[mssishipi]

MAKE YOU MINE — PJS

1: MAKE ME YOURS — You’re an Omega with rare, selective instincts, untouched by every Alpha you've ever met. That is, until you catch a scent that stops you cold and ignites a hunger you’ve never known. It leads you straight to Park Jongseong—the quiet Alpha who barely acknowledges your existence.

Now, every encounter becomes a quiet war with your own body. You try to ignore the pull, and yet, you can’t shake the fear that he might be the only Alpha your instincts will ever respond to… and the only one your heart will ever want.

content tags: a/b/o dynamics: alpha!jay, omega!reader, (ft. beta ningning, beta yeonjun) reader is kind of desparate for jay lol, spoiled bratty! reader, jay don't give a fuck, typical y/n behavior, pursuer female trope!!!, angst w/ little bit of fluff, second hand embarassment, half of the chapter is reader throwing tantrums, or talking about flower knows and nails, non-chalant jay, she yaps & he never (i guess) listen, kinda delusional reader in the first half chapter. no smut. WC:24.4K . next chapter.

⋮ ⌗ act one

     OMEGAS are known for their heightened sense of smell, particularly when it comes to Alphas. Alphas naturally emit strong pheromones, which can influence and attract Omegas, triggering instinctive reactions such as comfort, submission, or arousal, depending on the situation. For most Omegas, an Alpha's scent is a sign of protection or a potential mate, something their instincts naturally respond to.

However, ever since you came out as an Omega, things haven't been that simple.

One major complication is your extreme sensitivity to an Alpha's scent, not in the way that compels submission or attraction, but in a way that it overwhelms you, making you uncomfortable. Instead of feeling reassured or drawn in, the intensity of their presence unsettles you, leaving you tense and overstimulated.

Being in a crowded space full of Alphas feels almost suffocating. While other Omegas might naturally respond by releasing their own pheromones like showing interest or submission, your body doesn't react the way it's supposed to.

You stay still, tense, untouched by the pull that seems to affect everyone else. Their scents hit you in waves that is too strong and too overwhelming, like they're pressing in from every side. But the response everyone expects from you never comes, making it clear that you're different from the rest.

"Her Omega instincts are being selective," the psychologist says, watching you for a moment before setting their clipboard aside. "It's not unusual. Some Omegas are naturally more particular when it comes to choosing a mate. Her body is reacting to Alpha pheromones, but it's filtering them out—rejecting the ones that don't match what it subconsciously sees as a good fit."

Your mother shifts in her seat, clearly uneasy. "But she's not marked or bonded. Shouldn't she be reacting to at least one of them?"

You curl in on yourself, pulling your arms close and wishing you could disappear. It's not like you asked for this!

The psychologist gives a gentle nod. "It could be a natural defense. Some Omegas are less responsive to general Alpha presence, especially when their instincts are focused on long-term compatibility rather than instant attraction. Her body might not have found a match yet. It's rare, but it happens."

Your mother grips the edge of her purse a little tighter. Her lips press into a thin line before she speaks again. "Even during her heat, nothing happens. No response to any Alpha." There's a heavier worry in her voice. "At first, I thought maybe it was nerves, but it's every time. Shouldn't she be drawn to someone? Shouldn't she... want relief?"

You shift in your seat, heat creeping up your neck. The last thing you want is to talk about your heat cycles—not here, not like this. You stare down at the floor, hands clenched tightly in your lap.

The psychologist keeps their tone calm. "Typically, yes. During heat, but in her case, that system isn't responding like it should. Or maybe it's just locked. Her instincts seem to be holding back unless a very specific set of conditions is met." They glance at you, "her biology may only allow a response when it senses something—or someone—exactly right."

You don't need an Alpha. Fuck the way society acts like every Omega should rely on one. Yeah, heat is a bitch. Your body still wants something, the pressure builds, the ache, and that craving for a knot never really goes away. But even with all of that, no Alpha's scent has ever been strong enough to push you over the edge. Not once, and that's fucking okay, you can manage anyway.

Until now.

Your nose twitches as a new scent cuts through the heavy mix of pheromones in the crowded seminar hall. It's sharp, but smooth clean citrus with a warm, woody edge. Fresh, crisp, and nothing like the thick, cloying musk that usually fills spaces like this.

You frown, sniffing the air again. "What's that smell?" Beside you, Ningning scrunches her face, giving a quick sniff before shrugging. "What smell?"

"That smell," you repeat, already stepping forward without realizing it. Your body moves on its own, drawn by the trail curling through the room.

Ningning sighs and follows, heels clicking against the polished floor. "Is it bothering you? We can leave, you know. This seminar's pointless anyway." But you barely hear her. The scent is subtle, yet it grabs hold of something inside you and refuses to let go. It doesn't choke you or press in too close. It lingers inside your brain and calling you.

"Hey! Where are you going?!" Ningning yells, trying to keep up as you slip through the crowd. Inside you, the Omega stirs. There's a quiet hum under your skin, a soft purr in your chest that builds with every step.

Alpha. The word rings in your mind, and the moment you reach a clearer space in the crowd, the scent hits you full force, and it wraps around you so gently it nearly takes your breath away. Your knees almost buckle under the weight of it.

He stands just a few feet away. His raven-black hair is neatly pushed back, sharp jawline accentuated by the clean-cut angles of his face. The thin frames of his glasses rest perfectly on his nose, and the designer Prada bag slung over his shoulder adds to his air of quiet sophistication. Everything about him exudes elegance.

An unmated Alpha. Exactly what you're looking for.

You move before you can think, feet carrying you toward him. Ningning stares at you, mouth open in shock. "What the hell are you doing?!"

You don't answer, because the moment you reach him, you stop—right beside him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to let the scent wash over you fully. He turns his head slightly, finally noticing you. His sharp eyes flicker with curiosity behind the lenses of his glasses.

You just stand there, inhaling his scent, letting it fill your lungs, your body. It's ridiculous how good he smells, It was the smell that something your Omega has been starved for.

Make him yours. The voice inside you, your Omega, purrs again.

Ningning definitely notices. Her jaw nearly hits the floor as your eyes follow the Alpha when he quietly slips out of the room. You're practically floating in his scent trail, still dazed. "What the hell was that?" She hisses, grabbing your arm as soon as he disappears through the door. "Don't ever approach someone like that again. He's going to think you're weird!"

You blink, only half-hearing her. The moment plays over in your mind again and again.

You find out his name sooner than expected—Park Jongseong, a Media Communication major. As fate would have it, the universe seems to be working in your favor. He's in several of your classes. Every time he enters the room, your Omega perks up. A soft purr thrums in your chest before you can stop it.

Ningning always throws you a look and mutters under her breath, "Seriously? Again?"

Your eyes always follow him automatically—across the room, down the hallway, when he leans over his desk or pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Every move he makes, no matter how small, draws you in.

He doesn't talk much. He always sits near the windows, notebook open, pen in hand, brows slightly furrowed as he listens.

Make him yours.

"Help me get his attention," you whisper, leaning into Ningning as Jay starts packing up after the lecture. He's calm and quiet as always, sliding his notebook into his bag, adjusting the sleeves of his black knit sweater.

Ningning's eyebrows shoot up. Her lip gloss wand freezes midair. "What?"

"Come on, quick!" you hiss, already digging through your bag for your perfume. She groans but moves fast. You tilt your head forward as she fixes your hair, brushing a few flyaways and smoothing it down. Meanwhile, you spritz a little perfume on your neck and wrists, just enough to mix with your natural scent. Ningning grabs her lip gloss and dabs a bit on your lips, then hands you your compact mirror.

"Go," she whispers, giving your clothes a quick once-over and adjusting your collar. You nod, your heart racing as you stand and gather your things, trying to keep your hands from trembling. Ningning follows close behind, fixing your shirt and muttering encouragement under her breath.

You spot him just ahead, stepping through the lecture hall door. This is it. You cough a few times, trying to steady your breath, then pick up your pace, weaving through the crowd. Your eyes are locked on him, he's almost at the stairs when you catch up and accidentally bump right into him.

"S-sorry," you stammer, your things slipping from your arms and scattering across the floor.

He pauses, then crouches down, picking up your notebook without a word. His expression doesn't change, but the moment he moves closer, his scent washes over you again. That warm, clean blend of citrus and wood that makes your body melt. Your Omega reacts instantly, purring loud and eager beneath your skin. You feel your own pheromones release in response, filling the space around you with a subtle sweetness.

Jay's hand freezes as he reaches for your lip gloss, his shoulders stiffen. The flicker of awareness in his eyes as the scent hits him.

But just like that, he composes himself. He stands slowly, and hands you your things. "Here," he says politely. Then, without another glance, he turns and walks away. Leaving you standing there in the middle of the hallway, dazed and breathless, your Omega still humming with need.

"Bitch?!" Ningning hisses, snapping you out of your trance as she rushes to your side. "You should've said something! Asked his name, complimented his glasses, anything!" You blink, still watching Jay's back as he disappears around the corner. "I couldn't," you murmur. "My brain just... stopped working."

Ningning groans, dragging a hand down her face. "And why—why—did you release pheromones? At least try to be subtle!" Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. Ningning was already pulling you aside so no one else overhears. "Some Alphas hate that kind of attention, especially if it's not from someone they've claimed. You have to ease into it, be patient. Make him curious."

You nod slowly, maybe she's right. Maybe pouncing on him with scent and nerves wasn't the best move. Not everyone responds well to sudden heat, especially not when it's from a stranger. You need a new plan. Something that keeps you close enough to be noticed without pushing too hard.

The second time you try is days later, at the vending machine. You spot him across the hallway, standing in front of the glowing machine, casually scanning the snack options. His hair is slightly tousled today, glasses still perched perfectly on his nose, and his black hoodie is unzipped just enough to show the white shirt underneath.

You breathe in slowly and check yourself in the glass reflection nearby—hair smooth, lips glossed, scent neutral but fresh. Ningning had prepped you, hand landing firmly on your shoulder.

"Act casual. Go for something at the vending machine next to him. Drop something, but not your lip gloss again. That's obvious. And for god's sake, don't purr. Just smile. Like a normal person."

And you are walking over at a steady pace, fingers tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You stop beside him, not too close, pretending to examine the chocolate-covered almonds . He doesn't glance your way, but you can feel his quiet presence because it carries a weight of calmness that makes the air around you feel thick.

You reach out to make a selection but "accidentally" drop your coins. They roll, clinking softly before stopping near his shoe. He looks down, then turns his head toward you. You offer a small, sheepish smile. "Sorry... I'm not usually that clumsy."

He bends down, picks up the coins, and holds them out. "Here." And with just one word, but his voice settles deep in your chest.

"Thanks," you reply quietly, reaching out. Your fingers brush against his, and the lightest spark tingles across your skin. You exhale a little too softly, trying not to seem too obvious. Your foot taps once against the floor as the silence stretches, your Omega waiting beneath your skin.

Say something. Anything! Your eyes flick to the snack in his hand, and you grasp for words. "Uh... the almonds are kind of hard to bite," you say, gesturing vaguely to the machine. "Like, weirdly crunchy."

He glances at the pack, then back at you. "That's how I like it," he says simply.

You nod, a little too fast, tapping your foot as the silence stretches. Your mind races for a way to keep it going. "Well, you should try the cookies," you say, voice a little shaky as you slip a coin into the machine. "They're actually pretty good."

"Thanks, but I'm not really into that," Jay replies, his tone flat but not unkind.

You glance at him, searching for interest, or a flicker of attention but there's nothing. His expression stays unreadable, his eyes already drifting elsewhere. No spark, no tension, no sign that he feels even a hint of what you do. And just like that, something inside you stirs. A bitter, involuntary scent slips out, sharp enough that you feel it hit the air.

"U-Uh..." you murmur, fumbling to grab the cookie pack from the tray. Jay pauses for the briefest second, but he doesn't look back. He just turns and walks away, completely untouched by the moment you thought might lead to something.

You're left standing there, snack in hand, heart sinking fast. Your Omega retreats into silence, humiliated, like even it knows the moment was a failure.

Ningning appears beside you in an instant, throwing her arms around your shoulder. "I messed it up again," you mumble, voice caught in your throat, the sting rising faster.

"No," she says firmly, refusing to let you spiral. "Some Alphas take time. We just need more interaction, that's all." She waves her hands as if drawing a map in the air. "We'll plan it out better."

You nod quickly, already thinking through new ideas, anything to close the distance between you and him.

PARK JONGSEONG is the kind of Alpha people whisper about, composed, intelligent, clearly ahead of the curve in every class. You've seen how professors look at him when he speaks. You've watched how other students move aside when he passes. His scent, for you, is everything, It wraps around your Omega. So steady, clean, so grounding.

Except when he's ignoring you. Which is all the time.

And still, you try. Pathetically. Persistently. Every damn time.

You drop your student ID at the table he always takes in the library—a corner seat by the window, second floor, right after lunch. Ningning thought it was genius. You even positioned it just barely under the leg of the chair, so he'd have to notice.

You linger nearby, pretending to flip through a book on media ethics, waiting.

"Oh no—this yours?" The Student Council President, of all people, walks up, holding your ID. "You shouldn't be so careless. Do you know how much of a hassle it is to replace one of these?"

Your mouth opens and closes, cheeks heating up. "I—I just dropped it..."

"Well, don't just drop important things off in public spaces, lady. Be more mindful next time." He hands it to you with a huff and walks off.

You glance at Jay's table. He's still reading, pen tapping slowly against the side of his notebook. No reaction. Not even a glance in your direction.

Not. Even. A glance!

You think you're being fucking ridiculous at this point. Every carefully planned attempt, every "natural" interaction, every dumb little coincidence you set up—none of it works.

"Maybe he has a girlfriend?" Ningning says carefully, watching your expression. Your jaw tightens, fists clenching at the thought. But you shake it off fast, refusing to let that idea root.

"He doesn't smell like another Omega," you mutter, voice sharp. "You would know that. I would know that. And he's unmated."

"Woah, calm down," Ningning replies, holding up her hands. "I'm just saying... it's weird. We're on, what, attempt number five? And he's still not reacting."

You sigh, slumping against the hallway wall. "I know."

The thing is, most Alphas aren't that hard to read. They're biologically wired to notice an Omega when they're near especially one who's showing interest. A glance, a tension in the shoulders, a change in breathing. Anything.

Some Alphas are aggressive, territorial. They're the ones who scent-mark and cling too fast, too soon. Others are more careful, observant, waiting for signs of compatibility before making a move. Jay, apparently, is the third kind, the kind that doesn't react at all.

But you know he's not immune.

That first time, when you accidentally released your scent in front of him, he stiffened. You've replayed it so many times, dissected every second. He didn't look at you, didn't speak beyond handing back your things, but his body gave him away. That fleeting shift, that pause in his movement, it was something. It had to be. You've been clinging to that moment, letting it carry you through every failed attempt since. Because if you stop believing it meant something, even the smallest thing, then there's no point in trying at all.

The truth is, from the moment you caught his scent, everything inside you shifted. You knew he was the one. Your Omega didn't just react to him—it chose him. And the more time you spend near him, the more your choice solidifies. Not out of desperation or fantasy, but because of how right it feels when he's close, even if he never looks at you.

Make him yours. And you're starting to understand something you didn't at first. Subtlety had its chance. Casual conversations, timed glances, convenient run-ins—they all failed. He didn't bite.

If normal interaction isn't enough to break through that calm wall of his, then you'll have to try something else. Something bolder. Something that matches the pull your Omega feels every time he walks into a room. You're done waiting for him to notice. The plan now is to make sure he can't ignore you.

Because quiet doesn't work on someone like Jay, you need to make a little noise.

⋮ ⌗ act two

     AS SOMEONE with an unusually selective sensitivity to Alpha pheromones, you grew up wrapped in a carefully constructed kind of comfort. Your parents made sure that everything you needed—emotionally, physically, and materially—was always within reach. They knew you weren't like the other Omegas your age, who seemed to handle their instincts and hormonal shifts with far less complication.

They filled in the gaps with attention and luxury, convincing themselves and maybe even you that it wasn't a weakness, just a different kind of path. You were well taken care of, and nothing you wanted ever stayed out of reach for long. Whether it was comfort during your off days, distractions from your unresponsive instincts, or a quiet place to fall apart, it was all handed to you. Soft pillows. Favorite meals. New clothes. Extra time. Anything to soothe the ache that no one could see.

But no matter how much they gave, a part of you always knew something was missing. You didn't know how to name it then, not when everything looked so perfect on the surface. You didn't lack affection, didn't go without care. Still, the emptiness sat somewhere low in your stomach, coiling tighter every time you watched another Omega respond naturally to the presence of an Alpha, while you stayed untouched.

Your heat cycles were more like drawn-out fevers than instinct-driven events. You'd lock yourself away, curled in sweat-dampened sheets with a pounding head and aching limbs, convincing everyone that it was just another sick day. You never told them that the worst part wasn't the physical discomfort but the fact that your body was asking for something it never responded to. Nothing ever triggered the right release.

Still, you didn't mind skipping classes. You used those days as excuses to disconnect from the world, as if sleep and silence could somehow fill the void. Even if your body felt broken, the rest of your life was wrapped in ease. You learned to live with the quiet, with the stillness that followed every unanswered pull.

But the moment that Alpha stepped into your world, you knew, without needing time to process it, that he was the missing piece. The emptiness you'd been taught to manage, the dullness you had accepted as normal, suddenly felt glaring and intolerable.

For so long, you had lived a life where nothing was ever denied to you. From material comfort to emotional reassurance, everything you desired had been placed easily into your hands. It created a world where you never had to fight for anything, never had to question your worth or chase after something that resisted you. But now, you wanted something—or rather, someone—who didn't come running. Someone who didn't fall at your feet or bend to your need. And that was Jay.

"Hi," you say with a soft smile, setting your things down on the table beside him. The contents of your preppy, overstuffed bag clatter slightly—pens, lip gloss, and a pack of color-coded sticky notes shifting with the weight as you place it aside. Jay looks up, raising an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance at his table.

"There's no seat available," you explain smoothly before he can ask. When his eyes start to flick past you, probably to check if that's actually true, you casually shift your body to block his view. He hesitates for a second, then, without a word, he leans back and reaches for the empty chair beside him, pulling it out for you before returning to the book in his hand.

Your heart gives an excited flutter, the tiniest rush of victory surging through you as you slide into the chair he offered. You sit a little straighter, pretending not to be giddy while your lips curl into a quiet, triumphant smile. You glance back over your shoulder and spot Ningning at the back row. She catches your eye, hands cupped in front of her as she silently claps and flashes you a double thumbs-up. You almost laugh.

You adjust the sleeves of your cardigan with a light tug, smooth the fabric of your skirt across your lap, and begin pulling out your things—your textbook, a rainbow of highlighters, and your favorite fine-tip pens, all laid out in perfect order. As the professor enters and begins to arrange their notes, the murmurs in the lecture hall die down. You straighten your back, fingers folding neatly on your notebook, but your eyes drift to the side.

Jay sits perfectly still, his focus already back on the textbook in front of him. He hasn't said anything more, hasn't looked at you again, but the tension in your chest remains. You breathe in slowly, catching a trace of his scent in the air. It's just as sharp and grounded as you remember, a mix of something clean and deep that makes your Omega stir with quiet satisfaction.

The professor started to discuss lessons and you are practically listening and somehow taking notes to maybe impress him, and that was working because he took a glance of your side, seeing you highlighting the whole textbook words. Trying to show him that you're serious, intelligent, worthy of more than a glance.

Jay shifts slightly in his seat, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a brief flick of his gaze in your direction.

You keep your face neutral, pretending to be deep in concentration as your highlighter glides over the page. Line after line glows in soft pastel, the entire passage bathed in yellow. A tiny Hello Kitty doodle in the corner of the page, next to a heavily annotated paragraph on communication theory.

You wonder what he's thinking. If he's amused, confused, maybe even slightly entertained. A quiet giggle escapes your lips, and you bite down gently, trying to hide the smile forming there. Your foot taps lightly against the floor, energy buzzing low in your body.

You wait a moment longer, gauging the air between you. He hasn't looked again, hasn't shifted or spoken. So you take a breath and lean a little closer, turning slightly toward him. "Uh... I don't actually get this," you say, voice soft but clear as you point to a section in the textbook—an overly technical explanation on media framing you've probably already read twice. "Can you explain it to me?"

For a second, he doesn't respond. His eyes remain on his book, and you start to wonder if you've crossed a line too soon. But then he exhales quietly, closes his textbook partway, and glances at the page you're showing him. His gaze lingers there for a moment, then shifts to you. "You highlighted the whole paragraph," he says.

Your cheeks flush, but you don't back down. "I like the... vibe of it." Jay looks at you for a second longer, then he leans in slightly, his finger tapping just under a specific line on the page. "It's saying the media doesn't just tell people what to think but what to think about. Focus, not opinion."

"Oh," you murmur, nodding slowly, eyes flicking to where his hand rests just a few inches from yours. "You make it sound easier than it reads."

"I read it twice," he replies, already pulling his book back in front of him.

And though he doesn't say anything more, his voice is still in your ears. You turn your eyes back to your book, pretending to focus, even though your brain has stopped retaining anything. You don't try anything else after that one moment. That single conversation is enough to carry you through the rest of the day. It's the first time Jay acknowledged you, and it left your Omega humming.

Now, walking through the hallway with Ningning by your side, you can't stop smiling. The two of you are giggling, replaying every second of that encounter.

"He definitely wants you," Ningning says with dramatic flair, nudging your shoulder.

You laugh, blushing as you swat her playfully. "Shut up, it was just one line."

"Please. That line had chemistry." You roll your eyes, but you can't deny the heat in your cheeks or the way your heart flips at the memory.

Reaching the vending machine, you step forward, scanning the options. "Huh? No cookies?" you frown, staring at the empty slot. "Ugh, I was craving those."

Ningning leans in, also inspecting the machine. "Tragic," she says with a mock-sigh, then brightens. "What if we cut our next class and check out that new café that just opened near the plaza?"

You blink. "Tempting." Ningning pulls out her phone, scrolling before shoving it toward your face. You lean in, squinting at the tiny text, then pinch the screen to zoom. "Sixty dollars for a matcha latte?" you ask, arching a brow. "Not bad."

Ningning squeals in approval. "Okay, so we do the café and get our nails redone. We need to change the designs anyway—mine are chipped, and yours are too soft for this week's vibe."

"I was just thinking that," you nod. "I need a silver set. Like sharp silver."

"You'll slay," she says, flipping her hair. You're mid-laugh when a voice cuts through the moment.

"Excuse me." 

You and Ningning turn simultaneously, startled. Jay stands just behind you, hand gesturing toward the vending machine.

Your mouth opens. "H-Huh?" He doesn't repeat himself, just nods slightly at the machine again. You immediately step aside, your heart leaping into your throat.

"Sorry," you mutter, voice small. You grab Ningning's wrist and drag her away, heels clicking way too loudly in the suddenly echoing hallway.

You don't speak until you're halfway around the corner. Then, a panicked whisper: "Oh my god. Did he just hear us talking about skipping class?"

Ningning stares at you, wide-eyed. "I think he did."

You gasp, covering your mouth. "What if he thinks I'm irresponsible?! What if he's, like, into punctuality?"

"Oh, calm down," Ningning says, rolling her eyes and giving your shoulder a light slap. "You're hot. He'll understand."

The next day, you're back in class, you move toward the seat beside him. He doesn't look up when you settle in, but he doesn't move away either. That alone feels like a small victory.

Your bag makes its usual soft thump as you place it down, and you take a slow breath, gathering the courage to try again. Your fingers flip open your notebook, the page already prepared with today's topic scribbled in soft pencil at the top. You glance at him once, then look down at your page, pretending to be curious then turn slightly toward him.

"Sooo..." you start, "how do you think politicians build and maintain public personas? Do you think it's all strategy, or is there actual personality behind it?"

Jay's pen pauses mid-sentence. He doesn't look at you right away, but he tilts his head slightly, as if considering the question. "It's both," he says, voice even. "Strategy shapes the narrative, but personality sells it. If the public doesn't believe it's genuine, the image falls apart."

You blink, caught off guard by the depth of his response and the fact that he answered you at all. "That's... actually a good point," you say, surprised by how easily the conversation opens. "So image is controlled, but it needs to feel natural?"

He nods once, eyes still on his notes. "Authenticity matters. Or at least the illusion of it." You nod along, genuinely impressed by how he speaks. There's no flourish, no need to impress. He just says what he means. You turn slightly toward him again, emboldened by the way he hasn't shut you out.

Truth be told, you're not all that invested in the lecture or the textbook you've been pretending to highlight. You didn't choose Media Communication because you had a burning passion for media theory or policy analysis. You chose it because it was flexible, creative, and practical enough to satisfy your parents while still giving you room to breathe. You're more interested in the industry side—branding, entertainment, fashion, maybe even PR.

Your gaze drifts back to him, and without thinking too hard about it, you speak again. "You know, you're like... really serious," you say, laced with genuine curiosity. "I admire that in an Alpha. So quiet, but it's like you always know exactly what you're talking about."

That earns you a glance. "Why did you choose this major?" you ask, trying not to sound too eager. "Was it something you always wanted?"

Jay closes his book, slips a paper between the pages to mark his place, "I chose it because communication controls perception," he says. "And perception shapes power. If you want to understand influence, you have to understand how people see the world and who's deciding what they're allowed to see."

You blink, a little caught off guard by how sharp his answer is, how layered. God, he's so hot. You rest your chin on your hand, pretending to scan your notes while stealing another glance at him. His jaw is sharp from this angle, and the way he absentmindedly taps his pen against the edge of the table feels unintentionally deliberate.

"You make it sound so... intense," you say with a soft laugh, trying to sound casual.

"It's just media," he replies, eyes still on his notes. "But most people don't realize how much it controls them until it's already shaped their beliefs."

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling too hard. He's serious, and he probably doesn't even realize how attractive that is. "I just chose it because I didn't want to take calculus," you admit, shrugging. "I'm aiming more for industry—creative side. Branding. Fashion. That sort of thing."

He glances at you again. "So not here for the theory."

You laugh lightly. "Guilty."

ONE THING about Jay that you've repeated—out loud to Ningning, in your head at night, and even in your journal when you're feeling particularly lovesick—is that he's just so serious. It's not just his expression, which rarely shifts from that calm, focused look, or the way he speaks in clean, measured sentences. It's everything about him. The way he listens before speaking, the way he never fidgets or rambles, how he always seems a little detached from the chaos around him.

Conversations with him are awkward more often than not, mostly because you're doing most of the heavy lifting. You ask, he answers. You joke, he blinks. You try to steer things toward common ground, usually something from the subjects you share, but even then, getting more than a few sentences out of him is like trying to pull sunlight out of storm clouds. Still, there's something about his stillness, the way he never brushes you off, never acts annoyed or dismissive, that keeps you coming back. He may not give much, but he doesn't shut you out either. And for someone like Jay, that's saying something.

You've been trying for weeks now to catch him smile. A real one. Not just a twitch of the lips or a polite curve. You've watched his face like a hawk in lectures, in group discussions, even when someone in class said something truly ridiculous. Nothing, he's a stone wall. A beautiful stone wall.

You're walking beside him after class, textbook tucked against your chest, and your eyes flick up toward him. "Wow," you say, almost without thinking, blend with something a little more flirtatious. "You're like... so tall."

He makes a low sound in response—"Hmmm"—flat, sooo uninterested. His eyes stay forward, no change in his expression, and for a second you want to groan. Why is he like this?

You bite your lip, forcing a small laugh as you quicken your steps to stay beside him. "It's normal for an Alpha to be tall, right?" you continue, "Is that, like, a biological thing or just unfair genetics?"

A beat of silence that almost makes you think he's going to ignore you again—but then, finally, he speaks. "I guess height's common," he says. "It's just bone structure. Has nothing to do with whether or not someone can protect or lead."

And just like that, the conversation slips right back into that oddly philosophical tone he always seems to carry. You blink, unsure whether to be impressed again or just plain exhausted. You hug your textbook tighter to your chest and glance at him, lips parting, but nothing comes out. Because really, what do you even say to that? You were joking. Kind of. Or at least trying to keep things playful. Flirty, maybe. And here he is, treating the topic of Alpha height like it's part of some dissertation.

Why is he like this? Why does every conversation with him end up sounding like it belongs in a debate or a textbook? You let out a soft sigh, almost defeated. Does he not have a sense of humor? At all? Has he ever laughed? Like, genuinely?

He's not cold, and he's not mean—he just seems like he's wired to take everything seriously, to filter everything through logic and restraint. Like the idea of saying something stupid just for fun physically pains him.

"I know there's something under that ice," you mutter as you find yourself collapsing into a seat beside Ningning. "I just haven't figured out how to melt it yet."

Ningning leans in, suddenly serious. "Okay. Then stop letting him steer the tone. Flip it."

You blink. "Flip it?"

"You keep asking him about himself—his thoughts, his perfectly structured, emotionally stunted worldview," she says, waving her hand dramatically. "Ask him something about you. Throw him off. Put him in unfamiliar territory."

You frown, considering. "Like what? My childhood trauma?"

"No!" She glares. "Keep it cute, dumbass. Ask him what nail color suits you. Or what your color palette is. Something visual. Something he wouldn't expect. Make him look at you as you. Not a classmate, not a discussion partner—you."

You blink at her, then slowly sit up, a grin creeping across your face. "That's actually kind of genius."

Ningning preens. "Of course it is. I should start charging for advice."

The next time you see Jay after class, while walking beside him down the stone path lined with early autumn leaves—you wait until the conversation dips into its usual silence. You look down at your nails, freshly done with a soft nude polish and silver accents, then glance at him.

"Hey," you say casually, turning toward him slightly, "be honest. What color do you think would look good on my nails?"

"I—what?" He says. You lift your hand, fingers fanned slightly. He looks at your hand, and for the first time in weeks of trying, he actually hesitates.

"Why are you asking me?"

You raise a brow, keeping your voice light. "Because you have eyes, and I figured you might know what looks good. You're observant. Aren't Alphas supposed to be visually sharp or something?"

Jay's expression doesn't shift much, just that same slow, processing look he gives to everything. As if he's trying to figure out if this is a trick question. "I'm not really an expert on nail colors," he replies.

"Exactly why your answer would be interesting," you say, not letting up. "No overthinking. Just—what do you think would look good?"

He stares at your hand a moment longer, his brows narrowing slightly in thought. "Dark red. Or emerald. Something that contrasts."

You blink, surprised not just by the answer, but by how confidently he says it once he decides. "Really?" you ask, grinning. "Why?"

"Because it would stand out. You wear a lot of soft tones. That would break it."

You pause, smile lingering. Your Omega purrs beneath the surface, pleased by his answer. You didn't even realize you were releasing pheromones until you caught his glance again, he felt it but chose not to say anything. You quickly pulled back, muttering your goodbye before walking away, your steps light, body buzzing with something that made you feel like you could float. Or run. Or scream.

Ningning fans herself dramatically as you finish the story, eyes wide and lips parted like she's about to faint.

"I need to breathe. I actually need to lie down. This is too much. He wants you that bad."

Over the next few days, you find yourself leaning in more, talking more, weaving pieces of yourself into the quiet spaces he allows you to fill. You know you're chasing him. Carefully. Waiting for him to slip just enough to let you in.

You tell him about your shopping trip with your parents, narrating it like a story you hope he'll secretly enjoy. You pull out your phone and show him your new emerald nail set, his suggestion—and even though he only glances and gives a barely-there nod, your heart races.

Today, you're back beside him again, phone already in hand before class starts. He's reading—he's always reading—but you angle the screen toward him anyway.

"Look," you say softly, tilting your phone so he can see. "This is the new design for the Flower Knows. Isn't it cute?"

He barely lifts his gaze. "Hmm."

"I'm planning to buy the whole set," you continue, your tone light with just enough excitement to keep the conversation moving. "The design is so cute—it's like, magical fairy princess energy."

You start digging through your bag, rummaging past highlighters and hand cream, determined to show him more proof of your obsession. "And look—this clip? Also from Flower Knows. And my mirror, too."

You finally pull it out and hold it up between you. It's pastel pink with gold accents, the mirror rimmed with delicate little flowers and a tiny pearl charm dangling from the corner. You tilt it toward him with a proud smile. "Cute, right?"

Jay glances up, gaze flicking to the mirror in your hand. He studies it for a beat longer than usual, eyes moving across the details before they shift back to your face. Yes, attention!

Your Omega stirs instantly, thrilled by the flicker of focus. "You really like this brand," he says.

Your eyes sparkle at the sound, and you nod, heart fluttering. "I do," you say, tone bright. "They make everything so pretty—romantic, even. It's like they design everything with soft people in mind."

Without missing a beat, you shuffle through your bag again, fingers brushing past pens and notebooks until they close around the familiar small tube. You pull it out and hold it in front of him, the packaging all shimmering red and pink. "This is my favorite," you say, showing him the lip glaze. "It came from the set called Strawberry Cupid. Even the name's adorable."

You twist off the cap and hold the wand up, careful not to get it too close. "It smells like candy, and it's got this tiny gold shimmer in it. I'd let you try it, but I don't think that's your vibe."

Jay doesn't respond, just silence as he calmly turns back to his textbook. The brief moment of attention is gone again, and you're left staring at the side of his face. But you don't stop. You refuse to stop. You lower the gloss, cap it again, and rest your elbow on the table, head tilting slightly as your eyes drop to his hand—broad, still, resting lightly over the open page of his book. His fingers are long, neat, relaxed.

"Stop it, Jay," you say, a teasing lilt in your voice. "Your hand is like sooo big." He doesn't move, but his pen pauses in place. You slide your hand next to his on the table, palms flat, fingers stretching to match his. The size difference is comically obvious.

"Look at this," you say, eyes flicking between your hand and his. "This is ridiculous. I look like a baby." Still no verbal reply, but his eyes shift to the sight of your hand beside his. "You could literally hold my entire face with one hand," you add, smirking.

Jay exhales, finally speaking, tone flat. "Why would I do that?"

"Dramatic emphasis," you reply without hesitation, grinning.

You expect him to ignore you again. Instead, he flips the page in his textbook, slowly, and mutters under his breath, "You're so fucking loud."

It should sting. Maybe from someone else, it would. But from him? The words are dipped different—dry annoyance with no real bite. There's no edge, no tension, just the sound of someone resigned to your presence. Your smile creeps in. You lean in, shoulder gently nudging his with the kind of softness that borders on familiarity, even if he hasn't quite given it to you yet. "Sorry," you whisper, all fake innocence and playful sweetness, like you didn't just take another step into his space on purpose.

His shoulder stays pressed lightly against yours, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. And for someone like Jay, who seems to guard every inch of his presence, that quiet stillness feels louder than anything he could say.

⋮ ⌗ act three

     "ARE YOU seriously telling me," Giselle says, crossing her arms with a look of pure judgment, "that after three months, all you've done is compare hand sizes with him?" She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her tone teetering between disbelief and secondhand embarrassment.

Before you can even open your mouth, Ningning jumps in ready to defend your honor. "He's an unmated Alpha, Giselle! That means it's a big deal. He doesn't even look at people—he looked at her! That's progress."

Giselle snorts. "Bitch, at this rate, she could be asking him if he can help her with her heat. You've got permission to flirt, not write a slow-burn tragedy."

You gasp, swatting her playfully. "Stop it! I am not ready for the R-18 version of my life yet." You wave your finger in front of her face, trying not to laugh as Ningning snickers beside you. "I'm building a connection," you say, mock-offended but fully grinning. "You don't rush art."

You're not in a rush because you enjoy it—every small, awkward, quiet moment with Jay. Even when he gives you nothing. Even when he sighs like he's this close to telling you to leave him alone. You still slip into the seat next to him, still nudge his shoulder with yours, still talk about nail polish and dessert-shaped blush compacts.

The bond might not be spoken or returned yet, but it's there, and in every moment he lets you stay.

"Ayoo? What's with the two of you lately?" Yeonjun calls out, grinning. A chorus of teasing follows from a few classmates, the usual ooohs and wolf whistles echoing louder than necessary. You instinctively push a strand of hair behind your ear, face warming as you try to brush off the attention.

"Stop it, guys," you mutter, rolling your eyes and waving them off. Jay, of course, doesn't respond. He just walks to his usual seat, unfazed, calm as ever. But you catch the slight tightening of his jaw. The way he adjusts his bag a little more roughly than usual before sitting down.

You follow, naturally, and as you pass Yeonjun, you give him a light kick to the side of his foot, just enough to make your point. "Asshole," you hiss under your breath. "Lover girl," he sings back, winking. You ignore him and slide into the seat beside Jay, acting like your heart isn't pounding.

Jay doesn't say anything when you sit beside him. You try not to let it bother you. You tell yourself he's probably tired, or focused on the lecture, or maybe in one of his quiet moods again. Still, halfway through class, you lean in a little, whispering something light—maybe a comment about the ridiculous diagram on the slide. Something harmless, something that usually gets you a sigh, a glance, something.

Instead, all you get is a sharp click of his tongue, like you're a fly buzzing too close to his ear. You freeze, pouting slightly as you pull back. The sting isn't sharp, but it's enough to make your Omega shrink a little, unsettled by the rejection. He's never been warm, never welcoming, but he's never snapped either—not like this.

You spend the rest of the lecture trying to focus, eyes flicking to him now and then, hoping he'll say something that'll make it feel less harsh. He just stays silent, attention locked on the lecture like you don't even exist beside him.

When the class finally ends and students begin packing up, you gather your things slowly, debating if you should say something at all. "Do you want to have lunch together?" you ask, voice trying to sound casual, hopeful. "KFC's maybe? Or Wendy's? I'm, like, really craving fast food right now—"

Jay stops mid-motion, his hand frozen over his bag. Then, without even looking at you, he speaks. "Would you please leave me alone?"

You flinch. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. A soft, involuntary whine escapes your throat, your Omega reacting before your brain does. You stare at him, stunned, lips parted in disbelief.

"I don't know what you want from me," he says, finally turning to look at you. His face isn't just unreadable now—it's annoyed. "But I'm fucking sick of tolerating your presence."

Your stomach drops. The air feels colder, every word sinks deep into your chest, past the teasing, the efforts, the months of hope. "Leave me alone. It's annoying. We're not even friends," Jay says, and then he turns away.

Your eyes begin to blur, the weight of humiliation building too fast to swallow down. You inhale sharply, trying to hold it in, trying not to let it show but your Omega doesn't listen. It reacts, a wave of distressed pheromones leaks from your skin. You step back instinctively, shoulders curling inward as you twist away, walking fast in the opposite direction.

You missed the way Jay stop his steps and looked back at your retreating figure.

You focus on your steps, your breathing, anything to distract yourself from the way your chest feels like it's caving in. The hallway seems longer than usual, you feel the subtle shift in the atmosphere as you pass other students, their gazes following you, some of them turning their heads slightly, noses lifting as they catch the scent of your distress.

You duck into an empty hallway, one rarely used between classes, and slip into the corner near a closed-off faculty room. There, out of sight, you finally let yourself breathe as your hands tremble against the cool wall.

Your Omega coils in your chest, quiet but wounded. It doesn't understand. Alphas aren't supposed to reject so harshly. Not when there's been a connection. Not when you've tried this hard. Not when every instinct told you he was the one. But you remind yourself—Jay is different. He always has been. Cold, closed-off, serious to a fault. And today... maybe today he's just having a bad day. Maybe something pushed him too far, and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You should've backed off sooner. You should've noticed the signs.

You had gotten comfortable, too comfortable, that's right. You let yourself believe that his tolerance meant quiet acceptance. You convinced yourself he was letting you in, little by little. But maybe you crossed a line he never gave you permission to approach.

You press your palms to your face, grounding yourself with the contact. You can't cry here. Not now. You have to calm down. Hide the scent. Regain control. You're not his Omega. He never claimed you. Never promised you attention, affection, or anything beyond silence. If he wants space, if your presence has started to feel more like pressure than connection, then you'll give him that.

But that doesn't mean you're giving up. You let your forehead rest against the cool wall, inhaling deeply, trying to draw your scent back under control. Your Omega, though bruised, isn't broken. It whimpers, but it doesn't turn away. You can give him time. You can give him distance. You can even pretend not to care when you pass him in the hallway or when he walks into class like you don't exist but you're not walking away. Not now.

"It's not rejection," you say, trying to keep your voice steady as you explain yourself to your friends later that afternoon. "It's resistance."

The three of you are sprawled across Ningning's bed, surrounded by takeout containers, open makeup palettes, and the unmistakable comfort of long, unfiltered conversations. The topic has shifted—again—to Jay.

Giselle scoffs from the foot of the bed, tossing her phone onto the blanket. "Isn't it unhealthy for an Omega to keep chasing someone who keeps bruising your bond like this? You need to find a new Alpha. Preferably one who actually talks."

You sigh, pressing your palm to your forehead. "You don't get it. He is my Alpha. I can feel it."

"No, you're just being delusional," she mutters.

"No, seriously—" you sit up a little straighter, voice more defensive than you'd like—"I've been pushing too hard. I know that. He's not the type who responds to pressure. I should've paced myself."

Ningning, who's been quiet until now, hums as she applies cuticle oil. "His walls are so high. You're gonna throw out your shoulder knocking like that."

"I'm not stopping," you say, shaking your head. "I just need to knock quieter. That's all."

There's a beat of silence before Giselle shoots you the most deadpan look imaginable. "You literally sound insane." You open your mouth to argue, but before you can say a word, Ningning chimes in without even looking up from her phone. "Let her be," she says, popping a gummy into her mouth. "She's a walking 22-year-old virgin who hasn't spent a single heat with an Alpha since her first one. She's overdue for a little delusion." She pauses, then adds with a knowing smirk, "Besides—Jay is hot. If I were feeling the bond with someone like him, I'd be annoying 24/7 too.

You shove a pillow at her with a groan. "I am not annoying!"

Still, the next day, you choose not to sit beside him.

You walk into the lecture hall early, find a spot a few rows behind his usual seat, and keep your head down as students filter in. When Jay walks in and takes his usual seat, you stay still behind your book, peeking just slightly over the top to watch him placing his things down. Then he reaches for something on the desk.

There, resting against his notebook, is a small box of almond chocolates—his favorite—and a pale pink sticky note with your handwriting:

I'm sorry :<

He stares at it for a moment, no visible change in his expression. Just the smallest pause as he reads the note. Then, slowly, his eyes lift and lock onto yours. You freeze behind your book, immediately ducking your head lower, pretending to read, cheeks burning.

The next day, and the one after that, and the one after that still—you keep leaving small things for him. Almond chocolates, the occasional matcha drink, and those tiny, handwritten notes folded carefully on top. Hope you're not too tired today. Good luck on your quiz. This one has extra almonds. Thought you'd like that.

You don't speak to him. You don't sit beside him again. You don't even make eye contact. You just leave them, quietly, and watch from a distance—sometimes through the gap between your fingers, sometimes from behind your open book, pretending to be invested in your notes. And every time he takes them, your Omega flutters with soft satisfaction. He never says thank you, never even glances your way, but he takes them. That's enough. That means something... doesn't it?

Until it doesn't.

That afternoon, after a particularly long lecture, the room empties slowly. Jay rises from his seat, slips his bag over his shoulder, and walks out like usual. You follow—at a distance, your steps soft and measured, like you're just heading in the same direction. But as you round the corner into the hallway, you see him stop by one of the large trash bins outside the exit. You pause instinctively, half-hidden behind the corner, confused.

Then you watch. He takes the small snack bag you'd given him that morning—still unopened—and the note still clinging to the wrapper with your careful handwriting. You expect him to tuck it into his bag like he always does.

Instead, he drops it straight into the trash. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch him toss it in casually. He walks away without a backward glance. You stay frozen in place, unable to move. Your arms hang limp at your sides, your fingers trembling.

Your steps are slow as you walk toward the bin, you kneel beside it, reaching in carefully, pulling out the small snack bag you'd wrapped with quiet hope that morning. The note is still stuck to the front, your handwriting slightly crinkled now, and there's a smear of dust on the plastic.

You brush it off gently with your fingers, your vision blurs again, and this time, you don't try to stop it. One tear slips past your lashes, then another, rolling down your cheek as your lips press together in a tight pout. You blink down at the chocolate, hugging it to your chest.

"Sighs..." you whisper to yourself, trying to breathe through the heaviness in your chest, the sting in your throat. "I think... the things I've been giving him just aren't his taste."

You wipe your cheek, trying to laugh at yourself but failing. "Maybe I just went overboard," you murmur, looking down at the crumpled note. "Maybe it's my fault for pushing too hard."

You press your lips together, swallowing the lump in your throat, trying to stand a little straighter, to feel a little less small. "I think I'm gonna need... a little break."

⋮ ⌗ act four

     "HEY, Omega, can you get that book over there?"

You don't look up. Your eyes remain fixed on your nails, turning your hand slightly under the light, examining the way the gloss catches at the curve of your cuticles. You're mentally circling between two shades—pearl lavender or muted coral—and trying to picture which would match better with the new outfit you've had saved in your cart for weeks. Your thoughts drift again, this time to the Girlcult makeup set Ningning brought back from her trip to China. The packaging was ethereal, like it came from another world. You want it badly. The blush alone looks like a soft dream.

"Hey, Omega, I said get that book."

The same voice, sharper this time. You still don't look up. Instead, you straighten your fingers and flex them once more, admiring the length you've managed to grow out. Not bad. Not too long either. You make a mental note to book a silver chrome set next week, something reflective. You're already planning your errands after this group meeting, maybe squeeze in some bubble tea, maybe check the thrift shop two blocks down.

You're not even sure if being in the same group as Jay is luck or a cosmic joke. You've stopped chasing him—paused, really—told yourself you'd shift your focus back to yourself. You haven't talked to him since that day in the hallway. Haven't even looked at him directly. You've been pretending, performing the role of the girl who's moved on, who's reclaiming her time and redirecting her energy.

And maybe... maybe it's not all a lie.

You're starting to remember what your life was like before he stepped into it. You used to think he was the missing puzzle piece, the final shape to make you feel whole. But lately, you've started wondering—what if that puzzle piece was never meant for your life? What if it was too sharp, too heavy, too incompatible, no matter how perfect it looked from the outside?

You snort quietly to yourself, the thought making your lips curl. What a ridiculous metaphor. But then again, you've been living inside one long, drawn-out metaphor for months now.

"I think he's talking to you," your classmate beside you whispers, nudging your arm.

You finally glance up, slowly, turning your head toward the group. The guy across the table—one of your assigned groupmates, name forgotten—stares at you with thinly veiled irritation, clearly waiting.

Your eyes shift lazily to the book he's pointing at on the next table, then just as quickly, return your focus to your nails. You study the shimmer of the topcoat, the slight chip on your thumb, the way the light catches at the curve of your cuticle like it deserves more attention than the boy sitting across from you.

"No," you say, voice flat, disinterested, unapologetically dismissive. "Get it yourself."

You don't even look at him when he tenses. "Bitch," he mutters under his breath, loud enough to be heard but quiet enough to pretend it was an accident. He stands up with more aggression than necessary, his chair scraping the floor as he strides toward the book and snatches it up from beside you. The motion sends a wave of his scent into the air, unrefined, bitter, and arrogant. The kind of pheromones that announce a need for dominance rather than any actual strength.

You sniff, subtly, wrinkling your nose at the pungent trail left in his wake. You press your lips together in annoyance, roll your eyes, and lean further back into your seat. Across the table, the other Omegas in your group shift in their seats, instinctively straightening their spines, adjusting their posture, some avoiding eye contact altogether.

You sigh through your nose, blowing lightly on your nails to dry them, annoyed by the way his pheromones cling to the air like spoiled cologne. 

Geez. Alphas and their fucking pheromones. Always so loud, so desperate to remind everyone who and what they are. Like the rest of you couldn't already tell the second they entered a room—the posturing, the tone, the overconfident glances, and worst of all, the way their scent fills up the space without permission.

The air still feels saturated when the guy flops back into his seat, smug, clearly thinking he's made a point, display of Alpha irritation.

"Contain your pheromones," a voice says, "or leave."

Heads turn. Your own heart skips in a way you hate to admit, and when you look up, Jay is already staring—his eyes hard, fixed on the Alpha who had just returned to his seat.

The boy shifts, clearly startled by the sudden command, shoulders stiffening as he mutters a quiet "Sorry," and adjusts his seat, shrinking ever so slightly, signal that he knows his place in this moment. He won't challenge it.

You don't know the mechanics of how Alphas seem to instinctively understand where they fall in the unspoken hierarchy of power, how one look or tone can be enough to force silence from someone who just seconds ago thought they were the loudest voice in the room. And Jay didn't raise his voice. He didn't bare teeth. He didn't do anything except exist in that moment with enough intensity to silence another Alpha without breaking a sweat.

Your Omega, which has been stubbornly quiet ever since you promised yourself to stop chasing him, curls subtly inside you. As if it remembered something you've spent days trying to forget. As if it's reminding you that no matter how cold his words were last time, no matter how many days you spent replaying them in your head until they broke you down—he still has that effect on you.

You mentally curse yourself for letting it happen, for giving him that piece of your attention again over something so minimal. He didn't even do it for you. You sit through the rest of the group meeting in silence, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes on the clock instead of the people around you. You just want to finish this, get out, and focus on the rest of your day—the things that don't involve Jay or his infuriating gravity.

At the end of the meeting, Jay stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder, his tone cool and clipped as always. "I'll be sending a link to our group chat. Check it regularly. I'll monitor your progress there. Meeting dismissed. I hope you all play your parts well."

You're already halfway out of your seat, eager to breathe air that doesn't smell like Alpha ego or quiet tension. You gather your things, mentally going over your to-do list. But then, just as you're zipping your bag shut, you feel a presence behind you. A very specific one.

Your shoulders freeze. "Huh?" The sound escapes you as you turn—and there he is. Jay. Standing directly in front of you. Towering, and composed. And despite everything, your stupid heart does that ridiculous flutter. Worse, your Omega purrs at the nearness of him, curling up.

Shut up, you scream at yourself internally.

"Your number," he says flatly.

You blink. "My what?"

"Your number," he repeats, irritation edging into his voice. "Everyone else wrote theirs down. You didn't. You were too busy with your nails."

Ouch. Wordless, you take the phone he's holding out to you. Your nails click sharply against the screen as you type the digits in without looking at him, hit save, and hand the phone back in one clean motion.

And then you're gone. You grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and walk. Stupid. Stupid feelings. Stupid Omega being submissive at a single glance like a lovesick fool.

You manage to avoid Jay at least as much as someone can when stuck in the same group project. As long as you submit your parts on time, follow whatever standards he insists on, and keep your head down, you figure you can survive the rest of the semester with your pride mostly intact.

Still, that doesn't mean you don't notice him. It's impossible not to. Jay is effortlessly composed when he works, all clean lines and focus, voice low but commanding in the way that makes people listen without question. It makes you roll your eyes every time one of the other Omegas in your group drifts closer than necessary, pretending they need him to review something just for a whiff of his scent.

You watch it all unfold from your seat—one girl biting her lip, leaning over the table, another brushing her fingers too close to his. You can see what they're doing from a mile away. 

Pathetic, you think, scoffing silently. Why isn't he cold to them? Why does he let them stay close, speak freely, like he's not made of ice and silence? When you tried—when you pushed just a little closer—he burned you for it.

It's not fair. But fine. Whatever. You keep walking like it doesn't bother you, like you've got better things to think about than Jay and the unfair softness he shows to people who aren't you.

You're halfway down the hall between classes when Yeonjun spots you. He slings an arm across your shoulder like you're best friends. "What happened between you and Jay?" he asks, almost sing-song. "It's kind of sudden, you know? You two went from talking all the time to... nothing."

You roll your eyes and shrug his arm off, but he only cackles and throws it right back around you, dragging you a little closer as you walk. "Come on," he prods. "Tell me. Did you break up or something?"

"First of all, fuck off," you mutter, elbowing him in the side. "We weren't a thing to begin with. I just figured out that maybe he doesn't like company, so... friendship over." The words sting especially when you remember exactly what Jay said that day. "We're not even friends."

Yeonjun winces dramatically. "Yooo, that's brutal. And here I thought you had someone lined up for your next heat."

You whirl on him, scandalized. "Stop talking about my heat!"

He laughs like it's the funniest thing in the world. "I know I get moody during pre-heat, okay?" you continue, huffing as your steps grow heavier. "I know I get annoying. Sorry if that's inconvenient for everyone." And just for emphasis, you stomp down hard on his foot.

He yelps. "Ow! Is that how you apologize?!"

You glare at him. "Bitch, these are Louboutins. Don't test me."

He gasps, stepping right back on your foot in retaliation. "Designer or not, that was uncalled for!"

You've managed to keep your mind light, your mood even lighter. You spent the afternoon giggling over new makeup releases and trying on three different outfits before settling on the one that made you feel just a little too confident. You even let one of your classmates borrow your Chanel perfume, the limited edition one that cost more than most people's weekly groceries. That alone says a lot about your good mood.

"This scent is so good! It's so long-lasting!" the girl gushes, practically bouncing in her seat as she sprays another generous mist onto her wrists and neck.

You wave your hand in front of your face, before turning back to your conversation with Ningning. She's already pulling up swatches of a new lipstick line, and you're halfway through deciding whether Burnt Rose or Peach Silk suits your skin tone more.

Until the moment Jay walks straight toward your table.

"Hey."

Your smile falters, but you hold your composure. Ningning immediately straightens, and you feel her pinch your leg under the table. You don't react. Instead, you retaliate with a subtle kick to her foot, keeping your expression as neutral as possible while turning your head slowly toward him. Jay stands there with one hand gripping the strap of his bag, his eyes fixed on you with that same expression he always wears, cool but unmistakably annoyed.

"W-What's up?" you ask, hoping your tone sounds casual even though your Omega is already squirming, stupidly alert under his gaze.

He narrows his eyes. "Where the hell did you get the source for your part of the group output?"

You blink. "Huh?"

Jay pulls out a folded printout and slaps it onto the table in front of you. You recognize your paragraph immediately—highlighted, annotated, and very, very questioned.

"That," he says, tapping the page, "reads like it was pulled from a blog post written in 2007."

You squint at it, leaning forward. "I mean... it's informative."

"Where did you get it?" he repeats, more firm this time.

You glance at Ningning, who looks like she's holding in a laugh, and then shrug a little, hoping the smile you offer is at least semi-charming.

"U-uh... Wikipedia?" Jay's expression goes flat. Like truly, utterly done-with-your-shit flat. You watch his jaw shift slightly before he inhales and exhales. "Are you kidding me?"

"I added bullet points?"

"I told everyone to use peer-reviewed journals."

"I thought Wikipedia was, like... collaborative academia?"

He gives you a look, the kind that doesn't even require words to communicate just how unimpressed he is. Then he scoffs. "Meet me at the library. 4:30," he says, already turning away. "You're going to repeat this shit."

Shit? What a mean guy! Jay is so mean!

When the time comes, you're at the library exactly at 4:27. You've changed into something a little more presentable. You even brought real sources this time: three articles you barely skimmed and one you printed just because it looked like it had graphs in it.

You walk toward the group study section, scanning the long tables until you see him—Jay, already seated, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, laptop open in front of him. One hand rests on the keyboard, the other pinching the bridge of his nose. You approach cautiously, pulling out the chair across from him. "Hi," you say, quietly. You sit down, trying to slide your printouts toward him.

He barely glances up. "Do you even know what the research topic is?"

You pause. "Media manipulation in digital spaces."

"What's your angle?"

You blink. "Angle?"

Jay leans back in his chair and exhales, clearly restraining himself from saying something cruel. He rubs his temple for a second, then looks at you fully. "I need you to actually try today," he says.

You nod, more serious now. "Okay. I'll try. I am trying."

He watches you for a moment longer, then gestures to your stack of papers. "Start by telling me why you picked those."

You look down at your papers and clear your throat, suddenly aware of how quiet the library is and how loud your pulse feels in your ears. "I thought the one with the graphs would impress you..."

Jay closes his eyes for a moment, not even sighing anymore, just exhaling through his nose like he's trying to summon patience from a part of himself that's already empty.

From there, the next hour becomes a slow kind of hell. Jay doesn't just skim your work or toss it aside. He makes you repeat it—all of it. Line by line, paragraph by paragraph. He makes you read it aloud, then explain what each section means in your own words. You try to follow, but his questions come fast and firm, drilling into the parts you only half-understood, peeling away the fluff you thought might pass.

And it becomes painfully clear, to both of you, that you don't know what the hell you're talking about.

You stammer your way through vague definitions, hope a few filler words will distract him, even throw in a shrug and a weak laugh at one point, but it's useless. His expression never changes. He just stares, waiting for a real answer that never comes.

It's not like you wanted to be useless. It's just—why does this topic have to be so soul-crushingly dull? Media manipulation in digital spaces? Who even cares? You'd rather re-organize your lipstick drawer alphabetically and by tone than sit through another journal article about algorithmic bias and digital literacy. And yeah, maybe you chose the wrong major. But still, it's not like you're trying to drag the group down on purpose.

Jay finally leans back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes still locked on you with that same, merciless calm. "I'm going to monitor your progress from now on," he says, "If you want to fail, that's your business. But don't take the group down with you."

You blink, stunned, not sure if you're more embarrassed or pissed. "Other people are working hard to get what they want. Be mindful of your attitude," he continues. "If I see you half-assing this again, I'll pull you out of the group myself."

You just sit there, mouth slightly open, because—what the actual fuck? There's a long pause as he packs his things neatly, methodically. And all you can think is: That was so hot.

God, you hate yourself. Because that shouldn't have been attractive. The tone, the authority, the focus, the absolute lack of patience for your bullshit—none of it should've made your heart flutter. And yet, there it is. That annoying, heavy thump in your chest, that quiet curl of heat in your stomach that says yes Alpha, scold me more, and you genuinely want to scream into your tote bag.

What the hell is wrong with you?! You glare at him as he pushes his chair back and stands up, towering over you.You used to like him? You wanted to bond with that?

He grabs his bag and walks off without another word, and you're left staring at his retreating back, jaw tight, fists clenched in your lap. What about what you want to have? What about your dreams? What about the fact that you're trying your best to live, breathe, and survive your academic burnout in peace?

     AND YOU'RE starting to think Jay's entire academic mission in life is to personally destroy any shred of peace you have left. Maybe he's taken it upon himself to make sure you never get the luxury of coasting through college with eyeliner perfectly winged and notes scribbled in pink ink. Because every single time—every single fucking time—you submit something for the group work, he reads it, glances at you like you just personally offended the concept of intelligence, and hands it back with that cold expression that somehow hurts more than yelling ever could.

Jay leans back in his seat, flipping through the stapled pages you handed him five minutes ago. His jaw is tight, brows drawn as his eyes scan the words. You've already started chewing on the inside of your cheek, fingers tapping nervously against your notebook as you wait for the inevitable.

He exhales, and you already know what's coming. "Repeat this," he says, placing the papers in front of you. "Out loud. Paragraph one. Let's go."

You blink, confused. "You want me to read it?"

"No. I want you to explain it," he replies. "Read it out loud, then tell me what it means. If you can't even do that, what are we doing here?"

Your mouth opens, you lower your gaze and start reading, voice wobbling slightly as you stumble through your opening paragraph. It's not even bad writing—at least, not in your opinion—but when Jay stops you halfway through and points out a vague phrase, you already know you're in for another hour of this.

"What do you mean by 'societal shifts influence perception'?" he asks, eyes narrowing.

You blink. "Like... when society changes, people... think differently?"

Jay just stares, filled with judgment, as if he's holding back a lecture you probably deserve.

"Okay," you add quickly, trying to fix it. "I meant that media narratives change based on what society is focused on. Like trends. Or politics. Or cultural stuff—"

"You wrote that it influences perception subtly, not directly," he interrupts, "what evidence do you have for that claim?"

Your mouth opens again. Nothing. "If you're going to write like that, you need to know what you're saying. You don't write just to sound smart. You write to prove a point. Understand the difference."

Your face burns as the words hit. You look at him, then back at your paper, your throat tightening with a quiet mix of shame and frustration.  Maybe you are the weakest link in the group. Maybe he's right to be this intense.

Still, your pride kicks in, even if it's bruised. "Fine," you mutter. "I'll fix it."

Jay doesn't say anything. He just nods once, and starts typing again on his laptop like he didn't just deliver a verbal slap to your ego. You stare at your paper, the corners slightly bent, the ink smudged near the margin where your hand had rested too long. You don't even know what you're doing anymore. You thought you were doing it right. You thought your revisions were enough. But every time you hand him a draft, he finds something else wrong with it. Too vague. Too shallow. Too casual. Then when you finally overcompensate and make it dense, academic, he tells you it's too overexplained. Redundant. Forced.

You're caught in a loop of not-good-enough, and no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to get it right.

But the worst part is you still want to impress him. You still want him to look at something you've done and actually pause. To read your words and see you through them. Not just tolerate your work, not just skim it and correct it like it's another chore—see you. And maybe that's pathetic. Maybe that's your Omega talking again, that deep, aching need to be acknowledged, to be worthy.

So you double down. You study harder. You stay up late rereading articles, highlighting passages you barely understand but force yourself to analyze. You start drafting, rewriting, reformatting, again and again, until your vision blurs. You give up your free time, your peace, and slowly, without noticing, everything else begins to fall away.

You don't realize how long it's been since your last self-care day. How your perfectly manicured nails have started to chip around the edges, the gloss dulled and peeling. You can't remember the last time you joined Giselle and Ningning for a boba run, or went out shopping just to feel cute, or even indulged in a quiet, overpriced matcha latte while scrolling through lip gloss swatches and pretending your life was still soft and simple.

You've skipped parties. Canceled lunch dates with your girlfriends. You haven't even opened that package of new lashes you ordered two weeks ago.

You're too busy chasing a moving target. One that wears black sweaters and critiques your grammar. Your planner is full of deadlines and corrections now. Your lipstick is worn off by mid-afternoon. Your back aches from sitting in stiff library chairs too long, trying to fix a sentence for the fifth time because Jay didn't like the way it sounded.

"Girl, I'm going to set a schedule later for my lashes and nails," Ningning announces cheerfully, flipping through her phone as you sit beside her in the campus café. "Want to join? Or are you too busy trying to impress Mr. Alpha again?"

She wiggles her eyebrows dramatically, and you let out a long, heavy sigh as you slump forward, resting your forehead against the edge of the table. The paper you've spent the past two nights slaving over lies flat in front of you—neatly printed, annotated with references. You've read it three times already and rechecked your citations. You even color-coded the margins for clarity, just in case Jay needs yet another excuse to nitpick.

"I'm satisfied with this," you murmur, voice muffled against the table. "This time, it's solid. No room for criticism. I met every single one of his standards. I even used academic journals and added a transitional thesis. If he questions me again, I'm ready to defend it like my life depends on it."

Ningning raises an impressed brow. "Well, goodluck, babe." You lift your head slowly, exhaling as if you've run a marathon. "Thanks."

She grins and reaches across the table to squeeze your hand. "Okay, good. Because once this is over, you're coming with me. Nail care, hand massage, and I'm thinking a soft almond-shaped acrylic set for both of us. I'll send my inspo to your messages, and we can hit the spa together. Maybe swing by Dior? Just a quick peek."

The moment she says it, something in you lifts. "Count me in," you say, finally smiling. "Full hand care, nails, the works. I'm thinking soft chrome this time. I'll send you the mood board later."

Ningning lets out a delighted squeal, clapping her hands in excitement. "Thank you, God! She's back! You finally have time for yourself again!"

You laugh, the kind of laugh that feels real after so many tense days. "So... does that mean I'm allowed to come to the party tomorrow night?"

Her eyes widen. "Wait, what?! You're actually going?" You nod, biting your lip like the idea excites you more.

     YOU CLUTCH your final draft in both hands as you make your way toward the library. Your mood is still high, the conversation with Ningning echoing in your mind. You can already feel the scent of the spa oils in your imagination, hear the bubbling jets of the foot bath, see the pale pink Dior bag swinging from your wrist.

You're ready for peace again. You enter the library and spot Jay at the usual table, eyes glued to his laptop as always. You walk over, straighten your shoulders, and place the paper gently in front of him. He glances at it, says nothing for a moment. Then, slowly, he picks it up and starts reading.

You sit across from him, waiting. Trying not to fidget. Trying not to let your nails dig into your palm when he pauses at paragraph three. He flips a page. Eyes narrow. Brows twitch. Then comes the inevitable—he looks up.

"This part here," he says, pointing to the section you rewrote three separate times, "it's too vague again. You're brushing over your argument. What do you actually mean here?"

You blink. "What?" you whisper.

He turns the page again. "And here, this is fine, but it's padded. Cut the filler. Focus on your point."

Your heart sinks. "You're kidding, right?"

Jay looks up, calm as ever. "This isn't clear enough to include in the final draft. You'll need to revise it again."

Something in you cracks. You don't say anything. You think about all the nights you stayed up rewriting that same paragraph. You think about how you skipped lunch three times this week to finish this stupid draft, how you canceled plans, missed parties, ignored calls, stopped living—just for this. Just to hear him say it was good enough.

You're just... tired. The kind of tired that isn't about sleep or stress, but about the feeling that you're endlessly reaching for something that keeps stepping back, just out of reach. You think about the spa day you promised yourself, the almond-shaped nails and soft chrome polish you were so excited to get. You think about that moment of stillness with Ningning, sipping boba and laughing like you didn't have the weight of someone's judgment pressed onto your shoulders. You think about Dior. About the party. And you feel it all slipping right through your fingers.

You exhale, and swallow the tightness building in your throat. "When do you need it?" you ask, your voice so small.

Jay doesn't look up from your paper, fingers flipping back to that same third paragraph. "Your part is the only one that still needs fixing," he says bluntly. "Everyone else is moving ahead with physical presentation prep. So fix this tonight and send it back by tomorrow."

That's it. No thank you. No acknowledgment of the effort you've already poured into it. Just another deadline, another reminder that nothing you do will ever be enough.

Fuck him. You sit up a little straighter, lips parting. "But I think I already did my part perfectly," you say, pointing to paragraph three.

"This?" he asks, tapping the paragraph with the back of his pen. "You think this is perfect?"

You don't answer. Because there's something in his voice that already tells you he disagrees, and he's not going to soften it for your sake.

"This isn't perfect," he continues. "This is surface-level observation dressed up with vague language and soft transitions. It sounds nice, sure, but it doesn't say anything."

Your lips press into a tight line, and your stomach knots. "You keep writing like you're trying to be liked instead of trying to prove a point," he goes on, relentless. "Academic work isn't about sounding pretty. It's about clarity, direction, precision. You can write circles around a subject and still say nothing."

You swallow hard, your hands tightening in your lap. "I spent hours on this," you murmur, eyes fixed on the paper. "I canceled everything today."

Jay doesn't blink. "Then you should've spent those hours understanding the material, not decorating it."

You flinch like he hit you. For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. At the face you used to admire. The eyes you used to chase. The person you once thought you could belong to. Now all you see is a wall. Impenetrable. And your reflection on the other side, small and shrinking.

You glance down without thinking, your gaze drawn to your hands resting tensely on the edge of the table. Your fingertips are trembling, knuckles pale from how tightly you've been pressing them together. Your leg is bouncing under the table, nervous energy you didn't notice until now. And then—you feel it. A sharp snap. You blink.

Your pointer finger.

One of your nails has cracked. A clean break down the middle, right through the glossy polish you barely had time to care for in the last two weeks. It shouldn't matter. It's a nail. But it feels like the last thing keeping you together just gave out. The smallest fracture, and suddenly the whole image starts to crumble.

"I—" you start, voice rough in your throat. You lift your hand slowly, staring at the cracked nail.

Jay looks up. "I'm leaving the group," you say, the words escaping, not with anger, not even with emotion. Just exhaustion. He doesn't speak right away. Maybe he's surprised, or maybe he simply doesn't care. You wouldn't know. You're not looking at his face anymore.

"I'll tell the professor," you add, folding your papers neatly with hands that feel numb. "You can find someone better to work with. Someone who actually knows what they're doing."

Jay's lips part slightly, you tuck your papers into your folder with care, as if this small act of order will keep you from unraveling completely. And then you push your chair back, rising to your feet.

You sniffle softly, and the sound makes your chest burn with embarrassment. The worst part isn't the tears welling in your eyes or the sting of your pride cracking—it's the scent. The way your distress pheromones are seeping out of you, so bitter, practically painting the air with your emotions. You hate it. You hate how it betrays you, how it clings to your skin and floats around you, a silent broadcast to any Alpha nearby that something is wrong, that you are fragile.

You quicken your steps, head down, trying not to let anyone see your face. You need to get out of here. Away from Jay. Away from everyone. You press your folder to your chest and move faster, your shoes echoing against the tile floors of the hallway. You're hyperaware of your scent, how sharp it is, and how it must be overwhelming for anyone in a ten-foot radius. It's humiliating. You feel exposed, like every nerve is on fire and there's nowhere safe to hide.

Fuck being an Omega. You clench your jaw, pushing the thought down, but it bubbles up again. Fuck this life. You didn't ask for this. You didn't ask to be the one who spirals whenever something doesn't go right, whose emotions get turned into a scent that others can detect before you even process how you feel. You didn't ask to be born into a dynamic where every misstep is amplified by your biology. You didn't ask to be someone whose sadness inconveniences people, whose mere presence becomes a disruption the moment her emotions are too loud.

You wipe your cheeks aggressively with the back of your hand, smearing whatever's left of your concealer, your eyes stinging as the tears you've been holding in finally break free. You keep walking, cutting through unfamiliar halls, your mind racing, heart hammering. You don't care where you're going, you just need to not be seen.

It hits you again—most Omegas your age are already bonded. Already paired off with their perfect, compatible Alpha. They have someone who wants them. Someone who protects them, grounds them, holds them without flinching when their scent turns sour. And you? You're here. Unbonded. Unwanted.

You reach a quiet corner of campus, a dim side hallway near the back of the gym where no one usually lingers. Your eyes fall on the row of lockers near the old changing room, and without thinking, you grab one. It creaks open under your hand, the inside barely wide enough for a person. But you don't care, you step inside, shoulders hunching as you pull the door halfway shut behind you. It's cramped and it smells faintly like dust and old sweat, and it's hidden.

You press your forehead against the cool wall, you bite down on your lower lip, hard, trying to silence the sound rising in your throat, trying to muffle the sob you know is coming. You have to control it. You have to stop the pheromones from leaking further into the air, because no Alpha wants to smell this.

No Alpha would ever come to comfort this. Not yours, not anyone's. What Alpha wants an Omega who breaks down like this? Who can't even hold herself together over something as stupid as a paper? Who spirals at a cold tone and a red mark on the margin? Who loses control of her scent like a teenager going through her first heat?

You sob quietly at first, trembling fingers rising to your face to hide it even though there's no one around. Then your gaze drops, landing on your hands—your once-manicured, carefully polished hands. And there it is.

The crack in your nail. The one you tried to ignore. The chip in the gloss. The way it's uneven now. Ugly.  You stare at it, and your bottom lip begins to tremble. "My nails," you choke out, the words wet and shaky. "My nails..."

Your breath stutters, chest rising and falling with jagged movements as another sob claws its way up and escapes. You curl your body tighter inside the narrow locker, arms wrapped around your legs now, your head resting against your knees as your chest heaves and your sobs grow louder. The scent of your distress is suffocating, shameful, but still safer than being seen. You let it pour out of you because at least here, you thought you could fall apart alone.

Then suddenly, you feel it—the shift of air, the creak of the locker door being pulled open. Light spills in, and you squeeze your eyes shut tighter, your sobs not stopping even when your safe space is breached.

"Stop it," comes a voice, low, gritted and breathless.

You flinch at the sound, your face still buried against your knees.  "Go away!" you cry out, voice high and strangled. "Just leave me alone!" Your hands grip tighter around your legs, nails digging into your skin, but it's not enough to ground you. This was your only escape, the one place you could cry without shame, without someone telling you to quiet down or keep your scent in check. And of all the people who could've found you, it had to be him. Of course it had to be him.

"I hate you!" you scream through a sob, full of weeks of silence, stress, disappointment, and aching humiliation. "I hate you, I hate you—"

"Stop it," Jay says again, but this time, his voice sounds different. It is strained. You still don't look up. You shake harder, body trembling with every breath that fights to escape, until—

"Stop crying," he says again. His voice is breaking, it is desperate. "P-Please. Stop. Just—stop."

You feel him kneel in front of you, his shadow cutting into the narrow locker space, and that's when you finally glance up through tear-blurred eyes. Jay is there, crouched low, his breathing uneven. His forehead is damp with sweat, his jaw clenched tight like he's in pain. There's a rawness in his eyes you've never seen before, and behind the sharp lines of his face, there's some physical strain. He presses a hand to his chest as if it aches. The muscles in his neck twitch, his skin looks pale beneath the lights, and there's a faint tremble in his hand as it rests on the locker door.

"You're—" he stops, swallowing hard, brows furrowing like the pain just spiked. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, okay?" he repeats. He inches forward, his hand reaching out slowly, fingers tentative as they move toward yours.

You flinch. Before his skin can touch yours, you tug your hand away, clutching it tight to your chest as if his apology might burn you. You're still crying, your soft eyes red-rimmed, lashes clumped together with tears, and yet somehow still full of that hurt that makes you look even smaller. Cracked open, and trying so hard to hold yourself together in front of the person who shattered you. Jay's hand lingers in the space between you, suspended there, unsure of where to land. "Stop crying," he says quietly. "Please."

Your shoulders still tremble, your sobs haven't stopped, and when you sniff hard, trying to pull yourself together, it only makes the moment more pitiful. You lift the back of your hand to your face and wipe at your running nose, eyes still wet and red, cheeks stained with salt.

You hiccup slightly before whispering, "M-My nails."

Jay blinks, startled, his eyes flickering down as you lift your fingers toward him. Your hand is shaking as you hold it in the air, palm open, fingers spread, showing him the chipped polish and cracked tips, the ruined manicure you once wore so proudly.

"Do you know," you begin, voice catching, "that a lot of Omegas cut their nails short? On purpose? Because they don't want to hurt their Alpha during bonding? Or during... during anything."

You trail off, your throat tightening as you look down at your nails again. "I've never done that. I've never had to. I've never had someone to protect or to protect me. I don't have an Alpha. That's why I love doing my nails." You swallow hard, bottom lip trembling. "I design them because it makes me feel special. It makes me feel pretty. It's the only thing that makes other Omegas jealous when they look at me. Not because I'm bonded, or claimed, or loved... but because at least I had this. At least I had something."

Your voice breaks again, and you curl your fingers into your palm, slowly lowering your hand as your gaze drops to the floor.

"But now even that is broken." The words fall from your lips and it all comes rushing back. You're back to sobbing, your scent blooms again.

Jay flinches. He physically recoils for half a second as the weight of your distress crashes over him. His jaw clenches hard, his hand bracing against the wall as he sucks in a breath through his nose.  The pressure in his head spikes, a dull, piercing throb that radiates behind his eyes. His chest aches—not emotionally, but physically. A deep, pulsing pain that makes it hard to breathe. His Alpha is reacting, rising to the surface.

Jay's never been overwhelmed like this, not by scent, not by an Omega's emotions. But your cries; they're hurting him. Not in the way he can brush off or rationalize. His Alpha instincts roar, screaming at him to do something. To calm you. To fix it. To soothe. And he doesn't understand why. Why you? Why now. Why does your sorrow feel like it's shattering something inside him?

He presses a hand to his chest, wincing at the tightness blooming there. "I'm sorry," he says again, more firmly now, trying to reach you. "I'm sorry."

He moves toward you without thinking this time, and when he reaches out, you don't pull away. You don't flinch or snap at him like before. You let your weight fall against him, and he catches you with arms that are hesitant but firm.

He wraps them around you carefully. One hand at your back, the other gently settling at your shoulder. You press your face into the curve of his neck, sobs still shaking through you, but not with the same violence. You're exhausted now, and it spills out in softer, helpless trembles.

"You're so mean," you whisper between gasps, your small fists thumping once, twice against his chest. The hits are weak. You don't push him away, you just cry harder, your fingers curling into his shirt as the last of your composure crumbles.

Jay closes his eyes tightly, his throat working around the lump that's formed there. His arms draw in more, and his scent changes with soft, warm and calming.  He doesn't even realize he's doing it at first, the slow flood of pheromones wrapping around you as his Alpha tries to soothe you the only way it knows how.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs again, as his hand moves slowly up and down your back, matching the rhythm of your shuddering breaths.

You melt. There's no other word for it. The moment his scent hits you fully, your crying doesn't just slow, it stops. Your eyes are closed and your breathing has steadied.  His scent is laced with a deeper musk only present when an Alpha's instinct is fully engaged presses through your senses.  It's warm, subtly spiced, and just faintly sweet underneath. A scent that speaks of strength without force, safety.

Your Omega responds instantly. A soft, involuntary purr builds from deep within your chest. It's loud. Embarrassingly so. You freeze for a moment, cheeks flushed with the sudden realization but you don't pull away, because your Omega won't let you.

Jay doesn't say anything, doesn't even pull back. If anything, his arms around you tighten just slightly. He tilts his head down, his cheek brushing lightly against your hair as if to acknowledge the sound and accept it all the same.

⋮ ⌗ act five

     YOU WERE officially presented as an Omega when you were ten years old. The ceremony was brief, celebrated with quiet tradition, and you remember thinking it didn't feel like the life-altering moment everyone made it out to be. It was just a title, a biological box that people were eager to check off. You didn't feel different. You didn't feel powerful or delicate or particularly wanted.

Your first heat came at sixteen, a little late, but still within the accepted margins of development. Everyone waited for the shift—the moment you'd become undeniably, instinctively desirable. The moment Alphas would take notice, the moment you'd feel the pull, the need, the overwhelming ache they all whispered about.

But when it happened... nothing did. There were Alphas, of course—ones who noticed the shift in your scent, who approached you cautiously, trying to offer comfort, trying to scent you. But nothing clicked. Their pheromones did nothing to you. You didn't feel warm or safe or bonded. You didn't even flinch.

Eventually, they stopped trying. Word spread quickly, as it always does. The strange Omega who doesn't respond. The one who doesn't purr, doesn't submit, doesn't bat their lashes when an Alpha walks by. "Difficult," they called you. "Hard to please." The kind of Omega Alphas would rather avoid than attempt to figure out.

You started to wonder if you'd been misclassified. Maybe you were a Beta. Maybe they'd gotten it wrong. After all, you didn't feel the way other Omegas did.

On some nights, when you were alone in bed staring up at the ceiling with your sheets pulled up to your chin, your mind would wander. You'd catch yourself imagining what kind of Alpha you would want if you were normal, if you were soft in the ways everyone expected you to be.

"What kind of Alpha do you want?" someone had asked you once, during a sleepover.

You remember blinking at the ceiling and whispering, "I don't know," but you did.

Maybe you'd want someone soft. Not weak, just gentle. An Alpha who didn't have to snarl to be heard, who didn't need to dominate a room to feel secure in his own presence. Someone with a good sense of humor, the kind of person who could laugh at himself without losing dignity. Someone charming, not in a sleazy way, but a smile that made you forget how tired you were of pretending.

You imagined he'd be kind. Someone who could calm you with words instead of scent, who didn't see your guarded heart as a problem to fix but a treasure to earn. An Alpha who wouldn't expect you to kneel just because biology said you should, but one who would offer his hand and wait patiently until you wanted to take it.

In your mind, his face was always beautiful. Sharp cheekbones softened by expression, a strong jaw. Preferably someone with a dimple that appeared only when he laughed, and cat-like eyes that could read yours too well.

That was the Alpha you wanted.

But Jay is not soft, not sweet, not patient, and certainly not kind.

And yet, here you are—sitting in a plush pink chair at your favorite nail salon, eyes still swollen from crying, hands resting in warm water as your nail designer hums a gentle tune while prepping your cuticles. Jay is standing outside the glass wall of the shop, leaning against the brick exterior with his phone in one hand, glancing at you every few minutes like he's checking if you've calmed down enough to run again.

The nail designer glances up at you with a teasing smile, she tilts her head toward the window. "Is that your Alpha outside?"

You follow her gaze, eyes landing on Jay. His brows are slightly furrowed as he scrolls through his phone.

You let out a sound that's part laugh, part exhausted exhale, and shake your head slowly. "No," you murmur, voice rough from all the crying. "Just the one paying."

"Ohhhh," she says with a gasp, eyes twinkling with amusement as she resumes working on your fingers. "That's new."

You blink at her. "What is?"

She chuckles softly as she buffs the surface of your cracked nail, now softened and prepped for a fresh layer of polish. "It's rare for an Omega to come in for nails, you know. Especially without a bond. Most of them don't bother once they've settled, or their Alpha handles appointments for practicality. But when they do come in?" She leans in with a whispery grin. "The Alphas don't wait outside. They call. Bark orders. Or sit inside and stare at the clock. I barely get through the second coat before they're knocking on the door asking how much longer."

You glance toward the window again. Jay is still there. Same position, same scowl, waiting.

"And when that happens," the designer continues, blowing gently over your fingertips, "I get a heads-up from the customer to charge three hundred dollars instead of sixty."

You blink. "What?"

She giggles. "Because they don't ask. They just pay." She shrugs, placing a gentle fingertip under your wrist to turn your hand slightly. "But yours? He handed the card over and even said to 'fix it properly,' and then waited outside."

You glance at the window again. Jay is still there, standing beneath the soft golden hue of the salon's lights bleeding through the glass. There's no sign of impatience in his posture, no fidgeting, no checking the time on his phone.

"He's not my Alpha," you reply, eyes on him.

A sudden spark of lights behind your eyes, paired with a smile that starts curling at the corner of your mouth.

"I'd like to change the design of my nails, please," you say, turning back to the nail artist, eyes gleaming.

"Oh?" she blinks. "I though we're just going to fix your nails?"

You simply shake your head and pull up a new image on your phone. "Not anymore."

You show her a new set: longer tips, alternating pink and pale green, soft chrome underlay, two nails with tiny gold foil hearts, and the rest glazed with a delicate sparkle that catches the light like fairy dust.

It takes longer than it should. And you don't care one bit. You hum along to the salon music, giggle when the tech turns your hand to show you the finished look, and snap a picture to send to Ningning.

By the time you push the door open, the sky has started to shift into sunset. The second you step out, you flex your fingers in front of you with delight, admiring the glossy finish and gold flecks. You're practically glowing.

Jay looks up from his phone. "You said you were just going to get it fixed," he says, his voice low, but not hard, not annoyed.

You glance at him and catch the way his gaze lingers on your hands. His eyes move slowly, following the way your fingers fan in the air. And though his expression doesn't give much away, you feel it: the attention, the awareness.

"My natural nails were showing," you say with a casual shrug, the corners of your lips lifting. "So I decided to get a new design."

You twirl your wrist once for emphasis, watching the gold hearts flash under the salon lights now trailing out onto the pavement. "Aren't they cute?"

Jay doesn't respond immediately. His eyes are on your nails, then your face, then back to your nails again. His jaw shifts, like he's about to say something but it never comes.

Instead, he just says, after a beat, "Yeah."

You can't help it, your lips curve into a soft, delighted smile, and a giggle slips past your throat. The sound is light, genuine, your Omega responds instinctively, pleased by the subtle approval, the calm energy humming from him. A soft purr begins to rise in your chest.

Jay doesn't comment on it, but you notice the faint glance he casts your way, a quick flick of his eyes before he slides his phone into his pocket.

As the two of you walk down the sidewalk, when the pavement narrows, he moves slightly ahead of you, then subtly angles his body so you're walking on the inside, closer to the storefronts and farther from the road.

THE NEXT few days aren't as bad as you expected. It's just the relief of not having another academic interrogation session with Jay. You breathe easier. You don't flinch when your phone buzzes. You even start sleeping without checking the group chat at 4 A.M. for passive-aggressive updates.

But of course, that peace doesn't last.

Because right when you've settled into the comfort of thinking maybe you're out of this, Jay appears again dropping a printed sheet onto your desk without so much as a warning.

You stare down at the familiar format, your section highlighted in faded yellow, some of it annotated in his godawful sharp handwriting. Your brow twitches, your mouth falls slightly open.

"I said I left the group," you snap, glaring up at him with disbelief. "I told you. I'm not doing this."

Jay doesn't blink. "I'm the group leader. You don't get to decide that."

Your jaw clenches. "Are you serious right now?"

"The presentation's in less than a week," he says. "If you want to walk out after that, go ahead. But until then? You're still on the list."

You huff, slamming the paper onto the table with far more drama than necessary. Still, he's not being cruel. Not sarcastic. Just... irritatingly direct. Which, honestly, is worse in some ways. At least when he was mean, you could hate him without confusion.

You cancel another hangout, another meeting gets scheduled. You text your friends a dozen half-bitter emojis and a fake promise to reschedule, then you drag yourself back to that too-bright room with its flickering ceiling light and cold whiteboard.

And there he is.

Jay. Seated at the far end of the table, flipping through slides and adjusting his notes. But what makes it worse—so much worse—is what you see next.

Two Omegas from another department are seated nearby, whispering with smiles on their lips, occasionally leaning closer to Jay's side of the table. One of them flips her hair unnecessarily, another giggles at something he mutters. And the worst part? He lets them.

He talks back. Calm and patient, not once does he snap or look annoyed. When one of them asks for help adjusting her outline, he glances at it and actually helps her—politely.

You fold your arms tightly across your chest and glare holes into the edge of the desk. He's so relaxed. So damn calm. When he corrects them, his tone is gentle.

What about you? Where was that gentleness for you? Why didn't he speak like that when you were trying?

If you hadn't cried... would he have ever treated you differently?

"The meeting hasn't even started and you're already having another mood up," Jay says, sliding into the seat beside you.

You don't look at him. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip your hair over your shoulder, pretending to focus on your untouched notes while your fingers drum silently on the table.

"Maybe don't take it personally," you say coolly, keeping your gaze forward. "I have moods without your help, thanks."

He makes a sound—half a scoff, half a hum—and leans back in his chair, one leg stretched out a little too far beneath the table, invading your space.

You huff, snapping your gaze toward him. "Why are you even here, anyway?" Your voice is sharp with irritation, your hand rising instinctively to push against his arm in a shooing gesture. "Go sit somewhere else. Far from me."

Your fingers press lightly to his shoulder, trying to shove him away with far less force than your words imply but of course, he doesn't move an inch. Jay stays firmly planted in his seat, turning his head slowly toward you.

"This is my seat," he says, tone unbothered. "And I'm the group leader."

He gestures vaguely toward the front of the room, where a few other group members are still settling in, some half-glancing your way with interest, clearly sensing the tension as it builds, again, between the two of you.

"So?" you snap, turning to glare at him again. "I don't care. Go sit somewhere else."

Jay doesn't even flinch. He just lifts one shoulder in the barest shrug, as if your words were nothing more than background noise, and proceeds to adjust his laptop and flip open his folder.

You scoff loudly, dramatic on purpose, making sure it carries across the room. But of course, it gets you nowhere. Jay begins the meeting laying out the agenda.

You lean back in your seat, annoyed and done with pretending to care. You don't hear a word of what he's saying. Instead, you pop open your notebook and flip to a blank page, yanking a glittery pen from your pouch. You start doodling out of habit—little flowers, cartoon hearts, bunny ears, some sparkles near the corners.

Your pen drifts to the center of the page, and you write your name in big, curly letters. You add hearts around it. A tiny tiara on top. You smile softly to yourself.

Almost without thinking, your hand moves again.

You write his name. Park Jongseong

Small. Lower than yours. Your pen pauses.

Then you grin. You begin crossing out the common letters between your name and his, counting the ones that remain.

You mutter under your breath, "F... L... A... M... E... S..."

Your pulse quickens as you count through the acronym, matching the number of leftover letters.

And then you land on it.

L- Lovers.

Heat rushes into your cheeks, flooding your face, suddenly horrified at your own middle-school-level behavior.

You quickly scratch a line through the whole thing, snapping the notebook closed. Jay turns his head toward you, his eyes narrow faintly. You roll your eyes immediately, slouching down in your seat and pretending nothing happened, praying your scent doesn't betray the flush still prickling your skin.

He watches you for another second, eyes narrowing slightly like he's almost figured it out—then turns back to the group, resuming the discussion without a word.

Lovers. Well, you hate that idea.

⋮ ⌗ act six

     YOU DON'T even know how it got to this point. How your days used to be peaceful without his presence, and now every hour near him feels like a quiet war between your pride and your Omega instincts.

Yes, your Omega purrs when he's close. Yes, there's a pull you feel in your chest that doesn't seem to respond to reason. That strange heat low in your belly, the calm that settles around you every time his scent brushes past your skin—it's all real. And yes, part of you feels it might be bond. That terrifying, delicate whisper of compatibility.

But you will never forget how he treated you. How he made you feel small and stupid. How he picked apart your efforts like they were inconveniences. How he barely looked at you unless you were crying or crumbling. You try to remind yourself of all of that now, as you sit at the edge of the room, your leg bouncing, compact mirror in one hand, lip gloss in the other. But it's hard—so hard—when you look up and see him.

Jay. His hair is slicked back neatly, exposing that unfairly sculpted face, those sharp cheekbones that could cut glass. His glasses sit low on his nose, and he pushes them up with two fingers—the same fingers you just found yourself staring at for far too long. They're long, veined, strong. So sexy.

You glare at your mirror, annoyed with your reflection. Screw your Omega for having such high standards. Selective, sensitive, spoiled instincts—and it chooses him? Of course it does!

You twirl a strand of your hair around your finger, trying to look casual, pretending you're just focused on your appearance. But your Omega shifts restlessly beneath your skin, picking up on the subtle stress in the room. You're not the only one reacting—other Omegas are nervous, too. Their scent clouds the air, full of unease. It's enough to make your skin twitch.

That's why the professors decided to separate the rooms. Alphas in one, Omegas and Betas in another. It was supposed to make things more manageable. Less hormonal mess. But it doesn't stop the other Omegas from eyeing Jay as he passes through the door.

You watch as two of them flutter their lashes, practically sighing in his direction. Like they think he'll turn and offer them some comforting word. Maybe a calming touch. You snort under your breath and roll your eyes, brushing a fleck of highlighter from the corner of your cheek. Heh. Do they expect him to soothe them? Not a chance.

"Can you all calm your fuck-ass selves down? Geez, it smells so weird in here." You mutter under your breath, wrinkling your nose in full disgust as the wave of distress pheromones builds again around the room. It's a mix of nervousness and poorly concealed anxiety and it's ruining your makeup mood. With a sigh, you grab your perfume bottle from your bag and spritz it into the air.

You roll your eyes again when another Omega releases a second burst of distressed pheromones. It's always the same ones too—biting their nails, fanning themselves, looking around like an Alpha is going to walk in and magically tell them everything's fine. You pull your collar slightly up, shielding your nose, and shake your head.

You decide to tune out, popping your phone out to scroll through your gallery, pretending you're anywhere but here. You check your reflection in the black screen, turn the camera on just to make sure your eyeliner hasn't smudged, then swipe open your beauty folder to admire the selfie you took yesterday with your freshly done nails. That alone settles you better than any scent could.

Another minute ticks by. You sigh and fish out your compact mirror again, tapping a bit of powder under your eyes, then dabbing a blush-tinted balm across your cheeks. A slick of gloss on your lips finishes the look, and you smile at yourself.

But when you begin to organize your bag—tucking your phone into its pocket, snapping your powder closed—you pause.

Then freeze. Your fingers sift through the bag again, more urgently this time. Compact, wallet, charger, lip tint, another gloss, perfume bottle, travel brush...

Your heart starts to beat faster. No. Your hand dives deeper, digging through the small pocket, then the zipper compartment. You pull everything out and lay it on the table in front of you.

Gone. It's fucking gone. Your Swan Ballet Flower Knows hair clip!

The one Ningning gave you for your birthday. The one that matches your current nail design. The one you literally wore this morning.

"Fuck," you whisper, eyes wide, chest tightening. You pat your head, your pockets, your bag again, but it's not there.

The air shifts. Your scent, which had been calm and delicately sweet with your perfume, now spikes full of frustration and distress. 

"Hey, are you okay?" one of the Beta boys beside you asks cautiously, his brow furrowed as he catches the sudden change in your scent. "Are you nervous?"

"No," you snap, still rummaging through your bag, tossing a pen and your lip gloss back into it with force. "Fuck off."

The Beta holds his hands up, muttering, "Okay, damn," before sliding his chair just slightly away from you.

"Did someone see my baby blue ribbon hair clip?!" you call out, a little louder now, nearly breathless as you look around the room, eyes scanning every desk, every chair, every bag.

"H-Hey, calm down," one of the nearby Omegas says gently, reaching out with an awkward hand, trying to soothe. But the second her fingers brush your arm, you slap her hand away without thinking, eyes wild and furious.

"Shut up!" you snap, voice cracking. "Don't fucking tell me to do shit!"

A wave of your scent bursts out. It was acidic with panic and anger. It's enough to make the others shift uncomfortably, their own scents flaring in reaction. You're frantic now, pacing the space between the tables, swiping aside books, opening bags that aren't yours before realizing what you're doing. Your hands tremble as you search under a desk, and when you straighten back up, your eyes are glassy. Your lower lip quivers, forming a tight, desperate pout.

You blink fast, but it's no use. The tears are there, threatening to spill.

The door suddenly opens, and Jay walks in with a bothered and confused in his eyes. Immediately, the room straightens. People hush. Even the air seems to still.

"What is happening?" he asks, brows furrowed as he takes sight of the room, the overturned bags, the tension heavy in the air and then his eyes land on you.

You unraveling, being frantic, teetering.

He strides toward you, cutting through the space between tables. Without hesitation, his hands find your shoulders softly. You blink up at him, trying to bite down on your emotions, but your throat tightens further under the weight of his presence. His brows draw in closer when he sees your expression—your glossy eyes, your flushed cheeks, your trembling mouth.

"M-my clip is m-missing," you whisper, barely holding your voice together. "The Flower Knows one. The baby blue..."

You can't finish. Your chest heaves, a sob barely swallowed down. You try to inhale sharply through your nose, but it only floods you with more of your distress. Jay closes his eyes, jaw tight as he rubs a hand down his face in exasperation at the spiral you're falling into. His Alpha is reacting instantly, tension building in his shoulders, his posture coiled with the weight of your unfiltered panic.

He opens his eyes again and looks down at you. "You're this worked up over a clip?"

You nod, a tiny motion, but desperate. "It's not just a clip. It's mine. Ningning gave it to me. I wore it today. I—I need it."

Jay breathes out through his nose, nostrils flaring slightly as he processes the full weight of your panic. Without another word, he turns his head sharply to the room.

"Everyone," he says, commanding. "Stop what you're doing and check around your desks. Bags, floor, jackets—everything."

No one speaks. No one even thinks about arguing. The entire room shifts, heads ducking, hands moving, chairs scraping quietly as people begin to search exactly where he told them to. Jay's hands slide down from your shoulders, and he moves beside you, quietly steering you toward the hallway. His hand stays on the small of your back, anchoring you as he leads you out of the overwhelming scent-thick room.

Outside, the air is cooler. The moment you're free of the enclosed space, you feel your body tremble in a release of breath you hadn't realized you were holding. Jay steps in front of you, hands still light but steady on your arms, you feel his scent shift, soothing, that that makes your Omega instincts sigh from under the anxiety.

"God," he breathes out, more to himself than to you, pressing his palm briefly over his forehead before it drops to your back again. "I thought something actually happened to you."

Your forehead drop into his shoulder, your face burying in the soft cotton of his shirt, the scent of him wrapping around you. He sighs again, hand moving in slow, steady circles along your spine.

"You need to stop crying," he murmurs into your hair, trying to sound stern, but it comes out gentler than it should. He pauses, lets out another breath. "You're going to short-circuit every Alpha in the building with your pheromones."

"I need my hair clip," you say into his shoulder, voice muffled, watery, and heavy with emotion. "It was the only thing that made me feel pretty today."

Jay's hand stills on your back. He doesn't say anything at first, like he's trying to figure out what to do with that sentence.

Finally, he moves again. "We're going to find your hair clip," he says. "Just... stop throwing tantrums."

One thing's for sure, Jay is exhausted. You can see it in the tension in his shoulders, the faint crease between his brows, the sighs he thinks you don't hear. He's tired of your tantrums, your attitude, your dramatics, your endless emotions.

You don't have the energy to question it anymore—why he's the one calming you down, why his presence, of all people, is what your Omega keeps clinging to. It doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense.

The rest of the day passes in a dull, gray blur. Your clip was never found. Your mood tanked. The presentation came and went, and you barely remember how you spoke or whether your words even made sense. You didn't shine. You didn't sparkle. You didn't even get a single compliment on your outfit, and by now, you're convinced your eyeliner is probably smudged beyond repair.

You expect it—Jay's frustration. You've seen it before. You're braced for the moment he corners you, arms crossed, brows furrowed, ready to lay into you with that cold, composed tone that always makes you feel twelve years old and three inches tall.

But it never comes.

You're sitting alone on the back stairs behind the building, eyes unfocused, arms draped over your knees, the wind ruffling your hair slightly as you stare into nothing. You've taken off your shoes, letting the cool stone press against your heels. Your bag is a mess. Your gloss is gone. Your scent, now flat and dulled by defeat, barely lingers in the air.

Jay appears beside you, quiet as ever, lowering himself onto the step next to you. He doesn't speak at first, doesn't sigh or scold or even look at you. Just sits.

You blink and glance sideways, lips parting to speak. "I know I messed up my part," you say quietly. "I already told you I'm sorry. No need to make me feel this bad—"

"I found your clip."

You blink. Jay pulls something out from his coat pocket. A small baby blue satin with gold trim and a little flower-shaped crystal that glitters in the soft light. "I went back to the hallway after the rooms were cleared," he says, tone casual, almost bored. He sets it in your hand.

You stare down at it, fingers curling slowly around the familiar shape. Your vision blurs instantly. "You—" your voice cracks, and you clear your throat, trying to hold it together. "You really went back for it?"

Jay leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed ahead. "I figured if I didn't, you'd tear down the whole school."

You burst into laughter and then, just as quickly, into tears. Before you can stop yourself, your body moves on its own, throwing itself into him with a weight that startles even you. Your arms wrap around his middle, face pressing into the side of his chest as another wave of laughter and tears shakes through you.

You can feel the tension ripple through him, every muscle going stiff like he wasn't built for this kind of contact. He lets out a long, quiet sigh, and then his arms slowly move. One drapes around your shoulders with hesitation, the other lifts awkwardly before landing a stiff, uncertain pat on your back.

It's the most awkward hug in the universe.

Your tears are light, your Omega purrs radiates through your skin. The air shifts, your scent changes into soft and sweet wrapping around the both of you.

Jay breathes it in and his body instantly relaxes, just a little. He just sits there, letting you sob against him while your Omega hums in contentment, pleased that—for once—it wasn't wrong about him.

He's still not the Alpha you dreamed of. He's cold, awkwad and complicated. But, you think... he's okay?

⋮ ⌗ act seven

     "HE definitely likes you."

You roll your eyes at Ningning's voice as you carefully curl your lashes in front of the mirror in the girls' comfort room. You keep your focus steady on your reflection, refusing to acknowledge the glint of mischief in your best friend's eyes.

"If I were still the delusional girl I used to be," you mutter, lashes releasing from the curler, "then maybe I'd let myself believe that."

Ningning lets out a dramatic huff from where she's leaning against the sink, arms crossed but clearly enjoying this more than she should. "Come on! Even Giselle agrees now—and you know she's allergic to optimism."

You don't answer. Instead, you reach for your mascara, unscrewing the tube with steady fingers, and begin sweeping it through your lashes. You focus on each slow stroke, using the rhythm to drown out the flutter in your chest.

"Seriously," Ningning says, She leans closer against the counter beside you, folding her arms with that all-knowing gleam in her eye. "What type of Alpha would go out of his way to calm you down over a missing clip? A hair clip, girl. It's not like it was a life-or-death situation."

"It was a Flower Knows clip," you say, still brushing your lashes without missing a beat.

"Exactly," she deadpans, then scoffs. "A Flower Knows clip is like eight bucks. And you—Miss Chanel, Miss Limited Edition Lip Oil, Miss I Only Drink Matcha If It's Imported—you could replace that clip five times over."

You pause, blinking at your reflection. "He didn't have to find it," she continues. "But he did. He went back. He picked it up. He brought it to you, and you know Jay's not the type to do stuff like that. He barely blinks at people."

You glance sideways at her, lips twitching. "Maybe he just felt bad," you mutter, setting the mascara wand down. "Like that other time I cried in the gym and practically soaked his shirt. Maybe he just has a guilty conscience."

"Girl," Ningning groans, throwing her head back. "That man does not do things out of guilt. He does things because he means to. Jay isn't the type to play pretend. If he didn't want to deal with you, he wouldn't."

You fidget with your gloss now, unscrewing the cap but not applying it yet. Ningning steps in closer, placing both hands on your shoulders and spinning you gently toward her.

"Just make a move again," she says. "This time, don't cry first. Just be bold. You are bold. You're all glitter and gloss and crazy perfume names. He's just... stuck in his own head. Maybe you have to shake him out of it."

You snap the cap back on your gloss and toss it into your bag with more force than necessary, jaw tight. "Shut up," you mutter, "I'm not going to be broken-hearted again."

And you mean it. You swear you mean it. You're done with chasing. No one, not even Ningning with her relentless optimism, can convince you otherwise.

But then the universe, in its favorite tradition, decides to humiliate you anyway.

You're late. Because of course you are. Your package—your limited edition, out-of-stock-everywhere Flower Knows powder compact—finally arrived, and there was no way you were missing the delivery. Not when you'd already cried once this semester. So yes, you're late. But you're late looking good.

You strut into the lecture hall, tote bag slung over your shoulder, heels clicking until your eyes fall on your seat. Your seat. The one next to Ningning, the only tolerable spot in the entire damn classroom.

And sitting in it was Yeonjun.

"What the fuck," you hiss, marching over, already reaching to swing your bag off your shoulder. "Get out of my seat, loser." You kick his foot under the table.

Yeonjun just laughs, dragging out a pout. "Relax, princess. It's just a chair." He tilts his chin, gesturing toward the only empty seat left in the room. "That one's free. Enjoy."

You follow the line of his smug finger. Your stomach sinks. Of course the only available seat is next to Jay—stone-faced, hyper-focused, glasses on, notebook already open, refusing to even glance up.

"Fuck you," you growl under your breath, kicking Yeonjun again—harder this time—before straightening up, your eyes narrowing in betrayal at Ningning, who's already failing to hide her grin behind her notebook.

"Miss," the professor calls from the front, already halfway into his introduction. "You're late. Care to sit down already?"

You grit your teeth, casting one last glare at the two traitors pretending to be your friends, then march down the row and plop down into the seat beside Jay, the sound of your bag dropping beside you far louder than necessary.

You're not here for him. You're here because Yeonjun's an ass, because the universe hates you, and because the professor called you out in front of the whole class.

But still, your Omega, ever the traitor, is practically curled up in delight beside him, soothed by the way he hasn't even acknowledged you, his scent like a steady anchor in a sea of your annoyance.

You grumble under your breath and shift in your seat, opening your notebook with a loud, irritated flick of your wrist. You pretend to read a line from the handout, then, without thinking, reach into your bag and pull out the one thing guaranteed to bring you joy: your brand-new compact powder.

The packaging is perfect. You run your finger lightly over the embossed strawberry on the front, admiring the pearlescent detail. You smile to yourself, the tension in your shoulders melting just a little.

If you were sitting next to Ningning right now, you'd be yapping. Nonstop. Yapping about how this compact was almost impossible to find, how you tracked it across two continents and seven different sold-out websites. And to be fair, you'd yap with anyone—about lip tints, palettes, perfume layering combinations, finish textures, and highlighter formulas. You live for the details.

So, of course, you can't help yourself now even with Jay sitting next to you. "I didn't get the whole set," you begin, voice charged with the thrill of finally talking about something you care about. "Because, like, sometimes Flower Knows won't ship directly here, and some bitches already hoarded the preorder."

Jay doesn't move.

"But guess what," you continue, tapping his arm lightly with your nail before holding up the compact in your palm. "I finally got the powder, and it is so cute. Like, look at this texture. It's shaped like whipped cream frosting. And—oh my God—smell this."

You pause, opening your pouch again, digging through until you find the matching tube. "Also, I bought their lipstick too. The one from the Swan Ballet line. It smells like candy clouds, but also slightly floral. Honestly, it's genius. I kind of want to buy another one just to keep it in the box—"

You stop mid-sentence with the lipstick tube held in front of you. Jay turned his head, his eyes are on you, listening.

And you realize you've been yapping. You blink, lips still parted, frozen with your product halfway. Then he blinks, turns his head back to his notes, and says quietly—

"Keep going."

The words are so simple, so softly said, that you almost think you imagined them. Your heart flips in your chest. Your Omega lets out a pleased little purr that almost makes your spine tingle.

"And then," you whisper, "I found a reseller who didn't charge triple the price, and I swear to you, Jay, it was like fate."

And then it becomes a thing.

Every damn time, without fail, Ningning and Yeonjun pull their little stunt. They laugh, wink, and somehow, through force, they make sure your seat ends up next to Jay. One of them will be "saving your seat" only to abandon it the moment you enter, or "accidentally" block it with a pile of books. And every time, you glare, you groan, you curse under your breath.

But you still sit next to him. You tell yourself you don't want to talk. That you'll just sit in silence, that this time you won't fall back into the same pattern. That your Omega will behave. That you will behave.

And then you open your mouth anyway.

You start rambling about the new things you bought, or how underpriced the campus café is, or how this semester's syllabus is personally trying to kill you. Sometimes you don't even know what you're saying—just that he's listening, and somehow that makes you talk more. And every time, Jay just sits there, occasionally replying, sometimes looking at you.

You don't even realize when it happens when the tension begins to fade, when your Omega starts curling softly in contentment. It's like your body is choosing to forget. Forget all the ways he made you feel ignored. Forget the moments he brushed you off, dismissed you, didn't care.

"Smell this," you say one day, voice light and sweet as you pull your sleeve up and offer him your wrist. "It's my new Jo Malone—Wild Bluebell with a hint of Peony and Blush Suede. I think it fits well with my natural scent, don't you think?"

Jay doesn't even flinch. He reaches out, gently holding your wrist between two fingers. His head lowers, slowly, and his nose brushes just above your pulse point.

It's subtle but his scent deepens, and grows warmer. Like his Alpha side responded before he could think it through.

You giggle. You fucking giggle, and your Omega purrs without shame, flooding the air with the soft, pleased lilt of someone finally receiving attention they've craved for too long.

He blinks slowly, releases your wrist, clears his throat. He turns back to his notebook like nothing happened.

Jay is not the Alpha your Omega deserves. No matter how many times your instincts try to paint over the truth, you remember. You remember the way he ignored your efforts, dismissed your excitement, and made you feel like you were just noise. Your Omega might conveniently purr every time he's near, lulled by the safety of his scent or the quiet steadiness of his presence, but your heart? Your mind? They haven't forgotten a single bruise.

It's infuriating how easily your instincts betray you. How they curl toward him, like he deserves you—like he's ever earned the softness your body keeps offering without your permission.

And Jay, for all his cool-headed composure and sharp intelligence, doesn't make it easier. He never explains himself. He just shows up beside you, around you, in all the quiet corners where you swore you'd stop caring and somehow keeps slipping beneath your guard again. Like he knows he doesn't need to try, because your Omega has already made the decision for you.

What's wrong with him, anyway?

Why is he always so composed, so perfectly infuriating? Why can't he just say what he wants? Be blunt, be cruel, be anything instead of this calm, silent wall you keep crashing into. And you—you're doing it again.

You're showing him the new earrings you ordered from a Korean boutique. Rambling about the shade match of a concealer that finally works for your undertones. Talking about the sale that's coming up and which perfumes you plan to layer next. He doesn't interrupt, doesn't mock, doesn't even look annoyed. Just lets you talk while he listens in that quiet way.

But the entire time, a weight builds in your chest. A creeping fear.

What if he gets annoyed again? What if this—all of this comfort, this strange new rhythm you've found ends the moment you say too much? What if he gets tired of you again, pulls away again, tells you you're too much?

What if he says it's time to leave him alone?

That fear clutches at your chest, and it hurts in a way you can't explain. Because the last time he rejected you—even indirectly—you swore you wouldn't give him another chance to do it again. You swore you'd protect yourself. That you'd stop offering pieces of your joy to someone who never asked for them.

But here you are. Sitting next to him. Talking like he hasn't shattered you before. Laughing like your Omega isn't already begging for something deeper.

Make him yours, your Omega whispers again, insistent and eager, like it hasn't learned a damn thing.

But you're exhausted. Emotionally wrung out. And today, you wake up already irritated.

The sunlight filters too harshly through your curtains, clinging to your skin. The room is warm, your sheets twisted, your silk pillowcase thrown somewhere on the floor, and your hair—your perfect blowout—looks nothing like what it was when you fell asleep. The ends are flat, the roots are puffy, and there's a weird dent on the side from sleeping too hard. You stand in front of your mirror for twenty minutes trying to fix it, but no amount of brushing or oil can save it.

Your closet stares back at you with the same smug silence it always has. You try on three outfits, one after the other, but nothing feels right. One's too stiff. The other clings wrong. The third is fine—but fine is not how you want to look when the world's already pulling at your nerves.

So you give up.

You toss your clothes onto your bed in frustration, pull on the safest thing you can find, and leave your room without bothering to match your lip gloss to your top. You're annoyed, tired, and in no mood to deal with your usual routine of being put-together. You skip your first class without a second thought—no one was taking attendance anyway—and instead sulk in your favorite café, sipping iced matcha that tastes too bitter and scrolling through your phone like it'll fix something.

By the time your second lecture rolls around, you're still not in the mood. You step into the room later than usual, ignoring the way some of your classmates glance up. You don't care. You don't scan the rows for him. You just go straight to the back, dropping your bag onto the seat beside you and pulling your phone out.

"Fuck off," you hissed when you hear footsteps approach and see Yeonjun and Ningning out of the corner of your eye.

Yeonjun raises both hands. "Damn, chill, princess. I was just gonna ask why you're back here."

You shoot him a glare. "I thought you and Jay were good again," he adds, eyebrows raised. "Did he breathe wrong or something?"

"Fuck. Off." you growl again. Your fingers tighten around your cup, the condensation sliding between your skin and the plastic.

"Okay, okay—calm down," he mutters, retreating with exaggerated caution. "God, I think I know what's coming with you."

You roll your eyes but don't respond. Because he's not wrong. You already know what's happening.

The ache behind your eyes, the restless way your Omega keeps curling and stretching like it's searching for something—or someone.  Your scent has started to shift subtly and the minute it hit the air, you knew it wouldn't be long. You can feel it coming in. Your pre-heat.

Your Omega can't even wait for it. It's already humming at the idea of being close to him again, already reacting to memories of his scent, his presence, his voice.  Your control is fraying at the edges, and you hate it. You hate how easily your body turns traitor.

You've skipped half the day now, letting yourself exist in the quieter part of campus, tucked on the familiar stairwell where the lectures can't reach you. Where your makeup-free face, your messy ponytail, and your emotional disarray don't need to perform for anyone. You sit with your legs folded close, your phone dimmed in your hand.

"You're skipping lecture again."

You already know it's Jay. No one else has a voice that smooth, that neutral, that sharp around the edges without trying to be. He settles beside you on the stairs.

"Fuck off," you mutter, eyes still focused on nothing, fingers idly picking at the hem of your sleeve. But your Omega stirs anyways.

"You're not wearing makeup today." It's not a compliment. Not an insult either. Just a flat observation.

"Fuck off," you repeat.

He doesn't move. "Is something wrong?" he asks.

"Fuck off."

Jay's mouth shuts without resistance. The silence between you grows. You keep your face buried in the crook of your arm, knees drawn to your chest like you can fold yourself out of existence if you just hold tight enough. You don't want to look at him. You don't want to see whatever look he's wearing.

You're done reading his silences like they owe you answers. So why the hell is he here? The lecture isn't over. There's no reason for him to be outside with you, sitting in this stairwell like it means something.

"Do you want to drink some matcha? I noticed it's your—"

You lift your head abruptly, eyes flashing with frustration, and he stops mid-sentence. "I don't know what you want from me," you cut in, "Or why you're suddenly acting like you care. Why you keep showing up every single time I go distress."

Jay doesn't move, but something in his expression flickers. You stand up before he can respond, grabbing your bag in a quick, jerky motion, stuffing your things back inside with clumsy hands. Your breath is uneven. You hate how tight your chest feels, how your Omega keeps curling in confusion, still wanting to stay close despite everything your brain knows.

"If this is about you feeling guilty," you say, your voice cracking against the emotion climbing in your throat, "then congratulations. You're forgiven. For everything."

You hoist your bag onto your shoulder, your back turned now as you take a step down the stairs. "Leave me alone," you add without looking at him. "It's annoying. We're not even friends."

And with that, you walk away.

[mssishipi]

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Rust & Gold

Chapter 2: The Correction Pairings: Jay x fem!reader x Jake

Wordcount: 18k+

Chapter summary: You thought you could run. You thought you could hide. But Jay Park doesn't lose his investments. Locked in the dark, stripped of your rebellion, you have to decide what matters more: your pride, or the warmth of the men who want to own you. Punishment has never felt so confusing, and forgiveness comes with a price.

Chapter Warnings: Dystopian Angst, Captivity & Imprisonment, Failed Escape Attempt, Physical Violence/Manhandling (Dragging, pinning), Solitary Confinement (Panic Room), Sensory Deprivation, Psychological Breaking/Conditioning, Humiliation (Forced stripping/loss of privileges), Forced Feeding/Dietary Control, Reproductive Coercion (Ovulation tracking/Medical exams), Power Imbalance, Emotional Manipulation. Smut M/F/M (Jay x Jake x Y/N), Dubious Consent/Body Betrayal, Oral Sex (F on M and M on F), Breast Play/Sucking, Dry Humping, Praise Kink ("Good girl"), Degradation (Kneeling/Pet dynamics), Semi-public sex, Overstimulation.

A/N: Chapter 2 is finally here! Try to get it done as fast as I could especially since I received all the positive feedback on it (which made me really happy 🥹) . Hope you guys enjoy it! Like always Likes , Comments and Reblogs are very appreciated.

Rust & Gold

Morning in the Spire was always an assault of perfection.

The sun didn't just rise; it announced itself, flooding the dining room with a clarity of light that felt surgical. It bounced off the crystal glasses, the polished silver, and the white tablecloth, leaving no shadow for you to hide in.

You sat in your usual chair, opposite Jake, with Jay at the head of the table.

You were dressed simply today. A black dress made of some soft, matte fabric that fell to your knees, and black flats. Your feet still ached from the kitten heels yesterday, throbbing a dull reminder of your defiance. Your hair was pulled back into a practical ponytail, tight enough to pull at your scalp, just the way you liked it.

You were eating, but you weren't tasting anything. The eggs benedict might as well have been sawdust.

Every time you looked at them, the memory of last night flashed behind your eyes like a glitch in a audio feed.

You heard the wet smack of skin. You heard Jake’s desperate, broken whimpers. The images were burned into your retinas, overlaying the reality of the domestic breakfast scene before you.

Jake was his usual morning self—a blur of energy and chatter. He was wearing a soft yellow sweater that made him look like a sunflower, completely at odds with the sounds he had been making eight hours ago.

"And then the grid interface actually blinked out for three seconds," Jake was saying, waving a piece of toast for emphasis. "Three seconds, Jay! Do you know how much data traffic flows through the neural net in three seconds? It’s a catastrophe. I told the dev team to just scrap the patch and revert to the 4.0 build, but they're so stubborn."

Jay was listening, or at least pretending to. He was dressed for work in a charcoal suit, his tie perfectly knotted, his hair slicked back. He looked immaculate. Cold. Controlled.

It was hard to reconcile this man with the one who had growled ‘Good boy’ in the dark.

You took a sip of orange juice, trying to wash away the sudden heat rising in your cheeks. You hated that you were thinking about it. You hated that your body reacted to the memory, a traitorous flutter in your stomach that had nothing to do with fear.

"What do you think, Scrapper?" Jake asked suddenly, turning his beaming smile on you. "Should I fire the lead dev or just demote him to sanitation?"

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts. "What?"

"The dev team," Jake prompted. "Fire or demote?"

"I don't know," you mumbled, looking down at your plate. "Demote him. People need jobs."

"Merciful," Jake grinned. "I like it. Demotion it is."

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "You're quiet today. Everything okay? You didn't sleep well?"

Your fork froze.

"I slept fine," you lied.

"You look tired," Jake noted, his eyes scanning your face with that unnerving perceptiveness. "And you're blushing. Are you feverish?"

"I'm fine," you snapped, a little too quickly. "Just... morning."

"It is morning," Jay’s voice cut in.

It was deep, calm, and instantly silenced the table. He set his coffee cup down with a soft clink.

He wasn't looking at Jake. He was looking at you. His dark eyes were unreadable, but there was a weight to his gaze that made you want to squirm.

"Speaking of sleep," Jay said slowly. "The kitchen sensors logged activity at 02:15."

Your heart stopped.

"Someone left a glass of water on the counter," Jay continued, his voice smooth as glass. "Right next to the sink. It left a ring on the marble."

You stiffened. Fuck. You had forgotten to put it away. You had been so panicked by the noise upstairs, so desperate to hide, that you had just left it there like a beacon.

"Oh," you said, your voice tight. "That was me."

"I assumed," Jay said. "Since Jake sleeps like the dead."

Jake chuckled, oblivious. "Guilty."

Jay didn't smile. He kept his eyes on you. "Why were you up at 02:00, [Y/N]? And more importantly, why were you wandering the house?"

"I wasn't wandering," you defended quickly. "I was thirsty. I felt... hot. Sick. I needed cold water."

"The bedside carafe wasn't sufficient?" Jay asked.

"It was warm," you lied, gripping your napkin under the table. "I thought I was going to throw up. I just went to the kitchen and came back."

"Is that all?" Jay asked.

He knew.

You saw it in the way his eyes narrowed slightly, a microscopic shift in his expression. He knew you hadn't just gone to the kitchen. He knew you had been in the hallway. He probably had a timestamp of exactly when your door opened and closed, and exactly when the noises from the master bedroom had stopped.

He was playing with you. He wanted to see if you would confess.

"Yes," you said, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. "That's all."

Jay stared at you for a long, agonizing moment. The air in the room felt thick enough to choke on. You wondered if he would say it. I know you were listening.

But he didn't.

"Drink more water during the day," Jay said finally, picking up his knife. "Dehydration affects your cycle."

He let it go. But the message was clear: I see everything.

You exhaled, your hands trembling slightly in your lap. The flush on your cheeks deepened, not from embarrassment now, but from the thrill of getting caught and let go. It was a dangerous game.

Jake, seemingly unaware of the subtext, reached across the table.

There was a bowl of fresh strawberries right in front of him, glistening with dew. But instead of taking one from there, he reached over to your plate and plucked the single strawberry you had been saving for last.

"Hey!" you protested weakly.

"Yoink," Jake grinned, popping the whole berry into his mouth. He chewed happily, juice staining his lips. "These are so good this season. Jay, we need to have more planted."

"Noted," Jay murmured.

Jake swallowed, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He perked up suddenly, his eyes widening as if a thought had just struck him.

"Oh! That reminds me," Jake said, pointing his fork at you. "The timeline."

Your stomach dropped. "What timeline?"

"For the... you know," Jake gestured vaguely to your stomach. "The project."

Jay stopped eating. He looked at you, his expression shifting from suspicion to clinical focus.

"One week," Jay stated.

"What?" you whispered.

"Dr. Vance reviewed your latest biometrics from the daily scan," Jay explained calmly. "Your hormone levels are stabilizing perfectly. In exactly seven days, your ovulation window will open."

"That means we start next Tuesday!" Jake chirped, as if he were announcing a vacation. "We need to schedule the appointment for the initial... deposit."

You froze.

The air left your lungs. The strawberry Jake had stolen seemed like a trivial offense compared to this.

Breeding stock. That’s what you were. You had let yourself forget it for a few hours in the park, enjoying the ducks and the wine. You had let yourself forget it while you were eavesdropping in the dark, caught up in the heat of their intimacy.

But this was the reality. In one week, they were going to use you.

"Next Tuesday," you repeated, your voice hollow.

"Yes," Jay said. "We will begin with evening sessions. The doctor suggests alternate nights to maximize sperm count."

Evening sessions. Alternate nights.

It sounded so clinical. So detached. Yet the image it conjured—of Jay in your room, of you in that bed—was anything but.

Your appetite vanished completely. Bile rose in your throat.

"I'm not hungry," you said abruptly.

You stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor, a harsh sound in the polite morning air.

"Where are you going?" Jake asked, his smile faltering. "You barely touched your eggs."

"Bathroom," you muttered. "Excuse me."

You didn't wait for permission. You turned and walked out of the dining room, your flats silent on the floor. You walked past the bathroom door without slowing down. You walked straight to your room.

"Open," you commanded the door.

It slid open. You stepped inside and slapped the panel to close it.

Thud.

You stood in the center of the room, breathing hard.

"One week," you whispered to the empty air.

Seven days. Seven days of freedom before you became a vessel. Seven days before they touched you not to punish you, or guide you, but to fill you.

Rage, hot and familiar, boiled in your gut. You hated them. You hated their schedules and their biometrics and their casual theft of your body.

You walked to the window and looked out at the sky. It was blue and perfect. It mocked you.

"Fine," you hissed. "One week."

You weren't going to spend it crying. You weren't going to spend it begging. You were going to spend it doing exactly what you wanted.

You walked over to the bed and threw yourself onto it, dragging the duvet over your head, cocooning yourself in darkness.

You were pissed. And you were done performing. Let them come get you if they wanted you. Until then, you were going to rot in your gold cage.

The silence in the penthouse over the last four days had been a physical weight, heavy and suffocating.

You had become a ghost in your own prison. You stopped eating at the table, requesting your meals be sent to your room "for health reasons," lying to the AI that you were experiencing nausea. You stopped going to the terrace. You stopped wandering the halls. You stayed in your glass box, pacing the perimeter, waiting for the sound of their voices to fade before you dared to sneak into the kitchen for water.

You knew it bothered them. The house AI, likely programmed to report your social interactions, surely told them you were ghosting them.

Occasionally, you would hear Jake outside your door.

Knock, knock.

"Scrapper?" his voice would come through the white panel, muffled but dripping with that pathetic, puppy-dog neediness. "I brought you a tart. It's lemon this time. Open up?"

"I'm sleeping," you would yell back, lying on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling.

"At 2 PM?" Jake would sigh. "Okay. Well. I'll leave it here."

Then you would hear Jay. His voice was never pleading. It was a low rumble in the hallway, usually reconciling Jake. "Leave her. She is sulking. It is a childish tactic to gain leverage. Do not reward it."

"But she's lonely, Jay."

"She is adjusting. Come away."

They thought you were sulking. They thought you were playing a game of emotional chicken.

They were wrong. You were planning.

Day Five.

The pattern had been established. You knew their schedule enough now.

Jay left the penthouse at 06:00 sharp for the Defense Ministry. He didn't return until 19:00.

Jake usually lingered until 09:00, working from the dining table, before heading to the Neural-Link HQ. But today was different. Today, the "bi-annual server migration" was happening at the central hub. Jake had complained about it for two days. He had to be on-site personally to oversee the core transfer.

And Jay had a quarterly review with the High Council.

Both of them would be gone. The house would be empty of human eyes for at least ten hours.

At 08:45, you pressed your ear against your door.

"Don't wait up, AI," Jake called out from the foyer. "And keep the temperature at 72. She gets cold."

The front door hissed open, then shut with that heavy, magnetic thud.

Silence.

You waited. You counted to one thousand in your head, forcing your heart rate to stay steady so the biometric monitors wouldn't flag a spike in adrenaline.

One thousand.

You moved.

You stripped off the silk pajamas you despised. You went to the back of the walk-in closet, to the "practical" section the bot had arranged. You pulled on a pair of dark, stiff denim jeans. They were high-waisted and tough. You pulled on a plain black t-shirt, tucking it in.

Then, the boots.

Not the old, battered combat boots you loved—those were gone. You put on the new boots the bot had brought. They were black leather, expensive, and sturdy, with a rubber sole that would be silent on the marble.

You grabbed the protein bars you had been hoarding from your breakfast trays for the last four days. Four of them. You shoved them into your pockets.

Finally, the currency.

You walked to the jewelry island in the center of the closet. You didn't want to steal. You weren't a thief. But you needed credits to bribe a transport pilot in the lower sectors. You needed enough to buy a fake ID and a ticket to the Outlands.

You picked up a single diamond cufflink from a velvet tray. It was small, unassuming, but the stone was real. It would feed a family in Sector 7 for a year. It would buy your freedom. You shoved it into the coin pocket of your jeans.

"Okay," you whispered.

You walked to the bedroom door.

"Open," you commanded.

The door slid open. The hallway was empty.

You stepped out. The sunlight was streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, blinding and cheerful. It felt like a mockery.

"Citizen," the house AI spoke, its voice coming from everywhere. "Mr. Sim has left a holographic note for you in the living room. Would you like me to play it?"

"No," you said, keeping your voice bored. "I'm going to the library. I want to read."

"Acknowledged. Lighting in library adjusted to reading mode."

You walked toward the library. But as soon as you passed the sensor range of the hallway, you ducked into the service alcove near the kitchen.

This was it. The blind spot.

Jake had bragged about the security system during his tour. “It tracks thermal signatures and heart rates. It predicts movement.”

But you knew tech enough. You knew that every system had a refresh rate. A millisecond where the eye blinked.

You found the maintenance panel for the localized ventilation. You pulled a small, flattened piece of metal from your pocket—a shim you had fashioned from a hair clip. You jammed it into the seam of the panel and twisted.

The cover popped off.

Wires. Beautiful, color-coded wires.

You didn't have a datapad to hack it, but you didn't need one. You just needed to confuse it. You found the thermal sensor relay. You pulled the blue wire and crossed it with the red emergency override.

Sparks.

The lights in the hallway flickered.

"System alert," the AI droned, sounding confused. "Thermal anomaly detected in Sector 4 ventilation. Recalibrating sensors."

Recalibrating. That gave you three minutes. Three minutes where the internal eyes were blind while they reset the baseline.

You ran.

You didn't run for the front door. You couldn't open it without a palm scan. You ran for the only exit that didn't require biometrics because it was designed for bots.

The laundry chute.

It was located in the utility room behind the kitchen. It was a sleek, pneumatic tube that shot dirty linens down to the sub-basement cleaning facility. It was steep, dark, and dangerous.

You yanked the hatch open. It smelled of ozone and detergent.

"Here goes nothing," you whispered.

You jumped in feet first.

The slide was terrifying. You plunged into darkness, the smooth metal rushing past you. The air pressure changed, popping your ears. You slid for what felt like miles, spiraling down through the gut of the tower.

You hit the collection bin at the bottom with a bone-jarring thud, landing in a pile of towels.

You scrambled out, gasping for air. You were in the sub-basement. It was cold here. Concrete walls, humming machinery, and the dim glow of service lights.

You checked your wrist. The cuff was still there, blinking a steady green. The concrete would dampen the signal, but not block it. You had to keep moving.

You ran toward the service bay doors. These were the loading docks where the automated drones delivered supplies. If you could time it right, you could slip out when a delivery arrived.

You hid behind a crate of synthetic wine, watching the massive bay door.

It opened. A drone buzzed in, carrying a pallet of fresh produce.

The wind from the outside rushed in. It wasn't the sweet, filtered air of the penthouse. It was thinner, sharper, smelling of high-altitude clouds.

You waited for the drone to pass, then sprinted.

You slipped through the closing crack of the bay door, your shoulder scraping against the metal.

You were out.

You were standing on a narrow service catwalk, suspended four thousand feet in the air. The wind roared, whipping your hair into your face. Below you, the city was a dizzying grid of lights.

You gripped the railing, vertigo spinning your head.

"Don't look down," you chanted. "Don't look down."

You began to run along the catwalk. You needed to find the maintenance elevator that serviced the external window washers. It would take you down to the mid-levels, where you could disappear into the crowd.

You ran for hours. Or maybe minutes. Time distorted when your heart was beating this fast.

The sun began to set. The sky turned a bruised purple, then black. The wind grew colder, biting through your thin t-shirt.

You found the elevator. It was a rusted metal cage clinging to the side of the Spire.

You jammed the call button.

"Come on," you begged. "Come on."

The cage groaned and began to ascend toward you.

You checked your wrist. The cuff was flashing yellow now. Signal searching.

"Almost there," you whispered, reaching into your pocket to touch the diamond cufflink. "Almost free."

The elevator arrived with a clank. You reached for the gate.

CLICK.

Floodlights.

Blinding, white, stadium-grade floodlights slammed on from above, pinning you to the catwalk like an insect under a magnifying glass.

The roar of engines drowned out the wind.

A sleek, black shape descended from the darkness above. It wasn't a maintenance drone. It was the Park family hover-limousine.

It hovered just ten feet away from the catwalk, its engines screaming, the wind from its thrusters nearly blowing you over the railing.

The side door hissed open.

Jay stood in the opening.

He wasn't wearing his jacket. His white shirt was whipping in the wind, plastered to his chest. His hair was wild. And his face...

You had never seen a human look that angry. It wasn't hot anger. It was cold, nuclear fury.

"Get in the car," Jay’s voice was amplified by the ship's comms system, booming over the wind.

You backed up, hitting the metal gate of the elevator. "No!"

"I said get in!" Jay roared.

You fumbled with the elevator latch. It was rusted stuck.

You kicked the gate, screaming in frustration as it refused to budge.

"Last chance," Jay warned. The hovercar drifted closer, the landing skid scraping against the catwalk railing. "Get in, or I come get you."

"Go to hell!" you screamed, grabbing the rusted metal mesh and shaking it. "Leave me alone!"

Jay didn't wait for the car to dock. He jumped.

He cleared the gap between the vehicle and the catwalk with terrifying agility, landing in a crouch on the metal grating.

He was on you before you could hit the descent button.

He ripped the elevator gate open, the metal screeching.

You fought. You swung your fist, aiming for his throat. You weren't a damsel; you were a fighter.

Jay caught your wrist in mid-air. His grip was crushing. He didn't just stop you; he twisted your arm behind your back, forcing a scream of pain from your throat.

"Let me go!" you shrieked, kicking at his shins with your new boots.

"You stupid, reckless little bitch," Jay snarled in your ear.

He slammed you against the back wall of the elevator cage. The impact knocked the wind out of you. He pressed his entire body weight against you, pinning you.

"Do you have any idea how high up you are?" Jay shouted, his face inches from yours. "You could have slipped. You could have died."

"I'd rather die!" you spat in his face. "I'd rather die than let you touch me!"

Jay’s eyes went black.

He grabbed the back of your neck, his fingers digging into your scalp, forcing your head up.

"That isn't your choice anymore," he growled.

He dragged you out of the elevator. You fought him every step of the way. You clawed at his shirt, popping buttons. You bit his forearm, tasting copper through the fabric.

He didn't even flinch. He just tightened his grip until you thought your arm would snap.

He hauled you across the catwalk toward the hovering car.

Jake was standing in the open door of the car.

He stepped forward, looking down at you as Jay dragged you closer.

And your heart hardened.

Jake wasn't smiling. He wasn't pouting. He wasn't the boyish, golden retriever you had gotten to know.

His face was a mask of absolute, terrifying indifference. His eyes were dead. He looked at you not like a person, but like a file that had been corrupted. Like a toy that had broken itself and was no longer fun to play with.

He didn't say a word. He didn't offer a hand. He just watched Jay manhandle you into the vehicle.

"You really shouldn't have run," Jake said. His voice was soft, flat, and devoid of warmth. "We were going to be nice."

They threw you into the back seat.

You scrambled to the other door, trying to open it, but the locks were engaged.

Jay climbed in after you. He was breathing hard, his hair messed, a scratch on his cheek bleeding where you had nailed him.

He slammed the door shut.

"Home," Jay barked at the driver. "Now."

The car surged upward, leaving the maintenance catwalk behind.

You huddled in the corner of the seat, chest heaving, tears of rage and terror streaming down your face. But you didn't beg. You didn't say a word.

The drive back was silent. Deadly silent.

Jay sat in the middle, radiating heat and violence. He was wiping the blood from his cheek with a handkerchief, staring straight ahead.

Jake sat on the other side. He was looking at his datapad, scrolling through something, completely ignoring your existence.

The car landed.

They didn't walk you in. Jay grabbed your arm and marched you.

He dragged you through the foyer, past the living room, past the kitchen ,"Where are we going?" you gasped, stumbling as he pulled you up the steps.

Jay didn't answer. He dragged you to the second floor. But he didn't turn toward the master bedroom. He turned left.

Toward the end of the hall.

There was a door there you had never seen open. It was metal, unlike the white wood of the other doors. It had a heavy, industrial keypad.

Jay scanned his hand. Then his retina. Then he punched in a code.

The door hissed open.

"Get inside," Jay ordered.

He threw you in.

You stumbled, falling onto the cold, hard floor. You scrambled backward, looking around.

It was the panic room.

It was small. The walls were reinforced concrete, painted a stark, blinding white. There were no windows. There was no carpet. There was a single, narrow cot bolted to the wall with a thin mattress, and a stainless steel toilet in the corner.

It was a cell. A high-tech, impenetrable cell.

Jay walked in. Jake followed, staying in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

Jay stood over you. He began to undo his cuffs, his movements slow and deliberate.

"Stand up," Jay said.

You shook your head, pressing yourself against the wall.

"I said stand up."

You didn't move.

Jay sighed. He reached down, grabbed your arm, and hauled you to your feet like a ragdoll.

"Empty your pockets," he commanded.

You hesitated.

Jay didn't wait. He reached into your pocket himself. He pulled out the four protein bars. He threw them on the floor with a look of disgust.

"Garbage," he muttered. "Hoarding food like a rat."

Then he reached into the small coin pocket. His fingers brushed your hip, invasive and rough. He pulled out the diamond cufflink.

He held it up to the light.

"Stealing," Jay noted, his voice dangerously calm. "From the family."

"It was for trade," you spat. "To get away from you."

"It was theft," Jay corrected. He tossed the diamond to Jake, who caught it effortlessly without looking.

Jay stepped closer, invading your space. He loomed over you, his presence suffocating.

"You run. You fight. You steal. And you put the asset at risk."

He reached out and grabbed the collar of the black t-shirt you were wearing.

"Take it off," Jay ordered.

"No," you said, clutching the fabric.

"You used these clothes to escape," Jay said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "You used my boots. My shirt. Therefore, you have lost the privilege of wearing them."

He didn't wait for you to comply. He gripped the fabric and pulled.

"Strip," he barked. "Or I will cut them off you."

You looked at his face. He wasn't bluffing. There was no mercy in his eyes, only cold, hard discipline.

With shaking hands, you unlaced the boots. You kicked them off. You unbuttoned the jeans, letting them fall. You pulled the t-shirt over your head.

You stood there in the black lace underwear the bot had given you. Shivering. Exposed. Humiliated.

Jay kicked the pile of clothes toward the door.

"Better," Jay said.

He looked you up and down. He didn't look aroused. He looked like a warden inspecting a prisoner who had just lost all privileges.

"You think this is a game, [Y/N]?" Jay asked quietly. "You think you can play the brat and we will just chase you? You think this is some romantic little chase?"

He leaned down, his face inches from yours.

"I told you the first day," Jay whispered. "I don't like bratty behavior. And I have very effective ways of fixing it."

He straightened up, looking at Jake.

"Cancel the appointment with Dr. Vance," Jay said.

You froze. "What?"

"The insemination," Jay said, looking at you with cold disdain. "It's cancelled."

"Postponed," Jake corrected from the doorway, his voice bored.

"Cancelled until further notice," Jay said firmly. "I am not putting a child inside a vessel that throws itself off catwalks. You are volatile. You are unstable. And until you break, until you learn that we are the only thing keeping you alive, you are not fit to carry my heir."

"You... you can't just keep me here," you stammered.

"I can," Jay said. "And I will."

He gestured to the small, sterile room.

"This is your home now," Jay said. "No more terrace. No more wine. No more pink dresses. You want to act like a prisoner? Fine. You can be one."

"Jake," you whispered, looking at the man in the doorway. "Please."

Jake looked at you. He looked at your shivering form, your tear-stained face.

He didn't smile. He didn't step forward.

"You broke the rules," Jake said simply. "Jay is right. You need to learn."

He turned and walked out of the room.

Jay backed up toward the door.

"You stay here," Jay said. "Until you understand. Until you are ready to be what we need."

"How long?" you screamed. "How long are you going to keep me in here?"

Jay paused at the threshold. He looked back at you, his expression devoid of pity.

"As long as it takes."

The heavy metal door slammed shut.

CLANG.

The sound was final. You heard the heavy bolts slide into place. Electronic locks engaged with a series of beeps.

You were alone.

The panic room was silent. There was no hum of the city. No wind. Just the sound of your own jagged breathing.

You rushed to the door, pounding on the metal with your fists.

"Let me out!" you screamed. "Let me out!"

No one answered.

You slid down the door, curling into a ball on the cold concrete floor. You were half-naked, freezing, and utterly trapped. The luxury was gone. The soft illusion was gone.

Now, there was only the cage. And you were in it until they decided you were broken enough to come out.

Time didn't exist in the panic room.

There was no sun to track across the sky, no digital clock flickering on the wall, no hum of the city to signal the shift from day to night. There was only the white walls, the white ceiling, and the cold, grey concrete floor.

The lights didn't dim. They stayed at a constant, clinical brightness that burned your retinas if you kept your eyes open and bled through your eyelids if you closed them. It was a sensory deprivation tank designed to strip you of your rhythm, to make you question if you had been in there for hours or days.

You were freezing.

Jay had left you in nothing but the scrap of black lace underwear. The panic room was kept significantly cooler than the rest of the house—probably to keep food stores fresh in an emergency, or perhaps just another layer of the punishment. The cold seeped into your bones, a relentless, aching chill that made your teeth chatter and your muscles cramp.

You had curled into the tightest ball possible in the corner furthest from the toilet, trying to conserve body heat. You drifted in and out of a shivering, restless doze, your dreams plagued by the sensation of falling from the catwalk and the crushing grip of Jay’s hand on your neck.

You woke up—or maybe just snapped back to lucidity—with a start. Your stomach was twisting, gnawing on itself. You were thirsty. Your throat felt like it was coated in dust.

"Hello?" you croaked. Your voice sounded small and dead in the acoustic dampening of the room.

No answer. Just the low hum of the ventilation system.

You squeezed your eyes shut, wrapping your arms tighter around your shins. You thought about the protein bars Jay had thrown on the floor and collected. You would kill for one of them now. You thought about the water you had in the kitchen.

You wondered if they were going to starve you. If this was the "breaking" Jay talked about—reducing you to a primal state of hunger until you begged to be fed.

Then, a sound.

Clank. Hiss.

The heavy bolts of the door retracted. The electronic lock beeped a cheerful, ascending tone that sounded grotesque in the grim silence.

You flinched, pressing your back harder against the wall, shielding your eyes from the sudden movement.

The heavy steel door slid open.

For a moment, you couldn't see who it was. The hallway light was softer, warmer than the harsh glare of your cell, creating a silhouette.

Then he stepped in.

It was Jake.

He wasn't wearing his usual bright colors. He was dressed in grey sweatpants and a dark hoodie, his hair messy, looking like he hadn't slept much either. He held a tray in his hands.

He didn't look at you immediately. He walked to the center of the room and set the tray down on the floor. Next to it, he placed a folded pile of fabric.

You watched him warily, your heart rate spiking. You expected a lecture. You expected him to mock you, or to look at you with that cold, dead stare he had worn in the hovercar.

But he just stood up and stepped back, leaning against the opposite wall. He crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands into his armpits.

"Eat," Jake said.

His voice wasn't the bubbly chirp you were used to. It wasn't the dead monotone from the car, either. It was flat. Tired. It had an edge to it—sharp and jagged, like a broken plate.

You looked at the tray.

It wasn't the gourmet feast of the dining room. It was simple. A bowl of steaming oatmeal, a sliced apple, and a large glass of water.

Your survival instincts overrode your pride. You uncurled your stiff, frozen limbs and crawled toward the tray. You grabbed the water glass first, drinking greedily, water spilling down your chin and dripping onto your chest. The cold liquid hit your empty stomach like a stone, but it was relief.

Then you reached for the spoon. Your hand was shaking so badly the spoon clattered against the bowl. You shoveled a mouthful of oatmeal in. It was warm. It had brown sugar in it.

You ate. You ate like the scavenger Jay accused you of being, ignoring the fact that Jake was watching you. You needed the heat. You needed the energy.

Jake didn't move. He didn't make a sound. He just watched. His dark eyes tracked every movement of your hand, every swallow. He watched you shivering, your skin ghastly and goosebumped in the harsh light.

When the bowl was half empty, you slowed down. The frantic hunger began to recede, replaced by the crushing weight of the situation. You set the spoon down, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

You looked at the pile of clothes. A pair of thick grey sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt. Covering. Warm.

You grabbed the sweatshirt and pulled it over your head, not caring that you were flashing him. You just wanted the warmth. You pulled on the pants, the fleece lining feeling like heaven against your frozen legs.

You sat back on your heels, wrapped in the grey fabric, feeling slightly more human.

You looked up at Jake.

He was staring at your face. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes... they looked bruised.

"Why?" Jake asked.

The single word hung in the air between you, heavy and accusing.

You swallowed. "Why what?"

"Don't play dumb," Jake snapped, his voice cracking slightly. "You know what. Why did you run?"

"Because I'm a prisoner," you whispered. "Because I don't want to be here."

Jake let out a harsh, dry laugh. He pushed himself off the wall and began to pace the small length of the room. Four steps, turn. Four steps, turn.

"We gave you everything," Jake said, gesturing wildly to the door, indicating the penthouse beyond. "We gave you a room bigger than your entire apartment. We fed you real food. I took you to the park. I bought you clothes. I treated you like a person, not a project."

He stopped pacing and turned to face you, his eyes blazing with hurt.

"I was trying," Jake said, his voice trembling. "Do you have any idea how hard I was trying? Jay wanted to lock you down from Day One. He wanted to strip you, tag you, and put you in the medical wing until you were pregnant. He didn't want to play house. He didn't want to deal with your attitude."

You stared at him, the oatmeal turning heavy in your stomach.

"I stopped him," Jake said, pointing a finger at his own chest. "Me. I told him no. I told him you were scared. I told him you needed time to adjust. I convinced him to wait two weeks. Two weeks, [Y/N]! Do you know how much time we lost delaying the protocol? Do you know how many meetings I had to sit through to cover for why the 'asset' wasn't secured yet?"

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots.

"I thought we were getting somewhere," Jake said quietly, his anger deflating into misery. "The other day... on the terrace. With the wine. And at the park with the ducks. I thought you were finally seeing that we aren't the villains. I thought you were... I don't know. Happy. Or at least comfortable."

He looked at you, his eyes searching yours for an answer that wasn't there.

"I thought we were bonding," Jake whispered. "I really liked you. I liked your fire. I liked your stories. I thought... I thought you liked me."

"Jake..." you started, your voice raspy.

"But it was all fake, wasn't it?" Jake cut you off, his face hardening. "You were just playing me. You were eating the tart and smiling at the ducks and memorizing the exits. You were just waiting for me to turn my back so you could run."

"I wasn't playing you," you said, hugging your knees to your chest. "The park... it was nice. I liked it. But Jake, you bought me. You can't buy a person and expect them to love you for it just because you feed them sugar."

"We saved you!" Jake shouted, the sound echoing painfully in the small room. "You were rotting in Sector 7! You were eating paste and breathing poison! We brought you to the sky! We gave you a future!"

"You gave me a job!" you shouted back, the anger flaring up to meet his. "You brought me here to use me! To breed me! That's not saving me, that's farming me!"

"It's better than dying in a gutter!" Jake yelled.

He took a breath, his chest heaving. He stared down at you, shaking his head.

"I vouched for you," Jake said, his voice dropping to a low, hurt murmur. "I told Jay you were ready. I told him to push the doctor's appointment back another week. I told him, 'Look, she's relaxing. She's trusting us. Let's give her more time. Let's do this the right way, so she's not scared.'"

Your breath hitched.

"You... you pushed the appointment back?"

"I did," Jake confirmed bitterly. "The other morning. While you were sleeping. I told Jay that if we rushed you, you'd break. I wanted you to be ready. I wanted you to want it—or at least, to be okay with it."

He laughed again, bitter and cold.

"And then I come home," Jake said, "and the thermal sensors are rigged, the laundry chute is open, and my husband is calling me saying you're trying to kill yourself to get away from us."

He looked at you with a look of profound betrayal. It was the look of a child who had offered a stray dog a bone, only to be bitten.

"You made me look like an idiot," Jake said softly. "You made me look weak in front of Jay. He was right. He's always right. He said you were a flight risk. He said soft measures wouldn't work on someone like you. And I argued with him. I defended you."

He stepped closer, towering over you as you sat on the floor.

"And now look at you," Jake said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Locked in a box. Freezing. Scared. You did this. You took all the progress we made, all the trust I tried to build, and you threw it off the side of the building."

"I just wanted to go home," you whispered, tears pricking your eyes.

"That place isn't your home anymore," Jake stated coldly. "This is. And now, you've made it a prison."

He looked down at the empty bowl.

"We're back to square one," Jake said. "Actually, we're back to negative five. Jay is furious. He's not going to be nice anymore. And honestly? Neither am I."

He bent down and picked up the tray. He moved stiffly, without his usual fluid grace.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

It slipped out. You didn't know if you meant it. You weren't sorry you tried to run. You would do it again if you saw an opening. But looking at him—seeing the genuine hurt in his eyes, realizing that in his twisted, privileged worldview, he really had been trying to be kind—you felt a pang of guilt. You were sorry you hurt him. You were sorry that his kindness had been a lie, masked by the reality of your captivity.

Jake paused. He looked down at you, holding the tray.

For a second, his expression wavered. The mask of indifference slipped, and you saw the conflict. He wanted to forgive you. He wanted to sit down on the floor and share the protein bar and pretend everything was fine.

But then he remembered the fear. He remembered the open elevator gate and the wind howling 4,000 feet up.

His face closed off.

"Save it," Jake said. "Sorry doesn't fix the security breach. And it definitely doesn't fix the fact that you chose a rusted cage over our growth."

He turned and walked to the door.

"It’s confirmed,The doctor isn't coming next week," Jake said over his shoulder. "Jay cancelled it indefinitely. He says you stay in here until you learn to appreciate the light. Until you realize that we are the sun, and out there is just the dark."

"Jake, please," you begged, scrambling to your knees. "Don't leave me in here. It's too quiet. I can't... I can't sleep."

"Then don't sleep," Jake said. "Think."

He stepped out into the hallway.

"Maybe when you're tired enough," Jake said softly, "you'll stop running."

The heavy metal door slid shut.

CLANG.

The bolts slammed home. The electronic lock chirped its cheerful little song of imprisonment.

You were alone again.

You sat back on your heels, pulling the grey sweatshirt tighter around yourself. It smelled like detergent, not like Jake. The scent of vanilla and honey was gone, taking the last bit of warmth with it.

"Damn it," you hissed, bringing your hands up to your face. "Damn it, damn it, damn it."

You had blown it. You had underestimated them. You had underestimated Jake. You thought he was just the soft, oblivious partner, the plaything to Jay’s master. But he was just as dangerous. His chains weren't made of iron; they were made of guilt and emotional debt.

And now you had broken his trust.

You cursed yourself. You cursed the laundry chute. You cursed the rusted elevator gate that had stuck for just three seconds too long.

Three seconds. That was the difference between freedom and this white, silent hell.

You crawled back to your corner, curling up on the hard floor. The grey sweatpants were warm, but the cold inside you was spreading.

You were stuck. The soft approach was over. The treats were gone. The tours were over.

Now, there was only Jay’s way.

And as you sat in the blinding white light of the panic room, you realized with a terrified jolt that you didn't know what Jay’s way looked like yet. But you suspected it was going to hurt a lot more than a broken heart.

2 weeks 

Or maybe three. Or a hundred.

In the white room, time wasn't a river; it was a stagnant pool. It didn't flow. It just sat there, heavy and suffocating, drowning you in inches.

You had paced until your feet—bare and cold on the concrete—ached in a way that felt permanent. You had counted the rivets in the ceiling panels (four hundred and twelve). You had traced the hairline cracks in the wall where the reinforced concrete met the steel doorframe.

But mostly, you had thought.

Deprived of stimulation, your mind had turned inward, cannibalizing itself. You replayed the escape attempt over and over. You felt the wind on the catwalk. You felt the rush of adrenaline. But then, you felt the crushing grip of Jay’s hand. You saw the look in Jake’s eyes—the dead, cold indifference that was so much worse than anger.

You had hurt him.

That realization sat in your gut heavier than the hunger. Jake, who had fed you strawberries and held your hand while you fed ducks. Jake, who had bought you a dress because he thought it made you look soft. You had taken his kindness, weaponized it, and used it to try and leave him.

And now, you were alone.

The bot brought food sometimes. A silent, hovering tray that slid through a slot in the door, offering bland nutrient paste and water before vanishing. You hated the bot. It had no eyes. It offered no judgment, no pity, no connection.

When Jake came, it was worse.

The door would hiss open, and he would stand there, bathed in the warmer light of the hallway. He would set a tray down—real food, usually, like a sandwich or soup—but he wouldn't step inside. He wouldn't smile. He would look at you huddled in your grey sweats in the corner, his face a mask of polite disappointment.

"I'm sorry," you would whisper, your voice cracking from disuse.

He wouldn't answer. He would just turn and walk away, the door sealing shut before you could scream.

It was torture. It was a precise, psychological dismantling of your ego.

By week 2(or was it 3?), the defiance was gone. The Scrapper who fought for every inch of ground in Sector 7 had dissolved into the white noise of the panic room. You were just... empty.

You missed them.

The thought was horrifying, a betrayal of everything you stood for, but it was true. You missed the sound of Jake’s chatter. You missed the way he draped himself over furniture. You missed the smell of vanilla and warm honey.

God, you even missed Jay. You missed the way the air pressure changed when he walked into a room. You missed the terrifying, stabilizing weight of his authority. You missed the structure. Out here in the white void, you were drifting. With them, even as a prisoner, you had a place. You had gravity.

You lay on the floor, your cheek pressed against the cold concrete. You had cried until your tear ducts were dry, until your throat was raw and swollen. Now, you just lay there, a hollow shell, waiting for the sound of the lock.

Click. Hiss.

You flinched.

The door slid open.

You didn't look up immediately. You stayed curled on the floor, staring at the grey sweatpants you had been wearing for weeks. You smelled stale. You felt small.

"Dinner," a voice said.

It wasn't the synthesized chirp of the bot. It was him.

You pushed yourself up slowly, your limbs stiff and trembling.

Jake stood in the doorway. He was wearing a soft blue sweater and jeans, looking comfortable and domestic and heartbreakingly distant. He held a tray with a bowl of pasta and a glass of water.

He walked in, setting the tray on the small table bolted to the wall—the only piece of furniture besides the cot.

He didn't look at you. He turned to leave.Something inside you snapped. The dam that had been holding back the panic, the loneliness, and the crushing guilt finally burst. You couldn't let the door close again. You couldn't spend another hour in this silence.

"Jake!"

You scrambled up. You ignored the food. You ignored the decorum Jay had tried to drill into you.You ran at him.Jake flinched, turning defensively, perhaps expecting you to attack him like you had attacked Jay on the catwalk. He raised an arm to block you.But you didn't hit him.You slammed into him, wrapping your arms around his waist, burying your face in the soft wool of his sweater."Please," you sobbed, the word tearing out of your throat. "Please, don't go. Don't leave me in here."

Jake went rigid. He stood perfectly still, his arms hovering in the air, unsure of what to do. You were clinging to him like a limpet, your body shaking violently against his. You smelled of distress and fear. "I'm sorry," you begged, gripping the fabric of his sweater until your knuckles turned white. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have run. I shouldn't have stolen. I'm sorry I hurt you. Please, Jake. Please." You were babbling, the words tumbling out in a messy, wet stream. You didn't care about dignity. You didn't care about pride. You just wanted to be held. You wanted to be forgiven.

For a long, agonizing second, he didn't move. Then, you felt a shudder run through him. "Oh, baby," Jake breathed, his voice cracking.His resolve shattered. The cold mask dropped, and the warm, tactile man you knew came rushing back.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in tight. One hand pressed your head against his shoulder, the other wrapped around your waist, lifting you slightly off the floor so he could bury his face in the crook of your neck.

"Shh," Jake cooed, rocking you back and forth. "It's okay. It's okay. I've got you."

You wailed into his shoulder, the sound raw and ugly. You cried for the life you lost. You cried for the freedom you lost. You cried because he was warm and you had been so cold.

"I'm sorry," you repeated, over and over, like a mantra.

"I know," Jake whispered, kissing the side of your head, smelling the stale air of the panic room on your hair. "I know you are. Shh. You're shaking. You're freezing."

He rubbed your back vigorously, trying to generate heat. "You poor thing. Look at you. You're a mess."He pulled back slightly, framing your face with his hands. His thumbs wiped away the tears that were streaming down your cheeks. His eyes were soft, filled with that golden-retriever affection, but there was a sadness there too.

"Do you promise?" Jake asked, his voice serious. "Do you promise never to do that again? Never to scare me like that?"

"I promise," you choked out. "I won't run. I swear."

"Okay," Jake murmured. He kissed your forehead, a lingering, tender press of his lips. "Okay. I forgive you." He hugged you again, tighter this time. "I hated leaving you in here. It was awful. The house was so quiet without you stomping around."

You let out a wet, shaky laugh. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," Jake admitted.

He pulled away, keeping one arm securely around your shoulders.

"Come on," Jake said. "Let's get you out of this box." He walked you out of the panic room. Crossing the threshold felt like stepping onto a different planet. The hallway was carpeted. The air smelled of lavender and life. The light was warm.

"Where... where are we going?" you asked, wiping your nose on the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

"To the living room," Jake said, his voice dropping slightly. "Jay is waiting."

Your blood ran cold. The relief evaporated, replaced by a sharp spike of terror.

"Jay," you whispered.

"He needs to hear it too," Jake said gently, squeezing your shoulder. "He's the head of the house, [Y/N]. He needs to know you submit to the rules. If you want the cage to open, you have to show him you're tamed." You swallowed hard. You thought of Jay on the catwalk, the fury in his eyes. You thought of the way he had bound you to the room.

"Will he... is he going to hurt me?"

"No," Jake promised. "Not if you do exactly what he says. Just... be honest. Be humble. He likes humble."

You walked down the hallway, your legs feeling like lead. Jake guided you to the stairs. You descended into the foyer, the vast space feeling intimidating after the claustrophobia of your cell. You walked into the living room. The sun had set, and the room was bathed in the low, ambient glow of the fire pit and the bright moon outside the glass wall. Jay was sitting on the white sectional sofa. He was wearing slacks and a crisp white shirt, the top button undone. He sat with his legs spread, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He looked like a king on a throne, waiting for a petitioner. He watched you enter. His face was impassive, stone-carved. His dark eyes tracked your movement across the room, taking in your disheveled appearance, the grey sweats, the way you leaned into Jake for support.

Jake stopped a few feet away from the couch. He gently detached himself from you, stepping to the side and sitting down next to Jay. He placed a hand on Jay’s knee, a silent gesture of solidarity. You were left standing alone in the center of the room.

"Well?" Jay’s voice was deep, resonating in the quiet space.You trembled. You looked at him, and for the first time, you didn't feel the urge to fight. You felt the urge to survive. And survival, in this house, meant yielding.

You lowered yourself. First to one knee, then the other. The plush carpet was soft under your shins. You bowed your head, staring at the floor, unable to meet his gaze.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

"I can't hear you," Jay said. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.

You took a breath, fighting the sob in your throat. "I'm sorry, Jay."

"What are you sorry for?" he asked calmly.

"For running," you said. "For stealing. For... for fighting you."

"And?"

"And for being ungrateful," you added, the words tasting like ash. "You took me in. You fed me. And I threw it back in your face." Silence stretched out. You could hear the crackle of the fire. You could feel his eyes on you, weighing your words, testing them for truth.

"Look at me," Jay commanded.

You lifted your head.His eyes were dark pools. There was no anger there anymore. There was something else—satisfaction. Deep, primal satisfaction. He was looking at the girl who had screamed in his face on the catwalk, now kneeling on his rug in an oversized sweatshirt, broken and begging.

He had won.

"Come here," Jay said softly. He unclasped his hands and patted the space between his spread thighs. Your breath hitched. It was a degrading command. It was something you did to a dog. But you didn't hesitate. You couldn't. You needed his forgiveness like you needed air. You crawled. You moved across the carpet on your hands and knees, closing the distance between you. You reached the sofa. You moved into the space between his legs, your hands resting on his knees.

Jay reached out. His hand landed on the top of your head. It was heavy, warm, and possessive. He stroked your hair, smoothing down the messy strands, his fingers scratching lightly against your scalp.

"Good girl," Jay murmured.

The praise hit you like a physical blow. A shiver ran down your spine, your body reacting to the approval even as your mind reeled from the position.

"Rest," Jay ordered.

You lowered your head, laying your cheek against his thigh. The fabric of his trousers was smooth and warm. You felt the solid muscle of his leg beneath. You closed your eyes, exhaling a shuddering breath.You were at a man's feet. You were resting your head on his lap like a pet. 5 weeks ago, you would have slit the throat of anyone who tried to make you do this.

But now? Now, it felt like safety. It felt like the storm was over. Jay’s hand continued to stroke your hair, a rhythmic, hypnotic motion. Jake reached over from beside him, his hand landing on your shoulder, rubbing gently. You were surrounded by them. Enveloped by them.

"You had a lot of fight in you," Jay said quietly, his voice vibrating through his chest and into your cheek. "It was impressive. But it was exhausting."

"I'm tired," you whispered against his leg. "I'm so tired, Jay."

"I know," Jay said.

He moved his hand from your hair down to your face. He cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. Then, he squeezed. It wasn't painful, but it was firm. He squished your cheeks together slightly, forcing your lips to pucker, lifting your face so he could look down at you. He studied you. He looked at the surrender in your eyes. He looked at the way you leaned into his touch, desperate for contact.

He smirked. It was a small, victorious thing.

"You look much better like this," Jay said. "Quiet. Where you belong."

He ran his thumb over your bottom lip.

"I forgive you," Jay said.

The words washed over you like holy water. The tension that had been holding your body together for five days snapped, and you melted against him.

"Thank you," you whimpered.

"But," Jay added, his voice hardening slightly. "Forgiveness comes with conditions."

He released your face, his hand moving back to rest heavily on your head, holding you in place.

"I’m requesting the doctor tomorrow," Jay said. "The conception protocol begins immediately. No more delays. No more waiting for you to be 'ready.' You are ready now."

He looked at Jake. "Isn't she?"

Jake looked down at you, his eyes filled with a complicated mix of love and pity. He nodded.

"She's ready," Jake whispered. Jay looked back down at you. "Are you ready, [Y/N]?"

You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of his hand, the warmth of his leg, the inevitability of your fate. You were tired of fighting. You were tired of the cold. You just wanted to be kept.

"Yes," you whispered. "I'm ready."

Jay patted your head, a final, claiming gesture.

"Good," he said. "Then tonight, you sleep in our bed. I don't trust you out of my sight yet."

He leaned back, looking satisfied, the king of his castle with his husband by his side and his vessel at his feet.

"Welcome home, little one."

The water in your bathroom was hot, bordering on scalding, but it wasn't enough to melt the frost that had settled in your marrow over the last 2 weeks. You stood under the spray for a long time, watching the water swirl down the drain. You scrubbed your skin until it was pink, trying to wash away the smell of the panic room—that sterile, stagnant scent of recycled air and cold concrete. You washed your hair twice, massaging the expensive shampoo into your scalp, trying to loosen the tension headaches that had become your constant companion. When you finally stepped out, the bathroom was thick with steam. You didn't look at yourself in the mirror. You didn't want to see the defeat in your eyes. You just wanted to cover yourself. You bypassed the silk nightgowns. You couldn't stomach the feeling of that slippery fabric right now. Instead, you dug through the drawers until you found a set of cotton sleepwear—a simple, oversized grey t-shirt and loose shorts. It was the closest thing to "normal" you could find in a closet worth more than a city block.

You dried your hair roughly with a towel, leaving it damp and tangled around your shoulders. You didn't brush it. You didn't apply the creams the AI suggested. You just wanted to be done. You paced the room. "Calm down," you whispered to yourself, your hands wringing together. "It's just sleeping. You're just sleeping."

But it wasn't just sleeping. It was crossing a threshold. Sleeping in your own room was being a guest (or a prisoner). Sleeping in their room, in their bed? That was integration. That was becoming part of the organism. Jay had said the conception protocol started tomorrow. But tonight felt like the prequel. The breaking in of the new acquisition.

Chime.

The door slid open.

You jumped, spinning around. The black escort bot—Unit 7—hovered in the doorway. Its blue eyes blinked once. "Escort required," it stated in its flat, pleasant voice. "Master Bedroom."

You swallowed hard. "I know the way."

"Escort required," it repeated, not moving an inch. Right. Trust was gone. You were a flight risk now.

"Fine," you muttered. "Lead the way, tin can."

You followed the bot out into the hallway. The house was dim, the night lighting casting long, eerie shadows. You walked up the staircase, your bare feet making soft, slapping sounds on the marble steps. You felt like a child being sent to the principal's office, or perhaps a sacrifice walking up the altar steps. You reached the second floor. You walked past the gym, past the terrace doors where you had sipped wine with Jake a lifetime ago. You stopped in front of the double doors. The last time you were here, you were huddled on the floor, listening to sounds that had haunted your dreams for a week. The bot didn't knock. It simply interfaced with the lock wirelessly. The scanner turned green.The doors hissed open. Unit 7 turned around and glided away, its job done. You stood on the threshold, hesitating. "Come on in, Scrapper!"

It was Jake.

He was standing in the center of the room, grinning at you like you hadn't just spent a 2 weeks in solitary confinement partly because of him. He looked... domestic. The sharp, high-fashion edges of the day were gone. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes without product to hold it back. He was wearing a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt that was slightly too big for him, hanging off one shoulder. He looked soft. Touchable.

He walked over and grabbed your hand, pulling you into the room.

"The AI said your heart rate was spiking," Jake said, searching your face. "You don't have to be scared. It's just a sleepover." The doors sealed shut behind you. You looked around.You had never seen inside it before. Now, seeing it in the calm ambient lighting, it was staggering. It was cavernous. The ceiling was vaulted, disappearing into shadows. The rug was so thick your feet disappeared into it. The furniture was massive, made of dark, heavy wood that looked ancient. A fireplace—gas, smokeless—flickered on one wall.

And the bed.

It was an island. It was easily twice the size of a normal King bed, raised on a platform, piled high with duvets and pillows in shades of charcoal and slate. It looked like you could get lost in it.

"Where is..." you started, your voice trailing off as you heard the hiss of water.

"Jay's showering," Jake said, letting go of your hand to flop backward onto the bed. He bounced slightly. "He had a long day. The Council was breathing down his neck about the energy consumption of the shield wall." Jake patted the space next to him. "Come on. Up."

You walked over slowly. You climbed onto the mattress. It was firm, but the topper was incredibly soft. You felt tiny on the expanse of the sheet.

Jake laughed, a bubbly sound. "You look like a little grey mouse. It's cute."

He scooted over, grabbing your waist and hauling you down until you were lying next to him. He didn't ask; he just took. He wrapped an arm around you, nuzzling his nose into your damp hair.

"You smell clean," Jake hummed. "Like vanilla and... anxiety."

"I'm not anxious," you lied, lying stiff as a board.

"Liar," Jake whispered against your ear. He kissed your cheek, a wet, sloppy sound.

You flushed, heat rising to your face. "Jake, stop."

"Why?" He pulled back to look at you, his eyes dancing. "I missed you. I haven't been able to touch you for a week. I went into withdrawal."

"I was in a concrete box," you reminded him.

"I know," Jake's smile dimmed slightly. "And I was sad in a penthouse. We both suffered."

He said it with zero irony. To him, his emotional discomfort was equal to your physical imprisonment. "Anyway," Jake said, changing the subject as easily as he changed channels. He pointed to the air at the foot of the bed. "Movie night. I picked something from the 20th Century archives. It's called Blade Runner. Jay says it's derivative, but I think the aesthetic is cool."

A massive holographic screen flickered to life in the air. It wasn't the glitchy, static-filled projections of Sector 7. This was crystal clear, 8K resolution floating in the dark. The image was so sharp it felt like a window into another world.

The movie started. Rain. Neon. Flying cars.

"Irony," you muttered. Jake chuckled, pulling you closer until your head was resting on his chest. You could hear his heartbeat—steady, slow, calm. He began to stroke your arm, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin.

"Relax," he murmured. "Just watch the flying cars."

You tried. You really tried to focus on the movie. But your ears were tuned to the sound of the water running in the bathroom.

It stopped. The silence that followed was heavier than the movie soundtrack.

You tensed. Jake felt it. He rubbed your arm reassuringly. "He's not going to bite, [Y/N]. He's fed and watered."

The bathroom door opened. Steam rolled out, carrying the scent of cedarwood and masculine soap. Jay stepped out. You forgot how to breathe.

He wasn't wearing a suit. He wasn't wearing the intimidating armor of the Apex businessman. He was wearing a towel. A single, white towel wrapped low around his hips. His body was... sculpted. Broad shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist. Muscles defined but not bulky, built for endurance. Water droplets clung to his skin, glistening in the light of the holo-screen. His hair was wet, pushed back from his forehead, dark strands curling slightly at the nape of his neck.

Your eyes—traitorous, stupid eyes—traveled down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, following the prominent V-line of muscle that disappeared beneath the white terrycloth.

Your mind slammed back to the night you stood in the hallway.

“I'm going to fill you up.”

The memory of his voice, growling and raw, overlaid the image of him standing there. You saw the power in his thighs. You saw the size of his hands as he rubbed a smaller towel over his hair. He looked up. His dark eyes locked onto yours across the room. He paused, the towel stilled in his hand. He saw you staring. He saw the flush on your cheeks. He didn't smirk. He didn't cover up. He just looked at you with a heavy, knowing gaze that stripped you bare faster than any command could. He knew exactly what you were thinking. He knew you had heard him that night.

"Enjoying the view?" Jay asked. His voice was raspy, tired.

You whipped your head away, burying your face in Jake’s shirt. "I'm watching the movie."

Jake laughed, the vibration rumbling through his chest. "She's shy, Jay. Put some clothes on."

"It's my room," Jay countered calmly. "I'll be naked if I want."

But he turned and walked toward the massive walk-in closet.

You kept your face hidden until you heard him return.

When you peeked out, he was dressed. He wore a long-sleeved charcoal sleep shirt and loose black pajama pants. He looked softer, less like a weapon, but no less imposing. He walked to the other side of the bed—the left side. He climbed in.

The mattress dipped under his weight. The sheer size of him shifted the gravity of the bed. You were suddenly very aware of how small you were, sandwiched between two men who were both taller than you. Jay didn't look at you. He punched his pillow into shape, laid back against the headboard, and picked up his datapad from the nightstand.

"Turn the volume down," Jay said, scrolling through a document. "I'm reading the structural integrity reports for the new sluice gates."

"Boring," Jake sang, but he swiped his hand to lower the audio.

You lay there, rigid. You were trapped. To your right was Jake, warm and clinging, his arm heavy over your waist. To your left was Jay, a wall of heat and silence.

You could smell him. The cedar soap. The clean, fresh scent of his skin. It was intoxicating.

Jay seemed completely unbothered by your presence. He worked, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the screen, his face illuminated by the blue light. He ignored you the way one ignores a cat sleeping at the foot of the bed—accepted, but not worth active attention. The movie played on. Slowly, the exhaustion began to creep in. Your body, drained from the weeks of stress and the sudden warmth, started to shut down. Your eyelids grew heavy. The dialogue of the movie blurred into a soothing hum.

Jake’s breathing evened out. His hand on your waist went still. He became heavy against you.

"He's out," you whispered.

"He crashes hard," Jay said. You jumped slightly. You hadn't realized Jay was paying attention. You turned your head to look at him. He was still looking at his datapad, but his eyes flicked to you for a second.

"Sleep," Jay ordered softly. "Tomorrow is a long day."

"I know," you murmured.

You turned back, staring at the ceiling. The movie ended. The credits rolled in silence. Jay reached out. He tapped the air, and the holo-screen vanished into darkness.

He placed his datapad on the table. Click.

"Lights," Jay said.

The room plunged into darkness. The only light came from the faint glow of the city far below, filtering through the curtains. You closed your eyes, listening to the silence. Jake was snoring softly, a small, whistling sound.You felt the mattress shift.Jay was moving. You held your breath, expecting him to turn over and go to sleep.

But he didn't.

An arm—heavy, solid, and warm—slid under your pillow.

"Come here," Jay whispered.

Before you could process the command, he pulled.

He scooped you up. He dragged you away from Jake’s loose grip and pulled you across the sheets until you were flush against him.

He positioned you. He tucked your head under his chin, pressing your cheek against his chest. He wrapped his other arm around your back, locking you in place.

You froze. You were lying on top of Jay Park. You could feel the slow, powerful thud of his heart against your ear. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest. His legs tangled with yours, his feet hooking over your ankles.

"Jay?" you whispered, your voice trembling.

"Quiet," he rumbled. The sound vibrated through his chest, humming against your skull. "You're cold. And you fidget."

"I..."

"Sleep," he commanded.

He adjusted his hold, his hand splaying wide across your back, rubbing a slow, soothing circle between your shoulder blades. It wasn't sexual. It was... comforting. Possessive. Protective.

It felt like being held by a bear. Terrifying, but incredibly safe.

You tried to stay stiff. You tried to fight it. But the warmth was overwhelming. The sound of his heartbeat was a lullaby—steady, strong, unyielding.

Your body betrayed you again. Your muscles melted. You let out a long sigh, your hand involuntarily curling into the fabric of his shirt.

"Good girl," Jay whispered into the dark. He kissed the top of your head. It was barely a touch, just a brush of his lips against your damp hair. Drowsiness hit you like a wave. The scent of cedar and ozone filled your nose. The weight of his arms anchored you to the earth. For the first time in a week, the fear receded. You weren't in a cage. You weren't in a panic room. You were just... held.

And as sleep finally dragged you under, your last thought wasn't of escape. It was of how surprisingly well you fit against him.

The sun was high and unforgiving when Dr. Vance came.

He didn't come to the panic room—thankfully, that nightmare was over—but to the medical bay on the second floor. It was a room of chrome and glass that smelled of antiseptic and money. You sat on the exam table, the paper crinkling beneath your legs. You were dressed in a soft, oversized cream sweater and leggings. Comfortable, but they made you feel small. Jake stood by the door, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed. He wasn't smiling. He was watching the monitors with a hawk-like intensity that reminded you he was, after all, Jay’s husband.

"The cycle is precise," Dr. Vance announced, tapping a stylus against his datapad. He turned the screen so Jake could see the graph—a spike of red climbing a grid. "The ovulation window opens tomorrow morning at 06:00. It will peak in forty-eight hours."

"Tomorrow," Jake repeated. He looked at you. "Did you hear that? Tomorrow."

You gripped the edge of the table. "I heard."

"However," Vance continued, his brow furrowing as he scrolled down. "There is a concern. Her weight."

He gestured to you as if you were a piece of livestock that hadn't fattened up enough for market.

"Despite the nutrient-dense diet of the last two weeks, her BMI remains borderline. The stress of the... recent incident," Vance glanced nervously at the door, as if Jay might burst in, "likely burned through the caloric surplus we had built up."

"She's too skinny," Jake summarized bluntly.

"She is under-resourced," Vance corrected politely. "To support a pregnancy of this genetic magnitude—especially with the dual-donor DNA splicing—she needs reserves. If she conceives now, the fetus will strip her body of calcium and iron. It could be dangerous for her." He walked over to a cabinet and pulled out several large, heavy bottles. He set them on the counter with a thud.

"Prenatal vitamins. Calcium boosters. Iron supplements. And a caloric density powder to be added to every meal."

You stared at the bottles. There were hundreds of pills.

"How long is that for?" you asked quietly.

"This is a six-month supply," Vance said dismissively. "We will refill as needed."

Six months.

In Sector 7, getting a bottle of antibiotics was a lottery win. A three-day course of painkillers cost a week's wages. People died from infections because they had to choose between medicine and heat. And here, they were handing you six months of high-grade supplements just to make sure their investment didn't crack.

"Six months," you whispered, shaking your head. "You people have so much you don't even know what to do with it." Vance ignored you, turning to Jake. "Make sure she eats, Mr. Sim. No skipping meals. No 'not hungry'. She needs the fuel."

"I'll handle it," Jake said grimly.

Vance packed up his equipment and left. As soon as the door clicked shut, Jake pushed off the wall.

He walked over to you, stopping between your spread knees at the edge of the table. He placed his hands on the table on either side of you, boxing you in.

"You heard him," Jake said. His voice was soft, but it lacked its usual playfulness. "Jay was right. Every time he told you to finish your plate, he wasn't being a tyrant. He was trying to keep you alive."

"I eat," you defended weakly.

"You pick," Jake corrected. "You eat half a potato and say you're full. You hide protein bars in your pocket instead of eating them."

He sighed, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Come on," he said. "We're going to the kitchen. And I'm going to watch you eat something real."

The kitchen was quiet. The bots were docked in their charging stations, leaving the massive, stainless-steel space empty.

"Sit," Jake ordered, pointing to a stool at the island.

You sat.

To your surprise, Jake didn't summon a bot. He walked to the fridge. He pulled out eggs, spinach, cheese, and a slab of real butter.

"You cook?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I lived in a dorm before I met Jay," Jake muttered, cracking eggs into a bowl with surprising dexterity. "I know how to feed myself. And apparently, I need to know how to feed you."

There was something strangely domestic about watching him. Jake Sim—billionaire, tech mogul, Apex citizen—standing in his socks, whisking eggs in a ceramic bowl. The rhythmic clink-clink-clink of the whisk was soothing. The smell of melting butter filled the air, rich and fatty. "Why do you have a kitchen this big if you don't cook?" you asked, looking around at the double ovens and the six-burner range.

"Status," Jake said, pouring the eggs into the pan. They sizzled loudly. "In Sector 1, space is the ultimate luxury. Having a room you don't use proves you can afford to waste it." He flipped the omelet. It was perfect. Golden brown, fluffy.

He slid it onto a plate, added a handful of berries on the side, and placed it in front of you.

"Eat," he said. "All of it." He didn't leave. He walked around the island and sat on the stool next to you. He pulled out his datapad, typing a message—presumably to Jay—but his eyes kept darting to your fork.

"I'm really not hungry," you said, poking the eggs.

"I don't care," Jake said, not looking up from his screen. "Dr. Vance said you're a safety risk to the baby if you're too thin. I'm not letting that happen."

The baby.

It always came back to that. You cut a piece of the omelet and put it in your mouth. It was delicious. Cheesy, salty, warm. Your stomach growled, betraying you.

You ate. You ate silently, methodically, while Jake tapped on his screen.

"Jay says to make sure you take the blue pill with food," Jake said suddenly. "And that he'll be home by 18:00. He wants to review the doctor's report personally."

"Great," you muttered, finishing the last bite. "Can't wait."

Jake set his datapad down. He looked at your clean plate, and a genuine smile finally broke through his worried expression.

"Good girl," he praised. He stood up, taking your empty plate to the sink. "Come on. We're going to the terrace. Vance said you need Vitamin D. And since you're not allowed to leave the building anymore, the patio is your new best friend."

The sun on the terrace was warm, filtered through the atmospheric stabilizers so it didn't burn. Jake sat on the outdoor sofa, his legs stretched out, his face turned toward the sun. You sat next to him, but not too close. You were wary. The last time you were out here, you had bonded, and then you had run away. The memory of the betrayal hung between you like smoke.

"The air is good today," Jake said, closing his eyes. "Low pollution index from the lower sectors."

"Must be nice," you said, leaning back.

"It is," Jake agreed. He opened one eye to look at you. "You look better. The sun gives you color. You looked like a ghost in the panic room."

"I felt like a ghost," you said. Jake turned his body toward you, resting his arm on the back of the sofa. "Well, you're back among the living now. Just in time."

"For the ovulation," you said flatly.

"For the baby," Jake corrected. His voice dropped, becoming softer, more reverent. "Think about it, [Y/N]. A new life. Created from us. It’s going to be... perfect. It’ll have Jay’s strength. My... charm." He winked. "And your resilience. It’s going to be a king."

"..Or a queen," you murmured.

"Or a queen," Jake agreed. "A queen of the Spire."

He reached out, his hand landing on your knee. He squeezed gently.

"It's going to be beautiful," Jake whispered. "You're going to be beautiful carrying it. I can already picture it. Your belly swelling. Jay losing his mind trying to baby-proof the penthouse."

He moved his hand up your thigh, a slow, dragging caress. It wasn't aggressive. It was appreciative.

"You have good hips," Jake noted, his eyes dark. "Jay noticed it the first day. 'Breeding hips,' he called them. He was right."

The air in your lungs grew heavy. The way he talked about it—the mix of clinical observation and raw, possessive desire—made your skin prickle.

"Jake," you warned, but you didn't push his hand away.

"What?" he asked innocently, leaning closer. The scent of vanilla and honey wafted over you. "I'm just appreciating the vessel. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"

He moved closer, invading your space until his thigh was pressed against yours. He reached up, his other hand cupping your jaw, turning your face toward him.

"You're ovulating tomorrow," Jake whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips. "Your body is getting ready. Can you feel it? The heat?"

You could. God help you, you could. The supplements, the food, the safety—your body was responding to the biological imperative. You were safe, you were fed, and there were two males circling you. Your biology was screaming yes even while your mind screamed no.

"I..." you started, but the word died in your throat. Jake leaned in and kissed you. It wasn't a soft, tentative kiss like the one on your forehead in the panic room. It was deep, wet, and hungry. He tasted like strawberries and coffee.

You stiffened for a split second, and then, traitorously, you melted.

You kissed him back. You opened your mouth, allowing his tongue to sweep inside, tasting you, claiming you. Jake groaned, a low vibration against your lips. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed your waist and pulled you.

"Come here," he growled against your mouth.

He hauled you up and over, pulling you until you were straddling his lap.

You gasped, your legs falling open on either side of his thighs. The position was intimate, vulnerable. Your center pressed against his groin.

He was hard. Through the grey pants, you could feel the thick ridge of his erection pressing against you.

"Jake," you breathed, pulling back slightly. "We're outside."

"No one can see," Jake promised, his hands roaming down your back, gripping your hips.He surged up, capturing your lips again. This time, there was no gentleness. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you. His hand tangled in the hair at the back of your head, forcing you closer, controlling the angle.

"So good," he murmured against your skin. "You taste so good."

You moved. You couldn't help it. Your hips rolled forward, grinding down against him.

The friction was electric. You were wearing thin leggings; he was wearing sweatpants. There was no barrier thick enough to hide the heat.

"Fuck," Jake hissed, his head falling back against the sofa cushions. "Do that again."

You did. You ground down, finding the friction you needed. Your clit throbbed, aching and swollen. The wetness soaked your panties, slick and heavy. Jake’s hands slid down your back, finding the curve of your ass. He squeezed, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He bucked his hips up, meeting your rhythm.

Rub. Grind. Gasp.

It wasn't sex, but it was close. It was a desperate, dry-humping friction that felt dirtier than skin-on-skin.

"You're so wet," Jake groaned, his hands kneading your glutes. "I can feel it. You're soaking my pants."

"Shut up," you moaned, dropping your head to his shoulder, biting the fabric of his shirt.

"Make me," he challenged.

He reached down, his hand finding the hem of your sweater. He pushed it up, his warm palms skimming your bare waist, your ribs. He slid his hands under the elastic of your leggings, pushing them down just enough to grip your bare ass cheeks.

"Jay's going to love this," Jake panted in your ear. "He's going to love wrecking you."

The mention of Jay should have stopped you. It should have been a bucket of ice water. But instead, it was fuel. The thought of the other husband—the darker, harder one—watching this, or doing this, sent a spike of arousal straight to your core.

"More," you whimpered, moving faster.

Jake met you thrust for thrust. He was panting, his face flushed, his eyes blown wide and black. He looked wrecked.

"Come on," he urged, his voice rough. "Come on, baby. Do it. Ruin these pants."

You cried out, a soft, high-pitched sound that was swallowed by the wind. Your hips stuttered, then clamped down as the orgasm hit. It was intense, a full-body shudder that made you cling to his shoulders to keep from falling.

Jake groaned, burying his face in your neck. He bucked up one last time, hard, grinding himself against your slick heat. He shouted your name, his body going rigid as he found his own release inside his clothes.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the rustle of the olive trees. You slumped against him, your forehead resting on his shoulder. You were trembling. Your leggings were damp and uncomfortable. His sweatpants were ruined. Jake let out a long, shaky exhale. He kissed the side of your neck, his lips hot and wet.

"Wow," he whispered. "Okay. That... that works."

He chuckled, a breathless, happy sound. "You get really clingy when you come, don't you?"

You realized you were still gripping his shirt like a lifeline. You tried to pull away, embarrassed, but he held you fast.

"Stay," he murmured. "Just for a minute."

He rubbed your back, long soothing strokes, waiting for your heart rate to settle.

"We should go in," you whispered eventually. "Jay will be home soon."

"Yeah," Jake agreed, though he didn't look happy about moving.

He adjusted your sweater, pulling it back down. He helped you slide off his lap, steadying you when your legs wobbled.

"Can you walk?" he asked, looking at you with that soft, affectionate gaze.

"I think so," you said.

"Never mind," Jake decided. "I like carrying you."

He scooped you up, lifting you into his arms bridal style. You were too tired to fight him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, resting your head on his shoulder.

He carried you inside, through the living room, and down the hallway to your room.

The door slid open. He walked in and laid you gently on the bed. He didn't leave.

He kicked off his shoes and climbed into the bed beside you.

"Jake?" you asked.

"Nap time," he declared, pulling the duvet over both of you. "That was exhausting. And Jay isn't home for two hours. We have time."

He pulled you into his chest, spooning you. His body was warm, solid, and safe.

"Sleep," Jake whispered, his hand resting possessively on your hip.

You closed your eyes. The shame should have been crushing. You had just dry-humped your captor on the patio in broad daylight. But the oxytocin was flooding your brain, and his heartbeat was a steady rhythm against your back.

You fell asleep, the scent of him filling your nose, wondering how you were going to survive tomorrow when the real thing happened.

Two hours later, the room was dark.

You woke up slowly, groggy and warm. Jake was still asleep behind you, his arm heavy over your waist. But something was different. The air in the room had changed.

You opened your eyes. Jay was standing at the foot of the bed. He was home. He was still in his suit, his tie loosened, his jacket gone. He stood perfectly still in the shadows, his arms crossed over his chest. He was watching you. He watched Jake’s arm draped over you. He watched the way your bodies were tangled together.

He didn't look angry. He looked... focused.

"Wake him up," Jay said softly.

You froze.

"Wake him up," Jay repeated. "Dinner is ready. And we have things to discuss."

He turned and walked out of the room, leaving the door open.

You nudged Jake.

"Jake," you whispered, shaking his shoulder. "Jake, wake up. Jay's home."

Jake groaned, burying his face in your neck. "Five more minutes."

"Now," you hissed.

Jake blinked his eyes open. He smiled sleepily at you. "Hey, beautiful."

"Jay was here," you said. "He saw us."

Jake’s smile widened. He didn't look worried at all.

"Good," Jake yawned, sitting up and stretching. "Maybe now he'll stop worrying about whether you're ready or not."

He winked at you. " clearly, you are."

The walk from your bedroom to the dining room felt different this time.

Usually, it was a march to the gallows. A trudge through enemy territory where every shadow held a camera and every door held a lock. But tonight, your legs felt heavy for a different reason. The phantom sensation of your weight on Jake’s lap, the friction of the cotton against your heated skin, and the aftershocks of the orgasm on the terrace still lingered like a ghost touch in your muscles.

You had showered, standing under the scalding spray until the bathroom filled with dense, white fog. You scrubbed your skin until it tingled, washing away the sweat and the evidence of the afternoon’s indiscretion. The cream sweater and leggings—ruined, in your opinion—had been shoved into the disposal chute.

Now, you were clean. You felt raw, scrubbed pink and vulnerable.

You stood in the walk-in closet, staring at the rows of clothes. You bypassed the practical wear. Your body felt too sensitive for denim or stiff cotton. You reached for something that promised comfort, something that wouldn't cling to your skin.

You found a nightgown. It was made of a sheer, pearlescent white material that ghosted over your knees, soft as a whisper. It was modest enough, but when you looked in the mirror, you felt exposed. You grabbed a robe to cover it—a heavy, midnight-blue silk piece that you hadn’t worn before. It was thick, luxurious, and enveloped you like a cloud. You tied the sash tightly around your waist, creating a barrier between you and the world.

You left your hair damp. You didn't have the energy to dry it or style it. It hung in loose, wet waves around your shoulders, cooling the heat that still radiated from your neck. "Dining room," you whispered to yourself, steeling your nerves.

You walked out of the room. The hallway was quiet, the lights dimmed to a warm, evening amber. You walked barefoot on the heated marble, the sensation grounding you. When the double doors to the dining room slid open, the scene inside was painfully, deceptively domestic. Jay and Jake were already seated. The table was set with the usual terrifying array of silverware and crystal, candlelight flickering off the polished wood. They were heads-down over a datapad, their shoulders brushing, deep in conversation.

"The hydroponic yield in Sector 2 is down 4%," Jay was saying, his voice a low, rumbling baritone that vibrated in the quiet room. "It’s the water filtration. The pH balance is drifting."

"I can patch the sensor algorithm," Jake countered, tapping the screen with a stylus. "But we need a physical reset on the valves. Send a drone team." They stopped when you entered. The conversation about pH levels died instantly. Jake looked up first. A bright, unhidden smile broke across his face. He looked fresh, having showered as well, his hair damp and curling at the ends. He wore a loose black shirt that accentuated the column of his throat. He winked at you—a small, secret acknowledgement of the intimacy you had shared upstairs, a shared conspiracy.

Jay looked up a second later.

His gaze was heavier. It was a physical weight that landed on your shoulders. He scanned you, checking for compliance, checking for damage. He looked at the blue robe, the way it was tied, the damp hair framing your face. He didn't smile. He just gave a single, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment.

"Sit," Jay commanded.

You walked to your usual chair—opposite Jake, to Jay’s left—and sat down. You adjusted the robe, pulling it tighter across your chest, ensuring you were covered.

The food was already served. A grilled fish of some kind, white and flaky, sitting on a bed of wild rice with steamed greens. It looked healthy. Bland. Efficient.

You picked up your fork and took a small portion of the rice. You weren't hungry. Your stomach was still doing flip-flops from the adrenaline of the afternoon and the nap that followed. You pushed the fish around, taking tiny bites.

Jay watched you. He hadn't touched his own food yet. His dark eyes were fixed on your plate.

He frowned. A deep line appeared between his brows.

"That is not enough," he stated.

He didn't ask. He didn't cajole. He reached across the table, his hand large and authoritative, and took your plate. He slid it toward him. With deliberate, efficient movements, he scooped a large second portion of fish from the serving platter onto your china. He added a heap of greens. He added a slice of avocado and a spoonful of some nutrient-dense seed mix.

He slid the plate back to you. It was a mountain of food.

"Eat," Jay said. "All of it."

You stared at the plate, dismay washing over you. "Jay, I can't eat all this. I had a big lunch. Jake made me an omelet."

"You had an omelet six hours ago," Jay corrected, checking his internal log of your caloric intake as if he were a computer. "Your metabolic rate is accelerated due to stress and... recent activity. You are under-weight. You need the fats. You need the omega-3s for the uterine lining."

He picked up his wine glass, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Do not make me feed you, [Y/N]. We are past that stage of rebellion, aren't we?"

You sighed, the fight draining out of you. You picked up your fork again. "Fine."

You began to eat. It was mechanical. Bite, chew, swallow.

"While you eat," Jay said, pulling a small holographic list into the air between you, "we need to review the regimen Dr. Vance uploaded. If we are to begin the conception protocol tomorrow, your chemical baseline needs to be perfect."

He expanded the list. It was a timetable, glowing blue in the candlelight.

"0700: Folic acid and Iron. 1200: Calcium and Vitamin D. 1800: Progesterone booster." Jay read it off like a military flight plan. "Starting tomorrow, the bots will dispense these with your meals. You will take them in front of the sensors so consumption is verified." "You make it sound like I'm a machine you're trying to repair," you mumbled around a mouthful of broccoli. "Just checking the oil and changing the filters."

"You are a complex biological system that requires maintenance," Jay said simply, dismissing your sarcasm. "If the engine is not fueled, the car does not run. If the vessel is not prepped, the cargo fails. I do not tolerate failure."

"Cargo," you scoffed softly. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

"It's what it is," Jay said, taking a sip of wine. He looked at you over the rim of the glass, his gaze clinical but intense. "Valuable cargo. The most important cargo."

Jake, who had been quiet, leaned back in his chair. He was watching the dynamic with a lazy, predatory grin. He held his own wine glass by the stem, swirling the red liquid, watching the light catch in the vortex.

"Don't be so clinical, Jay," Jake purred, his voice dropping an octave. "You're scaring her. She's not a machine. She's very... responsive. You should know that by now."

Jay’s eyes flicked to Jake, sharp and warning, then back to you.

You shifted in your seat, uncomfortable under the dual scrutiny. The heavy silk robe was warm, too warm for the heated room. You rolled your shoulders, trying to alleviate the tension gathering at the base of your neck.

As you moved, the smooth, slippery fabric of the robe slid. It slipped off your left shoulder, pooling in the crook of your elbow.

It revealed the thin spaghetti strap of the white nightgown underneath, and the expanse of bare, flushed skin across your collarbone and the swell of your breast. The nightgown was cut lower than you realized, the pearlescent fabric clinging to your curves.

You didn't notice. You were too busy trying to swallow a mouthful of dry rice and ignoring Jake’s stare. But Jay noticed. His eyes dropped. He stopped talking mid-sentence about progesterone levels. His gaze fixed on the patch of exposed skin. He traced the line of your collarbone, the frantic pulse beating in the hollow of your throat, the way the white fabric contrasted with your skin tone.

He stared. It wasn't the look of a doctor examining a patient. It wasn't the look of a businessman assessing an asset. It was the look of a starving man spotting a banquet. His pupils dilated, swallowing the iris until his eyes were almost entirely black. His hand tightened around his wine glass. Jake saw Jay look.A slow, wicked smile spread across Jake’s face. He saw the tension in Jay’s jaw, the way a muscle feathered in his cheek. He knew his husband. He knew the restraint Jay exercised every day—the rigid control he kept over his own desires. And he knew that restraint was fraying.

"She looks healthy to me," Jake commented, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that slid across the table like silk.He reached out, ostensibly to grab the salt shaker near your plate, but his hand brushed your arm. His fingers lingered on the bare skin the robe had exposed, warm and electrifying.Jay’s eyes tracked the movement. He watched Jake touch you. A flash of possessiveness, dark and ugly, twisted his expression."Her skin is warmer," Jake noted, looking directly at Jay, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Better circulation. And look at that flush on her chest. It’s not fever, Jay. It’s vitality."

"Eat your food," Jay said, his voice rough, sounding like gravel grinding together.

"I'm just saying," Jake continued, withdrawing his hand but keeping his eyes on you, dissecting you. "She's ready. You keep waiting for the perfect moment, for the charts to align, for the stars to be in the right position. But look at her. She's sitting right there. Waiting." Jake licked his lips, his gaze dropping to your lap. "She was very... cooperative today. On the terrace."

You choked on your water. You coughed, slamming the glass down, water sloshing over the rim. You shot a glare at Jake, warning him to shut up. But Jay didn't look at Jake. He looked at you.

"Cooperative?" Jay repeated. The word hung in the air, heavy and loaded.

"Very," Jake hummed, enjoying the chaos he was creating. "She has a lot of energy, Jay. Pent up energy. She needs a release. Just like we do."

Jay set his glass down. Hard. The sound of the heavy crystal hitting the wood echoed like a gunshot. The air in the room thickened. It became viscous, hard to breathe. The conversation about vitamins and schedules evaporated, replaced by a heavy, suffocating charge of static electricity.

"Is that true?" Jay asked you. His voice was low, dangerous. You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs like a bird in a cage. "I don't know what he's talking about."

"Liar," Jake whispered, leaning forward. "Tell him, baby. Tell him how good you were. Tell him how wet you got for me."

Jay stood up.

He didn't walk around the table this time. He stood at the head, looming over the spread of food like a titan. He looked at you, and the restraint he had been holding onto for two weeks—the careful, methodical patience—snapped.

"I can't wait until tomorrow," Jay growled.

"Jay?" you squeaked, shrinking back in your chair.

"Get over here," Jay ordered.

You froze. "What?"

"I said come here," Jay barked. "Now."

It wasn't a request. It was a command that bypassed your brain and went straight to your motor functions. The authority in his tone was absolute. You stood up, your legs shaking. You walked slowly to the head of the table, the blue robe trailing behind you like a royal train. Jay turned his chair, sitting on the edge of it. He spread his legs wide, the fabric of his trousers straining over his thighs. He looked up at you, his eyes burning with a dark, terrifying hunger.

"Kneel," Jay said.

You hesitated, looking around the room. "Jay, we're at dinner—"

"I don't care about dinner," Jay snarled. He reached out, grabbing the sash of your robe and yanking you forward. You stumbled, falling to your knees. You landed on the hard floor between his thighs, your hands gripping his knees for support.

"Kneel," he repeated, his voice vibrating through your chest.

You sank back on your heels. You looked up at him, your breath hitching. He was huge from this angle, a wall of dominance. He didn't wait. His hands went to his belt. Click. Zip. He shoved his trousers and boxer briefs down.

He was already hard. Thick, red, and angry, springing free from his clothes. He was massive. You stared at it, your mouth going dry. You had seen him briefly in the towel the night before, but this was different. This was up close. This was expectant.

"You want to be cooperative?" Jay asked, his hand reaching out to tangle in your damp hair. He gripped the back of your skull, his fingers massaging the scalp. "Then cooperate." He guided your head forward. You didn't fight him. The inevitability of it washed over you. This was the transaction. This was the price of the safety, the food, the warmth. And beneath the fear, there was that traitorous spark of heat again.

You opened your mouth. He tasted of salt and musk and man. You took him in, the size of him filling your mouth, stretching your jaw.

Jay groaned. It was a deep, guttural sound that seemed to come from the bottom of his chest. His fingers tightened in your hair, holding you in place as he began to move his hips.

"Fuck," Jay hissed, looking down at you. "Look at you. Taking it."

You worked. You used your tongue, swirling it around the head, licking the long, prominent vein that ran down the side. You sucked, creating a seal, drawing him deeper. It was degrading. It was primal. And god help you, it was electric.

Jake stood up from his seat. He walked over, silent as a cat. He stood behind Jay, leaning over the back of the chair to watch over his shoulder.

"Wow," Jake whispered, his eyes wide.

He had never seen this before. He had never seen a woman on her knees for his husband. He had never seen Jay getting serviced by anyone other than himself. The visual of your small form between Jay’s powerful legs, your nightgown pooling on the floor, was doing something to him.

"She's good at it," Jake murmured, his voice thick with arousal. "Look at her throat, Jay. Look at how she takes you."

Jay didn't answer. He couldn't. He was lost in the sensation. He bucked his hips, thrusting into your mouth, setting a rhythm that made your eyes water.

"Deeper," Jay commanded.

He pushed into you, forcing you to take every inch. You gagged slightly, tears pricking your eyes, but you didn't pull away. You let him use you. You sucked harder, determined to handle him, determined to survive this.

Precum leaked from the tip, salty and slick. You swallowed it, licking his slit.

"Yes," Jay groaned, his head falling back, his neck corded with strain. "Just like that. Good girl." Jake walked around the side of the chair. He crouched down so he was level with you. He watched your face, watched your cheeks hollow as you sucked.

"You like that, don't you?" Jake whispered to you, his eyes dark. "You like tasting him."

Jay looked down. His eyes were blown, black pits of lust. He watched your mouth moving on him, watched the saliva glistening on his shaft.

"I'm close," Jay panted. "Fuck, I'm close."

He thrust harder, faster. His grip on your hair became painful, grounding you.

"Don't stop," Jake encouraged, reaching out to stroke your cheek. "Make him cum, baby. Take it all." But right as Jay’s hips stuttered, right as he prepared to release, he stopped. He froze. His breathing was ragged.

"No," Jay gasped.

He yanked himself out of your mouth. You made a noise of protest, a small, confused pout forming on your lips as the loss of fullness registered. A string of saliva connected your lip to his hardening length. "Not like that," Jay panted, staring at the string of spit. "Not on the floor." He stood up abruptly, adjusting his pants but not buttoning them. He reached down and grabbed you by the arms.

He hauled you up. He didn't set you on your feet. He turned toward the table.

He didn't sweep the food onto the floor. That would be a loss of control, and Jay Park did not lose control. Instead, with a powerful shove of his arm, he pushed the plates, the glasses, and the heavy silverware backward. The china screeched against the polished wood as it collided, crowding into the center of the table in a chaotic jumble, clearing the edge. He lifted you and sat you down on the dark wood of the dining table. "Jay!" you gasped, the wood hard against your thighs.

He didn't speak. He stepped between your dangling legs. He shoved the blue robe open, spreading it like wings on the table. He grabbed the hem of the white nightgown and shoved it up to your waist, bunching the fabric.

He looked at you. Your chest was heaving, your hair wild, your legs spread for him on his dining table. "Beautiful," Jay growled.

He hooked his fingers into the delicate lace of your panties. He didn't rip them. He pulled the fabric sharply to the side, exposing you completely.

You were bare to him. Exposed under the chandelier.

Jay leaned down. He didn't kiss you. He buried his face between your legs.

You screamed.

His tongue was hot, rough, and relentless. He found your clit instantly, licking a broad, wet stripe up your length.

"Oh god," you moaned, your head thrashing back against the table. "Jay, please."

He didn't stop. He ate you with a starvation that terrified you. He licked, he sucked, he bit the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs. It wasn't gentle lovemaking; it was consumption. He was devouring you.

He shoved two fingers inside you.

You were wet. So wet from the earlier encounter with Jake, from the sight of Jay, from the adrenaline of the moment. He slid in easily, stretching you.

"So wet," Jay murmured against your skin, the vibration sending shocks through you. "You were waiting for this."

He began to pump his fingers, curling them inside you, hitting that spot that made your vision blur. His tongue worked your clit in a matching rhythm, unyielding and skilled.

Jake moved to your side. he stood next to your hip, right where your head rested back. He reached down and grabbed the top of your nightgown. He pulled it down roughly, exposing your breasts to the cool air.

"Hi," Jake grinned, his eyes dark and dilated.

He grabbed your breasts, kneading the soft flesh, his hands creating a rhythm that matched Jay’s tongue.

"Look at these," Jake moaned. "Perfect. So heavy."

He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, the wet sound echoing in your ear. At the same time, his hand slapped the side of your other breast, a sharp, stinging smack that made you cry out.

"So sensitive," Jake whispered against your skin before biting down gently.

You were surrounded. Jay devouring you from below, his fingers thrusting deep and fast, hitting your cervix with every pump. Jake claiming you from the side, his mouth hot on your breast, his hand smacking your soft flesh.

It was too much. It was sensory overload.

"I can't," you cried out, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the table, knocking a fork to the floor. "It's too much!"

"Take it," Jay growled against your pussy, his tongue flicking faster.

"You're ours," Jake mumbled against your skin, sucking harder. "Accept it."

The orgasm built like a tidal wave. It started in your toes and roared up your spine. The dual stimulation—Jay’s relentless tongue, Jake’s suction—pushed you over the edge.

"Jay!" you screamed.

You shattered.

Your hips bucked off the table, grinding into Jay’s face. You clamped down on his fingers, your inner muscles spasming violently. You shook, your entire body convulsing with the force of the release. Jay groaned, a low, victorious sound. He didn't stop. He kept licking, drinking you in, tasting your release as you poured over his hand. Jake kissed your neck, swallowing your screams, his hand holding your breast firm as you trembled. It went on for what felt like forever. Wave after wave of pleasure that bordered on pain. When it finally stopped, you went limp. You lay there on the table, your limbs sprawled, your chest heaving, sweat cooling on your skin. The dining room was silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing.

Jay pulled back slowly. He stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His face was flushed, his eyes wild. He looked at his hand, glistening with your fluids.

He licked a stripe of it off his finger, holding your gaze.

"Delicious," Jay whispered.

Jake straightened up, adjusting your robe slightly but leaving you exposed. He stood next to Jay, looking down at you. You were wrecked. Your dress was disheveled, your robe was open, your hair was a disaster. You looked thoroughly, completely used.

Jake smirked, adjusting his own pants to hide his painful erection.

"So," Jake drawled, leaning against the table edge, looking from you to Jay. "How was the appetizer?"

Yea…this was going to be a long week.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter Please support me by Liking, Commenting and Re-blogging!

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[cherry-lala]

Rust & Gold

Chapter 1: The Extraction Pairings: Jay x Fem!reader x Jake

Wordcount: 30k+

Chapter Summary: Life in Sector 7 is dirt, rust, and survival. Life in Sector 1 is silk, ozone, and suffocation. When Jay Park and Jake Sim drag you from the gutter to the clouds, you expect a prison. What you get is a cage made of gold, a charming tech genius who wants to play dress-up, and a his cold husband who wants to break you. You can try to run, but the air is thin up here.

Warnings: Dystopian Angst, Kidnapping & Abduction, Forced Proximity, Extreme Classism & Poverty Shaming, Past Trauma (Parental Overdose/Death), Body Dysmorphia/Scrutiny, Dehumanization, Power Imbalance, Humiliation, Emotional Manipulation. Smut M/M (Jay x Jake), rough sex, spanking/impact play, dom/sub dynamics, praise kink ("good boy"), voyeurism (y/n eavesdropping), arousal.

A/N: My first chapter series! I literally spent so much time on this and is proud of how it came out! I hope you guys like the first chapter and the others, this series chapters will be a bit long so grab some popcorn!! Also this is my first time writing this type of smut esp in the future chapters so I hope you enjoy that. Like always Please Like, Reblog and Comment! They are very appreciated. Also Happy New Years to all!

Rust & Gold

The rain in Sector 7 didn’t wash things clean; it just made the grime slicker. It was a heavy, chemical downpour that fell from the underside of the upper plates—the run-off from Sector 6, which was the run-off from Sector 5, all the way down from the pristine, cloud-piercing heights of the Spire. By the time the water hit the rusted corrugated tin of your window ledge, it was a cocktail of industrial coolant, greywater, and the acidic tears of the city.You woke up to the sound of it hissing against the metal, a rhythmic, corrosive lullaby that had been the soundtrack of your entire life.Your eyes snapped open, staring at the ceiling of your hab-unit. It was barely a room—more of a coffin with amenities. The ceiling was low, covered in a patchwork of insulated foam and duct tape where the dampness tried to seep through. The air inside tasted recycled, stale, metallic, like licking the terminals of a nine-volt battery.05:00 AM flashed in angry red numerals on the holographic clock embedded in your forearm."Fuck," you whispered, the word scraping against your dry throat.

You sat up, the thin, synthetic mattress groaning in protest. Your body ached—a dull, thumping soreness in your shoulders from yesterday’s haul at the scrapyard. You rubbed your face, feeling the grit that never seemed to leave your skin no matter how hard you scrubbed.This was life in the Rust Belt. You worked until you broke, you fixed yourself with cheap black-market meds, and you did it again the next day. All to keep your credit score just above the "Vagrancy" line, which was the only thing keeping you from being scooped up by the Peacekeepers and shipped off to the nutrient farms.You swung your legs over the side of the bed, your bare feet hitting the cold, vibrating floor. The entire tenement block hummed—a constant, low-frequency vibration from the massive geothermal generators that powered the sectors above. You were literally living on top of the engine that kept the rich warm. You reached for the nightstand, bypassing the glass of cloudy water for the crumpled pack of smokes. They were 'Red Dusts'—shitty, unfiltered tobacco grown in UV basements by the Triads. They tasted like burning rubber and salvation. You flicked your lighter—an old-world Zippo you’d found in a heap of trash three years ago—and inhaled deeply. The smoke hit your lungs, sharp and grounding. For a moment, the crushing weight of the world lifted just an inch. "Lights, twenty percent," you croaked.The single strip of LED lighting above the sink flickered, buzzed, and then illuminated the room in a sickly yellow gloom.

You moved to the small mirror cracked down the middle. Your reflection stared back—hollow cheeks, dark circles that looked like bruises under your eyes, and hair that was chopped short with a knife because long hair got caught in machinery. You looked tired. You looked like everyone else down here: a cog that was slowly being ground down to dust. You turned on the tap. Brown water sputtered out, then cleared to a murky grey. You splashed it on your face, not bothering to heat it. Hot water cost extra credits. "Citizen reminder," the building’s PA system crackled to life, the voice sweet and synthesized. "Cycle checks are mandatory for all females between the ages of 18 and 30 in this block today. Please report to Clinic 4-B by 0800. Failure to comply will result in credit freeze. Have a productive day." You gripped the edge of the sink, your knuckles turning white. "Cycle checks," you muttered, spitting toothpaste into the drain. The Genetic Recovery Act. The noose around everyone’s neck. Every month, they checked. Every month, they scanned your womb, checked your egg count, and measured your hormone levels like you were livestock. They were looking for the "Golden Ratio"—the perfect combination of genetic resilience and fertility to help rebuild the population that The Dust had decimated seventy years ago. So far, you’d flown under the radar. Your official medical file listed you as "Low Viability"—a lie you paid a hacker three months' wages to insert into the database. It kept the recruiters away. It kept you free. But the physical checks… you couldn't hack those. You just had to go, endure the cold metal instruments, and pray your stress levels were high enough to mask how healthy you actually were. You finished your cigarette, grinding the stub into the metal sink, and started to dress. Cargo pants reinforced with synth-leather patches, heavy combat boots scavenged from a dead Peacekeeper, and an oversized hoodie that swallowed your figure. You wrapped a scarf around your neck to filter the worst of the smog and grabbed your datapad. Time to face the rot.The commute to Dr. Aris’s clinic was a sensory assault. Stepping out of your tenement block was like stepping into the digestive tract of a mechanical beast. The streets of Sector 7 were narrow, overshadowed by the looming superstructures of the upper levels that blocked out the sky. It was perpetual twilight down here, illuminated only by the neon glare of holographic advertisements. SYNTH-MEAT: NOW WITH 10% REAL PROTEIN! NEED CREDS? SELL YOUR PLASMA TODAY! THE SPIRE IS WATCHING OVER YOU. Drones buzzed overhead like angry hornets, scanning faces in the crowd. The street was packed—scrappers carrying bundles of wire, factory workers with cybernetic limbs whirring softly, street vendors selling skewers of unidentifiable meat grilled over chemical fires.

The smell was overwhelming—ozone, frying grease, unwashed bodies, and the underlying sweetness of decay. You kept your head down, shoulders hunched, moving with the fluid aggression of someone who knew how to navigate a crowd without making eye contact. Eye contact was dangerous. Eye contact invited trouble from the gangs or, worse, the patrolling Peacekeepers in their matte-black armor. You passed a group of "Glitchers"—junkies addicted to digital stims, slumped against a wall, their eyes rolled back, wires trailing from the ports in their temples to cheap battery packs. They were twitching, lost in some beautiful, fake reality while their bodies rotted in the rain.You felt a pang of jealousy. At least they weren't worried about fertility counts.Clinic 4-B was a converted warehouse wedged between a noodle bar and a cyber-prosthetics shop. The line was already out the door. Women, dozens of them, standing in the rain, clutching their ID cards. Some looked terrified, clutching rosaries or old-world charms. Others looked resigned, their faces blank masks of apathy. You joined the back of the line, pulling your scarf tighter. "They say the quota is up this month," a woman in front of you whispered to her friend. She looked young, maybe nineteen, her face gaunt. "They say the Spire needs more surrogates. The lab-grown ones are failing." "Don't listen to rumors, Kyla," her friend hissed back. "Just keep your head down. If your cortisol is too high, they flag you for 'reconditioning'." You stiffened. Reconditioning. That was the polite word for being drugged until you were compliant enough to breed. An hour passed in the rain before you reached the front. A medical droid with a rusted chassis scanned your wrist. "ID: 7-492. Name: [Y/N] [L/N]. Status: Pending. Proceed to Bay 3." You walked inside. The clinic smelled of bleach and copper blood. It was a chaotic assembly line of flesh. Curtains separated the exam tables, but they did little to dampen the sounds—the hum of scanners, the clatter of instruments, the occasional sob. "Bay 3," you muttered, finding the cubicle. Dr. Aris was there, looking as exhausted as he always did. He was a good man, or as good as one could be in the Rust Belt. He had been a Spire doctor once, years ago, before some scandal dropped him down to the slums. He still had the steady hands of a surgeon, even if his eyes were yellowed from cheap gin. "Morning, kid," Aris grunted, not looking up from his datapad. "Hop up. You know the drill." You sat on the crinkling paper of the exam table. "Morning, Doc. How's the liver?" "Shut up," he muttered without heat. He picked up a blood-draw device. "Sleeve up. Let's see if the atmosphere has finally mutated you into something interesting." You rolled up your hoodie sleeve. The metal press-gun hissed against your skin, drawing a vial of dark red blood. "You look like hell," Aris noted, slotting the vial into a centrifuge machine on the counter. "Eating?" "Synth-paste and algae bars. The usual." "Smoking?" "Only when I'm awake."

He chuckled dryly, tapping commands into the console. "Well, try to cut back. The air down here does enough damage without you helping it along." He picked up a handheld scanner, running it over your abdomen. The gel was cold. You stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the water stains, disassociating. This was the part you hated most. The feeling of being inspected. Of being reduced to biology. The machine whirred, chirping softly as it gathered data. Aris watched the monitor, his brows furrowing. He tapped the screen, frowned, and tapped it again. "What?" you asked, your pulse spiking. "Is something wrong? Do I have rot?" "No," Aris said slowly. He glanced at the centrifuge, which had just beeped. He pulled up your blood analysis. His eyes widened slightly. He looked from the screen to you, then back to the screen. He quickly typed a command, deleting something. "Doc?" You sat up, pulling your shirt down. "You're freaking me out." Aris turned to you, his expression uncharacteristically serious. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Your T-cell count is… unusually high. And your regenerative markers? I haven't seen numbers like this since I worked in the Spire labs." "What does that mean?" "It means your body is fighting off the toxicity of the Sector better than 97% of the population," he murmured. "It means you're incredibly resilient. And you're ovulating. Right now. Your hormone profile is… perfect." Panic clawed at your throat. "Perfect" was a dangerous word. "Perfect" got you put on a transport ship. "Perfect" got you assigned to a Man. "Fix it," you whispered, gripping his arm. "Doc, please. Put in the old data. Tell them I'm anemic. Tell them I have radiation sickness. Just don't log that." Aris looked at the door, then back at you. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "I can fudge the local logs, kid. I can tell the Sector Captain you're malnutritioned. But this blood sample?" He gestured to the vial. "This goes to the Central Oracle. It’s an automated uplink. I can't stop it. Once it hits the cloud…" "How long?" you asked, your voice trembling. "Maybe hours. Maybe a day. The system is huge; sometimes it takes time to process the Rust Belt data." He grabbed your shoulder, squeezing hard. "If you have a bolt-hole, go there. If you have credits saved, hide them. If the Algorithm flags you as a Prime Match… you won't be staying in Sector 7." You slid off the table, your legs feeling unsteady. "I'm a nobody, Doc. The Spire doesn't look for nobodies." "They look for biology," Aris said grimly. "And yours just lit up the board like a flare." You didn't go to work that day. You couldn't.Instead, you walked. You walked until your legs burned, trying to outpace the dread settling in your stomach. You moved through the Grand Market, a labyrinth of stalls built into the skeletal remains of an old subway station.The market was the heart of the Rust Belt. It was loud, chaotic, and alive. Here, the oppression of the Spire felt a little further away. You stopped at a stall selling "real" food—suspicious meat on sticks and fried dough. You bought a dumpling with your last few physical credits, eating it while leaning against a graffiti-covered pillar.

Across the way, a massive holographic billboard flickered to life. It showed the Spire—the sparkling, diamond-shaped penthouse levels at the very top. SECTOR 1: PURITY. PROGRESS. PERFECTION. You glared at it. Up there, they lived to be 120. Up there, they had skin that didn't itch and lungs that didn't wheeze. Up there, men like the ones in the dramas—rich, powerful, untouchable—lived in glass castles.You hated them. You hated their perfection. You hated that while you were sweating through a fever dream of poverty, they were probably debating which vintage of wine to drink with their fresh steak. "Hey! Scrapper!" You turned. It was Kael, the foreman of the salvage yard you worked at. He was a brute of a man, half his face replaced by a cheap chrome plate. "You skipped shift," Kael grunted, wiping grease on his pants. "I should dock your pay." "Had a medical check," you lied smoothly. "Dr. Aris thought I had the rot. Kept me for observation." Kael stepped back, eyeing you suspiciously. "You contagious?" "Not anymore. Just low iron." Kael snorted. "Fine. But you owe me double shift tomorrow. A new shipment of old-world servers just came in from the excavation site. High-grade tech. I need small hands to strip the motherboards." "I'll be there," you said. "Better be. Or I give your spot to the kid from Block 9." He walked away, disappearing into the steam of the street food stalls. You exhaled, leaning your head back against the pillar. Tomorrow. You just had to make it to tomorrow. If the Reapers didn't come by tonight, maybe the data got lost. Maybe you were just a glitch in the system. You pulled out your datapad, checking your messages. Nothing. No alerts. No red flags.Maybe Aris was wrong. Maybe you were just lucky.The sun began to set—or rather, the artificial lights of the city shifted from harsh white to amber and purple, signaling the night cycle. The nightlife of the Rust Belt woke up. Music started thumping from the basement clubs—heavy, industrial techno that vibrated in your teeth.You decided to go to "The Circuit," a bar run by a friend of yours. You needed a drink. Something stronger than the chemical water. Something to drown the memory of Aris’s worried face.The bar was crowded, filled with smoke and laser lights. You squeezed your way to the counter, ordering a shot of reactor-grade vodka. It tasted like gasoline, but it burned the fear away.

You stood there, nursing the drink, watching the crowd. People were dancing, fighting, laughing. For all its misery, the Rust Belt had a pulse. It was desperate, sure, but it was real.You didn't want to leave. You didn't want to be scrubbed clean and put in a glass box. Your datapad buzzed in your pocket.You pulled it out, expecting a message from Kael.It wasn't Kael. The screen was black, with a single, spinning gold logo in the center. The symbol of the Ministry of Population. CITIZEN 7-492. LOCATION LOCKED. DO NOT MOVE. RECOVERY TEAM EN ROUTE. The glass dropped from your hand, shattering on the sticky floor.The music seemed to stop. The noise of the bar faded into a dull roar.Location locked. They knew exactly where you were.You spun around, pushing through the crowd, panic exploding in your chest. You had to run. You had to get to the tunnels. If you could make it to the deep-sewers, the scanners couldn't track you.You burst out of the bar into the cool night air, your boots slamming against the wet pavement. You turned into an alleyway, sprinting toward the service ladder that led to the underground. You were fast. You were a runner. You knew these streets better than anyone.

You reached the ladder, grabbing the rusted rungs, hauling yourself up. THWUMP-THWUMP-THWUMP. The sound of heavy rotors beat against the air above you. Bright, blinding spotlights cut through the gloom, pinning you against the brick wall like an insect under a magnifying glass. "CITIZEN, HALT," a voice amplified from the sky boomed, shaking the very stones of the alley.You looked up, shielding your eyes. A sleek, silent dropship hovered above the alleyway. It wasn't the clunky, rusted Peacekeeper transport you were used to. This ship was white, elegant, and shaped like a predatory bird. It bore no Ministry markings—only a sleek, stylized crest in gold. The crest of a private Apex house. The side door of the ship hissed open. Ropes didn't drop. Reapers didn't jump out. Instead, a gravity lift hummed to life, a beam of blue light hitting the ground. Two figures descended, looking completely out of place in the filth of the alley. Reapers. But not the street-level grunts. These were elite guards, wearing armor that looked like ceramic, white and pristine. You froze on the ladder, halfway up. "Go to hell!" you screamed, scrambling upward. A sudden, high-pitched whine filled the air. Your muscles locked. Your hands refused to obey. A paralysis beam. You fell backward, hitting the wet ground with a splash that knocked the breath out of you. You couldn't move. You could only stare up at the rain falling through the spotlight.One of the white-armored guards walked over, looking down at you. "Is she damaged?" a voice crackled over his comms. "Negative," the guard replied. "Target secured. Vitals elevated, but stable." "Bring her up. The Husbands are waiting." The guard bent down, scooping you up as easily as if you were a child. You tried to bite, to scream, but your jaw was locked. Tears of frustration and terror pricked your eyes, mixing with the rain. As they carried you toward the blue light of the gravity lift, you caught one last glimpse of Sector 7—the neon signs, the steam, the trash. Then the light swallowed you, and the world went white.

The room was white. Not the dull, chipped eggshell white of the clinic walls in Sector 7, which were usually stained with things you tried not to identify. This was a blinding, aggressive white. The walls were smooth, seamless panels of some synthetic material that hummed with a low, barely audible vibration. The floor was polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting your scuffed combat boots—the only dirty thing in this pristine box.You had been pacing for what felt like hours. Four steps to the wall, turn. Four steps to the door, turn.You were waiting. For what, you didn’t know. For who, you didn’t want to guess.The last thing you remembered clearly was the blue light of the gravity lift and the terrifying sensation of being paralyzed. Now, you were here. Unbound, but trapped.

"I am not an animal," you muttered to the empty room, your voice sounding small in the acoustic dampening. But that wasn't true, was it? To the people who built rooms like this, that’s exactly what you were. Livestock. A genetic anomaly found in the trash heap, scrubbed off and presented for inspection. The thought made bile rise in your throat. You weren’t some broodmare to be used by a random man, impregnated to fulfill a quota, and then tossed back into the gutter once the baby was weaned if they choose.

You stopped pacing, running a hand through your gritty, matted hair. You felt filthy. The grime of the alleyway, the sweat of your panic, the lingering scent of the Rust Belt—it all clung to you like a second skin. In this room, you felt like a disease. Knock. Knock. The sound was polite. Civilized. It made you jump anyway.The door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. A man stepped inside. He was dressed in a lab coat that was impossibly crisp, wearing glasses that looked like vintage frames but flickered with digital data along the lenses. He smiled—a practiced, professional curvature of the lips that didn't reach his eyes. "Good afternoon," he said, his voice smooth. "I am Dr. Vance. I trust you are comfortable?" "I want to leave," you said, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to hide the tremors in your hands.Dr. Vance chuckled softly, closing the door behind him. "I'm afraid that isn't possible, Citizen. But rest assured, you are in excellent hands. I understand this is… jarring. But we need to verify the initial field reports." He tapped a datapad he was holding. "The scanners in Sector 7 are… resilient, but archaic. They operate on old-world algorithms that have a margin of error of nearly 4%. For a match of this magnitude, we require precision. I need to run a full diagnostic panel." "My results were fine," you snapped. "Dr. Aris said—" "Dr. Aris is a field medic working with rusted tools," Vance interrupted gently but firmly. "I am the Head of Genetics for Sector 3. Please. Follow me."

He opened the door again and gestured to the hallway. You hesitated. You could fight him. You could try to run. But you had no weapon, no idea where you were, and the corridor outside looked endless. Reluctantly, you stepped out. If the room was clean, the hallway was opulent. You realized with a jolt that you weren't in the Spire yet. This was Sector 3—the buffer zone. The Middle high Class. The professionals. The clinic was like nothing you had ever seen. The air smelled of synthesized lavender and ozone, a sweet, calming scent that was pumped through hidden vents. Soft, ambient music played from nowhere and everywhere at once. The floor was a soft, yielding material that muffled footsteps. People passed by—nurses in sleek blue uniforms, patients sitting in floating chairs.They looked… soft. Their skin was clear. their clothes were fitted and devoid of patches or grease stains. No one looked hungry. No one looked like they were carrying a knife in their boot. As you walked behind Dr. Vance, heads turned. You saw the looks. The wrinkled noses. The quick, judgmental scans of your baggy, dirty cargo pants and the mud caked on your jacket. You shrank in on yourself, feeling like a smudge of dirt on a pristine white tablecloth. "This way," Vance said, oblivious to your shame, leading you into a large laboratory.

The equipment here looked like more advanced high technology compared to the rusted centrifuges of the slums. Massive, ring-shaped scanners hovered in the air. Robotic arms moved with silent precision, mixing fluids in glass vials.For the next hour, you were poked, prodded, and scanned. But unlike Sector 7, there were no cold metal clamps, no rough handling. You stood inside a beam of light that warmed your skin as it mapped your DNA. You breathed into a tube that tasted like mint. It was invasive, yes, but it was terrifyingly efficient. "Excellent," Vance mumbled, watching streams of data cascade down a holographic wall. "Truly remarkable respiratory filtration. And the metabolic rates… yes. The Husbands will be pleased." The word made your stomach twist. Husbands? "You're done," Vance said finally, turning off the holo-wall. He looked you up and down, his nose wrinkling slightly for the first time. "We cannot send you to the handover looking like… this. The sanitation protocols in Sector 1 are strict." He led you back down the hall, but not to the waiting room. He stopped in front of a door marked Decontamination Suite. "There are fresh clothes inside. Wash up. Be thorough," Vance instructed. "I will return shortly."The door slid shut, leaving you alone. You turned around and gasped. The bathroom was larger than your entire apartment. It was tiled in something that looked like real marble, warm to the touch. In the center was a glass enclosure—the shower. There was also a seating area.

You stripped off your clothes, setting the heavy dirty boots into the corner. You peeled off the socks that were practically glued to your feet, shivering as the cool air hit your skin. You felt vulnerable, naked in this palace of hygiene.You stepped into the glass enclosure.There were no knobs. No levers. No rusted pipes sticking out of the wall. There was just a sleek, black panel embedded in the glass. "Okay," you whispered. "How hard can this be?" You poked the screen. Nothing. You swiped it. A menu flashed too fast for you to read. You tapped again, and the lights in the shower turned neon pink. You groaned, tapping frantically to turn them back. "Work, damn it!" you hissed, slamming your palm against the panel in frustration. beep-boop "Hello!" A voice chirped—bright, happy, and disembodied. "It seems you are experiencing user difficulty! Would you like assistance?" You jumped back, slipping slightly on the wet floor. "Who said that?" "I am the San-Unit 5000 Assistant!" the voice replied from a speaker overhead. "I detect elevated heart rate and frustration. Would you like a standard cleanse cycle?" You stared at the ceiling. "I just… I just want water. Warm water. Not boiling." "Acknowledged! Setting temperature to 100.4 degrees Fahrenheit. Pressure: Moderate. Enjoy your cleanse!" A soft hiss sounded, and water began to fall from the ceiling—not in a hard jet, but like a gentle, warm rain.You stepped under it, bracing yourself for the smell of chlorine or rust.It didn't come.The water was… nothing. It was pure. It tasted like rain from a storybook. It felt silky against your skin. You opened your mouth, letting it run over your tongue, marveling at the lack of chemical aftertaste. This was the "clean water" Aris had talked about, the kind reserved for the upper sectors.

It felt like liquid gold.You grabbed the bar of soap resting on a magnetic shelf. It smelled of oat milk and honey. You scrubbed. You scrubbed until your skin was pink, watching the grey water swirl down the drain, carrying the Dust of Sector 7 with it.Washing your hair was a battle. The shampoo was thick and luxurious, lathering instantly, but your hair was a bird's nest of tangles and grit. You worked through it patiently, wincing as you used a wide-toothed comb you found on the shelf to rip through the knots. When you finally stepped out, wrapped in a towel that was fluffier than your mattress, you felt lightheaded. You looked at the clothes laid out on the bench.

They were simple. A pair of soft, grey linen trousers and a matching long-sleeved tunic. No zippers, no buttons, just fabric that felt like water. You put them on, the material draping over your body loosely. You looked over at your boots before putting them back on. You stood in front of the mirror. You barely recognized yourself. The grime was gone. Your skin was still grey but clean. Your hair, pulled back into a wet bun, revealed the sharp angles of your face. But your skin… it still looked rough. Windburned from the scrapyards. Pores clogged with years of smog. "User alert!" the AI chirped again. "Biometric scan detects epidermal dehydration and micro-abrasions. Would you like to initiate the Derma-Repair protocol?" You blinked at the mirror. "The what?" "Skincare!" the AI clarified cheerfully. "To restore optimal barrier function." A panel in the wall beside the mirror slid open with a soft whoosh. A tray extended, holding three small jars that glowed with a faint inner light. "Step 1: Exfoliating Enzyme," the AI instructed. "Apply to face in circular motions." You hesitated, dipping a finger into the first jar. It was cool and smelled like cucumbers. You rubbed it on your cheeks. It tingled. "Step 2: Hydration Serum." You followed the instructions, feeling like a child playing dress-up. The serum sank into your skin instantly. "Step 3: Barrier Seal." By the time you finished, you looked back at the mirror and touched your cheek. It was smooth. Impossible smooth. The redness around your nose was gone. The rough patches on your forehead had vanished. Your skin glowed with a health you hadn't possessed ten minutes ago. "What kind of magic is this?" you whispered, turning your face side to side. The door to the bathroom opened. Dr. Vance stood there. He paused, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the transformation. The dirt, the anger, the grime—it had all been washed away, leaving someone who looked… undeniably striking. "Remarkable," Vance murmured, a genuine smile touching his lips, he looked at your boots but didn’t say anything. "You clean up very well, Citizen." He gestured to the small table in the corner of the room. "Please. Sit." You sat, folding your hands in your lap, suddenly acutely aware of how expensive the clothes felt. Vance sat opposite you, placing his datapad on the table. His smile was bright. Too bright. It was the smile of a salesman who had just closed the deal of a lifetime. "I have excellent news," Vance began, tapping the screen. "The in-depth analysis confirms everything.

In fact, your genetic profile is even more compatible than we initially thought. You aren't just a match; you are a biological key." He looked at you expectantly. "Okay," you said slowly. "So… what does that mean for me? Do I get paid? Do I go home after?" Vance laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Home? No, my dear. It means you will proceed immediately with the placement. The Husbands have been notified of your compatibility." You frowned. "You keep saying that. 'Husbands'. Plural." "Yes," Vance nodded. "Two of them." You stared at him. "That's… that's not common." "In Sector 3? Not common. In Sector 7? Unheard of," Vance agreed. You shifted uncomfortably. In the slums, same-sex relationships happened, of course. But you kept it quiet. You hid it. Because to the Ministry, two men or two women together were a dead end. They were "resource sinks"—consuming food and water without producing the next generation of workers. If the Peacekeepers found a same-sex couple in the slums, they were forcibly separated and reassigned to "productive" partnerships. It was brutal. It was efficient. "So," you swallowed hard. "They're… exempt? From the separation laws?" "Money buys many things, even exemption from biological tyranny," Vance said dryly. "But these two men… they are not just rich. They are Sector 1 Apex." He swiped the screen, turning the datapad toward you. Two faces appeared. "Jay," Vance pointed to the man on the left. He was terrifyingly handsome—dark hair, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes that looked like they could stare through a lead wall. "Heir to the Valeris Defense Corp. His family designs the walls that keep the air inside the city." Vance pointed to the second man. He had softer features, messy brown hair, and a grin that looked like trouble. "And Jake. Son of the Founder of the Neural-Link network. He owns the AI systems that run… well, everything. Including the shower you just used." You looked at the faces. They didn't look like people. They looked like gods. "Jay paid a premium," Vance said, his voice lowering confidentially. "A staggering amount of credits to ensure a 'Healthy Female.' He is… particular. He has a phobia of weakness, of sickness. He wants his heir to be perfect. That is why they need you. Your blood is stronger than anyone in their social circle." Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Sector 1," you whispered. You had thought you were going to Sector 4, maybe Sector 3. But Sector 1? The Spire? That was a different planet. The air up there was different. The gravity felt different. "How am I supposed to survive there?" you asked, your voice trembling. "I don't know their rules. I don't know how to… be like them. They're going to eat me alive." "Perhaps," Vance said unhelpfully, standing up and smoothing his coat. "But you are resilient. That is why you are here." A chime sounded through the room. A soft, blue light pulsed above the door. Vance checked his wrist unit and his smile widened. "Ah," he said, looking at you with a mix of pity and excitement. "That is the docking alert." He walked to the door and opened it. "Prepare yourself," Vance said. "Jay and Jake has arrived personally to collect you. Jay does not like to be kept waiting."

The silence in the waiting room was not peaceful; it was predatory. Dr. Vance had slipped out moments ago, the door sealing shut with a heavy magnetic thud that vibrated through the soles of your soft, clinic-issued shoes. You were alone in the pristine white box, the air scrubbed so clean it felt thin in your lungs. You paced again. Four steps to the wall, turn. Four steps to the observation window, turn. You felt like a feral cat that had been washed, shaved, and shoved into a show cage, waiting for the judges to decide if you were worth the ribbon or the incinerator. Your heart hammered a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs. Husbands. Plural. Sector 1 Apex. The words bounced around your skull, terrifying and absurd. You had spent your life dodging Peacekeepers and scraping copper wire for credits in the acid rain, and now you were being packaged and sold to the gods of the Spire. Knock. Knock. It made you jump, your hands balling into fists at your sides.

Breathe, you told yourself, grounding your weight in your heels. You are a Runner. You are a Scrapper. Do not let them see you shake. The door hissed open.Dr. Vance reappeared first, stepping aside and bowing his head deeply, his posture radiating a frantic sort of subservience. "Mr. Park. Mr. Sim," Vance murmured, his voice trembling with reverence.“She is ready." The air in the room shifted instantly. It wasn’t a draft. It was a change in pressure, a sucking of the oxygen out of the space as the first man stepped across the threshold. It was Jay.He was a monolith. A towering figure of dark elegance that seemed to absorb the clinical light of the room. He was dressed in a suit that was tailored to a microscopic degree of perfection—charcoal black, pressing against broad shoulders that spoke of engineered nutrition and combat training. His white shirt was crisp, the black tie knotted with severe precision.He moved with a lethal, predatory grace, stopping just inside the room. His presence was overwhelming, a wall of cold dominance. Then the smell hit you. It rolled off him in a wave, suffocatingly intense. He smelled heavy and clean—like crushed pine needles frozen in ice, mixed with the sharpness of expensive cologne and the metallic tang of ozone. It was the smell of a storm that had been sterilized. It invaded your senses, coating the back of your throat, making it hard to breathe anything else.He didn't speak. He stood perfectly still, his hands hanging loosely by his sides, his dark eyes locking onto you with the intensity of a targeting laser.

He was assessing you. Not as a person, but as a structural flaw in his perfect life that he had to manage. His gaze swept over your face, your hands, your posture, dissecting you layer by layer. Then, the second man drifted in behind him. If Jay was the void, Jake was the supernova. He stepped around Jay with a bounce in his step, effortlessly breaking the tension Jay had just strangled the room with. He wasn't wearing a suit. He was dressed in what passed for "casual" in the Spire—loose, black trousers that looked like liquid silk, and a structured black jacket with a deep neckline. He wore no shirt underneath, exposing the smooth, golden expanse of his chest and collarbones. A heavy, silver chain necklace rested against his skin, catching the light and glinting with every movement.He brought a different scent with him.Warmth. It washed over the sterile chill Jay radiated, smelling of heated honey, rich vanilla, and something spicy, like old-world cinnamon. It was sweet, cloying, and deceptively comforting. "Is this her?" Jake asked, his voice light and airy, humming with curiosity.

He walked past Dr. Vance without a glance, moving straight toward you. He tucked his hands into his pockets, tilting his head to the side, his dark hair falling softly over his forehead. He looked boyish, almost innocent, if not for the sharpness in his eyes. "Citizen 7-492," Dr. Vance supplied quickly from the doorway. "[Y/n] [L/n]." You stiffened as Jake stopped just two feet away from you. He invaded your personal space without a second thought, treating your boundaries as mere suggestions. He leaned in, sniffing slightly, his eyes widening.

"Wow," Jake breathed, a smile playing on his lips. He turned his head to look back at Jay, his eyes sparkling with delight. "Vance wasn't lying, Jay. Look at her. She cleans up… incredibly well." He looked back at you, his gaze roving over your face with a detached fascination. "I expected you to look more… jagged? You know how the Rust Belt girls usually are. The malnutrition makes the bone structure all sharp and angry. Sunken eyes. Crazy Grey skin." He chuckled softly, stepping even closer, reaching out a hand as if to touch your cheek. "But your skin… it's actually soft. The AI really fixed you up. I thought the acid rain turned everyone down there into leather." The words hung in the air, wrapped in honey and warmth, delivered with a smile that was completely devoid of malice. That was what made it worse. He wasn't trying to be cruel. He was just oblivious. To him, stating that you should look like a leather-skinned mutant was just a biological observation. A fact of life for the 'lesser' beings of the Rust Belt. He spoke about your poverty, your struggle, your life, as if it were a biological defect he was graciously overlooking. Rage, hot and white, flared in your chest. It burned away the fear. It burned away the awe. "We don't all look like monsters just because we don't bathe in filtered water," you snapped, your voice cutting through the polite silence like a serrated blade.

Jake’s hand was inches from your face. Without thinking, you raised your hand and slapped his wrist away—hard. The sound of skin on skin echoed sharply in the quiet room. "And I am not a petting zoo exhibit," you hissed, your eyes blazing. "Keep your hands to yourself." The silence that followed was deafening. Dr. Vance made a strangled, horrified noise in the back of his throat, looking as if he wanted to dissolve into the floor tiles. Jake blinked, his hand hovering in the air where you had struck it. He didn't look angry. He looked… stunned. And then, slowly, a wide, delighted grin spread across his face. But Jay moved. The air pressure in the room dropped. The storm broke. In two long strides, Jay crossed the distance between the door and you. He didn't run; he blurred. Suddenly, he was there, looming over you, a wall of charcoal wool and terrifying dominance. "Watch your tone," Jay growled.

His voice was a low rumble that vibrated in the soles of your feet. It was deep, dangerous, and absolutely commanding. His dark eyes, which had been impassive a moment ago, were now narrowed into slits of cold fury. "You are speaking to a Sector 1 Apex," Jay said, his voice dropping to a whisper that was louder than a scream. He crowded you, forcing you to step back until your hips hit the edge of the table. "You do not touch him. You do not snap at him. You stand there, and you be grateful we didn't leave you to rot in the gutter." You looked up at him, craning your neck to meet his gaze. He smelled of ozone and power, suffocatingly close. Your instincts screamed at you to submit, to look down, to bare your neck. But you were a runner. You survived on spite. "Grateful?" you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest to hide the way your hands were shaking. You forced yourself to hold his gaze, refusing to blink. "For what? Kidnapping me? Stripping me? Inspecting me like cattle? I didn't ask for your charity, Sir." Jay’s jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. He leaned down, his face inches from yours. You could see the darknes in his irises, burning with irritation. He looked like he wanted to grab you by the back of the neck and force you to your knees right there on the pristine floor.

"You have a mouth on you," Jay murmured, his eyes tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. "I don't like bratty behavior, Citizen. And I have very effective ways of fixing it." Your breath hitched. The threat hung heavy and real between you. You saw the promise of discipline in his eyes—assessing exactly how much pressure it would take to make you break."Jay," a soft voice cut in.A hand landed on Jay’s tense shoulder. Long, elegant fingers curled into the expensive fabric of his suit jacket.

Jake stepped up beside his husband, leaning his chin on Jay’s shoulder, looking at you with sparkling, amused eyes. He wasn't offended by your slap. He was thrilled by it. "Relax, baby," Jake cooed, rubbing his cheek against Jay’s shoulder, the silver chain on his chest clinking softly. "Don't scare her yet. She's just… spirited. I like it." Jay didn't look away from you. His gaze pinned you in place. "She's disrespectful. She needs to learn her place." "She will," Jake promised, his voice dripping with that warm honey sweetness. He moved his hand to Jay’s chest, rubbing soothing circles over his heart, acting as the grounding wire for Jay's rising temper.Jay exhaled a sharp breath through his nose. The tension in his shoulders didn't disappear, but it shifted. He glanced at Jake, his expression softening by a fraction—just a fraction—before looking back at you with cold, lingering annoyance. "Fine," Jay grunted.He stepped back, giving you space to breathe, though his presence still filled the room like a heavy fog. He turned to Dr. Vance, who looked like he was about to pass out. "She's adequate," Jay stated flatly, adjusting his cuffs. "We'll take her." "Excellent!" Vance squeaked, rushing forward with his datapad, eager to diffuse the tension. "Just a few signatures here, Mr. Park. Transfer of custody, medical liability waivers, the usual NDA regarding the genetic line…"

Jay took the stylus, turning his back to you. He signed the documents with quick, aggressive strokes. He didn't even read them. He was over the law; he didn't need to read it. His posture was rigid, his suit jacket straining slightly across his broad shoulders as he leaned over the desk. Jake stayed near you, rocking back on his heels. He watched you with a lazy, predatory smile, idly twisting the silver chain around his finger. "I didn't mean to offend you, by the way," Jake said, his voice lowered so only you could hear. "About the skin thing. It was a compliment. You're very… pretty. For a scrapper." You glared at him, your chest heaving. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

Jake chuckled, a low, melodic sound that vibrated in the quiet room. He winked at you. "Come on, Sector Seven. Let's get you home." The transition was abrupt.Dr. Vance escorted the men to a side office to finalize the transaction—because that’s what it was, a transaction—while two clinic workers, dressed in clinical blue, flanked you."This way, Citizen," one of them said. It wasn't a request.You were led out of the exam room and down a different corridor, this one wider and lined with observation windows. You kept your head down, acutely aware of the thin metal tracking cuff Dr. Vance had clamped onto your wrist back in the exam room. It hummed against your pulse, a constant, low-frequency reminder that you were property now.It felt like a walk of shame, though you had done nothing wrong. Nurses, doctors, and wealthy patients pressed themselves against the walls as you passed, not because they feared you, but because the clinic staff were clearing the way for "High Priority Asset Transport."You reached the end of the hall. The blast doors hissed open, revealing the private docking bay.

The hangar was cavernous, smelling of recycled air and cold metal. And there it was.It wasn't a ship. It wasn't a public transport shuttle. It was a car.A sleek, obsidian hover-car, low to the ground, hovering silently a few inches off the deck on a magnetic cushion. The undercarriage glowed with a faint, amber pulse that reflected off the polished hangar floor. The windows were tinted so dark they looked like oil slicks, swallowing the light. Etched in subtle silver on the rear door was the crest you would soon learn to dislike: The Park family crest.A driver, dressed in a crisp black uniform that matched the car’s finish, stood rigid by the rear passenger door. He stared straight ahead, a statue of servitude."Get in," the clinic worker commanded, nudging you forward.The driver opened the door with a gloved hand. You climbed inside, the heavy scent of the interior hitting you instantly. It smelled intensely of Jay—that heavy, expensive leather and ozone scent—mixed with the lingering sweetness of Jake’s vanilla cologne.You slid all the way across the bench seat to the far window, pressing yourself against the door, trying to create as much distance as possible. The leather was suffocatingly soft, molding instantly to your body.Through the tinted window, you watched the glass doors of the clinic office slide open. They emerged.Jay walked with a military cadence, purposeful and direct, buttoning his suit jacket as he checked his wrist comm with a frown. Jake sauntered beside him, his hands in his pockets, the silver chain around his neck catching the hangar lights. He leaned into Jay, whispering something that made the taller man’s rigid posture relax, just a fraction.They looked like a normal couple. Happy. Rich. In love.

Two gods walking toward their chariot. They approached the car. The driver held the door open wider.Jake got in first. He slid into the middle, right next to you. His thigh brushed yours, warm and solid through the expensive fabric of his trousers.Jay entered last. He took the seat on the other side of Jake, sealing the exit. The door thudded shut with a heavy, pressurized seal that cut off all sound from the outside world."Home, Seochul," Jay said to the front of the car."Yes, Mr. Park."Jay tapped a panel on the armrest. A black partition slid up between the driver’s cabin and the rear seats, clicking into place.

The glass turned opaque instantly. You were trapped in a soundproofed, bulletproof leather box with them.The car didn't lurch; it simply ceased to acknowledge gravity. With a smooth surge of power, the vehicle glided out of the hangar bay and into the open sky lanes of Sector 3.Outside, the city blurred into streaks of neon and grey. Inside, the atmosphere was maddeningly domestic, despite the tension radiating off you."The neural interface for the new grid is lagging by point-zero-three seconds," Jake said, leaning his head back against the headrest. He spoke casually, tossing words into the air like they were nothing more than weather talk, ignoring the fact that his shoulder was practically pressing into yours. "I told the dev team that if they don't patch the latency, the cognitive feedback loop could fry a user's frontal lobe. But, you know. Engineers."Jay, sitting on the other side of him, pulled a slim holographic tablet from his jacket pocket. He scrolled through data streams with sharp, precise movements. He had discarded the stoic statue persona he wore in the clinic, trading it for a relaxed, predatory competence."Fire them," Jay said without looking up. His voice was a low rumble that filled the enclosed space. "If the grid fails, the defense perimeter desynchronizes.

I’m not paying for lag, Jake. I’m paying for perfection." "I know, I know," Jake sighed dramatically, sinking lower in the seat, his legs stretching out. "I'll wipe the team tomorrow. Start fresh with the Sector 2 grads. They’re hungrier anyway."You stared out the side window, pressing your shoulder against the cold glass, trying to merge with the door frame. They were talking about firing people—ruining lives—and potentially frying brains with the same casual tone one might use to discuss a dinner menu.This was their world. A world of "wiping teams" and "latency." Your world was counting copper wires to buy a loaf of algae bread.You tried to regulate your breathing. Don't engage. Don't give them anything.But the back seat was intimate, and Jake Sim was not a man who allowed things to be ignored.He turned his head, his cheek resting against the leather, looking at you from mere inches away. The proximity was overwhelming."You're very quiet," Jake observed, his dark eyes locking onto yours. He smiled, that syrupy, warm expression that made your skin crawl because it felt so genuine. "Most people usually have a lot of questions by now. 'Where are we going?' 'Am I going to die?' That sort of thing."You kept your jaw clamped shut. You focused on the reflection of Jay’s profile in the darkened privacy glass. Don't speak.

"Not a talker?" Jake teased. The scent of warm honey wafted from him, cloying in the recycled air. "Or are you just sulking because Jay scolded you back there?" "Leave her be, Jake," Jay’s voice cut in. He didn't look up from his tablet, but his tone was a warning. "She’s overwhelmed. The sensory input of a clean environment is probably shocking to her system." "I'm not overwhelmed," you snapped before you could stop yourself. The words tore out of your throat, rough and defensive. You turned your head to glare at Jake. "I just have nothing to say to you."Jake’s eyebrows shot up, delight flickering in his eyes. He shifted, turning his body slightly more toward you, effectively boxing you in against the door. He looked at you like you were a fascinating puzzle box he couldn't wait to crack open. "Oh, there she is. I knew there was more in there."He tilted his head, his gaze dragging over your face, taking in the clean skin, the neat bun, the clean clothes. "So, tell me. What does a… 'scrapper' do, exactly? Jay briefed me on the file, but the data is so dry. Do you just… find things?" You stared at him in disbelief. He asked it with the innocent curiosity of a child asking why the sky was blue. "We scavenge," you said coldly. "We crawl into the ruins of the Old World buildings that collapsed because of the wars your families started. We strip copper, fiber optics, rare earth magnets. Anything we can sell to the recycling plants so they can melt it down and build…" You gestured vaguely around the opulent interior of the hover car. "…this." "Fascinating," Jake hummed, completely missing the venom in your tone. "It’s like archeology, but dirty. Did you ever find anything cool? Old tech? Data drives?"

"I found a dead body once," you said flatly, enjoying the way his smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "A jumper from Sector 5. Hit a girder on the way down. We stripped his boots because they were worth more than his life."On the other side of the seat, Jay finally looked up from his tablet. He leaned forward slightly to look past Jake, his dark eyes locking onto you. They were sharp, assessing. He didn't look horrified; he looked clinical. He was weighing the trauma in your voice against the defiance in your eyes.Jake, however, recovered quickly. He let out a low whistle. "Rough. That’s… really intense. You’re like a little survivor, aren’t you?"He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair near your ear. "It’s amazing you didn't turn out harder. You’re so small." You slapped his hand away again. In the tight confines of the back seat, the movement was sharp and aggressive."Stop touching me," you hissed, pressing your back into the leather. "I am not a dog you rescued. And I am not a 'survivor' for your entertainment. I am a prisoner."Jake pulled his hand back, pouting slightly. "Prisoner is such an ugly word. We prefer 'guest'."

"Guests can leave," you countered. "Guests who will be carrying the future of the Park line cannot," Jay said.Jay closed his tablet with a snap. He leaned back, his broad shoulders brushing against Jake’s, presenting a unified wall of male dominance. "Jake is trying to be polite," Jay said, his voice dropping to that dangerous rumble. "He is trying to make you feel welcome. You would do well to reciprocate, rather than acting like a feral animal backed into a corner." "I am backed into a corner," you spat. "You bought me. You strapped a tracker to me. You’re taking me to a place I can't escape. What part of this situation screams 'polite conversation' to you?"Jay’s eyes narrowed. He looked at you the way a wolf looks at a rabbit that has the audacity to bite back—annoyed, but intrigued."You have a fundamental misunderstanding of your position," Jay said softly. "You think we took you because we wanted a toy? We took you because you are necessary. We are saving you from a life of stripping boots off corpses. We are giving you a purpose."

"My purpose was my own," you argued, though your voice shook slightly. "It wasn't much, but it was mine." "And now you are ours," Jay corrected. "Accept it. The sooner you stop fighting the current, the easier you will float." "I don't float," you muttered, crossing your arms and turning back to the window. "I sink."Jake laughed. He clapped his hands together, breaking the tension. "She sinks! That’s cute. She’s got a gloomy poetic side, Jay. I told you I liked her."Jake settled back, seemingly unbothered by your hostility. "Don't worry, Scrapper. You won't sink in Sector 1. We have anti-gravity pools. You literally can't sink."You looked out the window, grinding your teeth. There was no winning with them. Jay was a wall of immovable authority, and Jake was a cloud of oblivious privilege. One wanted to break you; the other wanted to study you.The car banked sharply, the nose angling upward.For the last twenty minutes, you had been ascending through the grey murk of the Middle Sectors—an endless sprawl of steel, neon, and little rain. But now, the clouds outside the tinted window were thinning. The grey was turning to a bruised purple, and then, suddenly, blinding white.The hover car punched through the cloud layer.

You gasped involuntarily, shielding your eyes.Sunlight. Real, unfiltered, golden sunlight flooded the cabin, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. It was so bright it hurt your eyes, accustomed to the eternal twilight of the slums.Below you, the clouds formed a rolling ocean of grey, hiding the rot of the world you knew. But above… Sector 1. The Spire.It was a city built of glass and light. Massive, crystalline towers spiraled upward, connected by translucent sky-bridges that looked like spiderwebs made of diamonds. Greenery—actual, living trees and vines—spilled over the edges of terraces, vibrant and impossible. The air up here didn't look thick or heavy. It looked clear."First time seeing the sun?" Jay asked. His tone wasn't mocking; it was quiet. He was watching your reaction."It's… too bright," you whispered, squinting. "You get used to it," Jake said softly, looking past you out the window. "It’s better than the neon, isn't it?"You didn't answer. It was beautiful. It was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. And you hated it. You hated it because every beam of light up here was paid for by the darkness down below. You hated it because it was a paradise built on a graveyard. "Approaching private docking spire: Park Estate," the driver’s voice came over the intercom, muffled slightly.The car slowed, gliding toward the tallest of the towers. It was a monolith of black glass and white stone, piercing the sky like a spear. The top of the tower wasn't just a building; it was an ecosystem. You could see waterfalls cascading down the sides, disappearing into mist before they hit the levels below."Home sweet home," Jake chirped.The car descended onto a private landing pad that extended from the side of the penthouse. The landing was feather-light, the magnetic cushions disengaging with a soft hiss. The engine whined down into silence.The privacy partition slid down. "We have arrived, Sir," the driver said. "Thank you, Seochul," Jay replied.The driver got out and opened the rear door on Jay’s side. The sudden rush of wind was shocking. Jay Stepped out and Jake and you followed.

The wind on the landing pad had been fierce, a tangible force that tried to push you back toward the edge, but the moment you stepped across the threshold of the penthouse, the world went silent. The massive double doors hissed shut behind you, sealing with a heavy, magnetic thud that resonated in the hollow of your chest. The roar of the wind, the hum of the hover-car, the distant thrum of the city below—it all vanished, replaced by an aggressive, manufactured tranquility. You stood on black marble that was polished to such a high sheen it looked like you were standing on the surface of a dark lake. Above you, the ceiling soared twenty feet high, dominated by a chandelier that didn't use bulbs but instead seemed to trap and refract natural sunlight through a thousand suspended crystals. It was a cavern of gold and glass, a cathedral built to the worship of excess.

Jay walked past you without breaking stride. He didn't look at the architecture; he didn't look at the view. To him, this wasn't a marvel; it was just a Tuesday. He was already unbuttoning his suit jacket, his movements sharp and clipped, shedding the layers of his public persona now that he was behind his own walls. He didn't turn to look at you. He was speaking to the air, or perhaps to Jake. You were just a piece of furniture that happened to have ears. "I have a briefing with the Council in ten minutes regarding the perimeter breach in Sector 4. I don’t want to be disturbed." He stopped at the base of a sweeping, floating staircase that looked like it was carved from a single piece of white stone. He finally paused, glancing back over his shoulder. His dark eyes swept over you, not with affection, or even interest, but with a cold, inventory-taking glint. He looked at you the way a mechanic looks at a vehicle he’s parked in the garage—checking for scratches, ensuring it’s secure, before walking away. "Get her settled," Jay commanded, his gaze shifting to Jake. "Make sure she understands the boundaries. If she triggers the perimeter alarms, I’m locking her in the panic room until she learns to sit still." "You're so dramatic," Jake chimed in, stepping past you to lean against the banister, grinning at his husband. "Go do your big scary business things. I’ve got the little scrapper."

Jay grunted, a low sound of dismissal. He turned and ascended the stairs, taking them two at a time, radiating an aura of impatience. He didn't look back. He didn't say goodbye. He simply disappeared into the upper echelons of the house, leaving a vacuum of cold authority in his wake. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, your shoulders slumping slightly. But the relief was short-lived. "So!" Jake clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet foyer. He bounced on the balls of his feet, turning his full, beaming attention toward you. "Welcome to the Park Estate. Or, as I like to call it, the only place in the city where you can home." He gestured for you to follow him, walking backward into the main living area. "Come on. Don't be shy. The floor is heated, by the way. Geothermal piping. We pipe the heat all the way up from the core, refine it, and cycle it through." You took a hesitant step, your dirty boots hard on the marble. You could feel it—a subtle, unnatural warmth seeping through the soles. It made you sick. In Sector 7, the geothermal pipes were exposed, leaking steam that scalded skin and rattled the walls of the tenements. Here, they had tamed the earth itself just to keep their toes warm. You followed him into the living room, and your breath caught in your throat.

It wasn't a room. It was a biosphere. The far wall was entirely glass—smart-glass that adjusted its tint based on the sun's position. But inside… inside there were trees. Real trees. Not the stunted, grey things that grew in the hydroponic vats of the Middle Sectors, but towering, slender birches with white bark and vibrant green leaves that rustled in a gentle, artificial breeze circulated by silent vents. A stream—actual running water—cut through the floor, flowing over smooth river stones in a recessed channel, disappearing under the glass wall to a terrace outside. "Do you like it?" Jake asked, watching your face closely. He looked like a child showing off a new toy, eager for validation but completely disconnected from the reality of what he was displaying. "We aimed for a 'Pre-Collapse' aesthetic. Mid-21st Century Nordic, with a touch of neo-brutalism." You stared at the water. It was crystal clear. In the Rust Belt, water was rationed. You got two liters a day for drinking and washing. If you wanted more, you paid triple credits or you drank the brown sludge from the taps and prayed your kidneys could handle the heavy metals. Here, gallons of it were flowing across the floor for decoration. "It's… a lot," you managed to say, your voice tight.

"It's eco-friendly!" Jake chirped, mistaking your horror for awe. He walked over to a wall covered in lush, thick moss and ran his hand over it. "This is a living filtration system. The moss scrubs the CO2 and releases oxygen. It’s way better than those mechanical scrubbers you guys have down in the Dregs. Those things are so loud, right? Like, chug-chug-chug all night?" You stared at him, your nails digging into your palms. "Those scrubbers are the only reason we don't suffocate," you said coldly. "And when they break, people die. We don't have moss walls, Jake. We have rust." Jake paused, his hand still resting on the soft green plant life. He blinked, tilting his head. For a second, you thought you saw a flicker of understanding, but then it was gone, replaced by that insatiable, morbid curiosity.

"Right," he murmured, his eyes dilating slightly. "The struggle. It’s so… raw. You really lived on the edge every day, huh?" He walked back toward you, the silver chain around his neck catching the sunlight. "It must be so boring for you here. No death defying leaps, no fighting for air. Just… peace." He reached out, grabbing your hand. His grip was warm, dry, and surprisingly strong. You tried to pull away, but he held fast, not painfully, but with an casual entitlement that suggested the idea of you denying him was simply impossible. "Come on," he said, tugging you forward. "Let me show you the kitchen. Jay is obsessed with nutrition, so we have an automated hydroponic garden." He dragged you through the house. Every room was a fresh insult. You passed a library filled with physical books—paper books, bound in leather. In your world, paper was fuel for fires. Here, it was decor.You passed sculptures that looked like they were made of liquid chrome, floating on magnetic fields. The wealth was nauseating. It wasn't just money; it was resources. Space. Light. Air. Things that were basic human rights in the history books but were now luxury commodities. "Here we are," Jake announced, pulling you into a kitchen that gleamed with stainless steel and white stone. One entire wall was a vertical garden. Strawberries, leafy greens, herbs—all growing under specialized grow-lights that mimicked the exact spectrum of the sun.

Jake walked over and plucked a strawberry from the vine. It was small, red, and perfect. "Open up," he said, turning to you. You pressed your lips together, shaking your head. "I'm not hungry." "Liar," Jake grinned. "The biometric scan in the car said your blood sugar is dropping. Plus, I know you've never had a real one. The synth-stuff tastes like red chalk." He stepped into your personal space, pressing the berry against your lips. "Eat it, Scrapper. Consider it the first perk of the job." The smell of the fruit was intoxicating—sweet and floral. Your stomach betrayed you, letting out a low growl. Jake’s grin widened. He didn't move his hand. He just waited, his dark eyes sparkling with a mix of kindness and aloofness. He was feeding a stray dog, and he was enjoying every second of it. Reluctantly, hating yourself, you parted your lips. He pushed the berry into your mouth. You bit down, and the flavor exploded on your tongue—tart, sweet, juicy. It was shocking. Real food. Not paste, not algae bars, not rat-meat skewers. Jake watched you chew, his gaze dropping to your lips, tracking the movement. He looked mesmerized.

"Good?" he whispered. You swallowed, looking away. "It's fine." He chuckled, wiping a speck of juice from your lower lip with his thumb. "You're so stubborn. I love it. Jay is going to have a heart attack trying to make you follow the schedule, but I think it’s going to be hilarious." He pulled away, grabbing a bottle of water from a dispenser that looked like a piece of modern art. "Alright, tour's over. You look like you're about to pass out. Let's get you to your quarters." "My cell," you corrected. "Your suite," Jake corrected back, winking. "Potato, po-tah-to." He led you out of the kitchen and down a long, wide corridor lined with windows. This was when it hit you the hardest. The sun. In Sector 7, the 'sun' was a myth. The sky was a permanent bruise of smog and industrial exhaust. Sometimes, at noon, the almost black clouds would lighten to a dirty grey, but you never saw the celestial body itself. You lived in shadow. You lived in the gutter of the world, shrouded in eternal twilight. But here… You stopped walking. You couldn't help it. You turned to the glass wall.

The sun was beginning to set. It was a blazing orb of fire, dipping toward the cloud layer far below. It painted the sky in impossible colors—burnished gold, violent violet, bleeding crimson. It bathed the white hallway in a warm, amber glow that felt like a physical touch. You reached out, pressing your hand against the glass. It was warm. "It’s beautiful, right?" Jake asked, stopping beside you. He wasn't looking at the sunset; he was looking at you, bathed in the golden light. "It's unfair," you whispered, your voice trembling with a sudden, overwhelming rage. You turned to look at him. "You stole it." Jake blinked, confused. "Stole what?" "The sun," you choked out, gesturing to the window. "You built your towers so high that you took the sun for yourselves. Down there… we don't see this. Ever. Kids grow up with rickets because they never see sunlight. Old people die of depression because it's always dark. And you… you just have it. You have it in your hallways. You have it in your chandeliers."

Tears pricked your eyes—angry, hot tears. "You live in the clouds and you let us rot in the dark." Jake stared at you. His smile faded, replaced by a look of genuine perplexity. He looked out the window, then back at you. "But… that's just how the city is built," he said softly, as if explaining gravity to a toddler. "The Spire has to be high to escape the toxicity. If we lived lower, we'd get sick." "So we should get sick instead?" you challenged. Jake shrugged, a graceful, fluid motion. "Someone has to maintain the infrastructure, Scrapper. It’s just… the way things are. The Genetic Recovery Act is trying to fix the population so maybe, one day, we can fix the earth. But until then…" He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "We protect the best DNA. That's why you're here. You're valuable. You're climbing the ladder." He didn't get it. He couldn't get it. He was a creature of light, incapable of understanding the dark. To him, your suffering wasn't a tragedy; it was just the natural order of things, like rain or gravity.

"Come on," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Jay will be checking the trackers. If we stay in the hall too long, he'll think you're trying to chew through a window." He guided you down the rest of the hall, stopping at a heavy door made of white synthetic wood. There was no handle, only a biometric scanner pad. "This is you," Jake said. He pressed his palm to the panel. It beeped green. The door slid open. You stepped inside, and the breath left your lungs. If the rest of the house was a palace, this was the crown jewel of cages. The room was enormous. A king-sized bed sat in the center, covered in linens that looked like spun clouds. A plush rug covered the floor. There was a wardrobe, a vanity, a seating area with a velvet chaise lounge. And, of course, the wall of glass. The entire far wall was a window looking out over the endless sky. But you saw the details. You saw that there were no other doors. You saw that the windows didn't have latches. You saw the small, discreet camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling, its red lights blinking slowly. You saw the panel by the door that only had controls for lights and temperature—not for the lock. "The bathroom is through there," Jake pointed to an archway. "It has a soaking tub. I highly recommend it. Jay picked out the bath salts himself. He's very particular about muscle recovery." He stayed in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He didn't enter. "Dinner is in two hours," Jake said. "The AI will let you know when it's time. A bot will bring you some fresh clothes—something less… clinical." You stood in the center of the room, feeling small. Feeling owned. "Does Jay have a camera feed of this room?" you asked, pointing to the blinking eye in the corner. Jake grinned, sharp and knowing. "We both do, sweetheart. Safety protocol. We have to make sure our investment is safe." He stepped back into the hallway. "Relax, Scrapper," he said, his voice soft, honeyed, and terrifyingly patronizing. "You made it. You're in paradise now." "It feels like hell," you whispered. "That's just the culture shock," Jake winked. "You'll learn to love the view."

He waved his fingers, and the door slid shut. You heard the heavy, mechanical thud of the lock engaging. Silence rushed back in, suffocating and complete. You were alone in a room worth more than your entire sector, trapped behind invisible bars, while the sun you had never known set on a world that had forgotten you existed. You walked to the window, pressing your forehead against the cold, thick glass, and looked down at the ocean of clouds. Somewhere down there, in the dark, people were starving. And up here, you were about to be fed and bred like a prize mare. You sank to your knees on the plush carpet, and for the first time since the Reapers kicked down your door, you let yourself scream. The sound was swallowed instantly by the soundproof walls, heard by no one but the silent, blinking cameras in the corners.

The silence that followed Jake’s departure was not empty; it was heavy, filled with the hum of the perimeter sensors and the thudding of your own heart against your ribs. You sat on the plush carpet for minutes that stretched into eternity, your knees drawn to your chest, staring at the door that had sealed you in. Then, a soft chime announced a visitor. Not a human one. The door slid open with a whisper-quiet pneumatic hiss, and a service bot glided in. It wasn't the rusted, clanking scrap-metal buckets you saw hauling refuse in Sector 7. This machine was a masterpiece of Sector 1 engineering—a sleek, humanoid torso mounted on a silent magnetic-levitation base, finished in a matte white polymer that looked like porcelain. Its "face" was a smooth black screen that displayed two blinking, friendly blue eyes.

It carried mountains of fabric in its articulated arms. The door sealed automatically behind it as it swiveled toward the massive walk-in closet you hadn't even dared to open yet. "Good evening, Citizen," the bot chirped, its voice synthesized to a perfect, non-threatening pitch. "Delivering wardrobe requisitions per House Park specifications." You stood up slowly, watching warily as the bot began to unpack. It moved with blinding speed and efficiency, its arms blurring as it hung garments on the rails. You walked closer, drawn by the sheer volume of it. In the Rust Belt, clothes were currency. You patched what you had until it disintegrated, and then you stole or bartered for someone else’s cast-offs. A new shirt was a luxury. A new coat was a miracle. But this… this was obscene. The bot was hanging row after row of dresses. Some were long, flowing gowns made of shimmering synthetic silk that looked like liquid starlight. Others were short—disturbingly short—cocktail dresses in velvet, satin, and lace, with hemlines that would barely cover your thighs. You reached out, touching the sleeve of a sheer blouse. The fabric was so light it felt like nothing against your calloused fingertips.

There were trousers, too. Tailored slacks in charcoal and navy, high-waisted jeans that weren't stiff with grime but soft and pre-washed. There were skirts with slits up the side, oversized sweaters made of real wool that smelled of lavender, and tunics with intricate embroidery. Then the bot moved to the drawers. It began organizing undergarments. You felt heat rush to your cheeks, a sudden, sharp spike of humiliation. They weren't the functional, grey sports bras and cotton briefs you bought in bulk packs from the black market. These were lace. Silk. Sheer mesh. Balconette bras with gold hardware, thongs that looked like mere scraps of ribbon, garters, and stockings. You stared at a set of black lace lingerie the bot was carefully folding. Did Jay pick this? The thought made your stomach churn. You imagined him scrolling through a catalog with that cold, clinical expression, selecting items based on efficiency or aesthetic appeal. Or was it Jake? You thought of his boyish grin, the way his eyes sparkled when he looked at you. It seemed more his speed—treating you like a doll he wanted to dress up. The thought of him picking out something so intimate, imagining you in it, made your skin crawl in a different, hotter way.

The bot wasn't finished. It opened a flat velvet case on the center island of the closet. Jewelry. Gold chains, diamond studs, bracelets embedded with biometric sensors that glowed softly. In Sector 7, wearing something like this was a death sentence. If you flashed a gold chain in the market, you’d lose the chain and the hand attached to it before you reached the end of the block. Here, it was just… accessories. Baubles to drape over their possession. "Shoe organization commencing," the bot announced. It began lining up footwear on the backlit shelves. Flats with ribbons. Heels—some so high and thin they looked like weapons. Sneakers that were pristine white, without a single scuff. And boots. Beautiful, knee-high leather boots that smelled rich and new. It was all too much. The excess was suffocating. You backed out of the closet, overwhelmed by the sheer monetary value of the things surrounding you. The bot finished its task and turned to you. It held out a specific hanger. "Mr. Sim requested you wear this for the evening meal," the bot said cheerfully. It was a dress. A slip dress made of a pale, dusty pink satin. It was delicate, with thin straps and a cowl neck. It looked soft. It looked romantic.

It looked like something a doll would wear. The bot laid the dress gently on the expansive bed, placing a pair of strappy nude heels next to it. "Dinner is at 1900 hours," the bot reminded you, before gliding out of the room. You stared at the dress on the bed. It was beautiful. And you hated it. You hated it because Jake had picked it out, probably visualizing exactly how that slippery fabric would drape over your hips, how easy it would be to slide off. Wearing it felt like submission.You turned your back on it and headed for the bathroom. If the bedroom was a cage, the bathroom was a spa. The air was warm and humid, scented with eucalyptus. The surfaces were all pale stone and glass. You walked to the counter, which was lined with products. There were rows of glass bottles filled with serums, oils, and toners. Hair care products for every texture—smoothing creams, bonding oils, things you didn't even know existed. In the slums, you used a bar of soap for everything—skin, hair, clothes. Here, there was a specific cream just for your elbows. A section of the counter was dedicated to makeup. Palettes of eyeshadows in earth tones and shimmers, tubes of lipstick in heavy metal casings, blushes, highlighters. You picked up a tube of lipstick, twisting it up. It was a deep berry red. You looked at your reflection in the smart-mirror. The AI assistant in the glass flickered to life.

"Would you like a tutorial on evening application?" a soft female voice asked. "I can project a guide onto your reflection." "No," you whispered, capping the lipstick and setting it down with a sharp click. You didn't want to paint your face. You didn't want to hide behind powders and glosses. You weren't here to look pretty for them. You weren't here to be their eye candy across the dinner table. You washed your face with plain water, splashing the cool liquid over your skin to ground yourself. You cleaned up your bun, smoothing back the flyaways with water, twisting it tight and severe at the nape of your neck. No softness. No loose tendrils to frame your face. You turned and marched back into the closet, ignoring the pink dress lying like an accusation on the bed.

You went to the racks the bot had filled. You shoved past the silk and the lace, looking for something that felt like armor. You found a pair of black trousers—soft material, but structured. You pulled them on. They fit perfectly, of course. The House of Park obviously had your exact measurements down to the millimeter. You found a simple, long-sleeved tunic in a dark grey knit. It was loose, hiding the curve of your waist and the swell of your chest. It was comfortable, modest, and boring. It was the exact opposite of the shimmering, skin-baring things they wanted to see you in. You walked to the shoe wall. The heels glinted under the lights. The new leather boots stood stiff and attentive.

You looked down at your feet. You were wearing the thick, wool socks the clinic had given you, but beside the bench where you had undressed earlier sat your old boots. They were combat boots, scavenged years ago from a dead Peacekeeper. The leather was scuffed to a dull grey, scarred by acid rain and sharp metal. The soles were worn down, the laces mismatched—one black, one dark green. They were caked with the dried, toxic mud of Sector 7. They were ugly. They were dirty. They were yours. You sat on the bench and pulled them on. The familiar weight was comforting. They felt heavy, clunky, and real. You laced them up tight, double-knotting them. When you stood, you felt grounded. You weren't a Sector 1 pet floating on air; you were a runner with dirt on your heels. "Dinner time," you muttered to your reflection in the full-length mirror. The grey tunic, the black trousers, the severe bun… and the filthy, beat-up combat boots. It was a disjointed, ridiculous look. It was perfect. "Citizen," the room’s AI announced. "Dinner is served. Escort Unit 7 is waiting at the door." You walked to the door. It slid open, revealing another bot—this one slightly taller, sleek black instead of white. "Follow me," it chimed. You stepped into the hallway. The sun had fully set now, and the corridor was lit by soft, ambient strips of light running along the floorboards. The house was quiet, vast, and imposing. You followed the bot, your heavy boots thudding dully against the pristine marble floors. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was a satisfyingly aggressive sound in such a quiet house. You hoped it left scuff marks. The bot led you past the living room, past the indoor stream, and toward a set of double doors that stood open.

The dining room was a cavern of shadows and candlelight. The ceiling was high, lost in the gloom, but a long, rectangular table dominated the center of the room. It was made of dark, polished wood, set for three. Above it, a modern chandelier hung low, casting a warm, intimate glow over the surface. And there they were. Jay sat at the head of the table. He had changed from his suit into something slightly more relaxed but no less intimidating—a black turtleneck that emphasized the width of his shoulders and dark trousers. He sat with perfect posture, a glass of red wine in his hand, looking like a king presiding over a court of ghosts. Jake sat to his right. He was wearing a loose, silky shirt in a deep emerald green, unbuttoned low enough to show that silver chain again. He was leaning back in his chair, toying with a fork, looking bored. The bot stopped at the entrance. "Citizen 7-492 has arrived." Jay and Jake both looked up. You wanted to stop. You wanted to stay in the doorway, or better yet, find a corner in the shadows and eat on the floor. But the bot nudged you forward, a gentle but firm pressure on your back.

"Your seat is prepared," the bot said, guiding you toward the chair opposite Jake, to Jay's left. You walked toward the table. Every step was a heavy clomp of your boots against the floor. Jay’s eyes dropped instantly to your feet. He froze. The glass of wine stopped halfway to his mouth. His gaze fixed on the dirty, scuffed leather of your boots, standing out violently against the polished elegance of his dining room. His eyes narrowed, dark and sharp, tracking the mud that was likely flaking off into the grain of his expensive floor. Jake, however, looked at your face first, then your outfit. His smile dropped. His bottom lip jutted out in a genuine, childish pout. "You didn't wear the dress," Jake said, his voice dripping with disappointment. He sounded like a kid who had come downstairs on Christmas morning to find socks instead of toys. "I picked the pink one. It matched your skin tone perfectly." You reached your chair—a high-backed, velvet thing that looked too nice to sit on—and pulled it out with a screech of wood on wood. You sat down, crossing your arms over your chest. "I prefer pants," you said flatly. "But the dress was silk," Jake whined, picking up his fork and stabbing a piece of roasted vegetable. "It was so pretty. You look like a librarian. A librarian who fights people in alleys." "Enough," Jay’s voice cut through the air. It was a low rumble, vibrating with irritation.

Jay set his wine glass down with a deliberate click. He wasn't looking at your face. He was still staring under the table, where your boots were resting against the leg of the chair. "What," Jay asked, his voice icy, "is on your feet?" You looked him dead in the eye. "My boots." "I can see that," Jay said slowly, articulating every syllable like he was speaking to an idiot. "Why are you wearing filth in my dining room? The wardrobe unit provided appropriate footwear. Clean footwear." "These fit better," you lied. "And they're mine. I didn't want to wear the heels. I can't run in heels." "Run?" Jay repeated, arching a dark eyebrow. "Where, exactly, do you plan on running, Citizen? We are a mile in the sky." "Force of habit," you shrugged, reaching for the water glass in front of you. "In Sector 7, if you can't run, you die. I like to be ready." Jay stared at you, his jaw tightening. He looked at the boots again, watching a small flake of dried, toxic mud dislodge from the sole and land on his Persian rug. You saw the muscle in his cheek twitch. He was a man of order, of cleanliness, of absolute control. And you were tracking the literal filth of the undercity into his sanctuary. It irked him. You could see it crawling under his skin. "Take them off," Jay ordered.

"No," you said, taking a sip of water. The silence that slammed into the room was heavy enough to crush bones. Jake stopped chewing. He looked from you to Jay, his eyes widening. A slow, excited grin began to creep back onto his face. He loved the friction. He loved the danger. Jay didn't yell. He didn't explode. He became very, very still. "We will discuss your attire later," Jay said finally, his voice dangerously soft. "And your obedience." He picked up his knife and fork, slicing into the steak on his plate with surgical precision. "Eat." You looked at the table. If the clothes had been overwhelming, the food was incomprehensible. In Sector 7, dinner was a nutrient paste squeezed from a tube, rat meat from vendors, or if you were lucky, a bowl of rehydrated noodles that tasted like salt and plastic. Here, the table groaned under the weight of real food. There was a roast bird of some kind—chicken? Duck? It was golden brown, glistening with herbs and fat. There were bowls of roasted vegetables—carrots, potatoes, green things you didn't have names for. There was a basket of bread that smelled of yeast and warmth. There were heavy ceramic dishes filled with sauces, fruits, and cheeses. It was enough food to feed your entire tenement block for a week. And it was just for the three of you.

The wastefulness of it made you sick. It made your stomach cramp with hunger and nausea all at once. "What's wrong?" Jake asked, watching you stare at the food. "Not hungry? Or do you need me to feed you like the strawberry?" He winked, spearing a piece of meat and holding it out toward you across the table. "I can feed myself," you muttered. You reached for a roll of bread. It was soft, warm, and yielded under your fingers. You tore a piece off and put it in your mouth. It was sweet. Everything here was sweet. "So," Jake said, leaning his elbows on the table, ignoring table manners completely. "Let's get to know each other. Since we're going to be roommates for awhile." "Inmates," you corrected around the bread. "Roommates," Jake insisted. "Jay and I have been together for ten years. We met at the Academy. Jay was the scary guy in the corner who everyone was afraid of, and I was the guy who annoyed him until he fell in love with me."

Jake grinned at his husband. Jay didn't look up from his plate, but the corner of his mouth twitched, a microscopic crack in his armor. "He was a pest," Jay murmured. "He hacked my dorm room security system just to change my alarm clock sound to bird noises." "It was funny!" Jake laughed, turning back to you. "Anyway, we work a lot. Jay is always stressing about the defense grid and the walls. I run the Neural-Link division. Basically, if it has a microchip in this city, I own it." He gestured with his fork. "But having a kid… that's new. We need an heir. Someone to take over the empire when we're too old and boring to run it and to help the population or whatever. That's where you come in." You dropped the piece of bread. "Is that all a child is to you? An heir? An employee you grow from scratch?" Jake blinked. "Well, yeah. And family, obviously. But mostly legacy. What else is there?" You looked at him with genuine pity. He really didn't understand. In the Rust Belt, a child was a tragedy and a miracle. You fought to keep them alive, not to inherit a company, but just to be. "You people are hollow," you said quietly. Jay’s knife screeched against his plate. He stopped cutting. "Careful," Jay warned, his eyes lifting to meet yours. "You are eating my food, wearing my clothes, and sitting in my house. You will show respect."

"I'm wearing my boots," you pointed out. Jay looked at the boots again. His expression darkened. "You are testing the limits of my patience, Y/n," Jay said. "And believe me, my patience is finite." "Jay wants to burn those boots," Jake whispered loudly, leaning across the table like he was sharing a secret. "He's literally vibrating. It's so funny. You should see his heart rate monitor right now." "Jake," Jay snapped. "What? It's true!" Jake laughed. "But seriously, Scrapper. You should try the chicken. It's synthetic-free. Real animal protein. It’ll help with your… you know. The baby-making." You stared at the golden bird. "I'm not pregnant yet," you said. "Give it time," Jay said, taking a sip of wine. His eyes held a dark, heavy promise. "The cycle has begun. We will begin the process soon enough."

Your appetite vanished completely. You pushed your plate away. "May I be excused?" you asked stiffly. "You haven't eaten," Jay noted. "I'm not hungry." "You need calories," Jay stated. "Sit." "I said I'm not hungry." You stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor. Jay stood up too. He moved faster than a man of his size should be able to move. In a second, he was towering over the table, his hands flat on the wood. "Sit. Down," Jay commanded. It wasn't a request. It was an order given by a man who was used to people obeying him. You stood your ground, clutching the edge of the table. "Make me." Jake stopped eating. He watched, his eyes wide, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. He looked absolutely delighted. Jay stared at you.

The air in the room seemed to crackle with ozone. He looked at your defiant face, your clenched fists, and finally, down at your dirty, scuffed combat boots planted firmly on his dining room floor. "If you walk out of this room," Jay said, his voice terrifyingly calm, "I will have the bots strip those boots off your feet and incinerate them while you watch. And then I will feed you myself." You froze. The boots were all you had left of yourself. They were your history. They were your protection. They were the only thing in this godforsaken tower that belonged to you. You glared at him, hate burning in your gut. Slowly, stiffly, you sat back down. Jay held your gaze for a long moment, ensuring your submission was absolute. Then, he sat back down, picked up his knife and fork, and resumed cutting his steak as if nothing had happened. "Good choice," Jay murmured. Jake grinned, popping a piece of potato into his mouth. "So! Who wants dessert?" ——

The door sealed with a finality that echoed in your bones. The heavy, magnetic thud was the sound of a prison cell closing, no matter how much velvet and gold leaf they painted over the bars. Dinner had been a blur of tension and silence. Jake had chattered on, filling the empty air with stories about the Spire’s social season and the latest neural-net upgrades, while Jay had simply eaten with terrifying precision, occasionally grunting an acknowledgement. You had kept your head down, shoving food into your mouth not because you wanted it, but because Jay’s earlier threat about feeding you himself still rang in your ears. Now, you were alone. You sat on the edge of the massive bed, your legs dangling over the side. You were dressed in the sleepwear the bot had laid out earlier—a set of silk pajamas in a deep, midnight blue. The fabric was impossibly soft, slipping against your skin like cool water, but it felt wrong.

It felt alien. You were used to sleeping in oversized t-shirts scavenged from the recycling plants, cotton worn so thin it was almost transparent, smelling of your own sweat and the metallic tang of home. This silk felt like a costume. You looked toward the wall of glass. The view was breathtaking, and you hated it for that. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and now the sky was a tapestry of stars. In Sector 7, you never saw the stars. The smog layer was a permanent ceiling, a shroud of grey and orange reflected light from the neon signs. But up here, above the clouds, the universe was vast and open. It made you feel small. Insignificant. A heavy, suffocating weight settled in your chest. It wasn't just the fear of the them, or the tracking cuff humming against your pulse. It was the crushing loneliness. You were thousands of feet in the air, surrounded by millions of credits worth of technology, and not a single soul knew you were here. Or if they did, they didn't care. To the world below, you were just another number that had vanished from the census. "Why me?" you whispered to the empty room. "Why now?" The unfairness of it burned your throat.

You cursed the year 2108. You cursed the Genetic Recovery Act. You cursed the biology that made you valuable to monsters in suits. Your mind drifted back, unbidden, to the last time you had felt safe. It was a fuzzy, fading memory, more than a decade old. You were thirteen. Your apartment in Block 9 hadn't been much, but it had been warm. Your mother used to hum while she tried to patch the leaks in the ceiling. Your father used to tell stories about the world before the Dust, about oceans that were blue instead of grey sludge. They had been good people. Tired, broken by the system, but good. Then came the Neon-Blue wave. It swept through Sector 7 like a plague. A synthetic drug that promised an hour of euphoria, an hour where you didn't feel the hunger or the cold. It was an escape hatch from hell, and everyone wanted out.

You remembered coming home from school—back when they still let Rust Belt kids go to school—and finding them. They looked peaceful. They were sitting on the couch, hand in hand, heads tipped back. They looked like they were sleeping. But they weren't. Eleven years had passed since you watched the bio-hazard team zip them into black bags and toss them onto the collection cart like refuse. Eleven years of surviving on your own, fighting for every scrap, hardening your heart until it was a stone in your chest. You missed them so much it physically hurt. Your hand twitched, reaching instinctively for the nightstand, your fingers ghosting over the polished wood searching for a pack of Red Dusts. You needed the burn. You needed the smoke to fill your lungs and choke out the grief. But there were no cigarettes here. Just lavender-scented air and emptiness.

A sob tore out of your throat, harsh and jagged. You curled onto your side on top of the covers, pulling your knees to your chest. The tears came hot and fast, soaking into the expensive silk pillowcase. You cried for your parents. You cried for the life you had lost. You cried because you were terrified of what tomorrow would bring. Eventually, the exhaustion of the past hours—the kidnapping, the travel, the terror—dragged you under. The tears dried on your cheeks as you fell into a fitful, dreamless sleep, clutching the silk sheets like a lifeline.

Light. It wasn't the flickering, sickly yellow of the tenement LEDs. It was a warm, golden caress that spread across your face. You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow, trying to escape it. But the warmth persisted. You blinked one eye open, confusing filling your brain. Through the massive glass wall, the sun was rising. It was a blinding ball of fire cresting over the cloud layer, painting the sky in hues of apricot and gold. It was beautiful. You sat up, rubbing your eyes, disoriented. For a split second, you forgot where you were. You expected the sound of the dripping pipe in your bathroom, the shouting of neighbors through thin walls. Instead, you heard a soft mechanical whir. You turned your head and yelped, scrambling backward until your back hit the headboard. "Good morning, Citizen!" The white service bot was standing at the foot of the bed. It had been watching you sleep. Its black screen face displayed a cheerful, animated sun icon. "Jesus!" you gasped, clutching the duvet to your chest, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. "Don't do that! Make a noise or something!" "My servos are calibrated for silent operation to ensure minimal disturbance," the bot replied pleasantly. "Did you rest well? Your REM cycle data indicates significant restlessness." You stared at the machine, your hair a mess, your eyes swollen. "Get out." "I cannot comply," the bot chirped. "I have instructions from Mr. Sim regarding the day's itinerary and wardrobe." The bot swiveled on its magnetic base, gliding toward the massive wardrobe. You watched it, feeling a fresh wave of violation. Even while you slept, they were watching. Analyzing your REM cycles. "Mr. Sim requests your presence for breakfast in one hour," the bot announced from inside the closet. "He has selected an ensemble for the day. He noted that the weather on the terrace will be mild." The bot emerged, its arms laden with fabric. It moved to the foot of the bed and laid the items out with meticulous care.

An olive green skirt that flared slightly at the hem, made of a soft, heavy cotton. A blouse in a creamy tan color with buttons made of mother-of-pearl. A pair of tan kitten heels that looked dainty and completely impractical. And then, placed right on top, a fresh set of undergarments. Black lace. Intricate, sheer, and humiliatingly expensive. You stared at the pile. It was an outfit for a doll. A toy to be dressed up and paraded around. "Is this optional?" you asked, your voice raspy from crying. "Negative," the bot said. "Mr. Sim was quite specific. He wishes to see you in 'earth tones' today. He believes it complements your eyes." You gritted your teeth. Jake. Of course it was Jake. He was playing dress-up again. "One hour," the bot repeated. "Please be prompt. Tardiness is not advised." With a final whir, the bot turned and glided out of the room, the door hissing shut behind it. You threw the covers off, grumbling curses under your breath. You stomped to the bathroom, your bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. You hated how nice it felt. You wanted cold concrete. You wanted something real. The bathroom was bright and steamy as soon as you entered, the AI anticipating your arrival. "Good morning," the bathroom AI greeted you, its voice soft and feminine. "I have prepared the shower. Temperature: 104 degrees." You stripped off the silk pajamas, kicking them into the corner. You stepped into the glass enclosure, letting the hot, pure water wash over you. You scrubbed your skin until it was pink, trying to wash away the feeling of helplessness.

When you stepped out and wrapped yourself in a towel, the smart-mirror flickered to life. It zoomed in on your face. "Analysis complete," the AI chimed. "Detected: Periorbital puffiness and erythema consistent with prolonged crying. Would you like to apply the De-Puffing Cryo-Gel?" You froze, staring at your reflection. Your eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. The machine knew. It cataloged your grief just like it cataloged your dirt. "Fine," you whispered, defeated. "Give me the gel." A panel slid open, presenting a small silver jar. You applied the cold, blue gel under your eyes. It stung pleasantly, tightening the skin. You followed the AI's instructions for the rest of the routine—serum, moisturizer, a tinted balm for your lips. Next was your hair. It was a tangled disaster from tossing and turning. You picked up the high-tech brush provided on the counter. It hummed slightly, detangling without pulling. You slicked your hair back, twisting it into a severe bun again, trying to regain some semblance of control. You used a few pins to secure it, making sure not a single strand escaped. Then came the hard part. You walked back into the bedroom. The clothes were waiting on the bed. You looked at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. The red light blinked slowly. Watching. You grabbed the pile of clothes and marched into the walk-in closet. It was a small rebellion, but it was the only one you had. You found a corner behind a rack of winter coats where the camera angle couldn't reach, and you stripped off your towel.

You pulled on the black lace underwear, your face burning. It felt scandalous against your skin, a secret you were forced to wear. You stepped into the olive skirt. It fit perfectly, cinching at your waist and falling just below your knees. The tan blouse was soft, the buttons cool against your fingers. You looked at yourself in the closet mirror. You looked… nice. Soft. Elegant. You looked like someone who belonged in Sector 1. You hated it. You walked back out into the bedroom. You looked at the bed. The silk sheets were a tangled mess from your fitful sleep. In Sector 7, you made your bed every morning because if you didn't, the dampness would settle into the folds and mold would grow. It was a habit of survival.

You walked over and tried to straighten the sheets. The mattress was big—king size,. You tugged at the corners of the fitted sheet, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. The duvet was heavy, filled with real down, and it was unwieldy. You wrestled with it for five minutes, tucking and smoothing. It didn't look perfect—not like the crisp, hospital corners the bots probably did—but it was done. It was yours. Just as you fluffed the last pillow, the door slid open. The escort bot—a sleek black model this time—stood in the hallway. "Escort required," it stated. "Breakfast service has commenced." You sighed, looking down at the tan kitten heels on the floor. "Right," you muttered. "Torture devices." You slipped your feet into them. They pinched your toes immediately. You stood up, wobbling slightly. You were used to the weight and stability of combat boots. These things felt like walking on toothpicks. "Coming," you snapped at the bot.You walked toward the door, your steps awkward and clunky. Click-clack. Click-clack. You had to focus on every step to keep your ankles from rolling. The bot led you down the hallway.

The morning sun flooded the corridor, blindingly bright. You squinted, keeping your head down, following the silent machine. You reached the dining room. The double doors were open. You braced yourself for the wall of ice that was Jay. You braced yourself for the judgment, the cold stare at your feet to check for mud. But when you stepped inside, the air was lighter. The table was set for two. Jake sat at the side of the table, bathed in sunlight. He was wearing a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking effortlessly angelic. A holographic screen floated in mid-air in front of him, displaying scrolling lines of code and news feeds. He looked up as your heels clicked against the floor.

When he saw you, his face lit up. He swiped his hand through the air, and the holographic screen vanished instantly. "Good morning!" Jake chirped, his voice bright and warm. You walked toward the table, focusing on not tripping. You reached the chair opposite him—the same one you sat in last night—and sank into it with relief, getting your weight off the heels. Jake didn't say anything at first. He just looked at you. His dark eyes started at your face, tracing the cleaner lines of your bun, then dropped to the tan blouse, the cinched waist of the olive skirt. He leaned back in his chair, a slow, pleased smile spreading across his lips. "I knew it," Jake murmured, picking up his coffee cup. "Earth tones. You look amazing." He sounded possessive. Proud. Like he had dressed a mannequin and was admiring his handiwork. You glanced at the empty chair at the head of the table. Jay’s chair. It was pushed in, the place setting removed.

"Where is he?" you asked, your voice quiet. Jake took a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving you. "Jay? He had to leave early. 0600 hours. Big emergency meeting with his father. Something about resource allocation for the defense grid." Jake leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "So," he grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "The scary monster is gone for the day. It's just you and me." Your stomach twisted. Jay was terrifying because he was a wall you couldn't move. But Jake? Jake was a maze you couldn't navigate. And now, you were stuck in the penthouse with him, wearing the clothes he picked out, with no one to rein him in. "Great," you muttered, reaching for the pitcher of juice. "Just you and me." Jake watched you pour the juice, his gaze lingering on your hands. "Don't sound so excited, Scrapper. We have a big day. I cleared my schedule." He winked. "I want to know everything about you." ----

Breakfast ended not with a dismissal, but with a terrifying invitation. "Come on," Jake said, standing up and stretching his arms over his head, the movement causing his linen shirt to pull tight across his chest. "You've barely seen 50 percent of the house. Jay hates giving tours—he thinks pointing at a room and saying 'gym' counts as hosting—but I like the details." He didn't wait for you to agree. He simply assumed you would follow. And with the tracking cuff humming against your wrist and the memory of Jay’s threat about the perimeter defense system fresh in your mind, you didn't really have a choice. You stood up, the tan kitten heels wobbling slightly on the polished floor. You hated them. You hated how they made you walk—delicate, unstable, forcing you to take small, minced steps instead of the long, ground-eating strides you were used to. It felt like another way of hobbling you, stripping away your ability to run. "After you," Jake grinned, gesturing to the door.

The tour that followed was a dizzying ascent into excess. If the first floor was a palace, the second floor was a city unto itself. You took the floating marble staircase, your heels clicking sharply on the stone, echoing in the vast vertical space. Jake bounded up ahead of you, chattering about "load-bearing glass" and "acoustic dampening fields," while you gripped the banister, trying not to look down at the dizzying drop to the foyer below. He showed you a gymnasium that looked more like a high tech training center, filled with chrome machines and anti-gravity treadmills. "Jay tries to spend atleast two hours a morning here," Jake noted, leaning against a weight rack. "He says it keeps his mind sharp. I say he just likes hitting things." He showed you a medical bay that was better equipped than the entirety of Dr. Aris’s clinic in Sector 7.

He showed you a theater with plush velvet seats and a screen that wrapped 180 degrees around the room. "We can watch movies later," Jake promised, noticing you staring at the screen. "Do you like old-world cinema? We have the complete digital archives. Restored 2D, holographic, sensory-immersive—whatever you want." You didn't answer. In the slums, "entertainment" was watching a rat fight over a crust of bread or staring at the static on a broken holoscreen. The idea of a private cinema felt like a joke. Finally, Jake led you down a corridor that ended in a massive set of glass doors. "And this," Jake said, swiping his hand over the sensor pad, "is my favorite spot." The doors slid open, and the wind hit you.

But it wasn't the stinging, acid-laced gale of the lower sectors. It was a gentle, controlled breeze. You stepped out onto the patio. It was enormous, extending out from the side of the tower like a shelf over the abyss. The floor was made of warm, teak-colored synthetic wood. Low, comfortable couches arranged in a circle around a fire pit that burned with smokeless, blue flames. Potted trees—citrus and olive—lined the perimeter, their leaves rustling softly. You walked to the edge. There was no railing. Just a sheet of invisible, reinforced glass that separated you from the mile-long drop. You looked down. The cloud layer was a rolling ocean of white and grey below you. The sun dazzled off the tops of the clouds, bright and blinding.

"How…" you started, your voice breathless. "How can I breathe?" At this altitude, the air should be thin. You should be gasping for oxygen. But instead, your lungs filled with air so rich and pure it made your head spin. It smelled of ozone, citrus, and life. "Atmospheric stabilizers," Jake said, coming up beside you. He pointed to faint shimmering nodes spaced along the perimeter. "They create a pressurized bubble around the terrace. Keeps the oxygen levels optimal, filters out the solar radiation, and blocks the high-altitude winds. It’s basically a forcefield."

You took a deep breath, filling your chest. The air didn't taste like metal. It didn't taste like exhaust. It tasted sweet. You felt a strange sensation wash over you—a lightness in your limbs, a clarity in your mind. It was as if the toxic sludge that had clogged your system for twenty-three years was finally starting to dissolve. You felt like you had just gained twenty years of life in a single inhale. "It's nice, right?" Jake asked softly. You nodded, unable to lie. "It's… clean." "Let's sit," Jake said, guiding you toward the seating area. You sank onto one of the white sofas. It was deep and soft, swallowing you up. Jake sat opposite you, crossing his legs, looking relaxed and golden in the sunlight.

A silent service bot—a smaller, hovering model—glided over to the table between you. It carried a silver tray with a crystal decanter filled with dark red liquid and two long-stemmed glasses. "Wine," Jake announced. "A vintage Pinot Noir. Real grapes, grown in the agri-domes of Sector 2. Not the synthetic stuff." The bot poured the wine, the liquid swirling rich and dark in the glass. It handed one to Jake and one to you. You took the glass gingerly. In Sector 7, alcohol came in plastic jugs. It smelled like acetone and tasted like gasoline. You drank it to forget, to numb the cold, to knock yourself out when the hunger got too bad. It was a weapon, not a beverage. You lifted the glass to your nose. It smelled of berries and earth. You took a sip.

It didn't burn. It coated your tongue in velvet, tasting of fruit and oak and something complex you couldn't name. It slid down your throat, leaving a warm, pleasant hum in your chest. "Oh," you whispered, surprised. Jake watched you, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips. "Better than the fuel they serve at 'The Circuit', isn't it?" You stiffened. "How do you know about The Circuit?" "I told you," Jake shrugged, swirling his glass. "I run the Neural-Link network. I have access to the grid. I know where you went, who you talked to. I know you liked the corner booth because it had a view of the door." The reminder of his surveillance chilled the warmth of the wine. You took another, larger sip, needing the courage. "So," Jake said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The silver chain dangled forward. "No more touring. No more deflecting. Talk to me." You looked at the fire pit. "About what?" "About you," Jake said. "Jay looks at the medical data. He sees the blood type, the bone density, the ovulation cycles. He sees a vessel." He paused, tilting his head to catch your eye. "I want to see the person. Tell me about your life down there. Real life. Not the reports."

You gripped the stem of the glass. "Why? So you can have a tragic bedtime story? So you can feel better about 'rescuing' me?" "No," Jake said simply. "Because we're going to share a child. And because you fascinate me." "I'm not fascinating," you muttered. "I'm hungry and tired and poor. That's not a personality trait." "It is when you survive it with that much fire," Jake countered. "Tell me about your parents. The file said they passed when you were young." Your hand jerked. A splash of red wine sloshed against the side of the glass. The wound of last night, of crying yourself to sleep over them, was still raw. "I don't want to talk about them," you said sharply. "Why not?" Jake pressed. His voice was gentle, but relentless. "Were they like you? Did your dad teach you how to fight? Did your mom teach you how to scrap?" "Stop," you warned. "Did they leave you anything? A keepsake? Or did the Peacekeepers take it all when they cleared the unit?" He was probing a bruise, pushing his finger into it with innocent curiosity, unaware that he was causing agony. He viewed your trauma as lore, as backstory for his new acquisition. "I said stop!" you snapped. You slammed the wine glass down on the table. The crystal rang out, a sharp, dangerous sound.

"You think this is a game?" you hissed, your voice rising. "You sit there in your silk shirt, drinking wine that costs more than my life, asking me about my dead parents like you're asking about a movie plot? You don't get to know them. You don't get to consume their memory just because you're bored!" You were breathing hard, your chest heaving under the tan blouse. The anger that had been simmering since you arrived boiled over. "You want to know about my life?" you spat. "My dad didn't teach me to fight. The street did. My mom didn't teach me to scrap. Hunger did. They died because they were tired, Jake. They died because a ten-credit hit of Neon-Blue was cheaper than a loaf of bread and it made the cold stop hurting for an hour. They overdosed on a couch that smelled like mildew while I was at school, and I had to drag their bodies to the door because the paramedics wouldn't come up to the fourth floor for 'junkies'."

The silence that followed was absolute. The only sound was the wind rustling the olive trees and the soft hiss of the blue fire. You stared at him, defying him to look away, defying him to be disgusted. Jake didn't flinch. He didn't look shocked. He didn't look horrified. He looked… calm. He set his wine glass down slowly next to yours. He leaned back into the sofa, his expression softening into something that looked terrifyingly like pride. "There she is," he whispered. It made you want to scream. He wasn't repulsed by the ugliness of your story. He was feeding on it. He was looking at you like you were a piece of art that had been forged in fire, and he was the collector who had finally acquired it. "I hate you," you said, your voice cracking. "I know," Jake said softly. "It's okay." He reached out, sliding the wine glass back toward you. "Drink. It helps." You looked at the wine. You wanted to throw it in his face. You wanted to flip the table. But your hands were shaking, and the memory of your parents' grey faces was swimming in your mind, pulled to the surface by his questions. You picked up the glass and downed half of it in one swallow. The alcohol hit your stomach hard. The warmth spread fast, dulling the sharp edges of the rage. "It wasn't always bad," you found yourself saying. The words slipped out before you could stop them, lubricated by the expensive vintage. "Before the Blue. My dad… he used to find things. Old music players. He fixed one up. We used to dance in the kitchen."

Jake listened. He didn't interrupt. He sat there, chin resting on his hand, his dark eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that was almost physical. He absorbed every word, every tremor in your voice. You told him about the leaky roof. You told him about Aris patching up your arm when you cut it on a rusted server blade. You told him about the taste of the rain and the way the neon lights looked beautiful if you squinted hard enough to blur the dirt. You hated yourself for telling him. You were giving him pieces of yourself, handing over your history to the enemy. But it felt… good. It felt like releasing pressure from a valve that had been stuck for years. No one in Sector 7 asked about your life because everyone was living the same nightmare. There was no point in talking about it. But Jake listened like it was the most important thing he had ever heard.

"You're incredible," Jake said after a long silence. He reached across the table. You flinched, expecting him to grab you, but he just placed his hand over yours, his fingers warm and dry. He squeezed gently. "I'm sorry about your parents," he said. And the worst part was, he sounded like he meant it. "But I'm glad you're here. You're safe now. You never have to drag a body again. You never have to be hungry again." "I'm still a prisoner," you whispered, looking at his hand covering yours. His skin was flawless. Yours was scarred and rough, even after the AI treatment. "You're a part of the cycle," Jake corrected firmly. "It just takes time to adjust." He poured more wine into your glass. "Drink up, Scrapper," he said, his voice returning to that light, airy tone. "We have the whole afternoon. And I want to hear about the time you found that jumper's boots." You looked at the wine, then at the endless sky behind him. You took another sip, letting the alcohol blur the lines between the cage and the castle, hating how easy it was to let him listen.

The wine had done its job, perhaps a little too well. Three hours had dissolved into the golden haze of the afternoon. You weren’t sure how it happened, but you had migrated from the dizzying heights of the outdoor terrace back into the climate-controlled biosphere of the main living room. The transition had been seamless, guided by Jake’s incessant chatter and the subtle, guiding pressure of his hand on your elbow.

Now, you were seated on the massive, cloud-white sectional sofa. And you were close. Too close. Jake had abandoned his own seat minutes ago to slide next to you, eliminating the personal space you tried so hard to maintain. He held a translucent holographic pad in his hand, angling it so you both could see the floating projections. "See?" Jake said, his voice vibrating with enthusiasm. He swiped a finger across the air, spinning a 3D model of a complex subterranean structure. "This is the original subway blueprint for Sector 7 from the Pre-Collapse era. Before the flooding in the lower levels." You stared at the blue lines of light hovering above his lap. You recognized the layout—the skeletal remains of the tunnels you used to run through to avoid the Peacekeeper drones. But here, in his digital rendering, they were clean. Whole. "I didn't know the tunnels went that deep," you murmured, the wine making your tongue loose. "We stop at Level 4 because of the methane pockets."

"Level 5 is where the old server farms were," Jake explained, his shoulder pressing warmly against yours. He smelled like vanilla and ozone, a scent that was becoming confusingly familiar. "That's why the scavengers dig there. But look at this…" He zoomed in on a section, his fingers brushing against your arm as he manipulated the image. He wasn't doing it to be predatory; he was just… tactile. Like a puppy that didn't understand why you wouldn't want to be touched. He treated you less like a prisoner and more like a new friend he was trying to impress with his expensive toys. For a moment, just a moment, you forgot the tracking cuff on your wrist. You were just looking at a map of your home, seeing it through the eyes of someone who saw it as history rather than a cage. Then, the heavy magnetic thud of the front doors echoed through the foyer.

The sound shattered the bubble instantly. You stiffened, your spine snapping straight against the plush cushions. The air in the room seemed to change, the temperature dropping as the atmospheric stabilizers adjusted to a new presence. Jake paused mid-sentence, his finger hovering over the holo-pad. His smile shifted, sharpening into something brighter, more genuine, and entirely focused on the door. Footsteps clicked against the black marble. Heavy. Deliberate. Authoritative. Jay walked into the living room. He looked like he had been to war, or at least the corporate boardroom equivalent of it. He wore a deep maroon suit—the color of dried blood and old money. The jacket was draped casually over his forearm, revealing a white dress shirt that was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to expose thick, corded forearms. His tie hung loose around his neck, undone.

He looked exhausted. He looked powerful. He stopped at the edge of the sunken living room, his dark eyes sweeping the space before locking onto the sofa. He paused. You felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. He looked at Jake, leaning into your space, the holo-pad glowing between you. He looked at you, shrinking back into the cushions, your hands clutching the empty wine glass. For a long, agonizing second, Jay just watched. His face was a mask of stoic indifference, but his eyes were sharp, dissecting the scene. He saw the proximity. He saw the ease with which Jake was interacting with you.

Then, he cleared his throat. The sound was low, a rumble of thunder in the quiet room. Jake moved instantly. He dropped the holo-pad onto the coffee table, the map flickering out of existence. He stood up with a fluid grace, his face lighting up as he crossed the room toward his husband. "You're back," Jake breathed, reaching out. Jay dropped his jacket onto a nearby chair and caught Jake by the waist. There was no hesitation, no performance for your benefit. Jay pulled Jake flush against him, burying one hand in Jake's messy hair, tilting his head back. They kissed. It wasn't a peck on the cheek. It was deep, possessive, and hungry. It was the kiss of two people who were the center of each other's gravity. You looked away, staring at the moss wall, feeling a sudden, hot flush of shame. You were an intruder here. A spectator to a life that was complete without you. When they finally broke apart, Jake stayed in Jay’s personal space, resting his forehead against Jay’s chin, murmuring something too quiet for you to hear. Jay’s hand lingered on the back of Jake’s neck, his thumb stroking the skin there with a tenderness that seemed impossible for a man so cold. Then, Jay looked up. Over Jake’s shoulder, his eyes found you again.

He scanned you. Slowly. He started at your face, noting the flushed cheeks from the wine and the lingering sun. His gaze traveled down to the tan blouse, the cinched waist of the olive skirt, the way the fabric draped over your legs. He didn't smile. But something in his expression shifted. The tension around his eyes smoothed out. A flicker of satisfaction dark and possessive, curled in the depths of his gaze. You were wearing the clothes he had paid for. You were sitting in his house, clean and compliant. You looked like part of the set. He approved. The realization made your stomach twist. You wanted to rip the skirt off. You wanted to go put your dirty combat boots back on just to wipe that look of ownership off his face.

"She's been great, Jay," Jake said, pulling back but keeping an arm linked through Jay’s. He turned to look at you, beaming. "We've been talking for hours. She was telling me about the old subway tunnels. Did you know the scrappers use acoustic echoes to find hollow spots in the walls? It's genius." Jay stepped down into the living room, loosening his tie further as he walked. He smelled of the city—not the rot of the slums, but the cold, high-altitude air of the Spire, mixed with his own heavy cologne. "Is that so?" Jay murmured, his voice rough from disuse. He stopped near the coffee table, looming over you. "I assume you followed the schedule?" "Mostly," Jake waved a hand dismissively. "We skipped the full gym tour. We were busy bonding." Jay glanced at the empty wine bottle on the table. "I see." He looked back at you. "You seem… acclimated, Citizen." "I'm drunk," you muttered, the words slipping out before you could filter them.

Jay’s eyebrow quirked upward. "On two glasses of Pinot? Your tolerance is inefficient." "My tolerance is for jet fuel," you snapped, standing up. The room spun slightly, but you locked your knees. "Not grape juice." Jay stared at you, that muscle in his jaw feathering. He didn't like the backtalk, but he seemed too tired to fight it right now. Or maybe he just liked the way you looked in the skirt too much to ruin the aesthetic with an argument. The sun was beginning to set outside the massive glass wall. The golden hour was bleeding into twilight, casting long, amber shadows across the room. The artificial stream bubbled softly. Jake turned back to Jay, launching into a rapid-fire explanation of the holographic map he had been showing you, his hands moving animatedly as he described old-world server farms. Jay listened, his eyes fixed on his husband, a look of indulgent affection softening his harsh features.

You stood there, hovering by the sofa. You were the third wheel. The spare part. The vessel they bought to hold a baby, standing awkwardly in their living room while they reconnected.You felt a sudden, crushing wave of exhaustion. It wasn't just the wine or the emotional toll of the day. It was the feeling of being other. You didn't belong in this golden light. You belonged in the shadows. Quietly, you took a step back. Then another. The carpet muffled your movements, but the tan kitten heels clicked softly when you hit the marble border of the room. You turned toward the hallway, intending to slip away to the safety of your glass cage. "Where are you going?" Jay’s voice lashed out like a whip, stopping you dead in your tracks. You froze, your back to them. You closed your eyes for a second, taking a deep breath, before turning around.

Jay had stopped listening to Jake. He was watching you, his body angled toward your retreat. He looked displeased. "To my room," you said, keeping your voice even. Jake’s face fell. He pouted—actually pouted—looking like a kicked puppy. "Already? But the sun is just setting. The view is best right now. And we haven't even picked a movie yet." "I'm tired," you said, wrapping your arms around yourself. It wasn't a lie. Your bones felt heavy. "And I… I need to be alone." Jay studied you. He looked at the way you were holding yourself, the defensive posture, the fatigue etched around your eyes despite the high-tech skincare.

He didn't offer sympathy. He checked his watch. "Dinner is in two hours," Jay stated flatly. "1900 hours. Do not make me send a bot to retrieve you." "I know the schedule," you muttered. "Good." Jay turned his back on you, dismissing you as easily as he had summoned you. He turned his attention back to Jake, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Jake’s ear. "Tell me about the Council briefing notes you intercepted." You turned and walked away.The walk down the hallway felt longer than it had this morning. The amber light of the sunset stretched your shadow out in front of you, distorted and long. You passed the closed doors of rooms you weren't allowed in. You passed the cameras that swiveled silently to track your movement. You reached your door. You just stood there, waiting like a dog at the back door.

"Identity confirmed," the cool, synthetic voice of the house AI announced from the ceiling. "Welcome back, Citizen." The lock disengaged with a heavy thunk, and the door slid open. You stepped inside, and the door sealed shut behind you immediately. "Lock engaged," the AI chirped. You let out a shaky breath, leaning your forehead against the cool white wood of the door for a moment. Trapped again. But at least in here, you didn't have to perform. You didn't have to be the grateful rescue or the defiant scrapper. You could just be miserable. You kicked the tan kitten heels off your feet. They hit the wall with a satisfying thud. "Stupid shoes," you whispered, wiggling your toes into the plush carpet. You walked further into the room and stopped. The bed had been remade. When you left this morning, the duvet had been lumpy, the pillows askew from your amateur attempt at making it. Now, the silk sheets were pulled taut, perfectly smooth, without a single wrinkle. The pillows were fluffed and arranged in a precise geometric pattern. You looked toward the bathroom archway. The towels you had left on the floor were gone. The counter was wiped clean. The clothes you had discarded—the pajamas, the combat boots you that was the only part of yourself left—had been whisked away, presumably to be cleaned or burned.

It was as if you hadn't been there at all. It irked you to no end. The invisible hands of the Spire had erased your presence, resetting the stage for the next act. You walked over to the bed and collapsed face-first onto the mattress. The silk was cool against your cheek. It smelled of lavender and nothingness. You rolled onto your back, staring up at the blinking red light of the camera in the corner. "I know you're watching," you said to the lens. The camera didn't respond. It just blinked. You closed your eyes, letting the silence of the high-altitude prison wash over you. You had two hours before you had to be the perfect, obedient vessel again. Two hours to lie here and remember that no matter how soft the sheets were, they weren't yours. —-

The first two weeks in the Spire were a lesson in erasure. Day by day, the grit of Sector 7 was scrubbed from your skin, your hair, and your habits. The AI-regulated showers softened your callouses. The nutrient-dense, organic meals filled the hollows in your cheeks and put a shine in your hair that you didn't recognize in the mirror. You were becoming one of them, visually at least. A polished stone in a velvet box. But internally, you were still fighting.It was a quiet war. A war of small defiances. You learned to navigate the penthouse not as a home, but as enemy territory. You memorized the shift changes of the security bots. You figured out exactly how long you could stand on the terrace before the atmospheric sensors flagged your body temperature as dropping and sent an alert to Jay’s wrist comm.

And you learned about your captors. Jake was… exhausting. He was a creature of constant, high-energy affection. When he wasn't working, he was there—hovering, touching, chattering. He was clingy in a way that was both annoying and disarming. He would drape himself over the sofa while you read, his foot nudging your thigh. He would follow you into the kitchen just to watch you drink water, praising your "hydration habits" like you were a toddler.

He craved attention. If you ignored him for too long, he would pout or start tossing expensive throw pillows at you until you looked at him. He liked being told he was clever, funny, or helpful. And god help you, sometimes he was helpful. He was the one who reprogrammed the bots to stop tidying your "nest"—the pile of blankets you dragged onto the floor because sleeping on the bed still felt too exposed. "See?" Jake had beamed, showing you the new code on his datapad. "No more cleaning bots in the bedroom. Just you and your weird floor-blanket situation. Happy?" "Ecstatic," you had muttered, but the tightness in your chest had loosened a fraction. Jay, on the other hand, was a ghost who haunted the edges of your life. He was gone before you woke up, usually already in the city managing the defense grid or arguing with the Council. When he was home, he was a silent, brooding presence. He didn't offer affection; he offered control.

He watched you. Constantly. If you slouched at the dinner table, he would catch your eye and raise a brow until you straightened your spine. If you spoke too loudly, he would lower his voice until you were forced to match his volume. He didn't need to touch you to discipline you; he did it with a look, a pause, a shift in the air pressure of the room. He was training you, breaking down your rough edges not with kindness, but with the sheer weight of his authority. And he enjoyed it. You saw it in the way his eyes darkened when you snapped back at him, the way he would lean in just a little closer when you defied him, daring you to push harder so he could push back. It was a power play, and he was winning. Jake watched the dynamic like it was his favorite reality show. "You drive him crazy," Jake whispered to you one night while Jay was taking a call on the terrace. "He likes order. You are chaos. It's exhilarating for him. He's been in a better mood these past two weeks than he has in months." "Glad I can be of service," you had scoffed. "Oh, you are," Jake grinned, stealing a grape from your plate. "Believe me."

The makeup was the tipping point. It started as a suggestion from the bathroom AI—"Your skin tone appears uneven. Would you like to try the Lumina-Glow Tint?"—and ended with you sitting on the floor of the bathroom, surrounded by open jars and tubes, frustrated tears pricking your eyes. You didn't know how to do this. In the Rust Belt, "makeup" was war paint or a way to hide bruises. It wasn't… this. It wasn't contouring and highlighting and blending until you looked like a different species. "Application error," the AI chirped for the third time. "Please use upward strokes for maximum lift." "Shut up!" you hissed at the mirror, wiping a smudge of bronzer off your cheek with your thumb. But you kept going. Not for them. For you. Because if you were going to be stuck in this high-definition world, you were tired of looking like a grainy, low-res glitch. It took an hour. By the end, you had managed a light, natural look—a bit of tint on your lips, some definition around your eyes, a glow to your cheeks. It wasn't professional, but it was clean.

You walked out to the living room, feeling self-conscious. Jake looked up from his datapad. He froze. "Whoa," he breathed, standing up. He walked over to you, tilting your chin up with a gentle finger. "Look at you. You figured out the holo-blush." "The AI yelled at me the whole time," you muttered, pulling away. "It looks good," Jake said, his voice dropping to that sincere tone that always caught you off guard. "Really good. You look… soft." Jay walked in a moment later, pouring himself a whiskey. He glanced at you. His gaze lingered on your face for a second—just a second—before returning to his glass. "We're leaving in ten minutes," Jay said flatly. "Don't be late." That was it. No compliment. No acknowledgment of the hour you spent fighting with a blending sponge. Just a cold directive. It stung more than you wanted to admit. Then came the outing. Jake had been vibrating with restless energy for days. He was bored of the penthouse, bored of the view, and apparently, bored of watching you pace the same few rooms. "We're going out," Jake announced over breakfast on the fifteenth day. Jay lowered his coffee cup. "No."

"Yes," Jake insisted, buttering his toast with aggressive cheerfulness. "She's been good. She hasn't tried to stab anyone with a fork in four days. The cuff tracker is calibrated. The perimeter drones will follow us. It's fine." "It's a security risk," Jay stated. "She is a high-value asset. The Rust Belt insurgents are active near the lower transit hubs." "We're not going to the lower hubs, Jay," Jake rolled his eyes. "We're going to the Crystal District. We're getting pastries. It’s entirely fortified."

Jay looked at you. You held your breath. You wanted to go out. You were desperate to see something other than the inside of this gilded cage, even if it was just another part of the cage. "Fine," Jay grunted. "But I have meetings. I cannot chaperone." "I can handle her," Jake winked at you. "I'm very capable." Jay’s eyes narrowed. "If you lose her, Jake, I will deactivate your neural link access for a month." "Understood, Sir," Jake mocked a salute. An hour later, you were standing on the sidewalk of Sector 1. It was… overwhelming.

The air smelled of roasted coffee and expensive perfume. The streets were paved with a white stone that seemed to repel dirt. There was no trash. No puddles of chemical runoff. No beggars. The people were beautiful. Everyone looked like they had been sculpted by the same artist—tall, glowing skin, clothes that fit perfectly. They moved with a leisurely grace, unburdened by the frantic hustle of survival. You walked next to Jake, trying not to gawk. He had insisted on holding your hand "for safety," his fingers interlaced with yours, swinging your arms slightly as you walked. "Relax," Jake murmured, leaning down. "You're walking like you expect a sniper." "Old habits," you muttered, scanning the rooftops. "No snipers here," Jake promised. "Just overpriced coffee and social climbers." He led you to a cafe called The Gilded Crumb. It was an open-air pavilion with floating tables and waiters that were not bots, but actual humans in crisp uniforms.

You sat down. A waiter appeared instantly with a menu that was a holographic projection hovering over the table. "Order whatever you want," Jake said, scrolling through his own menu. "But you have to try the Cloud Tart. It's their signature." You looked at the prices. Cloud Tart: 45 Credits. Your breath hitched. Forty-five credits. That was a week's worth of food in Sector 7. A week of synth-paste, water rations, and maybe a real apple if you were lucky. And here, it was a single pastry. "It's too expensive," you whispered. "It's cheap," Jake corrected, tapping the order button. "Two Cloud Tarts. And a pot of Blue Mountain coffee." The waiter nodded and vanished. You looked around the cafe. At the table next to you, a group of women were laughing, their jewelry catching the sun. They were eating salads that cost more than your rent used to be. "They don't know," you said quietly. "Know what?" Jake asked, resting his chin on his hand. "About the rest of us," you said, gesturing vaguely toward the edge of the terrace where the city dropped off into the clouds. "They sit here eating forty-credit tarts while people down there are fighting over rats." Jake followed your gaze. He didn't look dismissive, but he didn't look guilty either. He looked thoughtful.

"They know," Jake said. "They just… choose not to focus on it. It’s a survival mechanism, Scrapper. Guilt doesn't fix the economy." "Ignoring it doesn't fix it either," you snapped. "True," Jake agreed. "But it makes the tart taste better." The waiter returned, placing a delicate porcelain plate in front of you. On it sat a pastry that looked like a work of art—flaky golden crust filled with a cream that shimmered like pearl, topped with spun sugar that looked like clouds. "Eat," Jake encouraged. "Be mad at the system later. Right now, just enjoy the sugar." You picked up the silver fork. It felt heavy in your hand. You cut a piece of the tart. You put it in your mouth. It dissolved. It was sweet, light, creamy, and crunchy all at once. It tasted like vanilla and dreams. It was the best thing you had ever eaten. And that made you angry.It made you furious that something this good existed, and you had spent twenty-three years eating grey sludge. It made you furious that Jake could order this without blinking, while you felt guilty for swallowing it. "It's good," you admitted, your voice tight. "I told you," Jake grinned, wiping a bit of sugar from his lip. "Sector 1 has its perks."

He watched you eat, his expression softening. "You've got sugar on your nose." Before you could wipe it, he reached out with a napkin, dabbing gently at your skin. His touch was tender. Intimate. "You're doing great," Jake whispered. "Jay would be proud. You haven't punched anyone yet." " Give me time," you muttered. Jake laughed, a bright, happy sound that turned heads in the cafe. He didn't care. He was focused entirely on you. "We should go to the park next," Jake said. "They have real grass. And ducks. You like ducks, right? You ate one, so you must like them." You choked on your tart. "That's horrible." "It's the circle of life!" Jake protested. You shook your head, fighting a smile. It was hard to hate him when he was like this—charming, attentive, and trying so hard to make you happy in this strange, terrible world. But then your gaze drifted past him, to the street. A Ministry transport vehicle glided by—silent, black, ominous. The same kind that had taken you. The smile vanished from your face. The tart turned to ash in your mouth. "Ready to go?" Jake asked, noticing your shift in mood instantly.

"Yeah," you whispered, pushing the plate away. Jake sighed, his hand covering yours on the table.He signaled for the check, unaware that for you, those two words would never mean the same thing.

The path to the park had involved a detour. It was impossible to walk through the Crystal District with Jake Sim without him treating the entire sector like his personal shopping catalog. The moment you had left the cafe with sugar still lingering on your tongue, he had pulled you into a boutique that smelled of crushed violets and money.

"The white blouse and black trousers is practical," Jake had said, steering you toward a rack of silk, "but practical is boring. And since we're out, we might as well dress the part." You had fought him, of course. You had argued that you didn't need more clothes, that the closet back at the penthouse was already bursting with enough fabric to clothe half of Block 9. But arguing with Jake was like arguing with a tidal wave; he didn't get angry, he just overwhelmed you with relentless, cheerful pressure until you drowned. So now, you were walking toward the park, no longer in the sensible white blouse and black trousers. You were wearing a pink dress. It was a slip of silk in a shade of blush so pale it looked like the inside of a seashell. It had thin spaghetti straps that left your shoulders bare to the filtered sunlight, and a neckline that draped softly, hinting at curves you usually hid under layers of canvas. It was light—terrifyingly light. It fluttered around your legs with every step, the hem brushing your calves like a ghost.

"Much better," Jake hummed, squeezing your hand as you approached the park gates. "Now you look like you belong here." You didn't feel like you belonged. You felt like a confection. A piece of candy wrapped in pink foil, ready to be unwrapped. The gates of the park—The Arboretum, the sign read—were massive, wrought from real iron and covered in climbing ivy. As you stepped through, the sounds of the city faded away, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the chirp of birds that didn't sound mechanical. You stopped.Grass. It stretched out before you in a rolling, emerald carpet. Real grass. Not the patches of grey moss that grew in the damp corners of the scrapyard, but thick, lush blades that smelled green and alive.

Trees with trunks as wide as hover-cars created a canopy overhead, filtering the light into dappled patterns on the ground. And in the center of it all was a pond. It wasn't a puddle of chemical runoff shimmering with oil slicks. It was a body of water so clear you could see the stones at the bottom. "Come on," Jake urged, pulling you off the paved path. Your heels sank slightly into the earth. It was a strange sensation—soft, yielding ground. In Sector 7, the ground was concrete, metal, or packed dirt hard as stone. This felt alive. Jake led you to the edge of the water. He sat down on a stone bench, pulling you down beside him. He sat close, his arm draping along the back of the bench behind you, his fingers toying with the ends of your hair.

"Look," Jake pointed. gliding across the glassy surface of the water were three creatures. They were white, with bright orange beaks and feathers that looked impossibly smooth. They paddled effortlessly, leaving small wakes behind them. "Ducks," you whispered. You had seen pictures of them in old data files, pixelated images from before the Collapse. You had heard stories about them from the elders—birds that could swim and fly. But in Sector 7, birds were rats with wings. Pigeons were grey, mangy things missing toes, pecking at vomit in the gutters. If a duck had ever landed in the Rust Belt, it wouldn't have lasted five minutes. It would have been caught, killed, plucked, and roasted over a trash fire before it could let out a single quack. Protein was protein. But here… here they were floating. Safe. Fat. Happy. "They're… big," you noted, your voice hushed. "They're genetically stabilized Mallards," Jake explained, sounding like a proud parent. "We reintroduced them ten years ago. They have their own caretakers. The water is heated for them in the winter." You stared at the birds. They had heated water. They had caretakers. These birds had better healthcare than you did. One of the ducks paddled closer to the edge, tilting its head to look at you with a beady black eye. It let out a soft sound—a quack—that sounded comical and demanding.

You froze. You didn't know what to do. Your instinct was to assess it: How fast is it? Can I catch it? Is it sick? But you weren't a hunter anymore. You were a girl in a pink silk dress sitting on a bench in paradise. Slowly, hesitantly, you raised your hand. You gave a small, awkward wave. "Hi," you whispered to the duck. Beside you, Jake made a noise. It was a soft, strangled exhale. You turned to look at him, worried you had done something wrong. "What? Am I not supposed to look at them?" Jake was staring at you. His dark eyes were wide, the pupils blown, filled with an emotion you couldn't quite place. It wasn't the usual amusement or curiosity. It was something softer. Something heavier. He looked at the way the sunlight caught the stray hairs escaping your bun. He looked at the blush pink silk against your skin, the way the dress clung to your frame, making you look fragile and delicate. He looked at your hand, still raised in that shy, confused wave at a bird. "You're so…" Jake started, then shook his head, a small, breathless laugh escaping him. "You looked so soft just now. Waving at a duck like it’s a person."

"I've never seen one," you defended, dropping your hand to your lap. "I didn't know the protocol." "There is no protocol," Jake smiled, shifting closer on the bench until his thigh pressed against yours. "You just… exist with them. That's the point of the park. To just be." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag of grain. "Here. They like this." He poured a handful of seeds into your palm. You held your hand out. The duck, bold and entitled, waddled out of the water onto the grass. It approached you without fear. It didn't know what hunger looked like in a human's eyes. It only knew generosity. It pecked the seeds from your hand. Its beak was smooth and dry, ticking against your palm. You watched it eat, a lump forming in your throat. It was such a simple thing. A bird eating seeds. But the unfairness of it struck you again, sharp and brutal. "In Sector 7," you said quietly, your eyes fixed on the white feathers, "this bird would be dinner for a family of four." Jake didn't flinch this time. He was getting used to your darkness. He just watched you feeding the animal. "I know," Jake said softly. "But here, it's can be a friend."

He reached out, his hand covering yours as the duck finished the seeds. His fingers were warm, his touch gentle. He brushed a few stray seeds from your skin. "You look beautiful in this dress," Jake murmured, his voice low. "Pink suits you. It softens the edges." You looked down at the silk. "I'm not soft, Jake. You know that. I'm sharp. I'm jagged. Dressing me up in expensive fabric doesn't change what I am." "Maybe not," Jake agreed, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles. "But it lets you rest. You don't have to be jagged here. You don't have to cut anyone. You can just sit on a bench and feed a duck and wear a pretty dress."

He leaned in, his face close to yours. "Let yourself be soft, Scrapper. Just for today. Jay isn't here to inspect you. It’s just me." You looked at him. His eyes were sincere. He really believed it. He believed that he could love the trauma out of you, that he could drape you in luxury until you forgot the hunger. And for a second, sitting in the sun with a full stomach and a warm hand holding yours, you almost wanted to let him. "It's just a dress," you whispered, looking away from his intense gaze. "It's a start," Jake countered. He stood up, pulling you with him. "Come on. There's a willow tree on the other side of the pond. I want to see you under it. The lighting will be perfect."

He tugged you along the path, your heels sinking into the grass. You followed, the pink dress swishing around your legs, playing the part of the delicate doll he wanted you to be, while inside, the runner in you was memorizing the exits, counting the guards, and calculating the height of the perimeter walls. The sun began to dip lower, casting long shadows across the emerald grass. The golden hour was fading into the blue hour of twilight. "We should head back," Jake said, checking his wrist comm. His playful demeanor dimmed slightly, replaced by a flicker of reluctance. "Jay will be home soon." The mention of Jay broke the spell completely. The park, the ducks, the wine—it all evaporated.

You were going back to the cage. "Right," you said, your voice flat. "Wouldn't want to upset the warden." Jake sighed, squeezing your hand. "He's not a warden, [Y/N]. He's just… protective. He worries." "He threatens," you corrected. "He protects what's his," Jake said, and there was a steeliness in his voice that reminded you that for all his softness, Jake was Sector 1 Apex too. He and Jay were two sides of the same coin. He walked you back to the car. The driver held the door open. You slid into the back seat, the pink dress pooling around you on the black leather. The scent of ozone and vanilla enveloped you again. The drive back to the penthouse was quiet. Jake didn't chatter as much. He held your hand the entire way, his thumb tracing the veins in your wrist, right above the metal tracking cuff. He seemed lost in thought, perhaps thinking about the afternoon, or perhaps thinking about the "natural insemination" protocol that Jay had promised was beginning.

The car docked at the penthouse landing pad just as the sun disappeared below the horizon. You stepped out into the wind. It felt colder now. The pink dress offered no protection against the chill of the upper atmosphere. You shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself. "Inside," Jake said, guiding you toward the doors. You entered the foyer. It was silent, vast, and golden. But it wasn't empty. Jay was standing at the top of the stairs. He was still wearing his suit from the morning, though the jacket was gone and his tie was undone. He held a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, the amber liquid catching the light of the chandelier. He was looking down at you. His gaze was heavy. It started at your face, traveled down your neck, lingered on the exposed skin of your shoulders, and then swept over the pink silk dress. He didn't move. He just watched. Jake squeezed your hand one last time before letting go. "We're home!" Jake called out, his voice echoing up the stairs. "We had a great time. She didn't bite anyone."

Jay didn't look at Jake. He kept his eyes on you. "Come up," Jay commanded. His voice was low, carrying effortlessly across the distance. Your heart stuttered. You looked at Jake. He gave you an encouraging nod, a small, reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Go on," Jake whispered. "Show him the dress." You swallowed hard. You walked to the stairs. Every click of your heels on the marble sounded like a countdown. You ascended slowly, feeling Jay’s gaze pulling you upward like a gravity well. When you reached the top of the stairs, you stopped a few feet away from him. Up close, he looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes, a tightness in his jaw. But the way he looked at you… it wasn't the cold, clinical assessment of the first day. It was darker. Heavier. He reached out. You flinched, bracing yourself. But he didn't grab you. He reached out and touched the strap of the pink dress. His finger hooked under the thin silk, lifting it slightly from your skin before letting it drop back into place. "Pink," Jay murmured. It sounded like an accusation and a caress all at once.

"Jake bought it," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I know," Jay said. "It makes you look soft." He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes boring into yours. "Don't get used to it," Jay said quietly. "Soft things break in this house." He turned and walked down the hall toward the master bedroom. "Get cleaned up," he called back over his shoulder. "Dinner in twenty minutes. And [Y/N]?" You stood frozen. "Yes?" "Wear the dress to dinner," Jay said. "I want to look at it." He disappeared into his room. You stood in the hallway, the silk feeling suddenly heavy against your skin, realizing that in Sector 1, being soft wasn't a mercy. It was just a different way of being consumed.

The door to your room hissed shut, sealing you back inside the glass cage.

The moment the lock engaged with that heavy, magnetic thud, the mask you had been wearing all afternoon cracked. You let out a sharp, frustrated sound—half-scream, half-growl—and kicked the wall. The impact jarred your toes inside the tight leather of the kitten heels, sending a jolt of pain up your leg that only made you angrier. "Soft," you mocked, your voice dripping with venom as you paced the plush carpet. "Soft things break." You hated him. You hated the way he looked at you at the top of the stairs—like you were a vase he was deciding where to place, or a structural weakness he needed to reinforce. But more than that, you hated yourself. You hated how your breath had hitched when he touched the strap of the dress. You hated how quickly you had lowered your eyes, how your body had instinctively curled inward to protect itself from his gaze. You were a Runner. You were a Scrapper. You had stared down Peacekeepers with assault rifles and not flinched. But one look from Jay Park in a dimly lit hallway, and you turned into exactly what he wanted: a trembling, obedient little thing in a pink dress.

"Not anymore," you whispered. You sat on the edge of the bed and ripped the kitten heels off your feet. You threw them toward the closet. One hit the doorframe with a satisfying clack, the other landed upside down on the rug. You wiggled your toes, spreading them into the deep pile of the carpet. The relief was instant. Your feet ached from arching unnaturally all day. You were used to flat soles, heavy boots, the solid weight of the ground beneath you. Walking on tiptoes was for ballerinas and victims.

Next, the hair. You reached up, your fingers finding the pins holding the severe, tight bun in place. You yanked them out one by one, dropping them onto the nightstand like spent shell casings. Your hair fell. It tumbled down to your shoulders in a heavy, wavy curtain, messy and untamed. You ran your hands through it, shaking your head, massaging the scalp where the tension had been pulling for hours. You looked at yourself in the mirror across the room. The pink dress still clung to you, shimmering in the ambient light of the room. It was still soft. It was still expensive. But with your hair wild around your face and your feet bare, you didn't look like a doll anymore. You looked like someone who had just survived a fight at a debutante ball. "Dinner service is prepared," the room’s AI announced softly. "Please proceed to the dining room." You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. You kept the dress on—not because you wanted to obey Jay, but because you didn't have the energy to fight the bot for a pair of pants again. But the shoes stayed on the floor. And the hair stayed down. It was a petty rebellion. A small, silent middle finger to his "order." "Open the door," you commanded. The panel turned green, and the door slid aside.

You walked down the hallway. The floor was always heated—Jake hadn't lied about that. The warmth seeped into your bare soles, a strange, luxurious sensation that felt almost obscene. You walked silently, your footsteps making no sound on the marble. You were a ghost in the machine. The dining room doors were open. The scene was almost identical to the night before, but the atmosphere was heavier. The air smelled of roasted meat and heavy red wine, underscored by the faint, sharp scent of Jay’s ozone cologne. Jay and Jake were already seated. Jay was at the head of the table, as always. He had shed the exhaustion of the workday, looking sharp and terrifyingly alert. He was scrolling through something on a datapad, his brow furrowed in concentration. Jake sat to his right, leaning back in his chair, twirling a fork between his fingers. He was staring at the candle flame flickering in the center of the table. You stepped into the room. Jake looked up first. His eyes widened, and a slow, delighted smile spread across his face. "Well, hello," Jake purred.

Jay looked up a second later. He didn't smile. He went perfectly still. His dark eyes locked onto you, and for a moment, he didn't breathe. He took in the wild halo of your hair, the way it framed your face in messy waves, softening the sharp angles of your jaw but adding a feral edge to your expression. His gaze dropped to the pink dress, tracing the cowl neckline, the way the silk skimmed your hips. And then, he looked at your feet. Bare against the floor. You walked to your chair—the one opposite Jake, to Jay’s left. You pulled it out. The scrape of the chair legs was the only sound in the room. You sat down, tucking one leg under you—a breach of etiquette that you knew would annoy him—and crossed your arms over the table. "I'm here," you stated flatly. Jay slowly lowered his datapad to the table. The screen clicked off. "I see that," Jay murmured. His voice was low, rougher than it had been in the hallway. He stared at you. He wasn't looking at you with the cold, clinical assessment of a doctor anymore. He was looking at you with a heavy, hooded heat that made the hair on your arms stand up. It wasn't quite lust—it was too controlling for that. It was the look of a man who had ordered a perfectly groomed poodle and received a wolf, and was now deciding if he wanted to shoot it or collar it.

"You lost your shoes," Jay noted. "They hurt," you said, reaching for the water pitcher. "And I'm inside. I don't need shoes." "And your hair?" Jay asked. "My head hurt," you replied, pouring water into your glass. You took a sip, looking at him over the rim. "The bun was too tight. I took it out." Jake let out a soft laugh, leaning his chin on his hand. "I like it. It looks… wild. Like you just woke up." "She looks messy," Jay corrected, though there was no real bite in his tone. Just a heavy, simmering observation. "Disheveled." "I look like me," you said, setting the glass down with a thump. "This is what I look like when I’m not gluing my hair to my skull." Jay hummed, a low vibration in his chest. He picked up his wine glass, taking a slow sip, his eyes never leaving your face. "The dress remains, though," Jay said softly. You stiffened. "You told me to wear it." "I did," Jay agreed. "I'm glad to see you are capable of following at least one instruction." "Don't get used to it," you muttered, looking down at your empty plate. The food was already served. A filet of some dark, rich meat, glazed in a reduction that smelled of berries and thyme. Truffle mashed potatoes. Asparagus that was vibrant green. It was a meal worth a fortune. "Eat," Jay said. You picked up your fork. You weren't hungry—the knot of anxiety in your stomach was taking up too much space—but you knew the drill. Eat or be fed.

You cut a small piece of the meat and put it in your mouth. It was tender, melting on your tongue. "So," Jake said, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "Did you like the park? The sunset was pretty spectacular today." "It was fine," you said, chewing mechanically. "Just fine?" Jake teased. "You seemed pretty mesmerized by the sky." "The sky is the same everywhere," you lied. "It's just cleaner up here." "That's the point," Jay said. He was cutting his steak with precise, rhythmic movements. Scrape. Slice. Scrape. "You're slouching," Jay observed without looking up. You froze. You were indeed slouching, leaning over your plate in the defensive posture you’d learned in the mess halls of Sector 7, shielding your food.

"I'm eating," you snapped. "You are dining," Jay corrected. "Sit up." You gripped your fork. "I'm comfortable." "I didn't ask if you were comfortable," Jay said, his voice dropping an octave. "I told you to sit up." You glared at him. For a long second, you didn't move. You held your ground, staring daggers at him across the candlelight. Jay stopped eating. He set his knife and fork down, lining them up perfectly on the edge of his plate. "Are we doing this again?" Jay asked quietly. "Do you need a reminder of who sets the rules in this house?" "I know the rules," you hissed. "Sit. Stay. Roll over." "If only you were that well-trained," Jay murmured. He stood up. The movement was smooth and sudden. He walked around the table, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. You instinctively shrank back in your chair, pressing your spine against the velvet, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Jay stopped behind you. You could feel his heat radiating against your back. He smelled of wine and power, a scent that was becoming suffocatingly familiar. He didn't touch you immediately. He just stood there, his presence looming over you like a thunderhead.

Then, he reached out. His hand landed on your shoulder. It wasn't a caress. It was a grip. His fingers dug into the muscle, firm and unyielding. "Shoulders back," Jay murmured, his voice right by your ear. He pulled your shoulder back, forcing your spine to straighten. You gasped, trying to jerk away, but his grip was iron. "Get off me," you choked out. "Stop fighting," Jay warned, his thumb pressing into the sensitive hollow of your collarbone. "You look feral like this. Messy hair. Bare feet. Hunching over your food like a scavenger." "I am a scavenger," you spat, turning your head to glare up at him. It was a mistake. He was right there. His face was inches from yours. You could see the flecks of darkness in his irises, the slight flare of his nostrils.

He reached up with his other hand, tangling his fingers into your loose, messy hair. He didn't pull, but he held it, turning your face so you couldn't look away. "You were," Jay corrected, his voice a low, vibrating growl that you felt in your chest. "Now you are mine. And I don't keep scavengers. I keep investments." He wound a lock of your hair around his fist, tugging your head back until your throat was bared to the ceiling. The position was vulnerable, exposing the pulse fluttering wildly in your neck. "You have so much fire," Jay whispered, staring down at your exposed throat. "But fire needs to be controlled. Or it burns the house down." "I'll burn it down," you threatened, though your voice shook. "I'll burn everything."

Jay’s eyes darkened. A flicker of something dangerous—something that looked like hunger—passed through his gaze. "Try it," he challenged softly. "See what happens." The tension in the air was so thick it was hard to breathe. You were trapped in his grip, your head tilted back, his hand on your shoulder pinning you to the chair. You were completely at his mercy, and the realization made your blood run cold and hot all at once. He held you there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, letting the silence stretch, letting you feel the absolute weight of his control. Then, abruptly, he released you. The loss of contact was jarring. You gasped, slumping forward slightly, your hand flying to your neck where his fingers had been. Jay straightened his shirt. He looked down at you, his expression composed, as if he hadn't just been on the verge of snapping. "Finish your dinner," Jay commanded. "And fix your hair before you leave this room. I don't want to see a mess." He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and walked out of the dining room, his footsteps echoing on the marble, leaving you breathless and trembling in his wake.

Across the table, Jake watched the empty doorway where Jay had disappeared, then turned his gaze back to you. His eyes were wide, dark, and glittering with fascination. He took a slow sip of his wine, watching your chest heave as you tried to regain your composure. "Wow," Jake whispered into the silence. "He really likes you." You didn’t know if that scared you or irked you. Probably both.

The silk nightgown was a second skin of pure luxury, and it felt like a straightjacket. You tossed to the left, the expensive fabric twisting around your legs. You tossed to the right, the pillow feeling too soft, like your head was sinking into quicksand. You kicked the duvet off, then pulled it back up a minute later as the precise, climate-controlled air chilled your sweat-dampened skin.

Sleep was a ghost. It was 02:00 AM. The Witching Hour. Back in Sector 7, this was the time you would be awake, sitting by the cracked window of your hab-unit with a hand-rolled cigarette, watching the neon lights flicker and die in the puddles below. You were used to the noise—the distant wail of sirens, the hum of the geothermal generators, the shouting of drunks. Silence was dangerous. Silence meant the predators were hunting.Here, in the penthouse, the silence was absolute. It was a pressurized, hermetically sealed quiet that pressed against your eardrums. It was too safe. Your body, conditioned by twenty-three years of survival mode, couldn't downshift. Your pulse was a frantic rabbit-kick in your throat.

You sat up with a huff, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The movement caused the silk gown to ride up your thighs, exposing skin to the cool air. You shoved it down irritably. "Damn it," you whispered. You rubbed your face with both hands. Usually, when the insomnia hit this hard, you would walk. You would pace the rusted catwalks of Block 9 until your legs burned and your mind cleared. You would smoke a Red Dust until the nicotine settled the tremors in your hands. But here? You were trapped in a glass box in the sky. There were no catwalks. There was no tobacco. There was just you and the blinking red eye of the camera in the corner.You stood up. Your throat felt like sandpaper. You needed water. Not the tepid stuff from the carafe by the bed, but cold water. You needed to move.

You walked to the door. There was no handle, just the smooth white panel of the lock mechanism. You stood in front of it, waiting. Nothing happened. "Open," you commanded, your voice raspy. The panel flashed red. "Citizen," the AI's voice was soft, modulating its volume to a night-time whisper. "It is 02:14. Protocol dictates that the subject remains in quarters until 07:00. Are you experiencing a medical emergency?" You stared at the ceiling speaker. "I'm thirsty." "Hydration is available on the bedside table," the AI pointed out efficiently. "It's warm," you lied. "I feel… faint. I need ice. My temperature feels high.

I think I might throw up if I don't get cold water." You held your breath. You knew Jay monitored your vitals, but you hoped the AI had some autonomy for minor health complaints. Jay was obsessed with health. Surely, denying a "sick" vessel water would be against protocol.The system paused. You imagined it calculating the risk. Vomit meant a mess. A mess meant inefficiency. "Medical distress noted," the AI chirped. "Access granted to the kitchen area only. Please keep movement to a minimum. Do not disturb the residents." The lock disengaged with a heavy thunk, and the door slid open. "Thank you," you muttered, stepping out into the hallway. The penthouse was transformed at night. The warm, golden ambient lighting of the evening was gone, replaced by faint, blue-white guide strips running along the floorboards. It made the long corridor look like the interior of a spaceship.

The shadows were deep and sharp. You walked silently, your bare feet making no sound on the heated marble. You hugged your arms to your chest, feeling small in the vastness of the house. You reached the kitchen. It was a cavern of chrome and moonlight. The grow-lights on the vertical garden were dimmed to a low purple glow, casting eerie shadows across the stainless steel counters. You found the water dispenser built into the massive refrigerator. You pressed a glass against the lever. Water and ice tumbled out, the sound shockingly loud in the quiet room.

You took a long drink. The water was freezing, sharp, and clean. It washed away the taste of anxiety. You leaned your hip against the cold marble of the island, staring out at the towering view through the kitchen's glass wall. From here, looking down, Sector 1 was a grid of sleeping lights. It looked peaceful.

It made you angry. You thought about the water you just drank. In Sector 7, the water was rationed. The pumps were turned off between midnight and 5 AM to conserve power for the upper levels. If you were thirsty at 2 AM in the Rust Belt, you stayed thirsty. Here, it was on tap, infinite and pure. "Unfair," you whispered, the word fogging the glass. You were about to turn back, to return to your cell, when you heard it. Thump.

It was a dull, heavy sound. It came from above. You froze, your grip tightening on the glass. Your first instinct was intruder. Your muscles tensed, ready to run or fight. But then you remembered where you were. The security system here could vaporize a drone from a mile away. No one broke into the Spire. Thump. Thump. It was rhythmic. Curiosity, that dangerous old friend, pricked at the back of your mind. The kitchen was on the first floor of the penthouse. Above you was the second level—the gym, the medical bay, the terrace, the theater… and the master suite if you remembered correctly. You set the water glass down on the counter. "Don't do it," you told yourself. "Go back to bed." But your feet were already moving. You crept out of the kitchen and back into the foyer. The floating staircase spiraled up into the darkness, the white stone steps glowing faintly. You shouldn't go up there. You hadn't been invited. The AI had said kitchen only. But the AI hadn't locked the stairs.

You ascended slowly, keeping your weight on the balls of your feet, testing each step for squeaks. There were none. The house was built too well for noise. You reached the second-floor landing. The layout was familiar from Jake’s tour, but the shadows made it look different. To your left was the gym. To your right, the hallway leading to the terrace. And straight ahead, down a short, wide corridor you hadn't walked down earlier, was a set of double doors. They were tall, dark, and imposing. There was no handle, only a biometric scanner glowing a soft, angry red. The sound was coming from behind those doors.

You crept closer, drawn like a moth to a flame. The silence of the hallway amplified everything. As you got closer, the rhythmic thumping became clearer. It wasn't footsteps. It was the sound of something heavy hitting something solid. And then, a voice. "Fuck…" It was a strangled, high-pitched whine. It sounded like someone in pain. You stopped, your heart leaping into your throat. Were they fighting? Was Jay hurting him? You knew Jay was rough—he had threatened you, manhandled you—but Jake was his husband. You took another step, pressing yourself against the wall next to the doorframe. You shouldn't be here. This was dangerous. But you couldn't leave.

"Please," the voice begged. It was definitely Jake. "Jay, please… harder." Your breath hitched. Oh. They weren't fighting. "You like that?" Jay’s voice was a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the wood of the door. It sounded nothing like the cold, composed businessman who had lectured you at dinner. It was raw, rough, and dripping with dominance. "You like being used, don't you?" "Yes," Jake moaned, the word breaking into a sob. "Yes, god, yes." Smack.

The sound of skin hitting skin was sharp and wet. "You're so tight," Jay groaned. "Relax for me. Take it all." You slapped a hand over your mouth to stifle the gasp that tried to escape. You stood there, frozen, your eyes wide in the dark hallway. You were eavesdropping on the men who owned you. You were listening to the "Husbands"—the terrifying Apex predators—in their most vulnerable, primal moment. "I can't," Jake whimpered. "It's too big. Jay, you're too big." "You can take it," Jay commanded. The authority in his voice was undeniable, the same tone he used when he told you to sit, but deeper, darker. "You were made for this. Open up." Another wet, slick sound followed, and Jake let out a long, broken scream of pleasure that curled your toes against the floor. "That's it," Jay praised, his voice rough. "Good boy. Look at you taking it."

Something hot and heavy pooled low in your belly. You pressed your thighs together involuntarily. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, but not from fear this time. It was a visceral, confusing heat. You hated them. You hated Jay’s arrogance and Jake’s entitlement. You hated that they had bought you. But hearing them like this—raw, needy, completely lost in each other—was overwhelming. "Jay…" Jake panted, his voice wrecked. "I'm close. Please, baby, I'm close."

"Not yet," Jay growled. "You don't cum until I tell you to. You wait." "Sir, please…" Smack. Smack. Smack. The rhythm increased. The bed frame creaked, a rhythmic groaning that matched the pace of the wet sounds. "I'm going to fill you up," Jay groaned, his voice straining. "I'm going to fuck you until you're leaking. You hear me?" "Yes, Sir, yes!" Jake cried out. Your knees felt weak. You slid down the wall slightly, your hand clutching the fabric of your nightgown. You were wet. Undeniably, humiliatingly wet. The friction of the silk against your skin was suddenly unbearable. The image of Jay—stern, cold, untouchable Jay—losing control like this, dominating Jake with such intense, focused power, did something to your brain that you couldn't process. And Jake… the man who chattered about pastries and pink dresses, now reduced to a whimpering mess, begging for more. "Cum for me," Jay ordered, his voice sounding like a thunderclap. "Now, Jake. Let go." Jake screamed. It was a loud, uninhibited sound of pure release. "Jay!"

Immediately after, you heard Jay’s low, guttural groan, a sound of deep, animalistic satisfaction. The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of what had just happened. You heard heavy breathing, the rustle of sheets, and a soft, wet kiss. "Good boy," Jay whispered, his voice returning to a softer, but still commanding register.You scrambled up. The spell broke. The reality of what you were doing crashed down on you. If they opened that door—if Jay came out to get water and found you crouched in the hallway, aroused and eavesdropping—you would be dead. Or worse. You turned and ran. You sprinted down the hallway as quiet as you can, your bare feet flying over the marble. You practically threw yourself down the staircase, gripping the rail so hard your knuckles turned white. You burst into the foyer, turned the corner, and raced down the first-floor corridor.

"Citizen movement detected," the AI murmured, but you ignored it. You reached your door. "Open!" you hissed, bouncing on your heels.The lock clicked. You threw yourself inside and slapped the control panel to seal the door. Thud. You leaned your back against the cool white wood, sliding down until you hit the floor. You pulled your knees to your chest, burying your face in your hands. You were gasping for air, your chest heaving. You were shaking. You ran a hand through your messy hair, your fingers trembling. You could still hear them in your head. The wet sounds. The begging. The dominance. You shifted your legs, and the sensation of the wet silk against your thighs made you groan in frustration. "Stupid," you whispered to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut. "Stupid, stupid body." How could you be turned on? They were the enemy. They were the ones keeping you in a cage. Jay was the one who had threatened you. But your body didn't care about politics. It didn't care about freedom. It only knew that there was a powerful male upstairs who took what he wanted, and a submissive male who loved giving it up, and the biology of it was screaming at you. You crawled across the floor to the bed. You didn't bother getting under the covers. You just curled up on top of the duvet, clutching a pillow to your chest as if it could protect you from your own traitorous instincts. The adrenaline slowly began to fade, leaving you exhausted and achy. The silence of the room returned, but now it felt charged, heavy with the knowledge of what happened in the dark behind closed doors in the House of Park. You fell asleep with the sound of Jake’s screams and Jay’s groans looping in your mind. Yea this was going to be a problem. A problem you were starting to want to dive headfirst into.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter Please support me by Liking, Commenting and Re-blogging!

Taglist: @kristynaaah , @fancypeacepersona , @vanillakirstein, @kyunlov, @gabrielinhaa, @blindingvenomss.

[gabrielinhaa]

I did it once and I’m doing it again. @zerocoded is going through a really difficult situation, and her account was deleted by Tumblr. (she’s using her old blog @greythemed )

I’m determined to help her get it back, because that was honestly a coward move from Tumblr.

Here’s how you can help:

1. Go to this link: https://www.tumblr.com/support

2. Where it says “What can we help you with?”, choose “Something else.”

⸻

Here’s a text you can use if you want:

Subject: Request for Account Recovery (@zerocoded)

Hello Tumblr Support Team,

I hope you’re doing well.

I’m reaching out to request assistance with recovering the account @zerocoded, which was recently deleted. I believe this may have happened due to an error or misunderstanding, and I would like to know if there’s any possibility of having it restored.

This account is very important, both for its content and for the connections created over time. If you need any additional information to verify ownership or look further into the situation, I’m more than happy to provide it.

Thank you in advance for your attention and support.

⸻

If more people send messages, there’s a better chance Tumblr will look into it.

So if you can take a minute to help, it would mean A LOT.

[gabrielinhaa]

Missing @zerocoded and her sexy brain that created the most complex vampire universe I’ve ever read on Enhablr. l’ll forever mourn that loss 😭

[mssishipi]

LOVE IS CANNIBALISM — psh

“To love,” they said, “is to consume.”

content tags and warnings: cannibal reader x sunghoon, angst, psychological horror, themes of cannibalism, body intimacy & body consumption lmao, morally gray characters! description of blood, murder and violence, major character death, explicit sexual content (smut): body worshiping, pussy eating and unprotected sex. MDNI! WC: 10K

note: happy halloween! 🎃 this story is inspired by the film bones and all and the song “pag-ibig ay kanibalismo ii,” which translates to “love is cannibalism.”

it explores the metaphor of love as cannibalism rather than literal gore, focusing more on the emotional and symbolic hunger between two people. the explicit scenes aren’t the focus this time—i wanted to try something different and delve deeper into the concept itself.

this piece is unedited, so please expect a few grammatical errors, typos, and repetitive phrasing here and there. i might be a little late for kinktober, but i still wanted to share it with you.

Hunger.

Others chewed on their thoughts; you chewed on the essence of people. You could taste emotion the way a tongue knows salt. Sadness lingered sour and metallic, like fruit left too long to rot. Anger burned—hot, peppered, alive. Fear, though—that was delicate, like thin slices of cold meat melting on your tongue.

People never understood how their moods had flavors, how every glance, every tremor in their voice, seasoned the air. They talked of empathy, of feeling what others felt. But you devoured it. You took it in, swallowed whole the ache behind their words, the trembling of their secrets.

Humans bare themselves like animals when they think no one sees. The body always remembers it has teeth; the soul, that it once knew how to bite.

“What the fuck?!”

Sunghoon almost screamed, the flashlight shaking in his hand before he nearly dropped it. The beam landed on you, catching the red smear across your mouth, the wet shine of blood dripping down your chin. For a second, he couldn’t move. Every hair on his body stood stiff as his brain struggled to make sense of what he was seeing—the body in front of you, torn open, ribs cracked, skin peeled back like something butchered.

His stomach twisted, a heavy wave of bile crawling up his throat. He had seen people die before—hell, he’d caused plenty of it himself. Death wasn’t new. Blood wasn’t new. He knew the smell of it, the weight of a body cooling under his hands. Killing was part of his work, orders are passed down and he will pull the trigger, he don’t think.

But this—this was different.

He couldn’t even call it killing. It was something beyond that, it was filthy and wrong in a way that made his skin crawl. He kept staring, his pulse hammering as the sound of you chewing reached him.

He’d been running for hours, hunted by the same men he used to work with, desperate to get away. He thought he’d lost them, thought he could sneak back and grab the stash of cash before disappearing for good. He’d even killed one of them on the way out, no time for guilt. But now... Jesus Christ! Now the man he’d killed was lying there, and you were crouched over him, tearing into the flesh like it was food.

Sunghoon’s throat closed up. His grip on the flashlight tightened until his knuckles went white. He wanted to back away, to bolt, but his legs wouldn’t listen. He just stood there, staring, the echo of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, thinking one single thing over and over again— What the fuck did he just walk into?

You just stared at him, eyes blank and unbothered, gnawing on the bone. Sunghoon crouched a few feet away, his legs shaking as he tried to steady his breathing. His eyes flicked between you and the corpse sprawled out in the dirt. He could see the knife in your hand glint faintly. For a second, he tried to figure out if he could knock it out of your grip, maybe grab some cash from the dead man’s pockets before getting the hell out of there.

But you didn’t even look at him when he slowly reached forward. You were too busy tearing into what was left of the man’s ribs, the wet sound of chewing filling the air.

“Uh… eat well,” he muttered weakly.

He froze when a distant noise broke the silence—boots trampling through the far end of the cornfield. His body stiffened instantly, his hand going straight to the gun tucked at his belt.

“Fuck…” he whispered under his breath, teeth clenched. He knew that sound. His old co-workers. The bastards were close, sweeping the area.

He glanced at you again, and to his horror, you were listening too, tilting your head toward the noise like some curious animal. You dragged your tongue slowly across your bloody fingers, sucking the red off one by one.

Sunghoon made a face, disgust crawling through him. “Yuck,” he hissed quietly. He had to go. The cash he’d grabbed was enough to keep him alive for at least a week, maybe two if he was careful. That should’ve been enough reason to leave you there and run.

He turned off his flashlight and started moving quietly, crouching low, every step careful not to draw attention. He counted his steps—one, two, ten, fifteen—trying to ignore the sticky sound of your chewing that still rang in his ears. But then, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he stopped. He stood there in the dark, breath shallow, before cursing himself.

“Idiot,” he muttered. He turned back.

You were still there, crouched in the dirt, eating. The sight made his stomach twist again. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then whispered harshly, “Hey. You’re gonna get yourself killed. Those guys—they’ve got guns. You should run.”

You lifted your eyes to him slowly, then looked down at the corpse again. “I’m still hungry,” you said.

He stared at you for a second, not sure if you were serious or just completely gone in the head. “Yeah, well, I don’t give a shit,” he muttered, but his feet didn’t move. He watched as you tried to crack the bone again, struggling with the angle, grunting quietly as your hands slipped.

“Fuck’s sake…” Sunghoon hissed under his breath. Against every bit of sense he had left, he knelt beside the body and grabbed the limb. The bone gave a wet snap as he pulled it free, the sound making him gag. The smell hit him harder this time, thick and rotten. He had to swallow hard to keep his stomach from turning inside out.

“Done. Let’s go,” he rasped, wiping his hands on his pants. You didn’t argue. He grabbed your arm and yanked you up, and for a moment you just stood there staring at him, blood still dripping down your chin. Then, as the voices in the distance grew louder, you both ran.

The two of you stumbled through the cornfield, the dry stalks slapping at your arms. Sunghoon’s breath came out ragged, his chest burning with every step. You clutched the bone close to you like it was something precious, refusing to let go. And neither of you looked back.

Dumb. Sunghoon is so fucking dumb.

He knew it from the start, but seeing you sitting there on that dirty bench just made it hit harder.

The morning sun was creeping up over the horizon. You sat there quiet, legs still, holding a cracked bone in both hands and sucking on it like it was breakfast. The blood had dried into dark stains down the front of your white-brown dress. You didn’t care. You just kept pulling at the marrow with slow, steady motions while the world around you started to wake up.

A few meters away, Sunghoon was finishing a deal with a man near a dusty motorcycle. The guy looked like the kind who’d sell his own mother if it meant getting a bit of extra cash.

Sunghoon tossed a folded stack of bills at him, impatience in his voice. “You sure there’s no damage here? This shit’s expensive. I’m the third person who’s gonna use this, and if you’re scamming me, I’ll fucking blow your head off.”

The man caught the money awkwardly, trying to smile. “It’s full tank, runs smooth, I swear. Still in good shape and, uh…” His voice trailed off when he noticed you on the bench. His face twisted a little, eyes narrowing.

Sunghoon stepped sideways immediately, putting himself between the man’s stare and you. “She’s in character for the Halloween party downtown,” he snapped. “Stop looking at my girl. You’re pissing me off.”

The man lifted his hands fast, muttering an apology, and handed over the key. Sunghoon didn’t even thank him. He grabbed the keys, turned his back, and walked toward you, jaw tight.

He regretted this already. Taking you along was the dumbest fucking idea he’d had in years. The smell of blood on your dress was pissing him off, the sight of you was pissing him off, and the memory of what he’d seen you do last night wouldn’t leave his head. He already had more than enough problems—people after him, a bounty probably already circulating, and nowhere safe to go. Now he had a quiet freak sitting next to him, chewing bones in daylight like it was normal.

He stopped in front of you and stared. You just looked up at him, face blank, eyes too calm for what you were. There was something almost childlike about it, which somehow made it worse. He’d heard about people like you—stories of lunatics, cannibals, cult weirdos—but never thought he’d meet one who looked so damn harmless. It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

He sighed hard, rubbing a hand over his face. “Look,” he said finally, “I can’t take you with me. I can’t afford to. We’re not even that far from the next town. You can walk there, maybe find someone who’ll help. Go back home, or wherever the hell you came from.”

You didn’t answer at first. You lowered the bone, your lips pressed tight, eyes darting to the side like you were thinking about something you didn’t want to say. Then, softly, “Can I… be with you?”

Sunghoon frowned, brow furrowing deep. “Are you fucking deaf? I said I can’t take you.”

“I have money,” you murmured.

He barked a short laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “The hell do I care about your money? Go back to your home.”

“The villagers are hunting me,” you said, voice even quieter. “They burned my house.”

Sunghoon froze for half a second. He almost said it—that’s what you get for eating people. But he stopped himself. He didn’t need to get involved. Whatever shit you were in wasn’t his problem.

Then you reached into the pocket of your dress and pulled out a small folded wad of bills, handing it to him with both hands. Sunghoon blinked down at it, dumbfounded.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered as he took it, unfolding it just enough to see the amount. “Ten bucks? You’re giving me ten fucking dollars?”

He stared at you like he couldn’t believe what kind of joke the world was playing on him. You only looked back with those wide, unbothered eyes, as if ten dollars really meant something.

Sunghoon cursed under his breath again, stuffing the crumpled bills deep into his pocket and staring down the empty road that stretched ahead.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or scream at himself for what he was doing. Every nerve in his body told him to walk away, to leave you sitting there on that bench and never look back.

But somehow, an hour later, you were clinging to him on the motorcycle as he drove toward the city. Your arms were wrapped tight around his waist, your chin pressed lightly against his back. The smell of blood still lingered from your dress. It made his stomach turn, but he kept his eyes on the road and told himself it was only until he found a safe place to drop you off.

He didn’t talk during the ride. The wind was loud, the road rough, and every time he glanced at the side mirror, he saw your face — calm, eyes half-closed, hair flying around you as if none of this was strange. He wanted to shout at you, ask what the hell was wrong with you, but he didn’t. He just rode until the city outline came into view.

He stopped at a gas station on the outskirts, one of those rundown. Sunghoon parked the bike near the restroom and turned to you, wiping sweat off his neck. “Stay here,” he said. “Don’t follow me.”

He locked you in the bathroom before you could respond. You didn’t resist, just watched him through the small dirty window as he walked off. He came back after a while with a plastic bag of new clothes — jeans, a plain shirt, something cheap from the discount rack inside. Without saying a word, he tossed them through the door before unlocking it again. You came out quietly, dressed in the new clothes, but still holding the same damn bone in your hand.

He left the gas station and walked down a narrow service road until the sound of cars faded away. There, behind the trees where no one would see, Sunghoon dumped both your old clothes and his into a pile on the dirt. He poured gasoline from a small bottle and lit it with a match. The fire caught quick and you both stood there watching the flames eat away the blood, the dirt, everything that tied you to last night. The light flickered against your face, and you still didn’t move, your hand gripping the bone tight.

“Throw it away,” Sunghoon said, his voice sharp with irritation.

You turned to look at him out of the corner of your eye, not saying anything. Your gaze dropped to the bone, your fingers tightening around it.

“I said throw it away,” he repeated, louder this time.

When you didn’t move, he clicked his tongue hard, snatched it from your hand, and tossed it into the fire. The bone hit the flames with a small crack, the white turning dark as it burned.

You gasped quietly, your lips trembling as your eyes began to water. Sunghoon didn’t look back. He was already walking toward the motorcycle, his shoulders tense, his patience gone.

“Hop in,” he said over his shoulder, voice rough. “I’m tired. I want to rest. Stop wasting my fucking time.”

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand and followed. The night swallowed the sound of the fire behind you as the two of you got back on the road. The bike roared to life, and neither of you spoke again.

Sunghoon had gotten used to surviving off scraps, pickpocketing strangers and trading whatever junk he could find in the city. It wasn’t easy, but he’d done worse before. The hard part wasn’t stealing or running from cops; it was switching places every few days, finding new cheap inns that didn’t ask questions, and keeping his head down.

What made it unbearable was you—always walking behind him like a quiet shadow, following him through the noise and the smoke and the stinking food stalls with that same blank, innocent look on your face. He didn’t know why he hadn’t told you to fuck off sooner. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was stupidity. Probably both.

A week passed, and somehow you were still there. You didn’t eat anything he gave you. He’d tried everything from bread to instant noodles to a street hotdog, waving it right under your nose, telling you to stop being so fucking weird and just eat something normal. You only shook your head, calm and blunt, eyes down, as if food wasn’t for you. He gave up after that. If you wanted to starve, that was your problem, not his. He told himself he wasn’t responsible for you, not anymore.

You didn’t talk much, either. Sometimes he wondered if you just couldn’t, or if you chose not to. When you did speak, it was short—your name, that one time, and nothing else. He told you his in return, and that was it.

After a few more days, he started thinking seriously about leaving you. He didn’t owe you anything, and you didn’t seem like you even cared where you went. He figured he could just ditch you somewhere safe, maybe by a bus stop or a marketplace, and you’d find your own way. The thought rolled in his head for a while until, one afternoon, as the two of you walked through a busy street, he decided it was time.

“Stay here,” he said, motioning to a bench near a line of parked bikes. “I’ll just buy something.”

You looked up, eyes blank but obedient. “Buy what?”

“Some shits,” he muttered, already walking off.

He could almost taste the relief as soon as he turned the corner. His chest felt lighter, his steps quicker. That was it. He was free. He didn’t look back.

He went straight to the inn he’d been renting, shoved his few clothes into a plastic bag, and stuffed them into his backpack. When he turned to the table and saw the dresses he’d bought for you folded neatly on the chair, his stomach twisted a little. He stared at them for a few seconds before shaking his head, muttering something under his breath he didn’t mean. Then he grabbed his things and left, ignoring the weight sitting in his chest.

He crossed into another town the next day, rented a new room, started picking pockets again, selling whatever stolen goods he could. Life went back to what it was supposed to be—simple, quiet, and ugly. But no matter what he did, he couldn’t shake the thought out of his head. It crawled back every night when he tried to sleep, every morning when he looked at his reflection and saw the same tired face staring back.

Ten days passed. He couldn’t stop wondering if you were still sitting on that bench, if you had moved, if someone had found you. He told himself he didn’t care. You weren’t his problem. You weren’t his responsibility. You were probably long gone anyway. But something about it wouldn’t let go.

“Idiot,” he muttered, cursing himself as he kicked the bike into gear and turned the handle. The engine roared to life, loud enough to drown out the guilt in his head. He drove for hours, back toward the same city, the same street, the same damn bench.

When he arrived, his chest went tight.

You were still there.

You were in the same place where he left you. Same bench, same clothes, same blank look. It was like time hadn’t touched you at all. You sat still, staring at nothing, hands on your lap, hair a little messier, face pale. For a long moment, Sunghoon didn’t move. He stayed by the bike, helmet still in his hand, his throat tight and dry. He felt that familiar guilt crawl back up — sitting in his chest like a bad meal he couldn’t digest.

He muttered a curse under his breath, ran a hand through his hair, and finally took a step forward. You were really still there. He couldn’t decide if you were just dumb, stubborn. Yeah, you were definitely dumb, more than him.

Then, as if you’d sensed him, your head turned. Your eyes met his instantly, that same innocent gleam sparking up like it hadn’t dimmed once in all those days. Your lips parted, soft and surprised, a small gasp escaping as your expression changed. You stood up in a hurry, wiping your hands on your dress before waving at him, that strange smile spreading on your face. It was the first time he’d ever seen you smile at all. It caught him off guard — it looked so out of place, too pure for what you really were.

He didn’t even know what the hell came over him, but before he could think twice, he parked the bike and started walking toward you. His steps were slow at first, then quicker, and the next thing he knew, his arms were around you.

You made a small, high sound, shocked by how tight he was holding you. He didn’t care. He just held you, eyes shut.

“Sorry,” he said quietly against your hair.

You hesitated for a second before mumbling, “Back… you’re back…” Your voice shook a little as your arms awkwardly came up to return the hug. “Hungry… I’m hungry…”

He sighed into your shoulder, half tired, half relieved, feeling something heavy loosen in him. “We’re going to eat,” he said, finally letting go and looking down at you. “What do you want?”

You looked up at him with that same calm, innocent face and answered without thinking, “Happy people.”

Sunghoon let out a short laugh.

He didn’t say anything after that, just stared at the wall of the warehouse he'd found.

The night air was cold, the wind blowing through cracks in the metal sheets. You sat on the floor with your knees pulled close, watching him while he cleaned his knife again and again without reason.

He told himself he wasn’t doing this for you. He told himself that over and over as he went out that night, wandering through the alleys, looking for whatever would quiet the voice in his head that kept repeating your words. By the time he came back, hours later, he had a large case in his hand. He didn’t tell you what was inside, and you didn’t ask. You only looked at it with that soft, hungry smile that made his skin crawl.

When he dropped it on the table, you reached for it right away.

He turned away, sat on an old wooden chair, and pulled a worn book from his pocket. The paper edges were yellowed, the letters fading, but it was something to look at while you busied yourself behind him. The sound of you eating echoed in the background. He tried to focus on the words in front of him, but they blurred.

After a while the noises stopped, and the silence pressed down. When he looked up, you were walking toward him with something wrapped in a torn cloth. Your hands were shaking slightly, your mouth messy, your eyes bright. You sat beside him and pushed the bundle toward him like a child giving a gift.

“For you,” you said softly, then turned your head away, shy and uncertain.

Sunghoon stared at it for a long moment before shaking his head. “Keep it,” he said quietly, his tone flat. “You need it more.”

You hesitated, then set it aside and leaned a little closer to look at the book in his hand. “What’re you reading?”

He shrugged. “Some literary crap. Poems, stories, old shit.” He flipped it so you could see the lines printed on the page. “You read?”

You nodded, smiling faintly. “I can read.” Your voice was calm, almost pleased. “You like reading?”

“I used to,” he said after a pause. “I loved writing more. But that crap doesn’t feed you. It’s useless when you’re broke.”

You stayed quiet for a few seconds, then spoke again, voice small. “You could try again.”

Sunghoon huffed a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Try again? For what? You think words are gonna pay for a room or buy food? Nah. It’s just nonsense.”

You watched him for a while, then smiled again, quiet and strange. “I love reading,” you said. “But I don’t have books.”

He looked at you out of the corner of his eye, sighed, and pushed the old book toward you. “Then take this one. It’s not worth shit anyway.”

You touched the cover like it was something delicate, then nodded once.

Weeks turned into months, and the two of you never stayed in one place for long. You traveled from city to city, sleeping in rundown motels or abandoned buildings, always moving before dawn. People kept disappearing — faces shown on missing posters, names called out on the evening news — but Sunghoon never cared enough to watch. He knew how the world worked. The police would drag in some poor bastard to take the blame, the public would sigh with relief, and everything would go quiet again.

He did the killing; you did the eating. Later, when you were done, he cleaned up the mess — burning clothes, scrubbing blood from the floor, making sure nothing was left behind.

Sometimes, when the night was calm, and you were sitting by a fire licking the blood off your fingers, he’d think about what you said once — about writing again. He’d laugh to himself, realizing that somehow, you had become his weakness. You, with that small voice and strange gentleness that made him forget what kind of monster he really was.

Sunghoon was dumb, he thought. Dumb for feeling anything at all while watching you crouched over a body, eating piece by piece with that same innocent look. The sight should have made him sick, but instead, it made something in his chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.

When you were done, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and looked up at him. “Thank you,” you whispered, smiling shyly.

He nodded and flipped a page in his book, pretending to read, but his eyes drifted to you again. This time, there was no blood smeared across your face. Only your lips were stained red, glossy and clean, like you’d been careful not to make a mess.

“Eat with me?” you asked, pointing to the body sprawled open on the floor, blood still dripping from the ribs.

He stared at it for a moment, then back at you. “No, thank you,” he said quietly.

You pouted, turning your head away with that same shy motion he’d seen so many times. “You want it cooked?” you mumbled.

He blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“I’ll… cook for you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “If you want.”

Sunghoon stared at you for a moment, your face shy and your lips still red from feeding.

Something in him twisted, the usual coldness breaking apart. Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers sliding to the back of your neck. He pulled you close and pressed his mouth to yours.

You let out a small sound of surprise, muffled against his lips, but you didn’t pull away. The warmth of his mouth caught you off guard. Your heart skipped wildly as his grip tightened, and he angled your face to deepen the kiss. His tongue traced your lips, tasting the faint metallic flavor that still lingered there. He groaned low in his throat, his breath hot against your mouth, and kissed you harder until you felt his tongue slide deeper, exploring you like he wanted to devour you whole.

A soft moan escaped your throat, and your hands clawed at his back, pulling him down until his chest pressed against yours. The air between you burned as the kiss turned desperate, messy, full of need. You could feel his weight on top of you, and still you wanted more. Your lips moved against his skin, finding the curve of his neck, biting softly until he groaned again and pushed himself closer.

“Sunghoon…” you breathed as his mouth found yours again. The kiss came slower this time but deeper, his tongue sliding against yours while his hands moved down the sides of your body, tracing the shape of your waist before grabbing the edge of your dress. He pulled it up without breaking the kiss, his breath mixing with yours.

You let your eyes fall shut as your legs parted on their own, your body giving in to his touch. The heat building fast under your skin and you could feel his fingers pressing against you through the thin fabric, teasing, dragging slowly until they found the wet spot between your thighs. The touch made your hips jerk, a soft sound spilling from your mouth into his.

Sunghoon deepened the kiss, swallowing every noise you made. You arched your back, grinding into his hand, trying to feel more of him. Each stroke of his fingers sent a shiver up your spine, and every time he pulled back to breathe, he came right back, like he couldn’t stop tasting you. Your breaths tangled, mouths opening and closing against each other.

You moaned into his mouth, clutching his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between your bodies. His weight pressed against you, and you could feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest.

Sunghoon’s mind was a blur. He wanted to stop, to think, but he couldn’t. You ate people, but right now he wanted to eat you too — not with teeth, but with his hands, his mouth, his whole body. The kiss had been the first step of consumption, and God knows how much he craved it.

His fingers lingered on the curve of your thigh, feeling the tremor in your muscles, the heat of your skin. In the back of his mind, he thought about the strange balance between hunger and want, about how thin that line really was.

Sunghoon pulled away just long enough to strip the rest of your clothes from your body, his fingers trembling slightly as if he couldn’t decide whether to be gentle or rough. The air hit your bare skin, and his eyes drank you in with a hunger. His mouth parted, breath coming out heavy as he took in the sight of your breasts, round and flushed from his touch. He swallowed hard, a low groan escaping him.

He leaned in, his lips brushing your collarbone before his teeth found your neck. He bit down—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to leave the shape of his mouth pressed into you. His tongue followed, tracing the edge of the mark, soothing and claiming at the same time. You shivered beneath him, fingers digging into his shoulders.

When he heard the soft whimper escape your lips, something inside him snapped. His grip tightened, one hand sliding beneath your back to pull you closer, pressing you into him until you could feel every inch of his body.

You clung to him, your nails scraping down his spine as though anchoring yourself, yet the gesture only spurred him on.

You arched your back instinctively, offering yourself to him like a meal placed before the starving. He devoured every inch of you with his mouth—your throat, your shoulders, the soft curve of your breasts—leaving trails of warmth and sting wherever his lips went. Each kiss felt like a bite, each breath between them a growl.

You were open to him, like a wound that refused to close. He tasted you slowly, deliberately, savoring the salt of your skin as though it could feed him.

He took your nipple between his lips, sucking deep until your breath broke into a sharp sound that filled the room. The noise drove him mad; his tongue circled, flicked, and licked at your areola with unrelenting focus, the wet sounds between you are obscene and unashamed. Every gasp that escaped you made his body tighten, and when he groaned against your skin, you could feel it vibrate straight through your chest.

His hand never stopped moving. His fingers slipped lower, sliding along your thigh until he reached the heat between your legs. He pushed the thin fabric aside, and when he plunged two fingers inside you, your whole body arched. The sudden stretch made you gasp, and his name fell from your lips before you could stop it. He left your breasts with a wet pop, his mouth glistening, and then he pulled your panties down the rest of the way, tossing them aside before lowering himself between your legs.

When his tongue met you, it was filthy—slow and wet and relentless. He licked from the base of your slit all the way up to your clit, dragging his tongue through every fold before pressing his mouth flat against you. He sucked hard, drawing the taste of you into his mouth as if he couldn’t get enough. Fuck, he thought, dizzy from it. You taste so fucking good.

You could feel every flick of his tongue, every breath he exhaled against your skin. It sent jolts through your body, from your spine down to your toes, until your legs wrapped around his head and refused to let go. He didn’t fight it; he wanted you tight around him, wanted to drown there. His tongue worked faster, licking, flicking, sucking at every drop that slipped out of you.

Sunghoon was moaning into you, humming when your thighs trembled, slurping every bit he could reach as though feeding from you.

Then his hand moved again. You barely noticed at first, too far gone, until his fingers slid from your thighs up and found your nipple. He pinched hard and your body jerked against his face. The pain melted into pleasure so fast it made your head spin.

"Keep it loud, please." He said, he didn’t stop; his fingers rolled and twisted.

Your hips moved with their own rhythm, sliding against his mouth again and again, using him without restraint. He gripped your thigh tighter, urging you to squeeze, while his other hand kept playing with your nipple. His cock throbbed, ignored but straining, the need pulsing through him, but he didn’t care. He wanted this more—to taste you, to take everything you gave, to keep you open beneath him and devour every part of you that trembled.

You could barely breathe when the pressure started to build deep inside you, your body trembling under his mouth. “S-Something’s c-coming,” you whimper, voice breaking, hips moving on their own as if your body had already decided it couldn’t stop.

Sunghoon’s tongue doesn’t slow; he licks up and down your slit, his mouth open and greedy as he sucks and laps at you, chasing every sound that falls from your throat. The harder you shake, the more desperate he becomes, his tongue dragging through.

You cry out, your voice splintering into a scream as your whole body convulses, every muscle tightening around the heat of his mouth.

He doesn’t stop when you come. He keeps licking, sucking, and eating you out until you’re trembling uncontrollably, his mouth wet with everything you’ve given him. The sound of it is filthy—loud slurps and low moans—and he doesn’t care how obscene it gets. He wants to crawl inside you, lose himself there, mold himself into your heat until he can’t tell where you end and he begins.

He pulls away, breathless and flushed, his face glistening with your slick. Without a word, he strips off his pants, his hands trembling slightly as if the need in him has turned to ache. He leans over you again, his mouth finding yours in a rough, hungry kiss.

You moan into him, still trembling, whispering against his lips, “So good.”

He grinds against you, his cock sliding through your wetness, the friction making you both gasp. You can feel how hard he is, how close he’s holding himself back, and it makes your voice crack when you plead, “So good, want more, want more, Hoonie…”

He groans at the sound of his name, pushes forward slowly, and the first stretch makes both of you cry out.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, fingers pressing into your jaw as his other arm hooks behind your back, pulling you closer until your chest meets his. The kiss deepens again, his tongue slipping into your mouth to taste you the way he tasted your skin.

You try to chase his lips when he breaks the kiss, your mouth open, needy, and when he raises himself just enough to look down at you, the sight almost breaks him. Sunghoon groans low, his body shuddering, and he pushes back in—deeper this time, harder. You meet him halfway, your hips rolling up to take him in.

You can feel the hunger in the way he moves, in the way he breathes your name against your ear.

His love is not soft—it’s desperate, consuming, something that wants to eat and be eaten until there’s nothing left but the sound of flesh and breath.

You became clingier, your body pressed against his every time. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your lips brushing along his neck and jaw, leaving soft kisses that grew, needier. You murmured between them, words barely formed but full of meaning, your breath hot against his ear.

“I love you, Hoonie,” you whispered.

Sunghoon smiled without meaning to, his lips curling before he could stop them. Every time you said it, something inside him warmed and ached at the same time. He wanted to answer you, to say it back and let it fall heavy between you, but the words stayed trapped in his throat. He couldn’t force them out. Instead, he kissed you again, hoping the way his mouth lingered could say what his voice couldn’t.

You didn’t seem to mind. You just held him tighter, swaying your hips gently against him, as if your bodies could speak the rest of what your mouths couldn’t. Your fingers traced the lines of his face, following the sharp edge of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the soft curve of his lips. His skin was pale and warm under your touch, the faint light catching on the small moles scattered across his face.

He was too beautiful. So beautiful it made your stomach turn, made you ache to taste him. You thought about how his teeth flashed when he smiled, how honest they looked, how much truth was hidden behind them. You loved him in a way that felt hungry, the kind of love that wanted to consume rather than simply hold. You could almost taste his emotion when he kissed you back—the sweetness of it mixed with the salt of your own breath.

You pressed your lips to the corner of his mouth and whispered again, “I love you.” He just breathed out softly, his hands resting on your hips, holding you close.

You and Sunghoon spent your days drifting from one place to another, his bike carrying you both through quiet roads and long stretches of open space. The wind whipped at your hair as you pressed yourself against his back, your arms locked around his waist. Sometimes you’d tilt your head just enough to see the curve of his cheek, the way his mouth softened when he focused on the road, and you couldn’t help but stare.

When the day began to fade, the two of you often stopped somewhere to watch the sunset. You’d sit behind him on the grass, your head resting on his shoulder as the sky turned gold and then deep red.

Sometimes, when you couldn’t help it, you’d lean closer and whisper something small and soft into his ear—words that melted before they were fully spoken.

Loving him felt like eating slowly, like tasting something rich that lingered on your tongue long after it was gone. You didn’t just want him—you wanted to keep him inside you somehow, to swallow every part of the feeling before it could fade. You loved Sunghoon so much that it frightened you, because every time you thought you had enough, you only ended up craving more. Loving him meant devouring what you wanted most, even when it began to consume you too.

Love, you thought, was cannibalism. It was a kind of hunger that never ended, a sweetness that bit back if you dared to take too much. To love him was to risk being eaten alive by your own desire, to let the sharp edges of it scrape against everything tender inside you. And you accepted that willingly. You wanted him to take from you—the small pieces, the soft parts, every bit of yourself that you’d kept hidden from the world. You wanted to offer it all as tribute, a sacrifice to the kind of affection that didn’t promise safety but felt worth the pain.

He gave you food. You gave him yourself.

You were lying on the thin mattress in the small, dim room Sunghoon had rented, your body stretched lazily across the sheets as the faint hum of the outside world leaked through the walls.

He had gone out earlier to make a trade, saying he’d be back before dark, and you had passed the time staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks that looked like branching rivers. You didn’t think about much; there wasn’t anything worth thinking about when he wasn’t there. You just waited for the sound of his bike, the faint growl that meant he was coming home.

"Huh?" You whisper quietly when you hear a sudden noise.

A noise came from beyond the door and your head tilted slightly. Curiosity was mild and passing, and you pushed yourself up, feet touching the cold floor, and went to the door, pulling it open just enough to see.

There were men standing there. Dressed in black, holding guns that caught the dim light. They looked at you the same way you looked at them—blank, and confused.

“Shit, I think we got the wrong room,” one of them muttered.

You blinked, silent. You tilted your head slightly, studying their faces, the way they shifted on their feet. Your pulse stayed slow, calm. You didn’t ask who they were or why they were here. You just wondered, faintly, when Sunghoon would come back. Maybe he’d bring the snack he liked, or another book to read while you lay beside him.

“We should leave,” one of the men said, voice uneasy.

“Are you crazy? She saw us! She could report us to the cops or something,” another snapped, lifting his gun to aim at you.

You didn’t move. Your eyes stayed fixed nonchalantly on the weapon pointed at your chest. Your thoughts drifted again to Sunghoon, if what he was doing right now.

“Stop it,” a third voice said sharply. “The girl looks like she’s not all there. She’s not reacting. We can just pay her off or—”

“I’m not trusting you with that. We just need to kill Sunghoon, that’s all.”

Kill... Sunghoon?

It was only then that your body moved. There was no scream, no warning—just the sudden, exact motion of your hand snapping forward to grab the nearest gun. Your fingers wrapped around cold metal and before the man could react, you twisted hard, the shot going off. His body jerked back and fell against the wall, blood splattering across your face.

The three remaining men froze, caught between shock and fury. You turned it slowly toward the next one, your eyes steady, your expression still empty.

They moved at once, a rough hand seized your arm and yanked you forward. You gasped from the sudden jolt that rattled through your body. The man’s grip was strong, you twisted in his hold, trying to wrench free. You sank your teeth into his forearm until you tasted blood. His scream tore through the room,m and you kicked your feet against the floor, trying to throw him off balance, grunting through the effort.

“Kill her! Fuck—just kill her already!” the man carrying you shouted, spitting out the words in fear. Another raised his gun, aiming for your head, but you were moving too much. The bullet tore through your shoulder instead, the pain sharp and burning as you stumbled, your body jerking in his grip.

“Grab a knife!” one of them yelled.

You saw the glint of metal a second before it sank toward you. You twisted again, but not enough—the blade slashed across your stomach, you screamed but you kept moving even as your skin split and blood ran down your body, fighting with raw, desperate strength. Your head spun, the edges of the room fading and brightening at once.

Sunghoon. Where was Sunghoon? You wanted him. You wanted him to come in and kill them all. You wanted him to feed you, to make this stop, to make it mean something. You wanted to eat.

The man holding you shoved you against the wall, his arm pressing hard against your throat. Your vision darkened, the air leaving your lungs in a broken rasp as you clawed at him. Your voice came out hoarse, a raw sound that barely resembled a scream—until suddenly, another sound tore through the room.

Gunfire.

The weight pinning you down fell away. The man’s body hit the floor, blood pooling under him. You blinked through the haze, vision too blurry to make sense of anything, but you smiled anyway because you heard his voice—Sunghoon’s voice— he was angry.

You turned your head, dragging yourself up against the wall. Sunghoon was there, his face hard and furious, his shirt streaked with blood that wasn’t his. He was fighting the two remaining men. One swung a knife, but Sunghoon ducked and shoved him back, slamming his fist into the man’s throat before driving his own knife straight into his stomach.

You pressed your hand to your wound and forced yourself upright, staggering on your feet. The room spun around you, your skin slick with blood, but all you could think about was him—his back to you, his shoulders tense. You wanted to reach out.

Suddenly, you saw the last man standing lifted his gun, aiming straight for Sunghoon’s head.

Your heart felt like it cracked open inside your chest. You didn’t think, you just moved. You stepped forward, half-running, half-falling, trying to grab his arm before he could fire. But he was faster. The gun went off.

The sound hit you before the pain did. The impact threw you back, a hot, crushing ache blooming in your chest as you fell.

Sunghoon froze. For a moment, everything stopped—the fight, the shouting, even his breathing. The man who shot you barely had time to blink before Sunghoon lunged, tackling him to the floor and smashing his head into the ground until the gun slipped from his hand. The world around you blurred into noise: another shot, another scream, the dull sound of a body collapsing.

Sunghoon dropped to the floor beside you, crawling on his knees until he could gather you in his arms. His hands shook as they wrapped around your body, trembling from the blood that wouldn’t stop leaking out of you. He pressed you closer, holding you against his chest. His breath came out uneven, his words stuttering through sobs.

“No, no, no,” he whispered as it cracked under the weight of panic. “Don’t—please, don’t do this to me.” His arm stayed locked around your shoulders, his thumb rubbing over your skin in small, desperate circles that smeared your blood over both of you.

You looked up at him, your eyes heavy but still searching for his face. He looked like he was falling apart—his lips trembling, his tears mixing with the red streaks on his cheeks. You could almost taste the sadness coming off him.

“I-I want to eat,” you murmured weakly.

Sunghoon’s head jerked slightly, and he let out a choked sound, a broken laugh that caught halfway through his throat. “T-There’s food here,” he said quickly, as if saying it fast enough would make it real. “I’ll cook for you, okay? I’ll make something. I’ll get you to a hospital, I—”

You shook your head weakly, your fingers twitching against his shirt. “No money for hospital,” you whispered, your voice almost gone, eyelids fluttering before you forced them open again just to see him.

He looked down at you, and your lips curved into a small, faint smile. “Beautiful,” you whispered, and the word came out like a sigh.

Sunghoon’s chest tightened as he watched your eyes, still bright even as they began to dim. He swallowed hard, his own tears were thick and so ugly on his face. “You’re beautiful too,” he said, voice trembling as he tried to steady himself, but his throat closed around the words.

You blinked, your breathing shallow, uneven. “D-Did you eat?” you asked softly, barely forming the words, but he heard you.

He shook his head, his whole body shaking with it. “No. Not yet,” he said, and his voice cracked again. His tears fell freely now, dripping onto your cheek, sliding down to your neck.

“Eat now,” you murmured, your lips barely moving. “Okay? I—” The rest never came out. Your body stilled for a moment, and the sound of silence hit him harder.

“Fuck, no—no!” Sunghoon’s voice broke open as the panic ripped through him. He pressed his forehead against yours, his tears mixing with your blood. “Please, don’t leave me, don’t—please.” His words became jagged, tumbling out in a blur. “I love you, okay? I fucking love you. Are you hungry? I—”

He looked around the room, searching for something that could fix the unfixable. His eyes landed on the knife still lying near the bloodstained floorboards. He reached for it with shaking fingers and clutched it hard, so hard the blade sliced into his palm. The blood welled up quickly, running down his wrist in dark streaks.

“Thirsty?” he said, almost tender, almost insane. “You can drink my blood, it’s fine. You can have it all. It’s warm. It’s yours.”

He lifted his hand toward your mouth, and you, half-conscious, obeyed without thought, your lips parting slightly. His blood touched your tongue, you didn’t even have the strength to swallow, but the gesture made him sob harder, his body shaking over yours.

“I love you,” he cried. “I love you, please stay with me, please.” He pressed your hand to his chest, right over his heart, where it beat too fast and too loud. “Feast on my flesh,” he whispered, his voice breaking into a trembling plea. “Drink all my blood. You can eat me if it means you’ll stay alive. Just… please…”

He leaned down, pressing his lips to yours, not caring that they were cold or that his blood was now smeared between you. "I love you, I love you, I love you." He whisper in your lips as he kiss you.

You smiled faintly,. “L-love y-you too…” The sound barely escaped your throat before it broke off, your lips parting slightly. Your eyes stayed open, still staring at him, but the light was gone. The pupils widened, dark and still, like deep water that no longer reflected anything back.

For a few seconds, Sunghoon didn’t move. He stared at you, waiting for your chest to rise again, waiting for your fingers to twitch or for your lips to move. The silence pressed down heavy on him until the ringing in his ears started.

He shook you gently, then harder, tapping your cheek over and over. “No. No, wake up. Please.” He slapped your face lightly, his voice trembling, but you didn’t respond. You stayed still in his arms, your head lolling to the side, and something inside him started to break apart.

“Fuck!” he yelled. “You can’t be gone. You can’t be fucking gone!” His voice cracked halfway through the scream, breaking into a sob he didn’t recognize. “You can’t do this to me, fuck, please.”

He pressed his forehead against yours again, his body shaking. “I should’ve left you the first time I saw you,” he whispered, his tone hollow, more to himself than to you. “It wouldn’t hurt this fucking much. I should’ve walked away.” But even as he said it, he pulled you closer, his fingers tangling in your hair, his lips brushing your ear. “Why does it hurt like this?” His breath came ragged, uneven. He didn’t like it—the ache, the emptiness. It felt like his heart was trying to crawl out of his chest, trying to escape the body that no longer wanted to hold it.

The memories hit him all at once: your voice calling his name, the way he kill people to feed you, the way you touch him gently, breath him in.

“How dare you leave me,” he whispered hoarsely, his fingers gripping your face. “You ate people, you try to fed me pieces of them, and I hated it. I fucking hated it.” His voice cracked into a sob. “But I loved you. I loved everything you gave me. Every disgusting, beautiful piece.”

He looked down at your neck, the small vein beneath your skin as if refusing to admit what had already happened. His breathing turned sharp, his jaw tightening as a single thought clawed its way to the surface. He didn’t want to lose you—not even now. If love was devouring, then maybe he could keep you inside him forever.

With trembling hands, he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to your throat. His teeth sank into your skin, deeper and rougher than before, tearing it open until the taste of iron filled his mouth. He bit down harder, his tears falling faster, mixing with your blood as he swallowed. You didn’t move. You stayed perfectly still, eyes open, your body limp in his arms.

The taste was bitter and sweet all at once, the way you always were. He sobbed against your neck, his whole body shaking as he clung to you. The warmth faded from your skin with every passing second, but he didn’t stop. He wanted to taste you, to keep you with him in the only way he knew how.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered into the wound, his lips smeared with red. “Please, don’t leave me.” His words blurred into the sound of his crying, into the soft hum of his breath against your skin.

He pulled back just enough to look at your face again. You were gone—beautiful, still, almost peaceful—but to him, you were everything. He leaned forward and pressed another kiss to your forehead, his voice shaking as he spoke against your cooling skin.

“I love you, I love you,” he murmured against your skin, the words breaking apart between his teeth as he bit down again and again. Each bite was rougher than the last, his mouth shaking, his breath uneven. He didn’t stop even when blood began to mix with the salt of his tears, his body trembling as he whispered your name.

When morning came, the room was silent except for the faint sound of birds outside and the soft creak of the floor beneath his feet. The sunlight slipped through the broken curtains, washing everything in a dull orange glow. He moved slowly, carefully, his hands still stained with red as he gathered your body. He wrapped you with a tenderness that didn’t match what he’d done, tucking you inside a large old luggage that barely fit your frame.

He closed it gently, locking it, then dragged it across the floor. His breath came heavy as he pulled it outside and strapped it onto the back of his bike.

He drove across town, then another, passing empty roads and quiet stretches of forest, his eyes blank but his grip firm on the handles. The road blurred under him, and every few miles, he’d stop, open the luggage just a bit, and look at you. His fingers would brush over your skin before he leaned down again.

When the hunger returned—because it always did—he would stop somewhere no one could see, unzip the bag, and take what he needed. He ate quietly, almost peacefully, his face calm as if it were nothing more than a meal shared between lovers. Afterward, he’d wipe his mouth, close the luggage again, and get back on the road.

And he kept going—town after town, night after night—feeding on what was left of you, the taste of love still clinging to his tongue. He never looked for anyone else, never spoke to another soul. Just drove, and ate, and whispered your name into the wind.

ACT OF DEVOURING

written by anonymous

There’s a hunger in me that never quiets—not when I sleep, not when I breathe, not even when I say your name. And It all started the day I met you, the day I realized love could sound like an empty stomach growling for something it can never digest.

When I first undressed you, I didn’t just want to touch you. I wanted to know you in a way that skin alone couldn’t offer. I wanted to break you open and see what your heart tasted like—if it was sweet, or bitter, or human at all.

They say to love someone is to be gentle. But I’ve never known gentleness that didn’t hunger in secret. My affection grew like a thorn, the kind that cuts even as it clings. When I kissed you, I could feel the edge of it pressing into me—the ache to consume, to pull you inside until there was no line between us. The mouth was never meant to hold back love; it was made to devour, to draw flesh close enough to become one with it.

I used to think love was a way of saving. But what if it’s a way of eating—to keep what we desire from disappearing? You offered me yourself so freely, and I took you as any starving thing would: slow at first, then desperate, afraid you’d vanish before I could finish.

And even after your voice is gone, you remain in me. I feel you in the weight of my tongue, the rhythm of my heartbeat, the warmth still crawling beneath my skin. I’ve swallowed pieces of you so deep that I no longer know which hunger belongs to me and which was yours.

To love you was to consume you, to cradle you between my teeth, to love is to eat and chewed through grief.

And when the world asks what love is, I will tell them this: it’s the ache that drives the starving to sing while they feast on the ones they can’t let go.

END.

[gabrielinhaa]

that was INSANE!!!!!!

[andassortedkpop]

Does anyone know what happened to zerocoded? They deleted their blog. They deleted their AO3 and they took with them the most incredible story I have like…ever read ever. I was obsessed with this story. It was an immersive Enhypen vampire story with the kind of dedicated lore I could easily spend 3 hours disassociating to. When I tell you I am devastated I do not use that term lightly. Please. Any information? Did she offer any explanation? Did she move her stories? I just want to read more of her work. What a TALENT… Her last published story was a literal masterpiece. It was about Sunghoon. It was supposed to be the first in a series.

I know she has an old blog she doesn’t use anymore. @greythemed

Zerocoded if you see this, you’re amazing. I would love to ask you a billion questions about the vampire universe you created. I need tattooed Jungwon to come back. Please send a desperate reader a crumb. I don’t even care if you don’t write for Enha anymore. I am dying to know more about your story!

[mssishipi]

ONE OF THE GIRLS — ksn

Kim Sunoo has always been one of the girls: soft-spoken, pretty, utterly devoted to the allure of men, men and more men. Women were never his thing, not really—especially not you. You, with your cigarette-drenched, red fucking lips, that wicked mouth always spitting nonsense. He loathed your strut, your cruel tongue, those perfect, infuriating tits that made his cock twitch no matter how hard he tried to look away. And he hated the thought that maybe — he’s starting to think that he swings both ways after all.

content tags/warnings: pansexual!sunoo x bisexual! reader, slowburn, one sided enemies to fubu to lovers, misandry comments, gentle angst, reader is a heavy smoker and have a lots of piercings and tattoos. jealousy, mentions of cheating (past rs). light emotional manipulation, toxic behaviors, second chances, queer coded relationship dynamics. sunoo is a nursing student and reader is a fashion design major. two years age gap, reader is shorter than sunoo. explicit content (smut): plot with porn. four different smut scenes. blowjob, some content might be dubious, pussy eating, fingering, protected and unprotected sex: public sex, rainbow (period) sex, multiple sex positions and places lmao, sunoo have a big dick, also dom! sn <3 WC: 45.4K (long ass ride)

note! this is a work of fiction and is not intended to offend anyone in the lgbt community or to fetishize any identities. the themes and characters are purely imaginative and should not be taken as a reflection of real people or experiences. and if you don't like it? don't read it. :)

KIM SUNOO has never truly identified as a man, not in the way society tries to define it.

He was born with what people like to label as "male," but the label never felt like it belonged to him. He's always been one of the girls. Not because he was trying to be anything other than himself, but because that's where he belonged, where he felt seen, understood, and safe. There's no pride in masculinity for him, no comfort in aligning with a category that has done nothing but let him down. Whatever was hanging between his legs didn't mean he owed anything to the idea of manhood, and he sure as hell wasn't going to start pretending it did.

And yet, for all his clarity, all his softness, all his truth—Sunoo, no matter how sharp his wit or clever his comebacks, keeps getting cheated on. It used to be just the straight boys he rolled his eyes at, but the betrayal has evolved. Gays aren't safe anymore either. There's no longer a clean line between "they'd never" and "they did." Gay, straight, bi, whatever — the problem is not orientation, it's the universal mediocrity of modern manhood. There's a plague of emotional negligence infecting them all. He trusted boys who called him beautiful, who knew how to flirt over text, who said "I'm not like the others" — and then turned out to be exactly like the others, but with worse excuses!

And still, the question haunts him: Why? Why does it keep happening? Why do they always cheat? What is it about commitment that scares them so much? He's been good. He's been better than good! He listens, he nurtures, he gives. He doesn't ask for much. Is that really too much? Because it feels like no matter how much effort he puts in, no matter how present he is, no matter how he softens himself to make space for someone else, it never ends with someone choosing him back. The worst part is how often he wonders if it's his fault—if maybe he's just not enough. Not hot enough, not loud enough, not strong enough, not whatever version of "desirable" men have invented that week. It eats at him.

"Good thing you broke up with him. He's not better for you, anyways." Sunoo rolled his eyes, brushing his hair back as he stared blankly at the colorful crochet pieces arranged neatly in front of him. They were at the National Art Celebration, wandering through the Art Museum's marketplace.

He didn't respond to his friend's comment. What was there to say?

His fingers hovered over a small adorable crochet strawberry keychain, the kind of thing he'd usually buy without hesitation but he didn't pick it up, because his mood didn't match the softness in front of him. It hadn't even been a full week since everything crashed. His ex had been sleeping with more than just one person behind his back. Sunoo had confronted him head-on, shaking with anger, and left. The next day, he was at a clinic, filling out forms with numb fingers, waiting for results that thankfully came back clean. Still, the damage wasn't something that a negative result could fix.

"I hope he chokes on his small dick and dies," Sunoo muttered under his breath, not even trying to sound playful about it. He turned from the crochet booth and walked a few steps over to the next one, where rows of stickers were arranged neatly across a dark velvet cloth.

His lips twitched slightly as he noticed a sticker of a cat holding a cigarette in its mouth. The drawing was a little messy nothing like the soft pastel style he usually liked. The rest of the stickers shared the same energy—guitars, ghost-like figures, strange shapes in heavy red and black tones. The entire table had a darker, rougher feel to it, but instead of pushing him away, it pulled him in. Something about the way the lines were drawn, the way the art didn't try to be friendly, and it felt honest, that honesty intrigued him. He picked up the cat sticker, turning it slightly under the light. "This is so cute. Are you the artist?" he asked, glancing up at the boy behind the table.

The boy shook his head with a small grin. "Thank you, but no. I'm just her cousin. She went to grab some food. I'm babysitting her table for now."

Sunoo nodded, eyes still scanning the stickers laid out in front of him. He wasn't even sure where he'd put them if he bought any—his laptop was already full, his tumbler too—but something about them felt worth having. Maybe he just wanted to support someone who clearly put effort into making something different. Without thinking too much, he picked out five more, dropped a bill in the little payment box, and gave a quick thank you before stepping back into the flow of the crowd.

"I'm gonna get the car. Just wait here. The parking lot's, like, so far and it's insanely hot," his friend said, already fanning her face with a brochure as she walked away. Sunoo just gave her a lazy nod and stayed in the shade, sipping his strawberry soda and lightly tapping the tip of his shows against the concrete to keep himself distracted.

It was Saturday, supposed to be relaxing day, but Sunoo's mind didn't know how to slow down. The breakup still clung to him, but even beyond that, the stress of his return demo for nursing school kept replaying in his head. It was getting close, and he still didn't feel ready. His eyebags were starting to sink into his face again, darkening with every late night he spent crying or spiraling in bed, wondering how things managed to fall apart this fast. He'd thought about going out again, just to dance, to pretend, to flirt with someone but he already knew it wouldn't help.

Just as he was about to take another sip from his drink, he froze. His nose twitched — Was that... cigarette smoke? Sunoo immediately grimaced, pressing his fingers over his nose and mouth. What the hell? Who the fuck smokes around here? The whole place was filled with kids and art booths, and there was a giant NO SMOKING sign that was printed in bold red letters, stuck on a wall not even ten steps away. His eyes scanned the shaded rest area until they landed on the source.

There you were—sitting alone on the bench with one leg drawn up, smoke curling lazily from your lips, completely unbothered.

"The fuck?" he muttered, eyes narrowing as another wave of smoke drifted toward him, already starting to irritate his throat. He wasn't trying to start anything, but the longer he stood there, the more it felt like the smoke was reaching out, wrapping around his skin, sneaking into his lungs, clinging to his clothes. He was already dealing with a bad day, and now this?!

You exhaled again, your gaze flicked toward him, catching the look he gave you but you didn't react. If anything, you just blinked, relaxed, fingers still holding the cigarette loosely between them.

Sunoo stood there, clearly expecting you to look guilty or maybe at least pretend to care, but when you didn't, he clicked his tongue in frustration and glanced at the sign again, like pointing it out. "Do you not see the sign?" he said, irritation in every word. "This is a public area, kids are here, and secondhand smoke—do you even know it's worse than smoking yourself? God, the sign is literally right there. It's huge."

You looked at him again, blinking like you didn't quite catch what he was saying. Your hand, holding the cigarette near your mouth, paused midair. Then, slowly, you turned your head to glance over your shoulder, as if making sure he was actually talking to you and not someone else behind the bench.

When your eyes met his again, they stayed on him a second longer. He stood there with a roughness that didn't match the soft features on his face. You let your gaze move over him without shame, noting the little details—the way his hair was clipped back by a cute pink clip, the pale tone of his skin that looked untouched by the sun, smooth, almost too perfect. His lips had a natural flush, a little swollen like he'd been biting them out of stress, and even with that annoyed look carved into his face, there was nothing harsh about him.

What a beautiful man, you thought, not even trying to hide it. You let the moment hang for a bit longer, then flicked the ash off the end of your cigarette with a small movement. Your voice was unbothered when you finally spoke. "You always pick fights with strangers, or am I just lucky today?"

He blinked, caught off guard by how casually you responded. "Start fights?" he repeated, eyes narrowing further. "You're the one breaking the rules. 'No smoking' doesn't mean smoke quietly. It means don't fucking smoke."

You took another drag without rush, then exhaled away from his direction, watching him. "Right. And you yelling about it in public—real mature. Definitely better than me just sitting here minding my own business."

Sunoo stepped forward slightly, jaw tightening. "You're not minding your business. That's the problem."

You shrugged, leaning back just a little on the bench, clearly not moved. "Then move somewhere else. No one's forcing you to breathe next to me. I don't fucking care."

You saw the way the color started creeping into the tips of his ears, how his hands curled into tight fists at his sides like he was holding himself back from saying something worse. He was clearly seething, barely keeping it together. You smiled to yourself then turned your head away to take another drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling softly from your lips.

"Bitch," you heard him muttered under his breath.

You turned your head back toward him, one brow lifting as you exhaled the smoke without rushing. "Excuse me?"

You started to shift, one foot planting on the ground like you were about to stand, but before anything else could happen, a small car pulled up right in front of you. Sunoo didn't waste a second. He walked straight toward it, yanked the passenger door open, and slipped inside as if the vehicle were his escape hatch. He slammed the door, and through the window, you could see the tension still sitting in his shoulders. But what caught your attention was how he didn't look away. Even as the engine came to life, even as the car rolled slowly forward, Sunoo kept his eyes locked on you. His glare was sharp and it's lingering.

You pressed your tongue into your cheek as you took another slow hit from the cigarette, still watching. When the car passed, you caught his reflection in the side mirror, and there he was—still glaring.

You flicked the smoke away from your face, the faintest smirk on your lips as the car disappeared down the road. Hah. He's such a pretty guy. You liked him already.

"Who's that guy?"

Sunoo didn't even try to hide his curiosity as he pointed across the room, eyes fixed on the one person who'd completely pulled his attention. The music was loud, bass thumping through the floor, and bodies moved around the house party in various stages of drunken celebration. It was supposed to be a simple gathering, just something to celebrate surviving midterms and their return demonstrations. He wasn't expecting anything wild tonight. Honestly, he'd shown up mostly out of pressure and to avoid looking like a killjoy. As someone in healthcare, he was all too aware of the risks, especially when it came to hookups. The rise of HIV cases was something that always lingered in the back of his mind, and the weight of what his ex put him through was still fresh. He wasn't exactly in the mood to relive that. But even so... looking didn't hurt, right?

"That's Park Sunghoon," someone answered beside him, casually sipping from their red cup. "Physical Therapy."

Sunoo's eyes narrowed slightly, studying the guy. He was leaning against the wall, laughing, drink in hand, head tilted just enough to show off a clean jawline and that effortless hair. "Does he have a girlfriend?" Sunoo asked, still watching.         His friend shrugged. "I don't know? Maybe? You interested? Go talk to him!"

Sunoo rolled his eyes and sipped from his drink. "I don't even know if he's into men." His friend leaned in, grinning. "Ngeh, I don't know either, but he looks like he's giving off some BL energy. Just try!"

Sunoo didn't respond right away, but his gaze drifted back to Sunghoon, eyes half-lidded from the buzz. There was something about him, the kind of guy who knew he looked good but didn't make a show of it. And okay, maybe there was something about the way he stood that didn't exactly scream masculine authority. There was a softness to it, or maybe just an openness that made Sunoo curious.

He tapped his fingers against his cup, considering. He wasn't looking for anything serious but after everything he'd been through, a little fun wouldn't hurt. And if Park Sunghoon happened to be fun and hot? Well... why the hell not?

With one final sip, Sunoo set his cup down and gave his friend a sly look. "Fine. I'll try."

He took a breath, adjusted his shirt, and began walking through the crowd, weaving past groups of loud classmates and half-finished games of beer pong until he finally reached the corner where Park Sunghoon stood. The table beside them was lined with vodka, soda, and mixers. Sunoo casually took his place beside him, pretending to look through the drink options while stealing a glance at the boy he'd just been staring at across the room.

Sunghoon turned his head slightly, noticed him, and smiled. He raised his cup. "Cheers?" he offered.

Sunoo smiled back, trying not to let it show how fast his heart had just jumped. He reached for a drink off the table, tapping his cup gently against Sunghoon's. "Physical Therapy?" Sunoo asked, trying to keep his tone light, confident and a little sweet.

"Yeah. Nursing?" Sunghoon replied smoothly, and when Sunoo nodded, something about the way Sunghoon smiled deepened, more focused now. That voice—fuck. Sunoo could already feel the heat crawling up his neck. His body wasn't even trying to be subtle about how attracted he was. And God, those hands—Sunghoon reached for the bottle of rum to refill his cup, and Sunoo caught a flash of the veins along his forearm, the easy flex of his wrist, the way his fingers moved with control. For a second, Sunoo lost the ability to form a proper thought. Break my bones. Please. I beg.

They were already halfway through the conversation, and Sunoo could feel himself falling a little too deep for comfort. Sunghoon wasn't just attractive—he was engaging in a way that didn't feel forced. He spoke with confidence in his voice, and Sunoo found himself drawn in with every word. It surprised him how someone could make something as dry as tendons sound this interesting, especially when he usually avoided any talk of lectures once he stepped out of school. But with Sunghoon, it felt different. His voice was soothing, and the way he explained things had a rhythm that made Sunoo want to listen, even if he already knew the topic.

"And you know the tendons that connect from the—" Sunghoon started, his fingers gesturing as he spoke.

Sunoo nodded along, genuinely interested, eyes fixed on him, but then, right in the middle of the sentence, Sunghoon stopped. His posture shifted, back straightening, and his eyes flicked past Sunoo's shoulder like something—or someone—had just pulled his attention. Sunoo frowned, eyebrows drawing together, expecting him to finish the sentence, but instead, he watched as Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, his expression softening in recognition, lips curving upward.

Sunoo glanced behind him, confusion setting in. Then Sunghoon cleared his throat, gave him a polite smile, and said, "Uhh, sorry. If you'll excuse me. Nice meeting you, Sunoo," before lightly tapping his shoulder and walking off.

Sunoo's mouth fell open, completely caught off guard. He barely had time to react before his eyes followed Sunghoon's retreating figure—and then he saw exactly where he was heading. Fuck?!

You were leaning casually against the wall near the hallway entrance, drink in hand, watching the whole interaction. You didn't look surprised to see Sunghoon making his way over. In fact, you barely blinked. The moment he reached you, your body turned just slightly to make space for him. Sunghoon leaned in, said something only you could hear, and your quiet laugh in response said everything else Sunoo didn't want to believe.

Sunoo blinked, chest tight. He could almost feel something short-circuiting inside his brain, like a wire snapping clean. His thoughts were a blur, but one thing was clear—you. His pulse quickened as his body processed the shift, his amygdala practically lighting up with one conclusion: you are a threat.

A threat to his night, his mood, his already bruised ego. God, how was it even possible for someone he'd only met twice to piss him off this much? The universe really had the audacity to let you show up again, and not just exist, but actively ruin his chances at getting laid. Because let's be real—he wasn't looking for love, just something to distract him, and now even that had been snatched by the same cigarette-smoking bitch who couldn't be bothered to respect a no-smoking sign?!

His friend appeared beside him, holding a fresh cup and scanning the room. "Hey, where'd Sunghoon go? You two looked like you were hitting it off."

Sunoo didn't turn to look at her. He just brought the rim of his cup to his lips, finished what was left in a single gulp, and slammed it back on the table. "He went to hell," he muttered. "With someone who clearly lives there." His friend blinked, confused. "Wait—what?"

Sunoo turned to her, face tight with a forced smile. "Don't worry about it. Just remind me next time I say I'm open to meeting new people—slap me."

He exhaled sharply as his eyes drifted back to where the two of you had returned from the hallway. And when he really looked—when he took in your outfit, the way you were dressed like you didn't give a single shit what anyone thought—he almost laughed out loud.

A strawberry shirt? Jorts? Those shoes? That's what Sunghoon left him for? Sunoo scoffed under his breath, shaking his head slowly, barely believing it. He looked down at himself—his carefully styled hair, his clean lines, and then back at you. "Seriously," he muttered, eyes still locked on you. "That's the one?"

He couldn't decide if he was more offended for himself or embarrassed for Sunghoon. Whether you were just a friend, a fling, or something in between, one thing was clear to him now: Park Sunghoon had no taste. And if he did, it was broken.

Anyway, there were plenty of fish in the sea. Sunoo wasn't going to waste his energy sulking over one guy, especially not if you were somehow involved. If Sunghoon had any sort of connection to you then Sunoo would rather tap out early and save himself the trouble. He had enough baggage without adding someone who came with your name attached.

At least, that's what he told himself.

But then again, Sunoo had also said there were so many fish in the sea—yet somehow, it felt like every damn fish was just swimming in circles around you. It was getting ridiculous. He wasn't being dramatic, either. There was always something—some random detail, some little coincidence, and suddenly, boom. You. Right there again.

Date number one: a gym instructor. Hot, yes, a little edgy, had that calm, slow-talking voice Sunoo secretly liked. Things were going okay, until the guy pulled out his phone to show pictures of his niece's birthday party and proudly pointed to a group photo. Sunoo was nodding politely, until his eyes caught on one specific person in the background, holding the cake and grinning. He blinked. Zoomed in. Yup. You. Holding a cake with your horrible strawberry tank top. Niece, cousin, whatever—you were related. Add to that the guy reeked of cigarettes the whole time, and Sunoo was done before dessert.

Date number two: a Med Tech student. Good on paper, clean cut, same healthcare background, probably understood his schedule and stress levels. Sunoo was really trying with this one. But on their second date, as they were walking to a café near the guy's family's shop, Sunoo noticed someone standing out front during a break—leaning against the wall, cigarette between your lips, looking bored out of your mind. You. Again. You even smirk at him! Sunoo didn't even finish the coffee. He went home and ghosted the guy the next morning.

Okay, maybe he was being petty. Maybe, in a community as tight as theirs, having overlap wasn't that deep. But could anyone really blame him? Sunoo could admit it—he was petty, fine. He could own that. His feelings were valid. He was the one showing up, putting in effort, trying to start something new while somehow tripping over you every single time.

And if anyone dared to question why he was so quick to shut people down the moment your name and face got involved, well—he'd like to point them toward basic psychology. According to research, the brain forms first impressions within seconds. These impressions are shaped by appearance, voice, body language, even scent—and they trigger implicit biases, unconscious reactions that color how we feel about someone before they even say a word. And what had his brain learned to associate with you? Cigarettes, interruptions, stolen men, smug grins, and the color strawberry.

So, yes. Sunoo was triggered. And he was allowed to be.

"Damn, my neck is killing me from all these hospital duties. I'm seriously craving mint ice cream right now," Sunoo groaned, letting himself collapse face-first into the couch at Jungwon's dorm. He had no energy left and zero motivation to head back to his own apartment. Everything hurt—his back, his neck, even his brain.

"I'm begging for a break," Jungwon said from his desk, not looking up from his laptop. "God, give me a date."

Sunoo's voice came out muffled, his face still buried in the cushion. "I'm fine with God not giving me a date as long as I get a decent eight hours of sleep."

"What happened with all those dates you went on?" Jungwon finally asked, turning slightly in his chair. "None of them worked out?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," Sunoo muttered, one hand waving in the air like he could physically dismiss the topic. He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Forget it. I'm going to grab ice cream before I start crying about my life again. Want anything?"

Jungwon leaned back and grinned. "Can you buy me some lube?"

Sunoo rolled his eyes so hard. "Get your own, freak."

He stood up, grabbing his wallet off the coffee table and brushing off invisible lint from his pants. He didn't even know if he actually wanted ice cream anymore or if he just needed an excuse to be alone for a bit. Either way, he needed air. And distance. And ideally, a world where you didn't exist in every corner of his social life.

But of course, fate had other plans—because who else would be behind the counter of the convenience store at 10:42 PM but you, punching in his order with that same lazy grin plastered on your face as your eyes dropped directly to the bottle of lube and box of condoms on the counter.

Seriously. How many fucking jobs did you have? Sunoo stared at you, disbelief turning to horror, then to full-blown irritation. "Can you not grin like that?" he snapped, arms crossed. "What happened to discrete and nonjudgmental service? I need to speak to your manager."

You tilted your head slightly and blinked at him with exaggerated innocence, hand pausing over the touchscreen like you were truly offended. The expression only made his eye twitch harder. "That's discrimination," he added, glaring. "I should be allowed to buy whatever I want without being mentally harassed by your face."

Your lips twitched. You tried to play it cool, but the smirk slipped out before you could stop it. There it was again—that look of yours, amused and smug. So ugly!

Honestly, you hadn't expected to see him again so soon. It was the third time now, and at this point, his dramatic reactions were starting to feel like a reward. The moment he walked through the door and made eye contact with you, something in you shifted—your lips curled up instinctively, and the weight of the day suddenly didn't feel so heavy.      "Huh?" you said innocently, your voice small as you tilted your head slightly, letting your bottom lip pout just enough to be annoying.

Sunoo looked like he was one breath away from combusting, especially when his eyes flicked to your mouth and you knew he caught the glint of the piercing on your lower lip, because his gaze lingered just a second too long before his face twisted in irritation.

"Huh?" he mocked, eyebrows raised and lips pushed out as he mimicked your expression, only to immediately roll his eyes so hard. Without another word, he reached across the counter and snatched the bag from your hands, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet. He slapped a $50 bill on the counter, pointedly avoiding your eyes.

"Keep the change and never show your face again," he snapped, already turning on his heel. "God, bye," he added with a dramatic flick of his head, tossing his hair back.

You barely held in the laugh bubbling up your throat. Cute! you thought, bracing your hands on the counter as your smile widened. "Enjoy your night, sir!" you called after him, loud and obnoxiously cheerful.

You caught the twitch of his shoulders as he froze for half a second at the door. Then, without turning fully around, he glanced at you over his shoulder, hand lifting to flash you a very clear middle finger before pushing the door open and disappearing.

You leaned back, shaking your head with a quiet chuckle. Yup. Definitely your favorite regular now.

With Sunoo buried in nonstop clinical duties, he was starting to believe that God had decided to personally test his patience. Every day was a cycle of waking up too early, surviving rounds with barely any caffeine, and crashing into bed with a brain too tired to think but still too anxious to sleep. If this was divine character development, he wanted a refund. But fine, he'd give credit where it was due. At least he wasn't in a relationship. He couldn't imagine juggling a partner on top of exams, hospital reports, and constant reminders of his nonexistent social life. That would've been a mental breakdown waiting to happen.

Sunoo still hated men or so he said. But hatred, as he often reminded himself bitterly, was a slippery slope. The more you hated, the more they crawled under your skin. And men, those confusing, beautiful disasters, were impossible to avoid. The way they smiled, the stupid flex of their arms when they weren't even trying, those veiny hands that somehow haunted his imagination late at night—ugh. It was criminal, really. He wasn't desperate, but he wasn't made of stone either. If he said he didn't miss at least a little action, he'd be lying.

So when Jake asked him to tag along to the university gym because he was meeting a friend there for a commission, Sunoo agreed—reluctantly at first. But the moment they stepped into the gym and his eyes landed on the group of basketball players practicing on the court, all thoughts of regret evaporated.

"I was waiting for my friend. Sorry to drag you into it. I have a commission with her, she told me to meet her here. Is that okay?" Jake asked, casually.

Sunoo could barely hear him over the internal scream in his head. Of course it's okay. It's so okay he might cry. His gaze was locked on one specific figure—Lee Heeseung, the captain of the university's basketball team, currently making shots. Sunoo's mouth may not have been literally on the floor, but it was dangerously close. His eyes followed every movement of how Heeseung's shirt clung to his back, how his arms flexed with every jump, how sweat dripped down his neck—

Jake nudged him. "You good?"

"Peachy," Sunoo replied, voice an octave too high as he cleared his throat. "Just... appreciating," his eyes scanned the gym, trailing slowly over the players until, inevitably, they landed on the captain, Lee Heeseung. Sunoo raised his hands vaguely, motioning toward the court as if trying to justify the way he was staring. "...physical education."

But of course, like in some movies he never signed up for, the metaphorical glass shattered the moment you appeared. Just walked right into his field of vision. The air shifted, his stomach dropped, and his brows furrowed. His expression twisted into something between disgust and disbelief as his arms dropped in surrender. What the hell were you doing here?! Oh God?! You and him are in the same university?!

And then, just as Sunoo thought the scene couldn't get worse, Jake stood up, grinning wide. "There you are!" he said before pulling you into a hug and pressing a kiss on your cheek.

Sunoo's entire soul left his body. What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Jake was gay—openly and proudly gay—and Sunoo, as judgmental as he sometimes got, couldn't help but squint suspiciously. Are you seriously friends with his friends? Because if anyone was giving homophobic vibes, it was definitely you. Sunoo blinked hard. The math wasn't mathing. Did Jake not feel the same tension he did? Oh no. Jake needed help. Jake needed saving. God, someone had to sit him down and explain a few things before it was too late.

"Oh! Meet Sunoo! He's my best friend from nursing."

And there it was—the inevitable moment where Sunoo had no choice but to lock eyes with you. The second your gaze met his, you smiled so sweetly it made his entire body crawl. You even added a little wave, like this was the friendliest encounter on earth, and not the fourth time you'd popped up in his life. Sunoo felt the twitch in his eye before he could stop it, jaw clenching as he forced the most plastic smile onto his face. The corners of his eyes crinkled with pure performance. He stood up, cheeks already aching from pretending, leaned in for a polite cheek-to-cheek like he wasn't imagining pulling your hair back in pure rage, and was immediately hit with a mix of cigarette smoke and YSL Libre perfume. Ugh.

Jake, completely oblivious to the silent war unfolding, beamed as he gestured between the two of you. "She's a fashion design major! Does commissions too—drawings, paintings, cakes, you name it."

Sunoo nodded stiffly, barely reacting. Inside, he was sighing so loud he could practically hear himself. As Jake went on, clearly proud to know someone like you, Sunoo watched you nod and smile with just the right amount of humility, your tone gentle, polite, soft—like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. This is fake. You're fake. This whole performance is fake. God, Jake deserves better friends. He forced another smile, barely hanging onto his sanity. Because the way you were looking at him right now and you knew he was crumbling inside was enough to make his blood boil.

And worst of all, you looked delighted about it. Bitch. You're a bitch. Sunoo didn't even try to be polite about it in his head anymore. He had fully accepted the fact that you existed in his life for the sole purpose of testing his patience.

But of course, it didn't stop there. Since Jake thought you and Sunoo were getting along just fine, he began inviting you everywhere. Lunch, coffee breaks, study sessions—any time he had a free hour, he'd text both of you like this was some little trio. Fuck him!

And every time you showed up, Sunoo could feel that familiar twitch start behind his eye, the one that pulsed when he was one annoyance away from losing it. Your voice would float into the conversation like you had no idea you were driving him slowly insane.

But the worst part? The absolutely most humiliating part? He was starting to notice things. Little details that stuck with him even though he never asked for them. You smoked Marlboro Reds, but you always kept a strawberry-flavored vape in your bag. You wore outfits like you just rolled out of a punk indie concert, all black with layered chains and boots that could kill a man, but he'd bet money your favorite color was red—based on the red phone case, the red liner under your eyes, the strawberry pins you sometimes wore on your bag. You had a piercing on your tongue—he found that out when you bit into a donut one afternoon and casually stuck your tongue out in surprise because of the powdered sugar.

He didn't mean to remember all of this. He didn't even talk to you. Not directly, at least. Every time Jake tried to bridge conversation between you two, it felt like some weird form of punishment. Sunoo would answer, you'd smile knowingly, and Jake would keep chatting like this three-way exchange wasn't slowly draining Sunoo's soul.

"Jake has a fear of needles, so maybe stop trying to convince him to get a piercing or a tattoo," Sunoo said, not even glancing up from his drink.

He hadn't meant to speak, but with Jake in the restroom and the silence between you two stretching, the words slipped out. His tone was calm but the way his fingers tightened slightly around his cup betrayed the irritation simmering under his skin.

You turned your head, raising a brow slowly as if deciding whether to entertain this or not. "Hmm? I didn't know we were handing out unsolicited advice now," you said, tilting your glass to make the ice clink. "Is that your subtle way of joining the conversation, Ddeuno?"

His jaw flexed the moment the nickname left your lips. He finally looked at you, eyes sharp. "It's not joining if I'm already in it. Jake was talking to both of us. And it's Sunoo. Not that hard."

You smiled, amused by the twitch in his expression. "Sure, Sunoo. But don't you think Jake's capable of making his own choices?"

"He is," he said, voice a touch tighter as he leaned forward and crossed one leg over the other. "Which is exactly why I know he wouldn't have asked if you didn't plant the idea in his head."

You rested your elbow on the table and glanced at him with casual ease. "I didn't plant anything. He saw my piercing and asked. Maybe you're just not used to people being curious about something you can't control."

He scoffed, shaking his head as he stirred his drink, the metal spoon tapping against ceramic. "Right, because nothing screams freedom of choice like peer pressure with a side of aesthetic superiority."

"I never pressured him," you said, eyes locked on his. "But if he wanted to try something new, I wouldn't stop him. You, on the other hand, sound like you'd tackle him to the ground before he could book an appointment."

Okay, fuck this. Sunoo's patience was thinning by the second, and he could feel the irritation rising and rising and rising! He hadn't come here to argue, but the way you kept smiling, like you knew how to push every single one of his buttons, made it impossible to let it slide.

He wasn't trying to control Jake. He was just looking out for him because someone had to. Sunoo had this belief, stubborn as it was, that people who covered themselves in piercings and tattoos didn't exactly value their skin the way they should. It wasn't about being judgmental, it was about keeping things clean, presentable, safe. Sure, he wouldn't tell strangers how to live their lives, but when it came to the people around him? The people he cared about? He preferred them untouched.

He turned to you again, eyes hard. "There's nothing wrong with wanting the people I care about to take care of themselves properly."

You didn't flinch, just tilted your head slightly, like you were waiting for more. "Tattoos and piercings aren't unhygienic if done right," you replied. "But sure, let's pretend this is about safety and not just your obsession with control."

Sunoo laughed under his breath, the sound hollow. "Yeah? And let me guess—you're the expert now because you sat through a couple needle sessions and watched some tattoo TikToks?"

You leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, gaze unshaken. "No. But I'm someone who understands that self-expression doesn't need your permission."

The tension in the air crackled. And just when it felt like one more word would tip things over the edge, Jake returned to the table, smiling. "Miss anything?" he asked, completely unaware.

You leaned back smoothly, picking up your drink like nothing happened. "Not a thing."

That was it. He couldn't keep letting this slide. As much as he tried to convince himself he was just being overprotective, he knew deep down he was past the line of tolerating your presence. You were a bad influence on Jake—he was sure of it—and sooner or later, someone had to say it. That someone was going to be him.

Later that day, when you'd left first and it was just the two of them walking toward the station, Sunoo finally spoke. "Do you... ever feel a certain vibe from her?"

Jake blinked, looking over at him with an innocent confusion that made Sunoo want to scream. "Huh? Vibes? What kind of vibes?"

Bitch vibes, Sunoo almost blurted out. He had to stop himself from saying it out loud. He cleared his throat, trying to sound more composed. "Just... like, the way she talks. She always has something to say, and it's never just casual. It's like everything's meant to get a reaction."

Jake tilted his head slightly, clearly trying to follow. "You mean, like, she's too witty?"

Sunoo narrowed his eyes. "No, like... she's too comfortable? It's weird. And I don't trust it."

Jake just laughed, brushing it off too easily. "She's just chill. That's how she is with everyone. She's a good person, Sunoo. You just haven't gotten used to her yet."

Sunoo sighed, irritated. "That's the problem. I don't want to get used to her. And maybe you shouldn't either." He let the word slipped on his mouth.

Jake glanced at him, and for the first time, his smile faded a little. "She's my friend. You're my friend. Just... try not to be mean, okay?"

Maybe he had sounded a little too harsh, a little too pointed—but it wasn't like he was being mean for the sake of it. Sunoo knew what it looked like, but deep down, it wasn't about jealousy or drama. He was just trying to protect something that mattered to him before it got tangled up in whatever messy situation. He didn't trust easily, and the way you walked into their lives set off every internal alarm. But Jake... Jake wasn't the type to see danger. Not like Sunoo did.

"Sorry," he said quietly, reaching out to gently hold Jake's hand with a small smile. Jake just nodded and gave his hand a soft squeeze in return, the silence between them filled with a quiet understanding even if they didn't see eye to eye on everything.

Meanwhile, from your side of things, things were quite different.

The more time you spent around Kim Sunoo, the more curious you became. You weren't really interested in men. They were too predictable, too performative, too eager to please and too quick to disappoint. They were fun, sometimes, but they didn't hold your attention. But Sunoo was something else. You didn't even notice when it started. Maybe it was the way he carried himself. Maybe it was the way he bit back when provoked, or how he tried so hard to hide that he cared too much about the people around him.

You'd seen beautiful people before. You'd had flings, hookups, distractions. But Sunoo... he stuck. You were clearly interested. and there were moments that he annoyed you, sure. Challenged you. Threw shade but he made your brain work. He made your skin itch in that specific way only people you couldn't quite figure out ever did. And fine, maybe it was because he looked a little like a girl. Soft skin, pouty lips, those lashes that curled perfectly for no reason. You couldn't stop looking at him.

Well, too bad for you, he didn't seem the least bit pleased with your presence. And honestly? The feeling was mutual. He had that almost condescending way of speaking that made everything sound like a warning label. Foul controlling mouth, always ready with a "don't do this," or a "you shouldn't do that." He was a walking killjoy wrapped in pretty skin, constantly policing the air around him like joy was something to be monitored.

It didn't make sense. How could someone so tightly wound be friends with someone like Jake, who floated through life like a balloon one gust away from flying into the sun? What were they even talking about when you weren't around? Did Sunoo lecture Jake on posture and caffeine intake? Did Jake actually listen?

"Are you getting along with Sunoo well?" Jake asked.

You paused mid-hit with your vape, the familiar strawberry taste lingering on your tongue as you raised your leg up onto the bench, shoulders lifting in a shrug. You exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift upward as you looked off to the side. "Define 'well,'" you murmured.

Of course, Jake would ask. And of course, Sunoo had probably said something. It was expected. That boy had a hard time keeping anything off his chest, especially when it came to people he clearly couldn't stand. Jake sighed, slumping back against the bench like your answer had physically disappointed him. "Aww, come on. I really want you two to get along," he muttered, pouting.

You glanced at him, the corner of your mouth pulling into a faint smirk. "Jake, I don't not get along with him. We just don't operate on the same wavelength." You watched as Jake's shoulders dropped a little, disappointment settling in. There was a pause, not long, but long enough for you to notice the way he kept looking at you like he was hoping for a better answer. So you gave him one, even if it came reluctantly. "He's interesting, though."

That made Jake perk up, turning to face you more fully, hope flickering back into his expression. "You think so?"

And with that soft look on his face, that typical sunshine that you could never seem to say no to, you found yourself giving in. Fine. The next time you saw Sunoo, you wouldn't provoke him. You'd leave his nerves alone for once, maybe even make an effort not to smell like smoke. You already knew that Sunoo probably hated the smell of cigarettes. The way he wrinkled his nose when you were near, how he subtly shifted his body away like he didn't want to breathe the same air, said more than enough.

He was the type who liked rules. Cleanliness. Probably thought smoking was a character flaw rather than a habit. So controlling. But if it meant keeping peace with Jake, you could give it a shot. And you really want to get along with  him, though. Not just a friend.

If men were animals, Sunoo would absolutely agree they were monkeys but honestly, even that felt unfair to monkeys. At least monkeys had a sense of community. They groomed each other, protected their own, had an instinct to care. Men? Men could barely carry a conversation without twisting it to revolve around themselves, like everything was orbiting their fragile egos. And what did it even say about him that he'd still actually tried to be patient with that last one? The man had poor communication skills, grammar that made Sunoo want to cry, a sense of humor so dry it could choke a cactus, and hygiene that was clearly not taught with enough urgency in his household. Sunoo had still shown up, been kind, understanding, even offered grace where he really shouldn't have.

And he got ghosted. After all that effort, after tolerating body spray that didn't cover the scent of unwashed laundry, and laugh emojis used in places where no jokes existed—Sunoo was the one who got left on read.

And as if the universe hadn't done enough damage, this morning, their Clinical Instructor decided to nitpick his grooming. Said his hair was too long and should be "cleaned up to maintain a professional image." Too long? It was barely brushing his ears!

Sunoo slammed his locker shut, lips pressed into a thin line as he yanked his lanyard off and stuffed it into his pocket. "I need a mango shake," he muttered under his breath, storming out of the building. "Or I need a drink. Or I need to get laid. Honestly, at this point, any of the three will do. Fuck this life."

And as if the day hadn't already tried to ruin him, it just kept going. Sunoo tripped over one of the uneven bricks in the university garden—in front of three freshmen and a couple from Dentistry—and his whole body hit the ground like it had something to prove. The worst part? He was wearing his white clinical uniform, freshly ironed this morning, and now it had mud on the knee, a grass stain on the sleeve, and his shoe was ruined. The sole peeled at the side like it was giving up on life, just like him.

He stood there for a moment, fists clenched, eyes locked on the sky like he was daring it to rain. His pride was already dented, his clothes dirty, his patience snapped and now, of course, not a single damn taxi in sight was stopping. He raised his arm again, waved it with enough energy to summon a ghost, but every car either sped past or pretended not to see him. People were staring. He could hear the soft chuckles, see the sideways glances. He was half a second from screaming into the void or kicking a bush, whichever came first.

And then came the low sound of motorbike. He turned his head, expecting just another person speeding past him like the rest of the universe, but the bike slowed down instead. The helmeted rider stopped in front of him, casually lifting the visor.

His eye twitched instantly. Of course it was you. Like the universe had specially selected you to appear right when he had the least energy to deal with anything, especially you. His grip on his bag strap tightened out of habit, maybe even to stop himself from doing something regrettable. The strap strained against his palm as he imagined how satisfying it would be to swing it straight at your little helmet.

You didn't speak but the amused curve of your lips said everything. Your eyes scanned his state—mud on his uniform, one shoe visibly damaged, face flushed with humiliation and frustration—and that damn smile only grew. "Rough day, pretty boy?"

Sunoo closed his eyes, shoulders rising with a deep inhale of your voice. He hadn't seen you in weeks, maybe months, and yet here you were, showing up when his life was at its absolute worst. He opened his eyes slowly, and instead of giving you the satisfaction of a scowl, he gave you a sweet, polite smile. "Fuck off."

You tilted your head slightly, helmet still on, visor up, as if you were genuinely trying to decide whether his attitude deserved a response. "Hmm," you murmured, nonchalant. "Need a ride, or are you into being publicly humiliated? Because you're doing a great job."

"I'd rather crawl," he muttered under his breath, shifting his weight, and instantly regretting it when his soaked shoe made a gross squish. Disgusting. This day was disgusting.

"Great," you replied, gripping the throttle. "Let me know how far that gets you. Good luck."

The engine growled once beneath you as you rolled the bike forward a little, just enough to make it clear you were ready to leave him standing there. And that should've been fine. He didn't need you. He didn't want your help.

Except he did. Because his legs were aching, his socks were wet, and none of the taxis had stopped for the last fifteen minutes, plus he had class at 2, and to make things worse, he had class at two o'clock sharp. There was no way he could show up looking like this, not with the nursing department's obsession with cleanliness and grooming. One look at his uniform and they'd send him straight home. He didn't have the time or energy to risk that.

So, against every ounce of pride in his body, he swallowed hard and called out, "W-Wait."

The second it left his mouth, regret settled in. You didn't even bother to turn off the engine. You just tilted your head again, that damn helmet catching the light, your eyes already locking on his with that same irritating amusement you always wore around him.

Sunoo's eye twitched. His fingers curled tighter around the strap of his bag. Every part of him wanted to kick your stupid motorbike over and walk away barefoot, but his common sense—the part that knew wet shoes, strict instructors, and a late clinical check-in didn't mix—kept him rooted in place.

You raised your brows. "Changed your mind?"

"No," he snapped. "The universe is just clearly mocking me and you're the cherry on top."

You let out a short laugh. "That's not a no."

He clenched his jaw and looked away for a second, like maybe if he didn't see your face, he could pretend this wasn't happening. Then finally, after a long pause, he muttered, "I need a ride. That's it. Don't talk. Just drive."

You patted the back of the seat, without another word, the engine rumbled beneath you as you steadied the bike, shifting slightly to pull your helmet off and offer it to him. Sunoo blinked, hesitating. "You're not wearing one?"

You tilted your head, brushing your hair out of your face as you balanced the bike with one leg. "You're in a clinical uniform. If we get stopped, guess who they'll blame for not following safety rules? Just take it, Nurse."

He didn't reply, just snatched the helmet from your hand and mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, I hate you, though it came out too tired to carry any real hatred. He shoved it on, adjusting the strap a little too aggressively before climbing on behind you.

"Jake said your place is near the Avenue, right?" you asked, eyes already ahead. "I'm going the long way. No checkpoints."

Sunoo gripped the back handle awkwardly at first before giving in and placing his hands lightly on your waist for balance, trying not to think too hard about the contact. "Whatever," he muttered. "Just drive."

The wind wrapped around both of you, warm against his face, tugging at his hair and slipping into the space between his collar and neck. He hated how natural it felt to sit there with you, hated how the scent of your perfume still clung to the inside of the helmet. He hates the smell of the strawberry yet he don't know why it was giving him comfort right now.

"Drop me off at that corner," he said, leaning closer to make sure you heard him, pointing toward the shaded part of the sidewalk ahead.

You didn't say anything—just pulled over smoothly and tapped the brakes until the bike came to a steady stop. The second it did, he got off like the seat had turned hot, quickly removing the helmet and smoothing down his messy hair. He held the helmet out toward you stiffly.

You took it, setting it on the handlebars, and exhaled a breath. "You know," you started, giving him a once-over, "for someone who acts so obsessed with respect and rules, you're really bad at saying thank you."

Sunoo let out a breath that was halfway between a scoff and a sigh. "I didn't ask for your help."

You shrugged, hands settling easily on the handles. "Yeah. But you still climbed on."

He looked at you for a moment, lips twitching like he wanted to say something else but couldn't find the energy. Instead, he turned his gaze away, cheeks flushed from heat.

"Fine," he said, barely above a mutter. "Thanks. For the ride."

Your smile widened, "anytime, pretty boy."

He rolled his eyes, turned around, and walked off before you could enjoy the look on his face any longer. But you were already watching his back as he stormed away, your fingers brushing against the helmet. Cute. So damn cute!

"What do you mean you're not going?" Sunoo asked, frowning as he walked alongside Jake through the hallway.

"I'm busy," Jake replied, reaching for his locker and spinning the lock. "Jungwon's coming anyway, right? Just vibe with him for now. You'll survive a night without me."

Sunoo let out a dramatic sigh and stomped his foot, clearly not in the mood to be reasonable. "But I want you there! It's not fun without you."

Jake pulled out a thick review binder and glanced at him over his shoulder. "I've got a summative test on Monday, remember? It's kind of important. We could just crash at my place after, maybe do a sleepover?"

"Ihhh," Sunoo whined, dragging out the sound. "I don't want to sleep, I want to drink."

Jake raised an eyebrow, already sensing where this was headed. "Don't tell me this is about that guy from the other school ghosting you. Again."

Sunoo rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand. "It's not about that. I just... feel like drinking. That's all."

Jake stared at him for a moment, closing his locker slowly, trying to read beneath the surface. "Right. Totally not about him." He slung his bag over one shoulder and sighed. "Look, let me get through these notes first. If I finish early, I'll come join you. But until then, just go with Jungwon, okay?"

Sunoo pouted but didn't argue further. He hated going without Jake, but sulking alone wouldn't change the plan. He was going out tonight, one way or another and with Jake or not, he was going to forget every bit of bullshit the week had piled on him. Even if it meant dragging Jungwon into whatever he was about to step into.

He swore it was going to be just one drink—maybe two, while waiting for Jake but the moment they arrived, it turned out the party was practically a shrine to drinking games. The music was loud, the lights were low, and every corner had someone yelling "bottoms up!"

Jungwon, despite his initial confidence, was barely holding it together after three rounds of some game that involved slapping the table and chanting nonsense. He stood up abruptly, wobbling slightly as he pressed a hand to his stomach. "Oh my God, I feel like I'm going to vomit. Why am I such a loser?" he groaned, and without waiting for a response, excused himself, muttering something about needing air—or a toilet.

Sunoo, meanwhile, wasn't faring much better. His head was spinning, cheeks flushed, and his limbs felt like they were being operated by someone else. He didn't even realize when the giggles turned into sniffles, and the sniffles turned into full-blown tears. He ended up kneeling by the edge of the marble platform near the open balcony, smacking his fist weakly against the cool surface as the alcohol dragged his emotions right out of him.

"Ehhhhhh," he cried, voice cracking pitifully. "I want a boyfriennnnddd!"

Jay, who had been casually sipping beer on the couch nearby, looked up in alarm as Sunoo stumbled toward him with watery eyes. He stopped in front of him, wiping at his cheeks like it would hide the mess.

"Pleaseee," Sunoo sniffled, leaning close. "Find me a boyfriend. I want to be loved. I'm so soft. I'm so kind. Why am I suffering?! Ugh."

Jay blinked, glanced around the party like someone might swoop in and handle the situation for him, and when no one came, he slowly set his beer down. "...Do you want water?"

Sunoo gasped, "I want love, not hydration!" he wailed, continue to sob.

Before Jay could figure out what to do with that level of emotional spiral, someone approached from behind.

"Jay, the owner's already handing us the money—what the fuck?"

Sunoo blinked through his tears and looked up, vision blurry as your voice rang out. You stood just inside the balcony doorway. Red halter sando clinging to your shoulders, he noticed a tattoo. Ink, in a soft pinkish-red tone, winding delicately along your shoulder and upper arm. The design was detailed floral vines and swirls that traced across your collarbone and around your bicep. It was so beautifully done, it almost looked like it was growing from your skin, and that pissed him off even more. Your baggy jeans low on your hips, your hair twisted into a messy bun. A guitar strap slung diagonally over your body, cigarette hanging loose between your fingers. Your eyeshadow was smudged black and glittery, clashing violently with your red lipstick, but somehow you made it work—though Sunoo would never admit that out loud. Not even if he were dying.

There was no smirk this time, no teasing glint in your eyes. Just a quiet kind of concern as you stared down at him. And he hated it. Absolutely hated it!

So, naturally, he raised his middle finger at you with zero hesitation. Jay glanced between the two of you and awkwardly took a step back. "You know him? Can you, like... deal with that? I need to talk to someone real quick." And just like that, he vanished quickly into the crowd, getting the guitar off on your shoulder to avoid any responsibilities.

Sunoo only sobbed harder. You sighed, dragging your foot across the cigarette to put it out before crouching in front of him. "What the hell happened to you?" you asked, eyeing his flushed cheeks, watery eyes, and hands tugging uselessly at the front of his shirt. "Where's Jake? Did he leave you here like this?"

Sunoo sniffled, bottom lip trembling. "I want to get laaaaaiiiid," he wailed, grabbing your shoulder. "Why can't people stay? What's wrong with me?!"

You blinked slowly, barely reacting to him shaking your shoulder with every word. "Maybe... because you're controlling?"

Sunoo froze, then glared at you, eyes wide and offended. "Fuck you! You can't even give me basic emotional support? What kind of monster are you?"

You let out a breath and sat down fully in front of him. "You want emotional support? Fine. You're hot. You're smart. You've got flawless skin and cheekbones people would sell their soul for. Now stop crying like the world ended. You're embarrassing both of us."

Sunoo sniffled again, staring at you with eyes too round and glassy for his own good. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes, I mean it," you muttered, already unlocking your phone to text Jake. "Now let's get out of here before you sob all over someone else's balcony—"

"No!" he snapped, suddenly snatching your phone and stepping back.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, your fingers twitching in the air where your phone had just been. Sunoo stood tall now, swaying only slightly, the alcohol clearly still sitting heavy in his limbs, but his grip on your phone was surprisingly solid. "Sunoo—" you warned, reaching for it, only for him to lift it higher. Damn his height.

He looked down at you, still flushed, lips pulling into a mischievous little smile that was way too proud for someone who had been sobbing on the floor five minutes ago. "It's my turn to be annoying," he said, tilting his head. "Am I actually hot?"

"Sunoo—" you sighed through your teeth, rising onto the balls of your feet. "Yes, you're hot. Now give me my phone back."

He raised it even higher. "So I'm not ugly?"

"You're pretty, Sunoo. Very pretty," you said, swallowing a dry knot in your throat as you felt your face heat up. His body was too close again, and this was definitely not where you thought the night would go.

Before you could collect yourself, he slumped forward, head landing against your neck with the weight of all his sadness. "Then why the hell does everyone cheat on me?" he wailed, and the force of him nearly knocked you backward until your spine hit the metal railing.

You stood there, half-pinned under a very clingy Kim Sunoo, awkwardly patting his back as you tried to retrieve your phone. But his grip only tightened.

He pulled away slightly, just enough to look at you, eyes still red, but his lashes clumped and wet and his lips trembling. "L-let's drink?" he mumbled. "You're annoying. I still hate you a little but I'll forget it. J-just... just don't smoke, okay? I don't like it when people smoke, okayyy?"

"Sunoo," you exhaled slowly, adjusting your balance as he kept his weight partially slumped on you, "I'm not drinking. I only came here for a gig. And I'm driving my bike. I have work tomorrow—"

"Owww-kayyy?" he cut you off with a lopsided pout.

You stared at him, unblinking. "I'm going to call Jake now."

"Owww-kayyy?" he repeated, holding your phone.

You sighed and pressed your fingers to the bridge of your nose. "Okay," you muttered.

That was all he needed. Sunoo let out a soft cheer, grabbing your hand with enthusiasm as he pulled you back into the party. You thought you were just going to drink with him, maybe a shot or two to shut him up, but Sunoo clearly had other plans.

His version of "let's drink" turned out to mean filling an entire cup with whatever was on the table and practically forcing it into your hands. You barely had time to brace yourself before he was tipping the rim toward your lips, eyes wide and sparkling.

You coughed through the first one, gagged through the second, and by the time the third hit your throat, you were wincing with every swallow. It burned all the way down and you already knew you wouldn't survive the night. For someone who smokes like it's your job, your alcohol tolerance was embarrassingly low and hangovers always hit like a truck. But then again, Sunoo was too pretty to say no to when he smiled like that, even with that annoying bratty glint in his eye.

"Party, partehhh! Yeahh!" he shouted, twirling you into the crowd like you were suddenly best friends.

Somehow, you ended up in the middle of the dance floor. Lights spinning, bass vibrating through your chest, and before you could stop yourself, your body had already leaned back against him. His hands found your waist automatically, and you didn't know if it was the alcohol or something else entirely, but your hips were moving, grinding gently against him in time with the beat.

You tilted your head slightly, cheek brushing his jaw as you muttered, "Maybe... men aren't for you, Sunoo."

He blinked down at you, clearly dazed, but still gripping your waist. "What?" he said, almost laughing.

"Swing for girls this time," you slurred with a half-smile, your fingers lightly tracing his cheek, your eyes struggling to focus. "Girls won't cheat on you."

He snorted. "Women were never my thing, bitch."

Your smile faltered just a little, and you pouted up at him, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone. "In a relationship... or in sex?" You tilted your head and looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. "Because girls? They'll treat you right. They'll adore you. They'll give you the kind of head that makes you forget your own name."

Sunoo's breath caught for a second, but he didn't move away. "I know that," he muttered. "I'm one of the girls."

You hummed, dragging your gaze along his features, watching the way he blinked slower now, how his lips parted slightly as your words pressed deeper. "Mmm. But have you ever been treated like that by a girl?" you asked again, your hips shifted, rolling back just enough to press against the heat of him.

Sunoo bit his bottom lip, hard enough to leave a mark. He wanted to shove you away, curse you out, remind you just how much you irritated him—but something burned hotter in his veins than the alcohol and it was how intoxicating you looked.

He shouldn't be doing this. You were the last person on earth he should be doing this with, but then again, nothing about tonight was going according to plan. And before he could stop himself, his hands gripped your waist tighter, dragging you closer as his lips crashed into yours.

The next thing he knew, the two of you were stumbling into the restroom at the end of the hallway, the door slamming behind you. His fingers tangled into your hair, pulling tight as your back hit the sink. He hated the taste of your cigarette on your tongue, but he kissed you harder anyway. Your hands were already under his shirt, nails scraping lightly down his spine, pulling a sharp breath from his throat.

You feel his tongue exploring your mouth, moving slow, tasting you with a hunger that makes your body respond without thinking. A moan slips from your lips as heat builds between your thighs, your panties dampening at the way he kisses you.

When you finally break the kiss, your lips trail down to his neck, licking and sucking lightly until you reach his collarbone. He presses closer, breathing heavily into your hair, hips grinding into you with shaky rhythm. Both of you moan at the friction, your bodies feeding off each other's heat.

Your hand finds his waistband, fingers tracing the bulge that's been growing harder against you. The shocking huge shape beneath makes you sigh, anticipation curling low in your belly. "Fuckkk," you moan, dropping to your knees without hesitation.

Sunoo's body fell back against the sink, one hand gripping the edge, the other running through his hair like he didn't know what to do with himself. His hands were trembling as he tried to undo his belt, and he almost laughed at how clumsy he felt. But the moment was too charged, his head was light, his blood too loud. The part of him that used to think only about what it felt like to be touched was now spinning with curiosity. This—this was different. He never imagined being on the receiving end like this would feel so... unreal.

He glanced down, and the sight of you kneeling for him, eyes locked on his, lips slightly parted and ready—his mind just blanked. The way your tongue pierced glinted under the light, the tip teasing out like you were offering it, patient and inviting, made his stomach tighten painfully. "Shit," he whispered, voice cracking slightly, pulling his pants and briefs down. You stared up at his cock, your lashes fluttering at the sight. Your mouth watered at the sheer size of him, and without hesitation, you leaned closer, resting your hands on your knees like you were waiting for a command.

He couldn't believe this was what guys saw. No wonder they were obsessed with it. The view of you like that, lips ready, eyes dark with need, tongue out with that cold little metal ball waiting to touch his skin, it was pure insanity. No fantasy ever looked like this. "Fuck," he groaned again, gripping the back of your head gently as he pushed his tip toward your tongue. The second the metal touched him, he hissed, his thighs twitching from the shock of cold piercing against the heat of his cock.

And as you looked up, never breaking eye contact while slowly letting him in—he knew. He knew exactly what he'd been missing.

Sunoo had always been the one with his knees pressed down, the one getting grabbed and pulled and used, and he loved every second of it. But this was different. The way your mouth wrapped around him, how you looked so eager, how your tongue pressed and moved with purpose—his stomach was already tightening with every wet glide and suck.

"Ahh, fuck, fuck..." he whined out, head falling back as his fingers tangled in your hair, pushing you down farther. He heard the sound of your throat struggling to keep him in, your soft choking only making his hips twitch with more urgency. It was too wet, too warm, too fucking perfect.

You stayed steady, letting your throat open the best you could as you followed the rhythm of his grip. Your tongue dragged along the underside of his length, right at the base where you knew it would hit different. His moan echoed across the small room, shameless and wrecked, not caring who could hear him anymore. All he cared about was the heat wrapping around his cock and how your mouth didn't stop. You glanced up again, needing to see him, and the view made you moan around him. His skin was flushed, red climbing up to his neck, his lashes low and trembling, mouth open as he gasped through each thrust. He looked completely undone—eyes barely staying open, hands gripping you like he needed you to stay exactly there.

Your throat tightened as he gave you no space to breathe, and still, you didn't pull away. Your hands stayed planted on your knees, nails pressing into the denim as tears blurred your eyes, your breath hitching through your nose. But the way your pussy clenched from it—the helpless feeling, the rawness of it—made it all the more addictive.

Especially when both his hands now gripped your head tighter and pushed until your nose pressed flush against his navel. "I-I'm close... oh fuck, I'm close, I—I'm—" Sunoo cried out, his voice cracking with how intense it felt. His hips were moving faster now. The sound of your mouth choking around him only pushed him over the edge harder. He didn't think it could feel this good, he didn't even know he could feel this way at all.

And you didn't either. You didn't know why it felt so right, so filthy, so addicting. You'd never had anyone this desperate for you before. And Sunoo had never had anyone take him like this.

His moan was loud, body trembling as his legs struggled to keep him upright. His hips kept moving on instinct, grinding into your mouth until he finally came, thick and hot down your throat. You felt it hit the back of your tongue, swallowing quickly as he groaned above you, the pleasure written all over his flushed face.

"God, fuck... it feels so good," he breathed out, chest heaving while his hands held you there, not even realizing how hard you were trying to breathe through it. Your eyes fluttered shut as you swallowed the last of him, head light and lungs burning.

You tapped his thigh with a shaky hand, and after a moment, he loosened his grip, letting you fall back slightly. You coughed a bit, trying to catch your breath, throat sore but mind still hazy from the alcohol and heat. Everything felt like it was spinning a little when you stood up, your body swaying slightly as the room tilted around you.

Sunoo reached out, catching your shoulder to steady you, and turned on the sink. He cupped a bit of water in his palm, guiding it to your lips. You leaned in, letting the cold water cool your mouth, then wiped your lips with the back of your hand. You coughed again, softer this time, and both of you stood there in silence for a beat—still too drunk to make sense of anything, too tired to care.

"I want to sleep," Sunoo mumbled, voice groggy as his arms hung by his sides. You helped him pull his pants back up, your fingers clumsy, and when you looked up, he was already leaning into you. His lips brushed against your neck, then your jaw, then a small kiss landed on your lips softly, a quiet thank-you or maybe just a mistake.

Neither of you said anything as you stumbled out of the bathroom together. Your feet dragged, his weight slumped against you. When you pushed open one of the nearby rooms, the two of you collapsed onto the bed without thinking. His body pressed into yours, your hand resting on the curve of his thin waist, and with a final exhale, his breathing evened out into soft snores.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, the night still buzzing in your head, and quietly hoped that come morning, Sunoo wouldn't look at you like it was all just a drunken blur he wanted to forget.

Well. You woke up to a loud squeal beside you, the sound shooting straight through your skull. Your head was pounding, every throb pulsing deep at your temples. This was exactly why you preferred smoking over drinking, at least cigarettes didn't make the world spin like this.

"Oh my God! W–why are we cuddling?! Why are you here in the first place?! D–did something happen to us?!" Sunoo's voice cracked in pure panic, his hands clutching the blanket to his chest. Even though he was fully clothed, he looked scandalized beyond belief.

You groaned and squinted against the light, trying to sit up despite the dull ache in your body. Your fingers pressed to your temples, trying to remember what the hell even happened. The room was unfamiliar, the sheets smelled like detergent, and your mouth tasted like cotton.

Before you could even collect a full thought, Sunoo slapped your back hard. You let out a sharp whine and turned to glare at him. "Aww, fuck! What the hell was that for?"

"Did something happen between us?!" he repeated, eyes wide and clearly on the verge of spiraling.

You stared at him for a second, still processing. "How would I know?" you mumbled, rubbing your face. "I drank more than I should have, and my memory's a blur. You're fully clothed, I'm fully clothed. Relax."

But he didn't calm down. In fact, he froze completely, the color draining from his face as something clearly hit him. You watched as his hands slowly moved to grip his hair, fingers tangling at the roots while his expression twisted into disbelief.

"No. No. No no no—" he whispered, and then gasped. "Oh my God. Oh my fucking God."

He wasn't even looking at you anymore. His eyes were somewhere far away as flashes from last night started to crash into him. Your lips on his, your hands tugging on his belt, your mouth sinking down while he leaned back against the sink. The heat. The noise. The way he came so hard he couldn't feel his legs. His whole body went stiff.

"You... you gave me head," he said in a whisper, voice dead with disbelief. "Oh my God. You gave me fucking blowjob."

You blinked, trying to place it. You remembered the bathroom. The taste. The sound of his moaning echoing off the walls. Shit. "Something did happen to us, you fucking bitch!" he suddenly screamed, face flushed red with shock and rage. "I'm reporting you—I'm serious, I swear—"

You screamed when he lunged and grabbed a fistful of your hair, the shock of it making you yell right back. "Fuck! Let go of me, psycho!" you snapped, swatting at his hand, your own hangover making it feel ten times worse.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" he screeched, shaking your head like he could shake the memory out with it. "Why would you—?!"

"Why would I?!" you shouted, finally pulling away, hair a mess and heart racing. "You literally moaned like it was the best thing that ever happened to you!"

"Because I didn't know what was happening! I thought it was a dream! I was drunk!"

"So was I, dumbass! You kissed me first!"

Sunoo froze again, mouth open, his chest rising and falling. You watched him in silence, heart sinking a little at the way he looked at you—like he was scrambling to make sense of something that never should've happened.

Your mouth felt dry again. There was this strange weight in your chest, like disappointment settling in even though you couldn't quite figure out why. You were both drunk. He was gay. Of course it didn't mean anything. And, if you weren't drunk, you wouldn't have done it either. You lowered your gaze, biting the inside of your cheek as that silence started to stretch between you.

"L-let's just pretend this never happened," Sunoo finally said, breaking the quiet as he stood up. His voice was shaky, not angry anymore, just desperate to erase it all. He dragged his palm down his face, then pressed it against his mouth like the words were spilling out faster than he could stop them. "I'm gay... and you're... whatever. Uhh... Let's not tell this to Jake, okay?"

You rolled your eyes as you got to your feet, fingers brushing through your hair while ignoring the lump tightening in your throat. "Whatever you want," you muttered, focusing instead on searching for your socks and bag, anything to avoid the way your chest ached for reasons.

"This will never happen again. God. I feel like I just betrayed my own kind," Sunoo muttered, slapping both cheeks with enough force to make you wince. "I need to go. I need to wash everything. This is disgusting. I'm disgusting."

You didn't say anything. Just watched him from the corner of your eye while pulling your socks on, keeping your back straight and blank face.

Sunoo glanced over, eyes catching on the side of your face. Something about the way you sat there so still, lips pressed together, skin marked faintly made his chest tighten. The memory crept in again—your hands, your mouth, the sound of your moan swallowed around him—and it made his stomach twist in the worst way. He shook his head. He was sober now. He shouldn't be feeling this again.

"Let's never see each other again," he said before leaving without waiting for a response.

You stared at the floor for a long second, blinking slowly. Never see each other again, huh? You almost laughed. As if you'd let him go that easily.

Sunoo didn't even understand why the memory was still stuck in his head, looping in the background of every moment like some curse he couldn't shake. It had already been a seven full days and yet the image of your lips, the sound of your moan, the warmth of your mouth still haunted him like it just happened yesterday. Worse, every time he thought about it, his dick twitched like it had a mind of its own, getting hard embarrassingly fast without warning.

He tried to brush it off as stress. He was tired, overloaded with work, and his hormones were probably all over the place. It made sense, right? Wet dreams weren't exactly rare. They were involuntary, normal even, just a sign of the body releasing tension during sleep. But the part that bothered him the most wasn't the act itself. It was who was in them. Why you? Out of everyone, why was it you? He would've understood if it were someone like Byeon Woo Seok. But no. It was your voice in his ear, your mouth on him, your name falling from his lips as he woke up in cold sweat with a sticky cum in his pajama pants. It was fucking humiliating.

He had just started to zone out again when a voice broke through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality.

"Erection is normal," Jungwon said clearly, standing at the front of the room with a microphone in hand. The school's seminar hall was full of restless teenagers, and he was doing his best to keep the attention. "It's a biological response to arousal or stimulation, often caused by elevated testosterone levels, especially during adolescence. That's why morning wood or even spontaneous erections can happen—it's not always sexual. Sometimes, it's just hormonal regulation or increased blood flow."

Sunoo swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Great. As if he needed that lecture right now.

"It's also common to have sexual dreams," Jungwon continued. "It's the brain's way of releasing suppressed feelings or stress. It doesn't always mean you're in love with the person in your dream—it could just be your mind reacting to unresolved tension."

Sunoo sat motionless, trying not to roll his eyes. He knew Jungwon probably didn't believe half the words he was saying and was just parroting the textbook to get the presentation over with. Unresolved tension? Please. That had to be the most bullshit, overused explanation. Sexual dreams were normal, just a biological function. A reflex. Wet dreams, erections, the occasional stray thought—they were all just part of how the body worked.

It was only men who liked turning every little reaction into some psychological crisis. Like it wasn't enough that your dick got hard at the wrong time, you now had to wonder why. No. He refused to play into that.

Still, he felt hot under the collar. He shifted in his seat as Jungwon kept talking, his voice fading into background noise while Sunoo's thoughts crawled back where they weren't supposed to go. Your mouth. The pressure of his hands on your head. That one sharp breath he let out when your tongue pressed against him just right. The way he swore he could still feel the metal ball of your piercing even when he was lying awake, sweating in bed, trying not to think about it —

"Sunoo!" His whole body jolted forward when someone suddenly slammed into him from behind. He turned sharply, only to see Jake grinning as he wrapped him in a tight hug.

"Long time no see! How've you been?" Jake beamed, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Sunoo blinked, his heart still racing from being startled. He squirmed out of Jake's grip, pulling his arm away from around his waist with a small scowl. "You fake bitch," he muttered, brushing off his uniform. "You said you'd go to the party last week!"

Jake tilted his head and gave him a sheepish grin. "I did! I just didn't come up to you because you were already with someone," he said, voice light but teasing, his smile carrying that knowing edge that made Sunoo freeze on the spot.

The words hit him like a cold splash of water, cutting straight through the fog of his thoughts. Shit! Sunoo's back straightened as his chest squeezed uncomfortably tight. "I-It's not what it looked like, Jake," he said quickly, voice pitching higher than he meant. "I can explain. N-Nothing happened, I swear—"

Jake raised an eyebrow in confusion, his playful smile returning as he slung an arm over Sunoo's shoulder again. "What are you talking about?" he laughed. "I'm just happy you're getting along with her! You know how much I wanted the two of you to be friends. So when I saw you drinking with her, I thought, finally! I didn't want to bother you two."

Sunoo's jaw went slack for a second. He blinked slowly as Jake's words settled in and then his face flushed with heat, the panic collapsing. You two. Drinking. Laughing. And Jake saw it. He saw it and just... assumed it was some innocent bonding moment. Sunoo nodded stiffly, forcing a laugh that came out more like a wheeze. "Y-Yeah... totally. Just... friends."

Jake didn't notice his discomfort, he just kept smiling, talking about the seminar and how awkward Jungwon looked trying to talk about erections with a straight face, but Sunoo could barely listen. If only he knew that every time Sunoo closed his eyes, it wasn't friendship playing behind his eyelids.

All your life, you've gotten things on your own terms. It wasn't about being selfish—it was about knowing what you wanted, and not being afraid to take the steps to get there, even if it meant breaking a few unspoken rules. You never apologized for it. Why should you? The world had never handed you anything easily, so you carved out space with your own hands, shaping your wants into reality.

You liked pretty things. You liked strawberries. You liked painting girls with soft collarbones and delicate fingers. You liked drawing in sharp eyeliner and wearing red lipstick even when it didn't match your outfit. You liked the way women looked in moonlight, skin glowing and bare emotion written on their faces. Women were softness and power and aching beauty, and for a long time, that's all you thought you'd ever want.

Boys were always just background noise. You flirted with them when you were bored, when you needed a distraction or when you were too tired of explaining to everyone why you leaned toward women. It was easier to let boys talk, to let them orbit around you. Most of the time, they never lasted long. They'd get close enough to realize they couldn't figure you out, and then drift away. It never bothered you. You liked being the one who stayed in control anyway.

But Sunoo was too pretty to be background noise. Too loud in your mind, even in his silence. He was sharp and delicate all at once. Sunoo is not boring. He was vibrant. Infuriating. Complicated. Unlike everyone else, Sunoo wasn't supposed to want you. And you weren't supposed to want him. You didn't chase boys. You didn't even like most of them. But with Sunoo, it wasn't about gender—it was about him. His contradictions. His moral high ground that cracked when his lips were on yours.

Now that you got a taste, you wanted to keep him. You wanted to grab him by that pretty throat and tie a little ribbon around it, mark him, stake your claim. All that fire in him, all that sharp defiance, the self-righteous storm he carried — it would be such a waste to let someone else come along and break him in the wrong way. Someone who wouldn't know how to cherish it like you would.

The wanting was dangerous. But so was he. And it was so much fun to want something you weren't supposed to have. And lucky you—Jake, in all his well-meaning sunshine, handed him right into your lap.

"I'm really glad now that you're friends," Jake grinned, arms flinging around both of you as he squeezed you close. "I can finally call us a trio now!"

You blinked in mild surprise. You hadn't even known this was a sleepover. From the way Jake had worded it earlier, you assumed it was just the two of you catching up over snacks and maybe a few drinks. But now here you were, wedged on the couch with Sunoo stiff on your other side, Jake's warmth pressed between you both. How thoughtful of him. You smiled. Jake was far too kind for his own good and far too generous with forcing proximity, but you didn't mind this time.

Sunoo, on the other hand, looked like someone had physically unplugged him. He was hugging his pillow so tightly it, eyes unfocused as he stared at nothing in particular. His face was blank, but you could read the confliction in every inch of him. Like he was holding himself together by a thread.

What you couldn't see was how hard he was trying to think of anything else besides the fact that he could smell your perfume again and it triggered something in his body. He clenched his thighs together subtly, trying to shift his hips so the growing problem in his pants wouldn't become visible. But the effort was a losing game. God, what the hell was wrong with him? He was still angry, still confused, still mortified that it happened in the first place and yet, his body clearly had no loyalty to his conscience.

What made it worse was Jake who had somehow tricked him into showing up for a supposed movie night and now had them sandwiched together like nothing ever happened between you and him. Jake didn't know, of course. And he couldn't know! Sunoo would rather choke on his own tongue than have to explain why his best friend's not-so-favorite person was suddenly invading his dreams at night and, worse, making him wake up soaked and panting like a hormonal teenager.

"What movies should we watch?!" Jake practically bounced on the couch, his grin wide as he looked back and forth.

You leaned closer, sliding your arm around Jake's. Your gaze flicked to Sunoo, who sat stiff on the other end of the couch, his posture awkward, eyes avoiding yours. "What about horror?" you said as you tilted your head, pretending not to notice how Sunoo seemed to sink deeper into the couch cushions. "Sunoo?"

Sunoo blinked, eyes snapping toward you. "Huh?" His voice cracked, his hand subtly dragged the throw pillow over his lap, fingers clutching the edges.

"Horror is gonna be fun! Imagine the thrill!" Jake turned toward you with shining eyes, already fired up. "Remember Sunoo during Evil Dead Rise? He was screeching like someone dipped him in cold water!" He burst out laughing.

You joined in, not because it was that funny but because you liked the way Sunoo glared at you when you did. His eye twitched, lips tightening in a way that made you want to press your thumb against the corner of his mouth just to see if it would twitch again.

"I didn't scream," Sunoo muttered under his breath. "It was a reflex."

Jake leaned forward to grab the remote, still chuckling. "A reflex that shook the entire floor. I had to check if we were having an earthquake."

Sunoo gave a tight, silent laugh that didn't reach his eyes. You stretched slightly, draping one leg over the other, your foot brushing lightly against Sunoo's knee. "So horror it is," you said.

Sunoo immediately jerked his leg away. "I'm not scared," he snapped, voice thin with defensiveness, eyes flicking toward you but never staying long.

"Who said you were?" you asked sweetly, lips twitching. "But maybe I can hold your hand if you get too nervous."

"I'd rather hold hands with a corpse," he muttered.

Jake, oblivious to the growing tension between you, scrolled through the options. "Let's start with Hereditary. That one's a classic."

You leaned back, settling comfortably against the couch cushion, your arm still loosely around Jake's. But your gaze stayed fixed on Sunoo, watching how he tried to keep his composure. The way he looked everywhere but at you made it all the more tempting to push again.

"Oh my God!" Jake screamed, flinging himself off the couch just as the possessed girl on the screen leapt out from the shadows.

Sunoo jumped, too, not because of the film but because Jake's yell had blasted straight into his ear. "Fuck you!" he gasped, swatting at Jake's shoulder. "You're louder than the demon, you idiot!"

Jake laughed breathlessly, holding a hand over his chest. "I told you it was gonna be scary! I warned you!"

"You didn't say you were gonna be the jump scare," Sunoo muttered, rubbing his ear.

You couldn't help laughing from your corner of the couch. It was warm in the living room, the ambient light from the TV casting deep shadows across everyone's faces. The horror movie had wound itself tight with dread, and now, near the end, the tension in the room had shifted.

Jake reached for the remote to pause it. "Okay, okay, let's all take a break. My heart can't take it. I'm gonna set up the bed and grab more snacks before we finish the last part." He stood up with a stretch, already walking toward the shared room.

You watched Jake disappear down the hallway, the sound of his slippers dragging against the floor fading behind him as he excitedly prepped the bedroom with pillows and snacks, then turned your eyes to Sunoo, who had sunk deeper into the couch, hand rubbing his temple.

Your gaze drifted past him, toward the hallway where the bathroom light glowed faintly at the end. And just like that, the tiniest smirk curled at the corner of your lips. Bingo.

You grabbed the water bottle from the table and tipped it back, pretending to take a long drink—only for the opening to "accidentally" spill, the cold splash soaking the neckline of your shirt and running straight down your chest.

"Shit!" you hissed, jumping slightly as you stood up, swiping at your top with both hands in panic. The fabric clung to your skin, the damp cotton tracing the curve of your collarbone and neckline.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Sunoo's head snap toward you. His eyes widened for a moment before narrowing again, his signature glare sliding back into place. "Are you an idiot who can't drink water like a normal person?" he snapped. His eyes flicked from your face to your soaked shirt and back again before he shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the pillow over his lap again.

You scowled. "It was an accident," you muttered, pinching the hem of your shirt and pulling it slightly away from your body to keep the wet fabric from clinging too much. "I'm going to the bathroom." You turned your back, already halfway to the hall, but then paused just before you rounded the corner. You peeked back over your shoulder with a faux-hesitant voice. "Sunoo," you said sweetly, "can you... come with me?"

He straightened in his seat, eyes narrowed immediately. "What are you, five? You can walk to the bathroom on your own."

You turned around fully and gave your best pout. "But I'm scared," you said, dropping your voice. "What if something jumps out of the mirror and eats me?"

His lips parted slightly in disbelief. "It's literally a bathroom, not a haunted house. Get a grip."

You blinked at him with wide, innocent eyes, the corners of your mouth twitching. "I'm telling Jake—"

That was all it took. Sunoo moved fast. His hand shot out and wrapped around your wrist before you could finish the sentence, his grip is tight, more panicked than forceful. "We agreed to forget that already!" he whispered harshly, dragging you toward the hallway with quick steps. His face was already flushed as he pushed the bathroom door open and practically shoved you inside.

He followed, slamming the door shut behind him and twisting the lock.

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with suppressed laughter. "I meant I was gonna tell Jake you were being mean to me. What exactly were you thinking, Sunoo?"

The color that spread across his face deepened from pink to a furious red, blooming up his neck and across his cheeks. His eyes darted away from yours, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension ripple along the muscle there. He didn't answer immediately—his thoughts were clearly a mess, the memory of that night dragging up feelings he didn't want to admit were still there.

God, you were such a bitch. A beautiful, infuriating, unreadable bitch. "Fuck you," he muttered through clenched teeth, pressing his back to the door. His arms crossed over his chest, defensive, but it was already too late for that. "What the hell do you even want?"

You smiled, taking a small step forward, head tilting like you were weighing your options. You let your gaze drop slowly—first to his parted lips, then to his hands clenched into fists at his sides—and then back to his eyes.

"Hmmm," you hummed, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the sink behind you as you leaned back, unbothered by how tense he was. "You."

Sunoo's pulse jumped so hard he felt it in his ears, and it really annoyed him.

"I think we're past the point of shyly pretending we're not attracted to each other, don't you think?" you asked casually, your foot tapping against the floor. "I mean, unless you're really going to pretend you don't think about it."

Sunoo swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he forced his expression into a cold and distant. His voice came out with a bite. "I was drunk. Whatever happened, it wasn't real. I'm sober now, and clearly, you're forgetting something—I'm gay." He stepped forward, huffing, defensive, like he needed to say it aloud to remind himself. "Even if I wasn't, even if I magically woke up straight, do you really think I'd be into someone like you? I wouldn't even hold your hand."

You smiled, unshaken. Your gaze dropped to the tile floor for a moment, nodding slowly like you were mulling it over, like you could almost believe him. "Hmmm. Really?" you said again, softly. Then you looked up and held his stare. "That's interesting."

"What happened was a mistake," he pressed. "Stop getting it twisted. You're not going to change anything. I like men—I've always liked men—and if I ever did like women, it sure as hell wouldn't be someone like you."

His words were sharp and cruel, but his voice cracked slightly on the last sentence. Your eyes flicked down to his hands again. Still clenched and shaking, you almost laughed, he was angry because he didn't know where to put this feeling, and his body was betraying him in every way.

"Okay," you said. "Sorry."

You didn't look sorry. You didn't even sound sorry. Then, without warning, you reached for the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head. Sunoo nearly yelped. "What the fuck?!" he squealed, spinning around so fast. His hands flew up to cover his face. "Are you insane?! Put that back on! Jesus Christ, are you trying to traumatize me?!"

You didn't say anything at first. Just laughed softly, "you said you weren't interested, right? So what are you panicking for?" You rolled your eyes slowly and watched his stiff posture as he stayed plastered to the door. "Relax," you muttered, fingers reaching behind your back, unclasping your bra and letting it fall to the floor. "I'm wet, Sunoo. I'm not trying to seduce you—I already got my answer. Now, move."

His spine straightened at your words like you'd just smacked him. "What the fuck? Move where?!" His voice rose in panic, still facing away from you.

"I didn't bring an extra shirt. My bag's in the living room," you said flatly, stepping closer. "Now move."

He hesitated, like if he turned around something irreversible would happen. But his curiosity, or maybe his stupidity, got the better of him. Slowly, cautiously, he peeked over his shoulder—and then froze completely.

You were naked from the waist up. Completely bare, with a confidence. Your arms were crossed beneath your chest, body leaning against the sink like you were just waiting for him to get over himself. And God, he should've been used to this. He'd seen breasts before—he had female friends who changed clothes in front of him all the time. It never bothered him. It wasn't a big deal.

He tried to look away and he really, really did, but his eyes kept coming back to you like they were on a leash. Your skin glowed under the light, smooth and warm-toned, shadows carving down your ribs and hips. He noticed the tattoos. The delicate ink on your shoulder had already left an imprint in his brain from that day, but now he saw more. A fine, detailed floral design wrapped along the side of your torso, just above your hip and curling slightly toward your waist. A single lily bloomed in black and soft pink, with gentle shading that made it look almost alive. Watercolor-like strokes trailed from the petals, fading like smoke. The lines followed your curves perfectly.

Sunoo was breathless. He never cared for tattoos, they weren't pretty, but on you, they looked dressed as an art. And fuck, he couldn't stop staring. His gaze flicked to your chest, and a fresh wave of heat rolled through him. Your nipples were tight from the air, drawn and pointed, resting against full, natural curves that made his stomach knot. Why was he getting hard? This didn't make sense. Fuck. You were so hot it pissed him off.

You were staring at him, head slightly tilted, waiting for him to move. "Sunoo?"

Sunoo's fists clenched. He could feel saliva collecting in his mouth, and he swallowed hard like that would put out the fire already crawling down his spine. He blinked quickly, shaking his head. "You—fuck, you need to put something on," he said.

"My shirt's in the living room—"

"I don't care. Put something on," he cut in sharply, brows furrowed and his gaze turned firmly to the wall.

You didn't budge. "Jake already saw my tits, Sunoo. It's not a big deal—"

He didn't even know why it made his stomach flip and his chest burn, but it did. The thought of Jake seeing you like this, made a feeling claw up the back of his throat.

Sunoo was a nursing student. He studied hormonal response, human behavior, and the mind's reactions to stress and desire. But this wasn't in his textbooks. This wasn't just dopamine or misplaced frustration. Human emotions were more complicated than any clinical definition. No scientific framework could fully explain the way you made him feel.

"You're hard."

Sunoo felt his entire body go still. He could feel it too. The tight pressure in his pants, the unbearable way his cock had hardened while his mind scrambled to deny everything. He turned toward the mirror above the sink, refusing to meet your eyes as he muttered, "I-It's normal biological reaction."

The excuse felt paper-thin, almost pathetic in his mouth, but it was the only thing he could reach for. He was clinging to whatever logic he had left, because logic was safer than whatever the hell this was. Logic didn't leave him aching in places he shouldn't be aching. Logic didn't twist his insides just from looking at you.

You were still standing there, unfazed, topless and confident, your arms crossed under your chest like you were waiting for him to catch up. "Sunoo," you said his name softly.

He finally looked at you, eyes glaring. "I told you I'm gay," he said, and he hated how shaky his voice sounded. "This—this shouldn't be happening."

You took a slow step closer, and he didn't move. "You said that," you nodded, voice calm. "But I didn't ask what you are. I just told you what I want."

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to read between your words, searching for an angle, a trick. "So what is this to you? A joke? Some kind of game?"

"No. You're the one making it complicated."

His chest rose and fell unevenly. His mind kept trying to name what he was feeling—confusion, tension, desire, maybe all of it at once—but it was all bleeding together in a way that felt like drowning. "I've never—" he started, then stopped himself.

You waited. "Never what?"

"I've never felt this confused before," he said, eyes searching yours like he was hoping you'd give him a reason to pull away, something to ground him. "I don't even like women. I'm not supposed to want this."

"Then don't want it," you said simply, shrugging your shoulders. "But don't lie about it. Do you want me, Sunoo?"

He hated that. Hated how sure you sounded, how unapologetically honest you were while he was still tangled in his own fear and guilt, still gripping the edge of what he thought was certainty. You made everything seem so simple, so easy to name—want, touch, feel—while he was still trying to unlearn the rules he had been clinging to for so long. He wanted to push you away, wanted to hate you for making him feel like he was coming apart in his own skin. But even as that thought surfaced, his eyes dropped again to your lips, and lingered there too long. He hated how much he wanted you to close the space between you, how much he needed you to.

His breathing grew shallow, his chest rising in uneven waves, and when you leaned forward, he didn't retreat. Instead, his eyes fluttered closed. The second your mouth brushed against his, something inside him cracked open. He kissed you with a kind of desperation that made it clear he'd stopped pretending.

There was no hesitation when he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The warmth of your body beneath his hands made his head spin. He held you tightly, anchoring himself to the moment, to the gravity of your touch. His lips moved against yours, his hands trembled as they explored the lines of your back, fingertips pressing into your skin. You knew he was falling, and you welcomed it. You let him cling to you, let him kiss you and when your lips finally parted, you didn't say a word. You just let your hands trail down his chest, eyes locked on his flushed face as you sank down onto your knees before him.

Sunoo's breath hitched audibly. His hands flew to the edge of the sink behind him, trying to steady himself. You looked up at him, gaze dark and patient, and he looked down at you. His cock strained against his pajama, and when you undid the strings, your fingers brushing against him through the fabric, he nearly buckled.

The moment you freed him, he hissed through his teeth. You didn't tease him this time, you took him into your mouth. His hand instinctively reached for your head, gripping your hair too tightly as you slid your tongue over him, slow at first, deepening only when he let out a choked moan that vibrated from somewhere deep in his chest.

"F-fuck..." he whispered, eyes fluttering open, and the sight of you on your knees—bare, hungry, focused only on him. This time, there was no alcohol to blame. No drunken impulse to hide behind. Both of you were entirely sober, breathing the same heavy air. And you were right. You were far past the point of pretending you're not attracted to each other. Because, fuck...

He bit down on his bottom lip, struggling to hold back the sound threatening to crawl out of his throat when you pulled your mouth off him. The cold air brushed his wet skin for only a second before your hand wrapped firmly around his cock. You were looking up at him with such dark, focused eyes, and the glint of your tongue piercing when you stuck your tongue out made his stomach twist in ways.

His moan trembled out of him, a low, broken thing he tried and failed to swallow. His eyes fluttered shut as you began to stroke him, slow and tight, your fingers knowing exactly where to squeeze, where to drag your thumb. His hips jerked forward against your fist without thought. He was trembling, his thighs already straining, and when his hand moved to your head again, he didn't even register that he was holding you there, like he needed you in that position, grounded and close, while everything else slipped away.

With a choked sound, his release surged forward, hips stuttering as thick, hot ropes of cum spurted from him—painting your face, your tongue, and even your lips. You closed your eyes, but kept your mouth open, breathing heavy, letting it drip and settle across your flushed skin. The sight of you on your knees, panting, tongue out, face stained with the proof of what he'd given you—was too much. He'd never seen anything that fucking beautiful.

Sunoo's breath came out in short, ragged gasps. He couldn't look away. You were absolutely wrecked, eyes half-lidded, mouth still parted, tongue twitching slightly as the last of him spilled from the tip. His knees nearly buckled. And even as shame flickered somewhere in the distance, it didn't touch the way his chest clenched with need.

You were far past the point of pretending you're not attracted to each other. Because, fuck... in Sunoo's mind— You're really, really, really, attractive. You tilted your head, eyes still soft despite the mess on your face. "It's okay, Sunoo."

And that simple assurance hit harder than anything else had tonight, he had never felt so completely defeated and relieved at the same time.

Sunoo always joked that he was betraying his "gay motherhood," whatever the fuck that meant, but deep down, he was unraveling more than a label. His whole sense of self was spiraling, not because he didn't like men anymore, but because he couldn't stop liking what you did to him.

He was raised sure—sure he liked men, sure of who he was, sure of how the world saw him. But your mouth? Your hands? Your eyes on his body? That changed something. And maybe it wasn't even about gender or attraction or breaking rules, maybe it was just about how good it felt. Because, it did. Every time your tongue slid down his length or your lips curled into a smirk right before you swallowed him whole, he would grip your hair like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

And he still hated it. Hated you. Hated how easily you pulled those sounds from him, how willingly he spread his legs, how badly he wanted to feel your throat tighten around him when he was too stressed to think straight. But hate was a weak word when it came to you because what he really felt was full of hunger and questions he couldn't answer, of relief he couldn't explain, and of moments when he forgot who he was supposed to be.

Somehow, this arrangement—whatever fucked-up kind of companionship it was—had become routine. He was stressed? You showed up, dragged him onto the bed, and made him forget the weight in his chest. You were tired of people? You'd drop to your knees and pull his pants down, muttering snarky words before your tongue did all the talking. When Jake invited you both for café dates, you'd suck Sunoo off in the bathroom beforehand, as if taking the edge off made you more tolerable in public.

And in between all that, without either of you saying it, you started learning each other. You knew the way his breath caught when you traced the tip of your tongue along the underside of his cock, the way he liked his thighs rubbed when he was overwhelmed, the way he pretended to hate your voice but kept asking you to hum while he was inside your mouth. He knew the difference between your smirk and your real smile, he noticed the way you always fixed his collar before he left for class, the way you paused before walking away like you wanted him to stop you, just once.

"Did you see my guitar pick? I was really sure I left it here." You asked, already half on the floor as you looked beneath his bed, your voice muffled against the floorboards. "My pen? Where did you put my pen?"

Sunoo didn't answer right away. He just scratched the back of his head, eyes skimming over his textbook. "Also, I think I left my hoodie here last week," you continued, lifting his blanket and peeking underneath. You spoke like it was nothing, like this wasn't the fourth time you'd been here this week, like you hadn't sucked him off on this very bed two nights ago while the rain beat against his window. "The red one? Oversized. The one you said was ugly."

"Stop leaving your things here and expecting me to be your lost and found," Sunoo muttered with a sigh, rolling his eyes as he stood from his desk. His hands moved to the drawer beside his bed, fingers quickly rifling through the clutter until he pulled out the small pile of things you'd been searching for.

Your guitar pick. A pen with a chewed-up cap. The scrunchie you claimed you didn't care about but had asked about three times. "Yay!" you chirped, voice bright as you threw your arms around his neck without hesitation. Your enthusiasm was full of sunshine and zero awareness of boundaries—not that he'd set any for you lately. Your body leaned into his, so warm, and for a moment, he didn't pull away. He didn't even stiffen. If anything, he just stood there with his jaw tight and eyes soft, letting you hang onto him.

Sunoo had learned a lot of unexpected things from you, but the first was this: you were clingy. Not in the way people usually mean it. You were clingy in the way a storm was clingy, so loud and unpredictable, but always returning, always right on time. You'd barge into his room to ruffle his hair without asking, leave lipstick stains on the rim of his mugs, and curse while crocheting in his living room.

Despite your sharp tongue, your smug smirks, and that bitchy little smile you wore whenever you knew you had the upper hand, there was something about you that kept curling into the edges of his life. The softness you tried to bury always slipped through—like now, as your arms wrapped loosely around his neck, your breath warm on his collarbone.

You hadn't even fucked, not really. Whatever this was between the two of you, it never crossed that final line. Sure, you'd given him head more times than he could count now, slipping between his knees, sometimes right after class or before dinner. Sometimes with a joke still on your tongue, your fingers working his zipper like it was just part of your daily routine. You'd even played with yourself while looking him dead in the eyes, teasing him, daring him, and yet still somehow managing not to strip yourself bare.

Pleasure was always good. You knew exactly what to do to unravel him. But it confused him on the way you stayed after. The way you talked to him about your professors and complained about your classmates, how you crocheted lopsided sweaters and left your yarn all over his room, like you expected to come back and finish them.

It was how you kissed his cheek when he looked stressed, how you'd fall asleep next to him fully clothed while he studied and pretend not to notice when he pulled the blanket over you.

"You need to stop acting like this is your place," he muttered, trying to keep his voice flat.

You didn't take the bait, instead, you leaned in and kissed his cheek loudly. Sunoo's entire face twitched in immediate response. His hand shot up, rubbing his cheek with the heel of his palm. "Eww," he muttered under his breath.

"Sorry!" you giggled, clearly not sorry at all with that look you always wore when you knew you were testing his patience, and then your hands were on his face again, squeezing his cheeks with affection. "You're just so adorable when you're cranky. I can't help it."

He groaned loudly, swatting at your wrists, trying to pry your hands off. "Stop calling me that."

You didn't flinch. In fact, you leaned closer, squishing his cheeks harder, and making a cooing sound that only made him more irritated. He slapped your arm but when you laughed again, that same light, reckless laugh that always made his ears feel too warm, he grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged.

"Ow, ow, ow!" you yelped, wriggling in place with a pout. You batted his hand away, fingers tangled in your strands, while your eyes stayed locked on his with a mixture of amusement and challenge.

"Leave me alone. I'm trying to review for my exams," Sunoo muttered, barely glancing at you as he rolled his eyes and turned back toward his desk. His hand reached for the highlighter beside his textbook, the yellow ink already bleeding into the edge of a paragraph he'd probably read four times without actually absorbing anything.

You walked over anyway, you squeezed into the tiny space beside him on a chair meant for one, and Sunoo groaned out loud, shifting his body to the side. The chair creaked beneath your combined weight, and your thigh was pressed flush against his. "I just need a favor from you," you said, casually brushing your hand across his table.

Sunoo let out another sigh. He looked over at you, unimpressed. "Favor? Only friends do favors," he replied flatly.

You turned to him with a gasp, placing a hand to your chest in mock offense. "Wow," you said, eyes wide and sarcastic. "Damn, after all the blowjobs I gave you? After the way we've made out on your bed, your floor, and that one time in your fucking kitchen? After all the hours I spent here telling you about my day while you pretended not to listen? You're telling me we're not even friends?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, his hand frozen halfway through underlining another sentence. You weren't wrong. You'd been coming around so often that your scent had started to cling to his sheets, your hair ties and red lipstick had begun appearing in random corners of his room, and your laugh had started to echo in his head long after you'd gone home.

You leaned in a little, close enough that he could feel your breath fan across his neck. "If this isn't a friendship," you added softly, "then what is your definition of friendship, Sunoo?"

He made a show of thinking, lifting his eyes like he was searching the ceiling for inspiration, but there was a glint in his expression that gave away how amused he actually was. "I don't know, girl. We haven't even properly introduced ourselves because you were too busy sucking my dick off," he replied, words nonchalant but his ears tinted red. He tried to keep his voice flat, sarcastic even, like that would mask the heat crawling up his neck.

You laughed, unbothered, and leaned your head against his shoulder with a casualness that shouldn't have felt so intimate, but somehow, it did. Sunoo shifted under the contact, scoffing, rolling his eyes, acting like he didn't care but you could feel it in the way he didn't move away.

"Okay, let's do this properly then," you said as you let your hand play with the edge of his sleeve. "I'm twenty. Fashion design major. I work part-time at two different cafés. I play gigs when I can, lead guitarist and vocalist of Jay's band. I crochet, bake, draw, paint—basically anything that can bring in money for tuition. I have three ex-girlfriends, all toxic in very different ways. And I like—"

"Wait," Sunoo cut in, body suddenly stiffening as he pulled back just enough to stare at you. His eyes were wide, lips parted slightly like he couldn't believe what he just heard. "You're gay?!"

Your mouth dropped open, blinking at him as your brain scrambled to rewind what you'd said. "I—I mean, isn't it obvious?" you managed, slightly flustered, though a part of you also found his surprise endearing in a frustrating way.

Sunoo didn't say anything right away. He kept looking at you, brows furrowed, lips parted in a stunned kind of silence like he was trying to piece you together again with this new piece of information you just casually dropped. You watched the flickers of confusion, surprise, maybe even a bit of disbelief in his face, and though you didn't fully understand why it mattered so much to him. "I like girls," you clarified again.

There was a beat of silence. Then Sunoo blinked hard, like he'd just snapped out of it, and his reaction was nothing short of dramatic. "I—I thought you were straight, girl!" he cried out with a squeaky kind of disbelief, and before you could defend yourself, his hand flew out and smacked your arm. Hard. The kind of smack that made your whole upper body jerk slightly from the force. You almost flew off the chair.

"Shit, Sunoo!" you yelped, rubbing your arm and glaring at him with a twisted expression of both pain and outrage.

But Sunoo wasn't listening. He was laughing—loudly, eyes crinkled, hand over his mouth like he couldn't believe what he was hearing and also couldn't stop himself from reacting. "I really didn't like you at first," he gasped between giggles. "Like, genuinely. I thought you were giving homophobic vibes! You were too confident, too flirty, and you stared at me like you were ready to fight or fuck, and I swear to god I thought you were trying to make me your weird little experiment!"

You blinked again, thrown off by the way he said it all so fast. "What the fuck, Sunoo," you muttered, half-offended but also kind of shocked that he thought all that while still letting you suck him off on the regular.

He slapped your shoulder again and kept cackling, his entire body tilted forward as he wheezed through it, completely losing himself in his own joke. "I mean, it makes sense now," he managed between laughter, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "That's why you're such a bitch—because you're gay!"

You didn't hesitate. Your hand landed right on his arm, a loud smack echoing through the room. "Are you forgetting that you're gay too, idiot?" you shot back, trying to sound annoyed but failing to hold back your grin.

Sunoo hissed dramatically, rubbing the spot, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed him. The teasing should've stopped there—should've stayed in that usual back-and-forth where you both knew the lines and how far to push. But something in his expression shifted. "I still don't get it," he murmured, the laughter dying down to a softer tone, his hand now gently pressing the spot you'd hit. "If you're into girls, then what does that make... this?"

For a moment, you didn't know how to answer. So many things about you didn't fit into the easy explanations people seemed to expect, and honestly, you never cared to try and fit them. "I don't know," you said at last, "I've hooked up with guys before, and it was never really a big deal. I always knew I liked girls more, but that never stopped me from doing stuff with boys when I felt like it." You shrugged, then leaned back a little, giving him space to process what you were about to say. "Sexuality is just a word people use to make sense of themselves. I might call myself bisexual—or gay—but honestly, it never fully explains what I want or how I feel. Labels don't always fit."

He looked at you then, and there was something quiet different in his eyes. It wasn't annoyance or mockery for once. You continued anyway, because you needed him to understand. "All I know is that I like doing things with you. Whether it's talking, teasing, sitting around doing nothing, or yeah... getting on my knees for you. It sounds messy, but it's the only thing I'm sure of."

That made his throat bob. His heartbeat, already unruly from earlier, thudded faster at your words, and he could feel the heat creeping into his face before he could stop it. He wanted to brush it off, wanted to say something sharp or stupid to deflect, but nothing came out.

He forced himself to roll his eyes and gave your shoulder another slap, more gentle this time. "Ewwww," he groaned with an exaggerated squeal, scrunching his nose. "It might be our routine, but could you not say that in my ear? It's still weird hearing you talk so casually about sucking me off!"

You only grinned wider, catching the flush starting to bloom across his cheeks. "What? Are you blushing?" you teased as you reached up and pinched his cheeks between your fingers, delighting in how quickly he tried to jerk away.

He groaned, then reached up to grab a fistful of your hair in retaliation. "You're so annoying," he muttered, tugging hard enough to make you yelp and try to push him off.

"Fuck!" you shrieked through laughter, smacking his arm and trying to wriggle away. But the tangled mess of limbs ended with both of you tipping sideways and falling back into the chair. He hit the floor and let out a long-suffering groan as you collapsed on top of him in a heap.

"Great," he muttered, pressing a hand to his lower back. "Now I'm going to fail my exam with spinal damage." You were still laughing, unbothered as you rested your chin on his chest. Even now, with your weight on top of him and your hair tickling his face, Sunoo couldn't bring himself to shove you off.

Instead, his eyes wandered to the ceiling, mind replaying the words you said earlier. Maybe you were right. Sexuality was just a word. A way to make sense of something that couldn't always be explained. And maybe the way he felt this complicated, frustrating, strangely comforting pull toward you wasn't something that needed a label at all.

"Get off. You're so fucking heavy," Sunoo hissed, snapping himself out of it as he tugged at your hair again, a little rougher this time. But deep down, buried under every eye roll and complaint, he enjoyed doing things with you, whether they were sexual or not. That part, at least, he could admit to himself. Maybe not out loud. Definitely not to you. He'd rather drop dead than say it out loud.

The favor you had asked was to practice your creative makeup on him, get his measurements, and use him as some sort of living mannequin for the designs you'd been working on. It sounded harmless enough when you first mentioned it, though the way you said it—bright-eyed, insistent, and practically buzzing with ideas—made it sound like you were dragging him into something bigger than he could imagine. He hadn't thought much of it back then, especially since hospital duties had swallowed him whole. The weeks stretched on, filled with endless shifts, late nights, and exhaustion so deep he barely had the energy to eat before collapsing into bed.

But still, in the middle of those long nights, he'd catch himself thinking of you. Of how irritating you could be, how you texted him nonsense memes at ungodly hours, how you spammed his phone like you had nothing better to do. He never admitted it, but the absence of your loud presence gnawed at him. The quiet felt heavier without you around to annoy him into feeling alive. That was what made him finally agree to see you again, even if it meant dragging his tired body to your apartment after his shift.

At the bus stop, Sunoo sat slumped beside Jungwon, eyelids heavy as the night air pressed around them. Jungwon let out a long groan, stretching his arms above his head. "Do you want to sleep over at my place instead? Later, I'll order Jollibee. Kinda been craving their spaghetti."

The offer was tempting—comfort food and a soft bed—but Sunoo only shook his head, his lips curving faintly as he pulled out his phone. "Maybe next time. Thanks for the offer, though. I've got some business to attend to."

"Business?" Jungwon repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. "At this hour?"

Sunoo didn't answer right away. His thumb scrolled down the flood of messages on his screen—your name glowing at the top of the chat. Rows of texts, some with too many exclamation marks, others filled with random pictures, all ridiculous enough to make his scrunched-up expression betray him with a small, undeniable smile. Jungwon noticed. He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "That's new," he muttered, side-eyeing. "So... where exactly are you going?"

"Just there," Sunoo replied vaguely, sliding his phone back into his bag before Jungwon could ask too much. And then, Sunoo leaned over and kissed Jungwon on the cheek, accompanied by a rare, boyish grin. "I'll get going now. Bye-bye!"

Jungwon froze, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief as he watched Sunoo walk away, his figure retreating down the street with a kind of restless energy. Jungwon's mouth fell open, his thoughts spinning in circles. He looked off to the side, considering whether to press or not, but in the end he only sighed and rolled his shoulders in resignation. "Huh. Weird," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "But whatever."

When Sunoo finally stepped into your apartment, you didn't hold back. You practically launched yourself at him, arms flinging around his shoulders as though you had been waiting for this moment for weeks—which, in truth, you had. The sound of your laughter filled the air immediately, loud and full of the joy that spilled out of you so naturally.

Sunoo, on the other hand, reacted exactly the way he always did when you overwhelmed him with affection. His face scrunched into that familiar look of feigned annoyance as he huffed, one hand coming up to shove your face away. "Geez," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile, "it's already ten in the evening and you're still bouncing around? Spare me, please." With a heavy sigh, he slipped his bag off his shoulder and tossed it onto the nearest chair. "I'm just going to change my clothes."

Your eyes widened immediately, and you froze mid-step. "Wait—does that mean you're going to sleep here?"

Sunoo rolled his eyes dramatically, as if the answer should have been obvious. "What? You really think I'd go home after letting you disturb me at this hour?" he said, his voice dry. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around your apartment for the first time.

It was nothing like his own space. The moment his gaze swept over the room, he felt an odd tug in his chest. Guitars lined one wall, their strings gleaming faintly under the shifting glow of LED lights taped along the corners. The posters that filled your walls, mostly of metal bands he actually recognized—thanks to one of his friends who was just as obsessed with that scene as you seemed to be. There were canvases, too, half-finished and scattered against the sofa. The whole place felt alive, buzzing with your energy even when you weren't moving.

"Missed me?" you teased, leaning closer with a grin.

Sunoo didn't even spare you a proper glance. He rolled his eyes and shoved you lightly away, muttering under his breath as he dug into his bag. "As if. The only reason I even bothered coming here is because your annoying ass wouldn't leave me alone."

You watched him unzip his bag, pulling out a neatly folded set of clothes, and despite his flat expression you noticed the way his shoulders sagged, how exhaustion clung to every movement. He had been working himself to the bone, yet here he was, standing in your apartment at ten in the evening. That alone made your chest warm.

"God, I need to shower," he muttered, already moving toward the hallway without waiting for directions. He pushed open a random door, somehow guessing correctly that it was the bathroom, and slipped inside. The door shut firmly, leaving you behind in the living room with your laughter spilling out in echoes.

You padded after him without hesitation, knocking against the bathroom door with force. "Let me join!" you shouted through the wood.

From inside, there was a short pause, followed by the sound of the shower starting, and then his indignant yell. "Fuck you!"

You laughed so hard you had to lean against the wall for support, the sound echoing through your apartment. There was something deeply satisfying in knowing you could still pull that reaction from him even when he was drained from his long shift.

Sunoo ended up on your bed, sitting stiffly. His eyes moved slowly over your room, taking in the mess sprawl of your belongings. Clothes half-folded, books stacked unevenly, random brushes and palettes scattered across your desk. He bent down with a sigh, picking up a stray eyeliner pencil and a crumpled sheet of paper from the floor before dropping them on the bedside table. "Unbelievable," he muttered, glancing at you. "How do you even live like this?"

You ignored his complaint, too caught up in your own excitement. With the measuring tape in hand, you motioned for him to sit still. He shifted reluctantly, rolling his eyes but letting you circle around him, brushing against his shoulders and arms as you worked. You could feel the weight of his gaze following your movements even though he tried to pretend he wasn't paying attention.

"Our theme is under the sea," you began, your tone lively, words spilling out in a rush. "The makeup I have in mind isn't too heavy—it's soft, glowy, more like a douyin-inspired style, but with hints of shimmer, like reflections on water."

Sunoo raised a brow but said nothing, still trying to sit as if he wasn't secretly curious. "Wait, hold on." You darted to your desk, shoving aside piles of papers and empty cups, searching frantically until you found your sketchpad. The mess you made in the process only made him sigh louder, and when you finally returned, your arms were full of sheets, pencils, and smudged notes. You plopped beside him on the bed without an ounce of care, your hair brushing against his shoulder as you flipped the sketchpad open to the right page.

"Here, look!" you said eagerly, turning the pad so he could see. The drawing wasn't perfect, but it was vibrant, full of details—flowing lines like waves, soft glitter patterns around the eyes, hints of pearlescent tones. You leaned close enough that your knees brushed his, smiling up at him as if waiting for approval.

He glanced at the sketch, then at you, then back again. His face was blank, though his lips twitched as if fighting back a reaction. "You did all this just for practice?" he asked finally.

"Of course," you said without hesitation, tilting your head at him. "You're my muse tonight. Who else would I trust to pull this off?"

That word—muse—hung in the air between you. Sunoo blinked, looking away quickly, pretending to study the messy corner of your room instead. He scoffed under his breath, though his ears betrayed him with the faintest hint of red.

"Whatever, just do your job so I can sleep," he said, voice carrying that familiar sharpness. Still, he didn't shift away when you leaned in, didn't flinch when your hand brushed against his wrist as you measured, nor when you adjusted the tilt of his chin so you could see him better. He stayed still, letting you come closer.

If someone asked you at that moment how you felt, you would have answered easily—you were happy. Happy in a way that was simple yet overwhelming. Happy because lately, it felt like things were turning in your favor, even the little things. Happy because just yesterday you'd gotten a new tattoo for free. Happy because sitting here, in your messy room that never seemed good enough for guests, you had a boy in front of you who was almost too pretty to be real. A boy who had an attitude sharp enough to cut, but whose presence made you feel full.

You weren't known for being soft. People said you were rough around the edges, cunning, always quick with words that made others falter. But with him, it was different. You couldn't help yourself from speaking, from filling the silence with random stories, thoughts, jokes—anything. To most, your voice could be overwhelming, but Sunoo had already grown used to it.

"And Jake was also planning his first date to a hotpot—" you rambled on, your hand steady as you blended shimmer onto his eyelid.

Sunoo let out a heavy sigh, his lips parting slightly as he resisted the urge to open his eyes. He had been sitting there with his lids closed for what felt like an eternity, and still you weren't finished. "Do you ever shut up?" he muttered.

You grinned, your brush tracing along the curve of his brow bone as if you didn't hear the complaint. "Why would I? My voice keeps you awake."

"More like gives me a headache," he countered. You tilted his face to the side, carefully catching the light so you could see your work better. These were just trial runs, after all, and even though you hadn't used foundation or concealer—because his skin was already annoyingly perfect—you still wanted everything to look right. The green-brown lenses had shifted the color of his eyes into softer glow, and with the eyeshadow fanned out at the corners, it gave him a kind of effortless charm that made you pause. There was something about working on his face that always made you fall quiet for a second, like you were afraid any sudden movement might break the moment. His features, up close, were unfairly beautiful—the curve of his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, the small, barely-there freckles you'd playfully added to give him a more sun-kissed look. Everything about him was pretty in a way that didn't feel delicate, but confident. His lips especially—plump, soft, and just slightly parted while he sat there with his eyes closed.

You turned, rummaging through your pile of lip tints and glosses until you found the shade that instantly reminded you of him. It was a sheer pink with a little bit of shimmer, and you already knew how good it would look. Without warning, you swung your leg over and settled onto his lap, grinning as you balanced your weight. The reaction was immediate—Sunoo's eyes snapped open, brows pulling together.

"Seriously?" he sighed, exasperated, but his hands came to your hips anyway, holding you steady so you wouldn't slip off the edge of the bed. "Are we done now?"

You tilted your head and gave a sheepish smile, not answering as you leaned in to carefully dab the gloss over his lips. The shape of his mouth, the way it gave the tiniest twitch when your finger brushed the edge—it made your pulse jump. You were so close now that his breath brushed against your cheek, and you had to focus hard not to let your hand shake. You wanted to kiss him. The urge sat so close to the surface that it made your chest feel tight, but you didn't. You just pulled back and admired the finished look with a soft exhale.

"Perfect," you whispered to yourself, more than him. You reached behind you and grabbed the mirror without moving from his lap. Sunoo rolled his eyes but took the mirror from your hand. You stayed right where you were, watching with quiet excitement as he looked at his reflection. There was silence at first. He tilted the mirror slightly, studying one angle, then another. He reached up to touch his hair, fixing a stray strand, then let his gaze drift toward his lips. His expression shifted slowly, quiet surprise then the corner of his mouth curled upward.

"Hmm, it doesn't look bad," he murmured.

Still straddling his lap, you leaned in closer until your face hovered just near the side of his neck, taking in the soft scent of his body wash still lingering from his shower. Your voice dropped as you murmured, "You look so much prettier than me."

Without missing a beat, Sunoo gave a soft scoff, his eyes still on his reflection. "Of course. I should be."

That earned a laugh from you. Typical Sunoo. You didn't stop yourself when you leaned forward and pressed your teeth lightly against his neck, a teasing little bite that made him flinch. Sunoo immediately pinched your waist, just hard enough to make you jolt. "Don't leave marks, I swear I'll kill you," he hissed, finally putting the mirror aside and turning to glare at you.

You only grinned wider, pressing closer until your hands slid up to frame his jaw and your nose brushed against his. "What if I want to leave marks?" you whispered.  "What if I want people to know you've been thoroughly used?"

He stared at you, deadpan, though the faintest flush started to bloom across his cheeks. "Used?" he echoed, blinking slowly.

You nodded, the tip of your tongue peeking out as you teased, "Yeah. Like a good little stress toy. I could sit on your face"

His jaw clenched in restraint. "You're disgusting," he muttered, but his hands never left your hips. In fact, they gripped a little tighter now.

"That's not a no," you said sweetly, letting your thumb trail along the curve of his throat. "You're holding me so well. Kinda makes me think you like this. You want me to keep going, Sunoo?"

He inhaled sharply and leaned back just slightly, giving himself space to think. The dim light of the room cast a soft glow across his cheekbones. The red LED strip near the ceiling bled into shadows, blending into the yellow hue of your little desk lamp, illuminating parts of your skin in warm patches. Your hair messily pinned up, strands falling out of your bun, wearing that worn-out Hello Kitty sando and those barely-there shorts. He swallowed hard.

And for a moment, he just stared. The edge of lust in his expression softened. The corner of his lip twitched like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. He was thinking, really thinking. and the thoughts weren't just about your lips or your thighs or the heat pooling between you. He was imagining your face twisted in pleasure, not because you were teasing or in control, but because he was the one making you fall apart. He wanted to see that. Wanted to own it.

His body betrayed him first. You both felt how hard he was getting beneath you, the tension radiating off him as you shifted on his lap and rolled your hips in a slow circle against his clothed cock. Your breath hitched as your core dragged over the growing bulge beneath his sweats, and you felt his fingers dig in harder.

Sunoo bit down on his bottom lip and didn't break eye contact. His voice came controlled, but his expression betrayed how much restraint it took. "Sit on my face, then."

Your entire body tensed. The shift was immediate. The teasing smirk that once played on your lips faltered. Your hips stopped moving, stilling right on top of him. You blinked, staring down at him, wide-eyed and visibly caught off guard. "H-huh?" you stammered, breath shallow.

His hand slid up beneath your sando, fingertips grazing over the soft skin of your waist, then higher toward your ribs, slow and unhurried as his gaze didn't flicker. "Sit on my face," he whispered again. "What's the matter? You seemed so eager earlier."

You could barely form a thought. Your pulse thundered in your ears, your breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a plea. "I was just joking," you mumbled, already shifting as if to climb off his lap, trying to dismiss the thought. "You don't have to. I mean—vaginal fluid doesn't even taste good..." You avoided his eyes, flustered and scrambling for your scattered makeup products, needing something to shift the atmosphere. But before your fingers could wrap around the nearest compact, Sunoo moved. He caught you by the wrist and pushed you back onto the bed in one quick motion. You let out a small, surprised squeal as your back hit the mattress.

His body hovered over yours, his knees pinning either side of your hips, eyes fixed on you. "I've let you get me off with your mouth more times than I can count," he said in annoyance. "And now you're acting like I don't get to touch you back?"

Your heart kicked harder in your chest, thudding against your ribs as you stared up at him. "I—" you started, but your voice came out small. "Sunoo, I didn't even shave..."

He didn't blink. He sat back just slightly, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your shorts. "And?" he muttered, raising a brow as if that wasn't even a detail worth considering. When you moved to stop him, hands fluttering at his wrists, he caught one and pressed it into the mattress. His other hand cupped you through your panties, his palm fitting against the damp heat between your thighs.

Your breath hitched. Your back arched into his touch instinctively, and you saw the way his eyes darkened, how his lips parted ever so slightly. "You're soaked," he said, thumb pressing a little firmer.

You tried to deflect, though your voice wavered. "Do you even know what to do with it?" Your tone was teasing, but your body betrayed you—already trembling under his touch, heat pooling low in your stomach, breath quickening. You weren't expecting his answer.

"No," he said simply, like he wasn't embarrassed by it. Then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, dragging the fabric down your thighs in one slow motion before tossing it somewhere across the room. "So teach me."

He slid a hand under your thigh, lifting and spreading your legs. Then he leaned down, his lips brushing soft kisses along your inner thigh slowly, all while keeping his eyes on you. The contact made your pussy flutter, a pulse of need tightening in your abdomen. Your breath hitched again, your hips twitching with anticipation. The sight of him makeup still intact from earlier, your lip gloss still lingering faintly on his mouth—made your body anticipate.

He dipped his head between your legs and dragged his tongue along your folds, one long, unhurried stroke from your entrance to your clit. The sensation made you jolt, the sudden wave of pleasure catching you off guard. "Fuck," you gasped, one hand flying to his hair, fingers curling in his soft strands.

Sunoo's tongue was slow at first, careful in a way that almost betrayed how new this was to him but he was quick to find what made you tremble. He closed his eyes, letting the taste of you settle on his tongue as he circled your clit with careful strokes before dragging his mouth lower to collect everything your body was offering. For a second, he could barely breathe.

So this is what pussy tastes like. That thought rang in his head, the warmth, the wetness, the way your whole body jerked when he hit the right spot—it was more than he imagined. He'd spent years scoffing at the way straight guys romanticized it, mocked their obsession, swore he'd never enjoy it. But fuck, now he understood why they bragged about it. Now he understood the hype.

His hands gripped your thighs as he dragged his tongue through your folds again, slower this time, savoring it. He moaned into you when he heard you whine his name, your voice shaky and breathless. The vibration of his voice against your pussy made your whole body twitch, and Sunoo's cock throbbed from the sound alone. If he wasn't already half-hard before, he was fully aching now, painfully so.

"S-Sunoo," you whimpered, hips lifting off the bed in a desperate rhythm that told him just how good he was doing. His mouth moved instinctively—less cautious now, more eager, more confident—as he pushed his tongue deeper, tasting you from your entrance all the way up, mouth hot and greedy. You were clenching around nothing, so tight and needy, and he wanted to bury his face even deeper, get drunk off you.

When your thighs began to tremble and squeeze around his ears, he didn't stop—instead, he pressed your legs apart with both hands, holding you open like a meal he wasn't finished with yet. Your slick coated his lips and chin, dripping down, and he didn't care. If anything, it made him hungrier. He licked through it all, mess and all, letting it smear over his tongue and down his throat as he sucked your clit hard, then softened his strokes just enough to tease again.

"Ahhh!" Your body writhed underneath him, moans louder, messier, fingers clawing at his hair. His nose bumped into your clit as he worked his tongue into you again, his face wet with your slick, breathing through his mouth as he chased the way you tasted.

His mind was spinning—nothing existed in that moment except your moans, the heat of your pussy, and the steady throb in his pants that begged for release. And when you cried out his name again, legs shaking harder, nails digging into his scalp as your hips rocked into his face, Sunoo moaned so loud it vibrated against your cunt, eyes rolling back as he thought—fuck, he could come from just this.

Sunoo's hips were already grinding against the mattress, his clothed cock rutting helplessly into the sheets as he kept his mouth buried between your legs, tongue swirling slow, then fast, then slow again as he tested how you reacted to every flick and drag. But it was your clit that made him obsessed, the way it throbbed, the way you twitched whenever he sucked it, the way you squealed when he circled it just right. He focused there now, licking harder, more deliberate, tasting every ounce of you like he was making up for all the time he'd dismissed ever wanting this.

This wasn't just payback for all the times you teased him, for every shameless comment or cocky flirt that came from your mouth. No, this was Sunoo owning you. Silencing you. Making you feel exactly what you put him through—restless, aching, desperate.

Your moans started to rise uncontrollably, your voice shaky, your fingers now tangled tightly in his hair as your hips rolled in sync with the rhythm of his tongue. "Wait! Fuck!" you gasped, thighs twitching as your climax built hard and fast, threatening to snap. But Sunoo didn't let up, if anything, he gripped your legs tighter, keeping them wide open, anchoring you in place so you couldn't run from it.

He looked up at you, flushed and wrecked, your eyes squeezed shut in overwhelmed pleasure, lips parted as your body trembled. His cock throbbed painfully from just the sight, and his tongue moved faster, dragging flat and then curling upward to suck your clit hard before flicking again.

When you came, it hit like a wave crashing through your entire body, your back arched off the mattress, mouth open in a cry you barely recognized, legs shaking hard in his hold. Your breathing turned ragged, stuttering as the orgasm took over, intense and blinding.

But Sunoo didn't stop. He lapped through it, almost like he was trying to drag more out of you, milking the high as long as he could. His mouth was soaked, face buried so deep you had to push at his head with trembling hands, voice breaking as you choked out, "Too much—fuck, I can't—"

He let you go, finally, pulling back with a smile. His lips glistened with your cum, cheeks flushed, and his hair was a mess from your grip but those green contacts made his eyes look almost unreal in the soft red light. And god, the makeup you'd done earlier was perfect. Smudged only a little at the corner of his lids, giving him an edgier look that made your cunt clench again.

Sunoo was pretty. Too pretty. Pretty enough to ruin you without even trying. What made it worse—or better, depending how fucked up your brain was—was the way his tongue slowly dragged along his bottom lip, catching the last traces of you. "How was it?" he asked, tilting his head to seek of your approval.

You couldn't even answer at first. Your legs were still trembling, thighs sticky and wet, your heartbeat thudding too loud in your ears to think straight. You swallowed, chest rising and falling fast as you tried to catch your breath. Then you looked at him again—at the shine on his mouth, the hunger still flickering behind those pretty green eyes, the way he sat back slightly.

"Not that bad," you breathed out, voice shaky as your trembling legs bent down and your fingers slowly pressed against the hard outline of his cock through the soft fabric of his sweats. You didn't even try to hide how your hand lingered, almost testing him—your palm flat, applying a bit of pressure. Sunoo raised his brow at your answer but you didn't meet it. You were too busy fighting off the embarrassment clawing at your chest from the way you moved so eagerly, so unlike how you usually carry yourself.

"Down to fuck?" you asked, forcing a playful smirk as you tilted your head, though your voice cracked slightly at the end and your legs still hadn't stopped trembling. The moment you saw the way he blinked at you, you almost backtracked, your lips parting, about to laugh it off like you were only playing.

But then Sunoo was already pulling down his sweats. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed and angry-looking, the head pink and glistening, practically pulsing with tension. You stared. Your mouth went dry. Then wet. You swallowed thickly, clenching your thighs, heat crawling under your skin and settling low in your stomach. There was no hesitation in him now, no teasing smile, just hunger written across his face as he sat back on his heels. His hand wrapped around himself, stroking slowly as he watched the way your breath caught. You didn't even try to hide your stare.

Your mouth went dry, your legs pressing together out of reflex, and you could feel your whole body heat at the sight of him. He looked desperate, flushed, needy, barely holding himself back. "W-Wait," you blurted, hand reaching out like you meant to stop him, even though your body clearly didn't agree. Your pulse was racing, and your thoughts were already spiraling, too many emotions crashing into each other all at once—desire, fear, anticipation.

Sunoo let out a rough sigh, dragging his eyes up to your face. His brows furrowed and his lips parted like he was going to say something else, but then his jaw clenched tight. You could see the frustration in his eyes. "What more do you need?" he asked, voice low and strained. "Do you want me or not?"

You swallowed hard, because the truth was yes, more than you'd ever expected to. But something about how exposed both of you were now made it suddenly harder to breathe. "I just..." you began, "I don't want to ruin this. You've never done this before and I—what if it's too much?" It was fear—real and sudden fear. The weight of what you were about to do had finally caught up, hitting somewhere deep in your chest. This wasn't just another messy hookup. Not with him.

Sunoo stared at you in silence. You could see the flicker in his eyes, between disbelief and restrained annoyance. He almost looked like he was about to roll his eyes and shove you back down onto the mattress with that sharp tongue of his, throwing some cutting comment about how ridiculous this was when you were both already naked, your legs trembling and his cock painfully hard between them. But he didn't. Instead, he took a breath, he reached out, fingers brushing gently against the inside of your knee. You felt the warmth of his palm slide up your thigh until it rested there. "It's already too much," he said. "It's been too much since the first time you kissed me."

You swallowed hard as you sat still beneath his touch. Then his hand slid a little higher, his thumb brushing softly against the crease where your thigh met your hip. "So..." he tilted his head, the corners of his lips twitching into a slight smirk that couldn't hide the heat still simmering in his eyes. "Are we gonna fuck or not?"

You let out a shaky breath, laughing despite yourself. You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his jaw, feeling the slight tremble in his skin. Your hand slid down between you, curling around the base of his cock, hot and twitching in your grip. His breath stuttered, hips jerking slightly. You looked up at him, lips brushing his cheekbone as you whispered, "Lay back for me. Let me take care of you first."

Sunoo obeyed without a word, his body moving almost too quickly. He leaned back against the headboard, chest rising fast, lips parted as he tried to steady his breath. You saw the way his cock twitched in anticipation, pre-cum glistening at the tip, practically begging for friction.

You pulled your sando off, discarding it somewhere off the bed. The bra came next, your bare form revealed under the room's dim lighting. You weren't shy—at least you tried not to be—but you were aware of the way Sunoo's eyes darkened the moment he saw you fully.

Sunoo stopped breathing altogether. His lips parted slightly, stunned, staring at the shape of you, the ink on your skin, the curve of your breasts, and the subtle shimmer of sweat from earlier. Everything about you was too much. Too fucking beautiful.

You straddled him slowly, settling over his thighs as you reached toward your drawer and took out a condom. Sunoo's eyes didn't leave yours, not even when you tore the packet open and rolled it down the length of his cock with deliberate care. His head fell back against the pillows as he let out a groan, hips twitching up into your hand.

"Fuck," he groaned, hips bucking just slightly into your hand. His cock throbbed under your touch, hard and leaking. He couldn't believe how sensitive he was. How badly he wanted this.

You smirked at the sound, giving him a slow stroke just to see him twitch again. "First time?" you teased. "You better tell me later what's better—dick or pussy."

He let out a breathless laugh, but didn't answer. Not when you were already lifting your hips and guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance. That wiped the grin from both your faces.

As he breached you slowly, you gritted your teeth, trying to hide the way your body resisted the stretch. Your hands pressed against his chest for support, and you felt his hands move instinctively to your hips, holding you steady but not forcing anything. His grip was trembling. So were your thighs. You widened your legs as best as you could, adjusting inch by inch, trying to take him fully without showing how much it burned on the way in. You tried to play it off—tried to look confident even when your face couldn't hide the pinch of discomfort.

The truth was, you didn't have a lot of experience with men. Maybe just one, and that didn't really count. It was fast, fumbling, and forgettable. You'd never ridden anyone before. You knew how to move your hips with girls—scissoring, grinding, finding the angles—but this was different. This was slower, deeper, stretching you in ways you hadn't prepared for. You didn't want to look clueless. You didn't want to ruin the moment.

Still, you refused to back down. You braced yourself, breathing through your nose, trying to remember every move you'd given and received, every grind and swivel you'd learned with women—just enough to give yourself rhythm. You focused on how wet you were and how turned on he clearly was, Sunoo gasped beneath you, both hands tightening on your waist like he was afraid he'd lose himself the second you sank further.

"Fuck—" he choked, voice cracking. "You're so—tight. Oh my god—don't move yet—just—fuck—"

His head tilted back, lips parted in a perfect 'O' as he moaned, eyes squeezed shut. His reaction made something clench in your chest and between your legs, but you held still, letting yourself adjust, letting him calm down before either of you pushed too far too fast.

You looked down at him, sweat already starting to gather at his temples, and leaned over just enough to press your forehead to his.

You finally managed to sink down all the way, and the stretch was so intense it knocked the air out of your lungs. Your mouth fell open in a breathless moan, your walls clenching tight around him, struggling to adjust. The pain hadn't completely faded, but it was being overtaken by a creeping pleasure that curled low in your belly. Still, your legs were shaking violently beneath you, the burn in your thighs making it impossible to lift yourself.

Sunoo blinked up at you, concern slipping into his dazed expression as his hands rubbed your waist slowly, gently. His fingers were trying to soothe you, but he could feel the tremble beneath your skin, could see the panic flicker in your eyes. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

You couldn't answer right away. You pressed your face into the curve of his neck, hiding the stutter in your breath as your hands gripped his shoulders. You nodded, though it was shaky. "I'm fine," you said but it came out weak, and the moment you tried to lift yourself, your legs gave out again. You choked out a sound, "just... g-give me a minute."

Sunoo stiffened underneath you when he felt the hot tear that rolled down onto his skin. His brows furrowed as he turned his head slightly, lips brushing your temple. He almost felt bad, guilty to be exact. He knew what that stretch felt like, that burn of being too full, and for a second, he almost paused. Almost. But then you clenched around him again, and it told him everything he needed to know.

"You're such a liar," he breathed out, a soft laugh slipping past his lips. "All that talk... and look at you now."

You didn't respond—just let out another breathy moan, face still tucked into his neck, skin hot with embarrassment. He could feel how tight you were, feel how you clenched around him every time he moved even the slightest. Without warning, he planted both feet flat on the mattress and thrust upward, driving himself deeper inside you. Your entire body jolted, and the moan that tore out of your throat was loud and desperate. He clenched his jaw at the sound of it, biting back his own curse.

You tightened around him, body clenching in response, and his hips bucked again, this time slower, more deliberate. His mouth moved to your ear, breath ghosting over the sensitive skin there as you trembled in his hold. "Let me take over," he whispered. His arms wrapped around your waist, locking you in place, and his hips moved again—shallow but deep, fucking into you from below.

You both moaned out loud. It was past one in the morning and the silence outside made it worse, like every sound would carry past the walls, but Sunoo didn't seem to care. His rhythm picked up, hips snapping against yours with rising urgency, chasing the high he'd only ever imagined.

His thrust hit that perfect spot inside you and your whole body arched, a sharp cry ripping from your throat. Your hands fumbled to hold onto something—his arms, the sheets, your own sanity—but it was already slipping.

Sunoo didn't pause, didn't even look apologetic as he murmured, "Fuck, that's it," like he'd just discovered your weakness. Your pussy was gripping him so tight he could barely move, but that only drove him further. The struggle made it more satisfying.

And then, he pulled out. You barely had time to protest when he shifted your position, guiding you back onto the bed with your legs spread wide. He stared, breathing hard, hands trailing down your thighs before his fingers spread your folds gently. He took a second just to look at you, to admire how wet and swollen you were for him, how much you wanted it. Then, with two fingers, he circled your clit—light, teasing touches that made your hips jerk and your legs try to close on instinct.

So this is why tops get cocky, he thought, watching the way your eyes fluttered, the way your lips fell open in a silent moan. This is why they hold someone down, grip their legs, call them pretty, beg them to take more. He could feel the power of every thrust, feel the way your body reacted. He never understood it before. He always thought tops just liked being in charge, that they were addicted to control—but it wasn't just about that.

"You always run your mouth," he muttered, watching your body twitch with every motion. "But where's all that attitude now?"

He caught your leg, draping one over his shoulder as he lined himself up again. The stretch was immediate, deeper now in this new position, and he pushed in slowly, inch by inch, dragging his cock along your walls until the tip pressed against the spot that made your back arch on reflex.

"You always talk too much," he muttered, groaning at the way you clenched again. "Guess my dick's the one to shut you up."

You sobbed harder, face turning to the side as your hands gripped the sheets. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, tears streaking your cheeks as you moaned his name. "P-please, Sunoo."

Sunoo's stomach tightened at the sound. He threw his head back, letting out a moan that was nearly a growl. His grip tightened on your thighs before he grabbed both, pushing your knees up beside your head as he leaned in close. His arms braced on either side of you, the shift pressing you into the mattress, trapping you with his weight.

Then, he pulled almost all the way out, letting you feel every inch slip from your body before slamming back in with a force that made your eyes roll back. The bed creaked beneath you, the room filled with the slick, wet sound of skin on skin.

"Fuck!" you screamed, arching harder beneath him, your voice cracking on the edge of a sob. Without a second thought, he dropped his hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, precise circles. "G-gonna cum, wait! Wait, wait, wait—"  your voice dissolving into a high-pitched wail, so loud and unfiltered that Sunoo instinctively leaned down to kiss you, swallowing the sound against your lips.

The moment his mouth covered yours, your walls spasmed around him, tight and wet and so hot that he couldn't think. Your climax hit, your hips jerking uncontrollably as your pussy clenched around him over and over, fluttering in a rhythm that made his own control snap completely.

Sunoo moaned against your mouth, almost choking on it, his own breath ragged as he held still for a heartbeat but your body pulled it out of him. He couldn't stop moving, not when it felt like this. He gripped your waist tight and kept thrusting, shallow and fast, keeping the head of his cock angled against the soft, spongy spot inside you. He wanted to feel all of it, ride it out, draw it out until you were crying again.

Your legs shook violently as you clung to him, your mouth parting beneath his kiss in gasping, sobbing breaths. You didn't even care that you were a mess now, sweat-slicked, trembling, lips swollen from kissing and crying. You couldn't stop clenching around him, couldn't stop shaking from how intense it was.

And Sunoo, he'd never felt anything like it. That pressure, the way you pulsed around him, the wet squeeze of your walls, the heat, the smell of sweat and sex, the muffled sobs against his mouth—it was too much. He buried his face in your neck as his hips stuttered once, then twice more, before he groaned loud, biting down on a moan that still escaped him in a rush.

"Shit! Ah! Fuck, fuck fuck." He came hard, harder than he ever remembered. His body curled over yours as the orgasm crashed through him, his muscles locking up, breath ragged as his cock twitched deep inside the condom. The sound he made was almost a sob of his own because the moment you clenched around him like that, it was over. He had no chance.

He stayed inside you, breathing hard against your collarbone, trying to get control of his heartbeat. His arms wrapped tighter around your waist, holding you close. You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, chest rising and falling in erratic waves. Sunoo pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing hair out of your face with one trembling hand.

"One more?" you asked, voice still breathy as you gave him a weak smile, your lashes still wet with the remnants of your tears. There was a glow in your face from that dazed, post-orgasmic haze.

Sunoo let out a scoff, tossing his head to the side. "My legs feel like noodles. Leave me alone." He covered his eyes with one arm.

You let out a small laugh, too drained to do more than let your body sink deeper into the sheets. You didn't push back with another tease. Sunoo sighed as he finally peeled himself off the bed. He removed the condom carefully, tying it off and tossing it into the trash. His limbs felt too light, a little shaky, and for a second he just stood there, catching his breath with a hand braced against the edge of the drawer.

Most of his exes never really gave a shit after sex. They'd turn their backs, light a cigarette, or scroll through their phones. And Sunoo hated that—hated how cold it used to make him feel, even if he pretended it didn't. He wasn't about to become that kind of person, no matter what this thing was between you two. No matter how casual you both claimed it was. So he pulled on his briefs and then his sweatpants, still trying to recover as he looked at your spent body lying there, eyes fluttering closed, chest flushed and rising slowly. You weren't asleep yet, but you looked like you could drift off at any second.

"Don't pass out on me," he muttered under his breath as he leaned down, arms sliding under your knees and back. His muscles protested immediately. "Shit—what are you eating?" he groaned as he lifted you, stumbling a little. "Why are you so heavy? Fuck, my back hurts."

Your laugh came out as a soft wheeze, your head dropping onto his shoulder. "You're so sweet," you mumbled, not even bothering to open your eyes.

Sunoo let out a sharp, incredulous sound as he adjusted his grip on you. "Sweet?" he scoffed. "Bitch, I'm carrying you to the bathroom so you don't get a UTI. That's not sweet, that's basic sexual hygiene."

You didn't even have the energy to be embarrassed, just groaned and buried your face deeper into the crook of his neck as he trudged down the hall. "Still sweet," you mumbled against his skin, barely audible.

After that night, you truly believed something had shifted between the two of you. And if anyone asked how you felt, you'd say the same thing every time: you were happy. Deeply, undeniably happy.

4 Months Later.

"Ah! Harder!F-fuck, Sunoo!"

Your voice cracked as Sunoo pressed a firm hand against the small of your back, forcing your hips higher while his other hand anchored tight around your waist. He dug his nails into your skin without realizing, the sting only mixing into the heat already flooding your body. His pace grew rougher, steady and merciless, and when your moans pitched too high, he slid his palm up to the back of your neck, pinning your face into the mattress to muffle the sounds.

Sunoo's eyes dropped, gaze fixed on the red lilies etched into your lower back. The ink bloomed outward in delicate, mirrored curves, the lines dark against your sweat-slick skin. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he had become addicted to this view. From behind, with your ass high and that tattoo staring back at him, he always came harder than he thought possible. He'd never say it aloud, of course—he'd just brush it off with some offhand jab about your face being annoying. But deep down, he knew the truth: doggy had become his favorite position because it gave him this sight, this control, and it drove him insane.

His thrusts grew uneven, his groans breaking apart as his orgasm built and finally tore through him. A strangled moan left his lips as he spilled into the condom, his hips stuttering before he slowed to a stop. Breathing harshly, he carefully pulled out, muscles trembling.

He tied off the condom and tossed it into the trash, staring at the small pile already gathering there. "Fuck," he muttered, dragging a hand through his damp hair. "We should've stopped after the third round. My head feels groggy every time and I still have duty tomorrow."

You collapsed forward onto the bed. "You're the one who kept asking for more," you teased, voice hoarse but playful as you reached for the drawer by your side. You pulled it open and slid your fingers around the familiar box of cigarettes, only to flinch when Sunoo's hand smacked yours away with no hesitation.

"No cigarettes while I'm here," he snapped, eyes narrowing as he shoved the box back into the drawer and slammed it shut.

You turned your head lazily to glare at him, lips jutting into a pout. "Come on, I always smoke outside. Just one, it won't kill me."

Sunoo rolled his eyes and flopped down beside you, his arm heavy as it landed across your waist. "Yeah, and you'll say the same thing tomorrow, and the next day, and then you'll be coughing your lungs out when you're thirty. No thanks, I'm not kissing an ashtray." He buried his face briefly against your shoulder, breathing in your scent, before pulling back with a huff.

You stared at Sunoo for a moment, your palm brushing over his damp hair as you gently pushed it back from his forehead, fingertips catching against the fine strands still slick with sweat. His skin was flushed, chest rising and falling in steady breaths, the aftermath of exhaustion softening his features in a way you rarely got to see. He let out a low sigh at the touch, his eyes fluttering closed just for a second before he opened them again, blinking up at you like he didn't want to move. "Come on," he murmured, "let's take a shower and sleep already. I'm leaving at six-thirty."

You nodded, smiling as you leaned down to nuzzle your nose against his cheek. Your legs slipped around his waist without needing to be asked, body folding into him easily. Without a word, Sunoo shifted and lifted you up, muttering something under his breath about how clingy you were.

It wasn't often he had time like this. With his final year piling up and hospital internships consuming his days, Sunoo was constantly in motion, constantly drained. But when he made space for you, it was always in small, quiet ways—sitting still long enough for you to do his makeup, letting you slip him into the clothes you had designed, experimenting with textures and colors against his skin. He'd roll his eyes, complain about the shimmer on his cheeks or how ridiculous he looked, but he never told you to stop. And more often than not, those moments ended the same way—clothes discarded, skin pressed together, his sharp tongue replaced by soft moans. Always sex.

By morning, you usually woke up first. You'd reach for him half-asleep, sometimes without even meaning to, and he'd let it happen—sleepy eyes cracking open as he let you ride him or even give him a morning blowjob.

He told you to keep things quiet, especially when it came to Jake. Around other people, you played your part, but your restraint never lasted long. When the three of you were together, you couldn't help but lean too close to Sunoo, let your fingers graze over his hand or your palm rest lightly on his thigh. He'd shoot you that withering look, roll his eyes and he'd always yank your hair or slap your hand away.

You yawned as you bent over to pour cat food into Luna's bowl, the dry sound of the kibble clinking against ceramic echoing through the quiet. Your cat was rarely ever home, she rubbed against your ankle before settling to eat, her sleek black fur rising and falling with every breath.

Behind you, Sunoo stepped out from the bathroom, towel draped around his neck, still drying his hair. He passed by silently, stooping to give Luna a little scratch behind the ear before wandering around your room to gather his things. "I ironed your scrubs already," you said, yawning mid-sentence, arms stretching overhead as you turned to face him. "Your bag's on the table."

He paused mid-motion, glancing at you. You weren't the type to hover or fuss over anyone, but with him, it was different. You'd stopped staying at his place, mostly because you knew how little sleep he got. You didn't want to disrupt the hours of rest he did manage to find. So instead, you made sure that whenever he came over, everything he'd need by morning was already in place. Scrubs clean and folded. Bag packed. Sometimes even the lunch you'd made slipped quietly into his bag.

"I bought an energy drink yesterday," you mumbled, already at the fridge, grabbing out a pack of three. "Bring one for your friend. Sungwon, right?"

Sunoo scoffed, eyes narrowing in exaggerated offense. "His name is Jungwon. You've met him—don't act fake now."

You grinned as you handed him the cans, laughing softly as he leaned in and kissed your temple. "Thanks, girl," he muttered against your skin, then he pulled back slightly, still toweling off his damp hair, and gave you a small smirk. "Can you dry my hair and slick it back for me?"

You blinked, a little taken aback. Usually, Sunoo did things on his own, and even when he didn't, he rarely asked for help like this. You nodded without thinking, already reaching for your comb. "Yeah. Sit down," you said gently. "I'll make you look hot so Jungwon doesn't think you crawled out of bed with someone."

"I did crawl out of bed with someone," he quipped back, dropping onto the edge of your bed as you moved behind him, towel still around his shoulders.

You smiled to yourself as you began combing through the strands, towel-drying with care. "Yeah, but no one needs to know she's me."

Sunoo didn't say anything back. His eyes were on his phone, scrolling through whatever filled his morning—probably messages from classmates, schedules, maybe even memes. You didn't ask. You just stood behind him, carefully guiding his hair into a clean, slicked-back style that you knew he preferred when he was headed out for his hospital duty.

The peace felt normal, but something about it pressed against your chest. Still, you stayed silent as he finally set his phone down on the table with a soft clatter and picked up his makeup pouch, moving with ease as he dabbed on light concealer and patted a cushion over his skin. When you finished, you lingered for a moment. Then, without thinking, you leaned forward, wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He groaned in that exaggerated, irritated way he always did when you got too clingy but he didn't push you away.

"I'm just happy," you murmured against his skin in a smile as your cheek rested against his. He didn't respond. Just rolled his eyes and reached for his lip balm, uncapping it with one hand. And even though he didn't say anything, you still held on for a second longer, memorizing how he felt beneath your arms.

Another week passed, and the days slipped by faster than you expected. Between classes, looming project deadlines, and juggling your part-time job, your schedule blurred but you never forgot to check in with Sunoo. You messaged him like always, updates about your day, stupid memes, or little notes like "Don't skip meals." His replies were dry, short, sometimes just an emoji or a thumbs up. But you clung to them anyway.

You were in your living room when Jay flopped down onto your couch, letting out a breath. Your electric guitar rested on your lap, fingers absentmindedly plucking at the strings, trying to memorize the fretwork. "Sunghoon's been asking about you again," Jay said, casually scrolling through his phone. "So, what do you wanna play for the university event this week? You're singing, so it's your call."

You adjusted the tuning pegs, focused on the strings. "Tell Sunghoon I'm not interested," you muttered without looking up. "What about Supermassive Black Hole?"

Jay raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? That's a hard pick. You really think you can handle both vocals and electric?"

You shrugged, chin tilted slightly as your fingers slid back into place on the neck of the guitar. "I've done harder."

Practice didn't go as smoothly as you wanted. Your mind wandered more than it should have, eyes flicking to your phone every other minute. Jay tried to stay patient, but the third time you missed your cue, he slammed his palm lightly against the back of the couch.

"Can you focus, please? You're the one who wanted this song," he said. "We barely even see you these days."

Kai, sitting behind the drum kit, tossed his sticks onto the floor with a sigh. "You keep zoning out. It's starting to get annoying."

You didn't even defend yourself. Because in that moment, your phone vibrated and your heart jumped. Sunoo was calling! You nearly knocked your guitar off your lap as you scrambled to answer, pressing the phone to your ear before the first ring ended. "Hello!" you said, voice too eager and too bright. It was the first time Sunoo had ever called you.

Kai made a face, motioning to Jay to take over. You turned away, trying to keep your voice low, your heart pounding.

On the other end, Sunoo didn't even greet you. His tone was flat, a little rushed. "I left my record book at your place. Can you get it for me?"

You blinked, straightening a little. "Oh—yeah, okay. Where are you now?"

"I'm on duty," he said, barely giving you time to respond. "At the hospital. Can you make it quick?"

There was no softness in his voice, no hint that he missed you or even cared that you answered. He just sounded tired, and you understand it since being in a healthcare is not a joke. You looked over your shoulder at your bandmates. Jay met your eyes but didn't say anything, just waved you off. "Yeah, okay. I'll head over now," you said quietly, gripping the phone tighter.

"Thanks," was all he said before the line went dead. You didn't waste time. Back in your room, you found his record book tucked between his internship folders and some folded clothes he had left the last time he stayed over. The edges were a little bent from being stuffed into your shelf, and you smoothed them gently with your palm before grabbing your helmet.

Jay's voice followed you from the couch as he sat up, confused. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Something important," you answered quickly, pulling your jacket on. "I'll be back later. Just need to drop this off."

Kai muttered something under his breath, likely a curse about your priorities, but you didn't stop to listen. You slipped out the door and rode your motorbike across town like muscle memory guided your body, even if your mind was still stuck on the way Sunoo sounded.

When you pulled in on the parking lot, the first thing you saw was him. He was leaning against a pale concrete wall near the entrance, half in shadow. Even from a distance, he looked worn down to the bone. His scrubs hung slightly loose on his frame, and the dark circles beneath his eyes were stark against the paleness of his skin. He wasn't even looking at his phone, just staring off, hands limp at his sides.

Your steps were careful as you approached, "Sunoo..." His head turned, eyes sluggish to find you. You stopped in front of him and took a breath, holding the record book out with one hand, the other brushing lightly against his forearm. "Are you okay, baby?" The nickname slipped out unconsciously, concern laced around the softness in your voice.

"I'm fine." He reached out and took the record book from your hand without looking you in the eye. "Just... duty being toxic."

You nodded, swallowing down the worry bubbling up your throat. "Have you eaten yet? You look—Sunoo, you look really out of it." You stepped closer, trying to meet his gaze. "Can I bring you something? Coffee? Bread? I'll wait for you until you're off."

His lips tightened, jaw locking like he was holding something back, but you continued. "What about we go to the—"

"God, can you just stop?" he snapped suddenly, voice louder than it should have been. You flinched. He immediately looked away, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. "I don't want any of that shit. I just needed the damn book."

You blinked, stunned for a second. Not because it hurt—though it did—but because it was the first time he'd ever raised his voice at you like that. Your fingers curled tightly around the edge of your jacket as you tried to steady your breathing. "I know," you said quietly, forcing your voice to stay even, "but you sounded upset. And I was worried."

Sunoo didn't answer right away. He just stood there, shoulders rising and falling as he breathed through whatever storm he was holding inside. "Look," he said, voice lower but still strained. "I just need to get through today. I don't have time for anything else right now."

You nodded slowly, though your chest tightened at the way he phrased it. Anything else. That included you. You took a small step back, out of understanding, even if it stung.

"I'll go," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Just... take care of yourself, okay?"

He didn't respond. Just turned and walked back toward the sliding doors of the hospital, the record book clutched in his hand.

You've been meaning to apologize to Sunoo ever since that day, but every time you thought of dialing his number or dropping a message, you paused. He was under so much pressure already, barely sleeping between hospital shifts and classes, and you didn't want to be another thing that made his chest feel heavy.

You sat alone at the campus cafeteria, your fingers working over the delicate rows of yarn as you crocheted slowly, the hook moving again and again. A small collection of handmade tulips lay across the table in a neat cluster—pinks, reds, a few white ones that hadn't taken shape yet. Your brows were furrowed, not from the difficulty of the pattern, but from the thoughts you couldn't seem to untangle from your mind.

"You've been zoning out a lot," Sunghoon's voice cut through the silence. He slid into the seat across from you, his tray untouched. "Jay said he's one tantrum away from kicking you out of the band."

"I'm not zoning out," you answered without looking up, looping the yarn again. "I've just been doing something more important."

Sunghoon leaned in, resting his elbows on the table as his eyes scanned the colorful flowers in front of you. "These commissions? I thought you stopped doing them."

You didn't respond, the sound of yarn slipping through your fingers filling the silence instead. He watched you for another moment before asking, "Are you seeing someone?"

Your hands faltered slightly, just for a second, then picked up again as if nothing had happened. "No," you said quietly, eyes fixed on the work. "It's for a friend."

Sunghoon gave a soft hum, like he didn't believe you but wasn't going to press. "You know I've liked you for a while, right? Since high school."

You finally looked up, just enough to meet his gaze for a brief second before dropping your eyes again. "Sunghoon, I don't have the energy for one of your talks right now."

"I'm not here to make a scene," he said, more gently this time. "I just... I know how you are when you start liking someone. You act like you're fine, like everything's under control, but you start giving too much of yourself without realizing it."

Your jaw tensed, fingers tightening slightly around the hook. "You let your guard down," he continued. "And you start doing all these little things—waiting around, making things for them, dropping everything just to show up. Even when they stop treating you the same way, you keep giving."

"Sunghoon, stop," you muttered.

"I'm not judging you," he said, watching the way your hands moved a little slower. "I just don't want to see you get hurt again."

You didn't bother to look at him. The words weren't new. You shoved the last tulip into the paper bag and stood from your seat, brushing your hands on your jeans as if to shake the weight off. "It's none of your business," you said. "I do what I want to do." You left before he could answer.

Lately, everything felt like a blur. The hospital was suffocating, patients piling up, charts demanding constant attention, the head nurse always finding something to criticize. Sunoo hadn't slept in two days, and even when he did manage to collapse onto his mattress, his chest stayed tight. There wasn't room for anything else. Not for laughter, not for texting back, not even for eating. And eventually, not even for you. He didn't realize how much time had passed since he last answered your messages. He hadn't even opened them. He kept telling himself he would later, when his head wasn't pounding, when he could at least form a sentence that didn't sound like a sigh. But later kept moving farther away.

So when he opened his apartment door and saw you standing there at 9 PM, hands clutching a paper bag with that small, nervous look on your face—he froze. "S-sorry," you muttered, voice soft. "I will not disturb you, just rest. I-I just need to drop this, and wish it make you feel better."

He blinked. Then looked at the bag. Then at you again. He didn't think. He stepped forward and pulled you into his arms before you could even take a step back. The paper crinkled between you, but he didn't care. The second he buried his face into your neck, something in him cracked. A quiet sob escaped before he could hold it in, his hands shaking slightly against your back.

He couldn't remember the last time someone had brought him anything without asking for something in return. "I've never received any flowers," he mumbled. "No one's ever given me anything like this."

You didn't say anything, but your hand was there. The warmth of your touch made his chest ache in a different way. "I'm sorry for being an asshole," he whispered, breathing in your scent, a small comfort in the chaos of his days. "I didn't mean to push you away. I just—everything's been too much."

"I know," you murmured, your chin resting on his shoulder. "It's okay. You don't have to explain."

But he wanted to. You didn't deserve silence. You didn't deserve to be left hanging, wondering if he even cared. He just couldn't bring himself to say it all, but not now, not while his throat was tight and his eyes were stinging and your arms were the first place he felt human all week. "I should've answered. I just... didn't have the energy."

You didn't move away. You didn't scold him. You didn't ask for anything. You just stayed. He pulled back slightly, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, trying to look somewhat composed. "Do you want to stay? Just for a bit?"

You nodded without hesitation, and the two of you ended up in his room, laughing your ass out.

He let out another burst of laugh as he leaned over to look at your tablet. "What even is that supposed to be?"

"Wait, I drew you!" you blurted out, your finger swiping across the screen excitedly. You tapped on a picture and turned it to show him—the chibi version of him with devil horns, an exaggerated pout, and glitter under the eyes.

Sunoo squinted, then narrowed his eyes dramatically. "You little shit," he muttered, before slapping your shoulder.

You shifted without thinking, climbing into his lap, your back settling against his chest as you held the tablet up between you. His arms wrapped around your waist loosely, his chin resting over your shoulder

"Wait, you drew this one too?" Sunoo's voice pulled you from the moment. He pointed at a little sticker design on your tablet—a black cat holding a cigarette between its tiny fingers. "I bought this! From the Art Museum's student booth a few months ago. I stuck it on my old clipboard."

You turned your head slightly to meet his stare. "Are you serious? That was my booth. That's literally my design!"

Sunoo's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "What the hell? Why weren't you guarding your own booth?! You're such a bad artist!"

You scoffed, turning to half-face him, "Excuse me, I had a nicotine addiction to maintain. I took a break."

He groaned. "Turns out it was you sneaking off to light up under a 'No Smoking' sign."

"You bought my sticker and called me a bitch. How dare you insult me and support me at the same time?"

"I didn't know it was you!" he defended, laughing again. "But honestly, you deserved it. I hate people who smoke where they're not supposed to."

You twisted slightly in his lap, now facing him more directly. "So do you still hate me?" you asked, teasing, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as your fingers played with the hem of his hoodie.

Sunoo didn't look away. He rolled his eyes like he always did. His voice was soft, almost playful. "Yes. Obviously. You're still annoying."

You pouted at his answer, dragging out a whine. His smile lingered, and even though his words were stubborn, his hands had tightened just slightly around your waist. "I'm not joking," he added, resting his forehead against yours. "You're so, so, sooo annoying."

The night ended up your thighs trembling around his head, your hands tangled in his hair, your voice broken from the way his mouth worked between your legs. He made you come three times with his tongue alone, not stopping until you pushed at his shoulders with tear-brimmed eyes and slurred, begging words. Then he let you ride him,  your back turned to him, your head lolled to the side as his hands gripped your hips.

The next morning, the weight in your chest had lifted. You didn't feel guilty for smiling. Even when Jay clapped his hands together loudly the moment you walked into the studio and said, "You're in a good mood, thank God," you just grinned wider and grabbed his electric guitar, pretending to tune it like nothing had happened.

"You want a hit?" Kai asked, waving his vape your way.

You shook your head without even thinking. "I already quit smoking," you said casually, even though that choice had been harder than you liked to admit.

You and Sunoo didn't put labels on what was happening—not yet—but things fell into place anyway. There was a rhythm to it. You spent weekends at his apartment, usually coming over late Friday, falling asleep on his couch after watching movies and ordering junk food. Saturday mornings meant waking up tangled together, cooking breakfast with your hair a mess and his arms still lazy around your waist, and Sunday nights usually ended with you riding him slowly before passing out from exhaustion. Mondays, he walked you to your motorbike before his duty started again.

One Sunday afternoon, sprawled on his bed while you were half-scrolling through TikTok and half-dozing on his lap, he suddenly shoved his phone in your face. "I think this type of style suits you more," he said, showing you some random Pinterest board filled with soft, layered outfits—more structured, a little feminine, clean silhouettes with warm tones. "You need to upgrade your wardrobe."

You squinted at the screen, unimpressed. "Hmm. I think you're just projecting your type in girls on me," you teased, nudging his thigh with your elbow.

Sunoo rolled his eyes, clearly expecting that answer. "No. I just think it looks presentable. And it would look good on you."

You looked down at yourself—baggy ripped jeans, an oversized acubi-style shirt, sneakers worn down from all your bike rides. Not exactly the most polished look, but it was comfortable. You shrugged with a small grin. "Okay, I'll try," you said. "Anyway, can we visit that new café that opened last week? I saw it on Instagram and they have a bunch of Bon Jovi albums on display."

Sunoo blinked. "Bon Jovi?"

"Yeah, like actual vinyls. The post said there's a listening booth too." You leaned closer, eyes brightening. "And the interior looks so nice. Real vintage vibe. I figured you'd like it."

He tilted his head, pretending to think. "Hmm... okay, maybe next week?"

You nodded, trying to keep it casual, but the smile that broke out on your face gave you away. Excitement bloomed in your chest like it was something new. It wasn't just another plan. It wasn't just a random meet-up. This one felt different. You kept thinking about it all week. Every small moment your mind wandered, it wandered to that café. To how you'd sit across from him, to the lighting, to the smell of the place, maybe to the way he'd laugh when you'd try to act cool about your favorite album being on display. You weren't even sure if it counted as a real date, but you were choosing to believe it did. That belief made your stomach flutter.

By Saturday, you had cleaned your room twice, even reorganized your crochet materials—something you only did when you were nervous. Your playlist was full of Bon Jovi songs now, looping endlessly while you stared at your closet.

That morning, you found yourself standing in front of your mirror, staring at your reflection longer than usual. Your piercings were gone—well, mostly. You'd taken out the ones on your face, letting the skin breathe, letting yourself look softer. The change made you feel exposed, a little too bare, but also like you were trying.

"Do you think I look presentable now without the piercings?" you asked, turning slightly in front of the mirror. The floral dress you wore was one of the few pieces in your closet that wasn't oversized, black or red. You smoothed the fabric down nervously, then glanced at Jay who was lounging nearby.

Jay lifted his eyes from his phone, a cigarette loosely held between his fingers. His face twisted slightly like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or roll his eyes. "What's with all this performative energy? You still look like an emo girl who got dragged into church."

You shot him a glare. "I'm being serious."

"So am I." He took a drag, blowing the smoke toward the window. "You look like yourself, just with fewer metal parts. That's not a bad thing, by the way. It's still you."

"You don't get it," you said quietly, adjusting the straps of the dress again. "I need to look like I have my shit together. I'm going somewhere... and I want to be seen a certain way."

Jay rolled his eyes, walked over, and stood behind you, he stubbed out his cigarette on the ceramic ashtray near the window and reached toward you, pushing your hair behind your shoulders without asking. He squinted as he examined your face. "You'll look better if you tie your hair up," he mumbled, the filter of his half-lit cigarette still stuck between his lips. "Ponytail or something. The dress opens your collarbone. It works."

You blinked at him, surprised by how serious he sounded, then reached up instinctively to gather your hair into your hand. You tilted your head, testing the look in the mirror. Something about it clicked. You could see it now—the way your eyes opened up more, how your features looked cleaner without the strands framing your face. A bit bare, sure. A little too soft maybe. "I think you're right," you said with a small smile, already grabbing a scrunchie from your pocket. "That actually helps."

Jay shrugged. "Whatever. You asked."

You turned to face him, grateful even if he looked bored out of his mind. "Thanks, Jay. Really."

"Wow, you look really good, girl."

The compliment came with a spark in Sunoo's eyes the moment you stepped inside the café, and it sent a flush creeping up your neck. His gaze lingered, tracing your figure with genuine awe that he didn't even try to hide. You hadn't brought your motorbike today—not in a dress like this—and walking into the café with heels clicking and your hair tied back suddenly felt worth it.

"Only good?" you teased, pouting as you twirled the hem of your floral dress playfully in front of him. With a soft push of your fingers, you tucked your hair behind your ear and tilted your head, smiling shyly as you searched his face for a better reaction. You wanted him to say beautiful, maybe even breathtaking, but even without the words, the look in his eyes told you everything.

Your heart had been thumping ever since you saw him seated by the window, casually checking his phone. Now, up close, it was worse. The sunlight streaming into the café highlighted the soft brown fall of his hair, the gentle curve of his cheekbones, the way his denim shirt hung open over a simple white tank top. He looked effortless—too effortless for someone who always drove you to such nervousness. And yet, despite that nervousness, you found yourself loosening.

The longer you stayed in his presence, the easier it was to talk, to laugh, to let go of the performance. There was something so calming about talking to him about things you loved, sharing songs you liked, memories from art class, favorite old movies, dumb fashion trends—simple things, but they became important because you were sharing them with him. Talking about your likes with someone you liked—it felt too rare to take for granted.

That's when it hit you. Maybe it was finally time to talk about what was happening between the two of you. The affection, the growing intimacy, the weekends together, the sleepovers that blurred the line between casual and committed—it had all been there. But neither of you had dared to define it. He had always been honest with you. In the four months you'd been tangled into each other's lives, he never lied about what he felt or where he stood. So maybe, it was time for you to take the risk again and ask.

As the two of you wandered near the wooden display cabinet filled with vintage Bon Jovi and Queen albums, your fingers reached for his and laced through gently. He let you. Your hands stayed linked, a quiet statement hanging between you, even while your mouth continued to talk about vinyl sleeves and weird 80s cover art. That peace only lasted seconds before a familiar voice cut through the space.

"Sunoo?"

Sunoo's body tensed before he turned around, his eyes wide in surprise. You perked up too, smiling with recognition, you gasped as you waved at the approaching figure. Jake, lively as ever, grinned brightly as he made his way to you.

But just as you were about to speak, Sunoo let go of your hand. The action was subtle, but it was sharp. His fingers pulled away quickly, and his body leaned ever so slightly to the side, creating distance between the two of you. You tried to ignore the way your smile faltered, tried to hold it together as Jake reached you both

"What are you doing here? Are you two bonding?" Jake asked with his usual exaggerated pout before leaning in to kiss your cheeks in greeting, then doing the same to Sunoo. "Without me?"

Your mouth opened, ready to answer, to explain but Sunoo spoke first. "No, we just ran into each other," he said too quickly, a small nervous laugh escaping his lips. "And we couldn't help but talk for a bit. It's been so long since we last saw each other, you know?"

He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. And your heart sank. Jake, ever the extrovert, nodded along cheerfully, completely unaware. "Ahhh! That's so cute! I'm just glad you two are hanging out again. We seriously need to set up another sleepover, right?"

You forced a small chuckle, brushing your hand along the side of your skirt. "T-that's a great idea," you said, trying to match his enthusiasm. But your eyes flicked back to Sunoo. He was tapping his foot against the floor, fast and impatient, not meeting your gaze.

It was like something had shifted in an instant. And now you were standing in that silence again, not sure if the version of Sunoo who held your hand minutes ago was still there... or if he had just vanished with Jake's arrival.

Even after Jake finally waved goodbye and disappeared down the street, your mood stayed where it dropped. Sunoo stood next to you like nothing happened, releasing a sigh and forcing a new topic as if the tension wasn't heavy in the air. He spoke casually, talking about a song he'd heard recently, about trying a different drink next time, anything to ignore the silence growing between you. But you couldn't pretend like him. You couldn't look him in the eye or laugh at something meaningless when your chest felt like it was being squeezed in slow, deliberate pulses. You kept your gaze down, watching your feet move with every step, barely hearing a thing he was saying.

Sunoo started to notice. His tone shifted—less patient, more irritated. The lightness in his voice faded and was replaced with annoyance. He didn't like when you shut down, and now it was clear he was blaming you for the sudden weight between you.

By the time you reached the door of his apartment, you knew the conversation was inevitable. He stepped in first, then turned, and before you could even take your shoes off, his voice came tight and harsh.

"Are you seriously getting all moody just because I let go of your hand when Jake showed up?" His eyes narrowed, his words clipped. "We agreed to keep this between us, not to say anything to Jake. You knew that. Why are you acting like this now?"

You stayed by the doorway, not moving. "It's not just about that," you murmured, your voice already thin. You didn't want to argue. You didn't want to cry either, but your body was already betraying you, tightening up.

He scoffed. "Then what is it? Because I didn't hold your hand in front of him? That's it?"

"It's just..." you took a breath, and even that was hard to push out. You felt like the words were caught in your throat, slicing through. "You looked—ashamed."

Sunoo didn't pause. He didn't soften. "Of course I'm ashamed," he blurted, not even giving the sentence time to sit. "How the hell are we supposed to explain that we're what—fucking each other? What do you want me to say to him?"

You flinched at his word, you looked up slowly, heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears. "It's not that hard to admit, is it?" you said, your voice shaking as you took a step forward, eyes stinging. "People do that all the time. Fuck buddies aren't a secret anymore. It's normal. You think Jake would've been shocked?"

"That's not the point—"

"It is the point, Sunoo!" You cut him off, your voice rising despite the tremble in it. "We've been doing this for months. We spend every weekend together. We sleep in the same bed. We talk like we mean something to each other, so why is it so hard to tell him that we're — something?"

You didn't expect him to shout back, but he did. "Because I'm supposed to be gay! Do you get that? I'm not supposed to feel like this about you!" The words came out angry. "And you keep pushing it like it's that simple."

You stared at him, your face falling, your fists curling. "Who fucking cares if you're gay? I never made you not be." You took a step back, voice cracking. "Just say it. Just say you're ashamed to be seen with me."

Sunoo's face twisted, but he didn't back down. His chest was heaving now, like something in him had snapped too. "You're projecting your insecurity on me! You act like I owe you something just because you decided to catch feelings! I never promised you more than what this was. That was you. That was always you!"

Your breath caught in your throat, and you stumbled back, blinking fast as the first tear broke past your lashes.       "You're the one who came back after that night," he went on, voice rising with frustration, like he couldn't stop himself anymore. "You kept showing up, acting like this was something serious, like this was going to turn into something. I just—" he stopped, looking away like he couldn't even look at you when he said it, "I just gave in. You were tempting, okay? You made it hard to say no."

All the blood in your body seemed to rush to your ears, and still, you couldn't hear anything but the sound of your heart breaking. Another tear slipped down your cheek, and your lips parted like you were going to respond—but nothing came out.        Sunoo blinked, realizing too late what he had just said. The way he looked at you shifted instantly, as if he wanted to take it back, but the damage was already there. "...Wait," he whispered, reaching for you instinctively. "I didn't mean—"

But you just nodded, slowly, painfully, like someone waking up from a dream they didn't want to end. "I- I get it," you said quietly, stepping past him and walking out his door like your legs weren't shaking. You didn't even turn to look at him. "I'm sorry," you added, trying to keep your voice steady, though the sound cracked anyway. You wiped under your eyes, but the tears kept falling, soft and warm against your skin. "You were right. I was annoying. I was pushy. I caught feelings, I shouldn't have. I thought maybe... I don't know what I thought."

You paused to breathe, your throat tightening as you tried to keep the sob from escaping. "What could I even expect, right? You're still a man. Of course this meant n-nothing."

Sunoo's chest tightened so hard he couldn't breathe for a second. He wanted to stop you, to wrap his arms around you, to tell you it wasn't true—none of what you were saying. That he did care. That this wasn't nothing to him. That he didn't think you were annoying, or a mistake, or something to be ashamed of. But he couldn't get the words out. The fear clenched too tightly around his ribs.

"I'm sorry," you said again, a whisper this time. Another tear slipped free and this time you laughed, short and broken. "God, I sound pathetic. S-sorry, Sunoo. I'll go. I'll leave you alone. You won't have to worry about me again."

You turned, fast, footsteps uneven as you tried to get away before he could see the full collapse happening inside you.

Sunoo didn't stop you. And you broke. You didn't wait to cry. The tears came fast and violent, your chest aching as you stumbled down the street, wiping your face on the back of your hand like it would help. At the bus stop, you sat hunched on the bench, arms wrapped around yourself as if holding your own body could keep you from falling apart. On the bus, you curled near the window, staring out at the dark streets, your reflection barely visible through the glass. You didn't care who saw you. The ache inside you was louder than embarrassment.

By the time you made it to your apartment, your hands were trembling. You didn't even bother turning on the lights. You made your way straight to your room, tugging the dress zipper with shaking fingers. When it wouldn't budge, frustration bubbled up, too hot to contain. You gritted your teeth and yanked, but it wouldn't move, so you grabbed the fabric near your shoulder and ripped it down your back with a cry of frustration. The fabric tore, seams giving way under your rage.

You tossed it to the floor like it burned you. Chest heaving, you stormed over to your nightstand and grabbed the crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds. Your fingers trembled as you pulled one out, jamming it between your lips, and fumbled with the lighter until the flame caught. You inhaled sharply, letting the smoke burn down your throat as you collapsed into the chair near the window.

"Stupid," you muttered under your breath, blinking away more tears that wouldn't stop coming. "So fucking stupid."

You thought you were strong enough not to let this happen again. You thought you could handle it. But what did you expect? You were so obsessed with ruining him when you first met, so fixated on getting under his skin, that you didn't notice he was already getting under yours. You didn't even get the chance to ruined him—he got to you first.

• ───────────────── •

Sunoo had never experienced a heartbreak that ached like this. He had felt sad before—moments of longing, fleeting attachments—but those had always passed with time, fading within days, maybe a week at most. They never lingered, never left anything permanent behind. So why the hell had he been sulking for nearly a month now, barely able to focus, barely able to sleep, staring blankly at the tulip bouquet on his desk like it could somehow explain what went wrong?

He told himself he should be relieved. There were no more complications in his way, no emotional distractions to deal with. He was finally free to focus on his demanding internship, on his future, on everything he had planned for years. And yet every late-night shift, every quiet weekend, every exhausted morning waking up to silence felt impossibly hollow without you. You used to send him silly selfies while he studied, comfort him through voice notes when he ranted about how hard nursing was, remind him to eat when he was too tired to remember. Now, all he had was the buzzing of lights, the clinking of stainless steel, the silence of the hospital—and that goddamn tulip bouquet collecting dust in the corner.

His eyebags were darker, heavier, like they carried the weight of everything he never said to you. His thoughts were loud, looping over what he should've done differently, what he should've said the moment he saw your face fall.

Fuck. He missed you so much it made his whole body ache. Every fucking night he lay in bed, biting his fist to muffle the cries. Were you okay? Were you eating? Were you still crying? Were you still thinking about him? God, he hoped not. He didn't deserve your thoughts, your sadness, your softness—but deep inside, he still wished he lived rent-free in your head the way you haunted his.

He wanted to hold you again, to collapse into your arms after a hard shift, to hear your voice teasing him when he whined about school. He wanted to kiss your neck like he used to, trace the little freckles on your collarbone, let you thread his hair through your fingers while he laid on your lap. He wanted to watch you feed your cat, complain about his bad taste in coffee, laugh when you purposely messed up his eyeliner just to annoy him. He wanted the boring things with you. The quiet, gentle things he once brushed off like they were nothing. He regretted every time he took you for granted.

"Sunoo!" Jungwon's voice jolted him out of his thoughts. His friend clapped him on the back, grinning. "Congrats! Why do you look like someone just died? We're graduating! Where's the joy, girl?"

Sunoo forced a weak smile, shrugging his shoulders as he kept his gaze locked on the soccer field in front of them, watching the high schoolers running laps, laughing with no clue how cruel it was to grow up.        "You've been M.I.A. lately," Jungwon continued, nudging him. "Not cool. You ghosted everyone. No more parties? No more hangouts? We should celebrate. It's not fun without you."

Sunoo exhaled quietly, shoulders sinking. "Jungwon," he said under his breath. "I think I got infected by men's emotional negligence," Sunoo muttered bitterly, eyes still locked on the field, watching a soccer ball bounce and roll across the grass

Jungwon blinked at him. Then snorted. Then burst out laughing so hard he doubled over, hitting Sunoo's back again. "What? What are you saying? You're not even dating anyone! You've been so secretive about your love life lately, I thought maybe you were going through a dry spell or something." He leaned back, grinning. "But don't worry—men are assholes. It's honestly safer to hurt them first before they get the chance to hurt you—"

"It's not a man," he said quietly.

And Jungwon stopped laughing. He stiffened beside him, eyes blinking wide. "Wait. What?"

Sunoo didn't look at him. He just kept watching the field, the blurry shape of a boy chasing a ball, the sun dipping lower behind the school buildings. "It's not a man," he repeated. "I wish it was. It would've been easier."

His lips curled bitterly as he looked down at his white sneakers, scuffed and dirtied from weeks of walking to class in silence. "I miss her. No shit. I miss her so fucking bad."

There was a small and self-deprecating laugh, tugging at the edge of his voice, but it cracked halfway through. "It's stupid, isn't it? It hurts more when you know it's your fault. I keep thinking about all the things I told myself I'd never become. I always talked about how men treat people like shit—how they use and walk away, how they never apologize for the damage they leave behind. How they shrink from softness because they're scared of what it says about them."

He rubbed at his chest with the heel of his palm like it might ease the tightness building there, but the pressure only grew heavier. "I always swore I'd never be like that. And then I went ahead and did it anyway. I made her feel that way, Jungwon. Like she was something to be ashamed of. Like she was just a mistake I wanted to keep hidden. Like the feelings she gave me were inconvenient." He let out a shaky breath, shoulders caving in slightly. "And the worst part? I never even told her how much I liked her. How much she meant to me."

Jungwon's mouth opened slightly, stunned into silence by the sight of Sunoo—the usually sharp-tongued, composed Sunoo—sitting beside him with tears slipping quietly down his cheeks. "I'm sorry," Sunoo whispered. "You can laugh at me now. Tease me. Say I got soft. Say I turned my back on my sexuality. Or that I lost my mind over a girl when I always said I wouldn't—"

"Girl," Jungwon interrupted, his tone softer than as he scooted closer and draped an arm across Sunoo's back. "Relax. Why the hell would I laugh at you for this? You're clearly hurting. I'd have to be heartless to find that funny."

Sunoo sniffled, wiping his face. Jungwon sighed, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "You know, I think sometimes we get so wrapped up in the idea of who we're supposed to be, or what we're supposed to feel, that we forget we're just... human. You always said you didn't want to be like the guys who hurt others, right? Well, maybe you fucked up. Maybe you acted like one of them. But you realized it. You're sitting here crying because of it. That already makes you different from most."

Sunoo didn't speak, but his jaw trembled, and the tears didn't stop. Jungwon tilted his head, speaking more gently now. "Men can be assholes. A lot of them are. But being born with a dick doesn't mean you're destined to be one. What makes someone a real man is taking responsibility. Owning up to your shit. Making it right when you can."

He paused, then smiled faintly. "We might be one of the girls, sure. We squeal, we wear blush, we cry over small things, and we talk too much when we drink—but we also carry the weight of things like this. Of hurting people we care about."

Sunoo's breath hitched again, and this time when he wiped at his face, he was a little slower, a little calmer.        "You know what you need to do," Jungwon said, nudging him gently. "If she meant something to you... you owe her more than silence. And you owe yourself more than sitting here pretending you're okay."

"Do you think it's too late?" he asked finally.

"I don't know," Jungwon admitted. "But people forgive stupid things when they see you're actually sorry. And you are. I see it. Maybe she will too."

"You're definitely insane," Jay said. "Because why the hell would you decide to do your nails when you know you have to play electric guitar tomorrow?"

You didn't even look up. Your fingers were too focused on the torn fabric in your lap, guiding the needle carefully through the jagged tear. You tugged gently at the thread, the tension sliding through the cloth as you murmured, "It's just minor chords."

Jay groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Minor chords and you're still skipping practice like you've got this down. God, you're making my head hurt."

"I said I'll show up," you replied flatly.

Jay scoffed in the background, but you ignored it. Let him roll his eyes. Let him sigh and throw another fit about perfection. It wasn't like he'd understand anyway. The nails weren't the problem. Jay and his perfectionist self always had something to complain about when people didn't bend to his rhythm. But you liked your nails. You liked how they shimmered when the light hit them. They made you feel decent—like maybe, just maybe, you were still capable of taking care of yourself.

Except you were too stupid to realize you'd chosen that exact shade of mint green. That soft, sweet color he once said reminded him of summer. The one he jokingly suggested would look cute on your nails if you ever ditched the blacks and reds you usually wore. The color had haunted you since then, just like everything else tied to him.

You stared down at your fingers, freshly painted and curled slightly as you guided the needle through the torn seam of the dress. You had sworn to never touch it again, but here you were, piecing it back together with trembling hands.

Heard from someone that Sunoo made it into the Latin honors list. Top of his class, just as you expected. And good for him. Really. You hoped he was sleeping well, smiling like he always did, charming everyone with that beautiful, soft voice and those ridiculously perfect eyes.

You hoped he forgot you — Because it wasn't fair that you were still waking up thinking about him.

"Fuck," you hissed, jerking your hand back as the needle pricked the pad of your finger. Blood welled up, a small drop blooming at the surface. It smeared faintly against the fabric—right over the seam you'd been trying to fix. "Ugh, shit," you muttered, staring at the new stain forming on the pale material.

Perfect! Just perfect. You sucked on your finger for a second, breathing hard through your nose, trying to hold everything back.          "You could've just bought a new dress, you know." Jay said, looking at your face.

"I didn't want a new one," you said quietly, still looking at the ruined thread. "I wanted to fix it."

If someone asked you what exactly you were feeling right now, you wouldn't know how to answer. There wasn't a word that fit—nothing specific. You were functioning just fine. You got out of bed. You drank your coffee. You worked. You smiled when people talked to you, even laughed when the joke was decent enough. So, you were fine, right?

But then why did everything feel so dull? Why did the silence in your room stretch too long, and why did the nights feel colder, even when the fan wasn't turned on?

Maybe it was because you quit your part-time job. Maybe it was because you'd thrown yourself into freelance commissions, desperate to stay busy, desperate to drown out the thoughts by making yourself useful. Drawing until your eyes hurt, until your hand cramped. It worked for a while—until even the deadlines stopped scaring you.

The truth was, you had too much space now. And all that extra room made it harder to ignore the feeling gnawing at the edges of your chest.

Jay had once said, "That's why it's hard for me to watch you fall in love. You're the kind of person who gives everything without realizing it. You show up without fail, but somehow still feel so far away."

You didn't understand what he meant back then. Thought he was being dramatic, maybe too sentimental. But now you did. You were always present, always dependable. But your heart? You'd locked it away for years, guarded and watchful, convinced no one would be careful enough to hold it.

And when you let your walls down. You gave in completely, all at once, as if you'd been waiting your whole life for a reason to. And he didn't stay... Now you sat alone again, trying to rebuild the barricade you'd once worn. You tried patching yourself up with work and distractions, thinking if you filled your days enough, the ache would fade. But some nights, it came back stronger. A ghost knocking on your ribs, reminding you of the softness you once allowed.

You regret letting him see you that clearly. Regret peeling yourself open, showing the tender parts you swore no one would ever get close to. You used to be so good at keeping people at a distance, but you ruined yourself when you made an exception.

"Putting my defenses up, 'cause I don't wanna fall in love."

Your voice rang out, echoing through the crowded room. You stood at the front of the stage, clutching the mic, and the lights hit your face just enough to make everything outside the spotlight blur into nothing.

"Never put my love out on the line..." The lyrics spilled from your lips. Your eyes drifted to the floor where your foot tapped in rhythm, then to the strings of your guitar as your fingers pressed down the chords. "Never said yes to the right guy. Never had trouble getting what I want..."

A faint smile tugged at your lips. "But when it comes to you, I'm never good enough..."

You looked up then, stealing a glance toward your bandmates. They were all focused on their instruments, lost in the music like they always were, eyes down or closed, rocking slightly with the beat. None of them looked at you. You were glad for it. You didn't want them to see the way your hands were trembling on the fretboard, or how your throat threatened to close the moment his face flickered in your mind. "When I don't care, I can play 'em like a Ken doll..."

You swallowed thickly and tried to stay in rhythm, tried to keep your tone playful like the song intended—but your mind was far from the lyrics now. It drifted elsewhere. To him.

"Won't wash my hair, then make 'em bounce like a basketball..." Your breath hitched, but you kept going. "But you make me wanna act like a girl..."

You closed your eyes then. "Paint my nails and wear high heels..." Your fingers slid along the guitar strings automatically. And then, without warning, his face appeared—soft eyes, dimpled smile, that maddeningly gentle voice. Sunoo.

"Yes, you—" You faltered. "—make me so nervous that I just can't hold your hand."

You pushed through the chorus, the words twisting in your throat. The beat thundered in your ears, drowning out the sound of your own thoughts. You didn't miss a note, but you felt every crack forming inside you. And when the song finally ended, the stage lights dimmed and the crowd's cheers erupted like static in your chest, you barely smiled.

You brushed your hair back, exhaling hard as you stepped off the stage. The adrenaline was already wearing off, leaving only the sweat sticking to your skin and the tightness in your throat. You grabbed the water bottle waiting for you and took a few long gulps, letting the cool liquid settle your nerves.

"I thought you hated pop songs."

You turned your head slightly, recognizing Sunghoon's voice before you saw his face. He was already beside you, grinning. You sighed, long and loud, then handed him the water without looking, forcing him to take it. "You're annoying," you muttered, adjusting your loose sando, tugging the strap back up your shoulder and trying to fix your tangled hair with one hand. "You know I didn't pick the setlist."

"But you sang the hell out of it."

"Don't push it," you warned.

Then his voice dropped again, quieter but curious. "You got a new tattoo?"

You stilled for a moment. Your hand went to your nape instinctively, brushing over the still-healing skin just below the red ink etched across your upper spine. You didn't answer, just gave a hum of acknowledgment before slipping your hand down your back. Without shame, you reached beneath your shirt and unhooked your bra, letting your chest finally breathe after hours under the stage lights.

Sunghoon didn't say anything for a moment, but you felt his gaze linger. "Are you free tonight?" he asked. "Thought maybe we could hang out. Talk or something. Just us?"

Another sigh escaped you, this one heavier than the last. You didn't try to hide the exhaustion in your voice this time.           "Sunghoon..." you started, turning to finally face him properly. "You're a good friend. You've been sticking around for longer than most people would, and I get it. You think there's something here, maybe because I let you hang around or because I'm too tired to fight your flirting half the time."

He opened his mouth to say something, but you raised your hand. "But I'm not interested," you said, carefully but clearly.

He blinked. The corners of his mouth twitched, like he didn't know whether to frown or fake a laugh, but then his lips settled into a small, almost understanding smile. "You're not interested in boys," he said, a little too quickly, trying to soften the blow for himself.

"No," you cut in, sharper this time. "I'm not interested in you."

Sunghoon looked down, then up, that crooked smile still hanging on his lips. "You know I won't stop, right?" he said, brushing off rejection with a joke.

You raised an eyebrow. "That's your choice," you replied plainly. "But don't expect me to change my mind."

"Okay," He nodded, his gaze dropped before you even finished your sentence, trailing down lazily across your chest.

Your fingers snapped in front of his face. "Seriously?" you said with irritation.

Sunghoon blinked, caught, his mouth twitching up. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbled quickly. His eyes flicked back up to your face. "Is that a new piercing?"

You didn't respond right away. You crossed your arms instead, trying to hold onto your patience and bite back the exhaustion blooming across your shoulders. The days had been long, your emotions threadbare. "Ni-ki did it," you said finally, eyes narrowing as your annoyance deepened.

When your gig finally ended, you let out a long breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. You made your way toward the bar where the owner usually handed out the cut for the night, hoping it wouldn't take long because all you wanted was to go home and lie down. But before you could even reach the counter, you were nearly knocked off balance by someone throwing their arms around you.

"Oh my God! I haven't seen you in forever!" You tensed instinctively, blinking as you looked up—Jake. He pulled back slightly, still gripping your shoulders, eyes shining.

You forced a small smile. "Hi. How are you?" you asked politely, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. "I've been... busy. Really busy. You know how it gets."

Jake nodded eagerly, releasing you as he leaned against the edge of the bar. "Yeah, I get it. It's fine. Just figured I'd bump into you sooner or later. Hey—are you attending Sunoo's graduation this week?"

You froze. Your fingers twitched slightly as you curled them into the hem of your shirt, the smile on your face faltering before you managed to hold it steady again. "I—" you started, stumbling over your words. "You know we're not... that close anymore. So..." You trailed off with a shrug, trying not to look too affected even though your heart had suddenly picked up its pace.

Jake tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he was about to laugh. Not in a cruel way, but in that clueless, teasing way. You didn't give him the chance. You pushed the conversation forward before he could press further. "But how was he?" you asked quickly, pretending not to care too much even though the question burned on your tongue.

Jake leaned back and sighed dramatically. "I don't know! That bitch is ghosting everyone—just like you!" He chuckled, nudging your arm. "The only time I ever saw him was when he was at the university doing paperwork for his graduation. He's been MIA otherwise. You? Any dating updates?"

You gave another tired smile. "Not really my priorities lately," you replied, brushing your fingers over your wrist, suddenly aware of how cold your skin felt. "I'm glad he's graduating though. That's good for him."

There was a pause. Jake didn't seem to notice, already moving on with a laugh.

"What about you?" you asked before he could dig any deeper. "When's your graduation? I pity you guys. I still have two years."

Jake groaned, rubbing his face. "Ugh, don't remind me. I'm stressing because my coat won't fit."

You laughed softly as Jake rambled beside you, jumping from topic to topic like someone trying to make up for lost time. He was always like this—talkative, friendly, too eager. You tried your best to follow along, nodding when appropriate, giving short answers even though your energy was already hanging by a thread. Every bone in your body felt heavy after the performance, your shoulders stiff from standing so long, your throat dry even after the water.

He launched into another round of questions, asking about your gigs, your commissions, and whether or not you'd finally taken time off. Then, inevitably, he brought up Park Sunghoon.

"People still think we're together? Fuck that shit." You let out a grunt.

"They just like to talk," Jake offered with a shrug, as if that made it any less irritating. "You know how it is."

You rolled your eyes and tucked the bills into your bag, already thinking about what cheap meal you could get on the way home. "Then they should talk about how I'm not interested in anyone right now. Spread that."

"Not even Shin Ryujin?" he said, clearly enjoying how far he could push the conversation. "I swear you used to have the biggest, fattest crush on her. I mean—she agreed to model for you! That's a move, right?"

You tilted your head slightly. "Or maybe she just liked my art."

Jake paused for a beat, as if waiting for you to say more, but you didn't. He smirked, already forming a thought to your answer. You just shrugged, like you didn't care anymore, you wish it did. None of them ever made you feel the way he did.

Let Jake think what he wanted to think. Let people gossip and spread whatever they wanted. You were too tired to keep defending your disinterest, too tired to explain that the only person you'd really wanted was Kim Sunoo. Fucking Kim Sunoo.

And ironically, the universe had its own cruel sense of humor.

Jake didn't expect to see Sunoo the very next day—standing in front of a flower shop. Without warning, Jake squealed and slapped him on the back so hard that Sunoo's entire frame jolted forward. His eyes flew wide, mouth parting in surprise as he turned to glare.

"Fuck you," Jake laughed, hitting him again before he could dodge. "Who's the lucky person, huh? Don't tell me you're finally confessing to someone?"

Sunoo winced, rubbing his stinging shoulder and trying not to groan. "Can you not hit so hard? Shit."

It had taken him three whole days just to muster up the courage. Three days of Jungwon talking sense into him, helping him run through scenarios and worst-case outcomes, of typing and deleting countless drafts of what he wanted to say. Three days of checking your schedule like a lovesick stalker, memorizing the time and place of your fashion show just to make sure he'd catch you when you weren't buried in fabrics or fixing last-minute outfits.

He didn't really know what he was doing. The idea of bringing flowers felt old-fashioned, maybe even stupid, but he clung to it because it gave him something to hold—something to fill his trembling hands with when he finally stood in front of you. Because if he admitted it to himself, he really fucking missed you.

Jake, as usual, wouldn't shut up. He rambled about school, his thesis, some fight in a group chat he got dragged into, asking random questions in between like Sunoo was giving him the attention he wanted. Sunoo tapped his foot impatiently, nodding absently, eyes flicking to his wristwatch. He knew your show was scheduled to start soon. Jungwon had confirmed it just last night. If he moved now, he could probably sneak into the venue and find you. He wasn't sure how it would go, but he knew he didn't want to delay it any longer.

But then, Jake said your name.

"She looked so good last night, by the way. I talked to her after her gig," he said, chewing on his gum, unaware of the way Sunoo's shoulders tensed. "And I think she's dating that model of hers."

Sunoo stopped tapping his foot. Slowly turned to face him. Jake kept going. "You know Park Sunghoon? He really, really likes her! But she's totally into this girl—Shin Ryujin. If Sunghoon finds out he got rejected again for a girl, he's gonna be pissed."

The bouquet almost slipped out of Sunoo's hands. "Wait, what?" he asked.

Jake blinked, startled by the shift in tone. "Well, I mean—not confirmed or anything. But it looked like it, right? I mean, come on! If you know Ryujin, she's hot! They had crazy chemistry onstage."

But Sunoo didn't hear the rest. His pulse pounded so loudly in his ears it drowned everything else. The bouquet in his hands felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, the crinkling paper suddenly unbearable beneath his tightening grip. He could feel that familiar burn in his chest. The weight pressing down on his lungs, stealing the air from him. It wasn't just surprise, or confusion. It was anger.

No. That can't be true. Jake said it wasn't confirmed. He said maybe. But even maybe was too much for Sunoo.

Because that wasn't just anyone. That was you. His you. Even if he hadn't been able to say it properly before, even if he spent weeks keeping his distance, fumbling over his feelings, even if he was too much of a coward to tell you when he should've—he never once stopped wanting you.

And the idea of someone else having you, touching you, making you smile the way he used to, hurt more than he thought it would. His stomach twisted with jealousy. His mind raced with every memory he had of you—your laugh, your stubbornness, the way you always acted like nothing touched you until he looked close enough to see it did. He hated the thought of anyone else getting that close. It didn't matter if it was a guy or a girl. No one else could understand you like he did. No one else deserved to.

"I need to go," Sunoo muttered, already turning on his heel.

Jake blinked again, stepping forward. "Wait, go where? Sunoo—hey!"

But Sunoo didn't answer. He didn't look back. He walked faster, feet moving, bouquet still clenched tightly in his hand.

All he could think about was the image of you standing beside someone else. Laughing for someone else. Looking at them with the kind of softness you used to show only to him. The thought alone made his blood boil. He wasn't just jealous. He was angry. How dare someone else think they could have you like that?

No. That's not how this ends. He wouldn't let it. Even if it was his fault for waiting this long, even if he messed everything up from the beginning—he wasn't going to let someone else win. He wasn't going to stand on the sidelines any longer. Not when he still had something to fight for.

You were his. You've always been his. And he was going to prove it.

Sunoo made his way toward the university, his stomach twisting with every step. Most of the Fashion Design majors were still holed up on campus despite the start of summer break, preparing for the big event. He didn't know fashion shows involved this many people, this much movement, or noise. Navigating through all of it felt like trying to breathe underwater. He should've asked Jungwon for more specifics.

The halls were lined with racks of clothes, students rushing in and out of rooms, arms full of fabrics, makeup brushes, clipboards, and coffee. Sunoo tried to ask where the waiting room was, but everyone was too preoccupied to answer. He turned corner after corner, scanning every face with increasing frustration—until his eyes landed on someone painfully familiar.

Standing outside the theater room, arms crossed and relaxed was Park Sunghoon. Just seeing him made Sunoo's eye twitch. His jaw clenched so tightly he thought it might crack.

"Sunoo, right?" Sunghoon greeted him, smiling as if they were old friends. Sunoo glanced down at the flowers in his hands. Suddenly, they looked ugly. The colors didn't look as soft anymore. The petals looked dull. He couldn't believe he ever fell for a face like that.

He forced a polite sweet smile, his lips twitching with the effort. "Sunghoon," he returned. "Where do fashion majors usually stay? I need to deliver this to someone." His tone stayed casual, but he had to bite down the irritation growing inside his chest.

Sunghoon beamed. "Oh! I was just heading to the backstage area too. Come with me."

Sunoo's jaw ached with how hard he was grinding his teeth behind another fake smile. Every muscle in his body screamed to walk the other way, but he needed to get to you. If that meant dealing with this guy, so be it. Still, it took everything in him not to roll his eyes or punch the smirk off Sunghoon's face. How dare he stand there so casually, acting like he belonged beside you?

"Is the eyelash glue irritating your eyes?" you asked Ryujin, checking the final touches of her makeup. Your fingers hovered near her temples, adjusting the corner of her lashes even though they looked fine. "And your heels? Are they stable?"

"They're fine, I promise. You don't have to worry," she said gently, offering a small smile.

You turned to Beomgyu, voice tighter this time. "The fabric on the lining—is it itchy? Are you uncomfortable at all?"

Beomgyu tilted his head at you like he was trying not to laugh. "You need to stop freaking out. I already told you I feel great in this."

Your chest was heavy with nerves, and your stomach churned, not just with anxiety but with the familiar, dull pain of your first-day period cramps that made everything ten times worse. The weight of responsibility was pressing on your shoulders. What if the seams tore? What if the models tripped? What if the fabric wrinkled wrong under the lights?

And before you could spiral further, a voice cut through your thoughts. One you recognized instantly.

"Sunghoon," you said wearily, not even trying to hide the exhaustion in your voice.

He stood there with a smile too bright for the atmosphere, holding out a bouquet of flowers to you. "Good luck later! I know you're going to get so many compliments for this."

You took the flowers without much thought, fingers curling around the stems as you exhaled through your nose, trying to keep yourself from snapping. You closed your eyes, drawing in a deeper breath. "Why are you here?" you muttered, already rubbing your temple. "This is our waiting room. You shouldn't be—"

"I came with Sunoo!" Sunghoon interrupted brightly. "Didn't know he was your friend too!"

And that stopped you. Your body tensed instantly. The flowers in your hand suddenly felt like they were cutting into your skin. You looked up, already feeling your throat tighten. And there he was.

Sunoo approached you slowly. Without saying a word, he reached out and gently took the flowers from your hand—the ones Sunghoon had just given—and replaced them with the bouquet he brought. Then, with a calm that felt almost too controlled, he handed the previous bouquet back to Sunghoon, whose brows furrowed in confusion.

Your fingers stayed frozen around the fresh flowers now in your hands. Sunoo stepped closer, voice dropping low as he met your eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Can we talk?"

Something in your chest pulled tight. You forced yourself to swallow the lump rising in your throat, jaw tensing as you tried to stay composed. You could already feel Ryujin and Beomgyu watching silently, even as Sunghoon stood there, confused and observant, his brows lifted like he could sense there was something here. "I'll be back," you muttered under your breath, barely glancing at them. Then, turning to Sunoo, you gestured with a subtle wave of your hand for him to follow.

You walked fast, ignoring how your heart was pounding too hard in your chest. The backstage halls were tight and filled with noise, but the moment you stepped into the music room and closed the door behind you, everything else faded out. The silence between you was loud. "What are you doing here, Sunoo?" you asked, turning to face him. You hated how soft your voice sounded. You hated that he still had that effect on you.

Sunoo didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, his lips parted, trying to decide how to speak, what words wouldn't end in a disaster. Then he said, carefully, "Is it true? That you're dating your model?"

You blinked. That's what this was about? You let out a harsh breath and rolled your eyes, pressing the heels of your palms into your forehead. "Seriously? That's why you're here?"

He flinched at the tone. "Is it true?" he repeated, almost like he was afraid to hear the answer. "You and your model. Are you—"

"Where the fuck did you even hear that?" you snapped, your patience finally cracking. "You think I'd seriously let rumors decide who I'm sleeping with now?"

Sunoo opened his mouth to speak, but you didn't let him. "Why are you even here, Sunoo?" you pushed. "To say sorry? To wave some flowers around and pretend like that's enough?"

He didn't answer. He just stood there, looking at you, his silence impossibly loud. You exhaled, your shoulders sinking with the weight you'd been carrying alone since he left. Your voice dropped out of emotional exhaustion. "I'm tired," you whispered, almost like admitting defeat. "I have a show to finish. I have deadlines. People are counting on me. And if all you came here for was a half-hearted apology, then don't bother—because I've stopped thinking about that night."

But your voice cracked on the last word, and you hated that he might've heard it. "I still think about that night." He said and that made your heart clench.

"You were right," he said quietly. "I came here to say sorry." He looked at you fully now. "And to tell you that I want to make you mine."

You blinked, stunned. "What?"

Sunoo stepped forward, his voice trembling even though he tried to sound certain. "I hurt you. I pushed you away. I made you cry and I said things I'll never stop regretting. I ran because I was scared, and I was selfish enough to believe I could come back when it was convenient for me."

And then, to your absolute disbelief, he lowered himself to the floor, dropping to his knees. His hands found yours, gently curling around your fingers, then pressing your palm to his face. His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into your touch. "Every time I close my eyes, it's you," he murmured. "Every time I wake up, I hope it's a day I get to see you again. It's always you. "

Even though his voices cracked, Sunoo pushed through it. "I hated seeing that Sunghoon guy give you flowers. I hated thinking about you with your model even if it's not true. Because I want to be the one. I want to be the person you choose, over and over again, even when I don't deserve it. Even when it's hard, and messy, and complicated."

"I didn't come here just to be forgiven," he continued, voice cracking now as his forehead nearly pressed against your hand. "I came because I want you. Because I love you. And because if there's even a part of you—any small part—that still wants me, then I'll do whatever it takes to prove that I'm worth that second chance." He looked up at you, eyes glistening, his knees still on the ground.

You didn't realize you were crying until you felt the tear slide down your cheek. The warmth of it startled you. No matter how much you tried to build walls around yourself, he had always been able to slip through. Even now.

He looked up at you from where he knelt, eyes glassy, red-rimmed. Your fingers trembled in his hands, but you didn't pull away. "You hurt me, Sunoo."

His expression broke completely, a quiet whimper escaping from his lips as he held your hands tighter, desperate. "I know," he choked out. "And I hate myself for that. I'd take it all back if I could. But I can't... so all I can do now is ask you to let me fix what I ruined."

The silence stretched again, before he whispered, almost breathlessly, "...Please?"

That single word cracked something inside you. You sniffled, blinking fast as more tears welled in your eyes, and without thinking, you slowly lowered yourself to your knees in front of him. You leaned in, heart pounding wildly, and kissed him. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate. It was tender—heartbreaking in its softness, and yet full of everything you'd been holding back. The pain, the longing, the anger, the love—it was all there, pressed into the seal of your lips against his.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, both of your eyes closed, breath mingling in the small space between you. "I never stopped wanting you," you whispered, your voice hoarse from the tears. "Even when I tried. Even when I told myself I should."

He shuddered at your words, his breath catching, fingers lifting to cup your cheeks. "I swear I'll spend every day proving I can be someone you deserve," he murmured.

You nodded faintly, your forehead still resting against his. Then, slowly, you leaned in again, brushing your lips against his—soft at first, searching, before you kissed him fully. This time, you didn't hold back. Your lips moved against his with purpose, and he responded just as eagerly, his head tilting to meet you, to match your rhythm.

When you deepened the kiss and your tongue slipped into his mouth, his breath hitched. He moaned softly, the sound catching in his throat as he melted further into you, hands tightening at your sides. "I missed you," he whispered breathlessly between kisses.

You smiled into his mouth, sniffling as your hands cupped his damp cheeks, wiping at the tears that kept trailing down. "Missed you too," you whispered, your voice breaking as you kissed him again, even longer this time. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

He kissed you like he was making up for lost time, like every second he spent away from you had left him starving. His hands slid gently under your arms before he lifted you and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. You could feel the way his breathing picked up as he moved, sitting down on the old couch in the corner of the room, never letting his lips stray too far from yours.

You settled on his lap, knees bracketing his hips, your mouths still moving together in sync. You could feel the way his body was reacting—how tightly he held you, how his hands gripped your back. "I love you," he whispered against your lips.

Your breath caught, your heart thudding as he pressed a trail of kisses down your neck, slow and open-mouthed. His hands, once tentative, slid to your chest, cupping you through your clothes before he gently kneaded one breast in his palm. The sensation made you shiver, your back arching into his touch instinctively as you sucked in a breath.

"Say it again," you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut.

He leaned back just enough to look up at you, both hands still resting on your waist. "I love you. I'm not letting you go again."

You leaned forward to kiss him again, your lips brushing over his. His fingers slipped under your shirt, tugging it up carefully, revealing the curve of your breast and the soft lace of your bra. His breath hitched when he saw your nipple, the silver glint of the heart-shaped piercing catching the light. He paused, stunned, swallowing hard, the outline of his arousal now pressing clearly against his pants.

"W-wait," you breathed, your hands clutching at his shoulders as his face dipped lower. "It's not fully healed yet..."

Sunoo froze, his lips just grazing the swell of your breast. He pressed the gentlest kiss on your areola, lips lingering as his thumb toyed with the other nipple through your bra, tracing slow circles that made your hips twitch above him. Your body reacted, grinding slightly against the solid pressure beneath you. His breath grew ragged against your skin, hands sliding up your back, holding you tighter.

You rocked your hips against him with slow pressure, letting the friction build until the heat between your bodies felt like it might burn right through your skin. His hands moved restlessly, tugging at your waistband, already working to unbutton your pants.

But your hand caught his wrist, halting him. "N-No... we can't," you murmured, your voice ragged from panting. You glanced down at him beneath you—his brows were drawn together in frustration and confusion, his face flushed with heat, sweat starting to gather along his hairline, and his lips—red and kiss-swollen—were parted.

"I... I have my period."

He blinked, then tilted his head slightly like he couldn't understand why that would matter. His hand slid back down, cupping you through the fabric of your underwear, right over your pad. You gasped, the heat of his touch making your body tense with shame and anticipation. Your cheeks flared hot with embarrassment.

"I-It's not clean," you whispered, voice wavering. "It's messy..."

"And?" he muttered, his gaze never left your face. Without waiting for your approval, his hand dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, carefully maneuvering around the pad as his fingers brushed against your pussy.

His finger slipped in, and your jaw dropped open, a soft cry catching in your throat. The feeling was slow, filling, a deliberate push deeper until he bottomed out and curled his finger inside you, testing your sensitivity. "You know," he began, "orgasms help relieve cramps. The body releases endorphins that ease pain. It's not gross... it's your body asking for what it needs."

You whimpered, unable to argue. Especially not when his finger began to move—slow at first, then building pace, retreating and sinking back in until your hips were grinding helplessly against his palm. Each stroke hit something deeper than just your body, pulling breathy moans from your throat.

"S-Sunoo—" you choked, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance. His other hand slid up your shirt again, pushing the fabric away so he could lean in and press his mouth to your chest. His lips wrapped around the soft swell of your breast, and the sharp contrast of your piercing against his tongue made him groan. "I-It's gross."

"No, it's not." He whisper, biting your neck, tongue swirling at it, he mumbled against your skin before adding another finger, spreading you wider. "It's hot. You're hot."

Your only answer was a louder moan, your thighs trembling as you rode his fingers, your body clenching around him. The pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, until everything snapped all at once. You came hard, body clenching around him as your head tilted back, breath stuttering and vision swimming.

Sunoo shifted you easily, guiding your body until you were bent over the couch, his grip firm and sure as he moved you exactly how he wanted. But then he stilled, breath catching when his eyes landed on your back. His palm slid over your spine, tracing the ink.

"Fuck," he hissed. You felt the way his fingers trembled slightly, how he cupped your hips and coaxed you into an arch, dragging his touch down the trail of black lines and crimson lilies that ran from your shoulder blades to the curve of your lower back. "You always know how to drive me crazy... and now you go and get this?"

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a choked sound as he pulled your pants lower, exposing the heat between your legs. He groaned behind you, dragging the tip of himself along your entrance, already soaked and messy, your blood mixing with everything else. It should've made you feel embarrassed but instead, it only made the tension between you burn hotter.

"Please," you breathed, turning your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder.

Sunoo didn't need to be told twice. He eased into you slowly, his body pressing close, chest flush against your back as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, anchoring you to him. His breath stuttered against your skin, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he moved deeper, his other hand gripping your waist so tightly.

Your eyes caught sight of his hand, streaked with red from earlier, and instead of disgust, all you felt was a strange kind of thrill that twisted low in your belly. You clenched around him involuntarily, another moan slipping from your lips.

He kissed your jaw, then your cheek, then finally your mouth again, hungrily this time, tongue sliding against yours as his hips found a faster rhythm. His hands trembled where they held you, but his movements were certain, desperate. "Ah—fuck—I love you," he gasped, his voice cracking open as the pace quickened. "I love you so much. So fucking much."

Your breath caught, heart slamming in your chest. "Sunoo—wait—" your voice was barely audible between moans, "you're not wearing—ah—no condom—!"

He stilled for a second, his breath rough in your ear. But instead of pulling away, he leaned in closer, murmuring, "I know."

Your pussy clenched around him on instinct, as if reacting to the rawness of it all, to the fact that he was really inside you like this. The feeling of his bare cock dragging against your soaked walls was overwhelming, hotter, slicker. Your eyes rolled back as a loud moan escaped your throat, your fingers tightening on whatever they could grab.

"F-fuck," he whimpered, as your walls fluttered around him. Sunoo sounded like he was unraveling in real time. His hands gripped your waist harder, his breath shaking as he slowly pushed back in, deeper this time. He whined against your skin, overwhelmed, almost breathless at how good it felt. "I missed you. Missed this—missed you so fucking much."

His voice cracked, raw emotion bleeding into every word. "Don't leave again, hmm? Please. I'll treat you better this time. I swear—I love you. Fuck, I love you. I'm so fucking in love with you."

He didn't give you time to answer. His fingers slid down between your thighs, finding your clit without hesitation, rubbing slow, dizzying circles that made your knees buckle. His cock hit your g-spot mercilessly and your voice broke into a scream, loud and unfiltered, but you didn't care—the music room was soundproof, and even if it wasn't, you wouldn't have stopped him.

"S-Sunoo—I'm gonna cum," you choked out, your voice hoarse, hips jerking uncontrollably from the way his fingers pressed harder into your clit. Your pussy clenched down around him, and the orgasm crashed into you so fast it nearly knocked you off your feet. Your whole body shook and your thighs quivered, but Sunoo held you tight through it, one hand gripping your waist as the other kept you grounded, kept fucking into you with more force, chasing his own high.

"God, I love you, my baby," he whined. His hips started stuttering, the sound of skin slapping echoing faintly against the padded walls, getting messier, needier. "C-can I cum inside you? Please—let me?"

You couldn't speak at first, just nodded frantically, your fingers digging into his arm where it hugged around your waist. "Yes," you breathed, still panting, "Yes, yes—Sunoo, please—cum in me. I love you."

He let out the loudest, rawest moan of the night, something close to a sob, his whole body tensing as he came hard. You could feel it flood inside you, the warmth of it thick and hot as he kept fucking you through it, like he couldn't stop, like he needed to push it deeper, make sure it stayed.

Even after he was spent, his hips kept rocking slowly into you. His cum leaked around his cock, dripping down your thighs, and still he stayed buried inside, forehead resting against your shoulder, breath warm on your skin.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment, just the sound of ragged breathing filling the space between kisses—gentle ones now. He kissed your neck, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. "I love you," he murmured, then kissed your temple, eyes shut, holding you.

You turned in his arms, legs shaky, body still pulsing from the aftershocks, and cupped his face with both hands, pulling him into a messy, open-mouthed kiss. "I love you too," you whispered.

EPILOGUE

Sunoo made his way to the stage with a confidence he hadn't felt in a long time, holding up his medal and certificate for the photographer with a proud grin. Applause echoed through the auditorium, and for a moment, all the weight he had carried over the years—every sleepless night, every self-doubt, every quiet breakdown—seemed worth it. Sitting down on the chair at the side of the stage, his heart swelled with something deeper than relief. He wasn't just happy—he felt fulfilled. Things were finally going his way, and more than that, he had done it on his own terms.

"You look so good—God, I love your makeup!" Giselle said beside him, nudging him with her shoulder. He turned to her with that signature Sunoo smile, wide and sweet. "Your blush is perfect. It suits you so well," she added.

He smiled softly, cheeks glowing with more than just the highlighter dusted on them. "Thanks. My girlfriend did my makeup."

Giselle blinked, then gasped. "Wait—did I hear that right?"

Sunoo didn't respond, just chuckled to himself. When the program ended and the crowd was released into the open hall, he barely waited before slipping into the crowd, eyes scanning eagerly for one person. He weaved through clusters of families and graduates, ignoring the flashes of cameras, until his eyes finally landed on you. His whole face lit up instantly.

Without a second thought, he squealed and ran straight into your arms, wrapping you in a tight, all-consuming hug. You squealed too, and the sound made a few people turn their heads, curious. But Sunoo didn't care. You were in his arms, and that was all that mattered.

"Congratulations, my love!" you beamed, pinching both his cheeks before kissing his forehead.

He immediately slapped your hands away with a playful pout. "Stop! You're gonna mess up my makeup."

You laughed and leaned in. "I could always retouch it, dummy. I was the one who did it, remember?"

Sunoo squinted, finally taking a proper look at you now that he wasn't rushed or nervous. You had left before him earlier, after helping with his look, and now he was seeing you fully—your hair tied neatly in a bun, soft clean makeup that felt too tame for you, and a bright, modest outfit that covered every inch of your skin.

His gaze lingered. "You... took off your piercing?"

You nodded and gave a small shrug, your smile faltering. "Yeah. I figured... maybe you'd want me to look presentable today. Like, for your big day. It felt like the right thing to do."

He tilted his head slowly, eyes narrowing as he looked you over again. "Presentable?" he repeated. "I love the way you look with your piercings on, your tattoos showing, your red lipstick. That's you."

Your chest tightened, emotion catching in your throat so fast you couldn't even respond with words. Instead, you stepped forward and hugged him again, burying your face into his neck as your arms wound around his waist. "I love you," you whispered against his skin.

Sunoo's eyes widened slightly. Then slowly, he melted into your hug, wrapping his arms around you just as tightly. He rested his chin on your shoulder, and for a moment. "I love you more," he murmured softly. Then, pulling back a little to meet your eyes, his brows furrowed. "Wait—did I make you feel like I didn't want you to be yourself? Like I was forcing you to be someone else? I'm sorry."

You shook your head, tears beginning to pool despite the smile on your lips. "No... It wasn't you. I just... I didn't want to mess anything up today. I thought maybe if I toned myself down, it'd be easier."

Sunoo's eyes shone with emotion as he wiped your tears with his thumbs. "You could never mess anything up just by being yourself," he whispered. "Especially not with me. I want you loud, and messy, and bright. I want you with the piercings, with the tattoos, with whatever the hell makes you feel like you. That's the person I want beside me, every day. I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like I was changing you. Forgive me, hmm?"

You leaned into his touch, forehead resting against his. "Then I'll never tone myself down again."

"Good," he smiled, brushing a kiss to your nose. "Because we've got a lot more milestones coming. And I want all of them with the real you."

You laughed lightly, the tension in your chest finally melting as you cradled his face. "Our only problem now is how to tell Jake without him fainting."

That made Sunoo snort before leaning in again to kiss you properly, his smile still pressed to your lips. You could hear a few surprised gasps from the crowd nearby, but you didn't care—and clearly, neither did he.

"It's fine," he whispered playfully, nuzzling close again. "We'll just plan a sleepover. That way, when he faints, we'll already be somewhere private... and have all the time in the world to celebrate without interruptions."

You smirked, squeezing his hand as it found yours. "I have a gift for you later when we get home."

His eyes sparkled with mischief as he raised a brow. "Hmm... A blowjob?"

You gave his shoulder a soft shove, rolling your eyes with a laugh. "No, not that, idiot."

He broke into a laugh too, the sound warm and carefree, then reached for your waist and pulled you in close again. His hand rested securely there, thumb drawing small circles, grounding you both in that moment. "Thank you for loving me as I am," he whispered against your ear. "Even on the days I forget how to love myself."

You leaned in, letting your head fall against his shoulder, smiling as his lips pressed a kiss to your temple. "I love you in every version of you, Sunoo," you whispered, and you meant every word.

The two of you continued walking hand in hand through the crowd. And if someone had asked you what you were feeling at that exact moment you would've said that you were in love. You were content, completely at peace with who you were and who you were becoming. And more than anything, you were happy, so much more happier than ever. Because Sunoo was beside you.

END.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

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[mssishipi]

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[mssishipi]

MAKE YOU MINE — pjs

2.1: PROVE I'M YOURS — You’re an Omega with rare, selective instincts, untouched by every Alpha you've ever met. That is, until you catch a scent that stops you cold and ignites a hunger you’ve never known. It leads you straight to Park Jongseong—the quiet Alpha who barely acknowledges your existence.

Now, every encounter becomes a quiet war with your own body. You try to ignore the pull, and yet, you can’t shake the fear that he might be the only Alpha your instincts will ever respond to… and the only one your heart will ever want.

content tags: a/b/o dynamics: alphaljay, omega!reader, (ft. beta ningning, beta yeonjun, omega giselle and alpha! heeseung, jake and sunghoon), burning slow burn, the tables has been turned, descriptive topics of: alpha ranks, premature pre-heat, imprinting, and ofc reader's outfits, makeup and nails. jealousy, internal conflict, mutual pinning lmao, jay is being soooo obvious but it's okay bcs reader is oblivous, heeseung is a typical alpha but let's ignore that bcs he's hot, confessions. :> no explicit warning. WC: 41.3K of reader being dramatic. previous chapter - next chapter

⋮ ⌗ act eight

IF YOU ever had the chance to go back in time, you swear you'd do everything differently. You wouldn't let yourself be driven by instinct, wouldn't let yourself spiral into that warm, confusing place your Omega kept pulling you toward. You wouldn't have chased after Jay like your heart was some unruly thing you had no control over.

If you had a chance to rewind, you would have chosen silence. You would have scrolled past his face in your memories. You would have let the scent of him fade into the background instead of curling into it.  You would've ignored that first flicker of hope the moment he tolerates your presence.

But who could blame you, really? When you're wired to crave, when your instincts hum louder than your logic, when you're walking around with a heart that beats in a rhythm you can't always understand. And then someone like him comes along, and your Omega folds like paper under heat. So no, you don't entirely blame yourself. But you're tired of this.

"Why are you such an idiot?! I said I wanted avocado shake!" you snap, nearly throwing your compact mirror into your bag as you glare at Yeonjun with all the frustration currently boiling in your system.

Yeonjun flinches, yelping as you smack him on the back of the head with your notebook. "Ow?! What the hell, woman?"

"I was very specific. Avocado. Not mango. Avocado. Do I look like I want mango right now?!" You bark, grabbing the drink he handed you.

He throws his arms up in exasperation, rubbing his head. "Fuck you! I told you there wasn't any avocado left and you said, and I quote, 'Just get whatever's available.' So I did! And now suddenly it's my fault?!" He huffs. "Fuck this life! I should've just left you dehydrated!"

A few classmates turn their heads at the raised voices, eyes flicking between the two of you, but they don't linger. Most of them are used to this by now, your mood swings, your tantrums, fights with everyone that always sound like a serious scene but are somehow just another Tuesday. It's your brand. It's expected. So they go back to their conversations and assignments, writing it off as noise they've already heard before.

But today, it doesn't feel like noise to you. Today, it feels like the whole world is pressing in on your skin, dragging across your nerves, making you want to scream. You drop into your seat, the shake Yeonjun got you sitting untouched on the table. You cross your arms, lean forward, and stare down at the scratched surface of the table like it holds answers you've never been able to find.

Fuck this life, you echo silently. Because truly, what the hell is happening to you? You're restless, overstimulated, irritable. You can't sit still, can't focus, can't breathe without wanting to either cry or snap or disappear into a spa and never come back. You told yourself you still had a month before your heat, your tracking app, your body's usual rhythm always gave you that much warning. But this time, it's all different. There's a heat blooming under your skin that feels different than before. More invasive. It's not just a dull ache in your lower belly or a sensitivity in your scent. It's a slow-burning need that twists in your gut, worse with every hour. You can feel your Omega coiling tighter and tighter, your scent beginning to shift in ways you can't fully mask. The light sweetness is still there, but it's being layered over with deeper—richer, warmer scent.

Your eyes narrow and your fingers twitch on the desk. You can feel someone staring. "What the fuck are you looking at?" you snarl, turning your head sharply.

The Omega girl flinches slightly but doesn't look away. She's sitting three seats down, her hand delicately curled around a designer pen, face perfectly powdered and soft—but your eyes zero in on her dress.

Dior. Or at least, that's what the little tag on the visible collar suggests. Except you know it's fake. The stitching is off. The hem is wrong. You've seen that same knockoff on Taobao for fifty bucks and the zipper sticks when it's real Dior. And her scent was thin. Covered in layers of store-brand fragrance and desperation.

You want to claw the smug look off her face. You heard the fake compliments from the girls around her, all clapping like trained seals about her "taste," pretending they didn't know her entire look was counterfeit. And now she has the nerve to look at you like you're the mess?

She looks at you with that judgmental, sweetened kind of pity like she thinks you're unraveling. And maybe you are. But at least you're not pretending!

And suddenly, you hate everyone.

You hate the Alphas who get up to stretch and throw their dominant scents around. You hate the Betas who sit there unaffected, quietly smug in their neutrality. You hate the Omegas who sit all pretty and soft, their schedules synced with their bonded mates who actually show up when their heats begin.

You hate the idea that you're alone and everyone here gets to pretend they're not. Because no one understands what it feels like to sit in a room full of people and still feel like you're suffocating. To be burning from the inside and have no one to pull the flames off your skin. To ache and ache and ache with no relief in sight, only the slow humiliation of knowing your scent is starting to leak into a desperation.

You're tired of the ache crawling beneath your skin. Tired of waking up hot and flushed, your limbs too heavy and your thoughts running in circles. You're tired of the phantom scent of him.

     THE DOCTOR clicks her pen and glances up from your chart. "You're experiencing premature heat symptoms," she says.

You blink, mouth slightly open, a sudden urge to curse out loud is rising fast in your throat. If you could blame anyone—or anything—it would always come back to him.

"Doc," your mother interjects, hands clasped tightly over her mouth, brows knit in worry. "My daughter has a regular cycle. Every six months. Is it... is it serious? Do we need to prepare for something?"

The doctor's expression doesn't shift. "Not serious, no. But it does suggest that her Omega may have identified an unbonded Alpha. The reaction is instinctual."

Your mother gasps sharply, eyes snapping to you. "An Alpha?" she asks, as if it's the most outrageous thing she's ever heard. "Is this true? You didn't tell me anyone was... involved."

Involved. You scoff internally. What involvement? There was no "involvement." There was just you, orbiting him. A star collapsing in on itself while he stood there, unmoved. If anything, you weren't involved—you were invested, alone.  You scoff inwardly, lips twitching. You can't even begin to explain it. Now he's acting like he cares. Showing up at your most vulnerable moments. Scenting you calm when your distress surges. Talking to you when you've already given up trying. It's enough to make your Omega stir again, confused and hopeful—hopeful, after everything. Maybe, it's because he can smell your pre-heat. Maybe that's the only reason. The biological imperative.

"I don't..." you start, but your throat closes up, too full of shame. Your mother leans in closer, clearly waiting for an explanation you're not prepared to give.  "It's nothing serious," you finally say, forcing the words out past the lump in your throat. "I'll be fine. Just—" your voice falters again, your hands curling tightly into your lap, "maybe some kind of medication?"

"I can't prescribe heat suppressants for this," she says.  "This is a premature heat. Suppressing it improperly could destabilize your cycle long-term. Your hormonal levels are too elevated for standard blocks, and there's no established bond to anchor the response."

You freeze. That phrase again. No established bond. "I can give you scent-neutralizing patches," she continues, "if the pheromonal response becomes overwhelming. But the root cause isn't something a patch will fix."

Your mother wrings her hands beside you, stiff in her seat, visibly distressed. "What about stabilizers? She's never had a history of imbalance. I never had history of imbalance. I— I don't understand. Why is this happening now?"

The doctor offers her a sympathetic look. "That's common. A presenting Omega might carry stable cycles for years before someone disrupts the balance. If her Omega has responded to an unmated Alpha, especially one within close proximity for extended periods, it can trigger early hormonal activity. The body reads it as readiness. Her system is beginning to align, preparing for what it thinks is a potential bond."

"But there isn't a bond," you say quickly, a little too defensively. "There's nothing—he's not—he doesn't want that."

Your mother's eyes are wide, her expression flickering between disbelief and dawning realization.

The doctor glances up from her notes. "Ah. A one-sided bond, then," she muttered, "That doesn't matter. Your Omega has already begun responding to his scent, and from what I see in your charts, your body is attempting to sync. Whether the Alpha reciprocates or not is irrelevant to your body."

You sigh heavily, rubbing your palm over your face. Every word is a confirmation of what you've been denying for weeks now. You've been spiraling into this heat because of something he didn't even give you. He didn't even claim you, he didn't scent you regularly, he barely gave you scraps of kindness. And yet, you're still experiencing all of this, your body still chose him.

Fuck this hierarchy. Fuck every structure built to remind you that no matter how hard you try to keep control, your body will always be ruled by something beneath the skin.

The doctor moves to stand, her hands smoothing out the hem of her coat.  "You just need to manage your stress," she says with gentle authority. "Keep yourself hydrated. Eat well. Rest when you can. Try not to overstimulate your system with strong scents or emotional surges. And if possible..." Her voice wavers. "Distance yourself from the Alpha."

You scoffed silently. Distance. Like that hasn't already been your first defense. Like you haven't already forced yourself to sit rows away in lectures, to swallow the instinct to check if he's behind you in crowded halls. 

You keep your expression blank, nodding once. The doctor doesn't press further. She's probably seen enough cases like yours to know which ones are about to fall apart and which ones already have. She offers you a paper bag with the scent patch, a mild suppressant in a sleek white box, and a bottle of electrolyte tabs.

"Just stabilize yourself," she says gently. "Even if you can't cut the bond, you can dull the symptoms. Give yourself time. Give your Omega space to detach—if it can."

If it can. There's always that part, warning that not all imprints fade, that sometimes the body doesn't forget the Alpha it first aligned with. And worse—sometimes it waits. Sometimes it breaks down slowly, months, years, unraveling.

You step out of the clinic, blinking hard against the sunlight. Your mother is at your side again, her expression tight, but she doesn't speak. But later, in the car, she tries in her own way. "Maybe we could stop somewhere," she says. "There's that boutique near the roundabout—didn't you say they have new arrivals this week? We could look. Or just window shop. Something to distract you." Her tone is mothering in the gentlest way, her fingers tapping against the steering wheel.

You sigh and lean your head against the glass. The suggestion is kind, sweet even, but there's a part of you that recoils at the thought of dresses and handbags. But still, you nod.  uThe silence settles again as it gives you space to think. What are you supposed to do? Rip him out of you like a root too deep to reach? Cut the string that ties your Omega to him? You scoff softly under your breath, eyes focusing on the moving blur of street signs and passing faces.

You almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. Exorcise him? As if Jay had ever been something so fleeting, so easily removed. He was embedded—threaded into your senses, branded into your chemistry. And for what? For nothing. For him to treat you like a nuisance one moment and then scent you like you belonged to him the next. Maybe he didn't know what he was doing. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe he just didn't care.

But you do. You care too damn much, you don't even know why.

Maybe the suppressants will help. Maybe they'll level out your imbalance, make the nights less cruel, keep your Omega from crying out for a bond that was never offered. Maybe the scent patch will shield you from inhaling him again and again. Maybe. But maybe not. Either way, you have to try. You have to claw your way back to center. Back to the version of yourself that existed before your biology hijacked your dignity.

Because if you don't—if you keep letting yourself unravel under this invisible thread, keep spiraling around every moment he chooses to show up and confuse you—you'll lose more than just your pride. You'll lose you. And haven't you already given enough?

⋮ ⌗ act nine

"WHY DO you have that?" Yeonjun's voice dripped with curiosity, but it grated on your nerves. Your eye twitched the moment his finger grazed over the edge of the cat-shaped patch stuck to the side of your neck, and you felt a familiar boiling sensation beginning to bubble beneath your skin.

You swatted his hand away with a slap, fixing him with a glare. "Don't touch it," you snapped, pushing the chair away from him, but he moved his chair closer to yours again.

Yeonjun chuckled, entirely unfazed by your tone. "Chill, I'm just asking. It's cute!"

"Fuck off," you snapped, kicking the leg of his chair so hard it screeched against the floor, jerking sideways. Ningning let out a yelp as she caught it before he toppled over.

"Geez! You've been a menace lately!" he complained, rubbing his side. "I'm seriously hurt! You're so painfully mean these days, I'm starting to think you're developing violent coping mechanisms."

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your compact mirror from your bag just to avoid eye contact.

"I can't believe we're going to be stuck together all second semester," Yeonjun added with a dramatic sigh. "I thought maybe you'd mellow out now that you and Jay are back to... whatever the hell it is you two are doing. You were all sunshine last last week when he brought your clip back, now look at you now."

You clicked your tongue and gave his chair another kick. "Don't. Even. Mention. His. Name."

Ningning tilted her head, her curiosity flaring immediately as her brows knit together. "Seriously? What happened this time? You two were like practically not—so flirting last time."

"I'm moving on," you said plainly, flipping your compact mirror open and pretending to inspect your mascara, even though you could feel both of their eyes practically drilling holes into you. A beat of stunned silence followed, then a gasp from both of them in sync. You didn't even look up—just reapplied your lip gloss.

"So you're admitting there was something going on?" Yeonjun was the first to speak, already leaning forward with a shit-eating grin on his face, eyes sparkling with the satisfaction of catching you slipping. "That's what I heard. Clear as day."

You kicked his chair again with less force but more intent, eyes still trained on your reflection. "That's not what I said."

"That's exactly what you said," he sang back. "You said, and I quote, 'I'm moving on,' which implies there was something to move on from."

You finally lowered the mirror, giving him a dry look. "If you keep talking, I'm moving on from your existence."

Ningning reached across the table to gently tug at your wrist, drawing your attention back to her. "Babe, for real. If you're trying to move on, that's totally valid. But... how about the bond?"

Your eyes met hers slowly, your jaw tight, your pulse a dull throb in your neck. You didn't even realize you were holding your breath until your chest tightened. "There's no bond," you said flatly.

For a second, there was only silence. Then, Yeonjun gasped, so exaggerated you almost threw your things at him. Ningning mirrored the reaction, hand flying to her mouth.

Your eye twitched with irritation. "God, both of you deserve an award for worst acting," you muttered, dragging your hand away from Ningning.

"You don't scent someone like that if there's nothing!" Ningning said. Yeonjun nodded quickly, supporting her claim. "Jay didn't just sit beside you and breathe. He was reacting. He reacted to you."

You looked down at your hands, your freshly done nails glittering faintly. Despite the mild spring warmth outside, your fingertips felt cold, like your body was refusing to settle, like your Omega was stuck somewhere between longing and denial. "He only reacts when I cry," you said. "He only notices when I'm falling apart. When I'm breaking in front of him. That's not bonding. That's..." You paused, the word sour in your mouth. "That's — I don't know? Pity? Basic human decency?"

Ningning didn't speak for a beat but when she did, her voice was gentler. "That's not whatever you think it is, love. That's instinct. That's Alpha behavior when they're drawn—when their instincts aren't neutral. If he wasn't reacting at all, if he was truly indifferent to your scent or your state, we'd be having a very different conversation right now."

You scoffed, dragging your nails across the table in a slow absentminded motion. "That's exactly what I'm talking about, Ning. It's all just instinct. Just... pre-coded biological nonsense. His Alpha reacts to my Omega. My Omega reacts to his Alpha. None of it means he wants me. None of it means anything real."

Ningning's brows furrowed, lips pressing into a tight line. "It could mean something real," she finally said. "Just because it starts with instinct doesn't mean it has to end there. That's how most bonds start. A flicker. A pull. And then choice. It becomes real because we choose it."

You exhaled, hollow, your thoughts curling around that last word. Heh. Choice? Jay also had a choice but he chooses to be cold, distant and guarded. Every time you offered even the smallest piece of yourself, he returned it either with silence, or scolding, or irritation.

A bitter smile tugged at your lips as you reached for your bag, standing up with an exhale. "You know what?" you said, interrupting the silence that followed your last admission. "We really have to stop letting my Omega confuse biology for something that pretends to be love."

Ningning and Yeonjun both straightened at your sudden shift in tone, watching as you began gathering your things. "I'm not being dramatic," you continued as you slung the strap of your bag over your shoulder. "This isn't about Jay anymore. This is about me. Guarding my peace, my Omega, my sanity. And finally choosing something different—because this back-and-forth has been toxic, and I'm tired."

Yeonjun gave a low whistle under his breath, impressed. Ningning looked like she wanted to cry. "So yeah," you added, already walking toward the door, "topics done."

You stopped just before the threshold, glancing over your shoulder at them. "Also... I'm skipping classes. Who's coming with me?" Yeonjun was the first to move, already pushing his chair back. Ningning didn't even hesitate—she threw her pen down and rose with a grin, looping her arm through yours as you all stepped into the hallway.

The conversation shifted easily as you walked. You didn't mention Jay again. Ningning was already excitedly chatting about the upcoming university games, and Yeonjun was making bets on who'd be crowned king this year.

     SINCE THE second semester had officially begun, the atmosphere on campus had shifted. The subjects, on paper, felt heavier—more academic and more demanding. Titles like Media Law and Ethics, Digital Media Production, Advanced Communication Theory, and the continuation of Media Research Methods, loomed large across your schedule. There was Audience Analysis, which sounded painfully dry, and Media Effects, which felt like a glorified summary of everything you already knew. Then there was Strategic Communication and PR Campaigns, and honestly, the name alone was enough to make your brain start buffering.

Still, with all those options laid out in front of you, you made your choice with one thing in mind: preservation. Of your mental health. Of your joy. Of your damn peace. Advertising and Promotion was the clear winner—not because you dreamed of building brand empires or writing catchy taglines, but because the syllabus looked manageable and the assignments felt less like theoretical death traps and more like hands-on creative output. And if you were being completely honest, it just sounded easier. After everything that had drained you last semester, you deserved easy.

You told yourself this was your redemption, It helped, too, that this semester came with a fresh schedule. A clean slate. A different crowd. A new seating chart in every classroom. And best of all? Park Jongseong was nowhere to be found!

No shared lectures. No overlapping labs. Not even a fleeting encounter in the corridors. You didn't see his face, didn't hear that sharp, indifferent voice, and perhaps most importantly, you didn't catch a single whiff of that painfully addictive Alpha scent that had once made your Omega curl.

It was a cleanse. A detox! And as each day passed, you became more and more convinced: life was easier without him. You could wake up without overthinking what you were going to wear in case he showed up. You didn't have to check your reflection fifteen times. You could reapply your gloss for yourself. Your Omega wasn't purring randomly, wasn't flaring its emotions at every second breath.

And for once, the universe seemed to be aligning in your favor—like it had finally decided to cut you a break after everything it put you through. You almost felt like you should start lighting a candle every morning in gratitude or whispering a little thank-you prayer into the void, because everything was just... working.

You tapped your foot against the floor of the campus café as you scrolled through your wishlist, excitement bubbling beneath your skin. Across from you, Ningning was mid-sip of her strawberry milk when you dropped your grand announcement. "I want to shop for new clothes for the University Games," you declared, glancing up from your screen. "And I definitely need a new bag. I swear I've already used all my cute ones last year, and I refuse to repeat an outfit cycle. Don't you agree?"

Ningning groaned dramatically and slapped a hand over her ear. "Please, spare me. I can't even think about bags right now—I have a date this weekend and I need to save money. Do you know how expensive one nice outfit can get?"

You stared at her. "What the fuck? Let your date pay for that!"

She burst into laughter, sliding her phone across the table to avoid the potential guilt trip from your wounded expression. "It's a first date! I can't just show up expecting him to foot the bill like I'm some spoiled heiress."

"Why not?" you shot back with a scoff. "You are a spoiled heiress in my eyes. If he can't handle that, dump him and move on to someone with a platinum card."

Ningning groaned and slumped back in her chair, dragging her drink closer. "I was the one who asked him out..."

You blinked. For a second, your brain refused to process it. "Wait—what?" Your voice was sharp with disbelief, your mouth falling open. "You asked him?"

Ningning winced and took another sip, avoiding your glare. "I did..."

"Oh my god." You leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the table. "It's okay! First date etiquette exists for a reason! Men are literally hardwired to compete for attention and resources. It's their only evolutionary flex."

She snorted at that but didn't argue.

"I mean it! First dates are like ceremonial performances—they need to show off a little. Pick the place, foot the bill, act like they're worthy of your time. Not the other way around! You're the one who's soft and glowing and moisturized. He's the one that should be sweating!"

"It's not... I kind of... forced him," she muttered into her straw, and you nearly gasped, scandalized for all of two seconds—until the realization dawned on you, that you were exactly like that. Maybe not in the same brand of Ningning wielded so effortlessly, but the fire underneath it? The need to chase, to claim, to wrap your fingers around something the moment you decided it belonged to you—that was a language you both spoke fluently.

Because when the two of you wanted something, you didn't ask for permission. You didn't wait for it to be handed to you, or for fate to gracefully align the stars in your favor. No, you went after it. With the same fierce insistence you applied to limited-edition makeup drops, to the last size of a dress on sale.

You took what you wanted—unapologetically, recklessly, and sometimes with the kind of conviction that made people either fall in love with you or sprint in the other direction.

Her version of pursuit came with dangerously sweet smiles and paper-thin threats disguised as flirtation, the kind of behavior that somehow made men fall at her feet. Yours was subtler. Less sharp, more glazed in charm and a glimmer of need. You never threatened, never cornered. You dropped hints, left trails, spoke a little too sweetly, laughed a little too long. You tried to be soft enough to invite warmth and not too much to scare it away. Always just enough to be remembered, never quite enough to be kept.

You watched her now, bent over her phone, eyes dancing as she planned her weekend. Her certainty made you ache.

A pout tugged at your lips, God, were you really this hopeless? The envy, the slow-burning ache of watching someone love so easily, so cleanly — it all sat heavy in your chest. It wasn't the boy you were jealous of. It was her. That fearless kind of wanting. That persistent pursuit without hesitation, without shame.

Because you? You always second-guessed. You always bent to the shape of the person you were chasing, making yourself smaller, quieter, more palatable until you weren't even sure what you wanted anymore, only that you were exhausted from wanting it alone.

But maybe that was okay. You've survived longer seasons, you made it through a full year of watching people pair off while you learned how to love yourself in all the ways they couldn't. You learned to fill the quiet with laughter, to paint your own joy across days that didn't offer any.

You were still here. Beautiful. Loud. Rich in the kind of confidence that only came from rebuilding yourself every time you were chipped down. And if there's a piece missing? A puzzle edge that never quite locked into place? Then fine. You'd rather have a puzzle with an open ending than one completed with a shape that never really belonged to begin with.

⋮ ⌗ act ten

     FLORASIS COSMETICS —the rival to Flower Knows in your mental beauty Olympics—has finally made its way into your vanity, and you honestly feel like pulling your hair out just trying to process the beauty of it. The sculpting palette is nothing short of a work of art: delicate carvings pressed into fine powder, patterns so intricate they could be framed and mounted instead of swiped across your cheekbones. How were you supposed to use this? How were you supposed to dig a brush into something that looked like a museum artifact without feeling like you were defiling sacred ground?

The box—an actual gift box, not one of those cheap promotional kits—was brought in like a treasure chest by your father, who had just returned from a business trip to China. You had nearly tackled him at the door, tearing into the wrapping with the urgency of someone who had been emotionally deprived of joy and beauty for weeks. Inside: the kind of packaging that made you gasp out loud. Carved brass details, silk linings, the softest cushions hugging each product like they were crown jewels. Your hands had literally trembled.

You swore a part of your soul left your body when you caught the glint of the lipstick packaging shaped like an ancient scroll. A part of you wanted to display them in a glass case. Another part is wanted to use them immediately, to feel like a regal goddess in every passing mirror.

"Guess who got new makeup and a new perfume," you chirped, voice sing-song as you twirled with your shopping bag in hand, the hem of your skirt swaying with each step. You sank down dramatically between Yeonjun and Ningning, full of the high that came from indulging in luxury and the scent of Dior still fresh on your wrists. You expected the usual noise: Ningning's squeals, Yeonjun's fake gagging, both of them leaning in to inspect your haul and playfully beg for samples.

Instead, silence. Their mouths were slightly open, expressions oddly blank, both pairs of eyes staring past you in unblinking unison. You frowned, confused. "Hey. Hello?" You waved your hand between them. "I just said I got new makeup. A Florasis palette. New Dior scent. You two always freak out about this kind of stuff."

Still nothing. You reached out and tapped Ningning's arm. Nothing. Tapped Yeonjun's shoulder a little harder and he finally turned his head, slowly. "Guess who's gonna spiral later," he muttered with zero inflection.

Your heart dropped somewhere beneath the floor. "What are you talking about?"

And then you felt the air shifted around you. A subtle but sharp curled at the edge of your senses. That scent, so unassuming, yet so devastatingly familiar, brushed past your nose with that clean, slightly cool undertone you hadn't let yourself think about in weeks.

No... You turned your head and the world tilted. Park Jongseong! In the flesh!

Sitting in the back corner of the lecture hall, headphones were in, one hand holding an open book, the other absently tapping against his leg. His hair was pushed back again, effortlessly styled like it always was when he was too busy to care but still ended up looking stupidly sooooo good. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were rolled to the elbow. His brow furrowed as he read, jaw clenched ever so slightly like he was concentrating, or irritated, or both.

Your mouth parted. "What the fuck is Jay doing here?" The words scraped out of your throat.

Yeonjun winced like he'd been bracing for the explosion. "Surprise elective merge," he said, shrugging helplessly. "Professor Han's class got absorbed into ours. Jay's on the updated roster now."

You stared at him, then turned to Ningning, who nodded in silent confirmation, eyes still bouncing nervously between you and Jay's corner of the room. "And when," you said slowly, "were you going to tell me that my personal nightmare suddenly enrolled in this class?"

"We just found out," Ningning hissed in a whisper. "They emailed the schedule update late last night. And you were too busy texting about your spa booking and new contour brush—"

"I was in a good mood!" you snapped, hugging your Dior bag to your chest. "Why does fate have the worst sense of timing?"

And as if summoned by the sound of your voice alone, Jay shifted in his seat. He didn't look up, but you knew. You knew he knew you were here. Knew he felt it too—that invisible cord still tangled between you, no matter how much you tried to sever it. Your Omega stirred violently inside you, purring like a fool. Begging for attention.

Shut it, you hissed internally. You hadn't even been wearing your scent patch today. Idiot. You were so caught up in the glow of shopping and the shimmer of new makeup that you forgot the one rule you've kept religiously since deciding to move on—never let your scent bleed out around him again.

But it was too late. Your Omega had caught the scent of him too, and you could already feel the beginning ripples of that premature hormonal shift your doctor had warned you about. The low curl in your belly. That fuzzy, heat-prickled pressure that nestled between your skin and your bones.

Panic gripped you for a second. Okay, yes, fine, he looks good. So what? He always looked good. He was always handsome in that infuriating, sharp-boned way. Hair swept back just messily, long fingers flipping pages, jaw set with focus, lips pressed together in that unreadable line. That was just his face.

It's okay, you assure yourself again. It's just one course. One elective out of your entire schedule. You'll only see him once a week, and you've survived worse. You've already gone through the slow, brutal undoing of your pride, your patience, and your Omega. There's no reason why this should be any harder than what you've already endured.

You can handle this—with respectful distance, calm indifference, and a full commitment to self-preservation. You've trained yourself for this, haven't you? You don't need him. You're over it. Your logic is stronger than your instincts. You can do this.

But then, like some twisted joke the universe decided to play at your expense, he starts showing up in places he shouldn't be. Not just in that one elective—no. Suddenly, he's everywhere. Fucking everywhere!

You see him in the library when you're trying to print something for class, sitting across the room, eyes already on you. You catch him in the campus café, ordering two tables away, hands tucked in his pockets. You find him leaving the same building at the exact time your class ends—even when you know he doesn't have a lecture there.

Okay, campus is small. Schedules overlap. It's just a coincidence! He probably has his own reasons—assignments, club meetings, group work. Maybe his favorite café happens to be the same one you like. Maybe his classes just happen to end when yours do. He's not doing anything wrong, not really. It's not like he's chasing you. Not in any obvious way.

But there's a consistency. A thread pulling tight every time you turn a corner and see him already there. A breath caught in your throat when your eyes meet for half a second longer than they should. A pressure in your chest that builds every time you feel him near—even before you actually see him. You know this feeling too well. You've walked this path before—this rabbit hole of spiraling thoughts. You've memorized every turn it takes to fall into delusion, and you swore you'd never take the plunge again.

But, you feel yourself teetering on the edge, again. Get a grip, you hiss internally, forcing yourself to blink it away, to ground your thoughts, to remind your body who's in control here.

Ugh. You hate how your body responds before your mind has time to stop it. You hate the little things: the flutter in your chest when you smell him first; the way your Omega perks up, tail-wagging and alert, just because his presence registers nearby. You hate how your carefully constructed routines begin to warp—shifting to avoid him in the halls, choosing the longer route just to not pass by the old lecture building, holding your breath whenever you step into the library. It's like you're hiding from a ghost. Only Jay is very much alive, very much real, and whether he means to or not, he's haunting you.

     "THERE'S A whole meeting coming up for the University Games prep," Yeonjun groaned as he swung his bag onto the table with a dramatic sigh. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms. "I pulled a late-nighter reviewing terms for our summative. I swear my brain's leaking out my ears."

You barely looked up. Your gaze was fixed blankly on the whiteboard ahead, mind fogged, drifting somewhere far from the present moment. You hadn't even touched your notebook. Ningning had bailed on today's lecture with a casual 'Skip it, babe, not worth the stress—Jay's in that class anyway, just come over and nap.' You should've followed her advice. Should've turned on your heel the second you smelled him near the hall, should've saved yourself this tension gripping at your spine since you entered the room.

Instead, you sat frozen in your chair, arms crossed tightly as if you could physically anchor your emotions from escaping again.

Yeonjun dropped into the chair beside you, not bothering to glance around first. The next second, he let out a sharp yelp. "Ow! What the hell?! Who the fuck leaves their ID on a damn seat?" He shot upright, grabbing at his backside with one hand and snatching the culprit card off the chair with the other. His voice echoed through the half-filled classroom. Your face remained carefully blank, eyes locked on the whiteboard ahead, where nothing particularly interesting was written.

Yeonjun paused, staring at the object in his hand—a student ID card—before going uncharacteristically quiet. That caught your attention. Slowly, you turned your head to glance at him, one brow arching in question.

He startled slightly, caught in your gaze, then offered an awkward smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. "I—uh... damn, maybe someone just dropped it by accident or something," he said, voice an octave higher than usual. "I'll go, um... I'll just put it on the center table. Y'know. So they see it."

You narrowed your eyes slightly, confused by the shift in his tone. But you said nothing, watching him as he stood up and briskly crossed the room, the ID clutched a little too tightly in his fingers. He set it gently down on the table at the front before returning to his seat, brushing his pants off like the ID had burned him.

You blinked once, then shrugged, pushing the interaction aside and sinking back into your thoughts. Your mind had been a cyclone of clutter since the moment you stepped into the lecture hall—ever since you'd sensed a familiar presence brushing too close, like a scent you couldn't scrub out of your skin.

You endured the next three hours of the painfully dry lecture with gritted teeth. The professor's voice blurred into a steady drone, too monotone to hold anyone's attention, especially not yours. Your fingers tapped restlessly on your notebook, and you had to stop yourself from sighing for the twentieth time in the past ten minutes. On your right, Yeonjun had long since surrendered to the lull of the lecture, head tilted slightly back, lips parted as he snored softly with absolutely no shame. The sound grated on your nerves and you didn't know if you were more annoyed at him for dozing off while you suffered or at yourself for not being able to zone out the same way.

But the truth was, you couldn't relax. Jay's presence pressed at your awareness. He wasn't even doing anything. Just sitting there—silent, poised, occasionally jotting down notes with his signature. But it was enough to unsettle you. Every time he shifted, your eyes involuntarily flicked toward him. Every time his scent subtly curled through the air, your Omega responded instantly, purring traitorously despite your best efforts to ignore it.

It wasn't even a strong scent today: neutral, faintly clean, but your Omega reacted like it was ambrosia. God, you wanted to scream. And to make matters worse, the adhesive patch on your scent gland—already half-worn from overuse—was starting to itch like hell. You resisted the urge to scratch at your neck, rolling your shoulder instead in an effort to relieve the sensation without drawing attention. It didn't help. The irritation only amplified the restless coil tightening in your belly.

It felt like your Omega was trying to claw its way out, pressing up against your skin. You clenched your jaw and forced your gaze back to the front, blinking hard, trying to refocus on the slide about ethical dilemmas in digital advertising. It might as well have been written in a foreign language.

The back of your neck was prickling now, heat crawling up your spine. You tugged the collar of your shirt slightly, willing the sensation to ease off, but it didn't. The discomfort was relentless. A low thrum of biological tension building under your skin. Maybe it was the air circulation. Or the broken AC. Or the fact that you hadn't slept properly in three nights because your body was going haywire again, dancing on the edge of another hormonal shift.

Your hands curled into fists in your lap. You almost wanted to kick Yeonjun awake, just to have someone to blame.

You needed a massage, a facial, a two-hour-long scalp treatment. You wanted to lie down in a silk robe while someone pressed hot stones along your spine and whispered that everything would be okay. Maybe a shopping spree would help. A new pair of heels, another designer bag you could photograph and flaunt. You were already planning the text to your father: Daddy, Dior dropped a new saddle bag and it's giving limited edition... please? ૮ ⸝⸝o̴̶̷᷄ ·̭ o̴̶̷̥᷅⸝⸝ ྀིა⸝

Instead of going to your next class, you skipped the rest of your schedule entirely and took a cab straight to Ningning's house.

All you got was a casual, "He definitely wants you that bad," muffled slightly through her salmon roll as she sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling her phone while dipping sushi in soy sauce.

"That's it?" you snapped, yanking a pillow into your arms. "That's all you have to say?"

She shrugged. "What else do you want me to say? You came in here with that look on your face and said his name within five minutes. What am I supposed to do—not assume he's got you all twisted again?"

You scowled at Ningning, lips pursed, but it was more out of habit than true annoyance. You didn't have the energy to argue with her, because as much as you wanted to dismiss her words, to chalk them up to her usual dramatic flair—she wasn't wrong. You did feel twisted. Frayed at the edges. Emotionally constipated. Whatever poetic metaphor you wanted to use for being perpetually on edge—none of them could really capture the constant, low-burning confusion you carried every time you saw Jay.

And, he was everywhere. Again.

The more it kept happening, the harder it became to ignore. And Ningning was having the time of her life narrating your slow descent into reluctant delusion.

"Oh my God," she whisper-hissed one afternoon, grabbing your wrist as the two of you stepped out of the admin building. "He's there. At the top of the stairwell."

You didn't even have to ask who.

"And now he's walking down—like right as we appear. I swear, he was standing there for five minutes doing nothing."

You pretended not to care, focused intently on your phone screen, but your Omega was already humming, alert and all-too-excited.

The next day, Ningning didn't even wait for a proper sighting.

"Okay, what the hell?" she hissed, sliding into the booth across from you at your usual café. "You're telling me he's suddenly into iced lavender matchas and this place's god-awful acoustic playlist? No. He is not a coffee person. I've never seen that man drink anything!"

You didn't even look over your shoulder. You'd felt the shift in the air the moment you walked in. That familiar weight settling at the back of your neck. "I'm telling you, he's hovering," Ningning continued, dropping her voice as she leaned forward. "And he's only doing it because you won't look at him."

You gave her your best withering glare over your straw, "I'm ignoring him because I'm trying to move on. Not because I want to bait him into doing something."

She raised both brows and popped a macaron into her mouth. "Babe, you are not ignoring him. You're avoiding him. And you know what happens when you avoid something that wants your attention?"

"I swear to God, if you say it grows stronger—"

"It grows stronger," she said, grinning. You groaned and dropped your forehead to the table, muffling your frustration in your arms. But you couldn't stop the restless pulse of your thoughts.

You weren't that pathetic! Your life didn't revolve around a single man's presence—or worse, absence. But your chest had been feeling heavier lately. The quiet days were harder to get through. There were moments when you glanced toward a doorway or listened for footsteps that never came, and the disappointment curled in your gut. And under the layers of pride and anger and well-constructed apathy, you knew that you were doomed the moment your body started keeping track of him.

You had memorized him. His presence wasn't just something you recognized. It was something your body anticipated. And under all the pride you wore all the carefully layered apathy, all the glitter and gloss you applied—you knew. You had been doomed the moment your body started tracking him. You were absolutely, irrevocably fucked the second you realized your eyes scanned the room automatically. The second you noticed your own awareness sharpening whenever he was near, even if he didn't say a word. Even if he was just there.

It wasn't fair! He didn't even have to do anything anymore. Just existing within your vicinity was enough to stir everything you'd spent weeks trying to bury. And still, you kept your routines, sat in your usual spots, retouched your gloss every thirty minutes, let Ningning drag you around the campus café circuit, hoping distraction would erase the obsession. But it didn't. Because he kept showing up. Always!

"What the fuck is he doing at the ladies' bench?" you snapped. "That's, like, the most feminine corner on campus—soft pink umbrellas, flower-painted tables. Why is he studying there?"

Ningning didn't even flinch. "He's been there for thirty minutes. Didn't even open his laptop. Just sitting and occasionally glancing. You sure he's not waiting for you?"

You waved her off, muttering curses, heart jackhammering in your chest like you were about to be ambushed. Jay this. Jay that. You didn't even notice how often his name slipped from your mouth until you heard it echoing back at you. You didn't even realize that your every minute—your thoughts, your movements, your entire schedule—had started to orbit around him.

You were done for the day he didn't show up and everything felt off. Fuck!

⋮ ⌗ act eleven

     "YOU NEED to join at least two minor games or sign up to facilitate one," the Government rep from Education was saying into the mic. "Event logistics, food coordination, support for the major teams—whatever your strengths are, we'll find a spot. We also need volunteers for infractions and violation tracking—points, fouls, that sort of thing."

You leaned forward toward Ningning, completely disengaged from the mandatory meeting. "Hey," you whispered, flicking your nails together lightly, eyes gleaming with quiet excitement. "I got it. The new Dior blush—the one with the redesigned packaging? Forty bucks. The shade's softer now, less of that neon-cool pink from before. It's more muted, moreeee wearable."

Ningning's eyes snapped wide as she turned toward you, forgetting entirely about the ongoing announcements. "Already?! I saw the previews online. I'm not gonna lie, I'm not sold on the new packaging yet. The text is kind of... oversized?"

You rolled your eyes. "Who cares about the packaging? The formula, babe. The formula is everything. I did side-by-side swatches last night. The old one's a little chalky compared to this—it's so finely milled now, almost like silk. Blends like butter. No fallout either."

"Ugh, I hate you," Ningning groaned softly, eyes sparkling with envy. "Let me try it next time we hang out. I want to feel that buttery blush on my skin."

You smirked, flipping your hair back. "Of course. And wait 'til you see the bags I bought too. Bags, plural. Like—more than one. Because—"

Your words died mid-sentence. A shadow fell behind you, and your breath hitched. Something inside you tensed, your instincts flaring up. Slowly, almost reluctantly, your head turned toward the figure standing just behind your chair.

Park Jongseong?! It was him, wearing that usual booooring clean, muted palette of grays and blacks, eyes calm and unreadable behind the rim of his glasses, expression completely devoid of emotion. His backpack was slung casually over one shoulder, his presence as quiet as it was disruptive. Since you were sitting at the leftmost seat of your row, Ningning in the center and Yeonjun on the right, both of them followed your movement, turning their heads almost in sync with yours. You could feel their collective stillness tighten as the air shifted.

"What the fuck?" you snapped, mix with panic you hated. "Can't you see that this chair's for our bags? Like, obviously? This is not your seat." Your tone wavered slightly at the end, the bite softened only by the way your Omega stirred—rattling behind your chest.

Jay stared at you, unmoving for a heartbeat. Then, as if the tension in your voice didn't register, he spoke in his usual clipped, impassive tone. "There's no seat available."

You blinked, glancing around the lecture hall—okay, fine. Most of the chairs were already taken. People had crammed in at the last second, and yes, you might've been using the extra seat as a glorified handbag throne. But still!

"That's not my problem," you muttered, but the protest had lost momentum. Your hands moved on their own, dragging your bag with a little too much force. You avoided looking at him as he took the now-cleared chair beside you, moving with the effortless quiet that annoyed you to your core.

Yeonjun looked between the two of you, eyes narrowing. Beside him, Ningning shifted in her seat, biting down on the inside of her cheek, her entire body visibly vibrating with barely-contained excitement "The plot is plotting something," she hissed under her breath.  "The plot is plotting something!"

You didn't even turn your head. With the smallest twitch of muscle and the elegance of someone who'd done this more times, you reached under the table and pinched Ningning's thigh. She let out a small yelp and covered her mouth, giving you a wide-eyed glare. You crossed your legs carefully, your entire posture shifted. You turned your body just enough to face Ningning, presenting your side to Jay.

"—Most of the minor games are based on child-friendly formats," the representative was saying. "Some are casual online games like Roblox, while the major events include Mobile Legends, basketball, volleyball, cheerdancing, swimming competitions, and more."

Your attention was half there, half flickering in annoyance as you felt the brush of an arm—his arm—bump into yours. You hissed under your breath, your brow instantly furrowing as you turned to glare at Jay. He didn't even look the slightest bit fazed. His fingers casually ran through his hair like the brush of his skin against yours was completely unintentional. And the audacity? He didn't even offer a damn apology.

You scoffed softly, flipping your hair with irritation as you shifted your entire body slightly away from him, putting your focus elsewhere.

"—We're estimating a contribution of around seventy dollars per student on the team," the organizer continued, clearly reading off notes. "That may vary depending on whether the head department decides to sponsor a portion. But our projected budget is about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars total. That includes uniforms, props, transport allowances, and basic essentials for team prep."

Just as you were about to reach for your iced coffee, Jay's elbow nudged yours again. Your head whipped in his direction, a sharp glare forming in your eyes—only to catch him smoothing his hair back again, eyes lazily forward. Again?! You sighed sharply through your nose, pulled your chair a few inches to the left, and tried to pretend he wasn't there.

The speaker's voice droned on. "—Of course, a lot will fall under coordination. We'll need volunteers not only for player support but also for logistics, media coverage, and audience management. There will be performance numbers, cheer squad allocations, and disciplinary committees to monitor violations. Our biggest competitors will be CHS—they're known for their full-sponsorship systems and aggressive prep. So we need full cooperation this year—especially from the upperclassmen."

Jay's shoulder brushed against yours again.

You clenched your jaw, turning your head slowly. "What the hell is wrong with you?" you snapped under your breath, arms folding tightly across your chest. "If you're that desperate to fix your hair, there's a whole damn restroom for that. Go stare at yourself in the mirror like a normal person. Geez, what's with—"

"What the—?! You dyed your hair?!" Yeonjun's voice cut through the air before you could finish yours. His reaction drew a few curious glances from the students sitting nearby.

You turned, actually seeing Jay now. And there it was: silver. Cool-toned silver, like rain-washed chrome, with the undercut now even more prominent, sharp lines framing his already angular face. His fringe was swept back effortlessly.

What the fuck? You hated him, and his hair looked really, really good. For a split second, your eyes followed the line of his jaw to the edge of his neck, then the slope of his nose. Your Omega let out the quietest purr in the pit of your chest, like some embarrassed reaction you couldn't control, and you cursed internally, dragging your gaze away before it wandered further.

Yeonjun was still gawking like Jay had just walked onto a runway. "Dude, I swear, if you didn't already have that resting death stare, you'd be making people fall left and right!"

Jay didn't respond. He just leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen on the edge of the desk, focused on the front as if he couldn't feel your barely concealed stare burning a hole in the side of his head.

Yeonjun pulled a face at being ignored, the moment losing its momentum. His shoulders slumped as he sighed, stretching out his legs and flopping his arms. "I think people treat me this way because I'm a Beta," he grumbled.

You turned your head slowly, brow raised, finally glancing at him. "You act like being a Beta is a curse."

"It is!" he huffed. "I'm literally the most approachable, least threatening person in every room and still I get no attention. Meanwhile," he gestured vaguely toward Jay, who remained unbothered, still tapping his pen, "mister Alpha here just breathes and people trip over themselves."

"—We'll be passing around sign-up sheets for the University Games tasks," the student organizer called out through the mic. "Please choose roles according to your ability and availability. Let's all do our part to make this event successful!"

You leaned back with a groan, tilting your head toward Ningning with a sigh. "Okay, what's the least energy-draining, makeup-safe, non-haggard role I can grab without ruining my nails? Just pass me the damn paper. I'll pick something brainless and get the hell out of here."

The paper made its way toward you—after brushing across Jay's arm—and you snatched it without a glance in his direction, though your Omega stirred immediately at the proximity. Stupid instincts.

"You did not just salivate while looking at that man's face!" Ningning whisper-shrieked beside you, eyes wide. "My God, you looked like you were about to bite his hand off—or kiss it!"

You kicked her ankle under the table in retaliation, shooting her a warning glare while quickly scanning the list of roles.

"'Documentation—Violation Monitoring' and 'Charades (Minor Games)' sound tolerable enough," you muttered, clicking your pink gel pen. "I'll just snap a few pictures, wear sunglasses, and laugh at people. That's it." You scribbled your name in your usual cursive signature.

"Write mine too," Jay said suddenly, glancing sideways.

Your pen froze midair. "Excuse me?!" you barked, twisting your head to glare at him fully. "You have two functioning hands and your own alphabet system. Write it yourself!"

Jay blinked once, completely unfazed. "You already have the pen."

You stared at him in disbelief. "So what?" you hissed, waving the pen dramatically. "What, do I look like your secretary? How am I even supposed to know which games you're planning to join?"

He didn't flinch. "Same as yours."

Your mouth dropped open. "Excuse me?!" The second shriek of the day tore out of your throat, louder, shriller. "Charades? Seriously? That's your pick?" you asked, incredulous. "You—you—are going to join Charades? That game is literally about exaggerated body language and miming! You?! You?! You're going to make the team lose!"

Jay's gaze remained steady, the corner of his lip twitching slightly as he said, "You're playing it."

You scoffed, incredulous, "Yeah, because I'm good at it! I have range, I can express, I can act—I know how to sell it." You gestured to yourself. "What about you, huh? You barely blink. You probably give the same face when someone confesses their love and when someone tells you the building's on fire."

Jay didn't even flinch. He met your stare evenly, "I can guess your acting."

Your mouth fell open. "Excuse me? Excuse me?!" You shot up slightly from your seat, your voice pitching so high you were almost squeaking. "A-Are you insane?! What the hell is that supposed to mean?! That's the most arrogant thing I've heard today."

Ningning leaned forward with her face half-buried in her hoodie sleeve, trying to muffle her laughter, while Yeonjun threw his hands up. Jay, who looked completely unfazed by your rising blood pressure. He was watching you like you were being ridiculous, like you were giving him exactly what he expected—and he liked it. Smug bastard.

"Just pick another damn game," you hissed through gritted teeth, narrowing your eyes. "There's like fifty other things you can do. Go do something that fits your boring personality, like counting scorecards or gluing banners or—I don't know—standing still and breathing silently in a corner."

A polite cough echoed from behind you, one of the organizers clearly signaling that you were getting too loud, again. You slouched a little in your seat, glared forward, then muttered under your breath. "I just need to participate," you mumbled, biting the inside of your cheek.

Jay didn't hesitate. "Then participate."

You twisted your neck back toward him sharply, eyes narrowed. "In other games. Why not literally anything else? Are you doing this on purpose?!"

"No. Why would I?" he replied, far too calm. "Charades is the easiest option. I don't see a problem."

You flushed, the heat rising up your neck and blooming across your cheeks. You stared at him, at his face so infuriatingly relaxed. Your jaw tightened as you grabbed the pen again and furiously scribbled his name in capital letters, aggressively neat, right beside yours "There!" you snapped, shoving the clipboard toward him, letting it hit the desk with more force. "Happy now?"

Jay tilted his head slightly, glancing at the paper, and then—your eyes widened—his lips twitched. A small, subtle pull at the corner of his mouth. "Very," he said, and it was enough to make your already-overheated skin burn hotter.

Oh my God. So handsome. You screamed mentally, slapping yourself internally. How the hell were you supposed to survive this semester when the universe insisted on throwing him directly into your path like a walking, brooding landmine? Your patch was starting to itch again, a subtle irritation blooming along the sensitive skin of your neck. It was your Omega—restless, unsettled, silently whining beneath your skin like a spoiled child denied its favorite scent. Fucking Jay! Annoying, emotionally unavailable, completely infuriating—but absurdly handsome—Jay.

You sat rigid in your chair, back unnaturally straight, hands folded tightly on your lap to stop yourself from clawing at the patch. You scratched the side of your neck instead. Another few minutes crawled by. You tapped your foot with impatience, irritation, and the overwhelming need to move—to get away from the heat simmering under your skin and the mess buzzing inside your chest.

The moment the student organizer dismissed the meeting, you bolted up from your chair so quickly it screeched against the floor. You didn't even care, grabbing Ningning's hand. "Come on, I'm starving. I'm craving burgers—extra bacon, extra cheese—" But you never finished the sentence.

A group of tall, broad-shouldered Alphas were suddenly blocking your path. You froze mid-step, heart thumping, your Omega coiling so fast it felt like your lungs collapsed. The air grew heavier, saturated with the thick, sharp press of testosterone. You immediately tilted your head back, blinking up at their towering figures. That cocky, easy swagger of males who knew they had presence. Your breath hitched. And without meaning to, you instinctively stepped back.

Your Omega didn't like this. Not even a little. It wasn't about submission—it was recoil. Threat. These Alphas weren't your Alpha. And your instincts knew it instantly. One of them—the tallest, with soft eyes, voice directed in front of you.

"Park Jongseong, right?"

Your eyes darted back toward where Jay still sat, gaze already lifted. Since he was seated at your side, the group of Alphas—four, maybe five of them—stood directly in the path infront of him and the rest of you. There was no leaving now. You were stuck behind a wall of their alpha pheromones, your Omega instantly curling inward in discomfort, unsure whether to brace or bolt.

The one in front, obviously the leader, stepped forward, "Choi Soobin," he introduced. "Basketball team. We've been scouting players for varsity matches next month."

You narrowed your eyes, confusion flaring as your gaze flicked between him and Jay. "Word is, you're an Apex Alpha. We want someone like you to anchor our team. Someone who can carry pressure. Someone who leads."

Apex Alpha? Your breath hitched as the phrase settled in you. You blinked hard, as if your brain needed time to process what your ears had just heard. Apex Alpha? Like a Prime Alpha? You scrambled through the dusty, half-retained memories of your ABO History lectures—those classes you mostly ignored.

Prime or Apex Alphas were considered elite. A rare, dangerous subclass. Born into old, prestigious bloodlines, often exhibiting traits far more potent than the average Alpha. Their ruts were intense, their scent practically intoxicating to any Omega within range. It could trigger early heats. Induce involuntary scenting responses. Break down barriers you didn't even realize your body had built.

It made sense! The way your Omega reacted to Jay—how she curled, howled, melted even with the smallest proximity. He was the only Alpha your Omega had ever accepted. Your Omega had always been so selective. Why every other Alpha made her flinch, or fall into dead silence. Why none of their scents worked, why their attempts to soothe or bond never even registered.

You're not broken, your Omega is not cold. She just had the highest fucking standards. And Jay—Park Jongseong, Apex Alpha, Prime bloodline, emotionally unavailable bastard with hands you wanted to hold and a voice you wanted to strangle—somehow met them all. And of course, Jay's Alpha scent affect you that strong because he's an Apex.

And because you were a deeply unwell, fully spiraling, possibly scent-drunk mess, you leaned toward Ningning and hissed under your breath, "Does it mean he's like... super rich?"

Ningning blinked at you, visibly stunned, before her brows shot up and she leaned in with a deadpan stare. "Seriously? That's your first thought?" she muttered. "Out of everything that just happened—you went with money?"

Your lips parted, then shut again. You coughed. "W-What? No! I mean—yes. I mean—I just wanted to confirm, like, a detail. You know? For context."

"You're spiraling," Ningning said flatly.

"I am not," you muttered through clenched teeth, your eyes flickering back toward Jay and the group of Alphas still hovering around him. They were talking about the varsity team—mock schedules, warm-up games, practice formations, sports events.

"I don't play team sports," Jay said with that signature unbothered edge.

Soobin blinked, slightly thrown off by the flatness of Jay's rejection. But instead of pushing back, he just let out a low chuckle, clapping Jay once on the shoulder in a gesture of friendly defeat. "Alright, alright. Still—think about it," he said with a nod. "Apex or not, you'd change the game."

The other Alphas murmured in agreement, but most began to drift away, muttering about scrimmage plans and heading out. Except one lingered, still eyeing Jay, his posture a bit too stiff, his scent spiking faintly. You could feel it even from your spot—not overpowering, but enough to make your Omega stiffen in warning. You scrunch your face as you smell it, you hated the smell, it was so wrong, too aggressive, too territorial. Not Jay.

You shifted your stance instinctively, chest tightening. And then, unexpectedly, Jay's voice cut through again. "Are you done?" he asked sharply, his gaze lifting for the first time since the conversation began. "And can you back off already?" Jay added. "There's an Omega here. Are you seriously going to keep standing there leaking scent like that? You trying to distress her?"

Your stomach twisted so hard it knocked the breath from your lungs. He noticed. He hadn't looked at you, hadn't addressed you by name, but it didn't matter. Everyone in that conversation knew who he was talking about. You were the Omega. You were the one he was lowkey shielding.

The Alphas backed off immediately, caught off-guard. One muttered an apology. Another gave Jay a stiff nod and turned on his heel.

You didn't wait for another beat. The moment there was space, you gripped Ningning's wrist, tugged her forward, and shouldered your way through the path that had been previously blocked. Ningning stumbled behind you with a squeak, and her hand latched onto Yeonjun's jacket to pull him along too, forming an escape chain.

You didn't need to look back to know Jay was watching. You could feel his gaze, lingering at the nape of your neck, behind your ears, deep into your spine.

"Wow," Yeonjun exhaled as soon as the three of you stepped outside the doors, blinking against the light, his tone caught between disbelief and admiration. "So that's why every Alpha suddenly knows how to shut up. That explains everything." You turned toward him with a confused scowl, but he was already shaking his head in mock amusement, tossing a casual glance back toward the hallway. "Have you seriously not figured it out yet?" he added. "It's not just how he looks. Or how he smells. Or even how he talks. It's the way everyone stays the hell out of his way. The kind of energy that just... makes room."

It pissed you off. How dramatic. You and your Omega—both of you were overindulgent messes, mirrors of each other in every inconvenient way. Your Omega's selectiveness was spoiled, like a princess too used to silk and refusing to touch cotton. And you were no better. Just as stubborn. Just as dramatic. Craving you swore you didn't want, again and again.

You huffed out a breath, fixing the strap of your bag on your shoulder as you picked up your pace, heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with cardio. "Can we not talk about it?" you muttered, not bothering to look at either of them.

Yeonjun opened his mouth like he was about to tease you again, but one glance at your expression had him wisely zipping it shut. Beside you, Ningning was biting back a grin behind her hand.

     AND SO the misery dragged on. Between the growing mess of university games preparation and your personal unraveling over a certain Alpha, your sanity was hanging by a shimmery thread—one you were trying to keep from snapping entirely.

Everyone around you was drowning in deadlines and rehearsals, meetings and budget finalizations. Even the ones who volunteered for simple tasks like handing out water bottles or fixing props were being pulled into everything else. You had thought assigning yourself to the easiest roles—minor facilitator, observer for group violations, and a light participation in charades—would buy you some peace. A clean getaway. But clearly, the universe had other plans.

"Cat? Tiger? WHAT?!" one of your groupmates blurted in frustration. They were standing dead center in the practice circle, waving their arms wildly in a manner that looked more like someone having a seizure than mimicking an animal.

You stood toward the back, arms folded, eyebrows scrunched together in a mix of confusion and disbelief. What the hell was the point of practicing charades? It was a game, not a professional competition. What were they trying to do? You scoffed under your breath and shifted your stance, only for your gaze to fall again on Jay.

He was seated on the sidelines, long legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed, head tilted in the most indifferent angle possible. Not even pretending to guess, just watching. You tried looking away, forcing your attention toward the front, only to feel that gnawing awareness buzz again under your skin. When you looked back, he had shifted closer, slightly. Huh?

You blinked. No, surely that was just your overcooked brain playing tricks. Still, you took a quiet step to the left, casually. You repositioned yourself slightly, putting more space between the two of you. But minutes passed, and each time you glanced at him, intending to make it the last glance, he had moved again. Inch by inch.

You moved again, subtly this time, hoping no one would notice your slow migration toward the side of the gym. Your back brushed the wall now as you pretended to examine your nails. You sighed, pretending to look interested in the group still trying to guess whether the front actor was portraying a lion or having a breakdown. You exhaled slowly, pretending to be interested, when instinct tugged at your awareness once more—and your eyes, despite your will, slid sideways. What the hell?! He's closer again, and this time, time he wasn't even pretending to be subtle about it!

He sat himself against the row of benches just a few steps from where you stood, one arm slung over the backrest. His body was angled just slightly toward you. Was he trying to drive you insane? Your Omega certainly didn't mind. She stirred in response, all soft approval and giddy treacherous purrs, already reacting to his presence, to his nearness, to the subtle flare of his scent in the air.

You could practically feel the edge of his attention brushing against your skin. You took a half step to the right, hugging the wall as if proximity to stone would somehow create distance from him. You were running out of space to move, running out of excuses to act like you didn't notice the subtle pursuit happening right before your eyes.

What did he even want from you? He was too handsome for his own good. For your good. So handsome it made your stomach flip in betrayal, made your Omega thrum low with interest even when your mind screamed no. Soooo quiet and confusing.

You pressed your palm to your forehead, hissing softly under your breath. Was this all in your head? Were you spiraling again? Letting your mind fill in blanks? Because if Jay really was trying to get closer to you—if he really had intentions—shouldn't he be doing more than just orbiting you? Shouldn't he say something? Shouldn't he be... Alpha about it? Direct. If he had something to say, why didn't he say it?

You bit the inside of your cheek, jaw tight with frustration. If he stepped up, if he really approached you with something, you might even talk to him. You'd consider it. Maybe. Depending on how sincere he was. Depending on whether he finally decided to show something other than brooding detachment—

Ugh. You scowled at the floor, fingers twitching at your sides. "Get a grip," you muttered. You'd promised not to fall again, not to spiral, not to read into things that had no definitive shape. But here you were, teetering on the edge of hope like a fool all over again.

The actor's arm shot out, finger aimed directly at you. All eyes shifted to your spot near the edge of the group, and a few uncertain voices from the team began guessing aloud. "Girl?! Omega?!"

You scoffed at the predictability of it all, one brow arched as you crossed your arms and tilted your head ever so slightly. "Seriously? That's your guess?" You sighed. "Gorgeous girl? Or beautiful? Or goddess-tier attractive? Ethereal-level?"

Others rolled their eyes. The actor at the front gave you an exasperated look and waved their hand to signal an emphatic no. Without hesitation, they redirected their finger—this time, toward the person standing a few feet to your right. Jay.

Your smirk slipped, you narrowed your eyes and shifted your weight, watching him between mischief and challenge. "Oh," you said, dragging the word out as your gaze sharpened. "Okay. If it's him..."

You didn't even hesitate. "Boring?" you said dryly. There were a few immediate snorts from around the room. Jay's brow twitched ever so slightly. You pressed on, chin lifted, eyes still on him. "Annoying? Cold? Stoic to a fault?"

Jay finally turned his head, slowly, his eyes locked onto yours, unimpressed. "Mute? Robotic?" you added, your voice rising as you threw a hand in the air. "Is that it?"

The timer buzzed sharply, the actor at the front let out a frustrated groan, throwing their hands in the air before stomping once. They pointed between you and Jay, "It was mate! The word was mate!"

Someone in the crowd groaned. "What?! That was the answer?! Dude, you should've made a kissing motion or pointed between them and made a heart or something!"

"Yeah, how the hell were we supposed to get that? You can't just stare at them all intense and expect us to read your mind!"

The actor scowled and dropped their arms in defeat. "I thought it was obvious! They were the only Alpha and Omega here."

You rolled your eyes hard, pivoting away before anyone could catch the way your expression had cracked for just a second. "First of all," you snapped as you threw your bag strap over your shoulder, "you can't just point at me and him like that. We're not mates or whatever delusion you're trying to project. That's not how it works." Your words earned a mix of laughter and awkward glances from the group. You didn't care. You were already done with this entire thing. "Second," you continued, lifting your brows with biting impatience, "are we done? Or are we still pretending this is productive?"

Someone from the group coughed awkwardly. "O-Okay, okay. Let's call it for today. We'll send out the next schedule in the group chat."

You didn't wait for anything more. With a heavy sigh and the clatter of your bag's chain strap jingling from the abrupt movement, you turned on your heel and made a beeline toward the gym's exit. But the moment you reached the threshold of the doorway, a firm hand gripped your wrist and pulled you back. Your breath hitched in your throat, eyes snapping wide as your entire body jolted in surprise. Heat bloomed in your chest, and you instantly glanced down at where your skin touched his. Jay's fingers curled around your wrist.

Your voice came out breathier. "W-What? What do you want?" You tried to pull your hand back, but his grip remained.

Jay met your gaze with that same maddeningly unreadable expression of his. Then, slowly, his lips parted. "I'm not boring," he said.

You stared at him. Really? That's what he wanted to say? That's what he grabbed you for? Your eye twitched so hard, you yanked your hand out of his grip, fingers twitching as you pushed your hair behind your ears, trying to regain control of your composure. You blink and scoffing aloud. "Okay? So what?" You adjusted your bag with a jerky movement as you rolled your eyes. "Geez," you muttered under your breath,  "grabbing me just to make some random declaration? What do you expect me to say—thank you for not being boring, Jay? God."

You didn't wait for his response. Your steps carried you away. "Save that crap for someone who cares," you muttered under your breath. You didn't look back, not even once.

But if you had... You would've seen him still standing there, frozen in place long after your silhouette disappeared through the exit. Jay remained where you left him, hand slowly rising to the back of his neck as he stared at the spot you'd just vacated. His brows were drawn together. He dragged his hand up to rake through his hair, fingers lingering at his scalp, thinking if he's really... that boring?

⋮ ⌗ act twelve

     THE WEATHER today was a rare kind of perfect—sun-drenched, warm without stifling heat, the air light with the of early spring. The sky stretched out in a near cloudless blue, and a cool breeze swept through the campus, threading between the buildings and fluttering the edges of banners and flags already posted for the University's most anticipated event: the University Games. With classes canceled and most students bustling through final setup or cheering on their teams, the grounds were buzzing with energy. You couldn't help but admire the aesthetics of it all.

The theme colors were bold, but you were particularly grateful that your team had landed the color red. And conveniently, it aligned beautifully with your latest indulgences. You'd recently completed your Strawberry Cupid cosmetics collection. And as if that wasn't enough, your luck had been on your side with your latest blind box pull: a Hirono figure, one with a subtle red accent that matched your theme perfectly. You had it displayed in a protective case, clipped securely to your bag like a prized charm, joining a chorus of other preppy red trinkets that clattered softly with every step you took.

Your outfit for the day had been planned to the last detail. You wore a cream-colored tube top with a tiny cherry print pressed delicately at the center of your chest. The hemline dipped into an asymmetrical cut, paired beautifully with your choice of bottoms—bright red gingham ruffled mini shorts that flounced with every step, the layered fabric catching light and movement. Your legs were bare save for a pair of cream slouch socks pulled just above your ankles, tucked neatly into glossy red ballet flats that completed the look with an effortless, doll-like finish. Your accessories tied everything together. A red-and-white handbag hung at your side, your hair was styled in soft, airy waves that kissed your collarbones, a thin red ribbon headband adding a final bow to the entire ensemble.

"Wow," Giselle breathed, her mouth falling open in admiration as her eyes swept over your outfit. Clad in her own team's yellow-themed uniform. All around, students were beginning to gather—each department assembling by their designated colors as the short parade preparation commenced.

"Bitch," Ningning hissed under her breath, shooting a warning glance toward one of the faculty marshals pacing nearby. "We cannot be caught talking right now. Do you want to rack up a violation on the first day? They're being extra strict this year."

Giselle rolled her eyes with an exaggerated sigh, clearly unbothered. "Please. As if any of us care about their point deductions when we're drowning in deadlines. I've been buried under banners and rehearsals for three nights straight. I haven't even had the time to stalk your life updates, let alone breathe." Her voice dropped dramatically. "God help these competitive people. I swear the yellow team is training like we're about to enter the Olympics."

You smiled despite yourself, adjusting the ribbon in your hair as you caught your reflection in a tinted window nearby. "That's because you guys think school spirit is war."

"War is easier to win than keeping up with our cheer choreographer," Giselle muttered. "Also—hello, why did no one tell me you were showing up like a walking Strawberry Shortcake ad? Is this Dior? Don't tell me you got the blush already."

You gave a lazy tilt of your head and flashed a coy, smug smile as you adjusted the strap of your red-and-white handbag. "Ningning didn't tell you? I already got it," you replied, shifting your bag just enough to reveal the glint of the compact inside. The logo shimmered briefly in the sunlight, catching Giselle's full attention.

Ningning gave a sigh and crossed her arms. "She even pulled the red-accent Hirono figurine in her blind box yesterday. It's been nonstop flexing. Honestly, I'm exhausted."

"Okay, I'd brag too," Giselle snapped, without an ounce of shame, then squinted toward your bag with renewed suspicion. "Wait—wait a damn minute. Is that the strawberry lip glaze too? Bitch... Bitch?!"

"Don't touch it!" you squealed, laughing as you pulled your bag slightly away. But it was too late. The three of you were already spiraling into squeals, flailing your hands in a flurry of uncontained excitement. But just as you were about to gloat further about your matching blush-and-glaze combo, the air around you shifted.

The entire atmosphere of the field seemed to hush, as if everyone collectively sensed the gravity of someone approaching. Heads turned slowly, chatter dulled to whispers, and your own breath hitched when you finally followed their line of sight.

He wasn't walking through the crowd so much as parting it. People instinctively moved aside, their conversations falling silent in his presence. Every eye was on Jay, yet he remained unbothered, completely immersed in his own stride. Your mouth parted in disbelief, a soft "meow" slipping past your lips without your permission.

He was dressed in a deep red velvet jacket. Black trim lined the lapels and pockets in clean, elegant lines, echoing the sharp structure of the black collared shirt beneath it. And the pins—tiny enamel pieces, all vibrant—rested perfectly over his heart. A silver chain glinted at his throat. His hair was styled back, parted to the side in a soft wave that exposed the sharp cut of his jawline and the single silver hoop he wore in his left ear.

"Since when did he learn how to style?" Ningning whispered sharply beside you, her eyes wide as she nudged you with her elbow. "And—oh my God—he's not wearing his glasses! Are you seeing this? Your Alpha is getting hotter by the day. You better watch yourself before you fall flat on your face."

You opened your mouth to respond, but you didn't get the chance. A sharp whistle blew through the field. Students immediately snapped to attention like a ripple of panic, and Giselle practically leapt back into her designated team cluster like she was afraid she'd be penalized just for existing outside of her assigned line.

You and Ningning exchanged a silent look, then grabbed each other's hands out of habit, stepping into formation with the rest of your teammates dressed in bright shades of crimson. Your heart was still beating too fast, the residual heat from earlier making your palms slightly damp. As you adjusted your position in the line, another wave of scent hit the air. You recoiled slightly, nose wrinkling.

"Gosh!" you whispered under your breath, your hand tightening around Ningning's wrist. "I can smell Dior Sauvage layered over Alpha-grade pheromones. I don't like this!"

"What the hell," Ningning whispered back quickly, eyes flicking over the crowd. "It's that guy—look, from CHS. The one with the stupidly wide shoulders. God, he's marinating in it."

You tried not to gag as the scent continued to invade your space. It wasn't that it was bad, it was just so strong. Your Omega curled, restless, clearly displeased. You grimaced, fighting the urge to scratch at the patch on your neck as it began to tingle, reacting to the collision of Alpha presence in the air. It didn't want the ones broadcasting their dominance like a badge of honor. No. It wanted the quiet one in the red velvet jacket.

"The parade hasn't even started and I can already smell the Athletics department's goddamn pheromones," you hissed under your breath, fanning yourself with your palm even though the temperature wasn't to blame. Your brows furrowed sharply, frustration tightening your expression. "Why can't the university make an official rule to contain that shit for at least an hour? One hour! That's not too much to ask!" You groaned, nose wrinkling. "There are so many Omegas here, and none of these steroid-brained Alphas are bothering to keep themselves in check.Be fucking sensitive, assholes!"

Ningning tugged discreetly at your arm, her voice low and nervous as she leaned in. "Hey, hey—volume down. You're going to start a scene. They're already looking. Do you want us to grab the scent oil in my bag? Or change your patch? We can duck out for five minutes, seriously."

You exhaled in a rush, frustration curling hot under your skin. "Leave it," you said, jaw clenched. "I just need to stretch out what little patience I have left—"

But you didn't finish your sentence. Both you and Ningning turned your heads in unison, a shared instinct prickling at the base of your neck. Your heart immediately dropped to your stomach. There was Jay, moving behind you quietlyy. You hadn't even heard his footsteps, he was too close, near enough that you could already feel the subtle diffusion of his pheromones against your skin. It wasn't overwhelming like the other Alphas', not the raw musk of competition or lust. No, Jay's scent hit different — grounding, soothing. It was a calm you didn't ask for but your Omega reacted to instantly.

But then you noticed the two Omegas standing near him, heads tilted up, practically glowing under his presence. Their expressions were soft, eyelids heavy, and one even let out the smallest purr—an involuntary sound of want, shamefully transparent in its yearning. The sight made a sour feeling twist in your gut.

And it wasn't your Omega this time. It wasn't instinct that made your stomach coil, or your spine stiffen. It wasn't scent compatibility or hormonal alignment or any of those excuses you usually clung to when you wanted to justify the way he affected you. It was deeper, uglier. It was you—your own bitter, jealous flame hissing at the audacity of other Omegas being near him.

You sucked in a sharp breath and turned away, jaw clenched. Your eyes burned from the effort not to glance back at him, not to check if he noticed them, if he noticed you. So you moved. Stepped backward without thought, crafting a clumsy escape that looked like a little accident.

You let yourself stumble. Your balance tipped just slightly, and there he was. Jay's arm was already around you, one strong, sure hand curled low on your waist, steadying you. His chest met your back, your heart thundered against your ribs, betraying every carefully built wall you'd constructed.

You didn't immediately move away. You didn't shove him off. Instead, your hand moved behind you, seeking him out out of sheer need to reclaim, to assert something of your own. Your fingers found his wrist, curled lightly around the hand still resting at your waist. Your gaze, sharp with disdain, flicked back toward the two Omegas who were still watching—watching him, watching you, watching the space between. One tilted her head, the other biting her lip with a look that made your skin crawl. You met their gazes directly, cocking your head with your tongue pressed hard to the inside of your cheek, a single brow raised in a clear challenge.

Yeah. That's right. His hand is on yours.

You didn't mean for the thought to form. It just did. Only then did you turn your head slightly, speaking low, "I'm fine."

Jay coughed lightly in response, then, wordlessly, he let go of you. His touch disappeared as quickly as it had come. You straightened your spine with grace, brushing your hair back over your shoulder in a casual, indifferent sweep, even as your fingers trembled faintly from the leftover heat of contact.

Beside you, Ningning said nothing, but her lips were pressed together, trembling with the effort it took not to unleash a barrage of teasing remarks. She caught your eye, her gaze wide, gleaming with unshed laughter and then, mercifully, seemed to reconsider. Instead of speaking, she quietly reached into her pocket and pulled out a small roller bottle of scent stabilizer oil, offering it to you without a word.

You took it gratefully, pressing the vial beneath your nose, inhaling the grounding floral notes until your heartbeat began to settle. The faculty marshal's voice cut through, commanding the line to form and settle. A whistle followed. And just like that, the parade began. You moved forward, linking arms with Ningning as your team fell into stride, feet crunching rhythmically on the pavement. You refused to look back as you know that Jay is still behind you, if anyone asked, he was just walking in the same direction. Just part of the team. Just another Alpha in red. But you knew better, you could sense it in the way his steps matched yours perfectly, in the subtle bubble of pheromones he projected—not forcefully, not possessively, but to anchor the space around you. Like he was standing guard.

Damn him for existing like that, for breathing like that, for walking around campus with that face. For showing up with silver hair and that velvet-red jacket. For looking so good you could practically taste him. Ugh. You're so hungry, you could eat Park Jongseong.

     BORING. That was the only word you could use to describe the atmosphere as your group filed into the stuffy theater hall for the official kickoff of the University Games program. Each department team was set to perform—either a dance, a cheer, or some half-hearted thematic act—but none of it sparked even a flicker of your interest. You weren't here for the school spirit or the applause. You were here because attendance was required, and the penalty for skipping involved a long conversation with the student council and a deduction from your participation credits.

You shifted in your seat, elbows pressed to the armrest, chin propped against your hand as your eyes lazily traced the glitter on your nails. At least those were worth your attention—Strawberry Gel Gloss, imported and cured perfectly. The subtle shimmer caught the lighting just enough to distract you from the secondhand embarrassment unfolding on stage.

Why does this day have to be sooo long? Beside you, Ningning had long since surrendered to the tedium, slumped in her seat with her arms crossed, head tilted at a sharp angle as she let out a soft, very unladylike snore every few minutes. You didn't even bother to nudge her awake. She wasn't missing anything of value. On your other side, Yeonjun had decided the only way to endure the event was by blasting ridiculous sound effects on his phone to mock whatever act was happening on stage. You would've told him to stop, but honestly, it was the only source of entertainment keeping you from standing up and walking out.

You sighed, slumping deeper in your seat as the stage lights shifted for the next performance, another over-rehearsed dance team stepping out with manufactured smiles and glittery costumes. You could already feel your patience thinning. With a sigh, you rose from your seat, slipping your small makeup purse.

"Restroom," you muttered, half to the facilitator and half to yourself, not bothering to explain further. Before leaving, you leaned over and pinched Yeonjun's arm hard enough to make him jolt upright.

"Ow! What—?"

"Watch my stuff," you said flatly, already turning away before he could argue. As you shifted out of the row, your gaze unintentionally brushed past the row behind. Jay was sitting a few seats back. Your breath hitched, and you immediately looked away.

You huffed under your breath and headed toward the exit doors. The moment you stepped outside the auditorium, the heat of the air hit you. God, you needed a moment. You navigated the hallway, zeroing in on the nearest restroom. But when you rounded the corner, your heart sank, a long, snake-like, unreasonable line. Dozens of girls outside the restroom door, chatting, fixing hair, spraying perfume. You stared at the scene for a moment, there was no way in hell you were going to wait in that disaster.

With another exhausted huff, you turned on your heel, heading in the opposite direction without a word, already scanning the halls for an alternate restroom —only to realize with a grimace that it was in an entirely different building. Too far. And honestly? Maybe worth it. The program was dragging anyway. No one was checking attendance between segments, and as long as you returned before the final signature round, you wouldn't be marked absent.

So with zero remorse and zero intention of turning back, you pushed open the exit doors, stepping out into the warm air with relief—only to be met with a sudden blur of movement then a splash of a full, icy wave of water hit you from the left, soaking your upper body. Your entire torso and face were instantly drenched, droplets clinging to your lashes, your cherry tube top is soaked, your hair plastered flat to your cheeks in soaked strands. Your mouth fell open in pure disbelief, hands raised midair.

A group of students in green team uniform stood frozen in place for a split second before one of them, a Beta girl with wide eyes and a guilt-stricken face, stammered, "S-sorry!" Then she bolted. The rest of her group followed, scattering, shouting over their shoulders, pretending not to see the aftermath of their recklessness.

You stood motionless for a beat, trembling. Your perfectly curled hair was now dripping. "Are you freaking serious right now?!" you hissed, pushing your wet hair out of your face. You took a step forward, heels slapping violently against the concrete, eyes narrowed to slits.

"Fuck!" you shouted, unable to hold it in anymore. "I will personally observe and write every single one of your team's goddamn violations during every game this week, you fucking losers!"

Your voice echoed across the building's outer walkway. A few nearby students turned their heads, startled, but quickly looked away, pretending not to hear your meltdown. You didn't care. Your fists clenched at your sides, shaking with frustration, your chest heaving as you tried to collect yourself. Inhale. Exhale. Your teeth grit together. Your jaw ached from how hard you were biting down to keep from screaming. You stood still for a few more seconds, head tilted up toward the sky, eyes clenched shut, fists trembling in midair.

Okay. Breathe. Spiraling right now would only make things worse. Sending out distress signals through your scent? Even worse. You couldn't afford that. You glanced down at your soaked top, returning to the theater hall in this condition was not an option. You were already one wrong breath away from an emotional meltdown, and going back in front of dozens of people—including him—would only send you hurtling over the edge. You needed privacy. A place to breathe. A place to reset. Somewhere you could hide, wipe down, and at least try to salvage what was left of your dignity before figuring out what excuse to file for an early dismissal. Yes. That was the plan. Go somewhere quiet, breathe through it, pull yourself back together. You were smart. You could handle this.

With your jaw clenched and your shoulders stiff, you hurried toward the adjacent building. The water from your clothes leaving small, wet footprints in your wake. You rubbed your bare arms for warmth and clutched your purse tightly against your chest. You reached the restroom and tried the handle. Locked.

"Fuck!" you snapped, voice cracking at the edge. You kicked the door with the side of your foot. Frustration seethed through you, and you could feel your scent patch beginning to lose its grip—literally and biologically. The adhesive was already slipping at the edge of your neck, the warmth of your skin making it worse, and under it your scent glands throbbed with suppressed irritation.

You could feel your Omega starting to rise beneath your skin, agitated and uncomfortable, your body was undeniably distressed, and the scent trying to claw its way out was getting harder and harder to suppress. Your jaw was locked tight, your eyes blinking hard against the sting of overwhelmed tears that threatened to spill at the corners. The wet fabric clung mercilessly to your skin. It was sticking under your arms, your back, your chest, your skirt was wet at the hem. The discomfort was physical, but it was also emotional, like every inch of your pride had taken a direct hit.

You stormed down the corridor again, testing every door you passed, one after the other. Locked. Locked. Locked. Every knob that refused to turn made your breath shallower, your chest tighter. There wasn't even a custodian in sight, no staff or faculty nearby to beg for a key. The building was quiet, abandoned for the weekend games. You paused near the stairwell at the end of the hall, pressing the heel of your hand against your temple. You could feel yourself unraveling, the wetness of your clothes feeding your panic, and the creeping warmth of your scent threatening to spike into full Omega distress.

You were close, so achingly close, to spiraling completely. Your lungs felt too tight, your heart racing with the sort of panic that brewed just beneath the surface of logic. Your Omega instincts were beginning to fray at the edges, and the soaked, clinging fabric of your clothes was not helping. You needed somewhere to regroup before your emotions fully detonated.

That was when your eyes caught on the slightly ajar door across the hall, the gold-plated sign reading Faculty Room B. The overhead lights were dim, but the gentle hum of the air conditioning told you the room wasn't fully shut down. You hesitated only for a second before approaching, your steps slow and cautious, fingers brushing against the doorframe as you peeked inside. It was empty, or so it seemed. You knocked once—lightly. Then again, no answer, taking a careful breath, you slipped inside and shut the door behind you. The room was too cool. The air from the vents blasted steadily, goosebumps rising along your bare arms and soaked shoulders. You winced, arms wrapping around yourself as you stepped deeper into the room.

Tears pricked at your eyes again. You had looked so good today. Every detail was perfectly curated—from your cherry-print top to your soft waves tied back with the matching red ribbon. You had spent hours getting ready, all for what? To be doused like a wet rag by careless teammates hauling around gallons of water. You didn't even have a change of clothes. What were the odds something like this would happen today of all days? And your phone—God, your phone was inside your bag in the theater hall, with Yeonjun, and probably buried under other people's bags by now. You were stranded. Humiliated. Cold. And your scent patch was definitely beginning to give up on clinging to your damp skin.

You shivered under the sharp current of the AC, stepping toward the control panel near the window and jabbing at the buttons to lower the power. Nothing. Your eye twitched. It didn't respond, and the icy air just kept blowing, relentless and indifferent. Your teeth clenched, body shaking slightly—not just from the cold, but from the rising tide of every little thing that had gone wrong.

"Fuck this life!" You screamed, wanting to cry loudly. Or maybe be held... or scented.

Maybe... maybe if Jay were here, he'd do something. He always did. Whether it was scolding you or pulling you back from the edge, he always seemed to know exactly when you were about to break. Your body remembered the calm he could bring, the way his presence seemed to quiet everything, and for a moment your heart genuinely wished he'd appear right then, take one look at you, and just fix it all.

"Loud." A groggy voice, interrupted your spiraling from somewhere behind.

Your body jolted, startled, as your pulse slammed against your ribcage. A soft, strangled sound escaped your lips as your eyes frantically scanned the room again. You had been sure—absolutely sure—that you were alone. But as your gaze slid past the cluster of stacked chairs and cluttered filing cabinets, it landed on a shadow you'd missed. Tucked away behind one of the larger staff desks, nearly swallowed by a mismatched collection of boxes and forgotten bulletin boards, was a worn leather sofa. And on that couch, now stirring and stretching with a yawn that cracked his jaw open, sat a figure slowly rising from the grip of sleep.

His movements were sluggish, bleary-eyed, disoriented like someone still not entirely convinced they were awake. He rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand and dragged the other through his silver-gray hair, which stuck out at every possible angle. It was styled in a loose undercut. His yellow jersey clung to the shape of his arms and torso, crumpled. He was blinking at you. Just as confused as you were. Just... far more composed about it.

You, on the other hand, let out a pitchy, breathless squeal. Your hand flew to your chest as if to hold your heart in place. The panic bloomed across your face, cheeks heating in humiliation as your feet instinctively stepped backward, nearly stumbling over themselves. Your purse slipped down your wrist.

The man on the couch tilted his head lazily, still groggy, his voice laced with irritation. "Did you close the door?"

You blinked at him, confused. "What?"

"The lock's busted from the inside," he muttered, gesturing vaguely without lifting his head. "You won't be able to open it again. We're stuck unless someone opens it from the other side."

Your stomach dropped. Immediately, you spun on your heel and stormed back toward the door, gripping the handle and yanking it hard. Nothing. You jiggled it again, then again, a little louder each time, until your fists were pounding against the wood, your voice rising into panicked calls for help. "Hello?! Someone?! We're locked in! Hello?!" The only response was the muffled hum of distant noise down the hallway—likely the sound of cheers from the program.

The man behind you sighed, long and bone-deep, as if the sound of your distress physically exhausted him. You turned around, chest heaving. "D-Do you have your phone? Call someone! C-call your teammates! I don't want to die in here!"

He stretched his arms above his head, visibly unbothered. "Skipped basketball practice," he said lazily. "Didn't bring my phone."

You stared at him, lips parting, speechless. The weight of everything that had happened—your ruined outfit, your ruined mood, your ruined pride—pressed down on your shoulders. With a broken sob, you dropped to your knees near the doorway, the tile floor cold against your skin, and finally let it happen. The tears spilled faster. Your palms rubbed against your arms, trying to create friction, some sort of warmth. Your chest rose and fell in unsteady gasps, jaw clenched from how hard your teeth chattered. "God, I'm going to get pneumonia," you mumbled to no one, vision blurring with fresh tears.

From behind, you heard the soft creak of leather and the rustle of fabric. "You're seriously making my ears ring," the man muttered, not moved with your spiral as he rubbed the back of his head. You ignored him, curling inward slightly, clutching your cold arms to your chest. Your wet clothes clung tighter by the second, and your scent patch had completely given up. You could feel your scent struggling not to escape, your control thinning out. All you wanted was warmth, comfort. You wanted Jay. You wanted him. You were too exposed, too shattered, and all your instincts screamed for the one Alpha your Omega had ever let in. You didn't even have the energy to be embarrassed by it.

Your answer came in a sob that was nearly a wail. "I'm cold," you choked out, the words tumbling between shivers. "So cold, I can't—I'm gonna dieeeee..." You didn't know if the tears were because of the actual cold or just the absurdity of your situation. You wanted to lie down. You wanted to disappear. You wanted Jay's voice, Jay's scent, Jay's arms. "I need—" Your voice cracked, and you couldn't say the rest. You need Jay. But it sounded too real, too humiliating to say aloud.

The man groaned under his breath again. You could hear the irritation in it, like he was holding back the urge to cover his ears as though your very presence was testing the limits of his patience. He pushed himself to his feet, borderline irritated. Then, without warning, he reached for the hem of his yellow jersey and pulled it off.

"W-What are you doing?!" you shrieked, hands flying up to shield your eyes. "Pervert!"

"I'm not," he muttered with complete disinterest, like he didn't even have the energy to be offended by your accusation. Before you could register what was happening, something hit you in the face. You flailed, letting out another shriek as the fabric slid down your arms and into your lap. "Put it on," he grumbled, already flopping back down onto the sofa. "Wear it or die in the cold. Either way, it's not my problem anymore."

You blinked down at the crumpled fabric in your hands, your lip curling slightly. His scent clung to the jersey, so masculine, it wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it was overpowering in your already heightened state. You inhaled shakily and glared in his direction, even though he wasn't looking at you. "C-Can't we just turn off the damn AC?!"

"Try," he shot back flatly, eyes closed again, arm thrown over his forehead like he was trying to nap. "There's no remote. Outlet are on the wall—practically mounted near the ceiling. You planning to fly up there?"

You glanced toward the unit, your expression souring. Sure enough, the panel was ridiculously high up, nowhere near your reach even if you stood on your toes and prayed. "Are you kidding me?" you muttered through clenched teeth.

"Nope." He sounded positively indifferent. "Been stuck in this room enough times to know it's useless unless you're over six foot or suicidal."

You bit your lip, the frustration building again. You didn't want to wear some stranger's scent-marked jersey, but your body was shivering violently, and your scent glands were screaming. Fine. You were past caring. With a slow, shaky breath, you reached up and peeled off the nearly useless patch from your neck. The adhesive tugged, the last bit of restraint coming undone with it. You hissed softly at the exposure but the relief was immediate. Your Omega shifted beneath your skin, uncurling like a cat finally freed from a box. You glanced toward the Alpha still lounging on the sofa across the room. His eyes were closed, clearly uninterested in anything involving your emotional breakdown. Good.

"You're naked. Aren't you cold?" you asked, your voice wobbling slightly as you tried to shift the attention off your own spiraling nerves.

The guy barely cracked an eye open from where he was reclined on the old staffroom sofa. His bare chest rose and fell slowly, unbothered, and his voice came out uninterested. "I'm an Alpha. Our bodies regulate heat differently."

You blinked at him, stunned by the sheer nonchalance. Meanwhile, your body was about two shivers away from collapsing. "I—I'm going to change now," you declared, voice catching at the beginning, but you straightened up, planting your feet firmly. You shifted a half-step toward the wall, clutching the jersey close to your chest. "Don't look. Seriously. If you even glance in this direction, I will kick your head clean off your neck. I studied karate. I'm a Yellow belt. I know things."

He didn't even glance over. "Not interested," he said. You narrowed your eyes suspiciously and shot him one final glance, as if to make sure he wouldn't try anything. He had one arm draped lazily across his eyes, his posture loose, the epitome of bored indifference. With a huff, you turned back and exhaled through your nose, peeling the soaked tube top from your skin. The chill from the AC hit immediately, making you clench your jaw. Your tube bra was no better—cold, wet, and absolutely miserable against your skin. You reached behind and unclasped it, letting it fall silently to the floor.

Just as you were about to yank the jersey over your head, a low, drawn-out whistle cut through the silence. Your head snapped on him, cheeks warming. He was still sprawled on the worn leather sofa. His arm was still thrown over his eyes, but you could see the curve at the edge of his mouth. A smirk stretched slowly into place.

"Fucker," you hissed in mortification. In a panic, you yanked the oversized jersey back down, the fabric clinging awkwardly to your skin as you stormed toward him. Your legs carried you fast across the floor, fists clenched.

Without a second thought, you slapped your hand against his shoulder. His body jolted slightly with the impact, but he didn't so much as flinch. He merely lowered his arm enough to look at you, one eye cracking open lazily, his smirk never faltering. "Damn," he drawled, still unbothered, "you hit like a damp tissue."

You gaped, your mouth floundering for words that wouldn't come out in full shrieks. Your fingers twitched at your sides, torn between strangling him and wrapping yourself tighter in the borrowed fabric. "You—you pervert—!"

"I'm not," the man replied coolly, shifting on the worn leather couch as he propped himself up on one elbow to look at you more directly. Your breath hitched sharply as his eyes dragged over you. Not in a leering way, but it didn't matter. You weren't wearing a bra, and the oversized jersey did little to hide the shape of your body beneath it. You gasped, one arm shooting up to shield your chest, jaw hanging open in disbelief.

His gaze didn't waver. His head tilted slightly, brows furrowing in a lazy sort of intrigue. "Damn," he muttered. "Damn... you're actually really pretty. Now I'm interested."

Your mouth fell open, rage eclipsing embarrassment in an instant. "Well, I'm not interested!" you snapped, voice cracking on the edges of indignation as you shoved your foot toward the couch in a warning kick. He leaned away slightly and let out a chuckle, one hand patting the empty space on the cushion beside him.

The audacity! Your eyes widened further, lips parting in disbelief as your body instinctively retreated a step, horror blooming across your features. He didn't move closer or didn't push but that didn't lessen the surge of unease and fury twisting inside you.

"Okay," he said after a long beat, stretching. He slouched back again, fingers lacing behind his head, and let out a low sigh of satisfaction. "But damn. You've got one hell of a presence. Can't really blame a guy for being honest."

You recoiled further, glaring at him. "This is harassment," you hissed under your breath, shoulders bristling as your eyes darted to the door again. Still locked. No sounds from outside. "This is exactly what I expect from Alphas like you. You were practically drooling over a nap a minute ago, and now suddenly I'm your new fixation?"

He blinked slowly, dragging one hand down his face. "Sleep resets your system," he mumbled. "Helps the senses recalibrate. Clears your mind. Maybe even helps you notice... certain things."

"God," you muttered, throat tight. "Are Alphas all like this? So cryptic? Always acting like they're saying something profound?"

He didn't answer immediately. Just studied you, unmoved by your contempt, "And you—you walked in here soaked, upset, wrapped in my scent. You were sobbing. That kind of thing... it doesn't just disappear from a guy's head."

A slow, crawling discomfort crept up your back, one vertebra at a time, until your entire spine locked in place, unwillingly stiff. You could feel that subtle flicker, that disoriented stir of your Omega instincts, fumbling for footing it didn't have. Confusion, annoyance, a strange curl of heat. You clenched your jaw, grinding down the reaction before it could show, though your face was already betraying you—flushed cheeks, twitching eye, the whole storm of irritation you were trying not to wear. So annoying!

That guy just stood there, half-naked and completely unfazed. Did he think he was attractive? Seriously? Please. If he was expecting a compliment, he'd have to dig through hell and ego first. No. There was only one Alpha you had ever looked at and actually felt something in your chest that wasn't immediate disgust—and that was Park Jongseong. Annoying, boooring, infuriating Jay. As much as you wanted to hate him, his presence was a whole different gravitational pull. You hated how he moved, how he looked at you, how he lingered.... but none of it compared to the raw, unfair truth: Jay was hot. Unbearably, insultingly hot.

And this stranger? He was just... shirtless and in the way. How the hell were you supposed to take anything he said seriously when he looked like that?

You needed to get out. Not just from this room—but from this entire moment. Spinning sharply on your heel, you stormed toward the door, jaw set, heartbeat tapping erratically in your ears. You slammed your palm against the panel with a force. "Hello?!" your voice cracked at the edge, but shame wasn't your priority right now. "Anyone?! Can somebody hear me?! This isn't funny—open the damn door!"

"Why are you masking your scent?" His voice floated from behind.

You froze for a beat, then turned so fast your hair swung with you. "What?

"You removed your scent patch," he said. "Earlier, it was still faint—peeking through in places. Not fresh. It's messy. Like you peeled it off and hoped no one would notice. But now..." His eyes narrowed slightly as he tilted his head and inhaled, subtly. "There's an imprint underneath. Old. But it's there."

You stared at him, blood suddenly loud in your ears. "What the hell are you talking about?" you hissed, taking a sharp step toward him. "Okay—first of all, shut up. Don't throw around bond terms like you're some kind of scent analyst. You don't know me." Your arm shot out, finger aimed directly at his face. "Imprint? Are you serious? Who do you think you are? Going around sniffing people? God—I knew it! You're one of those creepy, repressed Alphas who acts quiet so no one notices the weirdo underneath."

"I didn't assume anything," he said, tone as neutral as before. "I noticed."

You stared at him, caught between fury and disbelief. "You noticed?" you echoed, voice inching toward hysterical. "You noticed? What, is that supposed to make it better? That's your defense?" You scoffed loudly, throwing your hands up. "Do you even know what imprinting means? Do you understand how insane you sound right now? That requires actual physical proximity. Closeness. Repeated exposure. A bond—not a scent accident. And guess what? I don't touch Alphas. I don't talk to Alphas unless I'm forced to by divine misfortune. No one has ever been close enough to leave any kind of mark on me, scent or otherwise."

Even as the words poured from your mouth, your mind betrayed you with flashes of memory you hadn't invited in. Jay had always been there, in this persistent, maddening way that never allowed you to forget him. The only times you'd truly let yourself near him was when you were chasing him. When your Flower Knows favorite hair clip vanished. You'd snapped at everyone in sight, too distressed to think clearly, until Jay, of all people, calmly handed it back to you.  And for some reason, without thinking, you hugged him. No way, it's impossible... But still—surely you'd feel it if something had happened then, you would have noticed, wouldn't you? Snapped out of it! You forced yourself to swallow the thought. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.

"I'm not someone people imprint on," you muttered under your breath.

The guy tilted his head slightly, there was a glint of curiosity? amusement?—in his eyes that only made your skin crawl further. "Hmm," he murmured, unconvinced. "Must've been a powerful Alpha to leave that kind of imprint."

Weirdo. You didn't even bother answering. You were too tired, too over it, too seconds away from breaking the door down yourself. You turned away from him completely, knuckles already preparing for another round of pounding against the door. But just as your hand drew back to knock again, the door swung open without warning, and the motion startled you so badly that you let out a high-pitched shriek. The sudden rush of light, air, and relief hit you at once, and your eyes immediately welled with tears.

And there, standing in the doorway, was Ningning. Your beautiful, perfect best friend, looking mildly confused. Without hesitation, you threw yourself into her arms, burying your face into her shoulder as the tears finally spilled over. "Ningie," you cried into the curve of her neck, clutching her. "Oh my God, thank you—I was trapped—I thought I'd die in there—"

But Ningning didn't hug you back. Instead, she let out a loud, startled shriek that made you jerk back instinctively. Her hand flew up, pointing with trembling fingers over your shoulder. "Oh my God! N-Naked!" she shrieked, eyes wide with pure horror.

You blinked, confusion flickering through your lashes as you turned your head over her shoulder, dread already twisting in your stomach. Slowly, you pulled away from Ningning, lifting your eyes—and that's when you felt the air leave your lungs. There was one people. Because standing just behind her, half-shadowed by the frame of the open door, was Jay.

Your entire system short-circuited. Cold. Then heat. Then a full-body freeze so intense it made your fingers numb. Panic rippled through your nerves, your Omega curled deep inside your chest, cowering. You couldn't even form a thought, let alone an excuse. You looked away immediately—hard left, anywhere but at him. But your body didn't obey the instinct to flee. You stepped back from Ningning, as if pulled forward by something magnetic and quiet and impossible to reason with. Your feet moved before your mouth did. Moved toward him. "I-It's not what you t-think," you stammered,  "I—It's not—I didn't—he wasn't—nothing happened—"

You were trying to speak but every word landed wrong, cracked in half before it even made it out of your throat. Your mind was spinning, you couldn't explain it, not with Jay standing there looking like that, expression too calm, and definitely too close to seeing through you.

Ningning's shriek tore through the air again, unhelpful and explosive. "Why is he naked?! What the hell is going on?!"

You opened your mouth to reply, to protest, to lie—something—but nothing came out. Instead, before you could even process what was happening, Jay stepped forward.

Silently, without speaking a word, he shrugged off the red velvet jacket he'd been wearing and draped it carefully over your shoulders. You were cold. He noticed. So he fixed it.

You stiffened, overwhelmed by the shift in warmth, the sudden weight of the fabric, the soft brush of it against your neck and arms. His scent was already embedded in it, and your Omega coiled tighter in response. Still trembling, you turned slightly, uncertain of what to do or say next—when Ningning's voice cut in again. "Wait—did he do something to you?!" she snapped, stepping between you and Jay with her fists already half-raised. "Say the word and I'll punch him. I swear to God, I'll break his Alpha jaw."

"Calm down. I didn't do anything to the Omega," the guy muttered, irritation creeping into his voice.

But you didn't lift your head. You didn't understand why your voice had abandoned you, why your throat refused to shape the words clawing just beneath the surface. You weren't scared. No one had laid a hand on you, and yet there you stood, silent, breath shallow, eyes averted like you had something to hide. What made it worse was the guilt that had begun to bloom low in your stomach. You weren't anything. So why did wearing someone else's scent feel like a betrayal? It shouldn't matter!

As if your body had given up waiting for your brain to make sense of anything, you started moving again. Just one step, then another. A soft whine slipped from your throat, then a low, shaky purr followed, rumbling beneath your breath. Mortification hit you, and you froze mid-step, eyes widening, hands clenching the jacket tighter. The shame was instant and scorching, washing over you in waves that made your skin burn and your Omega retreat in embarrassment.

You couldn't even look at Jay now.

"How are we supposed to believe that, huh? You're naked, and my friend was on the verge of a breakdown banging against the damn door! You think that doesn't look suspicious?!" Ningning's hand lashed out without warning, delivering a sharp slap to the stranger's arm. The Alpha barely flinched. He rubbed the spot on his arm with a mild frown, more annoyed.

His jaw tensed for half a second before he exhaled slowly. "She's the one who came into the room," he said. "She was soaked through. Crying. Completely spiraling and shivering. I gave her something dry to wear. That's it."

Ningning scoffed, unconvinced. Her arms folded tightly across her chest, lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes darted between you and the half-dressed Alpha standing in the doorway. "If that's your version of events," she muttered, narrowing her gaze, "then you better hope he believes it too." She jerked her chin toward Jay without looking at him.

Jay hadn't said a word yet, but his silence was louder than any outburst. Your head dipped lower beneath it, eyes fixed to the floor. The other Alpha raised an eyebrow at Ningning's challenge. "I don't care if he believes me," he said, flatly. "I'm not guilty. If you've got a problem, write a letter. Student Affairs, Disciplinary Board—whatever makes you feel better. I've got nothing to explain."

Ningning gasped, scandalized, her jaw falling open at the nerve of the man. She looked like she was about to launch into another tirade, but before she could get the words out, the Alpha stepped forward—out of the room. His movements were slow, he didn't look at Ningning, he looked at you, then Jay.

The air shifted instantly. The moment his eyes landed on Jay, something tightened. It wasn't obvious, but you felt the hallway dropped a few degrees. Two Alphas sizing each other up without a single word exchanged.

You felt your breath catch in your throat. Instinct took over again, before you could stop yourself, your body inched closer to Jay. The man paused briefly, his gaze still moving between the two of you. Then he clicked his tongue. "Lee Heeseung," he said finally, tone dry and dismissive. "That's the name."

And without waiting for a reaction, he turned and walked away down the hall, bare-chested, unbothered, and entirely unapologetic.

The events that followed unfolded in a haze, everything moving too quickly and too loudly for your brain to keep up. There were voices, hands on your shoulders, questions flying at you from every direction, but it all felt distant, like sound underwater. You remembered Ningning grabbing your arm, dragging you down the hallway with a fierce grip that was more protective than angry, her voice rising in disbelief every few seconds. But your responses—if you gave any—were delayed, quiet, or maybe non-existent. You weren't sure. You couldn't even remember the walk back to your house, only that somehow, you ended up here.

The next thing you truly registered was the soft tug of Ningning's fingers combing gently through your hair, "I still can't believe this," she huffed, brushing a little harder than necessary. "The group that soaked you should pay for damages!"

You didn't answer. You were curled under the blanket, knees drawn up, Jay's jacket folded next to you, your fingers kept brushing against the edge of the velvet, guilt lingering in your chest.

Ningning let out another sharp exhale as she grabbed a different comb from your nightstand and switched tactics. "And I'm glad Jay woke me up, by the way," she added, "He said he heard you scream, and that something about it just... felt wrong."

That finally pulled you out of your fog a little. Your brows furrowed as you turned your head toward her, eyes narrowing. "Wait—what scream?" you asked slowly. "I mean, yeah, I was panicking, but I was at least two buildings away from the theater hall. How would he even hear that?"

Ningning stopped brushing for a moment, her fingers hovering in your hair as she gave a shrug. "I don't know. That's what he said. Something about how your voice echoed. Said it sounded off? He looked kind of scary, honestly. Geez, It was the first time I ever talked to him."

You blinked slowly, processing that piece of information. She sat down beside you with a sigh, tossing the comb onto your vanity. "He even got into it with Yeonjun," she muttered. "Told him he should've noticed something was wrong, said it wasn't like you to disappear for that long. And Yeonjun looked so confused and kept saying you were just in the bathroom or getting snacks."

Your brows knit deeper together, thoughts still spiraling, but then a slow, creeping realization settled into your chest, interrupting the emotional numbness you'd been floating in. Something was missing. Not metaphorically—physically missing.

"Ningning," you said suddenly, eyes scanning your room as you tapped around the bedcovers, then moved to brush your fingers across the top of your vanity table. "Where's my bag?"

Ningning froze for a second, her posture straightening as her hands flew to her head, pressing against her temples like she was forcing the memory to rewind. "Oh my God," she muttered. "No, I—I didn't. I think... I think Yeonjun had it? I saw him near the bleachers after Jay found you, maybe he grabbed it? Wait—huh?"

You groaned softly, dragging a hand down your face. "That bag has my phone, my ID, all of my cards." You stood up abruptly, the blanket falling off your lap, and began pacing as Ningning already had her phone out, fingers tapping with speed as she called Yeonjun.

You watched her carefully as the call connected, her expression flickering from impatience to confusion, then suddenly her eyes widened, mouth dropped open.

"What?" you demanded. "What is it? What did he say?"

Ningning slowly pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at you like she wasn't sure whether to laugh, scream, or panic. "Yeonjun said... Jay has it."

You blinked once. "What?" you choked out, voice climbing. "Jay? Jay has my bag?!"

⋮ ⌗ act thirteen

    YOU MOVED through the team hall with careful steps, your eyes sweeping across the space in search. The air was filled with overlapping voices, laughter, the shuffle of sneakers on linoleum floors, and the occasional cheer from one of the outdoor games echoing faintly through the open windows. You barely registered any of it. Your focus was singular: locate Jay.

You are painfully aware of the eyes around you. Well, the fitted red knit dress you wore hugged your upper body snugly while the skirt flared into a soft ivory bell lined with a feathered white hem that danced slightly with each step. You'd layered a cropped ivory sweater over it, the cable-knit texture stitched with delicate fringe, intentionally letting the bold red collar of your dress peek through for contrast.

It was the second day of the Games, and the energy had only gotten more competitive. Everyone was scrambling around, cheering for their assigned teams, decorating booths, carrying snacks, losing their voices over sports they didn't actually care about. There was too much sound, too many bodies, too much everything. And honestly, you'd rather be anywhere else—shopping, napping, locked in a cold boutique fitting room with ambient music. But no. Attendance was mandatory, and the events hadn't even kicked off yet and you were already mentally checking out. The day hadn't even started, and somehow, you felt done.

Your jaw tightened slightly as you tried to stay composed, irritation simmering just under your skin. Where the hell is Jay? You had been searching for him all morning, and still nothing. You just wanted your damn bag back. Your phone, your keys, your wallet—your life—were in there, and the fact that you couldn't even send a text or check your messages without borrowing someone else's device was driving you insane.

You spotted a girl standing near one of the refreshment tables, an Omega, familiar, from your department maybe, and you didn't hesitate, you reached out and tapped her shoulder.

"Hey," you said, trying to keep your tone casual despite the growing urgency in your chest. "You know Jay, right? Park Jongseong? I heard he's doing logistics for the games—do you know where he's stationed right now?"

The girl blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question, but then recognition lit up her face and she clapped her hands together. "Ah! Yes, I saw him earlier," she replied, nodding. "He joined the basketball team yesterday. He's been practicing since this morning—probably still at the gym."

You stared at her, not quite processing. "Basketball?" you repeated in disbelief. You rubbed your ear like it would somehow fix the sound.

She nodded again. "Yeah, the tournament's scheduled for the end of the week, so they've been doing practice rounds. He joined last minute."

You blinked slowly, mouth falling open. "He what?" you muttered under your breath, a delayed thank-you leaving your lips as you turned away.

You walked off, mind racing. Basketball practice? Jay? The same Jay who, just a few weeks ago, had flatly refused the sports committee's recruitment offer? The one who said, and you quote, "I don't play team sports." What the hell was he doing now, suddenly dribbling basketballs?! But honestly, you were too exhausted to untangle the mystery right now. You just wanted your bag. That was the priority.

With determination tightening in your jaw, you pushed through the outer doors of the gym building, your steps echoing across the polished floors as you made your way inside. The moment you entered the gymnasium, however, instant regret washed over you in a hot, overwhelming wave.

The smell hit you.

Your face twisted in disgust as your hand flew up to pinch your nose, the scent practically clawing at your sinuses. "What the fuck," you muttered under your breath, already feeling your head start to spin. The air was heavy with Alpha pheromones, sweaty, competitive, aggressive and it clung to every surface, saturated the floorboards, the padded walls, even the damn water coolers. You hadn't expected a scent this strong, overwhelming, and entirely suffocating.

You took a cautious step back, instinct screaming at you to retreat, but before you could fully process whether to hold your breath or just bolt, a panicked Beta came stumbling into view. He looked like a student manager, clipboard in hand and sweat already forming along his temple.

"H-Hey! Omega presence isn't permitted during team practice hours!" he stammered, trying to usher you out. He reached for your elbow and your brows arched as you stepped to the side and delivered a sharp slap to his arm that was about to hold you.

"Don't touch me," you snapped, eyes narrowed to communicate that you were not in the mood for being handled like a lost freshman.

The Beta immediately froze mid-motion, hand suspended awkwardly in the air as his expression crumbled into panic. His mouth opened, then closed again, clearly searching for the right words to de-escalate the situation, but you didn't bother waiting for them. You brushed past him, you didn't miss the shift in atmosphere around you. The ripple that spread through the rows of resting players, the subtle halt in bouncing basketballs, and the sudden awareness settling into the shoulders of those sitting on the benches. A few turned to whisper to each other. Others didn't even pretend not to stare.

The moment you walked deeper into the gym, a visible shift occurred among the Alphas on the court. You watched them stiffen—spines straightening, postures tightening, muscles coiled. Their heads lifted slightly, the scent in the air thickening as tension coiled around them. You kept your expression neutral, gaze forward, refusing to give them the satisfaction of acknowledging the stir your presence had caused. You kept scanning through the crowd of until your eyes locked onto him.

Jay was drenched in sweat, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths, his shirt clinging to his torso. His jaw was clenched, brows drawn together in annoyance. His hair was damp, messier than usual, and his arms were taut where he stood, barely masked tension rolling off him in waves. His gaze met yours with a directness that made your stomach twist. And then he glared. At you.

What the hell? Why was he glaring at you like you'd committed a crime by simply walking into the gym? You narrowed your eyes in return, raising your chin, refusing to be the first to look away.

Another Alpha pointed in your direction and blurted, "Huh? There's an Omega on the court!"

Before anyone else could react, Jay was already moving. You were still walking toward him, fists clenched at your sides, ready to start a fight over your damn bag, when he met you halfway. And then, without warning, he bent low, one arm sliding behind your knees, the other bracing your back, and lifted you off the floor in one swift, solid motion. You let out a high-pitched shriek, startled beyond reason.

"Jay?! What the—?! Put me down, jerk!" You gasped, your hands flying to his neck for balance as your feet left the ground.

He didn't answer, he just carried you out of the gym. The stares followed you the entire way, but Jay didn't spare them a glance. Once you were out of the suffocating heat and scent of the gym, he stopped just outside the building. Without a word, he set you down, slowly, carefully, his hands steady as he placed you on your feet.

The moment your feet touched the floor, you spun on him with wide eyes and a breathless scoff. "What was that?! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Jay exhaled hard, nostrils flaring, jaw still tight. "What are you doing here?" he hissed, scolding. "Did you not see the sign? Omegas aren't allowed in the gym during Alpha practice hours."

You gawked at him, mouth falling open, the nerve of him sending a fresh wave of indignation up to your brain. "Wow, okay. I should be the one asking you that," you snapped, hands flying to your hips. "Why the hell did you suddenly join basketball? You don't do sports, remember?!"

Jay opened his mouth, clearly ready to respond, but you were already done with the conversation. Before he could get a single syllable out, you stepped forward and pressed your finger firmly against his lips. "Whatever," you said coolly, cutting him off. "Save it. I don't care about your explanation." You lowered your hand, extended your palm between you, raising your eyebrow. "My. Bag."

Jay blinked at you, still slightly breathless from practice, eyes flicking from your outstretched hand to your face, his jaw ticking again. "You couldn't wait until later this afternoon?" he asked, irritated, though not exactly surprised by your intensity. "I said I'd give it to you."

You let out a sharp, incredulous scoff, stepping closer until there was barely a breath of space between the two of you. "Of course I couldn't wait," you snapped, "my cards are in there. My phone. My student ID. That is my entire life compressed into one overpriced designer handbag. You don't just walk off with someone's personal belongings and wait for the mood to strike before returning them. And on top of that, you didn't even bother to tell me you had it!"

Jay exhaled deeply, dragging a slow breath through his nose before closing his eyes for a second longer than necessary, as if silently counting down from ten. "It's at my apartment," he finally muttered.

Your mouth dropped open. "Apartment?" You blinked once. Then, despite yourself, you laughed out of pure disbelief, the kind of dry, edge-of-sanity laugh that meant you were dangerously close to unhinged. "Then call your butler and have him bring it here."

Jay let out a low groan, running a hand through his damp hair in frustration. "I don't have a butler."

You gave him a look so full of skepticism. Hah. A Prime Alpha without a butler? He's practically kidding! You were tired! The past few days had been one long stream of disasters stacked on top of humiliations, and now—this. Nothing beautiful had happened lately. Nothing soft or safe or remotely easy. It was just pure bad luck, and Park Jongseong somehow always showing up in the middle of it all, disrupting your balance with that expressionless handsome fucking face.

You took a step back, inhaled slowly, and crossed your arms. "Skip practice. Right now. We're going to your apartment."

Jay's eyes widened instantly, his entire body reacting, and you swear, you saw a flicker. That rare flicker of visible emotion breaking through his stoic facade. It cracked across his face in the perfect mask he always wore: a flash of hesitation, confusion, and unmistakable panic.

"W-What?" he stammered. "You can't just order me around—" he began, words tumbling out in a rush, like they were trying to catch up with the situation in front of him. His composure slipped another degree, lips parting with another excuse he couldn't seem to form fast enough. "I—I'll bring it here later—"

But your patience was long gone. You leaned forward slightly, narrowing your eyes. "I need it right now," you hissed through your teeth. You hadn't even noticed your fangs pressing into the soft flesh of your lower lip. It was your Omega reacting, agitated by the mix of his scent, your stress. Your gums throbbed faintly, a physical reminder of how close you were to losing the last thread of composure you had left.

Jay continued staring at you, and for a brief moment, it looked like he might argue again. His throat bobbed with a slow, visible gulp—like he was forcing something down. Then he sighed, his shoulders shifted slightly, as if bracing himself, and without another word, he turned and jerked his chin toward the gate in a silent cue for you to follow.

You didn't move right away, still watching him closely, trying to read whatever expression flickered beneath that calm, quiet surface. But then your legs responded and you fell into step behind him as he led the way out of the practice building and into the university's parking lot.

You were already mentally preparing for what you were about to see. Given who he was—the stoic, elegant, too-put-together-for-his-own-good Jay— you were expecting a deep black luxury sedan, maybe a matte-gray Rolls-Royce, or some obnoxiously expensive imported car with tinted windows and too much horsepower. You were already rolling your eyes in advance.

But when he came to a stop, it was in front of a... scooter. Not even a motorcycle. Not a hoverboard. A bright red electric scooter. You blinked once. Your footsteps stalled as your eyes locked onto the sleek little thing, and you stared at it in stunned silence. You tried to form a thought, but your brain refused to cooperate. It was just... so damn cute. Clean. Efficient. And somehow even worse—it had stickers. Tastefully minimal ones, but still stickers.

Jay turned slightly, glancing at you over his shoulder. He didn't speak at first, just watched you for a moment longer, his eyes narrowed in anticipation. Like he was waiting to see how you'd react. If you'd laugh. Mock him. Judge. If you'd ruin the quiet, almost personal thing that this was. But your eyes didn't leave the scooter. Jay drives this? you thought, almost dazed. This was not on your bingo card. At all.

He reached toward the handlebars and pulled off one of the helmets hanging from the side. "Here," he said simply, extending it toward you.

You took it without question, too caught in your swirling thoughts to ask why he had two helmets ready. It didn't even matter. You were still processing the sheer unexpectedness of everything. Your fingers curled around the helmet's edges, and you started to raise it toward your head, but your hands fumbled slightly, distracted, unsure if it would mess up your carefully styled hair or worse—slip and smudge your makeup.

Jay noticed, he let out another small sigh, and gently reached out, taking the helmet from your hands. You froze as he stepped in front of you, surprisingly close, and his fingers brushed lightly against your hair, cautious, as though he was being absurdly careful not to tug or displace anything. His touch was so warm that it sent a small, involuntary shiver straight down your spine.

Your heart flipped. Annoyingly. Why is this doing something to you? you screamed internally, trying to focus on anything other than the way his eyes narrowed slightly in concentration as he adjusted the helmet, ensuring the fit was snug but not uncomfortable. He avoided your skin, even as his hand lingered just at your jaw, his fingers brushing close but never quite touching as he clipped the strap beneath your chin.

Your eyes drifted to his face—his lashes low, mouth set in a faint line of focus, brows drawn in concentration. So handsome! Jay stepped back once the helmet was secure, his hands falling away, and still he said nothing but his eyes stayed on you just a second too long.

You didn't let yourself dwell on it. Instead, you adjusted your dress, and carefully perched sideways onto the seat, your knees pressed together, legs to one side, one arm curling instinctively around Jay's waist for balance. Your other hand found the back of his shirt and tightened there, knuckles brushing against the thin fabric as you braced yourself. You could already feel the heat of the sun on your skin, the warmth of his body just beneath your palm, and worse, his scent—so annoyingly clean and muted, yet distinctly him curling into your senses with every gust of wind that rushed by.

The scooter rumbled gently beneath you as Jay started driving, the silence between you is broken only by the low whir of the motor and the occasional flutter of your hair catching the wind. You tried to act composed, calm or unbothered. But then you looked down.

"Wow," you whispered, a breathless sort of awe slipping from your lips as you blinked at the road beneath you. "Wow," you said again, barely able to believe what you were seeing. Your feet—nearly touching the ground. It was surreal. Slightly terrifying. And definitely unforgettable!

"Core experience," you muttered under your breath, unable to stop the grin twitching at the corner of your mouth. You didn't mean to enjoy it, but the absurdity of the moment, the thrill of the wind whipping past your face, the way you had to grip him tighter every time he took a sharp turn—it all added up. Goddamn it, this was kind of... fun.

Eventually, the ride slowed as Jay pulled up to a modest two-story apartment building. The neighborhood was calm, framed with trimmed hedges, a few overgrown trees, and minimal foot traffic. Not flashy. Not luxurious. Just... ordinary. Jay parked the scooter and removed his own helmet first, but his eyes flicked to you immediately—hesitant again. Like he was waiting for something. A comment, or judgement, a reaction, but you were too busy turning your head, surveying the area with curiosity.

"My apartment's on the second floor," he said with a kind of caution you didn't often hear from him. He reached out toward you again, hands careful as he unclasped the helmet's strap beneath your chin. You stilled without protest, letting him remove it.

You didn't say anything. You just followed him, watching the way his shoulders tensed as you climbed the stairs behind him. He glanced back only once, and when he did, it wasn't impatience you saw.

When he finally stopped at a small dark-brown door, he hesitated a moment longer before unlocking it. He didn't open it fully, just nudged it halfway and turned toward you with a tight expression, like he was preparing for disappointment. "I know you know I'm an Apex Alpha," he began, eyes avoiding yours as he spoke. "And I know most of them live... differently. The luxury. The image. I get it. I know this isn't what you were expecting—"

"What are you talking about?" you cut in flatly, brow arching as you leaned against the doorframe, thoroughly unimpressed with his dramatics. "Jay, I don't care if you sleep on a yoga mat or a gold-plated bed. Just go inside and find my bag."

Jay blinked, momentarily stunned by your lack of reaction. His mouth parted as if he were going to say something, but no words came. Eventually, he just gave a tight nod and stepped inside, and you followed closely behind.

The moment you stepped over, his scent hit you. It wasn't just faint traces clinging to his jacket —it was everywhere. It wasn't overwhelming, not like the gym. It was so familiar in a way that made your skin prickle. It wrapped around you and you stood there, unmoving, blinking against the sudden dizziness that came not from disorientation, but from how right it felt. Your muscles, so tense just moments ago, slackened without your permission. Comfort. Safety. Stability.

Your eyes flicked around the room again, trying to anchor yourself. The interior of the apartment was... small. Minimal. Clean, definitely. The walls were bare, the furniture practical, and everything seemed organized within an inch of its life. The color palette was expected—black, gray, a few white accents—but there wasn't a single thing that hinted at personality. No photos. No posters. No art. Not even a clock!

You walked further in, eyes slowly scanning every corner. It wasn't bad. Just... boring. Predictable. The opposite of your space, which was a colorful textures, clothes, cosmetics and more cosmetics. Your gaze drifted toward the single window, where soft daylight spilled in through half-closed blinds. And that's when you saw a small cactus, sitting on the ledge. The pot was matte black, the cactus itself was mature, its shape clean and symmetrical, not too large, but clearly well-kept. It was the only sign of something living in the entire apartment besides him.

"Hah," you breathed out quietly as your fingers lightly brushed the surface of the cactus pot. Your fingertip traced a slow circle along its rim, as if expecting the little plant to respond. "Poor you," you murmured, eyes narrowed in sympathy. "No one to talk to." You paused, tilted your head thoughtfully, and imagined the cactus silently agreeing with you.

Before your fantasy plant friend could offer any more unspoken wisdom, Jay's voice broke through the silence from behind you "Here," he said, and you turned to find him holding your bag out, arm extended.

You stared at him for a beat longer then took the bag from his hands. Without offering a word of thanks, you immediately unzipped it, fingers moving through the contents. Wallet—still there, still depressingly holding only forty bucks. Your cards—campus ID, bank, library, cafe loyalty (with two sad stamps). More cards, a half-empty bottle of mouthwash, your trusty alcohol spray, an entire family of tissues and wet wipes, a slightly dented pepper spray canister

You looked back up at him, face is blank for a moment, then gave a long, exaggerated roll of your eyes, making sure he saw it. Jay's brow furrowed instantly, his face shifting into the kind of confused scowl.

"Okay," you said, voice a little too cheerful, as you slung your bag over your shoulder, "let's go back, pretend this never happened, and—if the stars are kind—let's hope we never see each other again. Ever. As in never ever again." You even wiggled your fingers a little for extra flair on the final words.

Jay didn't flinch, just nodded once, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, the barest hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Okay," he said, almost too agreeable. Like he was humoring you.

Which was suspicious. You narrowed your eyes, but didn't linger. You were too tired for another round of whatever game he was playing. If the universe had any sense of justice, that would've been the last time you ever had to see his face.

But as it turned out, the universe was kind.

Jay, however, was not.

THE THIRD day of the University Games dawned far too early. You were dead asleep, dreaming about clawing your way into a luxury spa. It was 5:30 in the goddamn morning, and the sun wasn't even up properly, but your phone had decided to become possessed, vibrating across your nightstand.

You groaned, half-asleep, limbs tangled in your blanket, and reached for it blindly. "It's five-thirty in the morning," you hissed to no one in particular, voice croaky with sleep. "Who the hell thinks this is a good time to ruin my skin cycle?"

Your hydrating face mask had slid halfway off your cheek, clinging on for dear life, and one of your heatless curls flopped onto your forehead. You snatched the phone without checking the caller ID, already prepared to eviscerate whoever it was with the same energy you reserved for late assignments and bad service.

"What time do you usually sleep for you not to wake up at five?" came the voice on the other end—calm, composed, and unmistakably male.

Your brows furrowed. The voice clicked in your brain a beat later, and your eyes snapped open fully. You squinted blearily at the screen. It was an unknown number. Unregistered contact. Fucking Jay.

You sat up, face mask dangling off your chin now, your voice are clearly in disbelief. "First of all, who the hell wakes up at five unless they're being punished by the gods? And second—what the hell do you want?!"

There was a pause. Then: "I need my jacket."

Your mouth dropped open. Your eyes swung toward your vanity table, where said jacket was currently draped over the back of your chair. "You called me at five-thirty in the morning... for your jacket?"

"I figured you'd be up," he replied, not even bothering to sound apologetic.

"You figured wrong," you growled, flopping back onto your pillow. "You couldn't wait until literally any reasonable hour? I was going to give it back later, obviously! Are you seriously calling me over a piece of clothing right now?!"

Without even a hint of shame, he said, "You don't just walk off with someone's personal belongings and wait for the mood to strike before returning them."

Your jaw dropped. He did not. He did! He just threw your words back at you!

"6:30 a.m. I'll meet you at my apartment." The call cut off. Just like that.

You stared at your phone. Your blood pressure shot through the roof. You let out a high-pitched screech and launched your pillow across the room. "Fuck you!" you screamed at the now-black screen. "I hope you choke on your bland-ass breakfast!"

Then you stomped out of bed, and stormed toward your massive, color-organized closet. You flung the doors open so fast one of them bounced off the hinge. If he wanted petty, you could do petty. You could do petty in style. But time was slipping, and styling was suddenly a luxury you couldn't afford. You only had an hour. Sixty minutes. For a girl like you, it was hell!

So you threw something together. You pulled on an oversized white hoodie, soft fleece inside, the sleeves long enough to cover your hands, the only pop of color being the deep red drawstrings hanging. Underneath, your favorite branded white sports briefs sat high on your waist, their waistband peeking out deliberately from beneath your crisp white shorts. Your legs were wrapped in mismatched sheer knee-high socks, one plain, the other adorned with bold red stripes that matched the hoodie drawstrings. You finished it off with your white-and-black Adidas sneakers.

Makeup was on emergency mode. Concealer, winged liner, highlighter, and a quick pop of gloss. You grabbed your bag, flung the door open, and stomped out of your house with your driver. All for one jacket.

Your driver blinked awake, still groggy, rubbing his eyes behind the wheel. "It's okay!" you chirped with a wide, falsely sweet smile, slipping outside the passenger seat. "I can handle the commute from here, I just need to finish some business. Really quick. Promise. You go home and rest—you look exhausted. Sorry for waking you up so early. Love you!"

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, your face flattened into a withering glare. The smile evaporated. Your irritation returned with full force, bubbling just beneath your skin. You stomped your way up the stairwell of Jay's apartment. You could already smell his pheromones bleeding into the corridor but you were too angry to let it rattle you. Your Omega twitched at the edges, unsettled by the scent, but you forced her down. This was not the time!

You raised your fist and slammed it against the door, hard. No response. You clicked your tongue, rolled your eyes, and knocked again—this time with more pressure, the flat of your palm echoing against the wood. Still, no response. Just as you raised your hand for a third, even more aggressive strike, the lock clicked and the door creaked open.

"I have neighbors," Jay said flatly, "If you don't want me to get a noise complaint, maybe stop trying to break my door."

You opened your mouth to snap something back—but then you saw him. The words froze mid-breath. Jay stood there, barefoot, wearing a black sando that clung unforgivably well to his chest and shoulders, and a pair of light gray pajama pants that immediately sent your brain into a mental spiral. His silver hair was mussed, pieces falling over his forehead. His eyes—those cold, sharp eyes were fixed on you. You didn't know what was so special about his expression. It was always the same blank, emotionally constipated face he always wore.

And yet—God. Your gaze dipped before you could stop it. Down right to those pants. Gray. Pajama. Pants. Suddenly, Ningning's voice echoed in your head: "Gray sweatpants? Oh honey, they reveal everything. Even if it's not hard? You'll still see God."

And wow. Woooow. Oh my God. There was no logical reason why this one particular shade of pants could wreck a woman's entire thought process—but here you were, doing mental gymnastics trying not to faint from the very real, very visible outline haunting your vision.

Was it... Was it even fully soft? Why is it that big just... existing like that? Your mouth went dry. Your palms went warm. For one cursed, embarrassing second, you almost gasped in holy reverence.

Snap out of it! Your Omega nearly purred and you practically hissed at her to shut up. You shook your head. You narrowed your eyes, forcing your voice steady as you bit back everything your traitorous body wanted to say. "You open the fucking door when I knock," you seethed, each word pushed out with a tight smile and clenched jaw. "The first time."

Jay, entirely unbothered, simply widened the door and turned away, leaving it open behind him as he walked further inside.

You scoffed, half in disbelief, half in outrage, before marching in after him with a vengeance. "Here's your ugly jacket," you snapped, waving the paper bag.

"Put it on the table," he replied without looking back, voice even and careless, like you were some delivery person. You gasped audibly.

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "I—Excuse me?" The sheer nerve. The audacity. This man woke you up at dawn, summoned you to his apartment, barely acknowledged your existence, and now he wanted you to just waltz in like some obedient little errand girl and drop it off? You bit down on your lip so hard you felt the sting. Somewhere in your brain, a nerve twitched. Your eye followed suit. You stepped inside, crossed the room with a stomp in every step, and slammed the paper bag onto his kitchen table. You even gave the table leg a small kick on your way back. "There," you said. "We done now? Great. I'm leaving."

But Jay, unhurried as ever, was already reaching into a cabinet and placing not one, but two plates on the table.  "Let's eat," he said calmly. You blinked, eyebrow raised and brain short circuited. Huh?

"Wha—Are you fucking with me right now?" you practically screeched, staring at him. "I am not—not—eating breakfast with you. You dragged me out of bed at the break of dawn to return your stupid jacket, not for a sit-down meal. Who even does that?!" You fanned yourself with your hand, more from the emotional overheating than the temperature. You were genuinely at risk of hair loss from the stress of this man's behavior.

Jay just set down a glass, pulled a chair out from the table, and tilted his head slightly—gesturing for you to sit. No words, the smallest hint of challenge in his eyes, like he was daring you to keep being difficult.

Your mouth opened again but your gaze betrayed you. It dropped, straight to his biceps. They flexed subtly as he held the chair in place, the curve of his forearms tightening. Your lips parted in a silent curse, and you swallowed hard, trying to drag your eyes back up. But then his eyes met yours, soft brown, framed by lashes far too long for someone who clearly didn't care about skincare—and for some reason, your knees stopped listening to you. Before you even realized it, you were sitting.

What are you doing?! Get up! Fight! Bite him! Throw the chair! But there you were, lips slightly pursed, sitting at Jay's table. Stupid. You were so disappointed in yourself. Disappointed in your lineage, your entire bloodline, in every proud Omega empowerment seminar you'd ever half-attended for extra credit. Was this what your foremothers fought for? To be reduced to a flustered heap at the sight of an Alpha's biceps flexing through a tank top? You were supposed to demand your worth, blaze trails, radiate strength—not crumble at the sight of defined triceps and the vein down his forearm. Stupid. So stupid.

"Coffee?" Jay's voice broke into your silent, he opened a cabinet and reached for two mugs without even looking at you. You narrowed your eyes, your lip twitching as you rolled them.

"I want an iced vanilla latte," you replied, chin lifted.

Jay paused mid-reach and turned his head slowly toward you, one brow raising just a little. His eyes trailed over your face, taking in the unapologetic challenge in your tone. "I don't have that," he said.

"Well, that's too bad," you shot back without missing a beat, crossing your legs under the table. "Because I want it."

You watched his jaw tighten. Jay stared at you for a beat longer, like he was trying to process whether or not you were serious. You stared right back, unflinching. Heh. If he was going to play the host, then you were going to play the guest—and a very high-maintenance one at that.

To your disappointment, he didn't argue. Didn't roll his eyes, didn't even sigh dramatically. He simply turned back to the cabinet and grabbed a glass. You blinked once. That was it? No fight? No eye-roll? He was just... complying? Your eyes trailed after him as he began placing dishes on the table. Eggs. Rice. Kimchi. Toast. Even a bowl of sliced fruit. He moved without rush, setting things down.

Your brow furrowed. "What the—?" You blinked again, narrowing your eyes to the soup. "Did you—? Is that—?" You pointed at the bowl. "Is that egg soup?"

Jay didn't look up from where he was neatly arranging utensils. "Yeah."

"Like... real? Not from a packet?"

"No packet."

You stared at him, genuinely scandalized. "Are you telling me you actually cooked?"

Jay glanced up at you. "You don't think I know how to cook?"

You snorted. "I didn't think you knew how to speak until last week." He didn't answer. Just pushed the bowl of soup toward you and set down a clean spoon next to it.

You stared at the bowl, then at him, then back at the bowl. Steam curled from the golden broth, gentle and warm, carrying the faint, rich scent of sesame oil and soft herbs. A few tender scallions floated along the surface. It was too well made to be instant. You could see the care in it, and worse, you could smell the fresh, savory, and comforting in a way that made your stomach tighten. How much cholesterol does an egg even have? You mentally tried to remember that one diet chart you saved during your health-obsessed week two months ago. Was it 180? 210?

Jay, who had just reappeared at your side, setting down a tall glass filled with what suspiciously resembled a vanilla latte. Cold, and perfectly creamy, He said nothing, just quietly placed it on the table in front of you. Your mouth opened slightly in shock. He actually... made it? Before you could ask, he sat down across from you and began scooping rice onto your plate. He didn't even glance up, just calmly portioned the meal as if you hadn't threatened to never see him again less than 48 hours ago.

You stared at him, bewildered, impressed and hungry. The worst part is you could feel yourself softening. You looked down at the food, then took a spoon. You could always fight him after second bite, maybe third, or fourth.

     YOU FOUND yourself staring at the cactus near the window, head tilted slightly, lips pursed in curiosity. You didn't know what it was exactly but something about the tiny creature just... intrigued you. It was undeniably cute in the most underwhelming, passive-aggressive way. You kind of admired it. You also kind of wanted to interrogate it. Did it have a name? Did Jay talk to it when no one was around? Did it have a designated birthday? You narrowed your eyes and leaned in.

Meanwhile, Jay was behind you, washing dishes at the sink with silence. The soft sound of water running and porcelain clinking was oddly domestic, unsettlingly gentle. You weren't used to this kind of quiet. Certainly not around him.

Your eyes drifted back to the cactus. You'd been staring at it for—what, twenty minutes now? It was so visually uneventful that it actually started making your brain itch. Cute, yes. But also boring. Like everything else in this apartment. You frown, did cacti bloom? You were pretty sure they did. You'd seen pictures. Tiny flowers, delicate and absurdly lovely, sometimes pink or yellow or white, sprouting from the spikes. You liked that idea. That even something that armored and still could suddenly bloom. This one deserved to bloom. It deserved something pretty. Without thinking, you reached for your bag and opened the small front pocket. Inside, tangled between your hand sanitizer and spare lip tint, was a pale pink satin lace. You unwound it from the keychain and carefully wrapped it around the base of the cactus's pot. You tied it into a small bow, a makeshift ribbon. You sat back and admired your work, head tilting again. It looked objectively better.

Behind you, Jay turned off the faucet. You glanced over your shoulder just in time to catch him drying his hands. Then, he reached for his black jacket hanging neatly by the door—your attention sharpened as he shrugged it on. You narrowed your eyes. It wasn't just any jacket. It was Prada. Jay slipped into it, the label stitched at the collar caught the light for a second. Your head tilted slightly, your suspicion growing in real time as the details started lining up in your head.

"Ready to go?" he asked. You gave him a slow look, one brow lifted, the kind that immediately made him tilt his head ever so slightly, like he was trying to guess what kind of trouble was brewing behind your eyes. He didn't press you for an answer. Smart man. You didn't say anything either. Just grabbed your bag from the table, slung it over your shoulder and headed toward the door without a word.

You stepped outside first. Behind you, Jay locked the apartment, then he followed slinging his bag over his shoulder—another Prada. You squinted again. You recognized that design. Same model he had slung across his back the first time you saw him. And then your eyes dropped slightly to his glasses. Also Prada. You were sure.

Okay, sure. Apex Alphas were known for their proximity to luxury. That wasn't news. Statistically, they were born into families that could afford private medical enhancements, exclusive early education, access to inter-Alpha networks. Even the lowest-ranking Apex could land a sponsorship just for breathing near a prestigious program. And most high-paying jobs were designed to be physically and pheromonally exclusive anyway—companies wanted Alphas. The stronger, the better. Politics loved them. Even universities made exceptions and handed out funds during Alpha enrollment campaigns.

So no, it wasn't shocking that Jay had Prada accessories. Not even a little. What was strange was the hesitation. The awkwardness from yesterday. The way he'd stood in that apartment, muttering something about not living the lifestyle people expect. He'd sounded... reserved. Like he didn't want you to think he was that type of Alpha, even though his wardrobe alone could buy you an entire designer weekender set with matching heels.

You don't actually care, rich or not. But something about the contradiction rubbed at your thoughts. As you followed him down the narrow stairwell, your gaze locked on the smooth line of his back, broad under the designer jacket, and your brain wandered—building theories. If he had money, why hide it? If he didn't, how did he have those things? And if he did have it but pretended not to care... why act so cagey?

You hopped back onto the scooter, despite how annoyed you were, your body betrayed you by leaning forward unconsciously, chin hovering almost obnoxiously close to Jay's shoulder as you squinted sideways at his profile. You weren't even trying to be subtle about it anymore. Jay didn't comment at first, he simply drove. But when the scooter rolled to a stop near the university gates and he got off to help remove your helmet, his eyes flicked toward your suspicious expression. He paused as he unclipped the strap under your chin, clearly holding back the urge to ask what was wrong with you.

"Why do you have two helmets?" you asked abruptly, lips pursed in a tight pout, eyebrow raised high.

Jay blinked, briefly thrown off by your tone. He recovered quickly, fingers moving carefully as he lifted the helmet off your head without messing up your hair. "I have a younger brother," he replied, like it was obvious.

You tilted your head, suspicious curiosity deepening. "Huh? Where is he?"

Jay turned away to grab his bag from the scooter's compartment and slung it over his shoulder, then gave a nod toward the sidewalk as a silent cue to start walking. "At my parents' house," he said evenly.

You fell into step beside him, still brimming with nosiness. "Wait, so why aren't you at your parents' house? I live with my parents! And my maids. And my driver. And two part-time gardeners. You mean to tell me you're living independently? In a tiny apartment with no butler? How are you even surviving that? You're an Apex!"

Jay didn't flinch at your curiosity. "I don't want to live with them anymore," he said calmly. "And I can't afford a bigger place."

You narrowed your eyes, slowing your steps as you absorbed that answer. "But why?"

He stayed quiet for a moment, that you thought he might ignore the question completely. Then he exhaled, eyes still ahead. "Because the price of freedom is high. And mine didn't come with a platinum card."

You blinked, caught off guard. Your gaze lifted instinctively, eyes drifting toward his face as your brain tried to process what he'd just said. There was something about the way he said it. It was like pushing further would cross a line he hadn't even officially drawn, but you could feel it all the same. You didn't know what to say back, and the topic sounds so sensitive so you adjusted your bag with a small huff, laced your fingers together behind your back, and kept walking at his side.

You walked in silence for a stretch of sidewalk. But then, because you were you—and because lingering sincerity made your brain itch—you cleared your throat and huffed a dramatic sigh. "Not that it matters," you muttered, lifting your chin slightly, your tone sliding back, "but I don't actually care. Just in case you're having some weird internal crisis about what I think of your tragic little lifestyle."

He didn't answer, so you keep going. "I mean, if you think I care—like care care—then you're delusional. I do not. Not at all. Couldn't be me." Jay glanced at you sideways, but you ignored it. "Whatever. Byeee." You tossed the word over your shoulder, adding a flip of your hair. Then you strode ahead of him with your exit walk.

Jay slowed to a stop for a second, staring at your retreating figure. His eyes followed the sway of your steps, the bounce of your styled hair, the unapologetic swing of your shoulders as you marched off. And then he scoffed under his breath. A faint smile ghosted across his lips. He shook his head to himself and followed behind you. Silently. As always.

⋮ ⌗ act fourteen

     "VIOLATION OF not wearing a proper dress code from Green Team."

Your voice rang out across the court, lollipop stick clutched between two fingers, the bright candy tucked between your lips as you casually snapped a photo with your phone. "Based on the regulations clearly outlined in the student handbook—which, by the way, I doubt any of you have ever read—uniform protocol for all players participating in intramural sports requires footwear that supports ankle safety and team consistency," you began, scrolling through the notes on your phone. "That Alpha over there is wearing off-brand running shoes with no grip. Immediate violation."

Someone on the sidelines groaned loudly. You didn't even flinch "And another infraction," you continued, drawing out your words as you made a show of sniffing the air, then pointing your pen directly at the guy in question. "Excessive scent release. Intentionally broadcasting dominant Alpha pheromones in a co-ed match? Yeah, that's not just poor sportsmanship, it's a form of intimidation. This is a mixed bracket. That Omega on the opposing team is literally blinking like he's been chloroformed. Unacceptable. Eight-point deduction."

The eruption of protest was immediate. "What the hell?! You're seriously gonna call us out for that when you're walking around dressed like that?!"

You slowly turned your head, gaze lifting over the rim of your sunglasses as you pulled the lollipop from your mouth. "Dressed like what exactly?" you asked flatly. "Be specific, since you seem so comfortable evaluating appearances. Is it the cropped team jacket? The standard-issue mini skort? The approved colors? The school-endorsed athletic shoes that I'm wearing while not even playing? I'd love to hear which part offends your fragile Alpha sensibilities most."

You began scribbling on your form with flourish, making a show of it. "Also—another violation," you added sweetly without missing a beat, "for harassment of officiating staff. Verbal aggression. That's two-point removal and an official warning. Want to keep going? I've got a whole page of penalties just waiting to be assigned, sweetheart."

The boy opened his mouth again, but the teammate beside him shoved his elbow into his ribs and whispered something, clearly urging him to shut up before the deduction got bumped to a full disqualification.

You smirked as the lollipop slid back between your teeth, cherry-sweet and smug as your pen scratched confidently against your clipboard. With your phone tucked under your arm and your fingers flying over the notes app, you continued documenting every violation. There was a certain power in it—standing at the edge of the court, perfectly dressed, entirely unbothered, while others scrambled to clean up their infractions.

But then, something shifted, a change in the air pressure beside you, a subtle tension brushing your shoulder. Your brow creased automatically, muscle memory responding. You turned your head with annoyance, fully prepared to glare at whichever unfortunate Beta or misguided assistant had wandered into your bubble.

But instead of some flustered student intern, you were met with the sight of a tall figure in a fitted yellow jersey. His fingers brushed back silver hair, eyes already fixed on you with a glint you absolutely did not trust. And then—God help you—he smiled. Your mouth parted slightly, the gasp catching in your throat. Not because you were impressed. No. No, no, no. But because you knew that face. Your eye twitched hard. Memories flashed against your brain, you had barely recovered. And here he was, right in front of you. What was his name again? Heedong? Hee-something? Heeseung?

The name clicked into place right as his expression shifted into a knowing, wicked grin. He had the audacity to wink. Wink. "Didn't expect you to be this serious, Omega," he said smoothly.

Your expression flattened, flipping rapidly from disbelief to offense in less than a second. You pull out the lollipop in your mouth. "Didn't expect you to still be alive," you muttered. "But here you are. Unfortunately."

He just grinned wider, like your snark only fueled whatever delusion he was currently riding. "Alive and well," he replied, gesturing casually to himself. "And I've been missing you, actually."

What?! Before you could even respond, he had the audacity to lift a finger and point toward his neck, then at yours. "You're not wearing your patch," he observed, far too confidently. "I can see it. The imprint."

Your eyes nearly bulged out of your skull. Did this man have no shame? No internal filter? Did the concept of boundaries get erased? "Still with that imprint bullshit?" you snapped, stepping back, your hand clutching your clipboard because it was the only thing keeping you from launching it at his face. "Bruh. I don't know what kind of nose you're operating with, but there is nothing there. Nothing. If someone imprinted on me, newsflash: I would've sued them. And even if there was something—which there isn't, thank you very much—why are you acting like it's your business?"

He tilted his head, eyes dancing with far too much amusement. "It's just... irritating," he said. "You're interesting. And it pisses me off that someone had the nerve to leave a mark on you before I could."

You stared at him, horrified that this was real. That this was a conversation happening in public. In daylight. On a campus that was supposedly accredited. Your scoff came out loud. "Okay. Wow. That's definitely your Alpha talking. Must be exhausting carrying around that much ego with zero emotional intelligence. Do you all just imprint on girls like you're tagging street cats? God, no wonder the Omega Empowerment Alliance exists."

You rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache, turned on your heel, and stormed off with your clipboard hugged to your chest. You weren't even going to entertain whatever fantasy this man had conjured up. This was why you kept your scent blockers industrial-strength and your walls emotionally reinforced. If this Hee-something boy thought he was going to claim you just because he looked like a Pinterest thirst trap and knew how to smirk, he had another thing coming. And honestly? You were starting to understand why your Omega was so damn picky. Because Alphas? Alphas were exhausting.

"Sorry, did that make you uncomfortable?" His voice dropped as he stepped in closer. "I think I can feel the bond."

You turned to him slowly, eyes narrowing into a glare as you twirled your index finger near your temple, the universal sign for certified lunatic. "I think I can feel the delusions," you replied with absolute dryness, not bothering to hide the cringe curling at your lip.

That earned a reaction. He threw his head back with a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're too cute," he said between chuckles. Ew. You already knew you were cute. That wasn't the issue. The issue was men like him thinking they could state the obvious and act like it was some gift from the heavens.

Unfazed, he merely shrugged and leaned slightly back, still grinning. "Anyway, I just need my jersey back." Your expression dropped immediately. The flicker of disgust was replaced by unfiltered disbelief as you blinked at him, letting the silence stretch. Are All Alphas like this?! So obsessed with their own belongings?!

"I already burned it," you said with a straight face.

It was a joke, technically, but at this point, it might as well have been. The jersey in question had been thrown into your laundry basket the moment you got home, and you'd immediately instructed your maid to wash it not once, but ten separate times. When it came back clean and folded, you still weren't satisfied. The scent was gone, sure, but the idea of it wasn't. So out of nothing more than principle—and maybe a little spite—you had it tossed back into the wash, twice. It had sat on your vanity for a grand total of three hours before the mere sight of it annoyed you all over again. So you banished it once more to the laundry room, telling yourself you'd decide what to do with it later, and then promptly refused to touch it again.

You glanced sideways, watching for any sign that he might take the hint and drop it altogether, but instead his grin only stretched wider. His confidence wasn't shaken in the slightest—in fact, if anything, he seemed encouraged by your visible annoyance. "Really?" he asked. "That's a shame. I kind of need it back for our match on Friday. But hey, you know, as payment. One date in exchange for a jersey—seems fair, doesn't it?"

You blinked at him, your lips parting. With a sharp laugh, you reached out and gave his shoulder a solid slap. "I'm kidding!" you said brightly with mockery. "You really don't have a sense of humor, do you?"

He looked mildly confused for a second.

"Relax," you continued, exhaling as you folded your arms and gave him a quick once-over. "I'll give it back tomorrow. Washed. Folded. Maybe even steamed if you're lucky—but that's where my generosity ends. So, if you could kindly evaporate from my vicinity and stop hovering, that would be fantastic." You didn't give him a chance to respond, already turning slightly, your attention shifting pointedly back to your clipboard and whatever half-baked rule enforcement you had lined up next. "I'd rather not get slapped with a violation for chatting with the enemy," you added over your shoulder. "And believe me, you're not worth the deduction."

"Hmm. Okay, Miss," he said, drawing out the words. You thought that was the end of it until you suddenly felt a hand brush your wrist. Your head snapped back toward him, a glare already forming, ready to bite out something—only to freeze as you watched him pluck the lollipop from your hand. Before you could stop him, he popped it into his mouth, sucking once. His eyes held yours, mischief gleaming unapologetically, and then he had the nerve to wink again before casually stepping back.

"Watch my match on Friday," he called out, already turning toward the court. "I'll be playing against your team."

Your jaw dropped as the audacity of it fully landed. And then came a sharp, high-pitched squeal of outrage that escaped your throat. "You absolute fuck! You think this is funny?!" you yelled, stomping your foot against the polished floor. "Fine! I'll watch your stupid match, and I'm going to tally every single one of your violations! I swear to God, you won't last five minutes before I have you benched and deducted!" You didn't care that you were drawing attention. You didn't care that a few heads turned or that someone on the sidelines snorted into their sports drink. Your blood was boiling! It was fucking boiling!

He didn't even look back. Not once. Just kept walking toward the other end of the court with your lollipop in his mouth like he'd won. Fuck him!

     YOUR MOOD had been steadily declining since noon, but by the time the late afternoon sun had dipped behind the university's western bleachers, it had bottomed out completely. You stormed across the event grounds with your clipboard clutched so tight your knuckles were pale, brows permanently drawn together in a scowl. The worst part? Ningning had somehow managed to skip the entire day. Not a single text, no check-in, just radio silence while you were drowning in endless committee announcements, senseless violations, and last-minute logistic changes that no one consulted you about. How was it that she could disappear and no one said a word, but you missed one event briefing, and suddenly three different facilitators were breathing down your neck.

You let out a frustrated, high-pitched squeal that startled two passing Beta volunteers. You stomped toward the corner of the field where the recycling bins were lined up, spotted a half-empty trash can that looked slightly unstable, and kicked it without hesitation. Worst, you were eliminated at the Dress to Impress game at Roblox for having a VIP access. That's not even in the rulebook!

You stomped in place, foot hitting the ground again and again like your frustration was trying to escape through your heels. Your hands waved in the air, almost flailing, your hair bouncing with the force of your movements, unaware that your phone had been vibrating steadily in your bag. The screen lit up again and again until finally, you snatched it out with a shaky hand, not even glancing at the caller ID before pressing accept.

"What?!" you screamed into the phone, breathless.

There was a pause. Then, a low voice—infuriatingly calm—slid into your ear. "...Are you okay?"

You froze for a minute before you sucked in a slow breath through your nose, clenching your jaw. "What do you want, Jay?"

"I just finished my preliminary basketball game."

You could practically feel your eye twitch. "Okay? And what do you want me to do? Throw you a parade?"

There was a short pause, followed by an annoyingly even reply: "I have your ID."

You blinked. Your head snapped down, eyes darting to your open bag, hands rustling through its contents as if to prove him wrong. Lip gloss? Check. Backup perfume atomizer? Check. Five pens, three hair ties, a scrunchie, and a receipt from last week's café run. All there. But your ID—absolutely missing. A growl of disbelief tore from your throat. "Why do you have it?"

"You left it on the table earlier," Jay said. "During breakfast. I thought you knew."

You almost screamed again. "Then why didn't you give it to me sooner?!"

"I was at my game."

You huffed so hard your nostrils flared. "Give it back to me right now, Jay. I swear—"

"...Are you sure you're okay?"

That question again. Your hand tightened around the phone, the words sticking in your throat. You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. "I've been screamed at by three facilitators, eliminated by a jealous team over a fake rule, and now I'm standing next to a trash can I kicked over at the Seniors Building because nothing today is going right. So no, Jay. I am not okay."

There was silence on the line for a moment before he speak up again. "I'll meet you in ten. Stay where you are."

You didn't respond. Just ended the call with a frustrated tap and let your hand fall limp into your lap.

By the time he arrived, you were fully committed to your drama. Slumped on the grass near the half-toppled trash bins, head resting heavily on your knees, hair falling over your face. You hadn't even lifted your head, but you felt him —it was like your Omega could sense him from meters away, whispering: He's here.

"Give me my ID and leave me alone," you muttered without looking at him, stretching one hand out with your palm up, fingers twitching in demand.

There was a soft rustle, then his voice again. "Want an ice cream?"

That made you lift your head, slowly and with all the grace of someone who absolutely did not want to be intrigued but was. You squinted up at him through your lashes, taking in the sight of him standing there in his red jersey and loose basketball shorts, his silver hair still slightly damp from sweat. He had a plastic bag in one hand, and from the top peeked the bright wrappers of ice pops—an almost ridiculous sight, if he didn't somehow still look annoyingly composed.

"Fuck off," you said, brows furrowed.

"Strawberry or matcha?" he asked again, ignoring your scowl entirely as he lowered himself beside you on the grass. He didn't look at you, just kept his eyes ahead, watching the sun as it dipped slowly toward the horizon. The light bathed everything in a warm glow, and the subtle hum of his pheromones drifted from his skin. Your chest tightened. Your heartbeat thumped faster, in that way that had become far too familiar when he was around.

Without another word, he unwrapped one for himself and popped it into his mouth, the crackle of plastic and the snap of the popsicle breaking the silence between you. You rolled your eyes, but your hand reached out anyway—snatching the matcha. If he insisted, then fine. You weren't going to suffer for pride when there was free sugar involved. You leaned back slightly on your elbows, legs stretched out in front of you, the cold treat resting against your lips before you took a slow bite.

You tried not to glance at him again, but your eyes drifted anyway—sideways, quickly—just to check. The sunlight kissed the side of his face, outlining the line of his jaw and making the silver in his hair glow faintly gold. Your mouth tightened. It was annoying how effortlessly good he looked, especially when you were actively trying to be pissed at him.

You chewed slowly, facing forward again. "Where's my ID?" you asked, the ice cream still pressed against your tongue. Jay didn't respond immediately. He reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled it out—your student ID. He held it between two fingers, offering it without looking at you.

You took it, inspecting it with a suspicious eye, then tucked it safely into your bag with an annoyed huff. "Geez," you muttered under your breath, sucking the remaining flavor off the stick.

Another long silence stretched between you and Jay. The breeze rustled the leaves above, birds chirped somewhere in the trees nearby, and the only other sound was the faint crackle of your popsicle wrapper as your fingers played with the plastic. You shifted your legs, idly swinging one foot over the other. The end of the University Games was crawling into your thoughts again, with all its mess, pointless rules, annoying team members, and overly eager Alphas. You thought about that Heeseung guy, about the way he spoke to you. But what kept creeping in louder than all of that—more often, more sharply—was Jay. How he was always there. How his timing always seemed to land precisely when your world tipped sideways. And how he never said the right things, but still left you with a feeling that curled under your skin and refused to leave.

You let out a slow exhale through your nose and leaned your chin on your knees. "Jay," you said. He glanced over at you, popsicle paused halfway to his mouth. You didn't look at him. Just lifted a finger to your neck, touching lightly over the sensitive area just under your jaw. "Can you tell if there's an imprint?" you asked quietly. "You'd know, right? You're an Apex. Or whatever."

The air change with the way Jay's body subtly stilled completely. He didn't answer right away. You could feel him stiffen beside you, the shift in his posture. He swallowed. "Why are you asking me that?"

You rolled a shrug off your shoulder, pretending it didn't matter. "No reason." But your fingers betrayed you, immediately fidgeting with the laces of your shoes. Your thoughts started spiraling again before you could stop them.

If there really was an imprint—if there was even the slightest chance—then the only Alpha you could think of was Jay. No one else had been close enough. But it didn't make sense. He didn't like you. He barely spoke unless necessary, never gave any clear signal beyond those annoying stares. He treated you like a storm he chose to walk through, not someone he was drawn to. Could an imprint really form without affection?

"There's no imprint," he said.

You should've felt relieved. The weight in your chest even lightened slightly, but the way he said it—that carefully detached, struck something in you and his gaze didn't even meet yours.

"It looks like just a residual scent transfer," he added.

Your eye twitched, irritation flaring even as confusion gnawed at you. You looked down again. What the hell were you even expecting? You didn't know whether you were supposed to be relieved that it wasn't real, or offended that it didn't mean anything.

"Right," you said at last, aiming for a breezy tone, but your voice came out strained. "That's good."

"Hm." Jay's voice was quiet as he gave a single nod. The silence that followed stretched long, filled with an awkward tension neither of you seemed willing to break.

You exhaled through your nose, resisting the urge to fidget again. Your lips parted slightly in frustration, a sigh catching in your throat as your thoughts circled back to the same conclusion that had haunted you since day one: You really hated Alphas.

⋮ ⌗ act fifteen

     FOURTH DAY of the University Games, today's lineup featured the charades competition—arguably the least stress event so far—but that didn't make it less exhausting. If anything, it somehow demanded more of your soul. The only true gift the universe offered you today was that Jay, due to already being rostered for a major event, was no longer eligible to join any of the minor games, including charades. Finally, some space to breathe without that man's silver hair appearing from the side of your vision and ruining your pulse rate for no reason. But the victory itself? Not worth the cortisol spike. You'd helped your team snatch a clean win during the final round of charades, and the reward for that stunning display — a plastic pin with a glittery sticker that read "You Win In My Heart <3" and a handful of candies that looked like they were fished from the clearance bin at a local grocery store. Truly, an insult disguised as appreciation.

You threw the paper bag onto the table with a grunt just as Ningning sighed beside you, aggressively fanning herself with her mini turbo fan. "Damn, can't even go out. I need lunch!"

You narrowed your eyes at her with a smirk. "Wow, look who remembered to exist today."

Ningning blinked at you, then leaned back. "Oh my God—you're so pretty, I forgot to say it earlier. That outfit is giving actual main character."

Your gaze flicked toward her, unimpressed. Still, you made a half-hearted twirl of your wrist as you sat down next to her, your movements lazy and irritated. You had put effort into today's look, not that it mattered anymore. The off-shoulder top with sculpted rose along the neckline was already beginning to stick to your skin, the wide-leg jeans heavy around your ankles despite the bold red platforms that added just the right height. The little cherry chain swinging from your belt loop was the only part of you enjoying itself.

You leaned on the table, propping your chin on your fist. "Where's the yellow team practicing their basketball today?" you asked. "I need to finish some business I should've burned yesterday." Your nails were already scratching absentmindedly at the edge of your scent patch, the thought of that guy reappearing in your path again souring your mood faster.

Ningning, who normally couldn't care less about team formations unless it meant extra snacks, finally lifted her head and gave your question a second of actual thought. "I think they're practicing at the south gym. Our team's stationed in the east, and I saw the Blue and Green teams out on the main field earlier. Since tomorrow's the last match day, everyone's on high alert."

You gave another roll of your eyes. Why was everyone so obsessed with it lately? Basketball, basketball, basketball. God, it wasn't even that impressive. Just a bunch of tall Alphas running around, grunting, dunking a ball into a net. And sure, some of them were attractive, if you were into the whole sweat-drenched ego-on-legs vibe. But you weren't. Definitely not. Absolutely not!

"It's not like I care," you muttered to yourself, before Ningning started talking again.

"A lot of people are hyping up the Yellow versus Red match," she said, tapping her phone. "I heard there are a lot of hot Alphas on the Yellow team. They've got half the Omega dorms setting alarms just to watch their warmups. God, why is my life like this? I should've called in sick today. But no—here I am, stuck on cheers and design duty. Under the sun!" She showed you her fingers, now stained with streaks of red, gold, and a murky blue that looked suspiciously like it came from the spray can she wasn't supposed to use. You gave her a glance of sympathy, but your mind had already begun drifting back to what she said earlier.

South gym. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you absently peeled a label off your bottle. You weren't stalking. You weren't going there to ogle or be curious. No, you had unfinished business with that imprint-obsessed Alpha, Heeseung—or whatever his name was.

"Don't you dare sneak out," Ningning added suddenly, squinting at you as if she'd just read your thoughts. "If you get caught by the facilitators, I am not bailing you out."

You stood up, smoothing your top. "Who said I'm sneaking out? I'm just taking an... unscheduled inspection tour."

Ningning groaned as you flounced away. "Unscheduled my ass," she mumbled. "At least put your scent patch on straight this time!"

You just had one objective, and it wasn't even personal—well, not entirely. You needed to return a jersey. Simple! Except, maybe, you also wanted to check what the Yellow team was up to, especially considering half of them were CHS students. If you knew anything about that school, it was how painfully competitive their athletes were. And it wasn't beneath you to keep an eye on potential stunts they might pull. If sabotage happened along the way, like their sneakers mysteriously vanishing or their water bottles getting switched with vinegar, then that was just... divine intervention.

And if Ningning disapproved? Well, she had zero authority. She followed you anyway, even after all her whining.

"Go already!" she hissed from behind a row of decorative banners near the entrance of the south gym. "I'll stay here and watch. I've got extra perfume to mask your scent if anything happens. Just drop the paper bag and don't do anything stupid. They can track scent trails!"

You shot her a thumbs-up over your shoulder, already tiptoeing toward the building. You eased through the back hallway, careful not to let your shoes click too loudly. The muffled thump of basketballs echoed through the open court on the other side of the wall. You slowed your steps, eyes narrowing through the slits of the divider as you peeked into the gym.

A handful of Alphas were scattered across the court, some practicing shots, others jogging drills. You recognized more than a few of them. Huening Kai was definitely there, tall and expressionless, calmly dribbling. But there were red jerseys mixed in too, which didn't make sense. Why was Red team here with Yellow? This was supposed to be a closed practice.

You sniffed the air instinctively, trying to pick up Jay's scent, only to be reminded that your scent blockers had been amped up lately thanks to your inconvenient, creeping pre-heat symptoms. You'd doubled the dosage earlier, and now the scent haze around the gym was nothing more than vague Alpha musk and expensive deodorant.

"Whatever," you muttered under your breath, gripping the paper bag tighter. "Just drop it and go."

You padded over to the locker room entrance, ignoring the subtle thrum of adrenaline in your chest, and crouched low near the first bench, you lowered the paper bag beside one of the cubbies—your handwritten sticky note sticking awkwardly to the top with just enough passive-aggression in its message: To: Heesong. Return complete. Don't speak to me again. :)

You dusted your hands dramatically, ready to make a clean exit. But just as you turned, your eyes drifted to the row of shoes lined up neatly beside the locker room bathroom door. Bright, clean and clean sneakers. Your fingers itched. You didn't have to steal anything. You were better than that. Morals. Self-control. You had both... barely. Maybe next time... You turned away with a silent sigh of restraint, but as you took a single step toward the hallway exit, a shadow blocked your path.

"Shit—"

That Heeseung guy was standing casually in front of you, water dripping from his silver hair, trailing down the sculpted lines of his bare chest. His shorts hung low on his hips, towel thrown lazily around his shoulders, skin still glistening from a post-practice shower, his finger rose to his lips. He smiled, "You're here for me?"

Your mouth dropped open, but only one word made it out. "Yuck." You instinctively took a step back, casting a quick glance over your shoulder to check for a clear exit route. You lifted your arm and pointed stiffly toward the bench behind him where the paper bag sat. "Your jersey's over there," you said. "I've done my part. I'm leaving."

But of course, nothing was ever that simple when it came to Heeseung. He stayed exactly where he was. "Already?" he asked. "What about catching up?"

You stared at him, unimpressed, then slowly set your hand on your hip, weight shifting as your patience visibly thinned. "Can you stop being a weirdo and just let me leave?" you snapped. "God, I get it—I'm pretty. I know. Thank you, the mirror tells me every morning. But just to set the record straight, bursting your little fantasy bubble: you're not my type. Not even close." You gestured vaguely at his entire being. "I hate smug, arrogant, flirt-happy, attention-seeking Alphas who think the world revolves around their scent. Especially ones who corner people in locker rooms like it's cute. And yes, sure—you're objectively handsome, congratulations—"

His eyes lit up instantly. "You think I'm handsome?"

And just like that, your entire monologue derailed into flames. You blinked at him, stunned that that was the part he chose to latch onto. "Wow," you said slowly. "Out of everything I just said, that's what you heard?"

He smiled wider, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "Well, it was the only part that felt sincere."

"I am not sincere," you snapped back, already spinning on your heel before the conversation could spiral further into delusion. You didn't wait for a reply, your voice trailing behind as you stormed toward the exit. "I'm done. I'm leaving."

"Hmmm. Okay," he said behind you. "Let me guide you out, then. Make sure you don't get caught lurking where you shouldn't be."

"You're naked, Heeseung!" you hissed over your shoulder without stopping. "Put some clothes on! God, please!" You reached up to cover your eyes, already regretting every decision that had led you here, but then you felt his hand land lightly on your shoulder, guiding you.

"It's not a big deal. Alphas walk around like this all the time, especially after training. I'm an athlete—it's normal," he said. "Why so conservative, princess?"

"Don't call me that," you groaned, swatting his hand off your shoulder. "And I am not conservative. I just don't enjoy seeing half-naked Alphas wandering around like it's some kind of fashion statement. There is nothing attractive about this. It's not hot. It's actually—"

The second you turned the corner toward the hallway leading to the exit, another Alpha emerged from the shower room—towel slung casually over his shoulder, chest completely bare, water still trailing down his skin in slow, glistening lines. His hair was dark and wet, tousled from the steam. "The hell, man? Why's an Omega in the locker room?" the stranger asked, his voice was with a thick Australian accent that only made the moment more absurd.

Your eyes locked on him—and unfortunately, so did everything else. Your mouth fell open as you stared, completely frozen. His shoulders were impossibly broad, abs chiseled. Your hand shot up to cover your mouth, but it was too late. You were already staring.

"Jake," Heeseung's voice came from just behind you, surprisingly composed. "Lower your voice, alright? She's just here to return something. If she gets caught, she'll end up with a bigger problem than whatever that is in your hand." You weren't even going to ask what Jake was holding. You didn't want to know.

Jake tilted his head, his brow lifting just a little as he looked you over. Then he shrugged, completely unbothered. "Alright, chill. I'll guide her out then. Locker room's a maze if you're not used to it."

"Wait, what?!" you shrieked, turning fast on your heel as Jake stepped forward. "I can walk! I have feet! I am perfectly capable of exiting a door without an escort!" But your protest died just as quickly as it started, because behind Jake, another guy appeared—also freshly out of the showers, towel thrown around his neck, absolutely no shirt in sight.

You blinked. He blinked back.

Then his finger rose slowly and pointed at Heeseung's hand resting a bit too casually near your back. Then at Jake's arm, which had lifted like he was about to guide you by the elbow.

"Bro?" the new Alpha said with confusion. And that's when your soul nearly exited your body. Water was dripping down his arm—slow, gleaming trails that curved right over his flexed biceps, down to his forearm, before disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. Shorts that, in your opinion, barely counted as decent. Your eyes went wide. Wider than wide. They hurt, from the effort of trying not to look any longer. You practically slapped your own face to remind your brain to shut down immediately.

"That's Jay's Omega. Back off," came from the man who'd just stepped out of the shower. His arm shot out, brushing off Heeseung's hand from your shoulder and halting Jake just as he was about to place a palm near your lower back. You stumbled a step away, not from fear, but because the entire situation had escalated into something so absurd your brain couldn't keep up. All of them were half-naked. You were surrounded. Your mind was still catching up to the phrase that had come out of that man's mouth.

Jake scowled, his brow drawing low, clearly not satisfied with the declaration. "The hell, Sunghoon? Anyone can throw claims like that. I don't see a mark. She's unmated. Don't start acting territorial just because you think she's pretty."

"Doesn't matter. You don't need a scent bond to understand boundaries. If someone's protecting her, you respect that. Alpha or not."

Heeseung's lips curled into a scoff, eyes flashing as he stepped slightly forward, shoulders squaring. "Calm down?" he echoed, mocking. "We weren't doing anything. She's a friend. She came to say hello. Or is that suddenly a crime now?"

The tension in the room sharpened, and though you'd taken your scent blockers religiously that morning—double dosed, in fact, just to keep your pre-heat symptoms under control—it wasn't doing much now. The moment their pheromones began to bleed into the air, it became impossible to ignore. So oppressive that it was like being trapped in a room slowly filling with steam, your lungs working harder than they should, your heartbeat quickening against your will.

God, why can't Alphas just love each other and leave the rest of you — Omegas out of it? you thought, teeth gritted, irritation mounting just as fast as the scent pressure building around you. Always posturing. Always testing boundaries. It was like watching dogs circle each other with slightly more vocabulary.

"What the hell is going on?"

Your entire body went still. You turned your eyes to the fourth voice you heard and your mouth parted on instinct at the catastrophic sight in front of you. Jay had stepped out from the shower hallway, hair soaked and slicked back, droplets of water cascading down his temple, trailing past the line of his sharp jaw and down his neck. His bare chest, still glistening, rose and fell slowly as he surveyed the scene—eyes narrowing first at the other three Alphas, then landing on you.

Your body reacted faster than your logic. Blood rushed everywhere, your heart thudded too loudly, and heat prickled behind your knees. You bit your bottom lip before it could tremble, gaze dropping against your will to follow the curve of water running from his collarbone to the firm lines of his torso and—Goddamn it, look away!

You were spiraling, embarrassingly fast. The argument around you continued, but everything else blurred into background noise. The voices became muffled, meaningless, as the air distorted around you. All you felt was the proximity, the weight of Jay's stare, and then—suddenly his hand was on your wrist. He didn't yank or tug, just shifted his body until he was directly between you and the others, shielding you completely from view. And just like that, Sunghoon flanked him without needing instruction, shoulder-to-shoulder like a wall had been built between you and the rest.

You could barely focus, your brain caught somewhere between oxygen deprivation and a full hormonal breakdown. Your ears were ringing, and the only thing you could clearly register was the vibration of voices.

"Why are you getting so worked up, Park Jongseong?" Heeseung's voice slithered. "We had an agreement. Don't play dirty now."

"She's still bonded to me, Lee Heeseung. You can't demand I cut it because you suddenly decided to care."

You barely registered Jay's voice or the weight of what he said. The words floated around the edges of your consciousness, slipping past you without meaning. You weren't even remotely interested in their territorial Alpha argument—not when your eyes were fixed on something far more distracting. Jay's torso, a single bead of water trailing slowly down the ridge of his abs and disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts.

Your brain short-circuited, you could feel saliva pool beneath your tongue as your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to swallow the lump gathering there, though it did nothing to stop the fire spreading through your veins. Your gaze, which should have been respectful—hell, at least subtle—refused to move elsewhere. Your attention dropped lower, sliding past his hips, until it hit the line of his shorts. You froze. And then you made the mistake of looking lower. Oh God.

You clamped your mouth shut before something embarrassing could escape, pressing your lips into a thin, desperate line, trying to keep it together. The heated air, already saturated with Alpha pheromones, was thickening around you. Your knees felt increasingly useless.

Heeseung scoffed behind the haze. "Hah. You're seriously pulling that card now?" he hissed. "You haven't even claimed her properly. You don't get to hold her in place and pretend she's yours when you haven't done a damn thing to prove it."

Jay didn't flinch. His voice remained even. "I never said she was mine," he said firmly. "But I'm not about to let you toy with her either."

And just like that, you forgot how to breathe again. Because in the next moment, Jay's grip on your wrist shifted, and without waiting for a response from you or anyone else, he drew you closer, his body shielding yours completely. You stumbled forward slightly from the sudden shift in gravity, your hand splaying against his torso. And oh, God—you could feel it.

Around you, the rising heat of the room was tangible —but you didn't care. Your entire brain had condensed into a singular focus: your hand, resting flat against his stomach. You blinked once, trying to claw your way back to reality, but the moment was already slipping from your control.

"I can treat her better than you," Heeseung growled, stepping forward again.

You didn't hear the rest. The pressure behind your eyes throbbed. Your heart skipped a beat, then another, the rush of your blood too loud in your ears. Jay's scent curled into your lungs, too potent for your weakened blockers to resist any longer.

You opened your mouth to speak, to protest, to snap, but the room spun so suddenly that you didn't even get the chance. Everything swayed, tilted, fell sideways. And then you collapsed—right into Jay's chest, the last thing you saw before everything went black.

    EVERY OMEGA has a choice. No matter what the world, the rules, or the Alphas may claim, the right to decide is always in their hands. No bond, no mark, no so-called instinctual claim could ever override that truth. Every connection—no matter how fierce or instinctive—demands consent. The right to say yes. The freedom to say no. And the power to break it when necessary.

The weight of those words echoed somewhere far in the back of your mind as you drifted upward through a dense fog of unconsciousness. Your limbs felt heavy, your mouth dry as paper, your head thick and muffled like it had been wrapped in cotton. Blinking slowly, the first thing your eyes focused on was the whiteness of the ceiling above you. You recognized the faint hum of a light, and—more strongly—the scent of stabilizers in the air.

Your throat burned. Your lips felt cracked, parched beyond comfort. You shifted slightly, and the only word you could muster, hoarse and pathetically faint, was: "Lipgloss..."

A shriek rang out immediately after, followed by the sharp shuffle of footsteps and the nurse's concerned face leaning into view. The student medic did a routine check, murmuring something about vitals and scent suppressant stabilizers.

Ningning wasted no time diving into a full-blown explanation. You barely reacted, eyes unfocused as you stared past her, the antiseptic white of the clinic ceiling offering nothing but emptiness. You listened without interrupting, the pieces of her words falling into place slowly, like puzzle pieces that refused to lock in.

"You passed out because of the scent overload," she was saying, pacing beside the bed with wild gestures. "Your suppressant wasn't strong enough—probably because your heat symptoms have been acting up lately—and then, add three territorial Alphas practically leaking pheromones and your poor Omega system couldn't take it."

You didn't respond. Your eyes didn't move. You were still frozen on the part she said just before that.

Imprint. An old imprint, she said. You had an imprint? You had a mark? Somewhere on your neck, hidden under patches, under layers of self-control you lived by—there was an Alpha's imprint?

But how? When? Who—? Jay?

The only possible answer that surfaced in your thoughts. He was the only Alpha whose presence your body seemed to betray you for—one you involuntarily reacted to. It was always him. So why had he said there was no imprint? Why had he looked you dead in the eye and calmly dismissed it as residual scent transfer? Why had he lied?

The more you thought about it, the more absurd it all became. Ridiculous. That was the only word for it. You'd been walking around all this time, unaware of something so fundamental happening to your own body. Your fists clenched the blanket tighter as the realization dawned harder and harder.

Why the hell does everyone else know what's going on with your body—except you?

And worse, why didn't Jay tell you? Was it to protect you? To spare you? Or was it just another one of those decisions Alphas made without bothering to consult the Omega involved?

The more you tried to make sense of it, the more it all dissolved into one massive, tangled blur. You couldn't even think straight anymore. Your thoughts were colliding with each other, folding over fragments of memory. Furious wasn't even close to describing what you were feeling now. You'd stormed out early, snapped at Ningning, and used a flimsy excuse to get out of your duties, locking yourself in your room for the rest of the day.

You sat motionless at your vanity, staring at the single flower Yeonjun had given you earlier in an awkward attempt to comfort you.

None of this made sense. You retraced every conversation you had with Jay. There was a pattern, but it led nowhere clear. This was exactly why you hated Alphas. Their unpredictability. Their possessiveness. Their habit of acting first and explaining later. Why imprint someone if you were too much of a coward to face it directly? The last question wasn't even Alpha behavior!

You let out a high-pitched shriek and hurled your pillow across the room, following it with a flurry of punches into the mattress as your frustration peaked. You hated Heeseung—his cocky smirk, his walking-pheromone problem. You hoped his feet started stinking and he suffocated in his own scent cloud.

And Jay—God, you hated Jay even more. You hated how quiet he was. How he showed up in every corner of your life without warning. How he stirred something in you even when you were trying to ignore him. And imprinting?! God! He didn't even like you!

You didn't even want to think about their stupid basketball match tomorrow. You weren't going to be there. You hoped they both ran into each other at full speed and knocked each other out cold, maybe that would finally jolt some clarity into their thick skulls.

You shrieked again, even louder this time. You stormed to your vanity to pack your bag, only for your blush compact to fall with a loud clatter.

"Fuck!" you dropped to your knees, reaching under the table, stretching your arm toward where the blush had rolled—only to spot something else.

A glimmer of blue.

Your hand paused mid-reach, then curled around the delicate object. It was your blue ribbon hair clip, dusty from being under the vanity... Wait. What?

You stood slowly, brushing off the clip with trembling fingers, staring at it in growing confusion. You were sure you hadn't seen this clip in days. Jay had handed you your "lost" hair clip after the presentation. But you clearly remembered wearing it that day—right at this table, when you were doing your makeup. You'd taken it off before changing your outfit and left it right there on the vanity. Hadn't you?

Heart thudding, you crossed the room to your storage drawers, pulling open a box where you kept your backup accessories. You grabbed the satin version of the same ribbon—another gift from Ningning—and held them side by side. The exact same model. The same sheen, same cut, same clasp. But... you'd never bought another one. Ningning had only given you one. The clip you found today was the one you lost. So then... what the hell was the one Jay returned?

Your eyes widened, the pieces beginning to click in. Did Jay replaced it?

You sank onto your chair again, clutching the clip as your brain spiraled into the implications. Jay had seen your distress. He'd watched you cry over something he knew he didn't actually have. And instead of correcting you... he found the exact same ribbon and brought it to you. Without saying a word. Just so you wouldn't be upset.

But why? Why go through that trouble? Your hand clenched around the ribbon, thoughts spun faster. Was it guilt? A sense of duty? Was this just another way Alphas acted without meaning? And yet... no. It didn't feel thoughtless, it felt intentional. So then—what was it?

Did he like you? Or not?

⋮ ⌗ act sixteen

     ALPHAS are wired for protection, possession, and preservation. It's in their nature, embedded deep into their biology. Their instincts aren't always logical; they act before thinking, driven by the urge to claim—people, space, scent, habits—anything that signals a sense of "mine." And that behavior, that entitled assumption of ownership, that overwhelming need to dominate everything around them without thought or question, is exactly what you hate.

You've spent years guarding yourself against it, you've taken pride in the way your Omega instinct remained steady, discerning, unmoved by proximity. You're grateful for it, honestly. For not folding just because someone looked at you a certain way or growled in that low, stupid Alpha register they all think is so charming. You're glad you didn't get swept into someone else's hormones. That your biology didn't betray you like it so often does with others.

But now? Now, you're not sure.

Jay wasn't loud. He didn't circle you or demand attention. He didn't mark his scent around you. He just acted like it. Without ever calling it what it was, which unsettles you. You could handle the usual Alpha arrogance. You could block it, bite it back, scream it, but whatever Jay was doing...it was quiet. Is that better? Or worse?

"Huh?!" Yeonjun gasped, nearly dropping the team banner he'd been holding as you appeared beside him without warning. His eyes widened, disbelief etched across his face. "Wait—what the hell? Weren't you supposed to be on your way to Japan by now? Your dad booked the ticket himself!"

On your other side, Ningning choked mid-sip from her water bottle, sputtering and slapping her palm against her chest as she stared at you. "What the—?! Why are you here?! I thought you were halfway to the airport! And—wait—did you even take your scent suppressants? The Alpha pheromones in this place are thick enough to bottle and sell—do you want to pass out again?!"

You didn't respond to either of them. Your arms stayed firmly crossed over your chest, shoulders drawn tight as your gaze remained locked on the basketball court below. The noise of the crowd, the bounce of the ball echoing off, and the sharp, repetitive shrill of the referee's whistle all blended into a white noise that buzzed somewhere behind your thoughts.

"What's going on?" you asked, finally lowering yourself between them on the bleachers, eyes never leaving the game.

Yeonjun blinked at you, his head tilted, brows knitting in disbelief as he scanned you from head to toe. "What do you mean, what's going on? I should be the one asking you that!" he blurted.

"I just wanted to watch," you replied calmly, brushing off his reaction. "Didn't want to miss the last match. Everyone worked hard for this. Would be a shame not to show a little support."

Despite the casual tone you forced into your voice, your eyes betrayed your focus as they scanned the court, trailing across the players. Your attention moved over until it landed on Sunghoon, whose stance was locked and composed despite yellow team closing in on him. He pivoted quickly, faking left before darting right, shielding the ball with clean, practiced movements. Four defenders from the Yellow Team tried to close him off from every angle, their shoes shrieking across the court in quick, aggressive slides, but he held his own, determined to protect the ball.

Your gaze flicked to the scoreboard, squinting. The Yellow Team was leading, and the Red bench looked tense, some standing now, voices rising over the crowd in overlapping instructions. You could feel the heat of the game, and for a second, you forgot about everything outside the court.

As if pulled by something invisible but persistent, your gaze landed on a figure crouched near the key, hands braced on his knees, his breathing visibly heavy. His silver hair was damp with sweat, strands clinging to his forehead, his red jersey darker now, plastered to his chest.

Jay wasn't looking at the game. Not the ball, not the score, not the frantic coordination of his teammates. He was looking at you. Straight at you.

It took a second for you to realize the weight of that gaze—what it meant, how direct it was. You expected the usual straight mask he wore so well, the blank distance he used. But that wasn't what you saw now.

What met you across the court was something else. His expression held a vulnerability it almost hurt to witness. There was no smugness, no dominance, no flicker of Alpha pride. Just those eyes, fixed on you.

Your breath caught, your spine straightened, and yet your arms stayed folded across your chest, refusing to betray how those eyes made something inside you stutter.

"They're exhausted!" someone exclaimed, snapping you back into your body. "They're relying too much on Jay—he's got more stamina, yeah, but that's because he's an Apex. He doesn't even have a basketball history, what are they doing?!" The voice belonged to an Omega a few rows down, clearly panicking, hands flailing as she tugged on her banner. "They're going to burn him out!"

You blinked, shaking your head, breaking the gaze that held you in place. You leaned slightly forward to observe the court again, but your focus faltered as another Omega directly in front of you pointed and squealed. "I don't care about Jay's stamina, look—Soobin just lifted his jersey!"

"Oh my god, those abs!" her friend gasped, clutching her arm. "He's glistening like a God."

You rolled your eyes, dragging your gaze away from Jay to where Soobin, indeed, had momentarily lifted his jersey to wipe his face. The group of Omegas in front of you practically burst, losing their minds over the sharp cut of his waist and the stretch of his toned muscles.

You leaned back, exhaling slowly, trying to tune it all out. But your eyes still drifted sideways—back to him.

The game had resumed at a pace twice as fast as before, both teams locked in a tug-of-war of strategy and desperation. The Yellow Team clearly had more refined players with better coordination, but the Red Team had grit—rough around the edges. Each time the ball landed in his hands, the dynamic shifted.

His movement was fluid, deliberate but fast—like he didn't second-guess the weight of responsibility being thrown on him again and again. Sweat dripped from his temples down to his jaw, his expression tense with focus, but he didn't fumble nor flinch. You watched as he cut through defenders, shielding the ball like it was instinctual, eyes scanning, calculating, moving with a predator's grace.

You didn't know the rules of basketball in detail, weren't sure what counted as a violation or what the term "full court press" even meant, but somehow you found yourself rising from your seat each time the ball left Jay's hands and soared cleanly through the hoop. You didn't even realize you were clapping until Ningning nudged your side, and Yeonjun leaned over with a teasing grin.

Your cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and stubborn denial as you cleared your throat and quickly sat back down. Ningning, of course, was already watching you with narrowed eyes and a knowing smile.

"Yellow team's still ahead," she said, folding her arms with a small sigh. "Honestly, at this point, I've already accepted the loss. Everyone's looking burnt out except for Jay. He's the only one still fighting."

You didn't respond right away. Your eyes followed Jay again. You swallowed hard. Ningning, ever the nosy friend, tilted her head toward you. "You're not angry at him anymore, are you?"

You blinked. "Angry? Angry at what?"

She didn't hesitate. "For imprinting you," she said bluntly, shrugging. "Come on. You know it's him. You've always known. He's the only one who could've left an imprint strong enough for your Omega to react the way it did. We didn't want to say anything earlier because we thought you'd explode."

You were silent for a moment, then let your gaze fall to the polished tips of your shoes, your mind fogging over with thoughts that swirled without direction.

Were you angry? Maybe you had been. When it first hit you. You hated the loss of control, the uncertainty of not knowing what was happening inside your own body, the fact that someone else had crossed a boundary so quietly and so intimately.

But now? Now, you weren't sure what you felt. The anger had softened, bled into confusion, into curiosity. Into questions you weren't ready to ask out loud. Before you could formulate a proper response, Ningning continued, waving her hands. "But you know, it's okay if you're still mad. Seriously. He's so emotionally constipated sometimes it's actually impressive. But also—me and Yeonjun? We've been shipping the two of you since day one. You guys are like... peak slow burn. The entire student body is practically waiting for you two to snap and make out behind the bleachers."

Yeonjun, clearly eavesdropping, threw up two fingers in a peace sign and added, "We're your biggest fans, honestly."

You groaned audibly, dragging a hand down your face in exasperation. "Shut up. No one is making out behind the bleachers," you muttered, though your eyes remained glued to the court. The numbers on the digital scoreboard glared back at you—58 for the red team, 65 for the yellow. Time was draining fast. The gap wasn't impossible to close, but it was getting harder with each passing second.

Yeonjun leaned closer again, lowering his voice. "You know, I'm not entirely sure, but I think Heeseung challenged Jay. That's why he even agreed to play in the first place."

Your body went rigid, an electric feeling crawling along your spine as your gaze snapped back to the court. Jay was there, caught in a corner of the court, three defenders pressing around him, Heeseung leading the charge. You could see it clearly on how his fingers trembles, the barely-disguised falter in his breathing. His shoulders were squared but heavy, he was running out of energy.

"I don't know what kind of pissing match they've got going on," Yeonjun murmured next to you again, "but I'm glad I'm not an Alpha. If you ask me, this is all just ego. Pride games. Honestly, if you think there's something there—between you and him—maybe go for it. One more move, you know? What do you have to lose?"

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly with your elbow. "Go write a blog about romance. You had a talent for it."

"Already have one," he grinned.

You didn't bother responding, attention snapping back to the court as your stomach twisted with nerves. Your breath caught when you realized Jay had the ball again. He was surrounded—boxed in by the yellow team with nowhere to pass, nowhere to pivot. And at the center of it all, Heeseung. The smug set of his jaw was clear even from this distance. You gripped the edge of your seat unconsciously, legs stiffening with tension.

And then Jay looked up, his eyes flicked to the crowd, and found you. There was no confusion in his gaze. He knew exactly where to look, as if he'd already memorized the section, the seat, the way you sat with your arms crossed. Your chest clenched when your eyes locked—his expression cracked open for the briefest moment, and you saw it. A question.

Was this his answer to the challenge? The fight Heeseung had demanded, the one he'd agreed to without a word? Was this how Alphas proved a claim?

You shook your head slowly. The tiniest, instinctive motion.

But Jay saw it, and he listened, because suddenly, he stopped. His body relaxed all at once, his hands fell open. The ball slipped from his fingers.

And in the next breath, Heeseung snatched it.

The yellow team surged, the gym exploded in noise, sneakers screeching against the floor as Heeseung drove the ball down the court. A sharp pass, a clean leap, and then the final whistle. The scoreboard blinked red. The crowd roared. Yellow team erupted into victorious cheers while the red team deflated collectively, chests heaving, hands falling to hips or knees in exhaustion.

Your gaze remained fixed on Jay. He stood still for a second, his head lowered, his silver hair shadowing his eyes as his teammates closed in around him, patting his shoulder, murmuring something you couldn't hear.

And just like that, the moment blurred after. You barely registered the victorious roar of Heeseung being lifted by his teammates, arms spread wide, triumphant grin plastered across his face. The yellow team surged around him, claiming the court. Meanwhile, Jay walked out of the scene, towel pulled up to wipe his face.

You watched the shift ripple through the red team—the way their pride adjusted into polite applause as they made their way off the court, nodding respectfully to their opponents, offering congratulations they didn't entirely. It was part of the game, but none of it settled the anxious twitch in your fingers as you fumbled with the zipper of your bag, barely aware of the way your Omega instincts had fully taken the reins.

Because no matter how much you told yourself not to care, your body had already decided for you. The urge to check on him. To find out if he was okay. To demand answers. To scream at him and maybe, to your own horror, comfort him. Curse these hormones. Curse these goddamn dynamics.

You didn't wait for your thoughts to catch up with your feet. You grabbed your bag, slinging it onto your shoulder and stood up. Ningning blinked from beside you, startled by the sudden movement. Yeonjun tilted his head but didn't ask. Your legs moved, descending the stands with determined steps, pushing past the clusters of students flooding the aisles toward the exits. But you didn't head for the exit. Your feet knew where to go—the locker rooms.

Behind you, Ningning and Yeonjun exchanged a look—hers wide-eyed and almost concerned, his filled with knowing exasperation. "I think we already know who actually won," Yeonjun said dryly, adjusting his lanyard and falling into line behind the stream of students heading out.

Meanwhile, you kept walking. You didn't know what you were going to say when you found Jay. You didn't even know if you'd be able to say anything at all.

But that didn't stop you pushing through the double doors that led toward the inner hallway of the gym, until you found him, sitting alone on the bench, elbows resting on his thighs, hands slack between his knees, head bowed. His legs were spread, his posture one of complete exhaustion.

You inhaled sharply, squared your shoulders, then crossed your arms. "God, you're such a loser," you said flatly. "If you don't know how to play or have any background in basketball, why sign up?"

His head lifted slowly at your words and you faltered. Not because you regretted what you said—but because of the expression that met you. His lips twitched upward in the faintest smile, tired, but somehow still warm.

It was the strangest, most unsettling smile you'd ever seen—and yet it was so disarmingly handsome your heart gave a reluctant jolt. You clenched your fists at your sides, straightening your posture.

"I wanted to prove I could be good at everything," he said.

You scoffed, eyes rolling as you turned your face slightly away. "Not everyone is good at everything, Jay. That's just reality. You don't have to win every time. You're academically smart, sure—but emotionally?" You clicked your tongue. "Your EQ is a disaster. You've really mastered the whole 'typical Alpha' thing."

You considered turning around and leaving, you really did. But something in the way he remained seated kept you rooted. Your fingers twitched toward your bag. You swore it wasn't your Omega instincts, it was just a decision you made.

What would you lose? Nothing you hadn't already risked.

You stepped forward, closing the distance between you and him. Your hand reached into your bag as your feet planted firmly in the space between his knees, and he blinked up at you in confusion. His lips parted slightly, as if about to speak, but no words came.

With trembling fingers, you pulled the small pin from your bag and gently leaned forward. You were close—so close you could feel the faint heat of his breath against your cheek, the scent of his fading pheromones barely clinging to the air around him. You lifted the pin to the edge of his jersey, your fingers brushing against the damp fabric as you secured it just above his number.

Jay's eyes never left your face. His hands remained planted on the bench at his sides, unmoving. A faint release of scent curled from your skin into the space between you as if to soothe, to anchor, to comfort, just like he always do.

Jay looked down. His eyes landed on the pin you'd fastened to his chest.

You Win in My Heart <3

He exhaled through his nose—slowly, deeply—and with it, a ribbon of his pheromones released into the air between you.

"Why did you accept his challenge?" you asked, straightening your posture though your knees already felt too weak to hold your pride. "I didn't expect you to be the kind who picks a fight over ego."

Jay looked at you for a long moment, the flicker of tension passing across his brow. "It's... an Alpha instinct," he answered quietly.

You cringed, face twisting, and you didn't bother to hide it. "Of course it is. You really are no different from the rest of them," you muttered.

Jay's gaze didn't shift. "He said if he won, I had to remove the imprint."

Your heart stuttered. For a second, the words didn't quite register, him admitting the imprint and when they did, you blinked at him—then scoffed. "And the imprint?" you asked, lifting your chin. "Was that just your instinct too?"

When he nodded, your chest deflated. You felt your breath falter, just a little. Like something in your chest had been punctured. You turned away almost immediately, trying to hide how it knocked the wind out of you. Your arms crossed tighter against your chest, your hand clenching the strap of your bag. 

"Well, I don't care," you said, your voice carefully detached, clipped. "Remove it, or don't. As if I'll be swayed by that smug, overcompensating Alpha shit. Let him think he won."

You swallowed hard. The lump that had formed in your throat was too heavy. You didn't even know if you were mad at him or mad at yourself—for hoping, for imagining, for reading something soft behind his gaze when it had only been instinct all along.

Damn it. You liked him. And you hated that you did.

You hated how you can't read him, how tightly he reined in everything, how he never let you see more than fragments. But now you had seen enough to confirm what you feared: maybe you were the only one feeling anything real.

And just when you told yourself to let it go—to walk away for good—his voice reached you again.

"I'm not removing the imprint."

You froze mid-step, his words halting you. You turned slowly, head tilting, your brow rising in challenge. "Go touch some grass and reflect—"

"I like you." The words didn't tremble, didn't hesitate. They came out clear. And then again, softer, slower, as he began walking toward you: "I like you."

And just like that, something inside you ruptured. The world slowed, dulled to a blur around the sound of his voice. It was ridiculous how cliché it felt—the heat blooming up your neck, the imaginary fireworks bursting behind your eyelids, the sudden hitch in your breath that made it hard to speak.

You quickly looked away, cheeks burning, fingers gripping your bag. "Is it your Alpha instinct again?" you asked, almost whispering. "Another convenient chemical reaction?"

"No," he said without pause. "It's not instinct. It's me... Just me."

You bit the inside of your cheek, your jaw tightening, the war between pride and longing already clawing at your ribs. Still, you didn't turn around. You stayed rooted there with your back to him, your fists curling, a thousand unspoken thoughts swirling in your head, waiting to break.

"Talk to me," his voice reached you again, almost pleading. "Talk to me about your makeup, the palettes you like, that shopping vlog you always watch. Show me more of those ridiculous bags you keep collecting, the ones with pearls and strawberries. Keep telling me about 'Flower Knows' and why the packaging matters so much to you. Wear your Jo Malone again—the one you always wear when you sit next to me in class. I... I memorized it before I realized I even liked it."

Your lips parted, air rushing out of your lungs as your heart twisted. You stood there, shaking, held together by nothing but sheer restraint, your body screaming to turn around, your Omega humming, quietly, insistently, for the truth.

The kind of truth that didn't come from instincts. But from feelings. And Jay was giving you all of it, finally.

"I noticed every time you wore it. I could tell when it faded. I hated how easily I could pick you out in a crowd, and hated myself more for liking it."

You still hadn't turned around, but your body betrayed you in the smallest ways—fingertips twitching, knees gently swaying, the way your spine arched just slightly, as if the gravity between you and him had grown stronger.

"I lied," he continued. "About the imprint. I knew it the second it happened. I felt it snap into place the moment it formed. But I didn't say anything because I didn't want to lock you into something you hadn't chosen."

He took a breath, the kind you only take when you're standing at the edge of a ledge. "I didn't mean to imprint you. I didn't even know it could happen like that, so fast." You could hear him take another step forward. The heat of his presence crept up your back.

"I've been so afraid of doing this wrong. Of messing it up. You're... you're everything I didn't think I was allowed to want. You talk so much and half the time it's about things I don't understand, but God, I want to learn. I want to keep hearing it. Even the things you rant about when you think no one's listening—those are the things I remember the most."

Your breath caught as he stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper, right behind you. "You don't need anyone—but I want to be someone you want anyway."

"— And I lied. I didn't fight Heeseung because I thought it would win me anything. I fought him because he tried to reduce you to a prize. And because even if I never get to call you mine, I won't stand by and let someone treat you like something to win."

Your hands had gone limp at your sides, bag forgotten. The walls you'd built around yourself were disintegrating, trembling under the weight of everything he was saying. 

"I like you," he said again, firmer this time, no longer a question but a vow. "Not just in the way an Alpha is wired to like an Omega. I like you. The person. With all your contradictions. I like you more than I know how to say."

Make him yours. Your Omega purred beneath. But your walls, built so carefully around years of protecting yourself, didn't come down all at once. So instead, with your throat tight and your vision swimming, you gathered what little armor you had left, swallowed hard, and bit out the only word your pride could manage.

"Fuck off," you snapped.

You turned away fast, heels clicking against the floor, spine rigid. The kind of exit you'd perfected—one that screamed indifference. Except it wasn't indifference, and Jay saw it. He saw the flicker in your steps, the slight stumble in your stride as you reached the door. Saw how your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, saw how your scent, no matter how restrained or suppressed, trembled in the air like loose threads unraveling behind you.

He didn't call after you. Because the moment you stepped outside the locker room doors and were out of his sight, your composure cracked into a hundred glittering pieces.

A high-pitched screech echoed down the hallway, followed by the unmistakable sound of you jumping on the spot like you'd just won the lottery. "Fuck—fuck—fuck!" you squealed under your breath, fanning your face with both hands like you were overheating, cheeks burning as if the confession had lit your skin on fire. You slapped your own cheeks twice. Not hard, but enough to try grounding yourself in the reality you'd just walked away from.

Your lips stretched into a grin you couldn't contain, fingers twitching as you let out a little hop, whisper-screaming into the palm of your hand. "Stupid fucking Jay! Why did he have to say that like that?! Why did he have to be good at it?!"

Back in the locker room, Jay hadn't moved. He was back at seated on the bench, hunched slightly forward, the sweat on his skin cooling in the post-game silence. His fingers, however, remained in motion—slowly, gently with care brushing over the little badge now pinned to his jersey.

You Win In My Heart <3

It was corny. Incredibly so. But his lips curved anyway, the smile starting small and growing with each passing second.

Outside the locker room, your voice echoed faintly through the hallway—shrieking, laughing, with wild and breathless. His advanced senses picked up every word, every thud of your feet against the tile, every muffled curse and squeal as you tried to compose yourself and utterly failed. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him, laughing softly.

There you were. Still difficult. Still infuriatingly unpredictable. Still saying one thing while your scent betrayed another. Still the same girl who rolled her eyes at Alpha antics but scented him in the most delicate, protective way.

Still, somehow, his.

Jay's hand lingered over the badge again, fingertips pressing. He thought about your sharp tongue, your firecracker temper, the way you folded your arms when you were about to deliver one of your trademark verbal takedowns. He thought about how stubborn you were, how emotionally guarded.

He didn't mind the walls. He didn't mind the attitude. He didn't even mind that your version of affection came wrapped in sarcasm and profanity. If anything, he preferred it that way. Because it meant that every piece you gave him was real.

Jay leaned back, letting his head fall gently against the cool metal of the locker behind him. His fingers still played with the pin, heart thudding quietly beneath it.

You weren't going to make this easy. You were going to fight him at every step, throw fits in hallways, and scream. But that didn't scare him.

Because now he knew. He just had to prove it.

Every damn day, if that's what it took.

[mssishipi]

make sure to leave feedback and reblog my works! thank you ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ.

TAGLIST #1: @shra-vasti @thinkinboutbin @kwiwin @seungsoftly @k1ttyjwon @wondoras @pshnoona @adelusionalwhore69 @rosepetals09 @amorlisha @wondash @ssanhwatto @kristen8899 @coconutx-o @heelovesmeknot @manuosorioh @soondoongdoriii @kirinaa08 @llearlert @immelissaaa @hoshiwhore @m3wkledreamy @hee4me @fancypeacepersona @sumzysworld @gabrielinhaa @bubbletaeq @swetmeal @xocandypoo @notcamii @mariegibeau @koizekomi @notab1tchwho @dreamy-carat @hyukaaa @cutehoons02 @chubbypeach2111

[mssishipi]

make sure to leave feedback and reblog my works! thank you ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ.

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[mssishipi]

make sure to leave feedback and reblog my works! thank you ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ.

TAGLIST #3: talesofthegreatest manobillie jayshadoww peachy-111 mariegibeau missoxy miyeonprincessu wonislife17 lhsslvrrr shinkenprincess-oh riribelle amortapes deliciousmagazinequeen seyjy goldenmellow dksfml heesminee3 m1kkso dksfml cherrybeomm 0ctobunny jungwqn arourababy sunnysidesins rpkth sweetiehwa vvenusoncasual smilefordongil itsmesofia bobachacha21 cripplinghooman yuaaa-somehow maliakealoha roslayy sumzysworld diameuwu socollectionmoom wicca-void hveanlyanqelic fan143 lostgirlysstuff kryllea myluckycat cheshirewithmilk niinjo

[gabrielinhaa]

GUYS, PLEASE HELP 🙏🏼

@mssishipi’s account was suddenly deleted, and she had to create a new one ( @shiwrites-enha )but we still don’t know why the original one was taken down. If you’re also worried and want to help, you can send a message to Tumblr Support asking them to review her case!

💻 It’s really simple, here’s how:

1. Go to this link: https://www.tumblr.com/support

Tumblr is a place to express yourself, discover yourself, and bond over the stuff you love. It's where your interests connect you with your

2. Where it says “What can we help you with?”, choose “Something else”

If more people send messages, there’s a better chance Tumblr will look into it. So if you can take a minute to help, it would mean A LOT 🥺💗

Thank you so much to everyone who’s willing to support her 💌

[gabrielinhaa]

thank u everyone!!!THE QUEEN IS BACK!!!!

[gabrielinhaa]

GUYS, PLEASE HELP 🙏🏼

@mssishipi’s account was suddenly deleted, and she had to create a new one ( @shiwrites-enha )but we still don’t know why the original one was taken down. If you’re also worried and want to help, you can send a message to Tumblr Support asking them to review her case!

💻 It’s really simple, here’s how:

1. Go to this link: https://www.tumblr.com/support

Tumblr is a place to express yourself, discover yourself, and bond over the stuff you love. It's where your interests connect you with your

2. Where it says “What can we help you with?”, choose “Something else”

If more people send messages, there’s a better chance Tumblr will look into it. So if you can take a minute to help, it would mean A LOT 🥺💗

Thank you so much to everyone who’s willing to support her 💌

[shiwrites-enha]

hey uhh so my blog got deleted?? i didn’t delete it myself, it just randomly disappeared and now it says it doesn’t exist anymore I'M FUCKING CRYING. trying to reach out to tumblr support to get it back, so fingers crossed. if you were following me there, hi it’s still me lol (╥﹏╥)

[shiwrites-enha]

[gabrielinhaa]

GUYS THIS IS MSSISHIPI’S NEW ACCOUNT, TUMBLR DELETED HER OTHER ONE PLEASE FOLLOW HER!!!!

[mssishipi]

ecstacy — yjw

— sex with jungwon is good, no doubt about that. but the thing is… he doesn’t know how to stop.

content tags: established relationship, unhinged jw, explicit content (smut): soft dom jw (is he really?), cuffs, usage of toys, fingering, nipple play, overstimulation, basically this fic is an actual torture so read at your own risk, squirting, unprotected sex, jw has a big dick (yum🤤), creampie, cnc. MDNI. WC: 3.3K

note: it's been a really long ass time since i last wrote a smut so please bare with me. my mind is so fried but atleast i tried ahuehue... not proofread, anw, enjoy reading and reblog!

One thing about your boyfriend Jungwon? He has a bit of a collection—of sex toys, to be exact.

It’s the kind of surprise that catches most people off guard, especially considering how incredibly gentle, soft-spoken, and genuinely sweet he is.

Well...he’s still soft-spoken—his voice never rises, never loses that calm, steady tone but gentle? Not quite.

Behind closed doors, there’s a different edge to him. His sweetness doesn’t disappear, but it’s laced with dominance, control, and an intensity that contradicts his daytime demeanor. If there’s one rough thing about him, it’s the way he takes control when you’re underneath him.

Sex with Jungwon is good, no doubt about that. But the thing is… he doesn’t know how to stop.

Once he starts, it’s like he falls into a rhythm only he can hear, and you’re just along for the ride, trembling and breathless and completely at his mercy.

Your wrists are cuffed to both sides of the bed, the metal cool against your heated skin. Your legs are spread and tied down, leaving you completely exposed—open for him. At first, it’s fine. You can handle it. The slow build, the teasing. The way he slips the toy inside your pulsing cunt, then drags it up to circle your clitoris with frustrating precision.

Each slow movement of the toy has you dripping onto the sheets, your body reacting before your mind can even catch up. You don’t miss the way Jungwon’s eyes light up with excitement, a sparkle in them. A small, satisfied smile curves on his lips as he watches your pussy clench around absolutely nothing, the vibrator pulsing against you while he teases, never quite giving you what you’re begging for.

That’s the thing about Jungwon—he knows exactly how to ruin you without even touching you properly. He hasn’t taken off a single piece of clothing, hasn’t even laid a finger on your most sensitive spots. And yet, you’re falling apart.

He makes you crave everything. His touch. A simple brush of his fingers. Even just a glance at what’s hidden behind his pants—his huge fucking cock, so painfully hard. You’ve barely seen it tonight, and that alone makes you dizzy with need.

Your head is spinning. Your throat burns from all the begging, the moaning, the hoarse screams you’ve let out over the past hour. Your legs shake, your wrists ache against the cuffs, and your eyes—God, your eyes can barely stay open. Every time he pulls another orgasm out of you, they roll back with a mix of pleasure and exhaustion. You’re so, so tired, and so wrecked.

“Please, please… just fuck me. Just fuck me already!” you cry out, voice cracking from exhaustion.

Jungwon is still sitting at the edge of the room, completely composed, watching you with fascination. Your legs tremble uncontrollably, still spread wide, still bound, as another orgasm rips through you. The loud hum of the vibrator fills the room, blending with your high-pitched moans and hitched breaths.

You try to shut your legs, to push the toy away from your aching core, but you can’t. You’re strapped open, so damn helpless. Your clit feels raw, burning from the endless attention. It’s been nearly two hours of this, and your entire body feels like it’s on fire. You’re drenched in sweat, heart racing, muscles twitching from the constant tension. And still… Jungwon doesn’t look finished. He watches you like you’re the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

“L-Let’s just finish this and sleep, okay?” you gasp, trying to meet his eyes. There’s desperation in your voice, but you still try to sound sweet—still trying to bargain with the man who holds all the control.

Finally, he stands. His gaze travels slowly down your body, from your tearful eyes to your heaving chest. And then, he leans in and kisses you softly, almost tender. You melt into it, sighing against his lips, your body automatically responding despite the ache. You try to kiss him deeper, tongue desperate against his, hands twitching against the restraints as you try to pull him closer.

“Love you, my sweet little angel,” Jungwon whispers against your lips, smiling so gently it almost feels cruel.

You smile weakly back, eyes watery but soft. “Love you too… now please—please untie me?” you beg.

For a moment, your heart lifts in relief as you see him walk toward the cabinet beside the bed. You think he’s going for the keys because finally. But then your eyes widen in horror when he pulls out a small collection of toys instead and places them gently on the nightstand.

Your stomach drops.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“No!” you cry out, yanking at your cuffs even though you know it’s useless. Panic surges as he picks up a pair of nipple stimulators and places them over your already sensitive chest.

"Shit— no! Don't! Stop!"

The moment they turn on, you jolt. The soft suction and flickering pulses send electric shocks through your breasts, focusing on your nipples and making your back arch off the bed.

“Ahh—n-no! No more!” you shout, writhing, body bucking against the restraints.

Jungwon doesn’t say a word. His fingers trail down slowly, tracing the mess between your legs, spreading you gently. Then, without warning, he pushes two fingers inside you, curling and sliding them.

“Hahh… J-Jung… ahh—” Your head falls back, and your eyes roll. The pleasure blurs everything—your thoughts, your words. “I c-can’t… anymore…” you whisper, voice trembling, barely holding together.

Your thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm, lost to the overwhelming flood of sensation. Every nerve in your body is lit up, every inch of you trembling, wrung out, and oversensitive.

Jungwon, on the other hand, looks like he’s in bliss. His chest rises and falls with labored breaths, eyes locked on your body. When he feels your walls tightening around his fingers, his lips part with a quiet moan. The way you grip him—so hot, so wet, so helpless—nearly drives him insane.

Your head lolls to the side, arms stretched and chained above you. Your mouth hangs open, tongue slipping out slightly, drool tracing a path from your lips to your chin. You’re panting, muttering broken, incoherent phrases that even you don’t understand.

Underneath his pants, Jungwon’s cock throbs with the weight of restraint. Finally, he pulls his fingers out of you and quickly undresses, his hands shaking in urgency. He barely blinks, barely breathes, as he climbs back onto the bed.

Before you can even register his presence fully, you hear another vibration. A sob tears from your throat as a small egg vibrator slips inside you, humming to life with a relentless buzz. Another one is pressed directly to your clit, making your hips jerk violently. The stimulation is too much, all-consuming and now you’re crying, tears running freely down your cheeks.

Your mind is barely there when Jungwon settles over you. You feel his body hovering close, the warmth of him mixing with yours. He cups your cheek with one hand, gently brushing away your tears, while the other supports the back of your head.

“Shhh…” he soothes. “It’s okay, baby. You can take it, can’t you? Be my good girl, hmm?”

You can’t even answer. Your lips tremble, a sob stuck in your throat, your body wracked with pleasure that borders on pain. The buzzing on your clit, the pulsing deep inside you, the suction on your nipples—it’s too much!

“You’re my good girl, right? Answer me, angel,” Jungwon repeats.

“I-I… I’m y-your… nghh… g-good girl,” you manage to choke out, eyes squeezed shut. The moment you say it, Jungwon smiles—and not just any smile, but the one he gives when he’s deeply, thoroughly satisfied. It’s the kind of smile that says he’s proud of you.

He shifts on the bed, straddling your hips, his knees on either side of you. His cock is flushed, rock hard, and leaking precum. From this angle, you can see it clearly—aching and ready. Your breath catches.

“Say you can take it,” he says again, eyes burning into yours.

“I-I c-can t-take it… F-FUCK!” you scream as the vibrator inside you kicks up to a stronger setting. Your nails dig into your palms, your back arches off the bed, and your legs jerk against the restraints. Another wave crashes over you, and you’re gone again, mouth open in a silent scream before the moans pour out helplessly.

Jungwon groans at the sight of you. He tosses the remote aside and his hand wraps around his length, the slick glide of his palm a poor substitute for what he really wants, but right now, it’s enough because what he’s seeing? It’s everything.

You’re trembling, legs shaking uncontrollably, arms pulled taut by the cuffs. Your entire body is soaked in sweat, flushed, and still, you’re clenching and twitching, hips jumping with every surge of overstimulation. You’re crying, sobbing softly through parted lips, but your body won’t stop responding. And to Jungwon, there’s no more beautiful sight in the world.

Ecstacy.

He never understood the word fully before you. People always talked about it like a fleeting rush, a peak that fades as quickly as it comes. But with you? It lasts. It blooms slowly.

"Hahhh.... 'Wonnie, c-close again!"

Jungwon whines, an unfiltered, almost desperate sound as his hand speeds up. He braces himself on the mattress, panting through clenched teeth as the fire in his gut coils tighter and tighter.

You’re nearly delirious, legs quaking, sweat dripping off your skin in soft trails. The small toy is still pulsing relentlessly between your thighs, buzzing away mercilessly, and you—his perfect, precious girl—can do nothing to escape it.

Your body jolts, then locks up. Another wave crashes over you, and Jungwon can see it in real time—your stomach tensing, mouth falling open, eyes fluttering back as you climax again. It’s like your soul momentarily leaves your body and crashes back into it, all in one breathless scream.

He groans loudly, the sound raw and shameless, as his orgasm builds at the sight. His cock throbs painfully in his grip, aching for release.

“Stop! Please… stop! Make it stop!”

You’re sobbing, shaking your head side to side, tears streaking your cheeks as your voice breaks entirely.

A strangled gasp escapes Jungwon’s lips as his climax slams into him. His body jerks forward as he spills across your stomach and chest. The orgasm tears through him, spine curling, muscles locking, vision flashing white at the edges. His hips twitch helplessly as each pulse escapes him, breath ragged, mind floating somewhere far away.

Between his high and the aftershocks rolling through his body, he still hears you screaming his name, begging him to stop.

Jungwon blinks, disoriented. For a moment, his mind is blank, floating somewhere between euphoria and guilt. But then his eyes land on you.

With shaky hands, he reaches for the remote and flicks off the power. The hum of the toys dies, replaced by silence—save for your ragged breathing, the hiccuping sobs that break his heart, and the faint creak of the bed as your body finally begins to fall limp in exhaustion.

He moves fast but gentle, slipping the nipple clamps off first. His breath hitches at the sight—your nipples flushed deep red, firm and oversensitive. He swallows hard, fighting the urge to touch, to kiss, to soothe with his mouth.

Then there’s the vibrator still buried inside you. It’s soaked, your slick dripping down your thighs, clinging to the toy as it slips out with a wet, lewd sound. The air is thick with the scent of sex, of release, of everything you gave him tonight. His stomach tightens again at the sight, but he forces himself to stay focused.

“D-done?” your voice comes, barely a whisper.

Jungwon doesn’t answer right away. He’s still staring. His body might’ve just finished, but his mind is caught somewhere in the afterglow.

His fingers fumble briefly with the small key before unlocking the cuffs, one by one. You don’t even lift your arms—just lie there, shivering, twitching occasionally when a breeze brushes across your skin.

You let out a shaky breath as your wrists fall free. A sob leaves your chest, but this time it’s soft—relieved. Grateful. Your arms weakly pull inward, cradling your own chest as you collapse into the sheets.

But your body… it’s still trembling. You’re still soaked. That last orgasm hadn’t even faded, and the aftershocks have your thighs twitching with every shift of your hips.

Jungwon swallows hard as he kneels behind you, watching your body try to recover, the way you curl slightly into yourself like you’re trying to keep your insides from spilling over.

"J-Jungwon?"

You feel his hands gently reposition you, guiding you slowly onto your stomach. You let him, barely resisting, only sobbing quietly, the kind of sound that makes his chest ache and his cock twitch.

“One more,” he whispers near your ear, brushing his lips over your cheek. “Just one more, baby. Then I’ll stop. I promise, okay?”

You cry out, he gently pushes your legs apart and lifts your hips just enough, guiding you into position.

“Fuck,” he hisses, as he presses forward slowly but your body reacts instantly.

"Ahhh!" You gasp, then squeal as your walls clamp down, and without warning, a gush of liquid pours from you. You’re fucking squirting.

Jungwon groans, forehead dropping to your back, overwhelmed by the sheer sensitivity of your response. Your hips try to jerk forward, trying to escape, but he holds you in place with one arm curled around your waist.

You’re still spasming when he finally sinks inside, forcing his huge cock inside you. Your soaked walls resist him in a trembling way, trying to push him out while also drawing him deeper.

You scream again as he fills you, your voice breaking around the sobs. He hushes you gently, lips brushing your neck.

“Shhh… it’s okay, baby. Almost there. You can do it—just a little more,” he whispers, his own voice shaking.

He stays still for a moment, buried inside your pulsing heat, feeling your body flutter and tighten around him. His chest presses to your back, arms wrapping around you, holding you close as you sob into the pillow.

“My good girl,” he breathes, kissing the space behind your ear. “You’re doing so well. So perfect for me.”

You whimper brokenly, clenching again as he slowly draws his hips back—just an inch—and thrusts forward again.

Your body goes pliant beneath him, letting him take the lead, letting him guide every motion as his hips begin to roll with slow, fluid strokes. The drag of his cock through your drenched heat makes his head fall forward, jaw clenched, breath shuddering against your neck.

“Little more,” he pants. His eyes flutter shut as he sinks back into you, the tight grip of your body drawing another moan from deep in his throat. “Just… like that.”

You sob again, your hands claw at the sheets.

Jungwon groans softly and leans over you more. His hand slides gently around your neck, His thumb brushes your jaw, tilting your head up so he can see your face.

Your lips tremble. Your eyes flutter, barely open, hazy and wet from tears, but locked onto him.

He exhales sharply at the sight. He leans in and kisses you upside down, the angle is awkward, but lips finding yours between moans and movement. The kiss is messy, wet, desperate. His hips never stop, and the rhythm begins to build again, more urgent now. Each thrust hits deeper, heavier, guided by the way your body clings to him, keeps him buried.

He moans into your mouth as you whimper against his. Then his tongue drags over your bottom lip, over your cheek, catching the taste of your tears and sweat. His teeth scrape lightly against your skin before he licks up the salty trail along your face.

“Mine,” he breathes against your cheek. “All mine.”

Your only response is a faint cry as your body clenches again, another sharp squeeze that makes him falter, hips stuttering from the overwhelming sensation.

His hand leaves your throat and presses between your shoulder blades, pinning you gently into the bed as he pulls your hips higher, changing the angle.

“Ahh, f-fuck!” you squeal. Your thighs quiver violently, and Jungwon nearly loses it right there at the sound.

His pace falters for a beat, then picks up again, faster, more erratic. “So good—so fucking good,” he stammers out, neck slick with sweat.

Your walls clench again, fluttering around him, and he lets out a wrecked sound, almost pained in how much he needs this.

His hips slam forward as he grits out, “Pretty… you’re so pretty. So good for me.”

His hand moves from your back to your waist, holding you tight as he keeps grinding in. “I love you,” he gasps, not even meaning to say it again, but it falls out of him in a choked whisper. “I love you so fucking much…”

His voice cracks at the end, moaning into your skin.

His lips find your shoulder—he kisses it once, then again, moaning into your skin as he thrusts harder. He’s unraveling. His rhythm turns desperate, your name falling from his lips.

"J-just a little more, hmm? I'm gonna creampie this little pussy t-then— fuck, we're done." Jungwon pants, voice cracking with emotion, every word shaking as it leaves his mouth. His eyes are blown wide, focused on where he’s buried deep inside you. “I love you—ahh, I love you so much…”

Jungwon grabs both of your arms, pulling them back gently, lifting your upper body just enough to tilt your chest off the bed. Your back arches, his hips slapping against you, skin to skin, the sound filthy and wet.

Your breasts bounce with every motion, your body jolting under his force. You barely register your own scream before your entire frame begins to convulse.

"Holy shit." Jungwon gasps at the sight, eyes wide with stunned, reverent awe as he breathes out.

You let go completely—again—and it’s overwhelming. A fresh, hot stream releases from you uncontrollably, drenching everything. His thighs. The sheets. The space between you. The air fills with the scent of arousal and sweat, with the stuttering breaths of both your bodies falling apart at the same time.

His thighs shake violently as he spills his cum into you, a strangled, low moan escaping from the pit of his chest. He doesn’t stop moving—keeps thrusting, dragging his length in and out as he pours every last drop inside of you, desperate to make it last.

The warmth floods between your legs, and the way your body pulses around him only draws more out of him. And it’s almost an afterthought to you now, dulled by the overwhelming waves of pleasure and exhaustion. You’re beyond feeling it fully, your body too far gone from the overstimulation he dragged you through.

He whines high as he buries himself to the hilt again, staying there, pushing in as far as you’ll let him. Your body quivers under the weight of his release, and he presses his chest to your back, wrapping both arms around you.

"Thank you, thank you, my angel."

The room falls into a heavy silence.

When Jungwon finally, carefully pulls out of you, he pauses—eyes drawn to the mess he left behind. His release slowly trickles from you, glistening down your inner thighs, and he can’t help but stare.

Then his gaze drifts up.

Your body is limp against the sheets, your chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Your face is flushed and dewy with sweat, eyes barely open, lips parted like you’re still floating in that lingering euphoric high.

And yet—something about the sight of you like that makes heat stir in his gut all over again.

Jungwon swallows hard as he feels himself twitch, already starting to thicken with the urge to take you again.

[nephynes]

You thought things would calm down after the confessions, the crying, the sex. After fists were thrown and secrets dragged out into the open. But Jake is still mean, Sunghoon is still quiet, and now you're still stuck somewhere in the middle—aching for something that feels like love but tastes like possession.

• minors do not interact

• pairing: sunghoon x afab reader x jake

• wc: 45k (yikes)

• content tags: SMUT, polyamory, angst, found family vibes, messy relationship dynamics, emotional hurt/comfort, intense group drama, mention of cheating, heavy emotional themes, jealousy, slut shaming, verbal degradation, crying, physical altercation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, complex feelings, mentions of sexuality, power imbalance, reader calls the boys hoonie and yunnie sometimes, mentions of enhypen’s jay, jungwon and heeseung and lesserafim’s yunjin and chaewon. not proofread.

WARNINGS: emotional whiplash, heavy angst, themes of cheating, heartbreak, yelling, crying, drinking, graphic, talks of weight loss/gain, depictions of sex, slut-shaming (called out), toxic relationships, emotional manipulation, intense emotional vulnerability, hurt/comfort, slow burn healing. please read with care 💕, also i need everyone to remember that this is FICTION!

• a/n: yes i know it took me forever to write this, yes it nearly emotionally destroyed me in the process and yes, i hope it emotionally destroys you too enjoy the chaos, again and the crying, and the filthy ass smut.

• nsfw warnings under the cut

threesome (mfm), established relationship, emotionally charged sex, oral (f and m receiving), praise kink, slight breeding kink, slight dacryphilia (crying during sex), anal, slight hair pulling, face sitting, spanking, themes of voyeurism, squirting, possession/claiming, lots of kissing and touching, switch!jake and dom!sunghoon, sub!reader, double the aftercare, shared bed, reader is doted on completely, lots of “mine” and “ours,” intense eye contact, and deep emotional intimacy wrapped in filth. let me know if i missed any.

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You weren't even supposed to come tonight. Again. You'd said as much when Sunghoon offered to pick you up, voice hushed over the phone, socked feet curled under you on the couch, saying, "I don't think I'm in a party mood." He didn't push. He never really does. He just said, "You'll be with us," like it was that simple. "It's someone's birthday, right?" you asked after a beat. "I don't even know the birthday boy."

"Jungwon won't mind." You blinked. "Who even is Jungwon?" And then, faintly, over the phone, not even on the call with you, Jake's voice rang out in the background like a war cry. "Ugh! Just come, Y/N!!"

So now you're here. Three drinks in and sunk into a velvet-cornered couch, nursing a half-empty cup while Jake makes eyes at you from across the room, he probably thinks you've been talking to Yunjin for too long now. You didn't even know she'd be here tonight. You're trying so desperately trying to listen to what she's saying, something about how things have changed with Heeseung, how he's not the same, how you’ve barely been at your apartment, but it's hard to when Jake's stare is making heat crawl up your spine. It's different now with you and him, with you and them. There's no official label, no posts or promises. Just this unspoken closeness, a quiet claiming that's bled into everything. It sits under your skin like warmth after a fever. You're still you, still the girl who people-watches from corners, still awkward when they touch you too long, but now, when Jake calls you pretty, you roll your eyes and tell him to shut up instead of looking away.

And he lives for it, he watches you the way you watch people, he notices you. Notices when you excuse yourself from Yunjin's presence and head to the kitchen. "You staring again, sweetheart?" Jake's voice cuts through the low music, dragging your attention away from the stranger in the corner who's been arguing with a girl in black boots for the past fifteen minutes. You blink up at him. He's leaning against the wall beside you now, eyes lazy, lips pink from whatever cocktail someone handed him earlier. His shirt is half-unbuttoned already.

"I wasn't staring," you mumble, even though you were. "I was observing." Jake laughs, that boyish little tilt of his head when he knows he's caught you in a lie. "Mm. Observing. Right." He reaches for your cup and takes a sip without asking, then makes a face. "What is that?"

"I don't know. Someone handed it to me and said it tasted like juice." Jake hums, leaning closer. "It tastes like trauma.” You hear Sunghoon snort as he approaches both of you and it makes your cheeks warm, not just from Jake's teasing, "I was watching that couple over there," you mutter, nodding toward the argument in the corner. Jake follows your gaze. "Oof. Been there." "You're so mean," you say, sipping from your cup just to have something to do with your hands. "I'm honest," he counters, brushing your hair out of your face. "You think he cheated?" Your eyes flick back to the couple. The girl's arms are crossed, the guy's face twisted in the kind of guilt you can't fake. "Definitely. He looks like he left his phone face-down one too many times." Jake hums in agreement, and then—"You know who else used to leave her phone face-down?" You glance at him, slow. "Who?" Jake's grin sharpens. "You." Your mouth parts, ready to protest, but he just winks, smug and playful, and says, "It's okay, baby. We already know you're the heartbreaker now."

"I am not—" you start, but you don't get to finish. Because Sunghoon, who's been silent the entire time, watching the exchange with a faint smirk, suddenly pulls you to his side and plants a kiss to the side of your head. You gasp, caught off guard, hand flying up to steady yourself against his chest. "You're letting him get cocky," Sunghoon murmurs near your ear. His voice is quiet and casual, but it melts down your spine. "He's gonna think you like him."

"I don't," you say, but it's breathless and Jake's grin widens like he knows better. "You so do," he says, brushing his fingers along the rim of your cup. "Admit it." Your face burns. Sunghoon chuckles beside you—a rare, genuine sound. "Let her breathe, Jaeyun. You're scaring her." "She likes when I scare her."

"I like when you shut up," you snap, heart thumping too fast—and both of them freeze. And then Jake's mouth drops open, affronted. "Oh, you've changed."

"I told you," Sunghoon murmurs, dragging his hand over the small of your back. It's new—all of it. The teasing, the way you don't fold under their attention anymore, not as easily. The way you lean into Sunghoon's chest like you belong there. Like you've finally accepted that, in some strange, broken way, you do. The music starts to shift to something bass-heavy and dark, pouring in from the open sliding doors that lead to the patio. You barely notice when Sunghoon moves. He's smooth like that, so quiet, so deliberate in the way he pulls you deeper into the house, away from the center of noise and heat. His palm stays at your lower back, anchoring you like a leash.

It's only when you blink and glance around that you realize the people around you have thinned. This side of the house is dimmer, quieter. A hallway leads off to what you assume is a guest bedroom, but you're tucked into a low couch that's slightly hidden by tall shelving and shadow. The music still thrums through the walls, but here, it's softer. Private. Sunghoon pulls you into his lap sideways—your legs draping across his thighs as he settles back, one arm slung across the back of the couch behind you, the other resting possessively on your outer thigh.

Jake flops down beside him, his knee bumping against yours, completely unfazed by the way you're curled into Sunghoon's body like a second skin. You feel dizzy, not from alcohol, but from the shift in atmosphere. From how real this feels. Jake's fingers trail lazily down your shin before they reach your ankle, his expression curious. "When'd you get these?" he asks, tone unreadable. You glance at him, confused. "You bought them." Jake's eyes lift. "I did?"

"Last week." He tilts his head, mouth twitching like he's somewhere between amused and disturbed. "Was I blacked out?"

"No," you say quietly, "you were just... distracted." Sunghoon exhales through his nose. You feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back. The silence that follows feels weighted. "I should introduce you to Jungwon," Sunghoon murmurs then, his voice almost lost in the thrum of the music spilling from the other end of the house. His hand slides higher up your thigh, not rushed, just steady. Intimate. Your fingers curl around his wrist. "Stop—people will see."

"So?"

"Yunjin might walk in."

Jake's jaw twitches. He leans forward, casually prying your hand off Sunghoon's like he's done it a hundred times. "Who gives a fuck about Yunjin," he mutters, eyes still on your foot, thumb brushing a slow line up your calf. "She always shows up uninvited anyway." The bitterness in his voice is quiet but undeniable. It slithers into your chest like smoke. "I don't want to meet Jungwon," you say, not even sure why. Jake shrugs. "He's harmless."

"He's also Jake's golden boy," Sunghoon adds. "Little too sweet. Makes me uncomfortable." You don't even have time to fully process what that means before Jake scoffs, fingers tightening a fraction where they're brushing your calf. "Says the one who fucked him," he mutters, not even looking up. You blink. "What?" The word slips out of you in a gasp before you can stop it. Your voice isn't loud, but it cuts straight through the air between all three of you. Sunghoon doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Just tilts his head slightly like the memory is irrelevant now. Jake finally meets your eyes. "Yeah. That's how it works with Hoon, baby. He breaks them in, and gets bored of them."

It's a joke. But not really. You glance at Sunghoon, expecting something—denial, annoyance, anything. But he just shrugs one shoulder, casual. "He was curious," he says simply, like he's talking about something as mundane as loaning someone a lighter. Jake snorts. "He was obsessed with you for weeks."

"And then he wasn't." Silence settles again. You sit there stunned, a little breathless, wrapped in Sunghoon's lap and Jake's stare, while this entire new side of their past unfurls around you. And now Jungwon is walking toward you, pretty and bright and completely unaware that you just found out both the man beneath you has slept with him. You don't know what shocks you more—the reveal, or how unbothered they are by it. "He's a literal angel," Jake says, annoyed. "And he's been asking about her." Before you can respond, someone steps into view. You glance up—startled by how young the boy looks. Pretty. Too clean. Too bright for the shadowed space you're in. Jake doesn't even look surprised. "Hi, birthday boy." Jungwon stops short when he sees you. And you see it. The shift. "Oh," he says, his voice soft with wonder. "Are you...Y/N?" The way he says your name, like he already knows it. Like he's said it before, makes you stiffen slightly.

Jake smiles, slow. "Told you she was real." Jungwon looks at you like you're unreal anyway. "I've... heard a lot about you," he says gently. Sunghoon hasn't said a word. But his hand is still on your thigh. His fingers tap twice—almost like a warning. You try to remember how to breathe. "Happy birthday," you say finally, voice small. Jungwon smiles. "This might be the best part of it." You don't know what to say to that. You don't look at Jake and you don't dare look at Sunghoon. It hits you all at once—how this thing between the three of you lives just under the surface. Like a current humming in the walls. Invisible, but undeniable. And Jungwon, for all his innocence, is standing at the edge of it. Jake lets out a small sound. Not quite a laugh. "C'mon, Wonnie. Don't be creepy." Jungwon scratches the back of his neck, flushed. "Sorry. Just... surprised."

You nod, almost imperceptibly. You feel like a surprise too. An anomaly in this world you're still not sure you belong in. But they keep pulling you deeper, neither of them ever ask if you're ready. You're starting to think they don't care. Jungwon fits in too easily, you think. He stays after the introductions, laughter light in his voice and gaze too warm when it lands on Jake. The way he leans closer when Jake talks, how he seems to know exactly how to make him laugh. Their rhythm is natural, almost flirtatious but familiar and you're not sure what that says about anything. It's not just the ease between them, it's the way Jungwon looks at you sometimes, asking questions like he genuinely wants to know the answers. You can't meet his eyes when he does, you kind of just stare just past his shoulder, nod a little too much, sip your drink like it'll save you. Sunghoon notices. His palm smooths up your side, and he leans in, his lips brushing your ear when he murmurs, "Why won't you look at him?" You hesitate, maybe you'll lie or tell the truth. But then you see it—just beyond Sunghoon's shoulder, in the dim-lit corner of the living room.

Yunjin. Arguing with Heeseung. They're too far for you to hear anything, but her hands are moving fast, her expression sharp with something that doesn't belong at a birthday party. Heeseung's jaw is tight, head ducked, like he's trying to keep things quiet. You shift, body twitching in instinct. Sunghoon's lap suddenly feels like too much. You move to rise, but his hand presses against your thigh, holding you there like a lock. "Don't," he says lowly. Your breath catches. "I just—" But it's too late, Yunjin's eyes snap in your direction. You feel it before you see it—the freeze, the flicker of disdain that crosses her face. She's still mid-sentence with Heeseung, but her attention splinters, zeroing in on you, not just you, but you nestled in Sunghoon's lap like it's second nature, while Jake absentmindedly rubs circles into the arch of your foot, his fingers tangled around the heel he just remembered buying you. She looks at you like she's witnessing something sordid. Her lip curls before she catches herself.

Jake follows your gaze, eyes flicking to Yunjin. "Tch," he breathes out, a wry smirk forming. "Oh no. She's short-circuiting." Sunghoon doesn't say anything. He just tugs you a little closer, turning your body inward, his hand resting between your legs like it belongs there. You feel exposed. Not just physically, emotionally, like someone's cracked the glass and now everyone can see the dirt beneath. "She's gonna say something," you whisper. "Let her," Jake says, not even looking away from the way his fingers trace the shape of your ankle. "She was never good at behaving herself anyway." You don't know what he means by that, but you don't get the chance to ask. Because Yunjin is already making her way toward you, and Sunghoon hasn't let go of your thigh. And suddenly you remember why you never liked parties in the first place. She walks up like a storm that forgot how to be subtle, heels sharp against the marble as her eyes fix on you with a kind of disbelief that makes your stomach churn.

"What's this?" Yunjin demands, voice cutting clean through the music and conversation like it was always meant to be heard. "I'm sorry, I'm just—confused." You blink at her, already shrinking in Sunghoon's lap, but he doesn't let you move. His hand on your thigh tightens just slightly. "I mean..." She gestures vaguely, like the sight of you is something foul. "Weren't they—harassing you? Not that long ago? And now you're perched on him like some little—"

She falters. Her jaw clenches and you brace. "...Whore."

It's not even yelled. It's worse—it's quiet, mean and even measured. You gasp, feeling you whole body go cold all over, your mouth parting in shock. She's never spoken to you like that. Not in all your life. Not even when you fought as kids and now you don't even know what to say.

Sunghoon does. "Be careful," he says flatly, but the threat is unmistakable beneath his calm. Yunjin's head snaps toward him, fury building in the curve of her brow. "What is this? Huh?" She scoffs bitterly. "Are you fucking my cousin?" She says it loud enough for the room to tilt. Jake, who'd been lazily toying with the buckle on your heel, leans back on one elbow and smirks. "Why do you care so much?" It hits a nerve. You see it happen—Yunjin's entire body stills for a half-second, her expression shifting just enough that something unsettles in your chest. Like there's a history here you don't know, a door you've never been allowed to open. She covers quickly. "Because Heeseung will kill you," she says, pointing toward Sunghoon. "You know he will. If he finds out." Sunghoon's gaze drifts, slow and unfazed, to where Heeseung still stands where she left him, hands in his pockets, eyes watching but unreadable. "Hm," he hums. "He doesn't really look like he cares." Jake snorts. "Yeah, we were thinking the same. Pretty sure there's something else he'd actually care about." He says it at the exact moment Heeseung begins walking over. You feel it happen in slow motion—the drop in Yunjin's shoulders, the way her breath stalls, the look she throws Jake like he just put a loaded gun on the table and dared someone to pull the trigger.

You glance around. Jungwon, who had been sitting nearby, freezes where he is. His eyes flick between everyone, between you, Jake, Sunghoon, Yunjin, then down to his drink like it might explain what the fuck he just walked into. He's the only other person, besides you, not folded into whatever war is quietly being waged in plain sight.

Yunjin's voice is thin now. "Don't."

Heeseung's steps are slow and Jake's still smirking, but Sunghoon has gone still beneath you, like a predator who sees the snare coming. And you? You can feel your pulse in your throat, making you feel like something is about to break. Heeseung walks up like he didn't just argue with Yunjin in the hallway moments ago, like he didn't nearly rip his watch strap off adjusting it too tightly, jaw still twitching beneath the calm. "Hey," he greets, nodding at the three of you. His voice is level, his tone careful—too casual for the way his eyes keep flicking between where you're curled in Sunghoon's lap and where Jake is still playing idly with the ankle strap of your heel. Sunghoon speaks before anyone else can. "Heeseung," he says, calm as a lake, one hand sliding leisurely up your hip. "I'm kind of with Y/N now. Is that okay?" And then, he thrusts his hips up, enough to jostle you in his lap, enough to make a surprised squeak escape your lips. The sheer shamelessness of it makes Jake bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the couch.

Heeseung blinks. Once. A breath passes. Then, slowly, his brows lift—not in outrage, not in disapproval, but with a vague kind of curiosity. "Uh... sure?" He shrugs, as if that was all it took. "Yeah. Congrats or whatever.” Yunjin's face crumbles. She whirls to face him. "Are you serious right now?" Jake tilts his head, all mock-innocence. "See, Yunjin?" he says. "He doesn't care. So why do you?" That's the final nail. You can see it hit her all at once—the humiliation, the realization that whatever reaction she thought she could provoke just isn't coming. Not from Heeseung or any of them.

She doesn't say a word. Just spins on her heel and storms off, shoving through the crowd like she can disappear if she moves fast enough. You jolt, instinct kicking in. "I should—"

"No," Sunghoon says simply, tightening his hold. "You're not chasing after someone who just called you a whore." You freeze. He says it so calmly, like it's fact, like it's beneath even arguing about. Jake lets out a low hum beside you, fingers now trailing soft circles along the arch of your foot. "Sunghoon's right," he murmurs. "She said what she said." You exhale shakily. But then—Heeseung shifts, shoves his hands in his pockets and gives Sunghoon a look. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

Sunghoon doesn't even hesitate. He lifts you without a word and places you in Jake's lap like you weigh nothing, like it's second nature. Jake grins, catching you easily, one arm looping around your waist. Heeseung doesn't even look twice. Not at the transfer, at you or at the soft gasp you let out when Jake's hand settles over the front of your stomach like it belongs there. He just turns and walks off, Sunghoon falling into step beside him. The second they're gone, Jake presses a kiss behind your ear. You don't even realize you're still tense until he speaks—low, warm, curling through you. "You okay, baby?" You nod, even though your chest feels tight, nerves still rattled. Jake pinches your inner thigh lightly. "You didn't even notice Jungwon's gone, huh?"

You glance at him. "What?" You blink, gaze flicking around. It's true. You hadn't even noticed him leave. Jake grins, sharp and too pleased with himself. "You've been too busy dripping all over Sunghoon's jeans to notice anything." You start to protest, but then his voice drops, low and filthy against your ear. "I know you're soaked. I could see it every time he moved his hand. You were clenching your thighs so tight for what, baby? You think we're not gonna take care of that the second we get you home?" Your breath hitches as you feel his smirk against your cheek. "Yeah. That's what I thought." Your breath stutters, lips parting like maybe you'll deny it or maybe beg, but Jake doesn't give you the chance. His hand trails from your thigh up, up, and then he slips his fingers between your legs.

Right there in his lap, under the sheer fabric of your dress, his fingertips press against your panties, soaked through, warm and slick with want. You jolt, eyes widening. Jake just hums, like he's satisfied with himself. His fingers don't linger. He gives one slow stroke and pulls away, eyes dark as he raises his hand up to show you the dampness on his fingers. "You don't even know what you do to us," he says softly. "Look at this. Fuck." You flush so hard it burns, mouth open but no words coming out. Jake leans in, brushing his lips to the shell of your ear, the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. "Think Sunghoon felt this too when you were grinding all over him like that?" He presses a kiss to your cheek. "You're lucky we're in public, baby."

Jake's fingers still glisten when he lifts them and you know what he's about to do before he even does it. You shake your head, weakly, breath caught somewhere between protest and anticipation. But he's already slipping his fingers into his mouth, eyes never leaving yours. His lips close around them with slow deliberation, tongue curling, sucking your taste off with a soft pop when he pulls them out again. He looks wrecked—pupils blown, lips parted, smiling like he's just won something. You're barely holding on, heart thudding in your throat, when a shadow falls over the two of you.

"Wanna head out?" Sunghoon's voice cuts in smoothly, low and direct, like he didn't just interrupt something that was about to spiral. "I've got something to handle with Heeseung, but I'll meet you at home." Jake answers before you can even breathe. "Yes," he says quickly, hand already sliding possessively over your knee. "We're going." But you hesitate, glancing up at Sunghoon, eyes searching his unreadable expression. Something about the way he said handle something makes your stomach twist. And maybe you don't realize it, but you're biting your lip, worried. Sunghoon notices. His features soften almost imperceptibly as he leans down just a bit, voice dipping into something only you'll catch.

"It's alright, baby," he murmurs. "Go with Jake. I'll meet you at home." He presses a kiss to your temple, warm, reassuring and final, he straightens, already walking off before you can argue. Jake's hand slides up your back and pulls you in closer.

"You worry too much," he mutters, almost smug again now that Sunghoon's gone. "C'mon. I already need you again." And just like that, the air shifts again. The front door clicks shut behind you and Jake doesn't waste a second. His hand wraps around your wrist firmly, leading you out of the house like you're on borrowed time. You cast one last glance over your shoulder. The house is still humming behind you. Music bleeding into the night air. Voices echoing off the brick. But Sunghoon's already gone, disappeared somewhere deeper inside with Heeseung, and the absence of him makes everything around you feel a little too loud. A little too chaotic.

Jake doesn't say a word until you're outside. He unlocks his blue Jeep Wrangler with one sharp click, opens the passenger side for you, and ushers you in with a look that borders on don't test me. You scramble in, clutching the hem of your dress when it rides up, only to feel Jake's hand on your thigh again the moment he slides into the driver's seat. He doesn't start the car right away. You feel his eyes on you first, burning, frustrated, reverent. Then his hand slides higher, then higher, until his knuckles brush just beneath your dress. "You're still wet," he mutters, more to himself than to you. You nod before you even realize it.

His head thumps back against the headrest and he groans. "Fuck, I can't—Hoon’s so fucking slow about everything. I don't know how he does it. You were in my lap for two seconds and I almost lost it." You try to tease him, "You always almost lose it." But he's not laughing. He leans in suddenly, hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss that's messy and rushed and a little too hot for the passenger seat of his car. You whimper into his mouth and Jake swears against your lips. "I was about to fuck you right there in front of him." Your breath catches. "He just sits there. Like composed. Like he didn't watch me taste you with his fingers in your mouth last week—like he doesn't know." He shakes his head, pulling back only slightly, thumb dragging along your bottom lip.

"I'm not like him, you know?" he says, quieter now. "I don't do that... waiting shit. I want you now." The engine roars to life under his hand. "Seatbelt," he adds, but it sounds more like a growl than a reminder. You barely manage to click it in before he's backing out of the driveway, one hand on the wheel, the other firmly gripping your thigh. Streetlights flicker across his face as he speeds down the empty road, and you catch the way his jaw clenches—tight, impatient. Jake is chaos, restless, always on the verge of something dangerous, Sunghoon is a storm you never see coming. And you’re stuck in the middle as the fuse between them.

Jake doesn't even bother locking the Jeep when you arrive. He's out and rounding the car before you've even reached for the handle, pulling your door open with one hand and tugging you toward the building with the other. There's urgency in everything he does—his pace, his touch, the way his fingers keep twitching against your wrist like he's resisting the urge to stop and press you up against the elevator wall. The second the door to their apartment swings open, it hits the wall with a thud. Jake doesn't care. He's already kissing you. Clumsy. Messy. His mouth finds yours the moment you're inside, and he moans into it like he's already losing control. It's not a soft sound. It's greedy, almost needy. You can feel how badly he wants it, how wrecked he already is just from kissing you. He's all hands—up your sides, over your hips, under your dress. You barely get a word in before your feet leave the ground.

"Jake—" you gasp, arms winding around his neck as he lifts you. "I got you," he breathes, kissing along your jaw now, stumbling toward the hallway. "Fuck—I got you, baby." The walk through the apartment is clumsy at best. Jake's grip on your waist is iron-tight, his mouth never straying far from your neck, pressing wet kisses under your ear, murmuring things that don't even make sense, just sounds of want, of need, of everything he's been holding in all night. His fingers fumble with the zipper of your dress, like he doesn't know whether to undress you here in the hallway or wait until the bedroom.

"Why are you so—fuck—soft everywhere?" he mutters against your throat, and it's half accusation, half worship. "You know I can't handle it." He kicks the bedroom door open, not even his own, you realize hazily, as your back hits the edge of Sunghoon's bed. Your breath catches in your throat, but Jake doesn't notice. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn't care.

His hands are already dragging your dress up your thighs. "You wore this for me, didn't you?" he breathes, like he needs to believe it. "Tell me you did."

Your lips part, but the words come out soft. "I did."

Jake stares at you in awe like you just handed him the heavens and the earth. "I fucking love you." You can't even respond before his mouth is back on yours, his hands sliding down the backs of your thighs, gripping tight. He groans as he lifts you and lays you back on the bed, one knee braced between yours, nudging your legs apart. He hovers above you, forehead to forehead, breathing heavy. His eyes are blown out with want, but he's not moving fast now, not anymore. Now, he's just looking at you. "Do you even know," he says, "how fucking pretty you are when you let me in like this?"

He runs a palm down your side, slow and firm, until his fingers skim the hem of your panties. He doesn't yank them off, not yet, just traces the edge, pressing the lightest touch where you ache most. You jerk under his touch. Jake moans at your reaction. "Shit. That's all it takes, huh?"

He dips his fingers under the fabric and slides them between your folds, slow, testing, and groans when he feels the wetness pooling there. "Oh my God." The groan that leaves him is obscene. "Sunghoon's gonna kill me," he mutters, half-laughing as he leans down and kisses your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone. "But I don't care. I can't wait anymore. Can't." He's talking more to himself now, barely coherent. Then he's falling back onto the bed, eyes glassy, lips red, his voice lower now, almost pleading. "Come here." He tugs you closer by your hips. "Sit on my face."

You blink. "What?" Jake lets out a breathless laugh, voice curling into a grin even as his eyes burn serious. "You heard me. Don't act shy now, not after the way you were whispering in Hoon's ear with his hand on your thigh like that." You feel your heart pound, legs unsteady. "Jake—"

"I wanna make you feel good," he says. "Need to. Don't you get it? I'll lose my mind if I don't taste you right now." He's so eager. So sincere in the worst way. You try to keep your balance as he pulls you up over him, backlit by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Jake's hands never leave your body, dragging you gently forward until your knees are planted beside his head, thighs trembling with anticipation. He looks up at you like you're everything he's ever wanted. "Please," he whispers, eyes locking with yours. "Be good for me."

Your breath catches as you lower yourself slowly onto him, and Jake groans the moment your heat grazes his tongue, hands gripping your thighs like you're divine, like he's anchoring himself to reality through you alone. Jake looks up at you from below like he's been waiting for this, like nothing else truly matters. His fingers trail up the back of your thighs slowly, not rushing, not even speaking. Just waiting for you to settle into place. The warmth of his breath against your skin makes your stomach flutter, nerves tight and trembling. You lower yourself gradually, hesitant, but he doesn't pull—just holds you steady, his hands open and patient on your hips. The moment your pussy brushes his lips, he exhales like he's been holding his breath for minutes.

You're not sure when your hands found his hair, but they do, threading in soft, slow strokes through the strands as his mouth opens against you. At first, it's light, just the gentle press of his lips and the lazy flick of his tongue, almost like he's memorizing. His grip tightens, grounding you with just enough pressure to keep you still. "Ah!—Ja—"

He groans lowly, the sound vibrating against your skin, and it makes your entire body shudder. His hands flex at your hips, encouraging you to move, more, deeper, harder. "Yeah, that's it," he murmurs, breathless against you. "Just like that... come on." Your thighs tighten around his head as you grind down again, unable to help the shaky moan that slips from your lips. "Jake! Please!" He doesn't let up. If anything, he holds you tighter, more devoted in the way he pulls you closer, like he can't bear even an inch of distance between his mouth and the warm pulse of your body. Every breath is shaky, every movement desperate. Your legs tense. You can't help the way you shift forward, barely grinding down into his mouth, and he responds with a hum so soft you almost miss it. His arms wrap fully around your waist now, anchoring you closer. He starts to move you, slow and controlled, as if he's savoring the weight of you, the way you tremble. There's a quiet desperation in the way he works his mouth against you—never frantic, but focused. His eyes flutter shut, brow creasing in concentration. The kind of devotion he shows you in this moment feels dangerous. Like he's addicted, like nothing else could ever be enough.

Your breathing hitches as your hips move again, your choice this time, and his hands slide further, brushing up your back, fingers pressing lightly between your shoulder blades. The gesture is tender, grounding. He doesn't say anything else, but the look in his eyes when they open again is a plea. You grip tighter to his hair, tilting his head just so. You whisper something—his name, maybe, or just a broken sound—and his mouth chases the movement of your body like instinct. "Jakey! Uh uhn," you gasp, "I'm—I'm so close," you whisper, arching as the pressure builds. His palms smooth up your spine in a steady rhythm, anchoring you, calming and arousing all at once. And when you shake in his hold, trembling, he just tilts his face up, unbothered and patient, and takes every last ounce of you with a quiet, satisfied hum, not even flinching when you press down and shudder through it, clutching at.

You barely realize he hasn't taken a breath until he finally exhales, lips still brushing warm against your skin, his fingers still stroking softly at your waist like he's in no rush to let you go. "Jaeyun—" you breathe, already trembling from the comedown, but he doesn't stop. His hand stays right there, coaxing another slow rise from you, pulling your pleasure taut again. "I'm not done," he murmurs, voice rough and hungry. He kisses up your thigh as you lift off him slightly, still panting, still dazed. He's flushed, lips wet, eyes darker than you've ever seen them. "C'mere," he says, guiding you down to straddle his lap this time, pulling you into a deep, messy kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, feel the eager pull of his hands under your thighs as he ruts up slowly against you, still fully clothed.

That's when the door opens, making the air shift instantly. Jake doesn't stop kissing you, not at first. He moans into your mouth, lost in it, until he hears the soft click of the door closing again behind whoever walked in. And then a quiet voice breaks the haze, "So this is what I come home to?" You jolt, your head turning, lips still slick from Jake's mouth, and your eyes meet Sunghoon's. He's leaning against the wall like he's been standing there longer than you realized. His eyes are dark, unreadable, drifting slowly from your flushed face to the way Jake's hands are gripping your waist. You suddenly feel everything, the sticky mess between your thighs, the sharp press of Jake's belt buckle under you, the faint tremble in your knees.

Jake sighs against your shoulder, lazy and smug. "You said to take her home." Sunghoon hums, not in amusement or anger, but something in between, something sharp and quiet. "I didn't say ruin her in my bed." You feel Jake's fingers flex where they rest on your hips, but he doesn't argue. He just grins. "You're the one who said she looked pretty tonight," Jake says, his voice low. "You should've known better."

There's a pause. You can't look at either of them. Then, "Did she cum?" Sunghoon asks. The question makes your stomach tighten, shame blooming in your chest. But Jake only chuckles, tilting his head to look up at you, brushing his thumb over the curve of your cheek. "She did," he says softly. "But I think she could do it again, don't you?" Sunghoon pushes off the wall. The way he walks over is unhurried. The way he looks at you is careful, like he's deciding what to do with you now. His hand brushes your arm, fingers skating up the side of your neck until he tilts your chin toward him. Jake doesn't move, he just watches, eyes half-lidded, breath slowing. "You okay?" Sunghoon asks you.

You nod.

"Words."

"Yes." He studies you for a second longer. Then he leans in, not to kiss you, but to press his lips to the corner of your mouth. Gentle and possessive. "Good," he murmurs. "Now get off him." Jake lets out a frustrated breath, but he doesn't fight it cause he knows Sunghoon is in control now. His hands don't leave your waist though. You feel the way he twitches beneath you, the faint roll of his hips like he's chasing friction, even now. He wants you, he always wants you, but it's Sunghoon's presence that stills him. That centers the room again. Sunghoon stands just behind, one hand sliding into his pocket, his other resting lightly on the edge of the bedframe. "Were you going to make her ride you?" he asks Jake quietly. Jake glances up at you, then back to Sunghoon. There's no guilt, just honesty. "Yeah."

Sunghoon hums, slow and deep. His gaze cuts to you.

"She looks tired." You blink. "I'm not—"

"Shh," he interrupts, not unkindly, and brings a finger to his lips. "I didn't ask." Jake watches you with blown pupils, his chest rising and falling like he's just run a mile. He doesn't say anything, just waits. Sunghoon's voice dips a little lower. "Do it right, Jaeyun." Jake groans at that, like the words alone are a reward. He sits up just slightly, lips brushing your collarbone, eyes fluttering closed at the praise. "Yes, sir," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"And be gentle with her. Okay?" You feel the flush race up your chest, spreading over your neck, your ears. Jake presses his mouth to your shoulder like he's trying to calm himself down, whispering soft nothings between the kisses. "I can ride him, Hoonie" you say quietly, voice shaky but sincere. "I want to. I'm not—"

Sunghoon tilts his head, dark eyes narrowing just slightly as he moves closer. His fingers brush your chin again, thumb pressing against your bottom lip this time. "No," he murmurs. "Not this time." He leans down, mouth nearly grazing your ear. "Let Jake take care of you, hm?"

Your breath catches, knees tightening on either side of Jake's hips. Jake notices. He grins and cups the back of your thigh, fingers slipping higher. "Lay back, baby," Jake says, voice still rough from earlier. "Let me take care of you." You're melting into it before you even know it, back arching, thighs trembling, the room closing in around just the three of you. Sunghoon still hasn't sat down, still hasn't touched beyond your face, but you can feel the weight of his presence like a second heat. Jake guides you down with gentle hands and even gentler eyes, and you hear him whisper against your neck, "Perfect girl." And behind him, Sunghoon finally speaks again, quiet and unwavering.

"Don't stop until she cries."

Jake settles over you like a promise, warm, flushed, breathing heavily as he kisses his way down your jaw. You feel every bit of him, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the roughness of his voice murmuring in your ear as his fingers trail over your waist. "So fucking soft," he breathes, kissing down your throat. Across the room, the old leather chair creaks. You tilt your head just enough to catch a glimpse of Sunghoon lowering himself into it, one long leg crossing over the other, fingers laced loosely in his lap. He doesn't say anything, you know he doesn't need to. The atmosphere changes the moment he sits down. Jake feels it too, you can tell by the way his hands still on your body for just a second, by the deep breath he takes against your shoulder before looking over his shoulder and locking eyes with Sunghoon.

Then he turns back to you, slower now. "Look at me," he says softly. His fingers brush your cheek. "You with me, baby?" You nod. "Good girl." He kisses you, open-mouthed and heady, and as he shifts down between your legs again, he parts them with careful hands like he's opening a gift. His cock rubs between your folds, and he groans, low and ragged. "Fuck, so wet," he murmurs, dragging himself through the mess he already made earlier, and glancing back toward Sunghoon again. "She's dripping." Sunghoon gives a slow nod. "She should be." Jake doesn't need more instruction than that. He lines himself up and rests his weight on one forearm, his free hand still petting your thigh, brushing hair from your face. His lips ghost over your ear. "Tell me if it's too much," he says.

You nod again, voice gone somewhere too far to reach. He pushes in slowly, so slowly, keeping eye contact with you until you gasp and clutch his shoulders. "Fuck—" Jake moans, lips parting as he bottoms out, hips shaking just a little. "You feel unreal. So warm, so tight—fuck." You hear the leather shift again. Sunghoon's watching. You know he is, but he hasn't said anotner word. Jake pulls back, then rocks in again, shallow, precise thrusts that make your legs tighten around his waist.

His voice breaks again. "Taking me so good, princess. So good. You were made for this, you know that? This pussy—fuck, it's ours." He leans down, presses a kiss to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "I need you," he whispers. "So bad. Always do." His pace is unhurried but deep, dragging every inch of himself through you, letting you feel everything. One of his hands slips between your bodies, finding your clit, pressing soft, slow circles. You gasp, hips jumping. "Oh shit!"

"That's it," he pants. "Let me make you cum. Come on, pretty girl. Just for me." You cry out softly, fingers digging into his back, and behind him, he knows you're close and he moans like he's proud, like it's the highest compliment he's ever received. He kisses you hard. "You're so good for me. You gonna cum, baby? Gonna soak me?" You nod frantically, the build-up sharp and fast, pressure mounting under his hand, under his hips. The moment's stretching, tightening, ready to snap. And as it does, Jake groans your name, holding you through it as your legs shake and your eyes squeeze shut.

But through your moans and breathless whimpers, you still hear Sunghoon, steady, observant, and controlled.

"Think you can give him another one?" Jake's body is already moving, hips rolling into you with a steady, deliberate rhythm, but now his eyes keep straying, flicking toward the chair in the corner where Sunghoon sits, silent and composed. The man hasn't said anotner word, but he doesn't really have to. Just being there changes the way Jake touches you, the way he moves inside you.

At first, it had been about you, about the way your lips parted, the way you whispered his name in breathless moans. But now Jake's losing focus. His breath stutters every time he feels Sunghoon's gaze on him, burning low and unreadable. Jake starts fucking you harder without realizing it, like he's performing now, or proving something. The weight of Sunghoon's silence makes him want to impress. You notice the shift too, how Jake goes deeper, the way he grits his teeth. His hand wraps tighter around your thigh. He's chasing something, and it's not just your second orgasm. He groans again, forehead brushing against yours, and you feel how wound up he is. It's not just need, there's reverence there.

Jake had never considered himself submissive, well that was until he met Sunghoon. To Jake, there just seemed to be something about Sunghoon that made him want to be that way for him, made him want to do everything Sunghoon said, even before he said it. If Jake believed in religion, Sunghoon would be his god, maybe that would explain why he's currently fucking his cock into you but his mind is elsewhere. His mind is entirely on Sunghoon in particular, where he's sat across the bed from you two. Jake is moaning like it hurts, he's starving for praise like that might be the only thing keeping him alive.

"Sunghoon," he gasps, hips rocking into you with enough force to jolt the headboard, "fuck—look at me. Please—please look at me." Sunghoon doesn't flinch. He's still. Unbothered. Sitting in the corner chair like he's been there forever, long legs spread now, jaw in his hand, eyes flicking lazily across the room—but not to Jake. Never to Jake. Jake whines, desperate and pretty, breath fanning across your collarbone as he buries himself deeper, chasing something he'll never get from the man who made him this way. "Am I doing it right?" he pants, fucking you harder. "Tell me I'm doing it right—tell me I'm good—please—"

Sunghoon hums. His gaze lands on you this time. Controlled. Careful. "You're such a slut for praise, Jake," he says, voice low and faintly amused. "Shouldn't you be asking her that?" And Jake does. So fast. So broken. "Baby—" His voice cracks. "Am I good? Am I making you feel good?" You try to answer, lips parting on a moan—but Sunghoon stops you before a sound can fall. "Don't answer him." Your body tightens under Jake's, your back arching instinctively toward the voice that denies and commands you.

And Jake feels it. "Fuck," he grits, pulling back to look at your face, but you're already looking past him. Already whining for someone else.

It doesn't matter that Jake had already pulled two orgasms out of you, with his mouth, with his words, with the frantic way his fingers curled like he was searching for something only Sunghoon could name. It doesn't matter that you're still trembling underneath him, that your skin is hot and your limbs boneless from how hard you came the last time.

Because now Sunghoon is here. Watching. And somehow that makes everything feel different. Jake feels it too, the shift in the air, the weight of Sunghoon's presence behind every stroke. He's still buried deep inside you, his chest slick and flushed, and his pace is no longer thoughtful or controlled. It's gone, whatever composure he had left. His thrusts are rough now, fast and unforgiving, like he's trying to chase something only Sunghoon can give him permission to have. "Jake," you breathe, nails dragging lightly down his back as he keeps rutting into you. "Wait—" You whimper again, barely able to breathe through the rhythm, your body rocked back into the bed with every movement. "Slow down, please—" But he doesn't, he probably doesn't even hear you.

His hand fists the sheets beside your head, and his other grabs your thigh and hikes it higher like he needs more of you, like he could crawl inside you and still not get enough. That's when your head tilts, eyes catching the one person who always sees everything. Sunghoon hasn't moved from the chair. His elbows are on the armrests now, fingers steepled under his chin. He looks calm, maddeningly calm, but you know better.

Your eyes plead with him silently, lips parted, breath shaky. One more thrust from Jake and you gasp, "Hoon—" It's barely a whisper. But it's all he really needs.

In an instant, Sunghoon is up. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't even look at Jake at first. He comes to your side, brushing his knuckles softly over your cheek, grounding you before turning his head to the man still buried inside you. "That's enough," he says, voice low but firm. Controlled. Jake stills. It's like a switch flips in him—his hips freezing, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, but his eyes glassy as they lock onto Sunghoon like he's been waiting for that command all along. "I didn't mean to," Jake mumbles, his voice hoarse and desperate. "I know," Sunghoon replies, cool and quiet, like he's the only one in the room who understands Jake completely. He slips his hand down, gentle where Jake was frenzied, fingers brushing over your thigh and easing it down. "But she asked you to slow down. Didn't she?"

Jake swallows hard, nodding like a reprimanded boy.

Sunghoon's hand lingers on your knee. "You alright, love?" You nod back, heart thudding, already calmer just from his presence. Jake's still inside you, but now he isn't moving, he’s waiting, watching Sunghoon like he needs permission to breathe. That's when it becomes clear to you like it always does—Jake might be the one fucking you, but it's Sunghoon who hold all the power. And he always has been.

"I can keep going," you whisper, still catching your breath, voice fragile but filled with certainty. "I want to." Jake exhales like he's been given permission to live again, but you're not looking at him. Your eyes are locked on Sunghoon. "I want you to touch me too," you say, barely above a breath. Your fingers curl at the sheets, as if grounding yourself to keep from pulling him in by force. "Please."

It's the only word that finally breaks him. You see the moment his composure wavers, his eyes flinch, his jaw tightens, and for the first time tonight, Sunghoon hesitates. He's never been able to deny you anything. Not when you ask like that. Not when your voice sounds that soft, that raw. A long silence stretches between the three of you, thick with your need, Jake's restless grip still holding your hips in place, and Sunghoon's stare flickering across your face, from your eyes, to your swollen lips, to the soft, quivering part of you that just begged for him.

Then, finally, Sunghoon gives a quiet nod. "Get on top," he murmurs, voice steady again, but you can feel the shift underneath it. Jake nearly groans in relief as you move, lifting your legs and sliding up to straddle him. His hands find your thighs immediately, squeezing like he's been starving, but it's your eyes on Sunghoon again, watching him sit at the edge of the bed now, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss.

And so he does. The first press of his mouth to yours makes your whole body flinch, not in surprise, but in something sharper. His lips are slow, claiming, so deep that you feel your toes curl as your hips rock down on Jake. Jake's moans muffle in your throat as Sunghoon kisses you again. And again. Every time you roll your hips forward on Jake, Sunghoon meets you with his mouth. His tongue slides past your lips like he's determined to keep you tethered to him no matter who's inside of you. The heat of Jake's hands, the way he moves beneath you, it all melts together in the haze of Sunghoon's kiss.

You try to reach for more of him, hands desperate at the hem of his shirt, tugging, frustrated that he's still fully clothed while you're bare, being touched and watched and used. Your fingertips find the warm skin under the fabric, sliding under his shirt, desperate to feel more. Sunghoon doesn't stop you. He lets you feel. Lets you explore. Even if he hasn't moved to undress, even if he's holding back, you aren't. And your hips don't stop moving. Not once. You ride Jake slow, languid, your rhythm set by the rise and fall of Sunghoon's mouth on yours, the ebb and flow of his tongue pulling you under like a tide. It makes you dizzy, being loved like this by one man while kissing the other, being watched and touched and given the space to want everything.

And god, you want everything.

Jake pants beneath you, clutching at your thighs like he might fall through the mattress, and you never break the kiss, not even as you start to tremble again, not even as Sunghoon finally whispers, voice low against your lips, "Just like that, princess." You barely realize how fast it's building again until your thighs begin to shake. Jake's grip on you has turned possessive, hands gripping your hips like he's guiding you through the end of the world. He's a mess beneath you, all panting breaths and ruined whimpers, his head thrown back against the pillow as he mouths your name like a prayer he's barely worthy of.

And you, you're still tangled in Sunghoon. His lips trail slow and steady along your jaw now, your neck, your shoulder, mouth warm and coaxing even as his hands stay maddeningly still on your thighs, letting Jake have you while he simply watches. Letting you ache for more of him, and only giving you his voice in return. "You're so perfect," he murmurs against your skin. "So, so pretty when you take it like this." Jake's moan cuts through the room high, broken. “Nghh—I—M’gonna cum!” You can feel the tension coil in him, that telltale snap of his rhythm turning erratic beneath you. He's close. You know it. Sunghoon knows it too.

"Look at him," Sunghoon murmurs in your ear, dragging his lips just below it, "he's already breaking." And Jake is, shaking, crying out, hips jolting up once, twice, a third time before he completely breaks under you, spilling inside with a noise so wrecked it makes your head spin. His arms wrap tight around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest, as if he doesn't know what else to cling to but you. That's when it happens. As Jake's high crashes into him and his body goes slack, his hand slides blindly out, not even looking, just reaching and palms over Sunghoon's clothed cock. Just once. Just a rough, mindless squeeze like instinct, like habit. Sunghoon finally breathes like it hurt. His hand shoots out to Jake's wrist, gripping it tight.

"Jake." It's a warning. Low and dangerous. But Jake only smiles, breathless and utterly undone. He nuzzles your chest like he doesn't have a single thought in his head, eyes glazed, body limp beneath you. "Sorry," he murmurs, eyes fluttering open just barely as he looks up at Sunghoon. "Couldn't help it." You're still catching your breath when you look at Sunghoon, and the heat you find there steals whatever air you had left. Jake's chest rises and falls beneath you in exhausted waves, his eyes barely open as he blinks up at the ceiling, dazed. Your body's still trembling faintly, skin damp and flushed, caught somewhere between overstimulation and deep, floating warmth. But it's Sunghoon's hands that ground you again, firm at your waist, lifting you before you can even register the shift.

You gasp softly, clinging on instinct. Your arms loop around his shoulders. Your legs wrap around his waist. And he catches all of you like he was always meant to.

He doesn't flinch when he feels it, the wetness between your thighs painting into the front of his clothes. Jake's cum, still leaking, smearing onto him with every shift of your weight. Sunghoon doesn't even blink. He only adjusts you a little higher in his arms, one hand cupping the back of your thigh, the other firm at the base of your spine, keeping you close. "Come on," he says, glancing at Jake without stopping his stride. His voice is quiet, but it leaves no room for negotiation. "You too." Jake groans but pushes himself up slowly, limbs still boneless as he stumbles to follow. And Sunghoon, ever composed and in control, carries you straight to the bathroom, never once loosening his grip. Never once looking away. Because you're done for now, yes.

The water is long gone now, turned off with soft, sluggish movements, steam lingering in the air. Towels exchanged between fingers like unspoken reassurances. No words needed. Not yet. You're clean, finally. A little sore. A little dizzy. But warm. Sunghoon's hoodie is draped over your shoulders, sleeves long enough to swallow your fingers. Jake had laughed watching you tug it on, muttering that Sunghoon always brings out your bratty side, but his voice was half-asleep even then, eyes puffy and red around the edges.

So now here you are. Tucked in Jake's bed instead of Sunghoon's, a rare deviation none of you had energy to question. The sheets still carry Jake's detergent, softer, citrusy, a little too clean for how he usually acts and your limbs are caught in a tangle of body heat.

Sunghoon lies on his back beside you, one arm folded under his head, the other stretched along the curve of your side. You're tucked in close, nose nearly brushing his shoulder as you breathe him in. His pulse is slow under your cheek. His fingers lightly drag up and down your spine, rhythmic, gentle, like he's drawing shapes just for himself. Jake, meanwhile, is curled up on the other side of you, head heavy on your stomach, cheek pressed to your bare skin. You're stroking his hair without even realizing it, combing the strands back gently as his breathing deepens, softer and slower with each pass. The room is quiet. The kind of quiet where the world feels far away. Just three of you, bodies finally settled, the ache of heat and noise replaced with something heavier and tender.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment. Then at Sunghoon. "Can I ask something?" His fingers pause for a split second before continuing, slower now. "Mm."

"The thing earlier," you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. "With Yunjin. What was that?" There's a pause. A very long one. You feel the shift in his breath before you hear the words. "It's nothing," he says finally, calm. Even. "I'll tell you later." But something in the way he says it makes your stomach turn. Sunghoon never lies, but he does withhold. And this doesn't feel like nothing. Not when his jaw ticks like that. Not when his hand drifts up your spine again, a little tighter, like he's grounding himself. Not when he won't look at you, even now.

You nod, because you don't want to push. But you don't miss how Jake stirs slightly at the sound, how he snuggles closer, pressing a kiss to your skin without even lifting his head. He's already halfway into sleep, and you know he won't remember it. But it's comfort. His way of keeping you close. So you let it go. For now.

Even if the silence feels heavier this time. Even as Sunghoon's fingers slide higher and rest at the nape of your neck. Even as you try to believe him. Even as the weight of that later starts to hang in the air between you.

The first thing you hear is the quiet hum of Jake's voice, muffled, amused, talking shit over his headset somewhere in the living room. You recognize the cadence of it, the rise and fall of his tone, the clack of his controller buttons, the way he leans into his game with too much energy for this hour. The second thing you feel is warmth. Heavy, slow warmth. Sunghoon. You're tucked into his chest, half-under the covers, skin against skin, the room still dim and quiet. The sunlight is creeping in just enough to make his collarbones glow. His breathing is steady and warm at your nape. One of his legs is thrown over both of yours. His arm is firm around your middle, too firm, actually. You shift slowly, turning your face into his chest before you lift your head just slightly, blinking your eyes open. There's a moment where you forget everything else. Your body is still sore in a pleasant way. Your mind is fogged with sleep. There's no urgency.

You stretch, or at least, you try to. You start to lift your arm, shift your hips to sit up and that's when you feel his arm tightens around you like a vice. His hand flattens against your side, keeping you exactly where you are. "Sunghoon?" you whisper, voice thick with sleep. "Don't go yet." His voice is rough and quiet. "Just for a little longer." You glance up and he's already awake, eyes barely open, lashes low and heavy. His mouth is slack and soft from sleep, but the grip he has on you is anything but. You try to smile. "I was just gonna brush my teeth."

"I don't care."

"Okay..."

"Talk to me," he says next, a little firmer. "Anything."

You pause. The tone is familiar, the softness threaded under something else. A kind of vulnerability he rarely shows unless it's quiet like this, unless you're alone.

You hum. "Like...about what?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Why?" He exhales. Shifts just enough to bury his nose in your hair. "You already know," he says quietly. "Your voice calms me." And he's right. You do know. This isn't new. It's happened more than a few times, after hard days, after silence-filled dinners, after that one fight with his father where he didn't even speak for hours. You remember the first time, when he told you in a low voice that your talking about anything, about everything, made him feel like the world wasn't closing in. You'd said you were honored. You still are. So you relax back into him, shifting your head slightly against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. You let your eyes close again.

And then you speak.

"You always say that," you whisper, voice low as you rest your hand against Sunghoon's chest, just over his heart. His eyes are closed again now, and his lashes twitch a little when you brush your thumb across his skin. "That my voice calms you." Your lips quirk slightly as you exhale a fond breath. "But you never tell me why. Is it the tone? The dumb things I say? Or just because I don't shut up when you need a distraction? You smile to yourself when he makes a quiet hum something between agreement and a dozing sigh. "I could talk about the weather, you know," you say lightly. "Like, it's supposed to rain today. Probably later. Jake's gonna forget he left the top of his Jeep down and get mad about it and pretend it wasn't his fault."

You feel the faintest breath of amusement in Sunghoon's chest, even as his grip slackens just a little. "Or I could tell you about the list of groceries we forgot to buy again. Or how Jake definitely used my shampoo even though he swore he didn't." You brush a gentle hand over Sunghoon's hair. "Or how we really need to wash your sheets after last night but we're all too lazy. Or how..." you trail off softly, your voice thinning as his breathing deepens. You pause to look up at him eyes closed, jaw relaxed, the smallest crease between his brows finally softening. You press a kiss just below his collarbone. "I'll still be here," you whisper. "Always."

And then carefully, slowly, you untangle yourself from his limbs. He stirs for a second, brows furrowing as if his body knows you're leaving even if he doesn't fully wake. But you hush him softly, running your fingers through his hair once more. "I'll be right back." Then you slip out from under the blanket, padding quietly across the cool floor, and make your way down the hall toward the soft noise of game chatter and clicking buttons. Just as you suspected, Jake is curled up on the couch in the living room, headset askew, legs sprawled wide and controller in hand. He's in a hoodie and boxers, hair still messy from sleep, and the moment he sees you, his whole face lights up.

"There's my girl," he beams, dropping the controller to the side and opening his arms. You don't even hesitate, you crawl straight into his lap, straddling him in a tight hug as he wraps you up with both arms. He smells like your body wash and leftover cologne, and you breathe him in as he peppers kisses along your cheeks. "Hi, hi, hi," he murmurs between kisses. "God, you're warm. You sleep okay, baby? You sore?" You nod into his shoulder, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck. "A little sore," you admit softly. "But good sore." Jake grins against your cheek and pulls back just enough to cup your face in his hands. "Yeah?" he says, tilting his head. "You need me to kiss it better?" You laugh softly, tapping his chest.

"Maybe later," you say. "Sunghoon's still asleep."

Jake gives you a look like when is he not? “We should make breakfast.” You say, but instantly almost regret saying we.

The kitchen is quiet at first, just the low clatter of pans and the hum of the fridge. You're barefoot as you move around the space with practiced ease, cracking eggs and flipping pancakes with a gentle rhythm.Jake's at your side, or more accurately, in your way. "Wait, wait, baby—should I stir this?" he asks, already grabbing the whisk in a bowl you very much do not need stirred. "No—Jake, that's pancake batter, it's done."

"Oh," he says, sheepish, setting the whisk down like it's fragile. "Well, what about the toast? Should I flip that?"

You pause. "You don't flip toast, Jake."

"Oh." You shoot him a look over your shoulder, and he holds his hands up in surrender, grinning like he's already planning his next move. "I'm helping."

"You're talking," you counter. "Very loudly. While putting things in the wrong place. Which is... the opposite of helping." Jake leans into the counter with a whine. "I'm moral support."

"Sure you are."

"You're bossy when you cook," he says with a smug tilt of his lips. "It kinda turns me on." You shoot him a flat stare, eyebrows raised. "Oh my god," you mutter, jabbing a finger toward the stool behind him. "Sit. Down. Don't touch anything else." His eyes gleam like he's just been handed the best gift of his life. "Yes, chef." He drops into the seat with exaggerated obedience, resting his chin in his hands, staring at you with something between adoration and mischief. "Tell me what to do next, I'll be so good." You roll your eyes and smirk as you turn back to the stove. "You're such a sub." Jake laughs, then pushes up to his feet just long enough to wrap his arms around your waist and kiss the corner of your mouth. "Only for you." “And Sunghoon.”

The moment is cut short by the sound of a low, groggy voice from the hallway. "It's way too early for you to be turned on, Jake," Sunghoon grumbles, padding into the kitchen with hair still messy from sleep. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand and leans over to kiss you, a slow, languid kiss that tastes like morning and comfort. Then he tilts his head and breathes in, eyes fluttering half open. "Smells good." Before you can respond, he slips his arms around your waist and lifts you off the ground, placing you on the counter like you weigh nothing. The kiss that follows is just as effortless slow and soft, his hands firm at your hips, lips brushing yours again and again until you sigh into his mouth.

Jake lets out a dramatic sigh. Sunghoon turns without missing a beat, leans in, and kisses Jake too. Just a soft press of lips, but it's affectionate and familiar and Jake grins like it's nothing new. "Hi," Sunghoon murmurs, then turns back to you, gently grabbing your foot and rubbing it in his hand. "You sore?" The question is quiet, spoken like he already knows the answer. You nod just slightly, and his thumb brushes over your ankle, kneading a spot there as Jake scoots closer to run his hand down your thigh. "You both asked the same thing," you say with a sleepy smile, watching them move around you like you're the center of gravity.

Jake beams. "Team effort." You lean your head back against the cabinet and breathe in the warmth of it all, the scent of eggs and pancakes, the press of Sunghoon's palm on your skin, the sound of Jake humming some off-key tune as he steals a piece of fruit from the cutting board. It's so domestic. So easy and so far from where you started. The three of you tucked in the glow of the morning—half-eaten pancakes on the counter, music playing low from Jake's phone, and your legs swinging gently where Sunghoon set you on the kitchen island. But eventually, the thought creeps in. You should go back to your place. You don't really want to—not when the air here feels like something warm and worn-in. Not when Jake keeps grazing your waist when he passes, or when Sunghoon's fingers are still loosely wrapped around your ankle, absently rubbing. Still, your laundry's piling up, your textbooks are somewhere under your bed, and you haven't touched your own skincare in four days. You shift on the counter. "I should head back for a bit," you say quietly. Jake stops mid-chew and frowns. "Now?"

"Just for a while," you shrug, playing with the hem of the oversized hoodie you'd slept in. "I need more clothes. And my laptop." There's a pause. You don't say it out loud, but you're both thinking it—Yunjin might be there. Jake is the first to break the silence. "I'll go with you." You glance over at him. He's already standing up, wiping his hands on a paper towel, as if it's already decided.

"You don't have to," you say gently, not wanting to seem cold, but knowing how much heavier it'll feel if he's there, how much more obvious your tension with Yunjin will be with him watching. "Really. I'll be fine."

Jake frowns, but you can tell it's not from offense, it's from concern. Sunghoon finally speaks, voice quiet as always. "Let him drive you." You turn your head. He's not looking at you, just brushing the crumbs off his hands and walking to the sink, like it's a casual suggestion — but it isn't. You know Sunghoon too well to miss the weight behind his words.

"I'll be okay," you repeat. He dries his hands and finally meets your eyes. "I know. But you shouldn't have to be." That lands heavier than you expect. It silences you for a beat. Jake doesn't gloat. Doesn't push. He just rests his hand on your thigh and says, softer this time, "Let me take you. Just the ride, yeah? I won't come up." And the way he says it, not begging or pleading, just offering, makes it impossible to say no.

You nod. "Okay." Jake grins. "Cool. I'll grab my keys."

As he disappears into the hallway, you feel Sunghoon step close again. He tilts your chin up with one finger, expression unreadable, the way it always is when he's being careful with his words. "Don't let her get under your skin," he says quietly.

"I'm not—"

"I know you," he interrupts, brushing his thumb against your cheek. "And I know how much space you make for people, even the ones who don't deserve it."

Your throat tightens. "You should go back cause you want to," he adds. "Not just because you feel like you have to." You lean into his touch for a second longer, just until you hear Jake's footsteps returning. Sunghoon drops his hand, presses a kiss to your temple, and steps away.

The car is warm, the windows slightly cracked as the wind hums in soft bursts. You’d reminded him to put the top back on and now he’s got one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing animatedly as he tells you some story about a mutual friend from class, something about a failed group project and a spilled drink, but your eyes aren't really on him. You're watching the road blur past. Listening, but not really.

The smile on your face is faint, polite, not the kind Jake's used to pulling from you. He's halfway through a joke when you finally cut in, voice gentle, almost unsure. "What did you mean... back at the party," you start slowly, "when you said Yunjin doesn't behave herself?" His hand stills on the wheel. You see the way his jaw tightens, barely noticeable, but you catch it.

He exhales through his nose, gaze fixed on the road. "Did you ask Sunghoon?" You hesitate, thinking maybe you should lie. Then, quietly, "I did." Jake hums once, like he's not surprised. "What'd he say?" You shake your head a little, turning to face him more. "He said it was nothing. Or that he'd tell me later." Jake chuckles dryly, shifting gears at a light. "That sounds like him."

"Is it nothing?" There's a pause. Jake finally glances at you, just for a second, then looks back at the road. "You should listen to Sunghoon," he says, not unkindly. "It's not a big deal." But the way he says it, almost rehearsed. Like he's been told to say that before. You turn back to the window, chewing on your lip, silence slipping between you two again. Jake drums his fingers on the steering wheel, probably trying to think of something else to talk about. Something easier. But the question still lingers between you both. It still doesn't feel like nothing, and you can tell he knows that. You can’t really say much, especially when he’s already pulling up to your building and parking, leaving over to kiss you and tell you not too take too long.

You shut the door of your apartment quietly behind you, already feeling the weight of the air inside your apartment. Yunjin's sitting on the couch, just as you expected, arms crossed and eyes glued to her phone, but it's the tension in her shoulders that tells you everything. "Hey," you say softly, setting your bag down. No response. You glance at her again. "Yunjin." She finally looks up, expression unreadable. "Oh. You're back." You stop, taken aback by the tone. "Yeah... just came to grab a few things." She nods slowly, like she's pretending to think about that. "Right. Cause you live at Sunghoon and Jake's now." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Or maybe you're still trying to decide which bed you like more."

That lands hard. You pause in place, uncertain if you heard her right. "What?" She stands up, folding her arms. "Don't look so shocked. People talk, you know? And I'm not blind. You're staying over there constantly. You walk around campus like it's normal—like it's fine."

"Yunjin—"

"Are you sleeping with both of them?" she snaps, making you go stiff. "What—what kind of question is that?" you ask, trying to keep your voice level. "It's not a question," she says coolly. "It's what everyone already thinks. Don't act like you're some innocent victim here. You know what you're doing."

You stare at her, heart pounding. "Why are you saying this to me?"

"Because I'm your cousin, basically your sister," she spits. "And you clearly need someone to knock some sense into you." The silence afterward is awful. Heavy and bitter. She doesn't back down, doesn't blink, doesn't seem to notice how much she's just hurt you. You open your mouth even though nothing comes out. But then door opens with a clean, sharp sound that cuts right through the silence. You and Yunjin both turn your heads toward it, startled. Jake steps in casually, holding your phone between two fingers like he's done nothing but walk into a peaceful room. His face, though, says otherwise. His eyes lock on Yunjin's instantly—calm but tight around the edges, like a lit match held too close to something flammable.

"You forgot this," he says, voice low as he looks to you. He holds the phone out gently, not breaking eye contact with Yunjin until you reach to take it.

"Jake—" you start, confused, because you'd watched him drive off. He had class, he told you he did. He cuts you off, gaze still fixed on Yunjin. "This conversation? Not your business," he says quietly, but the threat in his tone is unmistakable. "And the way you're talking to her? You're crossing a line you don't want to cross."

Yunjin blinks like she can't believe what she's hearing. "Is that a threat?" Jake raises a brow. "It's a warning. You don't get to speak to her like that. Not anymore."

"Oh, I'm so scared," she snaps, arms folding. "What are you gonna do? Have Sunghoon glower at me until I cry?" It's meant to be biting. But Jake doesn't even flinch. He tilts his head just slightly, his tone flat. "You think this is about me and Sunghoon?" He looks down at you then, eyes softening just a little. His voice drops, quieter now. "I was already driving off when I noticed your phone. But something told me to come up anyway." He looks at Yunjin again, no longer trying to hide the coldness in his stare. "Guess I figured right."

You're still frozen, unsure what just shifted. Jake's still Jake—but this edge to him? The steel behind the softness? It's disorienting, like watching something gentle catch fire.

Yunjin stares at him, and for the first time—she doesn't have anything to say. And you're left even more confused than before. Because none of this feels random, none of this feels new to them. Jake doesn't say anything at first. He just steps inside and closes the door behind him, the sound oddly calm despite the storm in his expression. His eyes flick to you, then to Yunjin. You watch the shift in his face as he registers how stiff you look, how shaken. "Go grab your things," he says, eyes still on your cousin. You hesitate. "Jake—"

He turns his head slowly and looks at you—really looks. And the intensity there, the weight behind it, makes your mouth go dry. "Y/n." That's all it takes.

You move, legs shaky as you head down the hallway toward your room, but you can hear them behind you. Muffled voices, low but clipped. You pause just past the corner, just out of view. The voices sharpen. "I'm warning you," Yunjin snaps. "You wouldn't dare—"

"Just fucking try me, I’m begging you." Jake's voice is all grit and steel, low enough to be a growl, and for a moment you don't recognize him. You can't make out what Yunjin says after that because Jake's footsteps are suddenly coming down the hall. You dart into your room and pretend to be mid-pack when he walks in, though your fingers are barely curled around the strap of your duffle. He doesn't speak right away. Just stands there, jaw clenched, pulling his phone from his back pocket and dialing. "Yeah, it's me," he says as soon as the line connects. His eyes don't leave yours. "She's coming back now. Yunjin opened her fucking mouth."

A pause. You can faintly hear Sunghoon on the other end, but you're too disoriented to register the words.

Jake drags a hand through his hair and exhales harshly. "Yeah. In a bit." He hangs up and lowers the phone, finally glancing at your duffle. "You're so slow sometimes," he mutters, stepping closer. "Sit down."

You blink. "What—"

"Sit," he repeats, already prying the bag from your grip.

You lower yourself to the edge of your bed as he starts grabbing clothes. No rhyme or reason to it. Shirts, hoodies, underwear, shorts, your phone charger. You watch him shove them all into the bag. He grabs a pair of your panties off the floor near your laundry basket and pauses. You watch his gaze drag slowly over them, then flick up to meet your eyes. A smirk curves at his lips, playful and a little wicked. "These are mine now." You stare at him in disbelief. He slips them into his pocket and grabs your wrist with zero shame. "Let's go, baby."

"Jake, wait—"

"No," he cuts in quickly, jaw set, hand still wrapped around your wrist. "You don't need to see her again right now." Your feet scramble to keep up as he leads you down the hall, the bag slung over his shoulder, his grip unwavering. You pass the living room, the couch, the kitchen, but Yunjin isn't there. Or maybe she is and she's just gone silent again—but you don't dare look.

Jake doesn't stop. He pulls open the door, steps out, and keeps going, guiding you down the stairs like every second you spend in that apartment is dangerous. Like something might snap if you linger any longer. You barely remember locking the door. You barely remember making it down the last step before he's helping you into the passenger seat, shutting the door behind you, circling the car to the driver's side.

It's not until he throws the duffle in the back seat and starts the engine that you finally speak.

"I didn't... I didn't know she could speak to me like that…ever." Jake looks straight ahead as he pulls onto the street, the muscle in his jaw twitching. "Neither did I."

Jake's car pulling into the student lot like it owns the pavement isn’t anything new. The late morning sun always glints off the blue of the hood, windows rolled down, your laughter blending with Jake's dramatics. He's in the middle of reenacting a scene you half-remember from four months ago—something he'd called you, something filthy and ridiculous, and something that still makes your stomach twist in the best way now. "'She’s a free use toy now, remember?'" you repeat in his voice, pitching it low and overly serious. "'That's what you said, baby.'" You slap his arm, your face flushed, the both of you nearly wheezing with laughter now. Jake grins like an idiot behind the wheel, almost pleased with himself. "I don’t even know why I said that! You looked so sad, my heart clenched." He pouts.

"Mine too," Sunghoon chimes dryly from the back seat. His tone is flat, but there's a hint of amusement there—just enough to make you glance back at him with a small smile. "Yeah, yeah," Jake mutters, shifting into park as the three of you pull into a spot. "Let’s just think of it like post sex dirty talk."

“What!?”

"I don't need dirty talk," Sunghoon replies as he opens the door. "You two are loud enough for all three of us." The car shuts off. Jake practically bounds out, his words already flowing again, this time about the stats class he’s trying not to fail. You reach for the door handle but don't get far—Sunghoon is already there, pulling it open, steadying your hand with his. "Careful," he murmurs, not for show. His fingers smooth the hem of your skirt, and it's automatic, the way he does it. The way his hand lingers at your hip for a second too long. You barely notice. Or rather, you're used to it now. Jake's still talking, walking ahead, phone in hand, gesturing like someone gave him a stage.

And then something quieter and sharper hits you. You glance up and realize...people are staring. Not just glancing. Staring. A pair of girls by the outdoor vending machine pause mid conversation. A guy you recognize from your elective class does a double take. You catch a couple seated at the stone benches near the quad, both turning their heads as the three of you walk by. And suddenly nothing is funny anymore. Suddenly, you're aware of how close you're standing to Sunghoon, how his hand is still faintly at your lower back. You think about the night before, about the way Jake's voice sounded when he was spilling himself inside you while Sunghoon kissed your mouth shut. You think about how many times this week you've stayed over and how you barely even sleep at your own place anymore. You hear Yunjin's voice like she's walking beside you. People talk, you know?

You're not sure what they're saying, but they're saying something. Your stomach tightens as your face goes hot. Sunghoon's arm starts to rise, curling over your shoulders like it always does, and you react before you can think. You shrug him off. Not so gently that it makes him pause mid-step. Jake even stops talking. It's a blink, a beat, but the air shifts instantly. You can feel both of them watching you. Sunghoon's brows draw in the tiniest amount and Jake's confusion is very obvious. You swallow and force your eyes ahead, tucking your hair behind your ear like that'll explain everything. "Sorry," you mumble. "It's just hot." But even you don't sound convinced. Neither of them says anything right away. You all keep walking and you don't dare look back.

It suddenly feels like you're very, very alone, as the crowd thickens the closer you get to the central quad. Jake has started chattering beside you again, walking a step ahead just so he can turn and face you with that boyish grin. "So then I was thinking—after your econ class, you come back with us. We'll order from that place you like. The one with the overpriced pasta. Sunghoon's paying."

"Am I?" Sunghoon says flatly from your other side, barely looking up from his phone. "Yes, because I paid last time and I don’t even think she’s seen her credit card in a hot minute." He points his thumb at you. “Hey!” You shove at his shoulder, “It’s okay, princess. We like spending our money on you.” You offer a weak smile, eyes flicking around again. You can feel people staring, you're not imagining it this time. It's in the way they don't just glance, they linger. A few of them lean into each other to whisper. You almost think you hear your name, or maybe you don't. You wrap your arms around yourself, stepping slightly out of Jake's reach when he goes to grab your arm. He doesn't catch the shift at first. But he does the second time you do it.

He stops mid-sentence. Frowns. "Hey..." His voice softens just slightly. "What's going on?"

You don't answer right away. You feel both their eyes on you now. Jake reaches for your hand this time, slower, gentler—and you hesitate before you let him take it. Only for a second. You pull it away under the pretense of adjusting your bag strap. You look at them both, then down at your shoes and then up again. "They're staring," you finally say. The words are small. Almost swallowed. "People are...looking." Jake blinks at you, like he's trying to understand something that doesn't make any sense. "So?" His voice is light but it holds something sharper underneath. A note of come on threaded through. "So," you repeat, eyes flashing up to him, "it's not just glances, Jake. It's—people are probably saying things. About me. About...us."

Jake exhales. Not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff. "Okay? Let them. Who gives a shit?"

"Jake," Sunghoon warns, quiet and even. Jake looks between you two, his jaw ticking. "What? I'm serious. We’re not doing anything wrong."

"That doesn't mean it's easy for her," Sunghoon says, more to Jake than to you. "She's clearly struggling. Let's talk about it tonight." He steps closer to you, brushing his knuckles against your cheek in a way that makes you want to close your eyes, if only for a second. "You're okay," he murmurs. "Alright? We'll figure it out." Then he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. You don't push him away this time. You let him. Jake still looks tense. Like he's trying to hold back a million things he wants to say. But he keeps quiet, watching you carefully as you shift your weight on your feet, hands tucked in the sleeves of your sweater now.

You give a small nod. "I'll see you guys later," you say, already backing away toward the path that leads to your building. "Text me when you're out," Sunghoon says. Jake doesn't say anything. You turn around to walk away. Two steps away, just as you're passing a line of trees along the sidewalk, you feel a sharp little pinch right where your skirt ends. You nearly jump. You spin around and Jake's already grinning like he didn't just grope you in public.

"Mine," he mouths, poking at his chest. You flush instantly, whipping back around, and walking fast—heat rising up your neck, and somehow, a little lighter than before.

The rest of your day unspools in a blur. Your econ class dragged on longer than it had any right to, the professor's voice somehow more monotone than usual, each slide heavier with graphs you couldn't focus on. You kept blinking at the same sentence in your notes, rereading it until the words lost meaning entirely. Yunjin still hadn't replied to any of your messages. Not even the short one you sent during your break, Can we talk later? Just us. It stayed marked as delivered. The silence sat with you all day like a knot behind your ribs.

Jake, on the other hand, had sent you seven messages before your class even ended. “hey pretty” “people suck” “but i love you” “sunghoon says i'm being annoying” “but he's cranky, maybe he's hungry” “i miss you rn” “you miss me?” Meanwhile, Sunghoon had sent one. “You okay?”

That was it. Just two words. But you stared at the message for a while, and somehow it made your chest ache in a different way.

And now here you are, exactly where you knew you’d end up again today—melted into the center of Jake and Sunghoon's couch, Jake sprawled entirely on top of you like a human-sized heat pack, half-crushing your lungs while he scrolls through videos with the volume too high. His chin is resting on your chest, legs tangled with yours, one arm wrapped lazily under your back like he never intends to move again. "I'm going to suffocate," you murmur, voice muffled against his shoulder. "No you're not," Jake replies without looking up. "You love this." You do. You hate how much you do. Sunghoon's voice drifts in from the kitchen. "Jaeyun, get off her. You're going to fold her in half."

"I’m like her weighted blanket," Jake replies, one leg tightening around you like a boa constrictor. Sunghoon sighs but doesn't argue further. "I'm ordering," he says over his shoulder. "Same thing as last time?"

"Yes," you say. "Please." He glances over at you, eyes scanning from where your arms are wrapped tightly around Jake's back to the way your ankles hook around his hips. He shakes his head once. Jake grins and kisses your chin, finally looking up. You smile faintly. "You're heavy."

"And warm," he adds. "And comforting. And sweet. And sexy."

"I didn't even say any of that." You roll your eyes and bury your nose into the soft fabric of his shirt, ignoring the fact that the last twenty-four hours felt like emotional whiplash. Right now, right here, you're okay. Sandwiched between chaos and calm, with Jake's weight grounding you and Sunghoon's voice surrounding the space you’re in. You let yourself breathe.

The food arrives with a knock at the door and a soft "thank you" from Sunghoon as he takes the bags. You and Jake are still tangled up on the couch until the smell of your favorite order drifts into the room, and you already know what's about to happen. You feel it in the way Sunghoon lingers a little too long in the kitchen—organizing containers, silently placing utensils beside napkins. He's thinking about what to say. He's going to ask. He's going to start that conversation.

So you beat him to it. "What's the deal with Yunjin?" you ask suddenly, sitting up straighter, brushing Jake's hair from your face. Jake pauses—his entire body freezing like someone hit pause on the app he was scrolling through. He lifts himself off you slowly, sitting up beside you now, looking over at Sunghoon like he's waiting too. Like this part isn't his to answer. Sunghoon doesn't look surprised. He sighs, quiet and composed as always, reaching for one of the containers and placing it in front of you. "Don't worry about her," he says evenly, sliding a fork into your hand. "It's not important." Jake nods like that's final. "Seriously. She's not a problem."

"She kind of was yesterday," you say gently. "And no one's telling me why." Sunghoon's eyes flicker to Jake's, something unspoken passing between them, but neither of them says anything else. It's like hitting a wall. One you didn't know was there until you crashed into it. So you nod once, deciding to let it go for now. But it turns out you can't let go of everything. Because Jake, still trying to smooth the air, says softly, "About earlier—when you said people were staring."

"I just—" you start, but it's like the dam breaks before you can control it. "What is this?" Both of them look at you. Jake stops mid-bite, brows furrowing. Sunghoon sets his drink down, posture straightening slightly like he already knows where you're going. "What are we doing?" you continue. "Like, what is this even supposed to be? Am I...your girlfriend? Am I both your girlfriends? Are you my boyfriends?" Sunghoon blinks slowly, lips parting—but nothing comes out just yet.

"Because sometimes it feels like I'm a pet or something," you say quickly, before either of them can answer. "Like, you feed me and you cuddle me and you both say you want me—but no one's saying what this actually is. And I get it, I do, this started as a mess—but I just need to know."

"Pet?" Sunghoon repeats under his breath, tone unreadable. Jake makes a small, soft noise beside you. Almost like a laugh, but not quite. There's something guilty in it. "Like I'm just something cute you feed and play with and keep around for your convenience," you say, voice shaking a little. "I don't know what I'm allowed to call this. What I'm allowed to feel. You both keep—fucking me, touching me, taking care of me but not saying anything. And I've just been going along with it, but now people are talking and I don't even know what to say to myself, let alone anyone else." Jake raises both his hands a little, a weak smile pulling at his mouth. "Well, you fuck us too, baby."

You whip your head toward him. The glare you give is cold enough to shut him up immediately. Jake winces. "Okay. Bad timing." You blink hard, trying not to cry. "I'm serious." Sunghoon steps in gently, always calm, always composed. "We know." Jake shifts uncomfortably. "She's right. We should've said something. We've been...we've been enjoying it too much to pause and check in. That's on us."

"I need to know," you whisper. "Before this goes any deeper than it already has." Sunghoon reaches across the table, brushing your knuckles with his fingers. "You're not a pet. You're not some thing we keep around. You're someone we care about. Deeply."

Jake's voice comes in low, sincere. "And if you need it defined, then yeah. You're our girlfriend. Mine. Sunghoon's too.” He looks at Sunghoon, who nods once, no hesitation. "You're ours. And we're yours," Sunghoon says simply. "If you want that." Jake leans in again, resting his chin on your shoulder, quieter this time. "And if anyone gives you shit about it...let us handle it." The silence that follows feels different now. Like an exhale. You're still unsure, still scared—but at least you're not alone in it. Jake notices you starting to crumble again, your arms still wrapped around your legs like a shield, your forehead resting on your knee like you're trying to disappear. You've stopped talking, but your eyes are wet, and the silence is loud. So he does what Jake always does when emotions get too raw—he leans in with a grin and says something that makes you want to both kiss and strangle him.

"Okay, but if you were just our pet or our toy or whatever—would we let you ride us like that?" You blink. "Jake—"

"I'm serious," he grins, full of teeth now. "The way you get on top? That shit's not recreational. That's religious. Cowgirl of the century. If we were just using you, you'd be flat on your back all the time."

"Jake," Sunghoon says, without looking up from his container. "Read the room."

"I am reading the room," Jake shrugs, nudging you again. "It's tense. I'm easing it." You shoot him a look that's somewhere between exasperated and fond. "And the way you moan?" he keeps going, ignoring Sunghoon's sigh. "Half the building probably thinks we're filming amateur porn. And I'm not even mad."

Your cheeks flush instantly. Then Sunghoon finally glances up, chewing slowly. "You done?" Jake looks over at him, unbothered. "Not even close.” But when he sees the heat rising in your cheeks—your breath caught in your throat, lips parted but silent—he backs off just a little, gaze softening as he runs his thumb over the spot he touched.

"I'm just saying," he says, a bit quieter now. "Don't say we're using you when you fuck us like you own us."

You look at him. Then Sunghoon adds, so dry it's almost funny, "And you call me possessive." Jake just smirks and shrugs. "She started it." You're sit there, stunned and blushing, legs curled up beneath you as Jake licks his lips like he didn't just casually obliterate your emotional stability with his mouth. Sunghoon's watching you both now, quiet but not in that unreadable way he always does, he's leaned back with one arm thrown over the back of the couch, chewing slowly as if he's giving you space to recover. But his eyes don't leave you. You don't even realize you're staring into your lap until Jake shifts again beside you. The warmth of his hand on your lower back is grounding this time, not teasing. When he speaks again, his tone is lighter. Not softer exactly—but easier.

"Okay. Let's change the subject before Sunghoon murders me." Sunghoon just lifts a brow. Jake grins at him, then turns back to you. "What do you think about us going away next month?" You blink. "What?"

"For Sunghoon's birthday," he clarifies. "It's just after midterms. I figured we could do something—just us. Like, leave the city. Rent a cabin. Go up north. Or maybe a beach town if the weather isn't shit." You turn your head slowly. "It's your birthday next month?"

Sunghoon nods as he chews, like it's not a big deal. Jake scoffs. "See? He wasn't even going to say anything. He never does. He hates celebrating, but I think that's mostly because no one's ever done it right." Your eyes linger on Sunghoon. He's looking at the coffee table now, suddenly preoccupied with peeling a label off the water bottle he hasn't even opened. There's the faintest tightness around his mouth. You realize with a quiet kind of ache that Jake's probably right. "I didn't know," you say, quiet.

Sunghoon shrugs. "It's not important." Jake mutters, "It is to me." There's a pause. Jake leans forward slightly, voice losing its usual lilt. "It should be to you too." Your chest tightens. "Of course it is. I didn't mean—" You stop. Breathe. "I just didn't know." Sunghoon nods once. "Now you do." Jake leans back, brushing his hair out of his face. "So? What do you think? We go away for a few days, just the three of us. No classes. No campus. No one watching us like we're weird."

You nod before you can talk yourself out of it. "Yeah. I'd like that." Sunghoon doesn't say anything at first. Then he murmurs, "We'll see how midterms go." Jake rolls his eyes. "Don't act like you're not already ahead in every class."

"I'm not failing," Sunghoon allows, glancing at you now. "You?"

"I'm managing," you say, and it's true—but just barely. It's hard to focus with everything going on. Yunjin's silence. Campus whispers. The heaviness that lingers even when you're safe on their couch, fed and warm and wanted. Jake nudges your side gently. "Then we're going. You need a break, birthday boy needs attention, and I—" He grins. "I'm just trying to see you in a bikini." Sunghoon scoffs, but you catch the way his mouth twitches. Jake keeps going. "We'll get a place with a hot tub. Or one of those outdoor tubs. Imagine the three of us in that. Steam. Moonlight. Maybe a bottle of wine."

You raise a brow. "Who's bringing the wine?"

"I'm twenty-two," Jake says, smug. "I can get alcohol."

You snort despite yourself. Sunghoon finally smirks.

And for a second, it's just quiet again. Easy. You settle back into the couch. Jake picks up a fry. Sunghoon pulls the food containers closer. And for the first time all day, the weight in your chest feels a little lighter.

You don't know what you are to them. Not yet. But you know they want you here, they're not letting go, and maybe for now, that's enough. Jake starts going on about beach towns and hot tubs and "aesthetically pleasing coastal interiors," but his excitement is infectious. The way he grins as he talks about planning something for Sunghoon—for the three of you—makes you feel warmer than the wine in your glass. Sunghoon's leaned back into the couch cushion beside you, watching Jake with that quiet fondness of his. Your bare knee brushes against his thigh when you shift, and he doesn't move away. "I want to show you something," he says suddenly, voice low but certain.

You look at him, curious. "Right now?"

He stands. "Yeah. Come." Jake raises an eyebrow. "Are we about to witness a murder or a surprise?" You follow Sunghoon anyway, trailing behind him through the apartment with Jake padding along behind you, still chewing on the last of a chocolate-covered strawberry like this is some late-night drama reveal.

It feels a little strange, walking into Sunghoon's room again. You haven't been in here since the three of you had sex on that very bed two nights ago. The room looks the same at first glance, neat and clean, the sheets are changed now, curtains drawn halfway and his nightstand exactly as minimal as you remembered. But then you see it. Against the far wall, in the corner that used to be empty, right next to his bed, stands a newly assembled vanity mirror. Soft, diffused bulbs line the frame. The surface gleams. And on top of it—your favorite skincare bottles, your foundation and lip oils, the mascara you lost weeks ago. There's even a small gold dish with your rings and earrings placed just right.

You take a slow step closer, stunned. Jake leans against the doorframe behind you. "He made me go with him to pick out that mirror. Swore the first one was 'too cheap-looking.' We've been hiding this for, like, two days." Sunghoon, still behind you, shifts a little awkwardly. "It's for... when you're getting ready here. Or, I don't know. If you wanna leave your stuff. Or—"

"Or if you just wanna live here," Jake finishes easily. "With us." You blink. "Wait—what?" He shrugs. "This is us being emotionally responsible adults. You already stay over like five nights a week, baby." Sunghoon nods, but he's quieter. "You haven't been in my room since...that night. So we figured if you did come back in, we wanted it to feel like yours too." Your throat tightens. You look back at the vanity—at how thoughtful it is. How deliberate. "I don't even have a drawer here," you mumble, a little breathless.

Jake laughs. "Yes, you do. Sunghoon emptied half his closet for you." Sunghoon shrugs like it's nothing, but his ears are a little pink. You turn toward them, voice soft. "You guys did this in two days?"

"We would've done it in one," Jake says, "but someone had to rearrange the lighting three times."

"I wanted it to look good," Sunghoon mutters. You don't realize your eyes are glassy until you blink down and one tear slides to your cheek. It's not sadness, not exactly—just that unbearable feeling when people love you with more care than you know how to process in the moment. Jake's already stepping forward. "Hey—hey. You crying?" You wipe at your face quickly, laughing through it. "No. Yes. I'm fine. It's just—this is really... a lot."

"It's okay," Sunghoon says, stepping closer too. "It's meant to be." He reaches up to tuck your hair gently behind your ear. You lean into the touch before you can stop yourself. Jake wraps an arm around your waist from behind and rests his chin on your shoulder. "So? Wanna move in, baby?" You look at them—your quiet, steady Sunghoon. Your chaotic, tender Jake. The mirror. The space. Your heart answers before your mouth can. "Yeah," you whisper. "Yeah. I do."

Jake's arm stays wrapped around your waist, fingers tapping lightly like he's buzzing with unused energy, when he pulls back just slightly to grin at you. "So," he says, dragging out the word. "Who wants to shower with me?" You open your mouth, ready to tease him for being predictably himself, when Sunghoon's phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks the screen, and for a split second, something shifts in his expression, a subtle flicker of recognition that tightens his jaw just a bit. "I'll be back," he says quietly, already turning away as he answers the call. "Hey, Heeseung." It's faint, but you catch the way he murmurs the name low under his breath like he didn't mean for you to hear. He walks out of the room with the phone pressed to his ear, voice dipping even softer as he disappears into the hallway. Your brows knit together for just a second. Heeseung?

But before you can dwell on it, you feel Jake's hands slip under your thighs, and with a sudden lurch, he's thrown you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

"Jake—!" you squeal, laughing as the blood rushes to your head. "Put me down!"

"Nope," he says, marching toward the bathroom with all the determination of someone carrying a trophy. "You're showering with me. You cried a little and now I have to bathe you like a princess."

"Is that the rule?" you protest, squirming as he smacks your thigh playfully. He hums, nonchalant. "That's my rule. Plus, you smell like strawberry body lotion and decision-making fatigue." He kicks the bathroom door open and steps inside, still holding you like a sack of sugar and setting you down gently on the countertop. His eyes scan over you with a rare kind of softness. "You okay?" he asks, voice quieter now, thumb brushing over your knee. "Really okay?" You nod, the earlier emotion still lingering like warmth in your chest. "Yeah. I am."

"Good," he murmurs, already reaching behind you to turn on the shower. "Let me take care of you a little."

There's a beat, a quiet moment between the sound of water filling the tub and the faint echo of Sunghoon's voice somewhere deeper in the apartment, still on that call. And you can't help but wonder. What was that about? But right now, Jake is tugging at the hem of your shirt with that boyish grin he always gets when he's about to undress you like it's a present he's unwrapping. And for now, you let the questions go and step into the tub holding Jake’s hand. The water is warm, scented faintly with eucalyptus and something sweeter, probably one of the overpriced oils Jake had tossed into the basket when he dragged you through the skincare aisle last week. You didn't expect to use it like this, not tonight, not like this, not with Jake pressed up behind you in the oversized bathtub, your spine resting against his chest and his arms looped around your waist like he's anchoring you there.

He hums low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your back as he presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder. You feel his fingers skim across your arms and settle over your hands, gently guiding them to float over the surface of the water. "Relax," he says, softly. "You've been tense all day."

"I've had a weird couple of weeks," you murmur, voice dry. "I think I'm allowed to be tense." Jake chuckles behind you, his nose brushing against your neck before he plants another kiss there. "Fair." His fingers interlace with yours underwater, and for a long minute, neither of you says anything. He just holds your hands in his and lets the water cradle you both, his thumbs brushing slow, thoughtful circles against your knuckles. "Hey," you ask after a while, voice quiet. "How do you guys even afford this place?" Jake doesn't answer right away. He exhales slowly, his chin resting on your shoulder. "Sunghoon's dad bought it for him. His 21st birthday gift. He actually owns the whole place." Your eyes widen a little. "Wait, he owns it?"

"Mhm," Jake hums. "Straight up. Title deed and all. I just moved in junior year because my last apartment had a black mold problem and I was too lazy to apartment hunt."

"Of course you were," you mutter.

"Hey," he says, laughing as he splashes water against your side. "It was life or death. I was being slowly poisoned." You lean back against him, more relaxed than you've felt all day. He keeps kissing your neck in quiet intervals, like he's reminding himself you're real and here and his. "Okay," you ask again, slower now, "How did you and Sunghoon... start?" Jake's hands pause just slightly, but then he resumes the soft movements, this time sliding his palms up your arms in long, comforting strokes. "Freshman year," he says. "We were in the same dorm building. Total strangers. I thought he was an asshole at first—he barely talked, always wore headphones."

"Sounds like him."

Jake grins. "Yeah. He caught me making out with someone in the stairwell and said something like, 'You know the walls are thin, right?' Thought he was judging me. Then two nights later, he kissed me at a party." You blink. "Wait—he made the first move?"

"Surprised?" Jake says, tilting his head.

"Yes?" Jake laughs again, pressing a hand to your stomach and gently pulling you closer to him in the water. "Yeah, he kissed me first. I think he was just curious, honestly. But it wasn't a one-time thing. It turned into more." You stay quiet for a second. "Do your parents know?"

"Mine don't ask questions," Jake says, tone losing some of its earlier playfulness. "I don't think they'd care much as long as I keep up appearances. Sunghoon's... kind of complicated. His dad is—well. He wouldn't be thrilled." You frown at that, looking down at where your hands are still tangled in his beneath the water. Your chest tightens just slightly. You tilt your head back a little more, resting it against his collarbone. His skin is warm, and his breath stays steady against your neck, like he's completely at peace.

"You said it started freshman year," you murmur. "Just the two of you. So when did you start... inviting girls into your bed?" Jake's fingers still on your waist for just a moment. Then he smiles softly against your skin. "Not just girls, baby," he murmurs. "Guys too."

You blink, surprised. "Oh...right. Sorry."

"No need to be sorry," he says gently, reaching for your hand under the water again. He's tracing along your knuckles now, thumb moving slow. "It's not something we talked about at first. It kind of...happened. One time at a party, it always starts at a fucking party, we found out this girl was flirting with both of us at the same time."

"And you didn't mind?" you ask.

Jake huffs out a laugh. "Nope. If anything, it kind of turned us on? We realized we didn't care about sharing. At least not like that. So it became a thing — a little game." You're quiet, processing that. You think about how they are with you, all teasing, overwhelming, indulgent. But also careful. Also...real.

Jake nudges your chin with his nose, coaxing you back into the present. "You okay?" he asks. You nod slowly. "Yeah. Just... it makes sense. I guess I never really thought about it." He's quiet for a beat. "We weren't looking for anything serious," he says, voice softer now. "Not until you." Your chest stutters a little at that.

"And you're both...?"

"I'm pansexual," Jake says easily. "And Hoonie’s bi."

You chew on that for a moment, staring down at the water, the way it ripples with the movement of your legs still loosely tangled with Jake's. He doesn't press you. Just kisses your shoulder again and waits. "Have you ever thought about being with a girl?" he asks finally, tone light but curious. "Like, would you ever—?"

"My first kiss was with a girl," you say before you can stop yourself. Jake jerks slightly behind you. "Wait. What?"

You laugh a little, shrinking down in the water. "It was in middle school. Truth or dare. We were twelve."

"Oh my god." Jake sounds absolutely delighted. "Why is this the first I'm hearing of this?"

"Because it's not a big deal!" you say quickly, cheeks warming. "It was just a kiss."

"Still," Jake says, turning your face toward his. He's grinning like you just told him the most interesting thing in the world. "I feel like this changes everything."

You roll your eyes. "It really doesn't." Jake leans in and kisses your cheek anyway. "Tell me everything," he says, still smiling. "Name, zodiac sign, where is she now—" You splash water at him and he yelps, laughing, pulling you closer again like he can't help himself.

You sigh, content and warm against him, the water lapping gently against your skin. His arms are lazily wrapped around your waist, one hand trailing idle circles over your stomach as the other continues to play with your fingers underwater. "Can I tell you something kinda embarrassing?" you murmur. Jake hums, his lips brushing your shoulder. "Always."

"I used to hear all these rumors about you and Sunghoon on campus...before I even knew either of you." That perks him up. You can sense his smirk forming before you even glance back. "Oh yeah?" he says, already amused. "Like what?" You grin. "Like how you two were rich and lived in some crazy off-campus apartment with a private elevator and heated floors."

Jake snorts. "Okay, yeah, it’s just an elevator. Heated floors, though... only in the bathrooms." You giggle a little. "I still can’t believe he got an apartment for his birthday?" Jake nods like it's normal. "He wanted a Ducati. His dad said no. So, apartment." You blink. "That's...not how my parents work." He chuckles. "Same." You nudge his thigh with yours, warming up. "And they said you drive a Jeep Wrangler—red—with custom rims. Supposedly a reward for agreeing to study business." Jake actually throws his head back and laughs at that.

"I wish," he says through laughter. "I do drive a Wrangler, but it's clearly blue. And I got it for my high school graduation, not because of some lame agreement. My parents still think I'm gonna take over my dad's law firm one day." You grin. "So the business degree is...?"

"Mostly for show," he shrugs. "And to keep them off my ass." You turn your head a little, looking up at him. "Okay, but there was also this one rumor about how you and Sunghoon were like...always hooking up with people. Together. Like some weird team." Jake pauses. Then slowly raises a brow. "I mean... that one's not entirely false." You lean your head back again, smiling up at the ceiling. "Okay, wait, there were so many."

Jake chuckles behind you, arms still snug around your waist. "I'm listening." You start ticking them off on your fingers. "There was one that said you and Sunghoon had a no-dating policy because you didn't want to catch feelings and ruin the—quote—dynamic."

Jake laughs low in your ear. "Okay, that's dramatic. We just didn't want to deal with drama. If someone got clingy, it was a hard no. But no official policy. We're not a corporation." You hum. "Someone once told me Sunghoon broke up a couple because the girl hooked up with him and her boyfriend got jealous." Jake snorts. "That one's true. Not even Hoon's fault though. She lied. Said she was single." Your jaw drops. "He broke up a whole relationship?!"

Jake shrugs. "To be fair, the guy should've been mad at her, not us. Hoon didn't even remember her name the next day." You giggle, letting the warm water slosh a little as you shift. "There was this insane rumor that you—you—ran a finsta where you used to post thirst traps for Sunghoon just to mess with people." Jake breaks into a full grin. "Okay. That one's only a little true."

"WHAT."

He laughs, smug. "I didn't run a finsta, but I did post some stupid clips of Hoon dancing or shirtless after the gym. Just for fun. Girls in the comments used to fight over him. He hated it."

You gasp, delighted. "That's evil." He kisses the side of your neck, smirking. "I'm misunderstood." You continue, "Someone said you two once threw a party where you only let people in if they were hot enough, and you made out with two different people at the same time on the couch." Jake's shoulders shake with laughter behind you. "That party was a disaster. Sunghoon got drunk and made everyone leave because someone puked in his room. And that three-way kiss wasn't planned. They just... went for it."

Jake tilts his head, grinning at you. "What else did they say, hmm?" You bite your lip, pretending to think. "That you only ever go for people you can't have."

He quiets for a beat. His arms tighten slightly around your waist, and when he speaks next, it's softer. "Guess I broke that one too."

"Okay, but this one? Someone told me you guys had a third roommate that no one ever saw but was apparently just there for sex. Like, they called her your house pet." Jake nearly chokes. "Oh my god—what?! That's so fucked up."

"You're not denying it fast enough."

"I'm laughing too hard to defend myself!" he said, voice still warm with amusement. "That's complete bullshit. We didn't even have a third roommate, let alone a pet girl. Sunghoon would never let just anyone into his space like that. What do they think we were doing—running a harem out of a student housing lease?"

You tilted your head, smirking. "I mean..." He lightly bit your shoulder and you squealed. Jake grinned into your neck. "Don't get smart, baby. You're not a pet in this house now, remember?" Your stomach fluttered. "That...somehow doesn't make it better."

"Admit it," he said, voice lower, more teasing, "you'd have believed it if I hadn't told you otherwise."

You turned your face toward his. "Oh, I totally believed it." His grin was shameless. "You still do." You didn't answer, and instead just let your fingers float in the water—because maybe you did. Just a little. Because now that you were here, inside this impossibly expensive, stupidly sexy apartment, with Jake all over you and Sunghoon's voice faint in the hallway...none of it really felt like a rumor anymore. It felt real, cause you were in it now, and you knew they wanted you to stay.

You’re trying to hold back a grin as you continue talking. "There was another one that said you both had fake names on Tinder and used to catfish freshmen just for fun." Jake raises his hands like he's offended. "Now that is slander. I didn't even use dating apps. That was always Hoon's department." You snort. "Oh yeah? Cause I heard Sunghoon only swiped right on people who had either modeling portfolios or mutuals at Ivy Leagues."

Jake pauses. "Okay. That one might be true." You both break into laughter. "Someone said you once skipped a midterm because you got invited to Cannes."

Jake stretches lazily behind you. "Nah, it was the Canary islands. And it wasn’t like we were randomly invited. It was my brothers wedding." “Plus it was after midterms”

"Okay. Well that makes more sense"

"Exactly." You blink, turning to glance at him again—but just then, the bathroom door opens.

Sunghoon walks in, without a word, dropping onto the closed toilet seat, thighs spreading as he rests his elbows on them. The motion draws your eyes before you can stop yourself, gaze dragging to the vee of his hips and the way his muscles flex under his skin. He notices. He always notices.

"Do you guys ever use your bathroom?" he asks casually, voice low and warm with amusement. Jake doesn't look away from you, but he grins. "Yours is bigger."

"Mm," Sunghoon hums, eyes flicking to you now. "That why she always ends up in here looking like this?"

You swallow, cheeks hot again. You feel Jake's smile against your shoulder. Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees now. His eyes drag over your bare shoulders, your wet hair clinging to your collarbone, the way you're pressed against Jake's chest in the water like you're trying to disappear—but not really. "You're so fucking beautiful," he says it like a whisper, like it's not the first time he's thought it today. Or the fifth. Your breath stutters in your throat.

You try to look away but you can’t and neither does he.

Jake's arms tighten around you, a little possessive. A little indulgent. His voice is softer when he speaks, like he already knows what Sunghoon's words did to you.

"She is," Jake murmurs, brushing a kiss behind your ear, and then down the slope of your neck. "So perfect." And the air shifts—warm steam and something heavier threading between all three of you. The kind of quiet where want lives, curling slow and inevitable at the base of your spine. You can feel the weight of Sunghoon's gaze like fingertips against your skin, almost like a promise. You're still flushed from Sunghoon's compliment when you hear the faint sound of fabric being peeled away—the unmistakable rustle of clothes hitting the floor.

You glance up and Sunghoon's undressing, slow and unrushed, pulling his shirt over his head like it's no big deal that you're both watching, because it isn’t. He tosses it to the side before pushing his sweats down, stepping out of them with a calm, practiced ease. And then he heads toward the standing shower opposite the tub like this is the most natural thing in the world. Jake kisses your cheek as if he didn't just tighten his hold on you again. Your eyes follow Sunghoon shamelessly—the strong line of his back, the clean muscles of his thighs, the way he turns the water on and steps under the spray without even glancing back.

"Do you guys ever fight over dick size?" you blurt, half-giddy, half-curious. There's a beat of stunned silence. And then Sunghoon barks out a laugh. Like, actually laughs. Full-bodied, head tilted back, water pouring down his chest as he scrubs body wash into his skin. Even Jake snorts behind you, chin resting on your shoulder. "Oh my god," Sunghoon says between little breathless huffs, rubbing his hand down his face like he's trying to compose himself, "what the fuck, why would you ask that?"

You're giggling now, hands covering your burning face. "I don't know! You guys are both hot and stupidly confident. It's a valid question!" Jake chuckles against your ear. "We haven't fought about it, no," he says with faux solemnity. "We've definitely compared, though."

Sunghoon hums, lifting his brows under the spray. "Weird way of saying I won."

"Please," Jake scoffs. "We're basically the same size."

"Exactly," Sunghoon replies smoothly, rinsing his chest, "and I'm taller, so it looks bigger." That earns another laugh from you, and Jake presses his face into your neck with an affectionate groan like this is his life now.

The water's still a little warm when Sunghoon reaches out a hand for you. "C'mere," he murmurs, voice low and gentle. You let him help you out of the tub, fingers curling around his forearm for balance as he steadies you. Jake's already in the shower by the time your feet touch the floor, letting the spray soak through his hair. He reaches for you the second you're close enough, tugging you under the water between them. It's quiet, almost tender—the rinse off. Just soft hands gliding over your skin, fingers brushing your shoulders, your waist. Sunghoon kisses your forehead at one point. Jake rubs shampoo into your scalp with the gentlest touch, humming something low while water slicks down your back. Afterward, Jake wraps a thick towel around you like it's second nature, tugging it snug and pressing a kiss to your cheek with a little "you did good, baby," like you just ran a marathon instead of... taking a bath.

By the time you're settled in front of the new vanity, in Jake's oversized shirt that hangs halfway down your thighs and Sunghoon's boxers peeking out beneath, you feel extra warm in more ways than one. "This is still crazy," you mumble, eyes sweeping over the glossy surface, the perfect lighting, the neat rows of your favorite products already set out like you've lived here forever. "I didn't even know you two noticed what I use." Jake's sprawled out on the bed beside you, chin resting on his forearm, watching you like he's studying a piece in a museum. He reaches lazily for a bottle near your elbow. "What's this one?" he asks, holding it up to the light. "Retinol," you mumble through a layer of moisturizer.

"What's that do?"

"Helps with texture, aging, breakouts..." Jake squints at the label, then back at you. "You don't need it. Your skin's already perfect."

You roll your eyes, smiling as Sunghoon strolls in from the en-suite bathroom with his iPad in hand, his hair still damp from the shower and slightly curled at the ends. "So," he says, casual but decisive, "if we're doing the trip for my birthday, we need to start looking now. Summer houses go fast—especially the good ones."

You glance at him in the mirror. "Should I pitch in?"

Jake doesn't even let you finish the sentence before he lets out this loud, incredulous laugh—one of those half-snorted ones where he buries his face in the bedspread like he can't believe what he's hearing. "Oh my god," he wheezes. You blink. "What?" Jake props himself up on one elbow, smirking at you with faux seriousness. "Baby. Sunghoon would rather die. Like, full-stop, cease to exist rather than let you drop a cent on something." Sunghoon doesn't even deny it. He just stands there, arms crossed, and lifts a brow like, obviously. You narrow your eyes, trying to fight back a smile. "That's not really fair—"

"It's not about fair," Sunghoon says calmly. "It's my birthday. My trip. And I want to pay for it." Jake nods solemnly behind you. "He's been rich and repressed since birth, princess. Let him use his trauma the way he wants." You giggle despite yourself. "But I can contribute—"

"No," Sunghoon interrupts, voice a touch firmer, but his gaze is soft. "You don't have to. That's the whole point." Jake whistles low under his breath. "You're not gonna win this one. He's gonna book some insane beach mansion with like...six bedrooms, two hot tubs, and a private chef, and you're just gonna have to sit there looking pretty and being spoiled." He grins like he lives for that visual. Sunghoon meets your eyes through the mirror, tilting his head. "Exactly."

And yeah, it's hard to keep arguing when they both look at you like you're the best part of every plan they've ever made.

The warm light glows softly against your skin as you sit at the vanity, carefully patting essence into your cheeks, lips slightly parted in focus again. Sunghoon is now pacing slowly across the room with his iPad in one hand, thumb scrolling as he mumbles something about beach rentals and peak season prices. You're only half-listening to Jake's little rant about why citrus scents are superior to woody ones in candles when the thought blurts out of you, calm and curious. "What's your body count?" Jake groans like he's been wounded, falling back onto the mattress with a dramatic flail. "Jesus, baby. You've been on a roll with these questions tonight."

Sunghoon just looks up from his iPad, lips quirking into a small smile. He doesn't speak right away, just watches you for a second, like he's unsure if you're being serious or poking at them again. "I'm just curious," you hum, flipping open your lip mask container, totally nonchalant. Jake shifts onto his side, watching you. "You curious or you looking for a reason to judge us?" You smirk at his tone, deliberately slow as you apply the lip mask. "Why would I judge? I already know you were a menace." Sunghoon makes a soft snorting sound behind you.

You glance over your shoulder at him. "Well?"

"I think I liked it better when you asked if we ever fought over dick size," he replies dryly, eyes back on the iPad but the edge of his mouth betrays a smile.

Jake's still watching you, lips twitching up but still withholding the answer. You roll your eyes and pout at the mirror. "Fine. Mine's three."

The room goes silent. You glance back just in time to watch Jake's face fall. His smile slips first, just a twitch of confusion that spreads into something heavier. His brows draw together, mouth parting. Sunghoon doesn't even move at first, doesn't blink—he's frozen mid-scroll, his eyes flicking up to you.

Jake is the first to speak. Quiet, disbelieving. "Th—Three?" And Sunghoon, voice low, strained, "Who was the third?" You stare at them both, blankly for a second, before, "Oh my god," you burst out, laughing as you spin around on the stool. "I'm joking!"

Jake exhales so hard he practically deflates, his palm dragging down his face. "You—holy shit, that's not funny." Sunghoon finally sets the iPad down, closing his eyes with a visible exhale of tension. "Don't do that." You're still giggling, covering your mouth. "You should've seen your faces. I've never seen you two panic that fast." Jake groans again. "Don't say three like that. You really scared me."

"Well, I didn't know you cared," you tease, stretching your foot to where Jake is on the bed and he grabs it, just like you knew he would. Sunghoon walks past the end of the bed toward the mini-fridge in the corner, murmuring, "It's not about caring. It's about...statistics."

"Statistics?" you echo, raising a brow. "Yeah," Jake mutters beside you, eyes closed as he drops back again. "Statistically, if there was a third, one of us missed something big." You lean your chin into your hand, watching them both fondly. "You guys are—I don’t even know." Sunghoon returns to his pacing, water bottle in one hand, iPad in the other, and then suddenly turns on his heel. "Okay, what do we think of this one?" he asks, stepping toward the bed. He walks over to you and Jake and crouches just enough to tilt the screen toward you both. On display is a photo of a stunning beach house—sleek, modern, with huge windows and a private pool overlooking the ocean. The kind of place that makes you instinctively lean forward and say, "Wait, what?"

Your eyes widen, immediately suspicious. "This is gorgeous. But..." You squint at the corner of the screen, where Sunghoon's finger is very deliberately planted. "Why is your finger covering the price?" Jake lets out a low chuckle beside you, already sensing where this is going. Sunghoon's mouth pulls into a faint, sly smile. "Do you like it or not?"

"Sunghoon."

"I'm serious. Just say if you like it."

"I do, but—how much is it?"

"That's not relevant." Jake actually laughs this time, dropping his head back on the mattress with a soft thud. "Oh, he's doing that thing again." You glance between them. "What thing?" Jake lifts a hand toward Sunghoon, still chuckling. "The thing where he hides the cost because he knows if you see it, you'll freak out and say no, and he'd rather just book it and deal with your protests later." Sunghoon doesn't deny it. He just gives you a long, measured look. "It's a nice house. Very private. Ocean access. You won't have to see a single stranger all weekend unless you want to."

"But how—"

"Do you like it or not," he repeats, firmer this time but still calm. You gape at him, baffled and kind of impressed by the level of audacity. "I mean, yeah, it's beautiful, but—Sunghoon, seriously, how much is it?"

He just blinks, completely unfazed. "Would you rather stay in a motel with sand in the sheets and a rusty AC unit?" Jake raises a hand in mock surrender. "He's got a point." You shoot Jake a half-hearted glare, but he just grins at you lazily, clearly enjoying the whole exchange. Sunghoon finally relents with a small smirk, standing back up. "Look. If you hate it, we'll find something else. But I want you to relax. This trip is supposed to be good for us." Jake hums in agreement, nudging your ankle with his foot. "Yeah, no stress. Let richie rich do his thing." You narrow your eyes. "I feel like I'm being manipulated." Sunghoon leans down just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head as he murmurs, "You are. Now pick out a swimsuit or something." Jake snorts into his arm. "She's not even packed yet and you're telling her to pick out swimwear." Sunghoon shrugs, walking back toward the desk. "Manifesting." Jake shifts a little closer on the bed, pulling out his phone with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Alright," he says, unlocking it, "if Hoon's gonna bully us into luxury accommodations, I think it's only fair I get to pick your bikinis."

You blink. "My bikinis?" He smirks. "For the trip. You're gonna need some new ones, right?" Before you can protest, he's already scrolling through some sleek, minimalist swimwear site—gorgeous models, sun-drenched beaches, and little strings that don't look like they'd cover much more than a scrunchie. You sigh but lean in anyway, your shoulder brushing his, your chin nearly on his shoulder as you settle beside him. "Okay fine," you murmur, cozy, the back of your hand skimming his thigh as you try to keep up with the screen. Jake grins when he feels you cuddle into him. "I knew that'd get you." He scrolls a bit more, swiping through a few options until one catches his eye—a baby blue bikini, simple but flattering, with gold rings on the sides. "Ooh, this one would look good on you—what's your favorite color, by the way?" He raises his voice slightly. "Hoonie, come check this one out." From the desk, Sunghoon glances up briefly, mildly curious but still scrolling. "Send it to me."

Jake doesn't get the chance. Because you go very still beside him, eyes narrowing at the price listed under the bikini set. "Jake," you say flatly. "Why are the bikinis two hundred and fifty dollars?" Jake pauses mid-scroll. "Huh?" You reach over and point, jabbing the screen. "That. Right there. That's the top. Just the top. It's one hundred and thirty-two before taxes." Jake blinks, then slowly turns his head to you with a sheepish little grin. "Should I have hidden the prices too?" You gape. "What do you mean too?!"

Sunghoon, without even turning around, mutters, "I warned you." You groan and drop your head into Jake's shoulder. "You guys live in an alternate reality."

Jake laughs, deep and warm, sliding his arm around your waist to tug you closer. "Yeah, well, welcome to it." You shake your head, still appalled. "Two hundred fifty dollars for something that covers maybe three square inches."

Jake grins. "Two inches if I'm lucky."

"Jake."

"I'm just saying." He holds the phone up again, brows raised. "So... you like the blue one or should I keep scrolling?" You sigh but nuzzle deeper into his side, warm and soft against him. "Keep scrolling." Sunghoon finally gets up and walks over, standing behind the two of you. "Get her the black one," he says casually, pointing. "It'll look better with her skin tone."

You look up at him. "Do I get a say in this?"

"No," they both say at the same time. You groan again but it's drowned by Jake's quiet chuckle and the gentle way Sunghoon's fingers come down to brush your jaw for a moment, his voice a little softer now, "It's gonna be a good trip."

Midterms came and went in a whirlwind of caffeine, group study sessions, and the constant shuffle of flashcards and highlighters. The apartment felt more like a war zone than a shared living space with Sunghoon's untouched protein shakes gathering condensation beside his laptop while he grumbled over math formulas, and Jake flopped dramatically on the living room rug muttering, "If I get a single A this semester, that'll be my miracle."

When results finally came in, Jake stared at his laptop in disbelief for a good ten seconds before deadpanning, "I think I actually got Cs on all of them. Which is kind of impressive, in a way." He was mostly kidding, he passed everything, but not by the margins his parents would've hoped for. He celebrated anyway, calling himself a smarty pants while Sunghoon shushed him from across the room.

Yunjin still wasn't speaking to you. Not when you passed her in the library. Not when you held the elevator for her. Not even when you sent her a short, cautious message letting her know you'd be out of town for a few days. She'd read it, left you on delivered for a day and then read, but never replied. And maybe that was fine. Maybe it wasn't. Either way, there wasn't time to sit with it for too long.

The week passed quickly, and then suddenly, it was Thursday. The morning of the trip bloomed early and bright. You packed the last of your things before sunrise, half-listening to Jake and Sunghoon move around the apartment like shadows. There was laughter, a few yells about someone forgetting the charger or where the sunscreen was packed, and a loud debate about whether to bring the little Bluetooth speaker. You left just after 10 a.m. Jake's Jeep Wrangler waited outside like something out of a summer movie—top off, back loaded with bags and coolers, Sunghoon's sunglasses already perched on his nose as he leaned against the passenger door checking the GPS. Jake wore a sleeveless white tank and black cargos, all golden skin and lazy smiles as he helped you into the front seat like it was some kind of ritual. Your dress—a soft, floaty sundress with thin straps and a neckline that made Jake do a double take—billowed slightly in the breeze.

"Got everything?" he asked, sliding into the driver's seat. "Yep," you nodded, adjusting your sunglasses.

"You look like trouble," he grinned, and when you rolled your eyes, he added under his breath, "The best kind." The road stretched out endlessly ahead, smooth and wide and sun-warmed. You passed gas stations and tiny roadside diners, the hum of tires and the low thrum of music from the speakers wrapping around you like a slow lullaby. It was loud sometimes—Jake drumming on the steering wheel, Sunghoon reading out Yelp reviews for lunch spots in voices that made you giggle—but there were soft moments too. Fingers brushing your knee. Jake tilting his head back to soak in the wind. Sunghoon stretching out his arm to rest over the backseat casually, turning to look at you both when he thought you weren't paying attention.

Three hours in, you stopped for gas and iced coffee. Sunghoon traded places with Jake—who immediately beelined for the passenger seat and pulled you with him. You were still blinking sleepily from the lull of the drive, half-curled into the corner of the front seat when Jake caught your wrist gently and tugged you down.

"C'mere, baby," he murmured, spreading his legs slightly and settling you between them. His shirt was bunched behind your back now, arms wrapped around your waist like a seatbelt as he got you comfortable in his lap. "Shouldn't I be wearing a seatbelt?" you mumbled, nose brushing his throat. "Nah," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss just behind your ear, "I've got you." He smelled like sunscreen and leather and the faint citrus of whatever body wash he used, and you sighed into him as the Jeep started moving again, the road stretching farther and the sun tilting golden through your sunglasses. Wind tangled your hair. Jake's hand smoothed over your thigh lazily, his other arm looped around your waist as he hummed to the music. You dozed like that for a while, safe and warm in his arms, your sundress brushing the edge of his shorts, your head tucked under his chin, Sunghoon's voice a calm rhythm in the background as he drove.

And just like that, the weekend had begun. Sunghoon's birthday was only two days away. The vacation was waiting. The waves. The slow, decadent hours that would stretch between now and Monday. You didn't know what was coming yet. But for now, in that Jeep, sun-soaked and held like something precious, everything was still whole. The house was huge, washed in soft ivory paint and modern wood accents with high windows that opened to a view of the ocean so blue it looked stunning. It sat perched on a soft cliffside, where a private wooden path led down to the sand. Inside, the space was open and breezy, clean, modern, but cozy too. You all wandered room to room, calling dibs and tossing bags around, the boys marveling at the sound system and built-in grill while you gasped at the oversized bathroom mirror.

Thursday evening passed lazily. You all sat out on the back patio with drinks and takeout from the only decent place you could find nearby. Jake turned on music from his phone and danced around with a glass of Coke while Sunghoon grilled shrimp skewers and told you both to stop acting like children. You stayed up past midnight, bare-faced, barefoot, skin glowing from the salty breeze, and not a care in the world. Now it was Friday afternoon, and your vibe was completely different. You were standing in front of the mirror, a bright green bikini top clinging to your chest like a second skin. It was cuteor it would've been if it fit properly. But it was a full two sizes too small. You'd only just now realized that the sizes on the site had been in European metrics. All of them. Every single one Jake had ordered with you. The bottoms were worse—low rise and barely-there, and the top? Let's just say one good wave and you were going to be the entertainment for the whole beach.

Downstairs, you could hear the impatient tapping of flip-flops and Jake's familiar voice calling out, "Baby? Seriously? The sun's gonna set before we get there if you don't hurry." You panicked. "Can you guys come up here?" your voice carried, laced with confusion and mild distress. A beat passed before the footsteps and then Jake's voice again. "Why? What's—oh. Oh." He stopped in the doorway. You turned around slowly, crossing your arms over your chest instinctively. "They're all like this," you muttered. "All the bikinis. Every single one is...I don't even know how." Jake blinked at you like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or melt into the ground. "I—okay. Wait. Wait. Let me see."

"Jake—"

"No, seriously. I just...I need a second." He stepped in fully, eyes wide, gaze raking over you, then darting away. "Oh fuck." At that moment, Sunghoon appeared in the doorway too. "What's taking so—" His words cut off the second he laid eyes on you and he visibly froze.

His hand tightened on the frame of the door, and his brows lifted just slightly before he glanced at Jake and then back at you. "Is that the one I picked?" he asked carefully. You blinked. "They're all like this." A long silence passed. Then, Sunghoon, lips twitching like he was fighting back a smirk, looked straight at Jake and deadpanned, "Did you do this on purpose?" Jake barked a laugh. "No! Obviously not. Do you think I want her to get heat stroke because her ass is basically out?"

"You don't seem that mad about it," you said, narrowing your eyes. "I'm not mad about how it looks," Jake said shamelessly. "I'm mad we're going to be late because now I'm thinking about pushing the whole beach day back until tomorrow." Sunghoon walked in slowly now, finally getting his composure back, though his eyes still lingered. "You're not wearing that out there," he murmured, reaching forward to tug one of the straps gently, watching it snap back into place with a disapproving shake of his head. "You'll be on some guy's Snapchat story before you even touch the sand."

"But we don't have anything else," you groaned. "And the stores here are so overpriced—" Jake was already pulling out his phone. "We can order you something express. Overnight delivery. Worst case, we drive into the town in the morning." Sunghoon exhaled and nodded. "For today...you can wear one of our shirts and your shorts to the beach. That way you still get sun, and you don't have to worry about this whole wardrobe malfunction thing." You huffed. "I was supposed to be hot today." Jake leaned down, pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder. "You are hot today." Sunghoon's voice, quiet and amused, "Too hot, actually." Jake sighed dramatically. "Okay, beach. Let's move.

The beach was almost eerily perfect, in a way that made you feel like you were dreaming, it was secluded, sun-drenched, and quiet save for the gentle lap of waves and the occasional distant laugh from another couple several cabanas down. The air smelled like coconut sunscreen and salt, and the sand was warm enough to sink your toes into without flinching. Sunghoon had splurged on the fanciest cabana available, of course—sleek wooden framing, gauzy white curtains, plush daybeds. It looked like something out of a magazine editorial, and Jake had immediately stretched out on one of the loungers like he owned the place. You'd barely set your tote down before Jake grinned and took off running. "Jake—!" You blinked, startled, before chasing after him barefoot through the sand, laughing as you ran. Sunghoon didn't say a word, just shook his head with a rare, fond smile and then took off behind you both, his long legs easily overtaking yours. Jake was first and Sunghoon let you win.

You all collapsed on the sand, breathless and red-faced from laughter. You caught a glimpse of Sunghoon genuinely laughing, his head tipped back, hair messy from the ocean breeze, and your heart hurt a little. You didn't realize how rare it was for you to see him like that. "I don't run unless I'm getting paid," he muttered, sand stuck to his chest and forearms. You eventually made your way to the water. Sunghoon didn't wait, he came up behind you, arms around your waist, and with an effortless lift, carried you into the ocean. Your legs instinctively wrapped around him, and he grinned, saltwater dripping from his lashes.

"This is cheating," you whispered breathlessly, hands tangled in his wet hair. He kissed you once, then again—slow, easy, like you weren't waist-deep in ocean water. When you pulled back, dazed, you noticed Jake watching from a few feet away, not with jealousy or anything of the sort, but with admiration. He looked like he was thanking every god for this getaway and it drew you to him, kissing him too, this one more playful, mouths smiling into each other, noses bumping. His hands were warm on your back despite the chill of the ocean. It didn't take long before both boys were getting competitive again, scooping sand in their palms and chasing you up the beach with it. You shrieked, half-laughing, half-running, but they were faster, and grinning so evil when they caught up. Two sandy handprints landed square on your ass, one slightly higher than the other. "Seriously?" you gasped.

"Matching set," Jake grinned, brushing more sand onto the curve of your hip for symmetry. Later, you found out Jake had posted a picture on his private Instagram story—just your back, bikini bottoms, and two very clear sandy handprints with no caption. The sun was setting when the three of you made your way back up the private trail to the beach house on foot, flip-flops dangling from your fingers, towels wrapped lazily around your waists. You were sandy and soaked and sun-drunk. The sky was pink now. Sunghoon opened the door for you, but you were already tugging your bikini straps down under Jake's shirt before you even crossed the threshold. "I am not getting sand all over this house," you muttered, stepping out of your bottoms and shaking them out before dropping them by the door. Jake laughed from behind you, watching you shimmy out of your bikini top, wearing nothing but his oversized shirt from earlier in the day.

"Hmm," he hummed, walking up behind you. You barely had time to register the heat in his voice before his hands were on your waist, pulling you back against him. Sunghoon lingered in the corner, towel slung over one shoulder, watching quietly, but his eyes were dark, tracking the way Jake kissed down your neck, how you arched a little when Jake's hands slipped under the hem of his own shirt. "You're really just—doing this right here?" Sunghoon asked, but his voice was low, interested, not judging.

Jake glanced back at him, smirking. "What, you're shy now?" He asked as he drags you to the couch, and pressing you there, it's deliberate with his knee between your legs and his hands in your hair. His lips are warm and persistent, tongue sliding against yours like he's coaxing you open for him, like he has all the time in the world and he's planning to use it. Sunghoon's still nearby. You feel his presence before you feel his touch, his arm brushing against yours as he settles in behind you. His hand finds your bare thigh, warm and steady, sliding up just enough to make you breathe a little harder. Jake breaks the kiss to look at him. "You're just gonna sit there?" Sunghoon smirks a little. "You were busy."

"She's not just mine, you know?" Jake says, turning back to you, his mouth already hovering close again. "Let him kiss you, baby." You blink up at him, flushed, and then turn your head to Sunghoon. He doesn't ask. Just leans in and kisses you, slower than Jake, deeper, like he's learning you all over again. His hand rests on your cheek, fingers brushing your jaw. When Jake's hand slides under his shirt, teasing your nipples, Sunghoon deepens the kiss, swallowing the sound you make in your throat. Jake laughs quietly. "So obedient," he murmurs against your neck, biting gently. "You always let him kiss you like that when I'm watching?" You can't even answer. Their hands are everywhere now, Jake is palming your breast, Sunghoon's thumb stroking your thigh, pushing the hem of your shirt higher, higher. You shiver. Sunghoon pulls away just enough to look at you. "You okay?"

You nod quickly. "Yeah. I—yeah." Jake's grin sharpens. He leans in again, brushing his lips against your ear.

"Wanna show him what you got him for his birthday?"

You go still. Your breath catches hard in your throat. "Jake—" Sunghoon looks confused at first. "What?" Jake's voice is low now, hot against your ear. "Come on. Don't be shy. He's been so good today. You know he'll love it." You hesitate, heart pounding, your skin prickling as heat floods through you. Jake's fingers trail down your spine, featherlight.

"You said you wanted to be his gift, his birthday is in a few hours," he whispers, "so give it to him." You glance at Sunghoon. He's watching you closely now, his expression a mix of curiosity and hunger, like he's not sure what you're about to do but he wants it. Badly. So you shift on your knees, above Jake, and with shaky hands, you pull down the waistband of your shorts just enough. Enough for him to see it. The soft, glinting edge of the buttplug catches the light—delicate, blush pink, shaped like a bow. It fits snug between the curve of your cheeks, resting there with perfect intention. You shift slightly, thighs pressing together, back arched just enough.. "Is that...?"

"You can fuck her here, baby," Jake says behind you, tapping your ass cheek with one finger, his voice proud as he brushes your hair off your shoulder so he can kiss your neck. "Kept her like that all week. For you." Sunghoon doesn't move for a second. He's stunned. And then he exhales, almost like a groan, dragging a hand through his hair as his gaze drops to your ass again. "You're kidding," he mutters. "You actually..."

"She wanted to," Jake says, dragging his hand down your back, then squeezing. "She asked. You should've seen her last week, all squirmy and shy and so fucking wet the second I put it in. Had to eat her pussy so she'd stop whining." Sunghoon looks dazed. "Holy shit." You feel Jake smile against your shoulder. There's a long pause. Then the pad of Sunghoon's thumb trails lightly down the curve of your spine, featherlight, until he reaches just above the plug. He doesn't touch it. Not yet. He just lets his hand rest there.

"You've never done this before." It's not a question. He already knows. You shake your head, glancing at him over your shoulder. "No." Something in his expression shifts—something slow and low and almost solemn, like he's trying not to break something delicate in front of him. Jake watches him carefully. "Well?" he prompts. "You gonna thank her, birthday boy?" Sunghoon smiles faintly. It's crooked, quiet, full of everything he doesn't say out loud. "With you sitting over there like a smug little shit?"

Jake just grins wider. "Then come get your girl, Hoon."

"Told you he'd like it, baby." Jake says, nuzzling his nose in your neck. "Best birthday ever?"

"Best fucking birthday ever." Sunghoon muttered as he got on his knees, behind you, pressing you further into Jake so you were perfectly arched, with your ass and pussy directly in his face. He stared at the buttplug for a second longer before pulling it out slowly, watching how your body reacted to the object being removed from you. And audibly groaning at the whimper you make. The moment his tongue made contact with your dripping heat, your entire body tensed, a quiet gasp slipping from your lips as your nails dug into Jake's shoulders. "Shit," he hissed under his breath, his voice vibrating against your skin. "You're unreal."

Your lashes fluttered as you melted into the feeling, a soft moan escaping while your hips instinctively rolled toward his mouth. Sunghoon shifted lower, tongue diving deep before dragging back up slowly, deliberately. Then he started mouthing at you—messy, open-mouthed kisses that left your thighs trembling. His tongue circled your clit lazily, then slid back down again, tasting everything. "I didn't even know I wanted this," he murmured, voice husky, sending a chill up your spine. One of his hands splayed across your lower back, gently coaxing you closer to Jake, who held you steady like an anchor in the storm.

"Easy," Jake whispered, brushing a kiss to your temple. "Just breathe, baby."

Then Sunghoon's tongue slipped somewhere new—somewhere you thought the plug had prepared you for. A startled cry ripped from your throat as your body jolted, clutching at Jake in shock. The sensation was foreign, startling, and then the pleasure began to bloom. Sunghoon held you open with both hands, tongue exploring without hesitation, while Jake's fingers found your clit and started working slow, maddening circles over it. "That's it," Jake murmured, watching your expression melt. "That's my good girl. You like that?" You tried to respond, to say anything, but then Sunghoon pushed deeper, his tongue breaching you completely, and a broken, helpless moan tore free from your chest.

"Ah—Hoonie!" The feeling was indescribable—so intense and overwhelming, your mind could barely keep up. He moved between your openings with practiced ease—one second his tongue was circling your tightest rim, the next he was dragging a slow, obscene lick down to your soaked pussy. A low groan rumbled from his chest, lips slick as he devoured everything you gave him, like he couldn't get enough.

"Can I use my finger?" he asked, voice rough with want. You nodded with a shaky inhale, and Jake brushed another kiss to your cheek, his fingers still rubbing tight, unrelenting circles over your clit that made your thighs tremble.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Sunghoon muttered, one slick-coated finger gently circling your puckered entrance, playing with the sensitive muscle but holding back from fully pushing in—just yet.

When your body finally softens against Sunghoon's, he eases a finger in, pushing just past the entrance before pausing. "Do you want me to stop?" he asks, his voice quieter than usual, checking your reaction. Your answer was muffled, your face buried in the curve of Jake's neck, a quiet, shaky, "No." Jake lifts his head to speak for you. "She said no." Sunghoon's finger presses in deeper, slick with your arousal as he gently works you open. His movements are slow, precise, and devoted—though the way his jaw clenched betrays just how badly he wanted to lose control. He lets out a sharp breath through his nose as he watches the way your spine arcs, your body pressed close to Jake's, the tight clench of muscle around his finger making his cock twitch in anticipation.

"Just like that," he murmurs. You inhale sharply when a second finger slips in beside the first, stretching you further. The sensation is unfamiliar, even bordering on too much—but his patience grounds you. Jake's fingers lazily circle your clit while his mouth trails along your collarbone, muttering soft praise against your skin. "Perfect, baby. You're doing so perfect." The moment Sunghoon is confident you're ready, and satisfied with how pilant you've become, he withdraws with shaking hands and fumbles at the waistband of his shorts. His cock sprang free, red and swollen, the tension in his body palpable as he positions himself behind you. One hand sliding to your lower back, gently pushing you down into Jake's chest while his mouth ghosted over your shoulder.

"Go slow, Hoonie," Jake whispers, tilting your face to his and licking at your bottom lip in a sweet distraction. Sunghoon gives him a subtle nod, and for a moment, it really looked like he'd listen—until his palm lands hard across your ass with a sharp slap. "Ah!"

"You've been walking around with a plug in you all week like a filthy little slut," he growled. "You knew I'd lose my mind over it, didn't you, baby?" One hand grips your waist firmly while the other guides his cock to your entrance. The first press of him inside has you whimpering instantly. Jake was quick to soothe you though, brushing his lips against your ear. "It's okay, princess," "it's gonna feel so good real soon, I promise." He lowers his head to capture your nipple in his mouth, gently sucking as you try to catch your breath. Behind you, Sunghoon groans, full-bodied and desperate. "Fucking hell. So tight—Jesus Christ." His restraint was unraveling by the second. Jake's hand trails down, spreading you wider to give Sunghoon better access, and the sound that tears from him is downright feral. "Oh, fuck—Jake—yeah, just like that."

Jake doesn't stop. One hand holds you open while the other resumes slow, deliberate circles over your clit, making your thighs tremble. "Yunnie—" you gasp, voice cracking as you whine his name into his ear.

He smiles against your cheek. "Yeah, pretty girl? You like that?" "You like Hoonie fucking your tight little hole open?" You nod frantically, eyes glassy and unfocused, pleasure washing over your features like a   fever. Jake coos sweetly, lips ghosting over your cheek.

"Aww, does it feel good, baby?" he asks, fingers never slowing on your clit. Your voice comes out barely above a whisper, breathless and shaky. "Faster..." That one word sends a ripple through the air. Neither of them ask who you're talking to—both of them just react. Jake's fingers quicken, pressing tighter, circling faster, more precise. Behind you, Sunghoon grunts low in his throat and adjusts his grip on your hips, driving into you with sharper, deeper thrusts now, dragging loud moans from your throat with every push. The stretch has your legs trembling, your body sandwiched between them, completely overwhelmed. Jake kisses the corner of your mouth, not breaking rhythm for a second. "So needy, huh? You want both of us to ruin you, is that it?"

Sunghoon's fingers dig harder into your waist. "Look at her," he rasps. "Can barely keep her eyes open." Your breath stutters again as Jake slides two fingers into your mouth, letting you suck them automatically. "That's it," Jake whispered. "Good girl. Just take it."

Sunghoon's hips snap harder now, every thrust making your body jolt forward into Jake's chest. He hisses at the feel of you clenching, practically growling through his teeth. "She's squeezing me so tight."

"Because she's close," Jake smirked, pulling his fingers from your mouth to pinch your nipple. "Aren't you, pretty baby?" You can't even speak—just another frantic nod, a sob of pleasure tearing out of your throat as the pace refuses to let up. It's too much, but you don't want it to stop. You can't even imagine asking them to stop. And neither of them plan to. Just as your legs begin to shake, as the pleasure surging to unbearable heights, Sunghoon grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you upright off Jake's chest with startling ease. You gasp, dizzy from the sudden movement, your body still fluttering from the stimulation. "Open your mouth, baby" he orders, voice dark and low. "Suck Yunnie off." Jake's eyes widen for a split second, but he was already pulling his shorts down, cock flushed and leaking. He guides it to your lips, and the second you part them, he groans—loud, shameless, head tilting back as he sinks into your warmth. "Fuck—so obedient, baby," Jake pants, cupping your face as you take him deeper. "God, you're perfect. Just like that." You moan around him, tongue swirling, letting him fuck into your mouth with shallow thrusts. But the moment is cut sharp when Sunghoon's palm lands on your ass again—hard and punishing. You jolt, muffled whimper vibrating around Jake's cock. "She's so good," Sunghoon mumbles behind you like he can't believe it, voice wrecked, hips slamming into you now with barely restrained aggression. "Tight little hole—fuck, I can't..."

Your body is bouncing between them, stretched, full, completely claimed. Jake is panting through gritted teeth, hands trembling as he tries to control himself. "She's gonna make me cum—shit, you're gonna make me—" Sunghoon growls, wrapping an arm around your waist and driving into you so deep your entire body shudders. "Don't you dare finish before her." Jake groans like it physically hurts to stop but pulls back slightly, just enough for you to suck the tip, desperate and messy, while Sunghoon fucks you into the edge.

"You close, baby?" Sunghoon asks, voice broken. "You gonna cum all over my cock like a good little slut?"

Your moan is the only answer he needs. Sunghoon reaches down himself to circle your clit with practiced fingers and you absolutely break—body tensing, legs trembling, a high-pitch cry escaping past Jake's cock as your orgasm rips through you like a violent wave. "That's it," Jake whispers, watching your eyes roll back, "Good girl, fuck—look at you."

Sunghoon curses under his breath, hips stuttering as he finally lets go, spilling deep inside you with a loud moan, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. You're a trembling, boneless mess between them—used, adored, completely undone. But your mouth never stops sucking Jake off, his grip tightens in your hair as your lips work over him, cheeks hollowed, eyes glassy from overstimulation. He was already close—your tongue too eager, your mouth too warm, and your throat too obedient. "Fuck—gonna cum," he says, trying to pull back, but you suck harder, moaning around him as if daring him to finish there. "Wait—baby, swallow it—like I like—" Too late. You already were. Your throat bobs with each swallow, taking every last drop before he even finishes the command. Jake stares down at you, chest heaving. "Jesus Christ," he breathes, his cock twitching in your mouth. "That was so fucking hot."

When he finally slips free, you look dazed, lips swollen and glossy with spit, eyes fluttering as if trying to hold on to consciousness. Sunghoon still has you gripped by the waist, slowly pulling out, and you whimper from the sheer sensitivity, his cum immediately beginning to drip from your hole. Your legs give out but they catch you before you hit the floor, gently guiding you down onto the couch. You collapse sideways, chest rising and falling fast, totally limp, dazed and trembling. Neither of them speak for a second—both staring at the way Sunghoon's cum leaks from your freshly used hole, trailing slow and thick down your thighs and onto the leather. Jake adjusts himself, sweat-slick and still catching his breath, watching you like you were art. "Fuck," he whispers. "That's—Fuck."

Sunghoon stays crouched beside you, thumb brushing gently over your hip. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Quiet and intense with his jaw clenched.

Your breathing is shallow now, your body utterly spent, limbs heavy and tingling from the overstimulation. The room is silent save for Jake's slow, steady breaths where he's slumped back against the couch, almost half-asleep and completely blissed out. Sunghoon doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you, eyes slowly sweeping over your trembling frame, the marks on your hips, the slick mess between your thighs. Then he moves gently, one arm sliding beneath your knees, the other curling behind your back.

You can’t even protest as he picked you up, bridal-style, tucking your head against his chest. "Are you sore?" he murmurs as he carries you into the bathroom. His voice has lost all its edge, soft and concerned now, like every piece of him is now tuned to you. "Do you need anything? Water?" You shake your head sleepily, just clinging to him. He kisses the top of your head pulling you into the warm shower. He’s so careful with you, moving slowly, running his soapy hands down your back and legs, washing your hair, and massaging your scalp, whispering how good you were, how proud he is of you. You barely say a word, just hum softly and lean into him, letting him take care of everything.

Afterward, he towel-dries you with gentle strokes, slips one of his oversized shirts over your head, and helps you into bed. He comes back out into the living room freshly showered in only his sweats, glancing over at the couch where Jake is still out cold. "Jake," he calls, voice low but firm. "Go shower. Come to bed." Jake grumbles, half-laughs, but drags himself up, muttering something about needing ten minutes and a gallon of water. By the time he joins you both in bed, the lights were dim, and Sunghoon has you cradled against his chest, your body finally starting to relax in the warmth and comfort of his hold. Jake slides in behind you, arm draped lazily over your waist. You blink up at Sunghoon, your lips brushing his cheek in a slow, grateful kiss. "Happy birthday, Hoonie." He stills. And then he smiles—soft and rare, a kind of vulnerable happiness blooming in his eyes as he looks down at you. "You really are everything, baby." He whispers back.

The light spilling in through the white linen curtains is soft and golden, the kind that only happens near the ocean—quiet, slow, and drenched in warmth. You wake to the scent of salt and boyish musk, buried between the two people you've come to crave like breath. Jake is sprawled on your left, arm thrown haphazardly around your waist, his cheek smushed against the pillow. Sunghoon is to your right, chest bare, lashes fluttering ever so slightly as he sleeps. You feel the dull ache between your thighs—the kind you've come to love, the kind that reminds you of everything they did to you the night before. It's intimate, almost sweet in its soreness. Like a love letter written in bruises and breathless moans.

Carefully, you shift to sit up, brushing your hair from your face. But in your movement, your hand slips just slightly across the waistband of Sunghoon's boxers, pressing against the very obvious morning effect there. He groans softly through a smirk, eyes still closed. "Didn't get enough yesterday, pretty girl?" His voice is deep and gravelly with sleep, thick like honey. You flush but smile, heart fluttering. Leaning down, you kiss him gently, your lips brushing his like a secret. "Happy birthday, baby," you whisper, fingers brushing his hair back. He finally opens his eyes, they're glassy with sleep but locked on you. One hand snakes around your waist and pulls you down so you're flush against his chest, sprawled on top of him. "Thank you," he murmurs, hands splayed across your back. "You're the best gift I've ever gotten."

Behind you, Jake groans and stretches, the sheets rustling. "Ugh, what time is it?" he mumbles, voice muffled against the pillow. Then he turns, eyes still half-shut, and reaches over your body to cup Sunghoon's jaw. He leans in and kisses him, lazy and affectionate. "Happy birthday, babe," he mutters, his voice low and warm. Sunghoon chuckles beneath you, the vibration rippling through your chest. "Best way to wake up," he says. You're wrapped up in limbs and heat and love—one boy beneath you, one boy beside you, both of them looking at you like you're theirs. And you are, you can tell in the way  Sunghoon's fingers are lazy where they trace patterns on your bare back, and you're still laying on top of him when he speaks, voice muffled slightly by your hair. "So," he hums, "what should we do today?" You lift your head just a little, looking down at him, lips brushing his jaw. Jake's arm tightens around your waist from behind, like he doesn't want to give you up just yet. You hum too, thinking, but Jake's the one who answers first.

"We could invite a few of our friends up," he says casually, his voice still thick with sleep. "Just something chill. Intimate." Sunghoon snorts beneath you. "No one's gonna drive six hours to celebrate my birthday." You stifle a laugh and mumble, "I don't even have any friends," your tone a little too dry, the snort at the end giving away how little you care. Jake groans like you've personally offended him. "That's not true," he sighs, leaning up on one elbow to look at you, brow furrowed. "You have us." You twist around to meet his eyes and raise a brow. "You're not my friends." Your tone is calm, almost thoughtful. "Actually, I've been thinking...I kind of want to make new ones. Maybe girls, I need to be around less testosterone."

There's a pause. Sunghoon grunts underneath you like he's just been stabbed, his hands tightening ever so slightly on your hips. Jake scoffs. "You say girls like we'd allow it be guys."

"Jungwon's cool," Jake adds after a beat, tone a little brighter, like he's offering a genuine solution. "We could all hang out more with him when we get back." That earns an actual laugh from Sunghoon, sharp and smug. "Why are you pushing this Jungwon agenda so hard?" Jake's head snaps to him. "Because he's sweet," he says, almost defensive, like he's ready to argue. "And normal. He's not weirdly obsessed with stock prices or adrenaline or—" he gestures toward Sunghoon, "—being emotionally constipated." You groan and start crawling over Sunghoon's chest, pushing your hair back as you rise up on your knees. "I'll pass on Jungwon, I want girlfriends, " you say with a sigh, standing at the edge of the bed and stretching, "also because I can't even look him in the eye without picturing you—" You turn and point at Sunghoon, "—bending him over." Jake chokes on a laugh while Sunghoon groans, covering his face with a pillow. You grin wickedly, bend at the waist in full theatrical performance, and moan, "Sunghoon—ahh, fuck, right there!" tossing your head back dramatically like you imagine Jungwon must've. Jake loses it, flopping onto his back in laughter, and Sunghoon pulls the pillow off just to glare playfully at you.

"Minx," he mutters. Jake props himself up against the headboard, sheet sliding low on his hips, eyes still a little puffy with sleep but already gleaming with mischief. "Okay but seriously," he starts, raking a hand through his hair. "If we do invite people, it could be fun. Just a small thing. Jay, maybe. Jungwon. Heeseung, obviously." my Sunghoon groans again. "Obviously." Jake shrugs. "And I guess that means Yunjin would have to come too," he tacks on, his voice dropping into something heavier—flat, reluctant, with a bitterness he doesn't bother hiding. You pause mid-stretch in the doorway, your hand frozen on the bathroom doorframe. The annoyance bubbles up before you can swallow it. "Okay, can one of you just say it already?" Jake lifts a brow, watching you. You cross your arms. "What is it with you two and Yunjin? You act like she poisoned your drinks every time her name comes up." Sunghoon doesn't answer—just makes a face and throws his arm over his eyes like he can't even deal with the subject.

Jake, on the other hand, doesn't miss a beat. He stretches both arms over his head, tone dry, "Aside from the fact that she called you a whore to your face and is a raging cunt?" He glances at you, all faux innocence. "Not much, really." Your jaw drops a little. "Jake."

"What?" he says, eyes wide. "You were there. You heard her." Sunghoon lifts his arm from his face just to mutter, "He's not wrong."

Jake points. "See? Thank you." You roll your eyes and walk back over to the bed, standing at the foot of it now, arms still crossed. "She's my cousin."

"She's a bitch," Jake corrects smoothly, laying back against the headboard again. "Family ties don't exempt her from that." Sunghoon nods in agreement, lips tugging into a little smirk like he's secretly enjoying your disbelief. Jake squints at you, suddenly more serious. "You know we'd never say anything if it wasn't about you. You're too nice to call her out, so someone has to." You blink, caught off guard. Their protectiveness always hits a little harder when you're not expecting it. Jake sighs dramatically, kicking the sheet off his legs. "Just think about it, okay? Birthday gathering. Limited guest list. Preferably minus raging narcissists."

Sunghoon chimes in, eyes still closed, "She can come. As long as she stays six feet away from my girl and doesn't speak unless spoken to." Jake lifts his hand like he's making a pact. "Seconded." You mutter under your breath, turning for the bathroom again. "I can't even deal with you two right now." And from behind you, with a laugh in his voice—Jake calls out to you, "Baby! Come back!"

Turns out Jake was right—there is a very short list of things people wouldn't do for Sunghoon. Even driving six hours just because Jake sent out a half-assed invite to a beach house birthday? Not off the table, apparently. Only a handful of people came—it was still intimate, just louder now. Warmer. A little more chaotic. Heeseung showed up first, of course, with Yunjin clinging to his arm and sunglasses on despite it being overcast. You'd said hi to her, trying to be polite, trying to keep things smooth, and she didn't not respond...she just sort of tilted her head and said, "Bold outfit choice," before letting her eyes skim you up and down like you were something she'd never choose from the rack. And when you'd mentioned casually that Sunghoon had picked it out, she made that face. The one that was all tight-lipped and pinched like she'd just bitten into something sour and needed everyone to know.

Jake had seen it too. Of course he had. And he'd pulled you away before you could respond, guiding you across the patio by the small of your back with a too-sweet, "Let's get you away from the rotting energy, yeah?" He introduced you to Jay next—smirking a little as he did it, like he was proud to show you off. Jay had been polite, chill, charming in that low-effort way that felt like it came naturally to him. You liked him instantly. Then Jungwon pulled up, a little later, looking tan and soft and friendly, and you weren't sure what you were expecting—but it wasn't the way he smiled when he saw you. It was easy, bright, like he actually wanted to be there. Like he wanted to talk to you. He complimented your outfit right away. "You look amazing, by the way," he even asked how you were like he meant it. And you wanted to like him. You almost did. But every time he looked at you with those kind eyes, all you could think about was Sunghoon's hands on him, Sunghoon's mouth on his neck, the sound he must've made when he came and that was the problem.

No matter how nice he was, you couldn't unsee it. You couldn't unknow it.

It’s well into the afternoon now, the sun has started its slow descent over the ocean, and the birthday energy has shifted from sleepy and sweet to loose-limbed and sticky with alcohol. You're at the drinks table trying to stop Jake from going too hard, fingers wrapped around his wrist as he sloppily pours a round of shots he doesn't need. "Jake," you murmur, half-laughing, half-serious, "no more." He grins at you with that dangerous twinkle in his eye, the one that always means trouble, and holds a full shot glass just out of your reach. "But it's a celebration," he says with a mock pout, swaying slightly as he clutches the edge of the table for balance. You reach up to snatch the glass, and just then, he accidentally tilts it forward, spilling cold liquor straight onto your bare chest, where the low-cut neckline of your bikini top leaves skin exposed. "Oh nooo," he says, faux-gasping with a shit-eating grin before he dips his head low, mouth hot and wet against your skin as he licks the shot clean with a giggle. "Can't waste good tequila."

"Jake!" you squeal, swatting at him while laughing. You're barely able to regain control of the situation when Sunghoon appears at Jake's side, calm and unimpressed as he hands him a bottle of water. "That's enough," he says, low and even. Jake—drunk and flushed and still grinning—immediately drops the shot glass and takes the water with a nod, like Sunghoon's word is law. "Okay," he says softly, like a scolded dog who doesn't mind being scolded. He flops down onto a nearby stool, still sipping, and you follow, your fingers brushing gently through his hair. He hums under your touch, his lashes fluttering. Then, out of nowhere, he mumbles, "I love you. So much." It's quiet but genuine, a little slurred but certain. You smile, brushing his bangs off his forehead, your chest warm with it. But then out of the corner of your eye you see her. Yunjin. Leaning a little too close to Jay on the terrace chairs, her fingers brushing his arm like she doesn't even realize she's doing it. Her legs crossed just so, laughing a little too loudly at whatever he said. And Jay's not exactly pulling away either. Your gaze shifts instinctively and catches Sunghoon's. He's already looking, but not at you. His eyes are locked on Heeseung, who's walking toward the pair now with a stiff jaw and a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

He comes to a stop in front of them, looking down at Jay like he's trying to make sense of it. "Dude," Heeseung says, his voice casual but cold, "why are you so all over my girlfriend?" Jay blinks up at him, smile faltering. And just like that, the tension at the table spikes—sharp, quiet, and full of all the things that haven't been said yet. Jay's eyes flick to Heeseung's, expression hardening into something mean and brash, so different from the charming guy you met just hours ago, the one Jake had introduced so proudly. "I'm all over your girlfriend?" Jay scoffs, standing now, his tone loud and sharp enough to cut through the sound of the waves. "She's the one who came onto me. She always comes onto me." There's a shift. A drop in pressure like the air's been sucked out of the house. Jake, still perched on the stool beside you, squints and lets out a half-drunk, "Uh oh." You slap your hand over his mouth without even looking.

Heeseung's jaw flexes. "What the fuck do you mean always? She always comes onto you?" Jay throws his hands up, exasperated. "Come on, Heeseung. Everyone knows your girlfriend is a fucking slut. You're just the only one too blind to see it." Gasps break out like shattering glass. Someone actually says "Oh my god." The music comically stutters to a stop. And Yunjin? She just blinks but doesn't even deny it. Your pulse is thudding in your ears as Jay keeps going, eyes lit up like he's been holding this in for way too long. "Why are you even coming after me?" he snaps, stepping forward, "You didn't seem to have a problem when she threw herself at Sunghoon too."

Silence. Your feel your body go ice cold, turning your head slowly toward Sunghoon, your mouth dry, your breath caught somewhere deep in your throat. But he's already looking at you. Already shaking his head, already panicking. "Baby," he says, voice trembling for the first time ever, "I swear—it didn't happen. She tried, yeah, but it didn't fucking happen." He turns to Jay, eyes wild. "Jay! Are you fucking kidding me right now!?" But it's too late. Heeseung steps back like he's been physically hit, eyes wide and locked on Sunghoon now. "Are you fucking serious?" he breathes, voice deadly quiet. "You knew?" You can feel it, the moment the entire mood shatters—cracking open into something ugly and raw. Everyone's watching now. No one's moving. No one dares to breathe. And you’re standing there, still stuck on that single, damning word. Tried.

Jake, still half-drunk and slow on the uptake, lets out another one of his too-loud, too-poorly-timed laughs. "I mean...Yunjin is kind of a slut," he mumbles with a shrug, like that'll somehow ease the tension. It doesn't. Yunjin snaps her gaze to him so fast her sunglasses nearly fall off. And that's when it breaks. That last thread holding her in place. "I'm the slut?" she hisses, taking a step forward and jabbing a finger in your direction. "Not my cousin who you and Sunghoon turned into your fucking sex slave?" The air splits. Everyone flinches. Jake immediately sobers like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. He stands, voice low and sharp, "Watch your fucking mouth." Sunghoon's right behind him, jaw clenched. "Don't you dare talk about her like that." But you're already stepping back. Heart pounding. Face burning. Stomach lurching. The words crawl under your skin like fire, because this—this sick, twisted narrative—is what they've been hiding. What they've been keeping from you. Your voice comes out clipped, shaking. "Don't. Don't defend me."

Yunjin smirks like a predator who's smelled blood. "Ooou," she purrs mockingly, "look who finally grew a spine. All it took was getting dicked down, uh?" Your fists curl at your sides, and Jake growls something under his breath, but Yunjin's not finished. "You're so fucking pathetic," she spits. "You let them touch you. You let them fuck you after everything they did. You think that makes you powerful now? Makes you special? Please. You were a joke before, and now you're just a joke who moans." There's a second where no one says anything—where it feels like the whole world tilts, and even the ocean forgets to crash. But then someone speaks, "Come on, Yunjin." Jungwon. Calm, smooth, and a little amused. Arms crossed. Leaning casually against the side of the bar like he's been watching a game unfold. "You're just jealous," he says with a laugh. "You couldn't have either of them if you tried." He smiles, then adds, just to twist the knife, "And turns out—you did."

Jungwon’s words don’t seem to stop her though, it seems like she can’t stop, like she’s smelled your weakness. Spitting venom with a bitter little smile, fully convinced that out of everyone here, you're the easiest to break. "You act so fucking innocent," she snaps, taking a step closer, "but you're just as desperate as the rest of us. Probably worse. Newsflash, cousin—being passed between two guys doesn't make you liberated. It makes you a fucking whore." For a beat, it seems like no one will say anything, no one will move. But you do. You calmly step forward and Yunjin barely has time to react before your hand flies across her face, hard and open-handed. The crack of the slap echoes over the stunned silence of the house. She gasps, stumbling slightly, blinking like she can't quite believe it happened. But she recovers quickly, her face twisting in fury as she lunges at you, teeth bared, hands reaching like claws. Sunghoon is faster than her though, throwing himself between you just as she lashes out, his back turned to her. She slams her hands against his shoulders, but he doesn't budge. His only focus is you. His eyes find yours instantly, wild and pleading. "I can't believe you," you whisper, voice low and shaking and full of heartbreak. Then you turn and walk away. "Baby—wait, Y/N!" Sunghoon calls after you, voice cracking. He spins to follow, panic flooding his face. Jake plants a hand on Yunjin's shoulder and shoves her back, firm but not cruel. "Get a grip," he mutters, then glances toward Heeseung, voice low. "Get your girl." But Heeseung just lets out a short, bitter laugh. "I'm done with this bitch," he says, already walking toward the edge of the deck. "Jay can have her. Or Sunghoon. Or whoever the fuck else she tried to fuck while we were together." He doesn't look back. Just walks straight toward the path that leads out of the house. And behind you, everything collapses.

The drive back from the beach house feels interminable. You're curled up in the back seat, forehead pressed to the window, headphones in, eyes trained on nothing. Every few minutes, Jake glances at you through the rearview mirror. Sunghoon tries to look back, but you never meet his eyes. The tension is so thick it might as well be physical, like a wall separating you from them. They try though, Jake's voice is quiet at first. "You okay back there?" You don't respond. "Do you want something to eat?" Sunghoon adds. "We could stop somewhere."

"Not hungry," you mumble. Jake sighs after a long pause. "Princess, come on. Just talk to us." You don't, you plug your headphones in tighter and shut your eyes, trying to tune them out. And the silence stretches all the way home. Arriving at the apartment, you still don't say a word. You're out of the car and up the elevator before they've even made out of the car. You beeline for Sunghoon’s bedroom, flinging open the closet, and yanking clothes off hangers, fast and frantic. Your suitcase hits the bed with a thud. Shoes. Pajamas. Toothbrush. Anything you might need. "Wait—baby," Sunghoon's voice rushes in from the doorway. "What are you doing?" You don't answer, you don't even look at him. "Don't do this. Please," he says, stepping closer, voice almost cracking just a little. "We can talk about it. We can work through this."

Jake appears behind him, brows furrowed. "Don't let what Yunjin said get in your head. She's just jealous. Jungwon said it—she was trying to get a rise out of you." You freeze, your back to them. One breath. Then another. "It's not just about Yunjin," you snap, spinning around. "It's everything." They both fall silent. "We’re about to go back to school and you think people won't talk? You think they won't look at me like I'm just some kind of—" your voice breaks, "—some kind of toy you two share?" Sunghoon flinches. Jake's eyes go wide. "There was never any time for me to adjust. I was just—thrown into your world. Your friends, your rules, your dynamic. And I thought I could keep up. I really did." You're breathless now. Holding back tears. You zip up your bag with trembling hands. "I just—" you whisper, barely audible, "—I just need space to figure things out."

Jake takes a step forward, jaw clenched. "You can't do that." But before he can finish, Sunghoon cuts in gently, "Where will you go?" His voice is full of worry. "You can't seriously be thinking of going back to your apartment. Not with Yunjin still there—"

"I'm going to my parents'," you say.

You're zipping your overnight bag when you feel their eyes on you again. They don't say anything at first. Just watch you move, like they still can't believe this is happening. Sunghoon breaks the silence. Quiet. Heavy. "Fine." Jake snaps his head toward him. "Fine?" You can’t look at either of them. Jake steps forward. "For how long?" he asks you, voice low, desperate. "A few days? A week? What does space even mean?" Before you can respond, Sunghoon speaks again—steady, but restrained, like it's costing him something. "I'll drop you off at the train station." Jake turns on him. "Are you kidding me, Sunghoon?"

Sunghoon doesn't waver. "She said she needs space." Jake scoffs, almost laughing in disbelief. "So that's it? You're just gonna let her leave?"

"She's not a prisoner, Jake," Sunghoon says, and for the first time, there's a faint edge in his voice. "She said she needs space, so we give her space." Jake doesn't reply. His jaw tightens, like he's fighting the urge to yell, cry, beg—maybe all three. You swallow the lump in your throat and finally lift your eyes. "Thank you," you whisper to Sunghoon. He nods once, jaw clenched, eyes never leaving yours. Jake's arms fall to his sides. He looks so small all of a sudden, like he knows it’s been decided.

You genuinely don't remember much of the drive to the train station. Not the hum of the engine, not the silence in the car, not the way Sunghoon kept glancing at you like he was memorizing you for the last time.

You just remember the feeling. That sinking ache in your chest like guilt and grief wrapped into one, mix with the fear that you were doing the wrong thing, even though every part of you screamed that it was the only thing you could do. Sunghoon carried your bag to the platform. Jake didn't come. When your train pulled in, Sunghoon hugged you so tightly you could barely breathe, and whispered, "Please come back soon," like it physically hurt him to let go. You cried quietly the whole ride home, cheek pressed to the cold window. Your phone buzzed the moment the train started moving.

yunnie: I'm sorry. Please don't shut me out. We love you. I love you.

You didn't respond, just cause you didn’t know what to say. When your parents picked you up, it was like nothing had happened. Like you hadn't fallen apart. Like you weren't carrying pieces of your broken heart in your duffel bag. They were warm, soft and so blissfully unaware. Your mom made your favorite dinner that night. Your dad teased you about how pale you looked. They smiled. They laughed. They welcomed you home. And for a second, you almost believed you could pretend again. That none of it had happened. That you were just a girl coming home from school for a break. But then you lay in your old bed, and the tears came again. Every night, you scrolled through their messages—Jake's in the beginning, desperate and unfiltered. Sunghoon's every single day without fail, soft voice notes whispering I miss you, angel. I miss you so much. Sometimes he told you what he ate that day or he’d tell you a memory that reminded him of you. Other times he just said goodnight.

You read every word. Listened to every audio. And then, you locked your phone, turned your face to your pillow. And let your heartbreak sit with you like a ghost in your childhood room.

It's been weeks, maybe. Jake has lost track of time.

Sunghoon marks every day by your silence. You're gone—and everything's gone quiet in the worst way. The apartment feels too big without your voice, without your footsteps, without the soft way you'd call for one of them from the kitchen or the bedroom or the shower. Without you, it all feels cold. Stale. Off.

Sunghoon texts you every morning and every night.

He sends voice notes sometimes—soft, unpolished things that trail off at the end because he doesn't know how to stop talking to you without hearing something back. You rarely reply. When you do, it's polite. Surface-level. Enough to let him know you're alive, but not enough to let him in.

Jake tried too, at first. Tried calling, texting, joking, even begging. The first few days, he camped out on the couch, checking his phone every five minutes, voice breaking whenever he mentioned your name. He left your favorite snacks on the counter, like you'd somehow walk through the door and see them and forget everything. But after a week of silence, he started to withdraw. Got quieter. Moodier. By the second week, he stopped texting altogether. He still keeps your contact pinned at the top of his phone—still opens your thread sometimes just to stare at the last message you sent—but he doesn't send anything new.

Sunghoon notices. They don't say it, but something in them has started to split. They used to move in sync—choreographed without trying. Now, they barely speak unless it's about logistics. Dinners are eaten in silence. The living room feels colder, they both start sleeping in their own rooms instead of choosing one randomly to sleep in like when you were around. You were the thing holding it all together and now that you're gone, nothing feels right. It seems like neither of them know how to fix it without you.

The apartment is dark when Jake stumbles in, the front door clicking shut behind him with a careless thud. He kicks off his shoes, jacket half hanging off his shoulder, cologne and alcohol clinging to him like a second skin. Sunghoon is on the couch, still awake. The TV is on, but the screen's silent—just soft blue light casting shadows across his face. His jaw clenches when he hears Jake. "What time is it?" he asks, not turning his head. Jake scoffs, sways a little as he heads toward the kitchen. "Relax, dad."

"You've been out every night this week." Jake yanks open the fridge, grabs a water, slams it shut. "So?"

Sunghoon finally stands, voice sharp now. "Jake. What the fuck are you doing?" Jake turns to him, eyes glassy but burning. "What do you mean what am I doing?"

"You're spiraling," Sunghoon bites out. "Coming home drunk, ignoring everyone, ignoring me—" Jake throws his hands up. "Oh my god, fuck off."

"What happened to fighting for her?" Sunghoon's voice cracks around the edges. "What happened to not giving up—?"

"She left, Sunghoon!" Jake explodes. "She abandoned us. You think I'm acting out? No. I'm reacting. To the fact that the girl I love walked away and she's probably not fucking coming back!" Sunghoon flinches. But he holds his ground. Steps forward. "We can't give up." Jake laughs bitterly. "We already lost her. You just haven't admitted it to yourself."

"No," Sunghoon snaps. "You're giving up because that's easier than sitting in the pain. Because if you stay fucking drunk and distracted, you don't have to feel how much it hurts. But I do. Every second of every day." Jake says nothing, he truly can’t. And for a long moment, the only sound in the apartment is both of them breathing hard, like they've been fighting for hours. Like the heartbreak is something they're choking on. "She's not gone," Sunghoon whispers finally, more to himself than Jake. "She's just...figuring things out." Jake doesn't respond. He just walks past him and disappears into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Sunghoon's eyes fall to his phone on the coffee table, where one more message sits unsent. He hits send anyway. "Goodnight, baby. We miss you."

Sunghoon loves Jake. He really does. But these days, he can barely look at him without feeling like he might snap. He knows Jake's hurting too, but it's different. Jake hurts like a wildfire—chaotic, messy, scorching everything in its path. Sunghoon's hurt is quieter. Slower. The kind that sits in the corners of a room and never really leaves. He now spends most of his days avoiding the apartment. There's a small café down the street—one with frosted windows and chipped mugs, where the baristas don't ask questions and let him linger too long. He sits there for hours, headphones in, untouched coffee cooling in front of him. Watching people walk by the window. Wondering if you're eating enough. If you've made new friends like you said you wanted to. If you miss him. He wonders what he could’ve done better, over and over, until the memory of Jake's voice in the middle of that fight resurfaces, she left, Sunghoon. And he hates it—because maybe Jake's right. You did leave and maybe you're not coming back. He's staring blankly at his phone when it buzzes against the tabletop. One message. Your name. Your contact photo. His breath catches, his heart slipping straight to the pit of his stomach. He fumbles unlocking the screen, hands shaking so badly he nearly drops it. And there it is.

You: hi hoonie.

Two words is all it takes to make the whole café blur, to make his vision fog, dissolving the noise and shifting his entire world back into place—just two words. He stares at the screen like it might disappear if he blinks too hard. Then he types back, trembling, teeth clenched, breath caught somewhere in his throat.

Hoon: hi baby. god i missed you.

And for the first time in weeks, he feels like maybe he's not drowning anymore. His fingers are flying to type the second your reply comes in.

You: i missed you too. and jake. how's he been?

Sunghoon stares at the screen, his chest tight. His thumb hovers, unsure how to answer. He could lie, he could protect Jake a little. But he knows you deserve more than that.

Hoon: not good. we're not good without you.

He hesitates a little before adding typing more,

Hoon: i've been missing you so bad, baby. did you listen to the messages?

There's a pause. He watches the three dots blink in and out for what feels like hours. Then your response lights up the screen:

You: yes. i listened to all of them. every single one.

And then another message comes in

You: if you still want me, i think i'm ready to come home.

His breath catches so hard it almost hurts. He doesn't even realize he's already typing, his hands trembling, a sound of pure relief breaking in his chest like a dam cracked wide open.

Hoon: of course baby girl. yes. yes please. come home. please. what time should i come get you from the station? i'll be there early. i'll wait. just tell me.

He stares at your name on the screen, eyes glassy, smiling like he hasn't in weeks. For the first time in what feels like forever, the ache in his chest finally eases cause you’re coming home.

The train hisses behind you as it pulls away, the last trace of your long, quiet ride home vanishing down the track. You stand there on the platform, suitcase at your side, arms wrapped tightly around yourself—not because it's cold, but because your heart is beating so hard, it needs something to hold onto. You see him before he sees you. Sunghoon steps out of his car and into the station, black hoodie pulled low, hands stuffed into his pockets. He looks around like he's searching for air. His eyes are sharp, darting across the crowd with a kind of frantic hope. You watch him scan the line of waiting people, his lips pressed into a tight line, until his gaze catches on you. And it looks like everything in him melts. His shoulders drop, face softening instantly, mouth parting slightly as he takes a single breath and then starts walking—fast. Not running, but fast, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he takes too long. You don't move. You just watch him close the distance, watch the way his eyes don't leave yours even for a second. And when he reaches you, he doesn't say anything right away. He just pulls you in.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, strong and warm and all-consuming. Your feet barely stay on the ground. His hand is at the back of your head, fingers slipping into your hair like he's trying to relish the shape of you again. And then his lips are everywhere.

A kiss to your cheek. Another to your forehead. Then your jaw, your temple, your nose. Each one broken by a breathless whisper, "I missed you." "I missed you so much." "God, my baby—I missed you." You feel it in your throat, the way your eyes sting, your whole chest pressing into his like it's desperate to get even closer. You don't even realize you've started crying until he pulls back just enough to look at you and says softly, "Don't cry, baby. It’s okay." Sunghoon barely makes it out of the station parking lot before his hand finds yours again. It's like he can't help it—like the distance from your skin is unbearable now that he's got you back. His palm covers yours on your thigh, his thumb stroking gentle lines across your knuckles. And then, as the car slows at a red light, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses it softly, like it's something sacred.

He doesn't let go after that. One hand on the wheel, one hand curled around yours, fingers laced tightly together like if he lets go, you'll change your mind. You glance at him from the passenger seat, your heart already softening all over again. He's smiling, really smiling. Not the tight, polite one he wore when he dropped you off at the station. Not the sad, faraway one you imagined he wore every time he texted you and heard nothing back. This one is warm open and alive. "You look prettier than I remember," he says suddenly, stealing a glance at you. You laugh softly, looking away, but his grip on your hand tightens gently. "I'm serious," he says. "You were gone so long I started thinking I made you up." You shake your head, lips parting to say something but then he speaks again, quieter this time. "Jake's gonna lose his mind when he sees you." That makes your stomach twist. You look down at your joined hands, and Sunghoon must feel the change in your silence because he turns toward you slightly, his voice soft. "He's been...not himself, without you. He's gonna be really happy. We both are."

You nod slowly, chewing on the inside of your cheek, and Sunghoon lifts your hand again, pressing it to his chest, right over his heart. It's beating fast, you can feel it. "We're gonna fix this," he whispers, eyes on the road. "All of it." And he squeezes your hand like a promise.

The underground parking lot is dim and quiet, the hum of Sunghoon's car engine the only real sound as he pulls into his usual spot. He shifts into park, and the headlights click off. You stay seated for a moment, just looking out at the elevator in the distance, heart suddenly thudding in your chest like it knows something your brain hasn't caught up to yet.

But then you feel it—Sunghoon's fingers slipping between yours again, warm and almost overwhelming but grounding. "You ready?" he asks softly, eyes gentle.

You nod. He leans over the center console to kiss you—slow and smiling, like it's the first kiss of a new chapter. Then he's getting out, grabbing your suitcase from the trunk and waiting patiently as you slide out of the car. It's quiet as you walk together toward the elevator, your suitcase wheels echoing softly across the concrete.

In the elevator, Sunghoon stands behind you, arms circling your waist from behind, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. He rocks you side to side a little. "Jake's gonna freak out," he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. "He's been such a mess." You smile faintly. But your palms are sweating. The elevator dings and it almost makes you flinch. Sunghoon pulls you toward the apartment with that same soft excitement from earlier. He's already pulling out his key, fumbling a little because he's balancing your suitcase and trying to be quick about it. "You want to shower first or eat? I can order while you—"

He opens the door and everything changes. The hallway is dim, the apartment lit only by the yellow glow of the kitchen underlight. At first, it's quiet—almost deceptively so. But then you hear movement. The soft shuffle of hurried footsteps. And Jake's voice, low and rushed, "Wait—hold on, just grab your stuff."

Sunghoon's body stiffens in front of you. You try to peek past him, heart in your throat. Then you see him.

A shirtless Jake, hair sticking up like he's been in bed.

A red scratch blooming fresh across the side of his chest. And behind him, a girl, half-dressed, tangled in a button up shirt that clearly isn’t hers, carrying her shoes in one hand and her phone in the other, head ducked like she's trying not to be seen.

Your breath leaves your body like you've been hit. Not pushed—hit. The girl brushes past Sunghoon with a muttered "Sorry" and ducks around you too fast to even register your presence. Jake hasn't even seen you yet. His eyes are locked on Sunghoon. Wide. Caught. Guilt flashing so hard it nearly knocks the color from his face. Then he sees you. And it’s like his entire world collapses in on itself. He doesn't say your name. Doesn't dare breathe it. He just stares. Horrified.

Your whisper is small. Fragile. Like glass held up to a storm, "Oh my god."

His mouth opens. "No—no, no, no—fuck—you weren't supposed to—," he stammers, stepping forward, eyes begging, chest rising and falling fast. "I didn't—fuck, this isn't—it didn't mean anything—I swear to God, it didn't mean anything—"

You haven't moved. You can't seem to. You're standing there in your little travel outfit, bag rolling gently between you and Sunghoon, and all the warmth you gathered in the car, in the elevator, on Sunghoon's lip drains out of your body in one awful, slow wave. Jake is still stammering. Still frozen half-naked in the middle of the room like he hasn't decided whether to run or fall to his knees. And Sunghoon hasn't looked at you yet. He hasn't looked away from Jake. He's standing stone-still in the doorway, the suitcase handle loose in his hand. The hurt in his face is so quiet, so deep, it almost doesn't register at first. But then you see the way his jaw is locked, how his throat bobs when he swallows, the way his fingers tremble around the suitcase handle. He steps forward. Slowly. Eyes still locked on Jake like he's trying to force an explanation out of him with just his stare. "Tell me this isn't what it looks like," he says, voice sharp with warning, but soft underneath, cracked at the edges. "Tell me you didn't do this." Jake takes another half-step forward, still frantic. "I didn't know she was coming today—Sunghoon, fuck, I wasn't thinking, I didn't plan this, it just—she texted me, and I said yes without thinking, and—" He falters. Because Sunghoon finally turns to look at you.

And your face. Your face absolutely ruins him, it’s not because you’re crying or yelling—you’re not. You just look like someone blew a hole through your chest and walked away. Like something broke open in you that will never close again. And all Sunghoon can do is whisper your name.

"...Baby." You blink once, taking one small step back.

And he follows. "Wait—no—baby, please—" That's when he drops the suitcase handle and everything begins to unravel. Your shoes make almost no sound as you turn and walk out the door. It's not fast or dramatic. You just...leave. Like your body is on autopilot, like if you stay even one second longer, your chest might actually crack open. But you don't make it far. The hallway is dim, humming with ceiling light, and you're maybe ten steps from the apartment door before you hear him.

"Y/n—" Sunghoon's voice. A rough, broken thing. "Y/n, wait, please—" Then arms around you. Strong and warm and trembling. He turns you gently—carefully—and pulls you into his chest, both arms locking around your back like he's trying to hold the pieces of you together. You resist at first, trying to push him away.

But he doesn’t let you. "Shh—no, no—please—please don't do this—just let me—please let me hold you," he begs, voice cracking as he buries his face into your hair. "I didn't know. I didn't fucking know. I swear to God, baby, I would've told you. I would've never brought you back if I knew—" And that's when you break, right there in the hallway. You shatter—into him, onto him.

A sob rips out of you, ugly and raw, and your fingers claw at his hoodie as he pulls you tighter against his chest. Your legs shake, your shoulders heave, and you can barely even breathe through the sound of it. Sunghoon holds you like he's never going to let go again.

"I didn't know," he keeps whispering, over and over, like maybe if he says it enough, the truth will rearrange itself. "I didn't know. I didn't fucking know." You're still sobbing. Still trembling. He moves both of you toward the wall, pressing your body gently there, shielding you from the rest of the world with his own.

"I don't believe it," he murmurs fiercely, like he needs you to believe him. "I can’t believe he did this. He was broken without you—he couldn't even look at your stuff, he was crying all the fucking time—he loves you. He loves us. There's no way he'd—"

"But he did," you whisper, and your voice isn’t loud or sharp, it’s just final. Sunghoon pulls back to look at you. And you see it, finally—his tears. Silent and warm, streaking down his cheeks like he didn't even notice they were falling. You shake your head, barely able to get the words out.

"How could he do this…to us?" Your voice breaks on the last word. Sunghoon's lip wobbles a little as he cups your face, thumbing away the tears that just keep coming. "I don't know," he whispers. "I really don’t know." And for a moment, neither of you say anything.

There's just the sound of your breathing, labored and broken, and the way your tears soak through the front of his hoodie as he holds you. "I can't—I can’t go back in there," you whisper. "I know."

"I can't even look at him."

"I'll take you somewhere," he says immediately. "Anywhere. A hotel, my parents house—I'll get the car, right now, I swear—" You shake your head again. "Just...please don't leave me alone."

"I won't," he says, voice steady despite the tears. "Never again." And he doesn't let go. Not for a long, long time. He doesn't let go of your hand. Not as he leads you down the hallway, not as you both reach the elevator in silence, not even when the doors close and the dull hum of descent wraps around you. You're shaking. Still numb and in shock. But he keeps his fingers tangled with yours like it's the only thing saving him. When the elevator hits the underground level, he walks you carefully to the car, opens the door for you like he always does. But before getting in himself, he hesitates. "I'll be right back, okay?" he whispers, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. "I'm just gonna grab your suitcase." You nod faintly. He runs. Actually runs back toward the elevator, disappears inside the building again. You wait. Five minutes. Maybe seven. And then the trunk thumps shut and Sunghoon's slipping into the driver's seat beside you, breathing a little hard but managing a quiet, "Got it."

He starts the engine. Drives. Doesn't ask where you want to go, he doesn't need to. The silence in the car is thick. You don't look at him. You don't look out the window either. Just stare at your lap like you can still see the image burned into your eyes—Jake's face, his bare chest, the girl's body slipping past you, the disbelief on Sunghoon's face. He keeps glancing at you.

Keeps checking to see if you're okay. Keeps seeing that you're not. It's a long drive, longer than you expect, and it isn't until he pulls into the circular driveway of a hotel, glass exterior glittering under city lights, that you even realize where he's brought you. He parks. Hops out quickly. Rounds the car to open your door for you again. Still doesn't let go of your hand. Inside, the lobby is quiet, marble floors echoing beneath your feet. The concierge says nothing when Sunghoon pulls out his wallet, only asks for your name and smiles gently at your silence. "Six nights," Sunghoon tells him firmly. "Maybe more. We'll see."

You're in another elevator again. He's holding your suitcase with your hand is still in his. Neither of you speak. The hotel room is warm with neutral tones, high thread count linens and soft lighting. But it all feels far away, like a set from a movie you're not in the mood to watch. Sunghoon wheels the suitcase inside. Sets it beside the closet, watching you sit on the edge of the bed, still not speaking or crying. Until you are, like it just hits you all at once. A sob punches its way out of your throat and you fold over, shoulders curled in, hands digging into your lap as the tears crash down. You don't even try to stop them. It's too much. Everything feels too much. And he's beside you in a second dropping to his knees in front of you, arms around your waist, pressing his forehead to your stomach like he’s going to fall apart too. "Princess," he whispers, voice already breaking. "Please—please don't cry. I can't—I can't handle it—"

But you do. And he lets you. He shushes you gently, murmuring soft little promises into the curve of your waist as his hands rub your back, as he slowly coaxes you sideways onto the bed. You curl into him instinctively, face hidden in his chest. He pulls you closer, wrapping himself around you. One hand cradling the back of your head, the other strokes slow, steady circles into your spine. "It’s okay," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you. I'm not leaving." You don't know when you stop crying. You don't even remember falling asleep. But when you eventually do, you're warm. And Sunghoon's arms are still around you, his lips still brushing your hair, his chest rising and falling under your cheek like you're the only thing keeping his heart beating at all.

You wake to silence. A thick, weighted kind—the kind that makes you feel like the world has stopped turning while you slept. Your clothes are still the same from yesterday. Wrinkled, cold and you feel them stick to your skin when you shift slightly under the hotel blanket, cheeks stiff and tight with the dried remnants of your tears. Your head is buried in Sunghoon's chest.

His shirt is damp where you cried. His arms are still around you, the hand on your back still gently cupping the curve of your spine like he never loosened his grip all night. You stir and he doesn't move, doesn’t flinch.

But you can feel the tension in his body. The way he holds his breath. Like he's afraid that if he moves too quickly, the whole thing might shatter all over again.

His eyes are open, red-rimmed and tired. Fixed on the ceiling above, jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. You shift a little more, trying to sit up. He doesn't stop you, but his arm stays loosely wrapped around your waist. The room smells faintly of hotel soap and skin and sadness. You whisper, "Did you sleep at all?" He finally looks at you.

And that's when you see how broken he looks. Like someone carved a hollow right into his chest and filled it with silence. "No," he murmurs softly. “Couldn’t." You nod faintly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. You cling tighter. Like you know something's coming. And you’re right. You can feel it in the shift of his breathing. His throat bobs, and then he says, barely a whisper, "I need to talk to him." You blink up at him, brows drawing together. Your throat aches like you're about to cry again, but the tears haven't reached your eyes yet. "Oh."

"I just—" His voice is soft as he sits up, finally pulling away from you, though it's reluctant. "I need to make sense of this. What happened. Why he did it. How it even happened." You just look at him for a moment. Then you say, "I don't want to be alone." His expression crumples at that. He reaches for your hand again. Grips it tightly. "I won't be gone long," he promises, forehead pressing to yours. "Just an hour or two, baby. I'll come right back. I swear."

You bite your bottom lip, nodding slowly. He kisses your forehead, your temple, the side of your nose—soft, lingering kisses like little apologies for leaving. Then he pulls away again. And this time, you let him go. The door closes behind him with a dull, final-sounding click. And you're alone, wrapped in a hotel comforter, in the aftermath of something you're still trying to understand, while down the hall or across the city already Sunghoon walks into the fire. Into Jake, into whatever comes next.

The drive home is a blur for Sunghoon, he doesn't even remember closing the hotel door behind him. Doesn't remember the walk through the lobby or the way the valet stared at him like he recognized the storm cloud brewing behind his eyes. The world outside the windshield flies past in streaks of color, but he isn't really seeing it. He's trying to make sense of the situation at hand. Jake. Jake. He must've misunderstood. Maybe she was a friend. Maybe it was a mistake. But no. There was nothing accidental about what they saw.

The girl was buttoning her shirt—Jake’s shirt, as she walked out of his bedroom. Jake was shirtless, wide-eyed and guilty. It wasn't a maybe. It wasn't a blur. It was a fucking betrayal. And Sunghoon can't stop thinking about the way you crumbled in his arms—how you cried into his chest like the air had been stolen from your lungs. He parks the car in a daze and makes his way upstairs. Every footstep down the hallway echoes louder than the last. The door isn't locked, as he just walks in to find Jake on the couch. Head bowed. Shoulders slumped with his phone in his hand, talking softly into the speaker.

Sunghoon hears it just before it stops recording. "...I know I fucked up, but I swear I love you. I love you. Please just—just come back." Jake's thumb hovers over the send button. But he doesn't press it. He knows he can't. Not now. Not after what he's done. He looks up when he hears Sunghoon close the door. But he doesn't say anything, he doesn't try to explain. He just looks... ruined. Like a child caught red-handed, trembling and ashamed, waiting to be punished. Sunghoon stares at him for a long moment, "You couldn't even wait?" His voice is ice. Jake flinches a little, his eyes dropping again. He doesn't try to fight it. "I thought she wasn't coming back," Jake says quietly. "I thought—" Sunghoon cuts him off before he can finish. "So what? You thought she wasn't coming back, so you stuck your dick in the next girl you saw? That's your excuse?"

"I felt abandoned—" Sunghoon slams his hand down on the back of the armchair. "I was abandoned too!" he yells. "She left me too! Jake. You think it didn't break me? You think I didn't want to give up every night while texting her because I didn't know if she'd ever respond? You think I didn't miss her so fucking bad I couldn't sleep?"

Jake's chest rises and falls rapidly. "I know—"

"No, you don't," Sunghoon spits. "You don't fucking know, because instead of hurting and staying loyal, you went and fucked someone else. You cheated. On us."

Jake's lower lip trembles. His fingers are digging into his knees like he's trying to keep himself from collapsing completely. "It didn't mean anything," he whispers. "I was out of my mind. I—I regretted it the second it happened."

"Yeah?" Sunghoon snaps. "Too bad regret doesn't make her unsee it. Doesn't undo what you did." Jake wipes at his eyes, sniffling hard. "You think I don't hate myself for it? You think I'm not dying inside?"

"You don't get to die inside," Sunghoon growls. "She gets to die inside. We do. You made that choice. We live with the fucking aftermath." Jake tries to say something, tries to open his mouth, but no words come out. He looks like he's seconds from collapsing. From crumbling into nothing. But Sunghoon doesn't care. Not right now. Because he remembers the way you sobbed against his chest. The way your voice cracked when you whispered "how could he do this to us?" And no amount of guilt can take that back. Jake doesn't move, he sits there like a kicked dog, face blotchy, hands shaking, eyes rimmed red with guilt. He opens his mouth to speak, but Sunghoon cuts in before he can even try. "No," Sunghoon says sharply, chest heaving. "You don't get to do this, Jake."

His voice isn't loud, but it's dangerous now. Cold and trembling and laced with too much grief to contain. "I texted her every single day," he says through gritted teeth. "I left her voice notes every morning and every night, telling her that I missed her, that we loved her, that it was safe to come home. I promised her, Jake. I begged her to believe that everything would be okay."

Jake stares at him, lips parted. Breathing hard, like he’s on the edge of shattering. "I brought her back," Sunghoon continues, voice cracking. "I kissed her hand in the car and told her how happy you'd be to see her. I told her we'd protect her better this time, that she wasn't alone anymore. And the second I opened that door, you were standing there—shirtless, with some girl rushing out of your room." He pauses, nostrils flaring, trying to collect himself. "You don't know how hard I had to stop myself," Sunghoon whispers, eyes sharp and glassy. "From dragging you out into the hallway and beating the fucking life out of you right then and there."

Jake lets out a strangled sob. He brings both hands up to his face like he's trying to block the words out, but they keep coming—because Sunghoon can't stop. "She cried herself to sleep," he says, quieter now, more broken. "On a fucking hotel bed. In the clothes she travelled all the way back to us in. I had to hold to her while she did, and keep telling her it would be okay even though I knew it wouldn't."

Jake lets out a breath like it hurts to exhale. "I can fix it," he chokes. "I swear—I can fix it. Please, Hoon. Things can still go back to normal—" Sunghoon laughs, but it’s not funny. It's bitter and dry and devastating. "Can they?" he spits, stepping closer. "Can they really?"

Jake doesn't answer. He just sits there—pathetic, ashamed and drenched in regret. And that look of utter helplessness, of you tell me what to do and I'll do it, like he's not the one who burned it all to the ground, that’s what finally breaks Sunghoon completely. His voice drops. Barely a whisper. "If she doesn't come back to us—" he swallows hard, tears stinging at his eyes. "If she never forgives us..." Sunghoon's jaw clenches. "I will never forgive you," he says, eyes glassy. "Do you hear me?" Jake doesn't respond but his shoulders shake with the force of his sobs. "Not ever," Sunghoon breathes. "Jaeyun." Jake flinches at his name like it's some curse. And Sunghoon stares at him one last time, broken, furious and devastated before turning and walking away.

The hotel room is dim—just the golden lamp on the nightstand casting a soft glow over the bed. Sunghoon is lying next to you now, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting limp beside yours. He hasn't said much since he got back, just quiet sighs now and then, like he's still trying to sort through everything swirling in his chest. It's nighttime now and you reach out without a word, slipping your fingers into his, your thumb brushing over his knuckles gently. It's not a grand gesture, but his breath hitches when you do it.

He squeezes your hand—tentative, "I missed this," he says softly, like a confession. "Just being able to touch you." You swallow hard, your voice a whisper. "Me too." There's a long silence after that. A kind of peace that's not perfect, but quieter than it's been in days.

Then Sunghoon speaks, voice low and tired. "Did you...make any new friends while you were home?"

You actually let out a soft laugh, dry and almost shy. "No. I didn't really leave the house. I barely left my room. I think my parents were getting worried I was turning into a ghost." Sunghoon's smile is faint but real. "They're probably just happy to have you close."

You nod, your voice quieter now. "They were. I missed them so much." He glances over at you. His thumb rubs along the side of your hand again, slower this time. You hesitate before speaking again, "Jungwon texted me." You feel his body go still. "When?" he asks, trying to keep his voice neutral. "Couple days after I got home," you murmur. "He just...asked if I was okay. Said Jake told him I left."

Sunghoon sighs heavily, but not in surprise, more of acceptance. He stares up at the ceiling for a moment before turning his head to you. "You don't have to be friends with Jungwon if you don't want to," he says quietly, with a sort of tired conviction. "Not after everything. I know he's Jake's friend, but you don't owe him anything." You nod. "I know." He squeezes your hand again, tighter this time. Like he's silently vowing to protect you from all of it—Jake's betrayal, Yunjin's cruelty, even the pieces of yourself still bruised from everything.

You lie there in the quiet, his hand still held in yours, warm and grounding. The room feels suspended in time—just the two of you tucked into this little pocket of the world where nothing hurts quite as loudly, where the betrayal and the heartbreak and the ache haven't disappeared, but at least, for now, they're muffled. You shift your head on the pillow, angling your gaze toward him. His jaw is tight, his lashes casting soft shadows on his cheeks as he blinks slowly at the ceiling. You speak gently. "What about you?" His eyes flick to yours. "What did you get up to? Other than all the things you told me...the café, your parents..." you trail off. He hesitates, his mouth parting just slightly before closing again. Then, he exhales slowly through his nose, voice hushed and vulnerable. "I didn't really...get up to much." Your fingers tighten slightly around his.

"I tried, at first," he says, "to keep moving. To keep pretending like I was okay." He lets out a humorless laugh. "But my world kind of...slowed. When you were gone." Your heart tugs painfully in your chest. "I'd wake up and just—lie there. For hours sometimes." He swallows. "Didn't even want to shower. Or eat. I'd sit in that café down the block like I told you, every afternoon. Just staring out the window."

"Waiting for me to text," you whisper. He nods once, eyes still fixed on the ceiling like looking at you might break him. "Yeah." There's something so quietly devastating about the way he says it. Like existing without you took everything out of him, left him hollow in a way no one else could fill. You lean a little closer, pressing your forehead to his arm. "I missed you every second." His eyes finally meet yours. They're glossy again, but he blinks the tears back, determined not to cry this time. "Don't leave again," he whispers. "Please."

"I really don't want to," you say softly. "But how do we even get past this? We're in a hotel room right now, Hoon." He nods like he knows, stroking his thumb over the back of your hand. The silence between you is soft now—no longer heavy with pain but full of something else, something tentative and warm, like a newly bandaged wound. Then, out of nowhere, he murmurs, "You lost weight." You pout, looking up at him "Huh?"

He frowns a little. "Your face...and your arms. You feel smaller when I hold you." You roll your eyes. "Oh wow, thanks."

"No," he says, turning toward you, serious. "It's not a compliment, baby. I don't like it. You're gonna eat more." You snort. "Well, I wasn't exactly in the mood for takeout and ice cream while crying into my pillow." He shakes his head, already sitting up and stretching a little. "No, no, that won't work. I'm putting you on a schedule. Three meals a day. Snacks. Maybe I'll cook. You want pasta? I'm ordering pasta right now." You watch as he starts patting down his pockets for his phone, already mumbling about how much he's going to make you eat. "Something creamy. High calorie. Carbs. Dessert too—maybe cake or like a pie? Yeah, we'll start slow." You laugh quietly, heart swelling a little at his chaotic determination. But then there's a knock at the door and it interrupts the moment, making you both halt.  The sound is polite but firm. One knock. Two. Then silence. You glance at each other. "You expecting someone?" he asks, brow furrowed.

You shake your head. "No. You? Could be room service?" Sunghoon slowly rises to his feet. He hesitates, then quietly pads toward the door, shoulders tensing as he approaches. The hotel room is quiet, and your own breath seems too loud in your ears. He looks back at you once, a cautious warning in his eyes, then reaches for the handle and opens the door. And there Jake is. Standing in the hallway, hands in the pockets of his jeans, face pale, jaw tight, eyes rimmed red—but dry, for now. You sit up slowly. Jake doesn't even look at Sunghoon at first. His eyes seem to be trained on you as if he didn't dare believe you were really behind that door until now. Sunghoon's body shifts in front of the threshold like a quiet barrier, unmoving. Jake finally blinks, mouth twitching like he wants to speak but doesn't know where to start. "I'm not here to fight," he says softly. "I just... I just need to talk to her."

Sunghoon's hand grips the edge of the door just a little tighter.

"How did you even know she was here?" he asks, voice low, cautious. Jake doesn't flinch, or even blink. "I've always had both your locations," he says, eyes still locked on you. "Since the beginning. I just...never stopped checking." Sunghoon's jaw tightens. He doesn't say anything for a moment. You can tell he wants to slam the door shut—protect you, protect whatever little peace you've managed to find here. But after a long beat of tense silence, he sighs. And steps aside, letting Jake walk in like a ghost. Like someone quietly being lowered into a grave. His shoes barely make a sound on the marble floor. His hands are still shoved deep into his pockets like he's trying to keep himself from shaking. And still, his eyes never leave yours. He stops a few feet in front of the bed, like he knows better than to come closer.

"I won't take long," he says, voice thin, tired. "You don't have to say anything. You just have to listen."

Your throat feels tight. You don't trust your voice even if you wanted to say something. "I'm sorry." Jake's voice cracks on the second word. "I'm sorry for doing this to you. For hurting you. For hurting Sunghoon. I don't have anything to defend myself with. There's no excuse. I was scared. I was selfish. And I was fucking stupid." "There isn't a version of this story where I'm the victim, I know that." His hands come out of his pockets now, trembling at his sides.

"If there's even the smallest chance, a one in a million chance that you two can be happy without me, then I won't get in the way. I'll let it happen. I'll walk away. You should take this chance. You should be with Sunghoon." Sunghoon shifts behind Jake, still by the door, but watching, listening. Jaw locked. You can feel the weight of his silence too. Jake's eyes fill with tears, but none fall. He blinks fast and swallows hard. "He said..." He continues glancing back toward Sunghoon for just a moment, like it hurts to even repeat it. "He said he'd never forgive me if you didn't come back to us. So please..." He looks at you again, eyes wet and raw. "Forgive him. Just him. Even if you can't look at me again, even if I'm the last person you ever want to see, please don't shut him out because of what I did."

You feel your chest splinter under the weight of his words.

He takes a single step back. "I'll disappear from both your lives forever if that's what it takes. But don't make him pay for my mistake." Jake's voice is quieter now. Smaller. Almost as if each word is chipped off a block of pain lodged deep in his throat. "You should come back to the apartment," he says, not meeting your eyes this time. He stares at the floor like if he looks at you too long, he might break apart right there in front of you. "I'll move out. I've already been looking at places—just shitty little studio listings bookmarked in a folder like that's gonna fix anything but...I don't care. I'll go."

He swallows hard. The muscles in his throat twitch as he forces the next words out. "Just come back. Be with Sunghoon. You two can still have something beautiful. Real. I mean..." he lets out a bitter, breathy laugh and finally glances back at Sunghoon, "You always deserved better than me anyway. He is better. You love him and he really does love you." You press your palm to your mouth like it'll stop the ache from leaking out. Jake sees it, sees the tremble in your fingers, and rushes to finish before he breaks apart completely. "No one will look at you weird. No one will whisper anymore. It'll be normal. Easy. Just the two of you. You can have a happy relationship without people talking or judging or wondering how it all happened."

There's silence. Heavy and full. Jake shakes his head once, tears threatening again, and wipes at his face like he's disgusted with himself for crying at all. "Please..." His voice cracks. "Just don't throw it all away because of me." And then, quietly, so broken you almost don't hear it. "I already lost you. I won't survive knowing I cost him you too."

There's a long, soul-crushing pause. Jake stands there, waiting, breath caught like a thread in his throat. The silence screams in his ears—no crying, no yelling, no footsteps chasing after him. Just silence. So he takes it for what it is—understanding, maybe not forgiveness, but acceptance. Resignation. And it's enough for him to turn. He starts to walk away, but your voice, quiet and trembling, slices right through him. "But..."

Jake freezes. You take a shaky breath, eyes brimming.

"I don't want to be without you, Jake." He turns slowly, stunned. His face twists in confusion at first, like he can't believe what he heard—but then he sees you stepping toward him, the tears sliding freely down your cheeks, and he breaks. The tears he's been holding back finally fall, trailing hot and fast down his cheeks. His lips part like he wants to say something, but you're already speaking again. "I don't want to be with just Sunghoon." Your voice is louder now, clearly and it cracks, but not from doubt—from honesty. "I love both of you." Jake's mouth opens just slightly, like the words hit him so hard he forgot how to breathe. "I'm so mad at you," you whisper through the sobs you've been holding in. "You really hurt me, Jake. You hurt Sunghoon too. You almost ruined everything."

He nods like he's ready to take the hit, like he knows he deserves it. But you're still walking closer. "But I still love you," you say, tears choking every syllable. "God, I love you so much. And the thought of my life without either of you—that's what hurts the most." He takes a step forward, eyes glassy, lips trembling, hands half-raised like he's scared to reach for you, scared he'll shatter this moment. "And if—if you're willing to work through it with us," your voice trembles again, "if you're willing to fight—really fight for me and for Sunghoon..." You reach him. Your hand brushes his chest. "Then we can start from somewhere. At least."

His face crumples. And without another word, he pulls you into his arms like his whole life depends on it—because it does. You fall into his arms without thinking, the distance between you evaporating the second your body presses against his. His breath catches, chest rising sharply beneath your touch, and for a moment he just stands there, frozen, as though your embrace is the last thing he ever expected—but the only thing he's ever wanted.

He wraps his arms around you with a desperation that nearly steals your balance. One hand grips the small of your back, the other trembles against your shoulder, holding you to him as though the weight of your grief might pull you both under. His face buries in the crook of your neck, breath uneven, and you feel it—the warmth of a tear against your skin, quickly followed by another. "I'm sorry," he whispers, the words cracked and hoarse, spoken into your collarbone like a confession into church pews. "I'm so fucking sorry."

You pull back just enough to see him. His face is flushed and tear-stained, eyes glassy, wide with disbelief. You cradle his jaw gently, your fingertips brushing over the ridges of his cheekbones, thumb wiping away the tears he hasn't stopped shedding since you walked into his arms. He leans into your palm as though it steadies him. "Jake," you murmur, voice barely formed.

His gaze locks on yours, heavy with every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every regret that's burned through him since the day you walked away. Your foreheads touch. Then your noses. And when your lips meet, it's a slow unfolding—painful in its tenderness, soaked with everything you've both endured. He doesn't rush. He doesn't pull. He just kisses you—soft and reverent—his lips moving with the ache of someone who still can't believe he's allowed to. The kiss tastes of salt and apologies. Of longing that never stopped growing. Of love that never left, even after everything. But it deepens before you can even think. It's not so soft anymore. It's heat and ache and months of silence collapsing into motion. Jake's hands roam, no longer trembling but gripping—your jaw first, then sliding down to your neck, the pads of his thumbs brushing your skin. He kisses you again, and again, and again, mouth moving with bruising need, barely giving you room to breathe.

His fingers slip beneath your jaw, tilting your head just enough to fit his lips better against yours. Your hands fist into the fabric of his shirt, clutching him tightly. His touch grows more frantic, less careful. One hand cups the back of your head, holding you still, while the other traces down to your waist, gripping there like the thought of distance is unbearable. There's an audible exhale when he presses closer, chests flush, and he pulls away only for a second—just enough to whisper, "I missed you so fucking much," voice rough, breaking apart in the center. Then he's kissing you again, and this time you feel it down to your knees. He kisses you like he's starving.

Like he spent every night since you left trying to remember how your mouth felt against his. He kisses you like the world ended and this is the only piece of it left that he still wants. And you let him. Because you missed him, too. Because despite the pain, despite the betrayal, there's something magnetic and familiar in the shape of him pressed to you, in the way his breath stutters every time you touch him back. You moan into his mouth when he sucks at your bottom lip, hands climbing his chest, slipping into his hair. He groans softly at the feeling, hips barely shifting forward before he stops himself, foreheads pressed tight. "I shouldn't—" he starts, breathless. But your fingers tug at his shirt. "I want you to."

You don't hear Sunghoon approach at first. You only feel the tremble in Jake's breath as it fans across your cheek, his lips hovering over yours. Then Sunghoon speaks softly behind him, voice tight with concern. "Are you sure you want this?" Jake freezes. His head dips, forearms braced against either side of you, almost holding himself up. He doesn't say anything, doesn't look back—he's too afraid the answer will break him.

Sunghoon continues, stepping forward until he's close enough that you can feel his presence wrap around both of you. "We can wait. For as long as you need. This was never about the sex. You know that, right?"

You turn your head, catching Sunghoon's gaze from over Jake's shoulder. His eyes search yours—not for permission, but for peace. And there's nothing but reverence in them.

You give him a smile. Not a trembling one, not one born of pressure or uncertainty. It's steady and soft. The kind that says I know what I want. Then your fingers drift to the hem of Jake's shirt. You tug gently.

Jake glances down, stunned, until you meet his eyes again and whisper, "I want it." Your fingers trail up his bare skin as you lift the shirt off him, your gaze flicking between his and Sunghoon's. "I missed your hands. Both of you." Jake lets out a broken sound, something between a sigh and a groan, like the weight of your forgiveness is too heavy to hold and too sacred to drop.

Sunghoon's chest rises, then falls with a shaky breath.

Jake's forehead presses to yours again, eyes squeezed shut. There's no more rushing, only three people breathing each other in like air after drowning for so long.

Jake's breath hitches the moment he feels Sunghoon's lips against his neck. It's gentle at first —a brush of mouth over skin, nothing more. But Jake still jolts, gasping softly, muscles tense under your palms. You're still pressed against his chest, your hands dragging slowly over the ridges of his abs, the curve of his waist, but his eyes flutter shut only when Sunghoon speaks.

"I should hate you," Sunghoon murmurs into his skin, voice raw and low, every syllable burned into the space between Jake's ribs. "You really fucking hurt us."

Jake's knees nearly give. You watch it happen, how his body caves just a little between your hands, how his throat bobs with a swallow, guilt rising like bile. His mouth parts, ready to apologize again, but Sunghoon doesn't let him speak. "But tonight," Sunghoon says, breath hot and firm on Jake's neck, his tone sharpening to something unshakable, unmovable, "you're going to do whatever she says." It's really not a request. Jake exhales a trembling sound, so affected by the command it comes out closer to a whimper than a breath. His hand instinctively finds your hip, squeezing like he needs to hold onto something real. His other arm tries to reach back, grasping at Sunghoon's thigh, but he can't find purchase. Can't find anything at all.

He's unraveling, your hands don't stop moving. They coast up his chest, over his heart, one curling around the back of his neck while the other trails lower, teasing the edge of his waistband. Forgiveness tastes strange when it's this tender. When it's handed to you wrapped in heat and hunger, in soft lips and firmer words. Sunghoon's mouth is still pressed to Jake's throat, kissing softly now, possessively. His palm slides down Jake's spine, slow and steady. He’s caught between your warmth in front of him and Sunghoon's control behind, blinking up at the ceiling like he's not sure this is real. He feels dizzy with it. Drunk off the way you touch him, how soft your lips are when you kiss the corner of his mouth, how your forgiveness feels like salvation. He lets out a broken, shaking sound and doesn't even realize he's nodding. "Yes," he whispers, barely audible. "Anything."

"Anything?" you echo, tilting your head with a small, breathy laugh, soft but taunting, sweet but sharp. Jake swallows hard, noticing how your voice has teeth now.

You brush your fingers across his chest, nails grazing where his heart is hammering beneath skin. He's trembling under your touch, still catching his breath from Sunghoon's mouth on his neck, but you keep your eyes on his, watching every flicker of emotion that passes through him—the regret, the longing, the want.

"Anything," he repeats, voice hoarse, and it makes you smile, even though it doesn't quite reach your eyes. "What if I told you..." You lean closer, lips brushing his ear, voice a whisper now. "That I didn't want you to touch me at all?" You never thought it was possible to watch someone break in real time, to watch the weight of that sentence crush him from the inside. His shoulders sag, chest tight and heaving, mouth parting in a stunned silence. He wants to speak, to beg, to say something that might undo the sentence, but nothing comes out. And then Sunghoon sinks his teeth into the side of Jake's neck—hard, causing him to help. “Ah!”

It's not pain though, not really. It's submission in its purest form. The sudden rush of breath he takes in is sharp and desperate. Sunghoon pulls back slowly, his lips stained red from the pressure, a blooming bruise already forming beneath the skin. You coo, cupping Jake's face between your palms, stroking your thumbs along his jaw. "Oh, poor baby," you murmur, soft and almost mocking. "That hurt?" You take a step back, fingers still curled around his chin, guiding him until he stumbles forward, pliant and stunned. "Get on the bed," you say simply. Jake obeys. It's not graceful. He trips a little on the edge of the mattress, palms catching himself as he falls onto it. His knees follow, sinking into the sheets, wide-eyed and breathless and completely undone. The mark on his neck already deepening in color.

Sunghoon steps behind you, his hands warm at your waist, watching with a quiet, unreadable intensity as Jake looks up from the bed, mouth parted, eyes shining, completely at your mercy. Then you reach for Jake's waistband, slow and deliberate. "If I say you don't get to touch me...you won't. Understood?"

Jake nods, instantly. But it isn't enough, especially not for Sunghoon, "Use your words," he murmurs from behind you. Jake breathes out, broken and obedient.

"Yes. I understand." You turn away from Jake, slowly, deliberately, your body still humming from the control you'd just exerted over him. You tilt your head up to face Sunghoon, lips parted, voice soft and honey-sweet.

"Wanna ride you, Hoonie," you murmur, eyes full of something heady and bright. Sunghoon's lips twitch into a smile that barely hides the hunger behind it. His hands are already on your waist, sliding under your shirt, touch reverent and greedy all at once. "Yeah?" he breathes, eyes darkening as he leans in, mouth brushing against yours. "Anything you want, pretty girl."

His kisses are deep and languid, like he wants to make you feel everything at once—his hands moving with purpose, stripping you bare with a kind of ease that only comes from knowing you. He peels the shirt off your shoulders, your bra next, then bends to mouth at your collarbones. You giggle when he lifts you clean off the floor with a low grunt, effortlessly strong, still kissing you like he can't get enough. He spins you gently in his arms, your laughter catching in your throat as he lays down beside Jake, pulling you into his lap so your legs straddle his hips. The shift in the room is immediate—charged with heat. Jake's eyes are glued to you, still kneeling on the bed, chest rising and falling with sharp, uneven breaths. His hands are clenched into fists on his thighs. He doesn't speak—but the look in his eyes, the desperation and hunger, says everything.

You lock eyes with him. And while holding his gaze, you reach down between your bodies, hook your fingers into the waistband of Sunghoon's pants, and tug them down just enough that his cock springs free—hot and hard, flushed a deep red. Your breath catches.

You shift your panties to the side, slowly, letting Jake watch everything—your fingers slipping under the fabric, revealing your wetness, your want. His jaw tightens as his gaze flickers down, then back to your face. You line Sunghoon up, the head of him brushing against you. Still holding Jake's stare, you whisper, "Watch me."

Then you sink down. Sunghoon groans, head falling back against the pillows, hands tightening around your waist—but your eyes don't leave Jake's, not for a second. He looks ruined already, lips parted, chest heaving, pupils blown wide as you start to move slowly, rolling your hips in small circles, your hands planted on Sunghoon's chest for balance. His eyes are locked on your face, mouth parted in awe, the way your lashes flutter when he hits the deepest part of you already making him groan. "Fuck, Yunnie," you breathe, barely able to get the words out through the sheer fullness, "Hoonie’s so big—it's too much, he's stretching me out—"

Sunghoon lets out a choked laugh, hands sliding up your back, keeping you grounded as you bounce slow and sweet. "You can take it, pretty girl," he says, breathless, "you always take it so good." Then he turns his head, eyes finding Jake across the bed—Jake, who looks completely undone, lips bitten raw, arms tense in his lap as he watches you fuck Sunghoon right in front of him. "You remember, don't you?" Sunghoon says, voice low and dark, words dragging like smoke. "How fucking tight she is?"

Jake swallows hard, nodding cause he does remember, he knows. Sunghoon's hand moves to your ass, spreading you a little wider on his lap as he grinds up into you. "She's still that tight," he murmurs. "Still squeezin' around me like she doesn't know what to do with it." You whimper, head falling forward, your rhythm stuttering for a second from the delicious drag of him inside you. You look over at Jake, flushed and panting and visibly hard under his jeans. You see the way his fingers dig into the sheets now, holding himself back. "You remember, don't you, Jake?" you whisper, your voice laced with something wicked and wet and wanting. "You remember how good I feel?" He nods again—once, sharp, desperate.

You moan when Sunghoon hits the right spot again, and you can't help it, you start to ride him harder, bouncing now, your hands gripping his shoulders, head tilted back with every gasp. “Oh shit! Sunghoon!”

Jake can't tear his eyes away. "Please," he says, voice hoarse, finally cracking. "Please let me touch you."

Sunghoon growls under you, but it's not anger—it's something else, something dark and territorial and charged with the thrill of control. "You gonna be good?" he asks, eyes narrowing. "You gonna do whatever she says?" Jake nods again, this time slower, breath catching when your eyes meet his and you smile, "Then crawl over here," "and rub my clit," you tell him, barely more than a breath between gasps, and Jake obeys instantly, crawling in close, his hands almost shaking as he reaches for you. His fingers find you, and the moment he starts to move in slow, practiced circles, your entire body trembles. The pleasure is sharp and sudden, slicing through your core and making you moan louder. You clutch Jake's shoulders to stay grounded, your forehead resting against his as you shudder. "God," you whisper, nails dragging down his arms. "Just like that."

Jake's eyes are wide, hungry and reverent all at once. "I missed you," he says, voice cracking. "Missed you so much." Then you kiss him, desperate and unrestrained. Your mouths crash together, teeth clashing, breath caught in your throat as his hands never stop rubbing. Your fingers go straight to his waistband, fumbling with the button of his jeans, tugging at the denim, hungry to feel him again, every part of him. He groans into your mouth when you finally free his cock, hips twitching, his hands pausing for only a second before he goes right back to rubbing soft circles against your clit, coaxing another shiver from your spine.

Under you, Sunghoon's hands are on your waist, fucking up into you, watching with heavy eyes as you and Jake melt together in front of him—two puzzle pieces trying desperately to fit again, despite everything. "Are you gonna let him in?" Sunghoon murmurs low beneath you. "Or do you want to keep teasing him first?" You glance down at him, then at Jake, lips swollen and pupils blown, still panting like a prayer's caught in his throat. But then Sunghoon starts unraveling beneath you. His hands are gripping your waist tighter now, fingers digging in deep. Each thrust up into you is deeper, rougher, his hips snapping with a need he's been swallowing down for weeks. "F–fuck, baby," he gasps, voice guttural. "I can't... you feel so good—I'm not gonna last—"

You're trembling, dizzy, your hands scrambling to hold on to Jake's shoulders for balance, for anything, and he's still touching you, still rubbing soft, perfect circles between your thighs, watching you with wide eyes that burn with something deeper than lust. Worship. Longing. Love. "I—I can't," you whimper, your voice barely recognizable, caught somewhere between a sob and a plea. "It's—Hoonie, it's too much—"

"I've got you," he breathes. "You can take it. You're so good for me, baby." And when you cry out, breath catching sharp and sudden in your throat, both of them hear it—hear the way your voice shatters as you cum. You barely manage to warn them, half-choking out a "I'm gonna—Hoonie, I'm—" before your body locks up. Everything crashes. Your orgasm rips through you in waves—sharp, overwhelming, dizzying. Jake holds your hands tighter, whispering, "That's it, baby, so good," while Sunghoon helps guide your hips, slowing your movements just enough to keep you from falling apart completely, easing you through the tremors. You don't even know what's happening at first. One second you're clinging to Jake's shoulders, trying to catch your breath, trying to come down from the orgasm that shattered your whole body, and the next your thighs are shaking all over again. Sunghoon is still moving beneath you, slower now, grinding up into the heat of your overstimulated cunt like he can't stop, won't stop—not until he's buried so deep inside you he disappears.

"Oh my god—" you gasp, body jolting forward. You feel it before you even realize it's happening. A gush, a rush, a sudden burst of pressure that leaves your thighs soaked and trembling and your breath punched clean from your lungs. "Holy shit," Sunghoon mumbles beneath you, stunned, voice half-wrecked with awe. His grip loosens for just a second, and then he's dragging you back down hard onto him, hips snapping up, chasing his own high now, greedy for it. Jake stares like he's seen a miracle. His hand is still between your legs, slick and shaking, frozen in place until Sunghoon growls low in his throat and knocks it away. "She's mine right now," Sunghoon mutters, almost possessive, his eyes half-lidded and dark with something primal. He pulls you back against his chest and buries his face in your neck. "Just for a second—just let me—"

And he thrusts once more, hard and deep, moaning against your skin as he finally loses control, cumming deep inside you. You're both a mess—your body shaking, hips twitching from the overstimulation, and Sunghoon gasping through his orgasm, arms wrapped around your middle, holding you to him so tight you can feel the tremor in his spine. Jake's hands move to your back, rubbing you gently as he presses a kiss to your spine, voice rough as he whispers, "You okay?"

You nod, dazed, shaky and a little broken up. Trying to catch your breath when Jake leans in again, kissing your shoulder, your back, trailing soft apologies into your skin. His eyes are wide and desperate when they meet yours, like he's still afraid this will be ripped away from him because he doesn't deserve to be here.

Sunghoon catches that look too. And he smiles—slow and deliberate—before reaching over, curling his fingers around Jake's jaw. "You're not touching her again until she says so," Sunghoon murmurs, voice still thick and wrecked from how hard you just made him cum. "Matter of fact... you're not coming until we say so either." Jake's breath catches and his whole body tightens. You cup his flushed face between your hands, nodding slowly, your lips brushing his as you whisper, "We're gonna make you beg, baby."

And oh, does he beg. The night stretches out in sweat-slick sheets and bitten lips and whispered commands. Every time Jake gets close to cumming, one of you pulls away—hands vanishing, mouths retreating, leaving him cursing under his breath, pleading for more. You ride him just enough to ruin him, then slide off with a wicked little smile, watching the way he shudders. Sunghoon kisses him through the whimpers, soothing and cruel at once, murmuring, "Not yet. You don't get to cum yet. You don't get to cum until she says so."

Jake obeys. All night long he obeys. And when you finally let him cum, when you finally look down at him hours later and whisper "You can cum now, baby" he sobs with it and thank you, over and over again.

It's not perfect yet and it might never be. But it's good now, better now. There are still moments that hurt—old memories that sometimes sneak in without warning, a passing comment or a flicker in one of their eyes that reminds you how bad it once got. But it's not sharp anymore. The edges have dulled with time, with effort and love. You trust them again. And they trust you. Jake doesn't flinch when you pull away to gather your thoughts. Sunghoon doesn't shut down when he's overwhelmed. You kiss one, then the other, and neither of them cares who sees anymore. There are still stares, whispers, but you're truly past it. The world can look because you know what you have. And that's all that matters to all of you.

Right now, you're doubled over in a sun-drenched corner booth at a café you never thought to go to until Sunghoon took you there, it’s the same one he used to haunt when you were gone. Now it's your spot. Yours and Chaewon's. She's wiping tears from her eyes from laughing so hard, one hand holding her half-empty iced coffee, the other gesturing wildly as she wheezes, "No but actually—He said that? Like what does that even mean?" You're clinging to your stomach, giggling uncontrollably. "I don't know—I don't know why it's so funny—but it is!"

That's when a familiar voice hums warmly behind you.

"Hi baby." Sunghoon's fingers sweep through your hair as he kisses the top of your head, his palm settling on your shoulder with a light squeeze. You tilt your head back to up at him, already reaching for his hand.

"You ready to go? Jake’s outside." he says, then turns his gaze to Chaewon, eyebrows lifting curiously. "And who's this?" "Oh—!" You twist in your seat, eyes still a little crinkled with laughter. "This is Chaewon, from the seminar. Chaewon, this is my boyfriend Sunghoon."

Sunghoon gives her a small, polite smile. "Nice to finally meet you. I've heard nothing but chaotic things." Chaewon grins, wide and proud. "I plead the fifth." He chuckles, then glances down at you again with something that softens all the angles of his face. You know that look. He's happy. Happy you finally made that friend you were talking about, happy you're laughing again, happy you're here.

You suddenly hear Jake’s voice before you even see him approaching, "Baby," Jake calls out, spotting you across the café with a grin already tugging at his lips, "you still wanna go to the Canary Islands—?" He stops in his tracks as his eyes land on Chaewon. You can see the calculation happening behind his gaze. He blinks once, then points between you two. "Who's this?"

Before you can answer, Sunghoon wraps an arm around your shoulders from behind and offers coolly, "Chaewon. She's her friend." Jake nods slowly, glancing between you, Sunghoon, and the girl seated beside you. Then he says, deadpan, "Cool. Chaewon, do you wanna come to the Canary Islands with us?"

You and Chaewon both burst out laughing at the same time, hers more bewildered, yours fondly exasperated. "Jake—what?!" He just shrugs, smile stretching wider, unapologetically smug. "I already bought three tickets. What's one more?" Sunghoon sighs through his nose, pinching the bridge of it. "You're not supposed to just... collect people."

Jake throws a smile at Chaewon. "It's not collecting if she's fun."

"She is fun," you defend. "Also, you're insane." But Jake only smiles more softly now, like he's seeing something you haven't yet. "Yeah. But you're laughing again."

That shuts you up for a second. Because you are laughing, you’re whole in a way you haven't been in months. Sunghoon leans down, brushing your temple with a kiss. Jake slips into the booth across from you and steals a sip of your drink before wrinkling his nose. "You still drink this garbage?" Chaewon side-eyes you. "You're letting him bully your coffee order?" You shake your head with a grin and glance between the two boys—your boys. You know you'll still have days where things feel hard, moments when the past creeps up, nights where you'll have to talk it out again, cry it out again, try again. But you'll do it. All of you will.

Because this is what it looks like now. Jake pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket showing you the email confirmation. "The hotel has ocean views and a private plunge pool. I'm thinking we leave Wednesday, We’ll that’s when the flights are booked for anyway." Sunghoon rests his chin on your shoulder, murmuring, "You've always wanted to go." You smile at him and nod.

"Let's go to the Canary Islands."

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[mssishipi]

okay? okay. — sjy

two awkward nobodies turns tension into physical.

content tags: set in 1990's, no plot just loser!jake & loser!reader, s-stuttering? bear with them. explicit content (smut): cunnilingus, fingering, little bit of nipple play. MDNI! WC: 2.3k

It wasn't like Jake had no friends, at least not entirely. Technically, he had three people he occasionally talked to. Maybe not friends in the traditional sense, more like peripheral figures, one he sometimes exchanged notes with before class started, another who shared the same lunch table out of habit, and the third... well, Jake wasn't quite sure who the third was anymore.

When his mother found out it was his birthday, she lit up with an enthusiasm so disproportionate to the occasion that Jake felt immediately suffocated. She insisted on celebrating—went out and bought cake, plastic streamers that sagged against the living room wall, and even set out paper plates. Then she turned to him with a forced smile and said, "Invite your friends, sweetheart. All of them. It'll be fun!"

So, he'd done exactly that. Messaged the three people whose numbers sat unused in his contacts list. He waited until the very last minute, typing out a bland, uncertain invitation that he almost deleted several times before finally pressing send. Predictably, none of them replied.

Except for you.

You showed up ten minutes after the time listed on the message. Jake opened the door like he'd just been caught off guard, blinking behind his crooked glasses as if unsure whether to smile or hide.

"U-uh... H-happy b-birthd-day, J-Jake," you stammered, eyes flicking away from his.

He moved aside to let you in without saying a word, and now the two of you sat at the edge of the couch in his living room.

You kept tapping your foot against the carpet. Jake sat beside you, hunched slightly forward, hands wringing together in his lap, shoulders high. He kept adjusting his glasses even though they didn't need adjusting, the same way you kept picking at your nails or brushing invisible lint from your sleeve. Both of you mirrored each other's awkward tics without realizing it. The half-eaten cake on the coffee table sat untouched, its frosting slowly melting.

Jake finally broke the silence. "S-so... you came."

You nodded once, eyes flicking briefly toward him before darting away again. Your mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. "Y-yeah. Um. I d-didn't have anything else, so..."

The sentence trailed off, neither of you bothering to pretend it was a convincing excuse. There was no music playing. No other voices in the house. His mother had retreated to the kitchen, likely pretending to busy herself while eavesdropping.

Minutes dragged of another silence, Jake reached for a slice of cake, changed his mind, pulled his hand back. You leaned forward like you might say something, then leaned back instead.

Jake cleared his throat, “uh… want to go to my room?”

Your cheeks warmed instantly, heat rising from your collar to your ears. You adjusted your glasses with shaky fingers, blinking once, then nodding. “Y-yeah… okay.”

"R-right there, Jake… ahhh. Just like that, please."

The faint static hum of the cassette player filled the air, mixed by the breathy sound of your voice that was something Jake never imagined he’d hear.

He never thought the first time he'd taste someone—you, of all people—would feel like this.

It was like a discovery. A minute ago, it had been all small talk and the awkward thuds of your steps across his carpeted floor. Now, his mouth was buried between your legs, and his world had narrowed to the rhythm of your breath and the sweetness of your skin.

Jake seen you at school, always half-hidden under oversized jumpers and layers. You’d sit beside him sometimes at lunch, two losers orbiting the same cafeteria table in silence, sharing glances that lasted just a second too long, and yet neither of you had ever said anything

Now, he realized what he’d missed, what had been concealed beneath the quiet demeanor and deliberately plain clothes. Your body was insanely hot, sinfully curved in ways that had Jake's hands unsure of where to settle, his brain desperately trying to keep up with what his body was experiencing. His glasses were slightly askew, fogged with heat, and the tips of his ears were burning as he adjusted his angle and listened to every sound you made in response to his tongue.

He licked tentatively at first, awkward, but then you moaned his name and something in him snapped. His hands gripped your thighs with more certainty. He moved his tongue in slow, deliberate strokes, testing what made your hips twitch or your breath hitch. Each reaction you gave was a reward, and Jake chased them obsessively.

"Please… m-more."

Jake nearly lost his mind. He moaned, open-mouthed, right against your soaked folds, the sound vibrating into you as he pushed his tongue in deeper.

There was still a part of him that couldn’t believe this was real. That he was doing this. That someone was writhing beneath him, clenching at his sheets, begging him not to stop.

He remembered how grossed out he used to be, overhearing locker room talk from guys who bragged about "the best pussy of their lives." Their words always came with a smirk, with arrogance, with a tone Jake hated. He thought it was pathetic.

Now, he fucking understood. The sounds you made, the way you whined, whimpered, and gasped sent heat rushing to his groin, making his cock throb painfully in his pants. But he ignored it. You were the center of his world right now. Your pleasure. Your body. Your voice. He’d never been good at much, but if he could just make you feel like this, if he could memorize every twitch and moan, then maybe he could be good at you.

Jake glanced up through the fogged lenses of his glasses, catching a glimpse of your face. Your eyes were barely open, mouth parted, cheeks flushed. Your head was tilted back, exposing the column of your neck as your hips rolled into him, grinding your heat against his mouth.

He groaned again, involuntarily, as he looked lower—your breasts bouncing softly with every motion, round and heavy and perfect, the sight alone enough to make him dizzy.

God, you were so fucking hot.

He pulled back just enough to drag his tongue slowly across your slit, savoring the taste. Then, with shaky resolve, he let one hand slide lower.

He pressed a finger against your entrance and felt how wet you were. Tentatively, he pushed in, slowly, watching your reaction, his finger slid inside you, warm and tight, and Jake nearly whimpered at how it felt around him.

Your moan cracked sharp through the air, and he moved quickly, adjusting. He ducked his head, focusing his lips on your clit, sucking softly. Your hips twitched against his face, your moans climbing in pitch, and Jake’s eyes fluttered closed as he moved his finger in a gentle rhythm—curling, dragging, retreating before plunging in again.

"Jake!"

He added a second finger without overthinking it, pushing deeper as he sucked harder on your clit. His pace grew more confident now, still trembling slightly, but driven by the way your thighs began to clamp around his shoulders, your body helplessly responding to everything he did. He could feel the way your walls clenched around his fingers. 

He was drowning in you, and he didn’t want to come up for air.

His hand gripped your thigh harder as he thrust his fingers faster, curling them just right, chasing the way your cries rose in volume and pitch. Jake couldn’t stop moaning either. 

Jake lifted his head, pulling back just enough to speak, breathless, face glistening. His fingers never stopped moving inside you. "Am I… am I doing a good job?" he asked,  eyes wide with hunger.

You reached for him, grabbing the frame of his glasses, tugging them gently off his face and setting them aside. Then your hand cradled his jaw, pulled him up over your body, and you kissed him hard.

The moment your lips crashed into his, you both moaned into each other’s mouths. Your kiss was all teeth and tongue, sloppy and intense, spit-slicked and shameless. Jake’s hand stayed between your legs, his fingers never stopping, still thrusting and curling inside you as your hips rocked against his palm.

Your tongues tangled in a frantic rhythm, colliding like neither of you had ever kissed someone before—and in truth, maybe neither of you had quite like this.

Jake whimpered against your mouth as your teeth caught his lower lip, tugging at it before crashing into him again. He tasted you on your tongue, on your lips, everywhere. 

His free hand slid under your back, holding you tighter, pulling you against him. Your breath hitched as his fingers curled again inside you, faster now, more urgent. The wet sounds of his hand between your legs mixed with the quiet, needy gasps you both kept sharing in between kisses.

Jake groaned into your mouth, hips grinding unconsciously against the mattress, desperate for relief, but he never stopped moving his fingers inside you.

You broke the kiss first, gasping for breath, your lips swollen, eyes fluttering open with a dazed kind of bliss.

“A-are you close?” Jake asked.

You nodded frantically, whimpering louder as your hips rocked down against his hand, chasing the high he was pulling from you so perfectly.

Jake shifted, sliding behind you, pulling your body back against his chest. He wrapped an arm under your chest, his palm cupping one of your breasts. The second his fingers brushed your nipple, he moaned against your neck—actually moaned—at how soft and warm you were in his hand. His thumb began to flick over it, teasing it to a stiff peak while his other hand stayed between your legs, fingers thrusting deeper now from this new angle.

In this position, he had control.

His legs tangled with yours, spreading them open, locking you down so you couldn’t close them even if you tried. His chest pressed against your back, every shaky breath he took ghosting over your shoulder. His fingers buried inside you could now reach places that made you cry out, nearly screaming as your head fell back against his shoulder.

Jake caught the sound with his mouth again, kissing you, swallowing your cries as he worked you relentlessly.

"Say my name when you cum," he breathed, voice cracking with need. "Tell me I'm doing good. Please. Please."

His hips rocked against you from behind, his clothed cock rutting helplessly against your lower back, leaking through his boxers. His thumb kept playing with your nipple, gentle and desperate at once, trying to hold you in place while you trembled against him.

You could barely think. Your skin was burning, your stomach tight with that sharp, spiraling pleasure that was just about to break loose.

You grabbed his wrist, guiding his fingers faster, pushing yourself down on them.

“Y-You’re doing so good, Jake,” you moaned, biting your lip. “Fuck, your fingers feel so good—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.”

Jake gasped behind you, clinging tighter to your body, lips trailing along your jaw, your neck, desperate to be anywhere on you. You kept whispering, choking on moans, eyes rolling back as your climax crept closer with every flick of his wrist.

“You’re making me cum, Jake,” you panted, mouth falling open, hips jerking. “God, I’m gonna cum so fucking hard on your fingers—fuck—don’t stop.” 

Jake whimpered again, rutting harder against you from behind. 

And then you came.

You screamed his name, your body convulsed in his grasp, your slick heat pulsing in wet, desperate contractions that squeezed him in a way that made his brain blank out completely.

Jake’s eyes widened in a haze of disbelief as his cock throbbed once—twice—and then spilled. Completely untouched, fully clothed, still grinding against your back, he came in his pants.  His cum soaked the front of his boxers, but the feeling that overtook him was so violently good, he couldn’t even care.

He gasped, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, body trembling as the orgasm ripped through him, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out like an idiot. His hips jerked again, trying to ride out the friction.

Jake made a girl cum.

Jake made a girl fucking cum.

His mind couldn’t process anything else. Jake slowly pulled his fingers from your soaked cunt, blinking down at them in disbelief—glossy with slick, dripping down to his knuckles. Your cum. 

His heart pounded in his ears. His glasses were gone. His pants were soaked with his own mess.

And still, a breathless, disbelieving laugh escaped his lips, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he whispered, “I… I made you cum.”

"Y-yeah," you squeaked, still catching your breath. Your fingers reached behind you, gently brushing over his thigh. “T-thank you, Jake…”

He swallowed hard. “Did I… Was it… okay?”

You turned slightly, shifting in his lap, enough to glance back at him. His face was flushed deep red, hair sticking up in awkward angles, your lips curved into a soft, breathless smile, and you leaned back against him again hesitantly. 

Your lips curved into a soft, breathless smile. You leaned back against him again, a bit hesitant, but you wanted him close. 

“Okay?” you echoed with a light laugh, still flushed. “Jake, I couldn’t see straight. You made me forget my own name.”

Jake blinked rapidly. “U-uh, really?” His voice cracked.

You nodded, biting your lip as your gaze dropped, suddenly shy again in the aftermath. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Really.”

There was silence. You felt Jake shift behind you slightly, still holding your body.

And then, in the quietest voice, he asked:

“T-then… can I… can I keep doing this to you?”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes again. He looked scared. Like he’d already started bracing for rejection. 

You nodded, leaning in to press your lips to his jaw. “O-okay.”

His hands tightened around your waist, you could feel him harden again against you, still trapped inside soaked boxers, his body catching up fast to what his heart had just heard. 

"Okay? Okay." 

[gabrielinhaa]

Im addicted to loser Jake

[karinasbaby-deactivated20250906]

BREATHE ME IN. ✱ MDNI ❕

synopsis. The ancient bloodline of serpent hybrids was hidden, closed off. Unknown, a mere unconfirmed sighting of them is enough to ring alarms of danger. But here you were, claimed and possessed by a snake that held a voice as smooth as honey and a touch as light as feather— what would happen when your curiosity over his kind gets the best of you and you want to unleash the side of him that was written down in history?

pairing. snake!jake x fem!reader (19+)❕warnings. PURE FLITH, like genuinely disgusting nasty questionable smut. DARK CONTENT, jake is obv a snake, fangs, subspace, blood drinking, mentions of stalking + kidnapping, he has magical venom like an aphrodisiac, venom feeding, unprotected sex, creampies, feeding rituals, supernatural bond formation, belly bulge, tongue sucking + throat fucking, knotting bcs he has a knot, body worship, womb + cervix worship & fucking, Jake has stalkerish tendencies, he bites u multiple times, oviposition like full on eggs cuz hes a reptile, like he lays eggs in u fyi, insane breeding kink like genuinely, soft moments but like just twice in the span of 16k words. word count. 16.7k

a,note. this is by far my nastiest fic i’ve ever written. half of me gen doesn’t want to post this here, it’s my first time ever writing + posting something like this. please read the warnings and minors do not interact. this fic contains dark content and some creepy stuff people might be uncomfortable with, read at your own risk & have a nice day ! + proofread at 9 am with zero hours of sleep (as usual)

The sound of pages turning reverberated through the walls.

You sat on the soft mattress, back pressing against the headboard while a pile of books accompanied your bedside table, fingers flicking from page to page.

A simple warm light dimmed the room, your shared bedroom that almost felt alive, your surroundings felt like they pulsed sometimes. The furniture feeling cold to the touch before turning warmer, this was yours and his sacred place, his nest.

It was where you were most comfortable with being, and he was most satisfied with you being. Engulfed in his warmth, in his pulse that synced with his heartbeat so he connected to you at all times.

The paper in front of you contained drawings, sketches, definitions, explanations. The first few that you skipped revolved around mermaids, wolf hybrids, panther hybrids— till you finally reached the chapter you wanted.

Snake hybrids. The offspring of humans, serpents and vipers.

“Snake hybrids have special characteristics, most of them carry split eyes that dilate at the sighting of a prey. Some have large tongues, dry and barbed. Extending a few inches past what’s considered normal depending on the hybrid bloodline—“

You flipped the page.

“A rare species of serpent crossbreds may be born with multiple different appendages, their tails—“

You flipped another page.

Vision skimming past the words written carefully onto each part, the different anatomies of snakes, their hybrid form and their viper form— you were too indulged in the book to notice the passing glimmer of scales.

Obsidian with a jade iridescence, thick and rough.

Jake slithered towards you quietly, silencing his hissing and the scratch of his scales as he made his way through his nest. Emerald slit eyes that locked in on you. His lover, his mate, his prey.

And before you could turn your wrist to turn the page— you felt it.

The warm, large brushing of his scurry tail. His scales providing a soothing chill before the warmth of his venom pulsed through it. “Entertaining yourself with books about me when I’m right here?” His tone was smooth, deep and hypnotising.

“I was just curious..” you closed the book, the sound of the cover shutting bringing a daunting smile to his sharp features, his eyes raked over you, slits tightening when he tilted his head.

“Hm? About what, love?” His tail circled your ankle before trailing upper, sneaking between the warmth of your inner thighs when you squirmed before wrapping around your waist, fully coiling himself around you as he inched his face closer.

You breathed out shakily, “about your kind..” “what about my kind?” His heartbeat pulsed around the walls in the nest and around you. Tail tensing the slightest bit making you feel the drumming beat that coursed through your viper’s veins.

His question stopped you. A flush warming around your neck at the embarrassment of admitting that you wanted to know about snakes mating. Serpents bonding. Vipers connecting and devoting themselves fully.

Because it’s true— you are curious. So curious as to why Jake has allowed you into his nest, has made you feel the shimmery scales of his tail yet still hasn’t fully claimed you.

The amount of stories you’ve heard of other humans being claimed by their serpent hybrids, the sheer force of their connection, the weight of the love they shared, the way they became biologically altered to accept their mate.. made you feel hollow.

Jake didn’t do any of that with you. Sure, he might’ve told you about his previous mate experiences. You might’ve gained knowledge about a thing or two of a sacred ritual passed down from fanged bloodlines, but you didn’t experience.

You wanted to feel jake connect to you as far as his reptile body allowed him to. You wanted to feel him devote himself completely to you, to mark you, to scent you, to bond to you for life and claim you.

You yearned to be claimed by him.

And Jake could already see the longing in your eyes, he felt it every time your fingers touched his scales. Each time you stared at his long tongue that flicked past his plump lips, he knew. And he wanted to claim you as badly as you wanted him, but he was still scared of hurting you.

Two different kinds, two different species. He had venom coursing through his veins next to his cold blood while yours pumped warmly, he had fangs that ached when he took too long to release while your teeth were half the size of his, even though Jake wanted to claim you— god, he wanted to worship you. There was still an intrusive thought that gnawed his mind that you’ll hurt. That he’ll break you, that you’re not ready for him.

“I could show you what you want to know, satisfy your curiosity..” he trailed off, bringing his clawed finger to trace down your jaw making you nuzzle against his touch. “But I might hurt you.” Jake whispered admittedly, the raise of your eyebrows and the surprise in your eyes almost making him regret telling you.

You wrapped your hand around his, warm. He could feel the unnoticeable tremor in your digits when you laced them through his. Squeezing once. “You’ll never hurt me, Jake.” Reassuring him, you looked straight at him. Allowing him to see the confidence in your gaze. “I know you never will.”

The serpent sighed, inching closer to push his forehead against yours while his tail tightened around your frame. “I’m still worried, but I do want to try.” Lips brushing around yours before he pulled away to let you see him, past his softness, past his worries, past everything.

To see his slit pupils dilate, to see the peek of his fangs that dripped with his nectar-like honey, to fully remind you just what you were asking of him.

God that thought alone made you crave him more.

“I will show you everything.” He purred, “give you anything you want to make you know me. Get your body used to me, to taste me.”

And Jake always kept his promises.

It starts the next day.

You’re in the comfort of his nest, tip of his tail stroking your thigh lazily, he was hovering above your laying frame, close. So close you could feel the swift lick of his tongue whenever it flicked out.

“We have a feeding ritual.” He hisses, voice barely above a whisper as you nod at his words. Concentration fully locked on him, giving him all your attention when he finally gave in to preparing you for him.

He’s inches away from your face, soft breaths fanning your skin as jake continues, “it’s intimate, I will mark your inside with my tongue, and feed you my venom.” You gulped.

Not because you were scared, maybe a small part of you was nervous but you knew about something like this before— a few fleeting articles that were titled with “venom feeding” and if anything, you were anticipating this.

Yet your eyebrows still furrowed, “my inside?” He nodded, “your throat. I’ll mark it with my tongue, claim it as my own.”

“Now let me show you, sweet thing.” And you nodded, he flicked his muscle out slowly this time. The tip passing his lips as his split tongue came into view. Both endings twitching independently as more came out.

His venom infused saliva shined in front of you. The sight of his abnormally long tongue made your mouth water. You suddenly felt a heat rush down your body, settling into your core when Jake showed you just how ready his tongue was to claim you.

Jake smirked at your bewildered expression, the dazed look in your eyes that followed his every move when he retracted his tongue back. “Are you ready?” Without even replying back to another word, your mouth opened for him.

Your innocent obedience making his emerald gaze dilate, your own tongue— sweet and small in comparison to his, lolling out just to show him how ready and prepared you were.

He breathed deeply through his nose, pulling you closer before he hovered his face above yours. And spat.

You gasped at the sight of the wet glob that glistened with his venom. It almost appeared to pulse in your eyes. As if his poison was just as impatient as you were to ruin you.

And when the long string finally landed on your awaiting tongue, you moaned at the flavour. So thick, so warm and sweet. An addictive tingle spreading around your mouth when the venom travelled along your tastebuds.

Your first taste of his nectarine venom, the one he prepared for you, to feed you only.

Jake’s eyes narrowed. A familiar heat awakening in his body when you closed your mouth, humming pleasantly at his venom that your body accepted. He kept trying to focus, reminding himself that something could still go wrong, you could reject his venom, your body could react negatively to it— but you were sloshing it around your mouth like you were tasting your favourite honey.

And Jake knew now that your body didn’t just accept him, it liked him. Enjoyed his taste, the tinge of his claim on your tongue.

“Swallow, sweetheart.” His clawed hands, rough looking but oh so gentle when cradling your face made you have no choice but to keep your eyes locked on his when you swallowed.

Where he stared at your throat, the small gulp of him going down your throat and coating it down on the way— to settle into your stomach, where your body will slowly break it down and he will become a part of you.

That thought alone, of being so close to you that you carry him made him almost lose his mind.

“You took it all so well, angel girl.” You closed your eyes when he caressed your neck, the base of his thumb pressing against your pulse point that sang for him. “You’re ready. Your body accepted me, it’s only fair that I feed it well now.”

And that’s when his tail circled your hips, scales wrapping around you protectively while his index finger tapped your cheek. “Open up again for me.” His demanding tone made you shudder in his hold before you let your mouth fall open again, jaw going slack while jake admired the new nest his tongue will find comfort in.

Your throat tightened around nothing, so wet and warm he couldn’t hold himself back from pushing his tongue out and slipping it inside of you.

His split tips slithered along your tongue. Barbed, wet and divided. You drooled uncontrollably around his muscle when he sank in further, brushing against the back of your throat when you gagged around him, hands gripping at his arms desperately as Jake tried his best to open you up more.

To accept more of him, more of his aching tongue that was about to burst from the amount of venom he held for you, more of his tongue that sent electrifying pulses down his body just from the taste of you.

The taste of your cavern all wrapped around him, trying her best to take more of him in but it felt like he was endless.

“J-Jake..” you mumbled, jaw flexing as it almost began to hurt from the flexion, but Jake was obsessed.

His hair ruffled in all directions, a fusion of your saliva with mixed his dripping down his chin while he kept his eyes closed for a few seconds. Like he was trying to memorise your taste, the feeling of your throat tightening around his tongue. The hot and dripping embrace of your body around his.

“Almost there.” And once he spoke those words— you felt it.

The release. The warm, continuous waves that pumped down your throat. Pure venom.

Poison that swirled straight from his pulsing glands from under his jaw that was altered— it wasn’t lethal, wasn’t dangerous, his body had specifically crafted this venom for a mate.

With the purpose of claiming, of marking, of scenting, of breeding.

It was thicker than the first taste he gave you. Sweeter than the first dribble you felt on your tongue. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head when the steady pulses streamed down, you felt the heat radiating off of what you were swallowing, the way it marked its way down your throat all the way to your stomach to tuck itself inside of you. Where it pulsed.

The feeling of being owned from your mouth— your tongue and your throat like this was making a floating sensation swirl around your head. You couldn’t tell if this was from his venom or from the pleasure that you were feeling from having him this close, this connected to you.

But it didn’t matter, because everything felt good.

The forked tips of his tongue stroked down your throat, caressing every warm muscle, every corner and crevice they could reach while your serpent’s venom slipped inside, where you couldn’t help but involuntarily swallow around his tongue.

Jake almost lost it.

You were taking him. A sacred, bonding part of him that he’s never used on anyone like this, he’s never marked anyone like this. Yet here you were, with his barbed tongue so deep down your throat, drool that infused with your spilling tears drizzling down your neck while you sucked him more.

Like you weren’t aware of doing it, like it was your own body’s doing.

And jake continued feeding you. Who else would he feed if not his mate that was taking him in so sweetly? Pretty tight little throat pulsing around him when you gagged before sucking him in more, your muscles trying their best to take him in, to drag him in deeper and to have him continue.

Because Jake knew before you, that this wasn’t just a feeding. This was the start of an addiction.

He didn’t just feed your body his venom to claim you, he did it so your body knows that it’s owned. Knows that it has a viper that will protect it, nourish it, feed it.

And what’s a better way than making you know this by making you addicted to him? By making you crave him. Your throat that he just marked and claimed to need him, his venom becoming the only salvation to your thirst that he awakened. Because you’re his mate.

You’re his other half, you’re his.

It was past midnight when you woke up.

Sweaty, icy cold. Breathing heavily when your entire body tingled, an uncomfortable itch— an uncomfortable burn. A scratch that bled in your throat.

The feeling wasn’t new, you knew you were thirsty, the ache and dryness in your mouth almost made it feel like you were scratching it from the inside when you moved your tongue.

With bleary eyes you reached blindly towards the bedside table, where jake always brought a glass of water for you. Ignoring the shift of scales around your waist when you moved, fingers wrapping around the cooling cup before bringing it up to you.

And swallowing one sip, second sip.

Until you finished the whole glass without even meaning to, but your eyebrows furrowed.

Sleepy confusion clouding your senses when the ache didn’t dull, it continued. It felt like you didn’t even try, the water effectiveless.

Your breathing quickened when the sensation became entirely suffocating. Was the water too little? Was there something wrong with your mouth? You felt yourself almost on the verge of hyperventilating.

Almost, because the tail around you tightened before jake spoke right against your neck.

“Precious?” Voice still laced with sleep, tail unwrapping slightly as you turned around to face him. He could see the slumber slowly fading off your face along with the dampening along your temples. “Is something wrong?”

“My throat..” you sounded hoarse, wincing slightly at the discomfort that came along with moving your mouth, “it feels so dry.. and I just drank water, I think I need more.” You slung your legs down the side of the bed right when his clawed hand held your nightdress.

And then the serpent realised something.

“Baby.. it’s not the water.” Jake coaxed you back into the bed, “what?” You whispered now, the itch intensifying the longer you spent in bed, the longer your mouth stayed dry.

“It’s not the water, you can even test it for yourself.” He quickly reached back and gave you his glass from his side, the liquid sloshing as you brought it to your lips and gulped it in the blink of an eye. Still dry.

Your hand wrapped around your throat in irritation, “then what is it?” “It’s me.”

The serpent sat up on the bed, towering frame hovering above yours as his tail slithered to rest against your hips, “your throat isn't thirsty for water, it’s thirsty for me.” You gulped.

His clawed index ran along your jawline, “you had a taste of my venom, and that’s what your body wants now. It wants me, it knows me. Recognises me as your mate.”

His words, his tone, his slit pupils, his sharp claw— everything felt so territorial. Completely consuming, making you melt against the mattress as he pressed his brawny body to yours. “Your body knows I’m the one that’s supposed to feed it.”

Focused eyes tilted down to where you swallowed nervously, his hand instinctively wrapping around your feverish skin. “So let me feed you.” Jake felt the urge to feed you long before either of you decided to go to sleep, it hasn’t even been half a day since you first tasted him, but he knew you’d crave him again in a few hours.

He still wanted to test it.

To test your body, your senses. To see if you could depend on him, if your body could want him to function. To be hungry for him and his taste. To yearn for him.

Not that he wanted to ever starve you, to deprive you of the one thing his body produced for you. It was quite the opposite. He wanted the bond between you to strengthen, to grow, to make both of you dependent on each other.

He doesn’t waste another minute, don’t want to make either of you suffer because the ache in his fangs is becoming too much.

“Open up.” He demands, fingers gently squeezing your neck when your mouth fell open for him and he sighed. It fuelled him up, awakened an urge inside of him. Whenever your jaw stretched for him, he felt an electrifying excitement bloom in his chest.

A thirst that burned his throat. And just like that he slipped his tongue back inside of your mouth, split ends separating when they reached their home. Slithering in further and further while you both moaned at the feeling.

You gasped at the first drip of venom, so rich, so sweet. Your hands mindlessly reaching to his wrist while he moved to hold yours, interlacing your fingers as he sank deeper.

Going past the back of your throat, relishing in the feeling of you tightening around him before relaxing in acceptance, in recognition before your muscles began to swallow.

He groaned in pleasure when you hummed around his tongue, milking the venom that spilled inside of you for the second time because it was so reliving.

The moment you tasted him again, everything disappeared. The itch, the scratch and discomfort— gone.

Jake was right, it isn’t a thirst for water. It’s for him. The same venom he fed you, the same venom that warmed your insides and infused to your blood in your veins. Accepting him and desiring him.

It felt so intense, so overpowering to have him wrap his cool tail around you, lengthy tongue that fucked your throat shoved in so deep while he still held your hand gently, still kept his other right above your pulse points.

Because that’s where he was now. That’s where his venom pulsed. Right inside of you.

He fed you, nourishing your body and satisfying your thirst as you emptied his glands, falling further into a state of complete euphoria and bliss at being catered for. Limbs feeling heavier with each passing second when you whimpered around his mouth that pulsed more venom down your throat.

“Let go, sweetheart.” Jake whispered, his expression devoted as he memorised the way you looked under him, full of him. “You did amazing for me.. your body responded to me, wanted me. Let go now, little thing. Let me take care of you.” And you were slipping more.

Words enthralling, touch entrancing, tongue feeding. You were completely and utterly bonded.

“Let me fill you up till you sleep again.”

Jake’s scales pulsed around you, once, twice. Each one syncing with the rhythm of his heartbeat that he wrapped around you.

The sleep slipped out of your eyes when you fully registered the familiar warmth, slowly opening your lids to greet his slit pupils that admired you.

“Good morning, little nest.” His accent was more accentuated when his tone was groggy, the slumber still twinkling in his words when he sleepily smiled at you.

“Morning, handsome.” And your big, scary, serpent boyfriend hid his face in the crook of your neck, a specific throb crossing through his tail and your body when his heart fluttered.

He kissed your collarbone while you hummed sleepily, “I wasn’t too rough yesterday, was I?” Your fingers stroked his nape, shaking your head before placing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Not at all.”

Jake breathed out a sigh of relief as the weight on his chest was lifted off, the nagging thoughts of hurting you, injuring you or worse— scaring you. All floating away gently while he cradled you closer to him, flicking his tongue out to taste the air that carried your sweetness and your scent.

“You should stay in bed today, love.” He spoke gently, tip of his tail stroking your lower back with his velvety scales. “Let me take care of you today.” “Don’t you always do that, though?” He smirked.

“You’re my mate now. I am bonding to you, I’m the only one who should take care of you.”

Jake’s tone was low, his passion, devotion and protection blazing in each syllable. He was a hybrid after all, human to some extent but his soul was a serpent. Protective, possessive, fierce, demanding.

His mate came first, bond second and pride third. The bloodline has been sacred for centuries, rare and unknown. Some believed that it was that way intentionally. The vipers always hissed quietly, presence cloaked with their fanged bared out.

And even if the lions, the panthers, the wolves walked around freely, their bloodlines rare but loud, serpents were always silent.

That’s what set them apart, that’s what makes them dangerous.

They don’t seek, their mating ritual is vastly different from others. They choose and then they claim, and then they disappear.

Hiss along the shadows, hide behind corners where no one can find them. Because that’s how it’s always been like. That’s what makes Jake’s species unlike any other one.

That’s why your friends freaked out when you first confessed that you were seeing someone— a hybrid, a snake.

Because they declare their mates. They capture and they slither back to the dark.

That’s what happened to you an entire year ago.

You didn’t know that Jake’s attention was on you, that there was a certain pull, a tug he felt whenever he detected your scent. He chose you before you even knew him.

And when the shadows hissed darker at night in your room, when your skin became addicted to the cool of scales on it, when all the alarm signs were going off in your friends’ and families heads that it’s happening right in front of their eyes— you disappeared.

You didn’t fade, you didn’t get to say a goodbye, you slept at night and woke up in his nest the next morning.

That’s how it’s been for the past year, this is your home, where you enjoy your time and flourish in your bubble around him. He’s taken you far away, not a place you recognise, the language you still learn till this day but there are no prying eyes on you.

There are no more hands reaching to you to pull you away— just scales.

And you love it, you’ve grown to obsess over it with time.

“Then take care of me, always.” You don’t have to tell jake twice.

He’s nuzzling his face into your neck, breathing in your love deeply before lifting his head and tapping your cheek, “open.” His pupils dilate alongside yours automatically, “let me feed you now before you get hungry again.” And you do, you let him.

Pretty plump lips, still swollen from yesterday’s feeding falling open as he sighs in pride. He can spot the fading stickiness of his venom on the back of your throat, it’s almost time then.

Jake balances himself on his arms, face just a few inches apart from yours before he opens his own mouth, tongue falling out with multiple strings of saliva that pulsed with his poison extending down the length of his muscle, so long, so lethal yet it made its way to your mouth carefully.

The split ends softly brushing your lips when he released. Steady, long and thick pulses of his warm venom dripping right from his tongue and into your mouth, where you hummed in pleasure, in delight. At the feeling of relief cascading down your body in waves the more he breathed into you.

“Take it all, love.” He whispered, his tongue now moving just to circle around yours, still pulsing and still giving. While you only took, swallowing each and every drop. “Keep yourself full, always be full of me.” Jake lowered himself, tongue slipping right against yours before his divided tips touched the entrance of your throat again— just to stroke.

His eyes were half lidded when he spoke “feeling better now, sweetheart?” And you nodded, dazed and full. The heat of his venom enveloping you, wrapping around you completely and gently loving you. “Good girl.” Then jake retracted his muscle, placing a quick kiss to your open mouth before he chased your tongue.

Both of you instinctively moaning in pleasure when his forked tongue dragged against yours, eyes closing when your candied, gentle, human flavour bursted in his mouth while he kissed and nipped your tongue.

You felt the sting of tears behind your eyes, a heat pooling down towards your core, a craving awakening making your hips twitch under him, right when jake began to suck on your tongue.

“Fuck.. baby..” he took more, mouth chasing after your sensitive tongue while you whimpered under him, still drunk on his venom and now he was sucking your tongue like it was the source, “tastes so sweet.. so addictive.” His lips wrapped more tightly, he sucked harshly, relishing in the vibrations that trailed down his throat from your mouth.

Jake’s hand gripped your hip, to stop you from rutting into him, and his fingertips almost burned from the heat you were radiating, so needy, so eager, so his.

Then with a final suck to the tip of your tongue, he trailed his kisses lower. Open mouthed with his barbed skin stroking you to mark and to claim. “I’ve got you.. I’ve got your throat.” He whispered, his lips reaching your lower stomach as he nipped your hip bone, just enough to graze it with his peeking fang. “And I’ve got you here.” Jake spoke right when his hand cupped your mound.

You gasped, a shudder tensing through your body at the slight feeling of relief, of having him touch you right where you need him the most, where your body yearned for him the most.

And jake chuckled.

A deep, crazed rumble of his chest that almost sounded like a purr, his slender fingers deftly stroked your sopping cunt, leaking and dripping when he has barely touched you, and the thought of you being so ready for him, your pretty little pussy wanting him so much that she’s salivating for him? Was making him dizzy.

He hissed, feral and possessive when his claw ripped your soaked panties open, the lace dangling off of it while he let out a guttural sound at the sight of you, so wet, glistening and tightening around nothing as if you’re inviting him in, welcoming him in— begging him to touch you.

“Look at you..” his claws disappeared in an instant, trailing down your folds gently just to hear you whimper under him. “She’s so needy for me..” he was stunned.

Infatuated, so so in love with your pretty hole, his hole, his womb and his home.

“Let’s see how she’ll react to me..” he spoke with the tip of his finger circling your entrance, swirling your nectarine spit making your whole body flutter under him. “She should recognise me now..” you didn’t know what he was talking about.

Because jake didn’t tell you that his venom doesn’t only make your throat crave him, it doesn’t only make your mouth thirst for him and your body to settle when he’s around.

The venom that he created for you, that ran in your veins right now and reached your womb— marks you.

From the inside out, wholly and entirely. You didn’t know this, but he owns you now. Your throat, your womb, your entire body.

And he is right. Because the second he kisses your entrance, soft lips nuzzling into your quivering walls, the first flick of his venom laced tongue just inside your entrance— barely in, just a simple poke.

Your back arched in the nest.

A broken sob and moan slipped past your lips at the sheer force, the sheer strength of the contraction that coursed through your body, absolutely and utterly divine.

The tears that aligned your waterline now slipped freely, your walls fluttered— tightening, widening, convulsing restlessly as if they were trying to milk something just at the slightest taste of his venom.

You felt the way a deeper part of you opened up— your tight, unscathed and untouched cervix pulsing right before flickering. As if the gate was entirely unsealed now, cervix swollen, low and ready.

And jake felt all of it, he felt the way your thighs twitched and jerked next to his head, he senses the way your pussy awakened, your womb fluttering open in preparation for him.

Because she recognised him, a single taste— a short, almost nonexistent slip of his venom and she released.

“Of course she does..” he laughed in awe, at the feeling of your body burning under him, at the breathless sounds that escaped your falling chest, at the way more slick poured out of you like it was urging him in.

The sight, the sense and the scent of everything alone made his head spin. The serpent felt the way his tail twitched in desperation, fingers shaking as he tried his best to not allow his claws to slip out, his slit pupils dilating so far his emerald iris is gone.

He felt the carnal urge, the primal pull that stirred inside of him. The need and the desire, the programmed, biological response of his kind to claim, to worship, to breed. The very cunt that’s anticipating him. Dripping in arousal and hunger in hopes of luring him in with his venom still pulsing through your veins, so reactive, so responsive.

But not tonight, not yet.

Jake will just worship you for tonight, please and satisfy your needy pussy in preparation for what’s to come.

That’s when he slipped his tongue inside of you. Lengthy muscle that pulsed within your walls at every contraction that he felt, you cried. Fingers gripping around the sheets so hard your knuckles paled, a sheen, thin layer of sweat illuminating your body while you fell apart above his nest.

You looked divine, something holy, something completely sacred.

And the serpent wanted to do nothing more than to devote himself to you. Mind, body and soul.

His pretty mate, his loving mate that accepted and thrived off of his venom— writhing under him, twitching and shaking as moans spilled out of your body, pure euphoria overflowing within you while jake retracted his tongue— only to thrust it back in entirely.

Movements sloppy, uncoordinated and mindless as he fucked your throbbing cunt on his tongue that dripped and drooled with his saliva and his venom, your walls clamped down on his muscle, the first contact of his poison right against you made you feel delirious.

Your body drank him in, tightening walls that he fucked were wrapping around him, milking his tongue that gave more and more of his flavour, his taste and your womb’s sedative.

Jake’s tail slashed behind him, his hips rutting restlessly against the layers of fabric of his nest under him. He felt his senses sparking when your taste filled him up. Eyes wild, claws peeking before disappearing and jake was just getting started.

His breaths were heavy as he felt himself unable to breathe. Tongue so deep inside of you, the forked edges dragged against your pulsing walls while his split tips nuzzled into your sweetest spots, you tasted so good, so tender.

He wrapped your thighs around his head with no intentions of slipping out anytime soon, his mouth suckled around your folds, drenched when his nose brushed against your puffy clit, needy and neglected that from one single stroke, you came.

You weren’t even able to process the build up of your climax, nor were you able to comprehend the waves of pleasure that crashed upon you, one after the other. Merciless as jake fucked you through it. Tongue piercing you faster, rougher and deeper.

Until you felt him reach your peak.

The one sacred spot inside of you. Hidden and tucked away so deep in safety, in security. The one spot that jake claimed.

The one the serpent wanted and marked. It belongs to him now, your fluttering, dripping cervix that throbbed the moment his poisoned tips reached it.

And you screamed, the sensation so new, so uncomfortable yet soothing— so painful yet pleasant, it made you feel like your mind was melting away, your head being filled with mush while your body went completely limp under him.

Jake was euphoric. High on the taste of you, on the feeling of you pulsing around him, and right when he reached the opening of your cervix, his place, the one he’s going to surrender himself too, he felt feral.

He’s reached his peak, the most precious part of his mate that he caressed with the tips of his tongue, slicking and stroking the tight muscle that twitched for him, called for him. He couldn’t ever think of retracting himself away, of leaving you alone, not when the sensation of your tightening was so addictive.

He could feel you from here, love you from here. He was able to sense the beat of your heart just because his tongue was touching the most intimate part of you, and he felt his body shake in relief. In satisfaction that this is his home.

Your womb, pretty and fluttery, prospered under his venom. The one he keeps feeding you, rolling out of his glands along his tongue and straight to your cervix, where your muscles pulsed like they were taking him in, drinking him up.

“You’re drinking from me..” he mouthed at your sensitive clit, your cunt was so overstimulated, so used but still restless against his tongue. “Your womb.. she’s taking from me. She recognises me..” he’s completely frenzied.

And you were slipping in and out of consciousness, unaware in a bubble of constant bliss, you didn’t know if you were cumming anymore— all you could feel was the consistent thrumming, the consistent pulling and convulsing of your walls around his tongue while the tips swirled and pushed at your cervix, almost like they were cuddling against it.

Jake’s body slumped, engulfed in elation while your figure rested under him, legs occasionally twitching when he caressed too hard, his mouth and tongue locked. This time on your cunt, feeding his venom inside of you to claim you, to leave a mark so deep it’s almost a wound, a scar that you’ll always carry.

A deep connection, a familiarity between his venom and your womb.

So he kept feeding you, even when your awareness floated away, keeping you sealed in a cloud of pure pleasure and surrender. Even when his muscles ached and his tail twitched wildly, and even when his sweatpants felt so warm and sticky from his mindless release right when your womb accepted him.

He was still inside of you, like a good, responsible and possessive mate that will do anything for his other half. He caressed you, he held you and kept you full while your cervix allowed it, welcomed it, loved it.

You were flourishing with his venom flooding you from the inside, and it was just the beginning.

The serpent placed a big porcelain plate in front of you. Vibrant with colours of different fruits and vegetables, the pretty hues from the berries and the chopped pieces of bell peppers alongside the golden glow of the fried eggs he made so early in the morning.

Packed with protein and filling, just what he needed for his mate. “Eat. All of it, angel.” His words were tender, touch even softer in comparison. He hovered behind you, towering frame that glimmered with scattered scales along his tail, Jake’s built was so impressively massive he could cover you with his body completely.

“I need you to be healthy, at all times. Need you to be energetic and strong.” His clawed finger ran along your shoulder blade, careful and featherlight. Teasing the strap of your short, satin nightgown that he picked up when your body was too sensitive to even move. You nodded at his attentiveness, heart swelling in your chest when he placed a soft kiss to your neck. “Eat well, my mate.”

And you did, fingers grabbing the honeyed toast apart as you chewed, strawberries bursting with sweetness in your mouth as you nourished your body the whole time your viper’s tail stroked your thighs, travelling along the dips and curves of your skin gently. Scales velvety soft as if each movement that was caressing you was kissing your body.

You turned around every now and then to pop a piece of fruit into his mouth, pulling apart your toast unevenly to give him the bigger pieces, and he accepted all of them. Flicking his long tongue out to tease your fingertips that held the food to his lips before he let the edge of his fang graze your skin, just to hear you giggle when he finally took the piece in his mouth.

He felt himself falling closer to you, even though there was barely in space between you two physically, he still was lured towards you. No matter how much he kissed you, touched you and breathed you in he always yearned to be closer.

To nuzzle into you, carve a space in your heart just for him and stay there, safe and protected in the spot that he flourished in. He could never feel himself close enough— if possible, he wanted to bore his entire soul to yours.

You fed him when you believed that it was the opposite, you loved and protected him when you thought that he was the one doing everything. But the truth was that he would’ve crumbled apart ages ago if it wasn’t for your kind touch and loving eyes that gazed at him like he hung the stars in your universe, he breathed the air into your lungs and he brought the sun out to your sky.

So devoted, so in love and so mated.

He adored you, his very being was wrapped around you, surrounding you in ways only a serpent could wrap around their mate. He wasn’t just bonding himself to you, eventually making himself just bonded— no, he was fated to you.

The same way you accepted him, the same way you were fated to him.

A fusion of your two souls, laced with warm blood and sweet venom that glowed between your chests, something beyond comprehension skills, beyond the relationships and marriages you were used too, because you weren’t in love with jake. You dedicated every piece of yourself to him.

And he held each piece with care, a teasing yet gentle hold. Just like the way he nipped your finger now.

“Ow! That one hurted.” You huffed, the serpent’s pupils thinned when he let out a sudden breath, a laugh at your endearing expression while you stared at your perfectly fine finger.

Jake quickly engulfed your finger in his hands, cool blooded heart unable to take the slight pout in your face. He pressed his lips right on the spot he grazed, “all better now, baby. I’ll take care of you.”

The serpent kept you close, arm now cradling your side, tail wrapped protectively around your ankle all the while his own hand fed you from the plate since your hand should ‘just rest now’ according to his words.

And he pressed a soft kiss to your overly sweet mouth after each bite. As if to praise you, to seal the bite inside and make sure that you swallow it.

When you’re done with everything, he presses a kiss to your throat.

It felt like a ‘thank you’ rather than a kiss, a small appreciation for nurturing you and keeping you in his arms.

You cuddled closer to him, a habitual heat radiating off his body that pulsed against you. Making you feel every breath, every beat and every pulse. You were a part of him as much as he was a part of you.

“Jake..” your voice was giddy, calling for him as he hummed peacefully behind you, his lips were gently littering kisses along your shoulder, down your arm and right on the faint throb on your wrist.

And then you felt it.

A deep, carnal hunger, the same discomfort, the same itch from two nights ago— it made you shift in your seat, retracting your arm from his hold like you couldn’t fully breathe for a moment, your body was feverish.

Jake’s eyes narrowed, detecting the shift instantly and flicking his tongue out to taste the air— distress, agitation, thirst.

His tail unwrapped from your ankle, “everything okay?” Voice low, attentive and protective. You shook your head, a dryness aching in your throat. “I think .. that thing is happening again.” The serpent’s composure wavered.

It was working. Your body .. was thirsty for him again.

It made jake swoon. A slight tremor in his fingers when he breathed out shakily, his own body trembling in the need to provide, the need to protect and love.

He felt like he was drowning in you.

“Oh baby..” he cooed, muscular arms wrapping around your middle to lift you off and bring you back to the nest, your safe space and his home. He carried you tenderly, claws nowhere to be seen while his soft palms caressed your skin.

Jake laid you down above the fabrics, the cloths and clothes and the blankets that he chose, his own larger body hovering above you while your stomach churned in hunger. The feeling bubbling up and burning your throat, making you whimper in his hold as he shushed you softly.

He leaned down to your neck, pressing his nose right above your pulse point, each thump making his muscles relax as he flicked his tongue out— little beads of poison glittering that he licked down your skin.

The serpent kept moving, nuzzling your skin, kissing your collarbones, licking right above your breasts, nipping along your shoulders while his palm pressed on your lower stomach— right above your uterus where you felt a contraction pulse the moment his skin touched yours.

A gasp slipped out of you at the feeling, a sudden rush of heat washing down your body as you began gushing, folds soaking through your panties while Jake gazed at you in awe. “You’re already calling for me..” he was mesmerised.

“Your womb .. she’s calling for me again. She recognises me even more than I expected.” He leaned down, pressing his forehead right to the heat source, right between your hips, “I still have to prepare you more for me, love.”

“Still need you to be ready for me.. so you can take all of me.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself, words of reassurance and calm spilling past his lips but there trickles of sweat on his temples, the tips of his claws almost fully appearing— and that’s when you noticed that Jake was holding himself back from you.

“Jake .. please.” You whimpered, weak hands curling around him as your hips began to ache in need, a soreness spreading from your throat, to your stomach that felt empty and down between your legs.. where you were practically twitching in desire.

Your nails dug into his muscles, “I need you right now, I need you.” Jake inhaled sharply, his own pants tightening around him, the way you looked at him— with the gentlest twinkle of tears in your eyes, lips wobbling when you begged him to give himself fully to you, to not restrain himself, not now and not ever.

But Jake couldn’t, you weren’t ready for him. He knew this and no matter how much it hurt him— he didn’t want to hurt you.

He’ll take all the needed time to prepare you, to prepare your body for him. So when the time does actually come, you’ll fully accept him instead of being in pain. He could never make you uncomfortable knowing that he was the cause.

“Sweetheart.. you know I can’t. Not yet.” He caressed your jaw, fingers featherlight as they went down your neck, you felt small tears drop slip down your temples that he didn’t hesitate to lick up, the sight of you almost making him whimper with the urge to just fully claim you, adore you and make you his.

“You’re not ready for me yet, little nest.” He mumbled against your skin, tone shaky like his words were hurting him. “but once you are— I promise I’ll never let you go a day without being filled of me. I promise I’ll always let you feel me in any way that you want. You’ll fully breathe me in.”

“But for now, I’ll just keep soothing you with my venom.” His lips were now returning to your neck, fangs peeking past his plump lips that became swollen from the kissing. “Ready, baby?” You nodded your head quickly, tears springing down your eyes fully in anticipation at him finally sedating you.

And then it happened— his fangs sunk right into your pulse point. The sharp tips puncturing your skin, your vein, venom instantly gushing inside of you making your blood flare.

You didn’t even have time to process the pain— the burning wound and sinking of his fangs, didn’t even have time to process the scream that it ripped out from your chest before you fell back to the mattress the moment his poison hit your blood stream directly. No longer being drunk from your throat, it was being injected.

And the feeling was making you intoxicated. Completely drunk in the matter of seconds as you mewled in euphoria, pleasure coursing through you, intensifying with every heart beat inside of you that rushed, picking up the pace when jake growled into your skin.

He moaned when your flavour hit his tongue. The serpent, though not one to crave blood, felt his head spin at yours. The crimson warmth that flushed into his mouth, he was drinking the life of you, the life of his mate.

Then you started to feel it— the more he drank, the more he took, the tighter his hands gripped your hips, the more you floated.

Slowly, faintly slipping out of the embrace of consciousness. Your eyelids became droopy, breaths slow and deep while your entire body relaxed.

Jake noticed all of it. He just venom-fed you into subspace.

The feeling of your body fully surrendering to him, to his scales, to his fangs and to his venom made him groan in satisfaction. You were giving him your complete all.

“That’s right, baby..” he muttered, mouth still so wet of you while you whimpered in his hold, so spent and so high on his poison. The sensation of him flooding you was so electrifying yet so soothing. It was like your entire body was waiting for this again, “go under for me.. just like that.”

Jake didn’t know it yet, but this version of you, so pliant, so unguarded was his favourite. He could protect you all he wanted, kiss you and caress you all he wanted all the while you trusted him just enough to let him do absolutely anything to you.

“Stay there for me, love.. I’ll take care of you.” And he did. His venom pulsed inside of you carefully, filling you up and making ecstasy rush through your entire body that fluttered in his hold. You let go entirely. Not a single thought, a single voice or a single breath in your head. Besides the warmth of his body and the stroke of his scaled tail around your calf. “I always will.”

With his arms wrapped protectively around you and his fangs snug inside of you— you slept in peace. Cradled in the most gentle hold that’s ever touched you, as if you were made of the most divine glass to bless Earth, and in Jake’s eyes of course you were, you were the most precious human he’s ever laid eyes on.

This bite— wasn’t just a simple feeding from him to you, it wasn’t just a bite. It was complete submission, it was dedication and it a confession. All this wasn’t for him, he already knew he had you wrapped around him just like the way he had his tail coiled around you, he knew he had a home in your soul in the same way you owned his.

But this was a mark of love, a promise to the bond that you both created. One that bridged your mortal heart to his serpent one, webbing in between and making them inseparable. And now, each pulse of your heart was connected to his. Each breath that you inhaled to your lungs, he exhaled them for you. Each thought that annoyed your mind, he fought it off for you.

This was past anything that you could’ve shared with another human, and way more exceptional than any mating he could’ve had with another hybrid. Because you were connecting two universe together with each moment you both breathed together— you connected a human to a snake.

A bond that flourished, that bloomed and went beyond any other previous love, relationship or marriage.

You had your soul tied to his now, and you both grew to adore this bond more day by day.

It happens without either of you knowing, without either of you catching on, but the connection grows.

Each night that you spend wrapped in his coils, the taste of his venom still fresh in your tongue and his claws retracted with his hand covering your waist protectively? It blooms.

With every shared breath, it pulses to life. With every exchanged kiss, it stirred like it was awakening— akin to an ancient flame, an ancient dream, a promise. Spoken only between the lips of a human and a serpent, but kept safe. Secure with your love and his scales.

Then it grew, it blossomed. A life formed between the two of you, a new breath that swelled over your relationship, your bond grew. Fully forming, fully developing and connecting you to him, body, mind, soul and heart.

It started off when you were in the den, an open book between your hands while you cuddled up against his hoodie in the nest. Jake was outside, he muttered something about hybrid meetings before disappearing behind the door.

And then you felt a tug— a push at your chest, heat building up but not the good kind, no. You felt angry.

Like something had agitated you, something pissed you off. Something that went wrong.

You sat up right on the bed, brows furrowed at confusion and the way your hands were almost twitching with fury. That’s when the door of your house slammed open, almost getting thrown off of its hinges.

In came Jake. Pupils slit entirely, almost appearing like a thin line as his emerald eyes were dim. Claws full unsheathed while his tail lashed behind him like a whip. He stormed inside of the place, steps heavy and mad.

“Jake..?” You called but his ears were ringing. He didn’t spot your figure walking into the living room, too busy pacing around the area while running his claws through his hair. “Did something happen at the meeting?” When your quiet, calm voice finally registered into his senses, he exhaled.

He breathed for the first time in hours.

An instant relief rushed through him— the same one that you felt as the bond now humming. In satisfaction, in relief at the proximity.

“No.. nothing happened, love. Nothing that you need to worry about.” Jake walked towards you, the anger in his posture fully dissipating when he inched closer and laid his palms on your hips. The touch making him melt against you. “It’s .. nothing serious.” He swallowed heavily.

But you already knew. You felt it.

Shaking your head, “Jake .. I know you’re angry because something went wrong.” Now his eyes were locked on you. “I don’t know what it is.. but it felt like something that you worked hard on was messed up. Like the frustration you get when your effort just goes to waste.” The serpent stilled.

“How did you.. figure all this out?”

“I don’t know, I just felt it.” He tilted his head.

You weren’t a hybrid that could pick up on scent changes, besides the fact that he did storm inside the house with his mannerisms screaming anger, you still knew too much.

“I felt your anger.” You added, your words now making his eyebrow arch while his claws grazed your skin just a tiny bit.

Inching closer, “I felt the way your frustration bloomed in your chest, the way your hands..” you lowered yours to hold onto his, thumb pressing gently against his palm, “the way they shook in anger.”

Jake exhaled shakily.

“I don’t know why, I think it’s this bond thing we have going on. But I truly felt everything like I was the one experiencing.” Your words— you simply didn’t know how much they weighed to jake.

You didn’t know that this was just more confirmation to him that you’re his mate. That the bond is settling in, fully connecting and spreading further into your lives. You felt his emotions when he wasn’t even near you.

Maybe you were unaware, or maybe you weren’t ready to face something like this. But you were already developing a sense of instinct for him. For your mate. This sense, had already existed in jake since he was born, it’s only that now it found its other half.

You were completing him without even knowing.

The bond was flourishing, roaring in love and devotion that only thrummed harder when your mate was close by.

He pressed his forehead to yours, all of his limbs felt relaxed. “It is the bond. You’re not just marked by me anymore, you’re mine and I’m yours. Emotions, thoughts and soul wise.”

“You feel what I feel. That’s how close we are now.” And you only blinked at him in awe, mesmerised by the bond and your creation— this special connection that you formed and developed with Jake with your bare hands, now made you exist within him the same way he will within you.

Over the days, it only blossomed more.

Your thoughts were no longer fully yours, they were sharing a space with Jake’s. And sometimes it was a bit too much.

“I wonder how our kids will look like..” “Jake.” He perked up, tongue flicking out nervously as he looked at you with his eyes widened. “Can you not wonder about our kids when I’m trying to read?” You could’ve sworn you felt just the lightest flush on the tips of his ears. “Sorry..”

“Will i be asking him too much if—“ you’re not even given the chance to continue before you feel a warm tail wrapping around your ankle. Holding you gently as his burly figure slithered behind you. “Never.” He hissed, “you’ll never ask for too much.”

But it was never just your thoughts. Jake started to feel the way you do as well.

Whenever you felt colder than usual, he would cuddle up next to you wordlessly. His scales tangling around you multiple times while he places a gentle kiss on your temple.

The one day you woke up craving something sweet for breakfast, he already had an entire plate of honeyed toast and waffles piling up next to chopped fruits. And he would feed the pieces to you one by one. Glued to your side as he nourished you right in front of his eyes.

With his closeness, the shared attachment and the continuous reaching out for each other, the bond was enchanted. It fluttered whenever the serpent touched a sensitive spot on your skin, buzzed when you kissed his neck.

It bent when he didn’t glance at you in hours. It coiled when you didn’t touch him for a night.

The connection was an indicator and a regulator of everything. Syncing your heartbeats, your thoughts, your souls.

It kept you bounded to jake. In all ways possible, you were his.

That’s why when you woke up one day, with an uncomfortable tightening in your abdomen, a warmth burning your skin and an itch that you couldn’t drink away— jake was by your side before you even called for him.

Because he didn’t need you to be verbal about anything anymore, he felt it before you even spoke it.

The discomfort, the pain and shuddering when your entire body ached. “I don’t know what’s wrong.” Your voice was hushed when you curled in on yourself in the middle of his nest. Jake was on his knees next to you, slit pupils studying your every move— before the realisation dawned on him.

It wasn’t discomfort it was a tug.

It wasn’t pain it was a call.

“My body .. feels so wrong. It feels so odd.” Because it was ready. “Love..” the air from his lungs was knocked out the second you whimpered and he smelt it.

Like a carnal urge awakening, ripping its way to life within him— he picked up your scent, your need. Your arousal, sweet and addictive wafting through the air to his nose.

His split tongue uncontrollably flicked out to taste it, to taste the tiniest tinge of your nectarine in the air. And he groaned when he realised that you weren’t just ready— you were fertile for him. You tasted fertile.

“It’s not wrong.. or odd.” The serpent hissed, now climbing next to your curled body before his tail and arms engulfed you. “Your body is calling for me, little nest.” You grunted at his words, arousal gushing between your legs like flowing slick. “You’re ready for me.” And at that your legs instinctively opened.

Like a welcoming gesture, the warmth spreading between you both as Jake coiled himself around you, his massive arm wrapping around your waist, holding you close, grounding you. While the other slipped down your hips.

You moaned in relief when he mouthed at your shoulder, fingers dipping past your soaked underwear while the tip of his nose brushed right against your pulse point— and he nuzzled closer. Kissing, nipping, licking at your skin to scent you. Right above your heart beat.

“My pretty mate..” his claws were retracted, rough fingers toying with your folds making you gasp in his hold. “All ready for me.. finally calling for me.” The serpent felt delirious.

He felt the way that the desire that rushed through you, was stemming from the deepest parts of your soul. He was witnessing you naked. Completely bare for his eyes, searching and reaching towards him.

Towards the only person you know that will hold you, soothe you and protect you. Your mate.

Jake moved to hover above you, his tail now circling your hips with the tip stroking your lower stomach where the skin burned him. You looked up at him, pretty eyes glossy with expectancy, waiting when your body blazed with need.

And when you felt a pulse, a contraction blooming in your abdomen in pain— you whimpered his name. So soft, so broken and defenceless.

Jake crumbled entirely. All restraint and plans of being gentle with you in your first time evaporating away.

He needed you, and you need him right now.

“Shh— sweetheart, don’t worry. I’ve got you..” the serpent’s tail coiled around one of your thighs before pulling it towards his hips, opening you. His mouth latched onto your jaw, flicking his divided tongue along your skin while you shuddered under him. Gasps and sighs all falling from your lips as waves of relief washed down on you, the bond humming in satisfaction whenever jake touched you.

“I’ve got you.. your mate’s got you, already so sweet and ready for me..” Jake babbled on the lower his kisses went, plump lips already swollen trailing down your collarbone before he ripped apart your nightgown. Claws shredding the soft satin before settling above your flushed skin gently. So careful. “You’re all ready for me.. I can feel it.” He pressed his palm onto your lower stomach—

And he could’ve sworn he felt a throb. Right under his touch.

Jake couldn’t help the frenzied smile that etched on his features.

You groaned in pleasure when he pressed— applying light pressure, his pupils dilating when your scent sharpened. Sweetened. And the throbbing under his palm continued.

“There she is..” his voice was low, so low it sounded like he was purring. He leaned right next to your ear, akin to a predator taunting their prey, territorial and crazed. “There’s my favourite place.. pulsing for me.” He flicked his tongue out to taste you again. The need, the lust and the desire.

He pressed harder. “Feel that, angel? That’s you wanting me. That’s you being my mate.” Jake breathed in, inhaling your scent like it was his air— like he couldn’t live without it. “That’s where I’m gonna be at all times now. I’m going to keep you full. Here. Always.”

Your limbs were weak, the hunger now burning its way through your veins and lighting you on fire. Like a lava waiting just for the right moment to erupt inside of you, yet you only could whimper under jake. Could only look at him with tears in your eyes in hopes of him doing something.

The serpent then sensed everything.

The burn in your womb, the ache in your body, the warmth pooling between your legs— the bond convulsing with anticipation and jake was left gasping for breath. “Fuck.. baby, this is all for me? This is how you feel for me?” And you nodded because he wasn’t aware of the way he had you suffocating in his love. Wasn’t aware that you were drowning in him.

Now Jake didn’t want to do anything besides the exact same.

To cover and wrap and strangle himself with you. He suddenly lowered himself and finally kissed you.

The gasps and moans fell past your lips effortlessly, the kiss was anything but that. It was the two of you breathing one another in. Biting, licking, sucking with your teeth clashing. His spit instantly dribbled down your throat, the venom bursting in your tongue like it just sprung you back to life and you couldn’t help but wrap your arms around the serpent’s neck to bring him closer, to take more.

Jake’s entire body was pressed against yours. His tail thrumming with his heart beat that pulsed wildly, smooth scales turning warmer by the second, you moaned into his mouth and he swallowed. “So pretty.. every pretty noise you make.. every pretty moan are all mine.” He bit on your lower lip, brushing his split ends while tears aligned your waterline, “just mine. Only mine.”

“Jake.. please,” your voice was barely audible, a small, broken sound between all his hissing. “I need you, really bad. It hurts.” Jake inhaled sharply,

And then he unleashed everything.

His hands, that were so gently caressing your skin, held onto your wrists and pinned them upwards. He pushed his body against yours, his tail pressing at your hips after coiling around once— trapping you under him.

The serpent hissed loudly. A light vibration rumbling in his chest that spread to your body, he began to rut into you. Hips rubbing and grinding mindlessly, you felt a poke— a pressure. Of something massive, warm, throbbing.

The size alone makes you choke a gasp out, jake smiled like he knew that you felt him. “Felt me, little nest? I’m gonna be inside you all the time now.” He whispered hotly into your skin. “Gonna let you crave me so much you’ll want me in all the time, everyday.” And you knew that he meant every word. Because Jake always kept his promises.

He loved the way your wetness seeped through his clothes to coat him. Loved the way you were so soaked and so eager to claim you couldn’t help yourself but do it even without him touching you. He wanted you to claim and mark him just as bad as he wanted to do it to you, and now was his chance to bring all his dreams to life.

While you were shuddering and gasping beneath him, his tail uncoiled.

The tip that once rested on your hip, inched closer to your middle— right before dipping under your panties.

You froze.

“Feel me, baby?” His tail thrusted deeper, your pussy tightened around his scales that soothed your walls. Pulsing, throbbing and so hot it felt like he was leaking inside of you. You sobbed when the stretch settled in, so wide it burned you from the inside out. Yet it felt so good. Especially when he pressed down his palm, feeling right where he was. “I’m right here, angel. I’m home.”

You squealed when his rough tip, now soft and swollen nuzzled right into your cervix opening. The small, pulsating rhythm of the beginning of your uterus throbbing at the contact. You sniffled as you weakly held onto him, body completely open and vulnerable at his mercy. “Jake.. a-are you sure this is okay—?” You sounded so shy. So bewildered at what he was doing to you, to your little pussy that could only stretch and drool around him.

The serpent laughed breathlessly. “Of course, baby. You’re taking me so well.. wrapping around my tail so nicely, look how pretty you look all open for me.” His praises fell off his lips like honey, Jake felt the way you clenched around his scales as he stretched you open. Your cunt dripping more and more each time he pulled back just the slightest bit before pushing his tail all the way back in.

Up until his swollen tip pressed against your cervix, and then began to pulse.

Your body twitched above the nest. Hips jerking forward when Jake didn’t pull back, he only throbbed right into your opening like his tail was kissing your cervix. “J-Jake.. what’s going on—“ “shhh Angel girl. Don’t worry about anything, let your mate prepare your pretty womb.” And then you felt the force, the pull.

The suction right against your tight ring of muscles. Like he was pulling your uterus down and making it bloom open at the same time— you felt the way your womb contracted right before dilating at his command.

And at the sensation of the hot, sticky and wet sucking, you thrashed in his hold. Your entire body felt like it was melting away while Jake wrapped his arms around you roughly, to keep you in place when you sobbed into his neck.

You felt so overwhelmed. The feeling was building up inside of you so rapidly, your heart thundered in your chest, struggling to keep up with everything that was happening.

From his whispered praises, sloppy mouth kissing and licking anywhere he could reach, the peak of his claws appearing every second just to dig and then disappear— and his tail. His tail that felt like it was splitting you as it sucked at your cervix, trembling as if to beg for your womb to let it inside. Everything felt debauched, so cruel yet so blissful.

“Gonna make your needy womb all open for me..” the serpent grunted breathlessly next to your ear, tongue flicking to lick the shell before he spoke again. “Get you all pretty and ready for me.. so you’ll be able to carry my clutch, baby.” You whimpered.

Throat hoarse from the consistent moaning and sobbing, eyelashes heavy from the unshed tears, the nest felt unbearable— yet it was also the only place you wanted to be in right now. The air so thick with his scent, with your slick and his wafting pheromones that floated away from his scales. Sweat clinging to both of your bodies, increasing the more his skin rubbed to yours.

Jake felt his senses slipping through his fingers, nostrils flared as he tried his best to inhale into his suffocating lungs. He could only feel you. Only breathe and sense you. His instincts flaring yet calming down at the same time, his thoughts incoherent as an ancient, a primitive hiss echoed through him. Like the serpent inside of Jake fully awakened this time.

With the intention to arouse, to stake, to coil around what’s his.

That was exactly what his body was moving to do before he was even aware of it. He felt so lost, so drunk and mindless with his hands gripping your hips to anchor himself. Yet nothing helped, he felt himself slipping further into the warmth, the engulfing embrace of lust and mating.

He wanted nothing more than to be connected to you in the most intimate way possible. His tail that cradled your cervix, the opening that fluttered around him like a blooming flower— latched on. Sucking and pulling like your womb was its only lifeline. Jake shuddered above you the more his body desperately pulled.

Your legs folded around his hips, pulling his tail even closer when your entire body yearned for him. Thirst amplifying by the second, your skin was feverish. Blazing with an entire layer of glistening sweat. You could no longer talk or speak— you left all the talking to your weak limbs that gripped onto the serpent like he was the only thing keeping secure, keeping you afloat above the sea of need that you both were drowning in.

It felt too intimate, too close, too much. You couldn’t breathe without his hot mouth touching you in some way, you felt your mind shut down the moment his hands would move from one place to another— and jake was weak.

His hands almost frail while his legs trembled. “Shit sweetheart.. you’re taking me in so well.” His tone airy, barely carrying the usual edge to it when he was melting on top of you. You could only flutter around his tail, your shyness still glowing and it made his heart lurch to his throat.

Then he moved his hand, one stayed anchored next to your head to steady himself while the other dipped low. He lowered himself to litter kisses down your neck, whispers of loving, sweet promises all spoken carefully to your skin only. Like it was a promise between him and your body alone.

Jake’s figure was restless. Twitchy, so sensitive. He felt something unfurling within him— something he wasn’t fully prepared for himself. And it excited him and terrified him at the same time.

The scratch of claws against his ribs, the graze of fangs against his throat. He was holding back his serpent from fully possessing him. Coming out and claiming, marking and hurting. Because that’s what his kind did.

It was driving him insane. But you looked so pretty under him.. writhing just from his tail that suckled on your womb like it was breathing air. A singular moment of break would mean that he would starve. His movements were all steady, stable. continuous.

Yet there was an urge to just dig his claws inside of you. To land his final touch and lay his clutch in your warmth— to fully possess you and change you. Witness the way your body will adapt to him.

The effect of him on you.

Jake tried his hardest to hold back, even if he was thrusting his tail inside of you like he was chasing his own high. Even if he felt the way you gushed and shuddered around him when your climax fluttered through you, he still attempted his best to tame his animalistic side.

But serpents were always stronger than humans. He could only do so much with his humane abilities—

That’s why he slipped his tail out in the blink of an eye, his pupils slitting to thin threads when a cry fell from your lips right before he flipped you over onto your stomach.

The serpent was wild. Claws now fully digging into your skin making you whimper in pain, his muscular chest pressed to your back. Pushing you towards the mattress while he held your hips, shifting them upwards to press against his own.

He was completely slipping. Fangs bared, venom dripping down his throat. A deadly glint in his as his breaths came out shallow. The mortal cuffs he had forced upon himself melting entirely when a painful throb spread right from under his abdomen—

From right below his waistline, where his slit slowly folded open to allow his erect cock to slither from behind his iridescent scales— he was massive. Awakened and excited. Way past the average human size, tip a primal red while his base flushed gently with the same gleaming dark emerald of his scales.

And he was leaking so much you would’ve thought that it was his climax instead. Pretty, opaline with infused venom ropes of cum drizzled past his length. Dripping onto the fabrics of the nest when he pressed the head of his cock to your sopping entrance.

He felt absolutely feral. His hands trembling, attempting his best to keep him steady while he teased your cunt. The serpent’s mouth was unable to detach from your body, “mine mine mine..” he whispered with his eyes half lidded, drowning in desire.

“All mine.. my pretty mate, my little nest.” He spoke, wrapping one of his hands around your neck. Fully thrusting inside of you. “There we go..” and you were panting.

He was so big, so deep. “J-jake.. please slow down—“ he paused.

Length throbbing, flaring between her stretched walls. “You want me to slow down.. when she’s been waiting for me?” Jake mocked.

His grip on your jaw tightened, sharp nails indenting your skin. “How could I possibly do that, baby?” Now his voice was softer. Desperate, wet with the leaking venom from his fangs. He talked like he was guilt tripping you, like he couldn’t believe that you wanted him to slow down. Like it hurt.

“Just a little bit— don’t stop, m’not asking you to..” the serpent exhaled heavily, continuing to sheath himself inside of you. “You don’t get what you do to me, baby..”

“You dont get what I want to do to you right now..” his voice was unlike his. Something dark, something ferocious spoke from within him. Thick with malice, webbed in the impulse to ruin.

And you were the victim. You were the chosen one to take. The thought alone made you shiver beneath him, goosebumps appearing making the animal behind you chuckle in amusement.

“Scared?” Jake snarled right next to your ear. Smiling when more tears slipped past your eyes— from the adrenaline that dug into your heart, the swirled combination of fear and excitement— terror and arousal. “No need to be scared, baby.. I’m just here to take care of you.”

He whispered like he was trying to distract you. Like his words could conceal the burn, the unbearable stretch of his serpent cock that thrusted inside of you.

You gasped wordlessly, back arching when fresh tears aligned along your jaw. Every single inch of your body felt electrified while you felt almost suffocated. “Breathe.” Jake growled.

Fangs brushing your ear. You struggled, you felt consumed. Undertaken by a dizzying fog of pleasure and euphoria— so strong it numbed you. “Breathe baby..” this time his thumbs pressed right above your jugular vein making you choke.

“J-jake—! S’too much— too deep—!” “But baby you’re taking it so well though..” you cried when his hand creeped to close just lightly around your mouth. “Listen to her, angel.” And you did. The wet, noisy and obscene sounds of your pussy clenching around him when he thrusted, pulling his hips back for a slight second— only letting you feel his tip before shoving his cock inside of your cunt that squirted in relief. “How am I supposed to slow down when this is how you sound for me?”

He trembled behind you. Legs twitching with his pelvis pressing flush into you. “You’re taking your mate too good, sweetness..” the pleasure creeped right up his spine, the sensation making him guttered. “Too good, baby.. you’re driving me insane.”

So soft, so warm. Searingly hot. Your entire body flushed under him, womb pulsing as the head of his swollen cock kept kissing it, pulling it and pushing it like it loved toying with your deepest, most sacred part. His favourite part.

All the while his hovering figure leaned down lower and lower. Until he had his front pressed to your back. Each breath that left his lungs fanned around your skin. His tongue flicked out to taste the thick air. It tasted so abundant with your flavours.

“You’re all mine, angel.. only mine. Just mine. My pretty mate that I’ll love and fill forever.” With each word he pushed more. He stayed inside more. Each time making your limbs melt further above the nest. Everything felt so good— a spell that he spoke in an unknown, ancient language that only he knew the gravity of before blowing it towards you.

He had you fully under his control. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t speak. You barely could move. You were unable to do anything— and for some reason it felt nice.

It was comforting to have his weight pinning you down. Comforting to know that no matter how much your needy cervix ached, he’ll always be there to kiss it better.

It made you feel so safe. So protected and cared for when your mate worshipped you like you were the only religion he knew. The only one he believed in and the only one he saw.

With each stroke of his slick cock that spilled heat inside of you, it felt like your walls were hugging him back. So intimately holding him close even the serpent exhaled shakily at being so accepted— so loved.

Jake then picked up the pace, the slow, deep thrusts shifting into more brutal ones— untamed and beast-like. You mewled into the feathery pillow. So weak compared to the uncontrollable hissing behind you.

Your pussy sucked him in, cervix moulding around his tip the more he teased it. “Feel me here, baby? Doesn’t it feel good to have me here?” And he pressed on your lower stomach. Caressing the bulge of his viper cock that massaged your insides, he felt every flutter, every vein and every ridge while you cried, so overwhelmed.

“F-fuck yes—! I love it, I love it so much— I love how deep you are in me, jakey—“ you babbled, drunk. Wholly under the altered cloud of pleasure he always manages to form around your head. Jake growled at your tone, so airy. He could practically taste how high on his love you were. “Yeah, baby? I’m gonna be here all the time now. Gonna keep your greedy cunt stuffed of me.” His claws glowed, fangs almost vibrating in instinct.

Mark. Claim. Bite. Ruin.

And Jake sunk his teeth right into your shoulder blade, the sensation instantly making you unravel around him as you milked his cock that burned. His hips snapping against you wildly while your arousal drizzled down onto the nest, ruining everything just like the way you were right now.

Sobbing, vision spotted with your ears ringing as Jake fucked you through your orgasm before pulling another one out of you. Your womb was convulsing. Contractions washing down on your body so painfully yet the waves of ecstasy were stronger.

The serpent then injected his venom into you again. The flush of the sweetness bursting in your veins from the hidden hunger. The unknown crave that just got settled, Jake groaned at your taste once again. Your blood tasted even more saccharine when it was engulfed by your orgasm.

You crashed. Over and over again. His length relentless as it rammed inside of you, fucking into all of your sweet spots that made your body jerk under Jake. “That’s it, isn’t it angel?” He breathed heavily when you squealed right as his hips pressed to you in a certain angle— “that’s your sweet, baby spot. Isn’t it? I’m going to worship it.” And he did.

His tip nursed from it. Pulling orgasm after orgasm from you. The knot in your abdomen no longer formed— you were stuck in a constant state of falling apart while your womb milked his cock even more.

It felt like your body had a mind of its own. So needy, so desperate that no matter how much your mind practically shut down it didn’t care. It was addicted, attached, dependent.

And Jake loved it. He loved the way your pussy was wrapped around him. Tightly, possessively. Unwilling to let go whenever he pulled back— you were claiming him back. Your body was dragging its marks on him, etching its way into his very own skin with the way his cock was tight with desire. The need to unleash and finally paint your insides with him.

So he kept going, because he couldn’t think. He couldn’t process anything. He only felt the pulses, felt the tugging, felt the constant edging of something ready to release, prepared to snap.

“I’m gonna fill you up so well, sweetheart.” The snake hissed, his hand now moving to cradle your lower belly. Where he was going to make you swell with him. His tail coiled behind him, body building in anticipation while his fangs teased your open wound. Where he could still taste you on his tongue.

“Stuff you so full you’ll be leaking of me for weeks. You’ll feel me every time you move.” You shivered at his words. Not because you were scared— but because of how you felt a drop. The lowering of your cervix as it opened more, like a second starved mouth, like it wanted to be stuffed. It wanted to be filled with your mate’s seed.

And when your muscles fluttered around his cock’s head he cooed. “Oh angel.. your pretty womb is just as needy for me as I am for her.” His hand now pressed harder and he felt your uterus flutter back at his touch. “I’ll soothe her.. I’ll satisfy her. Always.”

You couldn’t help the way your body arched further into the bed— hips shifting to allow him to go even deeper while your face was buried into the pillow now. You were still inviting him in even when he was drowning in you.

“P-please.. don’t let me be empty.” And that sentence alone broke Jake.

Then you heard the aftermath— it wasn’t a moan, it wasn’t a gasp, it wasn’t something human.

It was a vibration. One that started from the tip of his tail to the top of his head— a click and then a rattle. A heavy, snapping noise that came deep from within his guts. He was released.

“You want to be filled up with me?” The voice that spoke from behind you wasn’t Jake. The moment you froze in shock— walls clenching in surprise when you turned around and saw him different.

His pupils were in their thinnest form, emerald irises glowing brightly in the dim nest. Fangs fully dropped and dripping with venom that fell atop your lower back, right before melting and being drunk by your skin. His scales were fluttering, a dusty green covering the tips of the ones that emerged around his shoulders and neck, down to his forearms.

He looked wickedly frightening. He looked monstrous.

And somehow that made you want him even more.

“I’ll break you.” His tone was a fusion between a hiss and a deep, heavy rumbling that came from the depths of his chest. “I’ll ruin you completely. I will crawl inside of you and alter you. Just like I did with my venom, just like how you belong to me now.” His words, his mouth dripped with venom.

It scared you. Fuck, it terrified you. Yet you still couldn’t find it in yourself to move away, to escape from the beast behind you. The one that was buried so deep inside of you while you tightened around him, pouring at every word he growled at you.

You couldn’t help the way you pushed yourself back under him— the way you pushed your pelvis back against his, and he laughed.

A guttural, dangerous laughter that made more poison spill out from his mouth. “You want me to claim you just as bad as I do.. you want me to take your soul.” And you nodded.

You agreed because you couldn’t function anymore. You couldn’t imagine, couldn’t think about any possibility or life that doesn’t revolve around your serpent. You couldn’t do it, your mind refused to conjure up any image of you that didn’t have scales. That didn’t have venom marks. That didn’t have chilling split pupils.

Because your own body depended on him now. It responded to him, it recognised him, it knew him. You were marked, you were owned.

You had already given him your heart and body, it was only a matter of time before he sunk his fangs around your soul as well.

And you would allow it, because you knew you were safe. You knew that your mate would make the sky fall above the grass to keep you warm and protected between his arms.

Even if he had you away from the world, even if his voice became the only one that you knew, his eyes the only ones you saw and his body the only one you felt, you would never pick another over him.

You could never not choose him. You could never live without your mate.

And Jake claimed everything. His thrusts turned animalistic. Like he was ravaging your guts, scarring your insides to only accept him. His claws sunk back into your hips, deep and unforgiving. Any time your figure jerked forward— moved the slightest bit from under him— he would drag you back.

Because under him is where you belonged now. “Don’t try to run from me, pretty.” His tail, still coated with your wetness brushed your calf. “You and I both know you can’t go anywhere.”

The scales circled you, they engulfed you in coils. From around your hips, between your legs, up your waist and finally resting around your neck— right before he squeezed.

“Jake!” You cried, heart ramming into your ribs when you felt your lungs burn with need of air. The serpent kept his coils unmoving, applying the slightest pressure. “Shh, love. You’re safe, I’ll never hurt you.” Your tired hands desperately held onto the cooling scales, where you could sense each breath he took.

With his cock still nestled so deep inside of your weeping womb, he turned your face around with his clawed hand. “If you want air, you can breathe me in.” And before you could utter another word— he shoved his tongue into your parted lips.

Both of you groaned at the familiar taste, the familiar feeling and stretch of his forked split ends that instantly latched onto the back of your throat. He thrusted inside of you again, cock tightening in a way that you felt it from the heavy release he kept pushing back.

Jake hummed when you moaned around his tongue, your eyes closing in euphoria at his venom streaming down your throat while his length split you open. You felt more aches of pleasure branching into your body, endless climaxes and orgasms all knotting together as your mind floated.

“There you go.. keep floating for me, baby. Stay under my venom.” And you did, you took everything he gave you. The warm, filling poison and the hot ropes of precum that he buried inside of you. “Doing so well for me.. you deserve to be filled so good.” He muttered around your mouth before suckling on your muscle like a baby.

The serpent retracted his tongue, he babbled as he felt the heat building up in his cool blooded body, his legs twitching, tail fluttering around you the closer he inched towards his climax before it broke— and it shattered him entirely.

He snarled so loudly, the noise shaking out of his ribs when his limbs tensed, scales vibrating as he came inside of you.

But he didn’t cum like you normally expected, it wasn’t a few ropes of his warm seed— it was a flood.

A blazing hot, endless liquid that bursted inside of you. Making you cry at the feeling of the stream, of the overflow. He kept hissing in pleasure, wrapped up in a storm of mouth watering thrill that coursed through him, intensifying when your womb constricted— like it was drinking him up, filling your uterus with all he gave.

You were sobbing against the pillow now, covered in a sticky pool of wetness, of arousal and his flooding that didn’t decrease— and then you felt a poke. “There it is..” it was a swell.

A consistent rising, a bump that formed right around his base that was being pushed inside of you now.

Inside of your gushing entrance that clenched in surprise— in shock when you screamed at the ceaseless stretch. The fresh burn, the boiling warmth of his knot as it sunk into you. All the while Jake kept kissing you through it, shushing you and mumbling words into your ear.

“You can take it.. you’re almost there.” His voice was tender now, after his release the viper somewhat softened. You shook under him as your cunt drooled around the new intrusion, much similar to the saliva that dripped out of your mouth.

And then a final pop! That signalled him fully sheathing himself in. Locking him to you with his seed almost sloshing inside of your swollen stomach. The skin on your belly tight and stretched just the slightest bit at the flood.

Jake was in awe.

His clawed hands that were covered in your drool and your indents hovered around your belly, you were so full of him.. so stuffed just from carrying his seed. “You look divine, love.” He kissed right into the wound he had his fangs in just a few minutes ago.

You shuddered at his featherlight touch. A whirling contrast from his predatory hold. Yet you still melted under his fingertips, still floating and relaxed for him.

“Looking so pretty.. just from my seed alone.” His palm pressed against the swell, “wonder how you’ll look like when you carry my clutch.” At those words, you whimpered—

“I want it..” the serpent stiffened. “I want to carry your clutch, Jake.” Jake’s expression changed.

It became unreadable, you were too embarrassed to look at him, your face still covered by the pillowcase, still sensitive. “Baby.. do you realise what you’re asking for?” And before you could even answer, he felt a throb.

Much similar to the one before he bred you, much similar to the one he already memorised— the one of your womb.

Calling for him once again, even when he had just flooded her. She was still greedy. Still wanted more.

Jake smiled.

“Is that so..” he purred, knot swelling down, the bulge slowly slipping out of you. Allowing his gaze to take in the sight of your gaping pussy— still tightening around nothing, still pulsing, still hungry even when she was dripping in him.

You whined at the emptiness, the coldness that wrapped around your womb now that Jake’s cock wasn’t cradling it— the neediness from your body made the serpent sigh in love. “Still want me so bad.. still wanting my clutch.” His hands trailed down your sides that twitched beautifully under his touch.

He then carefully moved you, laying you gently on your back. His tail unfurled from around you slightly, it still hovered next to your hips. He distanced himself just enough to let you breathe.

“I’ll give you my clutch.” Jake whispered right as he looked into your eyes. Half lidded and sparkling with unshed tears that prickled at his heart. “I’ll give you everything that I have.” He leaned down to press the lightest kiss on your lips. Mouths barely touching when his plump lips brushed your swollen ones.

His claws had fully vanished, hands carefully steadying your thighs to wrap around him once more as he slid in between your legs, this time his cock appeared thicker— erect and leaking but swollen. Heavy, loaded.

The sight alone made you salivate. “You’re so.. full,”

“I’ll let it out. I will let it out inside of you.. I’ll make it easy for you.. I’ll make it feel good.” The serpent hissed into your lips, breath hot and heavy as the steam in the nest practically bubbled. The windows were foggy, the room thick and layered with his scent, his pheromones and your arousal.

And then he sank into you once more— this time easier, this time sliding between your slippery walls that gushed around him in welcome. Jake shivered above you, mouth agape while you moaned right into his lips.

The sounds that formed from his cock nudging inside of you were filthy. So nasty, so wet it made your whole body burn. Your hands finally finding the strength to wrap around his wrists on either side of your head just to stabilise yourself.

“She’s so greedy.. she’s sucking me in so well, baby. You’re so needy for me.” Jake whined as his hips worked restlessly, chasing his high when his swollen cock— filled with his clutch caressed your inside, their new home. “I’m gonna give you my babies.. you’ll carry and protect them. You’ll be such a great mama to our babies.” He muttered before dipping his head into the curve of your neck, right where your blood still drizzled in thick droplets.

Your womb quivered with each thrust, every stroke pulling a breath out of your lungs before he sank in so deep his head latched onto your cervix again. “There we go..” Jake’s words were slurred, you were limp above the nest. Slumped under him while he almost evaporated. So intoxicated on the feeling of your walls milking him, so obsessed with how warm your body felt because of him.

And then Jake felt the first drop.. the first swell that indicated his egg lowering. He pressed his hips flush against yours, the head of his cock fully nursing onto your cervix when you felt the shift— the weight, the round sphere that was moving to be inside of you.

“Just like that.. take it, love. Take it and keep it safe.” It finally sunk inside of you, round and weighted. The sensation so new, so intimate as it slipped past him— right into the opening of your cervix that sucked the egg in. Shielding and protecting it in your womb, making you sigh in relief at the sheer relief of carrying his weight— of carrying him.

But then there was another swell.. another drop. “I-is that another—?” “Yes— fuck i have more to give, I always have more to give when it comes to you.” His pelvis jerked into yours, saliva dripping out of his mouth like water as his slit pupils rolled into the back of his head, the feeling burned him from the inside out, blazed his abdomen in ecstatic fire. “Take it, baby. Take all of them from me.”

This time you cried when it pressed into your cervix, the muscles fluttering softly before sucking the egg right next to the other one. The weight increasing in your womb made your legs shake, another release building up even when your body felt so sore. Your pussy still twitching with Jake deep inside of you.

“Last one, little nest. You can take it, I know you can.” The serpent mouthed at your skin, tongue flicking to lick along your cheek, to catch the slipping tears that fell when your stomach felt so full. So heavy and tight already but he was still giving you more.

His palm pressed against the swell, the forming bump of his clutch being protected by you. Being nourished and nurtured inside of you. His instincts flared, the final egg slipping slowly, the heaviest and largest of the bunch— “f-fuck.. we’re almost there, sweetheart. You’re almost full of me.” Jake sobbed into your neck.

His serpent body overwhelmed by the sheer intimacy, by the intensity of the love he held for you. The weight of acceptance, of you wanting him back. All crashing down on him as he stuffed you with his final egg, the bulge of it making you both gasp as the stretch ripped a release from you, so deep, so carnal.

“That’s it baby.. you did it. You’re carrying my soul now.” He spoke tearfully into your mouth, still so close to you. Still buried deep inside of you, his tip remained nuzzled against your cervix that fully closed now. Fulfilled and satisfied.

The serpent’s palm rested against your stomach, it felt warm. Soft with you now holding him, nestling his babies inside the most precious part of you. “You look so beautiful.. all mine. Just mine, so full of me.” Jake worshipped your body.

Tail caressing the underside of your belly while the snake moved towards you, laying next to your body before cradling you against him. All his instincts telling him to protect. To shield.

You hummed in content. So spent, so tired and so bred. Your heart’s pace finally calming down when you cuddled closer to Jake’s warmth. The serpent’s tongue flicked out to touch your neck, your shoulders, just to scent you again. To surround you with him completely while you carry his clutch.

“Sleep now my little nest. I’ll protect you and our babies.” His whisper fluttered with love, your eyes already closing the second he began to purr for you. Soft vibrations calming your nerves while his scales coiled around you protectively, his palm resting above your lower stomach.

“All mine.” The serpent hissed quietly before closing his eyes.

a,n. holy fucking shit it’s finally done. thanks for reading this fever dream 🫶🏼 & feedback is greatly appreciated ! ♡