[minkieater]

BROKEN CLOCKS — jwy ⋆˙⟡

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

“Did you know mommy’s sick?”

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

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

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

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

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

His kid shrugged. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God knows he hasn’t brought it up. 

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

Kyungmin shook his head, “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on, stinky, shower time.”

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

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

Kyungmin smiles, “No.”

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

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

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

“You’re the stinky one!” 

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

“Yes, please!”

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

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

Somehow. 

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

“Is Kyungmin okay?”

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

“He’s fine–”

“What do you want?”

The flame burns freely once more. 

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

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

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

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

“Am I allowed to talk to you?”

“No.”

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

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

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

“Look–”

“No.”

“Please–”

“No.”

“Holy shit can I please just fucking–”

“No.”

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

“About nine weeks.”

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

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

Your eyes thin, “Where’s your wife?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Call me with a decision. 

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

He answers on the first ring. 

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

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

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

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

“Ofcourseareyoukiddingme–”

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

“You know I do.”

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

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

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

“Hi, wifey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brows knit together, “Hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face morphs into surprise. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You went through it with her–?”

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

“Yunho’s?” 

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

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

“Not pregnant.”

“Wooyoung,” you warn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow down your tears, but they still fill your waterline, heavy and hot and salty. “I don’t know if you can fix us, Woo. I don’t think… I don’t think you can.”

As if he wasn’t going back to work in less than a half hour, tears fill his waterline, too. He tightens his mouth to stop his bottom lip from quivering, but you catch it, and you understand the feeling so fucking deeply it makes your own tears fall. 

You sit in silence, the world resuming around you all over again. Shouts and shoes and bass, filling the space between you, the wooden table feeling a mile long. Too far away, too much space, too much time spent in grief to come back together. Two people with a past and nothing more.

“Alright,” he says after a few minutes, voice distraught. Swallowing down his tears, ignoring the red that’s bloomed across his cheeks, his neck, he acts like you can’t see that you just shattered his entire world. “If you need anything, if you need me to take Kyungmin, whatever you need, I’m a phone call away.”

Guilt swirls, heavy and leaden and too similar to the nausea you’re nearly used to at this point. Immediately you want to take your words back, even if they’re true, even if you mean them, your heart fucking aches, everything aches. He gets up from his side of the booth, walking around to your side, leaning in with one knee digging into brown leather just to press a kiss on the top of your head.

It feels too much like goodbye. 

“I love you,” he says quietly, small enough that you aren’t sure you were supposed to hear it.

Looking up at him, you can’t bring yourself to say it back. He waits for it, lingering just long enough, but he nods with the silence, with the finality of it all, and then he’s gone. Just like that. 

Wooyoung stares at the stack of papers on his desk.

On the first read, his heart was so deep in his ass it almost emptied out on the desk chair beneath him. On the second read, tears fell, so many fucking tears he had to reschedule his one o’clock and his two o’clock meeting. On the third read, he decided you’re creative, serving him divorce papers with the same exact disclosures and framing of the fake-divorce Wooyoung curated over a year ago. 

An hour later, he’s just pissed off that you served him. That you had some random fuck drop off legal documents at his job, where forty other people work in very close capacity. They can all go fuck themselves if they had anything to say about him, about his marriage, but for you to do that to him? You couldn’t have just handed them to him when he picked up Kyungmin yesterday? This must be why you hid from him, why you’ve been fucking hiding from him, sending Kyungmin out to his car before he had the chance to get out of the driver’s seat. It feels petty, childish. Maybe he deserves it.

His jaw clenches harder the longer he stares, molars grinding to the point of near-injury. His fists curl over his thighs, the rest of his body so locked up he isn’t sure if he can even move right now. He has thirty days to respond. Thirty days to process the fact that he’s no longer a married man. Thirty days to try and fix what he uprooted at his job almost four months ago, with the idea that all of his newfound spare time would be going to you. Thirty days to process that he ruined the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him.

His anger’s gone straight to his head by the time he picks up his phone. Holding it up to his ear, he waits for it to go through before he says, “Can I ask a favor?”

There’s noise in the background, a baby crying, fabric or something rough bristling against the speaker. After a moment of nothing but noise, Aurora’s voice comes through, out of breath as she says, “What’s up?”

“Can you take Kyungmin home with you when you pick up Aden from school today? I’ll pick him up later.”

There’s a pause before she carefully responds, “Yo’s picking him up, but yeah, I’ll tell him. Can I ask why?”

“She served me papers. She’s divorcing me.”

Aurora gasps, “You’re fucking lying.”

Wooyoung runs his free hand over his face, groaning out his frustration, “I need to go over there and talk to her. I haven’t seen her, haven’t talked to her other than a few texts, I don’t even know if she’s still fucking pregnant, Ro.”

“Yes, absolutely, go over there.” Wooyoung can hear her nodding, her voice reassuring as ever, already in plan-mode, search and rescue. “I’m so sorry, Wooyo.”

His heart still laying heavy in the pit of his stomach, he sighs, sitting back in his chair, the tips of his fingers meeting his eyes. “I should’ve seen this coming, but it’s only been two weeks since I met with her at Genesis. Two weeks, and it’s been almost three months since the night I told her we were still married.”

“You said it felt like the end, though, didn’t it?”

Wooyoung deflates in his rickety office chair. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“It’s either you fight for it, or let it end, Woo.” She sounds as sad as he feels, even if he can hear the thirteen other things she’s doing while talking to him. “But you should definitely talk to her before you do anything.”

He sits with the notion for a second: fight it, or let it end. He’s been fighting it, discreetly for over a year, he only got a chance to do it loud and proud for what, six weeks? Not long enough. There’s so much fight left in him that he nearly gets up from the chair and walks to your office building. Letting it end isn’t even a fucking option.

“I don’t want it to end,” he says, twirling the chair around, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of his office. Eyes landing on the building across the street, he stares at the tiny square that’s yours, wishing he could see you in the room behind the tinted window. 

“I know.” She sighs, then mumbles something cheery to Sunnie before adding, “It might be what’s best for the two of you. Especially if she isn’t having the baby, you’ve already been co-parenting with Kyungmin for over a year, maybe this is best, Woo.”

“No,” the word comes out harsher than he intended. “It’s not about the baby or Kyung, it’s about us, and I’m not letting her go. I’m not giving up.”

Wooyoung can see her frown, her lips pinned to one side, knowing exactly where the giving up part came from. “Talk to her,” she keeps her voice light, positive before her mom-voice comes out, “but don’t go in there with guns blazing, Jung Wooyoung. Fill me in later when you pick up Kyungmin.”

“Thanks, Ro.”

“I mean it, Woo,” she warns. “Don’t flip out.”

“Got it.”

Easier to say than do, when the stack of papers on his desk was as thick as two of his fingers. His teeth grind again, jaw clenching, he decides he’s done with work today, he can finish whatever the fuck he didn’t do today, tomorrow. Work will be here tomorrow, but he won’t have a wife tomorrow if he doesn’t do something. 

He’s already in your driveway when you get home from work. Pulling your car onto the blacktop, your heart pounds in your chest as you kill the engine, legs already shaky as you hop down from the lifted seat. You hear him before you see him, and not one word out of his mouth sounds happy. 

“What is this?”

Comfortable clothes, basketball shorts on his legs, a hoodie over his chest, he holds up the thick file you sent directly to his office. His hair was already blowing in the breeze, long strands flipping over to the other side of his head, framing his face that’s angled in frustration. 

“Papers,” you answer simply, walking around to the other side of your car, opening up the passenger side door for your purse. At least he hasn’t noticed yet. 

“You’re divorcing me?” He follows, standing behind you, voice strained, edged in stress, anger. 

You close the passenger side door behind you, “We’re already divorced, Wooyoung, I’m just making it official this time.”

He follows you up the side of your driveway, through the path leading up to your small porch, speaking with each step. “You couldn’t have just told me? Why the fuck did you serve me at my job?”

You’re the epitome of patience as you unlock your front door, walking inside like he wasn’t steaming behind you. “I didn’t want to speak to you, just like I haven’t wanted to speak to you for the past two months. Nothing new.”

He follows, you don’t stop him. “You could have talked to me about this. You didn’t need to make a spectacle out of me, you know how many people work in my building.”

You spin on your heel, spitting every single word, “You could have told me we weren’t really divorced. You could have told me Aurora named her kid after you and made you the godfather. You could have just been here in the first place and I never would have had to fucking divorce you!”

His jaw clenches, fist curling around the stack of papers at his side. “This could have been as amicable as it was the first time.”

“The first time wasn’t fucking real!” You turn again, heading toward your kitchen. “Leave, Wooyoung. Actually, sign the papers and leave them here.”

He stops on one side of the island, you on the other. He throws the stack on the marble countertop, “I’m not signing them.”

You put your purse down on the counter, staring at him over the space of the counter. “What do you mean, you’re not signing them?”

“I don’t want a divorce,” he says so simply it makes you laugh in disbelief.

“You don’t want one?” Your brows raise, the smile on your lips anything but amused, “Too fucking bad, I do. If you don’t sign then it’ll default and you can’t fight anything.”

“Then I’ll fight it,” he shrugs, whiskey eyes wide and wild, “I’ll fight all of it.”

You sigh, grabbing your water bottle, turning around to empty it into your sink behind you. With your free hand holding your back, one leg holding all your weight, you hear his shoes against the hardwood as he walks around the island. 

“You’re fucking pregnant,” he says it like he can’t believe it. Looking over your shoulder, his eyes are glued to your middle, impossibly wider now, filled with shock, disbelief. He meets your gaze again, repeating himself, “You’re fucking pregnant.”

You look down, frowning as you realize the dress you put on this morning wasn’t the tiny, almost invisible bump from your insane fucking husband. Of course he noticed. “No shit,” you say as you flip your empty water bottle on the rack to let it dry, completely unphased. Turning to face him, you hold the fabric tight to your belly as you admit, “Eleven weeks now.”

Slowly, one of his hands covers his mouth, his brows furrowing as he stares at the tiny bump that could be confused with constipation beneath your dress. It’s only seconds before his eyes turn glossy, then he takes a step forward hesitantly, waiting for you to stop him.

He stops himself instead, voice shallow as he asks, “You’re keeping it?”

“Kyungmin wants a sibling,” you shrug. “He said he wants someone to play Fashion Runway with at home.”

Wooyoung’s smile is slow as it takes over his entire face. His eyes meet yours, still glossy, full of tears that you aren’t sure are fully happy. “Thank you,” he whispers before his voice gets louder, more sure, his hand still wrapped around his jaw in awe. “Thank you so fucking much. Thank you.”

“Touch,” you say as your arms find your lower back again, a smile threatening to creep across your cheeks. “I know you want to.”

He closes the distance between you, hands out as he takes two steps forward, softly laying them over your belly. “Holy shit,” he whispers. “I can’t believe we’re doing this again.”

“I’m doing this,” you remind him, voice firm, full of indignation, “by myself.” You point your chin towards the paper on the counter, “The papers are waiting for you.”

“You think I’m signing them now?” He pops his brows. “Can we at least talk about it? Especially now, you’re– that’s my kid inside you.”

Your face falls flat, his hands still on your belly. You swat him away as you snap, “There’s nothing to talk about, everything I want is in the packet. I think I’m being pretty fair.”

“You’re being a copier.” His top lip lifts. “Everything in that packet is what I decreed in the first place. At least be original.”

“Stop being funny.” You cross your arms. “Sign the papers.”

“No,” he responds, crossing his arms back. “Now what?”

“You’re a pain in my ass,” you huff, turning around, walking towards the living room. 

He follows, “Can we wait? Put a pin in it or something? Come back to it later?”

“Wait for what?” You ask, plopping down on the couch casually, a relieved breath escaping you as you settle in the plush. “Wait for me to push the thing out?”

“It’s not a thing,” he argues as he sits on the opposite side, one leg bent up, his arm stretched along the back. “That’s my daughter in there. I don’t think you should do all of this alone.”

“Well that’s not really up to you, is it?” Your elbow meets the back of the couch, holding up your head. “How do you know it’s a girl? I haven't done the test to find out the gender yet.”

“Stop seeing Yeosang without me,” he frowns, “I want to come, I want to be there.”

“You had your chance to be here.”

“I was there for every appointment with Kyungmin and you know it,” Wooyoung argues, sitting a little straighter. “I’m serious. That’s my baby, too, and I want to be there.”

You groan, head falling back into the cushions. “Fine, Wooyoung. My next appointment is on Monday at nine.”

“Thank you,” he nods, “I’ll pick you up.” After a pause, a moment of silence from you, he adds, “I still don’t think you should do this alone.”

You pick your head up just to snap, “I’d rather do it alone then do it with you.”

“Ouch,” he winces, “I was good to you when you were pregnant with Kyungmin, don’t do that.”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, followed by a tired groan, letting your head fall back into the cushions again, he’s right. “I know, I remember. I think all the meetings with my lawyer are getting to my head.”

“Why now?” He asks, voice softer, all the anger, amusement from earlier, reshaped into vulnerability. “You’ve had time to divorce me, why do it now?”

You turn your head to see him, what part of his face you could see over the cushion. “I thought we were in agreement the last time we spoke. I thought that was it, and we were moving on.”

“That was only two weeks ago, jagi,” his voice is still soft, comforting as he moves a little closer, inching himself toward you, using one hand to push the cushion down where it blocked your vision. His eyes are clear now, his expression level, serious. “Do you really want to do this by yourself?”

The slightest pout bends your bottom lip. “No,” you answer honestly, “I wish you never told me that we were still married. I could’ve gotten over the Aurora thing, you broke my trust, but that’s doable, y’know? I can get past that. Keeping our marital status a secret is… detrimental. I wish you never said anything. I want you here. I want to do this with you, Wooyoung.”

He’s shaking his head before you finish speaking, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about all of it, and I wish I could take it all back, but I can’t.” His voice cracks as he says, “Please let me fix this. Please let me at least try.”

You stare at him for a second, seeing the determination behind his eyes, the heartache, the love he always wears like a loud accessory when he’s looking at you. Something that’s never changed in the fifteen years his eyes have spent on you. You have every intention of going through with the divorce, every fucking intention to be done with it. Be done with him. 

You don’t know what part of you sighs and looks away. “I spent a lot of fucking money on that attorney, Wooyoung.”

He’s quick to answer, giddiness threaded in his words, “I’ll pay for it.”

Your palms meet your face, rubbing at your tired eyes. It’s so frustrating, him coming here and jumbling up everything you’ve been so confident about. Two weeks of meetings, of phone calls, of paperwork, of finally landing on the track of being actually divorced. Again. Hearing the seriousness in his voice, the confidence, knowing he meant everything he’s said in the past few months, all of that combined with the hormones swarming your body and the baby fucking growing inside you.

You groan out, “Fuck, I can’t believe this is happening again. You’re impossible to divorce.”

“You won’t regret it,” his words are excited, all jumbled together, “I swear to god you won’t regret it, I’ll be so good to you and Kyungmin and the baby oh my god we’re having another kid–”

Your hands leave your face, paused in mid-air, brows furrowed as you glance at the man who’s still your fucking husband, “Where is Kyungmin?”

“Aden’s,” he shrugs, “I needed to talk to you and he couldn’t be here for it, not when I didn’t know how it was going to go.”

“Good,” you say through a relieved breath. “He has fun there.”

“They’re good to him,” Wooyoung’s voice is smaller, apprehensive, “Yunho and Aurora.”

“I know,” you agree, “I don’t hate them, Wooyoung. I was pissed at you, big fat liar, not them. Your college girlfriend doesn’t make me jealous, either.”

He stifles a snort, looking down to his lap, “Sounds like something a jealous person would say.”

“Don’t piss me off,” you argue, but a smile tugs at your lips, “my hormones are raging and you’re the only person here to take it out on.”

He laughs at that, a genuine belly laugh, his body sinking into the cushions as he physically relaxes. “I missed you.”

You raise your brows, “Yeah? I don’t think I’ve said one nice thing to you in weeks. Months, maybe.”

He turns his head to you, a lazy grin on his cheeks, “You can say something nice now.”

You look up to the ceiling, lips scrunching in thought, “Hm, weird. Nothing’s coming to mind.”

“You’ll think of something eventually,” his smile doesn’t leave, his tone finally settling into something comfortable, casual as his gaze lands on the details of your living room across from him. After a moment of silence, his head turns to you again, “Are you actually gonna file to dismiss the divorce?”

It’s your turn to smile again, one as mischievous as his signature smirk, “You think it’s that easy? That I’m not gonna make you work for it?” You watch his face morph into something like fear before adding, “You have thirty days, Woo.”

The smell of coffee and food wakes you up.

And the sound of a tiny voice that’s suspiciously far away.

Fear surges through you, jumping out of your bed, racing out of your bedroom and down the main staircase of your house like you were still your high school’s track star. Calling your son’s name, panic searing through your tone, you come to a hard stop in the entryway to your kitchen at the sight before you. 

“Morning, mommy,” Kyungmin grins, sitting in his Minecraft pajamas at your kitchen island, a full fucking breakfast half-eaten on the plate in front of him. Beside him is your husband, dressed for work, suit on his body, hair styled back, ready for the day like he’d gotten ready upstairs. 

Your hand lands over your heart, adrenaline winding down, are you dreaming? Is this a dream? 

“Morning, wifey,” Wooyoung grins, and all you can do is blink. He slides the mug of coffee in his hand over the kitchen island, toward where you stood, “Sorry for breaking in, but at least I made coffee. I brought over some stuff.”

Your brows furrow, slowly stepping closer until your hands wrap around the mug, assessing if you can feel the warmth. “I can’t tell if I’m awake right now.”

Wooyoung laughs, turning on his heel, grabbing the reusable grocery store bag you didn’t even notice sitting on your counter. “You’re very much awake.”

“Why are you here?” You ask before bringing the mug up to your lips, blinking away the crust in your eyes. Before taking a sip, you ask again, “What time is it?”

“Six forty-five,” Wooyoung says casually, so casually you feel confused like this was normal and you’re forgetting something so regular. He turns again, placing the bag between you. 

“Daddy said he brought you gifts,” Kyungmin sounds too awake for it to be so early. He usually didn’t wake up for another fifteen minutes, and usually your alarm goes off at six-thirty. He made your coffee, even if he was drinking it already, it’s your coffee, how you make it, how you order it. 

“Gifts?” You ask again, meeting Wooyoung’s warning eye, popping a brow. 

“Gifts,” Wooyoung repeats with a roll of his eyes like they aren’t really gifts at all, that’s just what he told Kyungmin. “Groceries,” he says, wrapping his hands around the handle of the grocery bag, “I figured I’d come over and make dinner for you guys a few times this week, if that’s okay. Oh, and flowers.” He turns, grabbing the vase you didn’t even notice sitting beside the kitchen sink, an arrangement of all your favorite flowers, your favorite colors. “Spring is nearing, so… flowers.”

Lips parted, eyes wide and blinking, you don’t know what to say, there’s not a single word that comes to mind other than a very unconvincing, “Thank… you?” 

Wooyoung looks like he’s trying to hide his grin, lips folded inward, cheeks straining not to show his giddiness. “Small stuff, nothing crazy. Effort.” 

“Effort,” you repeat, paired with a slow nod. “Groceries.”

God, why was this like pulling teeth?

“Thirty days,” he points toward you to remind you of your deal before starting to pull groceries out of the bag, as if you’d forgotten. Part of you did, even if it happened three days ago.

“What to expect when you’re expecting,” you sing through a contented sigh, mindless as you pull out a stool to sit on, forgetting who else is in the room. 

Kyungmin quickly reminds you he’s very much present by asking you, “What’s expecting?” He glances at Wooyoung, “What are we getting? Are we getting a dog?”

“No,” you respond quickly, “no dog. We’re getting…” You glance at Wooyoung with a look that says help. 

You asked Kyungmin how he felt about having another sibling, not that he was getting one. It was too early in the morning to drop a bomb that huge, especially if he didn’t take it well. 

Wooyoung’s forearms meet the counter, leaned over the island, eye to eye with your son who’s still glancing back and forth between you with curiosity twinkling in his eyes. “Want me to come over later? I’ll make dinner and help you with vocabulary homework. We can play the multiplication game again.”

“Yes!” Kyungmin shouts, piercing your still-asleep years. “Will you make my favorite?”

“Duh,” Wooyoung rolls his eyes with a smile, like he was already planning it. “Don’t tell mommy,” he whispers, “but there’s ice cream in the bag with your name on it.” 

Your smile grows watching Kyungmin’s eyes light up, flaring with excitement and sheer fucking joy before he whispers his agreement. Heart wrenching at the sight of the two together, Wooyoung and his miniature twin, you have to look away to not fall into the rabbit hole of what it would’ve been like if you never separated. 

A spiral you’ve been down too many times before. 

You sip your coffee while watching Wooyoung maneuver around your kitchen like it was still his. Putting groceries away where they belonged, keeping conversation with you and Kyungmin about your day ahead, you tried to let yourself exist in the same space without feeling completely confused and slightly weirded out about the normalcy of it all. 

Coming unannounced, bringing groceries, flowers, telling Kyungmin he’ll be here later without asking you but instead expecting you to be okay with it… as much as the rabbit hole of what-ifs calls to you, you have an eight year old son who doesn't need to be confused. 

“Time to go get dressed,” you say to your son with a small smile that you know Wooyoung is seeing right through. Slowing his movements, coming to a standstill on the other side of the island in preparation for the conversation he knows is coming, he nods toward Kyungmin who looks at him like he’d keep him home from school. 

After quickly realizing this wasn’t a special day and his father was just here for no apparent reason, he scoots off his stool and makes for the staircase with a gruff. He definitely thought you were going to keep him home, and the three of you were doing something today. The thought makes your chest feel heavier.

When he’s out of earshot, you quirk a brow at your husband, “What are you doing?” 

He’s quick to respond, “You gave me thirty days. Today’s day one.” 

“So you break into my house?” You whisper-shout.

“I still have a key,” he points to the hallway leading to the front of your house, where you know his key is sitting on the table beside the front door. “And technically it’s still my house, too.” 

“Don’t give me technicality bullshit,” you huff, “it’s seven in the fucking morning and you woke up our son for breakfast completely unannounced. You don’t think that’ll confuse him?”

“Confused? I'm his dad,” he argues, “and he woke up on his own, I didn’t wake him up. My plan was to have you wake up first and be all excited that I was bringing you goodies.” 

“Goodies,” you quirk a brow, “flowers and food?” 

He smacks his lips. “I thought it was cute.” 

The snort that escapes you is completely involuntary. Voice half-amused, the fight isn’t quite gone from your soul as you say, “You can’t just come here unannounced, Wooyoung.” 

“You gave me thirty days,” he says, dumbfounded. “Are we gonna repeat last time? Fuck until you consider seeing me in daylight?” You scowl, but he doesn’t let up. “This is asking a lot, but just go with it, please. I know what I’m doing.” 

“You know what you’re doing,” you repeat, mocking him, “my ass.”

“I thought the flowers would butter you up at least a little,” he turns, grabbing the vase, then places it in front of him, lowering his body so just his pouting face was visible on top of the colorful, blooming petals. “They’re pretty, just like you.” 

That pulls a laugh straight from your chest, shaking your head, “You’re beyond helping, Jung Wooyoung. Down to your soul you’re batshit insane.” 

“Only for you,” he’s grinning now. “Wouldn’t do this shit for anyone else and you know it.” 

And you do know it, as much as part of you wishes he was bothering someone else at seven in the goddamn morning. Rolling your eyes, you turn, “I’m going to get ready for work.” 

“Can I come watch?” 

“No, but you can take Kyungmin to school.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Monday at nine came and went with surprising ease. Not that you thought Wooyoung would act ridiculous at your doctor’s appointment, but you didn’t think he’d be as normal as he was. A blood test, an NT scan, he stood by your side through the whole thing, nodding and joking with Yeosang as if the doctor didn’t know about anything going on between you. And technically, he didn’t– not the details, at least, the only surprise he showed was the glimmer of shock in his deep chocolate eyes upon opening the door and catching Wooyoung looking through his cabinets. 

“Beautiful Monday,” Wooyoung sighs with nothing but unadulterated joy, grinning ear to fucking ear with his eyes closed, standing still on the sidewalk in front of his SUV as he lets the sunshine beat down on his skin. “Your levels are even, I’m gonna be a girl dad, I just found out I’m psychic, everything is good in the world.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, “Everything?”

He cracks one eye open, “Am I missing something?”

“An open civil case,” your lips are tied up on one side with an evil smirk. 

Wooyoung opens his eyes to scowl, then pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the door. Before he moves to the driver’s side, he asks, “Do you need help getting in?”

“I’m only twelve weeks.” You roll your eyes again, something you’ve done so many times in the past week you think your eye muscles are now made of steel. “She’s gonna be big, though, I can smell the back pain from here.”

You and Wooyoung climb into his car at the same time and you grimace when the stale heat engulfs you whole. “Holy shit, turn on the AC.”

“What’s the back pain feel like?” He asks, turning on the car, hands immediately shooting for the knobs to put the air conditioning on full blast. “Similar to standing on your feet all day?”

You pull your seatbelt over your chest, clicking it into place. “It’s usually in my lower back, kinda like boob-carrying back pain, but worse. Like having a watermelon strapped to your front all day, you’re in a constant arch, it burns and you can’t really do anything for it if you’re out and about.”

He winces like he can feel phantom pain in his back. Turning to you, face solemn, he asks, “Do you think it’ll be better or worse since it’s your second time?”

You shrug, “Give me a month or two and I’ll have the answer for you.”

The air finally turns somewhat cold and you sink into the seat like it was a blessing from the heavens, it starts washing the heat off you, dusting away the idle air. Eyes closed, head lolling towards your husband who starts pulling out of the parking spot, you ask, “What are you making for dinner tonight?”

Wooyoung snorts, “That’s all you care about? We aren’t gonna debrief how we’re having a girl and the fact that I was right?”

“First time being right in your life, you must be excited,” you peek an eye open to tease, and he looks at you with his face bent up in offense. 

“Rude,” he scoffs in response, but it doesn’t hide the amusement in his tone. “I never even said I was coming over tonight. Should we tell Kyungminnie he’s gonna have a sister?”

You can feel the heat of shame crawling to the tips of your ears for assuming he’d be over tonight. He came over twice last week, and did just as he promised, made dinner, let Kyungmin have his ice cream, then helped him with homework and played the multiplication game that you found yourself inadequate at playing. It’s been a long time since you’ve done third grade math– Kyungmin multiplied the numbers faster than you did.

Wooyoung’s been… strangely aware. First and foremost, with what he’s been cooking the three of you for dinner. Balanced meals, healthy but still delicious, things you enjoy eating now that the wave of constant nausea has let up. Careful with what he says to Kyungmin, never hinting towards there being more to the picture than you’re letting on, reminding Kyungmin he was coming over for him and him only. In a kind way. In an unsuspecting way. A way that kind of made you feel sour, even if you knew the reason behind it, even if you didn’t want him to say anything else. Hormones. 

It’s been too easy to slip into routine, to find comfort in him being around. Having eyes watching over you, your son, to feel safe in a way you haven’t felt in so long. It’s different than the weeks you spent sleeping with him, you haven’t so much as kissed him in the past week, you haven’t given him eyes, not a single sexual remark or joke has been made from either of you. It’s been strictly domestic, a husband coming home from work, a husband cooking dinner for his wife, a father doing homework with his son. You hate that you’ve been loving every goddamn second of it.

“Sure,” you respond with only half of your consciousness attached to it, too in your head to give him your full attention. 

He side-eyes you, popping a brow. “Sure? You’re about to tell your son he’s gonna have a sibling, and all you can say is sure?”

“Well, are you even gonna come over?” It slips out before you can think about it, sounding impatient. Almost desperate. Irritable in the way that means you’re hopeful. 

Coming to a stop at a red light, Wooyoung glances at you in the passenger seat with the quickest-spreaking smirk he’s ever worn. Like an accusation, all too proudly he says, “You want me to come over.”

There’s heat on the apples of your cheeks. Unconvincingly, you defend yourself, “No.”

“Yes,” he argues, his smile mischievous. “You like having me there. Admit it, you miss me.”

“No!” You sit a little straighter, brows furrowing, voice pitched and so obviously lying your entire body fills with embarrassment. “I just like not having to cook.”

“Sure,” he doesn’t sound like he agrees. Turning back to the road, to the light that turns green, he cruises forward with two hands on the wheel.

“You clean my kitchen.” You sound too defensive. “And you’re helping Kyungmin with his homework. And you did my laundry last night. Three things I no longer have to do if you’re there.”

“Right,” he nods, brows furrowing, bottom lip bending over, looking like he agrees but you both know it’s pretend. Sarcastic, even. Leaning his head towards you but not looking at you, he says, “Just say you miss me, baby. I won’t make fun of you for it. I miss you too.”

You swear under your breath, arms crossing, head turning to look out the window. You do miss him, you’ve missed this part of him for so long, the part you didn’t get to see the last time you were trying the whole Wooyoung-comes-around-again thing out. Maybe you should have started here last time, instead of getting caught up in the way it felt to have him inside of you again. 

You might miss that most of all. 

You shake off the thoughts, eyeing Wooyoung in the barely-there reflection in the window, his smirk still present. Still incriminating. Still proof that he knows you better than you know yourself. 

“It’s still not enough to call it off,” you mumble, so quietly you aren’t sure if he’ll be able to hear you. But he does, with how his smirk falters, his lips settling into a line. It didn’t feel as good as you thought it would to say the words. 

“I know,” he responds, voice softer now, all amusement gone. “Trust me.”

You frown, guilt settling into cracks you didn’t know were there. He lied to you, kept things from you, then threw them at you like a fucking bomb and expected you to come out of the other side unharmed. You shouldn’t feel guilty.

But you do. To soften the blow, you turn again, arms uncurling from your chest, hands landing in your lap with a sigh, toying with your fingers. Voice coming out uneasy, you ask, “So… you wanna tell Kyungmin?”

“If you’re ready for it,” he fakes a smile, a bending press of his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We can wait a couple weeks, ‘til we’re out of the danger zone. You’ll be in your second trimester next week.”

Your cheeks heat at the awkwardness you created when there’s never fucking been awkwardness between you, like, ever. “That’s smart,” you say, not at all convincing, pulling your lips together. “Will you still come over tonight?”

His head turns to the left, arms crossing over one another as he makes a turn, and even though you know he’s driving the both of you to work, it still feels intentional. “To make you dinner, clean your kitchen and do your laundry?”

You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth. You deserved that one.

“To spend time with your son,” you try, turning your head to face him, sounding optimistic. “And your daughter… And your wife.”

His demeanor cracks with that, a smile blooming across his cheeks, and it settles something in your chest. Smiling back, you lean a little closer, “You can brag to everyone at work about your psychic abilities.”

“I hand-picked that fucking sperm,” he says, full of conviction, picking back up the discussion you’ve had twice now like you never put it down. “I knew exactly which one was fertilizing that egg, jagi. I knew it.”

And you really can’t stop–nor do you want to stop–the easygoing laugh that spills from your lips, nodding along, agreeing with him. “I know you did, I believe you.”

“I’m at the store.” 

“What store?” You ask into your phone, twirling your hair around one finger, knees bent up to your chest on the couch.

“The store,” he responds like it was the only answer, his voice clipped through the speaker of your phone. “I’ll be there soon, let me check out.” 

“What are you getting?” You ask again, lowering your hand in front of you, examining your nonexistent manicure. You need one. 

“Things,” he answers, voice tight. Your top lip curls, eyes finding the ceiling. “I’m literally checking out now, I’ll be home in ten minutes.” 

You sit up a little, sly grin curving your lips, “Well what if I need things from the store?”

He swears under his breath, “Baby, why do you think I’m here? I already know what you need.”

You watch Kyungmin on the living room floor, belly pressed flat to the rug, feet dangling in the air as his little fingers work his tablet better than you ever could. 

Your cheeks heat, smile growing, “You have no idea what I need, Jung Wooyoung.” 

Kyungmin whips his head around, “You’re talking to daddy? Is he coming over?”

“Yes, he’s coming over,” you answer Kyungmin just as Wooyoung barks into your ear, “You’re a fucking pervert.”

You laugh, picking up the same piece of hair to twirl around your finger again. “See you soon.” 

“When I get there you better—”

You hang up the phone, sly smirk still warm, etched into your cheeks. All week it’s felt like you have an itch you can’t fucking scratch, an itch you want Wooyoung to scratch, but he won’t even try to reach it. 

You think the hormones might be blinding you, maybe taking over your entire nervous system. Maybe your hormones were in charge of your brain entirely at this point.

Texts, phone calls, other than the three times he’s been over this week already, it’s like dangling a treat in front of a dog who doesn’t fucking want it. Close proximity is driving you insane, you think, or maybe it’s just the effect of having Wooyoung around, acting so normal and so domestic it’s sinking you deeper into the fantasy of what could be. What could’ve been this whole time. What you miss so badly. 

You pick yourself up off the couch to the kitchen, needing something to do with your hands to get your mind out of the gutter, where it’s seemed to have taken permanent residence. Why doesn’t he want you? It’s the question you’ve been asking yourself since Monday night, like as soon as you noticed the lack of sexual tension, it showed itself like it’s been waiting in hiding.

Ten minutes of washing the dishes, all from Kyungmin’s school lunch and the lunch you brought to work, Wooyoung was walking through your front door as promised. You heard Kyungmin yell, Wooyoung’s excited greeting, and then your son’s following giggle that you’re convinced could cure anything. 

It’s only seconds before he makes his way to the kitchen, you look over your shoulder as he sets two reusable grocery bags on the marble island, a soft smile already on his sculpted, bronzy cheeks. 

“Wow,” he starts, already amused, “not leaving the dishes for me?” 

You turn off the faucet, grabbing a dish towel to dry your hands on before turning around, your coy smile tucked to the side. “Thought you might want a break from scrubbing my Tupperware.” 

Dressed in business casual, clothes a little wrinkled, hair disheveled like he ran his fingers through it forty five times today, you don’t hide the fact that your eyes are scanning every single inch of him. With the way his smile spreads, how his eyes lower, you know he can see right through you. It’s not like you’ve hidden it well— or tried to. 

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were buttering me up now,” his thick brows wiggle over his mismatched eyes. 

A small sound of amusement is all you can conjure before taking a step towards the island, pressing your forearms against the marble, leaning over your crossed arms. “What’s in the bags?”

“Things,” he answers, eyes sparkling with mischief. You thin your eyes, moving like you’d start opening them yourself, but he stops you with a palm facing you. “Stay away from my things, I know what you need and where they go. Go sit down or something.”

You stand up straight, crossing your arms over your chest, scowling. “No, I’m bored and I want to know what things are in the bags.” 

He laughs under his breath, “You’re bored?”

“I’ve been waiting,” you huff, “you took a long time at the store.” 

“Look at you,” he muses, “you’re pouting.” 

“So?” Your head tilts. “Maybe I am pouting.” 

His brows raise before he starts digging into the first bag, pulling out produce while he shakes his head, “Look how the turn tables.”

You’d laugh at the joke he’s made a thousand times if you didn’t know just how true it was. He’s supposed to be the one proving himself to you and with every passing day you’re losing the ability to hold onto your certainty, your hormones driving you to near insanity, your will as strong as thread at this point. There’s a tiny voice inside you that reminds you you’re not above begging for it. 

And yet he gives you nothing. 

“For you,” he says casually, pushing a bag towards you and two bottles. Quirking a brow, your hands find the things, holding them up to read the labels. 

“You said you were running low on prenatals,” he explains as he continues emptying the bags, not even looking at you. “Plus epsom salts for a bath, I read online somewhere that the soap is good for pregnancy, there’s herbs in it that soothe aches and make you sleepy or something. Figured it could help the back pain before it really starts.” 

Your eyes flicker upward, watching him as he empties the bags like it was no big deal. Thick, focused brows, veiny hands moving fluidly, a singular strand of hair thickened by product laying over his face, you can feel your heart beating. When your silence hits him, he glances upward, meeting your stare, and he pauses his movement to ask, “What?”

You shake your head, just once, barely anything more than a small movement. “Nothing, I just… I’m lucky. And I appreciate you.”

One brow raises, smirk rising on the same side of his face, “Now you’re really buttering me up.”

You laugh because it’s funny, but your heart throbs in your chest like it knows that Wooyoung is in front of you, like it beats only for him and it’s waiting for your mind to catch up. 

Your mind is far past catching up. You walk around the counter, steady feet bringing you to his side, and you force yourself between him and the counter to wrap your arms around his middle. Your arms squeeze tight, burying your head in his chest, forehead meeting right where his shirt is unbuttoned, your skin pressed against his. 

Spicy, woodsy, a hint of outside… sweaty, just a little. In the way that makes you want to eat him. But you don’t let your mind drift just yet, savoring the smell of him, the feeling of his skin pressed against yours, how he feels in your arms. 

It takes him a second to process, but his arms wrap around your back, engulfing you in his hold as he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head in the same exact spot he did three weeks ago. When you thought it was over. 

How the fuck could you ever think it was over?

Mumbling into his chest, coming out muffled, you say, “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” He doesn’t need a second to process that, the words coming out before he could think about them, he doesn’t need to think about them. Never once did he have to think about them, not with you. 

Your grip loosens a little, but you don’t let go. He seems perfectly content holding you to him, flat palms sliding up and down your back, a smile you can’t see quickly crawling across his cheeks.

Finally looking up, into his whiskey eyes burnt by the dim lighting of the kitchen, you whisper, “Thank you.”

He’s looking at you like you’re his entire world. Like nothing before this moment has ever mattered, and nothing after it will matter either, because right now it’s you and him and that’s all he’s ever wanted. 

“Anything for you.” He leans down to press a small kiss to your forehead. “You know that.” 

A smile tugs at your lips, “Anything?”

He smacks his lips, “Don’t ruin the moment, that was sweet.” 

Your grin spreads, head dropping until your forehead meets his chest again, hands falling from around his back to drop down to his hips. “Why is it always me?” You look up again, lashes fluttering, “It’s always me who’s begging to get in your pants.”

His face morphs into cockiness, his shoulders shrugging casually, “Guess I’m that good.” 

You try to scoff, but it comes out like a laugh as you smack your palm against his hip, “I’m serious, Wooyoung. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

His amused smile falls, hands sliding down to your hips, pushing your back against the counter. He keeps himself close, eyes scanning your face, gaze dropping down to your lips. Small, quiet yet full of lust, he asks, “You think I don’t want you?”

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes widening. Your hands fly up between you, pressed against his chest as you stutter over your thoughts, “A- um, a little, kinda.”

His head drops down to your neck, the curve of his nose ghosting against the shell of your ear and your whole body shivers in response, back arching against the counter. 

He keeps his voice low, “You don’t realize that I think about fucking you every time we’re in this kitchen?”

Your heart picks up speed, breath going heavy and ragged, body twitching as he speaks like he’s fucking touching you. All you can mumble is his name, soft but drenched in arousal, fingers clutching onto his shirt.

“Lifting you up on this counter,” he drawls, voice like honey, hands reaching for the marble, arms caging you in. “Just like I did a few months ago, except I think about taking it slow this time, teasing you until you’re begging. Touching you until you’re crying for it.”

Your skin touches, his lip against the spot below your neck; his breath warm and inviting, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand, goosebumps raise on your skin. The smallest noise escapes you, pitched and needy, you’d be embarrassed by it if the arousal wasn’t intoxicating.

He brings his face back to yours, so close your foreheads are almost touching.

“Look at me.”

You do, eyes full of anticipation, his lips so close you could taste them. He grins.

Then he’s pressing a kiss to your cheek and moving off of you like nothing ever happened. Sliding the bags down the counter so he can keep unloading groceries, you blink at him, dumbfounded, terrorized. 

“What the fuck?” You whisper-yell. 

He looks at you casually over his shoulder, “What?” 

“You’re an asshole,” you spit, “you’re such a fucking asshole.” 

He cracks a smile at that, going back to his groceries, "Didn't I tell you to go sit down ten minutes ago?” 

All you can do is scowl, all the way back to the fucking couch where you tuck your knees up to your chest.

Kyungmin looks over his shoulder from the floor, wearing raised, curious brows as he asks, “Wanna play with me?” 

Friday has been your favorite day of the week since you could remember. In college, it meant classes were over, you had your weekends free to drink your bodyweight in liquor and party anywhere and everywhere without the looming dread of classes in the morning sitting on your shoulders. When you started working, Friday’s clockout time called to you at a mere seven in the morning, reminding you that when you go home, you get to change into a cocktail dress and your clubbing pumps and go out with the girls from your office. When you met Wooyoung, Friday meant that you got to spend your weekend with him, partying, fucking, learning each other down to the bone.

When you got pregnant the first time, Friday meant you got to go home and sleep.

Now you’re pregnant a second time, and Friday no longer means you get to go home and sleep.

You get to listen to your eight year old with a chronic case of the zoomies, especially after an abnormally warm day full of sunshine that radiates upcoming spring, instead of being tired, he’s ready to share all the adrenaline he’s felt all day with you. And you love it– every single second of him racing around your backyard with a widespread grin, shouting giggles that could cure any foul mood you’ve ever been in, but you’re especially tired today, and you don’t have it in you to do anything but sit in your patio chair and watch.

“Mommy, play with me!” He shouts across the lawn, the sound piercing your eardrums even if there’s yards of breeze intercepting it. “Let’s play Runway,” he starts, feet bringing him closer to you, dropping the bat he was just swinging against the tee you still owned because he aged out of tee ball just one year ago. “It’s like Fashion Runway, but instead of Fashion, we walk.”

You can’t help yourself, the snort that rips from your nose is inevitable. “You wanna walk with me?”

“Runway, mommy,” he corrects you, a hand on his denim-clad hip. Jeans and a tee shirt, one you realized an hour ago is stained with the condiments you put on the sandwich from his school lunch. “You have to walk like you’re walking down a runway, and I’ll judge it. One is bad, ten is good.” 

Your brows raise over the sunglasses sitting on the bridge of your nose, amused and actually interested, “Oh, is it a competition?”

Kyungmin smirks, “Yeah, and I’m gonna win. You go first.”

“Excuse me, mister runway model,” you say, pushing yourself off the patio chair by the armrests. You think you’re nearing popping, your belly definitely… protruding now. Not big by any means, at your fourteen weeks of pregnancy, but you think you’re almost visible. Obvious. Maybe. You wonder how Kyungmin hasn’t said anything yet, when he usually asks a thousand questions if you style your hair differently. 

Kyungmin sits in the patio chair after you’ve stood up, and claps his hands together as you walk through the lawn, standing facing him just a few feet away. “Okay mommy!” He yells from the chair, “You can walk now.”

Damn, impatient, too. You flip your hair over your shoulder, one hand on your hip, and conjure up the sassiest walk, imagining yourself on a runway, putting in effort for the sake of your kid. The same kid who loses his fucking shit, clapping and giggling like it was the funniest thing he’s ever seen. 

When you walk up to the edge of the stone patio, Kyungmin is still giggling, but he says, “It’s good that you’re not a model, mommy.”

You scoff, standing straight, but the laughter that comes from your back door sliding open steals both of your attention before you have the chance to talk back to your son. 

“Daddy!” Kyungmin squeals.

Wooyoung walks onto the patio, grinning like he knows he wasn’t supposed to see that but he loved every second of it. “What do you mean? That was the best model walk I’ve ever seen.” He’s eyeing up Kyungmin now as he says, “Tell mommy she could be a model before you hurt her feelings.”

You try to interject, “He didn’t–”

“You’re a good model, mommy,” Kyungmin says, and he almost sounds like he means it. “You should see Aden do it,” he pushes himself up off the patio chair, “he does it like this.”

You’re shaking your head as you walk towards Wooyoung, ready to greet him, but Kyungmin’s screech of “Look!” has you turning right back around. 

Your jaw drops as your son puts his hand on his hip and sways his hips as he walks toward the patio. You scoff, “You just did exactly what I did!”

Wooyoung snorts from beside you, “He might’ve done it better than you, jagi.”

“What number?” Kyungmin asks, grin as wide as his eyes, his arms wrapping around your middle when his quick moving feet bring him right to you. “Judge time.”

You bend down and press a kiss to his sweaty hair, “Ten. What’s my number?”

Kyungmin’s eyes slide to Wooyoung, and out of your peripherals you can see Wooyoung holding up ten fingers. Your son giggles, looking back at you, “Nine.”

“Y’know what?” You bring your palms to his cheeks, squeezing, “I’ll take it.”

“Let’s play again,” Kyungmin squeezes you a little tighter, making you choke out a noise. “Daddy has to walk this time, too.”

“I think that’s a beautiful idea,” you smirk, side-eyeing your husband from beneath your shades. Expecting pushback, his grin turns feline. Your brows raise.

“Scared of a lil’ competition?” He wiggles his own brows, “I’m about to win, just so you know. Kyungmin, you’re going down.”

“I’m gonna win,” Kyungmin fights back. “Mommy’s gonna lose, though.”

“Damn, was my walk really that bad?” You ask, brows coming together as you turn to Wooyoung. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He leans closer when Kyungmin runs off into the lawn, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I thought it was perfect. Hi, by the way.”

“Hi,” you’re smiling already, and you know the flush on your cheeks isn’t from the afternoon sun anymore. It’s his fourth time here this week and it’s only Friday, by this point there’s not a bone in your body that isn’t okay with it. The opposite, actually, staring at him in his business-casual clothes, dress pants loose and elongating his strong legs, dress shirt unbuttoned and untucked on one side, sleeves folded up to his elbows. His pants black, his shirt a deep gray color, the silhouette, the colors, it all contrasts against his build and his sickeningly sweet-looking skin, making you salivate. 

This is the third day in a fucking row that just looking at him has made you weak in the knees. You’ve been curbing your cravings well enough since last week against your kitchen island, you’ve kept a safe distance since, not looking at him for too long, you don’t want to risk the rejection that you still aren’t sure was rejection, again. But the more insatiable your thirst grows, the more it feels fucking impossible, especially when he looks like that, when he’s doing tasks for you around the house, when he’s making dinner and eating it with you, when he’s showing up at your house right after work with his belt already off and his shirt halfway untucked.

You’re still not above begging. He’s still not giving you an inch. 

Kyungmin walks first, as attitudey and sass-filled as you imagined it would be, and both you and Wooyoung shout ten. You walk next without an ounce of embarrassment, and Wooyoung shouts ten, but Kyungmin shouts eight. Then Wooyoung walks, using his hips like he had a rope attached through his belt loops pulling him forward, like a real fucking high-fashion model. 

With your jaw pressed to the stone of the patio, you yell, “You motherfucker, why are you good at this?”

“Mommy!” Kyungmin shouts, disapproving of your swear.

A belly laugh leaves Wooyoung, head dipping down, palms clutching his stomach before they land on his knees in a doubled-over crouch. You scoff, “I’m serious, what the hell is going on? Do you have a history in modeling that I should know about? Something else you’re hiding?”

“I think… nine,” Kyungmin says from your side, ignoring you with his hands on his hips, brows slanted, hiding his smile like he knows Wooyoung’s walk was perfect but refuses to outright admit it. 

You snort, “That was a ten if I’ve ever seen a fucking ten.”

Kyungmin shouts again, “Mommy!”

“Stop swearing, you’re bothering the boy,” Wooyoung ushers a hand in Kyungmin’s direction, face still bent up in laughter, tight from trying to hide his smile. Just a moment passes of his lips tucked between his teeth before he laughs again, “I’m sorry– I’m sorry, that was so fucking funny.”

Kyungmin’s voice is stern as he warns, “Daddy.”

“I’m sorry!” Wooyoung shouts, his palms flying up in defense, laughter still laced in his words. “Come on, let’s go inside.” 

Kyungmin makes for the door first, mumbling like he didn’t think you’d hear, “I told you mommy would lose.” 

Wooyoung catches up to you in a light jog, one hand pressed to the small of your back as you cross the threshold to walk inside your kitchen. Your head snaps sideways at the touch and he looks blissfully unaware at how the heat from his palm shoots electricity up your spine, reminding you of just short of a week ago, his arms on the counter behind you, caging you in, whispering nasty shit in your ear…

There’s happiness in the air, bleeding between you and him and your son, even the girl growing steadily in your belly. You don’t want to ruin it by sinking your mind to the gutter, where it was a week ago, how you sulked the entire night and yet he still left your house with a kiss to your cheek and a smirk on his lips. He won’t fucking give in and your body is reacting to every look, every touch like a livewire. 

He meets your eye, mischief twinkling in chocolate, he knows. You take a quick step forward, too fast for his hand to stay on your body, it’s purposeful.

“Homework, dinner, showers, bedtime,” you mumble under your breath as if you needed to remind yourself of the schedule, using it like a bucket of cool water, the words ice in your veins.

And that schedule you continued to repeat to yourself all night. Homework was swift with Wooyoung’s quick-working mind helping Kyungmin, and other than making dinner, having him here to help with math was something you desperately needed and never even thought of. Third-grade math was a nuisance to you, mortifyingly irritating, and sometimes you remember that it's just going to get worse. More complicated. It’s been a long time since you’ve attempted long-division and you’ll avoid it at all costs if you can.

You ended up ordering takeout, the three of you sat on the floor of your living room, eating from containers on the coffee table, watching the movie playing on the TV across the room. Frozen, again, for the thirteen-millionth time, more than once Kyungmin began singing along, and you instinctively sang along with him, then Wooyoung, too. You think the three of you might know this movie word for word. 

By the time the end credits were rolling onto your screen, your back was pressed to the edge of the couch, your head lolled onto the cushions, eyes half open. You supposed singing along to the movie took the last bit of energy right out of you, exhaustion sitting heavy on your chest, your shoulders. 

Kyungmin was still wide awake, bouncing from watching his favorite movie yet another time. Sitting beside Wooyoung on the floor, his legs thrown over Wooyoung’s lap, his head turned sideways, towards the screen across the room, you could barely hear his fast-moving mouth about how much he loves Elsa. How he wanted to be her, have her magic, ice powers, how he wanted a sister like Anna– all things you’ve heard a thousand times before, but they landed differently this time, and as Wooyoung’s head turned sideways to look at you, you know you were both thinking that you hope to give him a sister like Anna.

His gaze lingered, though, taking in your half-awake state, low-lidded eyes, slouched body that you’re sure did not look comfortable. It was, at least, as comfortable as it could be for movie watching on the floor.

“Shower time,” Wooyoung rips his gaze from you to look at Kyungmin. Your son whines, pulling his legs from Wooyoung’s lap to roll over on the floor. Wooyoung’s face stays straight, an unmovable force, “Come on, you’ll feel better when you’re clean.”

“I already feel good,” Kyungmin whines, “I’m clean. I showered last night.”

“Are we gonna have the stinky conversation again?” Wooyoung asks, amusement playing in the line of his lips. “Mommy’s gonna cry if she gets a whiff of you.”

You crack a grin at that, even if Kyungmin refuses to take the bait. He sits up, arms stretched out behind him, brows slanted downward as he asks, “Can’t I shower in the morning?”

“No,” you interject, “you already don’t want to wake up in the morning, I’m not fighting you to shower.”

“I won’t fight!” Kyungmin counters. “I’ll get up, mommy, I promise.”

“I don’t even believe that,” Wooyoung reaches forward, grabbing him by his ankles and tugging the boy towards him. “Go shower.”

Kyungmin giggles as his butt slides against the floor, toward his father. “Can I eat ice cream after?” 

“Sure,” Wooyoung nods. “But only if you smell clean. Remember to wash your hair twice, with shampoo.”

Kyungmin stands from the floor just to scowl at his father, “I know how to wash my hair.”

Wooyoung just raises his brows like this was an argument they’ve had before, one you have no knowledge of. He doesn’t respond, though, and Kyungmin doesn’t argue as he turns for the staircase, running two steps at a time so he can get to his dessert as fast as humanly possible.

Wooyoung wastes no time as soon as the shower turns on. He slides closer to you, eyes zeroed in on your tired expression as he asks, “Why don’t you go take a bath?” 

You pop a brow, “Are you saying I smell, too?”

“I’m saying you look like you need to relax,” he says smoothly, easing you with a soft smile. “I’ll get him ready for bed, ice cream and all.”

Like it was meant to be or something, you yawn. Your back arches, arms stretching over your head, neck turning away from Wooyoung. “I don’t feel like walking all the way up there.”

“I’ll carry you?” You turn back to see him grinning, playful, eyes flaring amusement. You can see his collarbones beneath the collar of his shirt, fully untucked now, his pants that were once pressed now wrinkled and littered with tiny balls of fuzz. “I’ll even start running the water for you. Use the new soaps I got you, see if you like ‘em.”

“I’ll wait until Kyungie goes to bed–”

“I’ll put him to bed,” Wooyoung cuts you off. “And by put him to bed I mean I’m gonna close the door and let him fall asleep on his own, like a big boy.”

You roll your eyes, smile growing, “Are you gonna drill that into me forever?”

“I’m not drilling anything else into you,” he responds, too quick for him not to have been waiting to use that response. 

Your face falls, lips bending into a frown. “I know,” you respond, a bite to the words, sounding like that’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. “Why not?”

“Because we tried it the other way already,” he slides down on the floor, head lolling backward, mimicking the way you’re sitting. “That didn’t work, so I’m using my thirty days wisely. No sex until you have a ring on your finger again.”

“They’re upstairs, on my dresser,” you say, jutting your chin towards the staircase. “Go get them, I’ll put them on.”

He side-eyes you. “You know what I mean, asshole.”

“Oh, now I’m the asshole?” You sit up a little. “You’re the one who won’t fuck your wife.”

“Because you’re only my wife legally,” he mumbles, voice quieter. “I want to have sex when you want your husband, because I’m your husband, not because you just want to have sex. Does that make sense? I think I confused myself.”

Your palms find the floor on either side of you, pushing upward until your legs are under you before you stand up straight. Tilting your head, ignoring his rambling, you ask, “Has your lawyer called you?”

“No,” his brows furrow as he lifts his head. “Why?”

You shrug, “Just wondering.”

He was right, you did need to fucking relax.

The smell of lavender and chamomile fills your bathroom, steam fogging the white gold-lined mirror on your marble vanity, turning the once crystal-clear glass shower door cloudy. Bubbles surround you, popping every few seconds, swirling with each slight movement of your body. Your neck stretches over the back end, eyes closed, body submerged beneath the water that teeters on the edge of hot. You’ve already drained some water and refilled the white, ceramic tub once, not wanting to escape serenity just yet. It’s been too long since you’ve properly relaxed without worrying about work, your husband, your son, anything. Everything. 

You were content on staying here, letting your body soak in the water, in the sweet smells, for as long as you possibly could. The first your eyes have opened is when you hear a hand on the door handle, pushing it open quickly and then closing it even quicker. Wooyoung walks in, eyes on you as soon as you’re in view, silently crossing the bathroom in a few long strides before crouching beside the tub. 

“Care to join?” You ask, head turned toward him. 

He cracks a smile, head dropping down to huff a laugh under his breath. It’s empty, like he had something on his mind. His hands reach over the side of the tub, bronzy fingers playing in the warm water, “Do you like the soaps? The salts?”

You nod, “Mhm, ‘m very relaxed.”

“Good,” he nods, lips scrunching to one side. He had more to say.

“What’s up?” You ask, searching his face for the answer before he had a chance to verbalize it.

He takes a beat. “We haven’t talked about it,” he finally says, eyes meeting yours, pupils big and dilated. “Us. At all, not once during these past few weeks.”

“Okay,” you say assuredly, then readjust. Sitting up a little taller, using your hands pushing against the bottom of the tub, the water covers just above the apex of your breasts. “Let’s talk.”

He swallows, eyes dancing across your face, your shoulders, like he’s fighting for his life to not let his gaze drop past your collarbones. You smile. 

“Where’s your head at?” he asks, forcing his gaze upward. “Do you wanna do this?”

You lean over the side, throwing an arm along the edge of the tub, laying your cheek on your forearm to look up at him. “Do I wanna do what?”

He shifts, sitting on the floor, legs bent, criss-crossed. He keeps his face close to yours, just slightly below you. “Be with me,” he wonders, “have another baby with me.”

You crack another smile, one so genuine it takes over your entire face. “I’ve wanted to the whole time, dummy.”

“Don’t toy with me, jagi,” his lips fall to a line. “Be serious. Are we doing this or are we not?”

You sigh. “You know,” you start, twisting your legs, the fluid noise of water sloshing following. “That day you brought me the soaps, the gummies, things I didn’t ask for but you know I needed…” Wooyoung nods, eyes twinkling with optimism. “It reminded me what kind of man you are. Who you used to be, before your priority became work–”

“I told you–”

“Let me finish,” you cut him off, eyes stern. He nods. “Even though you weren’t here, I know it was for Kyung, for me. I knew it, and even though I divorced you–the first time–I hoped you’d fight it. That you’d fix everything as soon as I brought up divorce, admit your wrongs and fucking grovel or something.” He frowns, but you don’t give him a second to respond. “I’ve missed this part of you. I’ve missed the part that’s present, that supports me as a partner and not just a checkbook. That’s what matters to me.” His frown deepens, eyes glazing over. You lift your head, reaching for humor, “Crybaby.”

“You’re the crybaby,” he counters, but a smile tugs at his lips. He wipes two thumbs under his eyes as he says, “Don’t forget we have to send two kids to college.”

You bark out a laugh, a genuine laugh. “We’ll figure it out. I just want— all I’ve ever wanted is you here, Wooyoung.”

He leans forward, pressing a short, sweet kiss to your lips. Keeping himself close, barely a millimeter between your faces, he whispers, “I will be.”

“Good,” your smile grows, “because I called my lawyer like, two days ago. I think we need your signature before the judge can sign off on the motion.”

He snaps his head backward, eyes wide. “Are you serious?”

“Why would I lie?” You laugh a little, leaning your chin on your forearm again. “Are you really that surprised? I thought I’ve been making it pretty clear.”

He shakes his head ever so slightly in disbelief as he stutters, “I don’t– I guess, I don’t know. You’re pregnant.”

Your eyes droop in a scowl, “Are you about to call me horny and hormonal?”

His lips tighten, trapping his smile, “No.”

You laugh again, leaning back into the tub, letting your head lay against the ceramic. “I love you, idiot. I don’t want to do this without you, you’re my best friend.”

“You’re my best friend, too,” his bottom lip bends over in a pout, eyes glossy all over again. “I’m sorry for everything I put you through, baby. I swear to God I never had bad intentions with any of it.”

“I know,” you mumble, reaching your hand over the side of the tub. He tangles his fingers with yours, squeezing your wet palm, reveling in the silence, the shifting, the togetherness both of you fucking ached for. You smile, eyes twinkling with the idea, “Do you wanna go get my rings?”

He beams, muttering an excited yes before he pushes himself upward. It takes him all of seven seconds to run out to your bedroom, connected to your bathroom, to grab your wedding band and your engagement ring from the ceramic box atop your dresser and to run back into the bathroom. The movement was so Kyungmin you couldn’t help but laugh when he knelt beside the tub again. 

Wordlessly, you hold your left hand out, and he slides your wedding band on your ring finger first, a silver ring encrusted with diamonds. Then your engagement ring, a simple silver band, at the center a recently polished diamond set with four prongs. You hold it up to the dim light of the bathroom, admiring how the diamonds catch the amber hue, sparkling, shining, immediately regretting ever taking them off. 

“You really did a good job,” your head tilts in admiration. “I’ve missed this fuckin’ rock.”

He snorts, lifting himself up and over you, planting both hands on either side of the tub as his upper half stretches over the side, pressing his lips against yours. Your other hand leaves the water to cup his cheek, savoring the taste of him, home. Knowing it was real this time, knowing you were choosing this. Him, all over again. You deepen the kiss as the feeling blooms, pushing your tongue between his lips, using your hand on his cheek to bring him closer. 

“I love you,” he says into your mouth, voice cushioned by the remnants of relief.

You moan the softest sound of pleasure into his parted lips, “I love you.”

You feel him smile against you, one mischievous and him. “Should we consummate our renewed marital status?”

Keeping your hand on his cheek, you push him away a singular inch, popping a brow. “You really have to ask me that?”

“Mm, I know,” he leans forward to kiss you again, his outstretched arm leaving the ceramic to hold your cheek, running a thumb over your skin. “All that blood pumping down there, I’ve been so mean, denying my pregnant wife.”

His hand falls to your neck and you gasp, legs twitching in the water. You don’t have it in you to respond, already lost in the way his touch feels, just a few months without him should be nothing compared to the year you spent apart. But you weren’t pregnant then.

“Come to bed,” he purrs against your lips. “As much as I’d love to fuck my wife in the bath, I’d rather spread your legs as wide as I can get ‘em.”

The idea makes you snort, “How flexible do you think I am?”

He plants another kiss to your lips before responding. “Doesn’t matter. I’m stretching you out anyway, aren’t I?”

You pull the plug from the drain with a roll of your eyes before Wooyoung helps you up by your arms, then grabs the white towel that sat folded on the toilet lid. Holding it open for you, he wraps you in white cotton until your back is pressed to his chest, his arms snug around your front, fingers still holding the towel closed. 

Leaning into him, his scent, his warmth, even if you’re already standing in your home, it’s never felt more like it. Quietly, you mutter, “I missed you.”

He presses a kiss to the side of your head instead of responding. You tilt it to the side, looking up at him, his beautiful, sculpted face you’ve spent fifteen years loving. Clear skin, soft and smooth, whiskey eyes, the freckle perfectly centered beneath one of them, there’s a wrench in your gut and it hurts. You love him so much it aches.

Wordlessly, you press your lips against his, and it relives the ache ever so slightly. Til’ death do you part, he’s yours, he always has been, he always will be. And like he’s confirming it, his tongue slips into your mouth, his hands leaving the towel to turn you by your hips, the cotton falling to the floor. Your arms reach over his shoulders, back arching into him, your bare front pressing into his clothed one, you didn’t care.

“Easy,” he mumbles into your mouth. “Let me get you on the bed first.”

You respond by kissing him harder. Your mouths move melodically, your fingers finding the soft, ebony locks on his head, his palms leaving your hips just to start undoing the buttons on his shirt. You help him push it off his shoulders, panting into his mouth as your fingers dart for the button at the hem of his slacks, fingers sliding the zipper down. 

He grunts when your palm meets his clothed length. “Jagi,” he grits out, chest heaving. “Baby, fuck– wait.”

“No,” you huff, kissing him again. Fingers meeting the elastic of his briefs, you push them over his hips, gripping the base of his length and tugging.

He groans, breaking away just to suck in a harsh breath, his abdomen flexing.

“Fuck me.” You’re staring up at him, and you’re positive you look crazed; eyes wide, unblinking, lips swollen and wet, chest heaving.

He doesn’t seem to care. He pulls your wrist from his cock, bending at his knees to scoop his other arm under your legs, lifting you in one quick motion. You stop yourself from yelping, arms swinging around his neck, holding on for dear fucking life as he opens the door with the hand that was supposed to be cradling your back.

So strong, the realization shoots straight to your throbbing clit. He lays you down on the bed, wet body soaking the comforter, neither of you care as he gets his pants, his briefs off his body, crawling over you. He keeps his voice quiet, barely above a whisper as he says, “What do you want?”

“You,” you quip, breathless. “Inside, inside, please.”

He studies you for a millisecond before he moves. Palms splayed over the underside of your thighs, he pushes them upward as he leans down between them, tongue poking out to lick a stripe through your folds. Hissing quietly, you watch his mouth bend, angled cheeks sucking in before he parts his lips in the smallest O to land a glob of spit on your core.

Grip loosening on your thighs, he sits on his calves, taking one hand to the base of his cock, smearing the spit along your folds. You release a breath, eyes screwing shut, fingers curling into the sheets, reminding yourself you need to be silent.

“Take a breath,” his voice is damn near silent, too. You obey, sucking in deep as he prods at your entrance, releasing the breath as he pushes in, agonizingly slow. You open your eyes to see his face twisted up in pleasure, jaw slack, muscles flexed, veins protruding in his sculpted arms.

You curse under your breath and he opens his eyes. “So good,” he whispers, sheathing himself fully, cock buried to the hilt. “Nothing fuckin’ feels like you.”

Your head tilts a singular degree, “You have much to compare me to?”

His lips flatten, eyes following suit. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

Your lips bend in a smirk, legs spreading further. “Move.”

“Be nice,” he mutters, cock twitching inside you. “Been awhile.”

“Gonna cum if I’m mean?”

He bends at the hips, elbows landing on either side of your head, arms close enough that you might as well be scooped beneath his elbows. His forehead pressed against yours, he whispers, “Gonna cum if you’re nice, too.”

“Then what do I do?”

“Lay there,” he smiles, then presses a short kiss to your lips. “Let me take care of you.”

When he starts moving, it takes everything in you not to moan. Not to squeal, not to squeak, not to cry. Jaw falling open, brows furrowing, your fingers fly to his arms, nails cutting crescents into his skin. 

“Oh my god,” his voice is low, quiet and ragged, his head dipping into the pocket of your shoulder. Your legs wrap around him, the smallest whimper escaping your mouth, in chorus to the slick sounds of his cock sliding in and out. Instead of the loud slapping of skin against skin, it was raw, a quiet, creamy noise filling the quiet room, each grind of his hips to the same beat as your breathing. 

It’s almost worse than being fucked mercilessly. Caged beneath him, body a livewire, arching and jerking just for every movement to be stopped, forced into stillness, it’s almost worse. You’re panting, hips fucking back into him, toes curling over the expanse of his back, the pit of pleasure in the base of your gut spreads heat through each limb.

“Woo,” you pant, “I need, I need– oh my god.”

His lips find your neck, but he doesn’t pick up speed. Cock curving upward, massaging against your walls, his tongue spreads flat against the curve of your neck, lips closing over the stripe of spit. Mumbling, so quiet it’s a murmur, he says, “You need me.”

“Yes,” you whisper, eyes screwing shut, fingers clawing into his arms harder. Your body tightens, muscles strained, but he rocks into you with the same rhythm, unbothered by your body clenching. “I need you– I, I love you.”

His teeth find your skin, a rumble of a groan melting into your neck. “I love you.”

“No,” you urge through a hiss. “I love you.”

His hips rock a little harsher, a twitch in his rhythm. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” you’re whimpering, “I love you, I love you.”

He picks up speed, cock still brushing the spot on the inside of your walls. “Say you’re mine, jagi, ‘h my god.”

Your hips tilt, breath turning ragged, voice rising in pitch as your pleasure blooms. “I’m y-yours, I’m yours. Always will be.”

He lifts his head to press his lips against yours messily, tongue slipping into your mouth, hips grinding into you, pulling you closer to the line he drew for you. The one he made for you, because you’ve always been his, and he’ll always be yours.

His hands cup your cheeks, pulling his lips from yours, hips never once breaking their rhythm. His cheeks cave again, lips pursing, and you open your mouth in waiting. A droplet of spit dribbles slowly from his mouth and you catch it on your tongue, never once taking your eyes off of him, unblinking, letting him see that you’d take anything he gave. He watches your throat bob as you swallow.

“Mine.” He sounds on the brink, his voice a quiet, hardened thing. “Cum for me.”

It doesn’t take long, not when your feet hit the mattress, pushing your hips upward, allowing him to hit that spot in perfect rhythm. After a week or two of denial, you’ve been on the cusp since he’d walked inside the bathroom.

“So perfect,” he says. It’s primal, how he stares at you coming undone around his cock, jaw pried open and eyebrows knitted together. “I fucking love you.”

You can feel him twitching as you clench around the width of him, nails slicing into his skin, hips jerking wildlessly under his own. He keeps you pinned as he reaches down, picking up a thigh to push it upward, knees spreading to fuck into you harder without slapping his hips against you. 

You whimper, overstimulation looming, pleasure unending and all-consuming. “Wooyoung– Wooyoung.”

“Close,” he grinds his teeth. “Fuck, need to fill you up, jagi. Need to fill you up.”

His words make your hips rise to meet his, small squeaks escaping as his other hand finds your hair, knuckles finding purchase in your roots. Not hard, but enough, claim in another form; he needed it, needed you, in any way he could get you. Any way he could have you. 

“Cum,” you cry. “Please, please please. I need it.”

“Say you love me.”

“I love you!” Your fingers find the duvet beneath you, curling into the plush, nerves beyond fried. Rambling, your voice a winded whine, “I love you, please fill me up, cum inside me until I’m leaking, made me feel so good, Woo. Need it inside.”

He moans, and it’s small, but it’s verbal. Cock twitching, hips losing rhythm, his abdomen clenches as he finally unravels, painting your insides with ropes of white-hot heavy warmth. You sigh in relief, in the warmth, the comfort of his release like an embrace. 

He lets go of your thigh to reach for your cheek, pressing his lips against yours. Whispering into each other’s mouths, mumbles of I love you and thank you and I missed you, over and over and over, all between kisses and tastes of each other’s tongues.

It feels like forever that you stay like that, far past his cock softening inside you, his release leaking out, ignoring the tickle as it races for the duvet beneath. You didn’t care, not with his lips on yours, your hands in his hair, his scent in your nose, the world could end around you and you still wouldn’t fucking care. Like stitching time back together, seam by seam, when you’re both wearing flushed cheeks and swollen lips, you finally part with lazy grins and cheeks aching from giggling. He kisses down your chest, two of his palms splayed over your tummy, peppering a hundred, a thousand kisses to the skin circling your belly-button.

“I’m so excited,” he says, like he’d been waiting to say it. “I can’t wait to see you bursting, belly all full ‘n round. I can’t wait to have another.”

He lays his head on your stomach, body stretched out on the bed. Your hand finds his hair, scratching at his scalp as an easy sigh falls from your lips. “Me too,” you smile, and you mean it. “And I’m excited for you to be here. Normalcy.” 

His fingers dance over your skin, featherlight, his cheek pressed to your tummy. “Can I move back in tomorrow?”

A quiet laugh tumbles off your lips. “We’ll take it slow, we have an eight year old who notices things, Wooyoung.”

“He literally wants me to live here,” his eyes slide upward. “He’ll be happy.”

“We’ll talk to him,” you nod in confirmation, fingers continuing to scratch in his hair.

He purrs, the vibration tickling your belly, making you twitch. “I love you,” he says softly, a pause before he adds, “wifey.”

Your grin spreads at the nickname. “I love you too.”

masterlist

[w00yngie]

title: return on investment

pairing: frat boy!song mingi x f!reader

genre: non idol!au, college!au, fluff, kind of a slow burn with a very happy ending, mutual pining!!!!!!!! he falls first and hard, she too falls hard and fast :)))

word count: 25k, deadass.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

warnings: acquaintances to lovers, economics jumpscare, reader is a tutor and mingi is your not so average frat dude that does an athletic scholarship, eventual smut, praise kink!!!!!, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), dry humping, lowk breeding kink mingi freaky, switch!mingi & reader, softdom!mingi, spanking (?), possessive!mingi, cockwarming (a lil!) / lmk if i missed any!

author's note: guys i finally locked in!!! this story has been such a bitch to write but i'm finally happy with it lmfaoaoo. the only reason why it took so long its cause i deadass remembered all my econ concepts from my first year at uni and i got flashbacks sooooo. if its inaccurate don't come for me. also ngl mingi ain't even that much of a fratboy, he is but he's a little nerd!! you'll see - i hope you guys enjoy!!

permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @liightlizard @minguxxs + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))

You hear him before you see him. The sound is impossible to miss—someone’s torn the universe open and stuffed it with a live wire; the room buzzes, vibrates, orbits around a single axis. Song Mingi is that axis, black hair messy from hands that are never his own, smile bright enough to reflect off the bottles lining the kitchen counter. It’s the kind of house party that exists more as myth than reality until you’re standing in the middle of it, your feet sticky with last weekend’s spilled vodka, your ears ringing from bass and laughter and the high-pitched screeching of people who either want to be him or be with him.

You don’t want either. In fact, you don’t really want to be here, but your roommate insisted—a rare Friday night without any assignments due—and now she’s traded you for a swarm of sweaty college kids in the living room. You’re left clutching a warm can of seltzer, surveying the landscape like a tourist on safari: here, the drunken pack of freshman girls hunched over a phone for a group selfie; there, the duo of varsity rowers relishing about morning practice, each trying to outdo the other’s misery; everywhere, the constant, inescapable gravitational pull of him.

He’s posted at the middle of it all, a bottle of expensive liquor in one hand and a girl in the other. She’s whispering in his ear, probably promising him things people only say out loud when their inhibitions have been loosened by alcohol and the hope of being remembered. It’s a practised scene, and you can tell from the way Mingi’s eyes slide from her face to the crowd and back again that he’s already bored. He’s hunting, you realise, and the realisation leaves you faintly amused.

You’ve had classes with him before and found his intellect sharper than his reputation suggests, but he’s never bothered to speak to you directly, which is fine. You prefer it that way. You know exactly what happens to girls who mistake the man for the myth.

But tonight, for whatever reason, he looks right at you.

You don’t realise it at first; you’re half-listening to the rowers behind you, half-calculating the economic impact of the university’s new housing policy for the department group chat. There’s a lull in the noise, a momentary vacuum, and then his gaze lands like a physical thing. It takes you off guard—the pure concentration of it, as if he’s seeing you in high-definition while the rest of the house blurs into obscurity. His attention is so heavy, so absolute, that even the girl on his arm notices and goes rigid with annoyance.

Your instinct is to look away. But for some reason, you don’t. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in your veins, maybe it’s the novelty of being the focal point in a room devoted to him, but you meet his eyes and hold them. Mingi’s mouth quirks, not into a smirk but something strange and speculative, and when he finally looks away, it feels less like defeat and more like a challenge accepted.

Within the hour, he maneuvers his way to your side of the party, the girl from before abandoned to the mercy of the crowd. He props an elbow on the countertop, leans in so dangerously close, “Didn’t think this was your scene.”

You arch an eyebrow, the response easy. “It really isn’t, my roommate dragged me out.”

He grins, all teeth and promise. “I have to thank her for bringing such a pretty girl to my party.”

You roll your eyes, annoyed but not surprised. The rest of the party moves around you in a kind of staccato blur. A game of beer pong erupts into a shouting match in the dining room; someone’s Bluetooth speaker dies mid-chorus, leading to a plaintive chorus of off-key singing. People bump into you, apologise, and then linger a beat longer than necessary to see if you’re still talking to Mingi. He doesn’t seem to notice, but you do. He asks what you’re studying, and you answer. You ask him what he wants to do after graduation, and he shrugs, but the gesture is so carefree yet careful.

“If this soccer thing doesn’t work out, I’ll intern at some start-up company,” he explained. “Or I’ll sell feet pics.”

You cringe at the image. The girl from before stalks past, her glare sharp enough to sever arteries. Mingi watches her go but his gaze falls right back to you. 

By midnight, the house dissolves into its constituent parts: the freshies, the clean-up crew, the drunk casualties. Mingi drifts away, then back again—at your side, across the kitchen, never quite out of reach. He offers you a drink at one point; you decline, still nursing the same seltzer. It doesn’t stop him. He keeps finding his way back, as if every conversation eventually leads to you.

You leave before he does. There’s no dramatic goodbye, no exchanged numbers or whispered invitations—just a passing nod, the kind that could mean anything or nothing at all. You don’t look back. By the time you’re out the door (your roommate long gone with a lacrosse player, leaving you to fend for yourself), the night already feels like it’s starting to blur at the edges. Whatever that was, if it was anything, you let it go.

Inside, though, Mingi doesn’t. He’s still watching the spot where you disappeared, gaze fixed a beat too long, like he’s waiting for you to reappear. The noise of the party swells back in around him, but he doesn’t move—drink untouched, conversation abandoned mid-thread.

A shoulder bumps into his.

“What’s with that look on your face?”

Mingi blinks, like he’s just been pulled back into the room. “What look?”

Yunho huffs a quiet laugh. “That look. You had heart eyes bro don't even play.”

Mingi scoffs, quick, automatic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His friend raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, following his line of sight to the now-empty doorway before glancing back at him. Mingi exhales through his nose, finally tearing his gaze away, dragging a hand over the back of his neck like he can shake it off. He should've definitely asked for your number.

══════════════════

Monday morning arrives with the kind of headache that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with three consecutive all-nighters. Professor Kim’s Advanced Macroeconomic Theory is notoriously brutal, and you’ve spent the weekend buried under supply-demand graphs and inflation models. As you slide into your usual seat, you’re already mentally rehearsing your presentation on fiscal policy scheduled for next week.

Which is why, when Mingi strolls through the lecture hall doors at 8:58 AM, you momentarily forget how to function.

He shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his class, or at least it hasn’t been for the past six weeks. You’ve never seen him in this lecture hall before, despite it being nearly midterm. Yet there he is, wearing dark jeans and a simple white button down that somehow looks so irritatingly good on his frame, scanning the room with casual confidence. His eyes find yours immediately, as if it’s magnetised. The smile that follows is different from Friday night’s—smaller, more genuine, it was like he wanted to see you. Before you can process what’s happening, he’s navigating the row of seats, stepping over backpacks and laptops until he’s standing right next to you.

“This seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to the empty chair beside you.

You blink, thrown by the unexpected proximity. “I didn’t know you were in this class.”

“I’m full of surprises.” He drops into the seat, arranging his long legs in the cramped space. “So, how’d you find the party?”

The question is casual, but there’s something careful in his tone, as if your answer matters more than he’s letting on. You notice he pulled out a notebook AND a pen, this was definitely exceeding your expectations of him. Then again, what did you expect anyway? 

“It was... something,” you reply, deliberately vague. “Though I’m surprised to see you conscious before noon, much less in an 8 AM econ lecture.”

He laughs, the sound low enough not to draw attention but warm enough to settle somewhere beneath your ribs. “What, you think I spend all my mornings hungover?”

“The evidence suggested a statistical probability.”

“Maybe I’m an outlier.” He leans closer, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne—smelling faintly of citrus and cedarwood. “Or I just needed the right motivation to show up.”

Thankfully Professor Kim walks in and begins the lecture, leaving you no time to tweak out over whatever the fuck he said. You expect Mingi to lose interest, to pull out his phone, or to doze off, like half the class inevitably does when the professor starts droning on about aggregate demand curves. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes focused on the presentation slides. Ten minutes in, when he introduces a particularly convoluted model, Mingi shifts slightly toward you.

“Hey,” he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “If the Phillips curve is supposed to show the inverse relationship between unemployment and inflation, why is he saying it’s unstable in the long run?”

The question catches you off guard—not because it’s difficult, but because it’s astute. “Because expectations adjust,” you whisper back. “Workers anticipate inflation and demand higher wages, which shifts the curve.”

He nods, considering this. “So it’s only reliable as a short-term predictor?”

“Yeah, you got it.”

Throughout the next hour, Mingi continues to ask questions—thoughtful ones that reveal he’s not just listening but actively processing. Each time he leans in, you feel a strange flutter of... something. Not just attraction, though that’s undeniably there, but surprise. Mingi, the guy who supposedly once turned the campus fountain into a bubble bath during finals week, is engaging with macroeconomic theory like it genuinely interests him.

“The Solow model assumes diminishing returns to capital,” he murmurs at one point, frowning slightly. “Doesn’t that contradict what we’re seeing with tech companies? They seem to get increasing returns the bigger they get.”

You stare at him for a beat too long. “That’s... actually a good point. The model was developed before the rise of digital economies. Network effects change the math.”

A smile spreads across his face, pleased and slightly smug, as if he’s won something. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

The comment should be annoying, but delivered in a whisper while the professor drones on about growth rates, it makes you roll your eyes and bite back a smile instead. By the time class ends, you’ve had to recalibrate your entire perception of him. He’s taken actual notes. He’s asked intelligent questions. He’s made connections between concepts that some of your study group members still struggle with. It’s disorienting, like discovering your cat can suddenly understand what you’re saying. As you pack up your laptop, he lingers, watching you with that same intense focus from the party.

“So,” he says, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I think I deserve some credit for showing up today. Maybe we could grab coffee, and you could explain more about that Phillips curve thing?”

The invitation is transparent—he doesn’t need your help understanding the Phillips curve—but there’s something almost endearing about his attempt.

“Is that your go-to line?” you ask, unable to keep the amusement from your voice. “Pretend to need academic help to get a date?”

“Only with the smart ones.” His grins unapologetically. “Is it working?”

You laugh, shaking your head as you stand. “No. Nice try, though.”

Rather than looking discouraged, his eyes light up with what can only be described as delighted challenge. He falls into step beside you as you head for the door.

“You know what this means, right?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Now I have to come up with something better for Wednesday’s class.”

“Wednesday’s class?” You stop at the doorway, genuinely surprised. “You’re coming back?”

Mingi looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Of course. I paid for this course, didn’t I? Besides,” he adds, his smile turning slightly wicked, “I’ve got a new reason to show up now.”

Before you can protest this presumptuous declaration, he’s backing away, walking backward down the hallway with that infuriating confidence.

“See you Wednesday,” he calls. “Maybe by then you’ll have reconsidered that coffee date.”

You watch him go, torn between irritation and a reluctant spark of interest. The worst part is, you already know you’ll be thinking about him for the rest of the day, analysing his questions, his attention, the way he looked at you like you were a particularly fascinating economic theory he was determined to master. Despite your best intentions, you’re already wondering what he’ll come up with on Wednesday.

══════════════════

True to his word, Mingi shows up to every single class over the next few weeks. Not just Macroeconomic Theory, but your shared Political Science workshop and even the optional Economics Department lectures that most students skip. Each time, he gravitates toward you like you’re the north to his south, sliding into adjacent seats with casual determination.

At first, you’re suspicious—waiting for the punchline, the reveal that this is some elaborate bet or another frat bro prank. The punchline never comes. Instead, he brings you coffee and snacks, asks thoughtful questions about the material, and occasionally makes you laugh with whispered commentary when Professor Kim goes on one of his tangents about his glory days at the Federal Reserve.

You find yourself slipping into a strange routine. He’ll wait for you after class, walking you to your next destination while debating fiscal multipliers or the ethics of quantitative easing. Sometimes his soccer teammates call out to him across the quad, and you watch the transformation—how he shifts into the boisterous, larger-than-life Mingi they expect, before settling back into the more thoughtful version when he returns to your side.

It’s Tuesday afternoon when everything shifts. The library is packed with students cramming for midterms, the air thick with desperation and the smell of overpriced coffee. You’ve claimed your usual table by the economics stacks when Mingi drops into the chair across from you, his expression unusually serious.

“I need to ask you something,” he says, no preamble, no charming smile.

You glance up from your notes, pen hovering. “Okay?”

He runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “I need a tutor.”

You stare at him, waiting for the joke. When it doesn’t come, you set down your pen. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve been getting the material just fine.”

“No, I haven’t.” His voice is lower now, stripped of its usual confidence. “I’ve been barely keeping up. The midterm’s in two weeks, and I’m—“ He stops, jaw tightening. “I need to pass this class with at least a B+.”

“You’ve been answering questions in class,” you counter, confused by this sudden admission. “You made that connection about endogenous growth theory that even Professor Kim said was insightful.”

Mingi’s laugh is hollow. “Yeah, after spending six hours the night before trying to understand it. Look—“ He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not as smart as you think I am. Not naturally, anyway. I have to work twice as hard just to keep up.”

You study him, searching for signs of insincerity. “Why are you telling me this now? And why me?”

“You’re the smartest person in this class. I–I don’t know who else to ask…” His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable. “I think you might actually help me without making me feel stupid about it.”

Something doesn’t add up. You’ve seen him joke around with teaching assistants, charm his way into deadline extensions. “I don’t understand–”

Mingi glances around, then lowers his voice. “I’m on an athletic scholarship. Full ride, but I have to maintain a 3.5 GPA, or I lose it.” He runs a hand over his face. “My advisor warned me last week. This class is dragging everything down. If I don’t get at least a B+ on this midterm, I’m screwed.”

The admission hangs between you, reshaping your understanding of him. You didn’t expect him to be so honest, let alone be honest with you. You knew you were more than capable of tutoring him, you’ve tutored multiple students and peers in past. A part of you wants to deny him— to encourage him to try the other capable tutors in this course but something about his vulnerability made you hold back on that decision. 

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” you ask, softer now.

“Because it’s embarrassing?” He gives a self-deprecating smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The dumb jock stereotype exists for a reason. I’ve been fighting it since high school.” He hesitates. “And maybe I wanted you to think I was smart enough to keep up with you.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. This is a different man than the one who struts across campus with practised nonchalance, who holds court at parties with effortless charm. This Mingi looks tired and worried, seeing him like this made your heart sink a little.

“I can’t afford a professional tutor,” he continues when you don’t immediately respond. “Most of my scholarship money goes to housing and food. I can pay you a tutor fee if you have one. Please.”

You should say no. You have your own exams to study for, your own GPA to maintain. But there’s something about seeing him like this—defences down, pride set aside—that makes it difficult.

“If I do this,” you say slowly, “there would be conditions.”

Hope flickers across his face. “Name them.”

“First, you pay me. My normal rate is sixty per session but considering your situation, I can lower the cost—this is work, not charity.” You hold up a finger. “Second, you actually put in the effort. No skipping sessions, no half-assing the practice problems I give you.” Another finger joins the first. “And third, no messing around. This isn’t a backdoor way to—I don’t know—whatever it is you might be thinking.”

“You think I’m using this as an excuse to hit on you?” For the first time, genuine amusement crosses his face. “That would be a pretty elaborate scheme, even for me.”

“I’m serious, Mingi.”

“So am I.” The smile fades. “I need this scholarship. Please.”

You sigh, already second-guessing yourself. “Fine. We start tomorrow. Six pm, here. Bring your textbook, all your notes, and any practice exams you can get your hands on.”

The relief that washes over his face is so raw it makes you uncomfortable. He reaches across the table, squeezing your hand briefly. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you warn. “I’m not going to go easy on you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He stands, some of his usual confidence returning.

As you watch him walk away, shoulders straight but tension visible in the line of his neck, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just crossed some invisible boundary. This isn’t just coffee after class or witty banter during lectures. This is entangling yourself in his future, taking partial responsibility for his success or failure. You turn back to your notes, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting to the look in his eyes when he admitted he needed help. The vulnerability there was real—you’re almost certain of it. Almost. As you pack up your things hours later, doubt creeps in. You’ve seen how charming he can be, how easily he navigates social situations to get what he wants. What if this is just another performance? What if you’re falling for an act designed to manipulate you into doing his academic heavy lifting? The questions follow you all the way home, lingering as you prepare for bed. You set an alarm for tomorrow and added a reminder to prepare some preliminary materials for your first tutoring session. Despite your misgivings, you’re already mapping out a study plan, identifying the concepts he seemed to struggle with most.

Surely, this little arrangement you have going on won’t be a mistake… Right?

══════════════════

You arrive at the library fifteen minutes early to set up, spreading out practice problems and your own colour-coded notes across the table. You’ve been overthinking this all day—wondering if he’ll even show up, if this whole vulnerable confession was just an elaborate ploy to get you to do his work for him. The clock hits 6:00 PM. Then 6:05. Your suspicions start to crystallise into something like disappointment.

At 6:07, Mingi rushes through the library doors, slightly out of breath. He’s carrying a tray with two coffees and a small paper bag that smells suspiciously of baked goods.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, sliding into the chair across from you. “The line at the café was insane.”

You eye the coffee sceptically. “Is this a bribe?”

He laughs, quieter than his usual boisterous sound, mindful of the library setting. “No, it’s a thank you. Here, try this.” He slides one cup toward you. “Oh, and I got those almond croissants you mentioned the other day. Though honestly, I might have also gotten them because I’m starving.”

The fact that he remembered your drink order is surprising enough. That he recalled an offhand comment you made about pastries during a five-minute conversation between classes is something else entirely.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, but you accept the cup anyway, the warmth seeping into your palms.

“S’alright, I wanted to.” He pulls out his textbook and a surprisingly organised binder of notes. “So, where do we start?”

For the next hour, you walk him through the fundamental concepts of various economic principles, expecting his attention to wander, waiting for the inevitable check of his phone or glance at the clock. It never comes. Instead, Mingi leans forward, brow furrowed in concentration, asking questions that reveal he’s been paying closer attention than you gave him credit for. 

“So if technological progress is exogenous in this model,” he questions, tapping his pencil against the page, “then what actually drives long-term growth? Since capital accumulation alone has diminishing returns, right?”

“Exactly.” You can’t help the surprise in your voice. “That’s one of the model’s main limitations. It doesn’t explain where technological progress comes from.”

He nods, making a note in the margin of his textbook. “Which is why we need endogenous growth theory.”

You stare at him. “You’ve been reading ahead.”

A hint of his usual smirk appears. “Don’t sound so shocked. I told you I’m locked in for our sessions.”

“Reading ahead is a bit more than just locking in,” you point out.

“Maybe I’m trying to impress my tutor.” He winks, but there’s something different about his teasing now—less performative.

You roll your eyes, fighting back a smile. “Focus, Mingi.”

“I am focused,” he protests, gesturing to his detailed notes. “See? I’m being a model student.”

“A model student wouldn’t have waited until three weeks before midterms to ask for help,” you counter, but there’s no bite to your words.

“True.” He stretches, his arm brushing against yours as he reaches for another practice problem. The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through you. “But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company on a Wednesday evening.”

You ignore the flutter in your stomach. “Haha. Very funny.”

As the session progresses, you find yourself relaxing into a rhythm with him. He’s attentive, asking thoughtful questions and working through problems with determined concentration. When he gets stuck on a particularly tricky concept about crowding-out effects, he doesn’t get frustrated—instead, he listens carefully to your explanation, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your cheeks warm.

“Like this?” he asks after reworking the problem, sliding his paper toward you.

Your fingers brush as you take it, and neither of you pulls away immediately. You study his work, acutely aware of how close he’s sitting, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the drinks between you.

“That’s...actually perfect,” you admit, surprised by the clarity of his work. “You got it exactly right.”

His smile is different from any you’ve seen before—not the practiced charm he flashes at parties or the competitive grin on the soccer field. It’s smaller, more genuine, edged with relief.

“I have a good teacher,” he says simply.

You clear your throat, suddenly finding the library too warm. “Let’s try another one.”

Two hours fly by faster than you expected. Mingi works through problem after problem, his understanding visibly improving with each explanation. When he successfully graphs a complex IS-LM model without assistance, the pride on his face is so unguarded it catches you off guard.

“See? Not just another dumb jock,” he says, but the joke doesn’t land quite right. You hear the insecurity beneath it.

“I never thought you were dumb,” you say carefully. “Unmotivated, maybe. But not dumb.”

He looks up from his notes, expression surprisingly vulnerable. “Most people don’t make that distinction.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he agrees, studying your face. “You’re definitely not.”

The moment stretches between you, taut with something unspoken. You’re the first to break eye contact, shuffling papers with unnecessary focus.

“It’s getting late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “We should probably wrap up.”

Mingi begins gathering his things, but his movements are unhurried. “Same time Friday?”

You hesitate. You hadn’t planned on making this a regular thing, certainly not multiple times a week. But the progress he’s made in just one session is undeniable.

“You don’t have practice on Friday?”

“Not until seven.” He zips up his backpack. “Unless you’re busy.”

“No, I’m not busy.” The admission comes too quickly. “Friday works.”

As you pack up, he helps you organize your notes, handling the color-coded pages with careful precision. His fingers accidentally brush against yours again as he hands you a folder, and this time the contact lingers for a beat longer than necessary.

“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he says quietly, shouldering his bag. “Most people would have.”

The sincerity in his voice makes something twist in your chest. “You didn’t give me a reason to.”

You walk together to the library exit, the night air cool against your skin after hours in the stuffy study area. Campus is quiet, most students either out for the evening or locked away studying. Mingi pauses under a lamppost, its glow casting shadows across his features.

“I can walk you home,” he offers. “It’s dark.”

“I live in the opposite direction from you,” you point out. “It’s fine, I’ve been walking home alone for two years now.”

He grins. “Just being a gentleman.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Ouch.” He clutches his chest in mock pain. “You wound me.”

You laugh at his dramatic act. “Goodnight, Mingi.”

“Goodnight, Miss tutor.” He takes a step backward, still facing you. “Dream of fiscal multipliers.”

“That’s your homework, not mine,” you call after him.

His laughter carries on the night air as he walks away, and you stand watching him for a moment longer than necessary. It’s only when you’re halfway home that you realize you’re still smiling, the warmth in your chest having nothing to do with the coffee you shared.

You tell yourself it’s just satisfaction from a productive tutoring session. Nothing more. Certainly not the way his eyes crinkled when he finally understood a difficult concept, or how his hand felt when it accidentally brushed yours, or the genuine gratitude in his voice when he thanked you. Definitely not that.

As you unlock your apartment door, you find yourself already planning Friday’s session in your head, thinking of ways to explain concepts he struggled with, wondering if he’ll bring coffee again, if he’ll sit as close, if he’ll look at you with that same focused intensity. It’s purely academic help, you insist on yourself. Professional concern for a student who needs help. Even if you don’t quite believe it.

Your roommate is waiting when you get home, practically vibrating with curiosity. “So? How was tutoring Mingi? Did he make any moves?”

“It was just tutoring,” you say, setting down your bag. “He’s actually pretty smart, thought nothing was going on upstairs to be honest.”

Her lips thin out into a straight line, looking disappointed by your lack of gossip. “That’s it? No flirting? No rizz? Nothing?”

You think about the moment he challenged your explanation, the genuine satisfaction in his eyes when he understood a complex concept.

“Nope, nothing at all,” you deadpanned at your roommate.

As you lie in bed reviewing your day, you remember the intensity in his eyes when he thanked you. The way his smile changed when he was actually engaged with the material. The surprising depth of his questions. You wonder what other assumptions you’ve made about Song Mingi might be wrong.

══════════════════

The following Friday, you’re setting up the study materials when Mingi arrives five minutes early this time. You almost burst out in laughter seeing the way he was trying to balance two cups of coffee in his hand.

“Okay once you're done clowning me, you have to try this vanilla latte. It's really good.” He sets them down carefully on your side of the table.

You eye the offerings suspiciously. “Are you sure this isn’t supposed to be a bribe?”

“Hm? For what?” He looks genuinely confused as he takes his seat.

“I don’t know. Extra help? A better grade?” You push the coffee slightly away. “I can’t accept this, you’ve already bought me so much stuff the past couple of days.”

Mingi laughs, the sound unexpectedly warm in the sterile study room. “It’s just coffee, don’t sweat it. Consider it a thank you for the last session. I actually understood what Professor Kim was talking about yesterday.”

You hesitate before reluctantly pulling the coffee back. “Fine.”

His smiles. “If I wanted to bribe you, I’d need to do better than a coffee, doll. Consider it fuel for our session today.”

The nickname catches you off guard, heat rising unexpectedly to your cheeks. Mingi’s eyes flicker briefly to the colour spreading across your face, but he simply slides the coffee closer without comment. You accept the cup, fingers brushing his momentarily. It’s still hot, and exactly how you like it. The gesture is small but thoughtful in a way you wouldn’t have expected.

“Thank you,” you hummed, setting up your materials. “Don’t think this earns you any leniency on today’s session.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, already pulling out his completed homework—all of it done correctly, you note with surprise.

Over the next few sessions, a pattern emerges. Mingi has become significantly more punctual as your sessions progress, always bringing you coffee (though sometimes he switches it up with tea when you mention a sore throat), and always has his work prepared. The coffee becomes such a fixture that on the one day he arrives without it, you actually feel slightly disappointed.

“No liquid bribery today?” you quipped, trying to keep your tone light.

His face falls. “The line was insane, and I didn’t want to be late.” He runs a hand through his hair, slightly panicked. “I can go get some if you—“

“I was joking,” you interject quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll make it up to you next week,” he shrugs, as if that helps explains everything.

The following week, he brings not only coffee but also a small paper bag containing a blueberry muffin from your favourite bakery across town.

“Wha— Mingi, this is…” you marvelled, eyeing the bakery logo. “That place is twenty minutes from campus.”

He shrugs, focusing intently on opening his textbook. “My morning run took me that way.”

“Your morning run took you four kilometres out of your way?”

He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. “I’m an athlete. You could say that I’ve got excellent... endurance. A little detour doesn’t bother me.”

You roll your eyes, you want to press the issue but are distracted when he pulls out the work you assigned him the previous session. He’s not only completed all the assigned questions but has tackled the bonus problems you included as an afterthought. His work shows an elegant approach to the material that makes you pause.

“This solution,” you point to his work on comparative advantage models, “where did you learn this method?”

“Oh,” he looks almost embarrassed. “I was reading this paper by Stiglitz that mentioned a similar approach, so I adapted it. Is it wrong?”

You blink at him. “You’re reading Joseph Stiglitz for fun?”

“God no, not for fun,” he says, looking uncomfortable with your scrutiny. “I was trying to understand why the models in class weren’t clicking for me. Sometimes I need to see the bigger picture.”

“You know,” you say slowly, “you might actually enjoy Behavioural Economics next semester. It challenges a lot of the classical assumptions.”

His eyes light up. “That’s the unit with Professor Ryu, right? I’ve been wanting to take that.”

“Wait, seriously?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That class is notoriously difficult.”

“So am I, apparently,” he scoffed, but there’s no bite to it. “At least according to my tutor.”

The sessions continue, and with each one, your perception of Mingi shifts. When discussing economic inequality, he brings up points about systemic barriers that show he’s thought deeply about privilege—including his own. During a session on game theory, he demonstrates an intuitive understanding of strategic thinking that surpasses most of your other students that you tutor.

“It’s like poker,” he explains when you comment on his grasp of Nash equilibrium. “Everyone thinks it’s about the cards, but it’s really about understanding people’s patterns and incentives.”

“You play?” you ask, imagining loud frat house games with red cups and shouting.

“My grandfather taught me,” he mumbled, something softer in his expression. “He was an economics professor, actually.”

The revelation hangs between you, another piece of the puzzle that is Song Mingi. You want to ask more but sense his reluctance to elaborate. Maybe another day, you hope.

══════════════════

As your midterm approaches, your sessions intensify. You meet three times in the final week, once in the campus coffee shop when the library study rooms are all booked. Mingi still insists on paying for your drinks and snacks.

“Okay hear me out, I’m applying economic concepts for when I order us coffee,” he announced before you can comment. “You’re providing a service, I’m compensating you beyond our agreed terms because the value exceeds the price.”

“That sounds suspiciously like something I said two sessions ago,” you point out.

“I told you, I pay attention,” he corrected, and something in his tone makes you look up from your notes.

He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher—something more complex than what he shows the rest of the world. It makes your heart beat uncontrollably in your chest in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine. The night before the exam, you receive a text from him. Multiple actually.

The night before the exam, you receive a text from him: If monopolistic competition exhibits zero economic profit in the long run, why do firms bother entering the market?

You smile despite yourself and type back: Non-monetary incentives. Brand loyalty, market positioning, the satisfaction of seeing their competitors throw a bitch fit.

His response comes immediately: So spite is an economic motivator? They just like me fr.

You laugh out loud, drawing a curious look from your roommate.

“Is that Mingi?” she asks, eyebrows raised suggestively. “Just a last-minute economics question,” you answered, trying to sound casual.

“Mhmm,” she hums skeptically. “Smiling over econ, right…”

You ignore her, sending Mingi one final message: Get some sleep. Economics rewards the well-rested. His reply makes your heart do something complicated.

I will, doll. Thank you. 

On exam day, you spot him across the lecture hall. He catches your eye and gives you a small nod—no flashy smile, no charming wink, just quiet determination. For some reason, this affects you more than any of his rehearsed moves ever did that you observed in the past.

When Professor Kim calls time, you watch him hand in his exam with confidence in his posture that wasn’t there six weeks ago. As students file out, he makes his way to your seat.

“How’d it go?” you asked as you slowly gathered your things.

“I think,” he hums, “that Professor Kim might actually have to give me an A.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you scoff at his delusion, a small feeling of pride swells in your chest.

“Never,” he agrees solemnly, then ruins it with a grin. “I did crush that section on market failures. Turns out my experience with failed relationships was finally useful for something.”

You roll your eyes, slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. “And here I thought we’d made progress beyond that frat boy persona of yours.”

“Old habits,” he nudges you with his elbow, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom. “Seriously, thank you. I couldn’t have done this without your help.”

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of how his stride has adjusted to match yours. It’s these small, unconscious accommodations that you find yourself noticing more and more lately.

“So,” he clears his throat, breaking the quiet as you cross the quad, “My frat is hosting our end-of-semester bash this weekend.” His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. “Saturday night, starting around nine.”

You keep your eyes focused ahead. “I’m sure half the campus is already going and planning their outfits.”

“Probably,” he agrees with a light laugh. “But I, uh, was wondering if you wanted to come?”

When you don’t immediately respond, he adds quickly, “As a thank you for helping me ace this exam. I mean, I’m pretty sure I aced it.”

You slow your pace, finally turning to look at him properly. “You’re inviting me to your party? Me?” The disbelief in your voice is unmistakable.

“Is that so hard to believe?” His expression is somewhere between amused and offended.

“Mingi, I don’t do parties.” You adjust your bag strap, uncomfortable with how this conversation is veering into territory you’ve carefully avoided. “You of all people should know that.”

He frowns, “Don’t you want to celebrate? You helped me pull off a minor academic miracle here.”

“I think you’re exaggerating your previous academic despair,” you hesitated. “Besides, I don’t think I’d fit in with your crowd.”

“My crowd?” He scoffs. “You’ve never even met my friends.”

“I’ve seen enough from a distance, I know enough.” You start walking again, faster now. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’ll pass.”

His long strides enable him to keep up with your pace. “Come on, just for an hour. You can leave if you hate it.”

“Mingi—” 

“One hour, doll” he repeats. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll personally ensure no one spills anything on you and tries to bother you the whole night.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I know my crowd.” His smile is softer now, more genuine. “Please? I want you to see that there’s more to us—to me—than the stereotypes.”

You study his face, searching for the manipulation, But all you see is sincerity and hope. 

“Fine,” you groaned, not quite believing the words coming out of your mouth. “One hour. That’s it. I’m leaving the second someone tries to get me to play beer pong.”

His face lights up. “Deal. I’ll text you the details.”

As you part ways, you wonder what exactly you’ve just agreed to. You’ve spent nearly three years avoiding exactly this kind of social situation. Loud music, drunk students, the messy intersection of alcohol and attraction. Yet somehow, when Mingi asked, your carefully constructed refusal crumbled. 

Your roommate squeals when you tell her your weekend plans.

“You’re going to the end of sem party? With Mingi?” She clutches your arm dramatically. “This is basically getting an invite from the MET gala!”

“It’s just a thank you for the tutoring,” you explain, trying to sound casual as you sort through your closet. “I’m only staying for an hour.”

“Sure,” she drew out the word with obvious disbelief. “That’s why you’re trying on your fourth outfit.”

You drop the dress you’ve been holding up. “I just want to look appropriate.”

“Appropriate for what? Or is it for making mister Song Mingi realise what he’s been missing?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“For not looking like I’m trying too hard,” you correct her, settling on dark jeans and a simple top that manages to be both casual and flattering. “This isn’t a date.”

“Whatever you say.” She flops back on your bed. “By the way, you should know that Mingi doesn’t personally invite just anyone to these things. Especially not someone he’s been staring at across classrooms for months.”

“He hasn’t been—“ you begin, but stop when you remember all those times you felt his gaze on you in the library and the lecture hall.

“Oh honey,” your roommate giggles, “for someone so smart, you are so stupid.”

══════════════════

On the night of the party, you and your closet have declared war. What began as a gentle sifting through hangers two hours ago has devolved into a cyclone of black crop tops, frayed denim, and shoes you forgot you owned. Your roommate’s voice, pitch-perfect for the college musical she never auditioned for, belts a running commentary from the bed: “You look hot in that, but hotter in the other,” and, later, “If you don’t wear that skirt, I will.” For every option you parade, she offers a one-woman panel’s worth of praise, criticism, and lewd suggestions, but when you finally emerge from the pile in a black singlet and the aforementioned denim mini, she sits up so abruptly the bedsprings squeal.

“Yes,” she hollered, pointing both index fingers at you as if firing a pair of pistols, “That’s the one! Fuck you look good.”

You tug at the hem, self-conscious. The skirt is so short your thighs feel like they might spontaneously combust with the friction of walking, and the top is cut low enough to leave no room . The outfit is, by college standards, conservative. By your standards, the edge of a personal revolution. You pace, boots heavy and loud. You layer on a thrifted blazer, then throw it off, then drape it over one arm for insurance. You sit on the edge of the bed, stand again, cross the room to the mirror, assess your reflection from the most punishing angles. You practice smiling in a way that suggests effortless fun rather than “I’m in hell and wish I were home in the comfort of my bed.”

Your roommate paints your lips red, then wipes it off with a tissue, then reapplies in a shade closer to your natural colour.

“There,” she beams, “like you rolled out of bed looking like this.”

You try not to look at the clock, but it’s everywhere—on your phone, on the microwave, in the stomp of boots hitting the tile as you stalk the kitchenette looking for a cup to fill, then abandon. Your hands shake when you pour yourself a glass of water. You spill some on your wrist, wipe it away, then notice your palms are already slicked with sweat.

“Stop fidgeting.” Your roommate’s tone is gentle, but there’s a note of command you recognize from years of friendship.

She takes your hands in hers, holds them steady, and says, “You’re just going to a party. With a boy. Not even a date.” She squeezes your fingers and grins. “You should be more excited! There might be hook-ups, or at least drama. At the very least, there’ll be free food.”

You want to laugh, but your stomach is a tight fist. You’ve spent the last three years avoiding exactly this scenario—rowdy house parties, the unwritten social contract of collegiate fun, the humiliation of standing awkwardly in a crowd of people who all seem to know exactly how to move, talk, flirt. You’re not anti-social, not truly, but your preferred company is to be alone with your trusted circle of friends. The thought of plunging into a frat house, even for an hour, makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

And yet. There’s Mingi, the wild card. He’s never made you feel like a project, or an obligation, or a checkmark on a list of collegiate experiences. When he smiles at you, it isn’t the rehearsed, camera-ready grin you see him use on campus tour guides or in group photos. It’s something softer, quieter, reserved for moments when he thinks no one else is watching. You remember the way he said “please” when he invited you, the way his eyes didn’t leave yours even after you tried to look away. He made it sound like this party wasn’t just another party, but an extension of the strange, fragile thing growing between the two of you. You’re not sure you trust it, but you want, for once, to try.

You stall in the doorway, hand poised on the knob, running through possible disasters. Your roommate senses your hesitation, materializing at your side with a pep talk worthy of a sports movie.

“Remember,” she says softly, “you’re not obligated to like it. Just survive the hour, and if you hate it, I’ll be waiting with post-party ramen and a debrief.” She presses the blazer into your hands and shoves you gently toward the elevator.

You take the stairs instead, one flight, then another, legs trembling with anticipation. The campus is alive with spring: the air is thick with the cloying perfume of flowering trees, the distant thump of bass from speakers, the migration of students in clusters, each group moving toward its own temporary destiny. You keep your head down, hoping to avoid unnecessary conversation. You  find yourself counting steps, then counting heartbeats, and by the time you reach the block of houses that host the Greek life ecosystem, you’ve rehearsed twenty variations of how to say hello without sounding desperate. You pass a group of girls in matching pastel tank tops, their laughter ricocheting like pinballs off the sidewalk. You duck your head, wondering if they recognize you from Intro to Business Law, but they breeze past without a second glance. In the darkness, your reflection glances back at you from every window: a stranger, confident and composed, even as anxiety gnaws at your insides.

You approach the frat house, the lights already blazing, music leaking from every crack in the siding. In the front yard, a couple makes out with the desperation of people who know they’ll regret it in the morning. A boy in a toga sprints past, pursued by a girl wielding a pool noodle. The porch is a wall of bodies, some familiar, most not, and for a moment you consider walking straight past, circling the block, and returning to your dorm in defeat.

You almost do. You’re on the verge of turning around when your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a text from Mingi: Where are you? I’ll come out front.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. Before you can reply, the front door swings open and there he is—Mingi, framed in the doorway like some ridiculous cologne advertisement. He’s wearing dark jeans and a simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that make your mouth go inexplicably dry. His hair is styled differently tonight, swept back to reveal his forehead in a way that transforms his entire face.

He scans the yard, eyes skipping past you once before snapping back, recognition dawning. When his gaze lands on you properly, something shifts in his expression—his confident smile faltering, eyes widening slightly.

“Oh,” he says, just that one syllable hanging in the air between you. He clears his throat. “I—you—“ He stops again, seemingly unable to form a complete sentence.

You feel heat creeping up your neck, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin. “Is something wrong?” you ask, tugging self-consciously at your skirt.

The question seems to snap him out of his daze. His trademark smile returns, but there’s something different about it—something genuine that settles in your chest in a way you don’t quite name.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he finally blurts out. “You just look... different.” He takes a step closer. “Good different I mean– Like really good different.”

You duck your head, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s just a skirt and top. Nothing special.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, and the sincerity in his voice makes your blush deepen. His confidence seems to grow in direct proportion to your bashfulness, and he extends his hand to you. “Come on. Let me introduce you to some people who aren’t total disasters.”

You place your hand in his, telling yourself it’s just to be polite, but the warmth of his palm against yours sends a current up your arm. He guides you through the crowded doorway, his body naturally creating a buffer between you and the jostling partygoers. You’re fully aware of his proximity, the cologne he’s wearing, the way his hand occasionally brushes against the small of your back as he leads you deeper into the house.

The living room has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, furniture pushed against walls to make space. The kitchen beyond is crowded with people mixing drinks and laughing over red cups. Mingi steers you away from both, toward a slightly quieter corner where a group of guys are engaged in animated conversation.

“Hey,” he calls out, and seven heads turn in perfect unison. “This is my econ tutor, the one I’ve been telling you guys about.”

You’re suddenly faced with an assembly of some of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen in one place, each with a distinctive style that somehow works in harmony with the others. They regard you with varying expressions of curiosity and amusement.

“So you’re the one who got our Mingi to actually open a textbook,” a guy with sharp features and an even sharper smile walks up to the both of you. “I’m Hongjoong. House president.”

“Co-president,” Mingi corrects, rolling his eyes.

“Pfft whatever dude,” Hongjoong waves dismissively. “This is Seonghwa—“ he gestures to a tall, elegant-looking man who offers you a polite nod, “—Yunho—“ a friendly giant with dark hair raises his cup in greeting, “—Yeosang—“ a guy with delicate features and knowing eyes gives you a small smile, “—San—“ an energetic man with dimples deep enough to drown in waves enthusiastically, “—Wooyoung—“ a mischievous-looking guy with red hair winks at you, “—and Jongho.” The last member, compact but powerful-looking, gives you a respectful bow.

“Nice to finally meet the person who’s been occupying all our friend’s time,” Wooyoung whistles.

“And thoughts,” San adds, earning him a death glare from Mingi.

You shift uncomfortably under their collective gaze, but their smiles are genuine, lacking the judgment you expected from Mingi’s inner circle.

“Don’t believe anything they tell you about me,” Mingi says, leaning close enough that you can feel his breath on your ear. “Especially Wooyoung. He’s a pathological liar.”

“Nuh uh, that’s just not true!” Wooyoung protests. “I only lie on Tuesdays and public holidays.”

The group erupts in laughter, and to your surprise, you find yourself laughing along. There’s an easy camaraderie among them that feels inclusive rather than exclusive, drawing you in despite your reservations.

“Mingi says you’re top of the econ department,” Seonghwa mentioned, his voice calm and measured. “That’s impressive.”

Before you can respond, Yunho chimes in: “He wouldn’t shut up about how you explained game theory using poker analogies. Said it was ‘revolutionary’ or some shit.”

“I did not say revolutionary,” Mingi denies, but the pink tinging his ears tells a different story.

“You did,” Jongho confirms flatly. “Multiple times. Over breakfast.”

You glance at Mingi, oddly touched that he’s spoken about your tutoring sessions to his friends. “It wasn’t anything special. He’s actually really quick to grasp concepts once they’re explained properly.”

Mingi grins at the group. “See? I told you guys I’m not just a pretty face.” He sticks his tongue out at them, more out of habit than real offence.

“No one said you were just a pretty face,” Hongjoong replies, tone even. “We said you’re a pretty face that just so happened to be a little bit stupid.”

Mingi scoffs under his breath, but he’s smiling anyway. “That’s not better.”

“It’s accurate,” Hongjoong snorted.

The banter continues, and you find yourself relaxing into it, surprised by how comfortable you feel among them. They’re not what you expected—not the stereotypical frat boys you’ve spent years avoiding. They’re smart, funny, and surprisingly thoughtful in their questions to you.

After a while, Mingi leans in again. “How are you feeling? Do you want a drink? Or maybe some air?”

You nod gratefully. “Fresh air would be nice.”

He places his hand lightly on your back again, guiding you toward a set of French doors that lead to a back deck. The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome respite from the heat of bodies packed inside. The deck is strung with fairy lights that cast a soft glow over the wooden boards, and surprisingly, it’s empty except for a few potted plants.

“The secret balcony,” Mingi explains, seeing your questioning look. “Off-limits to regular party guests. One of the perks of being house leadership.”

“So I’m not a regular party guest?” you raise an eyebrow, leaning against the railing.

“Of course not, you are far from it,” he mutters under his breath that makes your breath falter.

You both fall silent for a moment, the bass from inside creating a muted heartbeat beneath your conversation. You can’t quite decide what’s more surprising—that you’re here like this, or that it’s with Mingi of all people. You settle on not thinking too hard about either.

“Your friends are nice,” you finally break the silence. “Not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” He leans next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

“Loud, obnoxious frat bros talking about the typical one night stand and having the collective IQ of a houseplant.”

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh, they can be loud and obnoxious too. But they’re also the best people I know.”

He pauses, looking out over the dimly-lit yard. “We all have our reasons for being here, you know? Hongjoong’s parents expected him to join their firm right after high school, but he wanted to go to college first. Seonghwa supports his younger siblings through school. Jongho’s on a full academic scholarship.”

You turn to look at him, surprised by this glimpse behind the fraternity façade. “And you? What’s your reason?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice has lost its usual confident edge. “My grandfather, the one I told you about, He was the first person in our family to go to college. He wanted to see me graduate more than anything.” His fingers tap against the railing, a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “He passed away during my senior year of high school.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” you say softly.

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but...” He went on. “I promised him I’d make the most of college. Not just academically, but the whole experience. The brotherhood, the leadership opportunities, all of it.”

“Is that why you’re so determined to keep your GPA up? For your scholarship?”

“Partly,” he admits. “Mainly because I don’t want to just be the party guy, you know? I want people to realise I’m capable and somewhat intelligent.” 

Without really thinking about it, you close the remaining distance just enough for your hand to brush his. It’s tentative at first, almost accidental. When he doesn’t pull away, your fingers curl lightly around his. Mingi stills. For someone who’s always in motion, always talking, always performing, the sudden quiet in him is striking. His gaze drops to where your hands are joined, like he’s trying to process it, like this—you—is the one thing he never quite learned how to anticipate.

“It’s not a bad thing,” you say softly, your thumb brushing once, unconsciously, over his knuckles. “Wanting people to see more than what meets the eye.”

His hand shifts in yours, not pulling away—settling. Grounding.

“I know what it’s like,” you add, quieter now. “Being reduced to something simple. Convenient. Even if it’s… impressive on paper.”

That earns a small huff of laughter from him, but malice behind it. Just something tired, something honest.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess we’re both victims of stereotyping huh.”

You smile faintly. “I guess we are.”

And then it hits you. The warmth. The contact. The fact that your hand is still wrapped around his. Your fingers twitch slightly, awareness crashing in all at once, and you pull back—just a little too quickly to be entirely casual. The absence of him is immediate, the cool night air slipping into the space where his warmth had been. Mingi notices. Of course he does. Something flickers across his face, it was subtle but you saw it there momentarily. A small dip at the corner of his mouth, a hesitation like he almost reaches for you again before stopping himself. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by something lighter, easier, like he’s filing the moment away instead of questioning it. He clears his throat, glancing out in the distance. 

“Careful,” he teases. “Keep doing that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

You scoff, grateful for the shift. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Tragic,” he sighs dramatically. “Here I was, planning our future.”

“In your dreams.”

“Bold of you to assume you’re not already there.”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh escapes you anyway, the tension dissolving into something softer, more familiar. For a moment, you simply stand together in comfortable silence, watching the party unfold below. The fairy lights cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the angles you’ve studied during countless tutoring sessions.

“Can I ask you something?” he says finally, turning to face you.

“You just did.”

He rolls his eyes. “Why did you agree to tutor me? I asked some other people in our class and they said you turned them down.”

You consider the question, surprised by his awareness of your other rejections. “Honestly? You seemed desperate. Plus you actually pay me on time.”

“Ouch,” he winces, but his smile remains. “At least you’re honest.”

“Why did you ask me?” you counter. “There are plenty of other tutors on campus.”

He looks down at his hands, suddenly serious. “You were the only one who looked at me and didn’t see what everyone else saw.”

“And what’s that?”

“You know the usual stereotypes,” He shrugs, a gesture that carries more weight than it should. “Everyone thinks they know me because they hear all about my reputation.”

Something in his tone makes you pause, recognizing a sentiment that echoes your own experience. “I get that,” you say quietly. “People are like that with me too. They think what we are at face value is what we truly are.”

“Isn’t it?” His question is gentle, not challenging.

You shake your head. “No more than you’re just a frat boy who happens to look good in a button-down.”

He raises an eyebrow as his eyes meet yours, “You think I look good?”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” you scold as you bite back a smile. “Your ego is big enough already.”

“There you go again, humbling me.” His gaze softens as he steps closer. “I like that about you. You never let me get away with anything.”

You tilt your head, crossing your arms loosely. “Yeah? I know there’s a lot of things you like about me.”

His eyebrows lift, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you continue, feigning nonchalance. “My intelligence. My work ethic. My incredible patience for difficult students—”

“—woah, woah,” he cuts in, laughing. “When did this turn into a self-evaluation?”

“You asked,” you shoot back. “I’m just being thorough.”

He steps closer, close enough now that the teasing edge softens into something warmer. “You missed a few.”

“Oh?” you raise an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”

“The way you pretend not to care,” he responded quietly. “But still show up anyway.”

Your breath catches slightly, but you recover. “That’s not a quality. That’s just… basic decency.”

“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. “And the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

You freeze. “I do not—”

“You do,” 

You swallow, your voice coming out just above a whisper. “What does that look mean, according to you?”

He studies you for a moment, like he’s debating whether to say it.

“Like you’re trying really hard not to like me.”

Your heart stumbles over itself.

“That’s a bold assumption,” you manage.

“Is it, doll?” 

There’s barely any space left between you now. You’re aware of everything. How close he was to you, the warmth radiating off him, the way his gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. Your own breath feels too loud in your chest.

“This feels like you’re fishing for compliments again,” you say, but your voice lacks its usual bite.

“Maybe,” he admits easily. “Only from you, though.”

The honesty of it lands heavier than it should. Your fingers twitch at your side, like they remember what it felt like to hold his hand. Like they want to again.

“Mingi—” you start, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re going to say.

He leans in slightly. Not rushed. Not cocky. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Your eyes flick down to his lips for just a second—long enough for him to notice—and that’s all it takes. The air shifts, something unspoken settling between you as you both lean in, slow and almost hesitant—

“Yo! Mingi!”

The moment shatters. You both jerk back slightly as the deck door swings open. Wooyoung steps out, slightly breathless, eyes flicking between the two of you with immediate recognition—and absolutely zero subtlety.

“Oh shit,” he says, smirking. “Am I interrupting something?”

“What do you think?,” Mingi says flatly, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Tragic,” his red haired friend replies, not looking sorry in the slightest. “Hongjoong’s looking for you. Something about the DJ setup dying and you being ‘useless but still required.’”

Mingi closes his eyes briefly, exhaling. “Of course he is.”

Wooyoung gaze shifts back to you, smile softening. “Hey, you’re staying, right? It’s just getting good.”

You hesitate. And Mingi notices.

His attention snaps back to you, something apologetic in his expression. “I—give me ten minutes? I’ll come find you.”

You glance toward the house, the noise, the crowd, the overwhelming swirl of everything you’ve been holding at bay all night. Then back at him. At the almost-kiss still lingering in the space between you. By the way your chest feels too full, too tight, like you don’t quite know what to do with everything you’re suddenly feeling.

“I think…” you start, then pause, shaking your head slightly. “I should probably head out.”

His expression drops, just a fraction. “Already?”

“I stayed longer than I planned,” you say, offering a small smile. “I have an early morning.”

It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he nods slowly, stepping back just enough to give you space—even if he doesn’t seem to want t

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks for coming. I can walk you–”

“No need, I can see myself out,” you reply softly. “Thanks for inviting me, I had a really good time.” 

There’s a beat. Something unfinished is hanging between you.

“Get home safe,” he adds, quieter now.

“I will.”

You turn before you can overthink it. Before you can look at him again and change your mind and make your way back through the house. The music feels louder now, the lights harsher, the press of bodies more suffocating than before. By the time you step outside into the cool night air, your head is spinning. Not from the party. From him. From the way he looked at you like that. You exhale slowly, starting down the path back to your dorm, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.

Your key turns in the lock with a sharp click that echoes through the empty hallway. The walk back to your dorm passed in a blur. Your mind replaying those moments on the deck over and over, his face so close to yours, the almost-kiss that’s now branded into your memory as a question mark.

Your roommate looks up from her laptop, eyes widening when she sees you. “You’re back early! I thought—“ She pauses, taking in your expression. “What happened?”

You drop your bag and collapse onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I think I just made a huge mistake.”

“What did he do? Babe I swear if he tried anything—” She’s immediately on alert, sitting up straighter.

“No,” you shake your head, pressing your palms against your eyes. “The opposite. He was... perfect. His friends were really nice, funny too. The party wasn’t terrible. And we almost kissed, and then I—I ran away.”

“You what?” She scrambles off her bed and sits next to you. “Back up. You almost kissed him and then you left?”

“We got interrupted, and then I just... panicked.” You sit up, hugging your knees to your chest. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Your roommate studies your face, her expression softening into something you haven’t seen before—concern mixed with understanding. 

“Holy shit,” she mumbled. “You like him.”

“No,” you protest automatically, then trail off. “Maybe. Shit. I don’t know?” Your voice muffles as you bury your face in your hands. “This is so stupid. I’ve spent years avoiding guys exactly like him.”

“Except he’s not exactly like anyone, is he?” She nudges your shoulder gently. “Not if he’s got you this fucked up.”

You groan. “That’s the problem. He’s supposed to be this shallow frat boy who only cares about parties and hookups, but then he goes and talks about his grandfather and his friends and looks at me like—like—“

“Like what?” she prompts.

“Like I matter,” you cried out, wiping away the tears from your face. “Not just as a tutor or someone to boost his grade. Like he actually enjoys my company.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”

“That’s because I’ve never felt like this before,” you admit, the words coming out in a rush. “I’ve probably ruined it by running away like some character in a bad rom-com.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she says firmly. “You got scared. Shit happens.”

“You don’t understand.” You get up, pacing the small space between your beds. “I had this whole image of him in my head…this whole narrative about who he was and what he wanted. It was so much easier when I could just dismiss him as just some guy. But he’s not, and now I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Maybe you could try, oh I don’t know, talking to him?” Your roommate suggests, her tone gently teasing you as she hands you a tissue.

“And say what? ‘Sorry I ran away when we were about to kiss, I’m just terrified because I might actually like you’?”

“That sounds like a start.”

You collapse back onto your bed with a groan. “I fucked up so bad.”

“Maybe,” she concedes, “but not irreparably.” She picks up your phone from where you dropped it and holds it out to you. “Text him.”

You stare at the phone like it might bite you. “Like now?”

“Yes, now. Before you overthink it even more than you already have.”

Your fingers hover over the screen, hesitant. “What do I even say?”

“The truth,” she says simply. “Or at least part of it.”

You take a deep breath and start typing, deleting, typing again. After what feels like an eternity, you hit send on a simple message: Sorry for leaving so abruptly. Ty for tonight.

The response comes faster than you expected, your phone buzzing in your hand almost immediately: All good. Did u get home safe?

Something in your chest loosens just slightly. He’s still talking to you, at least. You type back: Yea, made it back like 5 mins ago.

Three dots appear, disappear, appear again: Can I call you tomorrow?

Your heart does a strange little flip. “He wants to call me tomorrow,” you tell your roommate, your voice sounding strange even to your own ears.

She grins. “See? Not ruined.”

You type back a quick ‘Sure’ before you can second-guess yourself.

His response is just as quick: Good. Sleep well, doll.

Despite everything, you find yourself smiling at the nickname. Your roommate peers over your shoulder, reading the exchange.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” she says jokingly. “From the looks of it, so does he.”

“This is such a mess,” you sigh, but there’s less despair in it now. “I’m supposed to be the level-headed one. The one who doesn’t get caught up in... whatever this is.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why you need this,” she suggests, returning to her own bed. “When was the last time you did something just because it made you feel good, not because it was the smart, practical choice?”

You don’t have an answer for that. As you lie in bed, sleep eluding you, you replay the night in your head. The way Mingi looked at you on that deck, the warmth of his hand in yours, the honesty in his voice when he talked about wanting to be seen as more than his reputation. You think about how easily you could have stayed, how different the night might have ended if you had just stayed with him.

══════════════════

Morning arrives with harsh sunlight streaming through half-closed blinds and the persistent buzz of your alarm. The day crawls by in a strange haze. You go through the motions—catch up on any missed lecture notes, meet with your friends, grab lunch at the campus café—but everything feels slightly off-kilter. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket, conspicuously silent.

“He said he’d call,” you mutter to yourself during lunch, checking your notifications for the fifth time in an hour.

By mid-afternoon, anxiety has settled into a knot in your stomach. Was leaving the party abruptly really such a dealbreaker? Or worse—was the almost-kiss just another moment for him, easily forgotten once you walked away?

Your roommate finds you hunched over economics papers in your dorm, highlighter poised but motionless over the same paragraph you’ve been staring at for twenty minutes.

“Still nothing?” 

You shake your head, trying to appear more focused on your work than you actually are. “It’s fine. He’s probably busy with frat stuff.”

“He’s nursing a hangover,” she mused, flopping onto her bed. “Those parties don’t exactly end early.”

“Yeah, probably.” You force your attention back to your notes, determined not to care.

The sun begins to set, casting long shadows across your desk. You’ve moved on to grading papers for the professor you TA for, a task that usually requires your full concentration. Tonight, however, each essay blurs into the next as your mind wanders back to the deck, to Mingi’s face inches from yours. At 7:38 PM, your phone finally rings. You nearly knock over your coffee reaching for it, heart leaping into your throat when you see his name on the screen. Taking a deep breath, you answer with what you hope is casual nonchalance.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” His voice comes through warm and slightly hesitant. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, just grading some papers.” You lean back in your chair, trying to ignore how your pulse has quickened. “How was your day?”

“Long,” he admits with a soft laugh. “Had to deal with some post-party clean up that was... not ideal.”

“Sounds rough,” you say, picturing the chaos that must have followed after you left.

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again. “Listen, I was wondering if you’d want to grab some ice cream? There’s this place near the science building that stays open late.”

You glance at your half-finished work, then at the clock. “Now?”

“Yeah, if you’re not too busy. I just...” He hesitates. “I think we should talk. In person.”

Your stomach drops. Those words never precede anything good.

“Oh,” you manage. “Sure. I could use a break anyway.”

“Great.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “Meet you there in twenty?”

“Make it thirty,” you say, already mentally cataloguing what you’re wearing—sweatpants and an oversized university hoodie, not exactly what you’d choose for whatever conversation is coming.

After hanging up, you change quickly into jeans and a sweater that’s slightly more presentable, running a brush through your hair and dabbing on lip balm before you can question why you’re bothering. Your roommate watches with barely concealed amusement.

“Just ice cream, huh?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your keys. “He probably just wants to clear the air so tutoring isn’t awkward.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Sure. That’s definitely it.”

The walk to the ice cream shop takes exactly twelve minutes—not that you’re counting. When you arrive, you spot Mingi immediately, leaning against the wall outside. He straightens when he sees you, his expression brightening in a way that makes your heart stutter.

“Hey,” he greets you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Thanks for coming.”

“For free ice cream? I’d be an idiot if I refused.” You aim for lightness, but your voice comes out slightly strained.

Inside, the shop is nearly empty, just a couple of students hunched over laptops in the corner. Mingi insists on paying despite your protests, and soon you’re seated at a small table by the window, a scoop of chocolate chip melting slowly in your cup. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You focus intently on your ice cream, hyperaware of his presence across from you.

“So uh,” he finally breaks the tension, setting down his spoon. “About last night.”

You look up to find him watching you, his expression more serious than you’ve ever seen it. “What about it?” you ask, playing for time.

He leans forward slightly. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t... misread things.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. “You didn’t,” you admit quietly.

Relief flickers across his face. “Then why did you leave?”

The directness of the question catches you off guard. You consider deflecting, making a joke, but something in his eyes—an earnestness you’re not used to seeing—makes you opt for honesty.

“I got scared,” you say simply.

His brow furrows. “Of me?”

“No.” You shake your head. “No this. Whatever is happening between us.” You gesture vaguely, as if that could dissolve it. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”

“The plan?” he echoes.

“My plan,” you clarify. “Graduate top of my class, get into a top-tier MBA program, no distractions.” You poke at your melting ice cream.

The words come easier than they should, like you’ve said them enough times to believe they’re ironclad. You scoop a fragile curl of choc chip into your mouth, watching it soften instantly, the chill doing nothing to settle the rest of you.

Mingi doesn’t look away. But something shifts in his expression—subtle, unreadable.

“You think this is a distraction,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the shape of the idea. There’s no bitterness in it, just a blunt apprehension that makes you want to fold in on yourself.

The words thud between you, heavier than any textbook you’ve ever carried. You set your spoon down, forced to confront the truth you’ve been working so hard to avoid: it would be much simpler if you could blame him. If the whole thing could be chalked up to a fluke in your otherwise disciplined trajectory: a blip, a party, a night on a deck that would fade with the semester. However, the real distraction is the way your mind keeps circling back to him even when he’s not there, the way your heart does that ridiculous stutter every time you see his name on your screen, the way—sitting here with him now—you feel some distant tectonic plate in your chest begin to shift. You hesitate. Then, because you’ve already started, you let it spill anyway.

“It’s not just that,” you admit. “I never planned on… this happening at all. And I definitely never thought you’d—” You stop yourself, exhaling a short, humourless breath. “Like, someone like me.”

His brow furrows slightly. “Someone like you?”

You gesture faintly, as if the words make sense on their own. “You know. You. Me. I just— I always assumed you wouldn’t go for someone like me. That you wouldn’t even look twice.”

The admission sits between you, heavier than you intended. Mingi leans back slightly, hands folding together, but not in his usual relaxed way. More like he’s trying to steady something. Then he lets out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief.

“I’ve been trying so hard to get you to notice me.” He says, shaking his head once.

You blink. “What?”

He looks at you properly now, like the answer should’ve been obvious all along. “You think I’m out of your league,” he says, almost incredulous. “I thought you were out of mine.”

That makes you go still. Before you can respond, he continues, voice softer now.

“You’re—” He stops, like the word itself isn’t enough. “You’re genuinely one of the most interesting people I’ve met. And you’re not just smart, you’re…” He exhales through his nose, like he hates how obvious it is. “You’re really fucking beautiful. And your brain? That’s honestly the most attractive part of you. I thought people were dramatic when they said intelligence was sexy, man I was so wrong.”

Your breath catches, and you hate that it does.

“I like what we are,” he adds, a little quieter. “The banter, the way you talk back to me, the way you don’t just—” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fold. It’s fun. It’s different. It’s… real.”

The honesty lands clumsily, unpolished in a way that feels impossible to fake. You look down at your ice cream before it fully melts.

“That’s… not what I expected you to say,” you admit.

“Yeah,” he says, a small, self-aware smile tugging at his mouth. “Join the club.”

“I know it’s unfair to judge you based on campus gossip, but...” You take a deep breath. “I’m scared of being just another story people whisper about in bathroom stalls.”

Mingi reaches across the table, his fingers hovering near yours without quite touching. “Can I?” he asks quietly.

You nod, and his warm hand covers yours, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

“Listen to me,” he says, voice low and serious. “I won’t pretend I haven’t made mistakes. I have. But I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.” His eyes hold yours, unwavering.

“How can I know that?” you whisper, voicing the fear that’s been lodged in your chest since the moment on the deck.

“Let me prove it to you,” he says with such conviction that your throat tightens. “Not with words or promises, but with time. With consistency.” His grip on your hand tightens slightly. “I’m not asking you to trust me completely right away. I’m asking for a chance to earn that trust.”

You study his face, searching for any sign of the practiced charm you’ve seen him deploy across campus. All you find is raw sincerity that makes your heart race.

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Let me show you who I really am,” a small, vulnerable smile touches his lips.  “I promise I’ll put all those stupid rumours to rest. No pressure, no expectations.”

“If it doesn’t work out?” The practical part of your brain needs to know there’s an exit strategy.

“Then we go back to being tutor and student, friends if you want,” he says, though something flickers in his eyes that suggests it wouldn’t be that simple for him. “I think we at least owe ourselves the chance to find out.”

You look down at your joined hands, feeling yourself wavering on the precipice of something that terrifies and thrills you in equal measure.

“Okay,” you find yourself saying, the word slipping out before you can overthink it. “I’ll give us a chance.”

The smile that breaks across his face is nothing like his usual confident grin. It’s wider, brighter, almost boyish in its genuine delight.

“Yeah?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.

“Yeah,” you confirm, a small smile forming on your own lips. “But I have conditions.”

He laughs softly, squeezing your hand. “Of course you do. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t have any.”

“We take it slow,” you say firmly. “For now, this is just between us. I’m not ready to tell everyone about us just yet.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees immediately. “What else?”

“If at any point I feel like this is becoming too much—“

“We reassess,” he finishes for you. “I understand.”

You nod, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. “One more thing.”

“Name it.”

“No more surprise coffees during tutoring,” you let out a laugh, you hope that he doesn’t take this rule too seriously. 

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. Mind you, those were gifts from the heart.”

“The heart doesn’t need caffeine to function properly,” you counter.

“Debatable,” he grins, then grows serious again. “I promise to uphold all the boundaries that you have. If at any point you want outs, just say the word and we can call it off.”

There’s something in his voice—a quiet determination—that makes you believe him, despite all your carefully constructed defences.

“So,” he wonders, leaning forward slightly, “now that we’ve established the ground rules... Can I walk you home?”

“That would be nice,” you smile, finishing the last of your now-soupy ice cream.

Outside, the night air is cool against your skin. Your campus is quiet at this hour, most students either at the library or locked in their rooms studying. Mingi walks beside you, close enough that your arms occasionally brush, sending little sparks of awareness through you each time. The conversation falls into a comfortable silence as you walk side by side through the moonlit campus. Your mind races with everything that’s just happened—the confessions, the promises, the beginning of something neither of you had planned. Mingi’s hand occasionally brushes against yours, each contact sending little jolts through your system, but he doesn’t try to hold it. True to his word, he’s letting you set the pace.

“So,” he says as you approach your dormitory, “I was thinking maybe we could get dinner? Whenever you’re free… O-of course.”

The earnestness in his voice makes your heart flutter. “I’d love to.”

You stop at the entrance to your building, turning to face him. The lamplight catches in his dark eyes, making them shine with something that looks suspiciously like hope.

“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly.

His brow furrows slightly. “For what?”

“For being patient and understanding.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling shy. 

A smile curves his lips. “I’m full of surprises.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. A breath where you both stand looking at each other, the air between you charged with possibility. You make a decision, stepping forward before you can overthink it. Rising slightly on your toes, you press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.

“Goodnight, Mingi,” you murmur, pulling back to see his eyes wide with surprise.

“Goodnight,” he coughs out, voice slightly rougher than before.

You turn quickly, swiping your keycard and slipping through the door before you can change your mind. Once inside, you can’t resist glancing back through the glass panel. Mingi stands frozen for a moment, hand raised to the spot where your lips touched his skin. Then, when he thinks you’ve gone, a transformation takes place. The cool, confident frat president dissolves into something entirely different. He pumps his fist in the air, does a little spin, and breaks into what can only be described as a victory dance—all limbs and unbridled joy, like a kid who just got exactly what he wanted for his birthday. He runs his hands through his hair, grinning so wide it must hurt, before composing himself and walking away with an extra bounce in his step. You press your hand to your mouth, stifling a laugh. Something warm blooms in your chest at the sight of him—campus heartbreaker, fraternity president, supposed player—celebrating a simple kiss on the cheek like it’s the greatest achievement of his life.

Maybe there’s more to him than you ever allowed yourself to see.

══════════════════

The following weeks unfold in a series of moments that feel stolen from someone else’s life. Mingi keeps his promise about taking things slow, but he finds other ways to show you he’s serious.

It starts with little things. A sticky note on your economics textbook when you leave it unattended for two minutes in the library: “Study Well!.” A cup of tea waiting for you before an early morning class, with honey already added the way you mentioned you like it once in passing.

Your tutoring sessions continue, but there’s a new undercurrent to them now. You maintain professionalism—mostly—but sometimes his fingers brush yours when you’re explaining a concept, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. Sometimes you catch him watching you with a softness in his eyes that makes your chest ache in the best way.

“Focus,” you scold during one such session, tapping your pencil against his notebook. “Our midterms are in coming up soon.”

“I am focusing,” he protests, eyes never leaving your face. “Just not on economics.”

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. “Looking at me isn’t going to help boost your GPA.”

“If it means looking at the prettiest girl in the room, it’s worth it,” he shrugs and the sincerity in his voice makes heat rise to your cheeks.

Walking with him after your brain numbing study sessions become so integral to your guys’ routine. It feels a little strange at first but when Mingi’s hand tentatively finds yours, all the stress melts away at his touch.

“You know,” he says during one such walk, “keeping you secret is killing me. The guys think I’ve gone celibate or something.”

You elbow him gently. “Your reputation could use the hit.”

“True,” he laughs, squeezing your hand. “For the record, this is the longest I’ve gone without posting on social media in ages.”

Mingi has been careful about keeping your relationship private. No Instagram stories featuring your coffee dates, no posts of your study sessions that sometimes devolve into conversations about everything and nothing. Just the two of you, learning each other in private moments stolen between classes and responsibilities.

One rainy Tuesday, he shows up at your dorm with takeout from your favorite Thai place and a stack of economics flash cards he made himself.

“I figured we could multitask,” he beams, setting up the food on your desk. 

Your roommate, who’s been watching this unfold with barely concealed delight, grabs her jacket. “And that’s my cue to give you two some privacy,” she announces, winking at you on her way out.

Once she’s gone, Mingi turns to you with a sheepish smile. “Too much?”

You shake your head, oddly touched by the gesture. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just not used to anyone doing this for me.”

His expression softens. “Well that's too bad, doll, start getting used to it.”

The study session is productive—mostly. At first, the two of you really do focus, perched shoulder to shoulder with a blanket across your knees, pencils poised as you quiz each other from the stack of flash cards. For a solid twenty minutes, you run through concepts, definitions, and theoretical graphs, congratulating each other with exaggerated fist bumps for every correct answer. Mingi is sharp, more so than you expected, but he keeps getting tripped up on the same three formulas, and each time he stumbles, you make him recite them from memory until he gets it right. By the fourth round, you’re both dissolving into laughter at his increasingly creative mnemonic devices.

Eventually, the flash cards are abandoned in favor of pad thai and mango sticky rice. You eat cross-legged on the floor, passing the container back and forth, chopsticks clacking as the conversation drifts from academics to childhood memories, to music, to the merits of various ramen brands. Mingi tells you a story about getting locked in a janitor’s closet during a fraternity scavenger hunt, and you laugh so hard you nearly spill sweet chili sauce all over your leggings. He grins, watching you with open affection, and you feel your defenses slipping a little more with each shared story, each easy silence.

You mean to get back to studying, really you do, but by the time your plates are empty, you’re both sprawled out on the rug, heads tipped together, trading lazy jokes and favorite movie quotes. The stack of flash cards lies forgotten somewhere behind you. Mingi stretches his arm behind your head, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. You’re acutely aware that you said you wanted to take things slow, but now, in the soft glow of your desk lamp, with rain pattering gently against the window, slow feels less like a rule and more like a suggestion.

At some point, you roll onto your side to face him. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions, and you resist the urge to reach over and smooth it down. He catches the look in your eyes and grins, that same vulnerable curve of mouth you saw outside your dorm, and you realize you’re not even sure what you’re waiting for anymore. The next hour is a blur of tangled limbs, whispered jokes, and the kind of laughter that leaves your ribs aching. You don’t kiss—at least, not on the lips—but you end up with your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tracing idle, feather-light circles on your back as you drift in and out of half-sleep. The textbooks are forgotten, the only thing that matters is the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath and the way it syncs perfectly with yours.

You don’t let him stay the night but you walk him to the door at midnight, both of you lingering in the hallway far longer than necessary.

“Tomorrow again?” he asks, voice low.

“Tomorrow,” you echo, smiling so hard it almost hurts.

You close the door behind him and press your forehead to the wood, equal parts giddy and terrified at how easy this is starting to feel.

That’s how it goes, week after week. Study sessions that turn into late-night conversations, walks that stretch on for hours, endless cups of tea and takeout and inside jokes that no one else would ever find funny. You find yourself looking for him everywhere: in the crowd of the dining hall, in the hush of the library at midnight, in the flicker of lamplight outside your window when you can’t sleep. Every time he appears, it feels like a secret only the two of you share. You start to notice the little ways he tries to care for you. The umbrella he brings when the forecast calls for rain, the pack of your favourite pens he leaves in your backpack before a big test, the playlist he makes for your morning runs, even though he can’t stand three-quarters of your “motivational” music. You tell yourself not to read into any of it, but you do. You’re hopelessly, helplessly reading into every tiny thing.

The night before your economics midterm, you meet up in the library’s quietest corner, both of you vibrating with nerves. He brings snacks and a fresh stack of flash cards, all hand-written in his messy scrawl, and the two of you settle in for a marathon review. For once, you manage to stay on task, quizzing each other with increasing intensity until you’re both exhausted. When the clock chimes one in the morning, you start to pack up, but Mingi hesitates, his hand hovering over the pile of books.

“You’re going to ace it,” he says, voice unexpectedly earnest.

You shake your head, smiling. “Only if you don’t distract me during the exam.”

“That’s going to be impossible,” he laughs, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “I’ll try my best.”

You snort, shouldering your bag. “I sure hope so.”

As you walk him out into the silent quad, he reaches for your hand—not tentative anymore, not asking permission, just doing it. You let him. The campus is empty, the sky ink-black and starless, and it feels like the entire world has narrowed to just the two of you, hands entwined, hearts beating a little too fast. He stops at the steps of your dorm, pulling you in for a hug that lasts a few seconds longer than normal. You memorize the feeling: the way his arms wrap around you, how he smells like detergent and the faintest hint of aftershave, the way his cheek fits perfectly against your temple. He reminds you to get some sleep, even as he lingers like he has no real intention of leaving just yet. You echo the sentiment back to him, a quiet reminder about his final. There’s a brief pause—something unspoken stretching between you—before you part with a soft, almost reluctant goodbye, the kind that feels less like an ending and more like something paused.

══════════════════

The morning of the midterm arrives with an electric tension in the air. You walk into the lecture hall, scanning the rows of nervous students until you spot Mingi. He’s hunched over his notes, frantically reviewing formulas, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. When he sees you, his face brightens momentarily before anxiety clouds his features again.

“Doll, I can’t remember anything,” he whispers as you slide into the seat beside him. “It’s all just... gone.”

You reach over and gently close his textbook. “Hey, breathe. You know this material better than you think.”

“Easy for you to say.” His voice cracks slightly. “What if I blank? What if everything we worked on just disappears the moment I see the test?”

You take his trembling hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Look at me. You’ve put in the work. You understand the concepts. Trust yourself.”

He exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “I just... I can’t mess this up. Not after everything.”

“You won’t,” you say with such conviction that he almost seems to believe you. “Remember what you told me about game theory? It’s not about the cards, it’s about—“

“—understanding the patterns,” he finishes, a small smile forming. “The incentives.”

“Exactly. And you’ve got this. I know you do.”

Professor Kim enters the room, silencing the anxious chatter. As she distributes the exams, Mingi gives your hand one last squeeze before letting go. You mouth “good luck” to him before turning to your own test.

The exam is challenging, even for you. Two hours of intense concentration, complex problems, and theoretical applications that make your brain ache. Occasionally, you glance at Mingi. His brow is furrowed in concentration, pencil moving steadily across the paper. No panic, no hesitation. Just focused determination that fuels your own.

When time is called, you feel drained but satisfied. Mingi looks up from his paper, meeting your eyes across the room with an expression of cautious optimism.

“How’d it go?” you ask as you both file out of the lecture hall.

“I think... I think it went okay,” he says, sounding almost surprised. “That section on monopolistic competition? I nailed it.”

“See? I told you.”

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky just because you were right. Again.”

Three days after the exam, your phone lights up with his name: Grades are posted, lock in.

Your fingers fly across the screen as you log into the portal. There it is: Econ1000 - Final Grade: A+. Not surprising, but satisfying nonetheless. You’re about to text him back when another message comes through: Can we meet? I’m outside your building.

Your heart races as you rush down the stairs. Mingi is pacing outside, face unreadable. When he sees you, he stops, and for a terrible moment, you think he’s failed.

“Mingi? What happened? Are you—“

His face breaks into the widest grin you’ve ever seen. “I got an A, I did it!”

Relief and joy flood through you as he picks you up in a spinning hug that lifts your feet off the ground. “I knew you could do it!” you laugh, arms wrapped around his neck.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says, setting you down but keeping his hands on your waist. 

“Hey give yourself some credit, you did all the work,” you counter, unable to stop smiling. “I just provided occasional guidance—“

“—And motivation, patience, and belief when I had none.” His expression grows serious despite his smile. “Thank you.”

You feel your cheeks warm under his intense gaze. “You’re welcome.”

He takes a deep breath, a flicker of nervousness crossing his features—something you’ve rarely seen from him. “So, I was thinking...” he begins, his hands sliding from your waist but not completely letting go, fingers lightly brushing against yours. “Maybe we could celebrate properly? Tonight?”

“What did you have in mind?” you ask, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest.

“Dinner,” he says simply. Then adds, with uncharacteristic hesitation, “At an actual restaurant with fancy ass menus and shit.” His eyes meet yours, surprisingly earnest. “A date. Just you and me.”

The word “date” hangs between you, weighted with meaning. These weren't the standard study sessions or casual hangouts anymore. He wanted to take you out to dinner.

“A date,” you repeat, testing how the words feel.

“Yes.” He nods, watching your face carefully. “I want to take you somewhere nice. To celebrate, but also because...” He pauses, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just want to treat you to a good meal, feels like the right thing to do.”

You laugh, the tension in your chest dissolving into something warm and bright. “In that case, yes. I’d love to go to dinner with you tonight.”

The smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. “Great! I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Seven works,” you nod, already mentally cataloguing your closet, wondering what constitutes appropriate attire for an official date with Song Mingi.

As if reading your mind, he adds, “Wear something nice. I made reservations at Stellina.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. Stellina is easily the most upscale restaurant near campus—the kind of place parents take their children when they visit, or where professors celebrate tenure. Definitely not somewhere college students typically go for casual dinners.

“Stellina?” you echo. “That’s... wow.”

“Wait, do you not like Stells?” he asks, suddenly uncertain.

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just surprised.”

“Good surprised?”

“Very good surprised.”

He beams, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’ll see you at seven, then.”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of anticipation. You text your roommate the news, which results in her immediately abandoning whatever plans she had to help you prepare. By six o’clock, your room looks like a boutique exploded—clothes strewn across both beds, makeup scattered across the desk, and your roommate critically assessing every option.

“This one,” she declares finally, holding up a simple black dress you bought for a cousin’s birthday last year but haven’t worn since. “Classic, elegant, but still says ‘I’m not trying too hard.’” You slip it on, the silky fabric settling against your skin. It’s more fitted than you remembered, hugging your curves before flaring slightly at the hem. Nothing flashy, but undeniably flattering.

“Perfect,” your roommate nods approvingly. “Now, shoes...”

By 6:55, you’re pacing nervously in front of the mirror. The dress looks good, your hair is cooperating for once, and your roommate has worked minor miracles with minimal makeup. Still, anxiety flutters in your stomach like trapped butterflies.

“What if this changes everything?” you ask, chewing your lip. “What if it’s weird or awkward or—“

“Or what if it’s amazing?” your roommate cuts in, adjusting a strand of your hair. “Stop catastrophizing and let yourself enjoy this. The man is taking you to Stellina, for god’s sake. He’s clearly serious about you.”

Before you can respond, your phone buzzes with a text: I’m outside.

Your roommate practically shoves you toward the door. “Go! And I want all the details when you get back!”

You take one last deep breath, grab your small purse, and head downstairs. The moment you step outside, you spot him immediately standing beside his car, looking almost unrecognizable in a tailored navy suit. His hair is styled away from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. His eyes widen slightly as they take in your appearance, moving from your face to your dress and back again with an appreciation so obvious it makes your skin warm.

“You look...” he starts, then shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “I had a whole line prepared, but now I can’t remember it. You look incredible.”

“So do you,” you manage, taking in how the suit fits his broad shoulders perfectly. “I didn’t know you owned clothes like this.”

“Special occasions only,” he grins, stepping forward to offer you his arm. “Ready?”

The drive to Stellina is short but charged with a new kind of tension—anticipation mixed with awareness. Mingi keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking, and you catch yourself doing the same. When you arrive, he insists on opening your door, offering his hand to help you out of the car with an old-fashioned gallantry that would seem affected from anyone else.

Inside, the restaurant is everything you expected and more. Soft lighting from crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, the gentle clink of expensive silverware. The hostess greets Mingi by name and leads you to a quiet corner table partially secluded by a decorative screen.

“This is...” you begin, looking around at the elegant surroundings.

“Too much?” he blurted out in a panic, studying your face carefully as he pulls out your chair.

You shake your head, settling into your seat. “No, it’s beautiful. I’m just not used to... all this.”

“Neither am I,” he admits with a small laugh, taking his own seat. “I wanted tonight to be special.”

The waiter appears with menus and a wine list, addressing Mingi with practiced deference. You watch, slightly amused, as he navigates the wine selection with surprising confidence, asking questions about vintages and pairings that you wouldn’t have expected him to know.

“Since when are you a wine expert?” you ask after the waiter leaves to fetch your selection.

He grins, slightly sheepish. “I’m not. I spent an hour yesterday watching YouTube videos about how to order wine without looking like an idiot.”

The admission is so endearingly honest that you can’t help but laugh. “You’re crazy.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he shrugs, no trace of his usual bravado. “Is it working?”

“Maybe a little,” you concede, smiling.

The wine arrives—a crisp white that pairs perfectly with the appetizers Mingi suggests. As you sip and sample delicate bites of food you can barely pronounce, the initial awkwardness melts away. Conversation flows as easily as it always has between you, ranging from classes to childhood stories to dreams for the future.

“So,” he says as the waiter clears your appetizer plates, “now that we’ve conquered economics, what’s next on your academic hit list?”

“Advanced Econometrics,” you grimace slightly. “Not exactly light reading.”

“Sounds intense,” he nods. “Do you think you’ll need a tutor for that one? If so, I know a guy…”

The teasing question makes you smile. “I think I can manage. What about you? What are you taking next semester?”

He hesitates, something vulnerable flickering across his face. “Actually, I registered for that Behavioural Economics class you mentioned. And...” he pauses, “I’m thinking about adding a minor in Business Analytics.”

“Really?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That’s a pretty intensive program.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, trying to look casual but not quite succeeding, “someone made me realize I might actually be good at this stuff. When I’m not being a, what did you call it? ‘Stereotypical frat boy with the collective IQ of a houseplant?’”

You wince, remembering your harsh assessment from months ago. “I was wrong about that.”

“Not entirely,” he laughs. “I can be that guy sometimes. It’s easier, you know? To be what people expect.”

The honesty in his voice touches something deep in your chest. “You don’t have to be that with me.”

His eyes meet yours across the table, warm and sincere,  “I know.”

The main courses arrive—seared scallops for you, steak for him—momentarily pausing the conversation. As you eat, you notice how Mingi keeps finding excuses to touch you: his fingers brushing yours when reaching for the wine, his knee pressing gently against yours under the table. Each contact sends little sparks along your skin, building a current that hums just below the surface.

“Can I ask you something?” he says after a comfortable lull in conversation.

“Of course.”

“When did you start liking me?” The question is direct, curious rather than cocky. “I mean, I know you couldn’t stand me at first.”

You consider this, taking a sip of wine. “I think... it was during our third tutoring session. You spent twenty minutes arguing with me about income inequality and its effects on consumer behaviour.”

He looks surprised. “That’s what did it? An economics debate?”

“You were passionate,” you explain. “And knowledgeable. And you didn’t back down just because I disagreed. I was impressed.”

His expression softens. “For me, it was the party. That first night. When you looked at me and didn’t seem impressed at all.”

“Really? That early?”

He nods, a small smile playing at his lips. “You have no idea how refreshing that was. Everyone else was... I don’t know, wanting something from me. You just looked annoyed that I existed.”

“I wasn’t annoyed,” you correct him. “I was... intrigued.”

“Intrigued,” he repeats, smile widening. “I’ll take it.”

As dinner winds down, the restaurant gradually empties around you. Neither of you seems eager to leave, conversation flowing from topic to topic, punctuated by laughter and moments of surprising vulnerability. When the waiter discreetly brings the check, Mingi insists on paying despite your protests.

“This was my idea,” he says firmly. “My invitation, my treat.”

“At least let me cover the tip,” you argue.

He shakes his head, sliding his card into the leather folder. “Next time. You can plan the whole thing if you want.”

“Next time,” you echo, liking the sound of it more than you expected to.

Outside, the night air is cool and clear, stars visible despite the campus lights. Mingi takes your hand as you walk back to the car, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm.

“Thank you for tonight,” you say quietly. “It was perfect.”

He stops walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a streetlight. “Thank you for saying yes.”

There’s a moment where neither of you moves. Then, slowly, as if giving you time to pull away, Mingi leans in, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. The moment his lips meet yours, everything else fades away—the restaurant, the streetlight, even the nervous flutter in your chest. His kiss is gentle at first, almost reverent, like he’s been waiting for this moment and doesn’t want to rush it. Your eyes flutter closed as you lean into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he murmurs against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

You smile, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “What took you so long?”

Instead of answering, he kisses you again, deeper this time. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re pressed against him, the warmth of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. Something shifts in the air between you—the careful restraint you’ve both been maintaining giving way to something more urgent, more honest.

Your hands slide up to tangle in his hair, messing up his carefully styled look. He makes a soft sound against your mouth that sends heat rushing through you, his fingers digging slightly into your waist as he pulls you impossibly closer. The kiss turns hungrier, months of tension finally finding release as his tongue brushes against yours, tentative at first, then with growing confidence when you respond in kind.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, pupils wide as he looks at you with undisguised want.

“I should’ve done this at the party ages ago,” he whispers, voice rough. “That night on the balcony. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”

You laugh softly, feeling dizzy and light-headed in the best way. “Better late than never.”

He grins, pressing another quick kiss to your lips like he can’t help himself. “Do you want to go somewhere more... private?” The question is careful, giving you an out if you need it.

The responsible part of your brain reminds you of early classes tomorrow, of the boundaries you set, of taking things slow. But the part of you that’s been dreaming of this moment for longer than you care to admit is already nodding.

“Your place?” you suggest, surprised by the boldness in your own voice.

His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to agree so readily. “You sure?”

In answer, you pull him down for another kiss, letting your actions speak louder than words. When you pull away, his smile is almost dazed.

“My place it is,” he says, taking your hand and leading you back to his car with renewed purpose.

The drive to his fraternity house is charged with anticipation, the air between you electric with possibilities. His hand finds yours across the center console, thumb stroking over your knuckles in a way that seems both soothing and maddening at once. At a red light, he can’t resist leaning over to kiss you again, quick but deep enough to leave you breathless.

“If you keep doing that, we might not make it to your place,” you warn, only half-joking.

His laugh is low and warm. “Worth it.” ══════════════════

When you arrive, the house is mercifully quiet—most of his frat brothers either out or already asleep. He leads you through the common areas with your hand firmly in his, up the stairs to his room on the second floor. Once inside, he closes the door softly behind you, and suddenly the reality of where you are—in Mingi’s bedroom, alone, after the most perfect date—hits you all at once.

His room is larger than you expected, and surprisingly neat. A double bed occupies one corner, made with actual matching sheets and pillows. Bookshelves line one wall, filled not just with textbooks but novels, economics journals, and what looks like a collection of vintage records. A desk sits beneath a large window, offering the promised view of campus, lights twinkling in the distance.

“So,” you say, turning to face him, “this is where the golden boy lives.”

He pushes off from the door, crossing to stand before you. “Disappointed that there's no mattress on the floor and it’s not covered in beer pong trophies?”

“A little,” you admit with a teasing smile. “Though I do see at least one trophy.” You nod toward a shelf where a single golden cup sits next to a framed photo of Mingi with an older man, both smiling widely.

“Economics award from freshman year,” he explains, following your gaze. “That’s my grandfather, the day I got my acceptance letter.”

You move closer to examine the photo, aware of Mingi following you, the space between you shrinking with each step. When you turn to face him again, he’s so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Something shifts in his expression—the playful fraternity president giving way to something more raw, more honest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip.

His fingers tremble against your cheek as he exhales shakily. “I’ve never been this terrified of messing something up,” he confesses, voice cracking slightly.

“Every time I look at you, I see everything I’ve ever wanted but never thought I deserved.” His eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak. “I keep pinching myself that you’re actually here, with me. You’re not just another person to me—you’re my person.” His thumb brushes your lower lip, reverent. “I adore everything about you. The way you laugh, how you challenge me, even how you roll your eyes when I’m being ridiculous.” He swallows hard. “I’m serious about us. So serious it scares me.”

The word hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You see it in his eyes, the battle between desire and fear. Fear that he’ll scare you away, that he’ll move too fast, that you’ll retreat behind those walls he’s spent weeks carefully dismantling. Your hands, almost of their own volition, drift upward to press against his chest. Under your palm, you feel the erratic thrum of his heart, each frantic beat echoing your own.

“Mingi,” you whisper, and the sound of his name—so soft, so certain—shatters the fragile barrier he’s been holding between you. For a suspended moment, your gazes lock, electric and trembling, and then he moves with a sudden, desperate clarity.

Mingi’s restraint snaps like brittle glass. He surges forward, kissing you with an intensity that’s as bright and blinding as a detonated star—no preamble, no hesitance, just pure want. His lips crash into yours, hot and hungry, arms banding around your waist so tightly you feel like you might dissolve into him. There’s nothing tentative in the way he holds you; he’s all-in, every muscle taut with reverence and longing. The kiss is a reclamation, a promise, and the culmination of every unspoken thing that’s hung between you for weeks.

You can only cling to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the seismic shift in energy. Your breath is stolen, your senses alight, your mind gone white-noise blank. The room could be on fire and you wouldn’t notice. Mingi kisses like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets up for even a second—like you’re the last oxygen left on earth and he’s learning how to breathe. And yet, underneath the urgency, there’s a trembling tenderness, as though every pass of his mouth is asking, Is this okay? Am I too much? Do you want me, too?

You answer with your body, arching into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, jaw tilting to deepen the kiss. His hands slide up your back, mapping the length of your spine; one finds its way into your hair, cradling your head, the other splayed possessively at your hip. He tastes like citrus and hope and the sharp, metallic shimmer of anticipation. There’s nothing careful about it—your teeth clash, your lips bruise, and when you gasp for air, he only uses the opportunity to trail kisses along your jaw, your neck, the delicate hollow at your throat. This is messy, urgent, but it’s also so fiercely sincere you’re left raw by the force of it. When he draws back, just long enough to search your face, his breathing is ragged, his eyes dark with wonder and disbelief.

“God, This might be better than the first time we kissed,” he pants, chest heaving as he regains control of his breathing. He brushes your hair away from your face, fingers gentle where his grip had been bruising. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You shake your head, already chasing his mouth again, needing to erase the words and replace them with more—more of him, more of this. He laughs against your lips, the sound reverberating through your bones. You feel untethered, weightless, every nerve ending singing. You’re dimly aware of your back pressing up against the closed door, Mingi pinning you there in a cocoon of warmth and want. Every inch of you is alive, hypersensitive to the slide of his hands, the brush of his breath against your skin.

He kisses you again and again, in greedy, overlapping intervals, his self-control disintegrating the longer you let him. But even as the kiss turns molten, there’s nothing careless in the way he touches you—no sense of entitlement, just awe and gratitude, as though he still can’t believe you’re real, you’re here, you’re choosing him. When he finally slows, his forehead drops to yours, both of you panting, foreheads and noses pressed together, steadying yourselves against the aftershocks.

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then the line of your jaw, then your ear. “Sorry,” he whispers, not sounding sorry at all. “I got carried away for a second.”

You laugh, shaky and breathless. “It's okay, it was kinda cute.”

He smiles, teeth grazing your earlobe. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“I learned from the best.”

He laughs again, quieter this time, and it morphs into something softer, more vulnerable. “The student becomes the master now, huh?”

You step back, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies, and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there’s hesitation there too—a question. You answer by taking his hand and leading him toward the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs. When his legs hit the edge of the mattress, you place your palms on his chest and gently push. He sits immediately, looking up at you with such reverence that it steals your breath. For a moment, you simply stand between his parted knees, admiring how beautiful he looks like this—waiting, wanting, completely focused on you.

“Can I?” you ask softly, fingers playing with the top button of his shirt.

He nods, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Of course. Whatever you want, doll.”

You take your time undressing him, savouring each new inch of skin revealed. His breathing grows more ragged with each button you slip free, with each brush of your fingertips against his heated skin. Your hands drift lower, finding the buckle of his belt. His eyes never leave yours as you work it loose, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room. There’s something intoxicating about the way he watches you—patient yet desperate, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. When you pop the button of his pants, his hands grip the edge of the mattress, anchoring himself down.

“Lift your hips,” you instruct softly, and he complies immediately, allowing you to slide his pants down his thighs. The fabric pools around his ankles, and he kicks them away, leaving him in just his boxers.

You take a moment to admire him like this—the strong lines of his thighs, the subtle definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. Mingi has always seemed larger than life, but here, partially undressed and vulnerable before you, he’s beautifully human. When you trace a finger along the waistband of his underwear, he shivers, a small sound escaping his throat. He tries reaching for you, but you catch his wrists. 

“Not yet,” you murmur, and he immediately stills.

“‘M Sorry,” he breathes, letting his hands fall to his sides. “I’ll be good.”

Something about the way he says it—like he’s never had to wait before, like he’s never been the one following someone else’s lead—makes the heat pool low in your belly. You lean down and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, rewarding his patience.

“Lie back, let me take care of you,” you instruct, and he complies without hesitation, shifting up the bed until his head rests on the pillows. 

You take your time undressing yourself, hyperaware of his hungry gaze tracking every movement. When you finally stand before him in nothing but your underwear, he lets out the sweetest whimper that’s graced your ears.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice strained. “You’re so beautiful. I—“

He cuts himself off, holding back a moan as you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. His hands hover uncertainly at your waist, waiting for permission.

“Go ahead, you can touch me,” you grant, and his hands are on you instantly. Feeling the warmth of his hands as they trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine.

You lean down to kiss him properly, deep and slow, savouring the taste of him. His lips part eagerly beneath yours, letting you set the pace, following your lead with a pliancy that’s intoxicating from someone normally so in control. You begin grinding against him for friction and he reciprocates. He groans into your mouth, mumbling curses under his breath. You felt his boner poking your ass while you both humped each other so so desperately. His bedroom is filled with the harmony of your heavy breathing, his whines, and the wet sounds of your lips crashing.

“Please,” he gasps. “I need—I want—“

“What do you want, Mingi?” you ask, pulling back slightly to watch his face.

“Need to feel you,” he says immediately, no hesitation. “Don’t want to—haah—cum in my pants like a fucking virgin.”

You giggle at his admission, you slowly reach behind you to squeeze his bulge, feeling it twitch in the palm of your hand. Mingi’s head tips back in bliss, growling at the sensation. The rawness in his voice makes your chest tight. You press soft kisses down his throat, across his collarbones, feeling his pulse race beneath your lips. His hands slide up your back, tangling in your hair, but he doesn’t push or pull—just holds on like you’re his anchor in a storm.

When you finally strip away the last barriers between you, his whole body trembles with anticipation. You wrap your fingers around his shaft, feeling the velvet skin slide beneath your touch as you position his flushed tip at your entrance. His eyes lock with yours—dark pools of need and surrender. You lower yourself with deliberate patience, savouring the stretch as his thick length fills you, watching his full lips part and his lashes flutter against flushed cheeks.

Mingi whines the second you ease down on him completely, hips trembling beneath you. His hands fist in the sheets, as if he’s physically restraining himself from thrusting up into you.

“Fuck, baby—“ he gasps, head tipping back against the pillows, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful as he struggles for control. “Feels so good around my cock, shit—“

You lean down, hushing him gently, both palms cradling his flushed face. You treat him like something precious, something to be cherished as you press your lips to his in a slow, deep kiss. Your tongue curls against his languidly, unhurried, as if you have nowhere else to be but here, joined with him in this perfect moment.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you murmur between kisses, your voice soft and sweet and infinitely patient. Your forehead rests against his, noses brushing, sharing the same heated breath. “You’re doing so good for me.”

He moans at your praise, his entire body shuddering beneath yours. He’s all muscle and barely contained strength under you, his powerful frame completely at your mercy. You can feel how desperately he wants to move, to take control, but he surrenders to your pace instead, letting you have him exactly how you want him.

You remain still, just sitting there with him buried deep inside you, feeling the way your cunt pulses around his length. The sensation must be overwhelming for him because his eyes squeeze shut, his breathing ragged and uneven.

“Is it too much?” you cooed, reaching to brush damp strands of dark hair from his forehead, your touch gentle and soothing

He shakes his head frantically, his grip on your waist tightening. “N-no,” he whines with a soft, shattered sound. “Just—fuck, just need a s-second—feels too fuckin’ good—can’t think—“

Sweat beads at his hairline, eyes squeezed shut in some primal effort to hold himself together, chest heaving under your hands like he’s afraid his ribs will break apart from the force of it. You melt a little at the sight of him—a six foot force of raw sex appeal—now reduced to a mass of shaking limbs and shattered breath, undone and writhing beneath you. There’s something intoxicating about the way he trusts you to see him like this, about the way he lets himself be taken apart so openly, without armour or artifice. You savour it, every trembling, helpless second, and you want to draw it out forever.

You lean down, brushing your lips to his cheek in a soft, featherlight kiss. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t flinch away. Instead, he turns his head, chasing your mouth with a need so naked it nearly undoes you. You let him catch you, let him press his lips to yours—not in a kiss, exactly, but a silent plea, a lifeline. You answer by kissing him deeper, slower, letting your tongue trace the seam of his lips, coaxing him open, coaxing him back to the surface. His hands slide up your back, frantic but reverent, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you by touch and touch alone. His heart beats wild under your palm, a frantic semaphore that reads: I want you, I want you, I want you. You press another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to his jaw, then down the delicate line where his pulse hammers beneath thin skin. He shudders, his whole body rigid and shivery. You thread your fingers through his hair, stroking the side of his face 

“Hey,” you murmur, voice as gentle as you know how to make it, “Relax, I’ve got you. Can you do that for me?” 

He nods, so obedient and desperate it makes something deep in your chest ache with tenderness. One breath, then another, and you feel the tightness in his body begin to unravel—incremental, but real. You rock your hips slowly, experimentally, watching his face for every flicker of sensation, every micro-expression. His lips part in a helpless moan, but his eyes finally flutter open, dazed and shining. He tries to say your name but it comes out as a whimper, half-beg, half-blessing.

“That’s it, baby” you praise, kissing him again, softer this time. “You’re doing so well.” 

The words seem to go straight to his core—he clings to them, drinking them down like water in the desert. You keep up a steady stream of encouragement, every whisper and touch meant to anchor him, to let him know you want him just like this: open, needy, trembling with the effort of holding back.

You draw the next movement out deliberately. The slow, aching drag of your hips, the way you squeeze around him with every tiny shift. Mingi’s hands grip your thighs like lifelines, fingers biting into your skin, but he doesn’t dare take back control—the restraint is exquisite, painful to watch. He’s at your mercy and loving it, if the way his eyes keep darting to your mouth, your chest, your hands, is any indication.

“Gonna let me do what I want, yeah?” you crooned, savoring how your voice makes him flinch with anticipation. “Keep being good for me.” 

He nods, lips trembling as he struggles to keep his composure “Fuck. Yes—pl-please, ‘m yours.”

You build your rhythm, slow and steady, each grind calculated to wring the maximum shudder from him. Sometimes you pause, letting him throb helplessly inside you, watching his jaw flex and his throat work as he swallows the urge to move. Sometimes, you bring yourself up just enough that only the tip of him is inside, and let him feel the loss, the emptiness, right before you sink down again in one slow, molten pulse. Every time you do it, Mingi’s head tips back, a sound escaping his throat that’s closer to a sob than a moan. You let the building friction wind both of you higher, but you don’t let yourself get lost in it; you want to see him come apart, to savour every second of his surrender.

You pick up the pace, just enough to make it impossible for him to stay silent. The bed frame squeaks softly beneath you, his hands finally dragging up your ribs, desperate for anything to ground him in this sinful reality. He reaches up and cups one of your tits, rolling and squeezing your nipple until it hardens against his warm touch. Your eyes shut at the sight, your body starts to falter under his grasp. Every inch of him is trembling too, his body strung tight as wire. His thrusts are growing more desperate, cockhead now slamming into your weakest spot, ripping a pornographic moan from you. 

“Please, doll,” he rasps, voice gone rough and wild. “Please, can I—?”

You lean in, your lips at his ear, your breath hot and deliberate. “You want to cum?” you hum, rocking down hard and slow, grinding your hips just the way he likes. “You want to fill me up?”

He makes a strangled sound that could be your name, or a prayer, or both. “Pleasepleaseplease,” he says again, as if the word is being pried out of him, as if he’s never begged for anything in his life.

You decide he’s earned it.

“Do it,” you cooed. “Cum for me, Mingi. Wanna feel you cum inside me.”

The effect is immediate. He bucks up into you, helpless, his face contorting with pure, blissful pleasure. His hands drag you down against him, holding you in place as he comes deep inside you, the force of it making his whole body shudder. Your juices drip down his balls and your gummy walls clamp down hard on his sensitive length, throwing into his orgasm and washing his vision white. You feel his warmth spreading in your insides, creamy ropes of cum making you feel fuller than before. You ride him through it, slow and greedy, squeezing him with your cunt until he’s wrung out and gasping, eyes rolling back as he drowns in sensation. His chest trembles under his shaky breaths as he pulls his half-hard cock out of your sticky heat, looking up at you through dampened lashes. You press your lips to his damp temple, stroking his hair until the aftershocks fade. For a moment, the world goes silent save for the hammering of both your hearts, the heat of your bodies, the sweat cooling on your skin.

All of a sudden, the equilibrium tilts.

Mingi comes back to himself by degrees, eyes still glazed but mouth already curling into a grin that’s all sharp canines and mischief. You’re still trembling, the aftershocks ricocheting through your bones, but the way he’s holding you now—possessive—is different from before. There’s a shift in the air, a gathering of purpose behind the lazy drag of his palm up your spine.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he rasps, voice rough with spent desire, “my turn.”

Suddenly he’s moving, rolling you onto your back in a single, fluid motion. His hands are everywhere—kneading your ass, your thighs, greedy in their hunger. His body covers yours, heat and weight and muscle, and you realise that he’s been biding his time, letting you have your way only so he could give it back to you tenfold. 

“Did you really think you had all the control, doll?” he drawls, the words fiery and playful at once, goading you with the memory of your earlier dominance—all while letting you know it was only ever on loan.

His hands bracket your hips, fingers splayed and greedy, and you feel the faintest quiver in his arms as he holds himself over you, like a predator savouring the moment before the pounce. His eyes never leave yours as he takes himself in hand, his cock already hardening again. You feel the blunt head of him brushing against your sensitive folds, teasing at your entrance. He drags it slowly up and down your slit, still slick with his cum and your arousal, circling your clit with deliberate pressure that makes your hips buck involuntarily.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he continues to tease you, tapping his tip against your cunt with feather-light touches. “Look at how eager you are f’me.” You moan as he continues his torturous teasing, rubbing his hardening length against your swollen lips, gathering your shared wetness along his shaft. Your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the fullness you crave. Mingi just chuckles, keeping his movements shallow, the head of his cock just barely dipping inside before retreating. The emptiness is maddening.

“Use your words,” he commands softly, continuing the torturous tapping against your entrance. “Tell me what you need.”

“I— ohmygod... I need—,” you try to answer, but the question melts on your tongue. 

His smile is triumphant as he finally, finally pushes forward, sinking into you with one smooth thrust. He buries himself deeper, hips rolling with a languid, relentless power. Every inch of him fills you, presses you open, makes you ache. He fucks up into you with a slow, devastating grind that leaves your toes curling and your nails digging into his biceps for purchase.

“So fucking tight,” he groans, nipping at your pulse point, tongue flicking over sweat-salted skin. “So wet for me. You like being stuffed by my cock don't you?”

“Oh fuck.. yes!” You whimper, and he grips your jaw, thumb pressing into your lower lip, enticing you to be louder.

“Let me hear you,” he growls, eyes burning into yours. “Fuck—let the whole dorm hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He fucks you like he has nowhere to go and nothing else to do but ruin you, each punishing thrust deliberate and deep, perfectly tuned to hit every trembling, oversensitive sweet spot inside you, drawing out increasingly desperate sounds that seem to fuel his hunger. The room is a riot of sensation: the slap of skin on skin, the obscene squeeelch of your own arousal, the sweat that drips from his brow onto your collarbone as he leans in to bite at your shoulder.

He laces his fingers through yours, pinning your hands above your head, and the new angle is exquisite—he’s so deep you can barely breathe, so intense you can’t manage a sound. He’s watching your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure and pain, cataloguing the way your body arches and clenches around him.

“Look at you,” he pants, fucking you harder now, the headboard rattling with each thrust. “You look so pretty like this—spread out for me, fuck. This is what you wanted, right?”

You feel the weight of him first, that heavy press of Mingi’s body pinning you down against the sheets, his hips grinding slow and deliberate as he sinks deeper. Every inch of his cock stretches you wide, the burn mixing with that sweet ache that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch. Your hands claw at his back, nails digging into the scarred skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just growls low in his throat, pushing harder, stuffing himself in until there’s no space left between you. All you can feel is him, that thick length buried deep, pulsing against your walls as he drives in again and again. a whimper escapes your lips, broken and needy, your body arching up to meet him even as the overload makes you want to pull away. Mingi notices immediately. his hand shoots up, fingers tangling rough in your hair, yanking your head forward with just enough force to make you gasp.

“Look at me,” He rasps, voice strained like he’s fighting through something sharp and brutal.

His grip tightens, holding you steady so your eyes lock onto his. Yours are wide now, pupils blowing out wide and dark, swallowing the colour until there’s just that hazy black stare reflecting back at him. He watches it happen, the way they dilate under the dim light, pulling him in like you’re lost in the haze of it all. His sounds get louder, desperate almost, grunts turning into these deep, guttural moans that vibrate through his body into yours.

“Fuck—I'm gonna lose my mind,” he groans, the word dragging out low and pained, like the pleasure is edging on torture. his free hand digs into your hip, bruising as he pulls you closer, slamming in one last time. “Your perfect cunt was made for me wasn't it?”

You nod, frantic, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He slows, just enough to let you catch your breath, then leans in, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that’s as much a challenge as comfort. His tongue is rough, demanding, and he swallows every helpless sound you make. 

Then, in a cruel twist of fate, he pulls out entirely, leaving you empty and clenching at nothing. Before you can beg, he’s flipping you onto your stomach, hands manhandling your hips up until you’re on your knees for him, face pressed into the pillows. He lines himself up behind you, the heat of his cock nudging at your entrance, and you whimper in anticipation.

“You're gonna let me fuck you sooo good, right baby?” he promises, voice gone dark and needy, and then he slams back into you in one brutal, beautiful stroke. The sound you make is sweet, involuntary, a sob torn from deep in your chest. He gives you no quarter, hips pistoning relentlessly, the flat of his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp crack that sends you clenching around him.

“So beautiful,” he purred, running his palm over the stinging flesh.

With every thrust he drives the point home, each one punctuated by a filthy litany—mine—until you can feel the word burning into your skin. He grabs a fistful of your hair, jerks your head back so you’re forced to arch, to present yourself to him, to let him see how utterly, beautifully ruined you are.

“Say it,” he orders, voice raw. “Tell me who you belong to.”

You gasp, barely able to form words. “You! Mingi. I’m all yours—“

He rewards you with devastating thrusts, so deep your vision starts turning white.

“That’s”—thrust!—“right”—thrust!—“all”—thrust!—“mine.”

You can feel yourself unraveling, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. He’s relentless, fucking you through your first orgasm and into a second, not stopping even when you collapse boneless onto the mattress. He kisses your spine, your shoulder blade, every vertebrae, as he keeps you pinned and takes you, over and over, until your vision blurs and you forget your own name. 

“M-mingi! M’ so close, gonna cum—“

“Gonna cum inside you again,” he promises, voice shaking with how close he is, hips stuttering. “You gonna take it for me? Gonna let me breed this perfect pussy?”

“Yesyesyes—fuck!”

The words rip something out of you. You nod, desperate, grinding back against him, greedy for his release.

“That’s my girl, c’mon cum with me baby.”

He bites down on your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and fucks you through his own climax, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you up again, so much it slicks out around the edges and paints the inside of your thighs, messy and obscene.

You collapse together, his arms locked around your waist, breath ghosting warm across your neck. He stays inside you, softening only a little, like he can’t bear to let you go yet. You lie there, bodies tangled and sticky, sweat cooling on your skin, and you feel the heat of him still throbbing inside you, a silent claim.

Neither of you moves for what feels like hours, your breathing gradually slowing to match each other’s rhythm. Mingi’s weight on top of you is heavy but comforting, his cock still nestled deep inside you despite having softened slightly. The gentle pulsing of him against your walls sends occasional aftershocks through your system, little reminders of the intensity you just shared.

“Stay like this,” you whisper when he finally stirs, your hand reaching back to keep him in place. “Just a little longer.”

He makes a soft sound of agreement, pressing his lips to the nape of your neck. “You like feeling me inside you, don’t you?” His voice is a gentle rumble against your skin. 

You nod, feeling strangely vulnerable in your admission. There’s something deeply intimate about this—more so, somehow, than the passionate sex you just had. Mingi seems to understand, adjusting his position slightly so he’s not crushing you but remains connected, his chest pressed to your back, one arm draped possessively across your waist.

“This okay?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

“Perfect,” you sigh, melting into the mattress beneath his weight.

The room falls quiet except for your mingled breathing and the distant thrum of music from downstairs. The party continues without you, but at this moment, the world outside this room might as well not exist. Mingi nuzzles against your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to the marks he left earlier.

“I’ve never done this before,” he confesses quietly.

“What, sex?” you tease, knowing full well that’s not what he means.

He laughs softly, the vibration traveling through both your bodies. “No, smartass.” His arm tightens around you. “This,” he clarifies, fingers drawing gentle patterns on your skin. “Having someone stay over.”

You twist your neck to look at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Wait, seriously? But you’re—you’re you. How—”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah I know…I don’t bring people here. Ever.”

“Ever?” You shift slightly to face him better, wincing as you feel him slip out of you. The loss is immediate, leaving you empty in a way that makes you want to chase the connection again. He reaches for tissues from his nightstand, cleaning you both with surprising tenderness before settling back beside you. His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable.

“Never,” he confirms, voice soft. “This room is... I don’t know. It’s mine. My space. I don’t share it with just anyone.”

The implication hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You’re not just anyone. You’re someone he wants in his private world, someone he’s letting see parts of himself that others don’t.

“But all those stories about you...” you begin, confused.

He shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “Not saying I’ve been a saint. But those hookups? They happened elsewhere. Never here. Never in my bed.” His fingers trace your cheekbone with careful precision. “Never like this.”

Something warm blooms in your chest, spreading outward until your whole body feels flushed with it. You’ve been the exception to so many of his rules already—the girl he studied for, the one he took to Stellina, the one he waited patiently for. And now this—being the only person he’s ever brought to his most personal space.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.

“How could you?” His smile is small but genuine. “I’ve spent a lot of time making sure everyone sees exactly what they expect to see.”

You reach up, touching his face with gentle fingers. “And what am I seeing right now?”

“The real me,” he says simply. “The one who’s terrified of messing this up. The one who thinks about you constantly. The one who...” he hesitates, taking a deep breath before continuing, “the one who wants you to be his girlfriend. Officially.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. Despite everything that’s happened between you—the tutoring, the dates, the incredible sex you just had—hearing him say it out loud makes it suddenly, overwhelmingly real.

“Mingi...” you start, uncertain how to respond.

His face falls slightly, but he quickly masks it. “I’m rushing things, aren’t I?”

“No, it’s not that,” you say quickly, not wanting him to misunderstand. “It’s just—this is all happening so fast. A few months ago I couldn’t stand you, and now...”

“And now?” he prompts when you trail off, eyes searching yours.

“Now I can’t imagine not having you in my life,” you admit. The truth of it surprises even you. “I just need a little time to process everything. Can I... can I give you an answer tomorrow?”

Relief washes over his features. “It’s not a no?”

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. “Definitely not a no.”

He pulls you closer, wrapping you in his arms like he’s afraid you might disappear. “Tomorrow it is. I can wait.”

You fall asleep like that, tangled together in his sheets, his heartbeat steady against your back, his breath warm on your neck. For the first time in years, you don’t worry about your schedule or your plans or what comes next. You just let yourself exist in this moment, with him.

═══════════════════

Sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. You stir slowly, your body pleasantly sore as consciousness creeps in. For a moment, disorientation clouds your mind—this isn’t your dorm room. All of a sudden, rapid flashbacks enter your mind from the events of last night. Mingi is gone, the sheets cool where he should be. For one terrible moment, panic seizes your chest—did he regret last night? Did he change his mind about wanting you as his girlfriend?

Then you hear footsteps in the hallway, the door handle turning. You sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest, heart pounding.

Mingi backs into the room, hands full. He’s balancing a tray of coffee cups, a small box of chocolates tucked under his arm, and—your breath catches—a bouquet of lilies and hydrangeas cradled against his chest. He hasn’t noticed you’re awake yet, too focused on not dropping anything as he nudges the door closed with his foot.

When he turns and sees you watching him, his face breaks into a smile so bright it rivals the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Morning,” he says, suddenly looking shy. “I was hoping to be back before you woke up.”

“What’s all this?” you ask, unable to keep the smile from your voice.

He approaches the bed, carefully setting down the coffee cups on the nightstand. “Well, I figured your answer might depend on how convincing my case was.” He hands you the flowers, the stargazer lilies’ pink-speckled petals unfurling beside clusters of blue hydrangeas that catch the morning light. “These reminded me of you.”

You bury your nose in the blooms, inhaling their sweet fragrance. “They’re perfect.”

“There’s more,” he says, offering you the box of chocolates. “Your favourite, right? The ones with the salted caramel centers?”

You blink in surprise. “How did you know?”

“You mentioned it once, when we were studying for the midterm. Said they were your stress food.”

The fact that he remembered such a small detail makes your heart swell. He passes you one of the coffee cups, the rich aroma of your preferred brew wafting up as you take it.

“And this…” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small envelope. “This is the most important part.”

You set the coffee aside and take the card with trembling fingers. The envelope is simple, your name written on the front in his familiar handwriting. Inside is a handmade card, decorated with what appears to be hand-drawn economic graphs and formulas. You open it, and a laugh bubbles up from your chest as you read the message:

According to my cost-benefit analysis, being with you yields the highest returns on investment. Our relationship has increasing marginal utility—the more time I spend with you, the more valuable each moment becomes. Will you be my girlfriend and help me maximize our happiness and love function?

It’s nerdy and sweet and so perfectly him that tears spring to your eyes. When you look up, he’s watching you nervously, waiting for your response.

“Soooo?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You set the card aside carefully and reach for him, pulling him down until he’s sitting beside you on the bed. “You're so stupid,” you say, cupping his face in your hands. “Of course I'll be your girlfriend”

The relief and joy that wash over his features are almost painful to witness. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s somehow both gentle and fierce, like he’s trying to pour every emotion he’s feeling into this one perfect moment.

When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if he’s committing this to memory.

“You know,” you say, threading your fingers through his hair, “for someone who was failing economics a few weeks ago, that was a pretty impressive application of the principles.”

He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of you. “What can I say? I had an excellent tutor.”

“Damn right you did,” you tease, pulling him in for another kiss.

Outside, the campus is waking up. Students are heading to class, professors are preparing lectures, life is continuing as it always has. But in this room, wrapped in each other’s arms, you and Mingi have created something new—a world that belongs just to the two of you, built on unexpected connections, shattered assumptions, and the courage to see beyond the surface. As his lips find yours again, more insistent this time, you let yourself sink into the certainty that some economic theories are universal: the most valuable things are often the ones you never saw coming, and the greatest returns come from the investments you make not with your head, but with your heart.

© w00yngie 2026 | do not steal, plagiarise, translate or feed my work to ai.

[yestodayys]

✮⋆｡°✩ pipe dream - college au!song mingi x fem reader

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 song mingi is a lot of things. he’s top of the class you hate the most, a mutual friend of your roommates, probably the best dressed guy on campus… and now he’s haunting your dreams, too.

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 smut 18+ MDNI, angst, reader has insecurities, EMOTIONAL CONSTIPATION, everyone smokes weed it’s a college au but it’s also kind of all they do, that being said college kids = drinking, brief toxicity? if you squint

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 wc 26.6k

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 a/n: here is a college stoner romance comedy mingi fic fueled with insanity. it means a lot to me so i hope you like my brainchild. furthermore this is for my dear @sungbeam college collab and i had so so much fun with it & also meeting such lovely ppl thru it <3!!! ALSO hm to @minkieater for the hard fucking banner she's goated and also thank u for telling me not to scrap this fic. OK ENJOY AH

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 a lot of graphic wet dreams it’s the whole plot, so much dirty talk bc i headcanon he’s a talker, daddy kink (sorry), but freak4freak like mingi’s technically dom but they’re both dirty freaky, pervy reader pervy mg, dry humping, so much praise, oral (f rec), vaginal fingering, size kink he’s big, big dick!mingi (he knows it), fingering (f rec), unprotected sex, oral (f rec), unprotected p in v including creampie

It starts off like any other dream. 

You’re lying on your bed, comfortably spread out with the same old pyjamas you had on when you fell asleep - a t-shirt stained with hair dye and shorts that have worn elastic, sagging down over your hips. The air’s a little dense at first when you try to move, like you’ve been doing some heavy lifting and your limbs haven’t quite started to work again, and it takes you a moment to come into yourself, fighting through the haze.

Immediately, it feels more real than your dreams normally would. Smoking weed before bed means that you don’t often get any dreams at all, really, and your two best friends-turned-housemates are loud enough at all points of the day that your sleep can be interrupted at regular intervals. However, you can feel the softness of your sheets, the lilac floral set you put on when you got home from class, and you rub your feet against it. It’s nice, comforting, and so normal that you quickly forget what it is - a dream.

A soft brush against your side, and you feel like a fish out of water. There’s someone here with you. On your bed. It’s rare for San and Wooyoung to sit there, and this person definitely isn’t either of them. 

It’s blurry initially, so hazy that you can’t quite focus on his face, but his long limbs are splayed across your bed like he’s been here a million times before. The touch was his fingers, and his hands are big too, dexterous and clad in bulky silver rings and drumming a beat you can’t recognise against your skin. It’s too comfortable, familiar in a way that feels almost too vulnerable - it’s almost like you’ve dreamed about this before.

He speaks, and you can’t make out what he’s saying. His voice is a deep, gravelly tone, making you feel like you’re drifting asleep all over again. With insane willpower you blink rapidly, forcing yourself to look at his face. 

You finally see him. He’s staring at you like you’ve done something silly, plump lips curled up with the hint of a smile, and his hair is messy and dark and cascading over his forehead. You can just about make out two beauty spots on his honey toned face. He’s not wearing much, not really, clad in a tank top and baggy, below knee shorts for ultimate comfort, lensless glasses sitting on a sharp nose. 

He blinks at you rapidly, scrunching his nose into a silly face to get your attention, lips forming a line, and all you can think is pretty, pretty, pretty. 

“Are you listening to me, baby?” He says again, and you hear him this time, loud and clear. Baby. It makes a chill run through your body. He’s your type - steady, cool, teasing and big and… he’s so handsome, soothing your skin with his fingertips as if he knows you, has known you for a while and-

“Mingi,” You croak, unable to help yourself. It’s Song Mingi from your economics class, that tall, cool kid who’s always late to class but still really fucking smart, gets amazing grades; unlike you. He dresses really nice, chic, lots of bulky rings and these big chains, like the one he’s wearing now. You think you’ve heard San and Wooyoung say they were friends before, and if you think harder it’s like you’ve seen him drive San home before, but have you ever really paid attention? 

Song Mingi from your economics class who is your mutual friend and also… your boyfriend? Right, yeah. That feels right. “Sorry, honey. What were you saying?”

“I was saying,” He sing-songs, but it’s raspy, like he smoked just before he came over. “It’s always nice being here with you. You’re beautiful, you know that? But it makes me…”

His eyes move to your lips. You think you know what he’s going to say, and maybe it’s a little cliche, straight out of a show you’ve seen, but the butterflies still flitter in your tummy. 

You rub your feet against the blanket again - it’s exciting, sue you. “Makes you what?” 

Mingi’s leaning in before he speaks again, shuffling across your blanket until his breath is tumbling across your face. He’s closer now, but it’s not intimidating, it’s exciting. If you focus you swear you can smell him, something like cedar and vanilla, sweet but enriching and you want more of it, now.

His hand moves to your hip, just barely dipping underneath your sleep shorts. Is he going to kiss you? Even better, is he going to touch you? Your mouth feels dry, and his hands are a little calloused on your skin. He goes to the gym, you remember through the fog. San goes with him sometimes - it’s from the weights. You feel dizzy, head spinning, inching even closer.

“It makes me want more,” he breathes tentatively, “I want to do more with you, if you’ll let me.”

“I’ll let you.” You blurt, and he smiles. He wriggles his way on top of you, your arms closing around those broad shoulders - he is big. While your cunt starts to slick up dumbly at the first sign of a big, strong man, he finally kisses you, a sweet peck to the corner of your lips before a deeper, proper one, tangling his tongue with yours, and it feels so fucking real. Letting out a keen, you squirm underneath him, managing to pull away from his lips to speak. “I’ll let you, please,” you whimper against his lips, messy, “more, Mingi-”

He groans in disbelief, kissing you sloppy again, again, again, finally moving his hand down, cupping your pussy through your sleep shorts and balancing on one forearm. His lips slide against yours a little messily but it’s still amazing, making you whimper when his tongue moves against yours, more than igniting that fire in your belly. You can feel the pressure of his fingertips against your core, sure that nothing’s ever felt like this in your life. “So pretty. You sound so fuckin’ pretty, baby, saying my name like that, shit-”

His fingers slide underneath your shorts, and of course you haven’t got panties on. He meets your pussy bare, slick and sensitive under his touch, and he starts to rock against your fucking leg before he can even get a finger in.

He feels big, from what you can make out, pressing into your thigh. Big, hard, and god - does he leak too? Is he getting so worked up that he can’t help but soak a pool in his boxers? You try to reach down to them, but he pins your hands back to the pillow with one big palm.

You can feel the cold metal of his rings biting against your hole when he adds a second finger. He finds your g-spot effortlessly, curling his long digits upwards, and tap tap taps until your eyes cross. 

“Like this,” He murmurs, cheeks flushing. His lips part and his eyebrows knit in admiration when he looks back to your face and sees the way your own expression can’t be controlled in your haze of lust, mouth falling open, letting out a wrecked whimper. “Can you cum like this? Drench your fucking shorts and let me suck ‘em clean after?”

He talks frantically, viciously almost, fucking into your pussy faster, trying to give you more stimulation. It’s filthy and you can’t believe it’s happening to you, hurtling into an orgasm that you know is going to be unsatisfying because he hasn’t even brushed your clit but fuck, you want to be good. Is he doing this deliberately? His spare hand cups your breasts, palm jiggling the flesh with a noise of disbelief.

“I can! F-fuck, I can,” You hiccup, and he pushes your thighs back, uses his thumb and finger of his other hand to pinch your clit in such a way that you think you might cry. It would normally be not enough but it’s the sight of him, the way he pants on top of you from just humping your leg and wants you to cum so badly - you’re done for. 

Digging your nails into his shoulders, you seize, crying out - and you wake up in a pool of your own sweat. 

Your pyjamas are sticking to you, shorts drenched between your legs and you’re not sure where you are. For a second you think you’re still high, or even still dreaming, but now this is definitely real. 

Alone in your room, your chest heaves as if you’ve run a marathon, and when you slide your feet against your blanket it doesn’t feel as good as it did before. What the fuck was that? You just had a sex dream about a guy that you’ve spoken to maybe twice, and it was so real. The surroundings of your room feel like an entirely different dimension, even though you were just there, with him, with his scent and his large presence, almost too overwhelming.

Are you going crazy? Are you smoking too much weed? Probably the latter, but that doesn’t change how that felt. You groan, rolling over to reach blindly for your phone. Knocking over a few things on your bedside table, you finally find it, and the time reassures you. 

7:02. Still two hours until class, two hours to sort yourself out. 

It would be great if it wasn’t a Wednesday. Your first class is economics, where you normally sit just a few seats over from the main character of your all consuming dream. Can you ignore him for the whole class? Shit, could you just skip it? Did it really matter?

No, you’re close to failing that stupid class already. It’s too complicated, it just doesn’t go into your brain. It would be hard to get a tutor when everything costs money, too, and you’re committed to spending a large part of your student loan on getting high and ordering pizza with Wooyoung and San.

With yet another loud groan, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and bring yourself to go to the bathroom to wash up. In the mirror, your hair is sticking multiple different directions and you have that recently fucked look, eyes half lidded, t-shirt hanging off of one shoulder. 

Is this rock bottom?

“What’s up with you today?”

Wooyoung’s gaze feels like the sharpest daggers shooting into your face. Considering you walked from your house together and managed to converse quite well until you got to class, you’re not really sure what you did wrong. You even complimented him on his bleached hair that he did himself at midnight because it really did look good. Despite that he still doesn’t look happy, plump lips pursed in a scowl and fingers tapping on the table.

He sits to your left, and only three seats to your right is his seat. He hasn’t shown up yet, he’s always late, but you already feel like the class is getting a little too hot. You’re determined to persevere, despite the fact that your jeans feel too tight and even though you’re wearing them, it still feels like your legs are sticking to the plastic chair. 

Clutching the signature banana milk you always get from the vending machine outside, you grumble - even the delicious taste isn’t helping.

“Nothing. Nothing’s up,” You mumble, licking sugary milk and banana flavouring from your lips, “Woo, should we just go?”

“Baby, you’re nearly failing,” He coos, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder. You don’t know why he’s talking, because he hasn’t even got a bag with him, only a single sheet of paper from your notebook and one of your sparkly pens. Looking at the big clock on the wall, you sigh deeply - he’s going to be here soon - and your friend nudges you under the table with his knee. The movement jostles your milk and you scowl. “What’s the matter? Seriously.”

“I’ll tell you later, but it’s fucking stupid and you’ll laugh.”

Wooyoung seems satisfied with this, grinning and ruffling your hair, but it’s then through messy strands that you see him. Well, the professor walks in first, but Mingi trails in behind her as if he’s got all the time in the world, and you frantically smooth your hair down. 

His chains jingle with his movement, and his bag hangs off one shoulder. He looks confident, prepared, probably with books and his laptop in the bag. He’s smart, you know he is, he’s top of the class, probably going to have a really stable analytical job after college that you’d never be able to comprehend. Thinking about it makes you want to giggle like a schoolgirl, and you wish Wooyoung knew what was going on so he could slap you awake.

You drink your banana milk diligently.

The professor begins the lesson while Mingi’s walking to his seat, taking no notice of him as she arranges her things on the stand, and when he sits down you realise no one’s sat between you this time. Low attendance, you suppose, looking around the entire room to see that not many seats are filled at all. He doesn’t even look at you when he sits down and throws his bag to the floor. You’re not sure why you expect him to, but you take the time to analyse him fully.

He never dresses casually. Shrugging off his leather jacket and letting it drape over the chair, the cheap plastic creaks with his movement, and the light glints off the bulky silver rings adorning his long fingers. 

It’s suddenly getting really hot now, and your banana milk is doing nothing to cool you. Your eyes scan over his hands and up his arms to his chest. His black turtleneck is tight on firm muscles and such a contrast to his silver chains, so pleasing to your eye. Mingi’s dark hair drapes over his eyes, but you can still see them, chocolate brown and striking and narrowing at you. 

At you? You blink, and no, really, he is looking at you, and you’re not sure what to do. He doesn’t give you a chance, thankfully, because he gives you a small smile and a little wave and turns to listen to the lecture. 

Wooyoung practically chases you out of class by the end of it, even launching your carton in the bin for you. You manage to get him to a bench outside and once he’s situated, you clear your throat. He has his head in his hands, waiting, foot tapping against the floor. He’s never been good with patience; San always teases him about the time you told him you’d tell them something in class the next day and he didn’t sleep all night.

“I had a wet dream last night.”

Wooyoung groans loudly, kicking you in the shin. You squeal, falling onto the bench with an affronted stare, and he scowls at you. “Is that it? I probably have a wet dream every other night!”

“Woo, listen- listen to me. It was about Mingi. Your friend, Song Mingi. Be honest, is it over for me?”

His eyes light up. His face straightens, and then he leans forward, and you know you’re done before he even starts laughing, but the noise is still so loud that it makes your ears ring when he’s off. Multiple people in the quad turn towards you both, making you scowl at your housemate. He claps a few times in joy before he’s done.

“That’s- that’s probably the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, baby,” He giggles, hitting your shoulder playfully. “Have you spoken to him? At all? You never come to our friends’ parties. Not one, actually, now that I think about it.”

The birds in the campus trees tweet a rhythm mockingly. Your eye twitches. Wooyoung’s lips curl again.

“Maybe once or twice, in passing,” You frown, voice soft and timid, “Woo, it’s not my fault. We don’t choose our dreams, it’s your subconscious or something. Y’know scientists have literally said that?”

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about, do you?” He’s still smiling, and you shake your head. He’s right, you don’t, but you’re still sure you read that somewhere. “I guess you’re right though. Maybe- oh my god, maybe you do have a crush on him or something, a repressed one, and now it’s coming to the surface because it’s time. Like fate or something.”

You hum, thinking, deciding that Wooyoung’s insane. “Still, it felt real. Like, insanely real, Woo. It was better than anything I’ve had in person, and now I feel like I’m seeing him differently.”

Wooyoung raises his eyebrows, but still rubs your knee comfortingly. You’re thankful that he’s still being nice despite finding it very amusing. “It’s just a dream anyway. I don’t think you have to worry about it that much, baby, you’ll forget about him in a few days. I’ve had dreams that have given me crushes before too.”

“What if I don’t? You don’t get how intense it was.”

“Well, then we can talk to him,” He nods confidently, nudging you. “I can put a good word in, get you your dream boyfriend-”

“That is literally the worst idea you’ve ever had,” You deadpan, shaking your head, “I have a solid two friends for a reason, I’m not a people person, I am just trying to get through college with zero problems. And he’s- Woo, he’s… cool. Like you two. I don’t get cool guys.”

“You got us, didn’t you?” He pulls you into his side, kissing your forehead, then adds, “and we love you. You’re our best friend,” It comforts you enough to quell your insecurities for a moment. He checks the time on his phone and whoops triumphantly, “let’s go home. San will be back from the gym and we can smoke and order food. My treat. Oh also, can I tell him?”

“... I don’t think I have a choice.”

“No, you don’t. There's three of us in this relationship.”

Despite the fact that you fall asleep in some form of a puppy pile with Wooyoung and San in the latter’s bed, it happens again. 

This time, you’re on the sofa in your living room. Mingi’s positioned underneath you, in a black compression shirt and grey sweatpants like an anime character you’d fantasise over, and you’re on his lap. 

What are these fantasies? 

Has your brain taken note of outfits he’s worn before?

You know it’s him from the size of his body and the way it feels, intense and all consuming, although you haven’t managed to see everything yet, still fuzzy at the edges with sleep. The sweat drips down your collarbone already, and he seems just as wrecked from the squirming he’s doing, moving upwards into your body while he pulls you down against him by your hips. His hands move up your oversized t-shirt, settling on your flushed skin.

“Feels so fuckin’ g-good,” He huffs, “even just- just like this,”

His deep voice makes your head spin, and when you see his face it feels like a relief. His cheeks are flushed, lips kiss bitten, and you place another few pecks on his lips for good measure. He’s yours, after all, your boyfriend. “Is your little hole wet? Can you feel it, b-baby, drenching these cute little panties?” He whines, nosing into the crook of your neck, licking over the skin, “Is it begging for me? F-fuck, talk to me, please.”

He babbles incoherently but you can make out that it’s filthy, and you can’t fucking believe it. Is he like this, really? Your hips grind down against him sharply, needing more, because he’s right. Panties drenched, too delirious to even think about it, your hands scramble against his shoulders. You can see everything in that t-shirt, the way his biceps bulge against the fabric and the way his chest clenches as he ruts himself against you, nipples poking through, tempting. He’s got that expression again - eyebrows furrowed, lips parted, but this time he’s looking directly down at where you’re connected, bottom lip slick with spit. The pressure of his cock against your core in his sweatpants is so much, and you can’t help it, eyes rolling back to your head.

“Want you, want you so bad,” You pant. It feels like the most honest thing you’ve ever said. He nods, thrusting harder. He wants more, wants you to say more, his hands pulling you down against him. It’s a dirty rhythm, a sinuous grind. “I want it so fucking bad, Mingi, you don’t even-“ you buck, whining, “-don’t even know how bad, please, please-”

“Yeah? Did you touch your little clit thinking about me?” He pushes you upwards, still letting you move against him but slipping his hand underneath his waistband to rub over his cockhead. He’s desperate too, teeth biting into his lower lip. He wants it just as bad. You feel wet, and you look down to see you’ve leaked right through your panties onto his sweatpants. Have you ever been this fucking wet before? “Did you think about my cock stretching you open, ruining you until you can’t even remember your own- own fucking name?”

“I d-did, fuck,” You can’t move, eyes fixated on where his hands move under the wet fabric. “Fuck, Mingi, baby, please show me, I’ll do anything, please.”

His hand pauses, and your gaze flits back up to his face. His eyes narrow at you, just like they did in class, and his teeth have released his lower lip so that he can smirk at you, teeth white as snow. It’s promising, but it’s like a threat, and your hands feel a little sweaty against his broad shoulders. 

“Really, pretty thing?” His voice is hopeful, and his other hand begins to move his waistband down. You see the beginnings of his dark smattering of pubic hair and almost shaking, you whimper, nodding eagerly. “You’ll do anything for me?”

“Anything, I promise, please, fuck.”

Your eyes shoot open on a particularly loud snore from San. His leg and his arm are both slung over you, head resting on your shoulder with a steady stream of drool pooling on your t-shirt. When you glance at him, he sniffles out a snore, nose scrunching up and thick eyebrows knitting together. He’s lucky you love him. 

Once you’ve spluttered yourself awake enough, the warm light of the desk lamp bathing the room catches your attention, and you see Wooyoung sitting on the chair by San’s desk. He’s eating something, and the smell of bacon is the next thing that you register, slowly unwrapping yourself from the older man to crawl towards the younger at the desk. 

He’s already clocked you, a smile pulling at his lips as he loads the fork. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You snatch the fork from his fingers, munching before you can even talk. Eggs and bacon, and you wonder who Wooyoung learned to cook from. You make a mental note to ask, because it’s delicious. After you swallow, you mumble, “time?”

“Nine in the morning,” Relaxed as ever, he stretches out on the chair with an overpronounced yawn. He’s still scrutinising you, and you know for sure that you haven’t gotten away with it. “Two nights in a row, huh?”

“How’d you know?” You raise an eyebrow. Wooyoung looks pleased with himself and takes the fork back from you, continuing to eat his meal. Is it your hair? Were you… God, were you making noise?! He still hasn’t said anything! “Oh my fucking- Wooyoung?!”

“All I’m saying is I’m surprised Sannie didn’t wake up with all that squirming,” He finally responds, and the mentioned man grunts in his sleep at being mentioned, always alert, but goes back to snoring almost immediately after. “Don’t worry, it was cute. I think you do have a crush. Subconsciously and all that.”

“I hate you,” You grumble, and he sighs, patting his lap. You still climb onto him, and he hums until you start to doze, stroking your hair in rhythm to San’s snores. It would make you laugh if you weren’t nearly falling asleep again, but every time your eyes flutter shut you see big hands and a sharp nose and those beautiful dark eyes. Sighing, you stretch your legs out to wake yourself back up, “Wooyoungie, I think I’m going crazy. I don’t even know the guy.”

“It’s okay,” He coos, and you can hear how amused he is. Still, he entertains it. “He’s kind, very loyal. Smart, as you know. Sometimes he’s a little unsettling, but it’s endearing, in a way. A little like you.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“Well, I love you both dearly, if that counts for anything.”

Still, this doesn’t solve your problem, “Wooyoung, what do I do?”

“I think it’ll surprise you how easy this is going to be.”

It is a surprise to find yourself done up in a cute dress at a party not ten hours later, San and Wooyoung on each arm. You knew they knew people, sure, but they’d been such good friends to you that they’d sworn to be by your side through college, so you’d never bothered to ask to be introduced to their other friends. 

From what you can gather, they’re not frat boys but normal college students, too - Wooyoung told you that the two guys that live here are some of their good friends, and that makes you feel a bit better about arriving uninvited. It’s quaint but well decorated, with music memorabilia on the walls, but you don’t get a chance to take it all in because the house is absolutely packed. 

San waves and hugs a few people as he walks through, and you see Wooyoung smiling at a group of people that you think must be in his dance classes, because they look as cool and sculpted as him. Still, they pull you through the throes of people into the kitchen, tipsy and stoned and honestly, a content smile on Wooyoung’s face that he finally got you in this position.

You’re not even sure who’s party this is, but the boys help themselves to drinks and San keeps a comforting hand on your lower back, leaning in close so that you can hear him while your other friend pours you a drink. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Sannie, I have been to parties before, I’m not a total shrew,” You tease. He pulls you into a sort of half-hug and you smell him, something earthy with a hint of jasmine, comfortable and grounding, familiar. Different to… you’re trying not to think about that.

The younger man hands you both the finished drinks, a concoction of something purple, and well, liquid confidence you suppose. You knock half of it down before you can think. He seems satisfied with this, but you hiss at the aftertaste, sticking your tongue out. “I’m definitely a smoker, not a drinker. This is fucking nasty. You guys drink this stuff all the time?”

“He does, I kinda hate it too,” San huffs, swirling his cup in his hand and watching the liquid move. 

Wooyoung scoffs, “that and you can’t handle your drink. You pass out after a few.”

San’s already flushed, but you swear he gets redder, shooting Wooyoung a dirty look with a too-cute pout before turning back to you. “Refresh me on the situation again by the way. You had a dream about Mingi? Song Mingi?”

Right, Wooyoung had caught him up over the course of the day while you napped and attempted to study. You lick your lips, trying to somehow clean yourself of the drink’s bitter aftertaste but only getting a mouthful of sticky lipgloss. 

“Two dreams,” Wooyoung corrects, pointing at San, smiling so wide you can see his teeth in the dim light of the kitchen. They’re practically shouting over the music, and you want to tell them to be quiet but you are in a quieter area.  No one can hear you, you hope, groups having filtered into the back garden, bedrooms and the living room. “And I think she liked him before. Fate, science - look, you had to be there. Anyway, we should go talk to him.”

“Wooyoung, I do not know this man.”

“We know him,” San smiles. He’s too easy. “Hey, this is cute! Is this your first crush? He’s a good guy.”

You swat him away when he tries to pinch your cheeks. “Not my first crush or my first party. You have literally met some of my exes. I also don’t think this is a good idea.”

“First, all of your exes were assholes so I didn’t like them and therefore they don’t exist. Second, you have to think it’s a somewhat good idea because you did come - to the party, I mean,” Wooyoung grabs your hand, pulling you to the back door. “I think they’ll probably be out here.”

Wooyoung’s right, about both things. All of your exes were assholes, men that only cared about getting their dick wet and their own feelings and not at all about yours. You’ve always thought it would be nice to have a man who takes notice of the things you like, the way you feel; the longer life dwindles on it seems to become less attainable. 

He’s also right that you came to this party with the idea that your friends were setting you up. You don’t expect them to be subtle about it though - a fact that daunts on you as they lead you through the kitchen.

As soon as the back door opens, you’re hit with the sight of what seems to be a much cooler, more private party. The smell of weed and the sound of softer, less overwhelming music are the first things you can process and yeah, okay, this might be more your type of scene. There’s a cute, shorter guy wearing flared jeans and a shiny tiara, chatting with a group of people enthusiastically; surely it must be his party. 

You’re pulled over to a section of outdoor seating where there’s a few people sitting down. There’s a small fire going, contained in a silver pit, and the warmth is welcomed on your skin, cold from the outside air biting at your skin in the cute dress you’re wearing. Really, you don’t clock him at first, but Wooyoung and San are eager to take you over to that area and there can only be one reason why.

“Yunho!” Wooyoung’s way too chipper, but Yunho falls for it, springing up from one of the chairs to wrap his arms around the shorter male. San’s hugging someone too, and from the corner of your eye you see it’s fucking Mingi, and you’ve never felt so betrayed in your life. 

“Fancy seeing you here, huh?” San says, way too exaggerated, and you hover in confusion as he continues, “we finally brought our cute friend, look.”

Cute friend? Suddenly all of the attention is on you. Yunho and Mingi are both peering at you, and Mingi is - he has to be assessing you, eyes scanning your frame. You can’t see them properly due to the sunglasses. Does he recognise you? You’ve only spoken once or twice before, in passing. He probably doesn’t even know your name. 

Yunho seems to know who you are, grinning from ear to ear and pulling you into a hug before you can even introduce yourself. You can’t help but laugh, throwing your arms around him while avoiding spilling your purple drink on his white satin shirt.

“It’s so good to meet you!” He shakes you happily. Mingi still hasn’t said anything, but he’s clutching a bottle of jagermeister and a cup with a different drink, looking at you as if he’s waiting for the moment. You try not to be uncool right in front of his eyes, smiling at Yunho politely. “Wooyoungie kept talking about you, all nice things, I promise. You have some good friends here.”

“I can’t really get rid of them, kinda like the plague,” You smile, and you’re glad Yunho detects your sarcasm and lets out a loud laugh, a bit too loud to be normal. He ushers you all to sit down, and when everyone’s situated the only available spot left is next to Mingi. 

How convenient. 

In your peripheral vision, you can see your best friends have already roped Yunho into a conversation, leaving the subject of your fantasies free and still fucking looking at you. 

Hesitantly, you sit down. The fire is nice you suppose, warming up your legs quite quickly, and you keep your knees firmly planted together and far away from him. The other three chatter away, preoccupied in such an intentional way that it makes your blood boil. It’s time to consider rooting through your bag in a way that looks like you’re doing something.

He says your name, and it feels like time stops. He’s speaking to you. This is the worst possible situation, how are you even meant to talk to him? Slowly, you turn to look at him. He’s in a black zip up jacket, bottle of Jagermeister in hand, sunglasses pushed down to the end of his nose. Those chains glint in the light again, and he leans forward, saying your name again, pushing the sunglasses onto his head. They push his hair back in the most delicious way that you shiver. No. Not right now. “It’s nice to finally meet you. You’re in my economics class too, right? You sit with Wooyoung.”

He knows you. “R-right,” You blurt, smiling nervously. “I am. Mingi, right?”

“You sit just a few seats over from me, with Wooyoung. I wanted to say hi to you, but to be honest, I never knew how,” He scratches the back of his neck. He’s cute, a little shy despite how big and scary he looks. Just like Wooyoung said. It feels like that makes it all even worse - he really is a dream, delightful traits rolled all into one. “It’s good to all get together though, right? I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these before.”

“Oh, no. I don’t really get out much, to be honest. I’m a homebird,” You say, and cringe inside. What the fuck are you saying? You need to be cool. 

But Mingi only smiles, letting out an ‘ah’. “Me too, to be honest. I’m an anime in bed guy, but I live here, so I have to leave my room. It’s really sad.”

Not only is he actually so easy to talk to, but he reassured you quickly - he’s the same. Wooyoung was right again.

He lives here, though, which means… Wooyoung and San brought you to a party at Mingi’s house? This is some sort of next level interfering that you never even considered, but you have to act normal, so you clear your throat.

“You live with that guy wearing the tiara, then?”

“His name is Hongjoong,” Mingi laughs. “You don’t know who’s house you’re at?”

Fiddling with the clasp of your bag, you look down at your lap. “I told you, I don’t normally go to parties. I got dragged to this.” White lie. 

“It’s fine, I’m only kidding. Anyway, you know me,” He grins playfully. You flush, suddenly too warm from the fire, a little too awkward but also with such deep desperation in your belly. His zip-up slips from his shoulder and you see a bit of tanned skin that makes you inhale. “So you drink. You smoke too?”

You laugh. “Oh yeah, I smoke.”

Mingi’s eyes narrow at you again, perceiving you. Is he impressed? Flustered? He’s still smiling, like he knows something about you, but you’re not sure what. 

The conversation is interrupted by Yunho, who’s pulling a bong out from by the side of the table with a loud cheer. Wooyoung’s already dragging the bong from his lap. San has fallen asleep next to him, cheeks flushed and shoulders slouched over. Wooyoung doesn’t take any notice, giggling as he readies the pipe. He spills some weed on his lap but doesn’t look bothered. 

You point at San. “Is he okay?”

Everyone chimes in at once - “He does this”.

Mingi leans closer to you, and you manage not to tense up when he speaks easily, “What are you drinking?”

You motion at the plastic cup of Purple Concoction on the floor, and he sucks his teeth, shaking his head. While the others carry on, Mingi leans down and you immediately seize up.

“I’m not drinking jager,” you panic, “that’s way too-“

He chuckles and hands you his plastic cup, with a liquid not dissimilar in appearance to coke, and you want to laugh in his face. 

Is this like… inadvertently sharing spit? 

Reaching for the cup, you take a sip of the drink, and he watches you, waiting for your reaction.

It’s surprisingly nice. A lot better than whatever the fuck the guys gave you in the kitchen, and definitely not jager. It’s some sort of rum with coke and you hum at the taste, handing the cup back to him. He’s still watching you, keeping eye contact as you swallow the liquid down. 

When he lets you get this close, you notice the two beauty spots on his face from your dream, one by his eye and one on his cheek, and it makes your heart soar. He’s so cute, despite the way he dresses, rough and raw on the exterior and kind and gentle inside.

“Much better, right?” 

“Much better,” You agree. For a second, the ugly, rearing insecurity appears in your head again - what are you doing? He’s so out of your league. 

Before it can fester, Mingi clicks his tongue, taking a sip himself. “See, you should stick with me tonight,” he leans back, then smiles, “I’ve got the good stuff, and I’m cooler than San. He’s fallen asleep already.”

Stick with him tonight. Just as you think there might be something there, a little flickering of intrigue in his eyes as well as yours, the guy with the flared jeans rushes over out of nowhere.

“Mingi-ah, I’m so sorry, but someone’s throwing up in the living room and I need your help.”

The gentle voice brings you both out of your trance, and he immediately spins his head to the other man. Hongjoong, you think you remember him saying. Mingi all but rolls his eyes - does he look disappointed? - but swings his legs over the edge of the seat, leaving you with the nice tasting drink.

“Sorry, I better go,” He says, and Hongjoong gives him a look full of something that you can’t work out. Mingi looks awkward, eyebrows raising in expectation for you to say something, so you nod politely and he shoots you a grin. You think you’ll replay that grin forever, late at night when you’re trying to remember all of the angles of his face. “I’ll see you in class, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, licking over your lips. “it was really nice talking to you, Mingi.”

He shoots you a smile that looks a little too upset, but he’s off then, housemate in tow; Wooyoung wordlessly passes you the bong, eyes pink and limbs stretched over the sleeping San. It’s hard not to go over the events with the sudden silence and your clammy fingers wrap around the cup he left you, taking another gulp of the alcohol as it pops into your head.

Apologetic.

Hongjoong looked apologetic that he was interrupting you both, and you want to tell your friends and deepen that and make it more than it is; but you’re reminded that in reality, you’re just another girl Mingi was talking to at a party.

It’s been a couple days with no dreams now, which feels good, because you only saw him in passing again during the party. You have thought about him, in fleeting thoughts where you’ve gone over the events of the party, but it’s good not to let it linger. Just two dreams, that’s all it was, and you sit in economics class the following Wednesday with a relatively clear head and a nice skirt on, determined that you definitely do not have a crush.

Additionally, another decision - you will not fail this class. Two simple resolutions; last week was just a minor setback.

He walks in, and sits in his seat, and there’s actually people sitting between you this time. This is reassuring because you can’t focus on how his thighs fit in those jeans, or how nice his hands look when he types, or how his hair falls over his forehead in such a mysterious way-

No. You stare at your notes, flicking over the pages. It’s good to refresh before the professor starts, you think, and you really think it works when she begins her lesson and does a brief recap… before she starts talking about a test a few weeks after break. Huh?

“Since it’s the last week before fall break, I thought I’d give some of you a chance to study and get your grades up,” She explains, and you think you see her glance towards you and Wooyoung. Everyone groans, and she tuts, laughing. “This test isn’t that hard, I’m being really nice to you guys!”

You zone out again. Now you’re going to have to do a stupid test on something you don’t care about, and you’re either going to let yourself down or just not show up to do it at all, to be honest. You sigh and huff and puff, scribbling a doodle on your page.

To everyone, you included, the bell ringing after the rest of the boring lesson is a welcome sound. You huff when you put your books into your bag, you huff when you sling your bag over your shoulder, and you’re still huffing at Wooyoung as you both walk out of the door. 

That is, until a firm hand stops your path and a very clear, deep voice says your name.

Looking up, you see Mingi, lensless glasses on his nose again and that little shy smile on his lips, and the last few days of progression are forgotten. 

How could you ever forget how pretty he is? Love songs start playing in your head, intricate violins and piano, and it’s jarring how nervous you feel all of a sudden, uncertain of yourself. He’s so beautiful and he dresses well and he’s smart and kind and easygoing, but you still have that looming feeling of it’s never gonna happen, hopping from foot to foot in your boots.

Wooyoung keeps walking, pretending to be occupied on his phone, and you realise you’re staring at Mingi and not saying anything. “Mingi. Hi!”

“Hi, it’s good to see you again,” He seems a little flustered himself, fingers pulling at the collar of his t-shirt and you can’t help but smile. He’s so endearing. “How have you been since the party?”

“Good,” You shrug easily, like it hasn’t been destroying your nerves for the past few days, “I’ve been good. I- you’re good too, I hope?”

Inwardly cringing, you flush, but Mingi seems to find it amusing, lips curling up. “I’m great. Hey, listen, couldn’t help but overhear you’re not doing too well in economics, and well, I’m not too bad at it myself,” he snaps his fingers, and your eyes widen. No. “I can study with you for the test, if you want.”

“Is that a good idea?” You’re straight to the point, and Mingi offers a pout, confused, and you want to cry. “I mean, Mingi, I would just take up your time-”

“I want to study with you,” He seems to straighten up then, and you remember how big he is, towering over you. “No offence, but I know you’re not doing too well, and I want to help you,” He seems determined, and you can’t work out why, but he continues, “We could bump your grade up a little if you do well on the test.”

You let out a strangled noise, tapping your foot. “… Fine.”

“I- I could come to yours later on today? If you’re free, that is.”

You stare. That’s the second worst fucking idea you’ve ever heard, next to Wooyoung’s that got you talking to this tall, beautiful man in the first place. Why not the library? But you’re going to have to, aren’t you, because you can’t deny that face anything, and what other choice have you got? 

The idea of being in close proximity to him like that and being able to trace every single line and dot on his face with your eyes is anxiety and arousal inducing and he’s staring at you hopefully, waiting for an answer-

“Mingi, I’m bad at this class,” You blurt. He only tilts his head in question. “I could bring your grade down, distract you so badly by asking so many questions that you end up at the bottom just like me.”

He’s quick to respond, as if he can’t miss this opportunity. “That’s a bit extreme,” he breathes out a laugh, “very unlikely. Anyway, call it helping a friend out.”

A friend. Of course.

“Right, well…” You rub the back of your neck. 

It would be stupid to pass this up. If studying with him could really help your grade, and stop you retaking this dumb class, you’re sure you can reign in the horny demons inside of you for a few nights a week. You look down at the floor, but get caught at his legs. 

In the rips of his black jeans, you see a slither of muscled thigh. Your eye twitches.

Shit, can you reign it in? Fuck, you’re gonna have to. “Okay. I’ll work really hard. I’ll be a really good study partner, like, the best.”

“I know you’ll be good,” He grins, and god, did he mean the way that came out? He’s already pushing his phone into your hands for you to put your number in, and you send an emoji to yourself so that you have his too. “Cool. I’ll text you, let you know when I’m on my way.”

By the time he’s walked away, somehow Wooyoung is right behind you again, giggling in your ear about fate. 

But that’s how you find yourself in your room not five hours later, unfortunately not high and staring at Mingi, sitting contently in front of you. San and Wooyoung had greeted him in the hallway, mumbling too quietly for you to hear - to your dismay - and now you’re in your room. Your plushies and girly things would be embarrassing if he didn’t immediately pick up a fuzzy teddy bear and place it on his lap, cooing and pulling softly at his droopy ear. 

He’s so cute, and the more you think about it the more it’s got you scowling in your loungewear. A matching set, in the hopes that he’d think you look nice.

He’s talking about something, you think, but god you feel like you’re in those dreams you have again with how he’s on your bed and you’re dizzy with it - except you’re not. It’s real, he’s there, perched on your mattress next to you in a zip-up jacket and joggers for comfort with textbooks set beside his lap. He kicked off his shoes in your hallway, and he’s in a spare pair of San’s slippers, two sizes too small. 

You focus back in when he waves his fingers in front of your face teasingly, and all you can do is mumble sorry there’s no desk in my room.

“What? That’s fine, it’s better to be comfortable anyway,” He laughs, finally placing the teddy bear back in its spot. He pats his head. You want to scream. “Do you have any idea what you want to start with? We can keep it pretty basic at first and work our way up. She said the test won’t be too bad - if you actually listen to me, you’ll be fine.”

It’s said pointedly, with a little grin like he knows you’re not going to listen.

“Cool, cool,” You smile with way more confidence than you feel. Your entire body hums like a live wire at the proximity. “So I’ll be top of the class when the grades come out, right?”

He narrows his eyes at you playfully, grabbing a textbook from the pile. “Relax. I’m top of the class.”

Oh.

You stare at him, smirking like you’re not the slightest bit affected, even though you really are. He often rides on the line between confident and cocky, like he’s daring you to call him out. Like he knows something you don’t, always one step ahead.

Scooting a little closer, you scoff, accepting the challenge. You can play ball. “Top of the class doesn’t mean you’re good at tutoring. What if you can’t make me any better?”

Mingi glances up at you, playfulness in his eyes, that slow smile forming like it has all the time in the world. His jaw clicks when he speaks, “You’re being cheeky, y’know that? I guess I’ll have to show you what I can do.”

“That-?” You swat him, and he catches your wrist easily, making you gasp and pull back sharply. Heat crawls up your neck. “Let’s- okay, let’s just start.”

He chuckles, low and easy, satisfied at how flustered you’ve gotten. You wonder for a moment if he can feel it between you too, but he leans closer, resting his elbow on his knee as he opens the textbook between the two of you. There’s a decent amount of distance, but you swear you can feel the heat radiating from his thighs - you have to squeeze yours together to calm down. Not now. 

“You’re already not paying attention, are you?”

It’s hard to because he smells like warm cologne and something familiar, vanilla and cedar and you’ve smelled this before, you swear, in your dreams. His leg brushes yours like it’s no big deal, like you’re not looking at how much bigger than you he is, like he doesn’t notice how you shiver every time he gets this close. Does he?

He taps a paragraph on the page, saying something about how this part is important, and we should go over this too, but his voice is softer now, almost tender. “You’re not even looking at the book. What’s up? Have you really just got a mental block for this?”

No, you’re just too attractive and it’s overwhelming. “Yup, think so,” you exhale, rubbing your sweaty palms on your leggings, “hey, what if we smoke before we study? I think I might focus better.”

Mingi seems to consider it. He scratches a nail down the page in thought - you notice he’s got some letters painted on his nails, and you want to ask. Eventually he shrugs, shutting the book and throwing it to the side. Your jaw drops that he gave up that easily, but he’s rummaging through his bag all of a sudden with ring-clad hands before he pulls out a little plastic bag. 

“I planned for this.”

It’s your turn to grin. 

“I mean, if you insist,” You tease, nudging him with your foot, and Mingi chuckles, low and sexy. The thought pops into your head again - you and him. It’s so easy, bantering back and forth, the nerves only electrifying you more. You remind yourself very quickly that this is nothing more than a study session, or preparing for one at least. 

Passing him the rolling tray from your bedside table, because you’d be damned if you were rolling with his stuff, you settle back on your pillows leisurely. He immediately begins to roll, pulling papers out of his zip-up pocket, and you want to ask him things rather than stare at his hands. Get to know him. Sue you, he’s pretty. “What do you major in?”

“Music production. So does Hongjoong, that’s how we know each other,” He answers easily, and you’re shocked initially, but actually… It makes sense. He’s relaxed and sometimes shy, but he can ride the line between confident and cocky - like he has two personas, the Mingi you see and the Mingi you actually get. It’s fun. “What about you?”

“English, believe it or not,” You say, and Mingi hums. “So you make music?”

He licks the paper, sealing the joint. “I’m not surprised. You seem smart like that,” He seems confused on where to smoke it, but you pass him an ashtray and he throws you a thumbs up as he lights it, inhaling deep and filling your room with the funky-smelling smoke, “but yeah, I make music. I’m a rapper.”

A rapper? So he’s good with his tongue. You shiver, “Right.”

“Oh, do you? Write, I mean?” He smiles at his own joke, eyes already half lidded and a little pink, handing you the joint; you’ll never admit you giggled at it too.

You take a few diligent tokes, ashing in the tray when necessary. “I do, sometimes, but I don’t get much free time anymore.”

“Mm, I bet,” You’re already a little giggly, and you hand the joint back with a warm feeling on your cheeks and limbs feeling a little slower, less in control. “I could… maybe show you a song I made. Only if you show me something you wrote. That would be cool, I think.”

You can’t believe you’re in here smoking with him, and he’s telling you things about himself, too. You can build on this. 

No - you’re getting ahead of yourself again.

“I’d be down,” You smile softly. He hands you the joint again, another quarter smoked, his lips now with a permanent curve of bliss. He’s high, and he looks so pretty when he’s high, fixing his dark shaggy hair with long, ring clad fingers. He lays on his side in front of you, grabbing your teddy bear to hold at his chest while he leans on his hand, comfortable. There’s one burning question in your mind as you examine him, his zip-up slipping off his shoulder, “honestly, I’m surprised you don’t major in fashion. You dress really cool.”

That slow, lazy smirk forms again, ear to ear. You almost choke as you inhale, but you manage to keep it in. “You think I dress cool?”

You shrug, suddenly aware of how hot it is in your room. “I mean… yeah.”

“Thanks,” He says, then adds, almost too casually, “I think you’re really pretty.”

It lands harder than he expected. Your breath stutters, and he licks his lips, eyes widening like he thinks he’s gone too far. “Is that-“ he hesitates, “-okay? Can I say that?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah, you- yeah, you can say that.”

Now it’s his turn to look nervous, teeth worrying at his lip but this time like he’s trying not to smile too wide. He thinks you’re pretty? Really pretty? The compliment loops around in your head. You hand him the joint back, meaning to follow it up with a question but he simply puts it out in your ashtray, the finality causing you to pause. 

He moves into a sitting position with a quiet sigh, and rifles through his bag a little. Just as you’re about to speak, he pulls out his laptop - the screensaver is one of him, Hongjoong and Yunho from a holiday, you judge by the background of the shot, but he clicks away and types his password in too fast for you to examine it fully.

“Anyway,” He says, too deliberately normal, clicking on a file, “I’ve got some material from the professor. It should help clear things up.”

Just like that, he moves on like the compliment was nothing, like it didn’t linger between you. You assume you should too. 

Friends compliment each other, right? He’s already pulling the file up, dexterous fingers quick and practiced clicking on the pages he needs and your head spins pleasantly from the weed, rubbing your clammy hands on your legs again.

A few clicks of his cursor, and he motions you closer, utterly unaware of how intoxicating he smells this close - you’re pooling in your panties again. Your knees touch and this time it sends a shock through you, but you catch the gasp in your throat before it leaves. 

“Alright,” he says softly, voice deep, “take a look at this…”

Focusing on anything else feels impossible, but you push through it, determined - for him.

It’s only gotten worse.

Rather than the dreams just being sexual, now they’re something more homely and serious than your heart can handle. You’ve had no more study sessions, although you’re due one today, and you’ve had these godforsaken dreams almost every night. 

Mingi cooking you dinner in your kitchen, smelling of oil and something delicious. Mingi holding your hand, safe and sure, as you walk through the city at night. Restaurants with Mingi, him pouring you another glass of wine and giggling when your nose scrunches up at the taste.

It’s getting domestic rather than primal, and you’re not sure how to deal with it. It’s made you want him more, while the times you actually see him only remind you that he doesn’t see you like that. At least, not in real life.

To make matters worse, Mingi insisted you continue your study sessions - along with now sending you some motivational GIFs over text during the week to make sure you’re on top form, like that was meant to help your sick little crush - and now you find yourself sitting waiting for him in the library, heart already fluttering something stupid.

A carton of banana milk slides across the desk. 

You squeak and barely manage to catch it before it tips over, glad that the campus library is pretty much empty due to fall break and you can make however much noise as you like. The librarian would typically tell you off for saying one word, but she’s got her own nose in an old, weathered book, her eyes fluttering shut from sleep.

A big body drops into the seat across from yours, the weight of him making the table feel smaller. Mingi looks entirely too pleased with himself, nodding pointedly at the carton.

“That’s it, right?” He snaps his fingers, “that’s the one you like.”

You stare. It's the same exact one you get from the vending machine in the building where your economics class is every week, but given that you’re now on break you haven’t had a reason to go there. It had been hard, trying to do any form of studying without your banana milk, but… how could Mingi have noticed that you get this one? 

“How…” You shake your head. “How did you know?”

His eyebrow raises, looking confused, opening his laptop. 

“I always see you with one,” He says, as if it explains everything. Your gut clenches, and you feel something tingle in between your legs too, like all it takes is a carton of milk, making you feel nothing but desperate - it’s more than that, though. He noticed. 

A few clicks, and then he digs in his bag again, setting a carton of strawberry milk down for himself and a set of papers next to you both. Your heart flutters. “I brought worksheets too. I know, not really fun, but at least I can see what you know since you know… we weren’t exactly productive last time,” he tuts at you playfully, “bad influence.”

You gasp dramatically. “Excuse you. We studied after, and it was your weed.”

He nudges your ankle softly with his shoe. “And I brought you a banana milk,” he slides the papers over, “now do the sheets for me, you’re wasting time again.”

For him, you’d do anything. Your pencil scribbles across the paper as you write your name with a heart next to it, as if you’re not his only student. Mingi doesn’t notice - he takes the time to do something on his laptop. You wonder what, because he pulls his headphones over his head and starts working dutifully. It’s hard not to simply watch him at work and ignore what he asked you to do; he clocks in so quickly, eyes narrowing at the screen and lips mouthing words you can’t decipher. He’s comfortable in baggy jeans and a hoodie, chains and rings catching your attention but he looks amazing, like everything he wears is straight from a fashion show.

Shaking your head, you turn to the paper - but you read a total of one question before realising that you really have no idea what the fuck is going on in this class.

“Mingi,” You say finally, tapping your pencil on the page, “I need help.”

To your surprise, he pulls his headphones off his dark hair quickly and leans over to you, eyes flickering to your sheet. It takes everything in you not to kiss him then and there. 

“… That’s the first question,” He looks at you, taking in your blank expression, then exhales a laugh. “Okay, I’ve seen you in every class - do you just not focus at all?”

Flailing your limbs around dramatically, you groan, “it’s boring as hell. The lecturer is also boring as hell.”

He snorts, but instead of teasing you more like you expect him to, he pulls his chair around properly, close enough that your knees touch. A shiver wracks through your spine. 

“Alright,” he says gently, voice calmer, more soothing, “forget how she explained it. I’ll do it my way.”

He takes your pencil, fingers brushing against yours, sketching quick boxes and arrows across the page. 

“Okay,” he begins, “economics is just people making decisions but with maths.”

You blink. “I don’t think that’s correct.”

He grins, sharp nose scrunching, clearly pleased that you’re actually interested for once. “No, seriously. It’s people making choices because they want something and don’t have enough money or time for it. All we have to do is sound smart when we talk about it.”

He sketches two simple lines with your pencil, next to the questions on the sheet, a curve sloping upwards and another sloping down right next to it. You recognize it immediately, which makes you a little proud.

“Supply and demand,” You mumble, pointing at the page. His eyes brighten.

“See? You do know things,” He says softly, like it’s a secret. His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer, and you remember the party, how close he was then, and you forget everything you’ve ever learned. Fuck.

“So this,” He taps the downward curve, your cat-shaped eraser bobbing comically on the edge of the pencil, “is demand. People want less of something when it’s expensive, more when it’s cheap - dramatic, but predictable, right? Of course we do.”

“And supply,” He continues, tapping the other line, “that’s the opposite. Producers are greedy. They’re willing to sell more when prices are higher.”

He freezes, glancing sideways at you. “You still with me? That’s like, basic basic.”

You nod a little too fast. It makes sense, but fuck, are you allowed to kiss him yet? He’s so patient, so kind, and so cute that even his fucking teeth are cute. “Yeah. I’m here.”

His mouth twitches like he doesn’t quite believe you, but he lets it slide and draws a small dot where the lines intersect.

“Equilibrium,” You say, and he nods.

“The sweet spot,” He murmurs, and you shiver. This has to be some sort of fucked up joke. “Everyone’s equally unhappy here. Price equals quantity demanded equals quantity supplied. No shortages. No surplus.”

He leans back just enough to look at you properly. You’re not confused, rather determined, staring at the sheet. 

He fiddles with the eraser, rings glinting in the light. “So what part loses you?”

“All of it,” you admit, “but especially those shifts…? Why do things move?”

His expression softens. You wonder if he’s finally realised you’re hopeless, but he starts speaking again, more determined.

“Okay, so,” He flips to a clean section of the page and starts again, slower this time, drawing the same silly diagrams and the same silly dots and scribbles. His plump lips curl in focus, making him look so handsome that your hands unclench and clench in your lap. “Think of demand shifting like your banana milk.”

Your heart flutters.

“You don’t always want it, right?” He says casually, like he hasn’t just seen you so viscerally. “Like if it’s hot outside, or you’re stressed, or the lecture was particularly boring, then you want it more. I bet you’d even pay more.”

He’s right, you think, but why does this all make sense now, with him? He rubs at the page with your cat-shaped eraser and shifts the curve, oblivious to your internal plight. “That’s a demand increase. Same price, more quantity demanded.”

You stare at the page, then at him. “You’re using me as an example.”

“Well,” he shrugs, too nonchalantly for how you feel looking at him. “You’re the first thing I thought of.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the paper. He’s still got your pencil so you can’t fidget, but you can smell his cologne, mixing with the scent of books in the library. It feels way too intimate and the furthest you’ve gone is your knees touching. You want more, but you have to focus.

“And supply, then… if things get cheaper, or easier to produce, you can make more so supply increases,” You try, quieter and uncertain, but he nods encouragingly. “I think this actually makes some sense when you explain it.”

Something unreadable flickers across his face - pride, perhaps. “Good,” he says, softer, “I want you to get it.”

You smile, taking a sip of your banana milk that has you humming with glee. Tasty. He mirrors you and takes a sip of his, sliding the worksheet back towards you, his fingers lingering just a second too long to tap on the words printed. He’s got the same letters written across his fingernails again. 

“Try the next question,” He nudges you. “I’ll stay here.”

It takes you a second to decode, but you start to scribble down things here and there, trying to make heads or tails of the question. Mingi is silent the whole time but you feel him watching what you’re doing, and you feel the weight of his arm when he lays it on the back of the chair behind you.

Within a few minutes you seem to have written something of note, and you slide the paper back to him silently. 

He clicks his tongue without saying a word and leans forward closer to the desk. Dark eyes narrow at the page and read over the few lines you’ve written, before he side eyes you with a satisfied smirk.

“Good girl,” It’s said teasingly, and he smooths your hair, too casual. Your tummy flips but his grin is content, unknowing, his eyes forming crescents, “see, I told you you’d get it. Try the next one.”

Somehow, it starts to seem easier with him around, and over time, he has to help you less and less. It doesn’t quell the burning in your gut, only igniting it to the point it starts to get unsufferable, and all you can do is try to ignore the flames. 

The next time he’s between your legs in your dreams is in your room again, and it feels so much more vivid now that you know more about him, about the way he speaks to you, the way he acts. 

“What a pretty fucking pussy,” He muses, eyes fixated directly on your core. He uses his thumbs to pull your lower lips apart, and you can see those letters on his nails. He watches your folds stick together with arousal once he lets go, groaning, running his fingertip up your slit - the contact makes you gasp, hips bucking tentatively for more. “Does she always get this wet?” he spits down on your mound, watching it drip, “fuck- fucking creamy, baby, shit.”

He lets out a little moan before he’s diving in. You can’t get any relief, trying to squirm away - his broad shoulders are spreading your thighs apart as well as pinning them, and his hands are still playing with your pussy while he tongues over your slit.

“Tasty too, good girl, mmf-“ he whines, moving to pull you closer by your ass instead, his rings biting into your skin. He says it the way he did in the library, and your cunt gushes so wet his lips click against it; the moan you let out is like you’re in distress, hand gripping onto the headboard. 

How does he know you like this? His lips suck over your clit and you wail, reaching down with your spare hand to push his head in. 

“Fuck, Mingi,” you gasp, writhing, “so fucking good, please-“ 

Yanking at his hair, you can’t help but grind your hips into his face. He doesn’t stop you, hands gripping you and pulling you in rhythm against his tongue, and you think he’s gonna make you cum already. It’s too quick, debilitating as you hump his fat tongue to your orgasm and you pull at dark strands, looking down your body to see dark, narrowed eyes staring right up at you and he groans deep against your folds, you’re so close, almost there-

This time you wake up horny but beyond fed up, almost ignorant to the throbbing between your legs. It’s quick and easy to make yourself cum with your fingers, sticking your hands down your pants to rub one out while thinking of soft lips and rapid rapper tongues, and after that it’s just another day of being haunted by him, you suppose. 

Except this time you have a study session at Mingi’s house, and you haven’t been there since the party. 

It may have been the excitement and nerves surrounding the plans that caused the dream, but you’re too tired to care about it, yawning over exaggeratedly and stretching the sleep away from your limbs. You’ve studied hard, had a few more sessions with him that weren’t romantically charged and watched countless videos online. You’ve even read some books, some that he gave you and some that you found yourself - you’re ready to impress him, glancing over at the many papers and folders in your bag.

However, despite the attempts to gain his praise, you’re beginning to accept that you’re doomed to a life without Mingi, or worse, a life with Mingi just as your friend. 

Every single time something appears to click between you, or you have what Wooyoung would call A Moment, something interrupts or distracts one of you. Then, the moment evaporates, and nothing happens. While you’ve been sitting on pins for days, waiting for something to happen - you’re also unsure something will happen.

You’re unsure if you’ve read the entire situation the wrong way, and he really is just a good, kind friend, and your insatiability has just driven you to blur the line between fantasy and reality.

When you finally get ready and go downstairs after doomscrolling on your phone, Wooyoung and San are both looking at you like the cats who got the cream. They’re standing in the kitchen, heads fully spun towards you while you hover in the doorway in your nice jeans with a tote bag on your shoulder. If it surprises either of them that you actually have books in your bag, they don’t say anything, only smiling wider when you bounce from foot to foot. 

You crumble first. “Okay, why are you guys staring at me?”

San answers your question with a question, sipping at his mug of coffee, “Where are you going?”

“You know where I’m going,” You scoff, crossing the kitchen to fill your water bottle up. Wooyoung parts from the sink to let you get there, but his smile doesn’t fall, so pleased your blood starts to boil. “It is not a big deal. We’re just friends.”

“Sure,” Wooyoung says finally, and you groan, stomping your feet. “He’s wasting his time helping you study for a test you’re gonna fail anyway because he’s a good friend.”

You scrunch your nose up, “Wouldn’t you guys do that for me?”

“No,” they reply at the same time, and you screw your water bottle lid on, scowling.

“Wooyoung, you said he was kind. This is him being kind.”

“He’s trying to get in your pants, like, romantically,” San says, and you want to launch your water bottle at him. “Have you tried asking him? Kissing him, maybe?”

“He is tutoring me, Choi San.”

“You need to be tutored in more than economics if you’re this stupid.”

You gasp, affronted, “Since when could boys and girls not be friends?”

Wooyoung snorts, “Since the boy and girl in question both like each other and are being stupid about it.”

It pisses you off even more. They don’t know the situation you’re in, the moments the two of you have had where you think something might break through and every single time, nothing happens, and you’re reminded that it will never happen. It feels like they’re mocking you, and you mumble a “Whatever, goodbye,” that seems to be enough to placate them.

They wave you goodbye, and you choose not to tell them the extent of your hangout to avoid teasing - you’re going to his house. If they caught wind of this, they’d be buying wedding outfits and booking venues.

However, this could really prove catastrophic for you. The dreams were realistic already, but now if you have the information of what his bedroom looks like stored inside your brain, they’re only going to get worse - more variety, more realistic.

You think pathetic horny thoughts the entire walk there, nervous and excited at the same time, hands smoothing down your hair over and over as if the gentle fall breeze was going to make you look effortlessly cool. Not only are you going to his house - his room - you’re hyperaware of your body, of every movement you make, the ache between your legs that’s been lingering since you woke up; it all feels a little too much. 

When you knock on the front door, it swings open almost immediately.

“Mmm- hey, girl,” Mingi says, tall and looming, hair a little messy and curling at the ends, glasses on. His oversized tee is loose on his frame like he just woke up and threw it over his massive shoulders. He looks domestic, like he could be your real boyfriend - it’s exactly the version of him your dreams have been conjuring, and it’s getting to you before you’ve even walked through the door. “You’re right on time, look at that!”

“Hey,” Your voice is small, knees feeling weak.

He steps aside to let you in, and his place smells faintly like weed and, well, that scent of Mingi that you’ve been focused on since you met him. You can smell what must be someone cooking something delicious too, faintly, and when you focus you can hear his housemate tinkering around in the kitchen. 

His house looks different in the daytime. The sofas look lived in and comfortable and you can see the music memorabilia properly, rap album records and posters donning the walls. It seems they’re both very serious about this kind of stuff, and your brain betrays you instantly, noting everything for future dreams.

“Room’s this way,” he says, already turning down the hallway like he doesn’t see you taking everything in. You almost trip over a half-dead potted plant on your way.

His bedroom is smaller than you expect - you wonder if Hongjoong got the bigger room - and it’s neat but not too neat. His bed is made but the pillows are a little smushed, desk cluttered with papers with scribbled lines of writing, packs of rolling papers on his bedside table and empty baggies in the bin. A guitar sits in the corner, obviously well loved and with a large sticker on the corner of the body. He seems content with you looking around, trying to shuffle some papers into a neat pile until he flops down on the floor by his bed, patting the space next to him.

“We can spread out here,” he motions, brushing his hair out of his face, “I don’t have another chair for the desk, I’m sorry.”

You hesitate for a half second too long before joining him, back against the bed, knees bent. You’re so close that your legs touch again, and you shiver despite being used to it by now. He doesn’t move away.

“So,” he says, nodding towards your tote bag, “ready to actually pass this test? This is our last session.”

You grin, reaching into your bag. “I may surprise you.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow, smiling. “Now I’m excited. Don’t tell me you actually-“

You lay out your notes. You’ve not done a lot, but whether he was expecting something amazing or not it doesn’t matter, because the noise of awe he makes is all you need. Your colour coded, annotated tabs stick out from the textbook he gave you before, and his teasing expression drops, replaced with genuine surprise.

“You did.” He murmurs. “You actually studied.”

“Wow,” you say dryly, “you sound full of confidence in me.”

He laughs, shaking his head, flipping through a few pages, “no, not at all. This is good. I’m so impressed, y’know, you didn’t even care a few weeks ago?” his eyes scan your writing quickly, “you did elasticity? On your own? You didn’t even text me!”

You nod. “A demon came to me in a dream and taught it to me.”

Mingi pales, fingers paused on the tabs. “Please don’t joke like that.”

You laugh, shaking your head, “No, I actually just read the books you gave me and watched some videos online. It’s not too hard when someone explains it to you the way you need.”

Despite your last statement, a warm expression creeps over his face, pride softening his features. “I’m so proud of you.”

The words hit harder than they should. Your throat tightens, and you have to look back down at your notes so he doesn’t see the emotion spread across your face. 

“Okay,” he says, scooting a little closer, “let’s test you. Walk me through this one.”

He points to a practice question. You explain, a little slow at first because you haven’t talked about these things out loud before, but once you find your words it gets smoother. He listens intently, eyes on you, not the page; when you finish with a satisfied smile, he nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says, “that’s it. Well done.”

“Oh,” you smile. “Really? That’s it?”

“You nailed it,” He confirms, and you swat at him again. Surely not. “I’m serious! See, it was always there. You just needed it explained in a way that made sense to you.”

Your knee nudges his when he shifts to point at another question, neither of you moving away. The room feels quieter, heavier, like the air has thickened. You keep going, question after question, and each time he needs to prompt you less and less. Sometimes he just watches you scribble away or think, stumbling over your words, his chin resting on his hand in a way that has to make the rings dig into him, expression soft and unreasonable.

At one point, you get stuck, frowning at a graph.

“Okay, wait,” you mutter, but he’s already there.

“Remember what we said about equilibrium?” He says gently, leaning over your shoulder. His arm comes up and behind you, on the mattress. He doesn’t seem to realise it, but it’s just like at the library, and you want to scowl at the effect he has on you. 

Your heart pounds, but you focus, staring at the page. “Equilibrium…”

“You already know this,” he points at the graph, finger dangerously close to yours, “you do, I promise. You’re just second-guessing yourself. Go with your gut.”

It feels like it means a million things at once. You glance up, and he’s closer than you expect - your breath stutters, and he continues looking at the page. His thumb flicks over a few of your tabs, considering.

“You know, it’s really cute that you put in this much effort,” he says absently, and your brain short circuits, stumbling out a few words that seem to make him snap awake. He finally looks at you, realises how it sounded and for a moment, neither of you move, looking at each other.

He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think,” he says after a moment, “you’re gonna do way better than you think you are.”

The praise sits between you. He’s been giving you a lot of it, you think, and it feels like something unspoken is there. Neither of you reach for it, something that doesn’t surprise you. 

Instead, you sit shoulder to shoulder again, letting him show you how to understand economics as the sun dips lower and the room grows dimmer. Nothing happens again, and somehow that makes it worse, causing the knot in your tummy to tighten to an excruciating point. 

You’re really not sure what’s happening anymore. 

Dealing with vivid sex dreams about a man who doesn’t like you back is one thing, but dealing with them while said man is forcing you to study for a test is another thing. Still, if it hadn't been Song Mingi helping you you think you never would’ve studied, never would’ve bothered turning up for the test, and you would’ve been sitting on the same exact cheap plastic chair next semester resitting the entire thing.

You get to class a few minutes before the test starts, a mere few days after your last study session, Wooyoung in tow groaning about how ‘messed up the last minute test is’ - you don’t have the heart to tell him it was mentioned weeks ago and he just wasn’t listening so it can’t be considered last minute. You’re more focused on the crippling fear of you failing this test after all of the work you’ve done, the colour coded tabs and annotations that Mingi checked over to make sure you were on the right track, and you know that Mingi is never on time and so won’t be present to look over your notes with you. 

However, you walk into the room and see a carton of banana milk settled on your desk.

There’s only a few other people in here, you, Wooyoung and a few others, but a quick scan shows you Mingi is sitting in his seat and is doing very well at pretending to be occupied. He flips through a folder of notes, and you hover in the doorway, Wooyoung elbowing you frantically. 

“That’s-“ he gasps, “he- that’s-“

Your mind is racing yourself. Bringing one for you before when you studied was one thing, but he’s brought you one before the test that could determine your fate with this class, and he’s acting like it’s nothing, like it hasn’t shattered your heart into a million pieces that he actually fucking thought of you, unprompted.

Wooyoung continues spluttering behind you as you continue to your desk, waving at Mingi on his way, and you shoot him a look filled with nerves and want. He’s even put the straw in ready for you, so when you sit down, you take a grateful sip instantly. Mid-sip, Wooyoung snatches it from your hand to see a scribbled good luck note stuck on the other side, complete with a drawing of a chicken holding his own carton of milk.

“This is ridiculous,” He mumbles, running a hand through his newly cherry red hair, grabbing the paper between two fingers, “you two are playing a game that does not need to be played.”

“Whatever that means,” you sigh, snatching it back.

Avoiding staring at the side of your crush’s head, you look back down at the milk, contemplating while the class fills up. It’s not long until the professor comes in, and lays down the paper tests on everyone’s desks. Everyone looks nervous apart from Wooyoung, who just generally does not care, and Mingi, who you know is more than prepared. 

A few minutes go by while she talks, and when the class is allowed to start you look down at the questions and hang on… you actually know what this test is talking about. You shoot Mingi a look and he’s already staring at you, smiling with his teeth like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. It hurts your heart, but you smile back, shooting him a nod filled with everything he needs to know.

The test goes by like a breeze, banana milk aiding you along the way. You’re not convinced you’ve done amazing, per se, but you think you’ve done well enough to pass. The entire class pours out at the end of the hour before you have the chance to tell Mingi that you think you’ve done alright. Still, the professor tells you that she’ll upload everyone’s grades online later today, and you hope that you have the chance to talk to him later, for him to tell you how well you’ve done. 

Your mind runs with thoughts as Wooyoung yaps the entire way home. He talks about how hard the test was, how annoying the professor is, how you’ve probably done just fine with the star student’s help, and then he pauses in his tracks on the way home. 

“Speaking of,” he says, pointing a finger at you, “are you going to Mingi’s party tonight?”

You freeze. Your heart skips a beat, and you lick your lips, swallowing hard, mouth suddenly feeling insanely dry.

He hasn’t invited you. If he hasn’t invited you to his party, then that definitely means that there’s nothing between you, that you really have just overanalysed things in your head. It feels like life couldn’t be any crueler to you right now.

You swallow again. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, and Wooyoung’s brow rises, red hair flicking around his jaw due to the wind. He sees right through you. “Okay, fine. I wasn’t invited.”

He scowls, “That’s fucked up, especially with how much time you spend together.” He mumbles, contemplating. The two of you start to walk again before he continues, his hands shoved in his pockets, “whatever, you’re coming with us anyway.”

“I can’t turn up there after he didn’t invite me. You’re deranged.”

“That is exactly what you did last time.”

He leaves no room to argue, and when you cross the threshold to your front door, San is perched on the sofa waiting for your arrival. He’s shoving food into his face, cheeks puffed out beyond belief but he perks up upon your return, eyes forming crescents and hands quickly moving to the TV remote to pause whatever he’s got on. Another soppy drama show, you think, since he looks flushed like he’s just been emotional over it.

“How did the test go?!” He shrieks, stumbling over bare-foot in shorts that show too much thigh. Wooyoung’s eyes linger on his bare skin and you scoff. 

“It went fine,” you say, walking in to collapse on the sofa next to the San-shaped dip, “I think I may have scraped a pass. Grades are out later.”

Unfortunately, despite you wanting anything but, you press play on the show that San’s watching and it engrosses you. The boys take themselves out to the kitchen, you assume to fix you all something to eat. From what you can gather, the show is an old one about some kids in school trying to become K-Pop idols. It does seem pretty emotional, but the only thing you can cry over right now is a tall rapper that doesn’t want you. 

It only takes a few minutes, but a loud, hysterical laugh from Wooyoung from the other room makes you sigh. Something’s happened, and you hear the telltale sound of feet clambering down the hallway to thrust his phone in your face, all bright smiles and too-red hair.

“Grades are out already,” He’s still laughing, motioning to the block letters, a number sixty on his screen, “how the fuck did I pass?”

San walks in laughing behind him, hands clapping on your other friend’s shoulders in glee, “I have no idea how you did it but I’m so proud.”

Your chest clenches. Shit. They’re out already? Either that’s a good sign for the class or a very, very bad sign, but you dig in your pocket and pull your phone out to unlock it. No texts from Mingi, not that you expected any, but you quickly open up your student portal and sign in, clicking through the pages you need to get to the class overview. 

It takes too long to load. Wooyoung drops into the San-shaped dip and San leans over him, two sets of peering eyes focused on your phone screen, and they’re both completely silent as they wait. You think San’s stopped breathing. The loading circle spins mockingly, over and over, and then the page loads.

Sixty-two.

Wait.

“Oh my god, I fucking-”

“You passed!” Wooyoung screams, shaking you by the shoulders. “Do you know what this means? Shit, baby, I’m so proud!”

You know what this means. You don’t have to resit that class, you don’t have to ever bother with a stupid economics class at all ever again, you never have to see that professor again, and you have Song Mingi to thank for it all. It feels like a joint achievement, if anything, and you want to text him and tell him and thank him but - should you? Is that okay?

San and Wooyoung bounce around the living room screaming and shouting so loud that you get brought back to reality.

“I fucking passed,” you breathe in disbelief, and San cheers again.

“Hell yeah, you did!” He hugs you, warm and grounding and so nice but not what you want at all. “We’re so proud. We’re gonna get drunk, and high, and go have fun at your boyfriend’s party-”

“San,” Wooyoung pauses, face suddenly straight, shaking his head solemnly, “not her boyfriend. In fact, he didn’t even invite her.”

San’s jaw drops. “He… what? But I thought you-”

“Yeah, I know.” Wooyoung grumbles. You want them to talk more, eyebrow raising, tossing your phone to the floor haphazardly. It’s already smashed enough, you don’t even think it could smash anymore.

“You know what?” You narrow your eyes, and both boys shake their heads too quickly. That’s weird. “Tell me what you know. Now.”

San waves his hand in your face, trying to calm you down, “Just that you two were getting close. I promise, that’s all I’ve been told.”

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” Wooyoung shrugs, too easy. It makes you want to scream. “You’re coming with us anyway, baby. I couldn’t care less what Song Mingi thinks his guestlist is.”

“Hey.” San says, weak. “He is actually a really nice guy.”

You groan, flailing your limbs, and they finally shut up - or at least they start talking about something else.

By the time you get to the party, your head spins, more drunk than you ever have been, feeling nice in your pretty dress and your best boots. The boys had insisted that a strong pregame was essential to celebrate yours and Wooyoung’s results, and Wooyoung fixes your makeup for you at the front door, too sober for your liking, thumbs smudging your eyeliner perfectly.

It’s a little like you’re entering the lion’s den, preparing to be eaten, but your brain hasn’t let you fully understand who’s house you’re entering and the fact that you weren’t even originally invited, too tipsy to care. 

San swings the front door open like he lives there, cheering with a happy, intoxicated flush on his face at whoever he sees first, and you let him introduce you to a few people while you giggle along and smile politely. It turns out a few of these people already know who you are, from the boys mentioning you you presume, so it’s easy to mingle and drink a little more when they offer it.

Your head spins. A little embarrassed, you remind yourself it’s a damn celebration. You never thought you would’ve passed that class.

Wooyoung drags you along to the kitchen, forcing another drink in your hand, and you get an immense sense of deja vu. This time, he’s learned and it’s a rum and coke he places into your grip, while you feel present physically and not mentally. San catches up to you after a while, joining in on whatever conversation the other man is leading seamlessly, and you nod and hum along like you know what’s happening, swaying in your spot.

Two big, firm hands land on your shoulders, and Wooyoong’s eyes widen comically at the figure behind you. 

“You came!” It’s slurred, but you’d know that voice anywhere - Mingi, in front of you when you turn around, black tank top tight and cargo trousers baggy. You feel lightheaded for a different reason all of a sudden, eyes scraping down big shoulders, big arms and even bigger thighs, the way his body tightens at his waist, the way he slings an arm around you like it belongs there. He smells of tequila and bad mistakes, and in any other situation you’d question his behaviour but now, inebriated, you’re leaning in, inhaling deeply for more, letting him ramble on in that deep, soothing voice. “I’m so happy you came! I didn’t- I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to come, I wasn’t sure-“ he hiccups, “I wasn’t sure you’d want to, y’know? It’s not your type of-“

“You’re right, she probably would’ve said no,” San manages for you, and you nod along. 

“They dragged me here again, ‘cause of my test results,” you laugh airily, and Mingi’s eyes widen, round and dark, his hands way too present on your body. He moves down to grip your waist, pulling you into him, and you clock that he’s as drunk as you are - you know that he’d never do this sober, but the warmth of his torso against yours is so nice that you can’t complain. You see Wooyoung trying to drag San away from the corner of your eye.

Mingi huffs out an impatient breath, staring directly into your eyes. It makes your thighs tremble and he raises an eyebrow as if to prompt you, “Your test. How did you do? Why didn’t you-“ he swallows hard, trying to catch his breath, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you invite me, for real?” You blurt, a bit bolder now that you’re alone - perhaps it’s knowing that Wooyoung can’t see you now, but definitely due to the liquid confidence flowing through you. He at least has the decency to look guilty at your words, one hand coming to the back of his neck.

“I- I’m sorry,” He says earnestly, bouncing from one foot to another, too full of energy and the tequila, “I should have. There was no other- no other reason, I just really didn’t think it’d be your scene.”

You frown. He’s probably right, but he doesn’t know that you’d do anything, go anywhere for him. “I- uhm,” you sip your drink, eyes flickering to the back door. It’s ajar, people milling in and out past you both but like before, the kitchen is quieter than everywhere else. You manage to look back at him, voice quiet when you speak, “I passed, Mingi. I managed to- well, I barely passed the class, but I passed. Thank you for-“

You’re cut off by his arms wrapping around you. He shouts with glee, shaking you around in his grip and causing your drink to splash a bit. If he’s bothered by the liquid leaking on his skin he doesn’t show it, pulling back from you with a huge grin that you can’t help but mirror, issues forgotten. He’s jostled your bag off your shoulder, and you scoop it back up as he gets noticeably more excited, smile growing wider. 

“Do you know how proud of you I am?” He gushes, eyes honest, and you melt. Your heart soars, and you smile so wide it hurts your cheeks - this is all you had wanted. Mingi pulls you back into another hug. 

This time, it lasts longer and he holds you close, letting you feel his warmth and you wrap your arms around his middle, content. It’s nice, his dark hair tickling your neck as he nuzzles into the crook there - you hear him take a deep breath, holding you closer, and it makes you feel satisfied, somewhat. If this is all you can get, this is okay, you’re sure you can deal with this.

But Mingi pulls away, and something in his eyes tells you despite the alcohol, he knows what’s going on, knows what he wants, knows that you’re feeling it too.

“I’m so proud of you, so fucking proud,” His chest heaves. He smells of tequila but beneath it, you can smell him, and it makes you lean in closer, head dizzy. “Can I just…?”

“Just what?” You ask, fingers curling around his forearms in the hopes it grounds you - it makes you worse, letting out a whimper at the feeling of his skin on yours that you can’t quite hide, “Mingi, t-tell me.”

He licks his lips, shaking his head as if to get rid of some of his thoughts, dark hair tousling and he looks so handsome, looking down at you over his sunglasses with uncertainty. It looks like he wants to say too many things at once, with no clue on where to start.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, and your breath hitches. What? “I- I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”

Nodding before you can question why, when, what or how, Mingi leans forward, nose nudging yours, finally pressing his lips against you. It’s as satisfying as you always thought it would be, and he’s nothing but enthusiastic - he’s immediately letting his tongue push between your lips and into your mouth so far it pushes against your teeth, like he’s trying to swallow you whole. His fists grip into the fabric of your dress and pull you into him, moving down to grip onto your waist and keep you close, afraid you may try to run away now that he’s finally gotten you.

You kiss him back with just as much enthusiasm, placing wet, open mouthed kisses on his lips when he tries to pull away because you can’t help yourself - is this really happening, for real? He tastes of tequila, jager and Mingi, and you open your mouth in a jagged moan for more. 

When he sees how impatient you are, he cracks. He pushes you against the wall and forces his tongue back into your mouth, moaning, gravelly and deep from his chest; your legs start to tremble, and he reaches down with a strong arm and hooks one of your legs around his waist.

“Oh,” You moan at the way he moves you around easily, his heavy breaths spilling into your mouth. He’s impatient, fingers scrambling at the bare skin of your leg, touching you as much as he can in a split second like he’s still scared it’ll be over soon. He rocks forward with his hips and meets your core, clothed but you’re sure he can feel how wet you are just from being in his presence, finally feeling his lips against yours for real and not in a dream. “Oh, shit-“

“So pretty,” He murmurs, kissing you again, accidentally rutting against your cunt once, twice, before he forces himself to stop. You can barely focus, unbelieving that he’s real, right in front of you, touching you and kissing you like this - but you’ll be damned if you’re not getting answers. “So gorgeous, lovely girl,” he breathes, urgent, eager, “so smart, so proud, mm-“

He moves away again, sucking over your neck, and you take the moment to speak hoarsely, “Mingi, what- what is this? What’s… what’s going on here?”

“I-“ He freezes. His lips hover at your skin before he pulls away just enough to look at you, palms unclenching and clenching at your waist like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “… Isn’t it obvious?” He asks quietly. “Do I have to say it?”

There’s no smugness or cockiness in his tone anymore, only hesitation, like he’s standing on the edge of something and afraid he’ll fall if he says it out loud. You read his face for something, anything that tells you how he feels, but all you see is need, his eyebrows knitting together in pure desire - it just confuses you more. 

“No,” You say, even though it’s a lie and you wish you did know, kissing the corner of his mouth once again - hoping it channels the gentleness and encouragement that you need to show, not the nerves of wanting something so seriously that it feels like it may shatter your insides. It seems to work, because he kisses you again, rings biting into your thigh when he grips you firmer.

Hands moving to Mingi’s hair, you pull lightly at the strands, bringing him as close to you as possible. He groans at the slight pain, nose nudging yours as he devours your mouth, lips so plump and overwhelming that you try your best to kiss back but are left whimpering into his mouth. He controls it, just as you imagined he would, moving you this way and that; he nips at your bottom lip, prompting you to open your mouth and let him massage his tongue over yours, almost useless while he consumes you. 

You think your dreams are going to be way too vivid from here on out, overwhelmed with the knowledge of what he actually tastes like and how he actually holds you - unsure but desperate. He’s good at this too, and you curse yourself; he’s perfect, he’s everything, and this is probably going to be all you’ll get, a drunken kiss in his kitchen.

“We can set up the beer pong in here-” 

Mingi springs from you like he’s been burned. His cheeks are flushed, lips slick with a mixture of your spit and he spins around to see Hongjoong, looking just as guilty as he did in the last party when he interrupted you but without his tiara, jaw slack, shocked, round eyes flitting between the two of you.

“Or not.” He offers. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you two had finally-“

Mingi starts to babble loudly, drowning out the shorter man, hands waving and mouth making some incoherent high pitched noises that have your eyebrows knitted in confusion. Your chest is still heaving against his damn kitchen wall as you try to catch your breath, yanking down the hem of your dress and he continues babbling - you just about catch the end, when he says, clear as day, “There is nothing going on here.”

Your heart starts to race. Right. You knew that, really, but - well, for a second, you’d hoped that it really was going to be something, forgetting that you’re drunk and so is he and you’re still standing in his kitchen ramrod straight like you’ve been electrocuted. He didn’t even have the decency to take you away to his room - why would he bother, you think, damning yourself for letting your brain run away with hope and excitement. He could have hidden you away from prying eyes and Hongjoong, who seems to interrupt anything good you’ve ever been given by the world, but he didn’t. 

It was nothing. An accident, even. Something you shouldn’t have ever dreamed of.

Speaking of Hongjoong, he huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “It didn’t look like-“

“It was nothing,” You cut him off this time, voice a lot more stable than you feel. You don’t look at Mingi, but from the corner of your eye you see something written on his face, something guilty and upset and like he’s at war with himself, and you can’t be bothered to spend any more time trying to figure him out tonight. “It wasn’t anything. Hey, have you seen San and Wooyoung?”

Hongjoong nods, a small pout on his lips. “Living room. Seriously, sorry about that, I-“

“It was nothing,” You repeat, and he nods again, accepting it - finally. You hear some commotion as you turn your back, hushed whispers that again, you don’t have the energy to try to decipher.

Beelining towards the living room, you’re pleased that San and Wooyoung can tell just by the look on your face that you’re ready to leave. They spring up from the sofa, drinks discarded, arms coming to your frame to usher you to a quieter place - it ends up being outside, in their front lawn, and it happens before you even process it’s coming.

Gagging, your body folds, and you vomit right on your crush’s front lawn, just about avoiding your nice boots. Wooyoung stifles his laugh - not very well - and San elbows him behind you, unamused, hand rubbing up your back. 

“That’s alright, get it up,” He soothes. “Jeez, we shouldn’t have let you drink this much. Let’s get you home, yeah?”

“I wanna know what the hell happened,” Wooyoung argues, and the other man sighs loudly in response, making him groan. “Fine. We’ll talk when we get home.”

The walk home is longer than you remember, made even worse by how your tummy still flips. You’re not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the kiss or Hongjoong interrupting or it being nothing or some fucked up combination of all of it but you hold back sobs the whole way home, arms enveloping your middle until you finally cross the threshold into your house.

The boys move quickly into the kitchen. Wooyoung still eyes you, unimpressed that he’s left in the dark but he starts to fill up three plain glasses of water, hopefully to calm all of you down but San simply waits, arms folded over a broad chest, eyebrow raised until you finally decide to speak.

“He didn’t…” You breathe. Your handbag drops to the floor unceremoniously, lipgloss and compact clattering out of the bag, and San moves to pick them up before you can even ask him to. Wooyoung moves to you, quick across the kitchen to put his arms around your frame. “I don’t think it’s like that between us. He- Mingi didn’t say he liked me, or anything, we just… Well, we kissed, but…”

Tears are starting to form in your eyes. San and Wooyoung share a look, and San appears bewildered, “What do you mean?” He shoves your things back into your bag, pushing it onto the table, eyes soft when he turns to you, “honey, I can’t put this any simpler. You are awful at economics, and the man offered to tutor you. Even Woo wouldn’t waste his time like that just for some sex.”

“It’s true,” Wooyoung says, hands gentle where they soothe over your shoulders, “I feel it in my gut that he likes you back. Really.”

“Then,” you sniffle, “why didn’t he-“

“Tomorrow, no alcohol, you and Mingi are having a conversation,” he urges, “all the cards on the table. I’m sick and tired of seeing you pining.”

You sigh, “It won’t solve anything. He doesn’t like me like that. He can’t like me like that, I know it.”

“Would you listen to yourself?” Wooyoung laughs, “he had his tongue in your mouth less than an hour ago. You’re drunk and sad, he was drunk and Mingi. You both need to get some sleep and talk tomorrow.”

Turning to San, you expect a different response, but he gives you the same look - slightly amused at your unneccessary plight, but very firm. Tomorrow, you’ll be embarrassed that you got so drunk over passing a test that you made out with your crush and cried in your kitchen to your friends, but right now you’re too tired and sad to care. He hands you your bag, items back in safely, and the other man ushers you to your bedroom, not minding at all that you’re sniffling and whining the entire way there. 

The pretty boots you chose for tonight are pulled off by Wooyoung while you sniffle and drizzle on the end of your bed. He doesn’t seem to mind, letting you mess up your mascara and your eyeliner in dark tracks down your cheeks until he sighs so loudly, seriously that it shocks you. He throws your boots on the floor by the door. 

“Promise me,” he says, and then storms over to place his hands on your shoulder. You think he’s still a little drunk too, but he says it with so much conviction that your tears stop in their tracks, eyes round and vulnerable as you look up at him. “Promise me that once you wake up in the morning, you will talk to the man.”

You sniffle, folding your arms over your chest like a child, “Don’t want to anymore.”

“Barefaced lie,” San snorts, and you blink through wetness to see him standing at the door. Was he always there? “Sweetheart, you’ve been making this entirely more complicated than it needs to be.”

Wooyoung pulls your dress over your head and slides a big, oversized t-shirt straight back over you - you think it’s one of his, the hem too stretched and the print a little stained with hair dye. “Tomorrow, full honesty,” He points a finger in your face that makes you go cross-eyed. “Promise me. No more lies. No more beating around the bush. Everything gets said.”

“I promise, Wooyo,” you garble, although now that you’ve stopped crying, all you can feel is exhaustion taking over your body. 

Your body hits your mattress before you recognise you’re falling, and Wooyoung tuts, covering you with your blanket. Everything’s so comfortable all of a sudden, and you feel a hand move a pillow underneath your head to support it - it feels like a damn cloud.

The last thing you register is San’s laugh and the sound of a camera shutter before you pass out.

It’s almost annoying this time, after the almost-confession. 

Mingi heaves deep, staggered breaths into your neck, wearing the same outfit from the party last night - baggy cargos, too many chains, a tight tank top. A bead of sweat drips from already damp, long, dark hair, down the tempting curve of his neck and you’re already won over, too desperate for him to care, reaching up to drag your tongue up his skin. 

“Fu-uck, that’s it,” He moans, deep, gravelly, hands determined where they pull down your shorts. You’re left in your panties, edges of your vision fuzzy with your dream and he’s quick to crowd into your space again, thick thighs forcing yours apart. He makes quick work of his trousers, undoing the button and forcing them past his ass just enough to rut his boxer clad erection against your pussy. “There, there you go honey, fuck, move against me-“

You do, writhing and bucking your hips to grind your swollen clit against his bulge over and over, letting him move from your neck to your lips. He kisses your mouth finally, and fuck you know what he’s like now, enthusiastic and all consuming. His tongue forces into your mouth just like it did earlier, when this was real. His lips are slick against yours because he’s so messy with it, desperate and bucking against you like he can’t get enough. 

You can’t, either, and with desperate fingers moving to his boxers frantically you beg, “Mingi, please, inside, wan’it-“

He groans, long and broken, rings biting into your skin when he grips your hips and pulls you down hard against him, “Yeah, want it inside, my girl? Can you take it for me?”

My girl. Your head spins, your hands scrambling for purchase against the sheets, his arms, anything, finally gripping wet strands and tugging. Mingi whines this time, too high pitched to be normal, and you struggle to direct his attention to you until his fingertips curl around the waistband of your panties and pull down. He yanks them off your ankle, your leg hanging in the air when he moves back over you and thrusts down again, into your newly exposed cunt, wet and wanting.

“Answer me,” He’s determined, rocking against you so steadily you’re worried you might cum from just this, “can you? Tell me you want me to fuck you, baby, please, tell me- tell me you can take it.”

“I can t-take it,” you cry out without a beat, and he nods, meeting your lips again, “inside, inside-“

It seems to work to convince him, and he leans back on muscled thighs. You take him in, the broad expanse of his shoulders and the way he tapers in at the waist, down to the beginning of his Calvin boxers. 

He pulls up the fabric of his tank top just enough to let you see it, the beginning of his happy trail, and it’s never gone this far before. You pull yourself up onto your elbows, excited but nerves going haywire, spread eagle and naked from the waist down, and he finally starts to pull at the waistband. 

Down, down, and the smattering of hair at his base has you gasping, toes curling where your legs lay relaxed over his, and you see the base, and then-

You wake up with shorts so wet that you know you’ve orgasmed in your sleep, and now you’re certain it’s gone too far.

Without needing to make yourself cum like every other morning one of these vivid dreams occurred, you have a clear head and can only think that something has got to give. Looking back on what your friends said last night, it feels right that you and Mingi should talk today, completely sober and with clear judgement. It’s probably the best move. 

You’d be embarrassed of your behaviour if you didn’t know that Wooyoung and San loved you no matter what, and also they know better than anyone that Song Mingi has been giving you a tough fucking time.

Although the idea has your stomach twisting a little with anxiety, it’s time to be brave, and you roll over to grab your phone… only to see that Mingi has had the exact same idea. 

[9:13am] mingi: hey, we should talk. should i come over?

You blink at the text. Sighing, groaning, and sighing again, it’s obvious you have to reply - it was only sent a half hour ago - so you send a quick okay and crawl out of bed. You’re hungover, sure, with a soft pain in the back of your head but the determination takes over anything else you feel. 

Everything feels a little melancholic as you walk around, back hunched over, but you have to know even if it hurts you. You do not want to go another day with any uncertainty. 

It only takes fifteen minutes for a knock at your door to sound. It’s given you time to get yourself ready, in another cute loungewear set with simple makeup and hair just barely brushed, and when you open the door Mingi looks worse than you feel. 

He’s dressed a lot more casually than normal, beanie pulled over his head tight and jumper oversized and hanging off of his frame. A fleeting thought asks you how big it’d be on you, and you shake your head, forcing it out of your brain. When you don’t say anything, he awkwardly tugs at his tote bag on his shoulder, pulling at the bottom of his beanie like he’s got too much energy in his body and doesn’t know what to do with it.

He looks so cosy and domestic that you think that you might just burst into tears in his face.

“It’s nice to see you,” your voice warbles, and Mingi scratches his neck awkwardly, pre-roll in his other hand. That tells you all you need to know. “Should we go to my room?”

“Yeah, I think that’s best,” He sighs, looking more nervous than you’ve ever seen him and you groan internally. He’s normally the picture of confidence, save for the few times you two have… well, you still don’t know. 

This is going to end worse than you thought it would, you think, perhaps even getting to the point where you can’t even be friends anymore. Still, Wooyoung made you swear you’d be honest to the man, and you try not to break promises, especially not when it’s one of your best friends.

Leading him up the stairs, you take him to your room, and he falls on the bed like it’s his own, pulling that same teddy he likes onto his lap, running a hand over his face in exasperation. When he pulls his beanie off, his hair springs up fluffy and brown and cute, and all you can do is hand him the ashtray wordlessly so that you don’t scream. 

He pulls out the same pink lighter you saw him have last time, burning the end of the joint’s paper off and waiting for it to level. You’re not expecting him to speak yet, settling on your bed across from him with your knees pulled up, picking at a loose thread to avoid staring at him, but he swallows hard and sighs.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you yesterday,” he says, and your heart drops. “I’m sorry. I should’ve- I should’ve talked to you first, explained how I feel. It’s been killing me. I especially shouldn’t have kissed you when we were both so drunk, but I-”

“I clearly enjoyed it as much as you,” Honesty, and you try to smile, but it doesn’t reach your ears. Mingi eyes you like he knows, taking the first drag of the joint. “It’s okay. I understand, it was just a drunken kiss and it’s not-”

“What?” Mingi laughs incredulously, “is that really what you think? Do you think I kiss people like that normally?”

You falter. Well, no, you’d hope not, but you hadn’t really had anything to go by.

A longer drag, and he eyes you again, before it seems to dawn on him and his lips curl up in amusement. His tongue drags over his teeth, eyes looking you up and down. Fuck. “You really have no idea, do you?” He hands it to you, leaning back on his hands on the bed, “I’m obsessed with you. Why do you think I asked to tutor you? I mean, no offence, but you were kind of a-”

“A lost cause, yeah, I know,” you inhale. Then, it clicks in your brain, and you blink at him. “Sorry, you’re obsessed with me?”

“For as long as I can remember,” honest, frank, straight. Your head spins, but you inhale a little more, trying to formulate your thoughts better. “Since before we even spoke. I thought that’s why the guys brought you to my party in the first place.”

Hold on. You ash the joint, handing the ashtray and the smoking stick back to Mingi, “Wooyoung and San knew?”

He shrugs. His cheeks are pink, from nerves or the weed you don’t know, but he carries on speaking like he needs to get it all out in one go or he never will. His eyes avert from you, fiddling with the long drawstrings of his sweatpants, “I don’t know about them. Hongjoong and Yunho knew, that’s why they were acting so fuckin’ weird.” He chuckles breathlessly. “Trying to sell me out, honestly, and this whole thing has been so embarrassing. I tried so hard to get close to you and then- then I fucked it up by not being able to tell you how I feel. I’m not very good at that.”

It makes you pause. Mingi, all along, has been going through somewhat of a similar dilemma as you - and suddenly everything makes sense. The banana milk, the studying, the way he spoke to you at the first party, the way he’s been speaking to you - you’re talking before you even realise you are. 

Honesty, Wooyoung said. You’ll stick to that.

“Mingi, this is going to sound crazy, but I’ve had a lot of these really frequent, vivid dreams about you in the past month or so,” you say, breathless, “some before we even started talking to each other."

As soon as it comes out of your mouth, you feel like dying. Mingi doesn’t stop smoking though. He even smokes more, inhaling longer, nodding with every word you say before he finally seems to process it. The flush seems to extend down to his neck, and he yanks at his jumper, pulling at the collar to get air - once the joint’s in your hold, he clears his throat, gulps a few mouthfuls of water down from a bottle he pulls from his tote bag. “I- That’s good to know. Normal dreams, or dirty?”

He’s… okay with it? He’s actually being way more casual about this than you thought he would be. This is the same guy that gets freaked out when he thinks about the concept of demons. You finish the joint and snuff it out, discarding the ashtray to your bedside table.

“A bit of both. Mostly dirty, but like, we were together in them. A little domestic,” You admit. He cracks a grin, showing those teeth that you fell for, and you can’t help but smile back. It is a little funny. A little crazy too, though. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

Mingi shrugs. “Not really, it’s not your fault. You must’ve just had a crush on me too. You know we don’t choose our dreams? Scientists say it’s just stuff from our subconscious, I read about it online.”

No way. You blink. You blink again, and he’s still there in your room sitting with you, the guy from your dreams, grinning crookedly and looking ever so delighted with himself. 

“Or,” He coughs. “It could have been the lines I was writing trying to manifest you in my life. Maybe it worked.”

“Mingi… that’s fucking crazy.”

He swallows hard. His eyes are a little red from the weed, but the flush on his cheeks is from solely nerves now, you know. “Well, I had to do something from a distance. You’re hard to approach - y’know, you seem shy - but you’re really cool. And so fuckin’ pretty, you must know that, right?” He huffs out a quiet laugh, embarrassed, “I’ve definitely had dreams about you, too.”

“It’s not shy,” You say softly. “I’m just awkward.”

There’s something fragile in the way he’s positioned now, something you haven’t seen in Mingi yet - something hopeful but hesitant, like he’s worried he’ll scare you off any second - it’s different to last night with no confidence from his rum. When his brows lift, eyes flickering with uncertainty because you haven’t said enough yet, you realise that you never ever want to be the reason he doubts himself again. 

“Mingi,” you say, steady even though your heart is racing, “I think I’ve been obsessed with you for a long time. Like, a long time. After this, you never have to doubt that.” You inhale, “Not having you was killing me. The dreams felt so real, and I fell for you so quickly but the way you acted around me… It was so up and down. I didn’t know if you felt anything at all, or if it was-“

He’s moving mid sentence to meet your lips with his, decisive and a little desperate. He tastes like weed and Mingi, enticing, and you melt into it, following his mouth without thinking - how did you hold yourself back from jumping him last night, when he’s real, here, in front of you? 

His lips are buttery, grounding against yours, and when you reach out to touch his arms he finally exhales and pulls you closer, yanking you onto his lap on your bed with his hands at your waist.

He mumbles against your mouth, words stumbling out between breaths, “I tried- I did try to tell you how I felt, I just- fuck, I don’t know how to-“

“I know,” You manage, and this time you really do. Two people circling each other, both too excited, too unsure, mistaking intensity for indifference. “I thought… I thought you just wanted something physical after last night, maybe, I didn’t know.”

“God, no,” He chuckles, throwing his head back for a second with closed eyes. “I just get so excited I don’t shut up, and none of what I say ever comes out right.“

“I understand,” Your hand strokes over his hair. It’s said with purpose this time - you really mean it. With Mingi, it was never fear; it’s excitement, pure and unfiltered, knocking everything else out of order, and now that he has permission to show it he can’t stop himself.

The kisses he lays on your neck prove it to you that this is possible, you and him. It’s possible and it’s happening right now, your thighs clenching around his and hands moving to roam down his body, over his broad shoulders and firm chest as he sucks on your neck. 

“Fuck,” Mingi breathes. “I feel like I’m dreaming. You’re unreal, baby.”

“I’m right here,” You laugh, because it’s insane he would say that to you, knowing that his mere presence has you feeling like you’re away with the fairies and has been for a while now. “I’m right here, Min, fuck, do you wanna- get this off, please-“

He pulls back and tugs his oversized jumper off by the back of the neck, launching it somewhere in the room and leaning back for you to follow his body - you do, chasing his heat, but with your eyes down. The removal exposed planes of tan skin, muscles that rival the ones you’d fantasised about. It’s soft to touch too, satin under your fingers as you slide your fingers down the muscles of his tummy.

“Pretty,” You murmur, and he shivers under your touch, breath hitching. “You are. I’ve- I’ve thought about how you look, but this is even better, Min.”

“Oh, baby,” He moans at your words, hands sliding under your shirt and onto your skin. He gives you a hesitant look, and you nod, before he’s sliding them upwards and cupping your breasts over your bra. He lets them sit in his hands for a bit, kissing over your jaw again before he slides his fingers underneath the lace. They’re a little cold, and when his fingertips hit your nipples you shiver, further collapsing into his hold, but he takes your weight easily. “So good, fuck, they feel so- can I- can you take your shirt off? I want to see.”

You pull it off over your head quickly, baring your bralette and Mingi’s palms situated under the fabric, and he moans, quickly sliding his hands out to look at them. He exhales, eyes fixated as he starts to pull at your nipples, and you don’t know if you’re just sensitive or if it’s because it’s him, but your spine arches into him with a gentle noise. 

“Fuck, so pretty, so pretty. Like that, that’s okay?” He murmurs, and you nod eagerly, making him pinch them again, on the line between pleasure and pain, “tell me more about your dreams. What was I like?”

His fingers flick over the nubs until they yank at the lace, hard and swollen, and he pulls your bralette over your head, leaving you naked from the waist up. You gasp when his head ducks down, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth, your hand going to dark strands to keep him there - but you remember he asked you something.

“You… talked a lot,” you admit, embarrassed but he hums around your nipple, encouraging. You whimper and continue, writhing, “You were nice, but- dirty. Pervy. Am I- was I right?”

Mingi pops off your bud. “Well, your dreams sound a lot more innocent than mine,” he grins easily, lips slick and cheeks pink, “I had you bent over my desk with one of my songs playing. So yeah, I guess I am a pervert.”

It shocks you so bad that you don’t make a noise when he moves you, pushing you back on his dark bedsheets and moving over your body. He’s so big above you, just like you imagined, using one strong arm for support and leaning down to kiss you filthy again. 

He tangles his tongue with yours again as he fiddles with the button of your jeans, eventually managing to flick it open and tug the zipper down. You wrestle out of the denim underneath him, giggling when it gets caught at your knees; Mingi lets out an amused huff, smoothing your hair down like he did in the library, fond. 

Eventually, you’re left in your underwear wanting him to strip, too, but he pushes your legs apart. “This- this is okay?” He asks again, against your lips, and moans when you nod, “I didn’t want to last night, when we’d been drinking. I wanted it to be special, baby, I-“

“I know,” you say, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, landing on his lips when his skin begins to heat in embarrassment, “but I think if you don’t fuck me soon I might die.”

“We’re not drunk now,” his breath is impatient, heavy, and his spare hand moves down to brush against your panties, where the cotton is slick between your legs, “I’m high as hell though, and this pussy feels wet. G’na let me touch it?”

Fuck. Your head spins, like the high is returning but stronger because it’s Mingi; you’re finally here, beneath him, his to touch, his to hold. “You can touch it,” you heave, “I wanna touch you too. Please, I think about it so much, I wanna- wanna see it.”

Mingi’s face crumbles in a desperate noise, but he doesn’t move from his position, kissing you again like he can’t get enough of it.

When he speaks, you can hear him holding back, voice strained, “Not yet, baby. Let me taste it first, yeah? Then you can, I promise.”

“Okay,” you breathe against him, squirming when he rubs his fingertips over your panties, right where your clit is. He feels the pudge and brings his thumb down over it a few times, firm, and you let out a strangled whine. You hope San and Wooyoung are out, but you didn’t even bother checking the house before you let your man in. Your man - your breath stutters, and all of a sudden you’ve stopped caring. “Okay, fuck, please Mingi, want you, touch me properly-”

His fingers hook into your panties and yank them down your legs. Your legs rest over his, relaxed, toes curling into his thighs when you’re finally exposed to him. Despite the insecurity biting at your gut again from being so bare and vulnerable in front of him, he quells it quickly, wiggling down the bed onto his chest to examine you closely.

“Look at that, doll, so fucking wet,” He murmurs, thumbs coming up to spread your folds. They stick together with your arousal, something you’d be embarrassed about if he didn’t moan so loud at the sight, plush lips parting and eyebrows knitting together. “Fuck. G’na eat it now, ‘kay? If you need me to stop just-”

You force him into your pussy by his hair, and he moans at the first taste. His fat tongue swipes through your folds, impatient, and he licks up to flick it over the pudge of your clit, spreading your arousal everywhere. It’s so sensitive that you whimper and writhe underneath him, but he doesn’t seem swayed, burying his face into your cunt and making out with it viscerally, messy, claiming.

It’s just like your dream - except better. He’s pulling you down by your hips, rings biting into your skin, whining into your folds but he’s messier - he sucks all of your arousal into his mouth and spits it back on your pussy just to lick it up again. Your pussy is clinging to his lips by strings of sticky arousal and he flicks his tongue over your clit to hear you moan loudly, incomprehensible. 

“You’re- how are you so fucking good at this, fuck, please, more-”

“Told you, I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he states matter of factly, lips brushing against you, and you can see your slick has spread all over his chin, up to his nose. He doesn’t look bothered - he looks like he enjoys it, voice slurred, eyes half lidded, tongue licking over his lips, down to his chin. “This pussy’s fucking pretty. Tasty, too. I’m gonna have to eat her all the time, okay?”

He rubs over your clit, looking up at you expectantly. He’s waiting for a response, but you can’t focus, legs twitching at the stimulation. “F-uck, Mingi-“

“Mm, what do you say, baby?” He says, voice lower, and you keen. He chuckles in disbelief, shaking his head, rubbing a little faster, your pussy making an embarrassing wet noise with his movements. “Are you gonna let daddy come and eat her whenever he wants?”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you babble, squirming, desperate for him to eat you again and he’s still fucking laughing at you, eyes full of admiration. “Yes, pleasepleaseplease daddy, you can eat it whenever- whenever you want!”

“Good giiiirl,” He hums, diving back in again. He’s just as vigorous and you’re panting, making way too much noise, gripping and tugging at his hair and bucking into his mouth when he groans in delight at the pain. 

“Haa, fuck, Mingi- baby, baby, ‘s so good-“

He slides his fingers inside, past the resistance of your hole, curling them up instantly. It’s a stretch so quickly but feels so good, you squeal, humping your hips down onto him. He’s trying to find your g-spot, and it only takes a moment of prodding and pressing for you to make an incoherent noise, hips bucking. He taps a few times, teasing it, and you can’t shut up, gripping the pillow, eyes crossing in pleasure. “Noisy girl. Cunt’s fucking noisy too, talkin’ to me. Can you hear that? She’s telling me I own her now.”

“Mingi- f-fuck, you can’t say-“

“What? Don’t you like daddy talking to you?” He’s suddenly over you again, wet mouth forming a lazy grin. His fingers still pump into you and you reach to grab at his wrist, silver bracelets jingling with his movements. Your eyes water, hips grinding a rhythm into him. “I think you do, ‘cause you’re made for me, aren’t you? Fuckin’ unreal,” he hisses, looking down at where your cunt leaks down his skin, “this hole clenches around me when I talk, askin’ me for more. My hole, yeah?”

“Can’t- can’t be yours if you haven’t fucked it-“

“Shush, pretty, don’t be cheeky,” His tone is firm, but he kisses against your lips with affection. “Gonna fuck it. Gonna fuck it so many times it remembers the shape of my cock and can’t cum on anything else, but I want you to cum like this for me first. Can you?”

You’re nodding before he finishes, riding his fingers, and his thick thumb reaches up to flick over your clit. “I can, fuck, daddy, I can!”

“Yeah, moan my fucking name as you cum, there’s a good girl,” He kisses you again, dirtier this time, swallowing your moans with wet lips. You can taste yourself, and it’s that which does you in, Mingi pulling away just quick enough to hear the broken whine of his name that falls from your mouth. He groans back at you, rubbing your clit slower through your orgasm to drag it out, fingers curling to let you feel the shocks from your special spot just once more. 

He’s too good. It’s like he knows your body already and you can’t understand it, but you let yourself cream and gush on his fingers with many babbled words and strangled noises until you’re eventually done. You think you see his fingers stick together when he pulls them out but he sucks them clean quick enough, offering you a crooked, toothy smile as if he just couldn’t help himself when you let out a shaky breath at the sight. He rolls off of you onto his side, leaning his head on his hand all satisfied.

“How was that?” He asks, cute as ever, and you think you see him fucking blushing. He’s so good, and fuck, he’s yours now. “Was it like your dreams?” 

Your chest is still heaving, but you lean over to give him a kiss in response. His hand smooths over your lower tummy and you swoon, too happy, too desperate all over again despite the fact his fingers have just been all over and inside your pussy. “Mm, it looked intense, I liked doing that to you,” He’s getting excited again too - you think you can tell now, when his voice starts to pick up, airy, “you’re so fucking pretty, look so sexy when you cum, I just wanna-”

Furrowing your eyebrows, you glance down to his sweatpants. Mingi is definitely still hard, although there’s a small wet patch on his clothed bulge that you think he’s created without realising and fuck, your pussy is throbbing again. You can see how big he is through the clothes, much bigger than you ever thought, ever dreamed of, and it must be aching. “Let’s do more. I wanna do more with you.”

Mingi definitely blushes now, but he’s climbing on top of you again with that look in his eyes again. “Yeah? I want to do more too, you’re so gorgeous when you cum. Do you think you can you do that on my cock?”

He’s a little impatient, pushing his sweatpants down with one hand and leaning above you with his other. You try to look down but he tuts at you, making you look back at his face straight away, and you link your arms over his shoulders. “Um- maybe? I’ll try, shit.”

“Think you will,” He kicks his bottoms off and wriggles out of his boxers, too, and when you look again he doesn’t stop you. He even leans back to make sure your view isn’t obscured. Desperate, you assume, but shit it is big. 

His muscled arm swings as he jerks it back to full hardness leisurely, and you were right, it leaks heavily in his palm. The lubrication adds to the sensation and he lets out a sigh. His cock is long but thick too, and there’s a smattering of dark hair at his base that makes you want to press your nose into it and inhale as you deepthroat him. You’re quickly distracted, though, because he shuffles forward and positions his cockhead at your hole. It tries to suck him in already, gummy and wet and pliant after your orgasm. 

He pecks your lips again, addicted, nuzzling you with his sharp nose. He looks so pretty on top of you, plush lips pillowing over your cheeks and your chin and your nose, his black hair tickling your forehead. Your belly burns - you don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything this bad, and you’ve known that a while, but it’s real now, happening, not a dream although it still feels like one.

His tip catches in your folds again, and you feel him shiver on top of you but he doesn’t stop looking at you, kissing you again, over and over before he speaks hoarsely, “Condom?” 

You shake your head. No fucking way. You’re on the pill for health reasons, and you’ll be damned if you’re having anything between you and this man when you’ve finally gotten hold of him. “Raw, please, I’m on the pill, wanna- wanna feel you, all of it.”

“Shit, you are a fucking dream, baby,” he groans, finally, finally swiping his cock through your folds. You think he’s finally going to put it in but he uses your arousal to slick his cock, letting you feel the pressure of it against you. “Think it’ll fit? You’re- baby, you’re so fucking tiny down here, could barely get my fingers in- oh shit, trying to suck me in.”

You try to squirm, but he’s so overpowering you can barely move underneath him. There’s a burning feeling in your tummy like you need it or you’ll die, and he’s still playing with you. He swipes his cock through your folds over and over, watching the way his tip disappears a little into the slick mess. You can’t help it - “Mingi, please put it in!”

“Fuck, ‘m so sorry, baby,” He grunts, sounding like he isn’t the least bit sorry, repositioning himself on his knees so that he’s more comfortable. You see him pull at his cock, moving the foreskin down to expose the tip, leaking pearly precum that makes your mouth water, “‘s too fucking pretty, all creamy like that, hadta play a bit. Gonna take it all for me now? It’s not gonna be too big?”

“Mingi, please- please, I’ve thought about this for so long, just- please, oh my god- oh, oh-“

You’re cut off by the deep, gravelly groan he lets out as he finally pushes inside. It slides in easily from how soaked you are, but it’s still a stretch, so thick and hard that your pussy throbs and tries to gush around him, begging for more.

“Please,” you gasp wetly, and he gives you the first inch. It’s barely anything, not compared to the whole size of him, but you moan and he grins in satisfaction. His tongue licks over his teeth as he slowly starts to fuck the first inch in and out, over and over until you start to shake, hands scrabbling for his hips to push him further inside. “Please, Mingi, daddy, I want more, all of it, give it to me-“

He grunts, sliding all of his length home as he pushes your thighs further apart, letting the pits of your knees rest on his elbows. It’s then that he begins a sinuous grind, hips steadily rolling against your ass, jiggling the flesh upon impact. Your bed is creaking with his steady movements, a thud every second that has you worried your housemates can hear you but well, you decided a while ago that you were over that.

“That’s w-what you needed, yeah?” He coos, voice shaky from the way your pussy is clenching around him. Every time his hips roll backwards, your hole grips and clings as if you can’t bear to have him pull out, so Mingi shortens his thrusts - quick, deep bursts that almost pain your cervix when he hits it. It feels too good to hurt though, and you can’t help but push against his tummy, overwhelmed with sensation. He catches your hands, pinning them above your head and grinding his pubic bone against your clit. “I know, ‘s so good, just- baby, f-feel it, feel it. Gonna feel it for the rest of your life. Yours now.”

You feel dizzy. It’s so good, and he’s right - this is all yours now, finally, after everything. 

Mingi quickens his thrusts, hitting right where you need him to. His shoulders catch your attention, broad and rippling with exertion as he holds himself above you, wet, hot pants spilling from his lips with every movement and you can’t help yourself, you feel so full your eyes start to water. He’s throbbing inside of you, desperate to split you open with his teeth biting into his lower lip as he gazes down at where you’re connected. Your pussy drools, slicking up to your mound and over his pubes, up to his happy trail.

“S-so fuckin’ tight, so wet, so warm,” His voice breaks, palm moving to your lower stomach to keep you steady. It quivers under his touch, but he doesn’t notice, thinking solely with his dick. “Wanted to fuck you so bad. Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long, feels too good, p-please, baby, I gotta fuck you harder-”

“You can, please, please,” You gasp when he does, shifting his knees to balance himself. His hips start move against you steadier, harder, cock pistoning into your pussy, abs rippling as he grinds himself inside of you. It’s everything you dreamed of and more, and it’s almost too much, too full, too big - you can’t help but whimper and scramble at his shoulders, squealing when he starts to rub over your clit in rhythm with his thrusts. It’s so swollen, so sensitive that you squeal as he makes contact, cheeks burning as your back arches into him - you’ve been waiting so long for this, and it’s ruining you, every thrust taking you apart and putting you back together again. 

Mingi’s just as affected. He drools wetly onto your bare shoulder, wrapping one arm around the small of your back and letting the other hand move to cup your breast. He’s flushed, warm and rutting into you like a mindless animal, but the whines falling from his lips are nothing but grateful. “H-How does it feel, baby, is it as good as you imagined?”

“Better,” you hiccup, because it is, “fu-uck, Mingi, so much better, s-so deep!”

“Yeah, pussy’s t-too fucking good,” He cups your head with his hand, pulling your body upright so he’s essentially holding you off the bed to fuck you. He can go harder like this, and you feel his balls slapping against your ass, lips drooling messily on your shoulder while he talks. You don’t think he could be quiet if he tried, and you can’t believe your brain got this so right. “So fuckin- warm, tighttighttight, I could fuckin’ bust now,” he babbles, “feels so good to fuck you open finally, thought about it- s-so much-“

“Baby, oh my god, ‘s so good,” you mewl, hands moving to his chest, cupping the ample flesh and scratching down further, leaving red lines in their wake. It only makes Mingi fuck you harder, thighs trembling as he drives into you over and over, and you realise he’s right - you are gonna cum around his cock, too soon to be acceptable. “Feels- you’re perfect, I can’t, I’ll- it’s so good I’ll cum, I-”

“Oh, honey,” Mingi groans, long and drawn out, “i-it’s okay, you can cum for me. I want you to cum as m-much as you can, okay?” he kisses you, messy and wet against your cheek, “as much as that little pussy lets you, soak my dick over ‘n over, please, baby.”

You hump yourself onto him, managing to push yourself over his shaft and he lets you, lets you fuck your hole on his thick length until you feel it starting to build, too fast, too sudden, too perfect. He holds you close, ruts into you just enough to abuse his cockhead against that spot inside of you and it doesn’t take much, only a few grinds over him until you’re shaking apart.

“That’s it, oh, good girl, my girl, all mine, so pretty,” Mingi babbles through it, and at the crest of your orgasm your lips part in a sharp noise. Your moan is strangled, almost pained, and he moans right back at you, moving one thumb down to your clit to rub over it and extend your orgasm as long as he can. Your walls flutter around him, gummy and soft and gushing so wet down to his balls that he can’t help the way he rocks forward, chasing the wetness - he only causes you to leak more, cumming so long that your pussy starts to force him out; he presses his hips hard against yours to keep himself inside.

“A-Ah, I,” you cry, unsure, still stuttering with the remnants of it, “so good, I- thank you, daddy.”

Mingi gasps, plush lips parting, cock throbbing inside you. “don’t fucking- don’t say that, I almost came,” all of a sudden, he pulls out, gripping his cock at the base to stave off his own orgasm. You see how slick his shaft is, drenched with your arousal and it looks so dirty, white cream moistening his tan skin and contouring the veins with wet mess. As if it catches his attention, he looks down too, groaning at the sight of your release before his eyes move to your body, raking down you unabashedly. You can’t fucking believe this. Was he always this obvious? “Fuck, I… baby, can I have you on your hands and knees? Always wanted-”

You’re moving before he can finish, shaky limbs pushing your body up to your hands and knees. Your back forms an arch that he runs his hand down with a noise of appreciation, and then you hear the sheets rustle where he walks on his knees towards you, impatient. 

“Good girl,” he mumbles, smoothing down the curve of your spine and down to your ass, where he seems to hesitate before he lands one firm slap. The flesh ripples as you cry out, but you don’t run from him - instead, you’re bucking back for more, and Mingi pushes his dick back through your folds once again. “Thought of this s-so much. Your ass, you grinding back on me, tellin’ me- tellin’ me how it feels. Thought of you too fucking much to be normal, baby, thought I was going insane.”

“Mm, Mingi,” you shake your hips, distracted, trying to entice him, and it works. His noise is almost pained, eyes fixated down on where your ass perks up in the air, and he’s sliding back in in one quick thrust. It’s deeper like this, and he hits your cervix almost immediately - this time he doesn’t wait, hips hitting your ass consistently. The headboard thuds against the wall again, too loud and steady to be anything else, incriminating.

Mingi hisses and pulls out right to the tip, “P-please, baby. Shake it on me, like I said, shake it for daddy, good girl.”

Perhaps you’re too obedient but he’s engrossed by it, cock throbbing inside you. You start to grind your hips before you can be embarrassed, moving yourself up and down on his shaft in such a slick slide your chest hits the mattress, hands forming fists on your sheets. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you gasp, scrambling for dear life - has anything ever felt this good outside of those damn dreams? You knew it, knew it had to be him, knew it was always gonna be him - “feels so good, please, please-”

Mingi gasps, hand coming to grip your hips, moving you against him, “You’re unreal. Fucking- oh my god, that’s it, just like that. My girl, my f-fucking dream, god, let me-“

He takes over. You’re thankful for it, because you’ve never felt anything so thick and long and veiny and so fucking perfect inside you - it’s like he’s made for you, carving his ridges and curves into your walls until you couldn’t possibly think of anything else. You’re glad you’re his now, because it’d be impossible to be anyone else’s, to even try to be after he’s given you a taste of what you could have. 

Mingi’s ravenous. Hands come to push you down, like he’s realised he can be rougher, and you’re forced fully onto your front before his teeth bite at your neck. His hips slap into you, sloppy, uneven, size forcing the cream you’ve created to form a ring around his base, and he whines at the wetness. 

“G’na cum, can’t hold it,” He murmurs, hands wrapping around your shoulders for purchase, pulling you back into him. “Can you- f’me, another- fuckin’ give it to me, girl, all for your man.”

His finger and thumb come to roll your clit, and you’re done for. Combined with the feeling of him aching so heavily inside of you you can do nothing more but babble nonsensically, eyes crossing and cunt clenching around him so deliciously that he roars, pressing deep. Bites turn into kisses, softer as he gets closer and he tries to keep the pace the best he can but it’s unnecessary; just feeling his weight on you, his skin, his chest against your front triggers your orgasm, and one hand shoots down to hold Mingi’s wrist right over your bud.

“That’s it, f-fuck, I can feel it,” He gasps, knees scrambling on the bed to get closer to you. He pushes deep once, twice more and then with a sharp whine you feel him too, the head of his fat cock erupting and filling you with more than enough proof that he likes you back.

“Mngh- it’s- fucking deep, I-“ You choke, and Mingi shushes you, voice shaky, pulling your hips back to get it even deeper as he pumps you full, breaths stuttering. Something awful flashes through your brain, something domestic and too serious but it makes your cunt throb, gummy and soothing around his shaft as he empties himself. 

Mingi chuckles, kissing the slope of your shoulder. “Maybe it’ll take, h-huh? Claim you properly. Will you believe it’s real then?”

“J-Jesus,” you stutter, squirming - how did he read your mind like that? - and he laughs again, finally coaxing his softening cock out of your hole. It feels stretched, and you know it is when he groans, elongated, thumb rubbing over the slick opening.

“Could fuck you again looking at that,” He muses, and you wriggle your hips, tempted - he huffs and gives you another smack, this time on your thigh, admonishing you. “Behave. We’ll have a spliff and we’ll go again.”

You roll over on your back, deflated, finally seeing him. He sits next to you on the bed, skin flushed, eyes half lidded. He’s just as fucked out as you but somehow more composed, eyeing you like he wants to laugh but he knows he can’t as he’s not much better.

“Weed and then more sex,” Your hand reaches up to smooth over his cheek, and his eyes flutter shut, a smile pulling at his lips until he falls into you again. Limbs intertwined, you peck at his nose again. “Where have you been all my life?”

“Buying you banana milk and trying to be normal around you, actually.”

“Right, yeah,” You giggle, and he plasters himself to you closer. You’re both sticky and exhausted but it’s comfortable, the heat satiating rather than stifling. Nails trailing up his arm, he shivers, and you watch the goosebumps form - real. It’s real. “We have a lot of making up to do. We could’ve been doing this a while ago.”

Mingi’s eyes open, glinting. “You’re not leaving this room until it stinks, baby.”

“Okay, disgusting,” You shove at him, and he’s amused, finally rolling away to put some clothes on with a shake to his shoulders. Watching him as he moves, sitting on the edge of your bed, you’re unashamed this time - he’s yours to look at - and you hum as his back muscles flex, reaching down to pull his discarded boxers back up. When he stands, you see his thighs tense, and well, that ass… your eyes want to water. How lucky can one girl be?

Mingi stretches his arms above his head and turns to you, making you avert your eyes promptly to the blanket beneath you. “Pervert, I saw that. But, hey, are Wooyoung and San still in?”

You yawn, shrugging, finally reaching over for your own clothes. “Honestly, no idea. Stopped caring.”

“They can thank us for the show, and the many more to come,” Mingi grins, cocky, and you roll your eyes like you aren’t obsessed with him. With that, your phone starts to ping on your bedside table, three tones one after another, and you furrow your eyebrows. It’s quick throwing your clothes on before you check - a fresh pair of panties and a tee as your last pair of panties were ruined - and when you pick your phone up, he sidles in behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle and kissing over your neck.

Nosy ass, you think, but you open your phone with a satisfied little smile, before it promptly falls at seeing that it’s your house group chat.

[2:13pm] wooyo: definitely still in baby

[2:14pm] sannie: Told you he’s a nice guy

[2:14pm] sannie: Do u guys want anything btw we’re ordering food

You splutter. “Oh my god-“

“How kind of him,” Mingi coos. “I think San’s nice too.”

“Mingi,” You scowl, but he doesn’t flinch, and when he plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek you can’t help but smile. “You know that’s not the point!”

“Oh, right. Ask him to get me some chicken. He knows what I like.”

“That’s still-”

“Baaaaby. Chicken, please.”

“Fine.”

if you got this far hi, thank you, this is the longest oneshot i've ever posted ever <3

[minkieater]

⋙ hold it down, DARE.

⪼ quarterback!mingi x fem!reader | PART ONE ~28k ⪼ you can’t fucking stand jung wooyoung, mingi really really wants kim minjeong. when wooyoung and winter end up together, you and mingi have no choice but to figure out how to win winter’s favor, to stab wooyoung in the back. mingi needs a favor, and you want revenge... do you dare? ⪼ fake dating au, college au, slow burn, lowk enemies to lovers, this is my very huge and massive installment for @sungbeam ‘s live alive collab ⋆˙⟡ thank you beamie duckie for putting this together! so happy to be in a collab beside so many other talented writers, be sure to check out the masterlist for other banger college fics :) ⪼ eventual smut minors dni 18+ | LOTS of cursing, insults, toxic til it's not. i don't want to spoil too much but they're in college so they drink and do college kid shit. i hope u enjoy this is my pride and joy in a fic i would eat this mingi as my last meal

“Fuck you.”

Jung Wooyoung has never promised you anything. In your four months of doing whatever the fuck this was, he’s never once lead you believe you’d be anything more than his bed warmer. At least not verbally, and honestly, you had to hand it to him, he’d repeat the same monologue over and over like it was his personal gospel: We’re too young to be in a serious relationship, don’t you think? We should be enjoying our youth, our freedom, doing whatever we want… 

If you ever hear the words serious relationship, youth, or freedom ever again, you might actually fucking vomit. In the beginning, it was easy to believe him; you rarely spoke to him outside of the bedroom, yours, his, that one supply closet on campus, the bathroom of that stupid fucking dive bar he loves so much. When he began sleeping over, kissing you awake, leaving with promises of later just to do it all over again, you started feeling blasphemous. Questioning gospel, his words of wisdom, you started to think there was more than just sweat and saliva to your relationship– maybe he enjoyed spending time with you. Maybe he even likes you. 

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” leaning against the wall of his foyer, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle over the other, you didn’t even make it inside his apartment. The bare, beige walls seemed to laugh at you even if there were no pictures on them, no paintings, no decor. 

Too good to be true, of course, since you caught him hand-in-hand with her, Kim Minjeong, Winter, that pretty little thing you’re positive you shared a class with at some point in your three years at ATZU. Your immediate reaction was defense, denial, naturally, because why on Earth would he need anyone but you? He’s told you plenty of times you’re not like anyone he’s met before, that your personality was unique, that you’re the best he’s ever had. 

“You’re sorry?!” Your arms were flying around the space, you voice loud, harsh, angry. You didn’t care if his roommate was home, maybe you’d apologize to San if you saw him on campus somewhere. Maybe. Right now, your anger was behind the wheel, driving you to insanity, “Who’s next, Summer? Spring? Fall? You gonna fuck all four seasons, you asshole?” 

He shakes his head, black hair falling around his face, the poster board for nonchalance. You wonder how many times he’s had this conversation, how many girls he’s done this to. Maybe you were the problem for thinking you were different, that he’d alter his Ten Commandments for you. He uncurls his arms, straightens out his legs, and motions for the door, voice frustratingly monotonous, “I think you should go.”

“Yeah, I should,” you bite, already turning towards the dark brown, wooden door, “I hope I never fucking see you again.”

“Should be easy,” he says through a much too casual breath, reaching around you to grab the worn, brassy knob, forcing you to step sideways so he can open it. You take a step through the threshold and he leans his lanky body into the frame, “Make sure you return the Chrome Hearts hoodie I left at your place, though, doll. Paid good money for it.”

Face morphing into sheer disbelief, the audacity, only your head turns to look at him, eye legitimately twitching, “You’ll be lucky if I don’t fucking burn it.”

A corner of his lips tug upward in a smile, “Now that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”

“Just like the last four months?” Your brows raise, a faux smile creeping onto your lips, “Don’t text me ever again. Hope she fucks you like I do.”

He doesn’t answer– just stares as you stand there, waiting for an argument, for a rebuttal. Your jaw clenches when you realize you aren’t getting one. Turning on your heel, you stomp down his hallway, down the three fucking flights of steps you’ve climbed every other day for the past four months. 

Fuck him. Fuck him. 

Humiliation sinks in as you leave his building, anger crumbling into something small, something sad, pathetic. You should have seen this coming, you aren’t stupid, you’re definitely not naïve. You could blame his pretty smile, his cheekbones so sharp they could be considered blades, his beautiful bronzy skin you’d miss tasting, the way he filled you up so perfectly you wondered how you fucked anyone else. You could blame his touch, the grace he used with your body, how he cared for you after he split you open. 

The only person to blame here is you. And you know it, deep in your gut, in the ache in your back from carrying the entire relationship you made up in your head, you know it’s your fucking fault you’re hurt. Your friends would tell you soon, too, that they knew this was coming, that they told you he’d do this, they advised you to not get involved with him. 

Sighing, looking up at the sky, you squint at the overcast, the blue sky that was now a deep, sad grey. Great, even the fucking sun didn’t want you. 

Song Mingi didn’t care about much outside of football. He didn’t have time to. 

Almost every day, his schedule was the same: wake up at six, eat his breakfast that was the same every single morning: egg white omelet, two slices of whole-wheat toast, a cup of fresh fruit, sometimes he’ll have cranberry juice diluted by water, usually just plain water. 

He’s at the gym by seven, following his training program, by nine he’s in the meeting room in the same building as the gym, he meets his team, his coach, going over the practice schedule, reviewing any changes made for the day or the week. By ten, he’s showered and on his way to class, where he fights to keep his brain turned on until two. 

By three, he’s getting taped, at three-thirty he’s out on the field, practicing. By six, he’s back in the gym, then he’s eating dinner until seven, when he showers, fighting to stay awake for the academics squad that arrives specifically for the football team, helping them with homework, plain old studying, any projects they might be involved in. 

He’s lucky if he’s finished by eight thirty, where he can finally go back home, to the house the entire fucking team lives in. In the beginning of the season, it’s usually quiet by nine, everyone so exhausted by the day they don’t have the energy to be rowdy– but that never lasts long, once everyone is comfortable in their routines, Mingi’s convinced they have endless pits of energy. Music, laughter, conversation, video games, it’s so fucking loud Mingi has to put on noise-cancelling headphones when he reaches his bedroom. 

He doesn’t have the energy for anything outside of his schedule. His days are grid-locked, no room to pencil anything in, no time for partying, for socializing, for anything that would damage his D1-starting-quarterback reputation. He thinks he’s the only person in this whole fucking university that has a reputation, everywhere he goes, people watch. Everyone he speaks to, people listen. When he raises his hand in class, the whole fucking room turns their heads. It doesn’t help that he gets escorted to class. It’s unfortunate that his treatment comes with the gig. 

It’s nauseating, the pressure of football was enough, there’s so much added bullshit that comes with it. On his good days, when his adrenaline is pumping, when he feels restless, when he’s really fucking tired of being Mr. Perfect, he makes time. He goes to the party the LAX house is throwing, he takes shots with his teammates, he even dances a little if Woozi’s mixing– if it’s Vernon DJing, he’s probably standing on the side, bobbing his head to whatever funky shit is playing while the nth girl of the night is in his ear.

The girls, the girls, that’s a whole other issue he tackles daily. Nightly. Literally. The cheerleading team, the dance team, the girls on campus he makes eyes at that quite literally fold. Well, he folds them, on the nights he doesn’t feel like releasing his pent up energy at a party, or when he needs to release his frustrations after an especially bad practice. There’s always girls, there’s an endless supply on a college campus, even more in his DMs, he’d assume half of his forty-three-thousand Instagram followers are women, at least that’s what it seems when he clicks his requests folder. 

Mingi hasn’t really ever been denied in his life, not with women, not with his college applications, he was getting scouted by university after university in high school. Which is why he can’t wrap his mind around what happened to him last week, a typical crazy night at the LAX house, who throws weekly in their off-season, celebrating absolutely nothing but partying like it was everyone’s birthday.

Mingi was in his favorite outfit, short, dark hair slicked back, jewelry on his neck, his wrists, his fingers, he felt good. He felt lucky, even, when he eyed up the dark-haired beauty across the kitchen, standing alone, staring at her phone like she was waiting to be approached by him. He put on his pretty boy smile and crossed the room, running a hand through his hair, and approached her with every ounce of swagger he could conjure. 

Winter. Such a pretty name for such a beautiful girl, Mingi was nearly drooling, her voice sweet like honey, her outfit screamed danger, he needed her. She didn’t smile when she looked at him, didn’t ask for his name, he didn’t think twice, Mingi just assumed she didn’t need to ask, everyone on campus knew his name. 

“Do you know when Wooyoung will get here?”

He thinks his heart might have flatlined. 

Mingi isn’t like his bitchless teammates, who jump at every opportunity to fuck just because they can. Mingi fucks, but it’s with purpose, every woman he approaches, every woman he hits on, it’s because they fit the criteria. 

He coughed a little, brows furrowed, head tilted in confusion. He knew that name, he knew Wooyoung, he’s roommates with San who’s friends with Jongho, one of his teammates, on the starting offensive line. 

“Wooyoung?” He found himself asking, choking on a laugh. “Like, the guy who got some girl pregnant last semester?”

She rolled her eyes, “That was a rumour, he didn’t get anyone pregnant.”

Then her phone lit up, and so did her entire fucking face. That smile, Mingi nearly groaned, she’s perfect, she’d look so good on his arm, flaunting her to the entire campus, to his teammates, his coach. He watched as she walked away, taking all of his hopes and dreams with her. His future, the mother of his unborn children, gone in a flash, off to find that leather-jacket-wearing fucking asshole that didn’t even have a career. Is she kidding? Mingi was on the brink of getting drafted to the fucking NFL, and she wanted Wooyoung? What did he fucking have that Mingi didn’t?

He stood there for at least another two minutes, stunned into silence, fingers slowly gripping his solo cup harder until he could hear the crackling of hard plastic bending in his palm. Then and there, Mingi decided she wasn’t worth it. How could she be worth his time, when she wants him? It showed a lot about her.

Mingi spent the night burying himself into whatever girl he could find that looked closest to her. For the week that followed, his mind was clouded by a dark vignette, the picture of her at the center. Winter. He didn’t even fucking like snow, that’s why he went to school somewhere warm. 

Slowly, day after day, the rejection began to eat away at him, making him look inward, a practice he doesn’t have much experience in. What does Wooyoung have that he doesn’t? He came to the conclusion that there’s nothing. In every which way possible, Mingi’s better than Wooyoung, so why the fuck did she want him so bad when Mingi was standing right in front of her, in his favorite black party shirt, rings on his fingers, Aquaphor freshly applied on his lips?

She wouldn’t leave his mind. He replayed the rejection so many times, involuntarily and voluntarily, Mingi found himself attracted to the bored stare she gave him. Eyebrows straight, lips wet from liquor, shoulders slouched, not even a hint of a smile. She’s beautiful. She doesn’t care about him. She’s perfect for him. 

He has to do something, has to commit some kind of crime, or somehow get Wooyoung kicked out of the school. He sat his teammates down in the dining room days later, the whiteboard they kept for discussing gameplay filled with scribbles and lines in red at the head of the table, in the center was a circled photo of her. His teammates called him crazy, down bad, but Mingi considers himself the next Albert fuckin’ Einstein. 

All he has to do is prove to Winter that he’s better than Wooyoung. Easy. 

“...I’m sorry you feel that way?” Your eyes, so wide they took over the entire upper half of your face as you all but screeched, “doll?!”

Yeosang and Jongho eyed each other from across the table, then redirected their gaze back onto you. The three of you at the most popular coffee shop on campus, Lucent, you didn’t even care to have this conversation somewhere private, all the ears who might listen should take it as a warning. You considered it a service to the ATZU campus. 

Yeosang, green hair messily waved over his cheekbones, sighed, “I can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I know,” you bit back, eyes pointed, already prepared for that response. “But can you wait before saying I told you so and comfort me first?”

Yeosang’s lips thinned, voice softer now, “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” you grumbled, “it’s just stupid. She’s not even prettier than me.”

Yeosang and Jongho shared another look, but it’s Jongho who spoke up this time, “I bet she’s not, probably just easy.”

“Exactly!” You screeched again, eyes wide, jumping out of your seat a little. After receiving looks from around the semi-crowded shop, you shrank in your seat again, cheeks heating up. In a quieter, but still sharp voice, you continued, “Because that’s what Wooyoung likes. He’s a no-good piece of shit who just wants to get his dick wet, it doesn’t matter who wets it.”

“I wish someone would have told you that before you jumped in bed with him,” quips Yeosang, a small grin playing on his lips. When you cursed him out with nothing but your eyes, his smile disappeared. 

“Why are we blaming me?” Your fingers curled onto the table as your eyes danced between your two best friends, probably looking insane, but you didn’t care. “I’m the victim here. He played me.”

Jongho runs a hand through his hair, still half-damp from his training this morning, or maybe he actually showered after the gym this time. He sits back in the booth, eyeing you with a bored look, “Wooyoung plays everything. All he does is play, that’s who he is.”

“Well, forgive a girl for wanting to be different.”

Yeosang snorts, and the way your eyes pierce his soul makes his laugh die on his tongue. “What are you laughing at?” You scoff, “You can’t even look your girl in the eye publicly.”

Yeosang gasps, “Do not bring up my situation because you’re pissed about your own.”

“Well?” Your head shakes, arms flailing about in front of you to say What the fuck is the difference?

“Okay!” Jongho intervenes, his arm literally laying over the black table between you to cut the two of you off. “I’m sorry you’re upset, and I’m sorry he hurt you. But he seriously isn’t worth a shred of emotion, you aren’t losing anything by cutting him off.”

You bury your face in your palms, elbows holding you up. Muffled from the edges of your hands over your mouth, you mutter, “He’s so hot, and he’s so good at sex.”

Jongho chuckles, his head shaking, you could see it even with your hands over your eyes. “Is that why all the girls on campus flock to him? Because he’s a good fuck?”

You split four fingers down the middle to peek an eye out, “Yes. And he has this, like, magnetizing aura about him, I don’t know. He’s good at talking, at making you feel special, like wanting him was your idea all along.” 

“Hm,” Yeosang’s head tilts, plopping back into the booth, arms crossed. “So he’s just… a manipulator?” 

You whine, faking an annoying, high-pitched crying noise. “Yes, he’s really good at it.”

“Damn,” Jongho mutters under his breath, “he’s giving the whole campus problems. How long until he runs through everybody, you think?” 

“Not long,” you grumble, “who else is he giving problems?”

“Mingi,” Jongho’s lips scrunch to one side, and a shiver runs down your spine. Mingi. “He wanted to bag this one girl and she dubbed him for Wooyoung. He’s torn up about it.”

“He should be torn up,” you snatch Yeosang’s coffee cup from in front of him and take a long sip. He makes a face like he’s disgusted you’re drinking from his cup, so you make the same one back, mocking him. 

Yeosang turns to Jongho, “Mingi never gets dubbed. What is Wooyoung, like a sex god?”

“He’s the bad boy trope in every shitty coming-of-age movie you’ve ever seen,” you sip again until you hear the rattle of the last bits of liquid between ice cubes. Yeosang makes the same face when you slide the coffee cup back to him. 

“Mingi is genuinely losing his fucking mind,” Jongho laughs a little, shaking his head like he didn’t even believe the words coming out of his mouth. “I don’t think the man has ever been told no in his life.” 

“I wouldn’t tell him no, that’s for sure,” you say with the smallest laugh, and Jongho gives you a long stare, like he’s putting puzzle pieces together. You look on either side of you, then down at your shirt, then back up to him, “Do I have something on my face?”

Jongho shakes his head, eyes widening like he was about to shout eureka, “This could work.”

“What could work?” You ask, and within four seconds of him not responding, you ask again, “Ho, what could work?” 

“Stop calling me Ho,” Jongho’s lip lifts in distaste, “Mingi’s trying to figure out a way to get revenge on Wooyoung, or prove that he’s better than Wooyoung, I guess, so he can steal the girl from him.”

“Just tell him to wait a month and she’ll be free again,” you shrug, “he doesn’t need an elaborate plan.”

Yeosang’s brows raise, bottom lip flipped over, shoulders slightly shrugging as if to say Yeah, true. 

Jongho holds a finger up between you, “What if I set you up with Mingi?”

Your jaw drops, a disgusting sound leaving your lips that you’d die if anyone else heard. “Me? And Mingi? Are you stupid?”

“No, no, no,” he shakes his finger back and forth, “hear me out. Wouldn’t Wooyoung be pissed off if you bounced back with the star QB mere days after he cut you off?”

You, still sitting in anxious disbelief, plant your palms against the black table, shaking your head rapidly. “Even if he is–”

“Hear me out,” Jongho says a little stronger, and your lips smack back together. “Wooyoung will be so enraged that he cuts the girl off and gets back with you, maybe he’ll even be so mad he realizes his feelings for you were stronger than he thought–”

Yeosang cuts him off, “Hold on a second–”

“–Mingi gets the girl, and then you can break Wooyoung’s heart to get back at him.”

You sit back in the booth, arms crossing, face scrunching together in thought because it actually doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea. Jongho is grinning like he’d just solved one of the seven wonders of the world, and Yeosang is looking back and forth between you like he’s never heard anything so fucking stupid. 

“There’s no way in hell you’re actually considering this,” Yeosang’s voice is shaky, drenched in disbelief, “have you ever watched To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before?” 

“This is different,” you’re quick to answer, “I’m not Lara Jean, there are no letters, there’s just an Wooyoung who needs to learn what it feels like to be on the opposite end of the knife.”

“And Mingi won’t shut up until he sinks his claws into that girl, I think it’s a pretty even exchange,” Jongho adds, both of you two peas in an optimistic pod while Yeosang just stares, dumbfounded. 

He blinks once, twice, before his lips part to speak, sucking in a breath. They close, and his face twists in confusion, “Let me get this straight, you’re suggesting fake dating Song Mingi, like, football player Song Mingi. And you think he’ll agree?” 

You turn to Jongho who just shrugs. “Why not?”

“I don’t know how to say this without insulting you, girl,” Yeosang’s bottom lip is tugged down to expose his bottom row of teeth, a nervous but apologetic look. “But his taste is… refined. Of snotty girls and like, barbie dolls. Plus, you’re opposites.” 

“Fuck you Yeosang, I’m hot!” You immediately bark out, then turn to Jongho, “I’m hot, aren’t I?” 

“Yeah Yeo, she’s hot,” Jongho nodded, saying Yeosang’s name like it was an insult, then immediately cringing because those words feel gross on his tongue, “Mingi will be into it, trust me. And if he’s not, I’ll just remind him of the bigger picture, it’s not like he has to kiss her or anything.” 

You make a face that is nowhere near pleased, lips thinning, brows flattening. “You guys have known me too long, you’re too comfortable insulting me to my face.” 

Yeosang barely gives you a glance, “She doesn’t party anymore, she doesn’t socialize with anyone outside her study group and us. They’re opposites, even if she’s–” he cringes, “–hot.”

“Her study group goes out!” Jongho argues, also not sparing you a glance, “Jia and Riyo are always at the LAX house, she can just tag along with them or with Mingi or whatever. I don’t know, once I get him to agree, it’s out of our hands.” 

Your jaw drops again. “Out of your hands? Hello? I’m right here, first of all, second, this is your idea, Ho.” 

The flex in Jongho’s jaw is his way of saying stop it with the fucking nickname. Deadpanning, he responds, “It’s just an idea, you and Mingi can figure out the details.” 

“Stop acting like he said yes already,” Yeosang argues, amusement in his voice now, “you’ll get her hopes up of fucking a football guy.” 

You can’t react to the response, because fucking Song Mingi would be a dream— not that the football part has anything to do with it. Your face reflects the thought. 

“He’ll say yes,” Jongho nods, “trust me.” 

“Fuck no. Are you stupid?” 

Maybe Jongho should have waited until they got to the gym, or at least until after Mingi had consumed four bites of his breakfast. Maybe waking him up a minute before his alarm went off at a mere six in the morning wasn’t the best idea, but his anxiety wouldn’t leave him alone. 

“Come on,” Jongho whines, legitimately whines, because if Mingi didn’t say yes he’d have to hear about it for weeks to come, and he can’t bear to hear another complaint from the older man’s mouth. “She said yes already, it’s the perfect plan. Girls are jealous like that, they want what they can’t have.” 

Dark hair, a little oily and piecey on his head, shooting out in every which way, he was shirtless under the navy blue comforter, sheets crumpled at the foot of his bed. Jongho can’t remember the last time Mingi used the washing machine in the basement of the football house. 

Mingi sits up a little, yawning, before looking up to Jongho with an uninterested look, “Is she hot?”

Jongho can’t help the face he makes. Head craning back and forth, almost touching each shoulder as a high pitched, unconvincing, “Yeah,” slides from his lips. 

Mingi smacks his lips, laying back in his bed and turning away, pulling the comforter over his shoulders as he utters, “Waking me up before my alarm for some bullshit, Jongho.”

Jongho tries defending himself, “I’ve known her since she was fourteen, she’s like a sister. If you’re talking about, like, conventionally attractive then I guess, yes—”

“I don’t even know what conventionally means,” Mingi huffs, “get out of my room.” 

“Mingi, Wooyoung just broke her heart, she wants revenge, and you want the girl. It's an even exchange, no strings. You have nothing to lose.” 

Mingi’s grumble slowly grows in volume as he turns back over, eyes still closed. “What about my pride? Making some elaborate scheme just to get a girl who I shouldn’t even care about.” 

Jongho’s lips thin— not the pity party, again. He can’t listen to it another time or else he might explode. They’ve already hidden the whiteboard. 

He bends at the knees, arms folding over the empty space at the edge of Mingi’s mattress, “Listen, bro, it’ll stay between me, you and her—” and Yeosang, “—it’s the perfect plan. You don’t even have to learn her last name, just stand next to her for a little while until your dream girl’s interest is piqued. Easy peasy.” 

One of Mingi’s eyes opened, “It’ll work?” 

Jongho nods. 

“And she’s hot?” 

Jongho’s lips thin again, but he nods. 

“Fine,” Mingi huffs, “tell her to come over or something so I can get a good look before I agree to this.” 

If it was any other circumstance, your fingertips would be buzzing at your sides, heart pounding in your chest with having a man so beautiful in front of you. Plump lips, dark hair still a little damp laying over his sculpted cheekbones, strong shoulders on display in his sleeveless tank. He sat sunken into the couch, one leg folded over the other with his ankle kissing his knee, arms crossed over his chest. Gorgeous. His skin looks so soft you want to touch it— maybe lick it. 

But he did not look pleased. On top of ruining the fantasy, you’re disappointed that men like him still exist. 

Standing before him across the living room, a hip popped with your arms crossed, the only thing Jongho said to you before walking inside the football house was that Mingi wanted to meet you. Not that you’d be put on display for him to judge your appearance before he agreed to being your fake fucking boyfriend. 

“This is misogynistic in ways my mind can’t even comprehend right now,” you huffed the words to Jongho, your best friend of nearly a decade, not even looking at Mingi. As far as you’re concerned, he’s not in the room anymore. He no longer fucking exists. 

There was an apology in his deep brown eyes, his features softened, lips tightened. But he didn’t answer. Mingi’s thick eyebrows were furrowed, top lip curled, but his eyes didn’t read distaste even if his body language portrayed it. With the rage simmering within you right now, he should thank whatever god he prayed to that you weren’t at the boiling point yet. 

“I don’t know what that means,” Mingi shakes his head a little, voice lazy, “this will do, though. I guess.” 

“You guess?” Your entire face jerks forward, “You fucking guess? I’m a human, you know. Standing right in front of you.” 

“No shit,” Mingi sighs, head leaning back into the couch cushion, chin tipped up, face reading utter boredom. “You’ll get me the girl, though? You’re sure she’ll want me if I pretend I’m… dating you?” 

He said the words like you casted a fucking curse on him. 

Your eye twitched as you glance at Jongho. Meeting his apprehensive stare you uncurled your arms from your chest, legs moving for the front door, “Fuck no, I’m not doing this. Absolutely not, plan is cancelled.” 

“Wait!” Jongho stands, eyes wide, palms pressing into your shoulders to stop you from walking straight out the front door. “He’s tired, we had a hard practice today. He’s not usually this bad, I swear, I swear.” 

“What do you mean?” Mingi sits up a little, turning halfway to see the two of you, “What do you mean ‘this bad’? I’m being normal.” 

“See?” Your arm flies in his direction, “he’s being normal. You never told me he’s a fucking asshole, Ho.” 

“An asshole!?” Mingi stands up straight, arms at his side, jaw dropped. “I have to tell every single person in my life I’m dating you, and I’m an asshole for wanting to make sure it’s fitting?” 

“What are you so worried about?” You raise your voice, “you’re twenty-one years old, it’s college, it’s not like you have a reputation to uphold, no one cares. You play football, big fuckin’ deal.” 

Mingi gasps, insulted, “Big deal? Big deal? It’s my entire future, thank you very much.” 

“You won’t have a future if you treat women like they’re your little playthings,” you snap, voice bitter, “is the NFL gonna draft a misogynist?” You smack your lips, eyes meeting the floor, regretting the words as soon as you said them. The NFL would in fact draft a misogynist. Plenty of them, actually. 

“Why do you even care? We just have to show face a few times,” Mingi responds, voice bored yet again, “you don’t have to like me, I don’t have to like you. I just want her.” 

Rage bubbles up inside you again as Wooyoung crosses your mind. It would feel really, really good to hurt him after he hurt you. And Mingi’s right, you guess, you don’t have to get to know him, or speak to him ever again after this. You could look past the flaws you were sure ran deep if it was just temporary. Situational. 

You look up, brows flat, mumbling the reiteration, “A few times.”

Jongho is nodding, smile growing as his eyes bounce between you, whispering, “Yes, friendly, this is good, this is good.”

You face Mingi from across the couch, holding up a flat hand, curling a finger into your palm with each rule, “We don’t speak to each other outside of pre-scheduled meetings, we only act like a couple when there’s people watching, and do not fucking touch me.” 

“Don’t touch you?” Mingi pops a brow, “people won’t believe we’re a couple. How am I gonna prove to her I’m boyfriend-worthy if I can’t show off my boyfriend skills?” 

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, looking away, “you’re right. Wooyoung won’t be jealous if you don’t make him jealous.” 

“Exactly,” Mingi’s brows raise, pleased, dimples out to play as his lips thin in a tight smile. “I don’t want to touch you as much as you don’t want to touch me, trust.” 

Your head snaps up to shoot him another pointed stare, grumbling under your breath, “Asshole.” 

Mingi’s smile morphs into a nasty little smirk, “Your asshole now, baby.” You give him an unimpressed, blank stare and his smirk falters as what he said sinks in. Sheepishly, he mumbles, “Sounded better in my head.” 

“Like you actually think before you speak,” you snap, rolling your eyes, bringing your attention back to Jongho who looks like if he breathes wrong his entire plan will go in the shitter. “I’ll figure out where Woo will be next, you can tell Mingi and plan out when we’re meeting and where, whatever. Keeping this very much so in your hands, Ho.” 

“Don’t—” Jongho shakes his head, smile reappearing, “—okay. Sure. Got it.” 

“Good,” you nod, then glance back at Mingi, “don’t embarrass me by saying stupid shit around people, ‘kay?” 

Mingi cocks his head to the side wearing the biggest smile, “Don’t embarrass me by wearing that outfit in public again, ‘kay?” 

FIRST OUTING: SOFT LAUNCH, THE LAX HOUSE. 11:20 PM.

“How the hell did you get Song Mingi to be your boyfriend?” Riyo is on your hip, bright red hair in a single braid down her back, denim booty-shorts hugging her hips, a cropped, tight bandeau top covering her chest. You suppose for where you went to school that was the uniform, something you quickly realized weeks into your freshman year, clothes were optional here. 

You scoff, walking in-step with her, grass from the lawn of the LAX house sneaking around the edges of your flip-flop covered feet. “What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”

She giggles, a step ahead of you as she walks up the front stairs, “It’s weird, you have no correlation to the football team. Where did you even meet him?” 

“On campus,” your voice is high-pitched, certainly not convincing. You clear your throat, “I mean, I applied to be a part of the football team’s academics unit, I just got in, like, a month ago.”

Riyo pauses at the door, a hand on her hip, eyebrows furrowed, “The fuck? And you just didn’t tell me that you,” she counts on her fingers, “applied, got accepted, and started?”

“It’s not a big deal,” you shrug, nervously laughing to cover up the so fucking obvious lie, “I’m just helping them study, Mingi and I.. clicked.”

God, the words feel sour. So unconvincing you could vomit– and he’s inside, waiting for you, you could really fucking empty your guts on the LAX house’s porch. It’s already cluttered with lacrosse sticks, solo cups, backpacks, containers of white balls you can only assume are used in the game, your vomit would probably go unnoticed. Or washed away by beer, maybe your tears by the end of the night. 

You don’t know why you agreed to this, it was a moment of weakness. Of rage. Wanting revenge. Because behind the stained, scratched white door, was the entire lacrosse team, the entire football team, God knows who the fuck else if Riyo’s here. You could hear the music bleeding through the walls, something with heavy bass, something rap, something you might know if you opened the door. 

Jongho texted you yesterday that Mingi asked for you to make your first appearance here, he said it was the perfect spot, that Wooyoung and Winter might even be here. As much as you were regretting your decision, you hoped he was here. You want to see the look on his face when he spots you at Mingi’s side, when word spreads that you’re dating him, you want to watch his face morph into confusion, into regret, hopefully something lustful that you could use to your advantage. 

“That’s gotta go in, like, the top five most insane things to ever happen on this campus,” Riyo wears a supportive smile, yet her head still shakes in disbelief, “I’m happy for you, though. Actually, I think you kinda suit each other.”

You fight the cringe, that was an insult. You smile instead, already hating the words about to come out of your mouth, “Let’s go inside, I wanna see him.”

You’ve been here before, you frequented the LAX house plenty freshman year, a lot less sophomore year after your fling with Kim Mingyu, you haven’t been here once yet this year. It hasn’t changed, medium-sized house, open floor plan, giant kitchen, silver appliances. The furniture was dull, broken in, old, thrifted. It’s nostalgic, being here, these people, you barely see the lacrosse team on campus, you know a few of them from your times here as a freshman, mornings escaping after a night with Mingyu, you don’t know anyone well enough to be considered a friend. 

Riyo is immediately squealing upon walking inside, hugging girls you only know the first names of, you smile in greeting from behind her. Jia, another girl from your study group that you’re close with, approaches with the same squeal Riyo had unleashed on the room, her dark hair styled in waves behind her back, deep, golden-olive skin glowing beneath the barely-there lights in the room. 

Her eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she sees you, “Hello? Shut the fuck up?”

“Hey baby,” your tongue sneaks out between your teeth and she squeals again, throwing her arms over your shoulders in a tight hug. Swaying you side to side, she’s a giggling mess, sandal-covered feet tapping against the floor. 

“I haven’t seen you here since last year!” She yells, grin spread wide, showing her dazzling white teeth you couldn’t believe shone so bright in a room this dark. 

You shrug, smiling, “I have good reason.”

“She’s seeing her boyfriend,” Riyo teases, nudging you with her shoulder, smiling like a fucking crazy person. Leaning in close to Jia, her voice is still loud, even if she was trying to be secretive, “Song Mingi.”

Jia looks like nothing in the world makes sense, and she’s been transported to another dimension. “I saw you two nights ago, babe, and there was not one mention of a boyfriend, most certainly not a word about Song Mingi.”

“We’re not being, like, super public about it,” you shake your head, cheeks burning, “it’s chill guys, seriously, don’t make a huge deal about it, he’s not a celebrity.”

“Closest we’ll ever get to one, plus, last I heard you were still fucking Wooyoung,” the look on Jia’s face hasn’t left, and God you wish you thought out a better plan with Mingi before you left the football house the other day, you’re scrambling for a story. 

“Ew, why are you talking about him?”

Speak of the fucking devil– a shiver racks down your now rigid spine, you fix your eyes that involuntarily widened. Jia and Riyo watch with dropped jaws as Mingi slides an arm over your shoulder, an easygoing smile on his face, looking at you so fucking fondly it makes your heart skip a beat. Fuck him for being so damn beautiful.

Dark shirt clinging to his torso, showing off every fucking muscle that was etched into his skin beneath it, his hair was styled, purposely messy how it hung over the sides of his head where it was shorter, faded into his skin. Baggy jeans on his legs, low enough to show the Calvins under them, he wore a skinny, silver chain around his neck, one to match on his wrist, with pretty, bulky rings on his fingers. 

This is so fucking unfortunate– he’s beautiful and he sucks, you hate him, his personality, the misogyny he so easily wields as a weapon, it makes you sick. He doesn’t deserve a perfect face and an even more perfect body. Fuck him. 

“We were talking about you,” you force a smile on your lips, turning back to Jia and Riyo as your stiff body leans into Mingi’s huge one, so stiff and broad and muscled you tried to not pay too much attention to it. “Of course you missed it.”

“Start again,” his smile is cheesy, so fucking cheesy you want to slap it off his face. “I wanna hear all the cute things my baby said about me.”

Spit lodges in your throat that constricts around nothing, you choke. Coughing, you pull away from his grip, turning around, smacking your chest with a fist, eyes tearing– he did not just call you baby unironically. 

He leans in close, feigning concern, “Are you okay?”

Your other hand flies up, back still facing him, “Fine– fuck.”

Gathering yourself, you turn back around, plastering a smile onto your face. Bidding a wave to the two girls, through gritted teeth, you ask him in a false, sweet voice, “Don’t you have people to introduce me to?” 

He quirks a brow, but nods, slinging his arm over your shoulder again as he guides you away from your group of friends. Voice low, keeping himself tight to your ear, he asks, “What the fuck was that?”

“Do not ever call me baby again,” you keep your smile, but your voice is venomous, “that was fucking disgusting.”

“You think I enjoyed it?” He whispers back, voice pitched sharply, “It’s kinda part of boyfriendism, no? Pet names and shit?” 

You’re wading through the crowd, Mingi shooting smiles and dapping up tens of people you don’t know, mainly men, all beefy and drunk and eyes dilated like they just railed lines in the kitchen. You shift your shoulders under his heavy ass arm, “Jesus, Mingi, I’m not a fucking ledge for you to put your whole weight on, big ass.”

He grins as he looks down at you, wiggling his brows, “You think my ass is big?” 

You roll your eyes, “I don’t think I’m gonna survive you.”

“You won’t believe how many times I’ve heard that line,” his grin is proud, he’s not even looking at you as he says it, eyes focused on the people in front of him, in the hallway where a large table is set up, holding a messy game of beer pong. Water beneath the table, a shallow film on top of the painted surface, swirls of brown covering your school’s logo shittily lined in black, gross.

You don’t have time to scoff– you know these guys, Jeno, Chris, Kai, Haechan, Soobin, Changbin. All on the football team, all huge, you’re already vibrating, body stiffening under Mingi’s arm that’s so casually thrown over your shoulders, heavy and thick. Suffocating.

You wish you could be meeting them under different circumstances. You’re tainted now, if they even cared about boy-code, which they might not usually, but you wondered if Mingi pulled rank with them, or if girlfriends were off limits compared to casual lays. Your answer is quickly delivered to you on a silver platter as Jeno eyes you from across the table, hip to hip with Chris who does the same, eyes sliding down your body and back up like they were sizing you up, waiting to pounce. 

Your posture changes, subtle, but your arms uncurl from in front of you, back arching slightly, eyes drooping into that pretty, low stare that did Wooyoung in when you first met him. A small smile on your lips, you tilt your head away from Mingi while he introduces you– as his girlfriend. Right. You lock back in, blinking into focus, smiling and nodding to each man that introduces himself like you didn’t already know all of their names and their positions. 

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Changbin has one palm planted on the painted table, clearly he didn’t care about the murky water, one of his hands palms a can of beer close to his chest, “you were crying over what’s-her-face two minutes ago.”

Mingi makes a face, head nodding towards you with his eyebrows raised like he was silently telling Changbin to shut the fuck up, like you weren’t supposed to hear that, as if you didn’t know already. He’s playing it up, smart.

“Nice to meet you,” Chris grins from the other side of the table, his voice warm, smile pretty, it makes you feel fuzzy inside. You can’t wait to fake-break-up with Mingi. “Your boyfriend didn’t get you a drink yet?” 

“Was waiting for one of you to do it for me,” Mingi juts his chin out in Kai’s direction and he nods, eyes wide as he receives the order, and he scrambles. Like, literally scrambles. Nonchalantly you nudge your elbow into Mingi’s ribs, silently telling him to stop being an asshole. 

Hiding his hiss in a forced laugh, he steals his arm back from around your shoulders, hiding his formerly exposed ribs, “You should have one hand-delivered to you, ba– sweetheart.”

God, you can feel the bile churning in your gut. You fix your face before it morphs into full disgust. 

“How did you two meet?” Haechan asks, his voice whiney– you were not expecting that from his bulky build, broad and toned, so hot. His cherry-red hair is a mess of curls atop his head, skin bronzy under the far light dimming the hallway, allowing them to see the game, you presume. 

“The library.”

“On campus.”

You and Mingi respond at the same time, then look at each other, eyes panic-stricken at the fumble. You couldn’t repeat your lie from earlier, they would know you aren't a part of their study team, all you could think was on campus, a generic answer. 

You stutter, “The– The library.”

“The one that’s on campus,” Mingi nods, assured. 

“Why the fuck were you at the library?” Soobin asks, leaned up against the wall of the hallway, dark brows furrowed, two hands around his can of beer. Valid question, your heart picks up speed in your chest, you weren’t expecting them to pry. 

“Studying,” Mingi responds nonchalantly, his voice high, shoulders shrugging. 

“Extra tutoring,” you add, “on top of what you guys have, yeah. One of the girls on your academics team told me Mingi needed extra help and volunteered me because our schedules lined up.”

“Exactly,” Mingi nods, lips pursed in an attempt to be more convincing, “love at first sight type shit.”

You tuck your lips between your teeth to hide your smile, smothering the snort that fights to climb to the surface, redirecting your gaze to the floor beneath you. You can’t wait to make fun of him for that line later.

“Right,” Changbin’s brows are tied together, dark hair sprawled across his forehead, almost hiding his skepticism. He redirects his attention to Jeno, the silver-haired hunk of a man beside him, Chris splitting the three. Tilting his chin up, he asks, “Keep playing?” 

Mingi’s lips tighten, turning to you again, “Should we go find where Kai is?”

“Sure,” you sigh, flipping your hair off your now slightly sticky shoulders, “I could use a drink.” One of his hands slides to your lower back, guiding you away, and you realize then that he doesn’t have a drink– moving in-step towards the kitchen, you ask, “You’re not drinking?”

“No, not tonight,” his voice is monotonous, he doesn’t look down, keeps his eyes ahead. “Need a clear mind if I’m gonna lie to a hundred people.” 

“It’s hot in here,” you complain, face crunching to cringe, it’s humid for November, even for where you live.

“I can tell, you’re sweating all over me, bro,” he responds, voice dripping in boredom, pressing his hand to your back a little harder instead of removing it from your body altogether. “Gross.”

“Then take your hand off me, bro,” you huff, turning the corner, the kitchen coming into view. Surprising high ceilings, white cabinets, silver appliances, marble countertops, probably the nicest room in the whole house, you wondered if there was still a hole in the back door from that one night Hoshi got a little too drunk. You sneer, “You probably smell like a wet dog after practice.”

You spot a few members of the lacrosse team in the corner, standing in front of the back door, a black mesh screen severing the house from the backyard, letting cool air from outside in. Joshua, Wonwoo, Seungkwan, a joint lit in Seungkwan’s mouth, the youngest of the three, a sophomore. Guess they really chilled out during their off-season, no worries about a drug test in their future. Good for them.  

“I smell like a beautiful woman after practice,” Mingi scoffs, guiding you in front of him with his palm, hands gliding up to sit on your shoulders, pushing you through people that parted at the sight of him. You keep a tight-lipped smile on your face, giving a small nod each time you make eye contact with someone new. He leans down into your ear, “You’d probably like it, you’re the gross one. Pheremone-lover.” 

“Keep your androstenone away from me,” you answer with disgust in your voice, without changing your face an inch, “you probably don’t even know what that is.”

“Guilty as charged, smart girl,” he catches Kai’s head of blonde hair over the crowd, the two men probably the tallest in the entire kitchen. “Huening!” Mingi yells, stealing Kai’s attention, he wears a wide, excited grin, holding two cans of beer over his head like he’d discovered the One Piece. 

“I got beer!” He yells across the kitchen, immediately wading through people to get to you and Mingi. A freshman, you think, also on the offensive line, Jongho’s told you about him– a smart kid with great instincts for football, uses his build to his advantage. Innocent, ignorant like a child, a little stupid, he’s cute. Chubby cheeks, a kind smile, your already heated skin rises in temperature as he approaches, opening your can for you. 

You introduce yourself properly, thanking him for the beer, “How’s your first year on the team?”

Mingi’s head snaps down to look at you, brows tied together in surprise. 

Kai grins, blushing immediately, running a hand through his blonde hair, “Great, thanks for asking, the guys are really cool, Coach is terrifying lowkey, but he’s cool, too.”

You giggle, head tilting, “I’ve heard that, he’s famous though, right? Coach Suh?” 

“Yeah, he’s like, renowned in the football world,” Kai babbles on, the two of you erupting into easy conversation, all while Mingi’s head bobs back and forth, watching, listening, his confusion growing with each new word that falls from your lips. 

He can’t help but interject, “Since when do you know so much about the team?”

Your giggle slows to a stop, smile faltering, “What do you mean? I’ve always known, this is a D1 school, silly.” 

Silly is synonymous with stupid fuck, he can feel it in how your pointed eyes stare into him.

“She couldn’t be your girlfriend if she didn’t know football, Song,” Kai adds, so innocent, so easygoing, oh my God you love him. 

Mingi nods like he was the one who reminded himself you were his girlfriend, not Kai, forcing a laugh out, more punched and nervous than anything. “Right, yeah, yeah.”

Your blood runs cold as you catch a head of recognizable black hair around Kai’s ridiculously huge bicep, bronzy skin, a cloud of smoke surrounding him like it was his brand, his aura. Your eyes widen, head swerving around Kai’s arm to get a better look, taking in his leather jacket, the rings on his fingers, the cigarette dangling between his teeth as he smiles, Corona in one of his hands. 

“Nice meeting you, Kai,” you don’t even look at the boy, grabbing onto Mingi’s arm, dragging him sideways, away from Kai’s earshot. “He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.”

“Who? Who?” 

“Who do you think, dumbass?” You spit, chin pointing in Wooyoung’s direction, “The only man who’s more of an asshole than you.”

“Oh my God, she’s with him,” a hand comes up to cover Mingi’s mouth, his brown eyes wide, excitement gleaming in chocolate, drawing them hazel. Beside Wooyoung is Winter, long, dark hair pinned up halfway, a short, black skirt on her hips, halter top tugging her upper half just right. He lowers his voice, “Fuck, she’s so hot.”

“Pause,” you turn to him as the realization sinks in– he wants Winter? Winter is the girl you’re helping him get? Kim Minjeong? “You want Winter?!”

“Yes,” he groans out, head tilting back, a whine to his voice like he was four years old and you just took away his favorite toy. “She’s perfect, dude. Like, perfection in a human, I love her, I think.”

“What the fuck?” Completely baffled, you shake your head in disbelief at how perfect this is lined up. You don’t know how you didn’t put it together sooner, you didn’t once think about who Mingi wants, who the girl might be. You didn’t really care. “This is good, this works in our favor, this is perfect, actually,” you’re rambling as you turn around, watching Wooyoung and Winter across the room, how Wooyoung introduces her to the lacrosse trio at the backdoor, how he pulls his cigarette from his lips to press them to her cheek in a short kiss. 

“Ew, he’s touching her, that’s my wife,” Mingi props his forearm on your shoulder, you immediately shake yourself out of his grip, eyes never leaving them, laser-focused. He whines, “Comfort me, I’m heartbroken. He’s touching her, bro.”

“They’re together, what do you expect?” You whisper-yell, twisting around to get him out of your personal space. “How can we get their attention? We need them to see us together, being coupled up and shit.”

“I’m boys with Shua and Wonwoo, we can go over there,” Mingi suggests, finally looking at you, and the excited gleam in his eye was now dulled down to desperation, a sadness only caused by yearning. If he wasn’t such an asshole, you might feel bad for him. 

You nod, “Good idea, let’s do it. Let’s go, come on, football boy.”

With his hands on your shoulders again, you guzzle the beer in your hands as you cross the kitchen, eyes screwing shut as the spicy carbonation burns your throat. Beer is so fucking gross, at least it’s cold, it gets the job done– you burp before you approach them, a closed fist covering your mouth in an attempt to hide the noise. 

“Ew!” Mingi gasps from behind you, “Did you just burp? You’re disgusting, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Shut up,” you spit, “I couldn’t help it, and they’ll hear you, go back to boyfriendism and make it believable.”

“You want me to put on a show?” You can hear the amusement in his voice, the wiggle of his stupid thick brows. 

“I do, actually,” you answer with a defeated sigh, “do your worst.”

Approaching the lacrosse trio, Wooyoung and Winter, Mingi throws his arms fully around your front, tucking your back into his chest, his chin sitting on the top of your head. In an obnoxious yell, he makes his presence known, “Hey guys, how we doin’ tonight?”

Ew. One of your hands wraps around his forearm glued to your chest, a wide grin on your cheeks, your head leaned up against one of his biceps that boxes you into his hold, “Hey guys.”

“Song!” Joshua yells, smile widening, lighting up his whole face, “I was hoping you’d show tonight.”

Wooyoung’s smile drops when he sees you, you meet his eyes immediately, your fake grin turning real. Yes, be mad, be so angry you flip the fuck out.

“Of course I’d show,” there’s so much confidence in Mingi’s voice it’s nauseating, “had to introduce my girl to all my people, do you guys know her?” 

With a coy smile, you introduce yourself as Mingi’s girlfriend, head leaning into his chest impossibly further, forcing a stupid, lovestruck look on your face, you prayed it was believable. 

Joshua nods, as does Wonwoo, both recognizing you from all the times you’ve been here, probably also your fling with Mingyu. The two lacrosse boys greet you kindly, where Seungkwan introduces himself, newer to the team, to those who party in their house. 

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Wonwoo’s brows furrowed, “the campus isn’t burned down, I’m confused.”

You and Mingi both laugh, but Mingi says, “I don’t think word has spread yet, don’t worry, expect the heat soon.”

“It’s hot enough,” you add, rolling your eyes, “your fangirls will be just fine, there won’t be a fire.”

“You have no idea,” Joshua snorts, “I remember one girl having to deactivate her Instagram account because word got out you were sleeping with her, remember that, Min?”

“Let’s not talk about the past in front of my girlfriend,” Mingi’s voice slips into something strict, “it’s disrespectful, Shua.”

You stiffen in his arms, that’s oddly kind, it makes your situation more believable. You briefly wonder how Mingi is with his girlfriends, if there’s any form of chivalry in his cold, chauvinist heart. 

Joshua snorts, shaking his head, “‘m sorry, you’re right, my bad.” His pretty brown eyes fall to meet yours and you melt into Mingi all over again, “Blame the weed, sweetheart, my social awareness has depleted to zero.”

“It’s okay,” you smile softly, liking the word as it falls from Joshua’s plump, wet lips, eyes wandering back over to Wooyoung who’s still staring, lips slightly parted, the cherry on his cigarette so long it’d fall soon. You avert your eyes to it, cocky amusement in your tone, “Planning to start the fire yourself?” 

His eyes find his cigarette and he jumps into action, twisting around to flick it in the ashtray behind him, sitting full on the corner of the kitchen island. Your eyes find Winter who’s eyes are staring up at Mingi, looking at him the same way Wooyoung was looking at you. 

Your smile turns devious– it’s fucking working. You knew it would, but it’s still surprising, how stupid could these two be? Maybe they deserve each other. You remind yourself that Mingi’s stupid, too– maybe they could explore polyamory together. 

“Preseason start yet?” Mingi asks, either unaware of Winter’s eyes or he’s playing his cards right, the three lacrosse boys erupt into conversation, complaining about their coach, their training, the program they go through in the fall season to ensure they’re in shape come Spring. 

Wooyoung leans into Winter, a hand around her waist, pulling her into him to whisper something in her ear. It’s like she’s forced back into reality, how her hand lays over his chest, giggling at whatever he said. Gross. You could probably bet money on what nasty shit he just whispered in her ear, dirty talk so smooth it used to make you go weak in the knees, clinging to him like a moth to a flame, how she arched into him you assumed he probably asked to pull her into the bathroom. A move you’d fallen victim to plenty of times yourself.

Jealousy stems in your gut, anger pushing blood through your veins, you look up to Mingi, batting your lashes. You could do it, too. His eyes meet yours and blink into focus, into realization, you watch as his brows ever so slightly knit together, so slight it could go unnoticed, you’re sure you wouldn’t have if you weren’t so close.

A smirk creeps onto his cheeks, voice velvety and smooth, “I know what you want.” Thank God. “Excuse us,” Mingi winks at the lacrosse boys who start snickering upon the words leaving his mouth, “what the princess wants, she gets.”

You catch Wooyoung’s eye, his head whipping around Winter’s, a flicker of surprise. Winter turns too, eyes on Mingi’s biceps around your head, sinking down his build, you hope she’s thinking about fucking him. You hope Wooyoung’s thinking about all the things you’re about to fake-do to Mingi.

You wave as Mingi turns you around, voice light, “Nice to meet you, Seungkwan.”

A few steps away, his biceps flex around your head to get your attention, “Nice move, smart girl.”

You giggle to yourself in victory, bringing your beer up to your lips, “I do have to pee, though, we have to actually go to the bathroom.”

“There’s one at the end of the hallway,” he pulls his arms from around your head to sink down to your hips, his fingers curling through the loops of your denim shorts, guiding you where to go like you’ve never been here before.

Does he think you’re a LAX house newb? You run a hand through your hair, “And there’s two upstairs, one connected to Mingyu and Cheol’s room, another between Dino and Hoshi’s rooms.”

“Look at you, flexing how many bathrooms you’ve gotten laid in.”

“Only the one connected to Mingyu’s room, he’s huge, you can’t blame me.”

“Disrespectful,” he snickers, smacking his teeth, winking at his teammates he passes by in the hallway, you give them all a feigned, bashful smile. “Telling your boyfriend who you’ve slept with.”

“You don’t want to know who I’ve slept with,” you stop in front of the bathroom door, twisting the knob carefully, and thankfully, it opens. You rush inside and Mingi follows, closing the door behind him, locking it. You stare at him with furrowed brows, “What the hell are you doing?”

“We’re supposed to be fucking, remember?” His brows raise, hands landing on his hips, his face falling into the usual disgust. You didn’t have to pretend in here. 

You groan, head tipping back, “I have to pee.”

“Then pee!” A hand flies out from his side, five fingers pointing to the toilet, “I’m not stopping you, there’s a toilet right there.”

“What are you gonna do, watch?”

“Are you offering?”

“Fuck you, you’re disgusting,” you spit, a revolted chill making you shiver, he laughs like it’s funny. The weight in your bladder is clear, you whine, shoving your beer into his chest, “I can’t pee if you’re in here, I’m pee-shy.”

“Do you want me to sing? Do a little dance for you?” 

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, “Actually, yeah.”

His amused smile drops, “Deadass?”

“You offered,” you shrug, “turn around, do a lil’ dance for me, football boy.”

His face morphs into regret, but he turns around, facing the shower, he takes a sip of your beer before he clears his throat, spreading his legs for comfort, his other hand finding his front pocket. 

“...Seventeen-thirty-eight… Ay… I’m like hey, whatsup, hello…”

You burst out laughing, hand covering your mouth, the weight in your bladder growing excruciatingly heavy, “Fuck, I’m gonna piss my pants.”

Flipping the lid, you shove your shorts down, squatting over the gross toilet, Mingi keeps fucking singing. You’re laughing as you pee, snorting, holding onto the bathroom counter for dear life until tears cloud your vision, he’s purposely singing badly, sounding insane, he has no shame. You suppose neither do you, peeing in the same room as Song Mingi, for a second you forget who he is. 

Starting quarterback for your university’s football team, he’s a known figure, important. The face of sports for your school, everyone knows his name, everyone wants him– and he’s with you, singing fucking Trap Queen in the LAX house bathroom so you can successfully empty your bladder. 

Wiping, flushing, he turns around as you finish buttoning your shorts again, his voice filled with amusement. “How was that? Should I switch careers, or what?”

“Stick to football,” you mutter, then snort again as you side-step to the sink, turning the water on to wash your hands. “Also, love at first sight? We need to work on your lying skills, and your vocabulary.”

“I thought it was cute!” He defends himself, setting your beer down beside you on the countertop, “People ask too many questions, I wasn’t expecting to make up a full-fledged story every time I opened my mouth tonight.”

“You forget who you are,” you eye him through the mirror, “I wasn’t prepared, either. But enough people know now, word will spread on its own. When can we stop? Like, break up?”

“Damn, one night with me and you already want to break up?” He clutches his heart in hurt, then grins, the tip of his back leaning up against the wall, hips blocking the pole that holds the hand-towels. “Soon, though. Did you see how she was looking at me?”

You turn around, shaking your hands out on either side of you to air-dry since he’s unknowingly hiding the damn towels, clutching the countertop to haul your ass onto it, beside the sink. “Of course I saw, I also saw how you didn’t even spare her a glance.”

He smirks, wiggling his brows, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever the fuck.”

Your face morphs into confusion, “I don’t think you can use that saying here.”

“Whatever,” he scoffs, “you know what I mean. Jongho told me girls want what they can’t have, so I’m trying to make myself look very unavailable. It seemed to be working, right?”

“Yeah, she seemed into it,” you shrug, “you think Wooyoung looked pissed?”

“I don’t think he puffed that disgusting cigarette once,” Mingi gives you an impressed look, “his jaw was too busy mopping the floor.”

You giggle at that, legs swaying back and forth where they hung off the counter. Tilting your head, you wonder out loud, “I think three-ish weeks max should be enough, what do you think? If they’re showing interest now, it shouldn’t take much longer.”

He groans, “I have to endure you for three more weeks?”

“Don’t act like you aren’t having fun,” you bite back, “I’m the one who has to endure you.”

“You weren’t complaining when I was holding onto you, smushing your cheeks with my arms, girls would fight to be in your position. Your back was probably getting my shirt wet, you know, sweaty ass.”

Your jaw drops, offended, “It’s fucking hot!” Throwing yourself off the counter, feet hitting the floor with a smack, your hand flies for the doorknob, “I’ve had enough of you, actually. We’ve done plenty of damage for one night, the rest should fall in place.”

“I got it,” he turns off the bathroom light, closing the door behind him, his hand immediately going for your lower back. 

“There’s no one in the hallway,” you reach back to shove his hand off you, “don’t touch me, pervert.”

“I just fucked you, and now I can’t put my hand on your sweaty ass back?”

“You didn’t even make me cum, so no.”

He laughs, a genuine belly laugh, straight from his gut, “Don’t talk shit when you have no fucking idea the things I can do.”

Under other circumstances, in another life, if he wasn’t Song Mingi, you’d love to find out. You don’t answer, cheeks flaming, ears tipping with heat, you’re forgetting yourself, a few days without consistent sex and now your stomach is dropping from words said by him? Out of all people?

You walk a little faster, aiming for your escape. At the end of the hallway, you turn your head halfway, “I’m leaving.”

He pauses in the archway, brows furrowed, voice clearly disappointed, “So soon?”

Swallowing, you nod, “I have class early tomorrow, I’ll let Jongho know what the next outing is, kay?”

SECOND OUTING: LUCENT, TWO DAYS LATER. 12:24 PM

xxx-xxx-xxxx: come to lucent xxx-xxx-xxxx: they’re here

you: the fuck you: who is this

xxx-xxx-xxxx: arent u the smart one bro xxx-xxx-xxxx: its mingi

you: lose my number

xxx-xxx-xxxx: bruh xxx-xxx-xxxx: wooyoung and winter are here can u come

you: oh you: i get out of class in 15

xxx-xxx-xxxx: i cant be here long xxx-xxx-xxxx: theyll start to ask questions

you: mad ominous. who is they you: ill leave early tho

The air is thick, humidity wrapping around your body like a blanket, so hot you tug your sweatshirt off your body upon leaving the lecture hall, leaving you in a thin-strapped tank, shorts on your legs, backpack slung over one shoulder. Headphones in your ears, the trek to Lucent is quick even if by the time you make it to the glass double-doors you’re sweating like a whore in church. 

It’s air-conditioned, at least, battling the floor to ceiling windows that begged to let the heat inside, bright, white light invading the room, a perpetrator. It helped you find Mingi easy enough, not that you had to search, eight men squished into one booth had you snorting at the entrance. 

Approaching the table, you put on your best girlfriend-smile before you even spotted Mingi. At the edge of the booth, dressed casually, much like how he looked the day you met him, he wore sweatpants and a cut-off tee, dark hair messy and sprawled across his face like he didn’t bother styling it. Heaving a breath from rushing over, you tucked your hair behind your ear, “Hey, sorry I’m late.”

He looked you up and down before meeting your eye, a smile spreading across his cheeks, “Hey, princess.”

Your nostrils flared, lips tightening in a fight to not morph into disgust, you guess that was the nickname that stuck. Searching the rest of the table, you find seven men smiling back at you, Jaemin, Taehyun, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Seungmin, Beomgyu and… Jongho. Your eyes widen, smile dropping, hands falling to your sides, words rushing from your lips, “I didn’t know you were here.”

The others turn to Jongho, who looks scared, eyes wide and lips pursed like he didn’t know what the fuck to do. He forces a smile, a nervous chuckle, “I didn’t know I’d be coming here.” His eyes cross the room, leading you to the back corner of the establishment, where Wooyoung sat on one of the comfy chairs, legs stretched out to rest on the small table in front of him, Winter perched on his lap. 

You swallow, ice prickling at your scalp. You never went anywhere public with him, even at fucking Eonian, his favorite stupid dive bar, the only time you interacted was either in the bathroom, or if he was drunk enough to address you in front of other people. Your jaw clenches for a split second, fists forming at your sides before you remember where you are, who’s watching. 

“Do you want anything to drink?” It’s Mingi who pulls you back up to earth, half your body already in the depths of hell from what you were mentally planning to do to Jung Wooyoung. 

Plastering that same, stupid fake-smile back on your lips, you realize you’re still standing, and the booth is clearly full. The boys are nearly on top of each other, large bodies pressed together by their shoulders and thighs, you refuse his question, instead asking, “Should I pull up a chair?”

Mingi’s lips warp into a small smirk as he leans back in the booth, two hands sliding down his thighs before he slaps them twice, “Here’s your chair.”

Your smile tightens, lips flat, eyes scrunched to hide the twitch. “Of course,” there’s nothing but sarcasm in your tone, enough for Mingi to notice, more than enough for Jongho to notice, but hopefully not the others. 

Pulling your backpack from your shoulder, you set it on the floor beside the booth, resting your headphones and hoodie on top. Carefully, slowly, hesitantly, you slide a leg between Mingi’s body and the table splitting the seats, trying not to cringe as you sit on the edge of his thigh. In the back of his throat he makes a strained, tight noise, one low enough for only you to hear, it makes your head snap to look at him, eyes pointed and lips thinned. 

He’s just smiling, fully amused by your reaction. You wish you could speak telepathically, call him a fucking asshole for pretending you’re heavy when he lifts six days a fucking week. 

His arms wrap around you, settling on your thighs, you’re too aware of the silence at the table as he shifts you farther back, in a more comfortable position– if a comfortable position actually exists on Song Mingi’s lap. 

“Are you guys between classes?” You turn to the table, smile back on your cheeks, hands in your lap, “I never see you here.”

“Why are we here?” Taehyun leaned forward, dark brows that matched his hair furrowed, plump lips scrunched in question. He’s a DB, if your memory serves, on the smaller side but fucking strong.

Heeseung, from across the table, replies simply, “Mingi wanted to come.”

The table’s eyes lead to the six-foot moron behind you. You can feel him shrug, voice casual like he didn’t care that this is clearly weird, “Was feeling coffee.”

“We’ve never been here before,” Jaemin comments, or argues, you think. He sips his water bottle, no coffee on the table before him, lean build with a wide upper body, he’s fucking gorgeous. He catches your eye, flashing you a smile held in his eyes, you have to look down at the table to stop yourself from asking for his number. 

“We come here all the time,” Jongho adds, your head picks up to see something playful in his eyes, lips upcurved slightly, “probably wanted to see your girlfriend’s hangout spot, right, Min?”

It’s then that you realize Jongho arranged this, Jongho knew Wooyoung was here, but why wasn’t Jongho the one to text you? Your eye twitches remembering Mingi now has your number.

He’s having too much fun chuckling from behind you, knees bouncing, making your whole body shift. His voice is coated in rock-hard candy, “Of course I wanted to see the coffee shop my girlfriend loves so much.” 

Your lips tighten again, embarrassed. You’re embarrassed. He’s embarrassing you right now, and it’s on purpose. 

“You’re so sweet,” you turn your head halfway, shoulders lifted into your cheeks, forcing a cheeriness to your voice that makes Jongho snort from across the table, “I’m so lucky.”

It renders Mingi’s face flat, unimpressed, he reaches forward and grabs the half-filled plastic cup filled with what looks like watered down shit, bringing it up to take a sip. Your brow pops, “Are you drinking espresso water?”

The table erupts in laughter and your head turns, brows fully furrowing at the commotion, “What?”

“Have you ever heard of an americano, du–” Mingi stops himself mid-insult, lips snapping shut. 

Your top lip curls, but instead of reacting your head turns to the table again, seven fucking football players staring at you like you’re an alien, “What the fuck is an americano?”

They all laugh again, slapping each other’s chests like it was the funniest thing they’ve ever heard and unfortunately it makes you laugh with them, a nervous-confused combination of a breathy giggle, their laughter too contagious for you to not join. 

Mingi holds the cup up to your mouth, making you flinch as the straw approaches your lips. He smacks his teeth, “It’s espresso diluted by water, try it, it’s good.”

Your eyes flicker up to his, and he’s not laughing, not smiling. His brows are lifted with the offer, lips slightly pouted, he looks genuine. Reluctantly you lean forward, lips wrapping around the straw, taking a sip– and it tastes exactly how it looks. 

Face scrunching up in disgust, you shake your head twice, “This is why god created cream and sugar.”

That makes him laugh, a smile curving his lips, he takes another sip right after you. An indirect kiss, the immature part of your brain realizes, you wonder how many women on your campus would kill to have exactly that with Song Mingi. How many women would die to sit exactly where you sat; to feel the sheer strength of his thighs beneath them, arms brushing his chest with each movement, his biceps stretched out on either side of them. 

The thought is fleeting as you hear the table laugh again, this time it startles you, jumping slightly on Mingi’s lap out of surprise. His other arm wraps around you a little tighter, your movement startling him, you quickly mumble, “My bad.”

“You’re funny,” Seungmin notes from across the booth, as you look at him you realize he’s talking to you. He’s cute, mousy face, maybe more like a hamster, or a puppy– his eyes are soft and his smile is kind, it takes the edge off his attention on you. His eyes slide to Mingi behind you, “How did you guys meet again?”

“We met here,” Mingi responds casually and your lips tighten again, the lie spins once more. He keeps going, completely theatric, “She bought me coffee because she tripped me outside the cafe.”

You gasp, brows furrowing, head twisting behind you to scold him, “That did not happen!”

His eyes are playful, smile menacing, “Oh, yes it did, we cannot have this argument again, princess.”

Your tongue pokes your cheek, following now. Fine, let’s play. Straightening your back, you respond, “It’s not my fault you tripped over your feet, I just happened to be there. You blamed it on me and threatened to call campus security if I didn’t buy you a coffee.”

Mingi shrugs, “It got me a free coffee and a girlfriend, didn’t it? Well-played, if you ask me.”

 Your smile grows, shaking your head in disbelief, at the story he created, how smooth he’s playing it. Fuck him. “You’re such an asshole,” you mutter with a small laugh, “I guess it did.”

Turning to the table, they all seem so locked in you almost forget you told five or six of his other teammates a completely different story. You suppose D1 football players won’t be gossiping about where you and Mingi met. 

Catching Jongho’s eye in your scan, he looks surprised, almost. Maybe disbelief, how he was blinking at the two of you, his jaw dropped, lips slightly curved. You thin your eyes at him, “You know this story Ho, don’t look so surprised.”

His face quickly morphs to irritation as the table sings a chorus of laughter once more, all six of them adding the nickname to their arsenals upon it gracing their ears. You smile, proud of the work you’ve done, Jongho can do nothing but scowl. 

“If any of you call me Ho I’m putting dog shit in the vents of your bedrooms,” he looks around the table, voice threatening, eyes cold. 

The laughter dies down but humor dances in the air, Beomgyu is the only one still verbally giggling with his whole chest, “I don’t even care, that is so fucking funny, I’m calling you that forever.”

Jongho redirects his scowl to you, exasperated, “Look at what you did.”

“And I’d do it again,” you’re giggling too, cocky, feeling big-dicked that Jongho’s teammates find you so funny. 

The feeling of being watched strikes alarm bells in your head, you turn your head to scan the room, landing on where Wooyoung sits, his lap now empty. He eyes you from across the room and you can’t read his expression, mostly boredom, but the more you look, the more the clench in jaw is visible. Elbow on the armrest, forearm bent upward, fist clenching and unclenching, he’s analyzing. 

You sink further into Mingi which he accepts easily, hand lazily thrown over your thigh, you looked like a real, proper couple getting coffee between classes. The smell of cedar beckons your attention, warm and woodsy, a little spicy, it makes it easier to forget who’s beneath you, who’s body you’re so easily and openly and publicly attached to.

Two taps to your thigh grabs your attention, you pull your gaze back to the table, to the dark-headed fuck behind you, “Hm?”

“Park asked you a question, princess,” Mingi tips his chin in Sunghoon’s direction, his voice light but direct, it has your head turning to follow his motion in an instant. 

“Is this your first time dating a D1 athlete?” He asks the question with innocence, expression curious, “It has to be different than dating someone who isn’t an athlete.”

You resist the urge to say first time dating, because you’ve certainly slept with a few. Instead you nod politely, humming your answer, “Definitely my first time dating someone as high-profile as Mingi.”

Sunghoon snorts, body leaning back in the booth, his build leaner than the others, strong all the same. Pretty face, structured, timeless features, you briefly wonder what he’s doing on the football team and not on a stage somewhere. 

“Not gonna lie, we never thought Song would date,” Heeseung leans forward again, eyeing you from the other side of the booth, a smile playing on his lips, but there’s more truth to his words than humor. 

“Not again,” Taehyun quips, “we always assumed he was too focused on his diet and his training program to actually put effort into another human.”

Mingi stiffens beneath you– a slight movement, one you can feel too easily while perched on his lap. There’s still laughter in the air, the comments read light-hearted, but you wonder if it feels that way to Mingi. 

Jaemin cackles, “What the hell do you guys mean? He’s never alone.”

“Did you have him tested before you fucked him?” Seungmin wears a smirk, brows raised in your direction, “Because if you haven’t, I think you both probably should at this point.”

Mingi’s chest leans into your back, his chin popping over your shoulder, “Alright, enough.”

You can feel every single muscle pressed to your back, the plush of his broad pecs against your shoulderblades, his fucking washboard of an abdomen against your spine, you can’t even register the tension consuming the table, how everyone quiets down on Mingi’s command, holy shit. You need to get laid. 

Your eyes find Wooyoung, too aware of his presence, his eyes that are still fucking on you. Dark clothes, boots crossed over one another, he held up his caseless phone like he wanted you to check yours. Blinking into focus, you reach between you and Mingi to your back pocket, pulling out your phone, clicking it on to look at your home screen.

wooyo: can we talk wooyo: outside 

You pick your head up to look at Jongho, heart picking up speed in your chest, drowning out the sounds of the men around you in another conversation. He meets your eye, furrowing his brows for a split second and fuck you wish you could speak out loud.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” you say quietly to Mingi, barely turning your head to see his face. 

His hand lifts from your thigh, “I have to leave soon.”

“That’s fine,” your voice is low, “wait until I get back so I can say goodbye.”

Don’t catch me outside talking to Wooyoung with half of your team in tow.

The restrooms are beside the exit, your escape is easy. On the far side of the building, you ignore how foul your heart feels in your chest, the pounding bass feeling like nerves instead of excitement. 

It’s still putrid, hot, humid, disgusting outside, it only adds to the feeling of wrongness. It feels like an eternity before you hear the scrape of his boots against concrete, the smell of cigarette smoke circling where you stood. 

“Hey,” his voice is low, casual, rough around the edges like that was his umpteenth cigarette of the day. His black tee is fitted, jeans baggy, one of his pantlegs tucked into a boot. He looked like danger personified but his skin still gleamed summer, bronzy and sparkling, pink dusting his cheeks. 

“Why did you want to talk?” Your voice is sharp, no room for it to be taken any other way than rude. 

Wooyoung chuckles a little, lips scrunching to blow smoke up into the air, above your bodies. He leaves room between you, enough for you to feel comfortable, but you’re sure there was a purpose. With him, there’s always a purpose. 

He flicks the butt, ashing on the concrete below, eyes trained on his own movements before they slowly trail up your body to meet your gaze, making a show of checking you out, it makes you sick. Kind of.

“You’re really dating him?” It’s between a statement and a question, two of his fingers bringing the cigarette back up to his lips. 

Your brows furrow, arms crossing tighter over your chest, “Yes?”

“We broke up a week ago, baby,” he chuckles, smoke escaping his mouth with each burst of breath, “that’s a little quick, don’t you think?”

“You’re one to talk,” your jaw clenches, standing straighter, “where’s your arm candy? Or did you cheat on her already?”

“She’s in there,” his voice is too light, so unbothered it genuinely pisses you off how fast your heart is beating. You wished you had a fraction of his nonchalance. “And I didn’t cheat on you, doll, we were never together in the first place.”

“Right,” you blow disbelief through your nose, rolling your eyes, body turning away from him, facing the parking lot that looked deserted even if it was packed with college kids inside. Turning your head only, you ask, “Why are you out here, Wooyoung? What do you want?”

“I still haven’t gotten my hoodie back,” his eyes are low, catching a honey bronze color in the sunlight, you hate how they steal your attention. 

You crack a nasty grin, “I burned that ugly fucking hoodie.”

Inside the cafe, Mingi has caught on easily. He watched Wooyoung stand about forty-five seconds after you left for the bathroom, he doesn’t need to look to understand what’s going on, where you are. For such a shitty plan, he can’t believe it’s working so well, it’s as if Wooyoung and Winter were falling into Mingi’s palms without him having to lift a finger.

He doesn’t mind having you around, it doesn’t feel like work. You’re funny, quick-witted and smart, so smart he wonders what your major is. He wonders a lot about you, your relationship with Jongho, what you do in your free time, what the hell you were doing sleeping with Wooyoung, of all people. In the small amount of time he’s spent with you, he already knows you deserve better than a fucking asshole like him, you deserve someone who will meet you on your level. 

Mingi wonders if there’s anyone on the team he can set you up with after the two of you break up. Looking around the table, there doesn’t seem to be any winners, maybe Seungmin could keep up with your banter, but Mingi thinks you might destroy him. Jaemin’s funny, but he’s stupid, he can't keep up with your smarts, he thinks Jaemin will irritate you before he entertains you. Maybe Chris, he’s smart, he’s a lot like Mingi, but he’s not one to date. 

You don’t need another fuckboy asshole taking advantage of you. 

It doesn’t matter, anyhow, maybe after your talk with Wooyoung the scheme will be cut short and everything will go back to normal. He won’t have to see you ever again, he’ll have Winter at his side and he can forget this ever happened, forget about you fully. Training, academics, practice, games. Playoffs are coming up– he hopes he’ll have Winter by then, cheering for him in the stands, wearing his jersey. 

“Hi.”

Eyes flickering upward to a voice he recognizes, he sits a little straighter when he sees the dark-haired beauty standing at the head of the table, holding two coffee cups, wearing the prettiest, shy smile. 

Winter. He could see his future like it was his past. 

“Hey,” Mingi keeps his voice steady, only letting his lips curve ever so slightly. “You need something?”

She shakes her head, pink kissing her round cheeks, she looks down at her shoes, toes knocking together. “Just wanted to wish you luck with playoffs. I know your conference game is next weekend, you must be stressed.”

Mingi swallows down his giddiness, she knows who he is? She’s standing here, at the table, in front of a quarter of his team, talking to him? Wishing him luck?

“Thanks,” Mingi nods, smile growing, “no stress, we’ve got it in the bag. You’ll be there?”

She nods, “Definitely, wouldn’t miss it.” Finally looking at the rest of the table, her eyes land on each one of his teammates, and he’s loving the way each man looks like they want to devour her. Little do they know, she’s his. Her voice coy and soft, she says, “Good luck to you guys, too.”

She made it clear she was only here for Mingi. 

He’d kiss her right now if he could. 

She winks at Mingi as she walks away, long lashes fluttering as she makes her way back toward where she was sitting with Wooyoung before, setting the plastic coffee cups down on the table. Straight posture, dainty fingers, hair shiny and long, cascading down her back, fuck, she’s perfect. 

“Your luck is crazy, Mingi,” Jaemin comments when she’s out of ear-shot, “Winter approaching when your girl goes to the bathroom? You’re one of God’s favorites.”

“Huh?” Mingi pops a brow before you pop into his mind again. “Oh, yeah,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “I really lucked out.”

“What are you gonna do?” Taehyun asks, “She wants you.”

Mingi scrunches his lips to one side, catching Jongho’s eye from across the table. Playing with the coffee cup on the table, spinning it in a circle between his fingers, he’s reminded who you are to Jongho. He can’t be openly disrespectful. 

Mingi answers plainly, “Nothing, I have a girlfriend.”

They all snort, table erupting in laughter like that was the most stupid thing that could have left his mouth. And Mingi guesses it is, Jongho knows who he is, that this is all a plan, a ploy, for the sole purpose of Mingi dating Winter. It doesn’t matter how it all unfolds. 

You startle him by barreling back to the table, barely sparing Mingi a glance as you grab your hoodie, your backpack, your headphones. Your eyes find Jongho across the table, flaring something panicked before looking back at Mingi, “I have to go.”

You don’t sound happy. Your jaw is clenched, your chest is flushed, your eyes seem glossy, Mingi finds himself concerned, internally questioning what the fuck happened outside.

“You okay?” He asks, body turning sideways, knees poking out from below the table. 

Wooyoung walks by behind you, not even looking as he leisurely strolls past, the smell of cigarette smoke following him like he was purposely leaving a trail behind.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, chest rising and falling in quick succession, “but I gotta go.”

Mingi, apparently out of his fucking mind, stands abruptly, stepping toward you with furrowed brows, “I’ll come.”

“No,” you answer harshly, then lick your lips, mouth tightening like you wished you could reel the word back in. “I’m sorry, I– I’ll text you, ‘kay?”

Your eyes find the table behind Mingi, everyone staring up at you, some with furrowed brows, some acting like they didn’t hear anything at all. You reach up to put your hands on Mingi’s shoulders, standing on your tippy toes to plant a small kiss on his cheek, then whisper, “Bye.”

Mingi’s dumbfounded as you haul ass out of Lucent. Backpack bouncing behind you, you rip the door open and leave the place like an intruder had just told everyone to put their hands up. His fingers find his cheek, though, confused as he is, he turns back to the table, all of his boys already staring up at him. 

“You’re fucked,” Seungmin says plainly, “she definitely saw Winter at the table, she’s pissed.”

Mingi sits back in the booth, eyes sliding to where Winter sits, meeting Wooyoung’s already-there stare. He’s smirking, eyes trained on Mingi while Winter is speaking to him, a hand on his shoulder, it makes Mingi’s top lip lift in distaste, he’s such a fucking asshole it makes him sick.

xxx-xxx-xxxx: next sunday xxx-xxx-xxxx: four highest ranked teams get a first round bye for playoffs

you: so youre planning to be top 4 i assume

xxx-xxx-xxxx: im planning to be top 1 fym

you: hmmmm

xxx-xxx-xxxx: idk how much time ill have between now and then tho xxx-xxx-xxxx: we might not be able to flex our fake relationship as hard

you: absence makes the heart grow fonder you: winter will be at the game tho you: think shell kiss you if you win???

xxx-xxx-xxxx: stop dont make me delusional bro xxx-xxx-xxxx: and dont steal my line

you: acting like you made it up is crazy you: saying been around for decades and here you go you: claiming it as your own

You’re smiling at your phone, not realizing you’re giggling while Jongho and Yeosang stare at you with pointed eyes from across the living room, the two sitting comfortably on Yeosang’s couch, laptops on their laps. You came over to catch up on schoolwork after Jongho left practice, not wanting to do it at your own apartment, plus, you had to catch them up on the newest development in the Wooyoung saga. 

Since you ended things, you haven’t really had time to process what happened. Quickly shoved into the fake dating scheme, you were focused on something shiny and new, you forgot to pay attention to the small part inside you that ached. Four months is a solid chunk of time, especially when most of it was over the summer where most of the campus wasn’t in attendance, the only thing on your agenda was your part-time job and Wooyoung. 

Despite having something shiny and new to focus on, the loss of him still hurts. Sleeping alone, not having anyone to touch, to kiss, to tell your work drama and have them fuck it better, despite being an avoidant asshole, Wooyoung filled a gap for you the entire four months you were ‘together’.

He spoke to you the other day like you meant nothing to him. Which you knew, but to have further confirmation in such a setting, standing outside your favorite coffee shop where the other woman sat just inside, it hurt. By the end of the conversation all your pent-up, repressed feelings rose to the surface, you needed to get the fuck out of there before you sobbed all over Mingi’s americano. 

Mingi. Fuck him, his pretty hair and strong body, fuck him for looking at you like he cared about your feelings. It’s all bullshit and it’s not what you need right now, you should be focused on doubling your pain and passing it straight back to Wooyoung. School should really be top priority, your weekly study group, your shifts on the weekend, your top priority should be your degree and making sure you’re stable. You didn’t think this plan would come with so much added shit. 

“Who are you texting?” Yeosang asks, green and black hair straight, tucked behind his ears, showing his piercings. He wore a dark sweater, ripped at the collar bone, jeans painted onto his legs, his pink bunny socks tucked beneath his body completely ruining the bad boy vibe. 

Yeosang’s never been a bad boy, he doesn’t have it in him. A soft lover boy, one that cares, one that sees what others don’t see, that’s who Yeosang is. 

Mindlessly, eyes still glued to your screen, you mumble, “Mingi.”

Jongho and Yeosang share a look. Jongho, face flat, looks over his laptop screen to you, “I still can’t get over seeing you two together.”

You look up, popping a brow, “Why?”

“You look too comfortable,” a very physical shiver runs through Jongho, ruffling his fitted white tee, gray sweats a contrast to the black couch, “it’s weird.”

“Are they friendly?” Yeosang asks Jongho, the two once again acting like you’re not in the room. You roll your eyes. 

“Very,” Jongho nods, then turns to look at you, “what’d I miss at that party?”

“What do you mean?” Your face morphs into confusion, small shakes of your head enforcing your bewilderment, “It’s weird because we aren’t ripping each other’s faces off? Can’t really do that in front of people who think we’re dating.”

Jongho’s face stays flat, eyes knowing, “How about the fake ass story of where you met? That was bullshit, you were bickering like you’ve known him as long as you’ve known us.”

You giggle again upon remembering, “Wait, that was funny because half his team thinks we met at the library, it’s like an ongoing bit–”

Jongho cuts you off, looking at Yeosang, “Do you see what I mean?”

Yeosang narrows his eyes, “Are you into him?”

“Do you think I’m a moron?”

“Yes,” they answer simultaneously. 

You scoff, “I don’t know why I hang out with you just to get verbally degraded.”

Looking down at your phone, you notice three more messages from the number you still refuse to save. 

xxx-xxx-xxxx: shut up who even are u xxx-xxx-xxxx: are u coming to the game? if shes there wooyoung will be too xxx-xxx-xxxx: ill give u my jersey to wear lmfao

“Do football players do this?” You ask, brows furrowing, showing Jongho and Yeosang your phone screen. Holding it over the coffee table splitting where you sat on the floor and the couch they occupied, you sat up on your knees as they bent over their laptop screens, squinting to read. 

“Give their jerseys out?” Jongho asks, still mid-read. 

You snatch your phone away when he starts to scroll, “Yes, fucker, is that normal?”

“Girl,” Yeosang makes a disappointed face, sitting back on the couch, “that’s standard.”

Your repulsion is physical, “Do you think he washes it?”

“It gets washed for him,” Jongho responds, “I’m surprised the staff doesn’t do all his laundry for him. If it weren’t for them, it wouldn’t get washed.”

“Do the staff really do that much?”

“He doesn’t really have to think,” Jongho continues, “he’s the star, the prized possession, vital to the football team, to the school’s popularity and income. They’d do anything he asked.”

“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, processing each word out of his mouth, “there’s really a whole world out there I don’t know shit about.”

The two men laugh, Jongo harder than Yeosang, the younger man’s giggles high-pitched and shameless, “Have you not paid attention my entire football career?”

“No,” your answer is short, plain, “why would I?”

“Because there was a time we both played football and you were glued to us,” Yeosang answers, “there are some things you should probably know already.”

“Neither of you have had a girlfriend during the season!” Your voice is high-pitched, defensive, you bring your attention back to your phone. “You’re riding me for what right now, all of this will be over in like, two weeks, anyway.”

you: whatever football boy you: ya im coming

xxx-xxx-xxxx: cool xxx-xxx-xxxx: are u actually gonna wear my jersey

you: do i have to

xxx-xxx-xxxx: kinda

you: man you: whatever

xxx-xxx-xxxx: wow xxx-xxx-xxxx: i can feel ur excitement through the phone

“Are you bringing him to my gig?” You look up from your phone to see Yeosang already looking at you, “It’s at Eonian, so Wooyoung will definitely be there.”

You groan, throwing your phone to the side, stretching your body out as you lay down on the rug, whining. “Your shows are our time, Yeo.”

Bass player for his band, Yeosang playing shows on and off campus was a frequent event. Always somewhere lowkey, somewhere fun, you always went with Jongho, Jia or Riyo. Bringing a man, especially Mingi, would debase the entire meaning of Yeosang’s shows. You go to support him, not to keep tabs on Wooyoung all night or feel uncomfortable with Mingi attached to your hip.

“All that shit just happened with Wooyoung, though,” Jongho says matter-of-factly, “it’s smart to show up with Mingi on your arm. Where Wooyoung goes, Winter follows.”

You pick only your head up, squinting at him over the table, “Yeosang’s shows are off limits. I need to be able to scream my excitement freely, Mingi’s presence will hinder my enjoyment.”

“Whatever,” Yeosang sings, “it’s just one show, but okay.”

You whine, head banging against the floor beneath the rug as you lay it back down, “He’s busy, anyways. He just told me he won’t have time to hang before the conference game.”

“Yet here I am,” Jongho argues, “and at that show, I will be.”

You mumble a curse, “Whatever.”

Picking up your phone again, a notification from Instagram sticks out on your home screen, a message request. 

blondenbeautiful: Heard you’re dating Song Mingi? blondenbeautiful: Biggest joke i’ve ever heard LMFAO blondenbeautiful: Lying for attention is pathetic, I hope he sues you for defamation 

You sit up abruptly, eyes wide as you stare at the screen, “What the fuck?!”  

Seeing the fear in your eyes, hearing the shock in your voice, Jongho and Yeosang hop up from their spots, throwing their laptops to the side, racing around the coffee table to look at your phone screen. 

“Ew,” Yeosang huffs, “no way this is happening already.”

“What do you mean already?” You look at your green haired friend, shocked and confused.

“Turn off your DM requests,” Jongho adds, “fuck that, dude, fuck no.”

“I’m not turning them off,” you scoff, “that’s pussy shit. Her username is blonde n’ beautiful, Ho.”

You click on her profile, scroll through her feed, watch her story, she lives across the fucking country. You think this is what Yeosang meant when he said Mingi had refined taste; barbie dolls, rich bitch attitude, this was his typical. 

“Who cares about pussy shit?” Jongho’s brows are tied together, his eyes pleading, “That’s not the point. He has a fanbase of Warrior Barbies, have you even looked at his Instagram?”

Scrolling out of your requests and opening up the search bar, your eyes widen upon seeing his profile. You followed him already, probably from your freshman year, but he definitely didn’t have near fifty thousand followers back then, or so many posts professionally photographed. 

For some reason it’s this that opens your eyes, a chill racking down your spine. You knew how detrimental he was to the university, his level of popularity, but you didn’t think it was outside of your campus, too. He was popular, known, and it spread wider than you ever thought was possible for a guy who sings Trap Queen in sports house bathrooms.

Voice shaky, you whisper, “I feel like I’m in a who the fuck did I marry subreddit.”

Yeosang can’t help the laugh that escapes him, head dipping down with an amused breath, he snaps back to deadpanning in a second’s time. “You should turn off your requests before it gets worse.”

“I’m not even dating him for realsies,” you argue, “the insults are empty. None of them are true, so they don’t count.”

Jongho sits beside you, flopping down on the rug from where he was crouched, “I just don’t want them to get to you. The whole Wooyoung thing upset you enough, you don’t need social media harassment to put the cherry on top.”

“I’ll be fine,” you lock your phone, tossing it to the floor beside you, “that shit won’t bother me. I’m strong.”

“Yeah, alright,” sarcasm swims in Yeosang’s voice, “is it a crime to listen to us every once in a while?”

You sneer, “Yes.”

you: btw yeosang is playing a show friday at 10 you: at eonian on 4th ave you: woo and winter will be there

xxx-xxx-xxxx: just told u i dont have time

you: why are you acting like i want you there 

xxx-xxx-xxxx: ill be there

THIRD OUTING: EONIAN, FRIDAY. 9:42 PM

“Did you hire a personal stylist or something?”

You scoff, standing in your doorway, looking down at your own outfit. You supposed it was different for you, more stylish than you’d normally shoot for when going anywhere, let alone the dinky dive bar you’ve gone to a thousand times. The doormen have seen you in sweatpants, chain-smoking cigarettes because you had too much to drink, the bartenders have seen you in stained overalls, making out with a random person in the corner because you had too much to drink, you don’t know why you chose today, of all days, to put in an effort when everyone there has seen you at your worst. 

Looking at Mingi, he seemed to have the same idea. Although he always looked put together in a way, even if he was in sweats and a cutoff tank, it never looked necessarily bad. All black, leather jacket, boots, his hair styled away from his face, messily but purposeful, he looked good. Really good. It pissed you off. 

“Did your staff pick out that outfit for you?” You sneer, “I’m not used to seeing you without sweatpants on.”

“Insulting the man who came all the way here to pick you up,” he nods, bottom lip folded over in the most attitude-stricken look he’s ever given you, “smart.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, heels clicking against the floor as you step through the threshold of your apartment. “Let’s just go.”

Mingi’s car is ridiculous. Ever since seeing his stupid Instagram page, there seems to be a constant reminder everywhere of who he is, what he has. It still smelled new inside, black leather interior, red detail, gear shift looking untouched, pristine. Not a spec of dust on the dash or in the backseat that held only one black duffel bag unzipped, your instincts told you it could hold a lot more. 

“Have you been to Eonian?” You ask, turning your head to face him after he pulled out of your complex’s parking lot. 

Pressure forces you back into your seat as he picks up speed, knees shifting below the steering wheel, palm wrapped around the gearstick, his face goes unchanged. He leans his head toward you but doesn’t turn it, “Maybe once, why?”

“Just wondering,” your voice is pitched, shaky, eyes widened while you swallow down your heart that shot up so high you could taste it. Your fingers curl into your jeans, thanking god seatbelts exist in your head, you turn your head to the window so you could close your eyes in peace without being caught as a wimp. 

You hear him laugh after a second, a small, snarky giggle. The car slows and you can feel it in your chest, body sinking into leather, free to move as you please, your fingers uncurl from your pantlegs, shoulders slouching in relief. 

“My bad, should have warned you.”

“I want to survive,” you don’t let him hear the shakiness in your voice, keeping it laced with clear irritation, “if I died beside you I’d have to resurrect myself just to walk ten feet away and die there instead.”

“You’re really sweet, y’know that?” Sarcasm evident, he continues, “I can’t understand why Wooyoung would cheat on such a nice, kind girl.”

Your neck twists to eye him, gaze harsh enough to cut. What the fuck? “We weren’t even together, he didn’t cheat.” 

“Oh!” His laughter is punched, eyes condescending, lips half surprised and half amused, “Excuse me, he didn’t cheat, right. He didn’t want to date you at all.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you mumble, head turning to face the window again. It rained earlier, there’s still droplets of water sprinkled on the glass, the gloomy evening looking like the pit in your gut, soggy, heavy, dark. “That’s why Winter rejected you.”

“Well she wants me now,” he adds and you can hear the stupid smirk in his voice.

You snap your head toward him again, “Where did that even come from?” 

“Did I strike a nerve?” 

Your jaw clenches, facing the window again, mumbling, “This isn’t even worth it anymore.”

He turns the music up, letting it fill the cabin of the car, you can barely feel the road beneath you, his car drives so smoothly. You can hear him switch gears, the roar of the engine picking up, the feel of force in your chest as his speed increases, your hair moving when he slows again, it’s torture.

It’s worse when you step out to go inside the bar, the ground bendy beneath you, feet unsteady on pavement. Your stomach feels icky, your chest heavy and weird, and to top it off, the cigarette-smoking-stupid-fucking-asshole is standing right outside the front door, talking to the bouncer, doused in leather and silver. You suck in a deep breath, straightening your back, part of you forgetting Mingi’s there as you start for the door. Maybe you just wish he wasn’t with you at all. 

Mingi calls your name, you don’t stop. A little firmer, a little louder, “Hey.” Jaw clenched, you stop in your tracks, the fur on your jacket whipping as you turn around. Lazily he strolls toward you, holding out a hand, to which you don’t grab. 

“Hold my hand,” he wiggles his palm a little, voice edged with annoyance, “come on.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Is it what I said in the car?” He lowers his palm, head tilting, “I’m sorry if I went too far, I won’t do it again. Now please hold my hand so we can go inside together, they’ll be watching.”

Shooting daggers at him, your hand peeks out from your sleeve, reluctantly reaching forward; he spreads out his fingers with a satisfied grin, tangling them with yours, palms pressed together. There’s a certain intimacy to holding someone’s hand, not something you do often, not something you’ve done in a very long time; yet there’s no warmth that spreads through you at the contact, no electricity that stems in the tip of your spine. Strictly business. 

Taking a step forward, he comments, “Your hand is clammy.”

“Wonder why,” you roll your eyes, “you have calluses, it’s gross, like sandpaper. Or cat tongue.”

Mingi smacks his lips together, walking in-step with you now, his head dipping down to hide how your words made him laugh. “You’re seriously deranged.”

It makes a smile claw at your lips, turning your head away so he can’t see the grin that fights its way to the surface. He squeezes your hand once like he can see through your wall of hair, snickering from beside you, by the time you get to the front door you’re both fighting to crack a smile like a pair of stubborn idiots. 

Tall and buff, a head of light brown, curly hair hidden beneath a snapback, the bouncer eyes you over your ID, then looks at Mingi, deadpanning, “Make sure she doesn’t get near a pack of Marlboro Reds tonight.”

Wooyoung is behind him now, smiling as smoke pours from the corner of his mouth, losing its opacity as it melts into the humid air around him. He’s quiet, but he watches as your face falls, then makes it clear he’s inspecting every article of clothing on your body.

“I’m not even a smoker, Minho.”

“Minho?” Mingi questions, head bobbing in surprise and confusion. He looks at you with a dumbfounded face, “Marlboro Reds?”

“Can we just go inside?” You tug on Mingi’s hand, he takes your ID back from Minho before following you inside Eonian, his brows still furrowed.

“I thought you said you don’t really come here,” Mingi sounds lost as you pull him inside the door, the smell of humid air and alcohol meeting your nose upon entrance.

You do a quick scan of the bar, mindlessly answering, “I’ve been here a few times with Wooyoung.”

“You’re on a first-name basis with the bouncer,” he hisses his argument, standing close to you now, leaning down just enough to whisper-yell it into your ear. 

Spotting Jongho in the far corner, just beside the stage at a table, your grin is finally real and takes over your entire face. “Yeah, well, he fucked my friend,” you pull him in Jongho’s direction, “I found Ho, come on.”

It takes longer than you thought it would to get across the crowded bar, you stopped three different times for Mingi to dap up strangers you’ve maybe seen before, all people who tucked Mingi into a quick hug with grins so bright it was as if they were meeting God. Antagonizing, remembering how many people love him, not that you showed your distaste as Mingi introduced you to every single person as his girlfriend, in which they all drank up your figure and complimented Mingi on how well he did scoring you. 

It almost made up for what happened in the car. Almost. 

Dick two inches bigger, you had more swag in your step as you dragged him to Jongho’s table, where he stood around the high-top wooden surface with two others beside him. Lee Minho, Lee Felix, tight-end, kicker. Felix, bright, blonde and bushy-tailed, stood a little shorter than Minho, who was everything dark and brooding, at least on the outside. Light seemed to return to his eyes when you approached the table, a small smile on your face, already in-character. 

Jongho looked less wary as you approached this time, a pink hue to his cheeks, shoulders slightly slouched, a tall beer on the table before him. It looks appealing, even for a beer, at this point you think you’d take a swig of whiskey just to ease the lingering weight in your chest. 

He notices your eyes lingering on his beer, he tugs it toward him, eyes pointed, “No.”

It makes a small laugh pass through your lips before you greet the table. Felix’s warm brown eyes seem brighter after Mingi introduces you, his freckled cheeks pink at the apples, “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

“Me?” You’re still smiling, one brow popped, “Why?”

“The girl who tamed Song Mingi,” Minho is quick to answer as if that was now a title of sorts. 

Your head tilts, confusion spreading, Mingi’s hand slides to the small of your back, his pinky lining the hem of your jeans. The girl who tamed Song Mingi, your initial reaction is to laugh through the confusion, it comes out staggered, airy, uneasy. 

Felix is beaming, grin spread wide like excitement was oozing from his pores, “The whole team has been talking about you, they say you’re funny, and hot, which is clearly true.”

Now heat is spreading through you, smile shifting to something of a smirk, he’s pretty. Like a girl, in a way, blonde hair straight past his shoulders, you can tell there’s a lean, disciplined body beneath the oversized clothes on his body. Backwards hat, lips plump and rosy like he’d been kissing someone for hours, you wonder how hot he thinks you are. 

“Is your jacket from Anthro? I’ve been looking at it online, waiting for it to go on sale,” his eyes are on the faux fur on your shoulders, the jacket you thrifted ages ago for ten bucks, you have no idea what brand is on the tag. 

Gaydar going off, you ask, “No idea, wanna check?”

His eyes flare brighter, you don’t wait for his answer as you break away from Mingi’s heavy hand, walking around the table. You feel soft fingers moving your hair out of the way as your eyes lead to Jongho, “When does Yeo go on?”

“I think in twenty minutes or so,” he shrugs, bringing his beer up to his lips. 

You shiver when you feel the warmth of Felix’s fingertips at the base of your neck, “They’re late?”

Head down to allow Felix access to your tag, your eyes slide to look at the stage, lights on and empty. You got here right before ten, he should be going on any minute now. 

“Technical difficulties,” Minho comments in a sing-song tone, reminding you he’s also at the table. Taller than you, beefier than Felix, his elbows sit on the table, biceps straining the sleeves of his fitted tee. Dark hair, eyes feline, lips small and pouty, shit, he’s hot, too. 

You hum, storing the info for later, “I hope they play soon.”

“This is Anthro,” Felix gasps, “so cute, I want one.”

“I thrifted it a long time ago, if you ever want to borrow it, ask Mingi for my number,” you offer as you turn around, hands grabbing the hem of it to pull it forward, fixing where it sank backward.

Felix’s head turns to Mingi across the table, feigning a pout, “I like this one, can I keep her?”

In-character, Mingi shakes his head, a smooth, proud chuckle tumbling from his lips. “Sorry to break it to you, Lix, but that one’s mine.”

Mine. 

Hand holding didn’t get a reaction out of you, but a singular word makes your stomach curl. You barely remember the last time you were considered someone’s partner, significant other, girlfriend, you don’t know if you ever have been; you’ve been a fuck-buddy, a situationship, a friends with benefits, everything under the fucking sun besides owned. At least five, maybe six years it’s been since someone used the word mine to describe what you are to them, and back then it was purely adolescent, puppy-love at fifteen that made you feel lovesick instead of violently nauseous. 

“I need a drink,” you blurt, “from the bar.”

Mingi’s brows furrow, “Where else would you get one, princess?”

That fucking nickname. Your nose crinkles with disgust, you don’t even care about forcing a smile on your face or putting on a show, your irritation returns tenfold. Giving him a long, blank stare, you turn and beeline for the bar. 

Deep, shiny oak littered with splotches of wetness, signed receipts soaked, smudged and clinging to the surface, loose, skinny black straws thrown about the bar like some drunk idiot threw a handful in the air, it was a typical Friday night here. Elbows on the bar, you push yourself up by the ledge attached to the base, you keep your chest pressed above your folded arms so the sexy bartender would help you first. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You smack your lips again, but you don’t turn around. Just his voice is getting on your last nerve.

“Tell me what’s wrong, you’re acting bitchier than usual.”

You can feel the words in your spine. You snap your neck to the side, “Is that why it’s so understandable for me to get cheated on? Because I’m bitchy?”

“You’re still mad about that?” Mingi asks, sounding genuine. You hear him sigh before he forces himself between you and the guy standing beside you at the bar, someone shorter than him, smaller. “Do you want me to apologize again?”

“I don’t want anything from you,” you say quietly, voice laced with venom, keeping your eyes on the tall bartender juggling bottles like they’re toys, his movements fluid. You attempt to telepathize with him, maybe he’ll hear your calls of his name in his mind.

“I thought we moved past that already,” he sighs, “you’re not even gonna look at me? I’m trying–”

“Why do you give a fuck?” You finally look at him and his brows are upturned, lips pouty, but that arrogance that’s embedded in him is so fucking clear you regret looking. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you. I’m here for Yeosang, you’re here to impress Winter, wherever the fuck she is. You should go find her.”

“Hey, baby,” you turn to find the bartender finally answering your calls, “he bothering you?”

“Yes,” you smile back, giddiness forming in the pit of your stomach. Slit through his eyebrow, buzz-cut bleached a sandy blonde color, he wears a mesh tank that sits loose on his skin, flowing with each movement. “But he’s paying, so I can’t escape him just yet. Wanna do a shot with me on his tab?”

You lean in closer, eyes low, smile playful. He chuckles, eyes sliding to Mingi and then back to you, “A shot with my favorite girl? Of course. Is he doing one too?”

You shrug, “Ask him, not me.”

You both look at Mingi whose brows are in his hairline, lips parted and slightly curled in a small sneer. It takes him a second to process Hyunjin’s staring at him with a question, he shakes his head slightly before reaching into his pocket, muttering, “Nah, I’m good.”

Hyunjin pours you your favorite drink before placing two plastic shot-cups on the bar, messily pouring liquor that spills onto the grated surface below, “Cheers, to Yeosangie.”

“To Yeosangie,” your grin spreads wide, clinking plastic before smacking them on the bar and shooting them back. “Thanks, Jinnie.”

“Anything for my favorite girl,” his voice is warm, almost as warm as his pretty brown eyes when he looks at you, it makes your insides feel fuzzy. He turns to Mingi who passes him his credit card with that same confused-annoyed look, but he stays quiet. Good. 

When Hyunjin walks away, he speaks, and you groan upon the first word leaving his lips. “You’re such a liar, you lied to me.”

“Whatever,” you huff, bringing the straw up to your lips. Fruity, bitter, strong, necessary. “You don’t need to know the truth all the time.”

Mingi’s shaking his head, an annoyed chuckle falling past his lips, “Is there anyone else here you’ve slept with that your boyfriend should know about?”

You shrug as he gets his card back, signing the receipt. You eye it to make sure he left Hyunjin a nice tip, which he does without a word from you. “I’ll let you know if any more show up, if you’re really that curious.”

“I’m sorry for what I said in the car,” he tries again, voice sounding strained, “I’m exhausted, the coaches are working me to the fucking bone with playoffs so close, and I’m here for you.”

Mine.

“You are not here for me,” you bite back, “you meant what you said in the car, don’t go back on it now because it pissed me off. You’re here for Winter and that’s it, Mingi. Like I said earlier, go find her.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No!”

“Fine!” You huff, “Then leave! I didn’t want you here to begin with.”

“You invited me!” He argues back, eyes blowing wide, “I came because you invited me. I picked you up after a three-hour practice. I skipped the second half of studying with exams soon to be here.”

Mine. Your chest constricts.

“You shouldn’t skip studying,” you mutter, “you can’t afford to, moron.”

“Yet I did,” his arms raising on either side of him, defeated. You look at him, really look at him, and you don’t know how you didn’t notice the bags beneath his eyes earlier, he hasn’t had that energetic, snarky-spark since he picked you up. 

The lights dim around the stage, music playing through the speakers silencing, the TouchTunes turned off. Mingi sighs, “Can we just watch the show? Wooyoung saw us, which means Winter's here somewhere. They’ll see us at some point.”

“Sorry for being a bitch,” you mumble, voice small, cheeks burning. 

A smile tugs at his lips, “I’m sorry for being a bitch, too.” He throws an arm around your shoulders, “Come on, it’s time to pretend you like me again.”

There’s a smile on your face when you groan, body falling beneath his arm, he walks you up towards the table again, through the crowd that parts for him as if he’s a celebrity, standing beside Jongho like he knows it’s where you’d be most comfortable. 

He pushes you in front of him as people start closing in, hands sliding down, hooking into your belt loops as Yeosang’s band walks out onstage. Excitement blooming, a grin breaks out across your face, head tipping back with a hand curled around your mouth to release a sharp, pitched whistle. 

Mingi echoes the noise, leaning forward to cheer for Yeosang, the back of your head touching his chest. Your head follows his body as he stands straight again, leaning on him with a smile etched into your skin, holding the plastic cup between your hands as the band takes their positions. 

Yeosang’s eyes scan the crowd, you follow where his gaze gets stuck, in the back corner, sitting at one of the high-top tables. She’s here, your eyes widen ever so slightly at the sight, warmth filling your chest, a semblance of pride. Good. 

“Who’s that?” Mingi leans down to ask in your ear. 

“Yeosang’s kind-of girlfriend,” you tear your eyes away from her to tilt your head up, looking at him. “Their relationship is weird.”

“Hm,” Mingi’s head tilts, “doesn’t look like Yeo’s type.”

“She’s exactly his type,” you giggle, “you should know that.”

A smile forms as he looks down at you, “I guess you’re right, don’t know why I assumed everything changed after he quit playing football.”

“Running-back-gone-stoner still likes his cheerleaders,” you sing, bringing your attention back to the stage, taking a sip from your drink. “He seems happier now that he doesn’t play anymore.”

“This is the most confident I’ve ever seen him and he hasn’t played a single chord yet,” Mingi adds, nodding his agreement. 

“He’s good,” there’s pride in your voice, “you’ll like their music.”

As if they could hear you, Jay strums his guitar, a striking chord that pulls the attention of the entire room. You squeal, turning your head to see Jongho who’s looking at the stage with the same amount of fondness and pride in his eyes that you wore, the same feeling you have every time you see Yeosang on stage. 

Their opening song is one original out of three, the rest covers. You know every word, singing along with Jay, their lead singer and guitarist, head bopping to the beat. 

Mingi doesn’t know where to look. Yeosang, who was once his good friend, onstage, or you, smiling, giggling and dancing between his arms. It’s only the third time you’ve been out in public together, but with all the texting, the updates you send each other throughout the day, the constant banter, there’s a feeling in Mingi’s chest he can’t really explain. 

He’s not into you. But there’s an urge in his consciousness somewhere, to keep you close, to protect you, it makes him fucking cringe every time the thoughts cross his mind. You’re not friends, you won’t stay in contact after your alignment fulfills its purpose, it’s something he reminds himself after he thinks about you for just a little too long.

He’s tired. His bones ache, his eyes feel heavy, there’s a slouch in his shoulders he doesn’t have the strength to straighten. Your energy bleeds into him, he’s found himself going along with you the entire time you’ve been associated, as if he’s a horse you’re leading to water. So he keeps his mindless grin, a hand steady on your hip since you jumped his fingers out of your belt loops, he holds your drink with the other, keeping his palm blanketed over the open top. 

He’s never seen you so happy. 

He’s seen you angry, irritated, maybe he’s made you laugh once or twice now, but it’s nothing compared to the joy on your face now, how your body moves out of excitement. It’s not the liquor, it’s Yeosang onstage, who plays so well and looks so fucking cool Mingi finds himself a little jealous, a feeling he pretends isn’t there as soon as he recognizes it. The way you care for him, for Jongho, it adds to the list of things he keeps learning about you, like layers of a fucking onion. 

You come to Eonian. Often. You know the bouncer, the bartender, Mingi can’t figure out why you lied. He wonders what else you’ve lied about– what more he can learn about you just by sharing space. He wonders about Wooyoung, what he said to you outside of Lucent, what made you so nervous and eager to leave. He wonders why you wanted to fake-date in the first place, if Wooyoung has done worse than cheat, if that’s why you want revenge so deeply. 

The way your eyes wander across the room, finding Wooyoung and Winter, his arms thrown over her shoulders, keeping her close. How they sway together, Winter’s fingers holding onto his forearms, a small smile on her face, cheeks pink. It makes your movements smaller, the bubble of excitement surrounding your being dwindles to a flicker, you turn around and ask Mingi for your drink. 

“No,” Mingi shakes his head.

Your face contorts, “What do you mean, ‘No’?”

“You don’t need to drink because you’re upset,” he keeps his voice low, “liquor isn’t going to help.”

“I’m not upset,” you sound defensive, which only confirms what Mingi’s thinking is true. “I’m at a bar watching my best friend kill it onstage, why would I be upset?”

Your brows are furrowed, lips pouty, the gloss you wore faded by now, leaving a pinkish stain behind. There’s heat in your cheeks, a pretty flush, he hates the realization that determination in your features is kind of cute.

“Come here,” Mingi offers, placing your drink on the table behind him before twisting you back around by your hips, throwing his own arms over your shoulders, tucking you into him. 

You squirm, making a whiney noise, shifting your shoulders and looking down to untuck your hair where it got trapped against Mingi’s body. “You’re fucking huge,” you mumble, soft fingers coming up to hook around his forearms, Mingi can’t tell if it’s a compliment, but it’s definitely not an insult. 

“You have no idea,” he smirks to himself. 

You groan, “Stop saying shit like that to me.”

“Why?” Smiling, his tone comes out playful, “Curious?”

Your head tilts back to look up at him, eyes pointed, lips bent in a frown. “No.”

“Liar,” Mingi smacks his teeth, “all you’ve done tonight is lie.”

“Like I said,” you bring your attention back to the stage, “you don’t always need to know the truth.”

“So you admit you’re curious.”

“No!”

Mingi chuckles, squeezing you with his arms clamped around your front. You stay there for the rest of the show, in Mingi’s hold, head pressed to his chest, your eyes don’t wander again. They stay locked on Yeosang onstage, singing along to each song. At one point you and Mingi started swaying together when he recognized one of the covers they performed, singing along with you. 

“You two are so fucking cute,” Felix comments when Yeosang’s band runs off the stage after bowing to the crowd. Mingi finally let you go at that point, where you attached to your iced-down drink like a moth to a flame. 

“Yeah?” Mingi smiles at Felix before jumping into action when you bring the straw to your lips. “Don’t drink that, I didn’t have eyes on it. I’ll get you another.”

You pout, but you let him pull the straw away from your lips, “Boo.”

“What’d you think of the show?” Jongho asks, a little drunk now, Mingi thinks, as he smacks a hand on his shoulder. 

Mingi’s grinning again, nodding his head, “They’re good, Yeosang is really talented.”

You squeal again, stealing his attention, “Isn’t he? He’s so fucking talented, he makes me so jealous. I wish I could play an instrument.”

Cute. He doesn’t think before reaching up to ruffle your hair, “You’re talented at lots of stuff, princess.” He doesn’t know why he said it, he doesn’t even know what you do in your free time. He blames it on it feeling right. He’s tired. 

You quickly fix your hair, mumbling, “Motherfucker.”

It makes Mingi’s grin spread wider. Weird, how your insults are starting to feel like compliments. 

“Are you coming to the conference game?” Minho asks, and your brows perk up at the attention, that smooth smile appearing on your cheeks, the one you use when you look at any one of his teammates. Anyone you find attractive, actually, he’s noticed. 

You nod, “I’ll be there, supporting Jongho.”

“Not your boyfriend?” Minho asks, popping a brow.

“Oh shit, yeah, Mingi too,” you nod, “duh.”

He has to fight his laugh, lips tying together. You meet his eye, the look of him biting back his laugh, and crack a stupid smile at the sight. “You ready to go?” You ask, brows lifted.

Mingi’s neck cranes in confusion, “You don’t wanna wait for Yeo?”

“He has people to see,” you say casually, but Mingi knows who. “Plus, you’re tired, and you need to study before bed.”

Hesitantly, seeing the honesty in your eyes, no disappointment evident, Mingi nods. “You’re right.”

“The girl who tamed Song Mingi,” Minho sing-songs, and Mingi’s neck snaps to glare. He hates that nickname, the way they use it in the house, in practice, how it rolls off his teammates tongues with a sneer. Minho’s smile is devilish, daring; he’s one of Mingi’s only teammates that doesn’t suck-up to him completely. It’s not the right time or place to berate him for it.

You say your goodbyes politely and grab Mingi by his hand, pulling him towards the crowd, in the direction of the exit. Mingi ignores everyone who tries to steal him for a chat, giving small smiles, nods, waves of acknowledgement, but he lets you drag him all the way to the exit, where you give the bouncer, Minho, a small wave goodbye. 

A little colder now, enough to rack a chill down Mingi’s spine, you stop in your tracks when you open the exit door. Winter is pressed against the wall of the building, Wooyoung’s hand over her head, forehead touching hers. He plants his lips against hers once before realizing he has company. 

“Leaving so soon?” He’s smirking as he tucks his arm back into himself, standing straight, turning to face the two of you. “Yeosang played a good show.”

Winter’s eyes locked on Mingi, widened, pupils dilated like she didn’t want to be caught where Mingi had indeed caught her. She swallows, licking her lips, fixing the baggy denim on her legs as she stands straighter, moving slightly behind Wooyoung as if it’d put her out of Mingi’s eyesight. 

“He always does,” your voice is cold, venomous. No warmth at all. 

Wooyoung’s eyes find Mingi, taking a second to look him up and down. “Nice outfit, different for you.”

Mingi pops a brow, “Because I’m not in a jersey?”

“Sure,” Wooyoung nods, then moves his eyes to you. “Same goes for you, doll. Find my hoodie yet?” 

Your fingers flex at your side, fist clenching, “I told you I burned it.” 

Wooyoung chuckles, arm lifting for Winter to tuck herself into his side, it makes Mingi grimace. Gross. He’s slimey, the energy he gives off, Mingi can’t understand what the fuck girls see in him in the first place. 

“Did you see Hyunjin inside?” Wooyoung asks, “He asked me about you, said your little plaything was bothering you.” Wooyoung looks at Mingi again, “I take it that’s you? But you’re her boyfriend, right?” 

Mingi’s brows furrow, but you speak up before he can open his mouth. “Don’t speak to Hyunjin about me or Mingi. The only plaything you have to worry about is the one under your arm.”

Winter straightens, brows furrowing, “I’m the plaything? Me?”

“What do you think he’s gonna do with you when he’s bored?” You laugh a little, eyes so piercing it renders Mingi silent, all he can do is stare. “Toss you to the side, just like he did with me. There’s another one, you know, it’s never just you.” 

Wooyoung tucks her closer, his features devoid of all amusement, back going rigid. “Lying, huh? Just ‘cus you’re butthurt? Always leads to lies, you haven’t changed one bit.” 

“You’ll never change,” you whisper, but the chilly air is quiet enough that it hits its mark. “When she calls, you’ll run back to her, it doesn’t matter who’s occupying your boredom at the time.” Your eyes find Winter, “You’ll see. I feel bad for you.” 

Mingi, confused, watches Winter’s face fall, the slow realization that there’s not a lick of jealousy in your voice, just sheer honesty. His head bobs back and forth between the two of you, but he grabs your wrist when steam starts pouring from your ears. “Time to go, baby. Come on.” 

You pull your wrist away from him, tucking it into your chest, keeping your eyes steady on Wooyoung who doesn’t falter for a moment. A staring contest of sorts, it makes Mingi feel nervous, uncomfortable at the least.

“Time to go,” Mingi reiterates, voice heavier, hands on your waist now. “It’s not worth it. I’ll take you home, c’mon.” 

It takes you a second to turn your head away from Wooyoung as Mingi starts pulling you away, but once you’re out of eyesight, in front of Mingi’s build that engulfs you whole, the shakes begin. Your fingertips, your shoulders, your teeth chatter in your fucking skull. 

“In the car,” he’s whispering, encouraging, ushering you into his passenger seat. “There you go,” he closes it behind you, making sure you’re tucked inside. 

When he’s behind the wheel, engine roaring to life, he takes a second to gather his bearings. He turns to you slowly, only his head, and you’re staring into nothing, body still shaking. It makes him swallow, nerves etching into his vision. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, because it’s the only thing he can think of. He doesn’t know how to comfort you. You hum an agreement, a slight nod of your head, it does nothing to ease the discomfort in his chest. His lips tighten, teeth grazing his bottom lip, “What just happened?”

You shake your head, still staring into space. Voice small, battered and broken, you whisper, “I don’t know.”

Mingi feels something swirling in his gut, something foul. Like before a big game, when he isn’t positive he’s going to win. Voice low, he asks, “What actually happened between you?”

“He didn’t just cheat on me with Winter,” you finally look down at your lap, “there’s another girl. I don’t know who she is, what she looks like, I just know she exists. She’s like, the girl version of him, she made him like that.”

Mingi’s brows furrow, but you keep talking after a deep, shaky breath. “He called me a liar, I am a liar.” You shake your head, staring at your lap. “I lied to everyone when I was with him. I lied to him, I lied to myself, not to mention Jongho and Yeosang.”

“Why?” 

“Because it’s easier that way,” you finally look at Mingi, eyes glassy, pupils dilated, “if I told the truth, I couldn’t be held accountable for my own actions.” When you notice his confusion, you laugh, a short, disbelieving chuckle. “I knew about her the whole fucking time, the nature of their relationship, I even tried competing with her at one point.”

When Mingi asks why again, you sigh. “I think because I knew I’d never win. Him and I would never be real no matter how hard I tried, and that was safety to me, in a way.”

“I don’t understand,” Mingi sinks into his seat, carefully peeling back another layer. 

You shake your head again, silent for a moment. “Have you ever wanted something so bad that it terrifies you?”

“All the time.”

“This is gonna sound self-deprecating, don’t make fun of me or else I’ll fucking kill you,” you start, and Mingi’s lips curve at the corners, but he nods. “That’s how I feel about relationships, or being loved, I guess. I want it, but do I deserve it?”

Mingi’s brows furrow again, “Do you deserve it?” You blink at him, and he shakes his head in confusion, “Who cares? You want it, don’t you?”

Mingi swears your eyes get rounder, your lips plumper. He’s never seen you look so… delicate. Small, vulnerable, like your walls have crumbled away and left what’s at your core bare for him to see. 

“I do,” you whisper, staring at him, into him, he feels just as bare as you. He feels the moonlight pouring into the cabin, he hears the light hum of his idling car, and he realizes he hasn’t been in this position in a long, long time. 

His relationship with women has been strict since… her. Transactional, never more, never less. Give and take. He doesn’t make friends, he doesn’t form bonds, he does nothing more than fuck– when’s the last time he had a real fucking conversation with a woman? When’s the last time his chest has felt so twisted from emotion?

He stares back, eyes dropping to your lips for a millisecond. Glossy, from the spit you swiped over them with your tongue moments prior, plump and opaque with color. This is the longest you’ve gone without arguing since the moment you met. This is the first time he’s looking at you so clearly, seeing you as more than a means to an end. He swears he can feel his heartbeat in his throat.

“Take what you want,” Mingi whispers back, “who gives a fuck about being worthy of it?”

There’s a ghost of a smile on your lips, “That’s easy for you to say, you get whatever you want.”

“Not everything,” he shifts in his seat, sinking down, stretching out his legs as much as he can. “Not even a lot, actually.”

When your brows furrow, he makes a face like he doesn’t want to keep going, but he does anyway. “I don’t have control over anything in my life. What I eat, how I train, how much I sleep, what I do in my free time, that’s all coordinated by someone else. Dating you is the most freedom I’ve had in years.”

“They don’t do whatever you say?”

“I do whatever they say,” he corrects you, lips flattening. “I don’t have to think if I don’t want to, and I fucking hate it. I’m a twenty-one year old man that doesn’t do anything for myself, it’s suffocating. Like I’m a puppet.”

Your lips are tucked between your teeth, swept to the side, head tilted. “I thought it was the other way around. Are they mad you’re… dating me?”

Mingi laughs a little, “More than mad. Consequences-mad.” 

You gasp, leaning forward, palm planted on the center console. “Then why are you still doing it?”

“Because I want to,” he’s looking at you now, “for once, I’m doing something I want, and I’m having fun.”

“You’re having fun with me?” Your smile makes Mingi feel like he’s just handed you a thousand dollars. “For realsies?”

Chuckling, nodding, Mingi nods, “For realsies, princess.”

You sit back in the passenger seat, body deflating dramatically, head sinking to the side, silly smile still on your lips. Looking up at him through your brows, you say, “I’m having fun with you, too.”

Mingi doesn’t understand why the sentence fills his stomach with… butterflies, like you’d just said the words he’s been waiting the whole night to hear. He pushes the feeling down, shifting himself upward, finally plugging his phone into the car’s speaker system. “You ready?”

“Yes,” you nod, sitting up, pulling the seatbelt over your torso. “Drive nicely though, please, or else I might throw up.”

FOURTH OUTING: CONFERENCE GAME, SUNDAY. 7:02 PM.

Bass pumps through the stadium, so deep and booming you can feel it in your heels that touch the concrete beneath you, it vibrates through the navy blue, plastic chair you sat on. Only in a mini-skirt, your thighs sat bare against the cool, hard chair, a relief in contrast to the humid air that rudely asks you to put your hair up. 

In the tenth row, just above the fifty-yard line, your view was immaculate. Just above where the players stood on the field, you could see the field, the players clearer than you ever have, Jongho always gifted you and Yeosang nosebleeds. A routine, up in the stands, guzzling beers because what else was there to do if you couldn’t see? You’d trust the commentator with a tall-boy of Miller and pretend you were enjoying it until you got drunk enough to not care, and to you, that was the true college football experience. 

But here, almost eye-level with Mingi who lines up directly under center to take the snap, this was different. Dark hair covered by his kelly-green helmet, the only reason you knew it was him was because of his last name and the number eighty-eight on his back. 

It mirrored the one on your back, the kelly-green jersey that offset his white one, it hung more than oversized in your body, off one shoulder, tucked into your skirt. You haven’t seen Mingi in a week, and when Yeosang delivered it to you this morning the pang of disappointment in your chest was so uncomfortable you pretended you didn’t feel it.

“Mingi gave it to Jongho who gave it to me to give to you.” 

Yeosang threw the jersey onto your couch, oversized and… green. So green you looked down at the jersey then back up to Yeosang’s head of hair, a smirk crawled onto your cheeks. Yeosang squinted, “Don’t.”

“Oh, you can make fun of me, but I can’t make fun of you?” A hand on your hip, one knee bent, you exuded nothing but attitude. You took a step forward to pick the jersey off your couch, held it up in the air in front of you by the shoulders, “Can dish it out but can’t take it, huh?”

The mini-skirt in your closet you haven’t been able to face since sometime last year popped into your brain, a tall pair of boots you already started mentally picturing with the outfit. It looked good enough in the mirror, his jersey hung off your shoulder, you did a little twirl in the mirror to see how it swayed with your movement. 

A smile was stamped onto your cheeks when you glanced at your back in the mirror, reading a very clear Song written above the number 88. After noticing the grin, you forced your lips flat, arms straightening at your sides. You turned back around, lips tucked in as you ran your palms over the jersey, blowing a sharp breath through curved lips, then left your bedroom once more. 

You kind of missed him, which was a strange pit-in-your-stomach feeling you didn’t let yourself think too much about. You haven’t seen him in a week, not since your explosion on Wooyoung at Eonian, he’s been too busy with this game approaching, strategizing, practicing, training. Not seeing him after sharing something vulnerable with him, something you haven’t even shared with the green-headed-motherfucker in the room just to get something vulnerable in return, you felt strangely closer to him. Like maybe you two could actually be friends. 

Silly thought. Silly you.

He stands crouched on the field, your chest still heaves from cheering when his name was announced throughout the stadium, excitement vibrating through you as much as when bass bled through your skin. The stadium looks bigger from down here, more open, yet there was less air to fill your lungs, to ease the discomfort in your chest. 

There were messages in your DMs, more messages now than when you entered the parking lot to tailgate. You read the first ones upon your first step through the wired, silver gates, not telling Yeosang who was already slurring his words because it didn’t matter. The messages have never grown too personal, nowhere close to a threat, until today. 

Don’t go to the game today. 

His minions, the army assembled of Mingi-lovers who haunted your requests folder, you wonder what they’d think if they knew you weren’t really together. If they knew Mingi only looked at you affectionately in public. You wondered what they’d think if they looked at your text thread, if they saw the slew of insults you threw at each other on a daily basis, between the updates with time stamps because Mingi said it’s proof he’s busy. 

Now, there were more.

Thought we told you not to go We saw you tailgating. Should we expose you for cheating on him? In his jersey too, you must be fucking stupid Drinking beer, so trashy Don’t you think you eat enough?

A tall-boy in the cupholder across from you, a cup of cheese fries split between you and Yeosang, a fucking hotdog in your hand. This was normal, this is what you always did, what you always fucking ate when you came to these games. You looked behind you, the crowd was busy talking to each other, laughing, drinking, eating, there were no eyes on you. You couldn’t figure out who was looking at you. Who was waiting. 

Unsettling isn’t the word for how uncomfortable being seen was, when you didn’t want to be.

The game begins and you attempt to force yourself into focusing. Yeosang, drunk and belligerent beside you, luckily didn’t notice your discomfort, you don’t think he’d notice if you dropped a fucking brick on his head right now. You pull out your phone when focusing proves impossible, rereading your last text thread with Mingi again, the only thing keeping you from grabbing Yeosang by the scruff and dragging him out of the stadium. 

xxx-xxx-xxxx: come down to the field when games over xxx-xxx-xxxx: go down the stairs inside, tell security ur name. they should let u through

you: okay you: play good or else ill cheer for jongho

xxx-xxx-xxxx: come on now xxx-xxx-xxxx: whos name is on ur back

you: some guy you: streets are calling me mrs. song

xxx-xxx-xxxx: wait that has a nice ring to it xxx-xxx-xxxx: if u see winter let her know what her future looks like

you: i hate you you: break a leg

xxx-xxx-xxxx: i dont think u say that for football

you: no like i hope you break your leg

xxx-xxx-xxxx: oh bro fuck u xxx-xxx-xxxx: dont say that before a game xxx-xxx-xxxx: asshole

you: go stretch or something stop texting me

You haven’t seen Winter, you haven’t seen Wooyoung. You didn’t see them in the parking lot, either, where you tailgated with not only Jia and Riyo, but Mingyu, Seokmin, Hoshi, Dino and Seungkwan. Nine of you taking up two parking spots, drinking beside Mingyu’s ninety-six Ford pickup, playing pong with the table he brought in the truck bed, sitting in folding chairs, watching from the roof panel. 

Riyo claims they’re the only people she could convince to tailgate. You think they’re the first and only people she tried convincing, especially since she’s hooking up with Seokmin on the DL, but you’d believe there’s some truth to it just because Mingyu’s the easiest person to convince of anything on the planet. You can remember convincing him chocolate milk comes from brown cows and strawberry milk comes from pink cows– he was elated to find out photoshop-generated pink cows exist in real life. 

Tall, buff, bronzy and handsome, he was the first one to refer to you as Mrs. Song with a slippery smirk and a wiggle of his brows. For the entire two hours you tailgated, you don’t think you heard your name once; like parrots, once one of them says something, the rest follow. 

It was nice to be friendly with him, even if you eyed him up with a smirk of your own two or twenty times, advances only understood by him, and each time you remembered whose name and number was painted on your back and forced your face to fall. 

Boring. 

“That pass was,” Yeosang hiccups, “disgusting.”

You lock your phone, picking your head up, “I missed it, what happened? Disgusting good, or disgusting bad?”

“Good,” Yeosang nods, watching the game with a different, analytical eye, “Mingi’s so fucking good.”

“Do you ever miss playing?” You ask, tucking your phone into your pocket, picking up your beer to take a sip. Cringing, you wish you’d drank more at the tailgate.

“Of course,” he says like that’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked, “but I don’t regret quitting. Everything is better now.”

You can hear the liquor in his voice, it makes you crack a smile. Taking advantage of the situation, you lean in a little closer, “Do you miss her cheering you on?”

With his feet propped up on the empty chair in front of him, body lazily strewn in his own chair like it was deadweight, it might be, the way he only turns his head to look at you. “You don’t think she cheers for me anywhere else?”

Your top lip curls, leaning backward, putting space between you. “I don’t know if I should take that in a sexual way or not.”

Yeosang snorts loudly, head dipping back like he didn’t have the strength to hold it up anymore, “You saw her at my show last week. She was cheering me on like she didn’t give a fuck who saw, it was awesome.”

“Good,” you nod, turning back to the field, eyes closing in on the pretty cheerleader dressed in little to nothing, green and white pompoms in her hands. Whispering, watching her, you nod again, “Good.”

Checking your phone again, you see more DMs, but you don’t open them. Ignorance is bliss, you tell yourself as you sit rigid up until halftime, where the cheers and boos from the crowd went right over your head the entire time. Twenty minutes to pee, buy another beer and more cheese fries because you should’ve eaten before you fucking came and you didn’t.

On edge, speed-walking through the crowds in the concourse, your eyes worked a mile-a-minute to scan every face you saw, to analyze if anyone was looking at you a certain way. It’s terrifying, knowing someone is watching, not knowing who, or from where. You stared above you, through the cracks in the stall doors while you peed, you kept an eye on your surroundings while you bought another beer, more cheese fries. 

Maybe you should turn off your requests, you think as you sit back down in your seat, Yeosang leaned sideways with his head in his fist, eyes half-open.

“Are you alive?” You ask with a laugh as you sit down, handing him another tall-boy can, “Here, got you another beer.”

He resurrects like the second coming of Jesus, eyes wide and brows lifted like you’d woken him from hibernation. Back straightening, he grabs the can from your hand, sucking in a breath, “You’re my best friend.”

You laugh as you sit back in your seat, tucking your skirt beneath your thighs, the game had already begun again while you were up in the concourse. Peeking up at the scoreboard, seeing nine-zero clear as day, your head snaps to Yeosang, “When the fuck did that happen?”

“Mostly in the first quarter,” his voice is heavy with carbonation, he closes a fist over his mouth in an attempt to silently burp into it, a failed attempt. 

You snicker at the sound, giggling through your words, “Who?”

“Haechan, Jaemin.”

“Jaemin’s a kicker?”

“Him and Felix.”

“Ah,” you nod, taking a sip of your own beer. Turning to him again, you ask, “Haechan’s the whiney one with the red hair?”

“Wide receiver,” Yeosang nods, “and a good one. Mingi’s passes are perfect, though, can’t give Hyuck all the credit.”

“Hyuck?”

“Haechan.”

“Oh,” you mumble, searching the field again. Mingi looks so much bigger with all the padding on, bulkier, you can see his chest heaving despite the layers, his run turning to a slowed drag of his legs as he walks towards the edge of the field. 

Arms flexing as he pulls his helmet off his head, he shakes his hair back, running a gloved hand through the sweaty strands, away from his face. It’s like slow motion, his shoulders pushed back, lips parted, jaw clean and angular, teeth poking out from beneath his top lip. 

“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, he looks hot. Fuck him. 

That clean smirk lifting his lips on one side as he shakes hands with another one of his teammates, you don’t care to figure out which one, you can’t take your eyes off him. He tilts his chin up, keeping that same cocky smirk as he says something too far for your ears to catch, his eyebrows twitching upward. Shit. 

Your stomach rumbles something unwelcome, a feeling of interest, sweat prickling at the back of your neck that isn’t from the humidity in the air. You know he’s hot, you knew he was hot before you started fake-dating him, you quickly remind yourself who he is. A narcissistic asshole, a misogynist, a lonely twenty-one year old that doesn’t have the freedom to make decisions for himself. One that likes spending his free time with you, one that laughs at your jokes, one that throws his arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side like there’s no other place he’d want you. 

Mine. 

You shake your head, turning to Yeosang again, “You know how I said I got those DMs the other day?”

Yeosang blinks in half-focus, “Kinda, why?”

“Nevermind,” you shake your head, sighing. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Can I have a fry?” He asks, giving you puppy eyes, you hand him the cup of cheese fries without looking at him. 

By the grace of God, as if you fucking summoned her with damning thoughts, walking into the row before yours, sitting in the seat directly in front of Yeosang, is Winter.

Where the fuck is Wooyoung?

Yeosang stiffens, a cheese fry halfway in his mouth, he pulls his feet back down to the concrete, mumbling apologies through his already-full mouth. Winter is everything polite, she gives him a warm smile, tucking her skirt beneath her as she sits into the seat. Slowly she drags her hair to one side as she relaxes in the plastic, body not hitting the backrest, giving you a full, front-seat view of Song and 88 on her back. 

Your lips part, eyes widening as you read it, you blink once, twice, six fucking times and the name and number doesn’t change. It’s a jersey bought from the school store, not official like the one on your back, but she’s fucking here, in front of you, with your boyfriend’s name and number on her fucking back. 

“Excuse me,” you lean forward, heart beating out of your chest, brain spewing words onto your tongue and not one of them is nice. 

She turns like she’s surprised, brows lifted, “Hm?”

“Your jersey?” You tilt your chin, what the fuck else would you be asking about?

“Oh,” she grins, cheeks pink, a hand coming up to cover her mouth like she’s fucking bashful. “I’m just a huge fan.”

“Right,” you say slowly, eyes thinned to shoot daggers, nodding like this shit does not add up. 

Yeosang rests a heavy hand on your back, you turn your head to look at him still shooting missiles from your eyes and his face is twisted up to say what the fuck are you doing?!

Your face snaps back into reality, quickly straightening in your seat, pupils shaking beneath your lids and lips pursed hard enough to bruise, an embarrassing heat turns your body to lava. You see nothing, you hear nothing, you feel nothing but the mortifying pulse of your own heartbeat, what are you doing? What the fuck was that? This is the whole point. 

You’re going insane, that’s the only answer, the only reason for what you just did. The DMs, sitting in seats he got you because they’re the best view, having eyes on you somewhere in the crowd, remembering how he looked at you from the driver’s seat of his car, telling you to go get what you want just because you fucking want it. It's all going to your head. 

You need to break up. Now. 

You don’t see the rest of the game. You don’t hear the music, the sirens of triumph, the roars of the crowd, you don’t even process that they won until you’re standing up, clapping, staring out at the field with your face utterly blank. This is fear. This is real, genuine, raw fucking fear. 

“Let’s go,” Yeosang is tugging on your arm and your gaze is elsewhere, confused, your mind somewhere along with it. 

You tug your arm back, “Go where?”

“Down to the field?” Yeosang furrows his brows, “Are you okay?”

“Oh,” you give him a weak smile, “yeah, ‘m fine.”

You’re gliding up the stairs into the concourse, fuzzy finding the staircase to lead you back down, you’re shaking your head, trying to snap yourself out of it before you reach the bottom platform. There’s a man shuffling around like he was waiting for bodies to approach, earpiece connecting to a small black box clipped onto his slacks, a black polo to match, his face reading focus, professionalism. You mumble yours and Yeosang’s names and he lets you through with a stretch of his arm, you heave another breath when the LED lights come into view at the end of the tunnel. 

The field is vast, it’s warmer down here, the air is wet. Bodies seem to cover every inch of sideline, cameras, lights, people with clipboards and hats on their head with your university’s logo, you’re too aware of your fingers at your sides. 

You spot him and he’s smiling, laughing as he talks to an interviewer, already standing before a camera, it makes your heart drop to your asshole. You shuffle closer to Yeosang who’s already on the hunt for Jongho, you’re sure he doesn’t want to be caught down here by his old coach or any of the staff, if they’d even recognize his bright green hair. 

“You’re down here?” Jongho finds you before you find him, brows furrowed, hair sweaty and chest heaving, he wears confused brows and a winded smile. 

Chest puffed from padding, sweat dribbling down his forearms that aren’t covered by nylon, you actually feel a semblance of relief when you see him. “Mingi invited me, I wasn’t coming without Yeo.” 

“Oh,” his smile spreads, “how was it?”

Yeosang claps his hand, throwing another on his shoulder, “You’re a fucking boulder, wish I was down here with you.” 

Jongho looks confused, “Are you drunk?”

Your eyes travel, landing on Mingi, who catches you just as you look over. You see him brighten, smile widening, a sparkle in his eyes that makes your stomach do flips. Fuck. 

You watch him mouth the words excuse me, nodding his head before escaping the press, running over to you with that stupid fucking smile you might have seen in your dream last night. 

“You came!” He yells when he gets close enough to pull you into his chest, acting as if his sweat didn’t soak through his padding. Huge, massive, he swallows you, it makes your knees weak. 

You verbally cringe, muttering a noise of disgust before pulling away, “I was right, you smell like wet dog.” 

“Beautiful woman,” he corrects, face reading amusement, “like you in my jersey, green looks good on you, princess.” 

Your eyes meet the turf beneath your boots, “You don’t have to say that, no one can hear you, Mingi.” 

“Damn, no insulting rebuttal?” The more he looks at you the more his smile falters. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You look up at him through your brows, surprise written on your face as you take in the concern on his. He can tell? You shake your head, plastering a fake smile on your cheeks, “I’m great, I’m fine, I’m good. Did you hear me cheering?” 

“For me?” He’s cheesing, excited like a little kid. 

You laugh a little, tucking your hair behind your ear, “Duh, you told me I had to since I’m wearing your jersey.”

“Let me see,” he pulls his arm from where it laid over your shoulder back to his side, “do a little twirl for me, smart girl.” 

The heat on your cheeks is molten, you roll your eyes as you make a ponytail in your fist, twirling to give him full access of him on your back. 

He cheers, woo-ing loud and shameless, his smile takes over his entire face. “Wow, look at you, like a real-life WAG.” 

“What’s a WAG?” 

He shakes his head, “Means you’re mine.” 

Mine. 

You panic, words spilling from your lips, “Guess who else is in your jersey.” 

His smile falls, body going still with knowing disbelief, “No.” 

You force a tight-lipped smile, nodding, “Yup.” 

“Oh my god!” Yeosang cuts you off, loud and obnoxious. Now he chooses to get rowdy? “I almost forgot, you guys should take pictures.” 

In boyfriend mode again, Mingi’s gloved palm finds the small of your back, coming to your side when you twist around to look at Yeosang, face screaming no. Yeosang giggles, a nasty little smirk on his lips that tells you he’s playing the game, too, maybe better than you are at this point. 

He pulls his phone from his back pocket, “Come on, pose.” 

You look at Mingi, uneasy. He shrugs, unbothered. Hand tighter around your waist, he leans into you, smiling. You try to force light into your eyes, doing your best to grin like a proud girlfriend, not that these pictures would ever see the light of day. 

“Cute,” Yeosang crouches, “move over, the lighting is weird.” 

You huff, but move in the direction Yeosang’s pointed palm is ushering you in, Mingi following, the both of you quiet. Too aware of where you are, eyes, cameras, lights— it’s overstimulating just having his fucking hand on you, his body pressed to yours. 

Yeosang eyes you over the top of his phone screen, flashing something mischievous, “Now kiss.” 

“What?” There’s barely a moment between his order and your reaction. Mingi stiffens beside you, you think you’ve gone cold, you think you might drop dead on the turf. 

“Kiss!” Yeosang nearly whines, “Come on, what are you, children? One kiss for a picture, you’ll thank me for it later.”

Your jaw drops. Blinking at him, stuttering a rebuttal, head shaking and a hand moving to wave in front of you out of denial, Mingi speaks before you do.

“Okay.” 

“Huh?!” You look at him like he’s insane. 

He shoots daggers, eyes bouncing back and forth between you and Yeosang as if to say don’t blow our cover. Little does he know, Yeosang was present when the plan was fucking formed. 

“No,” the shake of your head is final, “absolutely not.” 

“One kiss,” Mingi argues, “it would be a cute picture.” 

You whisper, “Why are you encouraging this?” 

He shrugs, his smile effortlessly stupid, “It’s just one kiss.” 

Your eyes lower to his lips for a split second. Round, plump, pink, wet with spit from his tongue that glides over them seamlessly, there’s an anxious pit in your stomach, your fight or flight kicks in. 

He uses the angle in which you turned, one hand sliding to your waist, the other on your jaw, tilting your head upward. Warm, his touch delicate, you feel your heart in your throat as he leans in, kissing you with a softness no one has ever kissed you with. 

You’ve been someone’s situationship, friends with benefits, fuckbuddy— all things that require a disconnection to function, a wall you were far too good at putting up, keeping stable. You’ve been kissed with haste, with fervor, just to add a touch of romanticism because the rest that followed lacked respect in its purest form. 

This was different. It wasn’t a peck, your lips parted for him, your body melted into him, his hand on your jaw was guiding, grounding, his gloved thumb swiped along your skin like he fucking meant it. He tasted clean, like he just drank a gallon of water, still fresh on his plump lips that tucked yours in like they belonged there. It's not right, it’s not right but it’s working and you’re fucking terrified. 

He pulls away just as softly as he leaned in, a dopey smile stretching his lips wide. Keeping himself close, he hums, “See? Just a kiss.” 

You don’t realize your fingers wrapped around his forearm, or that your spine bent towards him. Breath shaky, grip iron, your eyes flicker upward and even the way he’s looking at you is different. 

You swallow down your discombobulation just enough to utter, “We need to break up. Now.” 

masterlist 🏈 part two

[yungistiny]

CAMBOY

[ J. Yunho ]

╚═════════

summary: in which your coworker sends you a link to a hot camboy unbeknownst it’s your best friend and roommate

warning: dom yunho, sub reader, masturbation, fingering, oral, squirting, tongue fucking, throat fucking, overstimulation, multiple orgasm, unprotected sex, creampie

genre: smut

pairing: camboy yunho x afab reader

word count: 21.7k

masterlist

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The final bell rang, and the classroom slowly emptied of sticky fingers, squeaky sneakers, and forgotten crayon masterpieces. The overhead lights cast a sleepy golden hue over the rows of tiny desks, and the smell of pencil shavings and hand sanitizer still lingered in the air. You stood at your desk, gently rubbing your temples as you flipped through a few stray spelling quizzes, every fiber of your teacher self begging for caffeine and silence.

You didn’t even hear the door open, just the soft click of it shutting behind someone, followed by the unmistakable sound of smug footsteps and an even smugger voice. “Well if it isn’t Seoul’s hottest educator, still grading papers like a saint,” Wooyoung drawled. You didn’t even look up. “Whatever you want, the answer is no.”

“But what if I told you,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect, “I brought you a gift?” That got your attention. You glanced up, instantly suspicious as Wooyoung leaned against the side of your desk, dressed far too nicely for a gym teacher, black coat unbuttoned just enough to look casual and expensive.

“A gift?” you asked, narrowing your eyes and he wiggled his brows. “Something to help you out. You know, since you finally dumped that lying trash bag you called a boyfriend.” You rolled your eyes, groaning. “Oh my god, please don’t say it like that.”

“I’m proud of you!” he said, dramatically pressing a hand to his heart. “It only took, what, six months and undeniable proof of him messaging his ex from your bed? Growth, babe.” You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already reaching into his coat pocket for his phone, thumb tapping away with theatrical flair. A few seconds later, yours buzzed.”Wooyoung…”

“I’m just saying,” he said, all innocent like as he straightened up and began backing toward the door, “sometimes a girl needs a little visual aid to move on.” You looked at your screen and saw a link.

wooyoung: For when you’re lonely 😌 You’re welcome

He winked, hand already on the doorknob. “Trust me. Watch it alone. Preferably with a glass of wine. And maybe a towel.”

“You are so…”

“Helpful?” he interrupted, grinning like the devil. “Exactly. Byeee!” The door clicked shut behind him, and silence settled in again. You stared at the link for a long moment, smirking to yourself as you shoved your phone in your bag. Whatever weird video Wooyoung had sent could wait. Right now, you still had papers to grade… and a very peaceful, boring night ahead.

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By the time you got home, the sky had turned the color of smudged charcoal, the chill of the late evening settling into your bones. You barely managed to kick your shoes off before the familiar smell of spice and soy sauce hit you like a comforting wave. Your apartment was warm. Lived in. The scent of your favorite dish from Yunho’s parents’ restaurant drifted from the coffee table, where three opened takeout boxes were already being attacked with chopsticks. Steam curled up lazily in the lamplight.

“Hey,” came his voice from the couch, low and distracted. “I didn’t know if you were staying late again, so I brought you dinner just in case.” You rounded the corner to the living room and found your best friend exactly where you expected, half lying, half slouched across the couch in the way only Yunho could manage, PS5 controller in hand, socked feet propped up on the edge of the coffee table like a menace.

He didn’t even look away from the TV. “There’s galbi, kimchi fried rice, and that soup you like. I left the radish out this time, cause I’m nice like that.” You dropped your bag with a grateful sigh and toed off your other shoe. “You’re disgustingly good to me sometimes.”

“I know,” he said smugly, tongue peeking out slightly between his lips as he focused on a combo in his game. “I’m the best fake husband in Seoul. Honestly, someone should marry me just for my food sense.” You snorted. “Someone should marry you just to keep you from dying of snack related malnutrition. When I moved in, you were living on ramen and banana milk.”

“That was a delicate nutritional balance,” he countered, eyes still locked on the screen as you wandered toward the food, nudging his leg with your knee. “Pause and eat, or I swear I’m changing the WiFi password.”

“Power move,” he muttered, pausing the game with a sigh and finally looking up at you. His hair was still a little damp from his earlier shower, falling into his eyes, and his hoodie was slightly too big. He stretched, arms high over his head, hoodie rising just enough to reveal a flash of toned abs before settling again.

You blinked and immediately looked away. No big deal. He was always like this. You dropped onto the other end of the couch and grabbed the container closest to you, stealing a bite of the rice before he could reclaim it. Yunho just leaned back, watching you with that lazy grin of his. “Rough day?”

You hummed. “Kids were wild. Wooyoung was worse.” His grin widened. “What did he do now?” You hesitated. “He… sent me something. Called it a gift.”

“Oh god.”

“Exactly.”

“Please tell me it’s not another playlist of breakup anthems titled, men ain’t shit vol. 5.’”

“Nope.” You reached for your bag, pulling your phone out. “It was a link this time. Said I needed something visual to help me get over my ex.”

Yunho looked vaguely horrified. “Please tell me you didn’t open it in front of students.”

“Of course not,” you scoffed. “I haven’t even looked at it yet.”You laughed around your spoon, already unlocking your phone without thinking. “You know what? I’m gonna go to my room and suffer in private.” He waved you off. “Enjoy whatever weird shit that man’s into.” You stood, phone in hand, and started walking toward your room.

You ate in bed, legs tucked under you, laptop open with some old comfort show playing in the background. Chopsticks in one hand, your phone in the other, screen still lit up with that message from Wooyoung, unopened. It stared at you like a dare. But you weren’t biting. Not yet. Not when galbi and rice were calling. Not when your muscles still ached from standing all day trying to get a room full of fourth graders to not weaponize glitter glue.

You set your empty food containers aside with a satisfied sigh and padded barefoot to the bathroom, the familiar creak of the floorboards under your feet a lullaby you’d gotten used to since moving in. The shower steamed up fast, warm, clean, and quiet. Your shoulders dropped, tension melting as the water poured over you. You didn’t even bother closing the door all the way. No need. Yunho had seen you in your bathrobe more times than you could count. He never cared. Never looked twice. Not like that.

Still, you didn’t hum or play music like usual tonight. Maybe it was the weird mood lingering from Wooyoung’s cryptic message. Maybe it was something else. Just as you rinsed the last of the conditioner from your hair, you heard the unmistakable creak of the bathroom door opening and wiped the water from your face, unfazed. “Yunho?”

“Yeah, it’s just me,” he called casually over the sound of the water. “Sorry. I really gotta pee.” You snorted. “Ever heard of knocking?”

“I did knock,” he said, the sound of him flipping the toilet lid up following immediately. “You didn’t hear me over your shampoo commercial.” You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother covering up. “Not like this is new. Pretty sure we stopped pretending about bathroom boundaries when we both got food poisoning that one weekend.” Yunho laughed, voice a little groggy like he’d just been dozing. “Dark times. I still can’t look at chicken katsu the same.”

He flushed, and you stepped away from the running water of the shower a moment as it got hot, and you heard the water run briefly. Then the soft sound of his socked feet shuffling across the tile. “You want me to warm you some tea?” he asked, hand on the doorknob now. “I’m good,” you called back.

“Alright. Night.”

“Night.”

The door clicked shut again. And you were left with the water running, your heart suddenly ticking a little too loud in your chest. It wasn’t the first time he’d come in while you were showering.

But for some reason… it felt different tonight.

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Steam followed you out of the bathroom like a lazy fog, warm skin prickling as the cooler air of your room kissed it. You shut the door behind you, towel twisted on top of your head, still drying off with a quiet hum in your throat as you moved on autopilot, body lotion, oversized sleep shirt, a pair of old cotton shorts. It was muscle memory at this point, the same nighttime rhythm every night since you’d moved in with Yunho last year. He always teased you for being chronically cozy.

You turned off the main light, crawled into bed, and let the soft yellow glow of your nightstand lamp cast a halo across your sheets. Your phone blinked with a notification, the tiny preview of Wooyoung’s last message still hovering there like a neon temptation. You stared at it for a second, then another. You weren’t actually planning to open it. You should just close your eyes, throw on your sleep playlist, and pass out like a responsible adult with children to educate in the morning.

But then again, Wooyoung had a way of being… shockingly on point with his chaos. With a sigh, you unlocked your phone, tapped the link, and set it on your chest, screen tilted just enough to catch the full view without having to hold it. The page loaded slowly. Too slowly. It started with dim lighting. Soft, almost amber hued. You could hear faint music in the background, lofi, moody, something you might play when grading papers or when pretending you weren’t lonely in bed.

The camera was angled low. Just enough to show the lower half of a man’s torso. Sweatpants clung low to his hips, the waistband dipped just enough to tease something dark and intimate beneath. A hand dragged slowly across bare skin, fingers long and languid, dragging along his own abs in a way that made you squirm. His face wasn’t visible. But his voice was. Low. Smooth. A little husky and playful. “Missed me?” Something in your stomach flipped. That voice was…..

The man’s hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweats, slow and deliberate, and your breath caught because that voice was familiar. Too familiar. And then he laughed, just a breathy chuckle under his breath. Quiet. Confident. Not loud enough to be staged, just real.

You propped your phone up a little higher against your chest, shifting beneath the covers like you were settling in for just another typical mindless scroll. Nothing to see here. Just a random hot guy on a random site that your menace of a coworker sent you. Totally normal post shower behavior. Except your pulse had started to pick up, and it wasn’t just from the visual.

He was talking again now, soft, coaxing things. “Bet you’ve been thinking about me… haven’t you?” His voice was rich, smooth, just the slightest rasp at the edges. You exhaled slowly, fingers curled at your stomach, chewing the inside of your cheek. Okay. It wasn’t exactly Yunho’s voice. It was deeper, maybe, lower, like he was trying to keep it quiet. And he was probably using a filter or something. Right? Lots of camboys did that.

Lots of them also had long, veiny hands and fingers that looked suspiciously like they were made for both cooking and ruining lives. You swallowed as the camera panned in tighter. The man, no, the camboy, was palming himself now, slow and teasing through the thin cotton of his gray sweats. His hand flexed once, and your eyes tracked the way his muscles tensed in his stomach. Long lines of definition. A dusting of hair low on his abdomen. You couldn’t look away.

And then, he slid his hand under the waistband. No showy pull down, no dramatic striptease. Just slow fingers wrapping around himself, already hard, thick and big and perfect. Your lips parted slightly, not even aware of the way your thighs shifted under the blankets and your breath caught as he stroked himself with lazy precision, like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly how to keep your attention.

And god, it was working.

“Just like that,” he murmured. “You’re watching me, aren’t you?”

Your thighs clenched. But then he shifted back, and the camera caught just a little more of the background. Not much. Just a small portion of a bed. Plain navy comforter. A soft corner of a valorant poster on the wall. Some LED lights above the headboard glowing a faint blue….

Your stomach dropped. Your blood ran cold, and yet heat still licked down your spine. Because now that you were looking, not just watching, but looking, you saw the subtle things. The way his wrist wore that stupid woven bracelet Yunho refused to take off since junior year of college. The exact cut of his jaw in the shadowed corner of the frame as he leaned forward.

The voice hadn’t been a coincidence. The room wasn’t a coincidence. You were watching your best friend. Your roommate. Yunho.

You shot upright like you’d just touched a live wire, the blankets falling from your shoulders as your finger slammed the side of your phone and killed the screen. Your heart thundered in your ears. No fucking way. You sat frozen in your bed, blinking at your reflection in the dark window across from you. Mouth parted. Chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths.

It couldn’t be him. You were tired. You were horny. You were spiraling because Wooyoung had sent you some anonymous dick video and your brain had decided to latch onto your hot, too perfect best friend as the scapegoat. That was it. It had to be.

You waited a few seconds. Then another few. Then you turned your phone back on. Just to check. You tapped the screen, heart pounding in your throat as the video paused exactly where you’d left it, his hand still wrapped around himself, the camera angled just low enough to tease, but not enough to prove.

You didn’t hit play again. Instead, your thumb hovered over the profile icon, finally clicking it. The screen blinked as his homepage loaded. “RADIANTYU.” Not exactly subtle considering radiant was Yunho’s rank in valorant and Yu was half of his name.

The profile image was a cropped body shot, shirtless, faceless, in a low slung towel that showed off defined abs and a V line that should’ve come with a warning. A couple of rings on his fingers. A silver chain at his neck with a cross pendant you knew too well….

The bio was short: “Not here for small talk. Just say please.”

You felt your throat tighten. No name. No voice samples on the page. A couple of likes from users named things like missnasty91 and devon4licks. But then you started scrolling. And gods help you, you tapped another video. This one opened differently. He was lying on his side, hand already between his legs, voice thick and lazy. “I know what you came for,” he said lowly. “Why don’t you sit back and let me take care of it?” Your toes curled, and you immediately clicked out and opened another one. He was in the same room, same soft lighting, but shirtless this time. The camera caught just enough of his mouth when he sucked on his fingers before reaching between his legs again.

You paused that one too. Then clicked another. And another. Your brain was screaming This isn’t him while your gut whispered it is! And you kept watching. You told yourself it was for confirmation. Not because you wanted to hear him say “good girl” again. Not because your thighs were clenched tight beneath the covers. Not because you were one breath away from slipping your hand beneath the waistband of your own shorts.

You clicked back to the original video. And this time, you didn’t look away when he moaned. You didn’t even realize your hand had moved. Somewhere between the second moan and the way his head dropped back out of frame with a breathy, broken “fuck,” your fingers had slipped beneath the waistband of your panties, absently brushing over the heat pooling between your thighs.

It wasn’t intentional at first, just instinct. Just that helpless kind of ache you couldn’t smother anymore. Not with the way he touched himself like that. Not with that voice. That pace. That slow, deliberate stroke of his hand down his dick like he was thinking about you. Like he could see you watching. And fuck, he knew how to move. Lazy and confident, like he had every viewer begging to fill in the blanks, to imagine what it would feel like to kneel between those thighs, to taste the soft curse slipping from his mouth when he was close.

You didn’t want to believe it was him. You couldn’t let yourself believe it was Yunho, your Yunho, splayed out like that in his bedroom, right down the hall, completely unaware that you were now part of his secret world. But you couldn’t not believe it anymore either. Not with the very clear evidence. Because the longer you watched, the more you tuned in to the rhythm of his breath, the occasional muttered praise, the way he grunted low in his throat and spread his legs wider, the more you knew.

You knew that voice. You knew the shape of his hands. You knew the flex of his abs when he tensed. You knew his room. And now, god help you, you knew the sound he made when he was about to come. Your fingers slipped inside yourself without conscious thought, two of them, curling up the way you knew drove you crazy, your hips already moving in slow, needy rolls against your palm. You buried your face in your pillow, the screen balanced on the mattress beside you, the soft sound of his moans washing over you like they were meant for you alone. His voice dropped lower, raspier. “So fucking good for me… that’s it, baby. Keep watching.”

You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper. The pressure inside you was building fast, coiling tight with every pump of his fist on screen. Your fingers matched the rhythm of his, hips moving faster, chasing that edge with every gasped breath, every low curse that fell from his lips like a goddamn prayer. “Come for me,” he growled, voice rough now. “You’ve been so patient.” Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, hot and dizzying, stealing the air from your lungs. “Yunho…” you gasped into your pillow, the name ripping from your throat in a strangled, broken moan as your body clenched hard around your own fingers. You trembled through it, thighs trembling, breath catching on every stuttered sound he made on the screen as he came moments later.

You lay there in the aftershocks, panting. Sweaty. Wrecked. The room was quiet again. Your phone screen faded slowly to black beside you. And it hit you all at once. You had just gotten yourself off, completely, shamelessly, desperately, to a video of your best friend.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Your alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. You hadn’t slept. At least not well. Not with images from last night playing on a loop behind your eyes like a cursed projector. Yunho’s voice, that voice, rasping praise through your earbuds. The way he gripped himself. The soft grunt he let out right before he came. You’d watched the whole damn thing again at 3:00 a.m. Just to “make sure.” Which was a lie. And you knew it.

You pulled on your work clothes in a daze, something soft and professional, but your brain wasn’t even registering fabric or color. Just flashes of gray. Gray. Fucking. Sweatpants. You padded out into the kitchen, hair half up, mug in hand, still telling yourself you were just going to grab coffee and ignore the chaos that lived in your frontal lobe. And then he walked in. Barefoot. Shirtless. Still rubbing sleep from his eyes. And wearing the same goddamn sweatpants from the video. You almost dropped your mug.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep, deep and a little hoarse. You froze. You could hear it now. That same exact rasp. “M… Morning,” you replied, way too fast. You tried to look anywhere else, at the fridge, the window, the cat calendar on the wall, but your gaze dragged back to him like it had a mind of its own. And it was bad. The waistband of those pants was low. Dangerously low. The kind of low that made you wonder if he had anything on underneath, and the worst part was, you knew the answer to that now.

His hair was tousled. His eyes still half lidded. And he stretched. Full stretch. Arms up, abs flexing, gray sweatpants tugging lower, and you felt your soul leave your body as he yawned and you clenched your thighs together so hard you thought your bones might snap. “You okay?” he asked, finally blinking at you like a normal human being instead of the devil in disguise. You nodded a little too hard. “Fine! Just… running late.” He glanced at the clock. “You’re early.”

“Nope. Late. Super late.” You grabbed your travel mug like it was a life preserver and started backing toward the door making Yunho tilt his head, brows furrowing. “Did I forget something? Are you mad at me?”

“No! God, no…. why would I be mad?” You let out the world’s most awkward laugh. “You brought me food last night. You’re perfect.” Perfect?! Yunho blinked. “…Okay. You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Well, I’m not!”

“You’re blushing.”

You groaned internally and turned toward the door. “See you later, roommate!”

“Love you, too, psycho,” he called after you.

You paused. Because that wasn’t weird. You two said that all the time. Only now, your brain said it differently. Love you, but moaning. Love you, but breathless and wrapped around him. Love you, but saying his name with a broken gasp as you came so hard you saw stars. You shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, eyes wide. “Oh my fucking god,” you whispered to yourself. “I came to Yunho. I came to my best friend.” And he was in the kitchen right now. Drinking oat milk. In those sweatpants.

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The minute your car rolled into the school parking lot, you spotted him. Wooyoung. Leaning against the hood of his little black coupe like it was a throne, iced coffee in hand, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky, already dressed like a walking HR violation in joggers that were just tight enough and a windbreaker zipped halfway down his chest. You barely had your keys out of the ignition before you were storming across the lot, lips pressed into a thin line, heart pounding out a staccato of, what the fuck what the fuck what the FUCK.

He saw you coming and immediately grinned. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the queen of delayed gratification. How was your gift, hmm?”

“You!” you snapped, jabbing a finger at him. “Did you know?” Wooyoung blinked behind his sunglasses. “Uh… did I know what?”

“That video,” you hissed, voice low but sharp. “The link you sent me. That man. That fucking…” Wooyoung’s grin widened. “Oh, so you did open it.” You grabbed his wrist and dragged him to the side of the car like you were about to shake him down for answers. “That’s not just some random camboy, Woo. That’s Yunho.” He blinked. “Who?” You blinked right back. “My Yunho. My roommate. My best friend Yunho.” There was a moment. A very brief, very stupid moment of silence. And then Wooyoung lost his goddamn mind. He doubled over, cackling so hard he nearly dropped his coffee. “NO… NO FUCKING WAY! You’re lying. No. That’s…” He wheezed. “That’s the guy in the video? Your Yunho? With the arms and the voice and the hands…”

“Yes!” you hissed, smacking his arm. “I recognized his bedroom, Woo!” Wooyoung had to brace himself on the car. “Oh my god…. holy shit… I didn’t even know his name! I got the link from Yeji’s Discord server, I thought the guy just looked hot… you watched your best friend jerk off?”

“Shut up!”

He snorted. “Did you finish?”

“I hate you.”

He was fully wheezing now. “You watched it all the way through, didn’t you? You nasty bitch!” You covered your face with both hands, groaning into your palms. “I said shut up, Wooyoung.”

“I literally sent it as a joke,” he said, wheezing, “and you unlocked a whole new level of horny best friend trauma… this is the best day of my life.” You peeked through your fingers. “I can never look him in the eye again.” Wooyoung grinned and sipped his coffee like this was a rom com. “Or you could look him in the eye while he’s doing it next time.”

“JUNG WOOYOUNG!”

The bell rang and you both stood frozen for a beat, your voice echoing across the lot and Wooyoung smirked. “You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?” You turned around and walked away before you could commit an actual crime.

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The bar wasn’t exactly packed, it was one of those cozy Friday night after work spots, dimly lit with just enough music to fill the space without making you shout. You and Wooyoung had claimed a small booth in the corner, two empty cocktail glasses already on the table and a third round on the way. He was halfway through his usual. something fruity, something neon, something completely ridiculous, and you were nursing a gin and tonic like it might somehow sober your life decisions. “So let me get this straight,” Wooyoung said, swirling the little umbrella in his drink like it held magical gossip powers, “you recognized him by his voice, didn’t believe it, then confirmed it by his bedroom in the background?”

You glared. “It was the sweatpants.”

He laughed so hard he snorted. “Of course it was the sweatpants. Why is it always the sweatpants?” You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “I cannot go home tonight.”

“Yes, you can,” he said, smug. “You just have to act normal. Easy.”

“Easy? I accidentally moaned his name while coming to a video of him jerking off in the same pants he woke up in this morning. You think I can look him in the eye?”

“Babe,” Wooyoung said sweetly, leaning forward over the table, “you looked him in the dick last night.”

“JUNG WOOYOUNG.”

He cackled, completely unfazed. “Look, all I’m saying is…. if you go home acting all stiff and weird and guilty, he’s gonna figure it out.” You stilled. “You think so?”

“I know so.” He took a sip of his drink, then pointed at you. “Yunho is not dumb. He’s like a golden retriever with a 4.0 GPA and emotional intuition. If you so much as blink too hard in his direction, he’s gonna be like, Are you mad at me? Did I forget your birthday? Did I eat your leftovers? Did I say something? Is it my flannel? Should I wear the blue one instead?”

You blinked. “That’s disturbingly accurate.”

He shrugged. “I contain multitudes.”

You leaned back against the booth, sipping your drink, staring off into the middle distance like a woman on the brink. “He was so… confident, Woo. Like…. talking dirty, praising. It was so… intentional.”

“And you loved it,” Wooyoung said proudly. “I raised you well.”

“I hate you.”

“You came.”

“Still hate you.”

He giggled and lifted his glass. “To best friend thirst. May your future be filled with awkward glances and unresolved tension.”

You clinked your glass with his out of pure spite.

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You managed to unlock the apartment door without dropping your keys, barely. The lights were dim inside. Cozy. Quiet. No sign of Yunho. You exhaled through your nose, nerves tingling with a weird mix of relief and disappointment. You weren’t sure if you wanted to see him or hide from him forever, or worse, see him and melt into a puddle of, “Sorry I accidentally got myself off to your secret porn career please pass the remote.”

“Act normal,” you muttered to yourself, heading straight for the fridge. “Be cool. He doesn’t know. You’re cool. You’re so cool.” You grabbed a drink, sparkling water, because the alcohol was already fogging your brain, and padded barefoot into the living room. The couch welcomed you like an old friend, and you dropped down onto it with a heavy sigh. TV on. Streaming menu open. You picked some random crime docuseries and let the flickering light wash over the room. You sipped, breathed, and kept repeating Wooyoung’s advice in your head like a mantra, Act normal. Or he’ll know.

You could do this. Just chill. Just watch some Netflix and act like you didn’t spend last night coming with his name in your mouth. Twenty minutes passed. The documentary had just reached a dramatic police interrogation scene when your bladder gave the first warning nudge. You groaned, dragging yourself off the couch. You were halfway down the hall, passing Yunho’s closed bedroom door, when you heard it. A voice. His voice. That voice. Low. Deep. Familiar in a way it absolutely shouldn’t be now. “yeah, just like that… don’t stop. You’ve been so patient for me, haven’t you?”

You froze. You weren’t imagining it. Your ears knew that cadence now. The way he dragged his vowels out like he was savoring every syllable. The way his voice dipped when he got cocky. The way it broke when he got close. The same voice that ruined you the night before. You didn’t think. You just moved. Straight into the bathroom. Door shut. Locked. And then you just stood there. Palms flat on the counter. Eyes wide in the mirror. Breathing like you’d just run a damn marathon.

Your brain was short circuiting. Yunho was filming right now. He was literally down the hall, in his room, probably shirtless, probably already sweating, probably doing all the same things you’d seen him do in those videos. Only this time you weren’t behind a screen. You were in the same apartment. You were within hearing distance of your best friend moaning for strangers online. And you were going to die. Or worse… listen. You shook your head and turned the shower on.

The mirror fogged over quickly. Your clothes hit a pile on the floor soon after, and the tile was cool beneath your feet as you stepped into the shower, dragging the curtain closed behind you like it could seal in your sanity. But it couldn’t. Not when you could still hear him. Barely audible through the pipes and plaster, his voice filtered through like static on the edge of your thoughts. You couldn’t make out words anymore, but the tone was unmistakable. That low, focused rhythm. That quiet breathlessness when he lost himself. That little hitch when he got close. The sound of it wrapped around your spine like heat.

You braced one hand against the tile, letting the water cascade down your back. It didn’t help. Nothing cooled the fire in your skin. Not when your mind was a reel of everything you’d seen him do, everything you’d heard him say. And now you were hearing it live. Real. You bit your lip, water slipping down your jaw as you lowered your forehead to the wall. Your other hand drifted south, slow, trembling, unsure, and you let yourself feel it. That gnawing ache he’d carved into you since that first click on his profile.

You hadn’t even known you could want him like this. Not until last night. Not until he said “Good girl” in that voice and made your whole world tilt. Your breaths came faster. Fingers moving now, slower, deeper, chasing something you couldn’t name. Outside the shower, he was probably on camera right now, eyes half lidded and teasing the screen with words that made strangers fall apart for him. Praise dripping from his lips. Filthy promises and soft curses spilling out in the same voice he used to ask you if you wanted tea at night. It was too much. Too hot. Too intimate. Like a secret you’d swallowed and couldn’t unhear.

You moaned into the crook of your arm, quiet, broken, shaking against the tile as your body arched and pleasure bloomed deep in your gut, sharp and dizzying. You came hard. His name caught on your tongue like a confession you couldn’t take back. “Yunho…” The sound of it cracked out of you in a breathless whisper as you trembled through it, forehead still pressed to the wall, water beating down over your back like thunder. Silence followed. No sound from his room now. Just your own breath, ragged and uneven in the mist.

You stayed there for a long time. Not moving. Not thinking. Because the only thing worse than what you’d just done… was knowing you wanted to do it again. Steam still clung to your skin when you cracked the bathroom door open. The hallway light was low and golden, and you were already reaching to tighten the towel you grabbed at your chest when you nearly collided with a wall of warm skin and broad shoulders.

Not a wall. Yunho. He was standing right there, barefoot, damp hair curling against his temple, one hand frozen mid reach for the doorframe. For half a second, neither of you breathed. “When did you get home?” he asked finally, voice softer than usual. You caught something flicker behind his eyes, something quick, wary, almost like panic, before he blinked it away and put on that easy smile. “I didn’t even hear you come in.” You forced a shrug, trying to sound casual while your pulse sprinted. “About an hour ago. You were… busy.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze sliding away for a beat. “Just finishing up some… editing.” Editing. Right. You nodded too quickly, clutching the towel a little tighter. The air between you was heavy, thick with the scent of soap and something that still felt like electricity. You had stood in front of him wrapped in a towel a hundred times before, it had never meant anything. But now your brain wouldn’t stop replaying the sound of his voice through the wall, the way his mouth might’ve looked saying those words.

“Did you eat?” he asked, gentle as ever, and the normalcy of it almost made you dizzy. “Uh huh,” you managed, backing a half step toward your room. “Leftovers. Thanks.” He smiled, soft, sleepy, harmless, and somehow that only made it worse. You mumbled a goodnight and slipped past him, heart hammering, the brush of his arm against yours leaving a spark that followed you all the way to your door.

Once you were alone, you leaned back against it, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Because you could lie to him, sure. But you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore.

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It had been a few days. Three, to be exact. Seventy two hours of holding your shit together like a gold medalist in Denial Olympics. And honestly? You were kind of crushing it. No stammering. No suspicious blushing. No accidentally whispering his name like it was your favorite word while zoned out during a team meeting. You’d managed to slip right back into your usual rhythm with Yunho, sharing leftovers, mock arguing about laundry, and yelling at the TV together like two completely normal, totally platonic best friends who you did not masturbate to.

You were fine.

Really.

And you told yourself that again as you opened the front door, kicked off your shoes, and dropped your bag on the floor with a heavy thud. “Home!” you called out, voice tired but cheerful. Yunho’s voice drifted from the living room. “Couch.” You followed the sound like it was muscle memory, and sure enough, there he was. Stretched out, socked feet propped on the coffee table, PS5 controller in hand. He had one of his oversized crewnecks on today, sleeves bunched at his elbows, and a look of deep, exaggerated focus on his face. “Boss level?” you asked, plopping down beside him, stealing a throw pillow for your lap.

He smirked. “Don’t talk to me unless you’re here to cheer.” You snorted, curling into the cushions. “Go team murder or whatever.” Yunho laughed through his nose, biting back a grin as he hit a combo. The game lit up the screen in bursts of movement and color, casting a flickering glow across his jawline, one you tried very hard not to track with your eyes. This was good. This was safe. Just two roommates. Two friends. No tension. No awkwardness.

You didn’t even think about what he might’ve been doing last night with his bedroom door shut and headphones in. You didn’t think about the towel incident. Or the voice. Or the sweatpants. You definitely weren’t thinking about how he looked when he came. Nope. Brain cleared. Vibes immaculate.

“By the way,” he said casually, not looking at you. “You used my shampoo this morning.” You blinked. “What?”

“I could smell it,” he said with a shrug. “It’s fine. I don’t care. You smell nice.” Your whole body stiffened slightly, barely. But enough for you to feel it. You played it off with a breathy laugh. “Wow. Bold to call me out on a hair heist in your gamer era.” He side eyed you with a grin. “You just like smelling like me, don’t you?” Your mouth opened but nothing came out. He didn’t even seem to realize what he’d said, his attention fully locked on the boss fight as his thumbs danced across the controller. But your heart? Was not fine.

You lasted maybe twenty minutes on the couch before the day hit you all at once, work stress, kid chaos, a craving for something salty and shameful. Your usual. “I need noodles,” you groaned, stretching your arms over your head like a sleepy cat. “Keep slaying or whatever. I’ll be back.” Yunho grunted in acknowledgment, but you caught the side glance as you stood. Nothing pointed. Just… tracking. You didn’t think too much about it.

Or maybe you did, because instead of staying in your work clothes, you ducked into your room and changed. Just something comfy. Something you’d worn a hundred times. Tiny pajama shorts and a thin tank top. Nothing fancy. Nothing new. Just… soft cotton and bare legs and skin that hadn’t felt cool air since your shower that morning. When you walked back out, the living room was still glowing from the TV, but Yunho’s controller was resting in his lap now. His game was paused. His eyes, however? Not.

He glanced up from his seat, and this time, really looked as you crossed to the kitchen like you didn’t notice, tugging open the cabinet with practiced ease, leaning slightly on your toes to grab the ramen from the top shelf. The movement made your shirt ride up just a little, shorts clinging when you stretched. You felt his gaze linger as the silence stretched behind you, thick and charged. You opened the ramen package, pouring it into the pot with methodical calm, refusing to look back. Acting normal. Like you hadn’t just derailed the entire atmosphere with a pair of shorts. Like his eyes weren’t burning into your spine.

“You want some?” you asked over your shoulder, voice casual, light. There was a beat of silence before he cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, sure.” You grabbed a second pack and tossed it in the pot. Still not looking. Still very aware of how quiet it had gotten behind you. Of the way the air shifted. Of how heavy his stare felt, hot, questioning, different now. And how, for the first time in days, you kind of wanted to turn around and look back.

The ramen boiled fast, faster than your pulse managed to settle. You ladled it into two mismatched bowls, grabbed a pair of chopsticks for each, and turned just in time to see Yunho shifting on the couch to make room. His game controller was set aside now, the screen switched to Netflix, some mindless comfort movie already queued up. “You always make the best instant ramen,” he said, reaching for his bowl as you handed it to him. “It’s literally boiling water and noodles.”

“Yeah, but yours has, like… love.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, flopping down beside him and tucking your legs under you. The couch dipped under your weight, your bare thigh brushing his sweats. You didn’t move. Neither did he. You both stared at the screen as the movie began, the sound of chopsticks clinking against ceramic the only real noise between you. Comfortable. Familiar. Until it wasn’t. Because at some point, your knees bumped again, and Yunho didn’t shift away. If anything, he leaned closer, just a little. Just enough that your shoulders touched. His scent clung to his him like laundry soap, his cedar shampoo, and that faint trace of warm skin you swore was burned into your memory from three nights ago.

You focused hard on the ramen. So hard, you didn’t even register the line in the movie that made him laugh under his breath. But you felt it. The sound of it, soft, genuine, close. You glanced sideways, bowl in hand, just to catch the curve of his grin. And he was already looking at you. Not in a weird way. Not overly intense. Just… watching you eat ramen like it was the most natural thing in the world and your stomach twisted. Not from the noodles. Not even from the memory of his videos. But because for the first time in days… you weren’t panicking. You were melting. Quietly. Slowly. Beside him. In the space where friendship used to be simple.

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It had been a week. Seven full days of you and Yunho slipping back into rhythm like nothing had changed. Like you hadn’t heard his voice through the wall. Like you hadn’t felt it echo through your whole body in the shower. And somehow, it had worked. You’d kept it together. At home, everything was smooth. Movie nights, shared takeout, dumb banter about his messy laundry habits. No weird tension. No awkward looks.

Except for the quiet little moments that made your skin prickle, when his knee bumped yours under the table and didn’t move. Or when he let his fingers linger too long as he passed you the remote. Or when he came out of the shower one morning shirtless and his hair still wet, and all you could think about was what else he might’ve done before rinsing off. You were fine. Until now.

Because now you were walking into his world. Yunho’s parents’ restaurant was tucked into a cozy side street downtown, the kind of place with regulars, warm wood panels, and the smell of magic in every dish. You’d been here a dozen times before, but it felt different today. Maybe because Wooyoung was with you. Or maybe because you hadn’t seen Yunho since that morning, he left for the restaurant early, mumbling something about prep shifts and delivery orders, and you hadn’t texted since.

You adjusted your tote bag and glanced at the menu even though you already knew what you wanted. Wooyoung didn’t. He was too busy scanning the place like he was searching for secrets. “Nice place,” he muttered. “Smells like good decisions and generational guilt.” You snorted. “You’re so weirdly poetic when you’re hungry.”

“No, seriously,” he said, leaning closer. “He works here every day? Like… all day?”

“Pretty much. Prep, lunch rush, dinner service. He runs half the kitchen now.”

Wooyoung gave you a sideways glance, sipping from his water. “So you’re telling me your hot secret camboy roommate also makes killer galbi and probably knows how to dice onions at warp speed?”

You closed your eyes. “Wooyoung…”

“I’m just saying, your future husband is busy.”

Before you could tell him to shut up for the fifth time that day, you heard it. “Y/N!” Yunho’s voice, cheerful and unmistakably his. You turned in your seat just as he emerged from the back, black apron tied around his waist, sleeves pushed up, hair tucked under a cap but still messy from the heat of the kitchen. He looked flushed and golden and like he’d just stepped out of a Kdrama that started with a meet cute and ended with a broken bedframe. He beamed when he saw you. “Didn’t know you were coming by.”

“Last minute lunch,” you said, smiling a little too quickly. “Figured we’d surprise you.” His eyes flicked to Wooyoung, then back to you. “Good surprise.” He said it to both of you, but his gaze lingered on you just a little longer than it should’ve. And you felt it. All over again. That ripple under your skin. That itch in your stomach. Like something was about to change as he took your order.

Yunho flashed you one more grin before disappearing into the kitchen with your order slip, promising “extra crispy egg on top, just how you like it.” His apron strings bounced slightly as he turned, and you didn’t even try to pretend you weren’t watching him walk away. Because how could you not? Tall, flushed from the heat of the kitchen, forearms flexing as he pushed the door open, that damned cap pushed backwards on his head like a personal attack. And Wooyoung saw it. “God,” he said, dragging out the syllable like it physically hurt him. “You are the strongest person I know.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You,” he said, jabbing a finger at you across the table. “You, specifically. The willpower it must take to live with that man, watch his videos, know what he sounds like when he comes, and still walk around fully clothed in his presence…” You tried to shush him, voice low. “Woo…”

“No. No, I’m serious,” he continued, leaning in, voice pitched to the exact level that made it worse. “If it were me? I would’ve climbed him the minute I saw that vein pop in his neck mid stroke.”

Your eyes widened. “JESUS!”

“I mean it!” he hissed, flapping his hands like he was fighting off a holy vision. “He’d be cooking eggs, and I’d be behind him like, Surprise! No pants!” You slapped your palm over your face. “Please shut up.”

“I would’ve been horny homeless,” he said, dead serious now. “My lease would be canceled. My dignity? Gone. I would’ve ridden that man so hard the ghost of his ancestors would’ve felt it.” You were wheezing, forehead hitting the table as you tried to quiet the scream of a bewildered laugh building in your chest as Wooyoung smirked over his drink. “And you… you just eat ramen next to him like he didn’t invent edging. You’re either a saint or a coward. There is no in between.”

You finally sat up, glaring at him. “You’re not allowed to say edging in public.”

“I say edging everywhere.”

And then, of course, the door to the kitchen swung open again, and Yunho walked out with your food. He looked happy. Bright. Unaware. And you couldn’t look at his hands without remembering what they looked like between his own legs. Wooyoung didn’t help. He leaned toward you with a smirk and whispered just as Yunho was setting the plate down, “Saint it is.”

Yunho set your food down with a soft, “Careful, it’s hot,” before sliding in beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was natural. That was the problem. Because nothing about the way your body reacted to his presence felt “friendly” anymore. You grabbed your chopsticks, suddenly hyperaware of how close your thighs were to his under the table.

Yunho glanced at Wooyoung across from you, smiling like a prince hosting court. “Glad you came by. Food okay?”

“Amazing,” Wooyoung said with a grin. “Compliments to the chef.”

“Thanks,” Yunho said, already mid bite. “It’s mostly my mom, but I make the rice like a beast.”

“Oh, I bet you do,” Wooyoung muttered and you kicked him under the table. Hard. Wooyoung cleared his throat, dramatic as ever, then leaned his chin on one hand like he was settling in for an interview. “So, Yunho,” he said. “Tell me about yourself. Any hobbies?” Your entire soul seized as Yunho blinked. “Hobbies?”

Wooyoung smiled sweetly. “Yeah. What do you do for fun? Outside of cooking.” You panicked as your foot flew under the table again and kicked Wooyoung harder in the shin making him jolt. “Shit!” Yunho turned to you, concerned. “You okay?” You smiled with the intensity of a hostage. “Cramp.”

Wooyoung was trying not to laugh, biting his straw and glaring at you across the table as Yunho gave your thigh a gentle pat under the table, just a quick touch, a friendly squeeze, and you almost dropped your chopsticks. “Poor thing,” he said, eyes soft. “You need to stretch more.”

Wooyoung coughed into his drink. “She probably does.”

You kicked him again. Harder. Yunho didn’t seem to notice the minefield you were barely tap dancing through. He kept eating, totally chill. “I don’t really have a ton of hobbies,” he admitted. “Work keeps me busy. I do some freelance stuff on the side. Mostly online. And gaming.”

Your stomach did a full somersault as Wooyoung raised an eyebrow but, mercifully, didn’t take the bait. You shot him a death glare that said, thank you and also shut your entire mouth forever. He winked at you as you turned to your food, stabbed your egg, and told yourself you were absolutely not going to spontaneously combust at this table. Not today. Not in front of your coworker, his bulgogi, and your best friend who moans like a sin you still dream about.

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It was late. The apartment was quiet. just the hum of the fridge, the occasional creak from the hallway, and the faint rhythm of your own breathing as you lay flat on your back in bed, arms spread like you were waiting to be struck by lightning. Yunho had gone to bed over an hour ago. You’d said goodnight casually, like you hadn’t been clutching your chopsticks under the table earlier just to keep your hands from shaking. Like hearing him say “I do some freelance stuff online” hadn’t made your entire body buzz with tension.

You’d nodded. Smiled. Taken it in stride. And then spent the rest of dinner trying not to imagine him on camera, in that room, making a living doing things you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for weeks. You didn’t even realize your phone was in your hand until the screen lit up. Muscle memory. You hesitated. Brows furrowed. Don’t do it. You’re over this.

Except you weren’t.

You opened the site.

His profile was still bookmarked. Top of your private tab. Still no face. Still just the same cropped body shot, abs, towel, chain. But this time… something new. A glowing “recent upload” banner pulsed beneath the thumbnail. New. Posted just last night. The title made your stomach clench, “Could’ve been you.” You blinked as you sat up and clicked it.

The screen went dark for half a second. Your breath hitched. And then he appeared. Soft blue lighting. Bed unmade. Camera lower than usual, catching the edge of his desk chair. Yunho sat lazily back in it, completely bare except for that familiar silver chain around his neck, the cross pendant mocking. Hair tousled like he’d just gotten out of the shower. Eyes low. Lips slightly parted. You swore your heart stopped.

And then he spoke, voice low and smooth and devastating. “You’ve been good for me before. Let me show you how good I can be for you.” Your breath caught in your throat. Not because of what he was doing, not yet, but because of the way he looked. Yunho was leaning back in his chair like he had nowhere else to be, thighs spread wide, body on full display, head tilted slightly. Your entire body went still. Because it wasn’t just the words. It was the way he said them. Soft. Focused. Like he was waiting for a reaction. And suddenly, you weren’t just watching him. You were responding.

Your breath picked up. Your thighs squeezed together. That ache you’d worked so hard to ignore for weeks sparked back to life like it had been waiting right under your skin. He shifted in the chair, legs spreading wider, hand already wrapped around himself. Slow. Lazy. Like he had all the time in the world to drag this out and make whoever was watching feel it. “You always get so shy at first,” he said, voice a little lower now, a little rougher, “but I know what you really want. I can see it.” You swallowed. Hard. Your free hand drifted down, slow, tentative at first, until your fingertips brushed your inner thigh. Your skin was warm. Too warm. You kept watching.

He stroked himself with a rhythm that was cruel in its patience. Like he was imagining someone there. Like he already had a face in mind. “You’d let me take my time, wouldn’t you?” he whispered. “You’d let me ruin you slow.” You gasped, quiet, involuntary, your back pressing into the mattress as your hand slipped beneath your waistband. You didn’t even think. You just felt. Like every part of your body was tethered to him through that screen. Like his voice was inside your head now, curling around every nerve ending, unspooling your restraint one breath at a time. “I’d keep you close. I’d hold your face. I’d make you say my name.” Your fingers moved faster as he groaned, low and wrecked, and your eyes fluttered shut as heat bloomed deep in your core, sharp and sudden. “Say it,” he breathed. “Let me hear you.”

And just like before… “Yunho…” you moaned, broken and quiet, hips arching off the bed as the orgasm hit you hard and fast. You came with your forehead pressed into the crook of your arm, chest heaving, fingers shaking. The screen was still glowing beside you, Yunho still moving through the end of the video, voice soft and satisfied. And all you could think was… that could have been you. And god, you wanted it to be.

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The apartment was dark and still. Just after midnight. Yunho hadn’t meant to wake up. But nature had other plans, and now he was padding barefoot down the hallway, hoodie tugged halfway down his chest, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The place was quiet. Too quiet.

He passed the bathroom and was about to open the door when he paused. Something made him stop. A sound. Soft. Faint. His head tilted. There it was again. A quiet rustle. A breathless noise. Coming from behind your door. He froze, one hand still hovering near the bathroom knob. Then he heard it. His voice. Not yours. His. Through the wall. Muffled. But clear enough to recognize. That low, coaxing tone he only used on camera. That lazy confidence, the kind that curled around syllables like it knew exactly what it was doing. And then a sound from you.

A choked breath. A moan. His name. “Yunho…”

His body went cold and hot at the same time. He stood there, wide awake now, every nerve in his body crackling like static. You were watching him. His videos. And you weren’t just watching. You were… you’d known. You’d known for who knows how long, and you never said a word. His heartbeat spiked. Part disbelief. Part adrenaline. Part something else, something far more dangerous. The idea of you hearing him like that. Touching yourself to him. Saying his name when you came.

He swallowed hard, backing away from your door like it had teeth. Like the sound of your moan had reached out and grabbed him by the throat. He barely remembered getting back to his room. Barely remembered sitting on the edge of his bed, hoodie still half off, staring at nothing. You knew. And now he knew you knew. And there was no pretending after this.

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Saturday morning had always been slow in your apartment. No alarms. No obligations. Just the sun bleeding through the windows, the smell of coffee, and the occasional soft snore drifting from your bedroom well into the late morning. Yunho sat at the kitchen table, staring at his untouched cereal. He’d poured it twenty minutes ago. Milk lukewarm now. Spoon resting on the edge of the bowl. His mind somewhere else entirely.

Your voice.

The way you’d said his name. The way your breath had caught. The soft stutter of your moan, quiet and broken, but not quiet enough. He’d barely slept. Kept hearing you. Kept replaying that one second, that confirmation, you knew. You’d known. And you hadn’t said a word. Which meant something. He just didn’t know what.

The sound of your bedroom door creaked open down the hall, pulling him out of the spiral. Then came the soft shuffle of your feet. The sleepy drag of soles on the floor. He heard you yawn, stretch. Padding into the kitchen like it was any other morning. And then you turned the corner and Yunho nearly choked on air. You were still half asleep, eyes barely open, one hand running through your hair as you wandered toward the fridge. Oversized tshirt swallowing your frame. Just the edge of black panties peeking out when you lifted your arms to stretch again.

That was it. That was all you wore. No pants. No bra. No idea what you were doing to him. And it wasn’t new. You’d done this dozens of times before. But now, after last night? Yunho couldn’t look at you the same. It’s no secret to himself how he’s wanted you for years…. But hearing you moan his name…. His eyes swept over your bare legs, the curve of your thighs, the sliver of skin just beneath the hem of your shirt, and he had to grip the edge of the table to stay grounded.

You rubbed your eye with the back of your hand, voice rough and soft. “Mornin’. Why are you up so early?” He cleared his throat. “Couldn’t sleep.” You pulled out a carton of juice and didn’t even bother with a glass, sipping straight from it before leaning against the counter with a groan. “Ugh. Feel like I got hit by a dream truck.” Yunho smiled, tight. “You remember it?” You blinked over at him, still groggy. “What?” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

You wandered closer, eyes still half lidded, and dropped onto the couch next to him. Shirt riding up slightly. Legs folded. Completely unaware of how undone you looked. And Yunho? He was wrecked. Because now, every time you said his name, he wouldn’t be able to unhear that version. The one whispered into the night. The one coated in pleasure. The one that had made him need to know what would it sound like if you said it to him?

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The apartment was dark, quiet, safe. Your bedroom door was shut. He’d checked twice. He heard nothing from inside, just the soft hum of the fan you always slept with. You were out cold. He should’ve waited until tomorrow. Should’ve skipped tonight. But the truth was, he hadn’t filmed in days. Not since he heard you moan his name from the other side of the wall. And tonight? Tonight it wasn’t about content. Or fans. Or tips. Or routine. Tonight, Yunho was filming because he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

He sat on the edge of the bed, camera already positioned, warm light set to its softest blue setting. Not too bright. Not too staged. Just enough to glow off his skin, to kiss the edge of shadow along his chest and thighs. His chain hung low around his neck, catching the light every time he moved. The camera rolled silently. The timer blinked red. But his eyes weren’t focused on the lens. They were picturing you. The way you looked that morning, bare legs, oversized shirt, hair tangled from sleep. The sleepy rasp in your voice when you said his name like it didn’t mean anything. But it did. It always did.

And now that he knew you’d watched him? That you’d touched yourself to him? It had completely ruined him. He leaned back on his hands, legs parted slightly, breath already uneven. “Could’ve been you,” he murmured again, low and slow, just like in the last video.But this time? He meant it. He imagined your knees on the bed. The press of your thighs straddling his lap. The look in your eyes if he said it out loud, I know what you did. I heard you. Would you panic? Would you lean in and whisper do it again?

He wrapped his hand around himself, slow and steady, biting back the sound that threatened to escape. Not yet. He had to focus. But he couldn’t. Because now, every stroke felt like it was for you. Every shift of his hips, every low breath, every filthy thought was laced with your name. He imagined your mouth. Your fingers. Your moans. Your eyes, wide and watching him from across the room, or maybe from the door. Maybe this time… you’d watch in person. The thought made his breath stutter. He didn’t say much in this one. He couldn’t. Because if he did, he might say your name.

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The classroom was finally quiet. Desks wiped. Chairs stacked. Crayons rounded up from beneath tables like colorful landmines. The after school silence was your favorite part of the day, right after the chaos, right before you had to face whatever chaos was waiting for you at home. Lately, that chaos wore sweatpants and acted like he wasn’t a walking, talking fantasy you accidentally moaned for.

You sighed, tossing a few leftover worksheets into your “grade this later and cry” folder just as a knock tapped against your doorframe. You looked up. “Hey,” the voice came first, warm, slightly sheepish. Mr. New Guy. The fourth grade science teacher. You smiled out of instinct. “Oh…. hey, Jisung.” He stepped inside, looking a little nervous, a little too handsome for a guy who taught plant cycles and could get thirty ten year olds to care about sedimentary rocks. “Didn’t mean to bug you. I just saw your light was still on.”

“Just cleaning up,” you said, straightening a stack of stickers. “Or avoiding my inbox. One of the two.”

He grinned. “Smart.”

There was a pause and you could feel it, awkward and purposeful as he scratched the back of his neck. “So, uh… listen. I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

You blinked. “Okay…”

“I was wondering if you maybe wanted to get dinner sometime? Nothing fancy. Just… outside of school. Where we don’t have to whisper about the copier being jammed again.”

Oh. Oh! You weren’t expecting that. Jisung looked so sincere. And nervous. And you hadn’t been asked out by a normal, age appropriate, non literal porn star coworker in a long time. You opened your mouth to say something… And your brain helpfully supplied the image of Yunho the night before, dragging a hoodie over his bare chest, voice still thick and rough from whatever he’d just filmed behind his closed door. The memory slammed into you like a punch. His voice. His moans. That chain. Your name in your head when you came. You blinked.

Jisung was still waiting and you smiled, soft but unsure. “That’s… really sweet. I just… can I get back to you?”

“Yeah!” he said quickly, waving his hands. “Totally. No pressure at all.” He backed toward the door, cheeks a little flushed. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

The door shut behind him and you sat there, staring at your hands. Yunho hadn’t asked you anything. But somehow… he was the only one you wanted to say yes to.

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Dinner was simple tonight, steamed rice, spicy pork, a few banchan dishes he’d brought back from the restaurant, all laid out between you on the kitchen table like it was any other weeknight. And it should’ve felt normal. But it didn’t. Because you were sitting across from him in a sweatshirt that hung off your shoulder, hair messy from your afternoon nap, cheeks pink from heat, and Yunho couldn’t stop thinking about how just two nights ago he came so hard to the thought of you, he had to stop filming and pretend it was part of the act. He hadn’t touched himself since. Couldn’t. Not when the real thing sat across from him every night and smiled like you didn’t know what you’d done.

You stirred your rice absently. “So, something funny happened today.” Yunho blinked, grateful for the distraction. “What’s that?” You didn’t even look up. “The new science teacher asked me out.” He froze. Spoon halfway to his mouth. Not even breathing. “What?” You glanced at him now, tone casual. “Jisung. He stopped by after class. Asked if I wanted to grab dinner sometime.”

His chest tightened as you didn’t even say it like it was a big deal. Like it meant anything. Like you hadn’t just thrown a grenade into the center of his chest and kept on chewing your kimchi like you hadn’t heard the explosion. “Oh.” He set his spoon down slowly, forcing a small laugh. “That guy.” You squinted at him. “You’ve never met him.”

“Don’t need to.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely. “Anyone asking you out is automatically suspicious.” That made you laugh. “What, you think he’s got evil intentions?”

“No. I think he’s got obvious ones.”

Your brows lifted. “Which are?”

Yunho met your gaze now, steady. Sharp. “Same ones I’d have if you weren’t my best friend.” The air went still between you. You blinked. He didn’t look away. Just waited as you cleared your throat. Didn’t look up. Didn’t smile. Just shifted slightly in your seat, dragged a few grains of rice through the leftover sauce, and said, cool as you pleased, “Maybe I should say yes. I mean… it’s been a while. Since my ex.”

Yunho felt that hit like a punch under his ribs. His grip on his chopsticks tightened, just barely, but enough that he had to set them down again before they snapped. You kept eating. Calm. Relaxed. Like you hadn’t just thrown him into a spiral so fast he could barely see straight. He studied your face. The tilt of your lashes. The slight flush in your cheeks. The way your lips wrapped around your next bite like you weren’t saying anything world shattering. Like you weren’t talking about letting someone else touch you.

He swallowed hard. “So you’re thinking about it?” You shrugged. “I mean… why not?” Why not. Yunho laughed. Quiet. Almost bitter and you finally looked up. “What?” He leaned back, stretching his arms out behind his chair like he needed to do something to bleed out the tension. “It’s just funny.”

“What is?”

“That you think you haven’t been with anyone since your ex.”

You blinked, brows furrowing as he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe not physically. Sure. But come on, baby.” You stiffened. Baby? It just slipped out. Too honest. Too fast. But he didn’t take it back. He leaned forward again, eyes on yours. “After everything I’ve heard… everything I know… are you really gonna sit here and pretend I haven’t already wrecked you without even touching you?” Silence. The kitchen clock ticked loud enough to fill it.

Yunho didn’t look away. Neither did you. He could see it, right there in your face. That flicker of heat, of guilt, of something so deep it nearly made him forget where he was. He didn’t know if you were going to laugh, yell, or kiss him. But god, he hoped it wasn’t the first one.

You blinked like you hadn’t heard him right. Like you hadn’t moaned his name in the dark, hadn’t come to the sound of his voice, hadn’t watched him over and over again behind a locked door with your fingers between your thighs. “Yunho…” you said slowly, setting your bowl down, nervous laugh escaping as you shook your head. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He raised a brow as you bit your lip. Eyes wide. Too wide. “I mean… wrecked me?” you laughed again, high and off key. “That’s… dramatic, don’t you think?” Yunho leaned forward across the table, elbows on the wood, hands clasped like he was studying you. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying,” you said too quickly.

“You don’t flinch when you’re lying,” he said, voice lower now. “You get quiet. Look down. Bite your cheek. I’ve known you for almost a decade. Don’t play dumb.”

You opened your mouth, and nothing came out as he tilted his head slightly. “I heard you. You didn’t mean to be loud,” he added, quieter. “But it was late. And the walls are thin. And you said my name.”

Your entire face changed. A flicker of heat. Shame. Panic. Desire. You dropped your eyes to the table. And he knew. It wasn’t just once. You hadn’t accidentally clicked that video. You hadn’t accidentally come to him. You hadn’t accidentally moaned his name like it belonged to you. “I didn’t mean for you to hear,” you whispered.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he said. “But I’m not sorry.” Your eyes snapped to his as he leaned closer, voice low and steady. “You watched me, baby. Over and over. You heard me, felt me, and now you want to pretend it didn’t happen?” He shook his head. “No. That’s not happening.”

You looked frozen. Breath shallow as Yunho smiled, soft, but laced with heat. “Unless you want me to stop. Unless you want me to pretend too.” He let it hang there. The invitation. The challenge. The truth.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The classroom was loud. Markers squeaked across whiteboards. Chairs scraped tile. A kid in the back was pretending his pencil was a lightsaber, making whooshing sounds like he was the Jedi of math. You weren’t hearing any of it. Because your brain had checked out somewhere around 8:00 a.m., the second you walked into the building still echoing with the memory of Yunho’s voice from the night before. “You watched me, baby.” Your stomach flipped just remembering it. You’d gone to bed without saying anything. Without even turning off your bedside light. Just laid there in bed, hands clenched in the sheets, heart racing, trying to understand how you were supposed to live with him now, eat breakfast with him, split the water bill, pass him in the hallway…. when he knew.

He’d heard you. He’d called you out. And you’d panicked. Denied. Like a coward. And what did he do? He looked right into your eyes, called you baby again, and said “I’m not sorry.”

“Miss?” a little voice snapped you back to reality. “Miss, your marker’s broken.” You looked down. You’d been holding a dry erase marker against the board, unmoving. A big purple streak stained the sleeve of your cardigan. You didn’t even care. “Right,” you said, clearing your throat. “Sorry.” A few of the kids blinked at you, concerned in that way only 10 year olds could be when their teacher malfunctioned. You managed to finish the lesson. Kind of.

After dismissal, you stayed behind like you always did, papers to grade, emails to ignore, but mostly, to sit in your desk chair and breathe. You pulled your phone out of your drawer like it might bite you. No texts. No calls. Nothing from Yunho. But you could still hear him like he was whispering in your ear. You hated how much you wanted him to call you baby again.

You barely looked up when the door creaked open. “Please be a wine delivery,” you muttered. “Close. It’s me,” Wooyoung announced, strutting in like he owned the school. “And I brought gossip.” You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because just seeing him made the entire night before slam back into your brain like a freight train. He raised an eyebrow, immediately suspicious. “Why do you look like you just saw a ghost? Or worse… your ex.” You looked at him. Dead in the eyes. And then you said it. “He knows.” Wooyoung blinked. “Who knows what?”

“Yunho,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Yunho knows. About the videos. About me knowing. He…. he knows I know.” Wooyoung dropped his bag on the floor like it personally offended him. “What.”

“I was in my room a few nights ago,” you rushed out. “Watching one of his newer ones…”

“Oh my god!”

“and I said his name when I…. when I came, okay?” you hissed, whispering like the whiteboards had ears. “And he heard me, Woo. He was in the hallway. I didn’t even realize he was there…. he called me out last night… called me baby and…. and said he wasn’t sorry.” Wooyoung covered his mouth like he was trying to contain an earthquake. His whole body shook. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was joking,” you groaned, collapsing into your chair. “He called you baby?? Like sexy baby? Not, aw baby, but like, you’re watching me get off, aren’t you, baby?”

“Woo!”

“I need a cigarette.”

“You don’t even smoke!”

“I do now!”

You rubbed your temples while he paced like a game show contestant on the final question. “You’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that Yunho…. your sweet best friend roommate Yunho…. knows you’ve been getting off to his secret camboy alter ego. And instead of being mad, he called you baby and said he wasn’t sorry.”

You nodded once and Wooyoung stared. Then grinned like the devil. “Well,” he said, “guess you won’t be needing that new teacher date after all.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The apartment was still. Too still. Yunho’s door was wide open, which meant he wasn’t home. Which also meant it was safe. Now you were sitting cross legged on your bed, hoodie half zipped, blanket barely hanging onto your shoulders like it could protect you from your own worst impulses. You hovered over the new video. Your heart beat too fast. This was a bad idea. This was a terrible idea.

You clicked it anyway. The video opened with black. A beat of silence. And then his voice. Low. Smooth. Familiar. Way too familiar. “Hi,” he said, shirtless, those same damn gray sweats, face on display for once, hair pushed back like he’d run his fingers through it a thousand times, staring directly into the camera. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

Your stomach dropped. Your mouth went dry as Yunho leaned closer on the screen, elbows on his knees now, gaze way too intimate. “Wondering if you’ve been watching,” he murmured. “If you’re still touching yourself to me like you did that night.” You froze. There’s no way. There’s no way this video was public. This… this was too specific. Too targeted. Like he was talking to you. “You were so loud,” he said. “You didn’t even realize, did you?”

He leaned back, hand dragging up his chest to rest at his throat. “Say my name again,” he whispered, eyes half lidded. “Like you did then.” Your hand was trembling where it sat on your thigh. He hadn’t even touched himself yet. And already, you were losing it. You swallowed hard, heart pounding in your ears, thighs pressed tight together. Was this for you? Was this really for you? Because it felt like it. It felt like every glance into the camera was a dare. Every word was meant for your ears only.

He licked his lips. Shifted in his seat. And then finally, “You’ve been so patient,” Yunho murmured. “So good. So quiet. But I heard you.” You clapped a hand over your mouth, your entire body going rigid. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was a confession. You slammed your laptop shut like it had personally offended you. Like it hadn’t just made you come apart at the seams without even touching you. Like Yunho’s voice, his voice, hadn’t just whispered the most intimate filth you’d ever heard directly into your soul.

Your pulse was still pounding in your ears. Your legs were shaky. You needed a drink. You all but stumbled into the kitchen, bare feet slapping softly against the hardwood, your fingers curling around the fridge handle like it might steady you. You didn’t even hesitate. You grabbed the bottle of soju from the back, the one Yunho had forgotten about, green glass chilled, frosted slightly at the neck. No shot glass. Just the bottle.

You twisted the cap off with trembling fingers and tilted it back, taking a long, burning pull that did absolutely nothing to cool your insides. The heat in your cheeks had nothing to do with alcohol. And your thighs still clenched together like they had a mind of their own. You took another swig as the front door opened and you nearly choked.

“Hey,” Yunho called casually as he stepped in, keys jingling as he tossed them into the bowl near the door. “Smells like ramen in here….” He stopped mid sentence when he rounded the corner and saw you. You. Standing in the kitchen. In sleep shorts and a hoodie that barely covered your ass. Hair a mess. Soju bottle lifted halfway to your mouth. Face flushed, pupils still blown, practically radiating guilt.

Yunho blinked.

You blinked back.

“Rough day?” he asked slowly, voice cautious but teasing. “Or are we just going full frat boy tonight?” You scrambled, setting the bottle down too hard on the counter. “I…. I couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s only nine,” he said with a raised brow.

“Then I couldn’t… not sleep. Whatever.”

Yunho smirked faintly, stepping toward the fridge and opening it like this wasn’t the weirdest moment of your entire life. “You want a chaser or are we pretending that’s water?” You shrugged, trying to act normal. Casual. Chill. “I’m good,” you muttered as he pulled out a bottle of water for himself, cracking the cap open. “Want me to make popcorn? You look like you’re in a very specific kind of mood.”

You didn’t trust your voice. So you just nodded, backing up slowly and gripping the counter for dear life as he turned toward the stove. He was wearing those damn grey sweatpants again. You had to look away. You were acting weird again.

Not weird like last week, where you were jumpy and flushed every time he came around. This was different. Too calm. Too still. Like you were actively trying not to be weird and it was making you way weirder. Yunho stirred the pot on the stove, but he wasn’t focused on the popcorn. His eyes kept drifting over his shoulder, drawn to the way you stood there like you were rooted to the tile, gripping the edge of the counter like it was keeping you upright. Cheeks pink. Lips parted. Still holding that half empty bottle of soju like a lifeline.

Something had you rattled. And he was willing to bet a whole month’s worth of OnlyFlans tips that he knew exactly what. He glanced at you again. Your eyes snapped away like you hadn’t just been staring and a slow smirk tugged at his mouth. Yeah. He knew. He turned the stove off. “You see it?” he asked suddenly, cutting through the silence.

You blinked. “See what?”

Yunho took a slow step toward you, tilting his head slightly, like he could read every flicker of guilt in your expression. His voice dropped, low, teasing, but pointed. “My new video.” Your throat bobbed. “W… What video?” Another step. Now only the narrow kitchen counter was between you as he leaned in just slightly, enough that his words felt heavier, like they were pressing against your skin. “The one I posted last night.”

He saw it, the way your fingers tightened on the bottle, the way your legs shifted like you suddenly forgot how to stand. You didn’t answer and that smirk of his curved higher. A little cruel. A little cocky. “Are you gonna lie to me?” he asked, voice soft, heat buried under every syllable. “Or are you gonna tell me how many times you watched it?” You opened your mouth and closed it as Yunho moved around the counter, now fully in front of you, towering. Barely inches between you. “Well?” he murmured. “You gonna answer me?”

You hesitated. And that was all the answer he needed. Still, you gave it a shot, eyes darting to the side, lips twitching into something that wanted to pass for casual. “Video? Oh, that…. uh, no. I was just scrolling. Didn’t even have the sound on.” Yunho blinked. Then laughed. Just once. Low and disbelieving. “No sound?” he repeated, taking another step toward you. “That’s funny…” Your breath hitched as he tilted his head, watching you. Watching the cracks start to splinter through your fake calm. You weren’t good at lying. Not to him.

“You know…” Yunho said slowly, pretending to think, like this wasn’t already seared into his brain. “You said my name. Loud. Real soft at first,” he stepped close enough that the bottle in your hand bumped his chest. “But then you moaned it, baby. Whispered it like a prayer.“

Your lashes fluttered. “Yunho…”

“Mm. Just like that,” he said, voice a quiet taunt, warm and thick and curling around you like smoke. “You sounded so needy. So pretty.” You swallowed hard. “I wasn’t…” He reached out, curling his fingers lightly around your wrist, lifting the bottle from your grip with infuriating ease. “You wanna try that again?” he asked, tone playful but loaded. “Or are we finally done pretending?”

Your mouth parted. He could see it, your brain short circuiting, heart beating like it wanted to climb right out of your chest. But your legs? Still not moving. “You watched it,” Yunho said, cocking a brow. “Did you like it?” You were silent as he took another step, cornering you now, back against the cabinets. “Did you come to it?” That one landed like a punch.

You gasped, scandalized, probably, but your thighs pressed together, and that told him everything. His smile dropped lower, darker, as he leaned in. His voice barely a breath against your ear. “You touch yourself to me again, sweetheart… I want you to leave the volume up this time.” You blinked up at him, wide eyed and breathless, still pressed against the kitchen counter like you weren’t sure if you wanted to run or pull him closer. “You’re my best friend,” you said finally, a whisper like it actually hurt to say it out loud. “You’re my…. my best friend, Yunho…”

He tilted his head, that dark, knowing smile pulling at his lips. “Yeah. I know.” Your hands came up to push against his chest, weak and half hearted. “I can’t…. I can’t want you like that.”

“But you do.”

“Yunho…”

“I’ve wanted you since the day we met.”

Your breath hitched. He said it so simply. Like it wasn’t some world shifting confession. Like it wasn’t about to detonate everything you thought you were. “I didn’t say anything because I knew you weren’t ready. You had that boyfriend. You were hurting. You needed me to be safe.” His eyes dropped to your lips, his voice dropping with them. “But now? You moan my name when you think I’m not listening. You watch me like you’re starving, like you’ve been starving.”

He leaned in, nose brushing yours, breaths colliding in the charged air between you. “You want me,” he said, hushed but firm. “And I’m done pretending I don’t want you too.” Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He hovered there, waiting. Letting the silence throb between you, heavy and warm and full of tension so thick it could break you both. “Say the word, baby,” Yunho whispered. “And I’ll ruin the way you say best friend forever.”

Your lips were parted, eyes wide, chest heaving against the oversized hoodie like you’d just been dropped into someone else’s life. And maybe you had. Because the man in front of you wasn’t just Yunho, your messy, snack hoarding, laundry ignoring, ramen obsessed best friend. This was RadiantYu. Voice like sin. Fingers like ruin. Tongue like temptation. And he was looking at you like he already had you under him.

“Say it,” he whispered again, breath warm against your cheek. “Tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want me.” Your hands were still on his chest. But they weren’t pushing anymore. They were fisting in the soft fabric of his shirt. Holding on. “I don’t…” His brows ticked up slightly. You’d barely gotten one syllable out before your body betrayed you. “want to stop,” you whispered. The teasing melted out of Yunho’s face, and what replaced it made your stomach drop straight into heat. His pupils dilated. That lazy smirk was gone. He looked like a man who had just been handed permission. “Say that again,” he murmured.

“I don’t want to stop.” You barely finished the last word before he was on you. Yunho surged forward and grabbed your face with both hands, lips crashing into yours like he couldn’t hold back a second longer. His mouth was hot and open, tongue sliding against yours, swallowing your startled gasp as he stepped into you, pressing you back into the counter like he wanted you embedded in it. And then he lifted you. One smooth motion, his hands gripped under your thighs, body flush against yours and you were off the ground with a soft yelp against his lips. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, arms locking around his shoulders as he turned and walked you toward the hall.

You didn’t even have time to process it. He was carrying you straight into his bedroom. The same room you’d seen in shadows and soft lighting, in cropped frames and half glimpses on a screen for weeks now because you couldn’t bring yourself to go in there after watching that first video Wooyoung had sent you. The same room where his voice had undone you in the dark.

The door swung open behind you with a quiet thud, your back pressed to it as he kicked it shut. Yunho’s lips never left yours. The walk was a blur. A blur of breathless kisses, wandering hands, his fingers slipping under the hem of your hoodie. He didn’t throw you onto the bed. He sat you on it. Slow. Deliberate. And when you leaned back on your hands, legs parted just slightly on the edge of the mattress, Yunho stood over you like he was starving.

He leaned down, mouth brushing your throat, and you felt it, the shift. This wasn’t the friend you watched movies with. This wasn’t even the camboy you watched through your screen. This was Yunho, in the flesh, in his room, about to make you his. His mouth dragged along your neck, open mouthed kisses, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. One of his hands was at your waist, the other sliding under the back of your hoodie as he kissed you like he’d waited years for this moment. His hand gripped your thigh now, sliding up, palm warm and heavy as he kissed you once more, slow this time, then pulled back. Not far. Just enough that you could see his eyes. Dark. Focused. Hungry in a way that made your stomach tighten.

Your heart skipped. For half a second you wondered if you’d crossed a line, but then he straightened, gaze never leaving yours, and reached behind him. For his gaming chair. The same one. The black chair with the worn armrests, the slight squeak when it rolled. The one you’d seen him sink into a hundred times on screen, legs spread, body relaxed like he owned the world. He dragged it closer to the bed and turned it so it faced you directly. Then he sat. Slow. Casual. Spreading his legs just slightly, forearms resting on his thighs. He looked exactly like he did in the videos, but worse. Real. Close enough that you could see the way his chest rose with each breath. “Show me.”

You blinked. “Show you… what?”

He tilted his head, lips curling into that knowing half smile, the one that had ruined you more than once through a screen. “How you do it,” he said softly. “When you watch me.” Your pulse thundered in your ears as he leaned back into the chair, fingers gripping the armrests like he was restraining himself on purpose. “I wanna see how you touch yourself,” he continued, voice calm, steady. “How you get off to me.”

Heat rushed straight to your face. “Yunho….”

“No,” he interrupted gently. Not sharp. Not angry. Just firm. “You’ve watched me. You’ve heard me. You’ve come to me.” His eyes dragged slowly over you, taking in the way you sat on the bed, knees parted just enough to give him a glimpse of skin. “Now it’s my turn.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his thighs, voice dropping. “Show me what you do when it’s just you and a screen.” Your breath came shallow. Your fingers curled into the blanket beneath you. This was different. This wasn’t him taking control the way you’d expected. This was him watching. Studying. Letting you expose yourself exactly the way you had in private.

“I want to see your hands,” he said quietly. “I want to see your face when you start thinking about me.” His gaze lifted to yours, unwavering. “Don’t rush,” Yunho murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.” The silence stretched. Yunho didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sat in that damn chair like a living temptation, legs spread, eyes dark, waiting. The same chair where you’d watched him touch himself night after night. The same angle. The same distance. Only now, you were the one being watched.

Your breath trembled as your fingers drifted to the waistband of your pajama shorts and his gaze dropped instantly when you hooked your thumbs beneath the soft fabric, and Yunho’s jaw tensed, just a little, as you began to ease them down. Inch by inch. Past your hips, your thighs, dragging the cotton slow over your skin. You let them fall to the floor with a soft sound that felt too loud in the quiet room. But Yunho didn’t speak. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t tease. His eyes were locked between your legs.

Your panties clung to you, soaked through. The thin cotton was dark with wetness, the evidence of just how wrecked you were from the moment he pulled you into this room, maybe even earlier. Yunho’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Already wet for me,” he murmured, voice low and reverent as you swallowed, still sitting on the edge of his bed, legs parted slightly, panties sticking to your core like a second skin. Your breath came faster, chest rising and falling, heart thudding like it might crack your ribs. And Yunho just sat back deeper into his chair. “Take them off,” he said, voice soft, steady. “Nice and slow.”

You nodded once, barely, and your fingers trembled as you reached for the waistband of your panties. Yunho’s eyes tracked every motion. The way your thighs shifted. The way your breath hitched when your fingertips brushed the slick fabric. You lifted your hips, peeled them down, slow, just like he asked, and he exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath the entire time. When you tossed them to the side, Yunho’s eyes flicked down. You were bare. And dripping. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, palms spread open on his thighs like he was bracing himself. “Now…” he said quietly, gaze climbing back to yours, “show me.”

Your fingers hovered between your thighs. You could feel how wet you were, heat slick and pulsing, but when you finally moved to touch yourself, your hand slowed. Stilled. Your breath caught, and you glanced up at him, lashes fluttering like you’d been caught doing something forbidden.

“I…” you swallowed. “It’s not… silent when I….” The words came out small. Honest. Yunho froze. Not because you stopped, but because he understood. His eyes softened first. The hunger stayed, but something else layered over it now, recognition. Intention. He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, voice dropping instinctively. “You need my voice,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question. You nodded once, embarrassed, fingers curling into the sheets instead of touching yourself. “I can’t… I don’t finish if it’s quiet. Not when it’s you.”

Something dark and satisfied flickered behind his eyes as Yunho exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back like he was settling into something familiar. Comfortable. The chair creaked softly beneath him as he leaned back, legs spreading just a bit wider, hands resting loosely on his thighs. “Okay,” he murmured. His voice changed, not louder, just fuller. Rich. The same cadence you knew too well. The one that slid under your skin and curled there. “Go on,” Yunho said softly. “Touch yourself.”

Your fingers trembled as they finally moved, brushing over your clit, and he watched your face like it was the only thing in the room. “That’s it,” he continued, voice smooth and coaxing. “Just like you do when you’re alone.” Your breath hitched as his words wrapped around you, warmth flooding low in your belly as your fingers pressed just a little firmer. “Good,” he murmured. “You look so pretty like this. All open for me.”

Your hips shifted instinctively, chasing the sound of him, the presence of him. “And you don’t have to be quiet,” Yunho added, voice dipping. “I already know what you sound like when you come, remember.” He watched the way your fingers circled yourself, slow and tentative at first, your hips rocking just a little as his voice filled the room. The chair creaked softly when he leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the way your hand moved. “Just like that,” he murmured. “Don’t be shy now. You’re already soaked.”

Your breath hitched when his voice dipped lower, thicker, the voice. The one that always got you in the videos. Your fingers pressed a little firmer, drawing a soft sound from your throat before you could stop it and Yunho’s jaw tightened. “That’s it,” he said quietly. “Let me hear you.” You whimpered, head tipping back as your fingers slid through slick heat, your body responding instantly to the sound of him watching you. Every nerve felt lit up, tuned only to his voice.

“Good,” Yunho murmured, approval warm and steady. “You sound so good when you stop holding back.” Your thighs trembled as the moans came easier now, your hips moving in slow, needy rolls against your hand. You could feel how close you were already, how fast he was winding you up just by talking. And then his tone changed. Firm. Certain. “Put them in.” Your eyes snapped to his. “Yunho…”

“Fingers,” he clarified calmly, like this was the most natural thing in the world. “I know you do it. I’ve watched you tense every time you get close.” His gaze dropped to your hand, unblinking. “So don’t tease yourself now.” Your breath shook as you obeyed. One finger slid inside you easily, your moan breaking louder this time, back arching off the mattress. Yunho’s chest rose with a slow inhale, his voice rougher when he spoke again. “Yeah… that’s it,” he said. “You feel how wet you are? That’s all for me.”

Your hips bucked, fingers curling instinctively, and he nodded once, pleased. “Add another,” Yunho said quietly. “Go on. Fuck yourself.” The words sent a sharp pulse straight through you. Your second finger slid in, stretching you just enough to make you gasp, a broken sound tearing out of your chest as your body clenched around them. “Good girl,” Yunho murmured, voice warm with approval. “Now move them. Slow. I want to see you fall apart.”

You were gone. Completely lost in it, fingers moving without thought now, sliding in and out of you in a rhythm your body had memorized from nights alone with his voice in your ears. Wet sounds filled the room, obscene and real, your hips lifting to meet your hand every time you thrust your fingers deeper. Your moans were loud now. Unchecked. And Yunho didn’t tell you to quiet down. He stood.

The chair rolled back softly as he stepped toward you, slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact. You barely registered it, too far gone, too focused on the way your body was tightening, coiling, every nerve buzzing like it was about to snap. “That’s it,” he murmured, closer now. “Just like that. Fuck yourself for me.” Your fingers curled inside you and you gasped, head falling back, chest arching as the pressure built fast and sharp. Your thighs trembled, slick heat spilling over your hand as you chased it harder, faster.

“Yunho!” his name broke out of you, breathless and wrecked. He was right there now. Standing at the edge of the bed. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Close enough that he could see everything as your hips bucked hard as your orgasm hit you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. You cried out his name again, loud and broken, fingers still buried inside you as your body clenched tight around them. A soft splash of your slick hit the sheets beneath you, spotting his bed as you came undone, back bowing, mouth open in a breathless moan that didn’t stop until the tremors finally started to fade.

Yunho watched every second of it. Your name on his lips this time, silent, but there. You sagged back against the mattress, chest heaving, fingers slipping from you as the last shudder rolled through your body. The room was thick with your breathing, the scent of sex, the undeniable proof of what you’d just done for him. Before you could even catch your breath, Yunho reached for you.

His hand closed around your wrist, firm, warm, and he lifted it slowly, eyes never leaving yours. Your fingers were still slick, trembling faintly from the aftershocks, and you sucked in a breath when he brought them to his mouth. “Look at me,” he said quietly. You did as Yunho’s lips closed around your fingers. Slow. Unhurried. He sucked them clean, tongue warm as he dragged it along your skin, eyes dark and focused on your face while he tasted you like it was something he’d been starving for. The sound was obscene, wet and intimate, and your hips twitched helplessly in response.

When he pulled your fingers from his mouth, they were clean. Shining. And then he dropped. Right there between your legs, Yunho sank to his knees at the edge of the bed. One hand pressed into the mattress beside your thigh as the other pushed gently at your hip, guiding you farther back onto the bed. “Up,” he murmured. You went willingly, breath shaky as you scooted back, palms braced behind you. Yunho followed you, crawling, slow, controlled, body close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him. He moved like he had all the time in the world, like this wasn’t about rushing to anything but about making you feel every second of it.

His mouth traced the inside of your thigh as he advanced, kisses open and warm, stopping just short of where you wanted him most. His hands spread your legs wider, thumbs pressing into your skin like he was claiming space. “You did so good for me,” he murmured against you, breath hot. “Made such a mess in my bed.” You whimpered softly as his lips hovered there, not touching yet, making you ache for it. “And now,” Yunho said quietly, lifting his head just enough for you to see his eyes, “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

His lips dragged up your inner thigh, soft and wet, just barely grazing where you needed him most before veering off again. You gasped, frustrated, aching, and Yunho just chuckled against your skin. “Thought about this too many times to count,” he murmured, trailing another open mouthed kiss higher. “How you’d taste… how you’d sound.” His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging gently into your skin like he needed to feel you open for him. His mouth hovered above your dripping core, but he didn’t go there yet.

Instead, he looked up at you. His voice was low, almost conversational, but laced with heat. “You know how it started?” You blinked down at him, dazed. “W… what?”

“The whole camboy thing,” he said, mouth brushing your thigh again, one slow kiss after another, almost reverent now. “Wasn’t some grand plan. Wasn’t even about money at first.” Your heart was pounding again. “I just couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he whispered, tongue flicking out to taste the crease of your thigh, making you twitch. “And I was jerking off so much… to the idea of you…” His mouth pressed hot against your skin. “It got to the point where I figured… if I’m gonna keep doing it, I might as well get paid for it.”

Your breath caught. “Yunho…”

His voice dropped lower, rough with truth. “I used to film the videos and think about you watching. Pretend it was your name I was saying. Your mouth I wanted.” He kissed higher, closer now, so close it made your thighs tremble. “You were always the reason.” And then he stopped talking. He looked up at you once more, and dove in. His tongue licked through your folds in one slow, devastating drag that pulled a full body shudder from you. He moaned into you like he was finally getting a fix he’d been denied too long, one hand sliding under your thigh to hook it over his shoulder as his mouth sealed over you. Warm. Wet. Unrelenting.

You cried out, head tipping back as his tongue moved in tight, practiced circles, confident, filthy, familiar. Just like his videos, but now it was real. Now it was you. And god, he ate like a man with something to prove. He groaned into you, low, guttural, like he felt your taste hit his tongue. And then he changed pace. No more slow licks. No more teasing flicks of his tongue. He thrust into you.

His mouth sealed tight as his tongue pushed inside you again and again, fucking you with wet, obscene precision. Each stroke was firm, focused, filthy. It was so much. Too much. You screamed his name as your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling, tugging instinctively, hard, and he groaned again at the feeling, the sound vibrating straight through you. He didn’t stop. He gripped your thighs tighter, holding you open as his tongue worked deeper, faster, dragging you to the edge with ruthless rhythm. Every moan that tore out of your throat only spurred him on. Every pull of his hair made him dig in harder, like he wanted to crawl inside you.

And god, the sounds, wet, loud, echoing off the walls of his bedroom. The same room you used to watch him from a screen. The same mouth that used to whisper filth to his camera was now buried in you, giving you everything you’d only imagined as your back arched. Hips rolled. He matched your rhythm, tongue plunging into you again and again until your body was shaking, sweat damp and gasping, chasing that high with a desperation that felt like fire in your veins. “Please,” you whimpered, voice breaking. “Don’t stop…. please, Yunho…”

He growled low and pulled you even closer, burying himself deeper. You didn’t know how much longer you could take it. Your body was shaking, slick and soaked, fingers still tangled in Yunho’s hair as he dragged one last slow lick through your folds before lifting his head. His lips were swollen, chin wet, eyes dark and wild. Then, his hand replaced his mouth. Two fingers slipped into you, slow and smooth, and you cried out at the stretch, so familiar from your own touch, but deeper, thicker, him. Yunho watched your face closely as he eased them all the way in, curling just slightly, testing as you gasped. Your whole body twitched.

“There she is,” he murmured. His free hand gripped the hem of your hoodie. “Take this off.” You sat up just enough, dazed and pliant, arms lifting shakily as he pulled it over your head, slow, careful, like he was unwrapping something sacred. When it hit the floor, you were finally, completely bare for him. Yunho froze for a beat. Just looking. Like he’d imagined this moment a thousand times and reality still hit harder. Then he moved, climbed over you slowly, fingers still deep inside you, and brought his mouth to your chest.

His lips wrapped around your nipple without a word, tongue flicking once before sucking hard, and at the same moment, his fingers thrust into you, deep and slow. You moaned, arching into him, overwhelmed by the way he filled your body and claimed your skin all at once. His pace picked up. Still not fast. Just firm. Steady. Confident. Each pump of his fingers was matched with a kiss to your breast, tongue circling, teeth grazing, his breath warm against your skin as you moaned his name again and again, legs falling wider, hands clutching at his shoulders now, needing something to hold on to.

“You feel so good,” Yunho muttered between kisses, voice rough against your chest. “You don’t even know.” You were too far gone to answer. You just spread your legs farther and took it. You couldn’t think. Not with Yunho’s fingers pumping into you like that, deep and deliberate, curling just right with every thrust, hitting the spot that made your vision blur and your toes curl. Your body was stretched beneath him, flushed and bare, thighs trembling as he hovered over you, lips trailing wet kisses across your chest while his hand worked between your legs with merciless rhythm.

Every time his fingers curled, you whimpered. Every time his mouth sucked at your breast, you shook. “Yunho… fuck, I…..” He looked up at you through his lashes, lips slick, eyes dark with heat. “You close, baby?” he murmured, voice low and knowing. “You gonna come all over my fingers?” You nodded, desperate, breathless, your hands fisting the sheets now as your hips rocked up into his touch without control and his pace quickened. Not fast, just harder. More pressure. His palm dragged against your clit now with every thrust, slick sounds filling the room, echoing with every needy moan you couldn’t hold back.

“Let it happen,” he whispered, mouth against your nipple again, sucking hard as he thrust deep once, twice….. And you broke. Your back arched off the bed with a strangled cry as your orgasm hit violently, your whole body clenching around his fingers. You screamed his name, loud, wrecked, and then shuddered, legs spasming uncontrollably. A sudden splash of wetness burst out of you, soaking his hand, his wrist, the sheets beneath as you squirted, shaking, twitching, thighs locking around his arm as he kept fucking you through it.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, eyes wide, watching you lose it completely. You couldn’t stop trembling. Couldn’t stop panting. Your hips jerked one more time, slick still dripping down the inside of your thigh, and Yunho slowly, finally, eased his fingers out of you—soaked, and stared at the mess you made on his hand. And then at you. Utterly ruined. Chest heaving. Mouth parted. Still shaking. “Goddamn,” he whispered. “You came so hard for me.”

Yunho didn’t even give you time to catch your breath. The second your orgasm began to fade, he was right back on you, dropping between your thighs like a man starved, his mouth locking onto your soaked cunt with a groan that vibrated against your sensitive skin. You gasped, legs twitching, back arching, as he sucked your clit into his mouth again, tongue dragging through your slick like he couldn’t get enough. “Yunho… fuck, please….” you whimpered, thighs trembling as the overstimulation lit your nerves on fire.

But he loved it. Loved how sensitive you were. How you twitched under his mouth. How your body tried to pull away even as your hands tangled in his hair, dragging him closer. He ate you like he was trying to memorize the taste. When you were gasping his name again, legs falling open wider, breath catching on every ragged moan, he finally pulled back, his lips shiny, pupils blown wide. And then he started kissing his way up.

Slow, open mouthed kisses at your hips. Your belly. Your ribs. One long drag of his tongue up your sternum. His hands framing your waist like he couldn’t let go even if he tried. By the time he reached your lips, your fingers were already tugging at his shirt, gripping the hem, dragging it up, needing him out of it. “Take it off,” you breathed against his mouth. “I want you naked too.” Yunho smiled, low, lazy, dangerous. “Yeah?” he whispered, sitting back on his knees between your thighs. “You want the whole show now?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Your hands were already fisting the fabric, pulling his shirt higher until he yanked it over his head and tossed it somewhere behind him, revealing all that golden skin, flexed muscle, and fuck, that perfect line down his torso that led to everything you wanted next. He was gorgeous. And he was all yours.Yunho didn’t even get the chance to smirk again before you were on him, hands tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants with zero patience left in your system. “Off,” you demanded, voice thick with heat, pupils blown wide as you shoved at the soft fabric like it personally offended you.

He laughed, low and rough, but lifted his hips, helping you drag the pants down over his thighs. The second they were off, they hit the floor with a soft thud, his boxers quickly following. And then you saw him. Not through a screen. Not with a grainy filter or a chat window popping up. No camera angles, no distance, no delay. Just him. Thick, flushed, heavy against his stomach, already leaking at the tip. Gorgeous in a way that made your mouth water and your thighs press together instinctively. You swallowed hard. “Fuck…”

Your hand wrapped around him before either of you could blink, fingers curling, wrist twisting a little as you gave the first slow stroke. His breath caught, abs flexing as his hands fisted the sheets beside you as you pumped him again, slower this time. Eyes locked on his face just to watch it change. “Is this how you do it?” you teased, voice a little breathless, a little smug. “When you think about me with no camera?” Yunho’s jaw clenched, a sharp inhale through his nose. “No,” he growled, eyes dark. “This is better.”

He was perfect like this. Wild and barely holding back, his hips twitching into your fist, his entire body tense under the weight of your touch. And you were smiling now, hungry. Powerful. In control for just a second. But you knew it wouldn’t last. Not with the way he was looking at you now. Like you’d lit a fuse. You didn’t say another word. You just moved, laying yourself down on your stomach right at the edge of the bed, arms folded beneath you as you rested your cheek for a second. Eye level with him. With all of him.

Yunho stood there like a goddamn fever dream, sweatpants kicked off and forgotten, one hand wrapped tight around his dick, jaw slack like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His voice cracked when he whispered, “Holy fuck…” You tilted your chin up, locking eyes with him. Your mouth opened, slow, teasing, and your tongue slipped out, wet and ready, a silent invitation. And Yunho… he twitched in his grip. Like his entire body was trying to process the fact that this wasn’t a dream. That you, the girl he used to jerk off to almost every night, the reason he even started that whole camboy thing in the first place, were really here, mouth open and waiting for him like some unholy prayer.

“Don’t play with me,” he growled, voice low, dangerous. “I’m not,” you whispered, lips brushing the tip as you spoke and he groaned. Then with a tight inhale, Yunho let go of everything holding him back. His hand gripped the base of his dick, guiding it forward until the head tapped against your tongue once… twice… slow and heavy, precum slick and warm as he watched you like you were a miracle he still didn’t believe. “You have no fucking idea,” he rasped, hips flexing just enough to rub himself over your tongue again, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

You moaned softly, the sound vibrating against him as you wrapped your lips around the tip and Yunho’s head fell back, a broken laugh escaping him, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. “After all these years,” he muttered, voice shaking as he looked back down at you. “Fuck, I’m not gonna last.” You took your time, because you wanted to watch him fall apart. You dragged your tongue along the underside of him, slow and purposeful, just to hear the broken sound Yunho made in response. He gripped the sheets with one hand now, knuckles white, the other still fisted tight around his base until you nudged it away and replaced it with your mouth.

You were warm and wet and so fucking eager. “Fuck…” he hissed, his thighs twitching as you sank down slowly, inch by inch, until he hit the back of your throat and your eyes watered. You pulled off with a wet pop and a smile, licking him again before diving back in, this time bobbing your head in a slow rhythm that had his hips jerking despite himself. Yunho’s fingers tangled in your hair, jaw clenched as he looked down at you. “Don’t tease,” he warned, but it was already too late, you were moaning around him now, swallowing him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, letting spit drip down your chin and onto the sheets below. Your hand gripped the base, twisting and stroking in sync with your mouth, and Yunho’s chest rose and fell like he was fighting for air.

And then he snapped. “Shit…fuck, baby,” he growled, pulling your head down and thrusting up into your mouth, slow at first… then harder. Your eyes fluttered closed, throat stretching around him as you let him fuck your mouth the way he’d always imagined. His voice was ruined, ragged, desperate, each groan making you wetter than you already were, your thighs clenched together as he used your mouth and throat like it was his personal fantasy come true. But just when his hips started to stutter, when his hand tightened and you heard him pant, “Gonna come… fuck I’m gonna…..”

He pulled out. Chest heaving, dick flushed and slick, twitching from how close he’d gotten. “Not like that,” he growled, voice dark and breathless. “Not in your mouth. Not the first time.” He looked like he was seconds from losing it as he reached down, grabbing you under your arms and pulling you up against him, mouth crashing into yours like he couldn’t stand another second without the taste. His kiss was hungry, almost dizzying, but you didn’t let him keep it for long.

You shoved him back. His eyes widened, breath catching as you pushed him down onto the mattress, your thighs straddling his waist like you owned him. “Wait…” he started, voice rough but you silenced him with a look, wrapping your hand slowly around his throat, that cross chain necklace he always wore getting stuck under your grip. Yunho’s head tipped back, jaw flexing, lips parting. His hands gripped your hips but didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Let me,” you whispered. “I want to feel all of it.”

You reached between you, guiding him to your entrance, already slick and ready for him. And god, he was big, you’d felt it in your mouth, seen it on screen a hundred times, but nothing compared to the stretch as you finally sank down onto him. Inch by slow, gasping inch. “Fuuuck…” you moaned, head tipping back, nails digging into his chest as your thighs trembled. Yunho’s eyes were blown wide, staring up at you like he couldn’t believe this was real. His hands moved to grip your waist, grounding himself, but he didn’t take back control. Not yet. Because you were still in charge, and you were finally getting what you wanted.

You started slow. Rocking your hips in a rhythm that was almost cruel with how good it felt. The stretch of him inside you was dizzying, so full it bordered on too much, and yet you couldn’t get enough. Couldn’t help the way your mouth dropped open as you found your pace, your other hand bracing against his chest while the one still around his throat tightened. Yunho’s reaction was instant. His breath hitched. His eyes fluttered. A groan rolled out from deep in his chest, fuck, that sound. You watched it ripple through him like you’d lit a fuse.

“You like that?” you asked, breathless but smug, hips beginning to move a little faster, a little rougher. “You like being choked?” His lips parted, but no words came out. Just a gasp, shaky, wrecked as you pressed down, just enough pressure to make him feel it. “Didn’t expect that, huh?” you teased, your grin feral now as you bounced harder, his dick hitting deeper, dragging moans out of both of you. Yunho’s hands flew to your hips, gripping so tight you knew there’d be bruises. Not to stop you. Just to survive you.

His eyes locked on yours, throat working beneath your hand, and when you tightened your grip again, just for a moment, his whole body shuddered beneath you. “Shit..” he gasped, voice breaking, “you’re gonna make me come like this.” You grinned. “Not yet.” He growled at your words and the second he started thrusting up into you, everything shattered.

Your hand was still at his throat when his hips slammed into yours, hard and fast, and suddenly you couldn’t tell who was in control anymore. The rhythm broke apart, all fluid heat and sharp pleasure, both of you crying out as it hit, that overwhelming rush, his name torn from your throat as you came around him, your whole body clenching, trembling. Yunho followed with a guttural moan, the kind of sound that lived rent free in your spine. He buried himself as deep as he could, holding you down on him while he spilled inside, your bodies shaking from the high. But he didn’t let you go. Didn’t even give you a second.

You barely caught your breath before he was grabbing your waist, flipping you over, pressing you flat against the mattress. Your cheek hit the sheets, lungs still struggling to catch up, and then you felt his mouth, God, his mouth was on your back. Warm, slow kisses up your spine. Tongue flicking over sweat damp skin. You whimpered, hips twitching, already sensitive, already raw. “Still with me?” he rasped against your skin, voice wrecked and low. You nodded weakly. “Good.” He held you down with one hand, spreading you open with the other. You gasped when you felt him slide between your thighs again, thick and still hard, nudging against your entrance, already soaked, already pulsing for him. And then he pushed in. Slow. So goddamn slow it hurt. A different kind of ache. One that made your eyes roll back.

You whimpered, fisting the sheets. “Yunho…”

“I know,” he groaned, breath hot against your shoulder. “I know, baby. I’m right here.” Each thrust was deep and deliberate, dragging along every nerve ending like he was trying to memorize the way you felt from the inside out. Overstimulated, every sound from you was wrecked now, broken gasps, whispered curses, his name like a chant. Your whole body trembled beneath him. And Yunho held you there, grounding you with his weight, his voice, his touch, fucking you slow and deep like he had all night, like the first time wasn’t enough. Because it wasn’t.

Your body trembled beneath him, your moans broke apart into soft sobs of overstimulation. He held you there, one hand gripping your waist, the other tracing up your spine as he stayed buried inside you, deep and slow, savoring every inch, every sound you made. He kissed at your shoulders, your neck, your temple, whispering soft, ragged things between thrusts. “I’ve been in love with you,” he said again, voice strained now, thick with emotion and want. “For so long.” You gasped, turning your face into the sheets, but he wasn’t done. “I was the one who slashed your ex’s tires,” he murmured against your skin, laughing breathlessly. “When he cheated on you. That night…. you were crying in my room, and all I could think about was how you deserved so much more. I couldn’t touch you. But I wanted to. I wanted to so fucking bad.”

His hips rolled deeper, slower, as he kissed your shoulder again. “You have no idea how hard it was. Watching you date losers, watching you walk around this apartment in those tiny shorts, thinking you were just my best friend…” You whined, and his fingers gripped your hips tighter. “but I wanted you like this. Just like this.” He moved harder now, still keeping that deep, rhythm, each thrust driving into you like he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside out as you clawed at the sheets, body trembling, mouth open but no sound coming out.

Yunho leaned over you again, chest flush against your back, lips dragging along your cheek as he whispered, “I think I’ve been ruined for anyone else.” Then he kissed you, soft, desperate, a little messy, and you reached back blindly, grabbing at his thigh as he picked up pace. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed in the room, and your breath caught when he angled just right, dragging another sob of pleasure from your throat. “You’re mine,” he whispered, voice breaking now. “You hear me? Mine.”

And you nodded, barely coherent, “Yours… Yunho….. please… don’t stop!”

“Not stopping,” he panted, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Not letting you go.” He stilled mid thrust. The sound you made, raw and aching, cut straight through the haze in his mind. And then you said it. “Stop.” Yunho froze like you’d struck him, his chest heaving against your back, every muscle in his body going tight. He immediately pulled up, eyes searching your face with panic flickering behind them because you had just told him to not stop and now…. “Did I… Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No.” You twisted to look over your shoulder, breathless, lips parted. “I just… I need to see you.” For a second, he didn’t move. Then realization hit like a punch to the chest, and the worry in his expression cracked open into something softer, something vulnerable. He nodded once, like he understood in his bones, and slowly pulled out of you with a hiss, guiding your hips gently as you shifted beneath him. You rolled over onto your back, your chest rising and falling, and Yunho was already leaning over you, brushing damp hair from your face, eyes flicking over you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. You reached for him, hands curling around his shoulders, your thighs parting instinctively as he settled between them.

And when you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, he groaned low in his throat, like just being this close, face to face, was almost too much. “Please,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I want to see you when you come.” He kissed you, slow and deep, like a vow, and then he sank back into you, both of you gasping at the contact. His forehead dropped to yours. “Fuck,” he whispered. “I love you.” Your legs tightened around him, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs, and his hips started to move again, slow, deep strokes that made your eyes flutter shut.

“Keep them open,” he murmured, breath shaky against your mouth. “Look at me. I want to see you too.” You did. And the moment your eyes met his again, something shifted, something cracked. There was nothing frantic now, nothing rushed. Just Yunho, bare, undone, looking at you like you were everything he’d ever wanted. Every thrust was deeper, more reverent, his hands cupping your face, brushing your cheekbones with his thumbs as you fell apart all over again beneath him. He moved like he had all the time in the world. Like you were something he didn’t want to rush, didn’t want to ruin.

Still buried deep inside you, his rhythm slowed to a languid, teasing grind, the kind of pace that drove you wild because it gave you too much time to feel. Every inch, every brush of skin, every shaky breath against your mouth. You clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms pulling him closer like you wanted to disappear into him. His forehead pressed to yours, sweat damp strands of hair brushing your cheek, and his voice was low as he whispered, “You’re all I want.” His hips rolled forward again, deep and slow, the stretch still delicious, still overwhelming. You gasped, back arching, and he caught your moan with a kiss, swallowing it down like it belonged to him.

“Look at me,” he breathed, when your eyes started to flutter shut. You did. God, you did. And it was that look, his gaze locked on yours, pupils blown, jaw clenched, love written all over his face, that undid you. Your hands fisted in his hair, your thighs trembling as you broke with a sharp, cracked gasp, “I love you.” The words fell out before you could stop them. Raw and real and so damn true it hurt. Yunho’s entire body jolted like the words had struck him, and then he was kissing you again, desperate, trembling, his pace finally faltering as your release pulled him under. His groan vibrated into your mouth, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep one last time, chasing the high you gave him.

He came with a low, broken sound that only you would ever hear, forehead pressed to yours, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip like if he let go, he’d fall apart completely. And maybe he already had. Because once the haze started to clear, and he was still inside you, still holding you like a lifeline, he didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you. Then whispered, “Say it again.”

You were breathless, hands playing with his hair now. “I love you.” And he buried his face into the crook of your neck before saying. “You think any of those moms of your students are fans?”

You rolled your eyes, shoving him with a laugh. “You’re ridiculous!”

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Wooyoung was tipsy. Not drunk drunk, but tipsy enough that his phone felt heavier in his hand and his judgment had clocked out for the night. He was sprawled on his couch, one sock missing, a half finished drink sweating on the coffee table beside him.

He didn’t mean to open Yunho’s page. Okay, lie. He absolutely meant to open it. He’d seen the videos before. Hell, he was the reason you had seen them in the first place. He knew the username. Knew the vibe. Knew the way Yunho used lighting like a weapon and his voice like a loaded gun. It was old news.

Except… There it was.

Newest upload. Posted less than an hour ago. Wooyoung squinted. “Oh?” He tapped it. The video loaded, and the first thing that hit him was the framing.

Different. Yunho wasn’t hiding his face. No shadow. No strategic angle. No cropped jawline or lips only tease. Yunho was fully visible, hair messy, expression lazy and wrecked.

Wooyoung’s grin froze. “Wait.” He leaned closer, blinking hard. Yunho’s face was relaxed. Smiling. Not at the camera. At someone just out of frame. The camera angle shifted slightly, and that’s when Wooyoung noticed it. A girl. Her face was out of frame, just below Yunho’s chest. Hair familiar. Hands familiar with that little thumb ring you always wore.

The girl never looked at the camera. Never broke the illusion. But Yunho did. He looked down at her with that soft, stupid smile Wooyoung had only ever seen him wear around one person. And then Yunho spoke. Low. Fond. Unmistakably real. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice warm and wrecked. “You’re doing so good.”

Wooyoung bolted upright. “OH MY GOD…… DID THEY JUST SOFT LAUNCH ON ONLYFANS?!”

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permanent tag list: @straycat420 @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @seungminniemin @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990 @straytiny127 @sannies-tiddies @hannahstacos @jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets @love--in-stayville @hartsablaze @remi-young @bubbly-moon @fvxyxnh0 @herpoetryprincess @prchiquita8 @dreamgirlevilera @booposaurusrex @onecursedkitty @dvrktvnnel @atinynoona @metalheadatiny @uchihabbynic @eggielix

[scorpieuns]

ACTS OF SERVICE | JAKE SIM

summary: completely drunk, fed up and bored with the dramatics of casual relationships and the continuous disappointment of hookups—you and your best friend decide the best way to solve this dilemma is being fuck buddies. But that was just a joke…right?

genre: smut. college. best friends.

word count: 16.3k

warnings (+18): adult content. swearing. party themes. pet names (angel, baby). playful banter. alcohol. kissing. lots of humor. heavy petting. nipply play. dom!jake. fingering (f. recieving). rough sex (?). unprotected sex. vocal!reader and jake. light teasing. (very) minor brat taming. overstimulation. multiple orgasms. icehockeyplayer!jake and academicoverachiever!reader have slightly odd views on relationships. jake is a (nice?) fuckboy. reader and jake are very horny people. mentions of icehockeyplayer!maki, jay, heeseung and sunghoon. other brief mentions of intak, yuna, jungwon, sohee, chaewon, sunoo and isa. jay is also in a band, very ‘green day’ - ‘nirvana’ adjacent.

MINORS DNI!!

A/N: and she lives! been gone for a while (my sincerest apologies) but we’re back!! this one is pretty lengthy, the hiatus may have given me a running mouth (and a long list of future ideas too!) just hoping it hasn’t made me rusty.

It started as a joke. 

Nestled into the corner of a worn leather couch that had definitely seen better days, nursing a mixture of whatever you could find on the messy drinks table—over the rowdy music that you could practically feel humming in your chest and bouncing off the walls in a way too crowded frat house. 

Your teeth worried at the rim of your cup, shoes kicking at the array of streamers and confetti on the floor. 

You were floating in that perfect sweet spot between tipsy and drunk, where everything felt softer around the edges—your limbs all loose and warm like honey. 

Jake was mid-rant beside you, his long legs stretched out, one arm draped across the back of the couch behind your shoulders. 

He looked frustratingly put together for someone five drinks deep—dark hair slightly mussed in that effortless way that probably took him zero effort, his Dicelis Hockey hoodie pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms that had no business being a bit distracting. 

The party sign on the wall now hung haphazardly close to floating to the floor, now just reading ‘HBD SUNGCH…’. The abandoned Cards Against Humanity game sat on the coffee table, half the white cards now decorated with pretzel crumbs and beer rings–

“(Y/N)!” Jake snapped his fingers in front of your face. “Are you even listening to me?” 

Rude. 

“I’m listening!” you protested, batting his hand away with a defensive shrug. 

You were listening–mostly. You were also wondering when Sunghoon would storm in and lose his mind over whoever massacred his card game with snacks and cheap beer. 

Jake’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “Oh yeah? Then what I was just talking about?” 

“Umm…” You took a tactical sip of your drink, buying a bit of time, “your latest conquests?”

He groaned, dropping his head back against the couch. “Not just any conquest, angel. I was talking about thee Yuna Shin.” 

Your eyebrows shot up. “Wait, pause–” You shifted to face him better, nearly sloshing your drink. “All-Star cheer captain Yuna Shin?” 

A slow, devastating smirk spread across Jake’s face, “so you weren’t listening.” 

“…sorry?” You flashed him that sheepish smile that usually got you out of things and Jake rolled his eyes, though there was no real heat behind it. 

“As I was saying, before I lost you to whatever was going on in that pretty head of yours—I thought Yuna and I were on the same page.” He gestured with his free hand, frustrated. 

“Nothing serious, y’know? Just hooking up, blowing off some steam.” 

“Something fun and casual.” You added, and your best friend pointed at you like you just solved a world problem. 

“Exactly. I mean, you get it. You know how insane my schedule is: practice, games, film sessions. Sometimes you just need to–”

“Decompress?” You supplied, fighting a giggle. 

“Right!” The man’s face lit up with vindication. “But then,” he paused, leaning in conspirationally, “two weeks in, she hits me with it.” 

“...What are we.” You both chorused, dissolving into laughter. 

Jake groaned like he was in physical pain, raking a hand through his hair. “I mean, we talked about this. Day one, cards on the table, and now she wants to put a label on it and make it into this whole...thing.” 

“Why can't we just have…fun?” He asked basically no one but himself after a few beats of silence. 

Fun. 

One word. Three letters. Embossed in bold, shiny gold letters across the hardcover of Jake Sim’s ‘Relationship 101 Handbook’ that was his trusted guide to every romantic interaction he’d had since sophomore year of high school. 

Jake had never been one to take relationships seriously–if you would call what he had ‘relationships’. 

You’d been watching this routine repeat itself in different variants for years now.

Jake didn’t do relationships—not real ones at least. 

Labels made him twitchy, commitment gave him hives and the word ‘girlfriend’ might as well have been in an ancient lost language for all the meaning it held for him. 

At least he wasn’t cruel about it though. He at least had the courtesy of always being upfront and honest about what he could and couldn’t offer. 

But that didn’t stop girls from hoping that their particular combo of pretty face and personality would be the exception to finally make Jake Sim want to ‘settle down’. 

Spoiler alert: it never was. 

The pattern repeated itself like clockwork, from the conundrum of summer flings before senior year of high school—when Jake scored the alluring job of a beach lifeguard—to senior year’s abundance of girls who wanted to wear his varsity jacket—each one lasting a few weeks before the inevitable ‘what are we’ conversation sent Jake running for the hills. 

Now here you were, junior year of college and Jake was still the same: Dicelis’ Division I ice hockey star defenseman—and of course, the list of girls struck by Eros himself were an endless, constantly replenishing supply. 

Most of them wanted something more: wearing his extra team shirt, going on dates—even something as simple as cuddling after sex—wrapped up in a bow of commitment, affection and the pretty title of ‘girlfriend’—all of which were things that lived on Jake’s hard ‘no no’ list, scribbled in red marker and underlined twice. 

This was the third rant this month alone. 

Jake sighed dramatically, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. “I’m at my wit’s end here, (Y/N), I really am.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh, because the theatrics of his chagrin were quite comical.

“Oh you poor thing,” you said, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “So many beautiful women wanna date you. How do you survive?” 

He shot you a look. “Don’t be a dick.” 

You tilted your head, pouting your lips with insincere disappointment, “aw, but you make it so easy.”

He kicked your foot lightly. “I’m being serious. I mean, you get it right? You do the whole ‘no-strings’ thing sometimes.” 

You made a noncommittal sound, swirling the contents of your cup. “Well , if you consider drowning in yearbook club projects and philosophy readings ‘fun’, then sure. I’m having a time.”  

Jake’s brows furrowed in confusion, “wait, hold up. I thought you were seeing someone?” 

He snapped his fingers, trying to summon the memory through his alcohol-clouded brain. “That guy—Intak! From the men’s basketball team right?” 

You deadpanned. “Jake, we broke up a month ago. You're late to the party as usual.” 

“A month?” He raised a brow. “Shit, really? I thought you guys were doing good.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Oh you know. It was the usual bullshit—spending too much time with my best friend.” You grumbled, already anticipating his reaction.

“Apparently you ‘clearly want to jump my bones’ and he couldn’t handle the competition.” 

Right on cue, that insufferable smirk spread across Jake’s face, slow, inevitable and way too bright. 

“Don’t,” you warned, pointing at him threateningly. “Do not start—” 

“I mean, geez.” Jake leaned back, radiating false modesty as he stroked his jaw in efforts to conceal his growing smile. “Are they really that intimidated by me?” 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves now.” 

“I can’t help it!” His grin was shit-eating and unrepentant. “This is like the third time this has happened. Maybe fourth? I’m losing count.” 

“Trust me, I’m well aware.” You sank back into the cushions in defeat, letting your head tip back. “My exes are a bunch of guys who couldn’t handle my best friend being a guy. It’s exhausting.”

And it really was.

Boyfriends, for you, were complicated in a way they never seemed to be for other people.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d kept one around for longer than two months.

It always started the same: fun, sweet, easy, great sex—and then they’d notice the Jake shaped figure looming in your orbit. 

The way he’d text you at random hours. The way you had inside jokes and a language that no one else could decode. How he’d show up at your apartment unannounced, or the way you’d disappear to meet him without explanation.

Somehow—every single time, “I don’t care if you have a guy best friend” would morph into “but does he really need to be around this much?” which would spiral into “I’m not comfortable with how close you two are” and eventually land on a messy breakup with the claims that either the both of you were blind, stupid—or both. 

Intak had been the final straw.

The breaking point that made you throw your hands up and say fuck it to the whole institution of dating.

After two months of increasingly passive-aggressive comments about Jake, Intak had finally snapped during what was supposed to be a cozy movie night at your apartment. 

You’d briefly checked your phone to see what Jake texted you and Intak had paused the movie with an irate, bitter smile.

“You know what? I’m done. I’m not going to keep playing third wheel in my own relationship while you’re clearly in love with someone else.”

“I’m not in love with Jake—”

“Oh, please.” Intak rolled his eyes with a sharp, mean laugh. “You light up when he texts. You prioritize his schedule over mine. Half the stories you tell start with ‘Jake and I.’ I’ve been competing with him since day one and I’m tired of losing to someone who’s supposedly ‘just a friend.’” 

He’d stood up, furiously grabbing his things. “Here’s some free advice (Y/N): either fuck him and get it out of your system, or admit that you’re emotionally unavailable and stop wasting people’s time. But don’t pretend you’re capable of actually being in a relationship when you’re clearly already in one.”

And then he’d left.

You’d sat there, stunned and furious, his words ringing in your ears, unable to shake his absurd accusation. 

After that ended, (with you telling him exactly where he could shove his pseudo-psychological analysis) you'd tried the casual hookup thing. 

Just sex, no expectations, no jealous boyfriends getting territorial over your best friend.

But that had its own problems too.

The hookups themselves were usually fine, all tension and excitement and the thrill of something new. 

But the aftermath? The awkward morning-afters, the forced small talk over bad coffee, the weird dance of pretending last night meant more or less than it actually did. 

Then there were guys who’d say they wanted casual but then got weird when you didn’t text back immediately, those who treated it like a transaction and made you feel hollow—and others who couldn’t find the goddamn clit with a map and a flashlight.

It was exhausting in a completely different way than dating had been, and after a few particularly disappointing encounters, you’d just…stopped.

So here you were: very single, very sexually frustrated, listening to your equally single and frustrated best friend complain about the exact same problems from the opposite side.

The universe had a twisted sense of humor, you’d give it that.

You stared at the ceiling above in pensive thought, scrutinizing the crowded half-deflated helium balloons, bobbing lazily like they’d given up on floating.

“I’m just so tired of all the drama,” you said finally. “Why can’t people just…enjoy each other without all the complications? Like it’s not that serious.” 

Jake let out a low hum of agreement, stretching his legs out beside yours until your knees almost touched, “right?”

You snorted. “Maybe you’re the problem.” 

He turned his head toward you, grinning. “Don’t say that. I'm trying to be deep here.” 

“You? Deep? That’s generous.” 

“Wow, rude.” Jake grabbed a pretzel from the decimated snack pile on the table and threw it at you. “Here I am having an existential crisis about the lost art of hookups, and you’re attacking my character.” 

You caught the pretzel, popping it into your mouth. “Someone has to keep your ego in check.” 

“My ego is perfectly sized, thank you.”

“Is that before…or after inflation?” You pouted with artificial curiosity, and Jake laughed—that full bodied sound that always made you smile despite yourself. 

Silence settled between the two of you for a moment, focused on your respective drinks as you lazily people-watched.

Then Jake slowly sat up straighter, his eyes lighting up with a sudden realization. “Okay but seriously though…”

You gave him a skeptical side glance. 

“What if–and hear me out–”

“Literally nothing good ever starts with ‘hear me out’.” You turned to him, suspicious. “What are you about to say?” 

Jake’s eyes had that chaotic gleam they got when he was about to suggest something either brilliant or completely idiotic.

 “What if the solution to our problem is kind of obvious?” 

You blinked at him. “What solution? What are you talking about?” 

“I’m saying,” Jake gestured vaguely between you both, his movements loose and animated from the alcohol. “What if we just…did it?” 

Your brain took a moment to process. “Did what?” 

“The whole no-strings thing!” Jake was warming to the idea.

“Think about it. We both want the same thing–something fun, uncomplicated, with someone who actually understands. And we’re both sitting here complaining about it when–”

“When what?” You were starting to catch on, a laugh building in your chest. 

“When we could just…y’know.” He waves his hand between you again like saying the actual thing was illegal, “…with each other.” 

A shocked laugh burst out of you as you slowly sat up. “Oh my god, are you serious right now?” 

Jake was grinning now, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Why not? We already now each other. There’d be no games, no messy let downs–” 

“No jealous boyfriends,” you added, getting into it now despite yourself. “Exactly.” Jake pointed at you enthusiastically. 

You felt yourself getting pulled into the conspiracy, despite how ridiculous it sounded—listing benefits with Jake like it was a pitch idea.

There wouldn’t be any jealousy, awkward morning-afters, no wondering if they’d text back and ‘what are we’ conversations because you already knew what you were—

“Best friends who are just having fun.” you’d finished, and you found yourself mulling over it with in entertained curiosity.

There was a beat of silence. 

Jake’s eyes twinkled with amusement and something else—something that made your stomach flip in a way you were too inebriated to examine. 

“I mean…” Jake said slowly, “it kind of makes sense?” 

“It really does actually,” you heard yourself agree, your voice almost wondering. “Like weirdly perfect sense.” 

You both stared at each other for a long moment, squinting through matching mischievous smirks, the idea suspended in the air between you like something tangible.  

Then, simultaneously, you both shook your heads and said: “Nah” before breaking into fits of laughter. 

“Oh my god, can you imagine?” Jake wheezed, nearly spilling his drink.

“We’d be terrible at it.” You agreed, laughing so hard your sides hurt. 

“We’d probably get into a fight about who’s doing it wrong–”

“Uhh, you’d definitely be doing it wrong.” You nodded up at him, and Jake threw you a challenging look,“I’ll have you know I’ve never had complaints in that department.” 

“That you know of, for all we know Yuna could be speaking bad on your skills right now.” You shot back, and Jake threw another pretzel at you.

“See? This is exactly why it wouldn’t work. You can’t even compliment my skills.”

“I’m not going to stroke your ego about your sex life, Sim.” 

Jake fought a snicker, “the word ‘stroke' in that sentence is very unfortunate timing.” 

Your mouth fell agape in comic shock, smacking his arm, “you’re disgusting.”

“I thought this was a safe space!” He shrugged with mock innocence. 

“It’s never a safe space for your dirty jokes.” You chided, still laughing. 

“And yet, you still gracefully endure.” Jake settled back into the couch, still grinning like an idiot.

“…But seriously though, for a second there, it almost made sense, right?” 

“For a very brief second.” you admitted with a warning lift of your finger. 

It was ridiculous. Funny. You even swiftly moved on to a different topic of conversation before you threw back a few more drinks and joined the dancing crowd—forgetting the entire thing completely as the night peeled away. 

But now—weeks later, the bold declaration of your official dry spell started to sound extremely over ambitious and the stupid (very stupid) idea had begun to look more like a good suggestion than just an alcohol-fueled joke. 

You were aggressively multitasking right now: murdering a bowl of cereal at your kitchen counter, tapping away at your computer—all while glaring daggers at your roommate while she hummed in the kitchen like the birds sung her awake this morning. 

The smile on Chaewon’s face was so radiant you probably didn’t need to worry about your electric bill for the next few months. It was the kind of smile no insult could wipe away.

Last night had been peaceful, just catching up on coursework after Sunoo dragged you clubbing three nights in a row.

You’d finally made a dent in your art history essay, wrapped up on your yearbook duties for the week, and even gotten ahead on your philosophy readings.

Then you’d heard the front door click shut around midnight, and more than one pair of footsteps in the hallway—along with Chaewon’s distinctive giggles, followed by the low rumble of a decidedly male voice.

You’d smirked to yourself, amused. She’d definitely overshare at breakfast—she always did, in excruciating detail you never asked for.

It was funny, right up until her bedroom door clicked shut and you’d been reminded, once again, that your apartment had walls made of paper.

What followed was a very thorough, very enthusiastically salacious reminder of everything you were definitely, frustratingly not having.

Now she was making coffee like she hadn’t just disrupted your entire night, and you were taking out your sexual frustration on your innocent breakfast.

“So,” Chaewon started. 

“No.” You shoved another spoonful into your mouth, and her shoulders dropped, “I didn't even say anything yet!” 

“Well, whatever you're about to say,” you pointed your spoon at her, “the answer is no.” 

She laughed pouring her coffee with an infuriating amount of grace. “I was just going to say that you seem a little tense this morning. Trouble sleeping?” 

You fixed her with your flattest stare. “The walls are thin and your headboard is loud. Go figure.” 

“Oh,” Chaewon had the audacity to look pleased, “yeah, Eric is pretty good with–”

“If you finish that sentence, I will move out.”

“Just saying,” The girl continued, completely undeterred by your threat, “it was mindblowing.” she supplied, staring off into the distance with a reminiscent smile, then she sighed. “I miss his dick, already.” 

“Oh trust me, the entire apartment complex knows you do.” You muttered, and Chaewon turned to you with a bemused smirk, “careful babe, your green is showing.” 

“I’m not jealous.” You glanced at her with a grimace. “I’d just rather prefer the noise of downtown nightlife over the sounds of a porn rendition next door.” 

Your roommate laughed earnestly, “you could have that too you know? You’re hot.” 

“Chae, it’s not that I can't, it's that I won't. I’m just swamped with work right now.” 

Chaewon paused, eyeing you with the kind of suspicious scrutiny that made you look away too quickly, “…when’s the last time you actually got laid? Like properly laid?” 

“It is way too early for an interrogation right now.” You stabbed your cereal with unnecessary force, each spoonful more violent than the last.

“That’s not an answer.” 

“Well, it's the only one you’re getting.” You returned to your laptop, trying to ignore the nosy figure hovering over you. 

Maybe she’d eventually relent if you feigned interest in the laptop you were barely paying attention to—but Chaewon knew you far too well to ignore your badly structured facade of content. 

She leaned against the counter, cradling her coffee mug, shifting her expression to something gentler. “I’m serious though, (Y/N). When was the last time you did something for yourself?” 

“You’ve been on the Dean’s List for two years, your streak isn’t going anywhere any time soon, you should have some fun!” 

Fun. There was that word again. 

“I…have fun.” You protested weakly. 

“Editing the yearbook forum at 2AM doesn't count as fun.” She elaborated. 

“It does if you’re passionate about what you do.” You pointed, with a cheeky grin and an almost-questioning lift of your brows—as if daring your best friend’s disagreement. 

“…Girl.” She set down her mug, fixing you with an unimpressed look.

“You’re like a soda can ready to explode. You need to blow off some steam.” She sighed insistently, like your voluntary abstinence was her problem. 

“Go out. Meet someone. Have a meaningless hookup that rocks your world and leaves you useless for days.” 

The worst part was that she wasn’t wrong. 

You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d felt that kind of rush—the anticipation, the foreplay, the earth shattering feeling of an orgasm that wasn’t from your fingers.

Your vibrator was getting more action that you’d had in months, and even that was starting to feel depressing.

“Hm, I’ll think about it.” You muttered. 

Chaewon smiled and turned knowing. “That’s all I’m asking.” 

Philosophy 302 felt like the universe was personally mocking you. 

You slumped in your usual seat near the back—close enough to hear Professor Sorenson but far enough to avoid being called on unless absolutely necessary.

Your laptop was open to a fresh document, cursor blinking expectantly, but your brain felt like static. 

“Today,” Sorenson announced, pacing at the front of the lecture hall with the kind of energy that suggested she had far too much coffee, “we’re driving into Socratic philosophy. Specifically his views on desire and jealousy.” 

Of course. Of course this was the topic today. 

You resisted the urge to drop your head onto your desk or peel away from class and risk your perfect attendance. 

“Socrates believed that jealousy is, at its core, simply desire unmet,” she continued, gesturing expansively.

“Its the gap between what we have and what we want. The tension between reality and longing.” 

Someone in the front row raised their hand—probably to ask something pretentious about the Symposium—but you’d already tuned out. 

Jealousy is desire unmet. 

Okay but really, who needed ancient philosophy to define something you could already feel gnawing at your insides? 

It had been over a month. Over a month since you’d had any action that didn’t involve machinery and your own imagination.

The closest you’d come was three weeks ago—some cute guy at a club who’d bought you a drink and kissed you against the bar. 

It was nice against your own judgment. Flattering even. 

But Sunoo had been your ride that night and he’d been ready to leave the second Jungwon drunkenly suggested the idea of getting everyone in the place a round of shots—so you got his number and told yourself you’d text him. 

You never did. 

Now here you were listening to a poetic lecture about some guy that lived eons before you, while your body reminded you in increasingly aching ways that you were a living breathing human with needs that were currently being spectacularly ignored. 

You’d tried to drown it out. Buried yourself in assignments, spent hours in the editing lab and even deep cleaned your apartment at 1AM last Tuesday. 

You had spent plenty of ‘quality time’ with yourself, but it wasn’t enough. It was like trying to satisfy a craving with wrong food—it filled the space but it didn’t quite hit the spot. 

What you wanted was the earth-shattering, knees-weak sex Chaewon was apparently having.

You’d made an attempt to settle in the blissful comfort of envied denial, chalking her dramatic retellings as mass hysteria—but who the hell were you kidding? 

You too, wanted to be fucked six ways to Sunday. You needed to feel both wrecked and alive in a way that a class ten in the morning on a Wednesday definitely wasn’t providing. 

“The question then becomes,” Sorenson said, pulling you momentarily back to reality, “how do we reconcile our desires with our reality? How do we bridge that gap without losing ourselves to jealousy or desperation?”

Your laptop screen blurred slightly as you stared at it. 

How do you bridge that gap? 

Jake’s face flickered through your mind, unbidden–that stupid smile, those dark eyes, the way he’d looked at you on that couch two and a half weeks ago. 

“What if we just did it?” 

You had laughed it off. Dismissed it as drunk stupid rambling. 

But the idea had slowly burrowed into your brain like a splinter, small and persistent. You’d catch yourself thinking about it at random moments—in the shower, before bed, during particularly boring lectures like this one. 

It was insane. Completely insane. 

But…was it really?

You shook your head, trying to psychically dislodge the thought. This was stupid and wrong. You were friends. Best friends. You didn’t cross that line because some lines existed for a reason. 

Even if you were currently so horny you could barely think straight. 

Even if Jake was objectively gorgeous and made zero effort to hide it. 

And even if the idea of uncomplicated fun with someone you actually knew wouldn’t fuck it up sounded exactly like what you needed right now. 

Stop it, you told yourself firmly. 

Class continued in the background, but you were too busy trying to convince yourself that Jake’s drunken suggestion hadn’t been slowly, insidiously making more and more sense over the past weeks. 

Your phone buzzed in your lap.

jake from state charm: bro practice is killing meee  

jake from state charm: coach has us running drills like we’re training for the olympics  

jake from state charm: im dying

jake from state charm: pls send food  

jake from state charm: or a medic  

Despite everything, you smiled.

you: u are SO dramatic 💀

jake from state charm: im SUFFERING  

jake from state charm: this is a cry for help 

jake from state charm: also im rlly bored, entertain meeee

you: you’ll live 

jake from state charm: ur breaking my heart 

you: 🎻

jake from state charm: bros wining the idgaf war

You snorted softly. 

jake from state charm: are you free friday? 

jake from state charm: jays having one of his gigs again

you: what’s your gpa and answer quick 🤔

jake from state charm: chill, i study hard and party hard ✋🏻🙂‍↕️🤚🏻

jake from state charm: balance is key smarty pants

you: right right…

jake from state charm: i’ll take that as a yes, see you friday ;)

You shook your head, slipping your phone back into your bag, still smiling despite yourself.

This was fine. Everything was fine—you were fine. You absolutely were not thinking about what Jake looked like under that hockey uniform.

Nope.

Jake was going to lose his fucking mind.

He slammed his locker shut with more force than necessary, the metallic clang echoing through the half empty locker room. 

Practice had been brutal all week—three hours of drills on ice, conditioning, and Coach riding their asses about the upcoming season.

But that wasn’t what was making him want to punch something.

“Yo, Jake!” Jay’s voice carried from the showers. “You coming to Giselle’s tonight or what? S’posed to be a rager.”

“Maybe,” Jake called back half-heartedly, yanking his t-shirt over his head.

He probably wouldn’t go. 

Jake had been to three parties in the last two weeks and they’d all ended the same way: some girl would approach him, they’d flirt, she’d make it clear she was interested, and Jake would…

Nothing.

He’d do absolutely nothing.

Which was weird because Jake never did nothing.

Jake was the guy who hooked up at parties, who had girls’ numbers saved in his phone, who never spent a weekend alone unless he chose to.

But lately? Nothing. Three weeks of absolutely nothing, and it was starting to make him feel like he was losing his edge.

“Dude…you good?” Maki appeared from around the corner, towel around his waist, eyeing Jake suspiciously. “You’ve been weird lately.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what your face says. You look constipated.”

“Thanks, asshole.”

Maki laughed, grabbing his bag. “Seriously though, what’s up? You turned down Yujin last weekend. Yujin Ahn. The girl you’ve been trying to hook up with in physics class.”

Jake had turned her down. Yujin had been perfectly willing, perfectly attractive, perfectly available. She’d been wearing a dress that should have been downright illegal and she’d made her intentions very clear.

And Jake had made an excuse and left.

Not because he wasn’t attracted to her. Not because he didn’t want to have fun. But because he’d been down this road too many times now, and he knew exactly how it would end.

“Just not feeling it lately,” Jake muttered, shoving his practice gear into his bag with unnecessary aggression.

“Not feeling it? Bro, you’re like—” Maki stopped himself, a knowing look crossing his face. “Oh. Oh. This is about the crying thing, isn’t it?”

Jake’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit. This is totally about the crying thing.” The blonde sat down on the bench, looking far too entertained. “Dude, that wasn’t your fault. You were upfront with her from the start.”

“Doesn’t matter. She still cried. In the middle of the cafeteria.” He deadpanned. 

“Okay, yeah, that was rough,” Maki admitted with a chuckle. “But again—not your fault. You told her it was casual.”

Jake had told her.

He’d been crystal clear about it, just like he always was—no expectations, no promises, just fun. 

Yuna nodded as fast as she could manage, said she completely understood and was on the same page before crashing into his lips and pushing him into the sheets. 

Three weeks later, she’d asked where they were going and Jake had gently reminded her of their initial conversation, and had tried–tried–to let her down as softly as possible. 

He’d even told her she was amazing, that any guy would be lucky to date her, but he just wasn’t that guy.

Yuna gave him that doleful look, managing a weak smile even through watery eyes. She had constantly repeated that she was okay when Jake had asked—begging her not to cry–and she did anyway. 

Right there in the cafeteria, mascara running, while half the room paused their lunch break to stare. 

Evil incarnate was what he was apparently. 

And before Yuna? There was Amber, who’d teared up when he’d ended things. And before her—Macy, who’d actually cried in his chest and told him she thought they had really had something.

By the time he’d made the fifth girl cry, the team would've coined some mortifying nickname, one that would definitely leave the locker room and follow him everywhere, stamped across his forehead for the rest of his days. 

Jake felt like he wasn’t even doing anything wrong.

He didn’t ghost them or act like a dick and pretend they meant nothing. He sat them down, explained gently but firmly that this wasn’t going to turn into something more, and appreciated the time they’d spent together.

According to the rest of the team, that made him ‘the sweet one’. The fuckboy with a conscience. At least he wasn’t getting slapped like Heeseung, or screamed at in the quad like Sunghoon last month.

But ‘sweet’ didn’t stop the tears and ‘nice’ didn’t make the breakups hurt less—and Jake was getting really fucking tired of being the guy who made girls cry, even when he’d done everything inherently ‘right’.

“You’re too good at letting them down easy,” Sunghoon said, reading his mind.

“That’s your problem. You’re so nice about it that they think there’s hope.” He fished a water bottle out of his locker. “Like maybe if they just try harder, you’ll change your mind.”

“I tell them from the start—”

“Yeah, but you’re also charming as fuck, bro. Remembering their coffee orders and asking about their classes and actually listening when they talk: that’s boyfriend behavior.”

“That’s literally just being a decent human being.”

“Right, but most guys hooking up casually aren’t decent human beings. So when you are, they think it means something.” Sunghoon pointed out, shaking his hair dry. 

Jake scrubbed a hand over his face with an exasperated groan. “So what, I’m supposed to be an asshole? Treat them like shit so they don’t catch feelings?”

“No,” Maki said grinning, clearly enjoying this, “he’s saying maybe you need to be more selective. Or—” he snapped his fingers. 

“Or find someone who actually gets it. Someone who won’t fall for your whole ‘sweet guy’ routine because they already know all your bullshit.”

Someone who already knew his bullshit…and his mind immediately (and traitorously) went to you. 

Right.

“I’m not talking about this anymore,” Jake said, standing abruptly and yanking his bag onto his shoulder.

“I’m just saying,” Maki continued, following him out, “you’ve been in a weird mood for like three weeks now. Ever since Sungchan’s party at our place—what happened that night anyway?”

Brief fragments of that night came to mind, but one stood out like a sore insistent thumb: that stupid joke about you two being the perfect fuck buddies.

You’d both laughed it off and went back to normal. 

Nothing technically happened.

Except everything had shifted anyway, tilted slightly off-axis in a way Jake couldn’t quite correct. 

Because that suggestion—made half-drunk and mostly joking—had been rattling around in his head ever since, getting louder and making more sense as the weeks flew by.

You did get it.

You understood the appeal of something casual and uncomplicated because you wanted the same thing.

You wouldn’t develop expectations he couldn’t meet because your friendship had already established what you were to each other.

There would be no crying. No uncomfortable conversations where he had to explain that he liked you but not like that. No wondering if he was leading someone on or breaking someone’s heart.

It would just be…easy. Fun. The way it was supposed to be.

And he couldn’t deny—had never been able to deny, if he was being honest with himself—that you were beautiful. Objectively, empirically gorgeous in a way that had nothing to do with your friendship and everything to do with the fact that Jake had working eyes.

He’d just never let himself think about it too much because you were you, the one person in his life who was uncomplicated and easy and safe from all his usual bullshit.

But lately, he’d been thinking about it. A lot.

About the way you looked when you laughed, head thrown back and completely unselfconscious. How you’d lean against him during movie nights, warm and comfortable in his space. 

About that night on the couch when you’d been wearing that silly slogan tank top and the chilly September night made him realize that you weren’t wearing a bra.

Jake had very carefully kept his eyes on your face because anything else teetered the edge of dangerous.

But he briefly let himself think about how you’d probably kiss—rough and defiant, the same way you argued with him about.

And what you’d sound like if he got his hands on you. What you’d look like underneath him, that bratty tongue of yours finally lost for words while he—

An idiot.

He felt like an idiot letting himself think of such things. Getting a hard on from the thought of your best friend was wrong—he could practically feel the shame burning the hairs on the back of his neck. 

You were his best friend. Off-limits. The one person he couldn’t mess things up with. 

Even if the idea of fucking you had become impossible to ignore. 

Sunghoon slapped him on the shoulder with an irritating pitying smile. “You’re a good dude, Jake. Even if you are currently going through some kind of weird celibate phase.”

“It’s been three weeks, not three years.”

He scoffed. “For you? That’s basically a lifetime.”

Jake’s eyes went skyward, though a small grin betrayed him.

Yeah. A lifetime. 

If you mashed together an older brother's basement rehearsals with the scratchy, emotionally manic soundtrack of a ‘turn of the millennium’ teen movie, you’d get Jay’s band: The Fallout. 

Collective was practically packed wall-to-wall with people, the atmosphere slightly thick with neon lights slicing through the gloom of fog and the overwhelming cigarette smoke—which was a headache waiting to happen if you stayed long enough. 

Peeling posters of long forgotten rock bands and stars graced the brick walls, alongside a pristine collection of old Rolling Stone magazines and passionate slogans about how ‘rock ruled’ or whatever. 

The people who came to these shindigs were a harmonious blend of heavily opinionated music nerds, students at their third location, and anyone who thought loud music excused questionable hygiene. 

You attended one of Jay’s gigs back in freshman year, if that was what you’d call it then.

Back then, he only performed at frat parties, which somehow made the obnoxious traditions of those gatherings slightly cooler. 

Now, he was performing small bar gigs and open mics, pouring himself into each note with the same passion he’d had since he was in high school, performing to no one but the entire neighbourhood from his garage—or his parents (who were clearly held hostage). 

He’d once joked to you that you could still get with him before he was untouchable—be his cool girlfriend to bring on tour to make every body else jealous and you’d scoffed: “Yeah sure, because rockstars are so known for their monogamy.” 

The Fallout was mid-set, and the crowd was eating it up.

You stood near the back with Chaewon and Sunoo, nursing a second vodka cranberry that was more vodka than cranberry, watching Jay dominate the small stage like he was born with a Les Paul in his hands. 

Jay was good—really good. His fingers flew across the guitar strings with practiced ease, his voice rough and melodic as he leaned into the mic.

He also looked unfairly hot doing it, damp hair casted over his eyes and concentrated intensity, his t-shirt clinging to him in a way that suggested the stage lights were doing their job.

“Okay, I need to know if he’s single immediately,” Chaewon announced over the music. “Because I am already planning our future together.”

“You don’t even know his last name.” You pointed out, raising a brow. 

“Park,” Sunoo supplied helpfully. “Jay Park. Hockey player, lead guitarist, and according to a few of his exes…a lot of trouble.’”

Chaewon’s eyes practically sparkled. “Perfect. I’m dressed like a rockstar’s girlfriend already.” She gestured to her outfit—an off-shoulder band tee she’d artfully cut herself, paired with leather shorts and doc martens. “This was clearly fate.”

You had to admit, Chaewon wasn’t wrong. The girl looked about ready to be splashed across a tabloid magazine, hanging off a rockstar with effortless cool.

You had gone a different direction—a patterned halter top showing more cleavage than you usually went for, paired with a mini skirt and your favorite boots, with eyeliner sharp enough to kill. 

You looked good. You felt good.

The music was great, bouncing off the walls with just the perfect amount of volume and reverb.

The energy was really infectious and lively, but you were still somehow…restless.

“So,” Sunoo said, leaning in conspiratorially, “when are you going to put yourself out there tonight?”

“Not you too.” You dramatically groaned.

“I’m just saying!” The pretty man said, hands miming passionately.

“You look hot, the music is good, everyone’s got liquid courage—this is literally prime hookup territory.”

“I’m not hooking up with a random stranger at a bar.”

“Why not?” Chaewon joined in with a whine, fussily shaking her shoulders, “You need to unclench babe.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re repressed.”

“I’m…selective.” You supplied with a shrug. 

“You’re pent up,” Chaewon corrected. “There’s a difference. And honestly, babe? It’s starting to show.”

You shot her a look. “Excuse me?”

“You stress-cleaned the apartment in the dead of night last week, then you reorganized the entire living room.” She quipped with an accusatory look.

“Finding my scented candles was like finding Waldo–you totally messed with my entire system.” 

You glanced at her like she just asked if it was night, “I was trying to be organized? And I told you to pack away your candles after using them to ‘cleanse the vibes’.” 

“Okay mom.” Chaewon drawled with an amused smirk, ignoring your simmering glare. 

Sunoo rolled his eyes, ignoring your lover's spat, “you’re just channeling your sexual frustration into other activities,” he said sagely. “That’s classic displacement behavior.”

“You crash one of Jungwon’s classes and suddenly you're a psychologist.” 

Sunoo shrugged, flashing you an expectant look, theatrically sipping his drink, “but I am wrong though?” 

Well…no. Irritatingly so. 

“We’re just trying to help!” Chaewon protested.

“Look, I know what happened with that guy Sunoo tried to set you up with last time—”

“Do not bring up Sohee.”

“—but that was one bad experience! Not every hook up ends with the guy crying mid-coitus because he misses his ex.” 

“He came in about two minutes, then immediately started crying about his ex-girlfriend while literally using my tits as a pillow.” You grimaced at the memory. 

“I didn’t even get to come and I had to play therapist. The worst trade deal in history.” 

Sunoo winced with an apologetic smile. “Yeah sorry, that was…rough. My bad. But this time—”

“Nope.” You cut him off with a half playful warning. “No setups. No ‘I have a friend who would be perfect for you.’ Just…no.”

“Fine, fine.” Sunoo held up his hands in surrender. “But you could just, I don’t know, find someone yourself? Take initiative?”

“I don’t need to take initiative. I’m perfectly content with my current situation.”

“Your current situation is you and your vibrator,” Chaewon deadpanned.

“Oh my god, Chaewon!”

“What? It’s true! And while I do support your solo activities, they’re clearly not cutting it anymore. You need the real thing.” She insisted.

“Preferrably someone hot, very charming and yes, capable of leading a band while looking like angels sculpted him themselves.”

That was directed more so towards herself than you, catching her shifting glance to Jay with that particular look on her face. 

You guaranteed somewhere in the week you’d be victim to another sleepless night and a TMI recap over your morning breakfast. 

You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress a laugh at the way she dreamily stared at the lead guitarist like he hung the moon.  

Thankfully, the end of the song saved you from another failed defense against your tag teaming jury, the crowd erupting into applause and cheers as Jay grinned, adjusting the mic. 

“Thank you, thank you!” His voice carried over the sound system, warm and genuine. “You guys are fucking amazing. This next one’s a new song we’ve been working on—it’s called ‘Bad Decisions’ which feels appropriate for a Friday night, right?”

The crowd cheered in agreement.

The band launched into the song and you found yourself swaying despite your mood, the bass thrumming through your chest.

“Okay, but Jay is legitimately hot,” You admitted, watching him absolutely shred on guitar. “Like, objectively speaking.”

“Right?” Chaewon was practically drooling. “The way his arms look when he plays? Criminal. Absolutely criminal.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t crawled over to the stage and tackled him.” Sunoo observed with a humored smile.

Chaewon flashed him a chaotic grin, “oh I’m considering it.” 

“Give me a few more drinks and you’ll have to hold me back.” She sang with a warning, and you both told her to behave herself amidst laughter.

This was a good way to unwind from the harrowing week you spent with your nose in your books. The Fallout was good, the company was good…but that relentless thought hadn’t gone away.

If anything, it was getting worse.

“I need another drink,” You announced.

“I’ll come with—” Chaewon started, and you waved dismissively with a warm scoff, “no, it’s fine. You stay and appreciate Jay’s arms. I’ll be right back.”

You pushed through the crowd toward the bar, weaving between bodies and dodging elbows.

The music was loud enough to rattle your ribcage—and you were grateful for the excuse that it was just the bass that was making your chest do complicated things.

Definitely just the music. 

Jake spotted Isa Lee the moment he walked into the bar with Heeseung and Sunghoon.

She was standing near the stage with a group of her cheer friends, looking effortlessly beautiful in a casual dress that somehow looked both comfortable and perfectly put together. 

Her dark hair was down in loose waves, and when she laughed at something her friend said, Jake felt…nothing.

Well, not nothing. She was gorgeous, and he’d been trying to catch her at the right time since September.

But that usual spark of interest, the rousing anticipation of a potential hookup—just wasn’t there.

“Dude, Isa Lee is totally checking you out,” Heeseung said, nudging Jake’s shoulder.

“What?”

“Three o’clock. Don’t make it obvious.” Sunghoon grinned. “She’s been looking over here since we walked in.”

Jake glanced over casually, and Isa caught his eye with a slow smile, a clear invitation.

“Go talk to her, man,” Heeseung encouraged. “You’ve been wanting to hook up with her for months.”

He had been.

Isa was smart—chem major, very talented cheerleader, genuinely nice from everything he’d heard. She was exactly the kind of girl who should interest him.

Should being the operative word.

“Yeah,” Jake said, not moving. “I will. In a minute.”

“…What are you waiting for?”

Jake didn’t have a good answer for that. Or rather, he had an answer, but it was one that would make his friends theatrically concerned and ask a conundrum of questions he didn’t want to answer.

He had to break this cycle, somehow. 

But his two teammates were looking at him expectantly and mildly confused, while Isa was still smiling in his direction.

“Fine,” Jake said. “I’m going.”

He crossed the room, smoothly weaving through the crowd until he reached Isa’s group of friends who’d nudged her persistently with barely concealed grins and giggles.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in so she could hear him over the music.

“Hey!” Isa’s face lit up. “Jake, right? You’re on the hockey team with the lead guitarist.” 

“Guilty. You’re Isa?”

“That’s me.” She touched his arm lightly, as she eyed him down. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

“Wouldn’t miss one of Jay’s shows. He’s been practicing that new song for weeks.” Jake gestured toward the stage where Jay was currently in the middle of a guitar solo.

“He’s pretty good, right?”

“He’s amazing! I love live music.” Isa moved closer, her shoulder brushing his. “Do you play any instruments?”

“Yeah, but Jay and I have different musical directions. A band breakup would be waiting to happen if I joined.” 

Isa laughed, and Jake found himself going through the motions—smirking, leaning in, saying the right things.

It was all easy and familiar. He’d done this dance a hundred times.

But his heart wasn’t really in it.

You lingered at the bar, idly people-watching while you patiently waited for the bartender to remember that pouring drinks was, in fact, his primary job—not shamelessly flirting with a gaggle of far too inebriated girls clearly trying to snag free drinks.

Your fingers drummed against the sticky wood counter, letting your gaze drift over the crowd before your eyes landed on an awfully familiar tall figure. 

Jake.

Had he been here the whole time? 

He stood slightly off to the side, leaning down to hear a girl speaking into his ear.

Jake looked unfairly good under the haze of the colored lighting, shoulders stretched broad beneath a fitted tee layered over a long sleeve, the bottom cuffs shoved carelessly up his forearms. 

Show off. You scoffed with a slight smile. 

And of course he was talking to someone.

Jake could strike up a conversation with a brick wall and have it blushing in under five minutes. 

The girl—you realized—was Isa Lee. 

That tracked. 

Isa was one of Jungwon’s all-star cheer teammates.

She was the kind of girl professors adored and campus baristas remembered, all honey warm laughs and the uncanny ability to make you feel like the most interesting person in the room.

She was a real sweetheart, almost offensively so. 

You watched, faintly amused, as Isa’s hand slowly brushed Jake’s chest like she was checking its structural integrity.

She then leaned in closer, whispering something…and there it was: the beam of that smile.

Not enough to look sweet, and just enough to look dangerous—and Jake definitely knew what he was doing. 

You suppressed a disbelieving laugh. 

Jake always had that stupidly charming half-smile, but somewhere between sophomore year and that hockey camp before junior year it transformed along with everything.

From the adorable boy next door to what you could only perfectly describe as one of those absurdly pretty guys you noticed at the airport and felt mildly disappointed when your boarding group got called. 

Back then you found it deeply annoying. 

Now you just found it entertaining. 

Isa laughed again, tracing absent patterns on his chest, and you lifted a brow. 

Bold. 

Jake’s hand hovered briefly at Isa’s waist, polite but noncommittal. He was looking down at her, nodding and listening intently.

And then his eyes shifted, finding yours. 

You didn’t look away, simply curving your lips in a mild, impressed half-smile, communicating with your countenance: Busy night? 

Recognition flashed across his face, followed by a slow grin that made something in your stomach flip against its will. 

Jake briefly turned back to Isa, saying something that was clearly unreadable. She blinked up at him, mid suggestion before Jake began to step back, to your surprise. 

He murmured something that made Isa’s face flicker—confusion? disappointment?—before he offered an apologetic smile. 

And then he turned, making a direct beeline for the bar. 

You found yourself straightening slightly, ignoring the flicker of something that suspiciously felt like anticipation. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Jake greeted, sliding in next to you with a growing smile.

You tilted your head. “Stalking me, Sim?”

“Always. It’s my favorite hobby.” Jake leaned against the bar, throwing an arm around your shoulders in a way he always annoyingly did. 

He leaned back to take your outfit in properly for the first time. “Damn, (Y/N). Do you always dress like that or did I get lucky tonight?”

You smirked, striking a deliberately exaggerated gesture of throwing your hair back. “You like? I figured if Chaewon gets to dress like a rockstar’s girlfriend, I might as well make an effort.”

“An effort,” Jake repeated, his eyes trailing over the strappy top that showed off your shoulders, the mini skirt that made your legs look about a mile long.

“That’s one way to put it. You look unfair.”

“I know.” Your smile was purely unabashed. 

That was your usual reaction whenever Jake harmlessly flirted with you—completely unaffected by his usual behavior in that way that was so quintessentially you. 

But right now it strangely felt like you were reading lines off a script, irked by that annoying little buzz in your gut that refused to mind its own business. 

“Well, I didn’t spend two hours getting ready for nothing.”

“Two hours?!” Jake raised his eyebrows with a grin that was equally amused and shocked. 

“Perfection takes time, Sim. You wouldn’t understand with your three-second hair routine and your basic graphic tee and boring jeans.” You judgmentally eyed his frame. 

Your feigned scrutiny faltered as your eyes betrayed you, lingering on his perfectly toned arms and the waistband of his jeans teasingly low—Calvin Klein's mocking you. 

Why did it take hours for girls to get ready while guys practically slapped on whatever they could find and looked like…that. 

Jake laughed with a bashful shrug, and without breaking eye contact—he casually flicked a subtle hand toward one of the bartenders. “What can I say angel? I’m just naturally blessed like that.” 

“Naturally something,” You muttered with a grumble.

The man briefly shifted his attention to the bartender, ordering drinks for the two in a way that you shouldn’t have found hot, but did.

You’d been standing there for seven minutes flagging the bartender like an overzealous fangirl—your voice cycling through desperate octaves to try and get their attention and he’d just…done it. 

The drinks you had so far were definitely to blame. It had to be that.

Alcohol lowered standards, it was basic peer reviewed science—and you could pull a journal article about that right now.  

Sober you would never feel a flutter in her chest over a man simply summoning a bartender over with his index finger all while keeping his undivided attention on her.

Ridiculous.  

Jake turned back to you, “and FYI, The Smiths?” he pointed at his shirt, “isn’t basic, you’re just uncultured like that.” 

“Says you and every other performative male yearning for substance,” You said once you had your drinks. “All you’re missing are some glasses, vintage headphones and a Jane Austen book.” 

Your best friend clutched his chest with mock hurt, “you wound me (Y/N), I keep you company, I buy you a drink and yet you still judge me.” 

You threw him a well meaning smile and he couldn’t conceal his own any further, shaking his head with a chuckle.  

You paused, searching the crowd in confusion. “Wait what happened to Isa? I saw you two looking cozy.”

The question came out before you’d really thought about it. Not that you cared exactly—Jake could talk to whoever he wanted. He always did.

But you’d noticed the way she was with him earlier, with the kind of body language that usually meant Jake would disappear in an hour or less. 

And yet here he was at the bar. With you. 

It was weird and out of pattern. That's all.

“She’s nice.”

“Incorrect answer.”

“That’s all I can say.” Jake took a sip of his beer, deflecting. “What about you? Having fun?”

“Define fun.”

“That bad, huh?”

You shrugged, taking a long sip.

Everything about the night should’ve been perfect, but there was this restless irritation fizzling in your veins that wouldn’t quit, and admitting your night was subpar at best, would require admitting why. 

You ultimately concluded that you’d rather spare yourself more external efforts from friends to squander your sexual embargo.

It also just weirdly felt more mortifying than irritating to hear Jake have an opinion on your nonexistent sex life. 

“It’s fine. Music’s good.” 

Jake studied you for a moment, and you could feel him reading between the lines in that way he always did—but thankfully, he didn’t push, simply replying with an understanding nod.

You both fell into a comfortable silence, Jay’s band comfortably filling the space.

The place was still busy, with the frenzied humdrum only a Friday night could bring out, but somehow both of you felt more relaxed standing here at the bar with each other than you had all night.

“Jay looks good up there,” You observed, watching the stage. “Like, really good. The whole angsty hot musician thing really works for him.”

Jake glanced at you skeptically. “Are you thirsting over my teammate right now?” 

“I’m making a simple observation about his attractiveness.” Your eyes gleamed with mischief. “Chaewon’s already decided they’re soulmates based entirely on the way he plays guitar.”

“That tracks. Jay has that effect on people.” Jake paused. “Please tell me you’re not under his spell too.”

“Relax, Chaewon called dibs. Besides, musicians are too high-maintenance for me.” You turned to face him fully, leaning your hip against the bar.

The question bubbled in your chest again—the nagging curiosity about why Jake was here instead of leaving with Isa.

It wasn’t jealousy, you just knew Jake. 

You knew his patterns and knew that when a girl like Isa showed interest, he usually took the opportunity without much hesitation. 

So why hadn’t he?

“How’s your night actually going? You looked like you were about to leave with Isa.”

Jake shrugged, suddenly seeming very interested in the typography of his beer label. “Just wasn’t feeling it, I guess.”

“Really?” You couldn’t keep the surprise out of your tone, “you’ve been trying to hook up with her since September.”

Jake made an amusing noise of frustration, “how does everyone know that?” He threw his hand up, “have I been that obvious?”

You pursed your lips with intentional silence, darting your eyes back to the stage. 

“Wow, coming for my throat tonight.”

“You’re always obvious.” You tilted your head, studying him. “But seriously, you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

Jake considered lying—you could see it cross his face, the automatic playful smile he used with everyone else—but instead, his shoulders dropped slightly with a sigh.

“Honestly? I’m just spent,” he admitted. “Rather drown myself in hockey practice and physics homework than do that whole dance again.”

Jake took a long swig from his drink. “I don’t know. Maybe I need a break from all of it.”

“A break? You?” You looked genuinely surprised. “Jake Sim, taking a break from hooking up? Did I slip into an alternate dimension?”

“Ha ha. But yeah, maybe. The whole thing is…exhausting.”

You were quiet for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice was softer. “Yeah. I get that.”

Something in your tone made Jake look at you more closely. You were staring at your drink, the crease in your eyes an adorable yet clear indication that you too, looked like you wished you could be anywhere else.

“...You want to get out of here?” The words came out before Jake could think about them.

You looked up. “What?”

“This place. The gig. Everything.” Jake gestured vaguely. “You wanna just leave? Go somewhere quieter?”

“What about Chaewon and Sunoo?”

“What about Heeseung and Sunghoon? They’ll survive without us.” Jake bumped your shoulder with his. “Come on. Let’s bail. But only if there’s alcohol at your place.”

Your smile was slow and considering. “Sunoo did leave a few bottles of something.” 

“Sold.” Jake downed the rest of his beer, setting the bottle on the bar. “Let’s go.”

“You sure? You’re not going to regret leaving Isa behind?”

Jake looked at you in a way that made your face unusually warm, “I’m pretty sure.” 

“Come on.” Jake laced his fingers through yours, tugging you away from the bar.

You tried desperately to down the rest of your drink as he pulled you toward the exit, nearly spilling it on yourself in the process.

“Jake wait—I’m still—” you protested between gulps, giggling.

“Chug faster!” He laughed, “I didn’t drag you to all those parties for nothing.” 

You managed one final heroic swig before he dragged you through the door, both of you laughing like idiots as the cool night air hit your faces.

When you reached your apartment, Jake immediately gravitated to your speaker with the familiarity of someone who’d done it a thousand times before, immediately fiddling with the device.

“Oh, make yourself comfortable,” you called from the kitchen, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Already am!” Jake crashed on the couch, kicking off his shoes and propping his feet up on the coffee table. “What’ve you got?”

“Let’s see…” You stared at the haphazard arrangement of bottles left on the counter in a rush to catch an uber. “Vodka, rum, some tequila that Sunoo left here, and—oh, he got amaretto.”

“Fancy.”

“He does contain multitudes.” You started grabbing at bottles. “Want me to make something, or are we just doing shots?”

“Make something. Show off your bartending skills.”

“I don’t have bartending skills.”

“Then improvise. I believe in you.”

You laughed, pulling out glasses and starting to mix something that looked more complicated than it probably needed to be. 

“So,” You said, briefly looking up from your mixing, “how’s hockey going?” 

Jake looked away a bit too quickly as he cleared his throat, shrugging. “Hockey’s been the same. We’ve got a game in a few weeks, so everyone’s pretending they’re in the NHL.” 

You hummed intently, dangerously pouring something amber into something clear.

Jake watched you for a second, “You should come to the game.”  

You made a face, “I’ve been to games.” 

“Not in months.” He pointed at you accusingly. “Fake fan behavior.” Jake clicked his tongue in disappointment. 

“I’ve just been…busy.” You shrugged, crashing beside him and handing him a drink. 

The speaker finally came to life after he did enough damage—the harmony of East High students filling the room with way too much glee and optimism for a mellow evening. 

“Shit, my phone’s still connected.” You lunged for your phone, frantically disconnecting the music amidst Jake’s unshakable laughter. 

“High School Musical 3?!” He managed between laughs, shoulders shaking while you rolled your eyes with a flustered groan. 

“Whatever! It’s a good movie and a good playlist, I’m not backing down on that.” You insisted, trying to fight the burn that settled in your cheeks. 

“Aww.” Jake cooed, reaching over to pat your head, “you are such a dork (Y/N).” Still grinning.

“Uhh…says the guy who just ditched a sure thing to hang out with me.”

“Who says you’re not a sure thing?”

The words came out more flirtatious than Jake intended, and your eyebrows shot up nimbly. “Careful, Sim. Keep talking like that and I might actually think you actually like spending time with me.” 

“I tolerate you.” Jake corrected. “There’s a difference.” 

“Right, that’s why you drove forty minutes to watch me tank soccer try outs in junior year.” 

“That was moral support.” He defended.

“You laughed the entire time.” You said dryly, though you were still smiling. 

“I’m sorry (Y/N),  but you were absolutely hilarious, you were playing an entirely different sport.” 

“I only grabbed the ball because the midfielder hurled it right at my face!” 

The rest of the night melted into something comfortable and way better than where your night had been going a few hours ago. 

You had reached the point where you could feel the pleasant buzz of the alcohol in your veins, just the right amount of tipsy that made everything entertaining.  

You two talked about anything and basically everything—ranging from entertaining moments in your yearbook club and hockey, to harmless gripes about your respective roommates. 

Jake grumbled about how Sunghoon ran the apartment like being captain didn't leave the threshold of the ice rink, while you mentioned Chaewon’s inability to do basically anything without the TV playing ‘That 70s Show’ reruns—even if she was fast asleep. 

But being slightly plastered also invited unwarranted impulsivity and honesty in you that only liquid courage could reinforce—slightly unfettered by your sober self to filter your pensive thoughts.

For the most of the conversation your mind had been embarrassingly elsewhere.

Whenever Jake had a few drinks in him, he always talked animatedly—hands waving, fingers gesturing wildly at something he was talking about.

It was adorable.

Though now, you weren’t hyper fixated on his fingers due to dramatics—but because they were nice, and pretty, and long. Your mind couldn’t help itself with the thought of his fingers at a place you ached for them be.

It was shameful, you’d admit.

Here he was talking your ear of about something you’d tuned out ten minutes ago, and your cunt practically had its own maddening pulse at though your best friend finger fucking you.

You were so horny it was driving you crazy.

“Okay, I’m calling it,” Jake announced suddenly, drawing you out of your thoughts. “You’ve been in another world for like the past ten minutes.”

“I was here!"

“Really? Care to repeat what I said?”

You opened your mouth, scrambling for an excuse, and closed it. “Sunghoon…did another annoying thing?”

“Wow. Riveting summary.” Jake shifted to face you, grinning. “What’s going on? And don’t say ‘nothing’ because you’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m an excellent liar, actually.”

“You’re really not. Remember poker night at mine?”

You groaned with a roll of your eyes. “That doesn’t count.”

“Oh, it counts.” He was already grinning at the memory. “You had a garbage hand and kept licking your lips.”

“My lips were dry!”

“Your lips are never dry, (Y/N).” He stated with light humor in his tone, and you tried to maintain a neutral expression at that clearly harmless observation.

“You were panicking.” Jake poked your side, making you squirm. “Come on, spill. What’s the deal?”

Diversion was the obvious way out.

You could change the subject, and insist on moving on—but honestly? You were way too tired and tipsy to thinking about your sexual frustrations alone. And if you couldn’t talk to Jake about this stuff, who could you talk to?

“Okay, fine.” You sighed, sitting up a bit straighter, “but you have to promise not to be weird about it.” 

Jake’s eyebrows shot up, intrigued. “This already sounds amazing. I can’t promise anything.”

“Jake.”

“Okay, okay. I promise to be minimally weird. That’s the best you’re getting.”

You rolled your eyes but continued. “Remember at the party when we were complaining about hookups and relationships?”

“You mean two weeks ago when I was having my Yuna crisis?”

“Yes, that. Well, I’ve been thinking about what you said,” you shifted in your spot, suddenly hyperaware of his unwavering gaze,“…about wanting something fun without all the complications.” 

Jake’s lips quirked up into something mischievous. “Oh? Do tell.”

“Don’t make this weird.”

“Too late, already weird. Continue.”

You grabbed a throw pillow, hugging it to your chest. “I’m just saying, you had a point. Everyone’s either looking for their future partner or treating hookups like sports tryouts. And both options sound exhausting.”

“You’re not wrong. So what, you’ve been sitting here thinking about that?”

“Maybe. Is that so weird?”

“Not at all. I’ve been having the same crisis for three weeks.” Jake’s tone was light but his eyes still focused on you with unusual intensity. 

“What brought this on? Finally tired of guys getting jealous of your devastatingly handsome best friend?”

You sighed with theatrical awe, “your humility is truly inspiring.”

“I’m just stating facts.” He grinned. “But seriously, what’s up?”

Your fingers picked at the loose threads on the pillow. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been…frustrated lately. And not in a ‘my assignment is due’ way.”

“Oh?” Jake’s grin widened. “What kind of frustrated are we talking about here?”

“You’re such a child.”

“You brought it up!”

“I’m trying to have a serious conversation!”

“About being sexually frustrated?” Jake was fully grinning now, clearly enjoying himself. “By all means, continue. This is fascinating.”

“I hate you.” You threw the pillow at his face, and he caught it, laughing. 

“No you don’t.” Jake tossed the pillow back.

“But okay, seriously—I get it. The whole ‘too stressed to date but too stressed not to’ thing. It’s an annoying cycle.”

“Exactly!” You gestured emphatically. “Like, I don’t have the energy to deal with someone getting clingy or possessive, but I also—” You cut yourself off, feeling the warmth blossom in your cheeks.

“But you also want to get laid?” Jake supplied helpfully.

“Oh my god.”

“What? I’m just finishing your sentence!”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Can you blame me? You’re usually so put together and now you’re over here blushing about wanting to have sex. It’s adorable.”

You glared at him. “I will kick you out.”

“No you won’t. You need me for emotional support during your dilemma.” Jake’s grin softened into something more genuine. “But for real though, I get it. It’s like… you want the fun parts without any of the dramatic parts.”

“Right! Is that too much to ask? Just something simple and uncomplicated?”

“Apparently, yes. Because people are terrible at keeping things simple.”

“The worst.”

You fell quiet, both contemplating the unfairness of modern dating.

Then Jake spoke up, voice casual but carrying an undercurrent of something else, “we could solve both our problems pretty easily.”

“Remember when I also suggested that we…” He trailed off, letting the allusion of what you two playfully conspired that night—and your heart skipped.

“Yeah. I remember.”

“I’m just saying.” Jake turned to face you fully, one arm draped over the couch back.

“It makes sense. We both want the same thing and we’re both sitting here whining about it when the solution is right in front of our faces.”

Your mouth went dry. “Jake—”

Jake’s eyes were dark with the kind of mischief that meant the gears were already turning. “We already know each other. There’s no feelings, no games, no jealousy, no crying in cafeteria halls—”

You broke into a chuckle at the memory. “Oh yeah, that was hilarious.”

“Not my point—but see? With you, there’s none of that. Just…fun. Simple. Easy.” He shifted closer, his knee bumping yours. 

“We’re both adults. We’re both frustrated. We trust each other. Where’s the harm in having a little fun?”

“The harm is that it could make things weird.” You supplied, with a lift of an eyebrow. 

You were mostly convincing yourself more than anything, because this was a bad idea.

But the traitorous part of your mind, honest enough to admit that you wanted to be thoroughly, enthusiastically fucked senseless seemed to scrap your sensible thought.

“Or it could make things better.” Jake’s voice dropped lower. “No messy baggage, just…two friends helping each other out.”

You chewed on your lip, and Jake couldn’t help but track the movement, his gaze sending a shock straight to your core.

“So what, we just…do it? Hook up?” 

“Why not?” Jake was warming to the idea all over again.

Your eyes briefly flickered to his slender fingers, absentmindedly brushing against his lips and you wondered what it would feel like to kiss them—all soft, plump and pretty.

“Okay.”

Jake blinked, eyes going wide for a brief second. 

“But—but—if we actually did this, there would have to be rules.”

Jake’s face lit up, and he had to physically school into something nonchalant. “Rules. Yes. I’m great with rules.”

“You break rules constantly.” You stated, with an unimpressed squint. 

“Hockey rules. These would be different. Important rules.” He sat up straighter, all business now, “rule one: this would just be for fun. No expectations.”

“Obviously.”

“Rule two: nothing changes. We’re still best friends first.”

“Agreed.”

“Rule three: if it gets weird, we stop. No questions asked.”

“That’s actually reasonable,” you admitted.

“I have my moments.” Jake was grinning now, clearly pleased with himself.

“And rule four,” you added, “we don’t tell anyone. Not because it’s shameful, but because everyone would make it into this huge dramatic thing.”

“Makes sense.”

“And rule five—” Jake’s expression turned more sincere. “This doesn’t fuck up what we have. Because you’re too important to lose over something that’s supposed to be fun.”

Your chest felt tight, shifting to manual breathing. “Do you really think we can pull this off?”

“I think we can.” Jake reached over, softly brushing a thumb over your knuckles. “But only if you actually want to.”

Did you want to?

God, yes. Jake was right. This could work. You could make this work.

“Okay,” you said, the word coming out more confident than you felt.

Jake’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay?”

“Okay. Let’s try it.” You nodded, feeling slightly terrified and exhilarated in concert. “But this would just be a one time thing.”

“Yeah, just a one time thing,” Jake rehashed with a dutiful nod. 

You held his gaze for a second, the space between you abruptly feeling tighter, charged with something chancy—something you’d never imagined would exist with Jake. 

“So…” you started, suddenly feeling awkward. “Do we just like…now?”

“I mean, we could?” Jake laughed, hand pushing through his hair. “Unless you want to schedule it? Put it in our calendars? ‘Hook up with best friend, Friday 9PM’?”

“Oh my god, shut up.” You dragged your hands over your face, groaning between giggles.

“I’m just saying, we could be organized about this—”

Before Jake could get another word out, you fisted your hands in his shirt and dragged his lips to yours. 

It was impulsive, born from equal parts frustration and avidity and the need to just do something before you overthought yourself out of this entirely.

Jake made a small sound of surprise before kissing you back, his hand sliding into your hair while his other arm wrapped around your waist.

And oh. Oh.

Jake’s lips were just as soft as you’d expected, moving against yours with a certainty that made your stomach flip.

He tasted like the drinks you’d been sharing and that cologne that was so distinctly him, and it was intoxicating in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol.

Your hands found his shoulders, gripping tight as the kiss turned hungrier and urgent. Jake pulled you closer, eliminating any space between you, and you went willingly, your brain finally, blessedly shutting off.

This was happening. This was really happening.

And it felt right in a way that should probably concern you but currently didn’t.

When you finally broke apart for air, both breathing heavily, Jake’s gaze carried something indecipherable that had never been aimed at you before. 

“So,” he said, voice rough. “Your room?”

You laughed, slightly breathless. “Well, we’re literally at my place. Seems efficient.”

“Right.” Jake blinked himself out of a haze. “Efficient.” He stood, pulling you up with him. “Lead the way?”

You grabbed his hand, leading him down the short hallway to your room. Your heart was practically beating out of your chest, anticipation and nervousness and want all tangled together in your chest.

This was probably a mistake.

But god, you wanted it anyway.

The door closed with a defining click behind Jake as he leaned against the door, trying to catch his breath and his bearings.

“Okay, so how do you want to—”

His voice died completely when you grabbed the hem of your top and pulled it over your head in one swift, confident motion.

Jake’s brain short-circuited.

Whatever he’d been about to say evaporated the second your bare skin hit the air. 

You adorned a black lace bra that was definitely not your usual practical style, and Jake’s eyes dropped before he could stop them.

Holy shit.

“If we do this,” you said, seemingly unbothered by his staring, “we both have to swear it’s just one time and nothing changes. I’m still the annoying girl who steals your music taste, and you’re still—”

You cut yourself off when you realized Jake wasn’t even listening to a single word. His eyes were locked shamelessly on your chest, his expression somewhere between awe and hunger.

You clapped your hands sharply. “Hey! Can you pay attention?”

Jake’s gaze jerked upward, heat flooding his cheeks. “Sorry,” he laughed, the sound stupefied and breathless. “It’s just—you’re kind of—I mean—Wow.” He signaled vaguely at you, swallowing hard, “man, do I love Victoria’s Secret.”

Despite yourself, you felt a smile tug at your lips, “god, you men are so easy.”

“No, no—that’s unfair.” Jake leaned closer, defensive but grinning. “I’m still fully dressed while you’ve already started stripping. That’s cheating.”

“Well?” You crossed your arms beneath your chest, deliberately emphasizing your cleavage as you tilted your chin up. “What are you waiting for?”

Jake huffed out a laugh, already reaching for his shirt. “You’re bossy. Are you always this bossy when you do this?”

In one quick move, he tugged his shirt off and tossed it aside. The fabric hit the floor, and suddenly his body was right there in front of you—all lean muscle and defined lines that you had definitely not been noticing for weeks now.

You’d seen Jake shirtless more times than you could count, but somehow, here in your small bedroom with the air different between you, it felt like the first time.

“Depends,” you said, reaching out to run your fingers through his messy hair, and his eyes softened, closing briefly with a soft groan.

“If my time’s being wasted, I take charge.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Jake’s voice dropped low, conspiratorial, as his hands found your waist. “I’ll make it worthwhile.”

You scoffed, arching a brow even as your stomach flipped at the promise in his tone.

“Sure.”

“Still doubting me?” His hands were a satisfying contrast to your skin, thumbs tracing idle circles just above your hips—pulling you closer until you could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“I’ve been let down before,” you muttered, though your heart was hammering at the gentle pressure of his touch.

“Okay, fair.” Jake reached over to brush the edge of your jaw before his palm settled warm against your cheek. He leaned in slowly, his lips hovering just above yours teasingly, “but you just haven’t done it with me.”

The cocky murmur had your pulse tripping. 

Just as Jake tilted forward to close the distance, you darted back, laughing when he immediately followed, chasing your mouth.

“Woah, ease up there, big boy. The rules—”

“One time only, nothing changes, yeah, yeah.” His words tumbled out in a rush, impatient and wanting—and before you could object again, Jake’s mouth crashed into yours.

You practically melted, all your carefully constructed defenses dissolving like sugar in water. Your arms snaked around his neck as he leaned into you with a muffled sound of satisfaction. 

You were both conjectural at first. Maybe you’d both eventually change your minds and call it quits, probably laugh at this absurd night a few weeks later over watered-down liquor in some crowded house.

But his lips were so soft…so inviting—and every time you tried to briefly pull away to catch your breath, he was seeking your lips like he’d been starved for way too long, and the only thing satiating him was this.

Jake’s hand slid from your cheek into your hair, tilting your head just so, while the other pressed firm against the small of your back, bridging any remaining distance.

Heat curled low in your stomach as his tongue brushed yours, teasing, pulling a tiny, involuntary sound from your throat.

The sound made him groan into your mouth, kissing you harder, needier, until the room seemed to shrink around just the two of you.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his grip shifted—one strong arm hooking under your thighs, the other steady at your back. 

In a swift, dizzying motion, he lifted you clean off the ground, your legs instinctively locking around his waist.

Jake barely pulled away from your mouth, even as he carried you, the kisses now messy, consuming, teeth grazing your lower lip before he tugged it gently between his. 

You gasped, a sharp inhale against him, and he swallowed the sound like he’d been waiting for it.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan low in his chest—the vibration thrumming against your lips, down your throat, charging through you like static. 

Jake’s hand slid higher along your back, palm splayed broad and possessive, holding you flush against him as if the closeness still wasn’t close enough.

The bed eventually sank under your weight as he leaned over you, the chill of the cotton sheets against your spine a quiet counterpoint to his solid frame. 

He kissed you harder, tilting his head to deepen it, his tongue sweeping against yours with a deliberate fervor that made your legs tighten around him.

Your breath hitched when his teeth grazed your jaw, trailing marks along the skin as he dragged his mouth along your neck—every brush of his lips, every nip, sending shivers racing down your spine.

Jake murmured something against your skin, too low and ruined by a groan to catch, but the sound alone had your chest heaving.

Jake felt solid beneath your grip, steady even while you were falling apart, dizzy from the heady mix of stolen breath, and the throbbing ache between your legs.

When his lips returned to yours, it was reckless—your breathless sighs lost in it, swallowed whole as his hand snuck beneath your back and searched for the clasp of your bra. 

Jake only pulled away to gauge your reaction, cautious enough to ask, “are you sure want me to—“ 

“Now’s not the time to be considerate,” You interrupted, voice breathless and edged with frustration.

“Geez,” he laughed against your mouth, “you’re kinda hot when you’re demanding.” 

“I’m hot all the time,” you rolled your eyes, “now take the damn thing off.” That came out whinier than you intended it to be, but he obliged—pulling back just enough to slide the straps down your shoulders, the lace falling away completely. 

For a moment, he just stared, and you watched his expression shift from playful to something darker—hungrier.

His throat worked as he swallowed hard.

“Fuck,” Jake said, voice rough. “Your tits are perfect.”

You felt a flush of pride and satisfaction despite yourself, “tell me something I don’t know.”

“I’m serious.” His hands came up to cup your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that made you gasp. 

“Like, I knew you were attractive, obviously, but this is—” He shook his head, seemingly at a loss for words. “This is unfair. You’re unfair.”

“Are you done admiring, or are we actually doing this?” Your voice came out as a breathless moan, your body already arching into his touch for more.

“Oh, we’re doing this.” Jake’s grin turned wicked as he lowered his head, his mouth trailing down your neck. “But I have to take my time enjoying this.”

“Jake—”

“Relax.” His lips brushed against your collarbone, trailing lower. “I said I’d make it worthwhile, remember? Trust me.”

You wanted to argue, and then Jake’s mouth closed over your nipple and your brain short-circuited completely.

“Oh fuck,” you breathed, hands flying to his hair, gripping the soft strands between your fingers.

Jake hummed against your skin, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through your entire body.

His tongue circled slowly, deliberately, while his hand worked your other breast with the same focused attention.

Your head fell back into the pillow with a soft broken moan, eyes falling shut as your lips went agape.  

Okay, maybe him taking his time wasn’t the worst idea.

“Still want me to rush?” Jake asked, his voice smug as he switched sides, swirling and sucking on the sensitive bud with satisfied groans.

“Shut up,” you managed, between gasps. 

“That’s what I thought.”

His hands slid down to your hips, fingers slipping into the waistband of your skirt. He pulled back to throw you a demanding look, “these need to come off,” he rasped.

You lifted your hips helpfully and without complaint, eager to eliminate any remaining barriers between you.

Jake made quick work of your small bottoms and underwear, stripping them away in one smooth motion, groaning at the sight of your arousal practically sticking to the lacy fabric.

Then he sat back on his heels, just looking at you laid out on your bed, completely bare before him.

“You’re staring.” You pointed out, trying to sound unaffected even as your skin prickled under his gaze. 

You moved to close your legs, suddenly too aware of how exposed you were. 

Jake’s hands caught your knees before they could come together, gently but firmly pushing them back apart. “I can’t help it.” His hands ran up your thighs, spreading them wider. “Such a pretty pussy.”

“Being a kiss ass isn’t necessary—”

“It’s not being a kiss ass if it’s true.” His fingers traced idle patterns on your inner thighs, maddeningly close to where you wanted him but not quite there.

“Jake, I swear to god, if you don’t—”

Your complaint died in a moan as his fingers finally, finally touched you where you needed him most, practically slipping between your slick folds with ease.

"You’re so—“ his voice died in his throat, eyes fluttering shut for a second as his cock painfully throbbed in the constraint of his jeans, a shuddery breath escaping his lips. 

“So fucking wet." Jake groaned, his fingers sliding through her slickness. “Is this all for me?”

A ragged moan tore from your lips as he began to pump them inside you, barely giving you the chance to respond—grabbing at his shoulders as you tried to anchor yourself. 

You struggled to form a proper sentence, your hips rocking in time with his fingers—too lost on the incredible sensation.

His fingers found your clit, rubbing it in erratic circles and your hand practically flew to his wrist, with a sharp cry.

"Fuck, right there." You moaned, “don’t stop.”

"Are you begging?" He smirked, his eyes gleaming as he watched your expression contort, pleasure rippling through your body. “I wish this could last forever.”

"Don’t—don’t look so smug about—oh fuck—”

Jake’s expression shifted entirely, eyes going dark and predatory in a way that made you clench around his fingers helplessly. 

Then his pace slowed. 

The focused attention that had been driving you toward the edge became something torturously gentle and maddeningly unhurried.

“Last warning (Y/N).” His tone irritatingly calm, “Be good for me or I stop and leave you like this.” 

One slow, intentional curl of his fingers made you whimper, “and we both know you won’t come nearly as hard with your fingers.”

“Okay, I’ll behave—I’ll be good I swear,” you gasped out, any pretense of your control dissolving as your hips chased the rhythm he was denying you.

“Good.” His smirk was brief but devastating before he returned to a different pace, this time with no intent of stopping—plunging into until you were a moaning mess.

“That’s it. Just like that.” He growled, his thumb finding your clit again and rubbing it in torturous circles, sending sparks of pleasure through you. “Look at you.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, helplessly bucking into his hand, the sound of your whimpers music to Jake’s ears as he pumped his fingers at a jaw dropping speed.

Your back arched, the coil inside you snapping, and waves of pleasure rolled over you as you came, a strangled cry tearing from your throat.

Jake eventually pulled his fingers out of you when your loud mewls reduced to whimpers—licking them clean, and the sight alone had you nearly begging him to finger fuck you again.

But he had better plans as the satisfying sight of him stripping met your hazy sight. 

Your breath caught when Jake finally stripped off his jeans and boxers, your eyes widening slightly despite yourself.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

You’d known, theoretically, that Jake was…proportionate. Tall guy, athlete, the math checked out. 

But theory and reality were two very different things, and reality was currently standing in front of you.

You clenched around nothing as you stared at his hard cock, the head glistening with pre-cum and wanted nothing more than to feel him inside you, stretching and filling you to the hilt—at least that’s what you’d hoped.

The last thing you needed was for a pretty cock to be rendered useless.

You were impressed and maybe slightly intimidated, swallowed thickly, a flutter of nervousness mixing with the sheer need for to be in you now.

Jake caught your expression, his expression softening into something gentler. “Hey. We don’t have to—”

“No,” you said way too quickly, meeting his eyes. “No, I want to. I just…give me a second.”

“Take all the time you need.” Jake moved over you, settling himself between your soaked folds, brushing it against your slick making your head spin. 

“We’ll go slow.”

Slow, Jake thought, every muscle in his body tense with restraint. Right. Slow. He could do slow.

Except he wasn’t sure he could. Not when you were spread out beneath him looking like every fantasy he’d been trying not to have for three weeks. 

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

You nodded, before he grabbed this side of your face capturing your lips with his, stealing your air in a consuming, needy manner. Your arms looped around his neck, clinging as his mouth slanted deeper against yours. 

You could feel him prodding at your center, aligning himself at your dripping entrance before he slowly slid in and both your mouths fell slack against each other as you both gasped at the sensation. 

The stretch was intense, almost overwhelming, your body struggling to accommodate him. Jake moved incrementally, giving you time to adjust, and you could feel him shaking slightly with the effort of holding back.

“You okay?” Jake’s voice was strained and rough.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Yeah, keep going.”

Jake pushed in further, still maddeningly slow, and your nails dug into his shoulders with a small cry. It was almost too much, riding that edge between pleasure and pain but then it shifted—and you thought you were losing your mind.

“Holy shit,” Jake breathed, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You feel—fuck, (Y/N), you feel amazing.”

Your hips rolled experimentally, and Jake’s control nearly snapped. “Shit,” he hissed. “(Y/N), if you do that again—”

You did it again purely uncontrolled, drawing a broken moan from the both of you. “Fuck.” Jake’s hips jerked involuntarily, pulling out slightly before sliding back in, and you gasped.

He started to move then, slowly, setting a gentle rhythm that was meant to ease you into it. Long, measured strokes that had your breath hitching but weren’t quite enough. 

You wanted more.

But you were also acutely aware that you would regret that tomorrow.

Hell, you’d probably regret it in an hour. Walking was going to be interesting. Sitting in class on Monday was going to be a nightmare.

But if you were only doing this once, then you wanted all of it. 

“Jake,” you gasped out.

“Yeah?” His voice was breathless, his rhythm steady but clearly controlled.

“Stop—” you gripped his shoulders harder. “Stop being so gentle.”

Jake stilled, pulling back to look at you. “What?”

“I’m not—” your face flushed, but you held his gaze. “I’m not going to break.” You pulled him down, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Stop playing nice and fuck me properly.”

Jake went completely still for a heartbeat, his pupils blowing wide until his eyes looked almost black, “You sure?” His voice was rough, dangerous.

“Please,” you breathed, and that was all the green light he needed.

Jake slipped out of you before snapping into you, and your head tipped back with a broken moan. 

He set a new pace—still controlled but no longer careful, his cock dragging along your walls with deliberate and powerful strokes—hitting spots inside you that made you see stars behind your eyelids. 

Holy fucking shit.

You could feel him everywhere—deep, so deep you could barely breathe. Your body was stretched impossibly full, pleasure radiating out from your core in waves that made you shake.

It was good—so good—but that careful pace was driving you crazy.

“Jake,” you panted, your nails raking down his back. “Please” you struggled to form words, your brain short-circuiting with pleasure. “I want—I need—”

“Tell me.” Jake’s voice was rough, shockingly controlled despite everything. “Tell me what you need.”

Everything, you thought desperately. You needed everything.

“Faster,” you gasped out. “Please, Jake. Stop treating me like I’m fragile and just—fuck me.”

He shifted his grip, one hand sliding under your knee as he hooked your leg over his shoulder, opening you further as he slammed into you—over and over again.

“Like that?” Jake’s voice was rough, commanding. 

“That what you wanted?”

“Yes—oh god—yes—” the cries practically tumbled out your lips at its own accord, dumbstruck by the punishing pace, all his careful restraint abandoned. 

Your nails clawed at Jake’s back, his shoulders, anything you could reach marking his skin as he pounded into your relentlessly, reducing any coherent thoughts to pure overwhelming sensation

“Nobody’s ever made you feel like this, have they? Be honest.”

You shook your head. “So good, so good, so fucking good.” 

The room echoed with desperate sounds of your voice, breathless moans and the obscene sounds of him pistoning into you.

You didn’t even notice you’d caught your lip between your teeth, trying to stifle the pathetic sounds, until Jake made a sound of disapproval, thumb dragging your lower lip, freeing it from your bite.  

“Uh-uh, I want to hear you.” He demanded, watching you squirm beneath him with pathetic cries as he pounded into you, clenching around him like a vice. 

“That’s it,” Jake growled. “Let me hear you. Want to hear you say my name.”

“Jake—Jake—oh my god, Jake—” your sounds pitched higher and higher, breaking into breathless pleas.  

So much for one time, you thought.

“Fuck, (Y/N)—” Jake’s words dissolved into a groan. “So, so fucking perfect—”

You shattered, vision going blurry as your second orgasm crashed through you in waves so intense you couldn’t breathe or think. 

You were wrecked, helplessly fluttering around him, distantly aware of screaming his name—probably loud enough for the entire floor to hear, but you were beyond caring.

The aftershocks rolled through your body, your mind completely white-static as your legs shaked uncontrollably—barely able to remember your own name, let alone form a sober thought.

But Jake—Jake was still moving, still buried inside you with no intent of stopping.

How the hell was he still going? 

“Too much,” you whimpered, trying to push him away even though some deeper part of you absolutely did not want him to stop. 

“I can’t—”

Jake caught your wrists gently but firmly, pinning them gently above your head with one hand. 

His other hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as he slowed his rhythm just slightly.

“Yes you can,” he said, his voice raspy and strained but somehow still demanding. “You can give me one more.”

Fuck. So close. Jake was so fucking close, and you felt incredible.

“I can’t,” you gasped, even as your body betrayed you, already building toward something else despite your protests.

The assailing sensation was intense—almost too much but not quite, toeing that perfect line between pleasure and overwhelm.

“You can,” Jake insisted, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip, holding you steady as he maintained that stupefying pace. “You’re doing so good, (Y/N). So fucking perfect. Just a little more, baby.”

Jake adjusted his angle slightly, hitting that heavenly spot inside you that made you feel dizzy all over again.

“That’s it,” Jake groaned, his grip on your wrists tightening slightly. “Feel so fucking good. You’re taking me so well.”

Your eyes fluttered close, your mouth open in a silent cry as the oversensitivity morphed into something else entirely, your body responding despite your exhausted protests, that familiar coil building again impossibly fast.

“Jake,” you gasped out, his name broken and desperate.

“I know. I know, baby.” His voice was wrecked now, losing that controlled edge. “Come with me. Need you to—fuck—need you to come with me.” His eyebrows drew together, his mouth falling open as his rhythm stuttered. 

The steady, controlled movements were becoming erratic, punctuated by the gorgeous sounds of his deep groans, catching and transform into higher, breathier whimpers when you clenched around him.

The hand on your hip slid between you again, thumb finding you oversensitive clit, and you nearly screamed.

“Every sound you make—god, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.” He whimpered breathlessly chasing his own release.

“Please,” Jake groaned, and you'd never heard him sound so desperate, so undone. “Please, (Y/N). One more. Give me one more.”

So pretty, your mind supplied hazily. He sounded so fucking pretty when he was losing control.

The combination of his fingers, his words, the way he was looking at you like you—it was too much.

You came apart again, harder this time, your vision whiting out as your whole body arched up into his as pleasure crashed over you in a surge that felt endless.

You felt Jake’s rhythm stutter, burying himself into you as he finally, finally found his own hit with a groan that sounded like it was torn from his chest.

You felt him pulse inside you, his whole body going rigid before collapsing against you, his face buried in your neck as he came with a sound that was absolutely the prettiest thing ever. 

“Fuck.” His head dropped to your shoulder, his whole body shuddering, still holding your wrists above your head like he’d forgotten to let go.

Consciousness you lost for a brief second, the dark spots clouding your visions before they gradually faded away. 

Both of you were trembling and gasping for air, your hearts pounding against each other.

Jake lifted his head slightly, his hair a complete disaster and his eyes still unfocused. 

“You okay?”

You let out a breathless hazy laugh. “Ask me that question in five minutes.”

Jake’s laugh was weak but genuine, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before he carefully pulled out, both of you wincing slightly at the sensitivity, before collapsing beside you. 

You laid there in silence for a moment, both trying to catch your breath. 

“That—” you couldn’t even find words. “Jake, that was—”

“Yeah.” Jake echoed breathlessly. 

Fucked. 

Absolutely fucked. In every sense of the word, was what you were.  

There was no way this would be a one time thing. 

[scorpieuns]

2k notes!! 🥹 my first rlly long fic and I am SO happy and grateful I am for all the love and appreciate it has got 🩷🩷 you guys are truly lovely and amazing MWAH

[0210sjy]

*ೃ༄ sim jaeyun “you’re drunk.” — "i know.”

━━ HOW TO GET YOUR EX BACK 101

⋆。ﾟ ( 💬 ) one accidental reunion turns “no contact” into emotional whiplash and oh my god why is he still hot.

ex! jake x fem! reader ˗ˏˋ fluff, smut, porn with plot, rom-com, crack, smau, college au, little angst, second chance, lots of profanity, unprotected sex, oral sex, MDNI ! wc: 27 929 p: we almost broke up last night - sabrina carpenter ; loose - enhypen ; tears - sabrina carpenter ; sugar talking - sabrina carpenter ; imgonnagetyouback - taylor swift ; toxic - britney spears ; bad decisions - ariana grande ; knew better / forever boy - ariana grande ; we find love - daniel ceasar 📌💌 sequel of HOW TO SURVIVE BOYS 101 ... but can be a standalone!

disclaimer : the "reader" pics in this smau is only a filler image for layout purposes. reader is poc-friendly and not meant to represent a specific race, appearance, or identity 🪽

Tip #1: Remember how you lost him.

Bullshit repeats itself – is that how the saying goes?

Ever since Jake had gone to college, conversations turned into check-ins, goodnights into apologies, and affection into something scheduled between deadlines. Time and distance were the main culprits behind the crime scene.

You tried staying up later, phone warm in your palm, eyes half-lidded while he talked about university life. You tried not to mind the missed calls, the delayed replies, the way silence began to feel less like rest – from college? Or you?

Jake tried too and you know he did. He promised visits that almost happened but something came up, I’m sorry, baby. He tried coming back on some weekends, but the demands of freshman year doubled in no time and you’re left on delivered for double hours.

He says his phone's broken but he just forgot to charge it.

You try to pull the plug, suddenly verbal about how it felt like you were the only one bending your time around him, about how effort shouldn’t feel like something you had to ask for. You told him that love shouldn’t feel like this.

Jake didn’t argue; didn’t even try because the way you sounded was worse than any petty fight. Instead, he starts working it out at twelve in the morning.

His alarm was already set for an 8am lecture, but that night, he got in his car and drove three cities back to hometown to get you. There was no warning – just the familiar headlights of his Bronco outside your house. He looked tired and concerned, and you immediately apologized before he could say anything, told him it was just a lot – senior year, the pressure, the uncertainty. He listened, arms squeezing you closer, just nodding.

He stayed until four (despite your protests that he should leave earlier), long enough to make sure you’re okay. He's sweet, no others boys would compete – your words run on scraps.

"We almost broke up again last night."

You've been there a thousand times and there's clear selective memory here. All the I love you's and I'm sorry's were said, but they feel futile. It's drifting apart, a big deal you've been in before and will be in tomorrow.

So the actual breakup wasn’t loud, loaded with knowing.

You talked on your couch when he came from uni, the tears coming before either of you could fully start. He kept wiping his hands on his jeans, fidgeting because he didn’t know what to do with them. 

“I don’t know how to fix this anymore,” you said, voice breaking on the word fix. Because you’d tried fixing, tried patience, tried understanding, tried being quieter about how much it hurt.

A part of you wished he insists, that he thinks otherwise and this is still fixable. Maybe because a part of you was still willing to fix it even when the odds were out.

But he only nodded slowly. “I think it just got… way too demanding, and I don’t know if I’m ready for something like that.”

That was the worst part.

“I love you,” he said, immediately. “I know,” you replied. “I love you.”

The exhaustion of wanting more and having nothing left to give.

You sat there for a long time after that, shoulders slumped, knees still touching, your hands finding his. His thumb brushed over your knuckles in the way it always did, familiar enough to hurt. He left quietly, making no promises, no maybe someday. Just a long, very long hug at the door, his chin resting on the top of your head, breathing you in like this would be the last time.

You watched him walk down the driveway the same way you always did, only this time, he didn’t turn back.

1 year, 2 months, 15 days, folded neatly in a corner of your room, hidden in your ballerina music box.

Tip #2: Do not use Instagram as a test. It’s dumb.

The summer after senior year was something.

College decisions loomed in the background like unfinished business, and it’s sometimes the very thing you dread just remembering. There was one you waited for specifically and God, you were scared shitless because it’s the very thing you’ve always wanted.

The dream university. The one you’d talked about since forever, with passion and persistence of the 13-year-old you. It’s also the school Jake goes to now – of course, with that kind of grit and intelligence? No doubt.

The email came on an ordinary morning, much to your distress because you were just eating cereal when –

The confetti registered first before Congratulations! itself because the decision portal specifically throws confetti across the screen when you’ve been accepted. That’s what makes you scream and cry and hug your mom and dad buys cake with custom icing and Evan calls you a crybaby, but he’s got a wide smile on his face for you. 

Then like muscle memory because your body tends to forget – it comes like instinct when you know it shouldn’t have.

You thought of Jake; your former number one supporter. The first person who’d told you you could do it, who’d sent you links to campus resources, who’d promised about showing you all the best spots when you get in. Back when when still existed.

You hadn’t talked ever since the break-up, as things should be between people with history (11-year-long history, to be precise). Although you still followed each other in social media, only at a distance so deliberate and established even without negotiation. No liking posts, no watching stories, just a quiet agreement to let each other live separately while still being one call away.

Definitely unhealthy – it’s really not good and it speaks a lot about your attachment.

You added the screenshot to your close friends with a caption of “see you”, balancing both the meaning of academic and, maybe, him, which is pathetic but who can blame a yearning (and desperate, clearly) heart. You included him after overthinking it for 35 more minutes which you reason out as “to see what would happen”.

Until a whole day passed and you received nothing.

Fucking hell, you are pathetic.

Of course he wouldn’t check, of course it was a dumb idea. You settled with screaming into your pillow, then you picked yourself back up with the notion that it doesn’t matter because this moment was yours and it didn’t need an audience – much less one from an ex.

The first week of college was easy. 

The campus was bigger than you ever thought it was – so you did indeed get lost multiple times and walked in lecture halls late with shame chiming around you. By the end of the week, you learned the schedule, learned shortcuts across campus (for when body and alarm clock betrays you), and discovered a coffee shop that made the best tactic to stay awake for your 8am.

For the next month, weeks blurred, lectures became routine, notes just got less pretentious, assignments demanded attention.

The crazy part — aside from your mind — was that you haven’t seen him yet, let it be in the library after staying there for hours, or in the hallways when you’re trying to get to your next class.

Not that you were hoping but – okay, you were and that’s not a crime, just very self-inflecting and sad. But you go on anyway.

Tip #3: All this tension, baby, let your body loose.

“You have to come!” Mia said, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she had stakes in your social life. “It’s the first real party of the semester. Everyone’s going.”

“Yeah,” Lila chimed in, voice dragging your name out like a cautionary tale. “We deserve a night off.”

You cross your arms, melting back against your friends cushions like ice cream. “I have dues tomorrow,” you muttered, though the thought of seeing new faces – and maybe forgetting about deadlines for a few hours – was tempting. However, saving yourself the hangover for a promised productivity tomorrow seems even more enticing.

“You are so –” Mia basically pounces you and starts tickling your sides, as you shriek and swat your arms in defense, “ – boring!”

Once you finally get her off you, both of you breathless, you glare at her with mock offense.

You truly do think about it, staring at their posters that stuck loosely against the wall while you do. A month in, and everything already felt like a balancing act in the circus – classes, expectations, this new version of yourself you were still figuring out. Maybe a few hours off wouldn’t ruin anything.

Lila nudged you. “Stop overthinking. Just come. It’s a cool, chill night. We’ll keep you safe. We’ll make you dance. We’ll –”

“Fine, fine,” you cut her off, laughing despite yourself. “I’ll go. But I’m not getting drunk.”

It’s still early when you arrive (12am), early enough that the place hasn’t fully filled in yet. There’s space to breathe and move without squeezing past bodies, but the music is already loud and colored lights sweep lazily across the room. Mia spots someone the moment you three managed to move through the crowd. “Oh my god – hey!” she calls out, already waving, and before you can process it, you’re being pulled along. Quick introductions are exchanged over the music – name you only half-catch, smiles that come easy.

He leads your group through the room to an open table near the back, just far enough from the speakers that you don’t have to shout. You slide into one of the couches, the leather smooth against your legs and Lila leans close to say something you barely catch over the music. At some point, you realize Mia isn’t beside you anymore, but before you can even text her, she’s back – grinning, triumphant, weaving through people with three plastic cups in her hands.

“Miss me?” she asks, setting one in front of you.

You blink, surprised. “When did you –”

“Don’t ask,” she cuts in, sliding another drink toward Lila. “Just drink.”

You lift the cup and take a cautious sip because you don’t trust the palate of a drunkard. It’s sweet before the bitter taste of alcohol comes, making you cringe back from the unexpectedness. It’s honestly exciting.

Mia clinks her cup against yours. “To surviving the first month!”

You have no idea yet that this is where things start to shift.

The friend Mia greeted earlier comes back, smiling at all of you. “Uh, would it be okay with you guys if our groups kind of merge? My friends just came.” his hands do gestures and immediately, you all agree before he even finishes the sentence. Lila’s already scooting over to make space, Mia’s cheering over the music.

He looks relieved, flashing a quick thank-you smile.

You take slow sips of your drink, letting the liquid cool the small knot of nerves you didn’t realize had formed in your stomach. You don’t get to be all jumpy and edgy in the function that demanded someone buoyant and convivial.

Though, you definitely should have expected doom – when some already-drunk dude comes and stumbles on your lap that you shriek in pure horror like a lead in Scream. You immediately shove him off and he lands on the floor, wasted and absolutely gone, while his friends apologize with pressed palms. You try to contain the sour expression on your face – but you can’t, because half your drink has spilled on you.

Great. Love that.

Because now you feel sticky and you smell like alcohol before anything real even began, your mood spoiling like you personally invited the bacteria in. Before you could curdle further into deciding to leave and plunge into the comfort and sterility of your bed, Mia’s already pulling you up on your feet to get to the bathroom.

Like some cruel, cinematic twist, the growing crowd press bodies closer and someone knocks into you without meaning to, of course, because you’re God’s number 1 favorite child besides the Redeemer. Either way, you stumble on your heel and you’re pushed into someone else for the nth time tonight, though you don’t really try to bother with a genuine apology. You mutter something half-assed, preparing yourself to squeeze into the crowd until you decide to glance.

Holy. Fuck.

For a split second, your brain stalls. And you’re frozen and you think that this has to be some kind of divine intervention as they like to call it, because this man has to be one of God’s loyal angels with the way the party lights start to uncoil as strobes behind him, and he’s here to announce the birth of some Messiah that will save the world.

Maybe you’re supposed to be expecting soon with the way alcohol isn’t the only thing making you wet now.

Everything rushes in at once – and you’re bombarded with the unfair reality of male supremacy in genetics. He’s taller than you remember, even with your heels on. Broader shoulders, solid in a way that makes it obvious time didn’t just pass him by, it worked on him. He’s filled out, grown into himself that didn’t change him but made him look more mature.

And now, Jaeyun Sim's staring at you like this was exactly what he didn’t expect in some random Friday party, much less in his local university club.

(Backtrack – Jake knows you’re attending the same university after receiving the news from Evan, who, despite the breakup, announces certain things about you as if to keep Jake updated. He never asked and never really stopped him either. So imagine how he feels, when the woman he knew didn’t exactly like parties bumps into him in one after one whole month on campus.)

The guy Mia knows is still talking, introducing his friends, but you can barely process anything past this one in front of you. The music isn’t helping, by the way, because it’s playing ‘Shout Out to My Ex’ by Little Mix.

Then he fucking smiles at you. Casually. Amused.

What the fuck?

“Hi.”

Jake reaches a hand out and you stare at it, well, first at his long fingers, then his wide palm, then the veins that travel all the way through his arms. “Didn’t know you go to parties.” he says and you look up at him through your lashes again, seeing that smile that doesn’t show much, just that he’s seeing you right here in front of him and he doesn’t hate it.

You try smiling too (works out fine; you look hot, he clears his throat), because you can’t be the one flustered while he’s here looking like God’s favorite, and casually reaches out his hand to you like you’re just someone he kind of knew back in high school.

Finally, your hand clasps with his. A dap, a squeeze; he taught you how to do it properly back then when you were together, something you do every after making out.

“I always do,” you reply, clearly pointed. His eyebrows knit for a few seconds, before he realizes what you mean, then he breaks out to a wider smile.

Before anything else can happen, Mia grabs your arm like a lifeline and yanks you through the crowd until you’re finally pressed up against the bathroom wall, the sounds of the party muffled behind the door. “How do you know that guy?!”

You basically scream into your hands once you get inside, while Mia yanks you beneath the hand dryer, pulling specifically the wet patch underneath to let it dry. 

Right. You got alcohol on you. You practically forgot how wet you are.

“That was my fucking ex, Mia!” you shriek.

She freezes immediately, eyes going wide when she realizes who you’re talking about.

“Wait. Wait. Wait. That’s… no. That’s the guy? Wait, first or second?”

“Second,” you groan again, slumping against the wall. “The same one. Holy shit, Mia. The same one.”

She grabs your shoulders and shakes you lightly. “And he’s here. At this party. And he’s… what. Hotter? Better?”

You groan again, throwing your hands in the air. “Mia, I can’t. I wanna go home.”

She rolls your eyes and shakes you by the shoulders again to get yourself together because you’re too hot and gorgeous to malfunction like this. After much encouragement from her (it didn’t work, you still feel like a slug against the wall), you two finally get out of the bathroom. She promises a drink just to get you your guts back, and of course, she delivers. She orders you two shots to salt the slug out of you, demanding you drink them now like the alcoholic-maniac she is. And like the disaster you are, you chug the burn down your throat.

The last thing you need right now is to care about your ex.

And to think about how hot he’s gotten after a few months. Like he needed to glow up, like how he looked wasn’t enough.

You know how to handle your drink well, but chugging down two straight shots must’ve fucked you up good because your knees feel weaker and your vision welcomes the lights as streaks that do wonders with feeling afloat.

You steady yourself by the table once you two get back. Your head feels light, but not in a bad way – only like the world softened around the edges and you remember that this isn’t high school; this is something you have to explore and enjoy.

So you do that. You don’t mind the reminder of high school at the corner of your peripheral, sitting on the couch so easily. 

You shake hands. You do the half-hug introductions like you’ve been friends for years. You repeat your name more times than you can count, watch it get lost immediately in the music.

Every now and then, you glance.

It follows him; the noise, the lights, the looks, because it’s him. Jake. The handsome guy in the group, the hot one in the team, the golden one even when he’s just smiling. No matter where, even in the corner of the room when he’s not doing anything – not even drowning himself in intoxication like you are. 

You know that much – the girl beside you has been eyeing the ‘guy in a leather jacket and eyeglasses at the side’. Jake, of course, who's got his sleeves rolled up like he doesn’t know just what kind of effect his veiny arms have. You admit, your heel might have jabbed her foot a few times, accidentally or not.

Jake’s a few feet away in the other table, leaning back with the natural ease of directing himself through social gatherings without trying hard. He’s talking to someone, head tipped slightly as he listens, smiling at something you can’t hear.

He’s not looking at you

A twinge blooms in the middle of your chest, just between the bones that cage your lungs. But before it worsens, you’re already bottoming out a drink Lila offered to you because you’re not about to orbit someone who somehow had the time for social stuff but never enough time for you. 

You wonder about the nights you waited for Jake’s reply while he was out partying. The thought steadies you more than the alcohol does.

You straighten a little, roll your shoulders back, remind yourself that this isn’t a competition, and you look too hot to treat the night like a loss

You don’t realize it at first. That some guy’s flirting with you.

You recognize him though, he’s part of the group that came in with who-shall-not-be-named.

He’s tall, and sometimes he leans down to hear you. His smile’s great and you remember him talking something about engineering. You don’t care, you don’t even try to care. But your own body betrays you because your heels have been slowly killing you, and your legs don’t function the way they do when you’re sober. So when someone accidentally bumps into you again, you stumble back and lean against him. He laughs low, ducks down to whisper how clumsy you are while his hand settles on the small of your back to steady you.

This is stupid. You feel stupid. Not ecstatic in any way at all.

The guy beside you says something again – teasing, light, trying – much of your disinterest. He takes a step closer and says your name like it’s something he wants to remember. 

You look around when the guy beside you takes a sip of his drink, letting this moment catch. 

But Jake’s eyes are already on you. He’s not laughing nor talking anymore, just watching you.

His expression is unreadable, jaw set tightly, the muscle jumps once and his hand curls around his cup like he’s finally clocking the distance between you and the guy, like he’s noticed the hand at your back.

The guy beside you leans in again. “So,” he says, voice easy, confident. “You're single, right?”

You don’t answer – you don’t even look at him. Your eyes stay on Jake and he doesn’t look away either. He’s looking at you like he’s sick of pretending he does not see you. Like he’s wondering if he’s been too patient waiting for a sign.

He turns away, taking a sip of his drink like he meant for you to catch him too, and now he’s frustrated that he's caught something else he didn't want. His jaw is still clenched, tight enough that the line of it looks sharper under the dim lights when he tilts his head slightly to the side, licking the inside of his cheek in the way he does when he’s mad.

You see that goddamn nose, tall and pointed. And you want nothing but to sit on it in front of this guy.

VIRGINs™.

You close your eyes and pull away like you’re burnt, not even managing a simple polite excuse before you practically shove him away from you and find your way to your friends.

Mia’s there immediately, she grabs your wrist and yanks you back into the safety of your circle. “Come on, babe. Drink up.”

Lila’s already pressing a cup into your hand, eyes sharp, knowing, and they’re assholes for this. Still, it’s comforting, the way they’re holding you now. “Bottoms up!”

You drink it immediately, barely registering the taste before you feel the rush, the way it hits your bloodstream and scrambles everything before they could form something coherent such as Jake’s face and how mad he looked when someone else had you.

“Dance?” Mia asks with an encouraging yell, but she’s already pulling the three of you together into the dance floor. 

The music crashes over you again, bass rolling through your chest and loosening something in your knees. The alcohol smooths everything out until moving feels easy and impulsive. You follow Mia and Lila without thinking, letting the rhythm carry you forward like a tide. Bodies blur together around you – all grinding, swaying, hands reaching up toward the lights as they flash and stutter. You drift closer to them, arms brushing, steps syncing, three girls caught in the same pulse, heat and laughter and movement packed into a space too tight and too loud. 

You close your eyes. You let the music hold you. And even when you try not to, you feel it; Jake’s gaze lingering on you like a ghost of warmth, woven into the rhythm, impossible to shake.

Tip #4: Think imgonnagetyouback mindset.

It’s 4am.

The music has started to die down. The chaos of the party is reduced to less and scattered laughter, half-empty cups, and people basically fumbling for their coats with wobbly feet and fucked vision. You swear you can smell vomit somewhere near, you’re just not sure if it’s on you and dangerously close by. 

You’re halfway gone on the couch, leaning against Mia’s shoulder because it’s the only thing keeping you upright right now. Deadweight, basically. Lila is fussing over you, holding a bottle of water up your lips like it’s a lifesaver. “C’mon, just one sip. You’ll thank me.”

“‘m fine,” you mutter in that slurred way, eyes half-closed, and completely stubborn while you swat her away like a useless baby. “You’re not fine. Look at you, Ms. I’m-not-getting-drunk.”

“‘m fiiiine,” you repeat, muffled against Mia’s shoulder, mostly because speaking more feels exhausting.

You don’t see it, but Jake’s with his friends. He’s laughing quietly, ready to disappear into the cold late hour, early morning. He’s completely normal and okay, sober compared to the disastrous sight of you. Which should be very embarrassing, but you’re way too blacked out to even know what’s happening.

He stops. His gaze flicks toward you. “Hey,” he calls softly.

Mia and Lila immediately exchange a look  – half amusement, half mischief – because of course, of course this is happening. And your ass is too drunk to handle your own plotline, so what would these simple women do if not steer it for you?

“Uh… he’s asking about you,” Mia says slowly, patting your leg. You groan softly. “Tell h’m ’m fine,” you mumble, voice battered with alcohol, low and coarse from fatigue.

“Tell him yourself,” Lila says, and you groan again.

Jake’s friends start moving toward the door, laughing under their breath and nudging him along. But Jake stays where he is across from you, doing something he knows he shouldn’t be doing (has been doing for the past few hours anyway), which is staring. Because whatever he’s feeling right now has him frozen in place, ethics slipping through his fingers, all because of you.

And in that second, when he looks at you better and sees just how disheveled you look, the tiniest smirk tugs at his lips, not even attempting to restrain himself. He looks like he’s holding back a joke, like he knows exactly what your stubborn little face is doing, leaning there, stubborn and tipsy and entirely (not) his.

“Is she okay?” he asks, not teasing, just him.

Mia snorts, Lila laughs quietly. Then, you lift your head to shoo away this man, until you see him and freeze, dignity crumbling little by little the more time you spend in this godforsaken club.

Jake. Standing there, relaxed, very much sober, and looking at you. Just you.

“You okay?” he asks again, softer than before.

And you can’t help it. A tiny, annoyed frown slips onto your face, one you didn’t mean to make, because of all the alcohol and the chaos and the mess of people bothering you, you see him and you remember you’re not exactly goody-goody with him, but he’s here asking if you’re okay anyway, acting so concerned about you.

Last time you remember, he can’t make time for you!

“’m fine,” you blurt, slurred, stubborn, mad, and a little breathless.

Then you fall back on Mia’s shoulder, deciding upon yourself that this is just a dream and he will disappear and you can go back to the life he wasn’t a part of.

Of course, he’s not convinced. 

Jake’s gaze flicks to Mia and Lila. He knows that you’re stubborn enough to try to walk home on your own if left unchecked.

“How are you getting her home?” he asks them this time, voice calm but with that subtle edge of concern.

Mia straightens a little, gauging just how to strategically use this wild card given to her by the guardian angels themselves like it’s fucking Uno. “Honestly? I don’t fucking know.”

Jake looks at both of them – at you – much in disbelief. Mia firmly believes she made the best choice.

Jake’s gaze shifts back to Mia and Lila, serious now, like now he’s assessing the logistics of this situation. “Where’s… uh, her dorm?” he asks, calm but firm.

Mia smiles and has the nerve to relax against the couch. “Oh… uh, it’s actually a bit farther away,” she says quickly, waving her hands vaguely. “But…it’s 4 am, there’s creeps out, and, you know…we’re all girls.” She lets the last part hang, her eyes flicking to you and Lila for piteous effect, acting the part of damsels in distress.

Jake raises an eyebrow. Before he can even open his mouth, Mia’s already talking again. “So… do you think you can take her? Please? We are soooo tired, it’s sooo late, and she’s basically useless right now.” She glances down at you slumped against her shoulder, half-asleep, barely clinging to consciousness.

Lila’s already nodding emphatically after understanding this turn of events, giving you a little squeeze for emphasis. “Yeah. You’d be, like… her hero or something,” she says, grinning.

Jake lets out a quiet, almost exasperated laugh.

“Guess that’s my job, then,” he says, voice low and soft, almost like he’s talking just to you about something only you’d understand. 

Always to the rescue, apparently.

One second you’re warm and hazy against Mia’s shoulder, the next you’re being shifted, hands lifting you under your arms, voices overlapping in a blur of wait – careful – okay, got her – 

And then, Oh. This is familiar.

You press into his chest without thinking, forehead tipping forward until it rests just beneath his collarbone. His sweater is warm and smells faintly like detergent and something unmistakably like his perfume – you know because you bought it for him last Valentines.

Jake stiffens for half a second.

Then he exhales, adjusts his grip, one arm sliding more securely around your back, the other settling under your knees. He struggles a little, just a little, shifting his footing, maybe because he’s still registering the reality of you in his arms.

You make a tiny sound in protest, brows knitting faintly in your sleep, and he smiles wider.

Mia points a finger at him immediately, all serious now. “You take care of her. I will hunt you down.”

Lila crosses her arms. “I know where you live.” (she doesn’t)

Jake snorts quietly. “Duly noted.”

He looks down at you again, expression softening, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your side like muscle memory never left him. You shift closer, nose brushing his sweater. “I’ve got her,” he says, steady now.

Mia and Lila exchange a look, satisfied with their contribution to this plot twist and turning the course of events in your life effectively, then step back, already halfway to freedom. The script’s flipped and you’re leaving a dumb party with him, no handcuffs needed.

“Text us when she’s in bed,” Mia adds. “And water. Make her drink water.”

Jake nods. “Yeah. I know.”

With you tucked against him, asleep and unaware, Jake Sim turns toward the door and carries you out into the quiet, early-morning air. He slips you into the passenger seat of his Bronco, which smells like faint cologne and pristine, organized and fixed while – you are basically deadweight, heavy, and uncooperative, completely misplaced in his world. So when you shift in the passenger seat to get more comfortable after he slides you in, your elbow swings out without warning, smacking him lightly in the face while he’s trying to buckle you in.

“Whoa – hey,” Jake mutters, voice low but amused. You groan softly, like you’re the one who deserves to get mad, eyes still half-shut. 

You slump further, letting yourself sink into the seat, muttering something that barely comes out as a coherent “sorry” that obviously isn’t meant. He doesn’t say much, just shifts the car into gear, and starts driving.

The next memory hits and you’re in the dorm lobby, blinking at the familiar walls while Jake has you wrapped up in his arms. Suddenly, you notice your own weight again and decide, maybe you can walk on your own.

“Okay, I’m good,” you mutter, pushing lightly at him.

“No, you’re not,” Jake protests, tightening his hold.

“I can walk, thank you very much.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you pry yourself from his clutch and take a shaky step forward, bare feet on the cold marble, instantly a washing regret because it’s freezing. Only then do you realize – you’re not wearing heels, you’re not even holding your bag, and Jake is standing there with basically everything you own, dangling in his hands like some overzealous luggage attendant.

“Really, you’re just showing off now, aren’t you?” you huff.

He gives you an “are you serious?” guise, and he looks fed up if it weren’t for the small smile that says otherwise. Like he’s entertained and he likes this, watching you with the kind of gaze too thrilled for someone who’s supposedly your ex. 

Maybe around five steps later, your foot catches and you stumble, losing balance instantly. Before you even fall, his arms are around you again, steadying you — and once again you’re pressed against him. He lets out a soft scoff of amusement, finding you both irritating and adorable simultaneously.

“We should stick to plan A,” he murmurs, the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re too drunk to pretend you’re not.”

You groan into his chest, limbs still heavy. But you don’t protest anymore, letting him guide you to the elevator. He gets you to your room with minimal fighting this time.

The door clicks shut behind you, the familiar quiet and comfortability settling in way too fast because now you just want to sleep pronto. Jake guides you over gently, hands warm and steady at your waist until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You sit down obediently, blinking up at him like you’re trying very hard to stay awake and failing anyway.

“Okay,” he murmurs, already turning. “Stay.”

You do. Shockingly.

By the time he comes back with a cold bottle of water, you’re slouched slightly, hands folded in your lap, hair falling over your face. He presses the bottle into your hands and nudges it toward your mouth.

“Drink,” he says softly, the way he used to – like he knows you’ll listen if he keeps his voice gentle.

You do. You take small sips, nose scrunching at the cold, eyes half-lidded as he watches to make sure you actually swallow. He waits until you’ve had enough, then takes the bottle back and sets it on your desk within reach.

“There you go,” he says, quiet praise tucked into the words.

He thinks he should go now, now that you’re safely in your room and in your bed. Though he hesitates, eyes flicking to your face – your lashes clumped with false lashes and mascara, faint shimmer still clinging to your lids, concealer intact, lipstick smudged. A smile tugs at his mouth, fond, and a little resigned.

“You’re gonna hate it if you sleep like that,” he says lightly, gently poking your cheek. “D’you want to take your makeup off?”

You nod immediately, just small and sleepy, still fighting your way to stay awake.

“Mm,” you hum.

He exhales a soft laugh and heads to your bathroom, carefully of course, cautiously going through your room and locating familiar products on your counter. He comes back with your remover, cotton pads, even your headband.

He places everything carefully into your hands. “Here.”

You stare down at it – long, blank, confused – like you’re waiting for them to work themselves out onto your face. Then you look up at him, brows pinched slightly, lips pouting in concentration like you’re trying to remember a thought you just had.

“‘M just… gonna sleep,” you decide, voice small and stubborn, followed by a yawn.

Jake closes his eyes for a second, pinching his nose bridge before his hands fall on his hips. “Yeah,” he sighs, smiling despite himself. “I figured.”

He gently takes the things from you before you can drop them, then crouches properly in front of you. He tilts your chin up with two fingers, touch feather-light. 

“Don’t move,” he murmurs.

He gently and carefully removes your false lashes first. Then he soaks a pad and starts slow, careful, wiping beneath one eye first, one side at a time. His touch is patient like he’s handling something fragile.

“That okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod again, leaning into his hand without thinking. He smiles at that, just gently holds your jaw.

He works in silence, almost reverent in the way he handles you so gently. He’s switching pads, murmuring the occasional “there we go” or “almost done,” wiping makeup away until your face is bare and clean again. His thumb lingers for half a second at your cheek, warm, familiar.

You sway slightly, fighting sleep, eyes drooping.

“Hey,” he says gently, tapping your knee, tipping your chin back with his two fingers. “Stay with me, yeah?”

You hum in response, something content and sleepy, and his chest tightens.

He stands when he’s done, then he sets everything aside and looks at you for a long moment – sitting on your bed, hair messy, makeup gone, eyes heavy but trusting. You’re looking up at him through your lashes, and he really likes you that way. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs before he can stop himself.

Your brows knit together, lips pushing into a soft, unhappy pout, like something about this doesn’t sit right with you – because with all honesty, this feels like something you’d look back with regret and hate.

Jake notices immediately. He straightens a little, eyes searching your face. “What is it?”

You blink at him, slow and glassy, like you’re trying to line your thoughts up and they keep slipping away. “…why’re you here?” you ask, voice slurred, small, and drunk.

He shouldn’t engage with you when you’re like this.

Still. He can’t not.

“What?”

You frown deeper, shaking your head slightly, hair falling into your eyes again. “You’re… you’re acting like you care,” you mumble. “Why are you pretending?”

His brows furrow this time. “I’m not pretending,” he says quietly.

You scoff, weak and breathy, clearly unconvinced, clearly drunk. “It’s not fair.”

Jake swallows. “You’re drunk,” he says gently. “You’re tired.”

You nod once, sharply. “Yeah. And you’re here. And you’re… being like this.” Your voice wobbles despite your effort to sound annoyed, you point a finger at him. He glances at it then back to you, not being able to keep himself from smiling. “So which one is it, Jaeyun?”

The way you say his name undoes him. Completely.

When he doesn’t answer you, you frown, trying to focus through the fog in your brain. “Probably like this with all the girls you meet, then?” 

He blinks once before he chuckles quietly, very amused with your insobriety. Then, slowly and deliberately, he leans over just enough to tap your forehead with a finger, teasing but gentle. “Aren’t you the one who was flirting with some guy tonight?” he asks, half-smile tugging at his lips. His eyes shine with something you can’t quite name – soft amusement, pride, maybe even jealousy in the right angle.

You let out an incredulous laugh. “I don’t like him.” you mumble, head leaning back, eyes half-lidded when you look up at him through your lashes.

Jake’s smile softens, grows warmer, almost proud. “I know,” he says simply.

Your chest hammers, and it’s not just the alcohol anymore – hasn't been, really – it’s him. He watches you like he’s memorizing every detail – the messy hair, the curve of your hips, the way your eyes drift between amused and annoyed – and you feel seen. Now, you know, you’re hopelessly, irreversibly caught; drunk or not.

You murmur something then, so soft it barely makes it past your lips.

Jake blinks. “What?”

You don’t repeat it. You just stare at him, eyes unfocused, lashes heavy, mouth tight because the words slipped out before you could decide if you meant them.

He leans in a little. “Hey,” he says quietly. “What’d you say?” As he moves closer, his hand lifts on its own. He gently tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear like he’s afraid of startling you.

You both know this shouldn’t happen, that this is beyond the rules of exes and the quiet decency you’re supposed to keep between people who already broke each other once. This look, this closeness, the way his attention lingers like he’s forgotten how to pull it back – it’s all wrong. And yet he’s looking at you like he’s still falling, slow and helpless, like nothing ever ended, and in the quiet of it you realize the worst part isn’t that it’s happening. It’s that you want it to. Drunk or sober.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you look up at him from under your lashes.

“I miss you,"

Jake's heart? It does a sharp, traitorous jump, like it’s trying to climb into his throat, and for a split second he forgets how to speak. The golden star he is, known for being well-spoken and articulate with his sentences now rot speechless in the presence of the only girl he’s ever loved.

“Oh,” he says, because it’s the only sound he can manage.

His hand drops slowly back to his side, turning into a fist, like he needs the grounding of knowing better than let this thrive.

“Hey,” he murmurs, quieter now, steadier than he really feels. “You’re drunk.”

You nod, breaking away the eye contact. “I know.”

Jake swallows, jaw tightening as he looks down at you. He looks… a bit wrecked, like he’s trying to decide whether this is real or just the cruelty of 4 am and too much alcohol. His hand slides to your jaw again, thumb warm against your cheek, grounding himself just as much as it does you.

Then he leans in.

He dips his head just enough that his lips brush on your forehead. And with hesitance, he presses another kiss at the bridge of your nose.

You let out a small, breathy laugh. It slips out of you, soft, a little incredulous, and you lift your hand to weakly shove at his chest. “What the fuck are you doing.” you say through a breathy laugh, half-protest, half-something else entirely but feels close to intimate.

Jake smiles. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction. “Relax,” he murmurs, fond – always fond. “You’re gonna knock me out like that.” His sarcasm makes your blood and chest curl with heat. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but your hand lingers at his chest instead of pulling away. He glances down at it, then back at you, smile deepening just a little. You try to shove him again, this time with even less force, because you’re everything messy but he likes that anyway. “You’re weird.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, eyes warm. “You’ve told me that before.

Bygone will be the bygone’s era, yet they fade into gray, blurry, and uncertain. Because he who should remain obsolete looks the most vibrant in the dull vision of intoxication. You can’t decide whether you’re gonna curse him out or pull him into bed with you – but now, you hate him all the same. Because you can hear the whispers in his eyes – and they sound a lot like late night apologies for not finding time for you.

Jake straightens at last, hands lifting in surrender. “Okay,” he says gently. “That’s my cue.”

You start to fall back on your mattress, head back against your soft pillow from incredulity at what the fuck life has brought you to.

You’re just drunk, you think, for the way indignation (from remembering) and nerves blend into a tarty smoothie in the pit of your stomach. Jake carefully helps you tuck in and pulls the blanket higher around you.

“Sleep,” he whispers. “We’ll talk when you’re not like this.”

He waits until your breathing evens out, which doesn’t take long. Once the tension leaves your shoulders, your lashes finally rest against your cheeks, and your fingers loosen their grip on the blanket. Only then does he move again. Jake slips into the bathroom, opening the cabinet above the sink, and finds what he’s looking for almost immediately. He takes a couple of painkillers then places them beside your water bottle, lined up like a reminder for the morning.

You’re curled slightly on your side now, blanket pulled up to your chin, hair fanned like feathers across the pillow. He dims the light instead of off, and steals one final glance over his shoulder – like he’s imprinting the sight of you into memory.

Then he leaves. That familiar smile lingers on his face – the kind that’s always been yours.

He finds it that he was never not yours.

Tip #5: He’s responsible, proceed with caution.

You wake up with a really shitty hungover. Your head hurts, your mouth tastes like regret, and your brain keeps replaying things it shouldn’t be replaying. Then there’s knocking at 10:17 am, according to your phone, which feels too early for anything.

You consider pretending you’re dead, but Mia has never respected boundaries, not even in theory.

They settle in like this was always the plan, like your room is a recovery ward for debriefs and recollection and greasy sandwich breakfast. 

Then they say his name casually like it doesn’t still do things to you. 

Jake pretended he didn’t care.  Jake was normal.  Jake was looking at you every time you moved.  Jake was looking when you weren’t. 

You don’t know which part makes your stomach twist harder, the fact that you weren’t imagining it or the fact that it changes nothing, because knowing he still looks doesn’t mean he’s allowed to.

You’re feeling everything all at once, which you shouldn’t, by the way, because he’s your fucking ex.

And then the water bottle and the pain killers on your nightstand – a reminder from him and the physical evidence of his tracks that he was here.

You go on to fill their hearts content with what happened last night, about how Jake was so responsibly firm and gentle with you and treated it as if it wasn’t an inconvenience. As if he had the time to do all of it; slowly, carefully, steadily, not in a rush for a deadline he’ll say sorry for later – not anymore. Last night, in your own room while you were drunk and gone, Jake Sim played daddy.

Mia peeks through her fingers. “You’re saying this very emotionally.”

“I’m saying this very hormonally,” you snap. 

Right now, you remember the wet patch of alcohol from last night. As well as the tears you’ve shed from high school because he wasn’t able to manage his routine in a way that he can balance his school life and your relationship. 

Right now, Jake isn’t that. He can hold you without it feeling like he’s losing time. Right now, you get fucking wet from the thought of him being a responsible guy, treating you like he was supposed to do – and yeah, you remember the tears, except they’re running down your thighs now.

A little “There you go,”, “Drink.”“Don’t move,”, “That okay?”“Stay with me, yeah?”, and of course, “Good girl,”, which is plainly ideal foreplay.

You’re mid-chew when your phone buzzes on the mattress behind you.

Mia manages to snatch it before you can, and you basically start whining for her to give it back. Too late, she’s read the preview and says it out loud, 

jake: you alive?

You groan, dropping back on your bed because you’re absolutely emotional and embarrassed and hungover and turned on by your ex. 

You can’t believe it. After months of no contact ever since the breakup, specifically 7 months and 2 days ago, he breaks it to ask if you’re alive like he didn't just kill you.

“I hate him,” you mumble.

“You absolutely do not,” Mia says, shoving your phone back to you immediately. “Text him back.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Mia says, already sitting on your legs to pester you.

You stare at the screen. This totally isn’t fair and you know that he knows this is wrong – exes don’t talk to each other and check up on one another and tuck each other in and kiss each other’s foreheads. 

Before the girls protest which reponse sounds natural, your phone buzzes again.

jake: drink water btw

You shut your eyes and try to calm down your heart while he tries murdering it with Instagram texts. What is he doing? Why’s he doing it? Does he know he’s actively committing felony?

“Oh my God,” Lila whispers. “He’s still taking care of you."

Mia flops beside you. “Okay. We’re doing this strategically.”

“No strategy,” you say quickly. “I am not opening a door.”

“Too late,” Mia says. “The door is already cracked. He carried you through it.”

Fuck, she has a point. 

Your head still aches, but it’s not just the hangover anymore. It’s the memory of his hands steady on your waist while he talks you through it, his voice low and patient. He didn’t rush you. Didn’t take. Didn’t demand anything. Just stayed. Willingly. And smiled charmingly while he did – with extremely good teeth too.

You exhale slowly, then finally type: alive. sorry if i was a lot.

You hit send before you can chicken out, and the three of you stare at the screen like it’s a bomb.

The reply comes almost instantly. Oh wow, now he remembers how to use a phone – how to charge it too.

jake: you werent

That’s it. No flirting, no emotional ambush, no anything else, just a message that makes you think if he’s letting you open a conversation or if he’s closing it himself. He really is messing with your brain, and it’s not good for you – nothing about Jake Sim was ever good for you.

Tip #6: Prepare for the Instagram story.

Your phone stays quiet from his messages for the rest of the following weeks. At first you tell yourself that it’s good. It’s proof that you’re both mature and healthy, because you acknowledged that the night happened, but didn’t see it as an opening for anything else. 

Except you, maybe. You’re back to wondering where he is on campus. It’s life playing tricks on you; letting your heart go on a rollercoaster of events only to snatch it and buckle you back in your routine that didn’t include him.

Jake wasn’t an online kind of person ever since college started, only really posted stories when someone else mentions him on theirs. Stalking him through social media is futile, but you always go back to his posts, anyway – like a temporary remedy.

There used to be four posts, three highlights. But for very obvious reasons, your proof of occupation was removed.

It feels like highschool, when you danced this humiliation pirouette around something you wanted but had to pretend you didn’t. To act like you’re not itching even though your concentration has been compromised, which is obviously piteous for someone as bright as you. 

So you don’t do anything, more than willing to participate in this game of composure to see who’d break first. You keep your decorum. You keep your dignity folded neatly in your back pocket.

Nothing happens.

‘Til it’s late out and you’ve just finished studying 2 lessons – which obviously immediately means you’re more emotionally unstable and desolate tonight. And you’re not exactly expecting a tragic ambush for the cherry on top, because you're not thinking right now, not when your mind’s running on about limits in Calculus 1 – which is ironic because you're clearly on one.

It’s muscle memory, really – open app, tap, tap, oh. You don’t even register it until the screen loads and the familiar username appears on the top of your screen.

You’ve viewed it 52 seconds after he uploaded the story. Like you were waiting on his proof of life and decided to pounce him, straddling and all, the moment it shows.

And then when you process just what the story is, that’s where your stomach drops. It’s a repost from a girl’s story, who took a picture of Jaeyun leaning against the table, using his phone while she’s holding coffee and sitting really close – as in, legs brushing, overly intimate, something old you would post when he was your boyfriend – that you scoff so loudly and practically fling yourself back against your chair.

So that’s why. That’s why he didn’t text even though he said you’ll talk when you’re sober. He has a girlfriend and obviously, you’re the last thing he’d ever have in mind. And you? You remain lonely and single and pathetic and pining for another man in other girls stories and leg-brushing-tionship.

That’s also when you notice the little caption tucked in the corner. thanks for the coffee ig

Right, and she’s flirting plainly and publicly and clearly claiming territory. You don’t even see her face but you could tell immediately how perfect she probably is, as far as your insecurities are concerned: she’s the same year, probably shares ⅔ of his classes, sees him all the time, and gets free coffee from him.

And your phone’s been suffering lately, attempting to function on 1gb left on your storage. It’s laggy, that’s when it downright betrays you after 2 years together. It lags and your hand probably slips or something, because you like the story.

Shit.

You blink. Then you scream. You unlike it then you throw your phone away after, shrieking against your pillow while you decide whether it’s time to delete your Instagram account for good. You decide on multiple options here actually, but all of it comes to a choice when your phone buzzes.

jake: ?

God you wish you could sleep. But there are monsters in your head called impulse and pride, and they’re tag-teaming you while your phone lights up like it knows exactly how weak you are. You stare at the screen. The single question mark feels louder than any paragraph he could’ve sent and it’s annoying and he feels like the asshole he never was.

you: phone lagged mb

You hit send before you can overthink it into something kinder. In your best efforts to be civil, there’s still a faint aftertaste of not my fault, it’s yours. 

Three dots appear almost immediately. Disappear. Reappear. Like it was meant to piss you off. You roll onto your back, arm flung dramatically over your eyes like you’re auditioning for a film about female suffering directed by Greta Gerwig.

When you said ok, you thought he meant on a customary, normal-person time and date. And you should think like what a regular citizen act on this eccentric occasion – such as declining his absurdity and sleeping because you have lecture tomorrow. You ask yourself what you’re doing in this cafe now, in a tee and sleep shorts, arms crossed while you wait for the man who somehow still knows how to summon you with two texts and zero explanation.

You look around like you might recognize another idiot who showed up for emotional closure in pajamas, but there’s no one. Just you, your crossed arms, and the creeping realization that you look like a girl waiting to be let down. You’re not the girlfriend, not even the ex that gets proper boundaries, but the one he can call at 1 am – the punchline practically knows your name.

The bell over the door rings and there he is, exactly as expected, annoyingly composed in a hoodie with sleeves rolled to his elbows – and this time, you’re both sober. You look at each other a second too long, like you’re both checking for signs of intoxication that might excuse whatever happens next. When you find none, you decide that it’s the worse version of the night – clear-headed and intentional: there’s no buffer tonight with excuses to lean on. 

Jaeyun gestures toward the counter. “You want coffee?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine,” you say with a sigh. “I have lecture in the morning.”

And then he just nods, tongue poking the inside of his cheek while he decides what to do now. You both sit in a table for two, across from each other – which isn’t anywhere in the safebook because it’s close enough to feel familiar, but far enough to be safe.

“You said things the other night,” he starts carefully. Of course, because he treated your fleeing like a lesson, and he now talks like a man (doesn't make him one, though). “When I helped you home.”

Your stomach tightens and you chew on the inside of your cheek to try for casual. “I was drunk.”

“That all?” His brow cocks up, like he obviously doesn’t believe that’s all. “You didn’t mean it?”

Honesty has always been your downfall with him, even after spending half your life pretending and lying about what you feel for him. “I said I missed you,” you say flatly, owning it before he can dress it up. You laugh under your breath in disbelief of your position now. “There. Are you happy?”

He looks at you then and whatever he sees makes his shoulders drop a little. Jake sighs, fingers fidgeting underneath the table while he thinks of what to say now, just before he swallows and looks back into your eyes. “I didn’t text because I didn’t know if you wanted to talk to me sober.”

“So you waited,” you say. “Until I embarrassed myself.”

Honestly, the phone does work two ways. Maybe he was also pensively standing by for a sign that you’re still willing to let him in solemnly – but for fuck’s safe, was he meant to play hard-to-get while you chase?

Now he smiles, tongue poking the inside of his cheek because clearly you’re being petty and he’s measuring just how much patience he has tonight. Jake says your name quietly, low and firm, which does 7 natural wonders in your abdomen.

“Honestly? I was wondering if you remembered, or if it was just something you said because you were drunk.”

He delayed, he avoided, he compartmentalized, and he resurfaced at this ungodly hour. So yes, you get to be petty in thin sleep shorts because he fucking messaged you at 1am after posting another girl in his story. 

Indifference isn't respect, avoiding isn't civility.

When he looks back at you, his expression is composed, which is unusual for someone as emotional as him. “I didn’t say anything back that night,” he says, meeting your eyes.

You nod. “I noticed.”

“Yeah.” He practically huffs out a laughter. “I just didn’t want to say the wrong thing.”

You watch him, unimpressed despite the heartaches that say otherwise; loud and thrumming through your body in the form of your foot tapping. 

“I figured if I answered at that moment, it would either sound like I was some guy who’s going to take advantage of a moment just because it’s convenient.” Then he straightens, like now he’s talking out of judicious judgment and not out of the heavy first-love impulses to work it out with you. “I chose time,” his voice steady. “For both of us.”

A minute of silence passes but you don’t try to break it, not that you had the proper words to do it anyway. He sees you though, even when he can’t see your eyes.

When it’s clear that you won’t say anything anymore, Jake swallows, then leans his elbows against his knees to at least try to find your gaze.

“I missed you,” 

You look up at him before you can stop yourself, like your body reacts faster than your pride ever could. His eyes are on you already, open and honest and a little scared, despite the composure he holds tight.

“But missing someone,” he continues, “doesn’t automatically mean going back is the right move. And I don’t want to pretend it is.”

The cafe noise swells for a second, people talking about their much jovial nights, but the only words ringing in your head are Jake's.

Dumb and easy, that’s what you are, what always will be. Because you should be mad at him right now, right? You're supposed to curse him out, block him in social media, and never reminisce the past like an aspiring historian.

He leans back in his chair, measuring exactly how much gravity to put on the moment. “I know I messed up,” he admits softly. “Not texting. All of it. I’m sorry.”

You huff a laugh that’s equal parts bitter and incredulous. “That’s just your character, isn’t it?”

He smirks faintly like it’s an inside joke he fully understands, that half-smile that used to make your chest do dumb things when you were 18 and convinced he was untouchable. “Maybe it’s strategic inconvenience?”

You roll your eyes. “Strategic inconvenience,” you repeat, flatly, like it’s a brand. “You mean… you’re an asshole.”

“Point taken,” he says, hands up like he surrenders but he doesn’t flinch when you call him that, doesn’t ask for sugarcoating, doesn’t even try to defend. He just accepts.

“You know, you can't decide I’m already guilty before I finish talking.”

You tilt your head, crossing your arms. “You are guilty.”

A corner of his mouth twitches. “Exhibit A.”

“Don’t make jokes,” you say firmly. “That’s how you get out of things.”

“I’m not getting out of anything,” he replies with a smile that almost mocks. “I’m sitting right here.”

“Bare minimum,” you mutter.

He leans forward this time, elbows on the table, eyes on you. “What do you want me to say?”

Now you feel the aftertaste of bad decisions and ideas, when he’s looking at you that despite how gone pride is in this moment – now just running on want and unhealthy self-management – he looks like he won. ‘Cause sure, he fucked the circadian rhythm and pulled you out in pajamas like hauling a rabbit out a magician's ass and pissed you off again, but he thinks it’s worth it. Because he got to see you.

You scoff, narrowing your eyes at him, "I thought you know the right shit to say now, Jaeyun."

The way you say his name again undoes him. He grins, shaking his head like he can't believe himself for that reaction.

“I’m not here to charm my way back in. I know that doesn’t work on you anymore.”

You raise an eyebrow and he shrugs, long fingers tracing the edge of the table.

“I came because I missed you,” he continues, eyes following the lines of your features. "And because I figured if you were going to be mad, I’d rather you be mad to my face.”

You cross your arms tighter. “That’s not an apology.”

He tilts his head, eyes flicking over you – your crossed arms, your shorts, the way you’re still here despite yourself. "You're sick of apologies. I'd rather show."

You swallow. Annoyed at him, at yourself. “You look way too pleased for someone who’s supposedly guilty.”

He chuckles. “I am guilty.”

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t get comfortable.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” his smile turns stupidly fond. “You’re terrifying when you’re mad.”

This is idiotic and you do feel like one. But that has always been the deal with Jaeyun; always complicated even before you got together. And now you’re in the after being together department, you’re not sure you find yourselves to be… ex-materials. 

This is really unhealthy, but he doesn’t see you trying to leave your seat.

Jake smiles, no teeth, just smug, and pulls out his wallet from his pocket like he’s getting comfortable. “So,” he says. “Do you want me to buy you coffee now?”

He's the bad decision – the one you already made.

Oh, this is fucked.

Tip #7: Use your mouth. He likes it.

You know better than to stay up late for a guy – you swore you learned your lesson. But… the conversations were easy and traitorously familiar, exchanging stories and laughter with the natural cadence of people who knew how to do it. And to add to the betrayal, it’s… not awkward. Which is bad, like really really bad, because that means you both still have chemistry.

Jake drives you back to your dorm at 4am again like it’s your personal devil’s hour. You thank him and get down the Bronco, but he gets off too, and meets you on the other side after he rounds from the hood.

You try passing by him but he grabs your wrist and tugs you back. He gives you a once-over, smirking a little at the sight of your bare legs in this cold. 

“I’m sorry for not catching up sooner." he suddenly says. You blink, just once, like you’re trying to understand. "and for posting that girl." he adds.

“That’s not my busin –”

“It is.” he cuts you off, thumb now running over your wrist. “You get to be annoyed.”

You force the smile off from your mouth, settling to bite the inside of your cheek instead. “I know better than to pine for someone’s boyfriend.”

Now, Jake smiles like you dropped a good pun. He shakes his head, and pulls you a little closer which you could easily mistake as being clingy if you’re careless with your thoughts. “I haven’t dated or even talked to anyone after you.”

Your heart jumps and your stomach lurches. “That’s sad.” you say, light and dismissive.

He huffs a laugh through his nose. “Yeah,” he says. “Guess I’m a little pathetic.”

He pulls you just a little closer. Then he leans in, just a little. “So am I forgiven?” he says softly.

You scoff, turning your face just enough to avoid how close he is. You're not in the mood to confront just how he's looking at you. “You’re asking like you didn’t keep me up at four in the morning.”

“Strategic timing,” Jake says easily. “You're nice when you're sleepy."

"I am not."

He hums, amused, eyes dipping to your mouth like he’s thinking something he has the decency not to say. “You didn’t say no.”

You tug your hand slightly, testing him. He lets you go immediately but the warmth of where he was lingers, traitorous.

“Have a nice night, asshole.” 

Jaeyun looks at you like you’re still his favorite smart mouth. “You too, princess.”

Back in your room, you check your Instagram. Jake removed the story.

Tip #8: He's your ex, there's no slowburn.

Days pass and there’s buildup faster than what you’re used to.

After that day, the campus feels smaller. Now that you know where Jake Sim exists inside it (he shared with you his classes and where they were, just a small thing he mentioned when you guys talked). You’re not tracking it – obviously, come on. At least not consciously. It’s only inevitable, you tell yourself, knowing a place holds meaning.

You start seeing Jake Sim more, also inevitable.

At first it’s coincidence; a glimpse across the quad, a passing figure near the library steps. It’s a quick ‘hi’ and wave. Then it becomes routine – eye contact that happens faster, his hellos that always suggest more conversation. He intends them to be quick but they always takes up more time than necessary, only to end up with him running to get to his next class, you trying not to smile on the way back to your dorm. 

Then comes the heart.

You, Mia, and Lila go out for dinner – nothing fancy, just food and girls night. You take a picture, you post it to your Instagram story without thinking. Your phone buzzes less than a minute later.

A very specific like. From him, of course, his username and his profile picture. You stare at the screen for half a second before Mia notices, then Lila notices, then all three of you are shrieking because slowburn doesn’t seem to exist here at all.

Okay. Whatever. It’s fine. It’s nothing. That’s the theme with Jaeyun Sim, and you’re more than adamant to keep it rolling. You don’t think about it – well, you do but you try not to, it’s just that you pause to breathe while brushing your teeth. So yeah, you do think about it way too much for your own good. 

Enough that later, you post with more purpose and intention, though you try not to be obvious. It’s just to see.

Sometimes he likes them. Sometimes he doesn’t.

Even when it’s a really cute selfie of you – of course he doesn’t like it. But if it's a random picture of food, he likes it. 

Whatever! It probably just means that he’s totally not into you and you should actually start to realize how pathetic it is to post a story for a guy. You have to accept that he’s a player, a real NBA baller with how he manages to flirt with you and turn you over for food. 

One night, you’re out again – this time it’s loud and late and sticky with sweat and bass-heavy music. You’re back to a party after a week long of demands, dragged back to blinding strobes and catching names you’ll forget later. You slip into a bathroom stall, mirror fogged, lighting criminal but flattering enough. Mia takes a selfie, and you pose in between them while Lila stands behind you, not really overthinking it. Your outfit shows more skin than usual – not obscene to the point of out-of-character unordinary, but something’s undeniably different this time. 

You post it because it’s a good picture. You drink, you exchange names, you drink more – more importantly, you have fun and let loose. You check your phone and other than the usual flood in your inbox, you see a specific username that manages to hitch your breath every time.

A like. And a reply.

jake: i thought u had to be dragged into parties? 😂

Your breath catches so sharply you almost choke on it.

You stare at the message, grin spreading before you can stop it, warmth curling low in your chest – something light and stupid and undeniable. Because yeah, this is happening, he really is starting to be part of your life again, in these dumb ways that mean more to you. You don’t even reply right away, you just sit there for a second, phone in your hands, heart traitorously satisfied.

You don’t go home drunk that night. But you go home with an epiphany that gets you smiling into your skincare like a dumbass, replaying the message in the dark like you find something you’ve once lost.

You physically press the phone to your chest, eyes squeezed shut, a sound leaving your mouth that you will never admit happened. You stare at your screen for a long time, smiling into the quiet of your room, the night suddenly too soft, too full.

This isn’t nothing anymore.

It’s the beginning of something you’ve swam in before.

Tip #9: Post the selfie.

The next few days shift in a way that’s subtle enough to deny, and you still say it’s nothing even when you start to think otherwise. Jake’s messages start coming more. Not in a good morning beautiful way that takes things too fast and icky. You don’t talk all the time, but once a week turns into once every two days, then replies that used to lag start coming quicker.

It starts small.

A reply to something you were meant to send to Mia that accidentally ends up in his DMs instead because you’re stupid and half-asleep and maybe you’ve been backreading that’s why you were in his chat log.

You: omg im sososo sorryyyyy

jake: its aight 😭

jake: seems like my business now tho

jake: tell me 😂😂

Then there’s him reacting to things he never reacted to before – your complaints about deadlines, a blurry picture of your coffee, a story of your notes spread across the table with a self-deprecating caption.

02simjake: liked your story.

02simjake: replied to your story: real

Then one afternoon, when you’re sitting on the steps outside your building finishing up some work, your phone buzzes again.

You shake your head, laughing under your breath, heat crawling up your neck. This easy back-and-forth, this familiarity slipping back into place like it knows where home is – like you know where home is.

Back to the boy who never failed to make your heart thump like a drum.

And on some random night when you finally breathe from the uni demands, you post a simple selfie. It’s nothing. But he messages, and it’s enough to get you back on adrenaline.

simjakee_ replied to your story: go to sleep

You stare at it and type anyway.

You stare at the ceiling, a grin slowly spreading across your face, chest warm and buzzing in that unmistakable way. This is real, your ex is flirting with you on Instagram and you feel as giddy as you did at 13-years-old; back when it was you and him learning how to tie ribbons and landing on skateboards. It’s intention, soft and careful and unmistakably him, with the wisdom that came from learning the past and letting you see just how far it has improved. 

The boy who couldn’t balance you and his studies is now a responsible guy with fixed time management, on the way to your apartment – because he wants to see you. With no excuse that he doesn’t have time, or that he can’t because he’s really busy. Now, he’s asking if you have time, and he follows your schedule.

5 minutes after your dumb hoax impatience, he texts again.

jake: im here

If you had good instincts, which you doubt you do, you’d turn away with the defense mechanism of someone with avoidant attachment issues just to protect your heart – but you can’t, not when it feels this… thrilling.

You open the door and there’s your ex; tall, hoodie pulled over his cap, hands shoved into his pant pockets like he’s pretending this is casual, like he didn’t just show up at your door on impulse. You look up at him through your lashes before you can stop yourself and – God. Yeah. This looks exactly like toxic, bad decisions.

“So,” he says quietly, eyes dropping to your face. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you answer. “Why, were you hoping?”

Jake huffs a short laugh, shaking his head. “Just checking.”

Then you let him in before you could decide to shut the door in his face and regret whatever this is. His gaze drifts, just taking in the room like he hasn’t seen it before. When his eyes come back to you, you see them check you out while you try to process that he’s standing in your room at an hour where intentions blur and honesty slips out too easily.

You cross your arms, suddenly hyper-aware of how you’re dressed. “So what do you want to do?” 

He shrugs, eyes on yours. “You really wanna ask me?”

And when you blink multiple times, the heat crawling up your neck, he smiles playfully like he didn’t realize how that sounded. He shakes his head before settling on your bed, spreading his legs while he sits on the edge, putting his cap down. “Relax. I’m not gonna do anything.”

You raise a brow. “Bold of you to assume I was worried.”

That earns another smile, warm and dangerous.

“Okay,” he says, amused. “Then what are you thinking?”

You hesitate, shifting your weight, pretending you need to fix something that isn’t actually wrong. You lean against the desk instead of sitting, arms still crossed like they might save you from yourself and your thoughts and the dooming questions. “Why did you come over?” you ask finally, voice lighter than you feel. 

Jake looks up, brows knitting together just a little, elbows resting on his thighs. “You invited me.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes like you didn’t fucking know that. “Yeah, but I didn’t force you. It’s not like I dragged you here. What made you come?”

For a second, you think he’s going to deflect, make a joke, or shrug it off the way he used to – but he doesn’t. Right now, he licks the inside of his cheek, before saying, “I wanted to see you.” No overthinking, no qualifiers, just the truth, laid down with pure honesty.

Your mouth curves before you can stop it. You immediately try to swallow the smile, turn your face away like you’re suddenly very interested in the floor.

“Oh,” you mutter. “That’s… dumb.”

“Is it?” he asks, amused.

You glance back at him. “A little.”

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You invited me this late and I’m the dumb one?”

“Touché,” you concede, shrugging.

Another pause settles in, thick but not uncomfortable. The kind that only exists when it’s loaded and even though it feels good, it doesn’t make it any less right. Now, again, you’re never the arbiter on what’s correct and not – yet you look at him like you’re battling with your moral compass because wrong looks so fucking hot if it’s Jake Sim.

Jake exhales through his nose, then slowly reaches out – open palm, unhurried. “Come here,” he says quietly, a balance of order and ask. 

Your heart stutters, and you hesitate just a second too long only to slip your hand into his anyway. His fingers close around yours gently, and he pulls you toward him with care. You end up standing between his knees. His thumb moves without thinking, brushing slowly over your knuckles, grounding and absent-minded all at once. 

"Thought you weren't going to do anything." you whisper. He ignores.

He leans forward, stopping just short of touching you – then tilts his head and rests his forehead against your stomach. He stays there for a moment, eyes closed, like he’s anchoring himself and is starting to realize he needs this more than he’s willing to admit.

"Is this okay?" he asks quietly.

Your stomach drops. "Yes," you answer.

He exhales, relieved, shoulders relaxing as he settles there properly. One hand still holding yours. The other resting loosely at your hip, and it’s a lot like threading dangerously down a line he isn’t sure he should cross.

Your free hand lifts before your brain can stop it. Your fingers slide into the hair at the nape of his neck, which is devastating to Jake, who lets out the smallest sound but it tells you everything.

You shouldn’t be doing this. You know it. And yet, your thumb strokes slowly, guiltily, like muscle memory never really left. Jake doesn’t move, just stays there, forehead pressed to you, breathing you in like this is the quiet he’s been missing.

“God,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I missed this.”

This. Not you.

“Jaeyun,” you call. He only hums, thumb rubbing against your hip and you feel the warmth of his touch through your shorts. Your fingers curl slightly in his hair, grounding yourself as much as he is with your hips.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” you say quietly, half a joke, half a warning. “Doing this.”

His lips twitch, but you don’t see. “I know.”

“The –"

“I missed you,” he repeats, this time not to himself but to you for sure this time. “I really don’t want to fucking pretend I don’t.”

You exhale shakily, shaking your head but you’re smiling. “You’re so annoying.” You huff out a laugh, breathless.

He looks up at you, eyes practically doe before he breaks away and shakes his head. Then he stands, hands fully to himself which fidget at the side of his jeans. At first you're confused, then scared, because you don't want him to leave.

“We can just chill.” he tells you, obviously holding his composure tight while he avoids your eyes.

You cross your arms and stare at his chest, shaking your head because you don't know what you're doing. Clearly, so does he, because when he looks at you, he's trying to read you.

It's silent, save from the sound of your appliances and the casual drive of cars outside. He's looking into you while you pick at your elbow, studying just what you want from him.

You take a step back without realizing it and Jake notices instantly, his body tensing just slightly. “You want me to go?” he asks, careful.

The thought makes your stomach drop.

“No,” you say too fast, shaking your head.

You look at each other like that – like you’re standing at the edge of something familiar and dangerous, both knowing exactly where it leads.

He swallows, throat bobbing, and your gaze follows it before you can stop yourself.

You step forward, still enclosed in your own embrace, and he watches you tensely because you've got the reins and he's just letting you steer. Your fingers curl on his hoodie, eyes refusing to meet his for now as when you tug the fabric, he willingly follows.

You look up, finally, and he's looking into you like he's reading the directions off your gaze.

He knows now, of course, plain in sight, what you need him to do.

Jake leans down slowly and carefully, enough that you feel his breath, warm against your cheek, your nose. He stops there, giving you time. “Tell me to stop,” he says.

Your noses brush and the world narrows down to breath and heat and the memory of how this used to feel.

Jake exhales, slow and shaky. “Fuck.”

Your lips brush his first – just a graze, like you’re both checking if the other will pull away because you know better than to indulge. When neither of you do, he exhales into you, a soft sound of relief, and then ducks down to your height to press his mouth on you. You flinch when his hand finds your hips. Your lips move together like you’re relearning something you never really forgot.

Jake pulls back like he got burnt. “Fuck,” he whispers, breath warm against your mouth. Then, quieter: “I really –”

His hands caress the soft curve of your waist and hips, firm but careful when he pushes you back against the counter of your kitchen – decisive in a way he’s made up his mind and isn’t going to pretend otherwise. You let out a soft breath as you stumble back, the back of your legs bumping the wood. He kisses you again, hungrier this time, hands steady on you while your tongues meet in your mouth.

Your hands find his hair again instantly, fingers threading through it like they always naturally do. Jake groans quietly this time and his hands flatten against your back, warm and grounding, holding you like he can’t handle space.

You can’t help the little sound that leaves you, and he tenses, just a little, catching your bottom lip between his teeth like restraint’s something he’s never known. You tug him down and he follows, ducking down his height just to chase your mouth. His large hands slide underneath your shirt and touches your skin there, fingertips slightly grazing the hooks of your bra.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, your noses brush. Jake rests his forehead against yours, breathing heavy but controlled.

“Shit,” he whispers again, softer this time. “This feels unfair.”

You smile despite yourself. “Do you hate it?”

He laughs under his breath, arms still wrapped around you. “Hell no,” he admits. “I’d do it again.”

You lean in for another kiss, worse than last time because his tongue presses fast into your mouth, and his warm fingers caress the skin underneath your bra hooks. You tear away for a startled laugh, smacking his arm and he smiles, before pulling you back in for another kiss.

It’s almost 3 am when you finally tell him he should go.

Jake doesn’t argue. You walk him down the building, hoodie sleeves brushing your wrist in the elevator, the air between you calmer but heavier obviously.

Outside your building, the street is empty and quiet, in a way that shows the impropriety of this rendezvous.

"Well," he says, rocking back on his heels. "Text me when you’re inside."

You scoff. "You don’t get boyfriend privileges."

He grins. "Worth a try."

You dap him out (because he always he insists you should after making out, just for tradition) and you’re already pulling your hand back when he tugs you forward just enough to press a soft kiss to the bridge of your nose.

"Goodnight," he murmurs.

Back in your room, the silence hits different.

You sit on your bed, staring across you with the post-experience clarity of what you have just done. You laugh under your breath, sharp and humorless because of course he’d do that, of course you’d let him.

This is how it starts. This is how you forget why it ended. This is how you convince yourself this time will be different.

So stupid, you think. So predictable.

So, very, toxic.

Tip #10: Let it become a habit.

For the first day, you two kinda tried pretending nothing happened. 

Jake answered texts the way he always had – flirty but polite and measured. He showed up to class, ate, slept – all in time. He even convinced himself that the warmth lingering in his palms was psychosomatic, some delayed response to nostalgia rather than the very real memory of pushing you against the counter he pretended not to remember. You were equally complicit. You waved at him across campus like nothing had shifted tectonically between your bodies. You spoke in full sentences and didn’t stammer once, so it was going pretty great.

This mutual delusion lasted exactly thirty-five hours. Because at precisely 11:07 pm, Jake Sim’s on your door unannounced, looking faintly apologetic and was simply bracing for consequences. “I was nearby,” he said, which was a lie. “I figured,” you replied, which was an acceptance. 

He stayed until 1 am. You worked on an assignment but was cut for intervals because he’d pull you in his lap and kiss you. 

Jake had always been a creature of habit, as once something entered his routine, it stayed. You slipped back in as if you’d never left. He started showing up with intent disguised as coincidence, your study sessions lasted longer than needed. There’s also late-night drives where the music stayed low and you laugh about stupid things together while munching down on McDonald’s fries.

Weeks passed and there also came the moments when the day’s busy for anything particular, that even hanging out in the same room was a little close to impractical. However, Jaeyun finds the time he couldn’t give before. He makes sure to call when you don’t meet, or a quick snack to hand over between in-between class schedules. Your favorite is when he promises just five minutes to see you after a lecture.

"Five minutes," you say. "You promised."

"I stand by that."

Then he hugs you, chin-hooked-over-your-head hug that immediately eats up about forty-five seconds. After 5 minutes;

“Time’s up.”

He doesn’t move.

“…Jaeyun.”

“Just one more,” he says quietly, arms still locked around you.

In the hallway, you’re walking with your Foreign Language partner, running lines for a presentation due the next day. He laughs at something you mispronounce, leans in to correct you, points at your notes. You don’t even think twice about it until later, until Jake decides it is a big deal.

He’s on your couch now, sprawled while you tell him it was just your partner, he scoffs.

“Yeah, right. Nothing,” he mutters.

“Literally, leave it, Jaeyun,” you say, arms crossed, irritation buzzing under your skin.

He glances at you. “Didn’t look like nothing,” he says, quieter now, sulking like he hates that he noticed at all.

You bite back you don’t get to be mad or anything at all that would turn this to a fight. Instead, you turn to your laptop, pretending to care more about another language than the way his presence tilts your focus off-center.

From the couch, his foot nudges yours absentmindedly, like muscle memory.

“You still need help with that presentation?” he asks eventually, casual, almost bored.

On some random week, Jake has had too much to drink. Now, he loves a good beer and can endure it more than the average man, but clearly, everything's been building up – you, to a great degree actually – that he comes up your building and knocks at 2am and clearly, at the very least, is tipsy.

When you open the door, all he had to do is follow the silhouette of your body underneath your thin sleepwear and listen to your very angry remarks about respect and time or whatever, before he's already letting himself in and kissing you against your bed.

He's respectful, always is, but you feel how tight he holds your hips like he's trying not to touch the skin of your thighs grazing his fingertips.

The morning comes around and you wake up with his chest pressed against your back and his arms around your waist in your bed – no hookup, clothes still on, just messy makeouts – but it's enough for you to groan in disappointment anyway.

"We need to set boundaries." you state while you make your waffles.

Jake hums, trying not to get distracted by the curve of your ass when your back's turned to him.

You look at him, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed. "You're always like that. Always so pushy and breaking boundaries and breaking the rules – "

He manages to chuckle. "That was two years ago."

"And last night! And the nights before!" you scoff, shaking your head while you massage your temple.

It's bad. This is bad.

When you turn to look at him again, he's already in front of you, pressing close while his hand finds the side of your neck. You tilt your head up towards him, meeting his eyes which seem to study your face so closely.

You can't really think properly when he's this near, when he's touching you.

Jake’s thumb pauses at your neck. His voice is softer now, clearer than last night but still low. “I know,” he says. “Tell me to stop.”

You open your mouth, nothing comes out.

He exhales a laugh under his breath, fond and frustrated all at once, then leans his forehead against yours instead.

That's so unfair.

You swallow, and push lightly at his chest. "Stop showing up at 2am, Jaeyun."

“I know.” He nods immediately. “That’s on me. I'm sorry."

When push comes to shove, between self-respect or Jaeyun, you run on drunk impulse on a sober gut.

Your studies? A bit compromised. You still show up and pass and look functional on paper, but there’s a fog where focus should be, thoughts drifting where they shouldn't.

And the thing was – Jake Sim was still exceptional and brilliant. Still building a future with the same relentless precision that once earned him accolades and recognition, but now there was something else threaded into his life, something not quantifiable with the integers he mastered in so well.

You. A variable he no longer tried to control and pretend wasn’t doing mass decimation to his sane meter.

“…Are you serious?” Mia turns to you after what she’s dubbed an essential debriefing, legs tucked beneath her as she stares like you’ve just confessed to crime. Your life odyssey – past tense colliding violently with future tense – has been laid bare between sips of iced coffee. You sink further into her couch, picking at your nails. “I mean. I think so?”

Lila blinks. “You’ve been meeting your ex, who’s been acting like your boyfriend minus the title?”

You think about Jake – about the way he waits for you outside lecture halls, pretending to scroll through his phone like he hasn’t been tracking the time down to the minute. About the way he listens now, really listens, like he’s afraid to miss something important and is completely terrified that you’d have to repeat yourself. 

You tell yourself – just this once – that it’s fine not to define it yet. After all, habits take time to name, even the really bad ones called making out with your ex in his Bronco and going on a dinner date in a real lavish restaurant billed in his card after.

Later that night, when you’re back in your room, phone face-down beside you, you wonder when exactly it happened. You wonder if he’s thinking about you too and your phone buzzes like it heard you.

Oh, this is sick. You've become a dog.

Then once upon a time, you were only supposed to be passing through to find Jake and return the borrowed charger, then leave.

He's near the steps of the humanities hall when you spot him, surrounded by friends. He’s leaning back against the railing and there’s a girl beside him whose shoulder brushes his arm when she says something. He laughs at what she says, doesn't really flinch when she touches his arm.

His eyes lift and immediately he's already jogging over. Once he's right there, you reach the charger out but he grabs your elbow instead, then pulls you closer to him.

Jake's eyes search search your face like it's checking damage.

“What,” you ask flatly.

A slow, crooked, and infuriating smile tugs at his lips. “You look like you’re about to murder me,” he says quietly.

“Stop,” you say, low and clipped, even as you tug at your arm. He doesn’t let go, thumb warm against your sleeve to keep you there.

“Relax,” he murmurs, tone easy, almost lazy. Like you’re not two bad decisions away from ending what shouldn't have started. “I’m not doing anything.”

You glare at him. He just watches you, gaze steady in that way that’s always made you feel seen without being put on the spot.

He finally lets your elbow go, hands dropping into his pockets. “Didn’t mean anything,” he adds, glancing briefly back toward where he was standing earlier, then back to you.

Back to you.

"You look so fucking annoyed." Jake laughs, hand reaching up to ruffle your hair.

You shove lightly at his chest, more reflex than force. “Don’t.”

He stumbles back a step anyway, like you’ve wounded him, hand flying to his chest. “Wow,” he says, dragging the word out, eyebrows lifting. “Violence on campus.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you – curling slightly despite yourself.

He catches it instantly even though it's barely anything. His grin widens, smug and triumphant. “There it is,” he says, pointing at you like he’s won something. “I knew you still liked me.”

Then he positions his arm over your shoulders, dragging you to lunch off-campus just to hook you back again.

Fuck. It's fucked.

Tip #11: Give him something to remember.

November is fucking hell. It was the month professors collectively decided that sleep was a suggestion and deadlines were a personality test. They expect submissions on top of other “minor” requirements that demand just as much work anyway, just to reason it out as a growth strategy for the harsh, professional world of jobs. As if the real world operated on 72-hour days and the sustained abuse of caffeine. 

You do try to see the good at the end of the tunnel from all the sadism, because in the middle of your aggressively color-coded annotated calendar sat one date circled in ink: Jaeyun’s 21st birthday. 

It wasn’t going to be another birthday to pass with simple dinner, much less under the vituperative ultimatum of the endless projects and studies.

You insisted he celebrated it with everyone.

Not just a rushed meal squeezed between deadlines or a quiet “we’ll do something later” promise that later never really comes.

So you booked the fancy restaurant, you sent the texts, and herded his friends like you're the Shepherd Himself. You told them to dress nice, and prayed no one would accidentally ruin the surprise with a dumb slip.

Jaeyun was wearing a simple crisp white button-up with trousers.

The night of, he showed up thinking it was just the two of you, until he walked in.

The table was already full with familiar faces and grins, singing happy birthday the moment Jaeyun's at the entrance like a humiliation ritual. For half a second, he just stood there, blinking, processing – then he laughed, stunned, hand dragging through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with himself and the moment of everyone he loved in one huge ass table.

“What the hell?” he said, turning to you.

You shrugged, way too casual for the amount of effort this took. “Happy birthday?”

The dinner itself was loud and warm and unpretentious despite the restaurant itself being conspicuous of poise. His friends made the space theirs anyway – chairs pulled closer, voices overlapping, utensils clinking. They toasted him for things both sincere and stupid, and his ears end up turning to a color red.

Sunghoon starts first, hand in his pocket and red wine raised high. Riki follows, then Jungwon, then Sunoo who smiles a little bashfully.

His friends told stories you hadn’t heard yet and ones you’d heard too many times, and Jaeyun took it all with that soft, crooked smile like he couldn’t believe he was being celebrated this openly.

Cake came with a candle and off-key singing he definitely didn’t ask for. Jaeyun made his wishes, cheeks warm, eyes bright.

At some point in the night, draped in Jaeyun's coat, you stand near the edge of the balcony overlooking the city below. When he slips behind you, his hands automatically settle on your waist. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, smile lazy and unguarded.

“Hi,” he says, like he hasn’t seen you all night.

You laugh, one hand on top of his, and the other hand threading up to the hair on his nape. “Hi, birthday boy.”

He rocks you side to side, barely moving, chin resting against your hair. “You know,” he murmurs, voice low so only you can hear, “I was genuinely okay with just us two. I meant that.”

“I know,” you say.

“But this?” He glances around at the inside, his friends, the calmed chaos. Then his gaze drops back to you. “This is… insane. In the best way.”

You tilt your head up. “You like it?”

He laughs, soft and breathless. “I’m obsessed with it. With you.”

He presses a kiss to your temple first, slow and lingering. Then another to your cheek. He pauses there, lips hovering, like he’s savoring the moment.

“Can I?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking to your lips.

You don’t answer with words. You just turn around, hands settling on his nape.

The kiss is warm and unhurried, his hand sliding up your back, thumb brushing over your spine. It’s full, sweet, and certain. Like this is exactly where he wants to stay.

Jake pulls back just enough to grin. “I love this.”

“Your party?” you ask.

“You.” he corrects easily, like the word belongs there now. Like it always has.

Later, he drags you back onto the dance floor in front of the live musicians. 

He dances badly on purpose – spinning you too fast, dipping you slightly too low your back is lowkey bad now, laughing when you squeal and clutch onto him. At one point, he lifts you off the ground just because he can, grinning like he’s won something.

“You’re showing off,” you accuse.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “It’s my birthday.”

Eventually, when your feet ache and your voice is hoarse from laughing, when the night’s adrenaline has settled on your bodies, the crowd starts to thin and some people head out. You thank them for coming, waving as they disappear into the elevator with tired smiles and leftover cake in hand.

As you make your rounds, thanking people for coming, accepting hugs, the night starts folding in on itself.

That’s when you hear it. Something that wasn't meant for you – low, lazy voices carried over by the balcony doors still cracked open.

Jake and Sunghoon are leaning against the edge, sharing what’s left of the wine. Jake’s sleeves are rolled up, posture loose in a way that only happens when he’s had a good night.

Sunghoon tilts his glass, watching the last drops swirl. “So,” he says casually, too casually. “You and her.”

Jake huffs out a breath, not defensive just honest. “No.”

Oh.

Sunghoon looks at him and waits.

“We’re not together,” Jake adds, after a beat. It's not denial, just a fact that still makes your chest curl.

Sunghoon hums. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Jake’s mouth quirks, something complicated flickering across his face. He takes a sip, eyes drifting somewhere distant like he’s replaying moments instead of looking at the present.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Like last time.”

There’s no bitterness in it, not something like regret either. Just that strange, suspended place between was and isn’t clouding over like a storm coming.

Sunghoon clinks his glass lightly against Jake’s. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “you look happy.”

Jake smiles then. “I am.”

You hide behind the wall before either of them notices you lingering, heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest.

When you reappear a minute later, Jake looks up instantly – like he felt the shift in the room.

“Hey,” he says, easy smile snapping back into place.

“Hey,” you reply, mirroring it.

But this time, when he reaches for your hand, his grip is a little tighter.

"Wanna go?" he asks, hand soothing the small of your back.

You nod, giving Sunghoon a hug before you slip behind the doors before Jake. They make their goodbyes and you wait outside, Jake's coat protecting you from the cold.

It rings, that one single word that makes the night cooler than it really is.

No, you're not dating. And he's vocal about it too, probably with all his friends who also asked. You start to realize how stupid you must've looked, sending the invites, kissing his cheek throughout the night while everyone knows that – there's nothing between you two.

Your heel taps against the concrete, lips quivering, getting into your thoughts before his palm finds your lower back and his lips press on your temple.

"I love you." he whispers while he pulls you into him.

No. We're not together. Could've fooled me. Yeah. Like last time.

The drive is quiet, the city blurs past, lights streaking softly through the windows. His hand finds your thigh at red lights, thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles. You try not to think, because it's his day and you'd hate to ruin something this good.

So you swallow and turn to him.

“I don’t really wanna go home yet,” you admit quietly.

He glances at you, surprised for half a second, then smiles. “You can stay with me for a bit.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “We’ll keep it chill. I’ll get you home before two.”

It’s only 11. 

At his place, everything is hushed. The shoes are off by the door, lights kept low. His apartment is very much him – some legos half-built on a shelf, posters slightly crooked, figurines taking up their space, a hoodie draped over his chair – and you’ve been over a couple of times but it’s only now you really look over his orderly clutter. 

You smile. “You never finished that one.”

He groans. “Don’t expose me.”

There’s a pause, comfortable, charged, settling in while you throw your heels somewhere across his floor. You look over the lego cars and books aligned in his book shelf, giving them a better look, until he slips his hand in yours and pulls you towards him. Jake rests his chin on the crown of your head, humming in contentment at your warmth underneath him.

“Thank you for tonight.” he says quietly. You tip your chin up to look at him and simply smile as a silent you’re welcome.

He leans in first, kissing you softly, like he’s testing the water. It’s slow, his hands on your waist with your fingers on the back of his neck.

Then another kiss, lasting longer this time. You shift closer without thinking, pressing, pulling him down to you as he melts in. His hand slides to your hips while your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just slightly.

When you pull away, you press one last kiss on the tip of his nose before telling him you'll just change out of your clothes. He nods and lets you go to his bathroom to slip into the comfort of sleepwear.

You rethink, even though you're trying not to. Let it be not another bad decision you make yet everything about him is – though you can't resist. The reminders echo but the image-driven mind can't lose the way he kisses you so good, and holds you the way you need to be held.

So when you get out, his shirt's still on but more crumpled and loosened. He's talking about something that happened in dinner, rambling the way he always does. Except when he turns to you to tell you what Riki did with the cake, Jake freezes. You look shy but still, you meet his eyes, the same ones that can't even pretend to be respectful as he stares at the imprint of your nipples through your tulle and lace nightdress.

Jake's silent and frozen, eyes wide and jaw slack. You manage a smile, softly padding your way to him. Once in front of him, you stand on your toes to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down to you despite how stiff he is, how careful he is not to touch you.

Still, when you kiss him, he kisses you back.

The kisses deepen naturally, like neither of you really wants to stop. But he feels your rush, when you pull closer like you’re looking for something, how you kiss harder and lick into his mouth. He pulls back suddenly – not far, just enough to look at you. He looks ragged and trying to collect his thinning composure, blinking like it will save him.

You meet his eyes, breath a little uneven, heart loud in your ears. You don’t say anything – don’t really feel like you have to. Whatever he sees in your expression makes his face change, something startled and tensed passing through it like an epiphany for something like he didn’t expect. 

His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and careful. “You’re okay?”

You nod, eyes flicking back to his mouth. “Yeah.”

He exhales, leaning his forehead against yours, eyes closed for a second like he’s steadying himself because if he doesn’t, then he’ll lose the thin veil that’s keeping him restrained. When he kisses you again, it’s still slow but more breaths – like he’s losing a part of himself when he’s giving this much to you. He keeps his hands on your waist, pulling you closer without really meaning to but because his body needs it.

And when he finally rests his forehead against yours again, smiling weakly and knowing and wanting but respecting –

“We can just stay like this,” he says, swallowing. “I don’t need anything else.” he reassures because he’s terrified that you think you need to do this for him.

You look up at him through your lashes, nodding. “I know.” you add, “I want this.”

You kiss him again before he can process it – harder and faster this time, with a weight behind it that makes his breath hitch immediately. Your hand slides into his hair, fingers threading through it as if you need something solid to hold onto.

He makes a sound he doesn’t mean to.

It’s quiet, caught in his throat, but you feel the way his hands tighten at your waist, the way his shoulders tense before he gives in. He shivers, just a little, like the kiss reached somewhere deeper than he expected and pulls out a moan from his chest. You pull away, your hands lingering. Jake has to bite his lip, feeling your warm and soft palm move from his hair, down to his shoulders, across his chest, until they finally rest flat against his abs. You feel it, the way his muscles contract from your touch, the way his breath catches shakily against your mouth.

You look up again, your eyes undeniably dark, and you see his restraint breaking as his Adam's apple bob, sweat glistening down his skin. You nudge him back, guiding him with your palms until he sits on the edge of the bed. He lets you. He doesn’t resist at all. His legs hit the edge of the bed and he sits down almost automatically.

He looks up at you then.

His hair is messy, lips pink and swollen, eyes dark and searching – like he’s trying to read you without pushing, without asking for more than you’re giving. His hands slide from your waist to rest at your hips, grounding, reverent. You stand between his knees, letting your fingers comb through his hair. 

“Baby,” he says quietly, voice rough, like he’s trying to stay in control.

Your nails graze his scalp just enough to make him inhale sharply. His eyes flutter shut for a second, forehead dropping forward until it presses lightly against your stomach.

He exhales there, like he’s holding himself together one breath at a time – but you know he’s failing. You slide one knee on one side of his hip, followed by the other, your thighs framing him as you settle in place. You straddle him perfectly and fully, hands braced on his chest as his breath stutters beneath you. 

He thinks this is fine. Straddling isn’t new. Making out isn’t new. You’ve done this a dozen times.

Until you smile, letting your nose bump against his, and lips brush together. “Hi,”

He clears his throat. “Hi.”

It's just another dress. It's new with intent and purpose, but it was alike to the others – just that you're not exactly wearing a bra underneath. He tries being rational but he can't, not when he can feel just how soft your breasts are against his chest.

You tilt your head, letting your lips glide against his, teasing the birthday boy as he tries catching your mouth with his. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently, and he responds with a low groan that vibrates straight through you. Then you kiss him, harder, claiming, his large hands pulling you closer. You shift slightly, letting the heat of your bodies sink together – until your hips press against his so suddenly that he has to stop you and pull away. 

“B-baby,” he gasps, looking up at you, eyes wide and confused and needy. “What are we doing?”

You look at him beneath you, breathless and kiss-drunk, already fucked out before anything has even happened. 

“Do you not want it?” you whisper.

He practically chokes on the air. His hands tighten instinctively at your hips.

“I –” He swallows hard, throat bobbing, eyes blinking. A little flustered, very Jaeyun. “I thought we’d wait. Like –” He exhales, embarrassed. “Until marriage.”

That’s true, he thought this is something you’d like to do after passing the eye of God or something like that. Yet you only hou hum softly, sounding dangerously close to something else, his shoulders tensing immensely. Your hands slide up, thumbs brushing his jaw as you lean in, pressing a slow kiss there – right beneath his ear. Again, you’ve never really been for righteousness.

“Do you not want it?” you ask again, slower, deliberate.

He swallows again, and you can feel him think and break, especially when you feel this soft and good in his hands. Because honestly, committing sacrilege feels sweet when it tastes like you.

You don’t wait for an answer anymore, letting your hips rock against his pants that he lets out a soft, strangled whimper. His fingers tighten against your hips, unsure whether to keep you still or press you closer.

“Jaeyun,” you whisper, tugging his hair back gently but enough for him to open his eyes to you again. He looks at you with reverence, like you’re God herself pressing your clothed pussy against his growing erection. “Do you not want it?” you ask again, needing an answer.

He blanks, zeroes, knows enough that this is all he needs to cum.

He thinks about the time he didn’t want it – which goes down to the answer: never. Not ever since he tasted you for the first time almost 2 years ago, his tongue in your mouth, your soft chest pressed against his, your thighs enclosed around him. He always felt guilty, while he fisted his cock after a hangout with you, but couldn’t really help it when he gets horny even just from kissing you. 

Things never escalated between the two of you, never anything more than breathless makeouts that always had been respectful and not overly touchy. He thought you’d like it that way, and he liked it too. He knows now, as he finds desire in your eyes, how months of missing and wanting has finally come down to this. As exes that doesn’t know how to be exes, or a situationship that’s more romantic than any other crude paperback.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, husky and suede. You smile from how meek and small he sounds – it makes you clench around nothing. 

“Am I sure if I want your dick in me?”

He fucking chokes at how vulgar you are. Gone is the woman who pretended to be annoyed with him, gone is the girl he used to bribe popsicles with.

It’s his 21st birthday, and you want nothing but to make it his most special day ever – you made sure to include this in the itinerary.

You run your hands from his hands on your hips to the length of his veiny arms, until the collar of his top. You slowly start unbuttoning his shirt, and he makes no protests, keeping his eyes on you while he lets you do the work. Once it’s off, the firm muscles of his arms flexes underneath your touch when you let your fingers graze. When you glance up, you see him clearly struggling to breathe.

You’re not rushing this – even when you think you should, just as you think how you have every right to be angry at how respectful Jaeyun Sim is.

You feel like a sex demon because of how much you think about fucking him. Yes, you’ve been masterbating even back when you were together because how could you not. You’ve been drinking pineapple juice these past few weeks. You’ve been stretching out your hole through your own fingers for this moment. You feel crazy and that’s very much an underreaction, considering how hot Jake is.

“Do you not want me?” you ask, voice small, trying to sound pitiful, while you kiss his jaw.

Want you? He’s been having wet dreams of you. When he was fucking you balls deep, or when he had you bent over your vanity, or when you were riding him in his Bronco –

He doesn’t understand why he can’t move now, when you’re still grinding your pussy against his hard cock. He curses himself for not doing anything more than hold your hips against him. So, like the sensible guy he is, his hand trails up your skin. Your breath finally catches when his large hands caress the softness of your side, just when his thumbs innocently graze the underside of your boobs.

He breaks into a grin and before he could say more, you lean in again, kissing his mouth with the intensity of a starving woman. It’s messy fast, his tongue slipping into your mouth, intertwining as he finally finishes unzipping your dress. Your own palm press against the hard lines of his abs, making him gasp and breath shake against your mouth. He makes a sound at the back of his throat – urging you to press harder, feeling the hard bulge against his jeans.

He pulls back, letting out an amused huff of a laugh. “Fuck, baby,” his eyes are completely half-lidded.

You giggle, and you feel like an animal as you lick his bottom lip, plump and swollen. 

You push his shirt off him. Once it’s off, you gape at the hard muscles of his torso, broad, and all very yours. He’s lean without being too big, lines of strength visible beneath smooth skin, shoulders wide, waist narrowing just slightly. You let your fingers trace the solid lines, liking the way he reacts at your touch.

You gasp when he suddenly shifts you in his lap, letting you grind against his boner. He reacts too, like he didn’t mean that, but rocks underneath you anyway. His hands – large, veiny hands, rub at the sides of your dress, and you could feel his desperation starting.

“Take this off,” he says, already pulling your dress. “please, baby. Let me see how pretty you are.”

You shift a little on his lap again, just to let the hem of your dress pool around your waist.

“Arms up,” he states, soft but firm.

You follow, putting your arms up as he pulls it off, and just in one go, your breasts spill out in front of him. He smiles and exhales, “There you go,”

His teeth bite down his bottom lip as your nipples stare at him, all hard and practically begging to be put in his mouth. His cock twitches in his tight pants at the sight, pupils dilating visibly.

His hands meet your sides, softly brushing your supple skin, causing shivers to run down your spine. “Damn…” 

Then finally, he ducks his head down, pressing his face at the valley between your breasts. He finds the swell through feverish bites and licks, taking his time with his tongue. After, he finally latches his mouth around one nipple after, teeth gently biting down, earning a gasp from you at how good it fucking feels. Then he sucks, tugging even, letting his tongue twirl the bud.

The sight of it should be a sin, at how he seems so content with sucking your breast. At fondling with them like he’s having the time of his life. 

It’s his birthday. So you pull away, his mouth detaching with a pop. His eyebrows knit with confusion, large hands tightening instinctively around your hips when you try moving away. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You soothe his hands, prying his fingers off you. “Trust me, birthday boy,” 

You press a kiss on his nose, making a mental note to sit on it later – finally.

When he lets loose, you slowly get off his lap. Still on the edge of the bed, he watches you with wide eyes when you sink down on your knees in front of him. Jake breath catches like he hadn’t been ready to see you below him like that – on the fucking floor of his room. You smile at him, eyelashes fluttering as your palm glides over his clothed thigh. He flexes at the contact, blinking like he’s in the midst of trying to survive this, at the way you look on your knees for him. He’s never been this hard in his life, he thinks. 

“Baby?” his voice is unbelievably soft and whiny, sitting up to look at you while you keep his knees spreading. Your hand slides over the muscle of his thigh, watching the way he slightly twitches beneath your manicured fingers. You trail further up, and just when he realizes, he takes your wrist.

You know he doesn’t mean it, but his grip’s tight. He clears his throat, and he’s genuinely kind of scared of you. His cheeks and ears are flushed pink. “Y-you don’t have to, do this. For me.”

You’re not sure if this is his way of telling you to stop, or if he’s so overly sweet and cares so much. Well, you care quite little, only really needing that cock in your mouth right now.

“Well,” you pull your hand away, shifting further on your knees as you reach for his zipper. He stares, intently watching how close you are to touching him. “I think…” 

You start pulling it down, keeping an eye on the light twitches on his face; biting down his lip, eyebrows knitting closer, breathing uneven. “I think I also deserve to blow… a candle.”

You smile at him, finally pulling the zipper down, and cupping the huge bulge against his boxers. He chokes on his breath, head tipping back at the relief of your hand despite the cloth between. You stop wasting time, tugging the hem down to reveal just how hard he really is.

Jake’s big. And long. And veiny. And pretty.

You eye the way his sharp v-line leads to his cock, all hard and pretty, tip so pink and flushed – you can’t help but lick at your lips, imagining the way it would cry and twitch in your mouth. You pray thanks because pink really is a lovely color.

Jake’s looking down at you like he’s with fever, all flustered and intoxicated, and you could see how scared he is of how excited you look, your eyes are practically sparkling at the sight of his cock. 

You wonder if it will fit.

You hold it against your warm palm and he groans, voice rough when it hums against his throat. His hips buck, wanting more of you already – needing more of you because it’s impossible not to. Your thumb meets with the head, toying with the slit that’s already wet with pre-cum while your hand starts a slow stroke. 

“Ahh–” Jake whines, and when you look up to see, his eyebrows are furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he tries rocking into your hand, hips lifting off his bed just a little.

“C-can you…” he tries talking but you squeeze him, biting your bottom lip as you tilt your head slightly to the side to tease him. The sight makes him hum out another whine. “...go faster? J-just a bit, baby, please.” the way he begs makes you wet your panties a little.

He’s fucking sublime and you think you could go on with teasing him, not really giving him what we wants until he’s puddled with tears, begging that you finally put him in your mouth. But, it’s his day, you can’t be mean.

You hum, like you’re thinking about it. You pull his pants and boxers down further, before rubbing his dick just to spread his pre-cum all over. Then, without warning, you lean in to lick his head, your tongue teasing the slit.

He whimpers and his head falls back completely, lips parting and neck glistening with his sweat. He’s flushed and heavy against your hand, finding yourself playing with it with a few kitten licks and rubs at the base. Then you drag your tongue from his base back to the tip with a long lick, earning a moan that sounds close to drowning.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he whines, biting his bottom lip as his large hand shoots into your hair. He grabs a handful from your scalp, although you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control. 

You open your mouth and enclose it around his head first, tongue twirling around it. Then slowly, you take him in, letting him slide further into your lips. “Fuck,” he groans, his hips jerking forward immediately. The head touches the start of your throat and you can’t help but choke at the sudden intrusion, sending vibrations around him. You watch through your lashes, how his bicep flexes while he guides your head down his dick, abs contracting when your nose almost touches v-line, eyes narrowed at how his length disappears into your lips.

“O-oh, fuck, that’s s-so dirty…” he groans, seeing drool spilling from your chin as you cheeks hollow around him. Your hand tightens around the parts you can’t reach, squeezing and rubbing fast. You pull back up, leaving only the head in your mouth before sliding it all back down your throat. 

You set a pace, not so fast, but it’s still too much for Jake whose chest is heaving while he forces his gaze on you, burning and dark. “Mmmm,” he moans, trying to keep his mouth shut from all the pathetic noises he’s making. He looks like he’s in heaven, watching you suck his cock on the floor of his bedroom – you can tell that he’s practically finishing already. “Ahh… y-yeah, I like th-tha – ahh–”

He groans, shaking his head at how good and dirty he feels. “Just a-a bit more, mhmm, yeah,” he exhales deep, shaky breaths, using your hair as anchor while he guides your mouth down his cock. “Just like that– ah, o-oh, g-god…”

You see how his eyes are rolling back, teeth biting down his plump bottom lip. That’s when you tug back, pulling off with a wet pop from the tip. You give him a few more kitten licks, rubbing slower until he feels the loss and snaps his eyes back down to you.

“Uh, I was just,” he sits up properly, looking at you confused when you pull away fully. He’s eyeing you with desperation – brows pressed together, lips tight in a line, hair messy and reaching his eyes. Then he shakes his head, blinking while he tries rebuilding his control.

“Are we done, baby?” He forces his eyes away like he’s convincing himself he’s okay with what you’re giving, even if it leaves him with blue balls. He’s still so gentle with you, tone soft and whispered while he watches your face, checking if you’re still okay.

You smile so wide and bright, not needing any convincing to know how much you love this boy.

Then you stand back up, body still bare as the soft lace of your panties is the only thing keeping you, well, completely exposed. He stares at your soft breasts again, swallowing at the way they bounce slightly when you help him out of his pants and boxers. He smiles just watching them, his hand reaching out to fondle with one. His thumb glides over one nipple, playing with the hard bud.

You laugh, taking his wrist when he starts fondling with the swell of your breast, like he’s memorizing how its weight looks on his hand. “Staring is rude.” you say, kicking his pants and boxers away once they’re off. His pretty cock’s still hard against his pelvis, lubricated with your saliva and his own pre-cum.

“They stared first.” he says, keeping his eyes on your nipples, pinching one with his fingers.

You smack his bicep, prying his hand off you with a playful shove. He looks up at you, a small frown on his mouth like you did something mean. “You’re taking away my fun.” he pouts dramatically.

Then, you hook your fingers on your lace panties and start sliding them off you, the fabric gliding over your smooth thighs before pooling around your feet.

Oh shit.

His eyes are glued to the way your pussy glistens for him, slightly amused with just how wet you are too, without being touched. He gently reaches out for you, deciding how far you really are. His palms slide at the back of your thighs, guiding you closer to him as your hands settle at the back of his head, gently caressing through his black silky locks. You’re now standing in between his knees.

“My pretty girl,” he whispers, ducking his head slightly to get a closer look. Although you don’t feel super embarrassed, you can’t help but shift inevitably, closing your thighs when you feel his breath fan in between your legs. 

Jake looks up at you, eyes twinkling and an amused smile on his lips. “Don’t do that, baby,”

He spreads your thighs, hands firm against the plush, supple flesh. He gets closer, addicted to the way it smells so sweet and enticing. His nose basically subtly nudges your clit, earning a cracked gasp from you, your fingers tightening against his hair.

“Can I?” his eyes briefly glances up at you before looking back down. When you hum an approval, he leans in further, licking your folds.

“Ah, Jaeyun, wait –” he grabs your thigh and props it over his shoulder suddenly, helping you find your balance before plunging his tongue through the folds, finding your clit almost immediately.

Wow? To think this is both your first time?

“F-fuck–” you caress the back of his head, his tongue lapping up at the hole while his nose pokes against your clit. Cunt-hungry man, he thinks he can do this forever, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head.

“I n-need your,” you tip your head back, words lost in your throat. 

“My what, pretty?” he moans against your pussy, his cheeks now messy with your juices and his saliva combined. “God, she’s fucking talking to me. Look at that,” he uses his thumb to spread out your fold, watching the way it shines before using his tongue to tease the hole.

Your things are quivering in strain and pleasure, too much, that you feel your knees buck. He groans when he realizes you’re pulling away, propping your thigh back and forcing your legs up with his hands. “Stay still.”

“Y-your fingers, baby, please.” you whimper, and he likes that sound. He nods, following you obediently, letting the tips of his fingers graze your entrance before suddenly plunging one inside.

Oh God.

His fingers are thicker and longer than yours, so even one feels too much. Your knees are wobbling but he helps you still. Jake keeps it slow, feeling just how your walls squeeze around him, the sweet smell wafting through the tension. Jake can’t help it, wanting that back in his mouth, so he teases your clit with his tongue in tandem with the thrust of his finger. He sneaks in another thick finger inside, thrusting two at the same time, stretching you out definitely. You let out whines, holding tightly on his hair while he fucks you with just his hand and mouth.

“Jaeyun, wait –” you tap his shoulders, just as he speeds up the pace, addicted to the way your cunt squelches around his fingers. “Jaeyun – ah – w-wait, please,” you tap insistently and when he realizes, he stops at once, a bit irritated. Jake pulls away with a bitter exhale, but softly and slowly strokes your thighs, letting you stand on both your feet now. He looks up at you, eyes finding yours, still soothing your thighs with his warm hands. “Why do you keep stopping, love?” He laughs, amused and humorous, but there’s a tone of annoyance tucked in.

Your eyes flick down to his dick, and his gaze follows, looking back at how hard and angry it looks against his abdomen like that. Long and begging to be touched. He huffs, grin widening back up at you with disbelief and lack of control. 

He swallows, shaking his head. “I don’t have a condom, baby,” his voice is rough, hands soothing your thighs still.

You scoff, using your palm to push him further into the bed. When he’s moved, you slide your knees on either side of his hips and he has to physically hold himself back from the sight of how close your cunt is to his dick. It makes him twitch against his stomach, bite his lip from making a pitiful sound.

“I want you raw.” you say, leaving a mark on his skin.

“And I want you safe.” he says, softer this time, gently caressing your hips.

You laugh, getting back to his face as you nudge his nose with yours. “Just fuck me, Jaeyun.”

He exhales, both from exasperation and how turned on he is from your straightforwardness. He likes it, he likes you, and clearly he’s torn between fucking you until you’re full of his cum, or being responsible with sex and –

Fuck that.

You stroke his cock underneath you, giving it slow rubs just to lubricate it. He sighs, watching you work on his length like that. Even with just you on top of him like this, bare and looking at him and only him, he’s happy. The wishes that blew his candles do not compare to this; a prayer in flesh and soft breasts and plush thighs and a pretty face – what else could he need if this is not enough salvation. Then you shift closer, aligning his angry tip with your entrance. He watches it all happen, hands still on your hips, half-lidded eyes completely dazed with desire and anticipation of when your cunt meets his cock. His lips are parted, taking heavy shaky breaths.

“Will it fit?” he swallows, looking back up at you with wide eyes. 

Just then, his sensitive tip grazes your hole, and he lets out a quiet whimper. You drag the head into your wet folds, pushing the thick tip with a wet pop, and Jake practically jolts up at the feeling – fingers so tight against your hips you know it will bruise. “W-w-wait, baby, y-you’re too – ah–”

It stings so you pause, adjusting to the size first. You rest your forehead against his, catching your breath as he catches his – and something about it is so intimate, at the way he holds you close, hand soothing your back to ground you and himself.

“Y-you okay?” he asks, rubbing your back, pupils blown wide you could practically see hearts form in them.

You smile, weak and soft, pressing a kiss on his mouth. He tilts his head for you, your tongues meeting in his mouth before you pull away. “Perfect.”

Then slowly, you start to sink down his cock, earning grunts while he holds you close. “Sh-shit– tight– fuck–”

He guides you down his shaft, and he really does fight the urge to shove himself inside you in one go. “S-slow down for me, yeah?” Jake holds you, thumb rubbing against your skin. “There, mhm, I-I know you can do it.” 

You cry out his name when you bottom down, his leaking tip touches your cervix deliciously and your walls tighten around him so right he’s convinced he’ll finish right here. It’s warm inside you and you’re tense, arms wrapped around his neck, chests pressed together, gummy walls choking his cock. You wrap your legs around his hips closer, squirming slightly while he’s still inside you that he moans loud, feeling just how you vacuum him in and grind against him – he’s done.

Jake’s mind is blank, nothing except the way you look like Sunday worship with how you kneel above him. He knows now, that this is heaven, and that being good does not mean anything to him when you feel like every sin eaten in Eden. He doesn’t mind dying lying this, he thinks, in between your thighs while you introduce what greed truly means, and as you show him just what the fuck Adam betrayed God for underneath that tree.

He’s in so deep and tight that you could feel every vein that throbs inside you. Like he was meant to fill in that space, with how perfect it fits, you can’t help but roll your hips against him a little. Because it’s too good not to, too fucking slow to wait. 

Jake though, very much cannot let you move because you look so incredibly hot riding him and taking him in so good that he will come from cockwarming. He grabs you before you can even try again, his hands a paradox of gentle and strong, keeping you still from any ideas. His long fingers run down your spine, shivers trail your skin, inevitably making you clench from the sensation. He exhales, struggling and trembling, huffing out a sick laugh as he licks his bottom lip. “I’ll cum if you move.” he says, rough and no more breaths to give when you’ve taken everything.

Even though his hold is firm, it’s not bruising, so you decide to tease, just a little, by rolling your hips subtly and when he realizes what you’re doing, he grabs your hips quick – tight and strong, his biceps flexing. “D-don’t move, baby, c’mon,” his hoarse voice is soft in contrast to how hard he’s holding and staring at you now. You giggle, leaning in instead to kiss him. It’s slow, the smell of sex so heavy in their air and in between you two. 

With an exhale from coming down the high, he finally nods, falling on his back. “Ride it, love.” Then you lift yourself, slowly, showing a white ring at the base of his cock. It’s lewd and better than any pornographic he’s seen.

Leaving just the head inside, you slam yourself back down, a strain moan spilling his lips like confession. “F-fuck– o-oh– so g-goddamn tight…” you do it again, loving the way his eyebrows push together, his lips parting as he moans your name. He whimpers when you squeeze your cunt around him. “H-holy s-s-shit.” he holds your hips as you find the pace, speeding up as you practically bounce on his dick like a mad woman. Every thrust spills a whimper or your name in the form of a gasp. He helps you slam right back down on his cock, touching just the right spot inside you with precision.

“T-that’s it – just like that, baby, f-fuck yeah,” he huffs, abs tightening. Your palms are flat against his chest, admiring just how his hair is now slick with sweat, sticking to his forehead. He runs a hand through it, pushing it back. You go faster, riding him to the point he can’t even talk right. “W-w-wait, s – holy s-shit, please, s-s-slow down,” his words turn into broken moans, hoarse and cracked as you pound yourself down his dick. Skin slapping echoes throughout his room, your breaths merging in this hot air.

Jake can feel it too fast, the way his abdomen and balls tighten because he’s about to cum already. It’s warm and so good. But he sits up and stops you, his strong arms quickly pulling you off him while you grow stunned. “Wha–” 

He huffs an incredulous laugh, shaking his head in disbelief of the situation. He was seconds away from cumming, way too fast for how long he wants to spend this moment with you. His grip’s strong, tight compared to how gentle he places you down his bed. You lie chest-first on the mattress, your abdomen tightening with a slight heaviness from not releasing tension. You try asking him again but cuts you off, “Wait for me, yeah?”

He looks over you with hunger in his eyes; from the gentle curve of your shoulders, to the arch of your back, down to the plumpness of your ass. Jake smooths over it, admiring it as his fingers squeeze the fat, just before giving it a smack, earning a gasp from you. “Jaeyun –”

Jake lifts your hips to put you on your knees, chest against the sheets for him, and leans down to press a kiss on your folds. “Need that ass,” he smacks one cheek again, then uses one thumb to spread out your labia and lick one stripe.

And he’d love to keep this going, munching down until your knees would give out and he’ll have to hold you up to continue devouring what your pussy could give him, but the tension in his dick begs otherwise, especially after knowing how it feels to be choked inside. So he flips you, taking your arm and getting you on your back.

Jake spreads your thighs, pressing your knees down against the bed so you’d allow him in between your legs. He props himself there, hovering over you when he puts his hands beside your head. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, sliding his own knees underneath your legs, shifting you against him. He soothes your inner thighs, making sure you feel comfortable.

The coil in your core is too hot for you to talk, mind blank except for the way Jake’s body glistens with his sweat and how he feels on top of you, his presence a clash of need and relief. You just nod, reaching your hands flat against his chest, trailing down towards his abs which tighten from your touch. He chuckles, raspy and rough, leaning down just slightly that you could feel his breath fan your face. “I need words, love,” he smooths over your thighs again, though this time closer to where you need him most. “Can you do that for me, hm?” he purrs.

You whine, biting your bottom lip at the sight of his cock so hard and straight, faintly brushing your entrance. “Jaeyun, stop teasing.” you mewl, reaching down further to let your fingertips graze the slit on his head. He lets you stroke him, smiling down at you as you do.

“Words, come on. I need to know you’re still okay.” he asserts, voice patient but firm.

You sigh. “Put your cock inside me, Jaeyun, please.” 

Then he smiles, pressing a kiss on the bridge of your nose. “Good girl.” he coos.

Jake pulls you closer by your thighs, squeezing the fat before he gives himself a few strokes. You watch him eagerly, hips unintentionally squirming at the sight of him touching himself, his own juices spilling just a little to give it slick. Then he shifts, nudges your legs up with his knees before propping himself in between you. You keep your legs up as he aligns his cock with your throbbing clit, giving it a few rubs. Moans fall from your pretty lips. He gets closer, uses his thumb to push back your folds and find your entrance, before finally positioning himself against you. He presses a kiss on your mouth just to distract you a bit, then pushes himself inside, the slick sounds obscene.

You pull away from the kiss because of the stretch, Jake’s big cock squelching inside your pussy. “S-so fucking tight, s-shit…” he groans.

Your hands find purchase on his traps, nails digging down the skin there when he squeezes himself inside you, veins throbbing against your walls. Thick and long, touching your cervix as it did earlier, and you’re addicted to the feeling of him filling you up, kissing every crevice like he’s made for you. You clench, thighs pressing against his hips – he lets a low growl when you tighten.  He finds your gaze and for some unknown reason, you get flustered, and he smiles. Jake kisses your warm cheek. “That feel good?” he whispers, waiting for your nod of approval before he starts moving. 

Teeth sink into his bottom lip as his hips rocks into yours. It’s slow at first, letting you feel every little detail of his dick inside you. Until he speeds up, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the corners of his bedroom. Low whimpers slip from Jake’s throat, breathing your name against your mouth. It’s vulgar, the smell and sound of cum when he pulls out and slams right back in, at a pace like he can’t handle being apart from you for long.

He loves the way you shove against the bed when he pushes in, loves the way your tits bounce every time, the way your swollen and bruised lips part and moan his name like you’re his. Your moans, sweet and thick like honey, your nails when they dig into his muscles like you’re claiming him.

“C-can you clench, baby? Just – t-there– fuck, baby – f-fuck yeah, just like t-that, ah–” he whines, veins running along his arms beside your head as he grinds into you, head stroking your fucking womb.

His cock drives into you with perfect precision, somehow hitting the right spots, rubbing against your walls so good. His abs taut, muscles flexing above you. “Y-you feel so good, baby, ah– so fucking good,” he coos, stealing your mouth for a kiss.

He speeds up, rutting into you like he can’t handle any more time not cumming in you. And it feels good, for sure, but something about the fact he’s enjoying himself in you, his thick brows knitting together, teeth into his lip, makes it better. Jake looks at you then, and when he finds your wide, innocent eyes gazing up at him like that, his hips suddenly stutter to a slow and his arms falter. His chest tightens, caught off guard from how pretty you are.

You laugh, smacking his arm in amusement. He huffs an embarrassed chuckle, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Shit,” he murmurs against your skin, while your hands run through his hair, scratching his scalp gently. You hum, pressing a kiss on his hair while he holds you closer, sneaking an arm underneath you.

“That’s not fair,” he murmurs against you and you laugh again, softer and quieter. “You’re so perfect.” he whispers, peppering kisses all over your neck. Before you can respond, he pushes into you roughly again, a cracked moan slipping from your lips. You hit his arm for doing that, before squeezing it when pleasure comes back.

He straightens, finding his pace again as you breathe heavy, fisting the sheets behind you. Jake’s hands find your thighs again, pushing your legs back against the bed, stretching you out further. “Fuck, Jake–” you sob, and the name makes him pound into undeniably faster and rougher.

“Again, baby,” he sneaks a thumb against your clit, rubbing it to add into your pleasure, “Say it again, come on,”

You stretch out your arm, your palm pressing against his taut abs. He doesn’t stop, if not his movements become faster, fucking your pussy so aggressively you practically recoil back on his bed every thrust. He hisses at your warm touch, baring his teeth a wolfish grin. “J-Jake, fuck,” yeah fuck him, ‘cause how could someone be so sweaty and still look hot.

Jake adds more pressure, stroking circles on your clit. You practically wail, that knot starting to form and tighten in your core. His other hand presses on your lower abdomen and you feel it – a stimulation in your wall and obviously, his fucking cock bruising your cervix. He leans down, hovering over you closer. “You feel me, baby?” he whispers, pressing harder that you choke on your own moans.

You arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair, his thumb stimulating your pussy continuously. Each push of his hips starts bringing you closer to the edge, that knot tightening harder and hotter – the image itself is pornographic, with how powerful his pelvis wrecks into you.

“Jaeyun, I-I’m gonna –”

“Gonna b-breed this fucking pussy,” he murmurs, rutting harder, his thrusts getting sloppier and losing measure. He flashes you a grin again. “Will you let me, love? Let me cum i-inside – f-fuck –” 

You nod, eager and urgent, letting your nails scratch down his back, making him wince in pain and pleasure. He pushes your hips before pulling it back, his own orgasm arriving. 

“F-f-f-fuck, I’m cumming – I’m g-gonna, w-wait baby –” he moans.

“Jaeyun, p-please– ah–”, one final thrust has you milking him before he does, pussy clenching so tight as you grab his hair to ground yourself when your orgasm washes your vision white. He continues, pounding into you so deep, before Jake whimpers low and loud. You feel the thick white ropes spill into you, hot and full and sticky, hips stuttering. “Shit, b-baby, god– that’s so hot– baby, you’re so hot–”

He rides out the last of your pleasure before you pat his biceps to stop him from overstimulating your sensitive walls. Jake falls on top of you, weight pressing down on you before he could even stop it, muscles tensing before they relax.

You’re both breathless, mixed cum warm inside you and slowly oozing out. Neither of you move just yet, he’s holding you close, resting his forehead against your collarbone. You soothe his back, tracing the outlines of his muscles while you hum, helping each other out to come down from your high. 

A few beats stretch out before you tap him, a tired smile on your lips as he musters back his own strength and straightens, his darkened gaze meeting yours when he gets on his hands again. His pupils are in the shapes of hearts, mouth pulled to a sheepish grin, face still flushed with heat and sweat.

Jake practically inhales you like it’s what will bring him back to reality. When he pulls back, he swallows, resting his forehead against yours. “J-just, let me catch my breath,” he huffs out a laugh then lies his head back down your chest.

He listens to the rhythm of your heartbeat, closing his eyes at the calming sounds of it. His cock still is very much inside you, softer than it used to be, twitching and you feel it.

After a few minutes or so, Jake starts shifting and you let him get up, releasing him from your embrace. He then slides out of you, hissing at the feeling, slick oozes out of your hole, but you don’t pay any mind anymore.

For a moment you're frightened, because he just lies there beside you, not touching you. You rethink again, once the high's gone and he's got his fill, whether this is just another bad decision you'll regret –

Until Jaeyun places his blanket around the both of you, arms wrapping around you underneath the weight of it. With your back pressed against his chest, he peppers soft and light kisses on your head, holding you tight. He's muttering sweet nothings that make up of praise and affections, although your mind is too hazy to comprehend any syllable.

His breathing finally steadies, finding himself comforted and grounded with you against him like this.

After 5 minutes, hand rubbing your belly, he calls your name. When you hum and turn to him, he studies your face for a second, eyes warm and attentive.

“Water?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You hum against his chest, voice small. “And chocolate.”

He nods. “Okay,” he says softly, like it’s the easiest decision in the world.

Jake rubs your back, soothing and gentle, pressing light kisses to your temple because he can't really afford to let you go yet. Pressing one long kiss on your forehead, he finally sighs and loosens. “Okay, I’ll go,” he whispers before slipping away, murmuring reassurance that he’ll come back immediately. He stumbles when he attempts to put his sweatpants on fast, making you giggle watching him.

He returns quickly with water and snacks. He settles back beside you, guiding the glass into your hands, watching as you drink like you're deserted dry. “Slow, baby,” 

When you’re done, you both curl back into bed and he hands you a piece of chocolate to munch down on. Neither of you speaks for a while, the room quiet except for rustling of sheets, and your chewing.

Jake’s thumb traces lazy, soothing circles against your arm. You rest there together, warm and close, his cheek resting against the top of your head. “Okay,” he murmurs. Then, almost shyly, “Uh… in a bit, you’re gonna have to pee, yeah?”

You let out a small, tired sound, half a laugh. “Okay,” you whisper.

His hand keeps moving along your back, lazy, repetitive, like he might fall asleep doing it. There’s a beat of silence, then he speaks again, words blurring together in that half-awake honesty.

“Hey,” Jake murmurs again, thumb slowing where it traces your arm. His voice is quieter now, careful, shy again. “Was that… okay?”

You tilt your head slightly, enough to look up at him. His brows are knit just a little, not anxious, just attentive like he’s waiting for your answer to matter.

“Yeah,” you say with a smile, honest and warm. “It was amazing.”

He exhales, shoulders easing like he’d been holding that breath on purpose. “Okay,” he says, nodding once. Then, softer, “I just wanted to make sure.”

You shift closer, tucking yourself into him more fully. “You’re really sweet, you know that?”

He lets out a small laugh, embarrassed but pleased, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Only with you.”

His arms tighten around you – not confining, just secure in that way he's grounding himself against you too. He stays like that, no hurry to move, no agenda beyond keeping you comfortable, no plan other than staying right here with you.

You hum, already drifting while his hand still moves in those slow, steady circles. After a beat, he sighs softly and nuzzles your hair, tapping your forearm while sitting up. “Okay… bathroom time.”

He helps you shift gently, sliding an arm under your back while you get on your feet. “Easy,” he murmurs, careful.

Once you’re upright, he walks just behind you, steadying you with a hand lightly on your lower back. “Like a professional escort,” he jokes softly, voice low.

He takes you to his ensuite and you have to smack him again because he’s babying you, acting like you need this much help when in reality, he just wants to stay close. “I can sit on the fucking toilet on my own, Jaeyun.” you laugh in disbelief and amusement.

He frowns but follows through, leaning against the doorframe while you pee. Once you’re done, you two head back, one hand still on the small of your back. He takes his shirt, one too big for your frame, and slides it on you. He also helps you into your panties because your legs are still worn.

"I love you." he whispers, not from post-sex haze, but because it's you. You smile and say it back.

Back in his bed and in his shirt and in his arms – everything that makes this entirely his, you melt into it remembering,

You're not his.

And to Jake, the 4 seconds of silence before you said it back hurts like fucking hell.

Tip #11: Refuse to be simplified.

Nothing about Jake is suddenly different.

He’s always been around – always walking you to class, always waiting. He’s somehow at every corner, leaning against the doorway of your lecture hall when you exit, waiting outside the library when you need to grab a book, showing up at the cafeteria exactly when you do. But now, there’s touches intertwined with them. Fingers immediately finding yours in the hallway, shoulder nudges to tease, quick kisses pressed to your temple or hair.

In your dorm, it’s worse than it is outside. Not all moments or hang-outs transition to heat, sometimes he crashes over just to lie on your lap and sleep there, or he helps you out with laundry and folds your clothes with you. But of course, there are moments when a kiss brushes your lips before you’re even fully aware. Your fingers trace his jawline, catch his shirt, pull him closer, and suddenly he’s already in between your legs, pounding into you recklessly. After your first time, he insisted he’ll use condoms instead, you respond with a pout.

At the last stretch of the first semester’s finals, it’s hectic. Every single day is packed with tests, essays, group reports – sometimes they share the same due date and you try not to collapse under it all. It’s not easy, but you feel that you have some kind of cheat code to steer away from chaos.

Jake finds a way to meet up when the schedule’s too tight for anything else. A text ping between classes: coffee. 5 minutes. i’ll be outside. He shows up just when you need a break, just when the stress is too much to carry alone, he makes sure you know he’s there.

Even if it’s just ten minutes, even if it’s a rushed chocolate handoff, even if it’s just to hold you for 5 minutes – they’re all enough. Enough to feel like he’s keeping the storm at bay, like you’re not drowning in deadlines because he’s always there, tethering you to sanity with soft touches, stolen kisses, and the reassurance that no matter how chaotic, he’ll always find you.

No more begging for time and counting minutes. Now, time finds you both without asking, offered freely and instinctively because he tries.

He plans around you without making it feel like effort, he adjusts his pace to match yours.

There was one week specifically that was busier than any other, all subjects demanded something for their final submissions and the over-achiever in you always had to give everything. Jake says you’re over-stressing and overworking, that you’re going way too hard on yourself even when you didn’t have to. You also did try brushing him off, that this was okay. He brushed you off by unexpectedly coming over and relieving you off your tasks, and you unexpectedly broke down into tears in his arms. After that, once you’re refreshed, he helps with productivity which he doesn’t rush, just eases you into slowly.

You find your rhythm again and lo and behold, your hardwork and efforts have been greatly rewarded with an A that you practically smell the 3.8 gpa coming your way.

And to graciously show your appreciation to his thoughtfulness towards you, you ride him. Jake’s a gentleman as he is kind, but he’s also just some guy. Simple, knows-what-he-wants guy. So sometimes, it’s a gentle switch from kissing to sex on the bed with a pillow under your hips. There are times where he doesn’t even take off your shirt and slip off your underwear and he fucks you from the back while you’re brushing your teeth. Or cooking. He seems to find you in a domestic state completely fuckable and hot. Sometimes it’s in the shower and he spends half the time kissing you and eating you out under the running water than actually cleaning up.

Very, very clingy. Kisses your forehead suddenly, presses some on your knuckles, hands on your breasts and nipples when you’re spooning in your sleep, then later when he’s really stressed with engineering he practically urges you on your knees and slips his cock down your throat.

It’s a duality you don’t mind, obviously. But sometimes you’re caught in surprise just how strong this man’s sex drive is. 

He keeps a stack of your clothes in his closet, though he insisted you grab a pile from your dorm. He quite literally bought you clothes specifically for his own place so you don’t keep going back. And in no time, your belongings have infiltrated his entire place; half his closet was yours, the sink’s cluttered with your cosmetics and skincare products with his one single cleanser and toothbrush in a quiet corner. And the bed, of course, where he fights for space because your plushies also had their own. He doesn’t mind it – he loves it actually, the constant epiphany when you walk around his place in nothing but his shirt that yeah, this is his life now, being colonized by your over-the-top possessions. 

One night, he comes home kinda late and finds you curled up in his bed, laptop balanced on your thighs, his shirt slipping off one shoulder. For a moment, he just watches. You call him a creep and you throw a pillow at him, but he sneaks in between your legs and takes your clothes off and fucks you in the same minute.

There’s no conversation about moving in. He just presses a kiss into your hair and murmurs, half-amused, half-awed, “You know you basically live here, right?”

Normally, ambiguity didn’t bother him. Jake was built for uncertainty in the academic sense – he lived in probabilities and margins of error. He trusted that if you applied enough rigor, enough time, the answer would eventually reveal itself. Variables could be isolated and noise could be filtered out. Systems, no matter how complex, always collapsed into something legible if you were patient enough.

People, however, were not systems.

You were not something he could model without interference or reduce into inputs and outputs without losing the essence of you. And yet, that was exactly what he did – slotting you into his life with the same quiet efficiency he applied to everything else. You were there when he woke up, there when he came home, there when his brain finally shut down. 

And he had also followed through, coming over to your own place and integrating his dominion over your space – his deodorant, some hot wheels he forgot to take home, clothes you both can wear, and sweatpants when you accidentally cum on his pants. Yeah, the setup was nice, but even if ambiguity was something he thoroughly enjoyed exploring in the world of science; you’re not science.

He can’t treat your relationship like a margin of error he can back up from and retry again when shit’s messy – that’s never his intention with you, and he does regret that faulty. 

You’re not his girlfriend. You’re not not his girlfriend.

When the grocery cashier comments how much of a lovely couple you two are, you laugh that sweet laugh he loves, until you say, "he's not my boyfriend" and he tries not to die from a heart attack.

Jake feels sick.

Tip #12: Remember how you got him.

Jake hates it. Didn't realize how bad it actually fucking sounded when it comes from you saying that no, you're not dating, he's not your boyfriend, that you might as well cut his dick and shove it between his lungs.

He spends the weekend in your apartment as some unnamed lover. You both settle with ordering takeout for dinner after much negotiating where to order.

The movie keeps playing, something you just randomly chose to pass time. Snow taps faintly against the window, Jake’s fingers tracing absent-mindedly on your thigh. You’re also in the middle of your face mask when his phone dings, then he says he’ll get the food.

He takes a while. You hear the door first – the soft click of the lock, the familiar drag of his shoes against the floor – and you’re halfway through complaining about how long it took when he appears in the doorway.

With a bouquet of your favorite flowers. And a big, obscenely plush bunny tucked under his arm. And an envelope pinched between his fingers like it’s nothing.

You blink, lips part, jaw slack, completely frozen with a dumb hydrating mask on your face.

“Uh,” Jake says, shifting the bunny like it’s inconveniently large and like he doesn’t understand what this means. “So.” He frowns slightly, then jerks his thumb back toward the hall. “I think the delivery guy is flirting with you.”

You stare at him, still in the middle of processing the sight and reeling back in from the shock of everything. You're in the middle of trying to understand what the fuck this is. “Jaeyun.”

“What?” he says, defensive. “I’m just saying.”

You’re still trying to understand the fact that there is a bouquet and a giant bunny and an envelope in your bedroom when he walks closer and hands you the letter like it’s a receipt he forgot to give you earlier. Like a delivery guy, that’s what he is. 

“Anyway,” he adds, too casual. “This is yours.”

You look from the letter to him, still completely confused and startled, handing you the bouquet and bunny next like it’s just something he found in the mailbox. “You’re not even going to explain?”

He shrugs, lips twitching. “Explain what?”

“The –” You gesture vaguely at everything. “All of this.”

He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Delivery guy must’ve felt bad.”

You kick his knee and he laughs. “You’re such a liar!”

You stare at him for a couple of more seconds, biting down your bottom lip from a wide smile. You feel giddy and excited and astonished and hydrated.

Is this it.

Is this the moment you're finally going to rid the expired not-dating label.

"Tell me what this is, dork!" you're being mean because you're skittish, but he loves it, loves how you're mean sometimes.

"I don't fucking know, baby!" he laughs, still pretending before he leans in and presses kisses on your thighs. "Fuck I know why the delivery guy is flirting with you."

You open the envelope immediately and Jake suddenly finds the floor very interesting. He watches you from the corner of his eye, pretending not to, pretending this isn’t a big deal, pretending his heart isn’t doing something stupid and loud. 

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

dec 1

You and I have never been simple. We never moved in straight lines or clean timelines, and there were breaks and overlaps and wrong timing and a lot of moments where we probably should’ve stopped and didn’t.

You were never simple. You were a really really complicated interpretation.

We’ve tried being nothing. We’ve tried pretending. We’ve tried acting like what we do doesn’t mean what it obviously does. And every time, we end up right back here. I always find myself coming back to you.

I also really hate getting denied at the grocery cashier.

So… can I be this complicated girl’s boyfriend again?

– Jaeyun

━━━━━

When you finish, you don’t say anything right away. You look at him then, at the way he’s trying so hard not to make this a thing while making it very much a thing. At how he stands there like he’s bracing for rejection even though he already knows you’re not going anywhere, not with that face mask you’re not.

Jake shifts. “So… food’s getting cold.”

You throw the face mask away, a wide smile on your face as you tug the end of his shirt. “Come here,” you say.

He doesn’t hesitate. He’s already leaning over you in between your legs, and then he kisses you slowly. It’s warm and nice and romantic and when he pulls away, he’s smiling like he’s in heaven on earth. It just so happens to be right here, right next to you.

You knew it’d come around, this thing called love that comes crashing down. 

“So,” he murmurs. “Still think the delivery guy was flirting?”

You smile, playing with his hair. “Yeah.”

Jake sighs, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.” 

Then he leans in again but before you can kiss him, he stops.

"So is that a yes?" he knits his brows.

You laugh, smacking his arm with no real effort before you smooth over the muscle there, then sensually down to the veins leading down his wrist. He clears his throat and presses closer, pelvis against your ass.

"I don't know," you drag the last syllable to tease him and he groans.

He ducks down, nose brushing yours. "Fuck, baby," he whines. When he kisses you again he totally forgets the food waiting outside.

Guess getting your ex back 101 did work, then? Real genius.

[kysstar]

WHERE IT HURTS | KIM HONGJOONG (requested 💕)

pairing : : kim hongjoong x fem!reader

synopsis : : after a late-night argument, things go quiet between you and hongjoong. he thinks everything’s fine—but small changes say otherwise.

genre : : angst, hurt-comfort

warnings : : none.

word count : : 2.2k

—The clock’s red digits glared 1:37 AM, casting a dull glow over the apartment. The only sound was the faint hum of Hongjoong’s laptop fan and the clack of his keyboard. You stood in the doorway to his studio, arms crossed loosely, watching him with quiet concern. His shoulders were hunched, the tension in his back visible even from where you stood. His brows were pinched, lip caught between his teeth—he was deep in it again. Music, deadlines, concepts, endless revisions. The new comeback was eating him alive.

"Joong," you said softly, not wanting to startle him. He didn’t look up. “Did you eat anything today?”

Silence.

You stepped closer. “I made some rice earlier. There’s soup too, it’s still warm—”

“I said I’m busy.” His voice was sharp, quick, like a door slamming shut.

You flinched. “I know, I just… I thought you might want to take a break. Just ten minutes. You haven’t left that chair in hours—”

“I don’t need you to tell me what to do,” he snapped, finally spinning around to face you. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression worn thin. “You think I don’t know how to take care of myself?”

“That’s not what I meant,” you said quietly.

“Then stop hovering. God, it’s like you think I’m helpless or something.”

You blinked. The words hit harder than they should’ve. “I was just trying to help.”

“Yeah? Well, help by leaving me alone.”

That one landed like a punch. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out. You weren't good at fights—not the ugly kind, not when someone you loved looked at you like you were in the way. You felt yourself retreat, folding inward like paper crumpling under pressure.

You nodded once. “Okay.” Your voice was smaller than you'd meant it to be.

You walked out of the room without another word. Hongjoong didn’t look back.

You curled into your side of the bed, the sheets cool and unfamiliar without him. You stared at the wall for what felt like hours, trying not to let the sting of his words replay in your head, but it was impossible not to. You think I’m helpless. Help by leaving me alone. You didn’t cry—you just felt hollow, like something in you had been scooped out.

Eventually, without meaning to, sleep found you.

When Hongjoong stepped out of the studio, the apartment was dead quiet. The kind of quiet that made the back of his neck prickle. He rubbed his face, the pads of his fingers pressing hard against his eyes like it might squeeze the guilt out of his skull.

He hadn’t eaten. You’d been right. Of course you had. And now the untouched bowl of rice and soup sat cold on the counter, a silent reminder of how cruel he'd been. He hated how he heard his own voice replaying in his mind. He hated that it had been aimed at you.

The bedroom was dark except for the sliver of moonlight slicing through the blinds. You were already asleep, curled up small on your side of the bed, back to him. The blankets barely clung to your shoulder, and your breathing was soft, steady. You looked peaceful in the way that made his chest ache.

He climbed into bed carefully, like he didn’t want to disturb the stillness he didn’t deserve to be part of. Then he reached for you, gently, wrapping an arm around your waist. His fingers threaded over your stomach as he pulled you back against him. You didn’t stir. Not even a sigh.

He pressed his forehead to the nape of your neck and closed his eyes, letting the guilt wash over him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracked with something he wasn’t ready to name. “I didn’t mean it.”

—The soft morning light filtered through the blinds, painting gentle gold across the room. You stirred slowly, your body wrapped in warmth not entirely from the blankets. There was a weight draped over your waist—a familiar arm, heavy and secure. Your back was pressed against a chest you knew like second nature, the steady rhythm of his breathing grazing the curve of your shoulder.

You blinked at the faint light, taking a moment to register the calm. Then you shifted slightly, turning in his loose hold. Hongjoong lay beside you, eyes still shut, his features finally relaxed in sleep. The tension that had carved lines into his brow the night before had softened, replaced by a boyish stillness you hadn’t seen in days.

Instinct made your hand move, reaching to brush the hair from his face, but you caught yourself. Mid-motion, you stopped—fingers hovering just above his temple. The memory of his words from the night before came rushing back in. “Help by leaving me alone.” You let your hand fall quietly back to your side. You slipped out of bed without waking him.

The floor was cold under your feet as you padded to the bathroom. You didn’t look at yourself in the mirror too long—just enough to brush your hair and splash water on your face.

Then you moved to the kitchen in a quiet rhythm, pulling eggs from the fridge, rice from the cooker, setting pans on the stove. You weren’t even sure he’d eat. You just needed something to do. Something that made you feel a little less like your chest was filled with shattered glass.

The smell of breakfast slowly filled the apartment. You didn’t hum like you usually did. You didn’t peek down the hallway to see if he was up. You just kept moving, focused on not thinking too hard.

Footsteps finally broke the silence behind you. You didn’t turn around.

Hongjoong’s arms found your waist from behind, wrapping around you like nothing had happened. He leaned into you, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. “Hey,” he said, voice still rough from sleep.

You gave a quiet, almost automatic, “Morning.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just held you there, breathing you in.

Then: “About last night…” His voice dipped lower. “I’m sorry. I was a dick. I was tired, and frustrated, and I took it out on you when all you were trying to do was care for me.” His grip around your waist tightened a little, not enough to trap, just enough to cling. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You stayed quiet. Not out of malice—just because you didn’t know what to say. You accepted his words, but they didn’t undo the way they’d settled in your chest, heavy and echoing.

“I mean it,” he added, nuzzling into your neck gently. “I’m sorry.”

You nodded, gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s okay.”

He seemed to take that as enough. He smiled softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you,” he murmured. Then another kiss, this time to your forehead. “I’ll make it up to you.”

You didn’t answer. You just turned the burner down and stirred the eggs, his arms still looped around your waist.

—The days after the apology fell into rhythm—routine, quiet, unspoken. Hongjoong thought things were okay. Not perfect, maybe, but better. You didn’t bring up the fight again. You didn’t ask for another apology. You cooked for him. You kissed him goodnight. You replied when he spoke, smiled when it felt expected.

But something subtle had shifted.

You didn’t lean into him when he hugged you anymore. You didn't brush his hair out of his face like you always used to. A half-second pause before holding his hand. A smile that didn’t reach your eyes. And he, so consumed by work and trying to make things smoother again, didn’t catch it right away.

It wasn’t that you were punishing him. You just… couldn’t shake the way he made you feel that night. Like loving him too much was a burden. Like your care was a nuisance. You’d swallowed it all down to keep the peace, but it hadn’t disappeared. It sat there, quietly, between your ribs.

At first, he thought it was stress. Maybe you were tired too. Maybe you just needed space. But the distance grew—not obvious, not loud, just enough. Enough to notice how you didn’t crawl into his lap while he worked anymore. How you stopped asking if he’d eaten. How your goodnight kisses landed on his cheek instead of his lips. Like you were slowly folding yourself away.

Hongjoong found you on the couch when he came home—curled up with your knees to your chest, a half-drunk cup of tea on the table, and the TV playing something you clearly weren’t watching. The sound was low, just enough to fill the silence. You looked over when he walked in, your eyes tired but your expression unreadable. You gave him a quiet smile—polite, soft, practiced.

"Hey," you said.

"Hey," he replied, but didn’t move right away. He stood there, still wearing his jacket, keys still in one hand, just staring. Something in the way you looked at him—something distant—hit him harder than he expected.

He didn’t go to the bedroom. He didn’t go to the kitchen. He walked straight to you, dropped to his knees in front of the couch, and reached for you like he wasn’t sure if he still had the right.

"Can we talk?" he asked.

You hesitated. Then, quietly, "Okay."

His hands found your legs, resting there gently, grounding himself. He looked up at you, the weight of days spent in silence finally cracking him open.

"I know I said sorry. I know I’ve been trying to make things feel normal again. But you haven’t been the same. And I think it’s because I haven’t really let you say how much it hurt."

You didn’t answer. You didn’t look away either.

"I can feel you pulling back from me. And I get it," he said, voice quiet but desperate. "I told you to leave me alone. I made you feel like you were smothering me. That your love was too much. And I hate that. I hate that the one person who was trying to take care of me... I pushed away like that."

Your eyes stung but you didn’t speak. He exhaled shakily, fingers tightening slightly on your legs. "So yell at me. Scream. Throw something. Hit me. Tell me I’m an asshole. Break my heart if you must. But don’t keep it in like this. Don’t shrink away just to keep the peace. You don’t deserve to carry that weight in silence. Not because of me."

That did it.

Your hands clenched into fists. Your throat burned. All the things you hadn’t said—because you’d been trying so hard to be quiet, to be calm, to be “understanding”—rose to the surface in one breathless wave.

"You made me feel like I was in the way," you said, your voice small, shaky. "Like I was annoying you just by caring."

"I know," he said immediately. "I know I did."

"I made you food. I checked in. I waited until it felt like the right time to speak—and you still bit my head off."

"I remember," he whispered. "And I regret every word. I hated myself the second they left my mouth."

"I felt stupid," you admitted, voice breaking. "Stupid for trying. Stupid for loving you so much that I didn’t know when to stop."

He reached up, cupped your face carefully like it might crumble in his hands. "Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. You loving me like that? That’s the best thing in my life. And I made you feel like it wasn’t. That’s on me."

You bit your lip, tears spilling before you could stop them. "I didn’t know how to come back from it. I didn’t want to bring it up again because I thought… maybe it would make things worse. Maybe you’d snap again."

"I won’t," he said quickly, earnestly. "I swear to you, I won’t. I’ll listen. I’ll be there. I’ll take every hard word, every tear, every angry look—because I deserve it. And because I want to fix this the right way, not just the easy way."

You looked at him through your tears, your voice barely above a whisper. "It still hurts."

"I know. And I’ll sit with you through every second of that hurt. I’m not running. Not from you. Not ever again."

You stared at him for a long time. Then, slowly, you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. He closed his eyes immediately, one hand moving to the back of your neck.

"I don’t want to fight," you whispered.

"Then don’t," he whispered back. "Just be here. That’s enough for me. You—exactly how you are—that’s enough."

He pulled you into him, and you let yourself go, finally, arms around his shoulders, face in his neck. You cried there, not from fresh pain, but from everything that had been bottled up for too long. He held you tighter with every shaky breath, whispering soft apologies, promises, truths.

"I love you," he said between kisses to your hair. "I love you so much. I’ll never stop choosing you."

When the tears passed, he pulled you gently onto the couch, wrapping the blanket around both of you. You curled into his chest, feeling his heart beating fast beneath your cheek.

"Let’s stay like this for a while," you said, voice tired but lighter.

"Forever, if you want."

© kysstar

[ramadiiiisme]

Just A Thought – Hongjoong/fem!reader (Tumblr-Tiny's Secret Admirer Fic Exchange)

Pairing: Kim Hongjoong/reader

Word count: 10k

Genre: Romance, fluff, smut, college!au

Summary: One question. One! That’s all it takes to send your mind reeling until you have no other choice but to bring the issue to the man himself.

Content warning: N/A

A/N: Dearest @maho6any, I’m your Secret Valentine Santa!!! Yay!!! This was so much fun to write for you and I hope you find it worth the wait! Happy Valentine’s and enjoy!! And a tag for @everonewooeverywhere for the masterlist, this was such a fun event! Also three cheers for my wonderful beta @gooddaykate because without her this wouldn't have been possible!

“Hey, so Hongjoong’s pretty hot, huh?!” Your friend has to yell into your ear to be heard over the music, stumbling into the seat next to you as her drink sloshes around in her glass. It only narrowly avoids making it onto your dress.

“Um, yeah, I guess!” You call back, confused eyes going to your roommate where he stands at the bar waiting for your drinks.

“Come on, you know he is!” She elbows your side a little too hard and you shift away from her.

“I mean, sure.” You drain what’s left of your drink, absentmindedly playing with the straw. “He looks good.”

“Are the rumors true by the way?!” Your friend continues to shout in your ear and you really wish you were more of a bitch so you could just push her away without feeling too guilty.

“What rumors?”

“Keep up, would you! That he’s an amazing kisser of course!” Another elbow to your ribs and you’re so ready to end the night.

“I wouldn’t know.” You poke at the ice in your glass with your straw.

“Seriously?! You’re telling me you two have never kissed?! Not once?!”

“We’re friends.”

“Oh come one! You’ve never even thought about it?!”

“No.” You say with a roll of your eyes, getting out of your seat, the action drawing Hongjoong’s eyes to you. “He’s my friend.”

She yells something after you but you can’t find it in you care as you make your way over to the bar. In this moment you can’t even figure out why she ever made it into the category of ‘friends’.

Hongjoong watches as you walk up to him, putting an arm around your waist to pull you close and you know he can see the annoyance written all over you.

“Everything okay?” He asks, noting the way you relax a little with him beside you.

“Reconsidering friendships is all.” You sigh, eyes drifting closed as the familiar spicy citrusy scent of him wraps you up in a blanket of safety.

“You want to go home?”

“No.” You say, putting your own arm around his waist as you breathe him in. “I’m good for a bit longer.”

*****

You hadn’t lied to your now maybe ex-friend. You’d never considered Hongjoong as anything other than a friend, your best friend, and you’d certainly never imagined what it would be like to kiss him.

You've never been disgusted by the idea, it’s not like he's your brother or anything, but you supposed the curiosity was just never there.

You’d met your second year of uni. He was in desperate need of a roommate after his boyfriend one day, out of the blue, decided he was no longer a one-man guy and took his stuff and split. You’d lost your weekend job and couldn’t afford to stay where you’d been living.

He’d put up a flyer on a campus notice board and you’d gathered the courage to text the number provided. You had met up for coffee in the campus bookstore, his suggestion to make you feel comfortable, and you’d clicked almost immediately.

He was an ambitious music production student living off of caffeine and spite, you were a journalism major with a crippling love for house plants and everything soft and squishy. He was a genius, you got by without too many issues. He was an actual hazard in the kitchen, and you enjoyed cooking and feeding people. You were both introverts but he was the kind with the ability to collect friends. He was a man who valued respect, you were a people pleaser.

On some levels you were an odd combination but overall you just worked.

The first couple of months had been a little awkward with a lot of trial and error. He’d never lived with a girl before, and you were used to your peace and quiet, but after a couple of arguments (“please don’t leave your dirty underwear out”, “will you buy a pair of actual headphones before I go insane?”, “how many plants can one person possibly need?”, “I swear if you go near that stove one more time!”) you got used to each other and things settled down.

Hongjoong finally had someone who didn’t mind being a sounding board for his assignments. You got someone who always raved about your cooking and did the dishes and the laundry in return for the luxury of regular sustenance. He could talk up to you about practically anything, and you’d regale him with tales of your disastrous dating history.

It wasn’t until about a year in that you found out that he wasn’t gay like you’d originally assumed, but bi. At that point it didn’t matter whatsoever, but you can admit to having been a little more reluctant moving in with him at first if you’d known. That dating history did leave a lot to be desired in terms of manners from the opposite sex after all.

In the two years since then, things have only gotten more comfortable between you in your shared apartment. You very rarely fight, and if you do it’s about silly things that are easily resolved and usually don’t leave any harsh feelings between you.

You’ve both managed to find jobs in your respective fields and even if neither of them are very glamorous, you’re where you want to be. Hongjoong’s job even offers him practically unlimited time with actual studio equipment once he’s clocked out, and it took a while for him to start coming home at night before he was able to find a balance again between sleep, food and work.

If one was being mean, your job could be classified as a glorified coffee order taker. It’s not always fun, but you are allowed to do research and slowly but surely you're proving your worth until the time you’re able to take on assignments of your own.

Even though you don’t see as much of each other since you both graduated, you have one set night a week that you spend time together no matter what. It can be a week night or on the weekend but the rule is you both have to be there mentally and physically, and you both need to have fun. One of Hongjoong’s friend kept insisting on calling it your date night but you’ve grown tired of correcting him so now it’s just called that.

The night at the club a couple of weeks ago had been a date night, and even if the actual club part of it was more aggravating than fun at times, Hongjoong had tricked you into having a decent time with him on the dance floor in the end.

You’d been able to ignore the words of your maybe-friend in the moment, but since then your mind has not stopped replaying the conversation.

You really hadn’t been lying, Hongjoong was your friend and there was nothing romantic between you.

Yes, he’d called you soulmates a couple times over the years but he’d never made a move or acted weird around you so you knew it was meant as platonic.

Yes, you constantly fell asleep cuddling on the couch during movie nights but you were just a cuddler, and he was more than okay with that, claiming it helped him get some proper sleep so there was never any harm done.

You’d both had partners over the last couple of years, he’d dated both guys and girls while you’d stuck to guys, and there was never any jealousy between you other than the occasional sour face over missing each other at home.

You were friends. Very physically close friends, but friends. Pure and simple.

So why can’t you get the words out of your head? You’ve seen him kiss people before but paid no attention to it. But now it’s like your mind is obsessed with it.

He has been single for a while, same as you, and he’s not really one for just making out with random people so it’s been a while since you’ve witnessed him 'in action' so you’re left with the vague memories you have of it.

His lips are pretty full and you suppose they would feel pretty good, and he’s always very respectful in the way he touches people so you doubt he’d be the type to rush. He feels like the type who could be satisfied with just making out for hours and demand nothing more.

You haven’t been able to get rid of these thoughts and now he’s sitting next to you on the couch, lightheartedly arguing about what movie you’re going to watch tonight, while all you can think about is how soft his lips would feel against yours.

“Hey, are you even listening?” He chuckles, nudging you with his elbow when you’ve given no meaningful input in the last couple of minutes.

“Yeah.” You say even though you’re only half-sure about what he’s asked you, too entranced by the way his bunny teeth show between his slightly parted lips. “Yeah, I’m good with that one.”

“Okay,” Hongjoong sighs as he puts the remote down and turns in his seat, drawing your attention away from his lips and up to meet his eyes. “What’s up with you lately? You seem distracted. More than usual.”

“I’m fine, Joongie.” You try to brush him off, the mix of loving confusion and worry making you feel bad. “Seriously, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“So, tell me about it.” He says, shifting so he sits cross-legged, fully focused on you. “You know you can tell me anything without me judging you, right?”

“You’re a very judgy person.” You can’t help but chuckle, relaxing a bit when he put his hand on your knee.

“Of others, sure, but I’d never judge you though.” He says and there’s that soft insisting tone in his voice that always makes you give in, leaving you to shift in your seat, turning to face him properly. “Come on, talk to me. What’s up?”

“I’ve just been thinking about something my friend said when we were at the club last time.”

“The one who clearly soured your night but you wouldn’t tell me how? Yeah, I remember her. Never liked her.”

“See? Judgy.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He laughs, rubbing your knee. “What did she say that’s got you so in your head?”

“She asked me if I’d ever thought about kissing you.” You say, surprised at how easy the words leave your lips as you watch his eyes widen.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, apparently rumor has it you’re a good kisser and she asked me if it was true.” You give a little shrug, not sure why you’re not flustered all the way down to hell, instead finding yourself chuckling alongside Hongjoong.

“I didn’t know there were rumors about me.” He says and as rare as it is, you think you see a little hint of pink in his cheeks.

“People as hot as you always have rumors about them, I think it’s a law at this point or something.” You scoff, unable to ignore the way his eyes sharpen slightly as they take you in.

“You saying I’m hot?”

“Please, you know you are.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you’d noticed.”

Something about his words and the way he says them, plants them firmly in your chest and you’re pretty sure you’re staring at him at surprise once you manage to find the ability to speak again.

“Would you have wanted me to?”

“Everyone likes to be admired by beautiful people, don’t they?”

“You saying I’m beautiful?”

“Yeah.” He says as if it’s the most natural, obvious thing in the world. “I’ve thought so since the first time I saw you in that café.”

You don’t know what to say to that so you keep quiet as you search for something to fill the silence with but Hongjoong speaks before you can figure something out.

“So have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Thought about kissing me.” The blush on his face is long gone as he looks at you like he’s discussing the weather, and you’re not entirely sure why you’re only now getting flustered.

“Why do you want to know?”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” He says with a light shrug. “I’m just asking you to clarify.”

“Why? Have you?”

“Yeah.”

The simple way he says it has you re-evaluating everything you thought you knew about your friend, and you’re sure he can tell by the way he gives an amused chuckle as he squeezes your knee.

“Like I said, you’re beautiful. How could I not have thought about what kissing you would be like?”

“When was this?” You ask, shocked at his revelation and the fact that he never once said anything about it.

“Oh plenty of times over the years. I’d say it’s a normal occurrence at this point.” He says, looking at you like you’re something precious to him, and you find it feeds the flames that burn your face.

“You never said anything.”

“You never gave any indication that you wanted me to.” He says as he shifts a little closer, a gentle look on his face as he smiles at you.

“I-” The thoughts in your head are turning into a thunderstorm loud enough to drown out anything else. “Are you in love with me?”

“Yes.”

He’s so calm, so forthright that you’re sure he must be joking, but he watches your silent freak out without saying anything. All he does is he keeps rubbing your knee as if to center you and give you something to return to when you’re done.

“Wha- When did you…”

“When did I know?” He offers when your words fail you and all you can do is nod at him. “I’d say about a year in. You were freaking out about an assignment you were sure you were going to fail, wouldn’t stop crying about it. Do you remember?”

“You took me to see the lantern festival.” The memory a little hazy in your agitated state but clear enough to recount. “Said I needed to look at anything other media ethics or I’d go insane.”

“I did.” He chuckles, glancing down at where his hand rests against your leg, thumb caressing your knee cap with a fond smile. “Tricked you into playing one of those games with me.”

“You said you could beat me blindfolded even though you suck at anything that isn’t music.” You scoff but there’s a warmth in your chest pushing the stress to the side for a bit. “I won.”

“I almost beat you though.”

“Not even close.”

He laughs, the clear, fond kind of laugh that has him throwing his head back that you’ve never realized makes him look so alive.

“You sat with me the whole night watching the sky lanterns.” You say as you remember the feeling of your hand in his as the lights floated across the night sky.

“I did.”

“Even though you had work in the morning.”

“It was worth it seeing you smile.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” You can’t help but ask, your eyes turning glossy as you remember the feeling of safety that had washed over you that night with him and that hasn't faded since.

“I didn’t want you to think any different of me.” He says and only now can you detect something other than calm from him, watching as his face takes on a sad air. “I knew you felt comfortable living with me because I was a friend who obviously didn’t have a romantic interest in you, and I didn’t want that to change.”

“So you would have just… carried on in silence? If one day I got married and had kids with someone else, you would have just smiled and congratulated me?”

“Yes.” He says, looking so at peace with the statement that it hurts your soul. “If the man you chose to spend your life with treated you well and loved you like you deserved, I would have shook his hand and told him to take care of you. I would love you from the sidelines in silence for the rest of my life if I knew that would make you happy. My feelings aren’t yours to have to carry.”

“Why would you do that to yourself?” You whisper, breath stuttering when his hand settles on your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears you haven’t noticed falling.

“Because I love you.” He says, simple as that. “Because when I say you’re beautiful, I mean inside and out. Because you’re my best friend and I could never hope for anything more than that.”

“I have.” You say, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of his hand lingering on your skin.

Hongjoong hums, a soft nudge to continue, almost as if words would disturb the peace you’ve found.

“Thought about kissing you.” You say, opening your eyes, needing to see his reaction to your confession. “Ever since the club, it’s all I can think about. I thought I was going crazy.”

“If you are, I’d say I still have you beat.” He chuckles, something warm shining in his eyes at your words.

“I always beat you, Joongie.” You counter, eyes flitting between his as something blooms inside of you. “You never stand a chance.”

“You’re the only one I want to continue losing to.” He says and you see the split second he looks at your lips before his eyes return to yours.

“Promise?” You whisper, body drifting toward him on its own volition, your mind fuzzy and still, finally blissfully quiet.

“With everything I have.” He breathes as his own body gravitates toward yours, eyes fluttering closed as your lips brush against his.

For it having been the only thing you’ve been able to think about for weeks, you never imagined kissing your best friend would feel quite like this.

However soft his lips look, they’re even softer pressing against yours. As good as he normally smells, his cologne hits harder when all you can breathe is him. No matter how tenderly he’s handled you before, the care he takes as he caresses your face has your blood singing.

He tastes good too. Far better than you could have ever guessed. You can feel your body continue moving towards him as if it has a mind of its own, and the way a little gasp leaves his lips when he ends up with his back against the couch and you on his lap nearly makes you whimper.

With your head spinning the way it is, it’s hard to remember if you’ve ever sat on his lap before, but you know that you’ve never straddled him like this before. It feels right somehow. The warmth of him between your legs and the way the hand not cupping your cheek settles respectfully at the small of your back, holding you against him, makes your insides flutter as if touched by a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

He kisses you like he wants to worship you, like he’s been wishing for this moment his whole life and he’s not about to fuck it up.

You let your hands run through his hair as you sink further onto his lap, smiling when it makes him moan into the kiss. He’s so pliant under you, so respectful and willing to let you play with him. You watch him with hooded eyes and he looks so eager that you’re sure if you pulled back he’d start thanking you for letting him experience this.

A cruel thought crosses your mind and your hips move on their own, Hongjoong’s eyes flying open as you grind down on him.

“This okay?” You whisper against his lips, meeting his eye to see just how far you can push him as you feel his hand twitch at your back.

“Y-yeah.” He moans, staring up at you like you’re the air he breathes and he’s getting high off you. “Feels good.”

“Yeah?” You can’t help but smile, grinding down harder to watch his entire face scrunch up as if he’s fighting himself with everything he’s got. “Have you imagined this too, Joongie? At night when you knew I was at the end of the hallway sleeping, did you touch yourself thinking about me?”

“B-baby-” His words break off in a whimper and God he sounds so pretty you want to keep torturing him.

“Hm? Did you, Joongie?” You coo, tugging on his hair to watch his mouth drop open in a silent moan. “Tell me?”

“Fuck…” He groans, head dropping back against the couch and you think you can see his eyes roll back in his skull when your hands go to his shoulders, squeezing the muscles as you keep grinding. “I did.”

“What did you fantasize about?” You chuckle, leaning forward to kiss his neck, naked and bared just for you, and you swear he trembles under you. “Did you ever imagine me making you whimper like this?”

“Yes.” He grinds out through gritted teeth, his length hard against you and by the looks of him, so so sensitive. “Wanted you so bad.”

“And yet you never came to find me, did you?” You continue, heartbeat loud in your ears as you toy with him, licking and kissing at his Adam’s apple. “You were such a good friend, suffering all alone in your room while I was sleeping peacefully in mine.”

“I-” He stops to catch his breath and when you pull back you can see he’s close to tears. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Oh, Joongie.” You whisper as all movements stop and you instead wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. “It’s okay. You didn't do anything wrong.”

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you to him with the most force he’s used tonight, hiding his face in your chest. “I tried so hard to not want more.”

“I know.” You whisper as you kiss his hair and run your fingers over the back of his neck. “But you don’t have to anymore. You can want all of it.”

It takes him a couple of moments to gather himself enough to look at you again but when he does, his eyes are glossy and he looks about ready to let the tears fall.

“I never wanted to put any of this on you.”

“I know, baby.” You coo, caressing his hair out of his face, watching his lashes flutter at the new nickname. “And you haven’t.”

“You just… never seemed interested in anything more.”

“I guess I just maybe never realized it was an option.” You say, running your fingers through his hair to make him relax even further. “I mean, I did think you were gay for that first year and maybe that's why I never considered it even after I found out you weren’t.”

“So what you’re saying is we’re both idiots?” He chuckles, it’s a wet one but you’ll take it.

“I mean, everyone already knows that though.” You smile at him, leaning down to brush your nose against his. “I am pretty sure I like you too by the way. Just so we’re clear.”

“Just ‘pretty sure’?” He breathes but there’s no weight to his words despite your own hesitant ones.

“I mean, we already know I love you, but up until now that’s only been platonic.” You say, cupping his cheek, unable to stop yourself from brushing your thumb over his bottom lip, so puffy and soft to the touch. “But this isn’t how platonic feelings feel. It’s more. Way more. So yes, pretty sure I like you romantically.”

“Want to keep going and see if we can fully convince you?” He gives you something between a smile and a smirk, those adorable bunny teeth making an appearance again and all you want to do is kiss them.

“Sure you’re up for it?” You say, eyes locked onto his mouth and definitely not giving off the most restrained vibes you're trying for.

“I’m up for anything you want to give me.” He says, eagerness mixed with a softness that has your heart warming in your chest.

“Even sex?” You have to ask, the reminder of his desire now only half-firm against your core but twitching as images no doubt flood his brain as much as they are yours.

“Yes.” He nods, his eyes flitting between your eyes and your lips as if silently seeking permission.

“Okay.” You say, leaning down to capture his lips once more, smiling against them when his hands remain at your waist, flexing. “Touch me, Joongie. Please?”

He needs the guidance, you realize, terrified of making you uncomfortable or putting too much on you, so you take his hands and run them down to your ass.

“Do what feels right.” You mumble against his lips as you pick up the grinding again, slowly at first but quickly gaining confidence. “I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

He moans into your mouth again and you can feel the goosebumps race across your skin at the way his hands squeeze you, helping you move against him like he needs.

“Does that feel good, Joongie?” You whisper, unable to stop the whimper leaving you when he twitches against you and all you can think about is how he would feel inside you.

“So fucking good.” He groans, one of his hands leaving your ass to cup the back of your neck, holding you still as he crashes his lips against yours with a fervor you haven’t seen from him before but that has your movements faltering. “Want to be inside you, baby. Please? I’ll do anything.”

The desperation in his voice has you shaking in his hold and from the way his eyes darken you know he feels it.

“Want to make me come first?” You ask against his lips, giggling when he immediately nods with a whimper.

“Yes, please, baby. I need it.” The hand at your neck tightens its grip and you moan as the muscles relax under his fingertips.

“You sound so pretty when you beg for me, Joongie.” You breathe, pressing a light kiss to his lips, watching him chase you when you pull back. “I want your fingers.”

You’ve barely gotten the words out before the hand on your ass moves, snaking into the front of your pajama pants, and you watch with glee as Hongjoong’s eyes widen comically.

“No underwear?” He asks as his fingers brush over the wet heat, his breath hitching when you roll your hips into his hand, chasing the friction you so desperately crave.

“I sleep without them.” You say, smiling as you lean forward to capture his lips as you grind into his hand again. “Bet that wasn’t in your fantasy was it?”

“Fuck.” You can feel him twitching under you. “You’re such a fucking tease.”

“Oh, you’ve seen nothing yet. You whimper too good for me to be anything else.” You giggle only for it to be cut off by his thumb rubbing circles against your clit.

“Talking a big game, right now, baby,” He chuckles darkly, a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before as the push and pull between you takes your breath away. “For someone who can’t find words as soon as her pussy gets played with.”

You want to retort, to keep the back and forth going but the way his fingers move against you really does make you unable to grasp words, so all you can do is whimper when he slowly pushes a finger inside you.

It’s not nearly enough to make you feel full but the whole situation has your head spinning. A couple of hours ago this man was your platonic friend, and now he’s knuckle deep in your pussy with you wishing he’ll never leave. It’s insane but it feels so right, like something has been missing in your relationship but there was never a name for it.

“That good?” He asks and the hand at your nape angles you to let him worship your neck properly as a second finger joins the first. “Hm? Am I treating my baby the way she deserves?”

His baby.

The words settle in your soul and you clench around his fingers with a whimper that sounds more like a cry than anything else.

“Oh? You like being mine, sweetheart?” He practically purrs. “Mine to play with and love the way you deserve?”

“Joong…” You gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders until you’re sure it must be painful.

“That’s it, baby, let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You give it to him. The sounds tumbling out of you are ones you didn’t even know you could make as you cling onto him for dear life. You’ll give him anything he asks for if it means he keeps touching you.

His thumb keeps a steady pressure on your clit while his fingers curl inside you, hitting just where you need him to while he nips and suckles at your neck, marking you as his.

“You want another one?” He chuckles against your tender skin when you clench around him again, grinding into his hand to chase the high as you do your best to nod. “Yeah? Want to see if you can beg me for it?”

“Fuck-” Your breath hitches as your movements falter, squeezing hard around his fingers at the way he asks you for it.

“It was fun making me do it, wasn’t it, baby?” He coos at you the way you did him, grinning at the heat he feels rushing up your neck. “Make me all crazy and beg for you. Now I want to see if you can sound that pretty for me.”

“Joongie, please…” Your brain is mush, unable to make the words come out properly with the way he dives back in for your neck as he puts a bit more pressure behind his thumb. “Can’t.”

“Aw, is my baby all fucked out already? Guess you don’t want me to stretch you out on my fingers then. Is this really enough to make you come though? Cause I think you can do better.”

The whimpering mess you had under you earlier has officially left the apartment. Left in his place is a demon, cool and confident, eager to make you fall apart just by teasing the hell out of you.

“Need it,” You somehow manage to push past your lips through the haze in your mind, mouth dropped open in a never-ending stream of moans and whimpers. “P-please, more. Joongie-”

“I’ve got you, baby.” He soothes, the hand at your neck moving to caress your hair as he rewards you with a kiss you don't know you’ve been desperate for. “Did so good for me.”

“T-thank yo-”

You can barely get the words out before he slips a third finger inside, taking your breath away as he swallows your moans, keeping you perfectly overwhelmed and hazy.

“God, you feel so good.” He groans into your mouth, barely able to move from how tight you’re clenching down on him. “As perfect as I’d imagined.”

His praise is poison running through your veins and you happily give yourself to it, riding him blindly as the coil tightens in your lower belly, and the need to beg again becomes too great.

“Joong, please-” You pull back from his lips enough to rest your forehead against his, eyes squeezed shut as you fight the rapid ascent happening inside you. “Need it.”

“Want to come, baby?” He asks, breathless as he stares up at your face, far more beautiful than even in his wildest dreams. “You want to fall apart on my fingers, hm? Look at me.”

“Yes!” You cry, eyes fluttering open as you struggle to hang onto what little sanity you have left and for a moment, the look in Hongjoong’s eyes makes you fear he won’t let you come after all. The thought makes you clench so hard it hurts. “Please!”

“Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

It’s been so long since someone else made you come that you’ve almost forgotten how good it can feel, but you’re pretty sure it’s never felt like this. Every inch of you is on fire. The breath in your lungs evaporates in the heat. The eyes staring up at you like they’re afraid to miss a single second makes your toes curl. The way he spurs you on with filthy praise and still moving fingers leave you whining and whimpering as he pushes you into overstimulation.

You’re losing your mind, you’re sure of it. All you can smell, taste, hear and see is him. Your best friend who is turning out to be so much more than you could have ever imagined.

He doesn’t slow his movements until you’re weakly trying to pull out of his grasp, followed by a lighthearted chuckle that seems so distant from the beast you’ve just ridden yourself to completion on. Lips press soft kisses to your face and when his tongue darts across your skin you realize somewhere in your climax, you started crying.

He pulls out of you gently, cooing at you when you wince at the sore, empty feeling, and wraps his arms around you to pull you close after wiping his hand on his pants. You must still be out of your mind because you cling to him like a baby, overstimulated and exhausted despite your very being shaking, needing more.

“You did so good for me, baby.” He says as he strokes your back, letting you catch your breath in his arms. “So beautiful the whole way through.”

You want to thank him for the praise, which is a newly formed need inside you but you can’t find the words yet, and he lets you know there’s no rush and to just breathe. He’s so soft, so unlike the demon that had you in his claws just now, that your head spins and all you can do is whimper when he continues kissing the tears from your face.

It takes you a little while to come down, but Hongjoong doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seems to quite enjoy having you this close, clinging to him, and if he was a cat you just know he’d be purring up a storm.

“You want something to drink?” He asks when he can’t feel your heart beating as furiously against his chest anymore and your breath seems to have mostly returned.

“Don’t want to move.” You mumble even though you feel like you’ve swallowed a desert, feeling surprisingly vulnerable when he chuckles softly at you.

“You know, I never thought you could get cuter but I guess I was wrong.”

“Shut up.” You breathe, the air of a chuckle leaving you and by the way he gently kisses your cheek, you know he hears it.

“You feeling ready for bed?” He continues to ask, mistaking the physical exertion for actual exhaustion, stupidly thinking his fingers have doused the fire still burning brightly within you.

“Only if you plan to fuck me on it.” You say, pulling back to look at him properly, and from the way his mouth drops open at the sight of you, you must look thoroughly fucked out.

“You sure?” He asks, tone of voice soft as he caresses your hair out of your face. “We don’t have to.”

“I know we don’t.” You say, staring into his eyes as you grind down despite your sensitivity just to remind him that you can feel how hard he still is against you. “But I want you. And unless you don’t want it, I’m not stopping until I get you.”

“You’re so bossy when you’re not begging to come.” He chuckles only for his mouth to drop open in a hiss when you tug on his hair again.

“Look who’s talking.” You don’t have the same strength in your voice as you did earlier but it still works by the way he twitches under you, and you finally give into your impulse and press a kiss to the teeth that peek out so adorably underneath his top lip. “Take me to your bedroom.”

“You sure you don’t want yours?” He asks, looking up at you with stars in his eyes.

“Want to make your fantasies come true, Joongie.” You smile, tasting him one last time before you begin to untangle yourself from him even though the separation feels utterly wrong.

He holds your hand until you’re safely on your feet with no sign of falling or losing your balance, and you help pull him off the couch as if you need an excuse to keep holding onto his hand.

You’ve been in his bedroom plenty of times before. There’s no telling how many hours in total you’ve sat on his bed and listened to unfinished tracks while he nervously watched and waited to hear your thoughts. But this time you don’t feel like a guest being invited into his space.

This time you belong.

“How are your legs?” Hongjoong asks as you move towards his bed, his hands on your hips with his thumbs brushing against your stomach.

“Too tired to ride anymore I’m afraid.” You can’t help but giggle as his lips pass over a particularly ticklish part of your neck.

“So how do you want it?” He asks, latching onto you again as his hands start moving fully under your shirt, pushing the fabric up as he goes.

“Want to see your face.” You breathe, shivering as his fingers brush the underside of your breasts. “Please?”

“You don’t have to beg right now.” He chuckles, pulling back to look at you properly, his eyes flitting around as if they’re trying to commit every single detail to memory. “Anything you want is yours.”

“I want to see you.” You say, your own hand brushing the border between his sweatpants and hoodie to hear his breath stutter. “All of you.”

His hands leave you to pull his shirt off and you almost whine at the loss before you’re blessed with the sight of his bare skin, the ink of his bicep in stark difference to his fair skin that rarely see the light of day. He’s so beautiful, more muscular than you would have imagined but still lean.

You’re about to reach out to touch him, needing to trail your fingers over the toned planes of his stomach but Hongjoong seems to have other plans as he grabs hold of the bottom of your shirt.

“May I?” He asks, his eyes seeking permission even though he doesn’t need to, and when you nod it only takes a second before you too are bare before him and he drops his head back with a groan. “No bra either?”

“I like being comfy.” You can’t help but giggle at his reaction only for the mirth to stick in your throat when his fingers trace your breasts.

“You’re so beautiful.” He breathes, staring at you as if you’ll disappear if he dares to take his eyes off you.

“Living up to your imagination?” You whisper as he cups you, thumbs brushing over your nipples to feel them harden further under his touch.

“You’re even better than I could have dreamed of.” He sounds in awe and it’s doing wonders for your confidence, your own hands playing with the strings of his sweatpants.

“Can I take these off?” You ask, almost not wanting to draw his attention away from admiring you but there’s a heavy heartbeat between your legs that yearns for his attention. “Want to see you.”

“Yes.” He says before lightly pinching your nipples, watching your back arch ever so slightly at the stimulation. “Need you to see me.”

His response makes you whimper and you sink to your knees as you ease his pants and underwear down his legs. His cock springs free once the fabric is gone, Hongjoong’s hips jerking at the cool air against his heated skin, and you can feel your mouth watering at the sight of him. He’s slightly longer than the ones you’ve had before and the girth of him as you wrap your hand around his length makes your pussy clench in need.

You move your hand over him, gathering the precum that you’re surprised hasn’t stained his sweatpants to make the glide easier, as you look up to see him looking absolutely wrecked.

He’s biting his lip, bunny teeth digging into the plump flesh in a way that makes the jealousy rise in you. You should be the only one biting those lips. His eyes are screwed shut, and you squeeze him to get his full and undivided attention.

“Eyes on me, Joongie.” You say, the crumbling look on his face as he looks down at you leaving you breathless. “Tell me what’s going through that pretty head of yours.”

“So fucking beautiful.” He damn near sobs as you keep stroking him, looking like he’s about to lose control of his legs. “Won’t last if you- fuck- if you do that. Need to- inside you. Please.”

“Fine.” You roll your eyes with a dramatic sigh, smiling when he whimpers. “Guess I’ll have to wait for you to fuck my throat until tomorrow then.”

The way he freezes makes it clear he’s using all of his faculties to not imagine it in his head, to not beg you for it now, to not come, and you decide to be merciful and let him go so he can come down a bit.

You get up off the floor, his hands reaching out to steady you on the way up even though his eyes are still screwed shut as he focuses on his breathing.

He’s so precious trying to control himself and it’s really doing wonders for your self-esteem to be needed this badly.

You lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek as you wait for him to open his eyes again. It takes a couple of moments but once he does, he’s greeted with a soft smile and loving hands running through his hair.

“You okay?” You ask, wanting to tease him but not actually drive him insane.

“Yeah,” He breathes, eyes flitting between yours as if he still can’t believe that this is real. “Yeah, you’re just… Perfect.”

“Thank you.” You smile, pulling him to you for a tender kiss, aiming to slow everything down a bit, and he sighs into your mouth as his hands go back to your ass. “You’re doing great.”

“I’m making a fool out of myself.” He chuckles, a hint of self-deprecation shining through. “This isn’t what I wanted you to see.”

“That you’re eager?” You ask, stopping yourself from disagreeing with him straight off the bat, caressing his neck to ground him.

“I wanted to impress you, not make it seem like I’m a high-schooler who has no idea what I’m doing.” He mumbles, pink dusting his cheeks and you can’t help but admire just how pretty he looks.

“It’s a compliment, Joongie.” You say, gently running your nails over his scalp to feel him shiver against you. “You’ve already shown me you know what you’re doing. It’s just a lot all at once, even for me. But I have the luxury of multiple orgasms and a pretty short refractory period, so it’s a bit different. But trust me, I get it.”

“I just want to make you feel good.” He pouts, actually straight up pouts, and if your need for him had ever lessened, it’s now back full force.

“You already have, and I know you will again. Do you still want to fuck me or should we get cleaned up?”

“Oh, I’m fucking you tonight.” He stares at you like you’ve lost your mind, and you can’t help but laugh at him. “Unless you tell me no, we’re doing this.”

“Okay, then I would suggest getting my pants off.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, fingers instantly hooking into your waistband and pulling until the fabric pools at your feet. He’s back to staring but you take his hand and pull him to the bed before he can get stuck again, laying yourself back before tugging him onto the bed with you.

He slots between your open legs like he was always meant to be there and his fingers return, spreading your wetness as he silently admires you. His lips quirk up into a smile at the little noises he pulls from you with the touch and his heated eyes, and you whine when he spreads you open on his fingers once more.

“Joongie, I’m already prepped enough.” You reach down to grab at his wrist but he intercepts you, lacing his fingers with yours as his other hand continues its work.

“I know.” He smirks down at you, curling his fingers just so as he gently presses your intertwined hands against your lower belly, making you whimper. “You just feel so good.”

“Please,” You gasp as the pressure on your stomach makes his fingers feel even better. “This isn’t fair.”

“You said you had a good refractory period, didn’t you? I want to put it to the test.”

“Please-” Your words hitch as his thumb starts circling your clit once more. “Just want you to fuck me.”

“And I will,” He coos, watching the way his fingers disappear inside you, admiring the way you twitch under him. “As soon as you give me one more.”

“I can’t.” You cry as you squeeze his hand, only for him to squeeze back with the most demonic looking grin you’ve ever seen.

“No, I know you can. I can feel it.” He chuckles, dark eyes staring into yours as he starts fucking you with his fingers. “It’s okay, baby, just let go for me. Relax and take it like I know my good girl can.”

“Joongie…” You clench around him, every inch of your skin tingling as he works you towards the precipice again. “Please-”

He presses your hands down more, and you feel his fingers fucking you under them, and with just a bit more pressure on your clit he sends you hurtling off the cliff.

Your body practically convulses. Your vision goes dark at the edges. Your mouth is dropped open but no sound or breath comes out. You’re lost in the ecstasy and he just keeps fucking you through it, drawing it out like he’s seeing how long you can last. It’s not until you start pulling at your clutched hands with whines leaving your lips that he stops.

Your vision returns in increments. You’re able to draw full breaths into your lungs again. You’re still shaking but not as bad as before.

The hand holding yours moves to your face, cupping your cheek and wiping your tears as he watches you come down once again, and you watch him lick his fingers clean before he leans down to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

“Joongie…”

“Shh,” He hushes you, his body covering yours and sharing its warmth with you to keep you from shivering. “You were perfect. Did so beautifully. I’m so proud of you.”

“You’re a demon.” You mumble against his lips, breathing him in as the chemicals rush through your system, keeping you high.

“Never been called that before, think you’re the one bringing the beast out in me.” He laughs softly, stroking your hair and kissing your face to settle you further, allowing you the time to come back into your body. “You feeling okay?”

“Mhm.” You nod, eyes fluttering open despite you not knowing when they’ve drifted closed. “’m good.”

“Not too much?” He asks and even in your high you can hear the slight uncertainty in his tone.

“No, was good.” You laugh, hand nearly smacking him in the face as you try to bring it to his hair to pet it, still a little out of it. “Didn’t push too far. ‘ll say red if you do.”

“Familiar with safewords are you?” He chuckles but you can hear the relief in his voice and you watch his eyes flutter closed when your fingers finally manage to rake through his hair.

“Everyone should be.” You smile dopily, leaning up to press a sloppy kiss to his lips. “But yeah, ‘m a bit of a kinky bitch.”

“Noted.” He can’t help but laugh before he captures your lips again, the need to taste you too great once more.

“Joongie.” You eventually say when your head is a little clearer and the blood is no longer screaming in your head like it was. “Please fuck me now.”

“You sure?” He asks even though he’s still painfully hard against you, you wet heat having done nothing but stoke his thirst for you. “Not too sore?”

“A bit.” You admit, giving his hair a tug to hear him moan again. “Go slow?”

“Promise.” He presses a gentle kiss to the side of your mouth, his eyes flitting between yours as he reaches over to the nightstand to grab a condom from the drawer.

You haven’t even thought about that in your haze and your heart swells at the care he’s taking with you.

You can’t help but stare at him as he sits back on his heels and tears the packet open. He’s so beautiful like this, copper bangs clinging to his forehead, toned abs and chest on full display as he rolls the condom on. The shy kind of smile he sends you makes you wonder how you never saw his devotion until he literally beat you over the head with it.

“You ready?” He asks, leaning down again to kiss you, resting one arm beside your head while his other hand aligns himself, waiting for your consent.

“Yes.” You whisper against his lips as you wrap your arms around his neck, trembling at the way he rubs his tip through your folds and you can’t stop yourself from trying to meet his movements. “Please fuck me, Joongie.”

He sinks into you slowly, watching your face like he’s burning every micro expression into his mind as he feeds you his cock inch by inch.

He feels amazing even with how tender your insides are, stretching you in the most perfect way as he focuses on letting you feel all of it.

He doesn’t kiss you, too busy watching your mouth drop open with a silent moan and feeling you clench around him when he finally bottoms out. He stays there for a moment, catching his own breath and trying not to lose his mind at how soft and warm you are around him, putting his weight on his forearms on either side of your head as he finally leans back down to kiss you.

“You feel so good, baby.” He hisses when you clench around him, almost like you’re trying to nudge him to start moving.

“Please, Joongie,” You whine, hips grinding up to push him even deeper as you moan at the feeling. “Need you to move.”

“Yeah?” He asks, a smirk on his face as he looks down at you, a laugh pulled out of him when you squeak at his hips pulling back an inch before pushing back in. “Does my baby need me to fuck her properly? All slow and tender like she asked me, huh?”

“Yes…” You moan, the tip of his cock making a home deep inside you. “Need to feel you love me.”

“Oh baby.” He breathes, giving you slow deep strokes that has your eyes rolling back in your skull. “You don’t want me to fuck you, do you? You want me to make love to you.”

“Please,” You whisper, raking your nails over his shoulders and back as your legs cross behind his back to keep him from pulling away from you. “Need it.”

You’re crying again. The feeling of his body against yours is something you never knew you needed but now that you have it, you’re not sure how you ever survived without it. You might just die if he ever leaves, and you cling to him as the thoughts mix with the desperation and pleasure he’s giving you.

With every deep stroke he brushes your clit and as sensitive as it is, you can’t find it in you to not want more. It’s perfect. He’s perfect. You’ve never needed someone as much as you need him in this moment and even though his thrusts never speed up or lose their tenderness, you can tell he’s feeling the same desperation creeping up inside of him.

His kisses are turning sloppy, his moans are shifting into whimpers and he’s trembling now, not enough to be concerning but enough for you to notice.

You turn your face so he can attack your neck again, leaving fresh marks over the already tender skin as he whines against you, hips starting to lose their rhythm.

“Touch yourself, baby.” He pants on a particularly deep stroke that has you seeing stars. “Want you to come with me, can you do that?”

You can’t find the words anymore but you know he can feel you nod as one of your arms let go of his neck to sneak between you, shaky fingers rubbing your clit the way you like as you clench down harder on him.

“So- so fucking good.” He moans, thrusts finally speeding up as he feels you beginning to tense under him. “Are you close, my love?”

Another frantic nod from you and he’s laughing again, that wild look back in his eyes that you’re starting to both fear and love as his hips grind into you deeper than before.

“Feeling me in your stomach, baby?” He groans when you give an extra loud whimper. “That’s where I belong. Right here.”

He reaches down, splaying his hand under your arm, right above your mound, and presses down to feel his cock moving inside you, eliciting an even louder noise from you at the overwhelming feeling.

“That feel good?” He moans into your neck, snapping his hips into you now, losing control of his pace completely. “You going to come for me, baby?”

“P-please!” You force the words past your lips as he's fully fucking you into the mattress now.

“Let go again, let me hear you!”

The coil inside you doesn’t just snap this time, it explodes, and you scream. Your body locks up and you can’t breathe. You can’t see. All you know is him.

Hongjoong.

Your best friend turned lover.

You feel the stutter of his hips, how his cock jerks while your pussy milks him for all that he’s worth. You hear his whimpers against your neck when he keeps fucking himself into overstimulation, not wanting to pull out just yet. You feel his heart beating frantically against your chest when he’s unable to keep his weight off of you, and his breathless apologies for it. You hear your own whimpers when he eventually pulls out, leaving you empty and throbbing and fully satiated.

Something wet settles against your face and you startle, eyes flying open in confusion. He’s sitting next to you on the bed, wearing pajama pants, wiping at your face with a wet towel and you have no idea how you could have missed him leaving or getting dressed.

“You back with us?” He asks, a soft smile playing on his lips as he gently wipes your cheeks free of tears.

“Did I black out?” You ask, brows furrowing when your tongue isn’t quite moving the way you want it to.

“Yeah, you did.” He chuckles, brushing the sweaty hair out of your face as he watches you fondly. “Think three orgasms might have been pushing it a little bit.”

“Yeah, and whose fault is that, huh?” You try to scoff but the dopey little smile on your lips makes it unfairly hard.

“Don’t remember you putting up too much of a fight.” He says, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Felt too good to.” You huff with a roll of your eyes, attempting a stretch only to have your body scream at you. “Fuck me.”

“I just did.” Hongjoong giggles boyishly and you can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, well you did a better job than most cause fuck, my muscles are trying to kill me now.”

“Glad I could make an impression.” He says, caressing your hair as he watches you with a soft look in his eyes. “I cleaned you up a bit while you were out but if you want to take a shower before bed, you can.”

“Don’t think I could even stand up right now if I’m being honest.” You giggle, only now realizing you’re still naked on top of his bed but with a blanket draped over you so you don’t get too cold.

“Didn’t want to jostle you too much trying to put clothes on.” Hongjoong explains when he sees you taking in your naked state. “And your pants were pretty… um, wet so I wasn’t sure if you wanted to put them back on anyway.”

It’s hard to say when it’s this dark and your eyes are still trying to return to normal, but you’re pretty sure he’s blushing again now that the heat of the moment is over.

“That was sweet of you, Joongie.” You say, your hand struggling to get out from under the blanket to settle on his knee. “But I usually sleep without pants so we’re good.”

His groan at the mental image has you laughing as you pull him down to kiss him. It’s a light, almost chaste kiss considering what has transpired between you tonight but that makes it mean so much more.

“Got a shirt I could borrow?” You ask once your lips are free again, and this time there’s no mistaking the blush the spreads from the tips of his ears, over his face and down to his chest.

“You’re killing me.”

“What? Can’t I make several fantasies of yours come true in one night?” You laugh, his lips smushing against yours cutting it off momentarily before he gets off the bed, the wet towel thrown into a hamper on his way to the closet.

While Hongjoong gets you a shirt, you do your best to move under the covers and even though it’s a bit of wrestling match, you eventually come out victorious.

“This should do.” Hongjoong says as he hands you one of his oversized T-shirts, staring as you let the covers drop before you pull the shirt over your head, looking like he wants nothing more than to get his hands on your breasts again. “That comfortable?”

“It’s perfect.” You say, smiling when the scent of Hongjoong seeps into your pores as you snuggle back down under the covers. “Come on.”

He doesn’t seem to have realized that he’s waiting for permission to get into his own bed but as soon as the words come out of your mouth he’s slipping under the covers, pulling your back to his chest as if the distance has been killing him.

You can feel sleep creep up on you but there’s something keeping you awake. At first you don’t realize what it is, but when Hongjoong quietly clears his throat behind you, you can feel it.

He’s tense.

His heart is still frantically beating against your back with no sign of slowing down and you can almost hear his thoughts going a million miles an hour.

“Joongie?” Your voice is quiet and sleepy but you swear he freezes behind you as if the sound cuts right through him.

“I’m fine, baby.” He says, his soft tone doing nothing to convince you he’s not about to have a heart attack. “Go to sleep.”

“Not until you tell me what that big brain of yours is cooking up.” You try to turn over to face him but the arm at your waist is surprisingly strong and keeps you right where you are. “Come on, talk to me.”

“I’m just… scared.” He says, his words hesitant as if speaking them out loud is going to be the cause of his downfall. “Of waking up and all this- Everything that’s happened tonight will just have been a dream.”

Your heart breaks at the fear in his voice. How often has he dreamt of you, only to wake up to reality punching him in the face?

“I’m here, Joongie.” You say, doing your best to wiggle closer and awkwardly angling your head back far enough to give him a kiss. “I know it’s scary but I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever if I have anything to say about it.”

“Really?” He sounds so fragile but even now he won’t let you turn around to face him so you take his hand and bring it to your lips, pressing gentle little kisses along all of it, from the heel of his palm to the very tips of his fingers.

“I don’t want to be apart from you. I’ve actually been a little worried sometimes about you finding a partner, falling in love and moving in with them instead, leaving me to grow old and wrinkly all by myself.”

“Stupid.” He mumbles through tears, squeezing you to him as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. “I’ve only ever wanted that with you.”

“So I’m not leaving unless you kick me out,” You chuckle, reaching back to card your fingers through his hair. “And even then you’re going to need one hell of an argument for it to work.”

“I love you so fucking much.” He sniffles and you’re not sure if he was hoping for the tears to hide the words but if he was, he’s shit out of luck.

“I might just love you too, Joongie.” You whisper back, feeling his breath stutter in his lungs for a second before he forces himself to inhale properly again.

“I thought you were still at ‘maybe like’.”

“Yeah well, I have been known to be wrong occasionally.” Your chuckle is a quiet one, voice on the brink of tears as the arm around you squeezes you tighter.

“I’ve never been more happy to hear that.” He whispers, pressing a kiss to one of the marks he’s left as proof that you’re his.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Don’t worry.” He whispers, sleep finally forcing his eyes closed. “I won’t.”

Taglist

@imeverycliche 

@joonie-joon 

@kathng555 

[romancentold]

☤ TEETH. ❝ PART SEVEN ❞ 박성훈⸝.ᐟ⋆

PAIRING 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗇 ۶ৎ 𝘧𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋. (ᴄᴏʟʟᴇɢᴇ ᴀᴜ)

゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ S in which nothing cuts deeper than your hatred for park sunghoon, except the desire that waits underneath it. 、masterpost

𝓦 。ᐟ MDNI ⨾ profanity, blindfolds, sexual content, forced proximity, suggestive content, power dynamics, panic/claustrophobia (brief), slow-burn enemies to lovers, unhealthy communication, (sunghoon is an asshole) 。。。𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌 [✧] ꧁𓊈 prev𒆜 next 𓊉꧂ 。WC 8700

𝓝 ⟢ 𝗂 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗃𝗈 𝗉𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝗒 𝗃𝖾𝖿𝖿 𝖻𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗂 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖾𝗋. 𝗂’𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗂 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝗂 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝗂𝗍 ♡ 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾, 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋… 𝗂’𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆. 𝗂 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗂 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 ꒰˘̩̩̩⌣˘̩̩̩๑꒱♡

If you actually thought you could sleep the anger off, you were—shockingly, tragically, to no one’s surprise—completely wrong, because it didn’t fade overnight, didn’t burn itself out while you tossed and turned, it only wound itself tighter, like a rope cinched around your ribs, dragging itself into the shower with you, sticking to the fog on your mirror, clinging bitter in the last mouthful of morning coffee, and by the time you dropped into your seat in Dr. Kim’s class, it had already taken it’s physical form in the chair beside you. Or rather, in the shape of its source.

What was surprising—and maybe the cruelest trick the universe has ever played on you—was the blindfold that landed on your desk with a soft, final little thud.

But that was halfway through Dr. Kim’s lecture. Before that, you’d made yourself a promise: you weren’t going to look at him. Not once. No side-eye, no glare, no giving Park Sunghoon the satisfaction of knowing he was anywhere in your line of sight. Which should have been easy. Simple. Sit down, take notes, ignore the six feet of infuriating arrogance planted beside you. Pretend he wasn’t there. You could do that.

Except it wasn’t. Because of course it fucking wasn’t.

“As always,” Dr. Kim began about halfway through class, his voice steady, “I prefer practice over theory, because you may memorize a definition, but that doesn’t mean you actually understand it. Today we discussed that trust is not abstract, and that it is not simply a word on a page, but instead it is a choice. It happens in the smallest of moments, when you hand someone the lead, when you let them guide you even though you cannot see the way forward.”

He paused, letting his gaze sweep slowly over the class. “I like to believe I’m looking at a room full of very capable students. Which is why I want you to build that trust here, with the partners you’ve been given. If you’ll remember, I didn’t let you choose who you’re paired with. That wasn’t cruelty—though many of you have likely argued otherwise—No, It was because I knew opportunities like this would come.”

He lifted a small stack of folded black cloth from his desk and set one on each table as he passed.

“Today, you’ll experience what happens when trust is tested—or perhaps built.”

You stared down at the cloth in front of you, slow realization crawling hot and mean across your skin. If that was what you thought it was… would the universe really press its heel against your throat and hand you this particular brand of humiliation on this particular morning?

Surely not. Right?

Wrong.

“In front of you I’ve placed a blindfold.” A wave of murmurs swept through the room. “One of you will wear it, and the other will be responsible for guiding them through the task timed at five minutes, and the pair with the best combined score will earn five points of extra credit toward the group project grade. The exercise will look simple on the surface; You will face away from the board while your partner sees a diagram I’ll flash on the screen, and your job is to replicate it on paper using only their instructions. No touching. No switching roles. No shortcuts or whatsoever—simply rely on your partner to guide you.”

Dr. Kim is still talking—you can definitely see his mouth moving—but you don’t hear a word of it. Just ringing in your ears, hollow and sharp, because all you can look at is the strip of black cloth sitting on your desk like it’s already mocking you. Stupid little thing. Harmless anywhere else. But not here. Not when it’s sitting between you and Park Sunghoon.

Fucking hell.

Then his voice cuts through again as he passes a thin sheet of paper down each row. “As always, you’ll record your reflections here based on your experience and attach it to your notebooks. At the end of the semester, I will take one random notebook from every group to grade, so don’t think you can skate by on your partner’s effort. I assure you, I see more than you think.” He pauses, sets the timer on the screen. “Discuss which one of you will be blindfolded for the exercise now.”

You barely got a thought in before you heard his voice.

“Put it on.”

You hadn’t looked at him all morning, not since the argument that kept you wired until sunrise, but your head still snapped toward him before you could stop yourself, like muscle memory giving you away. He wasn’t even looking back—elbow propped, pen tapping against his notebook, like this was already settled, like your choice never mattered in the first place.

You blinked at him, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

Finally, his eyes flicked over. Slow. Cold. “You heard me.”

God, the audacity of him. Your mouth fell open, a laugh clawing its way out, sharp and disbelieving. “I know you’re not serious.”

He hummed. Not a word. Just that little sound in his throat like you were already annoying him. “Dead serious.”

A laugh sputtered out of you, sharp and disbelieving. “Why the fuck would I be the one to wear it?”

He didn’t even blink. “Because I said so.”

“Oh, fuck off. If you think I’m gonna sit here blindfolded while you—”

“There’s a timer.” He points to the screen. “Be a good girl and shut up. Unless you want to lose; Which you and I both know you don’t.”

Your pulse jumped hot in your throat, rage and something you refused to name knotting together. “Fuck you and this fucking class.”

“Mm.” He gestures with his pen, slow and casual, right at the blindfold. “Put it on.”

Your fingers twitch where they rest. You glance at the timer at the front of the room, then back to the blindfold, and every muscle in your jaw locks down tight. Every part of you wanted to shove it down his throat, tear it in half, flip his whole desk and walk out. Hell, you wanted to strangle him and be done with it. But instead, because you were stubborn and stupid and desperate and wired with an unwillingness to ever lose, you just picked it up.

“If you try anything,” you hiss, pulling the cloth into a knot at the back of your head. “I’ll kill you,”

The second the fabric cut out the light, the air got too heavy and suddenly, it felt like you’re breathing too shallowly, like your own chest is conspiring to cut you off. Ridiculous. Claustrophobic. You hated how it felt. And then his presence snapped into place—right beside you, and you realize, stupid and hot, that your fingers are already clutching the pencil like a lifeline.

“Begin,” Dr. Kim says from the front. You heard a click, a flash—

“What the fuck is this supposed to— Put your pencil down at the bottom left corner,” he says, and your grip on the pencil tightens. He was close—closer than he was before. “Left. No—Christ, do you not know basic directions?”

Your hand jerks, graphite screeching against paper. “I know left, you condescending prick.”

“Mm. Looks like it.” His voice is level, infuriatingly so and all you can smell is his cologne. “Start with a line first. Straight. Slow down. You’re rushing.”

Grinding your teeth, you spit back, “I’m not rushing.”

“You are.”

“And you’re underestimating my willingness about jabbing this pencil in your jugular,” you sneer, low, mean.

“Mm. Tempting.” You can practically see the lazy grin plastered across his face, “Curve now.”

Your hand froze. “What the fuck does that mean?” Your voice was low and hissed out. “Be specific, asshole.”

“Exactly what I said. Move it.” He’s closer than he needs to be. The sound of his voice is right at your ear and it’s ridiculous and maddening how much that does to your chest. “Curve—yeah, that.”

“I said be fucking specific!”

“There’s literally only lines on the screen. Round it, like a circle. Jesus. Smaller than that—no, smaller. Stop before you hit the margin—”

“I can’t see, you absolute dumbfuck—”

“Then just—move your wrist up, for fuck’s sake. Now go right. Go up. Yeah. Just like that.”

Your whole body jolted at that, and somewhere up front Dr. Kim was telling the class to keep it down, but you barely heard him. All you could do was choke down the heat clawing up your neck and focus harder, like if you didn’t get this line right you’d actually fucking die.

“Now go left—left. And then lower,” You felt his shoulder brushing yours, “Don’t stop now, you’re doing so good for me.”

You froze, heat blasts up your neck, into your ears, humiliating and furious. “Say that again and I swear to God—”

“Don’t stop until I tell you.” he murmured, voice dropping lower. “Another curve.”

The blindfold felt too itchy against your lashes and your pulse hammered, the noise of the classroom swelling until it was everywhere—papers rustling, chairs scraping, your classmates frustration blowing over equally around you, loud enough that it pressed against your skull and made it harder to breathe. You mutter a string of curses so obscene you’re sure have never been spoken before in this class—let alone this lifetime, but your hand followed his instructions anyway, frantic because the timer is running and you’ll be damned if you don’t do well.

“Almost there,” he said, tone softer, like he didn’t even notice the way your body jerked every time he spoke. Or maybe he did and that’s why he kept doing it. Prick. “Keep going—steady wrist. Just like that.”

“Stop saying it like that you freak!”

“Hmm. Like what?”

“Like—you know exactly like what!” The blindfold felt like it was cinching tighter, the noise of the room swelling until you could hardly breathe. “Can you just be more fucking specific! What am I even doing? Are you making this shit up?”

“Stop being so goddamn difficult and just—”

“Shut up!” Your voice cracked, panic breaking through. “Just tell me—I can’t do this.”

“You can.” He was closer. Definitely closer. You could feel the heat of him, could almost imagine his mouth brushing your ear. “Listen to me. Just me.”

The pencil snagged again, your wrist jerking the wrong way, and a curse ripped out of you before you could stop it. “Fuck this. Fuck this blindfold, I can’t see shit, get this off me—”

Your name twists so foreignly on his tongue you almost don’t realize it’s yours, not until it lands heavy in your chest. And then his hand was there before you even realized what was happening—warm, steady, not on your wrist, not guiding the pencil, but sliding slow and deliberate onto your thigh. High enough that every nerve in your body went stiff, hot enough to set fire through your bloodstream.

Your mouth opened, fury already bubbling. “I’ll kill you, I swear—”

“Focus on me.”

Right at your ear. The words cut you clean off, threaded through with something heavier than his usual drawl, and it pinned you in place harder than his hand did.

You wanted to shove him back, tell him to keep his hands to himself, maybe break a finger or two just to prove a point, but of course you didn’t, because apparently your pathetic little brain had decided that winning some half-assed classroom trust exercise was life or death. So you stayed put. You breathed like an idiot—four in, six out, like you were prepping for open-heart surgery instead of drawing lines on a page—and you listened, pencil scratching where he told you.

His fingers squeezed, slow and purposeful, and you swore your whole body lurched forward. “See? Just like that.”

“Sunghoon—” It slipped out, and it wasn’t sharp or angry. It was needy, embarrassingly soft, the sound punched out of you like a plea as his hand slid higher on your thigh, dragging heat with it.

“Turn—Shit,” He hissed through his teeth, the sound almost a groan. “You don’t even hear yourself.”

“Fuck you,” you spat, but your thighs betrayed you, pressing together tight under the desk, pulse thundering so hard in your throat you could barely breathe.

“Already halfway there, princess.” His voice was coiling around every nerve. “Keep still.”

He told you to angle left, and you did. He told you to drag the pencil down slow, and you did. He told you to stop, and you did—each command slipping straight through your spine before you could even think about defying it. You couldn’t even speak. Not because you felt small under his grip—or anything at all. You just couldn’t.

“Obedient little thing, aren’t you?”

“Eat shit.”

His hand stayed, heavy and possessive like it belonged there. And you hated it—hated how it seared through you, hated even more how your pulse leapt so hard you were sure he could hear it. Hated that you didn’t shove him off. And deep down, hated worst of all that you didn’t want to.

The pencil dragged across the paper one last time as he told you where to draw it, shaky but landing where he said it should—atleast you thought so, and before you could even second-guess it the timer blared sharp at the front of the room. You tore the blindfold off so fast it nearly flew across the desk, breath hot in your throat, his hand leaving your thigh just as quick—like it had burned him to touch you, like it had never been there—except it had, and you could still feel the heat of it running under your skin like some traitorous fucking echo.

He moved back just as fast, like he’d only been humoring the exercise at all, like none of it had happened.

You didn’t look at him as you got up to leave. Couldn’t stomach it.

The rest of class passed without either of you acknowledging the other. Which, after whatever the fuck that had been, was probably the sanest course of action. Dr. Kim droned on about the next deliverable—three parts, split across the next two weeks, one analysis, one presentation, one godforsaken reflection essay—but you couldn’t bring yourself to focus on anything beyond the heat still crawling traitorously up your neck.

You wrote the due dates down anyway, the words blurring on the page, and decided if you ignored him long enough, maybe the memory of his hand—there, of all places—would disappear too.

It didn’t.

By the time you shoved your notebook into your bag and slipped out into the hallway, Sunoo was already leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting forever, and Wonyoung was next to him, posture perfect and that warm smile spread across her face, the same one she always saved for you, soft and steady like it had never faltered once in her life.

Sunoo’s tilted his head, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So… that looked fun.”

“Don’t,” you said immediately, sharper than you meant to, so your expression softened when you caught his eye.

He blinked at you, brows pulling in. “You okay?”

You forced a nod and half a smile. “Fine. Just don’t want to talk about it.”

You were opening your mouth, ready to reassure them that you were fine—because obviously you were, because nothing had happened worth being concerned about or for them to be eyeing you with those looks in their eyes—when Sunghoon’s hand caught your arm.

“What the fuck,” you snapped, yanking against it. His grip was not rough. Just enough to turn you, steady and deliberate, before you could even protest.

You blinked up at him, already a curse climbing your throat, but the words caught. Something about his face, or maybe the way Wonyoung was still watching, sharp and worried, froze you mid-breath. You softened without meaning to, gave the smallest shake of your head in her direction, and she seemed to get it, her shoulders easing as she looked away.

He didn’t waste time. “We need to meet up today.”

You laughed, sharp and humorless. “The fuck we are.”

“For the deliverable.” His tone was flat, no room for argument. “I can’t fit it anywhere else into my schedule in the next 5 days.”

You stared at him, heat still crawling at your throat, stomach twisted from everything unsaid. “Are you—” You stopped yourself. “Of course you can’t.”

You hated that he didn’t even look fazed.

“You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m going anywhere with you. You’ve lost it. Absolutely gone in the head.” Your voice carried a little too far, because when you flicked your eyes sideways, there were people staring. You plastered on a quick, fake-sweet smile for them, as if to say—this is a totally normal conversation , nothing to see here, definitely no homicidal tendencies whatsoever—then snapped your head back to Sunghoon and dropped your voice low. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Then fail.” He was already turning like it didn’t matter, voice low and deliberate, meant to piss you off. “Doesn’t matter to me. I’ll pick a topic on my own, hand it in, get the credit.”

Your jaw locked so hard it hurt. “Like fuck you will. Over my rotting fucking corpse are you fucking making decisions for me.”

“I don’t have time for your filthy mouth.”

“Oh, poor you—”

“Shut up. I’m pulled six ways the fuck apart already,” he snapped, voice dropping lower. “You think I want this? You think I want to sit here wasting hours with you when I’ve got to go break my back for my father every night? You think I have fucking time to argue with you—” He stopped himself.

You hated how the words landed. Hated that your chest lurched at the mention of his father, hated that you knew exactly what that meant after all these years. Hated most of all that some traitorous part of you almost softened. So you shoved it down, sharp and fast.

“Pathetic excuse.” Your laugh was bitter, cutting. “You get off on arguing with me, it’s practically all you do. So cry me a river, Park. You think I give a single fuck about daddy’s empire or whatever you’re bitching away for? Not my fucking problem.”

That did it. A muscle ticked hard in his jaw. He took a step in, closing the space so fast you had to tilt your chin up just to keep glaring at him. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Sunoo and Wonyoung a few steps down the hall, stalled mid-step, watching with unease written all over their faces. Wonyoung’s brows pinched, Sunoo’s mouth pressed thin, like they’d jump in if you so much as flinched. The sight of them lit a fuse under your skin and made you stand straighter, made your glare even sharper when you turned back to him.

“Say that again.” His voice was dragging itself out of his chest through gritted teeth.

You bared your teeth in something that almost passed for a smile. “Which part? The one where you’re a spoiled little bitch doing daddy’s dirty work like the perfect little heir you are, or the one where I don’t give a fuck?”

He leaned down, breath brushing your cheek, pitched just for you. “You don’t know a single fucking thing about me or my family.”

You blinked up at him, smile widening just to spite him. “Don’t I?”

For a beat, neither of you moved. His breath steady but too close, his knuckles white where he gripped the notebook like it was the only thing keeping him from throttling you. And then he pulled back—not by much, just enough to straighten, just enough to snap that wall of ice back into place.

“Seven,” he said flatly. “Pick a place, or I’ll pick for you.”

“Seven?—fuck you. I didn’t agree to—” You wanted to push further and say no. You wanted to tell him to fuck off, to tell him you’d rather set yourself on fire than meet him anywhere, but the clock in your head was already ticking and you knew him well enough to know he wasn’t bluffing. So instead, your mouth curled, bitter, but you gave in anyway. “The library.”

Safest option. Neutral ground. Bright lights. Witnesses for when you finally killed him with a just cause.

“No.”

Your head snapped up so fast your neck nearly cracked. “What the fuck do you mean, no? You told me to pick—”

“And I’m telling you it won’t work.” His voice was flat. “We’ll be loud.”

Your face twisted, pure disgust. “You’re a fucking freak.”

“Maybe.” His eyes didn’t even flicker. “But unfortunately that’s not why, and still not the library. Pick somewhere else.”

You opened your mouth, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove his ‘somewhere else,’ when he spoke again—low, hesitant, like the words were fighting him on the way out.

“We could…” He stopped, jaw ticking, eyes darting away for the first time. “My frat house has a study room.” His throat worked, the faintest grind of teeth before he forced it out. “Should be spacious enough.”

“You’re a fucking—” but the insult tripped, tangled, caught on something hot and humiliating in your chest. “What—you think you can just boss me around all day like I’m part of your little harem? O Captain, my Captain! Should I bring the blindfold too, make it fun for you?”

His mouth twitched—barely, but enough to make you want to punch it clean off his face. Bastard. “Wouldn’t hear me complaining.”

Heat snapped up your neck so fast it made you dizzy, your throat tight, the only thing you managed was a low hiss. “You’re disgusting.”

“Mm.” He shrugged, calm as ever, like he hadn’t just lobbed a grenade point-blank into your chest. His eyes slid over you, deliberate. “You offered.”

The curse on your tongue died there, strangled by something worse, because your brain caught up to what he’d actually said—where he’d actually suggested. And fuck, your chest lit up like a kid spotting presents under the tree before dawn. That frat house. That particular frat house.

Jake.

You bit down so hard on the smile clawing its way up you swore you tasted blood. No way in hell were you giving Sunghoon that.

Instead, you narrowed your eyes and straightened your posture. “Fuck you. Fine. But don’t twist this into something it’s not, Park. I’m not stepping foot in that chlamydia ridden roach-infested frat of yours for you. This is strictly about the project.”

And Jake.

For a beat he just stared, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable. Then he scoffed—short, humorless. “Don’t make me wait.”

And turned without another word.

Wonyoung plopped down on your bed, hair falling over her shoulder as she reached for the open bag of candy on your nightstand. “He put his hand where?”

You threw her the filthiest look you could muster from the floor where you were toeing off your shoes. “I’m not saying it for the third time.”

“Yes, but I need to process.” She chewed slowly, eyebrows pinched in mock concentration. “What exactly did you say you did?”

You let your palms drag down your face until you could barely breathe through your fingers. “I panicked,” you muttered, words muffled against your skin. “And… I think I may have fucking whimpered. Anyway—Uh—”

You peeked out through your fingers just in time to catch Wonyoung staring at you like you’d sprouted a second head. “You whimp—”

“Don’t.”

Next to her, Sunoo snickered into his fist. The sound lasted half a second before you snapped your head toward him, and he immediately straightened, hands up in surrender.

“My bad. Truly. It’s just—I cannot believe he walked out of that classroom alive.”

Wonyoung tipped the whole bag of candy into her lap, picked through it like she had all the time in the world, and then said around a mouthful, “I can’t believe you’re even going to face him again in the same day after all that.”

You stood, smoothing your skirt down as you turned to face them, lips pressed together like you were holding something back.

Sunoo clocked it immediately. “Why aren’t you threatening to kill him?” His eyes narrowed. “And why do you have that face?”

“I don’t have a face.”

“No—Yeah, you do!” Wonyoung didn’t even hesitate, pointing at you with the air of someone presenting evidence to a jury. “That’s the look you get when you’re up to something, you devious little gremlin!”

That earned a laugh out of you, and this time you didn’t bother hiding it. You tipped your head back, twirling once for dramatic effect before throwing your arms out like you’d been waiting for this moment.

“I have plans,” you managed finally, peeking between your fingers, grin refusing to die. “Plans I cannot share, because the haters will sabotage me.”

Sunoo, naturally, perked right up. He reached over and plucked a few pieces of candy from Wonyoung’s hand without so much as asking, one brow arched high. “What?” he said, drawing it out.

“Wait—hold on.” Wonyoung cut in, eyes narrowing as the dots connected. “Did you say you were meeting up at his frat house?”

Sunoo gasped, pointing like you’d just confessed to treason. “Do your plans involve a debatable five-feet—” A glare from you, “fine, six-feet on a good day—Australian?”

You pressed your lips together, milking the moment for all it was worth. “Mayyybeeeeee.”

Wonyoung clapped a hand over her mouth and immediately started giggling into her sleeve. She leaned sideways and smacked Sunoo’s arm, nearly spilling candy everywhere. “God has not forsaken our girl!”

You couldn’t help it — you spun in a little circle, laughter bubbling up. “No but seriously, what do I wear?”

“Your skimpiest outfit,” Sunoo said without missing a beat. “Don’t ask us stupid questions.”

The pillow you picked up to throw at him hit him square in the chest.

“You do realize,” you said, pacing now, half to yourself, “I’m going in blind here. He might not even be there. I’m not about to wear some whorish outfit in front of Sunghoon. He’ll—he’ll say something—he’ll—ugh. I don’t even want to think about it. I’m already angry. I’m going to kill him.”

“Her ability to get mad at her own hypotheticals is truly a gift,” Sunoo muttered to Wonyoung, deadpan, like you weren’t in the room.

She muffled a laugh into her sleeve again, then looked back at you, eyes sparkling. “Okay, fine. Let’s just… Let’s focus on the fact that God clearly has greater plans for you, involving a certain Australian.”

“Exactly.” You grinned, wicked.

“You know,” Sunoo drawled, picking at a piece of lint on your comforter, “you could just text Jake?”

You froze mid-step. Slowly blinked at him. And then you actually considered pressing a kiss to his smug little forehead because—fuck. Why hadn’t you thought of that?

Your phone was in your hand before either of them could say another word, thumbs moving faster than your brain. By the time you hit send, your pulse had climbed up into your throat, stupidly loud. And then, almost too fast, the three dots appeared.

Sunoo was trying to catch the glow of your screen, nosy bastard that he was, and he leaned so far over the bed you thought he might topple right off. “What did he say? Let me see—”

“Let me see!” Wonyoung practically sang, folding her legs under her as she crawled closer, eyes locked on your screen. “What did you say? Did you threaten to block him again cause he got too flirty? Please tell me you didn’t say you’ll kill yourse—Ow!” You smacked her hand away, laughing as she yelped.

You pressed the phone tight to your chest like it was treasure, grin stretching too wide to contain. “He said he’ll be there.”

That set them both off. Wonyoung squealed and lunged, Sunoo actually face-planted into the mattress in his scramble, and you squealed too, wriggling and kicking and still losing the battle instantly.

“Get off, you psychos—”

Wonyoung’s hand finally caught the phone, and she read the latest text aloud in a gasp. ‘i’ll make sure you forget sunghoon exists tonight.’

“Shut up, oh my god—”

“Hell no, woman are you crazy? Don’t tell us to shut up, we’ve been waiting for this for what? Six years?” Sunoo shot upright, hair sticking out in five different directions, eyes wide and gleaming like a madman. “We are not shutting up. Oh he’s going to eat you alive.”

You smiled sweetly, batting your lashes. “I’m horny thinking about it.”

“I walked right into that one,” Sunoo muttered, while you doubled over laughing.

You huffed and stomped toward your closet, throwing the doors open like you were revealing some grand treasure trove, then yanked out the first dress your hand landed on. You held it up, triumphant.

To which both of them, in perfect unison said: “No.”

You pouted. “But you said this was cute.”

Sunoo didn’t even hesitate. “Yes, my sweet girl, it was cute. When you wore it to my mom’s barbecue three months ago. But that is not—” he gestured with one dramatic hand, “—fit for getting your ass laid.”

You scowled. “You’re mean.”

“Honest,” he corrected primly. “But you’d look good in anything, don’t think too much about it.”

“Hopeless,” Wonyoung added, already sliding off the bed. “Scoot.” She nudged you out of the way and started flicking through the hangers herself, sharp little hums leaving her throat whenever something caught her eye.

You flopped down onto the edge of the mattress, arms crossed. “I’m not hopeless. I just don’t like when people bully me in my own house.”

“This isn’t your house, it’s your parents’” Sunoo said, all mock innocence, sprawled back against your pillows. “And we’re not just people’.”

You twisted just enough to glare at him. “Do you want to die?”

He popped a gummy into his mouth and chewed slow. “How’s your mom, by the way?”

Your mouth softened, a little hum slipping before you could stop it. “She’s good. Last I checked she was in Paris, chairing some gala.”

The smile lingered, faint, tugging, but then your fingers went restless at the hem of your skirt. You might’ve left it there, except the thought caught. Hung heavy. Something Sunghoon had said in the hall earlier threaded itself through, and suddenly the dots pressed together in your head.

You hesitated, dragging in a breath. “Actually…” you started, chewing your lip. “She mentioned something weird the other day.”

Both of them perked up. Wonyoung stilled halfway through rifling your closet, hanger dangling from her fingers, while Sunoo cocked a brow.

You wet your lips, hesitant, almost like you were regretting bringing it up. “She said she heard Sunghoon’s father is finally stepping down.” The words felt heavy even as they left you. “Not tomorrow, but in the near future or something. Rumor, at least. And apparently everyone’s already circling, waiting to see who gets handed the keys to the empire.”

Wonyoung hummed low, sharp little sound, before she said, “Isn’t it obvious?”

“That’s a bit extreme considering his frontal lobe has yet to develop—If ever,” Sunoo said, leaning back against your headboard. “But I mean… he quit skating and no one ever knew why.”

You swallowed.

You quickly shook your head and shrugged. “Well—All I’ll say is that if there’s any truth to it, I hope it kills him. Honestly. I hope the weight of it all crushes him before he makes it to twenty-three, for all I care. Asshole. Fuck him and his tortured act.”

Sunoo tipped his head back and laughed, the sound muffled around another gummy, and then a sharp squeal cut through the room and both of you snapped your heads toward the closet, where Wonyoung had one hand tucked conspicuously behind her back.

“I’m not taking no for an answer for what I’m about to give you.”

You couldn’t believe you’d let Wonyoung talk you into wearing this.

You tugged at the hem for the fifteenth time before you even made it to the front door. Pathetic. The wood grain under your palm felt like a guillotine. Wonyoung had promised you’d thank her, but standing there in heels on frat house steps sticky with God-knows-what, you were about one second away from staging your own death to get out of whatever this was.

You slipped your phone out of your bag, thumb flying to text him before you could second-guess it.

i’m here.

The dots blinked for half a second before his reply came through, short and clipped, like he’d been waiting with it already typed out.

upstairs. second door on the left.

You stared at the screen, lips pressed tight. This asshole. Not even a hello, not even a shred of basic decency. Not that you expected it from him anyways.

You put your phone back in your pocket and dragged in a breath and tipped your chin higher, forcing your shoulders back as you stepped through the door, the fabric of your skirt skimming the tops of your thighs just the way Wonyoung said it would.

The cardigan slips off your shoulder when you move, soft black lace framing the neckline of your top—fitted enough that every line of your chest is accounted for, every curve tucked into place. It had taken three rejections, two shrieks of horror, and Sunoo threatening to physically burn half your closet before Wonyoung shoved this one into your arms and demanded you wear it.

You’d grumbled, of course. Complained about the length of the skirt, muttered about how you weren’t about to flash Sunghoon, of all people. But standing here now, heels clicking faintly against the sticky floorboards, you can feel exactly what they meant — heads turn when you pass, and you don’t even have to look to know it.

It’s stupid, you tell yourself. You’re here to study. You’re here because Sunghoon backed you into a corner, because there’s a deliverable worth half your grade hanging over your head. And yet—you can’t quite smother the heat that kicks in your chest at the thought of Jake seeing you like this.

You scanned the crowded room. A couple of guys on the couch half-lifted their drinks at you in lazy acknowledgment, one of them elbowing the other when your skirt rode up the tiniest bit as you started toward the staircase. You ignored them, heels clicking sharp against the wood.

Your fingers hesitated only a beat on the handle before you pushed it open.

The first thing you saw was him.

The room was nothing like you’d pictured. Bigger. Two couches faced each other with a low table between them, a wide desk pressed against the wall, books stacked neat on the shelves in the back like some makeshift library. Cozy, organized, almost formal—the opposite of what you’d expected from a frat house.

Sunghoon stood at the far side of the room, back to you, a fitted black shirt pulling tight across his shoulders as he tipped a bottle of water into a glass.

The door shut a little too loud behind you, the thud ricocheting in your chest.

He turned.

Just his head at first, then the rest of him, slow and deliberate like he had all the time in the fucking world. The bottle hit the desk with a soft clink, and then his eyes were on you.

They didn’t move fast. They didn’t need to. His gaze dragged down your face, lingered at your collarbone, dipped lower — over the cardigan slipping off your shoulder, over the neckline that Wonyoung had sworn was “tasteful cleavage,” like there was such a thing. His eyes swept down your waist, over the skirt clinging indecently tight to your thighs, before climbing back up again, unhurried, like he was memorizing.

He didn’t say a word. And somehow, that was worse.

Your skin prickled under the weight of it, nerves firing off in every direction. The heat that had been simmering low in your chest shot sharp to your throat, and before you could stop yourself your hand twitched, tugging at the hem of your skirt as if that would suddenly buy you an inch of dignity.

It didn’t. If anything, it only made the corner of his mouth twitch, not quite a smirk, but close enough that your stomach flipped. And he just moved, slow and certain, to the couch and sank into it, posture loose but watchful, then tipped his chin toward the space across from him.

“Sit.”

“You think I’m some dog you can order around?” Your mouth twisted. “Say please or something, you arrogant fuck.”

One brow arched, just the faintest shrug of his shoulder. “You came, didn’t you?”

“That doesn’t mean I’m about to jump at your every fucking command like a bitch.”

“Then stand,” he said flatly, reaching for the glass he’d poured and taking a slow drink. “Makes no difference to me.”

You stepped forward anyway, the click of your heels louder than it needed to be, and dropped onto the opposite couch with more force than grace. The cushions sank under you, and his eyes slid down your legs, then up again, slow, infuriating.

“What?” you snapped.

“Nothing,” he said, leaning back like he had all the time in the world.

“Stop looking.” Your jaw clenched.

“‘m not,” he muttered like he didn’t mean to, setting the glass down with a soft thud.

You scoffed and ripped your bag open harder than you needed to, fingers digging through until you found your iPad. If you focused on the screen, maybe you wouldn’t feel his eyes still crawling over you, tracing lines you wanted to scrub clean. The home screen blurred once, twice, before you managed to steady your thumb and open the stupid deliverable page.

You could survive five minutes across from Park Sunghoon without combusting. Probably.

“Cute little skirt you wore for studying.”

You felt your face go hot, rage and humiliation tangled together so tight you could hardly separate them. You wanted to bite, to claw, to snap his smug expression in half. But all you did was tug the hem of your skirt again, pathetic little move that only made his gaze darken.

“Go fuck yourself.” You snarled.

“With this image in mind?” He hummed, “Maybe later.”

The pillow left your hand before you even thought about it, a soft, ridiculous missile aimed straight at his head. It hit him square on the shoulder and for a second you thought he’d actually laugh — the corner of his mouth tugged like he wanted to — but instead he caught it, one hand snapping up, calm and annoyingly able. He held it there between his palms for a beat, like he was studying it, then looked at you with that stupid bored look.

“Don’t do that again,” he said, voice flat.

You snorted and grabbed the next pillow because apparently you were five and this was the most adult thing you could think to do. He didn’t catch this one in time. It hit him on the back of the head with a muffled thwack and he ducked reflexively, surprise cutting his face into a hard line.

“Shit—You’re so fucking immature—“

“Shut up and pick your laptop up.” you jerked your chin toward the coffee table.

He eyed you down once more, his jaw clenched, and then he actually did it. Reached down, slow, heavy-handed and tugged the thing open.

You pulled your iPad into your lap, tapped your notes open, waited. Pretended you weren’t watching him out of the corner of your eye. And he pretended he wasn’t dragging this shit out just to spite you.

“I can’t log in.”

You blinked once. Twice. Tilted your head. “Yes you can.”

“I said I can’t.” His eyes didn’t leave the screen.

“Refresh it.”

“It’s the fucking server. It’s down.” His head snapped up, glare pinning you. “You think I didn’t fucking try that?”

You held his stare, lips curling. “Show me.”

His brow flicked up, incredulous. “What, you think if I show you, it’ll magically fix itself?”

“Yeah, actually. Move.” You reached before he could argue, fingers brushing the edge of the laptop.

He groaned low in his throat, one hand braced against the lid like he was debating whether to let you touch it at all. Finally he dragged it around, sharp twist of his wrist, shoving the screen in your direction. The login page blinked back at you, stubbornly refusing to load.

“Happy?” His voice was flat, but his mouth twitched at the corner, like he knew he’d scored a point.

You rolled your eyes, heat crawling under your skin. “Fine. Forget it. You can look at the PDF from mine.”

You angled your device toward him, a little sharper than necessary, like you were doing him the biggest favor of your life. But the second it sat balanced on your knee, you realized the flaw—from opposite couches, neither of you had a decent angle.

“I can’t see,” he said finally, tone dry and flat.

“That’s not my fucking problem.” You didn’t even bother glancing up, though your jaw clenched when you realized you couldn’t see the damn thing either, your neck craning at a weird angle.

And then he got up.

No warning. Just the faint scrape of his shoes and then the dip of the cushion beside you, close enough that the air shifted. Your body went stiff before your brain even caught up, every nerve jolting alive at the brush of his thigh against yours—casual, like nothing. Like his hand wasn’t there a few hours ago.

“What the fuck do you think you’re—”

“Solving the problem.” His eyes stayed glued to the screen, voice flat, like it was obvious.

You stared, heat climbing your neck. “I’m not sitting next to you.” The words came out tight, forced between clenched teeth. And of course your stupid hands betrayed you, tugging at the hem of your skirt again, like that would do anything except scream how rattled you were.

His mouth twitched—just barely. “Relax. I don’t bite.”

Your palm actually itched. You actually debated slapping him—just a quick, satisfying smack across his face. It would feel so fucking good. But instead you shut your eyes, dragged in a breath, and shook your head hard. “Let’s just get this fucking over with, you ass.”

You and Sunghoon had actually managed to divide the work. Barely.

“That’s wrong.”

Your jaw clenched. “It’s not wrong. It’s literally the definition—”

“Exactly. Not your own words, it’s half-assed.” His tone was flat, but his mouth pulled, slow and deliberate, into something almost cruel. “There’s a difference.”

Your pen stilled on the page. “You have a problem with everything I do.”

He leaned back in his chair like he owned the air between you, eyes dragging over your face with a lazy sort of disdain. “No,” he said, lip curling higher, deliberate. “I have a problem with you thinking the bare minimum counts as something—just because everyone’s been kissing your ass since birth.”

You stared, heat climbing sharp up your throat. “You smug fucking prick—”

“What?” His gaze slid over you, deliberate, cruel. “Hit a nerve?”

You scoffed, ugly sound breaking sharp in your throat, and for once it hit you—you didn’t actually have to put up with this. Not his constant jabs, not Dr. Kim’s bullshit exercises, none of it. So you shoved your pen into your bag and crammed everything together with messy hands and stood so fast the couch scraped underneath you, anger carved into every twitch of your body.

You swung your bag over your shoulder, marched toward the door, and then—

He was already there in front of you, tall and unyielding, shoulder squared

“Sit back down.” His voice was low, jaw clenched.

“Are you directionally challenged? Move.”

“We’re not done.”

“No,” you snapped, “We are done. I’m tired—tired of putting up with this fucking bullshit, your fucking bullshit. You’ve got something going on with me, and I don’t see why I should play into it when I’ve got Jake waiting for—”

It slipped out, really.

His expression didn’t shift. Blank at first. Then—something, fast, sharp, ugly—twitching through his gaze before it was gone again.

“Ah.” His mouth curved. “That’s why you wore that. Hoping he’ll finally buy the desperate act and dig up your skirt?”

“Shut the fuck up!” The words tore out of you, heat flooding your cheeks, an angry flush you hated giving him. It didn’t matter. His disdain—sharp, cold, deliberate—slammed into you like it had teeth. “Truly, What the fuck have I ever done to offend you this much? What is your problem?”

His voice didn’t flinch. His gaze dragged, slow and deliberate, down the line of your body and back up again, flat and unimpressed. His shoulders shifted, sharp, and then he stepped in—closer, closer—until you stumbled back without meaning to. He followed, blank-faced, dark-eyed, watching.

“You.”

His eyes didn’t move, didn’t waver, didn’t even blink. Just pinned you to the spot like you were something small and pathetic beneath him.

“Just you,” he said again, slower this time, mouth curling into something mean. “You, and your entire existence offends me.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means exactly what it means. You. Your family. Your legacy, everything you have. Your privilege—you waste it all.”

“Waste?” Heat ripped up your throat. “What the fuck are you even talking about?” You blinked hard, once, twice, hating the prickle of tears at the edges of your vision. Humiliation burned hotter than the anger now—because crying in front of Park Sunghoon? You’d rather die. You swore you’d rather fucking die. “You don’t know anything about me. About my family. Worry about your own fucking family—you already have a perfect thing going for you with your father’s putrid fucking company—”

“Don’t.” He stepped forward, “Don’t speak on my father. You don’t know anything.”

“I don’t care to!” Your spine hit the wall before you realized you’d stumbled back. The plaster pressed cold against you, and you spat, desperate. “Get out of my way!”

“You just want to ride your high horse and pretend that you’re above it all when really, you’re just some spoiled fucking brat.”

There was a ridiculous, painful flash of a memory—of smaller versions of both of you, of a rink where he glided and medals glinted like promises, of the first stupid time you’d seen him at Heeseung’s house when you were kids and nothing in the world had been complicated yet. You’d thought then that you knew him in a simple, harmless way. You hadn’t known anything at all. That memory softened something inside you for a breath, a tiny stupid ache before you slammed it down with your teeth.

“What happened to you.” It wasn’t a question. You don’t know if you meant it like one.

Now he was close enough that you could feel the heat from his body, close enough to read the slowness of his breathing. You could see the line of his throat move under his shirt. The nearness made your pulse trip and run like a frightened thing. Your mouth opened and shut. You wanted to shove him—hard, to make him feel the indignity you felt—but your hands were trembling and the wall behind you felt too small for all the oxygen you wanted.

“You think this is easy for me?” he said, so soft you had to fight not to lean in, absurdly, like some moth to flame. “You think I like this? Being here? Arguing? Seeing you flaunt everything? Just seeing you—” He paused.

Why the fuck were you tearing up?

Of all the ways to look pathetic, of all the places in the world to break, it had to be here, with him standing so close—angry tears—because that’s always the worst kind—hot and stupid, and you blinked like a fool trying to will them gone.

Sunghoon scoffed, one breath of contempt that made your skin crawl. “Fuck, are you really crying?” His tone wasn’t surprised. It was annoyed, as if your tears were an inconvenience.

“Fuck off.” You spat, “I’m not crying.” You kept your eyes on the floor, blinking hard.

His hand moved before you’d finished the thought. It was casual, almost lazy, and then his fingers caught your chin with a thumb and forefinger that were suddenly there with an impossible, infuriating tenderness. He tilted your face until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Look at me,” he said, low.

You jerked your chin, tried to wrench free, but his grip didn’t give. Steady and unmoving. And for one impossible second—you swore. You swore it. His gaze softened.

“Are you happy?” The words slipped out and you hated how small they sounded. Hated how pathetic you felt, pinned like this with your stupid wet lashes and his hand on your face. “Let go.”

“Happy?” he echoed, like he was tasting it. His gaze dropped once—to your mouth, quick and searing—before dragging back up to your eyes. “Not even close.”

“Go to hell,” you whispered, but you didn’t move. You didn’t push.

He didn’t either. Just leaned in, deliberate, until his chest brushed yours, until his hips ghosted closer than they should have. You could’ve shoved him off. You should’ve. Instead you froze, pulse climbing, every nerve sparking hot under the weight of him.

You tried to wiggle free, to twist sideways, but the motion only dragged you against him harder, friction sparking in places you swore you’d never let him close enough to touch. The sound that left you—short, muffled, humiliating—wasn’t even a word, just some strangled noise in your throat that made his jaw tighten.

His fingers on your chin twitched, steadying, holding, and his breath grazed your cheek when he muttered, low, “Don’t do that.” Like it was a warning. Like it was a plea.

Your laugh came jagged, shaky. “I’m not doing anything.” Liar.

His eyes lingered there—your mouth, soft and parted—then flicked back up, and the shift in his gaze made your stomach drop.

“You don’t even realize what you do,” he said, voice rougher now. “Standing there, Wearing this.” His free hand moved, slow, deliberate, tugging lightly at the hem of your skirt—again—like he couldn’t help himself.

“Get off—You’re out of your fucking mind, Sunghoon. One second I’m a spoiled brat that you can’t stand and, the next you’re—what? What is this? You can’t even keep your bullshit straight. You schizophrenic bastard—”

“Stop talking.” The words were low, almost a growl, and the look in his eyes alone nearly shut your mouth for you.

His thumb dragged across your lip and without thinking much of it, you bit down.

He froze. Blinked once. “Did you just—Did you bite me?” his mouth twitched. “Brat.”

You only smiled in return, and you didn’t know why you liked the look on his face.

And then he shifted, just a fraction—enough that the press of his hips brushed against yours and heat pooled low in your stomach and a tiny, treacherous sound slipped out of your throat again—half-gasp, half-whimper.

“Yeah,” he muttered, leaning in until his mouth brushed your ear, his hips shifting just enough to grind heat into you again. “That’s what I thought.”

His attention was heavy, suffocating, and your thoughts scattered under it, impossible to gather.

“What are you doing?” It came out in a whisper, because you didn’t trust your voice to hold steady.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, almost absently, like he wasn’t fully in control of himself either. His hand twitched, like he wanted to touch your hair, your face, something.

“Sunghoon—”

The door swung open.

Jake stood in the frame, eyes flicking once between the two of you. “What’s going on in here?”

𝓝 ⟢ LORE DROP!!!!!!!!!!!!! also please don’t read too deeply into how the figure of the diagram-drawing moment would turn out… i was just pulling thoughts straight out of the ether for the instructions… thank you for reading ♡

⟢ TAGLIST @baedreamverse @badtzsan @wonuziex @ti--red @lovingjongseong @scarredbytheworld @angelhyuka @sokiwonton @sosaphiee @demrotic @zoe1love @weepingsweep @lilidiors @kikidoul @heelovesmeknot @shnnzsworld @sunghoontv @lyserie @lustfor1ife @hoonbabe @dontfuckwithmenow @areikii @sumzysworld @chobitos @flrtwoo @en-lov @immelissaaa @jae-n0 @dodohees @newmjri @yuuuuzai @honey-bunnysweet @sirriag @enhastolemyheart @kenzo3tenzo @aehrizone @vvarkiki @mahungexe @psychotic-girl-666 @beomgyus11 @nothingcvmpares @rikifever ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪꜱʜ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ, ꜱᴇɴᴅ ᴀɴ ᴀꜱᴋ ᴏʀ ʀᴇᴘʟʏ!

[jongst4r]

between sheets (p.jay)

in which you and your best friend end up sharing a bed on a weekend getaway and everything changes

pairing: best friend!jay x fem!reader || wc: 9.7k || cw: fluff, smut! best friends to lovers, kissing, making out, praise, fingering, oral (f. rec), breast + nipple play, p in v, protected sex (we cheered!!), dirty talk, use of petnames, light-hearted teasing, swearing, slight hair pulling, slight marking, multiple orgasms, cum eating, playful restrain (just once, nothing too serious), so much lovemaking and sweetness :c (they’re so in love it’s almost disgusting) || warnings: +18 content, mdni!!! || a/n: i was so excited to write this oh my god,,, istg i never knew i was so into this tropes before </3 tysm to the lovely (non)anon for the request ilysm

you are the kind of person who packs too many scarves “just in case.” you are loud when you laugh, bad at parallel parking, and you still have that mixtape (yes, the old one) shoved behind a stack of books. you keep small things from your past — ticket stubs, a friendship bracelet jay made you when you were twelve — because they feel like proof that some parts of you don’t have to change. you are the one who still drags your feet through childhood neighborhoods when you’re nostalgic, who knows every stupid joke jay ever makes by heart. you are the person who, when things go wrong, texts him four words and somehow feels like the world rights itself: "please, pick me up."

jay is the steady one, he carries himself like someone who’s always been slightly ahead of the rest of the world. jay is the person who remembers your weird food order and sends you memes at two a.m. when you’re stressed. jay is the friend who will shove half your suitcase into his bag because you insist on carrying everything. he’s been there since backyard forts and playground vows. he’s the one with a measured laugh that comes late and soft, with hands that are always busy — checking a schedule, fixing the strap on your backpack, reaching for the jar of coffee without thinking. he is both impossibly steady and wildly impulsive. best friends since childhood, he knows which part of your pizza you always give up and can read the exact tone in your voice that means you need him without you having to say a word. he knows you in a way most people never will.

you’ve been planning this weekend for weeks: two nights away from the city, a small coastal town with a hotel that promises sea views and soft linen. the trip is a way for you to “decompress,” though you both know it’s a selfish excuse to spend some time with the person you adore the most. you both need the quiet; you both crave the plainness of two people who can be entirely themselves without the rest of the world.

you meet at jay’s apartment early on saturday. he’s already waiting by the door in an old band tee and jeans, hair messed up like he’s been up later than normal. when you walk in, he grins. “ready for an escape?” he asks, voice half-joke, half-relief.

“always,” you say, dropping your bag and grabbing the travel mug he hands you. it’s still warm. you both stand in the doorway for a second, jay nudges your shoulder. “let’s go get some fresh air.”

the drive there is effortless because he makes it so. windows down, music up. jay is a playlist master: he builds the soundtrack like he’s building the mood. his selections are small treasures — an old ballad you loved in high school, a song that you used to hum after an exam, a track you two once danced to in the kitchen at two in the morning. he sings along with the music, fingers drumming the steering wheel, and you watch the way sunlight lines his jaw when he smiles at a lyric. conversation is a steady stream of anecdotes, inside jokes, and comfortable silences where no one feels the need to fill the space.

“remember when we tried to build that tree fort?” jay asks, voice soft with the kind of fondness that makes the corners of your eyes crinkle.

“the one we almost set on fire?” you remind him, though the memory is fuzzy and ridiculous. you both laugh like it’s a secret you’ve shared too many times.

“i’ve got a vivid memory of my dad panicking and running when he saw you trying to light the lighter,” jay says, and you snort, pushing your hair back with a hand.

“you were the one who suggested setting the leaves on fire!” you point out.

“that’s because you were the one who suggested having a fireplace!” he retorts.

“nuh-uh, i was the architect. you were the disaster specialist.”

he grins, eyes warm. “okay, i’ll accept that title. disaster specialist. it fits.”

by the time the coastline unfurls, the town greets you with warm light and a salty breeze that makes your scalp tingle.

the plan is simple: wander, eat, and do nothing you would normally schedule. the first stop is a small café with mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu. you both order the same thing without planning it. “of course we did,” jay says when the server walks away. “we’re synced.”

you sit, and conversation moves between silly and comfortable. you talk about the dumb things you did in school, the band practices that always ended in pizza, the way jay once tried to convince you that he could beatbox. you both laugh until your stomachs ache. “you sounded like a dying walrus,” you say, wincing with the memory.

“i was talented,” jay protests, mock-hurt. “and you never appreciated artistry.”

“i did appreciate it,” you lie, smiling. the truth is, you appreciated everything about him — the way he told stories, how his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the soft way he checked if you were okay.

after coffee, you wander down the pier together. the sea stretches into a steady horizon, glittering under the afternoon sun; warmth settles on the back of your neck and the breeze smells like salt and summer. jay walks just half a step ahead, hands tucked into his pockets, until something catches his eye: a seagull swoops down, triumphant, clutching someone’s sandwich in its beak.

“i wonder what that reminds me of…” he says, voice dripping with mischief.

you glare at him, already knowing where this is going. “don’t.”

he smirks. “jay—”

“i’m just saying, it’s impressive. most people only get their sandwich stolen once.”

you elbow him sharply. “i was six, and you were the one supposedly taking care of my food, you moron!”

he laughs, the sound bright and familiar, and nudges a puddle with his shoe. a thin arc of water sprays your jeans

“jay!” you yelp.

he shrugs innocently. “oops.”

you flick water back at him with your fingers — which, somehow, only splashes your own shoes. he bursts out laughing.

“that was the saddest attempt i’ve ever—”

before he can finish, you launch a real attack: kicking at the puddle with enough force to send a wave toward him. he dodges, still laughing, and you chase him down the pier, both of you splashing like children who’ve never grown up. your laughter mixes with the cries of gulls and the hush of the sea. it feels stupid and perfect.

when you finally slow down, breathless and damp, you notice a couple of people walking by — older, maybe tourists — who glance at the two of you and smile. one of them nudges the other, and there’s a tiny, knowing look passed between them. the kind of look people give when they see two people who clearly adore each other, even if neither of them is saying it out loud yet. jay notices, too. he tilts his head towards them, then towards you.

“what was that about?” he asks, light but curious.

you shrug, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing, his shoulder brushing yours.

“no idea,” you say — though your heart knows exactly.

after your clothes have been dried by the sun, you stop at a surf shack and decide to try the foam boards. “how hard can it be?” jay asks, grinning. he’s confident, and you know that sometimes his body can do the things his voice promises. the sea is cold but the sun makes up for it. you fall more than you stand, both of you laughing at each other’s ungraceful attempts. when you finally ride a small, sloppy wave, it feels like a victory. as the sun starts to lower, you both sit on a towel and watch the light go gold. jay tells a story about being lost when he was a kid — how he ended up in an ice cream truck because he followed the smell.

you tell him about a karaoke night with your friends which ended in a sore throat the next morning. jay watches your face as you talk like he’s memorizing it. when he tells his story, you see him soften in a way that surprises you: his voice drops, and his hands move in wide, careful circles as if tracing a figure on the sand.

dinner is small and warm. fairy lights hang low. you split a plate and an extra dessert because jay insists. “there’s always room for more dessert,” he says like it’s a moral code he follows strictly. you eat and joke and the conversation turns to the stuff that matters in tiny ways — your worries, the internships you both consider, the small fears.

the drive to the hotel is quiet in a comfortable way, you both feel tired in the best kind of way.

the hotel is a low building with whitewashed walls and a small, flourishing garden. it smells like lemon and seawater at the door, and for a beat you feel like you’ve stepped into a postcard. jay parks in a spot that has been gloriously unclaimed, and you step out together, shoulder to shoulder — the sort of unspoken choreography that makes you both laugh at how simple it feels.

the hotel lobby is cozy: wood floors, an old chandelier, and the receptionist offers a smile that’s almost too sincere. you move like one unit — jay on your left, his hand occasionally brushing the small of your back when the pavement dents or the door takes a gust of wind.

“welcome,” the receptionist says, handing you a key each. the keys are small metal things on old-fashioned loops. jay takes both and jokes about keeping them safe like they’re tiny treasures. the check-in goes smoothly. there’s a mild disappointment in the clerk’s face when he says over the computer, “we have you down for a double room… oh.” the clerk’s face changes. “i’m so sorry,” he says, scrolling. “there was a booking error. and— um—”

your stomach does a small, reflexive flip. “what kind of error?” you ask.

“the hotel is overbooked tonight. it looks like someone else booked your room — the double room with twin beds,” he explains, apologetic. “i’m so sorry. we can bump you up to a suite tomorrow, no costs, but tonight… we only have one room available. a standard double with one bed. it’s most likely a mistake on our end, but i can offer a complimentary breakfast, free minibar and a late checkout to make up for it.”

for a second, the news feels like a comic misstep. you both stand there blinking like two people on a sitcom. “one bed?” you repeat, because the idea is ridiculous and, somehow, makes your pulse skip.

you and jay exchange a glance so practiced it feels like a private joke handed down through years. jay’s brow arches, eyes searching your face as if to see how you’ll react. there’s a moment where you both silently consider demanding a refund and stomping out, but the tiredness in your limbs argues for a place to rest. you’ve come for quiet, and a little awkward intimacy in a single bed is still better than having to drive to the closest hotel possible.

jay rubs his forehead, then shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “we can share,” he says, the kind of simple solution he’s always offered when things go sideways.

“or i can sleep on the floor,” you offer, half-joke, half-serious. “i have a flexible spine.” he laughs.

“no way. we’re grown-ups. we’ll share.” his voice is steady. you feel easier because he always makes the small panic smaller.

“we’ll take it,” jay says finally, his voice steady. “one room. one bed. seems… cozy.”

the receptionist’s smile brightens like the problem is solved. you both pay the fee for the two nights and grab your keys. the elevator ride up is bright with awkward jokes. jay jokes about who will get which side of the bed, about knee territory.

“i get the window side,” you say, claiming it like a prize.

“fine, i get the remote,” he counters. “and the top sheet.”

the room is not big, but it is simple and kind, a wide window faces the ocean. the bed looks smaller than in the picture, white sheets tucked into a neat fold, but it still takes up most part of the room. there’s a vase with fresh flowers on the bedside table and a note from management, apologizing for the mix-up. there’s a soft hum in the air-conditioning, and the town’s urgency feels miles away.

you both make rituals out of mundane things: tossing your bags in a corner, ordering two glasses of iced water and a plate of fries to share. jay takes the window seat, tucking his feet under him and watching the waves. you sit on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, and the two of you settle into the unpretentious ease that’s defined your friendship for years.

“should we go out after this?” you ask after a while. “walk the beach near here? grab some snacks for later?”

jay glances at you and then the bed, a tiny smirk threatening mischief. “or,” he says slowly, “we could stay here, watch that awful romcom on the hotel channel, and eat these fries until our stomachs hurt.”

you groan, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “eat fries until our stomachs hurt… what are we, twelve?”

you spend the late afternoon (after eating the whole plate of fries, that is) wandering the coastal streets: an old bookshop tucked between a fishmonger and a café, a little stall selling the most amazing scented candles, an ice cream place where jay insists you try a flavor called sea-salt caramel that you didn’t believe would be good but turns out to be divine. you throw yourself into the city’s rhythm — quiet markets, low-slung houses with wind-bent palms, the tang of salt on your lips. the sun slants golden and the ocean is a constant mood, a low storyboard of waves that outlines your day.

when evening comes, you head to a local bistro and order some plates to share. the conversation is easy, sometimes nostalgic, sometimes teasing. you revisit old embarrassments as though they are moments you both cherish, and you discover new quick truths: jay’s soft spot for an old childhood teacher, how he still hums that ridiculous jingle he used to perform for neighborhood kids, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles like he’s remembering something sweet. you find yourself leaning in more than usual, drawn to small gestures that have always been there but suddenly feel more luminous.

“do you ever think about how different things would be if we hadn’t been stuck living two houses apart?” you ask, swirling the rim of your glass.

jay pauses, lifting his fork like he’s considering the question as carefully as a strategic play. “no,” he says eventually. “maybe it would be different. but i like the way we’ve been pegged to each other — like a pair of constant variables. you know?”

you do. you know because jay has been constant in your calculus of life — the equation that solved itself with him in it. “i like it too,” you say, and mean it.

back at the hotel, the night unfurls with small rituals. you brush your teeth in the bathroom together because it feels like something you’ve always done, even though it’s oddly intimate, and you both laugh when a toothbrush falls and clatters. you change into pajamas in the same room, without looking at each other. it’s no big deal, because there’s years of trust there.

after closing the balcony’s door, you come back to the room while jay reads aloud the silly poem that was printed on the hotel pamphlet, turning it into a mock-serious performance.

“i have the perfect plan for tomorrow’s night,” he announces in a dramatic whisper, making you snort. “we conquer the buffet and then we empty the mini bar which, by the way, is free because of the hotel room thing.”

“incredible strategy, commander,” you mumble, tossing a pillow at him.

when you crawl into bed, the mattress feels even smaller than you thought. you both lie down on your backs, the covers tucked and your knees up. the hotel window shows the sliver moon and a smear of town lights. you don’t turn off the lamps because it feels like the night wants to be watched.

“i can feel it already… destiny. fate. the universe preparing to kick us with food poisoning from the buffet and—”

“what are you doing?” you ask, and he just grins.

“i’m narrating our lives. also, i never get to be dramatic out loud with anyone except you.”

the warmth in your chest is a gentle pressure.

you settle closer, legs tangling accidentally, and the bed feels too familiar and too intimate at once. there’s nothing sudden or electric in that moment — just the friendly gravity that has always existed between you two, the small ease that comes from a thousand shared food, errands and late-night confessions.

the distance closes so naturally you barely register it. one moment you’re side by side, and the next his foot nudges yours, a small accidental press that sends a quiet ripple through your chest. he doesn’t joke like he usually does. he just looks at you for a second — too long, too gentle — before glancing back at the ceiling. then, jay shifts, trying to get comfortable, and ends up knocking your knee.

“sorry,” he says softly — then adds, “but also… it’s your fault for having knees.” you snort, but you don’t move away. neither does he.

jay reaches for the remote, tapping your ankle with it. “okay,” he announces, “since your knees started this war, i get to pick the movie.”

“that’s not how this works,” you mutter, but you’re already smiling.

he scrolls until he finds a romcom with a 23% rating and a poster that looks like it was made in microsoft paint.

“perfect,” he declares.

“that looks terrible.”

“exactly, a cinematic masterpiece.”

he presses play, and the two of you settle closer, shoulders brushing as the opening credits flash like a warning.

later, long after the film fades and the television hums low, you find yourselves wide awake.

it’s the kind of quiet that makes every sound amplified; the ticking clock sounds like an orchestra. the ocean mutters in the background; a faint glow from the street below paints the curtains silver. you lie on opposite sides at first, an unconscious measure of space between your shoulders, but there’s something in the air that nudges at the perimeter.

you start with small talk — funny comments about the hotel’s art, the exact color of the blanket, how the protagonist of the last movie was an idiot — and then sink into quieter conversation. then you talk about work, about the small mistakes and the things that made you proud that day. the conversation is slow and easy. you nudge his knee with your foot and he squeezes your ankle in return, not even looking at you. the small touches are normal for you; they mean nothing more than warmth in the moment, but they make your heart skip a beat.

after a while the talk goes softer. jay says, “i’m glad we did this.” you answer, “me too.” he turns his head to look at you, face lit by the moonlight and softer than you remember in normal days.

“i don’t like being away from all of this,” he says, voice quiet. “i mean, from home, from my friends, from my family… from you.”

you feel a little jolt. “from me?” you ask, trying to make your voice casual.

“yeah. it’s weird,” he says, fingers tracing an absent path on the sheet. “i just… i like this. being with you like this. no pretending. no schedules. just us two.”

“i feel the same,” you say, and you mean it.

the room hums. you reach for his hand; your fingers fit his the way they always have. his grip tightens, then loosens, like he’s deciding how much to say. the closeness is comfortable and also suddenly sharper. you both stay awake, talking in half sentences, the kind of talk that means more than the words.

“do you ever think about how long it’s been?” jay asks suddenly, voice soft, not a joke this time.

“how long it’s been… since what?” you reply, turning your head to look at him.

“us,” he says. “you and me. the whole best friends thing. like… how long we’ve had each other.” there’s a hitch at the edge of his voice that makes you sit up a little.

he looks smaller now, exposed in the low glow of the lamp. your heart tugs at the rawness of the moment — the way time has folded you into adjacent lives.

“since kids,” you say, because the answer comes easily. “since we were both too young to know better. you were the one who taught me how to ride a bike after four tries and three scraped knees.”

he laughs then, because he remembers the bandages awkwardly wrapped on your knees.

“and you were the one who hid my vintage baseball cap because you thought it was stupid,” he reminds you, teasing but tender.

you roll your eyes. “it was stupid.”

“so was my hair, that’s why i wanted to hide it,” he says, and you both grin at the shared memory before a comfortable silence settles.

then, like an accidental gradual pull, his hand finds yours again. it’s easy and familiar: fingers slipping into those well-known places, a reflex that has always belonged only to you two. tonight, though, the touch feels charged, like it’s more meaningful than ever. for a second your fingers intertwine, and you turn to look at him fully, as if the light will reveal new shapes.

you tell him a small thing you’ve been holding for a while — how you worry about moving forward and losing pieces of your life that felt safe. he listens and then says, simply, “we’ll keep the important parts. we’ll keep the parts that matter. you’ll never lose me. ever.” his voice is calm but there’s an undercurrent of something else — care that feels weightier than usual.

the mood shifts in little ways. when you laugh, his look lingers. when you reach for the blanket and he helps you pull it, his hand covers yours a fraction longer than it needs to. you both notice but don’t comment. the night tightens from easy to intimate in a way that feels new. you lie facing each other now, closer than when you first got in bed. your shoulders almost touch. the two of you lie close enough that, if you wanted, you could trace the outline of his face with your thumb.

“remember when we used to stay up making forts?” you ask, voice small, half-trying to be playful.

“i remember you stealing my flashlight and refusing to share,” jay replies. he smiles, then grows quiet. his hand caresses yours under the cover, fingers warm around yours, his thumb drawing little circles that slow your breathing. “i like being near you,” he says again, but this time the words sound like a confession instead of a casual note. they hang between you, bright and risky.

you can feel your heart speed up. you look at him, really look — at the line of his jaw, the way his eyelashes shadow his cheek, the little scar on his nose.

the hotel room is full of the sound of quiet breathing. the air between you is different now — thiner, charged. you squeeze his hand back and the touch feels like a dare. the shift is gentle but certain: you both feel it, like the tide turning under the shore. you don’t fall asleep, neither of you do. you stay awake with your hands intertwined. what you’ve said is not yet the confession you both are afraid and eager to say, but it’s close enough. so much that the space between your faces feels like a wall you’re both willing to break.

“you’re quiet,” you murmur.

“i’m thinking,” he replies, looking at the ceiling as if the words are hiding up there. “about how different everything would be if i didn’t approach you that day at your porch, if we treated each other like strangers.” he turns his head slightly to meet your eyes. “but we’re not strangers, are we?”

you shake your head. “no. we’re… us.”

“us,” he says, saying the word like it’s a small, sacred thing. jay props himself up on an elbow, the lamp throwing shadows that make his face more serious than you usually see it. “i think i used to think that best friends were supposed to be… a constant. like okay, safe, habitual. and that was enough. but lately—” he pauses, fingers trailing idle patterns on the bedsheet. “lately i can’t tell whether what i feel is just familiarity or something else. something that makes me… not okay with you being with anyone else.”

the sentence drops, and your chest tightens in a way that spins your stomach. you liked to guess that, in small private moments, maybe jay felt things he didn’t say — the same things you felt — but he’s never voiced it like this. the admission is raw and honeyed at the same time.

“do you want to say it?” he asks suddenly, voice so soft it could be mistaken for sleep talking. he’s facing you now, eyes open and honest, the moonlight in the window making his skin look paler and a little electric.

you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “say what?” you ask, though you already know.

“you know what it is... that,” he says, and his mouth quirks — nervous, silly, resigned. “that thing between us. that i’m tired of pretending doesn’t exist.” he swallows. “i’m tired of pretending i don’t think about you like that.”

your heart stutters. you feel it as a physical thing, as if someone has flicked a switch and warmth is flooding the room. you laugh, a small, incredulous sound that shakes with relief.

“you mean…” you begin, voice small.

“i mean,” he cuts in, not harshly but with a gravity that lands heavy, “i think i like you. more than a friend. and it’s been creeping up on me, and i don’t know when it started exactly, but i know when i notice it now. and it terrifies me because you’re my person. and the idea of losing you to… anything else makes my chest hurt in a way i don’t like.”

“you’re serious.”

“i’m extremely serious. i wouldn’t joke about this.” jay’s hand tightens around yours. “i—i’ve been stupid about it. scared, i guess. scared of what it would do to us. but i can’t keep pretending that i don’t care in a different way.” he breathes, “i like you. like-like you. more than best-friend-like.”

you stare at him for a second — at the honest way his lips tremble when he says the words — and your throat goes dry. the air between you tilts. your heart beats so fast you’re sure he can hear it; a dozen little memories — of his hand brushing yours, of the way he looked at you after your high school show, of how he'd walk you home after parties, of the way he always lent you his jacket — assemble into a shape that suddenly seems obvious. your fingers are limp in the space where his had been; you reach for them without thinking, and his hand closes around yours like a soft, heavy promise.

“i was so sure,” you say finally, and your voice is barely more than a rustle against the linens. “i was sure i was the one being an idiot. that it was only me who wanted more and—” you stop because the words begin to rearrange themselves into something urgent. you inhale, collecting courage. “jay i… i feel the same.”

jay’s shoulders deflate, a laugh escaping him that’s half disbelief and half joy. his face is a map of every possible emotion at once: relief that blooms into disbelief, then something tender and almost shy, like embarrassment and happiness braided together. he swallows audibly, then slides off the edge of the bed to sit beside you, thumb brushing your knuckles in a motion so slow it could be prayer.

“you do?” he asks, voice cracking. “you like me too?”

“i do,” you confirm, before you can overthink it. “i’ve wanted this — wanted you — for a while. and i’ve been trying to tell myself i was imagining things. i kept thinking if i said it out loud everything would change, and i was scared.” your voice thins and then steadies. “but i’m tired of being scared.” you let out a breath, laugh-crying a little. “i’m tired of pretending it hasn’t been you for ages.”

he cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and the gesture is tender and sudden. “hey, don’t be scared,” he whispers. “i don’t want to lose us either. but i don’t want to ignore this.”

“so… what do we do?” you whisper, the question monumental in the small room.

your faces are inches apart; you can almost count the soft baby hairs at his temple.

“we start,” he says, and the word feels like a vow. “we try, slowly, brick by brick, step by step. we don’t have to figure out the rest tonight.” you nod, slow and certain.

after seconds of silence, you finally break it.

“i want to,” you echo.

jay opens his mouth, then closes it. “are you sure?” you nod. “you know if we cross this line it’s going to be very hard to—”

“jay,” you stop him, looking into his eyes. “just kiss me already”

and then, in a moment that feels both like a cliff and landing, jay leans in. his lips find yours with a tenderness you’d only imagined in stolen movie scenes. it’s tentative at first — warm, probing — as if he’s afraid to wake something delicate, and you know he’s trying to be gentle because the moment matters. but the kiss soon deepens, becomes a conversation in itself. your hands find the familiar places — the little dip behind his ear, the nape of his neck — and he responds by threading his fingers through your hair, steadying himself against the newness of the feeling.

the world outside the window hums as if nothing at all has changed, but everything has. when he pulls back for air, his forehead rests against yours and both of you are breathless, eyes bright and shaking. you both pull back with nervous smiles that turn into laughter because everything feels suddenly lighter and impossibly good.

“god, i can’t believe we’re actually doing this, can you?” jay laughs, looking into your eyes.

you answer by kissing him deeper. this time there’s less carefulness and more hunger — years of small touches and bedside talks turning into something braver. your mouth opens under his, and the world narrows to the taste of him. you feel his breath hitch, a small sound that is part shock, part sweetness.

his hands are not tentative anymore. they travel down your sides, find the curve of your waist, pull you flush against him. you can feel the line of his ribs under the shirt, the steady beat of his heart, a drum that matches yours. he mumbles against your mouth, “i like you. so much. it’s stupid. it’s everything.”

“i love you,” you say before you can stop yourself — your words tumbling out in the dark and landing between you. you don’t take them back. you mean them; the truth feels heavy and right.

jay freezes for the tiniest second, disbelief and joy warring on his face. then he smiles like he’s been given a map to something he’s been searching for without knowing. “god, i love you, i love you too,” he says, and his voice is near-breaking. he says it again, this time firmer, like anchoring himself. “i’ve loved you for ages.”

you both breathe, the confession settling like a warm blanket. then the awkward, perfect, dangerous part: you both laugh because you’re unbelievably relieved and because it feels ridiculous to be this dramatic about words you should have said way sooner.

“so,” jay says, cheek pressed to yours, “now what?”

“now,” you answer, “we stop pretending we don’t want each other?” you murmur, tracing small, teasing, nervous circles on his chest with your fingertip, savoring the steady heat under your skin.

jay chuckles, shaking his head. “you’re impossible.” the he licks his lips, leaning against your ear. “but i wouldn’t have you any other way.”

he kisses your temple, then drags his mouth down your neck in slow, tender strokes that make you shiver. “is it okay if i show you how much i’ve wanted this, then?” he asks, the question gentler than the rest. you nod. “let me make this easy for you,” he murmurs, voice huskier now.

he slides his hand down to the small of your back and pulls you flush against him. the contact is immediate, grounding. his mouth finds yours again, deeper this time — hungry but still careful, wanting to memorize your reactions. you kiss him back with the same mix of desperation and care.

you can feel the change move through you like heat. jay’s hands are not shy; they explore your curves as if they’ve been waiting for permission. you hook your legs around him, instinctively, and the motion brings you both closer. the covers rustle; the room shrinks to the two of you. you laugh breathlessly against his lips. “we’re idiots,” you whisper.

“big idiots,” he replies, smiling into the kiss, then his voice drops. “i’ve wanted you for so long.” he breaks the kiss just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours.

the room condenses to the sound of your breaths and the soft rustle of the covers. the lamps throw a golden halo around you both, and the world outside the window recedes into a wash of distant traffic and the ocean’s hush. his hand slides up your side, careful, asking permission with the lightest pressure; you answer by angling your hip toward him. the motion is tiny, but it says everything you couldn’t say with words.

he keeps talking when he kisses you — low reassurances, little jokes that make you hiccup-laugh between soft, searching kisses. “i could do this forever,” he murmurs against your throat. “i will be very annoying and very attentive. is that okay?” you nod, because yes, yes, yes. your voice would betray you if you tried to say anything else.

suddenly, the room grows even hotter. he begins with soft worship — hands mapping your shoulders, the line of your collarbone, the dip of your neck. his mouth follows, leaving kisses that turn into gentle suckles, slow and intimate. every little noise he makes — soft groans, the way his breath catches — makes your pulse quicken.

as his kisses travel further, his hands move with purpose. he peels your shirt up slowly, as if practiced, just as if he was a man who had been rehearsing this exact scene in his head a hundred times. you help as he pauses to kiss the skin he reveals, fingers fumbling at the hem because you want him close, you want nothing between you. the fabric slips away and leaves you bare to the cool air and his eyes.

jay drinks in the sight quietly like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. “you’re beautiful,” he whispers, cheeks flushed and voice thick. it’s clumsy and perfect. “i mean it.”

you feel heat bloom in your chest. “you too,” you breathe. “you’re so, so beautiful.”

his hands find your waist again, pulling you until your bodies are flush. he kisses your throat, then your collarbone, lingering at points that make your back arch. his lips are everywhere, each kiss slow and worshipful. when his hand finds your breast, he cups it like it’s fragile, thumbs rolling your nipple with gentle, exploratory pressure. you gasp.

“you’re so perfect, baby,” he breathes, voice raw. when he finally takes a nipple into his mouth, it’s like a small electric shock — sharp and delicious. he sucks with a mix of need and adoration that makes your knees weak. you moan, which makes him hum against your breast, pleased and needy.

“do you want me to stop?” he murmurs against your skin, suddenly cautious.

“no,” you say, breathless. “jay, please, don’t stop.”

encouraged, jay’s mouth moves lower, trailing to the curve of your ribs, the slope of your belly. his hands keep you steady, one at the small of your back, the other sliding between you to trace the line of your hip. he breathes around your navel and then looks up at you, eyes dark with want. “are you sure? i don’t want to rush anything you’re not ready for.” he asks again, though the question is almost theatrical now, given the way your both lusting for each other.

you respond with your own hands, sliding up the back of his pajama shirt, feeling the tension of his muscles. “i’m sure. i want you. i’ve imagined this so many times,” you confess. “i want you so much, jay. i need you so much it hurts.” the confession is private, painful, but liberating to say.

he smiles like someone who finally got permission for something he’s been dreaming of. he answers by settling between your legs, careful as if you might break, but his eyes are bright and fierce with want. you can’t help but moan at the sight of your best friend licking his lip, so eager for your body, for you. “then… should i go on? i’m dying to taste you,” he says, voice low and breathy. you answer by nodding. “words, pretty girl, i need words.” he chuckles, caressing your skin.

you swallow, your throat caught between letting out a laugh or a sob of desperation. “god, jay, yes, please,” you groan, certain. your fingers tighten in the sheet, not out of fear but because you need something to steady you — something that isn’t him for a second, until your breath evens out and you remember how safe his hands always feel.

his hands keep hold of your hips, thumbs pressed into the skin. then his mouth is right there, a kiss low on your belly, slow and adoring, and when his tongue finally slips out it’s like heat and velvet at once. he starts at the curve beneath your ribs, lapping a smooth line down towards your center. the first touch makes you jerk, breath hitching; he hums against you, the sound vibrating through his chest and into you, pleased and hungry.

“fuck.” he groans, closing his eyes. and you feel yourself getting even wetter.

he doesn’t rush. that’s the first thing you notice, really notice, while your pulse is hammering against your ribs and the room feels too small for all the air you suddenly need. jay stays on his knees at the edge of the bed, palms sliding slow up the backs of your thighs like he has all the time in the world. his eyes flick up to yours, soft and dark and a little wrecked, and he smiles, small, reverent.

“you’re shaking,” he whispers, thumb stroking the crease where your leg meets your hip. “i’ve got you, okay? we can slow down.”

you shake your head before the words even form. “don’t you dare.”

he laughs, quiet, the sound warm against your skin. “okay. okay, baby.”

then he lowers his mouth and kisses you there, once, gentle, right over the cotton of your underwear, like he’s saying hello to something sacred. the second kiss is open-mouthed, hotter, and you feel the heat of his breath soak through the fabric. your hips jerk without permission as a moan escapes your throat.

he hooks his fingers in the waistband and drags the last scrap of clothing down your legs, slow enough that you feel every inch of air replacing it. when you’re bare, he just looks for a long second, eyes glassy, lips parted, like he’s trying to memorize you.

“baby,” he says, reverent. “look at you. you’re so fucking pretty i can’t think straight. god,” he breathes. “you’re so pretty. how are you this pretty everywhere?”

you try to laugh, but it comes out shaky. he kisses the inside of your knee, then higher, open-mouthed and lazy, like he’s tasting dessert he’s waited years for. every press of his lips is paired with a new praise whispered against your skin.

“so soft… you taste so good already. i’ve been dreaming about this for so long.”

the praise lands warm in your chest. he lowers himself between your thighs. his palms slide under you, lifting you gently toward his mouth like an offering.

the first touch of his tongue is soft, just a slow, flat lick from entrance to clit that makes your hips jerk, your back arch clean off the mattress. he groans like you’ve hurt him, arms banding under your thighs to hold you open.

“fuck, there it is,” he says, voice rough with wonder. “that’s my girl.”

he licks again, deeper this time, parting you with the tip of his tongue, tasting you like he’s starved. when he circles your clit, gentle, lazy circles, your breath catches so hard it sounds like a sob. he pulls back just enough to speak.

“you taste so good, sweetheart. i've been dreaming about this. been dying to know what you sound like when you let go for me.”

he settles in like it’s his life’s work. tongue flat and broad at first, just feeling you, learning every twitch and sigh. then he narrows it, circles your clit once, twice, light enough to make you crazy. you thread fingers into his hair and he hums approval, the vibration rolling straight through you.

“don’t be shy, pull harder,” he says against you. “i want to feel you.”

you do. he rewards you by sliding one finger inside, slow, eyes locked on your face to watch every flicker. when you clench around him he curses softly, adds a second, curls them just right.

“perfect,” he whispers. “so perfect for me. you always were.”

he seals his mouth over you and sucks, soft at first, then harder when your fingers fist in his hair. every time you tug, he groans like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. his tongue dips inside you, slow thrusts that match the roll of his thumb over your clit, and the room fills with the wet sounds of him devouring you.

“jay,” you whimper, thighs trembling on either side of his head.

“i know, baby,” he soothes, voice muffled. “i know. just let me take care of you.”

the way he curls his fingers, slow and perfect, stroking the exact spot, makes your back arch clean off the bed. his mouth never leaves your clit, licking, sucking, fluttering, sucking again until your legs try to close on instinct. he just gentles them open with his shoulders, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“stay open for me, love. wanna see all of you. wanna watch you fall apart on my tongue.”

he finds a rhythm that makes your thighs start to tremble, mouth relentless, fingers steady and deep. every time you get close he backs off just enough to keep you teetering, kissing your clit like an apology before he starts again. you’re babbling his name, pleas, broken little sounds you didn’t know you could make.

“jay, please, i’m so close i can’t—”

“i know, baby, i know. let me take care of you. you deserve it, you deserve everything.”

he sucks your clit gently, crooking his fingers at the same time, and the orgasm rolls over you slow and huge, like a wave that starts at your toes and crashes behind your eyes. you cry out, hips grinding against his face, and he works you through it, soft licks and praises the whole time.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he mumbles, kissing your thighs. “my beautiful girl, i love watching you fall apart.”

when you finally fall against the pillows, he crawls up your body, kissing every inch he passes, until he’s hovering over you, mouth shiny, eyes dazed.

“you look so pretty like this,” he whispers, voice cracked open.

you don’t waste another second: you pull him down into a kiss and taste yourself on his tongue. it’s filthy and perfect. he groans into your mouth, hips rolling instinctively against yours.

“i need you,” he says against your lips. “i need to be inside you. can i?” he says it like a prayer, lips brushing yours.

you nod, frantic. “yes. yes, jay, please.”

he pulls back just far enough to reach for the nightstand drawer. his fingers close around the little foil square and you both freeze for half a heartbeat, staring at it like it’s evidence.

a slow, wicked grin spreads across your face even as your cheeks burn.

“wait,” you breathe, propping yourself up on your elbows, hair falling messily over one shoulder. “did you… pack condoms for our little platonic weekend getaway?”

jay’s ears go scarlet. he tries to look dignified and fails completely. “i—”

“be honest,” you tease, poking his chest. “did you stand in the drugstore aisle going “hmm, better grab a three-pack just in case my best friend finally lets me ruin our friendship”?”

he groans, dropping his forehead to your collarbone, but he’s laughing, muffled and embarrassed. “shut up.”

“no, no, i need details.” you tilt his chin up so he has to meet your eyes. “how many scenarios did you run in that pretty head? did you practice this moment in the mirror?”

“i hate you,” he mutters, but he’s grinning so wide the crinckles by their eyes are showing. “i threw them in at the last second, okay? i told myself it was… responsible. like life-jacket thinking. just in case we, i don’t know, got on a boat, got shipwrecked and needed to improvise a water pouch or something.”

you burst out laughing, the sound bright in the quiet room. “a water pouch. smooth, park.”

he hides his face in your neck, voice muffled. “i was delusional and hopeful and terrified all at once. sue me.”

you soften, running your fingers through his hair. “so you’ve been carrying around the possibility of us for months?”

he lifts his head, eyes suddenly serious even while his cheeks are still pink. “years,” he corrects quietly. “i just finally grew a spine tonight.”

the laughter fades into something tender and huge. you cup his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “come here, you optimistic little boy scout.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s trying to say thank you and sorry and finally all at once.

you take the packet from his unsteady fingers, tear it open with your teeth because you can’t resist the way his breath catches, as much as you can’t stand not touching him another second. when you roll the condom down his length he’s trembling, biting his lip so hard you’re worried he’ll leave marks.

you guide him back to you with both hands on his hips, fingers pressing gentle crescents into his skin. he’s shaking, fine tremors running through his shoulders, his thighs his breath, like every nerve is lit up and waiting for permission. when the blunt head of him nudges against you, he stops. just stops. forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, sharing the same ragged air.

“tell me again,” he breathes, voice shredded. “please.”

you cup his face, thumb sweeping the sharp line of his cheekbone. “i love you, jay,” you say, clear and steady even though your heart is sprinting. “i want you. i want this. i only ever wanted this with you.”

his eyes flutter shut for a second, like the words are almost too much. when they open again they’re glassy, stunned, impossibly soft.

and because you can’t help yourself, because you need to see him laugh one more time before everything changes forever, you lean up and whisper against his mouth, “for the record… best emergency preparedness ever.”

a broken laugh punches out of him, half sob, half joy. “you’re the worst,” he chokes, but he’s smiling so wide it almost dimples both cheeks.

then the smile fades into something raw, and he pushes in.

slow. god, so slow you feel every single inch like it’s being carved into you. the stretch is perfect, almost too much, and you both exhale shakily when he’s halfway. he pauses again, sweat beading at his temple, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump, you hear him swear under his breath.

“it’s okay, jay,” you whisper, stroking his back. “i’ve got you too.”

he nods against your forehead and sinks the rest of the way in one smooth, trembling glide until there’s no space left between you. the sound he makes is wrecked, animal, grateful. he bottoms out and just stays there, buried to the hilt, pulsing inside you, breathing like he’s run miles.

“fuck,” he says, voice cracking on the single syllable. “fuck, you feel,” he swallows hard, tries again. “you feel like home. like every place i’ve ever wanted to be.”

your throat closes. you wrap your legs higher around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, and the tiny shift in angle makes you both gasp.

“move,” you beg quietly. “please move.”

he does.

long, unhurried strokes that drag over every sensitive spot like he already knows your body by heart. he watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and awed, lips parted. every time he pulls almost all the way out and slides back in he whispers something new against your skin.

“i love you,” he mumbles. “you’re so warm, so perfect… fuck, i can’t believe i get to call you mine.”

you meet him halfway, rolling your hips up, nails raking lightly down his spine. the rhythm builds steady and deep, not fast, never fast, like you have years to make up for and all the time in the world to do it. the headboard taps softly against the wall in a lazy, hypnotic beat that matches the hush of the ocean outside.

he kisses you constantly, messy, open-mouthed, swallowing every sound you make. when he angles his hips just right you see stars; your back arches and he groans like it hurts him how good you feel.

“right there, yeah? you want it there?” he asks, voice hoarse, doing it again, again, and again.

you can’t answer with words, just nod frantically and pull him down for a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue and pure need. sweat gathers where your bodies are pressed together, skin sliding slick and perfect. the room smells like salt and sex and the faint lemon of hotel soap and jay, always jay.

he buries his face in your neck, kissing the skin there, sucking gentle marks. the rhythm stays slow, deep, grinding on every thrust so his pelvis rubs your clit and you see stars. you can feel another orgasm building, softer this time, deeper.

“jay,” you whimper, clutching at his shoulders. “i’m close again.”

“i know,” he breathes, lifting his head to watch you. “i want you to come around me this time. i want to feel you let go while i’m inside you.”

he slips a hand between you, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy, and circles once, twice, gentle but relentless. your thighs start to shake against his sides and the orgasm rolls through you like warm honey, endless and shattering. you clench hard around him, crying out his name into his mouth, and the feeling of you coming undone around him finally breaks his control.

he thrusts deep one last time and stays there, hips stuttering, face buried in the damp curve of your neck. you feel him pulse inside you, again and again, each throb matched by a broken whisper of your name like it’s the only word he remembers until he finally spills inside you.

“jay, i love you,” you’re able to whimper. “i love you so much.”

after, he doesn’t pull out right away. he stays inside you, kissing your face, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, until you’re both giggling breathlessly at how tender it all is. his arms are trembling as they hold his weight off your chest, breath sawing in and out against your throat. you stroke his hair, his back, the nape of his neck, anywhere you can reach, until the shaking stops.

when he finally pulls out it’s careful, almost reluctant. eventually he ties off the condom and collapses beside you, pulling you into his chest. your legs tangle automatically. the room smells like sex and salt air and the two of you. he lifts his head. his eyes are a little red, wet at the corners, and he looks so young and stunned and happy it punches the air out of you.

“hi,” he whispers, voice completely shot.

you laugh, watery and wrecked. “hi.”

you end up half on top of him, cheek over his heart, one of his hands splayed possessively across your lower back, the other tangled in your hair. your legs are still intertwined, sticky and perfect.

the room is quiet except for breathing and the far-off shush of waves. moonlight has shifted; silver stripes paint his collarbone, the slope of your shoulder.

after a minute he starts laughing, soft and disbelieving.

“what?” you mumble into his skin.

“i just had sex with my best friend,” he says, like he’s testing the sentence for flaws and finding none. “and it was,” his voice cracks again. “it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

you press a kiss over his heart. “same.”

he squeezes you tighter. “we’re gonna be so annoying now.”

“the most annoying,” you agree, smiling against his chest. “oh, and, for the record, i’m not letting you leave this bed until we have to check out.”

“deal.” he tips your chin up, eyes shining.

for a long time you just breathe together. his fingers trace mindless patterns on your back.

“so,” he says finally, voice hoarse and soft, “what do we do now?”

you press your smile into his collarbone. “we date, i guess?”

he huffs a laugh. “yeah. we date. like, officially. you’re my girlfriend.”

the word makes something warm unfurl in your chest. “and you’re my boyfriend.”

“boyfriend,” he repeats, testing it, grinning. “i like that. a lot.”

you prop your chin on his chest to look at him. “people are gonna lose their minds.”

“let them.” he brushes your hair back. “my mom is gonna cry happy tears, and my own dad is gonna threaten to kill me if i hurt you.”

you snort. “he’ll have to get in line behind your grandma.”

jay’s quiet for a second, thumb stroking your cheek. “are you scared?”

you think about it, his thumb stroking your hip.

“a little,” you admit. “but mostly i’m… relieved.”

you turn in his arms so you’re face to face again.

“just so you know... i want mornings,” he says suddenly. “i want to wake up and make your coffee the way you like it, too much sugar, no matter how wrong it is. i want to argue about whose turn it is to do dishes and then make out against the fridge anyway. i want boring tuesday nights on the couch and big stupid anniversary trips and,” his voice cracks a little, “and i want to come home to you for the rest of my life, if you’ll let me.”

tears prick your eyes without warning.

“yes,” you whisper. “yes to all of it.”

he kisses you again, slow and sweet, like sealing a vow.

“i’ve been scared for years that one day you’d bring someone home and i’d have to smile and be happy for you while my chest caved in.” jay confesses. “but this is better. this is so much better.”

you kiss the center of his palm. “no more pretending.”

“no more pretending,” he echoes. “i get to hold your hand in public. kiss you when i want. tell everyone you’re mine.”

“possessive you is unexpectedly hot,” you tease.

he rolls you gently so you’re under him again, wrists pinned lightly above your head. “you have no idea.”

you arch up to kiss him, slow and lazy. when you break apart he rests his forehead against yours.

“we’ll take it slow with everyone else,” he says seriously. “we’ll tell our families first. then the group chat can explode. but us... we don’t have to figure everything out tonight. we just keep being us, but now i get to love you out loud.”

your eyes sting a little. “i like the sound of that.”

he kisses the tip of your nose. “good. because i plan on being disgustingly in love with you for a very long time.”

you laugh, watery. “disgustingly in love?”

“oh yeah. i’m talking matching halloween costumes, instagram hard launch in like, a week, writing songs about you… the whole cringe package.”

“i can’t wait.” you smile.

he settles beside you again, pulling the sheet up over both of you. you curl into his side, ear over his heart.

“jay?”

“mhm?”

“i’m really glad the hotel messed up the booking.

he laughs, the sound rumbling under your cheek. “me too, baby. me too.”

you talk until the sky outside starts to pale. about stupid little things — who gets the left side of the bed at home, whether you’ll keep separate toothbrushes at each other’s places or just share, if you’ll tell your friends or let them figure it out when you don’t stop touching each other —, and big things — moving in together one day, maybe in a year, maybe sooner; how you’ll handle fights when they come, because they will; how you’ll protect this new, bright thing between you.

and every time one of you starts to worry, the other kisses it quiet.

at some point you must doze off, because you wake to jay pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, whispering, “morning, girlfriend.”

you smile into the pillow. “morning, boyfriend.

outside, the waves keep rolling in, steady and sure, just like the two of you now, finally on the same page.

© jongst4r, 2025

taglist: @miraeluv @redessertired @oregonalii @simbabyikeu @seyjy @areikii @jaysendgame @andieekosmos @himynameisraelynn @tulipyaaa @sumzysworld

[arilevenatz]

Silent Vows 𝟐 | K.YS

Pairing: Mafia!Yeosang x Reader

Genre: Arranged marriage, One-sided slow burn (idek), slight enemies to lovers, fluff

Word count: 12k (so 34.4k in total)

Warnings: slow ahh burn, implied child neglect, slapping, crying, self worth struggles, reader kinda hated herself for a few mins, and obviously yeosang being so domestic and yummy

AN: hehe I've made u guys wait a lot huh? But it's finally here tho and I'm happy that it turned out how i wanted to be, u know what I'm saying? Like i didn't want to put up something that I ain't happy with. So yeah quality over quantity everyone. I hope y'all like this one as well (pls don't ask me for part three I ain't got no idea what to write anymore 🙏🏻😭)

Part 1 | Masterlist

The thing about domestic life with Yeosang was,it was dangerous. Not because of the mafia thing. Not because of bodyguards or enemies or whatever. No, it was dangerous because he was too good at it. Folding sleeves while helping you hang laundry. Holding the back of your neck softly while passing by you in the kitchen. Walking around the apartment barefoot in sweatpants like it wasn’t illegal to look that good doing nothing.

Like right now.

Right now, you were standing in the kitchen, hair clipped up messily, sleeves pushed to your elbows, flipping through your notes for university on the counter while stirring something in a pot. And him? He was leaning against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching you with this stupid half-smile like you were the most interesting thing in the room. Like you were the TV. Like you were art.

“What?” you finally mumbled, not even looking up from your notes.

“Nothing,” he answered easily. “Can’t look at my wife?”

“Not when I’m clearly fighting for my life in biochemistry,” you muttered, scribbling something with irritation.

But then,you felt it. The warmth of him moving closer. You hated that you liked the way he moved around you like he belonged there. Like he owned the whole place, including you.

“You’re doing great,” he said, voice low by your ear, “But you know I don’t like it when you stress over this stuff alone.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine.”

But then,betrayal. Your stomach growled. Loud. You froze. Yeosang’s smirk grew wider, the audacity dripping from every inch of him. “Are you, though?”

“Don’t.”

“I will.”

You elbowed him half-heartedly, cheeks warming, but he caught your arm gently before you could fully pull away.

“Sit,” he said, soft but final. “I’ll finish stirring. You explain your homework to me. Win-win.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicious. “Since when do you cook for me?”

“Since I got tired of watching you nearly pass out before dinner.”

Cocky and caring. Disgusting.

So, you sat. Let him take the wooden spoon like it was his birthright, sleeves already rolled, rings catching the light. And there he was, stirring like he was born to be a husband, stealing glances at you every few seconds like you wouldn’t notice.

You hated how good this felt. You hated that it didn’t feel forced. You hated that you almost wanted to lean your head on his shoulder right then and there.

But most of all,you hated that you were starting to love being his. And he knew it.

The bastard knew.

You glanced down at your phone, thumb scrolling lazily until the notification popped up,buried in your notes app, wedged between grocery lists and half-done assignments.

Dad’s birthday. Mom invited us.

A pause.

A day before. Both of us. Why.

The reminder sat there like an unwanted guest in your head. Ironic, really. They never celebrated his birthday before. Never a cake, never a dinner, never a mention. And now suddenly they were throwing a get-together with invitations and everything,right after you got married.

It didn’t take a genius to piece it together. You could almost feel it under your skin. Like this wasn’t a celebration,it was a statement. Their way of parading you around, showing people that you were finally “settled,” finally doing something they could brag about at family gatherings. Finally being useful.

Gross.

You glanced up from your screen, the bitter thought still lingering, just in time to see Yeosang walking back into the living room, rolling the sleeves of his black button-up further up his forearms as he moved. His watch caught the light when he adjusted it, veins on the back of his hand standing out in that stupid way that made you look even when you didn’t want to. Shirt slightly untucked like he’d gotten home from work and didn’t care to fix it. Slacks loose but perfect on him, casual yet expensive. His hair was still slightly messy from running his hands through it, a habit you noticed when he was thinking too hard,or irritated,or, worse, watching you.

Effortlessly hot. The kind of hot that made you annoyed on principle. He didn’t even try. It wasn’t fair.

He sat on the edge of the couch, spreading his legs slightly without meaning to, long fingers lazily undoing the first button of his shirt. Comfort. Casual. Not for show. Just him existing, unaware that it made your throat go dry for no reason other than spite.

You swallowed, tried to act normal, even though normal around him was becoming increasingly difficult.

“So,” you finally broke the silence, tossing your phone onto the cushion beside you. “Did she invite your dad?”

He tilted his head a little, processing, eyes on yours now. Sharp. Heavy. “Yeah. On the day itself.”

“But she asked us to come earlier.”

“Apparently.”

You hated how even his voice was hot. Low, smooth, slightly raspy at the edges like he hadn’t spoken much today. Like he saved his words for you and you alone. The worst part? He wasn’t even doing it on purpose. Just existing like that.

“And do you know why?”

He shrugged lazily, thumb brushing his lower lip for a second as he thought. “Maybe they wanna parade us around early. Maybe they wanna test me.” He glanced at you, one brow barely lifting. “Maybe they’re just bored.”

You sighed. “Or maybe they just wanna show off that they finally got rid of me.”

His gaze sharpened,not with pity, not with softness. Something else. Something sharper. Like he was filing the information away somewhere deep. You were used to people looking at you like you were fragile glass. Yeosang didn’t do that. He just listened, stored it, remembered.

“You’re not something to ‘get rid of,’” he finally said, steady. Quiet. “They’re stupid if they think that.”

You looked away, feeling the sting of those words, not because they were sharp,but because they were gentle in a way you didn’t expect from him.

“I don’t care what they think,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the coffee table.

And maybe you were telling the truth. Maybe you weren’t. Didn’t matter.

Yeosang leaned back against the couch like he had all the time in the world. Long legs, sleeves rolled, one hand resting against his stomach, fingertips idly brushing his rings. The picture of relaxed power. “Doesn’t matter what they think,” he said again, slower this time. “You’re with me now.”

Not possessive. Not demanding. Just a fact he laid out like gravity, like physics, like it couldn’t be argued with. He wasn’t claiming you.

He was reminding you.

And you hated,hated,how much that stupid, effortless heat of his made your heart betray you. Just a little more. Just enough to make you feel the slow burn starting to creep under your skin again.

You both went. Bags packed neatly, yours folded properly, his thrown together last minute like he didn’t care, but of course he did, you knew by now that he cared about everything. Before you left, Yeosang had held up the necklace and the rings, both matching, both expensive, both screaming his. He didn’t even argue, didn’t raise his voice, didn’t try to sweet-talk you into it. He just looked at you. And with him, that was enough.

“I don’t like wearing so much-”

“Wear it,” he cut you off softly, standing close enough that you could smell his cologne, expensive and warm. “Trust me.”

So you did.

Hair done. Jewelry on. Wearing the cardigan he got you last week because he knows you fidget with sleeves, layered over the designer dress that fit too well to be coincidence. Rings catching the sunlight. Necklace resting against your collarbone, delicate but clearly worth more than your dad’s entire car. Everything about you said: untouchable.

But the real final touch?

Yeosang’s hand. Wrapping around yours, warm, steady, undeniable. Like a quiet statement.

When you walked into your family’s house, you didn’t have to say a word.

The look on your mother’s face was priceless. The pause. The flicker of disbelief behind her carefully practiced smile. She didn’t expect this. Not the jewelry. Not the designer clothes. Not the calm way you carried yourself like you belonged in that skin now. And certainly not the way Yeosang stood beside you like you were his entire world on display. Not proud, not showing off, just present. Solid. Real. Someone no one could touch.

It wasn’t just the clothes or the money, it was the weight behind it.

He wasn’t showing you off. He was protecting you. Dressing you in armor you didn’t even realize you’d been missing your whole life.

You didn’t need him to tell you why anymore.

You saw it written all over your mother’s face: this was a game she wasn’t winning anymore.

And when Yeosang squeezed your hand gently, not too hard, not too soft, you finally understood:

He wanted them to see.

Your mother greeted you with that smile, the one she wore to every social event, every uncomfortable conversation, the one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Like clockwork, the passive-aggressive commentary started before you’d even set your bags down.

“Well,” she hummed, eyeing the necklace around your throat, “finally wearing something proper now, aren’t you? Marriage must be doing you well.”

You swallowed. Familiar sting. Same routine. You were used to it. You braced yourself, ready to just nod and let it slide, like always.

But then, Yeosang spoke.

“Yeah,” he said smoothly, like honey with a sharp edge. “She always looks good. But I guess money makes it easier to see, doesn’t it?” You blinked.

Your mom’s smile tightened, sharp as glass. “Of course. Not everyone’s used to that kind of lifestyle.”

Yeosang let out a soft hum, nonchalant, barely acknowledging the insult. “True. But I like giving her things. Makes up for the years she didn’t get them.”

You felt it then, that shift in the air. Like someone opened a window in a stale room. Fresh, biting, unexpected. Your mom’s eyes flickered to yours like she wanted backup, but you weren’t giving it. Not now. Not with him standing next to you like that, calm, sharp, dangerous without even raising his voice.

“Oh, well, we managed just fine before,” she tried again, tone syrupy sweet, eyes narrowing slightly.

Yeosang’s lips twitched,bnot a smirk, just something close. Something controlled. “Yeah. I saw.”

That was it. No yelling. No scenes. Just a few precisely chosen words, placed like knives on fine china. Clean. Silent. Lethal. And you? You were standing next to him, trying to remember how to breathe, because, God, how was he this hot right now? Not just physically, though the rolled sleeves, the watch, the perfectly tailored black slacks were not helping, but mentally. Emotionally. Intellectually. Attractive in the way that made your knees weak because he was on your side. Not just tolerating you. Defending you. Matching every jab with ease, making it seem effortless, like he’d been trained for this.

Because he had. And that’s when it hit you like a punch to the gut—

Oh no. You were in trouble. Real, real trouble.

Because you were falling for this man.

Your mother, visibly swallowing her pride, gave one last flicker of that brittle smile before waving you both off with a tight, “You know the way. Your room’s ready.” Defeated. For the first time, she didn’t have the last word. And that alone felt like fireworks under your skin.

You both went upstairs. Same old room. Same faded wallpaper, same creaking door, same window with the view of nothing in particular. It felt smaller now, too small with him standing there, tall, broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled up, the sharp line of his jaw set like stone, rings glinting on his fingers as he tossed the bags down like he owned the whole damn town.

You didn’t even look at him as you spoke, folding your arms awkwardly, eyes locked on the carpet. “It’s… not as big as your place. Sorry.”

You didn’t know why you said it. Maybe some old leftover habit from constantly apologizing for things that weren’t your fault. You hated that it slipped out.

Yeosang tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was studying a new painting. And then, cool as ever, voice low, warm, dangerous in that stupid effortless way—

“I don’t need the room to be big,” he murmured. “I just need you in it.”

And just like that, oxygen left the room. No teasing, no cocky smirk. Just facts. Solid. Like of course that’s what he thought. Why wouldn’t he?

You wanted to punch something. Mainly because, why the hell did that sound the most genuine and hottest than anything you’d ever heard in your entire life?

You stared at him, heat rising to your cheeks, half from embarrassment, half from pure rage. “Don’t-don’t say shit like that!” you snapped, voice a little louder than you intended, biting at the edges.

Yeosang just lifted his hands like he was fending you off, palms up, rings catching the light. “I said what I said,” he answered, completely unbothered. No teasing grin, no cocky expression, just plain honesty delivered like a punch straight to your throat.

Infuriating.

You stomped off toward the bathroom before you said something stupid, muttering curses under your breath as you went. The old door creaked as you shut it, hands gripping the sink like you could squeeze your irritation into the porcelain. You washed your feet quickly, letting the cold water ground you, but the second you stepped back into the room, something was different.

The suitcases.

Yours, unzipped neatly, placed by the old dresser like it belonged there. His already halfway unpacked, shirts folded sharp, belts coiled perfectly. Like he hadn’t just been flirting with you five minutes ago, like he wasn’t casually flipping your entire life inside out.

You blinked, standing there awkwardly with wet feet on the faded carpet. He didn’t even look at you. He was by the suitcase, rolling his sleeves back down now, slowly, like this was some kind of ritual.

Effortlessly hot. Domestic. Dangerous.

“Didn’t ask you to unpack,” you muttered, feeling small.

“I was doing mine anyway,” he replied simply, folding another black shirt and sliding it into the drawer like he’d done it a thousand times. “And besides, you looked tired.”

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t kind. It was matter-of-fact, like the sky being blue or the floor being under your feet.

And God,why did that make your stomach twist more than anything else?

You never really expected to marry someone. The idea of sharing your life, your space, your routines, it never felt real. Not because you hated love or feared commitment or any of that dramatic nonsense. No. It just… never seemed like you. You were the quiet one. The invisible daughter. The one people forgot to ask opinions from. The one who learned to thrive in silence. You were used to shrinking into spaces, not opening them up for someone else to walk into. And yet, here you were.

Married to a man who didn’t just walk into your life, he walked in, kicked the door open, threw a damn rug down and started rearranging furniture. Not loudly. Not rudely. Just… unapologetically. Existing in your space like he belonged there.

And worse? He fit. Too well.

You didn’t know what kind of divine comedy this was, but it was definitely messing with your heart. Because that dumb organ was doing little flips and somersaults every time he folded your clothes without being asked, or poured water into your cup before filling his own, or carried your bag like it was an extension of his arm. He never made a show of it. Never called it out.

He just did things. Like you mattered. Like he noticed you. And maybe that scared you more than anything else ever had.

But if he was going to do this,this husband-thing, then maybe, just maybe, he deserved a little space in your world too. Not the one built by your family. Not the name they tried to carry like a badge of shame. Your world. The one you made with your tiny comforts, your small joys, your quiet favorite places.

So, after unpacking, you stood in the middle of the room, fingers brushing over the rings he told you to wear. Still warm from your skin. Still heavy with meaning.

“I want to take you somewhere,” you said quietly, barely above a whisper.

Yeosang, who had just set down his cologne bottle onto the dresser, paused. Then turned to face you fully. “Yeah?” he asked, voice calm but something sparking behind his eyes.

You nodded, awkwardly playing with your sleeve. “Just… somewhere I go when I need to breathe.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just studied you with that unreadable expression, the one that made it feel like he was seeing parts of you even you didn’t know existed. Then, slowly, his lips tugged into something small. Not a smirk. Not a grin. Just, soft. Warm.

“I’d like that.”

You weren’t ready for how much those three words meant. For the way they made your chest feel tight. He didn’t ask where. Didn’t demand an explanation. He just grabbed a jacket, slung it over one arm, and said, “Lead the way.”

And you knew.

You knew at that moment, he wasn’t just some random name attached to your family’s pride. He wasn’t just a title, or a deal, or a man with money and power.

He was someone who, whether you liked it or not, had already started building a room inside your life.

The cold air bit at your nose as you stepped out, jacket wrapped around you tightly. You didn’t say much on the way, just gave Yeosang a look when he asked where you were taking him, and he didn’t push. Just followed behind you with steady footsteps, jacket slung casually over his arm, black boots echoing on the pavement like something out of a drama.

He looked so out of place in your world.

In his all-black outfit, hair styled just enough to look like he didn’t try, cologne subtle but warm—he was the kind of man who belonged in sleek lounges or high-rise penthouses. Not on this quiet street with chipped sidewalks and flickering neon signs. But you didn’t tell him that. Because a part of you wanted to see if he could fit here too.

You stopped in front of a small corner building, glass windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside. A sign above the door, painted in soft pink and cream:

Whiskers & Tails Café.

He raised a brow. “A pet café?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Yeah.”

Then pushed open the door and stepped in.

Warmth greeted you instantly, both from the heaters and from the familiar scent of fur, coffee, and the faintest trace of vanilla-scented candles. The bell jingled above as you walked in, and the moment your face appeared, a sleepy golden retriever in the corner perked up, tail thudding against the floor.

It wasn’t just any pet café. It was yours. You volunteered here when you could. Cleaned kennels, fed them, played with them, sometimes just sat with the animals when the world outside was too loud. This place had always been your safe space.

And now… he was here.

You didn’t look at him as you unwrapped your scarf. Just mumbled, “I come here sometimes. Help out. Thought I’d check on them since we’re in town.”

Yeosang stood at the entrance for a moment, hands in his coat pockets. You expected him to make a comment. Something dry or sarcastic. Something about you being secretly soft-hearted.

But instead—

A small kitten, tabby with white paws, padded up to his feet. He knelt down. Not just crouched, fully knelt. One knee on the floor, hand out gently, voice soft.

“Hey, little guy.”

The kitten mewed and immediately rubbed its face against his fingers. Yeosang chuckled.

You blinked.

Then watched, absolutely dumbfounded, as the man you thought only cared about suits, expensive watches, and control, started going around the café… greeting every animal.

One by one.

Petting the large dogs with careful hands. Letting a sleepy cat climb onto his lap like it owned him. Even playing tug-of-war with a tiny puppy who definitely wasn’t winning, but Yeosang still made it feel like it was.

You didn’t know what to do with that information.

You sat down on the sofa and let the old Pomeranian you always fed climb onto your lap. You watched him, arms crossed, as he laughed when a kitten climbed into his coat. He made himself at home like he’d been there a hundred times.

You narrowed your eyes from your seat on the couch. “You good down there or are they starting a coup?”

Without looking up, he deadpanned, “I think this one’s the leader,” pointing to the tiny kitten who had now decided to nap on his thigh. “She’s got the eyes of a war general.”

You snorted, petting the sleepy Pomeranian curled into your lap. “Didn’t peg you for an animal person.”

“I’m not,” he said, while simultaneously adjusting the kitten’s head so she was more comfortable. “I’m just very approachable, apparently.”

“Oh yeah, that resting mafia face is super welcoming.”

He finally looked up at you, one brow raised. “Says the woman who stomps like a ghost when she walks and never makes eye contact.”

“That’s stealth,” you argued. “That’s a skill.”

“Sure,” he said dryly. “That’s exactly why the cat followed you the moment you walked in. Real ninja energy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe I smell like food.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” he replied, brushing fur off his pants. “You were navigating my kitchen like it owed you rent.”

“I was cooking, not robbing it.”

“You even found where I hide the sugar.”

“…You hid the sugar?”

“Yes,” he said, without hesitation. “You don’t need that much caffeine.”

You stared at him, offended. “You don’t even live in your kitchen!”

“And yet somehow, you’ve claimed it. Like it’s your natural habitat.”

A kitten chose that exact moment to sneeze on his hand, making him flinch slightly. You burst out laughing. “Oh yes, very majestic. You’re really commanding the animal kingdom right now.”

He shook his head, trying not to smile. “I literally own weapons and yet I’m being taken hostage by a two-pound furball.”

“Whiskers is the boss around here,” you said, pointing at the kitten in his lap. “Bow to her or be banished.”

Yeosang let out a soft laugh, real, low, warm, and scratched Whiskers under her chin. “At least she’s nicer than your mom.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Oh my God.”

“What?” he shrugged. “Whiskers didn’t say I was a waste of good suits.”

You tried to look scandalized, but you couldn’t help the laugh bubbling out of you. It was rare, laughing like this. Laughing with him. You weren’t supposed to be this comfortable. This… normal.

Yeosang glanced at you then, just briefly. “You laugh more when we’re not in your house.”

You blinked. “You notice that?”

He looked back down at the kitten, brushing his fingers through her fur. “I notice everything.”

And there it was. That stupid warmth again.

The air was cool and quiet as you and Yeosang walked down the familiar streets back home, the sun dipping just low enough to wash everything in that soft golden haze. Your feet were starting to ache, but you didn’t say anything. Mostly because Yeosang was already holding your bag, slung effortlessly over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

You did huffed, but didn’t argue. And maybe, just maybe, you liked the way it felt. Having someone quietly notice the things you struggled with and not making a big deal about helping.

You reached your house just as the golden light began to fade, the front porch casting long shadows. Yeosang’s grip on your bag shifted slightly as he pushed the door open for you, and the moment you stepped inside—

There she was.

Your mother. Standing there like she’d been waiting. That same tight-lipped smile that somehow looked more like a challenge than a greeting. “Where have you both been?” she asked, voice dripping with sweetness that somehow stung more than actual venom.

You shrugged off your shoes. “Places.”

She blinked. “Places?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

That smile wavered for just a second. “Well, as long as you’re not wandering around wasting time. Married life shouldn’t distract you from your responsibilities. Your husband might not always be so forgiving.”

You opened your mouth, ready to respond, or maybe just sigh, but Yeosang beat you to it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, setting your bag down gently, tone sugary-sweet and razor-sharp. “I’m more than forgiving. I even let her choose the restaurant today. Can you imagine?”

Your mom blinked. “Oh?”

“Crazy, right?” he continued, peeling off his jacket slowly, casually. “Letting her make her own decisions? Next thing you know, she’ll have opinions.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

Your mom’s smile dropped just a millimeter.

“And besides,” Yeosang added, voice light but eyes cold, “it wasn’t wasting time. We were at a place that made her happy. Which, I assume, isn’t a common theme around here.”

Dead. You were dead. He did not just say that.

Your mom blinked at him, clearly stunned for a half second, then let out a tight chuckle. “Well, I’m glad she has such a... supportive husband.”

Yeosang smiled. “Me too.”

You were just about to make your escape up the stairs, Yeosang right beside you, your bag now resting by the steps, when her voice cut through the air. "YN, come help me in the kitchen."

Your feet froze mid-step.

Yeosang slowed too, looking down at you with a glance so subtle no one else would’ve noticed. But you did. His eyes scanned your face, taking in the shift in your shoulders, the way your fingers tensed slightly. You didn’t even look at him, just nodded once and turned back. Because at the end of the day, no matter how many rings you wore or necklaces draped around your neck or husbands stood beside you,

She was still your mother.

You stepped into the kitchen like a soldier walking onto familiar, scorched battlefield. The air was already heavy with the smell of oil and something boiling, but you knew that wouldn’t be the thing to make your stomach turn.

“Wash those vegetables,” she said without even looking up. You did. Quietly. Mechanically. You always did. Then it began.

“I see you’ve gotten used to letting someone else speak for you now.” You kept washing the spinach. “Can’t even answer a simple question earlier. Just ‘places,’ huh?” You didn’t reply. Not yet.

“Not surprised. You were always a bit slow to speak. Just like your father.” The knife clinked a little harder against the cutting board. You knew that trick. Cut someone else down so you forget the weight of your own bruises.

You placed the spinach in the bowl. She turned to you, eyes narrow. “He must’ve spoiled you real quick. Is that why you’re suddenly standing up like a big girl now? His money made you bold?”

You finally looked at her. “No,” you said. Calm. Sharp. “I think I just stopped being afraid.”

She stared at you like you’d grown two heads. “Excuse me?”

You held her gaze. “You heard me.”

Her lips curled. “He’s not going to protect you forever. He’ll get bored of you. They always do.”

Your stomach twisted. “He’s not like that.”

She rolled her eyes. “You think he married you out of love? You’re not even that special. Don’t let some designer label fool you, girl.”

You felt it. That slow-burning heat, shame and anger tangling like wires in your chest. But this time, it didn’t silence you. This time, you said, “Maybe he didn’t marry me for love. But he treats me better in months than you have my whole life.”

And that’s when it happened.

Her hand was faster than your eyes. A crack of palm against cheek, the sound almost louder than the pain.

Almost.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak. You just stood there. Frozen.

Because the sting on your cheek wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was how familiar it felt. That helplessness. That silence. That deep ache of being reduced to a child who didn’t have the right to speak.

You thought you had outgrown this. You thought you were healing.

But the tear that slid down your cheek wasn’t from the slap, it was from the sudden, brutal realization that a part of you was still that girl. Still folding napkins at dinner. Still flinching at footsteps. Still pretending it didn’t hurt.

And you hated it.

You hated that she could still reach inside you and drag that little girl out. Just with a few words. A raised hand. A name that still had power, even if you tried to forget.

The moment the slap landed, you dropped everything. The vegetables, the bowl, the knife. You didn’t even flinch at the sound of it clattering to the ground. Your hands trembled, not from the sting but from the crushing wave of emotions that surged through you, humiliation, fury, sadness, and something deeper. Something rotten that had been buried for too long. You didn’t say a word. Not to her. Not to yourself. You just turned, eyes burning and steps heavy, and walked. No…ran.

Up the stairs. Past the photos on the wall. Past the familiar scent of a house that never really felt like home. Your feet hit the last step and you all but burst through the door of your old bedroom.

Yeosang looked up just as you entered. He had his jacket in his hands, half off, like he’d just finished fixing his hair in the mirror. The casual, effortless way he looked, black sleeves rolled to the elbows, shirt fitted perfectly across his shoulders, it should’ve made your heart do those little flips again. But right now, you were too full. Too heavy. You didn’t even speak to him. You just locked eyes for half a second, long enough for him to see it. The tightness in your jaw. The gleam of tears unshed. The way your hands were clenched like you were holding on to the last strand of composure.

You walked past him, your steps unsteady but fast, and went straight into the bathroom. Yeosang didn’t move for a second. He didn’t need to ask. He didn’t need to guess. He knew.

He knew your face by now, every flicker, every twitch. He knew the storm behind your silence. You weren’t just tired. You weren’t just overwhelmed. You were hurt. And he didn’t need to hear it from your mouth to understand the source of it. His jaw tightened as he slowly placed his jacket on the hook, not saying a word. But his mind was loud.

Of course that woman did something. He knew this was more than just a fight. This was history. Years of belittling. Years of you being told you weren’t enough. Years of silence and shame so normalized it felt like air in this damn house. And even now, even with the jewelry he gave you on your skin, even with him standing next to you as your husband, she still saw you as that same small girl she could bend and break.

His fists clenched at his sides as he exhaled slowly. He had known you longer than you thought. Maybe you didn’t know that part yet. Maybe you never noticed how often he showed up where you were before this marriage. How much he had watched, not in a creepy way, but like someone fascinated by a person who moved quietly through the world and still held so much within her. He remembered the way you used to fidget with the ends of your sleeves when walking alone. He had always noticed you. And that’s why it burned so much now. Because even after all that time, you still had to deal with this.

He took a slow step toward the bathroom door, didn’t knock, didn’t call out. He just stood there.

When you came out of the bathroom, the air in the room felt heavier. Your face was washed, but the redness around your eyes betrayed you. Yeosang didn’t look up right away; he was lying back against the headboard, one arm folded under his head, the picture of composure. But he was watching. Not obviously, not directly, but every flicker of your movement was caught in the corner of his gaze.

You didn’t say a word. You walked over and sat at the very edge of the bed, your back stiff, your hands folded tightly in your lap as if keeping yourself from falling apart depended on it. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until his voice cut through it, low, steady, but gentle in a way that disarmed you instantly.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, not even shifting his posture. “You don’t have to explain. But if you need me,” his eyes flicked toward you, softer than you’d ever seen them, “I’ll be here.”

That was it. No lecture. No questions. No demanding answers you weren’t ready to give. Just that.

Your throat closed up before you could even think of a reply. The kind of ache that doesn’t warn you, it just rises. Your eyes blurred, and before you could stop it, tears began slipping down silently, trailing hot down your cheeks. You never were the kind of person to cry out loud—your pain had always been quiet, tucked away where no one could see. But the tears betrayed you now, your shoulders trembling, your chest rising unevenly as you tried to hold the pieces of yourself together.

Yeosang didn’t say anything else. He just moved. Slowly, steadily, he sat up, closed the small distance between you, and pulled you into him. His arms wrapped around you, firm but not suffocating, the way someone holds something fragile but refuses to let it break. He didn’t shush you, didn’t tell you to stop. He just held you because he knew you needed it more than anything.

And in that moment, with your forehead against his chest and his steady heartbeat under your ear, you realized he wasn’t here to fix you. He was here to stand with you while you broke, and to make sure you didn’t have to do it alone anymore.

The words slipped out of you before you could even stop them. You weren’t planning to tell him, weren’t planning to open your mouth at all, but it came so naturally, like a reflex, like breathing. “She slapped me,” you said quietly, staring at your hands in your lap.

Yeosang froze. His entire body went still, like a string pulled taut. His voice came next, sharp but measured, carrying a weight that told you he already knew but wanted to hear it confirmed. “Who?”

You swallowed, the word barely leaving your lips. “Mom.”

It sounded almost childish, almost like a confession you’d make as a kid when you ran to a grown-up, expecting them to fix it. But with Yeosang, it felt different. It wasn’t childish. It wasn’t weak. It felt like you were telling someone who had the power to take that weight from you, someone who wouldn’t just sit by. It felt like complaining to a guardian who could shield you, who could make the world’s cruelty back off.

Yeosang didn’t speak right away. He was still, utterly still, except for the tightening of his jaw. His eyes darkened, not in sadness, but in fury, an anger that sat deep in his chest and burned hot in his veins. He rarely felt it, and even more rarely let it show. But now, he was furious.

How dare someone touch you? His wife. His partner. The thought alone made his stomach knot and his blood hum with rage. He could hear his father’s voice in the back of his mind, the lessons drilled into him since boyhood: You protect the women in your family. And if anyone dares to lay a hand on them, you crush them. Especially your partner. She is your shield and your heart. No one touches her and walks away unscathed.

Yeosang’s fists curled into the blanket, his breath steady but heavy. It wasn’t just anger. It was something deeper, more dangerous. The kind of fury that demanded action. The kind that could dismantle a person piece by piece without even raising his voice.

The house was oddly quiet, you and Yeosang were tucked away in your room, standing in front of the mirror as you fixed the last bit of your hair. The soft glow of the lamp lit your face, but there was something about your eyes, dimmed, distant. No matter how carefully you blended your eyeliner or how well you draped your outfit, the shadow of what had happened earlier still lingered behind your expression.

Yeosang noticed. He always noticed. Even if you smiled, even if you tried to tuck it away, he could read you like lines written across his own palm. Adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, he leaned slightly toward you, catching your reflection in the mirror. “Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly, almost like a command but softened for you. His tone carried that steady confidence of his, the kind that made you feel like maybe he really could shoulder it all for you. “She’s not worth your thoughts tonight.”

You glanced at him, your lips twitching as if you wanted to respond but couldn’t quite bring yourself to. Instead, you smoothed the fabric of your dress, pushing away the heaviness for the moment. If he said not to worry, maybe you could trust him enough to try.

The venue was only a short walk away, near the house, and the sound of music and chatter already carried through the air when you both stepped outside. The street was glowing with lanterns and fairy lights, the venue itself dressed in bright colors and flowers that looked extravagant, too extravagant. You frowned slightly, tilting your head. Where did all this money come from? When you lived under this roof, the only thing you ever heard was how broke they were, how sacrifices had to be made, how you were a burden on the household. Yet suddenly, for this celebration, there was no shortage of decorations, food, and flair.

Your stomach twisted with the bitterness of it, but you kept walking. Yeosang, carrying himself with a calm sharpness beside you, noticed the way your lips pressed into a thin line. Without asking, without prying, he slipped your bag from your arm to his. “Clumsy hands,” he teased lightly, the same excuse he’d given earlier. But it wasn’t just that, he wanted to ease the weight you carried, even if it was something small.

Inside, the venue gleamed with people bustling, laughter rising, and the smell of food filling the air. And though your chest felt tight, you held your chin a little higher. Yeosang was beside you, his presence steady, and that alone felt like armor.

Yeosang had told you earlier, almost in passing while straightening his cufflinks, that his father was also on his way to the venue. The words had been simple, but they left a strange warmth in your chest. For some reason, knowing that man would be there settled you, as if the ground beneath your feet felt a little sturdier. His father had always been kind to you, genuinely kind, not the hollow politeness you were used to from others. He treated you like you were someone worth noticing, worth listening to. And it made you wonder, in the quiet corners of your mind, why your own father never looked at you that way. Why he never thought his daughter deserved the same softness a stranger could offer.

You didn’t say any of this out loud, of course. Words had always felt like a battlefield to you, every sentence a risk. So you kept them tucked behind your lips where they belonged, only giving Yeosang a small nod when he mentioned his father’s arrival. You knew he would catch it, knew he would read that tiny movement like it was a whole paragraph. That was the thing about him, he never needed your explanations to understand you.

His father had only been there for a few minutes, but the difference in the air was impossible to ignore. He carried himself with the kind of ease that drew people in, that quiet authority that made others soften just by being near him. After greeting your parents politely, your father stiff and formal, your mother forcedly cheerful, he drifted toward where you and Yeosang stood, positioning himself naturally by your side as though he belonged there.

The flow of relatives and family friends soon began, trickling into the venue in groups, all smiles and curious glances. One by one, you found yourself being tugged forward into the routine of introductions. You barely managed the words, your voice soft and clipped, but it didn’t matter. Yeosang filled in every gap you left, his hand at the small of your back, his responses smooth and respectful, his presence a shield more than anything. His father was no different, gracious, warm, steady. He didn’t just stand there like an ornament, he engaged, asked small questions, even made sure to include you when others seemed to gloss past your presence.

You could feel the eyes of your relatives lingering longer than they should. These were the same people who had sighed in pity when your marriage had been announced, whispering behind your back about how unfortunate it was to be bound to the Kang family. You remembered their voices, their sideways glances, their rehearsed sympathy. And now? Now you could see the jealousy simmering beneath their skin, their smiles stretched too tight, their words stumbling when they realized Yeosang wouldn’t stop orbiting around you.

He didn’t hide it. He didn’t play it down. He stayed close, adjusted the edge of your sleeve when it slipped, handed you a glass of water before you could even think to ask, leaned in to answer questions for you when your throat locked up. He didn’t do it to make a show of it, it was simply how he treated you. And the envy in your relatives’ eyes was so sharp it was almost laughable. You could see it in the stiffness of their shoulders, in the way they exchanged looks with each other, as though each glance was a needle pricked against their skin.

They had pitied you once. Now, standing there with Yeosang’s easy devotion surrounding you and his father’s steady presence at your side, you almost wished you could hand them a mirror so they could see themselves, jealousy dripping from their faces like pins stuck carelessly in cloth.

The chandelier light glowed soft golden, laughter bouncing around the decorated hall, but for Yeosang and his father this was nothing more than the perfect stage. The world thought they were here for your father’s birthday. They weren’t.

You stood beside Yeosang, your hand loosely in his, when his father leaned closer with a faint smile that only the two of you could read.

“So,” his voice was smooth, carrying easily over the chatter, “this is the family that thought they could treat my daughter-in-law so carelessly.” His eyes flicked toward your mother across the hall, who was busy playing hostess, and then to your father, stiff in his seat as relatives crowded around him. “I must admit, Yeosang, I expected… better.”

Yeosang’s hand tightened slightly around yours, grounding you, his lips curving into a smile that looked charming to the outside world but was laced with quiet malice. “That’s why I told you not to hold back tonight. Let them see what respect really looks like.”

You blinked up at him, confusion stirring, but neither man looked at you with pity. Yeosang’s father’s gaze softened for a brief second as he glanced at you, almost as if telling you silently: This isn’t your burden to carry anymore. This is ours.

A group of relatives approached them, gushing over the Kang family name, trying to curry favor. One of them made a passing remark, tone sly, “Ah, Yeosang, we heard it was quite the surprise, wasn’t it? A rushed marriage, hm?” The words were meant to sting, meant to remind you of how they once pitied you.

Yeosang’s father chuckled, rich and deliberate. “Surprise, yes. But only for those who didn’t realize what a treasure she is. You see, my son chose well. He could’ve had anyone, but he wanted her. And after seeing how she’s been treated before?” His gaze, sharp as steel beneath his smile, landed on your father briefly. “Let’s just say the Kang family makes sure no one forgets her worth again.”

There was a subtle shift in the air, whispers starting among the group. Yeosang didn’t let the moment linger too long—he smoothly added, his tone deceptively light, “People don’t often realize how cruel words can be behind closed doors. But I think she deserves a room full of people knowing she’s valued. Don’t you agree, Father?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” his father replied smoothly, raising his glass. To outsiders it looked like casual praise, but the bite in his words was unmistakable to the ones who knew. Your father shifted uncomfortably across the room, and you caught it.

And then, like a knife slicing clean through the tension, Yeosang’s father announced it. Loud enough for the nearby relatives, your parents, and soon the entire hall to hear:

“Speaking of surprises, we Kang men don’t come empty-handed. Tonight, I am pleased to announce that we are in the final stages of acquiring the very company your father works at.” He turned deliberately, his smile kind but razor-edged, to face your father. “Which means, from now on, he’ll be working directly under us.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Your relatives’ eyes widened, their envy morphing into disbelief, then thinly veiled glee at your father’s humiliation. You felt your stomach drop, a dizzying mix of shock and something dangerously close to satisfaction.

Yeosang’s hand found yours again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. He didn’t even look at your father, he only looked at you, his eyes calm, his voice low so only you could hear. “You don’t ever have to bow your head to them again.”

Your father’s face had gone red, your mother’s forced smile faltering as the murmurs grew louder. And you? For the first time in years, standing between Yeosang and his father, you didn’t feel small in that house of shadows.

You felt untouchable.

The hall was glowing with lights, laughter, and clinking glasses, but for Yeosang and his father, it was all just a stage. Neither of them cared for the decorations or the false pleasantries exchanged across the room. This wasn’t a celebration. This was their battlefield.

Yeosang stood close to you, his hand brushing against yours as if grounding you in place. His gaze, however, was sharp, scanning the room like he was calculating every move before it happened. His father leaned against the tall glass table beside him, his expression calm, even casual, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You were right,” Mr. Kang said under his breath, his voice low enough that only Yeosang caught it. “They treat her like a stranger in her own family. Look at her mother, she smiles at me but she won’t even look at her daughter. Pathetic.”

Yeosang’s jaw clenched, his eyes flicking to you for a moment. You were fidgeting with the rings you had on, shoulders tense, trying to appear small in the crowd. He hated it. He hated that this house, these people, made you shrink yourself.

“They’ll learn tonight,” Yeosang replied, his tone colder than ice. “You’ve always told me, never let anyone lay a hand on the woman of my family. And she’s mine. They think they can treat her like she’s nothing. Let’s see how they handle when the room starts whispering about them instead.”

His father chuckled, that low dangerous sound. “That’s my son.” He straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. “I’ll handle the first strike. Subtle. Sharp. I’ll make them bleed without realizing they’re cut.”

Yeosang’s lips curved, though it wasn’t a smile—it was a warning. “And I’ll finish it. Once we announce the company, there’ll be nothing left of his pride.”

A waiter passed, and Mr. Kang smoothly lifted a glass of champagne. He didn’t drink it, simply held it as though it were a prop in his act. His eyes found your father across the room, laughing too loudly with his friends, chest puffed with fake importance.

“Enjoy your last night of dignity,” Mr. Kang murmured, almost to himself, but Yeosang heard. “By the time we’re done, everyone in this room will know exactly what kind of man you really are.”

Yeosang’s hand brushed against yours again, this time firmer, more deliberate. You glanced up at him, confused by the look in his eyes, fierce, unyielding, protective. He didn’t say a word to you, but you didn’t need him to. You could feel it. Tonight, he wasn’t just standing by your side. Tonight, he was fighting for you.

And the Kangs never fought to lose.

Your father stood near the center of the room, chest out, soaking in the attention of his colleagues and relatives. He thrived in this spotlight. He always had.

Mr. Kang made the first move. He stepped forward with ease, smile warm enough to seem genuine yet sharp enough to cut. Holding his champagne glass, he spoke loud enough for nearby guests to hear.

“Your daughter is precious, you know.” His voice was smooth, conversational, yet it carried. “Yeosang told me how strong she had to be while living here. Not every girl can survive such… strict households.”

The people around them stilled. Some glanced toward you, then at your parents. Your mother’s smile faltered, the corners of her lips twitching nervously. Your father’s eyes flickered, just for a moment, but he covered it with a strained laugh.

“Oh, you know how kids exaggerate, Mr. Kang,” he said, voice overly cheerful. “We raised her well, didn’t we?”

Yeosang, standing tall beside you, let out a low chuckle, soft but audible. It wasn’t amusement, it was mockery. His arm slipped around your waist, drawing you closer into his side like he was shielding you from them all. His words cut like a blade, smooth and deliberate.

“She doesn’t exaggerate,” he said calmly. “I’ve seen enough to know what she’s been through. She deserved kindness, not… discipline masked as care.”

The crowd’s silence was heavy now, whispers beginning to stir like embers catching flame. Your relatives’ faces were pale, their envy earlier replaced by shock.

Your father’s jaw worked, his smile twitching. “Yeosang-ah, don’t misunderstand—”

“Misunderstand?” Yeosang interrupted, his tone still respectful yet laced with steel. “No, I don’t misunderstand. I protect what’s mine. And when I see the woman I love flinch in her own home, when I hear she’s been struck…” His gaze sharpened, his voice lowering dangerously. “That isn’t misunderstanding. That’s truth.”

Your breath hitched. His words weren’t shouted, yet they echoed louder than any scream could have.

Before your father could sputter out another excuse, Mr. Kang stepped forward, commanding the room with practiced authority. He clinked his glass gently, drawing all attention to himself.

“On another note,” he began, smiling as though nothing heavy had been said, “I’d like to share something important. My company will officially be acquiring the firm your dear host here works for.” He gestured politely to your father, whose face drained of color. “I believe that makes him… well, my employee now.”

A ripple of gasps ran through the hall. Some guests exchanged stunned looks, others covered their mouths with their hands. Your father’s pride shattered right before their eyes.

Mr. Kang’s smile was razor sharp. “I do hope you all continue to support him in this new… position.”

Yeosang didn’t gloat. He didn’t need to. He simply stood tall beside you, his hand steady on your back, his expression unreadable but victorious. And for the first time in years, you weren’t the one shrinking under everyone’s gaze. It was your father.

The hall buzzed with whispers, your relatives’ envy twisting into something else entirely, fear, awe, regret. You felt your chest tighten, tears prickling at your eyes, but not from sadness this time. For once, someone had stood up for you. For once, you weren’t alone.

And as the chandeliers glowed brighter, it didn’t feel like your father’s celebration anymore.

It felt like Yeosang’s victory.

Yeosang’s grip on your hand was steady, too steady. It wasn’t the kind of handhold you could slip out of, not the kind where he gave you space to hesitate. It was firm, grounded, the kind that said we’re leaving, and I won’t let you look back.

The hall’s murmurs still rang in your ears as the three of you walked out. People parted in silence, unsure whether to whisper or bow, and you could feel their stares clinging to your back. You didn’t dare turn around.

Your heart twisted. Part of you wanted to breathe, wanted to smile, wanted to lean into the warmth of his hand and the comfort of finally being defended. But another part of you, the part that had been trained to obey, to fear, to seek approval, ached at the thought of leaving your father standing there in the ruins of his pride.

The cold night air hit your face before you even realized you’d stepped outside. Yeosang didn’t slow, didn’t falter. By the time you blinked, you were standing at the car, his father quietly instructing the driver. You hadn’t even noticed the suitcases being loaded into the trunk.

Your throat went dry. When did he-?

And then, just like that, the car door was opening for you. Yeosang guided you in with that same unshakable grip, sliding in right after you. His father took the seat in front. The door shut, muffling the noise of the party, muffling your father’s world.

Only then did the silence crash down.

You stared at the window, watching the house fade in the distance. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your mind torn between relief and guilt, freedom and grief.

Yeosang’s hand was still over yours. Warm. Steady. He hadn’t let go. Not once.

“You’re not going back there,” he said finally, his voice quiet but absolute. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

You didn’t know whether to cry or to thank him. Maybe both. But all you managed was a small nod, your fingers curling back into his, hesitant, trembling, but holding on.

The soft click of the penthouse door echoed in the quiet, and the only light spilling in was from the city skyline, gold and silver scattered like stars against the glass. The hum of the city felt so far away compared to the heavy silence between you and Yeosang.

He didn’t even bother turning on the lights. Instead, he turned to you the moment the door locked behind him. His hands were on your shoulders, steady but gentle, anchoring you in place. He lowered himself just enough so his eyes caught yours, dark and unrelenting.

“YN,” he said, voice low, careful, “don’t do that.”

You blinked at him, startled. “Do what?” Your voice cracked despite you trying to make it sound even.

His grip on your shoulders tightened, firm, not harsh. “Keep it all inside. Pretend you’re fine when I know you’re not.” He searched your face like he was trying to read every thought you refused to say out loud. “I can see it. I’m not blind. Don’t hide from me.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. That familiar instinct clawed at you, to shake your head, to stay quiet, to keep the ache bottled where no one could touch it. But Yeosang wasn’t letting you get away with it.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping softer, almost a whisper now. “You don’t have to say it pretty. You don’t have to explain it right. Just- say something. To me. Please.”

Your throat tightened. His eyes didn’t waver, not once. He wasn’t angry, wasn’t demanding, it was something worse. He was begging you to let him in. And for the first time that night, you felt your chest crack open.

Your words came out like they belonged to someone much younger, someone small and fragile,

“I don’t know what I’m feeling, Yeosang…”

It cracked at the end, sharp and thin, and you hated how childlike you sounded. But it was the truth, the rawest thing you could give. Yeosang didn’t flinch. He didn’t let go. He only guided you to the couch, slow and deliberate, his hand still steady on your shoulder as if he was afraid you’d crumble if he moved too quickly.

“Sit down first,” he murmured.

You obeyed, sinking into the cushions, your body heavier than you realized. But his hand never left you, it was still there, grounding, firm and warm against your shoulder. You stared at your knees, at your trembling fingers, at the floor, anywhere but him.

“It’s okay,” Yeosang said, voice like velvet over steel. “Take your time.”

That was when it slipped. One tear, hot and stubborn, slid down your cheek before you could stop it. You didn’t even wipe it away. You just let it fall, your eyes slowly lifting to meet his again.

His gaze softened the moment he saw it. No mockery, no impatience. Just this unbearable tenderness, like the sight of you breaking, was breaking him, too.

You finally let it out, the words shaky and bitter, like they’d been rotting in your chest for years.

“I feel horrible… like a horrible daughter.”

Your lip trembled as you forced yourself to keep speaking. “That was his party, Yeosang. And I ruined it. For me, for us, he had to…” your throat caught, “it was supposed to be a celebration, and I—”

“Yn,” Yeosang’s voice cut through, low but firm. He crouched in front of you, catching your eyes even when you tried to look away. “Don’t you dare put this on yourself.”

You shook your head, whispering, “But I feel like the worst—”

“You’re not.” He reached up, brushing away the tear sliding down your left cheek. The gentleness of it made your chest ache even worse. Another tear slipped from your right eye, and this time, his thumb caught it before it could fall. He held your face carefully in both hands, like you were glass.

“They were never parents to you, Yn,” he said, steady but sharp, as if each word was a truth he needed you to believe. “They were owners. They treated you like something they could control, not someone they could love. Parents don’t raise their hands on their child. Parents don’t make their daughter cry herself to sleep.”

Your shoulders shook, your voice small. “Then why… why do I still feel guilty?”

“Because you’ve been made to feel guilty your whole life.” His thumb traced lightly across your cheek, drying the wet trail left behind. “But listen to me, none of this is your fault. Not tonight, not ever.”

His gaze softened, his voice lowering into something almost pleading.

“You didn’t ruin his party. He ruined you. And I won’t let him, or anyone, touch you again.”

Your breath hitched when the image of your mother’s face flashed across your mind, the cold, unmoving stare she gave you as if you were nothing. It twisted in your chest, and before you could stop it, a sob broke free. You dropped your gaze, ashamed of the sound, but Yeosang didn’t let you hide.

Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest. His hand threaded through your hair, slow and steady, while the other rubbed circles on your back. His voice hummed low above you, calm, protective.

“It’s okay. Cry if you need to.” His chin rested lightly against your head. “You don’t have to hold anything in with me.”

You clung to his shirt, your voice muffled against him. Another sob wracked through you, but his arms only tightened, grounding you.

“They don’t deserve your tears, Yn. Not one of them,” he whispered, stroking your hair like he was trying to smooth away every scar left behind. “You’ve carried this weight alone for too long. Let me carry it now.”

You lifted your head slowly, eyes swollen, lips trembling, and met his gaze. He looked softer than you had ever seen him. There was no sharp edge, no cool distance, just warmth. His thumb brushed your cheek again, so carefully it made your chest ache.

“You’re safe now. With me, you’re safe,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “No one can hurt you here.”

Something shifted inside you then. The safety in his arms was foreign, almost overwhelming, but it wrapped around you like a blanket you’d never had before. It felt intimate, terrifyingly so, like he was peeling back all the layers you’d built to protect yourself. And still, he didn’t flinch.

For the first time in years, you let yourself lean into someone. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like weakness.

His thumbs were still brushing away your tears when he suddenly froze, staring at you with an intensity that made your heart skip. He didn’t know what possessed him, maybe the sight of your trembling lips, maybe the ache in your eyes, but his hands rose, cupping your face gently, like you were something fragile he couldn’t let slip through his fingers.

Your lips parted slightly, pouting as if they were begging to be soothed. Without thinking, Yeosang leaned down and pressed the softest kiss against them. Just a fleeting touch. You blinked in surprise, but you were too buried in sadness to fully react.

He pulled back, searching your face, and whispered, almost as if he was testing the words on his own tongue.

“I don’t know why, but I felt like you needed that.”

Before you could even process it, he kissed you again. This time slower, lingering, like he wanted you to feel it.

“Yeosang” your voice cracked, fragile.

“I’m right here, Yn,” he murmured, his forehead leaning against yours. “I’ll always be here, whether you’re crying, whether you’re silent, even when you don’t know what you’re feeling, I’ll stay.”

Your breath shook as more tears fell, though not all from sadness this time. He wiped them away again, his palms still warm against your cheeks.

“You don’t have to pretend around me,” he said softly. “Not strong, not perfect, not unbothered. Just… you. That’s all I want. Now do you want me to remove your makeup? Cause your mascara is going all over the place.”

A shaky little laugh slipped out of you, surprising even yourself. It wasn’t loud, but it was there, soft, real, and it broke through the heaviness in the air.

His chest loosened at the sound, and his lips curved into something more genuine. “There it is,” he whispered, almost in awe. “You’re laughing while crying. Do you know how beautiful that is?”

You wiped the corner of your eye, still sniffling, and muttered, “That sounds ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he chuckled, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “But it’s you. And right now, I’ll take any excuse to see you smile.”

For a moment, the silence felt lighter. He exhaled slowly, still keeping his hands near your face, as if he couldn’t quite let go. Then he leaned back a little, his voice calm but certain.

“It’s late. We should get ready for bed.”

He said it not as an end to the moment, but as if he was carrying you forward away from the weight of the night, and into something safer.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside the tall windows. The penthouse was dark, only the silver glow of the moon spilling in through the curtains. Yeosang lay on his back, one arm resting against his stomach, the other draped lazily over the sheets. It was a familiar sight, he always slept like that, still and calm, like the world couldn’t touch him.

You, however, couldn’t sleep. Your mind wouldn’t stop turning. The images of the evening, your father’s expression, your mother’s silence, the weight of everything that had been said and done, kept replaying behind your eyes. But more than that, the way Yeosang had been with you. The way he held you together when you were falling apart. The way he hadn’t let go once.

“Yeosang?” your voice came out softer than you intended, almost childlike.

He turned his head immediately, eyes sharp even in the low light. “Hm?” he hummed back, voice deep and steady, like he’d been waiting for you to call him.

You hesitated, then slowly shifted onto your side, facing him. He mirrored you without even thinking, his body turning to you, as if his instincts wouldn’t let him do anything else.

For a second, you just looked at him, the relaxed set of his jaw, the way his hair was a little messy against the pillow, the quiet warmth in his eyes. And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could let the nerves crawl in, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his.

It was small, delicate. A flutter of a kiss. Barely there, but it still made your chest tighten like you’d leapt off a cliff.

When you pulled back, his eyes were wide, but not with shock, more with a kind of wonder, like he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming.

“…Thank you,” you whispered, your voice cracking just slightly.

His brows softened. “For what?” he asked quietly, almost afraid to break the fragile moment.

“For tonight. For being here. For… everything,” you breathed, your eyes flickering away.

And then, almost like it slipped out of you before you could stop it, you whispered, “I love you.”

The words hung between you for only a beat before you quickly turned around, facing the other side of the bed. Your heart was pounding in your ears, your fists curled in the sheets. You didn’t want to see his reaction. You didn’t think you could handle it.

Yeosang just lay there frozen for a moment, staring at the dark ceiling, his mind spiraling faster than it ever had in battle. He didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or jump up and run around the entire penthouse like a lunatic. His chest felt tight, but in the best way, like his heart was too big for his body.

You. The one he had quietly, obsessively, devoted himself to. The one he’d spent months trying to read, trying to break through, trying to protect without scaring away. You, the girl who always kept her feelings locked away, who never let anyone know what was going on inside, just said you loved him.

If anyone else had said it, he would’ve dismissed it, maybe even laughed. But from you? His wife? The girl who could barely admit when she was hurt? It was everything.

Yeosang pressed a hand over his face, trying to smother the stupid grin threatening to spread. Get a grip, man, he scolded himself, but his body wasn’t listening. His stomach was a mess of nerves, his throat tight, his heart thundering like he was some lovesick teenager, not the cold, calculating Yeosang that people feared.

Butterflies. Actual butterflies. This is humiliating.

But then his eyes flicked to your back, your shoulders rising and falling as if you were trying to pretend you hadn’t just dropped a bomb on him.

The second Yeosang realized you were faking sleep, something inside him twisted. He had been patient for so long, silent when you avoided, soft when you broke down, careful when you were fragile. But now? Now you had kissed him, whispered those three words that had haunted his dreams, and then had the audacity to turn away as if nothing happened.

Not on his watch.

Without warning, his arm clamped tighter around your waist. You barely had time to register before he tugged you back with such strength that the air hitched in your throat. The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he rolled you toward him, his grip unyielding, caging you against him.

“Yeosang!” you gasped, startled, your hands instinctively pushing against his chest. He didn’t budge. He was solid, immovable, like marble brought to life. His dark eyes locked on you, sharp and burning, and the look on his face made your protest die in your throat.

“No.” His voice was low, firm, but there was fire simmering beneath it. “That’s not how it’s gonna be.” His hand at your waist tightened, pulling you impossibly closer until you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your palm. “You can’t just kiss me, drop that on me, and then run away. No, YN. Not tonight.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You were trapped, not by force, but by the sheer weight of him. By the intensity in his gaze. By how he looked at you like you were the only thing in his universe.

He leaned in, his forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice a demanding whisper. “Look at me. Say it to my face. If you’re gonna love me, then don’t you dare hide it behind your back.”

Your heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt. His words weren’t cruel, but they shook you to your core, cracking the walls you’d built. You could feel his fingers at your side, strong and steady, like he was anchoring you in place, refusing to let you escape not this time.

“Yeosang…” your voice cracked, small and trembling.

He softened for only a second, his thumb brushing gently against your side, but his eyes never wavered. “Say it.”

You wanted to bury your face, to hide like you always did, but his grip wouldn’t let you. And maybe— maybe that was exactly what you needed. His strength wasn’t a prison, it was a reminder that someone, finally, wanted you to stop running.

“I-” You hesitated, the lump in your throat making it nearly impossible. But his gaze, unrelenting yet patient, drew the truth out of you. “…I love you, Yeosang.”

The moment the words slipped from your lips a second time, clear, certain, undeniable, Yeosang couldn’t hold himself back anymore. His arms wrapped around you with a force that knocked the breath right out of you, pulling you into him so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse you together.

You froze, startled by the sudden intensity, but then you heard him. His voice was muffled against your chest, raw and unguarded in a way you had never heard before.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, his words trembling with emotion, “you have no idea how much that means to me.”

Your hand, almost on instinct, found its way to the back of his head. His soft dark hair tickled your fingers as you cradled him close, your palm resting against him like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go. He pressed his face harder against your chest, almost desperate, as if trying to drown in the sound of your heartbeat.

And you, you didn’t expect to feel it. That sudden warmth blooming in your chest, spreading through your veins like sunlight breaking into a dark room. Happiness. Pure, unexplainable, bone-deep happiness.

You didn’t know why it felt so overwhelming, but it did. Maybe because for the first time, the weight you had been carrying alone didn’t feel so heavy. Maybe because the walls you had built weren’t protecting you anymore, they were finally coming down. Or maybe because the man everyone else feared was clinging to you like you were his entire world.

Slowly, tenderly, you wrapped both arms around his head, holding him as if you could shield him from everything. His breath hitched against you, and you felt his shoulders loosen, the tension he always carried melting away in your embrace.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The world outside the bed didn’t exist,the creak of the ship, the salt of the sea, the dangers waiting in every corner, none of it mattered. It was just you, him, and this fragile, breathtaking truth between you.

It felt like the beginning of something new. A chapter neither of you had dared to dream of, now written in the quiet safety of a shared embrace.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe it, this was the start of your life with him.

General Taglist: @jujusreader @nkryuki @lover-ofallthingspretty @xh01bri @chinsun16

This story's taglist: @k3nzzasf @sspersonally

[anon-no7]

This is healing. This fic is healing in warm words. Idc how else to describe it.

[ateezlibrary]

under covers (m) • khj

pairing: undercover cop!hongjoong x street racer!reader

tags/genre: fast & furious au, smut with plot, sexual tension, forbidden attraction, hate sex, unexpected enemies to lovers, dirty talk

word count: 9.1k words

synopsis: with the rise of street racing in the city, hongjoong's been assigned by his unit to crack down on the drivers. when he meets you, he realizes there might actually be more to the street racing scene than meets the eye—not that he'll ever mention to you that he's a cop ... right?

notes: 18+ content (mdni). this fic is linked back into the broader fast & furious!teez au!

the low purr of your black subaru brz echoes off of the concrete pillars as you pull into the abandoned industrial complex, tires crunching softly over loose gravel and asphalt. bass thumped against the walls, cars lines up along the main entrance as the meet started getting more crowded. you inhale deeply, the familiar scent of gasoline and the faint flowers from your air freshener mingle in your senses.

pulling into your usual spot beside yunho’s audi, you step out, boots hitting the ground as you whistle to capture his and mingi’s attention. the duo turns to you, matching your grin and immediately reaching for the bottle of tequila they had set on the roof of mingi’s skyline.

“took you long enough,” mingi scolds, offering you the bottle that you graciously accept with a chuckle. you tilt your head back, bitter liquor stinging your throat as you release a satisfied sigh. yunho squeezes your waist in greeting and you smile up at him, glancing over at their cars with enhanced scrutiny.

“god forbid a girl takes a little extra time making sure she looks nice,” you retort, propping yourself onto the hood of yunho’s car. they scoff, mingi looking out at the growing crowd before turning back to you.

“you’ve been coming to these meets for how long, now? i haven’t seen you hook up with anyone yet.”

“are you waiting for your turn?” you tease, following his gaze over the other car owners and bite down on your bottom lip in thought. truthfully, you’d never found anyone particularly attractive since you’d been coming to the car meets. maybe yeosang, but lord knows he couldn’t take a hint and you couldn’t be bothered to try harder. besides, your heart was here for the racing and to look at car mods. it was addicting, tweaking and prodding your own subaru so that she’d run exactly how you commanded her to.

as if on cue, a car pulls in that you don’t quite recognize. a white nissan 400z, its engine roaring as it glides deeper into the garage demanding attention. you roll your eyes, not usually a fan of an excessively loud exhaust; it was obviously an attempt to overcompensate. the wheels slow to a stop in an isolated corner, one away from the organized crews that sat at the center where you were.

heads turn to the newcomer, gossiping under the music hammering against the walls as the stranger steps out. he’s handsome, with jet-black hair and a fit that matches it perfectly. he twirls his keys around his index finger as he walks along the main entrance, catching the eyes of everyone that he drifts past. you can hear him compliment a handful of drivers as he passes their cars, commenting on their paint jobs and fitments.

“400z?” you call out to him, bottle of tequila still in hand by its neck as you meet his eyes. there’s a fire behind them as he scans your face, trailing down to your outfit and the tequila cradled in your lap. he glances at his car, white paint flickering under neon lights as he nods and turns back to you.

“yeah. got her not long ago. heard from a friend this was a good place to show her off.”

you look over at the nissan, silently judging it as you bite down on your lips. it’s admittedly a nice car, but it wasn’t anything flashy to worry about beyond the excessively noisy exhaust.

“she’s cute.” you smile at him. “i’m a little more concerned about what’s under the hood.”

“see for yourself, then,” he offers, throwing his keys to you so that you can catch them in one hand. mingi and yunho chuckle behind you, enjoying the scene unfolding in front of them when you glare in an attempt to silence them. sliding off of yunho’s hood, you make sure your skirt’s not ridden up too much as you saunter to the stranger’s car and unlock it to pop the hood.

like clockwork, you become engrossed with the mechanics in his engine bay. your eyes scan the fuel injector, the intercooler piping, the braided hoses. it doesn’t seem to deviate much from the stock setup of a nissan 400z, raising your suspicions as to why he thought this was a nice enough car to bring out to a modded car meet. even so, you turn to him as he approaches, the scent of sea salt and sandalwood flooding your senses as he stops beside you to look into the engine bay.

“looks like she’s in need of a lot more work,” you comment, gesturing to the engine as you cross your arms over your chest. “how long have you had her?”

“about six weeks,” he admits, eyes flickering back into the garage. “which one’s yours?”

“the brz.” you gesture to the raven car sat beside mingi and yunho’s cars. “maybe when you get a little more work done on her, we can test her out?”

“why not now?” he asks, his voice dipping lower as he arches an eyebrow. you simply laugh, shaking your head.

“you’re in need of some serious upgrades. wouldn’t want to embarrass you at your first meet.”

“you think i can’t give you a run for your money?”

“i know you can’t.”

“confident,” he surrenders, leaning against his fender as he matches your stance. “got a name?”

you offer your name, also pointing out the other members of your crew where mingi and yunho were bickering over the skyline’s accessories. hongjoong grins, perfect teeth flashing at you and distracting you for a moment before you clear your throat.

“you?”

“hongjoong.”

“well, hongjoong.” you tap against his fender, motioning for him to follow you as you begin walking back to your car. he follows obediently, something that you can’t help but be attracted to as he matches your pace. “hope you like tequila.”

*

the next morning looks very different for you as you’re perched over your laptop, sat in the corner of your usual favorite café with a latte beside you. it’s been hours of you staring at the research you needed to document, your hand cramping from the amount of notes you’d been taking with everything seeming important. finals were around the corner and you were running a bit low on sleep given the amount of time you’d been spending at car meets and late nights working on mods.

not that you planned to stop, of course.

you’re fully engrossed in social stratification trends analyses when a familiar voice interjects at the counter ordering an iced americano. you look up and meet hongjoong’s gaze, forcing him to do a double take as a suspicious smile graces his face. he looks as though he’s trying to make sure you’re really you, the same one that had his head tilted back and tequila poured down his throat the night prior. except now, you exchanged liquor for your latte and and the sweatshirt-sweatpants combo was a stark contrast.

“is this the same person from last night?” he asks, holding a hand over his eyes as if to see better. you roll your eyes, nudging your glasses higher up the bridge of your nose with your finger. he settles into the chair across from you, his own coffee in hand as he glances over the pile of work set before you. “couldn’t recognize you for a second.”

“did you expect me to study in a miniskirt?” you ask, gesturing to your laptop.

“fair point,” he concedes, his eyes flickering to the screen and the articles you were dissecting. “so, you’re in school?”

“grad school,” you answer, leaning back into your seat to take a sip of your coffee. “master’s in sociology.”

“beauty and brains,” hongjoong compliments, and you can’t help but blush. you roll your eyes again, this time with a smile as you set down your mug. “what got you into sociology?”

“i don’t know. i guess i’m just … curious why things are the way they are. why some people end up stuck in a situation and others aren’t.” you glance out the window, across the street where a homeless man sat beside a bench on the ground with scraps for food. “i just grew up seeing a lot of people go through that.”

hongjoong nods silently. he follows your gaze, observing the homeless man’s behavior as he sits against the brick-and-mortar of another storefront. suddenly, a patrol car pulls up, sirens wailing as it slows to a stop. a pair of officers step out, handcuffs at the ready on their waists as they circle over the homeless man. fear flickers across his face at the sight of the cops and your heart aches for a moment, wishing there was something you could do to help. you scowl as they lift him from the ground, ignoring his frightened protests and guiding him into the back of the cruiser.

you sigh, disgusted at the sight as you turn back to hongjoong. his eyes are still fixated on the cop car as it pulls off, his breathing steady as he seems lost deep in thought.

“man, fuck cops,” you grumble, looking back down at your work before changing the subject. “what about you? what do you do when you’re not trying to flaunt your barely-modded nissan?”

hongjoong perks up, shaking his head at your subtle dig. “um, i’m a security guard.”

“exciting.”

“hardly.”

not long after hongjoong’s left you, he’s sat at his usual spot in the conference room, iced americano still in hand as he waits for the chief to enter. as if on cue, the elder man steps in, followed by another pair of officers that find their own seats across from him. hongjoong sighs, leaning back into his seat as he awaits instruction.

“anything?” the chief asks, referring to hongjoong’s undercover assignment.

“there’s about fifty regulars,” he replies, pulling up the images he’d taken last night and sliding the phone over to the chief. “definitely a handful of modification violations. it doesn’t look like a lot of them get onto the streets beyond the southern stretch of highway going into the outskirts of town. it looks like most of their racing is in that abandoned complex.”

“hm,” is all the chief says, sliding through the photos carefully. he stops for a moment on the photo of your brz, silently scrutinizing as he continues through the others that show the interior of the abandoned parking garage.

“well, it’s good they’re not on the streets for the moment, but we need them out of the complex.” the chief turns to one of the officers that followed him in, gesturing for him to produce one of the files with more information on their assignment. “hyosung corporation is expecting that industrial park to be demolished for renovation in the next month. they need to be out of there by then.”

“so, we’re just going to run them into another part of town?” hongjoong asks, raising an eyebrow. “doesn’t that defeat the purpose of trying to curb street racing?”

“for now, hyosung’s concerns are our priority,” the chief orders, tapping on the tabletop pointedly. “and they expect our full cooperation.”

“wonder why,” hongjoong mutters, alluding to the grand sum of money that hyosung’s executive team had left behind at the police department in an effort to make their case. the chief’s jaw tightens, obviously not finding the humor in hongjoong’s comment.

“doesn’t matter,” the elder man commands, leaning back in his own seat. “your job isn’t to decide what’s morally right for the division. you just need to focus on getting the street dogs out of that complex. consider it a public safety issue.” he stands, ready to leave when he calls out to hongjoong over his shoulder. “by next week, i need names, plate numbers, and criminal records.”

hongjoong sighs, pulling up information on the nearest car garages that he could begin modding his car at for the next meet.

*

the familiar roar of hongjoong’s exhaust captures your attention as you perk up from the engine bay of your brz, the striking flash of white passing you by as he pulls into the spot beside you. wiping your palms against your thighs, his gaze finds yours immediately as he steps out of his car. there’s a mischief behind it, as if he already knows you were waiting to see him. he’s wearing an all-white fit this time, oversized and effortless with his raven hair pulled back from his face and sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

“miss me?” he teases, spinning his keys on one finger again out of habit as he flashes you a lopsided grin.

“bold assumption,” you scoff, stepping around your car. “figured you were just busy picking out cheap mods to pretend your car could go a little faster.” behind you, mingi lets out an exaggerated ‘ooooh’ and yunho chuckles, shaking his head as he leans against his audi.

hongjoong’s smile curls into something darker, more flirtatious as he looks at you over the edge of his sunglasses. “cheap? well, that’s a low blow.”

“i’m not here to stroke your ego,” you shrug, matching his grin playfully.

“tell you what, pretty girl,” he hums, the nickname catching you off guard as you feel your heart skip a beat. “let me take you out and you can tell me all about exactly what mods my car needs.”

your breath catches, knowing hongjoong was fully enjoying this little game you had going. it was nothing like the soft, gentle conversation you had in that corner of the cafe, sharing coffee and breaking past that hard, feline exterior. you scoff, hongjoong’s ears perking up at the sound.

“i don’t date guys i can beat in a race.”

that earns a laugh from him, low and rich as he leans in so that only you could hear him.

“i guess i’ve got something to prove then.”

within minutes, you’re parked at the center of the garage, the crowd lined up along the main entryway and the adrenaline creeping up and along your skin in anticipation. your brz hums under your touch, the engine ready to go as you adjust your mirrors. hongjoong is right beside you, doing the same in his nissan as he catches a glimpse of you staring at him.

“good luck,” you call out, your voice sickeningly sweet as you turn your attention to the flag girl that’s stepped up. she’s got her baby pink bra in hand, high over her head as hongjoong chuckles at you and readies himself. the crowd begins to roar excitedly, dull beneath the sound of your engines revving.

the bra drops, and you both take off with engines roaring and echoing off of the asphalt. your brz is lighter, tighter on the turns around abandoned scaffolding and concrete pillars as hongjoong fights to keep up with you. muscle memory takes over, your hand firm on the gear shift when you feel the g-force surge through your veins. your eyes flicker for a brief moment at your rearview mirror and you glimpse at hongjoong, one hand on the wheel and a lazy twitch of his lips when he catches your staring. you scoff, renewed focus on the stretch of road ahead as you shift gears and build speed.

you surge forward, distance growing between you and hongjoong as you throw the tires into a sharp turn and hook the edge of the road that leads back onto the highway. you can hear the screech of hongjoong’s tires behind you, fading away when you floor it and finish the straight shot into the garage. the crowd’s cheers blur into static behind the roar of your engine, slowing to a stop when the nissan finally pulls in beside you.

hongjoong glances over at you through his open window, tongue running along the inside of his cheek as he scoffs.

“well, damn,” he says, breathless as his smile grows wider, impressed. you shrug, stepping out of your car and throwing your hands above your head with a cheer. mingi jogs over, offering a celebratory shot as you dip your head back. you don’t notice the hunger that flickers across hongjoong’s face at the sight before he lifts himself out of his nissan.

“didn’t peg you for the flashy type,” he teases, leaning against the body of his car with his own drink in hand thanks to mingi.

“didn’t peg you for the type to lose so easily,” you tease, matching his stance.

“might need to lose more often if it means i get to watch you drive like that.” you refuse to admit you like the way he’s flirting with you, although you’re sure it must be evident on your face. glancing over at his nissan, you take a closer look at its exterior before joining hongjoong beside his car.

“well, you want to offer the winner a shot?” you coax, gesturing for mingi to hand you the bottle as you pass it onto him. hongjoong’s eyes darken, a knowing smile tugging at the edge of his lips as he lets out a soft laugh. “don’t be a sore loser, now.”

suddenly, hongjoong cages you against the side of the nissan, hovering over you slightly. he holds your gaze for a moment, the garage going silent as you recognize the look in his eyes. leaning over you so that you’re forced to arch back, he grabs your jaw and presses his fingers into your cheeks so that your mouth falls open. the tequila burns and warms your throat as he offers you the shot, fingers lingering on your face for just a second too long before he backs away. you swallow, flustered but far too proud to admit it.

“we should go check out wooyoung’s car,” yunho interjects, dragging mingi away with the bottle and leaving you to hongjoong on your own. he smirks and you shake your head, clearing your throat as you desperately find a way to change the subject.

“pop your hood,” you order, and he obliges. you round the fender, staring into the engine bay thoughtfully. you can feel hongjoong’s eyes still on you, observing your every move. you recognize a handful of new mods you hadn’t seen at the previous meet, although the work looks quite shoddy in comparison to what you’ve done at yeosang’s garage. you turn to him and put out your hand. “give me your phone.”

“taking me up on my offer for a date?” he chuckles, unlocking and placing his phone on your palm. you scoff, saving your number and handing it back to him.

“please. i just think you could get some good work done on her. my friend has a garage i usually go down to work on my car at. a lot of us go there.” you don’t notice the way hongjoong’s expression falters.

“most people go to your friend’s?” he asks.

“depends,” you reply with a shrug. “yeosang knows a guy. helps us out with certain mods you don’t usually see on the main market.”

“i see.” hongjoong’s gaze flickers across the garage before he looks at you. “how’s next weekend?”

*

you sip on the beer that yeosang had left behind in the garage fridge as you sit beside the wide open bay doors, staring off into the stretch of highway that winds through the hills. the sun is setting, painting the sky a hazy pink and orange that you can’t help but get lost in. only the familiar hum of a nissan’s engine pulls you from your thoughts. hongjoong steps out, keys dangling from his fingertips as he approaches you with a small wave. you can’t help but acknowledge how good he looks, clad in denim and leather.

“just you tonight?” he asks, leaning against the garage’s frame.

“just me,” you confirm, standing to meet his gaze. “figured it’d be better to get you out here while everyone is out at the meet.”

“all to yourself?” he teases, but you don’t ignore the way it sends a flutter through your chest at the thought. you roll your eyes, leading him deeper into the garage.

“i’m downloading new programming for my ecu right now,” you explain. “if you weren’t here, i’d probably just be studying.”

“ecu?” he asks and you arch an eyebrow at him.

“engine control unit?” you articulate. “pretty new to modding cars, aren’t ya?”

hongjoong laughs softly, rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly. you watch as his eyes trail over the garage, taking in the parts stacked in various corners and the cars with their hoods popped that yeosang had been darting between over the last several weeks. he turns his attention to your subaru, to the laptop it’s connected to as he tries to make sense of the programming you had scheduled.

“are you sure you’re studying sociology and not actually a mastermind hacker?” he asks, only half-joking but you don’t pick up on it as you scoff and focus on the progress on the download.  he asks you a few other questions, about the parts you’d tacked onto your car and the difference it makes in how it runs. you offer him a beer of his own as you take the final sips of yours, settling onto the workbench across from him.

“so, you spend most of your time out here when you’re not at a meet or studying?” he asks earnestly, taking a sip and propping up onto his elbow on a nearby toolbox.

“for the most part, yeah.”

“why?”

you bite down on your bottom lip in thought, slightly surprised by the question. “i like the idea of controlling something, i guess. making sure it can run exactly how i want it to. there’s a kind of thrill in that.”

“i get that,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you. “wanting to fix things.”

“in a way.”

hongjoong looks up again, something unreadable behind his eyes. he sets his beer aside, his gaze locked on yours as he speaks. “you ever worry about getting caught?”

“doing what?” you tilt your head.

“just, all this,” he asks, gesturing to the garage around you. “the racing, the mods. getting involved with the wrong people. it’s not exactly the safest scene to be a part of.”

“why would you say that?” you asks, your voice going cold as you sit up in suspicion. his expression gives nothing away, only raising his hands in surrender.

“just a thought,” he defends himself, and you try to relax despite the tension in your shoulders. “you seem smart. figure you’re careful, but you never know.”

the garage falls into an awkward silence, save for the hum of your engines. you look out at the now-darkened sky, trying to shake the nerves from your skin as you chug down the rest of your beer. he couldn’t have meant anything by it, he must have just been genuinely curious.

… right?

“hey, don’t take it so seriously,” he assures you, reaching over and nudging your shoulder gently. “i don’t doubt you. not after the way you smoked me in the race last weekend.”

that gets a smile out of you, one that urges you out of your seat and towards his nissan. “which reminds me. isn’t that why you’re here in the first place?” he follows closely after you, watching as you pop the hood and gesture for him to come over. the warmth of his body hovers behind yours as he leans over the engine bay, his arms on either side of you. you can feel the way that your heart races knowing he was so close, but you try to shake it off as you observe the machine beneath you.

“so, it looks like you need to work on your air and fuel ratios …” you trail off into a detailed explanation of hongjoong’s car and what needed work, going well over his head as he finds himself preoccupied with staring at you from the corner of his eye. you keep talking, something about his torque while his grip tightens on the edge of his engine bay. you notice the way his fingers tense, glancing over at him and finding him already looking at you.

“are you even listening?” you murmur, eyes meeting his as you try to quiet the thundering in your ears from your pulse racing. a half-smile hangs on your face as you turn slightly.

“trying,” he replies, his voice low. “you’re just a little distracting.”

as cheesy as it is, you can’t help but turn to face him fully with an inviting smile. he mirrors your gaze, hands sliding off of the car and onto your waist instinctively. you shudder under his touch, his eyes darting between yours and your lips as you swallow in anticipation. his fingers tighten as he tries to decide if he should back off or not, but he doesn’t. you lean in a little to test him, your breath mingling with his.

“you wanna do something about it, then?”

the invitation was all he needed to close the distance in a hungry kiss, his hands gripping you harder and dragging you closer. you gasp, shaken by the way his touch has your heart thundering and your knees weak. he snakes his fingers along your back and up to your hair, bringing you closer as your arms drape limply over his shoulders.

“fuck,” he groans between kisses, strained.

“one little kiss got you like this?” you tease breathlessly, pulling away for a moment as if you weren’t equally as turned on. he smirks against your lips, the feeling of it dangerous as he trails to your neck.

“if i really had you how i wanted,” he mutters between warm kisses to your skin, “you wouldn’t be able to stand right now.”

“is that so?” you scoff, the sound caught in another gasp as he drags his tongue from the base of your neck to the shell of your ear. his breath is ragged, the sound flooding your senses as your eyes flutter shut.

“you heard me,” hongjoong whispers, one hand beside the engine bay while the other slides back around your waist. he presses his thigh between yours, the friction sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine as your hips grind against him on their own before you could stop yourself. he chuckles, tutting at the way you grip the edge of the car to stay steady while your hips beg for more. “just like that, baby girl.”

you throw your head back, only able to stay like that for a second before hongjoong pulls you back against him, returning to your lips in a string of messy kisses. any doubts, any suspicions you had about hongjoong were well out the window with the way he ignited a fire inside of you. his tongue moves against yours hungrily, stifling a moan that slips out of you.

just as you’re about to dip your hand lower below his belt, the loud signaling of the software download completing pulls you out of your pleasure. he lifts himself from you, half-hooded eyes clouded with lust as he presses swollen lips together. you clear your throat, shoving past him timidly as you fidget with the control panel on the software. you can’t help but operate on autopilot as you move through the menus, your mind still replaying what happened mere seconds ago. you hear the faint vibration of an incoming call from hongjoong’s phone as he curses under his breath, glancing over at you. his face is still flushed, hair disheveled as he offers you an apologetic smile.

“duty calls,” he shrugs, gesturing to his phone. you meet his eyes, trying to ignore the electricity in the air as you nod at him with a smile. “see you around?”

“next weekend,” you offer, reminding him of the next meet. he nods, turning away from you before calling over his shoulder.

“we should do that again sometime.”

you scoff under your breath, returning back to your software mods and not noticing the way hongjoong hurriedly sent pictures of everything from the garage over to his unit—the license plates, the software, under the hood of stationed cars. he glances over at you from the driver’s seat of his nissan for just a second too long before he sighs and backs out of the garage lot.

*

hongjoong doesn’t just see you next weekend.

he’s on facetime with you nearly every night, questions about your car and what got you to into modding. the conversation deviates often from the cars, into stories about your family and your day-to-day life. he learns the names of your friends, the way you like your coffee in the morning. you notice that he isn’t as forthcoming about himself and part of it irks you, but the vast majority stifles the suspicion and enjoys his company.

not to mention the few nights he’d been incredibly detailed about what he’d do to you if he ever got you back to his place.

he’s texting you from his desk, images plastered across his computer screen from the most recent car meets that he’d forwarded and logged for his supervisors when you mention that you were scheduled for a race during the next meet. just as he’s about to cheer you on with a cheeky reply, a forwarded message from his unit captures his attention. he skims the headline, his heart dropping into his stomach as he reads the details of a fatal accident caused by illegal street racing that had spilled over onto the highway.

his mind flickers to you for a brief moment, a reminder of how excited you were to race someone after a while. guilt racks his mind at every detail he’d catalogued on the racing scene, torn between keeping illegal cars off of the streets but also coming to enjoy your company as much as he did.

with a sigh and a hand through his hair, hongjoong begins to file the report on the incident for his supervisors and leaves you on read.

*

the next car meet, you’re fixated on the most recent mods yeosang assisted you with. he instructs you how to engage the new fuel injectors, going deep into technicalities when a familiar engine’s hum fails to pull you out of the conversation. hongjoong parks beside you, his once-all-white nissan now boasting a series of mods under the hood and along its body, thanks to your guidance. he fails to catch your eye and frowns, leaning against his car as he watches you strategize with yeosang.

“think you’ll need something a little tighter than that,” a teasing voice interjects, one that finally snaps you out of it as you lock eyes with wooyoung. you scowl playfully, crossing your arms over your torso as you arch an eyebrow at him.

“if you think coming over to talk smack will get you to win, think again,” you throw back, eyes shifting to his honda. “might need to take that pretty little civic off your hands if i win tonight.” wooyoung gasps dramatically, the sound making you cackle as you wave him off to ready himself. you glance over at hongjoong, noticing the way his jaw clenches as he forces a smile your way.

“locked in, huh?” he asks as you approach him. his eyes can’t help but trail over your outfit for the night, the way it hugs every inch of your body. you grin and he notices the way your eyes light up as you speak about the work you’d gotten done on your subaru. as much as he’d grown to admire your skills, the part of him that had even led him to the car racing scene screamed in his head to turn you away from it. he couldn’t close his eyes for more than a minute without seeing the crash site images from the report he’d filed and thinking about what he’d do if you were in the same situation.

the crowd begins to line up on either side of the garage, hollering for you and wooyoung to be at the ready when his stomach drops.

“be careful,” he says, cutting off your description of yeosang’s most recent orders. you blink in surprise, scanning his face for any emotion. he blinks back at you, dead serious and forcing you to swallow with a nod.

“uh, i will,” you reply, offering him a small smile and lowering yourself into your car so you could line up beside wooyoung. hongjoong doesn’t meet your eyes from his side of the garage and you can’t help but wonder what’s gotten into him.

the drop of a black bra sends you both off and into the industrial complex, rounding the familiar corners and turns around abandoned equipment. wooyoung’s engine roars behind you and you beam, throwing your gear shift into place as you feel your car surge with acceleration. the race is comfortably yours, taking you around the complex like clockwork with the garage in view when wooyoung is just a hair behind you.

you can hear his cackle in your mind as you curse under your breath, fingers tight around your wheel with pale knuckles. just as you’re about to complete a final gear shift to send you deeper into the garage lot, a stutter from your engine jolts beneath you.

“fuck,” you hiss, your gaze flickering to your dash instinctively. no warning signs gave you an idea that it might have been a miscalculation in the new fuel injectors you’d installed with yeosang that didn’t quite match up with your build. wooyoung gains on you, closing in like a shadow as he pulls just past you and deeper into the garage. you can hear the familiar roar from the crowd as you pull in a second behind him, shoving your gear shift into park with your head pounding. wooyoung blows a kiss in your direction as he’s ushered away with a bottle of vodka and you shake your head.

letting out a sigh, you shove yourself out of the driver’s seat and find yourself face to face with hongjoong. there’s a fire behind his eyes that makes you blink in confusion.

“what happened?” he asks dryly. “thought you had this one in the bag.”

you’re not able to answer before he interjects. “looks like you bit off more than you could chew.”

“what’s your problem?” you scoff, irritated by his banter and trying to ignore the fact that you felt like a sore loser after spending so long trying to perfect your most recent installs. you storm off towards where mingi and yunho had left the cooler, followed closely by hongjoong as you hear him let out a sarcastic laugh.

“i could hear your engine stutter from here,” he quips.

“it was probably just the fuel injectors,” you reply, pouring yourself a shot straight from the bottle. “it’s not like it’s a fatal problem.”

“what if it was?” he continues, and you roll your eyes at his concern. it wasn’t as though your engine caught fire or a tire blew out around the bend. it was nothing more than a bad smell and a slow finish, but he was acting like you were about to kill yourself.

“you’re being excessive,” you snap, setting the bottle down. “these things happen. what’s gotten into you?” hongjoong pauses for a moment, his gaze meeting yours as his chest heaves in an awkward silence. you struggle to read his expression for any insight as to why he was on edge tonight. his jaw tightens at the word ‘excessive’, his fingers curled into fists at his sides.

“forget it,” he finally mutters, his words clipped as he takes a step back. he shakes his head. “you don’t get it.”

“no, i don’t,” you agree, throwing your hands above your head in exasperation. “you’re acting like i don’t know what i’m doing and as if mistakes can’t happen.”

“and if something worse happened?” he asks, eyes daggers. “what then?”

the silence after that hits hard, your breath caught in your throat as his expression shifts. you can’t quite decipher the emotions rising in your chest, but you sure as hell knew they weren’t pleasant. hongjoong looks at you for just a moment longer, his gaze softened as he turns back to his car.

“drive safe on the way home.”

he disappears into the crowd, the sound of his engine revving minutes later as he pulls out of the garage and into the night. you watch after him, caught between surprise and annoyance as the conversation replays in your mind.

your phone vibrates not long after midnight, once the crowd’s begun to wean and the adrenaline has settled. you’re seated on your hood, distant from mingi and yunho’s bickering nearby as you scroll through photos from one of your favorite car modders. the sight of his name stops you in your tracks, finger hovering over the screen.

[message from: hongjoong] i’m sorry about earlier. just want to make sure you’re okay.

[message from: hongjoong] you free to come over?

despite every warning bell in your mind telling you to ignore it, to disregard his concern and enjoy the rest of your night, you can’t fight the desperate curiosity pricking at your skin. you glance over at the boys, deep in their conversation before you bid them goodnight and hurry to hongjoong’s without a reply.

*

“didn’t think you’d actually come,” he comments, surprised as he lets you into his apartment building. you shrug, locking your car in its street parking spot as you follow him into the lobby. the building is much nicer than yours, polished floors and fountains on either side of the reception desk. the elevators are a blinding chrome, humming softly as the doors pull apart to let you in. hongjoong doesn’t meet your gaze as he enters his floor number and stands beside you awkwardly. when the elevator dings, he gestures for you to follow him down a quiet, dim hallway until he stops at his door.

the inside of his apartment is minimal, much like the car you saw at his first car meet. dark tile floors, soft overhead lighting, the faint smell of sandalwood and cologne lingering in the air. he tosses his keys onto the counter and turns to you, his expression pitiful as you cross your arms at him.

“i didn’t mean to go off on you,” he finally says, his voice measured. “i just … i heard your engine stutter and saw wooyoung get past you. i know it wasn’t fatal, but it made me worry about if it were something else that went wrong and how you brushed it off like it was nothing.”

you sigh, slipping your shoes off by the door. “it wasn’t nothing, hongjoong. i know the risks of racing. it’s not the first time i’ve raced and it won’t be the last.” that earns a clenched jaw from him, but you choose to ignore it. “i knew something might have been off, but i didn’t need a safety lecture in front of everyone.”

“let me make it up to you, then.” his expression shifts to something playful as he ushers you in, reaching for your hand and guiding you to his bedroom. “let me show you how sorry i am.” 

you shoot him a skeptical look, but he’s already closing the space between you. again, your mind screams against every fiber of your being that’s letting him get his hands on you, but you don’t care. lust clouds logic as you follow him in and the door is shut behind you.

his mouth meets yours hungrily, tongue sliding against yours and teeth tugging at your bottom lip. you fist the fabric of his shirt with a gasp, dragging him closer as he chuckles against your lips.

“still mad, baby girl?” he breathes as he lifts you beneath your thighs. you lean in, wrapping your legs around his waist as you bite at the edge of his jaw.

“you have no idea.”

“good,” he scoffs, fingers digging into your thighs as he carries you to the bed and sets you down. “take it out on me.”

you prop yourself onto your elbows, daring him with a pointed gaze. “thought you were making it up to me, actually.”

“oh, i am,” he reassures you. “you’re gonna forget why we’re even fighting in the first place by the time i’m done with you.”

hongjoong drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, hands trailing along the inside of your thighs. you shudder at his touch, breath hitching in your throat. he watches you closely as he slips his fingers under the waistband of your pants. his fingers trail lower, lower until they make contact with already soaked fabric and force you to arch off of the mattress against your will. he hums, content as he presses and traces slow, tantalizing circles around your clit. the way his eyes remain on yours coaxes a moan out of you, hands outstretched to pull him closer to you. he obliges, discarding every article of clothing save for your underwear and his.

“fuck,” you breathe as he dips his hand back between your thighs, lowering himself in a trail of kisses from your chest to your stomach. hongjoong smirks against your skin, his fingers never letting up as he presses kisses down to your inner thigh. his eyes flicker to yours as he hooks a finger around the fabric, pulling it to the side and sinking his tongue between your folds.

a string of filthy moans slip out of you, fingers tangled in his hair. the sound only drives him madder, flicking his tongue against your clit with a groan of his own. he pulls away for a split second, his lips glistening from every drop of you as he meets your eyes with a half-grin.

“that’s it, baby,” he praises, relishing in the way his name falls off of your lips. “say my name again.” you curse as he laps at you, filthy and relentless. he devours you like he’s starving, waves of pleasure rolling against your core as you throw your head back.

and in a split second, it catches your eye.

“hongjoong.” your voice runs cold, the pleasure gone from every inch of your body as you pull away from him and sit up. you can’t hear if he’s speaking to you, your attention fixated on the badge staring back at you from his nightstand. the familiar glint of silver and navy, his name and officer number etched below the city’s seal. you almost hope it’s a joke for a split second, but the way his face pales when he looks at you doesn’t convince you that it is.

“are you fucking kidding me?”

“i forgot to put it away,” he grimaces, speaking more to himself than to you as he scrambles to shove it into the nightstand drawer. you follow after him, your blood boiling as you glare at him.

“oh, you forgot?” you snap, seeing red as he refuses to turn to you. “you’re a fucking cop. you’ve been playing me the whole time.”

“it’s not like that—”

“don’t,” you spit, unwilling to hear any pathetic excuse he threw your way. “were you just watching me this whole time? like some little undercover fantasy?”

“no,” he snaps, finally facing you. “it’s not personal.” you can’t help but laugh, the sound bitter and sharp as his eyes flicker with something unreadable.

“so what, fucking me was a nice bonus to tracking me?”

he doesn’t answer.”

“you’re unbelievable,” you snap, turning to grab your clothes in a huff. “i’m getting the fuck out of here. don’t even bother talking to me after this.” you’re all but three steps away from him when he grabs your wrist and spins you into the wall, pinning you with a force that makes your breath hitch.

“i didn’t mean for this to happen,” he growls, his grip tightening.

“oh, but you like it,” you lash out, struggling against him. “bet it felt so fucking good to get between my legs knowing you’re on duty. guess it’s just part of the job, isn’t it?” he slams his fist against the wall in frustration, his chest heaving as his eyes meet yours.

“this isn’t about the job.”

“then what is it about, hongjoong?”

his gaze darkens at your question and you expect him to deflect with a pitiful excuse about how the job had gotten muddled with his feelings for you, but instead he crashes his mouth onto yours with such force it steals the breath from your lungs. you gasp against him, fists pounding weakly against his chest as he slips his hands under your thighs again and hoist you up against the wall. your legs wrap around his waist instinctively before you can stop yourself. he pulls away for a split second and your fingers snake through his hair, yanking his head back so that he’s forced to meet your gaze again.

“i hate you,” you growl, disappointed at the way your core ached for his touch even after knowing who he was.

“i know,” he pants, snaking one hand around your waist as the other cradles your face. he lowers you back onto the bed, tearing away your underwear in one swift motion. there’s nothing soft in the way he touches you this time, raw and desperate as he juts his fingers between your folds in deep, staggered strokes. his fingers curl and you whimper, writhing under his touch as his mouth latches back onto your throat.

“you planning to forget i’m a cop while i fuck you senseless?” hongjoong’s question pulls you out of lust-filled haze, hatred etched across your expression as you fight against the pleasure rising from the pace of his fingers. you hate how good he makes you feel.

just as you feel your climax begin to rise beneath your skin, he withdraws his fingers and pulls himself up to hover over you. his eyes soften when they meet yours, the polar opposite to the frigid glare you gave him in return. he remains unfazed, a lopsided smirk still hanging from his lips. suddenly, he does the same thing he did to you the night he offered you the shot, pressing his fingers into your cheeks so that your jaw falls slack and he’s able to slip his hand covered in you past your lips. you latch onto them reluctantly, the familiar taste covering your tongue as you hold his gaze. his pupils are blown wide, focused on the way you suck his fingers despite claiming you hate him.

“you think this makes up for lying to me?” you ask, your voice dripping with disdain.

hongjoong scoffs, dragging his hand down your jaw and along your torso. “no, but you’re still here, aren’t you?”

you hate that he’s right.

your body trembles under his touch, throbbing from the absence of his fingers without release. you dig your nails into his shoulders, raking them along his back as his lips hover over yours. he curses under his breath at the sting and kisses you again. you barely notice the way his hand snakes back around your waist, turning you over and hoisting you onto your knees so that he could position himself behind you.

he hums in admiration at the sight of you bare before him, stroking his length in one hand as the other brushes along your entrance for the second time. you buckle under his touch, falling onto your forearms with a gasp.

“so wet,” he purrs, thumbing against your clit and relishing in the way it earns a moan from you. “tell me it’s not because of me. lie to me.” you curse yourself mentally, knowing fully well you can’t say anything in response.

“it’s not,” you manage to get out in a choked lie, and he lets out a dry laugh.

“whatever you say, baby girl,” he scoffs and bottoms out in you in one swift thrust. you cry out at the sensation of him filling you, the way his hips press into yours and push you forward. he wraps an arm around you, curling his fingers around your neck so that you’re pulled up against his torso. you arch your back against him as he begins to move, every thrust more sensitive and exactly where you needed him.

“you like this?” he groans against your ear, fingers tightening around your neck. “still acting like you don’t want me when i can feel the way you’re tight around me?” you bite down on your lip, nearly drawing blood from not wanting to give him the satisfaction of an answer. he ups the intensity, his thrusts causing you to gasp in low, staggered breaths. you try to wriggle out of his grip but he only tightens his arms around you and thrusts deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“say it,” hongjoong growls, teeth gritted as you let your head fall back from the pleasure tearing through you. “tell me how good i make you feel.”

“fuck you,” you spit, but you can’t hide the way your voice wavers as you tremble under his touch. he lets out a breathless, humorless laugh. his fingers slip between your thighs again, circling your clit as he keeps pounding into you hard and steady. you hate how close you are, the way that he’s able to push you there so easily.

he senses that you’re close, coaxing you back down onto your forearms and humming as you fist the sheets in broken cries of pleasure. his hands press into your hips, steadying himself as he rocks your body with every last thrust.

“come all over me, baby,” he urges, but you can tell from the strain in his voice that he’s just as close as you are. you can’t help but oblige, your orgasm washing over you in violent waves as you collapse onto the sheets in a drawn-out moan. hongjoong comes not long after you in a string of curses, releasing into you and filling you up before he leans over you. his breathing is staggered and rough, gasping down air as he shakes the hair from his eyes.

the silence that follows is deafening as you nearly immediately gather your clothes and get dressed. hongjoong looks at you wordlessly, longing in his eyes despite his lack of protest. you shoot daggers at him as you shove past him and towards his front door, pulling your keys out of your jacket pocket.

“whatever this is,” you snarl, gesturing between the pair of you, “is over. don’t fucking talk to me after this.”

you slam the door behind you without another word.

*

hongjoong shows up to the next car meet on high alert, expecting an ambush of street racers to ice him out for being a sellout. much to his surprise, not a single person gives the impression that they know who he really is. even worse, you’re nowhere to be found. mingi and yunho claimed you had finals around the corner and usually preferred to study when they were close, but he fully well knew your finals were over weeks ago.

he can’t help but wonder why you didn’t mention to anyone that he was a cop.

yeosang fills him in, sharing that several of the racers were on edge because of more frequent traffic shops and reports for mods. there was a panic in his voice, one that gave hongjoong the idea that he was also worried about the livelihood of his garage if people were becoming tense about their car builds. despite still on duty, hongjoong fails to ignore the gnawing guilt at selling out the community he’d unexpectedly become a part of.

several weeks have passed when hongjoong finds himself in his nissan yet again, perched atop one of the industrial complex’s garage rooftops. it was a weeknight, away from the bustle of the car meets that had grown sparse given the uptick in cop presence around the city. the echo of tires against asphalt finally captures his attention, a black subaru coming into view. his posture stiffens when he sees you, but he doesn’t speak right away.

you step out of your car defiantly, leaning against the door with crossed arms. “talk.”

he nods, averting your gaze and looking out at the new construction signs that were being arranged around the complex for incoming development. “why didn’t you tell anyone?”

you stare at him. “why would i? and cause everyone to be on edge and think that anyone could be a narc? the street racing scene would be nonexistent. you already did enough damage.” there’s a heartlessness to your voice that hongjoong isn’t used to, but he continues without flinching.

“that’s all you came back to say?” he asks calmly, and you shake your head.

“i came back to see your face again. to remind myself why i should hate you.”

“do you?”

a silence envelops you as you fight the sting behind your eyes, weeks of questioning and trying to rationalize hongjoong’s betrayal weighing on you.

“i hate what you did.”

hongjoong can’t help but feel disappointed by the answer, as if you hating him would have made it easier for him to find closure in his decision. he sighs, running a hand through his hair as he looks over at you pitifully.

“you were the one part of this assignment i didn’t fake,” he says, almost as if he needs to remind himself. “you have to know that.”

“that doesn’t mean anything,” you snap almost instantly in reply. “you still sold us out. you used us, you used me.”

“well, i won’t be anymore,” he announces, and you arch an eyebrow at him in question. “i filed for reassignment. i’ll be out of the way and you can relocate the car meets without a cop breathing down your neck.”

your mind flickers to the feeling of hongjoong’s breath hot on your ear as his fingers tighten around your neck, his thrusts into you as he fucked you.

“so you want me to congratulate you for leaving after two-timing us?” you scoff, swallowing with a shake of your head.

“i just … i can’t do this assignment anymore. i can’t separate professional from personal around here.” he realizes you haven’t softened, and his shoulders slump as he glances over at you for what feels like the last time. “i just wanted you to know before i left.”

the air hangs heavy with everything that could have been. you fight to ignore the ache in your chest as you glare at him, out at the complex covered in construction tape to be demolished by the incoming corporation. you circle your car, ready to open the door and take off when he meets your eyes one final time.

“drive safe on the way home.”

[kysstar]

WHERE IT HURTS | KIM HONGJOONG (requested 💕)

pairing : : kim hongjoong x fem!reader

synopsis : : after a late-night argument, things go quiet between you and hongjoong. he thinks everything’s fine—but small changes say otherwise.

genre : : angst, hurt-comfort

warnings : : none.

word count : : 2.2k

—The clock’s red digits glared 1:37 AM, casting a dull glow over the apartment. The only sound was the faint hum of Hongjoong’s laptop fan and the clack of his keyboard. You stood in the doorway to his studio, arms crossed loosely, watching him with quiet concern. His shoulders were hunched, the tension in his back visible even from where you stood. His brows were pinched, lip caught between his teeth—he was deep in it again. Music, deadlines, concepts, endless revisions. The new comeback was eating him alive.

"Joong," you said softly, not wanting to startle him. He didn’t look up. “Did you eat anything today?”

Silence.

You stepped closer. “I made some rice earlier. There’s soup too, it’s still warm—”

“I said I’m busy.” His voice was sharp, quick, like a door slamming shut.

You flinched. “I know, I just… I thought you might want to take a break. Just ten minutes. You haven’t left that chair in hours—”

“I don’t need you to tell me what to do,” he snapped, finally spinning around to face you. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression worn thin. “You think I don’t know how to take care of myself?”

“That’s not what I meant,” you said quietly.

“Then stop hovering. God, it’s like you think I’m helpless or something.”

You blinked. The words hit harder than they should’ve. “I was just trying to help.”

“Yeah? Well, help by leaving me alone.”

That one landed like a punch. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out. You weren't good at fights—not the ugly kind, not when someone you loved looked at you like you were in the way. You felt yourself retreat, folding inward like paper crumpling under pressure.

You nodded once. “Okay.” Your voice was smaller than you'd meant it to be.

You walked out of the room without another word. Hongjoong didn’t look back.

You curled into your side of the bed, the sheets cool and unfamiliar without him. You stared at the wall for what felt like hours, trying not to let the sting of his words replay in your head, but it was impossible not to. You think I’m helpless. Help by leaving me alone. You didn’t cry—you just felt hollow, like something in you had been scooped out.

Eventually, without meaning to, sleep found you.

When Hongjoong stepped out of the studio, the apartment was dead quiet. The kind of quiet that made the back of his neck prickle. He rubbed his face, the pads of his fingers pressing hard against his eyes like it might squeeze the guilt out of his skull.

He hadn’t eaten. You’d been right. Of course you had. And now the untouched bowl of rice and soup sat cold on the counter, a silent reminder of how cruel he'd been. He hated how he heard his own voice replaying in his mind. He hated that it had been aimed at you.

The bedroom was dark except for the sliver of moonlight slicing through the blinds. You were already asleep, curled up small on your side of the bed, back to him. The blankets barely clung to your shoulder, and your breathing was soft, steady. You looked peaceful in the way that made his chest ache.

He climbed into bed carefully, like he didn’t want to disturb the stillness he didn’t deserve to be part of. Then he reached for you, gently, wrapping an arm around your waist. His fingers threaded over your stomach as he pulled you back against him. You didn’t stir. Not even a sigh.

He pressed his forehead to the nape of your neck and closed his eyes, letting the guilt wash over him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracked with something he wasn’t ready to name. “I didn’t mean it.”

—The soft morning light filtered through the blinds, painting gentle gold across the room. You stirred slowly, your body wrapped in warmth not entirely from the blankets. There was a weight draped over your waist—a familiar arm, heavy and secure. Your back was pressed against a chest you knew like second nature, the steady rhythm of his breathing grazing the curve of your shoulder.

You blinked at the faint light, taking a moment to register the calm. Then you shifted slightly, turning in his loose hold. Hongjoong lay beside you, eyes still shut, his features finally relaxed in sleep. The tension that had carved lines into his brow the night before had softened, replaced by a boyish stillness you hadn’t seen in days.

Instinct made your hand move, reaching to brush the hair from his face, but you caught yourself. Mid-motion, you stopped—fingers hovering just above his temple. The memory of his words from the night before came rushing back in. “Help by leaving me alone.” You let your hand fall quietly back to your side. You slipped out of bed without waking him.

The floor was cold under your feet as you padded to the bathroom. You didn’t look at yourself in the mirror too long—just enough to brush your hair and splash water on your face.

Then you moved to the kitchen in a quiet rhythm, pulling eggs from the fridge, rice from the cooker, setting pans on the stove. You weren’t even sure he’d eat. You just needed something to do. Something that made you feel a little less like your chest was filled with shattered glass.

The smell of breakfast slowly filled the apartment. You didn’t hum like you usually did. You didn’t peek down the hallway to see if he was up. You just kept moving, focused on not thinking too hard.

Footsteps finally broke the silence behind you. You didn’t turn around.

Hongjoong’s arms found your waist from behind, wrapping around you like nothing had happened. He leaned into you, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. “Hey,” he said, voice still rough from sleep.

You gave a quiet, almost automatic, “Morning.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just held you there, breathing you in.

Then: “About last night…” His voice dipped lower. “I’m sorry. I was a dick. I was tired, and frustrated, and I took it out on you when all you were trying to do was care for me.” His grip around your waist tightened a little, not enough to trap, just enough to cling. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You stayed quiet. Not out of malice—just because you didn’t know what to say. You accepted his words, but they didn’t undo the way they’d settled in your chest, heavy and echoing.

“I mean it,” he added, nuzzling into your neck gently. “I’m sorry.”

You nodded, gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s okay.”

He seemed to take that as enough. He smiled softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you,” he murmured. Then another kiss, this time to your forehead. “I’ll make it up to you.”

You didn’t answer. You just turned the burner down and stirred the eggs, his arms still looped around your waist.

—The days after the apology fell into rhythm—routine, quiet, unspoken. Hongjoong thought things were okay. Not perfect, maybe, but better. You didn’t bring up the fight again. You didn’t ask for another apology. You cooked for him. You kissed him goodnight. You replied when he spoke, smiled when it felt expected.

But something subtle had shifted.

You didn’t lean into him when he hugged you anymore. You didn't brush his hair out of his face like you always used to. A half-second pause before holding his hand. A smile that didn’t reach your eyes. And he, so consumed by work and trying to make things smoother again, didn’t catch it right away.

It wasn’t that you were punishing him. You just… couldn’t shake the way he made you feel that night. Like loving him too much was a burden. Like your care was a nuisance. You’d swallowed it all down to keep the peace, but it hadn’t disappeared. It sat there, quietly, between your ribs.

At first, he thought it was stress. Maybe you were tired too. Maybe you just needed space. But the distance grew—not obvious, not loud, just enough. Enough to notice how you didn’t crawl into his lap while he worked anymore. How you stopped asking if he’d eaten. How your goodnight kisses landed on his cheek instead of his lips. Like you were slowly folding yourself away.

Hongjoong found you on the couch when he came home—curled up with your knees to your chest, a half-drunk cup of tea on the table, and the TV playing something you clearly weren’t watching. The sound was low, just enough to fill the silence. You looked over when he walked in, your eyes tired but your expression unreadable. You gave him a quiet smile—polite, soft, practiced.

"Hey," you said.

"Hey," he replied, but didn’t move right away. He stood there, still wearing his jacket, keys still in one hand, just staring. Something in the way you looked at him—something distant—hit him harder than he expected.

He didn’t go to the bedroom. He didn’t go to the kitchen. He walked straight to you, dropped to his knees in front of the couch, and reached for you like he wasn’t sure if he still had the right.

"Can we talk?" he asked.

You hesitated. Then, quietly, "Okay."

His hands found your legs, resting there gently, grounding himself. He looked up at you, the weight of days spent in silence finally cracking him open.

"I know I said sorry. I know I’ve been trying to make things feel normal again. But you haven’t been the same. And I think it’s because I haven’t really let you say how much it hurt."

You didn’t answer. You didn’t look away either.

"I can feel you pulling back from me. And I get it," he said, voice quiet but desperate. "I told you to leave me alone. I made you feel like you were smothering me. That your love was too much. And I hate that. I hate that the one person who was trying to take care of me... I pushed away like that."

Your eyes stung but you didn’t speak. He exhaled shakily, fingers tightening slightly on your legs. "So yell at me. Scream. Throw something. Hit me. Tell me I’m an asshole. Break my heart if you must. But don’t keep it in like this. Don’t shrink away just to keep the peace. You don’t deserve to carry that weight in silence. Not because of me."

That did it.

Your hands clenched into fists. Your throat burned. All the things you hadn’t said—because you’d been trying so hard to be quiet, to be calm, to be “understanding”—rose to the surface in one breathless wave.

"You made me feel like I was in the way," you said, your voice small, shaky. "Like I was annoying you just by caring."

"I know," he said immediately. "I know I did."

"I made you food. I checked in. I waited until it felt like the right time to speak—and you still bit my head off."

"I remember," he whispered. "And I regret every word. I hated myself the second they left my mouth."

"I felt stupid," you admitted, voice breaking. "Stupid for trying. Stupid for loving you so much that I didn’t know when to stop."

He reached up, cupped your face carefully like it might crumble in his hands. "Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. You loving me like that? That’s the best thing in my life. And I made you feel like it wasn’t. That’s on me."

You bit your lip, tears spilling before you could stop them. "I didn’t know how to come back from it. I didn’t want to bring it up again because I thought… maybe it would make things worse. Maybe you’d snap again."

"I won’t," he said quickly, earnestly. "I swear to you, I won’t. I’ll listen. I’ll be there. I’ll take every hard word, every tear, every angry look—because I deserve it. And because I want to fix this the right way, not just the easy way."

You looked at him through your tears, your voice barely above a whisper. "It still hurts."

"I know. And I’ll sit with you through every second of that hurt. I’m not running. Not from you. Not ever again."

You stared at him for a long time. Then, slowly, you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. He closed his eyes immediately, one hand moving to the back of your neck.

"I don’t want to fight," you whispered.

"Then don’t," he whispered back. "Just be here. That’s enough for me. You—exactly how you are—that’s enough."

He pulled you into him, and you let yourself go, finally, arms around his shoulders, face in his neck. You cried there, not from fresh pain, but from everything that had been bottled up for too long. He held you tighter with every shaky breath, whispering soft apologies, promises, truths.

"I love you," he said between kisses to your hair. "I love you so much. I’ll never stop choosing you."

When the tears passed, he pulled you gently onto the couch, wrapping the blanket around both of you. You curled into his chest, feeling his heart beating fast beneath your cheek.

"Let’s stay like this for a while," you said, voice tired but lighter.

"Forever, if you want."

© kysstar

[arilevenatz]

Silent vows| K.Y.S

Pairing: Mafia!Yeosang x Reader

Genre: Arranged marriage, slight enemies to lovers, fluff

Word count: 22.4k

Warnings: forced marriage, emotional abuse, stalking, jealousy, implied violence, insecurity, yeosang is THE husband, we all want him

AN: Ok so happy belated birthday to my boy yeosang. The most prettiest, angelic mf I've ever seen. Like how can a man be so pretty and handsome at the same damn time. Also this was kinda like a prompt but I can't for the love of god find the comment. But you know who you are, thank you

Masterlist

“I’m not doing it.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and fast, cutting across the heavy air in the room like a blade. The study smelled like old leather and wood polish, the same way it always did when your father called you in for his lectures. But this wasn’t a lecture. This was something else. He sat behind that heavy desk, wearing the same expression he always wore when he made decisions for other people’s lives— calm, practiced, untouchable.

“This isn’t a request,” he answered, barely sparing you a glance. “It’s a responsibility.”

You could’ve laughed. Honestly, you almost did. Responsibility. That word sounded hilarious coming out of his mouth. What did he know about responsibility? The only thing he was responsible for was dragging this family name around town like it was some royal crest, acting like being respected by neighbors counted for anything real in the world.

“You don’t get to sell me off like I’m a—”

“Enough.”

Just that one word. Quiet. Heavy. And somehow louder than your shouting could ever be. Your mother was standing near the window, arms folded like she was cold even though the room was warm. She didn’t speak. She never did, not in front of him. Just stood there looking outside, twisting her rings like she could disappear into the carpet if she tried hard enough. You hated that you weren’t even surprised.

“This marriage will benefit this family,” your father continued, smoothing his sleeves like this was some business meeting. “We’ve built this name for generations. And you will protect it.”

You clenched your fists tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Your reputation doesn’t mean anything outside this stupid town.”

It slipped before you could stop it, but you didn’t regret it. You meant it. All these formal dinners, these family events, these endless talks about legacy— all of it felt empty. Like a dying empire pretending it was still a kingdom.

“This family has survived longer than you’ve been alive,” your father shot back, finally meeting your gaze with steel in his eyes. “And you’ll do your part to make sure it stays that way.”

You could feel the walls closing in. You could feel your freedom shrinking, curling in on itself, suffocating before you could even scream.

“Kang Yeosang.”

The name hit you like a slap. Sharp. Direct. Cold. You knew that name. Everyone did. Not because he was some loud, reckless criminal—no, worse than that. He was dangerous in a way that didn’t make noise. Dangerous in the way silent oceans are. You don’t notice how deep they are until you’re already halfway sunk.

“Why him?” you asked, throat dry.

Your father barely blinked. “Because his family’s name will keep ours alive.”

Alive. Like this was survival. Like marrying you off to someone you didn’t even know was a favor. Like it was a gift. You hated how calm he was about it. You hated how your mother still hadn’t said a single word. You hated how small you felt in that moment, standing in a house you used to believe was home.

“I’m not going to his house,” you muttered finally, stubbornness flaring even when your heart was hammering in your chest. “You can make me marry him, but I’m not moving in with some— some stranger.”

For a second, you thought maybe—just maybe—that would get a reaction. That something in him would soften, crack, break.

It didn’t.

Instead, he stood. Calm. Slow. Adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with careful precision, like he was bored of the conversation already. “You will,” he said softly. “You’ll go to his house, you’ll be his wife, and you’ll do what’s expected of you.” “And if I don’t?” you pushed, lifting your chin like you weren’t breaking inside.

His gaze sharpened just enough for the threat underneath to show, sharp and cold as glass. “Then I’ll handle it my way.”

You knew what his way meant. Not blood. Not mafia violence. But ruin. Reputation torn apart. Family turned against you. Friends pushed away. He knew how to break you the polite way, the respectable way. Quiet destruction in the form of shame.

You swallowed thick, hot air that didn’t want to go down.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

But your father was already walking away, steps quiet against the polished floor.

“I can live with that.”

Your throat burned with all the things you wanted to scream, but only one thing came out. “What about my studies?”

It sounded small. Weak. But it was the only lifeline you could grab onto in that moment. Something that was yours. The one thing you had left that wasn’t part of their family dinners, or reputation games, or polite handshakes pretending to be alliances.

University was supposed to be your escape. Not glamorous. Not perfect. But it was freedom in its own, small way—early mornings, long commutes, paper deadlines, friends who didn’t care about who your father was.

Your father barely reacted.

“You can continue after the wedding,” he answered flatly, as if you were asking if you could have dessert after dinner.

You stared at him. “After?”

“Yes. You’ll still attend.”

But you knew what that meant. You knew the weight behind those words. After the wedding. After moving into a stranger’s house. After taking his last name. After your life wasn’t yours anymore. Technically, sure—you could go back. Physically, you could sit in the same classrooms, scribble in the same notebooks. But it wouldn’t be the same. Not with whispers curling behind your back. Not with people watching you like you were an exhibit. “That’s her—the girl who married into them.”

It would hang on you like invisible chains. Dragging behind you everywhere you went.

And worst of all—you wouldn’t be able to come home. Not really. Not to this family. Not to your old life. You’d have a new last name, a new house, a new set of rules written by someone else’s hand.

The walls of the study felt like they were closing in.

“I don’t want this,” you said, quieter this time. No yelling. Just raw honesty, like a last ditch effort to claw your way out. “This isn’t my life.”

Your father looked at you the same way he looked at accounts on paper. Math. Numbers. Problems to solve, not feelings to fix.

“It is now.”

Simple. Unforgiving. Final.

You could almost feel the weight of your choices shrinking down to nothing. Every dream you used to picture folded neatly into a little box, pushed aside for family names and legacy dinners with strangers in pressed suits. Your stomach twisted. Hot. Cold. Rage and panic mixing together until you couldn’t tell which was worse.

You wanted to shout, wanted to break something, wanted to drag this perfect little empire down brick by brick just to prove you could—but you stood there frozen, fists clenched, staring at a man who would never, ever see you as anything but his tool first.

Come to the house.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Yeosang sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Alright. Be there in twenty.”

It wasn’t unusual—getting called over like this. His father didn’t waste words, didn’t waste visits. If he was calling, it meant something needed handling.

By the time he got to the mansion, the gates were already open like they always were when they expected him. The house was quiet, the same way expensive places are—grand, but not loud about it. Just old money tastefully sitting in every piece of polished wood.

His father was already in the study when Yeosang stepped inside, standing by the window, one hand in his pocket like it was muscle memory by now. Glass of whiskey in the other. Of course.

“You’re early,” his father said without turning around.

“You said now.”

His father finally looked over, gave him that familiar once-over like he was assessing a report. “Fair enough.”

There was a beat of silence. Not tense. Just quiet.

Then—

“There’s going to be a wedding.”

Yeosang blinked once. “Yours?”

His father gave him a flat look, one eyebrow raising the way it always did when Yeosang was being difficult on purpose. “Yours.”

Yeosang huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, stepping further into the room. “That supposed to be funny?”

His father didn’t smile. “I’m serious.”

Yeosang stood still for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Is that what you dragged me here for? Could’ve sent a text.”

“This isn’t a text conversation.”

“You’d be surprised what can be said over text these days.”

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his father’s mouth. Approval, maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell with him.

“It’s arranged,” his father said, cutting through Yeosang’s deflection cleanly. “Her family’s name still matters in this town. Not rich, not influential in our way, but solid. Traditional. The kind of people who care about reputation more than their own comfort.”

Yeosang tilted his head slightly. “So… charity work?”

“Strategy,” his father corrected smoothly. “They need stability. We don’t need much from them, but it keeps everything clean.”

“Clean,” Yeosang repeated under his breath. He crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “And I’m guessing I don’t get a vote?”

“You get an understanding. That’s enough.”

Yeosang didn’t argue. Not because he agreed, but because he knew there was no point. This was how it worked. Give and take. Favors. Names. Quiet deals behind closed doors.

He exhaled through his nose. “Who is she?”

“Y/L/N’s daughter.”

Yeosang’s brow ticked. “Didn’t know they had one.”

“Not surprising. They keep her out of sight. Books, classes, family dinners. But they need her to secure their name before it fades.”

Yeosang thought about that for a second. Reputation marriages were common enough. Boring, mostly. People shaking hands over other people’s futures like it was stock trading.

“You’ve met her?” he asked.

“Briefly. Enough to know she’s going to fight it.”

“Great.”

His father glanced at him then, sharp. “Not your job to like it. Just your job to make it work.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Yeosang muttered, rolling his jaw. “I’m just saying… if she’s gonna be difficult, it’s gonna be annoying.”

His father’s gaze didn’t soften, but there was a certain understanding there. “You’ll handle it.”

Yeosang let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, pushing off the doorframe. “Guess I will.”

As he turned to leave, his father added quietly, “This isn’t punishment.”

“I know.”

And he did. This was just how things worked. Fair or not—his life wasn’t completely his own anymore. Yeosang sat behind the wheel, thumb tapping against the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. Headlights cutting clean lines through the dark street, smooth turns, muscle memory driving him home while his mind drifted elsewhere.

Marriage. Arranged.

He scoffed quietly to himself, shaking his head once. What was he supposed to do with someone else’s family name attached to his life?

Some sheltered daughter of a traditional family, probably the kind who spent too much money on handbags and complained when the AC wasn’t cold enough. He could already hear the whining. Could already see the way she’d expect to live in his place, treat it like a hotel, float through his routine like an expensive perfume he didn’t ask to wear.

No, that wasn’t happening.

Maybe he’d buy her an apartment somewhere else. Nothing fancy, but decent enough. They could do the whole photo ops thing, wear the rings, play nice for the public, then go back to separate lives. Paper marriage. Clean. Or worse—she could be one of those girls who latched on for money. Gold digger. Probably already imagining his credit cards with her initials on the back.

He pressed his tongue to his cheek in irritation. God, he hated gold diggers.

Maybe she’d show up to the first meeting with some designer bag acting shy, but batting lashes like she knew exactly how to play the game. All wide eyes and fake humility. Great. Just what he needed—another headache in heels.

And the name—YN.

It felt familiar. Couldn’t place it, but the reputation was old enough to echo through town. Traditional. Reputed. The type of family that prided themselves on manners but ate each other alive behind closed doors.

The kind that smiled with their teeth.

He drummed his fingers once more, sharp taps on the leather, jaw set.

Alright.

If he was going to be stuck with this arrangement, he might as well know what he was dealing with. And he wasn’t about to walk into it blind. He had resources. Skills. Connections that didn’t come from LinkedIn profiles or polite family dinners. If they thought he was going to just sit back and play along without checking her first, they clearly didn’t know him well enough.

Fine. If she was going to be part of his life, even on paper, he’d find out exactly who she was—before she even stepped in the same room as him.

He flicked his blinker, turning toward his penthouse, already thinking about who to call first.

Let’s see what Miss YN was hiding.

By the time Yeosang finished, he knew more about her than her own family probably did.

University—small, local, nothing flashy. Biology major. Not exactly the typical rich family trophy daughter. No branded handbags, no influencer lifestyle. Her socials were barely active. Private, even. Most of her posts were old, nothing more than the occasional picture of a sunset or food she cooked. No thirst traps. No fake aesthetic feeds.

She liked drawing. Had an old art account that hadn’t been touched in months—messy sketches of flowers and animals, all pencil or black ink. Crochet too. Random photos of half-finished scarves stuffed in a drawer. Cooking—simple recipes, home stuff, not the kind of thing you post to show off, just to remember.

Her friends? A few from university. Small group chats. Normal conversations. Mostly about classes, complaining about assignments, nothing interesting. No clubbing pictures. No vacation shots with secret boyfriends tagged under fake accounts.

The further he dug, the more it annoyed him—not because he found anything bad, but because he didn’t. No scandals, no secret plans to social climb, no hidden motives that screamed gold digger or spoiled brat.

She was just… boring.

Boring in the way people are when they’re not trying to be noticed. And for some reason, that irritated him more than if she had been a problem.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, tossing his phone on the table. Elbow propped on the armrest, hand running through his hair, frustration curling at the edges of his jaw.

Great. Now he was stuck marrying some quiet, awkward, crochet-making biology nerd who probably spent more time reading textbooks than thinking about designer clothes. Not exactly the chaos he was expecting.

But that was fine.

Boring or not, it didn’t change the situation. Didn’t change the fact that she probably didn’t want this marriage any more than he did. Didn’t change the fact that, like it or not, she was about to become his problem.

The small cafe tucked between two old bookstores smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso, the kind of place you’d miss unless you were looking for it. Y/N liked it that way—quiet, steady, familiar. No loud music, no influencers with tripods. Just people who liked good coffee and minding their own business.

She stepped up to the counter, eyes scanning the pastries before glancing at the girl behind the register. “I love your hair,” she said softly, a small smile pulling at her lips. “That color looks really good on you.” The girl blinked, caught off guard, then smiled wide. “Oh! Thank you—I just dyed it last week.”

Y/N nodded, pleased. Compliments were easy. They made people softer. And the girl was pretty, her pastel blue curls tucked behind her ear like she wasn’t sure yet if she liked them. Little things like that made the world feel less sharp.

She ordered her coffee, tucked herself into the corner seat like she always did, pulling her notebook out of her bag. Pages filled with messy diagrams, doodles in the margins, recipes scrawled sideways between molecular structures.

What she didn’t notice—what no one noticed—was the man sitting at the table near the window, fingers idly circling the rim of his untouched cup, black baseball cap low over his brow.

Yeosang watched all of it with that same steady, unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much. He wasn’t even sure why he was there. Habit, maybe. Curiosity. Boredom. The fact that the more he found out about her, the more it didn’t add up with what he expected. Normal girls didn’t compliment strangers just because. Normal girls—especially daughters of families clawing for reputation—were supposed to be fake polite. Smile, nod, move on. But she meant it. He could tell. You didn’t fake that kind of tone.

He watched the way she curled into herself, scribbling in that notebook like the rest of the world didn’t exist, lips pressed into a soft frown of concentration.

Just a quiet girl who looked like she was holding herself together with coffee and stubbornness.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee, jaw ticking once. This was going to be annoying in a completely different way. Y/N didn’t notice him when she left.

He watched her go, watched the way she shrugged her bag higher onto her shoulder, thumb absentmindedly rubbing at a little ink stain on her wrist from writing earlier. She moved like someone used to being unnoticed, like she liked it that way. The door chimed behind her, soft and forgettable.

Yeosang waited a beat, then stood, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he stepped out onto the street. He wasn’t planning to follow her. Not really. That wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t the lurking type. But something about the whole thing felt unfinished—like he’d walked into a movie halfway through and now he needed to know how it ended, even if it was boring. Especially because it was boring.

She turned down one of the smaller streets, familiar paths clearly mapped in her head. She didn’t hesitate. Not once. Like she’d walked this way so many times her feet didn’t need permission anymore.

Normal. Predictable….Except for the part where, in a few weeks, her life wouldn’t be.

That was the thing gnawing at the edge of his mind. She didn’t know yet. Not fully. Probably knew about the arrangement, sure, but she didn’t know what marrying into his family meant. What marrying him meant. She looked like she still had hope things would be fine. Like she still thought she could negotiate her way out of it if she used the right tone with her father.

Cute.

He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t the type to tear down someone just because he could. But he wasn’t about to let someone walk into his life acting like it was optional.

This marriage was happening. She was going to be his. And the sooner she realized that, the easier it was going to be for both of them.

Yeosang sighed, pulling his cap lower as he turned the opposite direction, heading back toward his car. No point in being seen. Not yet. He’d play it properly, like he always did—let the introductions happen the way their fathers arranged, act like this was his first time seeing her. Civil. Normal.

For now, she could keep her quiet cafes and notebooks full of diagrams.

Soon enough, she’d be sitting across from him at a dinner table pretending she wasn’t thinking about escape routes.

And when that time came—

He’d enjoy watching the fight leave her eyes when she realized there weren’t any.

The dining room was too polished. Everything in it felt like it belonged in a magazine—heavy chairs, polished forks, crystal glasses that didn’t belong to people who used them often. It smelled faintly like expensive old wood and control.

Y/N sat straight, shoulders set, jaw locked like she’d been preparing for this her entire life. Polite daughter. Obedient. Chin slightly tilted up—not too much to look rude, just enough to show she wasn’t going to shatter on command.

Across the table, Yeosang sat with his elbow resting lazily on the armrest, fingers tapping slow against the tablecloth. His gaze was on her, not in the obvious way, not wide-eyed or curious—more like someone reading a file they already memorized but going over it again for fun.

“So,” his father started, formal tone sharp around the edges, “this is long overdue.”

Her father chuckled lightly, already halfway sunk into the leather chair like this was a golf meeting. “We’ve been meaning to sit down properly.”

Yeosang barely blinked. “Mm.”

Y/N didn’t look at him at first. Her eyes were trained on her plate, expression soft but unreadable, like she’d pulled politeness over herself like armor. When she finally did glance at him, it wasn’t shy—it was calculated. Brave. Probably spent the last week practicing it in the mirror.

Didn’t matter.

He knew everything already. Biology major. Draws on the side. Probably keeps her yarn stuffed in a drawer somewhere in that tiny bedroom of hers. Ordinary, and for some reason, that irritated him more than anything else could have.

Their parents carried the conversation like businessmen. Deals, family names, subtle remarks about strengthening ties. It wasn’t a dinner—it was a contract, disguised in roast chicken and overpriced wine.

Yeosang’s eyes didn’t leave her.

Y/N shifted her grip on the napkin under the table, folding it tighter in her palm. Eyes stayed low—not on purpose, not because she was scared—but because eye contact always felt like permission for people to ask more questions. And she wasn’t in the mood to explain herself to anyone at that table.

Yeosang sat across from her, speaking with her father like he wasn’t being sized up for marriage. Confident. Comfortable in a room full of expectations. His voice was steady, like someone used to being listened to, used to having the final word in a conversation. The kind of steady that didn’t need raising.

His father said something about ties between families. Her father hummed in agreement. Someone poured more wine. The edge of Yeosang’s gaze cut toward her briefly. He didn’t stare. Just checked. Like someone glancing at a watch to see how much longer they had to stay.

“So,” his voice finally reached her side of the table, low, smooth, without decoration, “biology.”

Her fork hovered, not quite raised, not quite lowered. “Yeah.”

He waited. No explanation followed. No polite rambling about how she got into it, what she wanted to do with it, how hard it was balancing studies with life. Just that quiet confirmation, like she wasn’t going to give him more than that unless dragged.

Something about that pulled a faint curve to the corner of his mouth—not a smile, not even close, just interest. Her fingers folded the napkin tighter.

“You gonna finish that?” he asked, eyes flicking to the untouched half of roasted potatoes on her plate.

Finally, her eyes met his. Not soft, not flirty—flat. Careful. “Do you want it?”

He shrugged once. “Didn’t think you were shy about eating.” “I’m not.”

He raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. “Good.”

Silence again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just two people used to not needing to fill it. Her father started speaking about how she could continue studying after marriage, casual, like saying we’ll paint the guest room next week. She didn’t bother correcting him, though the heaviness in her chest said she wanted to. No way it would actually work that easily.

She didn’t say anything else for the rest of the meal. Yeosang didn’t, either.

He just watched her, like a lion watching something small—not because he wanted to pounce, but because he was curious if it was going to run. Neither of them moved first.

Yeosang watched the way her fingers kept folding the napkin tighter and tighter, like if she could just make it small enough, she could disappear into it. But her expression didn’t match the tension in her hands. She didn’t look flustered. Didn’t look desperate. Just… controlled. Like someone who’d been living with locked doors their whole life and knew better than to jiggle the handle too loud. Interesting.

“Do you usually not talk,” he murmured, cutting into the silence, “or is that just for me?”

The faintest breath of humor pulled at her nose before she could stop it. “Depends.”

“On?”

She let her gaze flick up—not to his eyes, just above them. “Whether or not the person across from me deserves it.” His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a second, he almost laughed. Almost. This wasn’t what he expected. Spoiled daughters didn’t sit at tables folding napkins into perfect squares like they were holding knives in their laps.

And she didn’t look at him properly, not even once. Not because she was scared. Because she didn’t care. But she would.

Not in the way girls cared about him normally. Not wide-eyed or hopeful. No, she was going to care when she realized exactly how much of her life was about to be decided for her whether she folded napkins or full pages of essays. And the funny thing was—he didn’t want to break her. He just wanted to watch how long she could hold that line before she blinked first.

After the dinner dragged itself to its dull, polished conclusion, with the adults shaking hands over dessert like they’d just signed a treaty, Yeosang leaned back in his chair, elbow resting against the polished wood, fingertips brushing his jaw like he was thinking something over. And maybe he was. But the look in his eyes said this was calculated.

“So,” he said casually, but with the kind of weight that immediately drew the attention of both families, “how about next Thursday?”

The words dropped into the space between them with a deliberate softness, like a stone hitting still water. No one moved. His father raised a brow slightly, clearly pleased with the display of initiative. Her father smiled, the kind of smile fathers wear when they think their daughter’s life is finally falling in line. And Y/N—Y/N kept her fingers on the edge of her plate, eyes flickering up to Yeosang, finally, properly, but only for a second.

“Thursday?” she echoed, like she needed to make sure she heard him right, even though she absolutely had.

He nodded once, slow, composed. “Next week. You’ll be free, won’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. Not with the way every eye at that table turned toward her, expectant, waiting for her to be agreeable. Marriage was already settled like property; a casual dinner date wasn’t going to shake the foundation of that, but somehow, this felt worse.

Her jaw tensed before she could stop it, irritation curling hot under her ribs—not because she didn’t expect him to test her, but because he chose Thursday. Her only weekday off. Her only breathing space. Her only time where nobody expected her to be anything, say anything, do anything. She studied late on Thursdays, sometimes sat in the library doing nothing but scribbling messy notes on scrap paper that didn’t mean anything, just because she could. And now he was looking at her like he knew that. Like he’d planned that.

“I suppose,” she muttered, voice clipped, polite, lined with quiet annoyance that no one but him seemed sharp enough to hear. “Since you’ve already picked the day for me.”

Their fathers chuckled, pleased at the display of future marital bliss like they were in on some great joke. His father gave him that approving glance—the good, take responsibility look that was passed between powerful men in rooms like this. But Yeosang wasn’t watching anyone else. Just her. Measuring. Testing. Curious how far she could fold before snapping.

“You’ll like it,” he said simply. No tease. No apology. No smile.

She didn’t respond. Just folded the napkin in her lap one more time before setting it neatly on the table like she was handling something fragile. She didn’t look at him again, not because she was shy, but because she knew better. If she did, it’d feel like she was giving him something.

And right now, she wasn’t in the mood to give him anything. But she was curious now. Why Thursday?

Yeosang saw everything. He wasn’t sitting there with that calm posture and steady gaze for show—he was trained for this, raised on discipline sharper than any blade, molded under the expectation that one day he would carry the weight of something much heavier than family name. He was observant. Always. And while everyone at that table was busy patting each other’s backs over the success of an arranged marriage neither party asked for, Yeosang was watching her like a map he was learning by memory.

It was the way she folded the napkin—not once, not twice, but over and over. Each time, pressing it smaller, sharper, tucking corners like she wanted it neat but not too neat, controlled but never pristine. People who folded things that many times weren’t trying to fidget—they were trying to manage something they couldn’t put words to. He’d seen it in tense meetings, watched rival leaders smooth the edges of cufflinks or touch their watches repeatedly when they were hiding nerves or holding in words they couldn’t say aloud.

And she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

But that wasn’t the only thing. He caught the tiny shifts in her posture whenever her parents leaned too close, a subtle lean away—not disrespectful, not obvious, just barely enough to create distance like muscle memory. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She managed it. As if that small separation was the only thing keeping her breathing steadily through this whole suffocating display of family pride.

Then there was her food. The careful way she pushed it around her plate, not because she was picky or entitled, but because eating under watchful eyes wasn’t the same as eating alone. Separating textures, shapes, colors, almost like categorizing parts of herself she wasn’t ready to share yet. It wasn’t disinterest—it was control. She was being studied, so she gave them nothing. Not even in the way she chewed.

Most people didn’t notice these things. Hell, most people didn’t even know they did them. But Yeosang saw it all like someone reading subtitles under a movie no one else could hear. And with every fold of that napkin, with every subtle lean of her shoulder, with every glance that never quite met anyone else’s fully, he knew one thing for certain—

She was no ordinary girl.

No spoiled daughter. No meek little thing waiting for a husband to save her from some sheltered life. There was something under that careful silence, something sharp, something waiting. Not the loud kind of defiance—but the quiet kind that made revolutions possible if left alone too long.

Yeosang didn’t know what that thing was yet. But he wanted to. Not to break her. Not to tame her. Not even to get under her skin. He just wanted to see what would happen if someone finally pressed back. And he was more than prepared to be that someone.

But he was no saint, either. Sure, Yeosang was observant. Sure, he was sharp, disciplined, raised on a steady diet of politics, violence, and strategy—but he was also his father’s son. And that bloodline came with one very particular curse: the chronic, unrelenting need to poke at things just to see what sound they made when they cracked. It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even personal. It was just in his bones.

And she—sitting there with her neat napkin folding and careful glances and that stubborn refusal to give him anything—was basically gift-wrapped for that exact kind of cruelty.

Admit it. He was intrigued by her, sure. But more than that, there was an itch under his skin when he looked at her, this annoying, bratty curiosity that made him want to press buttons just to see what she’d do. Not because he wanted to humiliate her. Not because he wanted to watch her fall apart. No, it was because she didn’t flinch. And that was interesting. Different. Everyone flinched eventually—but she just… adjusted.

And she looked cute annoyed.

Not the whiny, spoiled kind of cute. Not the bratty, helpless kind. The kind of cute that made him want to lean closer, just to see if her voice would crack the same way her napkin did under her fingers.

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t even be here, technically, wasting brainpower on reading into a girl he was being forced to marry by family names he didn’t even particularly respect. But here he was, running mental diagnostics on someone’s napkin folding like it was part of a case file, and liking it more than he should.

And if he was going to be dragged into this circus of arranged happiness, he might as well have fun while he was at it.

Testing her? It wasn’t just strategy anymore. It was entertainment. Annoying her? That was just hereditary.

She really didn’t want to go.

Like—borderline, jump-off-the-balcony level of not wanting to go. Not because she thought it would fix anything, not because she was dramatic, but because the sheer dread of giving up the one day that belonged to her made her stomach twist. It was Thursday. Thursday was hers. Her one breath in a week full of held ones. Her one clean, unclaimed square of time where no one asked her to smile, or marry, or fold herself into something palatable.

But she didn’t jump, because that wasn’t how good girls act.

Her mother’s voice echoed in the bathroom as she brushed mascara through her lashes. ‘Be agreeable, Y/N. Don’t embarrass us. You’re not going to be one of those girls with tantrums and police reports. You’re better than that.’

Better. Whatever that meant.

So she got dressed. Pulled on clothes that said I didn’t try but I still look good because if she was going to be dragged into this, she was going to do it on her terms. She tied her shoes like she was tightening a tether around her own ankles. Did her makeup—not too much, not too little, just enough to look alive, to hide the exhaustion that simmered under polite nods and family dinners.

And when she finally looked at herself in the mirror, it wasn’t vanity staring back. It was survival. Thursday. Her Thursday. And now she was about to spend it across from him.

That annoying Yeosang with his sharp eyes and careful words, with his I’m watching you energy and the quiet smugness that didn’t need smiles or stupid flirting to make itself known. She could already hear his voice in her head, perfectly even, perfectly annoying.

And yet—she still tied her hair the way she liked it. Still put on her favorite necklace. Not for him. For herself. Because if she was going to war, she might as well wear armor.

She went down the stairs like muscle memory, footsteps light but steady, not really registering anything around her. Her parents said something—maybe a wish, maybe a warning, maybe one of those sugary “be good” reminders her mother loved so much. But it was all white noise, just the hum of life happening in the background of a mind that was already somewhere else entirely.

She didn’t ignore them on purpose. She was just zoned out. The kind of zoned out where you don’t even realize your keys are already in your hand, or that you locked the door behind you without thinking about it. Automatic. Like when you’re walking to class with music on and suddenly you’re already at the building, but you don’t remember crossing the street.

She didn’t remember leaving the front door. Didn’t remember if she’d even said goodbye, or if her mom had tried to fix the fold of her sleeve one last time like she always did. And she definitely didn’t see him until she stepped out onto the pavement and felt him.

There’s a specific kind of awareness that happens when someone’s eyes are already on you before you’ve noticed them. Like a silent tap on the shoulder. She glanced up—

—and there he was.

Leaning back comfortably in the driver’s seat of a sleek black car, windows down just enough to catch the breeze, one hand draped over the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world. Rap music playing in the background, not quiet but not obnoxiously loud. And that expression—not quite a smile, definitely not a grin, just that irritating curve of satisfaction people wore when they’d predicted something exactly right. Smug wasn’t even the word for it. It was too clean. Too Yeosang. Of course he was already here.

Of course he was watching her like he knew she wouldn’t have noticed him until now. She blinked once, slow, lips pressed in a thin line, and then kept walking. Didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t offer a greeting, just moved like she was late for something even though she wasn’t.

He leaned slightly forward as she approached, tapping his fingers once against the steering wheel, eyes glinting with that silent, irritating amusement.

You walked towards the car, your steps slower than usual, annoyance bubbling up at the sight of him sitting there, looking far too comfortable. You crossed your arms and leaned slightly against the door, giving him a flat look.

“I wasn’t aware you were picking me up,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. It came out a little sharper than intended, but you couldn't help it. This whole thing felt off, like you were being dragged into a game that you hadn’t agreed to play.

Yeosang just looked at you with that annoying, cocky expression, the one that always made your blood boil, and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, you should've been. It’s not like you had many options."

You felt a flicker of irritation, but it quickly settled into a calm mask. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of showing how much he got under your skin. Moving towards the backdoor, you reached for the handle, ready to slide in and get this over with.

Before you could even touch it, the car locked with a loud click.

You froze.

What the hell?

You looked up at him, surprised. He just sat there, still with that casual air, his eyes gleaming as if he was waiting for a reaction.

“Excuse me?” you said, narrowing your eyes.

Without missing a beat, he simply pointed to the passenger seat with an almost lazy gesture. "Sit there."

You blinked at him. You were about to say something—probably something rude—but you stopped yourself. There was no way you were going to let him mess with you like this. Still, you didn’t argue. You didn't have the energy to fight him over something so trivial. The car door opened with a quick swipe, and you slid in, your gaze still sharp but subdued.

Yeosang didn’t speak again as you buckled your seatbelt, his attention shifting to the road as he put the car in drive. The silence between you felt heavy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. It was better this way. Better not to engage, better to keep things surface-level.

The ride was awkward. Well, for you, at least. Yeosang didn’t seem to feel it. His posture was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear, like he was driving down to the beach with friends and not chauffeuring his future wife to some forced date neither of you wanted.

But you sat there, arms crossed, eyes out the window, chewing the inside of your cheek. And then it hit you. Wait. Is that Kendrick Lamar’s Reincarnated playing?

You blinked, eyes flickering toward the dashboard like you could confirm it with just a glance at the stereo. The beat was unmistakable, that heavy bass, sharp snare, and those layered vocals riding smooth over the instrumental. Of all the people to be playing Kendrick Lamar at full volume—it had to be him.

The irritation in your chest shifted slightly, replaced by something… warmer. Familiar. For a second—just a second—you forgot you were on your way to spend your Thursday afternoon with the most annoying man alive. You knew this song. Knew it.

Mentally, you started mouthing the lyrics in your head, matching every bar, every breath, every sharp flip of cadence like muscle memory. Word to word. Clean. Like second skin. It wasn’t loud in your expression, but your mind was in full concert mode, rapping like you’d been waiting for this exact song to save you from the awkwardness.

And for the first time since you sat in that car, you didn’t feel bored.

Without even realizing it, your fingers had started tapping against your thigh, following the beat with this natural kind of ease that only happens when something feels right. The awkwardness melted just slightly—not completely, but enough that you didn’t feel like throwing yourself out of the moving car anymore.

But then—

The song ended, and before you could even mourn the silence—another Kendrick song started playing. Different album. Same vibe. Same unmistakable energy. You frowned slightly, eyes flicking to the stereo now like it had betrayed you. Two Kendrick songs in a row? Coincidence?

You sat there for a second, staring ahead, lips pressing into a thin line as your brain worked overtime. Sure, it could’ve been a coincidence. Everyone liked Kendrick, right? But this felt… deliberate. Like someone had put it on a playlist. Was he doing it on purpose? Is he a fan too?

You glanced at him, cautious, like you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of catching you interested—but curiosity was starting to override irritation. He was just driving like usual, one hand lazily adjusting the volume like it was background noise to him. But something about how casual he looked felt rehearsed.

It didn’t sit right with you. Could’ve been random. Could’ve been a setup. Or… could’ve been both. But either way, you weren’t about to ask first. Nope. Not happening.

You just leaned back against the seat, eyes steady out the window, tapping your fingers again, this time not just because of the beat—but because you were thinking.

Yeosang was way too pleased with himself.

Not that he showed it outwardly—no smug grin, no teasing comments just yet—but inside? Yeah. He was damn near proud. Everything was going exactly how he wanted. Calculated. Controlled. Planned with the kind of precision that came from years of watching, learning, and frankly—being too damn good at reading people.

He knew everything he needed to know about you. Hell—he probably knew more about you than you did. He knew Thursday was your free day. Knew how you carved it out for yourself like it was holy ground. That’s exactly why he chose today to drag you out. Not because he wanted to ruin it. No—because it would be the one thing you couldn’t say no to. You’d either have to cancel your only peace of the week or face him—and he knew you’d pick facing him. Pride. Predictable.

He knew you didn’t like going out—not with family, not with friends, barely even by yourself. So, he came to you. Made it easy. Familiar car. Private. No excuses to back out last minute because “I didn’t feel like taking a cab” or “the bus was crowded”. Nah. He had you cornered, comfortably.

And the music? That wasn’t a coincidence, either. He’d seen the playlist. Hell, he’d memorized the damn playlist. Kendrick Lamar was your favorite in the rap genre, and it just so happened Kendrick was on his heavy rotation too, so it didn’t even feel forced. Just enough familiarity to make you settle in, just enough to make your fingers tap without realizing, to get you thinking maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

He didn’t need to ask you what you liked. He knew what you liked. Yeosang’s father didn’t raise fools—and Yeosang wasn’t about to start disappointing now.

He kept his eyes on the road, face clean of expression, like he didn’t know exactly what you were thinking. Like he hadn’t already played this scene out in his head a dozen times. You were stubborn, yeah—but he was patient. And precise.

He didn’t want to break you. Nah. That was boring. He wanted to watch. Watch how long you could act like you didn’t care. Watch how long you could pretend you weren’t curious. Watch how long it took before you realized—you weren’t the only one with sharp edges.

And yeah, he liked rap too. Lucky you.

The car rolled to a smooth stop, the hum of the engine cutting off and leaving behind the faint echo of Kendrick’s verse lingering in your head. You looked around, blinking slowly. Parking lot.

What kind of parking lot? You didn’t know. Big building, a few cars around, that slightly industrial vibe, but nothing familiar. You didn’t go out enough to tell which part of town this was, and frankly—you didn’t care. You just wanted to get this over with.

With a sigh, you reached for your seatbelt, pressing the button to unclip it…Nothing.

You pressed it again, harder this time, like maybe the extra force would convince it to listen to you. Nothing moved. “Oh, come on—” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap now with growing frustration. Typical. Typical. Of course this was happening. On today of all days. And the last thing you wanted to do—the very last—was ask him for help. But pride had limits, and you’d already used up most of yours agreeing to this disaster of a “date.”

You glanced at him reluctantly. “It’s stuck.”

He didn’t even pretend to be surprised. Didn’t flinch, didn’t chuckle—just leaned slightly toward you, unbothered, one hand moving with irritating ease to the buckle. The button clicked effortlessly under his fingers like it had just been waiting for him to do it.

“See?” he murmured, voice low, that smug little undertone threading beneath it. “I knew you’d need me eventually.”

Your jaw clenched, and you shot him a look that could’ve killed a weaker man on the spot. “It was broken.”

“Of course it was,” he replied, tone dripping with mock sympathy, before pushing his door open and stepping out like nothing just happened.

You sat there for a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, wishing the ground would swallow you whole—but no such luck.

Fine. Whatever. You pushed your door open too, standing straight, brushing down your clothes like you hadn’t just been humiliated by a seatbelt. You wouldn’t let him have the last word. Not yet. Not ever.

You followed him, not knowing where you were going, but very aware of two things:

1. This was going to be a long day.

2. You hated how nice his stupid cologne smelled when he walked ahead of you.

But you had no intention of making this easy for him.

So, as soon as you both started walking, you slowed your pace—not obviously, not dramatically—just… enough. Enough to make it mildly irritating. Enough to make him notice. You weren’t even really doing it on purpose; he was just tall, and apparently, tall people had no concept of walking like normal humans. His strides were three of yours combined, and you refused—refused—to jog after him like some lost puppy.

If he wanted to drag you around, he was going to work for it. But the irritating thing? He didn’t say a word. Didn’t huff, didn’t throw a glance over his shoulder, didn’t tell you to hurry up like you half expected. He just walked, silent, hands in his pockets like this was the most casual thing in the world.

Until suddenly, about ten steps ahead, he stopped. Just stood there.

You narrowed your eyes, fully prepared for some passive-aggressive remark or maybe a sarcastic clap. You were ready for it. Bring it on. But instead—he just turned around and… held out his hand. You stared at it like it was something you didn’t understand.

The hell was that supposed to mean?

Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for the usual sharp comment or hidden smirk—but nothing. He just stood there, hand out, expression unreadable but steady. “Grab on,” he said, like it was obvious. You blinked, caught between being offended and… genuinely confused. “What?”

“You’re slow,” he said simply, like he was pointing out the weather. “So grab on.”

You stared at his hand, then back at his face. “I’m not slow. You’re just fast.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said under his breath. “Now grab on before I make you.”

You didn’t move for a second. Pride screamed no, but practicality… well, it was tired of jogging every five steps to keep up. And something about the way he said it—firm, low, steady—not mocking, not playful, just… expecting—it made that prickling nervousness crawl up your spine again. You hated that tone.

But your hand moved anyway, slipping into his, your fingers curling awkwardly, like you didn’t know what to do with yourself. His grip was steady, firm—but not crushing. Not controlling. Just… leading.

Without another word, he started walking again, pulling you gently but efficiently alongside him, adjusting his pace—not entirely slowing down, but enough that you didn’t have to scramble. You hated how… easy it felt. Hated it more that your hand stayed there.

The deeper you both walked, the clearer it got—it wasn’t just some random building or a casual cafe. It was a restaurant. A fancy one.

Not just white tablecloth fancy, but crystal glasses, piano music playing softly in the background, waiters dressed better than your uncles at weddings kind of fancy. And honestly? It was too much.

Your dad never took you to places like this. Never. Said restaurants were a scam, said home food was better, cheaper, cleaner—but you knew better. You’d seen the unpaid bills, the receipts stuffed into drawers, the phone calls with that low, desperate tone he didn’t think you could hear. Gambling debt didn’t leave room for filet mignon or imported wine. You’d spent your life quietly excusing it, brushing it off, pretending you didn’t want this kind of thing anyway.

But standing here now, in this giant pristine place with soft golden lighting and tables spaced way too far apart, you felt like an imposter. Like you were wearing someone else’s shoes in a room you didn’t belong in. It was overwhelming. Too bright. Too clean. Too silent. Everyone here looked like they belonged. And you—you didn’t even know which fork to use first.

You hadn’t realized it at first, but your body did. Instinctively, without even thinking, you found yourself scooting closer to him. Not dramatically—not enough to look weird—but just enough that the space between you narrowed. Like proximity alone could make you smaller, safer, less obvious. The worst part?

It felt natural.

You hated that. Hated that the man you were mentally arguing with for the past hour was now also the one person here who felt vaguely familiar.

Yeosang noticed, of course he did. The tension of your shoulder brushing barely against his arm, the shift of your body tilting slightly toward his—he clocked it instantly. But he didn’t comment. Didn’t give you that teasing remark you were bracing for. Instead, his fingers adjusted slightly around yours, like he was anchoring you there. Silent. Steady. Just a solid presence beside all the marble floors and velvet chairs.

He didn’t say a word. But you felt it anyway. ‘I got you.’

Some guy—manager, waiter, whatever—showed up then, all polite smiles and expensive cologne, greeting Yeosang like they were long-lost friends or something. Said something about the table being ready, offered some words you didn’t really catch because your brain was too busy buzzing with nerves.

You weren’t listening. Didn’t want to. Everything felt too sharp around the edges. Before you could even process it properly, Yeosang had your hand again, guiding you forward with that same casual grip, not giving you the chance to hesitate. It wasn’t forceful, just… confident. Like he already knew you’d follow.

And you did.

He led you through rows of softly murmuring people until you reached a table—not entirely private, but tucked into a little alcove, partly hidden by frosted glass panels and low plants. Enough separation that you didn’t feel like fish in a tank, but not so hidden that it felt awkward. It was nice. Comfortable in a way you hadn’t expected.

Yeosang didn’t miss a beat. He stepped around you and—of course—pulled out the chair. You hesitated for half a second, eyes flickering up at him. No teasing expression. No sharp remark waiting. Just a simple gesture, like this was routine.

You sat down, the chair gliding smoothly beneath you, and he pushed it in with practiced ease. For a brief second, you hated how nice that felt. Not because of him. But because no one had done that before. Not dates, not family, not anyone.

You adjusted your sleeves awkwardly, trying not to fidget, while he walked around and took his own seat, leaning back with that effortless comfort like this was his living room and not a restaurant with menus you probably couldn’t even afford to read.

He picked up the menu with one hand, flipping through it casually like this wasn’t his first time here—which, judging by how the staff greeted him, you were sure it wasn’t. His eyes scanned the pages, sharp and focused, while the other hand rested lazily on the edge of the table. After a moment, he looked up, right at you. “What do you want?”

It shouldn’t have been a complicated question. Normal people would just… answer. Say pasta, steak, whatever. But for some reason, your throat tightened. It wasn’t nerves—not exactly. Just… indecision.

All your life, someone had chosen for you. Your mom, mostly. Always ordering for you at restaurants—never asking, just assuming. Always brushing off your opinions as “It’s not good for you,” or “You won’t like it.” Somewhere along the line, you stopped bothering to decide. It felt easier that way.

So you did the only thing that felt natural, default almost. “Whatever you’re having.” Yeosang paused.

His jaw ticked slightly, almost like he was holding back a sigh—but not in frustration. More like… patience. “That’s not how this works,” he said, voice lower, steady, like someone reasoning with a kid who was trying to eat candy for breakfast. “You don’t just copy.”

You shrugged, defensive, staring at the polished wood of the table. “I don’t know what’s good.”

“It’s not that deep,” he finished for you, lips twitching slightly—but not in mockery, just amusement. “It’s just food. Pick what you want.”

The thing was… no one had ever given you choices like that. Not explained them patiently. Not acted like your opinion actually mattered, even in something as small as dinner. It made your chest feel weirdly tight. Like you wanted to be mad, but couldn’t quite find the reason.

Yeosang didn’t press further. Just leaned back again, waving over the waiter with a lazy flick of his fingers, like this was the most normal thing in the world. But you sat there with the menu still open in your hands, staring at it…

That’s when it hit you—the slow, creeping embarrassment settling in the pit of your stomach.

You didn’t know how to read menus.

Not like literally not knowing how to read, but… you didn’t know how to understand them. Fancy restaurant menus weren’t in normal language—they were in that rich people language. Words like confit, beurre blanc, something-something reduction—you didn’t even know if you were ordering food or furniture. The more you stared at it, the worse it got. Everything blurred together until it just looked like noise on paper.

Your hand twitched slightly on the edge of the menu, the corners of it curling under your fingertips. You didn’t even know how to begin. Finally, you gave up. Quietly. Awkwardly. You placed the menu down and looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time all evening. Gone was the irritation, the stubborn defiance. Instead, it was something softer. Not defeated, but pleading.

“Can you just… choose?” you asked, voice low, almost hoping he wouldn’t make a scene about it.

For a second, he just stared at you. No teasing, no smug smile—just studying you. Calculating. Then, instead of making a big deal about it, he nodded once, sharp, like this was all perfectly normal. “Alright,” he murmured. “But you’re still gonna have choices.”

And then, like it was muscle memory, he listed things off. Simple. No complicated words, no long-winded chef specials.

“Do you want red sauce or white?”

“Chicken or beef?”

“Want dessert or not?”

Just basic questions, no extra fluff. Like someone breaking down rocket science to math tables. By the time he was done, it actually sounded like a meal, not a puzzle.

And without realizing it, you’d started folding the cloth napkin again. Neatly. Sharply. Fold, unfold, fold, unfold. It was muscle memory at this point—your fingers always needed something to do. Something to control, even when nothing else made sense.

Somewhere along the way, he’d passed you his napkin too. You didn’t even notice it. Just that at some point, your hands had another one to work with. Your mind didn’t register it; your body just accepted it, thankful for the extra fabric to keep you grounded.

It was quiet. Subtle. No words, no glances, no gestures. And while you kept folding and unfolding that napkin like your life depended on it, he just sat there across from you, arms resting lazily on the table, ordering both your meals in that steady voice like this wasn’t even a thing.

He didn’t act like he was helping. And you didn’t notice you were being helped.

While you were busy poking at the carefully cut chicken on your plate—eating but not really tasting—Yeosang sat across from you, trying not to lose his mind.

Cuteness aggression. That was the only way to describe it. Like he wanted to bite something or hit the table—not out of anger, but because you were just too much.

It wasn’t just the way you’d quietly surrendered, letting him order for you like it was nothing. It wasn’t just the way your fingers kept working that napkin like you didn’t even know you were doing it. It was the whole picture—the you of it all. Sitting there, looking like the softest thing in the sharpest world.

And that cardigan you were wearing? Please. He could tell by the stitching it was handmade. Probably by you. The unevenness of the cuffs, the slightly imperfect patterns—no brand could fake that kind of charm. You didn’t even know how much that cardigan was giving you away, how much of you was stitched into every row.

It made something in his chest tighten, like he wanted to tuck you somewhere safe. His pocket. A drawer. Somewhere you couldn’t get overwhelmed by menus and loud places and useless fathers.

But he still played it cool, leaning back a little, eyes glinting as he ran his thumb along the edge of his fork like he wasn’t thinking borderline insane things about a girl he just met. He glanced at the cardigan, then back at you, voice dropping casual but knowing.

“You make that?”

You blinked, pausing mid-bite. “What?”

“That cardigan,” he said, tone light, like they were talking about the weather. “You made it?”

You hesitated. Not because you were embarrassed—more because no one really noticed that kind of thing. Definitely not guys like him. But… you nodded. “Yeah.”

A lazy grin, sharp but not mocking, pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Figured. Looks like you.”

That sentence alone made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t have the energy to process. You didn’t even know what that meant. Looked like you? Quiet? Crocheted? Awkwardly stitched together? You didn’t ask. You just looked back down at your plate, busying yourself with another bite, folding that second napkin again like it was holding the fabric of your nerves together.

Meanwhile, Yeosang sat there, feeling way too satisfied with himself. You were dangerously cute. And he was dangerously aware of it.

He dropped you off, making sure you got to your front door before pulling away. You didn’t say much—a quiet “thanks,” barely audible—but you didn’t run away either. Progress.

But by the time he pulled into his father’s estate, parked the car, and stepped into the over-polished marble entrance, he was losing it. Hand over his mouth. Jaw tight. Muscles flexing like he was holding in a scream or something equally embarrassing. What the hell was that?

That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be annoying. Spoiled. Bratty. Some daddy’s princess with acrylic nails and too much perfume. You were supposed to be the type he could dump in a nice apartment and visit once a month with gifts so you’d stay quiet about the whole arrangement.

But you weren’t. You were a mess. An organized, pretty, cardigan-wearing mess.

And worse, you didn’t even know you were cute. You weren’t even trying. You just sat there in that chair at that fancy-ass restaurant, folding napkins like they were some secret escape plan, wearing that handmade sweater like it wasn’t making him feel like an insane person.

And now? Forget that whole buying-another-place plan. That idea was dead the moment he saw how small you looked sitting across from him. No way. You were staying where he could see you. Reach you. Annoy you on purpose if he felt like it. Which he did.

He stood in the foyer of his father’s mansion, hand dragging down his face, pacing a little in his boots.

God. He felt like squealing. Like actually kicking something, or punching the air, or rolling on the expensive carpet like a twelve-year-old with a crush.

“This is insane,” he muttered to himself, like saying it out loud would make it make sense. It didn’t.

You were in his head. Neatly folded like that stupid napkin you kept twisting around your fingers. And for the first time in a long time, Kang Yeosang didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh, scream, or marry you right now.

The moment Yeosang stepped further into the house, hand dragging down his face, muttering like a lunatic, he heard it—the unmistakable voice of his old man echoing from the sitting room. “Why the hell do you look like a teenage girl who just got her first crush?”

Yeosang didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even stop pacing. Just waved his hand dismissively, as if to say don’t start. His father stood there in his usual crisp shirt, whiskey glass in hand like always, giving him that unimpressed look fathers reserve for sons who don’t follow in their exact footsteps.

“I’m serious,” his father huffed, stepping forward. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you here anyway? Thought you liked hiding in that overpriced shoebox you call an apartment.”

Yeosang finally dropped his hand from his face, side-eyeing him, unimpressed. “Renovation,” he grumbled. “It’s getting fixed up. You want me to sleep on the street?” His father scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “You could’ve stayed at one of the hotels we own.”

“Right. And let everyone think I’m homeless now. Good look for a mafia heir.” The older man narrowed his eyes, recognizing that tone. That annoying tone Yeosang always used when he was about to get smart-mouthed. “So why are you pacing around here like some lovesick idiot?”

Yeosang clicked his tongue, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. “It’s your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You’re the one that set me up with her.”

His father’s brow lifted. “Did she bite?”

“She didn’t even blink.”

That made his father laugh. Really laugh. Like belly laugh, hand pressed to his chest, deep and loud in that expensive, echoey house.

“God,” Yeosang muttered under his breath. “You’re actually enjoying this.”

“Of course I am,” his father smirked. “Finally met someone who doesn’t fall apart under your pretty-boy nonsense. Good. You needed that.”

Yeosang rolled his jaw, annoyed beyond belief, but honestly? His dad wasn’t wrong. His father waved his glass toward him. “What’s the problem, then? I thought you were going to dump her in a penthouse and get on with life.”

“Yeah, that plan’s dead.”

“Why?”

Yeosang just stood there, defeated. “She’s too—”

“What? Petty? Weird? Mean?”

“…Soft.”

His father blinked, confused. “Soft?”

Yeosang didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Soft in a way that made him want to ruin someone’s life if they made you cry. Soft in a way that made him want to drag you closer by the wrist when you got overwhelmed. Soft in a way that pissed him off because he liked it too much. His father just shook his head, amused, like he knew exactly what kind of hell Yeosang was walking into. “Good luck with that, Romeo.”

“Shut up.”

You did not expect this. A casual text? Fine. Him calling you just to “check in”? Annoying, but tolerable. Even him dragging you out on those stupid dates now and then—you could live with that. But this? Showing up to your university?

What the actual hell was wrong with him?

It wasn’t even subtle. Of course it wasn’t subtle. Not with that stupid black car of his parked right at the entrance, shining like a beacon of unwanted attention. Not with him leaning against the door like he was shooting a damn commercial, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses pushed into his hair, looking like every other man’s nightmare and every other woman’s distraction.

And people noticed. Oh, they noticed. Girls whispering, eyes widening, phones coming out to take sneaky pictures. A group of guys near the library basically breaking their necks trying to get a better look. And you?

You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. He had the audacity to wave at you. Like this was normal. Like this wasn’t blowing up the very careful life of low attention, quiet exits, don’t talk to me I’m just here to graduate you had built for yourself.

You speed-walked. Not even pretending anymore. Walked up to him so fast it looked like you were about to commit a crime. “What the hell are you doing?” you hissed under your breath, shoving at his shoulder, eyes darting around like you were being followed by paparazzi.

“Picking you up,” he said, casual as you liked, like this wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of your life unfolding in real time.

“Get in the car,” you snapped. “Now.”

And, the bastard, he laughed. Laughed like this was a game.

Still, he obeyed, sliding into the driver’s seat like he was doing you a favor. You yanked the passenger door open, practically diving inside, head ducked like you were avoiding a sniper.

The moment the door shut you rounded on him. “Are you insane?”

“I missed you,” he said, like that explained anything.

“You could’ve— texted me or something! I don’t need the whole uni thinking I’m with someone rich”

“You are with someone rich,” he corrected, one hand casually gripping the wheel, the other resting over the gear like this was a Sunday drive.

The car came to a stop in front of this sleek-looking storefront, all black glass and warm lighting, like one of those places you only see rich people walk into on TV shows. And because your life apparently wasn’t embarrassing enough, Yeosang parked like he owned the building.

You looked at the place, then at him. “What is this?”

“Jewelry,” he answered flatly, already stepping out of the car. Jewelry. Jewelry. As if that explained anything.

Before you could argue or even think, he came around, opened your door, and like a villain from a drama, dragged you inside by the wrist—not harsh, but determined. The cold from the street clung to your clothes, your boots crunching against the salted sidewalk, but the moment you stepped inside—it was warm. Not just warm, but that kind of luxury warm, where the air smells faintly of expensive perfume and everything feels soft, even though nothing should be.

And you? You immediately felt your whole body loosen, just a little. It wasn’t even intentional. The cold had been biting, sharp against your ears and the tip of your nose, and this? This was dangerous. Comforting. You could rot here, honestly. Just melt into one of the velvet chairs and stop existing.

Yeosang noticed.

Of course he noticed. He didn’t miss anything about you. The way your shoulders relaxed. The way you almost—almost—let your head drop forward like you could fall asleep standing there.

He wanted to bite you. No, seriously. Bite. His jaw clenched just thinking about it. You looked too cute. With your knitted cardigan, snow-dusted boots, fidgety fingers already tugging at the sleeves. It was criminal. Illegal. Someone should lock you up for being this dangerous in public.

But he was strong. Barely. Barely holding himself back from grabbing you by the face and just—squishing. Maybe even kissing that stupid annoyed expression off of you. Would’ve been worth it. You were too busy shaking the snow from your sleeves to notice him battling for his sanity two feet away.

An employee walked over, all smiles and professional greetings, asking what you both needed today. You blinked at her like a deer caught in headlights.

Yeosang spoke first. “Rings.”

You snapped your head to him. “What?”

“For the engagement,” he said calmly, like duh, obviously. Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You dragged me here for that? You could’ve warned me—”

“And ruin the surprise of watching you panic in real-time? No thanks.” You glared daggers into his skull, wishing you could teleport out of your own skin. “You’re evil.”

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes lazily drifting over the display cases. “Yours?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Ring size.”

“I—I don’t know!”

His lips quirked—not a smirk, you banned those, but just that annoying, knowing twitch that told you he was enjoying this too much. “Figures. Guess we’ll find out together.” You honestly might combust right there on the jewelry shop floor.

Yeosang walked toward the counter with the same energy as someone about to close a business deal. Calm. Focused. Casual power.

You stayed frozen for a beat, still stunned at the whole situation, until your feet moved on their own. Before you realized it, you were right beside him, eyes locking onto the display.

And that’s when it hit you. The rings. They were gorgeous. Not just shiny-for-the-sake-of-shiny—but delicate, beautiful. Rings with elegant stones, simple but detailed bands, not the overdone flashy stuff but the kind that made you think: if I wore that, maybe I wouldn’t feel so small.

You leaned in without realizing, gaze scanning over each one like a kid at a candy store—but also a little sad. You never let yourself want things like that. What was the point? Your parents could never buy you things like this. You grew up being handed the practical, the necessary. Wanting was a waste of time.

But Yeosang saw it. All of it.

The way your fingers twitched at your sides like you wanted to reach out but didn’t. The slight glassiness in your stare—not tears, but that lost look people got when they wanted something badly but were too used to swallowing it down.

To him? Your eyes were sparkling. Bright, full of that light people only showed when they forgot to hide. He couldn’t stop looking at you. The whole room could’ve caught fire, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

He leaned closer, voice lower. “See something you like?”

You snapped out of it, blinking up at him like you’d just been caught stealing. “I—I was just looking,” you muttered, instantly defensive, shoving your hands into the sleeves of your cardigan. “Didn’t say I wanted anything.”

But Yeosang wasn’t even listening to the words coming out of your mouth. He was too busy cataloguing everything you didn’t say. The spark. The hesitation. The soft way your lip pressed against your teeth when you held back from speaking. You weren’t loud, weren’t clingy, weren’t bratty like he thought you might be—you were quiet. Observant. Someone who shrank herself just to survive.

Yeah, no. You weren’t leaving his sight ever again. “Good,” he said, nonchalantly signaling to the employee. “Because we’re not leaving until you try some on.” You shot him a glare. “What is this, Pretty Woman?” “More like Pretty Annoyed Fiancée.” His eyes flicked down to you, sharp and amused. “C’mon. Humor me.”

You stared at the rows and rows of rings like they were mocking you. Every shape, every color, every shine — how the hell were you supposed to pick one? Your fingers hovered over the glass, not touching, just hovering, like maybe the right one would start glowing or something. But nothing did.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. It was that you liked all of them, and also none of them, because your brain kept whispering, what if you pick the wrong one? What if you regret it? You didn’t get choices growing up, not real ones. Every decision was always someone else’s to make for you — your clothes, your food, even your damn hair. The few times you got to choose something, it was met with criticism or disappointment. No wonder your chest felt tight standing here.

“I can’t,” you muttered under your breath, frustrated. “They all look… I don’t know.” Yeosang watched, hands tucked in his pockets, silent. But not with judgment. More like studying. He could see it happening—the way you kept retreating into yourself, that familiar shrinking posture like you were bracing for someone to yell at you for being annoying or difficult.

He didn’t like that. Not one bit.

Without warning, he stepped closer, leaning down near your ear, voice lower, firmer. “We’re not doing that here.” You blinked up at him. “What—” “We’re not doing that thing where you act like you’re a burden for existing,” he continued, tone steady but not harsh. “You like something, you say it. You don’t like something, you say it. You don’t have to know what you want right now, but don’t stand here apologizing for breathing.”

Your throat went dry. No one’s ever talked to you like that before. Not mean. Not fake sweet. Just… steady. Like he meant it. Like he wasn’t going to move until you heard him. “I’m not apologizing,” you finally muttered, defensive. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re folding into yourself like someone’s about to slap your wrist.”

Your jaw tightened. “That’s just how I stand.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, not convinced for a second.

You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to crawl under the display case and disappear. But somewhere deep down, embarrassingly deep, you also wanted to grab his sleeve and lean into him like a tired stray cat. But instead, you just shoved your sleeves up higher and looked at the rings again. “Fine. I’ll try some.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, barely loud enough to catch, but you caught it. And you hated that you liked how it sounded.

You picked up one of the rings, delicate and shimmering with tiny embedded stones. It wasn’t flashy in the way rich people wear things—it was pretty. Simple. Something you could see yourself wearing every day.

But then it hit you like a slap. The price. What the hell were you doing? Just choosing whatever looked nice like you weren’t broke half your life? Like your mom didn’t yell at you for picking snacks that were ₹20 more expensive than the local brand?

You started searching the display, eyes darting, looking for price tags like a madwoman. But it was one of those places. No prices on anything. Which only meant one thing—if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Panic started tightening in your chest. You weren’t stupid. You knew this whole setup was expensive. Expensive coat racks, expensive chairs, expensive air. And here you were like some idiot playing dress-up, picking rings you couldn’t afford in three lifetimes. “Uh… what’s the price on these?” you asked quietly, almost hoping he didn’t hear you.

But of course he did.

Yeosang, standing beside you with his annoying posture of “I own everything I touch,” just glanced down at you, one brow raised. “Why?” You gave him a look. “What do you mean why? They’re probably… crazy expensive. I don’t wanna-” “You think I brought you here to worry about prices?” he interrupted, eyes sharp now.

You blinked. “Well, yeah? This isn’t a grocery store, I can’t just-” “Do I look like the kind of man who’s going to let you think about numbers right now?” His tone wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t soft, either. It was just… Yeosang. Calm, slightly amused, slightly annoyed, fully in charge.

You hated how warm your ears felt.

“I don’t—”

“I said pick.”

His voice was low this time. Not rude. Not cold. Just that tone that slides down your spine and makes your stomach clench in the weirdest way. Firm. Dominant, even. But not because he was trying to be macho—it was just who he was. You stood there frozen for a second before whispering, “They don’t even have prices on them—”

“They don’t have prices,” he cut you off, leaning closer so only you could hear, “because the people who shop here don’t need to ask.”

You swore your knees nearly gave out.

“And right now,” he added, hand lightly brushing your lower back as if guiding you forward, “you’re with me. So that makes you one of those people. Pick.” You swallowed hard, looked down at the rings, then up at him.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Or,” he added, eyes glinting, “do you want me to choose for you again?”

God help you—you almost said yes.

The wedding was hectic.

Not in the “fun chaos” way you saw in movies—no, this was suffocating. Your cheeks hurt from fake smiling at people you didn’t even know. The scent of flowers was so strong it made you lightheaded. The jewelry was heavy, and the outfit? Beautiful, yeah, but you could barely breathe.

After the ceremony, when the music was loud and people were starting to eat, you sat in a corner. Just existing. You were chewing blandly on some sweet, not even tasting it. The small cushion under you was probably worth someone’s rent, but you sat like you were at some boring family reunion.

Yeosang did ask you last month if you wanted to invite your friends. You had been fixing your cardigan sleeve at the time and barely looked up. “Don’t really… have any.”

It wasn’t sad when you said it. Just a fact. You said it the way someone says, “Yeah, I don’t like tea,” or “I’ve never been to Goa.” Just plain. But you felt it sting more now, seeing his friends—8 of them—laughing on the other side of the venue like this was just some party.

Meanwhile, you sat with your cousin. The only one in your family who didn’t belittle you constantly or make subtle comments about you being “too old to be unmarried” or “too quiet for your own good.” He didn’t say much either. Probably didn’t even care. But you preferred that. Quiet company was better than company with sharp tongues.

Your eyes wandered across the room. Yeosang was standing with his friends, of course. One of them threw his arm around Yeosang’s shoulder, laughing about something. And then Yeosang glanced at you. It was brief—but he looked. And when his gaze met yours, it wasn’t pity, or amusement, or even awkwardness.

It was… knowing.

Like he knew you didn’t want to be there. Like he understood exactly what it felt like to be surrounded by noise and not feel like you belonged in it. And for a moment—just a second—you didn’t feel alone in that room. Of course, the moment passed when your cousin nudged you and asked if you were going to eat your chicken.

You gave it to him without a word, gaze still lingering on the man across the room who, apparently, now belonged to you.

The ride home was torture. Your jewelry felt like chains, the embroidery on your dress scratched at your skin with every small shift, and your hair—oh god, your scalp was screaming. You sat awkwardly, pressed up against the door, knees at an angle because the fabric wouldn’t let you sit properly.

And Yeosang? He just drove like it was a normal day. Relaxed hand on the steering wheel, other resting against his thigh, occasionally glancing your way. He didn’t say anything, but you knew he noticed you shifting every two minutes like you were sitting on needles.

By the time the car pulled up at the apartment complex, you were two seconds away from just tearing the sleeves off like some dramatic soap opera character.

It was late—too late for nosy neighbors or anyone else to be hanging around. The whole building was quiet except for the low hum of the elevators. You followed him silently, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. And when the elevator doors opened to his place—

Yeah. Pinterest board aesthetic.

It wasn’t over-the-top, but it was intentional. Clean lines, warm lighting—not those harsh white bulbs like your home had. The couch looked like it cost someone’s college tuition, blankets folded neatly on the armrest like it was straight out of a home decor photoshoot. Shelves with actual books. Art that wasn’t mass-produced prints. Little ceramic things on the side tables that you didn’t know the use of but looked expensive anyway.

It didn’t smell like dust or old carpet or fried onions like your house did after your mom cooked. It smelled like sandalwood and something slightly musky. Like him.

You just stood there by the entrance like a misplaced sticker on a clean page. He casually dropped his keys in a tray by the door and started undoing the buttons on his sleeves, rolling them up forearms first. “You wanna change?”

Did you wanna change? You were two seconds away from climbing out of your own skin. You nodded silently.

Without a word, he pointed to a hallway. “Third door. Closet’s in there. Pick whatever. Bathroom’s attached.” As if it was nothing to offer someone full access to his wardrobe. As if he hadn’t just brought his brand new wife into his home like someone bringing home takeout. You shuffled off like some fancy-dressed raccoon, already planning which oversized shirt you were gonna steal first.

You padded out of the bathroom, freshly freed from that suffocating dress, now wearing a soft oversized t-shirt that smelled like detergent and someone else’s cologne, paired with pajama pants that pooled a bit at your ankles. Your hair was a mess, makeup slightly smudged from your tired hands rubbing your face. But you couldn’t care less. Comfort first.

Yeosang was already lounging on the couch, changed into a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders just right and grey sweatpants, one ankle lazily crossed over the other. Casual. Comfortable. Infuriatingly attractive. You stood there, awkward, arms crossed, twisting your fingers like you always did. “Where… where am I supposed to sleep?”

He didn’t even hesitate. Just pointed with two fingers toward the hallway. “Second room on the right.” You nodded and started walking, but something tugged at you. A gut feeling. Something wasn’t right. Second room…

Curiosity dragged you to peek, and when you opened the door, your stomach dropped. Black sheets. Black pillows. Black walls. Not pitch dark, but matte—sleek. Expensive. His room. You didn’t need to ask. That man screamed black-on-black energy. You stormed back into the living room, eyes narrowed. “That’s your room.”

He looked up from his phone slowly, mouth twitching—not into a smirk, just that faint amusement he always wore when he knew he was pushing your buttons. “Yeah. I know.” You stared at him, blinking. “Why did you point me there?” He set his phone down like this was about to be a full conversation. “We’re married now. Married people share a bed.”

You gawked at him. “That’s not a rule.”

“It is now.”

God, you hated that. That casual dominance. Not loud, not aggressive. Just matter of fact. Like he said it, so it’s law now.

“You’re annoying.”

“You married me.”

“We were arranged.”

“Same thing.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck, turning on your heel to storm back to the room. And yet… you didn’t really argue more, did you? Because deep down, under the irritation, you couldn’t help but feel that same stupid warmth creeping up your neck.

If he wanted to be cocky, fine. Two can play that game.

You marched back to his room like you owned the place, plopped yourself dead in the center of the king-sized bed, limbs spread like a starfish, sinking into the expensive sheets like you were born for this. If he wanted drama, you were going to give him cinema. Moments later, the door creaked open, and you heard his footsteps approaching. You didn’t look. You just knew from the way the air shifted, from the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of fabric softener on the bedding.

Silence for a second. Then—“Really?”

You cracked an eye open. He was standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the faintest curve on his lips—not quite a smile, not quite mockery. “You’re gonna starfish in my bed?”

You yawned, stretching even further like a cat on a sunny windowsill. “You said it was our bed,” you said pointedly, throwing his own words back at him with venom-laced sweetness. “I’m just following instructions.”

He looked at you for a beat longer. Then, very slowly, very annoyingly, grinned. “Fine,” he said, voice deep and lazy. “But if you stay like that, I’ll just sleep on top of you.” Your eyes snapped open fully, heart jolting so fast it almost echoed in your ears. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

It wasn’t even a threat—it was a promise. That calm tone, that glint in his eyes—he meant it.

You groaned and scrambled to your side of the bed, flustered beyond measure, hating him more with every second and somehow hating yourself for feeling heat crawling up your neck. “You’re insane,” you muttered, adjusting the pillow aggressively.

Behind you, you could practically hear his satisfied smirk, even though you weren’t going to turn around to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face.

“Married life, sweetheart,” he murmured, climbing in on his side, making the mattress dip. “Welcome to it.”

You didn’t know what devil possessed you to say it, but the words just slipped out, dripping with faux innocence as you looked straight at him.

“I have weird sleeping habits,” you murmured casually, adjusting the blanket like it was the most normal conversation. “Like… I’ll keep rubbing my leg on yours until you put your leg on top of mine.”

Silence.

You didn’t dare look at him yet, but you could feel the way his posture stiffened beside you, like your words short-circuited something in that annoyingly sharp brain of his. Then—softly, almost too casual—came his voice, deep and quiet, “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You slowly turned your head to him, blinking, pretending to be confused. “What do you mean?” His jaw tensed slightly, like he was holding back a laugh—or something else. “I mean—” he leaned in just a bit, enough for his voice to drop that octave lower that made your stupid heart stutter, “—if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna start wondering if you want me to put my leg over yours.”

You hated that heat crawling up your skin, hated that he was good at this stupid game, hated that he was better at it than you, hated that you wanted to keep going anyway.

So you did.

“Why would I want that?” you shot back, voice steady, gaze sharp but your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a habit.”

“Right,” he said, laying his head on the pillow now, one arm tucked behind his head, looking absolutely unbothered. “Just a habit.”

You laid down too, facing the other way, stubborn. The tension between you two was thick, and you both knew it. Then, after a beat, you felt it—the slow weight of his leg draping lazily over yours. “I’m just helping with your habit,” he murmured, so close you felt the warmth of his breath by your ear.

“I’m serious,” you said, voice flat, not backing down. “It’s true. I can’t sleep unless someone’s leg is over mine. And I always hug something too. It’s like—comfort or whatever. Dunno. Been like that since forever.”

Honestly, you thought that would be the final straw. That he’d roll his eyes, scoff, maybe throw a pillow at you and head to the couch like any sane person would. Maybe you were hoping for that. Maybe you didn’t want to admit how weirdly safe this felt. Either way, you braced yourself for irritation, for that cocky remark, for something.

But nothing came.

Instead—you missed it—the way Yeosang stared at you like he was physically restraining himself. Like some internal monologue was yelling don’t say it, don’t call her cute, don’t ruin it, don’t scare her off. But how could he not? You? Looking like that? Saying stuff like that? In his bed? Wrapped in his blanket, in his shirt? Talking about hugging things like you weren’t already curled up like a goddamn kitten?

He was having a crisis.

“Okay,” he finally said, calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm. You frowned, glancing back at him. “Okay?” “Yeah.” He adjusted slightly, the mattress dipping with his weight. “Leg’s already over yours. Go ahead. Hug something.”

You glared at him. “I don’t have anything to hug.” His lips quirked slightly at that. Barely. But you caught it.

“You’ve got two arms, don’t you?” You wanted to slap him. Genuinely. But also—not really.

Fine. FINE.

You stubbornly grabbed the pillow, hugging it tight to your chest and trying to sleep. Silent. Annoyed. Flustered. All of it. And Yeosang? He laid there, eyes on the ceiling, teeth sinking into his lip just to physically restrain himself from smiling like an idiot. If only you knew how close he was to dragging you into his chest just to see how flustered you’d get then.

Cute. Way too cute. He was so screwed.

You were out. Completely gone, knocked out like you hadn’t had proper sleep in weeks. Leg tucked neatly under his like you said you would, hugging his pillow like your life depended on it, your face mushed against the fabric, lips slightly parted in a soft pout you didn’t even know you had.

Yeosang was having a spiritual crisis. What was this? What was this feeling? Cuteness aggression? Probably. He felt like he could actually bite you. Not to hurt you—god no—but just to—argh—because how could one human look that cute doing absolutely nothing?

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding softly as he stared at you, eyes darting between the way your fingers curled into the pillow, to the little crease forming on your cheek from the way you were pressed against it.

It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t be allowed. He felt like punching the wall just to let some of the weird, frustrated fondness out of his system. The urge to squeeze you like some plush toy was nearly overwhelming.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know.

Didn’t know the way you’d completely tangled yourself around his leg without a second thought. Didn’t know how absolutely tiny you looked curled up in his bed. Didn’t know how soft your breathing sounded in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Yeosang stared at the ceiling for a good minute, breathing slow, eyes closed, fighting the very cellular urge in his bones to scoop you up and just—keep you. Like, forever. Pocket you. Protect you. Instead, he carefully shifted, tucking the blanket around you a little tighter, letting your leg stay right where it was. He glanced at you one last time before shutting his own eyes.

Completely, utterly ruined by the universe. Absolutely smitten. And you? You just drooled a little on his pillow.

Perfect.

Morning light spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and annoyingly gentle. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightness—and then it hit you.

You were holding something warm. Something that breathed. It wasn’t a pillow. It was him.

Your heart stopped for a solid second. Somewhere between falling asleep and now, the pillow had betrayed you—replaced by Yeosang. Your arm was across his torso, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. Worse, one of your legs had completely decided that boundaries were optional and had hooked over his, practically hugging him like some oversized teddy bear.

What the actual—

You moved so carefully, like one wrong twitch would make the earth explode. Slowly untangling yourself, your breath hitched when you saw his hand resting lazily over your arm, like he’d pulled you closer in his sleep. That just made it worse.

Finally, finally, you untangled yourself, slipping out of bed like a secret agent on a stealth mission. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but your entire body was flushed with embarrassment anyway. Without sparing him another glance, you practically ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

The second you were alone, you let out a silent scream, face buried in your hands. God. Why. Why you. You turned the shower on, letting the sound of running water drown out your embarrassment. Maybe you could drown in it too while you were at it.

Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Yeosang cracked one eye open, staring at the ceiling with the smallest ghost of a grin.

“Thought so,” he whispered to himself. That damn pillow never stood a chance.

Yeosang lay there, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. His hand absentmindedly touched the part of his shirt where your hand had been curled into just moments ago. The warmth was gone, but the imprint of it — of you — stuck like some permanent tattoo on his chest.

What the hell was this feeling? No, seriously, what was this feeling?

He had always thought love was supposed to be a slow thing. Like aging whiskey. Like taking your sweet time to ruin someone in a chess game. But this? This felt like a truck hit him. A small, anxious kitten-shaped truck with pouty lips and messy hair in the morning.

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. You were barely in his life for what? Few months? And yet here he was, already thinking like some washed-up romantic lead in a drama. It wasn’t even funny anymore.

He dragged a hand across his face and groaned softly, staring at the bathroom door where steam was now rolling from the gap under the frame. The thought of you in there — wearing that sleepy pout, probably muttering under your breath about your parents or about how annoying he was — it made his chest feel tight in the weirdest, most annoying way.

Was this how his dad felt about his mom? Cause that man always did dumb shit just to annoy her, but never went a day without holding her hand.

He was whipped. Fully, entirely, embarrassingly whipped. And he wasn’t even fighting it anymore. Hell, he was enjoying it. “I swear to god,” he muttered to himself, eyes shutting like he was trying to meditate through the emotional breakdown, “if she ever figures this out, I’m finished.” But knowing you? You wouldn’t. You were too busy folding napkins, avoiding eye contact, acting like you weren’t the most precious thing to ever annoy the hell out of him.

And god—he liked having a wife. A wife.

He let that word roll around in his head like a marble, both terrifying and oddly satisfying. If you stayed in that shower any longer, he might just combust. And honestly? He’d die smiling.

You came out of the bathroom with damp hair sticking slightly to the sides of your face, the oversized t-shirt hanging loose on your frame, sleeves falling a little off your shoulders, pajama pants riding up slightly at the ankles. You rubbed your hand against your face, trying to wipe off the last remnants of sleep, but honestly, your head was still foggy. You weren’t even fully functioning yet.

And there he was. Still in bed.

Liar. You could tell he wasn’t sleeping anymore. Before, he was on his back, legs spread out like some rich brat on vacation. Now? He was on his side, perfectly composed like he was acting asleep. And he was good at it. But not good enough for you.

With irritation bubbling up — mostly because you were up, and why should you be the only one awake suffering in awkward new-wife-land — you stomped over to the bed and stood over him with crossed arms. You stared at the messy strands of hair falling into his stupidly handsome face. His lashes were thick, unfairly so. And his lips slightly parted like he wasn’t living rent-free in your nerves already. He looked expensive even while pretending to be unconscious. Ugh.

Annoyed, you bent down and gave his shoulder a shove. “Wake up.”

No response. Another shove. Harder this time. “Wake up.” Finally, his eyes opened. Lazy, slow, like he was waking up from a peaceful dream of girls feeding him grapes or something. His voice was rough from sleep, deep in that way that made your brain short circuit for a second. “What?” he rasped, like you were disturbing his peace.

Your mouth opened, about to say something snarky, but then you paused. Why was he hot like this? Who gave him permission to be hot right after waking up? Hair a mess, voice low, sleep still hanging off his features like a silk sheet draped across expensive furniture. You forgot what you were gonna say for a second. Caught yourself blinking at him like an idiot.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. A smug little grin spread on his lips, lazy and cocky at the same time, like he was the main character in every stupid romance movie. You cleared your throat and stood up straight again, brushing invisible dust off your pants. “What… what do you want for breakfast?”

You hated how quiet you sounded. Like you were suddenly soft just because he was attractive. Which — you were soft, but he didn’t have to know that. He sat up properly now, running a hand through his hair like he was in a commercial. “You’re making breakfast?” he asked, raising a brow.

You shrugged. “What else am I supposed to do? I’m awake.” He leaned back on his arms, eyes not leaving you for a second. “I didn’t marry a housewife, you know.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—” you stopped yourself. “I’m just making breakfast because I’m hungry.”

“Yours?” he said suddenly, tilting his head.

You blinked. “What?”

“Breakfast. Yours or mine?”

You frowned. “...What’s the difference?”

He grinned, teeth showing this time. “Yours is probably, like, toast or boiled eggs or something. Mine’s pancakes, bacon, syrup. Fancy shit.”

You deadpanned. “Who the hell eats pancakes on a weekday?”

“I do,” he answered smoothly, without missing a beat. “I’m rich, remember?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your own brain. “Fine. Yours. Whatever. Pancakes.”

Yeosang stepped into the bathroom, the door creaking softly behind him as he entered the faint warmth she left behind. The mirror was still fogged at the corners, drops of condensation trailing down lazily like the room itself hadn’t quite woken up yet. The air smelled faintly of her—something floral, something sweet, and something unfamiliar but weirdly comforting.

He exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled, walking up to the sink. His eyes automatically landed on the toothbrush holder. His black toothbrush standing tall, firm, exactly where he always kept it.

And beside it… her pink one.

Smaller, softer looking, like it didn’t belong. But it did. It really did. He stared at them both for a second, lips slightly parted, eyebrows drawn faintly together—not confused, but thoughtful. Something about seeing them together in the same cup twisted something warm in his chest. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fireworks or explosions or heartbeats racing so fast he couldn’t breathe. It was… steady. Fulfilling. Quiet in the most dangerous way.

He loved it.

Not the pink color or the softness of it. He loved what it meant. Her using his things like they were hers now. The shared space. The toothbrushes leaning like companions. It was stupid—something small, something everyday—but it was theirs. And for someone like him, someone who always knew how to calculate every move, who always knew how to observe and stay steps ahead, this feeling was something he couldn’t predict.

He picked up his own toothbrush, fingers brushing against the handle of hers. He stared at that pink brush for a second longer, a lazy grin curling on his lips before shaking his head at himself. Who the hell gets soft over a toothbrush?

Apparently, him.

He started brushing his teeth, leaning over the sink, letting the familiar minty sting wake him up properly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought—he could get used to this. He wanted to get used to this. Her hair clogging the drain, her random skincare bottles invading his shelves, her leaving the bathroom all steamy and warm like this every morning.

It was stupid. Domestic. And yet… it felt like power in the quietest, most dangerous form. And Yeosang was nothing if not addicted to power. Especially if it looked like her.

He came down wearing a black fitted turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, paired with tailored dark slacks that hugged his waist just right. His silver watch gleamed faintly against his wrist, hair slightly messy from towel-drying but falling just perfectly like it was meant to. He didn’t put in effort—but somehow looked like he walked straight out of a photoshoot. Sharp jawline, long legs, expensive cologne that smelled like trouble and money.

And then—that smell hit him.

Pancakes. Sweet, buttery, thick in the air like a hug you didn’t know you needed. Warm vanilla mixed with something fruity. And then, there she was. (Do pancakes even have scents? Idk)

Hair tied up lazily, a few strands falling loose, wearing one of his black aprons that looked like it was made to fit her. Bare feet padding softly on the kitchen floor, navigating his sleek, modern, borderline cold kitchen like she’d been living there her whole life. She didn’t hesitate with the drawers, the utensils, even reaching up to grab plates from his overhead cabinets with a little difficulty like she knew where everything was. Like she belonged.

He leaned against the wall for a second, arms folded, watching her. His kitchen was matte black, sharp edges, minimalist design, way too clean for someone who actually lived here. It was the kind of kitchen that screamed money but not home. Until now.

Until her.

Now it felt warm, felt used. And for some reason, that domestic image made something stir in his chest. Not in a soft, sentimental way—no, Yeosang didn’t do sentimental. It was more like—possession. Admiration. Like—yeah, that’s mine. His quiet, irritating, soft-voiced girl, right there, using his kitchen like she owned it. And she didn’t even realize how good she looked like that. The apron tied at her waist, sleeves rolled up as she worked carefully over the stove, flipping pancakes with precision.

How the fuck did she even know where everything was? He barely cooked. Eating out was his thing. Restaurants. Friends. Loud tables. Fancy places. But this? This made him crave home-cooked meals in a way he didn’t know he could. Made him crave coming home to something like this. And the worst part? He didn’t know whether he wanted the pancakes more or her. Probably her.

Definitely her.

He didn’t even realize she’d caught him staring. Sharp reflexes, top of his class, trained to pick up on the tiniest shit—and yet here he was, caught like some lovesick loser at the doorway of his own damn kitchen. She didn’t make a big deal out of it though. Just glanced over her shoulder, flipping another pancake like it was routine. “Oh, you’re here. Sit down or something.”

He blinked for a second, caught between embarrassment and awe, and then muttered under his breath, “Yes, ma’am.” Low enough that she wouldn’t catch it. Good. His pride was intact. Barely.

When she finished, she casually served two plates—one in front of him, one in front of her. No big presentation, no waiting for him to start first like those rich girls he was used to. Just sat down, scooted her chair in, and started eating like it was another regular morning. Like they’d been doing this for years. God, why did that feel nice?

The pancakes were good. Like, scary good. Slightly crisp on the edges, soft in the middle, syrup on the side, not drowned in it like an amateur. She knew what she was doing. Each bite made him feel weirdly cared for, and he didn’t like that one bit. It felt… vulnerable. Exposed. He wasn’t used to this shit. Halfway through, she lifted her gaze to him. Not fully—just under her lashes, barely holding eye contact before glancing away again.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” she said softly, cutting into her pancake with that annoying, neat little precision of hers. “What do you actually do? Like… all day?” He chewed slowly, buying time. No one ever asked him that. Not seriously. Everyone just knew who he was. Son of that family. Part of that business. It was understood. Expected. Even his friends didn’t bother asking.

But her? She didn’t care about any of that. She genuinely didn’t know—or maybe she did but wanted his version of it. Wanted to hear it from him, not just whispered behind closed doors or Googled with a headline next to his face. So, he swallowed, set his fork down carefully, leaned back slightly in the chair.

“What do I do?” he repeated, eyes glancing over her face like he was trying to decide how much of himself he wanted to give her. “I manage the boring rich guy stuff, apparently. Assets. Investments. Real estate. Help with family business bullshit.”

She hummed softly, almost dismissively. “Sounds annoying.” That caught him off guard. He huffed a laugh through his nose. “It is annoying.”

They sat in silence for a second, just the quiet sounds of cutlery scraping against plates.

Then she added, still not fully looking at him, “Sounds lonely too.”

That made something sharp twist in his chest. Annoyingly accurate. He stared at her, at the little crease between her brows as she focused on cutting another piece, at the way she subtly folded the napkin next to her hand without thinking about it. Always fidgeting, always folding.

She didn’t even mean it like that. It was supposed to be just a question. A throwaway thought while she was chewing, cutting another bite, syrup glistening against the fork like she was focused on literally anything else except him. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to completely rearrange the wires in his damn brain. “After I graduate… can I see your office or something?”

Just that. Simple. Plain. Like she was asking to borrow a pen.

But Yeosang? Yeosang heard that in HD. Dolby Atmos. Surround sound. Can I see your office echoed through his skull like she’d just proposed marriage again or something. Why was that affecting him so much? Why was his immediate internal response Yes. Yes, of course. Come sit on my lap in the stupid leather chair. Take over the entire desk, I don’t even like working, I’ll retire now, I’ll build you a whole new office, you can have my whole name—

He blinked. Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous. She didn’t even know what she’d done. But he couldn’t just say all that, obviously. He couldn’t wrap her up in a blanket and tell her she was the cutest thing alive for wanting to be in his space, in his world. He couldn’t tell her that no one—no one—had ever even bothered to ask about that part of his life. His office. His work. His real world outside of the titles and money.

So, he kept it cool. Cool and bored. Always the bored one. Mr. Nothing Affects Me.

“Sure,” he said, cutting another piece of pancake, stabbing it with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth like that would hide the feral urge he felt to grab her face and kiss the absolute life out of her. “Really?” she asked, finally glancing at him properly this time, eyes sharp and unreadable. “It’s not like a private office?”

Private office? Private office? Woman, you’re in my home. You cooked in my kitchen. You slept with your entire leg tangled around mine. And you’re asking about privacy?

He swallowed. “It’s my office. I decide what’s private.”

Another bite. Another casual shrug. Another act like he wasn’t two seconds from folding completely. Folding like the damn napkin she kept playing with next to her plate. “Sure,” he said again, this time softer. Almost like a promise. Almost like anything you ask me, ever—I’ll give it to you.

You both didn’t know one thing. You both were falling.

Maybe Yeosang knew it. Kinda. Somewhere in the background of his usually sharp, calculating mind — the same one trained to notice weaknesses in deals and flaws in contracts — there was this soft hum, like static turning into a love song. He knew something was happening. Maybe not fully, maybe not yet in words, but the pull toward you was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like instinct. Breathing. Natural. Familiar in a way nothing else had ever been.

But you? You didn’t know. You didn’t realize what was happening. You didn’t realise that while you sat here with syrup on your fork and pancake crumbs on your fingers, you were starting to heal something that he didn’t break.

Yeosang didn’t grow up with softness. His mother was the only person who offered that to him, that kind of gentle warmth that made a person feel safe, and when she left—so did that warmth. His father tried to raise him with ambition and success, not comfort. Not home. Yeosang had everything: wealth, education, sharp looks, friends who could buy out entire hotels on a dare—but not this. Not this thing he was starting to feel around you.

And you didn’t realize that you were going to get something you never thought possible, either. That here, you were healing too. Because all your life, you were raised in pieces. Your parents clipping parts of you before you could even grow. Told that your interests were silly. That your opinions didn’t matter because you were a girl. Always “too much” or “not enough.” They called it upbringing. Respect. But it wasn’t. It was shrinking. You adjusted. You bent around it like vines climbing a crumbling wall, finding space wherever you could, making a way even when there wasn’t one.

But here?

Here, no one was going to call you too much. Here, no one was going to shrink you down into something manageable. Here, no one was going to make you feel small for having hobbies or dreams or random thoughts that didn’t make sense. Here—you weren’t going to adjust anymore. You were going to thrive.

And you didn’t even know it yet.

Days blended into something that almost resembled normal life. Morning routines settled. Nights had their own rhythm. You handled your stuff—university lectures, deadlines, notes scribbled on the backs of receipts when you couldn’t find proper paper. He handled his—meetings, calls, those frustrating dinners where people tried to get on his good side for favors he never planned to give.

The two of you orbiting each other like satellites, not colliding, not quite distant either. Somewhere between strangers and something else you both refused to name yet.

But then there were nights like this.

Nights where assignments piled higher than your patience. Nights where caffeine felt like medicine, where eye bags were unavoidable, and sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with books spread around you felt like survival mode. The glow of your laptop screen threw harsh shadows across your face, highlighting the slight furrow between your brows, your bottom lip caught lightly between your teeth as you tried to figure out whatever academic nonsense your professor thought was appropriate for midnight.

Yeosang came home late that night. He had texted you. ‘Running late. Don’t wait up.’

He didn’t expect much. Maybe you’d already be in bed, curled up, hair a mess, hugging that ridiculous pillow you’d claimed as yours. Or maybe you’d be curled on the couch, knocked out with some random video playing softly in the background. But no.

He walked in, loosened his tie, and paused.

You were awake. Awake and working. Glasses slipping down your nose. Notebook covered in tiny handwriting, pages curling at the corners. For a split second, irritation sparked in him. Not at you—at himself. Why were you still up? He told you not to wait. And yet—

Then he saw it. The laptop open to some assignment, words scrolling by, academic jargon that even he didn’t have the mental energy to pretend to understand. You weren’t waiting for him. You were fighting a deadline.

Silently, he toed off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and went to the kitchen.

The machine hissed softly as the coffee brewed. The comforting, bitter scent filling the sharp black lines of his modern kitchen again. This time, coffee. Warm, grounding, familiar. He made it just the way you liked—two spoons of sugar, a splash of milk. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Balanced. Like you.

He poured one cup for you, one for himself, and padded back across the living room, setting the mug down next to your scattered pens and half-crumpled sticky notes.

You barely noticed at first, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you,” eyes still on the screen.

But Yeosang? He just stood there for a second, hand in his pocket, watching you. Watching how you stubbornly refused to give up, even with dark circles forming under your eyes, even with your knee bouncing from stress, even with your exhaustion creeping in like slow fog.

“Can I help?” His voice was soft, breaking through the quiet hum of the laptop fan and your messy thoughts. You blinked, finally tearing your eyes away from the screen to look at him properly.

Help? You weren’t used to that word being offered like that. Especially not for things like your work. No one really asked if they could help—you were always expected to figure it out yourself, get through it, push harder. Alone. You stared at him for a second, eyebrows furrowed slightly like you were trying to figure out if he was joking or being sarcastic. But he just sat there, leaning forward, coffee resting on his knee, expression neutral but serious. Waiting.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want help. Just… it felt weird. Someone wanting to take on something with you instead of at you or despite you. But you were tired. And behind all your stubbornness, you knew you could use it.

“…You can help with a couple things,” you murmured, barely above your breath.

His lips twitched slightly at that—almost a smile, almost—but he didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. Just sat up straighter, pushed his coffee aside, and motioned for you to show him.

It wasn’t even difficult stuff. Mostly organization. Proofreading. Finding references. And Yeosang, for all his cocky behavior and sharp-tongue antics, was ridiculously smart. He picked up on things quickly, helping you untangle confusing parts, correcting small mistakes you didn’t even notice you were making in your sleepy haze.

With him there, the work didn’t feel like a mountain anymore. It felt doable. Manageable. Like he was one more set of steady hands holding up the mess before it could collapse.

You didn’t talk much. Just handed things to him, pointed at the screen when you needed help cross-checking something, let him scroll through research tabs while you typed furiously to finish the parts only you could write. By the time you reached the end, you realized it had gone faster than you expected.

And… it didn’t feel heavy anymore.

As you saved the file and finally let yourself lean back against the cushions, stretching your aching fingers, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His sleeves were still rolled up, tie loose, hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked relaxed. Like this wasn’t a burden. Like he didn’t mind being here at all.

“Thanks,” you said finally, voice quieter than before.

He just hummed, reaching for his now slightly-cold coffee again. “Told you,” he muttered, taking a sip, “I’m not just here to look pretty.”

You rolled your eyes at that, a small breath of laughter escaping despite yourself. And for the first time in a while, the stress didn’t feel suffocating. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were carrying everything alone.

But now you didn’t want to move. Not even a little. Your body felt like it weighed triple, bones filled with sand, limbs heavy from the hours of grinding through assignments, deadlines, typing until your knuckles hurt. The soft hum of the laptop fan was starting to blend with the background noise of the apartment—the occasional creak of the walls, the soft ticking of the clock. So you just laid down right there on the couch, curling slightly onto your side, pressing your cheek into the cushions like they could swallow you whole.

“You shouldn’t sleep here,” his voice broke through gently. Not nagging. Not demanding. Just a low, careful suggestion. “It’s bad for your back.”

“Yeah…” you mumbled. You knew. Of course you knew. But knowing and moving were two different things. The soft, tired sound of your own voice felt distant to you, like it was coming from somewhere underwater. “M’fine… Just…gimme a minute…”

And then, you felt it. Arms sliding under you, one beneath your knees, the other curling easily around your shoulders. The couch shifted beneath you as he moved, and suddenly, you were moving too. Your eyes snapped open halfway, heavy-lidded with exhaustion but sharp with shock. What the—

He picked you up. Like it was nothing. Like you weighed absolutely nothing. Effortless. Smooth. As if this was something he did on a daily basis, as if you weren’t dead weight with tangled limbs and messy hair and exhaustion practically dripping off your skin.

You knew he worked out. You’d seen his arms, the way his shirts sometimes hugged his shoulders, the way his forearms tensed slightly when he rolled up his sleeves or carried grocery bags with one hand like they were weightless.

But this? This was a whole new experience.

You blinked up at him, groggy but vaguely scandalized, too drained to fight him on it but still indignant enough to grumble, “I can walk, you know…”

“Doesn’t look like it,” he muttered back, voice lazy but steady, gaze fixed ahead as he carefully maneuvered you toward the bedroom. His jaw was set, clean lines of his face shadowed by the low lighting, and that stupid, faint grin on his lips—like he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were too tired to argue more, head lolling lightly against his shoulder, his cologne filling your nose. Clean, sharp, warm.

“Put me down,” you murmured weakly, only half meaning it.

“No.”

That’s all he said. Just no. Simple. Firm. No teasing this time. Just—no. Because you were tired, and because he wanted to carry you. Because whether you liked it or not, this was part of who he was now—your husband. And part of that role, apparently, included picking you up like a princess when you worked yourself to exhaustion doing university assignments at midnight.

You didn’t realize when your eyes slipped closed again, but the warmth of his hold and the soft shift of the apartment around you made it easier.

He set you down gently on the bed, the mattress dipping softly under your weight. The second you hit the covers, your whole body sighed in relief, muscles unraveling like thread, tension slipping out of your shoulders as your eyelids fluttered heavily.

You barely registered him leaving, the soft rustle of fabric as he changed, the faint clink of his watch being set down somewhere on the nightstand. The apartment was quiet except for those soft, everyday sounds—the kind that made a space feel lived in. Real. And then the bed dipped again, the warmth of him close, his scent following like gravity itself. Before you could fully register it, his arm snaked around your waist, firm but not rough, and he pulled you in.

Your eyes opened halfway, brows pinching lightly. “Yeosang…”

“No complaining,” he murmured, voice low, brushing near your ear. “I know you need it.”

That shut you up real quick—not because he was being cocky, but because… he was right. You did need it. And that annoyed you more than anything, how well he was starting to read you without effort. Like this connection was some secret language only he could pick up on while you were still figuring it out. You wanted to argue. Maybe just out of habit. Maybe because that independent part of you hated the idea of needing someone this badly. But… God, it felt good. It felt safe. Not like being trapped, not like obligation—but like comfort. Like warmth. Like someone saying, It’s okay. You don’t have to hold everything up alone tonight.

So you didn’t say anything after that. Just let yourself sink into the pull of his chest against your back, his hand splayed warm over your stomach, his steady breathing brushing against the back of your neck. Everything fit a little too perfectly, like puzzle pieces you didn’t even know belonged to the same set.

And that night… that night, you both slept better than you ever had since this whole marriage thing started. No weird dreams. No uncomfortable tossing and turning. No stress lingering sharp at the edges of your thoughts.

Just… sleep.

You didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, somewhere in the middle of the night, your body betrayed your stubbornness. You woke up curled against him, face pressed gently to his chest, his scent filling your lungs like something you’d been secretly addicted to. His arm—God, his arm—was draped around you, hand cupped protectively over the back of your head like instinct. Like he was shielding you, even in sleep. And it wasn’t awkward. That’s what surprised you most. It felt natural. Not forced, not weird, just… like safety.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, hear the soft, even rhythm of his breathing. And as much as you hated to admit it… he looked pretty like this. No, scratch that—annoyingly pretty. Long lashes resting against sharp cheekbones, lips slightly parted, hair tousled from sleep in that effortless way guys pull off without even trying.

Gross. Beautiful. Disgusting. Infuriating.

You blinked a few times, brain slowly booting up for the day, before carefully untangling yourself like a thief in the night. His arm loosened its grip like he was reluctant even in his sleep, but eventually let you go. You got up, showered, got dressed, doing your whole morning routine as quietly as possible. University wasn’t going to wait for you to bask in your soft domestic crisis. And you definitely weren’t about to stand there and gawk at his stupidly handsome sleeping face for too long. Absolutely not.

By the time you were adjusting the strap of your bag, tying your hair properly, you heard movement from the bedroom. A few minutes later, Yeosang walked out, freshly showered, damp hair pushed back, wearing that clean, crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled just enough to make you want to scream into a pillow. Grey slacks, black watch, rings back on his fingers, that usual lazy confidence laced into his posture.

He looked at you, eyes dropping down briefly to your outfit, then meeting your gaze again like it was nothing.

“I’ll pick you up later,” he said, fixing one of his cuffs. “After uni.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Date,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “We deserve one.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of what reaction you were supposed to give. A part of you wanted to roll your eyes, say something sarcastic—but another part… another part felt weirdly happy about it. Happy in that annoying, fluttery kind of way you weren’t ready to admit yet. So you settled for a quiet, “Okay,” adjusting your bag again, looking at the floor to hide the small smile trying to creep up on your lips.

“Good,” he said, smirking now—but this time it wasn’t cocky. It was something softer, warmer. “I’ll see you later, then.” And as you left the apartment, the weight of the day felt lighter somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t dreading things as much anymore.

Yeosang sat in the car, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh. The sun was starting to dip, casting that golden hour glow over the edges of buildings, making everything look softer, warmer, like a scene out of some movie. But Yeosang wasn’t paying attention to the scenery. Not really.He’d had a day. Meetings that dragged. Calls that felt like someone was reading tax documents aloud just to torture him. Endless signatures, fake smiles, the whole act. All he wanted right now was peace. Quiet. A good meal. And you.

A proper date with his cute wife, nothing more, nothing less. Just you sitting across from him in that way you always did—half avoiding eye contact, sleeves of your cardigan slipping past your wrists, probably fidgeting with your napkin again. That was the peace he wanted. Not luxury. Not power. Just that.

But then…

His eyes narrowed. He saw you. And you weren’t alone. There was a guy. Some nobody. Same-age, maybe older, walking beside you, too close for Yeosang’s liking, talking like he knew you well. And you—God—you were smiling. Not the full kind, not the ones Yeosang secretly hoarded like precious stones, but still smiling. Like you were comfortable. Yeosang’s jaw tightened. His fingers, the ones tapping against his thigh, stopped moving. What pissed him off wasn’t just the guy talking. It was the way he was talking to you. That casual, easygoing posture, like he thought he was funny. Like he thought he was charming. Like he thought he deserved to be walking next to you, making you smile like that.

And maybe you didn’t even realize. Maybe you were just being polite. But Yeosang saw it all. The way the guy leaned slightly in when he spoke. The way his hands moved while explaining something, animated like he wanted your full attention on him.

Yeosang didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The expensive black car, polished to perfection, stood out like a punch to the face in front of the university gates. People kept throwing glances, some doing double-takes, whispering. Whose car is that? Who’s that guy? But Yeosang didn’t care. Let them look. Let them talk. His gaze stayed locked on you and that idiot next to you. Calm on the outside. A storm brewing underneath. You didn’t know it yet.

You spotted him the moment he stepped out of the car. Yeosang wasn’t the type to make a show of himself, but somehow—he did. Maybe it was the way he stood, sharp lines of his suit catching the light, hair pushed back neatly, expression unreadable. Maybe it was the car behind him, polished black, practically humming money and influence. Maybe it was just him. Either way, heads were turning, eyes flicking between him and you like something wasn’t adding up.

You swallowed, nerves prickling up your spine. Before you could react, before you could even introduce anyone properly, he was already moving. His hand found yours—firm, warm, possessive without being rough. It startled you. Not because of the touch—you were used to that by now—but because of the timing. Calculated. Precise. Like everything he did. “This your friend?” he said calmly, looking not at you, but directly at the guy.

Before you could speak, Yeosang gave the poor guy a small, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, tightening his grip on your hand just slightly. “I’m her husband.”

And then, for good measure, he added his name. Kang Yeosang.

You could see the shift instantly. The recognition behind the guy’s eyes. The flicker of panic mixed with surprise. Everyone in this city knew that name—or at least the ones who mattered did. Not just because of the wealth, but because of what that name meant in certain circles. Reputation. Power. Authority. Not just a businessman—something more. Something sharp underneath the polished surface.

“Oh,” was all the guy could manage, awkward, unsure of where to put his hands now, stepping back half a pace instinctively. “Yeah,” Yeosang finished softly, expression pleasant, dangerous in its restraint. “Good talk.”

Without another word, he guided you toward the passenger seat, opened the door like a gentleman, helped you in, and shut it carefully behind you before rounding the car and getting in himself. He didn’t look at you at first. Just started the engine, pulled out of the lot with practiced ease.

What you didn’t see, however, was the slight tilt of his head down as he flicked open his messages. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly, typing out the guy’s name, sending it to an unknown number. No emojis. No fluff. Just a clean instruction.

A name and a dot. That’s all it took.

Then the phone slipped back into his pocket like nothing happened.

He glanced at you finally, features softening just slightly now that the irritation had passed, hand casually resting on the gear shift..

"You ready?” he asked, like none of that had just happened. You didn’t answer immediately. Your heart was still somewhere between confused, flustered, and maybe—a little impressed. And Yeosang?

He was perfectly at ease. Because no one touches what’s his.

The date itself was simple, nothing extravagant—just the way you liked it. Dinner somewhere not too loud, warm lighting, food you could pronounce, chairs that didn’t make your back ache. He didn’t drag you to some elite chef’s private villa or a high-rise with twelve spoons and seven forks. Just… normal. Comfortable.

But of course, it wasn’t normal, not with him sitting across from you like that. Rolling up his sleeves just enough to show off the veins in his forearms, leaning forward slightly when you spoke, giving you that attention that made your stomach twist in a way you’d pretend was annoyance—but you knew better now. You were far too aware of his every move, his subtle glances at your lips when you talked, his faint smile whenever you fidgeted with the sleeves of your cardigan or neatly arranged your utensils.

And he was losing it.

Internally.

Watching you talk softly about nothing—ordering dessert, choosing between tea or coffee, or even just adjusting your bracelet—like it was the most adorable thing in the world. You didn’t even have to try. That’s what drove him crazy. You could breathe and he’d be on the verge of melting into his seat like some fool.

But what really started creeping under your skin wasn’t the food or the conversation or even the comfort of the evening.

It was after.

Back in university, you started noticing something odd. The guy—the one from the parking lot—gone. No hellos in the hallway, no passing glances, no awkward waves after that weird encounter with Yeosang. Vanished. Just… gone.

You weren’t naïve. You noticed patterns. You noticed behavior. You might’ve been quiet, but you weren’t stupid.

So, you asked him. One evening, after he’d made both of you coffee, when the room was quiet and warm, you just casually dropped it like spare change on a counter.

“By the way… that guy I was talking to last week? Haven’t seen him around.”

His reaction was instant, which already gave him away. That sharp, barely-there twitch of his lips. His fingers curling ever so slightly around the mug handle.

And then—he laughed.

That annoying, deep, pretty laugh that was all throat and no apologies.

“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug, voice lazy, too smooth to be true. “Weird, isn’t it?”

Liar. Absolute liar.

And that’s what did it. That’s what made you fall.

Not the expensive car. Not the handsome face. Not even the whole husband thing.

It was that. That dumb, cocky, lying laugh paired with the soft way he helped you out of your coat or refilled your water glass without saying anything. The combination of someone who could ruin a man’s whole life in one text but still remember that you liked your toast slightly burnt.

It wasn’t fair.

And maybe, just maybe, you found yourself falling.

Not all at once. Just—a little more.

Dangerous. Warm. Annoying.

Yours.

Taglist: @jujusreader @nkryuki @lover-ofallthingspretty

Dividers from @/cafekitsune

[honeyhotteoks]

in bloom - part one (j.yh + j.wy); section two

summary: one night, you and your boyfriend and your best friend are watching a movie, only you didn’t realize this movie would have a sex scene this long. or that they would notice how uncomfortable it made you. when you finally confess to them why, they take their time guiding you through every life experience you’ve always felt too late for, one kiss at a time. part one; section one | part one; section two | part two masterlist

note: this was inspired by my 🪻 anon who sent a suggestion about a yunwoo fic centered on loss of virginity. what was supposed to be an ask reply became a full fic. see under the cut for more detailed notes and disclaimers. part two coming soon.

warnings: virginity, late bloomer reader (she’s 26), demisexual!reader, complex relationships to sex, sexuality, and pleasure. fluff, angst, and emotional hurt/comfort, frank conversations about sexual experiences and norms including body hair and preferences, references to disassociation during sex but in the past, brief mention/question about sexual trauma (there is none), bisexual!wooyoung, bicurious!yunho, nervous / inexperienced reader, shy reader, embarrassed reader, slow and i mean SLOW sexual acts, lots of consent, kissing galore, nipple play, body worship, masturbation (f), fingering, oral sex (f receiving), oral sex (m receiving), hand jobs, yunwoo teaching how to and reader learning for basically ever sex act….. lots of soft pet names y'all know me, an extremely earned 'good girl'

pairings: boyfriend!yunho x best friend!wooyoung x fem!reader

genre: smut and more smut

word count: 18.9k

note! this part was too long for tumblr! be sure you read section one first! linked here

You and Yunho both watch him carefully as he guides your hand down between your thighs, his eyes darting back up to yours every few moments to be sure he isn’t crossing a boundary. 

“I think you should touch yourself,” Wooyoung prompts softly, pressing your hand lower so that it settles over your sex, “Yunho’s right, you should teach us what you like,” 

You swallow nervously, “How do I teach you?” 

“Just let us watch,” Wooyoung murmurs, “pretend we’re not here if it helps, just… show us what your body likes,” 

The tension is so thick you feel like you could cut it, but somehow their idea seems right. It makes sense, and more than that, it feels safe. 

You glance between them, wetting your lips and nodding, “Yeah, yeah, okay,” 

Yunho sucks in a breath but stays still. 

“Can we,” You adjust in the bed, “can you not touch me for this? Can you just watch?” 

Wooyoung’s hand slips off your thigh, “Yeah, we can do that.” 

You push away from Yunho and he slides back to give you some room, still lying by your side but this time just propped up on his hand and watching. 

With a sigh you settle onto your back in the familiar position you’ve always touched yourself in, flat to the mattress, legs spread open, knees slightly bent as you angle your hips up. 

“Alright,” You let out a nervous breath, “I guess… I’ll just, yeah, I’ll just do this,” 

With familiar movements, you reach between your legs with your left hand and settle the pads of your fingers over your clit, warm and firm under your touch from arousal. 

Their eyes are trained on you, and you swallow again, nervous. 

“Baby,” Yunho says softly, “close your eyes.” 

You let them flutter shut. 

“It’s just you in bed,” He murmurs, “let your mind go to wherever it normally does. Just feel.” 

It takes you a moment, awareness thrumming through you as you hear their slow breathing, every shift in the sheets, but you focus. You clear your mind. 

Alone, relaxing in bed. 

You think of the last thing that turned you on, the book you were reading that tugged at the tight coil inside you, the faceless male lead who’s romantic tenderness to the heroine got you feeling indescribably restless. 

You sink into the mattress, you let it all fade. 

With a breath, you start to touch. Slow circles of your fingers over your clit, dipping down to gather more wetness from your dripping core, your free hand sliding down over your body from rib to hip. 

Warmth pools in your belly, and you let out a soft breath, head relaxing to the side as you keep your eyes closed. 

You slide your hand up and over your abdomen again, brushing against your thighs, and the faceless figure in your mind starts to shift. 

You feel the ghost of Yunho’s hand on your skin, of Wooyoung’s kiss. 

Staggered images filter through, little flashes in your mind’s eye as you start to roll your fingers a little faster. 

Yunho’s full lips, parted and pink. 

Wooyoung’s eyes, shaggy hair falling across his forehead. 

Your mouth makes a soft pop as your tongue unsticks from the roof of your mouth, a gentle sound on your lips, and more floods through your mind. 

Long fingers, veined forearms, taut abdomens, the straight cut of Wooyoung’s collarbones and the broad set of Yunho’s shoulders. Arms around you, warmth enveloping you, hands searching your body with soft curiosity, lips on your skin. 

You make a tight sound, adjusting your hand, your legs straining a little wider. 

Your mind tumbles over the thought of them. 

Wooyoung’s smile, Yunho’s laugh. Tanned skin, freckles, their light dusting of body hair. Soft pressure, gentleness, tenderness, whispered breath on your skin. 

You suck in a sharp breath, back arching a little, and you slide your other hand down to find your entrance, pushing two fingers deep inside yourself. 

The weight of the mattress shifts and you hear a thready inhale that’s not your own, but it doesn’t matter. 

Your head starts to rock back, pressing into the mattress as hot pleasure swirls in your gut, and your fingers find the pace that always makes you come. Fast, steady circles on your clit and a matched rhythm for the two fingers that pulse in and out. Your thighs spread wider, knees drawn up, hips rolling down to chase the feeling. 

“Ah,” You stammer out, “ah,” 

Eyes pressed tightly together, chasing the feeling. 

Images continue to flash in your mind, a mix of sensations. 

You’re chasing hard now, desperate, but you can’t reach it. 

Jerking into the mattress you keep working your clit, but your other hand flies up to your breast, squeezing hard, tweaking your nipple with a tug and then a steady flick, but it’s not enough. 

You need it all, suddenly, sharply, and you’ve never needed that before in your life. 

A pained whine pulls from your lips, frustration laced in the tone, and your heel slips against the mattress, pushing the blankets down further in the bed. 

You need more. 

With a desperate sound, you reach out to the side where you know Yunho is, searching for his hand. 

He takes it, silently, giving you a squeeze to tell you he’s here, he’s got you, but that’s not what you need. 

Eyes still closed, you drag his hand forward with a sharp tug, drawing it to your breast. 

His fingers close over your soft flesh, his body shifting closer, and he gives you a tentative squeeze to mimic the sensation of your own hand. 

“Yes,” You shudder, “fuck,” 

He doesn’t speak, but you hear his breath change, and feel his fingers roll over your painfully hardened nipple. 

With a staggered breath you reach down, but instead of touching yourself, you leave your hand open, “W-Woo,” you’re begging, “please,” 

“Fuck,” You hear his soft curse, his hand sliding into yours. 

You direct it down, pushing it where you need it. 

His fingers are thick, thicker than yours to be sure, and when he sinks two inside you the stretch is sinful. 

You moan properly this time. 

In tandem, they work your body while you rub your clit, your free hand flying up to grip the pillows above your head, your face pressing into the soft skin of your own bicep as you pant. 

“God,” You manage, something hot curling in your gut. 

Yunho makes a tight sound next to you, his fingers rolling and tugging at your nipples with precision, and Wooyoung curses again between your thighs, the sound of his fingers pulsing in and out of your dripping cunt a filthy wet mess. 

It hits you without warning this time. Normally you work yourself up to a quiet, rolling pleasure that leaves you feeling comfortably satisfied, but this orgasm is sudden and intense. A crackle of heat sparks from your clit to your nipples, zinging through every part of you, and it’s like a pressure valve releasing. 

Your legs snap shut around your hand and Wooyoung’s, body wrenching up in arched ecstasy, and you cry out against your own skin, body shuddering in fits and starts. 

It takes a second for your body to come back online, but you feel it when Wooyoung’s fingers slowly slip out of you, and when Yunho’s hands change from stimulating to soothing. 

Still trembling, chest rapidly rising and falling with your shallow breathing, your body finally slackens and your eyes start to open. 

They’re quiet, afraid of unsettling the moment, and then the realization hits you. 

No one in the world has ever watched you come before, no one’s ever seen you fall apart, but what’s more is that no one has ever been a part of the reason you did before. It’s more intimate than being naked, and more meaningful than any lost virginity. 

Emotion builds up in your chest, throat thick with it, and you take an unsteady inhale. 

Yunho’s hand on your chest stills. 

You reach for him, pulling his arm, “Please,” 

He’s unsure, you can feel that in the way he wraps his arms around you, but then you grab onto his shirt like a lifeline and his hand cups the back of your head protectively, tenderly. Wooyoung slides up to your other side, his hand ginger on your bare hip as he watches you recover. 

“Are you here?” Yunho asks, his voice a whisper. 

You nod, steadying your breathing. 

He lets out a shuddering breath, and Wooyoung’s hand tightens on your waist. 

“Are you okay?” Wooyoung finally asks, nervous energy in his tone. 

You nod again, getting the emotional tidal wave under control, “Just hold me,” you manage, “please,” 

“Right here,” Yunho’s hand brushes over your hair, “Woo,” 

There’s a shift behind you, and then his body joins you, the three of you pressed tightly together. 

Yunho rocks you slowly, lips against your forehead as he murmurs. Your best friend rubs soft circles into your skin, kissing your shoulder slowly, chastely. 

You don’t need either of them to say it, you know with perfect clarity that they love you. 

Time stretches with them tucked around your bare body, and eventually, your breathing slows and your sudden rush of emotion fades into the background. 

You shift back, looking up at Yunho and to the side where Wooyoung leans over, “Hey,” you manage. 

“Hey,” Yunho’s fingers brush over your cheek. 

“You okay, babe?” Wooyoung asks gently. 

You nod, exhaling slowly, “That was a lot for me,” 

Wooyoung looks nervous, his expression pinched with concern. 

You reach for him, smoothing his worried brow, “It was a lot because it was new,” you explain softly, “I’ve never done that in front of anyone.” 

He softens, “How was it?” 

“Incredible,” You whisper, “I’ve never… it was so intense,” 

Wooyoung nods, kissing your palm, “It looked intense,” 

“I fantasized,” You confess with a small smile. 

Yunho returns your smile, but there’s a question in his expression, “About?” 

“You,” Your smile stretches into a grin, “both of you,” 

“Is that new too?” Yunho’s eyes flick over your face. 

“I’ve never done that either,” You confess softly, “I’ve never thought about a real person, not like I did,” 

“But you thought about us?” Wooyoung asks, his voice hesitant. 

“Yeah,” It feels like a victory, and maybe they don’t understand it fully, but they’re smiling with you, “I did,” 

“Come here,” Yunho cups your face, pulling you up into a kiss, sighing against your lips as he tenderly holds you. 

Sensation stirs in your body again, the thrill of it lighting up your stomach, and you grip his shoulder, “Mm,” you nod, deepening in the kiss, “yes,” 

Yunho pulls away, his breath a little ragged, “Wait, wait,” 

“W-what is it?” You breathe. 

“Are you,” He breathes, shaking his head, “should we-,”

Wooyoung laughs gently, “Do you want more, is what he’s trying to ask”

Yunho blushes, pink darkening in his cheeks. 

“Oh,” Wooyoung nudges him, helping break the tension, “you are down so bad for her,” 

“Shut up,” Yunho rolls his eyes, but you watch as his ears darken too, a scarlet warmth that tells you everything you need to know. 

You interrupt them though, finding their hands and drawing them closer, “Yes, yes I want more.” 

Yunho’s head snaps up, “You do,” 

“I just needed a minute,” You confess, “but I’m not ready to stop,” 

“That’s my girl,” Wooyoung surges up, kissing you hard and fast, and then slides down the bed again. 

“Woo, what are you,-”  

His fingers slip between your knees, pressing them apart until you’re following his touch and falling open again, “Do you still want slow?” 

You nod, your breath fully caught in your throat. 

“Okay,” He drops to his stomach again between your spread thighs, kissing the tender skin there just once before looking up at you, “If you want me to stop, say anything. Push me, tug my hair, however you need to tell me, tell me. I’ll stop.” 

“Okay,” You whisper. 

“Yunho,” Wooyoung directs, “hold her for me, if she gets too quiet, let me know,” 

“Got it,” Yunho smiles, blinking at the sudden interaction. You gather that he’s not used to being told what to do by anyone in the bedroom, but when it comes to your comfort, he just nods. 

“I’m gonna lift you up a bit,” Wooyoung explains, sliding his hands under your splayed thighs, “just get comfortable, okay? Just like that,” 

Your legs settle over his shoulders. 

He kisses your cunt and your head falls back with a gasp. 

Yunho watches your face, curling close to your body, but all he sees is pleasure. 

Wooyoung’s mouth is slow and warm, his lips soft against your center, his tongue firm as he starts to trace your skin. Your hand shoots out instinctively to grab the sheets, to ground yourself, but you find Yunho’s palm instead and he laces your fingers together, giving you a squeeze. 

You’re wet, still dripping from your first orgasm, but you can hear it when he inhales, the sound almost pornographic despite the tenderness of his touch. 

A soft sound pulls from your lips, your hips jerking, and when Wooyoung groans into your heat, the vibrations roll through you. 

He presses into you slowly, working you open with every deliberate stroke of his tongue. There’s nothing frantic in the way he moves, only focus. Your hips twitch, a gentle jerk you can’t fight and he hums low into your skin, a ripple spreading out beneath your navel. 

Your breathing changes first, growing shallow, tight, your hand growing more solid in Yunho’s group as the feeling starts to build and crest. 

Wooyoung’s tongue circles your clit in patient, repeating spirals, a mimic of the way you rubbed yourself and something inside you starts to gather. It’s not like your orgasm before, the way it snapped suddenly with urgent pressure, this pleasure is quieter, gentler. It builds around you like a rising warm bath, carrying you into its sensations with ease. 

Your thighs twitch again, feet flexing against the sheets, and you sigh. 

Yunho nuzzles your temple, “Let it happen, baby,” he murmurs, “don’t rush it,” 

Wooyoung’s mouth lifts, looking up to check you, “I got you, I promise,” 

You exhale shakily, wetting your lips and nodding, and as Wooyoung sinks back down your hips rise to meet his mouth. He shifts with you, one hand pressing up under your thigh to hold you closer to his eager mouth, his other hand reaching around and settling over your lower belly. 

This pleasure is new, not because it’s wholly unfamiliar, but because for the first time you’re able to sink into the feeling of someone’s hands on your skin. Someone’s body working to please yours, and you want it, you want to live in it. 

Wooyoung gently sucks at your clit, sighing a breath of warm air against your slick skin, and your body warms. A tingling shifting down your fingertips, curling in your toes. A breathy sound catches in your throat. 

“Hmm,” Yunho kisses your hair, “you’re doing so well,” 

You sigh, a pleasured sound, your fingers pressing into his hand, your head starting to dig back into the mattress. 

You’re close now, so close it almost scares you. Pleasure starts to catch again, full and steady, and Wooyoung pushes down more firmly with his mouth, his tongue thrusting into you, lapping up you, flicking steadily against your aching bud. 

It’s too much, it’s overwhelming, but in a way that’s starting to make you feel alive. 

You gasp, back arching off the mattress, and your free hand flutters like it doesn’t have a place to land. 

“There she is,” Yunho says, his voice quiet and warm. 

Slow and deep, the rush of pleasure that hits you this time is an undulating wave rocking through every nerve in your body. You fall into it, open to it, trembling against Wooyoung’s mouth as you moan and twitch. 

Your voice shifts, not a cry like last time. It’s a long, low release, a bloom. 

Your chest rises and falls in shallow breaths as you come down, your body easing back into Yunho’s waiting arms. His hand strokes up and down your side, steady and warm, the lightest pressure of his fingertips along your skin. 

Slowly, Wooyoung lifts his head, his lips parted and face flushed, chin slick with your arousal. 

You sigh, eyes drifting to the ceiling, “That,” you manage, your voice a bit hoarse, “felt so good,” 

Wooyoung breathes out a shaky laugh, resting his forehead on your thigh, grounding himself there like he needs this contact just as much as you do. 

Your pulse is still fluttering under your skin, and when you look down at him, he’s watching you with such an unguarded affection it tugs at a deep, quiet longing long dormant in your chest. 

Reaching out, you brush your fingers through his damp hair, and Wooyoung leans his cheek into your palm without hesitation, his own eyes softly closing as he feels your warmth. 

He cups your hand against his face, turning to kiss your palm, “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” You promise him, “I really am,” 

Wooyoung kisses your thigh once more, and then slides up your body to rest beside you, face level with yours. You smile as he shifts into your space, and you realize you’ve always been safe with him, comfortable with the way his skin feels on yours, his touch, always so freely given without expectation of anything in return. 

It’s only natural you ended up here. 

Wooyoung’s voice brings you out of your thoughts, “I’ve never seen you like that,” He comments softly. 

“Like what?” 

“So relaxed,” He smiles a little, “free,” 

You soften, your body tucked into Yunho’s behind you. 

Wooyoung smiles, just a little, “I love you,” he says it so simply, “you already know I do, but, God, I do love you,” 

Emotion swells behind your ribs again, “I love you too,” 

Wooyoung’s eyes flick up over your shoulder, but whatever he finds in Yunho’s expression must soothe his anxiety because he smiles, and dips to your mouth. He kisses you this time with affection, you feel it in the slow pull of his mouth, the way his hand slides up your arm before cupping your cheek. 

“You’re so beautiful,” He murmurs as he leans back. 

A little laugh escapes you, “You keep saying that,” 

“It’s true,” Wooyoung grins. 

Yunho’s body curls closer around you, his hand resting on your bare hip, “He’s right,” 

Turning your head to find his eyes, something in your chest tugs loose at the sight of him. 

Utter affection, the closest thing you’ve ever seen to devotion, heavy in his soft eyes. When you reach for him, he comes willingly, responding to your movements with his own like a dance he knows the steps to by heart. 

Your lips meet, a catch of breath in his throat as he holds you close. 

This time, you kiss him, your fingers on the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer as your mouths part, tongues connecting between breaths. 

“Jagi,” He sighs. 

Your lips part so you can look up at him, “Yunho?” 

“Yes?” His voice is quiet, looking at you like he can read your every thought. 

“Thank you,” You whisper. 

His brows lift, expression clearing, “For what?” 

“For being patient with me,” Your eyes flick down so you can get the rest of the words out, “for waiting for me, not pushing me. I didn’t know how much I needed that,” 

His warm lips connect to your forehead, “You’re worth waiting for,” he murmurs, fingers stroking up and down your spine, “sweetheart, you’re more precious to me than I ever knew someone could be,” 

Your eyes close as you let his words sink in, breathing quietly together, and you nod just a little, hopeful that he understands that you mean it too. 

He leans back to see you after a beat, “I just want you to feel good, and feel safe,” 

“I did,” You assure him, “I still do, which is a miracle,” 

Wooyoung kisses your shoulder and nods, “It just means it feels right, babe,” 

For a moment, his lips linger at your shoulder while Yunho’s hand cups your waist, his thumb stroking a soothing line into your skin. 

The room is quiet again, another breath to let you get your bearings in this new territory, to understand the shape of the intimacy building between you. Your eyes are closed as you breathe in and out, body languid after your back to back orgasms, and you let your mind drift. 

After a moment though, your senses shift. Your mind is so attuned to touch, typically preoccupied with the ways that it makes you feel discomfort or on edge, so you’re good at spotting the hidden meanings in people’s hands. 

Wooyoung’s arm wrapped around you isn’t relaxed, there’s a subtle tension in his position, and in the sound of his tight exhales, every few breaths one just a bit deeper and laden with something urgent. 

Your attention shifts, and you notice the way Yunho’s fingertips aren’t brushing softly, not anymore, there’s a press to it, a restraint of something more. 

You blink your eyes open, level with Yunho’s chest, but when you shift backwards, sliding your leg just right, your body slots together with Wooyoung’s and you feel an unmistakable hardness. 

He sucks in a soft breath, arching a little to guide his hips away from yours, but no one moves, no one mentions it. You watch as his hand tightens on the mattress, just a little, but enough. 

From your position here, you can’t see Yunho’s face, but you study his body language. There’s a faint strain in his jaw, a tense cord of muscle in his neck, his breathing shallow and carefully controlled. When you readjust in the bed, he readjusts too, something clearly aching under his skin. 

Glancing down to his hips, you nearly lose your breath when you see that he’s hard too, impossible to conceal in those sweatpants, despite his best efforts and careful positioning. 

They’re both hard, and if you’re guessing, they’ve been like this for a while. 

Your chest flutters, something quickening in your chest. 

They wanted you. 

They want you, still. 

Your mind flicks through all of it, every touch, every word. Every second since you crossed the threshold of this bedroom has been about you – your comfort, your peace, your pleasure. Never once did they try to turn your attention or coax you into something further or faster. 

The contrast of that slices through you. 

Every guy you tried with, every single one, picked you for what they could take from you, not what they could give. 

The decision is made in your mind before you even verbalize it to yourself, and you find yourself reaching, your hand settling on Yunho’s abdomen, “Yunho?” 

He twitches at your touch, you feel his muscles quirk under your fingertips, but he answers you with his softest voice, “Yes?” 

Your hand drifts a little lower, “You’re hard,” 

His hips turn, trying to conceal that fact, and he leans back to see your expression, “Sorry,” he clears his throat, a flash of embarrassment moving across his face, “yeah,” 

“Don’t apologize,” You smile a little, hand sliding back up to a safer spot on his chest, “you’re fine,” 

Wooyoung snorts a little breath of air, “I’m pretty sure I’ve been hard since you kissed me,” he admits with a crooked grin. 

You nudge him with your elbow, “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Yunho brushes his hand against your jaw, “Baby, this wasn’t about us,” 

“Exactly,” Wooyoung nods, “we’re fine, we’re more than fine.” 

You study his eyes a moment, and you know he’s being truthful. You know if you said this was over then this would end right here. 

You move then, extricating yourself from their arms and sliding up in the bed, the sheet slipping off you until your skin is bared again to them in the soft light. Their eyes track your movements, unsure why you needed to make space, but they wait, they watch. 

“You’re both hard,” You say it funny by mistake, like you’re trying to get your facts straight. 

Yunho’s eyes flick to Wooyoung, then back to you, “Yes,” 

“You both want me?” 

“Yes,” Their voices blend together, answering you without hesitation. 

“So then,” Your teeth catch on your lip, “let me try and make you feel good too,” 

Wooyoung’s brows lift high in surprise and he shakes his head, “You don’t have to do anything for us,” 

Yunho’s nodding, opening his mouth to say more, but you get there first. 

“Stop,” You shake your head, “I’m okay, I feel good,” 

His face softens, but you still see his hesitation. 

“This is a part of sex too, isn’t it?” You look to Yunho, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but you said you’d teach me.” 

Yunho’s eyes darken with something more, a tense pulse in his jaw, but he nods. 

“So, teach me,” You breathe, a smile on your lips. 

The silence hangs, none of you breathing, and you look back and forth between them. 

“Jesus,” Wooyoung finally cuts the tension, running a hand over his face, “you’re perfect,” 

Yunho shifts in the bed, sitting up to meet your eyes, “Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” You nod, “I want to try,” 

“Try what exactly?” Yunho’s hand against the bedding flexes, trying to keep his obvious need under control. 

“Um,” You feel the heat rise again in your cheeks, and then you look too Wooyoung, “your mouth felt… would my mouth feel that good for you?” 

Wooyoung groans, falling into the mattress face first, but he nods, “You’re going to kill me,” 

“So, that’s a yes?” You grin. 

“That’s a big fucking yes,” Wooyoung exhales, pushing himself up to a seat with you both, “if you’re comfortable, we can do that.” 

“I want to do that,” You say, and you mean it. 

Yunho takes a deep breath and then shifts off the bed, “Alright,” he swallows tightly, and as he stands you see the impressive tent in his sweatpants, “jagi, is it alright if we get undressed?” 

“Yes,” You nod, a little too eager and he smiles at you, amused. 

Wooyoung slides off the bed too, and you watch as they start to peel off layers. 

Yunho starts to talk, but your eyes are locked on the way that his body looks when he shucks off his shirt, the way his fingers move when he pulls at the tie of his sweats. His lean, corded muscle tensing and relaxing as he moves. 

“If you start to get uncomfortable,” Yunho says, and your eyes fly up to his, “tell us, I don’t care what we’re doing or what we’re saying to you,” 

Wooyoung nods emphatically. 

“I don’t care if Woo says he’ll die if you stop,” Yunho says, and it’s funny, but his voice is firm and clear, “if you need to stop, we fucking stop.” 

“I got it,” You smile, “stop means stop.” 

You take a breath, and realize they’re both almost stark naked in front of you. You take them in all at once, pupils dilating and head going fuzzy. 

They’re both lean, the bodies of men who are endlessly active – running, biking, dancing, all movement and cardio and stamina, but every line of their muscles are well defined. Their cocks visibly strain against the cotton of their boxer briefs, and you feel a curl of heat in your belly just like before. 

Wooyoung shoots a look at Yunho and rolls his eyes, “She’s okay,” he says as he reaches out a hand to you, “I’ll take very good care of your girl, Yunho-yah.” The teasing emphasis on Yunho’s name pulls a smile from your lips. 

Yunho’s jaw tightens, but he exhales through his nose and nods, “I know,” 

Taking Wooyoung’s hand, he pulls you forwards, “Come here, babe,” 

You end up standing, and you let him guide you as he shifts your positions, sitting down onto the edge of the bed. 

“Here?” You check, nodding, moving to get on your knees. 

Yunho’s hand on your lower back stills you, and he reaches past both of you to grab one of the thick throw pillows, sliding it onto the floor between Wooyoung’s feet, “Don’t hurt your knees, baby,” 

“Right,”

Slowly, you drop down, situating yourself with your hands on Wooyoung’s thighs. 

It’s still for a moment, no one moving, but then Wooyoung drops back onto his elbows and lets his legs open wider, “Doing okay?” 

“Mhm,” Your eyes are glued to his clothed cock. 

Yunho’s hand brushes over the back of your head as he steps from one side of you and Wooyoung to the other, and then he crouches behind you at your side, one of his heavy, warm palms settling on your lower back. 

“Okay,” You breathe. 

Wooyoung’s eyes look hot, need unapologetic in his gaze, and as you reach for his waistband his hands tighten in the blankets under him. 

“So,” You manage, hooking your fingers under his underwear, “I’ve never done this before, obviously,”

“Doing great so far,” Wooyoung exhales. 

“This seems like a clear first step to sucking your cock, Woo,” The words roll off your tongue, an easy jab with your best friend. 

Yunho laughs at your side, his lips pressing against your temple, “Quick study, baby,” 

Wooyoung’s smiling too, but it fades into a completely new expression on his face when you pull his boxers down completely. 

Your eyes flick over his cock immediately. He’s rock hard, cock flushed pink and leaking, a string of precum connected from the tip of his velvet head to his belly. It’s thick, that’s the first thing you think, and perfectly proportional for him. 

“Jesus, fuck,” Wooyoung breathes, “you look so hot right now, babe,” 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and he groans. 

Yunho gives you a moment, and then his hand flexes on your back, “Start slow,” he urges you softly, “touch his thighs,” 

You let your hands slide over his skin, over the dark loops of his thigh tattoo, strong quads rippled under your palms. He’s warm, soft, and his cock twitches the closer you get to his hips. 

You catalogue that quietly. 

“Just like that,” Yunho nods, “we like being teased too,” 

Wooyoung swallows. 

“It feels good?” You check with him, your nails gently brushing over his inner thighs, a mirror of how Yunho touched you earlier. 

He sucks in a sharp breath, “Yeah,” 

“You can press,” Yunho offers, “here,” 

You look down, looking at the place he gestures to on his own thigh. 

Your fingers travel there, on the tender skin of his inner thigh, close to the heavy weight of Wooyoung’s balls. You hear his breathing change, and when you press he groans. 

“Kisses feel good there too,” Yunho murmurs, his voice low and tight as if you were touching him too, “anywhere close that’s not his cock,” 

You nod, attentive, sliding closer to him between his splayed knees, and despite the curling nervousness in your gut you press a soft, featherlight kiss to his thigh. 

“Ah,” Wooyoung hisses, hands tightening. 

“There,” Yunho encourages, “that’s good,” 

You kiss again, a little firmer this time, exploring him more, inching closer to his hips. With a flash of heat in your own chest, your tongue licks a slow stripe from the soft juncture of his groin back up to the straining tendon at the base of his cock. 

Wooyoung sucks in a sharp breath and jerks, “Oh, fuck,” he pants, “what the fuck,”

“Bad?” You look up at him. 

Yunho’s hand tightens on your back and Wooyoung shakes his head. 

Wooyoung’s cock twitches by your cheek, and you smile, “This isn’t so hard,” 

Wooyoung bites his lip, a laugh caught in his throat, “Yeah, well,” he says, “my cock is,” 

You roll your eyes up at him. 

“Baby,” Yunho shifts, positioned a little closer to your side, “do it again,” 

You nod and repeat the hot line of your tongue. 

“Good,” Yunho sounds breathy, and out of the corner of your eye you see his hand rest over his own cock, curling around the thick length through the fabric of his boxers, “same thing, but here,” 

Yunho reaches around with his free hand and without touching Wooyoung’s cock, he draws a line from base to tip. His hand settles on Wooyoung’s thigh, and you hear Wooyoung groan. 

You lean in, and with hesitant pressure, you lick a line up Wooyoung’s cock from base to tip just like he showed you. 

Wooyoung pants, “You can, uh,” he gathers himself, “press more,” 

Your eyes flick up at him, but you lean in to try again. 

Wooyoung’s cock jerks away from the sensation though and you stop in the middle, a hesitant look in your eyes. 

Yunho’s hand on your back gently slides up, cupping the back of your head with the most gentle pressure, and then uses his free hand to press flat to the front of Wooyoung’s cock, bracing it, “Again,” he encourages softly, “the pressure feels good, you’re not hurting him.” 

This time, you press, really press, with the firm muscle of your tongue. The wall of Yunho’s hand gives Wooyoung’s cock room to shift away, and for the first time, you hear your best friend moan. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Wooyoung sinks into the mattress, flat on his back now. 

You repeat the motion, and again, and again. 

“Focus here,” Yunho’s fingers curl around your best friend’s cock, softly brushing against the seam at the head of his cock, a heart shaped curve of velvety smooth skin. 

You bring your tongue up, and focus your attention there. Kitten licks, heavy presses, doubling down on anything that makes Wooyoung pant, moan, grip the sheets. 

“Still good?” Yunho’s fingers brush over your hair. 

You almost forgot. For a very real moment, none of the fear existed, none of the nervousness. 

“I’m great,” You smile, kissing the head of Wooyoung’s cock. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Wooyoung’s hips jerk. 

“Alright,” Yunho kisses your temple, “I think we can stop torturing him,” 

“Please,” Wooyoung twitches, his body flushed pink with need. 

“Come here,” Yunho presses between your shoulders to get you higher up on your knees, and then he stands, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Wooyoung so he can get a better vantage point. 

“Baby,” Wooyoung makes a heady whine, and something low swoops in your belly, “please, if you’re good, if you, please, touch me,” 

Yunho looks pleased, Wooyoung looks wrecked, and you’re pretty sure the rest of this is self explanatory. 

Bracing yourself with one hand on his hip and the other at the base of his cock, you sink down over him, enveloping his cock in the wet heat of your mouth. 

Wooyoung moans, deep from his chest as you sink down as far as you can go. 

“Easy,” Yunho breathes, his hands gathering up your hair to move it out of your way, “easy, baby, you don’t have to take him all the way,” 

You adjust, shifting focus to his cockhead. 

“That’s right,” Yunho murmurs, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes your belly tighten. 

This part feels instinctive, but you’re still a little fumbling. Getting the right amount of wetness, tightness to your mouth, you try to listen to his sounds as you pass your lips up and down. 

“Ah, fuck,” Wooyoung jerks, a little, “use your tongue, press up with your – fuck, just like that,” 

Your hand tightens on his thigh as you adjust. 

You taste the salt on his skin, the start of his release on your tongue, but you don’t mind it. You think you’d drink him down just like this if he keeps talking to you this way. 

“Suck me,” He begs, “just p-pull with your,” 

You hum softly, and suck. 

“I’m gonna come,” Wooyoung shakes, “I’m not gonna last,” 

“Ease off,” Yunho instructs and you lift off. 

“Fuck,” Wooyoung physically arches, his chest heaving, “what the f-fuck did you do that for?” 

“Feels better if you wait for it,” Yunho explains, looking at you, “it’s the same for you. I’ll show you sometime,” 

You don’t know what is shifting in the air between the three of you right now, but for the first time in your life the idea of a next time leaves you with the good kind of ache. 

Wooyoung looks down at you both, pushing up on his elbows, “What are you?” Wooyoung says, a shocked smile on his face, “some kind of dom?” 

Yunho grins, shaking his head, “No,” he keeps his eyes on Wooyoung, but he strokes the back of your head with his hand, “but she said teach her, I’m thorough,” 

They’re flirting. 

Something drops in your belly, and your lips part as you watch them. 

“Edging is not lesson one material,” Wooyoung pants, “Jesus,” 

Yunho shrugs, his hand smoothing over the back of your neck, “You don’t like that?” 

“Not what I said,” Wooyoung chuckles, and then he sits up, “take those off,” 

Yunho’s lips quirk into a half smile, his eyebrow raising just a tick. 

You find your voice all of a sudden, “Take them off,” 

Both of their heads snap to you. 

“You heard her,” Wooyoung nods, taking in your expression, knowing exactly how much you want this from one look. 

Yunho softens for one second, but you cut him off. 

“Don’t ask me if I’m sure,” You tell him, hand sliding up his thigh, “I want this, let me want this.” 

Yunho peels off his boxers without another word. 

“Shit,” Wooyoung says as Yunho settles next to him. 

His cock is so much bigger than you thought it would be. It’s the only way to say it, it’s big. Heavy, long and surprisingly straight. 

Yunho clears his throat, “Yeah, well,” 

You burst out a laugh, slapping a hand over your mouth. 

“I wouldn’t recommend laughing the first time you see your boyfriend’s cock, babe,” Wooyoung just grins. 

Yunho’s cheeks go pink. 

“It’s just,” You shake your head, “I see what you mean about wanting to know I’ve never done this before,” 

Yunho’s lips quirk, “Yeah,”

“Jesus,” You breathe, “we’re going back to slow when we get to the sex part,” 

His hand slips into yours, “Of course we are,” 

You give him a squeeze, silently letting him know you’re fine, and then look up to Wooyoung. 

“Good?” He checks. 

You nod. 

“Alright,” Wooyoung trades a look between you and then reaches out, “edging is lesson one, my ass,” 

You watch as Wooyoung’s hand closes around your boyfriend’s cock, and Yunho groans, his head falling back for a second as he lets himself feel it. 

“Lesson one,” Wooyoung says, drawing his hand up and down over Yunho’s shaft, “is hand jobs,” 

You shift closer on your knees. 

“Yunho,” Wooyoung says, pressing a hand over his chest, “relax,” 

He sinks back onto his forearms, eyes trained on Wooyoung. 

“He explained teasing,” Wooyoung says, meeting your eyes, “same principles apply here,” 

You slide your hand up Yunho’s thigh, sliding closer to him so you can find the spots he showed you. 

“Yeah,” Yunho nods, swallowing tightly. 

“Watch my hand,” Wooyoung says, “watch my wrist,” 

Your eyes flick down from Yunho’s face and you watch with rapt attention. His hand bobs up and down, clear pressure around all sides, his wrist loose and rolling, making sure to connect over the head of Yunho’s cock with each stroke. 

You nod. 

“Not this,” Wooyoung shifts to a stiffer, less natural looking grip and drags his hand up and down twice. 

Yunho hisses, “Alright,” 

“Got it?” Wooyoung asks you, his hand lifting off. 

“I think so,” You exhale, nerves bubbling inside you as you take Yunho’s heavy length in your hand. 

Yunho jerks, his teeth tightening together, jawline tense, “Fuck, baby,” 

“Tell me if I do it wrong,” You say to them both, “I want it to be good for you,” 

Both of them groan. 

With slow movements, you try to mimic Wooyoung’s strokes, keeping your hand tight and your wrist loose. 

“Higher,” Wooyoung prompts softly and you comply, “yeah, good,” 

You work him more, until he’s panting. 

“Babe,” Wooyoung interrupts, “give me your hand,” 

Yunho makes a tight sound when you lift your hand off him, but you follow instructions, offering Wooyoung your hand, palm up. 

He spits in it, and you gasp, “Woo,” 

“Trust me,” He nods, “watch,” 

Yunho’s eyes are blown wide, and when you wrap your wet hand back around his cock, his hands turn into tight fists at his side. 

“It’s good?” You look up at him. 

All he can do is nod. 

Wooyoung smiles, “Keep going, you can go a little faster,” 

You work your hand, ignoring the start of an ache in your muscles. 

When Yunho groans, you look up and watch as Wooyoung lays his hand across your boyfriends abs, “You have a really pretty cock, Yunho,” 

“Fuck,” Yunho’s head falls back. 

“And a pretty girlfriend,” He adds. 

Yunho nods, “So pretty,” 

Something stirs in you. You grip his cock a little tighter, working him faster. 

“Christ, yes,” Yunho nods, his voice finally needy and breathy, “good girl,” 

You suck in a sharp breath, lips parting at his words. 

Wooyoung grins like the cat who got the cream, “You’ve got him, keep going,” 

“Ah,” Yunho’s eyes roll, “mm,” 

You watch as Wooyoung wraps a hand around his own cock and starts to pump it. With a little shake of his head, he silently tells you not to worry. 

There’s a promise of next time in his eyes. 

Whatever happens tonight, this isn’t the end, that you know for sure. 

Yunho’s sharp groan brings you back. 

“Want you to come,” You lean on his thigh, the words slipping out like you’ve said them a thousand times before. 

Yunho moans, his eyes meeting yours, nodding. 

“Please,” You manage. 

Wooyoung curses softly next to you. 

Yunho’s eyes widen hungrily when he sees the picture of you both, you perched on your knees between his thick thighs jerking him so perfectly, Wooyoung working himself over, too desperate to wait. 

“I’m close,” Yunho’s chest starts to go dark red, sweat beading at his forehead, “please, don’t stop,” 

“Not stopping,” You promise. 

His hips jerk, like he wants to fuck himself into the tight ring of your hand, and Wooyoung’s hand presses him down. 

Yunho groans, and then he shifts the energy, his hand wrapping around yours where you grip his cock, fingers slotting together around his length, “Yes, baby,” 

You nod, both of your hands syncing in time until he takes over, desperate and needy, using your hand as a cocksleeve as he fucks himself hard and tight. 

“Oh fuck,” Wooyoung groans. 

“Yunho,” Your voice is close to a whine. 

That undoes him. 

His mouth drops, breath heavy, and he pumps himself hard until his cock erupts, hot ropes of pearl white cum shooting up onto his chest, covering your combined hands as he milks his pulsing cock. 

Wooyoung groans, following him over the edge, his own release painting his abs. 

It takes a moment, both of them shaking and recovering, but then Yunho reaches for you and wraps his hands around your arms, hauling you up onto his chest and kissing you breathless. 

“You’re so fucking incredible,” He says between heady kisses, your bodies flush together, the mess of his release slick between you. 

The bed shifts, Wooyoung falling onto his back next to you both, his hand giving your thigh a squeeze. 

Gently, you slide off his chest to lie between them once again, warm bodies draped over soft, damp sheets. 

Your breath is the only sound. 

Yunho has your hand still wrapped in his, a grip that says he’s not letting go any time soon. 

Your free hand settles in Wooyoung’s hair. 

Yunho murmurs into the quiet, “Hey,” his voice low, careful, “you okay?” 

You nod, a slow smile on your face, “Not okay,” you breathe, “I’m good.” 

He gives your hand a squeeze. 

“This is the best I’ve ever felt with anyone,” You confess. 

Wooyoung kisses your arm, “You deserve that,” he says, “always.” 

A warm ache settles inside you, sated, calm. 

Yunho’s fingers brush along your skin, Wooyoung’s lips pepper kisses as the three of you stretch into the afterglow. 

“Can we…,” You sigh, “can we just pause here for tonight?” 

Wooyoung looks up at you, “Too much?” 

“No,” You assure them, “but this was perfect, I want to have one perfect night,” 

“Whenever you’re ready for more,” Yunho says, kissing your hair, “we’ll make sure it’s perfect too.” 

“When you’re ready,” Wooyoung agrees, “whenever that happens.” 

“Tomorrow,” You smile, “stay over, let’s keep going tomorrow,” 

Yunho grins, “Tomorrow,” he nods. 

“Hell yes, tomorrow,” Wooyoung kisses your arm. 

“For now,” Yunho says, sitting up, “let’s get you cleaned up,” 

Slipping from the bed, your body feels lighter. Your skin is still tingling, every nerve humming with awareness. Yunho guides you to the bathroom, Wooyoung padding softly behind you, and before you know it, you’re wrapped up in the steam of the shower with both of them. 

Under the water, your eyes fall closed and you sink into the night, letting your forehead rest against the cool tiles. 

They don’t push you, they don’t dig deeper. They give you a moment to breathe. 

Yunho’s soft fingers work shampoo into your scalp while Wooyoung laters a loofah with your body wash. Their hands pass over you with equally tender care. 

After, Yunho finds you soft clothes to wear and Wooyoung disappears into the kitchen to whip up something more substantial to eat. 

You’ll talk later about what this means for your relationship, but for now the way Yunho looks at you tells you everything you need to know about where his head is. 

On the couch, all three of you are wrapped up under the blankets just like a few hours ago. 

This time though, their hands on you feel essential. Your head rests on Yunho’s chest, your legs stretch out over Wooyoung’s, one of their hands on each of your thighs. 

Some game show plays on the television, but you’re focused on the steady, tender beat of Yunho’s heart under your cheek and the soothing stroke of Wooyoung’s hand along your skin. 

You laugh, so soft, so content, “So…,” you murmur, “did we… did we just have sex? Did I dream that?” 

Yunho smiles wide, his lips pressed to your hair, “Yeah,” he whispers, his voice warm and certain, “we did.” 

“Wow,” You breathe. 

“How do you feel?” Wooyoung nudges you. 

Your hand tangles with his, “Here,” you tell them honestly, “whole.” 

As the couch grows quiet again, you sink into them, into the knowledge that this wasn’t one time, one moment of impulse. It was the beginning of something new, of something honest. 

Your skin on theirs, you’re right where you belong. 

Ready to breathe it in again tomorrow.

[honeyhotteoks]

in bloom - part one (j.yh + j.wy); section two

summary: one night, you and your boyfriend and your best friend are watching a movie, only you didn’t realize this movie would have a sex scene this long. or that they would notice how uncomfortable it made you. when you finally confess to them why, they take their time guiding you through every life experience you’ve always felt too late for, one kiss at a time. part one; section one | part one; section two | part two masterlist

note: this was inspired by my 🪻 anon who sent a suggestion about a yunwoo fic centered on loss of virginity. what was supposed to be an ask reply became a full fic. see under the cut for more detailed notes and disclaimers. part two coming soon.

warnings: virginity, late bloomer reader (she’s 26), demisexual!reader, complex relationships to sex, sexuality, and pleasure. fluff, angst, and emotional hurt/comfort, frank conversations about sexual experiences and norms including body hair and preferences, references to disassociation during sex but in the past, brief mention/question about sexual trauma (there is none), bisexual!wooyoung, bicurious!yunho, nervous / inexperienced reader, shy reader, embarrassed reader, slow and i mean SLOW sexual acts, lots of consent, kissing galore, nipple play, body worship, masturbation (f), fingering, oral sex (f receiving), oral sex (m receiving), hand jobs, yunwoo teaching how to and reader learning for basically ever sex act….. lots of soft pet names y'all know me, an extremely earned 'good girl'

pairings: boyfriend!yunho x best friend!wooyoung x fem!reader

genre: smut and more smut

word count: 18.9k

note! this part was too long for tumblr! be sure you read section one first! linked here

You and Yunho both watch him carefully as he guides your hand down between your thighs, his eyes darting back up to yours every few moments to be sure he isn’t crossing a boundary. 

“I think you should touch yourself,” Wooyoung prompts softly, pressing your hand lower so that it settles over your sex, “Yunho’s right, you should teach us what you like,” 

You swallow nervously, “How do I teach you?” 

“Just let us watch,” Wooyoung murmurs, “pretend we’re not here if it helps, just… show us what your body likes,” 

The tension is so thick you feel like you could cut it, but somehow their idea seems right. It makes sense, and more than that, it feels safe. 

You glance between them, wetting your lips and nodding, “Yeah, yeah, okay,” 

Yunho sucks in a breath but stays still. 

“Can we,” You adjust in the bed, “can you not touch me for this? Can you just watch?” 

Wooyoung’s hand slips off your thigh, “Yeah, we can do that.” 

You push away from Yunho and he slides back to give you some room, still lying by your side but this time just propped up on his hand and watching. 

With a sigh you settle onto your back in the familiar position you’ve always touched yourself in, flat to the mattress, legs spread open, knees slightly bent as you angle your hips up. 

“Alright,” You let out a nervous breath, “I guess… I’ll just, yeah, I’ll just do this,” 

With familiar movements, you reach between your legs with your left hand and settle the pads of your fingers over your clit, warm and firm under your touch from arousal. 

Their eyes are trained on you, and you swallow again, nervous. 

“Baby,” Yunho says softly, “close your eyes.” 

You let them flutter shut. 

“It’s just you in bed,” He murmurs, “let your mind go to wherever it normally does. Just feel.” 

It takes you a moment, awareness thrumming through you as you hear their slow breathing, every shift in the sheets, but you focus. You clear your mind. 

Alone, relaxing in bed. 

You think of the last thing that turned you on, the book you were reading that tugged at the tight coil inside you, the faceless male lead who’s romantic tenderness to the heroine got you feeling indescribably restless. 

You sink into the mattress, you let it all fade. 

With a breath, you start to touch. Slow circles of your fingers over your clit, dipping down to gather more wetness from your dripping core, your free hand sliding down over your body from rib to hip. 

Warmth pools in your belly, and you let out a soft breath, head relaxing to the side as you keep your eyes closed. 

You slide your hand up and over your abdomen again, brushing against your thighs, and the faceless figure in your mind starts to shift. 

You feel the ghost of Yunho’s hand on your skin, of Wooyoung’s kiss. 

Staggered images filter through, little flashes in your mind’s eye as you start to roll your fingers a little faster. 

Yunho’s full lips, parted and pink. 

Wooyoung’s eyes, shaggy hair falling across his forehead. 

Your mouth makes a soft pop as your tongue unsticks from the roof of your mouth, a gentle sound on your lips, and more floods through your mind. 

Long fingers, veined forearms, taut abdomens, the straight cut of Wooyoung’s collarbones and the broad set of Yunho’s shoulders. Arms around you, warmth enveloping you, hands searching your body with soft curiosity, lips on your skin. 

You make a tight sound, adjusting your hand, your legs straining a little wider. 

Your mind tumbles over the thought of them. 

Wooyoung’s smile, Yunho’s laugh. Tanned skin, freckles, their light dusting of body hair. Soft pressure, gentleness, tenderness, whispered breath on your skin. 

You suck in a sharp breath, back arching a little, and you slide your other hand down to find your entrance, pushing two fingers deep inside yourself. 

The weight of the mattress shifts and you hear a thready inhale that’s not your own, but it doesn’t matter. 

Your head starts to rock back, pressing into the mattress as hot pleasure swirls in your gut, and your fingers find the pace that always makes you come. Fast, steady circles on your clit and a matched rhythm for the two fingers that pulse in and out. Your thighs spread wider, knees drawn up, hips rolling down to chase the feeling. 

“Ah,” You stammer out, “ah,” 

Eyes pressed tightly together, chasing the feeling. 

Images continue to flash in your mind, a mix of sensations. 

You’re chasing hard now, desperate, but you can’t reach it. 

Jerking into the mattress you keep working your clit, but your other hand flies up to your breast, squeezing hard, tweaking your nipple with a tug and then a steady flick, but it’s not enough. 

You need it all, suddenly, sharply, and you’ve never needed that before in your life. 

A pained whine pulls from your lips, frustration laced in the tone, and your heel slips against the mattress, pushing the blankets down further in the bed. 

You need more. 

With a desperate sound, you reach out to the side where you know Yunho is, searching for his hand. 

He takes it, silently, giving you a squeeze to tell you he’s here, he’s got you, but that’s not what you need. 

Eyes still closed, you drag his hand forward with a sharp tug, drawing it to your breast. 

His fingers close over your soft flesh, his body shifting closer, and he gives you a tentative squeeze to mimic the sensation of your own hand. 

“Yes,” You shudder, “fuck,” 

He doesn’t speak, but you hear his breath change, and feel his fingers roll over your painfully hardened nipple. 

With a staggered breath you reach down, but instead of touching yourself, you leave your hand open, “W-Woo,” you’re begging, “please,” 

“Fuck,” You hear his soft curse, his hand sliding into yours. 

You direct it down, pushing it where you need it. 

His fingers are thick, thicker than yours to be sure, and when he sinks two inside you the stretch is sinful. 

You moan properly this time. 

In tandem, they work your body while you rub your clit, your free hand flying up to grip the pillows above your head, your face pressing into the soft skin of your own bicep as you pant. 

“God,” You manage, something hot curling in your gut. 

Yunho makes a tight sound next to you, his fingers rolling and tugging at your nipples with precision, and Wooyoung curses again between your thighs, the sound of his fingers pulsing in and out of your dripping cunt a filthy wet mess. 

It hits you without warning this time. Normally you work yourself up to a quiet, rolling pleasure that leaves you feeling comfortably satisfied, but this orgasm is sudden and intense. A crackle of heat sparks from your clit to your nipples, zinging through every part of you, and it’s like a pressure valve releasing. 

Your legs snap shut around your hand and Wooyoung’s, body wrenching up in arched ecstasy, and you cry out against your own skin, body shuddering in fits and starts. 

It takes a second for your body to come back online, but you feel it when Wooyoung’s fingers slowly slip out of you, and when Yunho’s hands change from stimulating to soothing. 

Still trembling, chest rapidly rising and falling with your shallow breathing, your body finally slackens and your eyes start to open. 

They’re quiet, afraid of unsettling the moment, and then the realization hits you. 

No one in the world has ever watched you come before, no one’s ever seen you fall apart, but what’s more is that no one has ever been a part of the reason you did before. It’s more intimate than being naked, and more meaningful than any lost virginity. 

Emotion builds up in your chest, throat thick with it, and you take an unsteady inhale. 

Yunho’s hand on your chest stills. 

You reach for him, pulling his arm, “Please,” 

He’s unsure, you can feel that in the way he wraps his arms around you, but then you grab onto his shirt like a lifeline and his hand cups the back of your head protectively, tenderly. Wooyoung slides up to your other side, his hand ginger on your bare hip as he watches you recover. 

“Are you here?” Yunho asks, his voice a whisper. 

You nod, steadying your breathing. 

He lets out a shuddering breath, and Wooyoung’s hand tightens on your waist. 

“Are you okay?” Wooyoung finally asks, nervous energy in his tone. 

You nod again, getting the emotional tidal wave under control, “Just hold me,” you manage, “please,” 

“Right here,” Yunho’s hand brushes over your hair, “Woo,” 

There’s a shift behind you, and then his body joins you, the three of you pressed tightly together. 

Yunho rocks you slowly, lips against your forehead as he murmurs. Your best friend rubs soft circles into your skin, kissing your shoulder slowly, chastely. 

You don’t need either of them to say it, you know with perfect clarity that they love you. 

Time stretches with them tucked around your bare body, and eventually, your breathing slows and your sudden rush of emotion fades into the background. 

You shift back, looking up at Yunho and to the side where Wooyoung leans over, “Hey,” you manage. 

“Hey,” Yunho’s fingers brush over your cheek. 

“You okay, babe?” Wooyoung asks gently. 

You nod, exhaling slowly, “That was a lot for me,” 

Wooyoung looks nervous, his expression pinched with concern. 

You reach for him, smoothing his worried brow, “It was a lot because it was new,” you explain softly, “I’ve never done that in front of anyone.” 

He softens, “How was it?” 

“Incredible,” You whisper, “I’ve never… it was so intense,” 

Wooyoung nods, kissing your palm, “It looked intense,” 

“I fantasized,” You confess with a small smile. 

Yunho returns your smile, but there’s a question in his expression, “About?” 

“You,” Your smile stretches into a grin, “both of you,” 

“Is that new too?” Yunho’s eyes flick over your face. 

“I’ve never done that either,” You confess softly, “I’ve never thought about a real person, not like I did,” 

“But you thought about us?” Wooyoung asks, his voice hesitant. 

“Yeah,” It feels like a victory, and maybe they don’t understand it fully, but they’re smiling with you, “I did,” 

“Come here,” Yunho cups your face, pulling you up into a kiss, sighing against your lips as he tenderly holds you. 

Sensation stirs in your body again, the thrill of it lighting up your stomach, and you grip his shoulder, “Mm,” you nod, deepening in the kiss, “yes,” 

Yunho pulls away, his breath a little ragged, “Wait, wait,” 

“W-what is it?” You breathe. 

“Are you,” He breathes, shaking his head, “should we-,”

Wooyoung laughs gently, “Do you want more, is what he’s trying to ask”

Yunho blushes, pink darkening in his cheeks. 

“Oh,” Wooyoung nudges him, helping break the tension, “you are down so bad for her,” 

“Shut up,” Yunho rolls his eyes, but you watch as his ears darken too, a scarlet warmth that tells you everything you need to know. 

You interrupt them though, finding their hands and drawing them closer, “Yes, yes I want more.” 

Yunho’s head snaps up, “You do,” 

“I just needed a minute,” You confess, “but I’m not ready to stop,” 

“That’s my girl,” Wooyoung surges up, kissing you hard and fast, and then slides down the bed again. 

“Woo, what are you,-”  

His fingers slip between your knees, pressing them apart until you’re following his touch and falling open again, “Do you still want slow?” 

You nod, your breath fully caught in your throat. 

“Okay,” He drops to his stomach again between your spread thighs, kissing the tender skin there just once before looking up at you, “If you want me to stop, say anything. Push me, tug my hair, however you need to tell me, tell me. I’ll stop.” 

“Okay,” You whisper. 

“Yunho,” Wooyoung directs, “hold her for me, if she gets too quiet, let me know,” 

“Got it,” Yunho smiles, blinking at the sudden interaction. You gather that he’s not used to being told what to do by anyone in the bedroom, but when it comes to your comfort, he just nods. 

“I’m gonna lift you up a bit,” Wooyoung explains, sliding his hands under your splayed thighs, “just get comfortable, okay? Just like that,” 

Your legs settle over his shoulders. 

He kisses your cunt and your head falls back with a gasp. 

Yunho watches your face, curling close to your body, but all he sees is pleasure. 

Wooyoung’s mouth is slow and warm, his lips soft against your center, his tongue firm as he starts to trace your skin. Your hand shoots out instinctively to grab the sheets, to ground yourself, but you find Yunho’s palm instead and he laces your fingers together, giving you a squeeze. 

You’re wet, still dripping from your first orgasm, but you can hear it when he inhales, the sound almost pornographic despite the tenderness of his touch. 

A soft sound pulls from your lips, your hips jerking, and when Wooyoung groans into your heat, the vibrations roll through you. 

He presses into you slowly, working you open with every deliberate stroke of his tongue. There’s nothing frantic in the way he moves, only focus. Your hips twitch, a gentle jerk you can’t fight and he hums low into your skin, a ripple spreading out beneath your navel. 

Your breathing changes first, growing shallow, tight, your hand growing more solid in Yunho’s group as the feeling starts to build and crest. 

Wooyoung’s tongue circles your clit in patient, repeating spirals, a mimic of the way you rubbed yourself and something inside you starts to gather. It’s not like your orgasm before, the way it snapped suddenly with urgent pressure, this pleasure is quieter, gentler. It builds around you like a rising warm bath, carrying you into its sensations with ease. 

Your thighs twitch again, feet flexing against the sheets, and you sigh. 

Yunho nuzzles your temple, “Let it happen, baby,” he murmurs, “don’t rush it,” 

Wooyoung’s mouth lifts, looking up to check you, “I got you, I promise,” 

You exhale shakily, wetting your lips and nodding, and as Wooyoung sinks back down your hips rise to meet his mouth. He shifts with you, one hand pressing up under your thigh to hold you closer to his eager mouth, his other hand reaching around and settling over your lower belly. 

This pleasure is new, not because it’s wholly unfamiliar, but because for the first time you’re able to sink into the feeling of someone’s hands on your skin. Someone’s body working to please yours, and you want it, you want to live in it. 

Wooyoung gently sucks at your clit, sighing a breath of warm air against your slick skin, and your body warms. A tingling shifting down your fingertips, curling in your toes. A breathy sound catches in your throat. 

“Hmm,” Yunho kisses your hair, “you’re doing so well,” 

You sigh, a pleasured sound, your fingers pressing into his hand, your head starting to dig back into the mattress. 

You’re close now, so close it almost scares you. Pleasure starts to catch again, full and steady, and Wooyoung pushes down more firmly with his mouth, his tongue thrusting into you, lapping up you, flicking steadily against your aching bud. 

It’s too much, it’s overwhelming, but in a way that’s starting to make you feel alive. 

You gasp, back arching off the mattress, and your free hand flutters like it doesn’t have a place to land. 

“There she is,” Yunho says, his voice quiet and warm. 

Slow and deep, the rush of pleasure that hits you this time is an undulating wave rocking through every nerve in your body. You fall into it, open to it, trembling against Wooyoung’s mouth as you moan and twitch. 

Your voice shifts, not a cry like last time. It’s a long, low release, a bloom. 

Your chest rises and falls in shallow breaths as you come down, your body easing back into Yunho’s waiting arms. His hand strokes up and down your side, steady and warm, the lightest pressure of his fingertips along your skin. 

Slowly, Wooyoung lifts his head, his lips parted and face flushed, chin slick with your arousal. 

You sigh, eyes drifting to the ceiling, “That,” you manage, your voice a bit hoarse, “felt so good,” 

Wooyoung breathes out a shaky laugh, resting his forehead on your thigh, grounding himself there like he needs this contact just as much as you do. 

Your pulse is still fluttering under your skin, and when you look down at him, he’s watching you with such an unguarded affection it tugs at a deep, quiet longing long dormant in your chest. 

Reaching out, you brush your fingers through his damp hair, and Wooyoung leans his cheek into your palm without hesitation, his own eyes softly closing as he feels your warmth. 

He cups your hand against his face, turning to kiss your palm, “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” You promise him, “I really am,” 

Wooyoung kisses your thigh once more, and then slides up your body to rest beside you, face level with yours. You smile as he shifts into your space, and you realize you’ve always been safe with him, comfortable with the way his skin feels on yours, his touch, always so freely given without expectation of anything in return. 

It’s only natural you ended up here. 

Wooyoung’s voice brings you out of your thoughts, “I’ve never seen you like that,” He comments softly. 

“Like what?” 

“So relaxed,” He smiles a little, “free,” 

You soften, your body tucked into Yunho’s behind you. 

Wooyoung smiles, just a little, “I love you,” he says it so simply, “you already know I do, but, God, I do love you,” 

Emotion swells behind your ribs again, “I love you too,” 

Wooyoung’s eyes flick up over your shoulder, but whatever he finds in Yunho’s expression must soothe his anxiety because he smiles, and dips to your mouth. He kisses you this time with affection, you feel it in the slow pull of his mouth, the way his hand slides up your arm before cupping your cheek. 

“You’re so beautiful,” He murmurs as he leans back. 

A little laugh escapes you, “You keep saying that,” 

“It’s true,” Wooyoung grins. 

Yunho’s body curls closer around you, his hand resting on your bare hip, “He’s right,” 

Turning your head to find his eyes, something in your chest tugs loose at the sight of him. 

Utter affection, the closest thing you’ve ever seen to devotion, heavy in his soft eyes. When you reach for him, he comes willingly, responding to your movements with his own like a dance he knows the steps to by heart. 

Your lips meet, a catch of breath in his throat as he holds you close. 

This time, you kiss him, your fingers on the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer as your mouths part, tongues connecting between breaths. 

“Jagi,” He sighs. 

Your lips part so you can look up at him, “Yunho?” 

“Yes?” His voice is quiet, looking at you like he can read your every thought. 

“Thank you,” You whisper. 

His brows lift, expression clearing, “For what?” 

“For being patient with me,” Your eyes flick down so you can get the rest of the words out, “for waiting for me, not pushing me. I didn’t know how much I needed that,” 

His warm lips connect to your forehead, “You’re worth waiting for,” he murmurs, fingers stroking up and down your spine, “sweetheart, you’re more precious to me than I ever knew someone could be,” 

Your eyes close as you let his words sink in, breathing quietly together, and you nod just a little, hopeful that he understands that you mean it too. 

He leans back to see you after a beat, “I just want you to feel good, and feel safe,” 

“I did,” You assure him, “I still do, which is a miracle,” 

Wooyoung kisses your shoulder and nods, “It just means it feels right, babe,” 

For a moment, his lips linger at your shoulder while Yunho’s hand cups your waist, his thumb stroking a soothing line into your skin. 

The room is quiet again, another breath to let you get your bearings in this new territory, to understand the shape of the intimacy building between you. Your eyes are closed as you breathe in and out, body languid after your back to back orgasms, and you let your mind drift. 

After a moment though, your senses shift. Your mind is so attuned to touch, typically preoccupied with the ways that it makes you feel discomfort or on edge, so you’re good at spotting the hidden meanings in people’s hands. 

Wooyoung’s arm wrapped around you isn’t relaxed, there’s a subtle tension in his position, and in the sound of his tight exhales, every few breaths one just a bit deeper and laden with something urgent. 

Your attention shifts, and you notice the way Yunho’s fingertips aren’t brushing softly, not anymore, there’s a press to it, a restraint of something more. 

You blink your eyes open, level with Yunho’s chest, but when you shift backwards, sliding your leg just right, your body slots together with Wooyoung’s and you feel an unmistakable hardness. 

He sucks in a soft breath, arching a little to guide his hips away from yours, but no one moves, no one mentions it. You watch as his hand tightens on the mattress, just a little, but enough. 

From your position here, you can’t see Yunho’s face, but you study his body language. There’s a faint strain in his jaw, a tense cord of muscle in his neck, his breathing shallow and carefully controlled. When you readjust in the bed, he readjusts too, something clearly aching under his skin. 

Glancing down to his hips, you nearly lose your breath when you see that he’s hard too, impossible to conceal in those sweatpants, despite his best efforts and careful positioning. 

They’re both hard, and if you’re guessing, they’ve been like this for a while. 

Your chest flutters, something quickening in your chest. 

They wanted you. 

They want you, still. 

Your mind flicks through all of it, every touch, every word. Every second since you crossed the threshold of this bedroom has been about you – your comfort, your peace, your pleasure. Never once did they try to turn your attention or coax you into something further or faster. 

The contrast of that slices through you. 

Every guy you tried with, every single one, picked you for what they could take from you, not what they could give. 

The decision is made in your mind before you even verbalize it to yourself, and you find yourself reaching, your hand settling on Yunho’s abdomen, “Yunho?” 

He twitches at your touch, you feel his muscles quirk under your fingertips, but he answers you with his softest voice, “Yes?” 

Your hand drifts a little lower, “You’re hard,” 

His hips turn, trying to conceal that fact, and he leans back to see your expression, “Sorry,” he clears his throat, a flash of embarrassment moving across his face, “yeah,” 

“Don’t apologize,” You smile a little, hand sliding back up to a safer spot on his chest, “you’re fine,” 

Wooyoung snorts a little breath of air, “I’m pretty sure I’ve been hard since you kissed me,” he admits with a crooked grin. 

You nudge him with your elbow, “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Yunho brushes his hand against your jaw, “Baby, this wasn’t about us,” 

“Exactly,” Wooyoung nods, “we’re fine, we’re more than fine.” 

You study his eyes a moment, and you know he’s being truthful. You know if you said this was over then this would end right here. 

You move then, extricating yourself from their arms and sliding up in the bed, the sheet slipping off you until your skin is bared again to them in the soft light. Their eyes track your movements, unsure why you needed to make space, but they wait, they watch. 

“You’re both hard,” You say it funny by mistake, like you’re trying to get your facts straight. 

Yunho’s eyes flick to Wooyoung, then back to you, “Yes,” 

“You both want me?” 

“Yes,” Their voices blend together, answering you without hesitation. 

“So then,” Your teeth catch on your lip, “let me try and make you feel good too,” 

Wooyoung’s brows lift high in surprise and he shakes his head, “You don’t have to do anything for us,” 

Yunho’s nodding, opening his mouth to say more, but you get there first. 

“Stop,” You shake your head, “I’m okay, I feel good,” 

His face softens, but you still see his hesitation. 

“This is a part of sex too, isn’t it?” You look to Yunho, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but you said you’d teach me.” 

Yunho’s eyes darken with something more, a tense pulse in his jaw, but he nods. 

“So, teach me,” You breathe, a smile on your lips. 

The silence hangs, none of you breathing, and you look back and forth between them. 

“Jesus,” Wooyoung finally cuts the tension, running a hand over his face, “you’re perfect,” 

Yunho shifts in the bed, sitting up to meet your eyes, “Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” You nod, “I want to try,” 

“Try what exactly?” Yunho’s hand against the bedding flexes, trying to keep his obvious need under control. 

“Um,” You feel the heat rise again in your cheeks, and then you look too Wooyoung, “your mouth felt… would my mouth feel that good for you?” 

Wooyoung groans, falling into the mattress face first, but he nods, “You’re going to kill me,” 

“So, that’s a yes?” You grin. 

“That’s a big fucking yes,” Wooyoung exhales, pushing himself up to a seat with you both, “if you’re comfortable, we can do that.” 

“I want to do that,” You say, and you mean it. 

Yunho takes a deep breath and then shifts off the bed, “Alright,” he swallows tightly, and as he stands you see the impressive tent in his sweatpants, “jagi, is it alright if we get undressed?” 

“Yes,” You nod, a little too eager and he smiles at you, amused. 

Wooyoung slides off the bed too, and you watch as they start to peel off layers. 

Yunho starts to talk, but your eyes are locked on the way that his body looks when he shucks off his shirt, the way his fingers move when he pulls at the tie of his sweats. His lean, corded muscle tensing and relaxing as he moves. 

“If you start to get uncomfortable,” Yunho says, and your eyes fly up to his, “tell us, I don’t care what we’re doing or what we’re saying to you,” 

Wooyoung nods emphatically. 

“I don’t care if Woo says he’ll die if you stop,” Yunho says, and it’s funny, but his voice is firm and clear, “if you need to stop, we fucking stop.” 

“I got it,” You smile, “stop means stop.” 

You take a breath, and realize they’re both almost stark naked in front of you. You take them in all at once, pupils dilating and head going fuzzy. 

They’re both lean, the bodies of men who are endlessly active – running, biking, dancing, all movement and cardio and stamina, but every line of their muscles are well defined. Their cocks visibly strain against the cotton of their boxer briefs, and you feel a curl of heat in your belly just like before. 

Wooyoung shoots a look at Yunho and rolls his eyes, “She’s okay,” he says as he reaches out a hand to you, “I’ll take very good care of your girl, Yunho-yah.” The teasing emphasis on Yunho’s name pulls a smile from your lips. 

Yunho’s jaw tightens, but he exhales through his nose and nods, “I know,” 

Taking Wooyoung’s hand, he pulls you forwards, “Come here, babe,” 

You end up standing, and you let him guide you as he shifts your positions, sitting down onto the edge of the bed. 

“Here?” You check, nodding, moving to get on your knees. 

Yunho’s hand on your lower back stills you, and he reaches past both of you to grab one of the thick throw pillows, sliding it onto the floor between Wooyoung’s feet, “Don’t hurt your knees, baby,” 

“Right,”

Slowly, you drop down, situating yourself with your hands on Wooyoung’s thighs. 

It’s still for a moment, no one moving, but then Wooyoung drops back onto his elbows and lets his legs open wider, “Doing okay?” 

“Mhm,” Your eyes are glued to his clothed cock. 

Yunho’s hand brushes over the back of your head as he steps from one side of you and Wooyoung to the other, and then he crouches behind you at your side, one of his heavy, warm palms settling on your lower back. 

“Okay,” You breathe. 

Wooyoung’s eyes look hot, need unapologetic in his gaze, and as you reach for his waistband his hands tighten in the blankets under him. 

“So,” You manage, hooking your fingers under his underwear, “I’ve never done this before, obviously,”

“Doing great so far,” Wooyoung exhales. 

“This seems like a clear first step to sucking your cock, Woo,” The words roll off your tongue, an easy jab with your best friend. 

Yunho laughs at your side, his lips pressing against your temple, “Quick study, baby,” 

Wooyoung’s smiling too, but it fades into a completely new expression on his face when you pull his boxers down completely. 

Your eyes flick over his cock immediately. He’s rock hard, cock flushed pink and leaking, a string of precum connected from the tip of his velvet head to his belly. It’s thick, that’s the first thing you think, and perfectly proportional for him. 

“Jesus, fuck,” Wooyoung breathes, “you look so hot right now, babe,” 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and he groans. 

Yunho gives you a moment, and then his hand flexes on your back, “Start slow,” he urges you softly, “touch his thighs,” 

You let your hands slide over his skin, over the dark loops of his thigh tattoo, strong quads rippled under your palms. He’s warm, soft, and his cock twitches the closer you get to his hips. 

You catalogue that quietly. 

“Just like that,” Yunho nods, “we like being teased too,” 

Wooyoung swallows. 

“It feels good?” You check with him, your nails gently brushing over his inner thighs, a mirror of how Yunho touched you earlier. 

He sucks in a sharp breath, “Yeah,” 

“You can press,” Yunho offers, “here,” 

You look down, looking at the place he gestures to on his own thigh. 

Your fingers travel there, on the tender skin of his inner thigh, close to the heavy weight of Wooyoung’s balls. You hear his breathing change, and when you press he groans. 

“Kisses feel good there too,” Yunho murmurs, his voice low and tight as if you were touching him too, “anywhere close that’s not his cock,” 

You nod, attentive, sliding closer to him between his splayed knees, and despite the curling nervousness in your gut you press a soft, featherlight kiss to his thigh. 

“Ah,” Wooyoung hisses, hands tightening. 

“There,” Yunho encourages, “that’s good,” 

You kiss again, a little firmer this time, exploring him more, inching closer to his hips. With a flash of heat in your own chest, your tongue licks a slow stripe from the soft juncture of his groin back up to the straining tendon at the base of his cock. 

Wooyoung sucks in a sharp breath and jerks, “Oh, fuck,” he pants, “what the fuck,”

“Bad?” You look up at him. 

Yunho’s hand tightens on your back and Wooyoung shakes his head. 

Wooyoung’s cock twitches by your cheek, and you smile, “This isn’t so hard,” 

Wooyoung bites his lip, a laugh caught in his throat, “Yeah, well,” he says, “my cock is,” 

You roll your eyes up at him. 

“Baby,” Yunho shifts, positioned a little closer to your side, “do it again,” 

You nod and repeat the hot line of your tongue. 

“Good,” Yunho sounds breathy, and out of the corner of your eye you see his hand rest over his own cock, curling around the thick length through the fabric of his boxers, “same thing, but here,” 

Yunho reaches around with his free hand and without touching Wooyoung’s cock, he draws a line from base to tip. His hand settles on Wooyoung’s thigh, and you hear Wooyoung groan. 

You lean in, and with hesitant pressure, you lick a line up Wooyoung’s cock from base to tip just like he showed you. 

Wooyoung pants, “You can, uh,” he gathers himself, “press more,” 

Your eyes flick up at him, but you lean in to try again. 

Wooyoung’s cock jerks away from the sensation though and you stop in the middle, a hesitant look in your eyes. 

Yunho’s hand on your back gently slides up, cupping the back of your head with the most gentle pressure, and then uses his free hand to press flat to the front of Wooyoung’s cock, bracing it, “Again,” he encourages softly, “the pressure feels good, you’re not hurting him.” 

This time, you press, really press, with the firm muscle of your tongue. The wall of Yunho’s hand gives Wooyoung’s cock room to shift away, and for the first time, you hear your best friend moan. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Wooyoung sinks into the mattress, flat on his back now. 

You repeat the motion, and again, and again. 

“Focus here,” Yunho’s fingers curl around your best friend’s cock, softly brushing against the seam at the head of his cock, a heart shaped curve of velvety smooth skin. 

You bring your tongue up, and focus your attention there. Kitten licks, heavy presses, doubling down on anything that makes Wooyoung pant, moan, grip the sheets. 

“Still good?” Yunho’s fingers brush over your hair. 

You almost forgot. For a very real moment, none of the fear existed, none of the nervousness. 

“I’m great,” You smile, kissing the head of Wooyoung’s cock. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Wooyoung’s hips jerk. 

“Alright,” Yunho kisses your temple, “I think we can stop torturing him,” 

“Please,” Wooyoung twitches, his body flushed pink with need. 

“Come here,” Yunho presses between your shoulders to get you higher up on your knees, and then he stands, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Wooyoung so he can get a better vantage point. 

“Baby,” Wooyoung makes a heady whine, and something low swoops in your belly, “please, if you’re good, if you, please, touch me,” 

Yunho looks pleased, Wooyoung looks wrecked, and you’re pretty sure the rest of this is self explanatory. 

Bracing yourself with one hand on his hip and the other at the base of his cock, you sink down over him, enveloping his cock in the wet heat of your mouth. 

Wooyoung moans, deep from his chest as you sink down as far as you can go. 

“Easy,” Yunho breathes, his hands gathering up your hair to move it out of your way, “easy, baby, you don’t have to take him all the way,” 

You adjust, shifting focus to his cockhead. 

“That’s right,” Yunho murmurs, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes your belly tighten. 

This part feels instinctive, but you’re still a little fumbling. Getting the right amount of wetness, tightness to your mouth, you try to listen to his sounds as you pass your lips up and down. 

“Ah, fuck,” Wooyoung jerks, a little, “use your tongue, press up with your – fuck, just like that,” 

Your hand tightens on his thigh as you adjust. 

You taste the salt on his skin, the start of his release on your tongue, but you don’t mind it. You think you’d drink him down just like this if he keeps talking to you this way. 

“Suck me,” He begs, “just p-pull with your,” 

You hum softly, and suck. 

“I’m gonna come,” Wooyoung shakes, “I’m not gonna last,” 

“Ease off,” Yunho instructs and you lift off. 

“Fuck,” Wooyoung physically arches, his chest heaving, “what the f-fuck did you do that for?” 

“Feels better if you wait for it,” Yunho explains, looking at you, “it’s the same for you. I’ll show you sometime,” 

You don’t know what is shifting in the air between the three of you right now, but for the first time in your life the idea of a next time leaves you with the good kind of ache. 

Wooyoung looks down at you both, pushing up on his elbows, “What are you?” Wooyoung says, a shocked smile on his face, “some kind of dom?” 

Yunho grins, shaking his head, “No,” he keeps his eyes on Wooyoung, but he strokes the back of your head with his hand, “but she said teach her, I’m thorough,” 

They’re flirting. 

Something drops in your belly, and your lips part as you watch them. 

“Edging is not lesson one material,” Wooyoung pants, “Jesus,” 

Yunho shrugs, his hand smoothing over the back of your neck, “You don’t like that?” 

“Not what I said,” Wooyoung chuckles, and then he sits up, “take those off,” 

Yunho’s lips quirk into a half smile, his eyebrow raising just a tick. 

You find your voice all of a sudden, “Take them off,” 

Both of their heads snap to you. 

“You heard her,” Wooyoung nods, taking in your expression, knowing exactly how much you want this from one look. 

Yunho softens for one second, but you cut him off. 

“Don’t ask me if I’m sure,” You tell him, hand sliding up his thigh, “I want this, let me want this.” 

Yunho peels off his boxers without another word. 

“Shit,” Wooyoung says as Yunho settles next to him. 

His cock is so much bigger than you thought it would be. It’s the only way to say it, it’s big. Heavy, long and surprisingly straight. 

Yunho clears his throat, “Yeah, well,” 

You burst out a laugh, slapping a hand over your mouth. 

“I wouldn’t recommend laughing the first time you see your boyfriend’s cock, babe,” Wooyoung just grins. 

Yunho’s cheeks go pink. 

“It’s just,” You shake your head, “I see what you mean about wanting to know I’ve never done this before,” 

Yunho’s lips quirk, “Yeah,”

“Jesus,” You breathe, “we’re going back to slow when we get to the sex part,” 

His hand slips into yours, “Of course we are,” 

You give him a squeeze, silently letting him know you’re fine, and then look up to Wooyoung. 

“Good?” He checks. 

You nod. 

“Alright,” Wooyoung trades a look between you and then reaches out, “edging is lesson one, my ass,” 

You watch as Wooyoung’s hand closes around your boyfriend’s cock, and Yunho groans, his head falling back for a second as he lets himself feel it. 

“Lesson one,” Wooyoung says, drawing his hand up and down over Yunho’s shaft, “is hand jobs,” 

You shift closer on your knees. 

“Yunho,” Wooyoung says, pressing a hand over his chest, “relax,” 

He sinks back onto his forearms, eyes trained on Wooyoung. 

“He explained teasing,” Wooyoung says, meeting your eyes, “same principles apply here,” 

You slide your hand up Yunho’s thigh, sliding closer to him so you can find the spots he showed you. 

“Yeah,” Yunho nods, swallowing tightly. 

“Watch my hand,” Wooyoung says, “watch my wrist,” 

Your eyes flick down from Yunho’s face and you watch with rapt attention. His hand bobs up and down, clear pressure around all sides, his wrist loose and rolling, making sure to connect over the head of Yunho’s cock with each stroke. 

You nod. 

“Not this,” Wooyoung shifts to a stiffer, less natural looking grip and drags his hand up and down twice. 

Yunho hisses, “Alright,” 

“Got it?” Wooyoung asks you, his hand lifting off. 

“I think so,” You exhale, nerves bubbling inside you as you take Yunho’s heavy length in your hand. 

Yunho jerks, his teeth tightening together, jawline tense, “Fuck, baby,” 

“Tell me if I do it wrong,” You say to them both, “I want it to be good for you,” 

Both of them groan. 

With slow movements, you try to mimic Wooyoung’s strokes, keeping your hand tight and your wrist loose. 

“Higher,” Wooyoung prompts softly and you comply, “yeah, good,” 

You work him more, until he’s panting. 

“Babe,” Wooyoung interrupts, “give me your hand,” 

Yunho makes a tight sound when you lift your hand off him, but you follow instructions, offering Wooyoung your hand, palm up. 

He spits in it, and you gasp, “Woo,” 

“Trust me,” He nods, “watch,” 

Yunho’s eyes are blown wide, and when you wrap your wet hand back around his cock, his hands turn into tight fists at his side. 

“It’s good?” You look up at him. 

All he can do is nod. 

Wooyoung smiles, “Keep going, you can go a little faster,” 

You work your hand, ignoring the start of an ache in your muscles. 

When Yunho groans, you look up and watch as Wooyoung lays his hand across your boyfriends abs, “You have a really pretty cock, Yunho,” 

“Fuck,” Yunho’s head falls back. 

“And a pretty girlfriend,” He adds. 

Yunho nods, “So pretty,” 

Something stirs in you. You grip his cock a little tighter, working him faster. 

“Christ, yes,” Yunho nods, his voice finally needy and breathy, “good girl,” 

You suck in a sharp breath, lips parting at his words. 

Wooyoung grins like the cat who got the cream, “You’ve got him, keep going,” 

“Ah,” Yunho’s eyes roll, “mm,” 

You watch as Wooyoung wraps a hand around his own cock and starts to pump it. With a little shake of his head, he silently tells you not to worry. 

There’s a promise of next time in his eyes. 

Whatever happens tonight, this isn’t the end, that you know for sure. 

Yunho’s sharp groan brings you back. 

“Want you to come,” You lean on his thigh, the words slipping out like you’ve said them a thousand times before. 

Yunho moans, his eyes meeting yours, nodding. 

“Please,” You manage. 

Wooyoung curses softly next to you. 

Yunho’s eyes widen hungrily when he sees the picture of you both, you perched on your knees between his thick thighs jerking him so perfectly, Wooyoung working himself over, too desperate to wait. 

“I’m close,” Yunho’s chest starts to go dark red, sweat beading at his forehead, “please, don’t stop,” 

“Not stopping,” You promise. 

His hips jerk, like he wants to fuck himself into the tight ring of your hand, and Wooyoung’s hand presses him down. 

Yunho groans, and then he shifts the energy, his hand wrapping around yours where you grip his cock, fingers slotting together around his length, “Yes, baby,” 

You nod, both of your hands syncing in time until he takes over, desperate and needy, using your hand as a cocksleeve as he fucks himself hard and tight. 

“Oh fuck,” Wooyoung groans. 

“Yunho,” Your voice is close to a whine. 

That undoes him. 

His mouth drops, breath heavy, and he pumps himself hard until his cock erupts, hot ropes of pearl white cum shooting up onto his chest, covering your combined hands as he milks his pulsing cock. 

Wooyoung groans, following him over the edge, his own release painting his abs. 

It takes a moment, both of them shaking and recovering, but then Yunho reaches for you and wraps his hands around your arms, hauling you up onto his chest and kissing you breathless. 

“You’re so fucking incredible,” He says between heady kisses, your bodies flush together, the mess of his release slick between you. 

The bed shifts, Wooyoung falling onto his back next to you both, his hand giving your thigh a squeeze. 

Gently, you slide off his chest to lie between them once again, warm bodies draped over soft, damp sheets. 

Your breath is the only sound. 

Yunho has your hand still wrapped in his, a grip that says he’s not letting go any time soon. 

Your free hand settles in Wooyoung’s hair. 

Yunho murmurs into the quiet, “Hey,” his voice low, careful, “you okay?” 

You nod, a slow smile on your face, “Not okay,” you breathe, “I’m good.” 

He gives your hand a squeeze. 

“This is the best I’ve ever felt with anyone,” You confess. 

Wooyoung kisses your arm, “You deserve that,” he says, “always.” 

A warm ache settles inside you, sated, calm. 

Yunho’s fingers brush along your skin, Wooyoung’s lips pepper kisses as the three of you stretch into the afterglow. 

“Can we…,” You sigh, “can we just pause here for tonight?” 

Wooyoung looks up at you, “Too much?” 

“No,” You assure them, “but this was perfect, I want to have one perfect night,” 

“Whenever you’re ready for more,” Yunho says, kissing your hair, “we’ll make sure it’s perfect too.” 

“When you’re ready,” Wooyoung agrees, “whenever that happens.” 

“Tomorrow,” You smile, “stay over, let’s keep going tomorrow,” 

Yunho grins, “Tomorrow,” he nods. 

“Hell yes, tomorrow,” Wooyoung kisses your arm. 

“For now,” Yunho says, sitting up, “let’s get you cleaned up,” 

Slipping from the bed, your body feels lighter. Your skin is still tingling, every nerve humming with awareness. Yunho guides you to the bathroom, Wooyoung padding softly behind you, and before you know it, you’re wrapped up in the steam of the shower with both of them. 

Under the water, your eyes fall closed and you sink into the night, letting your forehead rest against the cool tiles. 

They don’t push you, they don’t dig deeper. They give you a moment to breathe. 

Yunho’s soft fingers work shampoo into your scalp while Wooyoung laters a loofah with your body wash. Their hands pass over you with equally tender care. 

After, Yunho finds you soft clothes to wear and Wooyoung disappears into the kitchen to whip up something more substantial to eat. 

You’ll talk later about what this means for your relationship, but for now the way Yunho looks at you tells you everything you need to know about where his head is. 

On the couch, all three of you are wrapped up under the blankets just like a few hours ago. 

This time though, their hands on you feel essential. Your head rests on Yunho’s chest, your legs stretch out over Wooyoung’s, one of their hands on each of your thighs. 

Some game show plays on the television, but you’re focused on the steady, tender beat of Yunho’s heart under your cheek and the soothing stroke of Wooyoung’s hand along your skin. 

You laugh, so soft, so content, “So…,” you murmur, “did we… did we just have sex? Did I dream that?” 

Yunho smiles wide, his lips pressed to your hair, “Yeah,” he whispers, his voice warm and certain, “we did.” 

“Wow,” You breathe. 

“How do you feel?” Wooyoung nudges you. 

Your hand tangles with his, “Here,” you tell them honestly, “whole.” 

As the couch grows quiet again, you sink into them, into the knowledge that this wasn’t one time, one moment of impulse. It was the beginning of something new, of something honest. 

Your skin on theirs, you’re right where you belong. 

Ready to breathe it in again tomorrow.