve, moving toward your bed where your phone is half-buried in the sheets. Your hands are unsteady when you pick it up, which is annoying because you are not the kind of girl who fumbles — you are the kind of girl who answers essay questions with proper structure, corrects formations instinctively, and pretends she’s fine so convincingly that people believe it until it becomes inconvenient not to.
Calling your boyfriend while Riki Nishimura stands in your bedroom after midnight is, admittedly, not your most elegant moment, but there’s a kind of clarity to it too.
He stays behind you, quiet, watching as you scroll to the contact you have ignored for most of the night. His name on your screen looks strange now.
The call rings twice.
Riki moves closer, though not touching you yet, just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. It makes focusing much harder, which is extremely inconsiderate for someone who climbed into your room to be supportive.
Your boyfriend answers with your name, voice already irritated. “It’s late. I’m busy.”
You close your eyes for half a second. “I’m just letting you know. We’re done.”
There is a pause. “What?”
You swallow, your grip tightening around the phone. “I’m breaking up with you.”
Behind you, Riki goes very still. Your boyfriend lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious right now?”
“Yes.”
“After everything? After tonight, you’re just gonna call me and say that?”
You stare at the wall in front of you. It’s absurd, actually, how little the anger reaches you. Maybe you should be shaking or crying harder or preparing a speech that starts with all the ways he hurt you — instead, you feel strangely calm.
He starts talking again, louder this time, something about your parents, his parents, how you’re overreacting, how you both agreed, how you don’t get to act innocent either. Until Riki’s hand appears beside you, and he takes the phone from your hand.
Your eyes widen. “Riki.”
He looks at the screen, hears your boyfriend still talking, then tosses the phone onto the bed, where it lands face-up against the sheets, the call still running, your boyfriend’s voice now small and furious through the speaker.
“What are you doing?” you whisper.
His eyes stay on yours. “You already broke up with him.”
On the bed, your ex says your name again, sharp and confused, but neither of you are looking at the phone.
Riki lifts one hand, not touching your face yet, just brushing his knuckles lightly near your jaw like he’s giving you one last chance to move away.
That is all he needs before he kisses you. It is not rushed, not messy from panic, just a little harsh from jealousy. But it’s slow enough to make your knees feel unreliable, steady enough that your whole body seems to understand before your brain does. You grab the front of his hoodie and he exhales against your mouth, the sound going straight through you. His hand settles at the side of your neck, thumb brushing under your jaw while his other hand finds your waist, careful but sure.
The phone is still there, your boyfriend is still talking. It should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the whole thing feel worse in the way your heart is pounding too hard, in the way Riki keeps kissing you like he’s trying not to prove a point and failing anyway, in the way you know this is a terrible way to end a relationship and still cannot bring yourself to care.
Riki pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead almost touching yours. “He talks a lot,” he says quietly.
You laugh before you can stop yourself, and he kisses you before you can even finish a thought he physically cannot hear another word about your boyfriend tonight, earning a gasp from your mouth. It’s soft at first, his mouth catching yours that makes you go still for half a second, surprised, and then your hand tightens around his wrist as you kiss him back. He exhales through his nose, quiet and shaky, and his fingers press a little more firmly into your nape, not pulling you in too hard, just holding you.
You make this soft startled sound against his lips and he swears it nearly kills him on impact. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead bumps lightly against yours.
“I don’t wanna talk about him anymore,” he says quietly.
His voice comes out rougher than before. You stare at him for a second, and your lips twitch.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He kisses you again almost immediately, and this time you kiss him back just as fast, your chests pressing against one another until you can feel the rapid beat of his heart through his hoodie. His hands find your waist, the weight of them warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, like he’s grounding you and keeping himself grounded too.
You tilt your head up to meet him properly, rising slightly onto your toes without meaning to, and he bends down into you like the movement pulls something out of him. His fingers press carefully at your sides, thumbs shifting once against your waist. The kiss deepens then, your hand sliding up the front of his hoodie until you’re holding onto him too.
Riki exhales against your mouth, almost shaky, and his grip tightens for one second before he loosens it again, like he’s reminding himself to be careful.
Without so much as a few words, your gaze meets his. But that’s not enough for him, not when he needs to hear that you want this too. The zipper you struggled with earlier starts undoing when his hand finds the back, before he leans in just enough for his voice to drop between you.
"Words, baby," he whispers.
He isn't teasing now. His voice is low, but careful, like he needs to hear you say it before he lets himself want anything more.
You swallow, fingers tightening lightly in his hoodie. "I want you."
Riki watches your face for a second, and when he sees the true genuineness and want in your eyes, he lets himself have it. He dips down to your height, capturing your lips in a kiss again, before fully pulling the zipper down to the small of your back. With barely any effort, the dress slides off your body and pools around your feet on the floor.
Too busy getting drunk on his plump lips, you don’t even notice his hands roaming over your skin, his fingertips memorizing the arch of your spine, before gliding up to the curve of your ribcage. You don’t notice how close he really is until his fingers find the underside part of your breasts. You pull away with a gasp, seeing him smile coyly when you finally realize you’re naked in front of him, and how he’s massaging your mounds in his hands.
He lets his thumbs brush your hardened nipples, watching your face scrunch and melt with fluster. He holds you so well, heat rushing all over your skin with the way he studies your body, eyes carefully taking in every detail about you. He continues stroking your nipples and massaging your breasts when he bends down again, kissing the corner of your lips before trailing over to your jaw. He presses open mouthed kisses on your pulse next, sucking and biting to leave love bites there.
You moan, all breathy and heavy, and his cock twitches in his sweats. For a man that’s been so cautious with you, he can’t help but fight the urge to pound into you recklessly right now.
“On the bed,” he prompts softly, taking a step forward.
You obey with no fight, pathetically stepping backward until you sit back on the soft mattress. You adjust a little to get on your knees, eyes finding his through your lashes again. He’s looking at you with half-open lids, hand already reaching up to the back of your head, fingers tangling with your hair. He likes you like this, on your knees and your face so fucking close to his bulge, he can practically see it.
And because he has been so kind to you, you want to recompense for all of it. Your fingers hook at the hem of his sweatpants, keeping your gaze steady on his face to watch the way he reacts when he realizes what you’re about to do. You drag his pants down, enough for it to slip down his legs.
His cock bulges in his briefs, begging to be set free. You cup it gently and he lets out a low moan, deeper than his usual, and when you look up, he’s just watching you. You lean in, only to lick a stripe from the bottom to top — his grip on your hair tightens, and you feel him pull you closer. Since you both don’t hold any godly kind of willpower, you waste no time lowering the fabric.
Riki’s stupidly long cock springs forward once you remove his briefs, and everything about it just makes sense. It isn’t excessively thick in girth, but it’s length makes you wonder if it can even fit at all. It’s pale at the base and turns pink towards the tip, the slit lathered with pre all over the head, all for you.
You bite your lip, not being able to help the thrilled grin on your face, eyes bright at the sight of it. He clears his throat, caressing the back of your head gently. “You good?”
You snicker, reaching up to wrap your hand around the base. He chokes out a gasp, stilling completely yet his hips buck forward. He watches you handle him so delicately, even the way you start pumping his dick, watching the way pre-cum leaks out the tip. You lean forward, tongue flat against the head, tasting him.
“O-oh, s-shit —” his breathing becomes heavy, arm flexing involuntarily as he keeps rubbing the back of your head.
You giggle, tilting your head a little to press soft pecks all over his length. “Watch me, sweet boy. Okay?”
You’re a fucking tease. That’s all he manages to come up with before his brain completely blanks out when you tilt forward and let your mouth close around the head of his dick. You start to suckle on it, tongue playing with the slit a little. Then you push forward, enough the tip touches the back of your throat and your cheeks hollow around his length.
And he’s still too fucking long.
You start choking a little, tears touching your waterline. You stroke the part you can’t reach, and he can’t help but smirk arrogantly.
Heavy breaths turns into deep groans, trying to keep his sounds to himself but the way you look as your head bobs on his dick, practically choking as you suck on it, and his hand flexing a tight grip on your hair — this has got to be better than any fucking narcotic ever. He bets morphine won’t ever feel this good. “Y-you’re fucking sublime, baby,”
You retract your mouth, going back to suckle on the tip, before taking him all back down your throat. His hips jerk forward, you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control.
And it’s too good, because twenty years of chastity has started to reach him faster than the way you rub him. He feels his abdomen tighten, and fuck does his balls feel tense. So as any illogical, preposterous, unsound idiot ever, he pulls you away from his cock. He holds you by your hair, slowing you down as you stare up at him, eyes wide and confused, lips wet from your saliva and his fluids.
“What the fuck?” you mutter, catching your breaths.
Riki licks his bottom lip, and you can see every restraint holding him back from breaking you. The tips of his ears are red, and his eyes, once so tender and meticulous, looks down at you like he just can’t wait to fuck you senseless. They’re sharper than they ever have been, and once since this night began, you’re scared.
“Easy,” he drawls, hand withdrawing from you completely. He takes a step back, just enough to admire the way you look, panting and on your knees, breasts exposed and perky. Then with a small smirk, he pinches the edge of his hoodie. “You always this impatient?”
He slides the hoodie over his arms, the cloth revealing flesh that practically glow from your vanity lights. His chest and shoulder width is broad and wide, flat in that boyish way you love, expanding to the chiseled arms. You can feel yourself salivating at the muscles, at his taut abs, delicate grooves that trace down to a sharp v-line. Even his obliques and traps are so defined.
“Get on your back.” he rasps, and you don’t let yourself react before lying down, head against your soft pillows. He kneels in between your legs, eyes trailing over your body. He hooks his fingers over the elastic of your panties, just before he slowly pulls them off you, slow enough to make you embarrassed.
“Riki,” you murmur sheepishly, but he ignores you, keeping his eyes narrowed to the way your cunt glistens, your own fluids leaking out of you. She’s perfect, and his already frustrated cock twitches.
Blonde hair sticks to his forehead, and his eyes are dark when your gaze meets again. He hovers over you, caging you against the bed before he leans in, kissing you again. Your lips part for him, breaths mingling, getting hot and heavy as his hand finds your ass. He squeezes the fat there, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re making it hard to think, pretty girl.”
You manage a giggle, though it quickly turns to soft moans when he kisses your jaw and presses his cock against your cunt.
“Riki, please,” you can see how swollen his cock has gotten.
“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he breathes, his arms tensing as he keeps himself up. He strokes himself a bit, just before he aligns the tip with your aching hole.
Your brain has gone hazy, not being able to process anything other than the way he kisses your neck when the head of his cock pushes through your folds, and immediately your arms come to his back, nails digging into his muscles. He tenses too, giving a sharp exhale when his length slides past the tight muscle and rubs against your gummy walls.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face against your neck while your teeth bite down your bottom lip. “G-god, that’s so good,”
His hips closes against your pelvis, while his tip brushes against your cervix so good he’s pretty sure you’re sucking him in. And you feel stuffed, more than you ever have been, by Riki’s long cock. “Good fucking pussy, shit —”
Your legs are open wide for him, pressing flat against the mattress. And that’s enough for him, just to see you so spread beneath him, cunt squeezing him so tight; enough for him to pull back and watch the way your fluids wrap slick around his cock. Your hips wiggle for him, and that’s all he takes before slamming his hips back into you.
Riki’s jaw hangs open, a low moan gushing out him, strained and heavy into your ears.
“R-Riki — f-f-fuck —”
The sounds of squelching pussy and skin slapping echoes throughout your entire room, walls so tight around his cock as you gasp. The pace is set already, quick and fucking drilling into you even though you’ve known him for his care and caution — yet he pounds into you like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything but his pleasure.
“S-s-so good — ugh, Riki — fuck,” you scratch his back muscles, tensing underneath your nails. His pelvis and abs are tight, slamming himself so hard against your cunt like he can’t keep himself apart from you.
He continues groaning, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he admires the way your tits bounce every time he rocks his dick deep into your cunt. His lips part to moan your name, and you love how he almost whimpers when you squeeze around him.
Then he stills, though only fast enough before he slides an arm beneath your waist and gathers you closer, like he’s scooping you into him without fully lifting you.
“W-what are you —”
“On your stomach.”
You can only blink and nod, before turning around, suddenly feeling empty when his dick slips from inside you. You settle on your hands and knees, then lie on your chest, face pressed to the soft pillow. “Fuck, my good girl.”
You can’t see him anymore, and you’re not sure with how you feel about it — not until you feel his warm body press against your back, his chest hovering slightly over you. He presses a hand on the back of your thigh, gently adjusting your knee higher, the position immediately spreading your folds more than you would have thought.
“Lift your hips for me, baby,” he breathes, voice low and strained.
You obey, pussy clenching around nothing when he whispers quiet praises as your ass perks up and your folds glisten for him again, slick oozing out from you. You get on your hands a little, just enough to lift yourself and look over your shoulder. Without much of a warning, he pushes his cock back deep inside you again, walls welcoming him with a dirty squelch, your breath catches, then escapes in a quiet gasp.
“There, just like that —” Riki moans, his v-line pressed tight against your ass.
Then he continues, retracting his hips only to slap back inside you. The new positions doing fucking wonders to you, stretching you a whole lot more, his dick fucking you so raw that you can’t help the screams you let out. He presses his hands against your waist, fingers ingrained to lift your ass up and pound into you right after, grip so tight it’s already bruising.
You fuck yourself against him too, slapping back against his hips, cock choking in your tight walls. His eyes are almost rolling back, if not for how obsessed he is watching your ass shake and tits bounce every sloppy stroke, his hand sliding under you to grope your mound. He fondles with it, pinching your nipple and loving the weight of it against his palm.
Sweat’s getting hot and the air’s smells too much of sex, he can feel it when his balls clench and how desperate he’s starting to get.
You look over your shoulder and he meets you halfway, leaning over to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. It’s full of saliva and it’s warm, messy in a way that tells how close you both are.
Then with so little strength (can’t compare to Riki Nishimura, really), your weight falls back to the pillow, face and chest pressed against the softness while your ass stays up. If not for his large hands keeping you up and still, you would’ve fallen over completely.
Your abdomen clenches and pressure builds in there, and he continues rutting into you while you become a puddle of sweat and moans. “R-right there — fuck, Riki — !”
“I-I’m gonna fucking cum, s-shit – I’ll blow a fucking load in you —” his hips drive into your pussy with a new kind of intensity, faster and deeper somehow, his tip hitting your cervix that has you throbbing around him.
“Cum all over me, baby, please —” he whines, face pressed against your shoulder.
You feel hot spurts of him fill you the same time your cunt clenches around him one final time, legs twitching while his hips come to a stutter. Cum settles in your hole, warm and full and sticky and practically seeping out of you. He collapses on top of you, unconsciously maybe, his heavier weight pressing over your body.
Your vision goes white for a bit, then it comes back, only for you to see hair all over your face, stuck with sweat and saliva. He’s still on top of you, but you can feel him carry himself a little, making sure not to crush you right after cumming in you.
Quiet beats stretch out the moment, and you don’t even notice his arm tucking underneath you to massage your tit, a tired laugh leaving your mouth when you do. When you both muster enough strength, he straightens just enough to lift himself off of you, while you manage to get on your hands. By the time you look over your shoulder, he’s already leaning in, his mouth finding yours again, a hand still fondling with your breast.
“Riki,” a small sheepish smile curves on your lips, all while he presses soft pecks against your mouth and jaw.
“Hm?” he hums, tired and spent, clearly having nothing else to do but to kiss you. His breaths are still shallow, eyelids heavy before shutting completely.
You giggle, putting your hand over his on your breast. “Get off me,” you say with a playful grin. “You’re so heavy!”
WIth a quiet groan, he listens. He slides out of you, unplugging you to let your fluids out. Then he lies down, and he hasn’t realized how strained his muscles are until he sinks into the softness of your bed. He relaxes inevitably, while you stay up just to admire him for a bit.
Riki Nishimura is never going to be insecure about his looks, but the way you stare at him with dilated pupils that match his, especially post-sex, he can’t help but grow a bit bashful.
He huffs out a laugh, one hand reaching out to squeeze your waist because you feel so far. "So do you have a no-cuddle policy, or," he murmurs.
You laugh before you can stop yourself because he's so stupidly funny for someone trying to sound serious. Instead of answering, you shake your head and lean more of your weight against one hand, the other resting against his chest as your fingers trace lazy, thoughtless shapes.
He watches you do it for a second, his expression going quiet in that way that makes your stomach turn. Then you glance up at him. "Can you roll one for me?"
He sighs so heavily it almost sounds personal. Before you can even react, his arm hooks around your waist and pulls you down against his chest, firm and immediate, like the idea alone offended him. Your hand lands against his abs to catch yourself, your cheek nearly brushing his shoulder as he keeps you there.
“Throw that shit away,” he says, voice low near your ear. “I swear to God.”
You blink, caught against him. “What?” His arm stays around you, warm and unmoving. “Why?”
Riki looks at you with half-lidded eyes, sleepy and a little strained, like even answering takes effort. “Because,” he murmurs, his grip softening at your waist, “after tonight, I think I found something better.”
Your jaw actually falls open. For one second, all you can do is stare at him, because there’s no way Riki Nishimura just said that to you while looking half-asleep and impossibly calm, like he didn’t just say something that made your entire stomach turn over and tighten all over again.
Then you smack his chest lightly. “Riki.”
He chuckles, low and tired, the sound vibrating against your palm. His arm stays around your waist, keeping you close even when you try to lean back enough to glare at him properly.
“What?” he murmurs, eyes barely opening more. “Use my dick instead, I won’t get mad.”
You smack his chest harder, earning a yelp from him. “Riki!”
He laughs under his breath, but before you can pull your hand back, his fingers wrap around your wrist. His eyes open a little more as he looks at you, still tired, still amused, and then he tugs you.
You land over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips as his arm settles around your waist to steady you. For a second, neither of you moves. Your hand stays pressed to his chest, his heartbeat is faster than he's pretending. "Careful," he murmurs, like he wasn't the one who pulled you.
"You're so annoying," you whisper again, but it comes out softer this time, a quiet breath as you lean down to him. You're close enough now that your noses brush, close enough to feel his smile fade against your mouth.
Riki's gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. Your fingers stay flat against the broad hardness of his chest while his hand stays warm at your waist, slowly smoothing over the curve of your ass.
“Ride me?” he whispers against your lips.
You sigh, rolling your eyes while your mouth curves to a grin, back straightening. You act like you think about it, only for your exposed cunt to start grinding against his cock — which, obviously, because he is a very simple man, erects again.
A simple man such as he, all he knows is that he is yours.
When a friendship comes with too much history, rules become necessary. It’s easier to stay safe when you can name the lines you refuse to cross. That’s why Jaeyun has always been so strict about his secret little guide, or at least, he was, until the moment you asked him to sleep with you, and everything started to shatter in his hands like it was never real at all.
a childhood friends to lovers oneshot｜27.9K
PAIRING: Jaeyun x fem!reader
WARNINGS: university au, Jaeyun is an electronic engineer student, kinda nerdy, and too down bad for the reader even though she is a bit of a brat, i am not sure if there’s a major plot, smut, nipple play, fingering and oral (f. receiving), handjob, virginity loss, protected and unprotected sex, there’s a fwb situation within, one fight between Jaeyun and reader’s ex, and jaykehoon being the most chaotic roommates ever
PINTEREST MOODBOARD
RULE ZERO: DO NOT RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP
When you were twelve, Jaeyun got you both grounded.
He had the brilliant idea of bringing a bottle of whiskey home — something one of his soccer teammates had stolen from his father’s cabinet and hadn’t known how to get away with now that it had been opened and already had a swig taken from it.
Jaeyun didn’t know why he decided to take charge of it, much less bring it home — he could have just let his teammate deal with it alone, for God’s sake. But perhaps because he liked the thrill of secretly carrying it and the astonishment in your eyes when he took it out of his backpack, he did bring it home.
But the fact was — neither of you drank any of it, yet his brother — the Mr. Perfect, as you used to whisper in each other’s ears — had caught you with your hands on it, and in the end it didn’t matter.
You were grounded for four weeks. No phones, video games, or allowances. You were only allowed to go to school and straight back to your homes — Jaeyun having only the small detour of dropping you off before going to his.
It made you miss the Seoul Annual International Book Fair. A major literary gathering with author events, book markets, and cultural programs that you had been looking forward to.
Nerdy, he had told you, which only made your tears flow even harder, and he felt so bad about it that he gave you a voucher the next morning, a handmade thing that got you laughing when he handed it to you.
Jaeyun had never been much of an artsy type. The voucher was irregular, and his handwriting was so bad you could barely decipher the words free wish — but perhaps because it was his way of trying, you took it, promising you would use it well.
That was probably when it started: the first page of a guide he would never mean to write, on how not to ruin a friendship that felt bigger than him because as he watched you folding the paper and tucking it into the front pocket of your sweater like a keepsake, he had a sudden clarity that he would do anything not to lose you.
You never really used the voucher.
Eleven years into your friendship, you never once brought it up.
Perhaps because Jaeyun always did everything for you, the voucher seemed useless.
When you got asked for a date for the first time in your life, Jaeyun agreed to go shopping with you — even though he despised every second of it — and when you called him afterwards, telling him to come over so you could rant about it, he once again was there without the voucher having even passed through your minds. He simply came and stayed there, listening to you, your backs side to side on the hardwood floor of your bedroom until the walls had turned orange and pink with the sunrise.
When you crashed your father’s car and called him crying, he asked where it had happened with his jacket already on and searching for his keys.
And when you moved out of the university dorms somewhere around your second semester, Jaeyun was carrying your boxes and luggage without you even glancing at his side.
So it felt a bit weird now, seeing you pushing the little thing through the counter — its edges turned so yellow with the advance of the years that he could see it even in the bar’s reddish light — and especially with the words that followed:
“Sleep with me,” you said.
RULE #1: DO NOT ACCEPT RECKLESS REQUESTS
Don’t answer requests she makes when she’s drunk, mad, or sad — that’s when she turns reckless. I’m supposed to get her home, get her water, and let time take the sharp edges off whatever she thought she wanted. If I do my job right, she’ll wake up with a headache — maybe puffy eyes — but no regrets. At least not the kind that have my name on them.
Arcano wasn’t as fierce as the name made it seem.
If Jaeyun were being honest, it was, in fact, a terrible bar. Awful, actually.
The seats were constantly sticky, and the tables were permanently stained with something spilled too long ago. The restrooms always smelled like weed and sex, and there was writing on the walls telling you who to call for a good time — but, awful as it was, it was the only bar on the outskirts of the university, and the drinks were cheap, which made it a reasonable choice for anyone who wanted to get drunk in the middle of a weekday.
Which, apparently, was what you were doing.
You had called him, your voice softened and a little slurred at the edges, even as you tried to keep it brief — trusting him to hear the truth between your words, as he always did — and making his body go tight, that low instinct already moving beneath his skin with the need to make it better.
Jaeyun came in without question, his eyes scanning through the dim room. Tables first, booths next, then the bar counter, because putting things in order always helped him keep control — but then he saw you, and his heart hitched hard enough to make his hands unreliable.
Arcano was nearly dark, red bulbs offering more irritation than light, and yet whatever sheen clung to its corners now seemed to gather around you; the glint of bottles, the thin neon humming above the bar. Even the noise shifted, bending your way subtly, as if the room itself couldn’t help but want to be near you.
Or perhaps it was only him — caught on you like gravity, a quiet flaw built into his body that only ever showed itself in your presence.
Across the bar, the music shifted, and someone laughed too loudly as a glass hit the counter with a wet little sound, but none of it reached him the right way, not while you were there, bent toward the counter with your hair falling forward and your shoulders loose with drink and something sharper underneath it.
Jaeyun swallowed and pushed his hair back off his forehead — the gesture automatic in the way habits were — as he closed the last steps in.
You shifted on your stool as he stopped behind you, small and unthinking, leaning back into him as if it was the most natural thing in the world to put your weight onto his chest merely because you trusted him to catch it without ever asking. And he did, his body reacting before his mind did, his arms raising and settling just enough to keep you upright.
He didn’t understand how you did it — how you could recognize him without looking. If your bones had memorized the shape of him and refused to forget even here, in a terrible bar, with alcohol in the air and the whole world pretending not to watch, or if you merely felt the same gravity as him, because you, too, had been built with some quiet flaw that only ever showed itself in his presence.
“Hello,” you said, tipping your head back to look at him.
“Hello, Princess,” he said, leaning in just to drop a kiss on your forehead. But you smelled like vanilla and white flowers — the kind of soft sweetness you always insisted on having threaded through every perfume you owned — and he allowed himself to breathe you for a second more before he let go, sliding onto the stool beside you.
His jeans brushed your bare thigh, and when you turned toward him, he had no other option than to spread his legs further apart, opening space so your knees fit between his; and for a second, Jaeyun’s brain focused on the image, slowly and cruelly, taking the stark line of your skin against denim, the heat of you seeping through a fabric barrier that suddenly felt too thin to be decent. Your knees fit perfectly between his, and the placement was so intimate it might’ve been accidental if he hadn’t felt how quickly his body registered it as right.
He went still.
Not because he didn’t want more contact, but because he did. Because he wanted it in a way that made him feel juvenile, and his restraint could turn into nothing but a costume you’d just tugged at the seam.
So he forced himself to look up, his gaze finding your face like it was the only safe thing left, but it only turned to be worse.
You were flushed from the alcohol and the heat, color blooming across your cheeks and the bridge of your nose as if you’d been kissed too many times already. And your eyes were bright in that unfocused way that made his whole body ache with protectiveness and something he refused to name.
Jaeyun swallowed, dropping his gaze before he could stop it — and that was when he saw the dress.
Low-cut, and reckless in the quietest way, exposing your skin in a soft curve that made his throat tighten, not because it wasn’t vulgar or blaring, but merely because it was you — warm, real, and too close.
And resting there, right in the center of it all, was the necklace he’d given you on your fifteenth birthday, the thin chain catching what little light Arcano offered and holding it like a secret. Jaeyun felt something in his chest twist — sharp and familiar. A gift, a promise, a piece of him you’d kept on your skin for years without making a thing of it.
He blinked, dragging his eyes back up, back to your face, as though that could undo what he’d seen. As though looking anywhere else could turn his thoughts into something normal again, but it didn’t.
“You called me,” he said in the end, voice light on purpose, aiming his gaze at the safe edge of your hairline instead of your eyes.
“Is there a question in this statement?” you asked, your head tipping to the side the way it always did when you were teasing him, letting a strand of hair slip loose and rest against your cheek.
Jaeyun huffed a quiet breath through his nose, something that almost counted as a laugh if anyone else had been listening. The bar noise swelled and dipped around you — ice clinking in glasses, a burst of laughter from a booth, the bass thudding like a distant heartbeat — and for a second it made the moment feel ordinary. Like this was just the two of you, playing the same game you’d played a hundred times.
“I don’t know,” he said. “You’re the linguistics genius among us.”
His hand lifted without thinking and brushed the strand away — quick, familiar, and thoughtless — the kind of gesture that belonged to years of friendship. He didn’t linger. He didn’t let it become a thing. He just tucked it back like he’d done it before and would do it again. Still, you felt the contact anyway, blinking at him, and it took you a moment to speak again.
“I think there was,” you said, your voice more serious than he expected. “I need to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
You turned halfway on your stool to reach into your purse, and Jaeyun took the moment to breathe — really breathe, looking across the room as his hands found and pushed at his hair, steadying himself.
Overhead, a red bulb faltered, and the neon hissed in — thin, stubborn light clinging on.
“Yun,” you called.
He turned to you again, catching as you slipped the voucher toward him, the piece yellowed into something that didn’t belong to the present. His own handwriting stared up at him, crooked and absurd in the way only a teenage promise could be.
Jaeyun’s lips parted around a question, but the words slipped before they could reach his mouth.
“I’m using it,” you announced, slurring a little — but not enough to take the weight of the words that followed:
“Sleep with me.”
Jaeyun inhaled too fast and choked on the air, like the sentence had gone straight for his throat and his body refused to swallow it. He coughed once, twice, eyes watering, and hated himself for how obvious it was.
“Drink,” you said, lifting your glass toward him — offering it with the careless kindness of someone who had no understanding of the damage they were capable of causing.
Jaeyun pictured you rummaging through your drawers for the voucher, trying to guess when the decision had formed. Whether it had been planned. Whether it had been impulsive. Whether the dress had been chosen with him in mind—
He didn’t get to finish the thought.
He took the glass too fast, his thumb grazing your knuckle — more an echo of a touch than a touch itself — but his whole body registered it like a confession. And he forced himself to bring it to his mouth and swallow it. The liquor burned his throat, cheap and harsh and useless, and then — for one horrifying second — he tasted you there, sweet and faint beneath the sting.
He set it down.
“What—” he tried, but his voice came out wrong, and he forced himself to clear his throat. “Where’s Baekhyeon?”
Because it felt reasonable to ask where your boyfriend was when you were asking him to sleep with you.
Your eyes gleamed at the name and then cleared just as quickly. Whatever that feeling was, it was banished with a blink before you reached for your glass again, considering the few drops he’d left.
“We broke up,” you said.
“When?”
“Today — or yesterday.” Your brow creased. “I’m not sure. What time is it?”
“But why?”
You shuddered, already turning toward the bartender for another drink, but Jaeyun reached for your wrist and drew you back in. His hands were cold against your warm skin, and a shiver danced across you, strong enough to make your shoulders tremble.
He let go.
“Princess, talk to me,” he said. “What happened?”
And so you told him, your words coming rushed and messed up, one long stream being pulled out of you because now that you’d started, you couldn’t afford to stop. You told him how Baekhyeon had gotten quieter for some time now — absent — balancing himself on that thin space where he could keep you without having to show up. And whenever you asked what was wrong, he kept saying he’d been thinking, whatever that meant, as if the word could stretch indefinitely and still count as effort — like you were supposed to wait politely while he decided if you were worth choosing because he wasn’t sure anymore, but still expected you to stay soft about it: keep answering, keep waiting, keep existing in the exact place where he could reach for you whenever he felt like it. And when you finally said it out loud, he told you you were overreacting — like wanting clarity was something you needed to unlearn.
And it wasn’t just that. He got calm in that way people do when they’re trying to sound reasonable, like if he kept his voice soft enough then you would start doubting your own memory. He said that you were making it bigger than it was — and then he asked you why you were trying to start a fight. And when you didn’t back down, he laughed a little — not kind — and told you were being dramatic. So you left.
“But it’s so humiliating, Yun,” you said, your hands dragging down your face, hiding it as you folded forward and rested on him again — forehead against his shoulder, your whole body fitting into the space between his thighs like it had always known where to go.
Jaeyun reached out without thinking, one hand settling at the small of your back as the other slid into your hair, fingers tangling gently there — holding you together in the only way he knew how.
“It’s not like I thought he was going to be my forever one. I never even considered it, but I thought — God.” You let out a laugh that didn’t even try to sound like humor. “I’m a virgin in university, Jaeyun. After having a boyfriend. Do you know how stupid that feels? I kept waiting for something to feel right, and now it just feels like everyone else has learned how to do this — how to be with someone, how to start, how to stop — and I am still a little girl who doesn’t know where to put her hands.”
The whole sentence hit and sank in with a dull ache, shifting a fault line in him so sharply his whole body twitched. His fingers flexed against you, tightening at your back before he could stop himself, because this was simply his first instinct: pull you in, hold you tighter, so perhaps he could keep you from breaking by sheer force of his will.
But then he hated himself for it — for the greedy relief that came with the feeling of you against him, for the way wanting and protecting acquired the same face in his body — and he loosened his grip immediately, forcing his touch back into something safer, something that could still pass as friendship.
“Hey,” he said. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
“I’m feeling terrible,” you muttered. “Like I might have done something wrong in my life.”
“Princess,” he said again, the nickname rolling softly through the air, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like a joke at all. “Look at me.”
You shook your head, stubborn even like this, forehead still pressed where you’d chosen to hide. And Jaeyun exhaled through his nose, trying to sand the edge off himself before it could cut you.
“You’re drunk,” he told you. “And you’re not thinking straight.”
You didn’t react this time — which somehow made it worse.
“Come on,” he said, his hands slipping away only so they could find you again, but this time, somewhere safer. His palms spread on the bare skin of your arms to guide you up. “I’m taking you home.”
“But—” you began, your gaze sliding to the voucher.
Jaeyun reached for it and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans, taking it out of your sight like he could make the exchange never happen — like merely hiding it could erase the fact that something had moved inside his chest with your ask, and now refused to calm down.
“I’ll keep it safe,” he said, and the promise tasted older than tonight.
He helped you off the stool with one hand at your waist as the other caught your purse, looping it around his wrist before he returned it to your elbow — steadying and guiding, making sure your feet landed where they were supposed to.
You swayed into him, coming so close that when you spoke, he not only heard you, but felt it through his skin.
“You always do.”
Jaeyun’s fingers flexed once again at your side.
“Yeah,” he said, looking ahead as he led you through the mess of bodies and sticky tables. “I know.”
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
Outside, it was already spring in theory, but in practice, Arcano’s door swung shut behind you, and the night folded over — winter still pressing into April nights, and making it chilly.
The sidewalk out in front was uneven in that neglected-university-outskirts way, broken slabs and hairline cracks waiting for someone careless, and tonight, that someone was you.
Jaeyun watched as you made it three steps before you stumbled. It had been nothing significant, just your ankle rolling in a way that could have passed unnoticed — but he was watching, and before you could pretend that it hadn’t happened, his hand had already closed around your forearm, firm and quickly, holding you.
He brought you closer to him on instinct, the lines of your bodies collapsing and melting under the same yellow wash of streetlight, and when you looked up at him, it gathered in your eyes in tiny gold flashes, softening you at the edges, and making you look heartbreakingly close; the tiny gasp you released warming his mouth.
“Easy,” he muttered.
“I am being easy,” you argued, but you made no effort to disengage yourself from him, and so, neither did he — letting you both stay in the dim hush of the night for a moment more before he finally eased back, shrugging out of his jacket and easing you into it, one sleeve first and then the other.
Jaeyun gave your purse back, and only when your fingers closed around it did he turn and drop into a crouch in front of you — shoulders broad and steady on purpose.
“What are you doing?” you asked.
“Taking you home,” he replied. “Get on.”
“I can walk.”
“You can barely negotiate a curb,” he argued. “Get on.”
Jaeyun waited then, bracing himself for another surge of protest, but instead, you leaned forward, your arms sliding around his shoulders, automatic, and with the kind of trust that never failed to set a quiet ache behind his ribs.
But if anything, he hooked his hands under your thighs and stood, letting your weight settle against him and your cheek to press into the side of his neck, warm and familiar.
“This is a bit embarrassing.”
“This is practical,” Jaeyun said. “Better than having to take you to the hospital over an ankle you refuse to admit you could break.”
You hummed, and he huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, tightening his hold as if you could slip out of his hands.
As if he would let you.
“Princess,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, “you’re going to be the death of me someday.”
You didn’t react this time — either because you didn’t hear it, or because your hazy mind had already filed it somewhere dangerous for tomorrow — but in any case, Jaeyun kept walking.
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
Jaeyun’s apartment building greeted you in the same failing way it always did. The hallway light flickered with stubborn inconsistency, always seeming one second away from burning out, and the front door still refused to open unless someone met it with a shoulder and a certain amount of conviction.
He did it one-handed, you still on his back and refusing to let go even when he had to fumble for the key, his free hand going to his pockets once, twice, while the other kept you anchored against him, steadying you with the same absent care, as though you were simply part of the equation.
Inside, the living room looked exactly the way it always did — dim, cramped, familiar in the ugly way cheap rent always was. Sneakers lay abandoned near the entrance like they’d given up halfway through the day. A laundry basket sat in the corner with the quiet menace of something that had been ignored too long.
And a few steps in, Sunghoon was there — barefoot, hair damp, skin still carrying that clean, just-showered warmth, as if he’d stepped out of steam and decided the world could handle itself for a while.
His gaze flicked to you, draped over Jaeyun, then back to him, and his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.
“She really can do whatever she wants to you,” he said, flat as anything.
At the sound of his roommate’s voice, Jaeyun felt you shift against him, lifting your head just enough for the night’s air to slip into the space you’d made.
“Hello, Hoon,” you said.
“Hello, Princess.”
The hallway light blinked out, wiping your shadows clean for a quiet beat before Sunghoon shifted, and the sensor caught it, coaxing the bulb back to life. Jaeyun adjusted his grip like it meant nothing, like you weren’t warm against him in all the places he worked hardest not to think about. You shifted at his back once more, settling and slipping, and his shoulders tightened on reflex — prepared to steady you, prepared for anything — except your next words.
“If Yun doesn’t, would you do it with me, Hoon?”
“Do wh—”
“Nothing,” Jaeyun snapped. “She’s drunk, and I’m taking her to my room.”
Sunghoon’s brows rose at his roommate’s urgency, his mouth twitching deeper, but he didn’t push. If anything, he stepped back, clearing the way like Jaeyun needed permission at all.
“Tell me tomorrow, Princess,” Sunghoon called after you, loud enough to be heard down the hall. “Though I’m pretty sure Jaeyun will do it for you.”
Jaeyun didn’t give you the chance to answer.
He was already moving, turning down the hall. And when he reached his room, he shifted your weight higher with a small, efficient jerk of his arms, then shoved the door open with his shoulder.
The motion-sensor light in the hallway faltered again behind you, a brief blink of dark, and then the room swallowed you whole — quieter, warmer, smelling faintly of detergent, old cologne and whatever Jaeyun used to pretend he didn’t care about.
He stepped into his room and kicked the door shut with his heel, shutting the rest of the apartment out — Sunghoon’s smugness, the hallway’s flicker, all of it cut off as if it had never happened.
Yet still, he didn’t set you down. Jaeyun carried you the last few steps to his bed, and when he finally tried to set you down, you clung tighter — arms locking around his shoulders as your thighs pressed against his sides.
“No,” you said, and there was no explanation required. It didn’t matter that it had been six months since you last shared a bed. He knew your rules just as much as he knew his: you didn’t do beds before a shower — much less in outside clothes. You didn’t even sit on them in anything that had been out in public.
“Princess,” he sighed. “It’s my bed. I don’t have that rule.”
“Your bed is contaminated,” you decided.
Jaeyun went still for a second, like sheer willpower might make you reasonable. But it didn’t. You stayed latched onto him, stubborn as a vow, and he realized — again — how useless he’d always been at saying no to you.
He sighed again.
“Fine,” he said. “Fine — let’s take a shower first.”
He tried to lower you, shifting his hands to set you down properly, but the moment your heels brushed the floor, you stiffened in protest, clinging harder.
“No shoes inside,” you reminded him, as if he were the one being difficult.
Jaeyun’s eyes shut for a brief beat — his surrender arriving the way it always did with you, tender and doomed.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”
He crouched carefully, still keeping one arm hooked around your legs so you wouldn’t tip, and reached for the thin strap of your heel. His fingers worked quickly and practiced, undoing what he could without looking like he was paying attention.
Only when both heels had slipped free did he straighten again — and only then did you finally loosen, sliding down from his back. Jaeyun kept his hands on you the whole time, steadying you through the transfer, guiding you down until your bare feet found the floor without a stumble.
“There,” he said. “Now cooperate.”
Jaeyun went to his drawer and pulled out a t-shirt so old it had softened past saving, turned into the kind of thing that should’ve been discarded a long time ago. But it was the one you always chose when you slept over, and so it stayed — stupidly and hopefully, waiting for you.
He pushed his hair back off his forehead, his hand lingering there for a beat before he reached for a towel and stood up.
“Come,” he said then, placing his hand behind his back to encourage you to catch up and grab it.
You held hands across the apartment and into the bathroom, letting go only when Jaeyun reached for the switch and snapped the light on — white and harsh in a way that suddenly made the night tangible.
“The lock is broken,” Jaeyun said.
“Wasn’t Jongseong going to fix it months ago?” you asked.
Jongseong had, but it broke again and again, and by the fourth time, the three of them had decided it was what it was and left it to its habits.
“I’ll wait outside,” he said. “Can you handle yourself?”
You leaned against the sink, head tipping to the side. Your necklace sparkled with the movement, catching the bathroom light in thin, bright flickers, and all at once, he regretted asking.
It all felt too real, too reckless. What if you asked him to stay and help you, as it had happened a dozen times before Baekhyeon?
He couldn’t trust himself to make good decisions — couldn’t trust himself to help you out of your dress without looking. Not with the voucher still in the pocket of his jeans and your words coiling through his mind, slowly displacing all his other thoughts.
He was suddenly wild under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom.
“I’ll be right outside,” he said, reaching past you to set the towel on the counter, then the shirt beside it — lining them up like order could keep the night under control. “Take your time.”
“Okay.”
Jaeyun didn’t say anything as he stepped out. He merely pulled the door shut and folded himself down in front of it — knees up, forearms crossed above them, and his fingers tightening against the sides of his jeans for a quiet moment before he let go.
From inside the bathroom came the soft shift of fabric. Then the small, telltale clink of something against porcelain — your necklace, surely your necklace — before the water finally started to run. And Jaeyun let out a slow breath he couldn’t quite believe in.
It wasn’t the first time he’d guarded a door for you, and he should’ve known how to breathe through it by now.
But tonight had reached in and rearranged all the defenses he’d built, and now he was back at the beginning with nothing solid to brace against. His fingers flexed once again, anchoring himself to the pressure and the bone, and making him almost miss the complaint of a floorboard down the hall.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jongseong’s voice carried from the hallway. “Why are you sitting on the floor?”
“The lock doesn’t work,” Jaeyun said.
“It never worked.”
“She’s inside.”
“Who?” Jongseong asked — more reflex than curiosity — because the moment his gaze landed on Jaeyun, the question dissolved on its own, understanding settling without needing a name.
“Oh, it’s been a while,” he said, and Jaeyun’s mouth tightened, the words pressing an old bruise.
It had been six months since you last slept here, to be exact — the same amount of time you’d been with Baekhyeon, and the same amount of time Jaeyun had been pretending the distance was natural. Reasonable. Maybe even healthy.
It wasn’t as if Baekhyeon had forbidden your friendship with him, or your sleepovers at this apartment. Baekhyeon was—
Jaeyun’s mind halted.
For a second, he tried to call him nice, the word rising up like it wanted to be fair — but he recoiled from the generosity of it, because your confession at Arcano was still echoing in his body.
The fact that Baekhyeon never forbade your friendship didn’t change what it meant to hear you say you’d been made to feel humiliating for wanting clarity — for wanting to be chosen like it wasn’t the bare minimum. Nice didn’t undo the image of you folding in on yourself as you said it, like you’d already started taking the blame out of habit.
So Jaeyun said nothing. He only breathed out, real slow, between barely parted lips, and let the silence carry what his mouth couldn’t afford.
Jongseong leaned back against the opposite wall and crossed his arms, staking out the space without saying a word because that was how he always did. He didn’t press — never that. Jongseong just stayed, letting the world breathe between them until it started to feel like an invitation people never knew how to refuse.
Jaeyun looked away.
“She called,” he said. “She was at Arcano. Drunk — not falling-over drunk — but enough.”
“Baekhyeon?” Jongseong asked, not because he was looking for gossip, but because it was logistics. It was the obvious missing piece.
“They broke up — he broke up with her,” he said. “Something about not being sure anymore.”
“Damn.”
Jaeyun hummed in agreement, and because he didn’t know how to bring up the topic, he merely said: “She asked me to sleep with her.”
Jongseong blinked — actually blinked, his whole body failing with the sudden information.
“She asked you,” he repeated.
Jaeyun’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”
“To sleep with her.”
The words hung there between them, obscene in how plainly they fit the shape of the night. Jaeyun breathed out slowly through his nose; the air itself didn’t want to make room for them.
“And you said?” Jongseong asked, though his tone already suggested he knew the answer. Everyone knew Jaeyun’s reputation. Everyone knew he didn’t say no to much — especially not to you.
“I said no,” Jaeyun replied.
Jongseong stared at him, then let out a low whistle, indecisive whether to be impressed or concerned.
“Don’t make it weird,” Jaeyun muttered.
“I’m not making it weird,” Jongseong said. “I’m just—” He paused, pondering what his next words should be. “You’re kind of famous for not being the guy who says no. Not to her.”
Jaeyun’s lips parted, his tongue already rolling in to say something, but the words stuttered and stammered, refusing to leave immediately, and Jongseong shifted his weight, glancing down the hallway once as if checking whether Sunghoon would appear and make this worse. But when he didn’t, he looked back at Jaeyun and waited again.
Of course he did.
Behind the door, the shower shifted pitch — water on tile instead of skin, the soft scrape of movement as you’d turned under the stream — and Jaeyun’s shoulders tightened at the sound, reflexive and stupid, like his body wanted to go in there and steady you with his hands.
He forced himself to stay where he was.
“You know what the problem is?” Jaeyun asked.
“Tell me.”
“I know her,” he said, and he hated himself for how quickly it came out, like a confession that had been waiting all night. “I know she meant it.”
Jongseong’s expression softened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“But what if it changes something?” he asked. “I could say yes, and for one night I’d get—”
He cut himself off, shoving his hair back as if he could physically push the thought out of his head.
“Fuck — I’d get something I’ve wanted for a long time.”
“And then?”
“And then she’d wake up, and something could flick.” Jaeyun said. “Like she’d look at me and realize she made a mistake. Like she’d hate me for letting her.” His grip tightened once, then loosened. “Like I’d lose the only part of her I’m allowed to have.”
The hallway seemed to draw in around him, the air thickening as if it could listen. And Jaeyun lowered his voice in response.
“I’d rather have just a part of her forever than have her entirely for a night and lose her in the morning.”
“That’s — that’s more honest than I expected.”
Jaeyun let out a humorless breath. “Thank you.”
“I’m not done,” Jongseong said, because of course he wasn’t. “You’re treating having her like it’s one thing.”
Jaeyun frowned, irritation returning on instinct because it was safer than admitting Jongseong was right.
“It’s either you stay in the safe version of your friendship forever — half-measures, unsaid things — or you sleep with her and blow it up.”
“But it could happen.”
“But it also couldn’t — not if you do it in the right way.”
“In the right way,” Jaeyun scoffed. “That clears everything up.”
“When she’s sober,” Jongseong continued, ignoring the sarcasm like it was a symptom. “You tell her the truth she can use.”
“Like what?”
“You tell her you said no because she was drunk.”
“Obviously.”
“And you tell her you care about her too much to risk the friendship over a night.”
Jaeyun’s stomach tightened. The sentence was too clean — neat edges, no mess, nothing anyone could accuse him of — and it sounded like something he was allowed to say. But it wasn’t the real reason, though. The real reason lived lower in him, hot and humiliating because of the selfishness of it.
Jaeyun cared too much to let you choose him with alcohol blurring the corners, too much to wake up and find your eyes clear and horrified — he cared too much to have his name become the sharpest part of your regret.
He didn’t want a night he’d have to defend. He wanted a tomorrow that didn’t require forgiveness.
He couldn’t lose you.
“And if she guarantees nothing will change?” he asked, and his voice sounded small there, drowned out by the fantasy of it.
“You decide,” Jongseong said. “You do it, or you don’t. But don’t lie to yourself that you can keep something by freezing it.”
“I can keep it by not touching it.”
“And you can lose it that way too,” Jongseong said, immediately and all at once making Jaeyun halt. “You’re already changing. She’s already changing. Baekhyeon happened. Tonight happened.”
“So what?” Jaeyun asked. “You think I should accept?”
“I think you should accept the conversation,” Jongseong corrected. “Not the drunk proposal. Not the chaos. Not the one-night disaster you’re picturing.”
He paused, just long enough for Jaeyun to swallow.
“It’s the best way,” Jongseong added. “Because it’s the only way she gets to choose you with a clear head — and you get to be chosen without feeling like you stole it.”
“Fine,” he said. “I will talk to her tomorrow — when she’s sober.”
“Good.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke, but then Jongseong nodded toward the bathroom door with a faint grimace that tried to pass for humor. “Rap on my door when she’s done, yeah? I need to use the bathroom, and I don’t feel like getting murdered for walking in on — whatever this is.”
Jaeyun shot him a look, he wasn’t going to, and Jongseong knew it but if anything, his mouth quirked, teasing and mean, as he turned and started back toward his room, leaving Jaeyun alone with the thin shaft of light coming from under the door, the broken lock, and the sound of you moving on the other side — alive, breathing, and close enough to ruin him if he let himself reach.
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
The bathroom door opened with a tiny complaint from its hinges. Your figure momentarily silhouetted against the spill of light before he blinked and put you into focus, barefoot, hair slicked back and tucked behind your ears, cheeks still flushed from the shower, alcohol, and something that didn’t belong to soap or steam. His old shirt hung off you all wrong and yet perfectly: too big in the shoulders, too long in the hem, but familiar in a way that made Jaeyun’s chest tighten.
Perhaps he was dreaming this night.
“I thought I heard someone,” you whispered.
“It was Jongseong,” he replied, smoothing his tone into something casual, in the hope that you wouldn’t notice the way Jongseong’s appearance now sat warm and heavy beneath his ribs, pulsing each time he breathed, threatening to spill.
“Did we wake him up?”
Jaeyun shook his head and pushed himself up, his joints protesting with stiffness from the position and from the sheer act of not moving every time his instincts had told him to go in and make sure you were okay. “No. He just needed the bathroom.”
You nodded at him, and Jaeyun reached his hand to you, the gesture so unconscious, he didn’t notice he had done it until you reached back to him, fingers finding the slots between his, and intertwining your hands.
“Let’s go,” he murmured, already turning and guiding you down the short stretch of hall.
He wasn’t sure what time it was, but when he opened the door to his room, the world outside seemed vivid in comparison, a mist of light blue and purple coming through his open window, and spilling across the rumpled sheets and the scatter of things that made the space undeniably his: a jacket draped over the chair like it had been forgotten mid-thought, a half-open book, and a glass of water caught a thin slice of shine. The air was warmer in here, carrying the faint, familiar mix of laundry soap and skin and something clean underneath everything that had happened.
“Lie down,” Jaeyun said, swinging your interlaced hands toward the bed even though he expected you to refuse, saying something about contamination or demanding clean sheets, and forcing him into the familiar rhythm of your rules because that was how it always went — he was already halfway bracing for it, already planning how to humor you through it without letting his hands linger where they shouldn’t — but you moved then, slipping from his touch and laying on the mattress without protest. And it was somehow worse than anything.
“Princess,” he called, not really sure what the rest of the phrase was supposed to be, and the nickname hung in the air longer than it was necessary.
“Aren’t you coming?” you asked, and he was caught by the simplicity of it.
“Close your eyes,” Jaeyun said. “I’m going to get changed first.”
You made a small sound that almost counted as a snort, like the idea of him needing you not to look was ridiculous. But you did it anyway — eyes shut, face turned into his pillow, going still with the kind of obedience you only ever gave him when you didn’t want to argue.
Jaeyun changed quickly, like speed could make him safer. Jeans off. Sweatpants on. Shirt pulled over his head and tossed it somewhere he refused to look at. He kept his movements efficient, controlled — all about angles and purpose — because he couldn’t afford softness. Couldn’t afford the way tenderness turned reckless when it had nowhere to go.
By the time he finished, you hadn’t moved, and for a moment, he thought you’d fallen asleep, your body finally ceasing. But when he stepped closer, you opened your eyes, the dim light catching in them like a held secret, glazing along your lashes, turning your gaze into something soft and deep, as if whatever remained of the light had found a way to live inside you.
And Jaeyun hovered at the edge, forgetting for a beat how to be anything but pulled in.
He sat on the bed, and you shifted closer, cheek pressing deeper into his pillow like it belonged there — like you belonged there.
And the fact that you were smelling like him didn’t help. His shampoo was tangled in your damp hair. His soap clinging to your skin. The boring smell of him with something sweet underneath — vanilla and white flowers — threaded through it all. Like the night had taken the parts of him that were supposed to be private and braided them through you.
He wouldn’t sleep tonight.
“Yun,” you called. “About what I said—”
“Just sleep,” he cut in. “We can talk tomorrow.”
Your mouth parted as if you wanted to argue on principle. But your body betrayed you in the softest way: your breathing deepened, your fingers loosened on the sheet, your forehead sank into his pillow as if it was the only safe thing left in the world.
Jaeyun lay down beside you before he could think too hard about it, keeping the space between your bodies like a rule — a boundary he could hold — but you drifted closer inch by inch, pulled by some instinct that had never learned to be afraid of him. Your knee brushed his leg. Your hand settled near his, warm and lax, fingers curved like they might reach if you dreamed the right dream.
Jaeyun didn’t move. He only stared at the ceiling and listened to you breathe — slow and even — trying not to count it.
Tomorrow, he told himself.
Tomorrow, he would be brave. Tomorrow he would say the right things — the usable truth, as Jongseong had called — the truth you could hold without cutting yourself on it.
Tomorrow, he would not ruin you, or the fragile shape of a friendship he’d carried for years like a glass of water.
But tonight—
He turned his head just enough to look at you, and stayed awake anyway — guarding the morning like it was the most dangerous thing he’d ever faced.
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
Jaeyun woke up to the morning sunlight filtering through the still-open window of his bedroom, and you curled into him, cheek on his shoulder, as your hand rested on his chest.
He didn’t move — he couldn’t bring himself to move — he didn’t even let his breath deepen because his first thought was the same one it had always been, old as instinct and just as merciless: don’t wake you. Don’t jolt you out of whatever gentle, thoughtless trust had guided you here in the dark and kept you here in the light. He merely stared at your hand on his chest.
Your fingers were loose, resting over his heartbeat like they’d found it by memory. Like your body had reached for the most familiar thing in the room and settled before your mind could intervene.
He swallowed.
The sunlight was falling in slow stripes across the sheets and across the line of your shoulder beneath his shirt, turning the old cotton into something almost translucent, and catching on your necklace. Dust drifted through the brightness like the morning was innocent — like the world hadn’t heard what you’d asked for last night, hadn’t seen the way his restraint had shaken under the skin.
He’d stayed the whole night trying to remain as far as he could tell. And still, here you were — curled into him like this was allowed. Like this was fine. Like you belonged in the hollow of his shoulder with your palm over his heart, claiming the one part of him he’d never learned how to hide.
You made a small sound in your throat, barely more than a breath, and nudged closer, your knee tucking nearer, your fingers flexing once against his shirt, and the heat of you spread through him like something inevitable.
His gaze drifted to your face.
Sleep had unmade you cruel in its sweetness; your lashes cast a faint shadow under your eyes; your mouth was parted just slightly, softened by the quiet. There was no teasing there, no armor, no bright deflection — only you, unguarded, and breathing against his shoulder like you trusted him to hold.
Because he would — he always would.
Jaeyun swallowed and very carefully — so carefully it bordered on absurd — slid his arm out from beneath your head, immediately receiving a small sound of protest from you, brows drawing together, and for one panicked second, he thought you’d wake.
But if anything, you only turned your face further into his pillow, drifting your hand from his chest to the sheet between you.
Jaeyun sat up slowly, pushing his hair back off his forehead as if he could physically push the feeling out, and looked at you once more.
Then he reached for the blanket and pulled it higher, covering you with a tenderness that felt dangerously close to a confession — tucking the edge beneath your arm, smoothing it down over your ribs, restoring order because order was the only thing that kept him from doing something reckless — before he stood up, crossing the room barefoot.
Jaeyun left the room, pulling the door nearly shut behind him, careful not to let the latch click.
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
The kitchen met him as it always did on weekdays.
The sink was crowded with his roommate’s morning small evasions — a cup abandoned to the drying rack, a plate left half-rinsed as if someone had set it down and decided they couldn’t be bothered to finish. Old coffee grounds sat in the filter, gone cold and sour, and the air held that faint, stubborn bitterness like it had seeped into the walls.
Jaeyun stood in the middle of it all for a moment, then two — trying to make his brain behave.
Tomorrow, he had said, and it was tomorrow.
He exhaled through his nose and opened the fridge, scanning the shelves as if the answer to what to do with his hands might be hiding behind the milk, but not even this they had. There were eggs, half a loaf of bread, butter, something green that had once been vegetables in a kinder timeline, and the strawberries he bought weekly and kept in the back, pretending it wasn’t for you.
He closed the door on impulse, pushing his hair back off his forehead before he reopened it and grabbed the eggs.
Jaeyun had never been a breakfast person, but he needed something to do with his hands that morning, and so, he warmed the pan, melting the butter as he had seen you do a dozen times.
He cracked the first egg too hard, and a piece of shell fell in, forcing him to fish it out with the edge of a fork with a curse under his breath. The second one cracked clean. And he caught himself staring at it for a second, mildly offended by success.
He scrambled the eggs the way he tuned a circuit on the bench — low heat, constant motion, watching for the first hint of runaway before it could burn. The toast popped up asymmetrically overdone, one side dark enough to count as a failed test, and he scraped it back with a knife like he could calibrate it into passing.
He got strawberries in the back of the fridge, rinsed them, and set them on a plate.
And by the time it started to look like something someone might eat, he heard you, softly coming down the hall and making the air shift, the apartment itself holding its breath.
Jaeyun turned, and there you were in the doorway — his shirt hanging off you, hair a mess, eyes brighter than they had any right to be.
Your gaze landed on the plates — on the counter, catching the eggshells still on it, the crumbs of his burned toast, and the strawberry tops before it moved to him.
“You made breakfast,” you said, the corner of your lips shifting into a smile.
“I’m aware.”
You padded toward him, bare feet on the kitchen tile, and suddenly you were so close, he could smell you, his soap still clinging to your skin. Your eyes were puffy, your cheeks still a little flushed, but the embarrassment had already arrived; Jaeyun could see it in the way you held your shoulders, in the way your gaze didn’t stay on his for too long.
“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly.
Jaeyun leaned his hip against the counter, arms crossing because if he didn’t put his body in order, his face might betray him. “You were drunk. You called me. I picked you up. That’s not like it never happened.”
“I remember what I said.”
Jaeyun went still.
“I’m not going to pretend I don’t,” you said. “Or that I said it only because I was drunk — I mean, I was drunk.”
You paused, heat creeping up to your cheeks and making it a tone warmer.
“Jaeyun, I’m—” You pressed your palm to your forehead briefly, as if you could push the shame back inside. “I’m in university. I’m still a virgin. And it’s not even because I’m some — saint. It’s because I kept waiting for the right moment.”
Your voice dropped. “But now it just feels like I’ve been standing still while everyone else moved.”
Something moved in Jaeyun’s chest then — sharp, protective, and making him push himself off the counter before he meant to, closing the space between you in a step he didn’t ask permission for.
“Princess,” he called, his voice as soft as the way his arms eased apart, but he didn’t touch you. Didn’t put his hands on your shoulders or tuck your hair back or do any of the things his body begged him to do on autopilot — because this was morning, and you were sober, and this mattered.
“You don’t owe anyone a timeline,” he said. “And you don’t have to make it some performance to prove something.”
“I know, Yun, it’s just that—” Your mouth tightened, lips pressing as you searched for the shape of the truth. “When I think about it, I keep coming to the conclusion that it would be safe if it were with you.”
“Do you remember that party at Seoyeon’s where they did that stupid bottle game, and we both had our first kisses in her parents’ closet?” you asked. Jaeyun blinked at the sudden turn of topic, but nodded anyway. “It was awful and so awkward. The guy made it so awkward. And the whole time I remember — the whole time I remember wishing it had been you on the other side of the bottle, because it would’ve been easier if it were you.” You swallowed. “If it were you, I’d be safe — and it’s still true, I know it would be okay with you,”
“You’re the person I trust the most in this world.”
The whole sentence went straight through his ribs and sank there, spreading through the parts of Jaeyun that had learned to stay careful until his restraint loosened another notch, and his chest went tender with it, so sudden it almost hurt.
In his mind, he was back at Seoyeon’s party, you laughing and brushing the situation off in front of him, cheeks flushed even in the low light with what he thought was shyness. And perhaps it had been. Perhaps he hadn’t been completely wrong: you’d been shy there, but not because you’d just had your first kiss, but because you’d wished he was the one there. He, your best friend — and the thought came so suddenly he couldn’t prevent it — he wanted it to be him, too. He wanted to be your first in every way that counted.
And that was exactly what you were offering to him.
Jaeyun swallowed, his fingers flexing on the counter.
“Do you truly want it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“But nothing can change between us,” Jaeyun said. “We start as best friends. And even if this — if this thing doesn’t work and we turn out to be awkward, we end as that. Best friends. No matter what.”
You held his gaze, and for a moment, he was afraid that you’d heard what he hadn’t meant to say: the way he’d started listing boundaries like constraints in a design brief, as if naming the limits out loud could keep the system stable, keep you from failing him. But you only tilted your head, a small smile gathering at your mouth, warm and unalarmed.
“Are you afraid of losing me?” you asked, teasing with an offer to laugh — to dissolve the moment back into something safe. But when he looked at you, his eyes were solemn. So solemn that whatever retort you’d been about to throw at him got stuck somewhere between your lips and your courage.
“Yes,” Jaeyun said, and the teasing fell away.
Your breath caught for a moment before you exhaled, your face softening into something older than jokes.
“Okay,” you whispered.
“Okay,” he echoed.
Your gaze flicked to the counter again, to the two plates resting there, and suddenly the objects felt too ordinary, too real.
“So,” you said, voice a little too bright, “we’re doing this?”
Jaeyun’s mouth twitched. “Eat.”
“That was not an answer.”
He reached past you, grabbing a fork, and placing it in your hand with exaggerated seriousness.
“Eat,” he repeated. “Then we talk.”
“Jaeyun.”
He held your gaze, and the air between you tightened with something that had nothing to do with breakfast.
“Yes,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he wanted it to. “We’re doing it.”
“Good,” you said, and then, because you were you, because you couldn’t help yourself: “When are we doing it?”
Jaeyun stared at you.
“Are you—” he began. “Are you trying to schedule sex?”
“Seems reasonable.” You shuddered. “Or do you want us to do it now—”
“No,” he cut in, eyes narrowing, but the fondness in it betrayed him. “Tonight.”
“Don’t you have classes?”
“Are you having second thoughts?” he countered.
“Tonight,” you agreed. “My place?”
“That makes more sense,” he said, not only because he didn’t want his roommates hovering around, but because if he kept you here, if he kept you in his bed again, he didn’t trust the part of him that wanted to pretend you didn’t already belong.
“Okay,” you said.
“Okay,” he echoed.
Jaeyun straightened, grabbed his own plate, and turned away from the counter as if he hadn’t just scheduled the end of the life he’d been carefully maintaining like a lie. As if he’d invited you to the movies instead of into the most dangerous part of him.
“Eat,” he said again, voice rough. “Before I change my mind.”
You took a bite of eggs, crunching your nose. “These are terrible.”
“They’re edible,” he argued.
You smiled around your bite, and in the brilliance of it, Jaeyun noticed with sudden clarity that you might not be drunk, you might not be mad, but it had been a reckless request.
And he had just said yes.
He should’ve panicked.
He should’ve backed out and clung to his rules until they cut him open.
But he only watched you — standing in his kitchen with his shirt draped around you, alive and real and trusting him with clear eyes, and he couldn’t make himself care about the danger.
RULE #2: DO NOT TOUCH HER IMPROPERLY
Some touches are allowed because they keep her safe — elbow, shoulder, wrist, maybe her waist; small steadying things I can explain without it sounding like a lie. Improper is anything I do for myself. Improper is touching her like I’m owed something just because I’ve been here a long time.
Jaeyun liked electrical engineering — he really liked it — perhaps more than he’d ever admitted out loud.
There was something about how he could take a mess of a problem — wires crossing like arguments, values that looked meaningless until he stopped panicking and actually looked — and reduce it to rules that held. KCL. KVL. The calm mathematics of not lying to himself. Find the reference. Label the nodes. Define the direction. Solve.
If he couldn’t control other things — timing, people’s feelings, the way you could laugh like nothing was wrong while something in him quietly broke — then at least he could control this.
At least here, the world had edges. Here, the answer existed, and he found some calmness in it.
But not tonight.
Jaeyun sat in the last row with his book open and his pen in hand, trying to make his body obey.
But the professor’s voice moved through the room, muffled by the low hum of the projector and the whisper of AC that never quite cooled the lecture hall. Something about the transient response. Something about step inputs and settling time. Jaeyun stared at the diagram on the slide until it started to blur, because all he could see was you in his kitchen, barefoot on his tile. His shirt on your body. Your mouth around the word tonight like it was a dare and a promise and a joke all at once.
He wrote a line of notes, realizing a moment too late that it didn’t make sense; it was just a string of symbols that meant nothing. His jaw tightened. He scratched it out so hard the paper tore, then froze, breathing through his nose like he could sand himself back into something normal.
He tried to listen again, forcing his gaze to the board, and his brain into the shape of equations.
But the truth was: he wasn’t there anymore.
He was already walking to your studio apartment. He was already at your door, pressing the code of your keypad as he had done a thousand times.
He was already hearing your voice say his name the way you always did when you wanted something — and he hated that the wanting in him answered like a trained dog.
His leg bounced under the desk as his eyes moved to the clock.
The second hand dragged itself forward like it was doing it on purpose, like time had decided to become cruel just to prove it could. Jaeyun forced himself to look back down at the board. Forced his jaw to unclench. Forced his foot to stop bouncing.
It didn’t work.
He dragged a hand through his hair, knuckles scraping his scalp, and stared at the open page like he could threaten it into giving him peace.
Step response.
Damping ratio.
Overshoot — his chest felt like overshoot.
Jaeyun exhaled slowly, then made a decision, closing his book with a sound sharper than it should’ve been in the lecture hall, a final clap that made the person in front of him glance back, but Jaeyun didn’t care. If anything, he slid the book into his bag, capped his pen, and stood.
Outside, the late afternoon air hit him with a faint bite — winter pretending it hadn’t left yet. And the campus was loud in the way it always got near the end of the day: students spilling out of buildings, scooters whining by, laughter too bright, life too easy.
Jaeyun walked straight through it, taking the quickest route off campus, cutting between two buildings, and down the narrow street that always smelled like fried food and stale cigarette smoke.
He didn’t stop to think — didn’t even breathe; he only followed the line to your apartment complex, pushing the door open and taking the stairs, two at a time.
At your door, the keypad was there, small and impersonal, a little square of plastic and numbers that shouldn’t mean anything. But Jaeyun had always been stupidly good at remembering what mattered, and your passcode was one of those things he picked up without asking, without naming it as intimacy — the way he learned strawberry was your favorite fruit when you were both twelve, the way he memorized the sound of your laugh before he realized he was paying attention. Four digits. He knew it — he had used it a dozen times, but as his finger found the first digit, he froze because him knowing it all too well, suddenly felt like trespassing.
Jaeyun stared at the numbers. His hand still in the air, suspended, and ridiculously caught between two versions of himself. The one that had always been allowed inside your life, the one that had walked into your space carrying groceries and textbooks and your bad moods like they were part of his schedule, and the one standing here now, with the taste of tonight still sharp in his mouth, and the knowledge that tonight is not errands or emergencies.
He exhaled, slowly, trying to make his body act normal — trying to make his hand stop trembling with the sheer idiocy of wanting.
But couldn’t, and when he raised his hand again, he only knocked at the door and waited, hearing his own pulse in his ears, a stupid, loyal metronome that refused to slow down.
And then — movement.
The smallest sound from inside. Footsteps. A shift of air through the crack of the frame, like your apartment exhaled before the door even opened.
Jaeyun straightened without meaning to, shoulders going back like he’s bracing for impact. His hand dropped to his sides, finding his pockets because he refused to be caught halfway through panic.
Warm light spilled through the gap, and the scent of your place followed it — something clean and faintly floral, the trace of whatever you always used that made you smell like comfort when you hugged him goodbye. And there you were, framed in the doorway as if you’d been waiting in the exact spot where he would have to see you all at once.
For half a second, Jaeyun couldn’t breathe, his lungs catching, devastated by you.
“Hi,” you said. It was the same word you’d always used, yet it didn’t sound the same. “Did you forget the code?”
Jaeyun swallowed, forcing his face into something neutral.
“No,” he managed, his voice coming out rougher than he wanted it to. But if anything, you hummed at him, requiring no further explanation, as you opened the door a little wider so he could come in.
Jaeyun had molded the moment when he would step into your place in his mind enough times to believe he would be prepared when it finally came into reality.
Yet it didn’t.
He tried to don a neutral aspect, tried to speak — make some joke — but the words stayed in, hooked into years, and yanked, allowing nothing but air to pass through his lips.
Your apartment was small in the way studios always were — everything close enough to touch from the same spot, everything bearing the faint imprint of your routines. A blanket was folded too neatly on the end of the bed. A mug sat on the counter that looked like it had been rinsed and set down without being fully put away. A stack of books with their spines cracked in the middle like they’d been loved, not displayed.
And there was you — too close, too real.
You hadn’t really changed since he had seen you early on; you were the same girl he had known his whole life, and yet, there was something different about you tonight, and it made something in him tighten until it felt sharp.
Jaeyun shut the door behind him with his foot, careful not to let it slam, yet the click of the latch sounded louder than it should’ve, and he stood there for a beat too long, backpack strap still across his shoulder, hands in his pockets.
“Shoes,” you remembered, because you couldn’t help yourself, and a laugh escaped through him, familiar enough to settle him.
Jaeyun bent, unlaced his sneakers, slipped them off with quick, efficient motions before he lined them near the door and dropped his backpack.
When he straightened, you were still watching him, draped in a dress that didn’t try to be subtle.
It hugged you way too prettily, clinging to your waist and hips like it had been made with the sole purpose of making him forget he’d ever learned how to breathe. The neckline dipped just enough to show skin, and right there — resting against it like a quiet, years-old claim — was the necklace he’d given you.
“Jaeyun,” you called. And he knew this tone — he knew it so damn well. It was your do something.
And so he did, striding in your direction, his hands already reaching for your face, cradling it on his palms before he looked down at you with a small question that he couldn’t come to pronounce because you were already replying by closing your eyes, tipping your head up so he didn’t need to do much to catch your top lip within his.
It was your first kiss. Jaeyun had known you for his whole life, but it was the first time he had come to know your mouth, and it felt almost like a travesty of the universe.
You tasted like strawberries, sugar, and something so familiar that his chest ached, threatening to break open and groan escaped him when you parted your lips, allowing him to dip his tongue inside, pressing against yours until he couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t you.
You and the way your hands found the front of his t-shirt and curled on it.
You and the way you pulled him along with you as you stepped back — and back, until the back of your knees had hit the mattress, and you had no other option but to fall on it, his hands bracing around your face, one knee bent and pressed where the skirts of your dress had pooled in too high.
You didn’t say anything as you reached for him, rushing your hands beneath the blue shirt and pushing it over his shoulders.
“Wait, Princess, wait,” he asked. “Slow down.”
“Is this how you always do it?”
And he could have lied, could have merely said yes, that was how he took all the other girls, but he didn’t.
“No,” he said. “It’s because it’s you and me.”
You stared at him, and suddenly the room felt too small for your heartbeats, too quiet for how loud everything inside of him turned.
But then, you leaned in and kissed him again — slower this time — giving him space to meet you properly.
His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck, his thumb pressing and feeling your pulse through the tip of it as his other hand followed the line of your shoulders, moving further and further until his palm had found your waist, his fingers spreading on you the way he always did to anchor you — except that now it was less anchoring than keeping you.
You shifted beneath him, your leg sliding close enough to brush the inside of his thigh, and Jaeyun felt it like a jolt — small, accidental, and devastating — traveling straight through his length, and making his breath catch.
He forced himself to hinder — force himself to keep his head clear. But his body was already answering you, heat gathering with every centimeter of contact, the novelty of it turning molten and bright in his blood — wanting to move, to press in, to take what you were offering without thinking.
“Tell me if—” he started, then stopped, trying to rearrange his thoughts.
“If what?”
“If you want me to stop,” he managed. “Say it if you—”
“I won’t,” you said, and the certainty in it hit him like a punch.
Jaeyun exhaled, pressing his forehead to yours — not kissing, not moving — just breathing the sweet scent of you, vanilla and white flowers, the same he always had as he counted the seconds like he could make them behave through the sheer force of his want.
“You’re sure?” he asked — because he had to — because he knew that this was the line where everything became real, and everything before this was going to feel small in comparison.
“Yes, Sim Jaeyun,” you whispered. “I’m sure.”
“Okay,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Okay.”
Jaeyun’s fingers found the strap of your dress, sliding it with a gentleness that didn’t match the way his pulse was climbing, easing it down through your shoulder slow enough that it felt like a question you could stop without words — yet you didn’t — and the dress shifted with a soft whisper through your body.
He leaned in and pressed his mouth to the skin he’s uncovered — one brief kiss, then another — until the dress loosened and pooled lower, until he could guide it away and reveal your lingerie set, pinkish in a way that only made your skin warmer under the lights of your apartment.
His breath hitched.
You were beautiful in a way he’d always known, but also in a way he’d never allowed himself to study — never this close, never with permission. Never with the soft spill of your skin under his hands, much less with the heat of you turning every familiar detail into something obscene and new.
His hand splayed over your belly, the tips of his fingers skimming the lower edge of your bra before he slid down, finding the band of your panties and hooking it lightly.
“You’re—” he began.
“Don’t get too full of yourself, Jaeyun,” you murmured. “I dress like this because I just happen to have no bad sets.”
The laugh that left him was helpless, more air than sound, relief threading through it because you were still you, even here, even now, just in your lingerie set and with skin turning reddish because of his kisses, and it truly didn’t matter that you interpreted him wrongly this time.
“Right,” he managed. He couldn’t argue with anything you said — not right now — not never. “Of course.”
Your fingers curled in his shirt, pulling him closer — not frantic, not desperate — just needy, and Jaeyun went still for one beat to let himself feel it: the pull, the permission, the way your hands on him turned his years of restraint into something soft and breakable.
“Of course,” he whispered again, bending down and kissing you, your temples first, and then your cheeks — his lips pestering over your face with soft pecks before he moved lower, discovering that one sensitive spot underneath your jaw, and when you gasped, he took it as an incentive to move to the column of your neck, his mouth parting as his tongue slipped out in a tiny tease that got you gasping softly — almost silently, hands closing at the shoulders of his shirt as if you couldn’t help yourself.
“You’re sensitive,” he murmured, tucking his discovery carefully alongside all the other details he’d collected about you over the years.
You called for him, but if it had been a warning or a submission, you lost interest in the rest of your thought as he kissed you again, open mouth and tongue rolling against your skin, surely leaving a mark, and making a moan to rumble through your lips instead.
Jaeyun’s eyes flicked up to your face, and he didn’t let go — not even when his hands slipped to your back, the tips of his fingers finding and curling on the clasps of your bra. Not even as he opened it and slid further into you, kissing the tip of your breast and sending goosebumps through your skin.
He never let go.
And when his lips parted, tipping his tongue out, and making your hands move to the back of his head, fisting at his hair almost bitterly, he only smiled against you, the movement adding another coating to the sensation and making your arch against him.
He licked you softly, licked you hard, covered the areola with his lips and pulled the tip into his mouth, pulled more and harder, until your back arched even more and created a gap between the mattress that his hands took no time to fill, his fingers spraying through your skin and holding you still as his mouth moved, leaving your nipple just to create a path through your body, trailing down to your sternum, your stomach — taking in every piece of your skin in between his lips.
Jaeyun lifted his head then, just enough to look at your face properly, catching the flush on your cheeks, the way your lips had parted because your breath had turned pant, your chest moving too fast and allowing your necklace to sparkle.
The room was suddenly too small for how loud his blood had gotten.
For a moment, he didn’t kiss, didn’t lick, didn’t give either of you the mercy of motion; he only held still and watched, like he needed to see what he was doing to you before he let himself do more.
“Princess,” he breathed, the word slipping out before he could decide on anything else.
You looked at him, and your gazes locked as they had done a dozen times across the existence of you, yet the moment acquired that dream quality because you were here, bare in a way he’d only imagined in the abstract — late at night, in the quietness of his room, in the version of his imagination he kept locked away like contraband — and the distance between wanting and having had narrowed to a single breath.
Jaeyun swallowed, trying to steady himself, before let the moment break by degrees — his palm slid down the slope of your stomach, slow enough to feel like asking, fingertips grazing your skin as if he were relearning it; as if touching you like this rewired something in him that had always been too careful until his fingers finally found the band and paused there, hooked lightly under the elastic.
He looked back up at you then, thumb stroking once along your hip as his other hand held you steady at the small of your back, refusing to let you drift away from him — from this.
“You okay?” he murmured, and it sounded like he meant all of it.
You nodded at him, and he moved — quietly relentless — his knuckles brushed your thighs on the way, accidental touches that weren’t accidental at all, and the sound you made hit him physically.
He had never been so hard in his whole life.
He guided the panties lower, and lower, until they slipped free; and for a beat, he just held them, as though the simplest thing in his hand had become proof that the night had finally crossed into real.
Then he set them aside without looking, his attention snapping back to you immediately — hand returning to your inner thigh with a firmer hold than before.
“If I do anything you don’t like — you tell me, okay? We have to communicate.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoed.
His thumb drew one more slow line along your inner thigh, watching the way you answered it before he allowed himself to lower his head again, kissing the inside of your knee this time — soft — almost innocent, if the moment hadn’t been burning at the edges. Then another kiss, slower, lingering, his mouth warming you as his hands guided you open with a care that felt reverent.
“You are just — beautiful,” he heard himself say.
You let out a small sound that wasn’t quite a breath and wasn’t quite a laugh, startled by how earnest he was being. Your cheeks warmed, and you turned your face just slightly, like you could hide behind the angle.
“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, aiming for teasing, but it came out too soft for anything but shyness.
And Jaeyun’s mouth twitched, a helpless curve that didn’t reach humor so much as relief. And his hand tightened once at your thigh, then gentled, thumb stroking a quiet line as if to soothe the flush he’d put in you.
“Yeah?” he said. “But is it okay?”
“Yeah,” you said, the word threaded through the quiet laugh that escaped you. You didn’t dress it up, didn’t offer an explanation, didn’t hand him the because — you just let the answer be simple. But it wasn’t simple at all, not to him because he heard the rest in the way your gaze found his and held: yeah, you said, because it’s you.
The first touch of his mouth against your folds was light enough that he didn’t even taste you, but your body still reacted: a sharp inhale, a pull through your spine, the instinctive arch that made his own breath break low in his throat.
And when you tipped your hips to him, he mouthed you again, his hands sliding further into you, thumbs finding the tender flesh of your hood and lifting it — leaving your clit in full exposure for him to lean in, the tip of his tongue kneading the sensitive flesh around, slightly rubbing before he pressed it, unable to prevent the sound that escaped his throat then — something between reverence and desperation.
It took your smile away — your lips parting in a gasp as your fingers met and wove through his hair, pulling him in a demand that he had no second thoughts before obeying, giving you another lick — a harder one.
His tongue twirled all around the edge, then he pressed a kiss over it — a long, tender wet kiss before he lowered his head and licked at the entrance of your body because you were clenching around nothing, and it suddenly felt too evil, and Jaeyun would never be evil to you.
He pushed his tongue against your hole, and then, he pushed again until his tip went inside it, and he had to control his will to roll his eyes back.
Even his boldest fantasy hadn’t come close to how sweet you actually were. And the thought landed too tender to survive, cracking him open into something darker because being careful had started to feel like another kind of denial, and he couldn’t come to continue to restrain himself when you had given him all the permission. Jaeyun lifted his head just long enough to look at you, eyes blown wide and honest, as if he was giving you one last chance to pull him back. To tell him to stop. To make him good again.
Yet you didn’t. And something within him shifted. His hands held you firmer, spreading you open as he went back to you no longer soft-edged, and decided to stop hovering at the threshold, giving you what you were asking for.
Jaeyun’s grip tightened as he worked on you, alternating between broad strokes and precise licks on that one spot that never failed to make you cry out his name.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”
Your response came almost immediately — a broken moan that seemed to come from somewhere so deeply inside of you, Jaeyun felt your own desperation reverberating through his entire body.
You were getting closer, he could tell by the way your thighs kept quivering under his hands, your breathing becoming more and more ragged with each pass of his tongue, but it wasn’t enough — he needed to see it: the moment pleasure turned undeniable, the moment he could stop wondering if he was reading you wrong.
Jaeyun retreated with a torturous care, pressing a final kiss to your folds as he pushed himself back onto his knees and earned a protest from you.
“Yun—”
“Not yet,” he said. “For now, I need you to hold yourself open for me. Can you do that, Princess?”
You nodded despite yourself, spreading your legs further apart — pushing the soles of your feet against your sheets for some leverage and fuck.
The sight of you like this — glistening with your fluids and remnants of his saliva — the sight of you so ready for him.
He could hardly breathe.
He brought one hand down through your thigh, his thumb resuming the circular motions on your clit while his other hand moved to your seam, teasingly brushing the tips of his fingers through before he slid a single one inside.
You were so wet already, he slipped with no resistance, and it was so dizzying — everything about it was so dizzying — he hardly heard you panting as he began to move his finger in and out, your stomach tightening and giving a small convulsion, but you kept your legs apart as he had asked you to.
It was a false deed, honestly — as if Jaeyun could command anything when both of you knew — he was the one to always follow.
But he really didn’t care.
When Jaeyun felt you opening up to him, he added a second finger in, curling them slightly to discover that one spot that soon enough got you into a mess — squeezing him with your release as your hands grabbed at your sheets. Your lips parted around his name, and your hair turned wilder as your head pushed against your pillows, arching your back in that one beautiful bow before you melted again.
“Princess,” he called, and you clenched at the endearing name, a velvet heat that he felt in his very soul.
You hadn’t done anything to him, but Jaeyun felt utterly undone by you. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps just by watching you.
God — he could come just by watching you.
You were so wet. His hand was coated with you, white slick dribble coming out of your cunt, making each of his moves obscenely loud in the quiet night, yet — all he could think was how stunning you were like this, so lovely and so his.
He wanted to keep looking — to hold the moment still, to learn it by heart, and make it something real enough to survive the morning. But he wanted to look away, too, all at once — startled by the sheer size of his wanting.
You had so much power over him, it was terrifying even to examine the way you owned his soul. When your gazes caught, his heart seemed to burst in his chest.
Was he doing it for you, or doing it for him? He couldn’t tell anymore.
He curled his fingers deeper inside of you, making you mumble something unintelligible, a sob ripping through your chest and already threatening to turn into a release. Jaeyun couldn’t help but grin at the sound, reveling in the way your body trembled and arched underneath his touch.
You thrashed and thrashed as he still tended you the way you needed, stroking the spots inside that made you shudder and rubbing at your clit until he heard you panting, his own name falling from your lips in a breathless moan before it turned into whimpers, and when you came around him, he leaned in to kiss you.
Jaeyun stayed close through the last shiver, like he didn’t trust the world not to startle you out of it. He kissed you again — slower now, softer — catching your mouth as your breathing stuttered, and pretending that he could take the edge off the intensity just by holding you there. His hand eased from its grip into a gentler touch, smoothing along your thigh.
“Hey,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
His forehead brushed against yours as his hands smoothed over your body, taking you through until he could cup your face, and his thumb could reach for the corner of your mouth, wiping away the evidence of his kiss with a tenderness that didn’t match how wrecked he looked. He swallowed, chest rising and falling too fast, and forced himself to slow his breathing until yours started to follow.
“Still okay?” he asked again, softer, as if the question mattered more now than it had before.
You nodded at him, managing a flimsy sound that might’ve been yes, and Jaeyun pressed another kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried, almost devotional, as if he needed to apologize for his own intensity.
“You did so well,” he whispered. “Tell me what you need. Water? A minute? Do you want me to hold you, or—?”
“Jaeyun,” you cut.
“Yes, Princess?”
Your hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers curling and weaving through his hair, holding him still.
“I need you.”
It might have been the words, the small plea that took Jaeyun anew because he would never refuse anything you asked him, or perhaps it was the way you said them, a bit flimsy because you couldn’t control it still, but either way, he gave in, slipping from your hold only so he could take his t-shirt off.
He almost choked when you stood with him, your hands reaching for his lower abdomen, nails scraping his skin slightly before you took his belt and unbuckled it.
“Princess,” he called, the questions already on his tongue, shaped by habit, and the need to do this right.
But you didn’t give him time.
Your hands moved for his jeans, unzipping them as if you’d decided you were done waiting, easing them down in one smooth, impatient motion. The room seemed to go hushed around the sound of it — denim shifting, breath catching — until the only thing left was the sudden, helpless awareness of his length slapping against his abdomen.
Your hand found him, fingers curling around him almost beautifully, closing and molding with a care that didn’t match, and making his whole body go taut, breath pulling tight in his chest like it had nowhere to go. Not because he didn’t want it — God, he wanted it — but because he did, too much, too fast, the kind of wanting that threatened to ruin the rest of the night by sheer impatience.
He caught your wrist gently, holding you as his forehead dipped toward yours again, his eyes shutting.
“If you do that,” he began. “I’m not going to last.”
The honesty of it landed between you, sharp with embarrassment. And when he opened his eyes again, there was something almost pleading in the way he looked at you — like he was asking you not to laugh, not to make him feel small for how quickly you could undo him.
“Another time,” he promised, realizing the implications of his words a fraction too late. Not just later tonight. Not just when you feel like it. But again. As if he’d already decided that there was going to be a future where he got to learn you — and be learned — without rushing.
But you didn’t tease him. When you looked at him, your gaze holding his until the heat in his face had nowhere to hide, you merely nodded.
“Okay,” you said.
You were no warmer than Jaeyun was, but when he touched your waist, your skin shivered, a fine tremor running under his fingertips.
“Okay,” he echoed.
You let him ease you down onto the sheets, smoothing you into place as he followed you down, bracing himself over you without crushing you, and kissed you — slow, mouth soft, reverent in a way that made the moment feel almost holy.
“Tell me if anything hurts,” he whispered. “Tell me if—”
“I know,” you breathed, and the words sounded so much like trust — Jaeyun’s throat worked, and he kissed you again and again and again, only letting go to reach down beside the bed for his jeans, fingers finding the pocket by feel — clumsy in a way he never remembered being. His breath caught when you made the smallest sound behind him, and he hurried to get his wallet free, forcing it out with a practical shuffle before the faint and quick tear of foil came in the hush.
He slid it on with shaky hands that he hoped you wouldn’t notice.
But you did — of course you did.
When he climbed back over you, you reached for his arms, your fingers brushing down until you found his hands.
“You’re shaking,” you whispered, your brows knitted, and searching his face like you were afraid you’d pushed him somewhere he didn’t want to go.
Jaeyun went still.
“Because it’s you,” he replied, not giving himself time to consider how much he had exposed with this mere phrase.
Of course he was shaking. He’d wanted you for so long it had grown into something foundational, something he’d learned to live around and never touch. And now you were here beneath him, looking at him like he was allowed — like he was chosen — and his wanting hadn’t been foolish after all.
His throat worked. He tightened his fingers around yours, trying to make the shaking stop by force.
“If I mess this up, you won’t ever let me hear the end of this,” he smoothed.
You laughed at him — familiar in a way that loosened something in his chest, easing everything inside him as if the sound of you had always known where to press to make him breathe again.
“Don’t worry,” you said. “I’ll keep it all as another of our secrets.”
“What other secrets do we have?”
“What you had under your bed when we were teenagers,” you began. “That you couldn’t sleep without a lampshade until you were twelve. Where we were on your eighteenth birthday. That you cried watching The Notebook—”
“Everyone cried watching The Notebook at least once.”
“Baekhyeon didn’t—”
“Did you watch it with him?”
“It’s my favorite movie, of course I did,” you said. “But don’t worry, it was just once — it’s funnier with you anyway.”
“Obviously,” he said. “Everything is funnier with me — and we are about to have a lot of fun.”
You laughed again, softer and only because he was allowed to — he kissed you again, his hands smoothing your thighs, your calves, his fingers moving and curling around your ankles and pulling you to him, lifting your legs to his hips.
You stiffened as his tip made contact, your body going taut beneath him and he stopped like he’d been trained for it, like every instinct he had rewired itself around not hurting you. His grip shifted back from your ankles to your thighs — his thumbs stroking small, steady circles as if he could coax your muscles out of panic.
“Princess, look at me,” he murmured. “Do you want me to stop?”
You shook your head, a little bit too frantically as if you were afraid he would really stop it, and Jaeyun exhaled through his nose, a sound that stood somewhere between a laugh and a prayer. He kissed you once, slow and grounding, then another at the corner of your mouth.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we go slow. I’m right here.”
He shifted — barely enough to change the angle, but you seemed to feel it and his thumb reached for you seam, wetting the tip of it with your fluids, and finding your clitoris, rubbing it in slow and deliberate circles that got you closing your eyes, moving your hips, and welcoming whatever he was giving.
Jaeyun made himself still enough to read you, his eyes tracking your face with the kind of focus that might’ve felt clinical, if it hadn’t been so tender. He watched your breathing first, then your mouth, then the tiny shifts in your shoulders before he slowed and it eased again.
He moved in careful increments, pausing whenever your breath changed. Waiting whenever your brows pinched. His hands steadied you — firm at your thighs, gentle at your waist, and holding you through the newness of it.
“Tell me,” he whispered. “Is it okay?”
You nodded and he lowered his forehead toward yours.
It was slow at first, all about him discovering the new shape of you, but soon enough, it was confident and knowing. When he drew back, he knew exactly how to move back in, how to make you tighten around him, and his name to escape from your lips a little bit more frantically as his rhythm increased.
Your fingers spread through the back of his neck, fingers twisting at the hair at his nape and bringing him closer and closer, as if you couldn’t help it. And when your breath turned ragged and your fingers tightened, Jaeyun pressed his mouth to your temple, whispering your name like a promise he could finally keep.
Even if only temporarily.
“Yun, I’m going—”
“It’s okay, Princess,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
And this time he meant it in every way.
“Come for me, babe.”
You twisted under his body, even as he kept you pinned in place with his hands on your hips, squirming and whimpering your way through it, finishing with an almighty shudder as you came a second time, and it was so beautiful, and overwhelming — he tried to stay careful. He tried to keep his breathing even. But you said his name like you needed him, and something in him cracked clean through.
He buried his face against your neck, a shaky sound trapped in his throat. “Princess—”
He didn’t have room for anything except you.
No thought. No control. Just the force of feeling, cresting too high and too fast, until it dragged a groan from him with your name inside it — like that was the only thing he could say when he finally lost himself — and with a final, deep thrust, his body tensed and spilled inside of you — groaning your name. The echo of it carved into your skin as he buried himself, his fingers molding into your skin with an intensity that left behind indentations as the waves of his pleasure washed over.
Jaeyun hadn’t realized how noisy you both had been, but the room felt suddenly too quiet after.
And for a beat, he only stayed still — his forehead tucked against the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of the air between you, the feeling of your pulse under his mouth, your fingers still lost in his hair, and your bodies so tangled, he couldn’t quite tell where he ended and you began — his whole soul afraid that the moment would slip away the second he admitted it had happened.
But then, you made a small sound, and it made him force his head up — just enough to look at you.
He brushed his knuckles along your cheek, then paused, thumb hovering at your lips because he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you like this now that the moment was gone.
“You okay?” he asked, the question already worn thin by the number of times he had used it through the night, but it felt heavier somehow, meaning more than any of the earlier ones ever had.
But if anything, you only nodded — leaning into his touch as your lashes fluttered shut.
“Just stay,” you whispered.
And so, he stayed — rolling you both through your bed, his back sinking into the mattress as he drew you to his chest, giving you a place to rest as if it was any other night and you were merely best friends falling asleep together. He stayed until your heartbeat evened out against him and the room turned orange and pink with sunrise, dust motes catching in the full light like glittering hush, and the night had inevitably bent itself into morning.
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
Jaeyun lay on your bed, holding a breath in his chest as if it could keep the morning from happening. The sun slipped through your parted curtains and spilled across the room — patient and indisputable — turning everything into proof.
Your dress was still pooled on the hardwood, your panties right above it, and his jeans were so close it could’ve been one thing. Your bra was still at the edge of the bed, pink, half-tucked into the sheets he couldn’t remember tangling.
He let the breath go, and the mattress answered, making you stir — just a little — your head rolling off his chest until your chin found him again.
When your eyes opened, the light caught and held — as if it had nowhere else to be.
Jaeyun felt the instinct to speak. Something practical. Something safe. Something that could be filed under morning conversation and good friend behavior.
Are you okay? he thought. Do you need water?
Do you want me to make breakfast again and pretend I don’t care when you mock me for it?
But you didn’t give him time.
You lifted your head — sleepy as it was certain — brushing your nose against his before you caught his lower lip between yours and kissed him in a way that made teasing feel like a promise.
Jaeyun went utterly still, his hands hovering, useless with hesitation. He had spent years learning which parts of you he was allowed to hold — elbow, shoulder, wrist; the small, steadying touches that could be explained without telling on himself.
But this was your room.
Your bed.
Your morning.
And you were kissing him like you’d never once needed an explanation, catching his lower lip — so gentle it hardly counted as a bite — holding it for one heartbeat longer before you let him go and eased back.
Jaeyun blinked, and the muted morning light dazed him — your room pressing in with a kind of hush that made it feel like a dream: sun-warm sheets, the sound of breath, the closeness of you like something he hadn’t earned but had been given anyway. He let it hold him for a suspended moment before he leaned in and kissed you again, this time with more feeling than thought — one hand found your waist, as the other slid behind your neck, tilting you up to him.
Your breath caught at that, and for a moment, Jaeyun feared he had gone too far — too fast. He’d finally slipped enough to not be able to lie and pretend he hadn’t broken his second rule, but then you shifted, sliding a leg over his hips, straddling him like it was the most natural place in the world to be, and something in him went quiet with the rightness of it.
He didn’t move first. He didn’t take. He only held where you’d placed him.
And when you parted — pulling back just enough for you to breathe — it carried the kind of practicality that had always been your shared language.
“I need a shower,” you said.
For a beat, Jaeyun blinked at you, incapable of understanding the words. But then, his brain latched onto it, and he felt thankful. A shower meant tiles. Water. Soap. Clean lines. A task that could be completed. A thing he could do without interpreting your mouth, your eyes, the way your kiss had said stay.
“Okay,” he heard himself say. “Okay, yeah.”
Jaeyun shifted carefully, guiding you off him with hands that tried to remember what permitted felt like — waist, ribs, shoulder — anywhere that could still pass as gentle logistics instead of want. His gaze skated away from your face on instinct, as if looking at it too directly might pull him back under, and slipped out of the bed.
You followed, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, slightly swaying — more due to sleepiness than weakness, but Jaeyun’s body reacted anyway. He reached for you, his hands steady on your arms.
He helped you up. Guided you through your studio: past the small table with the stack of books, past the mug you never fully put away, and into the narrow bathroom where the tiles were warm and the mirror caught the gold of morning and gave it back to him as evidence.
Your skin carried so many marks from the night before that his breath caught.
He looked away so fast it felt like a flinch.
Jaeyun moved like he was trying to fix the world.
He turned on the light first. Then the fan. Then the tap — hot first, then cold, adjusting in small increments until the water felt right because putting things in order always helped him keep control.
He watched the water steam faintly as it ran, watched it like it was a system he could calibrate.
He set a towel within your reach. Folded it once, then unfolded it because the fold looked too neat and he didn’t want you to notice how nervous he was. Then he reached for your shampoo and put it back where it already was, because he suddenly ran out of things to do, but his hands still sought for something.
You leaned your hip against the sink and watched him with that quiet softness that made his chest feel too full. The bathroom was suddenly too bright for how careful he was trying to be.
“Yun,” you called, and he turned to you like a man answering a question in class — focused, braced, trying to keep his face neutral.
“Yeah?”
You tilted your head, gaze flicking once before you merely stepped past him, your hands brushing and taking his, pulling him to the shower with you.
The steam gathered immediately, beading on his skin, blurring the sharp edges of the morning until the world became smaller and quieter.
“Sometimes, I can hear you thinking,” you said. “Did you know that?”
“I’m sorry,” he replied.
You laughed at that, but didn’t say anything. You merely turned around, reaching for the shampoo bottle he had previously rummaged and gave it to him.
“Wash my hair,” you said.
And so, he did.
Jaeyun took the bottle, pouring shampoo into his palm — more than he needed, because his hands were unsteady — and rubbed it between them until it warmed and foamed. Then his fingers slid into your hair, working the suds in small circles at the crown of your head, careful and thorough, moving outward as the steam gathered and the water ran down your spine. His knuckles grazed your ear once. An accident, maybe. But you let out a sound — more a sigh than anything, and something in Jaeyun tightened anyway, a flare that made his chest feel too warm. His jaw flexed at it, and he forced his hands to stay where they belonged — his attention to stay on the sequence, because sequence meant control: lather, rinse, repeat.
He rinsed you with his palm shielding your forehead, water sluicing through your hair in clear sheets. The gesture was intimate in the most domestic way — protective, and practiced — as if he’d been doing it for years.
And maybe that was why it did him in.
You must have felt the pause in him, the way his body went too still behind you, because when he finally finished, you turned to him, reaching for the bottle, and pouring shampoo into your own palm as you stepped closer — the warm line of you almost meeting the warm line of him, and slid your fingers into his hair.
Jaeyun didn’t know what to do with himself.
He merely bent a little so you could reach, letting your hands take over with a quiet competence that made his throat work. Water ran down his temples, traced the line of his jaw, caught at his lashes. He kept his eyes on the tile like a prayer — like if he looked at you, he’d lose the last clean edge of himself.
You rinsed him, and only when you tapped his hands — did he straighten again.
Then you smoothed soap over his bare skin, starting at his shoulders, your palms unhurried and warm. Down his collarbones. Over his chest.
Jaeyun’s breath broke when you reached his lower abdomen, your fingertips hovering dangerously close to the ache he’d been holding back, and making a sound slip from him — low, involuntary — rushing before he could trap it.
“Princess,” he said, but the word carried no warning at all, and you merely allowed your fingers to rest there, steady as the way your gaze met his.
“You said another time,” you remembered.
Jaeyun froze.
Not because he didn’t understand. Because he did. Because the memory arrived with humiliating clarity: your hand curled on him in a way that made his honesty slip out raw and breathless last night.
He dragged in a slow breath through his nose. Steam beaded along his lashes; water traced the line of his jaw. He still didn’t look at you — not fully — like eye contact might knock the last brace out from under him while he was still negotiating with himself. Like he was trying to find the border between permitted and improper and realizing you’d moved it with one sentence.
“Are you asking me?” he began. “Or—”
“I’m asking,” you said.
His gaze found yours.
“Okay,” he whispered.
He took your wrist and guided your hand, not down, not yet, but to his jaw, to his throat, to a place he could handle without losing himself.
“Slow,” he said, and you nodded at him, letting your fingers linger.
Your thumb brushed the hinge of his jaw first — testing, almost absent — before your hand slid lower and lower, following the line of his throat, his collar bones. Water ran between your knuckles and his skin, warm and constant, making every touch feel softened at the edges, as if the steam had filed down the danger until it could pass for tenderness, but Jaeyun’s pulse changed immediately, his heart racing as though it too wanted to reach for you through his skin, meeting where your fingers brushed against his chest.
Jaeyun’s lips parted in a soft gasp as you reached for him, tentatively brushing through his extension. Starting from the already flushed tip and moving to the prominent veins all over him and then, all the way back, receiving an almost imperceptible buck of his hips in response.
“Okay?” you asked, and he nodded, but it wasn’t an answer so much as a reflex — his body trying to behave when his mind had gone helpless and searched for something to say — something small enough to fit inside a bathroom, inside steam, inside the ordinary noise of water hitting tile.
But there was no small word that fit because how could he say that anything you did with him would be okay?
How could he say that if you asked for his heart, he would open his ribs for you? If you reached in and took it, he would hold still and even tender you if you faltered.
Jaeyun swallowed, throat tight, breath catching on the way out as he reached for you, his fingers splaying over your cheek as his thumb reached for where a drop had taken place on your skin.
“I’m okay,” he said then, the closest answer he could give for what he meant. If you could feel the shape of the unspoken right alongside the spoken, you didn’t show it.
Your hand merely closed around his length, fingertips tracing the same places his mind had traced a thousand times in private, and every pass of your hand felt like it rewrote him — like your touch didn’t just touch, but claimed a truth he’d been denying for years.
Jaeyun’s breath hitched as you guided him closer, his eyes shutting as his forehead tipped to the curve of your neck.
“Princess,” he whispered, not really sure if he intended to say something, but the sudden call made you pause, your hand motionless enough to make his breath hitch again, his hips bucking and chasing for the friction still.
“Don’t stop,” he said, and perhaps it had been the words, perhaps it had been the way he said it, more like a plea than a request. But you didn’t — even when his grip tightened on you, his finger shaping bruises on your hips, and his lips parted, leaving a matching one at your neck.
You didn’t stop, even when he came into your hand. You merely gentled him, moving to his stomach, his chest, smoothing him down until his breath wasn’t so ragged and his heart had come into peace beneath your touch.
“Yun,” you called, and he hummed at you, still pressed close, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted like he’d forgotten what to do with the air. Water clung to his lashes. Steam softened the hard lines of him into something boyish, something undone. For once, he wasn’t braced for impact — he was simply there, breathing, and letting you see him, and it was strange how it made your kiss just even better.
How he could simply melt into you.
You smiled at that — small, warm — kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then a place beneath his jaw that made Jaeyun’s eyes flutter shut, his head tipping just slightly to give you access, like his body wanted to cooperate even when his mind still tried to keep score.
“Princess,” he breathed again, and this time it sounded less like a plea and more like disbelief.
Your hands found him at your hips, guiding it down through your body, the swell of your ass, giving him enough time to grow on it, and take the lead, brushing over warm skin, following curves with a care that made it feel devotional rather than desperate.
“Okay?” he murmured, because he couldn’t help — he couldn’t ease — not until you had nodded, brushing your noses and making something within settle with the gentleness of it.
Jaeyun exhaled and stepped closer. One hand halted at your waist while the other slid down and around, his fingers tightening briefly against your skin before he shifted, and lifted one of your legs — guiding it up to rest against his hip.
His tip brushed against your seam with the new position, barely anything, but you drew in a breath that didn’t quite make it back out to you, and a faint, trembling noise escaped through your lips instead, and he couldn’t help the soft, almost-gentle smugness that warmed his smile.
He rolled his hips against yours, and your head tipped back, eyes closing and lips still parted on that same faltered breath, allowing sunlight to catch on your skin in the shift, warm and liquid-gold along the lines of you.
“Bed,” you whined, and you didn’t need to tell him twice.
Jaeyun turned the taps off, not really checking if he had done it properly, before he took you in his arms again, folding your legs around his waist as he walked you back down the short stretch of your place. Water tumbled from you both — tiny drops trembling loose with each step, catching the light before they fell in a thin, gleaming trail on your floorboards.
But you didn’t complain, you didn’t even say anything. When he placed you on the mattress; you merely spread your legs further — wordlessly making room for him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Condom,” you reminded him. “Do you have more?”
For a moment, the question didn’t make sense, but then, he nodded at you, slipping from your touch — just enough to reach for the wallet still tossed on your floor.
“How many did you bring?” you asked, and although Jaeyun had listened to it and understood, he didn’t reply, he allowed the question to hang in the air, a flush of warmth spreading up to his cheeks because the memory of him piling it at the chaser before he went to his classes last evening was too fresh still.
Just enough, he had thought like he wasn’t, in fact, hoping.
Hoping that it wouldn’t be a one-time thing.
Jaeyun’s fingers fumbled once at the wallet before he forced them steady. He didn’t let himself look at you while he did it; if he looked, he’d lose the last clean thread of control he had left, and so, he merely tore the foil, the sound too loud in the quiet room, and the practical motions that followed felt like an anchor — something procedural to keep him from drowning in the fact that you were watching.
He climbed back onto the mattress, moving slowly, knees sinking into the sheets between your thighs. The bed dipped under his weight, and you shifted automatically to make space for him, your body already well known in the shape of him.
Jaeyun paused above you.
Water still clung to your hair, darkening the strands where they stuck to your neck. Your skin gleamed in the soft light — warm, flushed, kissed by steam and morning and the evidence of him. You looked up at him with your mouth slightly parted, breath uneven, eyes steady and it hit him so hard it almost made him gentle to the point of breaking.
“Princess,” he said, but if anything, you reached up, fingers catching at the back of his neck — not pulling him down, only holding him there — close enough to feel your breath on his mouth. Close enough that he couldn’t lie to himself about how much he wanted it.
Jaeyun lowered his forehead to yours and breathed once, then twice, as if he was counting himself into calm.
“Tell me if—”
“I know,” you cut, and he snorted at that, his hands finding your thighs, and spreading there with care — measuring you, reading you, bracing you the way he always did when something mattered and he couldn’t afford to do it wrong.
He pulled in slowly, pausing each time your breath changed. Waiting when your fingers tightened in his hair. Listening like your body was the only language he trusted.
“Okay?” he murmured against your mouth.
“Okay.”
Jaeyun exhaled, giving himself a moment before he shifted his weight and settled in deeper.
You made a small sound at that, and Jaeyun halted — caught mid-motion as his eyes stayed on your face, searching for the smallest crack of discomfort, for anything he might have missed and could never forgive himself for.
“Talk to me, Princess,” he said. “Is it too much?”
“No,” you whispered. “It’s — good.”
That answer landed somewhere under his ribs and stayed.
Jaeyun’s eyes shut for a beat. And when he opened them again, he looked wrecked in the quietest way.
He kissed you once more, slower, lingering at the corner of your mouth, your cheek, beneath your jaw — mapping comfort into you the way he mapped calm into circuits, the way he tried to fix the world when it was too big.
And then he moved again, careful and deliberate, letting the moment become real one breath at a time.
The sheets gathered under your fingers. The room narrowed to heat and the sound of his name caught in your throat. Jaeyun held you like he could keep you safe simply by refusing to rush, like tenderness was the only rule he needed now.
“Look at me,” he whispered, and you did, blinking under the morning light and making him swallow, his chest swelling then, big enough to break open with love for you. And perhaps, you had felt it too — heard it in his voice, this sickening desperation, because your hands found his face, cupping it with a tenderness that didn’t match the way he was burying deep inside of you, his tip forming an eminence on the lower part of your belly as he worked on you with slow, long thrusts, and making you come in the morning haze.
Jaeyun collapsed beside you, his back sinking into the mattress as you followed rolling so you rested over his chest.
“Always,” you whispered, the word coming so suddenly, Jaeyun blinked down at you, his head rolling so he could search your face, confused if he had asked you something in his own haze. But sunlight picked strands of your hair, reflected through your damp skin. And he couldn’t make sense of anything.
“What?”
“I’m always okay when I’m with you,” you said.
He knew that he shouldn’t — but Jaeyun felt so right about it.
He felt so right when you called him Sunday afternoon, a tiny can you help me with something? rolling from your tongue and making him sprint to your place, being greeted with you already in your lingerie and you didn’t lie — you had no bad sets.
When he brought you down onto the bed, he didn’t even care about taking it out of you; his fingers merely reached in between your thighs, holding the piece as he slid inside of you.
He didn’t know then, if his hands were still doing their job or if they’d defected. If he was still keeping you safe — or if he’d finally started touching you like he’d wanted to for years, and breaking one more rule.
But as he held you, listening to you breathe quickening and setting against the curve of his neck, he couldn’t make himself care.
Again.
RULE #3: DO NOT BE POSSESSIVE
I’m her best friend. I always have been. That doesn’t give me the right to be possessive. If I can’t be calm about her, I at least have to be kind. If I touch her, it has to feel like a question she can stop — not a claim. And if someday she chooses someone else, I have to accept it. I have to accept it like it won’t split me in half.
Jaeyun woke to movement.
Not the slow, sleep-warm kind he’d grown used to in the past weeks, but something quicker — restless. Drawers scraped open and knocked shut again in the same nervous motion; fabric whispered against fabric, and hangers clacked as they were shoved aside.
He didn’t open his eyes — not yet. He listened to you instead: your bare feet skimming the floor, the breath you kept trying to hush, the tiny hitch of frustration when something wasn’t unfolding the way you needed it to.
And that — that was what pulled his eyes open at last. You sounded wound tight with it, and Jaeyun couldn’t stand the idea of you being anything but fine.
You were half-dressed — shorts on, bra, hair still messy in the way only the mornings after managed, the frizz denoting the number of times he had made you come the night before, arching and pushing your head against the sheets — one of his t-shirts clutched in your hands like it belonged to you more than it belonged to him.
“What—”
You looked over your shoulder at him, guilty only for the fraction of a second it took before your face rearranged into something else.
“Sorry,” you whispered. “I’m late.”
Jaeyun pushed himself up on his elbows, the sheets slipping down his waist. He blinked slowly, trying to coax his mind into one piece through the morning haze.
“Late for what?” he asked — voice rough with sleep and something worse.
“My exam,” you said, already turning and moving another hanger. This time you pulled a blue plaid shirt free — the kind you’d been loving to borrow and make him come to collect it himself, your scent worked into the fabric like a quiet claim disguised as comfort.
“You’re stealing that,” he said.
You didn’t even bother to look guilty. “Borrowing.”
“My wardrobe is becoming empty.”
“And yet,” you said, turning to him with that familiar tilt of your mouth, “you really don’t hate it.”
Jaeyun didn’t answer. He merely watched as you stepped in close again, stealing the air from between you, as you pressed a kiss to his mouth — soft, swift, like a blessing you left behind on purpose.
And the second you pulled away, he moved. Jeans in his fists, he dragged them on as he went, stumbling through the doorway — desperate to be the first thing at your heels.
He caught you at the exact moment his roommates did — both of them lingering in the living room, their backpacks slung over one shoulder, caught in their coffee-stained routines — until the second they saw you and stopped like they’d walked into an invisible wall.
Sunghoon’s gaze went straight to the shirt.
Then to Jaeyun.
Then back to you, his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile.
Jongseong’s eyebrows lifted, slow and serene — the kind of calm that only existed because he liked chaos best when it belonged to someone else.
“Morning,” Jongseong said.
“Morning,” you replied — too bright. “I’m late.”
“Exam?” Jongseong offered, easing into conversation the way he always did: polite, steady, giving everyone an out.
Jaeyun cleared his throat. “She’s late.”
“I am late,” you echoed, pointing at him like it was somehow his fault you’d woken up tangled in his sheets instead of your own — in a room with no alarm clock at all, because Jaeyun despised morning obligations. “But yes.”
You crouched by the door, fingers quick on your laces, and slipping your shoes on.
Sunghoon’s eyes tracked you the whole time, amusement sharpening at the edges of his expression as Jongseong, bless him, kept the conversation where it belonged — safe, ordinary.
“Good luck,” he said.
“Thank you,” you chirped, already halfway upright again. “Do you have exams too?”
“We’re finishing our exams too,” Sunghoon said. “We should go out after. Celebrate.”
Jaeyun’s jaw worked, like he was chewing down whatever sound wanted to come out of him.
“Arcano?” you asked, and Jongseong’s expression tightened into immediate refusal. He despised the bar, convinced it was what got him hospitalized during his first semester. “I know it’s terrible, but Yun has classes until late tonight — it’s the most reasonable for him.”
For a moment, the room went strangely quiet.
Jaeyun’s gaze found yours and held, warmth rising in him — quiet, disarming — and he went still with it, not knowing where to put the feeling. His mouth parted on a reflex, then he swallowed it back.
Jongseong’s eyes flicked to Jaeyun, then back to you.
“Fine,” he said at last. “But if anyone ends up in the ER again, I’m haunting all of you.”
“That’s fair,” Sunghoon said.
“You don’t have to—” Jaeyun began.
“I — we want to,” you cut in, the words coming as gentle as it was final before you stood and took the knob. “Text me the time!”
You slipped out with a bright, hurried smile, the borrowed shirt hanging off you like a secret, and making Jaeyun step forward, holding the door open so he could stand in the doorway, lingering in the shape of you leaving, and the way you’d arranged the world so he could follow.
When Jaeyun finally clicked the door shut, silence filled the hallway for exactly two seconds before Sunghoon whistled.
“So,” he began, but Jaeyun didn’t look at him; his gaze stayed on the closed door. “Friends-with-benefits?”
Jaeyun’s jaw flexed. “Don’t.”
“Oh, it is that.”
“It’s not—” Jaeyun started, pushing his hair back off his forehead before he turned to his roommates. “I mean, I don’t know! We haven’t talked about it.”
“But you should,” Jongseong said, his voice neutral enough for Jaeyun not to hear the warning it carried until the air in the room shifted.
“Baekhyeon talked to me yesterday,” Sunghoon said.
“What?” Jaeyun asked, more as a reflex than in fact, understanding what it meant. “Why?”
Sunghoon’s gaze flicked to the door before it moved to Jongseong. And Jaeyun didn’t need anyone to spell it out — his roommates had already talked about this when he wasn’t there.
“He wanted to ask about her,” Sunghoon said. “He didn’t come in aggressive — he came in like he was trying to be the reasonable one.”
Jongseong’s mouth flattened. “Careful.”
“I’m not being cruel,” Sunghoon replied. “I’m telling you how it felt — and it felt like he’d rehearsed it.”
“What did he say?” Jaeyun asked, his voice warped to his own ears. “Exactly.”
“That was it,” Sunghoon said. “He just asked if I’d been seeing her around.”
He paused.
“And if she was with someone else.”
Jongseong’s eyes cut to Jaeyun, concern flashing there before he forced his expression back into stillness.
“And?” Jaeyun asked.
Sunghoon’s mouth twitched. “I’m not stupid, I didn’t say you both have been acting like bunnies over the past few weeks.”
“Do you think she told him something?”
“No,” Sunghoon cut. “That’s the thing — I think he has been trying to contact her, but she has been ignoring him.”
And suddenly, it made sense — all those times he’d watched you skim your phone, thumb hovering over the screen, before you set it aside and you looked back at him, a smile forced into place.
God — he’d been so silly for overlooking it.
“He broke up with her,” Jaeyun said.
“We are not telling you this to make you stressed,” Jongseong cut in. “We are just telling you so you can decide — this thing of yours is working for now, and I am glad for you — she apparently doesn’t want Baekhyeon back, which is great, but it might be someone else someday, and you will have to decide if you are okay with having only a part of her again.”
The apartment fell silent at this, and only then did Jaeyun notice how fast his heart was beating. It hummed against his ears, so loud he couldn’t even think.
When you were both younger — ten, maybe eleven — you had camped in your parents’ garden, your backs side by side on a too-thin blanket and a tent that never stopped letting the wind in. The world had been so silent, you’d whispered that it felt like there were only the two of you in the world, wouldn’t it be nice? You had asked. Back then, he’d rolled his eyes and said something dumb to make you grin, too young to consider anything.
Now, in his hallway with your perfume still on his skin and your borrowed shirt still bright in his mind, he understood what you’d meant. It would be so nice — so nice — if the world really could narrow down to just the two of you, and choosing you didn’t mean risking everything else. And he didn’t know whether that thought made him in love or made him dangerous.
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
By the time Jaeyun arrived at Arcano, you were already on the dance floor with Jongseong and Sunghoon.
And it was stupid, honestly, how whenever he thought he was getting used to your existence, you managed to surprise him — newly lit, newly impossible — you stood between his roommates, eyes sparkling, arms half around Sunghoon’s shoulders as you both shouted the lyrics of a song that was too loud and too familiar, and Sunghoon was singing like he meant it, even if he was off-key on purpose. Jongseong yelled the chorus at your back, his face turned upwards as if the ceiling had personally offended him.
Arcano was the same as it had always been — red bulbs that made everyone look like a rumor, sticky floors that clung to the soles of your shoes like the place didn’t want anyone leaving sober, and bass so loud it turned thought into vibration. The air smelled like cheap liquor and perfume and sweat and the faint bite of citrus from a just-spilled drink.
And it’s too much — everything was too much.
But the moment he stepped further, you turned to him — not searching, but sure — as though you knew he was going to be standing there.
Gravity, he thought.
He moved through the bodies like he’d done it a hundred times — shoulders angled, hands careful, a quiet apology here and there, never shoving, never rushing. The bass beat against his ribs and still he stayed steady, eyes on you the whole time as if the rest of the room was just static.
You didn’t meet him halfway — you never did — you stayed where you were, your body turned subtly toward him, and only when he got close enough, your hand lifted, fingers finding his. And the moment you held him, the noise of Arcano seemed to dull around the edges, like the room had agreed to give you a fraction of quiet.
His hand was cold while yours was warm, and a shiver danced across you, strong enough to make your shoulders tremble.
And God — he wanted to kiss it.
You had changed since the morning, trading the shorts and t-shirt for a white dress, but his shirt remained, draped around your shoulders, and making his breath catch — he tightened his grip only enough to be sure you felt him back.
“Hi,” you said, loud enough to be heard over the music, but soft in the way you always became with him.
“Hi,” he replied.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Sunghoon shouted. “We were about to file a missing person report.”
Jaeyun huffed a breath that almost counted as a laugh. He had gone to the apartment after his classes to drop off his backpack, but he didn’t feel like explaining, not when you were squeezing his hand — small, and private.
“Did you eat?” you asked, and Jaeyun felt the absurd tenderness of it. The fact that you could be in a bar, sweating and laughing and alive, and still your first instinct with him was care.
“Yes,” he lied automatically.
Your eyes narrowed. “Yun.”
“I ate.”
“You ate what?” you asked, and Jaeyun opened his mouth, but his words stalled, and so he closed it again.
“He didn’t eat,” Jongseong said.
“He did that thing where he decides worrying is a food group,” Sunghoon agreed.
Jaeyun’s jaw flexed, but his hand stayed linked with yours like the connection mattered more than winning. “I’m fine.”
You didn’t argue, or at least, not right away. You just watched him for a second, your expression shifting into something softer and knowing, like you could see through him even in red light and bass.
“I am getting you something,” you said. “Stay here — don’t wander.”
Sunghoon leaned in. “He literally can’t. He’s on a leash.”
Jongseong barked a laugh. “Be nice.”
Jaeyun opened his mouth to protest, but you were already gone — your smile tossed back at him before you turned toward the bar and leaving him to stand there, eyes following, and tracking the small obstacles: the drunk guy who swayed too wide, the table edge that could catch your hip, the slick patch of floor near the booths. All the little risks the world liked to place in your path, as if daring him not to rush up and fix it before it could hurt you.
You barely had reached the counter when he approached you.
For a moment, Jaeyun thought it was a guy merely trying his luck with you, but then he shifted, red light catching on his features and Jaeyun recognized him immediately.
Baekhyeon.
Your body stiffened as he leaned in, his mouth close to your ear for a moment before you shifted sideways, trying to create space. Jaeyun couldn’t hear the words leaving your mouth, but your body was speaking loudly enough: no.
Yet Baekhyeon didn’t step back; when you seemed to be about to leave, he reached out, his hand closing around your wrist, and forcing you to stay.
Jaeyun didn’t even think, Sunghoon shouted something behind him, but he was already moving, shoving through people, and cutting a direct line toward you.
“Just listen — fuck, I’m talking to you.” Jaeyun heard Baekhyeon say, his grip still on you.
“And I said I don’t want to,” you said. “Let go—”
“Let her go.”
Baekhyeon turned at the sound of his voice, eyes unfocused and caught in that ugly space between sober and drunk. For a second he only stared, his brain having to wade through the noise to understand what he was seeing. But then, something in his face tightened, reading the truth between the lines and understanding, all at once, that you weren’t alone here. That you weren’t waiting to be won back. That whatever space he thought he still had in your life had been filled.
Or worse — that it never existed at all.
Jaeyun inhaled, his chest filling with a silly compassion toward Baekhyeon because he, too, wouldn’t know what to do if he ever found himself being dismissed from your life like this, but then Baekhyeon’s hand tightened on your wrist, making your fingers contract in pain, and Jaeyun exhaled, letting it all go.
He would crawl through hell, cut himself open until his body had become numb to pain, but Jaeyun surely would never hurt you — never.
“Let her go,” Jaeyun repeated.
“Here he is.” Baekhyeon laughed, the sound of it echoing oddly loud in Arcano’s air. “Always on time like a good little lap dog.”
Jaeyun’s jaw flexed once. And Baekhyeon’s smile widened, bright in that unpleasant way that said he’d found the exact spot to press.
“What is it, man?” he went on. “You show up, you play hero, you get to be the good guy. That’s the deal, right?”
His gaze snapped back to you.
“And you,” he said, sweetly, as if he could deny he was being mean underneath. “You always keep him there. On standby. Like an emergency contact you can kiss.”
The air went tight.
“Baekhyeon,” Jaeyun warned, and the other released your wrist, flicking his hand in a dismissive gesture as he looked around the bar. For a moment, Jaeyun believed Baekhyeon had given up, putting an end to it, but then he turned back at you again, eyes brighter than ever.
“Don’t act like I’m the crazy one,” he said. “I saw it — every time you called her, she softened. Every time you showed up, she lit up. I was never the one — she just let me borrow the role until she was ready to stop playing innocent and let you crash,”
“I just didn’t expect she’d do it this fast — she always played so hard to catch with me—”
Jaeyun didn’t decide to shove him — he didn’t plan it — his body merely moved like it had been waiting for permission from something older than thought.
His hands drove into Baekhyeon’s chest, making him stumble back, hard, and knocking into someone behind him.
Drink spilled onto the floor, and the scent of it rose almost immediately — sharp citrus and cheap sugar, muddled by the stale sweetness already living in the boards. It cut through the sweat and perfume for half a second, bright as a peel torn open, before the warmth of the room swallowed it again and left only the sour bite of liquor drying in the air.
“What the fuck—?” Baekhyeon barked.
“Yun,” you called, but it was already too late.
Baekhyeon launched himself at Jaeyun, his knuckles across Jaeyun’s cheekbone with a hot, skidding sting.
For a beat, the impact didn’t hurt the way it should’ve — it was just information — pressure, heat, the metallic taste of adrenaline flooding his mouth.
But then, something in him snapped.
The image of Baekhyeon’s hand around your wrist flashed behind his eyes like a short circuit, and Jaeyun moved before his mind could catch up, his fist driving forward on instinct, a short, brutal arc — no finesse, no warning — just the need to hit back, to end it, to make Baekhyeon understand with his body what his brain refused to learn.
The punch connected.
Jaeyun felt it in his knuckles, in the jolt up his arm, in the startled give of flesh beneath bone — and the sound that left Baekhyeon was small, shocked, as if he hadn’t expected consequences to be real. Jaeyun didn’t wait to see what it did to his face. He only stepped in closer and did it again.
Baekhyeon fell on the dirty floor, Jaeyun above him, fist in the middle of another throw, when someone hooked an arm around Jaeyun’s chest from behind and hauled him up.
“Stop it,” Jongseong snapped. “You’re going to ruin your damn face.”
But Jaeyun barely heard him. He was still leaning forward, still straining toward the floor like if he just landed one more hit, the feeling in his chest would finally loosen, and make sense.
Jongseong tightened his hold, bracing his weight behind Jaeyun’s back like an anchor.
“Yun,” you called.
Your voice wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
Jaeyun froze like you’d put a hand straight on his spine. His fist hovered, trembling with leftover momentum, and then you were standing in front of him, your hands on his face — warm palms cupping his jaw, thumbs brushing his cheekbones as if you could physically pull him back into himself.
“Yun,” you said again, closer and eyes searching his. And just like that, the fight drained out of him in a shuddering rush. His shoulders sagged. His breath broke. He let Jongseong hold him up for a second longer than he should’ve needed before he leaned on your touch.
“Princess, I—”
“Come with me,” you said. “Can you?”
For a second, Jaeyun couldn’t find the shape of an answer. Not because he didn’t have one — but because he had too many, a lifetime of yeses he’d never said out loud. His body was still buzzing with violence, his knuckles still singing, but your hands on his face made the world narrow into something he could survive. You were asking like it was a choice, like he was a person with options, when the truth was simpler than that: he had been following you since he was old enough to recognize your voice in a crowd. Since gardens and tents and school hallways. Since the first time you turned and expected him to be there — and he was.
“Yes,” he breathed, and the word came out rough, almost broken with how easy it was. Because you could’ve asked him to walk through fire and he would’ve stepped forward without thinking, just because you were the place his instinct went when the world got sharp. His hand rose, uncertain at first, then settled at your wrist like a question he’d spend his whole life answering the same way.
Always.
You looked past him to Jongseong and nodded, a quiet reassurance, and Jongseong finally released Jaeyun.
“Come,” you said, your fingers slipping into his.
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
Arcano’s neon shrank behind you with every step, its red glow thinning into something distant and irrelevant, but Jaeyun’s body hadn’t gotten the memo yet. The adrenaline still sat high in his chest, making his breath feel too big for his lungs, his heart beating like it was trying to outrun what had happened. He kept swallowing like he could force it down.
You didn’t talk much at first. You didn’t need to. You just walked — your fingers laced through his.
And every time his grip tightened without meaning to, you squeezed back once, small and reassuring. It’s okay. I’m here.
The street was cooler than it had any right to be, so closer to the summer, late-night air cutting cleanly through the smell of booze still clinging to him. The city sounded normal — cars passing, a laugh from someone’s balcony, a distant siren that didn’t belong to you. It was strange, how quickly the world returned to ordinary after a fight. As if nothing could be important for more than a few minutes.
Jaeyun glanced at you once, then again.
You looked furious in a contained way, like your anger had somewhere to go now that you’d gotten him out. Your mouth was set, your brow faintly pinched. Your thumb brushed the side of his hand, absent and grounding, like you couldn’t help checking he was still there.
Jaeyun’s chest tightened.
He wanted to say something useful. He wanted to apologize in a way that would actually fix it. But every sentence he tried to build collapsed into the same thing: I saw him touch you and I lost my mind.
Instead, he stayed quiet and let you lead.
You pushed the code into the keypad of your door with muscle memory, the little beep sounding too loud in the stairwell before it buzzed open and revealed your apartment.
Quiet in the specific way your place always was — soft, contained, familiar, smelling like clean laundry, faint florals, the lived-in warmth of your routines. The small lamp near your bed cast a gentle yellow glow that made everything look calmer than it felt. Books stacked neatly where they always were. A mug by the sink. A blanket folded too precisely at the end of the bed like you’d been trying to keep your life in order by force.
“Shoes,” you remembered. “Then sit by the counter.”
Jaeyun did as you said, slipping out of his shoes before he went to your counter and sat down on a chair, his hands on his thighs, and palms down, like he was trying to behave as you rummaged around — drawers, cabinet, a small basket you moved too roughly — the soft clack of objects knocking together filling the silence between you.
“First aid,” you muttered. “I know I have it.”
“Princess,” he said quietly.
“Don’t move.”
“I wasn’t going—” he began, but stopped, suddenly understanding. You weren’t being dramatic, but practical, anchoring the night into tasks: disinfectant, gauze, bandage. The same way he always did when his emotions got too big to hold comfortably.
You found the kit with a little gasp before you crossed back to him and set it on the table with a soft thud, bending slightly so you could see him properly.
“Give me your hand,” you said.
Jaeyun hesitated for a fraction of a second — then extended it.
Your hand closed around his, gently turning it over in the light, and beneath this sudden clarity, you frowned, eyebrows knitted, lips pressing into a thin line. The wounds were worse than it seemed. There was a cut over his fingers, bleeding as a darker bruise spread over. You reached for them, the tips of your fingers wandering through his skin as if you could erase them with your bare touch.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
Jaeyun went still, your words reaching past the cuts and hitting something deeper.
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t say you’re sorry for that.”
“It’s my fault—” you started.
“No,” Jaeyun cut in. “No. He did that. Not you.”
You turned to the aid kit on the kitchen counter, dropping your gaze like you could hide behind the small, practical motions of it — like if you focused hard enough on gauze and antiseptic, he wouldn’t see the way your eyes had gone wet. But Jaeyun did. He always did, in the quiet, unfair way he noticed everything about you.
“I hate that you got hurt because of me,” you said.
Something in Jaeyun’s chest tightened — sharp and aching.
He leaned forward in the chair before he fully knew he was doing it, his uninjured hand sliding to your wrist, fingers curling gently around your skin as he pulled you onto his lap.
The motion was clumsy with the chair and the counter and the first aid kit half-open, but the moment you settled, your thighs bracketing his hips, the world narrowed into something that made painful sense.
His hands came up to your face, palms cupping your cheeks as his thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, cleaning your tears like he had done when he got you both grounded at twelve, and like he’d done again years later, on the night you crashed your father’s car — your hands shaking on his wrists, as he told you to breathe.
He made you look at him.
Your eyes were wet and bright, with tears, the shine gathering at the lower lid until it spilled and traced down your cheek, and his chest ached at that low instinct already moving with the need to make it better.
“Don’t take the blame,” he said. “I can’t stand it when you do that.”
Your breath hitched.
“It wasn’t your fault — he grabbed you and said those things. He—” Jaeyun’s throat worked, and for a second his voice broke. “I heard the way he talked to you, and I didn’t know how to be calm about it. If there’s someone to blame here, it isn’t you. It’s me.”
You stared at him for a second before your hands lifted, your fingers finding and resting at his wrists as they always had.
“Yun,” you whispered.
Jaeyun’s breath shuddered out, and he leaned forward without thinking.
And for the very first time, you met him halfway.
Your kiss was soft at first — careful, but Jaeyun answered too eagerly.
His grip tightened at your cheeks, bringing you closer as if he believed his existence lay in the acknowledgment of you — on how your heartbeats resonated together, how naturally your hands curled around his shoulders, and the sensations your bare fingertips are capable of drawing on his skin.
He kissed you like he was still at Arcano.
Like he was still shaking.
Like the only way to stop the night from replaying was to overwrite it with you.
His nose pressed hard against your cheek as his tongue licked over your own, slipping past your lips, and tasting that stupid strawberry cocktail you always ordered on your nights out, sweet and a little floral, like summer dissolved and turned on a flavor, and his thumb pushed at the corner of your mouth, asking for more.
He couldn’t come to care that it wasn’t protection anymore, but possession. He just wanted proof that you were still here.
Your hands slid into his t-shirt, fingers curling at the thin material the way they always did when you wanted him close, and it was enough to steal a sound from him — quiet, and yet completely wrecked — his arms slipped, and tightened around your waist, pulling you nearer until there was no space left to misunderstand.
“I’ve been trying to be good. I keep failing when it’s you,” he heard himself say. “I don’t know how to be only your friend anymore.”
There was a lost moment — a second where none of you moved, and Jaeyun thought that he finally did it — he had finally ruined the friendship, but then, you leaned in again, lips on his as your knees tightening around his hips, your weight settling into him like you’d chosen the place on purpose.
And it made him exhale like relief.
His uninjured hand slid along your side, finding you. The curve of your waist. The line of your ribs. The warmth of you under your dress like a living proof he couldn’t talk himself out of. He paused every time your breath changed, as if he was listening for the smallest no, for any flicker of doubt.
But you didn’t give him one. Instead, you tipped your forehead to his, noses brushing, and whispered his name in that soft, wrecked way that always pulled something honest out of him.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, the words rough around the edges. “Tell me and I—”
You kissed him before he could finish, fingers threading into his hair, holding him so close, he not only heard the next word, but felt them. “You.”
Jaeyun’s throat worked.
He lifted you — not smoothly, not perfectly, because the chair was in the way and the counter was too close and the first aid kit lay open like a dirty evidence — but he did it anyway, with a gentleness that didn’t match the violence still humming under his skin. He carried you those few steps like it mattered, like the distance between your kitchen and your bed was a threshold he needed to cross carefully.
When he set you down, you caught the back of his t-shirt and pulled him after you.
He braced his weight so he wouldn’t crush you, forearms on either side of your shoulders, head dipping until his mouth found you again, again and again, pressing kisses along your cheek, your throat, the place beneath your ear that always made your breath hitch and he made a question of always finding it. His hand slid down your arm to your fingers, lacing them together above your head for a moment like a question, like an offering, and when you squeezed back, he let himself believe you.
His shirt went first, easing off your shoulders like a last, familiar layer — then your dress, and then your bra, quietly as the breath you released when he leaned in again and kissed the tip of your breasts, one at a time before he moved to your sternum, your stomach — taking in every piece of your skin in between his lips.
When he reached your panties, he didn’t care about taking them off; he merely kissed you over them, the thin lace not doing much to dull the feel of his mouth over your cunt and making you shiver, hands coming to his hair and threading almost bitterly, but if anything, he hummed, giving you another kiss and then, another. Open mouthed and tongue sneaking out every now and then to bump against your covered clit, and making you squirm in his hands, head thrown back, and sliding away a bit.
He pulled you into him, hands grabbing at your thighs so he could push his face back between them, licking a flat, slow stripe over your cunt. The lace did nothing to hold your fluid this time, and he tasted you through, his eyes closing almost instinctively to savor it better.
“You taste so good,” he couldn’t help but say. “So fucking good.”
A grin broke across your face — bright, and disarming — and Jaeyun forced his arms to push him up, kissing it like he could keep it there, among your already flushed cheeks, and your hair messy against the sheets because God — he was so in love with you.
“Princess,” he called, not really sure if he had something to say. But you hummed at him anyway, hands reaching for the hem of his t-shirt, and slipping your fingers underneath it.
His abdomen tensed and contracted as you wandered through, your trembling fingertips grazing through the lines long memorized, and pushing the piece up and up, until he had no other option but to lift his arms and help you take it off.
Jaeyun groaned as you moved to his belt, unbuckling it with the same ease you unzipped his jeans.
“Shit,” he murmured.
“What?”
“Condoms,” he whispered. “I — we used the last one yesterday. I was going to buy after Arcano.”
“That’s okay.”
It was his turn to halt, your words catching somewhere between sound and meaning. “What?”
“That’s okay,” you repeated, and when he didn’t move, you arched up beneath him, lips finding his ear. “I am saying that you can hit it raw, Yun.”
He made a sound — small and involuntary — the kind of honest noise his body made when his mind was still trying to pretend it had control. And you laughed the way you’d always done to turn moments into something survivable.
Jaeyun’s face heated immediately, color climbing up his neck.
“Don’t,” he managed, as if the word could stop you from seeing him like this — undone by you, made soft by a sentence and the brush of your mouth near his ear.
But you only smiled wider, eyes shining with the kind of fondness that hurt.
And Jaeyun — God, Jaeyun — looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with how much he felt. Like love had taken up residence in him years ago and never once paid rent, and now it was everywhere: in his breath, in the way his hand hovered and then settled, careful, as if touching you was a question he wanted to keep asking for the rest of his life.
He exhaled, a little shaky. Then, because he couldn’t help it — because you were laughing and alive beneath him, and he was hopeless — his mouth twitched.
“You’re going to be the death of me, Princess,” he whispered, the words rough with tenderness.
You shook your head, not quite dismissively, but more like you couldn’t believe how silly he was — how silly he was for you.
Yet he couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Hips up, babe,” he instructed, and you met him there, your body moving on a quiet arch, as you pushed at your feet, and allowed him to curl his fingers at the band of your panties, sliding them away before his hands returned to your inner thigh, your calves, taking over your ankles, and pulling you toward him.
You shivered as he pushed himself inside of you, your fingers digging into his back as your lips parted on a quiet moan that he made up for you — Jaeyun simply not being able to be quiet at the feeling of you around him with no limitation and groaning loudly.
Jaeyun never thought he would be the type of guy to be emotional over taking a girl without a condom, but it was you with him, and when he started moving again, it was slow and deep, each thrust deliberate as if he wanted to memorize every sound you made, every way your body responded to his. The friction was different, he could feel every ridge, every pulse of you around. And it was almost too much, the intimacy of it making his chest tight with emotion he couldn’t name.
Jaeyun hissed, looking down between your bodies, eyes all warm and glazed as he watched how you fit together for a quiet moment before his forehead dipped and rested against your shoulder, his breathing uneven, as if he was trying to keep the night from turning reckless again.
He was so careful with you it felt like devotion.
But then, you drew him closer — insistent — and he finally let his body answer with the same honesty his voice had tried to avoid. Jaeyun kissed you until you tasted like him. Until your hands clung. Until the space between your bodies stopped feeling like a rule and started feeling like a lie. Each thrust of his hips pronounced with a wet clash, and the sound of your headboard hitting the wall.
And it was too much, honestly — you were too much.
When you came, he followed — quietly, inevitably, his breath breaking as if your body had taken his and led it somewhere he’d never learned to survive. Yet still, he didn’t punish you; he stayed close, slowly towing your climaxes for as long as he could. And when he finally stilled, he pulled back with a tenderness that looked almost like it broke him to let you go.
Jaeyun eased down and let his head rest against your lower stomach, breathing there for a second — then another — almost as if his lungs needed to relearn how to work. Your hand found him, threading into his hair, fingers combing gently until his face softened and his eyes fell shut. And, for the first time all night, his body stopped bracing.
RULE #4: DO NOT LET HER KNOW YOUR TRUE FEELINGS
If I say it out loud, I make it her problem. I put something heavy in her hands when she never asked to carry me. And I’m afraid — plain and simple — that if she knows, everything changes. And if everything changes, she might step back. She might leave. I can survive wanting her. I can survive swallowing it. I can’t survive losing her. So I’ll keep it useful: jokes, rides home, answers at 2 a.m., the kind of loyalty that looks harmless from the outside. I won’t say I love her. I won’t say I’ve always loved her. I won’t turn our friendship into a question she has to solve.
Jaeyun stayed where he was a little longer than he ought to have, his palms splayed at your sides, lips parted against the skin of your stomach as he pressed a kiss there, and then, at your hips, your thighs, covering all the way to your knees and back up again.
You shivered as he nipped at the tender skin just inside your hip, your fingers tightening in his hair for a moment before you eased again — slow, and unconsciously, keeping time with your breath.
“Jaeyun,” you whispered, and perhaps it had been the way your breath changed then, caught on something that he couldn’t quite hear, but his heart wavered in his chest.
He knew you enough to know it was the beginning of a confession. He just didn’t know what kind. And that was what scared him: not the truth itself, but the possibility of it. That you might be about to ask for distance. That you might be about to reach for a word that would make him either the safest thing in your life — or the mistake.
“Could you turn the lights off?” you asked.
It could have sounded silly then. But it was something old between you — something you’d done as kids when you needed to confess something embarrassing, something heavy. As if darkness could make secrets smaller. As if not seeing each other’s faces could make bravery easier.
Jaeyun propped himself up, knees pressed against your mattress as he reached for your lampshade and turned it off.
The room darkened instantly, but not completely — not with your curtains still open and the city’s light streaming in, painting the walls in soft silver and distant neon, scattering stripes on your sheets.
Jaeyun hadn’t noticed how still you both had become until a car passed outside, its tires whispering over the asphalt before it was gone, and the room held onto the quiet that followed, too complete, too attentive.
The sheets rustled softly as Jaeyun lay back down beside you, not touching you — not yet. He just stayed close enough that when you turned to him, he could feel you through the dark, but then you reached for his hand, interlacing your fingers as you had done when you were nine and whispering that you’d heard your parents arguing and didn’t know where to put the feeling, you were thirteen and admitting you were terrified that one day you’d grow up and he wouldn’t be yours to keep.
“Talk to me, Princess,” he whispered.
“Baekhyeon wasn’t wrong,” you said, the words scattering through the space of your bodies so quickly, Jaeyun took a moment to catch it all, and when he did, he went very still, eyes sharpening on your face.
“Not about you,” you added. “But about me — he wasn’t wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember my first date?” you asked.
Jaeyun let out a breath that was almost a laugh, except it didn’t contain humor. Of course he remembered. He remembered the outfit. He remembered your perfume. He remembered how a strand of hair didn’t quite stay on your pins and he kept fixing it while you paced through your room. He remembered how his fingers lingered there for one last time before you slipped through the door.
“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I remember.”
You stared at your hands for a beat, thumb brushing against his knuckles.
“I thought you would tell me not to go,” you admitted. “But you didn’t, and so I went, and through the whole day I kept thinking oh, it would have been so much better if Yun was here,”
“The same thing happened with Baekhyeon — I kept wishing you were there with me instead, and I thought it was just because you’re my best friend and everything is funnier when it’s just us. I thought it was just because I feel safer when I’m with you, but—” you paused. “But through these last weeks, I just realized that I truly wished you had asked me to stay,”
“I truly like us.”
Nothing in the room moved, but something in him did, his internal footing slipping, the world turning unstable while his body stayed perfectly still beside you.
Jaeyun’s mouth parted, but his body acted like it was still losing its footing. His breath snagging, throat tightening, the words jamming as if speech required solid ground he no longer had. And in the middle of his silence, you created your own answer.
“Never mind, I just—” you began, slipping from his touch and slipping away, but he caught you then, fingers closing around yours again and keeping you there.
“I’ve wanted to tell you to stay a thousand times.”
Your breath caught at his words, your gaze lifting to his and holding, steady and unblinking, the kind of eye contact that made everything feel suddenly too honest to survive. His grip tightened on your fingers, then gentled again, careful not to turn it into a claim — only a question he was asking with his whole body.
“I wanted to,” he said. “When you had that first date. When you called me after and tried to laugh about it, like it didn’t get under your skin. When you—” His breath caught. “When you started seeing Baekhyeon, when he called when we were together. Every time — every damn time — I wanted to ask you to stay.”
Jaeyun lifted your joined hands to his face, turning them slightly so the backs of your fingers brushed his cheek.
“But I didn’t,” he whispered. “Because I thought if I told you to stay, that was when I was going to lose you entirely — and you know, Princess, I can handle being your best friend forever. I can handle being the one you call when you’re sad or drunk or mad — even if it’s just for you to leave once the moment passes. I can handle having only parts of you.”
His voice lowered. “But I can’t handle losing you.”
You turned toward him properly then, shifting until your faces were close enough that when you spoke, he didn’t just hear the words that followed, but he felt them.
“I would have stayed,” you said. “Every damn time — I would have stayed.”
Jaeyun made a sound that didn’t belong to him — small and raw — the sentence going straight through his ribs and lodging there.
His grip on your hand tightened — and his forehead dipped toward yours, hovering there as if he didn’t trust the space between you not to change its mind.
“Stay, Princess,” he asked.
“I’m going nowhere.”
FINAL RULE: NO MORE RULES
I wrote rules that were supposed to keep me from ruining us. I thought that if I could define every boundary, I could pretend I could control the outcome. Don’t accept reckless requests. Don’t touch her like I’m owed. Don’t be possessive. Don’t say the words that might make her leave.
A small guide for surviving her without losing her.
But I’m not losing her.
She’s here. She’s not a maybe, not a mistake, not something I have to handle with gloves on. She’s with me — clear-eyed, chosen, real. And for the first time, the future doesn’t feel like a threat I need to solve. It feels like something we’re walking into together.
So this is the last rule: no more rules.
Not because I’ve stopped being careful with her — fuck, I’ll always be careful with her. But because I don’t need rules to keep her close when she’s already choosing to stay. Because I don’t have to hide love inside procedure anymore. Because I can finally stop bracing, and start living in the simplest truth I’ve ever had:
SUMMARY: Call it delusion, but you have always believed that there was something between you and Jungwon. Or, you mistake friendliness for feelings and spend your last semester of university learning the difference.
A/N: enjoy reading! i rly tried my best to convey the feelings accurately bc we've all been there amirite (⓿_⓿)
---
The lecture hall is stuffy.
Winter has finally given up its hold, the last patches of snow melting into the grass outside as spring slowly settles over campus and temperatures climb well above freezing. You adjust the sleeves of your shirt, already too warm, and scan the rows of seats before sighing. Clearly you are the only person who has caught on to the fact that big, puffy jackets are no longer necessary. Everyone else seems intent on carrying winter with them a little longer.
Around you is a blur of muted colours and somewhat familiar faces, the other students wearing thick coats and wool scarves and yet, amongst them all, you’re always able to pick out your favourite. It’s nothing special– a black bomber– but it has never been the jacket that catches your eye, not necessarily; it’s the person wearing it.
You’ve known Yang Jungwon since the first semester of your first year at university.
Back then, a boy named Jake was nothing more than your assigned partner for a chemistry lab, but slowly, he became one of your closest friends. And unlike most other first-years, he’d opted out of rooming in the university residence, choosing instead to rent a small three-bedroom apartment just off campus with two guys he’d known since high school. When he invited you over for the first time, you were expecting nothing more than a quiet evening spent studying for a midterm together.
What you had absolutely no idea would happen, however, was that you would end up meeting the person who would completely occupy your every thought for the next three years.
Your phone buzzes in your lap.
jungwon: where are you??? i saved you a seat
you: look behind you silly
You watch as Jungwon tilts his head back, eyes sweeping across the lecture hall for a few seconds before finally landing on you. The moment he sees you, a smirk pulls at his lips, and he nods toward the empty seat to his side.
It’s almost embarrassing, you think, the way your body moves on its own, already gathering your lecture notebooks and shoving your pens back into your bag. You make your way down the steps two at a time, stumbling over backpacks and outstretched legs, trying to rein in the eager expression tugging at your face, but to no avail.
“Finally,” he whispers, nudging his knee against yours softly. “I thought you abandoned me.”
There’s a teasing glint in your eyes as you glance over at him and feign thoughtfulness. “Well, I was thinking about it.”
He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head as he focuses back to the front of the room, where the professor is getting ready to start the lesson. “Liar,” he mumbles under his breath.
You grin. He’s right, you’d never do that. And even though you should turn to the front too, you let your gaze linger on his features for a moment longer. The curve of his nose, the sparkle in his eyes, the small birthmark at the bottom of his jaw... You’ve memorized these details, traced them so many times in your mind that they feel permanently etched there.
But if you were smarter, you’d realize that just because you can predict the way his smile will form before it reaches his lips, it doesn’t guarantee that he can do the same for you.
—
“And then he nudged my knee! when I tell you–”
A squeal cuts you off. “He what?!” Yunjin practically launches herself upright on the couch, eyes widening. “I’ve been saying that he likes you.”
As your roommate and best friend, she has been by your side throughout what you guys have jokingly started calling the Jungwon Saga since day one. She was there when you got back to your dorm in first year, rambling about the cute boy Jake lives with, and she was there when you embarrassingly spent an entire evening analyzing the meaning behind a good luck text before your first final exam. Yet perhaps most importantly, she’s always there to tell you that you aren’t imagining things.
Not that you need much convincing. You pride yourself on the fact that you’re pretty good at reading body language and gauging the signs someone might give off. After all, you can always tell when one of your friends has a crush. You notice how their eyes track the person a little too long, the way their voice changes when they talk about them, how they somehow always end up bringing them into every conversation despite there being zero correlation.
It’s obvious because it's almost exactly what you do with Jungwon.
“I’m serious,” she insists, watching the flush on your cheeks grow. “You cannot tell me you don’t see it after all this time.”
You laugh as you tuck your legs beneath you on the couch. “I mean... I’d like to think he likes me too,” you give her a pointed look, “but it’s not like he’s actually done anything about it.”
Though humbling to admit, not once has Jungwon actually made a move on you. And as much as you can sit here and list every little thing he’s done that makes you believe there are underlying feelings, you know there is one thing you don’t have. A confirmation, in words. What was that famous phrase going around on social media? If he wanted to, he would? Something like that. So far, he hasn’t done the ‘would’ part, which is a bummer, but there are still so many other hints that point to some sort of romantic inclination that you choose to ignore what the relationship gurus on TikTok say.
“Okay, but still,” your friend says, waving her hand dismissively. “The year isn’t over.”
“Hm?” You raise an eyebrow.
“I’m mean,” leaning forward, her hands coming to rest on your shoulders. “Maybe he’s just waiting for the right moment.”
“The right moment?”
“Yeah! Think about it: you’re in the final semester of your final year, lots of work and studying to do. He’s probably aware of the fact that you are stressed and wants to make sure he doesn’t add to it.”
“I bet,” she continues, raising a finger, “maybe he’ll ask you out after graduation. You know, when things calm down.”
You tilt your head, considering it.
One thing you’ve noticed about Jungwon is that he is extremely thoughtful, always taking his time to consider how his actions might affect other people. So perhaps Yunjin is right, to some degree. Then, because there’s only so long you can spend dissecting your (lack of) love life before remembering you have actual responsibilities, you glance toward the kitchen. “Anyway,” you say, pushing yourself off the couch, “what do you want for dinner?”
Yunjin blinks. “What do we have?”
“Well…I kinda forgot to go grocery shopping, so our options are pretty slim pickings right now.”
Grabbing her phone, she opens the local food delivery app. “Order in?”
-
So after consuming an amount of pizza that must not be voiced aloud, you eventually decide that moving to your bed is a battle you are no longer willing to fight. By the time you’ve showered, changed into your pyjamas, and completed your nightly routine, the apartment has gone quiet. Settling into your bedsheets, you scroll on your phone, catching up on missed messages you’d forgotten to reply to throughout the day.
You’re halfway through watching an Instagram reel your friend Sunghoon sent when your phone vibrates in your hand; a new notification blooming at the top of your screen. Your eyes flick up toward the same of the sender, and your heart does a heavy, traitorous thud in your chest.
jungwon: hey, i think you’d like this song!
Quickly, you click the link to the song, and within seconds, you’re smiling and rolling around your bed in giddy excitement. The minute it ends, you replay the song from the beginning, letting the melody fill the quiet of your room as you stare at the little message bubble above it.
He heard this and thought of you! Out of everyone he could have sent it to, he chose to send it to you!
As cringe as it may be, you take a screenshot of the text and open your chat with Yunjin. She may be in the room next to yours, and definitely awake, but you’re so comfortable there’s no way you’re getting up. Just as you’re about to press send, your phone buzzes again, and it’s another message from Jungwon, but this time, it’s not a private message. Rather, it’s sent to the group chat you have with him and Jake, and some more university friends.
jungwon: guys this song is a banger and a half
Below that is the exact song he sent you.
Okay… so you guess it isn’t the cute shared moment between the two of you that you thought it was, but he sent it to you first, so that should mean something at the very least. You try not to let the disappointment lodge itself in your throat as you switch back to your private chat with him, and like the message.
—
You might honestly have a heart attack.
Seated across from you, Jungwon has his head buried in a textbook, one hand lazily playing with the edge of the page while the other scribbles notes into the margin. He’s wearing a black beanie pulled low over his forehead, a plain black t-shirt, and grey sweatpants. Altogether, it might just be, and this is objectively speaking, the single most lethal clothing combination a man can put together, and it takes everything in you not to spend the whole studying session checking him out— a Herculean task, really.
To your left, Jake is meticulously making flashcards for the upcoming midterm, mumbling definitions under his breath (you know he’ll ask you to quiz him on them later), and on your right, Jay is asleep, to nobody’s surprise. This is how your afternoons usually go: after dying of boredom in a lecture, the four of you, or whoever else you share a class with, move to the campus library to do extra reading and review any new information.
“Yo,” Jake says suddenly, not bothering to look up from the stack of flashcards in his hands. “Y’all going to that party on Saturday? I think it’s at Yeonjun’s.”
You'd already been invited by the man himself the last time you ran into him, though you hadn't exactly been counting down the days. Loud music, sticky floors, and squeezing through a house shoulder to shoulder with strangers weren’t usually included in your idea of a good time. Still, Yunjin had made it abundantly clear that she intended to go, and after nearly four years of knowing each other, you'd learned a very important lesson: What Yunjin wants, Yunjin gets.
“Yeah,” you shrug. “I’ll probably be there.”
At that, Jungwon’s head lifts as he looks at you. “You’re going?”
“Mhm.”
He hums once, absentmindedly, then looks back down at his notes. “I’ll go too.”
Biting the inside of your cheek, you force yourself to look anywhere but him to avoid getting caught cheesing. You totally influenced his decision! It’s times like this when you’re 100% convinced he likes you. Like who would say that if they weren’t interested? You’re not complaining. Plus, if he wasn’t going to go, your already non-existent motivation would have dropped tenfold. Perhaps with a little bit of alcohol in the system...
The right end of the table wobbles as Jay stirs, peeling his cheek off the textbook he'd been using as a pillow. There's a deep, blotchy imprint pressed into his skin where the pages had folded beneath him.
You burst out laughing before you can stop yourself, slapping a hand over your mouth, eyes wide as you try to smother the noise (rookie mistakes). A few heads turn from nearby tables, searching for the source of the disruption.
“Are you going to go?” You whisper once you've composed yourself.
From the corner of your eye, you see Jake’s cheeks puff up with air as he, too, tries his very best to hold in his laughter.
“I’m too tired to make a decision right now,” Jay grumbles back, dragging his hands through his hair. It makes you roll your eyes. That’s code for ‘No, unless there is weed.’
From under the table, you feel something pushing against the front of your calf, and your gaze flits over to Jungwon, who’s leaning a bit further back in his chair, peering at you with one eyebrow raised. Wordlessly, he looks at Jay and gives you a look, and you know immediately that he’s thinking exactly what you are.
“I’m pretty sure Yeonjun’s plug will be making an appearance.” He coughs behind a fist, and Jay sits up so quickly you’d think he’s been possessed.
“Heeseung? No way. I thought he transferred.” The fact that that is what gets Jay to be the most alert he’s been since entering the library…
“He did, but he’ll never turn down a party.”
—
Said party is already well underway when you step through the front door of Yeonjun’s place.
It has been propped open to let in the cool spring air, though it does very little to combat the heat trapped inside, and it makes you feel bad for the neighbours, who are undoubtedly debating whether or not they should call the cops with a noise complaint. Music spills out from somewhere deeper in the house, loud enough that the bass rattles faintly beneath your feet as you step over the piles of abandoned shoes and get past clusters of people gathered in the entryway. The living room is stuffed full of students from every faculty imaginable, many of whom you vaguely recognize just from walking around campus, or the dining hall from first year.
"I told you we'd be late," Yunjin yells back to you as she catches your wrist, weaving the two of you through the crowd before you lose each other. "If we'd left forty minutes earlier, we wouldn't have to fight for our lives like this just to get inside."
You laugh, nearly bumping into someone. "This is your fault. You wanted to pre-game for an hour before coming.”
“Yeah, yeah, but imagine arriving here sober? I’d probably turn right back around.”
A fake scoff escapes you, and she lets go of your hand, looping her arm through yours as the two of you finally emerge into a slightly less crowded corner of the room. The drinks table has already been picked over by the time you reach it, with only a few bottles of cheap liquor and beer sitting scattered amongst half-empty bags of chips and melting ice. You settle for a random bottle of gin and what’s left of the tonic.
"There you are!"
You turn to find Kazuha and Chaewon making their way through the crowd, each carrying drinks of their own, and it takes no time to get comfortable with them. Along with Yunjin, they round out your closest friend group. The four of you quickly fall into conversation, joking about the horrific midterms and about the potential ‘prospects’ at the party. Chaewon is eyeing some guy in a wifebeater, and you suppress the urge to gag at his outfit choice.
Every few minutes, someone new comes by to say hi and hug you all before going back to their little party group, and despite originally not wanting to come that much, you can’t deny that you’re having a good time.
Yet, your eyes seem to have a mind of their own, because they keep drifting toward the direction of the entrance, hoping to catch sight of Jungwon or at least one of the other guys, since you know that once you see one of them, the rest aren’t far behind. Before your focus shifts back to your friends, a wave of loud cheering rolls through the room. Even from another part of the house, you can easily pick out his laugh first.
Not long after, the boys filter in, Jake animatedly telling some story that has Sunghoon and Riki cackling, while Jay trails behind with his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. Following him is Sunoo, and beside him is, of course, Jungwon.
It takes him less than a second to spot you and your friends, his face brightening immediately as he pushes through some students to greet you.
"There she is," he says warmly as he reaches you, slinging an arm around your shoulders, and pulling you briefly into his side. “You made it.”
Your heart flutters so violently it almost distracts you from the fact that, a moment later, he lets you go and turns to Kazuha, greeting her with the same easy side hug. Then Chaewon. Then Yunjin, his smile never changing. After him, Jake, Sunghoon and Niki come and give you hugs of their own, while Sunoo waves and Jay, well, Jay has already vanished, presumably in search of Heeseung.
"Good to see you guys," Jungwon says, looking between all of you. "I'm gonna go steal some drinks before they're all gone."
“Pretty sure they already are,” Chaewon snorts. He laughs, disappearing back into the crowd, and the second he’s out of sight, three pairs of eyes swivel and land on you. You give them a warning look as their eyebrows wiggle in unison, trying your best to wordlessly point out the very important fact that his friends are still standing with you.
Choosing not to indulge them, you deliberately turn your body to the left, starting up a conversation with Sunoo and Sunghoon. Before long, you're laughing again, the conversation having drifted between upcoming finals, summer plans, and the general excitement of graduating. At this point, ten or so minutes have passed, and you secretly wonder where your favourite boy is. Luckily for you, the next time you glance away, you spot him.
Jungwon has a cup in one hand and appears to be making his way back when someone reaches out, fingers wrapping gently around his forearm to stop him. A girl you don’t think you’ve ever seen before stands on the tips of her toes, and she leans in to say something you can't quite make out from where you’re standing. He pauses immediately, turning his body downward and moving his face close to hers. Oh?
Knowing it’s probably nothing, your own attention returns to whatever ridiculous story Sunoo has now moved on to. He’ll be back soon.
But time passes faster than you realize. "We're gonna move to the sunroom," Kazuha announces suddenly, gesturing toward the hallway. "It's impossible to hear anyone in here."
And as your group makes their way to the new spot, your movements pause for a brief second when you see Jungwon is still talking to the same girl. She’s speaking, both hands moving as she speaks, and he’s listening attentively. They look completely absorbed in each other, standing very close to each other as they converse. And although you may like him, you would never stoop so low as to interrupt or join them, as much as the urge is there. It isn’t your place to swoop in and attempt to mark your territory, so you continue on.
A few hours later, it's clear everyone has hit their limit. Between the dancing, the socializing, and getting dragged into games you barely understand the rules of, your social battery is well and truly dead. So it's no surprise that the second someone floats the idea of leaving, it's met with unanimous approval. "I am starving," Riki groans dramatically, clutching his stomach.
"Nah," Jay counters. He came and found you guys a while ago, having wandered off to find Heeseung, and if his eyes are anything to go by, he definitely found more than just his friend. "Ice cream."
"It's three in the morning."
"I’m high."
Nobody can really argue with that. Within the next few minutes, everyone has managed to find their shoes and sweaters, put them on, and exit onto the street. Even Jungwon, who had been AWOL practically the entire night, appears. The difference in temperature from when you arrived versus now hits you right away, and you instinctively pull your sleeves over your hands as you step onto the sidewalk.
The walk to the convenience store isn't long, though it takes nearly twice the time as it probably should, due to the collective effect of the night's… substances. Jungwon remains a few paces behind the rest of the group as you make your way over.
His head is tilted toward his phone, thumbs moving quickly across the screen as the glow of a notification lights up his face every few seconds. He doesn't seem to notice that the distance between himself and everyone else has slowly grown when he smiles faintly at whatever he’s reading before typing something else, and you wonder who he's texting. Whoever it is, he manages to catch up again by the time everyone reaches the convenience store.
Twenty minutes later, you’ve migrated to the small park a block away, planting yourselves around a weathered wooden bench. Riki, Sunghoon and Jake sit on the grass despite the cold, while the rest of you perch on the backrest or sit properly. Wrappers begin stacking up in the middle as everyone steals bites from one another's snacks. You barely notice Jungwon has gone quiet until Riki suddenly points at him with a mouthful of chips. “Dude. Who are you texting?”
Looking up, and maybe shy from the sudden attention, the other boy quickly shuts off his phone, turning the screen over against his thigh before slipping it into the pocket of his hoodie. “No one.”
The younger one’s eyes narrow. “I’m calling cap.”
“Whatever, bro.”
He doesn't touch his phone for the rest of the night, but you can tell he wants to.
—
The weeks continue on much the same, except something feels... different.
Initially, you can't quite put your finger on it. After all, nothing has changed in any obvious way. You still see Jungwon at group hangouts, you still exchange the occasional text, and he still talks and jokes around the way he always does. But at the same time, you’re no idiot. You’ve been in love with the guy for quite a while now, over-analyzing his every move, so it would be stupid for you, of all people, to not notice even the slightest shift in behaviour.
Evidence #1: He’s begun skipping lectures.
Now, Jungwon isn’t exactly the type to colour code his notes or chase extra credit opportunities, but he does take his studies seriously. He stays on top of assignments, shows up to class, and rarely falls behind. He wouldn't miss a lecture unless he was genuinely sick or something important had come up. Which is why seeing the seat beside you remain empty for an entire hour and a half without receiving a single text, makes zero sense. It’s just one time, though, so you don’t need to worry about it too much.
But when it happens again, just one week later, you begin to question things. You don’t know if it’s your place to text him, or not. Unfortunately, one of the things that comes along with liking someone is the inability to be casual about literally anything. With him, you tend to overthink even sending a quick message, because what if he doesn’t reply? Or what if he does reply, but it’s super dry? Either way, you’d feel bad. Ultimately, you choose not to text him.
If he wanted to keep you in the loop, he’d do it himself.
"You know where Jungwon's been lately?" you ask Jake one afternoon as the two of you walk out of your advanced analytical chemistry lab together, your backpacks slung over one shoulder.
He shrugs. "Not really. I think he's just been hanging out with some other friends recently."
“Oh.” There's a brief pause before you nudge his arm. "Well, tell him he can't disappear forever. We have one of our last miderms coming up and it's worth like thirty percent of our final grade."
“Trust me,” your friend says, “he knows. I’ve been on his ass about it for ages.”
Evidence #2: He no longer keeps his word.
And that evening, after putting it off for nearly an hour because you don't want to seem like a desperate loser, you finally cave and open your messages.
you: heyyy wanna study together tomorrow?
It doesn't take long for his reply to come through.
jungwon: yes i would love to :)) let's do our usual spot at 3pm
You blow out a breath of relief, a soft smile gracing your features. Maybe you were truly going crazy. He has a life, and though you’d love to be privy to more parts of it, you aren’t, but at least you have this.
The next afternoon, you arrive at your usual table in the library ten minutes early.
In first year, the two of you found it, tucked into the far corner beside the windows, hidden just enough from the rest of the floor that nobody else ever seems to claim it, and ever since then, it’s become the study location. You spread your notes across the surface and take your laptop out of your bag, arranging everything exactly how you like it, and while you wait, you start studying.
Truthfully, you don't even realize he hasn't shown up until nearly thirty minutes have passed. You've been too busy reconstructing proteins on Py-Mol to bother checking the time, your fingers typing away on the keyboard as you add more beta sheets. It's only when you finally glance at the clock hanging on the wall that your stomach sinks.
Huh. That’s… unlike him.
You expect him to show up soon, stumbling in, apologizing for his tardiness, anything, really. You don’t expect for an entire hour to pass, then another, and another. With each minute that slips by, the knot in your chest ties itself a little tighter. The rational thing would be to send another message, like hey, are you still coming? But the longer you wait, the more humiliating the idea becomes. If he forgot, reminding him would only make you feel worse, since you wouldn't want him to rush over, and if he didn't, well, then you'll have your answer anyway.
Drowning in the embarrassment for having been stood up on a study session of all things, your thumb presses his contact until the mute notifications option appears. You don’t know why you do it. Perhaps the only explanation is to help silence your growing anxiety, your growing dread.
You flip your phone over, set it down beside your pencil case, and compel yourself to look back down at your notes.
Evidence #3: When you do interact, he gives you nothing.
You’re trying your hardest to give Jungwon the benefit of the doubt, since it’s only fair. People get busy, plans can change, you know that. You aren't some unreasonable person who expects Jungwon to drop everything the second you ask to spend time together. It’s not like you need to be his first priority– you don't even need to be close to the top of the list– but a small part of you thinks that if he cared even the slightest amount about your feelings, then he would try.
The next time you see him is a few days later in the Enzyme Chemistry & Biocatalysis course. Like always, as you’ve been finding lately, you notice him before he does you. Regardless of the fact that he ditched you in the library, you refuse to be petty, save him the seat beside you, and when he sits down next to you, you smile. “Hey.”
“Hi,” he replies, pulling out his notebook. You brace yourself for his apology, ready to wave it off and move past it, but then, to your shock, neither of you speak. In fact, minutes pass without a single word exchanged. You’ve never felt so awkward around him before.
“So…” you begin in an effort to break the weird atmosphere, shifting in your place, “you never came to the library the other day.”
“Oh, oops”
Breathing out, “Yeah, I waited for a while."
Jungwon exhales, leaning back slightly in his chair. "yeah, sorry. Something came up."
Your nose scrunches at how thin that sounds, at how much more you feel like you deserve. "Okay.” The word comes out slowly, although you do your best to keep your voice light. "I get that. I just wish you had texted me or something."
He looks like you from the corner of his eye, not even bothering to turn his head fully. Then, “alright, my bad.”
You force yourself to nod, just to end the conversation, before turning back toward the front of the classroom just as the professor begins setting up the lecture slides. The words on the screen blur together as you attempt to focus, but your mind keeps replaying the interaction over and over again. Was it too much to expect a proper apology? You can’t help but think that the Jungwon of five months ago would've handled this differently.
The rest of the lecture passes in silence.
Usually, you and Jungwon walk out together afterward to go to the library or cafe. Today, you pack your bag and leave without sparing him a glance.
At night, you lie awake staring at the ceiling, hating how much power one person has over your emotions. It makes you want to shake yourself. You’re about to graduate from university, for crying out loud! You’re not some high schooler anymore; shit like this shouldn’t get to you, but it does.
When you interact with him, your entire day brightens. The bare minimum, like one joke, one smile, or one small gesture, and suddenly you feel euphoric. But when he feels distant or doesn’t seem to pay you any attention, it ruins everything. Today, your entire mood hinged on a conversation that lasted less than ten seconds.
Less than ten seconds!
You turn onto your side, pulling your blanket closer, your phone sitting untouched on your nightstand as your mind wanders off to a place it’s never dared to explore. Have you just been imagining it all, him pulling away and acting differently? It’s as if something between the two of you has shifted. Or it could be that there was nothing there to begin with.
The thought is painful enough that you instantly try to push it away, but once it appears, you can't seem to get rid of it.
Did Jungwon ever actually like you? Because when you like someone, you want to spend time with them, you look for excuses to talk to them, you notice when they're gone, you make an effort.
You have spent years convincing yourself that there was this thing between the two of you. The shared moments, lingering glances, casual touches, inside jokes. You have replayed conversations so many times that you could probably recite his own words back to him. It couldn't all have been nothing, right? There's no way.
A realization settles somewhere deep in your chest, heavy and uncomfortable.
Frustratingly, your eyes begin to burn. You squeeze them shut, willing the tears away before they have the chance to fall.
—
Along with the last weeks of the semester, comes a resolve. A resolve to get over him. To enjoy the little time you have left of university and allow yourself to exist without Yang Jungwon taking up so much space in your life.
At first, it's liberating. You hadn't realized how much energy you'd been pouring into thinking about him until you finally stopped. Now, you can hang out with your friends without being that one person who can't stop bringing up some guy, and your friendships are better for it. The version of you from first, second, or even third year would never have believed you could go nearly a month without talking to Jungwon. And yet here you are, deep in your fourth-year glory, proving it's possible after all.
For a while, you believe that this is it, that getting over him wouldn’t be nearly as hard as you anticipated it would be. Except, faintly, in a hidden corner in the deepest, darkest crevices of your heart, you note that he hasn’t even tried on his end of the friendship. He hasn’t cared to reach out to you, only interacting in the shared group chat. And while you do see him attending group hangouts, he’s really only there physically, and even then, sometimes he’ll leave early or just stay to the side, too busy being preoccupied with his phone. Has he always been like this, and you just chose not to see it? Were you always the one initiating things? You'd like to think not, but honestly, you don't know anymore.
The only two times his name appears on your phone for the rest of the school year are when he needs something.
jungwon: hey do you have the notes from yesterday's lecture? couldn’t make it to class today
And because old habits die hard, you send them over. The second time, however, you find yourself hesitating.
jungwon: missed another lecture sry. notes??
His audacity should be studied, you surmise. You don’t owe him anything!
you: no sorry, come to class next time
jungwon: alr i’ll just ask jake then
you: kk
As hapless as it may be, not a single ounce of guilt courses through your veins. You’re past the point of deluding yourself that he likes you based on some arbitrary interactions, and you’re no longer going to try to get him to like you by doing random tasks that, in any other world, he wouldn’t need help with.
During the last group get-together of the semester before finals, your friends notice the change. Yunjin’s eyes flick between you and Jungwon as she takes a sip of her drink, brows furrowed in confusion. “Are you seriously not even going to say hi?”
Shaking your head, you look around the room “Nah, we’ve already waved eachother.”
That earns you a suspicious look. "Okay...?"
You chuckle, bringing your hand up to pat her shoulder. "Yunjin, I'm fine."
She doesn't look completely convinced, and neither do Chaewon and Kazuha once they clock it too. Throughout the night, they keep trying, doing things like trying to casually suggest getting another drink from the kitchen when Jungwon is there, or steering the conversation toward wherever he’s sitting. You’re on the receiving end of increasingly unsubtle looks every time he walks past, your friends essentially begging you to make a move, though to no success.
—
The final nail in the coffin is the night before graduation, on a walk down the same streets you’ve walked thousands of times.
There is something oddly comforting in it, knowing that soon enough these familiar paths will no longer be part of your daily routine, that the late night visits to the convenience store and the early morning gym sessions before campus grows crowded will fade into memory. Everything feels a little more sentimental now, pulled down by the knowledge that tomorrow marks the end of this particular chapter of your life.
Jake walks beside you as the two of you take your last late night walk as university students, reminiscing about the memories made over the years: some of them silly, some surprisingly tender. He has always been your safe space, a friend who has never once judged you for anything, and maybe that's why the confession slips out so easily.
“Jake?”
“Hm?”
You stare below at the pavement beneath your feet, watching your shoes move with each step. "You know I've had the biggest crush on Jungwon for the longest time, right?"
After a small pause, "yeah," he says quietly, "I know."
"Ugh, I honestly thought something was going to happen this year."
"I don't know why,” you continue, “I think I had some wild delusion that after all these years of knowing each other, something would eventually change." You laugh self-deprecatingly, "Obviously not."
To you right, Jake doesn’t laugh. Instead, he looks ahead, his expression thoughtful. "For a while I thought he liked you too.”
Your steps falter. “What?”
He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "Like, there were moments where I was pretty sure. The way he acted around you sometimes..."
You kick lightly at a loose pebble on the sidewalk; it skitters ahead. "Yeah, well, whatever he felt for me wasn't romantic."
It is at this moment that Jake turns to face you fully, and the expression that paints his features has your lips pursing in immediate suspicion. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Hearing him say your name so gently is enough to send your stomach twisting into nervous knots. With the hesitation lacing his voice and his obvious refusal to meet your eyes, you feel as though you already know what's to come. “I’m sorry I’m the one telling you this.”
“Telling me what?”
Jake looks genuinely upset. “Jungwon has a girlfriend now.”
At first you don’t react, not because you don't understand what he means, but because your brain seems to reject the information before it can fully settle. You had spent this entire semester slowly coming to terms with the fact that Jungwon probably didn't see you the way you saw him, and that was fine. You were able to accept that him not returning your feelings wasn’t going to ruin your life, and that once you let go of any expectations, the ache would eventually fade. But this is different.
Knowing he doesn't like you is one thing. Knowing he likes someone else is another.
The world around you continues moving, completely unaware that something inside you just broke. You hope it’s not your heart.
“Who?” Your voice cracks.
Hesitating again, Jake watches you carefully, reluctant to cause you any more pain. "I think they met at Yeonjun's party."
Ah.
He doesn’t need to explain any further; your mind has already filled in the blanks. She’s the girl who grabbed Jungwon's arm when he came back with drinks, the one he was talking to for the rest of the night while you waited for him to come back to your group. The girl he had been texting when everyone went out for snacks after the party, who somehow became more important than the lectures he stopped showing up to, more important than spending quality time with his friends, and evidently, you.
All of a sudden, everything makes sense.
You feel the familiar sting growing behind your eyes and let out a small, broken laugh that doesn't sound like you at all. "This is so embarrassing," you whisper, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to bury your face in both hands.
The tears come quickly after that, and you hate how easily they fall, hate that after all this time, after convincing yourself you were finally moving on, you were just lying to yourself. You don't want Jake to see you like this, not over something that feels so foolish and immature, but you're only human, and you wear your emotions like a badge.
"Hey," he says tenderly from beside you. Your friend’s hand settle against your back, rubbing slowly as he tries to offer as much comfort as he can. His voice is soft when he speaks again. "It's not embarrassing, okay? I promise it's not."
Still, the reassurance only serves to tighten your throat more. Your voice is muffled behind your hands when you choke out, "It just hurts so much.”
And Jungwon having a girlfriend somehow isn’t even the worst part of this revelation. It is the realization that for almost four whole years, you carried around this hope that maybe one day he’d finally make a move, and yeah, he was making moves, just not on you.
You can’t stop your thoughts as they spiral, searching through every possible version of events, every moment where you wonder if you could have done something differently. What if you had told him in first year? What if you had been more obvious? What if you met him at that party, instead of her? What if, what if, what if.
"I'm so stupid," you rasp, shaking.
Jake immediately shakes his head, squeezing your shoulder. "No, you're not."
Out of all the emotions crowding your chest right now, you’re surprised to find that anger isnt one of them. It couldnt be. Jungwon never promised you anything, or intentionally gave you false hope.
He was kind to you, he cared about you, and he treated you like a friend. The problem was that you took every small act of kindness and every moment of platonic intimacy and built them into something bigger because you wanted them to mean more, despite them not having that deeper message you were looking for. And when you broke through that façade and saw his actions for what they really were, you didn’t know what to think. He didn’t start hating you or ignoring you on purpose; he just got a girlfriend.
You wish you could go back to first year and tell yourself not to bother, because now, with graduation only a day away, all you can think about is how much time you lost on him.
---
A/N: there will be a part two!! i split it bc there will be a time skip, and i didn't feel it meshed well all in one fic. i will keep the taglist the same for pt2 but please comment if you want to be added! comments & reblogs are always appreciated :)
⌞ +18 ⌝ you and your best friend sunghoon spend months preparing to move in together as roomates— from furniture shopping to pinterest moodboards, you’ve got it all planned. But when— two weeks before moving in, he starts dating someone— the appartment suddenly feels like a very bad idea…
❪ 20k ❫ ｡ ❛ 박성훈 ❜ 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 𝑖𝑛 best friends to lovers !
MDNI .ᐟ.ᐟ smut, fluff, jealousy, very possessive sunghoon, unprotected sex piv, oral, alcohol consumption, friends to lovers, voyeurism (interrupting sex multiple times), sexual tension, over the clothes stuff. messy ‘friends’ dynamics, rom com, messy characters they don’t know what they want, questionable behaviours sometimes, fast paced. college au, other enha members. ──── m.list
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THE THING ABOUT SUNGHOON, is that he's genuinely capable of having good taste in decoration— if he tries really really hard.
Sometimes, on rare occasions, he'll have breakthroughs; he'll find a random ceramic plate at the supermarket, one that has the particularity of- for once- looking decent, and he'll buy it for you, wrapping a little bow around it in guise of covering the price tag.
Other times— well, most of the time, he'll bypass the moodboards and color grades you send him daily— instead finding the ugliest items possible and calling them ‘gorgeous’.
Sunghoon has the taste of an 89 grandma hooked on life support— and he's shameless about it.
He folds everytime he sees something ugly- it's actually starting to become funny. Like this one time, he sent you a link for the ugliest table cloth ever made, called it ‘western vintage’— when it look like it could've been a substitute for toilet paper during the covid pandemic.
To sum up, you wouldn't let him touch your mood boards with a 10'' pole. Sunghoon is incapable of color coordinating things— so much so that you're almost certain he's color blind but just won't say it.
The man thinks neon orange and mustard yellow look good together, for fuck's sake.
But unlike his decoration skills— he's a master at hunting for apartments, that he is.
Ever since you started talking about moving in together— he's taken up a true realtor hobby the way he spends all his time on housing websites. There's not a day that goes by without him sending documents over— scheduling visits, handling it all.
You'd rate him a 12/10 in terms of reliability.
The decoration part though? A minus 78.
Sunghoon's an accomplished man however tacky his taste in household items is— the kind you see and think 'oh damn he's got it under control'. It's not so much about his broad back and big arms- but rather his self restraint, assertiveness and stance. He reeks of success and power even when he parades none of it— which is probably why women (and men) line up to get a taste of him.
But don't fool yourself, Park Sunghoon indulges in none of that. No no, he keeps to himself— careful and reserved, never letting anyone get too close; he deliberately chooses not to entertain hedonistic habits and instead, surrounds himself with an elite of handpicked, exclusive friends.
You are one of the lucky people Sunghoon chooses to let in— you met by happenstance; during your first year of highschool, back when you'd go back and forth between Seoul and the outskirts to visit your divorced mom, and he just so happened to be on a train with you one day. You spent the next few hours in said train because of technical difficulties, and bonded over the last bottle of water you carried in your bag during a heatwave.
Friendship, sometimes, begins with nothing grander than that.
Over the years, you maintained the same relationship— close but not too close, with enough privacy to allow a drawn line. Sunghoon knew not everything but only a few big secrets of yours— that was how you sustained the equilibrium. You knew most parts of him— his kind, thoughtful and attentive side, inclusive of his darker and broodier side.
But you had no idea what he looked like when he was all in— when there were feelings involved, so naturally you couldn't claim to know him entirely.
You both applied to the same college and hung out any chance you got during the first years, alternating between his home— a high-end penthouse— and yours. Sunghoon was good company, he had good taste in music and movies— knew how to entertain and cook, and had a very specific kind of humor that you so happened to like.
He had long pianist fingers despite being terrible at instruments, he took care of his nails like they were a mirror of his soul— and had tan lines from his expensive Audemars Piquet watch, which he kept religiously in a safe. He wasn't a man of luxury, yet, he liked gifting expensive things to family and in consequence, you.
At the top of the list of things you loved about Park Sunghoon, sat his habit of always skipping songs in his playlist and listening to them all the way through.
He gave a chance to everything, second chances included.
In second was that he could spend hours in a bookstore without buying anything— he never said know to hang outs at the museum and never pretended to like something for convenience.
You could spend hours talking about the things that make Park Sunghoon who he is— the little patterns in his daily life that constituted a special place in yours, by constant exposure.
But what you cant really elaborate on is why you two linked the way you did— why it feels so fusional— yet never transcends the line between platonic and questionable.
In brief, that's how —through a fortunate set of circumstances— you ended up making the decision to live with Park Sunghoon.
You push the oversized cart through the wide aisles of the furniture store, wheels squeaking against the floor, while Sunghoon walks beside you like he owns the damn place. His broad shoulders brush against yours every few steps, and he's got that half-smirk on his face—the one that says he knows exactly how ridiculous this whole trip is but he's indulging you anyway.
The moodboard you printed out (the one you spent three sleepless nights perfecting on Canva) is crumpled in your free hand, colors and swatches already starting to smear from how many times you've waved it at him like a battle flag.
"Sunghoon, I swear to god, get your nasty eyes off that floral chair before I leave you here," you say, steering the cart sharply away from a display of hideous patterned armchairs that look like they belong in your grandma's attic.
He laughs, low and warm, the sound rumbling through his chest as he reaches over to snag the moodboard from your fingers. "Come on, it's vintage. You said you wanted vintage."
"You're acting like you know anything about 'vintage', give it back to me," you shoot back, snatching the paper back.
Your inside voice is begging to know why you even tolerate this idiot so much— when his taste is actual garbage. But out loud you just roll your eyes and bump the cart into his hip. "Stick to the moodboard. Beige, sage, warm wood tones. Neutral with pops of green. That's the assignment dick face."
Sunghoon leans on the cart handle, his long fingers drumming against the metal. Those fingers that always look too elegant for someone who once tried to convince you neon orange throw pillows were "classy".
He's wearing a simple black t shirt today, stupidly expensive wraparound sunglasses resting on his nose, but he still manages to look like he walked out of a magazine. People keep glancing at him as they pass— women, mostly— and you feel like the little black sheep; like you're somehow gonna get beat up just for standing next to him.
"Fine, fine. Safe, whatever you say boss," he says, but his eyes are already drifting toward a section of overly ornate side tables. "But hear me out—one statement piece. Something with personality."
"Personality for you means ugly," you mutter, but you're smiling. You can't help it— he has such an old-person soul.
You turn into the living room section, rows of sofas stretching out of sight; Sunghoon grabs a throw pillow from a display and holds it up dramatically. It's mustard yellow. Of course it is.
"See? This would look great with the neon orange you're so scared of," he says, wiggling his eyebrows.
"You're colorblind man. I'm calling your mom later and telling her to get you tested." You yank the pillow out of his hands and toss it back onto the shelf with exaggerated disgust. "We're getting the charcoal sectional. It's on the moodboard. Page three. Look at the damn moodboard, Hoon."
He's laughing again, that genuine one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger than the composed, successful version of himself he likes to portray. "You're so bossy when you're nesting. It's cute."
"Fuck off," you say, but there's no heat in it. You're both pushing the cart now, shoulders bumping on purpose. The conversation flows easy, the way it always does with him—l ike slipping into warm water after a long day.
"Okay but seriously," you continue, steering toward the modular sofas, "the sectional has to be big enough for everyone. Housewarming party is happening whether you like it or not. We need space for people to sprawl but also it needs to look good enough for pictures."
"Yeah, sounds right." Sunghoon nods, running a hand through his dark hair. "Speaking of housewarming party, you should send out invites. But we're not doing it the first week. Let's actually unpack before we have seven idiots destroying our new place."
'Our place,' your mind echoes, the words feeling a little too big. This has always been your dream, finding someone you truly hit it off with and move together. But you always thought it would be a girl for some reason... not a 6ft-something man.
"Right. Anyway, Jungwon and Riki are not allowed near the drinks unsupervised. Those two get tipsy off one beer. Remember last time? I don't wanna go through that again."
Sunghoon snorts, grabbing a fabric swatch from a nearby display and rubbing it between his fingers like he's some kind of expert. "Jungwon gets emotional when he's drunk, it's hilarious. We'll put them on snack duty, or water duty. Make them the responsible ones for once."
"Yeah. Let Jay and Heeseung handle the drinks, Jake can DJ or whatever shit he wants to do. Sunoo will probably show up with flowers and make everything look ten times better than we could anyway." You stop the cart in front of a massive L-shaped sectional in a perfect warm gray. It matches the moodboard almost exactly. "This one. This is it. Sit on it."
Sunghoon drops onto the cushions with zero hesitation, spreading his long legs out and patting the spot next to him. "Come test it. Make sure it doesn't hurt your back.”
You sit, sinking into the fabric. It's comfortable, really comfortable. "It's perfect. Soft but not too soft. And at least it doesn't look like a grandma passed away on it."
"Damn okay," he says, but he's grinning. "I still think that one tablecloth had potential."
"That tablecloth looked awful. We're never speaking of it again." You lean back, shoulder to shoulder with him on the display sofa. "Okay, furniture plan: this sectional, the wooden coffee table —not the one with the weird carvings you liked— and those floating shelves for the books. No ugly ceramic stuff unless I approve it first."
He turns his head toward you, close enough that you can smell his cologne— something clean and expensive that always lingers on your clothes after hanging out. "You're really not letting me have any input, huh?"
"Your input is vetoed for life after the neon orange thing. I still have nightmares about that absolute shit of a color combo." You poke his arm, "But fine. You can pick the plants. Within reason. No carnivorous ones or anything that'll die in two weeks because you forget to water them."
Sunghoon's eyes light up like you just handed him the keys to a new luxury car. "Plants? Really? I get full control?"
"Limited control," you correct quickly, already regretting it as you both stand up and start pushing the cart again toward the greenery section. "I'm watching you. One ugly plant and it's going in the trash. No— you're going in the trash."
The plant aisle is a jungle of green— monstera, fiddle leaf figs, snake plants, pothos hanging everywhere. Sunghoon immediately beelines for a dramatic-looking plant with variegated leaves that honestly looks kind of cursed.
"No," you say flatly, grabbing the cart handle to stop him. "That one looks dangerous. Pick something normal."
"It's a prayer plant," he argues, turning the pot around to show you the tag. "It folds its leaves at night. Cute, right? Western vintage."
You burst out laughing, the sound echoing a little too loud in the aisle. A couple nearby glances over, but you don't care.
"You and your fucking western vintage. Get the monstera, it's a classic. Hard to kill and matches the moodboard."
He raises one eyebrow. "You're killing my vision."
"Your vision needs to be euthanized Sunghoon please." But you're smiling as you say it, and you end up compromising on two monsteras and one smaller prayer plant because apparently you're weak.
You load them carefully into the cart, leaves brushing against your arms.
As you wander deeper into the store, the conversation drifts. Sunghoon picks up a set of minimalist ceramic plates— actually decent ones, for once— and holds them up for approval.
"These are... good," you admit grudgingly.
He chuckles, remembering the supermarket plate incident. "See? I can have taste. When I try really hard."
"Rarely. Don't get cocky." You add them to the cart.
Your mind is racing with details: how the apartment will look with his stuff mixed with yours, how his piano (the one he barely plays but keeps because it "looks sophisticated") will fit in the corner, whether the lighting in the new place will make his tan lines even more obvious when he's cooking shirtless like he sometimes does — wait what?
"What about the housewarming menu?" you ask, changing the subject before your thoughts spiral. "Jay will wanna take over the kitchen. We should let him— he's the only one who won't burn water. Jake can bring desserts, Sunoo will handle the vibe and... Heeseung... can sit there— I guess."
Sunghoon nods, pushing the cart with one hand while scrolling through his phone with the other, probably adding things to the apartment checklist you made. "And we keep Jungwon and Riki on hydration duty."
"Exactly. Lightweight kings." You laugh, imagining it.
The cart is filling up— throw blankets in approved colors, a couple of lamps that don't scream "granny's house," some simple glassware. Every item feels like another brick in this new shared life. It's exciting and yet terrifying.
You stop in the bedroom section because, of course you do and Sunghoon eyes a massive bed frame with a dramatic headboard.
"Don't even think about it," you warn. "Simple. Platform bed. No weird carvings."
"But it has presence," he teases, flopping down on the display mattress dramatically. He pats the space beside him again. "Test it with me. Important decision."
You hesitate for half a second— this is how rumors start— before climbing on. The mattress is firm but comfortable.
Sunghoon turns on his side to face you, head propped on his hand.
"Admit it," he says softly, that reserved smile playing on his lips. "This is gonna be good. Even if my taste is shit."
"Your taste is atrocious. But yeah... it's gonna be good. As long as you let me control 90% of the decorating and you keep handling the apartment paperwork like the reliable slave you are."
He laughs quietly. "i’m so good at apartment hunting, right?"
"Exactly." You stare at the ceiling for a moment, both of you lying there on the display bed like idiots. "Party guest list is locked. No randoms. Just the group."
"Deal." Sunghoon sits up, offering you a hand to pull you up too.
You continue through the aisles, banter never stopping and he tries to sneak a hideous abstract sculpture into the cart; you catch him and replace it with a sleek wooden one.
You argue over rug textures— "This one feels like a cloud, Hoon." "It looks like puke."— and laugh until your sides hurt.
By the time the cart is overflowing and you're heading toward checkout, the sun is dipping lower outside the store windows.
You pay (splitting it because that's how you two do things—fair, balanced), and as you wheel everything out toward his car, you can't stop smiling.
Being best friends with a member of the male species, is a really weird thing. See, people tend to view you completely differently when they learn that your best friend is in fact a tall buff guy who happens to be rich. They immediately think, there's no way you're "just friends."
That a guy like him— would never settle for platonic with someone like you. They assume you're fucking, or at least that you're one wrong grocery run away from it.
You've heard the whispers, seen the side-eyes. Hell, even some of the group has thrown in a sly comment or two over the years. But you know where you stand with Sunghoon. Best friends. Ride-or-die. The kind of bond that doesn't need labels to feel solid.
You're both loading the last of the bags into the trunk when Sunghoon's phone buzzes. He pulls it out, checks the screen, and gets this weird little smile, not his usual half-smirk, something you've never seen before. You shrug it off though, it's probably his mom sending another recipe or one of the guys in the group chat. Whatever.
"Everything good?" you ask, tossing the last bag in.
"Yeah," he says, pocketing the phone. "Nothing important."
You head out of the store, arms aching from hauling all the items. Before you can even complain, Sunghoon's already reaching over.
"Let me carry that, you're tired," he says, grabbing the heavier bags like they're nothing.
You trail behind him with the lighter stuff and the plants, both of you looking like a married couple fresh off a furniture run. The thought flickers through your head for half a second and you immediately drop it.
Nope. Not elaborating on that. Giving it any weight just makes shit weird.
But see— you’ve lied a lot from the get go. Since the introduction you’ve said quite a lot of false things— the biggest one being, “it’s purely platonic between me and Park Sunghoon.”
God knows even the most perfect things have cracks in them, right?
The drive back is easy, windows down, your playlist skipping through songs like always because you have the attention span of a goldfish when it comes to music. You're already mentally arranging the living room, trying to picture where the monstera will look best without clashing with his inevitable ugly finds.
"You're not sneaking that funny plant into the main area, by the way," you tell him, poking his arm. "It's going in a corner."
Sunghoon laughs. "You're so dramatic. Jeez."
"Dramatic my ass. It looks like it belongs in a haunted house. We're sticking to the moodboard, dickhead."
He just grins, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "You're lucky I take care of the actual important stuff. Otherwise you'd be living in a beige prison."
"Beige prison is better than neon orange hell," you shoot back, grinning. "Stick to hunting apartments like a neat freak."
By the time you pull up to your building, the sun's almost gone. Sunghoon kills the engine and helps haul everything upstairs without being asked, the two of you bumping shoulders in the elevator like always.
In 3 weeks, you and Park Sunghoon will be living together, life is good.
๑ஓ๑ஓ
Life is NOT good. Fuck life. You're standing in your bathroom, shivering in a towel after what was supposed to be a quick shower but turned into a goddamn ice bath.
The water went from lukewarm to straight-up arctic in under thirty seconds. No hot water. Again. Your ancient landlord has been "looking into it" for two weeks, which is code for doing absolutely jack shit.
You're tired, your hair is half-washed, and you have a morning lecture tomorrow. So you do the only logical thing: you call Jake.
"Dude, I'm dying. My shower is spitting ice cubes. You're the only one I know who's good with this plumbing crap. Please save me."
Jake laughs on the other end. "Yeah, yeah, I'm on my way. Gimme twenty."
Twenty minutes later there's a knock at your door and you open it to find not just Jake, but the whole circus: Jake with a toolbox, Sunghoon looking unfairly put-together in a black hoodie, and Heeseung trailing behind with a bag of snacks like they're here for a movie night instead of a plumbing emergency.
"You said you were coming, not bringing the entire zoo," you groan, stepping aside to let them in.
Jake grins, already kicking off his shoes. "They were with me when you called. Couldn't leave them behind. Sunghoon said he's an expert at watching other people work, and Heeseung brought chips."
"Team morale," Heeseung adds solemnly, holding up the bag. "Also I'm excellent at moral support."
You wrap your hoodie tighter around yourself. "Fine. Just fix my shit before I freeze to death."
Jake heads straight to the bathroom while you, Sunghoon, and Heeseung camp out in your tiny living room. The conversation flows easy, the way it always does with them.
"Uni is kicking my ass," you complain, flopping onto the couch. "Rent's going up again next month and my part-time job pays like shit. Being an adult is a scam."
"Tell me about it," Heeseung says through a mouthful of chips. "I'm living off instant ramen. My landlord raised the rent too— said it's 'market rate.' Market rate my ass. I'll market rate his ass, see how that goes."
Sunghoon leans against the wall, arms crossed, looking amused. "You two are dramatic. Just move somewhere better."
"Easy for you to say, Mr. Penthouse," you shoot back. "Some of us aren't out here swimming in good credit scores."
From the bathroom, Jake's voice echoes. "Pass me the wrench! And stop complaining about rent—the sink is fixed in like five minutes, watch."
You hear clinking and cursing as Jake works. Sunghoon eventually wanders over to "supervise" (aka stand there looking pretty while Jake does everything). You and Heeseung keep chatting about stupid professors, upcoming deadlines, and how none of you can afford to eat out anymore without feeling guilty.
Jake emerges twenty minutes later, wiping his hands. "Fixed. Your hot water heater was just throwing a tantrum. Should be good now."
"You're a godsend," you tell him, genuinely relieved. "I owe you dinner or something."
"Make it the good ramen, not the cheap shit," Jake says, grinning.
You're all sprawled out now, snacks open, relaxed. Sunghoon sits on the arm of the couch, close enough that you catch a whiff of his cologne— clean, expensive, the same one he's worn for years. For some reason it hits different tonight but you shake it off.
Then, casually, like he's commenting on the weather, Sunghoon says, "By the way, I met someone on that group outing last weekend. Mina. She's cool. We're grabbing coffee sometime."
Ah. Nice?
You blink, forcing a smile. "Oh? That's great, Hoon. She sounds nice. You should go for it."
Inside, there's this weird little twist in your stomach. Not jealousy or anything dramatic—just... off. The type of feeling that makes you want to jackhammer the "?????" button on your keyboard.
You push it down immediately. Supportive friend mode. That's where you stand bitch.
He nods, that reserved smile appearing. "Yeah, we'll see. She's into photography or something. Might be fun."
Jake and Heeseung immediately pile on with teasing questions, the conversation shifting into typical guy shit-talk about dating apps and whatnot. You laugh along, throwing in jokes about Sunghoon's questionable taste in everything except women, apparently.
But that faint twist lingers as you breathe in his cologne again.
You tell yourself it's nothing. Just a weird day. Life's already been kicking your ass with cold showers— you don't need to overthink this too.
๑ஓ๑ஓ
You're the biggest overthinker the world has ever known. It's been one week before move-in and your brain won't shut the fuck up. Ever since Sunghoon casually dropped the Mina news, you've been spiraling in the most ridiculous way possible.
What if he turns into one of those dudes who gets a girlfriend and suddenly disappears? The type who's glued to her 24/7, canceling plans and turning your shared apartment into her second home.
Would she have a problem with you being there? Some girls get weird about their boyfriend living with a female best friend, even if it's been strictly platonic for years…
And honestly? How the hell does someone even start dating a guy knowing he's about to move in with a girl?
Sure, you know there's nothing there, but not everyone gets that. People already assume shit when they see you two together.
You keep telling yourself it's fine, that nothing's going to change, but your brain is a professional at inventing problems that don't exist yet
You're still overthinking it when you meet Sunghoon and the landlord at the new apartment for the final walkthrough.
The place looks even better than you remembered— sunlight pouring in, fresh paint, that perfect spot in the living room for the charcoal sectional. The landlord drones on about the terms, pointing out outlets and explaining the heating system.
You nod along, trying to focus on the important stuff.
Sunghoon's only half there, his phone keeps buzzing and he's texting back with that small, distracted smile. You don't have to ask who it is. Mina. Of course.
"Everything looks good to me," you say, signing your part of the lease after the landlord walks you through the final checklist. Sunghoon signs right after, barely glancing up from his screen before sliding it back.
"Cool," he mutters, typing another reply. "We're good then.”
The landlord leaves and you're both standing in the empty living room, keys in hand. It should feel exciting—this is your place now—but your stomach is doing that stupid twist again.
๑ஓ๑ஓ
Later that night you're both at his current place, surrounded by half-packed boxes, eating takeout on the floor like broke uni students. Except well… you're the only one that's actually broke.
Sunghoon's in a good mood, legs stretched out, picking at his food.
"She's really cool, you know?" he says suddenly, eyes lighting up in that rare, genuine way. "Mina. We talked for like three hours last night. She gets my humor and she's into the same movies. I think you'd like her actually."
You force a smile, swallowing the weird knot in your throat.
"That's awesome, Hoon. I'm happy for you. Seriously. If she puts up with your neon orange taste, she must be a saint."
He chuckles, leaning back against the couch. "She called my prayer plant 'interesting.' That's good right?."
You laugh along, poking at your noodles. "Just don't let her convince you to buy more ugly shit before we move in. I'm not redecorating around someone else's terrible vision."
"Deal." He bumps your shoulder with his. "It'll be fine. You know I wouldn't bring someone around if I thought it'd mess things up."
"Yeah," you say, lying through your teeth. "I'm really happy for you."
Inside, your brain is still overthinking.
What if she hates that he lives with you?
What if things shift and you become the awkward third wheel in your own apartment? But you shove it down. This is Sunghoon. Your best friend.
You know where you stand.
At least erm... you hope you do?
๑ஓ๑ஓ
You don't know where you stand. You don't know whether to stand on top of a cliff or a bridge actually.
One wrong gust of wind and you're either plummeting into the abyss of "i'm jealous because that's MY friend" or swan-diving into the river of "this is fine, everything's fine, I'm totally not spiraling."
Move-in day is pure chaos. Boxes stacked like a Tetris game, bubble wrap popping underfoot, and the scent of new cardboard mixed with Sunghoon's stupidly expensive cologne that's somehow already infiltrating every corner. The charcoal sectional is half-assembled in the living room, looking majestic against the fresh walls, and the monstera plants are perched on the windowsill like leafy green bodyguards.
You're both on the floor surrounded by Ikea instructions that might as well be written in ancient Sumerian; Sunghoon's got that focused look on his face— brows furrowed, fingers turning an allen key —while you're holding up a dubious plank and praying it's not upside down.
"Pass me the weird little L-shaped thing," he says without looking up, hair falling into his eyes.
You toss it over. "This one? Or the torture device thingy?"
He catches it mid-air, smirks. "Both could be torture devices. Have you seen how many screws are left? Feels like we're building a medieval catapult."
You snort, leaning back on your hands. "Knowing your taste, it'll probably end up looking like a medieval catapult anyway"
He laughs and bumps your knee with his. "You love my taste. Admit it. The prayer plant is thriving already. It's a sexy ass plant."
"It's in the corner where no one can see it," you fire back, but you're grinning like an idiot.
This is the good part. The easy part. The two of you knee-deep in cardboard and allen keys, trading insults like always.
You spent the morning blasting your playlist (the one he hates but secretly vibes to anyway), arguing over where the floating shelves should go, and pretending the whole Mina situation wasn't sitting in your stomach like week-old takeout.
For a while, it almost feels normal. Like the last ten years of friendship compressed into one messy, sweaty afternoon of building a life together. He teases you about your obsessive moodboard adherence— you threaten to burn his ugly abstract sculpture if he tries sneaking it in again.
Sunghoon makes you coffee in the new kitchen (because of course he already knows where everything is packed— efficient king) and you both sit on the half-built sectional, shoulders brushing, legs tangled in bubble wrap.
"You're really good at this nesting shit," he says, nudging your foot. "Bossy as hell, but good.”
"Someone has to keep everything in check," you reply, poking his arm.
God, his arms. Why are they like that? Broad and stupidly solid from whatever rich-guy gym routine he does. You yank your brain back by the collar before it starts cataloging his tan lines again. Not today, Satan.
Sunghoon checks his phone at some point; a small, distracted smile creeps onto his face— the same one from the furniture store— and your insides do the twisty thing again. Harder this time.
"Shit, is it already that late?" He runs a hand through his hair. "I've got that thing with Mina tonight, coffee turned into dinner plans."
Of course it did.
You force the smile so hard your cheeks hurt. "Oh yeah? That's cool. Go have fun. I'll figure out where to put the Tv."
He hesitates for half a second, eyes flicking over the disaster zone. "You sure? I can push it back an hour—"
"Nah, go. Seriously. I've got this." Liar. Liar. Liaaaar. You wave him off like the supportive bestie you are, even though your brain is already screaming in 4K surround sound.
Sunghoon stands up, brushes dust off his pants, and gives you a reserved look that makes you feel seen in a way no one else does. "Text me if you need help carrying something. I'll bring reinforcements.”
"Or just more ugly plants," you mutter.
He laughs, leans down to ruffle your hair like you're twelve again, and then he's gone. The door clicks shut behind him and the apartment suddenly feels ten times bigger. Emptier. The monstera leaves rustle in the breeze from the open window like they're gossiping about you.
You sit there on the floor in the half-finished living room, surrounded by half-built furniture and your own thoughts. The charcoal sectional looks perfect, exactly like the moodboard, but now it just feels... off. Like it's waiting for something. Or someone. Probably Mina's perfume or her photography prints or whatever perfect, non-colorblind girl shit she brings to the table.
"Fuck," you whisper to no one, dragging a hand down your face.
Your brain, that treacherous bitch, immediately launches into overdrive.
What if she comes over after the date? What if she stays the night? What if she has amazing taste and suddenly the prayer plant migrates to the center of the room and you have to pretend it doesn't look like a haunted house reject? What if he starts canceling furniture trips and playlist sessions because he's too busy being all couple-y?
Yeah, you're being dramatic. C'mon.
You flop backward onto the rug (the non-puke one, thank you very much) and stare at the ceiling.
You don't know where you stand. Platonic soulmate? Roommate? The girl who's been friend-zoned so hard she's developing altitude sickness from the height of the friend zone? Or—worse—the girl who's been secretly jealous now that someone else might actually take him?
The worst part is you do like Mina from the little he's said. She sounds cool, funny and plus she’s into the same movies. The kind of person who'd probably get along with the group. Which makes this whole internal meltdown even more pathetic.
You groan and roll over, face-planting into a pile of bubble wrap. It pops sadly under your cheek.
"Get your shit together stupid cunt." you mumble to yourself.
But as the sun dips lower and paints the empty walls golden, you stay there on the floor, the apartment half-alive around you, boxes everywhere, plants watching.
You really don't know where you stand. And that terrifies you more than any ugly tablecloth ever could.
๑ஓ๑ஓ
You don't know how the hell a week can feel both brand new and like you've been doing this forever.
Living with Sunghoon is supposed to be the seamless extension of a decade of friendship, right? Best friends turned roommates. Easy. Natural.
Except nothing feels easy when every morning starts with the low hum of his voice through the wall and the sound of running water that makes your brain short-circuit in ways it absolutely should not.
The first full week hits like a fever dream.
Mornings are the worst— or the most dangerous, depending on how honest you're willing to be with yourself. You wake up to the soft clatter of him in the kitchen, the rich smell of coffee already brewing because Sunghoon is that kind of person.
The kind who sets the timer the night before so you both have something decent before uni swallows you whole.
You shuffle out of your room in an oversized hoodie and sleep shorts, hair looking like a bird's nest, and there he is— already dressed in a crisp button-down that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
"Hey," he says, voice still a little rough from sleep as he slides a mug toward you across the counter. Black with one sugar, exactly how you like it. His fingers brush yours for a second and you pretend it doesn't send a stupid spark up your arm. "Sleep okay? You were tossing around last night. Heard the bed creak."
Jesus Christ, he heard the bed creak? Your face heats up instantly. "Yeah, just... weird dreams. Thanks for the coffee, lifesaver."
Sunghoon leans against the counter, watching you with a quiet, attentive look that always makes you feel like he's seeing more than you want him to. "If the mattress is shit, we can swap rooms. Or I'll order a new topper today. No big deal."
You wave him off, hiding behind the mug. "It's fine, Hoon. Really. Don't go spending your trust fund on my ass."
He chuckles softly, the sound warm and low, and reaches over to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Too late. Already added it to the list. Eat something before you run out the door."
The gesture lingers— his knuckles grazed your cheek for half a second, and now you're standing there like an idiot, heart doing obnoxious cartwheels while he casually plates some eggs and toast.
It's caring. He's always been caring.
But in this apartment, with just the two of you and no group buffer, it feels... different. Intimate in a way that makes your stomach flip and your brain scream abort mission, friend zone only.
๑ஓ๑ஓ
Uni days blur together in the usual mess of lectures, group projects, and shitty campus coffee that you now compare unfavorably to whatever magic Sunghoon brews at home.
You text him between classes— stupid shit, memes, complaints about your professor's monotone voice—and he replies with voice notes that are way too soothing for someone who's probably in the middle of his own packed schedule.
By the time you drag yourself home most afternoons, he's already there or arrives shortly after, shedding his jacket and asking about your day like he actually wants the full rundown.
One evening you come back soaked from a sudden downpour, cursing the weather gods under your breath— Sunghoon takes one look at you dripping all over the entryway and disappears into the bathroom, returning with a towel and one of his hoodies.
"You're gonna catch a cold," he murmurs, draping the towel over your head and rubbing gently. His hands are careful, almost tender, as he dries your hair. "Go change. I'll heat up some soup. Jay sent over extra from his latest kitchen ...experiment."
You stand there like a drowned rat, letting him fuss because fighting it feels pointless when he gets that determined look. "You don't have to baby me, dude. I'm not five."
"Could've fooled me with the way you're shivering." He smiles, that small reserved one that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and gives your shoulder a light squeeze before heading to the kitchen. "Besides, I like taking care of you. Someone has to."
What the fuck does that mean?
You pull on his hoodie— because of course it smells like him, clean and expensive and stupidly comforting—and shuffle back out. He's at the stove, stirring the soup with focused precision, brow slightly furrowed like this is a critical mission. His sleeves are rolled up again, exposing those tan lines from his watch, and the way the muscles in his forearms shift as he works...
You tear your eyes away and hop onto the counter beside him. "Smells good, you're spoiling me this week."
Sunghoon glances over, eyes soft. "That's the plan. You've been stressing about midterms, figured good food might help." He ladles a bowl and hands it to you, fingers brushing again.
Deliberate? Accidental? Your brain doesn't know anymore.
Evenings melt into this weird domestic rhythm. You study on the sectional while he works on his laptop across from you, legs tangled under the coffee table because neither of you moves them. He'll reach over randomly to hand you a snack or adjust the lamp so the light hits your notes better. "Don't strain your eyes," he says one night, voice low and serious. You mumble thanks and try not to notice how close his knee is to yours.
The friendship is still there— solid, easy, full of banter. You roast each other over dinner, recreate ridiculous inside jokes from high school, and bicker like always. But underneath it, something's shifting. Or maybe it's just you. Probably just you and your overthinking ass.
Thursday night is when it really hits. You're exhausted from a brutal day of back-to-back classes and come home to find him fresh out of the shower.
He's in the kitchen again— because Sunghoon cooks when he's thinking— wearing only low-slung sweatpants and no shirt. Bare shoulders still damp, water droplets tracing paths down the smooth lines of his back as he chops vegetables with that same focused expression. The kind where his jaw tightens just a little and his long fingers handle the knife like it's an extension of himself.
You freeze in the doorway like a creep, mouth suddenly dry.
Holy shit. When did his shoulders get like that? Broad, defined, carrying the kind of quiet strength that makes you want to trace them with your fingers and then immediately slap yourself for the thought. He's always been hot, objectively. You knew that. But living together means seeing him like this—post-shower glow, relaxed in your shared space—and your brain is filing it away for later torture.
He looks up, catches you staring, and offers a small smile. "Hey. Rough day? You look like you need a hug dwarf."
Before you can respond, he's crossing the room and pulling you into one of those hugs— one arm wraps around your waist, the other hand cradling the back of your head against his bare chest. He's warm from the shower, skin still slightly damp, and he smells like his body wash and home. "Missed you today," he murmurs against your hair. "Tell me about it while I finish dinner?"
What the— fuck???
You nod against him, arms circling his waist because what else are you supposed to do? It feels too good. Too right. Too fucking ambiguous.
Sunghoon holds you a beat longer than necessary before letting go and returning to the stove like nothing happened.
You perch on a stool, watching him cook and thhat focused look returns— the slight furrow, the way he tastes the sauce and adjusts seasoning with care. "You're really good at this," you say, trying to keep your voice light.
He shrugs, shoulders rolling beautifully. "Learned for moments like this. Can't have you surviving on instant ramen forever, right?”
Your heart does something traitorous. Caring. Always so damn caring.
Later, while you're both on the couch pretending to watch a movie, his phone buzzes. He checks it, that soft smile appearing— the Mina smile—and excuses himself to the balcony. "Gotta take this real quick."
You try to focus on the screen. You really do. But the balcony door doesn't close all the way, and his voice carries on the night breeze.
"...Yeah, I know. This week's been crazy with the move-in, but it's good having her here. Makes the place feel less empty." A pause. "No, she's great, you'd like her. We've been friends forever." Another pause, softer. "Dinner tomorrow sounds perfect, Mina. I'll pick you up after your last class. Can't wait to see you."
The jealousy sparks hot and ugly in your chest, like someone struck a match against your ribs.
She'd like her? We've been friends forever? You know it's true. You know you're the one who's always been there.
But hearing him talk to her in that warm tone while you're sitting here in his hoodie, stomach full of his cooking, makes you want to throw something. Preferably at your own stupid feelings.
You curl tighter into the corner of the sectional, pulling the blanket up like armor. Get a grip. He's allowed to date. You're happy for him. Mostly.
But the spark lingers, fanning into quiet flames every time you picture him with her. Does he hug Mina like that? Does he cook for her like that? Does he tuck her hair back and offer to swap rooms because he heard her bed creak?
You're a bitch. The kind of bitch girlfriends are scared of.
Friday morning brings another intimate routine moment. You're in the bathroom brushing your teeth when he walks in shirtless again, towel slung low on his hips from his shower, hair wet and tousled. "Sorry, forgot my watch," he says casually, reaching past you. His bare arm brushes your shoulder, and you nearly choke on toothpaste.
"No problem," you mumble around the brush, eyes glued to the sink. In the mirror, you catch him glancing at you— soft, concerned, maybe something else. He lingers a second longer than needed.
"You okay? You've been quiet since last night."
Because I overheard you being all boyfriend-y with Mina and now I'm noticing how your shoulders look like they could bench-press my whole body— goofy ass.
"Just tired. Midterms."
He nods, squeezing your shoulder gently. "We'll order in tonight, my treat. And I'll handle the dishes so you can crash early."
"Sunghoon, you don't—"
"I want to," he cuts in, voice firm but kind. That ambiguous caring again, the kind that makes you question every platonic boundary you thought was rock solid.
The rest of the week follows the same pattern: mornings with coffee and subtle touches, days at uni where you text like always, evenings filled with his quiet caretaking. He leaves notes on the fridge ("Leftovers in the blue container—eat this, not the expired yogurt"), covers you with a blanket when you fall asleep studying, and listens to your rants about group project freeloaders with full attention, offering solutions and back rubs that feel way too nice.
By Sunday night, you're both exhausted on the couch, some old movie playing low. His arm drapes casually along the back of it, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. You're hyper-aware of every point of contact.
"You've been off," he says quietly during a lull. "Talk to me."
You shrug, heart pounding. "Just adjusting. Living together is... a lot."
He turns toward you, eyes searching. "In a bad way?" There's real worry there, mixed with something deeper. His hand drops to your knee, thumb stroking absently. Caring. So fucking caring it hurts.
"No," you whisper. "Not bad. Just... new.”
Sunghoon smiles, small and reserved, and pulls you into his side. "We'll figure it out, together.”
You lean into him, cheek against his shoulder— bare again because the motherfucker ditched the shirt after his post-gym shower— and let yourself pretend for a minute that the jealousy from the phone call doesn't exist. That the intimacy of shared mornings and his cooking focus and these ambiguous touches are just friendship.
But deep down, you know the spark is growing. You don't know where you stand, but with every caring gesture, every lingering look, every bare-shouldered moment in your new shared life, the line between best friend and something more feels thinner than ever.
And that terrifies you. Because what if he's just being Sunghoon— reliable, thoughtful—and you're the one reading too much into it? What if Mina is the one who gets the clearer version of his heart?
You close your eyes and breathe him in anyway. The week is over, but the confusion is just beginning. Fuck.
๑ஓ๑ஓ
The housewarming party is supposed to be fun. A celebration. Proof that you and Sunghoon can pull off this whole roommate thing without the universe imploding. Instead, it ‘surprisingly’ feels like stepping into a pressure cooker...
The guys show up right on time, loud as always, turning your half-settled apartment into a proper disaster zone within minutes. Jake bursts through the door first with a ridiculous stack of takeout bags and a speaker already blasting some Travis Scott song. "Housewarming kings! Where's the alcohol? We're christening this place properly."
"Kitchen counter," you call back, laughing despite the knot in your chest that has been tightening all week.
Sunghoon stays right behind you, one hand lightly on your lower back as he steers you out of Jake's path. "Careful, she's been on her feet all day helping set up, don't trample her motherfuckers."
Jake rolls his eyes but grins. "Yes, daddy."
Heeseung and Jay follow, arms loaded with more snacks and drinks, already bickering about some video game. Riki and Jungwon tumble in last, the maknaes immediately claiming the sectional like it is their throne, legs sprawled everywhere. Sunoo arrives with a soft, angelic smile and a bag of fancy desserts that makes everyone cheer.
For a while, it is perfect. The kind of easy energy yo've missed. You're all crammed together, passing plates, roasting each other mercilessly, the apartment filling with laughter and the clink of bottles.
Sunghoon stays close— refilling your drink before you even notice it is low, handing you a plate with your favorite bites arranged neatly because "you always forget to eat when you're hosting." His fingers brush your wrist each time, lingering just enough to make your skin hum.
"Stop hovering, Hoon," you mutter at one point, bumping his shoulder. But there is no heat in it. Secretly, you crave it. That quiet caretaking in front of everyone makes the ambiguous line blur even more.
He just smiles, reserved and warm. "Not hovering. Taking care of my favorite roommate."
"Only roommate," Jungwon teases from the couch, mouth full. "Unless Mina's moving in too?"
The name drops like a rock into still water. Sunghoon chuckles softly but doesn't deny it.
The party ramps up— music thumps, stories from uni and old high school memories fly around the room. You're in the middle of it, trading insults with Jake about his terrible DJ skills, when the doorbell rings again.
Sunghoon's face lights up in that specific way— the small, genuine smile reserved for someone new. "That's her."
Oh.
Mina steps in, pretty in a casual way that somehow makes your oversized hoodie and jeans feel sloppy. She has an easy laugh, a camera bag slung over her shoulder, and flowers in hand because, eh... of course she does. "Hi everyone! Sorry I'm late— traffic was brutal. These are for the new place."
The group greets her warmly; Sunoo immediately pulls her into a conversation about the flowers, Jay offers her a drink, and Riki starts asking about her photography like he's known her for years.
But your eyes are glued to Sunghoon as he greets her.
He hugs her— not the quick side-hug he gives the guys. A full one, arm around her waist, murmuring something low that makes her smile up at him. His hand lingers on her back the way it sometimes lingers on yours. Caring. Attentive. The same fucking way.
The apartment suddenly feels suffocating. Too small. Too full of their shared space and your racing thoughts.
Every time Sunghoon leans in to say something to her, every shared laugh, every time he makes sure she has food or adjusts the lighting because "the ambiance matters for photos, right?"—it claws at your insides.
Jealousy is not new, but this is sharper. Watching them together in your apartment, on the sectional you tested with him, in the kitchen where he cooked for you shirtless just days ago... it makes the walls close in.
You feel sick to your stomach.
You busy yourself in the kitchen, refilling snacks you obviously dont need to refill, forcing laughs when Jake cracks jokes. Inside, your brain is a fucking circus.
She fits. Look at them. He's glowing. Does he look at you like that? Are you just the comfortable best friend while she gets the real version? Fuck, why does it feel so weird?
Sunghoon catches your eye across the room at one point. His expression shifts— concerned, searching, he excuses himself from Mina mid-sentence and comes over, hand finding your elbow. "You good? You been quiet the last hour."
"Yeah, just tired from playing host," you lie, plastering on a smile. "Go enjoy your guest."
He studies you for a beat too long, thumb stroking your arm. "I'm here if you need anything, yeah?" The words are soft, ambiguous as hell, and they only make the knot worse.
Mina is great. Funny, genuine, easy to talk to. She compliments the place, asks you questions about your classes, even offers to take some group photos.
You hate how much you want to dislike her. The group loves her, Sunghoon keeps glancing between you two like he is hoping you'll click. And you do, on the surface.
But every time he touches her shoulder or laughs at her story, the suffocation grows until you feel like you're drowning in your own living room.
The party winds down eventually. Goodbyes, hugs, promises to do it again soon. Mina leaves with Sunghoon walking her to the elevator, their voices fading down the hall and you stay behind, cleaning up mechanically while the guys filter out with final teasing waves.
When Sunghoon comes back, the apartment is quieter than it has been in hours. Just the two of you, remnants of the party scattered like evidence of a crime scene.
He rolls up his sleeves and starts helping without being asked, gathering empty bottles, wiping counters; the silence stretches, awkward in a way it never used to be.
"You were good tonight," he says eventually, voice low as he dries a glass. "Everyone had a great time. Especially with you running point on the food."
You shrug, tossing napkins into the trash a little harder than necessary. "Team effort. Mina seems nice."
There. You said it. Neutral. Casual. Like it does not feel like swallowing glass.
Sunghoon pauses, setting the glass down. "She is. But... you were off after she got here. Did something happen?"
Yeah, watching you two felt like someone was vacuuming out my soul asshole.
You lean against the counter, arms crossed. "No. Just... first big thing in the new place. Adjusting."
Sunghoon steps closer. Too close. The kitchen light casts shadows on his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark eyes search yours with that quiet intensity. "Talk to me. Really talk. We've done the small talk thing all week. I know when something's bothering you."
The words hang there— akward small talk dissolving into something deeper, heavier. You can feel the shift in the air, thick and charged while he's giving you that caring look again— the one that makes boundaries feel imaginary.
You exhale shakily. "It's stupid. Seeing you with her... in here. It felt weird. Like I was intruding or something."
He doesn't laugh it off- doesn't pull back. Instead, he moves even closer, hands bracing on the counter on either side of you, caging you in without touching. "Youre not intruding. This is our place. Yours and mine. Mina's... she's new. You've been here through everything."
His voice is low, sincere— one hand lifts to brush your cheek, the same way he did that first morning. "I care about you. A lot. More than I probably let on most days. Living with you has been... good. Better than I expected, i dont want that to change."
Your heart hammers— the touch is gentle, thumb tracing your jaw like he is memorizing it, but it's ambiguous. So fucking ambiguous. Is this how best friends are supposed to comfort?
"Hoon..." you whisper, voice cracking. "What are we doing?"
He doesn't move away, his forehead nearly rests against yours, breath warm. "I know. I dont wanna fuck things up. You're important. The most important person in my life. We’ll figure it out together yeah?"
The conversation pulls you under— no more jokes, no more deflections. You tell him about the overthinking, the jealousy that surprises even you, the way you're scared this is going to get complicated and you'll no longer be his best friend.
You don't tell him about the real jealousy though— the silly, ugly one that makes you want to be in Mina's place— fuck that.
Sunghoon listens without interrupting, nodding, his hand eventually sliding to the back of your neck, massaging gently like he can ease the tension out.
"Im not good at this," he admits quietly when you finish. "Keeping things in neat boxes. With you, it's never been neat. But I don't regret asking you to move in. Not for a second."
You swallow hard. "Me neither. But Mina—"
"Is figuring things out," he finishes. "And so are we. I am not choosing. I'm just... here. With you."
After a while, Sunghoon presses a soft kiss to the top of your head before murmuring, "We'll be okay. Get some sleep. Ive got breakfast covered tomorrow."
You believe him. Mostly. But as you lie in bed later, replaying every touch, every word, the suffocating feeling from the party mixes with a new, fluttering hope.
This is going to get complicated. Really fucking complicated. This is not a friendship. There’s nothing friendly about this relationship.
๑ஓ๑ஓ
The week after the housewarming party drags like hangover you can't shake— everything's heavier now—the air in the apartment, the weight in your chest, the way Sunghoon's caring gestures twist between comfort and confusion.
It's late on a Thursday night when the emergency hits. You stumble through the door well past midnight, soaked from rain again because the universe hates you, eyes burning from hours of staring at a failed group project report your asshole teammates dumped on you last minute. Work-study has been kicking your ass, midterms are breathing down your neck, and everything just... sucks.
You don't even make it to your room before Sunghoon appears in the hallway, still in his lounge clothes, hair slightly messy like he's been waiting up. "Hey. Oop, rough day?" His voice is soft, instantly concerned. He takes one look at your dripping state and the defeated slump of your shoulders and pulls you straight into his arms without asking.
You melt into it before your brain can protest. He's warm, solid, smelling like home and his hand rubs slow circles on your back while the other cradles the back of your head. "Bad day?" he murmurs against your hair. "Tell me about it."
And you do. The words spill out in a messy ramble—shitty group members, endless revisions, the professor who doesn't give a fuck, the way rent's creeping up again.
He listens without interrupting, just holding you tighter, chin resting on top of your head. "You're doing your best. That's enough. I'll help with the report tomorrow if you want. Or we can order your favorite takeout."
The hug lingers— longer than it should. His arms stay wrapped around you, one hand sliding up to stroke your damp hair, thumb brushing your temple in that gentle way that makes your knees feel unreliable. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong against your cheek. It feels safe. Too safe.
Too much.
Your brain screams at you— this isn't just friendly. Or is it? Fuck, why does it feel like more every single time?
Maybe because this is highly fucked up— because friends don't act like that while having a girlfriend.
You pull away first, stepping back abruptly even though every cell in your body wants to stay. Confusion floods your face. "Thanks, Hoon. I... I should shower and crash. Sorry for dumping all that on you."
Sunghoon looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "You never have to apologize, get some rest. I'm here if you wake up and still feel like shit."
You nod and escape to your room, heart pounding. The hug stays with you long after the hot water runs out— his touch, his voice, the way he makes the bad day feel bearable.
But Mina's name echoes in the back of your mind like a warning. Youre a bitch for feeling this way about her man.
Mina starts coming over more after that. At first it's casual— dinner one night, movie the next. You try to be normal about it. You really do. But hearing her laugh from his room while they watch something on his laptop makes your stomach turn.
Their voices filter through the wall, low and easy, full of inside jokes you're not part of.
You bury yourself in your room with headphones, blasting music to drown them out, or claim you have late study sessions at the library just to avoid the common areas.
Sunghoon notices, of course. He always notices. He leaves little notes on the fridge—"Saved you some pasta. Eat, please."—or texts you during the day asking if you're okay, if you need anything.
One night he waits up again, catching you as you try to slip in quietly after a long day out.
"You've been avoiding the apartment," he says gently, leaning in the doorway to your room. "Is it because of Mina? Or... us?"
You shrug, avoiding his eyes. "Just busy. Uni's brutal right now."
He steps closer, hand reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. That caring touch again— fuck that. "You know you can talk to me, this is still our place. Don't disappear on me."
The words make your chest ache— youu nod, but the avoidance only gets worse.
Then comes the night that shatters whatever fragile denial you have left.
You told them you're going out— meeting a friend for drinks, staying late. You even make a show of getting dressed up and leaving at a reasonable hour. But the "friend" cancels last minute, and instead of finding somewhere else to go, you end up wandering the streets for a while before quietly letting yourself back in.
The apartment's dark except for the faint light coming from Sunghoon's room. His door's cracked open just enough.
You freeze in the hallway when you hear it.
Soft moans— the rhythmic creak of his bed. Mina's breathless laugh turning into a gasp and Sunghoon's low voice murmuring her name.
They think you're out. They have no idea you're standing there like a statue, heart hammering so hard you feel sick.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The sounds are unmistakable. Intimate. Real.
Your hands fly up to your ears, pressing hard like a child trying to block out a nightmare. It doesn't help, the images flood your brain anyway— his bare shoulders, that focused expression, the way he cares so deeply when he touches someone. Now he's touching her. In your shared apartment. While you stand outside like the pathetic third wheel you've become.
Tears burn your eyes as you tiptoe to your room, shutting the door as quietly as possible. You push your fingers deeper into your ears, curling up on your bed with your face buried in the pillow.
The frustration boils over into quiet, angry sobs. Why does this hurt so much? You knew this would happen. He's dating. You're just the best friend roommate. Get the fuck over it.
But you can't. The sounds eventually fade, but the ache stays. You lie there for hours, replaying every lingering hug, every caring gesture, every ambiguous moment— Sunghoon comforting you after your bad day, the way he pulled you close. The way you pulled away first, confused and scared.
You avoid him even more aggressively after that.
Early mornings to dodge breakfast together. Late nights at cafes pretending to study. Burying yourself in work until your eyes cross. Sunghoon tries— texts, notes, a soft knock on your door asking if you want to watch something— but you keep the walls up.
Inside, your thoughts spiral wildly. He's happy with her. Good for him. But why does hearing them together feel like someone's ripping out a piece of you? This is so fucked.
The apartment that once felt like home now feels like a minefield— every laugh from his room, every time Mina's shoes appear by the door, every lingering glance Sunghoon gives you when he thinks you're not looking —it all builds until you're not sure how much longer you can keep pretending everything's fine.
You don't know where you stand anymore, and the worst part is, Sunghoon still looks at you like he wants to pull you back into one of those long hugs and fix it all. But you're not sure a hug can fix this kind of mess.
Not when your heart's screaming what your mouth refuses to say.
๑ஓ๑ஓ
The grocery run is supposed to be quick and easy. Just the usual Sunday restock— but obviously everything feels loaded lately, like one wrong word could blow up the fragile peace you've been faking
You're pushing the cart while Sunghoon walks beside you, tossing things in. He's been extra since the night you overheard him and Mina— leaving notes, making sure you eat, checking in with soft "you okay?" texts. It's driving you insane because it feels too much and not enough at the same time.
"Grab the oat milk?" he asks, reaching for his usual protein bars.
You nod, but when he puts another pack of those ugly off-brand snacks in the cart— the ones you hate because they taste like cardboard— you snap.
"Seriously? We talked about this. Stop buying shit we don't need just because it's on sale."
Sunghoon blinks, surprised. "It's not a big deal. I thought you might want options."
"It is a big deal when I'm the one trying to keep the kitchen from turning into a junkyard while you're playing house with Mina every other night." The words fly out sharper than you mean them to. Your voice cracks a little at the end and you hate it.
Sunghoon's jaw tightens. "Playing house? That's what you think this is?"
The aisle feels too narrow. People glance over but you don't care, this is your first real argument as roommates and it's happening under shitty fluorescent lights next to the cereal.
"You've been distant as fuck," he says, voice low but heated. "I try to check on you, you shut me out. I bring Mina around and you disappear. What do you want from me?"
"I don't know!" You grip the cart handle until your knuckles hurt. "I just... everything's weird now and I'm tired, okay?"
He looks hurt- actually hurt. "You think this is easy for me? Watching you pull away?"
You don't answer. You just abandon the cart in the middle of the aisle and walk out to the car, chest tight with regret and anger and that stupid fucking longing you can't kill.
The drive home is silent, when you get back to the apartment you disappear into your room and bury yourself in assignments, headphones on full blast.
An hour later there's a soft knock. Sunghoon opens the door a crack, holding your favorite beer— the expensive one you only treat yourself to on good days.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly, stepping inside. "I shouldn't have pushed. And I'm sorry if having Mina here makes you feel like shit. That's not what I want."
You stare at the beer like it's personally attacking you. The domesticity of it— the way he remembered your favorite, the way he's standing in your room trying to fix things after a dumb fight over snacks— hits you like a truck. It feels like couple shit.
You take the bottle with shaky hands. "Thanks. I'm sorry I snapped. I've just been... in my head a lot."
He sits on the edge of your bed, close but not touching. "We're okay?"
"Yeah," you lie, because saying anything else right now would open floodgates you're not ready for. "We're okay."
But as he gives you that small, caring smile and leaves you with the beer, the domestic weight settles heavy in your chest. Fuck. This is getting harder every day.
๑ஓ๑ஓ
Tonight, you're sitting on the sectional alone tonight, the apartment quiet. Sunghoon's out with Mina again.
Instead of spiraling like usual, your brain drags you back to high school— those early days when everything was simpler and the line between you two hadn't blurred into this mess.
Flashback hits hard— you're fifteen again, stuck on that delayed train with him, sharing the last bottle of water like it's some sacred pact. That's where it started. Friendship born from boredom and bad luck.
Prom night memories flood in. You got rejected by the guy you liked— some idiot who said you were "too much like a sister." You cried in the bathroom until Sunghoon found you— he ditched his own date, showed up in his rented tux with snacks he stole from the refreshments table.
"Fuck him," he'd said, sitting on the gross bathroom floor with you. "You're way better than that loser anyway. We'll dance right here if you want. Or we can bail and get convenience store beer."
You laughed through the tears, he stayed with you all night, no questions, no judgment. Just steady, caring Sunghoon. The same way he held you after your parents' divorce shit got bad—when your mom moved away and you felt like the world was splitting. He'd show up at your door with bad movies and shoulder to cry on.
"You're not alone in this," he told you back then, voice serious even at seventeen. "I got you. Always."
You're yanked back to the present when the front door clicks open— Sunghoon steps in, still in the hoodie he left in earlier— he sees you on the couch and his face softens immediately
"Hey. You're home." He kicks off his shoes and comes over without hesitation, dropping down beside you. "Mina had an early thing tomorrow so I came back. You okay?"
You shrug, "Just thinking about old shit. Prom. When my family was falling apart. You were always there, fixing things."
Sunghoon watches you carefully. "I still am. Even if it feels different now."
The contrast hits like a slap. Back then it was easy— pure support, no jealousy, no hearing him with someone else through the walls. Now every caring gesture feels loaded. Every "I got you" carries new weight.
"You remember when you stayed over after my mom's call about the divorce?" you ask quietly. "We fell asleep watching those terrible horror movies and you held my hand the whole night because I was shaking."
He nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, i remember. I didn't want you to feel alone for even a second."
You swallow hard. "Feels like we're both alone in the same apartment these days."
Sunghoon shifts closer, his knee pressing against yours. "We don't have to be." His hand finds yours, squeezing gently —the same way he did years ago. "I know things are messy... but I'm still here. Like I was back then."
He was your rock in high school, the one who supported you through every rejection, every family crisis. Now that same rock feels like it's cracking under the weight of unspoken feelings and another girl's laughter in his room.
You don't pull your hand away. "I miss how simple it was," you whisper.
"Me too," he admits, thumb stroking the back of your hand. "But we're still us. We'll figure the rest out.”
You want to believe him, you really do. But as the memories of carefree high school support clash with the complicated mess you're living in now, the inside voice won't shut up.
How the fuck do you go back to simple when everything feels this complicated?
You decide it's time to move the fuck on.
At least that's what you tell yourself when you agree to the casual date with Minjun from your psych class. He's cute, funny enough in lectures, and most importantly— he's not Sunghoon. No complicated history, no shared apartment, no Mina in the picture. Just a simple coffee that turns into dinner and maybe a walk.
The kind of thing that might loosen the knot in your chest, right?
You get ready in your room, sliding into a little black top that shows just enough skin to feel good but not desperate. When you step out, Sunghoon's in the kitchen grabbing water, his eyes drag over you slowly— down the curve of your waist, the bare skin at your collarbone, back up to your face. The look is dark. Hungry, almost?
"You going out?" His voice is low, casual on the surface but edged with something more.
"Yeah. Date with Minjun." You grab your bag, trying to sound breezy. "Don't wait up."
He sets the glass down harder than necessary. "Minjun? The guy who sits in the back and barely talks? You sure that's a good idea?"
You raise an eyebrow. "It's just coffee and dinner, Hoon. I'm not marrying him."
Sunghoon steps closer, crowding your space in that way he does without realizing— or maybe he does. His gaze drops for a split second before flicking back up. "Just be careful. Text me if anything feels off, I don't trust random dudes with you."
The protectiveness hits different tonight, it's more than friendly concern. His hand brushes your arm as you pass, fingers lingering on your skin like he wants to pull you right back.
Heat pools low in your stomach. Fuck. Why does he have to look at you like that? Like he wants to ruin you right here against the counter. Does he even fucking notice?
But you force yourself out the door anyway.
The date is... fine. Minjun's nice. He laughs at your jokes, pays for dinner, walks you to the door like a gentleman.
There's zero spark though. No butterflies, no insane pull that makes you forget how to speak. Every time he touches your lower back, your brain supplies Sunghoon's face instead. Sunghoon's hands. Sunghoon's dark eyes raking over your body.
By the time you get home it's late— the apartment's quiet except for the TV in the living room. Sunghoon's passed out on the couch, one arm slung over his stomach, shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin at his waist. His hair's messy, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling in steady breaths.
You should go to your room.
Instead you stand there like a creep, staring.
The sexual tension from earlier comes rushing back hard— if it was even ever sexual... you imagine waking him up with your mouth on his neck, his hands gripping your hips, that protective growl turning into something filthy while he fucks the confusion out of you right there on the couch.
God, you're pathetic. Heat floods your face and between your thighs.
He looks so good like this— relaxed, vulnerable, broad shoulders taking up half the couch. You want to crawl on top of him. Want to trace those tan lines with your tongue. Want things you definitely shouldn't want from your best friend.
But then the cold slap of reality hits.
He's probably just being a possessive friend. That's all. He has Mina. He laughs with her in his room, fucks her when he thinks you're gone. The protective bullshit tonight? That's just Sunghoon being Sunghoon— the guy who's looked out for you since high school.
Not because he wants you the way you're starting to need him. He's not lying awake thinking about you the same way, he's not burning up with this unbearable tension every time you're in the same room.
You're the one reading too much into lingering touches and dark looks. You're the idiot catching feelings while he's just... comfortable. Possessive because you've always been his safe person, not because he's imagining you naked.
The realization stings like hell. You tear your eyes away from his sleeping form, chest tight, and slip quietly into your room.
You change into an oversized tee and crawl into bed, pressing your thighs together to ease the ache that won't go away. The apartment feels smaller than ever, Sunghoon's right there on the couch, looking like every dirty fantasy you've been trying to kill, and all you can think is how much it hurts that he probably doesn't feel the same.
Get it together.
๑ஓ๑ஓ
Week seven hits like a goddamn freight train. The tension in the apartment has been building since that night you stared at Sunghoon asleep on the couch like a horny idiot. You've been trying—really trying—to keep your distance, burying yourself in assignments and forcing yourself on more "moving on" dates that go nowhere. But the universe has other plans.
See, you were supposed to be gone for the whole weekend. A cheap bus trip with some girls from your program to escape the city and clear your head. But the trip got conveniently canceled last minute— rain washed out the whole thing—so you drag your tired ass back to the apartment Friday night instead, earlier than expected.
You don't even text Sunghoon. Figured he'd be out or chilling alone.
Big fucking mistake.
The second you push the door open, you hear it.
Moans. Loud, breathy, unmistakable. The wet slap of skin. Sunghoon's low groan that shoots straight between your legs before the ache in your chest takes over.
You freeze in the entryway, keys still in your hand.
The door to his room is wide open like they didn't even bother closing it properly, and there they are— Sunghoon fucking Mina on his bed, her legs wrapped around his waist, his bare back flexing with every thrust. His shoulders— the ones you've been fantasizing about—are glistening with sweat. He looks so good it hurts, hips snapping forward, one hand gripping her thigh hard enough to leave marks.
Your stomach drops. A weird, deep aching feeling blooms in your chest and spreads like poison. It's not just jealousy. It's visceral. Like someone's reached in and twisted everything you've been trying to ignore.
Seeing him like this— raw, lost in pleasure, giving someone else what your body has been craving in secret—makes you feel sick and devastated all at once.
"Fuck— Hoon," Mina gasps, and the sound snaps you out of it.
You drop your bag with a loud thud and they both jolt apart. Sunghoon's head whips toward the door, eyes wide with shock and Mina scrambles for the sheet, face flushed.
Sunghoon sits up fast, pulling the blanket over his lap. "Shit— I didn't know you'd be back early."
The concern in his voice only makes it worse. He's still hard, still naked under that sheet, and he's looking at you with that caring expression like he didn't just shatter the last bit of peace in this apartment.
Mina, to her credit, looks mortified. But then she opens her mouth and makes it so much worse. "This is exactly why we need more privacy, Hoon. Maybe... maybe you should think about moving out. Just us having our own space would be better for everyone."
The words hang in the air like a bomb.
Sunghoon doesn't immediately shut it down— no, he hesitates, running a hand through his messy hair, glancing between you two. That split second of silence is enough to light the fuse.
"This was supposed to be our place." The words rip out of you ugly. "You and me, Sunghoon. Not you, me, and your girlfriend. I moved in with you. Not some couple's retreat where I get to walk in on you fucking while I'm supposed to be gone for the weekend. For fucks sake just give a girl a warning?"
Tears burn your eyes but you don't let them fall.
"I've been walking on eggshells for weeks, avoiding my own fucking living room because I can't stand hearing you two. And now you wanna move out? Like I'm the problem here?"
Sunghoon stands up, wrapping the sheet around his waist, looking torn. "That's not— Mina, don't say shit like that right now. This isn't the time."
"But it's true," Mina says quietly, pulling her clothes on. “This situation is weird for everyone."
"Weird?" You laugh, but it sounds broken. "Yeah, it's real fucking weird watching the guy I've been best friends with for years rail his girlfriend in the apartment we picked together. I didn't wanna see that okay?"
You can still see the image of Sunghoon's hips moving, the way his muscles flexed, burned into your brain. Your body reacts even now— traitorous heat mixing with the ache in your chest—and it makes you hate yourself a little more.
And God, you know you’re being a bitch. But it hurts.
Sunghoon steps toward you, "Hey i'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to see that. We should've closed the door, I wasn't thinking—"
"You never are lately," you snap, stepping back. "Not about how this affects me. This was supposed to be our place, Hoon. Remember? The one you said would be good for us. Now it just feels like I'm crashing your relationship."
Mina slips out of the room awkwardly, murmuring something about giving you two space and the door to the apartment clicks shut behind her a minute later.
Sunghoon stands there in nothing but the sheet, looking devastated and guilty and still so fucking attractive it's unfair.
"I didn't agree to anything. I'm not moving out. This is our apartment. I just... I didn't know how to say no to her without making it worse."
You shake your head, the aching feeling spreading until it feels like your ribs are cracking. "Doesn't matter. The fact that you didn't shut it down immediately says enough. I'm gonna go stay somewhere else tonight, I can't be here right now."
He reaches for you but you dodge his hand. The almost-touch burns worse than if he'd actually grabbed you.
"Don't," you whisper. "Not tonight."
You grab your bag and leave before he can say anything else.
The image of him fucking her follows you the whole way down the stairs, mixing with the memory of his heated stare the night of your date. The sexual tension, the protectiveness, the caring touches—they all feel like lies now.
This was supposed to be your place. Yours and his.
Now it just feels like he's playing with a little bit of everything. Does he even know what he’s doing ? Does he even notice how ambiguous he acts?
The cold shoulder lasts for days. You come back the next morning after crashing on a friend's couch, but the apartment feels like a war zone— silent except for tense hallway passings and the occasional awkward "excuse me" when you both reach for the same cabinet.
Sunghoon tries at first. He leaves coffee on the counter with a note that just says "sorry" and your name in his neat handwriting. You dump it down the sink without drinking it, childish as always.
You can feel him noticing the changes. The way you come home later, earbuds always in, the way you don't linger in the kitchen anymore. The way you flinch a little when his door opens. He watches you with those dark eyes, brow furrowed like he's trying to solve a problem he created.
You catch him staring more than once— lingering on your legs when you walk past in shorts, on the way your shirt rides up when you reach for something. The tension hasn't died— oh no, if anything, the fight made it worse— it simmers under every stiff interaction, thick and unbearable.
By day four the silence is killing you both.
Then the power outage hits on Friday night, so convenient. A storm rolls in hard, lights flicker once and die completely, the whole building goes dark, you're in the living room when it happens, laptop dead on your lap, cursing under your breath.
"Shit," Sunghoon mutters from the hallway. He appears a second later with his phone flashlight, looking rumpled in a black t-shirt and sweats. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Your voice is flat, you stand up, but the room feels smaller already.
He disappears for a minute and comes back with candles— emergency ones you both bought during move-in. The warm glow flickers across his face as he sets them on the coffee table. "Old school vibes, huh?"
You don't answer, but you don't leave either.
He scrolls through his phone and connects to a portable speaker. Your old playlist— the one from high school with all the songs you used to listen together— starts playing low; the familiar beats hit you right in the chest.
Sunghoon sits on the other end of the sectional, close enough that you feel the heat from his body. "You've been avoiding me like the plague."
"Can you blame me?" you mutter, pulling your knees up.
He winces. "I fucked up. I should've shut that down immediately, this is our place. I meant that."
The candlelight makes everything feel too intimate, his eyes keep dropping to your mouth, then lower, tracing the neckline of your tank top. You're hyper-aware of every breath he takes, the way his thighs spread when he leans forward. Tension coils tight in your stomach.
You want to climb into his lap and kiss the guilt off his face. Want his hands on you the way they were on her. Want him to ruin the friendship in the best and worst way possible.
"I know things feel different," Sunghoon says suddenly, voice rough and low. "Between us. I can't explain why. It's not just the fight. Living together... it's messing with my head. You walk around and I—" He cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck. I don't know what I'm saying."
Your heart slams against your ribs— he's looking at you like he wants to devour you. It builds slowly—both of you leaning in without deciding to, breaths mingling, his gaze dark and heavy. You can smell his cologne mixed with the rain outside.
His hand brushes your knee, then slides higher, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh in a way that's definitely not platonic and heat rushes through you.
God, just do it. Kiss me. Touch me. Make this aching stop.
Your lips are inches apart, you can feel his breath, warm and shaky. His fingers press firmer on your thigh, grip tightening like he's barely holding back and —
His phone rings. His fucking. phone. rings.
Mina's name lights up the screen, bright and obnoxious in the candlelit dark.
Sunghoon freezes, he glances at it, then back at you, conflict written all over his face— the moment shatters.
You pull back fast, like you've been burned. "Answer it.“
He hesitates, thumb hovering over the screen, but the call keeps ringing.
You stand up on shaky legs. "I'm going to bed. Enjoy the candles."
As you walk away, leaving him sitting there with the phone still ringing, the inside voice screams louder than ever.
He almost kissed you. But he still has her on speed dial. This is so fucking messed up.
๑ஓ๑ஓ
The thought of leaving doesn't hit you all at once. It creeps in slowly, starts the morning after the power outage. You wake up to the sound of Sunghoon moving around the kitchen, probably making coffee like always. The memory of his hand on your thigh, his breath on your lips, the way he looked at you like he was starving— it all crashes back. Then Mina's name lighting up his phone, the almost-kiss interrupted. Again.
You lie in bed staring at the ceiling, chest tight.
This can't keep going on like this. You're torturing yourself every single day in this apartment, the images won't leave your head: him fucking Mina, the candlelight on his face, the way your body still reacts to him even when your brain knows better. You're exhausted from the constant tension, the cold shoulders, the aching want that never gets satisfied.
By noon you're on your laptop in a cafe far from home, scrolling through apartment listings. One-bedrooms. Studios. Anything that doesn't have fucking Park Sunghoon in it. Your hands shake as you save a few that look decent— small, expensive, but far enough away that you might actually breathe again. You tell yourself it's practical, rent is going up anyway. You need space to study. To stop wanting your best friend who's busy railing someone else in the next room.
You don't tell him. Not yet.
The next few days blur— you visit two places after class— one tiny studio with shitty lighting, another slightly better one with a window that overlooks a noisy street. You take pictures, ask questions about leases, and feel a weird mix of relief and grief every time you imagine packing your boxes.
This was supposed to be your place with him, it was also supposed to be purely platonic. But you're too big of a slut, turns out— and so is he.
You start packing in secret. Small things at first—a couple books, some clothes you don't wear often and you hide the boxes under your bed like a coward.
Every time you pass Sunghoon in the hallway the tension flares up again— he'll brush past you a little too close, eyes dark, and your body lights up even as your heart twists.
You catch him staring at your mouth when you're both in the kitchen.
He catches you looking at his bare shoulders after his shower but neither of you says anything— the air so thick with it you could cut it with a knife.
By the end of the week you've put a deposit on a tiny studio two subway stops away. It's smaller, more expensive, and nothing like the home you built here. But it's yours.
You're in the middle of quietly moving some winter clothes into a suitcase when it all comes crashing down.
It's 2am. You can't sleep— ugh again—so you slip into the kitchen for water. The apartment is dark except for the fridge light when you open it, you're standing there in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, barefoot, when Sunghoon appears in the doorway like a ghost.
He's shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair messy from sleep. The sight of him hits you like a punch all tan lines, broad chest, that fucking focused expression even when he's half-awake.
"You're leaving," he says. It's not a question— his voice is rough, raw; he's holding a piece of paper—one of the apartment listing printouts you accidentally left on the counter earlier.
You freeze, glass of water halfway to your mouth. "How did you—"
"I saw the boxes under your bed when I was looking for the spare charger." He steps closer, eyes blazing. "You're actually doing it. You're moving out."
The raw emotions spill before you can stop them.
"Yeah, I am." Your voice cracks. "I can't do this anymore, Sunghoon. I can't keep living here like this—"
Sunghoon looks like you slapped him— the audacity. "You think this is easy for me? You think I don't feel it too?"
"Well you have a fucking girlfriend." The words explode out, loud in the quiet kitchen. "Why do you look at me like that and touch me like that, huh? I just don't get it."
Sunghoon crowds you against the counter before you can escape; his body presses close, one hand gripping your hip, the other bracing on the counter beside you.
"Because I'm scared," he admits, voice low and broken. "I don't want you to leave— God, I don't want you to leave. This was supposed to be our place. You and me. I can't imagine coming home and you not being here."
His forehead drops to yours— breaths mingle. His hand slides under the hem of your t-shirt, palm hot against your bare waist, thumb stroking the skin just under your ribs. You shiver hard as his other hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you flush against him. The outline of his cock presses right where you need it and you have to bite back a moan.
Now that you think about it, the line's always been thin— if this was all it took for you to cross it. You were living in delusion, talking about how platonic you both were.
"Sunghoon..." you whisper, voice trembling.
His fingers trace higher under your shirt, brushing the underside of your breast. Your traitorous nipples harden instantly under the thin fabric and he groans softly, hips rolling against yours in a slow, filthy grind. The friction makes your head spin.
You're so wet already it's embarrassing, thighs pressing together instinctively as he keeps that maddening pressure right against your core.
Why are you so easy?
"Been thinking about touching you like this for so long," he mutters, voice rough, his thumb circles your nipple through your shirt, teasing, while his other hand squeezes your ass, pulling you even harder against his erection. "You have no idea what you do to me. I don't even know why i'm doing this— it's so wrong."
The tension is unbearable, every roll of his hips sends sparks through you, you can feel how thick he is, how much he wants you— your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into bare skin as you fight the urge to grind back against him. His mouth hovers inches from yours, breath hot, but he doesn't close the gap. Just teases. Torments. His fingers keep playing with your breast, pinching lightly until you whimper.
"Fuck, you're so responsive," he breathes, lips brushing your ear.
You're losing it— the ache between your legs is painful now, your body screaming for more more more— his fingers inside you, his cock, anything. The kitchen counter digs into your back but all you can focus on is the heat of his body, the way he's holding you like he never wants to let go.
But then reality crashes back.
You push him off hard, hands on his chest— he stumbles back a step, breathing ragged, eyes dark with lust, sweatpants tented obscenely.
"You have a girlfriend," you say, voice shaking. Tears burn your eyes. "You can't do shit like this, Sunghoon. You can't touch me like that when she's the one you're actually with. I won't be the other woman in my own fucking apartment."
Sunghoon looks wrecked. "I know. I'm sorry. I just— I don't know what the hell I'm doing anymore. I don't even know..."
"Well, that's the problem. Im not a toy." You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly cold. "I'm moving out. I already put the deposit down."
Sunghoon steps forward again but stops when you flinch. The raw pain on his face mirrors your own. "Please don't go. We can figure this out. I'll talk to Mina. I'll end it if that's what you want. Just... don't leave."
The admission hangs heavy between you, it should feel like victory. Instead it just hurts more.
You shake your head, tears finally spilling over. "I didn't ask you to leave her. Just don't do this to her, or to me. It's mean— it's useless."
Sunghoon's eyes widen, he looks like he wants to pull you back against him, touch you again until you forget everything else. The tension is still there, pulsing between you like a living thing. But you can't. Not like this.
You step around him, heading for your room. "I'll start packing properly tomorrow. Please don't make this harder than it already is."
He doesn't follow you; but as you close your bedroom door, you hear him curse softly in the kitchen, the sound of something hitting the counter.
๑ஓ๑ஓ
The next few days are hell. You pack in bursts— clothes, books, the stupid little trinkets you bought together during vacations. Every box feels like another nail in the coffin of what you two had.
Sunghoon keeps his distance, but you catch him watching you— the tension never leaves, it's in every hallway pass, every time his fingers brush yours reaching for the same thing. You're both walking around the apartment like it's wired with explosives.
Mina shows up on wednesday evening.
You're in the kitchen making instant ramen when she knocks. Sunghoon's out— probably at the library or avoiding the war zone you both created; she stands in the doorway looking uncomfortable but determined, hair up in a messy bun, wearing one of his hoodies that makes your stomach twist.
"Hey," she says quietly. "Can we talk?"
You almost laugh. Talk? Sure, let's chat about how you’re slowly dying inside while her boyfriend grinds on you in the middle of the night. But you nod and gesture to the couch. The same one where everything almost fell apart.
She sits, twisting her hands in her lap. "I can feel the tension every time I come over. It's not just awkward anymore. It's... heavy. Sunghoon's been distant as hell and I know part of it is because of you two living together. The history. All of it."
You stare at your ramen, appetite gone. Inside, your brain is screaming. 'Yeah, the history where I stupidly want him and he's been touching me like he wants to fuck me senseless while dating you'. But you keep your mouth shut.
"It's complicated," you say instead, voice tight. "We've been best friends forever. Moving in together changed shit. Made boundaries blurry. I'm sorry if it's been weird for you."
Mina nods slowly, eyes shiny. "I appreciate you saying that. I'm not trying to start drama. I just... needed to know if I'm imagining things. The way he looks at you sometimes, the way the air gets when you're both in the same room…”
You swallow hard, forcing yourself not to spill everything. "We're figuring it out. Or trying to. I'm actually looking for my own place soon."
She looks surprised, then a little relieved. "That might be for the best. For all of us." She stands up, pulling the hoodie sleeves over her hands. "This whole situation is messy as fuck. Thanks for talking to me."
She leaves shortly after and you sit on the couch for a long time, the cold ramen forgotten. Not admitting it out loud doesn't make the feelings disappear. If anything, it makes them louder in your head.
You want Park Sunghoon. Deeply. Stupidly. And pretending otherwise is getting harder every day.
Later that night you hear them arguing through the wall. Not the full words— just raised voices, Sunghoon's low and frustrated, Mina's sharper. It goes on for twenty minutes before the front door slams— then silence.
Sunghoon breaks up with her the next day.
He doesn't tell you right away, you find out when her stuff slowly disappears from the apartment— no more extra toothbrush in the bathroom, no camera bag by the door. The relief hits first, warm and guilty— then the guilt eats at you.
You didn't ask him to end it, you told him not to play games. But you still feel like the villain in someone else's story.
You don't talk to Sunghoon after that night— not really. A few mumbled "morning"s and "excuse me"s in the hallway, but nothing real; the guilt and relief and fear sit heavy in the apartment like fog, but you push through it by convincing yourself you need to move on. For real this time.
Sunghoon isn't someone you should want, that's what you keep telling yourself as you tape up another box. You've already ruined too many things— the easy friendship, the roommate balance, even Mina's relationship. Wanting him now feels selfish and messy and doomed.
You need someone simple, someone who doesn't come with years of history and almost-touches that leave you aching for days.
So when Minjun texts asking if you're free this weekend, you say yes before you can overthink it.
The date is... fine. Dull as fuck, actually.
You meet him at a casual ramen place near campus. He's sweet, talking about his classes and some club he's in, laughing at his own jokes a little too hard. You smile and nod, asking the right questions, but your mind keeps drifting.
Sunghoon would've ordered the spicy one without asking. Sunghoon would've remembered you hate scallions. Sunghoon's hand on your thigh felt like fire—Minjun's fingers brushing yours feel like… nothing.
"This is nice," Minjun says halfway through, smiling across the table. "I've been wanting to do this again. You seem... I don't know, more relaxed tonight?"
You force a laugh. "Yeah, just trying new things."
The conversation stays surface-level. Grades, professors, weekend plans. Nothing that makes your heart race, nothing that makes you forget the way Sunghoon's body felt pressed against yours in the kitchen. By the end of dinner you're restless, a weird mix of disappointment and determination swirling in your chest.
On a whim, as you're walking out, you turn to him. "Wanna come back to my place? It's close."
Thot daughter habits never die...
Minjun looks surprised but pleased. "Yeah. I'd like that."
You text Sunghoon quickly on the way: hey, you gonna be home tonight?
His reply comes fast: No, heading to Jay's after the library. Why?
Just checking, you send back. Have fun.
Guilt twists in your stomach, but you shove it down. This is what moving on looks like and Sunghoon doesn't get to ruin this too.
The second you get inside the apartment you pull Minjun to the couch. He's surprised by the suddenness but goes with it, hands settling on your waist as you kiss him.
His lips are soft. Nice. But they don't spark anything wild; his body feels different—leaner, less solid than Sunghoon's broad frame. His hands slide up your sides carefully, almost polite, while your brain cruelly compares every touch.
Sunghoon would've gripped harder. Sunghoon's hands are bigger. Sunghoon's mouth would've been on your neck already, teasing like he knows exactly what you want.
You deepen the kiss anyway, trying to lose yourself in it. Minjun groans softly, pulling you closer until you're straddling his lap; his hands move to your ass, squeezing as he rolls his hips up.
It feels okay. Good, even.
But it's not electric, not the stomach-dropping, thigh-clenching heat you get from just Sunghoon brushing past you in the hallway.
This is fine. This is what normal feels like. You should want this.
Things get hotter fast— Minjun tugs your shirt up, hands sliding over your bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. You arch into him, letting his mouth move to your neck, sucking marks that make you gasp; then fingers dip under your bra, teasing your nipples until they harden. He's getting bolder, grinding up against you with clear intent, his hardness pressing right between your legs through your clothes.
You rock against him, chasing friction, but your mind won't shut up.
Sunghoon's cock felt thicker when he was grinding on you. Sunghoon's hands would've been rougher, more desperate. Sunghoon would've already had his fingers inside you, whispering filthy shit in your ear.
The comparisons make you feel guilty and turned on at the same time. You kiss Minjun harder, like you can drown out the thoughts.
He moans into your mouth, one hand slipping down to palm you through your jeans, rubbing with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. "Fuck, you're so hot," he mutters against your lips, voice shaky with want.
His other hand squeezes your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers. It feels good, your body even responds, hips moving faster against his hand, but it's missing that soul-crushing intensity. That feeling like you might die if he stops touching you.
You don't notice your phone ringing on the coffee table. Once. Twice. Then silent.
Minjun's hand fumbles with the button of your jeans, breath hot against your neck as he starts tugging them down your hips. You lift up to help him, desperate to feel something real,
— when the front door suddenly flies open.
Sunghoon steps in, keys still in his hand, and freezes mid-step.
For a second he can't even speak. His eyes go wide, mouth slightly open like the air got punched out of him, the color drains from his face as he takes in the scene— Minjun's hands halfway down your jeans, your shirt pushed up, your flushed, guilty expression.
He looks sick to his stomach, like he might actually throw up right there in the entryway.
"What the fuck," he finally chokes out, voice raw and broken. His knuckles are white around the keys.
Minjun scrambles, nearly shoving you off his lap in panic. "Shit—uh, hey man—"
"Get out," Sunghoon cuts him off, eyes locked on you. His voice is cold but you can see the storm behind it.
Minjun doesn't argue. He grabs his jacket and bolts, mumbling an awkward "sorry" as the door slams behind him.
The apartment falls dead silent. Sunghoon stands there, chest rising and falling hard, looking like someone just ripped his heart out and showed it to him.
You pull your shirt down with shaking hands, heart hammering.
The door slams so hard the walls shake— Minjun is gone, but the damage is done. Sunghoon stands there like a statue for three full seconds, then the storm breaks.
"What the actual fuck was that?" His voice starts low but builds fast, shaking with rage and something deeper. He drops his keys on the floor without caring, stepping closer. "You brought him here? To our couch? While I was gone?"
You stand up fast, tugging your clothes back into place, face burning with humiliation and anger. "Ah fuck's sake. You have no right."
"No right?" He laughs, but it's bitter and ugly. "I have every fucking right. This is still my apartment too. And you—" He gestures at you, eyes wild. "You were letting him touch you. His hands were in your jeans, for fuck's sake."
Your chest heaves, the guilt flips into pure fury. "And how many times did I have to hear you fucking Mina in the next room? How many times did I walk in on shit I never wanted to see? You don't get to do that now."
"I ended things with her" he shouts, stepping even closer. The possessiveness rolls off him in waves. "Because every time I touched her I was thinking about you. Because this—" He gestures between you two. "—has been driving me insane for months. And you go and bring some random dude here the second I'm gone?"
You shove his chest, hard, he barely moves. "You don't own me, Sunghoon. We're not together. We're not anything. You made sure of that when you kept messing with me while having a girlfriend. I'm trying to move on because clearly wanting you is the worst mistake I've ever made!"
The words hit him like a slap. For a second his face crumples, then the anger comes back twice as strong.
"Move on?" He laughs again, stepping forward until your back hits the wall. "You think fucking Minjun is moving on? That guy couldn't make you feel half of what I do. I saw the way you looked when I walked in. You weren't even into it y/n!"
"Fuck you," you spit, tears of rage burning your eyes. "At least he doesn't come with ten years of baggage. At least he isn't messy."
Sunghoon's hand goes against the wall beside your head, caging you in. His body is inches from yours, heat radiating off him— the possessiveness is suffocating. "You think I wanted this? We were perfect. Then we moved in together and suddenly I can't stop thinking about you. Your laugh. The way you look in my clothes. How fucking good you feel when you're pressed against me."
You shove him again but he doesn't budge. "Then why didn't you say anything? Why did you keep Mina around like a safety net while you were touching me like you wanted to fuck me?"
"Because i was scared" Sunghoon yells, voice cracking. "Scared of ruining the only real thing I've ever had. You've been my person since high school And now look at us. We've ruined everything anyway."
The argument turns mean, ugly, years of buried shit spilling out.
"You ruined it first," you snap, voice breaking. "Every time you hugged me too long, every time you looked at me like that. You made me feel all of that while you were with someone else. That's cruel, Sunghoon. That's so fucking mean."
His eyes flash with pain. "And you think it didn't hurt me? Hearing you laugh with the guys, watching you pack your shit to leave me? I ended things with Mina because I couldn't keep pretending. But you—" He laughs bitterly. "You ran straight to Minjun. Real mature."
"At least he doesn't make me mad" you scream. Tears are falling freely now. "At least he doesn't make me question every single thing.Was any of it real? Or was I just the safe, comfortable best friend you kept around while you played house with other girls?”
Sunghoon's face twists. "Don't say that, for fucks sake. Everything was real. Every fucking second. You're the only person who's ever really known me. The only one I let in. And yeah, I fucked up— i was scared, but don't stand there and pretend you didn't feel it too. Don't pretend you weren't wet for me in the kitchen while I had a girlfriend."
The words are low and dirty, so dirty.
"I hate you," you whisper, but there's no heat left in it— just exhaustion and want and years of love twisted into something painful.
"No you don't." His voice drops, dangerous and desperate. "You love me. Same way I love you."
"I do love you, you asshole" you shout, shoving him again, but this time your hands fist in his shirt instead of pushing away. "I love you so much it makes me sick— I've loved you for years. And I hate it. i hate wanting you. Look at what it's done to us."
Sunghoon's hands are on you instantly, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. "Then stop running. Stop trying to replace me with guys who don't even know you. You're mine. You've always been mine."
The kiss is desperate and violent. His mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and tongue and pent-up years of want. You kiss him back just as hard, hands yanking at his hair, nails digging into his shoulders— he groans into your mouth, lifting you up like you weigh nothing and pressing you against the wall, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.
There's nothing gentle about it. It's angry and messy and perfect, his hips grind against you, hard and insistent, while his mouth devours yours. You bite his bottom lip and he moans, the sound vibrating through your whole body.
His hands are everywhere— squeezing your ass, sliding under your shirt to palm your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples roughly.
"Fuck, I've wanted this for so long," he growls against your mouth, rolling his hips in a filthy rhythm that makes you whimper. "Wanted to touch you like this. Taste you. Make you mine."
You tug his hair harder, kissing him deeper, tongues sliding together in a desperate battle. The anger hasn't faded, it fuels everything; everything touch feels like punishment and reward at the same time.
The kiss breaks only when you both need air. Sunghoon rests his forehead against yours, breathing ragged, eyes dark with lust and love and fear.
"Don't leave me," he whispers, voice raw. "Please. We'll figure out the rest, but don't go."
You're still wrapped around him, heart pounding, body on fire, the argument left you both stripped bare. Now there's only this—desperate, angry, all-consuming love that's been waiting years to explode.
"I've wanted to touch you like this for so long," he whispers, voice wrecked and trembling. His fingers trace your ribs slowly, reverently, like he's memorizing every dip and curve he's only ever imagined. "Knowing your heart for years and never getting to feel your skin... it's fucking torture."
You shiver hard, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
This is happening. After all the fights, the almosts, the heartbreak. Finally. "Then touch me," you breathe against his lips. "Stop holding back. I need you."
He groans deep in his chest and kisses you again, slower this time, tongue sliding against yours in long, filthy strokes while his hands push your shirt up and off. The fabric whispers over your skin and hits the floor with a soft sound— the cool air of the apartment hits your bare chest, making your nipples tighten instantly. Sunghoon's gaze drops, hungry and possessive, and he lets out a shaky breath.
"God, look at you." His hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, teasing circles until they pebble under his touch. He leans down and takes one into his mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak. The wet heat of his mouth makes you arch off the wall with a moan.
"These are mine," he murmurs against your skin, switching to the other breast, sucking a dark mark right above it. "These pretty tits. Mine to touch. Mine to taste. Mine to mark up so no one else ever gets ideas again."
You're already dripping, thighs pressing together as he maps your body with his mouth and hands. He kisses down your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel, then drops to his knees right there on the living room floor like he physically can't wait another second. His eyes are blown wide with lust and something deeper as he looks up at you, hands sliding your jeans and panties down your legs with agonizing slowness.
He helps you step out of them, then presses his face against your inner thigh, kissing the soft skin there, breathing you in. "Smell so fucking good," he groans, voice muffled. "Been dying to taste this pussy. You can’t even imagine how many times I jerked off thinking about you."
He doesn't tease for long, he's way too desperate for that. His mouth is on you in seconds, tongue sliding through your soaked folds with a deep, satisfied groan that vibrates straight to your clit— the sensation is overwhelming—hot, wet, perfect. You grip his hair tight, head falling back against the wall with a broken moan.
"Shit—Hoon —oh my god," you gasp. His tongue is relentless, licking broad stripes up your slit before circling your clit with precise, devastating flicks. Two thick fingers push inside you slowly, curling just right against that spot that makes your vision blur. He pumps them steadily, scissoring gently to open you up while his mouth sucks on your clit.
The sounds are obscene— the wet slide of his fingers, the filthy noises of his mouth devouring you, your own desperate whimpers echoing in the quiet apartment. He adds a third finger, stretching you beautifully, and the fullness makes your legs shake.
"This pussy is mine," he growls against you, pulling back just enough to speak, lips shiny with your arousal. "So tight. So wet. Only gets like this for me, doesn't it? Not for him. Never for him." He curls his fingers harder, rubbing that spot mercilessly while his tongue flicks faster. "Say it. Tell me who this belongs to."
"You," you moan, hips grinding against his face. "It's yours, Hoon. All yours."
He rewards you by sucking your clit into his mouth hard, fingers pumping faster— the pressure builds fast and overwhelming. Your thighs tremble around his head as the orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and shattering. You cry out his name, clenching around his fingers, soaking his chin and hand, he doesn't stop, licking you through every wave, groaning like tasting your release is the best thing he's ever experienced.
When you finally push his head away, oversensitive and panting, he stands up slowly, kissing up your body— stomach, ribs, breasts, collarbones—until he reaches your mouth. The kiss is filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue while his cock presses hot and heavy against your stomach.
Your hands explore him greedily now, pushing his shirt off so you can finally feel his skin. The moment your palms meet his bare chest you both moan— his skin is fever-hot, smooth over hard muscle, tan lines stark under your fingers.
Finally. After knowing every corner of his heart, you get to touch his body. This beautiful skin you've stared at for years. You trace his abs, the V of his hips, his broad shoulders, feeling him shiver under your touch.
Sunghoon's hands are everywhere too— mapping you with the same devotion. "This waist," he murmurs, gripping it tight. "Mine." His palms slide down to your ass, squeezing hard. "This perfect ass. Mine." He cups your breasts again, thumbs flicking your nipples. "These tits. Mine." His fingers dip between your legs, stroking your soaked pussy. "This cunt. All fucking mine."
You wrap your hand around his cock, stroking him slowly, feeling him throb in your grip. He's thick, hot, leaking at the tip. "Yours," you whisper back, kissing him deeply. "I'm yours."
Sunghoon sits on the couch and pulls you on top of him, hands gripping your hips as you straddle his lap. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, slick and ready. But he doesn't let you sink down right away.
Instead, he grips your hips tighter and starts grinding up against you, sliding his thick length through your soaked folds without entering you. The heavy drag of his cock against your clit makes you whimper, hips jerking involuntarily. He does it again, slower, teasing, letting the head catch against your entrance before sliding back up to rub firmly over your swollen clit.
"Feel that?" he murmurs, voice low and rough, eyes locked on yours. "Feel how hard I am for you?" He grinds up again, coating himself in your wetness, the obscene sound filling the room.
You moan helplessly, rolling your hips to chase the friction, but he keeps control, teasing you mercilessly —sliding the head just inside you before pulling back out, rubbing it in slow circles over your clit until you're shaking.
"Please," you beg, nails digging into his shoulders. "Hoon, please fuck me."
He finally lets you sink down onto him, inch by thick inch. His head falls back with a broken, guttural moan as your walls stretch around him, hot and tight.
"Fuck— baby, calm down," he gasps, fingers digging bruises into your hips. His cock twitches hard inside you, stretching you so perfectly it borders on too much. "I'm gonna cum the second you start riding me if you keep squeezing like that... shit, you feel too good."
You roll your hips experimentally, taking him deeper, watching his face twist in overwhelming pleasure. He looks completely wrecked already— lips parted, eyes half-lidded and glassy, sweat starting to bead on his chest and collarbones. His abs tense under your hands with every movement.
He laughs shakily, the sound turning into a deep groan. "I'm serious— stop, fuck, stop moving for a second. I'm gonna cum too fast. You're choking my cock, baby."
You lean down and kiss him, filthy and deep, tongues sliding messily as you keep rolling your hips in slow, grinding circles. He whines into your mouth, hands sliding to your ass, squeezing hard as he tries to hold back.
Then something in him snaps.
With a low moan he flips you over onto your back on the couch, spreading your legs wide and thrusting back in deep in one smooth motion. The new angle makes you cry out, nails raking down his back. He fucks you hard but intimate, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked as he pounds into you with deep strokes.
"Mine," he pants between thrusts, kissing you sloppily, tongues tangling in messy, desperate kisses. "This body. This heart. All mine. I don't own you... but you're still mine. Say it."
"I'm yours," you moan, legs wrapped tight around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. "Always have been…. Fuck— harder, Hoon. Please."
He gives it to you, hips snapping faster, one hand reaching between you to rub tight circles on your clit. The couch creaks loudly under you, swea-slick skin slides together obscenely. It's messy and filthy and perfect.
He sucks bruises into your neck and tits while thrusting deep, then kisses you again like he can't stand being apart from your mouth for even a second.
"Love you," Sunghoon groans against your lips, voice breaking as he grinds deep. "Love you so fucking much. Should've said it years ago. Should've made you mine the second we moved in together."
He suddenly slows his thrusts to a torturous grind, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in so deep you feel him in your stomach. His eyes are dark, possessive, and a little wicked as he watches your face.
"Not yet," he murmurs, voice rough. "I want to feel you fall apart again." He hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half. The new angle lets him hit even deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot with every slow thrust.
You cry out, nails digging into his back. He teases you mercilessly— pulling out until just the tip stays inside, then pushing back in so slowly you can feel every thick inch stretching you open. His thumb circles your clit in lazy strokes, keeping you right on the edge but never letting you fall.
"Please— Hoon, I'm so close," you beg, voice breaking.
He leans down, folding you further, and kisses you filthy and deep. "Not yet, baby. Hold it. I want to feel this tight little pussy flutter around me." You clench around him involuntarily and he groans, forehead dropping to yours. "Fuck— stop squeezing me like that though, or I'm gonna lose it."
But you can't stop. Your walls flutter and pulse around his thick cock, and Sunghoon curses, hips snapping harder.
"Shit— cum for me," he demands, thumb pressing firmer on your clit.
The orgasm hits you like a freight train. You scream his name, back arching off the couch as your pussy clenches violently around him, gushing wetly. The pleasure is blinding, wave after wave crashing through you.
Sunghoon follows with a broken, guttural moan, burying himself as deep as possible. His cock pulses hard, flooding you with long, thick ropes of cum. He keeps thrusting through it, hips jerking uncontrollably as he fills you up, more and more spilling deep inside until it starts leaking out around his cock.
When the last shudder finally leaves both of you, he stays buried inside, breathing hard. A breathy, disbelieving laugh escapes him.
"Fuck... I've never cum this much in my life," he pants, voice hoarse. He pulls out slowly, watching with dark, satisfied eyes as his cum leaks from your swollen pussy. With a low groan he pushes two fingers back inside you, fucking his release deeper.
"Look at that," he murmurs, mesmerized. "So full of me. So fucking gorgeous." He leans down and kisses you softly, tenderly, still pushing his cum back inside with slow strokes of his fingers. "My beautiful girl. All mine. Inside and out.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time, like he never wants to stop.
For a long moment afterward you just lie there, tangled and sweaty and breathing hard. He presses soft, reverent kisses to your face, your neck, your shoulders—gentle now after the storm.
"We're so fucked," you whisper with a tired, sated laugh, fingers tracing patterns on his back.
Sunghoon smiles against your skin, nuzzling closer. "Yeah. But i'm never letting you go again."
SYNOPSIS : Accidentally walking in on Riki fresh out of the shower leaves an unforgettable image burned into your mind, shattering the easy boundary you both spent months building. Despite a mutual pact to never speak of it again, weeks of tension, lingering glances, and unspoken feelings finally pushes both of you to a boiling point. When the careful walls you’ve built finally crumble, you both learn that some boundaries are meant to be crossed.
CONTENTS : MDNI 18+ ⋆ slow-burn ⋆ friends to lovers ⋆ smut with plot ⋆ mutual pinning ⋆ alcohol mentioned
taglist : @amyishere123 @444pondju @did
PAIRING : roommate!riki x afab!reader
WORDCOUNT : 15k
z ⸝⸝ From this request ᝰ.ᐟ
The late morning sun is already warm where it cuts through the gaps in your blinds, casting bright, dusty blocks of light across your blanket. You blink sleepily at your phone.
11:14 AM.
You groan, burying your face back into the pillow. Waking up this late always leaves you in a strange, heavy limbo—not quite tired enough to go back to sleep, but too sluggish to immediately face the day.
For a few quiet minutes, you just lie there, listening to the ambient hum of the apartment. It’s quiet. Too quiet, which usually means your roommate, Riki, is either still dead to the world in his room or has already slipped out for the day.
Living with Riki was easy. He was a good roommate—clean enough, relatively quiet, and easy to get along with. You didn't harbor some secret, burning crush on him, your relationship was strictly, comfortably platonic.
Sure, you weren't blind. He was obviously attractive, and maybe once or twice after a few drinks, a random, passing thought about him had crossed your mind. But it was the kind of dumb, fleeting thought you laughed off the next morning and forgot about. He was just Riki.
A sudden, insistent ache in your bladder finally cuts through your cozy inertia. Dragging the duvet off your legs, you swing your feet onto the cool hardwood floor.
You’re still half entangled in sleep as you pad out of your bedroom. The hallway is quiet, the air smelling faintly of the coffee Riki must have brewed earlier. You rub your eyes, your vision still slightly blurred, focus completely set on the bathroom door at the end of the hall.
Normally, you’d check if the light was on beneath the crack, or listen for the heavy rush of the shower. But your brain is running on a five second delay, entirely fueled by the desperate need to pee, wash your face, and wake up. The door is closed, but not clicked shut—just resting against the frame.
You reach out, push it open, and take a step inside.
The first thing that hits you is the thick, heavy wall of steam. It’s warm, smelling strongly of sandalwood and clean soap.
The second thing—the thing that makes the air instantly trap itself in your lungs—is Riki.
He isn't standing at the sink brushing his teeth. He isn't wrapped in a towel. He’s standing right in the middle of the bathroom, fresh out of the shower, a towel hanging loosely from one hand as if he’d been just about to dry off.
He is completely, entirely bare.
For a long second, the world entirely halts. Your groggy brain tries to scramble backward, but your eyes lock onto him before you can even think to look away.
You’d always known he was tall, but seeing him like this—unclothed, the steam clinging to the broad expanse of his shoulders, the sharp, damp lines of his collarbones, and the lean definition of his chest—makes him look massive. Your gaze involuntarily drops, tracking the droplets of water tracing down the dip of his stomach, and then... everything else.
Those dumb, passing thoughts you'd had in the past didn't even come close to the reality. He is built. Far more than you ever could have anticipated. The clear reality of his body, the heavy proof of how big he actually is, burns itself behind your eyelids in an instant.
Riki freezes, his wet hair dripping onto his forehead, his eyes widening in absolute, startled shock.
The moment snaps.
"Oh my god!" The words tear from your throat, a breathless, high pitched squeak. "I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry, I didn't—I thought you were—!"
Before he can even utters a sound, you grab the edge of the door, pull it shut, and slam it with a force that rattles the frame.
You press your back against the wood, sliding down slightly as your knees go weak. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, your face so hot you’re certain you’re about to combust right there in the hallway. You press the cool palms of your hands to your burning cheeks, but it does nothing to cool the flush creeping down your neck.
You close your eyes, but it’s a mistake. The second you do, the image of him—shrouded in steam, dripping wet, and completely exposed—flashes vividly in your mind.
You squeeze your eyes tighter, trying to shake it off, but the memory feels branded to the back of your retinas. This wasn't some silly, half forgotten thought anymore. This was real, raw, and completely inescapable.
And as you sit there in the quiet hallway, listening to the hurried rustle of a towel from the other side of the door, a terrifying realization settles in your chest.
You are never, ever going to unsee that.
You scramble back to your room as quietly as possible, the sound of your own racing heartbeat muffled only by the soft click of your bedroom door closing behind you.
Once inside, you throw yourself onto your bed, burying your face in a pillow to let out a silent, frustrated scream. Your cheeks are still burning, and no matter how hard you blink, that vivid mental image of him refuses to fade.
Your phone sitting on the nightstand reads 11:22 AM.
Okay, you think, taking a deep, shaky breath. Strategy.
Riki has practice at the studio today. He always leaves around 1:00 PM. That means you only have to survive a little over an hour and a half. If you just stay put, keep the door shut, and pretend you suddenly went deaf and blind, you can escape the absolute mortification of looking him in the eye. It is the perfect plan.
But the silence of the apartment doesn’t last long.
Through the thin wood of your bedroom door, you hear the bathroom door finally click open. Soft, heavy footsteps pad down the hallway. He’s walking past your room. You freeze, holding your breath, staring intensely at the doorknob as if your gaze alone could lock it from the inside.
For a horrifying, agonizing three seconds, the footsteps pause right outside your door. Your stomach does a violent flip.
Is he going to knock? What do I even say?
But then, the footsteps start up again, moving toward the kitchen. You let out the breath you were holding in a long, shaky sigh, sinking back into your mattress.
As the minutes tick by, your mind refuses to cooperate. You try scrolling through your phone, but you can’t focus on a single post. Every time you hear a cabinet close or the fridge open in the kitchen, your brain betrays you.
How is he feeling right now?
Despite his cool, confident exterior, he can actually be pretty shy about certain things. You’ve just invaded his privacy in the worst way possible. Is he sitting out there feeling incredibly uncomfortable in his own home? Is he mad? Embarrassed?
The guilt starts to outweigh your own embarrassment. You can't just hide in your room like a coward and pretend nothing happened. You stepped over a boundary, even if it was a complete accident, and you need to actually apologize properly.
Decision made. Before you can lose your nerve, you slide off your bed, smooth down your messy t-shirt, and walk to the door.
Taking one last deep breath to steady your erratic pulse, you turn the knob and step out into the hallway.
Riki is standing by the kitchen island, a glass of water in his hand. He’s dressed now—baggy sweatpants and an oversized black hoodie—but seeing him clothed somehow doesn't help as much as you hoped it would. Your brain instantly fills in what’s underneath the fabric, making the heat rush straight back to your face.
The moment your footsteps hit the hardwood, Riki’s head snaps up.
He freezes, the glass halfway to his mouth. For a split second, a dark, fleeting rush of pink colors the tips of his ears, and he looks incredibly tense.
"Riki," you start, your voice a little breathier than you intended. You keep your hands clasped tightly in front of you, determined to do this right. "Hey. I just wanted to apologize. Properly."
He lowers the glass, clearing his throat, his eyes darting to the floor for a second before meeting yours. "Oh. You don't have to—"
"No, I do," you interrupt gently, wanting to get the words out before you choke on them. "I am so, so sorry. I was completely half asleep, and I didn't even check the light under the door. I really didn't mean to barge in on you like that. It was a total accident."
Riki shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck with a small, slightly sheepish shrug. "It's fine. Really. Just... a misunderstanding."
"I promise you," you continue, holding up a hand solemnly, "I’ll never, ever mention it again. It never happened. If you don't bring it up, I won't. Deal?"
A faint, relieved smile tugs at the corner of Riki's lips, though his ears are still burning a light dusty pink. He nods slowly. "Deal. It never happened."
"Okay. Good," you breathe, offering a quick, slightly tight smile.
You practically spin on your heel to head back to the safety of your room, feeling a massive weight lift off your chest.
Okay, you think as you shut your door again. We talked. We settled it. It’s over.
Except, as you lie back down on your bed, your eyes drift to the ceiling, and the image of his tall, lean, completely bare frame immediately flashes in your mind again.
You groan, burying your face in your hands. Setting a rule to never talk about it was easy.
Setting a rule to stop thinking about it was going to be entirely impossible.
The quiet hum of the apartment during the next few days becomes a strange, agonizing test of your acting skills.
In the immediate aftermath of that Sunday morning, the air feels charged with an unspoken tension, even if you are both doing your absolute best to pretend the entire incident had been wiped clean from existence.
True to your word, you don't bring it up. But the brain is a stubborn, treacherous thing, and the harder you try to actively not think about how good Riki looked standing in that steam filled room, the more your mind seems determined to remind you of it.
The first real hurdle comes on Monday evening.
You’re sitting at the kitchen island scrolling through your laptop, trying to focus on a design project, when you hear the front door unlock. Riki walks in, looking exhausted but effortlessly cool in a pair of oversized grey sweatpants and a worn out vintage tee.
"Hey," he murmurs, kicking off his shoes at the entryway. His voice is a low, hoarse rumble from a long day of practicing and recording at the studio.
"Hey," you reply, keeping your eyes glued to your screen, a little too intensely. "How was practice?"
"Long," he sighs, walking into the kitchen. He reaches past you to grab a glass from the cupboard, and for a split second, the faint, clean scent of his shower gel—the same sandalwood scented one from Sunday—wafts over you.
Your fingers freeze on your trackpad.
An involuntary flash of his damp, bare shoulders—the broad, solid lines of his chest dripping with water—blasts through your mind with the force of a freight train. You swallow hard, your throat suddenly feeling incredibly dry.
"You look tired," you force out, hoping your voice doesn't sound as tight as it feels. "Did you guys run the choreography again?"
"Yeah. Over and over," Riki says, leaning against the counter just a foot away from you. He takes a long sip of water, his throat bobbing as he drinks.
Your eyes betray you. You find yourself tracking the movement of his neck, then slowly letting your gaze slip down to his chest, even though it’s entirely hidden beneath the heavy cotton of his shirt. You know what’s under there now. You know the exact contours of his collarbones, the lean cut of his abs. The sheer size of him is no longer a mystery.
"Are you even listening?" Riki's voice, laced with a quiet, amused curiosity, cuts through your sudden daze.
You snap your eyes back up to his face, your heart doing a violent stutter. "What? Yeah! Yeah, of course. Choreography. Hard work."
Riki raises an eyebrow, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He doesn't press it, but the way his dark eyes linger on yours for a fraction of a second longer than usual makes your chest tighten.
He places his glass in the sink and heads off to his room with a soft, "Goodnight."
You slump over the counter, pressing your forehead against the cool surface. You are doing a terrible job at being normal.
By Wednesday, you think you’ve finally gotten a grip on yourself.
You’ve spent the last forty-eight hours actively distracting yourself, keeping busy with work, and keeping your interactions with Riki brief and friendly.
You’re close, you’ve lived together long enough to share inside jokes, order food for each other without asking, and comfortably co-exist in the same space. You don't want a stupid, accidental glance to ruin the easy, natural flow of your friendship.
You’re in the living room, curled up on the couch with a book, when Riki walks out of his room wearing a tight, sleeveless black compression shirt and loose athletic shorts, clearly getting ready to head back out to the studio.
The book in your hands suddenly feels like a prop.
His shoulders are incredibly broad, his biceps defined and taut as he reaches up to push his hair back. Seeing him in sleeveless shirts was never a big deal before, but now, your brain instantly connects the dots, filling in the rest of his frame with vivid, agonizing accuracy.
Stop it, you scream at yourself internally. He’s your roommate. He’s literally just going to work. Stop looking.
"Hey, do we have any of those energy drinks left in the fridge?" Riki asks, turning his head to look at you over his shoulder.
"Uh—yeah, I think there's one more on the bottom shelf," you squeak out, your voice cracking slightly at the end.
Riki pauses, his hands dropping from his hair as he gives you a puzzled look. "Are you okay? You sound like you just swallowed a bug."
"Perfect! I'm completely perfect," you say, a little too quickly, flipping a page of your book without actually reading a single word on it. "Just... dry throat. Air conditioning is strong today."
"Right," Riki says slowly, a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He walks into the kitchen, his long legs making quick work of the distance, and opens the fridge.
You let out a quiet, trembling breath, staring blankly at the text in front of you. You can't even remember what this chapter is about. All you can think about is how easily he commands the space in the apartment, how towering and solid he really is.
He comes back out, cracking open the black can of his energy drink, taking a slow sip as he watches you. He stands near the edge of the couch, looking down at you with a head tilt.
"You've been reading that same page for five minutes," he points out, his voice quiet, a teasing edge running through it.
"I'm a slow reader, Riki. It’s a very complex plot," you lie shamelessly, refusing to look up from the paper.
"Sure. Highly complex," he echoes. He lingers for another moment, his presence warm and overwhelming, before he grabs his gym bag from the entryway. "I'll be back late tonight. Don't wait up."
"I won't," you call out, only letting your shoulders drop once the front door clicks shut.
You throw the book onto the coffee table and groan, pulling a throw pillow over your face. This is torture. You’re hyper aware of him in a way you’ve never been before, and the worst part is, Riki is entirely too perceptive. If you keep this up, he’s going to realize exactly why you’re acting like a glitching robot.
Thursday afternoon is when the fragile facade you've built completely crumbles.
It’s a hot, humid day, and the apartment's AC is struggling to keep up. You’re sitting on the living room rug, sorting through some laundry you’d left on the drying rack, when Riki walks out of his room. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of loose grey basketball shorts, his chest and torso completely bare to combat the heat.
Your breath hitches.
You try to look away, you really do. You force your gaze down to a pair of folded socks in your hands, but your eyes keep dragging themselves back up to him.
He walks over to the kitchen to grab a bottle of cold water, his back completely exposed to you. You find yourself staring at the sharp, defined line of his spine, the way his shoulder blades move under his skin, and the tapered dip of his waist. It is exactly what you saw on Sunday, only this time, there is no steam to obscure the view.
He turns around, leaning his lower back against the kitchen counter as he twists the cap off the bottle. He catches you staring.
In a panic, your brain short circuits. You scramble for any excuse, any distraction to prove you weren't just ogling his body.
"You—you have a lint on your shoulder," you stammer, pointing vaguely in his direction.
Riki looks down at his bare, tanned shoulder, then back up at you, a slow, incredibly amused grin spreading across his face. "A lint? On my bare skin?"
You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Your face hot flashes, a deep, furious crimson spreading from your chest all the way to your ears.
"I mean—it was... it was a shadow! Or a bug. I thought it was a bug," you scramble, your voice rising in pitch as you wildly fold a t-shirt with trembling hands.
Riki chuckles, a low, vibration of a sound that makes your stomach do a series of complicated flips. He takes a slow sip of his water, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief as he watches you struggle.
"Right. A shadow bug," he says softly. He takes a few steps forward, stopping just a few feet away from where you’re sitting on the floor. He looks down at you, his chest expanding with a quiet breath. "You know, you've been acting really weird lately."
"I have not," you lie, your voice squeaking again.
"You have," Riki counters, his grin widening, showing a hint of his sharp teeth. He leans down slightly, resting his hands on his knees so he’s closer to your eye level.
"You barely look at me when I talk to you. You jump every time I walk into a room. What's going on in that head of yours?"
He tilts his head, his gaze intensely focused on yours. "Are you daydreaming about me or something?"
Your heart completely stops.
The terrifying accuracy of his tease catches you entirely off guard. A wild, desperate panic flares up in your chest. You need to laugh it off. You need to make him think it’s the most ridiculous joke he’s ever made, otherwise, he’ll know. He’ll know you haven't stopped thinking about his body for a single second.
"HA!"
The laugh tears out of your throat, incredibly loud, dry, and painfully awkward. It echoes off the living room walls, sounding entirely forced and completely unhinged.
"Daydreaming? About you? Oh my god, Riki, that is—HA!—the funniest thing I've ever heard in my life! Wow! You really have a great imagination!"
Your laugh is so loud your own ears ring, and you follow it up with a series of quick, choppy, breathless giggles that sound like a failing car engine. You pat your lap awkwardly, trying to look incredibly amused, but your eyes are wide with pure terror.
Riki’s grin slowly falters, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated amusement mixed with deep skepticism. He straightens back up to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest, which only makes his biceps flex, further distracting you.
"Okay," Riki says slowly, his voice dripping with playful disbelief. "That was definitely the most natural laugh I've ever heard."
"It was! I'm just... I'm a very expressive person," you sputter, desperately grabbing the pile of folded laundry and standing up. "Anyway! I have to put this away. In my room. Right now."
Before he can say another word, you practically sprint down the hallway, darting into your bedroom and shutting the door with a soft, desperate click.
You lean your head against the cool wood of the door, closing your eyes in absolute, crushing defeat.
Your facade is completely, utterly see through. He knows. Or, at the very least, he knows something is incredibly wrong. And as you stand there, trying to calm your racing pulse, you realize that the unspoken agreement to "never mention it" is rapidly falling apart.
By the time Friday evening rolls around, the air in the apartment is so thick with unspoken tension you could cut it with a knife. You’ve spent the last twenty-four hours practically plotting your movements around the apartment like a secret agent, checking corners and listening for footsteps before daring to leave your room. It is exhausting, unsustainable, and frankly, ridiculous.
You’re sitting on the living room sofa, staring blankly at a movie playing on the TV. You aren't actually watching it, your mind is too busy running in endless, unproductive circles.
The soft click of Riki’s bedroom door opening makes you stiffen automatically. You brace yourself, expecting him to walk straight to the kitchen or head out. Instead, his quiet, heavy footsteps pad directly toward the living room.
Without asking, he sinks onto the opposite end of the couch.
For a few minutes, neither of you says anything. The only sound is the low dialogue from the TV. You keep your eyes glued to the screen, your shoulders tense, counting the seconds.
From the corner of your eye, you can see him leaning back, his long legs stretched out in front of him, ankle crossed over ankle. He’s back in his favorite oversized black hoodie, looking completely relaxed, yet there’s a quiet determination in the way he keeps shifting his gaze from the screen to you.
Finally, Riki lets out a soft, slow sigh. He reaches over and grabs the remote from the coffee table, pressing the mute button. The sudden silence in the room makes your heart do a nervous little flutter.
"Okay," Riki says, his voice low and steady. He turns his body slightly on the cushions so he’s facing you. "We need to actually talk."
You swallow the lump in your throat, finally turning your head to look at him. "About... the movie? Because I agree, the pacing is a little—"
"About Sunday," he cuts in gently, though there’s a tiny, unmistakable twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips. "And about how you’ve been treating me like I’m a ghost haunting the apartment all week."
"I haven't been treating you like a ghost," you protest, though your voice lacks any real conviction. You pull your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them like a shield.
"You literally ran away from laundry yesterday," Riki points out, raising an eyebrow. "And your laugh? I'm pretty sure our neighbors thought you were having a medical emergency."
A hot flush rises to your cheeks, but along with the embarrassment, a tiny bubble of hysterical laughter threatens to break free.
"I was just... trying to keep my promise. I said I’d never mention it. I wanted to make sure you felt comfortable."
"I was comfortable," Riki says softly, his dark eyes softening as he looks at you. "Until my favorite roommate started treating me like a stranger. You don't have to walk on eggshells around me. We've lived together too long for a stupid accident to make things weird."
He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck, and for a second, a fleeting hint of pink colors his own cheekbones. "I mean... yeah, it was embarrassing. But it was just an accident. I’m not mad at you. And you don't have to hide in your room until one in the afternoon just to avoid looking at me."
Hearing him say it out loud instantly makes the heavy, suffocating weight on your chest begin to lift. You let out a long, shaky breath you feel like you’ve been holding since that day.
"Really?" you ask quietly, looking at him through your eyelashes. "You're not weirded out?"
"I'm not," Riki promises, offering you a genuine, reassuring smile. "Though, honestly, I think you're the one who's traumatized. You looked like you saw a monster."
"I didn't see a monster," you mumble, your face burning all over again as the memory of his very built, bare frame flashes in your mind. You quickly look down at your knees. "It was just a lot to take in at eleven in the morning."
Riki lets out a low, quiet chuckle, the sound warm and incredibly comforting. "Yeah? Well, next time, try knocking. Save us both the heart attack."
"I will. I'll knock three times. I'll send a text. I'll ring a bell," you say, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face. The lingering awkwardness between you is rapidly evaporating, replaced by the easy, comfortable rhythm you’ve always shared.
"Good," Riki grins, leaning his head back against the sofa cushion. He watches you for a moment, his eyes twinkling with that familiar, playful mischief. "Though, I gotta admit... the 'shadow bug on my shoulder' line? Truly inspired. You should write a book."
"Oh, shut up!" you laugh.
"And that laugh," he continues, completely ignoring your protests as he mimics your high pitched, panicked chuckle. "'HA! Daydreaming? About you?!' I'm hurt. Am I really that hard to imagine daydreaming about?"
"Riki, I swear to god," you warn, though you’re giggling now, the relief of being able to joke with him again washing over you like cool water.
"I'm just saying," he teases, a slow, incredibly charming smirk spreading across his handsome face. "If you were daydreaming, you at least have a very accurate reference point now."
"You are unbelievable!"
Without thinking, you grab the nearest plush throw pillow from beside you and hurl it straight at his head. Riki laughs out loud, raising his arms to block it, but the pillow hits him square in the chest anyway. He grabs it, clutching it to himself as he shakes his head, his shoulders shaking with genuine amusement.
"Okay, okay! Truce," he chuckles, tossing the pillow back onto the middle of the couch.
You lean back against the cushions, your heart rate elevated, but this time, it’s not from panic. It’s from laughing. The thick, suffocating wall of tension that had built up over the last five days has completely crumbled, leaving only the warm, cozy reality of the two of you sitting together on the couch.
You actually feel a hundred times better. Talking about it, laughing about it, it made everything feel normal again, rather than some forbidden, shameful secret.
But as you look over at Riki, who is still smiling, his eyes bright and relaxed as he watches you, a tiny, quiet spark flickers in the back of your mind. The awkwardness might be gone, but you realize that while you might feel better... your heart still hasn't quite returned to its normal, platonic beat.
By Saturday evening, the heavy tension of the week is completely behind you. You’re standing in front of your bedroom mirror, putting the finishing touches on your makeup, actually excited to let loose.
You’d texted your best friend, Mei, earlier in the week promising a night out to distract you, and tonight is finally the night.
As you grab your purse and head into the living room, you find Riki lounging on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. He looks up as you approach, his eyes sweeping over your outfit. A subtle, appreciative spark glints in his gaze, though he keeps his expression casually cool.
"Going out?" he asks, his voice dropping into that low, relaxed register.
"Yeah, with Mei," you smile, feeling lighter than you have in days. "I'll probably be back pretty late, so don't wait up."
Riki slides his phone into his pocket and starts to sit up, his long frame unfolding from the couch. "Do you need a lift? I can drive you if it's far."
"Oh, no, it's okay! Mei is on her way to pick me up," you say, checking a quick text on your phone. "She should be downstairs in a minute."
Riki nods, sinking back into the cushions, though he keeps his eyes locked on yours with a soft, protective sincerity. "Alright. But call me if you need a ride home, okay? Doesn't matter how late it is. Just call."
"I will. Promise," you offer him a warm wave as you head out the door, his thoughtful gesture leaving a pleasant, lingering warmth in your chest.
The club is a dizzying blur of pulsing bass, flashing neon lights, and sticky floors, and it is exactly what you needed. Within minutes of arriving, Mei grabs your hand and drags you straight to the bar, ordering a round of shots that burn beautifully on the way down.
The alcohol hits quickly, washing away the last remnants of your weekly stress and leaving you feeling wonderfully warm and giggly.
For the next couple of hours, the two of you are inseparable on the dance floor. You lose yourself in the heavy thud of the music, screaming the lyrics to songs you both love, laughing hysterically when some guy tries to buy you drinks with a terribly cheesy pickup line.
Mei is in peak form, aggressively dancing next to you to ward off any unwanted attention, making you laugh so hard your stomach aches.
Eventually, the heat of the dance floor becomes too much, and the two of you retreat to a slightly quieter booth tucked away near the back of the venue. You slide onto the leather seats, both of you flushed, breathless, and pleasantly buzzed.
"God, I needed this," Mei groans, leaning her head back against the booth. She turns her gaze to you, a sudden, mischievous glint entering her eyes as she takes a sip of her drink. "So... how’s that fine ass roommate of yours?"
You nearly choke on your drink. "Oh god, don't even bring him up, please."
Mei’s eyes widen instantly, her glass hovering halfway to the table. "Holy shit? Are you guys...!?"
"WHAT? NO, NO... I just—" You pause, suddenly feeling the warm rush of alcohol making you entirely too honest. You bite your lip, staring at the condensation pooling on your glass, fiercely debating whether you should actually say it out loud.
"Just what? Come on!" Mei nudges your arm, leaning in closer. "You can't just leave me hanging like that!"
"Well... last Sunday... I walked in on him while he was in the bathroom..."
"And?" Mei prompts, her voice dropping to an eager whisper.
"He was naked..."
Mei’s jaw drops, her eyes nearly popping out of her head. "SHUT UP!"
"Shhh!" You frantically wave your hands, checking the nearby booths. "Keep it down!"
"Sorry, sorry," Mei giggles, entirely unbothered, leaning in even closer. "So, like... anything happened since then?"
"Well, besides me avoiding him as much as I can and the constant image of his body on my mind... no," you admit, burying your hot face in your hands.
Mei gasps, practically vibrating in her seat. "Ahhh! So what has he said about it then?"
"Well, we both promised not to bring it up again," you explain, peeking through your fingers at her. "But he noticed I was avoiding him, so yesterday he came out and talked to me. We actually joked about it. I actually feel way better, I think it’s actually the first time I haven’t thought about him since."
"Uh-huh..." Mei murmurs. A slow, deeply teasing smirk begins to form on her lips, her eyes scanning your face with a knowing look. "And, uhm... any new feelings?"
You freeze, her words hanging heavily in the humid air of the club.
You pause, taking in her question, your mind suddenly drifting back to the quiet apartment. You and Riki have been close for so long.
Thinking about it now, there actually was a brief window of time when you first met where you looked at him and thought you could genuinely see yourself with him. But as the months rolled by and your friendship solidified, the idea of being with him like that became the furthest thing from reality.
You were just roommates. Just friends.
But seeing him so exposed... the breathtaking reality of how built he is... and then the way he handled it. His teasing, his effortless charm, the way he laughed off the awkwardness just to make sure you felt comfortable. You already found him attractive—that was just a baseline fact—but this? The way he is going about the whole thing?
Maybe the constant thought of him in your mind, replaying that morning non stop, wasn’t just a simple rush of lust taking over. Maybe you were actually starting to feel something real for him.
You and Mei head back to the bar, the heavy bass of the music washing over any lingering thoughts of roommate dynamics and hidden feelings.
For the next few hours, you completely lose yourself in the night. You drink, you laugh, you dance until your feet ache, throwing back shots of tequila and shouting the lyrics to songs you only half remember. By the time the lights in the club begin to dim, you are completely, beautifully out of it.
The cool night air hits you like a brick when you finally stumble out onto the sidewalk. You’re leaning heavily against Mei, giggling uncontrollably at a crack in the pavement, when your phone starts buzzing in your hand.
You slide the screen open with a clumsy thumb. It’s Riki.
"helllooo?" you chirp, your voice sliding into a high, giggly pitch.
"y/n Hey," Riki’s voice comes through the speaker, low and instantly grounding. "It’s getting late. Are you good? Do you need me to come get you?"
"Riki! Rikiii," you sing, leaning your head against Mei's shoulder as she tries to tickle your neck. "We are... we are so good. Look at the sky, Riki. It’s so... blue. Well, black. But like, shiny." You burst into a fit of breathless giggles, completely unable to hold a coherent thought.
There’s a brief silence on the other end of the line, followed by a heavy, fond sigh. "Yeah, okay. Stay exactly where you are. I’m on my way."
True to his word, it doesn’t take long before Riki pulls up to the curb. He kills the engine and steps out, immediately spotting the two of you leaning against a concrete planter, looking like a pair of absolute menaces.
Riki runs a hand through his hair, a look of pure, long suffering irritation on his face. The last thing he wanted to do tonight was play babysitter to two grown ass, highly intoxicated women, but he’s here anyway.
"Ohh, Riki hiii!" you squeal, waving dramatically with both arms as he walks over.
"Hi, Riki," Mei says, her voice dripping with a teasing tone as she wiggles her eyebrows at you.
Riki stops in front of you, crossing his arms over his chest as his dark eyes scan your flushed faces. "How much did you drink?"
"Not much," you say, holding up a finger and squinting. "Maybe like... eight shots?"
Riki’s eyes widen. "Of what?!"
"Mmm, yea..." you murmur, nodding solemnly as if that explained everything.
A small, helpless laugh escapes Riki’s lips. He shakes his head, unable to stay entirely annoyed when you’re being this childishly soft.
Mei, picking up on the sudden shift in the air, takes a clumsy step back. "Okay, well... I’ll leave you two alone."
"What? No," Riki says, his tone immediately switching to firm as he reaches out to grab Mei's arm before she can wander off. "I'm taking you home, Mei. You can’t drive, you’re drunk."
"I'm fine, Big Rik," Mei protests, trying to swat his hand away with a lazy grin. "Worry about your girl, not me."
Riki just rolls his eyes. Without another word, he grabs both of you by the elbows, gently but firmly guiding you toward his car. He knows you won't run off, so he focuses on getting a resisting Mei into the backseat first.
Once she’s buckled in he turns to you. He guides you into the passenger seat, his hand lingering on your lower back to steady you, before closing the door and jogging around to the driver's side.
He slides in, starts the car, and looks in the rearview mirror. "Okay, Mei. Your address?"
"Let me out, I can drive perfectly fine," she protests, crossing her arms.
"Yeah, sure. Address?" Riki asks again, completely unfazed by her stubbornness.
Mei rolls her eyes, realizing she’s not going to win this battle with him, and finally mumbles her address.
The ride is anything but quiet. For the first ten minutes, Mei begs Riki to turn the music on. The moment he finally relents, you and Mei start screaming the lyrics to a random pop song at the top of your lungs. Riki immediately reaches over and shuts the radio back off, muttering about his eardrums, which only causes the two of you to burst into a fresh wave of hysterical laughter.
When you finally pull up to Mei’s house, she opens the door and shoots Riki a pointed look. "You better give me a ride back to the club tomorrow so I can get my car, asshole. I have work."
"Yeah, yeah," Riki says, stepping out of the car to help her out. He walks her all the way to her front door, ensuring she gets inside safely.
By the time Riki climbs back into the driver's seat, the atmosphere in the car completely shifts. The chaotic energy of the night drains out of the vehicle, leaving a heavy, peaceful quiet.
He looks over at you. Your head is tilted back against the headrest, your eyes half closed as you trace the passing streetlights reflecting on the window. You’re drifting, right on the edge of sleep, the alcohol making your body feel incredibly heavy. Riki doesn't disturb you. He keeps the music off, driving smoothly through the quiet, empty streets.
When he finally pulls into the apartment parking garage, he puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the ignition.
He just sits there, turning his body slightly in the seat to look at you. In the dim, shadowed lighting of the car, your face looks incredibly soft. Your lips are parted slightly, your breathing slow and even.
Riki studies you.
Seeing you like this—completely vulnerable, sleepy, and quiet—does something strange to his chest. It’s a feeling he can’t quite define, a sudden, heavy warmth that makes his breath catch. He’s picked you up after nights out before, but tonight feels entirely different. The playful boundaries you’d redrawn over the week suddenly feel fragile.
Almost magnetically, his hand rises. His long fingers reach out, hovering for a second before he gently, softly strokes the side of your face, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your cheek. His touch is incredibly tender, almost tentative.
The subtle warmth of his hand against your skin pulls you from your light sleep. Your eyelids flutter open, and your hazy vision focuses on Riki. He’s leaning over you, his hand inches from your face.
The moment your eyes meet his, Riki flinches slightly, pulling his hand back immediately. He clears his throat, his gaze darting away to the steering wheel as he tries to shake the sudden, intense rush of heat in his chest.
"We're home," he says, his voice a little lower, rougher than usual as he tries to move past the weird feeling.
You let out a soft, tired sigh, closing your eyes again. You’re too out of it to fully process the tension in the air.
"Come on, y/n. Let's go," he says softly, reaching over to gently shake your shoulder. "You can sleep in your bed."
"Ughhh, fine," you mumble, forcing your heavy limbs to cooperate as you open the door and stumble out of the car.
Your knees instantly buckle the second your feet hit the concrete. Riki is there in a flash, his strong arm wrapping securely around your waist to keep you upright. He pulls your arm over his shoulder, holding you tight against his side as the two of you begin the slow walk toward the apartment lobby.
But before you can even make it to the glass doors, a sudden, violent wave of nausea hits you. Your mouth starts watering, and your stomach does a terrifying flip.
"Riki—stop," you gasp, pushing his chest away with surprising strength.
You stumble toward a concrete trash can near the entrance, gripping the cold metal rim for balance. You barely have time to steady yourself before your stomach completely rebels, and everything you drank tonight comes rushing up.
Riki is beside you in an instant. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't show a single ounce of disgust. He steps up behind you, gently gathering your hair in one hand to keep it out of the way, while his other hand rests firmly on your back, rubbing soothing, slow circles between your shoulder blades.
"I've got you," he murmurs quietly, his voice steady and calm against the quiet of the night. "Just let it out. You're okay."
When the violent retching finally stops, you lean heavily against the trash can, gasping for air. Your throat burns, your eyes are watering, and a deep, crushing wave of embarrassment washes over you. You look away from him, staring at the ground.
"I'm sorry—" you whisper, your voice cracking.
"Don't apologize," Riki cuts in gently. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a clean pack of tissues, handing them to you. His expression is incredibly soft, a sympathetic, patient smile on his lips. "It's fine. Let's just get you to your room, okay?"
You nod weakly, wiping your face. Riki pulls you back into his side, taking almost all of your weight as he guides you through the lobby, into the elevator, and finally through the front door of your shared apartment.
The apartment is dark and quiet. Riki guides you down the short hallway straight to your bedroom, kicking the door open. He gently maneuvers you toward the bed, helping you sit down on the edge of the mattress.
You collapse backward onto the pillows, let out a long, exhausted groan, and close your eyes. The room is spinning slightly, but the bed feels like heaven.
Riki disappears for a moment, his quiet footsteps receding toward the bathroom. He returns a minute later with a warm, damp washcloth. He sits on the edge of your mattress, the bed dipping under his weight.
You blink sleepily up at him. Riki leans in, his expression intensely focused and tender as he uses the warm cloth to gently wipes your face, cleaning away any lingering trace of the night. His touch is so incredibly soft, his fingers brushing against your jawline with a gentleness that makes your heart ache.
As he works, you just stare up at him. The dim light from the hallway catches the sharp line of his jaw, the dark intensity of his eyes, and the broad expanse of his shoulders. The memory of Sunday morning—and the conversation you just had with Mei—swirls together in your hazy, alcohol thinned mind.
You actually feel something for him.
Riki pulls the cloth away, but as he looks down at you, he freezes. He catches you staring up at him with an expression that is entirely too open, too vulnerable. For a long, silent moment, neither of you move. The quiet space of your bedroom feels incredibly small, the air thick with an entirely different kind of tension.
Riki’s throat bobs as he swallows. Slowly, he begins to shift his weight, preparing to stand up and give you your space. "I'll let you sleep..."
Before he can pull away, your hand shoots out from beneath the covers. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, your grip surprisingly tight.
"Stay," you whisper, the word slipping out before you can think to stop it. Your voice is small, almost pleading. "Please. Just... stay until I sleep."
Riki hesitates, his eyes dropping to where your hand is clutching his wrist. The sensible, logical part of his brain tells him he should leave, that you’re drunk and he should let you rest. But looking down at your sleepy, beautiful face, he find he doesn't have the strength to walk away.
With a soft, quiet sigh, Riki relaxes his posture. He doesn't get under the covers, but he shifts so he’s sitting comfortably against your headboard, his long legs stretched out over the top of the duvet.
"Okay," he whispers back, his voice incredibly gentle in the dark. "I'm staying."
You let out a contented sigh, your grip on his wrist relaxing, though you keep your hand resting comfortably against his knee. You close your eyes, the gentle, steady rise and fall of his breathing beside you acting as a perfect anchor.
Riki watches you as your breathing slowly evens out, his hand resting lightly over yours. And in the quiet safety of the room, he realizes that whatever simple, platonic dynamic you two used to have is officially gone. And neither of you wants it back.
The blinding Sunday morning sun feels like a personal attack as you slowly blink your eyes open. Your head throbs with a dull, heavy ache, and your mouth feels like it’s dry.
You groan, rolling over onto your side and staring blankly at your bedroom wall. Bits and pieces of the previous night are there, but they’re scattered and disjointed. You remember the bass of the club, the warm burn of the shots, and screaming lyrics next to Mei. But after a certain point, everything just fades into a fuzzy, warm blur.
You sit up slowly, holding your head as a wave of dizziness washes over you. Taking a deep breath, you swing your feet out of bed and pad quietly out of your room, desperately needing a glass of water.
When you slide into the kitchen, you find Riki already sitting at the island, a mug of coffee in his hand. He’s dressed in a loose grey tee, his damp hair indicating he’s already showered. The second he hears your soft footsteps, his head snaps up.
"Morning," he says, his voice quiet, searching your face with an intensity that makes you freeze for a second.
"Morning," you mumble, keeping your eyes down as you grab a glass and fill it from the fridge. After taking a long, desperate gulp, you turn to him sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck.
“Hey... listen. I barely remember anything after we left the club, but... I am so, so sorry. For whatever I did or said last night. I know I must have been an absolute handful."
Riki’s hand freezes on his mug. He stares at you, his dark eyes widening slightly, a tiny, hopeful flicker shining in his gaze.
"You really don't remember?" he asks, his voice dropping a notch, sounding almost disappointed.
You shake your head, offering a weak, apologetic smile. "Honestly, the most I know is that Mei and I were both completely drunk off our asses. There’s absolutely no way she could have gotten me home without us ending up in a hospital. So, obviously, you had to come rescue us. Thank you, really. And again, I'm sorry if I was annoying."
Riki stares at you for a long moment, the hopeful look in his eyes slowly dimming into something quiet, guarded, and slightly frustrated. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, looking away toward the window.
"Don't worry about it," he says quietly, his tone suddenly feeling incredibly distant. “You weren't annoying."
He doesn't offer any details. He doesn't tease you about how much you drank, and he doesn't bring up the ride home. He just sits there, strangely quiet, staring at his mug until he finally gets up, washes his glass, and retreats back into his bedroom without another word.
As Sunday bleeds into Monday, a strange, heavy shift settles over the apartment.
Riki is avoiding you.
It’s not loud or aggressive, but it’s painfully obvious. He slips out of rooms the moment you walk in. When you ask him a question, his answers are short, polite, and completely devoid of his usual teasing spark. When he leaves for the studio, he doesn't offer a quiet "see you later" or look you in the eye. He just slips out like a ghost.
At first, you don't mind it much. You figure he’s just tired from work, or maybe he’s still a little annoyed about having to babysit two drunk girls over the weekend. But as Monday afternoon rolls on, the silence in the apartment starts to feel suffocating.
You’re sitting at your desk, supposed to be working, but your mind is entirely occupied by Riki.
The memory of the past week flashes through your head. You had just gotten over the absolute embarrassment of walking in on him. You had finally laughed it off, finally cleared the air, and yet, here he was, suddenly acting like a stranger again.
Why? What could have possibly happened on Saturday night?
The thought begins to crawl into your mind, cold and terrifying: Did I do something weird?
You try to piece the night together. Did you say something offensive to him in the car? Did you throw up on him? Did you make some horrible, unfiltered comment about his body because of how much you'd been thinking about it all week?
The anxiety builds in your chest, hot and heavy, bubbling up until you can barely breathe. You can’t live in this tense, quiet limbo anymore. He’s at work right now, but the second he gets home, you’re going to confront him. You need to know what you did so you can apologize and fix this.
At around 8:00 PM, the front door finally clicks open.
Your heart immediately leaps into your throat. You sit perfectly still on your bed, listening to the familiar sounds of Riki kicking off his shoes, dropping his bag, and heading straight to the bathroom. You freeze, locking your eyes on your closed bedroom door, waiting.
You decide to give him some space first. You'll wait until he’s done showering and has had a chance to get comfortable.
But one hour passes. Then two.
The apartment remains completely silent. You sit on the edge of your mattress, checking your phone, the built up stress twisting your stomach into tight, painful knots. The uncertainty is eating you alive.
Suddenly, a soft, hesitant knock sounds against your bedroom door.
You jump, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Come in!" you call out, your voice slightly tight.
The door opens just a crack, and Riki peeks in. He’s wearing his damp hair messy, dressed in a clean black t-shirt and sweats. He doesn't step inside, keeping his hand on the doorknob.
"Hey," he says quietly, his eyes darting to your floor before briefly meeting yours. "I ordered some food. It's on the kitchen counter if you want some."
"Oh. Okay, thanks," you say softly.
He nods once, his face completely unreadable, and shuts the door.
You wait a minute, taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, before finally getting up. You walk out into the hallway, expecting to find him sitting on the couch where the two of you always eat together. But the living room is dark. The TV is off.
You look toward the kitchen. The bags of food are sitting on the counter, but Riki is nowhere to be seen.
You follow the soft light glowing from the end of the hall. His bedroom door is pushed open, and when you look inside, you find him sitting at his desk, eating quietly by himself.
That’s the final straw. The built up stress of the last forty-eight hours finally boils over, shattering your resolve to stay calm.
You step into his doorway, your hands clenched at your sides.
"Okay, did I do something?"
The words burst out of you, sharp and loud in the quiet room.
Riki freezes, his chopsticks hovering halfway to his mouth. He blinks, staring up at you in complete confusion. "What? No?"
"So why are you being so weird towards me?" you press, taking a step further into his room, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of anxiety and frustration. "What happened? Ever since Sunday morning, you won't even look at me. If I did something stupid or said something horrible when I was drunk on Saturday, just tell me so I can apologize."
Riki stares at you, his chest rising and falling with a heavy breath as he takes in your frantic, stressed expression. Slowly, he sets his food down on the desk.
"Nothing," he stammers slightly, his dark eyes softening, looking genuinely apologetic. "Can you... can you just calm down?"
You look at him, his soft tone instantly cutting through your rising panic. You let out a long, shaky sigh, the anger draining out of you, leaving you feeling incredibly small. You take a step back, rubbing your face in your hands.
"I'm sorry," you mutter, looking at the floor. "I just... I've been stressing about this all day."
"No, it's fine," Riki says quietly. He shifts in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away, a faint, troubled expression crossing his handsome face. "I'm sorry if I've been seeming distant. I just... I've been having some weird... feelings?"
He says the word feelings almost unsurely, as if he’s still trying to translate the heavy warmth in his chest into actual language.
You blink, completely caught off guard by his honesty. "Oh... do you want to talk about them?"
Riki pauses, his eyes drifting back to your face. He sees the genuine concern and the soft vulnerability in your eyes, and his throat bobs as he swallows.
"Well... not really," he admits softly. But seeing your face fall slightly, he quickly adds, "But it’s not because you did something. I promise. It’s just... something I have to figure out on my own."
"You don't have to explain. I get it," you say.
And you genuinely do. Because with how your own feelings have been going every which way ever since you saw him completely vulnerable in that bathroom, your brain has been a chaotic mess. You understand exactly what it’s like to have thoughts you aren't ready to speak out loud yet.
"Sorry for storming in on you," you offer gently, backing toward the door.
"It's fine," he says, a tiny, genuine smile finally tugging at the corner of his lips.
You offer him a small smile back and slip out of his room, closing the door softly behind you. As you walk back to the kitchen to grab your food, you feel a massive wave of relief wash over you. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't ruin your friendship.
But as you sit down on the living room couch, Riki’s words seem to echo in the quiet apartment.
Some weird feelings.
What kind of feelings was he having? Did it have anything to do with Saturday night? With you?
The thoughts linger for a fleeting, dangerous second, making your heart do a sudden, erratic flutter. But you quickly shake your head, forcing the thoughts away. You didn't want to start overanalyzing everything again. You just needed to let him figure it out.
But as you eat your dinner in the quiet room, you can't help but feel like the space between your two has never felt so small.
Another week slid by, and to your immense relief, the easy, comfortable rhythm of your shared apartment finally returned.
The tense silence was gone, replaced once again by casual late night conversations in the kitchen, shared glances over bad TV shows, and the familiar, grounding presence of Riki just a room away.
He seemed to have worked through whatever "weird feelings" he was having, and you did your absolute best to keep your own new, fragile emotions tucked safely out of sight. You were back to being friends. Normal. Safe.
At least, until Friday night.
You and Mei were sprawled out in the living room, completely taking over the space. Sweatpants on, hair thrown into messy buns, and an absolute graveyard of takeout containers and snacks scattered across the coffee table. You were in the middle of laughing at a ridiculously dramatic reality show when the front door unlocked.
Riki walked in, looking effortlessly good in a soft, oversized cream knit sweater and dark jeans, his dance bag slung over one shoulder.
"Hey," he murmured, a soft, tired smile instantly gracing his lips as he saw the chaotic setup in the living room.
"Hey!” you smiled up at him, feeling that familiar, warm flutter in your chest.
"Hi, Riki," Mei chimed in, offering a casual wave from her spot on the floor.
"Hey, Mei," he replied, kicking off his shoes.
He walked into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, leaning against the counter for a brief moment. Everything felt completely normal, light, and easy. He didn't linger too long, knowing you and Mei were having a girls night.
“I'm gonna go shower and crash. Don't be too loud please."
"We won't. Goodnight, Riki," you said.
He gave you one last, lingering look before heading down the hall to his room and closing the door.
The second the click of his door echoed down the hallway, Mei slowly turned her head toward you. The lazy, relaxed expression she’d had a moment ago was completely gone, replaced by a razor-sharp, deeply knowing look.
"Okay, so... anything new?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
You kept your eyes glued to the TV, reaching for a handful of popcorn. "With what?"
"Come on, Y/N, don’t act dumb," Mei groaned, throwing a small pillow at your legs. "What’s been going on between you two?"
"Mei... it’s nothing. We’re friends," you insisted, finally looking at her and trying to keep your voice as flat and convincing as possible.
Mei let out a dry, theatrical scoff. "Yeah, sure. I can definitely tell both of you are way different from before."
"Nothing is different," you muttered, though you could feel the heat starting to prickle at the back of your neck. You took a slow sip of your drink, desperately hoping she’d just drop it.
"Even you don’t believe that," Mei countered, her tone dropping into something softer, more earnest. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.
"Y/N, the way he looks at you when he walks into a room? The way you practically light up the second his shoes hit the entryway? It’s not the same as it was a month ago. You both have this... energy now."
You stared at your glass, the defenses you’d spent the last week carefully building suddenly starting to crumble under her scrutiny. You let out a quiet, defeated sigh, shoulders slumping.
"Okay... maybe I might be feeling different about him," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "But it doesn’t matter. Me and Riki are friends, nothing more. And he does not see me like that."
Mei tilted her head, her eyes locking onto yours with a challenging spark. "How do you know?"
You opened your mouth to answer, to give her a list of logical reasons why Riki would never think of you that way. But as you searched your brain, nothing came out. You thought about the tender way he had wiped your face after you were sick. You thought about his hand lingering on your wrist in the dark of your bedroom, and the soft, hopeful look in his eyes when he asked if you remembered Saturday night. You couldn't find a single solid piece of proof to back up your claim. You sat there, completely silent, unable to even answer.
"Exactly," Mei said, a soft, triumphant smile playing on her lips. "Why don’t you just tell him how you’ve been feeling?"
Your heart did a violent, panicked stutter. "I don’t..."
"You gotta try something, y/n, or you’ll never know if something could’ve happened between you two," Mei pressed gently.
You shot her a flat, "be serious" expression, but deep down, her words were hitting you like a physical weight. You wrapped your arms tightly around your chest, staring down at the carpet as the reality of her advice sank in.
For the rest of the night, Mei’s words clung to you like a second skin. Even as the two of you went back to laughing at the TV, drinking, and talking trash, the thought of Riki remained locked in the back of your mind. You managed to push it down eventually, forcing yourself to live in the moment and enjoy the rest of your night with your best friend, but the seed had been planted.
You knew Mei was right. The comfortable, purely platonic boundary you had relied on for so long had already been crossed, whether you wanted to admit it or not.
Maybe you should say something to him.
But as you glanced down the dark hallway toward his closed bedroom door, a cold, familiar knot of anxiety tightened in your throat. Riki was your roommate, your confidant, one of the closest people in your life. The thought of losing the precious bond you already had—of making things so weird that you couldn't even look each other in the eye anymore—was terrifying. And right now, that fear was the only thing holding you back.
The soft, golden warmth of Saturday morning filtered through the sheer curtains of the living room, painting quiet blocks of light across the hardwood floor.
After the whirlwind of the past few weeks—the accidental bathroom incident, the drunken night out, and the heavy conversations that followed—the apartment finally felt like a sanctuary again. The thick, suffocating layers of tension had peeled away, leaving behind a comfortable, familiar space.
You sat at the kitchen island, slowly sipping a freshly brewed cup of coffee. The hum of the refrigerator and the distant chirp of birds outside were the only sounds filling the quiet morning. It was the kind of peaceful weekend start you had desperately missed.
The soft creak of Riki’s bedroom door opening broke the quiet. You didn't stiffen or freeze this time, instead, you felt a warm, easy anticipation settle in your chest.
Riki padded into the kitchen, his hair delightfully messy from sleep, sticking up in random directions. He blinked sleepily against the morning light, rubbing the back of his neck as he made his way to the coffee pot.
"Morning," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep, a low rumble that vibrated pleasantly in the quiet kitchen.
"Morning, sleepyhead," you smiled, leaning your chin on your palm as you watched him pour himself a mug.
Riki let out a soft, amused huff, taking a slow sip of his black coffee. He leaned against the counter opposite you, his eyes focusing on your face. A tiny, lingering glance passed between you—one of those quiet, loaded seconds where you both remembered everything but chose to let it rest—before he offered a lazy, handsome grin.
"I have a busy week ahead at the studio," he explained, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I had to store up my energy. What are your plans for today?"
"Honestly? Absolutely nothing," you admitted, swirling the remaining coffee in your mug. "I was just going to rot on the couch, maybe run a few boring errands later."
Riki set his mug down on the counter, his gaze brightening with a sudden, playful spark. "Don't run errands. Let's do something today. Just the two of us."
"Oh? And what did you have in mind."
"We could get food. Walk around the park. Just get out of the apartment," he shrugged, though the hopeful look in his eyes was hard to miss. "It’s nice out today. It’d be a waste to just stay inside."
"Alright, fine," you laughed, sliding off the barstool. "Give me thirty minutes to get ready."
"Take your time," Riki chuckled, his eyes trailing you with a soft, lingering warmth as you walked down the hallway to your bedroom. "I’ll be waiting."
True to his word, Riki was ready and waiting by the front door when you emerged from your room. He had changed into a clean, well fitted black t-shirt and baggy denim jeans, a simple outfit that somehow made him look incredibly striking.
Your mind briefly threatened to flash back to the image of him without the shirt, but you firmly shook the thought away, offering him a bright smile instead.
"Look at you, actually putting effort in," you teased, grabbing your keys and purse.
"I always put effort in," Riki countered, reaching past you to open the front door. As he did, his chest brushed lightly against your shoulder, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.
“You're just finally noticing."
You laughed, stepping out into the warm afternoon air.
The drive to the local park was filled with the easy, comfortable noise of your favorite playlist humming through the car speakers.
This time, there was no drunken shouting or frantic radio switching. Instead, Riki drove with one hand casually on the steering wheel, occasionally tapping his fingers to the beat, while you pointed out random things along the road, laughing at his dry, sarcastic commentary.
When you arrived at the park, the weather was absolutely perfect. A gentle breeze rustled through the green trees, keeping the summer heat at bay as the two of you began a slow walk along the paved path.
"So," you started, hands tucked into your pockets as you walked side by side. "How has the new choreography been going? You said last week was brutal.”
"It is," Riki sighed, though there was a passionate, dedicated spark in his eyes. "The details are really sharp this time. My shoulders have been killing me from the constant repetitions."
Without thinking, your eyes dropped to his shoulders, tracing the strong, solid lines beneath his black shirt. "Well... you do work really hard. Just don't overdo it."
Riki paused his walking, turning his head to look down at you. A slow, deeply teasing smirk began to crawl onto his face. "Are you worrying about me, y/n?"
"I am a highly responsible roommate," you shot back, feeling a faint warmth rising to your cheeks. "If you throw your back out, I'm the one who has to drag you around the apartment. I'm just looking out for my own physical labor."
"Right. Purely self serving," Riki chuckled, nudging his shoulder playfully against yours as you resumed walking. "I'll try to keep myself intact for your sake."
By mid afternoon, the walk had worked up an appetite, and Riki insisted on going to a small, cozy diner tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The diner was wonderfully retro, smelling of grilled burgers, sweet syrup, and fresh coffee.
You slid into a red vinyl booth, and Riki sat directly across from you. The table between you was small, meaning his long legs easily brushed against yours beneath the wooden partition. Neither of you pulled away, the subtle, warm contact feeling incredibly natural.
"I'm getting a chocolate milkshake, and no, you cannot have a sip," you declared, pointing a warning finger at him as you scanned the menu.
Riki let out a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms over his chest. "Wow. Cold hearted. After I drove you all the way here?"
"You can order your own, rich boy," you giggled, looking up from your menu to meet his gaze.
His eyes were locked onto yours, soft and intensely focused. The playful banter faded for a brief, quiet second, replaced by a profound, comfortable closeness.
The fear that Mei had planted in your head the night before—the terrifying thought of losing him if you ever confessed—suddenly felt incredibly distant. Sitting here with him, laughing and sharing space, made you realize how deeply woven he was into your life.
"I'll just steal yours when you aren't looking," Riki teased softly, breaking the quiet moment with a wink that made your heart skip a beat.
"Just try it, and see what happens," you warned, though your smile was wide and happy.
When the food arrived, the comfortable chatter continued. Riki listened intently as you rambled about a project you were working on, nodding along and offering genuine, thoughtful advice. He was a great listener, always paying attention to the little details you mentioned, a quality you had always deeply appreciated about him.
By the time you made it back to the apartment, the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in beautiful hues of dusty pink and warm orange. You felt pleasantly tired, your stomach full and your mind incredibly relaxed.
As you unlocked the front door, Riki followed you inside, tossing his keys onto the entryway table. The apartment was cool and quiet, a peaceful contrast to the bustling energy of the city.
"Thanks for today, Riki," you said, turning around to face him as you kicked off your shoes. "I really needed a distraction."
"Anytime," Riki murmured, taking a step closer to you. He looked down at you, the fading evening light catching the soft contours of his face. "I had fun, too. It’s nice just spending time with you like this."
You looked up at him, your breath hitching slightly at the sincerity in his voice. The teasing, playful roommate persona was gone, replaced by the raw, gentle warmth he had shown you on Saturday night in your room.
"Yeah," you whispered, your heart beating a little faster. "Me too."
Riki reached out, his long fingers gently brushing against your arm for a fleeting second, a warm, reassuring touch that made your skin tingle. "I'm gonna go change. Movie night?"
"Definitely," you smiled, watching him walk down the hallway.
As you went to your room to change into your night clothes, you couldn't help but think about Mei’s words from the night before. You gotta try something, Y/N, or you’ll never know.
Today had been perfect. It was comfortable, safe, and filled with the easy love of a deep friendship. But beneath the surface, the current was changing. The lingering glances, the gentle touches, and the quiet warmth between you were growing stronger with every passing day.
And as you walked back into the living room to join Riki on the couch, you realized that maybe the fear of losing what you had was finally being outweighed by the exciting, terrifying possibility of what you could become.
The soft, blueish glow of the television screen was the only source of light in the dark living room as the movie played on.
You and Riki were sitting next to each other on the couch, sharing a large, heavy knit blanket draped over both of your laps. But you weren’t sitting super close. There was a careful space between your shoulders—just enough room for the large bowl of popcorn sitting directly between you on the middle cushion.
It was a comfortable setup, but the unspoken awareness of his proximity was humming just beneath the surface.
Every time Riki reached into the bowl at the same time as you, his knuckles would briefly brush against yours, sending a sharp, electric jolt straight up your arm. You’d both quietly pull your hands back, offer a muttered "sorry," and go back to staring at the screen.
As the movie progressed into its second hour, the comfortable atmosphere began to shift, growing heavier.
Maybe it was the exhausting emotional roller coaster of the past two weeks, or maybe it was the lingering weight of Mei’s words echoing in your head. You found yourself completely unable to focus on the plot. Your chest felt tight, your mind spinning with a sudden, frustrating wave of impatience.
Riki, too, seemed restless. He kept shifting his weight, his eyes darting to you in the shadows of the room, his jaw slightly tense.
"You're not even watching," Riki murmured suddenly, his low voice cutting through the quiet dialogue of the TV. He reached for the remote and paused the film, plunging the room into a still, heavy silence.
You blinked, caught off guard. "What? Yes, I am."
"You've been sighing every five minutes, y/n," Riki interrupted softly, turning his body on the cushions to face you. "And you’re aggressively tearing a piece of popcorn apart. What’s going on?"
Your fingers froze, indeed holding a completely shredded piece of popcorn. You let out a breath, suddenly feeling a spike of irritation. You were tired of the dancing around, tired of the careful boundaries, and tired of pretending you weren't losing your mind.
"Nothing is going on, Riki. I'm just tired," you said, your tone coming out a bit sharper than you intended.
Riki’s eyebrows pulled together, a flicker of defensiveness crossing his face. "Okay, clearly you're not 'just tired.' Did I do something again? Because I thought we solved the weirdness on Monday."
"We did solve it," you said, sitting up straighter and letting the blanket slip off your shoulders. "But then you go and act completely distant, and then you tell me you're having 'weird feelings' that you can't talk to me about."
"Because they're my feelings to deal with," Riki shot back, his voice rising just a fraction, a rare edge of frustration in his tone. He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely stressed. "I was trying to protect our dynamic. I didn't want to make things weird for you."
"Protecting our dynamic?" you repeated, a bitter, disbelieving laugh slipping from your throat. "Riki, things have been weird since the moment I walked in on you. And I've been sitting here trying to navigate whatever this is, wondering if I ruined our friendship, while you just shut down!"
"I didn't shut down because of you!" Riki stepped in, his eyes snapping to yours, intense and burning in the dim light.
"Then why?!" you demanded, the built up emotion finally boiling over. "Why are you keeping secrets? Why are you acting like I’m some fragile glass doll you’re gonna break? If you're annoyed with me, or if you're disgusted by whatever happened, just say it!"
"Disgusted?!" Riki let out a harsh, frustrated breath, leaning forward so quickly the space between you evaporated. "Are you kidding me right now? Is that really what you think?"
"I don't know what to think!" you yelled back, your chest heaving, tears of sheer frustration prickling at the corners of your eyes. "You don't talk to me! You touch my face in the car when you think I'm asleep, you stay in my room until I fall asleep, and then you act like I'm a stranger the next day! It's driving me insane because... because I can't stop thinking about you, Riki!"
The confession tore out of you, loud, raw, and completely unfiltered.
The silence that followed was deafening. Your own breath hitched in your throat, your eyes widening in horror as the weight of your slip up crashed down on you. You had said it. You had literally just admitted it.
Riki froze, his entire body locking up as he stared at you. The anger drained from his face in an instant, replaced by a stunned, breathless shock. "What...?"
"I..." You scrambled backward, trying to untangle your legs from the blanket, desperate to escape to your room. "Nothing. Forget I said that. I'm going to bed."
"No, wait—"
Riki reached out, his hand wrapping firmly around your wrist, stopping you from moving away. His grip was warm, solid, and completely unyielding. He pulled you back toward him, his eyes searching your panicked face with a sudden, desperate intensity.
"Say it again," he whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
"Riki, please let go," you pleaded, your voice cracking as the fear of rejection tightened in your chest. "I made a mistake. I shouldn't have said that."
"It wasn't a mistake," Riki said, his voice dropping into a deep, raw rumble. He let go of your wrist, only to cup the side of your face with his warm palm, forcing you to look at him. "You think you're the only one losing your mind? You think I shut down because I was annoyed?"
You stared at him, your heart hammering so loudly you were certain he could hear it.
"I shut down because being around you... having you touch me, having you look at me... it made me realize things I was trying to ignore," Riki admitted, his thumb gently tracing your cheekbone.
His breath was warm against your skin, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. "I couldn't stop thinking about you. Every time I looked at you this week, all I wanted to do was this."
Before you could even process his words, Riki leaned in.
The kiss was sudden, a collision of built up frustration, longing, and relief. His lips pressed against yours, warm and firm, catching you entirely off guard.
For a second, you both froze. The shock of the contact made you both pull back, just an inch, staring at each other in the dark with wide, breathless eyes. The reality of what was happening hung suspended in the air, unsure and terrifying.
But then, Riki’s gaze darkened with pure, unfiltered desire. He didn't give you time to overthink. He leaned back in, and this time, the hesitation was entirely gone.
He captured your mouth again, but this time, it was deeper, more heated, and desperate. A soft gasp escaped your lips, which Riki immediately drank in, his hand sliding from your cheek to wrap firmly around the back of your neck, tangling in your hair to pull you closer.
The space between you completely vanished. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you as you kissed him back with the exact same frantic, built up hunger.
Riki let out a low growl against your lips, his free hand wrapping securely around your waist, lifting you easily until you were practically draped across his lap.
The world outside the apartment completely ceased to exist. There was only the heat of his body, the firm grip of his hands on your skin, and the intoxicating, dizzying taste of him. Every touch was electric, erasing the weeks of agonizing tension in a matter of seconds.
Riki broke the kiss for a split second, his breath hitching as he pressed his forehead against yours, both of you panting. His chest was expanding rapidly against yours, his hands griping your hips with a heavy, possessive force.
He slid his arms under your thighs and back, lifting you effortlessly off the couch in one smooth motion. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of clean soap and warm skin as he carried you down the short hallway.
He kicked his bedroom door open, stepping into the dark, quiet sanctuary of his room, before shutting the door behind him.
The door clicks shut, sealing out the rest of the world and plunging you both into the dim, shadow draped quiet of Riki’s bedroom. The moment his back hits the closed wood, he doesn't let you down. Instead, his grip around your thighs tightens, pinning you against him as his mouth crashes back onto yours with a fierce, demanding hunger.
There is no room for doubts now, no space for the careful hesitation that defined the last two weeks.
The makeout is raw, fast, and intensely heated. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, whimpering into the kiss as his tongue slides against yours, tasting of mint and desperate, bottled up want.
Riki lets out a low, vibration of a groan, his hands sliding up your back, bunching the fabric of your shirt as he presses you flush against the solid plane of his chest.
He shifts, his lips breaking away from yours only to trail a burning path down the sensitive skin of your jaw.
A breathy gasp escapes you as his mouth finds the sweet spot right where your neck meets your shoulder. Riki sucks firmly against the soft skin, his teeth grazing over the flesh in a slow, possessive drag.
The sharp, dizzying sting of a hickey forming makes your toes curl. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging lightly into the fabric of his shirt as he marks you in the dark.
Almost no words pass between you, only the heavy, frantic sound of your joined breathing and the wet, quiet friction of his lips devouring your skin.
Slowly, Riki lets you slide down his body until your feet touch the cool floor, though he doesn't let you go for a single second. He guides you backward toward the edge of his bed, his hands warm and steady on your hips until you sink onto the mattress.
Before you can even catch your breath, Riki drops to his knees on the floor between your thighs. His hands slide to the waistband of your shorts, his fingers brushing against your skin as he gently but deliberately slides them down your legs, taking your undies with them in one smooth, fluid motion. He tosses them aside, leaving you completely exposed under his gaze.
Your breath hitches as he looks up at you through his dark, messy fringe, his eyes burning with an intense, focused heat. He doesn't hesitate. His hands slide up your bare legs, parting them gently, and then he leans forward to kiss you, his lips meeting yours with a fierce, demanding passion that leaves you completely breathless.
Your breath hitches as he looks up at you through his dark, messy fringe, his eyes burning with an intense, focused heat. He doesn't hesitate. His hands slide up your legs, parting them gently, and then he leans forward to taste you.
The first touch of his tongue makes your whole body shudder. Riki is incredibly, agonizingly good at what he’s doing. Every stroke is deliberate, heavy, and wet, finding your sweetest spots with a terrifying accuracy that leaves you completely defenseless.
Within minutes, you are a trembling, unraveled mess. Clutching the bedsheets on either side of you, your hips lifting involuntarily as you try to press yourself closer to his mouth. Your breathing turns into shallow, rapid gasps, and your chest heaves as the pleasure builds into something entirely overwhelming.
"Riki—ah, please," you cry out, his name slipping from your lips in a breathless, needy shout that echoes softly in the quiet room.
He doesn't stop. He only grips your thighs tighter, anchoring you to him as his mouth moves faster, driving you completely over the edge. A low, muffled praise vibrates against your skin. "You taste so good," he mutters against you, his voice thick. "So sweet for me."
He continues the relentless pace, pulling every single gasp and twitch out of you until you finally break, your body locking up as you cum all over his mouth.
As the waves of your release slowly begin to settle, Riki crawls up the bed, his dark eyes fixed on your flushed, dazed face. He leans over you, kissing you gently, letting you taste yourself on his lips.
Slowly, without breaking his gaze, his hands slide to the hem of your shirt. He slips it over your head and tosses it onto the floor, his eyes tracking the rise and fall of your bare chest. Then, his hands move to his own shirt, pulling it off. In the dim light, the sight of his bare, broad chest and defined abs makes your throat go dry.
But before he goes any further, Riki pauses. He props himself up on his elbows, hovering over you, his expression suddenly very serious, very tender.
"Are you okay?" he whispers, his thumb lightly brushing your lip. "You're sure about this?"
"Yes," you breathe, reaching up to cup his jaw. "More than sure."
Riki lets out a soft breath, a relieved smile brushing his lips. He turns to his nightstand, his long arm reaching out to grab a condom from the drawer. You watch the quiet, focused movement of his shoulders as he prepares, your heart hammering in anticipation.
Once ready, he settles between your thighs, guiding your legs over his shoulders to open you up completely. He aligns himself at your entrance, pausing for a second to look into your eyes before he slowly slides inside you.
The fullness of him stretching you, makes your head fling back against the pillows as a needy, breathless groan slips from your throat. Your fingers instantly tangle in his messy hair, holding him close as your body adjusts to his size. Riki waits, letting you get used to him, before he begins to move.
He starts with agonizingly slow, deep thrusts, testing your limits. Every time he slides all the way out, only to sink back in even deeper, you let out a ragged gasp. The friction is immediate and electric, sending waves of heat straight to your core. Your hips instinctively lift to meet him, begging for a faster pace, but Riki keeps the rhythm steady and punishingly slow.
The heat between you builds with every slow slide of his body against yours. You can feel the slick friction of him driving you closer and closer to the edge, the familiar, tight coil of another release starting to tension deep in your lower stomach. Your breath comes in short, shallow pants, and your grip on his shoulders tightens as you feel yourself hovering right on the precipice of a peak—
But just as you’re about to fall over the edge, Riki suddenly stops. He pulls completely out of you.
"Riki!" you groan, the sudden coldness leaving you empty. Your eyes snap open in pure frustration as you stare up at him, your hands desperately trying to claw him back down.
Riki lets out a low chuckle, his chest vibrating against yours. He leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your pouting lips, tasting your desperation. "Be patient," he murmurs against your mouth, his thumb stroking your hip in a slow, soothing circle that only drives you crazier. "I don't want to rush this. I wanna take my time with you."
Before you can even protest, Riki grips your hips and gently but firmly rolls you over onto your stomach.
You press your face into his pillows, your breath coming in short, needy pants as you feel him settle behind you. The shift in angle is sharp and immediate. He grabs your hips, pulling you flush against him, and begins to fuck you from behind.
The sound of his skin slapping against yours fills the quiet bedroom, matching the frantic rhythm of your racing pulse. You arch your back, burying your face in the sheets to muffle your loud cries as he drives you closer and closer to the edge.
But just as you feel yourself reaching the absolute peak, your body trembling on the verge of breaking—
He pulls out again.
You let out a sharp, genuinely angry whine, twisting your head to glare at him over your shoulder. Your face is flushed, your hair wild, and you are completely fed up with his control.
Riki just looks down at you, a devilish, intensely satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he shrugs. "Just wait," he whispers, his voice dripping with playful torment.
You’ve had entirely enough of his little games.
Fueled by a sudden, defiant rush of adrenaline, you don't wait for his permission. You push yourself up off your stomach, turning around to face him.
Before he can react or pull away again, you crawl forward, straddling his lap as he sits back against the headboard. You lock your eyes onto his, letting him see the stubborn determination in your gaze.
"No more waiting," you whisper.
You don't let him pull you back. Instead, you align yourself over him, looking down into his burning eyes, and slowly, completely slide down, impaling yourself onto him. A deep, ragged sigh escapes you both as you finally capture the fullness of what he kept taking away from you.
You don't wait for him to set the pace. You grip his broad shoulders for balance and begin to move, chasing the release you've been denied. Riki’s hands grip your waist with a bruising, heavy force, guiding your hips as he thrusts upward to meet you, his entire body rigid with restraint.
The friction is overwhelming, the heat between you building to a fever pitch. You move faster, your head tilted back, crying out his name as the pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave. You break first, your body shuddering violently as you clench around him, your internal muscles clamping down tight.
Even as your body trembles with the aftershocks, you don't stop. You keep moving, riding through the sensitivity, determined to bring him with you.
Riki lets out a loud, raw shout, his head snapping back against the wall as he loses his grip on his control. He thrusts up hard, one last time, and cums deeply inside the condom.
You ride out the final, pulsing friction of his release for a few more slow, heavy seconds before your strength finally gives out. You collapse forward, burying your face in the crook of his warm, sweat damp neck.
Riki’s arms immediately wrap around you, pulling you tight against his chest. Both of you lie there, chests expanding rapidly against each other as you slowly, quietly come down from the dizzying high of the night.
The silence of the room slowly returns, save for the quiet hum of the AC and your fading, heavy breaths.
As you lie there, listening to the steady, rapid beat of his heart beneath your ear, the reality of what just happened slowly settles over you. You look down at your hand resting on his chest, his fingers loosely tangled with yours.
There is no going back to the way things were. The careful, polite boundaries of the last month have been completely shattered, melted away by the heat of the night. But as Riki presses a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head, holding you just a little bit closer, you realize you don't want to go back anyway.
Everything was different now—and it was only going to go up from here.
One second, you were telling a little lie to impress the cheerleaders, and the next, the whole school thought you were dating Park Jongseong—the cold, untouchable, and ridiculously hot guitarist. What started as a desperate move to boost your reputation took a wild turn when Jay decided to go along with it. Now, you’re caught up in nonstop gossip, awkward moments, and a fake relationship that feels a little too real—especially with Jay showing a surprisingly sweet side that no one, including you, saw coming.
content tags: fake dating, lots of fluffs, comedy, slight angst, strangers to lovers, reader is in 11th grade while jay is in 12th, (but both of them are over the age of 18) reader is short, jay smokes vape in the middle of the story, jay hates everyone lol. warning: profanities, mentions of sex, mild smut. WC: 14.7k
song used: same ground by kitchie nadal
note: thank you for the 95 followers!
You were a simple girl.
Simple, average, ordinary. Not the type to snag straight A's in every class, but not failing either. You were the kind of girl teachers barely noticed—just another name on the roll call, another face in the crowd.
You liked pink—just enough to keep it cute, but not the over-the-top glittery kind.
You didn't obsess over fandoms or have bags covered in pins and but you have figurines. Your style wasn't edgy or pastel chic or anything that made you stand out. You were... balanced. Plain. Normal.
Your high school life reflected that. Simple. Average. No exciting detours.
You weren't a sports star who got their name chanted in the bleachers. You weren't a science geek impressing everyone with your brainpower. You weren't a mean girl, a party kid, or a cheerleader.
Oh, but you wanted to be a cheerleader.
You wanted to wear that uniform, flip through the air, feel the rush of the crowd. You wanted the applause, the way everyone's eyes followed them when they walked the halls.
But no one cared about a normal girl trying out.
Reputation was everything in high school, and yours? Too simple. Too... forgettable.
You could cheer. You could dance. You could pull off a backflip, a split, the whole routine. You had the skills. What you didn't have was the image.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" one of the cheerleaders asked, her voice dismissive as you landed your final jump during tryouts. You stood there, panting, sweat dripping down your face after nailing the routine.
"A boyfriend?" you repeated, blinking, stunned. What did that have to do with anything?
"From football? Hockey? Maybe Math Olympiad?" she continued, her smirk curling like she already knew the answer.
You froze. Of course you didn't have a boyfriend. You were an NBSB—No Boyfriend Since Birth kind of girl. But how was that even relevant? You were here to cheer, not audition for a dating show.
"We'll let you know if you're accepted... or not," another cheerleader chimed in, her voice dripping with boredom. She wasn't even pretending to care about your performance.
You stood there for a moment, trying to steady your breathing, gripping your bag so tight your knuckles turned white. The sting of their indifference burned in your chest as you turned and walked out of the gym, sweaty and defeated.
Reputation doesn't matter, they always said. What a joke. High school was all about reputation—who you dated, who you were seen with, who you weren't.
And being a simple, average, normal girl? That just wasn't good enough.
It was a warm afternoon when you found yourself face-to-face with them again—the cheerleader tryouts.
So, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out:
"My boyfriend is Park Jongseong."
The world seemed to stop for a second. All the cheerleaders froze, wide-eyed, jaws dropping like a scene from a poorly-scripted teen drama.
"Wait—Park Jongseong?!" one of them shrieked, her voice climbing several octaves. "The hot guitarist in the band?"
You nodded, keeping your expression sweet and innocent, careful not to let your fabricated lie crumble.
"Oh my god!" Another cheerleader nearly jumped out of her skin. "He's, like, the hottest guy in school! And so... mysterious."
"He's so cold, though," another chimed in, tilting her head suspiciously. "How did you even—"
You cut her off, spinning your web of lies before she could unravel it. "Oh, it just... happened," you said with a casual shrug, as if it were no big deal.
"We met at this café off campus. He asked me about my drink order, and, well..." You let out a dreamy sigh, painting a picture so vivid you could almost convince yourself it was real.
"He's so sweet. He cares about me so much. Like, he cooks for me when I'm tired, aftercare after sex, kisses me goodbye every morning, and—" You leaned in conspiratorially, lowering your voice to a whisper. "He even lets me touch his guitar."
The gasps that followed were almost deafening.
"No way!" one of them shrieked, clutching her chest in disbelief. "Park Jongseong doesn't let anyone touch his guitar!"
You nodded solemnly, as if sharing a sacred truth. "Well, he lets me."
For a moment, you thought you'd pulled it off. You were a star in their eyes, a girl who'd managed to capture the unattainable Park Jongseong's heart.
But deep down, you knew the truth.
Park Jongseong hate everyone, especially you. And honestly? You didn't blame him.
The first time you'd crossed paths, it had been a disaster.
You'd been drinking water at your locker when he appeared out of nowhere, walking right past you. Startled by his sudden presence, you'd choked, spraying water directly into his face.
His jaw had clenched, his eyes shutting as he took a deep breath, clearly fighting the urge to lose his temper.
"Sorry!" you'd squeaked, your face burning with humiliation.
And then, like the socially awkward creature you were, you'd bolted down the hallway, leaving him dripping and furious.
Then there was the incident in the music room.
You'd been poking around the instruments out of boredom, your fingers grazing the strings of a random guitar when—CRASH. Your foot caught on something, and the stand holding his prized guitar tipped over, sending it sprawling to the floor.
Right at that moment, the door swung open, and in walked Park Jongseong.
You froze like a deer in headlights, your heart dropping to your stomach as his gaze landed on his guitar, then on you. His face was unreadable, but the tightness in his jaw told you everything you needed to know.
"Uh... sorry?" you muttered, holding up your hands in a weak peace sign. Before he could say anything, you darted out of the room. You ran away, again.
And who could forget the volleyball incident?
You'd been practicing serves in the gym when he and his friends walked in. Your focus wavered for a split second, and the ball sailed in the wrong direction—straight into his face.
You gasped as blood began dripping from his nose. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" you stammered, panicking as he grabbed his face, clearly in pain.
Without thinking (or, honestly, with too much thinking), you did what you always did. You ran, again.
And now, standing here, spinning lies about a romance that didn't exist, you had to fight to keep your composure.
"Wow," one of the cheerleaders gushed. "I can't believe you and Jongseong are, like... a thing!"
"Yeah," you said with a forced laugh, clutching your bag tightly to hide how sweaty your palms were. "He's... amazing."
But in the back of your mind, all you could think about was how Park Jongseong would react if he ever found out about this.
And...The story spread faster than you could have ever imagined.
One second, you were fabricating a harmless little lie to impress the cheerleaders, and the next, the entire school seemed to think you and Park Jongseong were soulmates—or worse, a thing.
And not just any kind of "thing." No. The rumors had grown legs, arms, and a whole personality.
"Is it true that Park Jongseong is... like, huge in bed?" one girl whispered as you passed her in the hallway, her eyes wide with curiosity.
You choked on absolutely nothing, gripping your bag as if it might save you from spontaneously combusting.
Another girl caught up to you, practically skipping alongside you. "Oh my God, how was it? You know, with him? Is he all intense and broody like he looks, or does he have a soft side?"
You stared at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
"He's... uh... great?" you stammered, mentally slapping yourself for sounding so unconvincing.
Her jaw dropped, and before you knew it, a crowd of girls—yes, the famous girls—was swarming you, each one louder and more persistent than the last.
"I can't believe you got him to date you!"
"Wait, wait, wait—did he really let you touch his guitar? Because I heard he doesn't even let his bandmates touch it."
"What's his favorite food? Does he let you steal his hoodies? Is he ticklish?"
"Is he actually the silent-in-public, wild-in-private type? Tell us everything!"
Your head was spinning. They were everywhere, and you couldn't escape. You tried smiling naturally, nodding here and there, but the panic bubbling inside you was threatening to explode.
"Oh my God, you're not even in the cheerleading pep squad yet? How dare they still not accept you!" one girl exclaimed dramatically. She flipped her hair with a loud scoff. "I mean, I saw your audition, and it was fucking amazing."
You blinked. She definitely had not seen your audition.
"Y-yeah, um... thanks," you muttered, clutching your bag tighter and taking a deep breath to steady yourself.
It was still early, but the hallway was packed. The questions kept coming, the voices growing louder, and you were just about ready to melt into the floor.
And then it happened.
You let out a tiny squeak as someone grabbed your arm, yanking you out of the circle of girls. You stumbled, blinking in shock, and turned to see who your savior—or captor—was.
Your heart nearly stopped.
It was him.
Park Jongseong!
Jaw sharp enough to cut glass, eyes darker than your worst nightmares, and hair falling messily across his forehead like he just stepped out of a photoshoot.
Except he didn't look like a model. No. He looked angry.
Like, furious.
Oh, you were so, so dead.
"S-see you later, girls!" you called out, your voice cracking as you tried to sound cheerful. You gripped his arm like your life depended on it, forcing a smile as he dragged you through the hallway.
The crowd erupted behind you.
"Oh my God, they're really together!"
"I knew it!"
"They're so cute! Look at how she holds onto him!"
Your face felt like it was on fire. You could feel every pair of eyes in the hallway locked on you as Jongseong stormed forward, his grip firm but not painful. You tried to match his pace, but his legs were longer, and you were practically jogging to keep up.
You tried to focus on breathing, but the more they talked, the more you wanted to just curl up and disappear.
Meanwhile, Jongseong hadn't said a single word. His jaw clenched, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
"Uh, Jongseong—"
Before you could finish, he yanked open the door to a small storage room, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind you with a loud click.
"Hey—what are you—"
"Shut up," he muttered, his voice low and sharp.
You blinked, startled. The room was small, cramped, and dimly lit by a single flickering bulb. Shelves stacked with cleaning supplies and dusty boxes surrounded you, and the air smelled faintly of bleach.
Jongseong leaned against the door, running a hand through his messy hair and letting out a frustrated sigh.
"What the hell?" he said finally, his voice laced with irritation.
You swallowed hard, gripping your bag like a shield. "I... I can explain?"
"Yeah, you'd better," he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes locked onto yours, and the intensity of his gaze made your knees feel like jelly.
"Why is everyone in this school convinced we're dating? And why," his voice dropped lower, "did I just hear someone asking if I'm good in bed?"
You winced. "Okay, so... it might've gotten a little out of hand."
He let out a bitter laugh, raising an eyebrow. "A little?"
You hesitated, trying to find the right words. "Look, I was just trying to impress the cheerleaders! They don't think I'm cool enough to make the squad, so I might've... um... made up a story."
His jaw tightened. "A story? About me?"
You gave him a weak, apologetic smile. "I didn't think it would blow up like this! I thought they'd just forget about it after tryouts!"
"Oh, yeah, because rumors about me always disappear quietly," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
You bit your lip, your embarrassment growing by the second. "I'm really sorry. I'll fix it. I promise."
He scoffed, shaking his head. "How exactly do you plan to fix this? Everyone already thinks we're a couple. You should've thought about that before you opened your mouth."
"I know, I know!" you said, your voice rising slightly. "But I didn't think people would actually believe me! I mean, look at you! You're, like... you, and I'm just... me."
He stared at you, one eyebrow twitching. "What does that even mean?"
"It means no one would ever think you would date someone like me!" you blurted out.
There was a brief silence, Jongseong blinked, his expression unreadable.
"Wow," he said finally, his tone flat. "That's... depressing."
You buried your face in your hands, groaning. "I'm making this worse, aren't I?"
"Yeah," he said bluntly.
You peeked at him through your fingers, your voice small. "Can you... just not kill me, though?"
He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. For a moment, he looked like he was considering throwing you out the door, but instead, he leaned back against it, running a hand down his face.
"Here's what's going to happen," he said finally. "You're going to go out there, tell everyone you lied, and make sure my name is out of their mouths by the end of the day."
Your eyes widened. "I can't do that! If I tell them the truth, I'll look like a total loser! They'll never let me on the squad!"
"Not my problem," he shot back.
"Please!" you pleaded, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Just... let me ride this out a little longer. I'll figure out a way to fix it without dragging your name through the mud, I promise!"
He stared at you for a long moment. He let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Do whatever you want," he said finally.
Your eyes lit up. "Really?"
"Don't make me regret this," he added,
"I'll do anything!" you said quickly, your relief overwhelming your sense of pride.
His eyes flicked back to yours, and you swore you saw a flicker of amusement in his expression. "Anything?"
You hesitated. "Uh... within reason?"
He smirked, shaking his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered, pushing off the door and opening it.
"Wait, where are you going?" you asked, panicked.
"Class," he said simply, walking out and leaving you standing there, still clutching your bag like it might protect you from the fallout.
"Oh my God, they just came out of the storage room together!" someone squealed.
Your blood froze as a wave of gasps and murmurs rippled down the hallway.
"No way! They're so freaky!"
"They couldn't even wait until after school? A quickie in the storage room?!"
"That's so wild!"
You bolted out of the storage room, your face burning so hot it was probably visible from space. "It's not what you think!" you stammered, waving your hands frantically. "Nothing happened! I swear!"
But your protests only seemed to make things worse.
"Did you see her face? She's totally guilty!"
"God, no wonder he's so obsessed with her. She's probably insane in bed."
"Wait, so does this mean she's, like, not lying about them being a couple?"
The crowd erupted into a chorus of giggles, whispers, and scandalized gasps, and you felt your soul leave your body.
At the end of the day, you got the news: you were officially part of the cheerleading pep squad.
This wasn't exactly how you pictured it, but hey, you'd finally made it. You thought practice would be all about jumps, flips, and cheers, but instead, it was questions. Endless questions.
All about your "boyfriend."
By the time practice ended, you were convinced the squad cared more about Park Jongseong than they cared about cheerleading. It was exhausting. They made him your whole personality.
Now, you stood outside the music room, foot tapping nervously as you psyched yourself up. You needed to talk to him. Jongseong—Jay—walked out with his guitar slung over his back, his expression colder than a freezer. His eyes landed on you, sharp and annoyed.
"Why are you here?" he asked, as blunt as ever.
You forced an awkward smile. "Hi! Because... you're my boyfriend?"
Jay scoffed, walking past you like you didn't exist. Panicked, you scrambled to catch up, nearly tripping over your own feet.
"H-hey! Wait!" you called, gripping the edge of his jacket. "I'm Y/N! Please, for the second time, just hear me out!"
He stopped, turned, and stared at you with the kind of look that could burn holes in concrete. "What do you want now?"
You fumbled with your bag, your cheeks burning. "I just... I wanted to talk about—"
"Fuck off," he snapped, making you flinch and throw your hands up like you were bracing for impact.
"I'm sorry!" you squeaked, your voice small.
Jay sighed, running a hand through his hair as he shifted his weight. For a second, his eyes softened—but not enough to let you relax.
"I already let you use my name. What else do you want from me?" he asked, voice low and sharp.
You bit your lip, tapping your foot nervously. You'd practiced this speech in your head a hundred times, but the words suddenly felt scrambled.
"I just... I got into the cheerleading squad, but they keep asking me questions about you, and—"
His glare deepened. "After you spilled water on me, crashed my guitar, and hit me in the face with a volleyball, what more do you want?"
You gasped, offended. "E-excuse me?! Those were accidents!" you said, emphasizing the word with dramatic hand gestures.
"I didn't spill water on you on purpose! And I didn't crash your guitar—it fell! And your nose? Total accident!"
He turned to leave, but you panicked again, grabbing his arm and walking beside him as fast as your shorter legs could go.
"Please, just help me for a little while longer!" you pleaded.
He glanced at your hand on his arm, then at you, looking like he wanted to throw himself into the nearest trash can. "You got what you wanted. Tell them we broke up or something."
You shook your head frantically. "No, no, no! I know I'm a loser for using your name, but I need to keep this up for a few more months!"
Jay's jaw tightened. "What now?"
"I just... need some information about you," you said, your voice small. "Like, your favorite color, or your hobbies, or—"
He cut you off with a groan. "Just make something up. You're good at that."
"But it sounds fake!" you whined, stomping a little like a frustrated child.
Jay stopped walking and turned to glare at you again. "And the story about the café and me being good in bed doesn't sound fake?"
Your cheeks turned crimson. "I-I didn't say anything about you being good in bed!" you squeaked, waving your hands defensively. "I just said you were good at, uh, aftercare! They're the ones who assumed the rest!"
Jay stared at you, his face unreadable, but the way his lips twitched told you he was this close to laughing.
"So, you want more information about me so you can answer their next stupid questions?" he asked.
You nodded eagerly. "Yes! Exactly!"
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Like if I'm huge?"
Your brain short-circuited. "N-no!" you squealed, stepping back as your cheeks burned even hotter. "It's not like that!"
Jay smirked, adjusting the strap of his guitar as he stood up straight again. "Right," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Good luck with your cheerleading squad, girlfriend."
And with that, he totally walked away, leaving you standing there, red-faced and humiliated. But you weren't about to give up.
No way. You'd come too far and sacrificed too much pride to back down now. If groveling got you this far, then maybe going lower would get you what you needed.
So, you became... everywhere.
After his chemistry class, there you were, waiting outside the door with a bright smile and an awkward wave. "Hi! How was class? Did you learn anything interesting?"
He barely looked at you as he walked past, muttering, "I don't know, did you?"
At his band practice, you somehow sweet-talked your way in. His bandmates, thinking you were his girlfriend, welcomed you with open arms.
"Jay never told us you were so supportive," one of them said, grinning.
"Y-yeah! That's me! Super supportive!" you laughed nervously, while Jay sat in the corner, tuning his guitar, looking like he was plotting your demise.
But you stayed anyway, sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching him play with stars in your eyes. He was good—like, really good—and for a second, you almost forgot how much he hated you.
After practice, you walked out with him, chatting non-stop about your cheerleading routine. "So then Karina said I should try a - "
Jay, walking ahead of you, sighed heavily. "Do you ever stop talking?"
You froze for half a second before jogging to catch up. "Not really!" you said cheerfully, ignoring the withering glare he shot you.
During break time, you plopped down beside him in the cafeteria, chatting away about your practice. You didn't even realize you were rambling until he looked at you, his expression blank.
"Do you ever run out of words?" he asked, deadpan.
You blinked. "Uh... no?"
He groaned, rubbing his temples.
It wasn't long before your cheer squad started noticing things, too.
During one break, Yunjin leaned over, lazily plucking at her nails. "Your relationship seems so... one-sided," she said casually, enough to make your stomach drop.
"Eh?" you squeaked, your chest tightening with nerves. "W-what do you mean?"
Yunjin shrugged. "We never see you guys together. And when we do, he looks like he's about murdering someone."
You forced a laugh, your hands sweaty. "W-well, he's just... had a lot of bad days lately!"
"Jay's always having bad days when he's with you?" she shot back, raising an eyebrow.
"And you two don't even kiss in public," Karina added, leaning her chin on her hand.
Your throat went dry. "Uh, well, he doesn't like PDA," you said quickly.
The two of them exchanged looks but eventually shrugged, letting it go. You let out a quiet breath of relief, only to freeze when Karina clapped her hands.
"Y/N, you said you can do back handsprings, right?"
You nodded eagerly. "Yes! Do you need me to—"
"Great!" Karina stood, surveying the gym with a critical eye. "We need you to cover the entire formation during lifting. Can you do five in a row?"
Your eyes widened. "F-five?"
"Yeah, starting from over there." Karina gestured to the far side of the gym.
You forced a smile and walked to the starting position, nerves rattling in your chest. Everyone's eyes were on you.
You took a deep breath and started your back handsprings, nailing five in a row. When you landed, slightly dizzy, you raised your arms triumphantly.
"Hmm... it doesn't cover the right side," Karina said, tapping her chin. "Y/N, try seven this time."
Your smile faltered. "S-seven?"
They nodded.
You did as they asked, pushing through the dizziness, only to hear them call for more.
By the fourth round, you were practically collapsing mid-air. Ten was far too much, and by the end, your knees hit the floor hard, sending pain shooting up your legs.
"Oh, perfect!" Karina said, clapping her hands. "That covered the whole area. Great job, Y/N! But you need to work on your posture."
You winced, clutching your bruised knee as you shuffled to sit beside the others. The pain was sharp, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you forced a smile, trying to keep it together.
"I'm kind of craving boba tea," Karina said suddenly, standing up. "Who wants some?"
"Oh, me too!" Giselle chimed in, followed by the rest of the squad eagerly raising their hands.
"Perfect!" Karina said, pulling out a notepad. "Let's make a list."
A moment later, she shoved the list into your hands. "Here. And here's the money. You can go get it for us."
You stared at the list, dumbfounded. "Wait... me?"
"Yeah! Thanks, Y/N!" she said brightly, already turning to talk to Giselle about something else.
You blinked, standing stiffly as pain radiated from your knees. You didn't even have the energy to argue. Instead, you hobbled to the restroom first, tears spilling over as you washed your knees.
Violet bruises were already forming, and the cold water stung as it ran over the tender skin.
This wasn't what you'd imagined when you dreamed of joining the cheer squad.
You thought it would be glamorous—flipping in the air, cheering under bright lights, and finally belonging to something cool.
Instead, here you were, limping to a nearby boba shop with bruised knees and teary eyes.
Still, you told yourself it was okay. You were part of them now. You weren't just a simple girl anymore—you were a cheerleader. Their friend. It was normal to run errands and do things for your friends, right?
So why did it feel so awful?
As you stood in line, you checked the money Karina had handed you earlier, only to realize it was short. Way short.
You panicked for a moment, but what could you do? You had no choice but to pay for the rest out of your own pocket, all while swallowing the lump in your throat.
By the time you were walking back to school, holding a bunch of boba cups in flimsy plastic bags, you were crying. Pathetically.
Tears streaked your face, and your lips wobbled as you sniffled, trying not to let the world see how pitiful you looked.
But it wasn't their fault, you told yourself. They weren't bullying you. You were just having a sensitive day. Your knees hurt from all that back handspring practice, and the money situation had just been bad luck.
That's all.
You furiously wiped at your cheeks, determined to look normal before you made it back to the gym. But then, a voice startled you out of your thoughts.
"What happened to you?"
You nearly dropped the boba.
"Jay!" you yelped, turning to see him standing there with his guitar case slung over his back, his sharp gaze flicking from your tear-streaked face to the plastic bags in your hands—and then to your bruised, purple knees.
"I—uh—hi!" you stammered, forcing an awkward smile.
He didn't return it. "You didn't visit the music room today."
"Oh!" you exclaimed, caught off guard. "I was busy with practice. I completely forgot! I'm sorry!"
He didn't respond, just reached over and took the plastic boba bags from your hands.
You blinked at him, muttering a quiet "thank you" as he carried them down the hallway beside you.
"What happened to you?" he asked again, his tone firmer this time.
You scratched the back of your head, feigning cluelessness. "Uh, what do you mean?"
He gave you a look, and his voice dropped. "Why were you crying? And why do you have bruises all over your knees?"
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He was staring at you like he could see right through every lie you'd prepared.
"Oh, that?" You waved a hand as if it were nothing. "They made me practice back handsprings today. I just, uh, had a bad landing. But I'm totally fine! See?" You gave him a shaky thumbs-up, forcing another smile.
Jay didn't look convinced. His gaze flickered back to your knees, then to your face.
"Why? Do you care about me?" you teased, lightly bumping his shoulder with yours.
He rolled his eyes, but you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Without a word, he gestured toward the gym door.
"You first."
You laughed nervously, pushing the door open and walking inside.
"Oh, Y/N," Karina called out from across the gym. "Coach said we're not allowed to have boba anymore since she's strict about our diet. Did you already buy it?"
Your face fell. "Yes..."
"Oh crap!" Giselle smacked her forehead. "I texted you, but I guess it didn't go through!"
"But the boba? The money?" one of the girls asked, holding out her hand expectantly.
You hesitated, your voice caught in your throat. "I already bought it," you said quietly, glancing nervously at Jay.
Before you could say anything else, he walked past you, heading toward the bleachers. Without a word, he dropped the bags of boba onto the bench—hard. The cups jostled, some of the liquid spilling over the edges.
"J-Jongseong?!" Karina stammered, her confident tone faltering as she gulped nervously.
Jay stood there, his sharp glare slicing through the room. "Are you serious right now?" he said, his voice calm but dangerous.
Karina shifted uncomfortably, swallowing a lump in her throat. "W-we didn't mean for her to actually buy them—"
"Yeah?" he cut her off. "Because it looks like you had her running errands like your personal delivery service."
"Jay, it's not like that!" you blurted, defending them instinctively, though your voice wavered.
The room went silent. None of the girls dared to speak as Jay's gaze swept over them, so sharp.
"Is your practice over or something?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because none of you look like you're doing any cheers anymore."
Giselle quickly nodded, her voice high and nervous. "W-we're on a break!"
Jay's eyes narrowed slightly, making Giselle shrink under his gaze.
Finally, he turned to you, and his expression softened just enough to make your chest feel weird—like relief, or maybe something you couldn't quite place.
"Come on," he said, nodding toward the door.
"H-huh?" you stammered, blinking up at him.
"Let's go," he repeated, already turning away.
Before you could argue, he noticed the way you hesitated, the way you winced with every step. His eyes flicked down to your knees, bruised and swollen, and without a word, he leaned down and effortlessly scooped you up into his arms.
"W-what are you doing?!" you gasped, your face burning red as you scrambled to hold onto him.
The squad collectively let out a series of audible gasps behind you.
"Oh my God, she's not like, totally lying," Karina whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief.
Jay didn't acknowledge them. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed ahead as he carried you out of the gym.
"Jay, I can walk!" you protested weakly, even though your knees were very much not in walking condition.
"Yeah, you're doing a great job of that," he muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he adjusted his grip on you.
You clung to him in stunned silence, trying to ignore the burning stares from the squad still watching as the door swung shut behind you.
Your heart raced, and whether it was from embarrassment or something else entirely, you didn't want to think about it.
"You're going to stop running around like this," Jay said firmly as he walked. "If they want boba, they can get it themselves."
"But I'm part of the team now," you mumbled, your voice small.
"You're not their errand girl," he shot back, his eyes flicking down to you.
You shut your mouth, letting him carry you to the clinic as the nurse tended to your bruised knees.
He leaned casually against the wall, watching the whole process like he was supervising. Every time you dared to glance his way, he raised an eyebrow, silently daring you to say something stupid. You wisely kept quiet.
The next day at practice, things hadn't gotten much better.
The girls were still bombarding you with questions—except now, Jay had inadvertently raised your popularity to new heights.
"He's sweet but terrifying," one of them whispered, watching you stretch. "Maybe you should get him to smile for once. He's always glaring."
"Yeah, but it's kind of hot," another one added, fanning herself dramatically. "It's like he hates everyone except her."
You snorted at that, almost choking on your own air. If only they knew the truth. But you couldn't even laugh properly because someone tapped your shoulder, pointing toward the gym doors.
"Y/N, look!"
You turned and nearly choked on your own spit. There he was—Jay—walking toward you.
The girls squealed, whispering loudly as they quickly backed away to give you "privacy."
Your stomach flipped as he approached, his dark eyes scanning the gym before locking on you. "What are you doing here?" you whispered, gripping the edge of the bleachers.
He ignored your question, dropping his bag and kneeling in front of you.
"How's your knee?" he asked, his tone softer this time as his eyes flicked to your legs.
"I'm fine! What are you doing here?" you repeated, feeling heat crawl up your neck as the gym filled with the sound of squeals and whispers.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he rummaged through his bag and pulled out something.
"I bought you knee pads," he said simply, holding them up.
Your jaw dropped. "What—why?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he gently took your leg, his hands warm as he began securing the knee pad in place.
"He's so sweet!" one of the girls whispered loudly.
You tried to ignore the growing crowd of gossipers, your face burning as you stared down at him. "You really didn't have to—"
"Stop moving," he interrupted, his focus entirely on your knee as he adjusted the strap.
You sighed, crossing your arms. "Jay, seriously, what are you doing here?"
"I'll watch your routine," he said casually, moving to your other knee.
"What? No!" you exclaimed, flailing slightly. "What do you mean, you'll watch?"
He glanced up at you, a small, almost mischievous smile tugging at his lips. "You watch me practice at the music room. It's only fair I watch yours."
"That's different!" you sputtered, your face heating further.
"How is it different?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Because—because I'm not good at this yet!" you said, flustered. "What's your deal?"
"What do you mean?" he said, his voice light with amusement. "I just want to support my girlfriend."
You froze. Your brain short-circuited. Did he just—
"W-what did you just say?" you stammered, your voice cracking.
"Girlfriend," he repeated smoothly, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Isn't that what you keep telling everyone I am?"
You wanted to crawl into a hole and die. The giggles and gasps around you didn't help, either.
"You can't just—" you started, but he cut you off.
"Relax," he said, smirking as he turned to walk away. "Good luck with practice, babe. I'll be watching."
You watched him head toward the bleachers, still reeling from the fact that Park Jongseong, the untouchable cold Jay, just called you his girlfriend in front of everyone.
If you hadn't been blushing before, you were definitely on fire now.
The routine begins with a burst of synchronized cheers, the squad moving in perfect unison. You jump, spin, and dance, throwing in a split and a clean back handspring. When the lifting section comes, you step onto their hands with, you stick the landing, holding your pose as they lower you carefully.
You finish the routine without letting your bruised knees slow you down, your chest heaving as sweat drips down your temples.
The coach claps, giving feedback to the squad, but all you can think about is sitting down and catching your breath.
Unconsciously, you find yourself collapsing onto the bleachers—right next to Jay. He doesn't say anything, just pulls a water bottle and towel out of his bag, as if he'd been expecting you to need them.
"Here," he mutters, handing them over.
"Thanks," you say, too exhausted to overthink it. You take a long sip of water before draping the towel over your shoulders.
"How's the performance?" you ask him, still catching your breath.
"You're good," he replies simply.
You pause, blinking at him. "No, like... us. The cheering squad. How did we look?"
Jay shrugs, leaning back slightly on the bleachers, his gaze fixed ahead. "I don't know," he says, his tone casual. "I only had my eyes on you."
The water bottle in your hand almost slips from your grasp.
"W-what?" you stammer, turning to look at him.
He doesn't meet your gaze, his expression cool and indifferent, but there's a small twitch at the corner of his lips. "You heard me," he says, his voice even.
Your face heats up, and you're not sure if it's from the workout or his words. Before you can respond, one of your squadmates calls your name, pulling you back to reality.
"I—uh, thanks," you mumble, scrambling to stand.
"Don't fall," Jay says, glancing at your knees briefly before leaning back and pulling out his phone, as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb on you.
Your heart races as you jog back to the squad, Jay's words replaying in your mind. "I only had my eyes on you."
What was that supposed to mean?
Over the following weeks, something shifted. Jay did seem to like you—no, that would be too strong—but he definitely didn't hate you anymore. If anything, it felt like he had resigned himself to your presence.
Your schedules matched perfectly: you'd stop by the music room before your cheer practice, watching him play with quiet awe. After his practice ended, you'd walk together to the gym, where he'd drop you off with a gruff nod.
And during those walks, you talked. A lot.
Jay didn't interrupt or roll his eyes at your endless stream of words, but he didn't say much either. He'd let you ramble about random things—your favorite stories, songs, foods, or some obscure fact you'd read online.
One day, while rifling through your bag in frustration, you whined, "Crap, I always forget to bring an extra shirt!"
Jay didn't respond, just kept walking. You assumed he wasn't even listening.
But the next day, when you showed up for your routine walk to the gym, he handed you a neatly folded shirt.
"Here," he said, his tone flat, as though it wasn't a big deal.
You blinked, staring at it. "Wait, is this for me?"
"No, it's for the bench," he replied dryly. Then, seeing your expression, added, "You said you forget yours. Just take it."
Your heart skipped as you took the shirt, muttering a soft "thank you."
On another day, after practice, you grinned at him. "I really want a spicy ramen—like, with crab sticks and shrimp! Let's go get some!"
He raised an eyebrow. "That's a one-way ticket to high blood pressure," he deadpanned.
You pouted, whining dramatically. "Come on, Jay!"
Yet not long after, you found yourselves seated at a small ramen shop. You happily slurped your noodles, your feet swinging slightly under the table. Jay glanced down at your feet before looking up at you, finding you smiling as you focused on your bowl.
"What?" you asked, catching his gaze.
"Nothing," he muttered, shaking his head as he went back to his own noodles.
Spending time with Jay made you lose your guard in the best way.
You weren't as self-conscious anymore, and little things just felt... natural. Like the time you were walking together, mid-laugh, and he suddenly pulled your arm to stop you.
"Look both ways," he mumbled, his hand lingering on your arm as you gripped it instinctively.
You giggled, wrapping your hand around his. "Okay, Dad."
He didn't respond, but his lips twitched ever so slightly.
Another habit of his? Waiting for you after practice, leaning against his motorcycle with his usual nonchalant expression. He'd nod for you to hop on, offering you his spare helmet.
It felt normal now—holding onto him as he drove, the wind whipping around you as the city lights blurred by.
Sometimes, Jay and you didn't even talk. Like when you'd share a cup of ice cream on a bench after practice, the two of you just staring at nothing. He'd sit beside you, watching as you bit down on your spoon absentmindedly.
"You look dumb," he'd say eventually, breaking the silence.
You'd laugh and stick your tongue out at him. "Thanks, Jay. Love the confidence boost."
Jay's attention to small things surprised you most when it came to your ketchup obsession.
It started when you were both sitting at your usual fast-food joint—a chain with a bright red logo and the smell of fries and fried chicken wafting through the air.
You'd always order the same thing: chicken nuggets and fries. But what made you stand out (to Jay, at least) was how you hoarded ketchup packets.
You never even used them at the restaurant. Instead, you'd stuff them into your bag, mumbling something about "saving them for later." Jay didn't ask at first, but the mystery was solved when he saw you in their practice one day, pulling out one of those packets.
You ripped it open quietly, then tipped the packet to your mouth and slurped the ketchup straight out of it.
A week later, during a break, Jay casually handed you a small stack of ketchup packets.
"Where did you get these?" you squealed, your eyes sparkling as you grabbed them from his hand.
"My bandmates ordered fries," he said with a shrug. "They don't like ketchup, so I took them."
You stared at him, your heart doing an annoying little flip. "Jay, you get me," you said dramatically, clutching the packets to your chest like they were a bouquet of roses.
"Don't make this weird," he muttered, already turning away.
You ripped one open immediately, slurping the sweet and tangy ketchup with a grin. "Thanks, Jay!"
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched again—his almost-smile.
Then there was the time in the cafeteria when he handed you a tissue.
You stared at him, confused. "What's this for?"
"Your lip gloss," he said simply, his tone so casual it made your brain short-circuit.
You blinked, dumbfounded, as heat rose to your cheeks. How did he even notice that you always wiped off your lip gloss before eating?
You muttered a shy "thanks," taking the tissue as your heart thumped in your chest.
And then there were even smaller things.
Like how he bent down to tie your shoelaces without a word when they came undone during your walk.
Or how he fixed your hair once, brushing a stray strand behind your ear with a quick, almost annoyed motion.
Or how he straightened your uniform when it got wrinkled after a particularly rough practice, muttering something about how you looked like "a mess."
They weren't grand gestures. Jay wasn't the type for big declarations or sweeping acts of romance. But it was always the small things that left you breathless—the way he noticed you, the way he cared without saying much.
And maybe, just maybe, the cold, untouchable guitarist didn't hate you as much as he let on.
"That's Park Jongseong's girlfriend!"
"Park Jongseong's girl is so pretty!"
"I didn't know Park Jongseong's girlfriend is so good at dancing!"
But honestly? You weren't sure how to feel about it anymore.
People didn't want to know you. They wanted to know him. Even when someone started a conversation with you, it always led back to Jay.
"How did you two meet?"
"What does he do when he's bored?"
"Does he even smile around you?"
You started noticing how Jay wasn't immune, either. People would corner him in the halls, asking invasive questions about your "relationship," and he'd glare at them in that trademark way of his until they got the hint and left. He never complained, never said anything about it to you, but you could see it in the way his jaw clenched tighter these days.
You weren't cool. You weren't special.
You were just someone who had made a stupid, selfish decision to drag his name into your mess. And now? You weren't sure if you could keep it up any longer.
It was a quiet afternoon in the music room. Jay sat across from you, strumming his guitar in the golden light of sunset. Normally, this was when you'd ramble on about whatever random topic popped into your head, but today, the words felt too heavy to come out.
Instead, you pulled your knees to your chest, hugging them as you stared at the floor.
"I'm sorry if I always bother you," you said suddenly, your voice barely audible.
Jay's fingers stilled on the strings, his head tilting slightly as he glanced at you.
"I... I really don't have any friends," you admitted, resting your chin on your knees. "I think I'm too crazy for the good girls in my class, too dumb for the nerds, and way too soft for the mean girls."
He didn't say anything, but you felt his eyes on you.
"But, you know," you continued, your voice shaky, "you're the first person who's ever... tolerated me. And I really appreciate that."
You laughed weakly, even though it wasn't funny. "Thank you, Park Jongseong, for listening to me go on and on about dystopian movies. For putting up with me when I get loud and excited. For not judging my weird ketchup obsession."
Jay leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable, as you let out a long sigh.
"I thought dragging your name into the cheer squad thing would make me feel like I belonged somewhere," you said, your voice breaking. "But it hasn't. If anything, it's just made me feel worse. Like I'm not enough for them. Like I'll never be enough."
Your chest tightened as you fiddled with the hem of your shirt, unable to meet his gaze. "And... I feel like I've dumped all these responsibilities on you because of one stupid little lie I told. It's not fair to you."
Jay stayed silent, but you could feel his presence, heavy and quiet.
You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "I think... I think it's time we break up."
Jay's hands froze on the guitar, his entire body going still. His gaze sharpened.
"Break up?" he repeated, his tone even but taut, like he was holding something back.
You nodded, your throat closing up. "Yeah. I've caused you enough trouble already. I think... I think it's better if we just end it. It'll be easier for you."
Jay's jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the edge of the guitar as he stared at you. "Is that what you want?" he asked, his tone calm but laced with something you couldn't place.
Your chest felt like it was caving in. You couldn't look at him, couldn't bring yourself to say what you really wanted to say. So instead, you nodded.
"Yes," you whispered, barely audible.
The silence that followed was unbearable. You expected him to agree, to maybe sigh in relief or tell you that you were right. But instead, he just stared at you, his gaze unreadable.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose, his voice low. "Alright."
Your heart sank at the word, even though it was what you'd asked for. You forced yourself to stand, forcing a shaky "thank you" past your lips as you made your way toward the door.
But just as you reached it, his voice stopped you in your tracks.
"But you should know," he said, "that if you think you're not enough, you're wrong."
You froze, your breath hitching. Slowly, you turned to face him.
He wasn't looking at you anymore. His gaze was fixed on his guitar, his fingers idly plucking at the strings, but there was a softness in his voice that you weren't used to.
"You don't have to try so hard to fit into their world," he said quietly. "You already stand out. You don't see it, but you do."
Your throat tightened as tears pricked at your eyes. "Jay..."
He looked up at you then, his dark eyes piercing but calm. "If you want to end it, I'll let you go," he said, his voice steady. "But don't do it because you think you're causing me trouble. That's just you overthinking, as usual."
The ache in your chest grew unbearable, and for a moment, you thought about staying.
But the weight of your emotions felt too heavy, and you bolted, muttering a weak "thanks" as you ran out of the room, tears already spilling down your cheeks.
You didn't look back, but as you closed the door behind you, you swore you heard the faint sound of his guitar strings—soft, steady, and full of something you didn't quite understand.
By the time you reached the bathroom, you were a mess.
You locked yourself in a stall and let it all out, tears streaming down your cheeks as you tried—and failed—to convince yourself this was what you wanted.
"It's not even real," you muttered, your voice cracking. "We're not a thing. We were never a thing. Why am I crying like an idiot?"
But no amount of reasoning stopped the ugly sobs from wracking your chest. You clutched some toilet paper, blowing your nose dramatically and telling yourself to get it together.
When you showed up to practice later, your eyes were swollen and red, your nose a little too pink to hide what had happened.
"Y/N, are you okay?" Karina asked, looking concerned.
You forced a shaky smile. "I'm fine! Totally fine! Oh, by the way..." You paused, sniffling slightly. "Jay and I broke up."
The words felt like ripping off a Band-Aid, but you didn't have time to process them before the room erupted.
"What?!" Giselle gasped, clutching her water bottle.
"No way!" Yunjin exclaimed, already pulling out her phone.
Within hours, the news spread across the school faster than you thought possible. Everywhere you went, you could hear whispers and murmurs about the "breakup."
And Park Jongseong?
He was still Park Jongseong.
You spotted him in the hallway, his face set in stone, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp as ever.
He walked like he was on his way to commit murder, every step filled with tension. People gave him a wide berth, whispering things like, "He's even scarier than usual," and, "God, she must've really broken his heart."
But when your eyes met his for a split second, he looked away, his expression you can't read.
Your chest ached painfully every time you passed him. And when you were finally alone at night, you curled up in bed and cried yourself to sleep, the pain in your chest refusing to fade.
By the time your classmates dragged you to karaoke, you were on emotional autopilot. You didn't want to be there, but they'd insisted.
"It'll help you get over him!" Sunoo had said, practically shoving you into the room.
It wasn't helping. At all.
Sunoo grabbed the mic, singing passionately as the lyrics flashed across the screen. "That's why I don't understand... why I'm feeling so bad now, when I know it was my idea."
You froze, staring at the lyrics like they'd personally attacked you. Your lips twitched, but you refused to let the tears fall.
Ni-ki leaned forward, grabbing the mic dramatically. "I could've just denied the truth and lied... why am I the only one, standing, stranded on the same ground?!"
You let out a choked laugh, trying to brush off your growing emotions, but then Sunoo turned to you with wide, knowing eyes. "Oh my God, what happened to you?!"
"Shut up," you muttered, pulling your cardigan over your face to hide the tears forming in your eyes.
The room erupted as Ni-ki wrestled the mic away from Sunoo. "My love, it's been a long time since I cried and left you out of the blue." Ni-ki sang into the microphone.
You couldn't help it—the tears started spilling as you wiped them furiously with your sleeve, hoping no one would notice.
"It's hard leaving you that way... when I never wanted to!"
Your classmates were belting out the lyrics, screaming into the mic with way too much passion. And somehow, the chaos made it worse.
"Self-denial is a game!" Ni-ki shouted, practically falling to his knees. "It's strange, I never would've wanted it until there was you!"
You sniffled, wiping your cheeks again, but the tears wouldn't stop.
"Y/N, are you crying?!" Sunoo gasped dramatically, leaning closer, his voice high-pitched enough to rival a whistle.
"No!" you wailed, burying your face deeper into your cardigan. "It's just—the lyrics are so stupid!"
Jungwon, ever the responsible one, grabbed the remote and immediately switched the song. "Okay, we need a vibe shift. No more heartbreak songs."
The opening beat of Apple Bottom Jeans blasted through the room, and everyone burst into cheers and laughter.
You couldn't help but laugh, sniffing back the last of your tears as Ni-ki grabbed the mic and jumped onto the couch.
You felt a little lighter. Sure, your heart was still aching, but at least now, you now had friends who made it a little easier to breathe.
The next day, you were required to attend the university baseball game. Every student was, but as part of the cheerleading pep squad, you had absolutely no excuse to skip.
The stadium was packed with thousands of students from your university and the rival school, the energy buzzing in the air. You tugged at the hem of your uniform skirt, your face burning with embarrassment. "Is it really this short?!" you whined, glaring at Giselle.
She shushed you with a wave of her pom-poms. "Relax. It's normal!"
"You don't have to be awkward about it," Karina added, flipping her hair. "Your legs look great!"
Your coach, however, was far less delicate. "We're making it look longer because your legs are short," she said bluntly, not even looking up from her clipboard.
You gasped, utterly dumbfounded. "I—should I be offended, or...?"
The coach just shrugged, moving on with her notes.
Before the game officially began, your squad performed a short routine to hype up the crowd. The music blared through the speakers as you stepped forward, executing a clean front handspring. The crowd roared with approval, but your face burned as your skirt rode up mid-flip.
When the routine ended, you cringed, tugging your skirt back down as you returned to your seat at the front. You waved your pom-poms enthusiastically, shouting the university yell every time your team scored, even if you were still mortified from earlier.
When the game finally ended and the crowd began to thin out, you found yourself standing near the bleachers, clutching your pom-poms and phone. The cheer squad was preparing to take pictures, but you hung back for a moment, trying to catch your breath.
That's when someone approached you.
"Hi," a voice said, warm and slightly out of breath.
You turned to see a guy standing in front of you, wearing his baseball uniform. His dark hair was damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed from the game, and his smile was boyish and shy.
"I'm Heeseung," he introduced himself, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I just wanted to say your routine was really cool. And, uh... I was wondering if I could get your number?"
You blinked, your brain stalling. Wait, what?
You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything, a loud voice called out from across the field.
"Y/N! Hurry up!" Sunoo waved his arms dramatically, yelling over the crowd. "We're taking pictures!"
Your face turned even redder as you looked between Heeseung and Sunoo. Panicking, you muttered a quick, "Sorry, I've gotta go!" before rushing off toward your squad, clutching your pom-poms.
By the time you reached your squad, you were out of breath and flustered, feeling like the world's biggest idiot.
You grabbed your bag, rummaging through it in search of a shirt to change into. The crowd had mostly cleared out, and the stadium lights were dimming, but you were too busy muttering to yourself to notice.
Of course, you didn't have a spare shirt. Why would you?
You sighed heavily, dropping your pom-poms into the bag and staring at the empty space inside. Without thinking, you mumbled, "I miss Jay."
The words hung in the air, surprising even you. You froze for a second, realizing what you'd just said out loud.
It had been months since you'd ended things—or whatever it was you'd had—with Jay. And somehow, instead of feeling lighter, you felt worse.
The more you saw him in passing, the more you missed him. The more you craved him. The ache in your chest refused to fade, no matter how much time passed.
Sometimes, you still cried yourself to sleep, clutching your pillow as memories of him flooded your mind.
You hated how much you missed him.
And then there were moments when your body moved on its own, as if drawn to him.
You'd find yourself standing outside the music room, staring at the door like you were waiting for something—or someone—to pull you inside.
But you never went in. You just stood there, your heart heavy, before walking away again.
Or you'd sit at your favorite bench, the one where you used to share ice cream with him after practice. You'd sit there alone, biting the spoon absentmindedly and staring at nothing, replaying old conversations in your head.
It was during one of those quiet moments, as you sat with a half-melted scoop of vanilla in your hand, that the truth finally hit you.
You liked Jay.
No, you more than liked him. You missed him so much it hurt. And the worst part? You had no idea if he missed you, too.
You bit down harder on your spoon, frustration bubbling in your chest.
Why had you been so stupid? Why had you pushed him away when, deep down, he'd been the only one who ever made you feel seen?
Maybe you were too late. Maybe you'd ruined whatever connection you had with him.
But one thought kept circling in your mind, no matter how much you tried to shake it off.
What if you weren't too late?
"Do you party?" Sunoo asked casually, flopping onto your bed like it was his own.
You raised an eyebrow, not bothering to hide your skepticism. "Not really. I mean, I've been to a few, but it's not my thing. Why?"
"Let's go to a party this weekend! You know Sunghoon, right? The baseball player? He's hosting!"
You laughed, waving him off. "I'll think about it, but probably not."
Sunoo narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but you brushed him off, fully intending to stay home.
But when the weekend came, your plans to stay curled up in bed went out the window.
Sunoo, Jungwon, and Ni-ki just barged into your house.
"Why aren't you dressed?!" Sunoo exclaimed, throwing open your closet as Jungwon inspected your makeup drawer.
"What are you doing?!" you shrieked, clutching a pillow like it was a weapon.
"You are going to this party," Ni-ki said, arms crossed like he was your older brother instead of one year younger. "Get ready. Now."
With no way out, you reluctantly threw on a simple crop top and shorts, tying your hair into a ponytail and doing clean, light makeup.
When you arrived at the party, the atmosphere immediately overwhelmed you. The music was loud enough to shake the walls, the smell of sweat, alcohol, and something smoky lingering in the air.
You stuck close to Sunoo as he handed you a red cup with some drink you didn't recognize.
"Just take a sip!" he shouted over the music.
"Excuse me for a second," you said, escaping to the balcony.
The moment you stepped outside, you exhaled deeply, the fresh air calming your nerves. The cool night breeze felt like a blessing after the suffocating heat inside.
But then, you stiffened.
Sitting in one of the chairs was someone you hadn't expected to see—someone you hadn't seen up close in months.
Jay.
He sat with one foot tapping rhythmically against the ground, a vape in his hand. The dim light from the balcony highlighted his sharp jawline, his pointed nose, and the effortless way his hair slicked back. He wore a simple white shirt under a blue Nike jacket, but somehow, he looked stunning.
Your chest tightened painfully as his head turned, his dark eyes meeting yours.
"Oh," you said awkwardly, frozen in place.
He stared at you for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, taking a long drag from his vape.
Without knowing why, you found yourself walking over to him and sitting quietly beside him, your gaze fixed on the stars above.
"I didn't know you actually smoked," you said softly, breaking the silence.
He hummed, his head tilting slightly as he exhaled the smoke in the opposite direction, making a point to avoid letting any of it near you.
"I don't. Not usually. I don't smoke at school."
He shifted in his seat, sliding the vape into his pocket and straightening his posture.
"Why'd you stop just now?" you asked, glancing at him.
He didn't hesitate. "Your nose is sensitive to strong smells."
Your breath caught, his simple answer hitting you harder than you expected. That was Jay—always quiet, always watching, always knowing without making a big deal of it.
The ache in your chest grew unbearable.
"I'm sorry," the words came out from your mouth.
Jay's gaze snapped to yours, his expression neutral.
"For what?" he asked evenly.
"For just leaving," you said, your voice shaky. "For everything you've done for me, and then me just... walking away. I didn't know what I was feeling back then. I was hurt and scared because... you're you, and I'm just me. I'm not good enough for you—"
Jay didn't respond immediately. His gaze softened, though his expression remained guarded. "And what are you feeling now?"
You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest.
"I... I miss you, Jay," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I miss everything about you. The small things, the way you cared, even if you acted like you didn't. I'm sorry for leaving you. I'm sorry for being stupid."
Jay looked at you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching yours.
"You're really stupid, aren't you?" he said, his voice calm but laced with a faint humor that made your heart ache.
You managed a weak laugh, wiping at the corner of your eye. "Yeah, I am."
Jay exhaled slowly, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile.
"I thought you'd like me and never break it off because that's what happens in those books you always talk about, right?" he said, his voice softening. "But somehow, I fell harder than I ever expected."
Your breath hitched as he let out a quiet laugh—so rare, so warm, it made your chest ache. He finally looked at you, his eyes glinting with something vulnerable.
"I've always waited for you," he admitted, his voice low. "Waited for you to stop standing outside the music room and just walk in. But you never did."
Your eyes widened, surprise flickering across your face.
"I saw you," he continued. "Every time you sat on that bench, on our place... I saw you at a distance, sitting there, staring at nothing. And I waited. I always waited for your eyes to look at me the way I was looking at you."
Tears began to swell in your eyes as you took in his words.
Jay leaned closer, his movements gentle.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "For being such a coward. For not walking up to you when I wanted to. I told myself I'd wait, but waiting just hurt more because all I could do was think about you. About us."
He reached out hesitantly, brushing his fingers against your cheek, his hand warm and grounding. "I'm hurting. I've been hurting since you left. Do you feel the same way?"
The tears spilled over, warm and slow, streaking down your cheeks. You placed your hand over his, leaning into his touch as you nodded. "I do, Jay. I've been hurting, too."
He watched you closely, his eyes softening as you smiled at him through your tears.
"You're crying," he murmured, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb.
"Yeah, well, that's your fault," you whispered, laughing through the tears.
Jay shook his head, his lips tugging into the faintest smile. "You're impossible," he muttered, his voice affectionate.
"And you're annoying," you shot back, your voice trembling with emotion.
But neither of you moved away.
The balcony felt smaller, quieter, as Jay's hand lingered on your cheek. His gaze flickered to your lips for a brief second, and your heart jumped, but he didn't move, waiting instead for you to close the gap.
So you did.
You leaned forward, pressing your lips softly to his, your heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. His lips were warm and hesitant at first, but then he shifted, tilting his head slightly as he kissed you back.
His hand slid into your hair, his fingers brushing lightly against your scalp as he pulled you closer. The kiss deepened, your lips moving in perfect sync.
When you pulled back just slightly to catch your breath, his forehead rested against yours, and his lips hovered mere inches away.
His voice was low, and soft as he whispered against your lips, "Don't ever think of yourself like that. You're more than enough."
His words struck you deep, and your eyes fluttered open to meet his. "But... you're you, and I'm just me," you murmured, your voice barely audible.
Jay didn't let you finish. His lips captured yours again, silencing your insecurities. When he pulled back, he looked at you with a gaze so intense it made your breath hitch.
"I like you for being you," he said simply.
You swallowed hard, your chest tightening with emotion. "But you're like a big star," you said, holding up your fingers to make the shape of a small star, "and I'm just... a little star."
Jay's lips curved into the softest smile before he leaned forward again, kissing you gently.
His voice was tender when he murmured against your lips, "A little star that shines brightest in my eyes."
Your cheeks burned, and you couldn't help but let out a flustered laugh, lightly hitting his chest. "How come you always know how to get my heart?!"
Jay chuckled, kissing your forehead as he hugs you.
Jay just wanted to play guitar. That was all. He didn't ask for the reputation, the attention, or the corny nickname the school had slapped on him—the "cold, untouchable hot guitarist." God, how he hated that.
Every day felt the same: girls cornering him in the halls, asking for his number or accidentally brushing their hands against his arms or guitar case. His eyes would glare like knives as he gritted out, "Don't touch me."
He hated it—the fake admiration, the empty attention. Everyone seemed to care about him for all the wrong reasons. And when they annoyed him too much?
"Fuck off," he'd mutter, his tone so cold it practically froze people in their tracks.
But you? You were different.
Jay remembered the school festival three years ago. He'd been sitting in Jake's booth, tuning his guitar lazily while Jake served spicy noodles to an occasional brave (or dumb) soul willing to risk their stomach for the thrill.
It was supposed to be a chill afternoon, but then you showed up.
You were the only person who kept coming back to Jake's booth. Every hour.
"I swear, you're going to burn a hole in your stomach," Jake had told you, half-laughing as he handed you yet another bowl of his stupidly spicy noodles.
"Totally worth it," you'd chirped, your voice high-pitched and cheerful. "Do you have a permanent shop? I'd eat there every day!"
Jay had glanced up from his guitar, staring at you through the slits of the tent. You were completely oblivious to his presence, happily slurping noodles as Jake made small talk with you.
Later, Jake stormed into the tent, tossing his apron onto the chair. "We're sold out," he'd announced. "And it's her fault."
Jay had raised an eyebrow. "Her?"
Jake pointed outside. "The spicy noodle girl. She's been coming back all day. We sold out because of her."
Jay hadn't said anything, but his lips had twitched, the smallest hint of a smile forming before he went back to tuning his guitar.
Jay hated everyone. He hated how they tugged at him, how they fawned over him for no reason. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to hate you.
He remembered the little things—moments that no one else seemed to notice.
Like the time you walked down the hallway with that cute little bag, the kind of bag that didn't really suit a high schooler but looked perfect on you.
It had a figurine hanging from it, neatly wrapped in a plastic pouch, and you carried it like it was your most prized possession.
Then, just days later, he'd found you outside the lost and found office, whining and crying. You'd lost the figurine, and you'd spent an entire lunch period pacing back and forth in front of the office, waiting for someone to turn it in.
Or the time he saw you clapping and cheering during a cheerleading pep squad performance, smiling so brightly that it felt contagious. You weren't even part of the squad back then, just a spectator, but you looked so genuinely happy that even he couldn't look away.
Then there was your PathFit (PE) class. Jay hadn't meant to stop by, but he'd found himself standing near the open door, his guitar case slung over his shoulder, as his eyes drifted toward you. You were on the floor, legs stretched into a perfect split, your forehead pressed to the ground as you stretched.
Jay once again noticed you searching frantically for a notebook you'd dropped in the hallway. You were crouched on the floor, mumbling to yourself, "This is why I can't have nice things."
He'd spotted the notebook a few feet away, picked it up, and placed it on the bench beside him.
When you found it moments later, you gasped, "Oh my God, it's a miracle!"
You always said you were just a simple girl. That no one really noticed you or cared about someone like you.
But in Jay's eyes, you were the opposite of invisible.
And every time he thought about you, he realized the same thing.
You stood out more than anyone else ever could.
When you'd spilled water all over his face.
His first reaction wasn't anger or annoyance, but something that surprised even him—he noticed how beautiful you looked up close.
Your wide eyes stared at him in shock, your pouty lips forming a small gasp as you muttered incoherent apologies. The faint, sweet floral scent of your perfume hit him, and for a second, he forgot the cold water dripping down his face.
Jay closed his eyes, his jaw clenching as he tried to take in more of that intoxicating scent, grounding himself. But before he could say anything, you bolted, muttering a quick "Sorry!" as you sprinted down the hallway.
He almost laughed when you tripped on your knees, scrambling awkwardly to escape. He stood there for a moment, wiping the water off his face with his sleeve.
The second interaction was you crashing out his guitar. He almost didn't notice his guitar on the floor because his eyes were locked on you.
Slowly, you raised two fingers in a peace sign, your expression a mix of guilt and panic.
"Uh... sorry?" you muttered before immediately backing out of the room.
Jay stood there, staring at the empty doorway, blinking in disbelief. He opened his mouth to say something, maybe even laugh, but the sound never left his throat. You were gone before he could even start a conversation.
And then there was the volleyball incident.
Jay didn't even see the ball coming. One second he was walking into the gym with his friends, and the next, a sharp pain hit him square on the nose.
"Shit," he hissed, dropping to the ground and clutching his face.
When he opened his eyes, you were hovering over him, your face inches from his. Your hair framed your face like a curtain, and there it was again—that scent. Sweet, light, floral.
He blinked up at you, stunned into silence. For a split second, he forgot about the pain, about the blood dripping from his nose. He was too focused on you—your soft features, your panicked expression, the way your lips trembled as you tried to form words.
Before he could open his mouth to tell you he was fine, the blood started pouring out of his nose.
"Crap!" you yelped, standing up quickly, flailing in panic. "I—I'll get help! I'm so sorry!"
And then you ran. Again.
Jay lay there, groaning as Jake handed him a tissue, snickering the entire time.
"Shut up," Jay muttered, even though Jake don't even say anything.
The breaking point came when Jay heard about the rumor that he was in a relationship.
He was furious. Annoyed didn't even begin to describe it. He hated how his name was constantly dragged into things, but this? A fake relationship? With some girl he didn't even know?
Storming through the hallways, he cornered one of the guys he'd overheard spreading the rumor. Grabbing the boy by the collar, he slammed him against the lockers.
"Tell me who started it," Jay demanded, his voice low and sharp. His jaw was clenched, his dark eyes boring into the boy's.
"I-I don't know! I swear!" the boy stammered, flinching under Jay's glare. "They said it was some girl—Y/N! Y/N told the cheerleaders about it!"
At the mention of your name, Jay froze. His grip loosened slightly.
For a moment, he couldn't believe it. Of all people, it was you.
Releasing the boy with a shove, Jay stepped back, his emotions in a whirlwind. He should've been angrier—should've been ready to confront you and demand answers. But instead, he found himself... curious.
He should've been irritated. He should've hated you for dragging his name into a mess.
But somehow, he didn't.
Instead, he felt something he couldn't quite place. And he wasn't sure what annoyed him more—the rumor itself or the fact that the thought of being tied to you didn't bother him as much as it should have.
“Oh my God, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
“Did they just come back together?!”
Whispers followed the two of you as you walked hand in hand down the hallway.
Jay’s tall frame dressed in his usual all-black outfit. His guitar case was slung over his back, the strap resting effortlessly against his shoulder, and his hand held yours with an ease that made your heart race.
Every head turned to look at you. It wasn’t just the sight of Jay—cold, untouchable, and intimidating—but the sight of him with you, a cheerful and bubbly cheerleader.
You leaned closer to him, lowering your voice as you whispered, “Do you think a guitarist and a cheerleader is a weird combination?”
Jay glanced down at you, one eyebrow raised, his expression softening. “No,” he said without hesitation, his voice steady. “You and me? We’re a perfect combination.”
You let out a laugh, lightly bumping your shoulder against his arm. “God, you’re so cheesy.”
He smirked faintly but didn’t respond, the corners of his lips tugging upward in amusement.
Park Jongseong as a fake boyfriend was good.
But Park Jongseong as a real boyfriend? He was so much better.
You used to think of him as just the guy with the sharp jawline, the deadpan expression, and those sharp, eagle-like eyes that seemed to shoot lasers at anyone who got too close. He was the “fuck off” and “shut up” guy, the untouchable guitarist who kept everyone at arm’s length.
But now, as you walked hand in hand with him, you realized how wrong you’d been.
Jay wasn’t just sweet—he was unbelievably sweet.
You remembered all the little lies you’d told about him when you were trying to fit in with the cheer squad.
“He’s so sweet,” you’d said back then, fabricating stories about how he’d treat you like a princess.
But now? Those stories felt laughable because the reality of being with Jay was so much better.
When you were tired, he’d carry your bag without a word.
“Let me take it,” he’d say simply, slipping the strap off your shoulder.
He opened doors for you—every single time. If you walked through a doorway together, you didn’t even have to reach for the handle because Jay would already be holding it open, waiting patiently for you to step through.
Once, when you were getting into a car, you’d bumped your head against the roof. From that moment on, Jay always, always put a hand over your head to make sure it didn’t happen again.
“Careful,” he’d murmur, voice low but gentle.
You’d joked about him cooking for you once, completely unaware of how true it would become.
One evening, after a particularly long practice, Jay had brought you to his house. “You’re tired,” he’d said. “Let me make you something.”
You hadn’t expected much—maybe instant ramen or a sandwich at most. But then you’d watched, wide-eyed, as he moved around the kitchen with surprising ease, chopping vegetables, seasoning meat, and sautéing everything.
“Do you cook often?” you’d asked, leaning against the counter as the delicious aroma filled the room.
“Sometimes,” he replied, glancing at you briefly. “Jake says my food is too good for him, though.”
You laughed, resting your chin on your hand as you watched him. Jay, the sharp-tongued guitarist, was making you a home-cooked meal. And it wasn’t just good—it was amazing.
Then there were the kisses.
You’d made up a story once, saying, “He kisses me goodbye every morning.” You thought it was the perfect romantic lie to impress the cheerleaders.
But now? Jay had made it a reality.
Every morning before he left for his own class, he’d touch your cheek lightly, his fingers brushing against your skin.
Then, he’d lean in, his lips meeting yours in the gentlest, softest kiss.
“See you later,” he’d say, before turning and walking away.
Each time, your heart would flutter uncontrollably, your fingers brushing against your lips as you watched him go.
"Aftercare after sex"
Except now, the real thing had turned out to be even better.
“Jay!” you whined, your hand gripping his hair as your hips moved uncontrollably against his mouth.
His tongue worked magic against your clit, circling and sucking gently while his long fingers moved inside you. His fingers curled just right, hitting your sweet spot effortlessly, and you gasped, your jaw going slack from the overwhelming sensation.
Your stomach tightened as the heat pooled low in your belly, and you felt yourself getting closer with each passing second.
Jay let out a low hum, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. His free hand moved up to intertwine with yours, grounding you even as you felt like you might fall apart.
“Feel so good,” you sobbed, your eyebrows furrowing together in pleasure. “Don’t want to stop.”
Jay pulled back just slightly, his lips glistening as he murmured, “Are you close, baby?”
You nodded frantically, your breathing erratic.
He leaned up, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. You tasted yourself on him, your tongue meeting his as the kiss grew messy and desperate. His fingers didn’t slow for a second, pumping relentlessly inside you as you gasped against his mouth.
When you broke the kiss, your eyes were teary, your chest heaving. Jay looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, his own breathing labored as he took in your flushed cheeks and swollen lips.
“Fuck,” he muttered, biting his lip as he moved back down between your legs. Without hesitation, he latched onto your clit again, sucking hard.
Your body jolted, your hands clutching at the sheets as you screamed his name. “Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum—”
Jay hummed in approval, his tongue working in perfect sync with his fingers, coaxing you to the edge. His free hand squeezed yours gently, the small gesture making your heart flutter even as your hips bucked uncontrollably against his face.
“I love you,” you gasped, your voice breaking. “I love you, I love you—”
Your back arched as the tension inside you snapped, and your vision blurred with stars. You cried out, your body shaking as you came, the overwhelming pleasure leaving you breathless.
Jay stayed with you through it all, his tongue and fingers slowing to help you ride out the waves. When you finally slumped back against the bed, exhausted and trembling, he moved up beside you, brushing the hair from your face.
He kissed you softly, murmuring sweet nothings against your lips as he fixed your shirt and wiped you down with gentle care.
“You’re okay,” he whispered, soothing. “You did so good.”
Jay was definitely good at aftercare.
“Is it true that Park Jongseong is… like, huge in bed?”
You flushed instantly, your thoughts flashing to the one time you’d seen him fully exposed, when he’d let you take him in your hand.
Yeah, he was definitely huge.
"Did he really let you touch his guitar?"
You stared down at the sleek Stratocaster electric guitar now resting gently in your lap. Jay handed you a white marker, his eyes soft as he watched your expression shift from confusion to awe.
Your fingers lightly brushed over the strings and the smooth, glossy surface of the guitar’s body. “What’s this for?” you asked, holding up the white marker he had placed in your hand.
“I need you to sign your name on my guitar,” he said casually.
Your eyes widened as you looked between the guitar and Jay, who was now sitting beside you. “W-wait,” you stammered, your voice rising slightly. “Are you sure? I don’t want to ruin it—”
“Baby,” he interrupted, “you’re not ruining it.” He leaned closer, gently pointing at a spot near the edge of the guitar’s body. “Right there. That’s where I want it. Sign it for me, hmm?”
You swallowed hard, this wasn’t just any guitar—it was his guitar. The one he cherished.
“Okay,” you whispered, nodding as you carefully uncapped the marker.
You hovered the pen above the guitar for a moment, practicing your signature in the air as your nerves fluttered.
Jay chuckled softly beside you, his voice warm. “You’re acting like you’re signing a million-dollar contract.”
“This is more serious than that,” you shot back, your lips curving into a nervous smile.
Finally, with a deep breath, you pressed the tip of the marker to the glossy surface, your hand moving carefully as you signed your name. The white ink glided smoothly across the black body, and when you pulled the marker away, you stared at the result with wide eyes.
“Perfect,” Jay murmured.
You turned to look at him, your heart skipping a beat at the way his gaze lingered on the guitar. His usual sharp, stoic expression was replaced with something softer, his eyes shining as he traced your signature with his finger.
He looked up at you, his lips curving into a rare, genuine smile. “Thank you,” he said, his voice full of warmth. Then, leaning in, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder.
Your cheeks burned as you gripped the marker tightly, unsure of what to say.
Jay pulled back slightly, his smile still in place. “Now it’s perfect,” he said simply, taking the guitar from your lap and standing up.
You watched as he adjusted the strap and slung it over his shoulder. His fingers moved instinctively to the strings, testing a few chords, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes kept flickering to your signature.
“Looks good, doesn’t it?” he asked, his voice casual, but you could hear the pride beneath it.
“It does,” you said softly, your chest feeling warm and full.
It was the school festival again, and you couldn’t contain your excitement. Still wearing your cheerleading uniform from your earlier routine, you tugged at your cousin’s arm, practically dragging her through the bustling crowd. The stadium was alive with energy—students cheering, music blasting from nearby booths, and the smell of snacks wafting through the air.
“Come on, we’re going to miss it!” you squealed, your ponytail bouncing as you hurried forward, your pom-poms tucked under your arm.
Your cousin groaned dramatically, trailing behind you. “You’ve been talking about this all day. Who are we even going to see?”
“My boyfriend!” you said, grinning from ear to ear. “My boyfriend's in a band!”
“Boyfriend?” she repeated, narrowing her eyes. “Since when do you have a boyfriend?”
You turned to her with a mock gasp, clutching your chest like she’d insulted you. “Excuse you. I’ve had one for months now.”
Your cousin raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, then. Let’s see this mysterious boyfriend of yours.”
The two of you found seats near the front, and you craned your neck, scanning the stage as the band members set up. The noise of the crowd grew louder, students and visitors alike cheering as the festival program officially began.
And then he appeared.
Jay stepped onto the stage, standing out against the bright festival decorations. The strap of his guitar rested comfortably on his shoulder, the instrument gleaming under the stage lights—and there it was, your signature on its glossy surface.
Your heart thudded wildly in your chest, a giddy smile tugging at your lips as you clapped your hands together in excitement.
“Okay, but which one is your boyfriend?” your cousin asked, squinting at the stage as if trying to piece it together.
You didn’t even hesitate. Pointing toward Jay, you said proudly, “The guitarist. His name is Park Jongseong. That’s my boyfriend.”
Your attention was locked on Jay as he adjusted his guitar strap and tested a few chords. His sharp, eagle-like eyes scanned the crowd, his usual stoic expression giving him an air of effortless cool. But then, something changed.
His gaze stopped on you.
Jay’s piercing eyes softened, his lips curving into the faintest smile, the kind of smile he rarely let anyone see. It was small, barely noticeable to most, but you knew it was for you.
Your hand flew to your mouth, trying to hide the giddy grin that threatened to take over your face. Your cheeks burned, and your heart raced as he looked at you.
After a brief moment, Jay’s gaze dropped to his guitar. He adjusted the tuning, his fingers moving skillfully over the strings, but you could tell his mind wasn’t entirely on the music. He stole one last glance at you before focusing on his task, a quiet confidence radiating from him as he prepared to play.
Your cousin, still in shock, nudged you. “Okay, he’s hot. How did you—like, how did you—end up with him?”
You laughed, brushing her off as you continued to watch Jay. “It’s a long story,” you said, your voice dreamy.
As the band began their set, the crowd’s cheers grew louder, and Jay’s fingers danced effortlessly over the strings. The sound was mesmerizing, and your chest swelled with pride as you watched him command the stage.
And as you sat there, smiling like an idiot, you realized once again how lucky you were to call him yours.
₊˚⊹♡ A solo business trip to Lake Como sounded like the perfect escape, and after a night of bar hopping, you meet a stranger who catches your eye. Deciding to have a little fun, you spend the night with him, only to wake up the next morning in an unfamiliar luxury hotel room. Realizing you're about to miss your flight back to Singapore, you quickly write an apology note, leave some money behind, and slip out before he wakes up, convinced you'll never see him again. But the moment you get home, your father announces that, for the sake of the family business, you've been arranged to marry the heir of another powerful company. With no way to refuse, you reluctantly agree to meet him. Less than 3 weeks after leaving Lake Como behind, you're sitting at dinner with your parents, waiting for your future fiancé to arrive... until a man takes the seat across from you. It's him... the stranger you disappeared on in Lake Como. Oh, this is gonna be a fun ride... isn't it?
𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙪𝙨𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙙! 𝙟𝙖𝙮 𝙭 𝙛𝙚𝙢! 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧
Arranged marriage, one night stand, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, billionaire romance, slow burn, banter, jealousy, angst, fluff, luxury lifestyle, corporate politics, family drama, mature themes, happy ending.
WARNINGS: Explicit Sexual Content, Strangers to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Angry Sex, Dirty Talk, Light Spanking, Hair Pulling, Light Choking, Overstimulation, Creampie, Oral Sex, Fingering, Strong Language, Alcohol Use, Family Pressure
wc: 17,920
songs: The Hills- The Weeknd, Or Nah - The Weeknd, Wiz Khalifa, & Mustard, Despacito - Luis Fonsi & Daddy Yankee, There's Nothing Holdin' Me Back - Shawn Mendes, Mercy - Shawn Mendes, Here- Alessia Cara, Siren Sounds (bonus)- Tate McRae, In the Name of Love- Martin Garrix & Bebe Rexha
CHAPTER 1: LATE NIGHTS IN LAKE COMO
I didn't come to Lake Como to fall into bed with a stranger. I came because my father's company was closing a deal with an Italian textile group and someone with a Singaporean passport and a decent grasp of contract law needed to sit in on the meetings, and that someone was me. Three days of negotiations, translators, and men twice my age calling me "young lady" instead of my actual title, and by the third night I was so done being professional.
"One night," my colleague Minji had said, clinking her glass against mine while we were on a terrace that overlooked the water so still it looked like it was painted on. "One night where you're not Mr. Song's daughter. Just you."
I'd laughed her off at first. And then I'd had a second glass of wine, and a third. Somewhere between the second bar and the third… a place with string lights and a DJ who clearly thought hip hop was a personality, Minji had gone off with some guy she just met at the last bar we were at. So I'd found myself alone at the counter, spinning the handle of my glass between two fingers, when a voice beside me said, in heavily accented but confident English…
"You're doing that thing where you're thinking too hard for someone on vacation."
I'd turned, ready to deliver the practiced brush off I gave every man who tried his luck with me in a bar, but the words had evaporated somewhere in my throat.
He was… objectively, impersonally, in the most detached way I could manage while I was literally half drunk… the best looking man I'd seen in person in my entire adult life. Dark hair pushed back like he'd run a hand through it and wasn't bothered to fix it, a jaw I could've used as a straightedge, and eyes that held a kind of lazy, unbothered amusement, like he found the whole world a little bit funny and had decided I was the funniest part of it tonight.
"I'm not on vacation," I said. "I'm working."
"In a bar. At eleven at night."
"It's a very demanding job."
He'd smiled then… slow, crooked, entirely too aware of its own effect, and ordered us both something with too much rum in it, and by midnight I'd learned nothing true about him. Not his last name, not what he did, not which hotel he was staying at, only that his name was Jay, that he laughed like he meant it, and that he had a way of looking at me that made me forget I'd sworn off men in suits after my last two relationships had both ended over a damn spreadsheet.
"You're trouble," I told him, somewhere around my fourth bar, when his hand had found the small of my back and left it there like it belonged.
"I get that a lot," he said. "You gonna do something about it, or just complain?"
Somewhere between bar three and bar four, I'd made him guess my job, "finance," he'd said immediately, squinting at me like he could read a balance sheet off my face, "no, wait… something in law, you argue like someone who's used to winning," and I'd neither confirmed nor denied it, just let him keep guessing, delighted by how genuinely invested he seemed in being right. He, in turn, had refused directly to tell me what he did, only that it involved "a lot of boring meetings and even more boring men," which had made me laugh so hard I'd nearly knocked my drink into a total stranger's lap.
"You're avoiding the question," I'd told him, jabbing a finger into his chest.
"I'm creating mystery," he'd corrected. "It's a strategy."
"It's evasive."
"It's working, isn't it? You're still here."
I couldn't argue with that. By the fourth bar, the DJ had switched to something with a Latin beat that made the whole floor move as one body, and Jay had pulled me into it without asking, hand at my waist, hips finding the rhythm like it was something he did often, and I'd stopped pretending, even to myself, that I had any intention of going back to my hotel alone that night.
"For someone who does boring meetings," I'd shouted over the music, "you dance like you do this professionally."
"Hidden talents," he'd said against my ear, and I'd felt the words more than heard them, warm and low, and something in my chest had done a slow, dangerous flip that I chose, deliberately, not to examine.
I should have called it a night right there. I didn't.
The walk back to his hotel blurred into a memory I'd revisit more than I'd ever admit… the lake at my left catching the moon, his jacket over my shoulders because I'd complained once about the wind, his mouth against my temple at a red light because apparently he couldn't wait until we were inside. The lobby of his hotel was the kind of quietly obscene luxury that told me he wasn't just some backpacker with a nice face… marble floors, a chandelier that had probably cost more than my apartment, a night staff that greeted him by name with the particular deference reserved for people who paid for entire floors.
I noticed. I filed it away. I didn't ask.
Neither of us were interested in talking anymore anyway.
I didn’t even make it past the doorstep of his suite before he had me pinned against the door, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that stole every last bit of breath from my lungs.
The click of the lock was barely audible over the pounding of my heart. His body pressed flush against mine… hard chest, strong thighs, the unmistakable bulge of his erection already straining against my hip. One of his hands tangled in my hair, tilting my head exactly how he wanted while the other gripped my waist, fingers digging in like he was afraid I might disappear.
“God, you taste even better than I imagined,” he growled against my lips, tongue sweeping in to taste me deeper. The kiss was messy, urgent, all teeth and tongue and raw hunger. I moaned into his mouth, hands fisting the front of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.
When he finally broke away, both of us gasping, his lips trailed hot, open mouthed kisses down my neck. He sucked hard at my pulse point, then soothed it with his tongue. “Been thinking about this since the second I saw you at that bar,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Wondering how you’d sound when I finally get my mouth on you.”
My dress was already riding up from how I wrapped my legs around him earlier on the dance floor. Jay’s hand slid under the hem, palming my ass, squeezing. “So fucking soft. I can’t wait to taste every inch.”
He lifted me effortlessly, my legs locking around his waist as he carried me toward the massive king bed. The suite’s floor to ceiling windows overlooked the moonlit lake, but neither of us spared it a glance. He laid me down gently, but the look in his eyes was anything but… dark, predatory, starving.
Jay knelt between my spread thighs, pushing my dress higher. “Let me see you.” His fingers hooked onto my lace panties, dragging them down slowly, teasingly. Once they were off, he spread my legs wider, eyes locked on my glistening pussy. “Look at you. Already so wet for me. Such a pretty little cunt.”
I whimpered at his words, hips shifting restlessly. He leaned in, blowing cool air over my heated flesh before his tongue licked a slow, broad stripe from my entrance up to my clit. The sensation made my back arch off the bed.
“Fuck—Jay—”
“Mmm, say my name again,” he demanded, then sealed his mouth over my clit, sucking gently while his tongue flicked rapidly. Two thick fingers pushed inside me without warning, curling to stroke that spongy spot that made you see stars. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth and fingers filled the room.
He ate me out like a man possessed… long, hungry licks, tight circles around my clit, then sucking hard while his fingers pumped faster. “Tastes so fucking good,” he groaned against me, the vibrations shooting pleasure through my core. “Sweet and creamy. I could stay down here all night.”
My hands flew to his hair, gripping tight as my thighs started to tremble. He added a third finger, stretching me deliciously, scissoring them while his tongue worked my clit relentlessly.
“Come for me, baby. Let me feel this pussy squeeze my fingers.”
The orgasm hit me like a wave, crashing over me hard. I cried out his name, hips bucking against his face as he licked me through every pulse, drinking down every drop.
But he didn’t stop. He kept licking, gentler now, until the overstimulation turned back into building pleasure. Only then did he pull back, lips shiny with my arousal, and crawl up my body.
He kissed me deeply, letting me taste myself on his tongue. “See how good you taste? I’m going to make you come on my tongue again before I fuck you.”
I reached for his belt, desperate to feel him. He helped me strip him, his cock springing free… heavy, thick, veined, the head already glistening with precum. I wrapped my hand around him, stroking slowly.
“Fuck, your hand feels amazing,” he hissed. “But I need your mouth first.”
He guided me up, sitting back against the headboard. I settled between his thighs, looking up at him as I licked up the underside of his cock. Jay’s head fell back with a groan.
“That’s it… just like that. Take your time, baby. Worship it.”
I swirled my tongue around the head, tasting the precum, then sucked him into my mouth. He was big… stretching my lips wide. I bobbed my head, taking more each time, using my hand on what I couldn’t fit.
“Shit—your mouth is perfect. So warm and wet. Suck harder—yeah, just like that.”
His hand rested lightly on my head, not forcing, just guiding. I relaxed my throat and took him deeper, humming around him. Jay cursed, hips twitching.
“Gonna come if you keep that up,” he warned, but I didn’t stop. I wanted to push him over the edge.
When he finally pulled me off, his eyes were wild. “Not yet. I want to be inside you when I come the first time.”
He rolled on a condom quickly, then positioned himself between my thighs. “Ready?”
“Yes—please, Jay.”
He pushed in slowly, letting me feel every thick inch stretching me open. When he bottomed out, he stayed there, grinding deep. “So tight. Taking me so well. This pussy was made for my cock.”
Then he started moving… long, deep strokes that built steadily. I wrapped my legs around him, nails raking down his back. He leaned down to suck on my nipples, alternating between them while he fucked me.
The pace quickened. Skin slapped against skin. He reached between me to rub my clit in tight circles.
“Come again for me. I want to feel you milking my cock.”
I shattered around him, clenching hard. Jay groaned, thrusting through my orgasm before pulling out.
“On your hands and knees,” he ordered.
I obeyed, ass up. He spread my cheeks, licking from my clit all the way up, teasing my other hole briefly with his tongue before diving back into my pussy.
“Fucking delicious,” he muttered, then slammed back inside me from behind. The new angle was devastating. He fucked me hard, one hand in my hair, the other reaching around to rub my clit.
“Tell me how much you love my cock,” he demanded between thrusts.
“I love it—fuck—so deep—don’t stop—”
He reached around and pinched my clit, sending me over again. This time he followed, burying himself deep and coming with a guttural moan of my name.
"Gosh, y/n"
We collapsed together, but the night was far from over.
After a short breather, he pulled me into the shower. Under the hot spray, he dropped to his knees again, water falling over both of us as he ate me out against the glass wall… tongue fucking into me, fingers everywhere, until I came screaming.
Then I returned the favor, sucking him off on my knees until he spilled down my throat with a hoarse shout.
Back in bed, he took me slow and deep in, whispering filthy praises the whole time, “Look at how well you take me… your pussy is so greedy for my cock… gonna fill you up again soon…”
I rode him next, grinding down, his hands guiding my hips while he sucked marks into my breasts.
By the time the sky started to lighten, I'd lost count of how many times he’d made me come… on his tongue, on his fingers, on his cock. The room smelled of sex and sweat. Jay held me close afterward, kissing my temple, both of us boneless and satisfied.
But even as sleep pulled at me, I knew I’d have to leave soon.
CHAPTER 2: THE NOTE
I woke up to sunlight shining gold across a bed that wasn't mine, in a room the size of my childhood living room, with an arm slung heavy and warm over my waist and my flight… my flight… leaving in three hours.
For one forgiving, traitorous second, I let myself lie there. Let myself feel the solid heat of him at my back, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the absolute stupidity of how good it had felt to be someone else's for one night, no expectations, no last names, no Song Corporation trailing behind me like a shadow with a balance sheet.
Then my phone, buried somewhere in my discarded clothes, buzzed with a reminder, and reality slapped me awake.
I slid out from under his arm with the sneakiness of someone who had, in a past life, definitely been a cat burglar. He stirred, murmured something impossible to understand, and rolled onto his front, and I froze mid motion for a full ten seconds before he settled again.
Dressing in the dark… or rather, dressing in far too much golden Italian sunlight while trying to be quiet about it… was its own special kind of chaos. I found my dress inside out on an armchair, one shoe by the door and the other, mysteriously, on the balcony. I did not investigate how it got there.
I should have just left. That would have been the smart thing. The clean thing. I had done this before… not this exact scenario, not a man who made my pulse skip just by saying my overthinking out loud, but the general shape of it, the one night stand that ended at sunrise with no numbers exchanged and no promises made. I was good at leaving. I'd built an entire adult life around being good at leaving before anyone got the chance to leave me first.
So why did my hand shake, just slightly, reaching for the hotel notepad.
I told myself it was the time pressure. The flight. The three hours narrowing by the minute while I stood in a stranger's hotel room debating the ethics of a goodbye note like it was a legal document requiring careful drafting. I told myself it had nothing to do with the way he'd said my name… just my first name, I realized with a small, absurd jolt, because I'd never told him last name, nothing to do with Song, just hey, you, careful, murmured against my hair sometime after midnight in a way that had felt, in the moment, more intimate than anything a stranger's name had a right to feel.
Instead I found a hotel notepad by a bowl of fruit no one had touched, and a pen with the hotel's logo engraved in gold, and I stood there chewing my lip, staring at a man whose last name I didn't know, feeling something uncomfortably close to guilt.
Had to run… flight I can't miss. Last night was fun. Sorry for ghosting, it's not you, it's timing. Left some money for the minibar since I definitely helped myself. Take care of yourself, stranger.
I looked at it, cringed, and added a folded stack of euros on top… not much, just enough to make the note read as a joke instead of what it actually was, which was panic dressed up as nonchalance. Then I slipped my shoes on in the hallway, and I left.
I did not look back at the bed. I told myself that later, on the plane, somewhere over the Arabian Sea with a complimentary champagne I didn't taste, three separate times, and I did not believe myself even once.
CHAPTER 3: THE ANNOUNCEMENT
Jay woke up to an empty bed, a note that made his jaw tighten in a way he didn't examine too closely, and a stack of euros that felt, more than anything else that morning, like an insult.
Money for the minibar. Like he was a service she'd paid for and rated four stars. Like he was forgettable.
He wasn't used to forgettable. He wasn't used to being forgotten, not by women who'd looked at him the way she had… like he was the punchline to a joke only she knew, like she'd already decided he was fun but temporary before he'd even opened his mouth. He'd let a stranger walk into his hotel room, into his night, into apparently his head, and she'd left him folded currency like a tip.
He didn't know her last name. He didn't have her number. He had a room that still smelled like her perfume and a bruised ego he was going to pretend, for the sake of his own dignity, that he didn't have.
Fine, he thought, staring at the note until the words blurred. Fun while it lasted.
He had no idea, standing there in a hotel bathrobe at nine in the morning with wounded pride and lake view sunlight in his eyes, that the universe had already decided this was very much not over.
…
Three weeks after returning from Lake Como, I'd almost convinced myself the whole thing had been nothing more than a reckless business-trip mistake. I landed back into my routine feeling like myself again...… jet-lagged, sunburned in one uneven stripe across my shoulder, but myself, the version of me that answered emails and knew her own last name and hadn't spent a night pretending to be someone with no responsibilities. I told myself the whole flight home that Lake Como had been a bracket I was closing. Nothing that would follow me home.
My family had built Song Corporation from a single shipping route between Busan and Singapore three decades ago, back when my grandfather first left Korea with nothing but a cargo plan and a stubborn streak my father had inherited in full. I'd grown up between two languages and two sets of expectations… the quiet formality of my parents' generation, still rooted in Seoul even after thirty years abroad, and the faster, blunter world I'd built for myself in Singapore. Dinners at my parents' house still opened with a bow to my grandmother's photo on the mantel. My father still switched to Korean the second he was truly angry, which was usually the only warning I got before bad news landed.
My father was waiting for me at the dining table that evening, which was never a good sign. My father did not wait for people. People waited for him. The fact that he'd cleared his calendar to be sitting there with my mother, both of them wearing the particular stillness of people about to deliver news they'd already decided I would accept, made my stomach drop before he'd said a single word.
"Sit," he said. Not unkind. Just certain.
I sat.
"The Park deal," he began, and I already hated where this was going, because my father only used that tone… measured, deliberate, like he was reading from a contract instead of speaking to his daughter, for things he knew I wouldn't like. "Chairman Park and I have been in discussion for the last several months. Song Corporation and Park Industries merging our shipping and logistics divisions would put us in a position no one in this region could touch."
"Okay," I said slowly. "That's… good news? Why do you look like you're about to tell me someone died."
"Because," my mother said gently, reaching for my hand, "the merger comes with a condition. A marriage. Between you and Chairman Park's son."
The room tilted slightly. I laughed… an actual, disbelieving bark of a laugh, because surely, surely this was a joke, the kind my father sometimes attempted and always failed to land. "I'm sorry, what?"
"It secures the partnership for a generation," my father said, unmoved by my reaction, already reciting the argument he'd clearly rehearsed for this exact response. "It's not unusual in either of our families' histories. You know that."
"I know it's not unusual for it to happen to other people," I snapped. "I didn't think it would be me. I have a life, I have a job, I have… I don't even know this man!"
"You'll meet him tomorrow night. Dinner, here, informal. Chairman Park's son has agreed to the arrangement." My father's voice didn't so much as waver. "His name is Jay. I'm told he's reasonable. Personable. You could do far worse." Common name, right?
"And if I say no?" I hated how small my voice sounded, even to my own ears. "What happens then?"
My father set down his fork with the deliberate care of a man choosing his next words carefully. "Then the merger falls through. Ten years of negotiations, gone. Six thousand jobs across both companies put at risk over your reluctance to have dinner with a man you haven't even met." He softened, marginally, seeing something in my face he hadn't intended to put there. "I'm not asking you to marry a stranger tomorrow. I'm asking you to give this a chance. If, after time, you genuinely cannot stand him, we will find another solution. I promise you that. But I need you to try."
"That's not a real choice, father, and you know it."
"No," he admitted, quietly, which was somehow worse than if he'd simply argued. "It isn't. I'm sorry for that. But I built this company for you to inherit one day, and I need it to still exist by the time that day comes."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to slam my palms on the table and demand to know since when my entire future got decided over a boardroom handshake while I was out of the country closing a completely different deal for this same family. But I'd grown up in this house, under this roof, with this particular brand of love that came wrapped in obligation, and I knew… the way I knew the tide would come in, the way I knew the sun would set, that there was no version of tonight where I won this argument.
"Fine," I said, because it was the only word left that didn't come out as a scream. "Fine. I'll meet him. But I'm not promising anything beyond dinner."
My father, for the first time all evening, allowed himself something like a smile. "That's all I'm asking."
I went to bed that night thinking of Lake Como. Of a stranger's mouth against my temple, of a note I'd left folded on a hotel pillow, of the particular freedom of one night where nobody expected anything of me at all.
I had no idea how badly the universe was about to collapse those two lives into one.
CHAPTER 4: THE MAN ACROSS THE TABLE
I spent the following day in a fog somewhere between denial and minor panic, which was, in thinking back, an appropriate emotional state for what was coming.
My mother had chosen the restaurant… a private dining room in one of the hotels my family half owned, all dark wood and candlelight and a view of the skyline that was supposed to make everyone feel expansive and hopeful about the future. I wore the green dress my mother liked, the one that made me look, in her words, "like someone a Chairman's son would be lucky to marry," which was possibly the least comforting compliment I'd ever received.
I sat between my parents, watching the door, running through every version of this conversation in my head. Hello, nice to meet you, I hear we're being sold to each other for a logistics contract. I'd decided, somewhere around my second glass of water, that I would be polite. Cool. Unbothered. I would give this man exactly as much warmth as the situation legally required and not one degree more.
Then the door opened, and every rehearsed line I had died in my throat at once.
He walked in like he owned the room… because, I would later learn, in a very literal sense, he frequently did… dressed in a black suit that fit him with the kind of precision that only exists on men who've never had to wonder if they could afford tailoring. Dark hair, pushed back. A jaw I would recognize with my eyes closed, in a pitch black room, from memory alone, because I'd spent an embarrassing amount of a transatlantic flight trying not to think about that exact jaw.
He stopped mid stride. His eyes found mine, and for one full second, the easy, practiced charm on his face cracked straight down the middle into something like disbelief.
Him.
The stranger from Lake Como. The one I'd left a note and a stack of euros for. The one whose bed I'd slipped out of eighteen hours ago like a thief in the night, convinced… convinced… I would never see him again.
He recovered faster than I did. Of course he did. He slid into the seat across from me, straightened his jacket, and looked at me with an expression that was, if I had to name it, delighted… the specific delight of a predator that had just realized its dinner walked directly into the trap.
"Jay," my father said, standing to shake his hand, oblivious to the silent war being waged across his dining table. "This is my daughter."
"We've met," Jay said, eyes never leaving mine, mouth curling into a smile with teeth in it. "Haven't we?"
I picked up my water glass and drank the entire thing to keep from saying something that would get me disowned.
"Briefly," I managed. "In passing."
"That's not really how I'd describe it," Jay said, settling back in his chair with the unbothered ease of a man who had just been handed the single best piece of leverage of his entire life. "But sure. In passing."
My mother, blessedly, missed the hidden meaning entirely and launched into some pleasantry about the wine list. My father asked Jay about his flight in from Lake Como… of course he'd been in Lake Como, of course the business trip that ruined my life and the business trip that arranged my marriage were the exact same trip… and I sat there, spine locked straight, silently calculating how many ways I could disappear from this table without causing an international incident.
Jay answered every question my parents asked with the polished, charming ease of someone raised for exactly this kind of performance. And every few sentences, without fail, his eyes would slide back to me… amused, sharp, unmistakably promising that this conversation was very much not over.
Under the table, his knee brushed mine. Deliberately. I yanked my leg back like I'd been burned.
"So," he said, once dessert had arrived and my parents had drifted into a side conversation about the merger's logistics, low enough that only I could hear him. "Fun while it lasted, huh?"
My stomach dropped straight through the floor. "You read the note."
"I read the note." His voice was pleasant. Terrifyingly pleasant. "Money for the minibar was a nice touch. Very classy."
"I panicked," I hissed. "I had a flight to catch."
"You could've woken me up."
"I didn't want to wake you up. That was rather the point of leaving quietly."
"Right." He leaned back, studying me the way I imagine a shark studies a swimmer it hasn't decided whether to eat yet. "Because I'm just some guy you paid for room service and left behind. Except now it turns out I'm the guy your father wants you to marry. Small world, huh, Ms. Song?"
I hated how good my last name sounded coming out of his mouth like a threat. "This isn't funny."
"I think it's a little funny."
"Jay—"
"Relax." He picked up his wine glass, and something flickered behind his eyes that wasn't amusement at all… something colder, sharper, a decision being made in real time. "I'm not going to tell them. Wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of your parents. But you and I—" he tilted his glass toward me, the picture of civility, "…we're going to have a lot to talk about."
I had never, in my entire adult life, wanted to disappear so badly.
"This isn't a punishment," I said. "For me. Whatever you're thinking. I don't owe you an apology for leaving."
"Didn't say you did." His smile turned into something private, something I didn't trust at all. "But you left before I got the chance to make an impression. Seems only fair I get a second shot. We're going to be married, after all." He said the word married like he was trying it out for size, testing its weight, and something about the way it landed in his mouth made my whole body go warm and furious at once. "Might as well make it interesting."
He's going to make me pay, I thought, watching him raise his glass toward my parents in a toast neither of us had agreed to. This is a man who is going to make me pay for that note for the rest of my life.
I had absolutely no idea, yet, how right I was… or how much I'd eventually come to regret ever wanting it any other way.
…
Jay walked me to my car after dinner, which I was fairly certain was less about being a gentleman and more about getting me alone long enough to finish the conversation my parents hadn't been allowed to overhear.
"You could've said something," I hissed, the second the valet was out of earshot. "At the table. You let me sit there thinking I was about to meet a total stranger."
"And what would you have preferred? Me standing up mid appetizer announcing, 'Actually, we've met, she left me for dead in a hotel room in Lake Como after we did it'? Your mother would've had a heart attack into the bread basket."
"This isn't funny, Jay."
"I told you, I think it's a little funny." He leaned against the hood of my car, entirely too relaxed for a man whose entire future had just been decided over dessert. "Here's what I don't get. You looked at me tonight like I was a problem to be managed. But less than three weeks ago you looked at me like—"
"Don't."
"…like you couldn't get enough," he finished anyway, watching my face for a reaction he clearly enjoyed getting. "What changed? Besides the small detail of our fathers turning it into a business contract."
"Everything changed," I said. "That night was supposed to be nothing. A story I'd tell at parties. Not a… a lifetime commitment."
"Scared?"
"Furious," I corrected. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" He straightened off the car, close enough now that I had to tip my chin up to hold his gaze, and something in his voice dropped, lower, more serious than the teasing he'd kept up all night. "For what it's worth, I didn't ask for this either. I found out about the arrangement two days ago, same as you probably found out today. It's not like I knew it was you either… only to discover tonight it's the lady who decided I wasn't worth a proper goodbye."
That landed harder than I expected. "I told you. I panicked."
"I know." Something in his expression softened, just slightly, before the familiar smirk slid back into place like armor. "Doesn't mean I'm not going to enjoy watching you squirm about it for a while."
"You are the worst person I have ever met."
"You said something very different 3 weeks ago," he said, opening my car door for me with an exaggerated little bow. "Goodnight, Ms. Song. See you at the engagement shoot."
"The what—"
He was already walking away, hands in his pockets, whistling something I was fairly sure was deliberately, infuriatingly cheerful, and I sat in my car for a full five minutes after he'd disappeared around the corner before I trusted myself to drive.
…
The engagement shoot, as it turned out, was very real, and very public, and scheduled for exactly six days later… a joint press release for two companies merging their shipping empires needed a photogenic couple to sell it, and apparently Jay and I were now, officially, that couple. A stylist tumbled in my apartment with three racks of clothing. A photographer with an assistant who called him "genius" without a trace of irony spent two hours arranging us against a backdrop of the harbor, murmuring instructions like closer, a little closer, now look at each other like you mean it.
"We're supposed to look like we mean it," Jay murmured, tilting my chin up with two fingers, entirely for the camera, entirely too gentle for a gesture that was supposed to be fake. "Think you can manage that?"
"I've been managing it all week," I muttered back, aware of how thin the line had become between performing something and actually feeling it.
The photos ran three days later… me in cream, Jay in navy, his hand at my waist and my head tipped back mid laugh at something he'd actually said, not scripted, a genuine reaction the photographer had caught by accident and declared "the shot." My mother framed it. Chairman Park used it for the official press release. Half my social circle sent me messages about how happy we two looked, how natural, and I sat there scrolling through the comments feeling something uncomfortably close to guilt, because the photo wasn't a lie, exactly. It just wasn't the whole truth either.
CHAPTER 5: ENGAGED, APPARENTLY
The engagement was announced within the week, because apparently when two companies decide to merge their shipping divisions, nobody sees the point in a long engagement. There was a press release. There was a photo… me in a dress that cost more than my first car I bought for myself, Jay's hand at the small of my back in the exact same place it had been in a bar in Lake Como, except this time there were cameras, and this time it meant something entirely different.
"Smile," Jay murmured through his teeth as the photographers called for one more shot. "You look like you're being arrested."
"I am being arrested," I muttered back, teeth also gritted, smile also plastered on. "Just with better lighting."
"Careful," he said, low enough that only I could hear. "People might start thinking you don't like me."
"People would be correct."
"That hurts," he said, sounding not remotely hurt. "Especially considering how much you liked me a few week ago in a hotel room with a view of the lake. While you moaned my name—"
I stomped, discreetly, on his foot. He didn't even flinch, just smiled wider for the cameras, and I hated… hated… how much I wanted to laugh.
…
Jay and I were, by both families' decision, to move into a penthouse together ahead of the wedding… "to get comfortable with each other," my mother said, with the specific confidence of a woman who had clearly never had to share a bathroom counter with a man she was furious at. The penthouse was Park property, forty floors up, all glass and steel and a view of the harbor that would've been romantic under literally any other circumstances.
It had two bedrooms. Thank goodness…
The first month was a war led almost entirely through passive aggression and pointed silences. Jay left his shoes in the hallway specifically, I was convinced, because he knew it drove me insane. I reacted back by rearranging his entire closet by color instead of by season, which he discovered at seven in the morning while trying to find a specific navy suit and instead found himself surrounded by a rainbow of confusion.
"You're a menace," he told me over breakfast, hair still damp from a shower, tie hanging undone around his neck because he hadn't had time to finish it.
"I'm efficient," I said, not looking up from my coffee. "Color coding is a perfectly reasonable system."
"It's an act of war."
"Tie your tie, Jay, you have a board meeting."
He glared at me. I didn't look up. He tied the tie badly out of spite, and we both knew it, and neither of us said another word about it, and somehow that felt like the closest thing to a truce either of us had managed in weeks.
…
The banter was constant, and it was, if I was being honest with myself… which I tried very hard not to be… the best part of my day. He teased me about my coffee order (too complicated, he said, for someone who claimed to hate complications). I teased him about the fact that he talked to his car like it could hear him. He'd catch me smiling at something he said and immediately point it out, "Was that a laugh? Did I just make Ms. Song laugh?" and I'd immediately stop, purely on principle, which only made him laugh harder.
It would have been easy, dangerously easy, to enjoy it. I reminded myself, nightly, in the privacy of my own bedroom with the door locked, that this was a business arrangement wearing the costume of a relationship, and that the man three doors down had made it very clear, that first dinner, that he intended to make me pay for leaving him in Lake Como. I didn't trust charm that came with a motive. I'd learned that the hard way, long before Jay Park ever existed.
So I kept my walls up. Mostly.
It was easier some days than others.
…
RULES
Two weeks into this, I'd decided the situation required structure, so I'd drafted… because of course I had, I was my father's daughter whether I liked it or not… an actual list of household rules and taped it to the refrigerator.
Jay found it while looking for orange juice.
"'Rule one,'" he read aloud, deadpan, holding his glass of juice like a prop, "'No shoes in the hallway.' Sweetheart, this is a shared home, not a monastery."
"Rule one exists because you have never once, not a single time, taken your shoes off before the front door."
"'Rule two: knock before entering shared spaces if the other person is, and I quote, "visibly stressed."'" He looked up at me over the side of the paper. "How am I supposed to gauge 'visibly stressed' from outside a closed door?"
"You'll know."
"'Rule three—'" he squinted, "'… do not, under any circumstances, refer to this arrangement as "cute" in front of either family.' Why would I call this cute?"
"Because you called it cute to my mother yesterday and she looked ready to start planning nursery colors."
"It was cute. You made me a cup of coffee without me asking. That's basically a marriage proposal in this household."
"It was leftover coffee. I was being economical."
"Sure." He folded the list in half, tucked it into his back pocket like a souvenir instead of leaving it on the fridge, and I decided, very firmly, not to comment on that either.
Jay and I fell, without either of us quite agreeing to it, into a rhythm that felt almost domestic… he made appalling instant noodles at midnight and somehow always made a second bowl without being asked, I learned, against my will, the exact way he liked his coffee, dark, no sugar, one useless ice cube "for the aesthetic," his words, not mine. We argued about the thermostat. We argued about whose turn it was to deal with the dry cleaning. We argued, once, for a full twenty minutes, about whether pineapple belonged on pizza, an argument Jay won not through logic but through the sheer, relentless force of ordering one anyway and watching me eat three slices while insisting I hated it.
It didn't feel like an arrangement most days. It felt, terrifyingly, like something closer to a life.
I still wasn't ready to call it that. Not yet.
…
My mother had opinions about wedding dresses the way my father had opinions about shipping contracts… extensive, firm, delivered with total confidence regardless of whether anyone had asked. I stood on a small pedestal in a boutique that smelled like tea and money while a worker pinned fabric at my hips and my mother circled me like she was appraising livestock.
"This one," she declared, for the third dress in a row. "No… wait. The last one. Definitely the last one."
"You said that about the first one too."
"I have many opinions ." She adjusted a stray pin. "You seem distracted, darling. Everything alright with Jay?"
I hesitated a beat too long, and my mother, who missed almost nothing when it came to my moods, caught it instantly.
"Everything's fine," I said. "It's just… a lot. All of it happening so fast."
"You've been happier since Lake Como," she said gently, not unkindly, folding a swatch of lace over her arm. "Whatever's between the two of you, real or not, I've watched you smile at your phone more in the last two months than you did in the entire two years you dated that awful man from the shipping conference."
"His name was Nick, and he wasn't awful, he was just—"
"He once corrected your grammar during your own birthday toast. He was awful." My mother fixed me with a look I recognized from childhood, the one that meant she already knew the answer and simply wanted me to say it out loud. "I know this didn't start the way either of you wanted. But I've been married to your father for thirty one years, and I promise you, some of the best marriages start as arrangements. It's not how it begins that matters. It's what you both decide to make of it."
I didn't have an answer for that, not one I trusted myself to say without my voice cracking, so I just let the worker finish pinning the dress and hoped my mother would mistake the shine in my eyes for exhaustion instead of what it actually was.
CHAPTER 6: BACK TO THE SCENE OF THE CRIME
Six weeks before the wedding, the Park-Song merger required one final round of negotiations … in person, in Lake Como, with the same Italian business I'd first met with the night I'd met Jay. My father, delighted by what he assumed was budding chemistry between his daughter and her fiancé, insisted we both attend together.
"Absolutely not," I said, the second I found out.
"It's one trip," Jay said, entirely too pleased with himself, lounging in the penthouse's kitchen doorway with his arms crossed. "Besides, you love it there. You told me so yourself. Very memorably, actually."
"I will end you."
"Promises, promises."
…
The flight over was, against my best efforts, almost pleasant… Jay stole my armrest for the entire eleven hours and somehow made it feel less like an act of war and more like an invitation, and by the time we landed I'd watched two mediocre romantic comedies with him, argued about which one was worse, and split a truly ill advised amount of the airline's complimentary chocolate.
The negotiations themselves ran two full days, and I found myself, for the first time since this entire arrangement began, genuinely impressed by him… not by the practiced charm he displayed at dinner parties, but by the sharp, unglamorous capability he brought to a boardroom. He caught a clause in the shipping contract that would've cost both companies millions if it had gone unnoticed, argued the business's lead counsel into a corner without ever raising his voice, and did it all with the same easy confidence he'd used to talk me into a second drink the very first night I met him.
"You're staring," he murmured, leaning close under the act of reviewing a document, during a break in the second day's session.
"I'm reviewing your work," I said. "It's a legitimate business function."
"Sure it is." His mouth twitched. "For what it's worth, you're better at this than half the men in this room. Your father should let you run point on these negotiations instead of just sitting in on them."
I blinked, thrown by the sincerity of it, the total absence of teasing. "That's—" I fumbled for a second, "…actually a genuinely nice thing to say."
"Don't get used to it," he said, already back to his usual smirk, though something warmer lingered behind it that neither of us acknowledged out loud.
…
With the negotiations wrapped early that afternoon, we found ourselves with a rare, unscheduled block of hours before the celebratory dinner… no meetings, no families, no reason to be anywhere but exactly where we wanted to be. Jay suggested, with the particular casualness of a man trying very hard not to sound like he cared about the answer, that we take the hotel boat out onto the lake.
"That sounds suspiciously romantic for a business trip," I said.
"It's efficient sightseeing," he said. "You've been to Lake Como twice now and seen nothing but hotel lobbies and a boardroom. That's practically criminal."
I went. The lake in the afternoon light was almost romantic in its beauty… pastel villages stacked along the hills, the water so clear I could see straight through to the rocks below, mountains still capped faintly with snow despite the season. Jay, it turned out, was a genuinely terrible boat driver, and I spent a solid twenty minutes laughing at him trying to dock at a small café along the shore, nearly clipping a much nicer boat belonging to a very unimpressed elderly Italian man.
"In my defense," Jay said, mortified, as we both scrambled onto the dock, "boats are unreasonable vehicles."
"You almost took out a man's entire summer."
"He'll live." He handed me out of the boat with more grace than his docking had suggested he possessed, and didn't let go of my hand once I was steady on solid ground. Neither of us commented on it. Neither of us let go, either.
We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering a village whose name I never quite caught, eating gelato that Jay insisted, with total confidence and zero evidence, was "objectively the best in Italy," and browsing a tiny shop that sold hand painted ceramics, where Jay bought a small blue bowl for no reason he'd admit to and I caught him, later, packing it carefully into his suitcase like it mattered.
"For the penthouse," he said, when he caught me watching. "Somewhere in that place we could use a little color that isn't gray and glass."
"That sounds suspiciously like nesting, Jay."
"It's interior design. Don't read into it." He absolutely wanted me to read into it. I absolutely did.
By the time the sun started dipping toward the hills, gold spilling across the water in a way that made the whole afternoon feel like something out of a memory I hadn't made yet, I'd stopped keeping track of how many times he'd made me laugh, or how many times I'd caught myself wishing this particular afternoon didn't have to end.
That night, with the contracts finally settled and one more signing ceremony scheduled for the following week, the business's lead partner insisted on a celebratory dinner… the same terrace, coincidentally or not, where I'd first found Jay leaning against the bar with a drink in his hand and a comment about my overthinking. I wore red. He noticed. He didn't bother pretending he hadn't.
"This feels like déjà vu," I said, watching the same lake catch the same moonlight it had the night we first met, a lifetime ago, back when I still thought I'd never see this man again.
"Good déjà vu or bad déjà vu?" he asked.
"Ask me tomorrow," I said, though we both already suspected we knew the answer.
The hotel… a different one this time, a relief, at least, though not by much… had, thanks to some administrative mix up that I was fairly certain Jay had personally engineered, booked the two of us into a single suite. One suite. One bed.
I stood in the doorway, staring at it, then at Jay, who was already unbuttoning his cuffs like this was the most natural thing in the world.
"No," I said.
"There's a couch," he said, gesturing vaguely at a chaise longue that was approximately five feet long and shaped like a crescent moon, entirely unsuited to the human spine.
"You take the couch."
"I'm six foot."
"That sounds like a you problem."
He grinned, infuriatingly. "We've shared a bed before. I don't remember you complaining."
Heat crawled up my neck, fast and unwelcome. "That was different."
"How, exactly?"
"That was one night with a stranger. This is—" I gestured helplessly between the two of us, "…this. Whatever this is."
"Fiancés," he supplied, far too casually, sitting on the edge of the bed like he already owned it, which, technically, given his family's stake in the hotel chain, he might have. "That's the word you're looking for."
"I know what the word is, Jay."
"Then use it. Might make the whole thing easier." Something flickered behind his eyes when he said it… not quite a challenge, not quite something softer. I didn't examine it too closely.
I ended up sharing the bed. I told myself it was purely logistical… a strict, enforced border down the middle of the mattress, a wall of decorative pillows stacked between us like the Berlin Wall reincarnated as home decor. Jay found the entire arrangement hilarious and said so, repeatedly, until I threatened to relocate him to the crescent-moon couch by force.
I woke up at 3 a.m. tangled against his chest, his arm slung over my waist exactly the way it had been the first time, in a different hotel, a different life, and I lay there in the dark for a long, unbearable minute, listening to him breathe, hating how much it felt like coming home.
I didn't move. Not right away.
When I finally did, careful, silent, he caught my wrist in the dark.
"Stay," he said, voice thick with sleep, and there was none of the usual bite in it. Just something quiet. Something real.
I stayed. I told myself, the next morning, that it hadn't meant anything. Neither of us brought it up again.
CHAPTER 7: JEALOUSY… WAS IT?
The closing gala for the merger was held on the terrace of the same hotel where the Italian business had first courted my father's business, string lights, a jazz trio, champagne that flowed like the lake itself had been bottled and served. I wore navy. Jay wore black. We'd agreed, wordlessly, over breakfast, to be civil for the cameras, which had somehow, without either of us fully noticing, evolved into being civil in general.
For the first hour, it was almost easy. Jay kept a hand at the small of my back as he introduced me to a rotating different executives and their spouses, and I found myself falling into an easy rhythm with him… finishing his sentences when he got bored of a conversation, catching his eye across the terrace when someone said something particularly absurd, sharing the kind of silent, private laughter that made me forget, for whole stretches of time, that any of this had started as a contract instead of a courtship. My father caught the two of us mid laugh at one point and looked, for a moment, so un-embarrassingly pleased with himself that I almost forgave him for the entire arrangement on the spot.
"You're enjoying yourself," Jay murmured, refilling my glass. "Careful. Someone might think you actually like me."
"Don't get used to it," I said, echoing his own line back at him, and he grinned like I'd handed him a gift.
That lasted exactly until Karina Yu showed up.
Karina was the business's newest assistant, stunning, sharp tongued, and, I gathered within about four minutes of watching her operate, extremely aware of exactly how good she looked with her hand resting on Jay's forearm while she laughed at something he'd said. I told myself I didn't care. I told myself this several times, with increasing insincerity, while I held a glass of champagne on the other side of the terrace and watched Jay throw his head back and laugh… an actual laugh, not the polished business one… at whatever Karina had just said.
So when Yeonjun Choi, a family friend from Singapore who happened to also be at the gala for reasons that felt suspiciously well timed, walked up beside me with two fresh glasses of champagne and an easy smile, I let myself lean into it. Just a little. Just enough.
"You look like you could use better company," Yeonjun said.
"You have no idea," I said, and let him make me laugh… genuinely, loudly, at a joke that wasn't even that funny… specifically angled so it would carry across the terrace.
I felt it the second Jay noticed. The air seemed to change temperature. I didn't dare look over, but I could feel the exact moment his attention snapped away from Karina Yu and landed, heavy and distinctively, on me and Yeonjun and the two inches of space between our shoulders that Yeonjun had very deliberately closed.
Ten minutes later, Jay's hand found the small of my back.
"Having fun?" he asked, voice pleasant, smile fixed, eyes doing absolutely none of the smiling.
"Loads," I said sweetly. "Yeonjun was just telling me about his new venture. Weren't you, Yeonjun?"
"I was," Yeonjun said, entirely oblivious to the fact that he had just become a casualty in a war he didn't know was being fought. "Actually, I was going to ask if you'd want to—"
"She'd love to," Jay cut in smoothly, "catch up with you later. Right now I need to steal my fiancée for a dance."
He didn't wait for my answer. His hand slid from my back to my waist, and he was already pulling me toward the small cleared space where a few other couples swayed under the lights, and I went, because making a scene in front of half of Lake Como's business elite was not on my evening's agenda.
"That was rude," I said, once we were close enough that only he could hear.
"That was necessary."
"He was being friendly."
"He was flirting with you." Jay's jaw was tight, his hand at my waist gripping just a little too firmly to be casual. "In front of me. At our engagement gala."
"And you were doing what, exactly, with Karina Yu for the last half hour? Discussing shipping tariffs?"
"That's different."
"How is that different?"
"Because I wasn't trying to make you jealous," he said, and then, a beat too late, the muscle in his jaw ticking, "Were you? Trying to make me jealous?"
I didn't answer. Which was, in itself, an answer, and we both knew it.
"You were," he said, something dark and satisfied slipping into his voice even through the anger. "You wanted me to see that."
"Don't flatter yourself."
"I'm not flattering myself. I'm reading the room. And the room says you didn't like watching me talk to another woman any more than I liked watching you flirt with Yeonjun Choi's Rolex collection."
"I don't care who you talk to."
"Liar," he said, low, and pulled me a fraction closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him through two layers of expensive fabric. "You've been glaring at Karina Yu's dress since she walked in."
"It's a hideous dress."
"It's a Valentino."
"It's a hideous Valentino."
Something in his expression cracked then… not quite a smile, something rawer than that, something that looked almost like relief that I was finally, finally saying something true. The song ended. Neither of us stepped back.
"We're going back to the hotel," Jay said. It wasn't a question.
I didn't argue.
CHAPTER 8: CRASH… HEHE
The elevator ride back to the penthouse floor was silent in the way that meant it wasn't silent at all… every inch of space between us charged, both of us staring straight ahead at the doors like the reflection there might explain what exactly we were doing.
The second the door clicked shut behind us, it all came out at once.
"You embarrassed me out there," I said, rounding on him, heels forgotten by the door, adrenaline and champagne and something far more dangerous humming under my skin. "Pulling me away like I'm a possession you needed to reclaim—"
"I embarrassed you?" Jay's jacket was already off, tossed over the back of a chair, tie loosened like he couldn't get it off fast enough. "You spent an hour hanging off Yeonjun Choi's arm—"
"I did not hang off his arm—"
"…laughing at everything he said like it was the funniest thing you'd ever heard—"
"Because it's more fun than watching you and Karina Yu practically undress each other with your eyes across the terrace!"
"There it is." He turned to face me fully, and the look on his face wasn't the charming, lazy amusement I'd grown used to… it was something sharper, hungrier, months of banter and almost truths finally boiling over into something neither of us could pretend was just anger anymore. "That's what this is about. You don't get to be jealous of me, sweetheart. Not after Lake Como. Not after you left me a note like I was room service."
"I'm not jealous."
"You're jealous." He took a step closer. I didn't step back. "You've been jealous since the second she put her hand on my arm, and you know what? So was I. Watching Yeonjun Choi look at you like that. Like he had any right to."
"Maybe he does," I said, breathless, reckless, the words leaving my mouth before my brain could stop them. "Maybe I'm tired of being handed off to a man who's spent the last two months trying to make me pay for one night I don't even regret."
Something in his face went dangerously still. "You don't regret it."
"No," I said. "I don't. And that terrifies me. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
The distance between us disappeared.
In a crash of mouths and hands. Jay’s kiss wasn’t gentle… it was a claim, teeth clashing, tongue demanding entry as he backed me against the nearest wall with enough force that a framed picture rattled. I bit his lower lip hard enough to taste the faint metallic tang of blood, and he growled into my mouth, the sound vibrating straight down to my core.
“You think I don’t know what you were doing?” he rasped, one large hand fisting in my hair and yanking my head back so he could bite down the side of my throat. “Parading Yeonjun in front of me like I wouldn’t lose my fucking mind?”
“I wasn’t—” My words cut off in a gasp as he sucked hard on my pulse point, hard enough to leave a mark I’d have to hide tomorrow.
“Bullshit.” His other hand shoved the hem of my navy dress up roughly, fingers digging into the soft flesh of my thigh. “You wanted me jealous. Mission accomplished, baby.”
He spun me around suddenly, pressing my front to the cool wall, his chest hot and solid against my back. The zipper of my dress gave way under impatient hands, the fabric pooling at my feet in a whisper of expensive silk. I was left in nothing but lace panties and heels. Jay’s palm slapped against my ass… sharp, possessive, before he kneaded the sting away.
“Mine,” he snarled against my ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Say it.”
“Fuck you,” I shot back, even as I pushed my hips back against the hard line of his cock straining through his trousers.
He laughed, low and dangerous. “That’s the plan.”
He dropped to his knees behind me without warning, yanking my panties down my legs and tossing them aside. Strong hands spread my cheeks, and then his mouth was on me… hot, wet, relentless. His tongue dragged from my clit all the way up, circling the tight ring of my ass before diving back down to lap at my dripping pussy. I cried out, forehead pressed to the wall, fingers scrabbling for purchase.
“Jay—fuck—”
He ate me like a man starved, like he could erase every second I’d spent smiling at Yeonjun by devouring me instead. Long, broad licks that made my thighs shake, then tight, focused suction on my clit while two thick fingers plunged inside me, curling viciously against that spot that made stars burst behind my eyes. The wet, obscene sounds filled the room… his groans vibrating against my folds, my own broken moans echoing off marble.
“You taste so fucking good when you’re jealous,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to speak before spitting on my pussy and diving back in. A third finger joined the first two, stretching me open as his tongue flicked rapidly over my clit. “Gonna make this pretty cunt remember who it belongs to.”
I came hard, suddenly, thighs clamping around his head as my walls pulsed around his fingers. He didn’t stop… kept licking me through it, gentler then rougher again, until I was whimpering and trying to twist away from the overstimulation.
He stood, spinning me to face him. His mouth was shiny with my arousal, eyes dark with lust and something fiercer. He kissed me again, letting me taste myself on his tongue while he stripped off his shirt and trousers. His cock sprang free… thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip. I reached for it, but he caught my wrist.
“Not yet.” He lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me to the massive bed. He dropped me onto it and followed immediately, crawling over me like a predator.
His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking hard while his hand pinched and rolled the other. I arched into him, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks. He hissed in pleasure, grinding his cock against my thigh.
“These tits,” he groaned, switching sides, biting down gently before soothing with his tongue. “Been thinking about them all night while that asshole flirted with you.”
He worked his way down my body with single minded focus… kissing, licking, biting every inch of skin he could reach. Over my ribs, across my stomach, dipping into my navel, then lower. He settled between my thighs again, pushing them wide apart until I was completely exposed.
“Look at this greedy little pussy,” he murmured, spreading my folds with his thumbs. “Still dripping for me even after you came on my tongue.” He leaned in and licked a slow stripe up my slit, eyes locked on mine. “Tell me you don’t want anyone else tasting this.”
“I don’t,” I gasped, hips bucking. “Just you—fuck, Jay—”
He rewarded me by sucking my clit into his mouth while two fingers pumped steadily inside me. The pressure built again, fast and overwhelming. He added a third finger, scissoring them, stretching me as his tongue worked magic. When I was right on the edge, he pulled back, ignoring my whine of protest.
“Not yet. You don’t come again until I say so.”
He moved up my body and straddled my chest, knees on either side of my shoulders. His heavy cock bobbed in front of my face, glistening. He tapped the head against my lips.
“Open.”
I did, eagerly. He pushed in slowly at first, letting me swirl my tongue around the head, tasting the precum. Then he gripped my hair and thrust deeper, fucking my mouth with controlled rolls of his hips.
“Fuck, your mouth y/n…always so perfect.” He groaned as I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper, relaxing my throat. “Suck it like you mean it, sweetheart. Show me how sorry you are for teasing me tonight.”
I hummed around him, the vibration making his thighs tense. Saliva dripped down my chin as he used my mouth, not rough enough to choke but deep enough that my eyes watered. I loved it… the weight of him on my tongue, the way his abs flexed above me, the filthy praises falling from his lips.
He pulled out suddenly, breathing hard, and flipped me onto my stomach. He hauled my hips up so I was on my knees, ass in the air, face pressed into the sheets.
“Gonna fuck you so deep you forget Yeonjun’s name,” he growled, lining himself up and slamming in with one brutal thrust.
I screamed into the mattress, the stretch bordering on too much after his fingers. He didn’t give me time to adjust… just pulled back and drove in again, setting a punishing rhythm. Skin slapped against skin, his balls hitting my clit with every thrust. One hand fisted my hair, the other gripped my hip hard enough to bruise.
“Whose pussy is this?” he demanded, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot.
“Yours—fuck—yours, Jay!”
“That’s right.” He reached around to rub my clit in tight, fast circles. “Come on my cock like a good girl. Let me feel you.”
The orgasm ripped through me, walls clenching around his thick length as I shook and moaned. He rode me through it, thrusts growing erratic, then pulled out and flipped me onto my back again.
He buried his face between my thighs once more, licking up every drop of my release with long, hungry strokes. “Can’t get enough of this taste,” he muttered against my folds. “Could eat you for hours.”
I was oversensitive, trembling, but he didn’t stop until I was whimpering and pushing at his head. Only then did he crawl up and kiss me deeply, sharing my flavor.
“On top,” he ordered, lying back and pulling me over him. “Ride me. Show me how much you need my cock.”
I straddled him, sinking down slowly, savoring the way he filled me completely. His hands gripped my ass, guiding me as I started to move… rolling my hips, grinding down so my clit rubbed against his pelvis with every motion.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, eyes hooded as he watched his cock disappear inside me. “So fucking beautiful taking every inch.”
He sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms around me, mouth latching onto my breasts again as I rode him harder. I threaded my fingers through his hair, tugging as I bounced on his cock. He met me thrust for thrust, one hand sliding between us to rub my clit.
The angle was devastating. I came again, clenching around him, and he flipped us so he was on top once more, pounding into me through the aftershocks.
He pulled out and moved down my body again, this time pushing my thighs up toward my chest, folding me in half. His tongue attacked my pussy and ass with renewed passion… licking, sucking, probing, while two fingers fucked into me and his thumb pressed against my clit. I was a mess of sobs and pleas, overstimulated and desperate for more.
“Please—Jay—I need you inside me again—”
He rose up and slammed back into me in one smooth motion, the new position letting him hit impossibly deep. His hand wrapped around my throat… not squeezing hard, just holding me there, possessive.
“Mine,” he repeated with every thrust. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to make you come like this.”
I clawed at his back, legs locked around his waist as another orgasm built. He leaned down, biting my shoulder, then soothing it with his tongue. His pace became brutal, hips snapping against mine, sweat slick skin sliding together.
“Come with me,” he growled. “Now.”
We shattered together. He buried himself to the hilt, pulsing deep inside me as my walls milked him through wave after wave of pleasure. His groan of my name… raw, broken, sent fresh aftershocks through me.
"Oh gosh—y/n fuck!"
We stayed locked together for long moments, breathing hard. Then he pulled out slowly, watching his cum drip from my pussy with dark satisfaction. He gathered some on his fingers and brought them to my lips. I sucked them clean without hesitation.
But he wasn’t done.
He slid down my body again, gentle this time, and began licking me clea… soft, deep strokes of his tongue that had me twitching and sighing. He paid attention to every sensitive inch, my clit, my entrance, even pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs where faint marks from his grip were already forming.
When he finally moved back up, he pulled me into his arms, my head on his chest. His hand stroked down my back in long, soothing lines.
“I hated seeing you with him,” he admitted quietly, the roughness gone from his voice, replaced by something vulnerable. “Even knowing it was just to piss me off.”
“I hated seeing her touch you,” I whispered back, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.
He tilted my chin up and kissed me… slow, deep, thorough. “No more games like that.”
“No more,” I agreed.
But even as we lay tangled together, bodies sated and hearts still racing, I knew the fire between us was far from extinguished. If anything, the jealousy had only stoked it higher.
He rolled us so I was beneath him again, already hardening against my thigh.
“Round two?” he murmured, lips brushing mine.
I smiled, wicked and wanting. “Make me forget every other name but yours.”
And he did… thoroughly, roughly, with his mouth and hands and cock worshipping every inch of me until the sky outside began to lighten and all that remained was the two of us, breathless and undeniably bound.
…
He lay awake long after I'd fallen asleep against his chest, staring at the ceiling of a hotel room in the one city on earth that seemed determined to keep rewriting the terms of his life without asking his permission first.
He'd meant what he said, in the heat of the argument, about making me pay for Lake Como… he'd meant it that first dinner, watching me go pale across the table as I recognized him, some petty, wounded part of him lighting up at the thought of finally getting to watch me squirm the way he'd squirmed reading that note. He'd built an entire plan around it, in the weeks after the engagement was announced. Charm her. Get close. Make her want him the way she'd wanted him in Lake Como, and then, at the last possible second, be the one who walked away first.
It hadn't survived the second week. It hadn't survived me falling asleep on his shoulder during a boring merger briefing, or the ridiculous, genuine way I argued about pineapple pizza like my life depended on it, or the morning I'd stayed in his bed instead of running, hand in his under the sheets, no note, no euros, no goodbye.
He looked down at me now, curled against him, and felt something settle in his chest that had nothing to do with revenge at all.
So much for making her pay, he thought, and pressed a kiss to the top of my head, careful not to wake me. Guess the joke's on me.
CHAPTER 9: THE MORNING AFTER THE MORNING AFTER
I woke up tangled in sheets that smelled like him, sunlight cutting gold across the same kind of luxury bed I'd woken up in months ago in a different hotel, in a different life, except this time there was no flight to catch, no note to write, no reason at all to leave.
Jay was already awake, propped on one elbow, watching me with an expression I didn't have a name for… something quieter than the smugness I'd come to expect, something that looked almost unguarded.
"No note this time?" he asked, but there was no real bite in it. Just a question, testing the ground.
"No note," I said. "I'm still here."
"You are." He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, and the gentleness of it undid me more than anything he'd said in the heat of the night before. "I keep waiting for you to run."
"I keep waiting for you to actually let me stay," I said, quieter than I meant to. "You've spent two months telling me you were going to make me pay for Lake Como."
"I know." His jaw tightened, something like guilt flickering across his face. "I meant it, at first. I wanted to. You made me feel like—" he stopped, exhaled, started again. "You made me feel like something I wasn't used to feeling, and then you left like it didn't matter, and I didn't know what to do with that except be angry about it."
"And now?"
"Now I don't know what I'm angrier about," he admitted. "That you left. Or how much I don't want you to leave again."
"For what it's worth," I said, tracing an absent pattern against his chest, "I thought about you. After Lake Como. More than I wanted to. I told myself it was because you were a mystery I hadn't solved. Turns out it was just because I liked you, and I didn't know what to do with that, either."
"You could've texted."
"I didn't have your number. That was rather the design flaw in my whole escape plan."
He huffed a laugh, low and real, pressing it into my hair. "I looked you up, you know. After the note. Took me two days and an embarrassing amount of Google searches involving 'Singaporean businesswoman' and 'Lake Como' before I gave up entirely."
"You didn't."
"I absolutely did. My assistant thought I'd lost my mind." He tipped my chin up with two fingers, the same gesture from the engagement photoshoot, except there was no camera now, no performance, just the two of us and the quiet. "Turns out I didn't need Google. I just needed my father to have terrible timing and worse business instincts."
"Remind me to thank him," I murmured, "right after I finish being furious at him."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I didn't say anything. I just reached for his hand under the sheets and let the silence be its own answer, and for one suspended, golden morning, it was almost enough to believe none of the rest of it… the merger, the arrangement, the families watching my every move like a stock ticker… mattered at all.
It wouldn't last. It never did, not for people like me.
…
I called Minji the second I landed back in Singapore, because if I didn't say any of this out loud to someone, I was fairly certain my own head was going to implode from the sheer volume of unprocessed feelings rattling around inside it.
"So," Minji said, the second she picked up, "you disappear on a stranger in Lake Como, said stranger turns out to be your arranged fiancé, and now you're calling me at nine in the morning sounding like you just ran a marathon. Catch me up."
"I think I like him," I said, miserable. "For real. Not in the fake engagement, keep up appearances way. In the actual, terrifying, can't-stop-thinking-about-him way."
There was a pause on the other end, and then Minji, ever helpful, burst out laughing. "You're just now figuring this out? I could've told you that the second you texted me a full paragraph about the way he tied his tie badly on purpose."
"That's not… that was an observation, not a—"
"It was absolutely a symptom." I could hear Minji grinning through the phone. "So what's the problem? You like him, presumably he likes you, considering the man rearranged an entire hotel's booking system to get you both in one bed—"
"The problem," I said, "is that this whole thing started because our fathers wanted a shipping contract. What if none of this is real? What if I fall for him for real and it turns out I'm just… convenient? The easiest option? The daughter who happened to be in the right hotel room at the right time?"
"Do you actually believe that," Minji asked, gentler now, "or are you just scared?"
I didn't answer right away, because I didn't have a good one. "Both, maybe."
"For what it's worth," Minji said, "I watched that man's face when you walked into that gala in navy. He did not look like a guy fulfilling a business obligation. He looked like a guy who forgot how to use words." A beat. "Stop trying to find the exit before you even know if you want one. That's the same thing you did in Lake Como the first time, and look how well that turned out."
I hung up feeling more unsettled than before I'd called, which I supposed was the entire point of calling Minji in the first place.
CHAPTER 10: THE FIGHT THAT ACTUALLY MATTERED…
The trouble with almost truths is that they don't survive daylight for long, and by the time Jay and I were both back in Singapore, back in the penthouse, back under the weight of two families and a merger worth more than either of our lives combined, the softness of Lake Como had curdled, slowly, into something more complicated.
It wasn't any one thing at first. It was the wedding planning eating into every spare hour of both our schedules, endless calls with caterers and venue coordinators and a florist who seemed personally offended by every choice I made. It was Jay's schedule filling up with calls from the conglomerate's Singapore office as the merger moved into its implementation phase, calls that ran later and later into the evening. It was the two of us, still learning how to be honest about wanting each other without immediately following it with a joke to soften the admission, slowly running out of jokes to hide behind and not yet having anything solid to replace them with.
It started, as these things always did, over something small. A dinner Jay canceled at the last minute for a call with Karina Yu's firm… purely business, he swore, and I believed him, mostly, except believing him didn't stop the old, ugly voice in my head from whispering that I was, at the end of the day, a business arrangement he could deprioritize whenever something more important came along.
"You could have told me sooner," I said, standing in the kitchen while he shrugged his jacket back on for the second time that night.
"I told you the second I knew."
"You told me twenty minutes before we were supposed to leave, Jay."
"It's work. This merger doesn't run itself just because we had a nice morning in Lake Como."
The words landed harder than he probably meant them to. A nice morning. Like that was all it had been. Like I hadn't spent the last week turning it over in my head, wondering if it meant what I desperately, quietly hoped it meant.
"Right," I said, voice gone flat. "Of course. Wouldn't want the merger to suffer because you spent an evening with your fiancée."
"That's not what I—"
"It's fine." It wasn't fine. We both knew it wasn't fine. "Go to your call."
He didn't go, not right away. He stood there in the kitchen doorway, jacket half on, looking at me like he wanted to say something and couldn't find the shape of it. "I'm scared," he finally said, so quietly I almost missed it. "Of how much I want this to be real. And every time I get close to saying that out loud, I remember it started because our fathers wanted a shipping contract, and I don't know how to trust that any of this is actually about us."
The anger drained out of me at once, replaced by something far more exposed. "I'm scared of the exact same thing," I admitted. "That's why I left Lake Como the first time. Not because of you. Because of how much I already didn't want to."
He crossed the kitchen in three steps and kissed me like he was trying to prove something to both of us at once, and when he pulled back, forehead resting against mine, he said, "Cancel your evening. I'll cancel the call. Let's just… figure this out. Together. No merger. No fathers. Just us."
We canceled the call together. Neither of us brought up Karina or Yeonjun again.
…
It didn't stay easy. I hadn't expected it to… nothing about the two of us had ever been easy, not from the very first night in a bar with too much rum in the drinks… but the fight that came three weeks later still managed to knock the wind out of me in a way none of the others had.
It was over something stupid, in looking into the past. Jay had made a decision about the wedding venue without consulting me… a favor to both fathers, he said, a way to smooth over a disagreement about vendor contracts that had nothing to do with either of us and everything to do with two companies trying to look good in front of shareholders. I'd found out from my mother, not from him, and something about hearing it secondhand had cracked open every insecurity I'd been quietly protecting since the day this arrangement started.
"You didn't think to ask me," I said, voice tight, "because at the end of the day, this is still a business decision to you. I'm still a line item."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it? You made a decision about my wedding to smooth over a contract dispute, Jay. Tell me how that's not exactly what I was afraid of from the beginning."
"I did it because I was trying to protect you from getting dragged into another negotiation," he snapped, temper flaring to match mine. "I didn't think you'd rather sit through another four-hour meeting about seating charts and vendor exclusivity clauses just to prove a point."
"I'd rather you asked me. That's it. That's the whole point. You don't get to decide what I can handle."
"Maybe I overstepped." His voice cracked, just slightly, on the word. "But don't stand there and tell me this is still just business to me, because I have spent the last four months falling in love with a woman I met in a bar and then spent every day since terrified she was going to wake up one morning and leave another note."
The room went very quiet.
"That's not fair either," I said, softer now, the fight draining out of me as fast as it had risen. "Using that against me."
"I'm not using it against you. I'm telling you the truth, because I'm so far past pretending this is manageable that I don't know what else to do except be honest and hope it doesn't scare you off." He dragged a hand through his hair, the picture of a man who had clearly rehearsed a calmer version of this speech and abandoned it entirely under pressure. "I love you. I've loved you probably since the hotel room I woke up alone in. And I am so sick of both of us treating that like a liability instead of just… saying it."
I stood there, heart hammering, every practiced defense I'd built over the last four months suddenly useless in my hands. "You've never said that before."
"I'm saying it now." He looked, for the first time since I'd met him, genuinely unguarded… no charm, no smugness, nothing performative left in him at all. "I love you. And if you walk out that door right now, I'm not going to chase you, because I'm done being someone you run from. But I'd really, really rather you stayed."
I didn't walk out the door.
I crossed the room instead, and kissed him, and neither of us brought up seating charts again for the rest of the night.
…
Two days later, I came home to find the penthouse dark except for a trail of candles leading from the front door to the balcony, which was, I thought, either the most romantic thing Jay had ever attempted or a genuine fire hazard, possibly both.
"If you set off the smoke alarm," I called out, toeing off my heels, "I will never let you live it down."
"Just come outside," his voice floated back, suspiciously nervous for a man who negotiated multi-million-dollar contracts for a living without breaking a sweat.
I found him on the balcony in the same suit he'd worn the night of the engagement announcement, the harbor spread out gold and glittering behind him, and something in his posture… hands shoved in his pockets, weight shifting like he couldn't decide where to put himself… made my chest go tight before he'd said a single word.
"We're already engaged," I said slowly, eyeing the candles, the suit, the unmistakable set dressing of a moment he'd clearly planned. "This is either extremely romantic or you're about to tell me something has gone horribly wrong with the merger."
"Neither." He huffed a laugh, more nerves than humor in it, and pulled a small velvet box from his pocket… not the ring our families had already selected together for the official engagement, the one that had been photographed and press released and worn on my hand for months now, but a different one entirely, simpler, clearly chosen by him and no one else. "The first ring was picked by a committee. Our fathers, a jeweler, a PR team who wanted something 'photogenic for the press release.' I didn't get a say in it, and I don't think you did either. This one, I picked myself."
I stared at him, throat suddenly too tight to speak.
"I know we're already getting married," he continued, dropping to one knee anyway, the picture of a man determined to do this properly no matter how backwards the order of operations had gotten. "I know the contracts are signed and the venue's booked and my father's already started planning the honeymoon like it's his own. But none of that was ever really us choosing this. So I wanted to ask you myself. Not because a merger needs it. Because I do." He opened the box… a simple band, understated, nothing like the statement piece on my hand already. "Will you Marry me, y/n? For real this time. Not because of Lake Como, or the contract, or the note, or any of the reasons this started. Just because I love you, and I'd choose you even if none of the rest of it had ever happened."
"You're an idiot," I said, laughing and crying at once, dropping to my knees on the balcony floor to be level with him because I couldn't stand to have him below me for this. "You already had me. You've had me since the boat, or the pizza argument, or possibly since the very first night, I genuinely can't tell anymore."
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a yes." I kissed him before he could say anything else insufferably charming, and somewhere behind me, entirely unnoticed until this exact moment, I registered that he'd set up a small speaker quietly playing something slow and warm, the kind of song that made the whole ridiculous, candlelit, slightly hazardous scene feel like something out of a life I never would have predicted for myself a year ago and wouldn't trade now for anything.
"For the record," Jay said, sliding the second ring onto my finger beside the first, "I'm keeping both rings on you. One for the contract our fathers wanted. One for the choice we actually made."
"Sentimental," I accused.
"Only for you," he said, and meant it.
CHAPTER 11: FULL CIRCLE
The final signing ceremony for the merger was scheduled, fittingly, for Lake Como… the same business, the same lake, the same string light terraces where this entire impossible chain of events had started. My father called it poetic. I called it the universe having an extremely specific sense of humor.
This time, there was no confusion about the hotel booking. Jay booked the suite himself, one bed, no crescent moon couch in sight, and when I raised an eyebrow at him over the reservation confirmation, he just shrugged, entirely unbothered.
"Figured we'd save everyone the trouble of pretending," he said.
The signing went smoothly… my father practically glowing with the kind of pride that came from watching two companies and two children merge into one very profitable future. Chairman Park shook my hand with real warmth, told me Jay had been, in his words, "unbearable to live with" in the weeks after Lake Como the first time, and that he was glad to see I'd apparently cured that particular ailment. I'd laughed, genuinely, and looked over to find Jay watching me with an expression that had nothing to do with business at all.
That night, after the papers were signed and the champagne toasts made and the last of the business's executives had finally, mercifully, gone home, I found myself back on the same terrace where I'd first met him… string lights, dark water, a version of myself that had walked into this exact spot months ago convinced she'd never see this man again.
"You know," Jay said, coming to stand beside me at the railing, his tie long gone, sleeves rolled to his forearms, "I used to think about what I'd say to you. If I ever saw you again. I had this whole speech planned. Very cutting. Very devastating."
"What happened to it?"
"You showed up at my dinner table three weeks later and I forgot every word of it." He turned to face me fully, and whatever careful distance he usually kept even now, even after everything, was entirely gone from his eyes. "I don't want to make you pay for Lake Como anymore. I just want Lake Como. Again. With you. For real this time… not a stranger's name, not a note on a hotel notepad. All of it. If you'll let me."
My throat tightened. "I was so sure I'd never see you again," I admitted. "I left because staying scared me more than leaving did. I didn't know how to want something that wasn't part of a plan I'd already made for my life."
"And now?"
"Now the plan includes you," I said. "Which terrifies me a little less every day."
He reached for my hand, threading his fingers through mine, and I let him pull me back toward the suite with none of the panic of that first morning, none of the urgency to run before the sun came up. This time, I wanted to stay for the sunrise.
We walked the short distance to our suite. The moment the door closed, the rest of the world fell away. Jay turned to me under the soft glow of the bedside lamps, the moonlit Lake Como sparkling beyond the windows like a painting made just for us. No rush. No games. Only the quiet weight of everything we had finally admitted.
He cupped my face with both hands and kissed me deeply… slow, soulful, like he was pouring every unsaid feeling into the press of his lips. His thumbs stroked my cheeks as his tongue gently explored my mouth, tempting soft sighs from me. I melted against him, hands sliding up his chest to loosen his tie and work open the buttons of his shirt.
“I love you,” he breathed between kisses, voice low and thick with emotion. “Not because of the merger, or our families, or Lake Como. Just you. The woman who argues with me about pineapple on pizza and rearranges my closet to drive me crazy.”
Tears pricked at my eyes as I smiled against his mouth. “I love you too. I think I have for a long time… I was just too scared to stay.”
He kissed the corner of my eye, then my temple, then the sensitive spot beneath my ear. With soft hands, he eased the zipper of my dress down my spine, following the path with his lips… pressing open mouthed kisses along my shoulders and the nape of my neck. The fabric slid to the floor in a whisper. He unclasped my bra and let it fall away, then hooked his fingers into my panties and drew them down my legs, dropping to one knee to kiss my thighs, my knees, the delicate skin just above my ankles as he helped me step out.
When I stood completely bare before him, he rose slowly, eyes dark with desire but softened by something far deeper. I finished undressing him with the same care… pushing his shirt off his broad shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle in his chest and abdomen, unbuckling his belt and sliding his trousers and boxers down until he was as bare as I was.
Jay lifted me effortlessly and laid me in the center of the large bed. He followed, covering my body with his, but keeping most of his weight on his forearms so I felt surrounded, protected, cherished. He kissed me for a long time… deep, slow kisses that left me breathless… before trailing his mouth downward.
He lavished attention on my breasts, sucking one nipple into his mouth while rolling the other between his fingers, switching sides with unhurried devotion until I was arching and whimpering. Lower still, he kissed every inch of my stomach, my hips, the tops of my thighs. Then he settled between my spread legs, spreading me open with gentle hands.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice full of awe. “So beautiful. So mine.”
His tongue traced a slow, broad stripe from my entrance to my clit, then circled the swollen bud with patient, loving strokes. He took his time, exploring every fold, savoring my taste with soft hums of pleasure that vibrated through me. Two thick fingers eased inside me, curling gently against that perfect spot while his mouth sealed over my clit, sucking with tender rhythm. The pleasure built gradually, like a wave rolling in from far away, growing deeper and warmer until it crashed over me in a long, shuddering orgasm. I cried out his name softly, thighs trembling around his head as he licked me through every pulse, gentle and devoted.
He kissed his way back up my body, settling between my thighs. His cock… thick, heavy, and leaking at the tip… nudged against my slick entrance. Our eyes locked as he pushed in slowly, letting me feel every inch as he stretched and filled me completely. When he bottomed out, he stayed there, buried deep, forehead pressed to mine.
“Feel us,” he whispered. “This is real.”
We moved together in a slow, rocking rhythm. Long, deep strokes that dragged pleasure through every nerve ending. His hips rolled against mine in a sensual grind, hitting that spot inside me with each thrust. I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck, holding him as close as physically possible. Our breaths mingled, soft moans and whispered “I love you" filling the space between kisses.
Jay slipped a hand between us, fingers finding my clit and circling it with perfect, gentle pressure. The pace stayed tender but grew more intense… deeper, more intentional thrusts as pleasure coiled tighter inside me. I came again with a broken moan, walls fluttering and clenching around him, pulling him deeper. He followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt with a low, guttural groan of my name as he spilled inside me, pulsing hot and deep.
Even after, he stayed buried within me, holding me close while we caught our breath. He rolled us onto our sides, facing each other, still connected. His hand stroked down my back in long, soothing lines, fingers tracing my spine, my hips, the curve of my waist. I pressed soft kisses to his chest, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat.
“No more running,” he said quietly, tilting my chin up to kiss me again… slow and sweet.
“No more notes,” I replied, smiling against his lips. “Just us. Every morning. Every night.”
We stayed like that for a long while, trading lazy kisses and touches, bodies still joined, hearts finally in perfect sync. Eventually he pulled out gently, cleaned us both with a warm cloth from the bathroom, then pulled me back into his arms. I fell asleep with my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, the same lake outside the window that had once watched me slip away now witnessing me stay… willingly, completely, forever.
The universe had brought us full circle. This time, we were exactly where we belonged.
CHAPTER 12: THE HILLS, REPRISE
Minji threw me a bachelorette dinner two nights before the wedding… small, just a handful of close friends on a rooftop bar overlooking the exact stretch of harbor I could see from the penthouse, which Minji swore was a coincidence and I was fairly sure was not.
"To the world's most chaotic love story," Minji said, raising her glass. "One night stand, arranged marriage, at least one shouting match that the building's security definitely heard—"
"That happened one time—"
"… and somehow, against every possible odd, an actual, real, sickeningly cute relationship. I still can't believe you almost didn't recognize him at that dinner."
"I recognized him immediately," I admitted. "I was just praying I was wrong."
"And now?"
I looked out at the water, dark and glittering, not so different from the lake that had started all of this, and felt something settle in my chest that had taken the better part of a year to arrive. "Now I can't imagine having prayed for anything else."
Across town, in a considerably less sentimental gathering, Jay was enduring a bachelor party that mostly consisted of his closest friends ribbing him mercilessly about the note.
"Money for the minibar," one of them said, for what had to be the fortieth time that week, raising a glass in mock tribute. "A toast… to the greatest insult ever survived by a Park heir."
"I've moved past it," Jay said, entirely unconvincingly.
"You named your dog after the hotel."
"That's… unrelated."
It was not, in fact, unrelated, and everyone at the table knew it, and Jay let them have the joke because some jokes you'd earned by now, and because in two days none of it was going to matter anyway. He was going to marry the woman who'd left that note, and somewhere between the fury and the note and the year that followed, he'd stopped thinking of it as something to make her pay for and started thinking of it as the first sentence of a story he was, against every prediction he'd have made about his own life, deeply grateful to be living.
…
The Ceremony…
The wedding, when it finally came, was nothing like the dinner where it had all started… no stiff formality, no families sizing each other up across a table like it was a negotiation. Just our two families, genuinely joined this time instead of merely merged, and Jay at the end of the aisle wearing the same crooked, unguarded smile he'd worn the night he first bought me a drink with too much rum in it and told me that I looked like I was thinking too hard for someone on vacation.
"You're doing that thing again," he murmured, when I finally reached him, voice pitched for only me to hear. "Thinking too hard."
"I'm just wondering," I whispered back, "if you're going to make me regret leaving that note for the rest of our lives."
"Every single day," he said, grinning. "But mostly because it's the reason I got to fall in love with you twice."
When it came time for vows, Jay went first, and the room, which had been politely rustling with the low murmur of two hundred guests, went entirely still.
"I had a whole speech written," he admitted, pulling a folded card from his jacket pocket and then, after a beat of consideration, tucking it away again unread. "My assistant helped me write it. It had a quote from a poet I've never actually read in it, to sound sophisticated. But I think you'd know if I was reading someone else's words instead of mine, so… here's the truth instead. I met a woman in a bar who told me she was working, at eleven at night, in a bar, and I thought that was the funniest, most transparent lie I'd ever heard, and I decided right then I wanted to know everything else she wasn't telling me. It took me a lot longer than I'd like to admit to realize that the version of myself I like best is the one that exists around you… the one that argues about pizza toppings and loses fights about thermostats and gets absurdly, embarrassingly jealous over nothing. I promise to keep choosing that version of myself, and to keep choosing you, for every single day we get, starting today and not stopping for a very long time."
My own vows came out shakier than I'd rehearsed them in the mirror that morning, but I got through them anyway. "I left you a note once," I said, and heard the ripple of laughter move through the crowd, most of whom had heard some version of that story by now. "I told you it wasn't you, it was timing. I have never told a bigger lie in my entire life. It was absolutely you. You were the first person who ever made me want to stay somewhere I hadn't planned on staying, and I've spent the year since trying to figure out how to say that without sounding as terrified as I actually was. I'm not scared anymore. I choose this… I choose you… not because of a contract, or our fathers, or a shipping deal neither of us fully understood at the time, but because somewhere between a bar in Lake Como and this exact terrace, you stopped being an arrangement and started being home."
Minji, somewhere in the crowd, would later swear she heard me laugh mid vow, which was, everyone agreed, entirely on brand.
Chairman Park gave a toast at the reception that started as a speech about shipping tariffs and ended, somewhere around his third glass of champagne, in genuine tears about how he'd never seen his son smile the way he smiled around me, contract or no contract. My father, not to be outdone, stood up next and admitted… publicly, in front of two hundred guests… that he'd fully expected me to hate the arrangement forever, and that watching me dance at my own wedding like I'd chosen this myself was the best business decision he'd ever made and he intended to take full credit for it at every future shareholder meeting.
"He's never going to let this go, is he," Jay murmured against my ear, swaying with me under string lights that looked, deliberately, unmistakably, like the ones from a terrace in Lake Como.
"Never," I agreed. "You're stuck being his favorite success story for the rest of your life."
"Worse things to be stuck with," he said, and spun me once, easy and sure, the same way he had the very first night, except this time there was no mystery left between us at all… no last name withheld, no hotel notepad, no note to write in a panic before a flight. Just the two of us, exactly where we'd both, somewhere along the way, decided we wanted to be.
Later, much later, when the guests had thinned and the band had switched to something slower, Jay pulled me toward the edge of the terrace, away from the noise, and pressed his forehead to mine the way he had the night everything finally cracked open between us.
"No regrets?" he asked. "Even with everything it took to get here?"
"None," I said. "Although I do think you owe me for two months of insufferable jealousy and a color coded closet war."
"I owe you," he agreed, "for a lot more than that. I'll be paying it off for the rest of our lives. I'm looking forward to it."
…
Years later…
Somewhere over the years that followed… the arguments that still happened, because two people that stubborn were never going to stop clashing entirely, and the jealousy that occasionally flared, more playful now than desperate, and the quiet mornings that mattered more than either of us had expected an arranged marriage to ever produce… I'd think back, sometimes, to a stranger in a bar in Lake Como who told me that I looked like trouble.
He'd been right. He usually was, though I'd never admit that to his face.
There would be more trips to Lake Como over the years… anniversaries, mostly, an unspoken tradition neither of us had planned but both of us protected fiercely, the same terrace, the same string lights, a standing reservation at a hotel that still, to this day, kept a bowl of untouched fruit in every suite because Jay had once complained, half joking, that nobody ever ate it. There would be a dog, badly named, exactly as his friends had predicted. There would be, eventually, a nursery my mother had been quietly hoping for since the night of that very first engagement announcement, though that particular chapter belonged to a different story entirely.
I wouldn't have changed a single second of it. Not the note. Not the running. Not the fights, or the jealousy, or the year it took the two of us to stop being afraid of wanting something that started as an arrangement and ended up as the realest thing either of us had ever had.
Some things, it turned out, were worth staying for.
THE END
I hope you guys like this fic! I didn't get to proofread it properly, so hopefully everything makes sense! I lowkey teared up writing the end of it. I really like this storyline so I hope I delivered it well! If you have any suggestion what who or what I can write next please drop a comment!
