➥ Contains: "Gaslight, Gatekeep, Bangboss" a.k.a mindfuck galore, hotline bling action feat. Chris and his foul mouth, Avatar Sex™
➥ Reader discretion advised: See the masterlist for the full disclaimer about this project, general warnings, and request guidelines. By continuing, you accept to read at your own risk.
⚠ — (Non-exhaustive, full cw policy here): Threesome with twins, manipulation, yandere undertones
➥ You’ve never believed in evil twins until you met your boyfriend’s brother, and you’re about to learn that there is no such thing as a “good twin” in the first place.
“H–He’s gonna stay at our place?”
The logistics are a bit confusing to an outsider. The parents named their sons Chris-topher and Chris-tian, but no one ever calls them by their full names—they are both known as Chris in their respective circles, which seldom coincide anyway. And during the rare times they have to be in the same room, people discern the twins by shortening Christian into Chan.
Because the older brother has asserted his dominance by being born one minute earlier, and claimed the exclusive rights to Chris.
“Yeah, but only for a few days until his apartment is repainted. It’ll be like I never left,” Chris launches his dimples at you. “I just didn’t want him to waste money on a hotel room, and he can keep you company until I return from my trip. Would that be okay?”
Goodie, WOULD IT?
It’s one of those “I swear it’s true, but I can’t prove it” things, which drives you fucking crazy. The younger one’s vibes are a bit… off, so to speak. He doesn’t smile; he just smirks. He doesn’t look; he eats you alive with his smoldering eyes, and it’s uncanny how it feels like he’s running his tongue all over your body when he just stares at you from across the room.
And he stares at you a lot.
“Of course, baby. If that’s gonna put your mind at ease…” you reciprocate his sunset smile as if your chest isn’t actively tightening.
You don’t understand how these two men were wombmates raised by the very same family. It’s not like one was adopted, or the other was sent to a boarding school during his formative years. Same upbringing, same schools, same classrooms even, yet the blonde one is giving full Joe Goldberg whereas Christopher is literally the perfect guy you know. Kindest soul. An absolute gentleman. Rare species of a generous lover who makes you scream into the night.
Which is why you keep asking yourself, “What is life?” every time you cross paths with Chan at the Bang house on major holidays.
To his credit, he’s not doing anything to warrant a formal complaint. At least not in front of people, so you spend half the time suspecting if things are happening for real or just in your head. It’s the way he looks at you that no one seems to notice. It’s the way he only ever talks to you when coincidentally no one is around you—running into you in the hallways, waiting to use the restroom after you, appearing in the kitchen when you’re picking up another bottle of wine to bring to the table.
And when he does…
“If I catch you looking at my lips one more time, I’m getting under that table and eating the shit out of your pussy. I’m warning you.”
Yet he whispers that lunacy so softly that your entire sense of reality distorts. He says it like he’s reciting a love poem about his soul-crushing longing for you, even punctuating it with a barely-there kiss on your ear. You hang onto that bottle of wine for dear life so as not to crash it into a million pieces and alert the household. They should stay blissfully unaware of the blasphemy taking place in the kitchen where the pleasant meal they are having was made with a lot of love.
And your mind has the hardest fucking time registering just how wrong this is because he looks exactly like the man you want to spend the rest of your life with!
Unfortunately for you, the confusion doesn’t stop at the Thanksgiving ambushes. He knows you like working during late a.m. hours, but he also knows damn well Chris might be sleeping right next to you.
Yet the texts he sends in the dead of the night…
Tian
halfway through this gram of coke i remembered just how fucking beautiful you are
and that im insanely in love with you
Of course you’ve thought about it. You’ve thought about talking to your boyfriend about his brother’s extremely inappropriate behavior that gives you extremely inappropriate butterflies, but seconds after your checkmarks go blue, the texts always disappear. No ‘Message deleted’ or anything; it’s like he’s never sent them in the first place. You’ve even tried screenshotting a few times as soon as you opened a text, just to prove to yourself that you’re not fucking hallucinating things, but all you’d get would be a black screen.
HOW DOES HE EVEN DO THAT?
What are you even going to say to Chris without solid evidence in your hands? Whatever you claim, Chan will just deny it, and you will look like the pick-me girl who thinks everyone in the room has the hots for her.
Yet here you are, about to live under the same roof with the very man that makes you question everything you’ve ever known to be true.
At your boyfriend’s request!
“Welcome, Chr— I mean, Chan.”
“There’s only one of us here. You can call me Chris,” he faintly smirks as he enters through your front door. “That’s what everybody calls me anyway.”
“I think it would confuse me,” you politely smile at him, “so I’d rather stick to Chan if it’s okay.”
“You wouldn’t be confused if you just sat on my face,” he scoffs under his breath.
“What?”
“What?”
You’ve heard it. You’ve fucking heard it! Five seconds he’s been here, and it has already started. You might just have to walk around with a microphone to catch the shit he blurts out on tape, but you’re not even sure if the mic will actually record it. Fuck, he might just be a vampire of sorts, and maybe that’s why he cannot be captured on media in any shape or form!
You should definitely ask him to stand in front of a mirror just in case.
“What you said just now…” you point your finger at him with furrowed brows.
“I didn’t say anything,” he purses his lips, looking at you with slight concern as if to silently ask if you’re okay, then proceeds to carry his bag to the guest room. “Thank you for having me.”
And thus begins the unbearable heaviness of breathing the same air as Chan because it feels like you’re inhaling mercury.
You simply don’t know how to act around him. He looks so eerily identical to his brother that if he covers his hair under a beanie, you just cannot tell them apart. It really feels like you’re having dinner with Chris, and it makes you feel weirdly guilty. You should be able to discern your own boyfriend without leaning on a hair color. You share a bed with this man. You share a life with this man!
“Is there something on my face?”
No, but you wish there were, and you wish it were something prominent. A freckle. A tattoo. Something. Maybe then you wouldn’t intensely stare at him while playing a spot-the-difference game all by yourself.
“Nothing,” you shake your head as you chew on your last bite and reach for his empty plate. “If you’re finished with that…”
“I’ll help clear the table.”
All you do is stand next to each other while doing the dishes, and you just cannot figure out why you get this intense urge to touch yourself. Is it because he wears the same cologne as Chris? Is it because he wears the same chains as Chris? Is it because he dresses like his entire wardrobe is sponsored by Chrome Hearts?
Just… WHAT THE HELL IS IT?!
Thank fuck the phone rings before you could even think about doing something thoroughly and utterly stupid.
“Hey, baby! Just checking in,” Chris chirps on the phone. “How’s everything?”
“GREAT!” you uncontrollably scream into the receiver. “We just had dinner. How was the client meeting?”
“Also great. Not to jinx it, but we’re sooo sealing the deal,” Chris brags, so much satisfaction dripping from his voice that you can practically see him grinning.
“Oh, we’re celebrating the shit out of it when you get back!” you congratulate him enthusiastically. “When are you coming home?”
“In two days,” Chris responds, his voice suddenly coated with a different kind of contentment. “Did someone miss me?”
He wears that cheeky overcoat on his voice, but it still flares something in your loins. You head to your bedroom with fast steps and close the door, taking your clothes off lightning fast.
“I miss you a lot,” you put the call on speakerphone for full hand-ependence. “Like… miss you miss you.”
“I miss you, too, angel,” he sighs longingly, his voice deliciously deeper. “God, I’d kill for a few licks from your pussy right now.”
THIS right there is fucking PROOF!
It doesn’t have anything to do with Chan. It never did in the first place because it’s just an optical illusion. If the man you’re in love with, the man whose children you want to have is projected right before your eyes, of course you’re going to react some type of way!
“And I’d kill to have you between my legs,” you sprawl on the bed more comfortably and start teasing your body. “God, it’s like you’ve been gone forever, baby. I need you bad.”
“Mm, how wet are you right now?”
“I’m soaking,” you breathily answer. “You’d slide right in.”
“Oh fuck yeah, I would. Dip your fingers in there,” he starts listing his demands three. “Get your nipples wet for me, baby. Play with them.”
You close your eyes and do as he says, your fingers prodding your entrance to collect your slick. You slowly coat your nipples, lightly pinching them, imagining it’s Chris’ gentle bites.
“Are you touching yourself, too?” you ask.
“Uh huh…”
“How hard are you, baby?”
“Belly bulge-worthy. If I bent you over right now, no fucking way you’d be able to walk straight tomorrow,” he confesses through his heavy breathing. “But it doesn’t feel half as good as your pussy. God, how I wish you were on my lap right now.”
His voice carries a jillion kilowatts, but it’s so soothing. It really feels like he’s with you, whispering his unhinged desires into your ear in this bed that belongs to the two of you.
“What would you do to me?”
“First, we make out. A lot,” he presses play on his imaginary sextape. “I kiss you deep, and you fucking drip all over me.”
“Mm, keep going,” you play with your breasts just like he wants. “Fuck, you should see this right now. My nipples are so hard, they are begging to be sucked on.”
“Imagine me holding you. I kiss your neck first,” he speaks with a sultry smile tucked into his words. “The wet kind, just the way you like.”
And imagine, you do. You imagine his lips on your skin, covering you with his wetness. You imagine him being buried deep inside you. You imagine him making little love confessions in between his filthy words, making you giggle midfuck.
“Down to your collarbones… Then your tits… Kissing all over them first,” he lets out a big exhale. “Getting you so horny for me, you shudder when I take your nipples between my lips.”
“Fuck, Chris…”
It’s like you manifest him right next to you through sheer willpower. He paints you such vivid mental pictures that you actually shudder. You actually feel licked. It feels wet.
It feels… wet.
When you open your eyes, the blond demon stares at you like your government-assigned incubus, sucking on your nipples. You inadvertently gasp when you realize that wasn’t a figment of your imagination, and he immediately gestures shush, then keeps licking as if everything’s alright with the universe. And now you’re fucking losing it because it’s…
It’s technically Chris!
“This isn’t enough, baby,” he groans on the other end. “God, I need to fuck your face. I need to put your pussy in my mouth.”
Chan lets go of your breasts and slithers down, kissing his way down to your crotch. You hold your breath as you watch him wrap his arms around your thighs, and when he hits that first lick…
…you WHINE.
“Feels good, yeah? Getting your pretty cunt licked,” Chris speaks like he’s clenching his teeth. “Feel me slurping on that clit… Licking into your oozing hole… Let me fuck that tight little hole with my tongue…”
And that’s exactly what happens.
Chris declares his wishes, and they come true one by one. Chan slurps on your clit as quietly as possible, but you can still hear the wet sounds. He dips his tongue into your entrance, licking you like your arousal is his sole supply of water, then flattens his tongue and buries his face deeper into you. You cannot believe what you’re seeing. This just can’t be real. Nope, you fell asleep in front of the TV, and your confusions as of late are manifesting in your dreams as a porn clip under the “Cheating” category.
“Fuck I need you to ride my face,” Chris’ breathing turns labored on the phone. “Ride my face, baby. Use me. Get what you need from your man.”
Chan stops his relentless licking, extremely proud of how he covered half his face in your slick. He removes his shirt and climbs up right next to you, guiding you to get on your knees and straddle his face. It’s as if you have no willpower whatsoever. You blindly follow your lust, living Chris’ fantasies in live action despite the questionable means.
“Wish I could keep kissing you everywhere,” he sighs. “Hold you in my arms while drowning in your slick, but keep kissing you. Kiss your thighs. Kiss your chest. Kiss your neck…”
“Kiss my neck, Chris…” you moan, holding onto the headboard for dear life.
A shockwave passes through your body when the disconnection tone is followed by an actual kiss on your neck. When you turn around, Chris doesn’t give you a chance to question reality and takes your lips within his, kissing you deep, deep, deep…
But something feels… out of the ordinary.
“You… kiss different,” you hazily speak when he pulls back.
“I do?” he smiles, pulling you off of Chan and closer to himself. “How so?”
“You never bite when you kiss,” you point out.
“Or,” Chan sneaks behind you, “that’s how he always kisses.”
He holds your chin and turns your face to himself, kissing you the deepest you’ve ever been kissed, and you’re entirely aghast. THIS is the pair of lips you are used to, but when you open your eyes, there is a severe mismatch between what you see and what you feel.
“Ch–Chris?” you hesitantly ask.
“You finally noticed,” he smiles.
“Wha—? Ho—? Y–Your hair…”
“Does it look good on me?”
You turn and look at the dark-haired man. He looks like Chris, but feels entirely different. It’s as if your actual boyfriend is possessed by a certain demon because you can clearly see a drop of something sinister in those eyes.
“But… you were so convincing on the phone!” you protest.
“When are you going to get this?” Chan gently caresses your cheek. “We are one and the same.”
“Don’t think, baby,” Chris wraps his arms around your waist, quietly speaking into your ear. “Just let this happen.”
Chan moves closer and kisses you, but this time he doesn’t bite. He moves softer than the clouds, wetter than the ocean, and deeper than an abyss, exactly the way Chris normally moves. The intensity amplifies when your man starts composing an obscene love poem about his soul-crushing longing for you on your neck with his lips. Your entire sense of reality distorts.
You can’t tell who is who or what anything is anymore.
“Tell me you love me, too,” Chan pleads, uncharacteristically sad eyes begging you. “For years I’ve been burning for you. Let me hear it just once.”
“Tell him, baby,” Chris encourages you, running his fingers through your hair. “He has suffered long enough.”
Suffered?
This has to be a dream, right? You look into Chan’s eyes, and one second traces of sinister are glowing neon crimson in there, and they are replaced with indescribable longing in the next. Then you look at your man, and his endlessly comforting eyes have the tiniest blotch of danger in them, something you’ve never ever seen before. When the confusion becomes too much, you say fuck it to everything. You don’t think.
You just let it happen.
“I love you, Chan,” you grant him his wish.
For the first time ever, he doesn’t smirk. He smiles at you so brightly that your chest sizzles. He dives in for another kiss as Chris lays you down, spreading your legs wide.
“Ready for your first taste?” he asks Chan, flashing the signature smirk bespoke to the younger one. He spreads your pussy for him, biting his lips hard at the sight. “Look at this. Sooo fucking wet, you could use it as sustenance for a week.”
Chan thickly gulps, his breathing suddenly stuttering. He slowly moves between your legs as if he’s scared, looking up at you with huge eyes like a puppy as if to ask ‘Can I please?’ The drastic change in demeanor gives you whiplash. It’s like they can swap their personalities on cue. And maybe the insanity has rubbed off on you along the way.
Or maybe it was sexually transmitted all along, who knows?
“Have at it, fucking psycho,” you snicker.
He makes your chest sizzle again with that bright smile and traps your clit between his plush lips, happily munching away. Chris kisses all over your body, astral projecting just listening to your delightful sounds of pleasure. It makes him hungrier. It makes him greedier. He suddenly feels this intense urge to diminish you into a pile of whimpering mess, then snort the shit out of you to experience the highest high of his life.
“Go lower,” Chris urges Chan. “I want a taste, too.”
As Chan moves down to your entrance, Chris takes over clit duties, lovingly kissing and licking you. He puts one of your hands on Chan’s head and holds the other within his, tightly intertwining his fingers with yours like he wants to anchor you to himself. You look down, and it’s like you’re seeing double. The same voice that sounds like an echo. The same face that looks like a carbon copy. The same texture of skin under your fingertips. The heavy breathing. The relentless hunger. The wet sounds growing louder and louder and louder.
The fire slowly smoldering within you is suddenly fueled by two tongues gliding on your most sensitive spots, turning it into a river of molten lava that demolishes everything standing in its path.
“Oh, fuck, I’m— God, yes. Yes, just like that. Like that, oh my god I’m cumming!!!”
The finish line is located so high that it feels like a free fall from Everest. Your climax hits like a thousand car crashes, casualties everywhere like a doomsday cosplay, and you watch yourself get out of your own body. If there were a licensed medical practitioner around, they would pronounce you dead for at least about thirty seconds.
The wetness reluctantly retreats when you start thrashing with overstimulation. You have ruined your sheets, and the two men seem to notice, judging by the extremely proud looks on their faces. Chan gets on his knees and gives his cock a few pumps, then carefully presses against your soaked entrance.
“Fuck, I don’t think I’m gonna last,” he stupidly grins to himself, his eyes closed.
You kinda hope that he doesn’t. It would give you some taunt material for everything he’s put you through over the years. As he slowly sinks in with deep breaths, Chris keeps softly kissing your clit, relishing the way you squirm.
“Shh, shh, it’s okay, baby,” he kisses your wrist. “It’s going to feel really good in just a second.”
Your swollen walls swallow Chan whole, and his entire resolve goes out the window. He rams himself into you as hard as he can, incredulous how it can feel like you’re sucking his cock when he’s buried deep inside you. He knows he’s going to blow in maybe ten seconds if he keeps moving that fast, but he can’t help it. He can’t fucking help how incredible it feels inside you. He can’t help sinking his fingers deep into your flesh, moaning your name over and over again, surrendering his soul to you one clench at a time.
But what’s interesting is that something about the way he fucks feels…
…familiar.
“Look at me.”
He opens his eyes and looks at you when you grab onto his wrists, slowing way down to calm himself.
“This isn’t the first time we’re fucking, is it?” you ask with a lopsided grin.
The brothers share a look that leaves no room for doubt that they are clearly busted. You expect a stern denial, but it never comes.
If anything, you hear a direct confession instead.
“N–No, but… fuck… but l–look how you’re stretching around my cock… See how it’s a perfect fit?” Chan pants. “We were made for each other.”
“We were made for each other. All of us,” Chris repeats, climbing right next to you, and lovingly looks into your eyes. “We love you, baby. Always have.”
“And always will,” Chan adds.
Chris pulls you into a kiss as Chan runs faster to the finish line. You suddenly feel this huge wave of emotion wash over you. You don’t know what it is, but it sure as fuck isn’t just lust, and when Chan spills inside you with an “I love you” that rips from the depths of his throat, it cements what you’ve been suspecting all along but could never admit even to yourself.
Tonight, you find out you are indeed in love with two men.
“Tired, baby?” Chris plays with your hair, a fond smile on his face, while Chan catches his breath on your chest.
“Overwhelmed,” you answer with your eyes closed, indeed tired but infinitely satisfied. “It’s… a lot to take in.”
“It’s okay,” he kisses your forehead. “We always have tomorrow.”
“I just need a few minutes of shuteye,” you kiss his hand. “Then I’m sucking your soul out of you.”
You let him bury his face in the crook of your neck and keep caressing Chan’s hair on your chest. A very pleasant fatigue envelops you as you listen to the soft breathing melting into heartbeats slowing down. You think about what Chan said to you earlier. You’ve always thought you know the man closest to you, mind and heart alike, but maybe you haven’t known him at all. Strangely enough, it doesn’t unsettle you. There are two bodies tangled up with you in this bed, but even though the suffixes may be different, they are one and the same.
They are just…
Chris.
❥ Reblog & drop your feedback to become a Chandwich with them.
Synopsis: One night, you accidentally found a diamond ring hidden in the closet. Naturally, you assume your boyfriend, Seungmin, is going to get on his knee and pop the question. Since then, every dinner, every date, every tender look from Seungmin feels like it could be ‘the moment’ — until it isn’t. (22,6k words)
Author's note: It's been a while since my last Seungmin fic so I hope you enjoy this fluffy (and just a tad bit angsty fic) ❣️
You aren’t just good at your job—you are brilliant.
Vice President at one of the most prestigious firms in the city, your days are built on back-to-back meetings, business proposals, and decisive strategy calls. You thrived in it all. There is something intoxicating about the fast-paced rhythm and high-stakes negotiations, the weight of your signature at the bottom of a multimillion-dollar deal.
You walk through skyscraper hallways like you belong there and you do. Still, no matter how polished your days looked in heels and tailored blazers, the part you always looked forward to most is coming home.
Your apartment—shared with your boyfriend of five years—sits high in a sleek building that towered above the glittering city skyline. From the floor-to-ceiling windows, you can watch the sun melt into orange and gold behind the glass silhouettes of the skyline, the lights of the world flickering to life beneath you.
You toe off your shoes at the door, setting your bag down on the console table. You roll up the sleeves of your silk blouse and head to the kitchen. You start by washing your hands, hair loosening from the tight twist it lived in all day.
Cooking helps you unwind. You grab the ingredients for dinner and hum a little tune as you chop and stir, your voice mixing with the soft jazz playing from the portable speaker.
It’s simple and domestic in a way that feels earned. Because even with all your success, all the accolades and titles and salary numbers most people your age only dreamed of—you still cherished this: a quiet evening while anticipating for your boyfriend’s return.
You’re just setting the table when you hear the sound of the door unlocking. Keys jingling, then a soft click and then he’s there.
“Smells like someone’s trying to win girlfriend of the year,” Seungmin calls out as he steps inside, the familiar edge of exhaustion softened by affection.
You glance over your shoulder and smile, finding Seungmin dressed in navy suits. The jacket already draped over one arm, tie slightly loosened at the collar. His hair is a little tousled, like he ran his hands through it on the elevator ride up—his version of unwinding.
“I thought I already won that last year,” you say, setting down the last plate.
“You did,” he grins, shrugging off his bag and making his way to you. “But I like that you’re not getting complacent.”
He leans in to press a sweet kiss to your cheek. It’s gentle, but it says everything—I missed you, I see you, we’re here now.
Seungmin is just as much a force in his world as you are in yours. A high-stakes corporate lawyer known for his razor-sharp mind and unbeatable composure in the courtroom. He thrives under pressure, commands rooms without raising his voice, and has the kind of reputation that even senior partners take seriously.
That’s what you have in common, really. The ambition. The passion. The shared understanding that success isn’t something you luck into—it’s something you grind for. But even more than that, you both believe that relationships, like careers, needed investment. Time. Intention.
So, you make time. No matter how late your meetings run or how chaotic his court schedule gets, you always come back to this: dinner, together. Phones down, minds open, hearts soft.
You both eventually settle at the table. The city glows outside the window behind him, casting golden light over his features as he fills your glass with wine.
“So,” he says, resting his chin in his hand, eyes trained on you, “tell me everything. Wins, losses, scandalous office gossip—what’s the highlight reel today?”
You laugh, reaching for your fork. “Well, let’s just say the intern who accidentally CC’d the entire company on her resignation email now has a fan club.”
He chuckles, and just like that, the stress of your day begins to peel away. This is how the two of you survive the whirlwind—by anchoring yourselves in these moments.
And in moments like this, you can’t help but think: if you were to spend the rest of your life exactly like this, it would still be more than enough. You just didn’t know how much that thought would start to shift soon.
-
Later, the two of you move in sync, the way only people who know each other’s routines by heart do.
You're in the bathroom now, side by side at the sink. You’re patting toner into your cheeks while Seungmin brushes his teeth, bent slightly over the sink in a faded gray tee and sweatpants that sit a little too low on his hips.
You catch his reflection in the mirror. His hair is still slightly damp from his quick shower, and he gives you a lazy smile, foamy toothpaste making him look younger than usual.
It’s such a simple moment, but it feels like home.
You turn to grab your moisturizer just as he leans in to spit, and your shoulders bump. “Oops, sorry,” you say, voice soft.
He tilts his head slightly, flashing you a half-smirk. “Shoulder check me again and we’re gonna have a problem.”
You roll your eyes with a laugh and nudge him again, just because you can.
By the time you finish up and head to the bedroom, the city has quieted. The only sounds are the faint traffic several stories below and the rustle of sheets as you both climb into bed. You propped up by a pillow against the headboard, a book resting open in your hands. You’re halfway through a paragraph when the bed dips beside you.
Seungmin crawls up from the foot of the bed, slow and catlike, until he’s beside you, leaning over with a soft, almost mischievous smirk. His lips press to your cheek, featherlight, then to your jaw. You don’t look up from your book, but the corners of your mouth curve.
“Hi,” you murmur.
He hums a greeting into the space behind your ear, then kisses just below it. “How far in are you?” he asks, voice muffled slightly against your skin.
“Chapter fourteen,” you reply, flipping the page. “The main character just found out her sister’s been lying to her for, like, five years.”
He lets out a thoughtful little noise, lips drifting lower—along your jawline, then to your neck, pausing to linger at that one spot that always makes you squirm. “Sounds dramatic,” he says, his voice a little too casual for someone currently distracting you from the plot.
“Very,” you say, holding back a smile. “I would be more into it if someone wasn’t trying to seduce me with neck kisses.”
“I’m not seducing you,” he murmurs, now kissing down the curve of your shoulder. “I’m appreciating you.”
Then, he pauses. “Wait… are you using a new lotion?”
You finally glance at him, raising a brow. “Yep.”
He leans in and inhales lightly near your shoulder. “Smells like coconut.”
Your smile grows. “Correct. Bonus points for identifying the scent.”
“I’ll collect them later,” he murmurs, grinning against your skin before resuming his trail of kisses, slow and lazy, like he’s in no rush at all.
You try—really try—to keep your eyes on the page, but Seungmin makes it nearly impossible. His lips keep moving—down your shoulder, along your collarbone, ghosting over your chest with featherlight kisses that trail heat in their wake. You shift slightly, book still in hand, but your focus has long since slipped through your fingers.
“Seungmin,” you murmur, half a warning, half a sigh.
“Keep reading,” he says softly, voice low and teasing near your waist. “Don’t mind me.”
You let out a quiet whine, a protest laced with laughter, but you don’t stop him.
Seungmin doesn’t stop either. His mouth continues its slow descent, inch by inch, kisses landing on the curve of your stomach, your hip, then lower still. The hem of your sleep shorts shifts as he settles between your legs, nudging the fabric aside, his breath warm against your skin. Then his fingers hook around your underwear, and in one smooth motion, he tugs it down.
You glance away from your book now, heart skipping, only to find him looking up at you with that wild, naughty glint in his eyes.
“You worked hard today,” he says, lips brushing the inside of your thigh. “Let me help you relax.”
A soft laugh escapes you, caught between amusement and desire. “Is this a reward system now?”
He smirks, eyes never leaving yours. “Mm-hmm.” He nods, slowly, smug and sweet all at once. “Positive reinforcement.”
Your cheeks flush, but your smile grows with it. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re beautiful,” he replies, pressing one last kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh.
You shake your head, biting back a smile, and with a quiet breath, you let yourself lean back fully against the pillows, parting your legs for him.
He looks up at you one more time, a soft, knowing expression on his face—affection woven seamlessly with desire. And in that look, you feel it again: how much he sees you, how much he chooses you. Every time.
Despite having Seungmin’s head between your legs as he pleases you with his mouth, you try to keep your eyes on the page. The words blurring slightly as you breathe through the sensation building between your legs from the way he licks and sucks, flicking his tongue on the right spots.
The book trembles faintly in your grip, your fingers tightening around it each time Seungmin’s mouth moves just right. He’s slow, attentive—almost too much so. Then he hums against your drenched cunt. A deep, satisfied sound that vibrates through your core, making you gasp softly.
He pauses for just a beat to say, “God, I missed this.”
Your head tips back against the headboard, a breathless laugh slipping past your lips. “You missed going down on me?”
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to play coy. “Yeah,” he says, looking up at you with that maddeningly proud smile. “Think about this sweet, little pussy all day.”
You let out a quiet, incredulous chuckle, your free hand covering your face for a second before falling to your side. “You’re so—”
“I know.” He kisses your inner thigh again, grinning into your skin. “Lucky for both of us, I get to do something about it now.”
You give up on the book entirely, dropping it to the side, pages folding shut as your body arches instinctively toward him. Your hand slips into his hair, fingers curling as he gets back to work, tongue and lips relentless, methodical in the way only Seungmin can be when he’s determined to ruin you.
It doesn’t take long for him to do that. You’re a mess beneath him—moaning, trembling, your fingers fisted in his hair like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the world. Each movement of his mouth feels more precise, more purposeful, like he’s reading every sound you make, every shiver that ripples through you.
The way you fall apart under him only drives him further. He’s focused—relentless in that quiet, devoted way of his, like this is something he needs to do for you.
Your breath catches, hips stuttering beneath his hands as your body tightens, and you manage a desperate, shaky whisper of his name. “Seungmin—Oh...”
He hums with his mouth full of your wet cunt and it sends another wave through you.
That’s all it takes. You come with a soft, broken cry. Your thighs trembling around him, hand tugging sharply in his hair as your back arches off the bed. He holds you through it with mouth still coaxing every last flicker of pleasure from you until you’re gasping, limp and boneless against the sheets. Only then does he pull back, his lips kiss-swollen, his expression soft and smug all at once.
“You okay?” he casually asks, crawling back up beside you, brushing a few damp strands of hair from your forehead.
You can only nod, eyes half-lidded, breath still catching in your throat.
He smiles and leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple, then one to your lips—gentle and full of the affection that’s always been the heart of what you share. “Reward systems,” he murmurs, chuckling. “Highly effective.”
You’re still catching your breath when you shift slightly, your body pressed against Seungmin’s side, cheek resting on his chest. He’s warm and steady beneath you, arm draped lazily around your waist like he’s content to stay like this for hours, but you’re not done with him just yet.
You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. “You know,” you murmur, voice low and playful, “you work hard too. Day and night.”
His eyes flick down to meet yours, lips twitching into a smile. “Yeah?”
“Mmhmm,” you hum, hand drifting down, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You palm his cock gently, feeling the way his body reacts to your seductive touch—quick and eager, the tension building beneath your fingers as you give his length slow, gentle strokes. “I think you’ve earned a reward too.”
Seungmin exhales sharply, his muscles tensing as he watches you with growing interest.
“Go on,” you add with a smirk, fingers curling ever so slightly. “Collect your bonus points.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, eyes narrowing with playful warning. “Dangerous game you’re playing.”
But you only smile wider, hand continuously stroking him. “I like high stakes,” you whisper, leaning down to press a kiss just below his jaw.
Seungmin groans softly, hands gripping your hips. “So do I.”
He hovers above you, his face close, breath mingling with yours. He repeatedly rubs the tip of his cock between your folds, letting your essence drenching every inch of his throbbing length. The longer he does it, the more you anticipate it. When he finally pushes in, the sheer size gives you that delicious stretch, making you moan in both pain and pleasure.
“I know you can take it,” he murmurs as he pushes the remaining length with such intensity that a cry slips out of your parted mouth.
The two of you taking a moment to savor it — the feeling of connecting to one another, physically and emotionally. He runs his hand down your front and then rests it on your abdomen.
He looks at you, his eyes heavy with both lust and love. “I'm going to move now, yeah?” he asks, his gaze tender yet smoldering.
With that, your bodies move together in a slow, steady rhythm—his hips rolling into yours, his chest brushing yours with every thrust. His forehead rests gently against yours at first, and the low sounds he makes—those quiet, breathy groans, the occasional broken whimper—fill the silence between kisses like a melody only you were meant to hear.
You reach up, gently brushing his hair back from his forehead, fingertips lingering on his temple. “Seungmin,” you whisper, voice trembling from pleasure, “you make me feel so good.”
His eyes flutter open at that, gaze locking with yours. The look he gives you is raw, open, like he’s trying to say everything he feels without words. He takes a mouthful of your breast, tongue swirling around your hard nipple before he lets go with a popping sound.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, breath catching as he sinks into you again. “Every time.”
The pace turns slower yet deeper, drawing out the tension between you, making every movement feel more intimate, more intense. He keeps his eyes on you, like he wants to remember every expression, every sound you make.
You moan his name again, soft and needy, and he shudders above you, his control slipping just a little. He presses his lips to your jaw, to your neck, to your shoulder like he can’t get close enough, like he wants to memorize your skin.
He keeps moving like that—changing pace, adjusting his angle—until you're gasping beneath him, your nails digging into his back as your legs tighten around him. And when he finally lets himself go, buried deep inside you with a choked, desperate sound, you feel it in every part of you—not just the heat, not just the tension snapping, but the emotion behind it.
Because with Seungmin, it’s never just physical. It’s love, every time. And he makes sure you know that with his hands, with his body, with the way he holds you after.
-
The scent of freshly ground coffee and melting butter fills the kitchen. Sunlight streaking through the blinds in warm, golden bands. The city is just beginning to wake outside, but inside your apartment, it’s slow and quiet—the kind of morning that only belongs to weekends.
You’re standing by the stove, slowly stirring scrambled eggs, carefully watching their texture. They’re just starting to come together, soft and glossy, not too dry. You tilt the pan slightly, flicking your wrist the way Seungmin always says brings out the perfect consistency.
Behind you, Seungmin stands by the counter, completely focused on the kettle. He holds the thermometer just above the water, brow furrowed, waiting for the precise number to hit before pouring it over the coffee grounds in steady, slow circles.
You glance at him over your shoulder with a smirk. “You’re acting like you’re defusing a bomb.”
He doesn’t look up. “That’s because good coffee is a must in this household.”
You laugh under your breath and return to the eggs, taking them off the heat just before they finish cooking, leaving them soft, just how he likes them. You add a pinch of salt, a bit of cracked pepper, then plate them while he finishes pouring the last of the water into the carafe.
By the time you both sit down at the small dining table, everything is quiet again. Coffee, eggs, toast. Then you clink your mugs together in a mock toast before taking your first sip.
“This is nice,” you murmur, resting your cheek in your palm as you watch him butter a piece of toast like he’s doing brain surgery.
He glances up with a soft grin. “Mm. Still think I make better eggs than you.”
“You do,” you admit, stealing a bite from his plate anyway. “But I’m still the fun one.”
He chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “No argument there.”
Weekends are sacred in your relationship. An unspoken promise to reconnect after a long week of endless meetings, deadlines, and case files. Sometimes that means spending the whole day together—brunch, errands, movies on the couch, lazy evenings tangled up in each other. Other times, it means giving each other space. Because loving each other also means understanding that you are your own people, too.
“So,” he says between sips of coffee, “baseball game starts at five. Jisung's meeting me there. Should be back before midnight.”
You nod. “Yes, I remember cause you’ve been talking about it all week.”
He gives you a little look—half proud, half sheepish. “I might yell.”
“You will yell,” you say knowingly, grinning. “Just don’t get too carried away and angers everyone around you.”
He rolls his eyes with a smirk. “Not my fault they made that stupid call in the seventh inning.”
You laugh, shaking your head as you sip your coffee.
“And you?” he asks. “Still doing that girls’ night?”
“Mhm. Marion’s coming over later. We’re doing the full thing—masks, sugary cocktails, probably something embarrassing on Netflix.”
Seungmin raises a brow, mock serious. “Try not to drink too much and gossip about me behind my back.”
You tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “I could do that.”
He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re lucky I like you, you know.”
You nonchalantly shrug. “I know.”
And just like that, the rest of the morning unfolds in soft conversation and shared glances—two people perfectly in rhythm, building a life that’s equal parts warmth, work, and a little bit of mischief.
-
Marion shows up right on time, wearing loose linen pants and a graphic tee, sunglasses still perched on her head despite the setting sun. The moment you open the door, she throws her arms around you.
“God, it feels like forever,” she says into your shoulder.
You hug her tightly, laughing. “It’s been a week.”
“Exactly. Forever.”
When she pulls back, she holds up a brown paper bag with a smug grin. A long-necked wine bottle is very visibly poking out the top, along with what looks like a skincare sheet mask box and possibly a pint of ice cream tucked at the bottom.
“I brought the essentials,” she says proudly.
You eye the wine and nod in approval. “You understood the assignment.”
Behind you, Seungmin is just finishing up, adjusting the hem of his jersey and tossing on a cap that matches it perfectly. He steps into the entryway and flashes Marion a grin. “Hey, Marion.”
“Hey, Seungmin,” she replies. “You look like you’re about to fight someone over a bad pitch.”
“Not ruling it out,” he immediately replies, grin widening. Then he turns to you, wrapping his arms around your waist as you lift your chin to meet him.
He kisses you fully, just shy of teasing. It’s the kind of kiss that says I'll miss you, even if you’ll be apart for just a few hours. When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead briefly against yours. “Don’t drink too much,” he murmurs.
You chuckle. “No promises.”
He shakes his head, muttering under his breath like he’s half-exasperated, half-entertained. You lean in and plant a quick kiss on his jaw, grinning. He always looks too cute when he’s annoyed in that quiet, worried way of his.
The two of you move toward the front door, and as he puts on his sneakers, he glances over his shoulder. “Marion, I expect my girlfriend is still in one piece when I'm back, yeah?”
Marion doesn’t miss a beat. “Can’t make any promises. But if I do, I’ll probably just take a bite out of her.”
You laugh, watching them with a shake of your head. Seungmin’s tying his laces, but he’s smiling. Once he’s done, you reach for his wrist, tugging him gently back toward you. You press one more kiss to his lips—longer this time.
He sighs into it, like he doesn’t actually want to go, and you whisper, “Have fun.”
But Seungmin squints at you, narrowing his eyes. “You. Don’t have too much fun.”
You can’t help but laugh again. “That also, I can't promise,” you say, for the second time.
He rolls his eyes, muttering something in mock defeat, but there’s that charming smile again as he lifts a hand in farewell and steps out the door. You watch it close behind him, the quiet clicking into place like a soft punctuation mark.
When you turn back around, Marion is already in the kitchen, holding up two glasses of mimosas with a satisfied grin.
“Cheers to nights in and no boys allowed,” she says.
You take your glass, clinking it against hers. “Cheers.”
-
It starts with the idea of “just one cookie.”
One cookie turns into an attempt to make a whole batch. That turns into realizing neither of you have measured anything quite right. That turns into the first tray coming out entirely too dark on the bottom. Marion swears they’re “extra toasty,” but even she admits the crunch sounds suspicious.
Now, you’re both leaning against the counter, wine glasses half-full again, laughing as the second batch bakes and this time with the timer actually set and taken seriously.
“You know,” Marion says between bites of a still-warm cookie from the improved batch, “I always thought Seungmin was super serious when I first met him. Like, scary lawyer energy. And then you told me he sleeps with one sock on because he can’t stand it when both feet are warm.”
You nearly choke on your wine. “Oh my God—don’t expose him like that.”
“I like him, but come on,” she laughs. “That’s a little unhinged.”
You nod, grinning. “He says it’s about temperature regulation, but I think he’s just stubborn.”
Marion wiggles her fingers dramatically. “Genius boy logic.”
You swirl your glass, smiling softly into it. “Honestly, sometimes he says things that are so dry I don’t know if he’s joking or judging me. But then he breaks and laughs at his own joke for like, a full minute. It’s the cutest thing.”
“That’s criminally cute.” Marion nudges your arm. “You’re so gone for him.”
You shrug, but the smile on your lips betrays you. “I really am.”
She sighs, setting her glass down and hopping up to sit on the edge of the counter. “Isn’t it crazy? Like, we’re at that age where we’re not just dating people who are fun. We’re dating people who we could actually see in our lives for a long time.”
“Yeah,” you say softly, nodding. “And somehow it still feels just… easy.”
Marion sips her wine before nodding in agreement. “That’s so true.”
“What about you and Leo?”
“Oh God,” she groans in mock embarrassment. “He’s convinced he can dance. And he can’t. At all. But he’ll do this horrible little shoulder wiggle every time he brushes his teeth and makes eye contact with himself in the mirror.”
You both burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the kitchen as the smell of sweet dough fills the air again. The timer goes off, and this time, the cookies come out golden and perfect. You each grab another and lean against the counter again, barefoot and tipsy, warm with wine and sugar and the feeling of knowing someone who knows you.
In this moment, everything feels light and easy. Well, until Marion spills her mimosas on the couch. You’re both laughing about it while you rummage through the linen closet in the hallway, muttering about how everything in this apartment magically disappears when you actually need it.
You’re halfway to tipsy and elbow-deep in a search for extra towels. You tug at a thick stack of folded tablecloths near the back, pulling them forward and— thunk.
Something small and soft hits the hardwood floor at your feet. You blink and look down. A square velvet box sits there, deep navy in color. Your brows knit together as you crouch down, curiosity tugging at your fingers as you pick it up and open it.
Inside, nestled in the cushioned lining, is a ring. Not just a ring. That kind of ring. Gold band. A classic cut diamond. Undeniably meant for a certain question and a promise.
“OH MY GOD,” Marion shrieks behind you.
You nearly drop the box as you jolt in surprise, whipping your head around to find her standing in the hallway, eyes wide, hand over her mouth like she just watched a K-drama twist unfold in real time.
“What?” you ask, still crouched, heart hammering, your voice weirdly flat compared to the chaos in your chest. “What is this?”
Marion walks over in slow, careful steps, like she’s approaching something sacred. “Are you serious? Are you serious right now?”
You look down at the ring again. It sparkles faintly under the hallway light. “I mean… it’s a ring. But—”
She lets out a dramatic gasp. “You dummy! It’s your ring!”
You blink up at her. “What are you talking about?”
Marion throws her hands up, pointing down at the velvet box. “That is an engagement ring. That’s a proposal ring! Look at it—it’s literally from that high-end designer boutique. I recognize the box! And the cut of the diamond—come on, that is classic proposal energy.”
Your mouth opens. Then closes. You look at the ring again, mind slowly catching up with her words. “I mean…” you start, hesitating, “he hasn’t said anything. And it was just in the linen closet, not like… hidden hidden.”
“Oh my God,” Marion groans. “It was between tablecloths and towels. Do you think he’d just toss a ring like that there if it wasn’t meant to be a surprise?”
You fall silent, your gaze dropping to the ring again.
She crouches beside you now, her voice softening. “He’s going to propose to you. He probably has a plan. Maybe he’s waiting for the right moment. Or maybe he’s just… trying to figure out how to keep it a surprise because he knows you’ll pick up on it.”
You don’t want to get your hopes up. You really don’t. But the ring is stunning. The kind of ring Seungmin would pick—classic, simple, elegant. You remember how he once made a comment about how you always liked things that lasted. And now it’s sitting in your palm, blinking at you like a secret trying not to be found.
Your chest flutters. Hope blooms slowly, cautiously. “Maybe he is,” you whisper.
Marion grins, eyes misty with excitement. “Girl… he is.”
And for the first time that night, you’re not tipsy on wine, but on possibility. You stay crouched there a second longer, staring down at the ring as if it might suddenly explain itself.
Marion is still next to you, practically vibrating with excitement when you finally whisper, “What do I do?”
She grabs your shoulders like she’s about to shake you. “You put it back.”
“What?” you ask, slightly confused.
“Put. It. Back.” She points emphatically at the linen closet. “Exactly where you found it. Pretend you never saw it.”
You glance at the velvet box in your hand again, hesitant. “What if he notices?”
Marion grins. “Then you say nothing, act innocent, like you have no clue he’s about to propose and marry you. And probably cry when he does it.”
You slap her arm, laughing in disbelief. “Stop.”
She only cackles harder as you carefully tuck the box back between the tablecloths and towels where it had been hidden, adjusting the folds to make it look untouched. You close the linen closet gently, almost like it’s sacred now.
The moment the door clicks shut, Marion shrieks again, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Oh my God, you’re gonna get married!” she says, grabbing your hands.
“Marion,” you hiss through a laugh, trying to hush her. “We don’t even know if that’s what it is.”
She ignores you entirely. “I mean, we need to think colors. Do you want something classic? Romantic? I can already see you in an off-shoulder satin gown—”
“Okay, stop,” you say again, cheeks burning, waving her off as you walk back toward the kitchen. “Nothing’s confirmed.”
She follows you, still buzzing. “But it will be. I know that man. Seungmin is calculated, strategic. If he bought that ring, it’s happening. You're gonna walk into brunch one day wearing that thing and act like you’re surprised. You better start practicing your gasp.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart’s thudding inside your chest, louder than before. You try to brush it off and try to tell yourself that maybe it’s not what it looks like. That maybe it’s a ring for something else, or a decoy, or a mistake. But your fingers still feel the weight of the velvet box.
And no matter how hard you try not to let it take over your thoughts… You can’t help but wonder. What if it is?
-
You pause at the doorway of the bathroom, watching him from behind. Seungmin is standing by the sink, toothbrush in hand, head slightly tilted as he brushes with quiet focus. The dim bathroom light casts gentle shadows on his back, the lines of his shoulder blades, the slope of his neck, the soft dishevel of his dark hair. You find yourself staring, studying the way the fabric of his white tee stretches across his shoulders, the curve of his jaw in the mirror’s reflection.
Sometimes, in mundane moments like this, you still can’t believe he’s yours.
He spits, rinses, then glances up and catches your eyes in the mirror. A smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. “Stop watching me, you creep.”
You laugh softly, stepping forward. “But I’m your creep.”
He shakes his head in amusement as you walk up to him, not caring that he’s now smoothing moisturizer over his face. You slip your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his chest, melting into his warmth.
He doesn’t even hesitate to wrap his free arm around you, pulling you in closer as he continues gently patting his face with the tips of his fingers.
You tilt your head back slightly, watching him. You could say it now. Ask about the ring. About the velvet box in the linen closet, about what it means. The words press lightly at the back of your throat, but you swallow them down.
Not now. You tell yourself. Because you know Seungmin. He doesn’t rush anything and he’s never made you feel like something was missing. Maybe it’s not the right time, or maybe he is waiting for the right moment. And if it never comes? You’d still choose him. Like this. Like now.
His eyes drop to yours suddenly, as if sensing the thoughts spiraling in your head. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
You shake your head with a smile and bury your face in the crook of his neck. “I missed you.”
He lets out a quiet chuckle, his hand rubbing up and down your back in slow, comforting circles. “Marion must’ve made you drink a lot, mmh?”
You scoff into his neck. “That’s the whole point of a girls’ night in.”
He hums in agreement, reaching for a tube of lip balm with one hand and applying it methodically.
You pull back a little just to watch him, lips pursed, face content and freshly moisturized. “Did you miss me too?” you teasingly ask.
He caps the tube and places it down, then cups your jaw with one hand, tilting your face up so your eyes meet. “Of course I missed you,” he answers without a beat.
You scoff at that. “Lie. You forget about everything whenever you watch a baseball game.”
Seungmin lets out a soft chuckle and then he kisses you. It’s tender and slow, thumb brushing lightly along your cheekbone as he deepens it just enough to make your heart skip. Just enough to remind you how much he means it, even if he doesn’t say much. Even now, after almost five years together, his kiss still makes your chest flutter.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are warm, lips curved in that subtle smile of his. “Let’s go to bed.”
You nod but don’t let go. Instead, you jump up, wrapping your arms and legs around him. And he catches you without missing a beat, grunting slightly in surprise. You press a quick kiss to his lips, giggling into it.
Seungmin steadies you, arms securely around your thighs, and gives you that amused grin. “You’re such a big baby.”
Then he gives you a light, playful slap on the butt and carries you out of the bathroom.
You smile against his shoulder, already half-asleep in his hold, completely at peace and content with everything you have. And quietly hoping for what might come next.
-
The week passes in a blur and somewhere along the way, the memory of the ring tucked between the tablecloths and towels fades to the background, replaced by spreadsheets and strategy decks and late nights staring at your laptop until your eyes burn.
By Friday afternoon, you’re buried in emails when your phone starts buzzing on your desk. You glance at the screen. Seungmin.
It’s rare that he calls when you're in the middle of work. You frown slightly, sliding your finger across the screen and lifting it to your ear. “Hey. Is everything okay?”
You expect the worst—something urgent, a change of plans, maybe even bad news. But instead, you hear a soft chuckle on the other end.
“I’m fine,” Seungmin calmly says, “Just wanted to let you know that we’re going out for dinner tonight.”
“Oh?” you say, slightly surprised. “What’s the occasion?”
There’s a brief silence, and then you can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s a surprise.”
Before you can press him for more, he hangs up. You lower the phone slowly, staring at it like it might offer an explanation. You don’t want to get ahead of yourself. You don’t want to assume. But your thoughts are already spinning.
A surprise dinner. On a Friday night. No reason, no hints. And suddenly, the memory of that ring box floods back in. Could it be?
You exhale slowly, catching yourself before your imagination runs completely wild. Even if it’s just a regular dinner, you tell yourself, there’s no harm in looking good.
You press the intercom button on your desk. “Hey, Jess? I’m going to step out early today.”
Your assistant’s voice crackles through. “Sure. Want me to clear your schedule for the rest of the day?”
“Yes, please. Something came up. I have... an event tonight.” You smile to yourself.
The moment you end the call, you grab your bag, already planning a visit to the boutique two blocks down. Maybe get something simple yet chic and elegant.
Whatever this night holds, you want to be ready. Just in case.
-
The vanity light glows softly, casting a warm sheen over the organized chaos of your skincare and lipsticks. Your hair is still wrapped in a towel, damp strands clinging to your neck, and your makeup is only halfway done.
In your hand is a champagne flute. Or, well... mostly champagne. You’d started with the idea of a pomegranate spritz, but at the last second, you’d added another splash—or two—of champagne. For courage. For nerves. For what might be happening tonight.
You take a long sip, eyes darting to the hallway. And then, as if your feet move on their own, you walk toward the linen closet. It’s stupid, maybe. But a part of you just wants to know. You’re not trying to ruin anything, you just want confirmation. Or reassurance. Or some kind of sign that your hope isn’t misplaced.
You slowly open the door, the quiet creak of the hinges sounding louder than usual in the apartment’s stillness. Your hand slides between the stacks of towels and tablecloths, fingers searching the familiar spot, seeking the edge of that velvet box. But all you touch is folded fabric and the smooth, empty wood of the shelf beneath.
Your brows furrowed in confusion. You push the towels aside, check the corners, even lift a few things just to be sure. It’s gone. The ring box isn’t there. Your heart lurches. A rush of adrenaline floods your chest, so fast it’s almost dizzying.
It’s happening. It has to be.
You scramble to put everything back just the way it was, flattening the towels, smoothing out the tablecloths, trying to erase any trace of your little search mission. Just as you shut the closet door with a quiet click, you hear the jangle of keys at the front door.
You make a quick dash to the bedroom, practically throwing yourself into the chair at your vanity. You unwrap your towel, tossing it aside, and reach for your foundation with shaking hands, trying to look like you haven’t just been rooting through a closet like a hopeful maniac.
A moment later, you hear footsteps. Then Seungmin appears in the doorway, still in his sleek work attire except that his tie now slightly loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair a little tousled from the wind outside.
You meet his eyes in the mirror and smile, trying to keep it casual. “Welcome home,” you sweetly greet.
He walks up behind you, leans down, and presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck. “You smell good,” he murmurs, his lips curling into a smile against your skin.
You hum softly as he places another kiss on your jaw, your cheeks warming at that.
He straightens, gently tugging at your robe’s collar in that playful way of his. “I’m gonna take a quick shower.”
And then, with a grin, he adds, “And I’m using your fancy body wash. The expensive one.”
You chuckle under your breath. “So long as you smell like me by the end of it, I won’t complain.”
He winks, already backing toward the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he disappears behind the door.
You exhale slowly. Your heart is thudding so hard it echoes in your ears, and your reflection is practically glowing with excitement, nerves, and disbelief.
He took the ring. He’s taking you out to dinner. And yet, you still don’t know.
But God, you hope.
-
The city glides by in a blur of golden streetlights and muted reflections in the car windows. Seungmin’s hand rests on the wheel, his other on the gearshift, navigating familiar roads with the kind of effortless ease that only comes from years of doing life together. You sit in the passenger seat, hands folded on your lap, your eyes darting to the glowing dashboard clock—7:08 PM.
He hasn’t said where you’re going so you try to puzzle it out in your head, thinking through every restaurant the two of you have been to. If it’s the Italian place downtown, maybe it’s just a regular Friday night date. But if he’s heading toward the hills, toward the rooftop spots or places with skyline views, then maybe— You shake your head and try to stay calm.
The hum of the engine fills the silence between the two of you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just… charged. And then the car slows, stopping at a red light.
Seungmin glances over at you, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He reaches out and takes your hand gently, bringing it to his lips to kiss the back of it. The touch is soft and thoughtful. He doesn’t say anything at first, just laces his fingers through yours and holds on. Then, casually, like he’s not slowly unravelling you, he asks, “You hungry?”
You swallow the nerves that are caught in your throat and manage a nod, smiling back. “Actually? Famished.”
At that, Seungmin pulls a dramatic face and squints at you. “Don’t tell me that’s because you drank your weight in pomegranate spritz before dinner.”
You wince with a small laugh, but this time, instead of teasing him back like you normally would, you just shake your head and bite your tongue. You’re afraid if you say too much, he’ll notice the way your voice shakes. The way your hands keep fidgeting in your lap. The way your eyes keep drifting to the glove compartment where, maybe, a ring box might be tucked away. So, you stay quiet.
Seungmin just squeezes your hand gently, his thumb brushing along your knuckles, and keeps his eyes on the road. Just then, the light turns green and the car moves forward.
Belle Vue. It's the restaurant. The kind of place where people wear tailored suits and sleek dresses and speak in hushed tones over candlelight and wine that costs more than your electricity bill.
Seungmin pulls up to the valet, shifts the car into park, and glances over at you. His expression is unreadable, calm in that effortlessly cool way he always is. You school your face into something neutral just as the valet opens your door.
“Good evening,” the young man says, and murmur a thank-you as you step out, smoothing your dress and clutching your purse a little tighter than necessary.
Seungmin walks around the car, handing the keys over with a quick nod before he turns back to you and reaches for your hand. And together, you walk into the restaurant and the maître d’ looks up with a smile as you approach.
“Reservation under Seungmin Kim,” Seungmin says smoothly.
The host glances at the list, nods, and gestures with a polite smile. “Right this way.”
You trail after him, heart pounding in your chest like it’s trying to beat out the truth. The restaurant is beautiful and intimate. Each table lit by the soft flicker of candlelight, crystal glassware gleaming, then the host stops.
Your table is by the window. The one that offers a stunning view of the city skyline, glittering like a dream just outside the glass. It's the kind of table people book months in advance. The kind of table people get proposed to at. You sit down slowly and carefully, like one wrong move might shatter the moment.
Seungmin takes the seat across from you and thanks the host, who gives a small bow before slipping away.
The signs are everywhere. The view. The reservation. The tone of the night. You barely hear Seungmin when he speaks. “Are you okay?”
You glance up to find him watching you. Not suspiciously, but curiously. Like he knows something’s off. You laugh too softly and wave it off with a smile. “I think it’s the pomegranate spritz. I drank too much while getting ready.”
He squints at you, giving you that signature unimpressed look. “I told you not to drink before dinner.”
You flash a grin, but your fingers tighten slightly around your water glass. “I know. I deserve the lecture.”
He lets it go with a mock sigh and leans back in his seat, casually scanning the menu as if he didn’t just lead you into the most romantic restaurant in the city on a Friday night, sitting across from you looking godly attractive and every bit the man you’ve built a life with.
You nod to yourself, trying to stay composed, but even as the waiter comes by and pours water into your glasses, all you can think is: This could be it.
-
Dinner flows surprisingly well, despite the nerves bubbling just under your skin. Seungmin, as always, is composed. He’s cutting into his entrée with the same precision he approaches everything. He tells you about a new case at work, one that’s been dragging for weeks, and you listen with your chin propped on your hand, your glass of wine untouched for the past few minutes.
The conversation slips easily from work, to life, to a recent player transfer on his favorite baseball team. His voice lights up when he talks about it, and you smile at the familiar passion in his tone—the way he gets animated about stats, potential lineups, strategy.
And then, mid-sentence, he pauses and looks at you. Really looks at you. “You look beautiful tonight,” he says softly.
A smile tugs at your lips as you glance down at your dress. “I snagged the last one in the boutique. Lucky find.”
Seungmin shakes his head slowly. “It’s not the dress. It’s you,” he says. “You look beautiful tonight.”
You’ve received compliments from him before. Lots of them. Casual, playful, sincere. But this one… this one land differently. Maybe it’s the quiet conviction in his voice. Or the way his hand reaches across the table and wraps around yours, fingers fitting together like they always do. Maybe it’s the way his eyes hold yours—tender, thoughtful, like he’s memorizing the moment.
You smile, cheeks warming as you gently squeeze his hand. And then you let your eyes roam over him, fully appreciating the sight before you. Seungmin in a tailored black suit, his white shirt perfectly crisp beneath it, collar resting just right to frame the sharp line of his jaw.
“Look at you,” you murmur, letting your voice drop just enough. “Sitting there looking like a main entrée.”
You smirk as you lower your voice and teasingly add, “I can’t wait to take that white shirt off of you tonight.”
Seungmin leans back in his seat, giving you a slow, dangerous grin. “Let's see if you're lucky tonight.”
You grin back at him, playful and smug, but your heart is racing now—not because of the banter, but because the night is almost over.
As the waiter reappears and begins clearing the plates, he asks, “Are you ready for dessert?”
You barely register the question as you're lost in your head. “Excuse me,” you say quickly, offering a polite smile as you slide your chair back. “I need to go to the restroom.”
Seungmin nods, lifting your hand for a brief kiss before letting you go. “Don’t take too long.”
You nod as you get up from your seat. But as you walk toward the restrooms, your stomach twists. The dinner is nearly over and if he’s going to do it—if tonight is the night—then it’s happening soon.
In the restroom, you lean over the sink, both hands braced on the cool marble countertop, staring at your reflection in the mirror. You look stunning—anyone would say that. But your face is tense, your eyes a little too wide, your lips pressed tightly together like you’re holding in a thousand thoughts that don’t have anywhere to go. You inhale. Exhale. Shake out your hands like you’re about to give a keynote speech in front of a thousand people.
This is ridiculous. You’re not even sure if it’s happening tonight. Still, the nerves are real. Palpable. You reach for your purse to find your lipstick, but instead, your fingers brush against your phone. And before you can talk yourself out of it, you tap Marion’s name and press it to your ear.
She doesn’t pick up on the first call. You curse under your breath and hit redial, pacing a slow circle around the restroom. This time, she answers, slightly breathless. “Sorry! I missed the first call—I’m having dinner with Leo. What’s up?”
You don’t even hesitate and blurt out. “I think Seungmin’s going to propose tonight.”
There’s a pause and then a sudden shuffle on the other end of the line. You hear her muffled voice excusing herself before a door shuts in the background, and then—
WHAT?” Marion says quickly. “Now tell me everything. Start from the top.”
You press a hand to your forehead. “Okay, so… he called me this afternoon out of nowhere. Said we’re having dinner tonight. Wouldn’t tell me where. Just that it’s a surprise.”
Marion gasps.
“And then,” you continue, pacing again, “I was getting ready and I—okay, I checked the linen closet. The ring box’s not there anymore. It’s gone.”
“Oh my god.”
“And then he takes me to Belle Vue. Best seat in the house. Full skyline view.” You glance at your reflection again, voice growing quiet. “And the way he looked at me tonight, Marion… I don’t know. It felt like something. Something big.”
There’s a beat of silence before Marion lets out a shriek of joy so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “I KNEW IT! I knew he was going to propose soon! Everything—literally everything—makes sense!”
You laugh, nerves bubbling over again. “But I... I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”
“Girl,” Marion says, her voice dropping into dead-serious mode, “he took the ring out of the closet. He brought you to a place that takes a month to book. And he’s looking at you like you hung the stars. What else could it be?”
You rub your temple, heart racing. “What do I even do if he does?”
“You keep breathing,” Marion says firmly. “You apply a fresh coat of lipstick. Fix your hair. And start practicing your surprised-but-still-glowy-yes-face.”
You snort softly. “Right.”
“I’m serious! I expect a full report by the end of the night. Don’t you dare leave me hanging.”
“Okay, okay,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “Love you. Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need it. Just say yes.” She hangs up with one final squeal, and you sigh as you slip your phone back into your purse.
You want to brush it off, laugh it away. But… maybe there’s nothing wrong in being prepared. So you do exactly what Marion said. You blot and reapply your lipstick. Fluff your hair. Practice your smile in the mirror and feel your heart flutter in your chest. You take a final breath to steady yourself, then step out of the restroom and walk slowly, carefully, back toward your table.
Seungmin’s already there, sitting tall with his black suit pristine under the golden glow of the restaurant lights. He looks up the second you appear and smiles. “There you are,” he says. “Dessert’s here.”
You return his smile as gracefully as you can manage and settle back into your seat, murmuring a polite thanks to the server as they place a second silver spoon beside your plate.
The dessert is gorgeous. Artfully plated with swirls of ganache, caramel glass, and something delicate and dusted with powdered sugar. The kind of thing that would usually make you beam with delight. You take a bite and it’s perfect. Silky, rich, melt-on-your-tongue perfect. And yet, your stomach is still in knots.
The air around you feels like it’s waiting for something. Like you’re waiting for something. You sit quietly, your spoon gliding through the dessert, letting yourself hope for just a few more seconds.
Seungmin glances at you from across the table. Then he chuckles. “You got real quiet.”
“It’s the dessert,” you say, forcing a small smile. “Too good to talk through.”
He nods, still smiling, like nothing’s out of the ordinary. And then, his hand disappears into the inner pocket of his jacket.
This is it. This has to be it. Your heart skips. Your whole body stills. You watch, barely breathing, your fingers tightening around your spoon as he pulls something from behind the lapel.
But it’s not a velvet box. It’s his card wallet. He places it on the table, sliding the bill check toward himself. “Figured I’ll take care of it now,” he says casually, flipping it open to slip in his card.
And just like that, the illusion unravels. The anticipation that’s been building all night collapses into the hollow space behind your ribs. You lower your eyes to your plate and push another bite of dessert into your mouth just to keep your expression from cracking.
You’re not sure what disappoints you more—that it didn’t happen… or that you let yourself believe it would. You manage a small smile, nodding at nothing in particular as he chats with the waiter. Because this is just a regular night. Just dinner. Just dessert. And the ring? Whatever it was… maybe it was never for tonight at all.
-
The night air is cooler now, the city buzzing gently in the background as you and Seungmin make your way back to the car. He opens the passenger door for you like he always does, and you slip inside quietly, your mind still reeling from the way dinner ended in… nothing.
You fasten your seatbelt, settling in, trying not to let disappointment cling too heavily to your skin. You glance at him as he gets in on the driver’s side, buckles his own belt, and starts the engine.
Before Seungmin shifts the gear into drive, he pauses. He turns to look at you and with that same soft gaze from earlier, calm but with the slightest hint of mischief. Then, he says: “You ready for the real surprise?”
Your fingers still on your lap as your heart stutters. “There’s more?”
He just smiles and for a moment, you don’t say anything. You’re careful now, cautious—wary. You don’t want to spiral again. You don’t want to go through another round of quiet expectations and louder disappointment. But it’s already happening, isn’t it?
Because maybe he didn’t mean to propose at the restaurant. Maybe he wants somewhere more private. More personal. Somewhere it’s just the two of you. Your thoughts start spinning all over again, and just like that… your hopes are up.
You exhale a little laugh, eyes flicking over to him as you lean back against the headrest. “Should I be nervous?”
Seungmin grins as he puts the car in gear, easing the vehicle into motion. “You’ll see.”
You glance at him as he drives, trying to read something from the side of his face. His lips curve in a satisfied little smirk, like he’s proud of himself—like he’s planned something sweet and thoughtful. You want to match his energy, you really do, but your mind is moving too fast.
The car eventually slows in front of a low-lit building, all glass windows and minimalist signage. You squint at it through the windshield—it looks closed. Not a single light flickers inside.
You frown, confused, but Seungmin just turns off the ignition and steps out like he knows exactly what he’s doing. You follow, heels quiet on the pavement. “What is this place?”
“Trust me. You'll love it,” he says with a small grin, already walking ahead.
The door is shut. The hallway inside is dark, empty. You hesitate as he holds it open for you, a hand gently placed on the small of your back as he leads you inside. And then, the door at the end of the hallway opens, spilling warm golden light into the shadows, and a man greets you with a polite smile. “Welcome. Right this way.”
Seungmin glances back at you, still grinning. “Surprise.”
You follow the waiter down a flight of velvet-covered steps, into the glow of a dimly lit jazz club tucked secretly beneath the city. A stage glows at the center, a band tuning their instruments, the soft rustle of glassware and hushed laughter scattered across booths and tables.
Seungmin’s hand remains on your back as he follows close behind, guiding you into a cozy, curved booth lit by a single low-hanging lamp. As you settle in, the scent of citrus and woodsmoke and fresh linen lingers in the air.
The ambiance. The music. The romantic lighting. You take it all in and despite everything—despite how beautiful it is, how thoughtful it is—you feel a dull ache press against your chest. Because this was supposed to be the night. Because you once mentioned in passing how you wanted to come here, how you read about the craft cocktails and the underground ambiance and Seungmin remembered. But… that’s all it is. Just a surprise date night. Just thoughtful. Not life-changing.
He turns to you, resting his arm on the back of the booth. “Do you like it?”
You look up at him and manage a small. “I love it.”
But Seungmin studies you for a second longer than you’re comfortable with. He’s too smart, too attentive not to notice. “You don’t look like you love it,” he murmurs, brow creasing.
You panic a little—not wanting to ruin the moment, not wanting him to feel like he failed at something he worked hard to plan. So you lean forward and pull him in by his collar, kissing him with more emotion than you planned. It’s soft, deep, thankful—and just a little desperate.
“Thank you,” you whisper as you pull back, your hand still on his cheek. “Really. I love it.”
His eyes search yours for another beat and then he smiles, wide and bright, as if you’ve successfully reassured him.
You lean back into your seat, brushing your fingers along the rim of the menu in front of you. “So…” you say, raising a brow. “Does it mean I can have as many cocktails as I want?”
Seungmin lets out a quiet laugh. “Of course,” he says, already flagging down a server. “That’s one of the perks of dating someone as responsible and reliable as me.”
The way he says it with that cocky grin that first won your heart makes you smile despite the weight in your chest. You order something strong and pretty, something with a salted rim and citrus notes. You sip your first drink slowly, savoring the taste as much as the dull numbness it brings because tonight didn’t turn out the way you thought it would.
And you still love him. You still want him.
-
You wake up late the next morning, the light already soft and golden through the curtains. Your head aches faintly, a dull throb behind your eyes, and your mouth feels dry from the cocktails the night before. You roll onto your side, rubbing the sleep off your eyes before getting up.
The moment you step out of the bedroom, you immediately spot Seungmin standing by the stove. He’s still in his navy sweater from the night before, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair is a mess, sticking up in uneven tufts, and his face is bare, just the soft kind of beautiful you’ve only ever seen when it’s just the two of you.
He glances up and catches your eyes. A smile tugs at his lips as he sweetly greets you. “Morning, sleepyhead. Breakfast will be ready soon.”
You hum in reply and have a seat in the dining table. You prop your chin in your hand, watching him move around the kitchen.
He’s calm, efficient, pouring eggs into a pan, flipping toast, sliding cabinet drawers open with ease. He turns back a minute later with a steaming cup in his hand and walks over to you. “Here,” he says gently, leaning down and holding it out. “Coffee first.”
You take the mug from him with both hands, and before you can say anything, he reaches up and cups your face with one warm hand, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Hungover, mmh?” he murmurs with a knowing smile.
You pout, lips pushing out as you nod.
His touch lingers as he brushes your hair behind your ear, gaze full of amusement and affection. “Do you want something for the headache?”
You give him another nod.
He leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of your head, fingers curling softly around the back of your neck. “I’ll go get it.”
You watch him stand and walk off toward the bathroom, his socked feet padding lightly against the floor. And you feel… small. Not in a bad way. In a protected way. Cradled. Cared for.
In that moment, sitting there in his sweater, with the warmth of the cup of coffee seeping into your hands, your head foggy from the night before, you ask yourself how you could possibly be mad at someone who treats you like this.
It isn’t his fault. He didn’t promise anything. He never gave you reason to believe it would happen last night. That was all you. All your wishful thinking, your hope spun too tightly around small signs. You expected something that didn’t belong to a timeline, something he might be holding onto for later.
You hear him returning before you see him. His steps light but steady, then the faint clink of a glass in his hand. He appears by your side, holding a small white pill and a glass of water.
“Here you go,” he says, handing them over.
You take the ibuprofen and pop it onto your tongue, then chase it down with a long sip of water.
Seungmin watches you quietly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. When you hand the glass back to him, he sets it on the table. Then, without a word, he gently pats the top of your head, his fingers trailing lightly through your hair. “Good girl,” he murmurs with playful affection. “Took it like a champ.”
Your lips curl into a soft smile, heart fluttering at the way he’s looking at you right now—fond, warm, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. His fingers linger, gently caressing your temple.
You gaze up at him and say with a quiet, almost bashful smile, “I feel better already.”
And despite everything you’re holding in, you mean it. Even if your chest still aches, even if the ring never left his pocket, even if last night didn’t turn out the way you dreamed. Right now, with Seungmin beside you like this, brushing your hair and taking care of you with such ease, it’s enough.
Even if it still hurts a little.
-
The scent of freshly baked pastries and espresso greet you as you step into the café. It’s a bright Sunday morning, but you keep your face composed even though you know exactly why Marion asked to meet today. She hasn’t said it outright, but her texts were filled with excited emojis and vague exclamation points. And you’ve been dodging her calls since yesterday. She’s convinced she knows what happened Friday night. And you? You’re still trying to push the embarrassment down far enough not to wear it on your face.
You stop to scan the room and there she is, already seated by the window, her smile wide and warm as she waves both hands at you. You smile back and walk over, forcing your expression into something sunny and relaxed. She stands to hug you the second you’re close, and you go through the familiar motions—press cheek to cheek, squeeze briefly, sit across from her as if everything is normal.
“Hi, you look amazing,” Marion says, practically glowing. “I’ve missed you.”
You chuckle softly and nod. “Missed you too.”
Before she can get a word in, you flag down a waiter, already pointing at the brunch menu. “Let’s order right away. I’m starving.”
You buy yourself a few more minutes, drinking from your water, nodding when she makes a comment about the décor, but it doesn’t last long.
Once the waiter walks away, Marion leans forward with that signature glint in her eyes. “So,” she begins carefully, “how are you?”
You breathe in. Smile. “I’m good— Great. You?”
“I’m… I’m good,” she says, then breaks into that smile, a little brighter than usual. The one that radiates something new, something big, and then—she lifts her left hand.
Your eyes fall to it instantly. A delicate diamond glints under the light, elegant and perfectly set. Your breath stills.
“He proposed,” she beams, barely holding back a squeal. “Leo proposed last night.”
“Oh,” you say, stunned. “Marion…”
“We were just having dinner at home!” she continues, talking quickly, hands flying. “Like nothing out of the ordinary. He made pasta and opened a bottle of wine and then—God—I turned around and he was on one knee. I thought he dropped something! I literally asked him if he lost a contact lens.”
You laugh, even though it catches a little in your throat. “That’s so Leo.”
“I cried like a baby. It was so us. No big gesture, no fancy restaurant. Just home. And him. And this.” She gestures again to the ring, her fingers shaking slightly.
You nod, trying to swallow around the sudden lump forming in your throat. “It’s beautiful. I’m so happy for you.”
And you mean it. You do. But your chest still aches.
Marion reaches across the table and takes your hands. “We’re both going to be brides,” she says, glowing. “Can you believe it?”
Something in you cracks. Just a little. You try to smile, try not to let it show, but she sees it. Marion always sees it.
“Wait. Did… did it not happen?”
You pause and then, softly, you shake your head. “No. He didn’t propose.”
“Oh…” Her voice quiets. “I thought—”
“I did too,” you say honestly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I found the ring, remember? In the linen closet. And then he planned that whole night. The dinner. The jazz club. It just… I really thought…” You trail off, eyes fixed on the table.
Marion squeezes your hands tightly. “Hey. That doesn’t mean he’s not going to.”
You smile at her, small and tired. “I know. I just… I shouldn’t have assumed. That was my mistake.”
“No,” she says firmly. “No, that’s not a mistake. Anyone would’ve thought the same. And maybe he’s just—taking his time. Planning something special.”
You nod, because it’s the kind thing to do. “Yeah. Maybe. And if not… that’s okay too.”
Marion scoffs. “Please. This is Seungmin we’re talking about. Of course he’ll propose to you. The guy practically worships you.”
You want to believe her. You do. But you don’t say anything—just press her hand, smile, and try your best not to let your heart show.
“You know what? Let's ditch the coffee,” Marion says as she gestures the nearest waiter hanging around the table. “Let's order sweet cocktails with the umbrellas.”
-
You come home with your arms full of shopping bags and a headache that the brunch cocktails didn’t manage to blur out. Your shoes click softly against the floor as you step inside the apartment, eyes briefly flicking toward the living room where Seungmin’s seated cross-legged on the couch, a controller in hand, the screen flashing with bright movement from whatever game he’s playing.
Glancing over his shoulder with a grin, he calls out, “Did you buy the entire mall?”
You don’t answer. Not even a smile. You head straight to the bedroom. The bags thump softly as you drop them near the closet, shedding your jacket and slipping off your shoes like they suddenly weigh too much. You feel too tired to process your thoughts—your conversation with Marion still ringing in your ears, the ring still nowhere in sight, your emotions swinging too close to the edge.
A few moments later, you hear Seungmin’s footsteps approaching. He leans against the doorframe for a beat, watching you, then steps into the room and sits on the edge of the bed. He peeks into one of the bags like a curious cat. “So… how was brunch? Did you have fun?”
“Mm-hmm,” you reply, voice flat as you pull your sweater over your head and toss it aside. “It was fine.”
Seungmin hums, clearly sensing something but not pressing—yet. He reaches into one of the shopping bags and pulls out a folded piece of delicate fabric. “Ooh,” he says, lifting the silky nightdress with a playful raise of his eyebrows. “Nice pick. Are you wearing this tonight?”
You manage a soft chuckle and shake your head. “Maybe.” You take it gently from his hands and tuck it back into the bag.
Seungmin watches you for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Did something happen?”
“Nothing,” you lie, forcing a thin smile.
But he’s already moving. He reaches for your wrist just as you bend to lift the shopping bags again, tugging you gently toward him. The bags slip from your fingers and land on the floor with a soft thud as he pulls you into his lap.
Seungmin wraps his arms around you as if you’re something precious and fragile, his hand brushing your hair away from your face. “What’s wrong, baby?” he asks again, voice low, gentle.
You hesitate because a part of you want to say it. You want to ask about the ring, the night that didn’t go how you expected. But the fear of sounding demanding coils around your throat like a knot. So instead, you ask the one question that’s been sitting quietly in your heart: “Do you love me?”
Seungmin blinks, startled. And then, with a teasing smile, “You bought all this and none of it is for me? My love just dropped a point.”
You smack his chest—not hard, but enough to make your point. “Be serious,” you whine, your voice tight and unexpectedly shaky. “Please.”
His expression softens immediately. “Hey, hey…” he pats your head, chuckling lightly. “Who are you and what did you do to my girlfriend?”
You smack his chest again, harder this time.
He yelps, but a smile still tugs at his lips. Then, gently cupping your face in both hands, he studies you closely. “You’re not acting like you. You’re usually the one giving me affirmations in the middle of the day. What’s going on?”
You look at him and almost say it. But instead, you shake your head and murmur, “Just answer the question.”
He exhales and smiles at you. The kind of smile that makes everything feel okay for a second. His eyes never leave yours. “Of course I love you,” he says quietly, sincerely. “You know I do.”
And then he leans in and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. “I love you,” he repeats, like a promise.
You can feel how much he means it. In the way he holds you. The way your heart stutters just hearing the words from his mouth. But before you can melt completely, he pulls back just enough to flash a cheeky smile. “I’ll love you more if you put on that silk dress, though.”
You swat his shoulder—aiming for it, at least—but your hand lands on his jaw instead. He yelps again, a hand flying up to cradle it. “Ow! That hurts!”
“Oh, don’t be a baby,” you laugh, leaning in to kiss the spot. “It didn’t even hurt.”
“It did, actually,” he pouts dramatically, but he holds your waist tighter, tilting his head slightly to give you better access as your lips trail a few more apologetic kisses along his jaw. Then, gently, your lips find his again. This time, slower. Sweeter.
After everything, this is what you needed. His arms. His quiet, unshakable love. You pull away just enough to look into his eyes. “I love you,” you whisper, this time with everything in you.
Seungmin’s smile is soft and full of warmth. Then he presses his forehead to yours. “I know,” he murmurs.
In that moment, it really is enough. Even if your heart still carries a tiny, unspoken ache.
-
Later that night, you’re wrapped in the familiar quiet of your bedroom, the soft hum of the air conditioning barely audible under the weight of your slow breathing. Seungmin lies behind you, one arm slung lazily around your waist, his fingers tracing light shapes over the silk fabric of your nightdress—the one you didn’t plan on wearing tonight but somehow ended up in anyway. You shift slightly, pressing your back closer to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath against your shoulder.
He presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “Comfortable?”
You hum your answer, your eyes fluttering shut. “Mhm. Yeah.”
He chuckles softly, the sound warm against your skin. “Guess I’ll have to ruin that.”
His hand slides along your waist, slow and teasing, until it finds your bare thigh peeking through the slit of your nightdress. He palms the skin there gently, his touch both grounding and electrifying. You turn slightly toward him, enough to meet his gaze in the soft light of the bedside lamp.
There’s something about the way he’s looking at you like you’re something to be cherished and devoured all at once. You lean in, brushing your lips over his, and he doesn’t hesitate to respond. The kiss deepens easily, naturally, as if the day hadn’t worn on you at all. His fingers curl around your hip, guiding you closer, pulling you into his space until you’re tangled together, mouths moving in sync, breathes shared and stolen between kisses.
The silk of your nightdress shifts under his touch, soft fabric slipping aside as his hands roam with purpose, memorizing the curves he already knows by heart. You gasp softly against his lips when his thigh presses between yours, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt, tugging at it with unspoken need.
“You're so hot. How can I not love you?” he whispers, just barely, his voice thick and quiet.
You breathlessly giggle as you're threading your fingers through his hair as he begins to kiss lower, trailing heat down the curve of your throat and over your collarbone. And in the stillness of your shared space, with limbs entwined and hearts laid bare, you let go of everything else. Because in this moment, it’s only him. Only you. Only love.
The room is quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the shared breaths between your lips as your mouths meet again, slow and deep and unhurried. Seungmin propped on one elbow as he's leaning over you with that familiar half-smile playing at his lips—the one that always makes your chest ache in the best way. His hand roams beneath the silk nightdress, slow and deliberate, brushing over your waist, your hip, until it finds its way between your thighs.
You suck in a sharp breath against his mouth as his fingers move lower, his touch gentle but firm, and entirely sure of you.
“Still comfortable?” he murmurs, the words laced with teasing as he palms your clothed sex, his thumb easily tracing your bundle of nerves through the flimsy fabric.
You nod, breathless, your fingers gripping his bicep beneath the fabric of his shirt. “Too comfortable,” you whisper, echoing his earlier words with a shaky laugh.
He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower still. His fingers never stop moving against the dampness forming on your underwear, his touch slow and coaxing, driving you quietly out of your mind. He knows your body—knows how to build you up with the softest strokes, how to make your toes curl and your breath catch without a single word.
Your body arches slightly, your head falling back against the pillow as he whispers something against your skin—words that are low and loving, and just a little cocky.
You barely register them because all you know is the warmth curling low in your stomach, the way he’s making you unravel piece by piece while holding you so close, as if you might disappear if he didn’t.
Seungmin continues his exploration, fingers circling on your clit—slow and steady—until you’re clutching the sheets and gasping his name like it’s the only word you remember.
Your breath is uneven, your cheek resting against the pillow as your body melts into the mattress. You feel Seungmin’s weight shift beside you, then the soft press of his lips against your shoulder.
He trails more kisses along your skin, slow and unhurried, until he’s hovering above you, his chest brushing against your back, warm and solid. One of his hands remains on your heating wetness, still touching you, fingers moving with knowing precision, making you shiver despite the heat of his body. “You’re not tired yet, are you?” he murmurs against your neck, the smile in his voice unmistakable.
You let out a quiet laugh, breathless. “Should I be?”
Instead of answering, he presses a slow kiss to the base of your neck, his hand moving just a little firmer now, drawing another soft sound from your throat. Then you feel his hips settling closer, the subtle grind of him against you, the heat of his arousal unmistakable even through the layers of fabric still between you.
He doesn’t say anything, just breathes against your skin, letting his body do the talking. The slow, steady roll of his hips, the way he fits against you, the heat, the hardness. You squirm beneath him, not to escape but to tease back, and he groans low in his throat—a sound that sinks into your bones.
“You drive me crazy,” he whispers, voice rough now, his hand still moving, coaxing every bit of response from you as his hips grind against you again, slower this time, deliberate.
You tilt your head slightly to the side, glancing at him from over your shoulder, your lips parted, your body flushed and pliant beneath his. He meets your eyes and there's no more teasing in his expression. Only want. Only love. And the soft weight of him above you feels like the safest place in the world.
You hum softly as Seungmin’s lips continue their gentle exploration of your shoulder and neck, each kiss fluttering against your skin like a secret. His hand never leaves your body, drifting across your stomach before inching lower again. Then, with a breathy chuckle against your ear, he murmurs, “I take it back.”
You smile, eyes still closed. “Take what back?”
“This nightdress,” he says, his voice low and teasing as his fingers slip beneath the hem and slowly tug it upward. “I hate it.”
A laugh bubbles from your throat, soft and breathless, as he continues, “Hate it so much.”
The fabric slides higher as his hands move with purpose, and you oblige with a grin, pushing yourself up slightly so your back meets his chest. You tilt your head against his shoulder, lifting your arms in silent invitation. He takes the cue without hesitation, sliding the dress up and over, tossing it somewhere off the bed without even looking.
Warm hands return to your bare skin immediately, greedy and reverent. He touches you like he’s missed you—even though you’ve been right here the entire time. Fingers trace every familiar curve, rediscovering you with a tenderness that contradicts the hunger simmering in his breath.
His hands come to rest on your chest, cupping your breasts in his hands with gentle insistence, his palms hot against your skin. You gasp as his thumbs brush softly over your sensitive nipples, and your body melts further into his. He leans in, mouth seeking the spot just below your jawline, where he nips and sucks, leaving behind the echo of his affection in the form of wet heat and marks.
You feel boneless in his arms, pliant and undone, every breath you take shivering out of you as he holds you like something he never plans to let go of.
He groans softly against your neck, his hands never still. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
But you do. You feel it in every kiss. Every touch. And as you press your hand over his where it rests on your chest, you whisper back, “I think I do.”
With that, you lower yourself onto the bed, the sheets cool against your warmed skin as Seungmin’s hands glide down your sides slowly, reverently. His fingers catch the edge of your underwear, and in one fluid motion, he eases it down and off, leaving you bare beneath his gaze.
He shifts above you, mouth returning to the soft skin of your neck, where he plants teasing kisses and playful nibbles. You giggle when his breath tickles your ear, your shoulder curling slightly as you squirm beneath him, not from discomfort but anticipation.
“Seungmin...” you whisper out of want, need.
His response is another kiss—this one pressed just below your ear—and then he begins to trail down your spine, every slow kiss leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. When he reaches the curve of your back, his hands settle on your hips, his thumbs stroking slow circles before sliding lower.
You feel him—hot and hard—pressed against your wet cunt, not quite pushing forward, just teasing. Testing. His grip tightens ever so slightly, and you gasp when he slips his cock in between and rubbing it against your wetness, giving just enough to make your breath hitch but not enough to satisfy.
“Seungmin,” you whisper, breath trembling. “Please…”
His chuckle is low and indulgent as he leans in, mouth brushing over your ear again. “So needy for me,” he murmurs, almost amused. “How can I not love you?”
And finally, finally, he gives in. He pushes his cock inside you slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving to where his length disappearing into you, savoring the way you take him inch by inch. The breath you release is a stuttering moan, muffled into the pillow beneath you, your hands clutching the sheets as your body adjusts to him.
It stays like that for a moment and when Seungmin deems you're ready for more, he begins moving with the kind of rhythm that feels both intentional and instinctive like he knows your body as well as his own, knows every subtle shift in your breath and how to pull the sweetest sounds from your lips.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, your skin tingling with every deep thrust, and when you turn your head to look at him, he meets your gaze—his dark eyes full of heat and tenderness. That look alone nearly undoes you.
“Seungmin, baby, you feel so good inside me...” you mewl as you look at him with half-lidded eyes.
Without needing to hear it, he can tell just from reading the expression on your face, the way your body arches into his, how your voice catches every time he hits that perfect spot. And he responds the way only he can—his pace changing without warning, suddenly fast, then slowing again just enough to tease, to keep you on edge, to build that need higher. He’s loving you like it’s everything he knows how to do—with devotion in every movement, and passion in every kiss he leaves along your skin.
By the time he finds that final rhythm—deep, fast, overwhelming—you’re a breathless mess beneath him, your moans spilling out freely, loud and broken, as the bed rocks beneath the intensity of it all. You don’t even care anymore if the neighbors hear. He’s lost in it too, letting out low, desperate sounds against your skin, his grip on your hips tightening as if he’s trying to hold on just a little longer.
When the wave crashes, it takes both of you with it.
Seungmin buries himself deep one last time before letting go, his body trembling slightly as he spills his seed inside you, collapsing against your back as the weight of his pleasure and exhaustion hits him all at once. His chest heaves against you, damp skin pressed to yours, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing and the faint rustle of sheets.
You turn your head just enough to find him, to brush your lips to his. He kisses you back slowly, softly, like he’s still catching his breath. And then, in the quiet that follows, you whisper against his lips, “I love you.”
He doesn’t need to say it back right away—you can feel it in the way he kisses you again, in the way he shifts just enough to hold you better, closer. But then, you hear it anyway—soft and sincere, right against your temple. “I love you so much.”
And in that moment, with your bodies tangled and your hearts bare, it’s all you need.
-
The kitchen is a delightful mess—flour dusted across the countertops, chocolate smudged on your wrist, and a mixing bowl dangerously close to tipping off the edge of the sink. You and Marion are both slightly tipsy, giggling over a cocktail shaker that’s lost its lid mid-shake and sent droplets of raspberry gin fizz onto the cabinets.
“Are we even doing this right?” Marion asks, peering into the brownie batter as you try to fold in the chocolate chunks without splashing anything else.
You shrug, your cheeks flushed from laughter and the alcohol. “I mean, if the batter tastes this good, the final result can’t be that bad.”
Marion dips a spoon in and tastes it with a dramatic moan. “Yeah, you’re right.”
You’re both laughing again, this time harder, and she almost knocks over the tray as you slide it into the oven. You set a timer, then lean against the counter, clinking your glass gently with hers.
“To very serious bakers,” you toast.
“And to very responsible drinking,” she adds with a wink.
Once you both settle on the floor with a throw pillow each, the buzz mellowing into that warm, glowy feeling, Marion sighs and rests her head back against the cupboard. “I can’t believe I’m getting married.”
You glance over and smile. “I can. You and Leo are disgustingly perfect.”
She snorts. “We’re just… learning. Growing. Like… I don’t know, good wine or something.” Then she quiets for a second, her voice softening. “I didn’t think I’d feel like this. All the clichés? They’re real. I’ll see him in the kitchen making coffee and suddenly I’m like, ‘God, I want to spend the rest of my life watching this man make terrible pour-overs.’”
Your laugh is soft this time, fond. “I’m really happy for you, Mar.”
She turns to you, eyes shining a little. “And I’m so happy you’re my maid of honor.”
Your chest warms at the words. “I’m going to be the best maid of honor ever. Just watch.”
She grins wide. “And threaten Leo with bodily harm if he ever makes me cry.”
You toast your nearly empty glass with hers again. “That’s a given.”
There’s a pause, a comfortable one, and then Marion leans her head gently against your shoulder. “You’ll be next,” she murmurs.
You don’t say anything right away. Just smile and keep looking at the oven, the faint ticking of the timer filling the silence. You don’t need to answer—not tonight.
Once brownies has cooled down, you take the first bite of the brownie and blink in disbelief. “Wait… why is this actually good?”
Marion’s eyes widen as she chews her own piece. “Did we accidentally summon domestic goddess energy?”
You both laugh, mouths full of gooey chocolate, your cocktail glasses sitting mostly forgotten on the coffee table. The brownies have that perfect crispy edge with a soft, fudge-like center, and it feels like an accomplishment far beyond its baking difficulty—maybe because it’s wrapped in the comfort of laughter, drinks, and easy friendship.
But as the minutes pass and Marion continues sipping, then pouring a little too enthusiastically, it becomes clear that your best friend is crossing the line from tipsy to gone. Her cheeks are flushed, her head wobbles when she moves, and she’s singing along to a song playing from her phone in a voice so off-key, it’s almost impressive.
You, a little lightheaded yourself, shake your head with a smile. “Marion,” you say gently, nudging her. “It’s not even ten-thirty.”
“I’m great,” she declares, wobbling as she tries to stand. “I feel like I could plan a wedding and solve world peace right now.”
“Mhm,” you mutter, looping an arm around her shoulders when she stumbles again. “Let’s aim for just making it to your bedroom without breaking anything.”
She slumps into you, leaning heavily as you walk her slowly down the hall. “You know what we should do?” she says, her words slurring slightly. “We should totally get pregnant together.”
You pause mid-step. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Yeah,” she continues dreamily. “Me and you. Pregnant together. Baby bumps and morning sickness and matching diaper bags. Our babies can have playdates and grow up to be best friends like us.”
You snort, half laughing, half trying not to tip over. “That’s a very... ambitious plan.”
Marion nods solemnly. “Synchronize our cycles. Manifest the future.”
“Okay, Drunk Oracle,” you say, trying not to laugh too hard. “Let’s just start with you getting to the bed.”
You manage to get her onto the mattress in one final push. She immediately curls up into a fetal position, already half-asleep. You pull the duvet over her gently and take a moment to look at her soft, peaceful expression—marriage-bound, impossibly hopeful, and dreaming of coordinated pregnancies and pastel nursery paint.
You reach out to brush a bit of hair from her face and sigh, not entirely sure what to feel. The air is still warm with laughter, but there's a quiet twinge in your chest. You flick off the bedside lamp, casting the room in darkness, and close the door behind you.
With Marion already tucked into bed, you're left with the cleaning task to yourself. You sigh before moving around Marion’s kitchen, cleaning up the mess the two of you made earlier. There’s flour dusted across the counter like a fine layer of snow, smears of chocolate batter dried onto the mixing bowl, and spatulas sitting lazily in the sink. It’s quiet now without Marion’s laughter or the clinking of glasses, and the silence presses in gently, nudging you into your thoughts.
As you rinse the dishes one by one, Marion’s drunken rambling echoes in your head like background music. “You’ll be next. Let’s plan our pregnancies together. Baby playdates. Matching diaper bags.”
You shake your head with a smile, a soft chuckle slipping past your lips. She was drunk. But even so… the picture forms easily in your mind. You and Seungmin. A modest house filled with warmth. Little footsteps running down the hallway. A baby with Seungmin’s eyes and pout. Him in sweats with a sleepy toddler cradled on his chest, the glow of Sunday morning light filtering through the windows. It makes your chest flutter in the softest way.
You’re still standing at the sink, sponge in hand, when the sound of the front door clicks open, shattering your daydream. The soft thud of keys hitting the entry table follows, and then the familiar voice.
“Hey,” Leo says gently as he steps into the kitchen and sees you. “You’re still here.”
You turn and offer a small smile. “Just waiting for my taxi. Didn’t want to leave a crime scene behind.”
He glances toward the living room, then toward the hallway. “She’s out, huh?”
“Out cold,” you confirm with a chuckle. “Didn’t even make it to 10:30.”
Leo laughs under his breath and grabs a glass from the shelf. “That sounds about right.”
You start drying your hands as he fills his glass with water. There’s a beat of comfortable silence, broken only by the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the soft rush of water from the tap.
“You can hang out for a bit,” Leo says, taking a sip. “Seungmin would kill me if I let you leave without making sure you got in your ride safely.”
That makes you chuckle. “Sounds like him.”
Leo leans against the counter and tilts his head slightly. “You know… I always thought Seungmin would do it first.”
“Do what first?”
He raises a brow, like it’s obvious. “Propose.”
The word hits you with a weight you didn’t expect, but you try to keep your expression casual. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Leo nods. “I mean—funny story actually. The day I bought the ring for Marion? I ran into him at the jewelry store.”
You look up sharply. “You did?”
“Yup,” he says, smiling at the memory. “I asked what he was doing there and he said—” Leo lifts a hand to mimic air quotes, “—‘just returning something.’ Total deadpan. Didn’t even blink.”
You force a small laugh. “Also sounds like him.”
Leo shrugs, grinning. “But knowing Seungmin? I think he just didn’t want to ruin the surprise. I mean, guy’s got a poker face made of steel.”
You nod slowly, but your heart sinks just a little deeper than before. Because now you're not so sure. Was it really a lie to keep a surprise? Or… was it the truth?
You swallow hard, trying to keep your expression smooth as you offer him a polite smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”
But your chest is heavy again, and as you glance at your phone to check the time, you wish more than anything that you hadn’t opened that damn linen closet at all.
-
You fasten the clasp of your earrings as you glance at yourself in the mirror, the morning light slipping through the blinds and catching on the satin fabric of your dress. Marion texted you twenty minutes ago with three exclamation points and an “ARE YOU READY YET” that you haven’t had the heart to respond to. You’re not late—just… taking your time.
Because when you're alone like this, brushing on a little blush and slipping into heels, your thoughts begin to loop again. About the ring. About that empty space in the linen closet. About what Leo said.
He said he was just returning something. But… what if he really was?
It’s been days, and still nothing. No big gestures. No changes in the way Seungmin acts. And you're trying not to let it eat you alive.
You're meant to be excited for Marion today—maid of honor, dress shopping, champagne flutes and dramatic tears—but your head’s a noisy place. You're halfway through slipping into your dress when the bedroom door creaks open.
“Need help?” Seungmin asks from behind, already closing the distance.
You nod, standing still as he gently gathers the zipper at the small of your back. His fingers are warm, smooth, careful. The sound of the zipper sliding up echoes too loud in the quiet room. Once it’s zipped, his arms immediately slip around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder and lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Marion’s stealing you for the whole weekend now, huh?”
You smile faintly at his reflection in the mirror. “Well, I am her maid of honor. This is part of the job.”
He pouts against your shoulder. “You’re gonna be so busy helping her plan stuff. I’ll barely see you.”
You tilt your head, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Doesn’t that just mean no one’s interrupting your video game marathons?”
He frowns like you just offended him. “That’s not the point. I want to play with you too.”
You turn in his hold, facing him, his hands still warm on your waist. For a fleeting second, you want to ask about it. About the ring. About Leo. About the jewelry store. Instead, you lift a hand to cup his jaw, tracing your thumb gently along the curve of it. His skin is soft from shaving, and his eyes are impossibly warm.
You softly kiss him, lingering just enough to let him know you mean it. When you pull back, your hand stays on his cheek as you smile faintly. “Don’t wait up. I’ll probably be out all day.”
Seungmin sighs and lets his forehead bump gently against yours. “I hate it.”
You giggle and break away, reaching for your shoes. “Behave.”
“You behave,” he mutters, clearly not letting go of the pout.
You lean in for one last kiss as you sling your bag over your shoulder and glance at him one more time—and there’s that stupidly cute smile. The one that crinkles his eyes and shows off the dimple in his cheek. The one that made you fall in love with him years ago.
“Have fun,” he says, still holding your hand as you reach for the door.
You smile at him over your shoulder and realize that is why you can never stay mad at him.
-
The second you and Marion step into the bridal shop, you both instantly enveloped in a world of white and ivory and shimmer. The space smells faintly like fresh flowers and lavender. Soft piano music floats in the background, almost drowned by Marion’s giddy gasp as she takes it all in.
Rows of gowns hang like clouds on gold racks, each dress more breathtaking than the last. You follow Marion as she practically skips ahead, already flipping through lace, satin, and embroidered tulle. “This one has your name written all over it,” you say, gently tugging out a sweetheart neckline dress with hand-sewn appliqué.
She lets out a squeal, taking it from you like it’s made of spun sugar. As she continues browsing, her eyes alight with excitement, your mind drifts. You glance around at the other brides-to-be in the boutique—smiling, glowing, radiant in anticipation. However, when you try to ignore it, you feel that sting again. You don’t even realize how quiet you’ve gotten until Marion turns to look at you.
“Hey,” she says softly, as if reading your thoughts. “You okay?”
You give a small nod. Then you sigh and admit, “Leo said something… the other night.”
Marion raises a brow. “Uh-oh.”
So you tell her everything. About Leo bumping into Seungmin at the jewelry store. About how Seungmin said he was ‘just returning something’. About how it’s been swirling in your head ever since. “I keep thinking… maybe he had a change of heart,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe he bought the ring and then changed his mind.”
Marion stares at you for a moment, then she blinks and waves a dismissive hand like she's physically swatting the idea away. “Nope. Not buying that. That man is obsessed with you. I see the way he looks at you like he wants to give you the world.”
You let out a quiet laugh at that, but it's tight.
Marion gently bumps her shoulder into yours. “He probably lied because he’s trying to keep it a surprise. He’s meticulous like that. You know he is.”
“I know,” you murmur. “But I’ve just been overthinking everything. And the longer nothing happens, the more I can’t stop wondering.”
Marion gives you a knowing look, then turns toward the bridal shop staff and says brightly, “I think I’m ready to start trying some dresses on!”
One of the attendants smiles and gestures for her to follow. Marion turns back to you, squeezing your hand before heading off. “Stop spiraling. I’m telling you—it’s coming. Just breathe.”
As Marion disappears into the fitting area, you remain in the middle of the boutique, surrounded by future promises sewn into fabric. Trying to believe that maybe yours is just still in progress.
The buzz of the boutique continues around you. You sit quietly on the velvet cushioned bench, hands resting on your lap as you wait. You’re surrounded by joy, by promise, and still, your mind refuses to settle.
A staff member approaches you with a delicate smile, holding a silver tray with two tall champagne flutes. You take one and thank her, nodding politely as she walks away. You bring the glass to your lips, the bubbly drink cool and crisp on your tongue. You hope it’ll ease the tangle of thoughts knotting in your head but it doesn’t.
You’re halfway through the flute when the curtain rustles, and Marion steps out in her first wedding dress. You gasp despite yourself. She looks ethereal—floating in a sleek A-line gown with embroidered floral details and a delicate train behind her. The sweetheart neckline frames her perfectly, and the way she smiles makes it glow even more.
“Oh my god, babe,” you breathe. “You look… breathtaking.”
Marion beams at your reaction, spinning slowly for you to take it all in. “Right? I didn’t think I’d love this one, but wow—this might be it!”
You try your best to focus, offering compliments, suggestions, small smiles, but your energy is off and you know it.
She disappears again into the fitting room, and one dress after another, she keeps emerging in tulle, lace, satin, sleeves, no sleeves—and all you can manage are soft nods and faint hums of approval. You’re trying. You really are. But your smile slips too easily, your thoughts keep drifting.
When she comes out in a fitted mermaid gown with a dramatic low back and doesn't hear the familiar excited gasp from you, she places a hand on her hip, narrowing her eyes. “Okay. That’s it.”
You glance up at her. “Wha—”
“Get out of your head,” Marion says with a gentle firmness only a best friend could manage. “This is my wedding dress moment. I need you here, babe. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually. All of it.”
Your heart drops a little at her words, not because she’s wrong, but because she’s right. And the last thing you want is to take this moment away from her.
You set your glass down and stand, walking over to her, guilt clouding your expression. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I’m really sorry, Marion. I want to be here for you—I am here for you—I just…”
Instead of her usual understanding nod or the warm squeeze of reassurance, Marion stares at you. Her eyes linger for a beat too long, her lips pressed into a flat line. You expect her to soften, to offer one of her teasing but gentle replies.
This time, she lets out a short, sharp laugh, void of humor. “You know what?” she says, voice low but cutting. “Maybe Seungmin did change his mind. And honestly? I wouldn’t blame him.”
You freeze. “What?”
She crosses her arms, still standing in her wedding gown. “This was supposed to be my day. One day. One moment. And somehow, you’ve still managed to make it about you.”
“Marion…” you mutter so low it's almost a whisper.
She cuts you off, frustration finally bubbling to the surface. “All week, you’ve been moping, overthinking, spiraling—and I get it, I do, but today is about me. And instead of showing up like my best friend, like my maid of honor, you’re just… wallowing. In something that hasn’t even happened.”
Her words land like stones. Heavy. Sharp. And maybe it’s the stress, or maybe it’s the part of you that’s still wounded from your own disappointment, but your chest tightens.
You pick up your purse, slowly, trying to keep your face blank, even though it’s already twisting. “Okay,” you say quietly. “I get it.”
“Wait—” Marion starts, her tone flickering with regret already, but it’s too late.
You sling the strap of your purse over your shoulder, blink back the sting in your eyes, and walk right past the mirror-lined walls, the racks of white lace and silk, the staff who glance up with startled looks. You don’t stop until you’re out of the boutique and the glass door swings shut behind you.
You step out onto the sidewalk, the air kissing your flushed skin, and only then do you let yourself exhale. Because you didn’t expect the hurt to come from her. Not today. Not like this.
-
When you step into the apartment, Seungmin looks up from the couch with that familiar glint in his eyes, already ready to tease. “Back already?” he says, setting down his phone. “Did you miss me that much?”
You walk right past him, brushing his shoulder lightly, without a word. Your heels click softly against the floor until you reach the bedroom. The purse slips from your fingers and lands on the floor with a soft thud, and you follow it, collapsing face-first onto the bed. The tears come almost instantly, soaking into the pillow before you even have the chance to catch your breath.
A few seconds later, you hear the sound of footsteps, the creak of the door, and then the bed shifts under Seungmin’s weight as he climbs in beside you.
“Hey,” he says, gently. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
You don’t answer. You just keep crying, your chest rising and falling with quiet, shuddering sobs.
Seungmin shifts closer, concern painting every inch of his voice now. “Are you hurt? Did someone—did someone say something to you?” He brushes your hair back, his fingertips feather-light on your cheek, but you still don’t look at him. “Who hurt you, baby? Tell me.”
He gets it, then. Whatever this is—it’s not something you’re ready to talk about. So he doesn’t push. Instead, he slides closer, his arms wrapping around you from behind, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. You feel his breath against your neck. He presses the softest of kisses to your shoulder, then to the side of your neck, and one more at the edge of your jaw. His hand moves slowly up and down your arm in comforting strokes, no words, just presence. Just him.
“I’m here,” he whispers eventually, voice barely audible. “Okay? I’m right here.”
And maybe that’s all you need for now. Not answers. Not promises. Just this—Seungmin’s arms holding you close as you let yourself fall apart.
By the time your tears have dried, the room is steeped in quiet. Outside the window, the sky has turned deep blue, the last of the evening light fading into night. But inside, Seungmin is still holding you just the same—arms wrapped around you, his lips pressing soft kisses along the slope of your neck, the curve of your jaw, grounding you with every touch.
“Seungmin,” you croak out, voice raw from crying.
He hums in response, his hand still rubbing slow, gentle circles on your back.
You hesitate, but then ask, barely above a whisper, “Do you think I’m… a selfish person?”
Seungmin stills, then leans back enough to look at you, his brows knitting together in concern. “Why would you ask me that?”
You shift on the bed, turning to face him. He instantly loops his arms around your waist again, pulling you flush against his chest. His hand comes up to brush strands of hair away from your face, wiping at the dampness still lingering under your eyes.
You stare at him, and the words fall out of your mouth again, more fragile this time. “Do you think I’m selfish? Is that... Is that why you don’t want to marry me?”
He flinches slightly—not out of anger, but surprise and then the silence stretches a little, filled with nothing but your shaky breath.
“I found the ring,” you finally admit, your voice barely audible. “The one you hid in the linen closet. It fell when I was looking for a tablecloth.”
Realization flashes in Seungmin’s eyes. His mouth parts slightly. “Oh…” he lets out a soft gasp as it all clicks into place, and a breath escapes him in a long, quiet sigh. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
You give a faint, bitter laugh, eyes shimmering with fresh tears. “So it was for me?”
Seungmin cups your face with both hands, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks as he nods. “Yes. It was always for you.”
“Then why did you return it?” you ask softly, searching his face, trying to keep the heartbreak from bleeding through your voice. “Leo… he saw you at the store. He said you told him you were returning something.”
Seungmin lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “I didn’t return it because I changed my mind about you,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “I returned it because I found a new one—a better one. One that suits you more.”
You sniffle. “You… did?”
He nods again, still gently stroking your cheek. “Yeah. That first one—it didn’t feel like you. I kept thinking about how you deserve something that really fits who you are. So I exchanged it. I wasn’t trying to lie or confuse you… I just didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”
You fall quiet at that, your chest tightening with emotion—not from sadness, but from the weight of your own misunderstanding. You had made up so many things in your head. So many wrong assumptions.
Seungmin presses his palm to your cheek, coaxing you to look into his eyes. “You’re not selfish,” he says firmly, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around you like a blanket. “A selfish person doesn’t cook me dinner even when she’s tired. She doesn’t stay up late to watch me play video games or take care of me when I’m sick. She doesn’t let me drag her to baseball games or listen to me talk about player stats for hours.”
You laugh softly, another tear slipping down your cheek.
“You’re amazing,” Seungmin whispers. “You’re strong and kind and honest. You're true to yourself. I love you for all of that.”
Then he smiles, eyes sparkling even in the dim light. “If anything… I’m the selfish one.”
You frown in confusion. “Why would you say that?”
He leans in, his forehead resting gently against yours. “Because I want all your love just for me. All of it. Every day. Forever.”
A fresh wave of tears rushes into your eyes, but this time, they’re light and full of warmth. You bury your face in his chest again, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as you start crying again—but now, you’re smiling too.
Seungmin kisses the top of your head, his hand slipping into your hair. “You just ruined my proposal plans, by the way,” he mutters playfully. “Guess I’ll have to come up with a new one.”
Despite the storm of emotions, you laugh into his chest, muffled and breathless. “Sorry…”
He chuckles softly. “Not really, though.”
You tilt your head up, looking into his eyes. Everything you need to know is there, written so clearly in the way he looks at you. With love. With certainty.
And when he leans in to kiss you, it’s slow and deep, a promise in itself. “I love you,” he murmurs against your lips.
And in a voice full of all the love you’ve ever felt, you whisper back, “I love you too.”
And that—more than a ring, more than a proposal—is everything.
-
The next morning unfolds slowly, gently—sunlight spilling through the windows, warming the kitchen tiles beneath your feet. There’s music playing softly from your phone, and you’re still in Seungmin’s oversized shirt, sleeves rolled clumsily up your arms, your hair slightly messy from sleep.
Seungmin is beside you, flipping pancakes with exaggerated concentration, while you stir scrambled eggs in the pan next to him. His arm brushes yours every few seconds. You both steal kisses in between chores—on his cheek, on your temple, on the side of your neck—sometimes just for fun, sometimes just because you can. He reaches over your shoulder to grab the pepper and presses a kiss behind your ear on the way, making you giggle and squirm.
There’s a lightness in your chest this morning, a clarity you haven’t felt in days. Because now you know, he’s not going anywhere. He’s here. With you. Choosing you every day.
As you both set the plates onto the table, getting ready to finally eat, the doorbell rings. You pause, glancing at Seungmin. He lifts an eyebrow at you, mouth already full of a bite of pancake. “Who is that?” he says with his mouth full.
You shrug and wipe your hands on a kitchen towel as you pad to the door. When you open it, Marion is standing there. She looks… uncertain. Hesitant. But when her eyes meet yours, she smiles softly and lets out a breath. “Hey.”
You blink in surprise, then give her a faint smile. “Hey.”
Marion hesitates, fidgeting with her hands. “I just—” she sighs. “I’m sorry. For what I said yesterday. I didn’t mean it. Any of it.”
You stay quiet, letting the weight of her words hang in the air for a beat.
“I was overwhelmed with everything,” she continues, “and I didn’t know I was holding all that tension until it snapped. But that’s no excuse. I was wrong. And I’m really, really sorry.”
You look at her and, in her eyes, you see nothing but sincerity. And maybe just the tiniest bit of shame. But your heart is already softened. You’ve cried enough. You’ve carried enough weight. And you don’t want to carry bitterness too.
A small smile curves on your lips. “It’s okay, Mar. It's all water under the bridge.”
Marion's shoulders drop in relief and a big, bright grin takes over her face. She rushes toward you, throwing her arms around you.
You hug her back tightly, burying your face into her shoulder, holding on for just a second longer than necessary. When you pull away, still smiling, you grab her hand and tug her inside. “Come in. Join us for breakfast.”
She hesitates. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” you say, already leading her toward the kitchen. “We made pancakes.”
“Say no more,” she grins. “I’m in.”
Seungmin looks up from the table as you both enter, and he offers Marion a nod of greeting. “Hey,” he says casually. “Hope you like slightly burnt pancakes.”
Marion laughs as she sits down. “I like everything when it’s free.”
The three of you settle around the table, warm plates in front of you, coffee cups steaming gently between sips and bites. The late morning light glows through the window, making everything feel softer, slower, sweeter.
Marion takes a sip of her coffee, hums in appreciation, then glances at Seungmin. “Okay, wait. This coffee? This is actually really good.”
Seungmin shrugs with a cocky grin. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”
You grin as you pick up your cup. “This is exactly why I want to marry him. He makes good coffee.”
Marion pauses, blinking in a half-surprised, half-delighted way as she shifts her eyes from you to Seungmin. “Wait, what?”
You glance at Seungmin, who’s already giving you a warning squint across the table. You bite back a smile and turn to Marion. “Seungmin’s going to propose soon,” you say, teasing just enough to make him squirm.
Marion gasps, all wide eyes and giddy hands clasped to her chest. “Oh? Really?!”
You laugh and quickly explain, “He already knows we found the ring in the linen closet. It wasn’t that sneaky.”
Marion immediately gasps louder, turning to Seungmin with the most wicked grin. “So you are proposing. And you’ve been dragging it out this whole time?!”
Seungmin groans and drops his fork dramatically onto his plate. “Wow. You two are literally talking about me like I’m not even here.”
“That’s because you took forever,” Marion teases, smirking.
“You know,” Seungmin points his fork at both of you, “I should’ve just proposed in secret and eloped. Peace and quiet.”
Marion leans in, nudging her elbow against yours with a conspiratorial grin. “You know what? Maybe wait until after my wedding to propose.”
Seungmin gapes. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she says, smug. “She’s my maid of honor. Which means, until my wedding’s over, she’s mine.”
“She practically owns me,” you say with a laugh.
Seungmin dramatically scoffs, “That explains so much. I always knew something was up. You’ve been using her!”
Marion flips her hair and lifts her chin proudly. “Absolutely. And I plan to keep using her until the very last hour of the reception.”
Seungmin narrows his eyes at her, then looks at you like a betrayed puppy. “Do you hear this? I’m just... background noise now. Replaced. Overtaken.”
You burst out laughing, watching the two of them bicker like siblings. “Don’t worry,” you say, reaching over to rest a hand on Seungmin’s. “You still make the best coffee.”
-
It’s a rare, golden kind of day—the one where everything falls into place. Marion’s out of town, the maid of honor duties are on pause, and for once, your calendar is blissfully empty. Seungmin had insisted that you both take advantage of it, and now here you are, walking into a crowded stadium, your hand snug in his, the warm scent of grilled food in the air, the hum of excited fans filling every inch of the space.
Seungmin’s face is practically glowing as he guides you to your seats. You barely get a chance to settle in before he excuses himself, disappearing into the crowd. When he returns a long moment later, his arms are full—two large beers and a tray of snacks balanced precariously.
You quickly reach for them, steadying the tray so nothing spills. “I don’t know how you made it through that crowd in one piece,” you say with a grin.
“I’m just that good,” he replies, settling into his seat and taking a long sip of beer. “Okay, so here’s the deal—my team’s playing their biggest rival today. It’s going to be intense. Their defense is solid, but if our pitcher holds it down, we’ve got this.”
You rest your chin on your hand as you watch him talk. He’s so passionate, so animated, and you can’t help but smile at the way his eyes light up with excitement. He catches your stare mid-sentence and falters, cheeks warming slightly before he leans over to kiss you, quick and sweet.
You laugh after taking a bite of corn dog. “I was just thinking you look cute when you get all serious about baseball.”
He tries to hide his smile behind his beer, and just as he starts talking strategy again, the jumbotron begins cycling through advertisements, then team previews, and finally, the kiss cam. You watch it playfully, giggling at the awkward and adorable kisses caught onscreen.
And all of a sudden, your face appears. You blink, mid-sip, then turn to Seungmin with a startled laugh. “Oh my god—we’re on the screen.”
He doesn’t hesitate, just leans in and kisses you, and the crowd erupts into cheers as the kiss cam switches to another couple.
Both of you break into shy laughter, your heart thudding with the strange mix of public attention and private affection. “That was embarrassing,” you murmur.
“Why? People liked it,” Seungmin says with a shrug, almost a little too casually.
You give him a suspicious look. “What do you mean ‘people liked it’?”
But before you can question further, the kiss cam cuts back to you two again.
“What? Again?” you ask, shocked, but Seungmin just chuckles and kisses you again.
The crowd cheers louder this time, and you feel your face flush. You pull away, laughing nervously. “Okay, what is happening? Why are we on again—”
Seungmin is already leaning in for another kiss, his lips brushing yours with more intention this time. The crowd roars yet again.
When the camera doesn’t move on after this one, your confusion grows. And then you notice that the words KISS CAM fade away. New words begin to scroll across the jumbotron in big white letters: WILL YOU MARRY ME?
Your brain short-circuits and when you turn to Seungmin, and he’s no longer beside you. He’s on one knee. In his hand, a velvet box—open to reveal a ring you’ve never seen before. A white gold band cradling a stunning cushion-cut diamond, surrounded by the softest halo of pink diamonds. It’s delicate and beautiful and so you. And suddenly the jumbotron, the repeated kiss cams, the look he gave you earlier—clicks into place.
Seungmin looks up at you with those warm, impossibly sincere puppy eyes. He smiles, his voice steady but soft—just for you, even though an entire stadium is listening.
“Will you marry me?”
Gasps ripple through the crowd, followed by a wave of cheers and people chanting, “Say yes! Say yes! Say yes!”
You’re already nodding before the words come out, tears brimming in your eyes as you cover your mouth with trembling fingers. “Yes. Yes, of course I will.”
Seungmin’s smile could light up the whole field. He carefully takes the ring from the box and slips it onto your finger with gentle hands. Then he stands, pulls you into his arms, and kisses you as the crowd erupts in wild applause. Fireworks explode across the jumbotron in a burst of color as congratulary words flashing on the screen as confetti cannons go off in the background and strangers all around are clapping, cheering, congratulating.
It’s loud and chaotic and perfect. And right there, in the middle of a packed stadium, you’re holding the only person in the world who matters. And he’s yours.
-
It’s just the two of you now—back in your shared space, the world quiet, and the buzz of the proposal still pulsing through your chest like a second heartbeat.
You’re in bed, wrapped around each other as if trying to make the moment last forever. You’re sitting on his lap, legs looped around his waist, your fingers tangled in his hair while his arms hold you tightly against him, as though letting go would break the magic.
Seungmin’s lips are on yours in slow, deep kisses that taste like champagne and forever. Your bare skin pressed against his is warm, comforting, electric. You can still feel the outline of the ring on your finger, even as you cradle his jaw between your hands and kiss him again, smiling into it.
There’s laughter between kisses—whispers of disbelief that this is real, that this is happening. That you’re engaged. And you feel it in your bones—the security, the joy, the love so big it hums through every part of you.
“I still can’t believe you pulled that off,” you whisper against his lips.
Seungmin chuckles, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re not the only one who knows how to keep a secret.”
You smile into the kiss, breath catching slightly when Seungmin pulls back just enough to look at you. His gaze lingers, soft and glowing with something deep and unshakable. “I can’t wait to marry you,” he murmurs, like it’s a secret just for you.
Your heart flutters, and the smile blooming on your face feels unstoppable, too wide to hide. You don’t want to hide it anyway—not from him. Not from this moment.
He reaches for your hand, the one now bearing the engagement ring, and lifts it gently to his lips. His kiss is reverent against the band, and somehow that small gesture makes everything even more real.
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “Gosh, I love you so much.”
He kisses you again, longer this time, his arms tightening around your waist. “I love you. Always.”
Slowly, you lift yourself just enough to allow you to ease yourself down onto his throbbing cock, your breath catching as your body adjusts to the closeness, the stretch, how hard he is inside you. When you fully take all of him, you hum in pleasure and press your forehead against his.
There’s no rush—just stillness and the quiet awe of feeling everything at once. His hands find your hips, grounding you, steadying the soft tremble in your breath. You stay like that for a moment—joined, wrapped up in the warmth of love and commitment and the tenderness of what comes next.
And then, as you begin to move, it’s slow and meaningful—each motion a silent vow, each look shared a quiet promise. You keep your eyes on him, letting him see everything as you make love to him with all of your heart.
Your fingers find his jaw, holding him steady beneath your gaze. “I can’t wait to be yours,” you whisper, voice breaking with emotion. “To have all of you… just for me.”
Seungmin’s thumb brushes over your hip, his breath hitching at your words. His eyes are full of love, of you.
“I already am,” he says softly. “All yours.”
-
The music begins and you take a deep breath before stepping out onto the aisle with the other bridesmaids. The soft rustle of fabric follows your steps, and though you try to keep your focus ahead, you can feel Seungmin’s gaze like a gentle tether, pulling your heart toward where he’s seated.
When you steal a glance at him, there he is. Sitting tall in his suit, his eyes never leaving you, filled with a quiet, radiant pride that sends warmth cascading through your chest. You know exactly what he's thinking because you're thinking it too. One day, it’ll be you walking down the aisle in white and he'll be waiting at the altar, just like Leo is now, with that same kind of look in his eyes. Maybe even deeper.
As Marion appears at the end of the aisle, music swelling to greet her, you look forward again. Leo's reaction is instant and visceral—his breath visibly hitching, eyes already glossy, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he watches her take each step closer to him. And you, watching him, can't help but imagine Seungmin looking at you like that. One day. Not far from now.
During the ceremony, with Marion’s vows still hanging delicately in the air, you glance across the crowd again. And Seungmin is already looking at you. There's something reverent in his expression, something soft and deep and full. He just mouths it like a sacred promise, “I love you.”
It takes a second to register. Your heart leaps. Tears prick the corners of your eyes. You’ve heard him say it so many times, but this… this moment makes it different. It’s not just the words—it’s the truth in his eyes, the forever behind it.
You bite your lip, trying not to smile too hard or cry too openly, and you mouth it back through the flicker of your tears, “I love you.”
For a few heartbeats, time feels suspended between you. Just you and him, exchanging silent vows of your own in the middle of someone else’s wedding. And honestly, you can’t wait for your turn.
-
The music has quieted into a soft, dreamy melody. The dance floor is mostly empty now, save for a few lingering couples swaying gently under the glow of string lights and the night sky is dotted with stars. You and Seungmin sit side by side at your table, shoes off, champagne flutes in hand. The bubbly has long gone lukewarm, but neither of you minds. It’s not about the drink—it’s about the moment.
You glance over at him. His tie is loose, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, his arm draped behind your chair. There’s something so comfortably tender about him like this.
Then come Marion and Leo, walking hand in hand like they haven't been married for just a few hours but for lifetimes already. Marion doesn’t hesitate to plop down in the chair next to you, letting out an exaggerated sigh as she kicks off her heels with zero ceremony. She props her feet up on Leo’s lap, and he takes them in stride, starting to massage them as though it's the most natural thing in the world.
"God, I’m exhausted," Marion groans, leaning back and resting her head on the edge of your chair. "But worth it. You," she says, turning her head toward you, eyes half-lidded and full of gratitude, "are a lifesaver. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. Best maid of honor award? Goes to you, obviously."
You laugh, cheeks warm from the champagne—or maybe from the pride blooming quietly in your chest. “I’ll take that,” you say with a grin, raising your glass.
Marion raises hers too, clinking it softly with yours. Then she turns to Seungmin, her gaze suddenly mischievous. “Now it’s your turn,” she says, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. “Hurry up with the wedding. She and I have already decided we’re getting pregnant together, so our kids can have playdates and matching Halloween costumes and trauma-bond over how annoying their moms are.”
Seungmin raises his eyebrows, slowly turning to look at you with an exaggerated expression of mock-betrayal. “You’re making pregnancy pacts now?”
You snort into your champagne, nearly choking. “Apparently.”
“She’s already picked out names,” Marion adds matter-of-factly.
“I am petrified,” Seungmin deadpans, but there's a glimmer of laughter in his eyes as he leans closer to you, bumping his shoulder against yours. “I marry you and I get Marion in the package too?”
“It's a buy one, get one,” you say, grinning.
“You’re welcome,” Marion adds.
Leo just chuckles, his fingers still kneading gently into her tired feet. “You’re all insane,” he mutters fondly.
But as the music fades out and the final notes echo across the quieted venue, Seungmin turns to you, his hand brushing over your knee, thumb circling gently. You catch the way he looks at you in that moment—something quiet and sure. Like he already sees that future Marion joked about, and maybe it doesn’t seem so far away anymore.
-
With your maid of honor duty is officially come to an end, you and Seungmin walk hand-in-hand back to your hotel room. Your heels dangle from your other hand, your makeup slightly smudged from the long day, but there's a glow to your skin that has nothing to do with highlighter. It’s been a full day of laughter, vows, dancing, tears and now, just the two of you, the quiet is welcome.
Seungmin swings your hands a little between you. “So…” he begins casually, but there’s a glint of curiosity in his voice. “About what Marion said earlier.”
You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Which part?”
“The part where she said you two are planning on getting pregnant together.” He looks at you like he's testing the waters, but his voice is half-serious.
You burst out laughing. “Please tell me you didn’t take that seriously. Marion was drunk on love and cake.”
Seungmin stops walking, tugging your hand gently so you turn to face him. His expression is still light, but there's something sincere underneath it. “But what if I did take it seriously?” he asks. “What if I actually… want to talk about it?”
You stare at him, caught off guard, your heart tripping in your chest as the mood subtly shifts.
“Like… how many kids do you want?” he asks again, quieter this time.
Your lips part in surprise before you lean into playfulness to mask the sudden emotion curling in your chest. “I don’t know,” you say, squinting at him. “Do I want little Seungmin running around?”
His mouth drops open in mock offense. “Excuse you? Little Seungmins would be adorable.”
“One Seungmin is already a headache,” you tease, poking a finger into his chest. “I don’t know if I can handle another one who hogs the blanket and never loads the dishwasher correctly.”
He gasps, affronted. “First of all, I do load the dishwasher correctly. My method is called organized chaos. And second,” he says, stepping closer, slipping his arms around your waist, “I don’t care how many kids we have—one or five—but we should definitely start working on making little Seungmin now.”
Your eyes widen. “Seungmin—!”
But before you can finish, he scoops you up into his arms in one smooth motion, carrying you bridal style down the rest of the hallway.
You squeal and wrap your arms around his neck, laughter spilling out of you as he walks with a cocky grin on his face, clearly enjoying himself. “Put me down!” you whisper-shout, still giggling.
“Too late. You’ve offended me. You must now suffer,” he says dramatically, nudging the hotel room door open with his foot after expertly swiping the key card.
“And what exactly is my punishment?”
He gives you a look that’s half mischief, half promise. “Let’s just say… we’ll see how you feel about little Seungmins after tonight.”
And as the city lights dimmed beyond the hotel windows and the world quieted into the hush of midnight, you found yourself curled against Seungmin’s chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, his fingers drawing lazy patterns against your spine.
In that moment, you find a clarity that everything you once feared or doubted had led you here. Not just to a proposal, or a ring, or a kiss under stadium lights, but to something greater: a life built hand in hand, with love that stayed steady through uncertainty, with a future you no longer needed to imagine, because it was already unfolding—right here, beside him.
-
Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!
Got so emotional, I had to put down my phone and cry in peace lol 😭 Never had a boyfriend, don't plan to get married or have kids but this hit me like my non-existing husband coded bf hurt me 😂
THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU! I can't thank enough the amazing authors on this app for doing their magic. This was a great work with amazing writing, realistic depiction of emotions and thoughts. Every time I open this app and see your name on my page, I get blessed. Love you ❤️
➥ Contains: No SKZ: fellas are in some imaginary group bc they be toxic, down horrendous Hyunjin agenda™, an unhinged kiwi, Chris the Hyun whisperer, idol industry diss, meta fandom shenanigans, doubling tripling down on the delulu because it's the solulu, gratuitous amounts of Hyunchanner fan service because i can, insane shit then wholesomeness midfuck per youzhe
➥ Reader discretion advised: See the masterlist for the full disclaimer about this project, general warnings, and request guidelines. By continuing, you accept to read at your own risk.
⚠ — (Non-exhaustive, full cw policy here): Corruption fetishism, objectification, MMF, sex with other people present in the room, overall irrational behavior
➥ Hyunjin doesn’t fuck around when it comes to biases—if you’re ulting him, you’re ulting him, period. If you can so casually announce you’re getting “biaswrecked”, he can and will wreck you back.
But sign the NDA first.
*a/n: Back on my irregularly scheduled Derangedjin bullshit because June sucked.
I just want to receive love.
Ask any survival show contestant why they want to become an idol, and that’s the bullshit they’ll feed you with a wholesome smile, which is the politically correct way of saying, “I want to be worshipped.” No one even judges them for it because new gods on the block will always be in demand.
Fresh meat and whatnot, you know.
The only catch is you’re no longer allowed to worship anyone if you have worshippers yourself. Have you ever seen a god who simps for her own devotees?
Please.
If you “make it”, there is only one law you have to abide by—stick to your meticulously crafted persona and be generous with fanservice, and almost a decade into his career, Hyunjin hasn’t had a problem with it. He does study the faces of his “regulars” before he goes into fancalls. He does flirt a little extra with them at fansigns, holding their hands a little longer, a little tighter, less tsun more dere, even sharing little intimate details of his private life only they are privy to.
Well, allegedly.
That’s the least he can do for his off-the-books sugar mamas, no? He is a part of a grand romance scam after all.
It doesn’t mean he’s never struggled with keeping up the act, of course. With all the things he has to suppress, all the things he cannot scream at certain entitled brats’ faces, some days he does come very very close to snapping. What’d you expect? He is trapped in a life he hates doing something he loves.
Which is why it’s Stockholm as fuck that he’s found distraction from his delulu dealer duties by completely leaning into it.
It’s not even guilty, just pure pleasure for him to browse through fan work. As if he needs any more reasons to inflate his behemoth of an ego… Over time, his fandom has become a point of pride with him—so much talent scratching his Stendhal itch just right. The origin point doesn’t matter; the end result is still solid fucking art. It’s like he’s the Beatrice to a thousand Dantes.
Maybe “Like artist, like fan” does have some merit to it.
The literature department of his counterfeit Renaissance cult is where things get a little more unhinged. Some of these people write him so vividly, so intensely sexy that if Hyunjin could fuck himself, he would. It’s kinda disappointing that there is a strict hush-hush rule about fan spaces, which forces him to pretend he doesn’t know what a Kinktober is. Otherwise, he would have loved to send some flowers, signed merch, fucking fan club membership as a thank you for all the nuts busted. When the average market value for life-changing orgasms is in three to four digits, a cup of coffee seems criminally low.
Is it still sex work if someone makes you cum without touching you at all?
Among the sea of creators he religiously follows, of course he has favorites, and whoever goes by zipcode10320 tops that chart. He finds the hardcore shipping fucking hilarious, but he actually respects the preferred method of worship. The thirst might be heavy, but unlike the bitches practically living outside his apartment, it’s at least from a non-suffocating distance.
From a... distance...
anonymous asked:
what if hyunjin is deadass reading you lol
A decade-long career with a fake boyfriend side hustle. Five restraining orders. Three court appearances. Endless blacklists…
Hyunjin lived to see the day where it’s the distance that suffocates him.
He never thought one day he’d find himself on the other side of the fence like this. It’s on the tip of his tongue, but he just can’t tell what it is about this person he’s so hung up on. He has a battalion of authors writing about him, so what’s so special about this one? Is it a style thing? Is it the subject matter? Why is he looking forward to the next character he’ll play like it’s the next season of his favorite show? Why is he getting this ticklish feeling for no reason whenever he scrolls through a new drop in his bed? It’s as if the words are laced with something because he only feels it when he reads.
But what the fuck IS IT that he’s feeling?!
zipcode10320 replied:
im pretty sure he has a life 🤣 on the super off chance that he does tho, hi bby save me from my misery and swipe my v-card plz 💋
Huh…
Well, now he knows.
So it wasn’t for no reason that he turned into a shark—there was blood in the water, and it reeked of the proverbial innocence. So all that lustful longing you keep writing… All that unhinged sex you keep depicting…
Is that…? How you want to be…? By him?
It’s too late when he realizes his fascination with the “art” has turned into something else entirely, but he can’t stop it. He just can’t! It’s in his every waking thought that someone out there loves him just a few drops shy of unconditionally, wanting him with lust so carnal that the desire can no longer stay inside its shell. It jumps into a getaway car with words for engine and fucks right off, all gas no brakes, because it has to get to him as fast as it can. It has to exist in the same corporeal realm as Hyunjin so it can call out to him. It’s in his every waking thought that a god out there compulsively conjures little Hyuniverses, unable to contain the fond smile whenever they doodle his name on a surface, be it cellulose or binary codes.
Hyunjin as a psycho.
Hyunjin as a prince.
Hyunjin as a psycho prince.
Hyunjin as the meaning of life.
Hyunjin as the meaning of MY life.
Hyunjin.
Hyunjin.
HYUNJIN!!!
anonymous asked:
if he asks you to give your virginity to him ur ACTUALLY gonna say yes?
zipcode10320 replied:
who tf says no to hwang hyunjin fucking BET!!!
anonymous asked:
what if he’s a freak tho
zipcode10320 replied:
if the freak is me getting sandwiched between hyunchan i volunteer as tribute thank 😌
anonymous asked:
what if IM hyunjin and ur just giving me ideas lol
zipcode10320 replied:
even IM not that delulu bro cmon
Well, maybe you should get on his delulu level because there is some freak that needs to be matched here. It’s okay if you can’t right from the get-go; he has all the time in the world for you. He can show you everything. How to match it. How to get him there. How he will get you there. Everything. Everything you can imagine, he will teach you with utmost care.
But he needs to complete a little self-assigned mission first.
He starts bringing his notebook to every single fan event to take notes of his interactions. Mannerisms, tone of voice, clothes worn that day, some word that sticks out to him… Whenever someone asks what he’s writing so fervently, his go-to excuse is, “Things that inspire me before I forget”. He does show a few actual snippets to cover his tracks, and luckily, all he gets in response is dreamy sighs and, “Oh my god, you’re like sooo romantic!” instead of suspicious looks.
It’s called a “bias” for a reason.
It doesn’t matter if your face doesn’t show in your posts. He has all your notifications on, so every fancall or concert video you share, every photo captioned with “They don’t know I’m zipcode10320” goes straight to his “data” folder where he compares his “field notes”. It doesn’t take too long for him to finally put a face to the name, and the satisfaction of victory weirdly feels like afterglow. He doesn’t smoke, but he craves a cigarette all of a sudden.
His fascination with you mutates into infatuation so fast, he might just blurt out a marriage proposal next time he sees you.
He keeps waiting for you to pick up what he’s putting down, but you seem a bit too insistent with that godforsaken “respect to his personal space” thing. What personal space? There is no personal space when it comes to the two of you; don’t you get it? You need to occupy the exact same space so he can be where he’s meant to be. As your very first. As your very last. So he can be your muse for the rest of your life. Can you even imagine the stories he’ll inspire you to tell if you spend just one night with him?
Don’t get it twisted, that’s just a figure of speech. He can’t and won’t settle for anything less than a couple of hundred nights with you. You know, to teach. So that the freak can match perfectly in the finale.
Unfortunately for him, the news of the iceberg arrives before he can finish packing for the maiden voyage, and for the first time ever, Hyunjin wishes he was blind so he wouldn’t be able to read your words.
zipcode10320
guys im this 🤏 close to ulting the shit out of chris hes been wrecking me left and right this comeback SEND HALP
Oh, you just… Oh, you fucking did not…
Really? That’s the extent of your loyalty? One whore goes Magic Mike, and all of a sudden you’re wrecked? Did the memories you shared mean jack shit to you? Weren’t you the one going on and on about him being your muse just YESTERDAY?!
Oh, you’re gonna get wrecked alright.
“Jiwon, do you have an NDA copy on hand?” Hyunjin addresses the driver in the front seat, his eyes still glued to his phone.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he opens his contacts and dials a number. “Turn the car around.”
“Where to, sir?”
“I’ll tell you in a bit.”
The car completes the U-turn after the third ringback tone, and a trollmeister voice answers the call on the other end.
“Yo, Hyunzales.”
“Where are you?”
“Fucking your girl in the backseat of my car.”
“I know you’re ragebaiting, but do you want to?”
The elongated silence on the line lets Hyunjin know that the hunter was successfully hunted. He softly chuckles to himself, amused by his triumph.
“Pussy got your tongue, motherfucker?”
“You’d actually give the fic girl to me?” Chris asks for good measure, his rabid giddiness spilling all over his voice.
“Calm the fuck down. No one said anything about giving you stuff,” Hyunjin sternly corrects. “I’m just inviting you to come play.”
“You’re the pettiest, most possessive man I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing, and that includes the GOAT Joe Goldberg,” Chris starts a mini interrogation to do his due diligence. “If there is a chance for you to hit that yourself, how come you’re inviting me?”
“You fucking know why. I don’t trust myself,” he admits. “It’s not a random hookup. Bin’s hosting an opening ceremony tonight, and I want her there.”
“No fucking way…”
“Deadest of asses,” Hyunjin finally releases the death grip on his lips and lets them curl. “Meet me at his place if you’re interested. Otherwise, I’ll risk it all and go solo.”
“Race you there, fuckface.”
When the call disconnects, Hyunjin takes a deep breath to calm… his nerves? And well, his residual annoyance—he can’t be in that kinda headspace right now. He closes his eyes, and just the thought of your surprise is enough to put him in a good mood. He pulls up your profile again and presses play on the video from the concert two months ago, fondly smiling as he listens to you scream at the top of your lungs, “I’LL SIGN THE NDA, HYUNJIN, JUST ONE CHANCE!!!”
“Well, you said it yourself, beautiful,” he turns to his right, watching the nightlights pass by the tinted window. “Time to put your money where your mouth is.”
You blankly look at the man’s face for a solid ten seconds, unsure if you’ve heard it right, because there ain’t no way…
“Just to triple confirm,” you briefly squeeze your eyes close. “We’re talking about the performer Hwang Hyunjin, right?”
“Yes.”
“The art harlot Hwang Hyunjin.”
“Yes.”
“The Hwang Hyunjin.”
“Just assume every adjective you can think of is true, but if we could get to the matter at hand, please,” the man sighs, rapidly losing patience. “Mr. Hwang strongly wishes for your companionship tonight.”
cOmPaNiOnSh— What?
How would the man, the myth, the legend himself, the only baby daddy you’d be willing to accept, Hwang motherfucking Hyunjin even know you? This has to be a hidden camera prank or something!
As you suspiciously look the man up and down, however, you’re struggling to hold onto your prank theory. The weirdly familiar butler-henchman hybrid guy is clad in a crisp Dior suit, his nails are perfectly manicured, and his hair is so neatly coiffed that bro can walk a runway if he wants. Now you’re trying to logically explain why someone would send a man like this to locate you at this hour. Maybe if they are bored enough? But what entertainment can possibly come out of interrupting a plain mortal’s cocktail hour with their friends?
WHY would a Diorland resident want to locate YOU in the first place? There is literally NO possibility of your paths ever crossing!
“Wait, you’re in every single fansite picture when Hyunjin attends a public event,” Mina points at him, her face contorting with her revelation. “You’re Kim Jiwon, aren’t you?”
“I am,” the man acknowledges.
“How do you even know this guy?” you turn to Mina.
“Girl, even you know him,” she answers with a content smile. “He’s Hyunjin’s bodyguard.”
As you let out a long “Ohhh…”, it finally clicks in your mind why he seems so familiar. He pulls something out from the inside pocket of his blazer and clicks a silver pen.
“I’ve been told this was your own request,” he hands you an envelope containing a single sheet of paper. “You need to sign it before I can take you to him.”
There ain’t NO WAY…
You can see the words, but your brain refuses to process them. That’s it; you’ve been fangirling so hard that it has finally given you permanent brain damage, and now you’re hallucinating worse than ai. At least, that was how you were planning to plead insanity.
But the “OH MY GOD!”s raising from the table confirm that your friends can also see the title reads “Non-Disclosure Agreement”.
“Please don’t. This document contains sensitive information,” he snatches the paper from the prying eyes before they can commit it to memory, and points at the bottom. “If you won’t be signing it, please let me know right now, so I can relay it to Mr. Hwang. This is a time-sensitive issue.”
“T–Time-sensitive?!” you widen your eyes. “Can’t I at least tell my friends where I’m going so they know I’m safe?”
“No, you can’t, but I’m obligated to ensure your protection just as much as Mr. Hwang’s,” he indirectly informs the table. “This isn’t a job offer, so there is nothing to contemplate here. It’s just a promise that you will be discreet about the time you will be spending in Mr. Hwang’s company. Yes or no.”
Yet another “OH MY GOD!” erupts from the table, and by then, Jiwon is at his limit. Before he rescinds the invitation altogether, you lunge at the document telling you to shut the fuck up and sign it. You don’t have one logical answer as to how the Hwang Hyunjin knows you, or why he, quote, “strongly wishes for your companionship”. But the three Cosmopolitans in your bloodstream convince you that making shady deals in the middle of a restaurant is a great idea. And that you will regret it if you don’t go all in tonight.
Whatevs, if anything goes off the rails, you’ll just scream bloody murder, and his career will be over before he can spell “handwritten apology”.
“If I don’t send a thumbs up within 15 minutes, call the police,” you quietly scheme with Mina as you take your sweet time gathering your belongings. “If I do send a thumbs up, call a mortician because his sheer hotness will fucking kill me.”
You follow Jiwon to the valet area, barely registering that he’s just opened the door to a Rolls-Royce Phantom for you. It’s a true test of willpower not to yell “SHUT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK UP!” as you get into the disgustingly smug flex all over Hyunjin’s socials. So it’s true. It’s actually true. You are being taken to the only man ever. For whatever fucking reason…
WHO CARES?!
You make it to the mystery venue in just under five minutes. As he accompanies you to the elevator, Jiwon hands you what looks like a gold-plated card, instructing you to just swipe it to reach your intended destination. So you do. With a thousand butterflies in your stomach, and still only half-believing that you’re about to appear before His Majesty.
Once you get out of that cabin, you can only see one large door at the end of the hallway. A light breeze of music leaks into the carpet-clad corridor. The distance you need to walk suddenly seems like miles long, and the entire time, you keep repeating to yourself, “What am I doing? What am I doing? What the ACTUAL FUCK am I doing?!”, which is entirely pointless considering you’ve already made it this far. Might as well see what’s behind door number two.
Well, door number 4001, to be exact.
Standing in front of the heavy-looking oak, you take the deepest breath of your life and ring the doorbell, your group chat still open in your hand just in case. After a ten-second silence, it finally opens.
Your knees damn near give way when you make eye contact with your greeter.
“Hey, beautiful,” the only man ever leans against the door frame with that sultry smile you know too well. “Remember me?”
You quickly send a thumbs-up emoji to the group chat and shove the phone inside your bag, having no idea what to do with yourself. It’s him. The man who stuns you when he just breathes, the man who has sheer grace and absolute harlotry running in his veins instead of blood is right there smiling at you. It’s REALLY him!
It is really him, but something is not.
Every memory you have of him suddenly flashes before your eyes. Every “private” moment you were lucky enough to share, the handholding, the small talks about his personal work, the eggplant lasagna jokes… All were so soft, so comfortable, and it was like that by design. Even though he knew your name, you were fully aware that this man was at work. That “See? I remember intimate details about you because you’ve made a mark on me” shtick was the first line of his job description. These guys were probably handed a study pack full of attendee information before those events anyway.
But right this moment, not even a shred of the sentimental soft boi is present in his demeanor. Eyes darkened, pupils dilated, posture relaxed, cunningly smirking. The man standing at door number 4001 isn’t Hwang Hyunjin.
It’s the fucking DEVIL!
“Uh… I feel like I need to make sure, just in case,” you shake your head to snap out of it. “You are aware I’m not an escort, right?”
“Why would you even say that?” he furrows his brows.
“I signed a document that says you want my companionship for an opening ceremony tonight?”
He’s so amused, he starts laughing, and you die a little bit. That part is at least the same. When he laughs, your heart still goes into overdrive.
“Yes, I’m aware,” he answers.
“How do you… even know me?” you hesitantly ask, making sure your tone wouldn’t make him think you’re displeased by the invitation. “I couldn’t come up with one reason why you of all people would look for me.”
But the way his face falls, he must be offended. You panic, trying to find ways to explain yourself and what you really meant by that. That he is a god walking among mortals, that you’re one of the aforementioned mortals, and that it just doesn’t make any sense why he wouldn’t summon a fellow goddess instead.
“See, I’m a glass-half-full kind of man,” he speaks through a sigh as he slowly approaches, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Some might say your zip code starts with 103. I say it ends with 320.”
No.
No, there ain’t NO MOTHERFUCKING WAY…
How is that even POSSIBLE?! How many degrees of separation have you been from Hyunjin all this time? Does one of your followers just HAPPEN to know him somehow? Then what, did they just show him the fucking embarrassing amounts of delusion? Did he at least get a good laugh out of it?
Seems a bit too late to deactivate now…
“Well, you asked for it yourself, didn’t you?” he chortles, lifting your chin. “You signed the NDA. Now’s your one chance.”
How are you still not passing out?
Fuck the how, he knows. He knows about it all, and you have never been this mortified about something in your damn LIFE! Your shame brute-forces its way into the main control room of your brain and disables all your cognitive functions.
You can’t think of ONE thing to say to him!
“Unless… You’d rather it was someone else instead,” he cocks a brow at your silence. “Someone who’s been wrecking you recently?”
“I… I–I’m… I don’t…”
The door he left ajar behind him opens again, and another familiar face peeks out, flashing you a pair of heart-stopping dimples.
“Fucking hot,” Chris bites his lips, resting his chin on Hyunjin’s shoulder while staring at you. “Lucked out with this one, huh, Hyun?”
WHAT THE HELL IS EVEN GOING ON RIGHT NOW?
Where did he come from all of a sudden? What does it all mean? And why is this whole thing starting to feel like a fujoshi trap?!
“It’s just a party,” Hyunjin reassuringly smiles, caressing your cheek as if to calm you down. “We’ll hang out, talk, have a couple of drinks, that kinda thing.”
He holds your hand and presses his lips on your wrist for at least a solid five seconds, deeply inhaling your scent, then looks at you with dreamy eyes.
“But if the fancy strikes,” he steps aside, gently pushing you from your waist to lead you in, “we can always party a little harder.”
Incredulous that you are actually flanked by your very own OTP, you walk into the gigantic suite where the chatter of the crowd melts into the music. You recognize a lot of these faces because it’s crawling with idols inside, but the sight is the furthest thing from variety show cutesiness. Their claim holds up. It is a party.
They just forgot to tell you what kind.
The front end is “frat”. Two fandoms are amidst a vicious fanwar online, yet their “oppas” are heavily broing it out, all clearly intoxicated, laughing their asses off as two of the bunch are trying to do body shots off of each other.
Whereas the back end is “swinger”. Socials are filled with snark about who paved the way, yet the younger artists are busy teaching their seniors how to eat their pussies properly. No one cares that they are in the presence of a crowd—they are going at it.
“How’d you like the cesspit black hole of bubblegum pop?” Chris asks, plopping down next to you on the giant sectional by the window, and hands you a glass of vodka on the rocks. “Not giving ‘ending fairy’ at all, yeah?”
“You don’t say,” you raise your brows. “Feels like I passed through an underworld portal just now.”
“So…” Hyunjin flings an arm around your shoulder, comfortably spreading his legs. “You’re a shipper.”
Your drink almost comes out of your nose with panic-slash-fluster. THAT’S how he chooses to bring it up?!
“It’s just entertainment,” you play it cool, trying to choose your words carefully. “I don’t actually believe you are in a relationship.”
“Even when we live together?”
“That’s not proof of anything.”
“Even when we shower together?” Chris presses. “Stuck in hotel rooms together for months on tour…”
“Everybody knows that’s a convenience thing when you’re strapped for time,” you refute.
“But what if Hyunchan is real, and we’re laughing our asses off hiding in plain sight?” he looks you up and down, annoyingly smirking. “Post a picture of me giving him head right now, and haters will still say it’s fanservice.”
“Didn’t you see the pepero thing?” Hyunjin chimes in. “He’s the only one I almost made out with, and our parents were in the audience, mind you.”
Before you catch on goddamn fire, you have to force quit the fangirling and put your rational thinking into overdrive QUICK! What are they even after, having a weird ship conversation about themselves out of nowhere? It’s almost like they are trying to convince you it’s real, but even if they do, what’s going to possibly come out o—
Oh.
Oh, okay.
Okay, so it’s just a random jackpot thing. They saw your stuff, picked you as a target, and this is how they’re “getting even” by humiliating you to your face. Ha ha, very funny…
“Alright, message received,” you sigh in defeat, your mood suddenly bitter. “Do you want me to apologize in writing, or—?”
“What are you talking about? I’m not mad about that at all,” Hyunjin quickly interjects. “I canceled a porn subscription because of you. I goon to your stuff a lot.”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP NO YOU FUCKING DO NOT!!!”
You scream at his face out of pure reflex, but everyone in the vicinity is so faded that no one even hears it. Well, except for Chris who folds in half howling with laughter.
“Ask him,” Hyunjin points at the yang to his yin extremely seriously. “What was I doing just last night?”
“I’m gonna be a gentleman and say he was reading the latest drop, but he changed his sheets at 2 a.m. Do the math,” Chris corroborates while wiping the tears from his eyes. “So yeah, can confirm he’s not mad. Mad horny, maybe”
“But…” Hyunjin snuggles up to you, speaking directly into your ear. “I am mad about something else.”
“W–What did I do?” you turn your head to face him, almost brushing against his lips.
“What is it about me that you don’t like anymore?” he asks with narrowed eyes.
“WHAT?!”
“It’s the haircut, isn’t it?” he tsks in disappointment. “You find it off-putting.”
“Absolutely not! Where did that even come from?!”
“Then how fucking come you’re wrecked so easily after all these years? I thought we had something.”
The course of the night is quite disorienting as it is. Then he goes ahead and says all that in a single breath, fire shooting out of his eyes as if you’ve cussed out the entire Hwang bloodline. He sounds more delulu than all fics in existence combined, yet he’s dead serious, legitimately demanding an answer from you.
You’re so dumbfounded, you can’t produce a single coherent thought!
“Fine,” Hyunjin pulls out his phone and shows you the screen. “Read it. Out loud.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake…
If you can get an ETA on when you can vanish, please, because the self-cringe of looking at your own blog is suf–fo–ca–ting! Nevertheless, it suddenly doesn’t seem entirely implausible to you that these two may indeed be dying laughing at the fanservice defenders. If you posted about this very moment right now, no one would ever believe you, either, would they?
Mad imagination, bro. 12/10 gooned. Have my reblog.
You sigh in exasperation, trying to dissociate from the fact that those are your own words on the screen, and start reading.
“Guys, I’m this cl—”
“No,” Hyunjin stops you with the tone of an insufferable director. “With feeling.”
Are you unknowingly auditioning for something, or…?
You try to remember what you were doing when you rabidly typed this nonsense and yeeted it into the void of the interwebs. Some teaser pictures had dropped, so it wasn’t even anything that deep. Just plain, good ol’ thirst for normal people, but treason-level betrayal by a certain kiwi’s insane biasing standards.
And nothing less than a recommittal blood oath will convince him of your loyalty, apparently.
“Guys, I’m this close to ulting the shit out of Chris. He’s…” you pause to chase some of the cringe with a sip of vodka. “He’s been wrecking me left and right this comeback.”
“I know, right?” Chris cheeses at you, then mimics Hyunjin’s earlier tone. “It’s the bench press thirst traps, isn’t it?”
“All of it,” Hyunjin demands. “Don’t stop at the best part now.”
Real talk? You’d rather endure the ship interrogation than this medieval-adjacent self-reflection moment. Maybe they used to make witches read their own fics aloud, too, who knows?
“Send help,” you punctuate your unhinged diary entry with an eye roll and hand him his phone back.
“Well then.”
He suddenly pulls you close from your waist, shifting you to straddle his lap. The sight must be a little too satisfying, the way his jaw drops watching you sit on your new throne, breathing heavily as he runs his hands up your waist.
“Help,” he brushes two fingers down your cleavage, “has arrived.”
It doesn’t feel real at all. You’re so close to him that if you move forward just an inch, you can kiss him. In your absence, Chris moves right next to Hyunjin and starts lazily stroking your legs, smiling to himself as he watches goosebumps spread on your skin in slow motion.
“Be honest with me,” Hyunjin puts a hand on your cheek, pointing at Chris with a nod. “Do you wish it was him touching you instead?”
“That’s not what I meant when I said—”
“Look, I get why you might have slipped for a moment,” he interrupts, holding Chris’s face between his thumb and index fingers. “Just look at him. He’s so hot, fucking pisses me off sometimes.”
“Pisses you off, my ass,” Chris scoffs with a snort. “Tell that to your dick standing at attention every time I get out of the shower.”
“Not the time to air our dirty laundry,” Hyunjin turns off the black box, then turns to you. “But if you’re really sorry for abandoning me—”
“I didn’t abandon you!” you protest.
“You did, and it broke my heart,” he instantly denies your appeal, his expression somehow crestfallen and quietly enraged at the same time. “Or are you not sorry at all?”
“I am sorry for upsetting you, but not for abandoning you,” you respond. “Because I didn’t.”
“But you are sorry.”
“I am.”
“Then,” he slowly drags a strap of your dress down your shoulder, “show me how much.”
“T–There are people here,” you quickly grab his hand.
“Of course there are,” he purses his lips. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be a ceremony.”
“Just what the hell is this ceremony for?” you crease your brows. “I haven’t seen one ribbon getting cut.”
“Just because they aren’t in your face doesn’t mean they don’t exist,” he responds with a grin. “You asked me to save you from your misery, remember?”
what if IM hyunjin and ur just giving me ideas lol
Your face changes when it finally starts to sink in.
You look around, and that’s when you see the room for the first time. There are clusters of people spread all over the place, each with a “focal point” amidst them. Depending on the kind of lens you have, you can claim they are being worshipped, pleasured, or entirely humiliated.
Only then does it dawn on you that the “opening ceremony”, at least the one held on this side of the room, is of you.
“Don’t avert your eyes,” Hyunjin holds your face with the kind of tenderness that does not belong to the salacious backdrop. “Look at me.”
And look, you do.
You see two men before you, their gaze somewhat soft but not because it bears any wholesome intent. It’s a tiger and a wolf sitting side by side, and the only reason they don’t snarl is not to spook the gazelle. Otherwise, you can see the drool pooling in their mouth. The intent doesn’t seem entirely nefarious, either, but you have lowered inhibitions and complete heart eyes for them, so… Not exactly the beacon of sound judgement.
When Hyunjin starts pulling you in, the remaining crumbs of sound judgement evacuate the building anyway.
“Kiss the lips you keep writing about,” he quietly demands.
Your life temporarily ends when he takes your lips within his. It’s not like your makeout scoreboard is completely blank, but you’ve never felt anything like this before. The man doesn’t kiss; he attempts to pour himself into your body, then permeate every single corner until he completely possesses you.
Divide and Hwangquer.
“Feeling a little neglected here,” Chris interrupts. “No kisses for me?”
That pout paired with the puppy eyes gives you a little cuteness aggression. You steal a glance from Hyunjin, trying to gauge how upset he’d be if you kissed Chris, but he beats you to it. He just knows you’ll prefer the “fanservice” over a stupid membership card anyway. Now he can thank you for all the sheets he ruined in a single installment.
He grabs Chris by the nape and fucking goes for it, showing you what you would have seen if he had finished that pepero to completion. It makes you wanna combust that their rhythm seems so memorized. It’s pure muscle memory. If these demons had a side hustle where they made out to entertain an audience, the entire community would find out the day they created an account. Not even the most devout “It’s fanservice!” supremacist can explain how two people can know each other’s hot spots this well if they haven’t found them firsthand.
FUCK, IT’S TRUE THEN?!
As Hyunjin languidly grinds against you, he unbuttons Chris’s pants and frees his cock, making him whimper when he wraps his long fingers around him. You can’t control the throb between your legs when you hear that sound, and of course Hyunjin notices, breaking into a diabolical smile.
He channels his attention to you again, this time meeting no resistance when he reaches for the strap of your dress. He takes the left side while Chris takes the right, both men savoring the fuck out of unwrapping the present they treated themselves to. The tiger and the wolf can no longer hide their intent, openly showing their teeth as they stare at your bare chest. As if they communicate with telepathy, each sucks on a nipple at the same time, the same way they make out with each other. Loud. Messy.
Wet.
When you run your fingers through his hair, Chris looks up and makes eye contact with you. He lets go of your nipple and reaches for your face, demanding his kiss. They both melt within your lips, but it’s like night and day. Hyunjin kisses like a Sunday morning—slow and lazy, deep sighs, soft touches because you have all the time in the world. Whereas Chris is like a quickie you know you shouldn’t have—fast and passionate, heavy breathing, firm gropes because you are strapped for time before you get busted.
But both set your body on fire just the same.
Hyunjin stops when he realizes there’s a makeout session going on over his head and starts kissing your neck, fondling everything he can reach. Shortly after, you feel a hand on your inner thighs caressing you. Then it moves up. More. A bit more. It makes you shudder when it reaches the dampened fabric gatekeeping your wetness.
“So, you’re saying,” Hyunjin unzips his pants and lets his cock hang, “if I dip my tongue in there, I’ll be the first ever to taste you?”
“Y–Yes,” you barely manage to answer, wits barely intact.
“You wouldn’t… lie to me, would you?” he squints with suspicion.
Then something you can’t quite explain happens.
Hyunjin looks the same, but his demeanor feels… sinister, almost. It’s like there is a very specific answer to his question, and if you can’t get it exactly right, there will be consequences. The problem is, you can’t tell if he’s roleplaying or if his personality is actually changing right before your eyes.
If the tiger snarls that loudly, obviously it will spook the gazelle.
“Of course not,” Chris intervenes with the wholesomest smile, his voice softer than cumulus clouds. “She would never do that to you.”
“She said she loved me, but it didn’t stop her from having eyes for you,” Hyunjin stares daggers at him. “How do I know she’s telling the truth this time?”
“Hyun, you’re scaring her.”
Hyunjin swiftly turns to you, and when you make eye contact, his rigid scowl suddenly disappears. He averts his eyes like he’s ashamed, but the pout doesn’t go anywhere.
It’s like you’re trying to communicate with a stubborn kid.
“If I hurt you so much,” you softly utter, tilting your head to look into his eyes, “would you like me to leave?”
He immediately grabs your hand like you’re going to vanish otherwise, his eyes widened like saucers. Chris giggles at his reaction and wraps his arms around Hyunjin’s waist behind him.
“You just loooove being a mega spoiled brat, don’t you?” he nibbles on Hyunjin’s earlobe, then flashes his mega reassuring dimples at you. “Asking for a kiss like a normal person is too pedestrian for our prince, so he has to make a scene.”
You thought he was fucking around when he said he was heartbroken earlier, but he looks it. You are so confused, and nothing makes sense to you, but a part of you feels weirdly privileged to witness whatever is going on.
“Come closer,” Chris invites you, placing open-mouth kisses on Hyunjin’s neck. “Let’s pacify him a bit.”
You hold Hyunjin’s hands and put them on your waist, then pull him into a kiss. As soon as your lips touch, he immediately starts melting, and you can feel his body go limp in your arms. He softly moans into you, one hand on your face, the other holding Chris’s hand behind him.
“Do you really love me?” he asks with a pout.
“I came here tonight because Mr. Hwang asked for me,” you affirm. “There was no mention of Chris.”
“Will you stop loving him then?”
“Will you?” you raise your brows, unwittingly laughing. “Don’t ask me for things you don’t have the balls to do.”
“Will you at least stop biasing him then?”
“What’s happening to you?” you smile through your creased brows, strangely endeared.
“Nothing, baby. It’s his dinner time, and he gets very groggy when he doesn’t eat,” Chris answers on his behalf, looking at you knowingly. “So you might wanna feed him now.”
Hyunjin doesn’t lose another second and gently pushes you to lie on your back, comfortably settling between your legs. He has zero patience left to take the teasing route, but still tries his best to hold it together and not rip your underwear off altogether.
“Oh, you so wanna shove it in there already, don’t you?” Chris chuckles, seeing Hyunjin practically drool at the amount of slick.
“Fucking look at this, my god,” Hyunjin bites his lips hard.
“Rock paper scissors?” Chris extends his hand.
“Oh, fuck you, I have bias privileges,” Hyunjin slaps it away. “Dibs on everything.”
“Yes, you do, but you will do my requests, right?
You kinda wanna slap Chris when Hyunjin stops two millimeters away from your pussy and looks up at him. It’s so strange that he seems to only listen to Chris and do everything he says with blind obedience, as if he doesn’t have a mind of his own.
Huh…
“What do you want?”
“How about you get her suuuper wet first,” Chris speaks, dragging Hyunjin’s lip down with his thumb, “then double cream her?”
They smirk at each other, and you almost die because WHAT EVEN IS THIS INSANE DYNAMIC?! They’ve done this before for sure; the correct question is JUST HOW MANY FUCKING TIMES?
“I’m just gonna borrow her a bit so I can cum faster, okay?” Chris gives a quick peck on Hyunjin’s lips. “She still only loves you.”
“I know,” Hyunjin tries to play it cool, but massively fails when he can’t help his smile.
“And I only love you, too.”
FUCK—THIS!!!
You suddenly forget where you are and what you’re about to do, barely stopping yourself from shedding happy tears, because what other proof do you need here, really?
fAnSeRvIcE, my ass!
“I guess it’s only fair that I warn you about this,” Hyunjin licks his lips with sheer hunger, spreading your legs wide.
“A–About what?”
“That no one’s gonna compare to me after tonight. You’ll live the rest of your life looking for me in everyone you fuck,” he smirks big. “So maybe don’t even bother fucking them in the first place.”
You inadvertently arch into him with a gasp when he finally graces you with that first lick, grabbing onto Chris lying by your side. It’s such an unfamiliar, brand-new feeling, and it spreads all over your body faster than a pandemic. So wet. So warm. Dangerously addictive. Unfathomable that someone could have this kind of appetite for you one day, but there you have it in technicolor. And out of all people it could possibly be, it’s Hwang Hyunjin.
The only man ever.
“God, you’re fucking beautiful,” you let slip unbeknownst to yourself.
“Mpf…”
You sink your fingers deeper into Chris when Hyunjin moans into your pussy. The vibrations feel so nice. It’s like an ‘achievement unlocked’ moment—when you talk to him, he reacts.
And he reacts good.
“Feels good, yeah? Now we’re gonna do the same with you,” Chris gets on his knees and presses his cock on your lips. “Open your mouth for me.”
You don’t exactly understand why, but you’re starting to relate to Hyunjin. For whatever reason, when Chris says something, you just do, no questions asked.
You take him into your mouth, but he doesn’t move for a while, just enjoying the sensation as he watches Hyunjin work wonders on your pussy. The man is gone, eating like he’s been starved to death, and when he realizes Chris is watching, he stops sucking, spreads your lips, and makes a complete show of flicking his tongue on your clit as fast as he can.
You’ve heard of chain reaction crashes before, but only now do you understand how they work. Hyunjin licks your soul out of you, you moan louder, and it somehow manifests itself within Chris’s body even though he’s fucking your face. It’s as if you’re just a vessel connecting the two lovers, and Hyunjin pleasures Chris through you.
If you can choose your own death, this is your preferred way to go.
“Oh, FUCK, sorry baby, borrowing your man for a bit,” Chris hurriedly pulls out and rushes to Hyunjin. “I’m about to explode. Fucking finish me!”
Hyunjin gets on his knees, fervently stroking Chris until he unloads a hefty load all over his cock. It’s unclear whether it’s Chris or you who’s about to pass out when he cums because you’ve never seen something this hot in your entire life.
“Do it now,” Chris flashes a fucked out smile. “Before it dries.”
Hyunjin wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and aligns himself with your entrance. As his precum mingles with Chris’s drops at the tip, you see the tiger has fully murderous intent now, groaning loudly even though he very very shallowly thrusts into you, only a knuckle deep. Literally just the tip, barely holding himself back from ramming himself into you with how deliciously slippery you are.
“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” he soothes you when you flinch a bit. “I’ll be very gentle.”
“Why? I didn’t ask you to.”
The two men look at each other and flash the most evil smiles you’ve seen anyone flash.
“Jackpot,” Chris sinks his teeth into his lips.
“Lick her clit so she gets tighter around me,” Hyunjin demands, then looks deep into your eyes. “We’ll see how you like me now.”
“Ah, FUCK!”
You said it yourself. You said so many things yourself. How you were this obsessed with him. How you wanted him to break you in. How you wanted just one chance in exchange for an NDA. And now not to be gentle with you. You’re right, why should he? It’s not like you’re made of glass. You’re a big girl, you can take it.
He’s just complying with your wishes here.
“Your eyes are rolling back,” Hyunjin clenches his teeth, maniacally laughing. “Go ahead. Go ahead and fall back in love with me.”
All you can make is incoherent noises while he sinks into your deepest spots, Chris’s tongue gliding all over your clit. This is it. This is how you go certifiably insane, if not die altogether. Not even the worst fantasies your mind has ever conjured can compare to this, and in your heart of hearts, you know Hyunjin is right. No one’s gonna compare to him, to them, after this, and you have no idea how you’re supposed to go on with your life.
If only there was a way that… If only…
“Don’t stop. Please don’t stop, I’m about t— HYUNJIN!!!”
As you let out a sound you didn’t even know you were capable of making, both men pin you in your place, forcing you to just let the pleasure in. In all your years of self-pleasuring, you have never reached a high this surreal, tearing your soul from your body, and you just know that after tonight, you never will. Squeezing him to death within your walls, you shove Hyunjin into his atom-rearranging orgasm, and his load is so heavy that you can feel every single drop he shoots inside you.
Meanwhile, Hyunjin is so happy he got to be your first that he could die.
“Are you in love with me again?” he nuzzles against your neck once he comes back enough to be able to speak words.
“If I say yes, will you stop obsessing over this?”
“I’m not promising anything.”
You flash him the most fucked out smile. He smiles back. Your heart swells in your chest to the point of combustion when you see his dimples.
“Then no, I’m not,” you stroke his kiwi hair. “Try again.”
He’s not in the least bit offended. If anything, this is the closest he’s been to fansign Hyunjin the entire night, his chuckle making your heart go into overdrive.
“Now that the official ceremony is over,” Chris gets up and starts putting his clothes on, “let’s bounce.”
“Are you really gonna make us move right now?” Hyunjin whines.
“Of fucking course, I am!” Chris scowls, incredulous that Hyunjin would even dare say something like this. “I still need to fuck her, and all our toys are back home.”
❥ Reblog & drop your feedback to make Hyunchan bias you.
(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || After weeks of exhaustion and buried pain finally erupt into a cruel confrontation that shatters the trust between them, Chan must reckon with the weight of his words and fight to mend what he broke, finding redemption in the moment Y/N needs him most.
The vibration of the alarm was less a sound and more a physical assault, a deep thrum against the wooden nightstand that drilled straight into Chan's skull. He'd been staring at the ceiling for the last forty-five minutes anyway. Sleep had been a series of fragmented, restless images, a missed cue, his mother's disappointed face, the cold glare of the practice room mirrors.
He silenced the alarm before it could fully ring out. 4:47 AM. A full thirteen minutes before it was even set to go off.
His phone was already in his hand, a habit he despised but couldn't break. Three new messages.
Dad (11:03 PM): Your mother is asking when you'll call. She said it's been three weeks.
Dad (6:15 AM - Today): I know you're busy. But she's worried. It's not just about you anymore. Your sister had a bad night. She asked for you.
Dad (6:17 AM): Just call when you can, son.
Chan stared at the messages until the words blurred. His younger sister. The one who was supposed to be the "healthy" one, the one who wasn't chasing a ridiculous dream in Seoul. The one whose quiet battles with anxiety had escalated into something that kept his parents awake at night. And he was here, thousands of kilometers away, worrying about a high note he couldn't quite hit consistently.
He typed back a quick, hollow response. I'll call tonight. Tell her I love her.
He didn't add that he hadn't slept more than three hours in four days. He didn't mention that his voice was fraying at the edges. They didn't need to know. They already had enough to carry.
He threw his legs over the side of the bed, the cool air of the dorm hitting his bare skin. The dorm was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that only exists in the pre-dawn hours before eight other people wake up and fill it with noise and life. Right now, it just felt empty.
He pulled on a worn hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, moving on autopilot. In the kitchen, he downed a protein shake he didn't taste, the chalky liquid sitting heavy in his stomach. His reflection in the dark microwave glass was a ghost, dark circles under his eyes, skin pale, expression flat. He looked like a leader. He felt like a fraud.
The company building was already buzzing by the time he arrived at 5:30 AM. The security guard gave him a tired nod. Staff members, looking as haggard as he felt, hurried through the corridors with clipboards and headpieces. The energy was a live wire, frenetic, desperate, and stretched thin.
This was day three of comeback week. Three music shows down. Four more to go. Two variety show appearances squeezed in. A fan-sign event. And nestled in between, the endless, grueling hours of practice to keep the new choreography from turning to mush in their exhausted bodies.
He went straight to the practice room, needing the familiar space. He'd just started his own warm-up, body moving through the opening sequence on muscle memory alone, when the door opened.
Changbin walked in, a paper cup of coffee in each hand. He took one look at Chan and his face fell into a familiar, worried line.
"You look like death," Changbin said, setting one of the cups down by Chan's bag. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Plenty," Chan lied, not breaking his stretch. His hamstrings screamed in protest.
Changbin just hummed, unconvinced. He was the only one who could get away with this, the only one Chan didn't have the energy to deflect. "Your mom call again?"
Chan's jaw tightened. He held the stretch for a second longer, then straightened up. "My sister," he said, the two words feeling like an admission of failure.
Changbin's expression softened. He didn't offer platitudes, which Chan was grateful for. He just nodded slowly. "You'll get through to her."
"Yeah." Chan picked up the coffee, letting the warmth seep into his palms. He didn't have the heart to tell Changbin that the distance between him and his family felt like a chasm he no longer knew how to cross. "Let's just get through today."
The others trickled in over the next hour, each looking as exhausted as the last. Felix came in with his ever-present smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. Hyunjin was uncharacteristically quiet, nursing what looked like a sore throat. Jeongin nearly walked into a wall.
And then there was Y/N.
She slipped in last, as she often did, trying to be unobtrusive. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, her practice clothes a little rumpled. She gave a small, apologetic wave to the room, her eyes briefly meeting Chan's before darting away.
He felt a flicker of something, not annoyance, not yet. Just a twitch of awareness. She'd been quieter than usual lately. More hesitant. He made a mental note to check in with her later, but the mental note was immediately buried under the avalanche of everything else.
The choreographer, a woman with the patience of a saint and the intensity of a drill sergeant, clapped her hands. "Alright. From the top. Full run. No stopping."
The music blared, a wall of sound and bass that Chan had once found exhilarating. Now it felt like another weight pressing down on him.
They moved through the first verse. It was sloppy. Feet were half a beat behind, angles weren't sharp. Chan could feel the choreographer's critical gaze like a brand on his skin. He pushed harder, using his own body to try to set the pace, his voice cutting through the music with sharp corrections.
"Formation three, move faster."
"Seungmin, angle."
"Y/N-"
He stopped. The music kept playing for a second before the assistant scrambled to cut it.
Y/N was in the wrong spot. Not by much. A meter, maybe. But in the intricate clockwork of their choreography, a meter might as well have been a mile. She was standing where Hyunjin was supposed to be in four counts, which meant the entire formation was now off.
The choreographer sighed, a long, weary sound. "Let's take it from the chorus again. Y/N, you're drifting. Watch your spacing."
"Sorry," Y/N breathed, her cheeks flushing. She ducked her head, quickly moving to her correct position.
Chan saw it. The way her shoulders curved inward. The way she was already apologizing for a mistake that, on any other day, would have been a minor, forgettable blip. He opened his mouth to say something, it's fine, we all drift, let's just focus, but the choreographer was already counting them back in, and the words died in his throat.
The morning bled into a haze of repetition. They ran the song four more times. Each time, something was off. Minho's timing wavered. Han's voice cracked on a high note during a section they'd done a hundred times before. Chan himself messed up a transition, his exhausted body refusing to cooperate with his brain.
By the time they broke for a thirty-minute rest before the first music show rehearsal, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken frustration. The members scattered, some to the couches, some to grab food, some to sit in silence with their headphones on.
Chan pulled out his phone. No new messages. He stared at his dad's texts from that morning again, his thumb hovering over the call button. He could do it now. Just a five-minute call. Just to hear his sister's voice.
Not now, a voice in his head said. You don't have time to fall apart right now. Focus. Get through the show. Then you can call.
He shoved the phone back in his pocket.
Across the room, he saw Y/N sitting by herself, her knees drawn up to her chest, scrolling through her phone with a distant expression. She hadn't messed up again since that first time, but she'd been moving carefully, deliberately, as if afraid of making another mistake.
He should go over there. Say something encouraging. Remind her that everyone was off today, that it wasn't just her.
But his legs felt like lead. His head was pounding. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a small, ugly part of him thought: I can't hold her hand right now. I can barely hold myself together.
The live band was louder than they'd expected, throwing off their timing. The stage monitors were feeding back. Their in-ear monitors were cutting in and out, leaving them to rely on hand signals and instinct.
Chan was running damage control on all fronts, talking to the audio director, calming down a frazzled stylist whose outfit for Seungmin had been damaged, trying to keep the members focused. His voice was hoarse from shouting over the chaos, his head throbbing in time with the bass that seemed to vibrate through the very foundation of the building.
And through it all, Y/N was struggling.
It wasn't one big mistake. It was a dozen small ones. A missed hand gesture here. A half-beat delay on a pivot there. At one point, during a section where she had to weave between Felix and Hyunjin, she misjudged the distance and bumped into Hyunjin's shoulder, nearly sending him off balance.
Each time, Chan felt a spike of irritation. Each time, he suppressed it. He was the leader. He was supposed to be patient. He was supposed to guide.
But the irritation was a splinter under his skin, and with every small error, it burrowed deeper.
During a break, he caught Y/N standing at the edge of the stage, her hands pressed together in front of her, her eyes fixed on the floor. She was murmuring something to herself, the counts, probably. Trying to drill them into her exhausted brain.
He walked over, his footsteps heavy on the stage floor. "You okay?"
She looked up, startled. Her eyes were a little too bright. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just… I'll get it. I promise."
"We need you to," he said. He didn't mean for it to come out so blunt. But he was tired, and his brain was fried, and the words came out stripped of any softness. "We're on in twenty minutes."
She flinched. It was subtle, but he saw it. "I know. I'm sorry."
He opened his mouth to say something else, it's not about being sorry, it's about executing, but a staff member called his name, waving a clipboard, and he was pulled away before he could.
The live performance went… fine. It wasn't their best. It wasn't their worst. Chan watched the playback afterwards, picking apart every flaw, every moment where their exhaustion bled through. He'd have to talk to the group about it later. Go over the footage. Fix the mistakes.
But first, there was an interview. Then a fan-sign event. Then another round of practice to prepare for tomorrow's show, because they couldn't afford to have another day like today.
The hours blurred. He smiled for cameras. He answered the same questions with the same practiced ease. He signed album after album, each fan's face a blur of excitement and adoration that he couldn't quite connect with.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Then buzzed again. He didn't check it.
By the time they were back at the company building for final practice, it was nearly 10 PM. The dorm felt like a distant, unreachable place. The practice room, with its harsh fluorescent lights and wall of mirrors, felt like the only reality.
"One more full run," Chan said, his voice flat. "Then we can call it."
The groans were soft, but they were there. He ignored them.
They took their positions. The music started.
And Y/N messed up again.
It was the same section from the morning. The formation shift where she had to move from the back to the front. She was supposed to land next to Chan for the final chorus. Instead, she overshot, ending up a step too far to his left, breaking the symmetry of the ending pose.
Chan's jaw clenched. He forced his face neutral, held the pose until the music faded.
"Again," he said, not looking at her. "From the last chorus."
They reset. The music started.
She did it again.
This time, she was a half-step behind, arriving after the beat had already passed, leaving an awkward gap between her and Chan that was painfully visible in the mirrors.
Chan didn't say anything at first. The music cut off with a screech of vinyl from the speaker, a sound that made everyone jump. He just stood there, chest heaving, staring at her reflection in the mirror. His hands were shaking, from exhaustion, from the caffeine flooding his system, from something he couldn't name. The silence stretched, and with each second, Y/N seemed to shrink a little more.
He turned to face her.
"You." His voice came out low, rougher than he intended. "Come here."
She hesitated, her gaze darting to the other members. No one moved. No one met her eyes. She walked toward him, her footsteps uncertain, her arms wrapped around her middle like she was holding herself together.
Chan waited until she was close enough to see the tear tracks still drying on her face from earlier. Close enough to see the way her hands were trembling.
"What was that?" he asked.
She blinked. "What was-"
"The transition." He gestured toward the spot she'd missed. His voice was flat, but there was something underneath it, a vibration, like a wire pulled too tight. "The one we've run a hundred times. The one you've been missing for three days. What was that?"
"I just-" She swallowed. "I miscalculated the spacing. I'll fix it."
"You'll fix it." He repeated the words slowly, like he was tasting them. "You'll fix it. That's what you said yesterday. And the day before."
"I know. I'm sorry, I-"
"You're sorry." He laughed, but there was nothing funny in it. It was a short, harsh sound that cut through the room. "You're sorry. That's great. That's really great, Y/N."
He was pacing now, short, jerky movements, his hands gripping the back of his neck. His head was pounding. His chest was tight. He could feel everyone's eyes on him, the other members, the staff, the mirrors reflecting his own face back at him, pale and wild.
"When you mess up," he said, and his voice was rising now, each word sharper than the last, "when you miss your mark, do you know what happens? I have to fix it. I have to stop practice, pull everyone back, explain the same formation again. I have to answer to the choreographer. I have to answer to the company. I have to smile at the cameras and pretend everything is fine while you're off in your own world, doing God knows what-"
"That's not fair." Her voice cracked. "I'm not off in my own world, I'm trying-"
"You're trying?" He spun around, and she flinched, actually flinched, her shoulders hunching, her feet shifting back a step. He saw it. He didn't stop. "You think I care if you're trying? You think the fans care? You think the company cares? You think my sister-" He stopped, his jaw clenching so hard it hurt.
The silence that followed was worse than the shouting.
He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, digging in. His head was pounding. His throat was raw. He hadn't slept. He hadn't called his sister. He hadn't done anything right in days, maybe weeks, and here she was, looking at him with those wide, wet eyes, waiting for him to fix it like he always fixed everything, like he was supposed to have the answers.
He dropped his hand.
"You want to know what I think?" His voice was quiet now, which was somehow worse. He stepped closer, and she stepped back, her shoulders hitting the mirror. He didn't stop until he was right in front of her, close enough to see the tears spilling down her cheeks. "I think you've already checked out. I think you're going through the motions, waiting for something, I don't know what. Permission to quit, maybe."
"No." She shook her head, her voice breaking. "That's not, I would never-"
"Then show me." His voice cracked on the words. "Show me something. Anything. Because right now, I am standing in a practice room at ten o'clock at night, running the same transition for the fifth time, and I am tired."
He was breathing hard, his hands shaking at his sides. She was crying silently now, her face wet, her body pressed against the glass like she was trying to disappear into it. He could see her reflection in the mirror behind her, small, cornered, breaking.
He should stop. Some part of him knew he should stop.
But the words kept coming, rising up from somewhere dark and exhausted, and he didn't have the strength to push them back down.
"You want to know what I think?" His voice was rising now, cracking at the edges. "I think you're not good enough to be this much trouble."
Her head snapped up, her eyes widening.
"You heard me." He stepped closer, and she pressed harder against the mirror. "Every single day, I have to stop and fix your mistakes. Every single practice, I have to explain the same choreography to you like you're a trainee. Do you know what that looks like? Do you know what everyone thinks when they see me running after you, covering for you, cleaning up your mess?"
He was yelling now. He could feel it in his throat, raw and tearing.
"They think you're weak. They think you're dragging us down. And you know what?" He laughed, and it was ugly, wild, nothing like himself. "They're right. You are dragging us down. You're the weak link, Y/N. The only reason you're still here, the only reason, is because I keep covering for you. Because I keep lying to the company, lying to the choreographer, lying to myself that you're going to figure it out someday."
Behind him, someone moved. He heard it, a sharp intake of breath, the shuffle of feet. Felix, maybe. Or Changbin.
He didn't care.
"Do you have any idea what it's like?" His voice broke on the words. "To stand here every night and watch you drift? To know that I could have picked anyone, anyone, and they would work harder than you? That they would show up? That they wouldn't make me look like a fool for believing in them?"
She was shaking her head, her hands pressed flat against the mirror, tears streaming down her face. "That's not, I'm trying, I swear I'm trying-"
"Trying isn't good enough!" He shouted it, and the sound of his own voice seemed to shake the room. "Trying isn't good enough when we have a comeback in three days! Trying isn't good enough when the company is watching! Trying isn't good enough when I have eight other people depending on me to hold this together, and you can't even hit a mark you've hit a thousand times before!"
He was in her face now, close enough to see the tears catching on her lashes, to see her lips trembling. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"Maybe you should just quit."
The words came out quieter than he expected. Almost calm.
She went still. Completely, terrifyingly still. Her hands stopped shaking. Her tears kept falling, but her face was blank now, hollow, like something inside her had simply turned off.
"You heard me." His voice was low, steady, each word deliberate. "If you can't do this, if you're going to keep making the same mistakes, keep dragging us down, keep making me explain to everyone why you're worth the trouble, then maybe you should just quit. Walk away. Find something you're actually good at."
He heard it then. A sharp, audible breath from behind him. Not a gasp, something angrier. Changbin's voice, low and urgent: "Chan."
He didn't turn around. He was watching Y/N's face, watching the last light drain out of her eyes.
"I didn't fight for you," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word, "so you could make me regret it every single day."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
The words hung in the air between them. He watched them land, watched her face crumple, watched something behind her eyes go dark.
She didn't say anything. She just stood there, pinned against the mirror, her hands pressed flat against the glass on either side of her like she needed it to hold herself up. Her tears were falling faster now, but she wasn't making a sound.
Chan opened his mouth. He didn't know what he was going to say, something to take it back, something to make it worse, something that would close the distance between what he was feeling and what was coming out of his mouth.
She moved first.
She pushed off the mirror, her body sliding past his, her shoulder brushing his arm. The contact was brief, accidental, but he felt it like a burn. She walked to her bag, her steps unsteady, her hands shaking so badly she dropped her water bottle once, twice, before she managed to pick it up.
No one moved to help her. No one said a word.
She was almost at the door when his voice, stripped of all its earlier heat, came out of him without permission.
"Y/N."
She stopped. Her hand was on the handle, her back to him. He could see her shoulders shaking.
He didn't know what he wanted to say. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please don't go. The words were there, somewhere, buried under the exhaustion and the guilt and the growing, sickening realization of what he'd just done.
But she didn't wait. She pulled the door open and walked through, and the soft click of it closing was the loudest sound Chan had ever heard.
He stood there in the center of the room, surrounded by mirrors, watching himself fall apart in triplicate.
Behind him, someone exhaled shakily. He didn't turn around.
He just stared at the door, at the space where she'd been, and waited for the feeling to come back into his hands.
Chan stood in the center of the practice room, surrounded by mirrors that reflected back every angle of his failure. His hands were shaking. His chest was tight. And all he could think about was the look on Y/N's face, the devastation, the shame, the complete and total collapse of someone he was supposed to protect.
He'd spent years building a family. And in one moment of weakness, one frayed thread finally snapping, he'd taken a blade to its most vulnerable member.
He'd used his love for her, his belief in her, as a weapon.
The dorm was quiet when Chan finally dragged himself through the door three hours later. He'd stayed in the studio, staring at a blank screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard but unable to produce a single note. His phone sat face-down on the desk. He hadn't called his sister. He hadn't called anyone.
He walked past the kitchen, past the living room, his feet carrying him toward his room on autopilot. But something made him stop outside the door to the room Y/N shared with no one, the single room she'd been given as the only female member, a small mercy in a living situation that was otherwise a constant negotiation of boundaries and awareness.
The light was off. The door was closed.
He stood there for a long moment, his hand raised to knock. He could picture her inside, curled up in bed, maybe, or sitting against the headboard with her knees drawn up, the way she did when she was trying to make herself small. He could picture the tear tracks on her face, the way her hands would be shaking.
He owed her an apology. A real one. He owed her to get down on his knees and beg her forgiveness for the words that had come out of his mouth, words that he couldn't take back, words that had been sitting in the back of his throat for days, weeks, waiting for the wrong moment to escape.
But his hand wouldn't move. His voice wouldn't come.
Coward, he thought. You're a coward.
He lowered his hand. He walked to his own room. He closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of his bed in the dark, his head in his hands, and he didn't sleep.
He just sat there, replaying the moment over and over, the look on her face, the way she'd crumbled under the weight of his words.
And somewhere down the hall, in a room where the light stayed off all night, Y/N lay awake too, staring at the ceiling, wondering how she was supposed to face tomorrow when she wasn't sure she deserved to be there at all.
The morning came whether Chan was ready for it or not.
He hadn't slept. He'd spent the night staring at the ceiling, the same ceiling he'd stared at before the alarm had gone off what felt like a lifetime ago. His phone sat on his chest, the screen dark. He'd typed out a message to Y/N seven times. Deleted it seven times.
I'm sorry. Too small.
I didn't mean it. A lie.
Please come back. Selfish.
He'd thrown the phone across the room instead. It had hit the wall with a satisfying crack, the screen spider-webbing into a constellation of fractures. He hadn't picked it up.
Now, at 6:15 AM, he stood in the kitchen of the dorm, a cup of coffee growing cold in his hands. The others were moving around him, showers running, doors opening and closing, the low murmur of exhausted voices trying to find the energy for another day. He heard it all from a distance, like he was underwater.
Changbin appeared at his elbow, freshly showered, his hair still damp. He didn't say anything at first. He just leaned against the counter next to Chan, their shoulders almost touching, and waited.
"I fucked up," Chan said finally. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw by hours of silence.
"Yeah," Changbin said quietly. There was no judgment in his voice. Just acknowledgment. "You did."
"I don't know how to fix it."
Changbin was quiet for a moment. "You start by talking to her."
Chan let out a hollow laugh. "And say what? 'Sorry I told you that you don't deserve to be here? Sorry I made you flinch? Sorry I, '" His voice cracked. He couldn't finish.
"You say exactly that," Changbin said, turning to face him. His expression was serious, his eyes steady. "You say all of it. And then you let her decide if she can forgive you."
Chan shook his head. "She shouldn't. I don't deserve-"
"That's not your call to make." Changbin's voice was firm now. "You don't get to decide what she deserves. You just get to show up and do the work. The same way she's been doing every single day while you've been too in your own head to see it."
The words hit Chan like a slap. He opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of a door opening down the hall made him stop.
They both turned.
Y/N emerged from her room, and Chan's heart stopped.
She was dressed for practice, the same worn leggings, the same loose t-shirt, her hair pulled back in the same messy ponytail. But everything else was different. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow, dark circles so deep they looked like bruises. She moved like someone carrying something heavy, her shoulders curved inward, her steps slow and deliberate.
She didn't see them at first. She was looking at her phone, her brow furrowed in concentration, her lips moving silently. Counting, maybe. Or rehearsing. Chan couldn't tell.
Then she looked up.
Their eyes met across the kitchen, and Chan felt something crack open in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, to say her name, to say something, anything, but before he could, she flinched.
It was small, barely a movement. A slight recoil, a tightening of her shoulders, her gaze dropping instantly to the floor. But Chan saw it. He saw it like a blade to the ribs.
She didn't say anything. She didn't acknowledge him at all. She just turned and walked toward the door, her footsteps quick now, almost frantic, like she was trying to escape.
"Y/N-" he started, his voice rough.
She stopped. Her hand was on the door handle, her back to him, her entire body rigid.
"Please," she said, and her voice was so quiet he almost didn't hear it. "Please don't."
She didn't wait for him to respond. She pulled the door open and was gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click that echoed the one from the night before.
Chan stood frozen, the coffee cup cold in his hands, his throat so tight he couldn't breathe.
Changbin let out a long, slow exhale. "Give her space," he said quietly. "For now. But Chan?" He waited until Chan looked at him. "You can't let this go. You can't let her disappear into herself. You saw her. She's already halfway there."
Chan had seen her. He'd seen the hollow look in her eyes, the way she'd flinched at the sight of him, the way she'd practically fled from the room. He'd done that. He'd put that look on her face, that fear in her eyes.
He set the coffee cup down. His hands were shaking again.
Chan arrived early, as he always did, but Y/N was already there. She was in the corner, her back to the door, going through the transition in slow motion. Her arms moved through the choreography with mechanical precision, her lips counting the beats silently, her feet marking the steps with careful, deliberate movements.
She didn't turn around when he walked in. She didn't acknowledge him at all. Her shoulders tensed, he saw it, the subtle tightening of her frame, but she didn't stop moving.
Chan stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her. She was thinner than he remembered. When had that happened? When had she stopped eating properly? When had the circles under her eyes gotten so deep?
He wanted to go to her. He wanted to take her hands, to make her look at him, to tell her that he was wrong, that she was the most deserving person he'd ever met, that he'd been a monster,
But Changbin's voice echoed in his head. Give her space.
So he didn't move. He walked to his usual spot, set his bag down, and started his stretches. He didn't look at her. He didn't trust himself to.
The others trickled in over the next twenty minutes. The atmosphere was different, subdued, fragile, everyone moving carefully, speaking in hushed voices. Felix glanced between Chan and Y/N's corner, his expression tight with worry. Hyunjin kept opening his mouth to say something and then closing it again. Minho's jaw was set, his eyes hard, his usual humor nowhere to be seen.
No one mentioned last night. No one had to.
The choreographer arrived at 7:30, her clipboard in hand, her expression businesslike. She didn't comment on the silence, didn't ask why Y/N was already in position while everyone else was still stretching. She just clapped her hands and said, "From the top. Let's go."
Chan took his position. He was acutely aware of Y/N three meters to his left, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her body angled slightly away from him. The gap between them was small, just a few feet of polished floor, but it felt like an ocean.
The music started.
They moved through the first verse. It was better than yesterday, cleaner, sharper. The exhaustion was still there, but there was something else now. Something desperate. Chan could feel it in the way the others moved, like they were trying to compensate for something, to fill a space that had suddenly become too big.
The first chorus came. The formation shift. Y/N moved from the back to the front, and Chan felt his breath catch.
She hit her mark. Perfectly. Not a centimeter off, not a beat late. She landed next to him exactly where she was supposed to be, her arm brushing his for a split second before she pulled away like she'd been burned.
Chan almost stumbled. He caught himself, finished the move, but his mind was reeling. She'd pulled away from him. She'd flinched away from his touch.
The music continued. They finished the run, and the choreographer nodded slowly, her expression unreadable.
"Better," she said. "Y/N, your spacing was much cleaner. Keep that energy."
Y/N nodded. She didn't look at anyone. She didn't look at Chan.
"From the second verse," the choreographer said. "We need to tighten the bridge. Let's go."
They reset. The music started again. And again, Y/N was perfect. Her movements were precise, her timing impeccable, her form flawless. She didn't make a single mistake. She didn't miss a single mark.
Chan watched her from the corner of his eye, and his chest ached. She was moving like a machine, no emotion, no joy, no spark. She was technically perfect, but the life had drained out of her. The thing that made her Y/N, the warmth, the energy, the quiet determination that had made him fight for her in the first place, was gone.
He'd killed it.
They ran the song three more times. Each time, Y/N was flawless. Each time, she pulled away from him the moment their choreography brought them close. Each time, Chan felt something inside him crack a little more.
During the water break, she retreated to her corner again, pulling out her phone, her earbuds in, her body language screaming do not approach. The other members glanced at her, then at Chan, then away. No one knew what to say. No one knew how to bridge the chasm that had opened up between them.
Chan stood on the other side of the room, his water bottle forgotten in his hand, watching her. She was scrolling through her phone, her thumb moving mechanically, her expression blank. She looked exhausted. She looked broken. She looked like someone who was running on empty and had been for a very, very long time.
He thought about what Changbin had said. You can't let her disappear into herself.
He took a step toward her.
She looked up immediately, like she had a radar for his movement, and he watched her face shut down. The blankness became something harder, something more defensive. Her shoulders curved inward, making herself smaller. Her hand tightened around her phone.
Chan stopped. He was ten feet away from her, but it felt like a hundred.
"Y/N," he said quietly. "Can we talk?"
She didn't answer right away. She just looked at him, her eyes wide and wary, and for a moment he saw something flicker there, fear, yes, but something else too. Something that looked like exhaustion. Like she was so tired of being afraid, of being careful, of waiting for the next blow.
"I need to practice," she said finally. Her voice was flat. Empty.
"Please." He didn't mean for it to come out as desperate as it did. "Just, give me five minutes."
She looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she pulled her earbuds out, slowly, deliberately, and tucked them into her pocket. She didn't say yes. She didn't say no. She just stood there, waiting, her arms wrapped around her middle like she was holding herself together.
Chan took a breath. He could feel the other members watching, could feel their eyes on him, but he didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the girl in front of him, the girl he'd hurt, the girl who was looking at him like he might hurt her again at any moment.
"What I said last night," he started, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "What I said was, it was cruel. It was wrong. I was-" He stopped, swallowed hard. "I was taking things out on you that had nothing to do with you. Things I should have dealt with. Things I should never have made you carry."
Y/N didn't move. Didn't speak. Her face was carefully, terrifyingly blank.
"I never should have said you don't deserve your spot," Chan continued, his voice rough. "That's not true. That's never been true. You-" He had to stop again, his throat tight. "You're one of the hardest working people I've ever met. You're talented. You're dedicated. You're-" You're everything I said you weren't. "I was wrong. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N."
Silence.
Chan watched her, waiting, hoping for something, a nod, a word, anything that would tell him she'd heard him, that maybe, someday, she could forgive him.
But Y/N just stood there. Her arms were wrapped tighter around herself now, her knuckles white. Her eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor somewhere between them, not meeting his gaze.
"You don't have to forgive me," Chan said quietly. "I know I don't deserve that. But I need you to know, I meant what I said when I fought for you. I meant it then, and I mean it now. You belong here. You've always belonged here. And I'm-" His voice broke. "I'm sorry I made you doubt that."
Y/N was quiet for a long time. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, and Chan felt like he was drowning in it.
Finally, she spoke.
"Okay," she said. Her voice was soft, barely audible. But there was something in it, not forgiveness, not yet, but something. A crack in the wall she'd built around herself. "Okay."
She looked up at him then, and Chan's heart clenched. Her eyes were red-rimmed, glassy, but she wasn't crying. Not yet. She looked tired. So, so tired.
"I need to practice," she said again, and this time it wasn't a deflection. It was just… the truth.
Chan nodded slowly. "Yeah. Okay."
He stepped back, giving her space, and she let out a breath, small, shaky, but there. She didn't smile. She didn't reach out. But she didn't flinch when he moved, and that, Chan realized, was more than he deserved.
She walked back to her position, her steps still careful, still measured, but there was something different in the set of her shoulders. Something that wasn't quite so broken.
Chan watched her go, and for the first time since last night, he let himself breathe.
It wasn't fixed. It wasn't even close to fixed. But it was a start. And right now, a start was all he could ask for.
The choreographer clapped her hands again. "From the bridge. Let's go."
Chan took his position. Y/N was three meters to his left, her eyes forward, her body angled toward the mirror. She wasn't pulling away from him anymore. She wasn't leaning in either. She was just… there. Present. Surviving.
It was enough.
The music started, and they moved together, nine bodies in sync, and for the first time in days, Chan felt like maybe, just maybe, they might be okay.
Y/N showed up to practice. She hit her marks. She performed with technical precision that made the choreographer nod in approval. But she was quiet. Too quiet. She didn't laugh at Felix's jokes during breaks. She didn't join Hyunjin and Seungmin when they bickered over snacks. She didn't sit with Chan during meals, didn't meet his eyes across the practice room, didn't give him any opportunity to bridge the distance that still yawned between them.
She was surviving. But she wasn't living.
Chan watched her shrink. It was subtle at first, a missed meal here, a sleepless night there. But he saw it. He saw the way her clothes fit looser, the way her smiles came slower, the way she drifted to the edges of rooms like she was trying to take up as little space as possible. He saw the way she flinched when someone raised their voice, the way her hands shook during quiet moments when she thought no one was looking.
He tried. God, he tried. He brought her coffee in the mornings, setting it next to her bag before she arrived so she wouldn't have to take it from his hands. He made sure there were snacks she liked in the practice room, the ones she used to eat before everything fell apart. He stopped correcting her during rehearsals, letting the choreographer handle it, terrified that his voice, even gentle, even kind, would send her back into herself.
But she kept slipping away, and Chan didn't know how to pull her back.
Changbin caught him in the hallway three days before the first concert of the tour. Chan was leaning against the wall, his forehead pressed to the cool plaster, his eyes closed.
"She's still not okay," Changbin said. It wasn't a question.
Chan shook his head. "She's hollow. I hollowed her out."
"You didn't-"
"I did." Chan opened his eyes, and Changbin took a step back at the look on his face. "I told her she didn't deserve to be here. I told her I regretted fighting for her. I made her flinch, Changbin. She's terrified of me, and I don't know how to fix it because every time I get close, she pulls away, and I can't blame her because I'm the one who hurt her."
Changbin was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think you've been trying to fix this the way you fix everything. You're trying to control it. You're trying to find the right words, the right actions, the right sequence of events that will make everything okay again." He paused. "But this isn't a choreography, Chan. You can't perfect your way out of this."
Chan stared at him.
"Stop trying to fix her," Changbin said, his voice gentle but firm. "Stop trying to manage her. Just… be there. Be present. Let her come to you when she's ready. And if she's not ready-" He shrugged. "Then you wait. However long it takes."
Twenty thousand fans packed into the arena, their light sticks a sea of shimmering color that stretched from the stage to the highest rafters. The energy was electric, a living thing that crackled in the air and made the hairs on Chan's arms stand up.
He stood in the wings, watching the chaos of last-minute preparations. Stylists flitted between members, fixing hair, adjusting micro packs. Stagehands ran final checks on the risers and pyrotechnics. The roar of the crowd was a constant hum, a wave of sound that built and built and built.
And in the corner, Y/N stood alone.
She was dressed for the opening number, a fitted black top that had once fit her perfectly, now hanging slightly loose on her frame. Her hair was styled, her makeup done, but none of it could hide the shadows under her eyes or the way she was gripping her own arms like she was holding herself together.
Chan wanted to go to her. Every instinct screamed at him to cross the room, to take her hands, to tell her that she was going to be incredible, that twenty thousand people were here to see her, that she deserved every second of this.
But Changbin's words echoed in his head. Stop trying to fix her. Just be there.
So he stayed where he was. He caught her eye across the chaos, and for a moment, just a moment, he let her see everything he couldn't say. The apology. The regret. The love he'd never stopped feeling, even when he'd been too broken to show it properly.
She looked away first. But her grip on her arms loosened, just slightly.
The stage manager's voice crackled over the headset. "Thirty seconds."
The members gathered in the darkness behind the stage, forming their opening formation. Chan took his place, his heart pounding. Y/N was three people away from him, her face illuminated by the dim backstage lights, her eyes fixed on the floor.
He closed his eyes. Please, he thought, to no one and everyone. Please let her feel this. Please let her know she's not alone.
The countdown began. Three, two, one.
The lights exploded. The music crashed. And they were moving.
The first three songs were a blur of adrenaline and muscle memory. Chan's body moved on autopilot, hitting every mark, every beat, while his mind raced ahead, cataloging the members, checking their energy, watching for any sign of fatigue or struggle.
Y/N was performing. Not the hollow, mechanical perfection she'd been showing in practice, something else. Something raw. She was throwing herself into the choreography with a desperation that made Chan's chest ache, like she was trying to prove something. Like she was trying to earn something she already deserved.
The crowd was going insane. Twenty thousand voices singing along, screaming their names, waving light sticks in perfect unison. Chan fed on the energy, let it fill the hollow spaces inside him, let it push him through the exhaustion that had become his constant companion.
But he kept coming back to Y/N.
He watched her during the first ment, standing at the edge of the formation while the others spoke to the crowd. She was smiling, a real smile, or close to it, waving at the fans in her section, her eyes bright. The fans were screaming for her, their signs held high, their voices raw with love.
Chan saw one sign near the front row: Y/N, YOU DESERVE THE WORLD. Another: WE SEE YOU, Y/N. WE LOVE YOU. A third, held by a girl with tears streaming down her face: Y/N, YOU ARE ENOUGH.
Chan's throat tightened. He looked at Y/N, wondering if she'd seen them, and saw her gaze catch on the signs. Saw her smile falter. Saw her hand drop to her side, her fingers curling into her palm.
She'd seen them.
The mnet ended. The next song started. Chan moved through the choreography, but his focus was split, his attention always drifting back to Y/N, watching for the moment when the weight of the fans' love would either lift her up or break her open.
It happened during the ballad.
They were spread across the stage, each member in their own spotlight, the arena hushed as the opening piano chords filled the air. Chan was stage left, his voice low and steady, his eyes scanning the crowd. Felix was center stage, his deep voice wrapping around the melody like a warm blanket. Seungmin's vocals soared, clear and pure.
And Y/N was stage right, her voice soft, her eyes closed, her face turned up toward the lights like she was searching for something in the darkness.
Chan watched her sing, and for a moment, she looked like herself again. The old Y/N, the one who laughed too loudly and danced too hard and loved her members with everything she had. The one he'd fallen in love with, though he'd never been brave enough to say it.
Then she opened her eyes.
Her gaze landed on the front row, where a sea of signs had been raised during her verse. Not generic signs. Signs with her name on them. Signs with words that made Chan's heart stop. Signs that made it obvious her pain was known to everyone.
Y/N, WE BELIEVE IN YOU.
Y/N, YOU BELONG HERE.
Y/N, YOUR VOICE SAVED ME.
Y/N, DON'T GIVE UP. PLEASE.
He saw the exact moment it hit her.
Her voice cracked on the next note. It was small, barely audible over the backing track, but Chan heard it. He saw her hand fly to her mouth, saw her eyes fill with tears, saw her shoulders start to shake.
She was crying. On stage. In front of twenty thousand people.
The fans saw it too. The screams that rose from the crowd weren't the usual excited shrieks, they were something else. Something softer. A wave of support that rolled through the arena, fans chanting her name, holding their signs higher, reaching toward her like they could physically hold her up.
Chan moved before he could think.
He crossed the stage in a dozen long strides, his spotlight abandoned, his solo forgotten. He was aware, dimly, of the other members adjusting around him, covering for him, letting him go. He was aware of the crowd's roar intensifying as he approached her.
But all he could see was Y/N.
She was crumbling. Right there on stage, in front of everyone, her carefully constructed walls coming down all at once. Her hands were pressed to her face, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs, her microphone hanging useless at her side.
Chan reached her. He didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his chest, holding her as tightly as he dared, his face buried in her hair, his heart shattering into a million pieces.
"I've got you," he murmured, his voice raw, his lips against her ear. "I've got you. I'm here."
She collapsed.
Her hands fisted in his jacket, her body shaking with the force of her tears, her face pressed into his chest like she was trying to disappear into him. She was saying something, he could feel the vibrations against his skin, but he couldn't hear her over the crowd, over the music that was still playing, over the pounding of his own heart.
He pulled back just enough to tilt her face up, to see her eyes, red-rimmed and streaming, looking up at him with an anguish that made his knees weak.
"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice cracked on the words. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I'm so sorry."
She shook her head, her fingers tightening in his jacket. "I thought-" she choked out. "I thought you didn't want me here. I thought you regretted-"
"No." The word came out fierce, desperate. "No. Never. Never, never, never." He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away tears that kept falling, kept falling, like a dam that had finally broken. "I was wrong. I was so wrong. You deserve this. You deserve everything. You're the strongest person I've ever met, and I was too stupid and too scared and too tired to see what I was doing to you."
"You were tired," she whispered, like she was trying to make excuses for him. Like she was still trying to protect him, even now, even after everything.
"That's not an excuse." His voice broke again. "That's not an excuse for what I said. For how I made you feel. For making you think-" He couldn't finish. The words lodged in his throat, sharp and jagged.
She pulled back slightly, looking at him through her tears. "I thought I'd lost you," she said quietly. "I thought I'd lost all of you."
Chan shook his head, pulling her back into his arms, holding her so tightly he was afraid he might hurt her, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't let go. "You didn't. You never could. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm never going anywhere."
She was crying again, but it was different this time. Softer. Less like breaking and more like healing. Her arms came up around his neck, her face buried in his shoulder, her body pressed against his like she was trying to climb inside his skin and stay there.
The crowd was still screaming. The music had faded to a soft instrumental, the other members having quietly guided the band into an extended improvisation, giving them time. Chan was vaguely aware of Felix's hand on his back for a moment, a brief squeeze of support, before he stepped away.
Chan didn't care. The only thing that existed in the universe was the girl in his arms.
"I love you," he said into her hair, the words escaping before he could stop them. His voice was quiet, meant only for her. "I love you, and I'm sorry it took me almost destroying us to say it. But I need you to know. I need you to know that I've never regretted fighting for you. Not for one second. The only thing I regret is not fighting harder for you when you needed me to."
She pulled back again, her eyes wide, her tears still falling. "Chan-"
"I know," he said quickly, his heart pounding. "I know this isn't, I know you might not, I just needed you to know. I needed you to hear it."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile broke through the tears. It was small, fragile, the first real smile he'd seen from her in weeks, and it was the most beautiful thing Chan had ever seen.
"I thought I'd imagined it. That you'd never felt anything at all."
Chan let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, pulling her close again, pressing his forehead to hers. "I've felt everything," he said. "I've been feeling it since the day you walked into that practice room and tried to pretend you weren't terrified. I was just too scared to admit it."
She laughed, a real laugh, watery and broken but real, and Chan felt something in his chest unlock. Something that had been tight and twisted for weeks, for months, maybe for years.
Around them, the crowd had settled into a steady chant. Y/N. Y/N. Y/N. Twenty thousand voices, calling her name, lifting her up.
Chan pulled back, keeping one arm around her waist, and turned her toward the crowd. "Look," he said softly. "Look at them. They love you. They see you. They know what I've always known."
Y/N looked out at the sea of light sticks, the signs still held high, the faces of twenty thousand people who had come to see her, who believed in her, who were chanting her name like a prayer.
She started crying again, but this time, she was smiling. And Chan held her through it, his arms around her, his heart wide open, finally, finally where he was supposed to be.
The other members closed in around them, Felix with his arm around Y/N's shoulders, Hyunjin squeezing her hand, Jeongin pressing a kiss to her hair, Minho pretending he wasn't wiping his own eyes. They surrounded her, protected her, held her up.
And Chan stood at her side, his hand finding hers, his fingers lacing through hers, holding on like he'd never let go.
The music swelled again, the next song starting, and Y/N took a deep breath. She looked at Chan, and he saw something in her eyes that he hadn't seen in weeks.
Hope.
"You ready?" he asked softly.
She nodded. Squeezed his hand. Smiled.
"Yeah," she said. "I'm ready."
They stepped forward together, into the lights, into the music, into the love of twenty thousand voices calling her name.
And Chan knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he would spend the rest of his life making sure she never doubted her place in this world again.
She deserved everything. And he would spend forever making sure she got it.
Includes — Infidelity in a previous relationship, alcohol and weed consumption, driving under the influence (do not fucking do it), friends-to-something-weird, themes of jealousy and possessiveness, weird friendship dynamics, slight perverted behavior, sexual first times, a shitty relationship, Jeno is an instigator and some characters are morally grey. Smut warnings under the cut.
Author's Note — Will this be my comeback to writing fanfics? I am not entirely sure. I just felt an itch and this happened! Feedback is highly appreciated because it has been almost a whole year since I wrote something, so I might be doubting my abilities at this point. Thank you for reading! This is not proofread, and english is not my first language, please keep it in mind.
Smut warnings: Reader is a virgin, Mark does have experience. Use of petnames, lots of kisses, make out scenes, oral sex (f. receiving), dirty talk, squirting, multiple orgasms, hints of masochist reader and sadomasochist Mark (but very tame, to be honest), unprotected sex, piv, cum eating, creampie. If I miss any tags, please let me know!
“So, it’s a promise?”
Mark should've said no. Dodge the question, at the very least.
He should've just laughed it off. Change the topic of conversation around to focus on anything but you, and that stupid promise you were coercing him into keeping it.
He could've used his usual awkwardness to escape your dreamy, yet cornering gaze. Blame it on the alcohol in your system and pretend to be concerned over the drink you were practically spilling on top of your skirt.
Mark could've said plenty of things, anything that didn't resemble the meaning of a yes or of course. Rather an easy task.
But despite his GPA, Mark Lee isn't the smartest man to walk on earth.
At least not when it comes to you.
“Word”.
Be it the weed, the smell of your fragrance, the can of beer he chugged down long before he started smoking, or the mere fact that what you were suggesting was exactly what he daydreamed about, Mark just didn't know who or what to blame for his decision
At the time, he didn't think much about it —not even after waking up the very next day, with his throat dry and a heavy sense in his chest of having blurred the limits of your friendship.
What was there to think, anyway? You were drunk and he was high. You probably didn’t mean it, and even if you did (which, to Mark’s logic, was highly unlike it) you probably didn’t remember it by then.
And even if you did mean it, and did remember it the next morning, the odds weren’t in his favor: you turned 23 five years from then, and a lot of things could happen in the span of a single year or two. Even if the promise was as serious as you made it to look, hooking your pinky around his as the definitive seal of said promise, there was no way on earth you would reach your early 20's with no sexual experience whatsoever; wherever Mark saw it, that promise was meant to remain untouched, without being fulfilled nor broken.
But, truth be told, a part of him craved dearly for the circumstances to be different. Mark wished for you to actually gather the courage to bring that night up, to address the fact that you asked him to take your virginity if no one had done it by the night of your 23rd. birthday.
The other part wished for him to travel back in time and relive that night over again. He would've done things right, starting from ditching Jeno's invitation to get high at his place.
Had he not attended his friend's house very late into the night, he wouldn't have found you half asleep, alone with your drunken thoughts. And had he not found you alone and completely drunk, Mark would've never found out about the kind of thoughts that wandered into your head that day —having you as a friend would’ve been a bit easier, and living would've been less anguish-inducing.
A lot of things happened in the span of a year or two. None of them could have been predicted by Mark.
Not only did you become closer to him as a friend, but you also ended up sharing an apartment together. He was reluctant about it at first, but you were so good at persuading people into acting in your favor that he fell into your wit once again.
“If we split the rent, it’s going to be cheaper. It’s close to uni, and our part-time jobs,” your words were accompanied by a longing gaze that he swore it made his knees buck. “You told me you hated the college dorms, so I’m offering you an alternative to that”.
You were right —Mark despised, with all his heart, the college dorms. They were small, and the hallways were always crowded; also his own privacy was close to non-existent there.
So yes, you were offering him the best alternative. But he still hesitated, despite going through a pros and cons list of living in a college dorm, which basically consisted of 1 pro (always being on time for his classes) and at least 17 cons.
“Please?” You begged him when you caught a glimpse of reluctance imprinted on his face.
And again, Mark just had to say yes.
So you ended up moving in together at the beginning of the spring semester, and things seemed to be going really well for the both of you. Or at least, seemingly so.
Your apartment became some sort of crashing place, just like Jeno’s house was at some point, and it wasn’t unusual for you to host weekend gatherings for you and Mark’s friends.
It also wasn't unexpected that you and Mark got to know each other on a personal level —you learned to decipher his mood based on how long he took to shower, and he quickly picked up on the fact that you listened to 80’s music whenever you were feeling sad.
But, of course, for things to work out, communication was mandatory.
“I’m seeing someone,” you blurted once during dinner, making him lift his gaze up from his meal. “We aren't together together, but we're getting there”.
Mark wouldn't admit it out loud, but he felt a pinch of awkwardness when you told him that.
“That’s- good dude, I guess,” he swallowed thickly, doing everything he could to pretend he wasn't feeling nauseous at the mere thought of even encountering you holding hands, or worse, kissing someone. “Uh, what’s his name?”
“Met him at work,” you replied, hinting that he wouldn’t know who he was even if you told him his name. “We have been going on dates and all, and- I think I like him”.
Again, he felt that stinging anguish in his chest. All in cynicism, as if he hadn't been dating and messing around with other people in the meantime too.
“Yo, that’s good,” he nodded. “Like, really good”.
Of course, in the back of his mind there was the promise. The promise you and him made, the one that was pending on a string because of that guy you met at work, who would probably have you to himself before Mark even had the chance to.
“Yeah,” you smiled, picking the fork on your food with no purpose whatsoever. “I mean, I wanted to tell you because you’re my friend but also because- well, he’s probably not going to be a stranger around here, y’know?”.
Of course he wasn't. And that was one of the things Mark feared the most when you asked him to be your roommate.
“Yeah, I get it,” he rushed to say, shaking his head in an attempt to convince himself that this sort of thing was bound to happen. “Like, of course you’re going to want some privacy and whatnot”.
You let out a sigh of what Mark could only guess as relief, followed soon after by a sympathetic smile.
“Just let me know in advance, yeah?” He cleared his throat, not being able to look right into your eyes. “Like, if you want the apartment all to yourself, let me know and I'll keep myself busy”.
The sexual, implicit meaning behind his words made you giggle internally, which only translated to a friendly chuckle that was so quiet he just couldn't pick on.
“Will do, Mark”.
But a whole year passed, and not once you asked to have the apartment all for yourself.
He tried not to think much of it, keeping the promise in the back of his mind —latent, noisy, repressed.
Your apartment wasn't the only place you could get some intimacy, and he knew that —he also knew that your boyfriend had a place of his own, and that love hotels exist. He also knew one could fuck anywhere, so you not asking to have the apartment for yourself didn't mean you were still a virgin.
But in the deepest pits of his guts, he kind of wished it did.
He also kind of wished you would break up with your boyfriend because he was an asshole, but those were the kind of things he never actually said out loud to anyone, except to Haechan.
“Man he is such a waste,” Mark had complained to his best friend, “I can’t fucking stand him”.
“You can’t stand him? Or you can’t stand the fact that he is probably getting it on with her and you’re just complaining about it to me?”
Haechan has always been too witty for everyone's good. Especially Mark's.
And he might've been right to some extent, but Mark knew it was beyond that. The guy was literal trash, and he often wondered why you just couldn't see it.
“You think they have done it already?”
“Dude I- God, why are you asking me that?”
“Just curious,” Haechan shrugged, but because of the broad gamer chair, it wasn’t noticeable from Mark’s point of view. “I mean, their relationship is weird as fuck”.
He never thought much of it, of your relationship. First and foremost because he wasn't a masochist, and because he didn't want to hate the guy more than he already did —it was awkward enough to have him at your place every other business day, acting all lovey-dovey with you.
“How come?”
“You know, she lives with you,” his friend emphasized the word lives, “imagine having a girlfriend but she lives with another man that’s not you”.
“We’re roommates,” Mark explained, although Haechan’s words kind of made sense.
Not a lot, but kind of.
“Yeah but that doesn’t make it any less weird,” the brown-haired continued playing video games like he just didn't drop a (painfully obvious) bomb onto Mark. A bomb he didn't think about before, but that he couldn't stop spiraling into once Haechan brought it to the spotlight.
“You think she’s going to move out with him or something?” The anguish in his voice was notorious, but he prayed Haechan was too distracted to notice. He wanted to act like he didn't care, despite his heart being shattered into tiny, little pieces at the mere thought of you getting into formalities with your partner.
Even worse, at the idea of having to find a new roommate all over again. One he actually likes and trusts, and that wouldn't get too upset at his habit of leaving the toothpaste open.
“It would be the obvious thing to do,” his friend mindlessly responded. “If, you know, you’re serious about it or something”.
That night, Mark unlocked a new fear: you moving out to live with your boyfriend.
An imminent fear that seemed too real to be ignored, and just around the corner for him to shake it off.
He was itching to ask you if you've ever considered living with your partner, albeit the short period of time you had been in the relationship, but he never actually got the courage to ask —it was best to not know, anyways. About that, and about your relationship as a whole.
And truthfully, Mark always tried to play things low-key. Never asked too many questions, he never interrupted your privacy by listening to your conversations with your friends, and never stayed in the shared common areas for too long when your boyfriend was home. Both for your comfort and his sake.
But the inevitable happened and, one night when you came home crying after what was supposed to be your 2-year-anniversary, he just had to ask.
“What happened?”
Your teary eyes and pouty lips were out of his sight when you embraced his figure, alternating between crying on the crook of his neck and against his chest.
“He- with someone else, he was- some texts, and-”
He could only get a small grip on whatever you were trying to say, but his heartbeats became faster and he felt an odd kind of warmth invading his chest, neck and back. A mixture of rage and empathy.
“C’mere,” he held you tightly against him, awkwardly patting your back while he tried not to think about your fragrance too much. You were clinging onto him, pouring out your heart in a sob of despair, and he was solely thinking of how warm your skin felt against his, and how delicious your hair smelled.
There were more things to worry about, but again, Mark Lee isn't the smartest man to walk on earth when it comes to you.
“Wanna talk about it or-” You were already ranting before he even got to finish his question, walking towards the living room couch and dragging him with you.
“He has been cheating on me,” you said. “For God knows how long, I don’t know. Don’t care, didn’t ask”.
He kept quiet, patiently waiting for you to keep on talking but you tried to make it seem as if you had said everything you had to —your mouth was closed in a straight line, but Mark didn't miss the small gasps that escaped your lips every time you thought about saying something else but regretted it immediately.
“Okay,” your friend nodded, carefully thinking about how to address this whole mess. He had a lot of questions, most of which were just his curiosity rather than a desire to help, “how did you-”.
“I received a weird instagram message,” you sighed without giving importance to the how but what, pushing your hair away from your face. “There were some pictures and videos of him with another girl. And you know? I always felt a hunch. Been feeling it since like six or seven months ago? God how- can’t even- I don’t know why I didn’t realize it sooner. I feel so fucking-”.
“It’s not your fault, you know?” Mark's soothing voice suddenly made an appearance, and it made you realize you were rambling. It wasn't normal for you to talk about your relationship with your friend, or anyone for that matter, but that night seemed adequate. “Like, it’s not your fault you didn’t know. And it wasn’t your fault that he chose poorly. It has nothing to do with you”.
You knew he was partly right —you weren't at fault for not realizing it before. But a part of you sort of thought it was your fault to some extent, that it had everything to do with you, and you feared that if you were to reveal that to Mark, he would've chosen your boyfriend's side.
You know, as a man.
“I need a fucking drink,” was pretty much all the exhale you gave in response to his words. And he looked at you with a pinch of pity and concern that only fueled your need to reject your sobriety tonight.
“I don’t think you should drink,” Mark told you, tilting his head. “Like you’re obviously not in a good place emotionally”.
“Well I’m not going to drink alone,” you cocked an eyebrow at him, with eyes so swollen Mark didn’t know if he found them eerie or cute. Completely disregarding the indirect invitation to drink with you, you insisted, “am I?”
And again, he should've said no.
Like he should when you asked him to be your roommate, and when you coerced him into keeping a promise you probably didn’t even remember by then.
But it wasn’t within him to deny you anything, so he soon found himself drinking beer alongside you, hearing two years of your relationship squeezed into one conversation. It was enough information to overwhelm everyone, but he still tried to keep track of all the names and dates you were dropping.
He also tried not to think about how he would've done things with you, and how good he could've made you feel throughout your relationship.
They were pointless thoughts, anyway.
“The girl, it was someone from work,” you confessed after four or five beers, feeling content with that little push of extraversion that always comes with alcohol. “I wouldn’t necessarily call her a friend but she- we got along, I guess”.
In situations like these, Mark was a man of few words. At least when it came to hearing the whole story, so you weren't surprised by his silence. If anything, it only invited you to fill the void with everything you intended to leave unsaid before drinking.
“She knew we were dating and everything. Always complimenting us on how much of the perfect couple we were,” you take another bitter sip to your drink while your eyes unfocus on the t.v. in front of you, paying no particular attention to Mark’s presence, nor whatever was happening on the screen, “I should've known she was onto something. All those praises weren't normal”.
You backtracked a bit, and even kept quiet for a while as you gathered your thoughts.
Again, Mark just waited patiently.
“I mean, it’s not her fault. I am making it seem like she is a fucking homewrecker and all but the one with the commitment was him,” you bit your lip, trying to put some sense into what you were saying. “Yeah it was shitty of her to fuck my boyfriend, but it’s not like she forced him or anything. He was willing to do so, so they’re both at fault. Maybe he is more than she is, I don’t know. It kind of makes sense”.
You were slurring your words a bit, but Mark was as sober as if he had been drinking water for the past hour or so.
“It does make sense,” he reassured you, nodding as a way of validating your feelings. “But it doesn't matter whose fault it was, you know? You're hurt, and you don't have to intellectualize this whole situation so it doesn't hurt less”.
“Someone has been paying attention to psychology 101,” you teased him, smiling for the first time that night. His heart pounded heavily against his chest at that, but the moment didn't last long before your smile dropped and your eyes got clouded with tears yet again. “But it kind of matters whose fault it was. At least for me”.
“Would that make you feel any better?”
“That would make me feel less guilty,” you admitted, avoiding his gaze that so desperately tried to find yours. “Because I can’t shake the feeling that maybe this whole thing was my fault”.
Mark's eyebrows went from flat to slightly furrowed. And again, his heart pounded heavily for all the wrong reasons.
How could you be at fault? Your boyfriend was the one that cheated, the one who betrayed your trust. How could you be the one to blame, if he felt you trembling between his arms?
You probably made your mistakes too, but such unfaithfulness shouldn't be the punishment for screwing it up here and there.
“Dude, I don’t-”.
“I just couldn’t do it,” you shook your head, rubbing your face with your available hand. “I just- couldn’t, I tried- like really tried, but I just- I couldn’t”.
It was pretty clear to you what you were talking about, but the way Mark kept staring at you made you think he needed some sort of clarification.
“You couldn’t do what?” He asked with genuine confusion.
“It,” you guided the bottle to your lips and chugged down the rest of your beer. “You know what I mean, don’t make me say it”.
And although Mark's heart was ringing in his ears, he felt out of breath and his head felt dizzy, he needed confirmation to see if you two were on the same page.
Or talking about the same thing, to be precise.
“You couldn’t-”.
“I couldn’t have sex with him, okay?” you suddenly blurted out, swallowing thickly when you caught Mark’s oh of realization. “I told him I wanted to wait, and seemingly he was fine with that at first,”
the more you talked, the less Mark listened. And he should've had, because that was some valuable information you were pouring out.
But in the back of his mind, the promise was ardent. Like a fire that spreads calmly, that's threatening but you just can't run away from it because you think it's pointless.
It will catch up with you eventually.
“After the first year, I guess it got kind of old,” you continued, feeling embarrassed of having to admit such a thing out loud. Particularly to a man. “He wanted more and I didn’t- I mean we did other stuff, you know? I thought that would compensate the fact that I just couldn't get myself to fuck with him, but I guess it wasn't enough”
Mark was looking at you puzzled, and you wondered if he also thought it was your fault too.
Your ex never explicitly said so, the whole "I cheated on you because you wouldn't have sex with me" thing. But it was painfully obvious —the other woman could offer him something you just couldn't, and he didn't think twice before taking it.
“You do- realize that what you’re saying is bullshit, right?” Mark blinked with such a concerned gaze that you felt your chest heavy. “How could you even- seriously though, how can you even think this is your fault?”
“Because that’s how men act,” you spat. “Only caring about getting your dicks wet, nothing else”.
He could've said something along the lines of don't generalize, but he would've been a hypocrite.
It wasn't that Mark thought with his dick, like every other man. But he also couldn't deny the fact that men are careless and impulsive, doing things they always end up regretting.
He was nowhere near an exemption to that rule, but he tried his best.
“And how exactly is that your fault?”
You paused for a moment, trying to give some sense to his words.
They honestly had a much more solid point than yours, which were rooted in anguish and overwhelm.
“I don’t know,” the sigh that escaped your lips was a reminder to Mark of how long he had been holding his breath. You were walking around the one topic he didn't want to discuss, the one thing he wished to remain ignorant to.
You swallowed thickly, pondering between opening your heart to one of your dearest friends, or just taking some things to your grave. You know Mark wouldn't judge you, but you also knew there wasn't a clear point in you ranting about your sexual life with him.
It just wasn’t something you two usually talked about.
So you went with the latter and put an end to a conversation that was meant for so much more than addressing a couple of facts —because truly, your mouth itched to talk about everything that went wrong between you and your ex.
But maybe right then, it just wasn't the time and place.
A couple of weeks have gone by, and the small dot under a certain date of a month almost always capture Mark's attention every time he intends to navigate through the calendar app.
Your birthday is coming up, and he just can’t stop the inevitable.
“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Jeno asks with eyebrows so furrowed, Mark thinks that’s the most expression he has ever seen on his face.
Apart from his characteristic smile, of course.
“I just- got stuff to do man,” he shrugs, avoiding both Jeno's and Haechan's confused glances, “exams are coming up and-”.
“Cut the crap,” Jeno interrupts. “Haechan, tell him to cut the crap”.
“Cut the crap, Mark,” adamantly, Haechan intervenes, “you don’t even study”.
“This is your roommate we’re talking about,” the black-haired emphasizes, making it as awkward as he possibly can, “you know, the one that is now very single and probably looking for a rebound”.
Mark’s eyes squint and he hisses slowly, “she is not looking for a rebound”.
“It’s up to you to change her mind,” Haechan clicks his tongue, shaking his head.
Mark never told anyone about the promise, so his friends talking about how he should approach you it's kind of weird now that he thinks about it.
“What’s your deal with us, anyways?” He hufs, staring up at Jeno while he lights up a joint.
“The better question it’s what is your deal with her?” Jeno lets out a taunting laugh that soon gets mixed with an awkward cough, “her birthday it’s coming up, she is clearly upset because her boyfriend of two years cheated on her, you’re pathetically obsessed with the girl but you won’t come to her birthday party?”
“Dude, I am not obsessed with her,” Mark defends, pinching the bridge of his nose. From afar, Haechan subtly smirks.
Seems like everyone can tell, but him.
“Okay, whatever,” the black-haired plops down onto the couch, and the blunt travels from his hands to Mark’s. “If you don’t want to come, then don’t come. But if she ends up in my bed, I don’t want you to cause a fucking scene”.
Mark licks his lips, and his throat feels dry —both out of rage and amusement, “I want to see you trying”.
“Oh?” At that, Haechan perks up.
None of your friends are strangers to your magnetism —there's just something about you, or your aura, or the way you sometimes smile with your tongue and your gaze can go from doe to siren in an instant.
There's something about you that only people who pay attention can understand.
And they have been paying attention for too long, much to Mark's dismay.
“You want to bet?”
Had you been any other girl, Mark would've bet on it.
Like Jeno, he is competitive. And he considers him to be a very fair opponent.
But this is you they’re talking about, and Mark doesn’t gamble where he can’t stand to lose —least of all against Jeno, who has a reputation of its own.
“No,” he stresses, pressing down the half-way smoked blunt into the ashtray, “unlike you, I don’t act like a fucking high-schooler”.
“Bold statement coming from someone who is about to miss a birthday party just because the birthday girl makes him lose control, so much so he has a boner every time she is around,” Haechan teases and Mark groans. He swears he is going to lose his mind.
“Yeah dude, you’re not that slick holding that cushion to your crotch every time she sits near you,” the other one snorts in between chuckles.
“Can we stop talking about her?”
“Why? Are you growing a boner?”
Mark kicks his head up. Sometimes he can’t believe these are his best friends.
You've never been too fond of celebrating your birthdays.
Not even now, that you kind of need it the most.
“I’ll pick you up in 20, okay?” Minjeong tells you through the phone, with an interference so loud you swear she might be bar-hopping the streets of Seoul to qualify the best place to take you tonight.
“Can I at least know where we are heading to?”
“If you don’t know the meaning of a surprise, you should look it up,” she replies with a condescending tone. “Wear something pretty. Or slutty. Or pretty slutty, I don’t know”.
She hangs up and you're left by yourself, staring longingly at your wardrobe with only twenty minutes to get ready —half of the clothes hanging in there you don't recognize anymore, just as much as you no longer recognize yourself.
It didn’t start right away, but it began long before the breakup. Around four or five months into the relationship, your ex began making small comments—remarks about how your clothes were “too revealing,” or how a certain color didn’t suit your skin tone.
It was seemingly innocent at first, but eventually you found yourself switching from mini-skirts to jeans, and you made sure not to put on too much make up because he didn't like it.
You stopped styling your hair because he never noticed it, and you changed your signature fragrance to something duller just because he once made a comment about your favorite being "too exotic".
You entered that relationship as yourself and left it as someone entirely different —someone he shaped, yet couldn’t stand. Someone he felt no guilt betraying, because you were no longer the girl he’d fallen in love with.
That is, if he truly ever loved you.
You blink repeatedly when you feel the tears lining up in the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill down your make up which, by the way, took you a lot of effort to craft, and decide that you can't spend the seventeen minutes left crying. Instead, you dive into your closet hoping to find the dress you once bought, but never managed to wear. And when your hand reaches out to the bottom of the pile of clothes and you feel the satin-like fabric, you can't help but let out a sigh of relief.
Overall it's a quiet outfit, but it does tick the boxes "pretty", "slutty" and "pretty slutty".
At least that's what you think, and that's the impression you get from your roommate's reaction once you leave your room.
“Too slutty?” You flinch, scrunching your nose.
Mark stares at you in awe, almost as if he had seen a ghost. And he might as well have —he can’t remember the last time he saw you looking like… you.
“No, dude, you-” He tries to form a coherent sentence, but you're overwhelming him in three of his five senses, and he can't think straight, “you came back to the Libre?”
You try to pretend that knowing exactly which perfume you're wearing doesn't affect you, but it does make you feel inexplicable things —no matter how invisible you think you might be, Mark Lee has always made you feel seen.
“Does it stink or something?”
You just have no clue how many times Mark has jerked off smelling your clothes.
“No, no,” he rushes to say, “it’s just- it has been a while since-”.
“I know, I know,” you walk past him, and you fail to notice the way he sharply inhales to fill his lungs with the remains of you, “I don’t recognize myself either”.
You stare at your reflection in the living room mirror, and then your gaze shifts to Mark that's still standing behind you, dressed up a little bit different than what he is used to, “are you going out tonight?”
Right, the birthday party it’s a surprise birthday party.
“Yeah, I am going to Jeno’s”.
“Good,” you sigh, taking one last look in the mirror before you start regretting every single one of your choices tonight, “if I call you in the middle of the night, please pick up. Minjeong it's threatening me with a good time, but we both know we have different definitions of what a good time is”.
Mark nods, “noted”.
And right when you’re picking up your keys and heading to the door of your apartment, he calls your name one last time, “you look good, you really do”.
You smile.
You can always count on Mark Lee to make you feel seen.
“It’s the blindfold really necessary?” You ask, feeling dizzy both by the sense deprivation and the fucked up way Minjeong navigates the streets of Seoul.
“I'm starting to think that a duct tape was far more necessary than that rag,” she sighs, and you bite back a smile, “we’re almost there, alright?”
“If you made me dress up just to end up in a bar at Hongdae I swear to God-”
“We’re not going to a bar in Hongdae,” she repeats for the third time tonight, letting out a frustrated oh my God that is barely audible, but it earns another smile from you, “just keep quiet for like three minutes, and then you’ll see”.
And after the promised three minutes, you feel her parking the car —to your knowledge, you could be in the middle of nowhere. Driving for 45 minutes with no traffic can take you really far in Seoul.
Of course she forces you to stay in your seat until she opens the door for you, and offers you her arm for some guidance.
You notice there is no bustle nor loud music that could indicate you’re in one of Seoul’s main streets, and the air feels way more chilly and clean than that of the city.
It’s comforting in a very eerie way, because it is totally opposite to the atmosphere that Minjeong considers as a party.
“Where are we?” You swear you spent almost an hour inside that car, and the ambient feels way too different you might have ended up in a different fucking country you have to ask. Minjeong, once again, rolls her eyes.
“Walk, come on,” she prompts you, pushing you ever so slightly to your front.
Truth be told, the real ride lasted for twenty minutes at best. Minjeong just elongated it so everyone could get to the place on time.
And after another twenty minutes of trying to walk past a rocky path with high heels and a blindfold, you actually managed to set foot on a solid surface.
“Don’t freak out, okay?” Minjeong whispers behind your back, her hands reaching out to untie the black rag that blocks your vision, “but welcome to your surprise birthday party”.
“My what?!”
The minute the blind fold falls to your feet, you hear a thunderous welcoming that makes up for the past minutes of silence you had been enjoying a bit too much.
Your gaze focuses on everything and nothing, practically at the same time.
“Surprise!” Everyone chants. There are faces you recognize, but the place is crowded with way more people than you actually know. Of course this is more like the Minjeong ambiance of a party —random people, loud music and alcohol.
You almost feel shy and intimidated, but a snarky figure it's quick to approach you with a shot glass and a high-pitched “drink up, come on!”
There's no time to register the liquid Haechan is pouring down your throat until it is burning, and you can only cough in disgust.
“Easy there Hyuck,” Jimin says, embracing your figure in a warm hug that you also have no time to register until her figure holds yours comfortably, “it has been a fucking while since our girl drank”.
And that much is true —your ex hated it when you drank.
Of course, he was allowed to do so. But not you, because you were supposed to be a lady.
A lady that doesn't drink.
Doesn't argue.
And most importantly, doesn't say no to sex with her man.
“Who are all these people?” You ask, still coughing whilst Minjeong pats your back softly.
“Girl, I have no idea,” she admits, “I just proposed the idea, and everyone was on board”.
By everyone she means Jimin, Haechan, Jeno and Mark, your closest friends.
Their friends were also your friends, but not as intimate —still, you greet Jungwoo, Johnny, and a bunch of other people you recognize from college. They greet you too as well, holding you in drunken hugs albeit only ever talking like once or twice in your life.
From afar, you spot Mark leaning down into the kitchen bar and you make your way to him.
“Hello Mr. I'll-be-at-Jeno's,” you snark, taking Mark’s cup from his hands and chugging it down in a sip. There wasn’t much liquor left, anyways.
“I know you hate surprises, but I couldn’t tell you,” he defends himself, taking the cup from your hands just to pour you some pineapple juice with vodka. “Minjeong was very excited about this, and it wasn’t within me to ruin her plans, you know?”
You look at Minjeong dancing happily with Jisung, someone you share classes with and that she has been madly in love with since she first saw him.
It's at moments like these that you feel truly blessed. If it weren't for your friends, you think you would have been left to rot in your post-break up misery forever.
“And did you have something to do with all of these?” You ask, glancing around the kitchen and living room that are cutely decorated with balloons and a big sign that says happy birthday with golden letters.
“Who do you think convinced the Zhong Chenle to lend us his precious lake house to host a borderline frat party?” Mark raised an eyebrow, flirtatious.
Chenle is well-known for being one of the richest people in school. One time he threw a party at his house in freshman year, and people still talk about it to this day.
He never threw another party again though, not once, after the damages caused to the property. But apparently Mark made you the exception.
“So that’s why it is so crowded in here,” you hum, crossing your arms against your chest. Mark didn't want to look, but your cleavage it's too revealing to miss it and now he feels like a pervert. Not only that, but the sight brought back memories from that night, when you made him promise the thing.
You were wearing a white thank top, and you were leaning onto him to whisper drunken sweets to his ears that he just couldn’t get lost in between your breasts.
“Did you bring Gigi?”
The nickname makes you feel nauseous for some reason, but you would never confess that to him. As far as you know, Mark and Giselle have been talking. Not entirely dating but also not entirely as friends. Or at least that's what he told you a week or two before you ended your relationship.
“No,” he shakes his head. “I need time to reflect on some things”.
The phrase is rather weird, and it reminds you of a cliché that says it's not you, it's me, but you don't argue —although you two live together, and have been friends for almost 7 years now, communication is not your forte.
At least not while being sober.
“Birthday girl!” Jeno storms, making space for himself between you and Mark. He wraps an arm over your shoulders, and the mixture of his cologne, cigarette smoke and weed makes your heart skip a beat or two.
Jeno is good looking. It took you a while to admit it to yourself, but ever since you just can't stop seeing it.
“It’s not my birthday yet, Jen,” you smile, offering him a flirty look Mark knows all-to-well.
“I know princess, there are still a couple hours left,” he grins, and the way his eyes turn into crescent moons earns another genuine smile from you, “but tonight we should celebrate it like it is”.
There's a sexual innuendo to his words that Mark catches, and he isn't entirely sure if you did too. But judged by the way you're smiling and batting your eyelashes to him, either you caught it and want it, or you don't. He can't know for sure.
Jeno doesn’t know about the promise. He doesn’t know that you deliberately asked Mark to be your first.
And he certainly doesn’t know that, even without a bet, it’s his bed you’ll end up in.
Rather sooner than later.
"Come on baby, it's your turn," Haechan hands you the microphone after giving the best rendition to George Michael's Careless Whisper, and you can barely hold it and stand up from the leather couch without stumbling upon yourself.
Somehow the people in the party dissipated to various places of the house, and you ended up in a fucking karaoke room that was maybe as big as your own apartment.
Chenle, as the music major he is, asked his parents to build it and he takes much pride in it. So much so that he only allowed a few people to enjoy it tonight. And it has everything —a big ass screen, a bar, and even a dance pole for God knows what.
"What's gonna be your choice?" The owner asks, allowing you to explore the music catalog as you ponder. The one condition for choosing the song it’s that it has to be an 80’s song.
“Oh! That one!” You jump in excitement when "Like a Virgin" by Madonna pops up on the screen.
The irony makes you let out a drunken chuckle, but to be fair you like the song. It is also the only one you can remember the lyrics from beginning to end without having to read them.
Haechan helps you climb to the small stage, and when the countdown video starts playing on the screen you suddenly feel too shy and self-conscious of your singing abilities.
To be really honest, they're nowhere near good. Not even a meh.
“Wait!” You squeal, dragging your words, “I don’t even sing good!”
“We’re drunk, we don’t care!” Minjeong screams, with just as dragged words as yours.
Your eyes desperately look for Haechan, the only one who has been your duo partner before, but seems like he is too busy rolling a joint to even pay attention to his surroundings.
You start to panic. That is, until you hear the first notes of the melody and Jeno climbs to the little stage with you.
Having other people at the front with you makes it feel less intimidating, despite almost no one paying attention because they're either too drunk or too into their own business.
Everyone except Mark, whose high gaze hasn't left your image the whole night.
Albeit how low his voice is, Jeno is matching the Madonna vibe perfectly. So much so, that your awful voice doesn't sound as bad when he is there harmonizing with you.
Singing it's fun, although it is not an ability of yours, but when Jeno starts offering you lingering touches and sensual glances, it becomes even more fun.
The tension rises and suddenly everyone is paying attention. Haechan gawks at the way you drunkenly grind your hips against Jeno, and Minjeong and Jimin can't help but cock an eyebrow to each other when the black-haired adamantly places his hands on your hips like they belong there.
Even worse when he brushes his lips against yours, and you lean up to capture him in an ardent kiss for the crowd to see at the end of the song.
It’s way too erotic to be ignored, even for your roommate, whose ears and cheeks are growing red the more he watches the scene.
Mark feels conflicted —you're not his to claim. And you have the freedom to choose Jeno over him, because the stupid promise was made in a drunken moment like this.
When it didn't matter.
When it wasn't as serious as it should have been.
If you want to fuck Jeno, you could. But Mark wishes otherwise.
It's him whom you have to choose. The one that could actually make you feel good. The one that could teach you everything you've been missing out on.
Jeno has a reputation of his own, but he won't be capable of adoring you the way he does.
To treat you like he can.
To make you cum like he knows he would.
“Get a fucking room!” Chenle screams, fascinated by the scene unfolding right in front of his eyes. He is squealing like a fanboy, and the rest of your drunken and high friends look as excited as he is.
Everyone, except for one.
“Come on Lee,” you hang him the microphone, with a taunting smile like you know exactly how much havoc you've wreaked inside him, “it’s your turn”.
Mark looks at you defiantly, with a gaze so sharp you would've feared if you weren't this drunk.
“I’m good,” it’s all he says, pushing the mic away from him.
“It’s almost my birthday,” you pout, “let me hear that pretty voice of yours, come on!”
“I said I’m good,” his voice is steady as he repeats himself, firm enough for you to desist but full of softness to assure you he isn't upset.
Although he is, he won't show it.
Not there, anyways.
And he senses you've caught the message when you simply turn around and hand someone else the microphone, leaving Mark on his own as he watches the way you sway your hips all the way to Jeno.
"So," you drunkenly plop down on the couch next to Jeno, the tip of your fingers teasingly caressing his bicep, "your place or mine?"
He chuckles, “I don't think your roommate would like the idea of having me over”.
From afar, Mark keeps staring.
Be it the weed, or the fact that he thinks you two are way too drunk to pay any attention to him, Mark just can't stop staring.
“Whatever,” you exhale, batting your eyelashes in a sultry manner, “he brings girls all the time, and not once have I complained”.
“Yeah but it is different,” Jeno comments, closing his eyes while getting lost in the patterns you are drawing in his biceps with the tip of your nails, “those girls aren't your friends”.
“So?” You cock an eyebrow, “I still have to listen their obnoxious moaning all the fucking time. Especially Gigi, that girl can't shut up even if her life depended on it”.
“It is definitely not my place to say it”, your friend murmurs, laughing to himself between words, “but Mark has this weird obsession with you”.
The words barely register to the both of you —you don't think much about it, and Jeno believes the alcohol in your system it's too much to remember this anyways.
“What do you mean Jen?”
“You know,” he sighs, tilting his head at you while giving you the dreamiest gaze, “he won't let any of us get near you in a flirty manner. He has never explicitly said so, anyway, but we kind of caught the message after what happened with Jaemin”.
The name not only rings a bell, but brings back a lore you completely forgot about.
Those pieces of information do wonders to your sobriety, by the way —the more Jeno talks, the less intoxicated you feel.
“What are you talking about?”
He smiles with his tongue poking through his cheek, "again, not my place to tell you about".
You can't believe this man —one moment he is drunk and spilling all your roommate's secrets, the other he decides he is too politically correct to keep on gossiping.
That is, until he leans into the crook of your neck and his breath tickles your exposed skin, revealing a bomb that confuses you even more: “but a little birdie told me that Mark doesn't like to share, not even with his friends”.
Jaemin was, perhaps, your first heart break. One you never really count as a heart break because, to be fair, you were never really together. Not officially, at least.
You met him right after Mark moved in with you —being one of his best friends, it was only natural of him to appear in your apartment every other business day after college. He was sweet, attractive, and shared a couple of interests with you that had you bonding almost immediately.
It didn't take you long to develop feelings for him, and you were almost, certainly sure he felt the same way.
Almost, certainly sure until one day he just ghosted you. Out of fucking nowhere.
Not only that, but you noticed he grew apart from Mark too.
You never had the guts to confront him which was a bummer because you were really into the guy, but you just figured things sometimes ended up like that, especially when no type of commitment was made.
For a while you daydreamed about everything that could've been, but then you met your ex-boyfriend and Jaemin went into the background.
Tonight, hearing his name makes you think you never got closure to it. And you feel you could get it tonight, somehow.
“I am going to need you to be more specific, Jen,” you say, grabbing the sides of his face with such a delicacy that makes Jeno's heart throb, "what did Mark have to do with that?"
Instead of replying, he crashes his lips against yours yet again.
For all he knows, he could be doing his friend a favor right now. A sick, twisted one, but a favor nonetheless.
The kiss catches you by surprise, but it is not unwelcomed by you. You quickly adapt to his pace, furrowing your eyebrows when you feel him nipping at your lower lip —he has a reputation of being a good kisser, and he is living up to it. And you're enjoying it a bit too much that you don't catch the subtle "why don't you ask him?" that escapes from his lips in between kisses, right before he pulls away from you.
“I think it's time for us to leave,” Mark's raspy voice you could recognize anywhere, especially when he speaks like that, like he is bothered and out of patience.
You cock an eyebrow at him, still with your arms intertwined with Jeno's figure, "who said I want to go home?"
“You’re not thinking straight,” he sterns, darting glances between you and Jeno, “and it is getting late”.
“Then you go home,” the liquid courage in your veins is making you act mighty, but the truth is you have no idea where you're standing. You're not entirely sure how things escalated this quickly with Jeno, nor why you're actually considering getting it on with him.
You also have no idea why Mark is acting like he is, nor what Jeno meant with the whole Jaemin thing.
Maybe you're still too drunk, and your mind is playing confusing games on you.
But you don't fail to notice the way Mark's glance at Jeno, with a gaze so sharp it might as well be an unspoken threat.
A look you've never seen in your roommate before, and that it stirs things inside you in all the fucked up ways.
“Maybe you should go, princess,” Jeno says, placing a strand of hair behind your ear, “I think Mark is already riled up enough about the fact that I got to kiss before he did. Who knows, if I end up taking you to my place tonight maybe our friendship could even end up like that of Jaemin's”.
“That’s enough,” Mark says, and you don't even acknowledge his actions until the cold air hits your exposed skin, and you're walking the hideous rocky path, only this time in high heels while being drunk.
“What the fuck is wrong with you Mark?” You hiss, struggling against his hold on your arm. “And what the fuck was that about?”
“Jeno has a big mouth,” he says, cornering you between his front and the open door of his car. You have no other option but to get inside, too dizzy and your legs aching to actually fight him.
He gets inside too, turns on the engine and starts driving without sparing you a glance.
After a while, a couple of words fall from his lips, but they do nothing to ease your anger. If anything, they enrage you even more: “he is not worth your time”.
“Yeah, you probably know so much about how I should invest my time,” you scoff, glaring at the window with a bitter look, “I mean, that's why Jaemin grew apart from me, right? Because you also thought he wasn't worthy of my time”.
Again, Mark doesn’t spare you a glance nor an answer, and the silence that builds up between the two of you only deepens the tension you feel within. The kind of tension that makes you verbally vomit in an attempt to fill up the void.
To regain even the slightest bit of control.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the reason why things didn’t work out with me and Jaemin. And you’re also the reason why I am sitting right next to you, and not Jeno’s tonight,” at that, you turn to face him —not an inch of you feels fear, but anger.
And Mark feels it. The way you're shooting words out like daggers, like he is the villain of your failed love stories and one night stands.
“Do you really think I would let you end up with them? They treat girls like they’re something to win, not something to keep.”
You blink repeatedly, his words catch you off guard, “let me?! You don’t get to decide who-”.
“Well I already did,” Mark cuts you, "you didn’t end up in Jeno’s bed tonight and Jaemin hasn't looked for you in years, has he?”
You look at him in awe, with your lips parted and furrowed eyebrows that make his heart shrink.
At times like these, when he really ponders about everything he has done, it's when he accepts he is on the brink of insanity.
Maybe Haechan was right.
Maybe he is obsessed.
“What the fuck is your problem, Mark?” It comes out more as a whisper, but it is loud enough for him to catch it.
And he realizes, now that his true intentions are out in the open, there's really not much to lose.
“You,” you never thought the sound of three letters together could be this spiteful, but it is. And it stings, big time. “You are my fucking problem. You and that stupid promise”.
The words hang there, thick and heavy, and neither of you move. You should look away, or at least pretend that you have no idea what he is talking about, but you remember it too.
The way you said it, not like a joke, but like a secret slipping out.
A secret you intended to take to the grave, but failed miserably.
“I thought you didn’t remember it,” you quietly admit, but feel your blood boiling underneath your skin, “you never said anything, I-”.
“No I do remember it, that's the issue,” the more he talks, the angrier he gets. And the more you think about it, the more sense it makes, “I remember it so clearly, I started ruining things just to keep that promise alive”.
For the first time that night, you're okay with the silence. You don't feel the need to bite back, to say anything in return, because you're still processing whatever that was that fell from his mouth.
Even when he parks the car in front of your apartment, and he stares at the steering wheel like he just ruined the very last thing he intended to ruin, ever, you don't speak.
“That's what you wanted to hear, right? That I've been patiently waiting for years to have you, and that it killed me every time someone else got you to themselves,” he murmurs, letting out a deep breath.
You think he will continue rambling, but he stops. And then, some sort of realization hits you.
“All of this… just because you want to be my first?” You ask, incredulously, “am I a trophy to you? Something to brag about?”
And when Mark looks at you with crystalline, half-lidded eyes, you realize you didn't nail the spot.
Matter of fact, you're far away from getting it right. And Mark is not about to try to explain it to you with words.
“I know you're way smarter than that,” it’s all he says before getting out of the car and slamming the word shut, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
It is all so confusing, you're not quite sure if Mark hates you or he is in love with you. It’s not like you’re going to ask, either.
But one thing you're certain about: the promise, equally, made you ruin things to yourself. That's why you couldn't have sex with Jaemin when you had the chance, nor could you sleep with your boyfriend of two years. That's also the reason you're here tonight, almost fully sober and outside your apartment alone, because ending up in Jeno's place could only mean one thing.
And you were not about to screw it up.
Not when you are this close to the deadline. A deadline you religiously tracked, but never dare to admit. Not even to yourself.
You check your phone right before getting out of the car, the clock striking a big 00:04 A.M. —it is, officially, your birthday.
By now there are a couple of messages congratulating you; most of them are wondering where you are, and why you leave your own party too early, but you pay no mind to those.
Not to any, but one.
[11:54 P.M.] From: Jeno — This is the part where you two say “Thank you Jeno”.
[11:55 P.M.] From: Jeno — It was nice making out with you. We should do it again sometime.
[11:55 P.M.] From: Jeno —Just please make sure that Mark won't cut me off from his life.
[11:56 P.M.] From: Jeno — I like being his friend.
Like Mark, Jeno is a little weird.
[00:05 A.M.] From: You — Lol, what was in it for you?
[00:06 A.M.] From: Jeno — I got to make out with a pretty girl.
[00:06 A.M.] From: Jeno — And make Mark all riled up.
[00:07 A.M.] From: Jeno — Two of my favorite things in the world.
[00:07 A.M.] From: Jeno — Happy birthday (.◜◡◝)
A promise it’s a promise, right?
And he brought it up. He must want this as much as you do.
Right?
As you make your way through the elevator, you pray he hasn't fallen asleep yet.
You don't have a solid plan, but that doesn't matter. This is Mark you're thinking about. Mark, your roommate, the protagonist of your wildest fantasies and almost every single wet dream you've had since you met him.
You don't need to have a plan —you're now sure he wants you, and you want him too.
The apartment it's completely dark, except for the crook underneath his bedroom door that's mildly illuminated. It's taking you a lot of courage to knock on it, but you manage to do so in less than the time you thought it would take you.
One, two, three times. And no response.
He doesn't tell you to come in, nor opens the door for you. But you sense he isn't asleep yet, you can hear soft music playing through his speakers, and he never falls asleep with the lights on.
Never.
So you go at it again, much to your pride, and you knock on his door another three times.
Only this time, he actually answers.
And he stands there, between you and his room, with a gaze so deep you feel your heart ringing in your ears.
“It’s my birthday,” it’s all you say. Not clever or witty, but that's all you could come up with.
“I know,” Mark rasps, his eyes talking way more than his mouth. “Happy birthday”.
You don't think twice. This time, there's nothing to think about.
And with a delicacy that doesn't match the short, black dress you're wearing, nor the ardent desire behind your eyes, you give Mark a quick peck.
Not a kiss, but barely a brush of his lips. It is soft, and clumsy, and it happens almost in slow motion.
But not slowly enough for him to react.
He stands there, frozen, with his heart beating at a thousand miles per hour wondering if you're sober enough to choose this.
To choose him. Even after all.
"You're going to have to guide me here, you know?" You chuckle nervously, feeling him tensing underneath your touch, “I know nothing about sex”.
Mark blinks repeatedly. He wants to question you, to make you doubt. He wants you to desire him, not because of a stupid promise but because your body wants him —no, needs him.
“This is not because of the promise, right?”
You lick your lips, “when will you realize that the promise was just an excuse to to put over the table that I've wanted to fuck with you ever since I met you, Mark?”
He looks at you for what feels like ages before actually kissing you.
A kiss that doesn't resemble any other kiss that you've had before, one that is charged with the same amount of lewdness and devotion.
Mark kisses like he wants to assert dominance, to have control. And you're not one to put up a fight, so you let him.
One of his hands finds your hips while the other settles on your nape, and he pulls in you to the point of deleting every single space between your bodies.
“You want me to guide you?” Mark asks in between kisses, slamming the door shut right behind him while leading you to his bed, “want me to teach you?”
There's something enticing about the corruption, Mark thinks, about breaking something so pure, shaping something into everything he knows.
It is not about being the one to fuck you first, but being the first one to make you feel the kind of pleasure that you can't provide for yourself.
A pleasure that only he can provide for you.
“Yes, please Mark,” you chant, desperately roaming your hands against his cheeks, neck and chest.
This is as far as you've gotten with someone: the despair, the neediness, the desire to feel a body rutting into you.
But you don't let them. You never went further from there.
"You're going to have to trust me”.
“I already do,” you pant, and a moan escapes from your lips when Mark bites the point where your neck and clavicle connect, “fuck, you know I do”.
“Just me, right?” he whispers, placing a soothing kiss on top of his bite, “not Jeno, not Jaemin, nor your stupid ex, right?”
“Just you Mark,” you cry out, and at that, he lets out a triumphant smile.
He has you right where he wants to.
Right where you belong.
He takes his time marking your skin, peppering kisses and bites anywhere he possibly can. Where people could see them, where your friend's eyes could land and wonder who did those to you.
And you don't seem to mind the way he is harshly sucking on your flesh, leaving purplish bruises that might take a while to fade.
He is not in a rush, but he feels you growing impatient by the way your hips instinctively try to reach some friction against him.
“Have you ever let anyone-” he asks, with his fingers tracing your slit over your laced panties.
You are soaking wet.
“No,” you shake your head. You don’t even let him finish, but you know the answer beforehand to whatever it is he was about to ask.
You’ve never let anyone touch you. You’ve also never received an oral, let alone experiment an orgasm with something that aren’t your toys or fingers.
He kisses you yet again, only this time around way more possessive than the last. Mark's saliva tastes like plum soju, mint and your strawberry gloss, and your heart skips a beat at the realization that this is real, that this is happening —your taste and essence lingers in Mark's mouth, and there's no turning back now.
The closer your bodies are, the more your fragrances mix. You can't tell his smell apart from yours, and he can't tell either —your hands smell like his lotion, and his shirt smells like your perfume.
Your mind spirals into all the sensations he is providing you with, that is until his hands sneak underneath your dress and you get to feel his hot flesh against the sides of your body.
Then, your mind goes blank again.
Your blood boils, you feel the heat rising to your chest, cheeks and ears. You feel exposed, in a way, but you're sure things aren't going to end there.
Mark Lee has seen nothing of you just yet.
"Can I take it off?" His hands are still attached to your waist over your clothes, and as far as you're concerned he could be talking about your dress or your bra. You want those two off anyways, so you nod and agree to whatever he is thinking.
Things unfold in slow motion to your eyes, but everything is happening pretty fast, actually. In the blink of an eye your dress and part of your underwear are scattered around his bedroom floor, and it doesn't take too long before some of his clothes are joining yours there, too.
Between all the kisses and pettings, you feel the loss of his warmth when he takes a step back. Then, you feel really exposed.
Apart from your heavy breaths and fast heartbeats, the room is completely quiet. So quiet it scares you, so you break the silence with a muffled "what?".
Mark's straight eyebrows furrow just slightly, and he parts his lips to say something yet nothing comes out of them. Nothing but a deep, trembling exhale; it sounds like the equivalent to being able to finally breath after being underwater for so long.
“What, Mark?” You repeat with a stern voice, fearing he might've started to regret the whole thing.
But when he drops to his knees in front of you, and his hands find the waistband of your panties, you get the sense that he might not be regretting any of this at all.
“So pretty,” he mutters, with rounded eyebrows like crescent moons and big, open eyes as he stares up at you, “you’re so, so pretty”.
The compliment takes your breath away, and the skin on your nape and back short-circuits as if an explosion of electricity it’s taking place underneath your flesh.
"You really think so?" You're not quite sure what prompts you to ask such a question, but you figure you should let yourself get loose. The last thing you want for tonight is to hold back, because that isn't the idea.
You're doing this with Mark for a reason, and said reason is because you trust him.
Without holding back, without overthinking, without hesitating. There will be plenty of time to reflect on whatever happens tonight, but right now isn't the time.
At least not when Mark is kneeling in front of you, holding so much adoration in his eyes you swear you finally feel those butterflies people keep talking about.
“I know so,” he reiterates, “just look at you”.
Your eyes fall to where his hands meet with your panties, and this time he asks for consent with just his gaze. You nod, and lift your hips slightly off the mattress to make his job rather easy.
You want to shy away, to cover yourself and evaporate into thin air —at the same time, Mark wants to look at you. You want him to be the first one to see you naked, to touch parts of your body nobody has before. You want to see his expression, to wonder what he will do when the realization of having you in his bed finally sinks in.
Because up until now, everything feels like a fever dream to him.
You lay at the edge of his bed, and watch as he undresses you. His hands trace the path of the panties , from your thighs to your calves, and only looks up when it reaches your ankles, signaling for you to get rid of them.
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, standing up from the floor right in front of you. His eyes are all over your face and you get the feeling that he might kiss you again, but all he does is press his lips against yours and murmurs, “you’re fucking mine, you know that?”
You do. All you know is the adrenaline running through your veins, and the palpitations you feel underneath your left rib cage and between your thighs.
And all you know is that you want Mark to fuck you. Whether it's painful, or not. Whether you get to feel some pleasure, or not. All you want is for him to be your first, to be the one you experience sex for the first time like everyone around you already has.
It's actually more complicated than that, than just experiencing, but you don't dwell on it for long.
“Don’t think about it too much,” you suggest, just as fazed as he is. “Don’t think about anything just- do whatever you want”.
Mark can’t do whatever he wants with you. At least not yet. He needs to be gentle, to prepare you to take him like he likes to be taken.
“Stop me if I hurt you,” he whispers with shortness of breath, “alright?”
You nod and swallow thickly, “okay”.
Inevitably, Mark feels a pressure over his shoulders.
You deserve something memorable, something that it's all about you.
Sure, his dick is hard and throbbing, and he swears he is one second away from exploding inside his pants, but he is willing to leave his pleasure aside for yours.
He'd have other opportunities to get his dick wet and other chances to experiment with you. Right now it should be all about you, about making you feel good.
And under that thought, he kisses you again.
Soft and slowly, dragging the tip of his fingers along the middle of your back. His tongue brushes against yours and you completely forget about the concept of oxygen.
It doesn't matter now that Mark's breath is everything you need to respire.
You hardly think about how naked you're in comparison to him, because he presses his chest to yours and your breasts become squeezed by his golden skin. You feel your nipples hardening against him, and you’re fully aware he can feel them too.
Fuck, he can feel them. And his cock gets even harder by that alone.
“Let me see you,” Mark whispers under his breath, but you wrap your arms around his neck, preventing him from taking a step back from you. You shake your head, feeling abruptly overwhelmed by his embrace, as well as the cold air hitting your skin.
“No one has ever seen me naked,” you say.
He knows.
“I want to see you, if you let me,” he swallows thickly, brushing his nose against yours. “Please, let me see you”.
Mark feels your arms releasing some strength, falling limp over his shoulders, and he takes that as an opportunity to walk back just enough to see you.
All of you.
Everything he has been fantasizing for years now, without being able to catch a glimpse from.
“God,” he exhales with a strangled breath, doing everything he possibly can to remain collected.
But it's irrational, and impossible. How can he remain calm when you're almost fully naked in front of him? Your skin is covered in goosebumps, your nipples are hard and the wet spot between your legs just tells him that your body needs something only he can give you. How can he be calm throughout any of this?
He can’t, and he is finally coming to terms with it.
“It’s not fair,” you murmur, slyly crossing your arms over your chest, “I’m practically naked, and you still have your pants on”.
Mark listens, but decides to ignore you. Instead, his hands find your crossed arms and he motions for you to drop them, pressing his lips against yours to kiss you one more time.
He swears he might never get tired of kissing you, ever.
“Lay down,” he presses desperate, short kisses against your lips, and you follow his guidance until your back meets the softness of the comforter again.
His hands hold the sides of your body, only to drag the last piece of clothing off from your body. And it happens all too fast, that you don't even have time to shy away. Mark lays down between your spread legs, with his hands and arms hooked underneath your thighs, feline eyes looking right at yours.
“Remember,” Mark warns, and the feeling of his warm breath against your core feels too weird and unfamiliar, you mean to close your legs around him but he doesn't allow you to, “tell me if I hurt you”.
Your heart would have exploded inside your chest at the sight, but it doesn't until Mark's tongue meets your pussy for the first time. Then, you feel your heartbeats ringing loudly in your ears.
“Shit,” you curse under your breath, holding up your weight with your forearms.
“You’re dripping wet,” he murmurs, nose brushing against your clit while his tongue collects all your arousal, “you must really want this, don’t you?”
You writhe under his hold, feeling weakened by his words. Your chest feels heavy, and there's a tension on your lower back that prompts you to grind your hips against his face, practically begging for him to do something.
And he does —the tip of his digits slide against your folds, exploring you. He focuses his tongue on your clit, and by that alone you swear you're seeing stars. You thought the stimulation would pretty much feel like your fingers or toys, but it's nothing close to that. It feels foreign, out of your control, and you like that.
“How do you touch yourself?”
Instead of replying, you guide one of your hands to his, that is already wet and sticky, and take two of his fingers, “put them inside”.
He follows your orders, sinking his index and middle finger with such an ease it surprises both of you. Normally, it would take you a while to get wet on your own —right now, it seems that your body is reacting to Mark much faster than you expected.
“So fucking warm,” the mutter is more to himself than to you, but you still catch it. And for some reason, the sound of his voice makes you clench harder around his fingers, “and so tight”.
“Don’t say that,” you kick your head back, closing your eyes shut.
“I know you like it,” he says, a small smile creeping through the corners of his lips, “I can feel it”.
There it is, again. Your walls flutter around his fingers, squeezing them softly at every word he says.
“You like it when I tell you how wet you are?” Mark’s voice is gradually lower now, and his choice of words has the desired effect on you, “don’t lie, I can feel you getting tighter”.
This may be better than any lie detector the world has come to know. Discovered by none other than Mark, right before any other guy all over you could.
“Shit,” you curse under your breath, your fingers instinctively latching to his black hair. You don't mean to pull it, but you find yourself using it as leverage, and Mark finds himself groaning at it, “seems like I've discovered something about you too”.
He presses his lips and nose further against yours, pretending to know every single inch of your core with his tongue. It's the first time anyone does this for you, and he wants it to be memorable—a couple of soft whimpers and quiet, strangled moans are falling from your lips, but that isn’t enough for Mark.
"What else do you do?" He asks, and the question comes out more as a whimper than a casual, nonchalant voice. He is clearly affected by all of this, and you can tell by his hips rut against his bed as he touches you. “When you touch yourself, what else do you do?”
One of your hands leaves his dark hair, and guide to your breasts. It always goes a little bit like that —your dominant hand maneuvers the toy against your clit, and your other hand focuses on your breasts and nipples, pinching and twisting them as you like.
Fuck, well, that's going to be a sight imprinted in Mark's mind forever. The way your back arches as soon as your fingers tease your nipples, the way your chest elevates with a deep inhale. The way your hips buck against Mark's touch, and how your toes curl just slightly at the stimulation.
He soon focuses again on his task, pumping two of his fingers inside you while his tongue takes care of your clit that has become more swollen than initially.
He is doing anything he can to get to know you, to see how his touch is affecting you. And when his middle finger touches a spot inside your walls that he hadn't before, and you let out a guttural moan of his name, Mark bites his lip.
“Right there,” you shake your head frantically, acquiring strength from, practically, nowhere to push your body up in your forearms again, “shit, again, do it again”.
And he complies. His middle finger curls, and the reaction he gets is the same, if not more pronounced, from you.
“You’re getting even- fuck, even wetter,” repeatedly, he manages to find a pace of his own. His fingers move slowly and deliciously inside of you, almost always touching that spot that has you moaning louder than before. That, added with the suck of his mouth around your clit, sends you to cloud 9.
You've never felt this before, on your own, and it scares you.
It feels more intense, and slightly painful. Your lower back hurts, you're sweating and you fear you might pee.
It definitely feels as if you're going to pee.
“Mark!” You gasp, your hands pushing him away, “I feel- ‘m gonna make a mess”.
His heart is beating loud in his ears, and he feels the pressure of your thighs squeezing his face.
You must be close.
“Wait!” You gasp, and Mark withdraws from between your legs, but his fingers continue fucking your pussy with an increased pace, “G-god, fuck, I’m-”.
You’re babbling, not making any sense. And Mark feels his dick leaking precum, sticking to his underwear. Never in all his years of life had he been this hard, and it's hurting him to no end. At the same time, it feels deliciously torturing.
He just fears he might come untouched.
“Close?” Mark asks, and you just nod frantically.
As if an expert, his palm hits your clit every time he bottoms his fingers out inside of you. A part of him tells him he should position himself back between your legs and make you come with his mouth and fingers; the other, however, urges him to crawl up, between kneeling and lying next to you, as his available hand guides your chin to him.
The sight is even better like this, Mark thinks —your teary eyes and the hair sticking to your forehead and cheeks with sweat is something he might never be able to forget.
The way you're staring at him like you're scared, and confused, and oh so aroused. He is the reason behind your body shaking and your hands gripping the bed sheets underneath you; the reason behind your cries and whimpers, and the wetness between your legs.
All because of him.
"I think I'm coming," you manage to spit out in a strangled breath, and soon after lose complete control over your body.
Your back arches against his bed, your legs close around his wrist, and your body threatens to push him away. But Mark doesn't let you —he embraces you, holding you harshly in place as you ride your high.
“There you go,” he murmurs, with a soft smile creeping through the corners of his lips.
Your trembling hand wraps around his bicep, and you can barely open your eyes without tearing up. Whatever just happened, you haven't experienced it before.
“Mark,” you whimper yet again, feeling how your walls clench over and over around his fingers. It tired you, both mentally and physically —your toes feel funny from clenching them much, your legs are sore from being spread open for a while now, and your hips feel tired from all the tension that suddenly snapped minutes ago, “holy fuck, Mark”.
“I’m right here,” he tells you while leaving a quick kiss on your lips.
And then another.
And another.
And another, until it turns into a proper kiss, one that isn’t nearly as sloppy or fast as the ones he offered you before. This time, Mark kisses you slowly, carefully, almost as if he is trying to soothe all that tension with his lips.
“You said I can do whatever I want with you, right?” he whispers, brushing away the hair sticking out to your forehead with sweat.
You nod, desperately.
“Come again for me, yeah?” The way he is asking for it it's so sensual, but you know it is not a plea. It is an order, and you want to obey.
“Are you going to take everything I give you?” Mark asks, dragging his lips along your jaw and neck. “Will you be good for me like that?
“Yes, Mark,” you moan, biting down your lower lip when his fingers find your overstimulated core yet again. The soft touch is enough to make you flinch, and he similes at that.
“Oh, God,” a gasp escapes your lips when he starts touching you again, rubbing your clit in circles, “‘t hurts, fuck”.
“I know baby,” yet he doesn’t stop, “but you have to be wetter for you to take me how i like it”.
The hidden promise behind his words makes you arch your back, and then you feel it —the pain morphing into pleasure, because it is him who is inflicting it on you.
This time, your orgasm hits you faster. In no time your legs are trembling yet again, and you're holding onto his neck like your life depends on it.
To be honest, it does right now.
“I need to taste you again,” and before you can protest, Mark’s tongue is already lapping at your slit, savouring all the desire you have for him.
When he is done, Mark licks his lips and he does so in such a swift movement that it barely registers in your mind. But it does, and you can't stop thinking how attractive he is, and how awfully aroused he is making you feel. It's like your body has a mind of its own, one that's completely enticed by him.
He gets rid of the rest of his clothes, and you admire him.
“C’me here,” he kneels in the bed again, hovering your body. His erection pressed against your lower abdomen once again, and you let out an unexpected, almost embarrassing moan just by that alone.
He is hard, and his dick feels warm. You can't help but sneak a hand between your bodies and wrap it around him, making him curse under his breath.
The sight of Mark's eyes closed shut, and his bottom lip caught between his lips will be engraved in your mind, maybe forever.
“If you touch me again, I'm going to come,” he warns you.
“And isn’t that what you want?” You ask, stroking him softly. You’re barely discovering how he likes to be touched, but there’s something pleasant about the way you’re exploring him.
“Not before fucking you,” Mark tells you, “I have to make you feel good again”.
Your eyes never abandon his figure, and you're too lost in that thought, of how strikingly beautiful Mark looks tonight, that you don't feel any sort of panic until the tip of his dick slides against your slit.
This is really happening, you think to yourself, and suddenly all the oxygen from the room has vanished, leaving you with a heavy chest and an awful sensation that you're choking.
“Ready?” He asks when he catches a glimpse of your furrowed eyebrows.
“Just nervous,” your eyes dart between his face and the parts of your bodies where you almost meet. You've heard awful stories about first times, involving a lot of pain and discomfort; why would yours be any different than those?
You feel your heart beating in anticipation, and your throat gets dry.
“I'm not going to hurt you,” Mark says, leaning down to kiss you, “I’m going to make you feel really, really good”.
You nod, because you know he is telling the truth. So you brace yourself by holding his biceps, watching as he guides his dick inside of you.
“Inhale for me baby,” he tells you, and you follow. Your lungs get filled with fresh air until they hurt, until you no longer can harbor any more oxygen.
And only then, the tip of it slides right in easily, with just the tiniest bit of discomfort —your fingers and toys are not close to the size he is.
“Let it all out,” and you exhale deeply, relaxing underneath him as he finally bottoms out. He stays there, without moving, feeling how your walls adapt to his girth. Mark kisses your cheek, and snuggles his face in the crook of your neck to leave a couple of them there, too, “good job”.
You whimper, wrapping your arms around his neck just as your legs wrap around his hips.
His weight on top of you feels nice, just as it does having him inside of you. But you're desperate to know how he really feels, so you prompt him to move.
“I’ll go slow,” and he sticks to his word. His thrusts are slow, but deep —every time he bottoms out, you moan.
You're just getting used to him, so the way he is fucking you is more than enough for now. And it is enough for him, too —if he goes any faster, he is sure he will come.
But he maintains a certain pace, and your bodies get to meet each other in a way they hadn't before.
“Does it feel good?” You ask him in a murmur, and he hums in response.
“So good,” his eyes never leave yours. “You feel so good, your pussy feels so good”.
You bite your lips, wanting to hold back whatever reaction his words elicit from you.
There's something lewd about his voice, and the way he says things tonight. There's something lewd in the way you like it, too.
“You feel good too,” you compliment him, caressing the sides of his face. “Want to come again, with you”.
Mark nods, as if you’re giving him an order for him to follow. But you might as well have, because he takes it upon himself to give you what you want. One of his hands sneak between your sweaty bodies, and albeit difficult, he manages to position the tip of his fingers over your clit, rubbing it at the same pace as his thrusts.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, closing your eyes shut when you feel a pinch of pain from the overstimulation.
It's crazy how many things Mark has learned about you in the past hour.
“Does it feel good when I touch you like this?” He manages to ask, and you nod frantically.
His hand then withdraws from your clit, and when you're about to protest, you notice his mouth is leaning closer to your chest.
He then latches his tongue around one of your hardened nipples, and you become a mess of whimpers underneath him.
“And this?” Mark asks with his lips attached to the flesh of your breast, “does it feel good when I do this?”
“It feels so good, Mark,” you chant, with teary eyes that threaten to start bawling in ecstasy, “so good, fuck, so good”.
He continues, sucking on your nipple while his fingers tease the other. And you really seem to like it because you can't stop moaning, because all your hands do is to force him even more against your chest.
“Squeezing me so good,” Mark mutters under his breath, losing control of himself as he feels you clenching around him. He's drooling over your breasts, swollen and pink lips dragging across your flesh while his hips start spasming, “God, you’re so fucking tight”.
You sneak a hand between your bodies, and when your digits brush against your clit, you feel your body jolting, and the tension threatening to unravel.
You're so close, again.
And you hope he is close too.
“I’m-” You don't manage to finish the sentence when Mark's fingers replace yours, “Mark!”
You mean to keep your eyes open, to look at him in between, but you finally give up to the overwhelming pleasure. You close them shut, and all you're left with is the feeling of Mark's body against yours, and the sounds you and him are eliciting from each other.
“Close again, baby?” And you nod frantically, tightening your limbs around him —your arms around his neck, your legs around his lower back.
You’ve hugged Mark before, but nothing will ever compare to this; to your naked bodies pressing together, to his lips murmuring sweet nothings against yours.
To share something as intimate as an orgasm can be.
“Coming,” you whisper weakly, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. And at the same time, Mark lets out a painful, choked groan.
He wants to come, but not yet. Not before fucking you how he likes to fuck.
Mark wanted to be gentle, and he has been, but he also wants to ruin you for every other man, and he won't do it just by making you come.
He will do it by fucking you hard. By making you feel things you've never felt before, by corrupting you into finding pleasure in everything he gives you.
So when you finally come down from your high, and you look up at him hungry for more, Mark decides to switch your position on the bed.
He maneuvers your body so that you're on all fours, the palm of your hands doing barely anything to hold you up, but Mark helps you by pulling your hair with a strength that makes you moan.
"I fucked you like you deserved it," Mark says, pressing kisses to your shoulders and back. One of his hands holds your hips in place, while the other gets lost and tangled in your hair, “now, I'm going to fuck you how you need it".
And this new position makes you gasp even harder than before —you can feel all of him, inch by inch, bottoming out inside of you.
“Oh my fucking God,” you practically scream, hands squeezing his bed sheets.
“Eyes on me, baby,” he says, pulling your hair harshly so that you turn to see him. Or at least you try to.
His hips start moving inside you, gentle enough for you to get used to his stretch, but almost desperate to increase their pace. Naturally, you get even wetter. The noises your pussy makes clenching around him are heavenly, and they're also a good measure for how rough Mark can be with you.
"None of them would've been able to get you like this,” Mark grunts, forcing your head in place so that you’re partially looking at him, “you’re dripping on my cock”.
Your walls squeeze him yet again, and he can’t suppress a chuckle of disbelief, “never thought you’d be into dirty talk like this”.
“Fuck me harder, Mark”.
Shit, you’re way better than anything he imagined.
“Like this?” He asks, increasing not the pace of his thrusts, but the deepness of them. Right when you felt you couldn’t feel him any deeper, he reached that spot.
“Fuck!”
Your body collapses onto the bed, and he lets you. But your hips and arse are still prettily arched for him, so he continues taking you.
“You can give me one more, right?” It's taking him all his self-control not to blow inside you right then and there, but he has to endure it a little bit more. At least until he gets another orgasm from you. “Show me how good I'm making you feel, come on”.
“Mark, it feels- so fucking good,” you cry out.
“Prove it to me,” he says through gritted teeth, “let me know how good my cock feels inside you”.
And like that, you come once more.
Only this time, it’s too much.
You feel your body trembling, and your orgasm dripping out of you onto Mark’s thighs.
“There you go baby,” he praises, but he doesn’t slow down. Instead, he fucks you through your orgasm faster.
The sweet, gentle Mark that made you come for the first time that night is long gone.
And you don't hate that.
You crave it.
“Want- you to come,” you sob, biting down your lip so hard you swear it’s bleeding. “Please- fuck, please, come”.
And all it takes for you to push him to the edge is the way your hips roll against his. Naturally, instinctively, like you were made to take him and just him.
And he wants to prove it to you, and anyone for that matter. If you let him, of course.
“Can I come here?” Mark asks, hovering over your body while he sneaks a hand between your tummy and the mattress, finding your overstimulated core, “can I fill this pussy with my cum?”
You nod frantically, between tears.
“Please,” a beg falls from your lips. “Please, Mark, please”.
And he is about to come right where you want him, how you want him, but not like this. So he flips you over until you’re on your back once again, and right before you can protest or say anything he sinks inside you yet again.
"Want to see your pretty face when I mark you,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your lips, “so you never forget who was the one to have you first like this, to use this pussy before anyone else”.
His gaze never leaves yours until he comes —his eyebrows furrow, his eyes close and you fear he might be coming too hard by the grimace of pain in his face.
He moans your name in between, breathing heavily while the remains of his high hits him. Mark can't remember a time he came this much, or this violently, but he adores the feeling.
And it is all because of you, the star of his fantasies.
He wishes to stay like this forever, entangled with your hands intertwined.
But he feels you falling asleep in his embrace, and he needs to take care of some things first.
“Don’t sleep up on me baby," he quietly whispers, his voice strained for all the groans and moans he let out tonight, “let’s get you cleaned up”.
You barely register anything, but whine at the loss of his warmth when he backs up.
Then, Mark catches a glimpse of his cum oozing out of you and he thinks it’s the prettiest sight he has ever seen —even better when he remembers that he is the first one to have you like this.
As it was written.
As it should always have been.
Because a promise will remain a promise, only if you still mean it.
Holy shit 🧎🏻♀️🥵🤤🔥 Enjoyed this a lot. I'm not an NCT fan specifically but their fics always slap so hard and when it's you, it slaps ten times harder lol. Thank you, Queen and welcome back 😘❤️
The ballroom below you was glittering like a jewellery box full of jewels. Golden lights flickered around; every woman was dressed in a silk gown, and a campaign was flowing in crystal flutes. It was everything you hated about these kinds of events. But below you was your mark. He was laughing at something someone said, but even his laugh sounded asshole like.
You'd slipped into the party through a back door and had been watching him ever since. Your hand was resting lightly on the dagger strapped to your thigh. You'd been tracking this ass for weeks, and nothing was going to stop you from making this kill...
Except...maybe...him.
Hwang Hyunjin. The second best in your line of business. First, being you, of course.
God, he was annoying. He had every mark you were assigned, and you were constantly in a battle with one another for the top assassin position.
Every hit you had, he had. Every event you were at, he was there too. You couldn't get away from him.
Your eyes went over to him on the second-floor balcony, his body was half-leaning against an iron railing, and he looked like he could belong here. Girls were oogling him. Men looked jealous of him...he truly fit in here, while you stuck out like a sore thumb.
Dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, a half-mask hiding his cheekbones, his lips were curved into that obnoxious, lazy smirk you wanted to carve right off his face. His rifle case was right beside him, waiting for his perfect shot.
The bastard was always where you were. Always.
Without even thinking, you made your way over to him, sliding your dagger out from the garter on your thigh. You got up behind him, your blade pressing into the side of his throat,
"Three seconds," You hiss right against his ear. Your voice is low and venomous.
"Disappear before I open you up." You finish your promise, but he didn't even flinch. Not even a small twitch.
"Mmm, but then I'd miss you making another shot...I'd rather stay." He says in a teasing tone. You dig your knife a little deeper, a bead of blood glittering under the chandelier light.
"You're such an asshole, I should finish you right here," You hiss at him. Hyunjin smirks, cocking his head to the side, letting the knife hit him a little harder. His eyes caught yours over his shoulder,
"Careful, you're starting to sound like you want me dead...Or something else." You push a little harder, trying to force yourself to break the skin, but the blade is pushed to the side, and his lips are on yours.
The kiss was brutal and full of heat. His hand finds its way to your waist and pulls you against him. His tongue sweeps into your mouth like he is trying to claim his territory, and just like that, you crash back into the real world.
You shove him off you, but he turns you around, slamming you against the railing and biting down on your ear,
"R-Right here?" You whisper, breathless as he continues to kiss your neck. His hard cock is pressing against you through his pants. Everyone was still below you; they could see at any second if they looked up. You felt the cocky mother fucker smirk against your skin.
“What's wrong? Is my girl scared?” You drag your nails down his arms, leaving red lines as you graze his skin,
"Not your girl. Not scared." That was it, he was on you again, mouth on your throat, biting hard enough it might bruise. His hands were shoving your dress up to your waist, his fingers finding bare skin.
You let out a small gasp as he drags the dagger from your grip, flipping it into your hand and pressing the flat of the blade against your inner thigh,
"Sharp enough to cut...Or just to keep you still while I fuck you," He whispers, his voice low and wicked, sending a tingle down your spine.
"Hurry then," You hiss at him as he frees himself, his cock pushing against your wet cunt.
"Anyone would think you're desperate, angel." He shakes his head, pushing his cock between your thighs and rubbing against your already wet pussy. Revelling in the fact that you were already wet for him.
"Just hurry-" You were cut off as he thrust into you, a moan ripping free from your throat, and he chuckles softly as he sinks himself fully into your wet cunt.
"So tight, no one ever fucked this pussy right, have their baby?" He questions, his hips snapping hard into you.
“You like this,” he murmurs, his voice vibrating against your back as he leans down and rubs your clit, thrusting roughly. You bit down on your lip, refusing to let him hear you moan for him,
"I-I'd rather slit your throat," You manage to get out without a moan, but Hyunjin just chuckles as he continues to fuck into you roughly.
"You can try again after, baby." He bites down on your ear, your head lolled back against his shoulder, and a curse slipped through your lips before you could stop it,
"F-Fuck,"
"Ready to admit you like it?" He quizzes. His fingers continue to circle your clit. You grip onto the railing in front of you, staring down at everyone who could easily look up and see you getting the fuck out of your life right now. Each movement he thrust into you made it harder for you to keep your control as you felt your orgasm fast approaching.
"S-Shit, I can feel that cunt tightening around my cock, you gonna milk me dry, baby?" He chuckles darkly in your ear as he snaps into you faster this time. His hips slamming against yours as you refused to let him know he was doing a good job.
"You're gonna cum, I can feel your little pussy fluttering around my dick." He groans, his head resting on your shoulder as he continues to pound into you. Forcing himself to memorise the baseball players he knew just to stop himself from blowing his load right there. As he picked up the pace, hitting that one spot that made your toes curl, you were about to finally have your orgasm when he pulled out of you.
You turn around, ready to snarl at him and bite him out, but he holds the knife to your throat, just as you had to him earlier.
“Say you want it,” he growls out.
"You're not going to cum until you admit it," He whispers, rubbing your clit as you face him. Your lips parting as you tried to battle back the moan,
“In your dreams,” you spat at him. Hyunjin narrows his eyes at you, lifting your leg around his waist and driving into you without warning. The moan tore from your throat loudly; you were sure someone could hear it down on the floor. Hyunjin hisses at the feel of you around him once again. His hand was gripping your hips so hard you were certain it was going to bruise.
"You fucking love my cock," He groans. His pace was brutal, each thrust shoving you against the railing, the iron biting in your spine.
Your fingers grip onto the lapels of his blazer, your other hand grips his hair, yanking his head back so you can bite his jaw. You left red marks in your wake, kissing and sucking on every inch of skin you could get your mouth on, and he groans. His thrusts are getting harder in retaliation, his hips slamming into you with a punishing force.
"The next time you think of aiming a knife at me, you'll think of the way my cock makes your pussy feel. Huh? You'll feel me for days after this." He groans out. You say nothing but drag your nails down his neck, your cunt tightening around him.
"Shit, you marking what's yours?" He smirks down at you, his throat growing ragged. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing fast, the pleasure building once agian as you feel the tightening in your stomach.
"H-Hyunjin," You whisper, your hips bucking as you let out breathy moans. There was no way you were going to be able to hold it back; people below were going to be able to hear you no matter what.
"Cum. Fucking cum for me." He groans, thrusting harder this time.
That was it, you came around him hard, your vision blurred as you scratched down his chest, tearing small holes into the fabric.
For a moment, it was as if the world faded into black, and it was just the two of you. His hips are jerking as he buries himself deep inside of you and cumming into you.
The world begins to creep back in, laughter from the party dragging you back into the real world and forcing you to realise what had just happened. Hyunjin tucked himself back into his pants and carefully slid your dagger back into the garter on your thigh,
"You can have the kill tonight," He whispers, kissing your lips softly as he takes a step back to drink you in. You looked freshly fucked, and he could see his cum leaking down your thigh.
"See you next time, try not to miss me too much." He chuckles, sliding out from the balcony and down the stairs before you could process anything. All you knew was that you didn't want that to be the last time the two of you spent the night together.
Someone, call the firefighters cause it's hot in here!!! 🥵🥵🥵 Wouldn't mind reading a continuation of them fighting for another target 👀👀 Thank you for this amazingly hot story 🔥🥵❤️
Synopsis: When a friend of your dad set you up with his son, you hope to see the man you used to love— but it was his stepbrother who showed up instead, Felix. He is your student. Too bold. Too young. But also impossible to resist. Then Chris returns—gentle, steady, still the same man you once dreamed of. Now you're stuck between the past that once had your heart… and the boy who’s learning how to break it. (16,3k words)
Author's note: Sorry for the late post. I almost set the kitchen on fire (but it's all ok now 😮💨) and as always, enjoy & share your thoughts on it ♡
The second you hear your name—his voice, warm and familiar slicing through the summer air—you freeze mid-step. You turn, almost slowly, like you're afraid the moment will shatter if you're too sudden with it.
There he is. Chris. Standing by the driver’s side of a car, hand casually raised in greeting, smile spreading across his face like no time has passed at all. The sun cuts across his features, softening the sharp lines, highlighting everything you remember from years ago. That boyish charm hasn’t dulled. His hair's shorter now. He’s filled out. But it’s still him.
Still the same Chris who made your heart stumble when you were too young to know what to do with it. You’re still standing there when another movement draws your eyes.
Felix. Still in the passenger seat. Still watching you. His expression is unreadable—lips pressed together, golden lashes shadowing those sharp brown eyes—but his stare is piercing. Like he already knows everything you’re thinking. Like he’s waiting for you to say something, do something. But you can’t. You won’t. Instead, you find your voice and lift your hand to wave at Chris, smiling the best you can while trying to pretend that your heart isn’t thundering in your chest.
“You’ve grown,” Chris laughs, walking toward you. “But you still look the same.”
You swallow the knot in your throat and force a chuckle. “So do you.”
Out of the corner of your eye, Felix finally steps out of the car. And just like that, the space between the three of you turns thick. Weighted. Two pairs of eyes on you. The past and the present colliding in a parking lot you used to walk through without consequence.
God. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?
-
The coffee shop near campus hasn’t changed much since you first found it—warm wood panels, old jazz drifting through the speakers, and a quiet buzz of students trying to stay awake. You sit across from Chris, hands wrapped around a too-hot latte you haven’t dared to sip yet. You keep fiddling with the handle, anything to stop your hands from shaking.
He looks good across the table from you. Calm. Collected. His gaze softer now, with that unshakable warmth he always carried like second nature. And God, he still smiles the same—crooked on one side like it wasn’t meant to be perfect.
“I still can’t believe it’s you,” Chris says with a chuckle, leaning back in his seat. “When Dad told me he that I'd thank him for coming back here, I didn’t expect it to be you.”
You laugh lightly, lifting the cup to your lips if only to hide your expression. “I didn’t expect you either,” you say truthfully, letting the words hang there.
A beat of silence and then Chris leans forward again, forearms resting on the table. “So, how have you been?”
The question is simple, but your mind immediately skips to everything you can’t say. The late nights. The boat. The hands under your blouse. The boy who won’t leave your head.
“I’ve been… adjusting,” you offer carefully. “New city, new job. But it’s been good.” You look up. “And you?”
He grins. “I’ll be teaching here soon. Dad pulled some strings, made it happen fast.”
Your stomach dips at that piece of information.
“Guess that means we’ll be seeing each other a lot on campus,” he adds with a hopeful smile.
You try to smile back. “Yeah… that’s great.”
It should be. It should be. But all you can think about is Felix—his smirk, his hands, his words against your skin. And the guilt that settles like a stone in your gut.
Chris takes another sip of his drink, then pauses. “Hey, I didn’t get to ask earlier, but—Felix. He’s one of your students, right?”
You stiffen slightly, then nod. “He is.”
“How is he?” Chris asks, curious but kind. “In class, I mean.”
You hesitate as the truth tangles on your tongue. “He’s…” you start, and then force a vague smile. “Felix is… spirited.”
Chris lets out a soft laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
You look up, unsure if he knows—if he suspects. But he just shakes his head and says, “He just needs a little push. That’s how he’s always been. I hope you’re patient with him.”
The words strike a strange chord inside you. You nod slowly. “I’ll try.”
And then, to lighten the mood, you add with a small smile, “You’re a good influence on him, you know?”
Chris laughs again, soft and genuine. “Someone’s gotta be.”
You laugh too, but the warmth doesn't quite reach your chest because all you can think about is the possible complications caused by his existence in this very campus.
You glance at your watch and sigh softly. “I should get going,” you tell him, finishing the last of your drink. “I have a class to teach soon.”
Chris nods, clearly reluctant to end the conversation. “Of course,” he says. “I shouldn’t keep you here.”
You rise from your seat and he does too, ever the gentleman. Just before you step away from the table, Chris adds, “Let’s catch up again soon, yeah?”
You turn back to him with a small smile, hand gripping at the strap of your bag.
“I mean,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck, “maybe you could help me get familiar with the campus and the area around it?”
It’s a harmless request. Friendly. Innocent. But something about it makes you a little uneasy. Still, you nod with a soft smile. “Sure. I’d like that.”
You take a step to leave, but he catches your hand gently, fingers wrapping around yours. The touch is warm—steady.
“I’m really happy to see you again,” he says, voice low, earnest. His dimple deepens with the smile he gives you, the kind that makes your breath hitch for reasons you don’t want to admit.
Your cheeks flush with heat. You smile back, almost reflexively. “Me too, Chris,” you say.
But even as the words leave your lips, they echo strangely inside you—because your happiness is no longer simple.
Not when it’s tangled up in something else. Someone else.
s you pull your hand away and walk back toward campus, you try not to think about how warm his hand felt in yours. Or how Felix’s touch still lingers stronger.
-
Felix wakes up with the sunlight stabbing through the blinds, far too bright for a morning he’s not emotionally prepared to face. He groans, dragging the covers over his head like it might hide him from his responsibilities—or at least buy him five more minutes of peace. His body’s still heavy from sleep, but it’s the weight in his chest that makes him want to stay in bed all day. He thinks about it for a second.
Maybe he should skip class today.
He’s done it before—plenty of times. A text here, a fake cough there, the usual routine. But the thought barely has time to settle before he remembers the newest complication to his lazy genius lifestyle: Chris. Chris, who now works at his university and will know if Felix doesn’t show up and will definitely ask questions.
Felix groans again, louder this time, and buries his face into his pillow. Because if Chris asks, then their parents will hear about it. And then it’ll be a whole thing—lectures, concern, disappointment. The kind of family drama Felix doesn’t have the energy for right now.
“God,” he mutters into the mattress, “why does he have to be so damn perfect?”
Still, there’s no avoiding it. Not unless he wants to have a full-blown intervention over brunch this weekend. So, with one final grumble of protest, Felix forces himself out of bed, his feet hitting the cold floor with a soft thud.
As he trudges toward the bathroom, fingers carding through his mess of blond hair, he mutters under his breath, “At least let her wear that skirt again today…”
It’s the only thought that motivates him to brush his teeth with any real enthusiasm.
-
Felix kicks open the rooftop door with the back of his heel, the hinges creaking like they’ve been begging for some oil since the dawn of time. He steps into the quiet, wide open space like it’s the only place on campus that won’t suffocate him. Because today, he has zero intention of sitting through lectures, including yours.
His bag drops with a thud onto the cracked concrete, and he slumps beside it. For the next hour or two, he exists in distraction—munching on a bag of chips, flipping through a dog-eared manga volume, thumbing idly at the buttons of a game on his phone. But when the snacks are gone, and the comics feel dull, and he’s died on the same boss level three times in a row, his mind starts to spiral.
His thought eventually drifts to that day at the parking lot. Just the image of you—turning around at the sound of his name, smiling like you were ten again with a damn crush on the golden boy—it lights a slow, boiling rage in Felix’s chest.
He digs through the bottom of his bag and pulls out the barely-used cigarette pack. He’s not even a smoker. But something about this moment—about the stillness, the frustration clawing inside him, the bitter taste of being second—makes him want to feel something harsh on his tongue.
He fishes a lighter out with his other hand, flicks it on. Or tries to. It sparks—flames—and then he fumbles, the lighter falling with a metallic clink on the rooftop floor.
“Seriously?” he groans, voice sharp with annoyance. “Ugh!”
He squats down, reaching for the lighter, muttering curses under his breath when—
The door slams open and then heavy footsteps. Approaching him. Fast. He glances up, expecting one of his friends he texted earlier. Maybe Seungmin, or Jeongin —But it’s you, storming straight toward him, jaw locked, eyes blazing like you’re about to drag him to hell by the collar of his stupid leather jacket.
Felix barely has time to react before your hand shoots out and snatches the unlit cigarette from his lips. You toss it to the floor and crush it beneath your heel, like it’s insulted your entire bloodline.
“Dramatic,” he says, straightening up slowly.
“Why are you here?” you demand, voice low and heated.
He shrugs, nonchalantly. “Wanted to be.”
You cross your arms across your chest. “So you’re just not going to attend any class today?”
He shrugs again, this time slower—just to piss you off.
You stare at him like you’re daring him to push you further. Then, without a word, you reach down, grab his bag, and shove it into his chest with force. “Go to class.”
He lets the bag fall right back to the ground with a thud. “Why do you care?” he says, voice sharp now. “If I come to class or not?”
You take a step closer. “Because I’m your professor, Felix. And you’ve been skipping my class all week. You’re going to fail.”
He mutters under his breath. “Whatever.”
“Felix—” you start, your voice trying for calm, measured—but he cuts you off.
“What?” he spits. “You gonna tell Chris?”
That name hits the air like a thrown dagger. You sigh, like you're trying not to lose it completely. “This isn’t about Chris,” you say carefully. “This is about you.”
Felix lets out a dry laugh, eyes narrowing. “Of course it’s about him. It’s always about him. He’s the smart one. The diligent one. The one you were hoping would walk into that cafe.”
You hesitate—but not long enough.
Felix sees it, feels it and it’s enough to make him keep going. “That’s why you like him,” he says, bitterly. “Because he’s everything I’m not.”
You laugh—sarcastic, biting, like you’re trying to hurt him back. “Yeah, well, there’s nothing not to like about Chris.”
Then you gesture at him like he’s the punchline of a bad joke. “And you? You don’t even take your classes seriously. So give me one reason why I should like you.”
That stings more than it should. Felix clenches his jaw, grabs his bag from the ground with more force than necessary, and storms past you without another word. His shoulder hits yours as he walks by—sharp, intentional, but he doesn’t look back.
Felix pushes the rooftop door open and bolts for the emergency stairs. The metal clatters under his feet as he bounds down flight after flight, each step fueled by the burning in his chest.
Your words keep playing on loop inside his head, cruel in how casually you said them—
“There’s nothing not to like about Chris.”
“So give me one reason why I should like you.”
His breath comes in short, ragged bursts as he hits the landing, gripping the stair rail tight. He swears under his breath and keeps going. Down, down, down. Away from you. Away from everything. But he can’t outrun those words.
By the time he reaches the bottom, his heart is pounding—not from the stairs, but from you, from the fury clawing up his throat like he’s about to explode.
He stops. His hands curl into fists. His vision blurs for a second, red-hot at the edges. He stops to throw a punch at the wall. His knuckles sting instantly, the pain sharp, but not enough to satisfy the ache in his chest.
You don’t even know me. That’s what he wants to shout. You don’t know a damn thing about me.
But you think you do. You think you’ve got him all figured out—immature, lazy, not serious, just some dumb kid crushing on his brother’s girl. He presses his forehead to the cool concrete, breathing hard, trying to collect himself.
But inside? He’s unraveling and all he can think about is how badly he wants to prove you wrong.
-
You’re mid-sentence, walking your class through the last part of your presentation when the door creaks open. Your eyes flick toward the entrance, barely meaning to see who entered the room.
Chris slips in quietly, almost apologetically, and when your eyes meet, he offers a small, sheepish wave. Then he gestures toward the front, a silent “go on.” You nod quickly and return to the lesson, but your pulse has already quickened. It’s hard to keep your rhythm when you know he’s sitting there in the back row—watching, listening. Smiling when you make a joke and the class actually laughs. You try not to think about it, try to act as if his presence doesn't make your skin feel too tight.
You bite that thought down, burying it beneath a calm tone as you finish your lecture and dismiss your students. One by one, they trickle out of the room until the only person left is Chris, walking toward your desk like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“That was great,” he says, resting his hands casually against the edge of the desk. “Seriously. I don’t remember the last time I actually wanted to sit through a lecture, but I did.”
You laugh, unsure whether it's nerves or flattery making your chest flutter. “Well, thank you. I try not to bore people to death.”
Chris leans in a little, lowering his voice. “If you were my professor, I’d be your biggest fan. Front row. Teacher’s pet.”
You smile, almost rolling your eyes, but something about the way he says it makes your cheeks warm. And before you can think better of it, your mouth says, “Of course you’d be a teacher’s pet. You’re not hard to like.”
Your stomach drops as soon as the words leave you. Shit.
But Chris only grins wider, dimples deepening like he didn’t even catch the slip—or maybe he did and decided not to push it.
“Well,” he says lightly, “how about lunch with your biggest fan then?”
You nod, heart thudding. “Sure. I just need to stop by my office to drop these off.”
Before you can grab your things, he’s already scooping them into his arms. “I’ll carry them. You shouldn’t have to.”
You protest, weakly, but he’s already halfway to the door. You have no choice but to follow, the echo of his shoes ahead of yours and still—beneath all that fluttering warmth, there’s an ache in your chest. Because the one who should’ve walked through that door today… didn’t.
At the café, Chris picks a quiet table tucked into the corner, a place that feels private despite the lunch hour rush. You sit across from him, and as he hands you your coffee, his dimpled smile tugs at your chest in a way you don’t quite know how to brace against.
As you sip, you ask, “So… how was your first week teaching?”
He hums, swirling his iced americano lazily. “Still trying to find my footing,” he admits. “It’s weird being on the other side of the lecture hall. Makes you think about how many boring professors we had growing up.”
You chuckle. “You? Boring? That’s not what I heard.”
Chris raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
You lean in just slightly. “I overheard some students talking in the hallway. Something about a very handsome new professor in the Comparative Literature department.”
He lets out a soft laugh, but you catch the way his ears flush ever so slightly. It’s endearing—his shyness underneath that calm confidence.
“I hope they were at least talking about the material, too,” he says, bringing the cup to his lips.
“Nope. Just your face.” You grin, watching him squirm with that smile still plastered on his lips.
But then his tone shifts a little. “Actually… I stopped by your class hoping to see Felix, too.” His smile dims. “Thought maybe we could grab lunch—the three of us.”
You hesitate, your fingers curling around your glass. You don’t want to tattle. You really don’t. But you’ve already given Felix too many passes.
“…He was supposed to be there,” you say carefully. “But he hasn’t been attending. Not this week.”
Chris’s eyes flicker with concern. Not frustration. Not anger. Concern. He places his fork down gently on the table and exhales through his nose. “How long has it been?”
“Just this week, but I’ve warned him before. I even confronted him about it.” You pause as you shift ok your seat, glancing at the condensation sliding down your glass. “I don’t know what’s going on with him lately. He usually shows up. He’s not… this reckless.”
Chris nods slowly, thoughtful. “Our parents left town a few days ago. Business trip. Maybe that’s it. He thinks no one’s watching.”
You don’t respond right away. Deep down, you think you know exactly what’s bothering Felix—but you also know you’re the reason for it.
Chris glances up again, that warm, soft light back in his expression. “Now that I’m here, I guess it’s my job to be the big brother and scold him, huh?”
You blink, caught off guard. The idea of Chris scolding anyone, especially someone like Felix, doesn’t quite fit. “Maybe don’t scold him,” you suggest, voice gentle. “Try encouraging him instead. He listens more than he lets on.”
Chris looks at you for a moment—really looks—and then a smile slowly spreads across his face. “You're right. I can’t stay mad at Felix. I don’t think I’ve ever been. He’s… a lot sometimes. But he’s still my little brother.”
The fondness in his voice tugs at something in you. The way he talks about Felix—with pride and softness—makes your chest tighten in a strange, guilt-ridden way. And that’s when you realize: you’re in far deeper than you thought.
The moment the bill arrives, you both reach for it at the same time.
“I’ve got it,” you say, trying to snatch it.
Chris is faster, slipping it from the tray and holding it just out of your reach. “Nope,” he says, shaking his head with that easy grin. “You got lunch last time we met years ago. It’s my turn.”
“That doesn’t count,” you argue. “We were kids.”
“Exactly,” he says, pulling out his wallet. “I’m a grown man now. Let me be a gentleman.”
You huff, crossing your arms. “Fine. But next time—”
“Exactly,” he cuts in, eyes glinting with mischief. “It means you owe me next time. So… I’ll be looking forward to it.”
You pause, a little flustered by how casual and charming he sounds when he says it. The word “next time” lingers in your mind longer than it should. Still, you smile softly as you both step out of the café together, the summer sun gently warming your skin.
You walk side by side, the conversation turning easy—about the weather, the best spots for coffee near campus, hidden bakeries tucked between buildings. A few of his students pass by, giggling and whispering after giving him an enthusiastic “Good afternoon, Professor!”
You raise your brows, smirking. “Wow. That’s a lot of fanfare. I don’t remember getting that kind of attention when I first started here.”
Chris throws you a crooked grin. “Well, I’m giving you attention now. That has to count for something, right?”
You try—really try—not to smile at that, but it breaks through anyway. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
Chris only laughs as he brushes a hand through his hair.
At the corner where your paths split, you gesture toward your building. “I should head in. I’ve got to prep for my next class.”
Chris nods, pointing to his own direction. “And I’ve got to go and do mine as well. Lucky us.”
You begin to walk away, but before you can get too far, he calls after you, “Hey!”
You turn back. “Yeah?”
He flashes that warm, dimpled smile again. “You still owe me a meal.”
Your chest tightens—just a little. “I haven’t forgotten, Chris.”
He gives you a short wave and turns to go. You watch him for a moment before turning away, your lips curling up without you realizing. You're smiling to yourself and it’s not because of the sunlight, or the coffee, or the laughter in the air.
It’s because of him.
-
The house is too quiet without his parents. Felix unlocks the front door and steps into the familiar warmth of his childhood home, but without the usual sound of his mom cooking in the kitchen or the distant buzz of his stepdad’s speakerphone in his office, it feels too big. Too hollow.
He doesn't bother turning on more than one light. He heads upstairs to his old room to grab a few things—just clean clothes and maybe his charger. He doesn’t plan on staying.
It’s supposed to be a quick visit. He tosses his leather jacket on the bed and unzips a backpack at his feet when his phone buzzes in the pocket. He fishes it out lazily, expecting a class group chat, only to pause when he sees the sender.
Seungmin.
With a blurry, slightly tilted photo. The caption reads: "Spotted your favorite girl with the new professor."
And in the picture—grainy, taken from far away—but unmistakably you, walking beside Chris around campus. The two of you are laughing, too close, your shoulders almost brushing.
Felix doesn’t even open the message. He locks the screen, tosses the phone onto his bed with a dull thud and breathes through his nose. Whatever. He’s not going to care.
He starts shoving folded shirts into the bag with more force than necessary. The zipper snags. He tugs it harder, as if the fabric’s to blame for the way his brain keeps going back to you. To how easy you looked beside Chris. How natural.
A knock comes at the door and before he can even respond, the door creaks open and Chris’s head pops in, that familiar grin plastered on his face.
“Hey,” he greets casually, stepping inside. “You didn’t tell me you were coming by.”
Felix keeps his back turned. “Just grabbing some stuff,” he mumbles, still fiddling with the zipper.
Chris plops down onto the edge of the bed, ruffling his hair. “You’re not staying over for the weekend?”
Felix shrugs, avoiding eye contact. “Got stuff to do.”
Chris frowns. “Come on, it’s been a while. I thought we could hang out, play a couple of rounds. I even dusted off the video games for you.”
Felix zips up his bag, a little too fast. “I really should head back.”
Chris watches him quietly, then lets out a sigh and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Okay, but… I just ordered way too much food. And I don't think I can’t finish it alone.”
Felix doesn’t respond as he roughly jams a pair of pants into the backpack.
“I got the spicy wings. Your favorite,” Chris adds lightly. “I can’t let them go to waste. That’d be a crime, right?”
Felix hesitates. His stomach tightens—not from guilt, not even from hunger—but from the fact that Chris is trying. Chris always tries. That’s what makes it worse.
He sighs and drops the backpack on the floor. “Fine,” he mutters.
Chris’s grin spreads. “Knew you’d cave.”
Felix manages a small scoff as he follows Chris out of the room and he doesn’t want to admit it, but the dinner smells amazing.
The second he steps into the kitchen, the scent of grilled meat, garlic, and soy sauce hits him square in the face. Chris has the table already set like it’s some kind of celebration—takeout containers cracked open neatly, side dishes arranged in small dishes, drinks already poured into glasses instead of their usual mismatched mugs.
It’s a little too thoughtful. A little too much effort. He mutters a soft “thanks” and slides into his usual seat. Chris nudges a bowl of spicy wings toward him without a word, and Felix takes one without hesitation.
They eat in mostly comfortable silence, passing rice bowls, sharing stories. Felix cracks a joke about his dorm microwave sounding like it’s about to explode. Chris chuckles and tells him about a student who called him Mr. Bangtan on his first day.
Felix laughs—really laughs—and for a moment, it feels easy. Familiar. Like things haven’t shifted so terribly. But of course, it doesn’t last.
“So…” Chris begins, casually—too casually—as he swirls his straw around the ice in his glass, “how’s school really going?”
Felix shrugs, eyes on his plate. “Fine.”
Chris hums. “Yeah?”
Felix nods. He reaches for the sauce.
There’s a beat. Then Chris says, “One of the professors mentioned you haven’t been to class all week.”
Felix doesn’t need to ask which professor. The name burns behind his teeth before it even crosses his mind. He chews slowly, swallows hard, and puts his chopsticks down with a quiet clack. His appetite fades almost instantly.
Chris, oblivious to the knot twisting in his gut, goes on gently, “Finals are coming up. If you keep skipping, you might end up retaking the class. Maybe even delay graduation.”
Felix still doesn’t say anything.
“I’m not trying to lecture you,” Chris adds, softening his voice like he always does when he means well. “You’re smart. You’ve made it this far. I just don’t want to see you fall behind when I know you can do it.”
Felix finally looks up, and there it is again—that warm, genuine expression on Chris’s face. No judgment. Just concern. Just care.
He knows Chris means every word. That this isn’t some twisted ploy. That Chris doesn’t even know what’s really going on. And that makes it worse.
Felix forces a tight smile. “Yeah. I’ll try.”
Chris nods, relieved. “That’s all I ask.”
They go back to eating, and for a few minutes, the air settles—still, but not heavy. The kind of quiet only family can slip into.
Then Chris grins, nudging Felix’s arm with his elbow. “So, what is it?” he asks, eyebrows raised with mischief. “Are you too busy secretly dating to focus on school?”
Felix huffs a short laugh and looks away, biting back the flicker of guilt that tries to claw its way up. But instead, he leans into the moment. “Maybe,” he drawls, flashing a smirk. “I’ll tell you—if you can beat me in Tekken tonight.”
Chris laughs, loud and warm. “Oh, it’s on.”
Felix grabs another chicken wing and for the first time in a while, lets himself relax. Maybe things are still messy. Maybe you’re still in his head more than you should be. But tonight, he decides he wants to think about something else—someone else. Not you. Not school. Not the ache in his chest that still lingers.
Just him and his brother. Just laughter, and teasing, and games until dawn. For tonight, that's enough.
-
You’re barely five minutes into organizing the mess on your desk when the door swings open without a knock. You don’t need to look up to know who it is—the audacity alone gives him away.
Then comes his voice. Deep, calm, far too steady for the fire you know is simmering beneath.
“So,” Felix says. “You met my brother.”
You inhale through your nose, steadying yourself. Of course he’d assume you tattled. Of course he’d come here, storm and all. There’s no point in denying it—he wouldn’t believe you either way.
You turn around slowly, arms crossed, meeting his stare. “Yes,” you admit. “I did.”
You don’t flinch, even when his jaw ticks. “I told him,” you continue, “because you need to pass this class and graduate. You have a future to think about, Felix. You have dreams to pursue. You should be focused on those.”
But instead of bristling, Felix steps forward. “Once I graduate, I’m not going anywhere,” he says softly. “I want to be here. With you.”
The words hit you unexpectedly—not with excitement, not the way they should—but with dread. The kind of dread that comes from caring too much for someone who doesn’t see the full picture.
“Why would you do that?” you ask, your voice just above a whisper.
Felix blinks like the answer is obvious. “Because I like you. I told you that already.”
Your chest tightens, but it isn’t with butterflies. It’s concern. It’s fear. It’s the sobering realization that Felix is risking too much—for something that may not even last.
“I’m flattered you feel that way,” you say gently, carefully. “But don’t make this kind of decision over something that could be a passing feeling.”
His expression changes—sharpening like a blade. “It’s not a passing feeling,” he says, voice low and tense. “Just because I’m not Chris doesn’t mean you get to brush me off.”
Your lips part to respond, but he doesn’t stop.
“Everything I’ve done—all of it—it was for you. Because I care about you. Because I want you.” His voice cracks slightly near the end, like he’s been holding it in too long. “But you still don’t take me seriously.”
That’s when you speak up.
“How can I?” you say, not unkindly but with truth behind every word. “When you don’t even take yourself seriously? When you’re skipping classes, ignoring everything your professor have tried to warn you about?”
It’s like the air leaves the room. Felix’s eyes narrow slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. His jaw clenches as he holds something back—anger, frustration, heartbreak—you can’t tell. Then, with a long sigh, he looks at you again. This time, there’s something different in his gaze. Steel. Fire. Purpose.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll show you.”
You straighten. “What?”
“I’ll prove to you that I’m serious,” he says, voice clear. “I’ll get good grades on the finals. Not just pass—I’ll do well. And if I do…” He tilts his head, that signature smirk creeping in. “Then you agree to finish the two dates we have left.”
It’s childish. It’s bold. It’s so Felix. But maybe this is the only way he’ll take things seriously. Maybe this is his way of finding something worth fighting for.
You exhale, slowly. “All right.”
Felix grins like he’s already won. “Great. I’ll see you around, professor.”
And then he turns, walking out of your office like he hadn’t just upended the entire axis of your world.
You fall back into your chair, uncertain what exactly you’ve just agreed to—and why it terrifies you that the real Felix, the relentless one, is back.
-
Campus feels… different. Not in any grand, dramatic way. Just enough for you to notice—like a song you’ve memorized suddenly skipping a beat.
You barely see Felix these days, except in your class. He’s quiet there. Doesn’t speak unless called on, doesn’t throw his usual teasing smirks your way. No half-sarcastic comments from the back row. No uninvited visits to your office just to rile you up.
And you hate to admit it, but… you kind of miss it.
You miss the way he challenged your composure with nothing but a glance. The way he always had something smart—or inappropriate—to say just to get a reaction. The way he made it harder to breathe, not just out of irritation but… something else entirely.
You shake the thought off and head toward the library. You're not looking for him—at least that’s what you tell yourself—but as you pass the rows of study desks and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights above, your eyes instinctively drift to the corner tables near the window.
You stop when you find Felix there. Hood pulled over his head, strands of blond hair falling over his eyes, brows furrowed in concentration. A pen rests between his fingers, spinning unconsciously as he reads and rereads the same paragraph with his lip caught slightly between his teeth.
He's alone, surrounded by open books and messy notes, with no sign of his usual swagger.
He’s really doing it. He’s proving himself. For you.
You feel it—your chest fluttering, painfully soft. You shouldn’t feel this warm about it, shouldn’t let your heart betray your better judgment—but you do. Because deep down, you know how easy it would’ve been for Felix to brush everything off like he always does. But instead, he’s here.
You pause for a moment longer, watching quietly before you turn back toward the café. A few minutes later, you return with a coffee in hand. You don’t say a word. You just place it beside his laptop, press a small folded note with an encouragement written on it the side of the cup, and leave before he can even look up. Because if he does, you’re not sure what your face will give away.
-
Finals week weighs heavy over campus. The tension is thick—palpable in the air, in the dragging footsteps of students, in the furrowed brows of professors buried in grading and last-minute preparations. And yet, amid the chaos, your thoughts keep drifting to Felix.
You haven’t seen him around. Not since that day in your office, when he made his quiet vow. He’s been distant but focused—his absence replaced by a silence that somehow speaks louder than his teasing ever did. You hope he’s doing well. You hope he knows you’ve been thinking about him, too.
You're knee-deep in sorting files when the door opens. You don't need to look to know who it is.
You turn anyway to see Felix stands there, backlit by the hallway light, and he looks—drained. Like someone has taken the mischief from his smile and the sunshine from his eyes. The sight knocks something loose in your chest.
"Are you okay?" you ask quietly. "Do you need anything?"
He doesn't answer—not at first. He just walks toward you. The way he moves is slow but certain, like the decision has already been made before he even stepped inside.
“I know the results aren’t out yet,” he murmurs once he’s close enough, “but… can I ask for one thing?”
His voice is low, almost hesitant. You nod, unsure what he’s about to say. Then his hand reaches your waist. His forehead rests briefly against yours and in a breath that trembles against your lips, he whispers, “I miss you so much, professor.”
Before you can say a word, his mouth finds yours. It’s not the smug, lazy kiss of a boy playing a game. It’s something else. Starved. Desperate. As if he's been waiting far too long to touch you again. Your body moves on instinct, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he deepens the kiss.
You're breathless by the time he pulls you toward the desk. His hands are warm, steady as he lifts you to sit at the edge, his body slotting perfectly between your legs.
Your mind races—you try to speak, to remind him where you are. “Felix, we can’t do this. Not here—”
“I locked the door,” he breathes against your neck, kissing the words out of your mouth before you can finish them.
His hands find your thighs, parting them gently, reverently, as his lips move lower. The heat builds between your bodies, his touch growing bolder, his voice nothing but a reverent whisper against your skin.
“I miss touching you.”
And he does, he touches you with slow, practiced movements that make your breath catch. Your body trembles beneath his hand, every nerve lit alive, wound tight as he pulls quiet moans from your lips like he’s learning your rhythm all over again.
“You’re even more sensitive now,” he says, his voice dark with awe.
You can't answer with the way he kisses you, touches you. Not with the way your body arches into his, your breath stuttering, your mind spiraling.
When release finally takes you, it's a quiet, shattering thing. Your fingers clutch the edge of the desk, your lips parted in a silent gasp as Felix watches, mesmerized. And then he kisses you—softly this time. Sweetly.
“You look beautiful like this,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your cheek.
You're still breathless, your chest heaving from the aftershocks, when Felix leans in again—this time pulling you into a deep, hard kiss. His mouth is hot, hungry, like he’s tasting everything he’s missed in the time apart. His arms slide around your waist, guiding your pliant body closer until there’s no space left between you.
You barely register the way your skirt is being pushed higher, bunched around your hips, until you feel the cool air brush your skin—and then Felix pulls back slightly, just enough to glance down.
His breath catches. His eyes darken. “God…” he mutters, voice raw with disbelief and want. “I can’t wait to feel you around me.”
The way he says it—like a promise, like a prayer—makes your body tighten with want all over again. Then he takes your hand, guiding it down until it rests against the heat and pressure in his jeans. He looks you straight in the eye, shameless and intense.
“That’s how much I want you,” he murmurs. “Can you feel it?”
You do. It’s impossible not to. It's bulging against the rough denim.
“Do you…” he trails off for a second, lips twitching into a smirk. “Do you want to make me feel good too?”
You swallow hard, your body responding before your thoughts can catch up. You nod.
Felix’s fingers move deftly to undo his belt, the soft clink of metal and rustle of fabric loud in the stillness of the room now bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun.
When he shifts his briefs just enough to expose his stiff member, you gasp softly. You weren’t ready for this—not the size, not the heat of him, not the reality of him so hard and wanting.
He gently wraps your hand around him, and you can feel the weight, the heat pulsing in your palm.
“What do you think?” he asks, his voice a mixture of teasing and breathless tension. “Is it big enough for you?”
You can’t answer—not when your throat is suddenly dry.
“Can you take it?” he whispers, leaning in until his lips ghost your cheek, your ear and then his hand wrapping around yours to guide the movement. “Like this. Just like this…”
You follow his rhythm. Slow, firm, steady. The way he wants it. The way he needs it. And when you finally ask in a quiet, dazed voice, “Am I doing it right?” he lets out a low, hoarse groan.
“It feels good. Just when you touch me—it’s enough.”
Then he looks at you. Not just at your body, but right at you. “Do you trust me?”
You hesitate—just for a moment—and then you nod.
He pulls you closer, flush to the edge of the desk, close enough to feel every thrum of heat between you. And just when you think he’s about to go ahead, pushing his length into you, he stops himself.
“Not here,” he says as he slightly shakes his head to himself. “Not yet.”
Instead, he positions himself right between your thighs, lining his length along the soft, sensitive skin. He brings your legs together, clamping his cock in between and holds them against his chest with gentle care, and then he moves. Slow. Measured. Deliberate.
The friction is maddening—his length nudging and dragging over your sensitive clit, sending shivers racing through your spine. You cling to him, fingers digging into his forearms for support as he rocks forward with a quiet, muffled groan.
Each stroke builds heat like a slow crescendo, and it’s a blur—his heavy breath against your neck, your soft whimpers against his shoulder, the quiet gasps that escape when the pressure becomes too much.
Your chest still rises and falls unevenly when Felix finally stills, his arms tightening slightly as he braces himself, pulling back just in time. You blink through the haze, barely registering anything but the overwhelming throb in your core and the warmth now coating your inner thighs.
Felix looks down. His breath hitches—half a gasp, half a groan—and his eyes grow impossibly darker.
“Shit,” he mutters, almost to himself, voice low and rough. “Seeing my cum on you…”
He swallows hard before continuing. “That just turned me on all over again.”
Your eyes widen, startled, lips parting with no words forming fast enough. You blink, unsure if he's serious—if he's really asking for another round right here, right now.
Then he catches your expression and laughs softly, breathless and boyish and almost shy. “I’m just joking,” he says, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Gotta save it for our second date, right?”
And then, gently—surprisingly gentle for someone who had you breathless and unraveling just minutes ago—he grabs a tissue from the box on your desk. He crouches down, wiping between your thighs, careful and slow like he's memorizing the way you look like this. You feel a blush spread across your face, hot and unavoidable.
Then he reaches for your underwear, still bunched to the side of your desk chair. Without a word, he carefully guides it back on you, as though he’s putting something fragile back in place. As if you’re something precious.
Once he’s dressed and you’re decently covered again, he stands tall in front of you, looking at you like you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
One of his hands lifts—fingertips brushing along your cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is tender, reverent. Then he smiles, that rare, sincere smile that only shows when he means it.
“Thank you, Professor,” he says quietly. “You make all of this worth it.”
Your breath catches again—not from arousal, but from the weight of those words.
Felix takes one step back, slipping his bag over his shoulder. His fingers curl around the strap, and he gazes at you with a lingering warmth before adding, “I promise I won’t do anything else. Not until the results are out.”
And just like that, he turns and walks out of your office—leaving behind nothing but the scent of his cologne and the echo of everything he made you feel.
And it lingers… all of it.
-
When Felix gets home, the house is still quiet—too quiet.
No shoes by the door, no voices echoing from the kitchen, no soft hum of his mother’s favorite music playing from the living room speaker. The house feels hollow, just like it has the past few weeks since his parents left for their business trip.
He closes the door behind him, dropping his keys onto the hallway table with a dull clatter. His limbs feel heavy with exhaustion—finals have drained the life out of him, and the emotional whiplash from everything that happened lately only adds to it. He makes his way upstairs, slow and unhurried, shouldering off his jacket halfway up the stairs.
The moment he steps into his room, he lets his bag fall with a thud against the floor, kicks off his shoes, and collapses onto the mattress face-first. The sheets are cold, untouched since the last time he stayed over.
He lets the silence wrap around him, closing his eyes for what he thinks will be just a few minutes. But sleep grabs him harder than expected, dragging him under before he can even pull a blanket over himself.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he stirs awake to the sound of someone calling his name.
“Felix.”
A hand gently shakes his shoulder.
“Hey, get up. Dinner’s ready.”
He blinks blearily, the dim room swimming back into focus. Chris’s face slowly comes into view, crouched next to the bed with a soft, familiar grin on his face.
“You looked dead to the world,” Chris chuckles. “Didn’t have the heart to wake you earlier. But I figured you’d be starving.”
Felix blinks again, still in that groggy limbo between sleep and waking. “What time is it?”
“Almost nine,” Chris says, straightening up. “Come down. I made enough for both of us. And I even managed not to burn anything.”
Felix huffs a laugh as he pushes himself upright, rubbing at his eyes. The exhaustion still clings to his bones, but there’s something grounding about hearing Chris’s voice, seeing the warmth in his brother’s face—even when things between them feel complicated now in ways Chris doesn’t even realize.
He nods once, slowly. “Alright. Let me wash up first.”
Chris nods back. “Don’t take forever. The food’s good while it’s hot.”
Chris disappears back downstairs, leaving the door open behind him as Felix sits at the edge of his bed for a moment longer, shoulders hunched, heart still heavy—but not in the way it was before. There's a small, subtle shift in his chest, like something tight beginning to unravel.
Downstairs, the dining table is already set—two plates of stir-fried noodles, a side of kimchi, and Chris standing at the stove, casually tossing something else in a pan.
“You're just in time,” Chris says, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “I tried not to make anything too heavy. Finals week meals need to be comforting, right?”
Felix huffs a quiet laugh, sliding into one of the chairs. “As long as it’s edible.”
Chris gasps with mock offense. “I’ll have you know, I followed the recipe this time.”
They dig in, the clinking of utensils against plates filling the space. For a while, the silence is comfortable, the only sounds coming from the soft music playing from Chris’s phone on the counter.
Then, mid-bite, Chris looks up. “So... how’d finals go?”
Felix shrugs, chewing slowly before answering. “I tried my best.”
Chris studies him for a second, as if trying to gauge the truth of that statement. Then he smiles and nods. “Good. That’s all you can do sometimes.”
Felix doesn’t say anything more. He just focuses on the noodles, his appetite only halfway there.
Chris takes another bite, then sighs. “I’m swamped too, if that makes you feel better. All the other professors are buried in exam papers and grading hell. It’s brutal.”
At that, Felix looks up for a moment—just a flicker of a glance—and thinks of you. Of how tired you might be. Of your hands, sorting through stacks of essays, brows furrowed in concentration. Of you cooped up in that quiet office of yours.
“You okay?” Chris asks.
Felix blinks, startled out of his thoughts. “Yeah,” he says quickly. “Just tired.”
Chris nods again, taking another sip of water. “Do you want to play a few rounds later? I found our old co-op save.”
Normally, Felix would say yes to video games. But tonight, the exhaustion isn’t just physical. It’s in his head, his chest, heavy and stubborn so he shakes his head. “I think I’ll crash early. Not really feeling great.”
Chris’s smile falters just a bit in concern. “Alright. You sure you’re not sick?”
“I’m fine,” Felix murmurs. “Just drained.”
Chris doesn’t push. He just gives him a soft pat on the back as he gets up to clear the table. “Then go ahead and rest. I’ll handle the dishes. I got this.”
Felix gives him a tired smile in return. “Thanks, Chris.”
As he trudges back up the stairs, the image of you lingers in his mind. And even though his eyes sting with fatigue, it’s not sleep he finds himself wishing for—it’s something else entirely.
-
The soft rays of late morning sunlight stream lazily through the curtains, brushing warm patterns onto your sheets as you blink your eyes open. It's Saturday. Finally—after a brutal week of finals, missed meals, and endless grading, you let yourself sleep in and wake up a little later than usual.
You don’t even bother to change out of your oversized sleep shirt when you pad barefoot into the kitchen, still bleary-eyed, hair tousled from sleep. A quiet, uneventful morning—that’s all you wanted. You pour cereal into a bowl, top it off with cold milk, and sink into a chair with a sigh.
Halfway through your first bite, your phone rings. You glance at the screen. Chris.
You answer with a sleepy “Hello?”
There's a pause. A breath. Then his gentle voice filters through the receiver. “Hey, sorry to bother you… Are you busy?”
You shake your head, even if he can’t see it. “Not really. Just having breakfast. Everything okay?”
Chris hesitates, and your stomach knots a little. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” he says, voice soft. “It’s Felix. He’s sick. Caught something after finals, probably. I was going to stay with him but… I have this seminar. I feel awful if I cancel last minute.”
Your spoon halts mid-air. “Is he okay?” you ask, already hearing your own concern rising.
“Yeah, yeah,” Chris says quickly. “It’s not serious. He just needs rest and someone to take care of him while I'm away.”
Chris continues, “I was wondering… if you could come by? Just stay with him for a couple of hours until I get back. I wouldn’t ask if I had any other option, but he’s alone, and you’re probably the only person I can trust you with this.”
You pause, your heart tugging just a little. The thought of Felix, sick and alone, after everything—the late nights in the library, the effort he poured in—makes your chest tighten.
“Of course I’ll come,” you say, voice firm. “I just need time to shower and get ready.”
There’s a breath of relief through the line. “Really? Thank you. Seriously, take your time. Come whenever it’s convenient.”
“Don’t worry, Chris,” you assure him with a small smile. “I'll be there soon.”
You can practically hear him smiling. “Thanks again. I owe you.”
You hum, “I’ll remember that,” before hanging up.
Your cereal is half-finished. Forgotten. You rise from your seat and make your way to the shower with one thought echoing in your mind: Felix is sick—and for some reason, that simple truth makes your heart ache more than it should.
-
The house is silent when you let yourself in with the keys Chris left under the potted plants.
You call out softly, “Felix?” but there’s no answer—only the faint ticking of a wall clock and the gentle creak of the floor beneath your steps. The front door clicks shut behind you, and you toe off your shoes, your bag slipping from your shoulder.
You’ve only been here a couple of times, but the house is familiar enough. You quietly make your way upstairs, heart thudding louder with each step.
When you reach his bedroom door, it’s ajar. You push it open gently to check. His bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. The curtains are drawn closed, and the air is thick with stillness. Your eyes land on him—Felix—lying in bed, half-buried beneath a mess of blankets. His face is flushed, strands of golden hair damp and sticking to his forehead. His breathing is deep, but uneven. He looks… small. Tired. A far cry from the smug, smirking Felix you know.
You step in quietly and sit on the edge of his bed. Your hand reaches out, gentle and unsure, and you press the back of it to his forehead. Burning.
Your chest tightens. You whisper, “You’re burning up.”
Without wasting another second, you slip out of the room and rush back downstairs. You don’t want to bother Chris with a call just to ask where he keeps things, so you do the next best thing—open drawers, cabinets, anything that might contain what you need. It takes a while, but finally, you find the first aid kit tucked away behind the sink in the bathroom. You take the digital thermometer and a cold compress and hurry back up, your footsteps light on the stairs.
When you return, Felix hasn’t moved. You sit back on the bed, unfold the cold compress, and gently press it to his forehead. He stirs just slightly, brow twitching. You brush the damp strands of hair from his face and lift the blanket enough to slide the thermometer beneath his arm. You wait in silence, counting the soft whirr of the machine as it counts down the seconds.
Beep. 102.3°F.
You wince. “Felix…”
But before you can say anything more, he stirs. His head turns toward you, slowly, and his eyes flutter open—bleary, unfocused, but familiar. He blinks a few times as if trying to make sense of your face, your presence.
“Am I dreaming?” he asks hoarsely, his voice rough from sleep and fever.
You smile softly, teasing, “Maybe.”
His hand moves slowly—clumsily—and reaches for yours where it rests against the blanket. He wraps his fingers around it and brings it to his cheek, nuzzling into your palm like a cat seeking warmth.
“You’re real,” he mumbles with a faint hum, his eyes slipping closed again. “You’re here…”
His lashes flutter again. “Why are you here?”
You squeeze his hand gently, whispering, “To take care of you.”
His lips lift into a sleepy smile, and he lets out a long, content sigh before drifting back into sleep. His fingers stay wrapped around yours. You stay there, quietly watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. Despite the fever, despite the exhaustion—he looks peaceful. Vulnerable. Beautiful in a way that makes something ache in your chest. And somehow, you don’t want to be anywhere else but here. But then— your phone buzzes in your pocket and it's a message from Chris. “Please make sure he eats something before taking the meds. Thanks again, really.”
You sigh softly, carefully slipping your hand out of his grip before standing up and padding downstairs.
The kitchen isn’t hard to navigate. You take your time, moving quietly as you rinse the rice and prepare a simple chicken porridge. Something light, something warm. Comfort in a bowl. You taste it before turning off the stove, satisfied, and ladle it into a bowl before placing it on a tray with water and the medicine Chris left.
You hate to wake him, but you gently nudge his shoulder. “Felix,” you whisper. “Wake up. You need to eat something.”
He stirs, brows furrowing as his lashes flutter open. His eyes are glassy, a little disoriented, like he’s still stuck somewhere between dreaming and waking. He blinks at you, then at the tray, and you help him sit up, fluffing the pillows behind his back.
“I made you porridge,” you say, placing the tray in his lap.
He grumbles softly and reaches for the spoon—but when you take it first, intending to feed him, he quickly shakes his head.
“I can do it,” he croaks, his voice rough. “Don’t treat me like a kid.”
You can’t help but smile, amused. Embarrassed, you think. Still trying to save face in front of me.
“Alright,” you say gently, surrendering the spoon. “Go ahead.”
You sit quietly beside him, just watching. His hands are a little shaky, but he manages, and in the soft light, his flushed cheeks and messy hair make him look younger. Softer.
Halfway through the bowl, he asks again, voice a bit stronger this time, “Why are you here?”
You glance at him, lips curving slightly as he must be delirious when he asked you the first time. You can't help but tease him again. “Should I not be?”
He exhales through his nose, like he expected that. “Chris told you I was sick, didn’t he?”
“He was worried. And I wasn’t busy.” You shrug. “So I came.”
Felix finishes the last spoonful and quietly takes the medicine you hand him. When he’s done, you help ease him back into the blankets, pulling them up to his chest and gently smoothing the fabric over him.
The room settles again. You glance around, then quietly ask, “Is it always this quiet here? Do you ever feel lonely?”
Felix’s eyes remain half-closed as he replies, “Not really. Not when Chris is around.”
You smile faintly, reaching over to brush the damp hair from his forehead. “But… when you’re like this, sick and alone—must feel a little lonely, doesn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then, his hand finds yours again, clutching it and bringing it to his chest. “You’re here now,” he murmurs. “So I’m not lonely.”
Your breath catches with the way he looks at you—eyes soft, sleepy. “If you kiss me,” he says quietly, “I’ll feel even better.”
You raise a brow, biting back a smile. “Should I?”
You lean in, just a little, letting the moment linger—
But Felix chuckles hoarsely and lifts a weak hand to stop you. “I was kidding,” he whispers. “I don’t want you to get sick too.”
“I’ll be fine,” you murmur, eyes still locked on his. “I'm stronger than I look, you know.”
And before he can protest again, you press your lips to his. Soft. Gentle. A moment held in stillness.
You pull back and whisper, “That’s it. For now.”
Felix smirks, eyes gleaming despite his fatigue. “No more?”
“You’re sick,” you remind him, straightening up. “So, yeah, no more.”
But his brow lifts, amused. “So if I’m not sick... we can do more?”
You open your mouth, caught between laughing and scolding—but he’s already tugging the blanket up to his chest with a smug little grin.
“In that case,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering closed, “I’ll be better in no time.”
You roll your eyes fondly, leaning in to brush the hair from his forehead again. “Goodnight, Felix.”
“Night, professor,” he whispers, a little smile still tugging at his lips.
And just like that, the house falls quiet again—only now, it feels warm. Full. Not empty at all.
-
The porridge had gone down well enough—even if Felix grumbled about the taste, you could tell he was comforted by the effort. You’re placing the spoon into the drying rack when the front door clicks open.
Chris’s voice echoes gently through the hall. "I'm home!"
You quickly dry your hands and step out just as he enters the kitchen, holding a plastic bag with takeout containers. His face brightens the second he sees you.
“I brought food,” he says, lifting the bag a little. “Didn’t want you cooking again after already taking care of Felix.”
You smile. “You didn’t have to, but thank you. I was just about to raid your snack cabinet.”
Chris chuckles as he sets the bag down and starts unpacking it. “I hid the good snacks, just in case. But next time, I’ll share.”
You both sit at the dining table, side by side. The food smells amazing—warm and savory, comforting in a different way from earlier. It’s quiet for a moment as you both start eating, then Chris speaks. “How’s he doing?”
You pause. “Fever’s still there but lower. He ate, took his meds.”
Chris nods, relieved. “He’ll be alright. I feel bad for leaving him, but… it’s a relief knowing you were here.”
You glance at him and smile. “It’s no problem. I’m glad I could help.”
Chris watches you for a beat longer than necessary before he looks back down at his food. “So,” he says casually, “what do you do for fun around here?”
You raise an eyebrow at the sudden shift in conversation. “What do I do for fun?” you echo, chewing thoughtfully. “Grading papers and losing sleep count?”
Chris laughs, full and warm. “You poor thing. We need to find you a hobby.”
You lean back in your chair and grin. “Well, there’s this one campus café that makes a decent cheesecake. That’s about as thrilling as it gets.”
He chuckles. “Alright, next time I’ll take you somewhere more exciting.”
You shake your head, amused, and help him gather the empty containers once you're both done eating. Together, you move around the kitchen—him rinsing, you drying. The quiet companionship fills the space with something light, almost cozy.
Chris looks over his shoulder at you while placing the containers in the bin. “Look at us,” he says, grinning. “Cleaning up after dinner like we’re parents who just put the kid to bed.”
You let out a soft laugh, not denying it. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s kind of cute.”
Your hands pause, towel halfway to a plate. You don’t look at him right away, afraid your smile might give too much away. But eventually, you glance over and find Chris already looking at you, his eyes warm, his expression unreadable—but soft.
You offer a small smile in return and go back to drying the plate. You don’t say anything else, but your silence is not empty. It's full of something slowly growing. Something dangerous. Something that has nothing to do with Felix—and everything to do with Chris.
-
The notification pings in his inbox while he’s half-asleep in bed, phone resting on his chest. He blinks once, twice, before sitting up properly. His thumb hovers over the email.
Final Grades — Term Results
He opens it with anticipation and a second later, his lips pull into a grin—wide, proud, satisfied. He did it. He actually did it.
Felix exhales a long breath and falls back against his pillows, arms spread as the weight lifts from his chest. After all the late nights, all the doubts, the migraines, and the lectures—both academic and personal—he proved himself. Not just to you, or Chris, but to himself.
And now, it’s time to claim his reward.
He makes a quick printout of the results, folds it neatly, and heads straight to your office. This time, though, he doesn’t barge in unannounced. He stands before your door, knocks twice—firm but not rushed—and waits.
A beat later, your voice drifts out, a soft, distracted “Come in.”
Felix opens the door and there you are, seated behind your desk, bathed in sunlight that spills through the half-open blinds. The golden light dances through your hair, framing you in a makeshift halo. For a second, Felix forgets how to breathe.
You look up, and a polite smile graces your lips—professional, the way you address all your students. “Mr. Lee. What can I help you with?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he walks forward and places the sheet of paper on your desk. Silently.
You glance down and he can see the way your eyes scan the grades—and then that polite smile stretches, blooms into something genuine and warm. “You did it,” you say, eyes brightening as you look up at him. “Felix, you actually did it.”
The pride in your voice. The way you’re beaming.
Yeah. This—this is what made it all worth it.
Felix leans forward slightly, smirk tugging at his lips. “So…” he begins, “does this mean you’re keeping your promise?”
You meet his eyes, studying him for a moment, before giving a single nod. “Yes.”
He exhales a little laugh through his nose. “Good. Because I want my second date.”
Your brows arch. “And what would that be?”
He straightens. “I want you to spare a day for me.”
Your expression shifts into one of mild surprise—but he isn’t finished.
“And a night,” he adds, voice low, playful. “Please.”
That last word—the softness of it—is what seals the deal.
You hesitate, weighing the risk, the unspoken rules—but in the end, you nod. “Okay.”
Felix’s grin turns triumphant, but he reins it in with a casual shrug, stepping toward the door. “It's this weekend. I'll pick you up,” he says, fingers brushing the door handle.
But just before he pulls it open, he turns his head over his shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Oh—don’t forget to bring a bikini.”
He chuckles at your stunned expression, and with that, Felix slips out of your office—leaving behind the echo of his teasing voice, and the warm trail of something electric threading between you both.
-
The weekend arrives with a rush of anticipation curling in Felix’s chest. He hums to himself as he zips up his overnight bag, tossing in the last few things—his toothbrush, a change of clothes, a small bottle of cologne, and a pair of sunglasses he hopes you’ll compliment him on. He’s so wrapped up in checking and rechecking everything that he almost doesn’t notice the figure leaning against the doorframe.
“Going somewhere?”
Felix startles slightly, glancing over to find Chris, arms folded across his chest, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Yeah,” Felix says, trying to sound casual as he adjusts the strap on his duffel bag. “Just… heading out for the weekend.”
Chris raises a brow. “Oh?” he pushes off the frame and steps into the room a little. “You’re being suspiciously vague about it. That a date or a kidnapping situation?”
Felix snorts. “Definitely not a kidnapping. Don’t worry, I’ll come back alive.”
Chris narrows his eyes, teasing. “You’re not even denying the date part.”
Felix just shrugs, a knowing smirk pulling at his lips.
Chris laughs softly, shaking his head. “Fine, fine. Keep your secrets.” He steps aside as Felix walks past him. “At least tell me you’re going somewhere fun.”
Felix looks back briefly, and in a rare moment of honesty, says with a quiet, satisfied grin, “Yeah. I think it will be.”
Chris watches him for a moment longer, as if trying to read deeper into his expression, but eventually just smiles and claps a hand on Felix’s shoulder.
“Well,” he says, voice warm and full of genuine care, “have fun, yeah?”
Felix nods once. “I will.”
And with that, he heads out the door, heart racing with excitement—not just for the weekend ahead, but because this time, it’s not just a fantasy or a mistake or a blur. It’s real.
And you're already there when he pulls up—standing at the curb just outside her apartment building, the soft hem of your summer dress dancing in the breeze like it’s part of the sky itself. The sunlight catches on the strands of your hair, illuminating you like some impossible dream he never thought he’d get to wake up to. You’re not even doing anything—just standing there with your bag and your small smile like it doesn’t destroy him.
God. He wants to stay like this. Just watch you. All day. All night.
Then you turn, your eyes meeting his through the windshield, and you wave at him, smile brighter now.
“Where should I put my bag?” you call out lightly.
It jolts him into motion and Felix scrambles out of the car, nearly tripping over himself. “I got it,” he says quickly, grabbing your bag from your hand with a bit more enthusiasm than he means to. “Get in. I’ll put this in the back.”
You chuckle and slide into the passenger seat, and Felix takes a beat longer behind the car to exhale the chaos inside him before shutting the trunk and getting in himself.
You’re already settling in, buckling your seatbelt, tugging your dress to fall just above your knees. Felix swallows.
His hands land on the steering wheel, but he doesn’t start the engine. He just sits there, looking at you. At the curve of your smile. At the sunlight flickering in your eyes. At the way you’re here—actually here—with him.
You tilt your head, brow arched in amusement. “Aren’t you going to drive?”
Your voice—gentle and teasing—snaps him out of it. He blinks, laughs softly under his breath, and rubs the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed to be caught staring.
“Right. Yeah,” he says, turning the key.
The engine hums to life, and so does the buzz in his chest. The moment feels golden. Electric. Like the beginning of something he’s going to remember forever.
He glances at you again, then back at the road, pulling away from the curb as the city starts to blur behind him. The windows are down, the breeze is warm, and you’re beside him.
The trip he’s been dreaming of—starts now.
-
The moment the hotel door clicks shut behind them, Felix exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.
It’s just you and him now. No students walking by, no lecture halls or office doors or careful glances over shoulders. Just the echo of the ocean from the open balcony doors.
You’re here. With him. And this time—he doesn’t have to pretend to keep his distance. He drops the bags by the wall, still in disbelief.
The room’s airy and sunlit, the sheets crisp and white, and there’s only one bed— which shouldn’t make his stomach flip like this, but it does.
Then you walk straight past him, barefoot on the polished floor, the hem of your dress swaying behind you, and you pull open the sheer curtains to step onto the balcony.
Your delighted gasp makes Felix follow like he’s under some kind of spell. You lean over the railing, eyes wide as you take in the view— the golden beach stretching endlessly below,
the way the sea sparkles under the late-afternoon sun.
You beam like a kid unwrapping their favorite gift, and Felix thinks he’s never seen anything more beautiful than the way you look right now—sunlit, free, and smiling just for the sea.
Then you turn and that same radiant smile now aimed right at him.
“Should we head straight to the beach?” you ask, eyes gleaming with excitement. “No point in wasting daylight, right?”
Felix blinks. He was the one with a weekend plan and an itinerary. Dinner, sunset viewings, a slow pace that leads up to—
But you look too excited to say no to. All this joy, just from the sight of the waves. “Yeah,” he breathes, his lips tugging into a smile. “Sure.”
You grin like it’s the best answer he could give and clap your hands once, spinning around toward the bathroom. “I’m just gonna change,” you say over your shoulder.
You disappear into the bathroom with a soft laugh, and Felix stands there like he’s been hit by lightning. He stares at the now-shut door for a few seconds, then drags a hand over his face. You're here. You're really here and this weekend—he gets to be selfish with your time. With you.
So, yeah. Beach first. But later? Later is all his.
-
Felix finds a quiet, shaded spot near the rocks—far enough from the crowd, close enough to the water to hear the soft crash of the waves—and rolls out the mat. The breeze is warm, the sun lazily dipping toward late afternoon, and you settle beside him with a long sigh, stretching your legs and leaning back on your palms.
You pull out snacks you packed from home—chopped fruit, chips, cold drinks—and you both dig in immediately.
“This is nice,” you murmur, your voice soft under the wind. “A day like this, just… being outside. Not stuck in my office grading papers or answering emails.”
Felix turns to you, lips twitching upward. “I know. You’re impressed by me again, huh?”
You let out a soft chuckle, tossing a grape at him. He catches it midair. “Don’t push it, Mr. Top of the Class.”
That title has never sounded so sexy in your voice.
You glance at the water, then back at him. “Are you gonna swim?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Was planning to.”
And you light up, all mischievous grin and sunny energy.
“How about we go swimming now?”
Felix can’t say no to you. Not when you ask like that, with your eyes wide and your tone playful and almost daring.
“Alright,” he nods, pushing his hair back as he rises to his feet.
But then—you stand and without any warning, you untie the knot of your wrap dress and let it fall. The swimsuit underneath hugs your curves like it was made for you, the fabric clinging to your skin, leaving just enough to the imagination—but barely. The sun hits you in all the right ways. Golden. Glowing. Gorgeous.
Felix is suddenly breathless. His throat goes dry. His pulse roars in his ears. He knows he should look away, at least for the sake of decency, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Not when you look like that. Not when you’re standing there, barefoot on the sand, so real and so close and so utterly—
You catch him staring. Of course, you do.
“Stop staring,” you say, but there’s no real heat behind it—just that small, knowing smirk pulling at your lips.
Felix doesn’t even pretend to deny it. “Just so you know, I’m holding myself back right now,” he mutters low, gaze flicking back up to your face.
And your smile shifts—just slightly. Softer. A little darker.
Like you’re biting back thoughts you shouldn’t be having in public. You bite your bottom lip. Dangerous.
You glance back at him and toss your wrap dress at him. “Last one to the water buys the ice cream.”
Then—without warning—you break into a sprint toward the beach, laughing as your feet kick up sand behind you.
Felix blinks, stunned for a second, before he curses under his breath and bolts after you. “Hey! You’re cheating!” he shouts.
The water is warm when he crashes into it, his laughter mixing with yours as waves lap against your bodies. You’re already waist-deep, spinning around to splash him right in the face. He gasps—dramatic and loud—and launches a wave back at you.
And that’s how it goes for the next stretch of time: wild splashes, quick dives under the water, and your shrill laughter echoing over the ocean breeze. Felix lets himself get pulled under by the wave of it—your joy, your energy. He doesn’t care if people are watching. He doesn’t care if the sun is burning his shoulders pink. All he sees is you—smiling, glowing, alive.
At one point, you climb onto his back in the water. He pretends to groan under your weight, joking about how heavy you are, and you respond by dunking him under. He doesn’t even mind swallowing saltwater if it means hearing your laugh like that again.
Later, you both collapse onto the mat, damp and sandy, with flushed cheeks and dripping hair. He watches you out of the corner of his eye as you wring out your hair, as you suck on the ice cream cone you bought him because he technically beat you to the water. But you both know he totally let you win.
The ice cream drips onto your wrist and you giggle, licking it quickly before it melts. Felix swallows, his throat suddenly dry again, and turns away before he stares too long.
Time slows as the sun begins to dip low on the horizon. You sit side by side on the beach now, legs stretched out and tangled with his. You’re silent for a while, letting the wind tousle your hair, letting the soft sound of the waves lull the moment into something golden.
The sky is painted in pinks and oranges. The kind of sunset that makes you feel like the world has paused just to admire it with you. You lean your head gently on his shoulder.
Felix doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare breathe too deeply in case he breaks the spell. He just stays there, heart beating slow and steady under your cheek, eyes watching the sun melt into the water.
You sigh contently. “I wish I could freeze this moment.”
Felix turns slightly, cheek brushing your temple. “Me too.”
And he means it because right now—right here with you—
there’s nothing else he wants.
-
For dinner, you both agreed on eating somewhere close to the hotel. You’re still giggling as Felix dramatically stuffs two slices of pizza together and takes a giant bite, chewing with wide eyes as if he’s just invented something groundbreaking.
“You’re seriously eating a pizza sandwich right now,” you laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s not how it's meant to be eaten.”
He shrugs like a child caught red-handed, cheeks puffed with dough and sauce. “This is innovation.”
You roll your eyes, fondness blooming warm in your chest. It's been a perfect day—sun, sea, silence when you needed it, laughter when you didn’t know you needed it. And now, sitting across from him with salt still in your hair and your skin sun-kissed, it almost feels unreal. Like something borrowed from a dream.
But then Felix excuses himself to use the restroom, and you’re left alone, finishing off the crusts and sipping from your drink.
That’s when they come. A group of men—loud, obviously drunk, clearly unaware of the word “no.” They start by asking if you’re alone. When you ignore them, one gets bolder, stepping too close, a hand grazing your bare shoulder without permission.
You stiffen. “Don’t touch me. Please.”
“Oh come on, sweetheart,” one of them slurs, “we’re just being friendly—”
“Back off,” you warn, louder this time, glancing toward the restroom door.
And just as your pulse quickens and your heart rises to your throat—
Felix is there. “Is there a problem?” His voice cuts through like steel, low and deadly.
The men snicker. “Relax, kid. We’re just keeping your girl company.”
Felix steps between you and the one closest. “I said, is there a problem?”
When the man reaches like he’s going to touch your arm again— Felix pushes him. Not hard, just enough to send a clear message. But that’s all it takes.
The guy stumbles, regains balance—and then throws a punch straight to Felix’s jaw.
You gasp, instinctively reaching out as Felix staggers backward, one hand gripping the edge of the table. His other hand goes to his face, jaw clenched, but his eyes stay locked on the guy, livid and glowing with fury.
You’re at his side in an instant. “Felix—”
He’s hurting. You can see it, even if he’s doing everything in his power to act like he’s not.
You quickly call for a security nearby, voice clipped with urgency. “There’s a group of men harassing me and they just hit someone—please, now.”
They respond quickly—one of the waiters rushing to the back—and when the security finally arrives, you’re already gently urging Felix toward the exit.
“Come on,” you whisper, arm wrapped around his waist. “Let’s just go.”
Felix glances once over his shoulder, eyes still dark, jaw tight—but he lets you lead him. His pride is bruised, and maybe more than just that. But he doesn’t say a word, and neither do you—not until you’re outside, on the way back to the hotel, and you’re holding onto him tighter than you were before.
Back at the hotel, the room feels quieter than before. The air hangs heavier, like it’s absorbing the leftover adrenaline from earlier. Felix sits at the edge of the bed, shirt slightly wrinkled, his expression somewhere between frustrated and dazed. You sit next to him, the small can of soda from the minibar pressed gently against the side of his jaw.
He winces at first, but then relaxes into the cold. “Ouch.”
“Does it hurt anywhere else?” you ask softly, scanning him for bruises you might’ve missed.
He just shakes his head. “Nah. Just… that guy had a mean right hook.”
You let out a quiet laugh, but it fades quickly.
The silence lingers between you for a moment—thick, unsure—until he finally breaks it. “…I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
You blink up at him. “For what?”
“For tonight. For letting it get that far.” He looks away, guilt darkening his eyes. “I should’ve handled it better. Should’ve kept my cool.”
You shake your head, about to reassure him, but he keeps going.
“I couldn’t even protect you,” he says, his voice quieter now, more raw. “You were scared. And I—” His eyes drop to the floor. “You were right, back then. I’m not like Chris. He would’ve handled it better. Would’ve kept you safe without making it a scene.”
“Felix…” Your heart squeezes.
He still doesn’t look at you. “He’s stronger. Smarter. Always calm. You deserve someone like that.”
You can’t let him keep talking like that. You set the soda can aside and reach out, gently cupping his face, careful not to touch the sore part of his jaw. You make him look at you.
“Don’t say that.”
He blinks at you, startled by the firmness in your tone.
“You did protect me,” you tell him, your voice steady. “You were there when I needed you. You stepped in. You didn’t hesitate. I felt safe because of you.”
He stares at you, eyes wide and stunned like he doesn’t quite believe it.
“I don’t care about what anyone else would’ve done,” you say, your thumb gently brushing against his cheek. “You were there. You saved me.”
His lips part just slightly, like he’s about to say something—but then he just smiles, small and a little shy.
“Just wait a little longer,” he says, almost like a vow. “I’ll get bigger and stronger so I can protect you… properly.”
And something about the sincerity in his voice—the childlike hope wrapped in grown-up promises—makes your chest ache in the most devastatingly sweet way.
You don’t even think twice but to lean in and kiss him.
It’s slow, gentle, and nothing like earlier. There’s no rush, no fire, no teasing. Just two mouths finding comfort in each other. And as his lips mold into yours, tender and warm, your fingers tangle into the hem of his shirt, grounding yourself in him.
The kiss changes.
One moment, it’s soft and sweet, and the next—Felix is pressing harder, deeper, like something inside him has finally snapped loose. All the restraint he’s been holding onto since earlier is gone now, and you don’t stop him. You let him guide you to the bed, his hands never leaving your body, his mouth stealing your breath.
You lie back, and he follows, hovering over you, his blonde locks falling forward, brushing your cheeks as he kisses you again, and again, and again—until you're gasping against his lips.
His fingers trail down your sides, pulling at your clothes like they offend him, stripping you piece by piece. And in return, you let your hands wander over the soft lines and hard muscle of his torso, tugging his shirt over his head, unbuttoning, unzipping, until there’s nothing left between you. Skin on skin. Warmth meeting warmth.
When he finally stills above you, both of you bare and breathless, his eyes roam over you with something darker than desire—it’s worship. He looks at you like he’s never seen something so beautiful in his life. Like he can’t believe this is real.
“I can’t stop halfway this time,” he says hoarsely, voice barely more than a whisper. “Is that okay?”
You hesitate. Not because you don’t want it—you do. Desperately. But there’s a part of you, small and hesitant, wondering if this is how it’s supposed to go. If you’ll disappoint him. If it won’t be like the version of you he’s built up in his mind.
He sees it instantly from te way your body tenses slightly. The flicker in your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks, gently brushing your hair away from your face.
You take a breath. “I… haven’t done this in a long time.”
Felix pauses. Then smiles, soft and sure, like it doesn’t change anything for him at all. “That’s okay,” he says, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I just need to know if you want to do this. With me.”
And when your eyes meet his, steady and full of care, you know you can trust him. That you’re safe with him. So you nod.
His gaze softens even more. He kisses you—slow and tender this time—and then murmurs, “I’ll get the condom.”
He leaves the bed for just a second, rummaging through his bag until he pulls out the small foil packet. He sits on the edge of the bed, back turned to you as he takes care of it, and your heart thuds hard at the anticipation, at the fact that this is really happening.
When he turns back to you, his face is calm, his eyes glowing with something that makes your skin burn all over. He crawls back over you, holding your face with both hands, his lips brushing yours as he kisses you again—patient, careful, like he’s giving you time to melt into him again.
You squirm beneath him as Felix plants kisses across your body—your shoulders, your collarbones, the swell of your breasts, the dip of your stomach. Each one lands softer than the last, chasing away your hesitations like whispers on your skin. You close your eyes and breathe, letting yourself melt under his touch, your hands tangling gently in his hair as he worships you with lips and reverence.
When he hovers above you again, there’s a moment of stillness—his eyes locked on yours, his chest rising with each breath. “I’m going to put it in,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with need.
You nod, your legs parting instinctively for him, and he guides his cock between them. He doesn’t rush. He moves with patience, his shaft gliding through your slick folds, his tip teasing your entrance, pushing the anticipation higher with each careful stroke.
Then, his gaze flicks up to meet yours. “Tell me if it hurts, yeah?”
You nod again, barely finding your voice.
When he finally presses in, the gasp that tears from your throat is instant—sharp, breathy, involuntary. It burns. He stretches you so full and deep that your whole body tenses with the unfamiliar ache, and you whimper as your fingers clutch at the sheets beneath you.
Felix stops, glancing down to see half of his length already disappeared into you. His hand finds your thigh, rubbing it in slow, soothing circles, his voice soft against your skin. “Just a little more. You’re doing so good…”
Your breaths are shaky, a mix of discomfort and a strange, pulsing pleasure building between the ache. He moves gently, inch by inch, filling you until there’s nothing left between you. And when he’s fully sheathed inside, he lowers himself to kiss your lips—slow, reverent, as though thanking you.
“It’s all in,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. That must’ve hurt.”
You open your eyes, still hazy, and shake your head faintly. “It’s alright,” you murmur, your voice hoarse from holding in every moan. Because it is. It’s more than alright.
You hold each other there for a while, tangled, still, the heat of his breath fanning over your neck as he buries his face in the crook of it. Your arms wind around him, and there’s something sacred in the quiet—two hearts trying to steady in the same rhythm.
But then, the silence stretches, and you blink up at the ceiling, breath still uneven. “Felix?” you softly call.
He mumbles something into your skin.
“What?”
“…Feels too good,” he admits, his voice muffled, almost bashful. “Don’t wanna show you my face.”
You reach up, cradling the back of his neck, gently urging him to look at you. And when he does, you see his cheeks flushed, lashes low, mouth parted—you swear you’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
You smile through your daze. “Let me see you.”
His jaw tightens suddenly, and his hands grip your hips with trembling restraint. “I can’t hold back anymore,” he warns, voice raw. “I need to move now.”
You answer by wrapping your legs around his waist and nodding.
With that, Felix moves and every inch he gives, every inch he takes, feels like something blooming inside you. He thrusts with care, with purpose—deep, steady strokes that speak not just of lust, but of emotion, of everything he’s ever held back pouring into every kiss, every touch, every breathless murmur.
He makes sure you’re okay, over and over, with his hands, with his eyes, with the press of his lips to your shoulder. And you are. You’re more than okay. You’ve never felt more cherished.
The rhythm quickens, tension building, bodies slick and trembling in the soft glow of the room. You whisper his name, barely able to breathe through the pleasure cresting high inside you. And when it finally breaks—when your body gives in with a shuddering cry—it takes him with you.
He groans against your skin as he spills into the condom, your bodies locked together, your fingers fisting into his hair. And then, slowly, his weight settles on you, warm and real, as he collapses onto your chest, heart racing wildly against yours.
After the high has faded and the world has softened again, you find yourself curled into Felix’s side, skin still tingling, limbs tangled beneath the sheets. His arm wraps securely around you, his fingers lazily tracing little patterns on your bare shoulder as if memorizing the feel of you.
The room is quiet, save for the faint sound of the waves lapping the shore and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. You rest your hand on his chest, right over the beat of his heart.
He presses small kisses on your temple, your hair, the tip of your nose. It's so soft, so sweet, and you feel yourself sink deeper into the warmth of him—into the safety he creates when he holds you like this. And then he gently tilts your chin up, coaxing your gaze to meet his.
His eyes are clear and unwavering, and his voice is just above a whisper when he says, “I love you.”
It’s sudden. It’s raw. It’s so Felix—blunt and without fear. Your breath catches, your heart stumbling as the weight of his words settles over you. You don't know how to react, your lips part slightly but no sound comes out. You hadn’t expected that—not here, not now.
Felix notices, of course. He always notices. His palm cups your jaw with a tenderness that melts through your chest, his thumb brushing softly across your lower lip. “You don’t have to say it back,” he says, voice low, calming. “I just wanted you to know and I hope one day... you’ll love me too.”
Then he leans in and places a kiss at the top of your head, and you close your eyes, letting yourself breathe through the quiet ache blooming in your chest. You shift, nestling your head against his chest where his heart beats loud and steady beneath your ear as he holds you closer.
You don’t want to lie to him. You don’t want to say something you’re not sure of—not yet. Because what you feel… it’s not quite love. But it’s something close. Maybe it is love, just not all the way there yet. Maybe it’s the kind of feeling that needs time to grow, to be nurtured, to become something unshakable.
You don’t say anything, but you stay—wrapped in his arms, listening to the soft hush of his breath, and hoping that one day, when the time is right, you’ll be able to say those words and mean every letter of them.
For now, being here like this, with him, feels like enough.
-
Felix is practically humming as he pulls up to his parents’ house, the smile on his face stretching so wide it almost hurts. The weekend with you is still fresh in his mind—your laughter at the beach, the way you looked under the sun, the way you felt in his arms, whispering soft breaths into the crook of his neck. It plays on loop, over and over, like his favorite song for the past few days.
He swings the front door open with ease, calling out, “I’m home!”
From the kitchen, his mom’s voice calls back, “Hurry up, dinner’s ready!”
“Smells amazing, mom!” he replies as he shrugs off his jacket and drops his bag beside the shoe rack. The scent of garlic, sesame oil, and grilled meat fills the air—his mom’s signature blend. His stomach growls loudly in response.
“You always know how to time it just right, huh?” his mom teases warmly from the dining room. “And don’t worry, I made extra cause we’ve got a special guest tonight.”
Felix is already halfway through the hallway when he says, grinning, “Guest? What kind of guest—?”
And then he steps into the dining room and stops dead in his tracks. Sitting at the table, right between his stepdad and Chris, is you. Hair tucked behind your ear as you laugh politely at something Chris just said.
Your eyes shift at the sound of his footsteps—and when they meet his, it’s a flicker, quick but loaded with something only the two of you can recognize. Your smile falters for the briefest second, and then returns, soft and polite.
Felix’s brain short-circuits. For a moment, all he can do is blink.
“Stop standing around,” his mom says, not missing a beat. “Sit down. You make everyone waited.”
Felix sits at the dinner table, wedged between the warm buzz of family chatter and the dangerously close presence of you. Underneath the polite smile stretching his lips, his thoughts are in a frenzy—What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell him? Why is Chris looking so smug?
He tries not to make it obvious. Really, he does. But every time Chris opens his mouth, it’s like he’s stoking a fire under Felix’s skin.
“She used to walk around the school and made the homeroom teacher searching for her,” Chris says, grinning fondly at you as he reaches for another helping of side dishes. “I remember that time we found you in the music room instead of the library like we usually did.”
You laugh softly. “I was following the piano sounds. I thought it’d lead me somewhere useful.”
Felix grips his chopsticks tighter.
“She always had such a curious mind,” his stepdad adds, chuckling warmly. “Honestly, from the first time I met her, I thought she’d be perfect for our Chris.”
Felix’s mom smiles, leaning in to nudge her husband’s shoulder. “You said you were going to set them up for marriage one day, remember?”
Marriage.
Felix’s hand stiffens over his plate. He drops his chopsticks with a loud clatter, the sound sharp and abrupt.
Chris chuckles—chuckles—like it’s all some harmless memory, leaning back casually in his seat. “Please, don't make our guest uncomfortable.”
“Yeah,” Felix mutters. “Because she’s dating me now.”
Silence.
It’s instant, heavy, like someone slammed the brakes on a speeding car. Forks hang in midair. You stop mid-breath. Chris blinks, his smile faltering ever so slightly. Felix’s mom looks between the two of you. His stepdad’s expression slowly shifts from amused to confused.
Across the table, Chris’s gaze hardens just slightly, his posture straightening. Your fingers tremble faintly where they rest on your napkin.
And Felix—he doesn’t take it back. He just sits there, jaw tight, heart hammering, staring straight ahead as the silence swallows everything whole.
-
✨ COVET: CHAPTER THREE is available on my Patreon ✨
Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!
No, no, I get that she's not messing or playing with them, should've find a better word but I guess you get what I mean. Sometimes it happens so that you don't understand whether your feelings are love or just affection or passion and you have the right to explore and see what you feel but when it's between brothers, the situation might get tricky. But when the said brothers are Chan and Felix, who can blame our girl? 😂😭
Synopsis: When a friend of your dad set you up with his son, you hope to see the man you used to love— but it was his stepbrother who showed up instead, Felix. He is your student. Too bold. Too young. But also impossible to resist. Then Chris returns—gentle, steady, still the same man you once dreamed of. Now you're stuck between the past that once had your heart… and the boy who’s learning how to break it. (16,3k words)
Author's note: Sorry for the late post. I almost set the kitchen on fire (but it's all ok now 😮💨) and as always, enjoy & share your thoughts on it ♡
The second you hear your name—his voice, warm and familiar slicing through the summer air—you freeze mid-step. You turn, almost slowly, like you're afraid the moment will shatter if you're too sudden with it.
There he is. Chris. Standing by the driver’s side of a car, hand casually raised in greeting, smile spreading across his face like no time has passed at all. The sun cuts across his features, softening the sharp lines, highlighting everything you remember from years ago. That boyish charm hasn’t dulled. His hair's shorter now. He’s filled out. But it’s still him.
Still the same Chris who made your heart stumble when you were too young to know what to do with it. You’re still standing there when another movement draws your eyes.
Felix. Still in the passenger seat. Still watching you. His expression is unreadable—lips pressed together, golden lashes shadowing those sharp brown eyes—but his stare is piercing. Like he already knows everything you’re thinking. Like he’s waiting for you to say something, do something. But you can’t. You won’t. Instead, you find your voice and lift your hand to wave at Chris, smiling the best you can while trying to pretend that your heart isn’t thundering in your chest.
“You’ve grown,” Chris laughs, walking toward you. “But you still look the same.”
You swallow the knot in your throat and force a chuckle. “So do you.”
Out of the corner of your eye, Felix finally steps out of the car. And just like that, the space between the three of you turns thick. Weighted. Two pairs of eyes on you. The past and the present colliding in a parking lot you used to walk through without consequence.
God. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?
-
The coffee shop near campus hasn’t changed much since you first found it—warm wood panels, old jazz drifting through the speakers, and a quiet buzz of students trying to stay awake. You sit across from Chris, hands wrapped around a too-hot latte you haven’t dared to sip yet. You keep fiddling with the handle, anything to stop your hands from shaking.
He looks good across the table from you. Calm. Collected. His gaze softer now, with that unshakable warmth he always carried like second nature. And God, he still smiles the same—crooked on one side like it wasn’t meant to be perfect.
“I still can’t believe it’s you,” Chris says with a chuckle, leaning back in his seat. “When Dad told me he that I'd thank him for coming back here, I didn’t expect it to be you.”
You laugh lightly, lifting the cup to your lips if only to hide your expression. “I didn’t expect you either,” you say truthfully, letting the words hang there.
A beat of silence and then Chris leans forward again, forearms resting on the table. “So, how have you been?”
The question is simple, but your mind immediately skips to everything you can’t say. The late nights. The boat. The hands under your blouse. The boy who won’t leave your head.
“I’ve been… adjusting,” you offer carefully. “New city, new job. But it’s been good.” You look up. “And you?”
He grins. “I’ll be teaching here soon. Dad pulled some strings, made it happen fast.”
Your stomach dips at that piece of information.
“Guess that means we’ll be seeing each other a lot on campus,” he adds with a hopeful smile.
You try to smile back. “Yeah… that’s great.”
It should be. It should be. But all you can think about is Felix—his smirk, his hands, his words against your skin. And the guilt that settles like a stone in your gut.
Chris takes another sip of his drink, then pauses. “Hey, I didn’t get to ask earlier, but—Felix. He’s one of your students, right?”
You stiffen slightly, then nod. “He is.”
“How is he?” Chris asks, curious but kind. “In class, I mean.”
You hesitate as the truth tangles on your tongue. “He’s…” you start, and then force a vague smile. “Felix is… spirited.”
Chris lets out a soft laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
You look up, unsure if he knows—if he suspects. But he just shakes his head and says, “He just needs a little push. That’s how he’s always been. I hope you’re patient with him.”
The words strike a strange chord inside you. You nod slowly. “I’ll try.”
And then, to lighten the mood, you add with a small smile, “You’re a good influence on him, you know?”
Chris laughs again, soft and genuine. “Someone’s gotta be.”
You laugh too, but the warmth doesn't quite reach your chest because all you can think about is the possible complications caused by his existence in this very campus.
You glance at your watch and sigh softly. “I should get going,” you tell him, finishing the last of your drink. “I have a class to teach soon.”
Chris nods, clearly reluctant to end the conversation. “Of course,” he says. “I shouldn’t keep you here.”
You rise from your seat and he does too, ever the gentleman. Just before you step away from the table, Chris adds, “Let’s catch up again soon, yeah?”
You turn back to him with a small smile, hand gripping at the strap of your bag.
“I mean,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck, “maybe you could help me get familiar with the campus and the area around it?”
It’s a harmless request. Friendly. Innocent. But something about it makes you a little uneasy. Still, you nod with a soft smile. “Sure. I’d like that.”
You take a step to leave, but he catches your hand gently, fingers wrapping around yours. The touch is warm—steady.
“I’m really happy to see you again,” he says, voice low, earnest. His dimple deepens with the smile he gives you, the kind that makes your breath hitch for reasons you don’t want to admit.
Your cheeks flush with heat. You smile back, almost reflexively. “Me too, Chris,” you say.
But even as the words leave your lips, they echo strangely inside you—because your happiness is no longer simple.
Not when it’s tangled up in something else. Someone else.
s you pull your hand away and walk back toward campus, you try not to think about how warm his hand felt in yours. Or how Felix’s touch still lingers stronger.
-
Felix wakes up with the sunlight stabbing through the blinds, far too bright for a morning he’s not emotionally prepared to face. He groans, dragging the covers over his head like it might hide him from his responsibilities—or at least buy him five more minutes of peace. His body’s still heavy from sleep, but it’s the weight in his chest that makes him want to stay in bed all day. He thinks about it for a second.
Maybe he should skip class today.
He’s done it before—plenty of times. A text here, a fake cough there, the usual routine. But the thought barely has time to settle before he remembers the newest complication to his lazy genius lifestyle: Chris. Chris, who now works at his university and will know if Felix doesn’t show up and will definitely ask questions.
Felix groans again, louder this time, and buries his face into his pillow. Because if Chris asks, then their parents will hear about it. And then it’ll be a whole thing—lectures, concern, disappointment. The kind of family drama Felix doesn’t have the energy for right now.
“God,” he mutters into the mattress, “why does he have to be so damn perfect?”
Still, there’s no avoiding it. Not unless he wants to have a full-blown intervention over brunch this weekend. So, with one final grumble of protest, Felix forces himself out of bed, his feet hitting the cold floor with a soft thud.
As he trudges toward the bathroom, fingers carding through his mess of blond hair, he mutters under his breath, “At least let her wear that skirt again today…”
It’s the only thought that motivates him to brush his teeth with any real enthusiasm.
-
Felix kicks open the rooftop door with the back of his heel, the hinges creaking like they’ve been begging for some oil since the dawn of time. He steps into the quiet, wide open space like it’s the only place on campus that won’t suffocate him. Because today, he has zero intention of sitting through lectures, including yours.
His bag drops with a thud onto the cracked concrete, and he slumps beside it. For the next hour or two, he exists in distraction—munching on a bag of chips, flipping through a dog-eared manga volume, thumbing idly at the buttons of a game on his phone. But when the snacks are gone, and the comics feel dull, and he’s died on the same boss level three times in a row, his mind starts to spiral.
His thought eventually drifts to that day at the parking lot. Just the image of you—turning around at the sound of his name, smiling like you were ten again with a damn crush on the golden boy—it lights a slow, boiling rage in Felix’s chest.
He digs through the bottom of his bag and pulls out the barely-used cigarette pack. He’s not even a smoker. But something about this moment—about the stillness, the frustration clawing inside him, the bitter taste of being second—makes him want to feel something harsh on his tongue.
He fishes a lighter out with his other hand, flicks it on. Or tries to. It sparks—flames—and then he fumbles, the lighter falling with a metallic clink on the rooftop floor.
“Seriously?” he groans, voice sharp with annoyance. “Ugh!”
He squats down, reaching for the lighter, muttering curses under his breath when—
The door slams open and then heavy footsteps. Approaching him. Fast. He glances up, expecting one of his friends he texted earlier. Maybe Seungmin, or Jeongin —But it’s you, storming straight toward him, jaw locked, eyes blazing like you’re about to drag him to hell by the collar of his stupid leather jacket.
Felix barely has time to react before your hand shoots out and snatches the unlit cigarette from his lips. You toss it to the floor and crush it beneath your heel, like it’s insulted your entire bloodline.
“Dramatic,” he says, straightening up slowly.
“Why are you here?” you demand, voice low and heated.
He shrugs, nonchalantly. “Wanted to be.”
You cross your arms across your chest. “So you’re just not going to attend any class today?”
He shrugs again, this time slower—just to piss you off.
You stare at him like you’re daring him to push you further. Then, without a word, you reach down, grab his bag, and shove it into his chest with force. “Go to class.”
He lets the bag fall right back to the ground with a thud. “Why do you care?” he says, voice sharp now. “If I come to class or not?”
You take a step closer. “Because I’m your professor, Felix. And you’ve been skipping my class all week. You’re going to fail.”
He mutters under his breath. “Whatever.”
“Felix—” you start, your voice trying for calm, measured—but he cuts you off.
“What?” he spits. “You gonna tell Chris?”
That name hits the air like a thrown dagger. You sigh, like you're trying not to lose it completely. “This isn’t about Chris,” you say carefully. “This is about you.”
Felix lets out a dry laugh, eyes narrowing. “Of course it’s about him. It’s always about him. He’s the smart one. The diligent one. The one you were hoping would walk into that cafe.”
You hesitate—but not long enough.
Felix sees it, feels it and it’s enough to make him keep going. “That’s why you like him,” he says, bitterly. “Because he’s everything I’m not.”
You laugh—sarcastic, biting, like you’re trying to hurt him back. “Yeah, well, there’s nothing not to like about Chris.”
Then you gesture at him like he’s the punchline of a bad joke. “And you? You don’t even take your classes seriously. So give me one reason why I should like you.”
That stings more than it should. Felix clenches his jaw, grabs his bag from the ground with more force than necessary, and storms past you without another word. His shoulder hits yours as he walks by—sharp, intentional, but he doesn’t look back.
Felix pushes the rooftop door open and bolts for the emergency stairs. The metal clatters under his feet as he bounds down flight after flight, each step fueled by the burning in his chest.
Your words keep playing on loop inside his head, cruel in how casually you said them—
“There’s nothing not to like about Chris.”
“So give me one reason why I should like you.”
His breath comes in short, ragged bursts as he hits the landing, gripping the stair rail tight. He swears under his breath and keeps going. Down, down, down. Away from you. Away from everything. But he can’t outrun those words.
By the time he reaches the bottom, his heart is pounding—not from the stairs, but from you, from the fury clawing up his throat like he’s about to explode.
He stops. His hands curl into fists. His vision blurs for a second, red-hot at the edges. He stops to throw a punch at the wall. His knuckles sting instantly, the pain sharp, but not enough to satisfy the ache in his chest.
You don’t even know me. That’s what he wants to shout. You don’t know a damn thing about me.
But you think you do. You think you’ve got him all figured out—immature, lazy, not serious, just some dumb kid crushing on his brother’s girl. He presses his forehead to the cool concrete, breathing hard, trying to collect himself.
But inside? He’s unraveling and all he can think about is how badly he wants to prove you wrong.
-
You’re mid-sentence, walking your class through the last part of your presentation when the door creaks open. Your eyes flick toward the entrance, barely meaning to see who entered the room.
Chris slips in quietly, almost apologetically, and when your eyes meet, he offers a small, sheepish wave. Then he gestures toward the front, a silent “go on.” You nod quickly and return to the lesson, but your pulse has already quickened. It’s hard to keep your rhythm when you know he’s sitting there in the back row—watching, listening. Smiling when you make a joke and the class actually laughs. You try not to think about it, try to act as if his presence doesn't make your skin feel too tight.
You bite that thought down, burying it beneath a calm tone as you finish your lecture and dismiss your students. One by one, they trickle out of the room until the only person left is Chris, walking toward your desk like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“That was great,” he says, resting his hands casually against the edge of the desk. “Seriously. I don’t remember the last time I actually wanted to sit through a lecture, but I did.”
You laugh, unsure whether it's nerves or flattery making your chest flutter. “Well, thank you. I try not to bore people to death.”
Chris leans in a little, lowering his voice. “If you were my professor, I’d be your biggest fan. Front row. Teacher’s pet.”
You smile, almost rolling your eyes, but something about the way he says it makes your cheeks warm. And before you can think better of it, your mouth says, “Of course you’d be a teacher’s pet. You’re not hard to like.”
Your stomach drops as soon as the words leave you. Shit.
But Chris only grins wider, dimples deepening like he didn’t even catch the slip—or maybe he did and decided not to push it.
“Well,” he says lightly, “how about lunch with your biggest fan then?”
You nod, heart thudding. “Sure. I just need to stop by my office to drop these off.”
Before you can grab your things, he’s already scooping them into his arms. “I’ll carry them. You shouldn’t have to.”
You protest, weakly, but he’s already halfway to the door. You have no choice but to follow, the echo of his shoes ahead of yours and still—beneath all that fluttering warmth, there’s an ache in your chest. Because the one who should’ve walked through that door today… didn’t.
At the café, Chris picks a quiet table tucked into the corner, a place that feels private despite the lunch hour rush. You sit across from him, and as he hands you your coffee, his dimpled smile tugs at your chest in a way you don’t quite know how to brace against.
As you sip, you ask, “So… how was your first week teaching?”
He hums, swirling his iced americano lazily. “Still trying to find my footing,” he admits. “It’s weird being on the other side of the lecture hall. Makes you think about how many boring professors we had growing up.”
You chuckle. “You? Boring? That’s not what I heard.”
Chris raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
You lean in just slightly. “I overheard some students talking in the hallway. Something about a very handsome new professor in the Comparative Literature department.”
He lets out a soft laugh, but you catch the way his ears flush ever so slightly. It’s endearing—his shyness underneath that calm confidence.
“I hope they were at least talking about the material, too,” he says, bringing the cup to his lips.
“Nope. Just your face.” You grin, watching him squirm with that smile still plastered on his lips.
But then his tone shifts a little. “Actually… I stopped by your class hoping to see Felix, too.” His smile dims. “Thought maybe we could grab lunch—the three of us.”
You hesitate, your fingers curling around your glass. You don’t want to tattle. You really don’t. But you’ve already given Felix too many passes.
“…He was supposed to be there,” you say carefully. “But he hasn’t been attending. Not this week.”
Chris’s eyes flicker with concern. Not frustration. Not anger. Concern. He places his fork down gently on the table and exhales through his nose. “How long has it been?”
“Just this week, but I’ve warned him before. I even confronted him about it.” You pause as you shift ok your seat, glancing at the condensation sliding down your glass. “I don’t know what’s going on with him lately. He usually shows up. He’s not… this reckless.”
Chris nods slowly, thoughtful. “Our parents left town a few days ago. Business trip. Maybe that’s it. He thinks no one’s watching.”
You don’t respond right away. Deep down, you think you know exactly what’s bothering Felix—but you also know you’re the reason for it.
Chris glances up again, that warm, soft light back in his expression. “Now that I’m here, I guess it’s my job to be the big brother and scold him, huh?”
You blink, caught off guard. The idea of Chris scolding anyone, especially someone like Felix, doesn’t quite fit. “Maybe don’t scold him,” you suggest, voice gentle. “Try encouraging him instead. He listens more than he lets on.”
Chris looks at you for a moment—really looks—and then a smile slowly spreads across his face. “You're right. I can’t stay mad at Felix. I don’t think I’ve ever been. He’s… a lot sometimes. But he’s still my little brother.”
The fondness in his voice tugs at something in you. The way he talks about Felix—with pride and softness—makes your chest tighten in a strange, guilt-ridden way. And that’s when you realize: you’re in far deeper than you thought.
The moment the bill arrives, you both reach for it at the same time.
“I’ve got it,” you say, trying to snatch it.
Chris is faster, slipping it from the tray and holding it just out of your reach. “Nope,” he says, shaking his head with that easy grin. “You got lunch last time we met years ago. It’s my turn.”
“That doesn’t count,” you argue. “We were kids.”
“Exactly,” he says, pulling out his wallet. “I’m a grown man now. Let me be a gentleman.”
You huff, crossing your arms. “Fine. But next time—”
“Exactly,” he cuts in, eyes glinting with mischief. “It means you owe me next time. So… I’ll be looking forward to it.”
You pause, a little flustered by how casual and charming he sounds when he says it. The word “next time” lingers in your mind longer than it should. Still, you smile softly as you both step out of the café together, the summer sun gently warming your skin.
You walk side by side, the conversation turning easy—about the weather, the best spots for coffee near campus, hidden bakeries tucked between buildings. A few of his students pass by, giggling and whispering after giving him an enthusiastic “Good afternoon, Professor!”
You raise your brows, smirking. “Wow. That’s a lot of fanfare. I don’t remember getting that kind of attention when I first started here.”
Chris throws you a crooked grin. “Well, I’m giving you attention now. That has to count for something, right?”
You try—really try—not to smile at that, but it breaks through anyway. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
Chris only laughs as he brushes a hand through his hair.
At the corner where your paths split, you gesture toward your building. “I should head in. I’ve got to prep for my next class.”
Chris nods, pointing to his own direction. “And I’ve got to go and do mine as well. Lucky us.”
You begin to walk away, but before you can get too far, he calls after you, “Hey!”
You turn back. “Yeah?”
He flashes that warm, dimpled smile again. “You still owe me a meal.”
Your chest tightens—just a little. “I haven’t forgotten, Chris.”
He gives you a short wave and turns to go. You watch him for a moment before turning away, your lips curling up without you realizing. You're smiling to yourself and it’s not because of the sunlight, or the coffee, or the laughter in the air.
It’s because of him.
-
The house is too quiet without his parents. Felix unlocks the front door and steps into the familiar warmth of his childhood home, but without the usual sound of his mom cooking in the kitchen or the distant buzz of his stepdad’s speakerphone in his office, it feels too big. Too hollow.
He doesn't bother turning on more than one light. He heads upstairs to his old room to grab a few things—just clean clothes and maybe his charger. He doesn’t plan on staying.
It’s supposed to be a quick visit. He tosses his leather jacket on the bed and unzips a backpack at his feet when his phone buzzes in the pocket. He fishes it out lazily, expecting a class group chat, only to pause when he sees the sender.
Seungmin.
With a blurry, slightly tilted photo. The caption reads: "Spotted your favorite girl with the new professor."
And in the picture—grainy, taken from far away—but unmistakably you, walking beside Chris around campus. The two of you are laughing, too close, your shoulders almost brushing.
Felix doesn’t even open the message. He locks the screen, tosses the phone onto his bed with a dull thud and breathes through his nose. Whatever. He’s not going to care.
He starts shoving folded shirts into the bag with more force than necessary. The zipper snags. He tugs it harder, as if the fabric’s to blame for the way his brain keeps going back to you. To how easy you looked beside Chris. How natural.
A knock comes at the door and before he can even respond, the door creaks open and Chris’s head pops in, that familiar grin plastered on his face.
“Hey,” he greets casually, stepping inside. “You didn’t tell me you were coming by.”
Felix keeps his back turned. “Just grabbing some stuff,” he mumbles, still fiddling with the zipper.
Chris plops down onto the edge of the bed, ruffling his hair. “You’re not staying over for the weekend?”
Felix shrugs, avoiding eye contact. “Got stuff to do.”
Chris frowns. “Come on, it’s been a while. I thought we could hang out, play a couple of rounds. I even dusted off the video games for you.”
Felix zips up his bag, a little too fast. “I really should head back.”
Chris watches him quietly, then lets out a sigh and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Okay, but… I just ordered way too much food. And I don't think I can’t finish it alone.”
Felix doesn’t respond as he roughly jams a pair of pants into the backpack.
“I got the spicy wings. Your favorite,” Chris adds lightly. “I can’t let them go to waste. That’d be a crime, right?”
Felix hesitates. His stomach tightens—not from guilt, not even from hunger—but from the fact that Chris is trying. Chris always tries. That’s what makes it worse.
He sighs and drops the backpack on the floor. “Fine,” he mutters.
Chris’s grin spreads. “Knew you’d cave.”
Felix manages a small scoff as he follows Chris out of the room and he doesn’t want to admit it, but the dinner smells amazing.
The second he steps into the kitchen, the scent of grilled meat, garlic, and soy sauce hits him square in the face. Chris has the table already set like it’s some kind of celebration—takeout containers cracked open neatly, side dishes arranged in small dishes, drinks already poured into glasses instead of their usual mismatched mugs.
It’s a little too thoughtful. A little too much effort. He mutters a soft “thanks” and slides into his usual seat. Chris nudges a bowl of spicy wings toward him without a word, and Felix takes one without hesitation.
They eat in mostly comfortable silence, passing rice bowls, sharing stories. Felix cracks a joke about his dorm microwave sounding like it’s about to explode. Chris chuckles and tells him about a student who called him Mr. Bangtan on his first day.
Felix laughs—really laughs—and for a moment, it feels easy. Familiar. Like things haven’t shifted so terribly. But of course, it doesn’t last.
“So…” Chris begins, casually—too casually—as he swirls his straw around the ice in his glass, “how’s school really going?”
Felix shrugs, eyes on his plate. “Fine.”
Chris hums. “Yeah?”
Felix nods. He reaches for the sauce.
There’s a beat. Then Chris says, “One of the professors mentioned you haven’t been to class all week.”
Felix doesn’t need to ask which professor. The name burns behind his teeth before it even crosses his mind. He chews slowly, swallows hard, and puts his chopsticks down with a quiet clack. His appetite fades almost instantly.
Chris, oblivious to the knot twisting in his gut, goes on gently, “Finals are coming up. If you keep skipping, you might end up retaking the class. Maybe even delay graduation.”
Felix still doesn’t say anything.
“I’m not trying to lecture you,” Chris adds, softening his voice like he always does when he means well. “You’re smart. You’ve made it this far. I just don’t want to see you fall behind when I know you can do it.”
Felix finally looks up, and there it is again—that warm, genuine expression on Chris’s face. No judgment. Just concern. Just care.
He knows Chris means every word. That this isn’t some twisted ploy. That Chris doesn’t even know what’s really going on. And that makes it worse.
Felix forces a tight smile. “Yeah. I’ll try.”
Chris nods, relieved. “That’s all I ask.”
They go back to eating, and for a few minutes, the air settles—still, but not heavy. The kind of quiet only family can slip into.
Then Chris grins, nudging Felix’s arm with his elbow. “So, what is it?” he asks, eyebrows raised with mischief. “Are you too busy secretly dating to focus on school?”
Felix huffs a short laugh and looks away, biting back the flicker of guilt that tries to claw its way up. But instead, he leans into the moment. “Maybe,” he drawls, flashing a smirk. “I’ll tell you—if you can beat me in Tekken tonight.”
Chris laughs, loud and warm. “Oh, it’s on.”
Felix grabs another chicken wing and for the first time in a while, lets himself relax. Maybe things are still messy. Maybe you’re still in his head more than you should be. But tonight, he decides he wants to think about something else—someone else. Not you. Not school. Not the ache in his chest that still lingers.
Just him and his brother. Just laughter, and teasing, and games until dawn. For tonight, that's enough.
-
You’re barely five minutes into organizing the mess on your desk when the door swings open without a knock. You don’t need to look up to know who it is—the audacity alone gives him away.
Then comes his voice. Deep, calm, far too steady for the fire you know is simmering beneath.
“So,” Felix says. “You met my brother.”
You inhale through your nose, steadying yourself. Of course he’d assume you tattled. Of course he’d come here, storm and all. There’s no point in denying it—he wouldn’t believe you either way.
You turn around slowly, arms crossed, meeting his stare. “Yes,” you admit. “I did.”
You don’t flinch, even when his jaw ticks. “I told him,” you continue, “because you need to pass this class and graduate. You have a future to think about, Felix. You have dreams to pursue. You should be focused on those.”
But instead of bristling, Felix steps forward. “Once I graduate, I’m not going anywhere,” he says softly. “I want to be here. With you.”
The words hit you unexpectedly—not with excitement, not the way they should—but with dread. The kind of dread that comes from caring too much for someone who doesn’t see the full picture.
“Why would you do that?” you ask, your voice just above a whisper.
Felix blinks like the answer is obvious. “Because I like you. I told you that already.”
Your chest tightens, but it isn’t with butterflies. It’s concern. It’s fear. It’s the sobering realization that Felix is risking too much—for something that may not even last.
“I’m flattered you feel that way,” you say gently, carefully. “But don’t make this kind of decision over something that could be a passing feeling.”
His expression changes—sharpening like a blade. “It’s not a passing feeling,” he says, voice low and tense. “Just because I’m not Chris doesn’t mean you get to brush me off.”
Your lips part to respond, but he doesn’t stop.
“Everything I’ve done—all of it—it was for you. Because I care about you. Because I want you.” His voice cracks slightly near the end, like he’s been holding it in too long. “But you still don’t take me seriously.”
That’s when you speak up.
“How can I?” you say, not unkindly but with truth behind every word. “When you don’t even take yourself seriously? When you’re skipping classes, ignoring everything your professor have tried to warn you about?”
It’s like the air leaves the room. Felix’s eyes narrow slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. His jaw clenches as he holds something back—anger, frustration, heartbreak—you can’t tell. Then, with a long sigh, he looks at you again. This time, there’s something different in his gaze. Steel. Fire. Purpose.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll show you.”
You straighten. “What?”
“I’ll prove to you that I’m serious,” he says, voice clear. “I’ll get good grades on the finals. Not just pass—I’ll do well. And if I do…” He tilts his head, that signature smirk creeping in. “Then you agree to finish the two dates we have left.”
It’s childish. It’s bold. It’s so Felix. But maybe this is the only way he’ll take things seriously. Maybe this is his way of finding something worth fighting for.
You exhale, slowly. “All right.”
Felix grins like he’s already won. “Great. I’ll see you around, professor.”
And then he turns, walking out of your office like he hadn’t just upended the entire axis of your world.
You fall back into your chair, uncertain what exactly you’ve just agreed to—and why it terrifies you that the real Felix, the relentless one, is back.
-
Campus feels… different. Not in any grand, dramatic way. Just enough for you to notice—like a song you’ve memorized suddenly skipping a beat.
You barely see Felix these days, except in your class. He’s quiet there. Doesn’t speak unless called on, doesn’t throw his usual teasing smirks your way. No half-sarcastic comments from the back row. No uninvited visits to your office just to rile you up.
And you hate to admit it, but… you kind of miss it.
You miss the way he challenged your composure with nothing but a glance. The way he always had something smart—or inappropriate—to say just to get a reaction. The way he made it harder to breathe, not just out of irritation but… something else entirely.
You shake the thought off and head toward the library. You're not looking for him—at least that’s what you tell yourself—but as you pass the rows of study desks and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights above, your eyes instinctively drift to the corner tables near the window.
You stop when you find Felix there. Hood pulled over his head, strands of blond hair falling over his eyes, brows furrowed in concentration. A pen rests between his fingers, spinning unconsciously as he reads and rereads the same paragraph with his lip caught slightly between his teeth.
He's alone, surrounded by open books and messy notes, with no sign of his usual swagger.
He’s really doing it. He’s proving himself. For you.
You feel it—your chest fluttering, painfully soft. You shouldn’t feel this warm about it, shouldn’t let your heart betray your better judgment—but you do. Because deep down, you know how easy it would’ve been for Felix to brush everything off like he always does. But instead, he’s here.
You pause for a moment longer, watching quietly before you turn back toward the café. A few minutes later, you return with a coffee in hand. You don’t say a word. You just place it beside his laptop, press a small folded note with an encouragement written on it the side of the cup, and leave before he can even look up. Because if he does, you’re not sure what your face will give away.
-
Finals week weighs heavy over campus. The tension is thick—palpable in the air, in the dragging footsteps of students, in the furrowed brows of professors buried in grading and last-minute preparations. And yet, amid the chaos, your thoughts keep drifting to Felix.
You haven’t seen him around. Not since that day in your office, when he made his quiet vow. He’s been distant but focused—his absence replaced by a silence that somehow speaks louder than his teasing ever did. You hope he’s doing well. You hope he knows you’ve been thinking about him, too.
You're knee-deep in sorting files when the door opens. You don't need to look to know who it is.
You turn anyway to see Felix stands there, backlit by the hallway light, and he looks—drained. Like someone has taken the mischief from his smile and the sunshine from his eyes. The sight knocks something loose in your chest.
"Are you okay?" you ask quietly. "Do you need anything?"
He doesn't answer—not at first. He just walks toward you. The way he moves is slow but certain, like the decision has already been made before he even stepped inside.
“I know the results aren’t out yet,” he murmurs once he’s close enough, “but… can I ask for one thing?”
His voice is low, almost hesitant. You nod, unsure what he’s about to say. Then his hand reaches your waist. His forehead rests briefly against yours and in a breath that trembles against your lips, he whispers, “I miss you so much, professor.”
Before you can say a word, his mouth finds yours. It’s not the smug, lazy kiss of a boy playing a game. It’s something else. Starved. Desperate. As if he's been waiting far too long to touch you again. Your body moves on instinct, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he deepens the kiss.
You're breathless by the time he pulls you toward the desk. His hands are warm, steady as he lifts you to sit at the edge, his body slotting perfectly between your legs.
Your mind races—you try to speak, to remind him where you are. “Felix, we can’t do this. Not here—”
“I locked the door,” he breathes against your neck, kissing the words out of your mouth before you can finish them.
His hands find your thighs, parting them gently, reverently, as his lips move lower. The heat builds between your bodies, his touch growing bolder, his voice nothing but a reverent whisper against your skin.
“I miss touching you.”
And he does, he touches you with slow, practiced movements that make your breath catch. Your body trembles beneath his hand, every nerve lit alive, wound tight as he pulls quiet moans from your lips like he’s learning your rhythm all over again.
“You’re even more sensitive now,” he says, his voice dark with awe.
You can't answer with the way he kisses you, touches you. Not with the way your body arches into his, your breath stuttering, your mind spiraling.
When release finally takes you, it's a quiet, shattering thing. Your fingers clutch the edge of the desk, your lips parted in a silent gasp as Felix watches, mesmerized. And then he kisses you—softly this time. Sweetly.
“You look beautiful like this,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your cheek.
You're still breathless, your chest heaving from the aftershocks, when Felix leans in again—this time pulling you into a deep, hard kiss. His mouth is hot, hungry, like he’s tasting everything he’s missed in the time apart. His arms slide around your waist, guiding your pliant body closer until there’s no space left between you.
You barely register the way your skirt is being pushed higher, bunched around your hips, until you feel the cool air brush your skin—and then Felix pulls back slightly, just enough to glance down.
His breath catches. His eyes darken. “God…” he mutters, voice raw with disbelief and want. “I can’t wait to feel you around me.”
The way he says it—like a promise, like a prayer—makes your body tighten with want all over again. Then he takes your hand, guiding it down until it rests against the heat and pressure in his jeans. He looks you straight in the eye, shameless and intense.
“That’s how much I want you,” he murmurs. “Can you feel it?”
You do. It’s impossible not to. It's bulging against the rough denim.
“Do you…” he trails off for a second, lips twitching into a smirk. “Do you want to make me feel good too?”
You swallow hard, your body responding before your thoughts can catch up. You nod.
Felix’s fingers move deftly to undo his belt, the soft clink of metal and rustle of fabric loud in the stillness of the room now bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun.
When he shifts his briefs just enough to expose his stiff member, you gasp softly. You weren’t ready for this—not the size, not the heat of him, not the reality of him so hard and wanting.
He gently wraps your hand around him, and you can feel the weight, the heat pulsing in your palm.
“What do you think?” he asks, his voice a mixture of teasing and breathless tension. “Is it big enough for you?”
You can’t answer—not when your throat is suddenly dry.
“Can you take it?” he whispers, leaning in until his lips ghost your cheek, your ear and then his hand wrapping around yours to guide the movement. “Like this. Just like this…”
You follow his rhythm. Slow, firm, steady. The way he wants it. The way he needs it. And when you finally ask in a quiet, dazed voice, “Am I doing it right?” he lets out a low, hoarse groan.
“It feels good. Just when you touch me—it’s enough.”
Then he looks at you. Not just at your body, but right at you. “Do you trust me?”
You hesitate—just for a moment—and then you nod.
He pulls you closer, flush to the edge of the desk, close enough to feel every thrum of heat between you. And just when you think he’s about to go ahead, pushing his length into you, he stops himself.
“Not here,” he says as he slightly shakes his head to himself. “Not yet.”
Instead, he positions himself right between your thighs, lining his length along the soft, sensitive skin. He brings your legs together, clamping his cock in between and holds them against his chest with gentle care, and then he moves. Slow. Measured. Deliberate.
The friction is maddening—his length nudging and dragging over your sensitive clit, sending shivers racing through your spine. You cling to him, fingers digging into his forearms for support as he rocks forward with a quiet, muffled groan.
Each stroke builds heat like a slow crescendo, and it’s a blur—his heavy breath against your neck, your soft whimpers against his shoulder, the quiet gasps that escape when the pressure becomes too much.
Your chest still rises and falls unevenly when Felix finally stills, his arms tightening slightly as he braces himself, pulling back just in time. You blink through the haze, barely registering anything but the overwhelming throb in your core and the warmth now coating your inner thighs.
Felix looks down. His breath hitches—half a gasp, half a groan—and his eyes grow impossibly darker.
“Shit,” he mutters, almost to himself, voice low and rough. “Seeing my cum on you…”
He swallows hard before continuing. “That just turned me on all over again.”
Your eyes widen, startled, lips parting with no words forming fast enough. You blink, unsure if he's serious—if he's really asking for another round right here, right now.
Then he catches your expression and laughs softly, breathless and boyish and almost shy. “I’m just joking,” he says, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Gotta save it for our second date, right?”
And then, gently—surprisingly gentle for someone who had you breathless and unraveling just minutes ago—he grabs a tissue from the box on your desk. He crouches down, wiping between your thighs, careful and slow like he's memorizing the way you look like this. You feel a blush spread across your face, hot and unavoidable.
Then he reaches for your underwear, still bunched to the side of your desk chair. Without a word, he carefully guides it back on you, as though he’s putting something fragile back in place. As if you’re something precious.
Once he’s dressed and you’re decently covered again, he stands tall in front of you, looking at you like you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
One of his hands lifts—fingertips brushing along your cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is tender, reverent. Then he smiles, that rare, sincere smile that only shows when he means it.
“Thank you, Professor,” he says quietly. “You make all of this worth it.”
Your breath catches again—not from arousal, but from the weight of those words.
Felix takes one step back, slipping his bag over his shoulder. His fingers curl around the strap, and he gazes at you with a lingering warmth before adding, “I promise I won’t do anything else. Not until the results are out.”
And just like that, he turns and walks out of your office—leaving behind nothing but the scent of his cologne and the echo of everything he made you feel.
And it lingers… all of it.
-
When Felix gets home, the house is still quiet—too quiet.
No shoes by the door, no voices echoing from the kitchen, no soft hum of his mother’s favorite music playing from the living room speaker. The house feels hollow, just like it has the past few weeks since his parents left for their business trip.
He closes the door behind him, dropping his keys onto the hallway table with a dull clatter. His limbs feel heavy with exhaustion—finals have drained the life out of him, and the emotional whiplash from everything that happened lately only adds to it. He makes his way upstairs, slow and unhurried, shouldering off his jacket halfway up the stairs.
The moment he steps into his room, he lets his bag fall with a thud against the floor, kicks off his shoes, and collapses onto the mattress face-first. The sheets are cold, untouched since the last time he stayed over.
He lets the silence wrap around him, closing his eyes for what he thinks will be just a few minutes. But sleep grabs him harder than expected, dragging him under before he can even pull a blanket over himself.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he stirs awake to the sound of someone calling his name.
“Felix.”
A hand gently shakes his shoulder.
“Hey, get up. Dinner’s ready.”
He blinks blearily, the dim room swimming back into focus. Chris’s face slowly comes into view, crouched next to the bed with a soft, familiar grin on his face.
“You looked dead to the world,” Chris chuckles. “Didn’t have the heart to wake you earlier. But I figured you’d be starving.”
Felix blinks again, still in that groggy limbo between sleep and waking. “What time is it?”
“Almost nine,” Chris says, straightening up. “Come down. I made enough for both of us. And I even managed not to burn anything.”
Felix huffs a laugh as he pushes himself upright, rubbing at his eyes. The exhaustion still clings to his bones, but there’s something grounding about hearing Chris’s voice, seeing the warmth in his brother’s face—even when things between them feel complicated now in ways Chris doesn’t even realize.
He nods once, slowly. “Alright. Let me wash up first.”
Chris nods back. “Don’t take forever. The food’s good while it’s hot.”
Chris disappears back downstairs, leaving the door open behind him as Felix sits at the edge of his bed for a moment longer, shoulders hunched, heart still heavy—but not in the way it was before. There's a small, subtle shift in his chest, like something tight beginning to unravel.
Downstairs, the dining table is already set—two plates of stir-fried noodles, a side of kimchi, and Chris standing at the stove, casually tossing something else in a pan.
“You're just in time,” Chris says, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “I tried not to make anything too heavy. Finals week meals need to be comforting, right?”
Felix huffs a quiet laugh, sliding into one of the chairs. “As long as it’s edible.”
Chris gasps with mock offense. “I’ll have you know, I followed the recipe this time.”
They dig in, the clinking of utensils against plates filling the space. For a while, the silence is comfortable, the only sounds coming from the soft music playing from Chris’s phone on the counter.
Then, mid-bite, Chris looks up. “So... how’d finals go?”
Felix shrugs, chewing slowly before answering. “I tried my best.”
Chris studies him for a second, as if trying to gauge the truth of that statement. Then he smiles and nods. “Good. That’s all you can do sometimes.”
Felix doesn’t say anything more. He just focuses on the noodles, his appetite only halfway there.
Chris takes another bite, then sighs. “I’m swamped too, if that makes you feel better. All the other professors are buried in exam papers and grading hell. It’s brutal.”
At that, Felix looks up for a moment—just a flicker of a glance—and thinks of you. Of how tired you might be. Of your hands, sorting through stacks of essays, brows furrowed in concentration. Of you cooped up in that quiet office of yours.
“You okay?” Chris asks.
Felix blinks, startled out of his thoughts. “Yeah,” he says quickly. “Just tired.”
Chris nods again, taking another sip of water. “Do you want to play a few rounds later? I found our old co-op save.”
Normally, Felix would say yes to video games. But tonight, the exhaustion isn’t just physical. It’s in his head, his chest, heavy and stubborn so he shakes his head. “I think I’ll crash early. Not really feeling great.”
Chris’s smile falters just a bit in concern. “Alright. You sure you’re not sick?”
“I’m fine,” Felix murmurs. “Just drained.”
Chris doesn’t push. He just gives him a soft pat on the back as he gets up to clear the table. “Then go ahead and rest. I’ll handle the dishes. I got this.”
Felix gives him a tired smile in return. “Thanks, Chris.”
As he trudges back up the stairs, the image of you lingers in his mind. And even though his eyes sting with fatigue, it’s not sleep he finds himself wishing for—it’s something else entirely.
-
The soft rays of late morning sunlight stream lazily through the curtains, brushing warm patterns onto your sheets as you blink your eyes open. It's Saturday. Finally—after a brutal week of finals, missed meals, and endless grading, you let yourself sleep in and wake up a little later than usual.
You don’t even bother to change out of your oversized sleep shirt when you pad barefoot into the kitchen, still bleary-eyed, hair tousled from sleep. A quiet, uneventful morning—that’s all you wanted. You pour cereal into a bowl, top it off with cold milk, and sink into a chair with a sigh.
Halfway through your first bite, your phone rings. You glance at the screen. Chris.
You answer with a sleepy “Hello?”
There's a pause. A breath. Then his gentle voice filters through the receiver. “Hey, sorry to bother you… Are you busy?”
You shake your head, even if he can’t see it. “Not really. Just having breakfast. Everything okay?”
Chris hesitates, and your stomach knots a little. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” he says, voice soft. “It’s Felix. He’s sick. Caught something after finals, probably. I was going to stay with him but… I have this seminar. I feel awful if I cancel last minute.”
Your spoon halts mid-air. “Is he okay?” you ask, already hearing your own concern rising.
“Yeah, yeah,” Chris says quickly. “It’s not serious. He just needs rest and someone to take care of him while I'm away.”
Chris continues, “I was wondering… if you could come by? Just stay with him for a couple of hours until I get back. I wouldn’t ask if I had any other option, but he’s alone, and you’re probably the only person I can trust you with this.”
You pause, your heart tugging just a little. The thought of Felix, sick and alone, after everything—the late nights in the library, the effort he poured in—makes your chest tighten.
“Of course I’ll come,” you say, voice firm. “I just need time to shower and get ready.”
There’s a breath of relief through the line. “Really? Thank you. Seriously, take your time. Come whenever it’s convenient.”
“Don’t worry, Chris,” you assure him with a small smile. “I'll be there soon.”
You can practically hear him smiling. “Thanks again. I owe you.”
You hum, “I’ll remember that,” before hanging up.
Your cereal is half-finished. Forgotten. You rise from your seat and make your way to the shower with one thought echoing in your mind: Felix is sick—and for some reason, that simple truth makes your heart ache more than it should.
-
The house is silent when you let yourself in with the keys Chris left under the potted plants.
You call out softly, “Felix?” but there’s no answer—only the faint ticking of a wall clock and the gentle creak of the floor beneath your steps. The front door clicks shut behind you, and you toe off your shoes, your bag slipping from your shoulder.
You’ve only been here a couple of times, but the house is familiar enough. You quietly make your way upstairs, heart thudding louder with each step.
When you reach his bedroom door, it’s ajar. You push it open gently to check. His bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. The curtains are drawn closed, and the air is thick with stillness. Your eyes land on him—Felix—lying in bed, half-buried beneath a mess of blankets. His face is flushed, strands of golden hair damp and sticking to his forehead. His breathing is deep, but uneven. He looks… small. Tired. A far cry from the smug, smirking Felix you know.
You step in quietly and sit on the edge of his bed. Your hand reaches out, gentle and unsure, and you press the back of it to his forehead. Burning.
Your chest tightens. You whisper, “You’re burning up.”
Without wasting another second, you slip out of the room and rush back downstairs. You don’t want to bother Chris with a call just to ask where he keeps things, so you do the next best thing—open drawers, cabinets, anything that might contain what you need. It takes a while, but finally, you find the first aid kit tucked away behind the sink in the bathroom. You take the digital thermometer and a cold compress and hurry back up, your footsteps light on the stairs.
When you return, Felix hasn’t moved. You sit back on the bed, unfold the cold compress, and gently press it to his forehead. He stirs just slightly, brow twitching. You brush the damp strands of hair from his face and lift the blanket enough to slide the thermometer beneath his arm. You wait in silence, counting the soft whirr of the machine as it counts down the seconds.
Beep. 102.3°F.
You wince. “Felix…”
But before you can say anything more, he stirs. His head turns toward you, slowly, and his eyes flutter open—bleary, unfocused, but familiar. He blinks a few times as if trying to make sense of your face, your presence.
“Am I dreaming?” he asks hoarsely, his voice rough from sleep and fever.
You smile softly, teasing, “Maybe.”
His hand moves slowly—clumsily—and reaches for yours where it rests against the blanket. He wraps his fingers around it and brings it to his cheek, nuzzling into your palm like a cat seeking warmth.
“You’re real,” he mumbles with a faint hum, his eyes slipping closed again. “You’re here…”
His lashes flutter again. “Why are you here?”
You squeeze his hand gently, whispering, “To take care of you.”
His lips lift into a sleepy smile, and he lets out a long, content sigh before drifting back into sleep. His fingers stay wrapped around yours. You stay there, quietly watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. Despite the fever, despite the exhaustion—he looks peaceful. Vulnerable. Beautiful in a way that makes something ache in your chest. And somehow, you don’t want to be anywhere else but here. But then— your phone buzzes in your pocket and it's a message from Chris. “Please make sure he eats something before taking the meds. Thanks again, really.”
You sigh softly, carefully slipping your hand out of his grip before standing up and padding downstairs.
The kitchen isn’t hard to navigate. You take your time, moving quietly as you rinse the rice and prepare a simple chicken porridge. Something light, something warm. Comfort in a bowl. You taste it before turning off the stove, satisfied, and ladle it into a bowl before placing it on a tray with water and the medicine Chris left.
You hate to wake him, but you gently nudge his shoulder. “Felix,” you whisper. “Wake up. You need to eat something.”
He stirs, brows furrowing as his lashes flutter open. His eyes are glassy, a little disoriented, like he’s still stuck somewhere between dreaming and waking. He blinks at you, then at the tray, and you help him sit up, fluffing the pillows behind his back.
“I made you porridge,” you say, placing the tray in his lap.
He grumbles softly and reaches for the spoon—but when you take it first, intending to feed him, he quickly shakes his head.
“I can do it,” he croaks, his voice rough. “Don’t treat me like a kid.”
You can’t help but smile, amused. Embarrassed, you think. Still trying to save face in front of me.
“Alright,” you say gently, surrendering the spoon. “Go ahead.”
You sit quietly beside him, just watching. His hands are a little shaky, but he manages, and in the soft light, his flushed cheeks and messy hair make him look younger. Softer.
Halfway through the bowl, he asks again, voice a bit stronger this time, “Why are you here?”
You glance at him, lips curving slightly as he must be delirious when he asked you the first time. You can't help but tease him again. “Should I not be?”
He exhales through his nose, like he expected that. “Chris told you I was sick, didn’t he?”
“He was worried. And I wasn’t busy.” You shrug. “So I came.”
Felix finishes the last spoonful and quietly takes the medicine you hand him. When he’s done, you help ease him back into the blankets, pulling them up to his chest and gently smoothing the fabric over him.
The room settles again. You glance around, then quietly ask, “Is it always this quiet here? Do you ever feel lonely?”
Felix’s eyes remain half-closed as he replies, “Not really. Not when Chris is around.”
You smile faintly, reaching over to brush the damp hair from his forehead. “But… when you’re like this, sick and alone—must feel a little lonely, doesn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then, his hand finds yours again, clutching it and bringing it to his chest. “You’re here now,” he murmurs. “So I’m not lonely.”
Your breath catches with the way he looks at you—eyes soft, sleepy. “If you kiss me,” he says quietly, “I’ll feel even better.”
You raise a brow, biting back a smile. “Should I?”
You lean in, just a little, letting the moment linger—
But Felix chuckles hoarsely and lifts a weak hand to stop you. “I was kidding,” he whispers. “I don’t want you to get sick too.”
“I’ll be fine,” you murmur, eyes still locked on his. “I'm stronger than I look, you know.”
And before he can protest again, you press your lips to his. Soft. Gentle. A moment held in stillness.
You pull back and whisper, “That’s it. For now.”
Felix smirks, eyes gleaming despite his fatigue. “No more?”
“You’re sick,” you remind him, straightening up. “So, yeah, no more.”
But his brow lifts, amused. “So if I’m not sick... we can do more?”
You open your mouth, caught between laughing and scolding—but he’s already tugging the blanket up to his chest with a smug little grin.
“In that case,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering closed, “I’ll be better in no time.”
You roll your eyes fondly, leaning in to brush the hair from his forehead again. “Goodnight, Felix.”
“Night, professor,” he whispers, a little smile still tugging at his lips.
And just like that, the house falls quiet again—only now, it feels warm. Full. Not empty at all.
-
The porridge had gone down well enough—even if Felix grumbled about the taste, you could tell he was comforted by the effort. You’re placing the spoon into the drying rack when the front door clicks open.
Chris’s voice echoes gently through the hall. "I'm home!"
You quickly dry your hands and step out just as he enters the kitchen, holding a plastic bag with takeout containers. His face brightens the second he sees you.
“I brought food,” he says, lifting the bag a little. “Didn’t want you cooking again after already taking care of Felix.”
You smile. “You didn’t have to, but thank you. I was just about to raid your snack cabinet.”
Chris chuckles as he sets the bag down and starts unpacking it. “I hid the good snacks, just in case. But next time, I’ll share.”
You both sit at the dining table, side by side. The food smells amazing—warm and savory, comforting in a different way from earlier. It’s quiet for a moment as you both start eating, then Chris speaks. “How’s he doing?”
You pause. “Fever’s still there but lower. He ate, took his meds.”
Chris nods, relieved. “He’ll be alright. I feel bad for leaving him, but… it’s a relief knowing you were here.”
You glance at him and smile. “It’s no problem. I’m glad I could help.”
Chris watches you for a beat longer than necessary before he looks back down at his food. “So,” he says casually, “what do you do for fun around here?”
You raise an eyebrow at the sudden shift in conversation. “What do I do for fun?” you echo, chewing thoughtfully. “Grading papers and losing sleep count?”
Chris laughs, full and warm. “You poor thing. We need to find you a hobby.”
You lean back in your chair and grin. “Well, there’s this one campus café that makes a decent cheesecake. That’s about as thrilling as it gets.”
He chuckles. “Alright, next time I’ll take you somewhere more exciting.”
You shake your head, amused, and help him gather the empty containers once you're both done eating. Together, you move around the kitchen—him rinsing, you drying. The quiet companionship fills the space with something light, almost cozy.
Chris looks over his shoulder at you while placing the containers in the bin. “Look at us,” he says, grinning. “Cleaning up after dinner like we’re parents who just put the kid to bed.”
You let out a soft laugh, not denying it. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s kind of cute.”
Your hands pause, towel halfway to a plate. You don’t look at him right away, afraid your smile might give too much away. But eventually, you glance over and find Chris already looking at you, his eyes warm, his expression unreadable—but soft.
You offer a small smile in return and go back to drying the plate. You don’t say anything else, but your silence is not empty. It's full of something slowly growing. Something dangerous. Something that has nothing to do with Felix—and everything to do with Chris.
-
The notification pings in his inbox while he’s half-asleep in bed, phone resting on his chest. He blinks once, twice, before sitting up properly. His thumb hovers over the email.
Final Grades — Term Results
He opens it with anticipation and a second later, his lips pull into a grin—wide, proud, satisfied. He did it. He actually did it.
Felix exhales a long breath and falls back against his pillows, arms spread as the weight lifts from his chest. After all the late nights, all the doubts, the migraines, and the lectures—both academic and personal—he proved himself. Not just to you, or Chris, but to himself.
And now, it’s time to claim his reward.
He makes a quick printout of the results, folds it neatly, and heads straight to your office. This time, though, he doesn’t barge in unannounced. He stands before your door, knocks twice—firm but not rushed—and waits.
A beat later, your voice drifts out, a soft, distracted “Come in.”
Felix opens the door and there you are, seated behind your desk, bathed in sunlight that spills through the half-open blinds. The golden light dances through your hair, framing you in a makeshift halo. For a second, Felix forgets how to breathe.
You look up, and a polite smile graces your lips—professional, the way you address all your students. “Mr. Lee. What can I help you with?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he walks forward and places the sheet of paper on your desk. Silently.
You glance down and he can see the way your eyes scan the grades—and then that polite smile stretches, blooms into something genuine and warm. “You did it,” you say, eyes brightening as you look up at him. “Felix, you actually did it.”
The pride in your voice. The way you’re beaming.
Yeah. This—this is what made it all worth it.
Felix leans forward slightly, smirk tugging at his lips. “So…” he begins, “does this mean you’re keeping your promise?”
You meet his eyes, studying him for a moment, before giving a single nod. “Yes.”
He exhales a little laugh through his nose. “Good. Because I want my second date.”
Your brows arch. “And what would that be?”
He straightens. “I want you to spare a day for me.”
Your expression shifts into one of mild surprise—but he isn’t finished.
“And a night,” he adds, voice low, playful. “Please.”
That last word—the softness of it—is what seals the deal.
You hesitate, weighing the risk, the unspoken rules—but in the end, you nod. “Okay.”
Felix’s grin turns triumphant, but he reins it in with a casual shrug, stepping toward the door. “It's this weekend. I'll pick you up,” he says, fingers brushing the door handle.
But just before he pulls it open, he turns his head over his shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Oh—don’t forget to bring a bikini.”
He chuckles at your stunned expression, and with that, Felix slips out of your office—leaving behind the echo of his teasing voice, and the warm trail of something electric threading between you both.
-
The weekend arrives with a rush of anticipation curling in Felix’s chest. He hums to himself as he zips up his overnight bag, tossing in the last few things—his toothbrush, a change of clothes, a small bottle of cologne, and a pair of sunglasses he hopes you’ll compliment him on. He’s so wrapped up in checking and rechecking everything that he almost doesn’t notice the figure leaning against the doorframe.
“Going somewhere?”
Felix startles slightly, glancing over to find Chris, arms folded across his chest, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Yeah,” Felix says, trying to sound casual as he adjusts the strap on his duffel bag. “Just… heading out for the weekend.”
Chris raises a brow. “Oh?” he pushes off the frame and steps into the room a little. “You’re being suspiciously vague about it. That a date or a kidnapping situation?”
Felix snorts. “Definitely not a kidnapping. Don’t worry, I’ll come back alive.”
Chris narrows his eyes, teasing. “You’re not even denying the date part.”
Felix just shrugs, a knowing smirk pulling at his lips.
Chris laughs softly, shaking his head. “Fine, fine. Keep your secrets.” He steps aside as Felix walks past him. “At least tell me you’re going somewhere fun.”
Felix looks back briefly, and in a rare moment of honesty, says with a quiet, satisfied grin, “Yeah. I think it will be.”
Chris watches him for a moment longer, as if trying to read deeper into his expression, but eventually just smiles and claps a hand on Felix’s shoulder.
“Well,” he says, voice warm and full of genuine care, “have fun, yeah?”
Felix nods once. “I will.”
And with that, he heads out the door, heart racing with excitement—not just for the weekend ahead, but because this time, it’s not just a fantasy or a mistake or a blur. It’s real.
And you're already there when he pulls up—standing at the curb just outside her apartment building, the soft hem of your summer dress dancing in the breeze like it’s part of the sky itself. The sunlight catches on the strands of your hair, illuminating you like some impossible dream he never thought he’d get to wake up to. You’re not even doing anything—just standing there with your bag and your small smile like it doesn’t destroy him.
God. He wants to stay like this. Just watch you. All day. All night.
Then you turn, your eyes meeting his through the windshield, and you wave at him, smile brighter now.
“Where should I put my bag?” you call out lightly.
It jolts him into motion and Felix scrambles out of the car, nearly tripping over himself. “I got it,” he says quickly, grabbing your bag from your hand with a bit more enthusiasm than he means to. “Get in. I’ll put this in the back.”
You chuckle and slide into the passenger seat, and Felix takes a beat longer behind the car to exhale the chaos inside him before shutting the trunk and getting in himself.
You’re already settling in, buckling your seatbelt, tugging your dress to fall just above your knees. Felix swallows.
His hands land on the steering wheel, but he doesn’t start the engine. He just sits there, looking at you. At the curve of your smile. At the sunlight flickering in your eyes. At the way you’re here—actually here—with him.
You tilt your head, brow arched in amusement. “Aren’t you going to drive?”
Your voice—gentle and teasing—snaps him out of it. He blinks, laughs softly under his breath, and rubs the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed to be caught staring.
“Right. Yeah,” he says, turning the key.
The engine hums to life, and so does the buzz in his chest. The moment feels golden. Electric. Like the beginning of something he’s going to remember forever.
He glances at you again, then back at the road, pulling away from the curb as the city starts to blur behind him. The windows are down, the breeze is warm, and you’re beside him.
The trip he’s been dreaming of—starts now.
-
The moment the hotel door clicks shut behind them, Felix exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.
It’s just you and him now. No students walking by, no lecture halls or office doors or careful glances over shoulders. Just the echo of the ocean from the open balcony doors.
You’re here. With him. And this time—he doesn’t have to pretend to keep his distance. He drops the bags by the wall, still in disbelief.
The room’s airy and sunlit, the sheets crisp and white, and there’s only one bed— which shouldn’t make his stomach flip like this, but it does.
Then you walk straight past him, barefoot on the polished floor, the hem of your dress swaying behind you, and you pull open the sheer curtains to step onto the balcony.
Your delighted gasp makes Felix follow like he’s under some kind of spell. You lean over the railing, eyes wide as you take in the view— the golden beach stretching endlessly below,
the way the sea sparkles under the late-afternoon sun.
You beam like a kid unwrapping their favorite gift, and Felix thinks he’s never seen anything more beautiful than the way you look right now—sunlit, free, and smiling just for the sea.
Then you turn and that same radiant smile now aimed right at him.
“Should we head straight to the beach?” you ask, eyes gleaming with excitement. “No point in wasting daylight, right?”
Felix blinks. He was the one with a weekend plan and an itinerary. Dinner, sunset viewings, a slow pace that leads up to—
But you look too excited to say no to. All this joy, just from the sight of the waves. “Yeah,” he breathes, his lips tugging into a smile. “Sure.”
You grin like it’s the best answer he could give and clap your hands once, spinning around toward the bathroom. “I’m just gonna change,” you say over your shoulder.
You disappear into the bathroom with a soft laugh, and Felix stands there like he’s been hit by lightning. He stares at the now-shut door for a few seconds, then drags a hand over his face. You're here. You're really here and this weekend—he gets to be selfish with your time. With you.
So, yeah. Beach first. But later? Later is all his.
-
Felix finds a quiet, shaded spot near the rocks—far enough from the crowd, close enough to the water to hear the soft crash of the waves—and rolls out the mat. The breeze is warm, the sun lazily dipping toward late afternoon, and you settle beside him with a long sigh, stretching your legs and leaning back on your palms.
You pull out snacks you packed from home—chopped fruit, chips, cold drinks—and you both dig in immediately.
“This is nice,” you murmur, your voice soft under the wind. “A day like this, just… being outside. Not stuck in my office grading papers or answering emails.”
Felix turns to you, lips twitching upward. “I know. You’re impressed by me again, huh?”
You let out a soft chuckle, tossing a grape at him. He catches it midair. “Don’t push it, Mr. Top of the Class.”
That title has never sounded so sexy in your voice.
You glance at the water, then back at him. “Are you gonna swim?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Was planning to.”
And you light up, all mischievous grin and sunny energy.
“How about we go swimming now?”
Felix can’t say no to you. Not when you ask like that, with your eyes wide and your tone playful and almost daring.
“Alright,” he nods, pushing his hair back as he rises to his feet.
But then—you stand and without any warning, you untie the knot of your wrap dress and let it fall. The swimsuit underneath hugs your curves like it was made for you, the fabric clinging to your skin, leaving just enough to the imagination—but barely. The sun hits you in all the right ways. Golden. Glowing. Gorgeous.
Felix is suddenly breathless. His throat goes dry. His pulse roars in his ears. He knows he should look away, at least for the sake of decency, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Not when you look like that. Not when you’re standing there, barefoot on the sand, so real and so close and so utterly—
You catch him staring. Of course, you do.
“Stop staring,” you say, but there’s no real heat behind it—just that small, knowing smirk pulling at your lips.
Felix doesn’t even pretend to deny it. “Just so you know, I’m holding myself back right now,” he mutters low, gaze flicking back up to your face.
And your smile shifts—just slightly. Softer. A little darker.
Like you’re biting back thoughts you shouldn’t be having in public. You bite your bottom lip. Dangerous.
You glance back at him and toss your wrap dress at him. “Last one to the water buys the ice cream.”
Then—without warning—you break into a sprint toward the beach, laughing as your feet kick up sand behind you.
Felix blinks, stunned for a second, before he curses under his breath and bolts after you. “Hey! You’re cheating!” he shouts.
The water is warm when he crashes into it, his laughter mixing with yours as waves lap against your bodies. You’re already waist-deep, spinning around to splash him right in the face. He gasps—dramatic and loud—and launches a wave back at you.
And that’s how it goes for the next stretch of time: wild splashes, quick dives under the water, and your shrill laughter echoing over the ocean breeze. Felix lets himself get pulled under by the wave of it—your joy, your energy. He doesn’t care if people are watching. He doesn’t care if the sun is burning his shoulders pink. All he sees is you—smiling, glowing, alive.
At one point, you climb onto his back in the water. He pretends to groan under your weight, joking about how heavy you are, and you respond by dunking him under. He doesn’t even mind swallowing saltwater if it means hearing your laugh like that again.
Later, you both collapse onto the mat, damp and sandy, with flushed cheeks and dripping hair. He watches you out of the corner of his eye as you wring out your hair, as you suck on the ice cream cone you bought him because he technically beat you to the water. But you both know he totally let you win.
The ice cream drips onto your wrist and you giggle, licking it quickly before it melts. Felix swallows, his throat suddenly dry again, and turns away before he stares too long.
Time slows as the sun begins to dip low on the horizon. You sit side by side on the beach now, legs stretched out and tangled with his. You’re silent for a while, letting the wind tousle your hair, letting the soft sound of the waves lull the moment into something golden.
The sky is painted in pinks and oranges. The kind of sunset that makes you feel like the world has paused just to admire it with you. You lean your head gently on his shoulder.
Felix doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare breathe too deeply in case he breaks the spell. He just stays there, heart beating slow and steady under your cheek, eyes watching the sun melt into the water.
You sigh contently. “I wish I could freeze this moment.”
Felix turns slightly, cheek brushing your temple. “Me too.”
And he means it because right now—right here with you—
there’s nothing else he wants.
-
For dinner, you both agreed on eating somewhere close to the hotel. You’re still giggling as Felix dramatically stuffs two slices of pizza together and takes a giant bite, chewing with wide eyes as if he’s just invented something groundbreaking.
“You’re seriously eating a pizza sandwich right now,” you laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s not how it's meant to be eaten.”
He shrugs like a child caught red-handed, cheeks puffed with dough and sauce. “This is innovation.”
You roll your eyes, fondness blooming warm in your chest. It's been a perfect day—sun, sea, silence when you needed it, laughter when you didn’t know you needed it. And now, sitting across from him with salt still in your hair and your skin sun-kissed, it almost feels unreal. Like something borrowed from a dream.
But then Felix excuses himself to use the restroom, and you’re left alone, finishing off the crusts and sipping from your drink.
That’s when they come. A group of men—loud, obviously drunk, clearly unaware of the word “no.” They start by asking if you’re alone. When you ignore them, one gets bolder, stepping too close, a hand grazing your bare shoulder without permission.
You stiffen. “Don’t touch me. Please.”
“Oh come on, sweetheart,” one of them slurs, “we’re just being friendly—”
“Back off,” you warn, louder this time, glancing toward the restroom door.
And just as your pulse quickens and your heart rises to your throat—
Felix is there. “Is there a problem?” His voice cuts through like steel, low and deadly.
The men snicker. “Relax, kid. We’re just keeping your girl company.”
Felix steps between you and the one closest. “I said, is there a problem?”
When the man reaches like he’s going to touch your arm again— Felix pushes him. Not hard, just enough to send a clear message. But that’s all it takes.
The guy stumbles, regains balance—and then throws a punch straight to Felix’s jaw.
You gasp, instinctively reaching out as Felix staggers backward, one hand gripping the edge of the table. His other hand goes to his face, jaw clenched, but his eyes stay locked on the guy, livid and glowing with fury.
You’re at his side in an instant. “Felix—”
He’s hurting. You can see it, even if he’s doing everything in his power to act like he’s not.
You quickly call for a security nearby, voice clipped with urgency. “There’s a group of men harassing me and they just hit someone—please, now.”
They respond quickly—one of the waiters rushing to the back—and when the security finally arrives, you’re already gently urging Felix toward the exit.
“Come on,” you whisper, arm wrapped around his waist. “Let’s just go.”
Felix glances once over his shoulder, eyes still dark, jaw tight—but he lets you lead him. His pride is bruised, and maybe more than just that. But he doesn’t say a word, and neither do you—not until you’re outside, on the way back to the hotel, and you’re holding onto him tighter than you were before.
Back at the hotel, the room feels quieter than before. The air hangs heavier, like it’s absorbing the leftover adrenaline from earlier. Felix sits at the edge of the bed, shirt slightly wrinkled, his expression somewhere between frustrated and dazed. You sit next to him, the small can of soda from the minibar pressed gently against the side of his jaw.
He winces at first, but then relaxes into the cold. “Ouch.”
“Does it hurt anywhere else?” you ask softly, scanning him for bruises you might’ve missed.
He just shakes his head. “Nah. Just… that guy had a mean right hook.”
You let out a quiet laugh, but it fades quickly.
The silence lingers between you for a moment—thick, unsure—until he finally breaks it. “…I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
You blink up at him. “For what?”
“For tonight. For letting it get that far.” He looks away, guilt darkening his eyes. “I should’ve handled it better. Should’ve kept my cool.”
You shake your head, about to reassure him, but he keeps going.
“I couldn’t even protect you,” he says, his voice quieter now, more raw. “You were scared. And I—” His eyes drop to the floor. “You were right, back then. I’m not like Chris. He would’ve handled it better. Would’ve kept you safe without making it a scene.”
“Felix…” Your heart squeezes.
He still doesn’t look at you. “He’s stronger. Smarter. Always calm. You deserve someone like that.”
You can’t let him keep talking like that. You set the soda can aside and reach out, gently cupping his face, careful not to touch the sore part of his jaw. You make him look at you.
“Don’t say that.”
He blinks at you, startled by the firmness in your tone.
“You did protect me,” you tell him, your voice steady. “You were there when I needed you. You stepped in. You didn’t hesitate. I felt safe because of you.”
He stares at you, eyes wide and stunned like he doesn’t quite believe it.
“I don’t care about what anyone else would’ve done,” you say, your thumb gently brushing against his cheek. “You were there. You saved me.”
His lips part just slightly, like he’s about to say something—but then he just smiles, small and a little shy.
“Just wait a little longer,” he says, almost like a vow. “I’ll get bigger and stronger so I can protect you… properly.”
And something about the sincerity in his voice—the childlike hope wrapped in grown-up promises—makes your chest ache in the most devastatingly sweet way.
You don’t even think twice but to lean in and kiss him.
It’s slow, gentle, and nothing like earlier. There’s no rush, no fire, no teasing. Just two mouths finding comfort in each other. And as his lips mold into yours, tender and warm, your fingers tangle into the hem of his shirt, grounding yourself in him.
The kiss changes.
One moment, it’s soft and sweet, and the next—Felix is pressing harder, deeper, like something inside him has finally snapped loose. All the restraint he’s been holding onto since earlier is gone now, and you don’t stop him. You let him guide you to the bed, his hands never leaving your body, his mouth stealing your breath.
You lie back, and he follows, hovering over you, his blonde locks falling forward, brushing your cheeks as he kisses you again, and again, and again—until you're gasping against his lips.
His fingers trail down your sides, pulling at your clothes like they offend him, stripping you piece by piece. And in return, you let your hands wander over the soft lines and hard muscle of his torso, tugging his shirt over his head, unbuttoning, unzipping, until there’s nothing left between you. Skin on skin. Warmth meeting warmth.
When he finally stills above you, both of you bare and breathless, his eyes roam over you with something darker than desire—it’s worship. He looks at you like he’s never seen something so beautiful in his life. Like he can’t believe this is real.
“I can’t stop halfway this time,” he says hoarsely, voice barely more than a whisper. “Is that okay?”
You hesitate. Not because you don’t want it—you do. Desperately. But there’s a part of you, small and hesitant, wondering if this is how it’s supposed to go. If you’ll disappoint him. If it won’t be like the version of you he’s built up in his mind.
He sees it instantly from te way your body tenses slightly. The flicker in your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks, gently brushing your hair away from your face.
You take a breath. “I… haven’t done this in a long time.”
Felix pauses. Then smiles, soft and sure, like it doesn’t change anything for him at all. “That’s okay,” he says, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I just need to know if you want to do this. With me.”
And when your eyes meet his, steady and full of care, you know you can trust him. That you’re safe with him. So you nod.
His gaze softens even more. He kisses you—slow and tender this time—and then murmurs, “I’ll get the condom.”
He leaves the bed for just a second, rummaging through his bag until he pulls out the small foil packet. He sits on the edge of the bed, back turned to you as he takes care of it, and your heart thuds hard at the anticipation, at the fact that this is really happening.
When he turns back to you, his face is calm, his eyes glowing with something that makes your skin burn all over. He crawls back over you, holding your face with both hands, his lips brushing yours as he kisses you again—patient, careful, like he’s giving you time to melt into him again.
You squirm beneath him as Felix plants kisses across your body—your shoulders, your collarbones, the swell of your breasts, the dip of your stomach. Each one lands softer than the last, chasing away your hesitations like whispers on your skin. You close your eyes and breathe, letting yourself melt under his touch, your hands tangling gently in his hair as he worships you with lips and reverence.
When he hovers above you again, there’s a moment of stillness—his eyes locked on yours, his chest rising with each breath. “I’m going to put it in,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with need.
You nod, your legs parting instinctively for him, and he guides his cock between them. He doesn’t rush. He moves with patience, his shaft gliding through your slick folds, his tip teasing your entrance, pushing the anticipation higher with each careful stroke.
Then, his gaze flicks up to meet yours. “Tell me if it hurts, yeah?”
You nod again, barely finding your voice.
When he finally presses in, the gasp that tears from your throat is instant—sharp, breathy, involuntary. It burns. He stretches you so full and deep that your whole body tenses with the unfamiliar ache, and you whimper as your fingers clutch at the sheets beneath you.
Felix stops, glancing down to see half of his length already disappeared into you. His hand finds your thigh, rubbing it in slow, soothing circles, his voice soft against your skin. “Just a little more. You’re doing so good…”
Your breaths are shaky, a mix of discomfort and a strange, pulsing pleasure building between the ache. He moves gently, inch by inch, filling you until there’s nothing left between you. And when he’s fully sheathed inside, he lowers himself to kiss your lips—slow, reverent, as though thanking you.
“It’s all in,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. That must’ve hurt.”
You open your eyes, still hazy, and shake your head faintly. “It’s alright,” you murmur, your voice hoarse from holding in every moan. Because it is. It’s more than alright.
You hold each other there for a while, tangled, still, the heat of his breath fanning over your neck as he buries his face in the crook of it. Your arms wind around him, and there’s something sacred in the quiet—two hearts trying to steady in the same rhythm.
But then, the silence stretches, and you blink up at the ceiling, breath still uneven. “Felix?” you softly call.
He mumbles something into your skin.
“What?”
“…Feels too good,” he admits, his voice muffled, almost bashful. “Don’t wanna show you my face.”
You reach up, cradling the back of his neck, gently urging him to look at you. And when he does, you see his cheeks flushed, lashes low, mouth parted—you swear you’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
You smile through your daze. “Let me see you.”
His jaw tightens suddenly, and his hands grip your hips with trembling restraint. “I can’t hold back anymore,” he warns, voice raw. “I need to move now.”
You answer by wrapping your legs around his waist and nodding.
With that, Felix moves and every inch he gives, every inch he takes, feels like something blooming inside you. He thrusts with care, with purpose—deep, steady strokes that speak not just of lust, but of emotion, of everything he’s ever held back pouring into every kiss, every touch, every breathless murmur.
He makes sure you’re okay, over and over, with his hands, with his eyes, with the press of his lips to your shoulder. And you are. You’re more than okay. You’ve never felt more cherished.
The rhythm quickens, tension building, bodies slick and trembling in the soft glow of the room. You whisper his name, barely able to breathe through the pleasure cresting high inside you. And when it finally breaks—when your body gives in with a shuddering cry—it takes him with you.
He groans against your skin as he spills into the condom, your bodies locked together, your fingers fisting into his hair. And then, slowly, his weight settles on you, warm and real, as he collapses onto your chest, heart racing wildly against yours.
After the high has faded and the world has softened again, you find yourself curled into Felix’s side, skin still tingling, limbs tangled beneath the sheets. His arm wraps securely around you, his fingers lazily tracing little patterns on your bare shoulder as if memorizing the feel of you.
The room is quiet, save for the faint sound of the waves lapping the shore and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. You rest your hand on his chest, right over the beat of his heart.
He presses small kisses on your temple, your hair, the tip of your nose. It's so soft, so sweet, and you feel yourself sink deeper into the warmth of him—into the safety he creates when he holds you like this. And then he gently tilts your chin up, coaxing your gaze to meet his.
His eyes are clear and unwavering, and his voice is just above a whisper when he says, “I love you.”
It’s sudden. It’s raw. It’s so Felix—blunt and without fear. Your breath catches, your heart stumbling as the weight of his words settles over you. You don't know how to react, your lips part slightly but no sound comes out. You hadn’t expected that—not here, not now.
Felix notices, of course. He always notices. His palm cups your jaw with a tenderness that melts through your chest, his thumb brushing softly across your lower lip. “You don’t have to say it back,” he says, voice low, calming. “I just wanted you to know and I hope one day... you’ll love me too.”
Then he leans in and places a kiss at the top of your head, and you close your eyes, letting yourself breathe through the quiet ache blooming in your chest. You shift, nestling your head against his chest where his heart beats loud and steady beneath your ear as he holds you closer.
You don’t want to lie to him. You don’t want to say something you’re not sure of—not yet. Because what you feel… it’s not quite love. But it’s something close. Maybe it is love, just not all the way there yet. Maybe it’s the kind of feeling that needs time to grow, to be nurtured, to become something unshakable.
You don’t say anything, but you stay—wrapped in his arms, listening to the soft hush of his breath, and hoping that one day, when the time is right, you’ll be able to say those words and mean every letter of them.
For now, being here like this, with him, feels like enough.
-
Felix is practically humming as he pulls up to his parents’ house, the smile on his face stretching so wide it almost hurts. The weekend with you is still fresh in his mind—your laughter at the beach, the way you looked under the sun, the way you felt in his arms, whispering soft breaths into the crook of his neck. It plays on loop, over and over, like his favorite song for the past few days.
He swings the front door open with ease, calling out, “I’m home!”
From the kitchen, his mom’s voice calls back, “Hurry up, dinner’s ready!”
“Smells amazing, mom!” he replies as he shrugs off his jacket and drops his bag beside the shoe rack. The scent of garlic, sesame oil, and grilled meat fills the air—his mom’s signature blend. His stomach growls loudly in response.
“You always know how to time it just right, huh?” his mom teases warmly from the dining room. “And don’t worry, I made extra cause we’ve got a special guest tonight.”
Felix is already halfway through the hallway when he says, grinning, “Guest? What kind of guest—?”
And then he steps into the dining room and stops dead in his tracks. Sitting at the table, right between his stepdad and Chris, is you. Hair tucked behind your ear as you laugh politely at something Chris just said.
Your eyes shift at the sound of his footsteps—and when they meet his, it’s a flicker, quick but loaded with something only the two of you can recognize. Your smile falters for the briefest second, and then returns, soft and polite.
Felix’s brain short-circuits. For a moment, all he can do is blink.
“Stop standing around,” his mom says, not missing a beat. “Sit down. You make everyone waited.”
Felix sits at the dinner table, wedged between the warm buzz of family chatter and the dangerously close presence of you. Underneath the polite smile stretching his lips, his thoughts are in a frenzy—What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell him? Why is Chris looking so smug?
He tries not to make it obvious. Really, he does. But every time Chris opens his mouth, it’s like he’s stoking a fire under Felix’s skin.
“She used to walk around the school and made the homeroom teacher searching for her,” Chris says, grinning fondly at you as he reaches for another helping of side dishes. “I remember that time we found you in the music room instead of the library like we usually did.”
You laugh softly. “I was following the piano sounds. I thought it’d lead me somewhere useful.”
Felix grips his chopsticks tighter.
“She always had such a curious mind,” his stepdad adds, chuckling warmly. “Honestly, from the first time I met her, I thought she’d be perfect for our Chris.”
Felix’s mom smiles, leaning in to nudge her husband’s shoulder. “You said you were going to set them up for marriage one day, remember?”
Marriage.
Felix’s hand stiffens over his plate. He drops his chopsticks with a loud clatter, the sound sharp and abrupt.
Chris chuckles—chuckles—like it’s all some harmless memory, leaning back casually in his seat. “Please, don't make our guest uncomfortable.”
“Yeah,” Felix mutters. “Because she’s dating me now.”
Silence.
It’s instant, heavy, like someone slammed the brakes on a speeding car. Forks hang in midair. You stop mid-breath. Chris blinks, his smile faltering ever so slightly. Felix’s mom looks between the two of you. His stepdad’s expression slowly shifts from amused to confused.
Across the table, Chris’s gaze hardens just slightly, his posture straightening. Your fingers tremble faintly where they rest on your napkin.
And Felix—he doesn’t take it back. He just sits there, jaw tight, heart hammering, staring straight ahead as the silence swallows everything whole.
-
✨ COVET: CHAPTER THREE is available on my Patreon ✨
Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!
It's crazy but here I am again at almost 7 am 😂😭 (Not me saying I'll start sleeping sooner and doing the opposite each time 🤡) Anyway, my jaw is on the floor... As each chapter is pretty long I had to read the half of the 2nd chapter yesterday night and I couldn't wait to finish this chapter so it was all that I was thinking about. I didn't expect this ending tho... Like HELLO?!? 😂😭 I thought she's going to break his heart again and meddle with Chris so I'm freaking out rn. Can't wait to see their reactions 😖 Tbh, it doesn't sit right with me that she's messing with two brothers cause how are you going to act like nothing happened with the other in the future? But I hope our girl has it all settled cause I'm stressed lol.
Thanks a lot for this amazing work. Feeling all sorts of emotions right now ❤️ Wishing you a lot of inspiration, sending hugs 🫂
Synopsis: When a friend of your dad set you up with his son, you hope to see the man you used to love— but it was his stepbrother who showed up instead, Felix. He is your student. Too bold. Too young. But also impossible to resist. Then Chris returns—gentle, steady, still the same man you once dreamed of. Now you're stuck between the past that once had your heart… and the boy who’s learning how to break it. (17,5k words)
Author's note: You guys been asking for a Felix fic so here ya go (also, adding a dash of Chan just because I'm in the mood for some chanlix hehehe) pls enjoy it nonetheless and tell me what you think of it ♡
You’ve been in the city for exactly seventeen days.
Seventeen days of unpacking boxes, adjusting to the new water pressure in your apartment, forgetting which cabinet holds your coffee mugs, and waking up two minutes before your alarm like your body still doesn’t trust it.
It’s not bad. It’s just… not home yet.
But today is your official first lecture at the university. You’d spent the entire weekend reviewing your materials, making sure your notes were flawless, your syllabus airtight, and your first impression unforgettable. A fresh start—you could feel it humming in your veins as you stepped into the classroom, the low buzz of anticipation like something electric.
Your heels click against the polished floor, laptop tucked under your arm. The room quiets down the second you arrive—at least, mostly.
You give your students a quick once-over. All young, bright-eyed, some still blinking sleep away. You introduce yourself, establish expectations, try to make your voice firm but warm.
And then there’s him.
He’s sitting all the way in the back, golden hair catching the late-morning sun, one knee bouncing lazily, a lollipop tucked between plush lips like this is some high school drama. His name rolls off your attendance sheet like a warning bell: Lee Felix.
You’d recognize that smirk anywhere now—he’s had it on since you walked in.
Ten minutes into your lecture and he hasn’t looked up from his phone once.
“Mr. Lee,” you say, loud enough for it to cut through the room like a blade.
Heads turn but Felix glances up with deliberate slowness, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t flinch. He just quirks an eyebrow and drawls, “Yes, Professor?”
There’s something about the way he says Professor—just enough edge, just enough mockery, just enough heat to make your grip on the whiteboard marker tighten. You take a breath. You’re not going to lose composure on your first day.
“I’m sure your phone can wait until after class,” you say coolly.
“I was just Googling a term you mentioned. Trying to keep up,” he lies so smoothly it almost sounds real.
The class snickers under their breath. You don’t let it show, but irritation prickles down your spine. It’s clear: he’s one of those. Smart enough to coast, cocky enough to test you, and pretty enough to think he can get away with it.
You’ve handled worse. But you also didn’t move cities, start fresh, and build a reputation from scratch to be toyed with by a smug, lollipop-sucking troublemaker. Your eyes lock with his for just a beat too long, and he has the audacity to wink.
You move on with the lecture, but you already know one thing for sure: Lee Felix is going to be a problem.
-
You’ve just dismissed the class when you hear it—
The lazy drag of footsteps that don’t belong to anyone in a rush to leave.
You keep your eyes on your laptop screen, fingers clicking quickly across the keys as you save your lecture notes and power down. Maybe if you act busy enough, he’ll change his mind. But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
“Professor,” comes that infuriatingly smooth voice, so much softer now that it’s just the two of you in the room.
You glance up slowly, only to find Felix leaning against your desk, arms crossed, expression smug like he knows something you don’t. You hate how good he looks up close.
His lollipop is gone now, replaced with a slightly lopsided smile. “Just wanted to say, great first class. You really know how to command a room.”
You blink at him. “You didn’t seem too interested in it.”
“Oh, I was interested,” he says, and there’s a deliberate pause before he adds, “Just not in the material.”
He’s playing a game. Testing how far he can push before you push back.
You meet his gaze, cool and calm, no room for flirtation. “Mr. Lee, I’d advise you to choose your next words carefully.”
“Wouldn’t dream of saying anything inappropriate,” he says with a flash of his teeth, and that voice of his drops just a little—low, teasing, like a dare. “Unless you’re into that.”
You don’t flinch. You don’t blush. You don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting at all. Instead, you close your laptop with a soft snap, stand slowly, and lean your hands on the edge of your desk as you face him head-on.
“Listen closely, Mr. Lee,” you say, voice low but clear. “If you want to pass this course, I suggest you drop the act. I’m not here to be entertained. And I’m not here to entertain you.”
He straightens up just slightly, eyes flicking across your face, and for a second—just a second—you think you might’ve caught him off guard.
“If this continues,” you continue calmly, “I’ll have no problem removing you from this class. Permanently. Is that what you want?”
There’s a pause. You can almost see the calculation happening behind those deceptively warm eyes and then he smiles again—smaller this time. Slower. More careful.
“Not at all, Professor,” he says smoothly. “I like being in your class.”
You say nothing, and the silence stretches between you like a taut string.
Eventually, he steps back. “See you Wednesday.”
You watch him walk out the door, and only when he’s gone do you exhale the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
Trouble. He’s going to be trouble.
-
There are only a few places in the city that feel familiar yet. The walk to the faculty lounge. The tiny bakery with the quiet owner who never talks too much. And this golf course—the green stretching wide under the open sky, the scent of cut grass and the satisfying weight of a club in your hands. But mostly, it’s him.
“Still swinging like a beginner, huh?”
The teasing voice makes you glance up just in time to see the man approaching, half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and a golf glove already in place.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Please. I’m still the only reason you don’t come in last in tournaments.”
He laughs—a full, warm sound that rumbles out of him and melts some of the stress clinging to your shoulders.
Mr. Bahng, as everyone else used to call him, but to you, he’s just Chris’s dad—and practically a second father of your own.
You’ve known him since you were a little, back when he was a partner to your father at work until he got transferred to another city but he’d visit your family during business trips or holidays and always bring you a snack from the airport like you were still ten. Now, he just sends books or gift cards for takeout, but the energy’s the same. Steady. Supportive. Familiar in a way this whole new city still isn’t.
You shake hands, and he pulls you into a quick side hug like always.
“Still keeping those city boys on their toes?” he asks as you walk to the tee.
“Trying to,” you reply, giving him a mock glare. “They’re just harder to scare.”
“Bet you’ve scared at least one of them,” he says with a chuckle. “You always had that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘don’t-test-me-unless-you-want-to-lose-your-ego’ look,” he grins. “Your dad told me you used that on a boy in high school. What was his name? Lee?”
You scoff. “He tried to kiss me in a stairwell and spelled Nietzsche wrong in his essay. I stand by my choices.”
He laughs again and steps up to take his shot—too wide on the angle. You make a noise of disapproval.
“Left your wrists back again,” you point out. “Still trying to brute force it instead of—”
“Relax,” he mutters, straightening up. “You always get mouthy before you lose.”
“I never lose to you,” you say with a sharp grin, taking your place behind the tee. “And today’s not the day.”
The rest of the game flows easy, the two of you bantering between swings, correcting each other’s posture, talking about everything and nothing. This kind of familiarity is rare. Comforting. He doesn’t ask about your dating life, doesn’t push you about making friends. He just exists beside you like a tree you could lean on if you needed it.
However, by the 14th hole, he clears his throat and says, “Actually… I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
You glance over. “That sounds ominous.”
“Nothing bad,” he says quickly. “Just—seeing you out here today, all grown up and holding your own. I was thinking…”
You pause mid-step, eyeing him carefully.
“I know someone I think you’d get along with,” he continues, tone light, like he’s testing the waters. “He’s smart. Ambitious. Got a good heart. A bit overworked lately, honestly. Reminds me of you when you first started teaching.”
You raise a brow, half-amused. “Are you trying to set me up?”
He grins. “Would it be the worst idea in the world?”
You open your mouth to say something sarcastic—but pause.
He said someone I think you’d get along with. Smart. Ambitious. Overworked. And you know he has a son.
Your thoughts go straight to Chris. Chris, who used to help you carry your books after class. Chris, who told you not to cry when you didn’t get into your first-choice university. Chris, who was always kind and quiet and maybe just a little too good-looking for his own good. You haven’t seen him in years, but if he’s back now…
You clear your throat. “Is this your way of recruiting me into the family?”
He laughs. “What can I say? I’ve always wanted a daughter like you.”
It makes your chest warm. He means it. You can feel it. You pretend to think it over, but your heart’s already made the leap. “Alright,” you say, trying to sound casual. “I’ll meet him.”
He claps you on the shoulder with a proud smile. “You won’t regret it.”
You smile back, and for the rest of the game, you let yourself imagine what it might feel like to see Chris again. To be looked at like that. To belong to something… someone… that’s always felt a little out of reach.
You line up your next shot, but your mind drifts—
what would Chris wear to the date? Still gentle and quiet like you remember? Would he still have that soft voice, that shy, dimpled laugh? The idea of sitting across from him again after all these years tugs a smile onto your lips before you can stop it.
You swing but the ball hooks left—wild.
Mr. Bahng laughs behind you. “You were doing so well until I mentioned a certain boy.”
You blink at him, embarrassed. “I'm not,” you weakly defend yourself.
“I know that look,” he teases, eyes twinkling. “Don’t go falling in love just yet. Save that for the date.”
-
Studying bores him. It always has. It’s not that he’s stupid—God, no. Felix could probably ace half his classes with his eyes closed if he wanted to. That’s the thing—he just doesn’t want to.
Too many hours trapped in a chair listening to the same tired voices drone on about things that don’t light anything up in him. Too many papers, too many expectations. It all feels like white noise most days.
He comes to campus for one reason: to hang out. To be with his friends. To flirt, skate through the day, maybe sneak a smoke behind the student center or sleep through the late lectures if no one notices.
That’s all it was. That’s all it ever was. Until you show up like a glitch in the pattern. A brand new lecturer with no patience for bullshit and this fire in your eyes that makes Felix sit up straighter without realizing it. You dress sharp, speak sharper, and carry yourself like you’ve got the whole world under control. You don’t laugh at his jokes. You don’t flinch when he teases you. You don’t look at him the way others do—like he’s just the golden-haired boy who always gets away with things. You look at him like you see through him.
And that? That’s interesting. For the first time in years, he’s showing up to class early. He’s staying awake. He’s listening—to you, specifically. Not because of the material. Not because he cares about grades or degrees or whatever future everyone keeps pressuring him into chasing.
He shows up because you’re there. Because you challenge him. Because you ignore him. Because you look like you should be untouchable, and somehow that just makes him want to touch even more.
He knows he’s pushing it, knows the lines you draw, the rules you hide behind. Knows you’d probably throw him out of class if he pushed too far. But he also knows one thing for certain— No one else on this campus makes his heart kick the way you do when you walk into the room like you own it. No one else makes him want to show up.
You’re the only part of his routine that’s not boring and if he’s being honest with himself, you’re the only reason he’s still coming to class at all.
-
As usual, Felix lounges on the edge of the stone steps, half-listening to whatever Jeongin’s rambling about beside him. It’s something dumb. Something about a failed group project or a girl who ghosted him after two texts. Seungmin chimes in now and then with his usual dry sarcasm, and Hyunjin’s too busy scrolling through his phone to contribute more than the occasional “damn, that sucks.”
Felix laughs at the right moments, leans back on his elbows, sunlight soaking into the leather of his jacket. It’s easy. Effortless. But he’s only half there. The other half is watching the lot. Waiting.
“You’re staring again,” Seungmin says without looking up.
Felix doesn’t bother denying it.
Jeongin follows his gaze. “The new professor?”
Felix hums. A little smile tugs at his lips. “She’s not my professor. She just… teaches the class I’m currently tolerating.”
Hyunjin snorts. “Sure. Is that what you’re doing? Tolerating her?”
Felix shrugs, but the grin spreading across his face gives him away. He thinks about that first day. You walked in like the room belonged to you, like the floor knew better than to creak under your heels. No hesitation. No nerves. Just sharp eyes and a sharper mouth, dressed in soft fabrics and clipped words.
Everyone else had gone quiet. But him? He couldn’t stop staring. You’d called him out within ten minutes and he still thinks about it.
No professor had ever done that—not like you did. Not with heat behind your gaze and ice in your tone, like you were daring him to cross a line just so you could destroy him for it. And yeah, maybe that should’ve turned him off, but it didn’t. If anything, it flipped something in his brain. Because suddenly class wasn’t boring anymore. Suddenly, showing up felt like chasing a high.
“Why don’t you just ask her out already?” Jeongin says, kicking a pebble with the toe of his shoe.
Felix scoffs. “Yeah. ‘Hey, Professor, wanna grab coffee after you finish grading my half-assed essay?’ Real smooth.”
Seungmin shrugs. “You’ve pulled off worse.”
“But she’s…” Felix trails off, frowning.
Different. That’s the word he wants. Different from anyone he’s ever wanted. Different in ways that make him want to push and pull and figure you out just to feel what it’s like to have your attention for more than five seconds at a time.
Before anyone can say anything else, a car pulls into the lot and just like that, his whole body sharpens because it’s you. Hair pinned back, sunglasses perched on your head, dark dress hugging all the right places as you step out of your car like you’re stepping onto a stage you were born to own.
He sits up straighter. Slides his phone into his pocket. Brushes a hand through his hair. This? This is the best part of his morning. Maybe his whole week.
The others go quiet as they follow his gaze.
“Go get your fix, lover boy,” Seungmin mutters, already standing. “I’m out.”
Felix grins, but doesn’t respond. He just leans back into place, he eyes the curve of your waist, the soft sway of your dress as you stride toward the building and when the time is right— When he’s sure you’re close enough to hear him—
He says it: “Morning, Professor. That dress looks real good on you today.”
You freeze for a second. Just long enough to confirm what he already knows—you heard him. But you don’t look at him. Don’t smile. Just a clipped, nearly inaudible, “Thank you, Mr. Lee,” and you keep walking like you didn’t just lose for a second there.
Felix grins. God, you make it too easy.
The way your jaw sets when you’re trying to stay professional, the way your hand tightens around your bag strap, like you’re holding yourself back. The way your spine straightens like it’s him you’re bracing against.
He laughs as you push open the door without looking back, the sound rolling low in his throat, just loud enough for you to hear it if you’re still listening. You always pretend you’re not but he knows better.
You’re already in his head—he might as well return the favor.
-
Class ends.
You dismiss everyone with your usual calm, collected tone—sharp enough to keep them in line, soft enough to keep the room respectful.
Most students pack up and shuffle out. But Felix? He lingers. Always the last to leave. Always with something to say.
You’re collecting your papers at the front, eyes skimming your notes like you’re already ten minutes ahead of the moment. But he walks right up to your desk anyway, slow and easy, with that same crooked smirk that got under your skin the first week.
“You got any plans tonight, Professor?”
You glance up, brows raised. “Why do you ask?”
He shrugs, tone casual. “Just wondering. You strike me as the type who doesn’t know how to have fun on a Friday night.”
You give him a flat look, the kind that usually ends the conversation. But this time, you surprise him.
You slide your notes into your bag, your voice calm and detached when you answer, “Actually… I have a date.”
It’s not the words—it’s how effortlessly you say them. Like it’s not meant to hit him. Like it’s not supposed to matter. But surprisingly... it does. His stomach dips, almost unnoticeable, like hitting a sudden drop in the road you didn’t see coming.
The smirk on his face falters for half a second—barely there—before he recovers. “Oh yeah?” he says, grin stretching back into place, like it’s all just a joke. “Lucky guy.”
You don’t respond to that. Just offer a tight smile, and a pointed glance toward the door. You don’t have to say it—he knows the conversation is over.
He tosses his bag over one shoulder and walks out with that same swagger, head high, like nothing’s changed, but something has.
The word date sticks in his head. Over and over. You never give him anything. Never let him in. But now… you’re going out with someone? Who?
Felix doesn’t even realize how deep in his thoughts he is until his phone buzzes in his back pocket.
Mom.
He answers without thinking. “Hey, mom.”
“Felix darling,” her voice comes through warm and familiar. “I need you to do something for me tonight.”
He exhales, already rubbing a hand over his face. “What is it?”
-
It’s just a date. You’ve been on dates before—awkward coffee meetups, polite dinners with forgettable conversation, half-hearted setups from friends who didn’t know you at all.
But this one? This one buzzes under your skin like something electric. Maybe it’s because it’s him. Chris. Or, at least, that’s who you think it is.
You’ve spent the entire week trying not to overthink it—how many years it’s been, whether he’ll remember the things you used to talk about, whether the way he smiled at you back then meant what you thought it did.
You told yourself you weren’t going to go overboard and yet, here you are, standing in front of your mirror for the third time, adjusting your necklace, smoothing the soft fabric of your dress over your hips again like it’ll make a difference.
You spent hours getting ready. Hair, makeup, choosing a shade of lipstick that wasn’t too bold but still enough to make him look twice. You hate that you care this much. You hate that your pulse quickens every time you glance at the clock, that your hands feel a little clammy, that you’ve changed your earrings twice already.
But god, the thought of seeing him again—the boy who used to lean in and whisper things only you could hear, who made you feel like you were more than just someone’s daughter or a mere friend— It makes your stomach flip.
You want him to see you and see how much you've grown. You want to impress him. You want him to want you.
You take one final look at yourself in the mirror, exhale slowly, and grab your bag. This is ridiculous. It’s just a date. One dinner. But still—
You can’t shake the feeling that this night might change something and you're right. It will. Just… not in the way you think.
-
The café is warm and quiet, tucked into a corner of the city where everything feels slow and curated. Jazz plays softly through the speakers, and the hanging lights above each table give off that soft golden glow that makes everything feel more intimate than it should.
You chose the booth by the window. Partly for the view, partly so you could look like you weren’t desperately scanning the room every time the front door opened and it's thirty-seven minutes past the appointed time.
It’s not like him to be late.
Chris—at least the Chris you used to know—was punctual. Thoughtful. Someone who would’ve shown up early and probably brought flowers and smiled that boyish, dimpled smile that made your stomach do flips.
You’re on your second latte now because the first one went cold while you kept glancing at the entrance like an idiot. This one’s mostly foam, but your hands need something to do. You pull out your compact and reapply your lipstick. Again.
God, this is ridiculous.
You keep telling yourself he’ll walk in any minute now. That he probably just got caught in traffic. That maybe he’s circling the block trying to find parking. That he’ll be here, and it’ll be worth it. That all this effort—all this nervous energy and too-tight hope—will mean something.
The bell above the door rings and you don’t look up. You’re tired of looking up. Tired of the tiny jolt of anticipation that always dissolves into another stranger, another group of friends, another barista returning from break.
You take a sip of your latte and slump slightly into your seat, letting your shoulders relax for the first time in an hour. And that’s when you feel it. A presence. Eyes on you.
You glance up, expecting… no one. Expecting just another unfamiliar face. But what you see is a black leather jacket. Tousled blond hair. And that unmistakable, shit-eating smirk.
Felix. He’s standing near the entrance, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket, head tilted just slightly like he’s amused. Like he meant to find you here.
You blink, completely thrown, stomach dropping as your brain tries to piece it together. He sees your confusion—and it only makes his grin deepen. He walks toward your table like he belongs here. Like this is a game and he’s been playing it longer than you realized.
And the worst part? He looks good. Too good. The kind of good that makes your throat dry.
You sit up straighter, every nerve ending suddenly on high alert. What the hell is he doing here?
This was supposed to be a date with Mr. Bahng's son. Chris. Not with the boy who makes a habit of testing your patience. Not with your student. Not with Felix.
You duck your head instinctively, hand lifting to shield your face like you’re invisible behind a half-full latte and a smear of lip gloss.
But it’s too late. Felix has already seen you.
You hear his boots before you see him—the confident thud of them crossing the café floor. You keep your eyes locked on the swirls in your coffee, praying he’ll just pass by, that this is some bizarre coincidence.
But of course it's not. Felix stops in front of your table. Then, without asking, without a shred of hesitation, he sits right across from you. One arm slung over the back of the booth, legs stretched comfortably, as if he’s been doing this with you every Friday night for years. And that smirk. That goddamn smirk. That smug, lazy, self-satisfied smirk that tells you this isn’t just a coincidence.
You stare at him, jaw tight, but before you can get a word out, he speaks. “Your date is here.”
You scoff. Audibly. “Felix, just because we’re off campus doesn’t mean you can do this.”
He raises his brows, all innocence. “Do what?”
You narrow your eyes. “Whatever this is. Showing up, sitting down—ruining my night.”
“I’m not ruining anything,” he says easily, resting his chin on his hand. “I am your night.”
You blink. “You’re—what?”
“I’m your date.”
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Nice try.”
But your heart stutters because he’s not joking. He’s not being sarcastic. He’s dead serious.
“No,” you say quickly, voice sharp. “No, you can’t be. It’s supposed to be—”
You stop yourself because you never actually said Chris’s name aloud. You just assumed because who else would it be?
Felix shrugs. Then, slowly, he pulls his phone out of his jacket and turns the screen toward you. There it is. A message thread from someone labeled Mom.
One message in particular, sitting bright and brutal on the screen: "Felix sweetie, don’t forget. Café Verona, 7PM. You’ll be meeting her there. Be nice. Your dad will be so happy if this works out."
No. No, no, no.
Your breath catches in your throat, your lips parting but no words coming out. Your brain tries to string together logic—maybe it’s a prank, maybe he hacked a phone, maybe—
But your name is there. The café’s name. The time. It’s real.
You stare at the message again, then at him, your voice cracking when you finally manage, “But—Mr. Bahng said—his son…”
Felix lets out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah. His stepson.”
He watches you with something gentler now beneath the smugness, like he knows the floor has just been pulled out from under you. “You didn’t know?” he asks casually. “He married my mom eight years ago.”
The air around you thins. You grip the edge of the table like it’ll keep you grounded.
Mr. Bahng. Your second father. Your comfort in this city.
And Felix—the boy who’s made it his mission to get under your skin—is his stepson.
You feel it all at once. The burn of humiliation. The dizzying confusion. The heavy drop in your stomach like the whole night has collapsed under its own weight.
Your voice barely makes it past your lips. “This… has to be a mistake.”
But you know it’s not.
Felix leans back in the booth, watching you unravel with maddening calm, and that smirk returns—less teasing now. More… inevitable.
“Guess you’re stuck with me tonight, Professor.”
-
Felix watches you come undone. Not all at once—no, not the dramatic kind of breaking. It’s quieter than that. Subtler. A slow unraveling behind your eyes as everything you thought you knew about this night flips upside down.
God, it’s beautiful.
Not because he wants to hurt you—he doesn’t. But because for once, you’re not composed. You’re not hiding behind that perfectly neutral expression or snapping at him with rehearsed professionalism.
Right now, you're just you—confused, flustered, vulnerable. Human. And he can’t look away.
You’re staring down at the table, lashes low, jaw clenched like you’re trying to find a way to salvage what’s left of your pride, but there’s nothing to save.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to do here,” you finally say, voice low and uneven, “but this can’t happen.”
Felix raises an eyebrow, like he hasn’t heard that a dozen times before—but this time, it feels different.
“This,” you gesture vaguely between the two of you, “isn’t going to work. You’re younger than me.”
“So?”
“And you’re my student.”
“At least for the next two semesters.”
You shoot him a glare. “That’s not the point.”
He leans forward just slightly, resting his forearms on the table, eyes locked on yours. The smirk on his lips curves slow and deliberate.
“No,” he says, voice low, smooth, “the point is… those are just excuses.”
Your lips part, but nothing comes out because you know he’s right.
He watches the way your throat moves when you swallow hard, the way your fingers tighten slightly around the cup in your hand. And then, like twisting the knife with velvet hands, he says, “You forgot the most important reason why you can’t say no.”
Felix grins, cocking his head just a little. “My stepdad will be really disappointed if you walk away from this.”
The effect is immediate. He sees it hit—hard. Your spine stiffens, your face goes still. You look down like the guilt weighs too much to hold in your chest.
“It's just a date,” he says softly, not pushing, just planting the seed. “Talk to me. Laugh. Pretend I’m not ruining your life.”
“No. You’re not listening,” you say, quieter now. Firmer, but not nearly as steady as you want to be. “This isn’t going to work.”
But Felix isn’t even blinking. He just watches you—closely, carefully. You think you’re convincing him but all he sees is conflict. You’re still holding on to your rules, but not because of him. Not because of who he is or what he’s doing. No, it’s because you’re scared. Scared of being seen with him. Scared of liking him. Scared of what it would mean if you let go. And more than anything—you’re scared of disappointing his stepdad.
That part is written all over your face.
Felix leans back in the booth, tapping his fingers once against the side of his glass, as if weighing something, pretending to think. But the truth is, he already knows exactly what he’s going to say.
“Okay,” he starts, and your eyes flick to him with something cautious. “How about this.”
You say nothing, just stare at him.
“Three dates.”
“What?”
“Three,” he repeats, holding up three fingers. “We go on three real dates. No weird tension, no professor-student labels, no excuses. Just two people. That’s it.”
You narrow your eyes. “And after three?”
“If you still think this is a bad idea,” he says with a shrug, “I’ll tell my stepfather myself. I’ll say it didn’t work. That we weren’t compatible. That I blew it.”
You hesitate but he sees it. That twitch in your jaw. The soft crease between your brows. You’re not rejecting the idea—you’re fighting the part of you that already wants to say yes. It’s almost too easy.
“And you’ll actually tell him?”
Felix smirks. “Promise.”
There’s a long beat of silence. You look away first, eyes darting toward the window like the answer might be outside. But all you find is the reflection of yourself next to him—and the growing weight of something you can’t explain.
Finally, you exhale, barely above a whisper. “Fine.”
Three dates. Three is more than enough. Because Felix has already made up his mind— He’s going to change yours.
Felix hides his smile behind the rim of his glass. Got you.
-
You tell him no. Twice. But Felix is already unlocking the passenger side before you’ve finished your sentence, leaning on the door like he’s doing you a favor, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to drive you home after ambushing your date.
“You’re not walking home alone after dinner,” he says, cocky as ever. “What kind of gentleman would I be?”
You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “You’re not a gentleman.”
He grins. “I am when I want to be.”
Still, you get in because the night has already gone to hell and honestly, you don’t have the energy to argue anymore. The car smells faintly like his cologne—clean, warm, and frustratingly pleasant. You fasten your seatbelt in silence, eyes fixed on the windshield as he pulls away from the café and into the quiet of the city night.
The ride is… quiet. Thankfully. You expected teasing. More smug comments. Some joke about how “charming” he is or how you were “clearly impressed.”
But for once, Felix keeps his mouth shut and you’re grateful for it because your mind is still a mess. You can’t stop thinking about how wrong tonight felt—how you built it up in your head, how you thought you were going to see Chris, how you’d imagined every version of what he’d look like now. How your chest had fluttered just thinking about him walking through that café door.
But it wasn’t him. It was Felix. And you hate that part of you isn’t as disappointed as it should be.
You reach your building too fast and the car slows to a gentle stop in front of the entrance, headlights washing over the brick steps.
You’re already reaching for your bag when he puts the car in park. “Thanks for the lift home,” you mutter, eyes still forward.
But before you can push the door open, his voice cuts through the quiet. “Don’t forget,” he says, lazy and low. “We still have three dates left.”
You pause and lare at him over your shoulder. “Two. After tonight, it’s two.”
He just grins, tilting his head like he’s about to break some tragic news. “This doesn’t count,” he says.
You blink. “And why is that so?”
He shrugs. “It’s not a date unless we kiss at the end of the night.”
Your jaw drops slightly. “You’re joking”
“I’m just saying,” he smirks. “I’m a really good kisser. Would’ve made it count.”
And you hate it. You hate that your brain stalls for a second, that it pictures it—his mouth, his hands, the taste of something dangerous and warm and off-limits. You hate that your fingers curl a little tighter around your bag. That your heart skips, just once.
You scoff instead. “Have a great night.”
“I already did,” he simply replies with his annoying smirk.
You throw the door open and step out before he can say another word, but just before you shut it—
“Goodnight, Professor,” he says, voice warm and velvet and full of satisfaction. “Dreams of me tonight.”
You slam the door harder than necessary. Your heels click furiously up the stairs as you make your way into the building, face hot with embarrassment and something else you don’t want to name.
And you know. You just know— He’s still watching you. Smiling like he already knows how this is going to end.
-
The morning air feels too bright.
You sip your coffee in slow, careful mouthfuls, the steam curling into your face as you stare at the slice of toast you haven’t touched. Your plate’s barely warm. Your stomach? Uneasy.
You barely slept because every time you closed your eyes, you’d see his—gold-flecked, too sure of themselves, that damn smirk that still burns at the back of your brain.
“It’s not a date unless we kiss.”
You rub at your temple like you can scrub the memory out.
This was supposed to be simple. One polite dinner. One quiet, grown-up “thanks, but no thanks.” Then you’d call Mr. Bahng in the morning and tell him it didn’t work out. That Felix was… impossible. Inappropriate. Not what you’re looking for. But just as you’re mustering the resolve to make the call, your phone lights up on the kitchen table.
Mr. Bahng.
Perfect timing. You swipe to answer, exhaling softly as you press the phone to your ear. “Hello, sir—”
“Sweetheart!” he beams, and you can practically feel his smile through the line. “Ah, I was just thinking about you.”
You sit up straighter, fingers curling slightly around your mug. “Oh?”
“I just had to call. Felix told me all about last night,” he says, voice filled with delight. “He said you had a wonderful time!”
Of course he did. You say in your head as you roll your eyes. You don’t know why you’re surprised. Felix probably hung up the phone after dropping you off and painted the whole evening in stars and candlelight. Told his stepfather you laughed. That you blushed. That you kissed. Who knows what he said.
You try to correct him. “Actually—”
“He’s really taken with you,” Mr. Bahng cuts in gently. “I always thought there was something different about that boy, but it’s nice seeing him this serious about someone.”
Your lips part but no sound comes out.
“Now, I know he’s a little younger,” he continues, “and yes, one of your students—but he only has, what? Another semester? Maybe less?”
You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Just under a year.”
“Exactly!” he says. “By the time anything serious happens, it’ll be completely appropriate.”
You open your mouth again to speak—but the next words from him feel like a train hitting your chest.
“I just can’t wait to welcome you to the family one day.”
You go still. “What?”
He chuckles. “Too soon? Ah, forgive an old man. I just—”
His voice softens. “I’ve always thought of you like a daughter. And to have you officially… well. You’d make this family better. You’re the kind of woman I always hoped my son would bring home.”
You bite your lip so hard it hurts.
“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. You’ve done so well. You deserve to be loved the way I know Felix will love you.”
And just like that—
Whatever words you’d planned to say are gone.
Because how can you tell this man, the one who made you feel at home in a city full of strangers, the one who’s always been kind, who beams like a father when he sees you—how can you tell him no?
You swallow thickly. “Thank you, sir.”
He hums, satisfied. “Give it time. I know it’ll work out.”
You end the call with a numb sort of silence and the second your phone hits the table, you slump into your seat, burying your face in your hands.
Three dates. That’s all you agreed to. That’s all you owe. And then you’ll walk away from this—walk away from him. Three. Just three.
-
Class ends with the usual shuffle of feet and rustling of papers. You wrap up your lecture with a clipped reminder about the upcoming assignments, your voice cool and clear, carefully measured. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded these days—structure, professionalism, the boundaries that say you are not getting swept up in this mess.
You stay at the front of the classroom, organizing your notes, half-hoping for a moment of peace before the next meeting on your calendar. But the second you lift your head, you see him.
Felix. Leaning against the doorframe, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack slung over a single shoulder, the other shoved casually into the pocket of his leather jacket. His blond hair catches the light, and that same damn smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth like he’s been waiting for this all day. He doesn’t move right away. Just looks at you like you’re the main event.
“Hey, Professor.”
You roll your eyes. “How can I help you, Mr. Lee?”
He pushes off the doorframe and strolls up to your desk, the classroom now thankfully empty except for the two of you. He gives you that annoyingly charming smile—the one that probably works on half the campus—and says, “I figured you can help decide where we’re going for our first date.”
Your eyes widen a fraction. “What are you—shh!”
You glance toward the hallway as if anyone might be listening.
He laughs, delighted. “What, scared someone’s gonna overhear the scandal?”
“This isn’t funny,” you hiss, low and stern. “As long as you’re still enrolled in my class, I have to remain professional.”
He leans in a little, eyes gleaming. “You being all proper is kind of hot, you know that?”
Your glare sharpens. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, not at all sorry. “Secretly dating your lecturer? Feels like something out of a fantasy.”
You take a step back before he gets too close, shoving your notes into your bag with a little more force than necessary.
“We are not dating,” you snap, voice clipped.
“Not yet,” he replies easily.
You scowl, push past him, and make your way toward the door. “Please don't bother me with such questions unless it’s academic related.”
But he follows, relentless. “But we still need to choose a place for the first date,” he says behind you, like it’s already set in stone.
You say nothing. Don’t look back. You won’t give him the satisfaction. Still, as you step out into the hallway, you hear him call out after you, voice playful and smug:
You told yourself you wouldn’t care. You told yourself this was just an obligation—something to get through. Three dates. That was the deal. Nothing more, nothing less.
But here you are, standing in front of your mirror again, adjusting the neckline of your dress for the third time. You want to look put together. Sophisticated. Effortless.
You want to look good—but not for him.
God forbid you look like you tried. Still… you try.
Light makeup, just enough to make your features pop. A dress that hugs you in the right places, but not too tight, not too obvious. Hair soft, perfume subtle. You want to look like you always look like this. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Like this wasn’t Felix.
You’re fixing the strap of your purse when you hear the low rumble of his car pulling up outside.
You let out a sigh. You don’t even know if it’s from annoyance or nerves—or some messy tangle of both—but it crawls up your chest all the same. You refuse to be standing at the door like you were waiting for him. So you sit and wait.
When the knock comes—three knocks, bold and unhurried—you wait a little longer, just to make him sweat. He deserves that much. Then, finally, you open the door.
Felix stands there in a black button-up, sleeves rolled halfway to his forearms, silver rings glinting on his fingers. His blond hair is tousled, like he styled it with careless perfection, and he looks up at you as if he wasn’t expecting to actually be stunned. His eyes drag down the length of you slowly, drinking you in like he’s afraid to blink.And then—
He exhales sharply, eyes blown wide. “Holy shit.”
He leans one hand on the doorframe, the other over his chest like he’s been winded and slowly, he leans in close enough you can smell his cologne.
“You’re not even real,” he breathes, gaze flickering down to your legs, then back up—lingering at your lips before locking onto your eyes. “How the hell am I supposed to behave tonight?”
You fight the twitch in your lips. “Maybe start by not saying things like that.”
He whistles softly and shakes his head. “You’re dangerous.”
“And you’re annoying,” you mutter, grabbing your purse. But the way he’s looking at you—it rattles something. Makes your pulse shift in your wrist.
“Ready?” he asks, voice suddenly lower, deeper.
His tone does something to your stomach—something unwelcome.
“Y-Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat and adjusting your strap again to buy yourself a second of control.
He steps back and gestures toward the stairs. “After you, Professor.”
He opens the car door for you like a proper gentleman, and you hate the way that gesture makes your chest tighten. Once you’re seated, he rounds the car and slides in behind the wheel, flashing you a sideways glance as he starts the engine.
You glance at him. “Where are we going?”
He grins. “You’ll see.”
You cross your arms. “I don’t like surprises.”
He throws the car into drive, eyes on the road now. “Good thing I’m not trying to impress someone easy.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to hide your smirk. One date. One night. You just have to survive this without losing your mind.
Or your heart.
-
Felix slows the car as the dock comes into view, headlights cutting across the worn wooden path and rows of moored boats gently rocking against the water. He parks at the edge of the lot and throws it into neutral, then glances sideways—just in time to catch the crease forming between your brows.
Perfect.
You’ve been quiet most of the ride, arms crossed, lips pursed, trying your best to look unimpressed. But he’s seen the way your eyes flick toward him when you think he’s not looking. He knows you’re curious.
And now? Now he’s going to give you something you really weren’t expecting.
He steps out and makes his way around to your door, opening it before you can even reach for the handle. You arch a brow at him, but say nothing as you step out, heels clicking softly against the pavement.
You glance at the rows of boats ahead, a little suspicious now, a little cautious. You adjust the strap of your purse, scanning the horizon like it’ll give you answers.
Finally, you ask, “Where exactly are you taking me?”
There’s something in your voice—hesitant, unsure—and he lives for it. He likes you best when you’re like this: sharp on the outside, unraveling just beneath the surface.
He grins as he gestures toward the dock with a tilt of his head and starts walking, hands in his jacket pockets. “Well, since you’re all about professionalism and secrecy,” he says, “I figured I’d give you exactly that.”
You hesitate before following him, eyes narrowing. “What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “Means I borrowed a friend’s boat.”
You stop walking. “A boat?”
Felix turns, walking backward now as he faces you. “You didn’t want to be seen in public with me, remember?” he says, voice light, teasing. “So… I figured I’d bring you somewhere private. Quiet. Away from the curious eyes.”
You just stare at him for a second, and he can’t quite tell if you’re horrified or impressed. Probably both.
He leans against the dock rail, hands gripping the edge behind him, and lets his smirk tug slowly across his lips. “I mean—romantic sunset boat date? That has to earn me a few points.”
You shake your head, lips pressed together, visibly fighting off a reaction. “Do you even know how to ride it?”
“Most of it, yeah,” he laughs, already stepping down the planks toward where the small cabin boat is tied. “Don't worry. It floats.”
The boat rocks gently beneath his boots as Felix steadies it, reaching a hand out toward you with a grin. You stand at the edge of the dock like you’re still considering running, arms folded, skepticism practically radiating off of you—but you take his hand anyway. That’s all he needs.
“Careful,” he murmurs, guiding you on board, steadying your waist as you step down. “Wouldn’t want to lose you before the wine comes out.”
You scoff but let him help you.
The second you’re both aboard, Felix moves to untie the ropes and start the engine, navigating the small boat out onto the water with practiced ease. The city gets smaller behind you as the boat glides into the open, far enough that the buildings blur into the soft purple of dusk.
Once they’re alone with nothing but sky and water around the two or you, he heads below deck briefly and returns with a picnic basket tucked under one arm, a bottle of wine tucked under the other.
You watch him cautiously from your seat near the railing as he spreads a thick, navy picnic mat across the deck, anchoring it down with a few carefully placed cushions. He opens the basket and begins to arrange everything with the kind of care that makes you narrow your eyes like you’re waiting for the joke, but he’s serious about this.
A neat charcuterie spread: cured meats, brie, fresh figs, crackers, olives, sliced strawberries. A bottle of red. Two stemmed wine flutes he sets down gently beside the basket. Everything carefully packed. Nothing cheap. Nothing half-assed.
He’s never done this for anyone. Not like this. And when he finally sits back on his heels and looks up at you, it’s with a small, crooked smile.
“Well?” he says, extending a hand toward you again. “Gonna join me or just watch?”
Felix sees the internal war flashing across your face. But eventually, you sigh like you’re doing him a favor and slide your hand into his.
He helps you kneel down beside him on the mat, adjusting one of the pillows so you’re not sitting too close, even though he wants to. He pours the wine carefully, offering you your glass before taking his own.
And for a moment… neither of you speak.
The boat sways gently, slow and steady like a lullaby. The breeze is soft. The water reflects gold and violet, and the sun hangs low over the edge of the world, bleeding into the sea.
It’s beautiful. But Felix doesn’t look at the view. He looks at you. The way your eyes catch the light. How your features soften when you’re not frowning at him. How your fingers wrap around the glass just a little too tight like you’re trying to remind yourself you’re still in control.
You don’t notice him staring until you shift your gaze—and catch him mid-sip, lips curved around the rim of his glass, still watching you.
You blink, instantly suspicious. “What?”
He lowers the wine, leans his elbow on his knee, and smirks. “Sunset’s not even the prettiest thing on this boat.”
You roll your eyes, muttering, “Jesus Christ.”
But he sees the way your cheeks warm. You turn your face slightly like you’re annoyed, but you’re smiling now. Barely. That’s all he needs to keep going.
“You always look at your lecturer like that?” you say dryly.
He tilts his head. “Only when they show up looking like they walked out of my dreams.”
You shoot him a warning glance, but it’s too late as you sip your wine again. And again. And you stop correcting him after a while.
You sit there beside him as the light fades and the world quiets—and Felix can’t stop watching you. Because somewhere between the teasing and the lines you keep drawing between you, he knows that you’re slipping and he’s going to make sure you fall.
-
The sun is dipping below the edge of the water now, casting everything in shades of gold and blood orange, and the warm breeze dances across your skin, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make you shift self-consciously.
You don’t mean to relax but with every sip of wine, your shoulders lower just a bit more, your limbs a little softer, your glare a little slower to come.
It’s the wine. The atmosphere. Felix. And you hate that he was right.
This is beautiful.
You’re swirling the wine in your glass when he suddenly leans toward you, slips off his leather jacket, and drapes it gently over your shoulders.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, like you didn’t just freeze at the feel of him so close. “You looked cold.”
“I’m not,” you lie.
“You are,” he insists, settling the collar against your neck. “And besides, don’t act so shocked. I can be a gentleman.”
You scoff. “Since when?”
He laughs, lounging back on his side and propping himself up on one elbow. “Since now.”
The weight of the jacket feels heavier than it should. Like it’s trying to pull you toward him. And maybe it is.
You sip again, letting the silence stretch, but something’s been itching at the back of your mind since this morning—and you can’t pretend anymore.
You turn your gaze toward him. “What did you tell Mr. Bahng?”
Felix raises an eyebrow, like he’s surprised you brought it up now, like you’ve only just remembered the other half of your mess. “What?” he teases. “You didn’t like how I told him we had a magical night?”
You narrow your eyes. “Exactly that.”
He holds up a hand. “Relax. I didn’t tell him everything. Just that you enjoyed yourself.”
He pauses, lips twitching. “Which you did. Still are.”
You exhale, trying not to give in to the pull of his smile. “That’s not the point.”
He leans in slightly. “No, the point is—” he tilts his head, eyes dropping to your lips—“you still owe me a kiss.”
Your breath catches. “That again?”
“It’s part of the deal,” he shrugs, all innocence. “It doesn’t count as a real date otherwise.”
You don’t answer. Instead, you deflect—like always. “Why are you so interested in me anyway?”
He blinks, thrown for a second.
“I’m your lecturer,” you continue, words low and rushed. “You could date any girl your age. And let’s be honest, it wouldn’t be hard for you. You’re… popular and all.”
Felix pauses, and then—just like that—he gives you the most straightforward answer he’s given all night.
“Because they’re not you.”
It’s not even the words—it’s the way he says them. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s fact.
You glance down at your wine glass, trying to ground yourself, but nothing feels real. Not the boat rocking gently. Not the jacket over your shoulders. Not the heat slowly blooming in your chest. You feel hot and it’s not just the alcohol. You shift your gaze back to him—and he’s already watching you.
“So... should we kiss now?” he asks, voice low, smooth, almost careful.
You don’t answer. You can’t. But your eyes flick down to his mouth. Just briefly but enough for him to see it. And maybe that’s answer enough.
“We just need one,” he murmurs, inching closer. “One kiss. To make this a real date.”
There’s no avoiding him forever, right? Sooner or later, it’ll happen. Might as well be now. So you nod and close your eyes
He doesn’t dive in. Doesn’t rush. Instead, he lifts his hand and brushes a few strands of hair away from your face, tucking them gently behind your ear. His fingers linger at the side of your head, warm against your skin, and you lean into the touch without meaning to.
And then— He kisses you. Soft. Barely there. A press of lips so careful, so unexpectedly tender it makes your heart stutter. It’s nothing like you expected from someone like Felix. It feels like the first kiss you had when you were still young and naive, full of nerves and promise. It makes your chest tighten, makes your hands clutch the edge of the picnic mat for balance. But then, slowly, he deepens it. He leans in closer, tilts his head, breath brushing your cheek, and the kiss melts into something warmer—something heady and patient and intentional.
Your hands drift up without thinking, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, and suddenly you’re not just kissing him—you’re wanting it. Wanting him.
You feel yourself sink, cushions soft beneath you, and before you can catch yourself, your back hits the mat with Felix hovering over you, lips still pressed to yours.
And you hate it. God, you hate that he’s right. That he is a good kisser—too good. The kind that leaves you breathless and warm all over, like oxygen suddenly doesn’t matter as long as his mouth is on yours.
You never imagined this. Not like this. Not with him. But now that you’ve had a taste… You’d rather not breathe than not kiss him again. And just when you start to chase him back with your lips, he pulls away.
Your body instinctively leans up, trying to follow—but he stops you with a quiet breath against your mouth. You frown before you can catch yourself, but quickly smooth your expression, swallowing hard.
His face hovers just above yours, close enough that you can still feel the heat of his breath. Then his eyes trail down. Slow. Lingering. His gaze drags down your neck, over your chest, down the curves of your body pressed beneath him—like he’s undressing you with just his eyes—and it shouldn’t make you feel as hot as it does.
But it does because you suddenly feel too exposed. Your skin prickles, heart slamming inside your chest, breath shallow.
Then he brings his eyes back to your face—and the stare is even worse. Too intense. Too real. He’s not smirking anymore, not entirely. Just this soft, knowing pull at the corner of his lips, like he’s watching something slowly crack open in you and loves every second of it.
You look away, cheeks burning. “Don’t stare at me like that…”
“Why not?” he says, voice lower now. “You’re beautiful to me.”
You curse him silently for saying it so easily. So genuinely. You want to say something clever, to brush it off like it didn’t hit you straight in the chest—but then his hand is on your face, fingers light against your cheek, tilting your chin gently until you’re forced to meet his eyes again.
He smiles, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “So?” he asks. “What did you think of my kiss?”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Because what are you supposed to say? That it wrecked you? That you’ll never forget the feel of his mouth on yours? That you can still feel the ghost of it against your lips like he’s still kissing you?
You look away again and he chuckles. Low, smug, warm. “Come on. Tell me,” he murmurs.
Then his thumb brushes across your lower lip—soft, slow, lingering. Your breath catches.
“I’ll just give you another one,” he whispers, “so you can figure out your answer.”
And then— He kisses you again. But this time, there’s nothing tentative or slow about it. He kisses you hard. Lips crashing into yours like he’s waited years instead of weeks, like he’s finally allowed to show you what’s really been hiding under all that teasing. His tongue slides into your mouth, warm and hungry, and you respond before you can stop yourself. Your hands are in his hair, his shirt, anything you can grab onto to hold yourself together.
He shifts his weight fully over you, an elbow propped beside your head just to keep himself from crushing you—but god, you want the weight. The press of him. The heat of his body, solid and steady and burning against yours. You arch slightly, chest to chest, and he fits over you like he belongs there. The kiss grows messier, deeper. Teeth graze lips, your nails curl into his shoulders, and your breath is short and shallow between the drag of your mouths.
You can't tell when you stopped thinking. Maybe it was when his tongue slipped into your mouth. Maybe it was the way his hands started roaming—confident, warm, sure. Or maybe it was the moment you stopped pushing him away.
You’re not even sure where his jacket went—just that you’re burning now, every part of you, and the cool night air does nothing to help it.
Felix is all over you now. His mouth trails down your jaw, across your cheekbone, and to your neck. He kisses like he means it. Like he’s wanted this for a long time. And the worst part? You let him. No—you want him to.
You tilt your head without meaning to, baring your throat to him as he presses soft, open-mouthed kisses there—then bites, gentle but claiming. His hand is on your waist, then your thigh, then everywhere at once. Exploring. Possessive.
Your breath hitches as he shifts over you, one knee between your legs, pressing just enough for you to feel the heat of him through the fabric.
It’s dizzying. Too much. And at the same time... Not enough. Then his mouth finds the opening of your dress—his breath hot against your skin—and you feel his lips trail down, slow and deliberate, until he’s mouthing at the swell of your chest.
It doesn't take long until he gets impatient. You feel it in the way his hands move—rougher, needier. With a tug, the neckline of your dress gives way, falling enough to bare your breasts to the night. The air rushes over your skin, cool and sharp, but it's nothing compared to sensation of his mouth meeting your flesh. The hot of his tongue swirling around your nipple. The wet press of lips on your soft mounds. The way he focuses on you like there’s nothing else in the world.
You arch into him, your hand flying to the back of his head, anchoring him there. His tongue flicks—his lips close around your nipple—and suddenly your stomach clenches, heat coiling deep.
Your thoughts blur and you only come back to yourself when you feel his hand again—sliding lower now. Slower. Deliberate. Fingers skimming your inner thigh, teasing along the edge of where you want him most. Not touching. Not yet.
Your body reacts to his touches. Your hips shift, seeking him. Inviting him.
His mouth returns to your neck, voice low, muffled, intoxicating. “Does it feel good?”
You open your mouth, but all that comes out are breathless whimpers.
His hand moves again, and you feel the press of his palm against your sex—over the fabric, light but maddening. He draws slow, lazy circles on your clit right where you’re pulsing for more, and your body shivers beneath him.
Still, you can’t answer. Still, he doesn’t stop.
Then his lips are at your ear again, the heat of his breath skating over your skin. “I’m going to touch you now,” he murmurs, so quiet you almost don’t hear it. “Really touch you.”
Hearing that only tightens the knot inside your stomach and worse is he makes you wait—just long enough to make you tremble—before his hand slips beneath the fabric. Beneath your last barrier. You suck in a breath at the first contact of his hand on your wet cunt.
The way his fingers explore, the way he learns you—he’s not teasing anymore. He’s focused. Intent. Working you open with every glide, every press, every calculated movement like he’s mapping you with his hands.
“Still can’t answer?” he whispers against your skin.
You shake your head. Maybe in protest. Maybe in surrender. You don’t know anymore.
He chuckles softly, like he’s enjoying every second of your unraveling. “Don’t hold back,” he says. “Let me hear you,”
And then—
The tension snaps. You moan, soft at first—then louder, fuller. You can’t contain it. Not with the way he’s touching you, kissing you, covering you like you belong to him. Your head tips back and then you feel it—your whole body winding tighter and tighter until—
Everything explodes.
Silence, except for your breath and the gentle lap of the water around the boat. But somewhere in the haze of it all, your dazed eyes flick upward—and for a second, you catch the stars.
Tiny, glittering specks scattered across a black sky. The soft rock of the boat. The smell of the sea. The jacket around your shoulders. His weight, his mouth, his hands…
You hate it. Because this—this whole thing—it’s beautiful. And Felix? Felix was once again right.
-
Felix can’t believe himself. Scratch that—he can believe himself.
What he can’t believe is how easily you came apart for him. How your body arched, how your moans spilled, how your fingers curled into his shoulders like he was the only thing anchoring you to the world.
He just made you come with his hand and God… you were so beautiful like that. Unglued. Unfiltered. Yours.
You’re still beneath him when he lifts his hand, fingers glistening in the soft light. Without thinking, he slips them between his lips, tasting the evidence of how badly you wanted him—how badly you still do, no matter how much you pretend otherwise. You taste like the ocean and sin. Sweet and sharp.
Felix sighs through his teeth, the heat in his chest simmering slow now. Satisfied, but not done. Not even close.
“You’re so beautiful like that, Professor,” he murmurs aloud, almost absentmindedly.
Your body tenses instantly. It’s subtle, but he feels it. The way your legs clamp shut. The way your arms cross over your chest like you’re trying to erase what just happened. Like you’ve suddenly remembered who you are and who he is.
Shit.
You don’t even look at him when you speak. “I don’t want to do anything more than this.”
The words hit like a slap—cold and clipped—but Felix doesn’t flinch. He blinks, sits back, gives you space.
“Hey,” he says softly, “I wasn’t planning to.”
You still don’t look at him.
So he smirks. Just a little. “Besides, we still have two dates left, remember? Enough time to try a lot of things.”
That makes you glance his way—only to shoot him a glare sharp enough to kill a lesser man.
Felix just grins wider. He lives for that look on your face now. The one that says you want to strangle him and kiss him at the same time. He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. We’re taking it slow.”
Then he flops onto the mat beside you with a dramatic sigh, tucking his hands behind his head, eyes toward the sky like he didn’t just completely ruin you five minutes ago.
“I happen to like it slow,” he adds casually, “makes the payoff even better.”
Your sharp exhale beside him tells him you’re glaring again, and it makes him smile into the stars. Because the truth is he’s not sorry. Not even a little.
He knows you’re back to building your walls again, wrapping yourself in professionalism and distance and control. But it’s too late. He’s already seen what’s underneath.
And now? Now, he’s never wanted anything more than to crack you open all the way—slowly, thoroughly, sweetly.
He’s going to take his time. And you? You’re going to let him. Even if you don’t know it yet.
-
The ride back is quiet.
Not the awkward kind of silence—more like the weighty kind, heavy with everything that was said without words. Everything that happened. Everything that shouldn’t have.
Felix grips the steering wheel with one hand, the other resting on the gear shift, stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye when he can. You’re turned toward the window, face unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line.
You haven’t said a word since you pulled yourself together and climbed into the passenger seat, cheeks still flushed, your arms crossing like they’re trying to hold in all the heat he coaxed out of you.
He gets it. He knows what this is. It’s embarrassment. Guilt. Confusion. And again—he’s not sorry. Not even for a second. Not when he can still feel the shape of you in his hands. Not when his jacket is still draped over your shoulders.
He parks outside your apartment building and kills the engine. The car dips into silence again.
You reach for your bag, already halfway out the door—still trying to flee the moment—when he leans over the console slightly.
“Hey,” he says, just loud enough to make you pause. “You can keep the jacket. Looks good on you.”
Your hand immediately flies up to the collar like you only just remembered it was there. And the moment you do, you’re shrugging out of it like it’s on fire, shoving it into his lap without even looking at him, then you’re out the door. No “thank you.” No “goodnight.”
Felix doesn’t take it personally. He watches as you march up the steps, heels tapping fast against the pavement like you can’t get inside fast enough.
Just before you disappear through the building’s front door, he rolls the window down and calls out. “Goodnight, Professor! Sleep tight. Dream of me.”
You don’t stop. Don’t turn around. But he swears he sees your shoulders tense.
He waits until the door shuts behind you. Waits until he sees the faint flicker of light from your apartment window upstairs—just to be sure you're safely home.
It’s only when he’s alone again that he brings the jacket up to his face, presses it to his nose. It smells like you now. Soft, floral, faintly sweet—your perfume clinging to the fabric in a way that makes his stomach twist and settle at the same time. He smiles to himself in the dark, fingers tightening around the collar of the jacket. He’s not going to wash it. Not yet. Then he turns the engine back on, and the car hums back to life as he drives off into the night—already thinking about what he’ll do with the next date.
Because now he knows exactly how close you are to falling for him and he has every intention of pulling you the rest of the way down.
-
Felix walks through the front door of his parents’ house and is instantly hit with the scent of something warm and sweet wafting from the kitchen. Cinnamon, maybe. Apples. Something homey. It’s the kind of smell that sinks into your skin and makes you feel like a kid again.
He kicks his shoes off by the hallway, but pauses when he notices something new—several boxes stacked by the wall near the coat rack. Some labeled with marker. One of them is slightly open and reveals a pair of heavy-looking boots and what looks like a rolled-up poster tube sticking out. His brows pull together as he aware that these boxes weren’t here the last time he visited.
He brushes it off for now and heads into the dining room, where his mom already has the table set—placemats, cutlery, homemade pie resting under a net cover at the center. She greets him with that familiar warmth and tells him to sit while she finishes up the last of the side dishes.
Mr. Bahng walks in not long after, clapping Felix on the back and sliding into his seat like it’s been a long day already. “Glad you’re here, son.”
Felix grins. “Wouldn’t miss mom's cooking.”
“Smart boy,” she calls from the kitchen.
They dig in not long after she joins them—grilled chicken, sautéed greens, roasted potatoes. Comfort food at its finest. And for a while, it’s just peaceful. Familiar. Family.
But curiosity keeps tugging at Felix so he sets his fork down. “Hey, uh… what’s with the boxes by the door?”
His mom looks up at Mr. Bahng, who chuckles around a bite of chicken. “Oh, that’s Chris’s stuff,” he says, like it’s nothing. “He’s moving in for a bit.”
Felix blinks. “Wait, seriously?”
“Mmhmm,” his mom nods, reaching for her glass. “He just got a placement in the city. Starting work soon. He’ll be staying with us until he finds a place of his own.”
Felix leans back in his chair, letting the news settle.
Chris. Moving in. He hasn’t lived under the same roof with Chris in a while—not since college holidays. But the thought instantly makes him grin.
Chris is… Chris. The kind of older brother who never treated Felix like a nuisance, even back when they first met. Always patient, always willing to listen. Even when Felix was a kid who didn’t know where he belonged in the sudden shuffle of a new blended family. Despite not being related by blood, Chris feels more like a brother than anyone ever could. He’s solid. Reliable. Always there when it matters.
“Man,” Felix says with a chuckle, “that’s awesome.”
His mom smiles, clearly pleased. “I thought you’d be happy. He should be back from overseas next week.”
“I can’t wait,” Felix says. “It’s been too long.”
There’s a warm buzz in his chest now, a genuine excitement he hasn’t felt in a while. Not the same kind of heat he feels when he’s teasing you, not the thrill of chasing what he’s not supposed to have—but something steadier.
He’s missed having Chris around and maybe this whole year’s going to be more interesting than he thought.
“Thanks for lunch, Mom. I’ve got class in an hour, I should head out,” Felix calls out as he pushes back from the dining table, rubbing his stomach.
His mom waves him off from the kitchen sink. “Take some pie with you!”
“Already packed it,” he says with a grin, lifting the foil-covered plate as proof.
He heads to the front door, crouching down to shove his feet into his sneakers. But as he balances on one foot, he loses it—just slightly—and his elbow knocks one of the boxes stacked by the wall.
The lid pops open and its contents tumble out across the floor—books, folders, a pencil case, a couple old notepads with their corners bent.
From the kitchen, his mom’s voice floats out, slightly alarmed. “Everything okay out there, honey?”
“Yeah!” Felix calls back. “Just me being clumsy.”
He sighs and crouches to gather everything back inside. Most of it is harmless. Academic stuff. Some sketchpads. The kind of things that live at the bottom of someone’s closet and don’t see daylight for years. He grabs a weathered notebook and flips it shut, about to toss it back in—when something slips from between the pages.
A photo. It flutters to the ground, landing face-up on the hardwood. Felix immediately reaches for it and holds it in his hand.
There’s a boy in the photo—about nine or ten, cheeks round with youth, arms skinny. He’s grinning ear to ear, dimples sunken deep into his cheeks, the kind of smile that hasn’t yet been weighed down by the world. Chris. Definitely Chris.
But what makes Felix’s breath catch is the girl standing next to him and holding his hand. She looks about the same age. Bright eyes. That same shy-but-curious smile you sometimes wear when you’re not pretending to hate Felix. He knows that face. Knows it too well.
It’s you. There’s no mistaking it.
His chest tightens with something sharp and unfamiliar as he flips the photo over. Sure enough, there it is. Scrawled in faded pen at the bottom corner:
“Chris & Y/N – Summer 2004”
Felix stares at it. Something shifts in his gut. A dull thud against the inside of his ribs. He remembers what his stepdad said about introducing him to a “daughter of an old friend.” How proud he was. How eager he was for Felix to meet you. He didn’t think much of it at the time. Just assumed it was some business acquaintance. But now…
It clicks.
Your dads are friends. Longtime friends. You and Chris? You were childhood friends.
Felix tucks the photo back into the notebook and shoves it deep into the box. Closes the lid tighter than before. Like it might stop his thoughts from racing.
The ride to campus feels longer than usual. One hand on the wheel, one drumming against his thigh, restless. He should be brushing it off. Laughing it away like he usually does.
But something’s different now.
Instead of feeling closer to you, like he’s found another link in the invisible thread tying you to him, Felix feels like he’s trespassing. Like he’s stepping into something that was never meant to be his.
Then his thought drifts to that time he came to that café thinking he was just part of a harmless setup. A playful matchmaking attempt. But now, he wonders.
That night…
When you sat there in that dress, checking the door every few seconds, lips pressed together, nervous as hell—
You weren’t waiting for him. You were waiting for Chris. And when Felix walked in instead? Your disappointment had nothing to do with the date. It had everything to do with who showed up.
The car turns down the familiar campus road, and his grip on the wheel tightens. Felix isn’t sure what stings more—
The lie he didn’t know you were telling. Or the truth that’s starting to settle inside him.
-
Class is nearly over, but you’ve barely registered half the things coming out of your own mouth. You wrap up the last of your lecture with a few half-hearted sentences, distracted by the empty seat near the back of the lecture hall.
It’s the first time Felix's missed class since the semester started.
It shouldn’t bother you. Really, it shouldn’t. You’ve had students skip before. It happens. Life happens. But something about his absence unsettles you more than you’re willing to admit. Maybe because he’s always there. Always in your peripheral, always smirking, teasing, leaning just a little too close when he talks to you after class.
Or maybe it’s because after everything that happened on the boat, part of you expected him to show up today—maybe act smug, maybe act like nothing happened at all—but at least be here.
But he’s not and instead, you’ve spent the entire hour distracted, stumbling over your words and overcompensating by overexplaining theories that didn’t need elaboration.
You tell yourself it’s fine. Better even. That space will do you both good. That last night was nothing but a heat-of-the-moment lapse in judgment and him being gone today is a blessing. Still, as you pack up your things, you feel the smallest pang of something you don’t want to name.
With a sigh, you sling your bag over your shoulder and head toward your office. The halls are mostly empty now, the soft hum of end-of-day quiet settling over the building.
By the time you reach your door, you're already mentally sorting through the stack of ungraded papers and files you shoved into your inbox tray last week.
You’ll focus on work. That’s what you need. Something to ground you. Something predictable.
You open the door to your office and step inside, setting your bag down beside your desk. The room smells faintly of paper and coffee, and it’s quiet. Peaceful.
Finally.
You roll your sleeves up and start organizing the scattered papers across your desk—mind slowly settling, your thoughts just beginning to clear.
Until the door creaks open behind you. You're not expecting anyone, so when your office door swings open without a knock, irritation flares fast.
“Excuse me—” You spin around, ready to scold whoever it is.
But the words never make it out because it's him. It's Felix.
And before you can ask what he’s doing here, why he looks like he hasn’t slept, or what that look in his eyes means—
You barely have time to suck in a breath before his lips crash into yours.
The kiss is hot. Hasty. Desperate. It’s not soft or teasing the way it was on the boat. This one is rough—nearly frantic—like he's trying to prove something. Like he’s trying to erase something.
Your back hits the filing cabinet behind you as he leans in closer, his hand gripping your waist tight. You push at his chest just enough to part your lips from his.
“Felix—” you pant, breathless, “We can't do this here. You—”
Felix swallows your words with another kiss, even deeper than before, mouth hot and hungry against yours. And you try to resist—you should resist—but every time you try to push him away, his hands slide over your body like they already know you’re bluffing. Because they are. You are.
Every second of hesitation only makes him more relentless. Your body betrays you first, melting into his again. Then your hands, wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. And finally your mouth—kissing him back, just as desperate, just as needy.
You’re not sure when it happens, but he’s steering you backward. One slow step at a time. Until the backs of your thighs bump into the edge of your desk. Your palms find the wood behind you, bracing yourself as Felix presses into your space. His mouth doesn’t leave yours, but his hands have already started to wander—fingertips skating down your waist, tugging at the hem of your blouse like he wants it out of the way.
You break the kiss with a gasp, heart pounding, and your voice comes out weaker than it should. “Felix—someone could walk in—”
He dips his head into the crook of your neck, breath hot as it ghosts over your skin. “Then tell me to stop.”
But you don’t. You can’t. Because right now, with the way his mouth finds that sweet spot under your ear, the way his hands slide up your thighs, slow but firm—you don’t want him to.
Felix kisses you again and again and you’re still trying to catch your breath when he finally pulls away, lips swollen, eyes wild. Your heart is hammering, your back still against the edge of your desk, and everything feels too hot—too exposed.
“This is wront,” you whisper, voice trembling. “We shouldn’t be doing this here—”
But he isn’t listening. Instead, he looks at you like he can’t hear anything but the beat of your heart.
His hand slides to the front of your blouse, fingers slipping over the first button. You catch his wrist, but it’s weak—your grip is nothing more than a suggestion. He undoes one button. Then another.
“Felix—” you warn again, quieter this time.
Sunlight pours through the office window, washing over your chest as he parts the fabric, slowly, reverently, like he’s unveiling a masterpiece.
When your skin is bare to him, he sucks in a breath. His hand lifts, fingers grazing lightly over your skin—barely there, but enough to make you shiver.
“I can’t believe,” he murmurs, gaze fixed to the lines of your body, “you stand in front of a whole class looking like this underneath.”
He says it like a confession. A sin he’s desperate to keep committing. “I'll think of this heavenly body when you stand in the front of the class.”
Before you can stop him, his mouth is on your neck—warm, open kisses trailing lower, over your collarbone, down to the edge of your bra. And then he’s pushing it down. Not gently.
You gasp when the cups fall away, your breasts spilling out, exposed to the cool air and the sun pouring through the window.
“Felix—”
But his mouth is already there. Heat rushes to your face as he latches on, tongue circling one sensitive bud while his hand kneads the other, fingers rolling your nipple between them with maddening care. His teeth scrape just slightly, enough to make your knees threaten to buckle.
You bite your lip to suppress the sound that builds in your throat.
He glances up at you, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Shh,” he whispers against your skin, “if you’re not quiet, someone might hear.”
You clench your jaw, trying to stifle the gasp that escapes anyway when he drags his tongue across your breast again—slow, deliberate, wicked.
His other hand is relentless, teasing, squeezing, coaxing more of your body’s reactions. Every nerve feels raw, hyperaware. You're trying to stay still, to stay sane, but the feel of his mouth, his hands, the sunlight on your bare skin—it’s too much and not enough.
You brace yourself against the desk, lips pressed tight, hoping no one walks past your office door. But the only sound in the room is your own ragged breath and Felix’s low voice, murmuring things you’re too overwhelmed to process, with his mouth still on your skin like he’s memorizing every inch of you.
And God help you, you’re letting him.
Your back arches again—instinctive, helpless—as Felix's mouth works your chest and his hand roams lower, setting your nerves on fire. The motion grinds you just slightly against his thigh, creating friction that shoots lightning up your spine.
Felix pulls back just enough to look at you. His lips are red and wet, his breath warm against your cheek. “Do you want me to touch you there now?” he murmurs, voice thick, slow—like velvet dragging across skin.
But he doesn't wait for your answer.
One hand stays at your chest, gently squeezing on your breast as he leans forward, while the other glides down your side, over your hip, until he reaches the hem of your skirt. He slips under it with practiced ease.
His fingers find their way between your thighs, spreading warmth and promise as he presses his palm against your cunt through the thin barrier of your underwear. Your breath stutters as he starts to move it, slow at first, the pressure teasing—deliberate.
“Want me to make you cum again, mmh?” he asks, lips grazing your ear. “Don't you want to feel good like before?”
You can’t speak so your body does the talking, hips arching again to meet the slow drag of his hand on your dampness. The friction makes your legs tremble.
Felix smirks. You feel it against your neck. “Then tell me,” he whispers, “tell me where you want me to touch you.”
His fingers slide down again, shifting under the fabric, brushing past the heat of you. He traces between your folds, drawing a quiet gasp from your throat. You grip the edge of the desk behind you, fingers curling.
His thumb presses against your clit—bare now, exposed to his touch. He moves in gentle, maddening circles. “Here?” he teases, breathless against your cheek. “Or…”
He moves lower, two fingers dragging down, hovering just outside your entrance. “Or do you want me to touch you here instead?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Every thought in your mind has collapsed into sensation. But he knows. Of course he knows. So he sinks his fingers into you and you fall apart almost immediately.
His breath catches against your skin as he groans softly. “God,” he murmurs, “you’re even wetter than the other day.”
He starts moving—slow, deep strokes—his fingers curling just right, finding that spot inside you that makes you tremble all over again. Your jaw slackens. Your body clenches.
Felix presses kisses along your neck, then your jaw. Between strokes, his lips hover by your ear. “Does that feel good?” he breathes.
You nod, but it’s not enough. His thumb returns to your clit, working in sync with his fingers, and your legs begin to shake.
Felix pulls back just far enough to look down—watching, breath hitching as his fingers disappear into you over and over again. “You’re tightening around me,” he mutters, voice dropping into something dark and hungry. “Like you’re going to swallow my fingers whole.”
Your head tips back, but he catches your mouth in a kiss—hot, open, consuming. “God, I want to put my cock inside you,” he groans against your lips. “So. Fucking. Bad.”
The words shatter something in you. Everything—his fingers, his mouth, his voice—it’s too much. You feel yourself teetering on the edge, breath shortening, body winding up so tight it hurts.
“Going to cum, huh?” He innocently asks as if he's not making you a moaning mess as he speaks. But he knows. He always knows.
“Go on,” he whispers, right against your ear. “Let go for me.”
With a soft, broken cry muffled against his shoulder, you let go—clenching around his fingers as pleasure crashes through you in sharp, trembling waves. You let yourself fall—no resistance, no pretense. Just heat, and light, and him.
-
As the last waves of pleasure fade, so does the haze that clouded your thoughts.
The warmth of Felix’s body still lingers against yours, his breath ghosting over your cheek, but your hands reach instinctively for your blouse. You fix the buttons in silence, one after the other, your fingers trembling as you adjust your bra back into place and smooth down your skirt.
The silence between you grows heavy.
Felix doesn’t say anything at first, but when you refuse to meet his eyes, he speaks—quietly.
“Are you okay?”
Your fingers pause mid-button. You look up at him finally, and the question tumbles out of you before you can stop it. “Why are you doing this to me?”
His lips part like he wants to speak, but nothing comes out. His brows draw together. He opens his mouth again, then closes it. Struggling. Hesitating. That alone shakes you more than anything else.
Then finally, he asks, “That night at the café... were you expecting someone else?”
Your heart drops to your stomach and he’s looking at you like he already knows the answer—but still needs to hear it. Needs to hurt himself with the confirmation.
You open your mouth, trying to come up with something to smooth it over, to spare him. “I was only there because your stepdad invited me—”
Felix shakes his head, a hollow laugh escaping him. “No. No, that’s not it.”
You look away as if it would hide you from the truth.
“You were expecting Chris.” His voice is calm. Too calm. It cuts deeper because of it.
“I found the photo,” he continues. “At my parents’ place. You and him, when you were kids. I figured it out.”
Your throat tightens. “It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?” he says, voice rising slightly now, eyes locked on yours. “You looked crushed when you saw me walk through that door. You didn’t even try to hide it.”
You inhale sharply. “Felix, let me—”
“So what was that night then?” he asks. “The boat, the wine, the way you let me touch you... the way you kissed me back. Was that all because you felt bad for me?”
“No,” you whisper, too quickly.
“Then why?” he demands, stepping forward. “Why me?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because you don’t even know yourself.
His gaze flickers across your face, searching. “Is it because I’m not him?”
The question hits you like a slap because a part of it is true but at the same time, you don’t want to hurt him.
“I’m not stupid,” he says, softer now, but his voice is taut with something sharp—hurt or anger, or both. “I know he’s older. That he’s a lecturer now, too. That he’s... respectable. But you think I'm... not worthy of you?”
You shake your head, but no words come.
Felix gestures between you. “You think this—what just happened—that wasn’t real? You didn’t feel that?”
You want to say you did. But the guilt. The shame. The confusion. It’s all too loud.
He exhales, chest rising and falling as he tries to rein himself in. “I’m just as good as him,” he says bitterly. “Maybe better. I see you. I make you laugh. I make you feel.”
His voice lowers. “I’m the one who knows how to touch you right. I’m the one who made you come like that. Not him. Me. So why can’t that be enough?”
You look at him, lips parted, but nothing comes out. Nothing but silence. And he hears it loud and clear.
“Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then he bends down, grabs his bag off the floor, and slings it over his shoulder without another word.
The door creaks as he opens it and when it closes behind him, the sound is deafening. And the worst part? You don't even try to stop him.
-
Felix slams the car door shut with more force than necessary. The engine's dead—again. The third time this week. He leans his forehead against the steering wheel and exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight with irritation.
Of course it won’t start. Of course the world is against him this morning.
His mom had texted him earlier, asking him to come home for breakfast. Nothing special, she said. Just family. Just something warm to start the day. But Felix is cold inside and out.
He curses under his breath, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and stomps down the street to the nearest bus stop, hands shoved deep in his leather jacket pockets. The air smells like burnt toast and traffic fumes. Everything feels grating today.
The bus comes late. And it’s crowded. He squeezes into a seat by the window and slumps into it, earbuds in but no music playing. He doesn’t feel like drowning anything out—not today.
Instead, he just watches the city blur past the glass. But it's not the city he’s really looking at as his thoughts wander and bouncing around from one thought to another.
First, to that day at the café. He remembers the exact look on your face when you saw him walk in—like someone flipped your entire world upside down. You didn’t even try to hide the disappointment. That stung. It still does.
Then the boat. The wine. The stars. The way your lips tasted like something forbidden—like something that never should’ve happened but did anyway. You let him in. Let him touch you. And he thought maybe, just maybe, you saw him. Chose him.
But then... that day in your office. Your silence. Your hesitation. That damn look in your eyes like you’d made a mistake letting him get too close. Like you regretted every second of it.
It’s still there—that pressure, that ache he’s been trying to ignore. He leans his temple against the window, the cool glass grounding him. Sort of. He doesn’t know why he’s letting this get to him so much. He’s not the type to mope or sulk.
But this? This is different. Because he likes you. He wants you. And it’s not just physical. It hasn’t been for a while.
-
The second Felix steps through the front door, he kicks it shut behind him with the heel of his boot and mutters a flat, “I’m here,” loud enough for anyone in earshot.
He doesn’t mean to sound so drained, but he doesn’t bother correcting it either. He leans down to untie his shoes, tugging at the laces like they’re personally offending him. His fingers are stiff from the morning chill and the ride over didn’t help. He’s just about to straighten up when he hears footsteps—quick, familiar ones—and then—
“Hey, little bro.”
He looks up and there he is. Chris. He’s standing just past the hallway, grinning wide like nothing’s changed. Like the last few months apart didn’t matter. Like this is how things have always been.
Chris opens his arms. “What, not gonna hug your big brother?”
Felix just blinks at him. His body stays frozen in place, shoes half-on, his backpack still hanging off one shoulder.
Chris’s grin falters slightly when the silence stretches. He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, still joking but with a touch of genuine concern underneath. “What, you didn’t miss me or something?”
Felix knows he shouldn't compare. He knows Chris is everything he’s not—polished, dependable, the golden boy. But it’s not his fault that he’s everything people compare Felix to—without even trying. That the woman Felix wants... might’ve wanted him instead. It’s not Chris’s fault he’s the one you used to dream about.
Felix swallows thickly, forces his shoulders to relax, and steps forward. He walks into Chris’s open arms and pulls him in for a hug. And weirdly—weirdly—it helps.
Because Chris hugs him back strong and easy, like he always does. Like he doesn’t notice the heaviness sitting behind Felix’s ribcage. And when he claps a hand against Felix’s back, steady and warm, the tension in Felix’s chest eases—if only a little.
Maybe it’s just been a rough morning. Maybe he’s just in his own head too much. Maybe he’s projecting all of this onto Chris when he shouldn’t. Because Chris isn’t the enemy. He never was. He’s just Chris. And he's back.
-
The kitchen smells like warm butter and toasted bread, the scent of home wrapping around Felix like a familiar blanket. His mom is bustling around the counter, plating eggs and pouring orange juice like she’s hosting a royal brunch instead of a small family breakfast.
Felix takes his usual seat at the table, Chris sitting across from him with the same casual energy he always carries—like he belongs anywhere, like nothing could ever shake him.
“God, I missed this,” Chris says, mouth already full of toast as he gestures with a fork toward the spread. “You guys don’t even know how hard it is to get a real breakfast where I lived.”
“Maybe if you stopped ordering delivery at 2 A.M.,” Felix mutters.
Chris grins, unfazed. “Hey, a man’s gotta eat.”
Their mom laughs, giving Chris a playful tap on the back of the head as she sets more food on the table. “He never changes.”
Everything feels normal. The clink of silverware. The sound of Chris rambling about his last few months. His stepdad throwing in occasional dad jokes. His mom glowing with joy now that both her boys are under one roof again.
“So,” Chris starts between bites of scrambled egg, “I’ve got some good news.”
Felix raises a brow as he sips his coffee.
“I’ll be teaching at your university starting next week,” Chris announces, tone light and proud. “They needed someone in the department and my name came up. Perfect timing, right?”
Felix freezes, coffee halfway to his mouth.
Chris beams. “Guess that means I’ll be seeing you around campus a lot, little bro.”
Felix lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Can’t get rid of you, huh?”
Inside… something curls. Not quite jealousy. Not quite dread. Just something uneasy. Because suddenly, the world he’s built with you—quiet and slow and maybe still figuring itself out—feels like it’s going to get crowded.
Chris will be on campus. With you. Around you. And the two of you already have history. A history that Felix now knows runs deeper than he originally thought.
He takes another bite of toast and nods along as the conversation keeps moving, but his mind is elsewhere.
He knows Chris. Chris is kind. Charismatic. Considerate. A genuinely good man. He’s not the type to hurt people. Not the type to steal something that isn’t his. Not the type to steal someone Felix wants. Right?
Still, Felix can’t help it—he glances across the table at his older brother, who’s laughing at something their mom just said, eyes bright and warm. And for the first time that morning, Felix doesn’t taste his food. He tastes something bitter instead.
Once he's finished with his breakfast, Felix stands from the table, brushing crumbs off his jeans and slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I gotta head out early. Bus won’t wait for me.”
His mom frowns, mid-sip of her tea. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? We could’ve packed you some food—”
“I’m good,” he says quickly, offering a reassuring smile. “Really. Breakfast was great as always, mom.”
As he moves toward the door to put on his shoes, Chris rises too, stretching his arms over his head with a yawn. “You taking the bus all the way there?”
Felix nods without turning around. “Yeah. Car’s still being a dick.”
“You sure? I can drop you off,” Chris says, ever casual, ever kind.
Felix pauses, foot halfway into his sneaker. “It’s fine. You just got back, you should rest.”
Chris shrugs. “I’ve got some files I need to hand over at the admin office anyway. Might as well kill two birds with one ride.”
Felix opens his mouth then closes it. He’s out of excuses now and Chris is looking at him with that easy smile, the kind that makes people say yes without thinking twice.
“Alright,” Felix says eventually, trying to sound more grateful than tense. “Thanks.”
“No worries.” Chris grabs his keys and his messenger bag like it’s nothing. Like this is nothing.
-
The hum of the engine and Chris’s occasional humming to the radio fill the car as they cruise down familiar streets. Felix stares out the window, head propped against the glass, the ache in his chest growing with every passing second.
“You’re quiet,” Chris notes, glancing over from the driver’s seat with a half-smile. “That’s not like you. What’s going on in that pretty blond head of yours?”
Felix forces a chuckle. “Just tired.”
Chris doesn’t buy it, not entirely. “How’s school? Finals coming up?”
“Yeah. Busy.”
Chris hums, eyes back on the road, and there’s a beat of silence before he throws it casually: “You seeing anyone?”
The question hits like a sudden gust of cold air and Felix straightens slightly, forcing a nonchalant shrug. “Not really.”
Chris raises an eyebrow. “Not really?” he echoes, voice teasing. “So there is someone.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t have to,” Chris grins, nudging Felix with an elbow. “You’ve got that look—like someone’s got your stomach in knots. Mysterious, broody, lovesick Felix. Who is she?”
Felix laughs, tight and hollow. “You watch too many dramas.”
Chris lets it go—thank God. The rest of the ride plays out in easy small talk and music until they pull into the university parking lot.
“I’ll drop you off by the entrance,” Chris says, already turning toward Felix’s department building before he can object.
“It’s fine, I can walk—”
“Don’t be weird,” Chris waves him off. “I want to see where I’ll be working soon anyway.”
Felix swallows the lump in his throat. “Sure.”
As the car rolls forward, Felix leans back in his seat—until he sees movement from the left. You. Just stepping out of your car, your figure unmistakable even from a distance. Your hair catching the sunlight. The slight sway in your stride.
Felix’s heart stops. He doesn’t move. Just watches, something cold flooding into his chest as your presence fills the parking lot like a warning.
Chris is still talking beside him, something about grabbing food together soon, but Felix hears nothing except the rush in his ears.
You cut through the lot, headed right toward the building. Toward them.
Shit.
Felix debates it. Should he say something? Distract Chris?
It's too late as Chris puts the car in park and opens the door. He steps out and then, in the worst twist of fate—
“Hey!” Chris calls out, voice bright. “Is that you?”
Felix’s eyes widen as you keep walking, one, two, three steps... and then you stop. Your hand pauses mid-swing, your body freezing for a split second before you turn around.
Your expression says it all. The way your eyes widen, lips parting in silent disbelief.
Chris grins like the sun as he strides toward you. “Wow… it is you.”
Felix watches, frozen in the passenger seat, as Chris walks straight into your orbit, completely unaware of the undercurrent crackling in the air. Of the past. Of everything.
You blink at Chris, stunned. A polite smile plays at your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. And behind it—behind the professional front—you’re unraveling. Felix knows it. Because he is too.
He watches from behind the windshield, stomach tight, heart clenching as he suddenly, vividly, desperately doesn’t want to know what happens next.
Because in that moment— in the way you look at Chris… in the way Chris lights up seeing you… Felix realizes something he’s been trying not to. You were never supposed to be his.
And now… he’s no longer sure if you ever will be.
-
✨ COVET: CHAPTER TWO is available on my Patreon ✨
Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!
Losing my shit over this at 6 am 🥲😭🫠😂❤️ Feeling so many emotions but most of all anticipation to see how things will turn. Thanks a lot for this beautifully written work ❤️
♡ Pairing: boyfriend!mingi x chubby!fem!reader x best friend!yunho
♡ Genre: smut/angst
♡ Summary: Yunho hasn't been able to get you out of his head or his life since the night his best friend Mingi fell for you. He tries to look at you as his best friend's girlfriend, surpressing any forbidden feelings that arise for you, but one night and a single forgotten pair of panties is all it takes to make him break. What will he do when you walk in on him in one of his most vulnerable moments? More importantly, what will you do?
♡ Word Count: 7.9k-ish
♡ Warnings: reader's the brat of all brats, just a tad bit manipulative, both Mingi and Yunho simp for her hard, some subby boy vibes w/ a lil dom Mingi, a lil dom reader, jealous Mingi, perv Yunho, kissing, male masturbation, panty sniffing/licking, deep throating, sexual fantasies, penetrative sex, rough sex, marking, oral sex (m receiving), overstimulation, nipple play, choking, low-key breath play, fingering, swallowing, overstumilation, throat fucking, creampie, handjob, things get very wet, general worship, pet names (baby, good boy, baby girl).
♡ A/N: I need to make this clear. This fic is in no way 7.9k words of smut. There's at least 1k words of something else in there so, ya know, I'm not a total pervert (I am a total pervert 💜). I have so much more planned for this trio but this is what I have for now and I hope all of my sexy chubby babes out there have fun with it. Love you my darlings.
There’s something off about you.
Yunho knew it the moment that Mingi brought you home from the club. It wasn’t a rare occasion for Mingi to bring a girl back to the apartment. Usually Yunho would be right by his side, stumbling through the door with his tongue shoved halfway down the throat of a girl whose panties hit the ground before he could even learn her name.
But that night he made the rare decision to stay home. He had a paper due the next day and it was either lock in or fail. So instead of partying with his friends, scoping out his prey for the night, he spent his time rotting on the couch, staring at his laptop until his retinas burned out. Fully consumed by the task at hand, he hardly noticed what time it was when the front door clicked open and you came skipping through like you owned the place.
“Ooh, a smart one” you teased, leaning over the back of the couch to grab a peek at his screen.
You smelled like strawberries and cream with the faintest hint of vodka. Fresh. Sweet. Edible. Your lips were glossy and plush, tinted with a shade of pink that made them particularly kissable. Even by the quickest glimpse of you in his peripheral he could tell that you were pretty. Not pretty like things people take pictures of. Pretty like things men start wars over.
“What’s your name?” you asked, extending a smooth, manicured hand out to greet him.
Mingi groaned, his arms already around your waist to usher you towards the bedroom, “It doesn’t matter what his name is.”
“Yunho” he managed, turning to get his first full look at you. Heat rushed to his cheeks at the sight of you in that tiny black dress. It clung to your curves for dear life, making every part of you look especially plump in ways that made the heat rush to other parts of his body.
“Yunho?” you giggled, your fingers skimming his, leaving little sparks of electricity dancing at his fingertips. You didn’t say his name. You sang it like a lullaby, your eyes seeming to twinkle at the sound of it. “I like that name.”
Mingi was all over you, ready to tear you apart, and you were doing nothing at all to stop him but somehow you still seemed fixated on Yunho. Or maybe he was the one fixated on you. “I’ll see you later, Yunho” you winked, Mingi nibbling at your neck just enough to make you moan it out.
You were just another girl. Mingi’s girl at that. Yunho knew he shouldn’t care and yet he found himself staring at the spot you were once in long after you’d left it. He couldn’t understand what it was about you but he wanted you to come back. Lean over the couch again. Whisper in his ear. Say his name.
“Yunho? I like that name.”
Shrugging it off, he rubbed his exhausted eyes, dragging his attention back to the task at hand. What he felt was nothing. Just some weird side effect of sleep deprivation. It’d be gone in the morning and so would you. Only that wasn’t true at all. The feeling didn’t go away and neither did you. Not that morning or the morning after that or the morning after that. Mingi kept bringing you around and that feeling—this almost surreal pull you seemed to have to you—only worsened with each passing day.
Mingi felt it too. Yunho knew that he did. The only difference was that Mingi could indulge in it. In less than a week you were Mingi’s girlfriend and he was crazy about you. Ravenous almost. Yunho had never seen him get this way over a girl. Anything you wanted, everything you wished for. You only had to ask and Mingi would stop the world to make sure you had it. More than once Yunho wanted to stop his best friend and ask, “What’s she doing to you?” Were you a witch? A demon? Some magic being that had cast a spell upon his best friend, making him your zombie slave.
Whatever you were, your presence in the apartment was driving Yunho insane. He couldn’t stand to hear your voice because he heard it in his dreams. He couldn’t stand to see your face because it’s all he pictured when he closed his eyes at night. Anytime your body was anywhere near him his fingers seemed to tingle with the urge to touch you. Even when you weren’t around the scent of your perfume lingered in the air so that he couldn’t forget you once. Not for a second. Your existence was a small form of torture. Wanting you, longing for you, but not being able to have you was enough to make him insane.
There’s something off about you and Yunho can’t explain it. He can’t justify why he so desperately needs Mingi to get rid of you and he can’t justify why he’s standing outside of the bathroom door listening to you as you sing in the shower, blissfully unaware of his presence. It wasn’t his intention to end up here. He’d been on his way to the kitchen to grab a snack when he noticed the door was cracked and the shower was on. Naturally he’d assumed it was Mingi but before he could go on his way your singing pulled him back.
You’re adorable when you sing. You’ve done it around him before—cheesy pop songs at karaoke nights—and each time he finds it more endearing than the last. In the back of his mind he knows he shouldn’t be standing here. He doesn’t even know why he’s standing here. Maybe the answer’s something wholesome like him wanting to be near you when you’re doing something cute or maybe it’s something filthy like him getting hard at the knowledge that on the other side of that door you’re completely naked. Or maybe it’s somewhere in between. Either way he knows it’s not right. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be feeling this.
“Get it together. What’s wrong with you?” he groans, raking his hands down his face. He presses his palms into his cheeks, fingers drumming at his temples. “We have to get out of here.”
“Hello?” you call out and Yunho’s heart stops dead in his chest. He doesn’t move an inch. He doesn’t even breathe. He couldn’t if he wanted to. There’s no way you heard him.
“Hello?” you repeat, peeking your head out from behind the shower curtain. Fuck, you heard him. You wait a moment, positive that you heard something but not entirely sure what. Glancing over at the mirror you catch the reflection of a silhouette just outside the door. “Mingi, if you’re trying to scare me it won’t work. I can see you.”
Yunho’s plan to run in the other direction is halted by your words. You’ve already seen him. He can’t just run away now. If he does and you mention it to Mingi later you’ll know it was Yunho anyway. You’ll think he’s a creep and a pervert. As if him standing here to begin with does anything to argue against that theory.
Clearing his throat, Yunho digs deep to find the most normal explanation for his current position. “I’m sorry. I just had to use the bathroom. I didn’t know—”
“Oh, Yunie! Hold on a second!” Switching the water off, you reach out to grab your towel from the hook and toss it around yourself. “I’m sorry if I was hogging the bathroom” you apologize, hurrying out to gather your things. You expect him to come in but when he doesn’t you open the door yourself to find him standing there like a lost puppy. A terrified lost puppy.
“Yunie, you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I…uh…I…” he stutters, struggling to find the right words—or any words at all—in the presence of your half naked body in front of him. Even wrapped in a towel you’re glorious to look at. What skin that's left showing is more than enough to fuel the imagination and he wishes it weren’t.
“You…uh…you what?” you tease, feeling guilty when he averts his gaze from you, his energy growing even more anxious than before. “Calm down. I’m just messing with you. Seriously though, everything okay?” You rest your hand on his chest, smoothing over the soft white cotton of his t-shirt. His chest tenses at your touch, his heart picking up speed. It thumps against your hand like the beating of a drum and you twiddle your fingers along to the tune. “If you ever need anything, Yunie—”
Yunho slips around you to get into the bathroom, knowing he’ll combust if you touch him for any longer. “Thanks but I’m good, really. I just needed to use the bathroom.”
You giggle, turning to bid him farewell, “Well alright then. You have fun in here.”
You’re barely out of the bathroom when Yunho’s pushing the door closed behind you, listening for your footsteps before rushing to the sink to splash cold water on his face. This is borderline embarrassing. All you did was touch his chest and he’s short circuiting. What’s wrong with him? The sensation of something pulsing elsewhere on his body brings his attention down below his waist where a rise in his sweatpants has his cock pressed right up against the edge of the sink.
“Seriously? This is not the time” he whispers down at it, knowing that there’s no way he can leave the bathroom in this condition. At least not until he’s sure you’re really gone. Reaching down to readjust himself, his attention’s drawn to something blue lying on the ground near his feet. At first he’s unsure what it is, it’s all bundled up, indiscernible from any other fabric, but when he picks it up there’s no mistaking what the lace blue fabric is or who it belongs to.
Your panties dangle from his fingertips, delicate and pretty, a little silk bow adorning the front band. Yunho’s no stranger to the type of panties that you like to wear—he’s caught a glimpse of them once or twice when your dress was shorter than you might’ve known—but touching them is different and the added knowledge that you’ve worn them has him straining even harder against his boxers. The voice in the back of his head whispers that he should put them back. Leave them right where he found them and walk away before he does something he shouldn’t.
But there’s another side of him, one that would gnaw its own arm off for any piece of you, and it has him burying his face in your panties, every inhale filling his lungs with the sweetness of your scent. He loses himself in thoughts of what it must be like to have his face pushed between your legs, your pillowy thighs resting on his shoulders as he drags his tongue along your slit. His tongue darts out, soaking the lace and he swears he can taste you. His free hand finds the waistband of his sweatpants, shoving them aside with his boxers in one swift motion to take himself into his hand.
Yunho hisses at the satisfaction of his palm skimming his length as his cock slips free. “Yunie” you always call him. He doesn’t know when you started calling him that but every time you do it does something to him. Would you call him that while the tip of his tongue’s circling your clit? Would you tug at his hair, grinding yourself against his face, and say “Yunie”? Precum leaks from his cock as he circles the tip, your panties becoming a gag to muffle the sounds escaping his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, desperate not to catch the slightest glimpse of himself in the mirror.
The sick part is he doesn’t know if that’d stop him. He should probably feel bad but there’s no room for a conscience right now. There’s only room for you flooding his taste buds. Only room for the pursuit of a high unlike any he’s felt before. The pressure building inside of him is almost too intense, his knees going weak each time he strokes his cock.
Biting down on the fabric, Yunho feels the muscles in his stomach tighten. His slick fingers dance up and down his shaft as he thrusts into his fist. Are you one of those girls who closes her eyes when she cums or do you leave them open? Would you stare down at him with tears in your eyes, your bottom lip quivering just as you’re on the edge of your high?
“Yunie” you whisper into the void of his fantasies, “I told you if you ever needed anything…”
Your voice sounds so clear. It rings in his ear as if it isn’t coming from the depths of his mind but from you directly. Yunho’s eyes open slowly, cautiously, to find out why it seems that way. Because it is that way. You’re standing right there beside him in your towel, watching him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
When you realized that you’d left your panties behind you didn’t expect to come back to this but you aren’t exactly complaining. You’ve always known that Yunho had a thing for you and the harder he tries to pretend that he doesn’t the more obvious it is.
You almost feel bad for how much fun you have teasing him when you all hang out together. He probably thinks it’s all accidental. Your hand brushing his when you walk by, your panties peeking out when you bend over, your voice getting a bit lighter when you say his name. All of it’s intentional. Done for the express purpose of seeing how far you can push him before he breaks. Seeing him standing here with your panties stuffed between his lips, his cock leaking all over the tile floor, you figure he must’ve hit his limit. How lucky you are to be here to see it.
Cupping his cheek, you gently trace his jawline, pressing your body against his side. “Don’t stop,” you coo, staring into his warm brown eyes, “Be a good boy and cum for me.”
You’re gorgeous. As gorgeous as you were the day he first saw you. Gorgeous enough to make the word “shame” non-existent. His fingers are still wrapped around his shaft, his cock throbbing in his grasp as your lips grow closer to his. When you’re close enough to feel the lace brush your lips, you pluck it away with your teeth, no barriers left between the two of you. He’s trembling, on the verge of falling apart and you’ve never wanted anything more.
“Tell me, Yunie. What’s my pussy taste like?” You tilt your head, brushing his lips with yours, and his body shudders one last time before he’s gushing down his hand, warm droplets of cum marking his sweatpants and pooling on the sink. He pulls away from you, fighting back what’s left of his orgasm as he tries to catch his breath.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck” he whines, reality hitting him like a freight train. Fumbling to fix his pants, he looks back at you to find you giggling.
“You’re so cute you’re flustered” you say, your panties now secure in your hand. You can see him spiraling. The pleasure of his high and the confusion of your reaction splitting his world in two. Approaching him casually, you offer him a quick peck on the cheek. A treat for a job well done. “You might wanna clean yourself up. Oh and thanks for holding onto these for me” you smile, shoving your panties into his pocket, “But you can keep them.”
Exiting the bathroom as quietly as you came in, you disappear down the hall leaving Yunho alone to pick up the pieces of whatever that moment was. There’s something off about you and now Yunho knows it for sure. But why does that make him want you more?
“Oh come on! Are you serious?” Mingi yells into his headset, the scene playing out on the TV mere seconds from launching him into a blind rage.
You’d advised him to do something relaxing before bed. Listen to some rain sounds. Do some yoga. Drink a nice cup of chamomile tea and read a book. Unsurprisingly, jumping on the game with Jongho and Wooyoung wasn’t anywhere at the top of that list. It wasn’t even on it.
“Stop yelling at him, it’s not his fault!” Jongho shouts back, defending Wooyoung despite knowing that the mistake was kinda his fault.
“Mingi, what’d we say about yelling?” you ask, shuffling past the war zone on screen to grab something from the dresser.
Mingi pouts, sitting up in bed, “It’s not my fault, baby. They’re betraying my moral loyalty here.”
Wooyoung scoffs, surely rolling his eyes on the other end, “You’re so dramatic.”
“I am not dramatic!”
Slipping out of your towel, you toss on a baggy shirt and hop into bed with your boyfriend. “You are kinda dramatic” you tease, cuddling up beside him. Mingi throws a look back at you, one ripe with betrayal, and you rub his lower back to soothe the pain.
Mingi giggles, your fingers like magic to the muscles of his back. “Don’t start. You know that’s my spot.”
Jongho audibly cringes, “Alright. Match over. I’m out before this gets weird.”
“You’re going to bed already?” Mingi whines, “I was just getting started.”
“Tell ‘baby’ we said goodnight” Wooyoung says and Jongho hops right in with him.
“Goodnight, baby.”
“They said goodnight” Mingi huffs, his fingers at the ready to click the game off.
“Goodnight boys!” you sing just before Mingi rips his headset off, tossing it off to the side with his controller.
Never happy to see Mingi sulking, you take him by the arm, guiding him to lay by your side. He settles right in, tucking his arms around your waist to hold you tight. For all the things he’s tried to help him unwind, nothing’s ever seemed to work as much as being next to you has. Just the feeling of your body beside his like this, your fingers massaging his scalp as he runs his hand along the arch of your hip, is enough to make him forget that anything else in the world exists. It’s one of many reasons he rarely ever lets you leave. You wonder why you’re even paying rent at your place at this point. Outside of work 90% of your time is spent here with Mingi and—
You chew at your bottom lip, recalling what occurred a few minutes ago. You and Mingi aren’t the type to keep secrets from each other. Especially not about something like this. It might be Yunho’s worst nightmare for you to tell him but there would’ve never come a day where you didn’t.
“Baby” you sigh, playing up an innocent voice that signals to him you’re about to say something not so innocent.
Mingi grabs his phone, opening it up to check his notifications, “What’d you do?”
“What’d I do? Why’s it always something I did?”
“You know I didn’t mean it like that” he swears, kissing you on the nose, “So, what’d you do?”
You tug harshly at his hair, your own bit of revenge, “I didn’t do anything, well, I mean, kinda? You know how I had to go back and get my underwear from the bathroom?”
Mingi nods, invested in some message sent to him through the group chat but still allotting some attention to you.
“Well…” you continue, “I found them and they were kinda…in Yunho’s mouth?”
Mingi begins to type a text message but stops in his tracks at the conclusion of your sentence. “They were what?”
“He kinda sorta had them in his mouth and his dick was in his hand but it wasn’t, like, weird or anything” you ramble, trying to explain enough that the stunned look on your boyfriend’s face fades. If that were ever possible.
Mingi responds to you with a long span of silence broken by hysterical laughter. “I knew it! I knew it! I told you. He’s a pervert.”
“Mingi, he’s not a pervert” you scold, finding the word a tad harsh.
“I mean, I’m a pervert too” he shrugs, “I’m not that much of a pervert though. I knew he liked you but I didn’t know he was that serious about it. That’s kinda pathetic actually.”
“Pathetic? So, what are you saying? You’d never suck on my panties?” you ask, just to get a rise out of him.
Mingi pinches the bottom of your shirt, raising it up to expose your lack of panties. “If you ever wore any around me maybe.”
You swat his hand away, taking your turn to pout, “That’s not the point, Mingi.”
Dropping his phone, Mingi stares intently at you, seriously contemplating Yunho's actions and your reaction to them. “Then what’s the point? You saw him doing it and what? You liked it?”
There’s a shift in the bass of his voice, something different about his body language. You know what it looks like when your boyfriend gets jealous and with a few simple words you’ve more than gotten him there.
“I never said I liked it.”
Mingi rests a hand on your leg, skimming along your velvet skin to tuck a thumb right where your thighs kiss. “You never said you didn’t like it. Is that what you want me to be? Some pathetic little boy beating my dick to you cause I can’t have you for myself?” He slides his thumb up higher, coming into contact with your clit and he can already feel how swollen it is.
A moan threatens to escape you, racing its way to the tip of your tongue but you choke it back, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “What would be so bad about that? Huh? Am I not good enough for you to beg for?” you ask, grabbing his wrist to still the slow circles he makes around your clit.
Pressing harder against the sensitive nub, he grins at how your hips instinctively raise to meet his touch, “Don’t be a brat. You want it.” Even with the death grip you have on his wrist, he manages to sneak two fingers between your legs, dragging them along your entrance. You can feel yourself clenching, your arousal coating his fingers as he teases your slit. He’s right, you do want it, but you want something else much more.
“What I want…” you say, your other hand clamping around his wrist, “Is for you to beg for it or you get nothing and I mean nothing.” You push him away, rolling over on your side, your back turned to him in the ultimate act of defiance. “Goodnight, Mingi.”
It pains you to do this. Your clit’s throbbing from just a few seconds of contact, the warmth pooling below your waist worsening all the while, but you can’t let him have this. You never can.
Mingi cuddles up behind you, his chin propped up on your shoulder. He’s giving you the eyes, those shimmering brown boba eyes that always make you soft for him, but you aren’t even looking his way.
“You aren’t really going to sleep are you?” he pouts, sliding a hand up your shirt to squeeze your side.
You throw out a fake yawn, shifting in bed to get more comfortable, and let your eyes fall closed, pretending he isn’t there. That’s the worst thing you can do to Mingi. Ignore him. Deprive him of your affection. He loves to present himself as indifferent, a man fully unaffected by whether you want him or not, but if you pull away even an inch he’s groveling at your feet. You enjoy it, maybe a little too much, but a girl has to have her fun.
“Baby, turn back over…” he whispers, trailing kisses up your neck. He stops right behind your ear, his breath tickling the back of your neck, “Please.”
A chill washes over you and you arch your back, pushing your ass back into his growing bulge. You can’t help the faint smile that creeps across your lips at the sound he makes in response. He sounds like he wants you so badly it hurts. Good.
Gently nibbling at your ear, Mingi cups one of your breasts, his thumb and pointer finger coming together to apply light pressure to your nipple as it stiffens for him. “Pretty please. Just turn around. Just look at me, please.”
The decision to give in isn’t an easy one. You could keep going like this all night if you wanted to, letting him have just enough of you to keep him hard until the sun rises, but you decide not to. Not out of compassion or pity but out of your own selfish desire to see the look on Mingi’s face when he’s this needy.
Turning to face him, you find yourself far from disappointed at what you see. He has that look, the same one that Yunho did when he realized you were standing beside him, like the sun sets and rises in your eyes. It’s addictive.
“You want me, Mingi?” you tease, your hand disappearing into his pants to palm the cock that aches so badly for you. You trace the veins along his shaft with your fingertips, feeling the blood rush to its swollen head.
Mingi’s on the verge of a whimper, his mouth crashing into yours in an attempt to conceal it, but it tumbles out anyway and you stroke him faster, always wanting more.
“Want you…mmm…need you” he mumbles between sloppy kisses, his arousal coating your palm. “Please…fuck…I need…I need…”
Snatching your hand back, you grab onto his shoulders, rolling him on top of you. You tug your shirt up over your head to leave yourself naked beneath him, your breasts sitting beautifully on your chest. “If you want me then take me.”
You present it as if it’s a challenge. In a way it is and Mingi has no intention to back down. He’s on you before you can say another word, devouring your figure with his hands. You clumsily help him out of his clothes, tickled by his eagerness. It isn’t that Mingi doesn’t notice your amusement. It’s more so that he doesn’t care when he plans to fuck it right out of you anyway.
“Mingi!” you squeak when he snatches you up, forcing himself between your legs, your ankles resting at his shoulders, his fingers digging into your plush hips.
He aligns himself with your entrance, pushing the tip in to watch your juices leak around him and pulling back out at the last second. Licking his lips, he slides two fingers through your folds, rolling your clit between them. “Do you know how pretty you are?”
“I don’t know” you pant, your body tingling from head to toe, “Show me.”
Technicolor dots sprinkle your vision as he slams into you all at once, his thickness stretching you beyond what you remembered he could. You can’t control the way your body vibrates in response to the pleasure, the fullness almost too much to handle. Mingi reaches out for your neck, his fingers closing around it as his hips snap into you harder. You feel helpless, completely at his mercy, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
“You’re so fucking wet for me, baby” he grunts, his gaze drifting down to the place where your bodies meet. Each and every time he pulls back his cock’s wetter than before, dripping with juices so decadent he’d get down on his knees and lap them up right now if you asked him to. “You think Yunho could get you this wet? Think he could fuck you like me? Hmm?”
You part your lips but nothing comes out, just short uneven breaths mimicking the English language. Mingi leans in close to you, his grip loosening, “Can he do it? Can he fuck you like I can?”
“Aah…n-no…mmph” you moan, holding onto his biceps to keep yourself steady, “Only you, Mingi.” His hand closes around your throat once more and your words are lost again. Hooking an arm behind one of your legs, he pushes your knee to your chest, slipping in even deeper, and your vision blurs with tears, your stangled moans filling the air.
Mingi can’t get over how precious you are. How ridiculously perfect you look taking his cock. From the first night he met you he knew that no other girl could make him feel the way that you do. You fit him like a glove. It’s like every groove and every dip, all the finer details of your walls, were crafted especially for him. Yunho could never make you feel this way because you weren’t made for him. You were made for Mingi. Even your body knows it. It tells him by the way it responds, clenching around him so tightly that he can barely move.
“Baby…” you manage, locking your legs around him. You don’t need to say anything else. Your walls spasm so wildly that he can’t ignore the signs. You’re dangerously close and he’s right there with you. He has been from the start. He could’ve cum from the feeling of you alone and it took everything in him not to.
“Say my name” he commands, reaching between you to play with your clit.
Your body trembles from the overstimulation. It’s like you’re on a rollercoaster. Higher and higher, so high you’d think you were floating, and then that earth shattering, mind blowing drop.
“Mingi!” you cry his name out loud and clear.
Mingi turns your neck loose, enveloping you in a kiss just in time to spill into you, his seed filling you up deep inside, dripping down your thighs to make a warm sticky mess. Your tongues are still entangled when you both come down. Your spent bodies melting into each other’s.
“You can have your fun” Mingi whispers between your lips, “Just make sure you remember who you belong to.”
He eases down on the bed, resting his head on your chest, and you run your fingers through his hair, planting a kiss on his forehead. You smile to yourself, knowing that you got exactly what you wanted in every way. How cute it is that Mingi thinks you’re the one that belongs to him when he’s the one who belongs to you.
He can’t go out there. Yunho’s been pacing his bedroom floor for 15 minutes trying to figure out what to do. But whatever he does he can’t go out there. He thought that if he woke up early enough he’d be able to prevent this but by the time he finished brushing his teeth you were both wide awake. Now he can hear the two of you in the kitchen, playing your music and cooking breakfast like you always do.
He turns to his bedroom window, contemplating how bad a fall from the 6th floor could really be. He’s tall enough to make it…maybe? Maybe he could call out of work. He has enough vacation days to make up for it. He could just crawl back into bed and pretend to be sick, hiding away until both of you left the apartment.
The possibility dawns on him that you haven’t told Mingi at all. If you had, he probably would’ve murdered Yunho in his sleep. If not then why? What reason could you have for keeping this a secret? Then again, what reason do you have for anything you do?
“What? Are you dead?” Mingi says, bursting into Yunho’s room, nearly giving him a heart attack.
Yunho tries to act natural, scrambling to pick up a few things from the floor to pretend he’s cleaning. “Knock much?”
Mingi pats him on the back, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Stop being so sassy. Breakfast is ready. Come eat with us.”
“I-I can’t. I have to get ready for work.”
“You don’t work for what? Another hour? You’ve got time. Come on” Mingi insists, emptying the contents of Yunho’s arms onto the nearby bed.
Yunho stands frozen, unsure what to do. He’s always found Mingi’s stubbornness charming but in this moment he completely despises it. “I told you I can’t—”
“Let’s go!” Mingi cheers, yanking Yunho out towards the kitchen before he can think of protesting again.
Yunho blinks, his eyes adjusting to the bright sunny kitchen where you dance around the table pouring drinks into three glasses. The plates are already set, the delicious aroma of an expertly cooked breakfast filling the apartment. Your food’s always the best, he usually rushes to the table to inhale it, but today he stares at it like it’s been secretly poisoned.
“Good morning, Yunie” you sing, twirling past him to place the container of juice back in the fridge.
Yunho takes a seat, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer than he’d like it to. You’re wearing the same shirt from last night with the addition of a pair of rose pink panties and some cute mismatched socks from Mingi’s favorite anime. Your hair’s messy but not a mess and you’ve yet to put your makeup on. Both men prefer you like this but only one can admit it.
Mingi sits across from him, digging right into his meal. “So…” he says through a mouthful of food, “Are we going to Wooyoung’s party later or what?”
“Eat” you whisper, gesturing towards Yunho’s plate and he does. “I don’t know, baby. I just have this feeling that somehow you’re gonna end up on that stupid fucking game and I’ll just be sitting there bored by myself. Unless, of course, Yunie’s gonna come keep me company.”
Yunho nearly chokes on his food, rushing to take a sip of his drink to wash it down. “Keep you company? I don’t think…I mean…I don’t really know if I’ll have time. I’m kinda busy tonight”
Mingi tilts his head, eyeing Yunho curiously, “You’re acting weird today. What’s up with you?”
“Weird? I’m not acting weird.”
“Mingi, leave him alone” you sigh, easing down into Mingi’s lap. You pick a strawberry from the plate of fruit at the center of the table, flicking the leaves away. “If he doesn’t wanna come, he doesn’t wanna come. Maybe our boy has a date or something.”
“I don’t have a date” Yunho’s forcing out so quickly the worlds almost get jumbled. There've been girls in the past, too many to remember, but lately he’s found himself uninterested in them, his brain too preoccupied with one in particular to focus on any others, and for some reason he finds himself longing for you to know that.
You take a bite of the strawberry, your lips pursed sensually around the fruit. Some juice drips down your chin and you wipe it away, licking it from your fingers. “So you’ll come for me then, Yunie?”
Yunho’s jaw nearly drops to the floor. You couldn't have said what he thought you said. He must still be half asleep. “I’m sorry. What’d you just say?”
“You’ll come for me. To the party.”
“Oh…yeah, the party. I’ll come.”
Turning back to feed Mingi the remainder of the strawberry, you share a knowing glance before turning back to Yunho.
“What did you think she said?” Mingi asks, honing in on Yunho’s weak spot like a trained sniper ready to pull the trigger.
It’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop. No one moves. No one speaks. Yunho’s so nervous it’s oozing off of him and you can feel it creeping across the table right into your lap. Just as the tension becomes unbearable you and Mingi erupt into laughter giving Yunho the feeling that there’s a joke he isn’t in on and he doesn’t like it one bit.
“Thank you for the food but I really should get ready for work” he huffs, pushing his chair back to get up.
“No, wait, hold on!” you say, hopping from Mingi’s lap right into Yunho’s. You poke out your bottom lip, batting your eyelashes at him sweetly. “I didn’t make you mad did I?”
“I’m not mad at you, I—” his sentence trails off as he registers where you are. Straddling his lap…with no pants on…and your boyfriend sitting close enough to punch his teeth out.
Yunho keeps his hands at his sides, careful not to touch you, but that does nothing to stop you from touching him. Brushing his hair out of his face, you subtly grind yourself down onto his lap, marveling at how handsome he looks fresh out of bed. “You look sexy with your hair pushed back. You should wear it like that tonight.”
“Y-you should get up” he stutters, dodging any chance of eye contact with Mingi. He doesn’t want to push you off but he doesn’t want to get hit either.
“Do you want me to get up or do you think he does?” Placing your arms around Yunho’s neck, you lace your fingers together, leaning your head back to address your boyfriend. “Baby, you want me to get up?” Mingi shakes his head, fully invested in the plate of food in front of him. “See? My boyfriend says ‘Yes’. What do you say?”
Yunho takes a deep breath, the room suddenly feeling ten times smaller than it previously was. “What do I say about what?”
Mingi takes another quick bite of his food, rising from his seat to stand beside you. You look up at him with the brightest smile. His little demon. “What do you say about her?” he says, kissing you so deeply you almost tip out of Yunho’s lap. When he breaks from the kiss he pets your hair as your lips drift closer to Yunho’s mouth.
“You want me, Yunie, yes or no?” you ask despite being able to feel the answer stiffening between your legs.
Yunho hesitates, his eyes flicking back and forth between Mingi and you. Mingi. You. Mingi. You. Mingi. You. Yunho grabs your face, kissing you hungrily, months of pent up tension pouring onto your lips. You must admit, you didn’t know he had this in him. There’s enough passion to get drunk off of and you’re ready to down every shot of it he’ll give you.
Not one to share you too much, Mingi grabs the back of your neck, pouring his everything into another kiss. He only has you to himself for a split second before Yunho’s pulling you back to him. You find yourself breathless, being bounced back and forth between two men so quickly that everything’s a blur. There’s a mouth on you at all times. Pressed to your own. Kissing your neck. Marking your collarbone.
Tilting you back towards the table, Yunho pushes your shirt up, capturing one of your breasts in his mouth. It fills the space between his cheeks, muffling his moans as he twirls his tongue around your bud. Still kissing you, Mingi reaches down to cup the other, enjoying the weight of it in his hand.
“Mmph, harder” you moan for both of them to hear.
They’re beyond happy to do as you ask. Yunho’s teeth and Mingi’s fingers closing around your nipples. You can’t touch your panties to say for sure but you know they must be wet. Completely soaked through. Ruined.
Reaching your hand out to hold onto Mingi’s leg, you mistakenly come in contact with his clothed cock. The first brush may be an accident but the second isn’t and neither is the third. Determined not to let Yunho feel left out, you squeeze your hand between your bodies, massaging his bulge through his pants. Neither man can hide the ecstasy of what you’re doing to them, rutting themselves against your palm and moaning like it’s the best thing they’ve felt in their lives.
What’s that word Mingi used to describe Yunho again? “Pathetic” was it? What would he call himself now? Is this not pathetic? Is this not pitiful? For you it’s none of the above and both in the same breath. They’re both pitiful in a needy, endearing sense. In a sense that you want them to be this way over you and only you. There was once a day where you couldn’t imagine anything better than one man who’s willing to worship you but now you know there’s something much better. Two.
Tucking a finger between the band of Mingi’s underwear and his bare skin, you tug at the elastic. “Gimmie” you command, your head back, tongue sticking out to the sky. You do the same to Yunho and your body rises as he rocks his hips, freeing himself from the confines of his pants.
Yunho’s heard you with Mingi before. The walls in this apartment aren’t the thickest and you’re far from one of the quieter girls Mingi’s been with. He’s gotten off to the sound a couple of times, picturing how you might look in all manner of ways, but he never imagined he’d actually be here to watch you open your mouth expectantly, taking Mingi’s cock to the back of your throat like gag reflexes don’t exist.
Mingi strokes your cheeks, admiring how puffy they get with him filling them up. “You’re doing so well, baby, fuck…” he beams and you wiggle your tongue on the underside of his shaft, relaxing the muscles of your throat to take him better. In your hand Yunho’s dripping with enough arousal for your hand to smoothly skate up and down his length, circling the rim with your thumb before massaging it back to the base.
You easily set a rhythm, perfectly balancing the two. Mingi in your mouth and Yunho in your hand. The arch of your tongue. The rotation of your wrist. With Mingi it’s simple, you know what he likes and you know how to do it, but with Yunho it’s different. You have to learn him as you go. Which spots make him quiver. Which angles make him twitch. Lucky for the both of you, you’re a quick learner and symphony of hushed moans whispers that you’re doing it just right.
Keeping an arm looped around your waist, Yunho gradually pushes your panties aside, giving you every opportunity to protest. When all you do is push your hips toward him he takes it as a sign, rolling his thumb through the warmth of your folds to find your clit. Your body jerks when he bumps up against it, a melodic hum of satisfaction vibrating around Mingi’s cock.
You lift your hips letting another of Yunho’s fingers slide along your entrance. When you come back down his finger slips in, your drenched hole sucking it right up. There’s an audible squelching as he swishes his finger around, your juices already leaking down into his palm. His fingertip finds that soft, spongy spot inside of you and curls into it, and you rock into him. Your body’s way of saying, “Yes. More. Please.” Yunho hears you loud and clear, pressing harder, delving deeper.
Hearing your moans turn to strained whines, Mingi grabs the back of your head, gliding himself out of your mouth until just the head of his cock rests at the edge of your tongue. His cock’s still pulsing, pink and glistening with your spit, as the tip traces your puffy lips leaving them shimmering with his precum. You wiggle your tongue, pushing your head forward to draw him back in but he doesn’t let you.
“Breathe for me” he says, teasing you with an inch, “I can’t have my baby girl choking, can I?”
Following his instructions you take a few deep breaths, feeling the cool rush of air through your lungs. You hadn’t even noticed the deprivation and the sudden introduction of hair leaves your head spinning.
“You okay?” Yunho asks, running a comforting hand across the small of your back.
“I’m okay” you smile as cutely as you ever have, offering Mingi the same confirmation. “I’m okay so give it back to me now.”
“You want it that badly?” he asks and you nod impatiently. “Then take it.”
Mingi thrusts into your mouth, stealing away your last breath of precious air. With how hard he’s fucking your throat you’d think it’s been weeks. You’d think he wasn’t just inside of you last night making you scream his name like it’s the only word you know.
Drool leaks down your chin, your hollowed out cheeks greedily accepting everything he gives you. Yunho sneaks another finger inside of you, scissoring you open, spreading you wide, his thumb still rubbing your clit at a merciless pace. At the start you were intentional, calculating your every move, but now your movements are mindless. You’re a slave to pleasure and everything else is secondary.
In the midst of it all an odd feeling overcomes you. A tugging at your heart that makes you think that you never want this to end. You could stay like this forever. Spend every single morning with them like this. It may not be holding hands in the park on a sunny day but there’s something romantic about this moment. Something tender in the perversion of it all. The reason behind it begins to surface. A word that you try to chase away as soon as it begins to spell itself out. L…Lo…Lov…
“Oh god…” Yunho gasps, his eyes widening in shock at the suddenness of his orgasm.
He hadn’t even felt it coming, he just knew he had at least a few more minutes in him, but here he is spilling all over your hand, covering your black nail polish in a sheet of white. He fingers you harder, bouncing you in his lap, wanting you to hit your high before he comes down from his.
The warmth of his cum splashing against your exposed pussy is enough to make you lose control and you give him just what he wants, your body going limp as your orgasm crashes into you like a wave. You feel a vacancy in your throat and open your mouth to scream but it’s muffled by a sudden rush of liquid cascading across your tongue. Mingi keeps your head steady as he empties himself into you, making sure you don’t miss a drop, and you lap it up happily, kissing the tip as he pulls out.
There’s a whooshing in your ears and your limbs feel like jello. You’re a sticky little mess who can barely hold herself up and you love it. You love it so much. Planting a clumsy, dizzy kiss on your lips, Mingi stumbles back to his seat, almost missing his chair as he plops down. Yunho tucks himself back into his pants and you spin back around to face Mingi, elbows propped up on the table, chin resting in your palms.
“So…” you say, still gasping for air, “You boys still got room for breakfast?”
synopsis: to the world, you’re the perfect couple: the rising athlete and the woman who stood by him. but behind closed doors, something is shattering. the MLB offer. the agent. the betrayal you never saw coming. now your home is no longer a refuge, but the battleground where truth and love fight for survival.
The soft click of the clasp echoed faintly in the bedroom as you fastened the final earring into place. Your fingers were clumsy, tired, but determined. The room was dimly lit, the last orange traces of sunset bleeding through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the vanity where you sat. Behind you, Seungmin stood near the full-length mirror in his navy suit, carefully adjusting his cufflinks.
“Are you sure you don’t want to just stay home?” he asked for what had to be the fifth time, his tone light, teasing, but underneath, you caught it, something uncertain. Something else.
You glanced at him through the mirror, watching as he checked his tie again, even though you had already fixed it just minutes ago. His posture was relaxed, the easy smile on his face was one you’d seen countless times before… but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not tonight.
“I already told you,” you replied, reaching for your lipstick. “I’m going. I want to be there.”
He exhaled with a slight chuckle, walking over to you. His fingers brushed your shoulder, and you paused applying your lipstick as he leaned in and kissed the top of your head. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he whispered.
You smiled, but your heart didn’t flutter the way it usually did. “You’re stalling,” you said plainly.
He grinned as if caught red-handed. “Can you blame me? You’re just… very pretty. Distracting.”
“You’re very bad at changing the subject,” you said, standing up and brushing invisible lint from your dress.
A soft fuss broke the moment, your daughter, Iseul. You instinctively moved toward the crib in the corner of the room where she lay in her tiny floral onesie, fists waving in complaint. Before you could reach her, Seungmin stepped in front of you.
“I got her,” he said gently, scooping her up into his arms with practiced ease. “Go on, finish. We’re already late.”
You hesitated, watching as your husband soothed your baby with a quiet hum. Even after years of marriage, and two children, it still made your heart twist to see how naturally fatherhood came to him.
“Are you sure?” you asked.
“Always,” he said, giving you a lopsided smile.
The distraction of getting ready, wrangling a toddler who had earlier decided to dump an entire box of cereal on the floor, and feeding the baby between curling your hair had left you frazzled. Seungmin’s teasing earlier had only barely been tolerable.
“Maybe it is taking longer because I’ve got two little humans to keep alive now,” you’d snapped at him earlier, glaring as he chuckled.
He’d raised both hands in mock surrender. “Not complaining. Just saying you’re not the fastest anymore.”
You’d muttered something under your breath, but Seungmin had leaned down, kissed your shoulder, and taken Iseul from your arms like it was second nature. “I’m serious though,” he had added gently. “You don’t have to come. You’ve done enough today. You always do.”
And for a moment, you had almost considered it. Almost.
But that look, the one that didn’t quite match his words had bothered you more than you admitted. You were tired, yes. But more than anything, you were curious.
Now, watching him with your daughter, that strange unease returned. You shook it off, slipped on your heels, and followed him downstairs.
Seungmin’s mother arrived just in time, letting herself in with the spare key. She was beaming, as always, excited to babysit her grandchildren for the evening. She ushered you both out of the house with warm reassurances.
“You both look wonderful,” she told you, bouncing Iseul with ease. “Have fun! Don’t worry, I’ve got everything handled.”
You kissed your children goodbye, lingering maybe a little longer than usual and followed Seungmin to the car.
The venue was already buzzing when you arrived. The end-of-season dinner was a yearly tradition, but this year felt different. Bigger. More elaborate. The private hall was beautifully decorated, navy accents for the Lotte Giants, chandeliers glimmering above round tables where players, coaches, managers, and their families were already seated, laughing, talking, raising glasses.
You were seated at one of the central tables with other wives and girlfriends, many of whom you’d grown close to over the years. There was an easiness to it familiar faces, shared exhaustion from parenting, the camaraderie of loving men whose careers were as demanding as they were exhilarating.
Seungmin settled in beside you, and his hand found yours beneath the table. His thumb brushed along your skin absentmindedly, comfortingly. You leaned in closer, murmuring, “See? Aren’t you glad we came?”
His smile was soft. “Yeah.”
And yet, there it was again. That shadow behind his eyes. That silence between sentences.
You didn’t press him. Not yet.
Dinner was a blur of laughter, clinking glasses, and endless toasts. You chatted with other WAGs, one of whom was due with her third baby in a few months and shared tips about baby sleep regressions and toddler tantrums. Seungmin drifted in and out of the conversation, occasionally throwing a playful jab at his teammates, smiling when someone complimented your dress.
But the entire night, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was performing. Laughing at the right moments. Responding on cue. Holding you a little too tightly, like he was memorizing the weight of your hand.
Then the general manager stood up. The room fell quiet.
You turned toward the front, expecting the usual end-of-season wrap-up: congratulations, next season’s goals, and the usual pat-on-the-back speeches.
But this was different.
The GM’s voice echoed across the hall. “Before we close out this amazing season, I want to take a moment to acknowledge someone very special someone who’s been a cornerstone of this team for years. A player whose heart, discipline, and incredible right arm have led us through some of the toughest games of our careers.”
The room was still.
The GM continued, “Seungmin, you’ve given everything to this team and it shows. You’ve been more than a pitcher. You’ve been a leader. A brother. A Giant in every sense of the word.”
Seungmin squeezed your hand beneath the table.
“I know I speak for everyone here when I say: thank you. Thank you for the years, the grit, the wins and for making us proud. The MLB will be lucky to have you.”
Cheers erupted around the room. Glasses raised. Players clapped Seungmin on the back. WAGs smiled at you with congratulatory looks. There were whistles. Laughter. Applause.
But your body went cold.
The MLB?
The Major Leagues?
You turned to Seungmin slowly. He was smiling, ducking his head modestly, but when his eyes met yours, the truth was there. Quiet. Heavy.
You leaned closer. “What did he mean? The MLB?”
Seungmin’s smile faltered. “We’ll talk later.”
“Seungmin,” you whispered, but the room was too loud now. The moment had passed. Or maybe it had only just begun.
The car ride was so quiet it felt like the silence itself had weight.
Heavy, pressing. Like a fog that rolled in between you and Seungmin, blanketing the small, familiar space of the car in a silence that had never felt so foreign. This wasn’t the comfortable quiet that often passed between you, not the kind that came with years of knowing each other so well that words weren’t always needed.
No, this was something else.
This was the quiet of things left unsaid too long.
This was the sound of trust cracking.
Outside the windshield, the streets of Busan passed by in a blur of neon and night. Streetlights flickered over the hood of the car, casting fleeting stripes of light across Seungmin’s jaw, his hands on the wheel, the furrow of his brow. But you couldn’t look at him, not now. Not after the dinner.
Your arms were tightly crossed against your chest, like folding in on yourself could hold everything inside. Your disappointment. Your anger. Your fear. And your heartbreak most of all, that aching, low throb of heartbreak that kept pulsing under your ribs, like a bruise you didn’t see coming.
You felt him shift beside you.
Then his hand reached toward yours, the way it always did.
It was instinctive, familiar. Seungmin had always reached for you like this, even in silence. During fights. During your long hospital stay after giving birth to your daughter. During that sleepless month when your son wouldn’t stop crying and you were too exhausted to speak. His hand always found yours.
But not tonight.
You flinched.
Your arms tightened around yourself and you turned, just slightly, away from him.
Seungmin’s hand hovered in the air for a moment, then slowly fell back to the console. He didn’t speak right away.
And when he did, his voice was low. Regretful.
“I’m sorry.”
The words floated there, soft and tentative.
You stared out the window. You weren’t even looking at the streets anymore, just letting your eyes unfocus, mind reeling, thoughts scattered and tangled. You could hear the apology, sure, but it barely registered. It was buried under the roaring in your chest.
Because all you could think about, all you could see behind your tired, stinging eyes, were your babies.
Your son, Minjoon, who had refused to nap earlier today and had thrown a tantrum when you tried to get him into his formal little pants for dinner. Who’d needed three full readings of Goodnight Moon before he calmed down. Iseul, who had been fussy all evening, needing to be held, rocked, reassured. Her tiny body curling against your shoulder like you were the only thing keeping the world from swallowing her whole.
And the whole time, you’d powered through.
You’d put on the dress you’d been saving. Done your makeup. Smiled. Laughed.
For him.
Because it was supposed to be his night.
And the whole time, the whole time he’d known.
He’d known his future plans.
He’d known your life was about to be upended, and he hadn’t said a word.
A lump formed in your throat, thick and hot. You swallowed it down, but it didn’t go away.
Seungmin sighed again. This one sounded heavier.
“I didn’t want to ruin tonight for you,” he said, voice quiet. “I didn’t want to ruin what we have. I know I should’ve told you earlier. I just… couldn’t. I didn’t know how.”
“You didn’t want to,” you said, eyes still fixed on the passing lights. “There’s a difference.”
That made him fall quiet.
You weren’t trying to be cruel. But you were tired, soul-deep tired and something in you had fractured when the general manager said “MLB.” The idea that your husband had been building a future, a whole new life across the ocean, and hadn’t included you, even in thought, had taken a sharp edge.
He shifted slightly in his seat.
“You don’t understand—”
“Don’t,” you cut in. “Don’t say I don’t understand. I understand too well. You’re scared, right? Scared of what it would mean to bring this up. Scared of how I’d react. So you just… kept it from me. Like it would somehow protect me. Like I couldn’t handle it.”
You finally looked at him then, and your voice cracked.
“I gave birth to two children. I’ve handled more than you know. And I thought we were in this together.”
Seungmin’s eyes flicked over to you, and the guilt in them nearly broke you. But not quite.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to risk you resenting me,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you uprooted your life, left your family, your friends. The kids… They’re so young. You already do everything for them. I thought maybe, if I just waited, if I figured it out first—I could make it easier. Cleaner. Safer.”
You shook your head, biting down hard on your bottom lip to keep it from trembling.
“You don’t get to make that choice for me, Seungmin.”
He looked down at his hands on the wheel. “I know.”
A long silence stretched between you. The car rolled into your neighborhood quiet, peaceful. Your street, lined with hedges and low lights, your home waiting up ahead. You stared at the windows, lit from inside. A warm, quiet glow.
You could imagine your son asleep in his bed. His dinosaur pajamas. The way he sometimes rolled over in the middle of the night and called for you in his sleep. Your daughter probably cradled in her grandmother’s arms, small and peaceful, unaware of the storm brewing outside her home.
You exhaled shakily. “Did you ever stop to think how this would affect them?”
“Yes,” Seungmin said, his voice hoarse. “Every day. And that’s why I’ve been so torn.”
He turned off the ignition. The sudden silence made your ears ring.
“I want to do what’s best for us. I want to give them a future. I thought this opportunity—” He paused, eyes flicking to yours. “I thought maybe it would be worth it. A few hard years, and then we could have something more.”
You sat back in your seat, chest tight. “And you didn’t think what we already had was enough?”
His lips parted, but no words came out.
Because that was the question that echoed through the car, through your mind, through your bones.
You were building something. Here. Now. You had a family. You had a rhythm, even if it was messy and chaotic and exhausting. You had love. Wasn’t that enough?
The betrayal wasn’t just about baseball. It was about being left out of the most important decision since you’d chosen each other. Since you’d become parents. Since you’d stood at that altar years ago, hands clasped, promising to never go forward without the other.
And tonight, he had gone forward. Without you.
“I’m so sorry,” Seungmin said again, voice cracking this time.
You reached for the door handle but hesitated. Your hand hovered there, your heart racing.
You looked at him one last time. “We’re not okay.”
He nodded slowly. “I know.”
You got out of the car, heels clicking softly on the ground. Seungmin followed a few steps behind, but he didn’t reach for you this time. Didn’t try to touch your hand. Didn’t speak.
Inside, your mother-in-law greeted you with a warm smile and gentle hushes, the kids were fast asleep. You thanked her. You smiled tightly. You said all the right things.
But inside, the ache lingered.
That night, you lay in bed beside Seungmin, your backs turned to each other for the first time in months. And though your body was still, your mind was not.
Because you weren’t thinking about MLB contracts.
You were thinking about a dimpled little boy who would one day ask why you moved. Why you left his playground, his cousins, his language. You were thinking about your baby girl who wouldn’t remember this home, her first room, the sound of the ocean just beyond the porch.
You were thinking about whether you were strong enough to make this leap and whether the man beside you would be the one holding your hand, or the one who had already let go.
The morning light seeped into the bedroom like a quiet intrusion soft, unwelcome. It threaded through the curtains and warmed the edge of the bed where you lay, still in your dress from the night before, now wrinkled and clinging to your tired body.
You hadn't changed. You hadn't even taken off your earrings.
Sleep had come in short, fractured waves stolen between the cries of your daughter needing to be fed at 2 a.m., and the restless tossing that followed after, your mind far too loud to silence. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the banquet hall, the raised glasses, the moment the general manager said "The MLB will be lucky to have him," and the proud, practiced smile on Seungmin’s face.
And then… the way he hadn’t looked at you when he said it.
He was still sleeping now, or pretending to be. His side of the bed was slightly turned away, shoulders curved inward, a breath that wasn’t quite steady. You didn’t care to check. You slid out of bed wordlessly, your movements quiet but brisk, careful not to wake the children or him.
You padded barefoot into the nursery and found your daughter still asleep in her crib, her tiny chest rising and falling beneath the soft pink blanket your mother had crocheted. You stared at her for a moment, absorbing the stillness, the simplicity of her peace. Your son was next, curled up in a tangle of dinosaur sheets, one small hand clutching his favorite plush tiger to his chest.
And just like that, the sharp edges of your anxiety dulled, briefly. Your children were safe. Still here. Still yours.
But the gnawing ache in your stomach hadn’t left.
You walked into the kitchen, made yourself a cup of lukewarm coffee, and settled at the table with your phone, screen lighting up with unread messages. Friends. WAGs. Notifications. Mentions. Group chats.
One name caught your eye.
A message from Yuna, one of the team wives, someone you had grown relatively close to. Always sharp-eyed and protective of the women around her. The message was short, clipped.
“Hey. Have you seen the article?”
You frowned.
Tapping the link she’d attached, you opened it and began to read.
“Inside Scoop: Lotte Giants Star Kim Seungmin’s Secret MLB Talks And the Woman Behind It All”
It was a gossip piece. The kind that pulled from ‘sources close to the player,’ spun half-truths into narratives, laced with just enough credibility to make it hard to dismiss.
You skimmed, your heart already racing. The opening paragraphs went over Seungmin’s impressive final season stats, a summary of his fan popularity, and then, the shift.
“Sources tell us that Kim has been in quiet communication with a high-profile American agent, who has reportedly been facilitating a deal behind the scenes for over a year. The two met during a prior sports event in California, where, according to insiders, the relationship between the pitcher and the agent extended beyond professional bounds.”
You stopped breathing.
No. No, no, no.
“While neither party has confirmed the rumors, those familiar with the situation say their connection appears personal and long-standing. One source adds: ‘She was more than just a rep. She was someone he trusted, someone close.’”
Your hands trembled as you scrolled.
“When asked for comment, Kim Seungmin’s representatives declined, saying the athlete is focused on finishing the season strong and spending time with his family. But the silence speaks volumes.”
You lowered the phone slowly, your heartbeat in your ears.
It felt like ice water had been poured into your veins.
A woman.
Someone he’d met in California.
Someone “close.”
Someone who had been “facilitating a deal for over a year.”
You thought back searching your memory, tracing timelines. Seungmin had gone to the U.S. for a week during the off-season last year. He said it was for a training camp and you’d believed him. Why wouldn’t you? He'd FaceTimed you with a smile, sent photos of his hotel room, texted you how much he missed you.
You remembered because you’d been pregnant then. You remembered how miserable that week had been swollen feet, morning sickness that lasted into the night, and a toddler with a fever. You’d managed it all. Alone. And when he came back, he’d brought you a sweatshirt that smelled like new cotton, a stuffed animal for your son, and a small pair of baby sneakers.
It was one of the rare times he seemed truly guilty about being away.
And now… this.
You stared at your coffee, untouched, hands tightening around the mug like it might anchor you.
The sounds of the morning were beginning to rise,
Seungmin came down not long after. Hair messy. Shirt wrinkled. Face unreadable.
But your eyes were sharp now. Searching. Watching.
He said good morning like nothing had changed. Like the night before hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t laid in the same bed wondering if the man beside you was no longer just your husband, but a liar.
“Did you sleep at all?” he asked, moving toward the fridge.
You said nothing.
He turned. “Babe?”
“Who is she?”
The words came out colder than you intended, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t afford to be gentle. Not now.
Seungmin froze.
He blinked slowly, confusion flickering in his features. “What?”
“The woman. The agent.” You pushed your phone across the table toward him, screen still lit with the article. “You’ve been talking to her for a year?”
His expression darkened as he read. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
“This is bullshit,” he said, pushing the phone back. “You know how gossip sites work. They just—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
He paused.
That pause was worse than a confession.
Your throat tightened. “Just tell me the truth.”
“There’s nothing going on,” he said, voice steady, but not reassuring. “She’s a sports agent. I met her once. She reached out after the winter games. She said there was interest. I didn’t think it was serious. It wasn’t personal.”
“You didn’t think it was serious?” you repeated, voice rising. “You’ve been talking to her for a year. Setting up your career without me. And now there’s an article saying it’s more than that, and I’m just supposed to believe it’s all nothing?”
“She wants me in the MLB,” he snapped, then immediately regretted it. His voice dropped. “That’s all. That’s all it is.”
You stood.
Something inside you, that tightly held center, broke.
“Do you know how humiliating this is?” you whispered. “Do you have any idea how it feels to be the last to know about your own husband’s life? To find out in a room full of strangers that he’s moving across the world? And then the next morning, read that he’s been seeing another woman behind my back, business or not — for a year?”
Seungmin was pale now. Quiet.
“I never touched her,” he said. “I never crossed that line, I never cheated on you.”
“But you hid her,” you said. “And that says enough.”
Your son peeked around the corner, clutching his plush tiger, wide-eyed.
You exhaled, fighting to calm the storm inside you. You bent down, kissed the top of his head, and guided him back toward his toys.
“I’m not doing this in front of the kids,” you said without turning around. “I’m not fighting with you where they can hear.”
Seungmin’s voice was barely audible. “Then when?”
You looked back at him, the man you’d loved for years, the man who had held your hand in delivery rooms, danced with you barefoot in the kitchen, written love letters on hotel stationery.
“I don’t know,” you said. “Because right now, I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
And for the first time in your marriage, you walked away.
Not because you didn’t love him.
But because you had to protect something more fragile.
Yourself.
-
The silence that had stretched like taut wire through the early morning finally snapped by noon.
You’d tried to hold your tongue. Tried to focus on the children. On the daily motions that had once felt so automatic, making lunch, folding a forgotten pile of laundry, wiping jelly from your son’s cheeks. But even the gentlest parts of your life had turned sharp, heavy with unsaid words.
Seungmin paced behind you, trailing like a shadow, quiet but restless. You could feel his gaze at your back, like static.
He was waiting.
For you to explode.
Or for you to let it go.
And you could feel it crawling up your throat, that familiar heat. You had done this for too long. Swallowed things for the sake of peace. Told yourself it was just the job, just stress, just a phase. But today? There was no peace left to keep.
You turned toward him, jaw set.
“You’ve been hiding things from me for months.”
His eyes locked with yours instantly, tired, bloodshot. “I wasn’t hiding anything.”
“Don’t—” You barked a short, incredulous laugh. “Don’t say that. You didn’t tell me about the MLB deal. You didn’t tell me about this agent. And now, suddenly, the news breaks and everyone knows before I do?”
“I didn’t know it was going to come out like that,” he said, frustrated. “It was supposed to be private.”
“Private? We’re married, Seungmin!”
“I know that—”
“Do you?” Your voice cracked. “Because I didn’t feel married last night. I felt like someone tagging along at a dinner where my husband’s future got announced without me. And I didn’t feel married this morning, reading that some womanhas been guiding your entire next chapter, while I was here — pregnant, raising two kids — not knowing anything.”
He ran both hands through his hair, the tension in his shoulders visible. “It’s not like that—”
“Then what is it like?” you snapped. “Explain it. Tell me, because right now the facts don’t add up. You said you didn’t cheat, but I never even said you did.”
That stopped him.
His eyes went wide like you’d pulled the ground out from under him.
You stared.
And he knew. You saw the flicker of realization in his face. That he had let something slip, a defense he shouldn’t have offered if he wasn’t guilty of more than what you knew.
“I didn’t cheat,” he said again, more measured now. “I just thought— when I saw the article, I thought—”
“You thought I’d accuse you,” you said flatly. “Because something did happen.”
“No!” He stepped forward, desperate. “No. Nothing happened. I swear to you.”
You crossed your arms. “Then why are you scrambling? Why is your story changing every ten seconds? First you barely knew her, then she reached out to you, now she’s been helping you for a year?”
He gritted his teeth. “She reached out after the winter games—”
“You already said that.”
“She brought up the offer before it was even real. I didn’t take it seriously at first—”
“And yet somehow, she’s close enough to you now that people think you’re involved,” you said bitterly. “Funny how fast that escalated.”
He groaned, turning his back briefly, dragging a hand down his face. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want it to turn into this. I just— I’ve been trying to secure something better for us. For the kids.”
You laughed again, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t you dare bring our kids into this. Don’t act like this was some noble sacrifice. You weren’t thinking about them. You weren’t thinking about me. You were thinking about you. Your career. Your next big move.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair,” you shot back, “is waking up next to a stranger. A man who made decisions without me. Who kept a woman secret from me for over a year. Who lied — or twisted the truth so carefully it felt the same.”
Seungmin stepped closer, voice rising now to match yours. “She’s a professional contact. I didn’t want to involve you until I knew it was real. Is that so hard to understand?”
You were yelling now. “What’s hard to understand is why I had to find out with the rest of the world. If you respected me, if you trusted me, if we were a team like you always said— you would’ve told me.”
He shouted over you, voice breaking with frustration. “I was scared, okay?! I didn’t want you to say no. I didn’t want you to hate me for dragging you and the kids overseas. I didn’t want to make this harder than it already is.”
You stared at him, truly stared.
And what broke you wasn’t the yelling.
It was the fear in his voice. Not of losing you, but of confronting the truth. Of facing the fallout of a decision he’d already made.
Your chest heaved. Your eyes burned.
“That’s the part you don’t get,” you said, quietly this time. “You already made it harder. Not by asking me to leave. Not by considering the offer. But by lying. By deciding I couldn’t handle the truth.”
He shook his head, voice thick. “It wasn’t about you.”
You scoffed. “Right. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
You didn’t notice how loud you’d become until the silence that followed felt unnatural. And then, A piercing, frantic cry cut through the house.
Iseul.
Shrill, high-pitched, panicked.
You both turned at once.
Seungmin moved first, instinctively, like the father he still was bolting toward the nursery hallway. But your hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him cold.
He looked at you in confusion, breath shallow.
You stared at him with fire in your eyes.
“No.”
His brows furrowed. “What— she’s crying—”
“I’ll go,” you said, your voice raw. “Not you.”
“Why?” His voice cracked. “She’s our daughter.”
“No,” you whispered. “She’s my daughter right now. Because I’m the only one here.”
He blinked like you’d slapped him.
You let go of his wrist.
Then you turned and rushed.
Down the hall, through the open nursery door, into the soft lavender-painted room where your daughter wailed from her crib, little fists clenched, cheeks red and glistening.
You gathered her into your arms, heart pounding, holding her to your chest like a shield. Her tiny body shook against yours, but you whispered soothing words, rocking her gently.
“I’ve got you,” you murmured. “I’ve got you.”
And you meant it.
Not just for her.
For yourself.
Because right now, in this house filled with cracked trust and echoing pain, you were the only one still standing for her. For both of your children. You couldn’t protect them from everything, but you could be the one who stayed honest.
You rocked her until the cries softened, until her small breaths slowed against your collarbone.
And in the hallway behind you, you heard Seungmin sit down on the floor hard, like the weight of everything had finally caught up.
But you didn’t go to him.
Not this time.
The house was too quiet.
Hours had passed since the first argument, the one that left your daughter screaming in your arms and your husband sitting stunned in the hallway like the wind had been knocked from his chest. You thought maybe that would be the end of it. That silence would stretch long enough for one of you to finally make sense of what to say.
But you couldn’t stop thinking.
And Seungmin? He couldn’t stop moving.
He hadn’t left the house, but he’d stayed out of the nursery, out of the bedrooms, mostly pacing through the kitchen and hallway like a caged animal. When you walked past each other, it was stiff, shallow. He opened his mouth once, maybe twice, but the words fell away before they landed.
Until now.
It was dark out when it happened. The kids were finally asleep, your son curled in your bed, the baby passed out against your chest after her last bottle.
You passed her to her crib slowly, carefully, and left the nursery on bare feet, moving quietly through the hall.
Seungmin was waiting at the end of it arms crossed, leaned against the doorway to the living room like he was forcing himself to stay still.
You didn’t stop walking.
“Can we talk now?” he said, not looking at you.
You paused.
Turned.
“Yes,” you said. “But I’m not doing it with half-truths again.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
You crossed your arms. “So start from the beginning. Not the version you’ve revised three times. The truth.”
He pushed off the wall and walked into the living room. You followed.
He didn’t sit. Neither did you.
“It started last winter,” he began, voice low. “There was this exhibition thing in L.A., and one of the scouts introduced us. Her name’s Madison.”
Madison.
It hurt, having a name to put to the ghost. Somehow it made it worse.
“She said she’d seen me pitch in Busan the year before,” he continued. “Said she thought I had MLB potential. I didn’t believe her at first.”
“And?”
“She gave me her card. Said if I ever wanted to explore the option, I could reach out. I didn’t. Not for months. But then— after I got that minor injury in spring training, I started thinking about my shelf life. How fast it could end. How the kids are growing, and we’ll need more— more security, more stability. So I called her.”
Your expression hardened. “You were injured, and you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
You scoffed. “You didn’t want me to know. That’s what you mean.”
He winced, but didn’t correct you.
“I wasn’t planning anything big at first,” he said quickly. “It was just supposed to be background talk. Feelers. I didn’t even sign anything.”
“But you were talking to her regularly,” you said. “Behind my back. Letting her shape your decisions. Tell me again how that’s not hiding something?”
“She had connections,” he said. “I needed her.”
“You needed me,” you said. “You needed us. But you didn’t think we could handle the truth?”
“I didn’t want to drag you into something that wasn’t certain.”
“Bullshit,” you said, your voice cracking. “You didn’t want to hear me say no.”
His lips parted. Shut again.
Your heart was pounding now. Hard.
“And now this article comes out,” you said. “And it says you’ve had a close relationship with her. Not just business. Not just professional. And you still expect me to believe it was nothing?”
He threw up his hands. “Because it was nothing!”
“You keep saying that,” you snapped. “But everything else you say changes! First you barely knew her. Then she was a connection. Then you were working together for months. Now she’s your lifeline to a better life?! Which version is the truth, Seungmin?”
He stepped toward you, voice raised. “You think I’m sleeping with her? You think I would cheat on you?! After everything—”
“I didn’t say that!” you shouted. “You did!”
His mouth opened again.
And again, he had nothing.
“Do you hear yourself?” you said, near tears now. “You keep trying to fix the story instead of just telling it. Every time you talk, I feel like I’m catching you in another lie.”
He turned away, paced across the room, grabbed at his hair.
“I wasn’t lying,” he said, almost to himself. “I wasn’t trying to— I didn’t want to—”
“You didn’t want to hurt me?” you asked, voice softer now, but shaking. “Then why does it feel like every word you say is cutting deeper?”
He turned, frustrated. “I was trying to make the best of what I could! I thought if I got the deal solid first, you’d feel better knowing it wasn’t just a risk—”
“I don’t need you to protect me from risks,” you snapped. “I need you to be honest. I need you to respect me enough to let me choose the hard things with you.”
He stared at you, this woman who had stood by him through every game, every travel stretch, every missed birthday and late-night bus ride. And now, when he needed you most, he realized...
He’d gone too far without you.
And now he couldn’t pull you back.
Your hands dropped to your sides, empty. Exhausted.
“I don’t even know if I’m angry at you,” you whispered. “Or if I’m angry at myself for not seeing it sooner.”
He blinked, breathing uneven.
You moved past him, toward the hallway again.
“Where are you going?”
“I need air.”
He followed. “You can’t just walk out—”
You turned, eyes blazing.
“No,” you said. “You need to leave.”
His face twisted. “What?”
“I need space. The kids are asleep. I’m not doing this again while they’re in this house.”
He hesitated. “Where the hell am I supposed to go?”
“I don’t care,” you said. “You can go to a hotel, you can sleep in your car, you can call your manager. I just— I can’t look at you right now.”
He laughed, bitterly. “So that’s it?”
“No,” you said. “But it’s all I’ve got tonight.”
His eyes were wild now, mouth slightly open, chest heaving with things he couldn’t say fast enough.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Fine. You don’t want to hear it? You don’t want to listen to anything I have to say? Then I’ll go.”
“I’ve been listening,” you shouted. “It’s just that none of it makes sense.”
He shoved past you, storming into the bedroom. You heard drawers yanked open. A zipper. A bag hitting the floor.
You stood frozen in the hallway, watching the shadows move under the door.
Then, moments later, it opened. He walked past you, hoodie on, baseball cap low, duffel over his shoulder. His mouth pressed into a line.
You didn’t speak.
Neither did he.
He walked down the stairs, opened the door, and stepped outside.
You watched him through the window, standing still in the dark. His car door opened.
But he didn’t get in.
He stood beside the car for a second, shoulders hunched like the weight had finally settled across them.
And then he looked back toward the house.
For a flicker.
A moment.
As if expecting you to follow.
You didn’t.
And then he got in.
And drove off.
You didn’t cry at first.
You stood there, gripping the edge of the banister like it was the only thing keeping you upright.
Then, once the headlights vanished, once the silence roared back into your chest—
You broke.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
You just sank.
Onto the stairs. Onto your knees. And the sobs came in waves. Quiet, painful, relentless.
Because love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
Because you didn’t know what was real anymore.
Because the man you had once called home had chosen a path that no longer included you, not fully.
And you didn’t know if he would find his way back.
Literally writing this while my face is so wet because of all the crying 😂😭 This hurt too much 😭😭😭 Felt every word, every disappointment, anger, fear and pain... I don't even know if there's a way out of this. The fact that he already made such an important decision without even thinking about his wife's and kids' desires and needs does not sit right with me., not even starting about that Madison girl. It was a decision that should've been discussed when the prospect was even there so that they could talk and decide whether they want/are willing to make such huge life changes cause it will literally affect all the parties. Wondering if there's gonna be a part 2 cause I'm really curious to see what will happen. Thanks a lot for such a well written story ❤️ Wishing you a lot of inspiration and warm hugs 🫂
synopsis: you feel lonely and buy a new sex doll on the market, not knowing what you got yourself into.
genre: smut, fluff, sci-fi
word count: 10.3k
warnings: alcohol, multiple sex scenes, unprotected sex, oral (f and m), squirting, creampies
a/n: spooktober continues🤭🫶🏻 if u love black mirror, these are vibes for u! also i'm sorry if the ending seems rushed but i have two more things to write for hyunjin before i continue with my spooktober🫠
!!! this fic has an ambiguous ending
~ divider by @bunnysrph
~ Masterlist
Your cursor hovers over the 'continue to payment' button.
Are you really doing this?
It's embarassing enough that you can't get a date lately, and everyone around you keeps bugging you about it, asking when you're going to find a partner already.
Like you need one. You were perfectly fine alone.
But everyone has needs, and the ad for the new sex dolls that have just come out on the market looked enticing.
Each one of the new models was a unique one, only one of them made as it was sort of a trial run for them and your attention was captured by Hyunjin, the romantic doll.
It was expensive too, but you had money saved up on the side and thought, why not get something for your pleasure and try something new as well.
'Fuck it!', you thought and clicked on the button, purchasing the doll; there was no going back now.
Eagerly, you awaited the day it would be delivered to your door and three weeks later, there was a big box in the middle of your living room.
Biting on your lip, you stare at the box as your heartbeat quickens.
In the pictures, it looked so real. Like it was a real human being and to say you were a bit disturbed was an understatement.
But as freaky as it was, you were still so curios about it so you opened up the box slowly, your eyes wide for the peculiarity of it all. There were covers neatly placed over the doll, and bubble wrap just about everywhere, but on top of it all was a letter.
You opened it up and it read;
Hello,
my name is Hyunjin and I am your romantic doll.
I love art, good food and wine, long walks on the beach and heartwarming movies.
Please, treat me with great care as I am sensitive, and no matter what you do with me, always end it with cuddles.
Hope you come to love me as much as I already love you.
As you read that, you couldn't help being a little freaked out by the doll professing his love to you, but you had to remind yourself it's just the creators of it who wrote the letter, making the concept more real and human to give some kind of comfort to the buyer and personality to the doll.
Taking a deep breath, you remove all the bubble wrap and slide off the cover.
"Oh." you gasp loudly, your hand slapped on your mouth as you finally see the doll.
He looks too real to be just a doll and for a second you just stare into his eyes, unmoving but somehow warm, his facial features chiseled to perfection, his lips plump and inviting.
Your eyes travel down to see he was dressed in a nice button up, intricate flower patterns sewn into the material, coupled with nice pants and even some very expensive looking shoes.
The doll had jewelry on, his nails were painted, there was so much detail on it; he even had a mole under his eye. You marvelled at the dedication of the people who made it and obviously put a lot of though into Hyunjin.
You notice then that there is a note sticking out of the shirt's pocket and you carefully pick it up.
My love!
I got dressed for our first date!
Hopefully you like it and enjoy our first romantic night together.
"Wow, they really went all out with this." you say out loud as you look at the doll, the next question forming in your mind.
How heavy is the doll?
You spend a few more minutes just examining it with your eyes, too nervous to touch it and you can't get over the way it looks just like a real human being.
You rest your hand on the box, your fingertips gently grazing the doll's cheek.
"Oh!" you gasp, retracting your hand. It feels like real skin and with wide eyes your hand moves closer to his face again, your palm pressing slowly against his cheek.
"Are you alive?" you chuckle to yourself but the doll doesn't answer or move at all, just as you expected.
Your fingers slowly explore the doll's face, his lips are plushy and they seem actually kissable, the material they used, whatever it was, made it seem like they were real human lips.
You lean in closer to take a better look into his eyes, your hand coming up to play with locks of dark hair, which again, seems like real hair, the little curls are soft to the touch and bounce back as you pull on them gently.
Now you're leaning so close to him, and you can smell the nice, comforting scent radiating off of the doll. You've no idea what they used, but he smells fresh and flowery.
"Okay, let's get you out of the box." you lean back and hook your hands under the doll's arms before making it sit up.
His head falls to the side a little, making you feel a bit creeped out because it really seemed like you were handling a dead person instead of an actual doll, but the only indication that it wasn't a dead human is the lightness of it.
He wasn't as light as a feather but he wasn't as heavy as dead weight either.
"Maybe the couch?" you talk to yourself as you look over to your comfy couch, the pillows fluffed up already and a soft blanket thrown over it.
Somehow, thankfully to your regular exercise, you manage to lift the doll into your arms and carry him to the couch.
The way he slumps when you put him down, again freaks you out a little, but for some weird reason you're even more interested in how you can actually use the doll.
You prop him to sit nicely and turn on the tv to some art channel, remembering how the doll 'said' that he likes art.
"I hope that's what you enjoy." you shrug and throw the fluffy blanket over the doll's legs, folding his soft hands into his lap, before you go back to the box to find the manual.
"Here it is." you dig out the booklet and start reading.
They listed the materials but you still had no idea what they were so it flew over your head. There was also a page with pictures of the other dolls and the makers' letter to the customers, thanking them for purchasing the doll.
Flipping the pages, you find what you were looking for.
Your face becomes red as you read the doll's 'abilites', including that his thing can vibrate and cum, he reacts to your touch and that he has a usb charger that gets plugged into the back of his neck.
"W-wow." you nod to yourself as you keep reading until you flip to the last page.
WARNING!
If there are any malfunctions with any part of the doll, please contact our services.
The doll can bathe in water except the charger opening so be aware of that.
Please do not disfigure or mutilate the doll.
Do not throw the doll into the trash.
Do not break, bruise or cut the doll.
If you're not satisfied, you can always return it to us and get your money back.
If you've purchased our Hyunjin doll, do not be too harsh on him considering he's sensitive.
Hope you enjoy the romantic soul you chose!
Bruise? The doll can bruise?
Why are they talking about it like it's alive?
You gulp and turn to look at the couch but the doll is unmoving, turned towards the tv, same position as before.
You peek back into the big box to find another, smaller box inside it, that was beneath the doll's feet earlier.
You carefully take it out, putting it on the floor and opening it curiously.
Inside, you found a change of clothes, more casual looking ones and something to be used as sleep wear. It was like getting a Barbie doll with all her outfits when you were a kid.
So bizzare, yet it made you feel excited in a way.
After getting up, you decide to clean up the mess you made with the bubble wrap and put the box away in your closet, just in case, if you ever wanted to return him.
"Okay." you nod and come back to peek at the doll.
The television screen reflects in his eyes, his hands crossed in his lap, just how you left him and relief washes over you.
Why are you even scared?
You shake your head and decide to prepare lunch.
You're in your kitchen, listening to some slow music as you cook, completely forgetting about the doll sitting in your living room.
That is, until the volume of the tv suddenly increases making you jolt and gasp.
Your back straightens as you turn off the stove.
Slowly turning around, you stare at the direction the sound is coming from.
You swallow and make your way to your couch, you don't know what to expect but the doll is still in the same position you left it, the tv remote is out of his reach, down on the coffee table.
You grab it and decrease the volume before looking back at the doll.
"If that wasn't you, we have ghosts in this apartment. But if it was you, you're obviously wanting my attention." you cross your arms as you stare at him.
Nothing.
"Fine, I will eat lunch with you." you declare before going back to the kitchen to get yourself food.
You mostly eat in front of your tv anyways, not caring about any rules since you live alone, enjoying the freedom it brings you.
Settling down next to Hyunjin, you pull the blanket over your legs too and start eating.
You chuckle to yourself, if someone saw you right now, they'd think you're absolutely insane, sitting down next to an inanimate doll that looks eerily human.
You take a peek at Hyunjin, sighing as he sits still.
"You do look alive. But I'm literally talking to myself." you say and of course get no answer.
Shrugging, you continue about your day, washing dishes and doing laundry, enjoying your selfcare routine after getting your apartment in order, your Hyunjin doll observing your movements from the couch.
In the evening hours, you finally come back to him.
"Are you tired of being in the same position?" you ask, knowing there will be no answer.
"We can have dinner now." you add and leave to the kitchen to bring out some food and a bottle of wine.
"This is insane. Top 5 weirdest things I've done." you talk to yourself as you look down at your black satin nightgown, with lace details on the top, perfectly resting on your chest. "Maybe it even takes up the first place."
You settle next to Hyunjin once again, changing his position a little as you fill up two glasses of wine.
"Our first date, I guess?" you sigh with a chuckle before drinking the wine.
His glass stands full on the coffee table, untouched as you start eating next to him once again.
"I guess I should tell you a bit about myself. I work in an office. I hate my job but it pays the bills." you say, "I always wanted to be in a band though. Played guitar in high school. Never got too far with that. I love art too, you know, any shape or form of it. Maybe that's why I chose you. You seem like an artist. Or you would be if you were real, ha." you chuckle, yapping away as you keep drinking the wine, the doll listening to you without moving.
You keep pouring the wine into both his and your glass but it's only you drinking from both glasses.
It gives you a nice buzz, warmness that spreads through your body and manifests itself between your legs.
Usually, you'd play with your vibrator or dildo but seeing as you got a literal sex doll, you thought you should use him for the purpose he's made for.
"Now, what do I do with you?" you smirk, your hand coming up to play with the doll's hair, twirling the lock in your fingers.
"I mean, I can do anything I want." you nod, scooting closer to the doll.
"I feel fucking crazy." you laugh, pulling the covers off of Hyunjin.
Your hand is pressed on his thigh as you touch him gently through his clothes, your mind still marvelling at the fact that he feels like a real human being.
"I'm curious." you whisper, your fingertip playing with the button of his shirt, wanting to see what he looks like underneath the nice clothes they made him wear.
Slowly, you start unbuttoning the doll, taking your time with it, as anticipation builds up, creating a swirl of excitement inside you.
When you pop open the last button, you open up the shirt and gasp.
"Wow." you lick your lips at the sight, the doll's nipples look aroused, his stomach is toned, it looks like there's a vein leading down into his pants making your eyes fall down at his crotch.
You still have no idea how they made him look so real but you're eager to explore, planting your hands on his chest, running them up and down to his stomach, tracing the vein with your fingertips.
You run your hands back up to his nipples and flick them gently with your thumb before pinching them experimentally.
Gasping, you notice a growing bulge in the doll's pants.
"Am I pushing the right buttons?" you chuckle at your own joke as you continue playing with his nipples.
Your impatience however doesn't let you stall for too long, so your hands make their way down to the hem of his pants.
"Let's see." with a smirk you unbutton and unzip his pants, pulling them down with a little struggle as you have to lift him up a little.
You place your hands on his thighs, squeezing the flesh a little, watching as his cock twitches like he was really alive.
"You really do react to touch." you gasp in wonder, what kind of technology was this?
They even put underwear on him which you think is a nice touch but at this point, you were too curious not to slide them off immediately.
"Woah!" you gasp as his cock springs free of its confines.
You think it's the biggest and most beautiful cock you've ever seen, framed by a neatly cut bush, a visible vein running up the whole length.
You stare at it for a little while before you wrap your hand around it, your other hand fondling his balls.
It feels real once again, like he's throbbing and twitching, hot and heavy on your palm, a bead of precum at the tip.
"What in the hell?" you mumble, your finger swiping at the tip as you gather the liquid and bring it to your lips.
You suck your finger into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it and tasting the sweetness of the doll.
How he tasted so sweet was beyond you.
"Fuck it." you chuckle, pulling off your nightgown and tossing it aside, which leaves you completely naked like the doll is.
"I didn't even kiss you. Not very romantic of me." you smirk as you throw your leg over Hyunjin, sitting in his lap, your wet folds pressed against his cock.
You lean in and press a kiss to his lips, and of course the doll doesn't kiss back but his lips move with your movement and it feels good as you grind on his hard length.
"Look at you. Letting me do all the work like all the rest of them." you scoff with a smirk and at that, the doll's cock twitches a little too hard against you, almost pushing inside you.
"Wow. Someone's excited." you stare at the doll's eyes but there is nothing in there to indicate that he was in fact listening to you.
"For how much you cost, I hope this is worth it." you shrug and grip the base of his cock, guiding it inside you.
Sitting down on his length has you gasping as he fills you up perfectly, like his cock was made exactly for your pussy to take.
Your grip the doll's shoulders and use it for what you intended to when you clicked on that purchase button.
No matter how turned on you are though, staring at Hyunjin's almost expressionless face proves to be a turn off so you lean forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you press your chest to his and continue bouncing on him.
Save for the fact that his hands lay limp on the side, his skin feels human and he feels kind of warm, like there was something inside the doll, warming it up.
"F-fuck." you whimper as the head of his cock brushes against the spongy spot inside you, it's like the more wet you get and the harder you fuck on him, his cock responds to you.
"R-right hand for activation." you repeat the instruction from the manual, as you blindly search for his right hand, sliding your fingertips on his wrist to his palm, your head leaned on his shoulder as you slowly gyrate your hips.
Your fingers interlace with his and it feels almost like Hyunjin grips your hand back, making you jump a little but before you can move away, his cock starts vibrating inside you.
"A-ah!" you moan loudly as your other arm curls around him, holding onto him while you fiddle with his fingers, your legs clamping around him as you start falling apart.
"G-gonna cum!" you whimper, burying your face in Hyunjin's neck and he smells so nice, feels so good as his cock keeps vibrating against your spot, bringing you to your high quickly.
The ecstasy you feel as the vibrations persist, prolonging your orgasm, overstimulating you while you ride the feeling makes you miss the single blink that Hyunjin's eyes make before returning to their original glassy and unmoving state.
"Too much." you whimper, squeezing his thumb and the vibrations stop.
You know that the left hand brings a happy end to the doll but you're not sure if you're done with it yet.
Leaning back to finally look at his face has you a little disappointed as you don't notice any kind of change on his face.
"Kinda wish you were real." you whisper, hugging the doll as you start bouncing on his hard cock again, bringing yourself easily to another orgasm.
You squeeze the doll's left hand after that, and feel spurts of warm cum shooting inside you as his cock twitches, the head bruising against your spot violently as he fills you up with copious amounts of the sticky substance.
You're pretty sure the neighbors can hear you moan as you cum again, the feeling of being filled up to the brim satisfies you and has your eyes rolling in the back of your head.
"Wow." you breathe hard, your cheek leaned on Hyunjin's shoulder as you grip his wrists while you come down.
You lean back to look at the doll again.
Were his lips slightly upturned before?
In the fogginess of your orgasms, you couldn't tell or think straight.
"Be right back." you slide off of him and make your way to the bathroom, taking a quick five minute shower before you grab a wet cloth to clean the doll up.
He sits how you left him, and you kneel between his legs to clean him up carefully.
His cock is not completely soft nor hard anymore, it's somewhere in the middle, but as you touch it gently, it seems to react and twitch again.
"You came already." you smirk and experimentally pinch the tip of Hyunjin's cock, but nothing happens except the member twitching again.
You stand up with a sigh, covering him with the blanket again before you leave for the bathroom to get ready for bed.
Just as you turn on the water to wash your mouth out, you hear something akin to a sigh coming from your living room.
You freeze, turning off the water and listening closely but you only hear the quiet buzz of the lamp above your mirror.
Maybe you were just imagining things.
You shake your head and finish your business before going back to Hyunjin.
"I'm too tired to dress you now, but boxers should be enough." you say and struggle to get him dressed, almost giving up during the process.
"I should just keep you naked in my bed to avoid the hassle." you say, lifting him up and carrying him to your bed.
"Cuddles, right? I do love me some cuddles too." you say with a tired smile as you adjust Hyunjin in your bed.
You join him under the covers and lean on your elbow as you lay sideways, staring down at him.
"How'd they make you look and feel so real?" your hand is on his cheek, and you trace his eyebrows, his nose and lips.
Fingertips travel to his ears, down to his neck and his chest.
"Don't come alive and scare me while I'm sleeping, Hyunjin." a shadow passes in his eyes as you say his name but you're too busy caressing his toned stomach to notice.
"Night." you kiss his lips before turning off the lamp and laying your head on his shoulder.
Somehow, you adjust his arms so that it seems like he's holding you and you throw your leg over his, your hand tracing patterns on his chest and side.
It was like hugging and kissing your pillow in high school, except this one took the shape of a human being.
With thoughts and questions about Hyunjin swimming in your head, you fall asleep quickly, not noticing how the doll's arms tighten around you ever so slightly.
Early in the morning as your alarm starts blaring loudly and annoyingly, you groan and stir, almost forgetting about Hyunjin being next to you.
"Oh!" you gasp. "Good morning, dolly." you say after turning the alarm off, as he stares at the ceiling.
"Sadly, I gotta go to work and leave you here alone. You better behave while I'm out." you lift a finger up menacingly, but there's a playful smile on your face.
"Man, I'm crazy." you shake your head before leaning in to leave a nice, wet smooch on Hyunjin's cheek.
"I'll come say bye before I leave."
And you do so, after eating breakfast and getting ready, you're back in your room.
"Should I put you in the living room so you can watch tv?"
The doll never answers.
"Maybe, yeah. You'll be bored lying in bed all day." you nod and carry Hyunjin to your couch.
You make him comfy, cover him with the blanket, card your fingers through his messy hair and then turn on the tv, leaving the remote in his lap.
"Gonna be late because of you." you sigh and lean down to place a kiss on the doll's lips.
"Be a good doll."
And with that you finally leave your apartment.
All day at work, you can't help but wonder if your Hyunjin doll somehow came alive, and for some reason you were looking forward to seeing him even if he didn't.
"What's got you so happy? Finally got laid?" your coworker chuckles as you stand in the office kitchen making yourself some coffee, you know she always gossips about you behind your back so you don't wanna give her the time of the day.
"Mind your business, Amanda." you answer quickly, turning to leave back to your office.
"Okay, you didn't then." she calls behind you with a giggle but you decide to ignore her.
"Fucking bitch." you mutter to yourself as you close the door.
The rest of the day goes by uneventfully and you can't wait to drive back home to Hyunjin.
"I'm home!" you yell out as soon as you step inside, hearing that the tv is still on, nothing out of the ordinary.
You make your way to your living room to find Hyunjin in the exact same position as you left him almost 9 hours ago, the remote still next to his right hand, the same channel you turned on this morning on the tv.
For some reason, your shoulders slump.
"Well, I guess you've been a good doll and took my warning literally." you shrug a little.
"Still, I want to reward you. As soon as I eat and take a nap that is." you add and go about your routine, eating lunch, taking a shower and of course changing into your comfy clothes, which at this time of the year consisted of an oversized t-shirt and panties.
"Let's take a nap together, dolly." you say to Hyunjin as you lift him up and move him to your bed again.
You lay him on his side, then mirror his position, taking his arm and wrapping it around your waist, the other comfortably under your neck.
Tracing patterns on his stomach and chest again, you start talking.
"Your life is so easy. From the couch to the bed, you don't even have to work or go anywhere. Meanwhile, I have to endure fucking Amanda every day at work. Do you have any idea how bitchy that woman is?", you talk as you cuddle your doll. "She has to know eeeeverything about eeeeeveryone. Soon, she'll crawl up my ass just to look at my insides."
You look at Hyunjin's face and for a moment it seems as if his eyes moved.
"Are you listening to me, perhaps?" you whisper, your hand on his cheek. "I know I'm probably crazy. But I'm glad I got you. Even though you're a bit creepy, you bring me comfort." you add, tucking your head into his neck.
"I'm gonna sleep now."
Slowly blinking your eyes awake, you feel warmness enveloping you that's not coming just from your blanket but from Hyunjin.
Quickly, you realize that somehow his thigh ended up pressed against your core, your leg thrown over him as you scooted closer to him in sleep.
"Oh." a little sound escapes your lips as you grind against his warm thigh, feeling wetness on your panties.
Before looking up at him, you press a kiss to his collarbone and it seems like his thigh moves against you once, making you jolt.
"Hey." you look up at him, but his eyes are unmoving as always.
You observe his face but the throbbing between your legs makes you grind against him again.
"F-feels good." you whimper, leaning in and kissing him, letting your tongue dart out and lick at the plump lips.
You feel his erection press against your other thigh, the one flush against him and you chuckle a little.
"Someone likes me a lot." you say, leaning back to look at him.
It looks like there's a small smile on his face that you swear wasn't there before.
"Hm." you squint your eyes as you stop your movements.
"Gotta try something." you declare after a moment of silence, lifting up and removing the blanket.
You push Hyunjin on his back, hooking your fingers in his boxers and pulling them off of him.
"Aw, you really do like me a lot." you smirk at the sight of the doll's cock, twitching and leaking again like it did yesterday.
"I'll give you some attention, you deserved it."
You spread his legs, adjusting them so you can kneel between his thighs and you lean down.
"I haven't done this in a while. You can't complain though." you chuckle a little as you grip his cock and let your tongue dart out, catching the sweet tasting precum with it.
You don't understand how he tastes so sweet, it's hard to put your finger on what exactly the taste is but it makes you want more so you swirl your tongue around his head, your moans muffled as you swallow the sweet liquid.
"Mm. Fuck you taste good." you whine and put your lips around him again, slowly taking more of him in as you bob your head up and down.
Sucking cock like that is not your favorite thing to do, sometimes it makes you feel uncomfortable but having Hyunjin be so still and so tasty has your arousal pooling on your panties and you keep wanting more.
You take as much as you can, coating his cock in your saliva, your tongue pressing along his vein as you fondle his balls has him twitching inside you.
You smirk and grip his left hand, spurts of hot cum hitting your throat and it tastes even sweeter than before as you whimper and swallow everything.
"Damn hot." you whine, quickly getting rid of your shirt and panties, before you take his now completely wet cock in your hand and start jerking him off to make him hard for you again.
It doesn't take long to excite the doll and you decide to turn your back to him and fuck on his cock like that so that you don't have to look into his lifeless eyes while pleasing yourself.
You sit on him and push his cock inside yourself, your warm cunt engulfing his entire length easily.
"Mm." you gyrate your hips as you close your eyes and enjoy teasing yourself, your wet pussy coating his navel and balls.
"God, you're perfect Hyunjin." you whine and start fucking on him.
In the deep throes of passion as you bounce on him, your nails digging into his thighs for support, your eyes closed in pure bliss, you don't notice anything.
You don't notice Hyunjin blinking, his lips opening to speak but nothing comes out.
He can't move no matter how hard he tries and once again his eyes go back to the glassy state they're always in.
"Gonna cum." you whine loudly, gripping his right hand and he starts vibrating inside you, pushing you over the edge and making you scream as you squirt all over him.
"Fuck." you whine as your eyes focus, noticing you have left red marks in his thighs.
"Oh. Did I hurt you?" you gasp, your fingertips gently running over the marks.
"Didn't mean to." you look back at him but he lays still.
His cock twitches inside you and you grip his left hand, making the doll fill you up as you slowly ride him.
You lift up slowly, his cum sliding down your inner thigh together with your release.
"Made a mess of you, dolly." you look at the state of him.
"Maybe a bath?" he doesn't answer but still you prepare a bath and place him in it, careful of the usb opening on his neck.
You get inside after him, settling between his legs and leaning your back on his chest.
"Why are you so warm, Hyunjin?" you caress his arm as you hold it, his other one thrown over your stomach.
Sighing, you lean on his shoulder and close your eyes, trying to relax in the warm water, as Hyunjin 'held' you.
You still couldn't understand how they made him, but you were willing not to think about that, as he brought you a kind of comfort you didn't expect, making you wanna indulge in that feeling for as long as you could.
It's been exactly two months since you've gotten your Hyunjin doll, and ever since then you've loved spending every day with him.
You talked to him like he was alive, you watched movies with him, you read him books, you slept next to him every single night, you brought him to the kitchen so he can watch you cook, you even took him on late night drives sometimes, feeling bad that he was locked up in the apartment all day.
Sometimes, you thought you saw a flicker in his eyes, a slight smile on his face, or his fingers twitching against his thighs.
Some nights, while you're half asleep, you could swear that he tightened his hold on you or his chest lifted up and down like he was breathing.
Some days, as you'd come home from work you found him in a slightly different position than you left him.
One time, you sat him next to the window so you could watch rain together, and when you came back from making some tea, there was a heart shape in the fog on the glass.
"Did you do this dolly?" you caress his hair and look at him closely but he doesn't react.
You sigh, tracing another heart next to the first one before you sit in his lap, bringing the warm cup to your lips and observing him.
You thought you were going crazy in the beginning but as time passed by, you were becoming sure that there was more to Hyunjin than you initially knew.
"Just say something if you can hear me. Or squeeze my hand." you try for the nth time as you sit on your couch with Hyunjin but nothing happens.
"Fine." you huff. "Maybe you want something first. What would you like? I bought you new clothes. Maybe you want something else like... like something to do with art? We can paint together, if you'd like."
Hyunjin doesn't answer.
Nevertheless, you bring your art supplies and a bottle of wine.
You make yourself comfortable on the floor, next to Hyunjin's legs as he sits on the couch.
You end up being the one painting and drinking, Hyunjin's eyes move to look down at you, the look in his eyes softens, unlike the glassy one he always has.
He wants to talk, he wants to lean over and caress your hair, he wants to taste the wine off of your lips and feel the paintbrush between his fingertips.
But he can't. His eyes become glassy again as your phone rings, jolting you out of your peaceful activity.
It's your mother.
The conversation starts as always and it escalates into a fight of when are you settling down, why aren't you married, why are you closing yourself off, why are you such a failure?
As soon as you hang up a sob escapes your lips and you fall into Hyunjin, seeking comfort as you wrap your limbs around him, your face buried in his neck and your hot tears sliding down from your cheeks to his shirt, soaking it up.
"No one would understand." you cry. "They'd say I'm crazy and maybe I am. But I don't give a fuck."
Your body trembles against Hyunjin as you hiccup and sniffle, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, your leg thrown over his thighs.
His body seems warmer than before and you squeeze him a little.
"Maybe I'm fucking crazy for loving a doll. But I love you Hyunjin." you sigh, closing your eyes as you lean against him.
His eyelids flutter a few times. He blinks.
A deep breath through his nose and you almost miss the way his chest moves up.
You place your hand on his chest, and feel it.
A heart beat slowly forming, at first almost too slow to be normal until it becomes steady and then speeds up.
He's breathing, his lips are dry as he licks at them, his hands clutch onto you and you scream.
You jump up quickly, your eyes wide as you look at him.
Hyunjin looks back up at you, his eyes wide and filled with fear and shock, mirroring yours.
He opens his mouth and a series of coughs escape his lips.
"Wh- How? Am I hallucinating?"
"Y- y/n." is the first thing he says, weakly and quietly as he reaches out for you.
You stay still as a statue, not sure what the hell is happening before your eyes.
"P-please, don't be scared." he begs as he tries to get up but his legs give out and he falls to the floor with a thud.
"Ugh." he whimpers, his hands grabbing at the coffee table.
You're slow to react to him falling from the shock of it all, making your way back to him cautiously.
"Did you hurt yourself?" you ask quietly.
"N-no, I don't think so." he says as he looks up at you.
"Who- who are you?" you don't know what else to ask, because the doll you used and played with was now a human with a heartbeat and he was looking at you, even knew your name.
"What do you mean? I'm- I'm Hyunjin, your romantic doll." he answers like it's the most normal thing ever.
"How are you alive? Why now all of a sudden? I don't get it." you say as he sits back on his legs.
"You... You love me. Your love brought me to life." he swallows, his cheeks rosy.
"Oh... There was nothing about this in the manual." The fucking manual. The doll's actual purpose. Everything you ever did to him. Embarassment washes over you and you feel absolutely mortified.
"Do you... did you hear me all this time? And um, see and feel what I was doing?"
"Y-yeah." he nods, his cheeks becoming even more red.
"Fucking hell." you whine, covering your face with your hands as you sit on the couch.
"Hey, it's okay. I- I was made for that." he says, his hand on your knee in an attempt to comfort you.
You peek at him through your fingers.
"And you were so nice to me. So... warm and loving. You made me feel so good. You never mistreated me even when you knew very well you could do whatever you want with me. I'm thankful for that. And I- I love you too, y/n." Hyunjin talks, his thumb gently caressing your skin.
"Are you programmed to say stuff like that? Are you a robot?"
He chuckles.
"I'm not programmed and I'm not a robot. Didn't you feel my heart beating?"
"I did but... I don't understand. How were you made?" you finally remove your hands from your face.
"I don't know. I wish I could answer your questions but I'm as clueless as you are. I just know I was conscious the whole time while I was with you but I couldn't speak or move. Like I was paralyzed. It was horrible. I tried giving you signs, I tried to talk multiple times but it's like something would hold me back, like there was a wall and I couldn't break through."
"That does sound horrible. I'm sorry if I ever did something you wouldn't agree to." you say quietly, your face burning in embarassment.
"No, no, I liked everything you did." he says with a sheepish smile, averting his eyes. "Wish I could reciprocate." he looks up at you through his lashes.
You're biting on your lip nervously, his hand reaches for you and you accidentally snatch yours away, not used to your doll talking to you and trying to touch you.
"A-are you gonna abandon me now?" he asks quietly as he eyes your hand.
"What?" you look back at him to see that his eyes are watery and you gasp. "No, of course not! I always wished you'd come to life. Didn't think it would actually happen so I'm still processing and hoping that I'm not dreaming."
"Oh, thank god." he exhales and you let him grab your hand. "I- uhm... I'm very hungry and thirsty. Could you help me with that?"
"Oh! Of course! I will make some dinner for us." you say and help him sit up on the couch, noticing that now he's heavier than he used to be.
"I guess I still need to get feeling in my legs and arms." he says as you bring him a glass of water.
"Mhm, probably you need to have blood pumping properly through your body. Don't worry." you pet his hair as he drinks and he looks at you.
"Here, you'll be warm like this." you wrap him up in your fluffy blanket and notice a change on the back of his neck.
"Oh!" you exclaim, your fingertips touching the skin there, making Hyunjin shiver a little.
"The usb opening is gone." you declare and he brings his hand to touch it, your fingertips grazing against each other.
"That's weird." he says absentmindedly.
"All of this is weird." you chuckle and he chuckles with you, making you look at him.
God, he's even more beautiful with a smile gracing his face, you think to yourself.
Without thinking your hands gently cup his cheeks.
"You're really alive." you whisper, your thumbs gently stroking his face, his eyes flutter as he pushes into your hands.
"I am. Does that make you happy?" he asks with a sparkle in his eyes.
"Very happy." you nod with a smile, leaning closer to him.
"Good. I want to make you happy. When you're happy, I'm happy too."
"Hyunjinnie." you whine against his lips and kiss him gently.
Having him kiss back as he clutches at your shirt is the sweetest thing ever, you think as you wrap your arms around his shoulders.
"Okay, I don't want you to starve now that you came to life." you lean back with a chuckle as he chases your lips.
"Yeah, please, I need food." he nods and you make your way to the kitchen, whipping up a quick dinner, checking constantly if he's okay.
You bring two plates as soon as you're done and Hyunjin's eyes seem to get bigger as soon as they land on the food.
"Be careful, it's still hot." you warn him.
"Okay." Hyunjin nods.
He eats happily, asking for more which you of course bring to him.
"Are you feeling better?" you ask when the two of you finish eating.
"Yes, much better. But I feel very tired now."
"You need sleep. Let's go to bed. Do you think you can walk now?"
"I think so." you grab his arm and help him become steady on his feet.
You lead him to the bathroom and he looks at you.
"Now that you're alive, you need to brush your teeth and wash up before bed."
"Right." he nods.
After a whole ordeal of getting ready, you finally plop down under the covers.
"Can I- Can I hold you?" Hyunjin asks sweetly and you chuckle, rolling your body into his.
"Of course."
"Always wanted to do that." his limbs wrap around you as he holds you tightly, your face buried in his chest.
"Good night, Hyunjin. Please be there when I wake up." you nuzzle into him, inhaling the familiar fresh and flowery scent of him.
"I promise I will. Good night, y/n."
It wasn't a dream.
Your eyes flutter open and Hyunjin smiles at you fondly, his hand gently caressing your cheek.
"Morning, dol- Hyunjin."
"You can call me dolly if that's what you like." he smirks and you chuckle.
"Eh, well you're human now. It feels like I'm degrading you." you gently touch his chest.
"I don't mind." he shifts and you feel his erection press against your thigh.
You gasp a little, your core throbbing with want.
"I'm sorry." his face is red instantly. "It's just- when you touch me... I can't help it."
"It's okay, Hyunjinnie." you slide your hand down to cup him through his boxers.
He whimpers, leaning into you, his eyes fluttering shut and you press your lips on his in a heated kiss.
His tongue licks at your lower lip and you let him in, eager to finally feel his kisses how you craved to.
Hyunjin kisses you messily and hungrily, grinding into your hand, grunting against your lips.
As soon as you slide off his boxers, automatically your hands lift up to push him on his back but he grabs your wrists gently to stop you.
"My sweet girl, let me take care of you how you deserve now that I'm able to." he rasps, his eyes hooded as he looks at you with lust.
"O-okay." you whisper and lay down on your back, letting Hyunjin slide your panties off as you pull off your shirt and toss it somewhere aside.
"I've spent so much time receiving. I want to give, my angel. My hands hurt when I couldn't touch you and make you feel good. That's all I want to do." he sounds desperate as his lips attach to your neck, leaving wet kisses on your skin, his hands roaming on your body and settling on your breasts.
"Mm, make me feel good, Jinnie." you whimper as he squeezes your breasts, massaging them and moaning against your skin like it was more pleasurable to him than to you.
He mumbles sweet praises as he leaves more kisses that lead to your nipple, his tongue darting out to swirl around it, making you arch into him.
His eyes are dark as he wraps his lips around it and starts sucking, his other hand sliding down to grip your inner thigh.
Fingertips ghost on your skin, both his hands now spreading your legs apart.
"Do you know how much I longed to taste your sweet nectar? Will you let me drink from you, my angel?" Hyunjin asks, his finger gently pressing into your clit, circling it.
"Yes, please, oh my god." you whimper, your hips lifting up into his touch.
He smirks, trailing kisses down to your core.
He stops for a moment to admire you and you don't even have time to feel self-conscious as he spreads your pussy lips apart and leans in to stick his tongue inside you.
"F-fuck!" you jolt as he starts moving it before he leans back a little and licks at your sensitive clit.
"Taste even sweeter than I imagined." he moans, his lips wrapping around your clit as he sucks on it, his thumbs gently caressing your pussy lips.
"H-H-Hyunjin!" you whimper as he sucks harder, your hips lifting up in pleasure.
"Could be here for hours. Eating this sweet pussy out." he moans, pushing his tongue inside you again, this time fucking you faster, his nose giving the perfect pressure on your sensitive nub and driving you crazy.
Your hand grips his hair, pushing him more into you as he skilfully moves his tongue, his lips pressing into your lower ones as he makes out with you.
Your orgasm washes over you quickly, coating Hyunjin's face and he laps it all up greedily, his eyes shut as he whimpers into you, sending vibrations right into your core.
You feel crazy with desire the more he continues eating you out like a man starved and you have to grip his hair and pull him away after he gives you two more orgasms.
"H-Hyune, please, I need your cock." you whimper, feeling like you're falling apart.
He licks at his red lips, his eyes crazed with lust he feels for you.
"Anything my angel needs." his voice is husky as he leans over you, the tip of his cock pressed against your wet, messy cunt.
He pushes in with ease, after all, you've been fucking on him for the last two months, your pussy was used to the stretch.
"Mm, Hyunjin!" that doesn't make it feel less pleasurable when he fills you up, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix.
"Move, please." you whimper, already feeling out of it.
Hyunjin grips your thighs and starts fucking you at a steady pace, his cock dragging against your walls deliciously, sliding easily through your wetness.
"Feel so good. So warm. Just for me." he whimpers, his eyes fluttering shut before they open again and look down where his cock disappears inside you.
"Just for you, Jinnie." you moan and he looks up at you, a smile on his face.
He leans closer to you, wrapping his arms around you and in turn you wrap yours around his shoulders, bringing your bodies flush together as he buries himself deep inside your heat.
He ruts into you desperately, your lips meeting in messy kisses, spit dribbles down your chin and he licks at it, kissing your jaw and your neck wetly.
"P-please tell me you love me." he whimpers in your ear, holding you tightly as he fucks you harder, only taking a little bit of his length out and shoving it back in with force that has your mind spinning.
"I love you, Hyunjin. I love you. So much." you cry happy tears, making him cry too as you clutch onto each other.
"My angel, I love you more than anything." he says as he kisses you, his tongue playing with yours.
He brings you to another orgasm, his fingers on your nipples, pinching and pulling as he keeps rutting into you desperately.
"C-can I cum?" he whimpers, his hands gripping desperately at your waist.
"Yeah." you nod quickly and he gives you his left hand to squeeze and as your fingers entwine, he cums, filling you up endlessly, more than when he was just doll and you whimper as your legs clamp around him, lifting your middle into him and cumming with him again.
Both of you breathe hard as he stays inside you for a moment, before pulling out and watching his cum drip out of you.
"D-do I still have to squeeze your left hand for you to cum?" you chuckle a little.
"No, just... force of habit, I guess." he says sheepishly like he didn't just fuck your brains out.
"What about the vibrations?"
"You really liked that, didn't you?" he smirks, his hand sliding up your thigh tentatively, before his fingers slide between your folds, playing with the wetness.
"Shut up." you say embarassingly, swatting his hand away.
"Don't worry, I can vibrate if you want." he bites on his lip as he looks at you.
"I'm too sensitive now." you whisper and he chuckles.
"I know. Usually you don't go above four, five orgasms in one sitting. Maybe six if you're extra horny."
"It's embarassing to me that you know this in such detail." your face becomes red as Hyunjin chuckles, shaking his head.
"Nothing you should be embarassed about. I'm happy to please you." he says and leans down to kiss you gently.
You pull him into your embrace, hoping that from now on, he stays human, and keeps loving you because in this moment you can't imagine your life without Hyunjin in it.
"Thank you for letting me use your painting supplies." Hyunjin smiles up at you as he sits on the floor of your living room, like you always did when you painted.
"Don't thank me, Jinnie. What's mine is yours." you smile as you sit next to him and lean in closer.
"Let me see." you say as he looks down sheepishly.
He pushes the sketchbook towards you and you gasp.
"Hyunjin, this is amazing! How did you manage to paint so well?! And you painted me! That's so sweet."
"I- I don't know. As I started, it's like I got déjà vu, like I already did this before and many times so."
"Really? That's peculiar." you say.
"Maybe we should call the company I got you from." you add, tapping your chin.
"P-please don't!" Hyunjin panics, gripping at your thigh. "I'm scared. I don't know why but when I try to think of that place, it feels bad. Please don't call them. I don't want them to take me away from you."
"Hey, hey, it's okay. No one will take you away from me. I won't call them." you quickly grab his face to calm him down.
"You promise?" his pupils shake as he looks at you.
"I promise." you nod and kiss him sweetly to let him know he can trust you.
Hyunjin visibly relaxes with your touch, wrapping his arms around you and tucking his face in your neck.
"Um... could we go outside? We only ever went on night drives which is understandable but now that I can walk and stuff, we could go out on real dates and maybe visit museums?" he looks up at you with a smile.
"Of course! Anywhere you want to go." you smile back at him, and he leans up to kiss you.
For the next several weeks, you take Hyunjin everywhere.
To the park, the movies, museums, to a club, to different restaurants, to a mall, anything that comes to your mind, the two of you decide to visit, even going to a little town nearby for a day trip.
You don't remember the last time you were this happy and had someone next to you who made everything look so easy and sweet.
Hyunjin had taken an interest in capturing all the pretty moments so you got him a camera, deciding to surprise him for your 6 month anniversary.
As you came home from work, you called out to him but there was no answer.
"Jinnie? Are you sleeping?" you pushed the bedroom door open but the bed was vacant.
A heavy feeling settled in the pit of your stomach as you searched your entire apartment and couldn't find him.
Frantically, you looked for him again, knowing that he didn't suddenly become Barbie sized and hid somewhere.
He was gone.
You ran out of your apartment to knock on your neighbor's door.
"Tony! Did you see Hyunjin today maybe?" you asked him as soon as he opened the door.
"No, I didn't, sorry." he shook his head.
You didn't know what to do so you went back to your apartment and burst into tears.
Hyunjin didn't have a phone you could contact him with as he never had the need to use one so you had no way of reaching him.
All you could do was sit and wait, biting your nails as every single scenario runs through your mind.
He will come back, you reassure yourself as you fall asleep from exhaustion.
And he does, around 10pm the door clicks open and you jolt up from your nap on the couch.
"Hyunjin?" you say into the dark space and he turns on the light, standing in the middle of your living room with two gift bags in his hand and an apologetic look on his face.
"Oh my god, Hyunjin!" you jump to your feet, running to him and throwing your arms around him, squeezing him tightly and almost knocking him down as the bags fall out of his hands and he wraps his arms around your waist.
"I'm so sorry, y/n. I should've left you a note. I-I went out to get a gift for our anniversary tommorow."
"Please, don't ever disappear like that again. Do you have any idea how scared I was?" you cry and Hyunjin gasps, his hands on your face as he wipes away your tears.
"I'm really sorry. I will never ever do something like this again." his eyes water too.
"I should get you a phone." you shake your head. "Hey, how did you even manage to buy a gift? You don't have any money." you chuckle, wiping at your cheeks.
"I went to the park and painted portraits of people for money, then got the gift."
"Oh, Jinnie, you sweet fool. Just don't give me any more scares."
"I promise I won't." he nods and your lips seal in a kiss.
Despite having so many options to choose from now, Hyunjin and you decide to have a nice dinner at home for your anniversary, where it all started.
You even took out the most expensive plates and silverware you owned, adding some candles to create a more intimate atmosphere, some light romantic music playing in the background.
"Y/n, I um- got you something I'd like to see you wear tonight for me."
"Oh, you did?" you smirk. "Show it to me."
Hyunjin grabs one of the gift bags and reaches it to you with an excited smile.
You chuckle and peek inside, seeing that he got you black and red lacy lingerie as well as a dress.
"Do you like it?" he asks.
"Very much so." you take out the dress and touch the silky material. "This dress is very revealing." you notice the opened back and the deep neck line that would definitely almost make your breasts fall out.
"I was counting on the fact that we celebrate here because you in that dress is for my eyes only." his eyes darken suddenly.
"Oh yeah? Let me get ready for our dinner then." you chuckle and make your way to the bathroom.
Hyunjin decides to wear the clothes he arrived in, since those were the only fancy clothing items he owned, and he thought it was kind of symbolic to put them on tonight.
You walk into your bedroom to find Hyunjin dressed and staring at the big box he was packed in, one you still didn't get rid of.
"Jinnie?" you call out as he seems to be deep in thought.
"You kept the box." he says, still looking at it.
"I did. I had no idea what I was getting into so I left it just in case. I was gonna throw it out, it's just really heavy." you explain, making your way to him.
"When you arrived, two men had to carry the box in, and somehow the box seemed heavier than you. I barely managed to get it into the closet. Had to push it and stuff. Sorry I didn't have the chance to get rid of it."
"It's okay, y/n. You don't have to apologize." he smiles as he turns towards you.
"Oh." a gasp leaves his lips as he sees you all dressed up for him.
"You like?" you smirk, winking at him.
"Mhm." he nods quickly. "You look stunning, my angel."
"Thank you, Jinnie. You look handsome."
His cheeks seem to become more red with the praise as he mutters, his eyes darting left and right.
You enjoy your dinner together, romantic music playing in the background, the tv mute, left on just from the habit of it.
After you finish eating, you migrate to the couch to cuddle and drink wine, some stupid show playing on the screen and the two of you jokingly read from the character's lips, making up nonsensical conversations and laughing.
After some time and some more wine, Hyunjin becomes even more handsy than usual, grabbing at your thighs, sliding his hands on the silky material of the dress.
You melt into him, kissing him as your arms wrap around his shoulders, your tongues languidly massaging each other as your core throbs with need.
Hyunjin caresses you gently, his hands worshipping you, sliding down your throat, to your collarbone, to the swell of your breasts, down to your stomach and waist, landing on your hips.
His lips attach to your neck as he leaves wet kisses on your skin, licking at it and sinking his teeth in.
"Mm." you moan, playing with his hair as he kisses your collarbone and the flesh of your breast, leaving another love bite on the soft skin.
His hands travel under your dress, roaming around on your legs and your eyes open, landing on the tv, making you gasp.
"Hyunjin, that's you!" you jolt, pointing at the screen.
"Huh?" he mumbles, already drunk on you.
You quickly grab the remote and turn on the sound.
"...seemingly the dolls have some kind of malfunction that the company does not wish to reveal to the public. All eight of the purchased dolls are required to be returned and the buyers will get their money back, guaranteed. The customers will be contacted accordingly..."
"M-my friends. I vaguely remember them." Hyunjin breathes quickly, you can see that he's getting upset quickly. "They wanna take me away from you."
"I won't let them." you quickly shake your head.
"What are we gonna do?" he asks, clenching his fists and you gently grab his hands, trying to soothe him.
"We're gonna... leave."
"Leave?"
"Yeah, I have a house my aunt left me up in the mountains. I don't think they can find us there. For now, until we think of where to go next." you start planning immediately.
There was no way you would let anyone take Hyunjin away from you.
"But, what about your job? And your things?" Hyunjin bites on his lip.
"I don't care. All I care about right now is making sure you're safe." you smile at him, your hand coming up to caress his cheek.
Hyunjin smiles, leaning into your touch and wrapping his arms around you.
"Thank you." he whispers into your hair.
You get a call from an unknown number the next day, but one quick google search tells you it's the company Hyunjin came from.
You packed one bag of a few essential things you'd need, leaving most of your belongings behind.
"Y/n! There's a black van posted outside. It's been there for hours. They're looking at the building right now." Hyunjin announces and you make your way to the window, half hiding behind him.
"We need to use the fire exit." you declare and Hyunjin nods as he turns to you.
"I won't let them take you. I promise." you hold his hands.
"I trust you, my angel." he smiles and you kiss him gently before the two of you exit the building, quickly entering your car.
You step on the gas, and reach out to hold Hyunjin's hand in yours.
As you speed off into the sunset, hoping for a better tomorrow, a black van rounds the corner, following you from afar...
⟡ cw: church boy innie, talks of sinning, awful dialogue & pacing, softcore degradation, reader has a vag & is lady coded, manipulation but its softcore, male masturbation & wet dreams, dry-humping, one (1) singular spank, cum-shot, implied oral (fem receiving), jeongin Really wants to fuck y/n!
⟡ author's note: hey guys so funny story i- *pushes you and runs away*
church boy!jeongin's first experience with temptation comes in the form of his childhood best friend.
ever since experiencing his first sexual awakening and suddenly realizing how stacked his good friend is, he has purely never been the same again. in fact, he doesn't think he'll ever come back from it. he doesn't know how he can.
jeongin had been going to the same church as you for years, only seeing the picture of perfection in your form, white lacy dresses that make you look like an untouched angel causing his cock to chub up in his slacks. he hears his father in his ear warning him about how he should be lowering his gaze, and you're a lady that should be respected as such, but in the back of his mind, jeongin's just grateful he can't hear his impure thoughts.
his second experience with temptation, of course, involves you, but merely as a figment of his imagination. he wakes up in a cold sweat, dick hard in his trousers and his boxers soaked with precum. in his dreams you'd been shoved face first into his mattress and fucked like a slut. his slut. crying like you'd never taken a dick as big as his before, and as he recants the vision from before, his cock throbs dully in the confines of his bottoms.
"fuuuuck —" he groans, gripping the base of his cock, before laying back in silence. he really needs to get you out of his system. and he does so that same night by rubbing his cock raw, wishing it was your tiny cunt instead of his hand.
the third, and final instance in which jeongin faces temptation in it's most dangerous form, you're kneeling in front of him with the most innocent look on your face. like you didn't just ask him to “show you his if you show him yours.” you're alone with him in his bedroom, both of your parents under the guise that the two of you would be studying for an important test.
“innie, jeonginnie — i just want to see.” you plead with him in that stupid fucking tone — eyes sparkling in a way that's definitely getting him hard again. his father's voice is in his subconscious again, but he doesn't listen to him this time.
“y/n-ah. i can't. but we can do something else okay? do you trust me?” jeongin asks, his palms moving forward to rest on your shoulders. your eager nod almost makes him feel guilty about the way he's about to use you.
almost.
“turn around, a-away from me. hands and knees.” he says, eyes trained carefully on you as you switch your position. his eyes trail downward to your ass, noting the way your skirt hardly covers your anything. if he was bold enough, he'd shove you forward so he could see your panties without that short skirt obstructing his view. instead, his hand trails downward to his cock, palming himself through his slacks at the sight of your ass.
“what are you going to do?” you ask him, turning your head back to look at him through hooded eyes.
jeongin opts not to respond. he lets go of his hard-on, sitting up on his knees and wrapping his hands around your waist in a firm grip. “you've no fucking idea how bad i've been craving this, y/n.” the man begins, pushing his hips forward to meet your ass. a faint gasp leaves your lips, and you wriggle slightly, but jeongin's grasp doesn't let up.
he slowly begins to rock his cock against your ass, a deep growl rumbling in his throat when his cock presses up against your cunt just right. moaning weakly, you jolt forward, panties getting wetter as you let him rub carefully against your backside. “didn't you want this too?” he speaks again, rutting harder into you when he hears you gasp once more and sees your head nodding frantically.
he takes note of your hands gripping his duvet and little choked noises spilling out of your lips in a desperate attempt to stay quiet, and he removes one of his hands from your waist to give your ass a firm slap. he laughs, watching you squirm.
“trying to stay quiet now? after you sauntered your way up into my room and asked to see my dick like a shameless harlot?” jeongin scowls, losing himself a lot quicker than he would've liked to. he's now humping your ass in a tempo that rocks your body forward, and your clit throbs, the dull friction of a hard shaft nudging your cunt through soaked panties.
still with one large hand gripping your waist so tight you're sure it'll bruise, he ever so slightly maneuvers your body, making you rock your hips against his dick. “fuck, angel. you'll make me come just like this.” he moans, mirroring your soft noises. “bet if i held you down and finally fucked you like you'd been begging for, you'd love it.” jeongin smirks, looking down at where the two of you are connected, noticing the wet patch on his front getting larger as he keeps humping your cunt.
you've officially lost it, fucking yourself back into his clothed cock and practically drooling, your mouth open in a cute little "O" shape, that makes jeongin's heart swell up in his chest just like his cock. “f-fuck, ah — innie, please.”
you don't even know what you're begging for, but your core is molten hot, orgasm building rather quickly in your gut and your small noises turning into pathetic whining.
when your noises get too loud, however, his hand comes and presses against your mouth, effectively shutting you up and pressing your cunt harder on his dick. “shhh... we don't want to get caught, don't we? just lay there and take it. let me keep humping this little cunt till i come, okay? and maybe i'll let you come too.”
“innie, innie please —” you slur, but your words are muffled by his palm.
jeongin's pace is akin to one that he know's he'll uphold once he finally gets the chance to feel you squeezing his cock. your pathetic babbles spur him on, and his hips stutter. he's close, but he doesn't want to come in his pants. not like this. you're too fucked out to notice him unzipping and pulling his cock out with his other hand, but you whine at the loss of his iron grip on your tummy.
you look back at him all teary-eyed, and that's what breaks him.
“god you'll fucking — i'm coming, i'm fucking coming doll.” he hisses, pushing your skirt up and jerking his cock to a messy orgasm, tilting his head back and groaning with every spurt of his cum hitting your ass, the back of your thighs, and finally — your covered cunt.
despite coming first and edging you at the brink of your own orgasm, jeongin is ever the gentleman. he takes your cum covered panties off with gentle hands, and pushes your face into his blankets, and makes you come on his tongue, right there on his bed.
that same night, through your window he watches you pray at your bedside, reciting hail-mary's and begging for forgiveness for indulging in sin.
jeongin's cock gets hard again. he really wishes it was you begging him for forgiveness instead.
Summary: It is your fourth anniversary with Chris! Will he remember your special day or will you have to make do all alone?
Your eyes fluttered open as the shining rays of morning sun spilt through the curtains. You instinctively reached for your phone, squinting at the screen. 6:00 AM. You let out a sigh of relief, realising you still had an hour and a half till your alarm went off. You nestled back into the warmth of the blankets, feeling Chris’s familiar form beside you.
You watched him for a moment, still amazed at the peacefulness of his face when he slept. He always seemed so much lighter in the mornings, his usual tension nowhere to be found. You brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead and snuggled against his shoulder, feeling his arm instantly wrap around your figure. You two hardly get mornings like this anymore. Everyday seemed to move around his demanding hours at the studio; your time together was more often than not reserved for late-night takeout or quick hellos and goodbyes.
You laid in a comfortable silence as he slowly drifted awake. You wondered if he’d remember the day. You had celebrated your first anniversary with a weekend getaway, then your second and third anniversaries with special dinners and thoughtful little gifts. But in the past year, his career had really taken off, and though you were thrilled for him, you had noticed the hours he spent at the studio growing longer, his mind wandering further from home.
“Morning already?” Chris mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion.
“Not yet,” you whispered. “We still have some time.”
“Good,” he murmured, pulling you closer and nuzzling his face into the side of your neck. You both laid there, drifting in and out of sleep, comfortable in the familiar warmth of each other’s presence. It felt like a small luxury. A rare, unrushed morning just for the two of you.
Eventually, the vibrations of his phone rang throughout the room, the first reminder of his busy day ahead. A groan left his lips as he reached over to silence it.
“What's on your schedule today?” You asked, already sure of the answer.
“Studio, studio, and more studio.” He chuckled, stretching his arms. “We’re wrapping up a new album, so it’s all hands on deck.”
“Sounds intense,” you said softly, hiding your disappointment. “Guess I'll see you later tonight?”
“Yeah, I'll probably be back late.” He glanced over at you, a small crease forming between his eyebrows. “But hey, let’s do something soon… Maybe get out of the city? Just us.”
A smile tugged at your face, feeling just a flicker of hope. “I’d like that.”
With a final sigh, you both got out of bed. Chris threw on a pair of sweatpants along with a black hoodie, wandering into the kitchen as you headed towards the bathroom to wash up. By the time you joined him, he was already sitting at the counter, toast in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling through the endless amount of emails.
You poured yourself a cup of tea, watching him from across the kitchen, wondering if he would say anything about your anniversary. You didn’t exactly want to bring it up; you wanted it to be something that he remembered on his own. As he ate the last bit of his toast, it was clear he was already mentally at the studio, immersed in the day ahead.
“Chris,” you said, arm reaching for the small box you had left on the counter. “Before you go...” you handed it to him, smiling as his eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“What’s this?” he asked, taking the box into his arms.
“Just something to get you through the day,” you explained. “Open it when you get to the studio, okay? And text me when you do!”
A grin spread across his face as his eyes stared deeply into yours. “You’re amazing, you know that?” He leaned in for a quick peck on your cheek, giving your hand a nice squeeze before he grabbed his bad. “See you tonight?”
You nodded with a small, heartfelt smile, giving him a small wave as he walked out the door, leaving you alone in the stillness of your apartment.
At the studio, Chris was finally able to sit down, remembering the box that was hidden inside his bag. He opened it with a slight smile, finding a stack of neatly tied envelopes inside. Each one was labelled with a number and time. Curiosity sparked, making him shoot you a quick text.
Chris: Hey, just opened the box. What’s all this?
You replied almost immediately.
Y/n: Open the first one now. Then, every hour, open the next. It’s just something to remind you of us. I love you.”
Intrigued, he opened the first letter.
Letter 1:
“Chris, remember the day we met? You walked into the coffee shop I worked at, juggling your phone, a bag, and what looked like half the contents of your car. You nearly tripped on the door frame, and I thought I should probably come over to help. Instead, you just laughed, looked right at me, and said, ‘I think the universe is trying to tell me I need a coffee!’ I felt the pink rush over my face as we made eye contact, and right then, I knew you were the kind of person who could turn anything around. You made me laugh before I even knew your name! I love that about you.”
Chris chuckled to himself, the blood rushing to his cheeks as he read the words slowly, savouring the memory. You had always remembered your first meeting in a way that made it seem like it was destiny. He found himself lingering over your words, feeling a sense of warmth that he hadn’t felt in a long time.
By 10:00 AM, he was already looking forward to the next letter. He opened it eagerly the second the clock struck.
Letter 2:
“Our first road trip! I was so anxious, afraid we’d gotten lost, but you just cranked up the music and said, ‘What’s life without a little adventure?’ We ended up dancing in the rain when we stopped for gas. I can still remember the blood rushing through my veins with the way your hands felt on my waist as you spun me around hehe. You remember, right? I felt like I could be myself with you. You have always made me feel like I could be myself with you. You have always made me feel like the world was full of possibilities.”
He smiled, remembering the wild freedom of that trip and how you both had gotten drenched but didn't care. You had always been the one to bring out his playful side, grounding him in those little moments that felt like they’d last forever.
Every hour, your letters transported him back to another piece of your shared history, each one crafted with love and a thoughtfulness that struck his heart deeply. 11:00 AM reminded him of the night you said you loved him for the first time; you then stayed up talking till the sun was directly above you. 12:00 PM was about your first anniversary and how he had whisked you away on a surprise weekend trip just to see you smile.
With each letter, your memories brought him closer to the man he’d been when you two first fell in love. The day slipped away as he moved from one letter to the next, each memory digging up a part of himself he’d left behind in the rush of his career. He had realised how much you had been there for him, every step of the way, always supportive, always patient.
By the time 9:00 PM rolled around, Chris was lost in thoughts of you. His heart ached with a newfound appreciation as he reached for the final letter, opening it with a big smile, expecting one last beautiful memory.
Letter 12:
“Chris, I can’t believe it’s already been four years. Time has flown by, and yet, I feel like I've known you my whole life. You’ve been my rock, my best friend, and my greatest love. From our first coffee shop meeting to our midnight dance parties in the kitchen, I have truly loved every single moment. You’ve made me feel so seen, so loved, and so endlessly grateful for us.
I know sometimes life pulls us in a million directions, but what matters most is that we have each other through everything. Thank you for loving me, for always protecting me, for always making me smile, and for being you. I love you. Happy Anniversary, Chris”
He froze as he read the last sentence, your worlds settling over him like a bittersweet warmth. Your anniversary. He had completely forgotten.
How could I have forgotten? He thought. His heart sank with a pang of guilt and longing. He grabbed his things and quickly left the studio, stopping by the convenience store to get a bouquet. He hurried home, a proud smile on his lips and a chest tight with anticipation. He was ready to tell you just how much you meant to him, to celebrate your love and make up for lost time.
His hand twitched with excitement as he put the key through the hole. The darkness of your apartment was the first thing that welcomed him home, but the sight was not unusual as he had grown accustomed to being met with silence due to his work hours. He flicked on the light before noticing a single envelope that laid on the kitchen counter. His heart raced with this new level of fondness as he picked up the very last letter. His eyes quickly scan your handwriting.
“Chris, you’ve been the music of my life, filling the quiet spaces with laughter and dreams. I cannot find the words to express just how deep my love runs for you...”
His smile was now bigger than ever, the pink blush creeping up on his face once again before he read the next line.
“But somewhere along the way, I lost parts of myself. I've waited and hoped and begged, but I've realised that I have to find my own rhythm now. Chris, I'll always love you, but it’s time I found out who I am without you. So I'm letting you go. This is goodbye, Chris. I hope someday you'll understand.”
He felt the words cut through him like a blade. His pulse pounded in his ears as he re-read your words over and over again, desperately looking for any sign that it was some sick joke. He looked up towards your bedroom, the paper trembling in his hands, disbelief washing over him. The flowers fell to the floor as he rushed to your bedroom, his stumbling feet betraying his true wish. His hands quivered as he reached to turn the knob.
Inside, he found a room that had been stripped bare of your things. Everything of yours that had once rested in there so comfortably, so pleasantly, so rightfully, was now missing. All that remained was a single teddy bear, the one he had given you on your second date, sitting alone in the middle of the bed.
Chris sank down, gripping the bear tightly against his chest, the tears trickling from his eyes and his heart heavy with a crushing emptiness. All those letters you had written for him, all the love you had poured into your words, they had been your way of saying goodbye. A final gift from the person who had once filled his life with light, and now, in the silence, he finally realised what he had lost, although all too late.
Hey guys! This is my first ever fic and im lowkey scared to post it but whatevs. Not sure how to feel about it tbh so pls dont be shy to lmk how you found it 😭 Oh and please do tell me if you find a mistake somewhere!
This was a lovely one ❤️ As an angst lover, it hit me pretty hard 😭 And no way this is your first fic?!?! You're writing so good, I wouldn't ever think it's someone's first fic. Wishing you a lot of inspiration and enjoyment on your writing journey ☺️☺️❤️❤️
⎡ In a city fuelled by greed and ambition, secrets are a currency. Yet here you are, gambling yours away on a captivating smile.⎤
⬅︎ PART I
⌁ pairing; boxer!chan x curvy!reader (f.)
⌁ genre; boxing au, s2l, angst, smut, 18+
⌁ word count; 14.6k
⌁ summary; You’re just a runner. So why the hell are you straddling the lap of an undefeated boxer, massaging his chest and whispering secrets you have no right knowing? Oh, yeah— ‘cause he’s hot.
⌁ warnings; dark themes: mentions and depictions of graphic gang activity, abduction, possession and distribution of drugs, addictions, use of deadly weapons, violence, blood, gore, and death threats, explicit sex: dom!chan, sub!reader, daddy kink, size kink, multiple orgasms, ruined orgasm, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, overstimulation, degradation, dirty talk, handjob, thigh riding, spanking, face slapping (m. receiving), rimming, fingering, edging, manhandling, gun play, anal play, cum play, spit play
⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩
❥ prefer ao3? keep reading here
❥ i want to give special thanks to jen ( @anobodyslove ) for being so patient with me and reading this monster of a fic over! 💕 and @awrkives for the most amazing banner! 💗
❥ this is a continuation of the original post as the overall word count exceeds the character limit on tumblr posts. this is not an official part 2, but rather the second half of the one shot.
!! the following story contains mature themes, including mentions and graphic depictions of racketeering, gang activity, weapons, drugs, violence, blood, gore, and death threats. please do not read nor interact if these themes cause you discomfort !!
Your vision blurs, head spins. Movements slow, you sit yourself up. The zip-ties, previously binding your wrists and ankles, have been removed. So have your platform ankle boots, fish-netted feet brushing against the fur of your coat. Willing your sight back, you screw your eyes tight, blinking until your vision finally clears to take in the room.
A masterpiece of modern elegance, the room is a blend of minimalist design that indulges comfort. It is expansive, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows to offer a panoramic view of the Crimson Heights skyline below. You shuffle yourself off the comfortable bed, eager to get a closer look. The red lights of the city twinkle back at you and cast a soft, ambient glow throughout the space. You’ve never seen the city from such a height, swallowing thickly.
In the reflection of the glass, beyond your haphazard image of dried tears and ruined lipstick, the bed you have only just climbed out of summons your attention.
Draped in the finest linens with a dark charcoal-grey duvet and plush pillows arranged neatly, it must be king-sized in order to fit the extensive space of the room. The headboard is a stunning work of art in itself—made of dark walnut wood, with soft leather inlays that give the room a sleek, masculine impression. The bed sits on a low, streamlined platform, reinforcing the room's minimal yet luxurious aesthetic. And, on either side of the bed, are matching nightstands, both topped with geometric lamps that are made of brushed steel and frosted glass.
Your eyes fall to the polished, dark hardwood floors. A rich, handwoven wool rug in deep, muted tones lays over it, warming the room and offering texture underfoot. You catch the gleam of the recessed lighting overhead, installed in the high, coffered ceilings. You lift your gaze and take in each panel. An awed sigh leaves you at the sight of the meticulously crafted slots, indirect LED lighting embedded into the coves to cast a sophisticated, layered illumination.
Against one wall stands a sprawling built-in wardrobe. The seamless doors are made from smoked glass and brushed steel accents. And, to the left of the bed, a small seating area invites relaxation, consisting of a sleek leather armchair and a low-profile marble coffee table. A few books rest upon it, alongside a single crystal whiskey tumbler, hinting at quiet, contemplative moments probably spent here.
You wander further around the room, spotting a door that leads to the master ensuite bathroom in the corner. It’s visible through frosted glass sliding doors. You debate on going in, curious to see what breathtaking architecture it will offer.
But then the walls captivate your attention, or rather the art that hangs from them. Large intricate pieces, each one probably chosen for its muted palette and contemporary feel, enhance the understated luxury that defines the room. The only splash of colour comes from a vase of white orchids resting on a sleek dresser, their delicate petals standing out against the otherwise neutral tones.
You resist reaching a hand out and tracing rigid lines of dried paint.
“I don’t give a shit,” you hear Chris growl on the other side of the black door.
You stiffen.
This is his room, you realise. The heart-wrenching events of the night return to you in a fast wave, flooding you with the same shame and anger that plagued you in the van.
As quietly as you can, you rush back to the bed for your coat and dig through the pockets for your switchblade. However, both are empty of your belongings, not even your lipstick remains. If you really are left without a weapon, you know what you must do.
Scooping up your coat and boots, you make your way to the door. It was one thing to be caught tangled in a bright dressing room with witnesses. It’s another to be cornered alone in his room. If he has a view of the city this marvellous, he must be tightly connected to within Stray Kids. You cannot, will not, subject yet another gang to your reckless behaviour. It will be best for everyone if you just leave. Besides, Vinny is probably worried sick about you, having witnessed you kidnapped.
“Call him,” Chris orders, his loud voice a bit clearer as you open the door. “Tell him she’s safe.”
You look up and down the long corridor. It is just as exquisite as the bedroom. Grey walls, remarkable artwork that looks to be of Korean origins. The hardwood floors extend beyond the room too, covered by a narrow carpet of lavish Persian design.
The left side leads to a number of rooms, one of which has the door wide open. Warm light seeps into the hallway with the natural grace of the sun, momentarily disrupted by shifting shadows. You don’t need to hear his voice again to know Chris is in there, the oversized silhouette of his frame confirmation enough.
You feel a grin involuntarily spreading on your lips.
“Good, you’re up,” a familiar voice says behind you.
Turning, you meet an unfamiliar face. Features nearly feline, the indigo haired man stands on the other end of the hall, compromising your path to the exit. He crosses his arms over his chest, dragging his gaze over your frame, attention lingering on the coat and boots clutched to your chest.
“And we were worried you’d try to run,” he jokes, though his face is void of friendly notions.
That stern dryness of his tone, sharpness of his voice triggers a memory.
“Shut up,” he had hissed before informing you that Vinny was alive.
“That’s what you do, right?” he asks. “You’re a runner.”
You narrow your gaze. “You say that like it’s some secret.”
He flashes a knowing smirk, as if well aware of your secrets. What is more astonishing, however, is the way that suggestive grin resembles Chris’s. It lacks his charisma and cynicism, and that flicker of darkness, dimming whatever light might have snuck through with indications of loss and trauma. So while the one before you is a good copy, it is not perfect. Those onyx eyes gleam of playful interest, twinkling with subtle notions of hostility instead.
You wonder if he learned it from—
Chris says your name.
The speed in which you turn to answer his call is downright disgraceful. Shame heats your chest, spreading up to your cheeks. Your instincts scream at you to avoid his gaze, to focus on anything other than that teasing smile he’s trying to bite back, but you find yourself helpless, unable to tear yourself away.
He must have showered, the smears of lipstick and splattered blood gone. His hair is pushed back, displaying his forehead. And his handsome face is on the way to recovery. Though his bruises still look tender, the cut on his brow is all clean and bandaged. Leaning against the doorframe, he wears a black shirt, that still emphasises the large muscles of his biceps, and a pair of matching sweats. You didn’t think it was possible for someone to look just as good clothed as they do half-naked.
“Come’ere,” he beckons before tonguing his cheek. The twinkle in his gaze is enough indication that he knows you’ve been checking him out.
I need to go, you know you should say.
Your body has a mind of its own though, diminishing your voice, shackling your sanity and nudging you towards him. Completely compelled by the pull of his charm, you obey, only stopping once you’re pressed against his buff chest again and cranking your neck back to maintain his enamoured gaze.
“Let me get these out of your way,” he smiles, voice a mere notch above a whisper.
No, thank you. I have to go.
His fingers brush yours, prickling goosebumps along your arms.
You release your tight grip. He hands your things to the man you met in the hallway. Barrier of your belongings removed, you fully lean into him.
Grin widening, Chris cups your cheek and rubs his thumb against your chin. “You know, I resent the fact that you think I’m dramatic,” he mumbles, inches away from your lips. “I just like making statements.”
“And what statement were you planning on making by abducting me?”
His eyes darken, swirling with sinister intent. As if remembering he had an agenda beyond seducing you, Chris’s soft caress on your chin becomes a tight grip. He forces your lips onto a pucker, using his new hold to guide you into the room and shove you into the nearest chair.
You softly grunt upon the impact. Chris clenches his jaw to suppress a smirk. You know that you’re fighting your desire based on the fact that you do not deserve to have it fulfilled, being the treacherous person you are. But why is Chris suddenly shoving down his sexual urges? He didn’t have any qualms about using them to lure the truth out of you before.
The magnificent state of the office disrupts your thoughts. It maintains that same elegant, minimalistic aesthetic of his bedroom. Tall windows that offer views of the pier, gleaming hardwood floors decorated with luxurious, handwoven carpets of varying muted shades, all working together to become the backbone of comfort and professionalism within the room.
In front of you, Chris leans on the large, polished walnut desk. You notice a sleek laptop, and a few notepads and pens, all of which are neatly arranged. An ergonomic leather chair looms over the desk and you find that you are thankful he is not sitting on it, knowing you’d be incapable of enduring his scrutiny from such a position of power without wrestling the overwhelming urge to touch yourself.
In one corner, a small lounge area features a plush velvet sofa in a deep navy hue, flanked by a glass-top coffee table. A handful of his friends, including Seungmin and the icy-haired man from the dressing room, occupy the space. The other side, by the wall of windows, linger the remaining few, including the man who took the position of his coach in the recent match and the one you met in the hall.
The artwork in the office does not resemble that of his room, or even the corridor. It is more abstract, sometimes broken up by black and white photos of himself in the ring. He barely breaks a sweat in each photo, clenching hard around his mouth guard as he glares at his opponent. A championship belt is framed and pinned behind his desk too, under a collection of trophies and gold medals.
You wonder how many people have been invited here, blessed to witness the wonders held within these walls.
“I need to know everything,” Chris says, pulling your attention away from the layout of the room.
You furrow your brows. “I told you everything.”
Chris crosses his arms over his chest. “Word for word,” he clarifies, voice void of the softness it once cradled.
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Disappointment lances around your heart, ensnaring your high-hopes like barbed wire. You thought he was making a statement of affectation or, at the very least, interest. You thought that his body was reacting to yours as well, that he felt your pain within a shared kiss, understood your damage within an exchanged breath. You thought that maybe he just wanted to see you again and didn’t know how, his efforts extreme but he is a Stray Kid after all.
You now understand the forced meeting for what it really is— an interrogation.
Told you so, a little voice in your head gloats. If you put up a fight and ran when I told you to, you wouldn't feel this way.
Sucking on the insides of your cheeks, brows knitted and eyes reverting to the floor, you shake your head and humorlessly laugh at your desperate short-sightedness. You’re no better than Aiden in the ring, flailing yourself around for a chance to be accepted somewhere, anywhere.
Perhaps this is for the best. You were going to ruin his life at some point anyway, possessing the damned knack of cursing him with your existence as you had done with the others that have come before him, friends and lovers alike.
So, with an exasperated sigh, you begin your tale, thinking back to everything you overhear in the alleyway. You give him a detailed description of Mickey, his features and breaking voice as Andy threatened his life. In greater detail, you describe what Andy looks like, from his messy crew cut to the nasty scar on his forearm. You describe his voice and his manner of speaking, the jittery bounce in his step as he lets his impulsive thoughts win and presses a knife to Mickey’s throat.
Chris nods along. Every so often, one of his friends shifts their weight or adjusts their position in their seats. You notice a few of them captivated by the floor whenever you mention Mickey and you can’t stop yourself from wondering who he was to them before he was outed as a traitor. Was he merely Chris’s coach, or really part of his inner circle?
“And you?” Chris asks when you finish.
You shrug. “What about me?”
“What makes you a traitor?”
You didn’t think such a question would summon tears, not after how much time has lapsed since you last called Vince, Danni and Andrea your friends. Yet, your eyes water. Jaw clenched, you narrow your gaze at him. Insults perch on the tip of your tongue, prepared to fire upon your frustrated command, but your despair holds your vicious voice hostage.
Blinking, you look down at the expensive hardwood floors. Breathing deep, you muster enough courage to quietly answer, “Delusions.”
“I need details,” Chris clarifies. You can hear the annoyance drenched in each grunted word.
You look over your shoulder at his friends. Tense, they stare with carefully neutral features.
“It’s a long story.”
“I got time.”
“The answer is no.”
Chris reaches behind him. He pulls out a black handgun, the letters SKZ scratched on the side of the barrel and aims it at you. “I think you should reconsider,” he says, chambering a bullet.
You cannot help smiling at the sound of the cocked gun, like a toy in his huge hand. You relax back in your seat, and tilt your head. Gesturing his hand upward, you advise, “Higher if you’re aiming for my head. You’ll only shatter my collarbone from this angle.”
Features flinching with confusion, Chris looks between you and his gun. He quirks his head to the side as he schools his expression once more, poking his tongue against his cheek.
“Are you stupid or suicidal?”
“A lot of people would argue both.”
The slightest impression of a smirk flickers on the corner of his lips. It's quite endearing, really—the way he tries so hard to stay focused, yet can't help but be distracted by your charms. You smirk for him instead, once miserable eyes now filled with playful defiance.
He takes a step closer, then another and another, until the cool barrel presses against the centre of your forehead. You try not to moan from the kiss of cold steel upon your skin, the proximity of his lips hovering over yours.
“Reconsider,” he orders in a whisper.
Sultry eyes, half-lidded and drowning in lust, you shake your head. Originally, shame shackled your truth. You didn’t want him nor his friends to lose respect for you, unsure if they even possess any for you at all. But now, all you want is to see how far he will go with his trigger, with you.
Chris moves the gun to your right temple, dragging the cold tip of the gun against your warm skin.
You bite your lip and shake your head.
He peers down at you with a lust-ridden gaze that mirrors yours and leans on the arms of your chair. He slides the gun down your cheek, along your jawline then finally pushes it firmly under your chin.
Your eyes roll, head tilting back.
“How about now?” he whispers. His voice is deep, heavy with lust as he breaths over your face.
Voice as breathless and even weaker than his, you practically whine, “No.”
Somewhere in the distance, you hear Seungmin mumble, “This is what I was telling you.”
“Shut up,” someone else replies in a quiet hiss. “I’m watching something.”
“It’s fine. Minho’s recording,” the one with the deepest voice reassures.
Chris pushes himself off the arm of the chair, uncocking his gun and removing it from your head.
You can’t help the dissatisfied sigh that escapes you at the loss of contact.
Turning to his friends, Chris demands, “Get out.”
“You’re ruining my footage,” Minho, the one you met in the hall, scolds, looking at Chris through his camera phone.
Chris merely points to the door. They sigh, grumbling protests as they shuffle out of the room. He shuts the door behind them and makes his way back to you.
“Listen,” he starts, wiping his nose with his wrist. He leans back against his desk again, meeting your gaze.
You press your thighs together at the sight of him all spread out along the edge of the grand desk.
He continues, snapping you out of your horny thoughts, “I want to fuck you senseless. I want you to take that little top off again and shove your tits in my face.”
Swallowing thickly, you sink into your chair, flushing at the confession.
“But before I ravish you,” he says, unable to fight off a smile, “I need to know what you did that made one of the most powerful families in Crimson Heights, levy such a steep price on your head.”
You shift uncomfortably in your seat. “It’s stupid, Chris,” you try to argue. “And childish.”
Gaze supplying tender understanding, Chris ever so sweetly encourages you to share with a gentle nod of his head. “Tell me everything,” he repeats, this time as a plea rather than demand.
Licking your lips, you confess, “And I don’t regret it. Before I tell you what happened, I need you to understand that I would do it again.”
At this, the compassion in his gaze wavers. Nonetheless, he sets the gun down and waits for you to begin.
You draw in a shaky breath, and upon the exhale, you explain, “Vince was flirting with me. I didn’t know it at the time, but at a certain point, it became obvious. He started to touch me more, and would find reasons to get me alone. We both lost someone ‘cause of overdoses and I guess it was a topic of bonding? I thought it was just as friends. He clearly had a different idea.”
Chris furrows his brows. “Does he have a girlfriend?”
A tight lipped smile momentarily tugs on the corners of your mouth. “Yeah, Danni,” you confirm. “That’s how I met him. She was like my best friend. We accidentally met while knocking over the same liquor store. She wanted the booze and I wanted the cash. It worked out perfectly.”
You chuckle quietly to yourself at the memory. Chris allows a small smile to break through his assertive expression in response.
“Anyway, one night we were supposed to meet up by the pier. But, Danni wanted to stay in for the night, which she of course told us after we already got there, and she was Andrea’s ride so neither showed up. Vince and I got to talking about the people we lost— his was more recent than mine. I thought he just needed some more support. He looked devastated at the time.
But then he reached for my thigh. I didn’t push it off right away because I couldn’t believe he was touching me like that. And I guess he took that as a sign that I liked it. He moved his hand further up my leg and leaned in.” You pause to swallow your disgust, the memory panging your heart with anxiety.
Chris sharply exhales. “Please tell me you pushed him into the sea,” he says, tone laced with anger.
“I wish,” you dryly chuckle. “No, I went to shove his hand away, but Danni showed up after all, after Andrea begged her for the ride. She saw my hand over Vince’s and how close both were to my crotch and just lost her shit. I tried to explain but she hit me and I figured running home would be easier. And they followed me. They banged on my door all night, flip flopping between wanting to just talk to kill me. I waited until they were gone to run to Vinny’s.”
“So, she thought you were trying to fuck her boyfriend?” Chris asks, laughing at the obscurity. “Half the port is being gambled away because of some horny piece of shit and his stupid girlfriend?”
You can’t help smirking, yourself, the stupidity not at all lost on you. “No, that is just some context for why I…” You trail off, crossing one leg over another and taking another deep breath.
Chris raises a brow, only to hiss in pain.
“Careful,” you warn, earning a slight smile, before resuming your story.
“They went around the city slandering me. It got bad enough that certain gangs wouldn’t let me in their territory, worried I’d be more trouble than I was worth. At one point, I was confined to my apartment— Vinny suggested that laying low might help minimise the accusations. Everyday I spent alone, I would think about that night at the pier. I would wonder what Vince told them on their way to my apartment to make them so vile and murderous towards me. I knew both girls for nearly five years, and it killed me to know that in all that time, they really thought I was capable of such disgusting behaviour.
I was seething alone for almost three months, replaying that day over and over. I thought about what I would have said if I stayed and fought back. I thought about kicking Vince right in his tiny balls and punching Danni in the face until all her teeth fell out. I came up with a new way to torment them every single day I was locked away.”
“What was your favourite?” Chris asks, the allure of a fond smile settling on his lips.
You carefully meet his gaze and answer, “Bullets. I thought about lining them up and shooting their brains out. I wanted to see them with half their face still intact, the rest splattered all across the pier.”
Chris shares your tranquil smile, falling silent to let you continue.
“At a certain point, I wasn’t thinking straight. Or maybe I finally found clarity— I don’t know,” you shake your head, sitting up in your seat. “I knew that Vince’s father owned a fleet of boats on the pier. ”
Realisation instantly sparkles in his big, brown eyes.
“I snuck out and studied the crew’s shift rotation for two weeks. I found out that by Christmas Eve, there would be a skeleton crew and no one would be on the boats. They were only planning on securing the perimeter. So I set my plan in motion. I syphoned some gas, stole a pack of matches and set them all on fire. I shouted my name as the crew rushed to put it all out. I wanted them to know it was me, the person they exiled, who burned them to the ground. I needed them to know it.
The weight of what I had just done didn’t hit me until I got home and realised I couldn’t stay there. So I packed up some essentials, and ran to Vinny’s instead. Turns out there was an astronomical amount of coke on those boats. The bounty was placed within the hour.”
Chris sucks in a breath as you finish. “I see,” he hums, reaching for his gun again. “Stand up.”
You eye the firearm. “Are you going to use that?”
“Are you going to make me repeat myself?”
Jaw tight, you uncross your legs and stand. You look up at his towering 6’9 frame from your 5’8 position. Hands moving on their own accord, you grip onto his shirt, right by his hips, and press yourself firmly against him.
His clothed erection pokes at your stomach. You wonder how long he has been throbbing for you. Which part of your story made him this hard? The shared rage against Vince’s sliminess? The festering resentment? The violence? The retribution? You noticed his posture remained still, expression plain, but his eyes gleamed with something like pride.
“You’re so pretty when you’re following orders,” he murmurs, luring your attention. Before you can answer, he fiercely jams the barrel of the gun against your cheek .
You cannot stop a loud, whiny moan from tearing through your throat. The moment that cool tip digs into your skin, your arousal pools, eyes roll back. Your grip on his hips tightens and toes curl into the soft carpet beneath you.
“No, no,” he tuts, applying more pressure. “Open your eyes.”
You obey.
Chris peers down at you over the bridge of his nose, desires casting shadows in those brown eyes at your compliance. He grinds the barrel further into your skin, tilting slightly to watch your face contort under its cold pressure.
You lean into it, maintaining his lust-lost gaze.
“Take off your shorts.”
Looping your thumbs into the waistband, you make a show of wiggling your hips to push off the tiny short-shorts. You kick them aside once they fall to the floor.
Chris first smirks at the swish of your hips, but then tongues his cheek in sexual frustration at the sight of your panty-less crotch.
“Laundry day,” you shrug, feigning innocence as you peer at him under your lashes.
“My new favourite day,” he smiles before cupping you.
Your hips grind into his hand, legs slightly spreading for his wide fingers. Knowing he wants you to maintain eye contact, you do your best not to roll them back at the light, slow friction.
Voice already trembling, you moan, “Fuck.”
He puts some force into his languid ministrations as he opens his mouth and arches his brows, hinting at you to mirror his actions. The condescension of his expression makes your hips buckle, clit throbbing for more stimulation.
God, he’s so perfect.
If you continue, if you let him bed you, ravish you as he previously put it, you’ll eventually regret it. You’ll wish you left when you had the chance, or at least thought you did. You know you can’t stay here. Your heart already bursts with infatuation, wetness collecting at his meticulous attention. If you stay, you will end up hurt and disappointed, all alone again with nothing but a knock-off fur coat and switchblade to console you once everything is said and done. Or worse— he will be the one hurt, dying or dead, plagued by the curse of your reckless existence.
Right now, Chirs exudes success, reputation built on the brute force of his powerful fists and swift footwork. He has friends who respect him enough that he doesn’t need to repeat himself when he speaks. He has the support of the most nefarious gang in Crimson Heights, prepared to defend him, stand for him.
You can’t ruin that. In fact, you refuse to do so.
So why are you standing on your toes, leaning into his broad chest for stability and rolling your hips into his calloused hand? Why can’t you tell him to stop, instead echoing his movements as he silently requested?
The moment you part your lips, Chris slides the barrel into your mouth. Swirling your tongue around the cool metal, the taste of gun powder bitter on your tongue, you loudly moan and eyes rolling back.
He tsks, pulling your head back down using his grip on the gun. “Eyes on me,” he reminds through gritted teeth.
Oh? Is it a performance he’s after?
You recall his words— I like to make a statement— and wonder if he is waiting for you to do the same thing.
Hollowing your cheeks, you pretend to suck on the barrel, careful not to swallow more fumes of explosive powder than humanly capable. You bob your head back and forward, enchanting him with your most innocently lustful eyes.
A certain darkness diminishes the sweet tenderness that often glimmers in his gaze, even when he is sinfully intrigued by your shameless desire. Once a chocolate brown, swirling with smug delight, now a deep umber, whirling with lethal ecstasy. He feels it— the power of a mighty gun, the weight of life and death confined within sleek, curved edges of a silver bullet.
Fear and pleasure collide in your gut, becoming a force of thrilling anxiety.
What if the safety isn’t on? What if he fires?
Your mind laps around the questions, hips desperately jutting into his palm, as you trebly whine around the gun.
Chris removes his arousal-glistening hand from your crotch to wrap it around your neck. You shiver at the slimy sensation of your excitement against your skin. He pulls out the gun with more force than necessary at the squeaky whine you sound upon the lost contact. Your hips, still desperate to chase a release, fidget against him, much to his sinister amusement.
Pointing the gun to your temple, he shuffles and shifts your position so your back faces the desk instead. Then he shoves you against it by the grip on your neck.
You stumble back with a breathless yelp, the tail of your spine ramming against the expensive wood. Upon the impact, body buzzing with signals of pain and pleasure alike, you choke out a gratified giggle.
The clatter of objects on the desk falling from the force of his shove, the sound of your stricken surprise, flashes fear in his gaze. But then the melody of your laughter tumbles and tunnels his vision with carnal hunger. A vicious smile stretches on his supple lips, tongue flicking out to lick the corner of his mouth, like a famished predator upon trapping its prey.
You lift yourself up onto his desk as he approaches, immediately spreading your legs as a way of welcome. He appreciates the gesture, sliding the barrel of the gun along your breasts and stomach, then down between your drenched folds. Chest to chest, lips on lips, you exchange hissing breaths and curses. You grip onto your shoulders as he wraps his free arm around your waist, hugging you firmly against him. He’s caged you in, his body too large to move around now, even if you wanted to (or so you tell yourself, while feverently rolling your hip in tandem with his wrist.)
Terror knots in your gut, right where your climax builds. You wonder if his finger is still on the trigger. If he gets too excited, if he loses his concentration, if he ever so slightly shifts his finge—
“Kinky, little whore,” he croaks, picking up the pace. He then mimics the pitches of your waver voice and mocks your pouty expression, cooing, “You like that, yeah? You like my gun rubbing against your wet cunt, baby girl? Hmm?”
The patronising tone is reason enough to tremble, nails piercing skin as your scratch along his strong shoulders. His filthy words and ravenous gaze, however, have you releasing your scarring grasp to pull off your shirt and arch your back.
An approving growl resonates from his chest, attention now trailing down to your bouncing breasts.
“Lean back.”
Heat floods your face, your neck, your chest. You place your hands behind you and do as you’re told while his arms slither from around your waist to grip onto your hip, firmly sinking his fingers into your supple curves. Heart rapturing from the amorous attention, you fight off a smile. And the darkness that once brewed in your lungs, twisting around your ribcage as you rue your existence, dwindles with every salacious stare.
Other men have been passionate, but hasty. Eager to chase their own highs, they merely used you as a means to a satisfying end. Their hands would only roam if they required a better grip on your hips and eyes mostly screwed shut while they thrusted to an unsteady pace. It was mediocre at best, often having to think of your own turn ons to not fake an orgasm.
Chris deliberately studies your features, instead. He sips on your bare body like he might die if he does not memorise every roll, curve and fold. More than that, he revels at the sight. He croaks throaty moans and hisses when your hips stutter against the gun, the stimulation momentarily confounding your senses.
Your insecurities wane, allowing confidence to flourish in their stead. Even your self-loathing cowers under the judgement of his wanton gaze. You suddenly cannot remember why you needed to leave before. You can’t understand how a thought like that could enter your mind. Never do you want to leave him.
“I feel you clenching,” he notes, voice raw with authority. “Do you want me to fill it up for you?”
Your breath hitches, body quivers. Gaze flitting down to his erection, brutally evident in his black sweats, you moan, “Fuck, yes!”
He smirks and you already know he won’t give himself up that easily.
“Beg.”
Voice tangled in deplorable desperation, you keenly plead, “Please, please, please fuck me! Pl-ease,” you take a moment to swallow thickly, hoping to compose yourself enough to continue. “I don’t th-think I can cum without you.”
His smirk widens at that.
You pick your next words carefully, voice wavering. “Only you could r-really make me fe-feel it in the m-mo-morning.”
Jaw flexed, he softly growls.
“P-pretty ple-ase?” you add with a pout.
He tongues his cheek, hiding a smile, but does not reach for his waistband.
You part your lips to beg more, prepared to offer your soul if that’s what it would take to feel him inside you. Instead, an ear-piercing shriek escapes.
“Oh, god!”
Your voice breaks, peaking at a near whistle from the abrupt sensation of the barrel pushing against your tight, needy walls. Jaw slack, you look down and watch as your core engulfs the gun, clenching tightly around the arousal slick metal. Even after being shoved against your clit for so long, it still feels cold.
Chris chuckles darkly as you breathlessly mewl, the sight of the gun disappearing in you all too erotic. “Is this what you wanted?” he taunts, raising a cocky brow. He hums in mocking agreement with your hurried nods.
Between the thrusting gun and his belittling behaviour, you’re not sure you possess the capabilities to endure him for much longer.
“Ch-chris,” you attempt to warn, risking a glance back down at that barrel ramming into you.
His finger is on the trigger, force powerful enough that even the slightest pressure could set the firearm off.
Your toes curl, nails claw against the rich wood of the desk. The continuous friction, steady, speedy and strong, encourages the coiling of electrified excitement deep in your gut.
So, so cl—
A devastated cry tears through your throat as the sudden loss of contact. Your eyes snap open (you don’t even remember screwing them shut), and you glare at him.
“You fucking asshole!” You seethe, pushing yourself up from your leaned back position. You obeyed every order, leaned into every touch and embraced every vicious word only to have your orgasm ruined.
Chris dismisses your icy eyes, slowly dragging his tongue over the barrel of the handgun. His eyes radiate sexual satisfaction as he savours your taste.
“Oh, sorry,” he chuckles, offering you the tip of the gun, “Did you want to clean it up for me?”
You are not a violent person— not unintentionally anyway. So why do you wind your hand back and whip it against his cheek?
Chris moans upon impact, twisting his head with the slap, as if embracing it.
You gasp, hopping off the desk and clamping a hand over your mouth only to remove it seconds later to apologise.
“Chris, I’m—”
He advances towards you with a fierce groan. Seizing you by the waist, he forces you against him and latches onto your lips. His hands slide down to grip onto your rear, kneading fistfuls of your plump cheeks. Both hands suddenly release your ass to smack back down against it and squeeze.
You moan into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck as your guilt disappears.
His tongue puts up more of a fight this time, but is nowhere as aggressive as the rest of his actions, half-heartedly wrestling yours simply to delight in the wet and warm sensation. He yields to your rhythm eventually, muttering against your lips, “Do it again.”
You rip yourself away in pure confusion, brows knotted. “What?” you heave, as he presses his forehead against yours.
“Hit me again,” he demands, voice rough and raspy.
Your gaze bounces around his healing wounds, remorse resurfacing.
Chris must have read the guilt on your face, endearingly tilting his head at your hesitation. “I’m a big boy,” he smirks. “I can take it.”
That breathy, throat voice and haughty tone seems to be enough of a trigger because you smack him again before you have a chance to second-guess yourself.
He moves with the hit again, groaning as he grinds his erection against your stomach. Sucking in a breath with a sharp hiss, Chris tosses the gun to the floor. You brace yourself for the firing round, shoulders shooting to your ears. However, the gun does not go off. You narrow your gaze to find the clip missing, wondering when the fuck he slipped it out and how he managed to do it so silently.
The shuffle of fabric redirects your attention back to Chris. You’ve been so absorbed by the fear of triggering the gun, you hadn’t realised he untangled himself from you to take his clothes off.
His torso is as glorious as you remember, buff, broad and boasting with robust strength. Then he pushes off his sweats and your jaw slackens. Your gaze first lingers around the three-lettered tattoo of his gang on his left hip. SKZ – the ‘K’ coloured red. Then, as he shoves the pants down, his cock monopolises your attention. You knew he would be wide, the impression of him alone previously leaving you shaken. But you did not expect him to be as long, easily measuring at around eight and a half inches.
Your bottom lip whimpers and a hand comes up to steady it as you gawk. Saliva dampens your fingers. You lick your lips, wipe your chin and tentatively sneak a glance at his face, hoping he didn’t catch you shamelessly drooling.
That smirk widens as your eyes meet. “I need to be inside you,” he pants before closing the distance between you with a tug of your body into his.
You can’t agree more, biting back your own smile as you cup his face. “I need to ride you,” you reply just as affectionately.
Dripping with dominance, you thought he would ignore your request and bend you over the desk. Instead, he back pedals towards the chair you originally sat on, and commandeers it.
The sight of his muscular thighs has you biting your lip. You seat yourself upon him, just like you did in the dressing room. You know you can just lift your hips, align his length and begin bouncing. However, as you gaze down at his staggering size, pre-cum oozing from the tip, the urge to spit on it overrides your thoughts. You gather saliva and splatter it over him, earning a croaky groan.
You moan through a bitten lip in reply.
Wrapping a hand around him, you gasp at the fact that your fingers are unable to meet. Your core dampens.
Chris spits down on his length too, rubbing your thighs as you jerk and twist your wrist.
“You’re really big,” you shyly comment, maintaining a sluggish pace.
Just as sincere a smile hovers over his lips before he presses them against yours again.
Emotion bursts through your chest, desire unable to remain restrained. In hurried movements, you release your hold on his cock and lift your hips to finally accept the fullness he offers.
Chris helps you, aligning himself for you to easily sink down. He wraps both beefy arms around your waist as you gasp into his mouth. The kiss momentarily breaks, noses smushing together amidst blissful hissing.
You rest your arms on his shoulders to hug his head close, fingers tangled in his hair. You tug on the ends as he pushes between your tight walls. You move slowly, thankful for his steady grasp on you, inching further downward only to rise back up a bit and do it again. Inch by inch, you find a way to accommodate his girth, all the while whining his name.
“Just let go,” he whispers. His hold on your waist tightens, referring to the concentrated control you’ve adopted. “I’ve got you, baby.”
His delicate tone unravels your composure. You relax into his touch and find that he really does have a good grasp on you. He maintains your slow movements, acknowledging that you still need time to adjust. You wonder if it was the lack of speed itself, the crumpling pleasure etching your features, or how you’re tensing oh-so tightly around him that tips him off. And as he lifts and lowers you upon him, groaning between shared breaths, you realise that it really doesn’t matter what the reason was.
Clarity settles— Chris tunnels his vision when it comes to you. Within a night, he has noted your sexual boldness, recklessness, and affinity for guns. He knows you like to be harshly handled, tightening his grip only to roughly release it. He lets you strike him back, knowing you like to act out and does not only encourage it, but embraces it. He observes your features, searching for particular indications of pleasure to focus on or circle back to when he thinks you can take it again. Beyond that, he provides a space for vulnerability that does not centre around pity but rather a shared rage.
As you look at him now, hissing moans through gritted teeth and quivering lips, you cannot help but allow his words to splinter your previous philosophy. Perhaps it is not your existence that is cursed, but rather the world. Perhaps Crimson Heights is the beckon for misfortune— a city of survivors and casualties. You do not cause death; you simply outrun it. And when catastrophe rumbles the foundation of your life, claiming your family or friends, you do not need to feel guilty. Life ebbs and flows, grips and lets go— just as Chris does when he unwraps his arms around your waist, to grip onto your hips.
“That’s my slutty little girl,” he praises before grazing your chin with his teeth. “Arch your— Yes! Lean into me.”
A frail whine is all you can muster as he becomes more daring with the pace, speeding up.
Breasts glued to his chest, your back arches the way he instructs and you feel the hammering of his heart against yours. You cup his face. Your thumb brushes over the bruises on his cheek.
“Y-you know ex-actly what I n-need,” you whimper, internally cringing at your lust laced stutter.
A prideful smile plays on his lips. His grip tightens with newfound confidence as he uses your encouragement to experiment with the possible indication of fully submerging himself into you.
The moment your cheeks smack against the muscles of his thighs, an ear-piercing scream rips from your throat, heavy with delirious delight. So deep, so fucking full, he reaches far to stretch you wide. You doubt that you’d be able to tighten around anything other than his length again, hole now completely adjusted for his cock only.
“Like that?” he questions, voice still swirling with mockery. “Is that what you needed?”
You quickly nod, unable to find your voice.
Chris lifts and drops your hips with renewed force, ordering, “Speak.”
“I like that!” You confirm. “I love that!”
Grunting and growling in satisfaction, Chris decides that your hips do not give him the best leverage as he grasps on your rear instead. His fingers sink into your voluptuous cheeks, surely marking your skin, as he guides the rolls and rises of your thrusts.
You squeal, throwing your head back at the waves of excitement lapping over you. “Yes, yes, yes,” you pant before looking back at him. “Is this how you like it?” you ask, gaining confidence with every shudder sigh he expels. “Does this drive you c-crazy?”
Chris breathes a chuckle, mumbling, “You most definitely do,” before pressing his lips to yours.
Euphoria envelopes you, coursing through your veins and rattling your bones. You immediately submit to his rhythm, already content with the warmth of his lips on yours and taste of his tongue. Satisfaction swells, throbbing your clit upon the build of your climax. As emotion shines through the cracks of your armour, delirious delight flourishes.
You break the kiss with a breathless giggle, allowing the pleasure to travel from your core though your limbs. The base of your spine, centre of your chest, tips of your fingers, toes and ears, your nerves dash and dance with a degree of joy you did not believe you were capable of ever feeling. You cannot help your laughter between breathless moans.
Chris, voice croaky and deep with lust, joins you. He playfully nips at the skin under your jaw then peppers the light sting with kisses, laughing all the while.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he revels in whisper.
Your giggles waver upon the sincere emotion flooding his eyes.
You clench. “Chri—”
“You feel so perfect around me,” he groans, cutting you off. “It’s like your body was made for me.”
Whimpering, all playful humour darkening within your bones into desperate ecstasy, you can’ help but squeeze tighter, the knots of your high becoming more and more undeniable.
Your voice rises in pitch as you moan,“Use me however you want.”
His hips snap up to meet yours with a dark, loud groan.
You jolt from the force, body shaking. Panting whines tumble from your lips as your grasp on his hair tightens. Over and over, he sinks you down on him as he rams himself into you, meeting you halfway. Your breasts bounce against him, only encouraging his aggressive speed as he shoves his face between the valley.
The brutality of the force, the pace is unbearable. Toes curling, core gripping, you stutter through your next intake of air. All at once, a wave of satisfaction crashes over you. Muscles tense, you stiffen with a shrill cry of his name and gush, gush, gush your release. Your eyes roll back, jaw slack as he wraps his arms around you to keep you upright.
As he did in the dressing room, Chris peers up at you from between your full breasts. He offers a pleased smile before leaning back against the chair. Now, with you laying on top of him as your orgasm ripples through you all— dazed and drooling, Chris grinds your hips down into his. His own muscles flex, skin flushing. Through gritted teeth, a deep moan emits from the base of his throat.
His cock twitches. His release shoots, warm and erratic, filling you so well, you already feel it smearing around your folds.
Face buried in the crook of his neck, you whine his name quietly at the sensation. “Fuck, yes,” you moan, circling your hips around his. “Fill me up just l-like that!”
You swear you feel another shot of his cum, the wet sloshes of arousal slick with every grind of hip on hip.
After watching Chris endure seven rounds of boxing, with his composure still intact and sweat barely breaking, you should have known better than to think that he was done with you. He doesn’t even take a moment to catch his breath. Still heaving, he stands.
You wrap yourself around him, holding on tight. Has he forgotten that he is still deep inside you or does he not care, simply eager to continue using you? You moan from the new angle all the same as he walks you back into his room.
“You don’t need a break, do you?” he asks after kicking the door shut behind him. He grips onto your waist and rips you off his torso with a forceful shove. “Hmm? No break?” he teases.
A cross between a grunt and whine fills the room as you land on his bed with a little bounce. Before you can reply, he yanks you to the edge of the bed by your ankles. You yelp your pleased surprise, unable to fight back a giggle as he turns you over on your stomach. He pulls your hips up to roughly guide you into a downward dog position. Knees on the bed’s edge, face smushed into the soft duvet, your backside is now perfectly exposed for him.
His tongue slips between your folds, lapping the mess of your mixed climaxes with a deep-chested growl. The vibrations resonate upon every overwhelmed nerve ending around your core. You cannot deny the wiggle of your hips and strained mewls of distress from the overstimulation.
“Stay still,” Chris orders, voice muffled. His hot breath, the tenor of his voice all directed towards your overused hole, only further your squirms.
You want more of him, need more, but the unrelenting stimulation of his lapping tongue, slurping and groaning, makes you tremble. You find yourself attempting to crawl away from his mouth only to be harshly pulled back.
Chris wraps his arms under and around your thighs, locking you in place.
“Just where do you think you’re going, darling?”
You whine incoherently.
He mocks you, pitching his voice and mimicking your unstable syllables.
Your desire pools at your core all over again, eyes water. “Too much,” you whimper into your fist, overwhelmed by the all too desperate yearning to stop yet still continue. “Its—”
Chris groans, cutting you off. “We taste so good, baby,” he murmurs against your heat. “This might be the closest I get to heaven.” He then pulls himself away long enough to look at you over the full curve of your cheeks. “Wanna try?” he asks with a smug smirk, face glistening from the smear of your combined orgasms.
You flush, nodding.
He dives back in to slurp on your sex. Then he grabs a fistful of your hair and gently, despite the rough grasp, pulls your back towards his chest. You tilt your head back for him, parting your lips. He smiles at how quickly you’ve caught onto his intentions and spits the cum into your mouth.
Your pussy quivers upon the bittersweet taste, eyes fluttering shut. You moan your delight upon swallowing.
Chris takes the advantage of your proximity, stealing another quick kiss before using the grip on your hair to shove you back onto the mattress. He adjusts the position of your hips again but does not dive down between your folds this time. Instead, he grabs fistfuls of your cheeks and spreads them apart.
You hear the throaty gathering of salvia and then the splatter of spit before feeling the warmth of it upon your tightest hole. Heat scorches your skin with humiliation from his laughter when you clench.
You part your lips to say his name, ask what he’s doing when his tongue reappears, circling your hole. A breathless gasp sounds instead.
Chris transfers more of your wetness to your tensing hole, scooping the cum with his finger and rubbing it against you. “Shh, shh,” he hushes as you whimper and wiggle in his grasp. “Relax, babygirl. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”
You lean back into him upon his soothing tone. You’ve never touched yourself there, never let anyone else do the same, certain they would only hurt you. From the way Chris takes his time however, you can tell he knows what he’s doing.
“You have the cutest fucking asshole,” he chuckles before spitting over it again.
Gratification tickles the darkness looming in your chest, allowing you to giggle in response and push yourself back against his finger.
“I mean it,” he says, misunderstanding your acceptance for teasing protest. His fingers then glide between your folds, down to your clit. He twirls the pad of his middle finger around the bundle of nerves, then spreads the folds as if to take a better look at your cum-leaking hole.“You have the prettiest pussy too,” he groans before his tongue dives, reaching farther inside than you expected.
Pride blossoms, boastfully overpowering all your emotions and triggering a loud, moan of approval. “Please don’t stop,” you beg while attempting to writhe out of his grasp.
Chris pulls himself away long enough to laugh at your conflicting movements. He quietly hums, content with himself, as he smacks each cheek halfheartedly, like you made a joke and he’s nudging you because of the wit and humour. You can’t help joining him, wiggling your hips in his hands with every slap.
There have been times where you felt at ease, perhaps even happy under setting suns and sneaky nights on the roof with your foster siblings. Watching a fusion of magenta and maroon cascade in the sky, as the sun disappears behind the Crimson Heights horizon, has been the image you conjure on cold, lonely nights between nightmares and distant gunshots. But being here with Chris, bent over and exposed from angles no one else has ever witnessed, absolute contentment engulfs you. Like a warm, tender hug, his patient presence nurtures your soul and caresses your darkness. And it feels natural as if the universe conspired to ensure that you do have at least one moment of true happiness amongst the death and betrayal.
He brushes your hair from your face, pulling you from your thoughts. You shyly meet his gaze to which he smirks. His hand then trails from the naps of your neck to the base of your spine, drawing you away from the memory of your trauma.
“Stay with me, yeah,” he coos.
You nod.
Is it your sudden silence? Is that what indicated that you’ve let your mind wander off? Though, you do remember moaning between giggles. Maybe you had a distant look in your eyes. Maybe you stopped responding to his touch. Does it even matter? Because whatever it was, whatever you did, he saw it.
He sees you.
Chris kisses each cheek before spreading them again. You feel his tongue on your heat, swirling once, twice then dragging up. You moan loudly, pushing yourself further into him. But his tongue does not return to your needy pussy. Instead, he circles the edge of your tightest hole.
You clench, whimpering.
He licks, chuckling.
His hands rub your cheeks, silently soothing your tense muscles. You try to lean into his calm, but the feeling of his warm tongue twirling around the rim of your hole is much too stimulating to ignore.
“More please,” you find yourself whining, fisting the sheets beneath you. “I-I need more.”
Chris presses a wet kiss upon your puckering hole before replying, “Take a deep breath for me.”
You draw in a long breath and release it.
He gives it another kiss, spit on it then orders, “Again. Take your time with it, baby.”
The pet name prickles your skin with goosebumps, face flushed as you inhale deeply and exhale slowly.
You can’t see him with his face between your cheeks, but you swear he’s smirking as he praises, “Good girl.”
A giggle was meant to be your only reply. Instead, his tongue pushes through your hole and you moan in a voice so unlike yourself, so innocent and weak.
“Daddy!”
Chris growls, tightening his grip on your rear with one hand, while the other harshly rubs your dripping core. Slobbering, slurping, he bobs his head, in and out, up and down, shoving his tongue between your tense walls. His fingers are relentless, playing with your clit in quick, forceful waves only to abandon the bundle of nerves all together. He pushes them into your pussy instead. Three long fingers draw in and out of you to the rhythm of his tongue.
Moans meek and breathy, you writhe under his onslaught of pleasure. That pet name is on the tip of your tongue again, but you refrain from using it, clenching your teeth instead. You’ve never called anyone that and have even judged the people you know who have said shit like that during sex.
It feels so right when thinking about Chris, when feeling his tongue attempt to breach through your tight hole. If anyone was to embody that mindset of a Daddy, it would be Christopher Bahng. Chris with his tall, towering frame. Chris with his commanding voice. Chris with his charismatic confidence.
“Daddy,” you whine again despite your futile attempts.
He hums in question, tone oh-so condescending. Your nerves burn from the wetness of his tongue, the pace of his harsh fingers. You thrash into the sheets, further smothering your face in the soft duvet and screaming out your pleasure.
“Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Your voice is muffled, hips ramming back against him with every plea.
Chris merely moans in reply, as if delighted by the sinful taste of you. He continues his dual stimulation, insatiable tongue bouncing in and out of your untested hole. His fingers curl, over and over and over right where you need him most.
Turning your head to the side, cheek pressed against the mattress again, you gasp for air and cry out your new favourite name, “Daddy! Fuck, yes, yes, yes!”
His breath staggers as you hear him chuckle, but you don’t care. He can laugh himself hoarse if he wants. You just need him to continue, your orgasm building all over again. Toes curling, eyes rolling, you quake and claw at the sheets, desperate to get a hold of yourself.
However, Chris, upon feeling you clench particularly tightly around his fingers, pulls himself away.
A sexually frustrated sob tumbles out of you at the all too sudden loss of contact. Your orgasm falters at the lack of stimulation. Once again, he has dangled you over the edge. Fury surges through you, propping yourself up on your elbows and glaring over your shoulder at him.
“Why do— Ah!”
Chris grips onto your hips, pushes himself back into your core. He rams his hips into yours, holding enough force to knock you off your elbows, cutting you off.
“Mmm, I can’t get enough of you,” he groans, voice husky and deep.
You whimper in response, all words actively being fucked out of you. No one can even stand you, yet he ploughs into you, eager and deliberate, and still craves more of you. That realisation alone could coax another bone-bending orgasm out of you.
Apart from the first, initial thrust, you do not feel his hips smack against yours again. Instead, Chris restraints himself, offering moderate, yet fast thrusts. He still reaches deep, still stretches you out oh so deliciously, but you can tell he’s holding back.
And it ignites your veins with anger. You refuse to have him spoil yet another orgasm rattle you into calling him ‘daddy,’ only to then half-heartedly fuck you.
“Please fuck me,” you beg before echoing a version of his previous words. “I’m a big girl, Daddy. I can take it.”
Chris growls lowly under his breath. “You’ll get hurt,” he warns.
You cannot fight back your smile. “Good.”
The impact of his thrust upon your reassurance is so powerful, the bed shifts forward. You hiccup his name and hiss at the sting of skin on skin. Vigorous momentum grows with every mighty thrust of his hips. You feel your entire body jiggle, shaking with the squeaking bed.
“You have no idea,” he begins, breathlessly growling, “how fucking beautiful you look right now.”
He has no idea how many times you’ve been told the opposite.
“Show me how beautiful you think I am.”
His cock twitches. You swear you feel it quiver deep inside you.
A gasp so erotic, so pornographic escapes you at the sudden sensation. Clenching, you’re eager to feel it again, to feel him release his warm, thick arousal, especially so soon. You’re already giddy with pride, preparing to tease and mock him for becoming undone upon a few simple words.
Instead, Chris pulls himself out with a croaky groan. He’s heaving, breathes staggering as he swallows thickly. “Move up to the pillows, baby. Lay back for me.”
You slowly push yourself up, sitting down on your ankles. Just as breathless, you peer at him over your shoulder. His hair is tousled, face glistening with your excitement as he slowly jerks himself to the sight of you so messy and dirty.
“Was it something I said?” you ask in your most innocent voice.
Chris tightens his jaw.
A shiver dances along your spine at his silence. You give him one last once over, shamelessly letting your gaze linger around his erection, before leisurely crawling towards the pillows. Your legs already ache. You feel it most around your thighs and hips, bones stiffen and muscles tight from the exposing angle.
The fluffy pillows and duvet melt around your sweaty skin, engulfing you in a cocoon of comfort. Your eyes flutter shut, embracing the chill of the cool silks. The sheets in your tiny apartment are scratchy and rough, and prior to laying here, you had thought it was the most comfortable fabric a thrift store could sell, which is why you stole them.
The bed dips. You open your eyes to watch as Chris crawls over you, spreading your legs to welcome him. His face hovers over yours. You cup his cheeks, grazing your thumb over his lips.
He lowly groans. His nose brushes yours as he leans down for a kiss. You think it was meant to be quick, just a tiny peck before he buries himself in you again. But the taste of your lips proves to be intoxicating, or perhaps he felt the spark you did when your lips touched. He indulges in another kiss, then another. Even one longer than the last, Chris eventually integrates his tongue and forces you to taste yourself.
Heaven, hell, the worlds collide. Purely sinful, his tongue subjects you to his pace, swirling around yours slowly. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he wants you to savour the bittersweet taste of your orgasms and holes.
Your lips part with a wet smack, breasts heaving. Chris pushes himself back to sit on his ankles. He lets his attention trail down your curves, ogling your rolls and fullness. He pants like a dog, mouth agape and saliva leaking from the corners at the mere sight of you.
People tend to either discard or objectify you. One look at your figure and you are either invisible, disgusting, or a drunken mistake that awakens a shameful desire for fuller frames. Your mother told you it would happen when she noted your curves for the first time. She told you that you’d be nothing in a bigger body, that no one will want to be seen with you. A part of you always wondered if that’s why she opted for heroin, knowing she too had curves and rolls at one point in her life.
It doesn’t really matter because the sentiment snared your consciousness. You noticed how many people ignored your presence the moment you walked into a room or the sudden distaste of those who did happen to acknowledge you. Every wrinkled nose, every avoided gaze only reinforced your mother’s philosophy.
And here Chris sits, bare and breathless, leering over your naked body. Ravenous, lascivious, he devours every full inch of you, eyes drowning in lust. You suddenly cannot recall the words your mother once spat, the dejected feelings that bruised your pride when you walked into a room. All you know now is Chris— obsessive, gluttonous, shameless Chris and his insatiable appetite for everything that you are.
He blinks repeatedly, as if pulling himself out of his thoughts. You bite your lip and wonder what you must look like, staring back at him. You know your liner is smudged and lipstick smeared. You know your hair is a tangled mess around you. You know your skin gleams of sweat, hot to the touch from the exhilaration of submitting to him. You know your core is a mess of spit and cum.
Chris reaches behind you. The sweaty scent of leather, sandalwood and amber secretes from the pits of his arms hovering inches away from your nose. You inhale deeply through your nose and wet your lips. Chris’s attention flickers down at the sound of your heavy sighs. You flush under the subject of that knowing smirk.
“Lift your hips for me?” He asks, voice deep and delicate.
You do as you’re told and he slides one of his plush pillows under you. The new angle provides better support to your lower back. You shift yourself further into his comfortable mattress with a pleased sigh.
“Better, yeah?” Teasing amusement twinkles in his eyes, brows quirked as he tries to fight off a prideful smile.
You suppress your own, and nod. “Are you going to fuck me now?” you ask, exaggerating the breathlessness of your feminine voice.
His eyes darken.
Perhaps, you proudly think to yourself as he takes your bait, if he is desperate enough, he’ll finally let me cum.
Chris traces the span of your shoulders, down to the fullness of your breasts and the curves of your waist. He drags his hands over your stomach and trails his eyes to your pelvis. He traces the lines along your heat only to redirect his callous fingers to your thigh before he can reach the place you need him most.
You clench, hips instinctively rolling forward. You mentally curse at your desperateness, your ploy to rile him up into a lustful rage crumbling as your body betrays you.
He barely even smirks, as if expecting your body to react to his touch like that. “I was fucking you,” he corrects, taking his hard, throbbing cock into his big hand.
You watch as he thumbs his tip and the space between his brows creases. Swallowing a moan, you wiggle in place and bite your lip. Your nerves impatiently buzz through your veins, and you resist the urge to arch your back to their desperate will.
He continues to slowly jerk himself as he watches you stiffen only to squirm seconds later. “Now,” he starts, leaning over you. He aligns himself, tonguing his cheek. Tip teasing your clenching core, he whispers, “I am going to ruin you.”
The weight of the crude promise resonates deep in your gut, gathering your arousal at the entrance of your needy heat. You grip onto his shoulders, features already crumpled in desperate pleasure, and dig your nails into his smooth, pale skin.
You gasp a whine as he emits a throaty groan, pushing in, in, in. You begin to understand the purpose of the pillow beyond simply comfort. The leverage of your hips provides a new angle to explore, his length shoving its way to your most sensitive spot. And he does not even allot time to adjust as he first did in his office, moving quickly to bottom himself out in you. His weighty balls rest against your rear, burning your face with the thought of sucking them. You finally give into your body, too needy to continue to police its movements, and arch your back into his chest.
Chris, hands on either side of your head, grabs your wrists and pins them above you. He growls as his thrusts take off. The force of his hips continuously shifts the bed forward. The headboard slaps against the wall, the pounding of wood on plaster so loud, it almost drowns out your squealing moans. Even the mattress whines, springs shrieking under the rhythmic bounce of your colliding bodies. Perhaps the closest rival to the noise of the bed, however, is the sharp slap of skin on skin. Your rear and thighs tremble from the powerful smacks, sensitive skin stinging all too exquisitely.
Pain highlights pleasure. In addition to the sting of his skin on yours, the tight grip of his strong hands around your wrists, aches from joint to bone. Tears gather in your eyes, the friction of his pulsating erection against your wet, tense walls all the more sweeter in light of the consistent pain.
A series of hissing profanities leave his full lips and you open your eyes to find he is drunk on the sight of your erotic features. Your tears slide down along your temples as a sob hiccups through your throat, clashing with the moans you shamelessly release.
His vicious dominance falters. Letting go of your wrists, Chris leans himself down on his elbows and affectionately nestles his nose against yours. You like the softness of his touches, the tenderness of his most mundane gestures, like the brush of nose on nose or the exchange of heavy breaths.
However, you were promised ruin.
“What do you think you’re doing?” you question, voice harsh even with breaking into a whine near the end.
Chris furrows his brows. Something about your tone triggers even more might behind his thrusts. It takes everything in you to not arrogantly laugh at how quickly he shifts from ferocity to concern to anger.
You push against his shoulders. Chris yields to your silent request, flexing his jaw and knitting his brows in quiet confusion. His hips do not hesitate once, though. They continue to forcefully shake your body, breasts and rolls bouncing with the bed.
Once Chris is leaning on his hands again, you strike him across the face.
“Mmm, fuck,” he groans, voice hushed and husky. Dark fury engulfs his features as he snaps his attention back on you.
You slap him again, and again, and again until your hand radiates heat, nerves stinging from the impact. His cheek is a bright red, jaw tight as he looks down at you.
You lift your other hand to smack him only to have him seize both your hands with one hand. You yelp at the swift motion and attempt to break free. You figure it wouldn’t be too hard, considering he is only using one hand to pin both of yours, but find that one hand is all he needs. Your wrists barely budge from their place over your head.
“My turn,” he purrs, red-stained face bright with amusement.
You clench your jaw, steeling yourself for the impact of his hand against your face, only to feel it upon your right breast. You curve yourself further into him with a loud, whiny gasp. Your nipple stings, coaxing tears as he does it again and again. He gives the left one the same amount of attention, smacking against the heavy curves over and over.
Core tightening with want around his cock and breasts burning with a feverish ache, you wail, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”
Your voice breaks, sobs of incessant pleasure overwhelming you. He’s so, so big and so, so ruthless. You barely catch your breath with every thrust, let alone every slap of your breast or pinch of your nipple. He clamps your taut nub between his thumb and the edge of forefinger to squeeze and twist. You fall into a state of devilish delight, embracing the pain like a warm hug.
Chris, perhaps growing tired or just wanting to be closer, releases his grip on your shoulders and gives your chest a break. He falls back on his elbows and catches your lips in his. He swallows your sobs, your uncontrollable moans as he ram-ram-rams into you. The strength behind his thrust is ever so prominent, even his heavy balls smack against your rear, the pain watering your mouth.
“You wanna cum, baby?” he mutters against your lips in hushed tones. The depth of his voice slithers along your spine.
You keenly nod, tears splitting freely from your eyes. “Yes, yes, yes!” you whine between tumbling sobs. “P-please?”
He rests some of his weight on you, stunting your breathing. You now wheeze through moans and pants.
“Please what?”
His voice is a cacophony of primal growls and feral snarls, resonating against your chest right down to the marrow of your bones.
A whine of a syllable begins and falters under the combined weight of his frame and relentless hips. His dominance may demand your reply, but still shackles your voice, your very consciousness with every brutal thrust.
“Use your fucking words, you little slut or I swear to God, you won’t cum for the rest of the night!”
His threat sends a tremor through your entire being. But that voice, that croaky, hissing voice of pure power, curls your toes and rolls your eyes back. You clench tightly, forcing your orgasm back.
“Dad-dy!” You scream, voice breaking mid-way through into hysterical sobs, body overpowered by pain and pleasure alike.
A gratifying groan grumbles from the depths of his gut and you cannot hold yourself back any longer. Your muscles stiffen, legs lifting high to the ceiling with pointed toes and nails scratching at his biceps. Your jaw clenches, bouncing body trembling as a ripple of your release rushes over you.
Chris falls over you, his full weight now crushing you as he too tenses all over. The suffocation only heightens your orgasm, the waves of ecstasy now swelling into typhoons of rapturous bliss. Your mind spins, vision dims and sound muffles as you finally release around him.
Your lungs fight for air, the restriction becoming all too fatal. You swat at his biceps, attempting to gasp for air as you catch distant throaty groans between deliberate, harsh thrusts.
It takes him a handful of seconds, but Chris eventually realises his mistake, rushing to hold himself up on his elbows again.
You gasp upon the first breath of air, heaving as you eagerly consume mouthfuls of oxygen.
Chris mutters quiet apologies, voice nearly wavering as he tucks his face in the crook of your neck and peppers the soft skin with tender kisses. He’s careful about dispersing his weight on you, even as his muscles tremble from the struggle of holding himself up. He shifts his balance to his knees as his thrusts decrease in speed and power eventually stopping all together.
You let your eyes flutter shut, your mind floats as your orgasm continues to cascade over your consciousness. Your limbs fall limp onto the mattress, full chest heaving with heavy pants and whines. It’s not until Chris pulls himself out that you finally feel your combined cum leak out of you again and you realise he came too, probably when he lost his balance and fell on top of you.
You feel the bed dip beside you, but cannot hear anything beyond the rush of blood in your ears. If you try hard enough, you might be able to catch the muffled squeak of the mattress, or the creak of the wooden frame. However, transcending into a state of pure euphoric bliss, all thoughts swirling around a phantom boxer and his towering build, you cannot dwell on the sounds of the fading world around you.
Rough hands delicately caress your face. A trail of kisses start on your lips. Full, plush lips move down your neck, collarbone, valley of your breasts, stomach, left thigh down to the knee, then back up to the right thigh down to the knee. They take their time with every press against your sweat-slick skin, each one just as wet and tender as the last.
There is another shift beside you and strong arms pull you into their embrace. You allow them to cradle you into a buff chest. The distant pound of a hammering heart beats to the same fast pace as yours. Those strong hands brush your hair back as they pet your head.
You’re not sure how long you laid there or when you made it into the bath, sitting between two muscular thighs as those calloused, yet gentle hands lathered shampoo into your hair.
The warm water grounds you back into the present. You squint your eyes open to a dark wood slatted ceiling, finding that your head is tilted back as a detachable shower head washes the shampoo out of your hair. You take a moment to inhale deeply, letting the notes of vanilla sandalwood remind you of where you are.
The water shuts off, the steel shower head returns to its place on your right, and you right your head to take a look around the bathroom. Spacious, the room radiates sophistication and calmness. Walls clad in dark grey and black, polished chrome fixtures, and a deep, freestanding bathtub, room enough for two, you cannot help but feel a sense of luxurious serenity. The lights are hidden behind the crevices of the room, warm and soft in their illumination. You wonder if he purposely designed the room to reel himself back to reality after a match.
Chris clears his throat, the sound soft and subtle as if he is worried he might scare you.
The possible implication furrows your brows. You peek at him over your shoulder before twisting your torso to face him.
“Are you…” he trails off, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Alright?”
You’re not sure how to decipher his hesitation or the oddly shameful look in his eyes.
“Of course,” you reply.
His eyes narrow ever so slightly, as if he doesn’t believe you.
“Are you hurt?”
The question finally registers the faded red of his cheeks where you slapped him and the pink lines along his biceps. You swallow thickly as remorse tightens your chest.
“Are you?”
A ghost of a smirk hovers over his lips. He leans forward to comb some conditioner through your hair.
“I’ve never been better.”
“What…happened?”
You chew on the inside of your cheeks. You know what led up to this moment, but cannot fully place what happened between your orgasm and the bath. Your past sexual endeavours usually remain in one position and location. Chris has moved you between three rooms now, his office, bedroom, and bathroom, and tested your endurance in multiple positions in a single night.
Did you pass out? Were you sleeping?
“Have you heard of subspace?” Chris continues upon the furrow of your brows. “After sex, when some people in more submissive positions orgasm, they might get put into a certain euphoric headspace. You might not feel pain or even be in your body. Some people completely pass out,” he explains before reaching for the shower head again. Tapping the bottom of your chin with a single finger, he gestures for you to tilt your head back again. “Others,” he continues as he watches your hair, “are conscious but unresponsive.”
“Like I was?”you ask, eyes fluttering shut to prevent the sting of soap.
He hums in confirmation. “Do you remember anything?”
You shrug. “You were kissing me,” you pause, swallowing thickly, “and then I remember feeling you hug me.”
“Do you remember saying anything?”
Your eyes shoot open. Moving your head away from the spray, you meet his gaze again.
He bites back a sheepish grin.
“If you’re messing with me,” you begin, gritting your teeth. “I’ll—”
“Save your cute threats,” he teases, cutting you off. He rinses the last of the conditioner out of your hair, adding, “I’ll tell you what you said.”
You nervously gnaw on your lip waiting for him to continue. When he turns off the shower head and puts it back in its spot, you think he would finally say something. Instead, he pumps some body soap into a washcloth and lathers it up.
“Well?”
“I never said I would tell you now,” he chuckles.
You splash water at his chest, oh so tempted to scoop more directed at his face but decide against it when you catch that dark, daring gleam in his eyes.
“You’re an asshol—,” you mutter, cutting yourself off before a moan slips as the cloth scrubs against your skin.
Chris smirks, features unamused as if he’s used to this sort of reaction. How many other women has he washed in here after a particularly rigorous night?
The question fosters a flame of envy, and sears through the flesh of your heart.
“Why are you doing this?” you ask. You try to ignore the way he dips between the valley of your chest, then circles under to rub and squeeze the soap around your breasts. Your body betrays you again, however, back arching into his touch.
Chris furrows his brows. “I fucked you senseless and you expect me not to take care of you?”
You blink, baffled by not only his tone, but his words. Your cheeks burn at the realisation that he did indeed thrust every last one of your senses out of you. What’s more peculiar is that, even after all that, he didn’t kill you. He didn’t cram you into a cab and send you on your way, high on your orgasm and unable to fight back.
“I lied to you,” you dryly chuckle. “I told you I was commissioned.”
His smirk widens, hinting that he might still believe that after what just happened in his office and bedroom.
You roll your eyes. “I- You’re a Stray Kid,” you try again. “Isn’t killing what you do?”
Chris scrubs down your shoulders and back, then your arm, lifting it up as he replies, “Yes.”
A shaky breath escapes you as he drags the soapy cloth across the pit of your arm.
“You saved my life,” he adds, moving onto your other arm. “I had a rat in my gang and you helped identify it.”
Your spine stiffens.
His gang?
Chris flashes you a cautious look under his brows, tonguing his cheek.
“Holy shit,” you whisper. “You’re the leader of Stray Kids?”
Chris nods, submerging the cloth under the warm bath water to drag it along your thighs.
Does he want to have sex again? Is that why he’s keeping you alive? You don’t really mind, you just need to know because his hands are dangerously close to the apex of your thighs and he is telling you information you do not need to know and, in fact, have no right to know. It’s the kind of information that can possibly remove the bounty on your head.
“You once told me information you didn’t need to,” Chris explains as he gently cleans the previous mess he made between your legs.
Curling in your lips, you suppress a moan.
“You didn’t need to tell me your name, but you did. So I’m telling you something I don’t need to as an act of good faith.”
“I didn’t take you for the religious type.”
“I tend to get religious on top of the right woman.”
You press your legs together, squishing his hand.
He laughs, scorching your chest and cheeks with embarrassment.
You push his hand away from your core with an annoyed huff. You don’t have time for this. Though you are not in pain, your body is still exhausted. You just want to get back in his comfortable sheets and finally sleep this enough night off, if not go to your own bed.
“Do you want to go again?” you suddenly ask. “Is that what all this is about?”
Chris quirks a brow. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”
A submissive, desperate part of you whines at his belittling tone and implication. If you wanted to, you most definitely could endure another round. However, you catch its outrage before it can make itself known beyond the knotting of your brows.
“So what then?” you ask.
Chis wrings out the cloth and tosses it aside. “I don’t like being indebted to anyone. You saved my life. I’m going to save yours,” he states matter-a-factly. “You are now under Stray Kids protection. You will have round-the-clock surveillance and train to learn to defend yourself properly against threats should your security fail.”
You blink.
Protection?
You remember thinking of Chris as your protector when he was touching you, but even then, riddled with lust, you knew it was only a fantasy. You are not worthy of protection. You are barely worthy of friendship. You almost lost Vinny. How can he really think you are worth saving?
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“Right,” he nods, tone descending in depth as his gaze sharpens. “Because I will be protecting you against the bounty.”
You scoff. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s not up for debate.”
“It’s my life.”
Chris casts you a look of sarcastic confusion. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re eager to end it,” he practically sneers.
You tuck your chin into your chest, averting his stern glare. “You don’t know what you are getting yourself into,” you mutter as a means of warning.
I’m damaged. I’m broken. I am not a life saver.
“A life for a life— That is the rule of the city,” Chris reaffirms. “You saved mine. I am saving yours.”
You fall silent. Keeping your attention locked on the black, marble floors, you let him wash all the soap off. You are not going to argue with the leader of Stray Kids, not tonight anyway, not as exhaustion is slowly claiming you, one limb at a time.
Fuck it— If he wants to fulfill this delusional debt of his then that is his problem. You warned him. You tried to fight this. When he eventually realises that you are more trouble than you are worth, you will gladly laugh and tell him you told him so.
“My bed or the spare’s?” he suddenly asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.
“What?”
“Do you want to sleep in my bed or the one in the spare bedroom?”
“Um,” you start as Chris grabs a towel. “Am I allowed to go home?”
“Of course,” he nods, “ I can get Seungmin and Felix to take you.”
You wonder which one is Felix before tentatively meeting his gaze. “Do you want me to sleep in your bed?”
Chris suppresses a little smile with a bite of his lip. His eyes do not gleam with their causal mischief or amusement, rather a hint of adoration— if you squint. “I would sleep better if you did,” he confesses, voice dropping an octave.
And so you find yourself in one of his shirts, the fabric barely brushing over the full curve of your rear, under layers of soft, silk sheets. Behind you, Chris wraps a strong arm around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. You can feel the beat of his heart against your back, feel how it echoes the race of your own.
You want him, want this so badly you can feel the aching desire deep within your bones. But the fear of shattering his world, of absorbing him and everything that matters to him into your vortex of ruin, shackles you in place.The red lights of Crimson Heights illuminate the room. As you watch the city, his steady breath fans against the nape of your neck. Mind exhausted, body slowly aching, you allow yourself to lean into him just this once and shut your eyes.
note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other reader. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.
I'm feeling so many emotions, I don't know what to write 😭😭😭 Felt so many butterflies, I was literally giggling and closing my mouth to not scream 😂 Even tho those 2 parts were really long, I need more 😭 I'm so ready to read even more about them. What a crazy story, crazy couple and crazy smut. Everything about this was amazing. Thanks a lot for such an interesting story, for the beautiful and detailed writing and amazing work in general. It was like watching a movie 😭💜
⎡ Your passion for him toggles between a roar and whisper. He’s not satisfied until your eyes roll. ⎤
⌁ pairing; slytherin!chan x gryffindor!reader (f.)
⌁ genre; hogwarts au, pwp, e2l, some angst, smut, 18+
⌁ word count; 9.4k
⌁ summary; the princess of gryffindor has no business lurking around the dungeons, other than to destroy the demon of slytherin that is… or so she thought…
⌁ warnings; mentions and brief depictions of an abusive relationship, mentions of alcohol, dom!chan, brat!reader (reader is thicc), infidelity, sir kink, size kink, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, bondage, humiliation, overstimulation, degradation, dirty talk, clit worship, fingering, choking, light rimming, squirting, gagging, spanking, tit slapping, cum play, spit play, anal play
⌁ 🎧 now playing… ✩
» prefer ao3? keep reading here
» a huge thanks to jen ( @itaeewon ) for making this amazing banner for me, and my amazing beta-readers, who i owe a million hugs to for making this fic readable, jen ( @anobodyslove ), stardust ( @skzdust ), and nephele ( @jisungchan )
⟶ please note that, despite still attending Hogwarts, all characters are of consenting age
Lumos.
The tip of your sycamore wand glows against the dungeon walls. It smells of murky roses and still saltwater. Your face scrunches in disgust as the bitter notions settle upon your tongue. You resist the urge to gag, walking down the long corridor. You duck under hanging cobwebs and try to ignore the scurry of rats along the edge of the stone floors.
Did he guide you down hidden tunnels as some sick joke?
“Meet me by the prefect’s lavatories around midnight,” he’d said, tonguing his cheek and raking his gaze over your frame.“We’ll discuss a truce then.”
