☆ gigi-cray ☆

•18_carat_engene_k-pop•

[gigi-cray]

☆ welcome ☆

check my likes for good reads ;)

Bio

Enhypen Bias: Heeseung and Niki

Seventeen Bias: Mingyu and Joshua

Emojis: 📸 🩻 🎞️ 🎬

Age: 18

Fuck: Ice

Enhypen: is 7

Authors note: hiii! i am not a writer (just yet ;0) but i am an advent reader! please check out my likes for interesting reads that i love! i am strictly a seventeen and enhypen reader but i listen to multiple groups. reach out if you wanna talk about them!!

[prettybs]

TAKE SOME OF THIS IT’LL CALM U DOWN ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 —NRK

-> a story based on my Higher series!

smoking in riki’s bed is the best way to relax after a stressful day… if he can find his weed.

📓pairing: dealer!riki x fem!reader

contains: weed smoking skinship fluff kissing bickering riki’s kind of rude to his mom

🗯️vaeh’s note: i guess I’m back from my short ass break. this was supposed to be a Higher drabble but ig this counts as a regular bonus part now cs I am the worst at keeping my ffs short

⊹

Everything about today had been advertised as fun. A “production day,” your lecturer had called it all week with way too much enthusiasm, promising creative freedom and relaxed schedules and exciting group work.

Instead, it had been six straight hours of irritation, passive aggressive comments, and carrying an entire project on your back while the rest of your group stared blankly at their laptops pretending to work.

By two in the afternoon, your social battery was dead.

Your group presentation was supposed to start in less than ten minutes, yet you were hiding in a bathroom stall with your phone pressed to your ear. Your knee bounced restlessly.

“Come on,” you muttered under your breath when it rings again.

Then finally—

“Hey baby—”

“Can you pick me up?”

You cut straight through his greeting, voice exhausted enough to make him pause on the other end.

“…What?”

You sigh, leaning your head back against the cold metal wall behind you. “Can you come get me?”

Riki exhales softly through his nose.

“When?”

“Right now.”

“Right now?” he repeats. “Baby, I can’t right now.”

You frown instantly.

“Why not?”

“I’m working.”

You roll your eyes even though he couldn’t see it. Working. So selling weed to junks.

“And didn’t you say you had class till four?” he adds. “What happened?”

“Yea? I don’t wanna go.”

A small laugh escapes him. “That’s not really how it works.”

“Oh my god,” you groan dramatically, rubbing your forehead. “You cannot be serious.”

“What?”

“You telling me not to skip class?” Your voice sharpened with disbelief. “Riki, you’ve attended like three classes this entire year.”

“Yeah. Don’t be like me.” Riki says.

“Please just come get me,” you try again, softer this time. “I’m so done with today.”

You heard muffled voices in the background on his side of the phone. A car door shutting. Someone calling his name.

Riki clicks his tongue quietly.

“Baby, I really can’t right now. I’ve got like 6 more clients today.”

Your face drops immediately.

“I hate everyone here.”

“I know.”

“No, like actually fucking hate them.”

“I know,” he repeats. “Just come over when your classes are finished, okay?”

You let out the most miserable whine imaginable, dragging the sound out on purpose just to irritate him.

“Rikiiii.”

“That’s not changing my answer.”

Another long sigh left you before you pull the phone away from your ear.

“Whatever.”

“Don’t be mad—”

But you already hung up.

The call ends with a sharp tap of your thumb.

You sit there for another second in irritated silence, glaring at the picture of you and Riki on your lockscreen before shoving the phone into your bag aggressively.

Then you stand up, grab your things, and push the stall door open way harder than necessary. The loud slam echoes through the bathroom.

A girl by the mirror startles and looks over.

“Jeez.” The girl mutters to herself.

You ignore her completely, storming toward the exit, already rehearsing in your head how badly you’re going to guilt trip Riki later for abandoning his poor girlfriend.

— 

By the time you arrive at Riki’s house around four thirty, your irritation hasn’t faded even a little. You text him the second you reach the driveway.

You: im here

Riki: door’s open. mom’s downstairs

You shove your phone into your pocket and push the front door open without knocking.

At this point, you’re over here so much it feels like your second home. The house smells faintly like laundry detergent and food. You hear the TV playing softly somewhere in the living room before his mom notices you walking in.

“Oh, hi sweetheart.”

You look over with a smile. “Hi miss Nishimura.”

“How was your day?”

You let out a dramatic sigh immediately. “Horrible.”

She laughs knowingly from the couch. “That bad?”

“You have no idea.”

“Well,” she says, shaking her head with amusement, “Riki’s upstairs. And tell him to clean that room before it starts growing mold.”

You snort. “I’ll try.”

You laugh softly before heading upstairs, already hearing faint music through the slightly open bedroom door.

The second you push it open wider, you catch Riki mid-motion. He’s shoving an overflowing laundry basket under his bed with his foot fast.

The room still looks messy anyway. Black hoodie tossed over his desk chair. Empty water bottles near the nightstand. Chains and rings scattered around like decoration.

And him.

Black joggers hanging low on his hips, white tank top stretched over his frame, black zip-up hoodie hanging open. Silver rings glinting against his fingers. Cross necklace resting against his chest.

Your mood somehow gets worse instantly.

“There's she is,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just panic-cleaned the second he heard you coming upstairs.

You don’t even answer. You just walk over and let yourself collapse face first onto his bed dramatically, burying your face into his pillow.

It smells exactly like him. Detergent, smoke and cologne.

Riki chuckles quietly behind you.

“Aww,” he teases. “You’re having a hard life today?”

“Yeah.”

“Mhm.”

The mattress dips as he climbs beside you, one arm immediately sliding across your lower back, pulling you closer against him lazily.

“What’s up?” he asks, voice lower now.

Your response comes muffled into the pillow.

“I just wanna graduate already.”

He laughs softly at that.

You finally roll onto your back with a long sigh, staring at the ceiling dramatically. Riki looks down at you with obvious amusement before leaning down and kissing your cheek once.

Then again. Then your forehead and hen the corner of your mouth.

“Talk to me,” he says.

You narrow your eyes at him while he shifts onto his back beside you, opening one arm, inviting you. You stare at him for a second before groaning loudly.

“What?”

“You look good,” you complain miserably. “It’s pissing me off more.”

You move anyway, immediately curling into his side. One leg thrown over his while his arm settles around your waist automatically. He grins.

“That’s your problem?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.”

You sigh dramatically again before starting your rant properly.

You tell him about the presentation disaster. About your group members barely helping. About one dude showing up completely unprepared and still acting cocky anyway. About having to fix everything yourself while everybody else stood around being useless.

Riki mostly listens quietly, fingers tracing along your waist beneath your t-shirt.

Sometimes he hums. Sometimes he laughs when you mock someone. Sometimes he drops a quiet “that’s crazy” just to keep you talking.

“And then,” you continue, growing more irritated again just remembering it, “they’re all panicking asking me what to say during the presentation like I’m their fucking mother.”

“I’m jealous of you.” You say.

Riki frowns. “Why?”

“You literally just do whatever you want.”

Riki’s expression shifts slightly at that. His hand moves slowly up your back.

“That’s not really a good thing, baby.”

You shrug against him. “Still.”

“Nah.” He shakes his head lightly. “You say that now, but you’re actually doing something with your life.”

You snort. “Barely.”

“I mean it. You’re gonna graduate, get your degree, all that shit.” His fingers squeeze your side lightly. “That matters.”

You look up at him. “You sound like a dad.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“You’re lecturing me.”

“I’m trying to be a good influence.”

You stare at him for a second before sighing loudly and burying your face against his chest again.

“I still hate everybody.”

“That’s okay,” he says easily, pressing a kiss into your hair.

You’re half sprawled on top of him now, your cheek pressed against his chest while his hand keeps moving up and down your back. The late afternoon light coming through his curtains makes the room feel warm and sleepy.

Until the thought hits you.

“I wanna smoke.”

Riki reacts immediately. Like genuinely immediately.

“Okay.”

You snort softly at how fast he says it.

He shifts underneath you, rolling onto his side to reach into his nightstand drawer. You hear the cluttering sound of him moving random things around, lighter, charger, loose receipts, wrappers probably. But then it goes quiet.

“The fuck?”

You lift your head slightly.

Riki’s brows furrow as he digs around harder. “Wait.”

You watch him pull the drawer out further.

Empty.

His whole expression changes instantly. Not fully panicked yet, but close enough that it makes you start smiling already.

“No way,” he mutters.

Without warning, he slips out from underneath you and gets off the bed fast enough to make it bounce. He opens his underwear drawer next, shoving things around aggressively before pulling out a small box hidden beneath his boxers.

Empty too.

“Oh my god,” he says under his breath.

You’re fully entertained now, just laying there watching him spiral.

He checks his backpack next. Nothing.

“What the fuck?” he says again, louder this time. “Nah nah nah.”

You’re trying not to laugh.

Riki turns to look at you with genuine concern in his eyes now.

“I think my mom took my stash.”

That makes you snort. But he doesn’t laugh at all.

His jaw tightens while he runs both hands through his hair, already stressed.

“Riki,” you say between laughs, “are you serious—”

“This isn’t funny.”

“It kinda is.”

“No, it’s really not.”

He’s already leaving the room before you can answer, and he leaves the door wide open behind him. You hear his footsteps down the stairs before his voice carries faintly through the house.

“Mom?”

“In the kitchen!”

You sit up slightly on the bed, immediately listening.

Riki walks into the kitchen trying to sound casual.

“Mom… were you in my room earlier?”

“Yes,” his mom answers easily. “Why?”

“Did you… take something?”

“Your drugs?”

Riki clicks his tongue. “It’s just weed.”

“And weed is still drugs. And it still makes the entire house smell.”

“Mom.”

“No, seriously,” she continues. “I’m tired of the smell. And I don’t want you doing that stuff all day.”

“You can’t just take my stuff.”

“I absolutely can if it’s in my house.”

“It’s my money you threw away, good quality shit,” he argues back, frustration slipping into his voice now. “Do you know how much was in there?”

“Maybe if you went to school instead of selling weed—”

“Oh my god.”

“You’re twenty years old, Riki.”

“And paying for my own stuff.”

“With drug money.”

He lets out a sharp exhale through his nose, clearly realizing the conversation is going nowhere.

“This is crazy,” he mutters.

Then you hear his footsteps coming back upstairs.

The second he walks back into the room, he looks miserable. You’re already grinning.

“She threw it away,” he complains immediately, throwing himself dramatically onto the bed beside you. “Everything.”

“I heard.”

“This is fucked up.”

You laugh softly while he lays there staring at the ceiling like his life is over.

“My own mother robbing me.”

“She’s probably trying to save your future.”

“She threw away like—” He cuts himself off with another annoyed groan. “I don’t even know— a lot of fucking money.”

Still smiling, you move closer again, half laying over him comfortably while he keeps muttering complaints under his breath.

Your hand slides across his side. Then pauses. There’s something in the pocket of his hoodie.

You feel the slight crinkle of plastic underneath the fabric. Riki notices your expression immediately.

“…What?”

Instead of answering, you slip your hand into his hoodie pocket.

“Oh shit.”

You pull out the tiny plastic bag slowly between two fingers. Then your grin spreads immediately.

“Oh my god, thank—”

“We’re not smoking that.”

He snatches it from your hand before you can even finish.

You stare at him.

“Riki.”

“It’s for a client.”

You let out an actual laugh. “Be forreal.”

“I am forreal.”

“Fuck your client.”

“My client is how I make money.”

“Your client can survive one night without weed.”

“He already paid.”

You roll your eyes dramatically before settling between on top of his legs while he keeps the bag out of reach.

“So refund him.”

“Refund him?” He laughs under his breath. “That’s not how that works.”

Your fingers start moving absentmindedly over his stomach through the thin tank top while you speak, nails lightly scratching against the fabric.

“You’re acting like it’s ten kilos.”

“I’m being responsible.”

You snort loudly at that word.

“Responsible.”

“Yes.”

“You skipped like an entire month of school.”

“I’m still enrolled.”

Your hand slides lower against his waist slowly.

“C’monnnn.” you murmur. “I had the worst day.”

“You say that every day.”

“Because people test me every day.”

“Mhm.”

“And now you’re sitting here gatekeeping weed from me.”

“I’m not gatekeeping.”

“You are, though.”

His hand settles on your thigh automatically, fingers squeezing once while he watches you with narrowed eyes.

“You’re manipulative as hell, i hope you know that.”

You tilt your head innocently. “What? I’m just talking.”

“Yeah?” he says. “That’s why your hands are all over me.”

“Maybe because you look good.”

You lean closer while talking, fingers trailing underneath the hem of his tank top just slightly, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath.

Riki exhales slowly through his nose.

“Manipulative”

“And you’re still not giving me the weed.”

He shakes his head, but he’s already losing. You can tell.

“Imagine,” you continue casually, “choosing some random stoner over your sexy girlfriend after she suffered through six hours hell.”

“Hell?”

“Yes.”

“You’re insane.”

“And sober,” you remind him. “Which is your fault.”

That finally makes him laugh. You immediately take advantage of it, reaching for the bag again. He pulls it away last second.

“Riki,” you groan.

“No.”

“Why are you acting like this is life or death?”

“Because my mom already murdered my business today.”

You roll your eyes before shifting even closer into his lap until your face is right near his. Your hands slide up his chest while you talk softly, your lips hovering above his.

“You like me more than your client, right?”

Then he squints at you. “You’re so full of shit.”

“But am I wrong?”

His hand tightens on your thigh again while he stares at your lips for a second too long.

You already know you won.

“If this dude starts blowing up my phone later, I’m blaming you.”

You smile slowly. “So we’re smoking?”

“Pleaseeee. I know you want it too.” 

He exhales slowly, staring at the tiny bag in his hand like he’s mourning it already.

“Fine.”

“Yesssss.”

You grin immediately and kiss his cheek fast before he can change his mind.

“Love you.”

“Yeah yeah,” he mutters. “You love my weed.”

Riki keeps muttering under his breath about loss while he rolls onto his side toward the nightstand.

You grin to yourself, while he pulls open the drawer again and starts gathering everything he needs. Grinder. Papers. Lighter.

You laugh softly and sit up against the headboard while he settles beside you cross-legged, focused now.

His rings glint under the golden sunlight while he breaks the weed apart between his fingers. You watch him quietly while he works, music humming softly in the background from his speaker.

There’s something stupidly attractive about watching him roll.

Maybe it’s the concentration on his face. The silver chain resting against his throat. The way his hoodie slips down slightly off one shoulder while he leans forward.

He finishes rolling the blunt with a small nod to himself before licking the edge closed carefully. Then he grabs the lighter, sparks it once, twice, before the tip finally glows orange.

The smell fills the room almost instantly.

Riki takes the first hit automatically, checking the burn, then passes it over to you.

You take it from him slowly, inhaling deep while he gets off the bed.

The smoke settles warm in your lungs while you watch him move around the room. He cracks the window open first, then turns the music up slightly louder.

You exhale toward the ceiling with a long satisfied sigh before letting yourself fall backward onto his bed dramatically.

“Oh my god.”

Riki laughs quietly while climbing back onto the mattress.

“That good?”

“Mhm.”

He takes the blunt back from your fingers and leans against the headboard beside you. You watch him inhale slowly before he tilts his head back slightly, doing a french inhale.

You narrow your eyes.

“Okay show off.”

He grins lazily. “You wish you could do that.”

“I literally can.”

“You can’t.”

You grab at the blunt immediately. “Give it.”

He laughs again but hands it over.

Riki’s eyes are getting red, eyelids hanging lower, his movements slower. And you can feel yourself melting into the mattress more every second.

You move closer without really thinking about it, thigh pressing against his while you take another hit.

“Does your mom know I smoke with you?” You ask quietly.

Riki immediately lets out a short laugh.

“No.”

“Why’d you laugh like that?”

“Because she’d actually kill me.”

You grin slightly. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” He takes the blunt back. “She already hates that I smoke. If she found out I got you smoking too?” He shakes his head. “I’d never survive.”

“You didn’t get me smoking.”

“You met me because I sold to you.”

“Okay.”

He points at you with the blunt. “Exactly.”

You laugh quietly while laying your head against his shoulder.

“She thinks I’m a bad influence already,” he says.

“You are a bad influence.”

“Maybe.”

Riki takes another hit before continuing, words slower now.

“One time she caught me smoking in the garage and made me deep clean the whole house for like two days.”

“No way.”

“I’m serious.” He looks genuinely offended remembering it. “She took my car keys too.”

You start laughing harder.

“She said if I wanted to ‘act grown’ then I could start doing grown people chores.”

He rolls his eyes lazily before nudging your leg with his knee.

“What about your parents? They know?”

You think for a second.

“I don’t think so.”

“Not even about me?”

“They know you’re my boyfriend,” you say vaguely.

You grin.

“I just don’t think they know you deal.”

“And the smoking?”

You shrug lightly. “My mom definitely suspects something sometimes.”

“She ever ask?”

“Once.”

“What’d you say?”

“That my eyes were red because I was tired.”

Riki immediately starts laughing.

“That’s such bullshit.”

“She believed me.”

“No she didn’t.”

“She did.”

“She chose to believe you,” he corrects.

You smile a little at that because honestly, he’s probably right.

The conversation slowly drifts after that. Neither of you talking much anymore.

The weed settles heavier into your body until everything feels warm and slow and comfortable. The music sounds better. His room feels warmer and you get clingy.

Your hands keep finding him without even thinking about it.

Resting on his chest. Sliding under his hoodie. Fingers tracing over the rings on his hands. Playing with the chain around his neck. Touching his arm, his stomach, his jaw.

Riki notices eventually.

“You’re attached to me right now.”

“Mhm.”

He smiles lazily, eyes half closed now while you curl fully against him.

“So cute.”

One of your legs thrown over his again. Your face pressed into the side of his neck.

His hand drifts slowly up and down your back while the room stays quiet except for the music and your soft occasional laughter at literally nothing.

Your entire horrible day feels far away now.

The blunt is almost done by now. Just one hit left. You take the last hit slowly, inhaling deep.

“Baby,” Riki says quietly.

You look at him. He just tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking toward your mouth.

Oh. A small grin pulls at your lips immediately.

Without a word, you shift up, swinging one leg over his lap so you’re sitting on top of him properly. His back presses against the bedframe while his hands settle automatically on your hips.

You lean down close. Then slowly exhale the smoke into his mouth.

Riki inhales instantly, eyes fixed on your lips the entire time.

You stay close after, barely pulling away.

His gaze drags over your face lazily before he turns his head slightly to the side to exhale the smoke away from you. One hand reaches toward the nightstand blindly, dropping the finished blunt into the glass of water beside the bed with a quiet sizzle.

Then he looks back at you and kisses you immediately.

His lips warm against yours while your arms slide around his neck automatically. The kiss tastes faintly like smoke, his hand moving up your side underneath your hoodie while he pulls you closer against him.

Your fingers slip into the hair at the back of his neck.

His hand is sliding up your throat gently, thumb brushing your jaw while he deepens the kiss.

You breathe out softly against his mouth when his other hand moves lower, dragging down your waist before settling on your ass with a firm squeeze.

His tongue pushes into your mouth while his grip tightens slightly, guiding your hips forward instinctively. Then back, then forward again, while softly humming into the kiss.

The movement makes heat curl low in your stomach instantly.

He has his hands all over you like he can’t decide where he wants them most.

One hand squeezing your thigh now. The other still holding your waist, moving you against him in a way that has your head getting fuzzier by the second.

Then—

A knock.

“Riki.”

You both freeze instantly. 

You practically launch yourself off his lap while Riki looks down at his crotch and quickly adjusts his joggers to hide something.

You drop back onto the bed casually, grabbing your phone like you’ve been doing absolutely nothing suspicious.

Riki starts aggressively waving his hand through the air trying to clear the smoke, muttering a quiet “shit” under his breath.

“Yeah?” he calls out.

His mom opens the door. The second she steps inside, her face twists immediately.

“Oh my god.”

Riki sighs dramatically already.

“It smells disgusting in here.”

Riki shrugs. You bite the inside of your cheek hard to stop yourself from laughing.

His mom looks around the room with visible disappointment before glaring at him again.

“I just told you about this earlier.”

Riki scoffs quietly, slouching further against the headboard. “Okay.”

“Don’t ‘okay’ me.”

He stays quiet this time. Probably because arguing more would make her stay longer.

Thankfully, she moves on with another sigh.

“Anyway, I’m going out to dinner with a friend later, so you two need to figure out food yourselves.”

“Okay.”

“And clean this room.”

Riki looks around lazily at the disaster surrounding him.

“It is clean, mom.”

His mom stares at him in disbelief. She shakes her head like she’s exhausted with him. Then she turns and walks out. Leaving the door completely open behind her.

“Mom!” Riki calls after her immediately. “Close the door.”

She ignores him completely and keeps walking downstairs.

He drops his head back against the wall with an annoyed groan.

“You see how nobody respects me in this house?”

He rolls his eyes while you crawl closer again, reaching up to grab his face with both hands. You squish his cheeks together dramatically, lips pursed in fake pity.

“Awww,” you say mockingly. “Poor baby. Mommy yelled at you again?”

“Shut up,” he mumbles through squished cheeks.

“This,” he says while pulling your hands away, “is why I smoke. My mom stresses me out.”

“She just told you to clean your room.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s normal.”

“It’s already clean.”

You slowly turn your head to look around the room. Then back at him.

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

The disbelief on your face makes him scoff instantly.

“It is.”

“Riki.”

“What?”

You narrow your eyes at him before suddenly leaning over the side of the bed.

Riki reacts immediately. He grabs your waist trying to pull you back before you can look underneath, but he’s too slow.

You already see everything. The laundry basket tipped completely over, half the clothes spilled out across the floor underneath the bed. Empty water bottles. A pizza box. Random chargers. One sock hanging off something.

And… you slowly reach down with two fingers.

You hold up a pair of grey Calvin Klein boxers delicately like they’re contaminated.

“You’re disgusting.”

He clicks his tongue and snatches them from your fingers fast and throws them back underneath the bed aggressively.

“Stop looking under there.”

You ignore him completely.

Still bent over the side of the bed, you keep inspecting his mess pile while Riki flops back dramatically behind you.

“Leave my room alone.” he says, laughing under his breath.

“There’s enough water bottles under here to survive an apocalypse.”

“I was gonna throw them away.”

“When? Next year?”

He grabs your ankle, trying to drag you back up onto the bed.

“Come here.”

“No, I’m investigating.”

Your eyes catch on something small shoved further back underneath the bed.

You pull it out quietly.

A pair of pink panties. You recognize them instantly because you’ve been wondering where they disappeared to weeks ago.

But instead of saying that, you just stare at them for a second.

Then slowly sit back up onto the bed.

Riki’s still relaxed at first, watching you casually.

Until you look at him.

“Riki,” you say slowly.

“Hm?”

“Are you cheating on me?”

The change in his expression is immediate.

“What?”

You hold up the panties silently, keeping your face completely serious.

Riki stares at them for one second before scoffing.

“Baby, those are yours.”

You don’t answer. Just keep staring at him.

“You literally left those here.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“I’ve never seen those in my life.”

He snorts. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re lying.”

You shrug lightly. “Am I?”

Riki still looks entertained at first, completely unconcerned while he reaches for his phone beside him.

“They’re yours y/n.”

“I think I’d remember my own underwear.”

He glances over at you again.

You’re still staring at him with the exact same serious expression. No smile, no laugh.Nothing.

The amusement slowly starts fading from his face. Riki sits up a little straighter now.

“Are you being serious right now?”

You look down at the panties in your hands dramatically before looking back at him.

“I don’t know, Riki. Should I be?”

“Baby,” he says immediately, now fully paying attention. “That is literally yours.”

“But what if it’s not?”

He stares at you for another second, trying to figure out if you’re joking.

Then his phone gets tossed aside completely.

“Baby— what?.” He moves closer fast, hands immediately finding your face. “Why would I cheat on you?”

You bite the inside of your cheek trying not to laugh.

“You think I’d do that?”

You shrug again.

Riki looks genuinely stressed now.

“No, seriously.” His thumbs brush against your cheeks while he searches your face. “I would never do that to you.”

Your expression almost breaks right there.

“I promise you that.” he says softer now. 

“Mhm.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“You’re the only girl that’s ever in my room.”

That one nearly makes you lose it. Especially because he sounds so sincere.

His brows are pulled together now, eyes low and worried while he keeps holding your face close.

“I’d never cheat on you,” he says again quietly. “Don’t look at me like that.”

You can’t hold it anymore.

“Hahaaaaa— gotcha.”

Riki freezes. Then realization slowly washes over his face.

“I knew it.”

You’re laughing so hard now you almost fall sideways off the bed.

“Oh my god, your face—”

“Get out of here with your fuckass pranks.”

“I got you so stressed.” you wheeze. “You got all serious—”

You keep laughing while mocking his voice.

“Baby, I’d never cheat on you.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re the only girl in my room.”

Riki shoves you hard enough to make you flop backward onto the mattress while he falls back beside you dramatically.

“You’re annoying as fuck.”

You’re still laughing.

“You looked so scared.”

“You kept staring at me like you were about to cry.”

You roll on top of him immediately, still grinning while he tries to stay annoyed.

It doesn’t work very well. Especially not when you start kissing his face repeatedly. One on his cheek. Another near his jaw. Then the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry,” you laugh against his skin.

“No you’re not.”

“I’m kinda sorry.”

“Mhm.”

You kiss him again anyway, arms wrapping around his neck. He’s still shaking his head.

“Actually can’t stand you,” he mutters.

But he’s smiling when he says it.

You’re still laughing when you lean down to kiss him again. And again and again.

Riki tries to stay annoyed, but you can literally feel him fighting a smile underneath your mouth every time you kiss the corner of his lips.

“Don’t be mad,” you mumble against his cheek.

You poke his face.

“Riki.”

He grabs your wrist immediately. “Stop poking me.”

“I’ve never seen you that stressed in my life.” you continue, grinning down at him.

“I could tell you were joking.”

“Aww,” you tease again, lightly squishing his face. “Did you?’

“I don’t like you.”

“You do.”

You kiss him again before squishing his cheek one more time.

“Don’t be mad.”

“I’m warning you right now.”

You ignore him completely.

Another poke.

“Baby—”

Another kiss.

“Don’t be—”

Suddenly his hands grab your waist hard.

You barely have time to yelp before he flips you over completely, throwing you onto the mattress with a laugh.

“Riki!”

“There,” he says while climbing over you fast. “Got you.”

You’re still laughing when he pins both your wrists above your head with one hand.

He leans down and bites lightly at your neck with a playful growl that makes you yell immediately.

Riki grins against your skin before suddenly attacking your sides with his free hand.

“You were asking for it.”

You scream instantly.

“RIKI—”

“You thought you were funny?”

“STOP—”

He keeps tickling you, fingers everywhere now while you twist underneath him laughing so hard you can barely breathe. Your legs kick against the bed uselessly while he keeps your wrists pinned easily.

“Talking all that shit,” he says through his own laughter. “Now look at you.”

“STOP—”

“No.”

“PLEASE—”

“Say sorry.”

“I— I DID!”

“Say it properly.”

You can barely get words out between laughing.

He keeps going. Tickling your stomach now, your sides, under your arms, everywhere he knows makes you lose your mind.

You’re literally crying laughing at this point.

“Okay okay— sorry!”

“What was that?”

“Sorry!!”

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry Riki!”

Finally he stops.Both of you breathing hard now.

Riki looks down at you smugly while still pinning your wrists above your head. Then he leans down and kisses the side of your jaw once before letting go completely.

“That’s what I thought. Good girl.”

You glare at him and immediately kick his leg one last time.

He laughs while rolling off you.

You just lay there dramatically trying to recover, chest rising and falling while your face hurts from laughing.

“Oh my god,” you groan.

“You started it.”

“You almost killed me.”

You stare at the ceiling for another few quiet seconds before your stomach growls loudly.

Riki immediately snorts.

“…I’m hungry.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

He stretches lazily before sitting up, hoodie riding up slightly, giving you a peek of the tattoo on his side.

“Get up then.” He says while reaching over to tap your thigh.

You follow him downstairs.

You hop up onto the kitchen counter while Riki starts checking for food. The fridge first. 

He stares inside for a few seconds. “Why do we only have ingredients?”

He starts pulling random things out dramatically.

Spinach. Eggs. Sauce. Half a cucumber.

“You could cook.”

“I’m not cooking.”

You roll your eyes.

Next he checks the cabinets. Same problem. Pasta. Rice. Random canned stuff.

“What even is this.”

You laugh softly from the counter while swinging your legs.

Then he opens the freezer.

“Oh wait.”

You sit up slightly.

“What?”

“I found some pizza.”

“Oh my god.”

Riki pulls it outThen flips it over.

His face immediately drops.

“Nevermind.”

“What?”

“This shit expired two years ago?! Jezus Christ, mom.”

You burst out laughing.

“This house has no food and no weed,” he complains dramatically while walking toward the trash. “Unbelievable.”

“You’re so spoiled.”

He opens the trash bin to throw away the pizza. Then freezes.

“…No fucking way.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Baby.”

The tone of his voice makes you hop off the counter immediately.

“What?”

Riki slowly turns the trash bin toward you.

Your eyes widen instantly.

His stash. All of it. Still sealed up in bags, sitting right there untouched because apparently his mom had just thrown it out without opening anything.

“Oh shit.”

Riki genuinely looks emotional.

“She didn’t throw it out.”

You start laughing immediately while he grabs the bags out of the trash like he’s rescuing lost treasure.

“No way,” he keeps saying in disbelief. “No fucking way.”

Riki suddenly grabs your waist and lifts you right off the floor effortlessly, making you laugh louder while he kisses you hard.

“You don’t understand,” he says against your lips, grinning like an idiot now. “We’re about to have a goood time.”

You’re still smiling when you hop back up onto the kitchen counter, watching Riki reorganize his recovered stash on the counter.

“I want sushi.”

Riki looks over immediately.

“You want sushi?” he repeats, stepping closer until he’s standing between your legs.

“Mhm.”

You hook your ankles loosely behind him while he leans in just enough to kiss you once.

“Then we’re getting sushi.”

“Exactly.”

He pulls his phone out with one hand while the other settles around your lower back automatically, keeping you close against him while he opens a delivery app.

“What rolls do you want?”

You lean forward immediately to watch.

“That one.”

“Ooo wait,” you say, pointing at the screen. “Get California rolls.”

Riki adds it without argument.

“And spicy salmon.”

Tap.

“And those fried ones.”

“The crunchy ones?”

“Yeah.”

Still, he scrolls until you nod.

“Those.”

He adds them too.

One of your hands drifts into his hair while he orders, fingers scratching lightly at the back of his neck.  You keep commenting on random things while he adds literally everything you mention without complaint.

“Get gyoza too.”

“Okay.”

“And mochi.”

“You don’t even like mochi that much.”

“Yes I do.”

“You eat like two bites.”

“I like mochi. Riki.” You say, not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.

Riki laughs quietly under his breath and adds it anyway, he glances at the total and finally looks up at you.

“I think we got enough.”

You immediately shake your head.

“No.”

“Baby.”

“We get hungry when we’re high.”

“That’s already enough food for a family of four.”

“And?”

He stares at you for a second.

Then sighs dramatically and adds another roll anyway.

“There. Happy?”

“Very.”

“You use me financially.”

“Correct.”

He snorts softly before finally placing the order.

The second the confirmation screen pops up he tosses his phone onto the counter beside you.

“There,” he says, reaching for the weed beside you, “you ready to get faded or what?”

He dangles one of the little bags of weed in front of you teasingly.

You glance at it, then shake your head.

“Not yet.”

Riki raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I don’t want it to wear off before the food gets here.”

That makes him laugh immediately.

You’re still sitting on the counter while he steps even closer between your legs again, his hands settle on either side of your thighs.

“Baby,” he says amused, “you do not gotta worry about that.”

You smile slightly at his tone already.

He leans in closer.

“This shit’s strong,” he murmurs near your lips. “It’ll have you stoned for hours.”

The way he says it makes warmth spread through you instantly.

You smile against his mouth before kissing him softly just for a few seconds. When you pull back, you’re still smiling a little.

“The other one worked pretty fast though.”

Riki chuckles quietly.

“Yeah baby, that was like less than half a blunt.”

“Mhm.”

“And my mom interrupted us halfway through.”

You laugh softly and lightly push his shoulder.

“Stop talking shit about your mom.”

By the time you both end up outside in the backyard, the sky is starting to darken just slightly.

You curl one leg underneath yourself on the gray lounge sofa in the cornerwhile Riki sits beside you, immediately pulling out the recovered stash again.

The second he opens the bag, the smell hits instantly.

“Jeez,” you say, wrinkling your nose slightly.

Riki just nods while breaking it apart between his fingers.

“Told you,” he says proudly. “This the good stuff.”

You eye the weed suspiciously.

“I don’t wanna green out again.”

That makes him laugh under his breath.

“You’re not gonna green out.”

“You said that last time too.”

“And you were fine.”

“I thought my heart stopped.”

Riki grins and reaches over to pat your head.

“You’ll be fine, baby. I promise.”

He ignores that, focused on rolling now.

His rings click softly against the lighter beside him while he works. You watch him carefully pack the joint before sealing it shut.

“Oh, by the way.”

“Mhm?”

“When the food gets here, you gotta open the door.”

You blink. “Why?”

You stare at him for a second.

“Riki.”

He just grins to himself while lighting the tip.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“…Okay?”

You shake your head at him while he hands you the finished joint.

You bring it to your lips automatically, cupping your hand around the end while you light it carefully against the slight evening breeze.

The orange glow flickers against your face for a second.

Riki watches you.

“You look sexy when you do that.”

You smile at him while inhaling. He laughs softly and lights his own.

You take another long hit confidently this time. Immediate mistake.

The smoke hits the back of your throat so harshly you start coughing instantly.

“Fuck—”

“I told you it’s strong.”

You cough harder.

His hand lands on your back, rubbing slowly between your shoulders.

“You good?”

“Mhm,” you manage weakly between coughs.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He still keeps rubbing your back though, grinning to himself while you recover.

The joints burn slowly while the conversation drifts lazily from topic to topic. Sometimes one of you talks. Sometimes neither of you does.

Your body starts feeling heavier against the couch cushions while Riki’s eyes get visibly lower every time he looks over at you.

Then the doorbell rings faintly inside the house.

Neither of you reacts.

A few seconds later it rings again. Still nothing.

By the third ring, your eyes widen slightly.

“Oh shit.”

You quickly lean forward to put your joint in the ashtray, but you just kind of drop it sideways carelessly.

Riki immediately hisses under his breath.

“Baby—”

“What?”

“You gotta put it down properly.”

He fixes it quickly before it burns unevenly, muttering to himself while adjusting it.

“Now you gotta relight it later. Wasting my shit.”

By the time you get to the front door, your eyes already feel warm and heavy.

You pull it open.

The delivery guy looks down at his phone first.

Then at you.

Then back at the phone again with visible hesitation.

“Order for…” He squints slightly. “Princess?”

You freeze.

The delivery guy looks awkward now.

“…Is that you?”

“Oh.” You smile awkwardly. “Yup... that’s me.”

He hands over the food while clearly trying not to react.

“Enjoy.”

“Thanks.”

The second you walk back outside, Riki’s smiling so hard he can barely hold it together.

“Order for princess?” you repeat flatly.

That immediately makes him laugh.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs innocently, still grinning.

“That’s what you are right? Ordering half the menu on my costs.”

“So?”

“So princess behavior.”

You shake your head while sitting back beside him with the food bags.

Riki laughs quietly while watching you unpack everything onto the outdoor table.

Containers everywhere. Soy sauce packets. Mochi. Chopsticks. You arrange everything carefully while he watches you with low amused eyes.

Then he hands your joint back to you.

“Smoke first.”

“I’m hungry.”

“It’ll taste better after.”

You look at him.

“Trust me.”

You sigh.

“Alright. But let me unpack first.”

Riki just leans back against the couch watching you continue organizing all the food until everything’s spread out perfectly across the table.

Only then do you finally put the joint back between your lips.

“Here,” you mumble.

Riki leans in with the lighter, one hand instinctively cupping near your face while he relights it for you.

Then he takes his own joint again.

Time starts getting weird after that. The world feels softer while the backyard lights blur slightly golden against your vision.

Riki’s head is tipped back slightly, eyes red and barely open anymore.

You’re not much better. Every movement feels delayed.

The sushi sitting on the table in front of you somehow looks like the best thing you’ve ever seen in your life.

And when you glance over at Riki, he’s already looking at you. Slow grin spreading across his face.

The second you take the first bite of sushi, your eyes widen dramatically.

“Oh my god.”

Riki’s already chewing on his own food beside you when you point at the tray.

“This tastes fucking amazing.”

Your words come out half muffled because you’re already stuffing another piece into your mouth.

Riki starts laughing immediately.

“You look crazy right now.”

“No seriously,” you say through another bite, “this is like… life changing.”

“Mhm,” he agrees lazily. “Told you.”

The weed is hitting hard now. Everything tastes better.

The soy sauce somehow tastes richer. The crunchy fried rolls are so good they piss you off a little. Even the stupid little ginger slices are suddenly very good.

“This is the best sushi I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

At one point you groan loud while chewing and let your head fall back dramatically against the couch.

Riki loses it.

“You sound like you’re getting fucked.”

“No. This better than getting fucked.”

Riki starts laughing so hard he nearly chokes on rice.

You laugh too immediately even though neither of you even knows what’s funny anymore.

The conversation keeps breaking apart halfway through because both of you get distracted constantly.

Riki reaches for a fried roll.

Misses the soy sauce completely. Still eats it.

You stare at him.

“You didn’t dip it, baby.”

“Huh?”

“You missed.”

He looks down slowly.

“Oh.”

Then both of you start laughing again for absolutely no reason.

At some point you try using chopsticks and completely fail because your movements feel delayed.

“You’re holding them wrong,” Riki says.

“No I’m not.”

“You look like you don’t know what planet you’re on right now.”

Eventually the table is a complete mess and both of you are completely gone.

You fall back dramatically against the couch cushions with a groan.

“I’m so full.”

Riki leans back beside you with heavy eyes.

“Same.”

The backyard feels unreal now.

The sun is setting lower, turning the sky orange and pink while the grass somehow looks very green.

You stare at it for a long moment.

“Why does the grass look like… that?”

Riki turns his head slowly. “Like what?”

“So green.”

He squints at the lawn for a few seconds.

“…Damn.”

“Right?”

“Yeah.”

You nod seriously.

“This is the best weed ever.”

“Mhm.”

“My eyelashes are tingling.”

That makes him laugh quietly.

You keep talking very slowly.

“And the sky is like…” You gesture vaguely upward. “Orange. But like… not normal orange.”

Your thoughts are drifting around faster than your mouth can keep up.

“And the clouds are so…” You trail off completely.

“So what?”

“…Nevermind.”

“You forgot?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re so stoned.”

You look over at him slowly.

“You are too.”

“I can handle it better.” he says immediately. 

Riki grins lazily beside you before grabbing his phone and putting music on. The sound plays quietly through the backyard while the sky gets darker by the minute.

The weed makes both of you ridiculously affectionate.

Your hand keeps finding his automatically. Or his hoodie. Or his chain.

You’re halfway in his lap again without even realizing it.

Riki doesn’t seem any better. One arm permanently around your waist now. Fingers tracing patterns against your side. Pulling you closer every few minutes like he forgot you’re already on top of him.

At some point he just starts staring at you.

You notice eventually.

“What?”

“You’re so cute when you’re high.”

“You say that every time.”

“Cause it’s true. You get all slow.”

“You’re slow too.”

“Yeah but I’m still functioning.”

The night settles around you slowly.

The air gets colder. The backyard lights turn on automatically above you. Music still humming softly in the background.

Eventually you both end up laying down across the lounge couch together.

You’re tucked between his long legs with your head resting on his chest, arms folded underneath your chin w.

Riki’s hand moves slowly through your hair.

Everything feels warm and comfortable. Your eyes keep slipping shut.

Riki says something eventually, voice low and sleepy above you.

You don’t answer.

A few seconds pass then he nudges you lightly.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Nothing.

“Princess.”

Riki lifts his head slightly to look down at you properly.

Your mouth is slightly open against his chest, breathing slow and even.

Completely asleep.

He stares for a second before quietly chuckling to himself.

His hand brushes gently through your hair one last time before his eyes close too.

A while later, the back door slides open softly.

Riki’s mom steps inside the dark kitchen first, kicking her shoes off quietly before setting her bag down on the counter.

The house is silent.

She frowns slightly.

“Riki?”

No answer.

“Y/n?”

She glances toward the backyard when she notices the faint music still playing outside. With a small sigh, she walks over and slides the door open further.

You and Riki are completely passed out.

Riki’s sprawled against the couch cushions with his head tilted to the side, one arm still wrapped around your waist in his sleep. His other hand is tangled loosely in your hair like he fell asleep petting it.

And you’re curled against his chest, tucked between his legs comfortably, breathing slow and peaceful.

Both of you look exhausted but very cute together.

For a second she just stands there quietly watching.

“Oh gosh,” she mutters under her breath, her eyes barely tearing up.

It’s kind of thing she’d probably take a picture of if she wasn’t actively trying to stay annoyed at her son.

She’s already about to leave you both alone when her eyes drift toward the table beside the couch.

The ashtray.

Two finished joints resting inside.

Her mouth flattens immediately.

“Oh my god.”

She clicks her tongue softly while looking back at the two of you asleep.

“You two…”

Riki just pulls you slightly closer unconsciously in his sleep.

His mom shakes her head slowly before heading back inside. The kitchen light flicks on and that’s when she notices the counter.

Several bags. Very recognizable bags, filled with weed.

All spread across the kitchen counter exactly where Riki had left them earlier.

She slowly closes her eyes.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

She walks over immediately, picking one up between two fingers with visible disbelief.

“So he went into the trash for it too,” she mutters to herself.

Another annoyed sigh leaves her while she grabs the box of trash bags from underneath the sink.

This time, she empties every single bag out of the packaging directly into the garbage.

No saving it now.

Just straight into old food, napkins, banana peels and whatever else is already sitting in there.

She ties the trash bag shut tightly afterward. Then looks toward the backyard again through the glass door.

Riki sleeping peacefully with you in his arms, completely unaware that his mom is throwing out his beloved weed stash… again.

⊹

taglist: @laikaonline @izzikiii @hearteubeateuxz @angelhyuka @berrybonnieee @choeryyxyz @ily4hoonity @embrjdos @astronomicalastro-blog1 @silvhoon @coupsarchive @rikislove @ily4hoonity @kittyvalr @eater4riki @twoloathe @rmmsthings @ilovetylerthecreater @sociallyawkward18 @lovenha7 @enhajungwonheart @krikalovesstay @rikislove @wonsvisuals @nishirikiluvr @illtie @saeivra @emmaitoshi @ardlolic @aamirazx @wonuziex @bemyaehiweloveskz @sa1co @nikisfave @sociallyawkward18 @seerpentsk1rt @lovleycherryy @ivelvette @rikimuraaaa @evanleeisahoe @17ha @miffikeuu @luvv1anime @swiftinsightinsight @mininigning @bellachaewon @teddybeartaetae @wonnieswife @xupidraws @chaebbys@ilobhee @sstrawbxrry @jungwonniesdimple

[gigi-cray]

i love plug riki 😝 this was such a cute slice of life, i’m lowkey obsessed

[kikidoul]

WILD WEST RIDE.

IN WHICH. . . just when you thought you'd never be able to improve your horse riding skills, ningning told you that lee heeseung, the seasonal winner of the competition, had proposed to coach you. you agreed without hesitation, only to find out what you're riding isn't a horse but rather... heeseung himself?

5.5k wc⠀‎❀⠀‎ cowboy au ♪♪ pro horse rider lee heeseung x fem! reader 𐧘 explicit mature content, stable sex, unprotected sex, mild ass spanking, riding, face-sitting, messy kissing, creampie, oral sex (m and f receiving), usage of pet names, reader wears heeseung's hat.

from author: there's truly a severe lack of cowboy fics so i decided to cook a little something. bgdc heeseung, i still think about you... also not sure what to feel about this new post format hm hm.

"Damn, what the hell happened to you?" Ningning asked, eyes widening in horror at the sight of your… pitiful state.

You plopped down into the couch, body practically sinking into it as you groaned, cradling your bleeding elbow close to your stomach. Ningning approached you with a first-aid kit held in her left hand. She sat on your right, her knees brushing against yours as the couch sinking further from the additional weight.

You visibly jerked away the moment she dabbed the damp cotton pad against your wound, hissing in pain. "I was practicing and got thrown off," you muttered.

Your friend shot you a sympathetic look but you looked to the side, earning a sigh from her. "You need to stop doing this, (Name). You're only gonna hurt yourself if this goes on."

You tuned her out, pointedly looking out of the window on your right. Ningning sighed again, closing the first-aid kit once she's done.

"I'm gonna regret telling you this but I know someone who can teach you," she started, catching how your ears twitched at her words.

She took a deep breath and exhaled. "His name's Heeseung and—"

You shot up before she could finished her sentence. "Wait, did you just say Heeseung? As in the Lee Heeseung? The one who won first place at every competitions?"

Ningning nodded. "Yup, the very same man himself. He doesn't ride anymore, due to a mild injury. He reached out to me first, asking if you needed someone to… teach you."

Your eyes widened, nearly popping out of its sockets. "To teach me?" You repeated, "wait, when did he contact you? And why now?"

Your friend pursed her lips. "Because I'm worried about you! You're spending most of your time practicing. You're always injured whenever you came home. Who wouldn't be worried!"

"Ningning—"

She stopped when she realized she's getting ahead of herself, closing her eyes and internally count to three before reopening them, looking like she had surrendered, like she knew her words couldn't stopped you from chasing after your dreams.

"Just.. be careful," she ended.

You nodded, reaching over to place your hand over hers. "I will. I promise."

~

The next day, you found yourself standing in front of a lonely house.

There's nothing impressive about it at first glance, other than the large and an open-aired fenced up area with a few horses roaming about, their ears twitching. A sheltered stable was situated on the right of the area, where you're certain it's built for horses to take shelter from the harsh, unforgiving sunlight and heavy rain.

At first, you thought you've arrived at the wrong place. You squinted your eyes against the sun shining down on you ruthlessly, holding down your hair when a strong gust of wind blew past you, causing sand to slap lightly against your skin. But no matter where you looked, no one was around. You were about to walk away, feeling defeated when—

"Are you (Name)?"

You looked over your shoulder, body turning as still as a statue when your eyes landed on—what you probably think—is the most handsome man you've laid your eyes upon, in your entire life. His features looked as though they were carefully sculpted from a patient hand—sharp when they needed to be and soft where it mattered.

High cheekbones caught under the sunlight, casting subtle shadows across his face, while his jawline was clean and defined enough to make your stomach do an embarrassing little flip. A worn brown suede jacket hung loosely over his broad frame, the oversized collar lined with dark fur that softened his otherwise imposing appearance. Beneath it was a faded henley shirt, the top button left unbuttoned, showing off more of his sun-kissed skin of his neck and collarbones that made you want to sink your teeth into.

A plaid shirt was tied around his waist, adding another layer to the effortlessly rugged look. Combined with the dust coating his boots and the horses roaming around behind him, he looked like he belonged here.

For the past few seconds or minutes, all you could do was to stare. And it didn't go unnoticed by him, whose eyes gleamed in amusement.

"I'm guessing that's a yes," he said.

Your face flared up. "Uh—"

Great.

Your first ever face-to-face encounter with someone you highly respect and you've already made a fool of yourself. What you didn't know however, was how you're so caught up in your embarrassment to notice how his eyes darkened a shade, how he tongued his cheek as he greedily and shamelessly drink in your figure.

"I know why you're here," he said, saving you from further drowning in a pool of humiliation.

You blinked. "Oh really?"

Heeseung nodded and crossed his arms. "Yup, I saw you before, how you always watch the competitions and shoving your way to stand at the front."

Your ears turned red, not sure whether you should be flattered with the fact that he remembers you, out of everyone else among the audience or something else. You awkwardly cleared your throat, shuffling your feet on the spot, feeling unusually timid with his unwavering and intense gaze that never left your face.

"So, when do we begin?" You asked, managing to keep your voice even and steady despite how your heart's about to leap out of your throat.

The man cocked his head to the side. "What makes you think I'll say yes?"

You opened and closed your mouth, rendered speechless by the sheer audacity of the man. Heeseung laughed, the sound light and melodious. You sworn you heard faint wedding bells ringing in the distance, feeling all light-headed and floaty.

"I'm kidding, I won't go back on my words. I'm not that kind of person," he replied, gesturing for you to follow him as he turned.

You obliged, easily catching up to him and walked beside him, where he brought you over to the fenced up area—where a few nearby mares stopped to look at your approaching figures.

You gulped, entering once Heeseung pushed the fence opened. You watched as a horse headed to him, standing a few centimeters back to observe his interaction with the four-legged creature.

How his features softened as he talked to it in a hushed, comforting tone. The kind of tone one will used when talking to their partner. How he lovingly patted the horse, his calloused fingers brushing against its skin. How he chuckled when it nudged its nose against his neck, huffing out hot air, begging for more attention, similar to a spoiled house cat.

"It likes you. What's its name?" you asked, crossing your arms, unaware that you're smiling from the wholesome interaction.

Heeseung hummed, brushing his hand through the majestic stallion's mane. "Name's Stella, she's been my ride and die since I first saw her. She's very loyal too. Wouldn't let anyone else other than me ride her."

You nodded. "Loyalty is hard to earn. The fact she's loyal to you is an impressive feat of its own."

His lips curled up in a knowing smirk. "If I didn't know better, I would think you're hitting on me."

"Someone needs to knock that ego of yours down a peg," you retorted but your words lacked no bite, your stomach doing another embarrassing flip at how the smirk widened across his face.

Damn, if you knew Heeseung's this fine, you would've done something about it a long time ago.

He stepped away from Stella, turning to walk towards you at a slow, languid pace, like he's taking a walk in a park. It took all of you to not moved an inch, planting your feet into the solid ground beneath your feet.

The cowboy stopped, now standing close enough for the tips of your shoes to touch. With the close proximity, you're able to get a whiff of his cologne mixed with his natural scent.

"Oh really? And who would that be?" He cooed, voice dangerously low and smooth like honey, smooth enough to scratch your brain just right.

Your breath stuttered in your throat when his gaze trailed down your face, lingering on your lips before it's back up to your eyes. He's shameless, with how he doesn't looked ashamed at the fact of him being caught red-handed. And gods, his confidence made your cheeks flushed and your heart skipped a beat.

"I don't know. Maybe it's someone who just so happens to be in need of your… expertise," you replied, matching his tone, watching how his eyes widened slightly before they darkened a shade.

His jaw clenched but before he could say anything, you stepped back, looking at him all innocently despite the very obvious tension engulfing the two of you.

"So, are we getting started or what? C'mon cowboy, show me how you ride," you called out to him.

~

One week passed.

One week of Heeseung showing you the ropes behind horse riding. Putting your… desire for him to ravish you to six ways beyond the world, you're surprised with how knowledgeable he is for what seemed to be common sense. Sure, you have the basics locked down but there's more than just practice makes perfect.

"You're doing it again."

You stopped at his words, about to grab the reins but his voice stopped you. The cowboy leaned against the fence behind him, arms crossed with the hem of his hat dipping low enough to hide his eyes from your view. But it did nothing to hide how they kept flicking down to your bare thighs—something you did on purpose.

You worn the skimpiest outfit you can find in your closet—the shortest pair of shorts that barely covered anything along with the thinnest white crop top and a pair of dusty brown boots to complete the look. When Heeseung first saw you, you could see his brain malfunctioned on the spot.

He dragged his eyes down your body, tongue darting out to wet his lips at your clean, smooth and unblemished thighs. Skin that's practically inviting him in with open arms and legs for him to mark them, to leave physical evidence of him behind, imprinted on your body.

Not to mention, he made zero effort to hide the way he's eye-fucking you every time you bent over, giving him a front-view seat of your behind.

The cowboy sighed, already looking exhausted despite the lesson starting less than ten minutes ago. He didn't push off the fence, choosing to remain there so you can learned from your mistakes without needing him to guide you. Not when he had taught you a few times.

"I've told you before, your weight matters. A horse carries everything you do. Every shift and every movement. If you lean too forward, they feel it. Lean too back and they feel it too," he explained, pushing off the fence and approached you, placing his hand on the stallion's nose, earning a snort of satisfaction.

You hummed absentmindedly, idly twirling the reins around your fingers. It's not your fault, with how attractive the cowboy looks with the sunlight kissing his honey-toned face.

"…Are you listening?" He questioned, despite knowing the answer.

You blinked. "Y-Yea, I was."

Heeseung arched an brow, unconvinced. "Alright, then repeat what I just said."

"…The horse has feelings?"

He didn't reply, mostly because he doesn't have the energy anymore. Instead, all you got was a flat and unimpressed stare. You flashed him your most sweetest and brightest smile—a huge contrast to the kind of thoughts running through your mind, hoping it will softened him up.

But he didn't take the bait.

"Move your right leg back. You're gonna get thrown off the horse if you continue sitting like this," he instructed.

You knew you should move, should obey his words since he's the expert here. But you can't helped it, not with how your eyes, mind and attention drifted somewhere else. To the way his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing more of those choke and drool-worthy skin that you want to feel directly pressed against your body. To the muscles in his forearms, flexing whenever he adjusted the saddle straps or do anything else. And also—

"(Name)."

You blinked, snapping back to reality. "H-Huh?"

He looked at you, that signature unreadable look taking over his handsome and kissable face. "You're staring."

At me.

He doesn't have to say the last two words, not when it's clear as day as to what you were looking at. Heat crept up the back of your neck, flustered with his bluntness.

"..I wasn't! I was thinking!" You blurted out, a poor and feeble attempt to save yourself from your humiliating dilemma.

Heeseung chuckled, the sound low and throaty, enough for heat to pool in your stomach. Fuck, you want to feel the vibrations against your skin. Maybe on your neck or even better, the aching space between your legs. You didn't have to look down to know you're already soaking and leaking.

"Thinking about what? I'm sure it doesn't have anything to do with horse riding," he pointed out, all smug and knowing.

And he's not wrong.

His words gave you a surge of courage. You hopped off the horse, not caring how you'll land badly with how careless you were. The cowboy's eyes widened, genuine horror flashed across his face as he steadied you with his large hands on your hips. He parted his lips, ready to say something but you were faster.

You grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, yanked him towards you and crashed your lips against his. The kiss was messy, desperate and hot, fueled by nothing but the mini chasing and waiting game both of you willingly took part in. He was startled at first, with how he didn't react but when it clicked for him, Heeseung returned the kiss with equal neediness.

You let out a pleased sigh against his cupid-bow lips, a sound that he swallowed without hesitation. Heeseung tugged you close until you're pressed chest-to-chest, not leaving any ounce of space between you and him, like he didn't want to be separated from you.

Your fingers tangled themselves into his hair, not caring that the hat he worn fell to the floor or how you're out in the open, with the horse acting as a witness to two humans going at it.

You gave a light, experimental tug on his hair and was rewarded with a low, deep and guttural growl from him. More heat pooled in your stomach just from hearing it.

You attempted to rub your thighs together, desperately craving for some form of friction but Heeseung was faster. He broke the kiss and threw you over his shoulder, like you're nothing but a sack of potatoes.

"Heeseung!"

You squeaked out, mortified and your face turned even redder when he smacked your asscheek. It's not just once but rather, it was twice in a row—one left and one right. You bit down on your lip, swallowing the whimper that nearly slipped from the tip of your tongue, clenching down on nothing as your underwear is directly pressed against your core.

The cowboy turned a deaf ear to you, marching like he has somewhere to be. Looking over your shoulder, you noticed he's bringing you into the stables rather than his own home. The strong stench of hay and horse shit invaded your senses. You didn't have the time to be revolted at it, for your vision was flipped over.

You flailed your arms about like a wild, frantic chicken, only to find yourself straddling Heeseung's lap. The cowboy sat on what seemed to be a few layers of cloths.

His left hand clasped itself around the back of your neck, using it to pull you in so he could kissed you again. You moaned into the kiss, scooting forward, allowing him to touch you everywhere with his free hand.

You gasped as he boldly cupped you through your shorts, moving his hand up and down while swallowing the angelic sounds you made.

"So fucking wet for me. What a dirty, needy girl you are. Coming over and wearing these kinds of clothes. You knew what you were doing, don't you?" He hissed, fingers popping the button open swiftly.

You whimpered, lifting your hips up slightly so he can wrestle it down your legs, leaving you wearing your pathetic, thin and nearly transparent white cotton underwear with a cute pastel pink bow above your pussy. Heeseung pulled back, resting his forehead against yours and he audibly inhaled, unable to tear his eyes away from the large, visible wet patch.

"All this just from kissing? Tell me what you thought about," he murmured, ducking his head to trail hot, searing kisses down the expanse of your neck. It's only right for you to tilt your head back, granting him access as you hooked your arms around his shoulders to support your weight.

"I…hngh…t-thought about your—oh fuck—m-mouth," you stuttered, voice cracking at his kisses growing sharper and meaner, switching to using his teeth to leave marks in his wake.

Heeseung hummed, the vibrations traveling down the length of your body and right down to your pussy, causing more slick to pour out from it. "Yea? Want my mouth on you? Want me to eat you out until you're crying and begging for me to stop? Want me to eat this tight little pussy of yours?"

You outright sobbed at his words, how his voice dropped an octave lower. You grinded your hips against his, seeking for friction but he clicked his tongue, firmly holding you down, forbidding you from moving any further. Heeseung moved away from your neck, his lips swollen and pupils completely blown out, clouded with lust.

He kissed you again, softer and sweeter while he slowly leaned back, bringing you down with him. When he's fully laying on the sheets spread out beneath him, he broke the kiss, chuckling at how you chased after his lips. He patted your right thigh with his hand, shooting you a sly grin when you gave him a confused look.

"Sit on my face, princess. Wanna make you feel good," he said.

Well fuck, if that isn't the hottest thing you've heard in your entire life. As much as you wanted to lower yourself, a small part of you was unsure, thinking you were mishearing things. You looked at him, your hands curled into fists as they rested on your lap.

"..Are you sure?" You asked, your voice small.

Heeseung's features softened, his doe-like eyes never leaving your face, not even for a split second. "Of course I'm sure. I want this and you."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words combined with the pure sincerity in his voice. You scooted upward with him holding you gently but firmly by your waist until your core is hovering directly over his face. You let him tugged your panties to the side. The movement caused long, sticky and glimmering strands of slick to stretch until they snapped into half.

"Fuck, look at this.. So fuckin' pretty and wet. It's all for me, isn't it?" He breathed out, now hooking your arms around your waist, forcing you to lower yourself down onto his awaiting mouth.

The moment you fully sat on his face, you sworn you nearly saw the white pearly gates of heaven.

Heeseung eats you out like a starving, famished man, like he hasn't eaten a proper meal for the past five months. And that wouldn't be far from the truth. He's enthusiastic, messy and sloppy—all of the three things combined into what will probably be the best pussy-eating session you ever had.

Long and broad strokes along your puffy, dripping folds with the tip of his tongue used to collect your essence as he lapped away, like a dog in heat. When he reached your clit, he savored it with quick and pointed flicks, enough to make you bend forward, hands fisting the sheets beneath your palms.

Your thighs quivered at a particular loud and harsh suck with his lips wrapped around the hood of your clit, the suction making your toes curled in your boots.

"O-Oh fuck. So fuckin' good—hah," you moaned out loud, shame be dammed at this point.

He moaned, shaking his head side to side, further smearing your slick across his face, like how one does when they're spreading butter on bread. Loud slurping sounds and moans filled the air in the stables. Both of you didn't care that there were some horses in the same roof as you, both too focused in the current heat of the moment.

You weren't aware you were rocking your hips against his mouth, using the sharp edge of his nose to get yourself off. Heeseung groaned in approval, letting you use him like a tool. He moved his hand down to your ass, alternating between spanking and kneading the meaty flesh, like it's nothing but dough with his warm and calloused hand.

Your breathing grew ragged and unsteady, something tight gradually building in your abdomen, like a piece of rubber-band was stretched beyond its limit. The cowboy knew you're reaching your climax and he buried his face deeper into your pussy, his nose brushing against your clit in just the right angle.

You could barely register the kind of sounds you were making. Sounds that could rival against a professional pornstar. The crop top you worn cling onto your skin, drenched in nothing but your sweat from the humidity of the stable.

"I-I'm gonna cum—fuck, c-close," you babbled.

Your words only made him increased the intensity, with him now paying more attention to your swollen, sensitive clit. The last straw came in the form of him plunging his tongue as deep as possible for you to tip over the edge. Your thighs was clamped tightly around his head, body shaking like a fallen leaf as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you.

Heeseung didn't pull away but rather, he continued. He ate you through your orgasm, letting out louder moans and groans, acting like he's the one cumming instead of you. You had to pull at his hair relentlessly, trying to get him away from your sensitive pussy. Only when he pressed a final, light kiss directly on your core was he finally satisfied.

He sat up, only for you to stop him with a hand on his chest. Confused, he lets you pushed him back down until he's half-leaning against the wall behind him.

Confusion was replaced with understanding and desire once he saw how you scooted down, getting to your knees between his legs. You pushed the hem of his shirt up, revealing his honey-toned skin, outlines of his abs along with a dangerous v-line that took your breath away.

"Let me help you out," you murmured, never breaking eye contact as you palmed him through his jeans, feeling him hardened and filling out between your fingers.

Heeseung groaned, watching you with half-lidded eyes. He lets you unbuttoned and pulled the zipper down, the sound seemingly loud in the stable, foreshadowing what's to come. The jeans and Playboy boxers quickly came off as you placed it aside, not wanting it to be dirtied even though he doesn't care about that.

Your breath was punched out of your lungs when his cock sprang free from its restraints. It slapped against his toned stomach, leaving a bead of precum behind.

You planted a kiss on the tip—light and fleeting, savoring the way his breath hitched and how he canted his hips forward, his cock gliding against your left cheek.

You took him into your mouth, lips stretching as wide as possible to accommodate the grith of his cock. To say he's big would be an understatement. You felt a stinging and lingering pain from your jaw muscles, with how you're overexerting yourself to take him fully but you persisted. Your nostrils flared, able to smell his musty scent that makes your head spin and eyes dazing out.

Heeseung threw his head back, baring his Adam's Apple that bobbed up and down as he swallowed. Sweat droplets rolled down his neck. It's obvious he's fighting against his own demons—to fuck your throat like it's nothing but a fleshlight. You inched forward, starting off at a slow, steady rhythm as you bobbed your head back and forth.

You hummed, the added and abrupt vibration drew a choked out, breathless moan from the cowboy. Determined to hear more, you used your hand to touch areas you couldn't reached with your mouth, lightly raking your nails along the edge of his cock.

Heeseung's hips twitched and he accidentally jerked forward, shoving more of his cock down your mouth, eliciting a surprised, muffled sound from you.

"That's it, take it. Take everything," he grunted, hips moving as he thrusted into your mouth, reaching out with one hand to blindly grab a fistful of your hair, using it as reins like you're a horse and he's your rider.

You picked up the pace, hollowing your cheeks for better suction, causing him to arch his back off the sheets as it sticks to his back, already damp with nothing but his sweat.

Your hand reached further down, cupping and fondling with his heavy balls that's practically on the verge of bursting and he cum, spilling down your throat.

You didn't gag, swallowing everything he has to offer, slobbering away at his cock like it's nothing but a piece of chicken drumstick, pushing him through his climax. Heeseung's loud when he cums, moaning and chanting your name like a sacred prayer.

When he fell back to the sheets, all limp and boneless, you took that as your cue to pull away, planting a kiss on his tip, snickering at how it twitched from the contact.

Heeseung's eyes shifted to you, panting and he tugged you over, meeting you in the middle. Both of you moaned at the heavy taste of his cum filling your mouths.

The rest of your clothes were frantically removed, fueled with nothing but the pent-up need to feel your bodies pressed together. He paused, breath taken away from how your breasts jiggled free when he chucked your bra aside.

He leaned forward but you stopped him, fingers clasped around his chin, forcing him to look up at you with wide eyes.

"Next time. Just fuck me before I lose my mind," you confessed, like you're committing a sin.

He made a low, needy sound at the back of his throat, deeply affected by your words and the sheer desperation in your voice. He nodded eagerly, pulling you down to kiss you, wanting to get another taste of you. If he could, he'd prefer to stay like this until the end of the world—you sitting on his lap, the only place you deserved and you let him worshiped you.

You sighed into the kiss, letting your hands feel him up as you touched his bare chest, feeling him shivered under your palms when you brushed your fingers against his nipples. You opened your eyes when something light was placed on top of your head. One glance up was enough to identify the newly added but barely noticeable weight.

"Seriously?" You asked, amused but made no move to remove the accessory.

Heeseung, on the other hand, was starstruck by the sight before him. "Fuck, you look gorgeous. Ride me while you wear it."

You arched an brow. "So bossy, but if you insist."

With his help, you aligned yourselves together. Instead of sinking down immediately, you rocked your hips back and forth, moaning at the delirious sensation of his cockhead rubbing against your fat, dripping pussy lips. Heeseung hissed, nails digging into your hips when you grabbed a hold of his cock before pushing yourself down.

He watched, mesmerized with how his cock disappeared, inch by inch until you bottomed out, your asscheeks hitting his strong, muscular thighs. Your moans echoed among the four walls of the stables, with the horses minding their businesses.

Your mouth dropped open, forming an "O" shape at how you're practically being split apart on his cock.

"Fuck, so tight and warm," the cowboy rasped out, squeezing his eyes shut and teeth sinking into his bottom lip, clearly fighting against his restraint to not buck upwards.

You reached out, placing both hands on his shoulders to raise yourself up until his tip is still nestled between your pussy lips before slamming down. You repeated it, managing to set a doable pace for yourself, ensuring to move your hips in a tight circle motion at every thrust. The sound of skin slapping against skin along with the wet, squelching sounds was the only things audible in the stables.

You arched your back, pushing your chest forward, squealing out loud when Heeseung leaned forward to wrap his lips around your right nipple. He switched between licking and nipping at it. You had to hold the hat down from on top when you felt it tipping backward. He used his free hand to pinch your other nipple, wanting to give equal love and attention while you bounced on his lap.

"Just like that, doll. Look at you, you're a natural at riding," he groaned, detaching his lips from your nipple that's covered in a thin layer of saliva.

You watched with half-lidded eyes as the string of saliva snapped into half as he leaned back, wanting to take in the majestic view before him.

A series of whimpers, moans and whines spilled from your lips endlessly, like a broken water tap. You didn't care that you were being extremely loud, not like there's anyone around in the first place. Here, it's just you and Heeseung, along with the horses being the unfortunate victims of watching someone riding the living lights of their precious rider.

Heeseung gripped onto your hips and delivered a sharp, long thrust upward. It's enough to draw a high-pitched cry from you. Your body slumped forward, arms hanging loosely around his shoulders and he took that as his cue to fuck into you from below.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, tongue licking up the sweat on his honey-toned skin, tasting salt on your tongue. Your nails dug into his back, hard enough to leave marks behind—something he doesn't mind.

You keened, unable to think of anything else other than the intoxicating feeling of his cock sliding in and out of your wet, gaping pussy and how he's able to hit places that you thought it was impossible to.

"H-Hee.. hngh, g-gonna cum—"

You slurred, tears prickling your eyes with your vision blurring slightly. At your words, Heeseung threw your right leg over his shoulder. You were still seated on his cock but the slight change of angle allowed him to slide deeper, if that was still possible.

"Cum for me, baby," he demanded, hand snaking down to rub your clit furiously.

You had to support your weight with your hands braced against the sheets beneath you. You whimpered at the sudden, painful stimulation. Your body quivered nonstop as pleasure crashed over you without warning, your walls convulsing around his cock violently. Heeseung showed no signs of stopping as he continued to fuck you through your orgasm.

"S-Stop! Too much," you wailed, milking his cock dry until a creamy white ring was formed around the base of his cock.

"Yes, you can. Do it for me," he panted, his movements growing sloppy.

With one final long thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and filled your pussy with thick and hot cum, painting your walls in the shade of milky white.

You moaned at the feeling of being filled up, feeling unusually full as he pumped you full of his cum. Your thighs trembled when you felt something warm and sticky slowly rolling down your thighs but made no move to wipe it off, too exhausted to lift a single finger.

You slumped against Heeseung, chin on his left shoulder. Both of you didn't say a word, catching your breath first. You felt him softening inside you but he didn't pull out.

"Heeseung, you—!?"

You didn't finish your sentence, not when he snapped his hips upward again. You sobbed, your pussy too sensitive for anything else now. You leaned back, wanting to tell him off or to stop him, only for your voice to die down in your throat.

Even when he looks wrecked, he still looks annoyingly handsome, much to your mild annoyance. Whatever thoughts or words you had in mind was washed down the drain when he snapped his hips forward, his cock kissing that one spongy spot hidden in your pussy, making your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

Heeseung chuckled, leaning over to whisper into your ear, his hot breath fanning against your skin. "I think we need a few more lessons. Gonna teach you how to ride until you're a pro."

[gigi-cray]

YESSS BGDC BGDC BGDC!!!! love this 🫪

[heetaki]

⋆. ̊ — DOUBLE TAKE

synopsis: lee heeseung has been your self-proclaimed nemesis since you were in grade school. from academic rivalries to petty fights, he is in every way the person you can’t stand the most in this world. but when the boy you’ve been pining after for months pops out with a girlfriend, you’re forced to turn to your nemesis for help. a fake relationship. no real feelings. and if things go well, you’ll have the love of your life and he’ll have a finished portfolio. simple, right? except nothing is ever simple when it comes to lee heeseung.

wc: 20k

warnings: photography student!lee heeseung x fem!reader, fake dating trope, rivals to lovers, he fell first and harder, slow burn (reader takes a second to realize she’s in love with hee, but she gets there), kind of love triangle but not really, sunghoon is in here because who would i be without my heehoon agenda, also ft jake and yunjin and chaewon (le sserafim), fluff, alcohol consumption, college!au, cussing, romcom vibes (obviously. this is me writing this) // smut, p in v, oral f!receiving, fingering, soft sex, praise kink, pet names (baby, princess), body worship (? i think), begging, spitting, multiple orgasms, cream pie, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it)

rose thinks… for those who don’t know, fake dating is my absolute all time favorite trope, so of course i had to write it with my favorite guy. i also watched off campus so yk… it’s been a while since i’ve uploaded, so i hope this lives up to any expectations you might have had for it. a special thanks to my lovely @sjynlvr , because you unknowingly gave me the motivation i needed to write this. your kindness in enhablr is felt by this entire community, and it seriously would be so much scarier here without you. as always, reblogs are always appreciated <3

playlist: double take - dhruv // the way i loved you - taylor swift // just a little bit - enhypen // roommates - malcolm todd // boyfriend - ariana grande & social house // pov - ariana grande

You don’t hate Lee Heeseung, mostly because your mom always said that hate was just another word for love (which—absolutely not), but you do find him extremely infuriating.

It’s in the way he’s always just had to be a step ahead of you. Like that time in the fifth grade when your teacher held a mock election for your government lesson, and he’d deliberately ran against you with the sole intention of annoying you. And when he won, he didn’t even do any of the things he’d promised! All he did was pass out whiteboards, and he always made sure to give you the one with the annoying black scribbles on them.

You went through high school like that, with him constantly one upping you in everything you did. He’d even almost beaten you for valedictorian, but you scored two and a half points higher than him on your AP Physics final and the spot was rightfully given to you. 

He didn't even seem mad about it, which made the entire thing even more infuriating. He’d spent years trying to prove he was better than you and didn't even flinch when it all amounted to nothing? What a tool.

University was supposed to be an escape. Not just from the mean high school girls and the boring small town you came from, but from him as well. You’d finally be able to breathe without him constantly hovering, you’d finally be able to relax without the constant worry that he was going to do something to ruin it.

So when you walked into your first day of classes at Decalis University, fully expecting to see no one familiar, you can imagine your absolute horror to see him sitting front and center like he owned the place.

He was already making good conversation with your professor, you could tell by how the older man was talking so admittedly with his hands and smiling like he couldn’t get enough of whatever it was Heeseung was talking about. 

That’s the thing about Heeseung, everyone around you always seems to think he’s this perfect, charming guy. They don’t see what he really is, not like you do. You seem to be the only person he decides to be his actual evil self with. Why he chose you, you aren’t entirely sure. You don’t think you ever will be.

But that was six months ago, and despite the giant Heeseung shaped stain on your university experience, the entire thing has been significantly better than high school. You don’t see him as much for starters, and when you do he seems too busy to actually try and annoy you. Not for a lack of trying though—those first few months were torture.

You’ve got an eight am class today, which means you have an excuse to make a stop at the coffee shop on campus. It’s right next to your dorm which is insanely convenient and definitely bad for your health, but you're a freshman in college. You don’t think you could name a single person who isn’t surviving off of cheap coffee and gas station noodles.

The line is long, which wouldn’t normally be an issue, but you’re running late and your professors decided he'll dock a letter grade for every tardy. You haven’t had to go through that pain yet, and you really don’t want to change that now.

You rock back and forth on your feet uncomfortably, the line seeming to move slower and slower. You almost consider saying fuck it and just going to class, but then you remember that you’re running off of two hours of sleep and decide you’d rather not fall asleep during your lesson.

It takes another ten minutes before you place your order, and then you’re solemnly waiting off to the side and trying to act like your nerves aren’t tangling up in your stomach.

“Long line, huh?”

You tense. You recognize that voice, and when you look up, the face that accompanies it is enough to ruin your entire morning more than it already has been. So much for not bothering you.

Sharp cheekbones, messy dirty blonde hair, big, beautiful shit brown eyes.

Your eyes narrow, lips curling downwards. At this point, you’re starting to believe your body's natural reaction to Lee Heeseung is immediate disdain. “Why are you talking to me?” You ask bluntly. No point in small talk with him, especially when you know he’s just trying to get under your skin by speaking to you.

He laughs, teeth on display as he does. “Are you this hostile with everyone when you first wake up?”

“Only people who annoy me.”

“I just made an observation, why would that annoy you?”

You shoot him a glare, crossing your arms over your chest. He knows exactly what he’s doing–he always has. His innocent act may work on every other person in this university, but not you. You know Heeseung, you know that getting under people's skin is his favorite pastime. You just wish you understood why he loves to do it to you specifically.

“Can you just…not? You know what you’re doing.”

“I promise I don’t.” The smirk threatening to break onto his lips says otherwise.

You take a deep breath and choose not to play into his game anymore. It’s pretty easy actually, because the barista calls out your name and you practically trip over your feet to grab it. You’ve got ten minutes to make it halfway across campus and into your lecture hall before you’re docked an entire letter grade. You’ve made it there with less.

You don’t bother saying goodbye to Heeseung, but you feel his gaze on you as you leave. Your skin prickles from the weight of it, but you don’t have the mental capacity to dwell on that right now. It’s too early for that.

Tonight’s the last game of the football season, which means practically the entire university showed up to the stadium to show their support, if support meant getting drunk off their asses.

You hadn’t planned to go, mostly because sports had never really been your thing, but Yunjin insists you have to come.

“It’ll be fun!” She pleads, her lower lip jutting out in a pout. She grabs your wrist and pulls on it, but you don’t budge from your spot at your desk. You told her that you had a big test to study for and that’s why you couldn’t go. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but you didn’t really need to study, you already knew the material like the back of your hand.

You sigh and pull your arm from her grip, “I can’t do bad on this test, Yunjin. You know what’ll happen if I do.”

“Yes, yes, the big bad Heeseung will score higher than you and your entire life will be ruined. Believe me, I know.” She clicks her tongue and walks behind you so her hands can rest on your shoulders. “But I think Sunghoon would be so sad to see that you didn’t come to support him for his last game.”

You immediately tense, your face going hot and stomach flipping in ways you didn’t know were possible. Even just the mere mention of Park Sunghoon forces a physical reaction out of you. It’s honestly a little embarrassing.

Sunghoon is the kind of boy you read about in romance novels or watch romcoms about. He’s sweet, smart, and the kind of handsome you weren’t aware a person can actually be. And he does it all effortlessly, like being perfect is something he was just born with. It probably was.

It doesn’t help that he’s always going out of his way to talk to you. Study dates, coffee runs after class, texts about nothing in the middle of the night, all things that feel like a relationship but actually aren’t.

Yunjin keeps insisting that you go for it, and you know that it’s probably not going to be as scary as you’re thinking it will be. After all, all it would do is put a title on whatever song and dance it is that the two of you’ve been putting on for the past couple months.

“I doubt he’d notice if I was there or not.” You shrug, doing your best to seem casual and not like the thought of him has hearts forming in your eyes.

Yunjin squeezes your shoulder and spins your chair around so you’re forced to face her. Her red hair is pulled back into a ponytail, her brows furrowed in determination. She looks a little bit like some kind of strange love coach who takes their job way too seriously. “You’re going to this game.” She says firmly.

“I’m not.”

“That’s what you think.”

The stadium is loud, people talking over each other in the hopes their friends will be able to hear them. They don’t, which means people just talk louder. The lights are bright and overwhelming, and you almost feel claustrophobic with how close the seats are to each other, like whoever designed the place did it without any regard for personal space at all.

Yunjin and Jake are on either side of you, both of them way too invested in the game. You are too, but not for the same reasons as them.

Sunghoon got into Decalis on a football scholarship and is the school's best starting quarterback in fifteen years. Even though he has every right to have a big head about it, he’s so humble you don’t think the thoughts ever even crossed his mind. Someone always approaches him about it when you’re out together on campus, and every time without fail his cheeks go bright pink and he gets this bashful smile on his face. It’s one of the reasons you’ve fallen for him as hard as you have, because unlike most guys you’ve interacted with, he doesn’t seem to have much of an ego at all.

It’s a very welcome contrast to Heeseung.

You can see him on the field too, walking behind the players sitting on the bench and getting candid shots of them. Even though you hate admitting it, he’s always been a gifted photographer. His photos were always hanging up in local art shows or featured in your high school yearbooks. Strangely, it’s the only thing he doesn’t brag about, despite it being the only thing he deserves to. 

“Oh, that’s bullshit!” Jake yells, popcorn spilling from his lap as he gestures wildly. “That was our play!”

You give him a side-eye and sink further into your seat. You honestly couldn’t care less about this whole thing; you're just excited to see Sunghoon in his post-game glow as you like to call it. Damp hair, face glowing with a sheen of sweat, his chest still heaving from running up and down the field. The entire thing is admittedly your guilty pleasure.

Yunjin elbows your ribs gently, her chin poking out to the field. You follow her gaze and find Sunghoon with his helmet in hand, drinking out of a green gatorade bottle and laughing at something one of his teammates says. He looks perfect. He is perfect.

And if things go right, he’ll be yours.

By the time the game ends, you’re more than ecstatic to finally get out of your seat and see Sunghoon. Yunjin teases you the entire way down, but you barely notice her. Not when your heart is nearly fluttering out of your chest.

But when you get down there, it’s not Sunghoon you see. No, it’s something much worse.

Heeseung.

He doesn’t notice you at first, and you almost think you’ll be able to sneak around him, but then Jake decides it’s a good idea to open his big mouth and alert the enemy to your presence.

“Heeseung!” He calls, raising his hand in a wave. “What’s good, man?”

Heeseung looks up then, sharp eyes falling onto Jake, and slowly trailing over to you. He grins, all teeth and something akin to mischief, and casually makes his way over to your small group.

“Hey Jake,” he greets, jutting his chin out swiftly. “Yunjin.”

Yunjin returns the greeting politely. “Heeseung.”

She has no reason to be mean to him, but as your closest friend, she understands that she must, by international girl-code law, dislike anyone you dislike, which includes him.

He turns to you then, and you swear you see something flash in his eyes. He keeps the same smile on his face despite the way you glare at him. “Hi, Y/N.”

“Hi.” You respond shortly. You don’t know why he even bothers trying to be nice to you in public, especially when he knows you're not going to return whatever sentiment it is he has.

He smirks like you’ve just said the funniest thing in the world. “Would it hurt you to be nicer?”

“Yes,” you respond easily. “It would, actually.”

He frowns and grabs at his shirt dramatically, right over where his heart is. “Always so mean.”

“You’ll live.”

He chuckles, reaching out and roughing up your hair. You smack his hands away and rush to fix it, palms smoothing down the parts he frizzed up. “Don’t do that!”

He ignores you and turns to talk to Jake about the game, and you can hear them say something about how the referees almost cost the team that last quarter, but you aren’t paying attention to that anymore.

Because behind Heeseung you can see a familiar head of damp black hair, thick eyebrows, and a perfect smile.

“Hey guys,” Sunghoon grins as he approaches. He’s ditched his football uniform and is instead wearing a black long sleeved compression shirt, and you swear your brain short circuits at the sight.

His attention falls to you first, just like it always does, and his smile widens just a fraction. Not enough for it to seem like anything else but a friendly gesture, but it doesn’t stop your heart from fluttering out of control or your cheeks from heating to near impossible levels.

“Hey!” You chirp a bit too loudly, hand shooting up in a wave.

“Nice game tonight, man!” Jake gushes, his hands moving animatedly. “The way you got that goal right at the beginning was insane! I swear, Penn didn't even know what hit them.”

Sunghoon grins and brings a hand up to his neck, the way he always does when somebody praises him, like he still can’t quite process the amount of attention on him. “Thanks, Jake. Seriously.”

“Those refs were awful though,” Yunjin throws in. 

The three of them end up in conversation about the game, all of them spewing out football lingo that you couldn’t be bothered to understand. Heeseung's still here too, just…lingering.

He’s friends with Jake and Sunghoon, yes, but he’s always on the sidelines. He’s been like that since high school. He’s friends with everyone, but he never lets them in. Doesn’t make any attempts to know them outside of a surface level friendship. 

It’s a little sad, honestly. But you stopped questioning the way his brain worked a long time ago. If he wanted to keep to himself, then that was perfectly fine by you. 

You don’t notice her approach, not until she’s sliding into the spot next to Sunghoon like she belongs there. Short black hair, bangs that frame her face like she was born with them, big brown eyes. Kim Chaewon is as beautiful as she is smart, and unbelievably kind. Not to mention she’d made cheer captain as a sophomore, and has kept the title all the way into her junior year.

“Hey, Hoon,” she says, voice sweet like honey. You know it shouldn’t, but something twists low and deep in your chest at the way she looks at him. Like she knows him. Like he belongs to her.

You expect him to greet her like he does everyone else. Always polite, but without the extra tenderness he saves for you. Without the small quirk of his lips or the subtle softening of his eyes, because that had always been yours. Your look.

Instead, when he looks at her, his lips quirk up, his eyes soften, and he snags a hand around her waist like he can’t imagine it being anywhere else.

You think this must be a joke. Not a very funny one, but a joke nonetheless. A tasteless prank. Because there is no way Park Sunghoon—the same Park Sunghoon that calls you in the middle of the night and insists he walk you home from class—has his arm around Kim Chaewon and is giving her the same look he gives you.

Yunjin looks just as shocked as you feel, but she’s never been as good at having a poker face as you. Her jaw drops, eyes going wide as she stares at the pair of them. “Um,” she laughs uncomfortably, “Sunghoon do you mind maybe… informing us as to who this is?”

Yunjin knows who Chaewon is, you know that. She's doing that thing she does where she tries to indirectly ask someone something without coming off as rude. For once, you're thankful for her weird methods.

Sunghoon clears his throat, his eyes flickering to yours for a split second before they return to Chaewon. “Right, uh,” he swallows, and you watch as his fingers flex at his side. A nervous habit. “This is Chaewon. We’ve been…seeing each other.”

You blink, your mind going a million miles a minute as you try to make sense of what he’s saying. The words are coming out of his mouth, and yet they still feel fake. Like a figment of your worst nightmare where the boy you’re in love with tells you he’s seeing someone.

“Seeing each other?” You repeat, voice raising in pitch. 

Chaewon nods, her lips curling up into a shy smile as she places a hand on Sunghoon's chest. “It was a recent development,” she chuckles.

You feel like you’re going to be sick.

Sunghoon smiles at her before removing his arm from her waist so he can gesture at the three of you. “How do you feel about dinner so Chae can get to know you guys? My treat.”

Chae. How long has this been going on for them to already have cute little nicknames for each other?

The thought of sitting at dinner with them sounds like torture. Having to sit there and watch him touch her? Smile at her? You don’t want to sound jealous (you are), but that’s supposed to be you. You’re the one he should be smiling at—you were the one! You can’t wrap your head around how he could suddenly be seeing someone when just last week he was smiling at you like you meant something to him?

Had you imagined it? Convinced yourself there was something there when he was just being friendly? But even Yunjin said he looked at you differently. Was she just feeding into your delusions?

Heeseung's voice pulls you out of your frenzy, and when you look up, he’s looking straight at you like he can read your mind. “Sorry, man,” he says, eyes staying on you for a moment longer before they shift to Sunghoon. “I’ve gotta get these pictures developed before they close the red room.”

Sunghoon waves him off, “don’t worry about it.” He says, “I’ll see you when we get home tonight. What about you guys?”

There’s absolutely no way you’re going to dinner with them. You can’t, like, physically can’t. You think you’ll die if you do.

Instead of saying that, or coming up with some kind of excuse, what comes out is, “I’m free.”

Yunjin's head snaps to you in shock, and then she blurts out a sudden, “same!”

Jake shrugs, “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Great!” Sunghoon grins, “let’s meet at that diner off of fifth? They’re usually open late.”

He walks away after that, hand in hand with Chaewon, and you watch them go while your heart sinks deep into your chest. She’s laughing at something he says, her free hand slapping his arm lightly, and he smiles down at her like she’s the only girl in his universe. The same way you thought he was doing to you.

“Well,” Heeseungs starts, his eyes finding you’d once again, like he can feel the hurt radiating off your body. He probably can. “Since when was that a thing?”

Jake shrugs the way most clueless men do. “No idea.”

The two of them walk away after that, and you’re thankful to be left alone with Yunjin.

“What the fuck?” She says, hands resting on her hips. “That’s gotta be a joke. Or maybe some kind of dare. I don’t fucking know, but there’s no way they’re actually seeing each other! He was literally blowing up your phone two days ago!” She snaps her fingers like she’s made some kind of profound discovery. "It must be some kind of spell. You know, I’ve always thought witches and magic were real–”

“Yunjin,” you interrupt, eyes already glassy and throat closing up with an onslaught of tears. You aren’t going to cry over him–that would be ridiculous, especially since you weren’t even dating, but that doesn’t mean it still doesn’t hurt. If you’re being completely honest, it hurts like hell.

Yunjin notices immediately, and before you can process it, she’s throwing her arms around you and pulling you into her chest in the middle of the field. “I’m sorry, babe,” she sighs, “I really thought he was going to ask you out tonight.”

She’s not the only one. 

You just shrug, doing your best to mask your hurt, even though you know there’s no point when it comes to Yunjin. You’ve only known her for six months, yet she’s the only person who can read you like an open book. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” she mumbles, pulling away from you and placing her hands on your shoulders. “But it will be. Because we’re going to show Sunghoon exactly what he missed out on.”

You snort, rolling your eyes and shrugging her off of you so you can make the trek back to your shared dorm. “What are you talking about?”

She shrugs, “you’ll see.”

You should question her. Should refuse to go anywhere with her until she tells you what her plan is, but you don’t do any of that. You trust Yunjin, and you know that while her methods may be strange, she does everything with good intentions. Besides, you doubt you won’t be able to handle whatever it is she’s cooking up.

The diner off of 5th is the only place that stays open after ten pm and still serves edible food. It’s a campus staple, which means it’s nearly always packed—especially after games. So, you aren’t too surprised that you have to weave through multiple bodies just to find the table Sunghoon had managed to snag for the five of you, and nobody comments when it takes you nearly five minutes just to make it from the front door to your seats.

“I’m starving,” Yunjin groans, her tongue swiping over her lips as she flips through the menu. The both of you know she’s just going to get the same thing she does every time, but she says she finds joy in looking unpredictable.

“Me too,” Sunghoon agrees. 

He looks good. Tired, but good. His hair is falling over his eyes in that dorky kind of way and he’s wearing his glasses—a rare sight. Normally, you’d be the only one doing this much analysis into his look, but when you glance over at Chaewon, she’s staring at him with a dopey grin on her face.

You frown and look down at your menu. You still don’t understand how this could’ve happened. It just didn’t make any sense. When you take out the part where you’re totally in love with Sunghoon, it still makes no sense for him to hide his apparent relationship with Chaewon. Was it a relationship? Are they even dating? Or are they just in that weird space between where you both know it’s going to happen, but they’re still choosing to dance around it?

You’d thought you were there with Sunghoon. You thought it was only a matter of time before he swept you off of your feet and confessed his love for you with some kind of grand, dramatic gesture.

But your life is clearly not a movie, because Park Sunghoon is reaching for Chaewon's hand under the table. His thumb is rubbing small, comforting circles into her skin, and she’s doing a very bad job at hiding her smile.

You shouldn’t have agreed to come.

Jake, for all his strange qualities, has always been observant (except when it comes to possible romantic partners), and he watches the entire exchange with narrowed eyes and bated breath. You’d never talked to him about your relationship with Sunghoon, but he (along with your nemesis) was the guy's roommate, so you assume he must've known that there was something going on between you. Unless you really are just delusional and everything had been entirely friendly.

“So,” Jake starts, wagging his finger towards the couple. “We’re so glad you’re here, Chaewon. Seriously. But I just can’t believe this is the first I’m hearing about…this. I mean, not to sound like a douche or anything, but I live with Sunghoon and he hasn’t brought you up once. He’s talked about–” his eyes find yours for a fleeting moment, before he clears his throat and tries to pretend it never happened. “It’s just kind of unexpected.”

Chaewon giggles, reaching a hand up and swiping her bangs over her forehead. They fall right back into place. “It was a recent development.”

Yunjin snorts, taking a sip from her cup with the kind of casual confidence you wish you had. “Clearly.”

If anybody catches the irritation in her tone, they don’t comment on it. 

“He actually hit me with a football during practice,” Chaewon laughs, bringing her arm up to rest casually behind Sunghoon. You can nearly make out her fingers playing with the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “It was the total opposite of a meet-cute. But it still worked out anyway, because he invited me to coffee as an apology and things just went from there.”

Coffee? He always takes you to coffee. Did they go to the same place you go to? Did he show her the secret menu that’s not really a secret? Did he joke around with your favorite barista like he does when he’s with you?

Your throat feels tight again, but you suck down a gulp from your drink and try to act like you aren’t on the brink of emotional collapse.

Yunjin smiles, but it looks forced. She taps your thigh once, like she’s warning you, but before you can question it, she’s already opening her mouth. “You know, that’s honestly kind of crazy. Two of my friends are getting into relationships at the same time. You’d think I’d get some of that luck too considering I seem to be the common denominator here, but nope!”

You blink. You love Yunjin, you really do, but outside of you the only other person you saw her consistently speak to is her pet gerbil. And even that was leaning into more of a casual situation lately.

Sunghoon’s eyebrows raise briefly, but he’s quick to lower them. “Really?” He mumbles. You can practically feel the curiosity radiating off of him. He’s always been way too nosy. “Who?”

The next few moments are still a bit of a blur in your mind. You remember feeling like someone had spilled a bucket of cold water on you, but when you ran a hand through your hair, it was completely dry.

Yunjin smiles, and she looks so innocent you almost believe the lie that rolls off of her tongue like honey. You probably would’ve if it didn't have to do with you. “[Y/N], you’ve been seeing someone recently as well, haven’t you?”

You nearly choke, eyes widening into saucers. You splutter for an answer, blinking rapidly as you do. “What? A relationship? I don’t–well, I mean–maybe–?” It’s not until Yunjin sends a swift heel to your shin do you manage to get out a full sentence. “Yes,” you squeak. “I have been…seeing someone. It’s very recent. Very new. Honestly, I’m just as surprised as you are that it happened so quickly.”

The table goes silent for a moment, and you suddenly feel very, very exposed. You know Yunjin knows you’re a terrible liar, she witnessed it firsthand when you tried to lie about eating her leftover cheesecake, and yet she thought making you lie in a group setting would make your skills any better? If anything, it just made them ten times worse!

You’re waiting for the inevitable–for someone to give an uncomfortable laugh before attempting to move the conversation forward. Meanwhile, you’re going to pray to whatever is listening up in the sky for the floor to swallow you whole and for this day to have never happened.

But that doesn’t happen. Instead, the next few moments are probably the most confusing of your life. 

“That’s good, [Y/N],” Sunghoon says, smiling at you the way he does with everyone else. It’s not the smile you’re used to. Not the curl of his lips that would send butterflies fluttering around in your stomach and make your cheeks burst with color. This one is practiced, easy. Entirely wrong. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

You pale, parting your lips to give some shitty excuse. Maybe your delivery man? You met when he was dropping off your amazon vibrator and he complimented you on the brand. A very plausible start to any college relationship, and it’d be easy to hide considering he’s not real. 

But before you can tell your made-up story, Yunjin beats you to the punch.

“Oh, you’re going to lose your mind. I know I did when she told me.” She laughs aloud, and when her eyes find yours, you suddenly wish you’d never even gotten out of bed this morning. Maybe finishing the course with a B wouldn’t have been so bad if it meant you got to avoid this terrible fate.

She leans forward on the table, lowering her voice into that soft teasing tilt she’s perfected. “She’s been seeing your other roommate. The one she apparently can’t stand.”

Jake’s eyes widen, his hands slamming on the table so he can lean against them and get a better look at you. He practically screams when he asks, “you’ve been seeing Heeseung?”

You should’ve just taken the dock off of your grade.

“Yunjin, do not come near me right now or I swear to God you’re going to be missing chunks of hair.”

She winces, hands immediately tugging on the red strands. “Anything but the hair! You know it’s my best feature.” She attempts to joke, but you’re having absolutely none of it.

“You realize they live with him, right? What happens when they ask him about his apparent relationship with me?” You snap, slamming the door to your dorm behind you. The walk here had been completely silent—or, at least, it had been from your end. Yunjin spent the entire time trying to act like she hadn’t just lied to all of your friends that you were dating Lee Heeseung. The one person in this world everyone knows you cannot stand.

She flops onto her bed and stretches her arms over her head. “They’re guys! They don’t talk about that kind of stuff. Jake didn’t even know Sunghoon was seeing Chaewon! Which, can we talk about that, actually? I mean, seriously, what the fuck? One second he’s taking you on these cute little dates and the next—”

“Yunjin,” you groan, rubbing the heels of your palm into your eyes. You’re absolutely exhausted, and you aren’t sure how much longer you can talk about Sunghoon without your head wanting to explode. “As much as I’d love to talk about Sanghoon's sparkling love life and my lack of one, I’ve got a nine am tomorrow that I’d rather not have to sleep through because I stayed up all night talking about my nonexistent love life.”

She nods, a small smile on her lips. "No, yeah, of course. But, before you become dead to the world, you’re actually kind of wrong about something.”

“What?”

“Your love life isn’t nonexistent,” she says thoughtfully. “You’re seeing Heeseung, remember?”

You throw the pillow at her so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t mold to her face.

You’ve always enjoyed your nine am literacy analysis lecture. After all, you’re an English major. Literacy analysis is kind of your whole thing.

The only part of the class that is mildly annoying is the fact that you share it with Heeseung. But, surprisingly, he rarely ever bothers you. You aren’t sure if it’s because he’s finally matured and realized it’s stupid to bother you during lecture, or if he’d just gotten bored of the entire thing. Either way, you’d be perfectly fine with whatever the answer was as long as it kept him away from you.

Today though, your nerves are practically fried. Does he know? Did he expose you? You don’t know why he would lie for you, and honestly, you don’t expect him to. He probably laughed out loud before Sunghoon and Jake even asked him about it.

God, you love Yunjin, you really do, but right now you wish she’d stayed home with her gerbil last night. Maybe that way she wouldn’t have been able to open her big mouth.

You don’t look at Heeseung when you enter. You don’t even look in his general direction. You just keep your head down and try to look as normal as possible through the lecture, which is exceptionally difficult when your mind is buzzing with so much nervous energy it could power the entire university.

The usual hour seems to pass by in a blur, and when your professor releases you for dismissal, you’re quick to pack your bags and make a swift exit. You're practically out of breath by the time you make it outside, but you’re relieved you managed to get out without having to make any contact with Heeseung. You aren’t sure you would’ve been able to survive the embarrassment.

You pull the strap of your bag further up your shoulder and pull out your phone, fully ready to call Yunjin and complain to her about the mess she’s gotten you into, but a call of your name forces your head up.

Heeseung makes his way over to you casually, a backwards baseball cap covering up his dirty blonde hair and his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He isn’t giving you that usual teasing smile he always wears when he sees you, instead he looks unusually serious. 

You tense, pulse pounding in your ears and alarm bells ringing in your head. You have half the mind to turn and make a run for it, but he reaches you before your feet can move.

“Hi,” he says simply. Casually. Like he’s talking to a friend and asking about the weather.

You hesitate, but return the greeting nonetheless. “...Hi.”

He cracks a smile, but scrunches his nose before it reaches his eyes and his lips fall back down into a straight line. “We need to talk.”

Your blood turns to ice, skin paling before you can stop it. He knows. And if he knows that means he told everyone the truth, and he’s probably already told the entire campus about your stupid lie as well. You’re going to be known as the girl who lied about being in a relationship because she couldn't accept that the boy she likes has a girlfriend, and then you're going to have to transfer somewhere else and start going by a new name. 

God, you are going to kill Yunjin. It’ll be like a final goodbye before you’re forced to move across the country.

You shake your head immediately. “No, uh, we don’t actually. I already know what you’re going to say, so I’ll just start packing my things now. No need for this awkward rejection or whatever–not that I’m being rejected by you. God, I’d rather die before I go out with you. But, Yunjin has a big mouth and I never know how to stop her before she says something stupid, so now my social life is totally dead and–”

You’re rambling so fast it takes a moment for you to register that Heeseung's laughing, and even longer to realize that he’s laughing at you. His shoulders shake from the force of it, and the back of his hand comes up to cover his mouth. If this was anyone else, you might even think he looked cute.

You swallow, unable to help the pout that forms on your lips. “And now you’re laughing at me.”

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles, taking in a deep breath and trying to find some composure. “It’s just…you’ve always been really good at jumping to conclusions.”

Your brows furrow, mouth parting as you try to process his words. What does he mean you’re good at jumping to conclusions? Why does he always talk like he knows anything about you? You know they shouldn’t, but the words tick you off. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugs, lips curving up into that smile you’ve unfortunately become way too familiar with. The one that screams trouble and always means he’s up to no good. “I have to admit, I was pretty surprised when Jake grilled me for half an hour last night on our apparent relationship–” you visibly wince, but he ignores it and continues– “but, I thought to myself, why on earth would [Y/N] [L/N] tell our friends we were in a relationship? I figured you had to have a reason, so I went along with it.”

Your jaw drops, eyes blinking a mile a minute like maybe that’ll help everything make sense. Newsflash, it doesn’t–if anything it just makes everything feel ten times more confusing. “You what?”

He shrugs, “you have a reason, right? Otherwise, we just became a couple for no reason. Unless that’s what you wanted? Was this whole thing just an elaborate scheme to get with me?” His voice drops an octave, and he takes a step closer, until suddenly he’s in your space and you can smell the fresh linen from his detergent and his cedarwood cologne. “You know, princess, if you wanted to be with me, all you had to do was ask.”

You might be extremely confused right now, but you’ve got enough sense to know that the last thing you want in your life is to be in a real relationship with him. And you definitely don’t want him calling you princess. 

You take a step back, your arms coming up to put space between the two of you. “Ew, no, absolutely not. Like I said, I’d rather die before I dated you.”

He hums, shoving his hands back in his pockets and beginning to walk away. “Okay. I’ll just go tell Jake and Sunghoon that you lied then–”

Your hand shoots out and wraps around his arm before you can stop yourself, and you feel the muscle tense up beneath your fingertips. He stills, his head tilting as he looks back at you.

You swallow, taking your pride down with the saliva. “I’m sorry,” you sigh out, “I just don't know how to go about this without sounding like a total loser.”

His lips curve up and he turns so he’s facing you fully. “You’re going to sound like a loser to me no matter what, so just tell me.”

You glower, your hand dropping back to your side. You try to ignore the warmth lingering in your palm as it balls up at your side. “I’ve had a thing for this guy–”

He nods. “Sunghoon, right?”

Is it really that obvious? You narrow your eyes, “How’d you know? Did he say something about me?”

He shakes his head. “No, but I’ve seen the way you follow each other like lost puppies. I’ve gotta admit, I was surprised when he popped out with Chaewon and not you.”

You don’t know if that makes you feel better or worse. If even Heeseung, the one person you absolutely cannot stand, could see that there was something between you and Sunghoon, then that must mean you aren’t delusional. But, on the other hand, it makes you wonder what made Sunghoon change his mind so quickly.

Were you trying to take things too slow? Did he get bored of the waiting? You thought the dancing around each other was sweet, but maybe he was looking at it differently. Maybe he just got sick of waiting around for you.

Heeseung must notice how your thoughts have wandered, because he waves a hand in front of your face and raises his brows. “You still with me?”

Your eyes snap to him and your cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Yeah, sorry, um, as I was saying, I’ve had a thing for him for a while. So, when he took us to dinner with Chaewon last night, Yunjin had this bright idea to say that I was also in a relationship with…you. And the whole thing just kind of spiraled from there.”

He’s silent for a moment, like he’s processing your words. “She said we were dating to make Sunghoon jealous? How does that work?”

You groan and run a hand over your face. “I don’t know! I don’t know what she was thinking! I’ve already yelled at her over it!” You feel your frustration building again, but you take a deep breath and force it down. “It was stupid. And now you’re dragged into this entire mess and I don’t know how I’m going to tell everyone the truth.”

There are a lot of things you dislike about Heeseung. He’s rude in that passive aggressive kind of way, and he only ever does it to you. He always forgets a pen and never gives yours back when you lend one to him. He’s wildly selfish and thinks that the entire world revolves around him. He also always manages to catch you by surprise, and you absolutely loathe surprises.

Today is no exception.

His lips part in thought, and for the first time you can actually see him thinking about what he’s going to say before he says it. Usually, he just blurts out whatever's on his mind and deals with the consequences later.

“What if…” he hesitates for a moment. “What if you didn’t tell them?”

“What?”

He splutters for a moment, a nervous laugh bubbling from his lips. “I just mean, what if we let everyone think we’re dating? Not that we actually date. That would be…awful.”

“Why would we do that, though?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s not like me having a boyfriend is going to change Sunghoon's mind. And what would you even get out of it aside from undeniable blackmail material?”

He shrugs, “actually Sunghoon looked pretty distraught last night. He kept asking me about you and our budding relationship.”

Your heart skips a beat at that. He was asking about you? It shouldn't affect you like it does, especially when he’s got a girlfriend, but the thought of him thinking about you has butterflies flying around your stomach.

Still, it doesn’t explain why Heeseung would want to help you. He’s never gone out of his way to do it before, so you don’t see why he would now. 

“But, what do you get out of this?” You ask, pointing a wary finger at him. “You’ve never been nice enough to actually help me before.”

He scoffs, “first off, that's not true. What about that science project we did Junior year? The one with the ant colony? I partnered up with you after Stella got that weird illness.”

“You mean the ant colony you released into Mrs. Hong's room? She made us deep clean the room every day for, like, two weeks. And Stella had pneumonia.”

“Yeah, but that was after we’d already gotten an A.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

He sighs and pulls out a creme folder from his bag. He taps it once and hands it to you. You accept it questioningly, looking up at him through your lashes with suspicion. “What is this?”

“My portfolio,” he explains. Just as he said, when you open it there's what you think must be hundreds of photos. Some of nature, some of the people on campus, some of just random mundane things. They’re all breathtaking shots, and it's then that you remember he’s here on a full scholarship after winning some national photography contest. It’d been the only thing he talked about for weeks.

You knew he was going to win the moment it was announced.

“Wow,” you mumble, continuing to flip through the photos. “These are amazing.”

He brings a hand up to his neck and scratches at it nervously. “Thanks.”

One picture captures your attention. It’s a candid shot of Sunghoon in class, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, eyebrows tucked in that adorable way they always are when he’s frustrated. The people around him are blurry, and you assume they’re getting their stuff for dismissal.

“The photography committee on campus is holding a competition,” he continues, “$100,000 and your pictures are featured in international art shows. But, in order to enter, I need a muse. Someone I can get consistent pictures of. If we’re “dating”, no one will question why I’m constantly taking pictures of you, and it saves me the hassle of having to ask anyone else.”

You raise a brow. He wants to be in a fake couple so that he can take pictures of you for a contest? It doesn’t feel like a fair trade to you at all. “Why don’t you ask Jake or Sunghoon? I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

He gives you a fixed look. “I already did, but they both claimed they were too busy. You’re my last resort before I start asking random people on campus.”

The explanation still feels weird to you, but you aren’t going to fight him anymore on it. Besides, you’re still trying to wrap your head around the fact that you’re now in a fake relationship with public enemy number one.

“So…what now?” You ask, closing the folder and handing it back to him. He takes it with steady hands, and when his fingers brush yours, there’s a solid five seconds where your breath catches in your throat and you almost forget about everything you dislike about Heeseung.

“Jay Park’s having a party tomorrow night,” he breathes, lips turning up into that awful smile. “Beer. Dancing. Maybe some weed. Sunghoon and Chaewon will definitely be there, which means you and I will also be there.”

Your nose scrunches at the thought. You’d only gone to one party so far, and the entire experience had been so awful you’d sworn them off completely.

“I don’t really do parties,” you mumble.

Heeseung snorts like that’s the understatement of the century. “We won't stay for long. Just long enough for Sunghoon to see us, and then we’ll go.”

You nod, and the air between the two of you suddenly feels heavy. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and your eyes fall to the floor. “Thank you,” you say sincerely. “For helping me.”

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease. Just nods casually like fake dating people is something he does daily. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, princess.”

You really need to tell him to stop calling you that.

When you tell Yunjin, she doesn’t even try to act surprised. “I knew it would work out,” she says confidently, staring at a pimple in her reflection. “That's why I said it in the first place.”

You roll your eyes, fingers moving over your keyboard rapidly. You need to finish up your analysis paper before the deadline next week, but every time you sit down to write your brain wanders to dirty blonde hair and that annoyingly perfect smile.

“Whatever.” You mumble, “he’s expecting me to go to some party with him tomorrow night, but I don’t know. I really need to finish this paper, and the last time we went to a party I got so drunk I collided with the wall.”

Yunjin snorts at the memory, and then she’s standing and making her way over to you. She sits crisscrossed on your bed and ever-so-gently forces your laptop closed. You don’t argue with her, it’s not like you were getting anything done anyway.

“So, your fake boyfriend–who by the way, is super hot–is asking you to go to a party with him, and you don’t want to because you’d rather stay at home and analyze Edgar Allen Poe?” She asks, drawing out the sentence so you feel completely and utterly stupid.

“It’s not Edgar Allen Poe,” you mutter, “and, I don’t know, this entire thing just feels so insane! Like, what am I hoping happens? Sunghoon realizes he’s actually in love with me and breaks up with Chaewon?”

“Exactly that, yes.” Yunjin nods, like it’s obvious.

You shoot her a glare. “That’s not fair to either of them. If they’re happy, why should I try to ruin that?”

Yunjin sighs, her hands reaching out to grab yours. She brings them into her lap and squeezes them comfortingly. “If they’re happy, then you being in a relationship with Heeseung isn’t going to matter. But you said he asked about you, right? That means he still cares at least a little bit, and if that’s the case, then it’s not fair to Chaewon for him to stay with her.” She smiles softly, her shoulders bobbing as she shrugs them. “I don’t know what he’s doing right now, but I know that there was something going on between the two of you. And if you care about him, you shouldn’t let that go without a fight.”

When she wanted to, Yunjin could give some seriously killer advice. Your lips curve up, chest feeling lighter and mind not so hazy. “Thanks, Yunjin. Seriously. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Die, probably.”

You laugh loudly, throwing your head back with it. “Yeah,” you agree, “probably.”

The next night, your nerves are absolutely shot. Heeseung texted you that he’d pick you and Yunjin up from your dorm at seven, which meant you’d spent the entire day stressed out of your mind.

Sunghoon was going to be there, that much was obvious, but the thought of parading yourself around with Heeseung in front of him makes you feel sick. For one, he knows you. He’s always been able to see right through you, and you have half the mind to think he’ll make your little lie before you even step through the door.

You suck in a breath, your hands smoothing out the sides of your skirt. The dress Yunjin lent you is a lot shorter than anything you’re used to wearing, and the black cloth hugs your curves in a way you’re not entirely used to seeing on yourself. Your heels force your back to arch, highlighting the curve of your spine and the plump of your ass.

You give yourself a once-over in the mirror, hands coming down to tug the fabric further down your thighs. “Are you sure this isn’t too much?” You ask.

Yunjin clicks her tongue, and you can see her fighting with the straps of her own dress through the mirror. “Absolutely not. You look amazing. The guys are going to lose their minds when they see you in that.”

You raise a brow and turn around to face her. “Guys? Like, plural?”

“Well, yeah,” she shrugs, “Sunghoon and Heeseung.”

Sunghoon, yes. You’d love for him to notice you. But Heeseung? Absolutely not. You could seriously care less about what he thinks about you. He was there when you didn’t understand how to get rid of your acne and when makeup was more of a suggestion then something you actually did everyday.

“Ew, no,” you gag, “I don’t care what Lee Heeseung thinks about me. The only reason he’s even helping me is for his portfolio or whatever. He’s not doing it out of the kindness of his heart.”

Yunjin hums, smoothing out her dress and giving herself one final look over in the vanity mirror. She looks amazing–she always does. You aren’t jealous of Yunjin, but sometimes you wonder what it’d be like to have her confidence. “You seriously think he’s doing this just for his portfolio?”

“Um, yeah. That’s what he said.”

She walks over to you then, her chin resting on your shoulder. “I think–and don’t go nuclear on me for this–but I think he likes you. Like, like-likes you.”

A laugh bursts from your chest. That is the single most absurd thing you’ve ever heard in your life. Heeseung can barely stand being in the same room as you without having to get under your skin. He doesn’t like you, he just enjoys pissing you off. 

“You’re funny,” you snort, “and so insanely wrong.”

She shrugs and takes a step back from you. “I don’t know, [Y/N]. I don’t know many guys who get into fake relationships with people they dislike just so they can finish their portfolio.”

Your phone buzzes from your bed, and when you pick it up you’ve got a text message from Heeseung saying he’s here. 

“You don’t know many guys in general, Yunjin.” You retort. You quickly grab your purse and stuff your phone inside. “He’s here. Don’t say anything weird in the car, please. I think you’ve embarrassed me enough in the last two days to last a lifetime.”

“No promises,” she winks.

Heeseung's car isn’t super nice. It’s pretty typical for any college student, actually. There’s a scratch on the passenger side door and a dent on the hood, and it looks like it could definitely use a round through the car wash. But, despite that, the sight of it makes you nostalgic.

You remember when he pulled into your first day of Junior year with this thing. He bragged about it to anyone who would listen. He’d saved up the entire summer to buy it, and he treated the run down thing like it was his pride and joy. You wonder if that’s still the case today.

He’s leaning against your door when you step outside. Dirty blonde hair, backwards baseball cap, that same fucking smile. The sight alone is enough to irritate you.

But there’s a brief moment where the smile falters. His eyes trail over you, all the way from your heels to your eyes, and you swear you see his ears go the lightest shade of pink.

You raise a brow, but before you can comment on it the smile is back and he’s acting like nothing happened. “Nice dress,” he clicks his tongue, “I didn’t think you owned anything that didn’t look like it came from a librarian's closet.”

You hate him. You hate him so much it hurts your soul. It envelops your being like an ugly monster.

You want to tell him that, but you don’t, because at the end of the day he’s helping you for whatever reason, and your mother told you that hating people was inherently wrong. So, you swallow down your annoyance and make your way to his car. “Can we try and go one night without you being a dick?”

“I don’t know,” he smirks, “you’re the one dating this dick, princess.”

You frown and try not to think about the double meaning behind his words. “Fake dating,” you correct.

“Right. Fake dating.”

The tension between you is thick, and not in the way you’re used to. Instead, this feels like some sort of gravitational pull towards him. Something you’d kept buried that is trying to dig its way back from the grave.

Yunjin groans behind you. You’d nearly forgotten she was here. “God, can you guys just fuck already and get it over with? Your sexual tension is starting to make me jealous.”

“Yunjin!” You practically screech. Your hands gesture wildly as you attempt to defend yourself. “This is not–there is no sexual tension! That’s not what this is!”

She gives you a look that says: don’t make me call bullshit.

You sigh and run a hand over your eyes. “Just get in the car.”

The party is just outside of campus, in Jay Park's two-story home that he mysteriously pays for by himself. (Everyone knows he’s a trust fund baby.) There’s some stragglers outside, all holding red solo cups and trying to act drunker than they really are. You’ve never understood the appeal for parties. To you, they just look like sweat fests that people gaslight themselves into thinking are fun.

Yunjin gets out of the car as soon as you pull up and quickly makes her way over to some guy by the front door. You watch as she tries to talk to him, and for once he doesn’t look intimidated by her outgoing nature. It’s kind of cute, actually.

You, on the other hand, feel a bit sick. For one, you don’t know what you’re going to do when you see Sunghoon. Is he even going to care? Probably not. He literally has a fucking girlfriend, and here you are trying to show off for him like that’ll change anything.

“Hey,” Heeseung murmurs from beside you, his eyebrows knitted together in what you think might be concern. “You good?”

You blink. “I don’t know.” It’s the most honest thing you’ve said all night.

He’s silent for a moment, before he’s letting out a breath and turning to you. “You look good, [Y/N]. Really fucking good. Don’t let a dress like that go to waste because you’re in your head.” He emphasizes his point with a gentle tap to your forehead. “Let’s go in there and show Sunghoon exactly what he lost, yeah?”

You feel your cheeks heat at the compliment, but you force the words to the back of your mind to be dwelled on later. Right now, you just need to get out of this car and get through tonight without wanting to explode. And, honestly, you do want to show Sunghoon what he’s missing out on. 

“Okay,” you nod.

He grins. “Okay.” 

Inside, the party is practically buzzing with people. There’s a few people you recognize, but it’s mostly randoms that you didn’t even realize you went to school with. That’s the thing about college; you’re always meeting someone new. Your high school was the complete opposite of that–you knew everyone in your graduating class on a personal level.

Heeseung keeps a hand on your lower back the entire time, and for some reason, you’re grateful for the subtle comfort it gives you. Like it’s a reminder that he’s here and that you aren’t going into this mess alone.

You eventually make your way over to the drinks, and Heeseung grabs a can of alcohol for himself and water for you. You raise a brow as he hands it to you. You hadn’t planned to drink, but him handing you water makes you feel like he’s treating you like some little kid.

“Actually,” you clear your throat, pointing towards the other beer can on top of the ice, “I’ll have that.”

He looks caught off guard for a moment, but then he shrugs and hands the can over to you. You open it with a pop and immediately take a swig. It goes down like tar against your tongue, and your nose scrunches in disgust.

He chuckles, “sure you don’t want the water?”

You really do. “I’m sure.”

Your eyes search the crowd for Sunghoon, and sure enough he’s here. He’s playing beer pong with some of his friends from the football team, and Chaewon is at his side cheering every time he scores. They look perfect for each other, and your heart squeezes painfully at the sight. Your hands shake as you take another gulp of your beer.

Heeseung taps your waist once, before he’s tugging you into his side and pulling you towards the dance floor. Alarm bells ring in your head as you weave through the crowd. You can’t dance, anytime you’ve tried you’ve embarrassed yourself so bad you’ve debated never showing your face in public again.

“Heeseung,” you attempt, “I can’t dance!”

“Neither can anyone else here. Besides, we can’t just sit in the corner and expect Sunghoon to care. If he’s having a good time, you need to be having an even better one.” He says easily.

You scoff as he comes to a stop in the middle of the floor, directly in Sunghoon's line of sight. Heeseung has always been able to make confidence look easy–like it’s something he was born with. You, on the other hand, are not like that. Your movements are awkward and you fumble to find a rhythm that doesn’t make you look like you’re on the verge of collapse.

“Wow,” he laughs, whistling lowly when you nearly trip over your own feet. “You weren’t kidding.”

Your eyes narrow as embarrassment flushes your cheeks. “I told you! God, I’m going back to the drinks–”

Before you can walk away, he catches your wrist with his hand and pulls you back towards him. Your chest nearly collides with his, and his face is suddenly so close you can practically taste his breath on yours.

“I’m not making fun of you, princess.” He murmurs, his hands sliding up to rest on your hips, “just…observing.”

His voice is right beside your ear, and the proximity makes your body feel like it’s on fire. Suddenly, the room is too small and all you can think about is him. Sunghoon is a thought so distant in your mind you nearly forget you’d ever been thinking about him in the first place.

He brings his lips to your ear, his grip on your hips tightening the smallest bit. You wonder if he’s able to hear your heartbeat. If he can, does he know it’s beating so rapidly because of him?

“He’s looking,” he murmurs into your hair.

The call back to reality feels like a bucket of ice water against your spine. If Heeseung notices the way you tense, he doesn’t comment on it.

You clear your throat and try to ignore the way your voice shakes. “He is?”

“He was,” he grumbles with a click of his tongue. He pulls back so you can see his eyes, and for a moment you think he almost looks as wrecked as you feel. “I’m going to kiss you.”

Your eyes widen and you nearly choke on your own spit. “What?”

You barely have time to process before he’s bringing a hand up to cup your cheek, the other sliding to your spine and pulling you impossibly closer. You’re so close your noses are nearly touching, and his cedarwood cologne feels like it’s enveloping all of your senses.

“Trust me, okay?” He murmurs.

Later, you’ll say you don’t know how it happened. You’ll tell Yunjin that it all happened so fast and that it really wasn’t that big of a deal. He was just helping you get Sunghoon's attention.

But the truth–the truth is that you want him to kiss you. You want him to take your breath away and for his hands to hold you like he’s afraid he’ll die without you.

And that scares you.

All you can manage is one simple word. “Okay.”

And then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is awkward at first, more a peck than anything else, but he slides his hand to the back of your neck and pulls you closer and suddenly his tongue is in your mouth and he’s kissing you like you’re something precious.

Your hands slide to his chest instinctively, fists balling up the fabric of his shirt between your fingers. His breath mingles with yours, and his tongue licks into your mouth like you’re the best thing he’s tasted in years.

You can’t help the whine that slides from his lips when he pulls away, your own lips chasing his without your permission. It’s like your body's an addict and he’s your drug of choice. 

Heeseung's lips are swollen and his pupils are completely blown, but you doubt you look much better. His tongue darts out to swipe at his lower lip, and then he’s smiling at you. But it’s not the teasing smile you’re used to or the one he gives everyone else. It’s softer. Real. 

Your lips part to say something, anything, but then your thoughts go back to Sunghoon and what comes out instead is a soft, “did he see?”

Heeseungs smile immediately drops, and something akin to disappointment flashes over his face. You don’t know why the sight makes you cringe internally. 

He glances up and nods his head. “Yeah,” he says, using his grip on your hips to turn you around, “he definitely saw.”

When you look, Sunghoon’s cheeks are pink and he’s staring directly at you. When he sees you looking, he’s quick to avert his gaze and try to act casually, but you know Sunghoon. He’s jealous.

This is a complete win.

So, why don’t you care as much as you should?

You should be ecstatic that Sunghoon’s feeling a certain way towards you. That’s the whole point of this stupid deal–to get Sunghoon back.

But when you turn back around and look at Heeseung, all you can think about is the way he smiled at you like you meant something to him. And how you hope he does it again.

It’s been a week since the kiss. A full week of acting like a couple. Holding hands on campus, cheek kisses in class, coffee dates at the cafe you used to frequent with Sunghoon. 

It’s…weird. Somewhere along the way, you stopped hating Heeseung's general presence. Instead of a nemesis, he’s managed to turn himself into someone you don’t really mind having around. A frenemy, maybe. He’s funny, something you never cared enough to notice before, and he’s got this soft side to him that makes your heart melt the smallest bit.

“So,” Yunjin grins, taking a bite of her ramen. “Any word from Sunghoon?”

Your mouth goes dry at the mention of your apparent crush. In truth, you hadn't really thought about him at all. You used to go to sleep imagining it was Sunghoon next to you, whispering sweet nothings in your ear and holding you like you were something fragile.

Now when you close your eyes at night, all you can think about is the way Heeseung's mouth felt against yours. The way his hands gripped your hips and held you close to him.

It takes everything in you to remember that Sunghoon is the goal. You’re just feeling this way because Heeseung kissed you. Once you have Sunghoon, you’ll get over it completely.

“Um,” you mumble, sinking further into your blankets, “not yet. But Heeseung said he saw him looking at us in the coffee shop the other day. That’s good, right?”

She turns to you, her eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. “It is. So why don’t you sound more excited?”

You immediately go on the defensive. “I am excited! I’m just…tired right now. It’s late, and I’ve been up since seven.”

“Whatever you say.”

In truth, you aren’t that excited. It’s nice that he’s thinking about you. It’s the entire reason you and Heeseung are doing this anyway. So why can you not bring yourself to care more?

Your phone buzzes next to you, and you have to dig through your sheets to find it. When you do, the screen is lit up with a message from Heeseung.

Hey, it reads, got time to take some photos tomorrow? There’s this park just a little off campus that I think would be a good spot.

Right. The portfolio. You’d been so busy with yourself you nearly forgot you were supposed to be helping him as well.

Sure, you reply, what time?

It doesn’t take long for him to respond. I’ll pick you up at eleven. Wear something nice, please.

You heart the message and set your phone down. You aren’t sure what something nice is supposed to entail, but you’ll do your best.

The next morning, you’re waiting outside your dorm in an outfit that you deemed appropriate for the park while also being cute. It isn’t something you usually wear–the long skirt feels restricting and the jean vest is more form-fitting then you thought it would be, but Yunjin swore up and down that you looked great, so you’re choosing to believe her.

You rock back and forth on your feet while you wait, scrolling mindlessly through your phone. Heeseung is never late, but today seems to be an exception to that.

You sigh, ready to turn around and go wait in your dorm, but the sound of your name catches you off guard.

When you look over, Sunghoon is walking over to you. He must’ve been on a run, because his arms are on full display in his sleeveless tank top. Usually, the sight would send your mind reeling. But now you barely even glance towards them.

“Hi, Sunghoon.”

He nods, coming to a stop a few feet in front of you. He’s close enough for you to see the moles on his face, but far enough that you can’t smell his usual expensive cologne. A complete opposite of Heeseungs soft cedarwood and linen.

Why the fuck are you thinking about Heeseungs cologne right now?

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” he says shyly, eyebrows knit together. “I’ve…missed hanging out with you.”

Your heart skips a beat, but for all the wrong reasons.

“Sorry,” you murmur with a shrug. “I’ve just been super busy lately. You know how it gets.” It’s not a lie, you have been busy. Just…busy with Heeseung.

He pauses, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips. He looks like he’s contemplating his next words, which is something you’ve never seen him do. It hurts a bit that your relationship has turned into this. Just a month ago the thought of ignoring Sunghoon would’ve seemed unfathomable. Both of you being in separate relationships (given yours is fake) would’ve been a complete joke. And yet here you are, talking like complete strangers.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, the words quiet and hesitant. “I’ve seen you and Heeseung around campus. I was a little surprised, honestly.”

Your response is dry. Bordering on the edge of annoyance. “Yeah. So was I.”

You both know you’re not talking about Heeseung. For a moment, he almost looks regretful.

“[Y/N]-”

“Hey.” 

You didn’t even notice Heeseung's beat up Honda pull onto your street, nor notice him walk out of it. He’s dressed casually in a Decalis University sweatshirt and gray sweatpants. His camera hangs off his neck and rests against his stomach, and his hand instinctively hovers over it as he approaches.

Relief floods your chest at the sight of him. You don’t know why. It must be some kind of hormonal thing.

Sunghoon takes a step back like he’s trying to put up an invisible wall between you. The two live together, and yet the tension radiating off of them makes you wonder what their living situation must be like right now. Jake must be in a constant state of stress.

“You’re late,” you murmur.

Heeseung smiles, his hand reaching for yours and pulling your wrist to his mouth. He leaves a soft kiss on your inner wrist, and your cheeks flare at the gesture. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles against your skin. “Traffic.”

You fold immediately. “It’s fine. I was just worried.”

Sunghoon must sense that he’s no longer wanted, because he murmurs a soft goodbye and makes a swift exit. You watch as he jogs away, his forming growing smaller and smaller, and it doesn’t hurt like it used to. It just feels like…nothing. You look back to Heeseung, and any tension you had melts.

“What was that about?” He asks.

You shrug. “Was just saying hello.”

“And?”

You raise a brow. “And what?”

“Did he say anything about me? About our relationship?”

Oh. Right. You’re in love with Sunghoon.

“Oh,” you clear your throat and attempt to act like you hadn’t completely forgotten your deal. “Yeah, he did. I think he’s jealous, but he’s still with Chaewon, so does it even really matter?”

“Trust me, it does.” He snorts, leading you over to his car. “He was talking to Jake last night about how he apparently isn’t feeling any sparks with Chaewon. He wants to break up with her.”

That’s good. That’s what you wanted. You should be ecstatic and your heart should be fluttering in your chest. Instead, all you feel is a cold pang of disappointment.

“Good! That's great. Amazing, even.” You say, attempting to sound the littlest bit excited, but it just comes off flat and dull. Like you’re talking about an assignment and not the boy you’ve been in love with for months.

He gives you a side-eye as he opens the passenger door for you, and you slip in like it’s second nature. At this point, it is. “You don’t sound too excited,” he observes.

You’re not, but you can’t say that. “I’m just shocked, I guess. I don’t understand why he even got with Chaewon in the first place if he didn’t feel anything for her. It’s kind of…mean.”

Heeseung takes a second to respond as he climbs into the driver's seat. He wordlessly hands you his phone and lets you put on your playlist–something you hadn’t even realized was an option. You play Ariana Grande and watch as Heeseung tries to act like he doesn’t enjoy it.

“Sunghoons always been like that,” he says eventually. “He’s impulsive. Doesn’t think about what he’s doing until he’s regretting it and trying to act like he’s not.”

“Why?”

Heeseung shrugs, glancing at you from the corner of his eye for a split second before going back to the road. “Don’t know. It’s just how he is.”

You chew at the inside of your cheek and look out the window. The campus passes by in a blur, people walking to class together, pigeons scavenging for any scraps they can get, the lecture hall you walk to every morning. It’s familiar. Comfortable.

You look back to Heeseung, and instead of annoyance, you get the same feeling you do when you’re looking at campus. Familiarity. Comfort. And it scares you so much your throat nearly constricts.

“Well,” you croak, running a hand through your hair, “that’s stupid. And all it does is hurt the people around him.”

“Yeah,” he agrees softly, “it does.”

You don’t talk the rest of the car ride, and you’re thankful for it. Your mind is too alert for conversation right now. You can smell his cologne, can hear him humming along to Needy by Ariana Grande, can feel his presence consuming your very soul. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

You don’t hate Lee Heeseung. Because your mother used to say that hate was just another word for love, and that is the last thing you feel for the boy you grew up with.

When you arrive at the park, you’re entirely too eager to get out of the car. You barely wait for him to park before you’re practically stumbling out of your seat with the ordinance of a baby giraffe. 

Heeseung gives you a look, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Just directs you to where he wants to go with confidence. His hand hovers at your lower back–never touching–just there. Like he’s unsure of what to do with himself when you’re not around your friends and having to keep up your act.

You don’t comment on it.

Eventually, he takes you to a small pond in the middle of the park. There’s white lilies around the water, each of them dancing in the wind while the water flows around them. The sun is bright, shining in your eyes and making you squint slightly. It’s pretty beautiful, actually. You had no idea this place was so close to your campus.

Heeseung directs you on how to pose. How to smile like you have no idea you’re being watched. It’s awkward at first, mostly because the only time you’ve ever had someone take pictures of you like this was during your high school graduation, but it doesn’t take long for the tension to ease into something softer. Easier. 

He tells you to sit on the grass and tilt your head towards the pond–but each shot he gets just doesn’t feel right.

“Maybe lean more towards the left?” He mumbles, hand flying out to gesture at you. You do as he says, but apparently, he’s still not getting the shot he wants. 

He clicks his tongue in frustration, “no–that’s not–just–let me fix you.”

You furrow your brows. What does that even mean? “You don’t need to fix me, Heeseung–”

He interrupts you with a laugh. “Not like that, idiot. God, you’re always so defensive.”

You part your lips to retort, but before the words can get out, he’s walking towards you and your chin is in his hand, and you suddenly forget how to communicate entirely.

He tilts your head where he wants it, the pink of his tongue poking out the tiniest bit. His face is so close that it takes everything in you to not remember how he’d tasted when his tongue was in your mouth.

You feel your cheeks heat up, but you let him do what he needs to.

“There, that’s the angle.”

“You couldn’t have just told me to tilt my chin up?”

He smiles and goes back to his camera. “I did, princess. You just don’t listen.”

God, he’s so annoying.

But still, your lips curve up and your heart gets that same feeling it did at the party. The one that you’re not quite ready to name.

“Do we really have to go to this brunch?” You groan, flopping down onto your bed. “Sunghoon and Chaewon are going to be there, and I really don’t feel like watching them be all over each other.”

Yunjin shakes her head, “that’s exactly why we have to go. So that you and Heeseung can do it right back to them.”

“They already saw us kiss! What more do we have to do? Feed each other and do that weird baby talk bullshit couples do?”

Yunjin gags and rolls her eyes. “I don’t know what couples you’re talking to, but please tell them I said to stop doing that immediately. But, no, that’s not what I meant. How is it going to look if everyone's there except for you and Heeseung?”

“Um, fine? No one’s going to care.”

“It’s going to look suspicious. Everyone knows you had a thing for Sunghoon before he popped out with Chaewon. You and Heeseung need to prove to everyone–not just Sunghoon–that you’re actually in love.”

You sigh. You know she’s right, you just hate it. Why do you need to prove your fake relationship to your friends? It feels wrong. It feels like lying.

Actually, it is lying. 

“I hate lying to everyone,” you sigh, hugging your pillow to your chest. “Makes me feel like a bad friend.”

“You’re not a bad friend,” Yunjin reassures, rolling her chair over to you. It gets caught on the rug for a moment, but she’s quick to force the wheels to move again. “Besides, what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

You give her a look. “That’s like, the worst advice you’ve ever given me.”

She chuckles, “sorry I’m not well versed in the art of therapy for fake dating. I’ll make sure to switch my degree to better accommodate you.”

“That would actually be great, thank you.”

She takes in a breath, her hand reaching for yours. “Just…don’t think of it as lying. Think about it like two friends helping each other out.”

“He’s not my friend.” You scoff, but the words don’t hold any bite behind them. Not like they used to, at least.

Yunjin grins knowingly. “Yeah, he is.”

You don’t bother correcting her again.

Brunch is at noon at that diner off of fifth. The same one you’d gone to when this entire mess started. The same one you’d started falling in love with Sunghoon at. It’s weird now, seeing how much your life has changed in the short amount of time since you were last here.

You have a fake boyfriend now. You don’t talk to Sunghoon. Your life feels like it’s falling apart and coming back together all at once.

You and Heeseung sit next to each other wordlessly, both of you more cautious about touching. It feels like there’s enough space between your leg and his to fill out the Grand Canyon. It shouldn’t bother you, but it does.

Sunghoon holds Chaewon's hand under the table, and their shoulders brush every time they move. It’s irritating and annoying and you strangely enough couldn’t care less about it. That sense of jealousy you’d felt the last time you were here no longer spills over your guts like acid, instead you feel nothing.

You try to force yourself to remember what you’d liked about Sunghoon. He’s kind. Smart. Dedicated. Absolutely fucking gorgeous.

But he’s not…

“Honestly,” Jake says between spoonfuls of biscuits and gravy, “when Yunjin told us you guys were seeing each other, I thought she was lying. I mean, you guys couldn’t even be in the same room without having some kind of argument.”

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear nervously, “yeah. I was pretty surprised too.”

You don’t miss the way Heeseung cracks a smile at that. “It was kind of sudden, but I'm glad it happened.” He says easily, “means I finally get to stop pretending I can’t stand her.”

You can tell he hadn’t meant to say that last part, because his eyes go wide and he tenses for a second. Not long enough for anyone to catch it, but you do. You see the way fear flashes behind his irises for a moment, the way his breath catches before filling out his chest once again.

Sunghoons throat bobs as he swallows, dark eyes darting between the two of you slowly. “Pretending?” He asks cautiously, like he’s testing the words on his tongue.

But you don’t care about Sunghoon. All you can think about is what Heeseung said. I finally get to stop pretending I can’t stand her. Is he being honest? Or is this all just a part of your act? You hate that you can’t tell.

“Uh,” he laughs nervously, bringing a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck. “When we were in school, I didn't know how to get her attention. She was smart and kind and friends with everyone, and I was just…there. She used to do this thing in kindergarten where she’d wait for everyone else to fall asleep during naptime before she did because she didn’t want anyone to have to sit there alone, and I remember thinking she must’ve been sent by some kind of angel.” He laughs then, a genuine one. The kind that lights up his entire face.

You hadn’t even remembered you did that, but it’s true. You did. It always just felt like the right thing to do, but the fact that he remembers it all these years later makes you feel almost dizzy. 

“I think it was in third grade when I figured the best way to get her attention was to piss her off,” he continues. “I don’t know why. But I spent the next ten or more years making sure I annoyed her to the best of my ability. I think I just decided that I’d rather have her hate me than not have her in my life at all.”

The table is silent aside from the people talking around you. They’re all having normal conversations while you're going through the biggest existential crisis of your life. You understand that this is supposed to be fake–but that didn’t feel like something he made up on the spot. It felt like he was finally coming clean about something that’d been sitting on his chest for years. And if that’s true, where does that leave you?

“Heeseung…” You attempt, eyes searching the side of his face. When he turns to you, he looks more sincere than you’ve ever seen him. His hand reaches for yours under the table and he intertwines his fingers with yours. The hold is gentle, soft, right. It feels like you’re exactly where you were always supposed to be.

“Sorry,” he laughs, turning back to the group. “That was kind of sappy.”

“Nah, man, that was beautiful.” Jake murmurs, bringing a hand up to his chest. “I’m happy for you guys, seriously.”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon nods, “you guys are good for each other.” He looks resigned. Like he’s accepting defeat. It makes something click in your brain.

For the first time in your life, you think you’re starting to see Heeseung exactly for who he is.

You don’t notice the way he looks at Sunghoon. Or how he swallows back his pride and comes to terms with what he knows he has to do.

You don't comment when he pulls his hand away from you, you just assume it's because he wants to be able to properly eat his food.

When brunch is over, you say your goodbyes to everyone with a pep in your step. You know that telling Heeseung how you’re feeling might complicate things, but he basically just confessed that he remembered things you did in kindergarten. You don’t remember that kind of stuff unless it means something, right?

“I’ll walk you back to your dorm?” He murmurs next to you, and you nod.

“I’d like that.”

There’s tension in the air as you walk, one that you’re practically dying to address. But Heeseung doesn’t look like he did in the diner. He looks conflicted, scared–he keeps his eyes ahead and his hands shoved into his pockets. Nothing like the bright boy you’d been sitting next to barely an hour ago.

“Are you okay?” You ask, voice soft.

He doesn’t even glance at you. “I’m fine.”

“Then why do you look like a kicked puppy?” You attempt to joke, but he doesn't laugh. Instead, he pauses on the sidewalk, and you barely get a few feet in front of him when you notice he’s stopped.

“What’s going on, Heeseung?” You attempt again, reaching for his hand. He pulls it back so sharply you nearly flinch.

“I think…I think we need to stop.” He says finally.

Your heart drops. “What? Why? Did I–Did I do something to make you uncomfortable?"

“No, no, it’s not–” He runs a shaky hand through his hair, “fuck, it’s not you.”

You raise a brow. He’s not making any sense. He wants to stop now? After what he said in the diner? “Then what is it?” You snap.

He shakes his head like the words are too painful to speak. “You like Sunghoon, [Y/N], and he’s going to break up with Chaewon soon. I got the pictures I needed for the competition. There’s no reason to drag this on any longer than we already have.”

His words shouldn’t feel like a breakup, but they do. God, they do.  They feel like he’s pulling away from you after you’ve finally come to terms with what you feel for him. “What about what you said in the diner?” You ask finally, voice breaking. “I can’t just act like that didn’t happen, Heeseung. Not when I’m finally–I’m finally…” The words get caught in your throat, but you both know exactly what you mean by them.

His hands squeeze into fists at his side. “That didn’t mean anything, [Y/N].” he says lowly, like breaking your heart is something he does daily. Maybe it was and you just never noticed before. “It was just helping the act. Keeping up the lie. That’s all.”

Tears come to your waterline, the back of your throat beginning to ache from the force of it. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” he says firmly, but you can see the way his eyes are beginning to turn glassy. “I really do.”

He turns on his heel then, leaving you alone on the sidewalk and turning his back onto whatever fucked up thing it is you’ve built together. 

Your mother used to say that hate and love were synonymous. You know now that she was wrong.

Because what you feel for Lee Heeseung has nothing to do with love, and everything to do with pure, unadulterated hate.

Your phone chimes, and when you check the notification, what you see doesn't make you feel good. It doesn't bring joy to your heart or make you want to skip down the street. Instead, it makes your heart break a little bit more.

Yunjin: Sunghoon just broke up with Chaewon. We’re so in

You should be happy. This is exactly what you wanted, right?

So why do you feel like you just lost the one thing that mattered the most?

You haven’t talked to Heeseung in three weeks. He transferred out of your shared class–something you didn’t even know was possible this late into the semester–and stopped showing up to any group hangouts. Not that you care, obviously. 

The both of you said your breakup was mutual. That the stress of school and work just didn’t make a relationship possible, but there weren’t any hard feelings. Jake had raised a brow at the entire thing, but ultimately accepted it without a word.

But, Sunghoon seeing the both of you being single at the same time again, decided that meant he could shoot his shot. Which is good–it was the entire point of this entire thing, right?

Sunghoon is nice. He holds the door open for you and he pays for your meals and he takes you back to that coffee shop the both of you loved so much.

He is perfect for you in every sense.

But when he sits next to you, you don’t feel that same spark low in your belly. When he makes a joke, you don’t laugh until you swear you’re going to run out of oxygen. He doesn’t look at you like you mean something to him.

Yunjin's not dumb, she knows something's wrong. Just a few months ago you would’ve been ecstatic at the idea of going on dates with Sunghoon, so why do you seem like you couldn’t care less about him now?

“Are you okay?” She asks, voice filled with concern. “You’ve been…distant.”

“I’m fine,” you answer a bit too quickly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don't know, why don’t you tell me?”

You blink, turning to look at her in your mirror. You’re in the middle of getting ready for you and Sunghoons third date. He told you to dress nicely for dinner, but all you can think about is the fact that Heeseung would be presenting his pictures for the contest tonight. You didn’t even get to see them, which is more annoying than anything else.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Yunjin.” You lie.

She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest and making her way over to you. She smooths down the hem of your skirt without a second thought. “Fine. You don’t have to tell me but, if it’s because of Heeseung–”

“It’s not.”

“–If it’s because of Heeseung, then I’d understand.”

You freeze, eyes snapping to hers. You never told her about the last conversation you’d had with Heeseung, because you figured there wasn’t really any point. He’d “broken up” with you, and that was that. It doesn't mean anything else.

You want Sunghoon. You know you do. It’s the entire reason you and Heeseung came up with that stupid plan in the first place. You aren’t going to throw away a good guy because you’d gotten confused.

“It’s not,” you lie again, “I’m just stressed with finals and stuff. That’s all.”

Yunjin obviously doesn’t believe you. You don’t blame her, of course. You’ve always been an awful liar.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you’re already dreading what she’s going to say. Every time Yunjin goes silent, it always means she’s going to say something that you probably don’t want to hear. 

“You know,” she starts, voice soft and low, “I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you looked at him.”

You freeze, a shiver rushing down your spine like ice cold water. “What?”

“I just mean–” She backtracks for a moment before deciding to just say it, “you never look at Sunghoon the way you looked at Heeseung. You looked…happy with him. Like, actually happy. Not just because you thought you were supposed to be, but because you actually felt it.”

You go silent at that. You were happy. Even if you hadn’t wanted to admit it–even if you were fighting it for whatever reason. “I’m happy with Sunghoon.” You say with finality, but you both hear how your voice shakes.

“If you say so,” she sighs, turning back and sitting at her desk. “What’re you guys doing tonight?”

You’re grateful for the change in topic. “He’s taking me to dinner,” you shrug, clipping on your earrings. “Somewhere fancy, I guess.”

She hums. “Do you think he’s going to kiss you tonight?”

God, I really, really hope not.

“I hope so,” you answer instead. Maybe kissing Sunghoon will be exactly what you need to get your mind off of him. “I think I’ve waited long enough.” You laugh, but it’s weak. Dishonest.

Yunjin frowns at the sound of it, but she doesn’t push. “Yeah,” she mumbles, “me too.”

Sunghoon arrives at five on the dot. Just like he said he would. You should’ve been watching the clock because you were excited for him to get here, but instead all you could think about every time you glanced at it was how nervous Heeseung must be right now. The contest starts at seven, which means he finds out in the next two hours if he wins the money. Your hand twitches at your side. You want to text him and say good luck, but you don’t. 

“You look beautiful,” Sunghoon says. He’s all dark hair and dark eyes, not a single hair out of place. His suit looks expensive, and you wonder if he bought it just for the occasion. That definitely feels like something he would do.

“Thank you,” you respond, hoping he doesn’t see how fake your smile is. “You clean up pretty nicely as well.”

“I try,” he jokes, outstretching his arm for you. You take it easily, but it doesn’t feel right in your palm. It’s sturdy, easy. But, it doesn’t have any of that fire that you think it should.

Sunghoon is a gentleman the entire night. He takes you to eat, makes corny jokes, kisses your knuckles with pink cheeks. And it’s good. It’s so, so good. It’s exactly what you’ve always wanted.

But when you close your eyes, it’s not Sunghoon you see.

It’s dirty blonde hair covered by some ratty baseball cap. It’s that fucking teasing smile that you used to hate seeing. It’s watching him grow up and having him remember things about you that you’d completely forgotten about.

It’s him. Heeseung.

Sunghoon leads you to your front door nervously, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to get some kind of read on you. You wonder if he can see that your heart isn’t here–that it never was.

“I had a good time tonight,” he says, lips curling up into a soft smile. “I hope it was the same for you.”

“I…” Your words catch in your throat. You know what the logical thing would be to do right now. Accept his compliments, kiss him sweetly, go into your room giddy and wait for him to text you. But it’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong.

“Sunghoon,” you start, eyes filling with tears. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

He’s silent for a split second, like he’s trying to process your words. “Why?” He asks, “Did something happen? Did I–Did I do something?”

God, you wish he had. That would make this entire thing so much easier. 

“No,” you laugh wetly, “It’s not you. It’s–it’s me.” You know it’s cliche, but it's true. Because while you should’ve been enjoying him tonight, all you could think about was Heeseung. About the way he’d kissed you at the party. About how he always looked at you like there was more he wanted to say but he just never knew how.

Sunghoon blinks, his eyebrows knitting together and creasing his forehead. “What?”

“You’re perfect, Sunghoon.” you start, the words flowing out of you like you’re finally admitting them to yourself. “And for a long time, you were everything I ever wanted. You went to the cafe with me. You invited me to your games. I thought–I thought that I’d finally found the person I was meant to be with.”

“I–I don’t understand,” he murmurs, “Is that not how you feel anymore?”

Your heart constricts as you shake your head. “I wanted to. I really, really tried to remind myself of how I felt for you before. But…”

It takes him a second, but you see the exact moment recognition flashes across his face. He takes a step back from you, lips falling into a straight line. “But I’m not him.”

You can’t help the sob that rips from your throat. “I’m so sorry, Sunghoon.”

You half expect him to yell, maybe flip you off and drive off in his Porsche while he gets Chaewon on speed dial. But he doesn’t. He stands there for a long moment, breathing slowly, tongue poking the inside of his cheek every now and then.

And then he looks up at you, at the tears staining your cheeks, at how the honesty ripped out of you like a force of nature. He checks his watch–6:50 pm. Ten minutes before the contest starts.

“Come on,” he says, already jogging to the driver's seat.

You’re frozen, watching him with wide eyes. Did he not hear what you just said? “Sunghoon–”

He gives you a look so sharp it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. “We’ve got ten minutes to make it to that contest, and unfortunately, I’m not very big on breaking traffic laws. So, hurry up and get in!”

You gawk at him, a smile curling onto your lips, but you run into his car, nevertheless.

He was right, he’s not big on breaking traffic laws. But you see he’s going five over the speed limit compared to his usual three, and that feels like it counts for something. Even though you’d been leading him on for the past three weeks, he’s still trying to make sure you’re happy. He’s still looking out for you. 

“Thank you,” you sniffle. And you truly mean it.

His gaze stays glued to the road. "Don't mention it.”

You arrive at the photography center with two minutes to spare. Sunghoon doesn't even let you say bye, just rushes you out of the car and wishes you good luck. You don’t look back as you run inside.

You’re thankful you at least dressed nicely for the date, because everyone in here looks like they come from money. Women in floorlength gowns, men in suits you’re sure cost more than your entire tuition. These must be the donors.

The hall is filled with pictures, some simple–some you think you have to be involved in the community to understand. But even as you practically sprint down the hallway, Heeseung is nowhere to be found.

“Please make your way to the dining hall as the photography committee prepares to announce the winner of this year's $100,000 grant!” A voice rings from the intercom, and you blindly follow the crowd into the large room parallel to the hall.

It’s filled with tables, and there’s a stage right at the front of the room with a podium and a giant projector. There’s nothing on it yet, but you’re assuming that’s where they’ll show the winning portfolio.

The tables all have name cards, so you do your best to conspicuously make your way to the back where nobody will notice you standing awkwardly. Plus, from back here it’ll be easier to try and find Heeseung.

You study the crowd, looking for the familiar head of blonde hair, but you come up empty. For a second, you wonder if he’s even here. He has to be here, you think. This is everything to him.

But every time someone new walks in, it’s never him.

You rock back and forth on your feet, a nervous habit. Pretty soon all the chairs are filled out and Heeseung is still nowhere to be seen. You wonder if he’d dropped out of the contest, but that still wouldn’t make any sense. Why would he drop out when photography was so important to him?

You reach for your phone, half tempted to call him and ask where the hell he was, but the lights dim and the president of the photography committee walks up the podium. She’s an older woman, with pin straight grey hair and huge glasses. She has to pull down the microphone to match her height. Heeseung used to joke that even though she looked like she belonged in a Disney movie, she was the toughest mentor he’d ever had. 

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” she starts, voice light. “We had many great admissions this year. All of which I personally took the time to look through, and let me tell you, there was some tough competition. I almost threw up my hands and gave the money to everyone!” 

The crowd laughs at that, but you can tell it’s just them being polite. “But, unfortunately, we can’t do that. So, after many sleepless nights and lots of talks with the committee, I was able to come to a decision. This year's winner is someone I think has put in more effort into his photos than anyone else I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. He’s not naturally talented, no, but he’s dedicated. He takes risks. He tries new things and doesn’t shy away when they don’t work.”

The projector begins to come to life. “As you know, this year's theme was muse. The participants were meant to find a singular person and put together a portfolio of said person.”

The first photo flashes against the screen–and your breath catches in your throat. It's you. But it’s not the ones from the park, no, it’s you in class. Your pencil is in between your lips; brows scrunched together the way they always are when you get frustrated. You’re not wearing any makeup–hell, you look like you just rolled out of bed!

Your breath catches as the photos continue. Some of you in class, in the diner, at that God forsaken party. All pictures that look old and new at the same time. You can tell some are from after this entire mess started, when you and Heeseung started to actually enjoy each other's presence. You look happier in those ones.

But there’s some from before too–when the only times you ever thought about Heeseung were when you were thinking about how much you can’t stand him. Those ones are mostly you in class, all of them shot from the same angle. There’s a few of you from group hangouts, and you wonder how you never noticed him taking them. Maybe it’s because you’re just so used to seeing him with his camera that you stopped noticing it entirely.

It’s the last photo that really gets you though. It’s from the park, you’re sitting in the grass, head tilted to the side, lips curling up into a soft smile. You’re looking into the camera–or, behind it actually–directly at Heeseung, and the look in your eyes is enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

You look like you’re in love.

“This year's winner–though I doubt anyone's surprised–Is Lee Heeseung!”

You barely register her words, because all you can see is Heeseung walking up onto the stage. So that’s where he was, you think.

He’s wearing a suit, though it doesn’t look nearly as nice as everyone else's here. His dirty blonde hair is actually styled for once, and his lips are curled up into a small smile. But it’s not the one you’re used to seeing. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, doesn’t make his face light up like it usually does. Despite winning, he looks almost sad.

He gives a small bow at the podium, shaking hands with the Committee President. He looks nervous as he comes up to the mic, and you squeeze your hands together. Does he want you here? Should you try and make your presence known?

You are the girl in his photos, after all.

“Wow,” he starts, voice shaking slightly. “This is…an honor. Really. I didn’t go into this contest thinking I would win. In fact, I wasn’t going to enter at all. Not until I realized I’d already accidentally found my muse.” He laughs then, but it’s short. “I entered for selfish reasons. Not for the money. Not so that I could get my photos in international shows. But, because I wanted an excuse to get closer to her.”

His eyes scan the crowd, until finally, they land on you. His eyes widen for a moment, lips parting in shock. For a moment, you think he wants you to leave. You wouldn’t blame him if he did.

But he smiles. Really smiles. “None of this would’ve been possible without her.” He continues now, voice more confident. “These photos would’ve sat tucked away in my camera forever. But she made me confident. She reminded me of why I love photography in the first place. So, I’m dedicating this grant to her. To my muse.” His eyes find yours again. “My [Y/N].”

You don’t get a chance to go up to Heeseung until after all of the sponsors have congratulated him, which admittedly takes a lot longer than you think either of you would like.

You can see him on stage, shaking hands with people who you assume must be important. He never keeps his eyes on them for too long. Instead, they trail over to you, like he’s hoping he’ll be able to communicate with you through eye contact.

By the time you can actually speak to him, the hall is mostly empty aside from a few stragglers. He approaches you with caution, like he’s scared of getting too close.

“Hi,” he breathes, stopping a few feet in front of you.

“Hi,” you say back.

The air is softer than it had been the last time you’d seen him. Then, it was harsh. Like smoke filling into your lungs. Now, it feels like a breath of fresh air.

You’re both silent for a moment, like you’re unsure of what to say to each other.

“I broke it off with Sunghoon,” you say eventually, eyes falling to the floor. 

He blinks. “You did?”

“I did.”

“Okay.”

More silence.

“You took pictures of me,” you observe.

“I did.”

“Why?”

He laughs, a full hearty sound, like he’s caught off guard by the question. You don’t know why he would be. You think it’s a perfectly fair thing to ask.

He shrugs, “I felt inspired by you.”

You raise a brow at that. “Inspired? By what—me chewing my pencil like a child?”

He grins, shoving his hands into his pockets. “No. I was inspired by how I felt when I looked at you.”

That makes you pause. “What?”

He fiddles with the corner of his pocket, thumb grazing it once before darting away. He sucks in a deep breath, and then finally, he says everything you know he’s been holding back.

“I’ve been in love with you since we were six years old,” he starts. “Ever since I watched you stay up the entire nap time because Jungwon couldn’t fall asleep. I knew right then and there that I loved you and that I was going to continue to love you for as long as I knew you.”

You can’t help the way your eyes go glassy, heart thumping a million miles an hour in your chest. “Heeseung…”

He doesn’t let you finish. “But I was shy—well, scared is more like it—I was scared that you weren’t going to want to be my friend and I would never be able to be around you.”

“Why would you think that?” 

He shrugs, “why does a third grader think anything?”

You don’t have a reply for that.

He sighs before continuing. “After that it just…became a thing. Our thing. I annoyed you and therefore I got to keep being in your life. Even if it wasn't what I wanted, I figured it was better than not being around you at all.” He swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “But then we got to university and you met Sunghoon and I felt you slipping away from me, and I didn’t know what to do with that. I thought that maybe…maybe it was time for me to let you go.”

Your heart cracks at the strain in his voice, like he’s recalling a bad memory.

“So, I’m sure you can imagine my surprise when Jake came home and started asking me a million questions about our apparent relationship.” 

“Oh, God,” you laugh, shaking your head at the memory. At the time, it’d genuinely felt like the end of the world. Now, you really can’t imagine where your life would be without Yunjin's lie.

For starters, he probably would’ve never told you this, and you would’ve gone your entire life chopping up your relationship to nothing but a high school rivalry that didn’t have any deeper meaning. You would’ve never found out he felt this way—or that you feel the way you do.

“It was good,” he starts again, “pretending. Even though it wasn’t really pretending for me. And then we went to that diner and I just…I got scared. I didn’t want to hold you back from what you really wanted. I thought, she’s hated me for years, at least now she’ll have an actual reason. And I wanted to be okay with that. I really did.” He takes a step closer. “But now you’re here. And I think I know why, but I’m getting tired of assuming things, princess. So, I think you’ll have to tell me.”

You suck in a shaky breath, your own hands fiddling with the hem of your dress nervously. “I…tried. With Sunghoon. I thought it was what I wanted, the easiness of it all. He was kind and he made bad jokes and I thought I was content with that.” 

You roll your eyes, “But then you happened.” You say it like it’s an insult, but you both know it’s not. “And every time I was with him all I could think was how his car didn’t have that mysterious dent in the front. How he didn’t let me play pop music and pretend he wasn’t singing along when we both knew he was. How he didn't make me feel like I actually meant something to him.” 

Your eyes find his for the first time since he approached you tonight. “All I could think about was how he wasn’t you.”

For a brief second, the only noise between the two of you is your breathing and the faint hum of people around you. Heeseung's lips part, his Adam's apple bobbing as he takes in your confession. He’s silent for so long you nearly think you overstepped.

But then he’s taking a step towards you and cradling your jaw with his hand. You don’t move away.

“I’m going to kiss you now, okay?” He says, and the familiarity of his words brings a smile to your face.

“Okay. I trust you.”

And then his lips are on yours.

This kiss is different from the first one. It’s not hungry, not a performance for anyone else. This kiss is solely for you, for the love you’ve found and never plan on losing. It tastes like him and feels exactly like coming home.

His thumb rubs the apple of your cheek, his lips moving against yours slowly. He doesn’t use tongue, but you don’t need him to.

When you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours and brings his hands down to your waist. They feel heavy against you, like a claim you never knew you needed.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he murmurs.

You giggle, bringing your own arms up to wrap around his neck. “Have you?”

“Yeah,” he responds, “along with…other things.”

You raise a brow at that, “yeah? Like what?”

That’s exactly how you end up back at his apartment, his lips moving against yours like he’s trying to memorize your body with them. Jake and Sunghoon are out thankfully, which means you’ve got the entire apartment to yourself. 

Heeseung leads you blindly to his room, never once turning away from you or attempting to look where he’s going. You laugh as he trips over the carpet, but he swallows it with his mouth on yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says against you. You don’t even notice you’ve made it into your bedroom before your legs hit the mattress and suddenly, he’s pulling you down onto it. “Been waiting so long to have you like this.”

“Yeah?” You manage to say, your voice airy. “Show me, then.”

He pulls back for a moment, eyes looking directly into yours, and then he’s moving his lips to your neck. He leaves wet kisses down the column of your throat, your shoulder, sucking marks into the delicate skin of your collarbone. 

His teeth graze a particular spot at your neck that makes you gasp, and he processes the noise with a slight groan of his own. He bites down on the spot–not hard, just enough for your back to arch and your fingers to find purchase in his hair. Your legs wrap around his waist as his tongue shoots out to soothe the bite.

Slowly, he brings a hand up to the strap of your dress, his fingers slipping under it but never pulling down.

“Hee,” you practically whine, “please.”

He grins, and then he pulls the strap down ever so slowly. You know he’s teasing you, and the thought makes heat pool between your legs.

Once the dress is off, he throws it to the side and sits back on his heels so he can stare at you. You still have your underwear and bra on, but the sight of your bare stomach and legs is enough for him to let out a low whistle.

“You’re so beautiful, princess,” he murmurs. The sincerity in his voice makes your cheeks hot. “So fucking perfect.”

Your lips part to respond, but he leans down and kisses you again. This kiss is different from all the others. It’s messy and deep and pulls noises out of you that you weren’t even aware you could make.

He sucks on your bottom lip once, and then he pulls away and leaves kisses all down your body. Down your neck, your cloth-covered breasts, your stomach, all the way down until he leaves one final kiss at your ankle. 

He seats himself at the edge of the bed and ever-so-gently pulls you down so your legs hang over the edge of the bed and your cunt is level with his face. He stares at it for a long moment, at the wet patch growing on the lace. At your pretty white panties.

Your hands fist the sheets, legs nearly closing on instinct, but he just pushes them over his shoulders and keeps you open for him. “Don’t hide from me,” he mumbles. His hand slowly trails up your thigh until it finds the edge of your underwear.

He keeps it there for what feels like forever. Never touching. Just looking. 

“Please,” you whimper, “please touch me.”

He grins, “yeah? Want my mouth on you, baby?”

You nod, hips rolling against nothing. “Yes, fuck, please.”

That seems to finally break him, because he licks one large stripe up your cunt through your underwear. You gasp at the feeling, your back arching slightly.

He continues licking small kitten-licks over your panties, and the mixture of his saliva and your arousal begins to turn the cloth nearly translucent.

He groans like the taste of you is his favorite meal. “You taste so good,” he murmurs against you, “like heaven.”

You bite your lower lip to keep yourself from crying out when his tongue catches your clit, and then he brings his hands up to your waist and pulls your underwear down your legs. You don’t miss the way he stares at them for a second before letting them drop to the floor.

He spits on your cunt, watching the way his saliva drips down your slit before he sucks your clit into his mouth.

You cry out at the feeling, your toes curling at his back. He groans at the taste and brings his hands up to your hips, gripping them and keeping them still.

“Fuck,” you moan when he brings his tongue down to your hole, collecting the arousal there like it's his own personal ambrosia.

“All this is for me, right?” He questions, trailing a hand down and rubbing his thumb against your clit. The feeling has your head spinning. “Not for Sunghoon, all for me, isn’t that right, princess?”

You nod feverishly, his possessiveness nearly enough to make you finish right there and then. “Yours! ‘S all yours.”

He smirks, “that’s a good girl.” 

And then he brings a finger to your entrance, circling over it once before letting it slip inside the ring of muscle. The air punches from your lungs at the feeling, but then he sucks your clit into his mouth again while his finger thrusts into you and you really think you’re going to start seeing stars.

“Hee–Heeseung,” you cry, “fuck!”

He hums but doesn’t stop. Instead, he pushes a second finger inside and begins to curl them upwards. You feel him hit that spongey spot inside of you and you know you’re done for.

“I’m close–fuck,”

He doesn’t work you harder, just keeps going at the pace so he can drag out your orgasm for as long as possible. “Come on, baby, cum for me. Show me just how bad you want it.”

That’s all it takes for you to release all over his face and hand. Your muscles tighten and relax over and over again, back arching and vision going white. He groans and licks up every drop, working you through it without a complaint.

You expect him to stop now that you’ve finished, but he doesn’t. If anything, he goes harder. The overstimulation begins to border on the edge of too much, and your hips buck up without your permission.

“Fuck, too much, I cant–”

He doesn’t let up. “Yeah, you can. Come on, wanna see you fall apart for me all over again.”

It doesn’t take long for your second orgasm to crash over you, and this one nearly leaves your body feeling limp and your pulse to blare against your ears.

Your body is still twitching from aftershocks when he climbs up next to you, and you watch with blurry vision as he brings his fingers up to his mouth and licks them clean. He hums at the taste and then brings his hands to the hem of his shirt and slips it off.

Your eyes trail over the sight of his bare chest, noting every ridge of muscle and mole, watching the way his chest heaves slightly. He’s absolutely beautiful, like a painting you’d find at some stupidly expensive art show.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmur.

Now it’s his turn to blush. His ears and cheeks turn a slight shade of pink, but he brings his lips down to yours before you can tease him for it.

Before you know it, his underwear is off and he’s lining himself up with your entrance. He looks up to you for permission, and you nod at him.

Pressure blooms between your legs as he pushes in, but it isn’t exactly painful. It just feels like something you never knew you needed. Like he was made exactly for you.

You keen, back bowing off the bed and eyebrows knitting together. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek and rests his forehead against yours as he finally bottoms out.

You can feel him kissing your g-spot, and he experimentally rolls his hips against yours once. You both groan at the feeling of you tightening around him, and then he pulls out slightly and snaps back in.

You cry out, your nails raking down his back. He hisses slightly at the sting but doesn’t make any moves to stop you. Instead, he begins to rock onto you like his life depends on it. You can feel every ridge of his cock; can feel the way it curves at just the right angle. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he gasps, “so perfect. Always knew you would.”

He buries his face into your neck, his hips snapping against yours like his life depends on it. 

You feel yourself getting close, but before you can warn him your back is arching and you're finishing against him.

He cries out, his thrusts beginning to turn sloppy. “Fuck, fuck, I’m–” He finishes inside you without another word, painting your insides with his cum. 

You both lay there for a moment, trying to catch your breath. He pulls out of you with a low breath and then reaches over for something at his nightstand to clean you up silently.

You watch him as he does, noting the way he cleans up your thighs with so much care. He doesn’t rush the aftercare process either, he kisses your skin gently and murmurs sweet words against you.

By the time your thighs stop shaking and you actually feel like you can breathe without your chest caving in, he’s laying down beside you and pulling you against his chest.

You lay there for a moment, feeling the way his chest rises and falls against your back. The warmth from his skin.

“Heeseung?” You mumble.

“Hm?”

You blink, a smile curling onto your lips. “I love you.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “I love you, too.”

And for once, you know that you both mean it.

Your mother used to say that hate was just another word for love. And right now, you know that she was right. Because what you feel for Lee Heeseung used to have everything to do with hate, but now you know it was really just another word for love.

taglist: @wonscrchy @kristynaaah @kiikiisblog @lovepjy @shawnyle @wonnieswife @hyuckzcult

[gigi-cray]

woah…holy hell this was amazing!! 💗🫪

[prettybs]

PRETEND THAT YOU LOVE ME₊⁺ —NRK

you're in an abusive relationship and try to hide it from everyone. your best friend Riki is the only one who sees the truth and holds you when you break. 🩹

pairing: bestfriend!riki x fem!reader ⭑ ft. readers bf Alex

contains: angst + happy ending (sorta) comfort kissing cursing toxic abusive relationship cheating manipulation arguments jealousy slutshaming begging naive reader

✳︎

“Tell me the truth, y/n.”

Riki’s known for a while now. Longer than you’d like to admit. Longer than you’ve been able to hide it properly.

At first, it was small things.

A bruise on your arm you laughed off like you walked into a door. A mark on your collarbone you covered with a hoodie even though it was too hot for that. You always had something ready, some quick, weak explanation you hoped he wouldn’t look too deeply into.

But he always does. You could see it. The way his eyes lingered on the bruise for a second too long before he forced himself to look away, like if he kept staring he’d say something he couldn’t take back.

He never called you out on it. But he started watching you more.

Like how you flinch.

You barely notice it yourself most of the time, but Riki does. When he reaches for something near you too fast and you tense for half a second, shoulders pulling in like you’re bracing for something that you’re used to.

Riki’s not stupid. 

He hears the way you apologize for things that don’t need apologizing. “Sorry, I’m talking too much.” “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be annoying.” “Sorry, I’ll just—”

You don’t even finish the sentence sometimes. You’re just constantly sorry.

And then there’s the leaving. You never stay as long as you used to.

There’s always a reason. Always something that sounds just believable enough.

“He misses me.” “He’s not feeling great.” “He wants me home.”

Riki stopped asking after a while.

Because every answer makes him want to grab you by the shoulders and shake the truth out of you. But he can’t. Not when you’re already looking at him like you’re trying to keep everything together with a weak smile.

—

Riki: I miss having movie nights with you

That’s what he texted you yesterday.

Now you’re here. Laying on Riki’s couch. The same way you used to when you were kids, when he’d stay at his grandmothers house on Fridays after school, and inviting you over became a routine. Except it doesn’t feel the same.

The TV is on. The room is dim, lit by the flickering screen and a small lamp in the corner.

You’re curled up on his couch, facing away from him. With a split lip that stings every time you speak, and a bruise near your eye that’s still faint, but it’s coming in, impossible to hide if you stay here long enough.

Riki’s sitting at the other end of the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, body turned slightly towards you. He hasn’t said anything for a while. 

He’s usually talking. Teasing. Annoying you on purpose.

You can feel his eyes on you even without looking. It’s uncomfortable. Like he’s waiting.

You barely register it before Riki leans forward, a little too fast.

His hand comes up suddenly, brushing your hair away from your face and you flinch. Your whole body jerks back like you expected something else, shoulders pulling in, breath catching.

Riki freezes.

His hand is still hovering near your face. He gently, more slowly this time, moves your hair aside again like he’s proving a point without saying it.

His eyes lock onto the side of your face.

“What’s that.”

You blink. “What?”

“That beside your eye” he says, sharp. His fingers hover near your cheek. “That bruise.”

Your stomach drops. You swallow, forcing your face to stay neutral, like you don’t know exactly what he’s talking about. Like you’re fine.

Your leg starts bouncing before you can stop it.

“I—” you hesitate, just for a second too long. “I bumped my head. On the table. When I picked something up.”

Riki leans back slightly, just enough to look at you properly. His eyebrows lift in disbelief.

“Yeah?” he says.

You don’t answer.

“And that lip?” he adds, nodding toward your mouth. “What happened to that?”

Your fingers curl into the sleeve of your hoodie, tugging it down over your hands. 

“Nothing,” you mumble.

Riki lets out a quiet breath through his nose, something almost like a humorless laugh.

“You bumped into a door again?” he asks.

The sarcasm is obvious. You just… nod.

Yes.

For a second, he just stares at you.

“Tell me the truth, y/n.”

“I am…”

The lie comes out weak.  Riki shakes his head, looking away as he drags a hand over his face, trying to wipe away his frustration.

“No, you’re not,” he mutters.

You don’t respond.

Your leg won’t stop bouncing, your hands trembling slightly inside your sleeves, your chest tight like you’re being pushed into a corner, forced to answer questions you’d rather avoid.

“You flinch at everything,” he says. “Every time I move too fast, you—” he gestures. “You do that.”

You look away.

“You apologize for literally everything,” he continues. “Stuff that doesn’t even make sense. You won’t even—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Your voice cuts through his and it stops him.

“…Fine,” he says after a moment.

He leans back again, creating space between you.

Then, quieter. “If he ever tries to—”

“Riki.”

He exhales slowly, looking away. “…Yeah,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay.”

He drops it, like he always does.

Because he hates the way your shoulders are tense, the way your hands won’t stop shaking, the way you look like you might break down completely if he pushes even a little more.

Hates how nervous you get, and that he’s part of the reason right now.

So he lets it go.

Again.

The movie keeps playing.

Neither of you says anything for a while, but the tension just gets pushed to the side slowly.

Riki gets up at some point without a word, heading to the kitchen. You hear the rustling of a bag, the cupboard opening, then closing again. A minute later, he’s back, dropping onto the couch beside you with a fresh bowl of popcorn like nothing happened.

“Move,” he mutters, nudging your leg with his knee.

You roll your eyes but shift anyway, making space. He throws a blanket over you without asking.

“Your blanket. Don’t start stealing mine later,” he adds.

“I don’t do that,” you mumble.

“You literally do that every time.”

You don’t bother arguing.

The movie plays on. Riki starts making quiet comments about the movie under his breath, like he’s trying to bring the vibe back to normal.

And somehow it works. Without really thinking about it, you lean into him.

It’s natural. 

Your shoulder presses against his side, your head tilting until it rests against him. Riki shifts slightly, making it more comfortable for you.

Your eyes start to feel heavy.

“You tired?” he asks, glancing down at you for a second.

“Mm,” you hum.

You adjust again, sliding down a little until you’re more comfortable. Your head ends up in his lap.

Riki stills for half a second.

“Comfortable?” he mutters.

You nod against him, already half asleep.

“I haven’t slept good in days,” you mumble. It slips out so easily you don’t even register it.

Riki’s hovers for a second, like he doesn’t know what to do with that.

“…Yeah?” he says quietly. “Then sleep now.”

You don’t answer.

You’re already out.

Your breathing evens out, your body going completely relaxed against him in a way he hasn’t seen in a while.

Riki looks down at you and is hand moves on instinct, fingers brushing lightly against your temple, slow and careful, like he’s scared to startle you. You don’t react, if anything, you settle more.

He exhales quietly.

You’ve always been like this. Always close like this.

Since you were kids.

The closest you ever got, he remembers it way too clearly, was when you were, what, twelve? Messing around on the playground, laughing about something stupid, and then it just  happened.

A quick awkward kiss.

You both laughed it off right after. Never really talked about it again.

Now it feels like you’re further away than ever.

He hates how things changed. Hates how ever since you started dating Alex, everything got controlled. Like there’s this invisible line around you now that Riki’s not allowed to cross anymore. You don’t come over as much, and when you do, you leave early. You check your phone too often, like you’re being watched.

It’s not just your friendship Alex is messing with.

It’s you.

The way you’re always tense. The way you second-guess yourself. The bruises.

He hates him.

—

You’ve been asleep for a good thirty minutes.

The movie ended at some point, Riki didn’t even notice when. He just clicked yes when Netflix asked him “are you still watching?”

He hasn’t moved once.

His leg’s starting to go a little numb, his throat dry, but he doesn’t shift too much. Not when you’re completely knocked out, finally getting the sleep you said you haven’t had in days.

You need this more than anything.

Then your phone buzzes.

Riki glances at it.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

It doesn’t stop.

His brows furrow slightly as he carefully reaches over, moving slow so he doesn’t disturb you, he picks it up.

The notifications light up the dark room.

Alex

Where the fuck are you???

Itold you to come home.

Answer me

Now.

Do you think im playing y/n?

Ok ignore me 

I’ll deal with you eventually

The messages keep coming. One after the other, and none of them is normal.

Riki stares at the screen for a second too long, fighting the urge to text something back himself.

Then he locks the phone and places it back exactly where it was like he never touched it,

You’re still sleeping, you look peaceful for once.

“…Hey,” he murmurs quietly, his hand moving from your temple to your shoulder, gently nudging you. “Sleeping beauty.”

You stir slightly, brows furrowing before your eyes slowly blink open.

It takes you a second to register where you are.

Then your face relaxes and a small smile pulls at your.

“Hi,” you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep.

Riki huffs quietly. “Hi.”

“You sleep okay?” he asks.

You nod, stretch a little. “Yeah… really good.”

There’s a a calmness in you, and it lasts about three seconds.

“…It’s kinda late,” he says, more carefully than he wants to. “You should probably head home.”

The smile drops instantly.

You sit up slowly, reaching for your phone. The second the screen lights up, everything changes. Your shoulders tense. Your brows pull together. That calm look in your eyes disappears like it was never there.

Stress. Just like that.

Riki looks away. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t mention the messages. Doesn’t mention that he saw.

“Yeah,” you mutter, already standing up. “I should go.”

You move quickly now, grabbing your shoes, slipping them on with slightly unsteady hands. Everything about you feels rushed all of a sudden.

Riki just watches, his mind running through a hundred different scenarios he doesn’t want to think about.

You finish, straightening up, avoiding his eyes.

“I’ll see you,” you say, already heading toward the door.

“Y/n,” he says, stopping you just before you leave. “You gonna be okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t believe you, not even a little. But he opens the door anyway. The cool air hits as you step closer to the doorway.

“If you need me…” he says. “Promise me you’ll call me.”

“…Okay.”

—

Your keys shake a little in your hand as you unlock the door of Alex’s apartement.  Then you push it open.

He’s already there, sitting on the couch. Elbows on his knees, hands together, his heel bouncing quickly against the floor. His lips pressed together like he’s been waiting and getting angrier by the second.

“…Hey,” you start carefully, closing the door behind you. “Hey, baby, I’m sorry, I—”

“Where the fuck were you?”

You freeze for half a second. “I—”

“With him?” he interrupts, standing up now, slow but tense. “You were with Riki, weren’t you?”

Your heart starts racing. “No, I was just—”

“Don’t lie to me y/n.” he snaps, stepping closer. “You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

“I’m not doing anything,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “He’s just my best friend—”

“Yeah?” he scoffs. “Best friend?”

Your chest tightens. “He is—”

“So you just hang out all night and then what?” he cuts in, voice getting sharper. “You suck his dick or something?”

“No, nothing happened,” you say, your voice already starting to shake. “I swear.”

He lets out a harsh laugh.

“Right,” he mutters. “So you just accidentally stayed the night at another guy’s place. That’s normal, right?”

“I didn’t mean to, I fell asleep—”

“You ‘fell asleep’,’” he repeats, mocking. “Yeah, bet he fucked you to sleep.”

Your hands start trembling. “No! I promise—”

“You’re such a fucking liar,” he cuts in, shaking his head. “Do you think I’m blind? You come home late, looking like that, and I’m supposed to believe you weren’t fucking another guy.”

Your stomach twists.

“I wasn’t—”

“You expect me to believe he didn’t try anything? I know what guys are like y/n.” he goes on, stepping closer. “Or maybe you didn’t stop him.”

You shake your head harder now. “No, it’s not like that, he’s just—”

“Just what?” he snaps. “The guy you run to every time? The one you’d rather be with?”

“No—”

“Then why are you at his place all night?” he fires back. “Huh? Answer me that.”

“I told you, I fell asleep—”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” he says. “I just don’t believe you.”

“Alex please! I’m telling the tru--”

Before you can react, his hand shoots up, and a sharp smack lands across your face. “Listen to me!” 

You gasp and your head jerks sideways, you cry and reach for your cheek with trembling fingers.

“If you want to sleep. Y/n.” he cuts in, stepping closer again, “you sleep here.”

You can’t move. You just stand there with a hand pressed to your cheekbone, its burning hot, he slapped on the same side as the other night, making the bruise and the pain worse.

“You’re my girlfriend. Not his. Why the fuck would you sleep at his place.”

“I know,” you say immediately, panic creeping in. “I know Alex, I’m sorry, I should’ve come home, I didn’t mean to stay, I won’t do it again, I promise—”

“Tell him that,” he mutters.

“I will,” you rush out. “I swear, I’ll come straight home next time, I won’t stay there, I won’t—”

“Next time?” he repeats sharply. “How many times are you planning on going back?”

“No—no, that’s not what I meant—”

“I think that’s exactly what you meant,” he scoffs, running a hand through his hair.

Tears start spilling over before you can stop them.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, your voice breaking. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to, I just—”

“You act like a fucking slut and then expect me to just be okay with it?” he snaps.

The word hits you.

“I’m not—” your voice comes out small. “I’m not, I swear, I didn’t do anything—”

“Stop lying to me,” he says, stepping closer again.

“I’m not lying,” you repeat, shaking your head, tears falling faster now. “I didn’t let him-- I promise, I wouldn’t—”

“I’m serious,” he cuts in. “You don’t sleep at his place again. Ever. You understand?”

“I understand,” you say immediately. “I won’t, I promise, I won’t do it again, I’m sorry—”

The words keep coming. 

“I should’ve texted, I should’ve told you, I just didn’t think, I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry—”

You’re basically choking on your own tears and then he shifts.

His grip on your arm loosens. The anger in his face softens like it was never there.

“…Hey,” he says, quieter now.

Before you can react, he pulls you into him.

The sudden change makes your body go stiff for a second.

“Don’t cry like that,” he murmurs, one hand coming up to the back of your head, pressing you into his chest. “Don’t cry...”

Your breathing stutters. He sounds more annoyed than comforting.

“I just get like this because I care about you,” he continues, voice low, almost gentle now. “You know that, right?”

You nod against him, even though you’re not sure.

“I don’t like the idea of you with him,” he says. “I don’t like other guys thinking they can have you.”

Your fingers curl slightly into the back of his shirt.

“Promise me you won’t sleep at his place again.”

Your mind feels fuzzy. Because it feels good, being held like this. His hand in your hair, his voice calm again, like nothing just happened. But at the same time it doesn’t feel like a real choice, it feels fake.

You swallow. “I promise,” you whisper.

His hand smooths over your hair again, pleased by your answer.

“Good,” he murmurs. “That’s all I’m asking from you.”

You nod again. You let yourself lean into him a little more.

You don’t fully understand why you feel safe and trapped at the same time, but you just close your eyes and stay there.

Later that night Alex’s arm is thrown over your stomach, it’s heavy and ossessive, almost. He’s relaxed in his sleep like everything is okay.

Like he didn’t just…

You swallow.

Your eyes stay on the ceiling.

You’re exhausted. You can feel it in your body, your limbs are heavy, your head is aching, your cheek still stinging. You should be asleep by now.

But you’re not. Because you know what happens when you close your eyes.

Nightmares.

They’ve been getting worse. So you just… stay awake.

Staring and thinking.

Your mind drifts before you can stop it.

Back to earlier.

Riki’s couch. How safe you felt with him. The way you didn’t have to worry about anything. The way your body just relaxed.

You frown slightly, shifting your head against the pillow, careful not to wake Alex.

It felt different.

You’ve always been like that with Riki, though. Close. Comfortable. It’s not new.

He’s just your best friend, he’s always been. That’s all.

You stare at the ceiling a little longer, trying to convince yourself that’s the truth.

Your phone buzzes softly on the nightstand.

You freeze.

For a second, you just listen, making sure Alex doesn’t wake up.

Slowly, carefully, you reach over, grabbing your phone and angling the screen away from him and turn the brightness down.

Riki: you okay?

I can’t sleep

idk just got a bad feeling

You look over your shoulder.

Alex hasn’t moved.

Then you type.

You: im fine

Riki: why r you still up

You: can’t sleep

Riki: why

You stare at that for a second.

Your fingers hover.

You: just can’t

Riki: is alex with you rn?

You glance beside you again like you need to double check.

You: yeah

Riki: was he mad

You: yeah a little

but i’m fine

The typing bubble shows up.

Stops.

Starts again.

Riki: did he touch you?

Your breath catches.

You just stare at the message, your throat feels tight.

You don’t type anything. You don’t even think you can.

Instead, you lock your phone and place it back down on the nightstand.

Your eyes stay on it for a second longer.

Then you look back up at the ceiling.

Still wide awake.

—

The next morning feels lighter. It takes you a second to remember why.

Then it hits.

Your one year anniversary.

A small smile pulls at your lips as you turn your head, reaching out instinctively…

Empty.

You frown for a second before remembering.

He has work.

Right.

He must’ve left early.

You grab your phone. No message, but that’s… fine. He probably rushed out. You can imagine it, running late, not wanting to wake you.

It doesn’t bother you.

Not today.

Today’s supposed to be good.

You stretch, sitting up, already thinking about what he might’ve planned. Maybe dinner. Maybe something simple. Maybe nothing crazy, but still something to celebrate your relationship.

You’d be happy with anything.

—

By the time it hits around five, you’re back on the couch, TV on but ignored, your attention snapping to the door the second you hear it unlock.

Your heart jumps.

You’re already standing before he even fully steps inside.

“Hey—” you start, a smile already on your face, walking toward him. “Hi—”

You barely get the chance to finish before you’re wrapping your arms around him.

He stiffens slightly.

Not pulling you away, but not exactly hugging you back either.

“…Hey,” he mutters.

You pull back a little, still smiling. “How was work?”

“Shit,” he says immediately, shrugging off his jacket as he walks past you.

You blink, turning to follow him.

“Oh,” you say softly. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he mutters, already heading into the kitchen. “Just shit.”

You linger for a second before walking after him anyway, trying not to let his mood affect you too much.

It’s fine.

He had a bad day.

That doesn’t mean anything.

You lean against the counter, watching him grab a glass, fill it with water.

“So…” you start carefully, a small smile returning. “Are we gonna do something tonight?”

He takes a sip, not looking at you.Then he walks past you again, brushing by your shoulder.

“Why would we?” he asks casually.

A small laugh slips out, automatic. “What?”

He glances at you briefly, then looks away again. “Why would we do something?”

Your smile fades slightly.

You wait a second.

“…Are you joking?” you ask, a little unsure.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just sets the glass down, leaning against the counter.

Your stomach drops.

“…Did you forget?” you ask quietly.

He looks at you again.

“…Forget what?”

“Our anniversary, Alex” you say, your voice softer now.

You see it happen. The realization. The slight shift in his expression.

He forgot.

He swallows.

But instead of apologizing, he shrugs.

“Oh,” he says. “That’s today?”

The words hit harder than you expect.

You don’t say anything for a second.

Just nod slightly.

“…Yeah.”

He exhales, like it’s an inconvenience more than anything.

“Okay,” he says. “So…”

You stare at him.

“So?” you repeat.

“It’s just a day,” he says, pushing himself off the counter. “We can do something another time.”

Your throat tightens. You blink quickly, trying to keep your expression steady.

“It’s our one year,” you say quieter now.

“And?” he shrugs again. “That doesn’t mean it has to be today. We’re still together tomorrow, aren’t we?”

No, we won’t. That’s what you want to say. But you don’t. Your eyes sting, but you force them to stay clear.

Don’t cry. He hates that.

“It’s just—” you start, your voice shaking slightly before you steady it. “I thought we could do something. It doesn’t have to be big.”

“We could still go out for dinner, it’s only 5,” you suggest quickly. “It doesn’t have to be fancy or anything. Or we could go to a movie, or—”

“No,” he cuts in.

“…Why?” you ask quietly.

“I have plans,” he says, like it’s obvious.

That knock the air out of your chest.

“Oh.”

You stare at him, trying to process it.

“What kind of plans?” you ask after a second. “Like… all night?”

He shrugs. “Probably.”

“Can’t we just do something small before?” you try again, your voice softer now. “Like even just—stay in? Watch a movie or something?”

He sighs, already looking annoyed again.

“I just told you, I have plans.”

“I know, but—” you hesitate, choosing your words carefully. “It won’t take long, we could just—”

“Why are you making this a big deal?” he cuts in.

You go quiet.

“I’m not,” you say quickly. “I just thought—”

“Yeah, well, don’t think, maybe,” he mutters.

You press your lips together, blinking back the tears threatening to build again.

Don’t cry.

Don’t cry.

“I’m not trying to make it a big deal,” you say, your voice smaller now. “I just… wanted to spend time with you.”

He doesn’t answer. Just grabs his phone, already half-checked out of the conversation.

“Alex. I’m just asking—”

“I said I have plans,” he repeats, louder now. “End of conversation.”

You flinch slightly at his tone, but you don’t stop.

Your vision blurs before you can stop it.

“Are you serious?” your voice cracks, tears spilling over despite how hard you try to hold them back. “It’s our anniversary and you’re just leaving?”

He groans under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like you’re the problem.

“Don’t start crying,” he mutters.

But you already are.

You shake your head, stepping closer to him without thinking.

“Please,” you say, your voice trembling. “Can we just—just do something? Anything? It doesn’t have to be big, I just want to spend time with you, please—”

“Stop,” he cuts in, irritation flashing across his face.

“Please, Alex, I’ve been waiting all day, I thought we could just—”

“I said stop y/n.”

“I’m not asking for much, just a little time, please, I just want to be with you—”

“Shut up,” he snaps.

The words hit hard but you keep going anyway, your voice breaking more with every word.

“Please, just cancel whatever it is, or we can go after, or before, I don’t care, I just—please, Alex, please—”

He steps closer suddenly.

“Are you done?” he says, his voice low, dangerous.

You shake your head, tears falling faster now. “No, because you’re not listening to me—”

“I don’t care,” he cuts in coldly. “Your tears don’t mean shit to me.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re a fucking crybaby,” he continues, his voice rising. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Alex—”

“Just shut up before I make you,” he adds, his tone dropping again.

Normally you’d apologize and back down right now.

“Why would you say that to me?!” you snap, your voice shaking but louder now.

He looks at you surprised for half a second.

“Don’t you love me?” you push, your voice breaking again. “Is that so hard to show for one day?”

That does it.

You see it.

He hates that you’re talking back.

“Wow,” he mutters, stepping closer again. “You’ve got a lot to say all of a sudden.”

“I’m just asking you to care—”

He grabs your arm tightly.

“Let go of me—”

“Look at you,” he says, his voice low and mocking. “Talking back now?”

“Why are you like this?” you choke out. “Why can’t you just— just love me properly?”

For a second there’s silence.

Then he laughs.

His other hand comes up, gripping your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks until then he forces your face to the side.

“Oh, that’s what this is about?” he says, taking step even closer  into your space.

You instinctively step back, he follows.

“Oh, poor you,” he continues, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s my fault now, right?”

You shake your head, tears streaming. “I didn’t say that—”

“You’re crying every damn day and now it’s because I don’t ‘love you properly’?” he cuts in, making air quotes with his fingers.

You step back again, he keeps following, pushing your shoulder lightly.

Again.

Again.

Just to test you, see if you’ll snap. But you never will.

“I think you just want an excuse,” he goes on. “Yeah. That’s it.”

“That’s not true—”

“I think you want him,” he snaps. “Your little boyfriend.”

Your heart drops.

“Riki,” he adds, like the name leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Isn’t that it?”

“No—”

“Because you’re always running to him,” he continues, pushing your shoulder again, harder this time. “Always at his place. Always choosing him over me.”

“I don’t—”

“You think I don’t see it?” he cuts in. “You think I’m blind?” 

You shake your head desperately. “I’m not choosing him—”

“Then what are you doing?” he fires back. “Huh? Acting like a fucking slut, going over to another guy’s place, staying the night—”

“I didn’t do anything!” you cry out.

He scoffs.

“Yeah right. You’re a slut and a liar.”

“I didn’t,” you repeat, your voice breaking completely now. “I would never—”

“Please,” he interrupts. “You’re disloyal as hell.”

The words hit like a slap.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he says firmly. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

You shake your head again, your back nearly hitting the wall now.

“I didn’t do anything,” you keep saying, your voice breaking over itself. “I swear, I didn’t, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, I just—”

Your back hits the wall.

Alex steps in again, closing the distance completely, his hand coming up and grabbing your face. His fingers press into your cheeks, bends his fingers and digs his nails slightly into your cheeks, forcing your head still.

“God, stop crying,” he mutters, irritated. “It’s so fucking annoying.”

You try to steady your breathing, but it just comes out shaky.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words automatic at this point. “I’ll stop, I just—please, just tell me your plans.” Your voice cracks again. “What’s so important that you— that you have to leave me?”

He exhales sharply, clearly fed up.

“Why do you care so much?” he snaps. 

“Because I care about you,” you say immediately. “Because it’s our anniversary, because I just want to understand—please, just tell me.”

“Stop begging,” he mutters.

But you don’t.

“Please, Alex—just tell me. Please.”

Something in his expression shifts.

He’s done with you and your begging.

“Jezus, you want to know so bad, y/n?” hHe says suddenly.

You go quiet.

“I’m going to see someone,” he adds.

Your brows pull together. “…What?”

He looks straight at you.

“A girl.”

The words don’t land. You just stare at him like your brain didn’t catch up.

“What?” you repeat, quieter this time.

“I said I’m going to see a girl,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s nothing.

Your head shakes before you even realize it.

“No,” you say immediately. “No, you’re not—”

“I am.”

“No,” you repeat. “You’re not. You’re just saying that because you’re mad—”

“I’m not,” he cuts in.

Your breathing feels too fast.

“That’s not funny,” you say weakly.

“I’m not joking.”

You stare at him, searching his face for something that tells you this isn’t real.

Your voice comes out smaller this time.

“…Why?”

He shrugs.

Like it doesn’t matter, like you don’t matter. And something in you cracks.

“Why can’t you just love me?” you ask, your voice barely holding together. “Just—just say you love me, Alex.”

“I’d be lying if I did.”

“Then lie to me…” you whisper.

For a second something flickers in his face. Surprise, like he didn’t think you’d go that far.

He lets go of your face and scoffs under his breath.

“Wow…” he mutters, shaking his head. “That’s pathetic.”

Your chest tightens and you feel sick.

“You’re fucking pathetic,” he adds.

Then he turns, grabs his jacket, his wallet and his phone.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You just stand there.

The door opens and then slams shut behind him. The sound echoes through the apartment.

He’s going to see another girl on your anniversary.

You can’t process it. Your body feels numb.

You move slowly, like you’re not fully there, pushing yourself off the wall and walking back to the living room.

You sit down in the corner of the couch, pulling your knees up slightly.

You don’t even remember picking it up but your phone is in your hand and you open Riki’s chat.

You: can i come over

Riki: yes but i’m out rn

be home in like 30 min

You: okay

You lock your phone and then you just sit there. Your mind won’t catch up with what just happened.

A few tears slip down your cheeks.

You just wait until you can go to Riki.

After 30 minutes you push yourself up, limbs heavy, head foggy. You grab a zip-up hoodie from the chair, pulling it over yourself without really thinking. Shoes. Keys. Phone. Then you’re out the door.

The drive is a blur.

You know the route by heart. You’ve done it so many times you don’t even need to think about it. But right now, you’re barely present at all. Your eyes are on the road but your mind isn’t.

It’s stuck on everything he said.

I’d be lying if I did. You’re pathetic. Another girl.

What are you even going to say to Riki?

Are you going to tell him?

By the time you reach Riki’s door, uou fix your expression, wipe under your eyes. Breathe in and out.

You’re fine.

You knock.

The door opens almost immediately.

Riki’s standing there, brows slightly furrowed like he’s been waiting, the second he sees you, you smile.

“Hi,” you say, like nothing’s wrong.

Too normal, but he doesn’t call it out. Yet.

“Hi, pretty,” he says, pulling you into a quick hug.

You hug him back just as casually, like this is any other night, then pull away and walk inside without hesitation.

“Missed your place,” you mumble, kicking off your shoes, already heading toward the living room.

Riki watches you for a second.

Something about it doesn’t sit right. Because there’s no way you would be this okay when you told him earlier your boyfriend wasn’t even home on your anniversary.

He lets the door fall shut behind him and it slams harder than he meant it to. The sharp sound echoes through the apartment.

You flinch and a small yelp slips out of you.

Riki’s head snaps toward you immediately.

“…Sorry,” he says quickly.

You shake your head just as fast, forcing a small laugh.

“It’s fine,” you say. “You scared me.”

You settle onto the couch like you always do, pulling your legs up and grabbing the blanket from the side table, wrapping it around yourself. You sink into it instantly.

“So,” you start, glancing over at him, “what did you do today?”

Riki raises a brow slightly, leaning against the wall for a second before answering.

“Went out with the guys,” he says. “Nothing crazy.”

“Yeah?” you hum, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders. “Was it fun?”

He watches you for a second before nodding. “Yeah. It was okay.”

You nod back. “Good,” you say softly.

Riki grabs the remote and turns on the TV, the screen lighting up the room.

“You need anything?” he asks, glancing at you. “Food? Drink?”

You shake your head, curling further into the couch.

“I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you say, still with a small smile. “I’m fine.”

“Alright,” he mutters.

He runs a hand through his hair, then gestures toward the hallway.

“I’m gonna shower real quick,” he says. “Been out all day.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Make yourself at home,” he adds, already backing away.

“I always do,” you say, a little playful.

The apartment goes quiet again, filled only with the soft noise of the TV.

Your body feels heavy. Your head too. Everything from today catching up all at once. Plus the warmth of the blanket. The familiarity of Riki’s place.

Your eyes slowly start to close, you don’t even fight it.

Within five minutes, you’re out.

Curled up on the couch, legs tucked in, blanket covering your whole body. Your lips slightly parted.

Completely knocked out.

15 minutes later the bathroom door opens quietly.

Riki steps out, hair still damp, dressed in loose sweats and a hoodie, rubbing the back of his neck as he walks back into the living room.

“I was thinking we could—”

Then he sees you.

Asleep.

He stops.

For a second, he just stands there. Taking it in.

His brows knit slightly.

“Seriously…” he chuckles softly.

He walks over quietly, he doesn’t want to wake you. He sits down at the end of the couch, near your feet, resting his arms on his knees as he looks at you.

He’s not waking you up. He knows damn well you’re as okay as you want to him to think.

After a few minutes of just sitting there, Riki finally pushes himself up and heads to the kitchen.

He opens a cabinet, scanning through it, grabbing a bag of chips and pulling it open with a quiet crack.

It’s enough for you to wake up.

Your brows twitch slightly before your eyes slowly open. You don’t say anything at first, just blink, adjusting to the dim light, then stretch your arms above your head with a quiet yawn.

You sit up slowly, the blanket slipping down your shoulders.

By the time Riki walks back in, already reaching into the bag, he notices.

“Oh you’re up,” he says, pausing mid-step.

You nod slightly, still waking up. “Mm.”

He walks over, dropping back onto the couch.

“Sleep well?”

You rub your eye a little, then glance at him.

“…Yeah,” you admit quietly. “Sorry,” you add. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Riki shakes his head immediately.

“It’s okay,” he says, almost dismissive.

He shrugs, reaching into the chips again.

“You look beautiful when you sleep,” he mutters. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

You let out a soft, quiet chuckle, shaking your head slightly.

The rest of the night feels familiar.

You both settle properly on the couch this time, the blanket half draped over your legs, and half over his.

The movie plays, but neither of you are really watching it seriously. It’s more talking than watching.

At one point, a weird-looking side character shows up on screen.

You nudge him lightly. “That’s you.”

Riki scoffs immediately. “Nah, that’s definitely you.”

“It’s not—”

“It is.”

Somewhere along the way, you shift closer or maybe he does. It just happens

Your shoulder presses against his side.

His arm ends up around your waist naturally. His hand rests against your side, fingers moving in slow circles through the fabric of your hoodie.

At some point, you turn your head and look at him.

Look at the side of his face, lit softly by the TV.

His jawline. The curve of his nose. The way his plump lips look before he unconsciously licks them again.

You don’t even realize how long you’ve been staring.

He pretends not to notice at first. Keeps his eyes on the screen.

But after a while he can’t anymore.

He turns his head.

Your faces are already closer than they should be.

“What are you doing?” he asks, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You don’t even look embarrassed.

“I like your earrings,” you say simply.

He chuckles, a little caught off guard.

“…Thanks.”

Neither of you looks away.

The space between you feels different now.

He notices your eyes. You notice his.

Then his gaze drops to your lips. Your eyes flick back up to his.

He licks his lips again.

You get closer, slowly and carefully. Like you’re both not sure you’re allowed to do this.

Your heart is beating too fast.

Your thoughts are louder than they’ve been all night.

He’s so close.

You’re in a relationship. He’s handsome. But Alex— But this— But Riki—

You’re so close you can feel his breath against your lips.

That’s when he pauses like something in him catches up.

Instead of closing the distance he nudges his nose against yours softly. Then rests his forehead against yours, exhaling quietly through his nose.

“Riki…” you whisper, your voice barely there. “I can’t… do that.”

He nods immediately.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. My bad.”

He leans in slightly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Then pulls back.

Clears his throat. Shifts on the couch, lifting his hips slightly as he readjusts, spreading his legs a bit, like he’s trying to shake something off.

You both stare at the TV screen but the tension doesn’t leave.

You glance at him quickly.

Look away.

He does the same.

Once.

Twice.

Until eventually you both look at the same time. Neither of you hesitates. You move at the same moment.

Your lips meet.

The kiss is soft at first, and careful like you’re both still unsure.

Then it deepens. Riki shifts immediately, turning towards you fully, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face, fingers sliding into your hair.

He gently pushes you down onto the couch. He hovers over you, one arm braced beside your head, the other still holding you. Your hands come up to his face, fingers pressing against his jaw, his cheek, pulling him closer.

His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek as he tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss, his lips moving against yours more quickly now. 

You breathe him in.

The kiss starts to get messier, more desperate, tongues slipping in, soft groans leaving his lips. like all the tension from before is finally spilling over. 

Then your phone buzzes.

Loud. Right beside you on the table.

You both freeze.

Riki’s lips hover over yours, his breath still warm against your lips, your hands still holding his face.

You both look toward the sound. Then back at each other.

You kiss him again.

His hand tightens slightly in your hair, pulling you back in, and you melt into it just as easily, like you need this right now.

The phone buzzes again.

And again.

You groan softly against his lips, your brows furrowing.

“Ignore it,” he murmurs, his voice low, brushing against your mouth before he kisses you again.

You try. You try so hard.

Your fingers tighten slightly against his jaw as you kiss him back, letting yourself get lost in it again.

But it doesn’t stop.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz.

It’s constant now.

Your focus starts slipping.

“Wait,” you mumble against his lips, pulling back just a little, breath uneven. “Who is it?”

Riki exhales quietly, like he already knows he’s not going to like the answer.

He leans slightly to the side, glancing at your phone.

The screen lights up again.

“… It’s Alex.”

It hits instantly. Your entire expression shifts.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

Reality crashes back in. Your hands drop from his face as you push his chest up lightly.

“Wait—Riki—”

He moves back immediately, sitting up as you do the same, both of you creating distance like you just realized what you were doing.

Your lips feel tingly and it feels wrong all of a sudden. You wipe at your mouth quickly, like it’ll fix something.

Your phone keeps buzzing in your hand now.

“You don’t have to answer,” Riki says, a little too fast, his voice low.

“I do,” you cut in immediately.

There’s no hesitation.

You swipe to answer before you can think about it too much.

“Hi, baby—”

“Where are you?!”

His voice is loud. You flinch instinctively.

“I—” you glance sideways at Riki, who’s already looking away, his jaw tight. “I’m just—”

“You’re at Riki’s place again, aren’t you?” Alex cuts in.

You swallow.

“…Yeah,” you admit, trying to keep your tone normal. “I just came over for a bit—”

You stand up quickly, already walking away.

“Hold on,” you mumble, more to Riki than Alex, before heading toward the bathroom.

You close the door behind you.

Riki stays on the couch. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, dragging his hands down his face.

“…Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

His mind is racing.

The kiss. The way you felt. How much he didn’t want to stop.

His jaw tightens. Because you have a boyfriend.

Because that, whatever just happened, that crosses a line. It’s not right.

But then he thinks about your bruises. The way you flinch. The way you so drained earlier.

He exhales sharply, leaning back, staring at the ceiling for a second before dropping his head into his hands again.

In the bathroom, your grip tightens around your phone.

“Why the fuck are you there?” Alex’s voice is already rising again. “I come home and you’re not even here?”

Your brows pull together. “What?”

“I went out of my way today,” he continues, talking over you. “I got you something, and you’re not even here to appreciate it?”

Your chest tightens.

“I didn’t know you were coming home,” you say, your voice starting to shake. “You said you we’re going to see—”

“So that means you run off to him?” he snaps. “Seriously?”

“That’s not what I—”

“I come home with flowers for you,” he cuts in. “Trying to do something nice, and you’re not even there.”

Your breath catches.

“…Flowers?” you repeat softly.

“Yeah, bought you fucking roses,” he says. “For our anniversary. But I guess that doesn’t matter to you, right?”

Guilt hits you instantly.

“I—I didn’t know,” you say quickly. “You didn’t tell me—”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you,” he mutters. “You should’ve been here.”

Tears start building up again.

“I was here all day,” you say, your voice breaking.

“And instead of waiting, you go to him?” he interrupts. “That’s your solution?”

“No, I just—”

“Un-fucking-believable,” he scoffs. “I actually tried, and you’re out there acting like this.”

Your grip on the phone tightens.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t think you—”

“You never think, do you?” he cuts in.

That stings.

“I do,” you say weakly. “I just—You told me you were going to—”

“So you go to another guy?” he snaps. “That’s real loyal.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“I’m not doing anything,” you say quickly, tears slipping down your cheeks now. “I’m just at his place, that’s all—”.

This time it hurts even more to say that, because you did, in fact, do something.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he mutters.

“I am,” you insist, your voice breaking more. “I swear, I didn’t mean to—”

“You never mean to,” he interrupts. “But you still do it. Because you’re a bitch.”

Silence falls for a second.

“…I’m sorry Alex.”

On the other side of the door, Riki hears it.

Every word. Muffled, but clear enough to understand.

“Listen to me y/n,” Alex snaps through the phone, his voice sharp and final. “If you’re not home in fifteen minutes, we’re done.”

Your breath catches.

“Alex, wait—”

The line goes dead.

You stare at your phone, your hand starts shaking.

Fifteen minutes.

Your chest tightens, breathing picking up again, panic creeping in fast.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until your vision blurs completely.

Outside, Riki hears the silence.

He stands up immediately, walking toward the bathroom without thinking.

He knocks once. Doesn’t wait long before pushing the door open slightly.

“Y/N…?” his voice is softer now. “Are you okay?”

That’s all it takes.

You break.

“I’m scared, Riki,” you sob, your voice cracking completely as you look at him. “I don’t know what to do—”

He’s in front of you instantly. Arms wrapping around you, pulling you into him without hesitation.

“I got you,” he murmurs, holding you tight.

You don’t even hug him back properly, your arms just hang there for a second, your phone is still in your hand, pressed awkwardly between you.

Riki gently takes it from you, not even asking, placing it on the sink behind you.

“Hey…,” he whispers, one hand coming up to the back of your head, holding you there. “Talk to me. What happened?”

“…y/n,” he says.

And that’s it.

The second his arms come around you, you completely give in.

You sob. Your body just drops into him, all your weight, all your tension, everything you’ve been holding in finally snapping.

It catches him off guard for a split second. But he steadies you immediately, arms tightening around you as you collapse into his chest.

He brings you down to the floor, keeping you close the entire time. He lowers down with you as your legs give out, carefully, until you’re both on the floor.

“Okay—” he murmurs. “Careful—”

Your whole body starts trembling against him, your breathing completely out of control, hiccuping and gasping in between.

Your face presses into his chest.

Your hands clutch onto his shirt thats already soaked with your tears.

You’re crying so hard you can barely breathe.

“I know, I know,” he whispers, his hand immediately coming up to the back of your head, fingers sliding into your hair, holding you there. “I got you… you’re okay.”

You shake your head against him.

Your sobs just get worse.

You try to speak, but it comes out broken.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out suddenly, the words forced through your crying. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— I didn’t mean to cry—”

“Don’t do that.” he cuts in immediately, pulling back to look at you. “Don’t apologize to me.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, quieter, like you can’t stop.

“I don’t care,” he says, softer again, his thumb brushing quickly under your eye to catch some of the tears before they fall. “You don’t have to apologize for that. Not with me, okay?”

“I’m here,” he says, his forehead brushing yours for a second before he pulls you back into his chest. “You can cry. It’s fine. I got you.”

Your face presses into him again.

His shirt is already damp.

He doesn’t care.

“Just breathe with me,” he murmurs, his hand moving to your back now, rubbing slow circles. “Slow, yeah? In and out.”

Your breathing is still uneven, but it starts to follow his voice just a little.

“He said—” your voice shakes. “He said if I’m not home in fifteen minutes, it’s over—”

“And you’re scared?” he asks quietly.

“Yes,” you cry immediately. “I have to go, Riki—I have to go home—”

“No—” he starts, but you keep going, words tumbling over each other.

“He got me flowers,” you say, like that’s the most important part. “For our anniversary, and I wasn’t there—I should’ve been there, I shouldn’t have come here—”

“Shh, calm down…”

“He’s gonna break up with me,” you continue, spiraling, barely hearing him. “He said he will if I don’t come home, I can’t stay here—”

“Y/n—”

“And if I go home he’s gonna be mad,” your voice drops into something smaller, more fragile. “He’s gonna hurt me—”

“I don’t know what to do,” you sob. “I don’t know what to do, I’m scared—”

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Riki says, trying to ground you, hands steadying on your arms. “You don’t have to go anywhere, okay? You can stay here. Just stay here with me.”

You shake your head immediately.

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he insists, softer now but firm. “You don’t have to be scared, alright? I’m right here. I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

You’re still crying, shaking your head.

“He went to see another girl,” you add suddenly, your voice breaking again. “He told me that, but now he has flowers and I wasn’t there and—”

You cut yourself off, your chest heaving.

“I hate that I wasn’t there,” you whisper.

Riki just looks at you. He gently lifts your face with his hand, tilting it up so you have no choice but to look at his eyes.

“Do you hear yourself?” he says quietly.

You freeze.

“He’s cheating on you,” Riki continues, his voice low but steady. “And you feel bad about flowers?”

You don’t know what to say.

Your lips part slightly but nothing comes out.

So he keeps going because he’s done holding it in.

“I know he hits you,” he says.

“I’ve seen it,” he adds, his jaw tightening. “The bruises. The cuts. The way you try to cover it up every time.”

You shake your head slightly, instinctively.

“Y/n,” he says softly, but firmly. “Don’t lie about it again.”

Your eyes fill up all over again.

“I hate that you don’t tell me,” he continues. “Every time you come over, there’s something new. And you just… brush it off like it’s nothing.”

His thumb brushes under your eye, wiping away tears you don’t even notice falling.

“You flinch at everything,” he says. “At me. At doors. At nothing.”

Your breathing gets uneven again.

“You apologize for everything,” he adds. “For crying. For talking. For how you look.”

Your gaze drops, but his hand keeps your face up.

“And I’ve had a bad feeling about him from the start,” Riki continues. “Before you even started dating him, I’d see him around with a different girl every week.”

Your brows pull together slightly.

“I didn’t say anything, because you were in love. I think.” he admits. “I should’ve said something. But I didn’t.”

“And now every time I see you… you look worse,” he says. 

“Because he keeps telling you you’re nothing,” Riki continues. “He’s messing with your head, making you think you don’t deserve better.”

He leans a little closer.

Your lip trembles again.

“But you’re smart,” he goes on. “You’re kind. You’re beautiful.” he exhales softly, shaking his head a little. “You’re so much more than this. And it breaks my heart seeing you like this.”

You hear Riki’s words but they don’t land. Alex’s words keep circling your mind.

“He said he doesn’t love me,” you cry. “He said he’d be lying if he said it— he called me a slut, Riki, he said I’m— he said I’m disloyal because I come here—”

“Listen to me y/n,” Riki says, his thumb brushing under your eye to wipe away some of the tears. “He’s just—  saying shit to hurt you.”

You’re still crying, still shaking, but you listen.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he adds. “None of that is true. You hear me? It’s bullshit.”

“He’s the one messing up,” Riki mutters. “Not you.”

He exhales slowly, trying to keep himself and you steady. Then his hand moves back to your hair again, gently smoothing it down.

“I’m here,” he says quietly. “You’re safe with me.”

Your breathing is still uneven, hiccups every few seconds, but it’s not as bad anymore. The sobbing has softened into quiet crying, your face still buried in his chest.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then he shifts slightly.

“Y/n,” he murmurs.

His hands move to your arms, gently guiding you up.

“Come here.”

You don’t really resist. Your body feels heavy, but you let him pull you to your feet. His warm hands come up to your face an d he tilts your head so you have to look at him.

Your eyes are still glossy, lashes clumped together, cheeks damp.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says. Like he needs you to believe it.

You swallow and nod.

“…Okay.”

Your voice is small.

You glance down for a second, then back up at him.

“Thank you,” you add quietly.

Something in his expression softens at that.

“Don’t mention it.”

“…I don’t wanna go home,” you admit.

Riki doesn’t even hesitate.

“Then you’re not going.”

“I don’t have any of my stuff,” you say after a second, looking down at yourself.

He turns immediately, motioning for you to follow.

“Doesn’t matter.”

You walk after him into his bedroom.

He walks straight to his closet, sliding it open and already reaching for things.

“I’ve got clothes,” he says, pulling out a pair of shorts. “You can just wear mine.”

He grabs a shirt next, tossing it over his shoulder before turning back to you.

“I think I’ve got an extra toothbrush somewhere too,” he adds, looking around.

You stand near the door, watching him. He walks back over, holding the clothes out to you.

“Here.”

Before you can say anything, his hand comes up again, gently brushing under your eyes, wiping away the faint tear stains left on your cheeks.

“I’m gonna go change,” you says quietly.

He nods.

“…Okay.”

You close the bathroom door behind you, locking it out of habit before setting the clothes down on the counter.

You just stand there, looking at your reflection. Your eyes are still red. Your lips slightly swollen from crying.

You change slowly, pulling on his shirt first, it falls way past your hips, then the shorts, the fabric loose. You rinse  the spare toothbrush he left out and brush your teeth. You wash your face with cold water, the chill makes you get back to reality a little. You pat your face dry.

Your fingers lift slowly, brushing against the faint bruise that’s still beside your eye. Then you drop your hand and walk out.

Riki is already on the couch when you walk into the living room, one arm resting along the back, his phone in his other hand.

He looks up the second he hears you and immediately stands up. His eyes flick over you quickly, the oversized shirt, the loose shorts, your bare legs, your still slightly puffy eyes.

“…These shorts are very big,” you mumble, tugging lightly at the waistband.

He lets out a small laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Figured. Looks cute on you though.”

You look down at yourself again, then back at him, a tiny hint of a smile there despite everything.

Then he gestures toward the couch.

“I can sleep here,” he says, pointing at it. “Already got my pillow and everything.”

You follow his hand with your eyes. Then shake your head.

“No,” you say quietly. “I don’t wanna be alone.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Just like that. He grabs his pillow, nodding slightly toward the bedroom.

“C’mon then.”

The room is dark when you get in, only a faint glow from the hallway slipping in before the door closes behind you.

You both climb into bed. You stay on your side, he stays on his. There’s A noticeable gap between you.

You’re both on your backs, staring up at the ceiling you can barely see.

After a moment, Riki exhales softly.

“…We haven’t done this in years,” he says.

“What?”

“A sleepover.”

You let out a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh.

“Yeah.”

“…I’m tired,” you mumble after a while.

“Then sleep,” he replies gently.

You nod, even though he can’t see it.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

You turn onto your side, back facing him, pulling the blanket up slightly. For a second you just lie there. Eyes open. Staring into the dark.

“…Riki.” Your voice is quiet.

He shifts slightly behind you.

“Yeah?”

You turn back onto your back, looking up again even though you know he can’t see your face clearly.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “For… always being there.”

“I don’t really know what I’d do without you.”

“…Of course,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

You nod.  Then you shift carefully.

You move closer to him, closing the gap that was there before, your head finding its place near his chest.

Your arm drapes over his stomach, holding onto him without thinking too much about it.

He stills for a second. Then his arm comes around you, pulling you in just a little closer. His hand moves to your head again, fingers sliding into your hair, gentle, steady.

There’s a slight stutter in your breathing. He can feel it.

Feels like you’re trying not to cry again.

He doesn’t say anything about it, just keeps his hand moving. His chin rests lightly against the top of your head.

And after a moment, his voice breaks the silence again.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “I got you y/n… you'll be okay.”

“I promise.”

✳︎

🗯️ vaeh’s note: oh my days ts took me so long to write?? Longest fic I’ve written yet. i hope you enjoyed it. or made you cry. means it did I good job writing it muhahah

taglist: @laikaonline @izzikiii @hearteubeateuxz @angelhyuka @berrybonnieee @choeryyxyz @ily4hoonity @embrjdos @astronomicalastro-blog1 @silvhoon @coupsarchive @rikislove @ily4hoonity @kittyvalr @eater4riki @twoloathe @rmmsthings @ilovetylerthecreater @sociallyawkward18 @lovenha7 @enhajungwonheart @krikalovesstay @rikislove @wonsvisuals @nishirikiluvr @illtie @saeivra @emmaitoshi @ardlolic @aamirazx @wonuziex @bemyaehiweloveskz @sa1co @nikisfave @sociallyawkward18 @seerpentsk1rt @lovleycherryy @ivelvette @rikimuraaaa @evanleeisahoe @miffikeuu @luvv1anime @swiftinsightinsight @mininigning @bellachaewon @teddybeartaetae @wonnieswife @xupidraws @chaebbys @ilobhee @sstrawbxrry @jungwonniesdimple

[gigi-cray]

WOAH MAMA holy moly this was such a good story

[lac4ygal]

THE HIGH LIFE — p.js

Musician!JayPark x NepoBaby!Reader

: ̗̀➛ Genre: Angst, Smut, Toxic Relationship, Musician AU, Nepo Baby AU, Addiction, Tragedy, No Happy Ending

: ̗̀➛ Summary: You’re the daughter of a powerful music executive— gorgeous, privileged, and bored with your silver-spoon life. Jay Park is the rising star your father just signed— talented, damaged, and running from demons you can’t see yet. What starts as a reckless hookup at an industry party becomes an addictive spiral of drugs, sex and destructive love. As Jay’s status rises and his addiction deepens, you’re pulled into a darkness you can’t escape. Some love stories don’t have happy endings. Some people are too broken to be saved. And sometimes, love isn’t enough to keep someone alive. Will any of it matter when he burns it all down?

: ̗̀➛ Content warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), graphic drug use (cocaine, alcohol), substance abuse and addiction, fatal overdose, verbal and emotional abuse, degradation (sexual), rough sex, dubious consent (both parties under the influence), cheating and infidelity, toxic codependency, self-destructive behavior, manipulation, childhood trauma mentions, no condom use, graphic descriptions of drug use and overdose, character death, grief, depression, no happy ending, tragic ending.

: ̗̀➛ Word count: 22.3k

: ̗̀➛ Song: Ultraviolence by Lana Del Rey

: ̗̀➛ Authors note: This fic destroyed me to write, so I hope it destroys you to read. Jay and reader are based in 2007 LA— flip phones, paparazzi culture, and the height of industry excess. This is a tragedy about addiction, toxic codependency, and the brutal reality that love alone cannot save someone who’s determined to self-destruct. There’s no redemption arc here, no happy ending, no lesson learned. Just two people who loved each other in the most destructive way possible. Reblogs, commmets, likes and feedback keep me writing, but please take care of yourselves while reading this.❤️

: ̗̀➛ My masterlist

The party is already in full swing when you arrive, fashionably late because that’s what’s expected of you.

Your father’s label has rented out the entire top floor of some pretentious hotel in West Hollywood—the kind of place with marble everything and champagne that costs more than most people’s rent. The bass from the speakers thrums through the floor, some remix of a top 40 hit that’ll be forgotten in a month. Crystal chandeliers catch the light from the DJ booth, scattering fragments of gold across the crowd of executives, artists, socialites, and people who are famous for being famous. You’ve been to a thousand parties exactly like this one. You’re bored before you even step off the elevator.

Your mother air-kisses both your cheeks without actually touching you, careful not to smudge her lipstick. She’s wearing Chanel— she’s always wearing Chanel— and her smile is the same one she uses for magazine covers. Practiced. Perfect. Empty.

“Darling, you look beautiful,” she says, even though she helped pick out the dress. Black lace slip dress that barely reaches mid-thigh, red bottom Louboutins that make your legs look endless. Your father’s credit card swiped without a second thought at Barneys yesterday afternoon.

“Thanks, Mom.” You accept a champagne flute from a passing waiter, though you have no intention of drinking it. Champagne is for people who want to look like they’re having fun. You prefer substances that actually deliver.

Your father appears at your mother’s elbow, already deep in conversation with some A&R rep whose name you’ve forgotten. He notices you and his expression shifts into that particular brand of paternal pride that’s really just self-satisfaction.

“There’s my girl,” he says, pulling you into a one-armed hug that’s more for show than affection. “I want you to meet some people. Come on.”

You follow because that’s what you do. Smile, shake hands, laugh at jokes that aren’t funny, let men twice your age hold your hand a little too long while their wives pretend not to notice. You’re good at this. You’ve been trained for this your entire life.

The party stretches out before you like every other party—a blur of small talk and stale ambition. You excuse yourself after twenty minutes, slipping through the crowd toward the balcony where you know you’ll find relative privacy.

The Los Angeles skyline glitters below, smog softened by distance into something almost beautiful. You pull a pre-rolled joint from your clutch— you’d rolled it this morning, something to take the edge off— and light it with your Cartier lighter.

The first inhale settles something in your chest. The second makes the party sounds fade to background noise. By the third, you’re floating just enough to tolerate going back inside.

You smoke two joints in quick succession, letting the high build until the world has that pleasant fuzzy quality that makes everything bearable. When you finally return to the party, your eyes are glassy and your smile is genuine for the first time all night.

That’s when you see him.

He’s standing near the makeshift stage with your father and two other men, and you know immediately he’s the rising star your dad’s been going on about all week. Some musician the label just signed, the “next big thing,” another artist who’ll either make it or burn out spectacularly within a year.

Jay Park.

You’ve heard the name. Seen it on some blog or another. But you weren’t prepared for him to look like that.

He’s wearing all black— fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that are surprisingly cut, dark jeans that sit low on his hips, leather jacket slung over one shoulder. His hair is longer than the usual corporate clean-cut, falling into his eyes in a way that’s probably calculated but looks effortless. There’s a silver chain around his neck catching the light.

He looks like sex and danger and bad decisions.

And he’s staring directly at your ass. You catch his eyes flick up when he realizes you’ve noticed, but he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. Instead, he smirks— slow and deliberate— before turning his attention back to whatever your father is saying. Cocky. You hate that it works on you.

Your father sees you approaching and his whole face lights up with that particular brand of enthusiasm that means he’s about to use you for networking.

“And here she is!” He reaches for you, pulling you into the circle. “Gentlemen, my daughter. Sweetheart, I want you to meet Jay Park. He’s the artist I’ve been telling you about— the one who’s going to change the game.”

Jay extends his hand, and when you take it, his grip is firm, his hand warm. His eyes meet yours and there’s something sharp in them, assessing. Like he’s trying to figure out what you’re worth.

“Pleasure,” he says, and his voice is lower than you expected. Rough around the edges in a way that suggests cigarettes and late nights.

“The pleasure’s mine,” you reply, your tone bored even though your pulse kicks up a notch.

Up close, he’s even more attractive. Sharp jawline, full lips, eyes that are almost black in this lighting. There’s a restless energy to him, like he’s barely containing something wild. You can smell whiskey on his breath, see the slight dilation of his pupils that suggests he’s not entirely sober.

“Your father says you’re interested in music,” Jay says, though the way he’s looking at you suggests music is the last thing on his mind.

“I’m interested in a lot of things.” You let the words hang, ambiguous and inviting.

His smirk widens. “I bet you are.”

Your father, oblivious to the undercurrent, launches into some speech about Jay’s demo, the sound he’s cultivating, the tour they’re planning. You tune it out, watching Jay instead. The way he nods along, saying all the right things, playing the part of the grateful artist. But his eyes keep finding you, trailing down your body with an appreciation that’s just shy of inappropriate given the setting. You wonder if your father notices. You wonder if you care.

“Jay’s performing tonight,” your father says, finally wrapping up his pitch. “A few songs, let people hear what we’re working with. You should stay and watch.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” you say, directing the words at Jay rather than your father.

Something flickers in Jay’s expression— heat, promise, danger. He holds your gaze for a beat too long before your father is pulling him away, introducing him to someone else, someone more important.

But before he goes, Jay leans in close enough that you can feel his breath against your ear. “Stick around after,” he murmurs. “I’ve got something you’ll like.”

Then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving you standing there with your heart racing and heat pooling low in your stomach. You need another joint.

An hour later, you’re leaning against the bar nursing a vodka cranberry you haven’t touched when the lights dim and your father takes the stage.

He gives the usual speech— thanking everyone for coming, talking up the label, building anticipation. Then he introduces Jay, and the crowd shifts, attention focusing on the stage as Jay steps into the spotlight.

He’s ditched the leather jacket. The stage lights catch on the silver chain, on the rings on his fingers when he picks up the guitar. There’s a moment of feedback, then he’s playing— something dark and hypnotic, all minor chords and driving rhythm. And then he starts singing.

His voice is raw and raspy, the kind of voice that sounds like it’s been dragged through gravel and smoke. The lyrics are explicit without being crude, sexual without being tacky. It’s the kind of music that makes you think of sweat-slicked skin and tangled sheets and the kind of mistakes you make at 3 AM.

You watch his fingers move on the guitar strings, watch the way his throat works when he hits the high notes, watch the way he rolls his hips slightly on the downbeat. It’s hypnotic. Sexual. Deliberate. And he’s looking right at you while he does it.

The song builds, tension coiling tighter and tighter until it finally breaks on the chorus, and you feel it in your body— that same tightening, that same need for release. Around you, people are nodding along, but you’re frozen, trapped in the pull of his gaze. He performs three songs total. Each one filthier than the last. Each one feeling like it’s meant for you specifically.

By the time he finishes, you’re wet and you haven’t even touched him. The crowd applauds. Your father looks pleased. Jay sets down the guitar and disappears backstage, and you wait exactly ninety seconds before you follow.

You find him in the hallway outside the green room, leaning against the wall with a bottle of wine in one hand. He’s already drunk half of it, you notice. There’s a restlessness to him now that the performance is over, that manic energy that needs an outlet.

“Enjoy the show?” he asks, not bothering with pleasantries.

“You were okay,” you lie.

He laughs— sharp and knowing. “Liar. You were eye-fucking me the entire time.”

“Maybe I was just trying to figure out what all the hype is about.”

He pushes off the wall, closing the distance between you in two strides. Up close, you can see the sheen of sweat on his skin from the stage lights, can smell whiskey and something sharper underneath. Drugs, probably. The thought should concern you more than it does.

“You’re pretty when you lie,” he says, his voice low. “But you’re even prettier when you’re high. How many joints did you smoke before you came back inside?”

Your breath catches. “Two.”

“Mm.” His eyes drop to your mouth. “You got any left?”

“Maybe.”

“You gonna share?”

“Depends.” You tilt your head, looking up at him through your lashes. “What are you offering in exchange?”

His hand comes up, fingers curling around your jaw, tilting your face up. “What do you want?”

The honest answer is you. The honest answer is that you’ve been wet since the moment he looked at you. The honest answer is that you want him to push you against this wall and make you forget your own name. But you don’t say any of that. Instead, you lean in close enough that your lips almost brush his ear.

“Surprise me.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The hallway is empty, the party sounds muffled through the walls. There’s nothing but the sound of your breathing and the tension crackling between you like a live wire.

Then Jay’s hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, gripping hard enough to make you gasp, and he’s kissing you.

It’s not gentle. There’s nothing sweet or exploratory about it. His mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting like whiskey and want. You kiss him back just as hard, fisting your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left between you.

He walks you backward until you hit the wall, never breaking the kiss. His free hand finds your waist, your hip, slides down to grab your ass through the thin lace of your dress. You moan into his mouth and he swallows the sound, biting your bottom lip hard enough to sting.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth. “You’re trouble.”

“So are you.”

His hand slides higher, fingers brushing the edge of your dress where it’s ridden up. “Your daddy know you’re out here with me?”

“My daddy doesn’t know a lot of things.”

“Good.” His fingers hook under the hem of your dress. “Let’s keep it that way.” Then he’s pulling back, grabbing your hand, dragging you down the hallway. You follow without question, your pulse pounding in your ears, heat coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

He pushes open a door— a bathroom, marble and gold and excessive like everything else in this fucking hotel— and pulls you inside. The lock clicks.

For half a second, you just look at each other. His pupils are blown wide, his breathing ragged. There’s a wild look in his eyes that should scare you but instead just makes you wetter.

“Last chance to walk away,” he says, but his hands are already reaching for you.

You grab his shirt and pull him in. “Shut up and fuck me.”

Something in him snaps. He spins you around, pushing you forward until you’re bent over the marble sink, your palms flat against the counter. The mirror reflects both of you back— your flushed face, your kiss-swollen lips, his hands already shoving your dress up over your hips.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “Daddy’s little girl, bent over and desperate for it.”

“Fuck you,” you gasp, but there’s no heat in it.

“Oh, I’m going to.” His hand comes down hard on your ass and you bite back a moan. “But first, I want to see how wet you are.”

His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them down your thighs. You hear his sharp intake of breath when he sees how soaked you are, and it sends a bolt of satisfaction through you.

“Dirty little thing,” he says, almost to himself. Then louder: “You get this wet for everyone, or just for me?”

“Just you,” you admit, and it’s the truth.

“Good answer.” His fingers slide through your folds, teasing, and you push back against his hand. He laughs, low and mean. “Desperate already? We haven’t even started.”

“Then start,” you demand, and he responds by pushing two fingers inside you without warning. You cry out at the sudden fullness, and his other hand clamps over your mouth.

“Quiet,” he commands. “Unless you want everyone at this party to know what a dirty money whore you are.” The words should offend you. Instead they make you clench around his fingers, and he notices.

“Oh, you like that.” His fingers pump in and out, rough and fast. “You like being reminded that underneath all that expensive lace and designer heels, you’re just a spoiled brat who needs to be fucked.”

You moan against his palm, your hips rocking back to meet his thrusts. His fingers are thick and skilled, finding that spot inside you that makes your legs shake. But it’s not enough. You need more.

As if reading your mind, he pulls his fingers out, and you whimper at the loss. You hear the sound of his belt, his zipper, and then his hand is on your hip, positioning you.

“Condom?” he asks, and there’s a hint of hesitation there, the first crack in his dominant facade.

“Pill,” you gasp. “I’m on the pill. Just—please—”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me.”

“That’s better.” He pushes inside you in one hard thrust and you both groan. He’s bigger than you expected, the stretch almost too much, almost painful. But then he’s moving, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, and the pain melts into pleasure so intense you see stars.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunts, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. “Taking my cock like you were made for it.”

He sets a brutal pace, each thrust driving you forward against the sink. The marble is cold against your palms, a sharp contrast to the heat building inside you. You watch in the mirror as he fucks you— his face twisted in concentration, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that’s almost musical.

Your own reflection is wrecked— hair falling out of its careful styling, makeup smudged, lips parted as you try to stay quiet. But it’s getting harder with each thrust, each time he hits that spot deep inside that makes your whole body light up.

A particularly hard thrust makes you cry out, and his hand moves from your hip to your mouth again.

“I said quiet,” he growls. “Or do I need to give you something to keep that pretty mouth busy?” He pulls his hand away just long enough to push two fingers past your lips. You suck them obediently, tasting yourself on his skin, and he groans. “That’s it. Suck my fingers like the good little slut you are.”

His other hand snakes around your body, finding your clit and rubbing harsh circles. The combination of sensations— his cock inside you, his fingers in your mouth, the pressure on your clit— is overwhelming. You feel your orgasm building, that familiar tension coiling tighter and tighter.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks, his voice rough. “Gonna come all over my cock while your father’s just down the hall?” You nod frantically, unable to speak around his fingers, and he picks up the pace. His thrusts become erratic, harder, and his fingers on your clit are relentless.

“Come,” he commands. “Come for me right fucking now.” And you do.

Your orgasm hits you like a wave, so intense your legs actually give out. He holds you up with one arm around your waist while you shake and spasm around him, and you feel it— a rush of wetness that you’ve only experienced a handful of times before.

“Fuck yes,” Jay groans, feeling you squirt around him. “That’s it, that’s my girl, give it to me—”

He fucks you through it, prolonging your orgasm until you’re sobbing against his fingers, overstimulated and wrung out. Only then does he let himself go, his rhythm stuttering as he buries himself deep and comes inside you with a low groan.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You’re both breathing hard, the bathroom filled with the sound of it and the lingering smell of sex. Slowly, he pulls out, and you feel his cum drip down your thigh.

He tucks himself back into his jeans while you straighten up on shaky legs. Your reflection in the mirror is obscene— thoroughly fucked, makeup ruined, hickeys already blooming on your neck and collarbone that you’ll have to cover up before you go back out there.

Jay meets your eyes in the mirror, and for a moment something passes between you. Recognition, maybe. Or acknowledgment of what you’ve just started. Then he smirks, adjusting his shirt.

“You should clean up. Can’t have daddy seeing you like this.” The spell breaks.

You pull paper towels from the dispenser with shaking hands, cleaning yourself up as best you can. Your panties are ruined, so you ball them up and shove them in your clutch. Your dress is wrinkled but there’s nothing you can do about that. The hickeys are going to be a problem, but you’ll figure it out. Jay watches you the entire time, that infuriating smirk still on his face.

“What?” you snap, suddenly irritated with him, with yourself, with this whole situation.

“Nothing.” He reaches for the door handle. “Just thinking this is going to be fun.”

“What is?”

“This. Us.” He looks you up and down one more time. “Whatever the fuck this is.”

Then he’s gone, slipping out of the bathroom without another word, leaving you alone with your racing heart and the ache between your legs.

You wait five minutes before you follow. Long enough to fix your hair, dab at the hickeys with concealer you don’t have, give up and hope no one looks too closely.

When you finally emerge, the party is still going strong. Nobody seems to have noticed your absence.

You spot Jay across the room, surrounded by industry people, playing the part of the grateful artist again. He catches your eye for just a second, and the heat in his gaze makes your breath catch.

Then someone hands you a drink, pulls you into a conversation, and you’re back in your role too. Daddy’s perfect little girl. The socialite. The trust fund baby who has everything. But underneath the expensive dress and the fake smile, you can still feel him between your legs. Can still taste his fingers in your mouth. Can still hear his voice calling you a dirty money whore.

And you want more.

—

You don’t hear from him for a week. Not that you expected to. You didn’t exchange numbers, didn’t make plans, didn’t do anything that would suggest the bathroom at your father’s party was anything more than what it was— a quick fuck between two people who wanted each other.

Still, you check your phone more than you’d like to admit. Flip it open during boring lunches with your mother, during shopping trips on Rodeo Drive, during another insufferable charity gala where you smile and nod and pretend to care about whatever cause is trendy this month.

You tell yourself you don’t care. There are plenty of other guys— actors, models, trust fund brats who’d love to get their dirty hands on you. You’ve fucked half of young Hollywood already. Jay Park is nothing special.

Except you can’t stop thinking about the way he bent you over that sink. The way he called you daddy’s little girl. The way he made you squirt all over his cock while your father was down the hall. You smoke more weed than usual that week but it doesn’t help.

It’s the following Friday when you see him again.

Your father’s having another industry thing—this time it’s a showcase at some trendy club in West Hollywood, the kind of place with velvet ropes and a guest list that determines your worth as a human being. Several of the label’s artists are performing, including Jay.

You almost don’t go. But your mother insists— “It’s important to support your father’s work, darling”— and you’re bored enough that even a shitty showcase sounds better than another night alone in your apartment getting high and watching reality TV.

You dress deliberately. A red slip dress this time, even shorter than the black one. Fuck-me heels. Your hair loose and wild. If you’re going to run into him, you atleast want him to remember exactly what he’s missing.

The club is packed when you arrive, already thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of expensive cologne. The music is too loud, the drinks are overpriced, and everyone is trying too hard. Standard LA bullshit.

Your father finds you immediately, pulling you into the VIP section where he’s holding court with various executives and artists. You accept a vodka soda from the waitress and settle in for a long night of forced conversation.

That’s when you see them.

Jay is standing near the bar with a woman you don’t recognize. She’s older than you— maybe late twenties, early thirties— dressed in a crisp white button-down tucked into fitted black pants. Professional. Put-together. The kind of woman who actually has her shit figured out.

They’re standing close, her hand on his arm as she talks to him. She’s laughing at something he said, and he’s smiling back, comfortable in a way you haven’t seen him before. Something ugly twists in your stomach.

“Ah, there he is!” Your father’s voice cuts through your thoughts. He’s waving Jay over, and you watch as he says something to the woman before heading your way.

Up close, he looks good. Too good. Black t-shirt, leather jacket, jeans that fit perfectly. His hair is slightly messy like he’s been running his hands through it. When his eyes land on you, something flickers in his expression, but it’s gone before you can identify it.

“Jay, you remember my daughter,” your father says, oblivious as always.

“Of course.” Jay extends his hand like you’re strangers, like he wasn’t inside you a week ago. “Good to see you again.”

You take his hand, your skin tingling at the contact. “Likewise.”

The woman from the bar appears at Jay’s elbow, and your father’s face lights up. “Ginny! Perfect timing. Have you met my daughter?”

So this is Ginny.

She’s even more polished up close— sharp features, calculating eyes, a smile that doesn’t quite reach them. She extends her hand and you shake it, noting the expensive watch on her wrist, the diamond studs in her ears.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Ginny says, her voice smooth and professional. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Have you?” You keep your tone light, disinterested.

“Ginny is Jay’s manager,” your father explains. “She’s been instrumental in his development. We’re lucky to have her on the team.”

“How nice.” You take a sip of your drink, your eyes flicking to Jay. He’s watching you with that same unreadable expression.

Ginny shifts slightly, and that’s when you see them. Hickeys. Dark purple bruises just visible above the collar of her white shirt. She’s tried to cover them with makeup but the lighting in here is unforgiving. Your stomach drops.

You look at Jay, and he’s smirking. Actually fucking smirking at you. He did that. You know he did.

“We should probably get ready for soundcheck,” Ginny says, her hand landing on Jay’s arm again. Possessive. Familiar. “They want you on stage in twenty.”

“Right.” Jay nods to your father. “I’ll see you after the set.”

“Looking forward to it,” your father says.

Jay’s eyes meet yours one more time before he walks away, and there’s a challenge in them. A taunt.

What are you going to do about it?

You down the rest of your drink in one swallow.

Jay’s set is different from the party performance. Rawer. The venue is smaller, more intimate, and he feeds off the energy of the crowd. His voice is rough and hypnotic, the lyrics even filthier than before. He moves across the stage like he owns it, guitar slung low, every motion deliberate and sexual.

And he keeps looking at you. Not obviously enough that anyone else would notice. But you feel his gaze like a physical touch, burning across your skin, reminding you of things you’re trying to forget.

By the third song, you’re wet and furious about it.

Ginny is watching from the side of the stage, her arms crossed, her expression proud. Like she has any right to be proud of him. Like she has any claim to him at all. But those hickeys say otherwise.

The set ends to enthusiastic applause. Your father is beaming, already talking about booking bigger venues, planning a tour. Jay says all the right things, plays the humble artist, but his eyes keep finding you in the crowd. You need air.

You slip away from the VIP section, heading toward the back of the venue where you know there’s a door that leads to the alley. You need to smoke, need to clear your head, need to figure out why the fuck you care that Jay is apparently fucking his manager.

You’re halfway down the dim hallway when you hear footsteps behind you.

“Running away?” Jay’s voice cuts through the darkness. You turn. He’s leaning against the wall, backlit by the glow from the club, and he looks like every bad decision you’ve ever made.

“I needed some air,” you say coolly.

“Bullshit.” He pushes off the wall, stalking toward you. “You’re pissed.”

“Why would I be pissed?”

“Ginny’s hickeys.” He’s close now, close enough that you can smell whiskey on his breath. “You saw them.”

“So what if I did?”

“So you’re jealous.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Then why are you out here instead of in there with daddy and all his important friends?”

You lift your chin, refusing to back down even though he’s crowding you against the wall. “Maybe I just don’t want to watch you perform like a trained monkey.”

His hand comes up, fingers wrapping around your throat— not squeezing, just holding. A reminder of what he can do to you.

“You’re such a bitch,” he murmurs, but there’s heat in his voice.

“And you’re an asshole.”

“Yeah.” His thumb presses against your pulse point. “But you’re still thinking about me fucking you. Still wet for me even though I left marks on someone else.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the plan.”

He kisses you hard, his tongue pushing into your mouth, tasting like whiskey and cigarettes and bad choices. You kiss him back just as rough, biting his lip, fisting your hands in his jacket. This is stupid. Your father is in the club. Ginny is probably looking for him. Anyone could walk back here.

You don’t care.

Jay’s hand slides up your thigh, pushing your dress up, and you spread your legs for him without hesitation. His fingers find you already soaked, and he groans into your mouth.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he breathes. “All from watching me on stage?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You reach for his belt, but he catches your wrist. “Not here. Too exposed.” He glances around, then grabs your hand. “Come on.”

He pulls you further down the hallway to a door marked “Storage.” It’s unlocked, and inside is exactly what you’d expect— boxes of liquor, cleaning supplies, random equipment. And barely any light. Perfect.

The door barely closes before Jay is on you again, spinning you around and pushing you face-first against the wall. Your cheek presses against the cold concrete as his hands yank your dress up over your hips.

“No panties?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

“I learned my lesson last time.”

“Good girl.” His hand comes down hard on your ass and you bite back a moan. “Learning so fast.”

He’s already unbuckling his belt, the sound of his zipper obscenely loud in the small space. Then he’s pushing inside you in one brutal thrust and you both groan.

“Fuck,” he grinds out. “Still so fucking tight.”

There’s no finesse to this. It’s fast and rough and desperate, his hips snapping against yours hard enough that you’ll have bruises tomorrow. One hand is fisted in your hair, pulling your head back, while the other grips your hip hard enough to hurt.

“This what you wanted?” he growls in your ear. “Wanted me to fuck you like the needy little slut you are?”

“Yes,” you gasp, past the point of pride.

“Say it properly.”

“I wanted you to fuck me.”

“And I’m doing that, aren’t I? Giving you exactly what you need.” His hand slides around to your throat, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. “Even though your daddy’s right out there. Even though Ginny’s probably wondering where I went. You don’t care, do you?”

“No.”

“Because you’re addicted to this cock.”

You want to argue, want to tell him he’s wrong, but he chooses that moment to change his angle and hit that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

“That’s it,” he encourages, feeling you clench around him. “Take it. Take all of it.”

His hand moves from your throat to your mouth, two fingers pushing past your lips.

“Suck,” he commands. You do, hollowing your cheeks, tasting the sweat on his skin. He groans, his rhythm getting erratic.

“Gonna come,” he warns. “Gonna fill this pussy up and send you back out there dripping with my cum.”

The thought alone nearly pushes you over the edge. His other hand finds your clit, rubbing harsh circles, and that’s all it takes. You come hard, your whole body going taut, and you feel him follow a moment later— his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep and fills you.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You’re both breathing hard, your legs shaking, your mind blissfully blank.

Then Jay pulls out and the spell breaks once again. You straighten up on unsteady legs, smoothing your dress down. He’s already tucking himself back into his jeans, running a hand through his hair.

“You should get back out there,” he says, his tone casual like he didn’t just fuck you in a storage closet. “Before someone notices you’re gone.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll wait a few minutes. Can’t have people talking.”

Right. Because that would be bad for his image. Bad for the career your father is building for him. You head for the door, but his voice stops you.

“Hey.” You turn. “This works, right? Us?” He gestures between you. “Just fucking when it’s convenient?”

Something in your chest tightens, but you force a smile. “Perfectly convenient.”

“Good.” He leans back against the wall, and in the dim light you can see the hickeys you left on his neck at your father’s party the other week, already fading. “I’ll see you around then.”

“Yeah. See you around.”

You slip out of the storage room and make your way back to the club, your legs still shaky, his cum slowly dripping down your thigh. No one seems to notice your absence. Your father is still talking business, your mother is holding court with the wives, and Ginny is back at the bar, scanning the crowd. Looking for Jay, probably.

You grab another drink from a passing waitress and down it, trying to ignore the bitter taste in your mouth that has nothing to do with vodka.

This is fine. This is what you wanted, just really good sex when the opportunity presents itself. So why does it feel like you just lost something you never even had?

The pattern establishes itself quickly after that.

You run into each other at industry events— always with your father present, always having to play the part of polite acquaintances. Jay performs, you watch, and somehow you always end up fucking in whatever private space you can find.

A bathroom at a restaurant during a label dinner.

The backseat of his shitty car in a parking garage.

Your apartment when your parents think you’re at a friend’s house.

His apartment— a cramped studio in a building with questionable plumbing— when Ginny is out of town.

It’s never planned. You don’t text each other to make plans, don’t call just to talk, hell you don’t even have eachother numbers. You just… find each other. And when you do, you fuck. Hard and fast and without words beyond the dirty talk that gets you both off.

Sometimes he’s drunk. You can taste it on his tongue, smell it on his skin. He’s rougher those nights, meaner with his words, more likely to leave marks.

Sometimes you’re high. Everything is softer then, slower, your body more sensitive to every touch. He seems to like you better that way— pliant and needy and willing to do whatever he asks.

You never ask about Ginny. He never asks about the actor you were photographed with last week, or the model the week before that.

Because this isn’t that. This is just sex. Convenient, really fucking good sex. That’s all it is. That’s all it needs to be.

Three months in, your mother brings it up over brunch at some overpriced restaurant in Beverly Hills. “Your father tells me you’ve been seeing quite a bit of Jay Park,” she says, delicately cutting her egg white omelet into precise pieces.

You nearly choke on your mimosa. “What?”

“Don’t play coy, darling. You’re always at the same events, you’re seen talking to him, leaving around the same time…” She gives you a knowing look. “Are you two dating?”

“No,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

Her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches. “No?”

“We’re just… friends. Barely that. I’m being polite because of Dad.”

“Mm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, if you were dating, I’d approve. He’s quite talented, your father says. And he’s going to be very successful. That’s the kind of man you should be associating with— someone with ambition, drive. Not these vapid actor boys you usually waste your time with.”

You stare at her. “You’d approve?”

“Of course. He’s rough around the edges, certainly, but that can be polished. And having a successful musician on your arm would be good for your image. Make you seem more… substantial.”

Substantial. Like you’re a product that needs better marketing.

“I’m not dating him,” you repeat.

“But you could be.” She sets down her fork, fixing you with that look she gets when she’s about to give you life advice you didn’t ask for. “Darling, you’re twenty-three years old. It’s time to start thinking about your future. About building the right associations. Jay Park could be very good for you.”

For you. Not for your heart, not for your happiness. For your image. For the family brand.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you say, reaching for your mimosa again. Your mother smiles, satisfied, and returns to her omelet.

You finish the brunch on autopilot, nodding and smiling in all the right places, and all you can think about is how fucked up it is that your mother would approve of you dating Jay for all the wrong reasons.

Almost as fucked up as the fact that you’re not actually dating him.

You’re just letting him fuck you in storage closets and leave his cum dripping down your legs while he goes home to his manager with the hickeys on her neck.

Yeah. Totally not fucked up at all.

Four months into whatever this is, and you still don’t have his number. It’s almost laughable. You’ve fucked him in more places than you can count, you know exactly how he likes his whiskey (neat, expensive), you know the sounds he makes when he comes— but you don’t have a way to contact him outside of these chance encounters at industry events. Not that it matters. You always find each other eventually.

Tonight is another one of your father’s things of course— a celebration at some exclusive club in Hollywood. Jay’s first single just hit the Billboard charts, and your father is practically glowing with pride. “I told you he was the next big thing,” he keeps saying to anyone who’ll listen, and for once you don’t even roll your eyes because he’s right.

Jay’s everywhere now. Radio, magazines, MTV. The label is pushing him hard, and it’s working. He’s still raw, still edgy enough to be interesting, but polished enough for mainstream success.

You’re proud of him, you realize. Which is stupid, because you’re not together. You’re not anything. You’re just two people who fuck sometimes. Well, a lot actually.

The club is packed, bass thumping so hard you feel it in your chest. Your father has the VIP section locked down, of course, but you got bored of that scene within the first hour. The same executives, the same conversations, the same fake smiles.

So you’ve migrated to the dance floor. You’re three drinks in and feeling good— that perfect buzz where everything is softer around the edges but you’re still in control. The music is loud enough to drown out thoughts, and you let yourself get lost in it.

A man pulls you close— older, maybe forty, expensive suit and the kind of watch that costs more than most people’s cars. You don’t know his name and you don’t care. He’s just a body, just hands on your hips as you grind your ass back against him.

You can feel him getting hard against you, and it’s gratifying in a shallow way. This is what you’re good at. Being wanted. Being desired. Being the girl everyone notices.

His lips find your neck, kissing up to your ear. “You’re fucking gorgeous,” he murmurs, and you smile even though the words mean nothing.

Another man joins you— younger this time, maybe early thirties, pulling you against his front so you’re sandwiched between them. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your dress.

This is dangerous. Reckless. Your father is upstairs, probably wondering where you are. You don’t care.

The music shifts, something darker and heavier, and you lose yourself in the rhythm. The older man’s hands are on your hips, guiding your movements, while the younger one kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, leaving a trail of heat on your skin.

You need to pee.

Reluctantly, you extract yourself from their grip, ignoring their protests as you head toward the back of the club where you know the bathrooms are. The hallway is dimmer, quieter, the bass reduced to a muffled thump through the walls.

That’s when you hear it. A familiar voice, low and rough, followed by laughter. You follow the sound to a darker section of the hallway, a semi-private area with velvet couches and low lighting. And there he is.

Jay.

He’s sprawled on one of the couches with three older men you don’t recognize— industry types, probably, based on their expensive clothes and the way they carry themselves.

There’s a glass table in front of them, and on it— lines of white powder, neat and precise.

Jay leans forward, a rolled-up hundred dollar bill in his hand, and snorts a line in one smooth motion. He sits back, his head tilting up, eyes closed, and even from here you can see the way his jaw clenches, the way his whole body goes taut for a moment before he relaxes.

Then his eyes open and land directly on you. A slow smirk spreads across his face.

“Well, well,” he drawls, his voice rougher than usual. “Look who found the fun.”

He’s drunk. You can tell by the way he’s sitting, loose-limbed and careless, by the glassiness of his eyes. But the coke has sharpened him somehow, given him an edge that makes your pulse quicken.

“Didn’t know you were here,” you say, trying to sound casual even though your heart is racing.

“Your daddy’s party and you didn’t know I’d be here?” He laughs, the sound bitter. “That’s cute.”

The men with him are looking at you now, their gazes sliding over your body in a way that should make you uncomfortable but instead sends a thrill through you. You recognize the look— hunger, want, the kind of attention you’ve been craving all night.

“Come here,” Jay says, and it’s not a request. You should walk away. You should go back to the dance floor, back to VIP, back to safety.

Instead, you walk toward him.

He reaches out when you’re close enough, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling you down onto the couch next to him. His arm immediately goes around your shoulders, his hand sliding down to grope your ass possessively.

“Gentlemen,” he says to the men, “this is—” He pauses, his smirk widening. “Actually, I don’t think we’ve ever established what you are to me. What should I call you?”

“Don’t call me anything,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.

“So mysterious.” His hand squeezes your ass harder. “They know who you are, though. Everyone knows who you are. The exec’s daughter. The trust fund baby. The girl who gets everything handed to her.”

There’s an edge to his words, something sharp beneath the surface, but you’re too focused on the way his pupils are blown wide, the way his hand feels on your body.

One of the men leans forward, pushing something across the table. A credit card, a small plastic bag of white powder. “You want some?” the man asks, looking at you.

You glance at Jay. He’s watching you with those dark, glittering eyes, waiting to see what you’ll do.

“Have you ever tried it?” he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

“No.”

“Want to?”

You should say no. Weed is one thing— harmless, relatively speaking. But cocaine is different. Cocaine is the kind of thing that ruins lives, that turns people into hollow versions of themselves.

But Jay does it. And he seems fine. And you’re so tired of being good, of being careful, of being the perfect daughter who does everything right.

“Yeah,” you say. “I want to.”

His smirk turns into a full grin. “That’s my girl.”

He doesn’t let the men prepare it. Instead, he takes the bag and the credit card himself, cutting out a line on the table with practiced precision. It’s smaller than the one he did, you notice. Considerate, in his own fucked-up way.

“You’re gonna feel it hit fast,” he tells you, handing you the rolled bill. “It’s gonna make your whole face go numb, and your heart’s gonna race. You might feel like you can’t breathe for a second, but that’s normal. Just go with it.”

“Okay.”

“And after, you’re gonna feel fucking incredible. Like you can do anything, like you’re on top of the world.” His hand slides up your thigh. “Like you need to fuck immediately.”

Your breath catches.

“Do it,” he encourages, his voice rough with want.

You lean forward, press the bill to your nose, and inhale. The burn is immediate and intense, worse than you expected. Your eyes water and you sit back quickly, your hand flying to your nose.

“Breathe,” Jay says, his arm tightening around you. “Just breathe through it.”

You do, and he’s right— your face goes numb almost instantly, this strange tingling spreading from your nose to your cheeks to your whole head. Your heart starts racing, pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat, and for a second you think you might be having a heart attack.

Then it shifts.

The numbness fades into something else entirely. Every nerve ending in your body lights up at once. The music from the club, muffled before, suddenly sounds crystal clear and impossibly good. The lights are brighter, more vivid. And Jay’s hand on your thigh feels like fucking fire.

“Holy shit,” you breathe.

He laughs. “Good, right?”

“So good.”

“Told you.” His hand slides higher, his fingers brushing the edge of your underwear. “How do you feel?”

“Like I could run a marathon. Like I could fuck for hours. Like—” You turn to look at him and the intensity in his eyes steals your breath. “Like I need you right now.”

“Yeah?” His fingers slip beneath your underwear, finding you already wet. “Fuck, you’re soaked.”

“Your fault.”

“My fault for being so hot? For corrupting daddy’s little girl?” His fingers slide through your folds, teasing. “What would he think if he knew you were down here, high on coke, letting me finger you in front of strangers?”

The men are definitely watching now, not even pretending to look away. One of them adjusts himself through his pants, and the knowledge that they’re getting off on this makes you even wetter.

“I don’t care what he thinks,” you gasp as Jay’s fingers find your clit.

“Liar. You love the thrill. Love knowing you could get caught.” He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re such a bad girl. And I fucking love it.”

Then he’s kissing you, hard and demanding, his tongue pushing into your mouth. You kiss him back desperately, your hands fisting in his shirt, and you don’t care that people are watching. You don’t care about anything except the way he tastes, the way his fingers feel inside you, the way the coke is making every sensation a thousand times more intense.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. “We need to go. Now.”

“What about—” You gesture vaguely at the men, at the scene.

“Fuck them. I need to be inside you.” He stands, pulling you up with him, and you’re unsteady on your feet for a moment before the world rights itself. Everything is so bright, so loud, so much.

Jay grabs your hand and starts pulling you toward the exit. You catch a glimpse of the VIP section as you pass— your father is still there, surrounded by people, completely oblivious to what his daughter is doing. Good.

The fresh air hits you like a slap when you step outside, and you gasp. The coke is still thrumming through your system, making your skin feel electric.

“Where’s your car?” Jay asks, already pulling you toward the parking structure.

“I got dropped off.”

“Mine then.” The parking structure is dimly lit and mostly empty this high up. Jay’s car— still the same beat-up Honda— is parked in a far corner. He unlocks it with shaking hands, yanking open the back door and practically shoving you inside.

You hear a voice calling out— “Jay!”— and you both freeze. Ginny is walking toward you from the elevator, her expression thunderous.

“Shit,” Jay mutters.

“What are you doing?” Ginny demands when she’s close enough. Her eyes flick from Jay to you, and her face hardens. “We’re supposed to be at the label meeting in twenty minutes.”

“Tell them I’ll be late.”

“You can’t be late, it’s—” She stops, really looking at him for the first time. At his dilated pupils, his flushed face. “Are you high?”

“So what if I am?”

“So we have a meeting, Jay. An important one. You can’t show up like this.”

“Watch me.”

Ginny’s gaze lands on you again, and the look she gives you could strip paint. “This is your fault.”

“Excuse me?” You’re high enough that her hostility is more amusing than threatening.

“Every time you’re around, he gets worse. Drinks more, uses more, makes stupid decisions.” She steps closer. “He doesn’t need you dragging him down.”

“Ginny—” Jay starts, but you cut him off.

“Dragging him down?” You laugh. “Sweetheart, he was doing lines before I even showed up tonight. Don’t blame me for your inability to control your client.”

“He’s not just my client.”

The implication hangs in the air, and even through the coke haze, it stings.

“Then maybe you should be a better girlfriend,” you shoot back. “Because he certainly doesn’t act like he has one when he’s fucking me.”

Ginny’s face goes white, then red. “You little—”

“Enough!” Jay’s voice cuts through the tension. He steps between you, facing Ginny. “Go to the meeting. Make an excuse. I don’t care. But I’m not going.”

“Jay—”

“I said I’m not going.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “Now leave.”

Ginny looks like she wants to argue more, but something in his expression stops her. She shoots you one more venomous look before turning on her heel and stalking back toward the elevator.

The moment she’s gone, Jay rounds on you. “Get in the fucking car.”

The shift in his tone sends a thrill through you. You climb into the backseat and he follows, slamming the door behind him.

For a moment, you just stare at each other, both breathing hard. Then you’re moving at the same time, crashing together in a tangle of limbs and desperation.

You climb into his lap, straddling him, and his hands immediately go to your ass, yanking your dress up around your waist. Your hands work his belt, his zipper, freeing his cock with shaking fingers.

“Condom—” he starts, but you shake your head.

“Don’t care. Need you now.”

“Fuck yes.”

You sink down onto him in one swift motion and you both groan. The coke makes everything sharper, more intense. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it’s almost too much.

“Ride me,” he demands, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Show me how bad you need this cock.”

You do, lifting up and slamming back down, setting a brutal pace. His head falls back against the seat, his throat exposed, and you lean forward to bite down on the tendon there.

“Fuck!” His hips buck up to meet yours. “You’re such a needy little slut for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, too far gone to care about pride.

His hands slide up to your breasts, yanking down the top of your dress so they spill out. He leans forward, taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking hard.

“Jay— oh god—”

He switches to the other nipple, biting down hard enough to make you cry out. You’ll have marks tomorrow, evidence of this, and the thought makes you clench around him.

“You like that?” he growls against your skin. “Like when I mark you up? So everyone knows who you belong to?”

“I don’t belong to anyone.”

“Liar.” His hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. “You belong to me. This pussy belongs to me. Say it.”

“Make me.”

He releases your throat and before you can process what’s happening, his hand comes down hard on your ass. The sharp crack echoes in the small space, and the sting sends pleasure shooting straight to your core.

“Say it,” he demands, spanking you again.

“Fuck you.”

Another spank, harder this time. “Wrong answer.”

You’re close, so close, the combination of the coke and his cock and the pain pushing you right to the edge. But you won’t give him the satisfaction of hearing you say it.

His fingers find your clit, rubbing harsh circles, and that’s all it takes. You come with a scream, your whole body convulsing, and you feel him follow a moment later— his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you up.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You’re both breathing hard, covered in sweat, your body still trembling with aftershocks.

Then you feel his phone buzz in his pocket, and reality crashes back in.

You climb off him, wincing at the soreness already setting in. Your dress is ruined, your makeup definitely smudged, and you can feel his cum starting to leak out of you.

Jay tucks himself back into his jeans, running a hand through his hair. He looks wrecked— pupils still blown, lips swollen, scratches visible on his neck where you dug your nails in.

“Give me your phone,” he says suddenly.

“What?”

“Your phone. Give it to me.”

You pull your phone out of your clutch— a flip phone, because this is 2007 and smartphones don’t exist yet— and hand it to him. He flips it open, punches in some numbers, and hands it back.

“That’s my number,” he says. “Text me when you get home.”

Something in your chest tightens. “Okay.”

“And next time you want to see me, don’t wait for some fucking industry event. Just call.”

“Okay,” you repeat, softer this time.

He leans over and kisses you— softer than before, almost gentle. “Go clean up. I’ll get you a cab.”

You text him that night, just a simple made it home.

He responds immediately: good. same time next week?

your place or mine?

yours. your bed’s bigger.

You smile despite yourself. ok

wear that dress. the red one.

why?

because I’m gonna fuck you in it.

And just like that, everything changes. You trade numbers. You make plans. You start seeing each other outside of chance encounters— though you still fuck at industry events too, because the risk is half the fun.

He comes to your apartment three times a week. Sometimes you fuck immediately, quick and desperate against the door. Sometimes you do lines first, letting the coke build the anticipation until you can’t stand it anymore. Sometimes he brings his guitar and plays for you— raw, unfinished songs that he says aren’t ready but that you think are beautiful.

You learn things about him in those in-between moments. That he takes his coffee black. That he’s left-handed. That he has nightmares sometimes and wakes up swinging. That his father used to tell him he’d never amount to anything, and some part of him still believes it no matter how successful he gets.

You don’t tell him about your own fears, your own insecurities. But sometimes, when you’re both high and loose-limbed and honest, things slip out. How you feel like a fraud. How everyone loves the version of you they’ve created, but no one actually knows you. How you’re terrified that if they did, they’d realize there’s nothing there worth knowing.

“That’s bullshit,” Jay says one night, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your bare stomach. “You’re more than your father’s name.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah. You’re also incredible pussy.”

You smack his chest and he laughs, catching your wrist.

“I’m kidding. Mostly.” He pulls you closer. “You’re smart. Smarter than you let people see. And you’re funny, even if your humor is mean as fuck. And you…” He trails off.

“I what?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

But something in his tone makes you think he was going to say something else. Something that mattered. You don’t push.

The cocaine becomes regular. Not every time you see each other, but enough that you start to recognize the signs— the way he gets when he needs it, jittery and irritable until he can get his fix. He never offers to sell you any, but you give him money sometimes anyway. Call it a contribution to his habits. Call it enabling.

You’re not proud of it. But you’re not going to stop either.

—

Six weeks into your new arrangement, Jay cancels on you for the first time. You’ve just gotten home from a charity luncheon with your mother, and you text him: im home. you coming over?

The response takes twenty minutes: can’t tonight. something came up.

You stare at the message, trying to ignore the disappointment curling in your stomach.

tomorrow?

busy. ill let you know.

That’s it. No explanation, no apology. Just I’ll let you know. You tell yourself you don’t care. You have other things to do, other people to see. Jay Park is not the center of your universe.

But you spend the next week checking your phone constantly, waiting for a text that doesn’t come.

When you finally see him again, it’s at another club opening. Your father dragged you along, and you went because you were bored and maybe, just maybe, Jay would be there. He is.

He’s in VIP with the usual crowd— executives, other artists, hangers-on. And Ginny, sitting close to him, her hand on his thigh.

Your stomach drops. You knew they had history. You knew they probably still fucked sometimes. But seeing it, seeing her touching him like she has a right to, makes something ugly twist in your chest.

You down your drink and order another.

By the time Jay spots you, you’re three drinks in and dancing with some actor whose name you can’t remember. The actor’s hands are on your waist, your ass, and you let him because you want Jay to see. Want him to feel even a fraction of what you’re feeling. It works.

Jay’s eyes darken when he sees you, and you watch as he says something to Ginny before standing up. He makes his way through the crowd, his gaze locked on you, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t say a word. He just grabs your wrist and pulls.

You let him, following him through the club to a back hallway, to a door marked “Private.” He shoves it open— some kind of office— and pulls you inside, locking the door behind you.

“What the fuck was that?” he demands.

“What was what?”

“You, grinding on that asshole like a cheap whore.”

The words hit like a slap. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He steps closer, and you can smell the whiskey on his breath. He’s drunk. Really drunk. “You trying to make me jealous? That your game?”

“I’m not playing any game. I can dance with whoever I want.”

“Not when you’re mine, you can’t.”

“I’m not yours!” The words come out sharper than you intended. “You made that very clear when you ghosted me for a week to fuck Ginny.”

His jaw clenches. “I didn’t fuck Ginny.”

“Bullshit. I saw you two. Her hands all over you—”

“She’s my manager. She’s always all over me. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Then where were you?” Your voice cracks despite your best efforts. “I texted you. I called. You ignored me for a fucking week, Jay.”

“I was busy—”

“Busy fucking her.”

“I wasn’t!” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I was in the studio. I was working. I didn’t have time for—”

“For me. You didn’t have time for me.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant.” You cross your arms, hating how much this hurts. “Whatever. We’re not together. You don’t owe me explanations.”

“Then why are you acting like I cheated on you?”

“I’m not—”

“You are. You’re pissed that I didn’t text you back, pissed that Ginny was touching me, pissed that I have a life outside of fucking you.” His voice is getting louder, meaner. “What did you think this was? Did you think because we exchanged numbers, because I fuck you in your fancy apartment, that means something?”

Each word is a knife, but you refuse to let him see how deep they cut.

“No,” you say coldly. “I know exactly what this is. We’re fuck buddies who occasionally do coke together. Nothing more.”

“Then act like it.”

“I am acting like it. You’re the one who dragged me in here.”

“Because watching another man touch what’s mine—” He stops himself, his jaw clenching.

“I’m not yours,” you repeat, but your voice is weaker now.

“Aren’t you?” He closes the distance between you in two strides, backing you against the desk. “You think about me when you’re with them, don’t you? Think about my hands, my mouth, my cock. Wonder if they could ever make you feel the way I do.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” His hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but we both know the truth. You’re mine. You’ve been mine since that first night.”

“And what about you?” You look up at him, defiant even with his hand on your throat. “Are you mine?”

For a moment, something flickers in his eyes— vulnerability, maybe, or fear. Then it’s gone, replaced by that familiar cruelty.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” he says. “Not you, not Ginny, not your father. I’m not some pet you can claim.”

The words shouldn’t hurt as much as they do. “Then let go of me.”

“No.”

“Jay—”

“I said no.” His other hand slides up your thigh, pushing your dress up. “Because even though you piss me off, even though you’re a spoiled brat who thinks the world revolves around her, even though I should walk away right now— I can’t.”

His fingers find you wet despite everything, and he laughs— low and bitter. “You hate me right now, don’t you? But your body doesn’t care. Your body knows who it belongs to.”

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper, and it’s the truth. You wish you could hate him. It would be so much easier.

“You should.” He pushes two fingers inside you, rough and fast. “I’m not good for you. I’m not good for anyone.”

“I don’t care.”

“You will.” But even as he says it, he’s kissing you— hard and desperate, like he’s trying to punish you or himself or both. You kiss him back just as hard, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even though he’s right. Even though this is toxic and destructive and wrong.

He spins you around, bending you over the desk, and you hear his belt, his zipper. Then he’s pushing inside you with no warning, no preparation, and you cry out at the stretch.

“This what you wanted?” he growls in your ear, setting a brutal pace. “Wanted me to fuck you like I hate you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, even though it’s not true. But hate is easier than whatever this actually is.

His hand wraps around your throat from behind, pulling your head back. “Say my name.”

“Jay—”

“Louder.”

“Jay!”

“That’s right. So everyone knows who’s fucking you. So that asshole out there knows you’re mine.”

You’re crying now, but you’re not sure if it’s from pain or pleasure or the emotion of it all. Everything is too much— his cock inside you, his hand on your throat, the words he’s saying, the words he’s not saying.

“Touch yourself,” he commands. “Make yourself come on my cock.”

Your hand slides between your legs, finding your clit, and the added stimulation pushes you closer to the edge. But something is different this time. The pleasure is there, but it’s tangled up with hurt, with anger, with feelings you can’t name.

“I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” His voice softens slightly, and somehow that makes it worse. “Come for me, baby. Show me you’re mine.”

The endearment breaks something in you. You come with a sob, your whole body shaking, and you feel him follow— his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep and fills you.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You’re bent over the desk, his body covering yours, both of you breathing hard. Then he pulls out, and the loss feels like more than just physical.

You straighten up on shaky legs, not looking at him. Your makeup is definitely ruined now, your dress wrinkled, and you can feel his cum starting to leak out of you.

“We should—” you start, but your voice cracks.

“Yeah.” He’s tucking himself back into his jeans, not meeting your eyes either. The silence is awful.

Finally, he speaks. “I wasn’t with Ginny. Not like that.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it. Whatever we are, I wouldn’t—” He stops, running a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” You want to believe him. But you’re not sure you can.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, even though it does. “Like you said, we’re not together.”

More silence.

“I should get back,” you say, moving toward the door.

“Wait.” He catches your wrist. “Tomorrow. Come over tomorrow.”

“Jay—”

“Please.” The word costs him something, you can tell. Jay Park doesn’t say please.

“Okay,” you whisper. He lets go of your wrist, and you leave without looking back.

The next day, you show up at his apartment like nothing happened. Like he didn’t verbally eviscerate you. Like you didn’t cry while he fucked you. Like this is normal.

He answers the door shirtless, his hair messy like he just woke up. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

You expect him to pull you inside, to kiss you, to skip straight to the sex. Instead, he just looks at you for a long moment. Then, quietly: “I’m sorry.”

The words shock you more than anything else he could have said. “For what?”

“For last night. For the things I said. For—” He stops, his jaw clenching. “For being a fucking asshole.”

“You were drunk.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything.

“Come in,” he says finally, stepping aside. You walk into his apartment— still shitty, still cramped, but more familiar now. There’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, a guitar propped against the wall, papers scattered across the coffee table that you recognize as lyrics.

“You want something to drink?” he asks.

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“So?”

“Sure. Whatever you’re having.” He pours you both whiskey, neat, and hands you a glass. You sit on his ratty couch and he sits next to you, close but not touching.

“I wasn’t with Ginny,” he says again. “I was in the studio. We’re recording the album and it’s been… intense. I lose track of time when I’m working. I didn’t mean to ignore your texts.”

“But you did.”

“Yeah. I did.” He takes a drink. “I’m not good at this. At whatever we’re doing. I don’t know how to balance everything.”

“Then maybe we should stop.” The words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication.

“Is that what you want?” he asks quietly.

No. God, no. But you should want that. You should want to walk away from this toxic mess before it destroys you both.

“I don’t know what I want,” you admit.

“Yeah. Me neither.” He reaches over and takes your hand, lacing your fingers together. It’s such a simple gesture, but it feels more intimate than anything else you’ve done together.

“I like you,” he says, not looking at you. “I know I’m shit at showing it, and I know I say terrible things when I’m drunk, but I do. Like you, I mean.”

Your heart clenches. “I like you too.”

“So maybe we just… keep doing this? Figure it out as we go?”

“Figure what out?”

“Whatever this is.” It’s the most honest conversation you’ve ever had. No pretense, no games. Just two fucked-up people admitting they can’t stay away from each other.

“Okay,” you say softly. He finally looks at you, and there’s something raw in his eyes. Vulnerable.

Then he’s kissing you, and it’s different than before. Slower. Softer. Like he’s trying to tell you something he can’t say out loud.

You kiss him back, your free hand coming up to cup his face, and when he pulls you into his lap, it’s gentle. Careful.

You make love that afternoon. Because that’s what it is, even though neither of you would call it that. It’s slow and sweet and terrifying in its intimacy.

And when you come, gasping his name, he’s looking right at you— really seeing you— and you think maybe this could be something. Something real. Something more than just sex and drugs and destruction.

But deep down, you know better. This isn’t a love story. This is a tragedy waiting to happen.

And you’re both too far gone to stop it.

—

Eight months in, and you can’t remember what your life looked like before Jay Park.

The days blur together now— a haze of cocaine and whiskey and sex that feels both like everything and nothing at all.

You’ve stopped going to most of your mother’s charity events, stopped pretending to care about the socialite circuit. Your friends have stopped calling, stopped inviting you places, because you always say no anyway.

There’s only Jay. The high. The crash. The cycle.

Your father still loves him, still talks about him like he’s the future of music. The single dropped two weeks ago and it’s climbing the charts. There’s a tour coming up— twenty cities, sold-out venues, the kind of exposure that turns rising stars into superstars. Your father is so proud. So blind to what’s actually happening.

Sometimes you wonder if he knows. If he sees the way Jay’s hands shake in the morning, the way his eyes are always slightly glassy, the weight he’s lost. If he notices the way you’ve changed too— thinner, quieter, more hollow.

But he doesn’t say anything. Because Jay is making him money. Because you’re an adult. Because it’s easier not to know.

It’s a Thursday night when your father mentions the studio. You’re having dinner at some expensive restaurant in Beverly Hills— you, your parents, and a few executives from the label. You’ve barely touched your food, moving it around your plate while your mother shoots you disapproving looks.

“Jay’s in the studio tonight,” your father says casually, cutting into his steak. “Working on the album. He’s been there every night this week.” Your heart skips.

You haven’t seen Jay in three days. He’s been distant lately, canceling plans, not answering texts until hours later with vague excuses about work.

“He’s very dedicated,” one of the executives says. “That’s what I like about him. Real work ethic.”

“Absolutely,” your father agrees. “He knows what it takes to make it in this business.”

You push your food around your plate, thinking about Jay alone in the studio. Probably high. Definitely drinking. Working himself into the ground because that’s what he does— burns bright and hot until there’s nothing left.

“You should stop by,” your father says, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s talking to you. “He’s been asking about you.”

Your mother gives you a look. “Is there something going on between you two?”

“We’re friends,” you say automatically.

“Friends.” Your mother’s tone suggests she doesn’t believe you, but she doesn’t push. She never does. As long as you’re discreet, as long as there’s no scandal, she doesn’t care what you do.

After dinner, you tell your parents you’re meeting friends. They don’t question it. They never do.

You drive to the studio with your hands shaking on the wheel, and you’re not sure if it’s anticipation or withdrawal. You haven’t done a line since yesterday morning, and your body is starting to feel it— that restless, itchy feeling under your skin, that need for more.

The studio is in a nondescript building in North Hollywood, the kind of place you’d drive past without noticing. You’ve been here before, enough times that the security guard just waves you through.

You find Jay in Studio B, the door slightly ajar. You can hear music bleeding out— something dark and hypnotic, layered with his voice. You push the door open quietly.

He’s sitting at the mixing board, his back to you, headphones on. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the equipment and a single lamp in the corner. There are empty bottles scattered around— beer, whiskey, you can’t tell in the low light.

And on the table next to him, the telltale signs: a credit card, a razor blade, a small plastic bag of white powder.

He’s high. You can tell by the way he’s moving, slightly too fast, slightly too focused. His hands fly across the board, adjusting levels, replaying sections, completely absorbed.

You watch him for a moment, and something in your chest aches. This is what he loves. Not you. Not the sex. Not even the drugs, really. This. The music. The creation. The one thing that’s his.

You’re just a distraction.

“Jay,” you say softly.

He spins around, pulling off the headphones, and his face goes through several expressions— surprise, pleasure, guilt. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is rougher than usual. “What are you doing here?”

“My dad told me you were working. I wanted to see you.”

“Yeah?” A slow smile spreads across his face. “Miss me?”

“Maybe.”

He gestures to the couch against the wall. “Come here. Listen to what I’m working on.” You walk over, your heels clicking on the floor, and sit down. He brings his laptop over, settling next to you close enough that you can smell him— cigarettes and whiskey and that sharp chemical smell that means he’s been doing lines for hours.

“This is the new track,” he says, hitting play. The music fills the room— dark, atmospheric, his voice raw and vulnerable in a way that makes your chest tight. The lyrics are about addiction, about need, about wanting something you know is destroying you.

It’s about you. Or maybe it’s about the drugs. Or maybe there’s no difference anymore.

“What do you think?” he asks when it ends.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah?” He’s looking at you intently, his pupils so dilated his eyes look black. “You think so?”

“Yeah. But it feels like something’s missing.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’ve been listening to it for hours and I can’t—”

You kiss him.

It’s impulsive, born of three days without him and the ache in your chest from the song. He responds immediately, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss. When you pull back, you’re both breathing hard.

“I have an idea,” he says, his voice low.

“What?”

Instead of answering, he stands up and pulls you with him, leading you toward the vocal booth. It’s small, soundproofed, with a microphone in the center and foam padding on the walls.

“What are we doing?” you ask, but you already know. Your pulse is racing.

“Adding what’s missing.” He positions you in front of the microphone, his hands on your waist. “You trust me?”

“Yes.” And it’s probably the most stupidest this you’ve ever said in your life.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts through your dress. You can feel him getting hard against your hip.

“Jay—”

“Shh.” He reaches past you and presses a button on the interface. The recording light comes on, a soft red glow. “Just let me.”

His hands are everywhere— your breasts, your waist, sliding up your thighs. You moan into his mouth and he swallows the sound, his fingers finding the edge of your underwear.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips. “Let me hear you.”

This is insane. You’re in a studio, in a professional recording space, and he wants to— his fingers slide inside you and you gasp, your head falling back. The microphone picks up everything— every breath, every moan, every wet sound his fingers make moving inside you.

“You’re so wet,” he breathes, his voice low enough that you’re not sure if the mic will catch it. “Already so ready for me.”

“Please,” you whimper, past the point of embarrassment. He turns you around, bending you slightly forward so you’re braced against the mic stand. You hear his zipper, feel his hands lifting your dress, pulling your underwear to the side.

Then he’s pushing inside you, slow and deep, and you both groan. This is different from your usual frantic fucking. He sets a slow rhythm, each thrust deliberate and controlled. One hand is on your hip, the other reaches around to play with your clit, and every sound you make is crystal clear in the booth.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, his lips against your ear. “Give me everything. Let them hear how good I make you feel.”

Your moans are breathy, desperate, obscene. The knowledge that he’s recording this, that he’s going to use this in his song, should horrify you. Instead it makes you wetter.

“Jay,” you gasp. “Oh god, Jay—”

“Say my name,” he demands, his fingers working your clit faster. “Say it louder.”

“Jay!”

His rhythm picks up slightly, still controlled but more urgent. You can hear the wet sounds of him moving inside you, can hear your own desperate whimpers, and it’s so intimate and exposing that you feel tears prick your eyes.

“I’m close,” you warn.

“Come for me. Let me record you coming on my cock.”

The combination of his words and his fingers pushes you over the edge. You come with a cry, your whole body shaking, and you feel him follow moments later— his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You’re both breathing hard, the only sound in the booth other than your racing hearts.

Then Jay reaches past you and stops the recording. He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum start to drip down your thigh. You’re too shaky to stand on your own, so he holds you up, his arms around your waist.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

“Yeah. That was—” You don’t have words for what that was.

“Come listen.” He leads you out of the booth, pulls you down onto his lap in the chair at the mixing board, and pulls up the recording.

Your cheeks burn as you hear yourself— the moans, the desperate way you said his name, the wet sounds of sex.

“It’s perfect,” Jay says, already working on integrating it into the track. His hands move across the board, isolating certain sounds, layering them with the music. It should feel wrong. It should feel like he’s using you. Instead, you feel something else entirely. Something warm and terrifying in your chest.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His hands still on the board. The words hang in the air between you, heavy and impossible to take back.

“What?” His voice is careful, controlled.

“I love you,” you repeat, turning to look at him. “I’m in love with you, Jay.”

For a moment, his expression is unguarded— raw and vulnerable and something that might be fear. Then it shutters closed.

“You’re high,” he says.

“I’m not. I haven’t—” You realize he’s right. You haven’t done a line tonight, but the comedown is making you emotional, making you say things you shouldn’t. “That doesn’t change what I feel.”

“You don’t love me.” He’s already pulling away, physically and emotionally. “You’re addicted to me. To this. It’s not the same thing.”

“It is for me.”

“Well, it’s not for me.” The words are sharp, cutting. “We fuck. We get high. We have fun. That’s all this is.”

“Jay—”

“I have to work.” He’s standing now, practically pushing you off his lap. “You should go.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I need to finish this track and you’re—” He gestures vaguely. “You’re distracting me.” The dismissal stings more than any of the cruel things he’s said before.

“Fine,” you say, grabbing your purse. “I’ll go.”

“Good.” You’re halfway to the door when he speaks again. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, not looking at you. “But I don’t do relationships. I don’t do love. If that’s what you’re looking for, you should find it somewhere else.”

You want to scream at him. Want to tell him that it’s too late, that you’re already in too deep, that he doesn’t get to decide how you feel. Instead, you just leave.

—

Jay doesn’t call. Days pass. Then a week. Then two.

Your phone stays silent except for texts from your mother asking where you are, from old friends you’ve been ignoring, from people who don’t matter.

Nothing from Jay.

You try not to care. You tell yourself it’s better this way, that you needed the distance, that maybe this is the universe giving you an out.

But every day that passes feels like dying a little. You stop eating. Your mother notices, makes comments about you looking too thin, but she’s secretly pleased. Thin is good in her world. Thin is fashionable.

You can’t sleep. You lie awake at night staring at your phone, wondering if he’s thinking about you, if he’s fucking someone else, if the song he made with your voice is finished yet.

You start going out more, trying to fill the Jay-shaped hole with other things.

Parties. Clubs. Men who look at you like you’re something to consume. But nothing helps.

Your father announces the tour dates. Twenty cities. Starting in two weeks.

“You should come,” he says over breakfast one morning. “For the first few shows, at least. Show your support.” Your mother gives you a look. She knows. Maybe not everything, but enough.

“I don’t think—” you start.

“I insist,” your father says. “Jay’s been asking about you. And it’ll be good exposure for you. Networking opportunities.”

Because that’s all that matters to him. Exposure. Networking. Using you as a pretty accessory for his business dealings. You want to say no. You should say no.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “I’ll come.”

The drinking gets worse. Not yours—though that’s gotten bad too. Jay’s.

You hear about it through your father, who hears about it from Ginny, who’s trying to manage a man who’s actively trying to destroy himself. He’s showing up to rehearsals drunk. Missing promotional appearances. Getting into fights with the band.

“He’s under a lot of pressure,” your father says, making excuses. “The tour, the album, all the expectations. He just needs to blow off some steam.”

You wonder if your father would be so understanding if he knew about the cocaine. About the whiskey for breakfast. About the way Jay’s been spiraling since— since you told him you loved him.

This is your fault. You pushed too hard, asked for too much, and now he’s self-destructing because that’s what he does when things get real.

You want to call him. Want to text him. Want to show up at his apartment and make sure he’s okay. But you don’t. Because he made it clear he doesn’t want you.

So you do what you do best— you self-destruct too.

The tour kicks off in San Francisco, and you fly up with your father and a few label executives on a private jet. Your mother stayed home— she hates rock venues, hates the crowds and the noise and the lack of sophistication. You wish you’d stayed home too.

The venue is massive, thousands of people packed in, the energy electric. Jay’s opening act goes on first, and you watch from the VIP section with your father, drinking expensive vodka and pretending to care.

Then Jay takes the stage.

The crowd goes insane. Screaming, pushing, a wave of bodies surging forward. And Jay— well, he looks like shit.

You can see it even from a distance. He’s too thin, his movements slightly uncoordinated, and when he starts singing you can hear the roughness in his voice that comes from too much whiskey and not enough sleep.

But he’s electric. Raw. Dangerous. The crowd loves it.

Your father is beaming. “He’s incredible,” he says, having to shout over the music. “This tour is going to make him a star.”

You just nod, your eyes locked on Jay. He hasn’t looked at the VIP section once, hasn’t acknowledged your presence.

The show is ninety minutes of controlled chaos. Jay prowls the stage like a caged animal, his guitar an extension of his body, his voice rough and hypnotic. The new single gets the biggest reaction, and when it plays— when you hear your own moans layered into the track— your face burns.

No one else knows it’s you. But you know. And somewhere, Jay knows.

After the show, there’s an after-party at the hotel. You consider not going, but your father insists. “Just for an hour,” he says. “Make an appearance. It’s important.”

The party is in a suite on the top floor, already packed with band members, crew, hangers-on, and groupies. The music is loud, the air thick with smoke and perfume and the particular energy that comes after a successful show.

You get a drink from the bar— whiskey, neat, because that’s what Jay drinks and maybe if you drink enough of it you’ll understand him better.

You’re on your second when you see them.

Jay and Ginny. They’re in a corner, standing close, her hand on his chest. She’s saying something and he’s laughing, and there’s a familiarity between them that makes your stomach turn. You should look away. You should leave. But you can’t move.

Jay’s hand slides down to Ginny’s ass, squeezing, and she leans up to whisper something in his ear. Then they’re moving, heading toward one of the bedrooms off the main suite.

Your father is across the room, deep in conversation with some producer. He doesn’t notice when you set down your drink and follow Jay and Ginny.

You shouldn’t do this. You know you shouldn’t. But you need to see it. Need to confirm what you already know.

The bedroom door isn’t fully closed. Through the crack, you can see them. Jay pushes Ginny against the wall, kissing her hard. His hands are already yanking up her skirt, and she’s fumbling with his belt. It’s rough and fast and nothing like the way he touched you in the studio.

“Fuck,” Jay groans as Ginny sinks to her knees. “Just like that.”

You should leave. You should turn around and walk away and pretend you never saw this.

But you’re frozen, watching as Ginny takes him in her mouth, watching as Jay’s head falls back and his hand fists in her hair.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and the endearment— the same one he’s used with you— breaks something inside you.

Tears blur your vision. You turn and run, pushing through the party, ignoring the calls of people asking if you’re okay. You make it to the elevator, to your own room two floors down, before you completely fall apart.

You cry so hard you can’t breathe. Great, heaving sobs that feel like they’re tearing you apart from the inside. He doesn’t love you. He never loved you. You were just convenient. Just another warm body. Just another distraction.

There’s a knock on your door. You ignore it.

“I know you’re in there.” It’s not Jay. It’s some guy— one of the executives you met earlier. “Your father sent me to check on you.”

You wipe your face, trying to pull yourself together. When you open the door, the man takes one look at you and his expression shifts from concern to something else.

Opportunity.

“Rough night?” he asks, stepping into your room without being invited.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He’s older— forty, maybe forty-five— handsome in that distinguished way that comes with money and power. “You look like you could use some company.”

This is a bad idea. You know it’s a bad idea. But you’re hurting and angry and desperate to feel anything other than the pain in your chest.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself say. “I could use some company.”

He kisses you and you kiss him back, trying to lose yourself in it. Trying to forget Jay’s hands on Ginny, Jay’s voice calling her “my girl,” Jay’s complete indifference to your existence.

The man— you don’t even remember his name— pushes you back onto the bed. His hands are confident, experienced, but wrong. Everything is wrong.

When he pushes inside you, you close your eyes and try to pretend it’s Jay. But it doesn’t work. It feels hollow. Empty. Like you’re going through the motions of something that used to mean something.

He comes quickly, and you don’t come at all. He seems not to notice or care.

“That was great,” he says, already pulling his pants back on. “We should do this again sometime.”

“Yeah,” you lie. “Definitely.”

He leaves and you’re alone again, feeling worse than before. Used. Dirty. Desperate.

You take a shower, scrubbing your skin until it’s red, trying to wash away the feeling of hands that weren’t Jay’s. It doesn’t work.

You fly home the next morning without saying goodbye to anyone. Your father calls, asks if you’re okay, if something happened. You tell him you’re sick, that you need to rest. He believes you because it’s easier than the truth.

Back in LA, you lock yourself in your apartment and don’t answer the door for days.

Your mother calls. Your friends text. Even your father stops by once, but you pretend you’re not home. You just want to be alone. To wallow in your misery. To figure out how to breathe without Jay.

It’s been three weeks since you told him you loved him. Three weeks since he pushed you away. Three weeks of silence.

You’re starting to think this is how it ends. Not with a bang but with a whimper. With him on tour, living his life, while you fall apart in your expensive apartment.

Your phone buzzes. You almost don’t check it. But something makes you pick it up.

It’s Jay: where are you

Your heart stops. Then starts again, racing: home

im outside

You run to the window, and there he is— leaning against his car in the street below, looking up at your building. Even from here you can see how bad he looks. Thin. Exhausted. Wrecked.

You should tell him to leave. You should block his number and move on with your life.

But you’re already running down the stairs, your heart in your throat, because despite everything— despite the pain and the drugs and the destruction— you love him. And you know this is going to kill you.

But you don’t care.

You’re shaking when you open the door.

Jay is leaning against the frame, and up close he looks even worse than he did from the window. His eyes are bloodshot, ringed with dark circles. His face is gaunt, cheekbones too sharp, and there’s a tremor in his hands that wasn’t there before. He’s wearing the same clothes from the show— ripped jeans, a black t-shirt that hangs off his frame.

He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He probably hasn’t.

“Hey,” he says, his voice rough.

“What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering, he reaches up and cups your face with both hands. His palms are warm against your cheeks, his touch achingly gentle. His thumbs brush away tears you didn’t realize were still falling.

“I brought something,” he says, his eyes searching yours. He pulls a small plastic bag from his pocket. White powder. Enough for a whole night. That’s his peace offering. Not an apology. Not an explanation. Just drugs.

You should slam the door in his face. Should tell him to fuck off and never come back. Instead, you step aside and let him in.

He walks into your apartment like he owns it, like he hasn’t ignored you for three weeks. He goes straight to your coffee table, pulls out his wallet, and starts cutting lines with practiced efficiency.

You watch from the doorway, your arms wrapped around yourself.

“Are we going to talk?” you ask.

“About what?” He doesn’t look up.

“About the fact that you ghosted me for three weeks. About Ginny. About—”

“I don’t want to talk.” He finally looks at you, and the intensity in his gaze steals your breath. “I want you.”

Three words. That’s all it takes.

You cross the room and he pulls you down onto the couch, kissing you hard and desperate. His hands are everywhere— your face, your neck, your waist— like he’s trying to memorize you through touch.

You kiss him back just as desperately, fisting your hands in his shirt. You’ve missed this. Missed him. Even though you hate him, even though he’s destroyed you, you’ve missed him so much it physically hurts.

“I saw you,” you gasp against his mouth. “In San Francisco. You and Ginny.”

His hands still for just a moment. Then he’s pulling back to look at you.

“That was nothing,” he says. “She doesn’t mean anything.”

“You fucked her.”

“So?” His hand slides up your thigh. “I’m here now, aren’t I? With you.”

It’s manipulation. You know it’s manipulation. But you want to believe him so badly that you let yourself.

“I only want you,” he murmurs, his lips finding your neck. “You know that, right?”

“Then why—”

“Shh.” His hand slides between your legs, and he goes very still.

You’re not wearing underwear. You haven’t bothered with them since you got home, too depressed to care about anything. But that’s not why he’s frozen.

His fingers slide through your folds and he pulls back, his expression dark.

“You fucked someone else,” he says flatly.

Your heart stutters. “Jay—”

“You fucked someone else.” His voice is rising. “After you saw me with Ginny, you went and fucked some other guy.”

“You don’t get to be mad about that. You don’t get to—”

“Who was it?” He’s standing now, towering over you. “Tell me who it was.”

“I don’t even know his name.”

Something flashes in his eyes— hurt, maybe, or rage. It’s hard to tell.

“Some random guy,” he says, his voice dripping with contempt. “You let some random guy fuck you.”

“Like you care. You were fucking Ginny!”

“That’s different.”

“How is that different?”

“Because Ginny knows what she’s getting into. She knows what I am. She doesn’t expect more.” He steps closer, and there’s something dangerous in his expression. “But you— you’re supposed to be different. You’re supposed to be mine.”

“I can’t be yours if you won’t be mine!”

“I told you— I don’t do relationships. I don’t do love. I made that clear from the beginning.”

“You did,” you agree, your voice breaking. “But I fell in love with you anyway. And you knew. And you kept coming back. You kept using me—”

“Using you?” He laughs, sharp and bitter. “Baby, you’re the one who gives me money for coke. You’re the one who spreads your legs the second I show up. Don’t act like you’re some victim here.”

The words hit like a slap.

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

“Yeah, that’s what you’re good for, isn’t it?” His hand wraps around your throat— not squeezing, just holding. A reminder of his power. “Being pretty and available and desperate for my attention. Take away the money and the tight pussy and what are you? Nothing. You’re nothing without me.”

You should push him away. Should tell him to leave. But his words have hit something true and terrible inside you. Because he’s right. You are nothing without him. You’ve let yourself become nothing.

“I hate you,” you say, but there’s no conviction in it.

“No, you don’t.” His grip on your throat tightens slightly. “You love me. You said so yourself. And that’s your problem, not mine.”

“Jay—”

“Bedroom. Now.” You go.

Because despite everything— despite the cruel words and the manipulation and the knowledge that this is destroying you— you still want him. Need him. Can’t breathe without him.

He’s gentle at first. He lays you down on the bed, his hands tender as he undresses you. He kisses every inch of exposed skin— your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. His touch is almost reverent, like you’re something precious.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against your skin. “Missed this.”

You want to ask if he missed you or just missed fucking you, but you’re afraid of the answer.

His mouth finds yours again, the kiss slow and deep. When he pushes inside you, he does it carefully, watching your face. “Okay?” he asks, and it’s the most considerate he’s been in weeks.

“Yes.”

He starts to move, still slow, still careful. It’s almost like making love. Almost like he actually cares.

But then his rhythm changes. Gets harder. Faster. His grip on your hips turns bruising.

“You let him touch you here?” He thrusts particularly hard and you gasp. “Let him fuck this pussy that belongs to me?”

“Jay—”

“Did he make you come? Did you moan his name the way you moan mine?”

“No,” you gasp. “No, it wasn’t— it didn’t feel like this—”

“Good.” His hand wraps around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. “Because you’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!”

He fucks you harder, rougher, and the gentleness from before is completely gone. This is punishment. This is him reminding you who you belong to. And you take it. Because you want it. Because some fucked-up part of you needs this.

When you come, it’s intense and devastating, and you’re crying— from pleasure or pain or the emotional wreckage of it all, you’re not sure. Jay follows moments later, burying himself deep and groaning your name.

For a long moment, you just lie there tangled together, both breathing hard. Then he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you.

“We should do a line,” he says, like he didn’t just fuck you into oblivion.

You do lines at three AM on your bedroom floor.

The coke hits hard and fast, sharper than usual. Jay must have gotten better quality. Or maybe you’re just more desperate for it now.

“This is good shit,” you say, your heart already racing.

“Only the best for you.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You do another line. Then another. The room gets brighter, sharper, every sensation heightened. Jay’s hand on your thigh feels electric.

“Come here,” he says, pulling you into his lap. You straddle him, and he’s already hard again. The coke does that— makes him insatiable, makes him able to go for hours.

This time when he fucks you, it’s different. Slower. More intense. You’re both high enough that every touch feels magnified, every sensation almost too much.

“I can’t do this without you,” he murmurs against your neck. “I’ve tried. I can’t.”

Your heart clenches. “Jay—”

“I’m serious. These past three weeks have been hell. I’ve been drinking more, using more, and nothing helps. Nothing makes it better except you.”

It’s the closest to a love confession you’ve ever gotten from him. And even though you know it’s probably the drugs talking, probably manipulation, you cling to it anyway.

“I need you,” he continues, his hands gripping your hips as you ride him. “I know I’m shit at showing it. I know I fuck everything up. But I need you.”

“I need you too,” you gasp, and it’s the truth. As destructive as it is, you need him like air.

“Promise you won’t leave me.”

“I promise.”

“Promise you won’t fuck anyone else.”

“I promise.”

“Good.” His hand slides up to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. “Because you’re mine. And I don’t share.”

The irony isn’t lost on you— he doesn’t share but he still fucks Ginny. But you don’t say that. You just kiss him and lose yourself in the feeling of him inside you, the high making everything feel possible.

You come together this time, both crying out, and in that moment you almost believe this could work. That love and need and desperation are enough to build something real on. Almost.

You wake up around noon, your head pounding and your nose burning.

Jay is still asleep beside you, one arm thrown over your waist. In sleep, he looks younger. More vulnerable. The harsh edges of his face softened. You watch him for a moment, your chest aching with a complicated tangle of love and resentment.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from your mother: Lunch today? We need to talk.

You slip out of bed carefully, trying not to wake Jay. In the bathroom, you look at yourself in the mirror and barely recognize the person staring back.

You’ve lost weight. Too much weight. Your face is gaunt, your collarbones too prominent. Your eyes are hollow, dark circles permanent fixtures now. Your skin looks gray, dull. You look like an addict. Because you are one.

The realization hits you like a punch. Somewhere along the way, this stopped being recreational. Stopped being fun. Now you need it. Need the high to feel normal. Need Jay to feel whole. You’re addicted to the drugs and to him, and you’re not sure which is worse.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door. “You okay?” Jay’s voice, rough with sleep.

“Yeah. Fine.”

He opens the door anyway, leaning against the frame. He’s naked, unselfconscious, and even now—even knowing what he is, what this is—you want him.

“My mom texted,” you say. “Wants to have lunch.”

“So?”

“So she probably knows something’s wrong.”

“Then don’t go.”

“I can’t just avoid her forever.”

“Why not?” He steps into the bathroom, wrapping his arms around you from behind. In the mirror, you can see both of you—two hollow-eyed ghosts clinging to each other. “Stay here with me instead.”

“Jay—”

“I have to leave for the tour again in three days.” His lips find your neck. “I want to spend every minute with you until then.”

Your stomach drops. “Three days?”

“Yeah. Two more weeks of shows, then I’m back.” Two more weeks. Two more weeks of him being gone, of you falling apart, of wondering if he’s fucking Ginny in every city.

“I’ll come with you,” you blurt out.

“What?”

“On tour. I’ll come with you. My dad already suggested it anyway.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his arms tightening around you. “That’s not a good idea,” he says finally.

“Why not?”

“Because—” He stops, seeming to struggle for words. “Because Ginny will be there. And the band. And I won’t be able to focus on you. I’ll be busy and stressed and I’ll just—I’ll fuck it up.”

“So you’d rather I stay here? Alone? Wondering who you’re with?”

“I told you, Ginny doesn’t mean anything.”

“Then why can’t I come?”

“Because—” His jaw clenches. “Because I don’t want you to see me like that. On tour. Using. Drinking. I don’t want you to see how bad it gets.”

“It’s already bad, Jay.”

“It gets worse.” The admission hangs between you, heavy with implications.

“Let me help you,” you say quietly. “Let me be there for you.”

“You can’t help me.” He pulls away, running a hand through his hair. “No one can help me. This is just who I am.”

“That’s not true—”

“It is true!” His voice rises. “I’m fucked up, okay? I’ve been fucked up since I was a kid, and no amount of love or support or whatever the fuck you think you can give me is going to fix that.”

“I’m not trying to fix you—”

“Yes, you are. That’s what you do. You see broken things and you think you can fix them, make them better, save them. But I don’t want to be saved.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want to feel good. I want to not think. I want to fuck and get high and make music and not have to deal with feelings or futures or any of that shit.” Each word is a knife, but you force yourself to stand there and take it.

“And what about me?” you ask. “What do I get?”

“You get me. When I’m here. When I can be.” His expression softens slightly. “That has to be enough.”

“And if it’s not?”

For a moment, something like fear flashes in his eyes. Then it’s gone. “Then leave,” he says flatly. “I’m not keeping you here. You can walk away any time.”

But you both know that’s not true. He is keeping you here—with promises and manipulation and the way he touches you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “I can’t leave,” you whisper.

“I know.” He pulls you back into his arms. “That’s the problem.”

The next three days blur together in a haze of cocaine and sex and moments of almost-tenderness that feel like torture.

You skip lunch with your mother. She calls you repeatedly but you don’t answer. Your father texts asking if you’re okay. You lie and say you’re fine. You’re not fine.

You and Jay exist in this bubble—your apartment, your bedroom, your bathroom. You order food you don’t eat. You do lines at all hours. You fuck until you’re both exhausted and then do it again.

He’s insatiable. Always wanting more. Always needing you. And you give him everything. Because this is all you have. These three days before he leaves and you’re alone again.

On the second night, you’re both coming down from a high when he says it.

“I think about you when I’m with her.”

You’re lying in bed, tangled together, sweaty and exhausted. “What?”

“Ginny.” His voice is quiet. “When I’m with her, I think about you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. It should make you feel better, but it doesn’t. “Why do you fuck her if you’re thinking about me?”

“Because she’s there and you’re not. Because it’s easier than feeling what I feel when I’m with you.” He traces patterns on your bare shoulder. “Because I’m a coward.” It’s the most honest he’s ever been.

“Tell me you won’t fuck her anymore,” you say. “Promise me you won’t.” Silence. “Jay—”

“I can’t promise that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll break it. Because when I’m on the road and I’m drunk and high and lonely, I’ll take what’s available. And I don’t want to lie to you.” At least he’s honest. That’s something, you suppose.

“I hate this,” you whisper.

“I know. I hate it too.”

“Then why—”

“Because I’m fucked up. Because this is all I know. Because—” He stops, his jaw clenching. “Because if I let myself actually be with you—really be with you—I’ll destroy you. I’ll pull you down with me until there’s nothing left. And you deserve better than that.”

“Let me decide what I deserve.”

“You can’t see it. You’re already halfway gone.” He cups your face, forcing you to look at him. “You’ve lost weight. You’re using more. You’re pulling away from everyone who cares about you. I’m destroying you and you’re letting me.”

“So leave. If you care about me at all, leave.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m selfish. Because even though I know I’m bad for you, I can’t give you up.”

You kiss him then, desperate and needy, and he kisses you back just as hard. You fuck again, slower this time. Almost gentle. And when you come, you’re both crying.

The third day, Jay leaves for the airport at dawn. You’re still asleep when he gets out of bed, but you wake to the sound of him moving around the room. “Don’t go,” you murmur.

“I have to.”

“Stay. Just one more day.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, and cups your face. “I’ll be back in two weeks.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He kisses you goodbye—soft and sweet and heartbreaking. Then he’s gone.

You lie in bed staring at the ceiling, feeling hollowed out. Your phone buzzes. A text from Jay: I left you something in the bathroom

You drag yourself out of bed and find it. An eight ball of cocaine. Enough to last you a week if you’re careful. Longer if you’re not.

There’s a note too, scrawled on a piece of paper: Don’t do it all at once. And don’t fuck anyone else. -J

You should flush it down the toilet. Should call someone—a friend, your mother, a fucking therapist. Instead, you do a line right there at the bathroom counter. Then another. Then another. Because Jay was right. You’re already halfway gone. And you have two weeks to fall the rest of the way.

The two weeks pass in a blur of white powder and empty promises you make to yourself. You’ll be careful, you tell yourself each morning. You’ll only do a little. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough to get through another day without Jay. But careful becomes careless becomes desperate becomes the only thing keeping you functional.

The eight ball Jay left you should have lasted two weeks. It lasts nine days.

You measure your life in lines now. Morning line to wake up. Afternoon line to feel normal. Evening line to go out. Late night line to sleep, except you never actually sleep anymore. You just lie in bed staring at the ceiling, your heart racing, your mind spinning with thoughts of Jay.

Is he thinking about you? Is he with Ginny? Is he using as much as you are? Your phone stays silent though. No texts. No calls. Nothing.

Your father texts you updates you don’t ask for: Jay killed it in Chicago. The crowds are insane. He’s going to be huge.

Your mother calls repeatedly. You let it go to voicemail. When you finally listen to the messages, her voice is tight with concern: Darling, we need to talk. Please call me back. Your father and I are worried.

You delete them all.

You go out to clubs some nights, trying to fill the Jay-shaped hole with other things. Other people. Men buy you drinks, pull you onto the dance floor, press their bodies against yours. You let them kiss you—sloppy, drunk kisses that taste wrong. You let their hands wander, let them think they have a chance.

But you never take them home. Never let it go further than kissing. Because despite everything, you’re still his. He told you not to fuck anyone else, and even though he’s probably fucking Ginny every night, you keep that promise. It’s the only thing you have left.

Day twelve, you run out of cocaine. The crash is brutal. You sleep for sixteen hours straight, wake up feeling like you’ve been hit by a truck, and immediately start calling the number Jay got his supply from. The dealer doesn’t answer. You call six more times before you accept that he’s ghosting you.

You try to get through the day sober. You manage four hours before you’re tearing your apartment apart looking for anything—old baggies, residue, something. You find nothing.

Your reflection in the bathroom mirror is a stranger. You’ve lost at least fifteen pounds. Your cheekbones are razor-sharp, your eyes sunken and hollow. Your skin has that gray, papery quality you’ve seen on actual addicts.

You are an actual addict. The realization should scare you more than it does.

Your phone rings. Your father. “Hello?”

“Sweetheart! I’ve been trying to reach you.” His voice is bright, oblivious. “Jay’s last show is tomorrow night. I’m flying out to see it. You should come with me.”

“I can’t—”

“It’s in LA. At the Palladium. It’s going to be incredible. The label is throwing a huge after-party.” He pauses. “Jay asked if you’d be there.”

Your heart stops. “He did?”

“Well, Ginny mentioned it. Said Jay’s been distracted, not himself. Thought seeing a familiar face might help.”

Ginny mentioned it. Not Jay. Of course. “I’ll think about it,” you say.

“Don’t think too long. I can have a car pick you up at seven.”

After you hang up, you stare at your phone. Jay’s last show. Tomorrow night. Which means he’ll be home the day after. You just have to make it one more day.

You don’t go to the show. You tell yourself it’s because you look too awful, because you don’t want him to see you like this. But the truth is you’re terrified. Terrified of seeing him with Ginny. Terrified of the way he might look through you like you don’t exist. Terrified that two weeks apart has made him realize he doesn’t need you at all. So you stay home and try to sleep and fail.

Around midnight, your phone buzzes. It’s your father: Show was incredible. Jay’s a star. See you at the after-party? You don’t respond. Another text, an hour later: Are you okay? You’re worrying your mother and me.

You turn off your phone.

He shows up at noon the next day. You’re not ready. You’ve barely slept, haven’t showered, are wearing clothes you’ve had on for two days. But when you hear the knock on your door, you know it’s him.

You look through the peephole just to be sure. Jay is leaning against the wall across from your door, his eyes closed. Even from this distance you can tell he’s fucked up. His clothes are wrinkled, his hair a mess. There’s something defeated in his posture that you’ve never seen before.

You open the door. His eyes snap open and land on you, and something in his expression breaks.

“Hi,” he says, his voice wrecked.

“Hi.” You stare at each other for a long moment. He looks terrible. Worse than terrible. His face is gaunt, his eyes bloodshot, and there’s a tremor in his hands that makes your stomach drop.

“Can I come in?” You step aside. He walks past you into the apartment, and you can smell whiskey on him. It’s barely noon and he’s already drunk.

“How was the tour?” you ask, your voice small.

“It was fine.” He’s not looking at you, his gaze distant. “Good crowds. Good shows.”

“My dad said you were amazing.”

“Your dad says a lot of things.” The bitterness in his tone is new.

“Jay—”

“I missed you,” he says suddenly, finally looking at you. “I missed you so fucking much.”

Your chest tightens. “You didn’t call. You didn’t text. Nothing for two weeks.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Because every time I picked up the phone, I’d think about what I’d say. And every time, I realized there was nothing I could say that would make this okay. That would make us okay.” He runs a hand through his hair. “We’re not okay. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“But I still can’t stay away from you.”

He crosses the room in three strides and kisses you, hard and desperate. You kiss him back just as desperately, tasting whiskey and cigarettes and something darker underneath.

His hands are already pulling at your clothes, and you let him. Because this is what you do. This is all you have.

You fuck right there against the wall, fast and rough and joyless. It’s mechanical, going through the motions. Like you’re both just trying to feel something, anything.

When he finishes, he pulls out immediately and tucks himself back into his jeans. “I have to go,” he says.

The words hit like a slap. “What?”

“I have meetings. Label stuff. I just wanted to see you first.”

“That’s it? You fuck me and leave?”

“What did you expect?” His tone is harsh. “Did you think I was going to stay and cuddle? Tell you I love you? That’s not who I am.”

“I know who you are.” Your voice is shaking. “I’ve always known.”

“Then why do you keep expecting more?”

“Because I’m an idiot. Because I love you. Because I keep hoping that maybe—” You stop, blinking back tears. “Never mind. Just go.”

He doesn’t move. “I should go,” he says, but he sounds uncertain now.

“Then go.”

“I will.” But still he doesn’t move. He just stands there looking at you with something that might be regret or might just be exhaustion.

“I have to make a stop first,” he says finally. “Then I’ll come back. We can talk. Really talk.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

He kisses you one more time—soft, almost gentle—and then he’s gone. You slide down the wall and sit on the floor, feeling emptier than you’ve ever felt in your life.

Hours pass. Then more hours. It gets dark. You text him: where are you? No response.You call. It goes straight to voicemail.

Around eleven PM, you can’t take it anymore. You need to see him. Need to know he’s okay. You drive to his apartment, your hands shaking on the wheel. His car is in the parking lot. The lights are on in his window.

Relief floods through you. He’s home. He’s fine. He probably just passed out or forgot to charge his phone or— you’re halfway up the stairs when you see her.

Ginny is leaving his apartment, pulling the door shut behind her. Her hair is messed up, her shirt buttoned wrong. She freezes when she sees you. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

“He’s not well,” Ginny says finally, her voice careful. “You should go home.”

“Get out of my way.”

“I’m serious. He’s—he’s not himself right now. Give him space.”

“I said get out of my way.”

Something in your tone makes her step aside. You push past her and open the door.

The apartment is dark except for the light from the bathroom. Music is playing softly from somewhere—one of Jay’s tracks, the one with your moans layered in.

“Jay?” you call out. No response.

You walk through the apartment, your heart starting to race. Something feels wrong. The air feels wrong.

The bathroom door is ajar. You push it open. Jay is on the floor, his back against the bathtub, his eyes half-closed. There’s a needle on the floor beside him, a tourniquet still tied around his arm.

Your brain stutters, trying to process what you’re seeing. “Jay?”

His eyes flutter open, unfocused. When he sees you, he smiles—slow and sad and so fucking broken. “Hey, baby,” he slurs. “You came.”

You drop to your knees beside him, your hands shaking. “What did you do? Jay, what did you take?”

“Everything.” His hand comes up to touch your face, the movement uncoordinated. “All of it. Felt good.”

“How much? Jay, how much did you take?”

“Does it matter?” His eyes are already closing again. “Wanted to feel good. Wanted to stop thinking.”

Terror claws at your throat. You fumble for your phone, hands shaking so hard you can barely hold it. “I’m calling 911—”

“No.” His hand catches your wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. “No hospitals. No ambulances. Just… just stay with me.”

“Jay, you need help—”

“I need you.” His eyes open again, and there’s a clarity in them that wasn’t there before. “I love you. Did I ever tell you that?”

The words you’ve been desperate to hear for months, and they’re coming now. Like this. “Don’t,” you choke out. “Don’t do this. Don’t say it now—”

“I love you,” he repeats, his thumb brushing your cheek. “I’ve loved you since that first night. Since you let me fuck you in that bathroom. Since you looked at me like I was worth something.”

“Then let me help you.” Tears are streaming down your face. “Let me call for help—”

“Too late.” His breathing is getting shallower. “It’s already too late.”

“It’s not. It’s not too late. We can fix this—”

“You can’t fix me.” His hand falls from your face, landing in his lap. “No one can fix me. I’m too broken.”

“You’re not broken—”

“I am. I’ve always been.” His eyes are glazing over now, his words starting to slur together. “My dad… he was right. I’m worthless. Nothing. Just like him.”

“That’s not true.” You’re sobbing now, clutching his hand. “You’re talented and brilliant and—”

“I’m an addict.” The word is barely a whisper. “Just like him. I became everything I hated.” His breathing is getting slower. More labored.

“Jay, please—”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For everything. For using you. For not being able to love you the way you deserved. For—” He coughs, and it sounds wet, wrong. “For not being strong enough to choose you over this.”

“You’re choosing now,” you beg. “You’re choosing now. Just let me call—” But his eyes are closed now, his chest barely moving.

You grab your phone with shaking hands and dial 911, but even as you’re talking to the operator, giving them the address, begging them to hurry, you know. You know it’s already too late.

You cradle his head in your lap, your tears falling onto his face, and you watch the boy you love slip away. “I love you,” you whisper. “I love you, I love you, please don’t leave me—”

His chest rises one more time. Then stops. The music is still playing. Your voice, moaning his name, layered over dark beats and his rough vocals. A monument to what you were. What you did to each other.

The paramedics arrive seven minutes later. They try. They really try. But Jay Park is already gone.

The funeral is three days later. It’s huge. Industry people, fans, press. Everyone wants a piece of the tragedy. The rising star who burned out too soon. The cautionary tale.

Your father gives a speech about Jay’s talent, his potential, his bright future cut short. He doesn’t mention the drugs. Doesn’t mention the drinking. Doesn’t mention how he enabled it all in pursuit of profit.

Your mother sits beside you in black, her face carefully composed. She squeezes your hand once, and that’s the extent of her comfort.

You sit through it all in a numb haze. You haven’t slept since that night. Haven’t eaten. You’re running on empty and coffee and the small amount of cocaine you managed to score yesterday. You needed it. Needed something to get through this.

Ginny speaks too. She talks about Jay’s dedication, his artistry, his complexity. She cries. Real tears. You wonder if she loved him too. If he told her he loved her before he died. You’ll never know.

When it’s over, people approach you with condolences. They know you were close to him. Your father made sure everyone knew his daughter was friends with his star artist. Friends. Like that’s all you were.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” they say, over and over. You nod and smile and thank them mechanically. None of them know. None of them understand.

You didn’t just lose Jay. You lost the only person who understood the worst parts of you. The only person who saw you completely and wanted you anyway. You lost everything.

A week after the funeral, your father calls you into his office. You know what’s coming. You’ve been avoiding this conversation, but it’s inevitable.

He’s sitting behind his desk when you arrive, and your mother is there too, perched on the couch. They both look at you with matching expressions of concern that don’t quite reach their eyes.

“Sit down, sweetheart,” your father says. You sit. “We need to talk about what happened,” he continues. “With Jay.” You say nothing.

“The police found drugs in his apartment. A significant amount. And they’re investigating where he got them, who supplied him.” Your father’s jaw tightens. “They asked if you knew anything about his drug use.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That you were friends. That you might have known he partied, but that you weren’t involved in anything illegal.” Of course. Protecting the family reputation. Always. “But we need to know the truth,” your mother says, her voice careful. “Were you involved with Jay? Romantically?”

You could lie. You should lie. But you’re so tired of lying. “Yes,” you say. “We were together. For almost a year.”

Your mother’s face tightens. Your father’s expression goes carefully blank. “Were you using drugs with him?” your father asks.

“Yes.”

“Are you still using?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. They can see it in your face, in your weight loss, in the hollowness of your eyes. Your mother makes a small sound—disappointment or disgust, you’re not sure which.

“This is unacceptable,” your father says, his voice cold. “Do you have any idea how this looks? My daughter, involved with an artist who overdosed? Using drugs? If this gets out—”

“If this gets out, you’ll look bad,” you finish. “That’s what you’re worried about. Not me. Not the fact that I just lost someone I loved. Just your reputation.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it?” You stand up, your hands shaking. “You pushed him. You knew he was using, you had to know, but you pushed him anyway because he was making you money. You worked him until he broke.”

“That’s not true—”

“It is true! You saw what you wanted to see. You ignored all the warning signs because Jay Park was going to be a star, and that’s all that mattered.”

“You don’t get to blame me for this,” your father says, his voice rising. “You’re the one who chose to get involved with him. You’re the one who started using drugs. Those were your choices.”

“You’re right. They were my choices. And I have to live with them.” You head for the door. “But so do you.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“We’re not finished—”

“Yes, we are.” You leave before they can stop you.

You find yourself at the cemetery on a Tuesday afternoon. Jay’s grave is in the back, under a tree. The headstone is simple: his name, his dates, and a line from one of his songs: “Burned bright, burned fast, burned out.” It’s depressingly fitting.

You sit down on the grass beside his grave, your back against the headstone. From your purse, you pull out a small bag of cocaine. The last of your supply. You cut a line right there on top of his grave, using a credit card and the smooth marble surface.

“I love you,” you whisper to the stone. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough.” You snort the line. The burn is familiar, almost comforting.

The high kicks in slowly. That familiar rush, that feeling of everything being okay even when nothing is okay.

You lean back against the headstone and close your eyes. You should get clean. You should get help. You should choose to live instead of slowly killing yourself the same way Jay did. But you won’t.

Because without him, you don’t know how to be anything else. Without him, you’re just empty. Just going through the motions. You’re too far gone. Just like he was.

The sun is warm on your face. The drug is warm in your veins. And for a moment— just a moment— you can almost pretend he’s here with you. That you’re both okay. That love was enough.

But it wasn’t. It never was.

[gigi-cray]

holy moly this has been the best fic i’ve ever read