riri

i die if i don't romanticize any part of my life. 2006

[sabitalune]

͙͡★ a gentle breeze upon my heart ♥ .°˖

[kinkyhoon]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ♰ 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖑𝖞 𝕾𝖎𝖓𝖓𝖊𝖗𝖘 ♰

𖤝 𝔓𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤: OT7 x fem!reader (whoever you fuck in each chapter will be a surprise. Why?Bcs I can and it's more fun that way hehe) 𖤝 𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢: reverse!harem, smut MDNI, fantasy, dark academia, serie 𖤝 𝔖𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰:  You’re a student like any other, drowning in debt and hounded by loan sharks. You decide to use the last resort: ending your life. But before you have time to pull the trigger, a mysterious young man emerges from a portal and offers you another option: replace a deceased version of yourself in another world and kill the witch who murdered your doppelganger. With nothing left to lose, you accept and now find yourself leading a new life in a magical academy reserved for sinners. You’ll meet seven skilled sinners and become entangled in this intricate story and the mysteries surrounding your doppelgänger’s death. 𖤝 𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: surnatural, unprotected!sex, spooning, oral (both!rec), handjob, swearing, 69, fingering, alcohol, death, suicide, violence 𖤝 𝔚ℭ: 20.3k 𖤝 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: It's finally here!!!! I will try to post a chapter every week!!! Taglist is open!!! (look closely you might find something interesting while reading hehe)

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 1 ✦

You are going to die.

This is not a dramatic statement. This is simply the truth, the same way the sky is blue or the rent is due or the loan sharks have been calling your phone every hour for the past three weeks. You are twenty-one years old, you are drowning in debt you will never repay, and you are sitting on the edge of your bathtub with a gun in your lap that cost you the last of your cash and most of your dignity.

The bathroom light flickers. It's been doing that for months. You never fixed it. Why would you? You weren't planning to be here long enough for it to matter.

Your phone buzzes on the sink. Another text from a number you've memorized but never saved.

"We know you're home. Pay what you owe or we take fingers this time."

You turn the phone facedown. Your fingers ache. Two of them healed crooked from the last warning.

You press the barrel to your temple. The metal is cold. You didn't expect it to be cold. You expected it to feel like nothing, the way everything else has felt like nothing for months now.

Your finger finds the trigger. You close your eyes.

You think: I'm sorry.

You think: I don't even know who I'm apologizing to.

You pull the trigger. And everything stops. Not in the way you expected. Not the white light or the rushing tunnel or the life flashing before your eyes. No. The world simply... pauses. The flickering bathroom light freezes mid-flicker, stuck between on and off, casting the room in a strange half-glow. The drip from the leaky faucet hangs suspended. And the gun doesn't fire.

You pull the trigger again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. You pull it three more times in rapid succession, your breath coming faster now, panic replacing resignation, because you can't even do this right, you can't even die properly-

"That's really not going to work."

The voice comes from somewhere to your left. Somewhere that should not contain a voice, because your bathroom is approximately the size of a broom closet and you are very definitely alone in it. Or you were. You should be.

You turn your head slowly, the gun still pressed to your temple, and find yourself staring at a tear in reality. That's the only way to describe it. The air beside your shower has split open, and through the gap spills light that is somehow both gold and pink at the same time, and standing in the middle of this impossibility is a young man who looks approximately your age and approximately like he's never had a bad day in his entire life.

He's wearing what appears to be some kind of uniform, dark fabric, sharp lines, an emblem you don't recognize embroidered on the collar, but he's wearing it wrong, top button undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows and tie hanging loose.

He smiles at you. It's the kind of smile that knows exactly how charming it is. "Hi," he says. "You're not hallucinating."

"I'm definitely hallucinating," you say. Your voice comes out hoarse. When was the last time you spoke to another person? Two days? Three? "This is a hallucination. I'm having a mental break. That's fine. That tracks."

The young man steps out of the tear in reality and into your bathroom. The portal doesn't close behind him. It just hovers there. "You're not hallucinating," he repeats. He reaches out and plucks the gun from your hands. "This is real. I'm real. The portal is real. And you're not dead, which I feel like we should focus on right now."

You stare at him. You stare at the portal. You stare at your empty hands, which are trembling. "I pulled the trigger," you say.

"You did."

"It didn't work."

"I stopped it."

"You stopped it."

"Time, mostly. Just this room. Just for a minute." He says this like it's a minor inconvenience, like he's explaining how he fixed a leaky faucet. "The bullet will resume its trajectory if I let go, so I'd appreciate it if you'd step away from the line of fire before I do."

You look down. There is a bullet hanging in the air six inches from your head. Frozen. Motionless You slide off the bathtub edge and press yourself against the opposite wall. Your legs don't feel like legs. The young man waves his hand. The bullet drops to the floor with a small tink. Time resumes. The light flickers properly. The faucet drips. The tear in reality stays exactly where it is.

"There," he says pleasantly. "Crisis averted. You're welcome, by the way."

"Who," you manage, "the hell are you?"

He places a hand over his heart, mock-offended. "I'm hurt. I go through all this effort to save your life and that's the tone you take?" Then he drops the act and grins. "My name is Sunoo. You're Y/N. Well, you're a Y/N. One of them. There are more than you'd think, actually. Infinite universes, infinite variations. Most of you are very boring, but you-" He points at you. "You're interesting."

You slide down the wall until you're sitting on the bathroom floor. "I don't understand anything you're saying," you tell him.

"That's fair." Sunoo crouches down to your level. He's still smiling, but something in his expression shifts. Softens. It's almost convincing. "Let me start over. You were about to do something permanent. I'm here to offer you an alternative."

"What kind of alternative?"

"The kind where you don't die and instead get a new life, a new identity, and a purpose." He tilts his head. "Also there's magic. And an academy. And you might have to kill someone. But we can get to that part later."

You stare at him. The gun is on the floor between you. Neither of you reaches for it. "Magic," you repeat.

"Magic."

"Academy."

"Academy."

"Killing someone."

"Allegedly. It's more of a long-term goal than an immediate requirement."

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. When you open them, he's still there. The portal is still there. The bullet is still on the floor. You are still alive, which was not the plan five minutes ago. "Okay," you say, because what else do you say to the impossible when it shows up in your bathroom? "Explain."

Sunoo explains. He explains it slowly, patiently, like he's talking to a child or a particularly skittish animal. There is a world called Emperion. It runs on magic drawn from sin, anger, greed, pride, all the worst parts of human nature, harvested and weaponized. In this world, there was another version of you. A wealthy, powerful, deeply unpleasant version of you who attended an elite magical academy and made a lot of enemies and one very bad decision.

"She made a deal with something she shouldn't have," Sunoo says. "A deity outside the sanctioned seven. Tristitia. The Sorrow. It gave her power, and then it took her life. Or rather, a witch took her life. Working for Tristitia. The details are messy."

"Messy how?"

"Messy in the sense that I don't fully know them." He says this lightly, but his eyes flick away for just a moment. "I was there when she died. It happened fast. One moment she was casting, the next she was-" He makes a vague gesture. "Not casting. Very permanently not casting."

You're still on the floor. Your legs have gone numb. "And you want me to replace her."

"I want you to be her. There's a difference." He stands up and offers you his hand. "She's dead. No one knows except me. If you take her place, you get her life, her room, her status, her spot at the Academy. All you have to do is pretend to be her and help me find the witch who killed her."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you care who killed her?"

Something flickers across Sunoo's face. It might be grief. It might be guilt. It might be neither. With him, it's hard to tell.

"She was my best friend," he says. "Is that enough of a reason?"

You don't know if you believe him. But you also don't know if it matters. You're sitting on a bathroom floor with a bullet on the tiles and a portal to another universe hovering beside your shower. Your options are limited. They've been limited for a long time.

"What if I say no?"

Sunoo shrugs. "Then I leave. Time resumes its normal flow. The bullet stays on the floor. You're back exactly where you started, with exactly the same options you had before I arrived." He pauses. "I won't stop you a second time, if that's what you're asking. I'm offering you a choice, not a prison sentence."

You look at the gun. You look at the portal. You think about the loan sharks and the hospital bills and the two crooked fingers that ache every time you try to move them. You think about the silence that has followed you since you were fifteen years old, since your parents died and left you with nothing but a cramped apartment and a stack of unpaid bills and the slow realization that no one was coming to save you.

But someone did come, didn't they? Someone just walked through a hole in reality and offered you an escape. Not a savior. A deal. "Is it dangerous?" you ask.

"Extremely."

"Am I going to die?"

"Possibly. But not tonight. Tonight you'll be safe."

You take his hand. His palm is warm. You didn't expect that. "Okay," you say. "I'm in."

Sunoo's smile returns, brighter this time. "Wonderful. Now for the unpleasant part."

"The unpleasant part?"

"The switch."

He doesn't explain what "the switch" means. He just raises his hand and makes a gesture like he's turning a page in a book, and suddenly there's a body on your bathroom floor.

Not just any body. Your body.

It's you. The other you. The dead one. She's wearing the same uniform as Sunoo, dark fabric and sharp lines and an emblem on the collar. Her hair is the same as yours. Her face is the same as yours. But she's paler, and her lips are slightly blue, and she's very, very dead.

You stumble backward. Your hip bangs against the sink. "What the fuck."

"Language."

"What the actual…why is there a…where did you-"

"I retrieved her from where I've been keeping her preserved. Temporal stasis. Very useful." Sunoo says this like he's discussing meal prep. "She needs to be found here. In your world. If she just disappears from Emperion, people will ask questions. So we're leaving her body in your apartment, staged to look like she's you, and then you're coming with me."

"You want me to just-" You gesture wildly at the corpse. "Leave a dead body in my apartment?"

"It's not your apartment anymore. You're not coming back." Sunoo is already crouching beside the body, adjusting her position with unsettling gentleness. "She'll be found. She'll be identified as you. Your debts will die with her. Your loan sharks will move on. You, meanwhile, will be in another world entirely, attending a prestigious academy and sleeping in a much nicer bed."

You want to argue. You want to point out all the ways this is insane. But you find yourself watching his hands as he aRranges the other you's hair, and you can't stop thinking about how strange it is to see yourself from the outside. She looks peaceful. You've never looked peaceful. You've always looked tired.

"Did she suffer?" you ask quietly.

Sunoo's hands pause. "No," he says. "It was very fast."

You don't know if he's lying. You decide it doesn't matter. "Okay," you say. "Let's do this before I change my mind."

Sunoo stands and offers you his hand again. "Hold on tight. First-time travel can be disorienting."

You take his hand. His fingers close around yours. The portal pulses once, twice, and then the world dissolves.

Teleportation, as it turns out, feels like being turned inside out and then right-side in again, but very quickly, and with a lot more colors than you've ever seen before. Your stomach lurches. Your vision whites out. For a single, horrible moment, you feel like you're falling in every direction at once.

Then your feet hit solid ground, and you're somewhere else entirely.

You stumble, and Sunoo catches your elbow. "Easy. It passes."

You want to tell him you're fine, but you're too busy staring at everything. You're standing in what appears to be a dormitory hallway, but it's like no dormitory you've ever seen. And the window at the end of the hallway shows a sky that is definitely, absolutely, not the sky you grew up under. It's purple. Deep purple, scattered with more stars than you've ever seen. And the moon-

"There are two moons," you say. Your voice comes out faint.

"Yes," Sunoo says. "Selene and Noctis. The sisters. They've been chasing each other across the sky for ten thousand years."

"Chasing each other?"

"It's a myth. I'll tell you later." He's already steering you down the hallway. "Keep your voice down. Most students are asleep, but some of them have very good hearing."

"What species has very good hearing?"

"Werewolves, mostly. Vampires. Shapeshifters in bat form. The occasional paranoid elf." He counts them off on his fingers. "Oh, and the Hypogean, but they don't sleep, so they don't count."

You have no idea what a Hypogean is. You're not sure you want to know. You let him guide you down the hallway, past identical doors with nameplates you can't read. "Is the whole world like this?" you ask.

"Nocthaven is special. It's the only territory under perpetual night. The rest of Emperion has a normal day-night cycle." Sunoo pauses in front of a door. "This is mine."

The nameplate reads: Kim Sunoo - Goat Hall. The emblem beside it is a goat with curling horns.

"Goat Hall," you read aloud.

"It's the Lust dormitory."

You stare at him.

"I'm an incubus," he adds, as if this explains everything. Which, given the context, it sort of does.

"Of course you are," you mutter.

Sunoo grins and pushes the door open. "Come in. We have a lot to cover and not much time before morning."

His room is exactly what you would expect from someone who introduced themselves by stopping time and stealing a corpse. It's large, larger than your entire apartment, with silk sheets on the bed, candles that light themselves as you enter, and a balcony that overlooks the Academy grounds. You stand in the center of the room, not sure where to put yourself. Sunoo gestures at a velvet armchair.

"Sit. You look like you're about to collapse."

You sit. The chair is too comfortable. You hate it a little. "The other me," you say. "The dead one. Tell me about her."

Sunoo settles onto the edge of his bed, crossing one leg over the other. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. If I'm going to pretend to be her, I need to know everything."

"She's human," he begins. "That's important. Most of the elite students at the Academy are something more, vampires, demons, elves. She was fully mortal, which made her talent even more impressive. Or infuriating, depending on who you ask."

"What was she like?"

Sunoo considers this. "Cold. Confident. Kind of a bitch if you ask me. She was the top of our class without seeming to try. People admired her or hated her. There wasn't much middle ground."

"That's not very helpful. What did she like? What did she do? How did she treat people?"

"She treated people like furniture," Sunoo says frankly. "She was not a nice person, Y/N. I know it's weird to speak ill of the dead, but you should know what you're stepping into. She was my best friend, and I loved her, and she was also a nightmare."

This is not comforting. "Great. So I'm replacing a nightmare."

"You're replacing a nightmare and you need to convince everyone you're still her. Which means you need to be cold and confident and kind of mean, at least at first." He tilts his head, studying you. "Can you do that?"

You think about the loan sharks. You think about the way you learned to make yourself small, to avoid eye contact, to apologize for things that weren't your fault. The opposite of cold and confident. The opposite of mean. "I don't know," you admit.

"You'll learn." He says it like it's a guarantee. "Now. Magic."

"Magic."

"The old Y/N had no defined sin affinity."

You frown. "What does that mean?"

"Most sinners have a natural pull toward one of the seven sin categories by the time they reach adolescence. It's like-" He pauses, searching for his words. "It's like a calling. A resonance. You feel drawn to a particular type of magic the way some people feel drawn to music or art. The old Y/N never felt that pull. She was completely neutral. It's rare. It's also why she was so powerful. She could theoretically access any of the seven."

"But she couldn't?"

"She was still waiting for her affinity to manifest. Most students have theirs by sixteen at the latest. She was twenty. It was a point of... frustration for her. One of the reasons she made that deal with Tristitia." Sunoo's expression darkens briefly. "She was tired of waiting."

You digest this. "So I'm supposed to have no magic?"

"For now. But here's the thing." He leans forward. "You're not her. You're from another universe. Your soul is different. Exposure to Emperion might trigger an affinity in you that she never had. Or it might not. We won't know until we know."

"How do we find out?"

"We wait. You should feel it eventually, if it's going to happen. A pull. A resonance. Something that feels like-" He gestures vaguely. "Like coming home."

You sit in the too-comfortable chair and try to feel something. Anything. A pull, a resonance, a sense of coming home. You close your eyes and reach out with whatever internal sense you're supposed to have.

Nothing.

Just the vague nausea of teleportation and the lingering shock of not being dead. "I don't feel anything," you say.

Sunoo's brow furrows. "Nothing at all?"

"Nothing."

"That's..." He trails off. "Weird. Usually Dimensionals start feeling the resonance within hours of arrival. Your soul should be reacting to the ambient sin energy by now."

"Is that bad?"

"I don't know." He doesn't sound happy about this. "It might mean your affinity will take longer to develop. It might mean you don't have one at all. It might mean something else entirely." He waves a hand. "We'll figure it out. For now, the important thing is that no one finds out you're not her."

"How do I explain not knowing things I should know?"

"Head injury." Sunoo says it immediately, like he's already thought this through. "The mission where she died…where she was supposed to have died involved a confrontation with a witch. We'll say she took a magical blow to the head. It affected her memory. It's not uncommon. Sloppy spellwork can scramble things. People will believe it because they'll want to believe it. No one likes the alternative explanation."

"The alternative explanation being that I'm an imposter from another dimension?"

"Exactly. Which you can never, ever tell anyone." His voice loses its playful tone. He is suddenly, startlingly serious. "Dimensional travelers are rare, Y/N. They're studied. Dissected. The Academy would love to get their hands on someone from a non-magical universe. You'd spend the rest of your life in a research cell. Do you understand?"

You swallow. "I understand."

"Good." The playfulness returns, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll tell you everything else you need to know step by step. There's no point overwhelming you tonight. Tomorrow, we'll start with the basics. The Academy layout. The other students. The professors. What classes you're supposed to be taking." He stands up. "For now, you should sleep."

"Here?"

"Where else?"

"In your room?"

"It's fine. The old Y/N stayed over all the time." He says this casually, already moving toward his closet. "We had an arrangement."

You feel your face do something complicated. "An arrangement."

"Mutually beneficial." He pulls out a spare blanket and tosses it to you. "We slept together. It wasn't romantic. Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

"You're looking at me like I just confessed to murder."

"You did confess to stealing a corpse!"

"That was retrieval. Very different." He drapes himself across his bed. "Look, the old Y/N and I were close. We were friends. We were also both attractive and bored and neither of us had any interest in emotional attachment. It worked for us. If people think we're still doing that, it gives you an excuse to spend time with me. And you need to spend time with me, because I'm the only one who knows your secret."

This is, unfortunately, logical. You hate it. "Fine," you say. "But I'm sleeping in the chair."

"Suit yourself. The bed is big enough for two."

"I'm sleeping in the chair."

"Your loss."

You wrap the blanket around yourself and curl up in the velvet armchair. "Weird," you whisper to yourself. "Everything is so weird."

Sunoo has already closed his eyes. His breathing is slow and even. You don't know if he's actually asleep or just pretending. With him, it's impossible to tell.

You don't sleep. You can't. Every time you close your eyes, you see the other you's face, pale and peaceful on your bathroom floor. You see the bullet hanging in the air. You see the portal. You hear Sunoo's voice: She was not a nice person. She was my best friend, and she was also a nightmare.

You think about the fact that you are, technically, dead. Y/N died tonight in a cramped bathroom.

But eventually, despite everything, your body gives up. Your eyes grow heavy. And you dream. You are in a garden.

Not the Academy grounds. Something else. Somewhere else. The garden is vast and formal. Roses climb trellises made of bone-white wood. The flowers are red. So red they're almost black. The sky above you is neither purple nor blue. It's gray. Featureless.

You walk down a path of crushed white stone. The roses watch you. You can't explain how you know they're watching, but they are. Their petals turn to follow your movement. The path ends at a fountain. The water in the fountain is black. Not dirty. Just black, like ink, like oil. It reflects nothing.

"Do you like my garden?"

The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. It is not a voice so much as the memory of a voice, the impression of sound pressed directly into your mind. It is cold. It is very, very interested in you. You turn. There is nothing behind you. There is nothing anywhere, except the roses and the fountain and the gray sky.

"I asked you a question."

"I-" Your voice echoes strangely. "Who are you?"

A pause. The roses rustle, though there is no wind. "Disappointing," the voice says. "You're not her. You're wearing her shape, but you're not her. The contract was with her. Not you."

"Contract?"

"The Sorrow remembers its own. You are not its own." A sigh, like stone grinding against stone. "I will have to start over. How inconvenient."

The roses burst into flame. Not real flame, black fire that consumes without heat. The petals curl and blacken. The bone-white trellises crack. The crushed stone path turns to ash beneath your feet. The fountain boils, and the black water rises, and the voice speaks one last time:

"Find me anyway. Perhaps you'll be more useful than she was."

You wake up. You're still in the chair. The blanket is tangled around your legs. The candles in Sunoo's room have burned down to stubs. Outside, the purple sky has lightened slightly, taking on a grayish tinge. Dawn, or whatever passes for dawn in a land without sun.

Sunoo is sitting up in bed, watching you. His expression is unreadable. "You were talking in your sleep," he says.

You press a hand to your chest. Your heart is pounding. "I had a dream. There was a garden. Roses. A voice."

"A voice."

"It said I wasn't the real contractor. It said-" You struggle to remember the exact words. "The Sorrow remembers its own. I am not its own."

Sunoo goes very still. "That's Tristitia," he says quietly. "That's the deity she made the deal with. It spoke to you."

"It wasn't happy."

"No. It wouldn't be." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, suddenly all business. "This complicates things."

"What things?"

"Everything." He stands up and crosses to the window, looking out at the impossible sky. "Tristitia doesn't let go of contracts easily. If it knows you're not her, it might come looking for answers. Or payment. Or just to express its displeasure."

"Can it hurt me?"

"I don't know. Probably. Eventually." He turns back to you, and his smile is back. "But that's a problem for later. Right now, we have a more immediate concern."

"What?"

"Breakfast." He tosses you a folded uniform from his closet. It's identical to the one he's wearing. "Put this on. You have a reputation to maintain, and mean girls don't skip meals."

You catch the uniform. It's heavier than it looks. You stare down at the emblem on the collar, the crest you don't recognize, the colors you've never worn.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you can still smell the burning roses. Find me anyway, the voice said. Perhaps you'll be more useful than she was. You don't know what that means. You don't know what any of this means. But you're here now, in a world with two moons and purple skies and seven kinds of sin magic, wearing a dead girl's clothes and carrying a dead girl's secrets.

And breakfast, apparently, waits for no one. "Alright," you say. "Let's go."

Sunoo grins. "That's the spirit."

You're not sure it is. But it's the only spirit you've got.

The uniform fits perfectly. This is unsettling for several reasons. First, because it means the dead girl really was identical to you in every physical way, down to the exact measurements of your shoulders and the precise length of your legs. Second, because the uniform itself is clearly expensive in a way you've never experienced, the fabric is soft and heavy and probably costs more than your monthly rent. Third, and most disturbing, because when you look at yourself in Sunoo's full-length mirror, you don't see yourself at all.

You see her.

The old Y/N stares back at you with your eyes. She wears the dark uniform with casual elegance, the emblem on her collar catching the candlelight. Her hair falls exactly the way yours does, but somehow it looks intentional on her. Like she woke up this morning and decided to be beautiful, and her body simply obeyed.

You lean closer to the mirror. Your reflection leans closer too. You try to find something in her expression that looks like you, the girl who worked double shifts at a convenience store, the girl who ate instant noodles for dinner six nights a week, the girl who sat on a bathtub with a gun in her lap and didn't die.

She's not there. Or maybe you're not here. Maybe you're both somewhere in between.

"You're making a weird face," Sunoo says from behind you.

"I'm practicing my mean face."

"That's your constipated face. Very different."

You turn away from the mirror. Sunoo is already dressed, which seems unfair given that you didn't see him change. He's leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching you with an expression that might be amusement or might be assessment.

"How do I look?" you ask.

"Like her." He says it simply, without flattery or comfort. "Your posture is wrong, though. She stood straight and confident. You stand like you're apologizing for taking up space."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. That's exactly what I mean."

You straighten your spine. Pull your shoulders back. Lift your chin. It feels ridiculous. It feels like wearing someone else's bones.

"Better," Sunoo says. "Still not right. But better. We'll work on it."

"Can we just go to breakfast? I'm starving."

"Just remember-" He opens the door and gestures for you to follow. "You're not the new girl. You're the old girl. You've been here for years. You own this place. Everyone else is beneath you."

"I thought you said she was a nightmare."

"She was. But she was their nightmare. They respected her for it." He flashes you a grin over his shoulder. "Fear and respect are the same thing in this academy. Remember that."

You follow him into the hallway. A group of students passes you in the hallway. They're younger than you, first or second years, probably, and the moment they see your face, something changes in their expressions. Eyes widen. Postures straighten. One of them actually stops mid-sentence, her mouth hanging open slightly.

"Morning," you say, because you don't know what else to say.

The students exchange glances. One of them, a girl with pointed ears and silver hair, clearly an elf manages a nervous nod.

"Good morning, Lady Y/N," she says. Her voice is slightly shaky. "We heard you were injured on your last mission. We're glad to see you recovered."

Lady Y/N. You have a title. Of course you have a title.

"It was nothing," you say, channeling every mean girl you've ever seen in a movie. You let your voice go flat. Dismissive. "A scratch."

The students don't question this. They just nod rapidly and hurry past, their whispers trailing behind them like smoke. You keep walking. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your teeth.

"That was good," Sunoo murmurs. "The it was nothing was a nice touch. Very her."

"Who calls someone 'Lady'?"

"You do. Well, you don't. But people call you that. Your family is nobility. Old blood. Lots of money. I probably should have mentioned that earlier."

"You think?"

"Shh. More students."

Another group rounds the corner. These ones are older, your age, maybe, or close to it. Their reactions are more subtle but no less noticeable. Conversations pause. Eyes track your movement. One boy with dark hair and distinctly wolfish features actually flattens himself against the wall to let you pass.

You don't know whether to be flattered or horrified. "Do they always do this?" you whisper.

"Always. She was the top of the food chain. Everyone else is just trying not to get eaten."

"Great. No pressure."

You reach the end of the hallway and descend a spiral staircase that seems to go on forever.

The dining hall is at the bottom of the stairs. It's massive, far larger than you expected, with vaulted ceilings supported by pillars carved to look like the seven animals of the sins. A peacock pillar. A lion pillar. A pig, a toad, a goat, a snake, and a snail, all rendered in dark wood that gleams in the candlelight.

The tables are arranged by dorm affiliation. You can tell by the banners hanging above each section: the peacock for Pride, the lion for Wrath, the pig for Gluttony. Students cluster together in their respective groups, and the room hums with the low murmur of conversation and the clink of silverware.

Sunoo guides you toward the Goat section with a hand on your lower back. His touch is light, familiar. You realize with a start that he's performing, that this is what the old Y/N and Sunoo looked like together. Intimate. Comfortable. Two people who shared more than friendship.

You try not to stiffen under his hand. "Relax," he breathes. "You're doing fine."

"I haven't done anything yet."

"Exactly. Keep doing nothing. Nothing is very in-character for her."

The Goat table is populated by students who all share Sunoo's particular brand of effortless beauty. Incubi and succubi, mostly, though you spot a few humans and what might be a siren based on the faint iridescence of her skin. They greet Sunoo with casual waves and lazy smiles. They greet you with something closer to wariness.

Sunoo steers you to a seat at the end of the table, slightly apart from the others. A plate of food materializes in front of you the moment you sit down. You stare at it.

The food is... not what you expected.

The main dish appears to be some kind of meat, but it's faintly blue and glistening. The side dishes include something that looks like purple mashed potatoes studded with silver seeds, and a bread roll that appears to be steaming, except the steam is going downward instead of up. The drink in your goblet is clear, but when you tilt it, the liquid moves in slow motion.

"This is breakfast?" you ask.

"Welcome to Emperion cuisine," Sunoo says cheerfully. "The blue thing is moonhare. It's a delicacy. The purple mash is starroot. The bread is…well, it's bread. Mostly. And the drink is crystallized dawn mist. Very refreshing."

"Refreshing."

"Try it."

You pick up your fork. The moonhare quivers slightly. You cut a small piece and lift it to your mouth. It tastes like someone liquefied a dream and then added salt. You swallow convulsively. Your throat tries to reject it. You manage to keep It down through the knowledge that vomiting at breakfast would probably not be in-character for the old Y/N.

"Good?" Sunoo asks innocently.

"Delicious," you manage. Your voice comes out strangled.

"You're a terrible liar."

"I know. I'm working on it."

You push the moonhare around your plate and focus on the bread instead. The bread, at least, tastes like bread. Normal bread. You tear off pieces and chew slowly while Sunoo launches into what you quickly realize is a prepared lecture.

"The Academy operates on a term system," he says, his voice low enough that the other students can't hear. "Eight terms per year. Each term is four weeks. You've already completed six terms of your third year, which means you have two terms left before the final assessments."

"What are the final assessments?"

"Combat trials. Academic examinations. And the Selection." He pauses. "The Selection is the most important part. It's when the Imperial Division chooses the next seven Deadly Sins. You’re possibly one of the seven."

"One of the seven."

"Obviously. You're one of the strongest sinners in the Academy." He says this matter-of-factly. "Or you were. Before you died. But I don’t think the old Y/N would have go for the Imperial Division, that’s not her style at all."

"Great. No pressure. Again."

"Your schedule is as follows: Sin Theory in the morning, taught by Professor Vex. She's a demon. Don't make eye contact for too long. Then Combat Training with Professor Thornwood, he's a Graveborn, very stern, hates tardiness. Then Basic Hexes and Curses after lunch, which is taught by Professor Willowisp. She's an elf, she's been alive for nine hundred years, and she will know if you haven't done the reading."

"I can't do any of those things."

"You can't do them yet. That's what the extra lessons are for." He spears a piece of moonhare and eats it without flinching. "After classes, I'll teach you the basics. What you should already know. We'll start with magical theory and work our way up to practical application."

"And if I can't learn?"

"Then we're both in trouble." He says it lightly, but his eyes are serious. "This isn't a game, Y/N. If people find out you're not her, it's not just embarrassment. It's dangerous. For both of us."

"I know."

"Do you? Because you keep making jokes."

"I make jokes when I'm terrified. It's a coping mechanism."

Sunoo studies you for a moment. Then his expression softens, just slightly. "Fair enough. Just be careful. Not everyone here is as forgiving as me."

"Are you forgiving?"

"No," he admits. "But I'm on your side. That's almost the same thing."

You're not sure it is. But before you can argue, a voice cuts across the dining hall.

"Y/N!"

The voice is loud and warm. You turn toward it and see a young man weaving through the tables toward you. He's mortal. You can tell immediately, though you're not sure how, something about the way he moves, the way his eyes are just eyes. He has brown hair that flops across his forehead and a smile that takes up his entire face and arms that are already reaching for you before he's even close enough to touch.

"Y/N! You're back! I heard you got hurt and I was so worried and Sunoo wouldn't tell me anything and I thought-" He reaches your table and pulls you into a hug without breaking stride. "I'm so glad you're okay!"

You go rigid. His arms are around you, warm and solid and completely unexpected. He smells like something sweet, honey, maybe, or vanilla. You have no idea who he is. Your arms stay at your sides. Your spine locks up. Your brain, which has been handling the morning's challenges with surprising competence, decides to shut down. You stand there, frozen, while a stranger hugs you like you're his favorite person in the world.

"Um," you say.

The young man pulls back. His smile flickers. "Y/N? Are you okay?"

Say something. Do something. Be mean. Be cold. That's what she would do.

"I'm fine," you manage. "Just tired."

He doesn't look convinced. "Are you sure? You seem..."

"She's recovering," Sunoo cuts in smoothly. He's suddenly at your side, his hand on your elbow. "Magical injury. It's affected her memory a bit. She's still getting her bearings."

"Memory?" The young man's expression shifts to concern. "How bad is it?"

"Nothing permanent. Just some gaps. She'll be fine in a few days." Sunoo's voice is perfectly casual. "Right, Y/N?"

"Right," you echo. "Gaps. Temporary. No big deal."

The young man looks between you and Sunoo. His brow furrows. "You're being weird. Both of you."

"We're always weird," Sunoo says. "Jake, don't you have somewhere to be? Don't you have…what is it you do…eating? Don't you have eating to do?"

Jake. His name is Jake. You file this away frantically.

"I was eating. Then I saw Y/N and came over to say hi." Jake crosses his arms. "Is that a crime now?"

"Technically, yes. New Academy rule. No saying hi to Y/N without written permission."

"There's no such rule."

"I'm proposing it. I have connections."

While they bicker, you study Jake. He's wearing the emblem of the pig on his collar, Gluttony, the Gula dorm. He's mortal, which is rare among the elite students. And he knows you. He knows you well enough to hug you in public, well enough to notice when you're acting strange, well enough to look at you with those worried eyes and make you feel like the worst person in the world for deceiving him.

"We should get to class," Sunoo says abruptly. "Jake, we'll catch up later. Y/N needs to-"

"Wait." Jake reaches out and touches your arm. His hand is warm. "Y/N. If something's wrong, you can tell me. You know that, right? We've known each other since we were kids. You can always tell me."

Childhood friends. This man was the old Y/N's childhood friend. "I know," you say quietly. "Thank you, Jake."

His smile returns, smaller this time but real. "Okay. Good. Come find me later? I missed you."

"I will."

He squeezes your arm once and then heads back to his table, where a plate piled high with food waits for him. You watch him go and feel like the worst kind of fraud.

"Come on," Sunoo murmurs. "Before anyone else decides to check on you."

He pulls you out of the dining hall and into a side corridor. The moment you're out of sight of the other students, you slump against the wall and press your hands to your face.

"That was awful."

"That was fine."

"He knew something was wrong. He could tell."

"Jake always knows. He's perceptive in ways people don't expect." Sunoo's voice is thoughtful. "But he doesn't know what he's perceiving. He just knows something's different. We can work with that."

"Who is he?"

"Jake. Gluttony. Pig dorm. Your oldest friend." Sunoo leans against the wall beside you. "Your families were neighbors when you were children. He's known you since before you got into the Academy."

"Great. So he knows the real me better than anyone."

"He knew the real her. Not the real you." Sunoo tilts his head. "That's an important distinction. The girl he grew up with was already on her way to becoming the nightmare. You're not her. You're something else entirely."

"A worse liar."

"True. But maybe a better person." He pushes off the wall. "Come on. We have time before your first class. I should show you around."

"Wasn't my first class like twenty minutes ago?"

"I told Professor Vex you were still recovering. She was... understanding."

"Understanding? You said she was a demon."

"She is. Demons understand injury. They also understand the importance of appearing strong. She agreed that you shouldn't return to class until you can make a proper entrance." He grins. "See? I'm good at this."

You're not sure if "good at this" means good at lying or good at manipulating demons, but either way, you're grateful. You push yourself off the wall and follow him back into the main corridor.

The Academy tour takes the better part of an hour.

Sunoo shows you everything. The Verity Palace, where most academic classes are held, The Stellar Chamber, an observatory whose ceiling shows a real-time map of the night sky, The library, a multi-story cathedral of books where the shelves rearrange themselves when you're not looking and certain texts are chained to their pedestals with chains that glow faintly red.

"The restricted section is through there," Sunoo says, pointing to an iron gate at the back of the library. "Don't go in without permission. The books bite."

"The books."

"Some of them. Others just scream. It's very distracting."

You file this under "things I wish I'd known before signing up" and keep walking.

The greenhouse is next. It's a massive glass dome filled with plants that move. Some of them turn toward you as you pass, their leaves rustling like whispers. One vine reaches out and tries to grab Sunoo's ankle; he steps over it without breaking stride.

"The Venomous Kiss," he says, gesturing at a flower with petals the color of dried blood. "Beautiful but fatal. Students use it in potions. Carefully."

"What happens if you're not careful?"

"Then you don't make it to graduation."

The tour continues. The Nocturna Dorms, seven buildings arranged in a semicircle around a central courtyard where a fountain sprays water that glows faintly silver. The medical wing, where a harried-looking healer is treating a student whose arm appears to have been temporarily turned into glass. The administrative offices and then the arena.

It's a massive stone amphitheater, open to the purple sky, with tiered seating that could hold the entire student body. The floor is sand, but it's not normal sand, it's darker than it should be, and it shifts occasionally, as if something beneath it is breathing.

And in the center of the arena, a young man is training.

He's tall. Pale. His hair is black as ink and his face is the kind of beautiful that makes your brain skip a beat. He's wearing training clothes instead of the uniform, simple black fabric that clings to his shoulders and arms in ways that seem specifically designed to make thinking difficult. He's holding a sword that appears to be made of crystallized shadow, and he's moving through forms with a precision that is almost hypnotic.

Around the edges of the arena, students have gathered to watch. They're not subtle about it. They're staring openly, whispering to each other, pointing. A few of them are fanning themselves.

"Who is that?" you ask.

"That," Sunoo says, his voice carrying a note of warning, "is Sunghoon. Avaritia. Greed. Your ex-fiancé."

"My what!?"

"Ex-fiancé. You broke up with him last year. Well, the old you did. She said he was boring." Sunoo's tone is carefully neutral. "He's been trying to win her back ever since."

You stare at the young man in the arena. He finishes a particularly complicated sequence, the shadow-sword cutting through the air and pauses. His chest is rising and falling with exertion. His dark hair is slightly mussed. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead that catches the light from the purple sky and makes him look like a painting come to life.

"Boring," you repeat.

"Her words, not mine."

"She called that boring?"

"Are you okay? You look a little flushed."

"I'm fine. I'm totally fine. I'm just processing the fact that I apparently broke off an engagement with someone who looks like he was carved out of moonlight by a team of very dedicated artists."

Sunoo makes a face. "Please don't romanticize him. It's bad enough that he's been pining for a year. If you start encouraging him-"

In the arena, Sunghoon looks up. His eyes find you instantly, as if he knew exactly where you were standing. As if he always knows where you are. His expression shifts, and a smirk spreads across his face, slow and confident and deeply irritating.

He raises his hand in a wave. And you, operating on pure instinct, raise your hand back. It's small and shy and accompanied by a smile that you didn't give permission to appear.

Sunghoon's smirk falters. His hand freezes mid-wave. His pale cheeks flush slightly, barely noticeable, but you catch it. His eyes widen just a fraction. He looks, for a single moment, completely thrown off balance. Then he recovers, his smirk returning, but it's different now. Softer. Almost uncertain.

You realize what you've done. "Oh no," you whisper.

"Yeah," Sunoo says. He grabs your arm and starts dragging you away from the arena. "Oh no is right."

He pulls you around a corner and into an empty corridor. The moment you're out of sight, he rounds on you with an expression somewhere between exasperation and horror. "What was that?"

"I waved!"

"You waved. You did not just wave. You did a whole thing. You did a shy little wave with a shy little smile and he blushed, Y/N. I have known Sunghoon for three years and I have never seen him blush. He doesn't have enough blood flow for blushing. He's a Graveborn. He's technically dead."

"It was an accident! I panicked! He waved first!"

"Waved? Waved? He was being arrogant. You were supposed to ignore him. That's what the old you would have done. She would have looked at him like he was a piece of furniture and then walked away."

"I don't know how to do that!"

"Clearly."

You press your back against the corridor wall. "I'm going to mess this up. I'm going to mess everything up. I can't do this."

Sunoo sighs, his expression shifting from exasperation to something closer to sympathy.

 "You can do this," he says. "You just need to be more careful. Sunghoon is…he's intense. He loved her. The old her. He loved her even when she was cruel to him. If he thinks she's suddenly become soft-"

"Maybe that's a good thing? Maybe people will think she changed after the injury?"

"Maybe. Or maybe they'll think something else happened. Something worse." Sunoo's eyes are serious. "There are people at this Academy who would love to find a weakness in you. In her. If they think you're vulnerable, they'll exploit it."

"So what do I do?"

"You learn. You adapt. And you stop waving at your ex-fiancé like you're in a romance novel."

You groan and drop your head into your hands. "Who is he, anyway? You said ex-fiancé. Why were we engaged?"

"Your families arranged it when you were children. Noble politics. Sunghoon's family is old money, older than yours, actually. The engagement was meant to merge your houses. And then you broke it off because you got bored."

"Bored."

"According to her, he was too sincere. Too devoted. She said it was exhausting being loved that much."

You think about the young man in the arena. The way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. The way your tiny, accidental wave made him blush.

"That's really sad," you say quietly.

"It's also not your problem." Sunoo stands and offers you his hand. "You're not her. You don't have to love him or hate him or anything in between. You just have to avoid making him suspicious."

"What if he already is suspicious?"

"Then we deal with it. But for now…Let's focus on getting through your first day. One disaster at a time."

"I think I've already had three disasters."

"Those were small disasters. Practice disasters. You haven't even met Jay yet."

"Who's Jay?"

Sunoo's smile turns slightly evil. "He hates you. Well, he hated her. He's going to hate you too, but for different reasons."

"What reasons?"

"Because you won't be able to do any of the things she could do. And he's going to notice." Sunoo pats your shoulder. "Good luck."

You stare at him. "I thought you said you were on my side."

"I am. That doesn't mean your life is going to be easy."

You follow him down the corridor, your mind spinning with new information. Jake, the childhood friend who knows you too well. Sunghoon, the ex-fiancé you apparently broke for no reason. And somewhere out there, Jay, the guy who hates you and is about to discover you can't do magic. You've been in this world for less than twelve hours, and you're already exhausted.

"What was the old me even like?" you mutter. "How did she handle all of this?"

Sunoo glances back at you. "She didn't have to handle it. Everyone was either beneath her notice or a tool to be used. She didn't worry about what people thought because she genuinely didn't care."

"That sounds lonely."

"It was. I think that's why she made the deal with Tristitia." His voice goes quiet. "She wanted power because power was the only thing that made her feel safe. And in the end, it killed her."

"I'm not her," you say finally. "I can't be her. I don't know how to be cold and cruel and untouchable."

"No," Sunoo agrees. "You can't. But you can pretend. And maybe-" He pauses, something flickering in his expression. "Maybe pretending will be enough."

You hope he's right. You really, really hope he's right. Because if he's not, you're going to have a lot more problems than expected. 

The rest of the day is a masterclass in improvisation. Your first class, Sin Theory with Professor Vex. Sunoo guides you to the front row before the other students arrive, his hand on your elbow steady.

"The front row?" you hiss. "Why am I in the front row?"

"Because the old Y/N always sat in the front row. She said it was easier to intimidate the professor that way."

"How does sitting in the front row intimidate anyone?"

"Eye contact. Unbroken eye contact. For the entire lecture." Sunoo pats your shoulder. "Good luck."

He retreats to a seat near the back before you can protest. Other students file in, filling the rings around you. You feel their eyes on the back of your head like tiny lasers.  You stare straight ahead. Your spine is rigid. Your face is, you hope, expressionless. The old Y/N wouldn't turn around. The old Y/N wouldn't acknowledge the whispers. The old Y/N would sit here like she owned the room and everyone in it.

Professor Vex enters through a side door.She stops when she sees you. Her black eyes fix on your face. "Lady Y/N," she says. Her voice is like silk. "You've returned."

"Professor Vex." You incline your head slightly. Sunoo told you not to make prolonged eye contact. You make exactly two seconds of eye contact and then look at a point just over her shoulder. "I apologize for my absence."

"No apology necessary. Magical injuries are unpredictable." She moves toward her desk, her robes sweeping the floor. "I trust you've recovered sufficiently?"

"Mostly."

"Good. We were discussing the theoretical foundations of cross-affinity contamination. Perhaps you can enlighten the class on the Terullian Paradox?"

You have no idea what the Terullian Paradox is. You have never heard those words in that order. For all you know, the Terullian Paradox is a type of pastry.

But Sunoo, bless his manipulative heart, prepared for this. "I'm afraid my memory is still... fragmented," you say, exactly as he instructed. "The healer advised against intellectual strain for the first few days of recovery. I'm here to observe and reacquaint myself with the material."

Professor Vex considers this. Her black eyes are unreadable. Then she nods slowly. "Very well. Observation is acceptable. I expect you to catch up on the missed material by next week."

"Of course."

She turns to the rest of the class. "The Terullian Paradox, then. Who can explain it?"

A student in the third row raises her hand. You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.

The lecture continues. You take notes frantically, scribbling down terms you don't understand. Sin magic, you learn, is not just about drawing power from wrongdoing. It's about resonance, the way a sinner's personal sins align with their deity's domain. A wrathful person draws Ira more easily. An envious person channels Vanagloria. The magic shapes the sinner, and the sinner shapes the magic.

It's fascinating. It's also terrifying, because you have no idea what sins you carry or which deity might claim you. If any deity claims you. You still haven't felt the pull Sunoo described. The resonance. The sense of coming home.

The second class is Combat Training with Professor Thornwood. The training ground is an outdoor space adjacent to the arena, covered in the same dark sand that shifts occasionally. Professor Thornwood is a Graveborn, tall and gaunt with hollow cheeks. He speaks in short, clipped sentences and does not appear to be the warmest person (literally).

"Today," he announces, "We practice defensive warding. Partner up. Y/N, you're with me."

You freeze. "Professor?"

"You've been absent. I need to assess what you've retained."

Sunoo, who was already moving toward you, stops in his tracks. His expression flickers with alarm before smoothing into careful neutrality. He catches your eye and mouths something that might be good luck or might be don't die. It's hard to tell.

You walk toward Professor Thornwood. "Defensive ward," Thornwood says. "Basic barrier. Show me."

You raise your hands. You've seen enough movies to know how this is supposed to look. You spread your fingers. You concentrate. You try to feel something, anything, any spark of magic, any pull of sin, any resonance whatsoever.

Nothing happens.

Thornwood waits. The students watch. The dark sand shifts beneath your feet. "Whenever you're ready," Thornwood says.

"I'm-" You lower your hands. "The injury. It's affected my connection. The healer said it might take time."

Thornwood's hollow eyes study you. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he nods once. "Magical disruption is common after head trauma. We'll focus on physical conditioning instead. Run the perimeter. Ten laps."

The perimeter of the training ground is approximately half a mile. Ten laps is five miles. You haven't run five miles since high school gym class, and even then you walked most of it.

"Of course," you say, because the old Y/N wouldn't complain. The old Y/N would probably run twenty laps just to show off.

You start running. By lap three, your lungs are burning. By lap five, you've developed a stitch in your side that feels like someone is stabbing you with a very small, very persistent knife. By lap seven, you're fairly certain you're going to die a second time, and this death will be even less dignified than the first.

You keep running. The other students have moved on to practicing wards, their barriers shimmering in the air. Sunoo catches your eye as you pass and gives you a sympathetic grimace.

By lap ten, you're barely upright. You stumble to a halt in front of Thornwood, gasping for breath, sweat soaking through your clothes.

"Acceptable," Thornwood says. "We'll work on your stamina. Dismissed."

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and stagger toward the edge of the training ground. Sunoo appears at your side with a flask of water. "That was painful to watch," he says.

"That was painful to do."

"At least he bought the injury excuse."

"Is everyone going to buy the injury excuse?"

"Probably not. But we only need it to work for a few weeks." He hands you the flask. "Drink. You look like you're about to collapse."

You drink. The water tastes faintly of something floral, probably not normal water, probably enchanted or blessed or whatever they do to water in this world but it's cold and wet and you're too exhausted to care.

"Next class is Basic Hexes and Curses," Sunoo says. "Professor Willowisp. She's old, she's observant, and she doesn't like excuses. We need a different strategy."

"What strategy?"

"You're going to have a magical flare-up."

"A what?"

"Magical disruption from head trauma can cause unpredictable bursts of power. It's a documented phenomenon." Sunoo's voice takes on a scholarly tone. "If you accidentally destroy something in class, it'll explain why you can't do anything the rest of the time. Everyone will assume your magic is unstable rather than absent."

"Destroy something."

"Nothing important. A desk. A window. Something dramatic but non-lethal."

"How am I supposed to destroy something if I can't do magic?"

Sunoo reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, glass sphere. Inside it, something dark swirls like smoke caught in a bottle.

"Throw this at the ground when I give the signal. It'll create a concussive blast. Very showy. Very convincing."

You take the sphere. It's warm in your palm, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. "Where did you get this?"

"I have a supplier. Don't worry about it." He glances at the sky. "We have ten minutes before class starts. Try not to drop that before then."

Professor Willowisp's classroom is in the Verity Palace, on the third floor. The walls are lined with jars containing things you'd rather not identify. Professor Willowisp herself is ancient. Nine hundred years old, Sunoo said, and she looks every century of it. When she looks at you, you feel like she's reading your thoughts, which is probably not paranoia given that mind-reading magic almost certainly exists in this world.

"Lady Y/N," she says. "You've returned to us."

"I have, Professor."

"How fortunate. We were just beginning our unit on emotional affliction curses. Perhaps you'd care to demonstrate?"

The class goes very quiet. You grip the glass sphere in your pocket. "I'm not sure that's wise, Professor. My magic has been... unstable since the injury."

"Unstable?"

"Fluctuations. The healer warned me." You're getting better at lying. The words come easier now. "I wouldn't want to accidentally harm anyone."

Willowisp's ancient eyes study you. "A considerate concern. However, this classroom is warded against magical accidents. Whatever happens within these walls will be contained."

She's not going to let this go. She wants to see you do magic. She wants to test you. Sunoo catches your eye from across the room. He gives a tiny nod.

Now.

"Very well," you say. "But don't say I didn't warn you." You walk to the front of the classroom. Your heart is hammering. Your palms are sweating. The glass sphere is warm against your fingers. "What curse shall I demonstrate?" you ask, stalling for time.

"The Despondency Hex. A simple emotional affliction. Target the practice dummy." Willowisp gestures to a mannequin in the corner of the room. You position yourself in front of it, your back to the class.

You take a deep breath. You raise your hands dramatically. You make a show of concentrating, your brow furrowing, your fingers trembling with apparent magical effort. Then you "lose control." You throw your hands wide, stumble backward, and hurl the glass sphere at the ground between you and the practice dummy. The sphere shatters. A wave of force erupts from the impact point, sending the practice dummy flying across the room. The windows rattle. The jars on the walls shake. Several students scream. One desk is knocked over.

When the dust settles, you're on the floor, deliberately, because it sells the performance and the practice dummy is in pieces against the far wall. Professor Willowisp is staring at you. Her expression is unreadable.

"I did warn you," you manage.

For a long moment, no one speaks. Then Willowisp's ancient face creases into something that might be a smile. "Fascinating," she says. "A magical flare-up of considerable intensity. You're excused from practical demonstrations until your condition stabilizes. Please observe from the back of the room."

You pick yourself up off the floor. Sunoo helps you to a seat in the back row, his hand steadying your elbow. "Perfect," he whispers. "Absolutely perfect."

"I almost hit the ceiling."

"But you didn't. And now everyone thinks your magic is dangerously unstable. No one will ask you to demonstrate anything for weeks."

"Great." You slump into your seat. "Weeks of pretending to be magically volatile. This is going to be exhausting."

"Welcome to your new life."

After the final class, Sunoo walks you toward the training grounds. "Classes are done for the day, which means we have time for your first real lesson," he says. "Professor Thornwood might have bought your excuse, but you still need to learn basic combat skills. I'll teach you what I can."

"I thought you said we'd start with magical theory."

"We will. But you also need to know how to defend yourself physically. Magic isn't always available. Sometimes you just need to know how to throw a punch."

You've never thrown a punch in your life. You've been punched, the loan sharks' enforcer had a mean left hook but you've never hit anyone back. The idea of learning how feels strange. 

"Wait here," Sunoo says when you reach the training ground. "I need to grab some equipment from storage. Don't talk to anyone."

"Who would I talk to?"

"Anyone. Everyone. You're a magnet for attention. Just stand here and look unapproachable."

He disappears into a nearby building, leaving you alone on the edge of the training ground. You stand there, trying to look unapproachable. It probably looks more like you're constipated.

A shadow falls over you.

"There you are." You turn. Sunghoon is standing behind you, closer than you expected. He's still wearing his training clothes from earlier, though he's added a jacket that makes him look somehow even more put-together. His eyes are fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your stomach do something complicated.

"Sunghoon," you say. Your voice comes out slightly strangled.

"I've been looking for you." He steps closer. You step back. He steps closer again. "You left so quickly this morning. I didn't get a chance to welcome you back properly."

"I was busy. Classes."

"Classes." He says the word like it personally offends him. "You almost die on a mission and your first priority is classes?"

"The old Y/N would have prioritized classes."

"You're the old Y/N." He tilts his head. "Aren't you?"

Danger. Danger. Abort mission.

"Obviously, it’s just sarcasm," you say. "What do you want?"

"What I've always wanted. You." He says it simply, without embarrassment, like he's stating a fact. The sky is purple. The moons are sisters. He wants you. "I've been thinking about us."

"There is no us."

"There was."

"And now there isn't."

"Because you got bored." He doesn't sound angry. He sounds curious. "I've been trying to understand it. You said I was boring. But I remember the way you looked at me. I remember the way you-"

"Sunghoon."

"-responded to me. We were practically married, Y/N. Everyone assumed we'd formalize it eventually. And the physical aspect of our relationship was-"

"Oh my god."

"-extremely satisfying for both of us. You told me so yourself. Multiple times. You were quite vocal about it, actually."

Your face is on fire. "Please stop talking."

"I'm just trying to understand." He takes another step closer, and this time you're backed against the wall of the equipment building and there's nowhere left to retreat. "You ended things without explanation. You said you were bored, but you weren't bored. I know you weren't bored. So what was it?"

"I don't-" You struggle to remember what Sunoo told you. "I just needed space."

"Space." His eyes search your face. "You've had space. You've had a year of space. And now you're back, and you're different."

"I'm not different."

"You are. You waved at me this morning."

"So? People wave."

"You never wave. You used to walk past me like I didn't exist." His voice softens. "Today you waved. And you smiled. A real smile. Not the cold one you used to give me. A real one."

You have nothing to say to that. You can't explain it without revealing everything. So you just stand there, pressed against the wall, your heart pounding and your face burning, while your dead self's ex-fiancé looks at you like you're a puzzle he's desperate to solve.

"You're blushing," he observes.

"I'm not."

"You are. It's charming." He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingers are cold against your skin. "I've never seen you blush before."

"I hit my head. It damaged my blood Circulation."

"That's not how blood circulation works."

"It's magical blood circulation."

He laughs. It's a soft sound, barely more than an exhale, but it transforms his face. "I've missed you," he says. "Even when you were cruel to me. Even when you ignored me. I've missed you every day."

"Sunghoon-"

"I know you don't want this. I know you don't want me. But I'm not giving up." He leans in, and before you can react, his lips brush against your cheek. It's barely a kiss, light, fleeting, cold and warm at the same time. "One day, I'll convince you to go on a date with me. A real date. And you'll remember why we worked."

He pulls back. Then he turns and walks away, his jacket billowing slightly in the breeze, leaving you pressed against the wall with your hand over your cheek and your brain completely offline.

Sunoo returns approximately thirty seconds later, carrying a bag of training equipment. "Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?" he asks. "You're pale. Paler than usual. What happened?"

"Sunghoon happened."

"What?"

"He came over. He said-" You press your hands to your burning face. "He said they had a very satisfying physical relationship and she was very vocal about it and he kissed my cheek and said he'd convince me to go on a date one day and I just stood there like an idiot because I didn't know what else to do!"

Sunoo drops the training bag. "He kissed you?"

"On the cheek! Just the cheek! But still!"

"Where?"

"My cheek! I just said!"

"No, I mean where were you? Were there witnesses?"

"I don't know! I was too busy having a crisis!"

Sunoo pinches the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Okay. This is fine. Sunghoon has been trying to win her back for a year. It's not suspicious that he's still trying. The cheek kiss is new, but it's not-" He pauses. "Did you respond?"

"I stood there like a statue!"

"Good. That's good. That's in-character. The old Y/N would have been cold about it. Dismissive."

"Sunoo, I think I blushed."

"You what?"

"I blushed. He noticed. He said it was charming."

Sunoo stares at you. Then he closes his eyes and takes a very deep breath. "I'm going to be honest with you," he says. "I don't know how to handle this. Sunghoon is not supposed to be charmed by you. He's supposed to be pining from a distance while you ignore him. That's the dynamic. That's how it's always been."

"Maybe he's just glad I'm not being cold to him anymore?"

"Which is exactly the problem." Sunoo opens his eyes. "The old Y/N was cruel. That's who she was. If you're not cold, people will notice. Sunghoon has already noticed. Jake noticed this morning. How long before everyone notices?"

"What do you want me to do? Start being mean to people?"

"Maybe! I don't know!" He throws his hands up. "I didn't plan for this. I planned for a smooth transition. I planned for you to be cold and distant and slowly warm up over time. I did not plan for you to be accidentally charming your ex-fiancé on day one."

"I wasn't trying to be charming!"

"That's the worst part! You're not even doing it on purpose!"

You both stand there in frustrated silence. "Can we just do the combat training?" you ask finally. "I think I need to hit something."

Sunoo exhales. "Fine. But we're not done talking about this."

The combat training is a disaster.

"Okay," Sunoo says, standing in the center of the training ground with a padded dummy. "The most basic defensive maneuver is the shield ward. It creates a temporary barrier between you and an attack. Even if you don't have an affinity yet, you should be able to produce at least a flicker of one. The theory is simple."

He explains the theory. It involves visualizing your sin energy, whatever that means, and channeling it through your hands into a physical barrier. The barrier doesn't need to be strong. It just needs to exist.

"Go ahead," he says. "Try it."

You raise your hands. You concentrate. You try to visualize your sin energy. Nothing happens.

"Try harder."

You try harder. You scrunch up your face. You push with your mind. You make straining noises that would be embarrassing if you weren't already beyond embarrassment. Nothing happens.

"Maybe try a different approach," Sunoo suggests. "Instead of pushing, try pulling. Imagine drawing energy from the air around you."

You imagine drawing energy from the air. The air does not cooperate. The air, in fact, seems actively uninterested in being drawn from.

"Anything?" Sunoo asks.

"Nope."

"Okay. Let's try a physical approach instead." He gestures to the dummy. "Basic punch. Just hit it."

You punch the dummy. It's not a good punch. Your thumb is inside your fist, which you're fairly certain is wrong. Your wrist bends at an awkward angle. The impact sends a jolt of pain up your arm.

"Ow."

Sunoo stares at you. "Have you ever thrown a punch before?"

"No."

"Ever?"

"I've been punched. Does that count?"

"No. It doesn't." He walks over and adjusts your stance. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Weight on your back foot. Thumb outside your fist, outside, Y/N, not inside. You're going to break your thumb if you punch like that."

"My thumb already hurts."

"Because you punched wrong. Do it again. Properly this time."

You punch again. It's slightly better. Your thumb remains unbroken. The dummy wobbles a little.

"Better," Sunoo says. "Now do it fifty more times."

"Fifty?"

"Muscle memory. Your body needs to learn what your mind already knows. Again."

You punch the dummy fifty times. 

"Good," Sunoo says. "Now the other hand."

"The other- are you serious?"

"Most people are right-handed, which means they expect attacks from the right. If you can throw a decent left hook, you'll have an advantage. Again. Fifty times."

You punch the dummy fifty more times with your left hand. Your left hand is even less coordinated than your right. Several punches miss entirely. One hits the dummy's stand and sends a fresh jolt of pain through your wrist.

"I hate this," you announce.

"You hate it because you're bad at it. You'll hate it less when you're good at it."

"Will I ever be good at it?"

Sunoo considers this. "Probably not. But you'll be better than you are now."

"That's not comforting."

"It wasn't meant to be. Again. This time, try a kick."

You kick the dummy. You miss and your momentum carries you around in a full circle. You end up facing the wrong direction with your back to the dummy and your arms pinwheeling for balance.

Sunoo covers his mouth with his hand. His shoulders are shaking.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"No," he says, his voice strangled. "Absolutely not."

"You're laughing at me."

"I'm not. I'm-" A snort escapes him. "Okay, I am. I'm sorry. It's just…you spun. You spun like a top. How did you spin like a top?"

"I don't know! Physics happened!"

"Physics doesn't usually make people pirouette!"

"I wasn't pirouetting!"

"You were definitely pirouetting. If we were grading this, you'd get full marks for artistic impression and zero for technique."

You grab a handful of training sand and throw it at him. He dodges, still laughing, and the sand scatters harmlessly across the ground.

"This is serious!" you protest. "I'm trying to learn how to defend myself!"

"You're right, you're right." He composes himself with visible effort. "I'm sorry. Let's try again. This time, don't spin."

"I didn't spin on purpose!"

"Plant your foot. Keep your weight centered. Kick through the target, not at it."

You try again. This time you don't spin, but your kick connects with the dummy's stand instead of the dummy, and the whole thing topples over. The dummy hits the ground with a thud that echoes across the training ground.

"I'm never going to be able to do this," you say quietly.

Sunoo walks over and rights the dummy. "You're not going to be able to do it today. Or tomorrow. Or probably next week. But eventually-"

"Eventually I'll what? Learn to throw a punch? That's not going to help against witches and demons and whatever else is out there."

"No. But it's a start." He turns to face you. His expression has lost its humor. "Y/N, I know this is overwhelming. I know you feel like you're drowning. But you're not alone. I'm going to help you. We're going to figure this out."

"And if we can't?"

"Then we'll figure out something else." He picks up the training bag. "That's enough for today. Let's go back to the dorm. We have plans tonight."

"Plans?"

"We're going to Malachar. There's someone I need you to meet."

The teleportation stone is a small, flat disc that fits in the palm of Sunoo's hand. "Teleportation stones are rare," Sunoo explains as you stand in his dorm room. "Most people use portals, but portals can be tracked. Stones are untraceable. This one is keyed to a specific location in Malachar, an underground bar called the Rusted Nail. Not the kind of place Academy students usually frequent."

"Then why are we going there?"

"Because the person we need to talk to doesn't frequent Academy-approved establishments."

He presses the stone into your palm and closes his fingers around yours. The stone is warm, warmer than it should be, and the silver veins pulse faster.

"Hold on," he says.

The world dissolves. This time, the teleportation is slightly less disorienting than before. Maybe you're getting used to it. Maybe the stone is smoother than whatever portal Sunoo used earlier. Either way, when your feet hit solid ground, you only stumble a little. 

"Where are we?"

"The Undermarket," Sunoo says. "Goblin territory. It's the black market of Malachar. Anything can be bought here if you know who to ask."

"And we're meeting a witch."

"An old contact of mine." He says it casually, but something in his tone makes you look at him sharply.

"An old contact?"

"We used to have an arrangement." He starts walking toward the end of the alley. "She provided certain services. I provided certain payments. It was mutually beneficial."

"What kind of arrangement?"

"The kind that's none of your business."

"Sunoo."

He sighs. "We slept together. Occasionally. It wasn't romantic. She's a witch, I'm an incubus, we both had needs. Are you happy now?"

You're not sure if "happy" is the right word. You're not sure what you're feeling. Surprise, maybe. Curiosity. A strange, uncomfortable twist in your stomach that you decide to ignore. "Is there anyone in this world you haven't slept with?"

"Plenty of people. I'm selective." He grins over his shoulder. "Don't worry. You're not my type."

"I wasn't worried."

"You looked worried."

"I looked curious. It's different."

He doesn't argue, but his grin widens. The Rusted Nail is tucked between a weapons shop and what appears to be a brothel. Its sign is a literal rusted nail. The door itself is iron, heavy and black, and it groans when Sunoo pushes it open. Inside, the bar is dim and smoky. Sunoo approaches the bar and orders two drinks in a language you don't recognize. The bartender, a goblin with one eye and a scar across his throat, grunts and produces two glasses filled with amber liquid.

"Don't drink too much," Sunoo says, sliding one glass toward you. "This stuff is stronger than anything in your world."

You take a cautious sip. It burns going down, but it's not unpleasant. It tastes like honey and smoke and something else, something that makes your head swim slightly. "The witch?" you ask.

"She'll be here soon. I sent word ahead."

You wait. Then the door opens, and a woman walks in. She's wearing robes that are clearly expensive but deliberately understated, and when she sees Sunoo, her lips curve into a smile that's equal parts warmth and wariness.

"Sunoo," she says. Her voice is low and smooth. "It's been a while."

"Mara." Sunoo rises to greet her. They don't embrace, but there's a familiarity in the way they stand close to each other. "Thank you for coming."

"You said it was urgent." Her golden eyes flick to you. "Who's this?"

"A friend. I need information."

"What kind of information?"

"About Tristitia."

Mara's expression doesn't change, but something in the air shifts. "Sit down," Mara says quietly. "And order me a drink." Sunoo signals the bartender. Another glass of amber liquid appears. Mara takes a long sip before speaking. "Tristitia," she says. "You don't ask easy questions, do you?"

"I wouldn't be here if I did."

Mara's golden eyes study you again, more intently this time. "Why do you want to know about the Sorrow?"

"I'm looking for a witch," you say. "One who serves Tristitia. She killed someone important to me."

"Who?"

"Someone I can't name."

Mara is silent for a moment. Then she shakes her head slowly. "I can't help you."

"Why not?"

"Because the Tristitia coven isn't like other covens. They don't operate in the open. They don't trade with other witches. They don't even acknowledge the rest of us exist." She takes another sip of her drink. "Most covens have structure. Hierarchy. Rules. The Tristitia witches are... something else. They answer only to the Sorrow itself, and the Sorrow doesn't share its secrets."

"So you know nothing?"

"I know they exist. I know they're dangerous. I know that anyone who makes a deal with Tristitia ends up dead or wishing they were." She sets her glass down. "That's all anyone knows. The Tristitia coven is a mystery, and it's a mystery that kills people who try to solve it."

You exchange a glance with Sunoo. His expression is unreadable, but you can see the tension in his jaw. "There has to be something," you press. "Any rumor. Any lead. Anything."

Mara considers you for a long moment. Then she leans forward, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "There's a place in the Wraithwood. Deep in the forest, some say the Tristitia witches gather there, but no one who's gone looking has ever come back." She sits back. "That's all I have. And frankly, I'm risking my life just telling you that much."

"Why?"

"Because the Sorrow doesn't like being discussed. And the Sorrow's servants don't like people asking questions." She finishes her drink in one long swallow. "My advice? Let it go. Whatever revenge you're looking for, it's not worth what you'll find."

You want to argue. You want to demand more. But Sunoo puts his hand on your arm, a gentle warning. "Thank you, Mara," he says. "We appreciate the information."

"Don't thank me. I didn't give you anything useful." She stands, pulling her hood up over her dark hair. "Be careful, Sunoo. I'd hate to hear you got yourself killed."

"I'm always careful."

"No, you're not. You're just good at surviving anyway." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her golden eyes. "Take care of yourself. And your friend."

She leaves. The door groans shut behind her. The bar resumes its low murmur, the other patrons returning to their drinks and their card games as if nothing happened.

"Well," Sunoo says, "that was unhelpful."

"She seemed scared."

"She was. Mara doesn't scare easily." He stares at his glass for a moment. "The Tristitia coven is even more secretive than I thought. This is going to be harder than I expected."

You watch him. His usual playful mask has slipped, and underneath it you can see something else. Frustration. Worry. Maybe even fear.

"Why do you care so much?" you ask quietly. "About finding this witch?"

He doesn't answer right away. When he does, his voice is softer than you've ever heard it. "Because she killed my best friend. And I couldn't stop it."

"Is that the only reason?"

He looks at you. "What other reason would there be?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."

A long pause. Then Sunoo's mask slides back into place, and he smiles, bright and charming and completely fake. "We came all the way to Malachar," he says. "We might as well enjoy ourselves while we're here. Drink up. The night is young."

An hour later, you're both slightly tipsy. The amber liquid is stronger than you thought. Your limbs feel loose. Sunoo has abandoned his careful composure and is sprawled in his chair, laughing at something you said that wasn't even that funny.

"You're a terrible liar," he says, pointing at you. "Terrible. The worst. You couldn't lie to a rock."

"Rocks can't hear."

"That's how bad you are. You couldn't even lie to something that can't perceive lies."

"I lied to Professor Vex."

"You lied to Professor Vex with a script I wrote for you. That doesn't count."

You laugh. It feels good to laugh. The past two days have been so strange and terrifying that you'd almost forgotten what it felt like.

"Sometimes I think you're not telling me everything," you say.

"I'm not telling you everything. I've been very upfront about that."

"That's not comforting."

"It wasn't meant to be comforting. It was meant to be honest."

You drain the last of your drink. "I don't understand you," you say. "You found a dead body. You stopped time. You recruited a stranger from another universe. You're risking everything to find a witch who might be impossible to find. And you're doing it all with a smile on your face like none of it bothers you."

"It bothers me."

"It doesn't look like it bothers you."

"That's the point." He takes a sip of his drink. "I'm an incubus. We're not supposed to be bothered by things. We're supposed to be charming and carefree and shallow. That's what people expect. That's what people want."

"But it's not who you are."

He doesn't answer. "We should go back," he says. "It's late."

"Okay," you say. "Let's go back."

He pays the bartender with coins. Then he takes your hand and presses the teleportation stone into your palm, and the world dissolves.

Back in Sunoo's dorm room, he collapses onto his bed with a groan. He looks exhausted, not just physically, but something deeper. His skin is paler than usual. His eyes has dimmed.

"Are you okay?" you ask.

"I'm fine. Just... drained."

"Drained how?"

He hesitates. "Incubi need to feed. Emotional energy, physical intimacy. It's been a few days since I've-" He gestures vaguely. "It catches up with me."

"Is that why you look like death?"

"Thank you for that charming description." He pushes himself up on his elbows. "I'll be fine. I just need to find someone. There are usually willing partners in Goat Hall at this hour."

He starts to get up, but you reach out and catch his arm. "Wait." He looks at you. His expression is wary. "You've been helping me all day," you say. "You've been covering for me and teaching me and dragging me across the city to talk to witches. You're exhausted because of me."

"It's not because of-"

"It is. And I haven't done anything to help you." You take a breath. "So let me help you now."

The words hang in the air. Sunoo's eyes widen slightly. "Y/N..."

"I know what I'm offering. I'm not drunk. Well, I'm a little drunk. But I'm not so drunk I don't know what I'm saying." You meet his eyes. "You need to feed. I'm willing. It's the least I can do after everything."

"You don't have to-"

"I know I don't have to. I'm offering." You're blushing again. Your face is definitely on fire. But you don't look away. "The old Y/N did it, right? You said you had an arrangement. So it's not weird. It's not out of character. And you need it."

Sunoo stares at you. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then he laughs, a real laugh, surprised and slightly incredulous. "You're something else," he says. "You know that?"

"I've been told."

He sits up fully. His expression is still tired, but there's warmth in it now. "Are you sure?"

"Do I look unsure?"

He considers this. Then he reaches out and cups your face with his hand. His palm is warm. "Tell me to stop," he says quietly, "and I'll stop. At any point. For any reason. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"I mean it. I don't care if we're in the middle of-"

"I understand, Sunoo."

He looks at you for another long moment. Then he leans in, and his lips meet yours. The kiss deepens, growing hungrier with each passing second. Sunoo's lips move against yours with practiced expertise, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth before slipping inside. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space between your bodies.

When he finally breaks the kiss, both of you are breathing heavily. His eyes, now glowing with renewed energy, lock with yours. "Last chance to back out," he murmurs, though his hands are already sliding under your shirt.

You shake your head, reaching for the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head. "I'm not going anywhere."

A genuine smile spreads across Sunoo's face as he watches you undress. His own shirt follows, revealing his torso. As he removes his pants, your eyes catch something unusual, a dark, intricate mark on his lower belly, just above his waistline. It looks like a tattoo of swirling patterns that almost seem to move in the dim light.

"That's..." you start, but words fail you.

"The incubus mark," he finishes, noticing where you're looking. "It glows when I'm... well, you'll see."

Before you can respond, he gently pushes you back onto the bed. The mattress dips under your combined weight as he follows, hovering over you. His fingers deftly unhook your bra, tossing it aside before his mouth finds your breast.

Sunoo's lips close around your nipple, his tongue swirling in patterns that make you arch against him. One hand cups your other breast, thumb rubbing circles around the hardened peak while his free hand slides down your stomach, hooking into the waistband of your panties. He doesn't remove them immediately. Instead, his fingers dip beneath the fabric, tracing patterns on your skin that send shivers through your body. You can feel his smile against your breast as he feels your reaction.

"Sensitive," he murmurs against your skin before shifting his attention to your other breast.

When he finally slides your panties down, you're already wet with anticipation. His fingers part your folds, exploring with a familiarity that surprises you. Sunoo's fingers are skilled, moving with a precision that speaks of centuries of practice. He finds your clit immediately, circling it with just the right pressure to make your hips buck. Then he's sliding lower, collecting your wetness on his fingertips before returning to your sensitive bundle of nerves.

"You're so responsive," he whispers, his voice husky with renewed energy. "I can feel your emotions, your pleasure. It's... intoxicating."

As if to demonstrate, he increases the pressure slightly, and you gasp as a wave of pleasure washes over you. His mark begins to emit a soft purple glow, pulsing in time with his movements. "I want to hear you moan," he says, looking up at you with darkening eyes. "Your sounds... they feed me as much as your touch."

His words send another jolt through you, and you can't help but moan as he slides a finger inside you, then another. His thumb continues to work your clit as his fingers curl inside, finding that spot that makes you roll your eyes.

"That's it," he encourages, his own breathing growing heavier. "Let me hear you."

The magic is unmistakable now, each touch seems amplified, each sensation more intense than you've ever experienced. Sunoo shifts, turning you onto your side. He positions himself behind you, one arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close as he enters you with a smooth, practiced motion. The angle is new to you, hitting spots inside you that you didn't know existed.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice strained with restraint.

"More than okay," you manage to gasp out.

He begins to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that has you moaning continuously now. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through your body, building steadily toward something you've never experienced before. You can feel his mark growing hotter against your lower back, the purple glow intensifying.

"Sunoo..." you moan, reaching back to tangle your fingers in his hair.

He responds with a particularly deep thrust that makes you cry out. His own sounds join yours now, soft whimpers and moans that vibrate against your back. The closer he gets to his own release, the more his mark glows, bathing the room in an ethereal purple light. You've never enjoyed sex like this before. Every nerve ending is alive, every touch electric. You're so wet you can hear it with each movement, the sounds mixing with your moans and his to create a symphony of pleasure.

"I'm close," Sunoo gasps, his movements becoming more erratic.

His hand slides down to your clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts. That extra stimulation is all it takes to push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave, your body convulsing with pleasure as you cry out his name. Sunoo follows almost immediately, pulling out at the last second. You feel his warm release against your pussy and inner thighs as he moans your name, his mark flaring brightly before dimming slightly.

Before you can recover, he's shifting again, turning you onto your back and positioning himself between your legs. His eyes meet yours as he lowers his head.

"Sunoo, what-"

Your question cuts off in a gasp as his tongue laps at the mixture of your release and his on your skin. He's thorough, cleaning every drop with an enthusiasm that sends aftershocks of pleasure through your still-sensitive body. When he finally reaches your center, his tongue delves inside, and you arch off the bed. The pleasure is almost too much, too intense, but you don't want it to stop. You can feel him drawing energy from you, not just physical but emotional, the remnants of your pleasure, your contentment, your satisfaction.

With each pass of his tongue, you can see the color returning to his skin, the glow in his eyes brightening. His mark, once again dark, seems to pulse with renewed energy. Finally, when you're spent and trembling, he lifts his head. His face is flushed, his lips glistening, and he looks... healthy. Vital. The exhaustion that had plagued him earlier is gone, replaced by a vibrant energy that makes him seem almost otherworldly.

"Thank you," he says, his voice soft but strong now. "Are you okay for another round?"

You nod, still catching your breath. "Why am I still feeling hot though?"

"Incubi magic." He says with a small smile. 

You wake up sore.

Not the pleasant kind of sore that comes from a good workout. Not even the satisfying sore of muscles that have been productively used. This is the kind of sore that makes you question every life choice that led you to this moment. Your thighs ache. Your back protests when you try to move. Sunoo, the absolute menace, is already awake and looking disgustingly fresh. He's perched on the edge of his bed, his bed, which you are still in, because apparently you fell asleep here after last night's... activities, and he's scrolling through something on a thin crystal tablet that seems to function as this world's version of a smartphone.

"Good morning," he says cheerfully. "You look terrible."

"I feel terrible." You attempt to sit up and immediately regret it. "Oh my god. What did you do to me?"

"I did exactly what you asked me to do. Multiple times, if I recall correctly. You were very enthusiastic."

"Was I?"

"Incredibly. It was flattering, honestly. At one point you said-"

"Please don't finish that sentence."

"-something about my eyes being like honeyed starlight. It was very romantic. I didn't know you had it in you."

You grab a pillow and press it over your face. The pillow smells like him, something floral and slightly citrusy. "I was tipsy and under your incubi magic."

"You were two drinks in. That's not tipsy, that's barely buzzed. And my magic doesn’t make people poetic, it just makes them extra horny there’s a difference."

"I wish I was dead."

"That seems extreme." He plucks the pillow off your face. "Come on. We have classes in an hour. You need to shower, eat something, and figure out how to walk without limping."

"I'm not limping."

"You're definitely limping. I saw you try to stand earlier. It was pathetic."

You throw the pillow at him. He catches it without looking, which is infuriating. His reflexes are annoyingly good. Probably an incubus thing. Probably all the feeding he did last night, which, okay, you're not going to think about that. You're not going to think about any of it. You're going to shower and eat breakfast and pretend last night was a normal, reasonable thing that normal, reasonable people do.

Sunoo grins. It's the same grin he wore last night when he first kissed you, equal parts mischief and affection. "You're cute when you're flustered."

"I'm not flustered. I'm sore. There's a difference."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night." He stands and stretches, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of stomach that you absolutely do not look at. "Bathroom's through there. Use whatever products you want. I recommend the blue bottle for muscle aches. It's enchanted."

"Enchanted how?"

"It makes your muscles stop hating you. Very useful for mornings after."

You stare at him. "Do you have a lot of mornings after?"

"I'm an incubus who lives in the Lust dorm. What do you think?"

"I think I don't want to know."

"Probably wise." He tosses you a towel. "Go shower. I'll get breakfast. You're going to need your strength, we have Potiology today, and Professor Thornwood doubled your conditioning laps."

"He what?"

"I may have mentioned that you were eager to improve your stamina. He was impressed by your dedication."

"Sunoo."

"Yes?"

"I'm going to kill you."

"That's the spirit. Channel that anger. Maybe it'll trigger your Ira affinity."

You throw the pillow at him again. He dodges again. You limp to the bathroom and slam the door.

The shower helps. The enchanted blue bottle helps more. By the time you're dressed and fed and walking (mostly) normally, you've been staring at Sunoo like he murdered your ancestors. 

"Why do you keep making that face?" Sunoo asks as you walk toward the Verity Palace.

"What face?"

"That scrunched-up thinking face."

"I don't have a scrunched-up thinking face."

"You absolutely do. It's very endearing."

"I'm not-" You take a breath. 

He pauses. "Are you sure you're fine?"

"I will throw you down these stairs."

"That's a no, then."

The first classes are doing strangely great for you. The break between Combat Training and Basic Hexes is when everything starts to go wrong.

You're sitting in the classroom, waiting for Professor Willowisp to arrive, when the door opens and a young man walks in. He's not the professor. He's a student, an elf, you can tell by the pointed ears and the faint luminescence of his skin. He's also, you notice, wearing the emblem of the snake on his collar. Vanagloria. Envy.

"Good afternoon," he says. His voice is smooth and pleasant and somehow makes you feel like you're being evaluated. "I'm here to collect the mid-term consent forms. Professor Willowisp asked me to handle the paperwork before class begins."

Consent forms. You have no idea what consent forms he's talking about. You have no idea if the old Y/N turned hers in. You have no idea what's happening at all. The other students are pulling papers from their bags. You sit frozen, your hands empty, your expression carefully blank.

The elf makes his way around the room, collecting forms from each student. When he reaches your desk, he pauses. "Y/N," he says. "Your form?"

"Right." You don't move. "The form."

"The mid-term consent form for practical hex application. It was due today."

"Of course. The form." You pat your bag, pretending to search for it. "I must have... forgotten it. In my room. The injury. Memory gaps."

The elf's eyes narrow slightly. "You forgot?"

"Temporarily. It'll come back."

"I see." He doesn't sound like he sees. He sounds like he's cataloging this information for future use. "I'll note the late submission. Professor Willowisp may deduct points."

"That's fine. Points are... fine."

He studies you for a moment longer. Then he smiles, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and moves on to the next student. You don't realize you've been holding your breath until he's on the other side of the room.

When the elf finally leaves, papers in hand, Sunoo slides into the seat beside you. His expression is carefully neutral. "That was Jungwon," he says quietly. "Student representative. Head of every committee. Controls the flow of information in the Academy like a spider controls a web." Sunoo's voice is low. "And he's suspicious of you."

"I noticed."

"Jungwon doesn't forget things. If he thinks something's wrong with you, he'll dig until he finds out what it is."

"Great." You press your palms against your eyes. "Another person I have to worry about."

"Jungwon is different from Jake or Sunghoon. They care about you. Jungwon cares about leverage. If he figures out you're not the real Y/N, he won't keep it secret out of loyalty. He'll use it."

"So what do I do?"

"Avoid him. Don't give him anything to work with. And for the love of all seven deities, turn in your paperwork on time."

"I didn't know there was paperwork!"

"Now you do." Sunoo squeezes your shoulder. "It's fine. One late form isn't proof of interdimensional identity fraud. Just be more careful."

Potheology is your first class without Sunoo. It takes place in the greenhouse. Sunoo isn't in this class. He's across campus in Advanced Luxuria Theory, which is apparently restricted to incubi and succubi for reasons you don't want to think about. You're on your own for this one. No safety net. No whispered instructions. No one to cover for you if you mess up.

You take a seat near the back, hoping to blend in. 

Then Jake walks in. He spots you immediately. His face lights up. "Y/N! You're in this class?"

"Apparently."

"I didn't know you took Potheology. I thought you said potions were beneath you."

The old Y/N said potions were beneath her. Because of course she did. "I changed my mind. The injury. It's given me a new perspective."

Jake's expression softens. "I'm glad. It's nice to have you here." He takes the seat next to you, dropping his bag on the floor. "Fair warning, today's lesson is on aphrodisiacs. Professor Nightshade thinks they're medicinally significant but really she just likes making students uncomfortable."

"Wonderful."

Professor Nightshade enters before Jake can elaborate. She surveys the class with the expression of someone who has seen everything and been disappointed by most of it.

"Aphrodisiacs," she announces without preamble. "Contrary to popular belief, they are not recreational substances. They are medically significant compounds used to treat a variety of conditions, including emotional trauma, sensory deprivation, and certain types of magical damage. Today you will learn to brew a basic desire tincture. The instructions are on your desks. Begin."

You look at the instructions on your desk. Moonbloom petals. Siren's tear essence. Crushed firepearl. Powdered duskwing moth. You have no idea what any of these things are.

"Need help?" Jake asks.

"No," you say automatically. Then, because you're trying to be better at accepting help: "Actually, yes. The injury. I'm having trouble remembering the... ingredient properties."

Jake's face softens even further. "Of course. Here, let me show you."

He walks you through the brewing process step by step. "The key is the proportions," Jake explains, his hands steady as he measures ingredients. "Too much moonbloom and it's basically a love potion. Too much firepearl and it's just... spicy. You want balance."

"Right. Balance."

"You're doing Great."

You're not doing great. Your tincture is a muddy brown color while Jake's is a shimmering rose gold. But you're following instructions and not actively setting anything on fire, which feels like a victory. By the end of class, you've produced something that might technically qualify as an aphrodisiac. It's lumpy and it smells slightly burnt, but Professor Nightshade passes by your station with only a raised eyebrow and a muttered "acceptable."

"See?" Jake says, beaming. "Told you you could do it."

"Thanks to you."

"That's what friends are for." He packs up his supplies while you do the same. "Hey, do you want to study together later? I know you've been spending a lot of time with Sunoo since you got back, but I thought maybe we could-"

"Actually, I'm going to the library after this. Sunoo said I should catch up on magical theory."

"Oh." Jake's face falls slightly. "Okay. Maybe another time?"

"Definitely."

He brightens. "Great! I'll hold you to that."

You feel a twinge of guilt as he leaves.

The Delictum Academy library is, as Sunoo mentioned during your tour, a multi-story cathedral of books with shelves that rearrange themselves when you're not looking. You find a seat in a quiet corner and pull out the list Sunoo gave you. Magical Theory for Beginners. A History of Sin Magic. It's a lot of reading. It's more reading than you've done in your entire college career combined.

But you need to understand this world. You can't keep faking your way through classes forever. Eventually, someone is going to ask you a question you can't deflect, and you need to have an answer ready. You start with A History of Sin Magic, Volume I. By the time you finish the third chapter, your eyes are starting to glaze over. You need a break. You need to stretch your legs. You need to-

You need to find information about Tristitia.

It's been lurking in the back of your mind all day, ever since last night's meeting with Mara. The Tristitia coven is a mystery. No one knows anything about them. But this is a library. Libraries have information. Libraries have records. Maybe there's something here that no one's thought to look for.

You glance around the reading room. The other students are absorbed in their own work. The librarians are busy at the front desk. No one is watching you.

You stand up, leaving your books on the table, and slip between the shelves. Tristitia is something else, a deity outside the sanctioned system, forbidden and dangerous. If there's information about it, it wouldn't be in the main sections. It would be in the restricted area.

You find the iron gate Sunoo pointed out during your tour. It's at the back of the library, tucked behind a row of shelves that seem to have been deliberately arranged to obscure it. You try the gate. It's locked.

Of course it's locked. You didn't expect it to be unlocked. But you also didn't come all the way here just to give up at the first obstacle. There has to be another way in. A side door. A gap in the wards. Something.

You circle the perimeter of the restricted section, looking for weaknesses. And then you see it. A gap in the shelves. Not a door, exactly, but a space where two shelf units don't quite meet. It's narrow, barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through and it's partially hidden by a tapestry. You check your surroundings. Still no one watching. Still no one paying attention.

You slip through the gap.

The restricted section is darker than the main library. You move carefully between the shelves, reading the labels. None of them mention Tristitia by name. None of them even hint at the Sorrow. You spend what feels like an hour searching. But nothing specifically about Tristitia. Nothing about its coven. Mara was right. The Tristitia coven is a mystery, and it's a mystery that doesn't want to be solved.

Frustrated, you slip back through the gap and return to your table. You came to this library hoping for answers, and all you found was more questions.

"Y/N!"

You look up. Jake is hurrying toward your table, something clutched in his hand. "Hey," you say, closing your book. "What are you doing here?"

"You left this in the greenhouse." He holds up the vial of your lumpy aphrodisiac. "I thought you might want it. Professor Nightshade said it was acceptable, which is basically an A in her class."

"Oh. Thanks." You take the vial from him. It's still warm from the greenhouse. "You didn't have to track me down for this."

"I wanted to." He grins. "Also, I was hoping to convince you to take a study break. You've been in here for hours. Your brain needs rest."

"My brain is fine."

"Your brain is going to turn to mush if you keep reading magical theory without breaks. Trust me. I've seen it happen."

"That's not a real thing."

"It's absolutely a real thing. Last year, a fifth-year tried to read the entire Terullian Principles in one sitting and his brain literally liquefied. They had to call a healer."

"You're making that up."

"Maybe. But do you want to risk it?"

You laugh despite yourself. Jake has a way of making everything feel lighter. Less serious. He's the opposite of Sunoo's calculated charm, he's just genuinely, effortlessly warm.

"Fine," you say. "A short break."

"Yes!" He pumps his fist. "Okay, so there's this spot in the greenhouse I want to show you. There's a plant that only blooms during the false dawn, and if you time it right, you can see-"

He's gesturing enthusiastically as he talks, his hands moving in wide arcs. One of those arcs catches the aphrodisiac vial, still balanced precariously on the edge of the table.

Time slows down. You see the vial tip. You see Jake's face shift from excitement to horror. You see his hand reach out, too late, as the vial tumbles off the table and hits the floor.

It shatters. The liquid inside, your lumpy, "acceptable" aphrodisiac spreads across the stone floor in a shimmering puddle. And the smell that rises from it is... intense. Floral and spicy and something else, something that makes your head swim and your skin prickle.

"Oh no," Jake breathes.

"What?"

"That's the aphrodisiac. The concentrated aphrodisiac. And we just-" He gestures at the puddle, then at the two of you, standing directly over it. "-inhaled a lot of it."

"How much is a lot?"

"I don't know. I've never-" He swallows. "Do you feel anything?"

You open your mouth to say no, of course not, you feel fine. But the words don't come out. Because you're suddenly very aware of the fact that you don't feel fine. You feel warm. Too warm. Your skin is tingling, and your heart is beating faster than it should be, and when you look at Jake, really look at him, you notice things you didn't notice before. The way his hair curls slightly at the ends. The way his eyes catch the light. The way his uniform fits across his shoulders.

This is bad.

"I feel something," you admit.

"Me too." Jake's voice is slightly higher than usual. "Okay. Okay, this is fine. Aphrodisiacs are temporary. The effects wear off. We just need to-"

He's interrupted by voices. Loud voices, coming from the direction of the library entrance.

"-absolutely unacceptable. The restricted section has been accessed without authorization."

"I'm aware, Headmaster. We're investigating."

Professors. Multiple professors. And they're heading this way. If they find you here, standing over a shattered aphrodisiac vial, clearly affected, alone together-

"We need to hide," Jake hisses.

"Where?"

"I don't know! Somewhere!"

He grabs your arm and pulls you between the shelves. The voices are getting closer. You can hear footsteps now, heavy and purposeful. The professors are searching the library, and they're going to find you if you don't find cover immediately.

Jake's eyes dart around wildly. Then they land on something, a panel in the wall, barely visible, half-hidden behind a bookshelf. "There!" He pushes against the panel, and it swings open to reveal a small, dark compartment. "In here!"

There's no time to argue. No time to think. You dive into the compartment, and Jake dives in after you, and the panel swings shut behind you just as the professors round the corner. The compartment is tiny. Cramped. It was clearly designed for storage, not for people. There's barely enough room for one person, let alone two people to hide.

You and Jake are pressed together in the darkness, your bodies flush against each other. It takes you a moment to realize what position you've ended up in. Your head is down near his legs. Your rear end is... somewhere near his face.

"Is your-" Jake's voice comes out strangled. "Is your- are you-"

"What?"

"Your... ass. It's on my face."

You close your eyes. You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time and never come to this library, never brew this aphrodisiac, never agree to hide in this horrible, tiny compartment.

"I'm aware," you manage.

"Okay. Okay, that's- that's fine. This is fine. Everything is fine."

"Stop saying everything is fine."

"I can't. If I stop saying it, I'll start screaming."

The voices are right outside now. You can hear them clearly through the thin wall of the compartment. "-no sign of the intruder. The restricted section appears undisturbed."

"Keep searching. The wards were triggered. Someone was here."

You hold your breath. Jake holds his breath.The aphrodisiac is definitely still burning. You can feel it. Every point of contact between your body and Jake's is electric, heightened, overwhelming. The warmth of his chest. The press of his hands on your hips, trying to steady you. And from the way his breathing keeps catching, from the way his fingers are gripping your hips a little too tightly, you're pretty sure he's feeling it too.

"This is bad," you whisper.

"Very bad," he agrees.

"The aphrodisiac-"

"I know."

"It's making me-"

"I know. Me too."

You both fall silent. The professors are still outside, their footsteps heavy on the stone floor. The compartment is still dark, still cramped, still unbearably warm. And the aphrodisiac is still working its way through your bloodstream, turning every accidental touch into something more. Jake shifts slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. You bite your lip to keep from making a sound.

"Sorry," he breathes.

"It's fine."

"It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine." A pause. "Can I just say, for the record, that this is not how I imagined my evening going?"

"You imagined your evening?"

"I imagined a lot of things. None of them involved hiding in a closet with my childhood best friend's ass on my face."

"Can we stop talking about my ass?"

"I would love to stop talking about it. Unfortunately, it's very present."

You would laugh if you weren't so mortified. You would cry if you weren't so pent up. The aphrodisiac is reaching its peak, you can tell, the warmth is spreading through your entire body now, pooling low in your stomach, making your thoughts hazy and your skin hypersensitive. And Jake is right there. His body warm and solid and smelling like honey and vanilla and something else, something that the aphrodisiac is making you notice far too intensely.

"Y/N," Jake says. His voice is strained. "We might have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"The kind of problem that is... physically manifesting."

It takes you a moment to understand what he means. When you do, your face burns so hot you're surprised the compartment doesn't catch fire.

"Oh," you say.

"Yeah."

"That's- that's the aphrodisiac."

"I know."

"It's not- you're not-"

"I know. But my body doesn't know. My body thinks-" He cuts himself off with a strangled sound. "Can you please stop shifting?"

"I'm not shifting!"

"You're shifting! Every time you move, your-"

The compartment door rattles. You both freeze.

"Is someone in there?" a voice calls out. One of the professors. Right outside. Right there.

You don't breathe. He doesn't breathe. The compartment is silent, and dark, and so hot that you're both sweating, and the aphrodisiac is still pulsing through your veins, and this is quite possibly the worst moment of your entire life.

The footsteps move away. The voices fade. "Must have been a false alarm. The old wards are too sensitive."

"We'll check again in the morning." The footsteps retreat. The library falls silent.

You don't move. Jake doesn't move. The two of you stay frozen in the darkness, pressed together, hearts racing, the remnants of the aphrodisiac still singing through your blood.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Jake speaks. "We should probably-"

"Yeah."

"Wait until we're sure they're gone."

"Yeah."

The silence stretches, thick and heavy in the darkness. You can still hear some faint voices.

"We should..." Jake starts, his voice a strained whisper. "We should try to stay still. Control our breathing. It'll pass faster if we don't... feed it."

You nod. Control. That's a good idea. A rational idea. You try to focus on your breath, pulling in slow, steady inhales and pushing them out. But every time you breathe in, you fill your lungs with Jake's scent, all amplified by the potion into something intoxicating, something that makes your mouth water. The heat inside you isn't fading. It's building. It pools in your stomach, a low, heavy ache that spreads downwards, between your thighs. You can feel a dampness gathering there, a slick warmth that has nothing to do with sweat and everything to do with the man pressed against you.

Jake shifts, a tiny, aborted movement meant to create space, but it only makes things worse. His hips roll forward, just slightly, and the hard line of his erection drags against the right side of your face. A gasp tears from your throat before you can swallow it.

"Sorry," he grits out, his voice tight. "I'm sorry. I'm trying."

"I know," you whisper back, your own voice shaky. "Me too."

His hands are still on your hips, his fingers gripping you through the fabric of your uniform skirt. You can feel the heat of them even through the layers of cloth. You want him to move them. You want him to take them away. You want him to slide them under your skirt and press them directly against your skin. The thought is so shocking, so potent, that it makes you dizzy. You're not supposed to be thinking about his hands on your bare skin. 

You feel one of his hands move. It slides slowly, tentatively, from your hip to the hem of your skirt. His knuckles brush against the back of your thigh, and you shudder, a full-body tremor that you can't control.

"Y/N," he breathes, his voice right next to your ear, a puff of hot air that makes you clench. "I can’t hold back anymore."

You don't say anything. Screw your inhibition. You just press back against him, a silent, involuntary plea. He takes it as permission. His fingers hook under the waistband of your tights. He pauses for a second, giving you one last chance to refuse. You don't. You hold your breath, your entire body tensed in anticipation. Slowly, carefully, he peels the tights down, followed by your underwear. The fabric whispers down your legs, bunching around your knees. The cool air of the compartment hits your heated flesh, and you gasp.

"Jake," you whisper, his name a ragged sound. "What are you-"

And then you feel something else. It's the wet, heat of his tongue, tracing a slow, deliberate line up your inner thigh. You bite down hard on your lip to keep from crying out. The sensation is overwhelming, a jolt of pure pleasure that shoots straight to your core. He does it again, on the other thigh, his movements slow and unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world. His thumbs part your folds, exposing you completely to him. And then his mouth is on you.

Not a tentative lick, but a firm, confident press of his lips against your most sensitive spot. A choked moan escapes your lips.

"Quiet," he whispers against you, the vibration of his voice sending another shockwave through you. "We have to be quiet."

You nod frantically, trying to focus, to muffle the sounds he's pulling from you, but it's impossible. He starts to move his tongue, and all rational thought dissolves. He's not rushing. He's exploring. He licks around your clit, tracing the shape of it. He dips down, gathering your wetness on his tongue before circling your entrance, teasing you with shallow thrusts that make you buck back against him. The aphrodisiac is amplifying everything, turning every flick of his tongue into a bolt of lightning, every slow lap into a wave of fire.

He builds a rhythm, a slow, maddening tempo that has you climbing higher and higher. He alternates between broad, flat strokes that cover your entire core and sharp, precise flicks of his tongue directly on your clit. It's too much and not enough. You can feel the pressure coiling in your stomach.

You're lost in it. Your mind is blank, filled only with the feeling of his mouth on you, his hands on your hips, the scent of his skin. And then, through the haze of pleasure, a new thought surfaces. Your own hands begin to move. You fumble in the darkness, your fingers searching for the button of his trousers. You find it, your knuckles brushing against the hard length straining against the fabric. He groans against you, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through your entire body.

Your fingers are clumsy, shaking with a combination of the aphrodisiac and your own rising desire. You manage to undo the button. His erection springs free, hot and heavy in your hand. You wrap your fingers around him, and he hisses, his hips jerking forward. You stroke him once, twice. A bead of moisture gathers at the tip, and you swipe at it with your thumb. He shudders.

You shift your position slightly, Until you can take him into your mouth. The taste is clean and salty. You hollow your cheeks, sucking gently, and he rewards you with another groan, the sound muffled against your skin. This is it. This is the breaking point. You're pleasuring him while he pleasures you, a tangle of limbs and mouths in the suffocating darkness. Every time he flicks his tongue, you tighten your grip on him. Every time you take him deeper into your mouth, his own movements become more frantic.

You have to swallow your moans, muffle your cries against his skin. He has to muffle his groans against you. The sounds you do make are choked, breathless, desperate. The pressure inside you is almost unbearable now. You're so close. You can feel the orgasm building. Jake seems to sense it too. He focuses his attention, his tongue working faster, harder, with a devastating precision. He slides one hand from your hip, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, circles as his tongue continues its assault. That's all it takes. The wave breaks and your orgasm crashes over. 

This is bad. Really really bad.

🏷️ @graythecoffeebean @voucearse @prettygirlthings-world @human1errorth1ngs @skzenhalove @kristynaaah @enhapagluuuuu

[hoonieful]

RAAAAHHHHHHHH

[kinkyhoon]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✠ Deadly Sinners ✠

You are twenty-one years old, drowning, and completely out of options. Your parents died when you were fifteen, leaving behind nothing but a cramped apartment and a stack of unpaid bills. You worked double shifts at a convenience store to put yourself through community college, but when a medical emergency left you with hospital debt you could never repay, the loan sharks came for you. Now they call your phone at all hours. They wait outside your classes. Last week, they broke your apartment door off its hinges.

Tonight, you sit on the edge of your bathtub with a pistol you bought from a man in an alley, hands trembling so badly you can barely hold it steady. You have no one. You have nothing. This is the only way out you can see.

You press the barrel to your temple. You close your eyes. You pull the trigger. But the gun doesn't fire.

Instead, the air in your bathroom splits open like a wound. Light spills through the crack, gold and pink, and a young man steps through as casually as if he's walking into a coffee shop. He has fox-bright eyes and a smile that curves like moon crescent. He plucks the gun from your hands, unloads it with practiced ease, and drops it into the sink.

"That's not your only option," he says. His name is Sunoo. He explains that in another world, a world called Emperion, there existed another version of you. A powerful magic user. Rich, talented, and recently murdered by a witch. If you agree to take that dead girl's place, to attend a magical academy in her name and find the killer, you’ll have a new life. A new identity. A purpose.

The catch? You can never come back. You must convince everyone; students, professors, friends, that you are the same cold, confident sinner they've always known. And you have to kill a witch.

You look at the gun in the sink. You look at the portal. You think about the loan sharks and the empty apartment and the silence that has followed you since you were fifteen years old.

You step through.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✠ 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝕰𝖒𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖓 ✠

Emperion is a kingdom built on contradictions. The streets are lit by floating lanterns fueled by captured memories, each one glowing a different color depending on the emotion inside it. In the capital city of Malachar, you can buy anything: cursed jewelry, bottled laughter, dreams extracted from sleeping minds.

Magical creatures coexist here openly. Vampires run the banking houses in the financial district. Demons serve in the royal court. Elves maintain the great libraries. Shapeshifters work as spies and messengers. Graveborn beings resurrected from death walk among the living with pale skin and hollow eyes, neither fully dead nor fully alive. Mortals live alongside all of them, some gifted with magic, some not.

The kingdom is ruled by a monarchy that worships the seven deities, though in practice, the noble houses hold most of the real power. Politics in Emperion is a blood matter. Families rise and fall based on magical skills, strategic marriages, and the occasional well-timed assassination.

Far to the north, past the frozen forests and the mountains, lies Nocthaven. It's cold, isolated, and completely inhospitable to anyone who isn't a magic user. This is where the Delictum Academy was built, far from the distractions of civilization, close to the raw sources of sin magic that seep up from the cursed ground.

The celestial kingdom of Aetherlyn considers sin magic an abomination. Their realm exists on a different plane of reality, one built from virtue, order, and divine light. They are not peaceful nor merciful. They believe Emperion is a nuisance that must be destroyed.

Aetherlyn sends Archangels, beings of immense power, constructed from celestial energy to wage war on Emperion. These are not the angels of human religion. Archangels are weapons. They descend, destroy entire cities, and leave nothing but ashes where life used to be.

The war has lasted for centuries. Emperion created the Imperial Division specifically to fight it: a team of seven elite sinners, one for each deity, working together as a strike force. Every few years, when the current members die or retire, the Delictum Academy selects the seven most powerful students to replace them. These chosen ones are called the Seven Deadly Sins.

It is the highest honor a sinner can achieve and a near-certain death sentence.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✠ 𝕺𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖘 ✠

Long ago, before Emperion had a name, a scholar named Terullian made a discovery that changed the world. He noticed that human wrongdoing left traces. A man who stole bread left behind a residue of hunger and desperation. A woman who lied to her husband left behind a shimmer of deceit. These residues, Terullian theorized, were not just emotional traces. They were power.

He spent forty years in isolation, studying criminals, the dying, and the morally corrupt. What he found was a system. Every sin produced a specific type of magical energy, and that energy could be harvested, shaped, and wielded by those with the talent to do so. He called this practice Sinderomancy, sin magic. His writings became the foundation of Emperion's entire magical tradition.

The ethical implications were immediately controversial. Using magic meant drawing power from the worst parts of humanity. Every spell cast was, in some small way, profiting from suffering. But the power was undeniable. Within a century, Emperion had built an entire civilization on it.

Every magic user in Emperion is born with an affinity for one of the seven sin categories. This affinity is innate and cannot be changed. It shows up in childhood, usually around puberty, and determines which deity's power they can access.

Casting magic requires three things: affinity, focus, and source.

The affinity is your natural connection to a specific sin. The focus is your ability to shape that power into a spell, which requires training and mental discipline. The source is the actual sin energy you're drawing from, either your own emotions, the ambient sin residue in the world, or in advanced cases, the deity itself.

At the Academy, all students learn the basics of every magic category regardless of their affinity. This is considered essential education. A sinner must understand how each sin works to defend against it. But they can only ever truly master their own affinity. The curriculum dedicates the first two years to foundational courses in all seven disciplines before students specialize in their third year.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✠ 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝕯𝖊𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖊𝖘 ✠

The accumulated sin energy of centuries did not simply dissipate. It coalesced. It gained awareness. Seven entities formed from the collected wrongdoings of mortal beings, each one embodying a specific category of sin. They are not gods in the traditional sense. They did not create the world. They are parasites grown powerful, forces of nature more than personalities.

⚚ 𝔊𝔲𝔩𝔞 (𝔊𝔩𝔲𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔶) Born from overconsumption in all its forms. Gula is not just gluttony for food but for anything: attention, substances, experiences, pain. Its followers tend to be sensory seekers. Magic drawn from Gula allows the user to consume almost anything, physical matter, energy, even abstract concepts like time or memory and convert it into power.

⚚ 𝔏𝔲𝔵𝔲𝔯𝔦𝔞 (𝔏𝔲𝔰𝔱) Born from lust and obsessive desire. Luxuria governs attraction, both physical and emotional. Its magic deals in obsession, charm, and the manipulation of relationships. Followers can make themselves irresistible, sense others' desires, and forge emotional bonds that feel like addiction. It's considered one of the most dangerous disciplines because it erodes consent.

⚚ 𝔄𝔳𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔞 (𝔊𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔡) Born from greed and possessiveness. Avaritia's domain is material wealth and the fear of losing it. Its magic allows users to bind objects to their will, create unbreakable contracts, and sense the location of anything they consider theirs. Avaritia sinners are often obscenely wealthy and paranoid to a fault.

⚚ ℑ𝔯𝔞 (𝔚𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔥) Born from wrath, rage, and vengeance. Ira is the most directly destructive deity. Its magic manifests as combat enhancement, pain manipulation, and destructive energy. Followers can draw power from their own anger or the anger of those around them. The angrier they are, the stronger they become, which makes discipline essential.

⚚ 𝔄𝔠𝔢𝔡𝔦𝔞 (𝔖𝔩𝔬𝔱𝔥) Born from sloth, apathy, and the paralysis of will. Acedia is the strangest of the deities. Its magic doesn't do things so much as undo them. Followers can slow time, drain motivation from enemies, make objects forget their purpose, and create spaces where nothing happens. It's subtle, frustrating, and deeply unsettling to face.

⚚ 𝔙𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔞 (𝔈𝔫𝔳𝔶) Born from envy and the desperate need for validation. Vanagloria's magic is about copying, stealing, and undermining. Its followers can temporarily duplicate others' abilities, drain confidence, and create illusions that show people what they most fear or desire. They are master manipulators who understand that destruction is often best achieved by making someone destroy themselves.

⚚ 𝔖𝔲𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔟𝔦𝔞 (𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔢) Born from pride and the belief in one's own absolute superiority. Superbia is considered the most powerful and most dangerous of the seven. Its magic deals in domination, command, and the warping of reality to fit the user's will. Followers can make people believe their lies, bend weaker minds to obedience, and in rare cases, reshape small portions of the physical world through sheer force of ego.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✠ 𝕯𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖈𝖙𝖚𝖒 𝕬𝖈𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖒𝖞 ✠

Delictum Academy was founded three hundred years ago by Evagrius Ponticus, who remains its headmaster to this day. No one knows exactly what Ponticus is. He appears human, but he hasn't aged in centuries. He speaks softly, smiles rarely, and seems to know things before they happen. Students speculate that he made some ancient deal with all seven deities simultaneously, which should be impossible.

The Academy's official purpose is to train sinners to master their abilities and defend Emperion. Its unofficial purpose, the one whispered in the dorms at night, is to identify the strongest among each generation and feed them into the war machine. Graduation rates are high. Survival rates after graduation are not.

The Academy is built on an estate the size of a small city, surrounded by walls enchanted to keep out the perpetual northern winter. Inside, the climate is controlled to a perpetual mild autumn. Dead leaves flying across cobblestone paths but never pile up.

☾ 𝔑𝔬𝔠𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔞 𝔇𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔰 The student housing is divided into seven buildings, each corresponding to one of the sin affinities. The dorms are named after the animals associated with the sins, and the architecture reflects the nature of each one:

Peacock Hall (Pride): Tall, elegant, and deliberately intimidating. Every room has mirrors on the ceiling. The common area features a throne-like chair that students compete to sit in.

Lion Hall (Wrath): Built low and solid like a fortress. The training rooms are in the basement, soundproofed to contain the screaming. Students here settle disputes in the combat ring and bet with everything.

Pig Hall (Gluttony): Surprisingly warm and comfortable, with a dining hall that serves food at all hours. The kitchens are never closed. The rooms are cluttered and cozy.

Toad Hall (Greed): Locked cabinets in every room. A vault in the basement for student valuables. The walls are thick with protective enchantments. Nothing gets stolen here because everyone is paranoid enough to ward their doors three times. The dorm was mostly funded by Sunghoon’s family.

Goat Hall (Lust): Silk sheets and dim lighting and private balconies. The rules about overnight guests are loosely enforced. The air is always faintly perfumed.

Snake Hall (Envy): Mirrored hallways that show you distorted reflections. The rooms are arranged so everyone can see slightly into everyone else's space. Gossip travels faster than light here.

Snail Hall (Sloth): Softest beds in the Academy. Sound-dampening walls. The common room has hammocks instead of chairs. Students here have perfected the art of doing absolutely nothing and looking good doing it.

☾ 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔙𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔓𝔞𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔢 The main academic building. A sprawling structure of black stone and stained glass windows depicting the seven deities. Classrooms are arranged in circles rather than rows because the Socratic method is heavily favored. The library in the east wing contains restricted texts that literally bite if you try to read above your magic level.

☾ 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔞𝔯 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯 An observatory and ritual space. The ceiling is enchanted to show a real-time map of the night sky, which is used for divination and celestial magic tracking. Students come here to practice spells that require starlight, which is abundant in Nocthaven's eternal night.

☾ 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔊𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔫𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 A massive glass dome filled with magical plants. Some of them are ingredients for potions. Some of them are dangerous. A few of them are mildly sentient and will hold grudges if you water them wrong. The Greenhouse is maintained by a groundskeeper who may or may not be a walking tree.

☾ 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔄𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔞 Where combat training and duels take place. The stands can hold the entire student body. Bloodstains on the floor are cleaned between matches, but the cleaning enchantment never quite gets everything. There are older stains beneath the newer ones, layers of violence soaked into the ground.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✠ 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖑𝖞 𝕾𝖎𝖓𝖓𝖊𝖗𝖘 ✠

These seven students are currently considered the most likely to be selected as the next Imperial Division. They are not yet officially the Seven Deadly Sins, but everyone treats them as if they are. They sit at the top of the Academy's social hierarchy, feared, admired, and whispered about in equal measure. Students like to call them the Princes of Hell.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⚜ ꜱᴜɴᴏᴏ (ᴀꜱᴍᴏᴅᴇᴜꜱ) ⚜

Preacher of Luxuria and sinner of Lust. Sunoo is beautiful in a way that makes people uncomfortable. As an incubus, he naturally draws people toward him. He smiles often, laughs easily, and never raises his voice. This is not because he's gentle. This is because he doesn't need to raise his voice to get what he wants. He flirts with everyone regardless of gender, species, or availability, less out of genuine desire and more because flirtation is information-gathering. He is not evil, but he is not good either. Sunoo was the old Y/N's best friend before she died. They were "glued to each other," as other students put it. He was with her on the mission when the witch killed her. He watched her die. Why couldn't he save her? Sunoo is a powerful sinner in his own right. How did a witch kill his best friend right in front of him? He recruited Y/N from another world for reasons he has not fully explained. He claims he wants justice for his best friend. But Sunoo always has multiple motives, and he only ever reveals the ones that serve his purposes.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⚜ ʜᴇᴇꜱᴇᴜɴɢ (ʟᴜᴄɪꜰᴇʀ) ⚜

Preacher of Superbia and sinner of Pride. Heeseung's tall, dark-haired, with features that seem slightly too perfect to be natural, because they aren't. He's a demon, full-blooded, from one of the old families that trace their lineage back to the first coalescence of sin energy. He speaks quietly and rarely. When he enters a room, conversations falter. He's the kind of person you notice even when you're trying not to. No one knows much about Heeseung. He doesn't socialize. He doesn't explain himself. He attends classes, performs perfectly on every assessment, and disappears. His dorm room in Peacock Hall is the largest in the building, but no one has ever been invited inside. He is not cruel, which surprises people. He doesn't bully or belittle. He simply... doesn't engage. He knows he's the best. He doesn't need anyone else to confirm it. Heeseung can do things other sinners find impossible. The professors are wary of him. The headmaster watches him closely.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⚜ ᴊᴀʏ (ꜱᴀᴛᴀɴ) ⚜

Preacher of Ira and sinner of Wrath. Jay is a vampire from an old aristocratic family. He keeps his black hair immaculate and his uniform perfectly pressed. His hands are always gloved. It's actually because direct skin contact lets him sense pulse points, and that's distracting in a building full of living bodies. When Jay is calm, he's cold. When he's angry, which happens quickly and often, he's terrifying. Jay's anger is not random. It's principled, which makes it worse. He has a rigid sense of fairness and loses his composure when that fairness is violated. He hates cheaters. He hates bullies. He hates incompetence in positions of authority. The world constantly disappoints him, and he constantly punishes it for disappointing him. The rivalry with the old Y/N started on their first day of classes when she scored higher than him on an aptitude test. She didn't even study. He had studied for weeks. It's been war ever since. Everything is a competition: grades, combat rankings, professor attention. The old Y/N found it amusing. Jay does not find it amusing at all.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⚜ ᴊᴀᴋᴇ (ʙᴇʟᴘʜᴇɢᴏʀ) ⚜

Preacher of Gula and sinner of Gluttony. Jake is a mortal, fully human, which is rare among the Academy's elite. He has warm brown eyes and a smile that makes people want to trust him. He's extroverted, physically affectionate, and the kind of person who remembers everyone's birthday. He knows the names of the kitchen staff. He helps first-years find their classrooms. He is universally liked, which in a school of sinners is almost suspicious. Jake is gullible in the way of someone who has never needed to be otherwise. He grew up sheltered, the son of merchants who made their fortune honestly. He entered the Academy naive and has somehow remained naive despite everything. People assume he's stupid. He isn't. His sin is Gluttony, but his relationship with it is gentle, he genuinely loves food, experience, sensation. His magic lets him consume and convert almost anything into energy. Jake has known the old Y/N since they were children. Their families were neighbors before her parents moved to the capital.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⚜ ꜱᴜɴɢʜᴏᴏɴ (ᴍᴀᴍᴍᴏɴ) ⚜

Preacher of Avaritia and sinner of Greed. Sunghoon is cold in the way of marble statues and winter season. He's tall, pale, and beautiful in an uncanny, untouchable way. He is a Graveborn, a being who died and was brought back through necromantic ritual. He dresses impeccably. His family is old money, old magic, old everything. Professors love him. He is respectful, diligent, and never causes trouble. This is a performance, but it's a very good one. He expresses emotion precisely and sparingly. When he tells you something, he means it with his whole being, but you have to pay attention to notice. His greed manifests as possessiveness. He collects things, artifacts, knowledge, people and once something is his, he does not let it go. He protects what is his with a ferocity that surprises people who assumed he was emotionless. The old Y/N was his. He loved her, genuinely and completely, and she ended their engagement because she was bored. He has been trying to win her back ever since, not out of desperation but out of certainty. She belongs with him. He knows this. He just needs to convince her.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⚜ ᴊᴜɴɢᴡᴏɴ (ʙᴇᴇʟᴢᴇʙᴜʙ) ⚜

Preacher of Vanagloria and sinner of Envy. Jungwon is an elf, which means he's older than he looks and knows more than he shows. He appears to be in his early twenties but is closer to eighty. He's the student council president, the head of disciplinary committees, the voice of the student body to the faculty. He has positioned himself so thoroughly in the Academy's power structure that removing him would require dismantling the structure itself. Jungwon envies everything and admits nothing. His envy is not the hot, impulsive kind. It's cold and patient and deeply strategic. He studies the people he envies. He learns their weaknesses. He positions himself to benefit from their eventual downfall. He's not trusted so much as accepted. Everyone knows Jungwon is playing an angle. It's just easier to let him play than to fight him. He's helpful when it suits him, obstructive when it doesn't, and always, always aware of where everyone stands in the hierarchy.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⚜ ɴɪ-ᴋɪ (ᴀʙᴀᴅᴅᴏɴ) ⚜

Preacher of Acedia and sinner of Sloth. Ni-ki is a shapeshifter, which means his appearance is technically negotiable. His default form is tall and lean, with sharp features and dark eyes that look perpetually half-lidded. He skips classes constantly but maintains decent grades through natural talent and last-minute cramming. He's athletic in a way that seems unfair given how little effort he puts into it. Shapeshifting burns calories and keeps his body in constant low-level motion even when he's sitting still. He's usually found in Snail Hall, horizontal on whichever surface looks most comfortable. Ni-ki's sloth is not laziness exactly. It's more like extreme efficiency. He doesn't do things that don't interest him. He doesn't engage with people who bore him. He has a very clear sense of what matters to him and everything else gets minimal effort. He admires the old Y/N. She was everything he wasn't: driven, dominant, effortlessly powerful. He wants to be like her, or at least he wants the version of her he's constructed in his head.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ♰ 𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝖞𝖔𝖚…𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝕾𝖎𝖓𝖓𝖊𝖗 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚? ♰

🏷️@graythecoffeebean @voucearse @prettygirlthings-world @human1errorth1ngs @skzenhalove

[kinkyhoon]

WGFT - Lee Heeseung Epilogue

Pairing: bf!heeseung x loser!fem!reader Genre: established!relationship, smut MDNI, fluff Synopsis: It's the last day of the trip and Heeseung wants to make it memorable now that you are together (iykyk) Warnings: protected!sex (yes I can have a conscience sometime), swearing, handjob (both!rec) WC: 6.2k Note: This is officially the end for WGFT!!!! What a journey...I think I will focus on my requests (I have a few in my drafts that I need to finish) and the ff of Jay, Speechless, stay tuned!!!! (for those who've send me requests don't worry I saw them and I'm working on it, I'm sorry for those who've send them a long time ago I really didn't have time to finish them but I will definitely I promise!!!)

🎧 I like me better - LAUV now playing

The last day of the trip arrives with a sky so clear and blue it looks like it's been painted there just for you.

You wake to sunlight streaming through the window and the distant sound of someone's Bluetooth speaker playing an acoustic cover of a song you vaguely recognize. The mountains outside are dusted with fresh snow from an overnight flurry, and the whole world looks like it's been dipped in sugar.

You roll over and check your phone.

Heeseung: good morning! i have a whole day planned for us. wear something warm. and comfortable. and prepare to be romanced.

Heeseung: that sounded less intense in my head

Heeseung: i'm not trying to be intense. i'm trying to be romantic. there's a difference.

Heeseung: okay now i'm overthinking. just meet me in the lobby at 10.

Heeseung: please.

You stare at the string of messages, a smile spreading across your face despite the early hour. There's something deeply endearing about watching Heeseung, the same Heeseung who shouted his feelings from a mountaintop in front of hundreds of people second-guess his word choice in a text message.

You: i'll be there. try not to spiral before 10.

Heeseung: no promises.

You get dressed slowly, savoring the morning. Yunjin is already awake, sitting cross-legged on her bed with a cup of tea and her laptop open. She looks up when you emerge from the bathroom and lets out a low whistle.

"Someone's glowing," she says.

"I'm not glowing. I'm just… well rested."

"You're glowing. It's disgusting. I love it." She takes a sip of her tea. "Big plans today?"

"Heeseung says he has a whole program. He's being very mysterious about it."

"A whole program. That's ambitious."

"You know how he is. Once he commits to something, he goes all in."

Yunjin nods thoughtfully. "That's true. The mountaintop confession definitely proved that." She pauses, then adds, "Have you talked to Jungwon yet?"

The question lands in your stomach like a small stone. You've been avoiding it, if you're honest with yourself. The past few days have been a whirlwind of Heeseung and snowboarding and confessions, and somewhere in all of that chaos, you've managed to push the Jungwon situation to the back of your mind.

"I haven't," you admit. "I've been… busy."

"Busy making out with your hot engineer boyfriend?"

"He's not my-" You stop. "Actually, I think he might be my boyfriend? We haven't technically defined it, but he did shout about wanting to be with me from a mountaintop, and I shouted back, and there were witnesses, so I think it's legally binding at this point."

"It's definitely legally binding. Mountaintop declarations are admissible in court."

"I should talk to Jungwon, though. Before we leave. I owe him that much."

Yunjin's expression softens. "I think that's a good idea. Clear the air. Get some closure. Then you can fully enjoy whatever aggressively romantic program Heeseung has planned without any lingering guilt."

"Closure," you repeat, testing the word. "That's a scary word."

"The scariest words usually lead to the best things."

You check the time on your phone. 9:15 AM. Heeseung isn't expecting you until 10. That gives you forty-five minutes to find Jungwon and have what promises to be one of the most emotionally complicated conversations of your life.

No pressure.

You find Jungwon exactly where you expect to find him: in the lodge's quiet reading nook, tucked into an armchair by a window that overlooks the mountains. He has a book open in his lap and a mug of steaming tea on the small table beside him. The morning light catches the angles of his face, the curve of his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks.

Your heart does a small, familiar flutter, the ghost of an old feeling, a muscle memory of affection. But it's different now. Softer. Less like a bruise and more like a scar that's healed.

"Hey," you say, your voice coming out quieter than you intend.

Jungwon looks up, and when he sees you, his expression shifts through several emotions in quick succession, surprise, then something that looks almost like nervousness, then a gentle, accepting warmth.

"Hey," he replies, marking his page and setting the book aside. "I was wondering if you'd come find me before we leave."

"You knew I would?"

"I hoped." He gestures to the armchair across from him. "Sit. Please."

You sit. The armchair is plush and comfortable, the kind of chair that swallows you whole and makes you want to stay there forever. Outside the window, a group of skiers are making their way down the intermediate slope, their laughter carrying faintly through the glass.

"I want to talk to you," you say. "About everything."

"I figured." Jungwon wraps his hands around his mug, his expression thoughtful. "I heard about the mountaintop thing. Well, everyone heard about the mountaintop thing. It's kind of the talk of the trip."

Your cheeks heat. "It was very public."

"Very public. Very loud. Very Heeseung." He smiles, but there's something wistful in it. "It suits him. The grand gesture. He's always been like that, once he decides something matters to him, he goes all in. No holding back."

"Jungwon-"

"Before you say anything," he interrupts gently, "I want you to know that I'm okay. Really. I meant what I said in the library. I'm glad it's him."

You swallow hard, the guilt that's been lurking in the back of your mind rising to the surface. "The letter I gave him… it was meant for you. The whole time. I'd been planning to confess to you for weeks, and I wrote that letter, and I walked into the PC room thinking you were there, but it was Heeseung instead, and I was too embarrassed to correct it, and then everything spiraled, and-"

"I know," Jungwon says quietly.

"You know?"

"Heeseung told me. Last night, actually. He came to my room and explained everything." Jungwon's smile turns rueful. "He was very apologetic. Kept saying he hadn't meant to steal my crush. It was the most flustered I've ever seen him."

Your brain struggles to process this information. "He told you?"

"He wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings. That's Heeseung for you, he can't stand the thought of hurting anyone, even accidentally. He probably would have stepped aside if I'd asked him to." Jungwon pauses, his gaze steady on your face. "But I didn't ask him to. Because I saw the way he looked when he talked about you. And I saw the way you looked at him yesterday, after the mountaintop thing. That's not something I could compete with. That's not something I'd want to compete with."

Your eyes are stinging. "Jungwon…"

"I meant what I said in the library," he continues, his voice gentle but firm. "Liking you was not a waste of time. It was nice. You're the first person who made me want to be brave enough to actually say something. And even though it didn't work out the way I imagined, I don't regret any of it. The gummy bears, the philosophy lectures, the study sessions in the library. It was all worth it."

"Even the part where I accidentally confessed to your best friend instead of you?"

"Especially that part." Jungwon laughs, and it's his real laugh, bright and warm, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "How many people can say their crush story involved a wrong-letter plot twist and a mountaintop confession? We're basically in a romance novel. We just ended up in different chapters."

You laugh too, and it comes out wet and wobbly. "You're taking this really well."

"I've had time to process. And honestly? I think things worked out the way they were supposed to." He leans forward, his expression earnest. "You and me? We're too similar. We're both dreamers, both overthinkers. We would have been comfortable together, but I don't know if we would have pushed each other to grow."

"And Heeseung?"

"Heeseung is everything you're scared of. He's bold and direct and he puts his feelings out there without a safety net. He challenges you to be brave in ways you never thought you could be." Jungwon smiles, and this time there's no sadness in it, just genuine warmth. "You shouted your feelings from a mountaintop, Y/N. You did that. And that's because of him, but it's also because of you. He just helped you find the courage that was already there."

A tear slips down your cheek, and you wipe it away quickly. "You're too nice. You should be bitter and dramatic. You should be writing angsty poetry about how I broke your heart."

"Who says I'm not?" Jungwon pulls a small notebook from beside his book and waves it teasingly. "There might be some very angsty poetry in here. You'll never know."

"Can I read it?"

"Absolutely not. It's terrible. I'm not a poet."

You laugh again, and the sound mingles with his, filling the quiet reading nook with something that feels like healing. Like closure. Like the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.

"Friends?" you ask, holding out your hand.

Jungwon looks at your hand for a moment, then reaches out and gently pokes your cheek instead.

"Boop," he says softly. "Friends."

And that's it. The final boop. The last poke. A gesture that once made your heart soar with hope now feels like a fond farewell, a bookmark placed at the end of a story that's been beautiful, even if it didn't end the way you expected.

By the time you make it to the lobby at 10 AM, your heart feels lighter than it has in weeks. The conversation with Jungwon was a door closing, gently, without slamming, and behind you, a new door is opening. A door that leads to a lobby where a tall informatics engineering student is waiting for you with a thermos of hot chocolate and an expression of barely contained excitement.

"You're early," Heeseung says, his face lighting up when he sees you.

"You're earlier."

"I wanted to make sure everything was perfect." He hands you the thermos, and your fingers brush against his. Even that small contact sends a flutter through your chest. "Hot chocolate. Extra marshmallows. I remembered you said you liked marshmallows."

"You remembered that?"

"I remember everything you say. It's a problem. My brain is approximately sixty percent coding knowledge and forty percent Y/N trivia."

"That's a very specific ratio."

"I'm a very specific person."

You take a sip of the hot chocolate. It's perfect, rich and sweet, with exactly the right amount of marshmallows. "So what's on the agenda? You said you had a whole program."

"I do." Heeseung pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket with a flourish. "Behold. The itinerary."

You take the paper and unfold it. It's handwritten in his slightly messy script, complete with bullet points and little doodles in the margins. There's a snowman with a top hat. There's a mountain with a smiley face. There's what appears to be a very enthusiastic stick figure waving its arms.

LEE HEESEUNG'S OFFICIAL LAST-DAY-OF-SKI-TRIP PROGRAM FOR Y/N L/N 10:00 AM – Meet in lobby. Hot chocolate delivery. (CHECK! ✓) 10:30 AM – Souvenir shop visit. Find the most ridiculous thing possible. 11:30 AM – Snowman building competition. (I will win. Fair warning.) 12:30 PM – Lunch. There's a crepe place I found. It's supposed to be amazing. 2:00 PM – Snow angels. Because you can't go to a ski station and not make snow angels. 3:00 PM – Free time/rest/warming up by the fire. 4:30 PM – Sunset walk to the overlook point. I packed snacks. 7:00 PM – Dinner. I made a reservation. Yes, a reservation. At a ski lodge. I don't know how I did it either.

"This is…" you start, staring at the paper. "This is incredibly detailed."

"I told you. I want to make the day memorable."

"Memorable like a mountaintop confession?"

"Memorable like a day that's just for us. No misunderstandings, no drama, no crying on benches." He pauses. "Unless the crying is happy crying. Happy crying is allowed."

You look up from the itinerary, and Heeseung is watching you with an expression that's almost nervous, his brow slightly furrowed, his fingers drumming against his thigh. It's such a contrast to the confident boy who shouted his feelings from a slope in front of hundreds of people that it makes your heart squeeze.

"This is amazing," you say. "Really. No one's ever planned a whole day for me before."

"Really?"

"Really. I'm usually the one doing the planning. In my head, at least. I have a lot of elaborate daydreams that never actually happen."

Heeseung's expression softens. "Well, today, one of them is happening. If you want it to. We can skip anything you don't want to do. The itinerary is a suggestion, not a contract."

"I want to do all of it. Especially the part where you lose the snowman competition."

"I will not lose."

"You will definitely lose. I've been building snowmen since I was five. I have techniques."

"I have engineering knowledge. Physics is on my side."

"Physics doesn't apply to snowmen. Snowmen are art."

"Snowmen are architecture. Temporary architecture, but architecture nonetheless."

You're still arguing about the fundamental nature of snowmen when you arrive at the souvenir shop. The shop is packed with the kind of merchandise that only exists in ski lodges, t-shirts with puns about snow, mugs shaped like mountains, keychains featuring the slightly deranged-looking mascot.

"Okay," Heeseung says, rubbing his hands together. "The goal is to find the most ridiculous thing in this store. Winner gets bragging rights for the rest of the day."

"Define ridiculous."

"Subjective. That's what makes it fun."

You split up, browsing the aisles with the intensity of detectives searching for clues. Heeseung gravitates toward a shelf of snow globes that play tinny music when you wind them up. You find yourself in front of a rack of socks with increasingly bizarre patterns, socks with llamas wearing scarves, socks with penguins doing yoga, socks with a pattern that appears to be just… cheese.

"I found it," Heeseung announces, appearing at your elbow with a triumphant expression. He's holding a stuffed animal that looks like a cross between a bear and a snowball, with googly eyes that are slightly misaligned and a scarf that's definitely too long for its body. "It's a snow-bear. Or a bear-snow. The tag just says Fluffy. No further explanation."

"That's terrifying."

"That's what makes it perfect."

You hold up your own find: a pair of socks depicting a very angry-looking reindeer with the words "SLEIGH ALL DAY" written beneath it. "I think I win. This reindeer has seen things."

"That reindeer has trauma." Heeseung examines the socks with a critical eye. "Okay, you win. The reindeer is more ridiculous than Fluffy."

"I told you. Snowman-building champion and souvenir-hunting champion. I'm undefeated."

"We haven't done the snowman competition yet."

"But I already know I'm going to win."

"We'll see about that."

He buys Fluffy anyway, tucking the stuffed animal under his arm with the casual affection of someone who's already formed an emotional attachment to a googly-eyed snow-bear. You buy the reindeer socks, because they're ridiculous and because they'll make Yunjin laugh when you show her later.

The snowman competition takes place in a quiet clearing near the beginner slope. You roll the first snowball with the practiced efficiency of someone who has, as claimed, been building snowmen since childhood. Heeseung approaches his own snowball with the analytical precision of an engineering student, measuring angles and testing snow density and muttering things about structural integrity.

"You're overthinking it," you call over. "It's a snowman, not a bridge."

"Art is engineering," he calls back. "Michelangelo understood physics."

"Michelangelo wasn't building snowmen."

"That we know of."

Your snowman comes together quickly, a classic three-tier design with a carrot nose (procured from the lodge kitchen), button eyes (borrowed from your spare coat), and a scarf (the colorful one Yunjin lent you, which you've temporarily sacrificed for the cause). Heeseung's snowman is taller and more elaborate, with what appears to be an attempt at snow-arms and a snow-hat that keeps collapsing.

"He needs a face," you say, standing back to admire your work. "He looks like a ghost."

"I'm working on the face. The face is the hardest part."

"The face is the easiest part. You just stick things in the snow."

"That's the problem. I want him to have dimension. Bone structure. A jawline."

"You're giving a snowman a jawline."

"All snowmen deserve jawlines. A jawline as defined as Jay's."

In the end, Heeseung's snowman has a face that's slightly lopsided and arms that are definitely too long, but there's something endearing about it. Something earnest. Something that makes you look at it and think he really tried.

"You know what," you say, stepping back to compare the two snowmen. "I'm calling it a tie. Your snowman has more ambition, but mine has better execution."

"Ambition versus execution. The eternal struggle."

"Story of my life, honestly."

You high-five, your mittened hands meeting in the cold air with a soft thump, and then you both stand there admiring your creations until the cold starts seeping through your layers and you decide it's time for lunch.

The crepe place is everything Heeseung promised, warm and cozy, with red-checkered tablecloths and the smell of melted chocolate and fresh strawberries hanging in the air. You order a crepe with Nutella, and Heeseung orders one with ham and cheese, and you both agree to share so you can try both.

"This is the best crepe I've ever had," you say, your mouth full of Nutella.

"You say that about everything."

"Because everything today has been the best. The hot chocolate was the best. The souvenir shop was the best. The snowman competition was the best. The crepe is the best."

"I'm detecting a pattern."

"The pattern is that you planned a really good day."

Heeseung ducks his head, and you could swear his cheeks go slightly pink. "It's not over yet. We still have snow angels and the sunset walk and dinner."

"You're spoiling me."

"Good. You deserve to be spoiled."

There's something in his voice when he says it, something earnest and almost vulnerable, that makes your heart flip. You reach across the table and take his hand, and his fingers interlace with yours automatically, like they've been doing it for years instead of days.

"I talked to Jungwon," you say. "This morning."

Heeseung's expression flickers. "Oh?"

"It was good. Really good, actually. He told me you'd already talked to him. Explained everything."

"I wanted to clear the air. I didn't want things to be weird between us, between any of us." He pauses, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. "Was that okay? I probably should have asked you first."

"It was more than okay. It was…" You search for the right word. "It was very you. Taking care of everyone's feelings even when you didn't have to."

"People-pleasing is a hard habit to break."

"I don't think you need to break it. I think you just need to make sure you're included in the people you're pleasing." You squeeze his hand. "Are you okay? With everything?"

"Me?" He seems genuinely surprised by the question. "I'm more than okay. I'm-" He stops, his brow furrowing slightly. "I'm really happy. Like, almost suspiciously happy. I keep waiting for something to go wrong."

"That's the anxiety talking."

"I know. But it's hard to turn off." He smiles, but it's a smaller smile than usual. A more vulnerable one. "I'm used to being the one who manages everyone's expectations. The one who makes sure everyone else is comfortable. Being on the other side of that, being the one who gets to be happy feels unfamiliar."

The words settle into your chest, heavy with meaning. Heeseung, the people-pleaser who can't say no, the boy with the reputation that doesn't reflect who he actually is, he doesn't know how to let himself be happy. He's spent so long managing everyone else's feelings that he's forgotten how to prioritize his own.

"We're going to work on that," you say. "The letting-yourself-be-happy thing."

"That sounds like a long-term project."

"Well I'm planning to be a long-term project so you should get used to it."

The afternoon continues in a blur of snow and laughter. You make snow angels in a pristine patch of snow behind the lodge, your arms and legs sweeping arcs into the powder, your breath fogging in the cold air. Heeseung's snow angel is noticeably larger than yours, and he insists on taking a picture of them side by side "for documentation purposes," he says, but you know it's because he wants to remember this moment.

Then comes the free time, which you spend huddled by the massive stone fireplace in the lodge, sipping more hot chocolate and watching the flames dance. Heeseung sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch, and you talk about everything and nothing, his brother's upcoming birthday, your plans for next semester, the League of Legends patch that just dropped and even more.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, a small, nagging thought starts to take root.

Heeseung is acting… different.

Not bad different. Not distant or cold or any of the things you might have feared. But there's something slightly off about him, a hesitancy in his movements, a carefulness in his words. When he hands you your hot chocolate, he almost fumbles the mug, catching it at the last second with an awkward laugh. When you suggest going for the sunset walk early, he trips over the leg of the coffee table and nearly sends a lamp crashing to the floor. When you ask him what he wants to do after dinner, he freezes for a full three seconds before answering, like he's running through a mental checklist and can't find the right response.

It's subtle. So subtle that you might not have noticed if you hadn't spent the past few weeks paying very close attention to Lee Heeseung's every move. But you have. And you notice.

Is he okay? you wonder, watching him fidget with the zipper of his jacket. Did I do something wrong? Is he having second thoughts about the mountaintop thing? About me?

The overthinking spirals, as it always does. By the time you set out for the sunset walk, your brain has cycled through seventeen different worst-case scenarios, ranging from he's realized he doesn't actually like me to he's secretly been in love with someone else this whole time to he's actually a spy and this whole relationship was a cover for his mission.

That last one is unlikely. But your anxiety doesn't care about likelihood.

The overlook point is a short hike from the main lodge, a wooden platform built into the side of the mountain that offers a panoramic view of the valley below. The sun is just beginning to sink toward the peaks, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose and soft lavender. The snow-covered mountains stretch out in every direction, and the silence is so complete that you can hear the faint whisper of the wind through the pine trees.

Heeseung has packed snacks, as promised, a thermos of tea, a small bag of cookies from the lodge bakery, and a blanket that he spreads out on the wooden platform so you can sit without freezing.

"It's beautiful," you say, your voice hushed.

"It is," Heeseung agrees. But when you glance at him, he's not looking at the sunset. He's looking at you.

"Smooth," you say, trying to keep your tone light.

"I'm not trying to be smooth. I'm just stating facts." He pulls the blanket tighter around both of your shoulders, his arm brushing against yours. "The sunset is beautiful. You're beautiful. Both facts can coexist."

There it is again, that slight hesitation in his movements, that flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He's sitting close to you, but his posture is rigid, like he's holding himself back from something. Like he's afraid of making a wrong move.

The overthinking spiral tightens its grip on your chest.

"Heeseung," you say, turning to face him fully. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course." But his voice is a little too quick, a little too eager. "Anything."

"You've been… different today. Not bad different," you add quickly, seeing the flash of alarm in his eyes. "Just… different. Like you're nervous. Or walking on eggshells. And I've been trying to figure out if I did something wrong, or if you're having second thoughts, or if there's something you're not telling me, and my brain has gone to some very unlikely places, including a scenario where you're secretly a spy, which I know is ridiculous but-"

"Wait." Heeseung holds up a hand, his expression shifting from alarm to something that looks almost like relief. "You think I'm nervous?"

"I think you've been acting like someone who's afraid of breaking something. And I'm worried that the something is… us. Or me."

Heeseung is quiet for a moment. Then he lets out a breath, a long, slow exhale that seems to release tension from his entire body.

"I'm not having second thoughts," he says. "And I'm not a spy. Although that would be a pretty good cover story."

"Then what is it?"

He looks down at his hands, which are clasped in his lap. "I'm nervous."

"About what?"

"About… this." He gestures vaguely at the sunset, the blanket, the snacks. "The whole day. The itinerary. Making it perfect. I wanted today to be memorable for you. Something you'd look back on and smile. And I think I got so focused on making everything right that I forgot to just… be myself."

Your heart, which has been clenched with anxiety all afternoon, begins to loosen. "You were nervous about impressing me?"

"I know it's stupid. We've already done the mountaintop confession. We've already…" He trails off, his ears turning pink. "We've already done a lot of things. But this felt different. This felt like our first real day as… whatever we are. And I wanted it to be perfect."

"Whatever we are," you repeat.

"I didn't want to assume. I know we haven't exactly defined things, and I didn't want to push, and-"

"Heeseung."

He stops, looking at you with those dark, earnest eyes.

"You shouted your feelings from a mountaintop in front of hundreds of people. You planned an entire day with a handwritten itinerary and a crepe place and a souvenir snow-bear named Fluffy. You poured coffee on your head so I wouldn't feel alone. You held me while I cried. You waited weeks for me to tell you the truth because you didn't want to pressure me." You reach out and take his face in your hands, your mittens soft against his cheeks. "You don't have to be perfect. You don't have to impress me. You just have to be you."

"But what if just me isn't enough?"

The question is so quiet, so vulnerable, that it cracks something open in your chest. This is the real Heeseung, the one beneath the charming smile and the confident exterior. The one who has spent his whole life trying to please everyone, trying to be what people expected him to be, trying so hard to never disappoint anyone that he's forgotten he's allowed to just exist.

"It's more than enough," you say. "It's everything."

His eyes search yours, looking for something, reassurance, maybe, or proof that you mean what you say. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because his shoulders relax, and his hands come up to cover yours, and the smile that spreads across his face is the realest one you've seen all day.

"I've been so focused on being the confident one," he says. "The one who has it all figured out. The one who sweeps you off your feet. But the truth is, I'm terrified. I've never felt like this about anyone before, and I don't know what I'm doing, and I keep worrying that I'm going to mess it up."

You lean forward and press your forehead against his. "We're both terrified. We're both disasters. That's kind of our thing."

"Disaster twins."

"Disaster twins," you confirm. "And the thing about disasters is that they're not supposed to be perfect. They're supposed to be real."

Heeseung lets out a shaky laugh. "When did you get so wise about relationships?"

"I've been watching you be a disaster for weeks. I've picked up a few things."

"Did you just quote your best friend at me?"

"Plagiarism is the sincerest form of flattery."

The sunset is still blazing behind you, painting the mountains in shades of gold and crimson and violet. The air is cold and clean and quiet. And sitting there on that wooden platform, wrapped in a shared blanket, forehead to forehead with the boy who has turned your life upside down, you feel something shift inside you.

"I love this," you say quietly.

"The sunset?"

"No. Well, yes, the sunset too. But I meant…" You pause, searching for the right words. "I love this side of you. The nervous side. The side that second-guesses himself and overthinks things and worries about being enough. Because that's my side too. That's who I've been this whole time, the girl who was too scared to say what she felt, who hid behind letters and misunderstandings. And seeing you be the same way… it makes me feel less alone."

Heeseung pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression soft and wondering. "You're never alone. Not anymore."

"Neither are you."

He kisses you then, soft and sweet, his lips cold from the mountain air but warm underneath. It isn't a dramatic kiss or a passionate kiss. It's just a kiss, a quiet, perfect, real kiss, shared on a wooden platform overlooking a mountain sunset, with a bag of cookies forgotten beside you and a snow-bear named Fluffy tucked into Heeseung's jacket pocket.

When you pull apart, the first stars are starting to appear overhead.

"So," Heeseung says, his voice lighter now, the nervous edge finally gone. "About dinner. The reservation is at that fancy restaurant on the top floor of the lodge. I've heard they have a three-course meal and a dessert menu that's supposed to be life-changing."

"Sounds perfect."

"But before that, we should probably go back and change. You have snow in your hair."

You reach up and touch your hair, which is indeed full of snow from the snow angels. "So do you."

"We match."

"We always match."

Heeseung smirks. "Actually...I have something else in mind that we can do before dinner..."

"Is that...what I think it is?"

"I just really can't hold back anymore."

You quickly pack up the blanket and the snacks and the thermos of tea, and you walk back down the mountain path hand in hand.

The cold mountain air bites at your exposed skin as you and Heeseung rush toward the small ski lodge, your boots crunching through the fresh snow.

As soon as the heavy wooden door closes behind you, sealing out the cold, Heeseung's hands are on you, pulling you close. His lips claim yours in a hungry kiss.

"I'm sorry I just can't hold back anymore," Heeseung murmurs against your lips, his hands roaming down your back to cup your ass through your pants. "It made me so hard when you said those sweet things to me. I couldn't wait to get you alone."

Heeseung managed to get the keys of the assistant professor who was supervising the trip before organising his little program (just in case). The lodge is cozy, with a roaring fireplace in the main room and the promise of a warm bed upstairs. But Heeseung seems unwilling to wait that long. He pushes you against the wall at the bottom of the wooden staircase, his body pressing against yours as his kiss deepens.

"Here?" you gasp between kisses, your heart racing with excitement and a hint of nervousness.

"Can't wait," he growls in response, his hands already working to unfasten your snow pants. "I waited all day."

You help him, your fingers fumbling with the zipper in your coat. Soon, your pants are pooled around your ankles along with your underwear, exposing you to the cool air of the lodge. Heeseung's fingers find your folds immediately, discovering how wet you already are.

"You've been wanting this too, haven't you?" he asks with a knowing smirk, circling your clit with his thumb.

You can only nod, your breath catching as he slides one finger inside you, then two. His movements are practiced now, knowing exactly how to touch you to make you writhe with pleasure.

Your hands, meanwhile, work to free him from the confines of his own pants. When you finally wrap your fingers around his hard length, he groans against your neck.

"God, your hands feel so good," he murmurs, thrusting into your grip. "So much better than my own."

You stroke him in time with the movements of his fingers inside you, both of you building toward a climax that you know won't be satisfied here like this. The tension between you is palpable, a live wire of need and desire that demands release.

Before you can reach your peak, Heeseung pulls away, leaving you breathless and wanting. "Not like this," he says, his voice husky with arousal. "I want to be inside you when you come."

He fumbles in his pocket for a moment before producing a foil packet. With practiced efficiency, he rolls the condom onto his length, then lifts you effortlessly. You wrap your legs around his waist as he positions himself at your entrance.

"Okay?" he asks, his eyes dark with desire.

You nod, unable to form words as he slowly lowers you onto him. The feeling of him filling you completely takes your breath away. There's still that initial stretch, that moment of adjustment before pleasure takes over.

Heeseung begins to move, his thrusts deep and measured. His mouth finds yours in a passionate kiss as he sets a rhythm that quickly has you seeing stars.

"You feel so incredible," he groans against your lips. "So tight, so warm around me."

Your hands tangle in his hair as you meet his movements, your body responding instinctively to his. The build toward orgasm is swift and intense, a coiling tension in your stomach that demands release.

"Heeseung," you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm close."

"Me too," he grunts, his movements becoming more erratic. "Come with me. Let go."

With a few more deep thrusts, you shatter, crying out his name as waves of pleasure wash over you. Heeseung follows moments later, burying his face in your neck with a guttural moan as he finds his own release.

For a moment, you stay connected, catching your breath as the aftermath washes over you. Then Heeseung carefully sets you down, disposing of the condom before helping you redress.

"I'm exhausted..." you begin, but words fail you.

"I know you are," he says with a grin, pulling you into a soft kiss. "But it's not enough."

You look at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he says, his hands roaming your body again, "that you're finally my girlfriend and I promised you that next time we have sex it will be better than in a jacuzzi. In a bed, where we can take our time, where I can explore every inch of you."

He takes your hand and leads you up the stairs, his urgency palpable. The lodge room is small but cozy, with a large bed taking up most of the space. As soon as the door closes behind you, clothes are flying in every direction.

This time, there's no rush, no urgency driven by fear of being caught. Instead, there's a slow, deliberate exploration of each other's bodies. Heeseung lays you down on the bed, his lips and hands mapping every curve, every hollow, every sensitive spot.

"I could spend hours just touching you," he murmurs, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. "Learning what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes you clench tighter."

He demonstrates, finding all the spots that make you arch your back with pleasure. His mouth follows his hands, tasting and teasing until you're writhing with need.

"Heeseung, please," you beg, your hands tangling in his hair as he hovers over your core.

"Please what?" he asks with a teasing glint in his eyes. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you," you gasp. "Inside me. Now."

Heeseung grins, reaching for another condom. "As you wish."

He enters you slowly, savoring the moment of connection. This time, the rhythm is different, slower, more intimate, but no less passionate. His hips move in a deep, steady rhythm that drives you wild, hitting all the right spots with each thrust.

"You clenching so hard," he groans, his voice thick with pleasure. "I'll never get tired of this feeling."

The afternoon passes in a blur of passion and pleasure. He takes you in various positions. Each time you reach your peak, Heeseung brings you down gently before building you up again.

Time passes, you're both exhausted but satisfied, lying tangled in the sheets of the bed. Heeseung reaches for the box of condoms he'd brought, only to find it empty.

"Looks like we're out," he says with a sheepish grin. "I didn't expect to need so many."

You laugh, pulling him close for a kiss. "I guess it's our cue to get ready for the restaurant."

Heeseung's expression turns serious. "We will continue later," he promises, his hand cupping your cheek. "I love you."

———————

🏷️ @kristynaaah @karinablue00 @hii01mii @mssishipi @fallwinterr @ikeufied @yamzz67 @shaiimuraaa @bingka @ateez-atiny380 @jakeyyyjakexoxo @luucortis @cupidiorr @jayjw16enxp @voucearse @scoupsonlycherry @ellushic @yummysummerberry @enhaholicfan @chanchamm @xocandypoo @enhapagluuuuu @lelo-o @tboboee @xyvzvee @imnotyizhuo @loveydoveyez @ily6968 @nct-sticker-127 @neonpinkbabylonglegs @psychicdazestrawberry @marigold55 @v1-xo @kkkkkiiiiaaaaaiiii @enhaholicfan @kemkem33 @arelyvn @noturresponsibility @iverrr

[kinkyhoon]

WGFT - Lee Heeseung part 2

Pairing: senior!heeseung x loser!fem!reader Genre: slowburn, college!au, smut MDNI, comedy, fluff, socially challenged fem!reader, misunderstanding, he fell first he fell harder, angst? (idk about it but I think you guys will understand when reading) Synopsis: The hopeless romantic you are decided to confess and give a heartfelt letter to your all time crush but fate decided otherwise and made you confess to the wrong person...the so-called womanizer of campus, Lee Heeseung. Maybe you should have just keep your feelings to yourself...or maybe it was a sign from the universe. Warnings: unprotected!sex (don't risk it), swearing, oral (fem!rec), backshots, fingering, softdom!heeseung, first time, instructional (whatever that means) WC: 26k Note: I honestly didn't want to divide it in two more parts so I just posted it as it is...it's fuck ass long I knoooow but please it's worth it :,) Like I said from now on I will try to write more often on the longer format I hope you guys will like it!!!! There’s gonna be a spicy epilogue too so stay tuned!!!!

"You're a disaster...but God help me if I don't want to be a disaster with you for the rest of my life"

🎧Mini playlist : Who knows by Daniel Caesar, Dream by Keshi, Lovers by Anna of the North, Wus Good/Curious by Partynextdoor, WGFT by Gunna

The campus café is a small, cozy establishment nestled between the student union and the art building. You have been here exactly twice before, both times with Yunjin, and both times you have spent more money on a single drink than you usually spend on an entire meal.

Today, the café is moderately busy. A few students hunch over laptops, a couple in the corner have what looks like a very intense conversation about something, and a barista with an impressive mustache wipes down the counter. The smell of espresso hangs in the air.

"Why don't you grab us a table?" Heeseung suggests, pulling out his wallet. "I'll order. What do you want?"

You blink at him. "You don't have to pay for me."

"I'm the one who invited you. It's the least I can do." He tilts his head, that curious expression settling over his features. "Consider it part of the starting slow thing. Coffee first, then maybe a meal, then eventually I'll work up to buying you a gift."

You don't know how to respond to that, so you just tell him your order: a vanilla latte, the most basic thing on the menu, and flee to a small table near the window before your face can betray you any further.

Okay, okay, okay. This is fine. This is manageable. You are just having coffee with Heeseung, the guy who thinks you confessed to him, the guy you have been actively trying to repel, the guy who starred in your extremely inappropriate dream three nights ago. This is fine. Everything is fine.

You watch him at the counter, chatting easily with the mustachioed barista like they are old friends. He laughs at something the barista says, and the sound carries across the café, warm and genuine. A group of girls at a nearby table glance over at him, then put their heads together and whisper. Heeseung doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn't react, doesn't do any of the things you would expect from someone with his reputation.

It's infuriating.

A few minutes later, he walks toward your table with two cups in his hands. "One vanilla latte for the lady," he says, setting yours down with a flourish, "and one Americano for me. I got you an extra shot of vanilla. You seem like you could use it."

"I could use a lot of things," you mutter, wrapping your hands around the warm cup. "Vanilla is a start."

Heeseung settles into the chair across from you, his long legs stretching out under the table. "So," he says, "do you want to tell me why you were hiding behind a bulletin board earlier? Or should I just keep guessing? My current theory is that you're secretly a spy for a rival university and you're gathering intel on our science department."

"Your theory is wrong."

"Then what's the real reason?"

I was hiding from you, you don't say. I was hiding from you because I dreamed about you eating me out and now I can't look at your face without spontaneously combusting.

"I'm just… very committed to checking bulletin boards," you say instead. "There's a lot of important information on them. Club announcements. Study group postings. Lost and found notices. Someone lost a cat last week. Did you see that poster? Very sad. I hope they found the cat."

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Rambling. You ramble when you're nervous." He takes a sip of his Americano, his eyes never leaving your face. "It's cute. But you don't have to be nervous around me, you know. I'm not going to bite."

The word "bite" should not make your stomach flip. It is a normal word. A mundane word. A word that people use in completely innocent contexts all the time. But your brain, still apparently haunted by the ghost of that dream, chooses to remind you of the part where Heeseung's lips trailed down to your collarbone, and suddenly you can't look at his mouth anymore.

"I'm not nervous," you lie. "I'm just… naturally like this. I'm a naturally weird person. This is my baseline."

"Your baseline is being weird?"

"Extremely weird. The weirdest. I once alphabetized my entire book collection by color instead of author name because I wanted to see what it would look like. It looked terrible. I kept it that way for three months."

Heeseung considers this. "That's not really weird. That's just… creative organizational choices."

"I also talk to my plants. All of them. Individually. I have a succulent named Jason and I tell him about my day."

"That's just being a good plant parent."

"I cannot snap my fingers. I've tried for nineteen years and I simply cannot do it. My fingers make no sound. It's like they're broken but specifically only for snapping purposes."

Heeseung smiles now, that same genuine smile that appeared in the cafeteria when you talked about League of Legends. "Okay, that one's a little weird. But in an endearing way."

Endearing. He called you endearing. This is not going according to plan.

"I should go get napkins," you say abruptly, pushing back your chair. "We need napkins. For the coffee. In case of spills. You can never be too prepared."

Heeseung glances at the napkin dispenser that is already sitting on the table between you. "We have napkins."

"These aren't… good napkins. I need the good ones. The thick ones. From the counter. I'll be right back."

You escape before he can protest, weaving through the tables toward the counter where the barista is busy steaming milk. You don't actually need napkins. You need a moment to breathe, to collect yourself, to remind your heart that it is supposed to be beating for Jungwon, not doing gymnastics every time Heeseung smiles at you.

The barista hands you a stack of napkins without you even having to ask. You clutch them to your chest like a shield and turn back toward your table.

Heeseung is watching you, his chin propped on his hand, his expression soft and curious and completely unguarded. The afternoon light from the window catches the angles of his face, the sweep of his hair, the slight quirk of his lips. He looks like a painting. He looks like something you would pin to a Pinterest board titled "dream boyfriend" and then immediately feel bad about because no real person should look that good while just sitting in a café.

You start walking back toward the table, your mind a whirlwind of panic and confusion and the desperate need to get through this interaction without making a bigger fool of yourself.

And then your foot catches on the leg of a chair.

It happens in slow motion. One moment you are walking, your napkins clutched to your chest, your eyes fixed on Heeseung. The next moment your toe hooks around a wrought-iron chair leg that is sticking out slightly from a nearby table, and your body pitches forward, and the napkins fly out of your hands, and the coffee, dear God, the coffee who's sitting on the table gets knocked off and sloshes out of your cup in a great wave.

Time speeds up again. You hit the floor with a thud that rattles your teeth, and the coffee hits you approximately 0.3 seconds later, soaking through your sweater and your jeans and possibly your very soul. The liquid is still warm, not scalding but definitely not pleasant, and it is everywhere, on your clothes, on your hands, dripping from the ends of your hair, pooling on the floor around you in a sad, beige puddle.

The café goes silent.

You sit there, on the floor, covered in your own vanilla latte, and stare at the puddle spreading beneath you. The napkins have scattered across the tiles like confetti, completely useless now. A drip of coffee rolls down your forehead and off the tip of your nose.

This is it. This is the moment you finally break. All the stress of the past week, the letter, the misunderstanding, the dream, the bulletin board incident has been building toward this, and now, sitting in a puddle of expensive café coffee with every eye in the establishment fixed on you, you feel the tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

You are going to cry. You are going to cry in front of Heeseung and the mustachioed barista and the couple in the corner and those girls who have been whispering about Heeseung earlier. You are going to cry, and there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop it.

But then you look down at your hands, and you realize something.

His coffee. The Americano. The cup who's been next to yours, you have managed, in the chaos of your fall, to keep it upright by holding it. Your arm lifted it above your head at the last second, some primal survival instinct kicking in to protect the beverage that isn't even yours, and the Americano is still sitting perfectly intact in its cup, not a single drop spilled.

You are covered in latte. Your sweater is ruined. Your dignity is in shambles. But his coffee is safe.

"I saved yours," you say, your voice coming out as a croak. You hold up the Americano like a trophy, your arm trembling slightly. "Look. I saved yours."

Heeseung is already out of his chair, already crouching beside you, his expression shifting from shock to concern to something else entirely, something soft and wondering and absolutely devastating.

"You saved my coffee," he repeats.

"It was a reflex. I don't know why. I don't even like you that much. I mean, I like you a normal amount. A regular amount. The amount you're supposed to like someone you accidentally-" You stop yourself before you can say more. "I saved your coffee."

Heeseung stares at you for a long moment. Then, very deliberately, he reaches out and takes the Americano from your hand. He looks at you, covered in vanilla latte, sitting in a puddle on the café floor, your glasses askew and your hair dripping.

And then he pours his own coffee over his head.

Just… tips the cup over and lets the dark liquid cascade down his hair, over his forehead, along the sharp bridge of his nose, soaking into the collar of his black hoodie and leaving trails of coffee across his skin.

You gape at him. The entire café gapes at him.

"What-" you start, but your voice has stopped working.

Heeseung sets the empty cup down with a quiet click and smiles at you, a warm, genuine, completely unhinged smile that makes your heart do a full backflip inside your chest.

"Now we match," he says.

You can't speak. You can't think. You can only stare at him, this absurd, beautiful, incomprehensible boy who has just poured coffee on himself in the middle of a crowded café for no other reason than to make you feel less alone in your humiliation.

"But… your hoodie," you manage. "Your hair. The floor. The-"

"I have other hoodies. My hair will dry. And the floor can be mopped." He reaches out and gently straightens your glasses, which have gone crooked during your fall. His fingers brush against your temple, feather-light. "You looked like you were about to cry. I couldn't let you cry alone."

"Alone?" Your voice cracks. "You couldn't let me cry alone?"

"I mean, ideally you wouldn't cry at all. But if you are going to cry, I figure I should give you company. Solidarity in humiliation, you know?" He's still smiling, still crouching in front of you, still covered in Americano like it is the most normal thing in the world. "We make a pretty good pair of disasters, don't you think?"

Your heart flips. It doesn't flutter. It doesn't skip a beat. It does a full, acrobatic, Olympic-level flip inside your chest, and you feel the sensation reverberate through your entire body.

Why is he like this?

Why is Lee Heeseung, reputed womanizer, notorious player, the guy everyone warns you about, sitting on the floor of a café covered in his own coffee just to make you feel better about spilling yours? Why is he looking at you like that, with those dark, gentle eyes, like you are something precious instead of the absolute disaster you clearly are?

You don't know. You don't understand. And the not understanding is starting to become a problem, because every time you think you have Heeseung figured out, he goes and does something like this, and your careful mental categories crumble a little more.

"We should probably…" You gesture vaguely at your coffee-soaked selves. "Clean up. Or something."

"Probably," Heeseung agrees. He stands up and offers you his hand, his coffee-stained, still-damp hand and you have no choice but to take it. His grip is warm and solid, and he pulls you to your feet with an ease that suggests you weigh nothing at all. "There's a student services office around the corner. They keep spare t-shirts for emergencies. We could both use a change of clothes."

You look down at your sweater, which is now more latte-colored than its original blue. "That's… probably a good idea."

Heeseung pulls out his wallet and drops several bills on the nearest table, far more than the cost of two coffees with a nod to the mustachioed barista. "For the mess," he says. "Sorry about the floor."

The barista nods slowly, his expression suggesting he has seen many things in his years at the café but has never quite witnessed anything like this.

And then Heeseung guides you out of the café, his hand hovering at the small of your back but not quite touching, and you walk through the student union in matching coffee-stained clothes like the world's most unfortunate pair of twins.

The student services office is a small, cluttered room tucked into a corner of the union building. It is staffed by a perpetually exhausted-looking graduate student who has clearly seen too much in his years of dealing with student emergencies. When you and Heeseung walk in, dripping coffee and smelling like a coffee explosion, he doesn't even blink.

"Coffee incident?" he asks flatly.

"Yes," Heeseung says.

"Both of you?"

"I'm told we match now."

The student stares at him for a long moment, then sighs with the weariness of someone who long ago stopped questioning the absurdities of university life. "We have spare t-shirts in the back. They're not fashionable. They have the university logo on them. You don't get to complain about the design."

"We wouldn't dream of it," Heeseung says.

The student disappears into a back room and emerges a moment later with two folded shirts. They are, as promised, aggressively unfashionable, a mustard yellow color with the university mascot printed on the front in peeling letters. Beneath the mascot are the words "Embrace the process!"

"These are incredible," Heeseung says, holding up his shirt with genuine delight. "I'm keeping this forever."

"The bathrooms are down the hall," the student says, already turning back to his computer. "Please don't track coffee into them. I just had the floors cleaned."

You and Heeseung change in separate bathrooms, and when you emerge, you are confronted with the sight of Heeseung wearing a mustard-yellow shirt that is slightly too small for him, the fabric stretching across his shoulders in a way that is definitely not doing things to your heart. The coffee has been wiped off his face, but his hair is still damp, curling slightly at the ends, and the combination of the terrible shirt and the wet hair and the ridiculously attractive face is so absurd that you actually laugh out loud.

"What?" Heeseung asks, grinning. "Do I look as good as I think I do?"

"You look like you traded shirts with a child."

"A very fashionable child. This slogan will hype me up for my next exam." He looks you over, his eyes crinkling. "You don't look half bad yourself. Yellow's a good color on you."

You are wearing the exact same shirt. You look like a banana. But Heeseung says it like he means it, and you feel that traitorous flutter in your chest again.

"We should go," you say, because standing in a hallway with Heeseung while wearing ridiculous matching shirts is doing something strange to your brain chemistry. "I have… I need to… there's a thing…"

"The mysterious thing," Heeseung says. "Your nemesis. Your arch-enemy. The eternal obstacle to us spending more time together."

"It's a very busy thing. It takes up a lot of my schedule."

"Right." He is still smiling, still looking at you with that soft, curious expression. "Well, before you run off to your very important thing, let me walk you to-"

"There you are, Heeseung! I've been looking everywhere for-"

The voice comes from the end of the hallway, and you know that voice. You know it the way you know your own heartbeat, the way you know the lyrics to every Ariana Grande song, the way you know that vanilla lattes are now your mortal enemy.

Jungwon walks toward you, his phone in his hand and a slight frown on his face, like he has been searching for Heeseung for a while. He looks so unfairly beautiful that your heart does the thing it always does when you see him, that painful, hopeful, aching thing that feels like a bruise that won't heal.

But then his eyes land on you, and he stops walking.

"Y/N?" His gaze travels from your face to your shirt to Heeseung's matching shirt to the general air of disaster that still clings to both of you. "What… happened to you guys?"

"Coffee incident," Heeseung says, with the casual air of someone explaining something completely normal. "She spilled hers, so I spilled mine too. Now we're twins."

Jungwon blinks. "You poured coffee on yourself?"

"Matching disasters. It's a new concept. We're pioneering it."

You want to say something, anything, to salvage this situation. Jungwon is looking between you and Heeseung with an expression you can't quite read, and your brain screams at you to explain, to clarify, to make sure he doesn't get the wrong idea about what he is seeing.

"It's not… we're not-" you start, but your voice comes out squeaky and strange. "The coffee was an accident. Well, my coffee was an accident. His coffee was on purpose. But not in a romantic way. In a… solidarity way. Against the humiliation. We are fighting humiliation together."

"Fighting humiliation," Jungwon repeats slowly.

"Enemies," you say, nodding too hard. "We're humiliation enemies. Humi-nemies. It's a whole thing."

Heeseung watches you with that amused expression again, and you can tell he is biting back a smile. "Humi-nemies," he echoes. "Right. That's what we are."

Jungwon is quiet for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles, but it isn't his usual warm smile. It is something smaller, something more careful, something that makes your stomach drop even as you can't identify why.

"You guys make a cute couple," he says.

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No sound comes out.

"We're not-" you try, but Jungwon is already stepping back, already half-turning away.

"I've got to get to class," he says. "Heeseung, I'll catch up with you later. Y/N… nice shirt."

And then he walks away, and you stand in the hallway with your heart in your stomach and Heeseung's matching shirt still warm against your skin.

"We're not a couple," you say, but it comes out as barely a whisper.

"Not yet," Heeseung says cheerfully, apparently completely oblivious to the emotional devastation that just occurred. "But we're off to a good start, don't you think? Coffee disasters, matching outfits, running into my friends, this is basically a textbook meet-cute progression."

You turn to stare at him. He is grinning, still radiating that unshakeable, inexplicable joy that seems to follow him everywhere. He has no idea. He has absolutely no idea that the boy you actually like just saw you in matching shirts with someone else and assumed you were a couple.

"Are you okay?" Heeseung asks, his smile fading slightly. "You look a little pale. Was the coffee too hot? Do you need to sit down?"

"I'm fine," you manage. "I just… I need to go. The thing. The very important thing. It's calling me."

You don't wait for him to respond. You turn and walk away, not running, because running would be too obvious, but walking very quickly, your mind a tornado of panic and regret and the image of Jungwon's smile fading as he says the words that just shattered your entire world.

You guys make a cute couple.

He thinks you are a couple. Yang Jungwon, the boy you have been pining over for four months, the boy you wrote a three-page love letter to, the boy who poked your cheek in the library and called you cute, he thinks you are dating Lee Heeseung.

You are trapped. You are so, so trapped.

By the time you reach your dorm room, you are practically vibrating with suppressed emotion. You close the door, lean your back against it, and press your hands to your face.

You guys make a cute couple.

"We're not a couple," you whisper to your empty room. "We're not a couple. We're humi-nemies. That's a real thing that I definitely didn't just make up because I can't communicate like a normal human being."

Your room does not respond.

You slide down the door until you are sitting on the floor, your legs stretched out in front of you. You look ridiculous. You feel ridiculous. Your entire life has become a comedy of errors, and you are the punchline.

But even as you sit there, drowning in self-pity and the lingering scent of vanilla latte, you can't quite forget the look on Heeseung's face when he poured his coffee over his head. The way he smiled at you, open and unguarded. The way he said I couldn't let you cry alone like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Why is he like that? Why is he so… him?

You don't have an answer. And that, more than anything else, is starting to scare you.

The library has become your second home.

Not by choice, exactly. More by necessity. The library is neutral territory, a place where you can exist without fear of coffee-related disasters, unexpected bulletin board ambushes, or tall informatics students appearing out of thin air to pour beverages on themselves in acts of solidarity. The library has rules. The library has silence. The library has mercifully dim lighting that hides the dark circles under your eyes from three consecutive nights of restless sleep.

It has been four days since the coffee incident. Four days since Jungwon looked at you in your matching shirt and said those fateful words: You guys make a cute couple. Four days of replaying that moment over and over in your head, analyzing every micro-expression on his face, every nuance in his voice, trying to determine if there was something else there, something like disappointment, or regret, or maybe even jealousy.

You have come to no conclusions. Your analytical skills, apparently, are useless when applied to matters of the heart.

So you do what any reasonable, emotionally overwhelmed STEM student would do: you throw yourself into your studies with the intensity of someone trying to forget their entire life. You have read the same paragraph about cellular respiration seventeen times. You have highlighted so many sentences that your textbook looks like a rainbow has thrown up on it. You have consumed approximately four hundred milligrams of caffeine in the past three hours alone, and your hands shake slightly as you turn another page.

It is fine. Everything is fine. You are fine.

"You're going to burn a hole through that book if you keep staring at it like that."

The voice comes from directly above you, and you jolt so hard that your highlighter goes skidding across the table and rolls onto the floor. You look up, your heart already doing that familiar, traitorous leap, and there he is.

Jungwon.

He stands beside your table with a gentle smile on his face, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his hair slightly messy like he has been running his fingers through it.

"Sorry," he says, stooping to pick up your fallen highlighter. "I didn't mean to startle you. You just looked so intense. Like you were trying to intimidate the biology into making sense."

"The biology is winning," you admit, accepting the highlighter with a hand that trembles slightly. From the caffeine. Definitely from the caffeine. "I've been reading the same page for twenty minutes and I still have no idea what oxidative phosphorylation is."

"It sounds like a spell from Harry Potter."

"That's what I've been thinking! But apparently it's something about electrons and I just-" You gesture vaguely at the chaos of papers spread across your table. "I'm losing the war."

Jungwon laughs, that bright, sunny sound that never fails to make your heart flutter. "Mind if I join you? I've been looking for a quiet spot to study, and honestly, sitting next to someone who's fighting for their life against biology sounds way more entertaining than sitting alone."

Your heart, the same heart that belongs to this boy, that has belonged to him since the moment he slid gummy bears across a library table at 2 AM, screams YES with the force of a thousand suns. Your brain, the traitorous organ that got you into this mess in the first place, reminds you of all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

"You probably don't want to sit with me," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "I'm not very good company right now. I've been mainlining caffeine and I think I can hear colors."

"That sounds like excellent company." Jungwon pulls out the chair across from you and sits down without waiting for permission. "What colors can you hear?"

"Biology textbook beige, mostly. It sounds like despair."

He laughs again, and the sound settles into your chest like a warm blanket. This is fine. This is okay. You can study with Jungwon without making it weird. You have done it before, you have spent a whole hour in this very library, watching him take notes and push his glasses up his nose and poke your cheek with that devastating smile. You can do it again. You are a professional. You are a master of emotional compartmentalization.

For a while, you actually do study. Or at least, you both pretend to. Jungwon opens his philosophy book and starts reading, his brow furrowed in concentration, his pen tapping absently against his notebook. You stare at your biology textbook with renewed determination, willing the words to make sense.

But your eyes keep drifting up, against your will, over the top of your book, to the boy sitting across from you. The way the library light catches the highlights in his hair. The way he bites his lower lip when he is thinking. The way his fingers curl around his pen, elegant and deliberate.

"You're doing it again," Jungwon says, not looking up from his book.

Heat floods your cheeks. "I'm not doing anything. I'm reading about oxidative phosphorylation. It's very interesting. Lots of electrons."

"Y/N." He looks up then, and his expression is softer than you expected. Gentler. "It's okay. I told you before, right? I don't mind being looked at like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something worth looking at." He sets down his pen and folds his hands on the table, giving you his full attention. "You have a very particular way of looking at people. Did you know that? It's like you're trying to memorize them. Every detail. Like you're cataloguing things that most people wouldn't notice."

Your heart pounds so hard you are certain he can hear it. You want to say I'm only looking at you like this because it's you. But the words won't come. "That's… that's my STEM brain. I'm very analytical. I notice things. It's a curse."

"I don't think it's a curse." Jungwon's voice is quiet, thoughtful. "I think it's actually really special. Most people don't pay attention like that. Most people look at you and see what they want to see, not what's actually there." He pauses, his eyes searching your face. "You're different, Y/N. You actually see people."

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning. This is it. This is the moment. The conversation has shifted into something deeper, something more intimate, and you can feel the confession building in your chest like a wave about to break.

You can tell him. Right now. You can tell him everything, the letter, the misunderstanding, the way your heart has been his since the very beginning. You can clear the air and finally, finally be free of the tangled web you have accidentally woven around yourself.

"Jungwon," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you expect. "There's something I need to tell you. About Heeseung. About the confession. About everything. It's not what you think. It's never been what you think."

Jungwon's expression flickers, surprise, confusion, something else you can't quite name. "What do you mean?"

"I mean-" You take a deep breath, gathering your courage. "The letter. The one I gave to Heeseung. It wasn't-"

"Wait." Jungwon holds up a hand, stopping you mid-sentence. "Before you say anything else, can I say something first?"

You nod, your heart hammering.

Jungwon leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving your face. "I've been watching you and Heeseung," he says slowly. "The past few weeks. Ever since he told me about the confession. And I've never seen him like this before."

Your stomach drops. "Like what?"

"Like… happy. Genuinely happy. Not the surface-level people-pleasing happiness he shows everyone else, but something real. Something that goes all the way down." Jungwon's voice is earnest, almost protective. "Heeseung is my friend. One of my best friends. And I know what people say about him, that he's a player, a womanizer, that he'll charm you and then move on. But that's not who he really is."

You don't know what to say. You don't know where this is going. But you can't seem to interrupt, can't seem to find the words to stop him.

"Heeseung is…" Jungwon pauses, searching for the right words. "He's the guy who will stay up all night helping you debug code even when he has his own assignments due. He's the guy who remembers everyone's birthday and always gets them a gift that shows he actually paid attention to what they like. He's the guy who can't say no to anyone, ever, because he's so terrified of disappointing people that he'd rather burn himself out than let someone down."

He smiles, but there is something sad in it. "Girls think he's flirting with them because he's nice to everyone. And he won't correct them because he doesn't want to hurt their feelings. So he just… lets them believe what they want to believe, and then he feels guilty when they get attached, and the whole thing becomes this cycle he can't break out of. It's not malice. It's the exact opposite of malice, it's too much kindness, too much caring, and not enough ability to set boundaries."

Your throat is dry. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I think you're different." Jungwon meets your eyes, and his gaze is steady and sincere. "I think you actually see him. Not the reputation, not the rumors, but the real him. And I think he's starting to see the real you too." He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Almost fragile. "So I need you to promise me something."

"What?"

"Take care of him. Please." Jungwon's smile is gentle, but there is something behind it, something that looks a lot like pain, carefully hidden, expertly concealed. "He's been alone for a long time, even when he's surrounded by people. I don't think he even realizes how lonely he is. But you… you could change that. I can see it."

The wave of emotion that crashes over you is so overwhelming that you can't speak. This isn't how this conversation is supposed to go. You are supposed to confess to Jungwon. You are supposed to clear up the misunderstanding. You are supposed to finally tell him the truth.

Who knows - Daniel Caesar playing now

But Jungwon isn't finished.

"There's something else I should tell you," he says, and his voice drops even lower, barely above a whisper. "Something I probably shouldn't say. But I think I need to, or I'll regret it forever."

"What is it?"

Jungwon looks down at his hands, folded on the table. When he speaks, his voice is steady, but you can hear the effort it takes to keep it that way.

"I like you."

The words don't make sense. They can't make sense. You hear them, understand them individually, but your brain refuses to assemble them into a coherent meaning.

"What?" you breathe.

"I like you," Jungwon repeats, and now he looks up at you, and his eyes are so full of something, regret, maybe, or longing, or both, that it makes your chest ache. "From the first day of philosophy class. You sat in the front row, near the window, and you had like eight different colored highlighters lined up on your desk, and you took notes so furiously that your pen ran out of ink halfway through the lecture. I remember you made this little frustrated noise and searched your bag for a spare, and you looked so genuinely distraught that I almost offered you mine."

The library. The philosophy lecture. The day you ran out of ink. You remember it, vaguely, distantly, a moment so mundane you never thought about it again. But Jungwon remembers. Jungwon has been watching you, just like you have been watching him.

"I noticed you after that," he continues, and his voice is achingly soft. "The way you always sat in the same spot. The way you organized your notes. The way you bit your lip when you were concentrating. I kept telling myself I'd talk to you, but I could never find the right moment. And then midterms happened, and we were both in the library at 2 AM, and I saw you looking exhausted and stressed, and I just…" He laughs, but it is a sad sound. "I gave you gummy bears because I couldn't think of anything else to do. It felt so stupid at the time. Who gives gummy bears to a stranger at 2 AM?"

"A stranger who hadn't slept in thirty-six hours and was about to cry over organic chemistry," you whisper. "It wasn't stupid. It was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me."

Jungwon's smile flickers. "I was working up the courage to actually talk to you. To ask you out properly. But then…" He trails off, and his expression shifts, something closing off behind his eyes. "Then Heeseung told me about the confession. And I saw the way he looked when he talked about you. And I knew… I knew I'd missed my chance."

No. No, no, no. This is wrong. This is all wrong. He hasn't missed his chance. The chance is right here, right now, sitting in front of him with a heart full of feelings that have always been meant for him.

"Jungwon," you say, and your voice cracks. "The letter… it wasn't-"

"I'm not telling you this to make things awkward," Jungwon interrupts gently. "I'm telling you because I want you to know. I like you. I really, really like you. And sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd been braver, if I'd said something sooner, if I hadn't waited until it was too late." He pauses, and his eyes meet yours, and the weight of what he says presses down on your chest like a physical force. "But I'm glad it's Heeseung. He deserves someone like you. And you deserve someone who sees you the way he does."

"You don't understand," you try, desperation creeping into your voice. "It wasn't supposed to be Heeseung. The letter was meant for-"

"Take care of him," Jungwon says again, and this time his voice is final. Resolute. Like he has already made his peace with something you haven't even realized he was struggling with. "That's all I ask."

He stands up, gathering his book and his notebook, and you watch him with a growing sense of panic. This can't be how it ends. You can't let him walk away without knowing the truth.

But then he pauses, looking down at you with that devastating smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your heart do somersaults, and he reaches out and gently pokes your cheek.

"Boop," he says softly.

The gesture that once made you giddy with joy now feels like a knife twisting in your chest.

"Liking you was never a waste of my time, Y/N," he says, and his voice is tender in a way that breaks your heart into a thousand pieces. "I don't regret it. Not even for a second."

And then he walks away, and you are left alone at your table with a biology textbook you haven't read and a heart that is shattering into so many fragments you don't know if you will ever be able to put it back together.

I like you.

I gave you gummy bears because I couldn't think of anything else to do.

Liking you was never a waste of my time.

He liked you. He liked you this whole time. All those months of pining, of yearning, of writing and rewriting that letter and he has been feeling the same thing. You have been two ships passing in the night, each carrying the same cargo of unspoken feelings, and you have missed each other by a margin so narrow it is almost laughable.

But it isn't laughable. It is devastating. It is the most devastating thing that has ever happened to you, and you are sitting in the middle of a silent library trying not to fall apart.

You don't remember packing up your things. You don't remember leaving the library. One moment you are staring at the spot where Jungwon was sitting, and the next you are walking across campus in the fading evening light, your backpack hanging heavy from your shoulders, your feet carrying you automatically toward your dorm.

And then the tears come.

They start slow, a burning sensation behind your eyes, a tightness in your throat. You try to swallow them down, try to hold them back, but they won't be contained. By the time you reach the pathway between the science building and the student union, you are crying openly, tears streaming down your cheeks in hot, relentless rivers.

This isn't a romantic cry. This isn't the kind of crying that happens in movies, where the heroine looks beautiful and tragic and a single perfect tear rolls down her cheek. This is an ugly cry. A messy, hiccuping, snotty cry that makes your nose run and your shoulders shake and your breath come in ragged gasps. You are crying because the boy you liked liked you back, and instead of ending up together like you were supposed to, everything has gone terribly, irreversibly wrong.

You stop walking. You can't keep going. Your legs won't carry you any further. You lean against the rough bark of a tree and press your hands to your face, trying to muffle the sounds that escape from your throat.

You cry for the letter you sent to the wrong person. You cry for the courage it took to write it, and the cowardice that has kept you from correcting your mistake. You cry for Jungwon, who liked you and gave up on you because he thought you wanted someone else. You cry for yourself, for the hopeless romantic who dreamed of grand gestures and perfect moments and has ended up with nothing but misunderstandings and a heavy heart that breaks into smaller and smaller pieces.

You cry until your throat is raw and your eyes are swollen and you don't think you have any tears left to shed.

And then a voice, gentle, concerned, painfully familiar, cuts through the fog of your grief.

"Y/N?"

You look up.

Lee Heeseung stands on the pathway a few feet away, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his expression shifting from casual curiosity to alarm as he takes in your tear-streaked face and trembling shoulders.

"Hey," he says, and his voice is softer than you have ever heard it. "Hey, what's wrong? What happened?"

You should make an excuse. You should say you are fine, that it's allergies, that you just got something in your eye. You should tell him to leave you alone, to give you space, to let you fall apart in private.

But the words won't come. All that comes out is another sob, and your knees buckle slightly, and then Heeseung is there, his hands on your shoulders, steadying you.

"It's okay," he says, even though he doesn't know what is wrong, even though you haven't explained anything. "It's okay. I've got you."

"No, you don't understand," you choke out. "Everything is messed up. Everything is so messed up and it's all my fault."

"Then we'll fix it." He says it with such simple certainty, like it is the most obvious thing in the world. "Whatever it is, we'll fix it."

"You can't fix this. No one can fix this."

"Maybe not." Heeseung's hands move from your shoulders to your upper arms, his grip gentle but grounding. "But I can be here. I can listen. And I can promise you that whatever it is, you don't have to deal with it alone."

Something in his voice, the steadiness, the sincerity, the complete lack of judgment, cracks through the last of your defenses. You stop trying to hold yourself together. You let the tears fall, let your shoulders shake, let yourself be exactly as broken as you feel.

And Heeseung doesn't flinch. He doesn't look uncomfortable or try to escape or offer meaningless platitudes. He just stands there, his hands warm on your arms, his presence solid and unwavering, letting you cry without asking for explanations or justifications.

After a while, you don't know how long, the tears begin to subside. Your breathing steadies. The storm inside you quiets to a dull, aching calm. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, suddenly aware of how awful you must look, how puffy and red and wrecked.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "Your jacket is probably wet."

"My jacket has survived worse." Heeseung's voice is gentle. "Come on. Let's sit down somewhere."

He guides you to a bench nearby, a small wooden bench tucked under a cluster of trees, partially hidden from the main pathway. You sit down heavily, your legs still shaky, and Heeseung sits beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body but not so close that it feels invasive.

Dream - Keshi playing now

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The evening settles around you, the sky shifting from pale blue to soft pink to deeper purple. A few stars start to appear, faint pinpricks of light against the darkening canvas overhead. The campus is quiet, most students already back in their dorms or the library, and the only sounds are the distant hum of traffic and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Heeseung asks eventually.

"Not really."

"Okay." He doesn't push. He doesn't pry. He just sits there, his shoulder almost touching yours, his presence a quiet comfort in the gathering dark.

"You're not going to ask questions?"

"You'll tell me when you're ready. Or you won't. Either way, I'm not going anywhere."

The simplicity of it, the uncomplicated, undemanding kindness of it, makes your eyes sting with fresh tears. You blink them back, determined not to start crying again.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" you ask, your voice hoarse.

Heeseung turns his head to look at you, and his expression is unreadable. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because… because I'm a disaster. Because I've been weird and awkward and I ran away from you and hid behind bulletin boards and spilled coffee on myself and I can't seem to do anything right. Because you barely know me, and what you do know is mostly just me making a fool of myself."

Heeseung is quiet for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles. Not the smirk or the teasing grin, but something softer. Something realer.

"Can you guess the movie I've watched recently?"

The question is so random that you blink. "What?"

"A movie I've watched recently. Can you guess?"

"Am I supposed to?"

"No, because I've never told you." He leans back on the bench, tilting his face up toward the emerging stars. "I don't usually tell people. It's kind of embarrassing."

You sniffle, curiosity temporarily overriding your grief. "What is it?"

"To All the Boys I've Loved Before."

You stare at him. "The Netflix movie? The one with Lara Jean?"

"The very same." He doesn't look embarrassed at all. If anything, he looks almost proud. "I've watched it like eight times. Maybe nine. I lost count somewhere around the sixth viewing."

"But… that's a teen romance. That's a movie about fake dating and love letters and-" You stop. "Oh."

"Yeah." Heeseung's smile turns wry. "The parallels weren't lost on me. Girl writes love letters she never meant to send. Letters end up reaching the boys. Chaos ensues." He glances at you sideways. "Sound familiar?"

Your heart does something strange, something fluttery and uncertain. "Why did you watch it?"

"Because Lara Jean is a hopeless romantic who's terrified of actually living the romance she dreams about." Heeseung's voice is thoughtful, almost contemplative. "She's brave on paper but scared in real life. She has all these feelings and no idea what to do with them. And she's convinced that if she actually tries to be vulnerable, everything will fall apart."

He turns to look at you fully, his dark eyes catching the faint glow of the distant streetlamps. "Does any of that sound familiar to you?"

Your breath catches in your throat.

"You write beautiful letters," Heeseung continues, his voice dropping lower. "You pour your heart onto paper because it's safer than saying things out loud. You make graphs about video game balance because you're passionate and detail-oriented and you can't help but go all-in on the things you care about. You talk to your plants and name your succulents and hide behind bulletin boards because real life is scary and rejection is terrifying and it's easier to dream about love than to actually risk your heart for it."

You can't speak. You can barely breathe. He is describing you, not the surface-level you, not the "weird first-year STEM student" you, but the real you. The you that lives in daydreams and love letters and the safety of your own imagination.

"The letter you wrote wasn't just a confession," Heeseung says quietly. "It was a work of art. The calligraphy, the words, the way you talked about noticing small things and finding beauty in ordinary moments, that's not something you write to just anyone. That's something you write when you've been paying attention. When you really see someone."

He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is almost a whisper.

"You remind me of her. Lara Jean. The girl who was so busy dreaming about love that she almost missed it when it showed up in front of her. You are Lara Jean. My Lara Jean."

Your heart races. Your palms are sweaty. The evening has grown dark around you, the stars fully emerged now, and Heeseung's face is half in shadow, half illuminated by the distant campus lights.

"Why are you telling me this?" you whisper.

"Because I think you're scared," Heeseung says simply. "I think you've been scared since the moment you handed me that letter. I think you're scared of what it means, scared of being vulnerable, scared of letting someone actually see you. And I want you to know that I see you anyway. Even when you're trying to hide."

He reaches out, and his hand finds yours in the darkness. His fingers are warm, his grip gentle.

"You don't have to be scared with me," he says. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going to hurt you. And I'm not going to stop being interested just because you're awkward or clumsy or you spill coffee on yourself or you ramble about League of Legends until you run out of breath." He squeezes your hand. "That's the stuff I like about you. That's the stuff that makes you real."

You stare at him, your eyes still swollen from crying, your nose still red, your heart still aching from the conversation with Jungwon. And yet, sitting here on this bench with Heeseung's hand in yours and his words echoing in your ears, something shifts. Something changes.

"I don't know what I'm doing," you admit, your voice barely audible. "I don't know what I want. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel."

"Then don't figure it out tonight." Heeseung stands up, still holding your hand, and gently pulls you to your feet. "Come on. Let's get you back to your dorm. You need rest and probably some water. Crying is dehydrating."

Despite everything, the heartbreak, the confusion, the complete emotional chaos of the past hour, you almost smile. "That's a very practical observation."

"I'm an engineering student. We're practical by nature." He falls into step beside you, your hands still joined, and begins walking you toward your dorm building. "Also, I may have done some research on crying. You know, for science."

"You researched crying for science?"

"It was for a psych elective. But also for life skills. You'd be surprised how many people don't know that emotional tears contain stress hormones that need to be flushed out of your system. Crying is literally good for you."

"You're very weird," you say, but there's no bite to it.

"Coming from the girl who named her succulent Jason, I'll take that as a compliment."

You walk in silence for a while, the campus quiet and peaceful around you. The stars are bright overhead, and the air is cool against your tear-stained cheeks, and Heeseung's hand is warm in yours, steady and reassuring.

When you reach your dorm building, he stops at the entrance, turning to face you. The light from the lobby spills through the glass doors, illuminating his features, the sharp line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his lips, the way his dark eyes fix on your face like you are something worth looking at.

"Y/N," he says.

"Yeah?"

"I meant what I said earlier. You don't have to figure everything out tonight. You don't have to have all the answers. But whatever you're going through, whatever made you cry like that… I hope you know you can talk to me. About anything. Even if it's hard. Even if it's confusing. Even if it's not what you think I want to hear."

Your throat tightens. He has no idea how relevant those words are. He has no idea that the thing that made you cry is, in part, him or at least, the situation he is unknowingly caught up in.

"Thank you," you whisper.

Heeseung smiles, that same soft smile that appeared when he poured coffee over his head, when he called you a little mouse, when he listened to you talk about video games for fifteen minutes straight. And then, before you can react, he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.

It isn't romantic or it isn't supposed to be. It is brief and soft and chaste, the kind of kiss you might give a friend who is hurting. But his lips are warm against your skin, and when he pulls back, your cheek is tingling, and your heart does that traitorous flutter again.

"Goodnight, little mouse," he says. "Get some sleep."

And then he walks away, his hands in his pockets, his silhouette disappearing into the darkness of the campus night.

You stand there for a long moment, your hand pressed to your cheek where his lips have been, your heart a tangled mess of grief and confusion and something else, something warm and growing, something you don't want to name.

This is supposed to be simple. You are supposed to like Jungwon. You have liked Jungwon for four months. You wrote him a letter and dreamt about him and catalogued his habits and built an entire future around the idea of him.

But Jungwon walked away. Jungwon made his choice. Jungwon told you to take care of Heeseung and then poked your cheek one last time, a goodbye disguised as a signature gesture.

And Heeseung… Heeseung poured coffee on himself to make you feel less alone. Heeseung held your hand and told you that you were his Lara Jean. Heeseung kissed your cheek and called you little mouse and looked at you like you were something precious.

You don't know what to do anymore. You don't know what to feel. The map you have been following, the one that leads straight to Jungwon has crumbled in your hands, and now you stand in unfamiliar territory with no compass and no guide.

You push open the door to your dorm building and walk to your room in a daze, your mind still spinning. When you finally collapse onto your bed, still in your clothes, still wearing the tear tracks on your cheeks, you stare up at the ceiling and try to make sense of the chaos in your heart.

Jungwon liked you.

Jungwon gave up on you.

Heeseung said he wouldn't go anywhere.

Heeseung kissed your cheek.

You press your fingers to the spot where his lips have been and close your eyes.

"I don't know what I'm doing," you whisper to your empty room. "I really, really don't know what I'm doing."

Your room, as always, offers no answers. But somewhere in the distance, you can almost hear Heeseung's voice: You don't have to figure everything out tonight.

So you don't. You let the exhaustion pull you under, let sleep claim you, and try very hard not to think about the fact that the boy who just comforted you through your heartbreak is the same boy who might be slowly, quietly, unexpectedly stealing your heart.

The university, in its infinite and questionable wisdom, has decided that what the student body really needs is a three-day trip to a skiing station.

You received the email three weeks ago, skimmed it with the vague interest of someone who has never skied in her life and has no intention of starting now, and promptly archived it into the dark abyss of your inbox alongside seventeen other emails you will never open again. The trip is optional, after all. Attendance is not mandatory. You can simply stay on campus, enjoy the quiet emptiness of the dorms, and continue your ongoing mission of avoiding all tall informatics students while trying to piece together the shattered remnants of your romantic life.

It is a perfect plan. Flawless. Foolproof.

Until Yunjin gets involved.

"You're going," Yunjin says, standing in the doorway of your dorm room with her arms crossed and her expression one of immovable determination. She has just finished reading the email over your shoulder, and the glint in her eye is the same one she gets when she is about to bulldoze through every objection you can possibly raise.

"I'm not going," you reply, not looking up from your biology textbook. "I don't ski. I don't snowboard. I don't even own a proper winter coat. The heaviest thing I own is a cardigan, and I'm pretty sure it's made of acrylic."

"Then we'll get you a coat."

"Yunjin."

"Y/N."

"I can't go to a skiing station. I have studying to do. I have lab reports to write. I have approximately eight hundred flashcards to review before the next exam. My social life is already a disaster zone, I don't need to add frostbite and potential avalanche-related injuries to my list of problems."

Yunjin steps fully into the room, closes the door behind her, and fixes you with a look that you recognize as her "I'm about to say something brutally honest and you're not going to like it" expression. "You've been moping for two weeks."

"I haven't been moping. I've been processing."

"You've been moping. You've been staring at walls, listening to sad music, and eating instant ramen for every meal. I saw you crying over a nature documentary the other day because the baby penguin got separated from its family."

"That was emotionally manipulative editing! They set it to sad piano music! Anyone would have cried!"

"Y/N." Yunjin sits down on the edge of your bed, her voice softening. "I know about Jungwon. I know he told you he liked you and then walked away. I know you've been carrying that around like a weight on your chest. But hiding in your room isn't going to make it better. You need to get out. You need fresh air. You need to do something that isn't just staring at the same four walls and replaying the same conversation over and over in your head."

You set down your highlighter. "What if I run into Jungwon on the trip?"

"Then you'll be a normal human being about it. Or you'll be weird and awkward, which is your default state anyway, so nothing will have changed."

"Comforting."

"What if you run into Heeseung?"

The question catches you off guard. Your hand stills on your textbook, and you feel that familiar, complicated flutter in your chest, the one that has been appearing more and more frequently whenever someone mentions his name. "I don't know. I haven't really talked to him since…" Since the night he kissed your cheek. Since the night you realized that maybe, just maybe, your heart is no longer as firmly in Jungwon's camp as you always assumed.

"Exactly," Yunjin says, as if your silence has proven her point. "You need to figure things out. And you can't do that if you're hiding in your dorm room subsisting on sodium and self-pity. The ski trip is three days. Three days of fresh mountain air, hot chocolate, and the chance to actually talk to people face-to-face instead of through a fog of depression ramen."

"The ramen isn't that bad."

"The ramen is a cry for help."

You are quiet for a moment, staring at the pages of your textbook without really seeing them. Yunjin is right. You know she is right. You have been hiding from Jungwon, from Heeseung, from the tangled mess of feelings that you still haven't sorted out. The past two weeks have been a blur of avoidance and overthinking, and you are no closer to clarity than you were on that bench under the stars.

"Fine," you say finally, the word escaping before you can stop it. "I'll go."

Yunjin's face lights up. "Really?"

"But I'm not skiing. I refuse to ski. I'll sit in the lodge and drink hot chocolate and judge people from the window like a ghost."

"That's the spirit."

The morning of the trip arrives with a gray sky and a biting chill in the air. You stand outside the student union with your hastily packed duffel bag, which contains exactly zero items suitable for winter sports because your wardrobe is approximately eighty percent oversized sweaters and twenty percent academic stress, and watch your breath fog in the cold morning air.

The bus is already parked at the curb, a massive coach with the university logo emblazoned on the side. Students mill around, dragging suitcases and carrying thermoses of coffee, their chatter filling the air with a buzz of excitement. You spot a few familiar faces from your classes, a group of engineering students comparing snowboards, and your heart lurches, a flash of dark hair that might be Jungwon disappearing into the bus.

Yunjin has already boarded, abandoning you for a seat near the front because she wants to "network with the economics majors" or some other nonsense that you can't relate to. You are alone, clutching your bag and wondering if it is too late to fake a sudden illness, when a voice speaks directly behind you.

"Need help with your bag?"

You spin around so fast that your duffel bag swings in a wide arc and nearly takes out an innocent bystander. The innocent bystander, thankfully, has very good reflexes. He ducks, straightens up, and smiles at you with that familiar, devastating smile that has been haunting your dreams for weeks.

Heeseung.

He wears a black puffer jacket that makes his shoulders look even broader, a gray beanie pulled low over his hair, and a pair of snow boots that actually look like they belong on a ski trip. His cheeks are slightly pink from the cold, and his eyes are bright with that unshakeable, inexplicable cheerfulness that seems to follow him everywhere.

"Hi," you say, because your brain has apparently decided that monosyllables are all you can manage.

"Hi," he replies, his smile widening. "Fancy meeting you here. I thought you said you were photosensitive and couldn't be exposed to direct light. Is snow-light different from regular light?"

"That was a lie and you know it."

"I know." He reaches out and gently takes your duffel bag from your white-knuckled grip. "Come on. Let's find seats together. The bus is filling up."

"I… what… together?"

"Unless you already have a seatmate?"

Yunjin has abandoned you. You have no allies, no escape routes, and no valid excuses. "No," you admit. "I don't."

"Great." Heeseung starts walking toward the bus, your bag slung easily over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. "Fair warning, I'm a chronic window-seat person. I need to be able to stare dramatically at the scenery while contemplating the meaning of life."

"That's very specific."

"It's a lifestyle choice."

You follow him onto the bus, your heart doing that complicated gymnastics routine that it has perfected over the past few weeks. Heeseung navigates through the aisle with practiced ease, nodding at people who call out to him, exchanging quick greetings, but never stopping until he reaches an empty row near the middle of the bus.

"Window seat's yours," he says, gesturing for you to go first.

"I thought you said you were a chronic window-seat person."

"I am. But I'm making an exception." He stows your bag in the overhead compartment, then steps back to let you pass. "Consider it part of the whole starting slow thing. Sacrifices must be made."

You slide into the window seat, your heart hammering, and Heeseung settles in beside you. The seats are closer together than you expected. His shoulder brushes against yours, and even through the layers of your coats, you can feel the warmth of his body. You press yourself slightly closer to the window, trying to create more space, but the universe, in its infinite comedic wisdom, has clearly designed this bus to maximize accidental physical contact.

"Comfortable?" Heeseung asks, his voice tinged with amusement.

"Extremely. Never been more comfortable in my life. This is peak comfort."

"You're pressed against the window like you're trying to phase through it."

"The window is cold. The glass is… nice. I like glass."

Heeseung laughs, that genuine, surprised laugh that you heard in the cafeteria and the café and on the bench under the stars. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"The rambling thing. The nervous rambling thing." He turns in his seat slightly, facing you. "You know you don't have to be nervous around me, right? I thought we established this. Coffee disaster solidarity. Matching shirts. The whole thing."

"I'm not nervous," you lie. "I'm just… the bus is very… bus-like. It's making me feel things."

"Bus-like feelings."

"Exactly."

Heeseung shakes his head, still smiling, and pulls a pair of earbuds from his jacket pocket. "Here. Music helps me relax on long trips. We can share if you want."

He offers you one of his earbuds, holding it out between his fingers like it is something precious. The gesture is so simple, so unexpectedly intimate, that your breath catches in your throat. Sharing earbuds means sitting close enough for the cord to reach. Sharing earbuds means listening to his music, hearing the songs he likes, experiencing something together in the quiet space between words.

"Okay," you whisper, taking the earbud.

Your fingers brush against his, just for a second, and the contact sends a spark of electricity up your arm. You quickly insert the earbud, focusing very hard on not thinking about how close he is, how warm his shoulder feels against yours, how the faint scent of his cologne fills the space between you.

"What are we listening to?" you ask.

"A playlist I made," Heeseung says, scrolling through his phone. "It's kind of all over the place. Some indie, some R&B, some stuff I found on TikTok that got stuck in my head. I'm not very organized with my music."

"That's shocking. I assumed an informatics engineering student would have their music meticulously categorized by genre, mood, and decade of release."

"You assumed wrong. My playlists are chaos. This one is literally called vibes idk."

"That's the worst playlist name I've ever heard."

"It's an accurate playlist name. You'll see."

Lovers - Anna of the North playing now

He presses play, and music fills your ear.

"We should play a game," Heeseung says after a few songs have played. "To pass the time."

"What kind of game?"

"Twenty questions. But the version where you can skip questions if you don't want to answer. No pressure, no judgment, no awkwardness."

You consider this. Twenty questions with Heeseung is a dangerous proposition. There are so many things you don't want to answer, so many topics you have been carefully avoiding, so many truths that are still tangled up in misunderstandings and misplaced letters. But there is also something disarming about the way he offers the terms, no pressure, no judgment, no awkwardness, like he genuinely cares about making you feel safe.

"Fine," you say. "But you go first."

"Okay." Heeseung leans back in his seat, his shoulder still pressed against yours, his expression thoughtful. "What's your favorite movie of all time?"

"Pride and Prejudice. The 2005 version with Keira Knightley."

"The hand flex scene?"

You turn to stare at him. "You know about the hand flex scene?"

"Every person with a functioning heart knows about the hand flex scene. It's cinema history. Mr. Darcy flexing his hand after helping Elizabeth into the carriage because he's so overwhelmed by touching her? Iconic. Revolutionary. I think about it at least once a week."

You don't know what to do with this information. Lee Heeseung, reputed womanizer, hot informatics engineering student, the guy who is currently wearing a beanie and looking unfairly attractive in bus lighting, knows about the hand flex scene from Pride and Prejudice. He thinks about it weekly.

"You're very strange," you say.

"I prefer culturally literate."

"You said you've watched To All the Boys I've Loved Before at least six times."

"That's one of my favorite modern movies. Pride and Prejudice is my favorite classic. I contain multitudes." He nudges your shoulder with his. "Ask me something else."

The questions flow back and forth as the bus winds its way out of the city and into the mountains. You learn that Heeseung has an older brother who he FaceTimes every Sunday, that he chose informatics engineering because he loves the logic of coding but secretly dreams of being a music producer, that he loves Shin ramyeon and has created his own way of eating his instant noodles. He learns that you started collecting highlighters in middle school and now own over forty different colors, that you have named every plant in your dorm room after characters from classic literature, that you once won a poetry contest in high school but never told anyone because you were embarrassed.

The landscape outside the window shifts as the bus climbs higher into the mountains. Snow begins to appear, first in patches, then in sweeping blankets that cover the trees and the slopes and the distant peaks. The sky is a pale winter blue, and the sun glints off the snow.

"Next question," Heeseung says. "What's something you're scared of?"

The question hangs in the air between you, weightier than the ones that have come before. You could give a surface-level answer, spiders, heights, the dark, but something about the quiet intimacy of the bus, the warmth of his shoulder against yours, the gentle music in your ear, makes you want to be honest.

"Being seen," you say quietly. "Really seen. By someone who matters."

Heeseung doesn't respond right away. When he does, his voice is soft. "Why?"

"Because if someone really sees you, they might not like what they find. It's easier to stay on the surface. To be the version of yourself that you can control." You pause, watching the snow-covered trees blur past the window. "I'm good at dreaming about things. Imagining them. Writing them down. But actually doing them… actually putting myself out there… that's the scary part."

"That's why you write letters," Heeseung says. It isn't a question.

"Yeah. It's safer on paper. You can edit a letter. You can cross things out and start over. You can't do that with real life."

Heeseung is quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his words are careful and measured.

"For what it's worth," he says, "I've been seeing you for a few weeks now. The real you, I mean. The one who rambles and spills coffee and hides behind bulletin boards. And I haven't found anything I don't like yet."

Your heart stutters. You don't know what to say, so you say nothing, just let the music fill the space between you and try to memorize the exact timbre of his voice saying those words.

The skiing station is everything the brochure promised and more. A sprawling complex of wooden lodges and snow-covered slopes, nestled in a valley surrounded by towering peaks. The air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke, and the snow glitteres under the afternoon sun like a carpet of crushed diamonds.

You step off the bus and immediately sink three inches into a snowdrift.

"Excellent start," Yunjin says, appearing at your elbow and grinning. "Really graceful. Ten out of ten."

"I didn't see it."

"It's snow. It's everywhere. How did you not see it?"

You extract your foot from the drift and shake the snow off your boot with as much dignity as you can muster. "I was distracted by the scenery."

"Uh-huh." Yunjin's grin widens. "And by the scenery, you mean the six-foot-tall informatics student you spent the entire bus ride cuddled up with?"

"We weren't cuddling. We were sharing earbuds. There's a difference."

"There's really not."

You grab your duffel bag from the luggage compartment and follow the crowd toward the main lodge, your cheeks burning despite the cold. The lodge is a massive timber-frame building with a soaring ceiling, a massive stone fireplace, and windows that look out over the slopes. Students are already scattered across the lobby, checking in, collecting room keys, and making plans for the afternoon.

Your room is small but cozy, with a window that faces the mountains and a bed that looks impossibly inviting. You dump your bag on the floor, plug in your phone to charge, and then immediately find yourself staring out the window at the snow-covered landscape.

Yunjin finds you an hour later, dragging you out of your room and into the lodge's main café for hot chocolate. The café is warm and bustling, filled with students comparing ski passes and swapping stories about near-misses on the slopes. You find a table near the window, and Yunjin wastes no time in grilling you about the bus ride.

"So," she says, stirring her hot chocolate with a cinnamon stick, "Heeseung."

"What about him?"

"You spent three hours cuddled up with him on a bus."

"Sharing earbuds is not cuddling."

"You let him listen to music with you. You played twenty questions. You told him about your highlighter collection and the poetry contest you never told anyone about." Yunjin fixes you with a knowing look. "Those are not casual bus acquaintance topics. Those are I'm emotionally vulnerable with this person topics."

You stare into your hot chocolate. "I don't know what I'm doing, Yunjin. Everything is so tangled up. I started this whole mess because I was too scared to confess to the right person, and now the wrong person has been nothing but kind and thoughtful and unexpectedly perfect, and the right person told me he liked me and then walked away, and I don't know what I'm supposed to feel anymore."

Yunjin is quiet for a moment. Then she reaches across the table and places her hand on yours. "Maybe there isn't a supposed to. Maybe there's just what you actually feel, when you strip away all the expectations and the plans and the ideas about how things were meant to go."

You look up at her. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've been so focused on the idea of Jungwon, the letter, the confession, the grand romantic gesture, that you might have missed what's been happening right in front of you." She squeezes your hand. "Heeseung poured coffee on himself so you wouldn't feel alone. He held your hand while you cried. He looked at you on that bus like you were the most interesting person he'd ever met."

"That doesn't mean-"

"Y/N." Yunjin's voice is gentle but firm. "When are you going to stop being scared and start being honest?"

The question hits you like a punch to the chest. Because she is right. Yunjin is always right, that is the infuriating thing about her. You have been scared since the moment you walked into that PC room, scared of rejection, scared of humiliation, scared of what would happen if you actually let someone see you. And that fear has led you into a labyrinth of misunderstandings and half-truths, and somewhere along the way, you have gotten so lost that you can't even see the exit anymore.

"I need to tell him," you say quietly. "Heeseung. I need to tell him the truth about the letter."

Yunjin nods. "I think that's a good idea."

"He might hate me."

"He might. But he also might not. And either way, you'll finally be able to stop carrying this around." She leans back in her chair, blowing on her hot chocolate. "Besides, from everything you've told me about him, I don't think hating you is high on his list of priorities."

"What if it ruins everything?"

"What if it fixes everything?"

You don't have an answer to that. You just sit there, watching the snow fall outside the window, and feel the weight of your decision settling onto your shoulders. Tonight. You will tell him tonight. Before dinner, maybe, or after. You will find a quiet moment, away from the crowds and the noise and the chaos of the ski trip, and you will finally, finally tell him the truth.

Finding Heeseung turns out to be easier said than done.

The ski station is massive, a maze of slopes and trails and lodges that all look exactly the same. You wander through the main lodge, check the café, peek into the game room, and even brave the equipment rental shop where a terrifyingly efficient employee tries to convince you to try snowboarding. You escape with your dignity barely intact and a pamphlet about beginner lessons that you immediately stuff into the nearest trash can.

It isn't until you step outside, squinting against the glare of the sun on the snow, that you spot him.

He is on the intermediate slope, a dark figure against the white expanse of snow, cutting down the mountain with the kind of effortless grace that makes your heart lurch into your throat. He is snowboarding, of course he is snowboarding, because apparently there is nothing Lee Heeseung can't do and he moves like he was born on a board.

You have two options. Option one: wait at the bottom of the slope like a normal person and flag him down when he finishes his run. Option two: try to reach him now, which will involve navigating the snowy terrain between you and the slope, a task for which you are woefully underprepared both in terms of footwear and basic motor coordination.

You choose option two, because you are an idiot.

The path to the slope is a gentle incline of packed snow that looks deceptively easy to traverse. You take three steps and immediately realize your mistake. The snow is slippery, not the powdery kind of snow that crunches satisfyingly underfoot, but the packed, icy kind that has been trampled by hundreds of skiers and snowboarders and now has the texture of a skating rink.

You take a fourth step. Your foot slides. You windmill your arms frantically. Your other foot slides in the opposite direction. For one glorious, suspended moment, you do something that might generously be called a split, and then gravity takes over and you go down in a tangle of limbs and snow and absolute humiliation.

"Y/N?"

The voice comes from above you. You look up, snow clinging to your hair and your eyelashes and probably places you don't want to think about, and there is Heeseung, standing over you with his snowboard tucked under his arm and an expression somewhere between concern and barely suppressed laughter.

"Hi," you say weakly. "I was looking for you."

"You found me." He kneels down beside you, brushing snow off your shoulder. "Are you okay? That looked like a pretty spectacular fall."

"I've had better. I've also had worse. This is somewhere in the middle."

"Your standards for falls must be very high."

"I'm an overachiever."

Heeseung laughs and offers you his hand. You take it, and he pulls you to your feet with the same easy strength he showed in the café, steadying you when you wobble on the slippery snow.

"Come on," he says, still holding your hand. "Let's get you somewhere less treacherous. The beginner slope is over there, it's flatter and a lot less likely to attack you."

"I don't snowboard."

"I'll teach you."

"Heeseung-"

"It'll be fun. I promise." He already guides you toward the beginner slope, his hand warm and solid around yours. "Besides, you came all this way to find me. The least I can do is give you a snowboarding lesson."

The beginner slope is, as promised, much less intimidating than the intermediate one. It is a gentle hill with a slow incline, populated by other beginners who fall over with the same frequency and enthusiasm that you anticipate for yourself. Heeseung finds a quiet spot near the edge, props his snowboard in the snow, and turns to you with an expression of exaggerated seriousness.

"Okay, lesson one: standing on the board without falling."

"That sounds fake."

"It's very real. I've done it many times."

"Show-off."

He grins and proceeds to walk you through the basics of snowboarding with the patience of a saint and the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loves sharing his hobbies. He holds your hands when you wobble, catches you when you fall, and laughs with you instead of at you when you face-plant into a snowbank for the third time in ten minutes.

"You're getting better," he says, pulling you upright after your fourth fall. Snow dusts his beanie and clings to his eyelashes, and his cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. "That time you almost made it five feet."

"Almost being the key word."

"Almost is progress. Almost is the first step toward eventually."

You look at him, really look at him and feel something shift in your chest. This is it. This is the moment. You can't put it off any longer.

"I need to tell you something," you say, your voice coming out steadier than you feel. "Can we sit down for a minute?"

Heeseung's expression flickers, curiosity, concern, something else you can't name but he nods. "Of course."

You find a bench near the edge of the slope, tucked under a pine tree whose branches are heavy with snow. The afternoon sun starts to sink lower in the sky, painting the mountains in shades of gold and pink, and the air is cold enough to make your breath fog. You sit down, and Heeseung sits beside you, close but not too close, his snowboard propped against the bench.

For a long moment, you don't say anything. You are gathering your courage, trying to find the right words, trying to figure out how to start a conversation that might change everything.

"The letter," you say finally. "The one I gave you in the PC room. There's something I need to tell you about it."

Heeseung doesn't react. He just waits, his dark eyes steady on your face.

"It wasn't meant for you," you say, and the words come out in a rush, tumbling over each other in their hurry to escape. "I wrote it for someone else. For Jungwon. I'd been planning to confess to him for weeks, and I'd written this whole letter, and I asked someone where he was and they said he was in the PC room, and I walked in and I saw someone sitting at the computer and I just assumed it was him, and I didn't look, I didn't check, I just handed over the letter and started talking, and then you looked up and it wasn't him at all, it was you and I was so embarrassed and everyone was watching and I couldn't correct you in front of all those people, and then everything spiraled and I kept trying to tell you but I couldn't find the right moment and then Jungwon found out and I couldn't correct it in front of him either and now everything is a mess and I'm so, so sorry, and I understand if you're angry, I understand if you hate me, I just… I couldn't keep lying to you anymore. You deserved to know the truth."

You stop talking. Your heart pounds so hard you can feel it in your temples. Your hands shake, and you press them together in your lap to keep them still. You don't look at Heeseung, you can't look at him, can't bear to see the expression on his face.

The silence stretches for what feels like an eternity.

And then Heeseung says, in the most casual voice imaginable: "I know."

Your head snaps up. "What?"

"I know the letter wasn't meant for me." He smiles, not a smirk, not a grin, but something gentle and warm and completely without judgment. "I've known since the beginning."

"But… how… since when-"

"Since I read it." Heeseung leans back on the bench, looking out at the snow-covered slope with a thoughtful expression. "The letter was beautiful. Every word of it. But it wasn't about me. It was about someone who smiles a certain way, someone who gave you gummy bears at 2 AM, someone who studies hard during free time at the library." He glances at you sideways. "I've never given anyone gummy bears. And I'm an informatics student, I don't take philosophy."

Your brain short-circuits. "You knew. This whole time. You knew."

"I knew."

"And you didn't say anything?"

"What was I supposed to say?" Heeseung's voice is gentle. "You were so flustered and embarrassed, and I could see you panicking in front of everyone. If I called you out right there, you would have been humiliated. And then I kept waiting for you to tell me yourself, but you never did, and eventually I just…" He shrugs. "I got curious. You wrote this incredible letter, and you were so weird and skittish and interesting, and I wanted to understand you. So I kept showing up."

"You kept showing up because I was interesting?"

"At first. Then it became something else." He turns to face you fully, his expression open and earnest. "You're not like the other people who confess to me. They want the idea of me, the reputation, the image. You didn't even want the real me. You wanted someone else entirely. And that was… refreshing. You weren't trying to impress me. You were trying to get rid of me. It was the first time anyone ever hid behind a bulletin board to avoid me."

"I wasn't… I didn't…" You bury your face in your hands. "This is so humiliating."

"It's not humiliating. It's human. You made a mistake. A very entertaining, very elaborate mistake." He gently pulls your hands away from your face, forcing you to look at him. "And somewhere along the way, while you were busy trying to make me lose interest, I got to know the real you. The one who names her plants after literary characters. The one who writes passionate essays about video game balance. The one who cried over a baby penguin last week."

"Yunjin told you about that?"

"Yunjin and I have been texting. But don't worry she didn't spilled all your dirty secrets."

You gape at him. "You and Yunjin have been texting?"

"She reached out after the coffee incident. Said she wanted to make sure my intentions were good." He smiles, a little sheepishly. "I think I passed the test. She said I was less of a disaster than expected."

"I'm going to kill her. I'm going to kill both of you."

"Before you do, let me finish." Heeseung's voice softens, and he takes your hand in his, the same way he did on the bench under the stars, steady and warm and reassuring. "I knew the letter wasn't for me. But I also know that somewhere along the way, something changed. Maybe it changed for you too. Maybe it didn't. Either way, I wanted to give you the space to figure it out on your own terms."

You stare at him, your mind reeling. He knew. He has known this entire time, and instead of being angry or hurt or humiliated, he just… waited. Gave you space. Let you come to him when you were ready.

"You're not upset?" you whisper.

"I'm not upset."

"You don't feel… I don't know, betrayed? Lied to?"

"Y/N." He squeezes your hand. "You were scared. I get it. I've spent my whole life being scared of disappointing people, scared of saying no, scared of letting anyone down. I know what it's like to be trapped in a situation you didn't mean to create. I'm not going to hold that against you."

The tears threaten again, not the ugly, heartbroken tears from that night on the pathway, but something softer. Something that feels almost like relief.

"I'm sorry," you say, your voice cracking. "I'm so sorry for not telling you sooner."

"You're telling me now. That's what matters."

"I don't know what I feel," you admit. "About anything. About anyone. Everything is so confusing."

"Then don't figure it out right now." Heeseung stands up, pulling you gently to your feet. "We have three days at a ski station. There's a jacuzzi. There's hot chocolate. There's an entire mountain to explore. Let's just… enjoy it. See what happens. No pressure, no expectations, no misunderstandings."

Just like that, the weight you have been carrying for weeks, the guilt, the anxiety, the tangled knot of secrets, begins to loosen. Not disappear entirely, but loosen enough that you can breathe again.

"There's really a jacuzzi?" you ask.

Heeseung grins. "There's really a jacuzzi. I saw it on the map. Outdoor, heated, with a view of the mountains. Very romantic. Very much the kind of thing you'd put in a letter about someone."

"You're making fun of me."

"A little bit. But also, I'm serious." He picks up his snowboard and tucks it under his arm. "What do you say? After dinner? We can go check it out."

You think about it. The jacuzzi. With Heeseung. In a swimsuit. In warm water under the stars, surrounded by snow-covered mountains. It is terrifying. It is ridiculous. It is exactly the kind of thing the hopeless romantic inside you has always dreamed about.

"Okay," you say. "After dinner."

By the time dinner rolls around, you are a nervous wreck.

You have spent the rest of the afternoon in your room, alternating between staring at the ceiling and frantically texting Yunjin for advice. Yunjin has responded with a series of increasingly unhelpful messages:

Yunjin: wear the cute swimsuit

You: i don't OWN a cute swimsuit

Yunjin: wear the one you borrowed from me for the pool party last semester

You: the black one???

Yunjin: YES the black one. he won't know what hit him

You: i don't want him to be HIT i want this to be NORMAL

Yunjin: nothing about your life has been normal since the moment you walked into that PC room. embrace it. wear the swimsuit.

You wear the swimsuit.

Underneath your clothes, of course. Underneath a thick sweater, a pair of jeans, and the oversized winter coat you borrowed from Yunjin specifically for this trip. You feel like you are wearing armor, except the armor is actually a swimsuit, and the battle is against your own nervous system.

Dinner is a blur. The lodge's restaurant is packed with students, the noise level somewhere between "lively" and "chaotic," and you barely taste the food on your plate. You keep glancing toward the table where Heeseung sits with a group of his friends, and every time he catches your eye, he smiles at you, that same soft, knowing smile that makes your stomach do complicated acrobatics.

At one point, you accidentally make eye contact with Jungwon across the dining hall. He sits with a group of philosophy students, and when your gazes meet, he raises his hand in a small wave. His expression is unreadable, not sad, not angry, just… neutral. You wave back, and then you both look away, and that is it. A quiet acknowledgment of everything that has happened and everything that hasn't.

After dinner, you return to your room and proceed to have a minor meltdown.

The text from Heeseung arrives at exactly 8:47 PM.

Heeseung: jacuzzi? meet in the lobby in 10? bring a towel

You stare at the message for approximately three full minutes. Then you type out seventeen different responses, delete all of them, and finally settle on:

You: okay

Just "okay." No punctuation. No enthusiasm. Just the monosyllabic response of someone who is either incredibly chill or seconds away from spontaneous combustion.

You grab your towel and make your way to the lobby. The lodge is quieter now, most students either in the game room or in their own rooms recovering from the day's activities. The fireplace in the main lobby still crackles, and a few people gather around it with mugs of hot chocolate.

Heeseung is already there, leaning against the reception desk with a towel slung over his shoulder and that same gray beanie pulled over his hair. He has changed out of his snowboarding gear into something simpler and when he sees you approaching, his face lights up with that genuine smile that never fails to make your heart flutter.

"Ready?" he asks.

"No," you admit.

"Good. Let's go anyway."

The jacuzzi is on the outdoor deck of the spa building, a steaming oasis surrounded by snow-covered rocks and pine trees draped in lights. The mountains rise in the distance, dark silhouettes against a sky so full of stars it looks like a painting. The air is freezing, the kind of cold that makes your lungs ache, but the water is perfectly, blissfully warm, and when you finally shed your coat and your sweater and your jeans and slip into the bubbling water in your borrowed black swimsuit, you let out a breath you didn't realize you have been holding.

"This is nice," you admit, sinking down until the water reaches your chin. "This is really, really nice."

"Told you." Heeseung slides into the water across from you, his towel discarded on a nearby bench. The lights catch the angles of his face, the curve of his shoulders, the way his hair curls slightly at the ends from the steam. "Sometimes I'm right about things."

"Sometimes."

"Rarely. Occasionally. Once in a blue moon."

You laugh, and it feels good, lighter than it has in weeks. The warm water, the cold air, the stars overhead, the boy across from you who has known the truth all along and hasn't run away, it all feels like something out of a dream.

"I'm glad you told me," Heeseung says quietly. "About the letter."

"Me too."

"And I'm glad you're here. At the ski station. In the jacuzzi. With me."

Your heart flutters. "Me too."

"So what happens now?" Heeseung asks, but there is no pressure in his voice. Just curiosity. Just openness.

"I don't know," you say honestly. "But I think… I think I'd like to find out."

Heeseung smiles, soft and real and full of something you are only just beginning to recognize.

"Then let's find out," he says. "Together."

The jacuzzi is bathed in purple light.

You don't know if it is intentional or if someone just installed colored LEDs and called it a day, but the effect is undeniably, unfairly romantic. The water glows with a deep violet hue, shifting to indigo where the bubbles break the surface, and the steam rising into the cold mountain air catches the light and turns it into something almost magical. It looks like a movie.

A romance movie, specifically. The kind you have watched a hundred times in your dorm room, wrapped in a blanket, dreaming about the day something like this would happen to you.

And now it is happening. And you are absolutely, catastrophically unprepared.

Heeseung sits across from you in the bubbling water, his arms stretched out along the edge of the jacuzzi, his head tilted back slightly to look at the stars. The purple light paints shadows across the planes of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the column of his throat disappearing into the steam. Droplets of water cling to his skin, and when he tilts his head forward to look at you, his dark eyes reflect the violet glow in a way that makes your stomach drop straight through the floor.

"You're doing it again," he says, his voice low and amused.

"Doing what?"

"Staring at me like you're trying to figure me out."

"I'm not staring. I'm… observing. It's different."

"Is it?"

"It's scientific. I'm conducting research."

Heeseung's lips curve into that familiar smile, the one that is definitely a smirk's first cousin by now, maybe even its sibling. "And what has your research concluded so far?"

"That you're very annoying," you say. "And that the purple light is doing unfair things to your bone structure."

"Unfair things to my bone structure," he repeats, laughing. "That's a new one. I'll add it to the list of compliments I've received."

"You keep a list?"

"Mentally. It's not written down anywhere. I'm not that egotistical."

"Debatable."

He laughs again, and the sound echoes across the water, mixing with the gentle hum of the jacuzzi jets. You try very hard to be normal, to act like you aren't sitting in a bubbling hot tub with a boy who has known your secret all along and has still chosen to be here, in the purple light, looking at you like he wants to kiss you.

And then he reaches for your foot.

His hand closes around your ankle beneath the water, warm and gentle, and before you can process what is happening, he lifts your leg, guiding your foot toward him. Your heel presses against his chest, against the firm warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and your breath catches in your throat so abruptly that you make a small, strangled sound that is definitely not dignified. The memory of your wet dream surges instantly, and you mentally thank the purple lights for hiding the sudden flush on your face.

"What are you doing?" you manage, your voice coming out several octaves higher than normal.

"You were floating awkwardly," Heeseung says, like this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. His thumb traces a slow circle against your ankle bone, feather-light and devastating. "I thought you might want something to anchor you."

"My ankle. You're anchoring my ankle."

"Ankles are very anchorable."

"That's not a word."

"It is now. I'm an engineering student. I can invent words."

Your heart pounds so hard you are certain he can feel it through the sole of your foot. His hand still wraps around your ankle, warm and steady, and the position is so unexpectedly intimate, your leg stretched across the space between you, your foot pressed against his chest, his thumb drawing lazy patterns on your skin, that you don't know where to look or what to say or how to breathe.

"You know what's funny?" Heeseung says, his voice conversational, like he isn't currently holding your foot against his heart. "The jacuzzi scene in To All the Boys I've Loved Before."

Your brain, which is already operating at approximately ten percent capacity, struggles to process the shift in topic. "The… jacuzzi scene?"

"Lara Jean and Peter. The ski trip. The hot tub." He gestures vaguely at the purple water around you. "They're in a jacuzzi together for the first time, and Lara Jean is all nervous, and Peter is trying to be cool about it, and there's all this tension because they're fake dating but they're both starting to feel real things."

"I know the scene," you say, your voice faint.

"It's kind of the turning point in the movie. The moment where the fake relationship starts becoming real." Heeseung tilts his head, and his eyes meet yours, and there is something in them, something dark and warm and knowing—that makes your skin tingle. "Funny how we ended up in a jacuzzi too. At a ski station. Just like them."

"Are you saying we're in a romance movie?"

"I'm saying the parallels are getting a little uncanny." His thumb traces another circle on your ankle, slow and deliberate. "The letter. The ski trip. The hot tub."

"Well, technically the parallels are there but it's still different…"

"You're right. At the end of the day we're not in a movie… This is real life."

"Which means…"

"Which means we're in uncharted territory now." Heeseung's voice drops, becoming something lower, something that vibrates through the water and into your bones. "No movie to reference. No script to follow. Just… whatever happens next."

Your mouth is dry. When did your mouth become so dry? You are surrounded by water, and yet every drop of moisture has apparently evaporated from your body.

"That's terrifying," you whisper.

"Is it?" His hand tightens slightly on your ankle, grounding you. "I think it's kind of exciting. Don't you?"

You don't know how to answer that. You don't know how to articulate the complicated knot of fear and anticipation and something else, something warm and fluttering that has taken up residence in your chest. So you do what you always do when you don't know what to say: you deflect.

"You're very smooth, you know that?" you say, aiming for teasing and landing somewhere closer to breathless. "Has anyone ever told you that? The ankle thing, the movie reference, the uncharted territory line, it's a lot."

Heeseung's lips twitch. "Is it working?"

"I'm not answering that."

"That's an answer in itself."

"You're insufferable."

"And yet you're still here." His eyes flicker down for just a moment, barely a second, but enough to make your skin flush. "Letting me hold your ankle."

You pull your foot back, but he doesn't let go. His grip remains gentle, steady, his palm warm against your skin. "I'm not letting you do anything. You just… did it."

"And you didn't stop me."

"I was being polite."

"Polite." Heeseung's smile widens. "Right. That's what this is. Politeness."

The purple light flickers slightly, casting new shadows across his face. The bubbles swirl around you, warm and enveloping, and the cold mountain air nips at your exposed shoulders, creating a contrast that makes every sensation feel heightened. You are acutely aware of everything, the heat of the water, the chill of the breeze, the rough texture of the jacuzzi edge beneath your fingers, the steady pressure of Heeseung's hand on your ankle.

"Can I ask you something?" Heeseung says.

"You're going to anyway."

"True." He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. More curious. "Have you ever done this before?"

"Done what? Sat in a jacuzzi?"

"Been physical with someone. Intimate." He says the words without embarrassment, without leering, just genuine curiosity. "You get so flustered every time I touch you. Earlier, when I kissed your cheek, I thought you were going to combust. And I'm not trying to make fun of you, I'm genuinely asking. Is this… new for you?"

Your cheeks, already flushed from the heat of the water, burn even hotter. "That's a very personal question."

"You don't have to answer. Remember? Twenty questions rules. No pressure."

You are quiet for a moment. The bubbles churn around you. The stars glitter overhead. Heeseung's thumb continues its slow, hypnotic circles on your ankle.

"I've kissed people before," you say finally. "A few times. But it was always… quick. Awkward. Spin the bottle at parties, that kind of thing." You pause, gathering your courage. "I've never had a real relationship. I've never… you know."

"Made out with someone?"

The bluntness of the question makes you choke on air. "I… that's… yes. That. I've never done that."

"Okay," Heeseung says simply.

"Okay? That's all you have to say?"

"What else would I say?"

"I don't know. Something. Most people would say something."

Heeseung is quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Then he says, "I haven't either. Much, I mean. I've had my few moments but the amount you can count on your fingers. People assume I have, because of the reputation, but the truth is I've never really… connected with someone like that. I've had opportunities, I guess, but I didn't want to do it just for the sake of doing it. I wanted it to mean something."

The confession catches you off guard. You assumed, everyone assumed, that Lee Heeseung was experienced, that his womanizer reputation was built on a foundation of romantic conquests. But here he is, in the purple light of the jacuzzi, telling you that the reputation is just that: a reputation. Smoke and mirrors. Assumptions built on his inability to say no.

"We're both disasters," you say.

"Absolutely. But at least we're disasters together."

"Disaster twins."

"Matching shirts and everything."

You laugh, and it comes out lighter than you expected. The tension that has been coiling in your chest begins to ease, replaced by something warmer. Something that feels almost like comfort.

Wus Good/Curious - PARTYNEXTDOOR playing now

Somewhere in the lodge, someone has connected their phone to the outdoor speakers. The song that starts playing is slow and sensual, the timing so absurd, so perfectly, comedically timed, that you can't help but laugh. "Did you plan this?"

Heeseung laughs too, shaking his head in disbelief. "I swear I didn't. The universe is just showing off at this point."

"This is the least romantic song that could have possibly played."

"I don't know. It's got a certain vibe." His eyes meet yours, and there is a glint of mischief in them. "Very sensual. Very on-the-nose for a jacuzzi scene."

"It's about-" You stop, your face heating.

"It's about what?"

"You know what it's about."

"I want to hear you say it."

"You're the worst."

Heeseung grins, and the purple light catches the curve of his lips, the sparkle in his eyes, the way the water droplets trace paths down his neck and across his collarbone. The song continues playing, and you are suddenly very aware of how close he is, how the space between you has somehow shrunk without you noticing.

"Come here," he says softly.

"What?"

"Come here. I want to show you something."

Your heart hammers so hard you can feel it in your throat. "Show me what?"

"Trust me."

And you do. That is the terrifying thing. Despite everything, the misunderstandings, the secrets, the weeks of chaos and confusion, you trust him. You trust the boy who poured coffee on his head to make you feel less alone. You trust the boy who held your hand while you cried. You trust the boy who has known your secret all along and has never once made you feel foolish for it.

You move through the water, closer to him, and the purple light swirls around you like something out of a dream. When you are within reach, Heeseung's hands find your waist beneath the water, gentle but sure, and he guides you until you are straddling his lap, your knees on either side of his hips, your faces inches apart.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath comes in short, shallow gasps. His hands are warm on your waist, his thumbs tracing slow circles against the curve of your hips. His face is so close you can see the individual droplets of water on his eyelashes, can count the shades of brown in his eyes, can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips.

"Yes," you whisper. "This is… okay."

"You're shaking."

"I'm nervous."

"I know." His hands slide up from your waist, over your ribs, coming to rest on either side of your face. His palms are warm against your cheeks, his fingers threading gently into the wet strands of your hair. "We don't have to do anything you're not ready for. We can just sit here. We can talk. We can get out and go back inside. Whatever you want."

The gentleness of his voice, the patience in his eyes, the way he holds your face like you are something precious, it makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the realization that you are in very, very deep trouble.

Because this boy, this absurd, beautiful, incomprehensible boy who stumbled into your life through a misplaced letter and a catastrophic misunderstanding, has somehow become someone you can't imagine letting go of.

"What I want," you say, your voice barely steady, "is for you to kiss me."

Heeseung's eyes darken. The purple light flickers across his features, and his thumbs trace the line of your cheekbones, and his lips part slightly, and for one suspended moment, the entire world holds its breath.

"Okay," he murmurs. "But we're going to do this right."

And then he kisses you.

His lips meet yours softly at first, gentle, exploratory, the barest brush of contact. He tastes like the mint tea he had after dinner, and his mouth is warm, and the kiss is so sweet and so tender that you feel your entire body melt into him. Your hands, hovering awkwardly at your sides, come up to rest on his shoulders, and you feel the muscles beneath his skin shift as he pulls you closer.

But then you try to deepen the kiss, and it goes wrong.

Your nose bumps against his. Your teeth clack together with an audible click. You pull back, mortified, your face burning. "I'm sorry… I didn't… I don't know what I'm doing-"

"Hey." Heeseung's voice is gentle, his hands still cupping your face. "Hey. It's okay. Look at me."

You force yourself to meet his eyes, expecting to see amusement or frustration or something worse. But all you see is patience. Warmth. Something that looks a lot like affection.

"Everyone's first real kiss is awkward," he says. "That's normal. That's how it's supposed to be."

"It wasn't supposed to be with someone who actually knows what they're doing."

"Then let me teach you." His thumb traces your lower lip, feather-light. "We'll go slow. You follow my lead. And if at any point you want to stop, just say the word. Okay?"

Your heart pounds so hard you can feel it in your temples. "Okay."

He leans in again, slower this time, giving you every opportunity to pull away. When his lips meet yours, the pressure is deliberate, gentle but firm, guiding you. His mouth moves against yours in a slow, languid rhythm, and you follow, mimicking his movements, learning the dance as you go.

"Tilt your head a little," he murmurs against your lips. "There. Like that."

You adjust, and suddenly the angle is better, the kiss deepening naturally. His hands slide from your face down to your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel the length of his body against yours, warm and solid and very, very real.

"Now try parting your lips," he whispers. "Just a little."

You do, and the kiss changes. Becomes something deeper, more intense. His tongue brushes against your lower lip, a question rather than a demand, and when you open for him, the sensation is so overwhelming that a soft sound escapes your throat, something between a sigh and a gasp.

"Good," Heeseung breathes. "You're doing so good."

The praise sends a shiver down your spine. Your fingers curl into his shoulders, gripping him like he is the only solid thing in a world. The kiss deepens further, his mouth moving against yours with a confidence that makes your head spin, and you follow his lead, letting him guide you, letting yourself get lost in the warmth of his body and the taste of his lips and the steady, grounding pressure of his hands on your waist.

"Now," he murmurs, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth, "there's variation. You don't have to do the same thing the whole time."

"Variation," you repeat, your voice dazed.

"You can kiss here-" His lips brush the edge of your jaw. "-and here-" A kiss to the sensitive spot just below your ear. "-and here." A kiss to the hollow of your throat that makes your breath catch and your fingers tighten on his shoulders.

"That's… a lot of places."

"There's more." He pulls back, and his eyes meet yours, dark and warm and full of something that makes your stomach flip. "But we can save those for later. If you want."

"If I want," you echo, still dazed.

"Only if you want." His hand comes up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

"This is insane," you whisper.

"Completely insane."

"I can't believe this is happening."

"Neither can I." He presses his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "But I'm really, really glad it is."

"Can we try again?" you ask, your voice small but steady. "The kissing thing. I think I need more practice."

Heeseung laughs, and the sound vibrates through his chest and into yours. "Practice makes perfect."

"I'm a STEM student. I believe in empirical evidence."

"Then let's gather some data."

He kisses you again, and this time, you are ready. Your lips meet his with more confidence, your hands sliding from his shoulders into his hair, it is soft, damp from the steam, and the way he sighs against your mouth when your fingers thread through it makes you feel powerful in a way you have never experienced before.

This time, when you deepen the kiss, it's less clumsy. It's more natural, instinctive, the kind of kiss that feels like it has been waiting to happen for weeks and is finally making up for lost time. Heeseung's hands tighten on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, and the water swirls around you.

Your hands roam over his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath your fingertips. Heeseung's tongue teases your lower lip, seeking entrance which you grant without hesitation. The kiss becomes hungrier, more desperate as your bodies press together in the warm water. He has been patient with you, letting you set the pace, never pushing for more than you are ready to give.

You feel something hard pressing against your thigh through the thin fabric of your swimsuit. You pull back slightly, breathless, your cheeks flushed with both desire and embarrassment.

"Don't mind it," Heeseung murmurs, his voice husky with arousal. "It's just a natural reaction to kissing someone I find incredibly attractive."

But instead of shying away, something bold awakens inside you. You've been waiting for this moment, wanting to take your relationship to the next level. Taking a deep breath, you meet his gaze directly, though your words come out in a clumsy rush.

"I want to... I mean, if you want to... I think I'm ready to... do it," you stammer, feeling your face heat up even more. "With you."

Heeseung's eyes widen slightly before softening with affection. "Are you sure? Here? Your first time should be special."

"It is special because it's with you," you insist, trying to sound more confident than you feel. "I want this. I want you. I want to be honest with myself."

A slow smile spreads across his face. "Okay," he murmurs, his hands moving to cup your face. "But we need to prepare you properly. I don't want to hurt you."

His thumb brushes against your cheek as he continues, "Have you ever... touched yourself before?"

You shake your head, feeling a mix of embarrassment and excitement.

"That's okay," he assures you. "I'll teach you. I'll make sure you feel good."

WGFT - Gunna playing now

Heeseung shifts slightly, adjusting your position on his lap. One hand trails down your back, over your hip, and between your legs. Even through the fabric of your swimsuit, his touch sends sparks through your body.

"First, I need to make sure you're ready," he explains softly. His fingers find the edge of your swimsuit bottom, toying with the fabric. "May I?"

You nod, your breath catching in anticipation.

Slowly, his fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding your folds. You gasp at the contact, your body tensing for a moment before relaxing into his touch.

"It's twitching," he murmurs against your ear. "That's good. It means your body wants this too."

His fingers explore gently, learning your anatomy as you bite your lip to hold back moans. He finds your clit and circles it slowly, watching your face for reactions.

"When I touch you here, it should build pleasure." he explains.

He demonstrates, applying a bit more pressure. You can't help but arch your back, a soft cry escaping your lips.

"Like that?" he asks with a knowing smile.

You can only nod, lost in the sensations he's creating.

After a few minutes of this delicious torture, he slides one finger lower, testing your entrance. "I'm going to prepare you," he warns softly. "It might feel a little strange at first, but I promise it will get better."

His finger enters you slowly, carefully. There's a slight discomfort, but as he begins to move in and out, the sensation transforms into pleasure. He watches your face intently, adjusting his movements based on your reactions.

"Does that feel good?" he asks.

You nod, your hips beginning to move in rhythm with his hand.

He adds a second finger, stretching you further. "You're so tight," he groans. "I can't wait to be inside you."

His words send another wave of desire through you. His thumb returns to your clit, rubbing in circles as his fingers continue their work inside you. The dual stimulation is overwhelming in the best way possible.

"Heeseung," you gasp, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

"I know, little mouse," he murmurs, kissing you deeply. "Let it build. Don't fight it."

The pleasure intensifies, coiling in your stomach like a spring. Your movements become more erratic as you chase the feeling building within you.

"That's it," he encourages. "Good girl"

With a cry, you shatter, waves of pleasure washing over you. Heeseung continues his movements, drawing out your orgasm until you collapse against his chest, trembling and breathless.

"You're so beautiful when you come," he whispers, kissing your forehead. "Can you do more?"

You can only nod, still recovering from the intensity of your first orgasm with someone else.

He slides down his shorts slightly just to reveal his already hard cock and slides your swimsuit to the side. His hands move to your hips, and you begin to grind against him instinctively. The water sloshes around you as you move, his lenght sliding between your folds, creating a delicious friction under the water. Lost in the moment, you shift your hips, trying to get closer, to feel more of him.

Suddenly, you both freeze as you feel him slip inside you. There's a sharp pain, followed by a sense of fullness that takes your breath away. Your eyes widen in shock as you look at Heeseung, whose expression mirrors your surprise.

"Oh my god," he gasps, his hands tightening on your hips. "I... I didn't mean for that to happen. Are you okay?"

You nod, still processing what just happened. The initial pain is already fading, replaced by a strange mix of discomfort and pleasure.

"I'm so sorry," Heeseung continues, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I should have been more careful. I didn't..."

As he stammers through an apology, you can't help but let out a small laugh. The absurdity of the situation , your first time happening so accidentally, so clumsily, suddenly strikes you as hilarious.

Heeseung looks at you in confusion before a smile breaks across his face. "You're laughing?"

"We're so clumsy," you giggle, the tension breaking between you. "All that careful preparation and then..."

He joins in your laughter, the moment transforming from awkward to intimate. "Well," he says once the laughter subsides, "since we're already here... are you okay to continue? We can stop if you want."

You shake your head, a new determination filling you. "No, I want to continue. Show me what to do."

Heeseung's expression softens with affection. "Okay," he murmurs, his hands guiding your hips. "Just relax and let me do the work. Move with me, but let me lead."

He begins to move slowly, guiding you in a gentle rhythm. The water sloshes around you as you find a pace together. With each thrust, pleasure builds, different from before but just as intense.

"You feel so good," Heeseung groans, his control beginning to slip. "So tight around me."

His praise only heightens your arousal. You try to meet his movements with your own, but your motions are awkward and uncoordinated. You feel clumsy, unsure of exactly how to move to maximize pleasure for both of you.

"Don't worry about doing it perfectly," Heeseung reassures you, noticing your frustration. "Just feel. Let your body respond naturally."

He adjusts your position slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts. A gasp escapes your lips as he hits a particularly sensitive spot.

"There," he murmurs, repeating the movement. "How does that feel?"

"Amazing," you breathe, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

Heeseung's hands roam your body, caressing your breasts, your back, your hips. His mouth finds your neck, sucking gently at your pulse point. Marking you as his.

"I've wanted this since the moment we got in the jacuzzi," he admits between kisses. "But I was too scared you would run away if I decided to act up."

"I want it," you assure him, your voice breathy with pleasure. "I want all of you. I'm not scared anymore."

Your words seem to unleash something in him. His movements become more deliberate, more purposeful as he chases his own release. One hand moves between your legs again, finding your clit and rubbing in time with his thrusts.

The dual stimulation quickly pushes you toward another orgasm. "Heeseung," you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"I know," he groans. "Come with me this time."

His words are all it takes to push you over the edge. As you clench around him, Heeseung finds his own release, burying his face in your neck with a guttural moan.

For a moment, you stay connected, catching your breath as the water continues to bubble around you. Heeseung presses soft kisses to your shoulders, your neck, your cheeks.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly, pulling back to look at you.

You nod, a contented smile spreading across your face. "Better than okay. That was..."

"Incredible," he finishes for you, returning your smile. "You're incredible."

As you slowly separate, Heeseung adjusts your swimsuit back into place before

As you both recover in the warm bubbling water, you notice something pressing against your thigh again. You glance down and see that Heeseung is already getting hard once more. A blush spreads across your cheeks as you meet his eyes.

"Already?" you ask with a small laugh.

Heeseung grins, a hint of embarrassment in his expression. "I can't help it," he admits. "You feel so good, and I've wanted this for so long. My body seems to have a mind of its own around you."

A boldness takes hold of you, spurred by the confidence your first time gave you. "If you want to do it again... your way this time... I don't mind," you say, trying to sound casual despite the flutter in your stomach.

Heeseung's eyes darken with desire at your words. Without warning, he pounces, lifting you effortlessly from his lap. He carries you to the edge of the jacuzzi and gently sets you down on the edge. The contrast between the warm water and the cool air sends a shiver through your body.

"My way?" he asks, his voice husky with arousal. "I like the sound of that."

He kneels in the water between your legs, his hands spreading your thighs apart. His eyes never leave yours as he leans forward, pressing soft kisses to your inner thigh. You watch, mesmerized, as he works his way upward, leaving a trail of fire on your skin.

When he reaches your core, he pauses, his breath warm against your most sensitive flesh. "I've wanted to taste you since the first time I saw you in that swimsuit," he confesses, his voice low and intimate.

Then he dives in, his tongue exploring your folds. You gasp, your hands flying to his hair as waves of pleasure wash over you. Heeseung maintains eye contact as he eats you out, his dark eyes watching your every reaction, learning what makes you moan, what makes you arch your back.

"You taste so sweet," he murmurs against you before returning to his task, his tongue circling your clit before dipping inside you.

The sensations are overwhelming, building quickly toward another orgasm. Heeseung seems to sense your approaching release and redoubles his efforts, adding his fingers to the mix, curling them inside you as he continues to lavish attention on your clit.

"Heeseung," you cry out, your hips bucking against his face. "Please don't stop."

He doesn't. Instead, he increases his pace, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony until you shatter, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash over you. He continues his ministrations, drawing out your orgasm until you're trembling and breathless.

Only then does he pull back, a triumphant grin on his face as he licks his lips. "Delicious," he declares, rising from the water.

He kisses his way up your body, over your stomach, between your breasts, along your collarbone, up your neck, until finally his lips claim yours. You can taste yourself on his tongue as the kiss deepens, passionate and hungry.

Without breaking the kiss, Heeseung positions himself at your entrance. This time, there's no accidental slip, he enters you deliberately, slowly, filling you completely. You moan into his mouth at the exquisite stretch and fullness.

He begins to move, his hips thrusting in a deep, slow rhythm that drives you wild. Each stroke is measured and controlled, hitting all the right spots. His movements are faster and harder than before, but still gentle, still considerate of your inexperience.

"You feel incredible," he groans, his voice thick with pleasure. "You're taking it well."

His hands roam your body as he moves, caressing your breasts, your hips, your thighs. His mouth finds your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine as he whispers praises and encouragements.

"You're doing so well," he murmurs. "Taking me so deep. You feel amazing wrapped around me."

His words only heighten your arousal, pushing you closer to another peak. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, matching his rhythm as best you can despite your inexperience.

After a few minutes, Heeseung pulls out gently. "Turn around," he commands softly.

You obey, positioning hands at the edge of the jacuzzi. He enters you from behind, this new angle allowing him to reach even deeper inside you. You cry out at the intensity of the sensation.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice strained with restraint.

"More than okay," you manage to gasp. "Don't stop."

He resumes his movements, his hands gripping your hips as he thrusts into you. The water sloshes with each movement, adding to the sensory experience. Heeseung's pace increases, his thrusts becoming more urgent as he chases his release.

His moans fill the night air, raw and uninhibited. "I'm getting close," he warns. "Where do you want me?"

"Inside me," you answer without hesitation.

Heeseung hesitates for a moment. "Are you sure? We didn't use anything."

Your mind races for a second before you respond, "I'm on the pill. It's okay."

With a groan of relief, Heeseung continues his movements, his pace becoming erratic as he approaches his climax. With one final deep thrust, he buries himself inside you, his body trembling as he finds his release.

For a moment, he stays inside you. Then he pulls out gently and helps you turn back over. He leans to slowly kiss you while stroking himself a few times before releasing again onto your stomach, warm and sticky.

You look at him in surprise.

"I couldn't," he explains, noticing your confusion. "I couldn't resist, I wanted to see you covered of me."

He reaches for a nearby towel, gently cleaning your stomach before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "Next time," he promises, "I'll be more gentle. We'll take our time, explore everything properly."

"There's going to be a next time?" you ask with a smile.

Heeseung grins, pulling you into his arms. "Oh, there's definitely going to be a next time. And a time after that, and after that... I'm never getting enough of you."

The walk back to your room feels like floating.

Not literally, of course, your feet are very much on the ground, leaving wet footprints on the wooden floorboards of the lodge hallway, but your mind is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere purple-lit and steaming, somewhere filled with the taste of mint tea and the feeling of warm hands on your waist and the sound of Heeseung's voice murmuring instructions against your lips.

You have had sex. In a jacuzzi. Under the stars. With Lee Heeseung.

The hopeless romantic inside you does cartwheels. The realistic part of your brain is still buffering, stuck on a loading screen that says "please wait while we process what just happened." Your body is somewhere in between, pleasantly warm despite the cold air, tingling in places you hadn't known could tingle, wrapped in your borrowed coat and your towel and the lingering sensation of his skin against yours.

Heeseung walks beside you, his hand intertwined with yours. He hums softly, and when he catches you looking at him, he smiles that devastating smile and squeezes your hand.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing. Just… processing."

"Processing what?"

"Everything." You gesture vaguely with your free hand. "The conversation. The jacuzzi. The… everything after the conversation."

"The everything after the conversation," he repeats, his smile widening. "Very descriptive."

"I'm a STEM student, not a poet."

"You wrote a three-page love letter with calligraphy. You're absolutely a poet."

"That was a one-time thing. A fluke. I've since retired from poetry."

"Tragic. The literary world has lost a great talent."

You reach your door, and Heeseung stops, turning to face you.

"Are you okay?" he asks, and his voice is gentle. "Really okay? That was… a lot. I know it was a lot. And I want to make sure you're not freaking out."

"I am absolutely freaking out," you admit. "But in a good way. I think. It's hard to tell. My brain is still catching up."

"Good freak-out or bad freak-out?"

"Good. Definitely good. Just… overwhelming." You pause, searching for the right words. "It wasn't how I imagined my first time would be. It was awkward and clumsy and it accidentally went in, and I'm pretty sure I made some very weird sounds, and-"

"It was perfect," Heeseung interrupts softly. "It was real. It was you. That's all I want."

Your heart, which has already been through approximately seventeen different emotional states in the past hour, does another complicated flip. "You're very good at saying the right thing."

"I'm not trying to say the right thing. I'm just telling you the truth." He reaches up and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your temple. "You're amazing, Y/N. And I'm not saying that because of what just happened. I'm saying it because it's been true since the moment you walked into that PC room and handed me a letter that wasn't meant for me."

"You're going to make me cry again."

"Please don't. I've seen you cry twice now, and both times it made me want to fight whoever made you sad. I can't fight myself. That's a conflict of interest."

You laugh, and it comes out a little watery. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm aware." He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft, gentle, lingering. "Goodnight, little mouse. Get some sleep."

"Goodnight, Heeseung."

He pulls back, his hand slipping from yours, and walks backward down the hallway for a few steps, still smiling at you. "Dream about me."

"I make no promises."

"I'll take that as confirmation."

He turns the corner and disappears, and you are left standing in front of your door with the lingering warmth of the best night of your life.

The moment you step into your room, Yunjin is on you like a hawk on a field mouse.

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?"

You close the door behind you, leaning against it with a dazed expression. Yunjin sits cross-legged on her bed, her phone in her hand, a half-eaten bag of chips on the nightstand. Her eyes are wide, her expression a mixture of curiosity and accusation.

"The jacuzzi," you say faintly.

"For three hours?"

"Was it three hours? It doesn't feel like three hours."

"Y/N." Yunjin shuts her laptop with a decisive click. "You're wearing a towel. Your hair is wet. You have that look on your face, the one that says I just did something and I don't know how to process it. Spill. Now. Every detail."

You push yourself off the door and collapse onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"We had sex," you say.

"What?!"

"We had sex, don't make me repeat it please or I'm gonna die…"

Yunjin is silent for exactly two seconds. Then: "YOU GUYS FUCKED?"

"Yeah…"

"IN THE JACUZZI?"

"There aren't exactly a lot of alternative locations. The water is warm. There's purple lighting. It's very atmospheric."

Yunjin scrambles off her bed and crosses the room in three steps, grabbing your shoulders and pulling you upright. "I need details. I need all the details. How did it happen? Who initiated it? Was it good? Was he good? Did he-"

"Yunjin!" You press your hands to your burning cheeks. "I can't just… I don't know how to-"

"Start from the beginning. The jacuzzi. What happened?"

You take a deep breath, gathering your scattered thoughts, and then the words start tumbling out of you as you tell her everything.

Yunjin is quiet for a moment, processing. Then she lets out a long breath. "So your first time was in a jacuzzi, under the stars, with a hot informatics engineering student who knew you'd accidentally confessed to the wrong person and liked you anyway."

"That's… yeah. That's basically the summary."

"And you're telling me you're still worried this is some kind of disaster?"

"I'm not worried," you say slowly. "I'm just… confused. About what we are. We don't exactly have the what are we conversation. We just kind of… had sex. And now I don't know if we're dating, or if it was a one-time thing, or if he's going to wake up tomorrow and realize he made a huge mistake and-"

"Stop." Yunjin holds up a hand. "Just stop. I'm going to tell you something, and I need you to actually hear it."

"I'm listening."

"Lee Heeseung has known your secret for weeks. He's seen you at your absolute worst, hiding behind bulletin boards, choking on lettuce, spilling coffee all over yourself, crying on a bench in the middle of the night. He's seen you ramble about video games until you run out of breath, and he's seen you face-plant in the snow eight times in one afternoon. And after all of that, he still chooses to spend three hours in a jacuzzi with you and make sure your first time is special and safe and good."

Yunjin leans forward, her expression intense. "That's not the behavior of a guy who's going to wake up tomorrow and change his mind. That's the behavior of a guy who is completely, thoroughly, absolutely gone for you."

The words settle into your chest. "You really think so?"

"I know so. And I think you know so too. You're just scared to admit it because admitting it means this is real, and real is scary."

"When did you get so wise about relationships?"

"I've been watching you be a disaster for months. I've picked up a few things."

You laugh, and it comes out lighter than you expected. "So what do I do?"

"Tomorrow, you go find him. You see how he acts. And if he acts like nothing's changed except that he's even happier to see you than usual, then you'll have your answer."

"And if he acts weird?"

"Then I'll key his snowboard."

"Yunjin!"

"Kidding. Mostly." She grins and flops back onto her bed. "Now go to sleep. You've had a big night. You need rest. And honestly, I need time to process the fact that my best friend had a romantic jacuzzi rendezvous while I was sitting here eating chips and doomscrolling on TikTok."

"You could have come to the jacuzzi."

"And interrupt whatever is happening between you two? I'm a good friend, not a saint. I'd be third-wheeling so hard I'd need a snowplow to get out."

You laugh again, and for the first time in weeks, you feel light. Unburdened. Like the weight you've been carrying since the moment you walked into that PC room has finally been lifted.

"Goodnight, Yunjin."

"Goodnight, you absolute disaster of a human being. Dream about your hot engineer boy."

"He's not my-"

"Yet. He's not your boy yet. But I give it twenty-four hours."

You throw a pillow at her. She catches it and tucks it under her head with a satisfied grin.

The next morning, you wake up with a start, your heart racing. Dreams of purple light and warm water and hands on your waist and a voice murmuring good girl, you're doing so good against your lips haunt your memory.

You press your face into your pillow and scream.

It is a happy scream, mostly. A disbelieving, giddy scream. But it is also a nervous scream, because in approximately one hour, you are going to have to go downstairs and face Heeseung in the cold light of day, and you have absolutely no idea how that is going to go.

Would he be awkward? Would he be distant? Would he pretend nothing happened? Would he-

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Heeseung: good morning little mouse. breakfast in 30?

You stare at the message for a solid ten seconds. Then you type back:

You: okay

Heeseung: you're very eloquent in the morning

You: i haven't had caffeine yet

Heeseung: i'll have a vanilla latte waiting for you. extra shot of vanilla. just like last time

Heeseung: hopefully with less spilling this time

You: no promises

You get dressed in a daze, pulling on approximately four layers of clothing because you still don't own proper winter gear and the borrowed coat can only do so much. Yunjin is already gone, she has left a note on the nightstand that says went to find the economics majors. don't do anything I wouldn't do. (do everything I wouldn't do), so you are alone with your thoughts as you make your way down to the lodge's dining hall.

You spot Heeseung immediately. He sits at a table near the window, two cups of coffee in front of him, his hair still slightly messy from sleep. When he sees you approaching, his entire face lights up.

"There you are," he says, standing up and pulling out a chair for you. "I was starting to think you'd bailed."

"On breakfast?"

"On me. On this. On everything." He says it lightly, but there is a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, a tiny crack in his usual confident demeanor. "I wasn't sure if you'd want to see me this morning, or if you'd need space, or-"

"Hey." You reach out and touch his hand, just briefly. "I'm here. I want to see you."

The relief that washes over his face is so genuine, so unguarded, that your heart clenches. "Okay. Good. That's… good."

You sit down, and he slides the vanilla latte toward you. Your fingers brush as you take the cup, and the contact sends a spark of electricity up your arm. You both pretend not to notice, but the way Heeseung's ears turn slightly pink suggests he feels it too.

"So," you say, taking a sip of your latte to give yourself something to do with your hands. "Breakfast."

"Breakfast," he agrees. "Eggs. Bacon. Possibly a pastry if we're feeling adventurous."

"Very adventurous."

"I'm a risk-taker."

You try to eat normally. You really do. But every time you look up from your plate, Heeseung looks at you with that soft, wondering expression, and you forget how to chew, and you end up staring at him with a piece of toast halfway to your mouth like you've been frozen in time.

"You're doing it again," he says.

"Doing what?"

"The staring thing. The I'm trying to figure you out thing."

"I'm not trying to figure you out. I already figured you out. You're a people-pleaser who can't say no and you have a secret soft spot for romantic comedies."

"Then what are you thinking about?"

You set down your toast. "I'm thinking about last night. And what it means. And what we are now."

Heeseung's expression shifts, becoming more serious. "Do you want to have that conversation? The what are we conversation?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

"I asked you first."

"That's very mature."

"I have my moments." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Look, I know we did things kind of backwards. Most people start with coffee and work their way up to jacuzzis. We started with a misplaced love letter and somehow ended up in a hot tub under the stars. It's not exactly a conventional timeline."

"When has anything about us been conventional?"

"Fair point." He reaches across the table and takes your hand, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. "I don't know what we are. Labels feel… complicated. But I know what I want us to be."

"What's that?"

"Something real. Something that isn't built on misunderstandings or accidents or letters that weren't meant for me. Something that's just… us. Figuring it out together."

Your heart does that fluttering thing again. "That sounds terrifying."

"I know. But you've been scared this whole time, and you've still kept showing up. That's the bravest thing I've ever seen."

"I haven't felt brave. I've felt like a disaster."

"Disasters can be brave. The two aren't mutually exclusive." He squeezes your hand. "So what do you say? Want to be brave together?"

You look at him, really look at him, and see the boy who poured coffee on his head, the boy who held you while you cried, the boy who knew your secret and waited for you to tell him in your own time. And you feel the fear, familiar and insistent, coiling in your stomach.

But beneath the fear, there is something else. Something warmer. Something that feels a lot like hope.

"Okay," you say. "Let's be brave together."

Heeseung smiles, real and open and devastating. "Okay."

The afternoon finds you back on the beginner slope, strapped into a snowboard and wondering how you let Heeseung talk you into this again.

"You said you wanted to practice," he reminds you, tightening the bindings on your boots. "Snowboarding, I mean. Not… other things."

"My entire body is sore from yesterday. Both from the snowboarding and from the… other things."

"Then we'll take it slow. No jumps, no tricks, just a gentle run down the beginner hill." He stands up and offers you his hand. "I'll be right there the whole time."

"You said that yesterday, and I still fell eight times."

"And you got up eight times. That's the important part."

You take his hand and let him pull you to your feet. The beginner slope stretches out before you, populated by other beginners who fall over with roughly the same frequency as you.

"Okay," you say, taking a deep breath. "Okay. I can do this. I'm a capable human being. I understand physics. Snowboarding is just physics with extra steps."

"That's the spirit."

"I'm going to fall."

"Probably."

"And you're going to catch me?"

"Always."

The word hangs in the air between you, heavier than it should be. Always. Not just on the ski slope, but everywhere. Always.

"Okay," you whisper. "Let's go."

You push off.

The first few seconds are wobbly, your balance shifts, your arms flail slightly, your heart pounds in your ears. But then something clicks. Your body remembers the lessons from yesterday, the way Heeseung taught you to lean into the turns, to keep your weight centered, to trust the board beneath your feet.

You pick up speed, and instead of panicking, you lean into it. The wind rushes past your face, cold and exhilarating.

And then, miraculously, impossibly, you reach the bottom of the slope without falling.

"I DID IT!" you scream, your voice echoing across the mountain. "I DID IT! I SNOWBOARDED!"

You are laughing, giddy with adrenaline and triumph, and you turn around to find Heeseung, to share this moment with him, to see the proud expression on his face.

But Heeseung isn't at the bottom of the slope.

He is still at the top.

And he is shouting something.

"Y/N! Y/N L/N!"

The entire slope seems to go quiet. Other skiers and snowboarders slow down, turning to look at the boy standing at the top of the beginner hill, his hands cupped around his mouth, his voice carrying across the snow with startling clarity.

"I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY!"

Your heart stops. Then starts again, twice as fast.

"I'VE BEEN TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO SAY THIS FOR WEEKS!" Heeseung shouts. "AND I REALIZED THAT THE BEST WAY TO TELL YOU IS THE SAME WAY YOU TOLD ME, WITH WORDS THAT I CAN'T TAKE BACK!"

People are staring. Everyone is staring.

"LEE HEESEUNG, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" you shout back, your voice cracking.

"I'M CONFESSING!" he yells. "PROPERLY! IN FRONT OF EVERYONE! BECAUSE YOU DESERVE A CONFESSION THAT'S JUST FOR YOU! YOU DESERVE THE LOVE YOU'VE DREAMED ABOUT!"

"THE FIRST LETTER WASN'T FOR ME!" Heeseung continues, his voice ringing across the snow. "BUT I WANT TO WRITE YOU ONE! I WANT TO WRITE YOU A HUNDRED LETTERS! I WANT TO LEARN YOUR FAVORITE HIGHLIGHTER COLORS AND THE NAMES OF ALL YOUR PLANTS AND THE EXACT WAY YOU LIKE YOUR VANILLA LATTES!"

Someone in the crowd lets out a wolf whistle. Someone else starts recording on their phone. You can't move, can't speak, can't do anything except stand at the bottom of the slope and stare up at the boy who shouts his heart out for everyone to hear.

"YOU'RE A DISASTER!" Heeseung yells, and his voice is full of joy, full of affection, full of something that looks a lot like love. "YOU'RE A HOPELESS ROMANTIC WHO'S TOO SCARED TO LIVE THE ROMANCE YOU DREAM ABOUT! YOU HIDE BEHIND BULLETIN BOARDS AND YOU CHOKE ON LETTUCE AND YOU SPILL COFFEE ON YOURSELF AND YOU MAKE GRAPHS ABOUT VIDEO GAME BALANCE AND YOU CRIED OVER A BABY PENGUIN IN A NATURE DOCUMENTARY!"

"This is the worst confession I've ever heard!" you shout back, but you are laughing, tears streaming down your face, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

"I'M NOT FINISHED!" Heeseung takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer, still loud enough to carry, but more intimate, more vulnerable. "YOU'RE A DISASTER, Y/N L/N! AND I'M A DISASTER TOO! I'M A PEOPLE-PLEASER WHO CAN'T SAY NO, I HAVE A REPUTATION THAT DOESN'T REFLECT WHO I ACTUALLY AM, AND I POURED COFFEE ON MY HEAD BECAUSE I COULDN'T STAND TO SEE YOU CRY ALONE!"

He starts walking down the slope toward you, his snowboard forgotten at the top, his boots crunching through the snow.

"AND I THINK, NO, I KNOW THAT I'VE BEEN FALLING FOR YOU SINCE THE MOMENT YOU WALKED INTO THAT PC ROOM AND LOOKED AT ME LIKE I WAS THE WORST THING THAT HAD EVER HAPPENED TO YOU!"

He gets closer now, close enough that you can see the nervousness in his eyes, the vulnerability beneath the bravado, the way his hands shake slightly despite his confident posture.

"SO I'M ASKING YOU, IN FRONT OF ALL THESE PEOPLE, ON THIS VERY EMBARRASSING SKI SLOPE, IF YOU'LL BE MY DISASTER. OFFICIALLY. NO MORE MISUNDERSTANDINGS. NO MORE LETTERS MEANT FOR OTHER PEOPLE. JUST US."

He stops a few feet away from you, his breath fogging in the cold air, his dark eyes fixed on your face.

"WHAT DO YOU SAY, LITTLE MOUSE?"

The silence that follows is deafening. Every person on the slope watches you, waiting for your answer.

And you, you, the hopeless romantic who has always been too scared to live the romance you dream about, you take a deep breath, throw your arms out wide, and shout at the top of your lungs:

"I LIKE YOU TOO, YOU ABSOLUTE IDIOT! I'VE LIKED YOU FOR WEEKS AND I DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO SAY IT AND YOU JUST SHOUTED IT FROM A MOUNTAINTOP LIKE A CHARACTER IN A KDRAMA!"

Heeseung's face breaks into the biggest smile you have ever seen. "IS THAT A YES?"

"THAT'S A YES! THAT'S A THOUSAND TIMES YES! NOW COME HERE AND KISS ME BEFORE I PASS OUT FROM THE EMBARRASSMENT OF HAVING THIS CONVERSATION IN FRONT OF LITERALLY EVERYONE!"

He doesn't need to be told twice. He crosses the distance between you in three long strides, catches your face in his hands, and kisses you, deep and thorough and joyful, right there at the bottom of the beginner slope, with the snow sparkling around you and the crowd erupting into cheers and someone's phone recording what will undoubtedly become the most-watched video on the university's social media for the next month.

When he pulls back, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm against your lips, he grins like he has just won the lottery.

"You shouted your feelings from a mountaintop," he murmurs. "You, the girl who was too scared to even correct a misunderstanding, just shouted your feelings from a mountaintop."

"You started it."

"I did. And you finished it." He kisses the tip of your nose. "I'm so proud of you."

You have never been more embarrassed in your entire life, and you have never been happier.

"We're still disasters," you say.

"Absolutely. But now we're disasters who are dating."

"Are we dating? Is that what this is?"

"This is me, shouting from a mountaintop that I want to be with you. I'm pretty sure that counts as dating." He pauses, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Unless you don't want-"

"I want." You grab the front of his jacket and pull him closer. "I want everything. The letters and the coffee disasters and the matching shirts and the snowboarding lessons and the jacuzzi conversations and the ridiculous mountaintop confessions. I want all of it."

Heeseung kisses you again, and this time it is softer, sweeter, full of promise.

"You know what this means," he says against your lips.

"What?"

"We're going to have to tell Jungwon."

You groan. "Can we wait until after the trip? I need at least twenty-four hours to recover from this before I have another emotionally complicated conversation."

"Deal." He pulls back, taking your hand in his. "Come on. Let's get out of here before someone asks us for an interview."

And hand in hand, laughing like fools, you run away from the crowd and the chaos.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

🏷️ @kristynaaah @karinablue00 @hii01mii @mssishipi @fallwinterr @ikeufied @yamzz67 @shaiimuraaa @bingka @ateez-atiny380 @jakeyyyjakexoxo @luucortis @cupidiorr @jayjw16enxp @voucearse @scoupsonlycherry @ellushic @yummysummerberry @enhaholicfan @chanchamm @xocandypoo @enhapagluuuuu @lelo-o @tboboee @xyvzvee @imnotyizhuo @loveydoveyez @ily6968 @nct-sticker-127 @neonpinkbabylonglegs @psychicdazestrawberry @marigold55 @v1-xo @kkkkkiiiiaaaaaiiii @enhaholicfan @kemkem33 @arelyvn @noturresponsibility @iverrr

[kinkyhoon]

WGFT - Lee Heeseung part 1

Pairing: senior!heeseung x loser!fem!reader Genre: slowburn, college!au, smut MDNI, comedy, fluff, socially challenged fem!reader, misunderstanding, he fell first he fell harder Synopsis: The hopeless romantic you are decided to confess and give a heartfelt letter to your all time crush but fate decided otherwise and made you confess to the wrong person...the so-called womanizer of campus, Lee Heeseung. Maybe you should have just keep your feelings to yourself...or maybe it was a sign from the universe. Warnings: footjob, swearing, oral (fem!rec), fingering WC: 17k Note: This one is a long one guys (just so you know), I really wanted to try putting more efforts in my writing and do something longer than I usually do, I don't know if people tend to read the shorter or longer fics but well... I'm really proud of myself for writing more detailed and polished fics, especially knowing that I'm a lazy person who usually do the bare minimum.

"You're a disaster...but God help me if I don't want to be a disaster with you for the rest of my life"

You’re staring at your own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and the girl staring back looks like she’s about to either throw up or ascend to another dimension. Maybe both. In that order.

The letter is clutched so tightly in your hand that the pale lavender envelope is starting to crease, and you force yourself to loosen your grip before you ruin the one thing you’ve spent three weeks perfecting. Three weeks. That’s twenty-one days of drafting, crossing out, rewriting, Googling “how to write a love letter without sounding like a desperate loser,” and then rewriting again. You’ve used up an entire pack of stationery. You’ve watched so many calligraphy tutorials that the YouTube algorithm thinks you’re training to become a medieval scribe. All for this one moment. This one letter. This one massive, terrifying, possibly life-ruining leap of faith.

You are a hopeless romantic. Hopeless being the operative word.

It’s not that you don’t believe in love. You do. Desperately, overwhelmingly, with every fiber of your first-year STEM student soul. You believe in meet-cutes and slow burns and the exact moment when two people look at each other and the entire world goes soft around the edges. You’ve read about it a hundred times. You’ve watched it play out on every screen you own. You’ve composed entire daydreams about it during particularly boring chemistry lectures. Love is your favorite subject, the one you’ve studied with more dedication than calculus or physics combined. There’s just one tiny, inconvenient, absolutely infuriating problem.

You’re terrified of it.

Not the idea of it. The idea is lovely. The idea is safe. The idea lives in your head where everything unfolds exactly the way you want it to, where you always say the right thing, where you never trip over your own feet or laugh too loud at the wrong moment or stand frozen in a doorway like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. But real love? The kind that requires vulnerability and eye contact and actually speaking words out loud with your mouth? That kind of love makes your palms sweat and your heart race in a decidedly unromantic, fight-or-flight kind of way. You are, and this is the most embarrassing part, a coward. A romantic coward. You dream of grand gestures but can barely manage a coherent sentence when an attractive person so much as glances in your direction.

Which brings you back to the letter.

The letter is your loophole. Your workaround. Your way of confessing your feelings without actually having to say them, because writing them down felt manageable in a way that speaking never has. You can be eloquent on paper. On paper, you can say things like “the first time I saw your smile, it felt like someone had turned on all the lights in a room I didn’t even realize was dark” without immediately wanting to crawl into the nearest hole and live out the rest of your days an hermit. On paper, you’re brave. On paper, you’re the kind of person who goes after what she wants.

In reality, you’ve been hiding in this bathroom for fifteen minutes, and your hands are shaking so badly that a passing person would think you are having an epileptic seizure.

“Okay,” you whisper to your reflection. “Okay. You can do this. You are a woman on a mission. You are a warrior. You are-”

A toilet flushes in one of the stalls behind you, and you nearly launch yourself through the ceiling.

A girl you vaguely recognize from your introductory programming class emerges, gives you an odd look as she washes her hands, and leaves without saying anything. You wait until the door swings shut, then press your forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and contemplate every life choice that has led you to this moment.

His name is Jungwon.

Yang Jungwon. Second year. Undeclared major but leaning toward something in the humanities, which you know because you may have done a bit of light, respectful, completely non-creepy research. He has a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and a laugh that sounds like sunshine if sunshine could make noise, and he holds doors open for people even when they’re still like ten feet away, which creates that awkward situation where the person has to speed-walk to not seem rude, but he never seems to mind. You first noticed him at the campus library during midterms when he quietly slid a pack of gummy bears across the table toward you at 2 AM, muttering something about glucose being good for brain function, and then went back to his book like he hadn’t just fundamentally altered the trajectory of your entire emotional existence.

That was four months ago. You’ve been pining ever since. Pining, yearning, longing, you’ve run through the entire lexicon of unrequited affection, and you’re exhausted. Today, you’ve decided, is the day it ends. One way or another.

You push yourself off the mirror, square your shoulders, and march out of the bathroom with the determination of someone going to war. The envelope is slightly damp from your grip, but it’s still intact, and the words inside are still true, and somewhere on this campus, Yang Jungwon is about to receive the most heartfelt confession letter ever written by a first-year student who has consumed an unhealthy amount of romance media.

Now you just have to find him.

—————

The hallway is bustling with students, the usual midday chaos of people rushing to classes or huddling in groups to complain about assignments. You scan the crowd, looking for a familiar face that might point you in the right direction, and your eyes land on a guy leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone with the dead-eyed expression of someone who has just finished a three-hour lab.

“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out about an octave higher than normal. You clear your throat. “Sorry, um, do you know where I can find Yang Jungwon? Second year?”

The guy looks up, blinks slowly, deciding whether or not to acknowledge your presence, and then shrugs. “PC room, I think. Saw him heading there like twenty minutes ago.”

The PC room. Of course. It’s in the engineering and informatics building, a place you’ve rarely ever been to. But you know where it is, roughly, and you thank the guy with what you hope is a normal smile and not the rictus grin of someone rushing toward emotional catastrophe.

The walk across campus takes approximately seven minutes, and you spend every single one of them rehearsing what you’re going to say. You’ve already written the letter, so technically you don’t have to say anything, you can just hand it over and flee but you want to say something. Something cool. Something memorable.

“Hey, Jungwon, this is for you.” Simple. Direct. Good.

“I wrote you something. No pressure, just read it when you have time.” Casual. Low-stakes. Excellent.

“Hi, I’ve been emotionally compromised by your existence for several months, please accept this paper rectangle of feelings.” Okay, maybe not that one.

The engineering building looms in front of you before you’re ready. You push through the main doors and immediately feel out of place. The students here move with a different energy, less frantic, more focused, the kind of people who probably know what a server is and have opinions about programming languages you’ve never heard of.

You follow the signs toward the PC room, your footsteps echoing in the corridor, and with every step, your heart climbs higher up your throat. This is it. This is the moment. You’re going to walk in there, find Jungwon, hand him the letter, and then whatever happens happens. At least you’ll have tried. At least you’ll have been brave, even if it’s only for thirty seconds.

The door to the PC room is slightly ajar, and you can hear voices inside, multiple voices, which gives you pause. You assumed he’d be alone. Or with maybe one other person.

You hesitate. Your hand hovers over the door handle. Every instinct is screaming at you to turn around, go back to your dorm, and spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been. And maybe you would, if not for the small, stubborn voice in the back of your mind that says: You’ve already come this far. Don’t you want to know? Don’t you want to be the kind of person who actually does the thing instead of just dreaming about it?

Yes. Yes, you do.

You squeeze your eyes shut, take a breath so deep it makes you lightheaded, and push the door open with more force than strictly necessary. It slams against the wall with a bang that makes approximately twelve heads swivel in your direction, and for one horrifying moment, you are the center of attention in a room full of strangers.

But you don’t see any of them. You only see the figure sitting at the computer closest to the door, his back half-turned to you, hair falling over his forehead, the exact silhouette you’ve been looking for. Or at least, the exact silhouette you think you’ve been looking for.

You don’t stop to confirm. You don’t let yourself think. You just march forward, thrust the letter out in front of you like a shield, and launch into the speech you’ve been rehearsing for three weeks.

“This is for you. I’m sorry if this is weird or sudden but I’ve liked you for a really long time and I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. You don’t have to respond right away. You don’t have to respond ever, actually. I just wanted you to know that someone out there thinks you’re wonderful and I wrote it all down because I’m better at writing than talking and honestly I might pass out if I keep standing here so please just take this and I’ll go-”

You finally look up.

And the face staring back at you is absolutely, categorically, one hundred percent not Jungwon.

The boy in front of you is taller than Jungwon. Broader shoulders. Sharper jawline. Different eyes, darker, deeper, currently widened in a mixture of surprise and something you can’t quite read. His lips are parted slightly, as if he was about to say something before you launched into your emotional word-vomit, and he’s holding a half-eaten protein bar that’s now frozen halfway to his mouth.

The room has gone completely, utterly silent.

You can feel the stares of every single person boring into the back of your head. Someone coughs. Someone else whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “did she just-” before being shushed by their neighbor.

And then the boy, the very handsome, very wrong boy, sets down his protein bar, takes the letter gently from your trembling hand, and says in a voice that’s low and smooth and completely unfamiliar: “Wow. Okay. What’s your name?”

This is the worst moment of your entire life. You are going to die right here, in this PC room, surrounded by computer monitors and half-empty energy drink cans and a dozen witnesses who will spread this story to every corner of the university within the next three hours. Your obituary will read: here lies Y/N, the loser who can’t even recognize her ultimate crush.

“Y/N,” you croak, because your mouth is apparently still functioning even though every other part of you has shut down. “L/N Y/N. First year. STEM.”

You don’t know why you said STEM. He didn’t ask for your department. You’re offering information nobody requested. This is a disaster.

But the boy, he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t decipher, his head tilted slightly to the side like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. He’s wearing a dark hoodie with the informatics department logo on it, and there’s a pair of expensive-looking headphones draped around his neck, and his hair is slightly mussed in a way that suggests he’s been running his fingers through it while concentrating. He’s absurdly good-looking, the kind of good-looking that makes you simultaneously want to stare and look away, and you’re only now noticing the way several girls in the room have been watching him since you entered, not just because of your blunder, but because they’ve been watching him.

“I’m Heeseung,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”

Lee Heeseung. The name registers somewhere in the back of your panic-addled brain. It’s familiar in the way that campus gossip is familiar, attached to words like hot and player and don’t get your hopes up because he’ll charm you and then move on. You’ve heard girls in your dorm talking about him in hushed, giggling tones, trading stories about brief encounters and misinterpreted invitations. And you, in your infinite wisdom, have just handed a love letter meant for someone else directly into his notorious hands.

You have to fix this. You have to tell him it was a mistake. You have to-

“I’m flattered,” Heeseung says, and his smile widens slightly, not quite a smirk but definitely approaching smirk territory. “Really. This is... I mean, no one’s ever confessed to me with an actual letter before. It’s kind of old school.” He turns the envelope over in his hands, examining it with what seems like genuine curiosity. “The handwriting is really pretty. Did you do the calligraphy yourself?”

“Yes,” you say, because you are physically incapable of lying when put on the spot, and also because your brain has apparently decided that the best course of action is to just answer whatever questions he asks like this is a normal conversation and not the emotional equivalent of a tornado.

“Impressive.” He looks at you, really looks at you, and something shifts in his expression. The teasing edge softens just a fraction. “A confession is a lot, though. I mean, I’m honored, but we don’t even know each other.”

This is your opening. This is the moment where you say “actually, that’s because this letter wasn’t meant for you, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, I’m so sorry, please forget this ever happened.” The words are right there, lined up on your tongue, ready to go.

But the room is still watching. A dozen pairs of eyes. The whispers have stopped, but the staring hasn’t, and you can feel every single gaze like a physical weight pressing down on you. If you correct him now, in front of everyone, you’ll have to explain. You’ll have to admit that you walked into a crowded room and confessed to the wrong person like an absolute buffoon. You’ll become a campus legend for all the wrong reasons: the girl who was too stupid to even identify her own crush. The story will follow you for the rest of your university career. You’ll never live it down.

But if you just... let him believe it... if you just nod and agree and leave as quickly as possible... you can fix this later. Privately. Without an audience. You can find him tomorrow, or send him a message, or do literally anything other than humiliate yourself further in front of all these people.

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“I know,” you hear yourself say. “It’s a lot. I know.”

Heeseung nods thoughtfully, like you’ve said something profound. “But I’m not against it. Starting slow, I mean. If you want.”

What.

“What,” you say, but it comes out more like a statement than a question.

“I’m okay with starting slow,” he repeats, and now the smile is definitely back, a little crooked, a little curious. “You’re cute. And clearly brave. I like that. So if you want to, I don’t know, get coffee sometime and see where this goes... I’m open to it.”

Someone in the room lets out a low whistle. Someone else says “Heeseung, are you serious right now?” in a tone of utter disbelief. But Heeseung doesn’t look away from you. He’s waiting for your answer, his gaze steady and warm, and you are standing in the epicenter of a complete and total catastrophe with absolutely no idea how to get out.

Say no. Say it was a mistake. Say the truth.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Okay?! Okay?!

“Okay,” he echoes, and the smile breaks fully across his face, transforming him from handsome to devastating. “Good. I’ll find you. Y/N, first year, STEM, right?”

You nod mutely.

“Cool.” He tucks your letter carefully into the pocket of his hoodie, like it’s something precious, like he’s planning to read it later, and the gesture makes your stomach twist with guilt so intense you think you might actually be sick. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

You don’t remember leaving the room. You don’t remember the walk back across campus or the elevator ride to your floor or the moment you collapsed face-first onto your dorm bed. All you know is that one moment you were standing in the PC room, and the next you are here, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single agonizing second on an endless loop.

You confessed to the wrong person.

You confessed to the wrong person.

And for some reason that you absolutely cannot comprehend, he said yes.

Across campus, in a PC room that has finally returned to its normal hum of activity, Lee Heeseung pulls a slightly crumpled lavender envelope out of his hoodie pocket and stares at it for a long moment.

“Dude,” says his friend Jay from the next computer over, not bothering to hide his grin. “What just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Heeseung says honestly. And he doesn’t. He’s used to attention, he knows how to handle it, how to smile and nod and gently redirect without hurting anyone’s feelings. It’s a skill he’s developed over the years, the only way he knows to deal with the unfortunate side effect of his people-pleasing tendencies. He’s nice to someone, he helps them with an assignment, he holds a door open or offers a pen, and suddenly they’re looking at him with stars in their eyes, and he doesn’t know how to tell them that he was just trying to be polite without sounding like an arrogant jerk. So he lets them down easy, or he avoids the situation entirely, and his reputation grows in ways that don’t reflect the truth at all.

But this, this is new. A letter. An actual, physical, handwritten letter, with swooping calligraphy and a lavender envelope and a girl who looked so terrified that he thought she might actually pass out right there on the linoleum floor.

She looked at him like he was a natural disaster. Like she was watching a building collapse in slow motion and couldn’t do anything to stop it.

And then she said okay anyway.

“She’s interesting,” Heeseung murmurs, more to himself than to Jay, and carefully opens the envelope.

“Interesting how?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy reading, his eyes moving slowly across the carefully penned words, the ink slightly smudged in places where the writer’s hand might have trembled. It’s beautiful. It’s earnest. It’s the kind of letter that someone writes when they mean every single word, when they’ve poured their entire heart onto the page without holding anything back.

He’s never received anything like it before.

And he wants to know more about the girl who wrote it, the girl who burst into his afternoon like a hurricane of nerves and feelings.

“Jay,” he says, still staring at the letter, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I think something interesting just walked into my life.”

He doesn’t notice the way his friend shakes his head and mutters something about “here we go again.”

He’s too busy wondering when he’ll see Y/N next.

—————

The following forty-eight hours of your life can be accurately described as a masterclass in strategic avoidance and tactical regret.

You skip two classes. Not on purpose, exactly, you just can’t bring yourself to leave your dorm room when every shadow in the hallway might be Lee Heeseung coming to collect on that coffee date you apparently agreed to in a moment of temporary insanity. You survive on instant noodles and the protein bars your friend left on her desk with a sticky note that said “FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY,” which this absolutely qualifies as. You watch three entire seasons of Bridgerton without retaining a single moment because your brain is too busy replaying the PC room incident on a continuous, merciless loop.

“I’m Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”

“I’m okay with starting slow.”

“You’re cute.”

You bury your face in your pillow and scream, but it comes out muffled and pathetic, like a small animal giving up on life.

By day three, you’ve developed a system. You only leave your room during off-peak hours, skittering through campus, your head on a constant swivel. You’ve memorized the locations of every vending machine in buildings Heeseung is unlikely to frequent. You’ve started taking the long way to your remaining classes, cutting through the art department and the greenhouse and once, memorably, a service corridor that smelled strongly of bleach and soap. You’ve become a ghost. A phantom. A creature of the shadows who survives on granola bars and instant noddles.

But the problem with running away from your problems is that your problems don’t actually go anywhere. They just wait. And think about you. And eventually, when you least expect it, they catch up.

It happens on a Thursday.

You’re crouched behind a potted plant near the science building, scanning the courtyard for any sign of tall, attractive informatics students, when your phone buzzes with a text from your best friend, Yunjin.

Yunjin: heard you’ve been living like a sewer rat. want me to bring you real food?

You: can’t. i’m in the middle of a crisis

Yunjin: You’re executing what we talked about yet?

You: it’s in process

Yunjin: at the end of the day, you will have to tell him

You stare at the message for a long moment. It’s such a simple solution. So elegant. So reasonable. And yet, every time you imagine yourself walking up to Heeseung and saying “actually, I meant to give that letter to someone else,” your entire body physically recoils like you’ve touched a hot stove. The humiliation would be astronomical. The look on his face, surprise, then confusion, then that horrible moment of realization that he was never supposed to be the recipient would haunt you for the rest of your natural life. And you’d still have to explain the Jungwon part. And Jungwon would find out. And then you’d be the weird girl who couldn’t even confess to the right person, and Heeseung would be the guy who got accidentally confessed to, and everyone would laugh about it for weeks, and-

Your phone buzzes again.

Yunjin: i can hear you overthinking from across campus. just rip off the bandaid. what’s the worst that could happen

You type back a single message: he could tell everyone and i’d have to transfer schools and change my name and become a farmer in New Zeland

Yunjin: dramatic. but valid. good luck with your plant hiding

You shove your phone back into your pocket and peek around the potted plant again. The courtyard is clear. This is your window. You take a deep breath, steel your nerves, and scuttle out from behind the foliage.

The plan for today is simple: find Heeseung, explain the misunderstanding, and disappear forever. You’ve spent the entire morning psyching yourself up for this. You’ve practiced the speech in the mirror seventeen times. You’ve even written a script on your phone that you can refer to in case of emergency. It’s thorough, it’s clear, it leaves absolutely no room for misinterpretation, and it ends with a sincere apology and a polite request that you both pretend this never happened. It’s perfect. It’s foolproof. All you have to do is locate the target.

Easier said than done. You’ve been looking for him since yesterday, not to talk to, but to observe from a safe distance so you could plan your approach and the universe, in its infinite comedic wisdom, has made him completely unfindable. It’s like he vanished off the face of the earth the moment you actually wanted to see him. Three days ago, you couldn’t walk three feet without catching a glimpse of him, but now? Now he’s a ghost. A myth. A concept rather than a physical entity.

You’re going to have to ask for help.

This is, objectively, a terrible idea. Asking for help means talking to people, and talking to people about Heeseung means potentially revealing that you’re looking for him, which means potentially revealing why you’re looking for him, which means the whole campus could know about the letter situation by lunchtime. But you’re running out of options, and you’re running out of granola bars, and you can’t live behind potted plants forever.

You find your informant near the engineering building, a girl with neon green headphones and a laptop covered in stickers, sitting on a bench and typing furiously at something that looks like code. She seems approachable. She seems like she won’t ask too many questions. You approach with what you hope is casual confidence and not the desperate energy of someone who has been living on protein bars.

“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out surprisingly normal. Points for you. “Do you know where I can find Lee Heeseung? Third year, informatics?”

The girl looks up, her eyes flicking over you with mild curiosity. She doesn’t ask why you’re looking for him, which makes you want to hug her. “Heeseung? Yeah, I think I saw him heading to the quad about ten minutes ago. Something about meeting up with some people before his next class.”

The quad. Of course. The most open, public, exposed location on the entire campus. The place where literally everyone congregates. The absolute last place you want to have a conversation about accidental love confessions.

“Great,” you say, and your voice is definitely an octave higher now. “Great. Thank you. Thanks. So much.”

The girl gives you a weird look, shrugs, and goes back to her coding.

You’re already moving, your feet carrying you toward the quad before your brain can catch up and talk you out of it. This is fine. This is progress. You’ll find him, you’ll pull him aside, you’ll give him the speech, and then you’ll be free. You’ll be a normal person again. You’ll be able to walk through campus without checking every corner for a tall informatics student who thinks you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date.

The quad is bustling when you arrive, clusters of students sprawled across the grass and gathered around the stone benches near the fountain. The afternoon sun is bright and warm, the kind of weather that makes everyone want to be outside, which is lovely and picturesque and deeply inconvenient for your purposes. You squint against the glare, scanning the crowd for a familiar dark-haired figure.

No Heeseung.

You circle the perimeter, weaving between groups of friends and dodging a frisbee that comes sailing dangerously close to your head. You check near the fountain, near the big oak tree, near the cluster of food trucks that’s set up along the east edge. Still no Heeseung. Your informant said ten minutes ago, he should be here. Unless he already left. Unless you missed him. Unless this is a sign from the universe that you should give up and commit to the farmer life plan after all.

You’re so focused on your search that you don’t notice someone approaching until a shadow falls across your path, and a voice, warm, familiar, the exact voice you’ve been daydreaming about for four months, says:

“Y/N? Hey, it is you!”

You look up.

Yang Jungwon is standing right in front of you, smiling like the sun just came out from behind a cloud, and every single coherent thought in your brain immediately evaporates.

He’s wearing a soft-looking cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his dark hair is slightly windswept, and there’s a tiny mole near his chin that you’ve never noticed before but is now seared into your memory forever. He’s holding a book, something with a cracked spine and a title in a language you don’t recognize and he’s looking at you with genuine, undiluted pleasure, like running into you is the best thing that’s happened to him all day.

“It’s me,” you say, because you are a conversational genius. “I mean. Yes. Hi. Hello.”

Smooth. Flawless execution. Ten out of ten.

Jungwon doesn’t seem to notice your complete lack of verbal grace. His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in exactly the way you’ve catalogued in your mental Jungwon database. “I thought I recognized you. You’re in my philosophy elective, right? Front row, near the window?”

He knows where you sit. He knows where you sit. This is both the best and worst information you’ve ever received, because on one hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, but on the other hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, and now you have to be a normal human being and not the disaster you currently are.

“Front row near the window,” you confirm, nodding a little too vigorously. “That’s me. I like the natural light. For... note-taking purposes.”

“Makes sense.” He shifts his weight, tucking the book under his arm. “You take really detailed notes, by the way. I sat behind you once, and I was honestly impressed. Your color-coding system is no joke.”

Jungwon has looked at your notes. Jungwon has been impressed by your notes. Your brain is short-circuiting at approximately the speed of light, and you have to physically resist the urge to fist-pump in the middle of the quad.

“Thank you,” you manage. “I have a lot of highlighters. Maybe too many. Is there such a thing as too many highlighters? I don’t think so, but I’ve been told my stationery collection is concerning.”

Oh no. Why are you talking about stationery? You need to say something charming. Something witty. Something that will make him see you as more than the girl with the aggressive color-coding system.

“I don’t think it’s concerning,” Jungwon says, and there’s a teasing lilt to his voice that makes your knees go weak. “Passionate, maybe. Dedicated. I respect it.”

“Passionate and dedicated,” you repeat faintly. “That’s... yeah. That’s my brand.”

He laughs, and it’s exactly like you remember, bright and warm, the kind of laugh that makes you want to do whatever you just did again and again just to hear it on repeat. “I like it. Passion is underrated.” He tilts his head, studying you with an expression you can’t quite read. “So what brings you to the quad? You usually eat lunch in the science building courtyard, don’t you?”

Your heart stutters. He knows where you eat lunch. He’s observed your habits. This is either a sign of mutual interest or you’ve accidentally become the subject of a sociological case study, and at this point you’re willing to accept either outcome.

“I’m, um, looking for someone,” you say, and the confession letter debacle comes crashing back into your consciousness like a wrecking ball through a glass window. Right. You’re supposed to be finding Heeseung. You’re supposed to be fixing the misunderstanding. That’s why you’re here. Not to bask in the radiant warmth of Jungwon’s attention like a lizard on a sunny rock.

“Anyone I know?” Jungwon asks, and there’s something in his tone, curiosity, maybe.

“Probably not,” you say quickly. “Just a... just a person. A random person. Not important.”

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but before he can press further, a new voice cuts through the afternoon air like a knife through butter.

“There you are.”

You freeze. Your blood turns to ice. Every cell in your body screams in unison: run.

Lee Heeseung is walking toward you across the quad, his headphones hanging around his neck and his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket. He looks exactly as devastatingly attractive as he did three days ago, which is deeply unfair. His expression is a mixture of curiosity and amusement, and when his eyes meet yours, that slight smile, the one that’s not quite a smirk but definitely is a smirk’s second cousin, curves across his lips.

“I heard you’ve been looking for me,” he says, coming to a stop beside Jungwon like this is the most natural gathering in the world. “You know, if you wanted to see me, you could have just messaged. I would have given you my number at the PC room.”

Jungwon looks between you and Heeseung with visible confusion, his earlier smile fading into something more guarded. “Wait. You two know each other?”

This is it. This is the moment the universe has been building toward. Every terrible decision, every act of cowardice, every misguided attempt to avoid embarrassment, it’s all led here, to this exact spot on the quad, with the wrong guy standing next to the right guy and your entire romantic future hanging in the balance.

“I wouldn’t say know,” you begin, but Heeseung is already talking over you, apparently immune to the desperate telepathic signals you’re trying to beam directly into his brain.

“She confessed to me two days ago,” Heeseung says, and his tone is so casual, so conversational, like he’s discussing the weather or what he had for lunch. “Walked right into the PC room, handed me a letter, told me she’d liked me for a long time. It was very romantic. Very old-school. I was impressed.”

Silence. Jungwon stares at Heeseung. Then at you. Then back at Heeseung.

“She... confessed to you,” Jungwon repeats slowly, and his voice has gone flat in a way that makes your heart splinter into approximately seven thousand pieces.

“Full confession,” Heeseung confirms, still smiling. “I’m thinking we’ll start with coffee. Keep it simple, you know? She’s shy. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

This is a nightmare. This is a waking, breathing, actively-unfolding nightmare, and you are trapped in it like a fly in amber, unable to move or speak or do anything except watch as every possible future with Jungwon crumbles to dust before your eyes.

Because here’s the thing you realize in that horrible, crystal-clear moment: you can’t correct Heeseung now. Not in front of Jungwon. Not when Jungwon has just been told, in no uncertain terms, that you confessed to someone else. If you explain the truth, that the letter was actually meant for Jungwon, that the whole thing was a catastrophic mistake, then what? Jungwon would know you’d been planning to confess to him, but he’d also know that you somehow managed to mess it up so spectacularly that you confessed to his friend instead. You’d look incompetent at best and completely unhinged at worst. And Heeseung would be humiliated, and Jungwon would be awkward, and you’d be the epicenter of a social catastrophe so immense that all three of you would have to avoid each other for the rest of your academic careers.

You are trapped. Completely, utterly, irreversibly trapped.

“Interesting,” Jungwon says, and the word is so neutral that it cuts deeper than any insult ever could. “I didn’t realize you two ran in the same circles.”

“We don’t,” you croak. “We really, really don’t.”

“We’re just getting started,” Heeseung says cheerfully, and he has the audacity to wink at you. Like this is some kind of adorable inside joke instead of the emotional apocalypse it actually is.

You have to get out of here. You have to escape before the sob building in your chest forces its way out and makes everything infinitely worse. You can feel it pressing against your ribs, hot and insistent, and if you don’t leave right now, you’re going to burst into tears in the middle of the quad in front of both of them, and then the disaster will be complete.

“I have to go,” you blurt out, and you’re already backing away, your feet moving before your brain can issue any kind of warning. “I have… a thing. A class. A lab. A lab class. It’s very important. I can’t miss it. I have to go.”

Heeseung’s brow furrows slightly. “Wait, I thought you wanted to talk to-”

“Nope! No talking! We’re good! Everything’s fine! Bye!”

You spin around and power-walk toward the nearest exit, which happens to be in the direction of the fountain, which you only realize when your foot catches on the low stone ledge and you go sprawling forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.

Your knee hits the ground. Your dignity hits the ground approximately three feet to the left. Several people turn to look.

“Y/N!” That’s Jungwon’s voice, concerned and moving closer, and you absolutely cannot handle that right now.

“I’m fine!” you shriek, scrambling to your feet with adrenaline-fueled desperation. “Totally fine! Happens all the time! I’m very clumsy! It’s part of my charm!”

You don’t look back. You can’t look back. If you look back, you’ll see Jungwon’s worried expression and Heeseung’s confused one, and you’ll have to confront the full magnitude of what just happened, and your fragile emotional state simply cannot withstand that kind of pressure. So you run. Not jog, not power-walk…run. Across the quad, past the food trucks, through a gap between two buildings, and out onto the main campus pathway like the hounds of hell are snapping at your heels.

You don’t stop until you reach the arts building, and you don’t start breathing normally until you’ve locked yourself in a practice room on the third floor, surrounded by soundproof walls and a piano that’s seen better days. You slide down against the door, pull your knees up to your chest, and let out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a wail.

Everything is ruined. Everything. You had one chance, one single, solitary chance to fix the misunderstanding and salvage your dignity and maybe, just maybe, preserve the possibility of something with Jungwon somewhere down the line. And instead, you let your hopeless romantic heart get distracted by a five-minute conversation about philosophy notes and highlighters, and now you’re the girl who confessed to Lee Heeseung, and Jungwon thinks you’re interested in someone else, and there is no conceivable way to untangle this mess without making everything exponentially worse.

You’re going to have to transfer schools. You’re going to have to move to another country. You’re going to have to fake your own death and start a new identity as a goat farmer in New Zeland.

The door handle jiggles behind you. “Occupied!” you yell, your voice cracking.

“Y/N? Is that you?”

Your best friend Yunjin’s voice filters through the door, muffled but unmistakable, and the sound of it is enough to crack the dam you’ve been desperately trying to hold together. You scramble to your feet, fumble with the lock, and yank the door open to reveal Yunjin standing in the hallway with a cup of bubble tea in each hand and an expression of profound concern on her face.

“I saw you running,” she says, her eyes scanning your disheveled appearance. “Like, truly running. I’ve never seen you run before. You once told me running was for people who don’t appreciate the journey.”

“Yunjin,” you crumble, and your voice is so pitiful that she immediately sets down both drinks and pulls you into a hug.

“Okay,” she says, steering you back into the practice room and closing the door behind her. “Okay. Sit down. Tell me everything. What happened? Did you talk to Heeseung? Did you fix it?”

You laugh, but it comes out wrong, high and wobbly, on the edge of hysteria. “Fix it? Fix it? Yunjin, I made it so much worse. I made it so much worse that I think I actually created new dimensions of worse. Scientists are going to have to invent new words to describe how badly I messed this up.”

“That’s... improbable,” Yunjin says carefully. “But I’m listening.”

She settles onto the piano bench, and you collapse onto the floor in front of her, crossing your legs and burying your face in your hands. The story spills out of you in a torrent, the quad, the search for Heeseung, the unexpected appearance of Jungwon, the conversation that made your heart soar, and then the moment Heeseung appeared like a harbinger of doom and casually announced your confession to the one person you never wanted to know about it.

“And then I fell,” you finish miserably. “In front of both of them. And I ran away. And now Jungwon thinks I like Heeseung, and Heeseung thinks I like Heeseung, and I can’t correct either of them without making everything even weirder, and my life is a romantic comedy written by a petty incel.”

Yunjin is quiet for a moment. Then she lets out a long, slow breath. “Okay. That’s... that’s a lot.”

“I know.”

“And you’re telling me you couldn’t just say, hey Heeseung, sorry for the mix-up, the letter wasn’t for you, my bad?”

You look up at her, your eyes rimmed with red. “In front of Jungwon? After Heeseung already told him I confessed? What would Jungwon think of me?”

Yunjin considers this. “That you’re a disaster, probably.”

“Exactly!”

“But a lovable disaster,” she adds. “Disasters can be endearing.”

“Yunjin, please focus.”

She holds up her hands in surrender, but there’s a glint in her eye that you recognize, the one that means she’s about to drop some wisdom on you whether you’re ready for it or not. Yunjin has been your best friend since orientation week, when you both accidentally joined the wrong club meeting and ended up spending two hours in a competitive gardening seminar before realizing your mistake. She’s practical where you’re dreamy, decisive where you’re hesitant, and she’s talked you down from approximately four hundred anxiety spirals since the semester started. If anyone can find a way out of this mess, it’s her.

“Okay,” she says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “Let me present you with an alternative perspective.”

“I’m listening.”

“Lee Heeseung,” she says, ticking off points on her fingers, “has a reputation. A big one. Everyone knows it. He’s the guy who’s super nice to everyone, especially girls, and then they fall for him and he gets all surprised when they expect something more, and then things fizzle out because he wasn’t looking for anything serious.” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “Sound familiar?”

You blink. “I mean... I’ve heard things. But he didn’t seem like-”

“That’s his whole thing,” Yunjin interrupts. “He doesn’t seem like it. That’s why it works. He likes when everyone is after him. But nice doesn’t equal interested, so girls get the wrong idea and then they get hurt. It’s a cycle.” She pops a tapioca pearl into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “My point is, you don’t need to do anything. You don’t need to fix this. You just need to wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For him to get bored.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Think about it. You’re not actually interested in him, right? You’re not going to fall all over yourself trying to get his attention. You’re not going to be waiting outside his classes or accidentally showing up wherever he hangs out. You’re not going to be like every other girl who’s chased after him.”

You frown. “So... what, I just... do nothing?”

“No, you do the opposite of chasing.” Yunjin grins, and it’s slightly wicked. “You make yourself as uninteresting to him as possible. You’re awkward, you’re weird, you’re clearly not trying to impress him. You don’t dress up when you know you might see him. You talk about boring things. You mention, I don’t know, your extensive collection of vintage stamps or whatever nerdy hobby you can think of. You make yourself boring.”

“I don’t have a stamp collection.”

“Then make one up! The point is, Heeseung is used to girls who want him. If you clearly don’t want him, his interest is going to fizzle out faster than a cheap sparkler. He’ll move on to the next girl who bats her eyelashes at him, and you’ll be free. No confrontation necessary.”

You turn this over in your mind. It’s... not the worst idea you’ve ever heard. In fact, compared to your current strategy of blind panic and tactical fleeing, it’s practically genius. If you can’t correct the misunderstanding without making everything worse, maybe you can just... let it die on its own. Let Heeseung’s fabled short attention span work in your favor. Become so aggressively unappealing that he loses interest within a week and never thinks about you again.

And once he’s out of the picture, once enough time has passed, maybe you can try again with Jungwon. Properly. With better aim.

“You’re a genius,” you tell Yunjin, the hope creeping back into your voice. “An absolute genius. I could kiss you.”

“Please don’t, you’re covered in grass stains.” She nudges one of the bubble teas toward you with her foot. “Drink your tea. Hydrate. And then we’re going to brainstorm all the ways you can make yourself seem as unappealing as possible to a hot third-year informatics student.”

You grab the drink and take a long sip, the sweetness settling something in your chest. For the first time in three days, you feel something other than panic. You feel strategic. You feel determined. Lee Heeseung might think you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date, but he hasn’t met the version of you that’s about to emerge, a version so bland, so uninteresting, so aggressively mediocre that he’ll run in the opposite direction before the week is out.

“Okay,” you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Okay. Let’s do this. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested starts now.”

Yunjin raises her bubble tea in a toast. “To being boring.”

You clink your cup against hers. “To being boring.”

Somewhere across campus Heeseung is still standing in the quad with a confused expression on his face and a lavender envelope in his pocket, wondering why the girl who supposedly has a crush on him just sprinted away like she was being chased by bears.

He’s not used to this. He’s not used to any of this.

And that, he realizes with a small, bemused shake of his head, is exactly what makes it so interesting.

—————

Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested lasted exactly four days before it encountered its first major obstacle.

That obstacle is approximately six feet tall, has flowing hair that falls perfectly across his forehead, and is currently walking directly toward your table in the cafeteria with a tray in his hands and a smile on his face that suggests he has absolutely no idea he's supposed to be losing interest in you.

You spot him approximately 2.3 seconds too late. By the time your brain registers the approaching danger, you are already mid-bite into a sad cafeteria sandwich, your mouth full of bread and lettuce and the dawning realization that you are trapped. There is no escape route. Your table is in the corner, surrounded on three sides by walls and on the fourth side by Heeseung's rapidly approaching form. You are a cornered animal. A very stupid, very panicked cornered animal with mayonnaise on her chin.

"Y/N!" Heeseung says your name like it's his favorite word, bright and warm and entirely too enthusiastic for someone who's supposed to be a notorious womanizer with a short attention span. "I was hoping I'd run into you. Mind if I sit?"

Mind if he sits? Of course you mind. You mind immensely. You mind with every fiber of your being. Sitting with Heeseung is the exact opposite of what Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is supposed to accomplish. Sitting with Heeseung means talking to Heeseung, and talking to Heeseung means opportunities to accidentally charm him, and charming him is categorically Not The Goal.

But Heeseung is already pulling out the chair across from you, and his smile is so genuine, and there's a tiny bit of what looks like grease on his cheekbone that suggests he's just come from some kind of engineering lab, and you are weak. You are so, so weak.

"Go ahead," you hear yourself say, and then immediately want to punch yourself in the face.

Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested, Day Four, 12:34 PM: catastrophic failure already in progress.

Heeseung settles into the chair with an easy grace, setting his tray down and immediately stealing one of your fries like you're old friends who share food on a regular basis. You watch the fry disappear into his mouth and feel a small part of your soul leave your body.

"So," he says, leaning back and studying you with those dark, unreadable eyes. "You ran away from me pretty fast the other day. Should I be worried? Do I have something on my face?"

He doesn't. He absolutely doesn't. He has the kind of face that belongs on a billboard, all sharp angles and soft edges and that one little mole on his forehead that you are definitely not noticing because noticing things about Heeseung's face is counterproductive to the mission.

"No," you say quickly. "No, you're fine. Your face is fine. I mean, you don't have anything on your face. I just remembered I had somewhere to be. Very suddenly. It was urgent."

"An urgent… lab class?" Heeseung's lips twitch. "That's what you said, right? An urgent lab class on a Thursday afternoon?"

Your face heats. "Yes. Exactly. Lab class. Very urgent. Science doesn't wait."

"Mmm." He pops another one of your fries into his mouth. "Well, the good news is, you don't look like you're in a hurry right now. So we can actually talk. You know, like normal people who are supposedly getting to know each other?"

Right. Getting to know each other. Because you confessed to him. Because he thinks you like him. Because you're living in an elaborate lie of your own making.

This is your chance, though. This is the perfect opportunity to implement Phase One of the Make Him Uninterested plan: Be Weird and Off-Putting. You just have to be the most boring, strange, unappealing version of yourself that you can possibly imagine. How hard can it be?

Pretty hard, as it turns out, because your brain chooses this exact moment to go completely blank.

"So," Heeseung says, apparently unbothered by your silence, "tell me about yourself. What do you like to do for fun? Besides writing beautiful love letters and then running away from the recipient?"

You choke on your own saliva. Just… straight up choke on nothing, like a cartoon character. "I don't…that wasn't…I do normal things. Normal fun things. Like… watching paint dry. And counting ceiling tiles. Very relaxing. You should try it."

Heeseung's expression flickers, confusion, amusement, something in between. "Counting ceiling tiles?"

"There are forty-seven in this cafeteria," you say, doubling down with the desperate energy of someone who has already committed to the bit. "Forty-eight if you count the one that's partially covered by that vent over there. But some people don't count partial tiles. It's a philosophical debate, really."

"Fascinating," Heeseung says, and the worst part is that he sounds like he actually means it. "What else?"

What else? What else can you say that will make you sound completely unappealing? You cast around for inspiration, your eyes landing on your sandwich. Okay. Fine. If words can't do the job, maybe actions can.

You pick up your sandwich with both hands and take the weirdest bite you can physically manage, mouth open slightly too wide, chewing with exaggerated jaw movements, making an unfortunate amount of noise in the process. You feel like a cow. You look like a cow. You are embodying the spirit of a cow, and surely, surely, this is enough to make any self-respecting hot informatics student run for the hills.

Heeseung watches you chew. His expression doesn't change.

"Good sandwich?" he asks mildly.

"Mmf," you say, still chewing, still being a cow. "Very good. I love-"

And then the lettuce hits the back of your throat.

You don't know how it happens. One moment you're chewing normally, well, abnormally, but in a controlled way and the next moment a piece of lettuce stages a rebellion and lodges itself directly in your windpipe. Your eyes go wide. Your hand flies to your throat. You make a sound that is somewhere between a wheeze and a honk.

"Y/N?" Heeseung's amused expression shifts to concern. "Are you okay?"

You are not okay. You are choking. You are choking on lettuce in front of Lee Heeseung in the middle of the cafeteria, and this is how you're going to die.

Heeseung is on his feet now, moving around the table with surprising speed. "Hey, hey, can you breathe? Do you need me to-"

You shake your head frantically, still making dying cow noises, and grab your water bottle with shaking hands. The first gulp does nothing. The second gulp, by some miracle, dislodges the lettuce just enough for you to cough it up into a napkin with all the grace and dignity of a cat hacking up a hairball.

Silence.

The entire cafeteria, you're convinced, is staring at you. In reality, probably only a few nearby tables have noticed, but it feels apocalyptic. You sit there, red-faced and teary-eyed, clutching a napkin full of your own near-death experience, and want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

Heeseung kneels beside your chair, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he isn't sure if touching you would be welcome. "Hey. You're okay. You're okay, right? Do you need me to get you anything? More water? A doctor? A new sandwich without lettuce?"

His voice is gentle. Genuinely gentle. Not the smooth, charming tone you expect from someone with his reputation, but something softer, something that sounds almost like real concern.

"I'm fine," you croak, your voice ravaged. "I'm fine. That happens. All the time. I'm very bad at eating. It's one of my traits."

"One of your traits," Heeseung repeats, and the corner of his mouth twitches despite his obvious worry. "Being bad at eating?"

"It's a lifestyle choice."

He laughs. Not a polite chuckle or a mocking snicker, but a real laugh, surprised and bright and completely unguarded. He sits back down in his chair, shaking his head, and looks at you with something that is definitely not boredom or disinterest.

"You're really something else, you know that?"

You don't know how to respond to that, so you don't. You just sit there, still clutching your napkin of shame, and wonder how Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has somehow resulted in him laughing at your jokes and looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's encountered all week.

"So," Heeseung says, propping his chin on his hand, "I've been wondering. What made you decide to confess to me? Was there a specific moment? Something I did?"

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

This is the worst possible question he could ask. You can't tell him the truth…I didn't mean to confess to you, I meant to confess to your friend, you just happened to be sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time, please don't hate me…but you also can't just… not answer. He's looking at you expectantly, his dark eyes curious and open, and you have approximately three seconds to come up with a convincing lie before the silence becomes too awkward to recover from.

"Your… kindness," you say, grasping at straws. "You're very… kind. To everyone. I noticed."

Heeseung tilts his head. "My kindness?"

"Very kind," you repeat, nodding vigorously. "So kind. The kindest. I saw you… hold a door open for someone once. It was… inspiring."

"I held a door open."

"A door. Yes. It was a very heavy door. And you held it. For a long time. Multiple people went through. It was very impressive."

Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and you stare back, your face burning, your soul evacuating your body. This is it. This is the moment he realizes you are completely unhinged and decides to never speak to you again. This is the victory of Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested.

"That's…" Heeseung starts, and then pauses. "That's the first time anyone's ever confessed to me because I held a door open. Usually I get compliments about my face. Or my voice. One girl told me I had a nose made to be sat on, which I still don't fully understand."

"Your node is… fine," you say weakly. "I didn't notice your nose. Or your face at all. Just the door. The door was the important part."

"A door," Heeseung says, and that smile is spreading across his face again, the one that makes him look less like a notorious player and more like someone who has just found a particularly entertaining puzzle. "You wrote me a three-page love letter because I held a door open."

"The calligraphy alone took a week," you say, and immediately regret it.

Heeseung laughs again, and this time it's softer, almost wondering. "You're not what I expected," he says. "At all."

"Is that… good or bad?"

"I haven't decided yet." But he's still smiling, and his eyes are still fixed on you with that curious intensity, and you're starting to get the sinking feeling that everything you do, no matter how strange or off-putting you try to be, is having the exact opposite effect of what you intend.

You need a new strategy. Something foolproof. Something so aggressively unappealing that even the most determined people-pleaser can't pretend to be interested.

And then, like a gift from the gods of social awkwardness, the topic of video games comes up.

Heeseung mentions something about blowing off steam after a tough assignment by playing a few rounds of something, and the question slips out before you can stop it: "Wait, do you play League of Legends?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes. You?"

And that's it. That's the moment the dam breaks.

You don't mean to start geeking out. It just happens. One moment you're thinking be boring, be uninteresting, be bland, and the next moment you're fifteen minutes deep into an impassioned monologue about the current meta, the problems with the jungle role, and why Riot Games needs to nerf a specific champion into the ground before she single-handedly destroys the competitive scene.

"-and don't even get me started on the new items, because the balance team clearly doesn't play their own game, which is fine, whatever, it's not like I have strong opinions about it except I absolutely do, and I wrote an entire essay about it on the subreddit that got like two thousand upvotes, so clearly I'm not the only one who thinks the armor penetration scaling is completely broken-"

You stop.

You stop because you have just realized, with dawning horror, that you have been talking for an incredibly long time without letting Heeseung get a single word in. You have been gesticulating. You have been making sound effects. At one point, you're pretty sure you drew a diagram on a napkin to illustrate the optimal jungle pathing route.

This is it. This is definitely, absolutely it. There is no way a hot third-year informatics student wants to listen to a first-year STEM girl rant about video game balance for fifteen straight minutes. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has just achieved its first genuine success.

You brace yourself for the polite excuse, the awkward glance at his phone, the slow backing away.

Instead, Heeseung leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and says: "Okay, but hear me out, what if the armor penetration scaling isn't the problem, and it's actually the base damage values that need to be adjusted? Because if you look at the win rate data across different elos, the issue isn't consistent at all levels of play."

You blink.

"I main ADC," he adds, as if this is a perfectly normal confession. "So trust me, I feel your pain about the jungle situation. Do you know how many times I've been left to solo dragon because my jungler was AFK farming? Too many. Too many times."

"You… main ADC?"

"Vayne and Kai'Sa mostly. Sometimes Jhin if I'm feeling dramatic."

You have no response to this. Your brain has short-circuited somewhere around the phrase "win rate data across different elos," and it's still rebooting.

"Your essay on the subreddit," Heeseung continues, pulling out his phone. "What was the title? I want to read it. I love seeing well-reasoned arguments about game balance, and honestly, most of what gets posted is just people complaining without any actual data to back it up."

"It was… it was called The Current State of Armor Penetration: A Statistical Analysis and Why I'm Losing My Mind," you say faintly.

Heeseung types something into his phone, scrolls for a moment, and then his face lights up. "Found it. Two thousand three hundred upvotes and fourteen awards? That's impressive. Wait, you made graphs? You made graphs?"

"I was very passionate about the subject."

"Passionate," Heeseung repeats, looking up from his phone with an expression you can't quite read. "Yeah. I'm starting to get that about you."

He tucks his phone away and smiles at you, and it isn't the smooth, practiced smile you expect from the campus womanizer. It's something smaller. Something realer. Something that makes your stomach do a weird, traitorous flip that you immediately try to suppress.

"You know," he says, tilting his head as he studies you, "you remind me of a mouse."

Your brain screeches to a halt. "A… mouse?"

"Yeah. A little field mouse. The way your nose scrunches up when you're thinking, and how you get all twitchy and skittish when you're nervous. It's cute. It's really cute."

Cute. He calls you cute. He compares you to a rodent and somehow makes it sound like a compliment, and worst of all, worst of all, you can feel a traitorous blush spreading across your cheeks like wildfire.

"I'm not…I don't…mice are not cute. Mice are pests. They carry diseases. I'm basically a health hazard."

Heeseung laughs, and it's the same genuine laugh from before, and he's looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's seen in years. "A health hazard. Right. Well, consider me warned."

He stands up, gathering his tray, and for one beautiful, hopeful moment, you think the ordeal is over. But then he pauses, looking down at you with that unreadable expression, and says the words that haunt you for the rest of the day:

"I was interested before, but now?" He shakes his head, still smiling. "Now I'm really interested. See you around, little mouse."

And then he walks away, leaving you alone at your corner table with a half-eaten sandwich, a napkin full of regurgitated lettuce, and the sinking realization that Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is not only failing, it's backfiring spectacularly.

You try to be weird, and he calls you cute.

You try to be boring, and he engages with your niche gaming opinions.

You try to choke to death in front of him, and he kneels beside your chair with genuine concern in his eyes.

You bang your forehead against the cafeteria table once, twice, three times, not caring who sees. This is a disaster. This is an unmitigated, unprecedented, absolutely catastrophic disaster. Hana's plan was supposed to work. Heeseung was supposed to get bored. He was supposed to move on. He was not supposed to look at you like you're a puzzle he wants to solve, or call you a mouse in a tone of voice that makes your heart do gymnastics, or read your League of Legends essay and compliment your graphs.

You need to regroup. You need to call an emergency meeting with Yunjin. You need to figure out a new strategy before this situation spirals even further out of control.

But first, you need to go to the library and return the books that are due today before you accrue another fine, because no matter how catastrophic your love life becomes, the university library shows no mercy.

—————

The library is your sanctuary. It always has been, a quiet, climate-controlled haven where the smell of old paper and the soft hum of fluorescent lights can soothe even the most tensed of nerves. After the cafeteria incident, you need sanctuary more than ever. You slip through the main doors with your stack of books clutched to your chest, inhaling the familiar scent of knowledge and dust, and feel some of the tension begin to ease from your shoulders.

Everything is fine. Everything is going to be fine. You return your books, you find Yunjin, you regroup, and you figure out a way to-

"Y/N?"

The voice comes from somewhere to your left, and you know that voice. You know it the way a flower knows the sun, the way a compass knows north, the way a hopeless romantic knows the exact cadence of her crush's greeting.

Jungwon is sitting at a table near the history section, surrounded by a fortress of textbooks and loose papers. He's wearing glasses…glasses…and his hair is slightly mussed from what you assume is hours of intense studying, and he's looking at you with that smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your entire nervous system short-circuit.

"Hey," he says, waving you over. "What are you doing here?"

Existing in the same space as you, you think. Breathing the same air. Trying not to spontaneously combust.

"Returning books," you say, holding up your stack as evidence. "I have some overdue ones. The library fines are no joke."

"Tell me about it. I had to pay fifteen thousand won last semester because I forgot about a book I'd checked out for a research paper." Jungwon winces at the memory. "My wallet still hasn't recovered."

"That's brutal."

"The library giveth, and the library taketh away."

You laugh, and it comes out surprisingly normal, not too loud, not too high-pitched, just a regular human laugh from a regular human person who is definitely not having an internal meltdown about how good Jungwon looks in glasses.

"Hey," Jungwon says, glancing at the empty chair across from him, "if you're not in a hurry, do you want to study together? I've been here for three hours and my brain is starting to melt. It would be nice to have some company."

Your heart stops.

Yang Jungwon, the Yang Jungwon, the owner of the smile and the laugh and the gummy bears at 2 AM is asking you to study with him. This is the kind of moment you've daydreamed about for months. This is a meet-cute in progress. This is the universe throwing you a lifeline after the cafeteria disaster, a chance to actually spend time with the boy you've been pining over since midterms.

"Yes," you say, before your brain can remind you of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. "Yes, I'd…I'd love to. Let me just return these first."

You practically skip to the returns desk, your heart doing a full backflip in your chest. By the time you make it back to Jungwon's table, your philosophy textbook and notebook spread out in front of you, you've convinced yourself that this is exactly what you need. Some time with Jungwon. Some time to remember why you wrote that letter in the first place. Some time to reconnect with the feelings that got buried under the chaos of the Heeseung situation.

The only problem is that you can't focus on studying at all.

You try. You really, genuinely try. You open your textbook to the assigned chapter. You uncap your highlighter. You fix your eyes on the page and attempt to absorb information about ethical frameworks and moral philosophy. But your eyes keep drifting up, against your will, over the top of your book, to the boy sitting across from you.

Jungwon is studying. Actually studying, not fake studying, not pretending to study while secretly watching you the way you're watching him. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his pen moving steadily across his notebook as he takes notes. Every so often, he pauses, taps the end of his pen against his chin, and then resumes writing with renewed focus. The late afternoon light slants through the window behind him, catching the highlights in his dark hair and making him look like he's stepped out of a painting.

He is beautiful. He's so beautiful that it makes your chest ache, a soft, sweet ache that you've been carrying around since the moment you first saw him in this very library. You watch the way his fingers curl around his pen, the way he bites his lower lip when he's thinking, the way his glasses slide down his nose and he pushes them back up with an absent gesture.

"I can feel you looking at me," Jungwon says, not glancing up from his notebook.

Your entire body jolts like you've been electrocuted. "I wasn't…I was just…there's a clock behind you. I was checking the time."

Jungwon looks up then, and there's a knowing glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a slow, somersaulting flip. "The clock is to your right, Y/N. Not behind me."

You look to your right. Sure enough, there's the clock, hanging on the wall in plain view, which you would have noticed if you'd spent even one second actually looking for it instead of gazing at Jungwon's face like a Renaissance painter studying their muse.

"I'm… directionally challenged," you say weakly.

"Uh-huh." Jungwon sets down his pen, and the smile playing at the corners of his mouth is soft and teasing and absolutely devastating. "Come here for a second."

"What?"

"Just come here. Lean forward a little."

Your body obeys before your brain can intervene. You lean across the table, your heart hammering so loudly you're certain the entire library can hear it. Jungwon leans forward too, closing the distance between you, and you catch a faint whiff of something clean and subtle, laundry detergent, maybe, or the kind of fragrance that just smells like him.

His hand reaches out, and before you can process what's happening, his index finger gently pokes your cheek.

"Boop," he says.

You make a sound. You don't know what the sound is supposed to be. Maybe a laugh, maybe a question, maybe a plea for mercy. What comes out is something closer to a squeak, a small, strangled, completely undignified squeak that would be embarrassing if you had any brain cells left to feel embarrassment.

Jungwon's smile widens, and his finger lingers on your cheek for just a moment longer than necessary. "You had an eyelash," he says. "Right there. But also, you just looked really cute staring at me like that. I couldn't resist."

Cute. He calls you cute. That's twice in one day that a devastatingly attractive boy has called you cute, and your hopeless romantic heart doesn't know whether to celebrate or go into cardiac arrest.

"I wasn't staring," you whisper, but it comes out completely unconvincing.

"You were absolutely staring." Jungwon withdraws his hand, but his smile stays, warm and fond and knowing. "It's okay. I don't mind. It's kind of nice, actually. Being looked at like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something worth looking at."

The words settle into your chest like a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples through your entire body. He thinks it's nice. He thinks you're nice or at least your staring is nice and he pokes your cheek and calls you cute and now he's going back to his studying like he hasn't just fundamentally altered your brain chemistry.

You try to return to your textbook. The words swim in front of your eyes, meaningless and blurry. You highlight a sentence at random, realize you have no idea what it says, and highlight it again for good measure. The page is now approximately forty percent highlighter ink.

"You're going to run out of highlighter at that rate," Jungwon observes, not looking up.

"I have backups," you say. "I always have backups."

"Of course you do."

The studying session continues for another hour, and you absorb approximately zero information about ethical frameworks. What you do absorb is a comprehensive catalogue of Jungwon's study habits: the way he organizes his notes with color-coded tabs, the way he mutters to himself when he's working through a difficult concept, the way he absentmindedly drums his fingers against the table when he's thinking. Every detail is another entry in your mental Jungwon database, another thread in the tapestry of your affection.

By the time you pack up your things and say goodbye, "See you in philosophy," Jungwon says, and you respond with something that might be words or might be a series of enthusiastic nods, you are floating. You are literally, physically floating, your feet barely touching the ground as you drift out of the library and across campus toward your dorm.

Jungwon pokes your cheek. Jungwon calls you cute. Jungwon says he likes being looked at by you.

You are winning. Despite the Heeseung disaster, despite the cafeteria catastrophe, despite everything, you are winning.

By the time you reach your dorm room, you are a mess of giddy energy with nowhere to go. You close the door behind you, throw your backpack onto your desk chair, and then proceed to wriggle across your bed like an ecstatic worm, kicking your feet and muffling your squeals into your pillow.

"He called me cute," you whisper to your empty room, your voice muffled by fabric. "He poked my cheek. He did the boop thing. The boop thing, you guys. Who does the boop thing? Adorable people, that's who. Perfect people. People with beautiful smiles and kind eyes and-"

You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. The ceiling has forty-three tiles in your room. You counted them on your first night in the dorm. But right now, all you can see is Jungwon's face, the way he looked at you across the library table, the way his finger felt against your cheek, the way his voice went soft when he said like I'm something worth looking at.

You are going to marry him. You are going to marry Yang Jungwon and have a beautiful wedding with string lights and wildflowers and a three-tier cake, and you will tell the story of how you stared at him in the library and he poked your cheek and-

You stop wriggling.

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

You can't marry Jungwon. You can't even confess to Jungwon, because Jungwon thinks you confessed to Heeseung. Jungwon thinks you're interested in someone else. Jungwon was sweet and friendly and maybe a little bit flirty, but that's just his personality. He's nice to everyone. He gives you gummy bears at 2 AM; he probably gives gummy bears to everyone who looks tired. You aren't special. You are just… there.

The giddiness begins to drain out of you, replaced by the familiar weight of reality. You are still trapped in the Heeseung situation. You are still the girl who confessed to the wrong person. And no matter how many times Jungwon pokes your cheek, that fundamental fact isn't going to change.

With a heavy sigh, you drag yourself through your evening routine: shower, skincare, the episode of the baking show you're halfway through and finally crawl into bed around midnight, your emotions a tangled knot of hope and despair.

Sleep comes slowly, a gradual descent into darkness, and then-

—————

You are in the PC room again.

But this time it's different. The lights are dimmer, the computers all dark, the chairs empty. It's just you, and the door is swinging shut behind you, and there's someone waiting at the computer closest to the door.

Heeseung.

He's sitting in the chair, facing away from you, his headphones around his neck and his shoulders relaxed. When he hears your footsteps, he turns, and his expression isn't surprised or amused or curious. It's something else entirely. Something darker. Something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You're here," he says, and his voice is lower than you've ever heard it, a rumble that vibrates through your bones. "I've been waiting for you, little mouse."

"I'm not-" you start, but he's already standing, already moving toward you, and you can't seem to make your feet work. You're rooted to the spot, watching him approach with a mixture of fear and something else, something you don't want to name.

He stops inches away from you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that you can see the individual strands of his hair and the curve of his lips and the way his eyes, God, his eyes are fixed on your mouth.

"You know what I've been thinking about?" he murmurs, and one of his hands comes up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple. "I've been thinking about that letter. The way you said you only had eyes for me. The way you said you couldn't stop thinking about me."

"That wasn't-" you try, but your voice comes out as barely a whisper, and Heeseung's thumb is tracing along your jawline now, feather-light and devastating.

"I can't stop thinking about you either," he says, and his face is getting closer, closer, and you can feel his breath against your lips. "Do you want to know what I think about?"

Your heart is hammering. Your skin is on fire. You can't move, can't speak, can't do anything except stare up at him with wide eyes as his other hand settles on your waist, warm and solid and pulling you closer.

"I think about this," he whispers, and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is…it's…

It's intense. It's consuming. It's the kind of kiss that erases every rational thought from your brain and replaces it with pure, unfiltered sensation. His lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a confidence that makes your knees weak. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you make a sound against his mouth, something small and breathless and completely involuntary.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his voice is rough. "You’re what I’ve been looking for my whole life, Y/N. You’re my miracle."

And then his lips are on your neck, trailing fire down to your collarbone, and your head falls back, and his name escapes your mouth in a way you've never said it before-

He kneels before you, his movements fluid and deliberate. His eyes never leave yours as he unzips his jeans, freeing his already hard cock. It stands proud and thick, the tip glistening with pre-cum. He takes your foot in his warm hand, bringing it to his shaft.

"Look what you do to me," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. He wraps your foot around his length, his thumb pressing against your arch as he begins to move your foot up and down his cock. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, a low groan escaping his lips.

The sensation of his hot skin against your sole sends shivers through your body. You watch, mesmerized, as he uses your foot to pleasure himself, his hips thrusting in rhythm with the movements of your foot. His other hand moves to your ankle, his grip firm but gentle, his fingers stroking your sensitive skin.

His eyes open, locking with yours again, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "You're so beautiful," he breathes, his movements becoming faster, more urgent. "You’re perfect the way you are."

His breathing grows ragged, his muscles tensing. With a guttural moan, he comes, his hot release spilling over your foot and his hand. He leans forward, his tongue darting out to taste his own cum from your skin, his movements slow and sensual. He licks your foot clean, his tongue tracing patterns on your arch, between your toes, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

Then he shifts, positioning himself between your legs. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "I need to taste you," he says, his voice rough with need.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He tosses them aside, then leans in, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh.

His tongue flicks out, teasing your clit, and you gasp, your hands flying to his hair. He chuckles, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through you. "Patience, little mouse," he murmurs against your skin.

His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles, building your pleasure gradually. He alternates between broad, flat strokes and quick, precise flicks of his tongue against your clit. His fingers join in, one, then two, sliding inside you, curling to hit that spot that makes you cry.

Your hips buck against his face, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Heeseung," you moan, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He responds with increased enthusiasm, his tongue working faster, his fingers pumping in and out of you. The pressure builds inside you, a coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter until it snaps.

You come with a cry, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure wash over you. But Heeseung doesn't stop. He continues his assault on your senses, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony to bring you to the edge again.

And then you are squirting, your release flooding his mouth and chin as he drinks you in, his movements never faltering. He looks up at you, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he laps up every drop.

When he finally pulls away, his face glistening with your juices, he crawls up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and the intimacy of it sends another wave of desire through you.

"Tell me you’re only thinking of me," he whispers against your lips, his hands roaming your body. "and not Jungwon."

You wake up.

You wake up in your dorm room, in your bed, at 7:43 AM on a Tuesday morning, with your heart pounding and your skin flushed, your panties soaked and your sheets twisted around your legs like they've been through a battle.

For a long moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.

Did you just… did you just dream about… did Lee Heeseung, the guy you're supposed to be making uninterested in you, the guy you've been trying to avoid and ignore and repel, just star in what can only be described as an extremely obscene dream? The virgin you are just cringed at the memory.

You press your hands to your burning cheeks and let out a sound that is somewhere between a groan and a scream.

"No," you whisper to the empty room. "No, no, no. This isn't, this can't…I don't even like him. I like Jungwon. Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon for four months. I wrote a letter to Jungwon. I have a color-coded mental database of Jungwon's habits. I want to marry Jungwon and have a three-tier wedding cake with wildflowers!"

But your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, keeps replaying fragments of the dream, the way Heeseung's eyes go dark, the way his voice rumbles against your ear, the way his hand feels on your waist, the way his tongue is warm and-

You grab your pillow and press it over your face, screaming into it with all the force your lungs can muster.

This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. You are a Jungwon girl. You've always been a Jungwon girl. You don't think about Heeseung like that. You don't think about Heeseung like anything. Heeseung is an obstacle. Heeseung is a problem to be solved. Heeseung is the guy you're actively trying to repel, not the guy who shows up in your subconscious and does things that make you blush in the privacy of your own bed.

"I'm a psychopath," you say to your pillow. "I'm a complete and utter psychopath. Who dreams about this with a guy they're supposed to be making uninterested? A psychopath, that's who. A deranged lunatic. A person with a broken brain."

Your pillow, predictably, does not respond.

You drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face and avoiding your own reflection in the mirror. You don't want to look at yourself. You don't want to see the evidence of the dream still lingering in your flushed cheeks…and between your legs.

This is a problem. This is a Major Problem with capital letters and possibly a warning siren. You can't afford to be having dreams about Lee Heeseung. You can't afford to be thinking about Lee Heeseung at all. Your entire strategy, Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested depends on you being able to keep a clear head and a steady heart, and neither of those things is going to be possible if your subconscious keeps ambushing you with extremely vivid, extremely inappropriate content.

You need to talk to Yunjin. Immediately. Before your brain can conjure up any more unauthorized imagery.

But as you grab your phone and type out a frantic message, EMERGENCY MEETING REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY CODE RED REPEAT CODE RED, you can't quite shake the lingering sensation from the dream.

The way Heeseung's thumb traces along your jawline.

The way he calls you little mouse in that low, rumbling voice.

The way he says you were perfect the way you were like he means it, like it's true, like he's been into you his whole life and hasn't even known it.

You shake your head violently, flinging droplets of water across the bathroom mirror.

"Nope," you say out loud. "Nope, nope, nope. We're not doing this. We're not thinking about this. We're going to go to class and eat lunch and avoid all tall informatics students, and we're going to get our brain back on the Jungwon track where it belongs."

But even as you say it, even as you try to mean it, a small, treacherous part of you wonders if maybe, just maybe, the Jungwon track isn't the only track worth following anymore.

You shove that thought into a mental box, lock it, and throw away the key.

You have a plan. You have a strategy. You are going to make Heeseung uninterested, and you are going to figure out a way to untangle the misunderstanding, and you are going to end up with Jungwon like you were always supposed to.

The dream is just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. It can't mean anything.

You refuse to let it mean anything.

(But when you catch yourself glancing toward the informatics building on your way to class, you walk a little faster, and you definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent do not wonder what Lee Heeseung is doing right now.)

—————

The dream haunts you for three days.

Not in a supernatural, ghost-in-the-corner kind of way. More in an I-can't-make-eye-contact-with-my-own-reflection kind of way. Every time you close your eyes, fragments of it flicker behind your eyelids like a movie you hadn't asked to watch. The dark PC room. The way Heeseung's voice drops to a rumble. The phantom sensation of his tongue on your clit, his hand on your ankle, his look-

You physically convulse every time the memory resurfaces, which is approximately every forty-five minutes. Your philosophy notes become a graveyard of distracted doodles, half of which look suspiciously like the curve of someone's jaw. You have to throw away an entire page because you accidentally write "little mouse" in the margin instead of "moral relativism."

Yunjin is no help whatsoever.

"So you had a wet dream about the hot guy who you’re supposedly getting bored of," she says over bubble tea the day after the incident, her expression thoroughly unimpressed. "This is a problem because…?"

"Because I don't like him, Yunjin! I like Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon since midterms! Jungwon is the goal! Jungwon is the three-tier wedding cake!"

"And Heeseung is…?"

"A temporary obstacle! A misunderstanding with legs! A very tall, very inconvenient plot twist!"

Yunjin sucks on her tapioca pearls with the air of a therapist who has heard it all before and is no longer surprised by anything. "You know what they say about protesting too much."

"I am not protesting too much. I am protesting exactly the right amount. I am protesting a perfectly calibrated quantity."

"Sure." She pats your hand with condescending sympathy. "Whatever helps you sleep at night. Oh wait-"

You throw a tapioca pearl at her face. It sticks to her cheek for a solid three seconds before falling off, and the look of absolute betrayal on her face is the only bright spot in your otherwise nightmare-plagued week.

But now it's Thursday. Thursday, 2:15 PM. You're stationed in the science building's main hallway, crouched behind a bulletin board that is absolutely not wide enough to hide your entire body, waiting for the coast to clear so you can sprint to your next class without encountering any tall informatics students.

Your system has evolved since the early days of the crisis. You now have a color-coded schedule of Heeseung's known movements, courtesy of some light reconnaissance work that Yunjin calls "stalking" and you call "strategic intelligence gathering." You know his class schedule. You know his preferred study spots. You know that he tends to grab coffee from the campus café at exactly 3 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which means the science building hallway should, theoretically, be a Heeseung-free zone at 2:15.

Theoretically.

You're just about to make your move, a quick dash to the stairwell, then up two flights, then a straight shot to classroom 307, when you hear it.

"Hey, is Y/N L/N in there?"

Your blood freezes. Your muscles lock. Your soul briefly departs your body and then slams back into it with force.

That's Heeseung's voice. That's unmistakably, undeniably, catastrophically Lee Heeseung's voice, and it's coming from approximately ten feet to your left, where the door to your department's main office stands open.

You press yourself harder against the bulletin board, praying for invisibility, praying for a sudden power outage, praying for the ground to open up and swallow you into its merciful embrace. None of these things happen. Instead, you hear the department secretary respond with cheerful obliviousness.

"Y/N L/N? First year, STEM? I think I saw her in the hallway just a minute ago. Let me check, oh, there she is! Y/N! You have a visitor!"

The secretary is pointing directly at your bulletin board. Your bulletin board that is not hiding you at all. Your bulletin board that is, in fact, leaving approximately seventy percent of your body completely visible to anyone who happens to look in that direction.

Heeseung turns.

Your eyes meet.

Time stops.

There are moments in life that feel like they stretch into eternity, moments so profoundly awkward, so cosmically embarrassing, that the universe itself seems to pause and take notice. This is one of those moments. You are frozen in a half-crouch behind a bulletin board, your backpack dangling from one shoulder, your hair escaping from the ponytail you threw it into this morning, your expression one of pure, unfiltered terror. Heeseung is standing in the doorway of the department office, looking unfairly attractive in a simple black hoodie and jeans, his eyebrows rising slowly toward his hairline.

A small crowd of students has paused in the hallway to watch. You can feel their eyes on you like a physical weight. Someone whispers something to their friend. Someone else pulls out their phone.

You are going to die. You are going to perish right here in the science building hallway, and your ghost will be doomed to haunt this bulletin board for all eternity.

"Y/N?" Heeseung's voice is a mixture of confusion and amusement. He takes a step toward you, and you instinctively take a step back, which results in you bumping directly into the bulletin board and causing several flyers to flutter dramatically to the ground. "Were you… hiding behind that?"

"No," you say, too quickly. "No, I was…I dropped something. A contact lens. I was looking for my contact lens."

"You don't wear contacts."

"I might! You don't know my life!"

"Your glasses are literally on your face right now."

You reach up and touch your glasses, which are indeed sitting on your nose, clearly visible, doing their job of correcting your vision. You have no response to this. There is no response to this. You have been caught in a lie so transparent it's essentially a window.

Heeseung's lips twitch. "You know, most people who have a crush on me don't run away and hide behind furniture. This is very confusing for my ego."

The crowd is still watching. Why is the crowd still watching? Don't they have classes to go to? Midterms to study for? Lives to live that don't involve spectating your public humiliation?

"I wasn't hiding from you specifically," you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to operate independently from your brain. "I was hiding from… the sun. It's very bright in here. I'm photosensitive."

"You're a STEM student hiding from the sun in a basement hallway with no windows," Heeseung says slowly. "That's… a new one."

"It's a medical condition. It's very serious. My doctor says I need to avoid direct fluorescent lighting."

"The fluorescent lighting is what's getting you."

"Absolutely. It's my greatest enemy. Well, second greatest. After-" You stop yourself before you can say after incredibly hot informatics students who keep appearing in my life like a recurring nightmare.

Heeseung waits. When you don't finish the sentence, that smile, the one that's definitely a smirk's second cousin, maybe even its first cousin at this point, spreads across his face.

"Well," he says, "now that I've found you and dragged you out of the shadows, literally, I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee. With me. Right now."

Every single person in the hallway is looking at you. The secretary is looking at you from the office doorway, her expression one of grandmotherly delight at what she clearly perceives as a romantic overture. The students who stopped to watch are exchanging glances and whispers. One girl gives you an encouraging thumbs up.

You are trapped. You are cornered. You are a mouse being offered coffee by a very tall, very persistent cat.

And just like every other time Heeseung has put you on the spot, you open your mouth and the wrong words come out.

"I love coffee," you say. "Coffee is my favorite liquid. After water. And possibly juice. But it's definitely in the top three."

"Is that a yes?"

"…Yes."

Heeseung's smile widens. "Great. Let's go."

[kinkyhoon]

WGFT - Lee Heeseung part 1

Pairing: senior!heeseung x loser!fem!reader Genre: slowburn, college!au, smut MDNI, comedy, fluff, socially challenged fem!reader, misunderstanding, he fell first he fell harder Synopsis: The hopeless romantic you are decided to confess and give a heartfelt letter to your all time crush but fate decided otherwise and made you confess to the wrong person...the so-called womanizer of campus, Lee Heeseung. Maybe you should have just keep your feelings to yourself...or maybe it was a sign from the universe. Warnings: footjob, swearing, oral (fem!rec), fingering WC: 17k Note: This one is a long one guys (just so you know), I really wanted to try putting more efforts in my writing and do something longer than I usually do, I don't know if people tend to read the shorter or longer fics but well... I'm really proud of myself for writing more detailed and polished fics, especially knowing that I'm a lazy person who usually do the bare minimum.

"You're a disaster...but God help me if I don't want to be a disaster with you for the rest of my life"

You’re staring at your own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and the girl staring back looks like she’s about to either throw up or ascend to another dimension. Maybe both. In that order.

The letter is clutched so tightly in your hand that the pale lavender envelope is starting to crease, and you force yourself to loosen your grip before you ruin the one thing you’ve spent three weeks perfecting. Three weeks. That’s twenty-one days of drafting, crossing out, rewriting, Googling “how to write a love letter without sounding like a desperate loser,” and then rewriting again. You’ve used up an entire pack of stationery. You’ve watched so many calligraphy tutorials that the YouTube algorithm thinks you’re training to become a medieval scribe. All for this one moment. This one letter. This one massive, terrifying, possibly life-ruining leap of faith.

You are a hopeless romantic. Hopeless being the operative word.

It’s not that you don’t believe in love. You do. Desperately, overwhelmingly, with every fiber of your first-year STEM student soul. You believe in meet-cutes and slow burns and the exact moment when two people look at each other and the entire world goes soft around the edges. You’ve read about it a hundred times. You’ve watched it play out on every screen you own. You’ve composed entire daydreams about it during particularly boring chemistry lectures. Love is your favorite subject, the one you’ve studied with more dedication than calculus or physics combined. There’s just one tiny, inconvenient, absolutely infuriating problem.

You’re terrified of it.

Not the idea of it. The idea is lovely. The idea is safe. The idea lives in your head where everything unfolds exactly the way you want it to, where you always say the right thing, where you never trip over your own feet or laugh too loud at the wrong moment or stand frozen in a doorway like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. But real love? The kind that requires vulnerability and eye contact and actually speaking words out loud with your mouth? That kind of love makes your palms sweat and your heart race in a decidedly unromantic, fight-or-flight kind of way. You are, and this is the most embarrassing part, a coward. A romantic coward. You dream of grand gestures but can barely manage a coherent sentence when an attractive person so much as glances in your direction.

Which brings you back to the letter.

The letter is your loophole. Your workaround. Your way of confessing your feelings without actually having to say them, because writing them down felt manageable in a way that speaking never has. You can be eloquent on paper. On paper, you can say things like “the first time I saw your smile, it felt like someone had turned on all the lights in a room I didn’t even realize was dark” without immediately wanting to crawl into the nearest hole and live out the rest of your days an hermit. On paper, you’re brave. On paper, you’re the kind of person who goes after what she wants.

In reality, you’ve been hiding in this bathroom for fifteen minutes, and your hands are shaking so badly that a passing person would think you are having an epileptic seizure.

“Okay,” you whisper to your reflection. “Okay. You can do this. You are a woman on a mission. You are a warrior. You are-”

A toilet flushes in one of the stalls behind you, and you nearly launch yourself through the ceiling.

A girl you vaguely recognize from your introductory programming class emerges, gives you an odd look as she washes her hands, and leaves without saying anything. You wait until the door swings shut, then press your forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and contemplate every life choice that has led you to this moment.

His name is Jungwon.

Yang Jungwon. Second year. Undeclared major but leaning toward something in the humanities, which you know because you may have done a bit of light, respectful, completely non-creepy research. He has a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and a laugh that sounds like sunshine if sunshine could make noise, and he holds doors open for people even when they’re still like ten feet away, which creates that awkward situation where the person has to speed-walk to not seem rude, but he never seems to mind. You first noticed him at the campus library during midterms when he quietly slid a pack of gummy bears across the table toward you at 2 AM, muttering something about glucose being good for brain function, and then went back to his book like he hadn’t just fundamentally altered the trajectory of your entire emotional existence.

That was four months ago. You’ve been pining ever since. Pining, yearning, longing, you’ve run through the entire lexicon of unrequited affection, and you’re exhausted. Today, you’ve decided, is the day it ends. One way or another.

You push yourself off the mirror, square your shoulders, and march out of the bathroom with the determination of someone going to war. The envelope is slightly damp from your grip, but it’s still intact, and the words inside are still true, and somewhere on this campus, Yang Jungwon is about to receive the most heartfelt confession letter ever written by a first-year student who has consumed an unhealthy amount of romance media.

Now you just have to find him.

—————

The hallway is bustling with students, the usual midday chaos of people rushing to classes or huddling in groups to complain about assignments. You scan the crowd, looking for a familiar face that might point you in the right direction, and your eyes land on a guy leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone with the dead-eyed expression of someone who has just finished a three-hour lab.

“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out about an octave higher than normal. You clear your throat. “Sorry, um, do you know where I can find Yang Jungwon? Second year?”

The guy looks up, blinks slowly, deciding whether or not to acknowledge your presence, and then shrugs. “PC room, I think. Saw him heading there like twenty minutes ago.”

The PC room. Of course. It’s in the engineering and informatics building, a place you’ve rarely ever been to. But you know where it is, roughly, and you thank the guy with what you hope is a normal smile and not the rictus grin of someone rushing toward emotional catastrophe.

The walk across campus takes approximately seven minutes, and you spend every single one of them rehearsing what you’re going to say. You’ve already written the letter, so technically you don’t have to say anything, you can just hand it over and flee but you want to say something. Something cool. Something memorable.

“Hey, Jungwon, this is for you.” Simple. Direct. Good.

“I wrote you something. No pressure, just read it when you have time.” Casual. Low-stakes. Excellent.

“Hi, I’ve been emotionally compromised by your existence for several months, please accept this paper rectangle of feelings.” Okay, maybe not that one.

The engineering building looms in front of you before you’re ready. You push through the main doors and immediately feel out of place. The students here move with a different energy, less frantic, more focused, the kind of people who probably know what a server is and have opinions about programming languages you’ve never heard of.

You follow the signs toward the PC room, your footsteps echoing in the corridor, and with every step, your heart climbs higher up your throat. This is it. This is the moment. You’re going to walk in there, find Jungwon, hand him the letter, and then whatever happens happens. At least you’ll have tried. At least you’ll have been brave, even if it’s only for thirty seconds.

The door to the PC room is slightly ajar, and you can hear voices inside, multiple voices, which gives you pause. You assumed he’d be alone. Or with maybe one other person.

You hesitate. Your hand hovers over the door handle. Every instinct is screaming at you to turn around, go back to your dorm, and spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been. And maybe you would, if not for the small, stubborn voice in the back of your mind that says: You’ve already come this far. Don’t you want to know? Don’t you want to be the kind of person who actually does the thing instead of just dreaming about it?

Yes. Yes, you do.

You squeeze your eyes shut, take a breath so deep it makes you lightheaded, and push the door open with more force than strictly necessary. It slams against the wall with a bang that makes approximately twelve heads swivel in your direction, and for one horrifying moment, you are the center of attention in a room full of strangers.

But you don’t see any of them. You only see the figure sitting at the computer closest to the door, his back half-turned to you, hair falling over his forehead, the exact silhouette you’ve been looking for. Or at least, the exact silhouette you think you’ve been looking for.

You don’t stop to confirm. You don’t let yourself think. You just march forward, thrust the letter out in front of you like a shield, and launch into the speech you’ve been rehearsing for three weeks.

“This is for you. I’m sorry if this is weird or sudden but I’ve liked you for a really long time and I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. You don’t have to respond right away. You don’t have to respond ever, actually. I just wanted you to know that someone out there thinks you’re wonderful and I wrote it all down because I’m better at writing than talking and honestly I might pass out if I keep standing here so please just take this and I’ll go-”

You finally look up.

And the face staring back at you is absolutely, categorically, one hundred percent not Jungwon.

The boy in front of you is taller than Jungwon. Broader shoulders. Sharper jawline. Different eyes, darker, deeper, currently widened in a mixture of surprise and something you can’t quite read. His lips are parted slightly, as if he was about to say something before you launched into your emotional word-vomit, and he’s holding a half-eaten protein bar that’s now frozen halfway to his mouth.

The room has gone completely, utterly silent.

You can feel the stares of every single person boring into the back of your head. Someone coughs. Someone else whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “did she just-” before being shushed by their neighbor.

And then the boy, the very handsome, very wrong boy, sets down his protein bar, takes the letter gently from your trembling hand, and says in a voice that’s low and smooth and completely unfamiliar: “Wow. Okay. What’s your name?”

This is the worst moment of your entire life. You are going to die right here, in this PC room, surrounded by computer monitors and half-empty energy drink cans and a dozen witnesses who will spread this story to every corner of the university within the next three hours. Your obituary will read: here lies Y/N, the loser who can’t even recognize her ultimate crush.

“Y/N,” you croak, because your mouth is apparently still functioning even though every other part of you has shut down. “L/N Y/N. First year. STEM.”

You don’t know why you said STEM. He didn’t ask for your department. You’re offering information nobody requested. This is a disaster.

But the boy, he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t decipher, his head tilted slightly to the side like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. He’s wearing a dark hoodie with the informatics department logo on it, and there’s a pair of expensive-looking headphones draped around his neck, and his hair is slightly mussed in a way that suggests he’s been running his fingers through it while concentrating. He’s absurdly good-looking, the kind of good-looking that makes you simultaneously want to stare and look away, and you’re only now noticing the way several girls in the room have been watching him since you entered, not just because of your blunder, but because they’ve been watching him.

“I’m Heeseung,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”

Lee Heeseung. The name registers somewhere in the back of your panic-addled brain. It’s familiar in the way that campus gossip is familiar, attached to words like hot and player and don’t get your hopes up because he’ll charm you and then move on. You’ve heard girls in your dorm talking about him in hushed, giggling tones, trading stories about brief encounters and misinterpreted invitations. And you, in your infinite wisdom, have just handed a love letter meant for someone else directly into his notorious hands.

You have to fix this. You have to tell him it was a mistake. You have to-

“I’m flattered,” Heeseung says, and his smile widens slightly, not quite a smirk but definitely approaching smirk territory. “Really. This is... I mean, no one’s ever confessed to me with an actual letter before. It’s kind of old school.” He turns the envelope over in his hands, examining it with what seems like genuine curiosity. “The handwriting is really pretty. Did you do the calligraphy yourself?”

“Yes,” you say, because you are physically incapable of lying when put on the spot, and also because your brain has apparently decided that the best course of action is to just answer whatever questions he asks like this is a normal conversation and not the emotional equivalent of a tornado.

“Impressive.” He looks at you, really looks at you, and something shifts in his expression. The teasing edge softens just a fraction. “A confession is a lot, though. I mean, I’m honored, but we don’t even know each other.”

This is your opening. This is the moment where you say “actually, that’s because this letter wasn’t meant for you, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, I’m so sorry, please forget this ever happened.” The words are right there, lined up on your tongue, ready to go.

But the room is still watching. A dozen pairs of eyes. The whispers have stopped, but the staring hasn’t, and you can feel every single gaze like a physical weight pressing down on you. If you correct him now, in front of everyone, you’ll have to explain. You’ll have to admit that you walked into a crowded room and confessed to the wrong person like an absolute buffoon. You’ll become a campus legend for all the wrong reasons: the girl who was too stupid to even identify her own crush. The story will follow you for the rest of your university career. You’ll never live it down.

But if you just... let him believe it... if you just nod and agree and leave as quickly as possible... you can fix this later. Privately. Without an audience. You can find him tomorrow, or send him a message, or do literally anything other than humiliate yourself further in front of all these people.

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“I know,” you hear yourself say. “It’s a lot. I know.”

Heeseung nods thoughtfully, like you’ve said something profound. “But I’m not against it. Starting slow, I mean. If you want.”

What.

“What,” you say, but it comes out more like a statement than a question.

“I’m okay with starting slow,” he repeats, and now the smile is definitely back, a little crooked, a little curious. “You’re cute. And clearly brave. I like that. So if you want to, I don’t know, get coffee sometime and see where this goes... I’m open to it.”

Someone in the room lets out a low whistle. Someone else says “Heeseung, are you serious right now?” in a tone of utter disbelief. But Heeseung doesn’t look away from you. He’s waiting for your answer, his gaze steady and warm, and you are standing in the epicenter of a complete and total catastrophe with absolutely no idea how to get out.

Say no. Say it was a mistake. Say the truth.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Okay?! Okay?!

“Okay,” he echoes, and the smile breaks fully across his face, transforming him from handsome to devastating. “Good. I’ll find you. Y/N, first year, STEM, right?”

You nod mutely.

“Cool.” He tucks your letter carefully into the pocket of his hoodie, like it’s something precious, like he’s planning to read it later, and the gesture makes your stomach twist with guilt so intense you think you might actually be sick. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

You don’t remember leaving the room. You don’t remember the walk back across campus or the elevator ride to your floor or the moment you collapsed face-first onto your dorm bed. All you know is that one moment you were standing in the PC room, and the next you are here, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single agonizing second on an endless loop.

You confessed to the wrong person.

You confessed to the wrong person.

And for some reason that you absolutely cannot comprehend, he said yes.

Across campus, in a PC room that has finally returned to its normal hum of activity, Lee Heeseung pulls a slightly crumpled lavender envelope out of his hoodie pocket and stares at it for a long moment.

“Dude,” says his friend Jay from the next computer over, not bothering to hide his grin. “What just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Heeseung says honestly. And he doesn’t. He’s used to attention, he knows how to handle it, how to smile and nod and gently redirect without hurting anyone’s feelings. It’s a skill he’s developed over the years, the only way he knows to deal with the unfortunate side effect of his people-pleasing tendencies. He’s nice to someone, he helps them with an assignment, he holds a door open or offers a pen, and suddenly they’re looking at him with stars in their eyes, and he doesn’t know how to tell them that he was just trying to be polite without sounding like an arrogant jerk. So he lets them down easy, or he avoids the situation entirely, and his reputation grows in ways that don’t reflect the truth at all.

But this, this is new. A letter. An actual, physical, handwritten letter, with swooping calligraphy and a lavender envelope and a girl who looked so terrified that he thought she might actually pass out right there on the linoleum floor.

She looked at him like he was a natural disaster. Like she was watching a building collapse in slow motion and couldn’t do anything to stop it.

And then she said okay anyway.

“She’s interesting,” Heeseung murmurs, more to himself than to Jay, and carefully opens the envelope.

“Interesting how?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy reading, his eyes moving slowly across the carefully penned words, the ink slightly smudged in places where the writer’s hand might have trembled. It’s beautiful. It’s earnest. It’s the kind of letter that someone writes when they mean every single word, when they’ve poured their entire heart onto the page without holding anything back.

He’s never received anything like it before.

And he wants to know more about the girl who wrote it, the girl who burst into his afternoon like a hurricane of nerves and feelings.

“Jay,” he says, still staring at the letter, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I think something interesting just walked into my life.”

He doesn’t notice the way his friend shakes his head and mutters something about “here we go again.”

He’s too busy wondering when he’ll see Y/N next.

—————

The following forty-eight hours of your life can be accurately described as a masterclass in strategic avoidance and tactical regret.

You skip two classes. Not on purpose, exactly, you just can’t bring yourself to leave your dorm room when every shadow in the hallway might be Lee Heeseung coming to collect on that coffee date you apparently agreed to in a moment of temporary insanity. You survive on instant noodles and the protein bars your friend left on her desk with a sticky note that said “FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY,” which this absolutely qualifies as. You watch three entire seasons of Bridgerton without retaining a single moment because your brain is too busy replaying the PC room incident on a continuous, merciless loop.

“I’m Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”

“I’m okay with starting slow.”

“You’re cute.”

You bury your face in your pillow and scream, but it comes out muffled and pathetic, like a small animal giving up on life.

By day three, you’ve developed a system. You only leave your room during off-peak hours, skittering through campus, your head on a constant swivel. You’ve memorized the locations of every vending machine in buildings Heeseung is unlikely to frequent. You’ve started taking the long way to your remaining classes, cutting through the art department and the greenhouse and once, memorably, a service corridor that smelled strongly of bleach and soap. You’ve become a ghost. A phantom. A creature of the shadows who survives on granola bars and instant noddles.

But the problem with running away from your problems is that your problems don’t actually go anywhere. They just wait. And think about you. And eventually, when you least expect it, they catch up.

It happens on a Thursday.

You’re crouched behind a potted plant near the science building, scanning the courtyard for any sign of tall, attractive informatics students, when your phone buzzes with a text from your best friend, Yunjin.

Yunjin: heard you’ve been living like a sewer rat. want me to bring you real food?

You: can’t. i’m in the middle of a crisis

Yunjin: You’re executing what we talked about yet?

You: it’s in process

Yunjin: at the end of the day, you will have to tell him

You stare at the message for a long moment. It’s such a simple solution. So elegant. So reasonable. And yet, every time you imagine yourself walking up to Heeseung and saying “actually, I meant to give that letter to someone else,” your entire body physically recoils like you’ve touched a hot stove. The humiliation would be astronomical. The look on his face, surprise, then confusion, then that horrible moment of realization that he was never supposed to be the recipient would haunt you for the rest of your natural life. And you’d still have to explain the Jungwon part. And Jungwon would find out. And then you’d be the weird girl who couldn’t even confess to the right person, and Heeseung would be the guy who got accidentally confessed to, and everyone would laugh about it for weeks, and-

Your phone buzzes again.

Yunjin: i can hear you overthinking from across campus. just rip off the bandaid. what’s the worst that could happen

You type back a single message: he could tell everyone and i’d have to transfer schools and change my name and become a farmer in New Zeland

Yunjin: dramatic. but valid. good luck with your plant hiding

You shove your phone back into your pocket and peek around the potted plant again. The courtyard is clear. This is your window. You take a deep breath, steel your nerves, and scuttle out from behind the foliage.

The plan for today is simple: find Heeseung, explain the misunderstanding, and disappear forever. You’ve spent the entire morning psyching yourself up for this. You’ve practiced the speech in the mirror seventeen times. You’ve even written a script on your phone that you can refer to in case of emergency. It’s thorough, it’s clear, it leaves absolutely no room for misinterpretation, and it ends with a sincere apology and a polite request that you both pretend this never happened. It’s perfect. It’s foolproof. All you have to do is locate the target.

Easier said than done. You’ve been looking for him since yesterday, not to talk to, but to observe from a safe distance so you could plan your approach and the universe, in its infinite comedic wisdom, has made him completely unfindable. It’s like he vanished off the face of the earth the moment you actually wanted to see him. Three days ago, you couldn’t walk three feet without catching a glimpse of him, but now? Now he’s a ghost. A myth. A concept rather than a physical entity.

You’re going to have to ask for help.

This is, objectively, a terrible idea. Asking for help means talking to people, and talking to people about Heeseung means potentially revealing that you’re looking for him, which means potentially revealing why you’re looking for him, which means the whole campus could know about the letter situation by lunchtime. But you’re running out of options, and you’re running out of granola bars, and you can’t live behind potted plants forever.

You find your informant near the engineering building, a girl with neon green headphones and a laptop covered in stickers, sitting on a bench and typing furiously at something that looks like code. She seems approachable. She seems like she won’t ask too many questions. You approach with what you hope is casual confidence and not the desperate energy of someone who has been living on protein bars.

“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out surprisingly normal. Points for you. “Do you know where I can find Lee Heeseung? Third year, informatics?”

The girl looks up, her eyes flicking over you with mild curiosity. She doesn’t ask why you’re looking for him, which makes you want to hug her. “Heeseung? Yeah, I think I saw him heading to the quad about ten minutes ago. Something about meeting up with some people before his next class.”

The quad. Of course. The most open, public, exposed location on the entire campus. The place where literally everyone congregates. The absolute last place you want to have a conversation about accidental love confessions.

“Great,” you say, and your voice is definitely an octave higher now. “Great. Thank you. Thanks. So much.”

The girl gives you a weird look, shrugs, and goes back to her coding.

You’re already moving, your feet carrying you toward the quad before your brain can catch up and talk you out of it. This is fine. This is progress. You’ll find him, you’ll pull him aside, you’ll give him the speech, and then you’ll be free. You’ll be a normal person again. You’ll be able to walk through campus without checking every corner for a tall informatics student who thinks you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date.

The quad is bustling when you arrive, clusters of students sprawled across the grass and gathered around the stone benches near the fountain. The afternoon sun is bright and warm, the kind of weather that makes everyone want to be outside, which is lovely and picturesque and deeply inconvenient for your purposes. You squint against the glare, scanning the crowd for a familiar dark-haired figure.

No Heeseung.

You circle the perimeter, weaving between groups of friends and dodging a frisbee that comes sailing dangerously close to your head. You check near the fountain, near the big oak tree, near the cluster of food trucks that’s set up along the east edge. Still no Heeseung. Your informant said ten minutes ago, he should be here. Unless he already left. Unless you missed him. Unless this is a sign from the universe that you should give up and commit to the farmer life plan after all.

You’re so focused on your search that you don’t notice someone approaching until a shadow falls across your path, and a voice, warm, familiar, the exact voice you’ve been daydreaming about for four months, says:

“Y/N? Hey, it is you!”

You look up.

Yang Jungwon is standing right in front of you, smiling like the sun just came out from behind a cloud, and every single coherent thought in your brain immediately evaporates.

He’s wearing a soft-looking cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his dark hair is slightly windswept, and there’s a tiny mole near his chin that you’ve never noticed before but is now seared into your memory forever. He’s holding a book, something with a cracked spine and a title in a language you don’t recognize and he’s looking at you with genuine, undiluted pleasure, like running into you is the best thing that’s happened to him all day.

“It’s me,” you say, because you are a conversational genius. “I mean. Yes. Hi. Hello.”

Smooth. Flawless execution. Ten out of ten.

Jungwon doesn’t seem to notice your complete lack of verbal grace. His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in exactly the way you’ve catalogued in your mental Jungwon database. “I thought I recognized you. You’re in my philosophy elective, right? Front row, near the window?”

He knows where you sit. He knows where you sit. This is both the best and worst information you’ve ever received, because on one hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, but on the other hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, and now you have to be a normal human being and not the disaster you currently are.

“Front row near the window,” you confirm, nodding a little too vigorously. “That’s me. I like the natural light. For... note-taking purposes.”

“Makes sense.” He shifts his weight, tucking the book under his arm. “You take really detailed notes, by the way. I sat behind you once, and I was honestly impressed. Your color-coding system is no joke.”

Jungwon has looked at your notes. Jungwon has been impressed by your notes. Your brain is short-circuiting at approximately the speed of light, and you have to physically resist the urge to fist-pump in the middle of the quad.

“Thank you,” you manage. “I have a lot of highlighters. Maybe too many. Is there such a thing as too many highlighters? I don’t think so, but I’ve been told my stationery collection is concerning.”

Oh no. Why are you talking about stationery? You need to say something charming. Something witty. Something that will make him see you as more than the girl with the aggressive color-coding system.

“I don’t think it’s concerning,” Jungwon says, and there’s a teasing lilt to his voice that makes your knees go weak. “Passionate, maybe. Dedicated. I respect it.”

“Passionate and dedicated,” you repeat faintly. “That’s... yeah. That’s my brand.”

He laughs, and it’s exactly like you remember, bright and warm, the kind of laugh that makes you want to do whatever you just did again and again just to hear it on repeat. “I like it. Passion is underrated.” He tilts his head, studying you with an expression you can’t quite read. “So what brings you to the quad? You usually eat lunch in the science building courtyard, don’t you?”

Your heart stutters. He knows where you eat lunch. He’s observed your habits. This is either a sign of mutual interest or you’ve accidentally become the subject of a sociological case study, and at this point you’re willing to accept either outcome.

“I’m, um, looking for someone,” you say, and the confession letter debacle comes crashing back into your consciousness like a wrecking ball through a glass window. Right. You’re supposed to be finding Heeseung. You’re supposed to be fixing the misunderstanding. That’s why you’re here. Not to bask in the radiant warmth of Jungwon’s attention like a lizard on a sunny rock.

“Anyone I know?” Jungwon asks, and there’s something in his tone, curiosity, maybe.

“Probably not,” you say quickly. “Just a... just a person. A random person. Not important.”

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but before he can press further, a new voice cuts through the afternoon air like a knife through butter.

“There you are.”

You freeze. Your blood turns to ice. Every cell in your body screams in unison: run.

Lee Heeseung is walking toward you across the quad, his headphones hanging around his neck and his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket. He looks exactly as devastatingly attractive as he did three days ago, which is deeply unfair. His expression is a mixture of curiosity and amusement, and when his eyes meet yours, that slight smile, the one that’s not quite a smirk but definitely is a smirk’s second cousin, curves across his lips.

“I heard you’ve been looking for me,” he says, coming to a stop beside Jungwon like this is the most natural gathering in the world. “You know, if you wanted to see me, you could have just messaged. I would have given you my number at the PC room.”

Jungwon looks between you and Heeseung with visible confusion, his earlier smile fading into something more guarded. “Wait. You two know each other?”

This is it. This is the moment the universe has been building toward. Every terrible decision, every act of cowardice, every misguided attempt to avoid embarrassment, it’s all led here, to this exact spot on the quad, with the wrong guy standing next to the right guy and your entire romantic future hanging in the balance.

“I wouldn’t say know,” you begin, but Heeseung is already talking over you, apparently immune to the desperate telepathic signals you’re trying to beam directly into his brain.

“She confessed to me two days ago,” Heeseung says, and his tone is so casual, so conversational, like he’s discussing the weather or what he had for lunch. “Walked right into the PC room, handed me a letter, told me she’d liked me for a long time. It was very romantic. Very old-school. I was impressed.”

Silence. Jungwon stares at Heeseung. Then at you. Then back at Heeseung.

“She... confessed to you,” Jungwon repeats slowly, and his voice has gone flat in a way that makes your heart splinter into approximately seven thousand pieces.

“Full confession,” Heeseung confirms, still smiling. “I’m thinking we’ll start with coffee. Keep it simple, you know? She’s shy. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

This is a nightmare. This is a waking, breathing, actively-unfolding nightmare, and you are trapped in it like a fly in amber, unable to move or speak or do anything except watch as every possible future with Jungwon crumbles to dust before your eyes.

Because here’s the thing you realize in that horrible, crystal-clear moment: you can’t correct Heeseung now. Not in front of Jungwon. Not when Jungwon has just been told, in no uncertain terms, that you confessed to someone else. If you explain the truth, that the letter was actually meant for Jungwon, that the whole thing was a catastrophic mistake, then what? Jungwon would know you’d been planning to confess to him, but he’d also know that you somehow managed to mess it up so spectacularly that you confessed to his friend instead. You’d look incompetent at best and completely unhinged at worst. And Heeseung would be humiliated, and Jungwon would be awkward, and you’d be the epicenter of a social catastrophe so immense that all three of you would have to avoid each other for the rest of your academic careers.

You are trapped. Completely, utterly, irreversibly trapped.

“Interesting,” Jungwon says, and the word is so neutral that it cuts deeper than any insult ever could. “I didn’t realize you two ran in the same circles.”

“We don’t,” you croak. “We really, really don’t.”

“We’re just getting started,” Heeseung says cheerfully, and he has the audacity to wink at you. Like this is some kind of adorable inside joke instead of the emotional apocalypse it actually is.

You have to get out of here. You have to escape before the sob building in your chest forces its way out and makes everything infinitely worse. You can feel it pressing against your ribs, hot and insistent, and if you don’t leave right now, you’re going to burst into tears in the middle of the quad in front of both of them, and then the disaster will be complete.

“I have to go,” you blurt out, and you’re already backing away, your feet moving before your brain can issue any kind of warning. “I have… a thing. A class. A lab. A lab class. It’s very important. I can’t miss it. I have to go.”

Heeseung’s brow furrows slightly. “Wait, I thought you wanted to talk to-”

“Nope! No talking! We’re good! Everything’s fine! Bye!”

You spin around and power-walk toward the nearest exit, which happens to be in the direction of the fountain, which you only realize when your foot catches on the low stone ledge and you go sprawling forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.

Your knee hits the ground. Your dignity hits the ground approximately three feet to the left. Several people turn to look.

“Y/N!” That’s Jungwon’s voice, concerned and moving closer, and you absolutely cannot handle that right now.

“I’m fine!” you shriek, scrambling to your feet with adrenaline-fueled desperation. “Totally fine! Happens all the time! I’m very clumsy! It’s part of my charm!”

You don’t look back. You can’t look back. If you look back, you’ll see Jungwon’s worried expression and Heeseung’s confused one, and you’ll have to confront the full magnitude of what just happened, and your fragile emotional state simply cannot withstand that kind of pressure. So you run. Not jog, not power-walk…run. Across the quad, past the food trucks, through a gap between two buildings, and out onto the main campus pathway like the hounds of hell are snapping at your heels.

You don’t stop until you reach the arts building, and you don’t start breathing normally until you’ve locked yourself in a practice room on the third floor, surrounded by soundproof walls and a piano that’s seen better days. You slide down against the door, pull your knees up to your chest, and let out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a wail.

Everything is ruined. Everything. You had one chance, one single, solitary chance to fix the misunderstanding and salvage your dignity and maybe, just maybe, preserve the possibility of something with Jungwon somewhere down the line. And instead, you let your hopeless romantic heart get distracted by a five-minute conversation about philosophy notes and highlighters, and now you’re the girl who confessed to Lee Heeseung, and Jungwon thinks you’re interested in someone else, and there is no conceivable way to untangle this mess without making everything exponentially worse.

You’re going to have to transfer schools. You’re going to have to move to another country. You’re going to have to fake your own death and start a new identity as a goat farmer in New Zeland.

The door handle jiggles behind you. “Occupied!” you yell, your voice cracking.

“Y/N? Is that you?”

Your best friend Yunjin’s voice filters through the door, muffled but unmistakable, and the sound of it is enough to crack the dam you’ve been desperately trying to hold together. You scramble to your feet, fumble with the lock, and yank the door open to reveal Yunjin standing in the hallway with a cup of bubble tea in each hand and an expression of profound concern on her face.

“I saw you running,” she says, her eyes scanning your disheveled appearance. “Like, truly running. I’ve never seen you run before. You once told me running was for people who don’t appreciate the journey.”

“Yunjin,” you crumble, and your voice is so pitiful that she immediately sets down both drinks and pulls you into a hug.

“Okay,” she says, steering you back into the practice room and closing the door behind her. “Okay. Sit down. Tell me everything. What happened? Did you talk to Heeseung? Did you fix it?”

You laugh, but it comes out wrong, high and wobbly, on the edge of hysteria. “Fix it? Fix it? Yunjin, I made it so much worse. I made it so much worse that I think I actually created new dimensions of worse. Scientists are going to have to invent new words to describe how badly I messed this up.”

“That’s... improbable,” Yunjin says carefully. “But I’m listening.”

She settles onto the piano bench, and you collapse onto the floor in front of her, crossing your legs and burying your face in your hands. The story spills out of you in a torrent, the quad, the search for Heeseung, the unexpected appearance of Jungwon, the conversation that made your heart soar, and then the moment Heeseung appeared like a harbinger of doom and casually announced your confession to the one person you never wanted to know about it.

“And then I fell,” you finish miserably. “In front of both of them. And I ran away. And now Jungwon thinks I like Heeseung, and Heeseung thinks I like Heeseung, and I can’t correct either of them without making everything even weirder, and my life is a romantic comedy written by a petty incel.”

Yunjin is quiet for a moment. Then she lets out a long, slow breath. “Okay. That’s... that’s a lot.”

“I know.”

“And you’re telling me you couldn’t just say, hey Heeseung, sorry for the mix-up, the letter wasn’t for you, my bad?”

You look up at her, your eyes rimmed with red. “In front of Jungwon? After Heeseung already told him I confessed? What would Jungwon think of me?”

Yunjin considers this. “That you’re a disaster, probably.”

“Exactly!”

“But a lovable disaster,” she adds. “Disasters can be endearing.”

“Yunjin, please focus.”

She holds up her hands in surrender, but there’s a glint in her eye that you recognize, the one that means she’s about to drop some wisdom on you whether you’re ready for it or not. Yunjin has been your best friend since orientation week, when you both accidentally joined the wrong club meeting and ended up spending two hours in a competitive gardening seminar before realizing your mistake. She’s practical where you’re dreamy, decisive where you’re hesitant, and she’s talked you down from approximately four hundred anxiety spirals since the semester started. If anyone can find a way out of this mess, it’s her.

“Okay,” she says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “Let me present you with an alternative perspective.”

“I’m listening.”

“Lee Heeseung,” she says, ticking off points on her fingers, “has a reputation. A big one. Everyone knows it. He’s the guy who’s super nice to everyone, especially girls, and then they fall for him and he gets all surprised when they expect something more, and then things fizzle out because he wasn’t looking for anything serious.” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “Sound familiar?”

You blink. “I mean... I’ve heard things. But he didn’t seem like-”

“That’s his whole thing,” Yunjin interrupts. “He doesn’t seem like it. That’s why it works. He likes when everyone is after him. But nice doesn’t equal interested, so girls get the wrong idea and then they get hurt. It’s a cycle.” She pops a tapioca pearl into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “My point is, you don’t need to do anything. You don’t need to fix this. You just need to wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For him to get bored.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Think about it. You’re not actually interested in him, right? You’re not going to fall all over yourself trying to get his attention. You’re not going to be waiting outside his classes or accidentally showing up wherever he hangs out. You’re not going to be like every other girl who’s chased after him.”

You frown. “So... what, I just... do nothing?”

“No, you do the opposite of chasing.” Yunjin grins, and it’s slightly wicked. “You make yourself as uninteresting to him as possible. You’re awkward, you’re weird, you’re clearly not trying to impress him. You don’t dress up when you know you might see him. You talk about boring things. You mention, I don’t know, your extensive collection of vintage stamps or whatever nerdy hobby you can think of. You make yourself boring.”

“I don’t have a stamp collection.”

“Then make one up! The point is, Heeseung is used to girls who want him. If you clearly don’t want him, his interest is going to fizzle out faster than a cheap sparkler. He’ll move on to the next girl who bats her eyelashes at him, and you’ll be free. No confrontation necessary.”

You turn this over in your mind. It’s... not the worst idea you’ve ever heard. In fact, compared to your current strategy of blind panic and tactical fleeing, it’s practically genius. If you can’t correct the misunderstanding without making everything worse, maybe you can just... let it die on its own. Let Heeseung’s fabled short attention span work in your favor. Become so aggressively unappealing that he loses interest within a week and never thinks about you again.

And once he’s out of the picture, once enough time has passed, maybe you can try again with Jungwon. Properly. With better aim.

“You’re a genius,” you tell Yunjin, the hope creeping back into your voice. “An absolute genius. I could kiss you.”

“Please don’t, you’re covered in grass stains.” She nudges one of the bubble teas toward you with her foot. “Drink your tea. Hydrate. And then we’re going to brainstorm all the ways you can make yourself seem as unappealing as possible to a hot third-year informatics student.”

You grab the drink and take a long sip, the sweetness settling something in your chest. For the first time in three days, you feel something other than panic. You feel strategic. You feel determined. Lee Heeseung might think you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date, but he hasn’t met the version of you that’s about to emerge, a version so bland, so uninteresting, so aggressively mediocre that he’ll run in the opposite direction before the week is out.

“Okay,” you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Okay. Let’s do this. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested starts now.”

Yunjin raises her bubble tea in a toast. “To being boring.”

You clink your cup against hers. “To being boring.”

Somewhere across campus Heeseung is still standing in the quad with a confused expression on his face and a lavender envelope in his pocket, wondering why the girl who supposedly has a crush on him just sprinted away like she was being chased by bears.

He’s not used to this. He’s not used to any of this.

And that, he realizes with a small, bemused shake of his head, is exactly what makes it so interesting.

—————

Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested lasted exactly four days before it encountered its first major obstacle.

That obstacle is approximately six feet tall, has flowing hair that falls perfectly across his forehead, and is currently walking directly toward your table in the cafeteria with a tray in his hands and a smile on his face that suggests he has absolutely no idea he's supposed to be losing interest in you.

You spot him approximately 2.3 seconds too late. By the time your brain registers the approaching danger, you are already mid-bite into a sad cafeteria sandwich, your mouth full of bread and lettuce and the dawning realization that you are trapped. There is no escape route. Your table is in the corner, surrounded on three sides by walls and on the fourth side by Heeseung's rapidly approaching form. You are a cornered animal. A very stupid, very panicked cornered animal with mayonnaise on her chin.

"Y/N!" Heeseung says your name like it's his favorite word, bright and warm and entirely too enthusiastic for someone who's supposed to be a notorious womanizer with a short attention span. "I was hoping I'd run into you. Mind if I sit?"

Mind if he sits? Of course you mind. You mind immensely. You mind with every fiber of your being. Sitting with Heeseung is the exact opposite of what Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is supposed to accomplish. Sitting with Heeseung means talking to Heeseung, and talking to Heeseung means opportunities to accidentally charm him, and charming him is categorically Not The Goal.

But Heeseung is already pulling out the chair across from you, and his smile is so genuine, and there's a tiny bit of what looks like grease on his cheekbone that suggests he's just come from some kind of engineering lab, and you are weak. You are so, so weak.

"Go ahead," you hear yourself say, and then immediately want to punch yourself in the face.

Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested, Day Four, 12:34 PM: catastrophic failure already in progress.

Heeseung settles into the chair with an easy grace, setting his tray down and immediately stealing one of your fries like you're old friends who share food on a regular basis. You watch the fry disappear into his mouth and feel a small part of your soul leave your body.

"So," he says, leaning back and studying you with those dark, unreadable eyes. "You ran away from me pretty fast the other day. Should I be worried? Do I have something on my face?"

He doesn't. He absolutely doesn't. He has the kind of face that belongs on a billboard, all sharp angles and soft edges and that one little mole on his forehead that you are definitely not noticing because noticing things about Heeseung's face is counterproductive to the mission.

"No," you say quickly. "No, you're fine. Your face is fine. I mean, you don't have anything on your face. I just remembered I had somewhere to be. Very suddenly. It was urgent."

"An urgent… lab class?" Heeseung's lips twitch. "That's what you said, right? An urgent lab class on a Thursday afternoon?"

Your face heats. "Yes. Exactly. Lab class. Very urgent. Science doesn't wait."

"Mmm." He pops another one of your fries into his mouth. "Well, the good news is, you don't look like you're in a hurry right now. So we can actually talk. You know, like normal people who are supposedly getting to know each other?"

Right. Getting to know each other. Because you confessed to him. Because he thinks you like him. Because you're living in an elaborate lie of your own making.

This is your chance, though. This is the perfect opportunity to implement Phase One of the Make Him Uninterested plan: Be Weird and Off-Putting. You just have to be the most boring, strange, unappealing version of yourself that you can possibly imagine. How hard can it be?

Pretty hard, as it turns out, because your brain chooses this exact moment to go completely blank.

"So," Heeseung says, apparently unbothered by your silence, "tell me about yourself. What do you like to do for fun? Besides writing beautiful love letters and then running away from the recipient?"

You choke on your own saliva. Just… straight up choke on nothing, like a cartoon character. "I don't…that wasn't…I do normal things. Normal fun things. Like… watching paint dry. And counting ceiling tiles. Very relaxing. You should try it."

Heeseung's expression flickers, confusion, amusement, something in between. "Counting ceiling tiles?"

"There are forty-seven in this cafeteria," you say, doubling down with the desperate energy of someone who has already committed to the bit. "Forty-eight if you count the one that's partially covered by that vent over there. But some people don't count partial tiles. It's a philosophical debate, really."

"Fascinating," Heeseung says, and the worst part is that he sounds like he actually means it. "What else?"

What else? What else can you say that will make you sound completely unappealing? You cast around for inspiration, your eyes landing on your sandwich. Okay. Fine. If words can't do the job, maybe actions can.

You pick up your sandwich with both hands and take the weirdest bite you can physically manage, mouth open slightly too wide, chewing with exaggerated jaw movements, making an unfortunate amount of noise in the process. You feel like a cow. You look like a cow. You are embodying the spirit of a cow, and surely, surely, this is enough to make any self-respecting hot informatics student run for the hills.

Heeseung watches you chew. His expression doesn't change.

"Good sandwich?" he asks mildly.

"Mmf," you say, still chewing, still being a cow. "Very good. I love-"

And then the lettuce hits the back of your throat.

You don't know how it happens. One moment you're chewing normally, well, abnormally, but in a controlled way and the next moment a piece of lettuce stages a rebellion and lodges itself directly in your windpipe. Your eyes go wide. Your hand flies to your throat. You make a sound that is somewhere between a wheeze and a honk.

"Y/N?" Heeseung's amused expression shifts to concern. "Are you okay?"

You are not okay. You are choking. You are choking on lettuce in front of Lee Heeseung in the middle of the cafeteria, and this is how you're going to die.

Heeseung is on his feet now, moving around the table with surprising speed. "Hey, hey, can you breathe? Do you need me to-"

You shake your head frantically, still making dying cow noises, and grab your water bottle with shaking hands. The first gulp does nothing. The second gulp, by some miracle, dislodges the lettuce just enough for you to cough it up into a napkin with all the grace and dignity of a cat hacking up a hairball.

Silence.

The entire cafeteria, you're convinced, is staring at you. In reality, probably only a few nearby tables have noticed, but it feels apocalyptic. You sit there, red-faced and teary-eyed, clutching a napkin full of your own near-death experience, and want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

Heeseung kneels beside your chair, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he isn't sure if touching you would be welcome. "Hey. You're okay. You're okay, right? Do you need me to get you anything? More water? A doctor? A new sandwich without lettuce?"

His voice is gentle. Genuinely gentle. Not the smooth, charming tone you expect from someone with his reputation, but something softer, something that sounds almost like real concern.

"I'm fine," you croak, your voice ravaged. "I'm fine. That happens. All the time. I'm very bad at eating. It's one of my traits."

"One of your traits," Heeseung repeats, and the corner of his mouth twitches despite his obvious worry. "Being bad at eating?"

"It's a lifestyle choice."

He laughs. Not a polite chuckle or a mocking snicker, but a real laugh, surprised and bright and completely unguarded. He sits back down in his chair, shaking his head, and looks at you with something that is definitely not boredom or disinterest.

"You're really something else, you know that?"

You don't know how to respond to that, so you don't. You just sit there, still clutching your napkin of shame, and wonder how Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has somehow resulted in him laughing at your jokes and looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's encountered all week.

"So," Heeseung says, propping his chin on his hand, "I've been wondering. What made you decide to confess to me? Was there a specific moment? Something I did?"

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

This is the worst possible question he could ask. You can't tell him the truth…I didn't mean to confess to you, I meant to confess to your friend, you just happened to be sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time, please don't hate me…but you also can't just… not answer. He's looking at you expectantly, his dark eyes curious and open, and you have approximately three seconds to come up with a convincing lie before the silence becomes too awkward to recover from.

"Your… kindness," you say, grasping at straws. "You're very… kind. To everyone. I noticed."

Heeseung tilts his head. "My kindness?"

"Very kind," you repeat, nodding vigorously. "So kind. The kindest. I saw you… hold a door open for someone once. It was… inspiring."

"I held a door open."

"A door. Yes. It was a very heavy door. And you held it. For a long time. Multiple people went through. It was very impressive."

Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and you stare back, your face burning, your soul evacuating your body. This is it. This is the moment he realizes you are completely unhinged and decides to never speak to you again. This is the victory of Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested.

"That's…" Heeseung starts, and then pauses. "That's the first time anyone's ever confessed to me because I held a door open. Usually I get compliments about my face. Or my voice. One girl told me I had a nose made to be sat on, which I still don't fully understand."

"Your node is… fine," you say weakly. "I didn't notice your nose. Or your face at all. Just the door. The door was the important part."

"A door," Heeseung says, and that smile is spreading across his face again, the one that makes him look less like a notorious player and more like someone who has just found a particularly entertaining puzzle. "You wrote me a three-page love letter because I held a door open."

"The calligraphy alone took a week," you say, and immediately regret it.

Heeseung laughs again, and this time it's softer, almost wondering. "You're not what I expected," he says. "At all."

"Is that… good or bad?"

"I haven't decided yet." But he's still smiling, and his eyes are still fixed on you with that curious intensity, and you're starting to get the sinking feeling that everything you do, no matter how strange or off-putting you try to be, is having the exact opposite effect of what you intend.

You need a new strategy. Something foolproof. Something so aggressively unappealing that even the most determined people-pleaser can't pretend to be interested.

And then, like a gift from the gods of social awkwardness, the topic of video games comes up.

Heeseung mentions something about blowing off steam after a tough assignment by playing a few rounds of something, and the question slips out before you can stop it: "Wait, do you play League of Legends?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes. You?"

And that's it. That's the moment the dam breaks.

You don't mean to start geeking out. It just happens. One moment you're thinking be boring, be uninteresting, be bland, and the next moment you're fifteen minutes deep into an impassioned monologue about the current meta, the problems with the jungle role, and why Riot Games needs to nerf a specific champion into the ground before she single-handedly destroys the competitive scene.

"-and don't even get me started on the new items, because the balance team clearly doesn't play their own game, which is fine, whatever, it's not like I have strong opinions about it except I absolutely do, and I wrote an entire essay about it on the subreddit that got like two thousand upvotes, so clearly I'm not the only one who thinks the armor penetration scaling is completely broken-"

You stop.

You stop because you have just realized, with dawning horror, that you have been talking for an incredibly long time without letting Heeseung get a single word in. You have been gesticulating. You have been making sound effects. At one point, you're pretty sure you drew a diagram on a napkin to illustrate the optimal jungle pathing route.

This is it. This is definitely, absolutely it. There is no way a hot third-year informatics student wants to listen to a first-year STEM girl rant about video game balance for fifteen straight minutes. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has just achieved its first genuine success.

You brace yourself for the polite excuse, the awkward glance at his phone, the slow backing away.

Instead, Heeseung leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and says: "Okay, but hear me out, what if the armor penetration scaling isn't the problem, and it's actually the base damage values that need to be adjusted? Because if you look at the win rate data across different elos, the issue isn't consistent at all levels of play."

You blink.

"I main ADC," he adds, as if this is a perfectly normal confession. "So trust me, I feel your pain about the jungle situation. Do you know how many times I've been left to solo dragon because my jungler was AFK farming? Too many. Too many times."

"You… main ADC?"

"Vayne and Kai'Sa mostly. Sometimes Jhin if I'm feeling dramatic."

You have no response to this. Your brain has short-circuited somewhere around the phrase "win rate data across different elos," and it's still rebooting.

"Your essay on the subreddit," Heeseung continues, pulling out his phone. "What was the title? I want to read it. I love seeing well-reasoned arguments about game balance, and honestly, most of what gets posted is just people complaining without any actual data to back it up."

"It was… it was called The Current State of Armor Penetration: A Statistical Analysis and Why I'm Losing My Mind," you say faintly.

Heeseung types something into his phone, scrolls for a moment, and then his face lights up. "Found it. Two thousand three hundred upvotes and fourteen awards? That's impressive. Wait, you made graphs? You made graphs?"

"I was very passionate about the subject."

"Passionate," Heeseung repeats, looking up from his phone with an expression you can't quite read. "Yeah. I'm starting to get that about you."

He tucks his phone away and smiles at you, and it isn't the smooth, practiced smile you expect from the campus womanizer. It's something smaller. Something realer. Something that makes your stomach do a weird, traitorous flip that you immediately try to suppress.

"You know," he says, tilting his head as he studies you, "you remind me of a mouse."

Your brain screeches to a halt. "A… mouse?"

"Yeah. A little field mouse. The way your nose scrunches up when you're thinking, and how you get all twitchy and skittish when you're nervous. It's cute. It's really cute."

Cute. He calls you cute. He compares you to a rodent and somehow makes it sound like a compliment, and worst of all, worst of all, you can feel a traitorous blush spreading across your cheeks like wildfire.

"I'm not…I don't…mice are not cute. Mice are pests. They carry diseases. I'm basically a health hazard."

Heeseung laughs, and it's the same genuine laugh from before, and he's looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's seen in years. "A health hazard. Right. Well, consider me warned."

He stands up, gathering his tray, and for one beautiful, hopeful moment, you think the ordeal is over. But then he pauses, looking down at you with that unreadable expression, and says the words that haunt you for the rest of the day:

"I was interested before, but now?" He shakes his head, still smiling. "Now I'm really interested. See you around, little mouse."

And then he walks away, leaving you alone at your corner table with a half-eaten sandwich, a napkin full of regurgitated lettuce, and the sinking realization that Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is not only failing, it's backfiring spectacularly.

You try to be weird, and he calls you cute.

You try to be boring, and he engages with your niche gaming opinions.

You try to choke to death in front of him, and he kneels beside your chair with genuine concern in his eyes.

You bang your forehead against the cafeteria table once, twice, three times, not caring who sees. This is a disaster. This is an unmitigated, unprecedented, absolutely catastrophic disaster. Hana's plan was supposed to work. Heeseung was supposed to get bored. He was supposed to move on. He was not supposed to look at you like you're a puzzle he wants to solve, or call you a mouse in a tone of voice that makes your heart do gymnastics, or read your League of Legends essay and compliment your graphs.

You need to regroup. You need to call an emergency meeting with Yunjin. You need to figure out a new strategy before this situation spirals even further out of control.

But first, you need to go to the library and return the books that are due today before you accrue another fine, because no matter how catastrophic your love life becomes, the university library shows no mercy.

—————

The library is your sanctuary. It always has been, a quiet, climate-controlled haven where the smell of old paper and the soft hum of fluorescent lights can soothe even the most tensed of nerves. After the cafeteria incident, you need sanctuary more than ever. You slip through the main doors with your stack of books clutched to your chest, inhaling the familiar scent of knowledge and dust, and feel some of the tension begin to ease from your shoulders.

Everything is fine. Everything is going to be fine. You return your books, you find Yunjin, you regroup, and you figure out a way to-

"Y/N?"

The voice comes from somewhere to your left, and you know that voice. You know it the way a flower knows the sun, the way a compass knows north, the way a hopeless romantic knows the exact cadence of her crush's greeting.

Jungwon is sitting at a table near the history section, surrounded by a fortress of textbooks and loose papers. He's wearing glasses…glasses…and his hair is slightly mussed from what you assume is hours of intense studying, and he's looking at you with that smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your entire nervous system short-circuit.

"Hey," he says, waving you over. "What are you doing here?"

Existing in the same space as you, you think. Breathing the same air. Trying not to spontaneously combust.

"Returning books," you say, holding up your stack as evidence. "I have some overdue ones. The library fines are no joke."

"Tell me about it. I had to pay fifteen thousand won last semester because I forgot about a book I'd checked out for a research paper." Jungwon winces at the memory. "My wallet still hasn't recovered."

"That's brutal."

"The library giveth, and the library taketh away."

You laugh, and it comes out surprisingly normal, not too loud, not too high-pitched, just a regular human laugh from a regular human person who is definitely not having an internal meltdown about how good Jungwon looks in glasses.

"Hey," Jungwon says, glancing at the empty chair across from him, "if you're not in a hurry, do you want to study together? I've been here for three hours and my brain is starting to melt. It would be nice to have some company."

Your heart stops.

Yang Jungwon, the Yang Jungwon, the owner of the smile and the laugh and the gummy bears at 2 AM is asking you to study with him. This is the kind of moment you've daydreamed about for months. This is a meet-cute in progress. This is the universe throwing you a lifeline after the cafeteria disaster, a chance to actually spend time with the boy you've been pining over since midterms.

"Yes," you say, before your brain can remind you of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. "Yes, I'd…I'd love to. Let me just return these first."

You practically skip to the returns desk, your heart doing a full backflip in your chest. By the time you make it back to Jungwon's table, your philosophy textbook and notebook spread out in front of you, you've convinced yourself that this is exactly what you need. Some time with Jungwon. Some time to remember why you wrote that letter in the first place. Some time to reconnect with the feelings that got buried under the chaos of the Heeseung situation.

The only problem is that you can't focus on studying at all.

You try. You really, genuinely try. You open your textbook to the assigned chapter. You uncap your highlighter. You fix your eyes on the page and attempt to absorb information about ethical frameworks and moral philosophy. But your eyes keep drifting up, against your will, over the top of your book, to the boy sitting across from you.

Jungwon is studying. Actually studying, not fake studying, not pretending to study while secretly watching you the way you're watching him. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his pen moving steadily across his notebook as he takes notes. Every so often, he pauses, taps the end of his pen against his chin, and then resumes writing with renewed focus. The late afternoon light slants through the window behind him, catching the highlights in his dark hair and making him look like he's stepped out of a painting.

He is beautiful. He's so beautiful that it makes your chest ache, a soft, sweet ache that you've been carrying around since the moment you first saw him in this very library. You watch the way his fingers curl around his pen, the way he bites his lower lip when he's thinking, the way his glasses slide down his nose and he pushes them back up with an absent gesture.

"I can feel you looking at me," Jungwon says, not glancing up from his notebook.

Your entire body jolts like you've been electrocuted. "I wasn't…I was just…there's a clock behind you. I was checking the time."

Jungwon looks up then, and there's a knowing glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a slow, somersaulting flip. "The clock is to your right, Y/N. Not behind me."

You look to your right. Sure enough, there's the clock, hanging on the wall in plain view, which you would have noticed if you'd spent even one second actually looking for it instead of gazing at Jungwon's face like a Renaissance painter studying their muse.

"I'm… directionally challenged," you say weakly.

"Uh-huh." Jungwon sets down his pen, and the smile playing at the corners of his mouth is soft and teasing and absolutely devastating. "Come here for a second."

"What?"

"Just come here. Lean forward a little."

Your body obeys before your brain can intervene. You lean across the table, your heart hammering so loudly you're certain the entire library can hear it. Jungwon leans forward too, closing the distance between you, and you catch a faint whiff of something clean and subtle, laundry detergent, maybe, or the kind of fragrance that just smells like him.

His hand reaches out, and before you can process what's happening, his index finger gently pokes your cheek.

"Boop," he says.

You make a sound. You don't know what the sound is supposed to be. Maybe a laugh, maybe a question, maybe a plea for mercy. What comes out is something closer to a squeak, a small, strangled, completely undignified squeak that would be embarrassing if you had any brain cells left to feel embarrassment.

Jungwon's smile widens, and his finger lingers on your cheek for just a moment longer than necessary. "You had an eyelash," he says. "Right there. But also, you just looked really cute staring at me like that. I couldn't resist."

Cute. He calls you cute. That's twice in one day that a devastatingly attractive boy has called you cute, and your hopeless romantic heart doesn't know whether to celebrate or go into cardiac arrest.

"I wasn't staring," you whisper, but it comes out completely unconvincing.

"You were absolutely staring." Jungwon withdraws his hand, but his smile stays, warm and fond and knowing. "It's okay. I don't mind. It's kind of nice, actually. Being looked at like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something worth looking at."

The words settle into your chest like a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples through your entire body. He thinks it's nice. He thinks you're nice or at least your staring is nice and he pokes your cheek and calls you cute and now he's going back to his studying like he hasn't just fundamentally altered your brain chemistry.

You try to return to your textbook. The words swim in front of your eyes, meaningless and blurry. You highlight a sentence at random, realize you have no idea what it says, and highlight it again for good measure. The page is now approximately forty percent highlighter ink.

"You're going to run out of highlighter at that rate," Jungwon observes, not looking up.

"I have backups," you say. "I always have backups."

"Of course you do."

The studying session continues for another hour, and you absorb approximately zero information about ethical frameworks. What you do absorb is a comprehensive catalogue of Jungwon's study habits: the way he organizes his notes with color-coded tabs, the way he mutters to himself when he's working through a difficult concept, the way he absentmindedly drums his fingers against the table when he's thinking. Every detail is another entry in your mental Jungwon database, another thread in the tapestry of your affection.

By the time you pack up your things and say goodbye, "See you in philosophy," Jungwon says, and you respond with something that might be words or might be a series of enthusiastic nods, you are floating. You are literally, physically floating, your feet barely touching the ground as you drift out of the library and across campus toward your dorm.

Jungwon pokes your cheek. Jungwon calls you cute. Jungwon says he likes being looked at by you.

You are winning. Despite the Heeseung disaster, despite the cafeteria catastrophe, despite everything, you are winning.

By the time you reach your dorm room, you are a mess of giddy energy with nowhere to go. You close the door behind you, throw your backpack onto your desk chair, and then proceed to wriggle across your bed like an ecstatic worm, kicking your feet and muffling your squeals into your pillow.

"He called me cute," you whisper to your empty room, your voice muffled by fabric. "He poked my cheek. He did the boop thing. The boop thing, you guys. Who does the boop thing? Adorable people, that's who. Perfect people. People with beautiful smiles and kind eyes and-"

You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. The ceiling has forty-three tiles in your room. You counted them on your first night in the dorm. But right now, all you can see is Jungwon's face, the way he looked at you across the library table, the way his finger felt against your cheek, the way his voice went soft when he said like I'm something worth looking at.

You are going to marry him. You are going to marry Yang Jungwon and have a beautiful wedding with string lights and wildflowers and a three-tier cake, and you will tell the story of how you stared at him in the library and he poked your cheek and-

You stop wriggling.

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

You can't marry Jungwon. You can't even confess to Jungwon, because Jungwon thinks you confessed to Heeseung. Jungwon thinks you're interested in someone else. Jungwon was sweet and friendly and maybe a little bit flirty, but that's just his personality. He's nice to everyone. He gives you gummy bears at 2 AM; he probably gives gummy bears to everyone who looks tired. You aren't special. You are just… there.

The giddiness begins to drain out of you, replaced by the familiar weight of reality. You are still trapped in the Heeseung situation. You are still the girl who confessed to the wrong person. And no matter how many times Jungwon pokes your cheek, that fundamental fact isn't going to change.

With a heavy sigh, you drag yourself through your evening routine: shower, skincare, the episode of the baking show you're halfway through and finally crawl into bed around midnight, your emotions a tangled knot of hope and despair.

Sleep comes slowly, a gradual descent into darkness, and then-

—————

You are in the PC room again.

But this time it's different. The lights are dimmer, the computers all dark, the chairs empty. It's just you, and the door is swinging shut behind you, and there's someone waiting at the computer closest to the door.

Heeseung.

He's sitting in the chair, facing away from you, his headphones around his neck and his shoulders relaxed. When he hears your footsteps, he turns, and his expression isn't surprised or amused or curious. It's something else entirely. Something darker. Something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You're here," he says, and his voice is lower than you've ever heard it, a rumble that vibrates through your bones. "I've been waiting for you, little mouse."

"I'm not-" you start, but he's already standing, already moving toward you, and you can't seem to make your feet work. You're rooted to the spot, watching him approach with a mixture of fear and something else, something you don't want to name.

He stops inches away from you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that you can see the individual strands of his hair and the curve of his lips and the way his eyes, God, his eyes are fixed on your mouth.

"You know what I've been thinking about?" he murmurs, and one of his hands comes up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple. "I've been thinking about that letter. The way you said you only had eyes for me. The way you said you couldn't stop thinking about me."

"That wasn't-" you try, but your voice comes out as barely a whisper, and Heeseung's thumb is tracing along your jawline now, feather-light and devastating.

"I can't stop thinking about you either," he says, and his face is getting closer, closer, and you can feel his breath against your lips. "Do you want to know what I think about?"

Your heart is hammering. Your skin is on fire. You can't move, can't speak, can't do anything except stare up at him with wide eyes as his other hand settles on your waist, warm and solid and pulling you closer.

"I think about this," he whispers, and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is…it's…

It's intense. It's consuming. It's the kind of kiss that erases every rational thought from your brain and replaces it with pure, unfiltered sensation. His lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a confidence that makes your knees weak. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you make a sound against his mouth, something small and breathless and completely involuntary.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his voice is rough. "You’re what I’ve been looking for my whole life, Y/N. You’re my miracle."

And then his lips are on your neck, trailing fire down to your collarbone, and your head falls back, and his name escapes your mouth in a way you've never said it before-

He kneels before you, his movements fluid and deliberate. His eyes never leave yours as he unzips his jeans, freeing his already hard cock. It stands proud and thick, the tip glistening with pre-cum. He takes your foot in his warm hand, bringing it to his shaft.

"Look what you do to me," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. He wraps your foot around his length, his thumb pressing against your arch as he begins to move your foot up and down his cock. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, a low groan escaping his lips.

The sensation of his hot skin against your sole sends shivers through your body. You watch, mesmerized, as he uses your foot to pleasure himself, his hips thrusting in rhythm with the movements of your foot. His other hand moves to your ankle, his grip firm but gentle, his fingers stroking your sensitive skin.

His eyes open, locking with yours again, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "You're so beautiful," he breathes, his movements becoming faster, more urgent. "You’re perfect the way you are."

His breathing grows ragged, his muscles tensing. With a guttural moan, he comes, his hot release spilling over your foot and his hand. He leans forward, his tongue darting out to taste his own cum from your skin, his movements slow and sensual. He licks your foot clean, his tongue tracing patterns on your arch, between your toes, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

Then he shifts, positioning himself between your legs. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "I need to taste you," he says, his voice rough with need.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He tosses them aside, then leans in, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh.

His tongue flicks out, teasing your clit, and you gasp, your hands flying to his hair. He chuckles, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through you. "Patience, little mouse," he murmurs against your skin.

His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles, building your pleasure gradually. He alternates between broad, flat strokes and quick, precise flicks of his tongue against your clit. His fingers join in, one, then two, sliding inside you, curling to hit that spot that makes you cry.

Your hips buck against his face, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Heeseung," you moan, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He responds with increased enthusiasm, his tongue working faster, his fingers pumping in and out of you. The pressure builds inside you, a coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter until it snaps.

You come with a cry, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure wash over you. But Heeseung doesn't stop. He continues his assault on your senses, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony to bring you to the edge again.

And then you are squirting, your release flooding his mouth and chin as he drinks you in, his movements never faltering. He looks up at you, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he laps up every drop.

When he finally pulls away, his face glistening with your juices, he crawls up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and the intimacy of it sends another wave of desire through you.

"Tell me you’re only thinking of me," he whispers against your lips, his hands roaming your body. "and not Jungwon."

You wake up.

You wake up in your dorm room, in your bed, at 7:43 AM on a Tuesday morning, with your heart pounding and your skin flushed, your panties soaked and your sheets twisted around your legs like they've been through a battle.

For a long moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.

Did you just… did you just dream about… did Lee Heeseung, the guy you're supposed to be making uninterested in you, the guy you've been trying to avoid and ignore and repel, just star in what can only be described as an extremely obscene dream? The virgin you are just cringed at the memory.

You press your hands to your burning cheeks and let out a sound that is somewhere between a groan and a scream.

"No," you whisper to the empty room. "No, no, no. This isn't, this can't…I don't even like him. I like Jungwon. Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon for four months. I wrote a letter to Jungwon. I have a color-coded mental database of Jungwon's habits. I want to marry Jungwon and have a three-tier wedding cake with wildflowers!"

But your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, keeps replaying fragments of the dream, the way Heeseung's eyes go dark, the way his voice rumbles against your ear, the way his hand feels on your waist, the way his tongue is warm and-

You grab your pillow and press it over your face, screaming into it with all the force your lungs can muster.

This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. You are a Jungwon girl. You've always been a Jungwon girl. You don't think about Heeseung like that. You don't think about Heeseung like anything. Heeseung is an obstacle. Heeseung is a problem to be solved. Heeseung is the guy you're actively trying to repel, not the guy who shows up in your subconscious and does things that make you blush in the privacy of your own bed.

"I'm a psychopath," you say to your pillow. "I'm a complete and utter psychopath. Who dreams about this with a guy they're supposed to be making uninterested? A psychopath, that's who. A deranged lunatic. A person with a broken brain."

Your pillow, predictably, does not respond.

You drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face and avoiding your own reflection in the mirror. You don't want to look at yourself. You don't want to see the evidence of the dream still lingering in your flushed cheeks…and between your legs.

This is a problem. This is a Major Problem with capital letters and possibly a warning siren. You can't afford to be having dreams about Lee Heeseung. You can't afford to be thinking about Lee Heeseung at all. Your entire strategy, Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested depends on you being able to keep a clear head and a steady heart, and neither of those things is going to be possible if your subconscious keeps ambushing you with extremely vivid, extremely inappropriate content.

You need to talk to Yunjin. Immediately. Before your brain can conjure up any more unauthorized imagery.

But as you grab your phone and type out a frantic message, EMERGENCY MEETING REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY CODE RED REPEAT CODE RED, you can't quite shake the lingering sensation from the dream.

The way Heeseung's thumb traces along your jawline.

The way he calls you little mouse in that low, rumbling voice.

The way he says you were perfect the way you were like he means it, like it's true, like he's been into you his whole life and hasn't even known it.

You shake your head violently, flinging droplets of water across the bathroom mirror.

"Nope," you say out loud. "Nope, nope, nope. We're not doing this. We're not thinking about this. We're going to go to class and eat lunch and avoid all tall informatics students, and we're going to get our brain back on the Jungwon track where it belongs."

But even as you say it, even as you try to mean it, a small, treacherous part of you wonders if maybe, just maybe, the Jungwon track isn't the only track worth following anymore.

You shove that thought into a mental box, lock it, and throw away the key.

You have a plan. You have a strategy. You are going to make Heeseung uninterested, and you are going to figure out a way to untangle the misunderstanding, and you are going to end up with Jungwon like you were always supposed to.

The dream is just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. It can't mean anything.

You refuse to let it mean anything.

(But when you catch yourself glancing toward the informatics building on your way to class, you walk a little faster, and you definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent do not wonder what Lee Heeseung is doing right now.)

—————

The dream haunts you for three days.

Not in a supernatural, ghost-in-the-corner kind of way. More in an I-can't-make-eye-contact-with-my-own-reflection kind of way. Every time you close your eyes, fragments of it flicker behind your eyelids like a movie you hadn't asked to watch. The dark PC room. The way Heeseung's voice drops to a rumble. The phantom sensation of his tongue on your clit, his hand on your ankle, his look-

You physically convulse every time the memory resurfaces, which is approximately every forty-five minutes. Your philosophy notes become a graveyard of distracted doodles, half of which look suspiciously like the curve of someone's jaw. You have to throw away an entire page because you accidentally write "little mouse" in the margin instead of "moral relativism."

Yunjin is no help whatsoever.

"So you had a wet dream about the hot guy who you’re supposedly getting bored of," she says over bubble tea the day after the incident, her expression thoroughly unimpressed. "This is a problem because…?"

"Because I don't like him, Yunjin! I like Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon since midterms! Jungwon is the goal! Jungwon is the three-tier wedding cake!"

"And Heeseung is…?"

"A temporary obstacle! A misunderstanding with legs! A very tall, very inconvenient plot twist!"

Yunjin sucks on her tapioca pearls with the air of a therapist who has heard it all before and is no longer surprised by anything. "You know what they say about protesting too much."

"I am not protesting too much. I am protesting exactly the right amount. I am protesting a perfectly calibrated quantity."

"Sure." She pats your hand with condescending sympathy. "Whatever helps you sleep at night. Oh wait-"

You throw a tapioca pearl at her face. It sticks to her cheek for a solid three seconds before falling off, and the look of absolute betrayal on her face is the only bright spot in your otherwise nightmare-plagued week.

But now it's Thursday. Thursday, 2:15 PM. You're stationed in the science building's main hallway, crouched behind a bulletin board that is absolutely not wide enough to hide your entire body, waiting for the coast to clear so you can sprint to your next class without encountering any tall informatics students.

Your system has evolved since the early days of the crisis. You now have a color-coded schedule of Heeseung's known movements, courtesy of some light reconnaissance work that Yunjin calls "stalking" and you call "strategic intelligence gathering." You know his class schedule. You know his preferred study spots. You know that he tends to grab coffee from the campus café at exactly 3 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which means the science building hallway should, theoretically, be a Heeseung-free zone at 2:15.

Theoretically.

You're just about to make your move, a quick dash to the stairwell, then up two flights, then a straight shot to classroom 307, when you hear it.

"Hey, is Y/N L/N in there?"

Your blood freezes. Your muscles lock. Your soul briefly departs your body and then slams back into it with force.

That's Heeseung's voice. That's unmistakably, undeniably, catastrophically Lee Heeseung's voice, and it's coming from approximately ten feet to your left, where the door to your department's main office stands open.

You press yourself harder against the bulletin board, praying for invisibility, praying for a sudden power outage, praying for the ground to open up and swallow you into its merciful embrace. None of these things happen. Instead, you hear the department secretary respond with cheerful obliviousness.

"Y/N L/N? First year, STEM? I think I saw her in the hallway just a minute ago. Let me check, oh, there she is! Y/N! You have a visitor!"

The secretary is pointing directly at your bulletin board. Your bulletin board that is not hiding you at all. Your bulletin board that is, in fact, leaving approximately seventy percent of your body completely visible to anyone who happens to look in that direction.

Heeseung turns.

Your eyes meet.

Time stops.

There are moments in life that feel like they stretch into eternity, moments so profoundly awkward, so cosmically embarrassing, that the universe itself seems to pause and take notice. This is one of those moments. You are frozen in a half-crouch behind a bulletin board, your backpack dangling from one shoulder, your hair escaping from the ponytail you threw it into this morning, your expression one of pure, unfiltered terror. Heeseung is standing in the doorway of the department office, looking unfairly attractive in a simple black hoodie and jeans, his eyebrows rising slowly toward his hairline.

A small crowd of students has paused in the hallway to watch. You can feel their eyes on you like a physical weight. Someone whispers something to their friend. Someone else pulls out their phone.

You are going to die. You are going to perish right here in the science building hallway, and your ghost will be doomed to haunt this bulletin board for all eternity.

"Y/N?" Heeseung's voice is a mixture of confusion and amusement. He takes a step toward you, and you instinctively take a step back, which results in you bumping directly into the bulletin board and causing several flyers to flutter dramatically to the ground. "Were you… hiding behind that?"

"No," you say, too quickly. "No, I was…I dropped something. A contact lens. I was looking for my contact lens."

"You don't wear contacts."

"I might! You don't know my life!"

"Your glasses are literally on your face right now."

You reach up and touch your glasses, which are indeed sitting on your nose, clearly visible, doing their job of correcting your vision. You have no response to this. There is no response to this. You have been caught in a lie so transparent it's essentially a window.

Heeseung's lips twitch. "You know, most people who have a crush on me don't run away and hide behind furniture. This is very confusing for my ego."

The crowd is still watching. Why is the crowd still watching? Don't they have classes to go to? Midterms to study for? Lives to live that don't involve spectating your public humiliation?

"I wasn't hiding from you specifically," you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to operate independently from your brain. "I was hiding from… the sun. It's very bright in here. I'm photosensitive."

"You're a STEM student hiding from the sun in a basement hallway with no windows," Heeseung says slowly. "That's… a new one."

"It's a medical condition. It's very serious. My doctor says I need to avoid direct fluorescent lighting."

"The fluorescent lighting is what's getting you."

"Absolutely. It's my greatest enemy. Well, second greatest. After-" You stop yourself before you can say after incredibly hot informatics students who keep appearing in my life like a recurring nightmare.

Heeseung waits. When you don't finish the sentence, that smile, the one that's definitely a smirk's second cousin, maybe even its first cousin at this point, spreads across his face.

"Well," he says, "now that I've found you and dragged you out of the shadows, literally, I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee. With me. Right now."

Every single person in the hallway is looking at you. The secretary is looking at you from the office doorway, her expression one of grandmotherly delight at what she clearly perceives as a romantic overture. The students who stopped to watch are exchanging glances and whispers. One girl gives you an encouraging thumbs up.

You are trapped. You are cornered. You are a mouse being offered coffee by a very tall, very persistent cat.

And just like every other time Heeseung has put you on the spot, you open your mouth and the wrong words come out.

"I love coffee," you say. "Coffee is my favorite liquid. After water. And possibly juice. But it's definitely in the top three."

"Is that a yes?"

"…Yes."

Heeseung's smile widens. "Great. Let's go."

[mssishipi]

OUT OF LUCK— SJY

Money, sex, and a lifetime of feeling like luck was never really on your side—until the universe decided to fuck with you in the most inconvenient way possible. What started as simple coexisting turned into something more when you paid a little too much attention to your quiet, awkward, painfully responsible roommate—who, on paper, is a complete fucking loser. But, hey, he’s not that bad! In which Sim Jaeyun becomes the only genuinely good, unfairly lucky thing that’s ever happened to you… and just like everything else in your life, good things have a way of slipping right through your fingers. So now you have to figure it out, fix it, or risk losing the only thing that ever felt right before you run Out of Luck.

2: FORTUNE'S FAVOR

content tags and warnings: roommate au! romantic comedy, jake is an engineering student x volleyball varsity player reader, light angst, angst and fluff and fluff and a happy ending! complicated feelings, mentions of SUPERTITIOUS BELIEFS, tarot reading, luck, fate etc! 10k wc of reader avoiding jake and the rest will be jake 's pov (he yap and yap), mentions of social anxiety and self harm, jake is such an awkward introverted baby he needs a hug i swear, jake is yearning :(, embarassment, 2nd hand embarassment, public confession, awkward erm moments, jake is secretly a simp and he's pathetic, slice of life, kissing hehe. ft. heeseung as jake's best supportive friend, 02z as jake's hs friend, kazuha as jake's ex gf, karina, ryujin, other kpop idol as reader's volleyball team, robots and fish as side characters. mild smut: masturbation, still MDNI! (WC:34.6K)

Fate is a power believed to predetermine events, some unavoidable bullshit that people love to hold onto when things go wrong. A little explanation so they don't have to admit that sometimes things just fall apart because people make stupid choices, or because shit just happens for no good reason at all.

And right now? You think fate is complete fucking nonsense.

If fate was real, then maybe you wouldn't have been dumb enough to let things spiral the way they did. Maybe you would've stopped yourself before crossing the line.

Maybe if people weren't idiots, if they just paid attention for one goddamn second, things wouldn't end up worse than they needed to be. Like, for example—if someone didn't decide to throw a basketball straight to your fucking face like they had zero brain cells to work with.

Geez. Fate. Luck. Doom. What kind of bullshit logic even ties those things together? The more you think about it, the more it just pisses you off. People are so fucking dumb sometimes, acting like everything is written in the stars when half of it is just bad decisions stacked on top of each other.

"Hehe... I'm so sorry."

You glance at Karina from where you're sitting on the bench, an ice pack pressed against your already bruised nose, your face still sore from everything that's happened over the past few days. Her hand hovers mid-air, like she wants to check on you but isn't sure if you'll snap at her or brush her off.

She just got back from Japan and of course, Ryujin had already filled her in. Not just about how, three days into recovery of your accident, some dumbass from the basketball team managed to add another bruise to your already fucked-up nose during practice like it was some kind of sick joke.

But also that you got your heart broken. Well. You didn't want to tell her. You didn't want to tell anyone, if you were being honest. Saying it out loud makes it real in a way that just thinking about it doesn't. It turns it into something people can react to, something they can pity, something they can talk about. And you're not in the mood for that shit.

So you just exhale slowly, leaning back a bit, eyes drifting away from her. "It's fine," you mutter. Karina doesn't look convinced. She's not stupid. But for once, she doesn't push immediately. Thankfully.

She lowers her hand slowly, sitting down beside you, her shoulder brushing lightly against yours and you know exactly what she's trying to do—comfort, soften the edges, make it easier for you to crack open and talk. But you don't. You just let out a quiet sigh, leaning back slightly as if nothing about this is affecting you. You let her stay there because it's easier than pushing her away and dealing with the questions that would follow. You've always been good at this anyway—pretending. Acting like you're fine.

And weeks pass like that. Quietly. You make it a point—no, a fucking mission—that you and that man-who-shouldn't-be-named never cross paths.

You adjust your schedule, leaving earlier, coming home later, avoiding the living room at certain hours, listening for any sign that he's around before stepping out of your room. It's exhausting, honestly, but you do it anyway because the alternative—seeing him, talking to him, pretending like nothing happened or worse, acknowledging it—feels ten times worse.

You even considered moving out at one point, scrolling through listings late at night, checking dorm prices, calculating your budget over and over again like maybe the numbers would magically change.

They didn't.

Because you're broke. Like, actually fucking broke. Rent is insane, dorms are worse, and on top of that, your training for regionals has been eating up your time and energy like crazy. Your appetite has doubled—no, tripled—and now you can't go a day without stuffing yourself full or you start feeling like shit. And all your money? Gone. Straight into food. Food, food, and more fucking food.

You click your tongue in annoyance just thinking about it, dragging a hand down your face. Fuck this. Why did that man even cook for you so much before? Why did he set that stupid standard? Now your body's used to actual meals, and you can't even go back to your old habits without feeling like you're dying. It's irritating. It's inconvenient. It's— NO. You cut the thought off before it goes somewhere else.

You swore you wouldn't like anyone anymore. That shit is done. Over! Finished!

And honestly? All those stupid things people made you believe in? Complete bullshit. The grapes you ate during New Year's for luck? Fucking scam. The bracelet they made you wear in February because it's supposed to bring love or whatever the hell? Garbage. You should've thrown it away the moment you got it. And that horoscope reading? "2026 will be your year"—yeah, right. Biggest scam of them all!

"I miss you, please don't be angry at me!"

Karina wraps herself around you from behind, her arms locking tight around your shoulders. The impact makes you jolt forward slightly, your whole body stiffening as irritation immediately flashes across your face. You try to pry her off, fingers digging into her forearms.

"What's with you? I'm not angry, the hell?" you scoff, twisting your shoulder and swatting at her arm, but it does nothing. If anything, she tightens her hold, pressing her cheek against yours.

"I know you would say that," she whines, dragging every word out dramatically, completely unfazed by your resistance. Her voice softens just a little as she nuzzles closer. "But there's some kind of tension you have with me. I can feel it. I promise I'm not gonna push you with some other guy again, just talk to meeee."

"Karina!" you snap. You twist harder this time, trying to break free, your voice rising with both annoyance and disbelief. "I am not angry, what the—?!"

But she doesn't let go. "Really?" she shoots back immediately, her tone shifting to show she's not buying your shit. Her arms stay locked around you as she leans her chin on your shoulder, peeking at your face. "Then why won't you talk to me?"

"I'm not talking to anyone because I'm broken-hearted!" you fire back with sarcasm. You stop struggling for a second, your hands dropping uselessly to her arms as you huff out a breath. "Of course it's normal to be this way! You're the one who pushed me, remember?"

"Huhuhu, I'm so sorry!" Karina immediately wails, completely switching gears as she stomps her foot against the ground while still hugging you. The movement jostles both of you, but she doesn't loosen her grip. "Promise, I'll help you get over him. God, I hate him!" Her voice sharpens, her real irritation slipping through. "Do you want me to sabotage his project?! I heard his club is organizing some event with Architecture. Just say it. I'll definitely do it!"

You finally manage to grab her wrists and yank her arms off you, turning around to face her fully with a look that screams what the fuck is wrong with you. "No—what the fuck?" you snap, staring at her like she just suggested arson instead of whatever the hell that was. You roll your eyes, dragging a hand through your hair as you try to calm yourself again. "I just want to focus on Regionals. Just... don't mention him anymore." Your voice drops a little. "It's better to move on when I don't have updates or news."

Karina watches you for a second, her expression softening as she processes that, then she nods slowly. "Soooo... are we good?" she asks, immediately looping her arm around yours again.

You click your tongue, glancing at her from the corner of your eye. "Of course we are always good. What's with you?"

"You sure?" she presses, squinting at you like she's trying to catch you slipping.

"Yes."

"Then I have a gift for ya!" Her mood flips instantly again, energy shooting back up as she lets go and starts digging through one of her paper bags.

You watch her with mild suspicion, arms crossing over your chest as you wait—and then your expression completely breaks when she pulls out a clear plastic bag filled with water... and a tiny fish swimming inside.

"What the—"

"My guppy gave birth and I don't have a tanks anymore!" she beams proudly, holding it up like it's the best gift in the world. The fish wiggles inside the bag. "Take this as a gift for ya. It will help you clear your mind!"

"No. What the fuck?!" you hiss immediately, recoiling slightly. Your brows knit together in pure disbelief, staring at the tiny creature. "Karina, I'm not taking responsibility for a living thing right now—are you insane?!"

But she just grins wider, already trying to shove the bag toward you anyway.

And that was how you ended up bringing a fish

You are absolutely, undeniably, one hundred percent going to fucking kill Karina.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen, one hand gripping the plastic bag with a tiny fish inside, while your phone is awkwardly wedged between your shoulder and your ear. You open cabinets with your free hand, shoving things aside in search of anything that could pass as a container. It's 3:00 in the fucking afternoon, the heat pressing down on you like you are in hell, sweat already forming at the back of your neck. The aircon hums uselessly somewhere behind you, doing absolutely nothing. Why the hell is it not cooling? Is it broken? Did someone mess with it? Did he— NO.

"The fuck?!" you snap out loud when the call suddenly drops, the silence hitting immediately after Karina's last words—calm down, guppy don't need oxygen——before cutting off completely. You pull the phone away, glaring at the screen. No signal nor an Internet.

Of course! Jake is the one assigned to the internet payment. You remember clearly—you left the damn money on the center table days ago where he couldn't miss it. And now this? No connection, no help, no fucking instructions on how to keep this tiny living thing alive.

"God! The worst roommate ever!" you mutter under your breath, shoving your phone onto the counter with more force than necessary. Worst roommate! Worst fucking roommage! Not paying that damn internet, overheating the air conditioner since he was the one who is staying so damn long in the living room, rejecting your feelings— Hold on. Stop. Moving on remember?

You exhale sharply, like you're physically pushing the thought out of your system, and look back down at the plastic bag in your hands. The tiny fish wiggles inside, completely unbothered by your internal crisis, its small body flicking through the water.

"How am I supposed to know how to build your environment?!" you hiss at it. You let out a long breath, shoulders dropping slightly. "Okay... okay..." you mutter to yourself, trying to calm the fuck down. It's just a fish. A tiny, stupid fish. People take care of these things all the time. You can't be that incompetent.

You finally grab a glass jar from the cabinet, a clean one, at least, and set it down on the counter. It's not ideal, probably, but it's better than leaving it in a plastic bag forever like some kind of moving takeout.

Your eyes wander, and they land on that stupid little robot sitting lifelessly on the edge of the table. An idea sparks, ask Bumble for help! Of course! Jake's little tech toy could totally—well, theoretically—make this easier. You lean down, plastic bag in one hand, glass jar in the other, carefully lowering the fish into the water. The liquid sloshes around, tiny ripples forming, and the fish flicks its tail nervously.

Your fingers hover over the robot, hesitating a moment because the thing looks impossibly flat and dumb, and yet... Jake had somehow made it work before. How? How the fuck did he do that?

"Bumble, open," you command. The robot doesn't move. Not a single servo whir, not even a twitch. You frown, crouching lower to get a better look at it, poking at the flat surface with your fingertip. Nothing. You blink at it, confusion mixing with irritation as the anger starts to simmer back up again, fueled by the memory of that stupid, infuriating boy who made it work so effortlessly. His stupid braces flashing whenever he smiled, that crooked, perfect grin, his stupid, clueless, nerdy self who somehow made everything look so easy. Stupid boy.

You can't help it. You shake the robot lightly, as if your rage can transfer through it, make it activate, make it do something other than sit there mocking you.

"Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" you hiss under your breath, frustration bubbling past the point of reason.

You can almost feel the heat of your blood rising in your cheeks, your heart hammering faster than it should over a stupid fish and a stupid robot. And yet, beneath all that —why are you this bitter? NoOOo! It's valid! He's a fucking idiot. That robot is a fucking idiot. And yet—and yet—you can't stop thinking about him, about the way he made you laugh, the way he made you feel, the way he lingered in your thoughts like a permanent ghost.

"Stupid, useless robot," you mutter under your breath, your grip tightening around Bumble. You shake it again. "Why the fuck won't you open? What, are you trying to act like your owner too? Just shut down and ignore people?"

The sudden creak of the door makes your whole body jolt. You stiffen instantly, your heart jumping straight to your throat as your head snaps toward the entrance. Jake was frozen in place, just a few steps inside, like he didn't expect to see you either. His hand is still on the doorknob, the other clutching his bag loosely. His eyes flicker—first to Bumble in your hands, then to the jar on the counter with the fish awkwardly floating inside, then finally to you. And when his gaze settles on your face, it stays.

You see it happen in real time—the shift. His eyes widen, and it pisses you off. He takes in the fading bruises along your cheek, the slight discoloration near your nose, the healing cut on your chin with its visible stitch. His brows knit together, concern flashing across his face so quickly it almost looks painful, like he doesn't know what to do with it. "W-What happened?" he asks, voice stumbling over itself as his hand lifts halfway, like reaching toward your face before stopping mid-air.

That—that right there—makes your chest twist wrong.

You straighten up immediately, forcing your expression to do it's own neutral controlled thing, dropping Bumble back. You avoid his eyes like they burn, turning your attention back to the fish. Geez. Two fucking weeks. Two weeks of silence, of avoidance, of pretending he didn't exist—and now he wants to ask questions like he still has the right? Like nothing happened?

"When are you planning to pay for the Wi-Fi?" you cut in flatly. You keep your back partially turned to him, fiddling with the jar, adjusting the plastic inside even though it's already fine. "I already left the payment."

There's a pause behind you. You can even feel it without even looking — the hesitation, the shift in his breathing, the way he probably opens his mouth and then closes it again like he always fucking does.

"Uh... I was actually busy... that's why..." he answers as he steps further inside and lets his bag drop to the floor.

You let out a small, humorless scoff under your breath, still not looking at him. Busy. Of course he was busy. Bet he was also busy avoiding you.

"Right," you mumble, eyes fixed on the water in the jar, watching the fish move in slow, careless circles.

"Are you... okay?—"

Your head turns sharply, eyes locking onto him with a glare. "Why the fuck do you even care if I'm not?" you shoot back. But just as quickly, you feel that ugly edge, that bitterness creeping. Shit you hate it. You hate how it makes you sound. You hate how it makes you feel like the one who's losing control.

So you pull back. You look away first, breaking eye contact and reach for your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. The jar with the fish inside the plastic crinkles softly as you pull it close to your chest. "Just..." you click your tongue, your jaw tightening as you force your tone back. "Pay that damn Wi-Fi."

You walk past him without waiting for a response, your shoulder brushing the air near him but never quite touching. Your hand grips the doorknob of your room, pausing for just a second before you push it open.

You inhale deeply, and without turning back, you add, "and fix the AC." Then you step inside and shut the door behind you.

Silence follows immediately. You lean back against the door, eyes squeezing shut. "Stupid boy," you mutter under your breath, your voice cracking just slightly despite your effort to keep it together. You drag a hand down your face, exhaling sharply, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on you. You really wish you could rewind everything. Back to when things were simple. When you were just minding your own damn business, not expecting anything, not hoping for anything. No stupid feelings.

Because what the hell were you even thinking? A fairytale? Really? You let out a dry, almost bitter laugh, shaking your head as you push yourself off the door and move further into your room. "What could possibly go right with a man disguised as a loving prince?" you mutter. "They're all the same. Fucking villains." You huff, running a hand through your hair. "Witches, even. Pretending to be kind, then dragging you down, poisoning you—"

You stop mid-step, blinking at yourself like you just caught your own bullshit. "...Why the fuck are you thinking about fairytales again?" you mutter, almost annoyed.

And you need to place this fucking fish outside your room!

You threw yourself into training as though it was the only thing keeping you from completely losing your shit.

Regionals wasn't just some school-level game anymore, you carried your city's name on your back whether you liked it or not. The drills were stricter, harsher, less forgiving. Coaches didn't care if your legs were shaking or your lungs felt like they were about to collapse; they pushed anyway, barked orders like you were machines instead of people. It was exhausting, and so brutal, kind of relentless—and somehow, you welcomed it. Because every second your body ached, every moment your mind focused on the game, it left less room for him.

Unluckily—luckily—you weren't stuck in one place either. The team moved from city to city, different courts, different environments, different faces. New people, new opponents, new distractions. You met players who were just as aggressive, just as desperate to win, some even worse. It forced you to stay sharp, forced you to adapt.

At night, when your body finally gave out and you collapsed into unfamiliar beds, there was barely enough energy left in you to think. Barely enough energy to remember anything, and yet... somehow, in those quiet moments right before sleep took you, your mind still slipped. Back to him.

One night while packing your things for another early call time, your hands moving automatically as you zipped your bag. Your thoughts drifted. What is Jake even doing right now?

You frowned, shoving your clothes harder into your bag like that would shove the thought away too. Before you left the apartment earlier that week, the fridge was nearly empty. Barely anything inside except leftovers that didn't look touched and random shit that didn't make sense together. It's not like you were cooking. Hell, you barely ate at home anymore. You never even did heathy groceries in the first place. That was always—

You stopped.

Is he eating properly now? Is he still organizing everything like some obsessive little nerd? Or did he just... stop?

Oh, dude. What the actual fuck! You shake your head, physically rejecting the thought. Why the hell do you even care? Why does it matter if he's eating or starving or turning into a complete mess? He made his choice.

"...Yeah, right," you mutter under your breath.

Because the truth is simple, and it pisses you off more than anything—you still like him.

Despite everything. Despite how he looked you in the eye and said he didn't feel the same. Despite how fucking humiliating that moment was. The feeling didn't just disappear. It didn't magically shut off like a switch. It stayed, always clinging to you no matter how much you tried to drown it out with training, exhaustion, or distance. It's normal. Feelings don't just go away overnight. You're not broken for still thinking about him.

...Are you crazy?

Not really. You've always been like this—your mind drifting back to things you once liked, replaying moments like they meant more than they probably did. You remember those stupid, simple days when it was just a harmless crush. When you'd catch yourself staring at him across the room, noticing the way his braces flashed when he smiled, how his eyes would light up behind his glasses whenever he talked about something he liked. It was easy back then. It was safe... nothing is complicated

And yeah—fuck it—you're not blind. He's not ugly. Not even close.

But the moment that thought settles, your expression twists, your own bitterness creeping back in like a bad habit you can't shake. Your mood shifts so fast it almost gives you whiplash. One second you're remembering something soft, the next you're clenching your jaw, your hands curling into fists. "God, how I hate nerds..." you mutter. "Stupid, fucking... face." You let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand through your hair as you lean back, staring at the ceiling.

Because no matter how good he looked, no matter how nice he seemed—You still kind of want to punch him. Hard.

"This card represents the burning love that you have right now. The two of you will communicate well, and maybe in the near future, both of you will not take the same path—but it will not be a reason for any separation. Either way, the fire around you will ignite and make your relationship stronger."

"Awww."

A chorus of coos makes your eye twitch. Rei actually sniffs, her hand hovering over her chest as her eyes glued to the three cards laid out in front of her. You stand there, arms loosely crossed, staring at the whole thing with a thinly veiled cringe, your lips pressing into a line as you take in the scene. The setup is just a small booth with a cloth-covered table, a deck of worn-out cards. It's part of the open house happening around Decelis, booths were scattered everywhere — whatever. You only ended up here because your coaches had some sudden emergency meeting, leaving you all with a free hour to waste. And somehow, this is where your team decided to spend it.

"Is that legit-legit?" Winter asks, wiggling her eyebrows as she leans closer to the table. The rest of your teammates crowd around too, forming a semi-circle, their attention completely hooked. You can already tell this is about to go south for you. They look too entertained.

"Take what resonates, leave what doesn't," the tarot reader replies calmly. You bet she said that line a hundred times already today. "I am just reading the cards and interpreting what it says."

"Well then," Winter grins, clearly already plotting something, "I'll pay three dollars and read my friend's love life!" Before you can even react, she drops the money into the jar and without hesitation, shoves you forward into the seat right in front of the table.

"Huh—?"

You barely get the chance to protest before hands are suddenly everywhere. Winter, Giselle, Ningning, and Karina are all close in, clapping their hands over your mouth, pushing you down into the chair as they giggle. "Don't ruin it!" "Just sit!" "We're curious!" they whisper loudly over each other, completely ignoring your muffled protests.

You glare at them, trying to pry their hands off, but they're annoyingly persistent. The tarot reader raises an eyebrow at the display but doesn't comment. Instead, she calmly begins shuffling the deck, her eyes flicking toward you for a brief moment—like she's assessing you, reading more than just your face. The cards slide smoothly between her fingers. Eventually, your teammates let go, though they stay close, practically leaning over your shoulders, their eyes glued to the table like.

Three cards are drawn and placed carefully in front of you. Two upright. One reversed.

You finally manage to sit properly, rubbing your jaw where they had covered your mouth, shooting them one last annoyed look before your attention drifts—despite yourself—back to the cards. You don't even believe in this shit.

"I see..." the girl starts, she leans slightly forward, studying the spread. Her brows knit together just a little, like something caught her attention. "Your partner is a very loving person... with genuine feelings."

Your nostrils flare almost immediately, your lips parting as your face twists into disbelief and annoyance. You don't even bother hiding it, and the way you can already feel the shift around you too—the girls who were leaning in with excitement just seconds ago are now deflating, their interest dropping as fast as it came. There's a collective sigh, obvious with disappointment. Of course. Because what partner? You don't have one. Everyone here knows that. This is exactly why you don't believe in this shit. It's all vague, all bullshit.

"The images around the cards represent someone who pays close attention to you... someone who puts in a lot of effort," the girl continues, unfazed by the obvious shift in energy. Your teammates exchange looks but no one interrupts her. Not yet. Well, there's still that tiny thread of curiosity keeping them quiet.

And then, unexpectedly, she pulls another card.

"Is your partner a Scorpio?"

"Hm." You respond flatly, barely even thinking about it, your attention already drifting as you inspect your nails.

"Right..." she murmurs anyway. "You're lucky. He is intensely passionate and deeply loyal to you—incredibly loyal and devoted. The kind of person who gives everything, but expects the same level of commitment in return."

You let out a short, dry snort at that, the word lucky hitting your ears wrong. Lucky? Yeah, fucking right. Every person who reads zodiac signs, tarot cards, whatever the hell this is—they always say the same shit.

"As expected with this reversed card," she continues, tapping the last one lightly, "it also reflects your partner's nature. Hesitant to open up. Someone who tests potential partners before fully letting them in... That's all!"

"God, I can't believe I wasted my three dollars," Winter mutters under her breath, already turning away with an annoyed huff. "She doesn't even have a boyfriend."

There's a ripple of agreement, the group starting to lose interest completely now, the moment clearly not living up to their expectations. One by one, they begin to shift away from the table, their attention already drifting to the next booth.

You don't move right away. Your eyes stay on the cards, before snorting. You push yourself up to the chair, breaking whatever stupid spell you almost fell into.

"Hope you had a long, healthy, happy relationship. Both of you deserve it. Thank you!" the girl chirps, already reaching for her jar. You watch her fingers flick through the bills. You huff under your breath, shaking your head as you step away.

Loving? Effort? Loyal? Hesitant? And what the fuck was that—Scorpio? You roll your eyes hard enough it almost hurts. You don't even know someone who's a Scorpio. Not a single one. The whole thing was a scam, and somehow people were eating that shit up like it was gospel. Good for them. Couldn't be you.

Your attention shifts fast—thank fuck!—dragged away by something actually worth your time. Wagyu barbecue. Your eyes light up, stepping closer like you're being pulled in. "Holy shit," you mutter under your breath, staring at the display, the marbling on the meat, the way it sizzles on the grill. And then you squint slightly. "That's a black sausage?" you mumble, half-confused, half-intrigued.

Food. At least food makes sense. You shift your weight, already pulling out money, already thinking about how that three dollars should've gone here instead of that tarot bullshit. You take a bite of something you bought, chewing absentmindedly, letting the flavors comfort you.

"What's with ya booth?" you ask casually as you drift along with your team, your voice blending into the noise as you hop from one stall to another, not really caring about anything except eating and not thinking. You clutch your food, biting, chewing, swallowing, moving. The others are loud, curious, energetic, and you are actually keeping up with them, as long as you have your food.

"Oh! The Civil Engineering Booth! What's the catch?!" Winter suddenly calls out.

Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, your throat burning as you cough, eyes watering as you bend slightly forward, one hand clutching your chest. "Shit—" you rasp, trying to breathe,  but it's already too late. Because when you look up, he's there.

Jake was standing right there!

Your mouth falls open slightly, breath catching again but for a completely different reason this time. He looks... different. Not drastically, not in a way that anyone else would probably point out, but you see it. Of course you fucking do, duh. His hair's a bit longer now, falling just slightly differently around his face, softening him in a way that makes your chest tighten. He's wearing this gray long sleeve under a blue polo, something that looks weird, considering the hot weather... Of course it is weird! But it doesn't. On him, it just works. It always fucking works. There's a camera slung over his nape too, resting against his chest.

Fuck. Your heart stutters. It actually fucking stutters. God, why is he so handsome, you wanna cry — STOP!

"Uh... we now have some kind of, you know... furniture and displays around your house?" Jake says, voice a little shaky, and you can hear it even from where you're standing. You hate that you can still recognize every little change in his tone. His eyes flick around, scanning the group, pausing briefly on jerseys, on faces—getting closer, closer—

And when you realize he's about to look at you— You turn your back, shoulders stiffening as you stare straight ahead. Your grip tightens around your food, knuckles whitening slightly as your heart starts pounding like it's trying to break out of your chest.

Stupid. Why the fuck did you turn your back? Your jersey has your surname printed on it! Dumb bitch!

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, internally cursing yourself out. Great. Fucking great. Out of all the booths, all the places, all the fucking timing—this is where you end up. You can feel it crawling under your skin, that restless, suffocating awareness that he's right there, that if you just turn your head a little, you'd see him clearly.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Karina whispers beside you. Her eyes are on you and it pisses you off a little because it means you're not hiding it as well as you thought. You don't answer immediately. You just stare ahead, blinking and forcing your breathing to even out.

"—Wow! A zodiac sign bracelet?! Where did you bought it?!" Winter suddenly blurts out, loud as hell. Just like that, the attention shifts, your teammates swarming forward like curious idiots, drawn to something shiny and new.

Jake attention is split. He's opening his lips to answer but his eyes keep dragging back to your turned back.

"I-It's fine. We had an agreement that we stick together so when we go back we don't have to message those who is missing—" you whisper back to Karina quickly. It sounds reasonable. It is reasonable.

"Uh... my friend from the Art Major booth, gave it to me..." Jake answers, still looking back and fourth to you.

"What sign is this again?" Giselle asks, reaching out to touch his wrist and raising it up to observe the bracelet.

"It's a— uh... a Scorpio." Jake replies.

"It's so obvious, babe! God, you are such a dumb sometimes." Ningning snorts.

"Shut it, girls! Well, Mr. uhh..." Rei cuts in, she squints down at the tag clipped to his shirt, leaning just a little too close. "Jake! Mr. Jake," she repeats with a grin, clapping her hands. "Can you take a picture of us as a team? We're off to Regionals in the next few weeks! And we look so fresh. Maybe we could use it for the journalist page if they upload a good luck post!"

Jake's attention was being dragged away again, redirected, and forced into your teammates again.

"Uh... sure..." Jake answers, his voice hesitant, or maybe it's just you hearing it differently now.

You don't turn. You don't dare turn. But you can imagine him nodding slightly, adjusting that stupid camera strap on his shoulder, probably pushing his glasses up out of habit.

"Great! Are you gonna upload it on your page?" Rei continues without missing a beat, already hyped and already moving.

"...The creatives are..." he starts, clearly trying to explain.

"That's great!" Rei cuts him off anyway, not even caring about the details, and turning her attention back to the group.

When is this gonna fucking end?

You shift your weight, foot tapping against the ground in small, impatient movements to distract you from the other thing—the bigger thing—you're trying so hard not to face. God! You can feel your teammates moving, adjusting, forming some kind of formation.

"Hello?! Number 9?!" Rei suddenly calls out, her voice snapping directly at you.

Fuck you! You want to curse out loud.

You inhale slowly, forcing your neutral expression before turning to move, not fully facing him yet, not looking at him, just stepping into position.

You settle at the side, arms crossing loosely, trying to make yourself smaller, less noticeable—

"Stop— what are you doing?!" Winter hisses immediately, grabbing your arm and dragging you without hesitation. "You should be in the middle! You're a libero and you had a different color of your jersey!" She pushes you right into the center.

Your feet plant as your body going stiff for a split second. You're right in front now, visible and now exposed. You were absolutely going to kill your teammates.

You don't look at him. You keep your gaze forward, somewhere just above the lens.

Jake bites his lip awkwardly, adjusting his stance behind the camera, fingers fumbling just slightly as he brings it up.

"Okay... uhm..." he mutters, trying to gather everyone's attention. "Just— stay still..."

Your chest tightens. You don't know why this feels harder than confronting him. You've faced him before. You've yelled at him. You've cried in front of him!

Standing here, pretending like nothing happened while he looks at you through a lens— God, this feels worse!

"Smile," he says.

You let yourself look straight at the camera, at the lens, at him behind it. Your lips lift automatically, forming a smile you've practiced a thousand times for games and pictures.

One second. Two. Five. Ten.

There's this weird stretch of silence beneath the noise, like something's off, like the moment isn't ending when it should. You don't move at first, still holding the pose out of habit, but then your brows knit slightly, your smile starting to falter at the edges. He's not lowering the camera. He's just... there. Watching through the lens like he forgot what he was supposed to do next.

"Uh... is it finished?" Ryujin finally asks, confused, a little impatient as she shifts her weight beside you.

That's when Jake seems to snap out of it.

"Oh—... sorry. Yes, we'll just upload it later," he says quickly, his voice stumbling over itself as he lowers the camera in a rush. He doesn't look at anyone because he turns his back almost immediately.

Your smile drops the second the camera is no longer pointed at you.

"Thank you!" your teammates chorus, already moving on, already distracted, their attention bouncing to the next booth.

"He looks so familiar, right? Had he participated or watched on VIP?" one of them asks absentmindedly as they walk.

You glance at Karina, and she's already looking at you. There's a split second where neither of you say anything. Her lips press together, holding it in, not saying shit for once, and you mirror it, your own mouth tightening as you look away first.

You bury it.

You bury him under the loud whistle of your coach that keeps ripping through the air and it's trying to split your skull open. Training hits harder than usual, or maybe it just feels that way because you're forcing yourself not to think about anything else. Your body moves on—run, receive, dive, stand, repeat. You're tired.

The coaches don't give a shit.

"Again!" the whistle blows, and you barely have time to straighten your back before another ball comes flying at you. Your arms sting from the impact, your knees burn from the constant drops, and your breathing is uneven, chest heaving as you try to keep up. They said you already had your break. One whole hour earlier, like that was supposed to be enough to carry you through the rest of this hell. Fucking hell.

You try to sneak a second to grab your water because your throat dry as shit, your hand already reaching for the bottle. You tilt it, barely getting a sip—

The coach slowly called out your name. You freeze mid-action, glancing up slowly. He was staring at you with his arm crossed, an obvious disappointment carried in his eyes.

You lower the bottle immediately, swallowing hard, your shoulders straightening as you put it down. "Sorry," you mutter under your breath, even if he didn't ask for it, even if he didn't say shit. You already know.

You're fucked.

"Oh my God! I can't imagine what will be the training if we actually win that and proceed to National. I'm gonna die," Ningning whines later as she collapses onto the bench like her soul just left her body.

You barely respond. You're sitting there, hunched slightly, pressing an ice pack against your bruised arm, then your thigh, then somewhere near your ribs where it hurts the most. The punishment was stupid. Straight up stupid. The coach made the team aim at you like you were some kind of target practice, all because you slipped up.

Dull throbs spreading under your skin, your body overly aware of every ache, every sting. It's not unbearable. But it's a lot.

"I'm so sorry," Karina says. She wraps her arms around you carefully, her hand hovering before gently touching one of your bruises.

You huff quietly, shifting a little but not pulling away. "It's okay," you mumble with your tired voice. You adjust the ice again, pressing it harder this time. "I just want to go home."

God, your body feels like absolute shit. Every step on the way home feels heavier than the last, like your muscles are dragging behind you instead of actually working with you. Your shoulders ache, your thighs burn, your arms feel like they've been beaten raw—and honestly, they kind of have. All you can think about is food. Then sleep—eight hours minimum, ten if the universe suddenly decides to stop screwing you over with morning classes. Maybe even a massage, yeah, that sounds fucking perfect, you'll drag Karina and Ryujin to a spa, waste money you probably shouldn't, just to feel human again.

By the time you get back to the apartment, your brain is running on fumes. You don't even bother turning on all the lights, just enough to see where you're going before you drop your bag onto the sofa with a dull thud. It's already 7:45 PM, you don't make it any further than the living room before you just... collapse. Your body gives in immediately, sinking into the couch, your head tilting back as you stare blankly ahead.

That's when you see it the jar. It was sitting there on the table like it's been waiting for you this whole time.

"...Oh, shit," you mutter under your breath, pushing yourself up just enough to look at it properly. The guppy swims lazily inside, existing in its own tiny world while you've been out getting your ass handed to you for days straight. You slide down from the couch to the floor, dragging yourself closer until you're sitting there, elbows on the table, your head almost resting against it as you stare at the fish.

"You're getting fat," you mumble, eyes half-lidded as you watch it move in slow circles. Your finger taps lightly against the glass. "Are you eating well?" you ask again, like it's actually going to answer you. You let out a quiet, tired laugh, shaking your head slightly. "Who's feeding you? That nerd is feeding you?"

You keep staring, your gaze softening despite yourself. "You better not have some kind of attachment issues," you add, "or you'll end up swimming in the river." Another quiet huff of laughter leaves you, but it's weak, fading quickly as exhaustion starts to take over again.

Your eyes slowly close. You don't even notice the small movement behind you. Bumble moves slowly, navigating its way toward you. It bumps lightly against your leg.

Bump. You don't react. It pauses, tilting slightly, then nudges you again, a little firmer this time, its rounded head pressing against your calf like it's trying to get your attention.

Bump. Still nothing. Your breathing has already evened out, your body too tired to respond, your mind slipping somewhere between awake and asleep.

"Hi?" it chirps. It waits patiently its little frame angled toward you like it expects something back. But you don't move. Not even a twitch.

After a few seconds of nothing, Bumble shifts, turning its body slowly toward the hallway, toward that door—the one that isn't yours, then it starts bumping into it. Soft, repetitive taps against the wood. The sound blends into your half-conscious state, like it's happening underwater.

The door creaks open.

And everything after that feels... wrong. Or maybe not wrong... just unreal. Your body feels too heavy, like it's sinking or like gravity suddenly decided to double its pull on you. Your thoughts drift in fragments, slipping away before they can form properly. Did you pass out?

It feels like a fever dream. Like you're floating, but also not. Like your body is there, but your mind is somewhere else entirely.

Cold. It's cold. There's something cold against you. It presses gently, carefully, and your body reacts before your brain does, leaning into it without hesitation. Your eyes try to open but they can't. Your limbs are now unresponsive, but the sensation continues, there was something so smooth brushing against your skin. It moves along your hair first, fingers...no, something like fingers—threading lightly through it, pushing it away from your face. Then your temple. Then your cheekbone.

Good. It feels good. You let out the faintest breath, your body instinctively leaning closer, chasing that touch without even realizing it. Your head tilts slightly, giving in, surrendering to the sensation. You need more.

When you wake up the next morning, the first thing that hits you isn't confusion—it's just this dull, heavy awareness that your body still fucking hurts. Your eyes crack open slowly, light slipping in through the curtains, and you blink at the ceiling like you're trying to remember something important... but nothing comes. There's no clear memory of how you got here, no moment of climbing into bed, no dragging yourself under the covers. You just... woke up here. Lying flat on your back, blanket half-thrown over your legs like you'd been placed there instead of settling in yourself.

You stare at it for a second. Then you shrug it off.

God, you don't even have the energy to question it.

What matters is—you actually slept. Your muscles still ache, your bruises still sting when you stretch, but it's manageable. "Fuck... I could've slept more," you mumble under your breath, dragging a hand over your face as you sit up slowly, joints protesting but not as violently as yesterday. You swing your legs off the bed, feet hitting the floor, and just sit there for a moment, letting yourself exist before the day starts kicking your ass again.

Routine pulls you out of your room without much thought.

You end up in the living room, eyes automatically landing on the jar sitting on the table. The guppy swims lazily inside, completely fine. You crouch down, tapping the glass lightly before feeding it, watching it dart toward the food.

"Geez, you're greedy," you mutter, a small huff leaving your nose.

Your gaze shifts slightly—to the side, and there you saw Bumble.  Sitting there quietly beside the jar, completely still.

You stare at it for a second. "...Weird," you mumble under your breath, brows pulling together slightly. Your shoulders lift in a small shrug, brushing it off. "Whatever."

You stand up, grabbing your things, pushing the thought aside as quickly as it came. There's no point overthinking stupid shit this early in the morning.

"Morning!" Rei greets the second you step into the court, her voice bright despite the early hour as she stretches her arms above her head.

"Morning... what's for breakfast?" you ask lazily, dropping your bag onto the bench before stretching your arms out.

"Hm?" Rei glances at you, thinking for a second before her face lights up. "I think 7/11 just restocked their Spam Kimchi Fried Rice, want to get some?"

You pause mid-stretch, considering it for half a second. "Okay... that's tolerable," you say with a small nod. "Let's grab some after stretching."

More of your teammates trickle in, chatter overlapping, energy building as you all go through warm-ups. By the time you finish, the decision is already made—food first.

The convenience store is crowded as usual, cold air hitting your skin the second you step inside, a welcome contrast to the heat outside. You grab a slurpee almost immediately, sipping from it as your teammates scatter around, grabbing whatever they want, talking over each other like always.

"Oh!" Karina suddenly exclaims, pointing toward a standee near the entrance. "They got Park Jongseong standee!"

You glance over briefly, unimpressed, sipping your drink. "Who the fuck is Park Jongseong?" you mutter, already looking away.

Karina gasps. "God, are you that outdated?! Park Jongseong is a rising actor! He's studying in Decelis and about to graduate!"

"Good for him," you mumble, clearly not giving a shit, taking another sip.

"Oh—look, the Engineering posted our photos!" Rei suddenly says, grabbing your attention as she waves her phone around.

All of you crowd around her immediately, squeezing in, shoulders bumping as you lean closer to see. The group photo pops up first. When Winter swipes to the next photo, her thumb dragging across the cracked screen with zero care, Karina gasps. Your brows knit together immediately.

"What?" you mutter, stepping closer, leaning in just enough to see the phone without fully committing to caring. But then you do see it—and... the fuck?

Ningning whined, completely missing the shift in your expression. "It's so unfair! How come you're always the favorite of photographers and sport journalists?!" she complains, nudging your shoulder.

You didn't even answer at all. Your eyes stay glued to the screen, locked onto that photo. It's you. Just you. Not the team, not the formation, not even a candid group moment—it's fucking you. Zoomed in. Cropped so tightly that Karina's arm is barely visible at the edge, Ryujin completely gone. You're smiling in it, relaxed, unaware. It's not a stolen blurry shot either—it's clear, it was focused... Intentional.

"What the fuck..." you breathe out.

Karina leans closer, squinting. "The man who took our photo isn't even a photographer or a sports journalist," she mutters, more to herself now, her voice dropping as her brain starts connecting dots you don't even want to acknowledge. "Oh God..." Her head slowly turns toward you, eyes widening.

"Don't start," you cut in immediately, your glare snapping to her before she can even open her mouth properly. You already know. You fucking know what she's about to say, and you're not in the mood for it.

But of course, Karina being Karina, she doesn't stop. "He likes you!" she blurts out anyway, her finger practically stabbing toward the screen.

Your jaw clenches so tight it almost hurts. "Are you fucking serious right now?" you snap, heat rising up your neck, not even sure if it's anger or something else. "I told you. He literally said he doesn't feel the same. Did you forget that part or—"

"Who likes who?" Giselle suddenly cuts in, sliding into the conversation, eyes bouncing between you and Karina with interest.

"Wait... so you had a talking stage but it failed? Tell us more!" Winter jumps in right after, leaning forward with way too much excitement, completely missing—or ignoring—the way your expression tightens.

Your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out at first. It's like the questions start stacking too fast, overlapping, tangling together until you can't even grab one to respond to. The noise builds again—voices piling on top of each other, reactions, assumptions, teasing—and suddenly it feels too loud for something that should've stayed quiet.

"So that guy who took our photo was the one you said that won't talk to you?" Ryujin adds, her brows lifting as she studies your face more carefully, like she's trying to confirm something she already suspects.

"...Wait," another voice cuts through. "You know Jake?" Yunjin asks with confusion as she looks at Ryujin first, then shifts her gaze to you. There's a pause, a beat where her expression sharpens slightly. "You know Jake?" she repeats.

Your mouth goes dry instantly. That name, coming from someone else, hits different. Your thoughts trip over each other, questions forming faster than you can process. How does she know him? Why does she sound like that? Why does it suddenly feel like you're missing a part of the story?

"Who's Jake?" Giselle tries to jump back in, but Ningning immediately slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide like she just realized this isn't just casual gossip anymore.

"J-Just... my roommate," you manage to say, the words coming out more stiff than you intend, your grip tightening around your drink again.

"So you know the guy that took our photo and didn't say anything about him?" Karina presses, throwing her hands up in disbelief.

Before you can even respond, Yunjin lets out a short, disbelieving scoff, stepping in. She raises her brows, one hand lifting slightly as she gestures midair. "It's so random to bring him up, duh?" she says in a mocking tone. "And he's boring as hell. What do you want me to say? How he dated one of my best friends in high school and completely turned into a distant asshole with zero emotional intelligence?"

"Ohhhh," the girls around you gasp almost in sync at the gossip.

Your stomach twists, you remember that conversation the way he mentioned he dated someone before, how it "didn't work out." He didn't elaborate. You didn't push. It felt unnecessary back then.

"Oh my," Yunjin continues, shaking her head like she's already over the topic, even though she's the one who dropped the bomb. "I didn't know you'd fall for that whole nerdy, quiet, introverted charm thing too." Her lips press. "He's a good guy, sure. I'll give him that. But he's not a good partner."

Your fingers loosen slightly around your cup. You find yourself staring at nothing—some random spot past Rei's shoulder, past the glass doors, past everything—because your mind is already somewhere else. Back to the quiet moments, the stupid small things, it pisses you off, because it shouldn't matter this much. It wasn't even anything official. It wasn't even real, right?

"It was just like a one-time thing," you say, forcing your voice to come out normal. You shrug one shoulder, like it's nothing. "He's just my roommate." Your lips stretch into something that resembles a smile. "I didn't like him that much. Don't worry, girls."

The silence that follows lasts barely a second before it gets filled again. "Well, you better not like him!" Ningning cuts in quickly, narrowing her eyes at you. She nudges your shoulder, then slaps your back lightly, the others chiming in with similar reactions. "With Yunjin's side story background, he's not a perfect match for you!"

"Yeah, seriously," Winter adds, shaking her head like she's already made up her mind about him. "We don't support bad decisions."

You nod along anyway, letting them have it, letting them believe it. It's easier that way.

But Karina doesn't let it go. "Wait—no, that doesn't make sense," she hisses, leaning closer to you. "It was obvious that he likes you!" Her finger taps against Rei's phone again, like she needs to remind you of the evidence sitting right there. "I mean, look at that picture alone! That's not normal!"

You roll your eyes. "It's just a picture, Karina. Stop overthinking—"

"And what if he does?" Ryujin suddenly cuts in. She flicks Karina's forehead lightly, making her hiss in protest. "Stop pushing her again if it's just going to hurt her more."

Karina frowns, rubbing her forehead, but she doesn't argue back immediately. Ryujin's gaze shifts to you. "It doesn't matter if he likes her or not," she continues. "He already caused enough damage." She pauses for a second, like she's choosing her words carefully, but the bluntness is still there. "He's not man enough to stand by whatever the hell he's feeling right now."

You let out a small breath through your nose, shaking your head like you're brushing it all off, even if it doesn't actually go away. Whatever. They're right. All of them, in their own loud, messy way—they're right. You shouldn't be this stressed over something that was never even labeled, never even defined. It wasn't a relationship. It wasn't anything serious. It was just... something that happened. Something that ended. That should be it.

He made his point right there, standing in front of you. It shouldn't matter anymore after that. It should've killed whatever stupid hope was growing inside you before it even had the chance to become something real.

So why the fuck does it still hurt like this? You're just lonely. That's it, right? That's the easiest explanation. You got used to him being there—his presence, his voice, the small routines you didn't even notice forming until they were gone. You got used to someone paying attention, even in his awkward, quiet way. Of course it's going to feel empty now. Of course it's going to sting.

It doesn't mean it was love. You're just lonely.

Feed the fish, eat a lot of protein, train until your legs feel like they're about to give out, drag yourself to class, pretend you're listening, go home, sleep like you're dead. Avoid Jake.

Feed the fish, eat a lot of protein, train harder, push through the soreness, ignore the bruises blooming under your skin, keep your head down, don't think too much. Avoid Jake.

Feed the fish, eat a lot of protein, train, study, sleep, avoid Jake.

"I know you're busy but the... uh... water bill payment is due..."

Oh. Right.

Bills. Responsibilities. Actual life shit that doesn't revolve around your messy, unresolved feelings. Not everything is about you spiraling over some guy who couldn't even look you in the eye after fucking you.

You click your tongue softly under your breath and bend down to tie your shoelaces, using the motion as an excuse to avoid looking at him. Your fingers move quickly,  even if your chest feels tight again just from his presence being this close. Without thinking too much about it, you reach into your wallet and pull out crumpled bills, extending your hand toward him without lifting your gaze.

"Here," you mutter, handing him the fifteen dollars.

There's a split second where your hand lingers midair, and you mentally curse yourself for even noticing it. You pull back immediately, wiping your palm against your shorts. Your eyes drop back to your wallet, flipping it open again out of habit—and that's when it hits you. It's fucking empty. Well, not completely empty, but close enough. You stare at it longer than you should, your brows knitting together slightly. All that extra food, all the random shit you've been buying just to distract yourself—it adds up.

You don't even realize Jake's looking at it too. When you finally glance up and catch him staring, your expression shifts instantly. You snap the wallet shut and clear your throat like you've been caught doing something embarrassing.

"That would be enough, right?" you say nonchalantly, like you didn't just expose how broke you are. You sling your training bag over your shoulder, adjusting the strap. "I mean, I'm mostly at the city meet anyway. I didn't even use water for, like, almost two weeks."

Jake blinks behind his glasses. His gaze flickers from your face to your bag, then back again. "Y-Yeah... sure," he answers.

You're the one who looks away first. "Okay," you say quickly, already stepping back. "I'll get going." You turn slightly, ready to leave.

"Actually—"

His voice stops you mid-step. You pause, slowly, you turn your head, glancing back at him over your shoulder, one brow lifting just slightly, your expression already guarded like you're expecting something you won't like.

"N-N-Nothing," he stutters, the word tripping over itself the second your eyes meet his.

He folds into himself again. His shoulders draw inward, his posture shrinking like a snail going back to it's shell. His gaze drops almost as quickly as it met yours.

You purse your lips, holding back whatever reaction tries to surface, and give him a small, absent nod instead. For a brief moment, his eyes linger on your face, like he's searching for something in your expression that isn't there anymore. That's the part that hits him the hardest—that look you used to give him when things were still normal, when you were still figuring each other.

Are you... okay now?

The door shuts behind you. Jake doesn't move right away. He just stands there, staring at the empty space where you were a second ago.

Then suddenly, like something inside him snaps, he steps back and lets his head hit the wall. His breath comes out uneven, his fingers curling into fists before loosening again, like he doesn't even know what to do with his own body. Then he does it again. And again. And again. Each impact a little harder. Why can't he talk? Why the fuck can't he just say something when it matters?

His jaw tightens, teeth grinding as frustration builds in his chest. He pulls back once more and this time hits the wall harder than before, the sting shooting through his skull—and that's when it hits him. A flash of memory flodded into his mind.

Suddenly, he's not here anymore. Suddenly, he's back at high school.

"I know I'm not like the best partner either," Kazuha says. Jake's mouth goes dry as he stares at her, his brain lagging behind the moment like it's refusing to process what's happening.

It's a random Tuesday. And yet here she is, standing in front of him, ending something he didn't even realize was breaking.

"You're a good guy, Jake," she continues, her hands clasped together in front of her. "I appreciate and love every moment we spent with each other. Thank you for that..." She pauses. "But it's better if we part ways."

Her words just... float there, Jake goes completely still. His shoulders draw in, shrinking instinctively, an action he always do if he's trying to make himself smaller. His eyes flicker away from her for a second, scanning the space around them—the hallway, the passing students, the distant chatter. What if they were listening?

His fingers start fidgeting again, restless, rubbing against each other over and over. His heart is beating too fast. His head is too loud. There are too many thoughts forming all at once, piling up, overlapping, choking each other out before they can even become words.

"Are you..." Kazuha starts, her brows pulling together slightly as she looks at him. "...not gonna say anything?"

Jake looks at her then. Her eyes are glossy—not crying, not yet, but close enough. Waiting. Expecting something. Anything.

And fuck, he wants to say something. He wants to ask why. Wants to understand what he did wrong. Wants to tell her he tried—that he followed everything right, didn't he? He carried her bag, walked her home, remembered dates, bought flowers during monthsaries, gave her chocolates even when he didn't know if she liked them. He paid attention. He listened. He stayed. He liked her. Wasn't that... enough?

The words pile up in his throat, pressing, pushing, demanding to be let out—but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes. His mind goes blank.

Completely, fucking blank. Jake swallows, his hands starting to sweat, his fingers twitching uselessly at his sides. Panic creeps in, tightening around his chest as the silence stretches too long. He knows he should speak. He knows this is the moment. He knows if he says nothing, it's going to end like this.

And still, he can't. His lips part slightly, but instead of words, all that comes out is a shallow breath. His gaze drops, unable to hold hers any longer, and slowly, almost helplessly, he shakes his head.

Not because he doesn't care. But because he doesn't know how to say that he does.

"Bro, you fumbled a baddie so bad. Tsk, tsk, tsk."

Sunghoon's leaning back on the bench. The ice rink behind them glows under harsh white lights. It's normal. Everything is normal.

Except Jake. He's sitting there, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground. Jay walks in not long after, still dressed from whatever commercial shoot he just wrapped up, dropping his bag beside them. He takes one look at Jake and already knows something's off, his brows pulling together slightly before he exhales.

"You don't even try to chase her?" Jay asks. He leans forward a bit. "You know girls like that. If you show any effort, she might come back."

Jake doesn't respond. His gaze stays locked on the floor. His fingers twitch again, restless, picking at nothing, repeating the same useless motion over and over.

"Actually..." Sunghoon cuts in, shifting his posture as he glances between them. "You know ballet and figure skates train together, right? I overheard something..."

Jake's fingers pause for a second.

"...like uh..." Sunghoon continues, scratching the back of his neck, "she said you don't initiate anything. Like—holding hands, saying stuff... you're just too quiet." He glances at Jake briefly before looking away again. "She said she doesn't feel the 'love'." He even does the air quotes, emphasizing the word.

Jake's chest tightens, but he still doesn't move.

"I mean, I can see you putting in effort," Sunghoon adds quickly, like he's trying to balance it out. He leans over and throws an arm around Jake's shoulder, giving him a brief squeeze. "You do shit. You're there. That counts." He exhales, shaking his head. "Social media standards are ruining relationships, I swear."

"No, don't say that," Jay glares at Sunghoon. "Of course women are sensitive. Sometimes they just... misunderstand actions if we don't say anything. That's normal."

"Yeah, but that's what they call 'words of affirmation', right?" Sunghoon scoffs, pulling his arm back. "What if our Jekjek here just sucks at that? Not everyone's built like that." He shrugs, leaning back again. "They should accept that too. We're not all gonna be talking sweet 24/7. That shit's exhausting."

"Yes, we can," Jay replies without missing a beat, "If we love our girl, we can." His eyes flicker to Sunghoon briefly. "You're just saying that because you're not in a relationship."

"Hey—"

Ever since he was a child, Jake already knew there was something off about the way he spoke—or more like, the way he couldn't. It wasn't that he didn't have thoughts. Fuck, his head was always loud, always full of things he wanted to say, things he wanted to ask, things he wanted to explain. But the moment it had to pass through his mouth, it got stuck somewhere in his throat, tangled, choked out before it could even become words.

He remembers it too clearly, standing in front of the class, small hands clenched at his sides, his teacher smiling patiently while the rest of the room just... waited. Five minutes. A full five minutes of silence just because he couldn't say his own name. He could feel their eyes on him, hear the faint shifting of chairs, the quiet whispers starting to build. His mouth opened, closed, opened again—but nothing came out except shaky breaths. It felt like drowning without water.

And yet... he wasn't bullied.

That's the part he always comes back to. He was lucky. Somehow, he was lucky. The kids didn't tear him apart for it, didn't laugh in his face the way he feared they would. Some of them even waited for him, awkwardly, patiently, like they didn't mind the silence as much as he did. He carried that with him growing up—that quiet kind of relief. By the time he reached high school, he even managed to find people who stayed. Friends who filled in the gaps when he couldn't speak fast enough, who didn't push him too hard when he shut down. He had Sunghoon. He had Jay. He had... something close to normal.

And somehow, somehow, he even got lucky enough to have a pretty girlfriend. Pretty, warm, expressive—everything he wasn't. Someone who chose him despite the way his words always came out broken, incomplete, late. It felt unreal. Like he had somehow skipped steps, like life handed him something he didn't fully know how to hold. But he tried, he really did. In the ways he knew how.

He remembers the Art Therapy sessions clearly too. The therapist had a soft voice that didn't rush him, didn't pressure him into speaking when he couldn't. If you can't say it, they told him once, show it. There are other ways to communicate. And Jake held onto that.

Now it feels like a fucking lie. Because if that was enough... then why does it keep ending like this?

Maybe out of all things, love was the most unlucky thing he'd ever stumble into. Everything else in his life had eventually fallen into place—his academics were solid, his routines were structured, his small circle of friends stayed consistent. He knew what to expect, knew how to function, knew how to exist without fucking things up too badly. It wasn't perfect, but it was stable. He was content with that kind of life, the kind where nothing felt too overwhelming, where nothing demanded more from him than what he could actually give.

And somewhere along the way, after high school, after that quiet, unresolved breakup that still lingered in the back of his head, Jake made a decision without really announcing it to anyone.

He wasn't going to fall in love again.

Not because he didn't believe in it but because he clearly didn't know how to do it right.

"And with that, Number 9 saves the day with her vampire speed! Decelis Academy earns another point!"

Jake remember he was 18, on his 12th Grade. The gym was loud that day, packed with students, and huge energy that Jake wasn't used to being around. He didn't even plan on being there. Jay practically dragged him along, insisting it would be "good exposure" or whatever reason he came up with as the school ambassador. Jake didn't argue. He just followed, sitting stiffly on the bleachers, hands resting awkwardly on his knees as he tried to ignore how overwhelming everything felt.

Until he saw you.

It was sudden. Like his brain just locked onto you without asking for permission. A beautiful you in a white jersey and short shorts.

You were already in motion when his eyes found you, your body low to the ground as you received the ball. Your movements were sharp but fluid, fast in a way that made it hard to follow. One second you were on one side of the court, the next you were diving—literally throwing yourself onto the floor without hesitation, arms stretched out, saving a ball that should've been impossible to reach.

Jake blinked. Then leaned forward slightly without realizing it.

You got back up like it didn't hurt. And then it kept happening. You ran. You slid. You split just to receive the ball with your foot, and the crowd lost it. Your teammates shouted your name, your energy feeding into theirs, your presence pulling the entire court together like you were the center of it all. There was nothing hesitant about you. Every move you made had purpose, had confidence, had this raw, fearless intensity that Jake couldn't even begin to understand.

You looked... unreal. Not just pretty. Not just attractive. You looked alive in a way he had never seen before.

Your hair stuck slightly to your face from sweat, your jersey clinging just enough to show the strain of your movements, your legs marked with faint bruises like proof of how hard you played—and still, you kept going. You jumped, arms raised, eyes locked on the ball like nothing else in the world mattered in that moment.

Jake couldn't look away. It's just admiration. Nothing more. The kind of thing people feel when they see someone good at something, someone... bright in a way that makes the rest of the room feel dimmer. That's all it is.

Jake had no plans to actually talk to you. No plans to get closer.

Because it was funny, almost ridiculous, to even imagine it. You—this gorgeous varsity player everyone seemed to orbit around—talking to him? Someone who usually blended into the background unless someone actively looked at him.

When the game finally ended, the noise of the crowd didn't immediately fade. Jake followed Jay down from the bleachers toward the court level. People were already gathering around, phones out.

And there you were. Right in the middle of it.

Jake remembers that part clearly—not just seeing you, but watching you. The way your eyes moved around like you were trying to process the sudden attention instead of expecting it. You looked slightly confused, as if you didn't fully understand why everyone was crowding you. There was a faint awkwardness in the way you smiled, rubbing the back of your neck as people kept approaching.

"Can we take a picture?"

"Just one more!"

"Hey, great game!"

And you didn't refuse any of it. You just... accepted it. Laughing awkwardly here and there, nodding too quickly sometimes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as your teammates got pulled into other groups of students. You weren't dismissive. You weren't annoyed. You didn't act like it was a burden. You just went along with it, like it hadn't fully registered yet that this level of attention was normal for you.

Little kids tugging at your sleeve. Students from other schools calling your name. Boys—more boys than Jake expected—hovering nearby, waiting for their turn like it was something they had to earn.

Jay nudged him. "Want to take a picture with her?" he asks casually. Jake's eyes almost widen immediately. His entire body stiffens for a second. Heat creeps up his neck as he quickly shakes his head.

"H-Huh?" he stutters, voice cracking slightly, before he shakes his head more firmly this time. "N-No."

Jay just grins at him like he already knows. "Come on," Jay says, tapping his back lightly, dragging him forward with easy confidence. "Let's take a picture. She might get famous internationally one day. Did you see her skills?"

Jake doesn't answer. But his feet still move. His eyes—no matter how many times he tries to pull them away—keep drifting back toward you. It's frustrating in a quiet way, like his focus is being stolen without permission. Every time he looks away, he ends up looking right back again.

"Hey, my name is Jay. Nice game, by the way."

Jay steps forward first as he approaches you, holding out a hand. Jake lingers half a step behind him, suddenly aware of everything—his posture, his breathing, the fact that he probably looks like he doesn't belong anywhere near this interaction. You turn toward them, still slightly flushed from the match. Even like this, even when you're clearly tired, there's something about you that doesn't soften. Beautiful. God, you were do damn beautiful.

"Hi, Jay. Thank you? I guess?" You give a small smile, polite but slightly awkward.

Oh God. Up close, it's worse. Not in a bad way—no, not even close. You're intimidating, so fucking pretty! Jake can feel himself shrinking without moving. It doesn't make sense logically—he's taller than you, standing right there, physically closer than most people in the crowd—but mentally, he feels small, your presence fills the space too easily. Like there's no room left for him to exist normally inside it.

"Mind if we take a picture?" Jay asks again, gesturing lightly between the three of you.

"Sure."

Jay immediately shifts closer, guiding the position. And then it happens, you lift your arm and swing it around Jake's back as you settle into place for the photo.

Jake freezes for half a second. Your hand is warm through the fabric of his shirt, you're completely unbothered. But to him, it feels like something entirely different—like a switch being flipped inside his brain. His posture stiffens immediately, shoulders locking up, breath catching slightly as he tries very hard not to react in a way that would make this weird.

But you don't seem to notice. You're just standing there, in the middle of them, smiling naturally now as the camera is raised. Jay is talking about angles or something, adjusting positions, but Jake can barely process it. His mind is too focused on the fact that you are there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hear breathe. Close enough that if he turned his head slightly, he would be looking directly at you instead of trying not to.

And somehow—completely out of character for him—Jake finds himself smiling.

The camera clicks.

And for a fraction of a second, everything feels suspended—like the world pauses just long enough for him to exist in that moment without overthinking it.

Afterward, Jay steps back, already shifting into casual conversation again, but Jake stays still for a beat longer. His eyes flick briefly toward you again, then away, then back again like a broken reflex he can't fix.

This is nothing. He will eventually forget you. He is sure of that. This feeling—whatever it is—temporary.

Years passed, and Jake ended up exactly where everyone expected him to be—Engineering, decent grades, still had a stable routine. He had a scholarship that eased the financial pressure on his parents. His life, for the most part, had become structured in a way he could actually manage: classes, assignments, study sessions. His parents were still supportive, calling every now and then, reminding him to take care of himself.

Sunghoon was still skating, still grinding through competitions under Decelis. Jay, on the other hand, had started shifting into modeling, acting, random opportunities that slowly turned into actual industry attention. It was strange watching them all move forward in different directions while still somehow staying within reach. Jake stayed in touch with them.

The only thing that didn't quite fit into place was the dorm situation inside Decelis.

It was strict. Too strict in some ways, and ironically not strict enough in others. There were rules—curfews, schedules, restrictions—but somehow the environment still felt messy. People breaking curfew, doors opening and closing late at night, voices echoing down hallways when he was trying to study. His sleep schedule was constantly getting disrupted, his focus breaking at the worst possible times. He couldn't properly revise after a certain hour, couldn't rest when he needed to, couldn't even sit in silence without someone disturbing it in some way.

The only dormmate he had ever managed to properly communicate with was Heeseung.

They weren't close in a dramatic sense, but they understood each other in a way that made living together tolerable. Same academic field, similar mindset—a little detached from the noise around them. Heeseung was the kind of person who could spend hours building something without feeling the need to fill the silence with unnecessary conversation.

"Apartment complex on the streets of the Avenue," Heeseung said one afternoon, barely looking up from the small robot he was dismantling on his desk. "There's a lot of listings for people looking for roommates. Pros—two to three rooms, so you can have your own space."

Jake listened quietly from his bed, one hand resting on his notes, the other scrolling lazily on his phone without really absorbing anything. He tilted his head slightly at the explanation, already interested at the idea.

"Cons," Heeseung continued, pausing to adjust a tiny wire, "it's expensive. And there's like a ninety percent chance you end up with a girl roommate."

Jake blinked. Then looked up properly. "What's wrong with having a girl roommate?" he asked, genuinely confused, like he had missed a very important piece of information somewhere in the logic.

Heeseung finally glanced at him, expression flat, like this was obvious information that didn't need elaboration. "Tension will be too high," he said simply, shrugging one shoulder as he went back to his work. "You might fuck and then everything gets complicated emotionally."

Jake stared at him for a second."...What?"

Heeseung didn't even react much, just continued tightening a screw. "It happens."

Jake leaned back slightly, processing that in the most literal, disconnected way possible. His brain tried to compute it like a formula—input, output, consequence—but it didn't really connect to anything in his actual life experience. He had never thought about roommates in that way. Never even considered that possibility as something that could happen just because two people shared a space.

All he wanted was simple.

A place where he could breathe. A place where no one slammed doors at midnight, where he could actually study before eight without interruptions, where silence wasn't something he had to fight for. The gender of the roommate didn't matter to him.

"Isn't it better than five guys in a dorm anyway?" Jake muttered after a moment, more to himself than to Heeseung. "At least it's quieter."

Heeseung gave a short hum in response, still focused on the robot in his hands. "Probably."

Oh boy—Jake should've listened to Heeseung's cons.

Because the moment he signed the roommate application, everything somehow spiraled into something wayyyyy more complicated. Peace was all he wanted. That was all it was supposed to be. But then reality hit in a way he didn't calculate for, because he didn't know—he genuinely didn't know—that the roommate he'd been assigned was you, until the interview.

And the worst part was how his eyes kept betraying him. He'd look away too late, glance too long, get caught in places he shouldn't be looking at all. Your body, it was like how visible everything felt to him. And yeah—your ass included.

God, you looked different. It was accumulation. Your arms—stronger, more defined, muscle sitting tight under your skin. Your back was broader, posture solid, like you were always mid-motion even when you were just standing there reaching for something in the kitchen. It made sense. You were an athlete. This was normal. Of course, you train, you look like that. That's just how bodies works.

Every interaction made it worse, not better. There was no adjustment period, no gradual easing into comfort, he was stuck being watched even when you weren't looking at him.

The day you walked into the living room and caught him sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scattered Lego pieces, he felt the spike of embarrassment that didn't fade. You didn't even say anything weird, just paused, looked, maybe a little curious. But to Jake, it meant too much.

Same with the time your eyes drifted over his Hot Wheels lined up on the shelf. It wasn't judgment, not really, but his brain filled in the gaps anyway.

And then the conversations—if they could even be called that. Something as stupid as the water bill turned into a full-body experience for him. Words sticking, fingers twitching, shifting his weight like he couldn't find a stable position to stand in. He'd rehearse sentences in his head and still mess them up the second they came out. And every time, without fail, there was that lingering thought afterward: You thinks he's weird. Or worse—you knows he's a loser.

No. People could think whatever they wanted; it didn't change anything... But this didn't sit the same way. Not when it came to you. Because for some reason, he didn't want you filing him away like that, reducing him to the guy sitting on the floor snapping LEGO pieces together or lining up Hot Wheels. There was more.

If he could just say it properly, without his words tripping over themselves, he could explain it. He could tell you about his grades, how he ranked near the top without making noise about it, how he could cook actual meals. He could show you something real.

But instead, all of that stayed stuck in his head, piling up into this silent, useless argument that never reached his mouth. And —why did it even matter enough for him to sit there mentally listing reasons like he had something to prove to you?!

"Wow, lucky you."

Heeseung's mouth literally dropping open as Jake pointed toward the massive tarpulin hanging across campus with your face printed on it.

"She's my roommate."

Heeseung looked back at him, then at the tarpulin again. But Jake... Jake didn't react the same way. His posture straightened just a little. His expression shifted without him realizing it, mouth pulling into something that edged too close to pride—almost arrogant, like he had some kind of claim. He didn't even notice it happening. Didn't catch the way the idea of being linked to you—even in something as basic as living in the same apartment—make him feel good.

"So, did you two fuck?" a question that exactly the kind of thing Heeseung would throw out without thinking twice. And just like that, whatever expression Jake had dropped instantly.

"N-No, what the—?!" Jake voice cracking slightly as his face heated up in seconds. The flush spread across his cheeks, down his neck, his brain short-circuiting in the worst way possible because his thoughts betrayed him, flashing something he didn't ask for. He physically flinched, hand coming up to smack the side of his own head like he could knock it out. "What the hell are you even saying?"

"I embarrassed myself because she caught me messing with Whitey," he added quickly as he shot Heeseung a glare, redirecting the conversation to something else. The robot sat unfinished in his mind.

Heeseung didn't miss a beat. "Okay," he snorted, shaking his head with a grin, "good to know you are never gonna get fucked by that girl."

Of course not.

You were intimidating—still intimidating in the exact same way you were the last time he saw you a year ago, except now it felt worse because you were closer. It wasn't just that you were attractive. It was the way it came with presence that made it hard to relax around you. Your eyes didn't help either— too easy to get lost in if he looked too long. And that was the problem. He wanted to look, to hold it for more than a second, to prove to himself he could act normal—but every time he tried, something in him pulled back too fast.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" You ask him too blunt as he just handle you the advance payment.

"H-huh?" His face went red almost instantly, color blooming across his cheeks as he fumbled with the fabric of his pajama pants, wiping his hands over and over. "I—I don't have..." he said quietly, trailing off as if the sentence itself embarrassed him.

Wait—why would you even ask that? Followed by another question. Are you... interested? Or just curious? That didn't make sense. There was no reason for you to be interested. He barely talked to you, barely functioned normally around you. So why ask? Unless it didn't mean anything. Unless he was reading into it again. It was random. You weren't even that close, barely past basic conversations....

Jake tried not to think about it, tried to force his attention onto anything else, but you cut straight through that fragile effort by suddenly starting another conversation, casually asking what you both should order for dinner while he adjusted Whitey. You were so fucking close. It is overwhelming, scrambling his thoughts. Oh fuck. You were too close—it was going to make him lose his goddamn mind, and all he could think, over and over, was how you smelled—sweet, distracting, pretty, pretty, pretty.

He was barely breathing, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like looking at you directly might short-circuit him. "Uh... I already ate," he repeated, voice dropping smaller.

"Oh."

Before you could say something, he stood abruptly, movement jerky, still refusing to meet your eyes as he pointed vaguely toward his room. "I—I need to, uh... I have something to do," he said, bowing slightly out of pure habit before retreating.

The moment the door shut behind him, Jake nearly let out a broken whine, his hands went straight to his hair, fingers gripping hard. He exhaled shakily, trying to calm himself, but it wasn't working. His dick was fucking hard— it got fucking hard!

And the third time you initiated something, Jake swore he was probably seconds away from going completely brain dead. He'd been crouched over another half-disassembled robot that Heeseung had dropped off earlier. You appeared again, stepping into his space. Jake would never forget the way you set the ramen down beside him with those pretty smile, and how easily you started talking about your life like none of the tension from before had ever existed.

"Sometimes I wish I was smart instead of just... sport-inclined," you admitted with a half-laugh, slumping your shoulders for emphasis. "Like, what the hell am I supposed to do after I decide I'm done with volleyball?"

Jake wanted to respond. He wanted to tell you that being sport-inclined wasn't something lesser, that there was nothing wrong with it, nothing lacking or incomplete about who you were. He wanted to say he envied you, in a way—your strength, the way you moved through things without hesitating, how you seemed fearless and independent in ways he couldn't quite reach. He wanted to tell you that if you ever got tired of volleyball, there were still so many things waiting for you, paths you could take without losing yourself—but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

"I'm done for now," you said abruptly, when you notice he isn't talking, you clacked your chopsticks against the plastic before snapping the lid shut, forcing a smile that felt stiff on your face. You stood, shoved the ramen into the fridge with more force and retreated to your room, closing the door behind you.

Jake stayed exactly where he was, staring at nothing, and again, he let out a frustrated exhale, dragging a hand down his face.

When you stopped talking to him, Jake felt it like something collapsing inward. The last time you asked him anything beyond the bare minimum was when he'd come out of the shower early, and you'd only glanced his way long enough to ask if he was done. And after that... nothing. You slipped back into your usual colder distant self—only asking about rent, keeping your eyes anywhere but on him, cutting off any chance for conversation before it could no even start.

"Well, what do you expect?" Heeseung scoffed from across the room, not even bothering to look up at first as he leaned back in his chair, one leg stretched out while he worked on programming the robot in front of him—Bumble, Jake's old Grade 12 project that he'd decided to mess with again. "She's basically just talking to a wall, you want her to keep trying? You think you're that special?" He finally glanced over then, eyebrow raised, unimpressed.

"No! I—I understand her," Jake shot back quickly, his shoulders slumping almost immediately after as if the effort alone drained him. His hands fidgeted uselessly in his lap, fingers curling and uncurling as he struggled to keep his thoughts from tangling. "I just... I wish I could talk about things too... you know... like, actually say stuff... share..." His voice trailed off toward the end, shrinking.

"Booo," Heeseung dragged out mockingly, not missing a beat as he tilted his head back with exaggerated disappointment. "Stop wishing and actually try for once. Jesus, it's not that deep." He flicked a small tool across the desk toward Jake, though it stopped short, clattering uselessly against the surface. "You're just making excuses at this point."

"Why would I?" Jake asked, stubborn in a way that felt more defensive than confident, his gaze dropping to the floor. "It's better this way."

Heeseung's eyebrow lifted slightly at that. And the truth was, Jake had already accepted it—accepted that talking, is... super hard . His social anxiety had settled into him so deeply that the people around him had just adapted, learned to expect less, learned not to wait for him to say anything. Sometimes he wished it wasn't like that, wished he could just... function normally, speak without overthinking every word—but wishing didn't change anything, and he knew it.

So who the hell was he kidding? Himself, apparently.

Because the moment he started working on improving Bumble—adding a small camera, linking it directly to his phone so he could control what it saw and how it moved—he found himself doing something he couldn't even justify. Sitting on his bed, phone in hand, staring at the screen like an idiot while waiting for the front door to open. It was 7:30 PM. You usually got home around that time. The second he heard the faint click of the lock, he straightened up instantly, heart kicking a little harder as his eyes locked onto the live feed.

The door opened, and there you were—stepping inside, unaware and Jake immediately triggered the robot.

"Hi," he said softly into his phone, knowing the word would come out through Bumble in that slightly distorted.

He stayed hidden where he was, safely out of sight, using the robot as a shield between him and you. On the screen, you paused, your expression shifting into confusion as you looked down at Bumble, clearly not suspecting anything, because why the hell would you? To you, it was just a small, harmless robot—not him.

Jake let out a quiet, breathy giggle, biting down on his fist to keep himself from smiling too wide as he watched you respond. Sometimes you greeted it back, and other times you crouched down, kneeling in front of Bumble as your fingers gently brushed over its surface. And every time you did, you ended up looking straight into the camera without realizing it—your eyes filling his screen so suddenly it made his chest tighten. God, your eyes were so fucking beautiful. You were so beautiful. He kicked his feet lightly against the edge of his bed, barely containing the energy buzzing through him, his grin hidden behind his hand as he watched you a little longer than he probably should have.

One time, Jake watched you through his screen as you stepped into your room and quietly closed the door behind you. He lingered there for a moment, thumb hovering over the controls before he slowly guided Bumble away, sending it rolling through the hallway in slow, absent circles.

He kept moving, turning corners, drifting past furniture with no real direction. But then your door creaked open again, and Jake reacted instantly, fingers tightening as he jerked the controls, turning Bumble around so fast it almost tipped before he steadied it and followed you.

The movement was too uncoordinated—he wasn't paying attention to anything except you—and his phone slipped right out of his hand, dropping straight onto his face with a sharp, painful smack.

"Nghh—!" he choked out, the impact rattling his teeth as one of the brackets on his braces snapped loose, sending a jolt of pain through his jaw. But he barely had time to even react, because the screen was still on, angled just enough for him to see.

You were in the kitchen now, dressed in short shorts and a loose crop top that rode up just enough when you moved, exposing more than he'd ever seen before.

You bent slightly over the counter, focused on your phone while absentmindedly eating snacks, completely unaware of the tiny camera pointed in your direction. From that angle—he could see the curve of your body so clearly it made his head spin, the fabric of your shorts riding up just enough to reveal the soft outline of your ass.

"No..." he breathed, his chest tightening as his eyes stayed glued to the screen.

His gaze flickered downward for a second, and that only made it worse, because his body had already reacted before he could stop it. His dick was hard. Fucking hard.

"No—no, no..." he muttered under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a second like it might erase the image that was already stuck in his mind. His face throbbed where the phone had hit him, his teeth aching from the loose bracket he knew would cost a shit ton to fix, but none of that compared to the way his body refused to calm down.

"I'm sorry," he whined under his breath, almost desperate as he grabbed his phone again with shaky hands. He didn't even look properly this time—just caught a brief, blurry glimpse of you still there on the screen before he fumbled with the controls and shut Bumble off completely. The feed cut to black instantly, leaving him staring at his own reflection instead, wide-eyed and flushed, breathing unevenly.

Jake's hands moved quickly, tugging his pajama pants down in a rush. He hadn't even bothered with boxers, and the cool air hitting his skin only made everything feel more intense than it already was. His toes curled against the sheets as his hand wrapped around himself, eyes squeezing shut like that might dull the image burned into his head—but it didn't, not even a little.

If anything, it made it worse, the memory replaying in fragments, the way you bent slightly, the way your body looked so fucking sexy.

His breathing turned uneven until it was harder to control as his grip tightened on his cock. The thought of grabbing his phone again, to open Bumble, tempting. But it feels morally wrong, of course he has a conscience!

A quiet whine slipping out as the image of you catching him—actually realizing what he'd been doing with Bumble—flashed through his head.

"Oh God," he breathed, the words breaking unevenly as his stomach clenched hard at the thought. Why is he getting off at the thought of being caught?! Now he really felt like a fucking weirdo.

His hand stilled for a second before he reached blindly for his phone, unlocking it with clumsy fingers as he opened his messages with Heeseung. His friend had always had this habit—sending pictures of you from games, from practice, from random moments on the court. Jake used to ignore them, but now, he was actually looking, thumb dragging slowly across the screen as he took them in one by one, most of them taken by sports journalists and reposted on the university page.

He kept scrolling faster now, a restless feeling building under his skin as his patience thinned, his hands are getting faster until his eyes landed on one that made him stop completely.

A selfie. He didn't know where the hell Heeseung got it, but there you were, up close, biting lightly onto your medal with a small, tired smile, sweaty and hair slightly messy like it had been taken right after a game. Jake stared at it longer than he should have, his chest rising and falling unevenly, his fingers working through the tip, spreading the precum. God. He wish you could also bite him, everywhere, his neck, his lips, his nippl— bite WHAT?!

His head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering for a second as he exhaled through his teeth. "Haaa..." he whispered again, his gaze locked onto the screen as everything else faded out around him.

After a few uneven breaths and one last helpless glance at your photo, his body finally gave in to the overwhelming tension he'd been holding onto for too long, his dick keep twitching as it spurts continous cum on his stomach.

He was slumped there in silence, staring at the screen like he didn't know what to do with himself anymore.

heeseung | lol why'd you ❤️ react now to the picture i've sent 2 months ago????

heeseung | that sweaty picture haha nice taste😏

heeseung | you're welcome

Jake's entire face flushed instantly, the heat crawling up from his neck to his ears. It felt wrong, no it's actually wrong! You and him barely even talked, what the fuck is he thinking?! Jake let out a frustrated groan before tossing his phone across the room without even looking, the device hitting the floor near his desk.

It's just attraction. You were pretty—that wasn't something he could deny, not even if he tried—and his body reacting like that... it wasn't unusual, not really. He knew that. He knew it was a normal response!

Jake grew restless as the days dragged on, a quiet agitation settling into him that he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried to distract himself. He kept checking the time without realizing it, his focus slipped whenever he tried to work on anything else. But also, it didn't still change the fact that he is looking forward to one specific moment every night.

Well, greeting you through Bumble had turned into a routine.

But one day, that routine cracked without warning. The second Bumble rolled into the living room and the camera adjusted, Jake's small, anticipatory smile faded instantly, his entire expression dropping. You were sitting there, not moving the way you usually did, not reacting the way he expected.

You were crying. His hands lifted slightly toward the screen without thinking, fingers hovering uselessly in the air, as if he could do anything at all from where he was.

You leaned back against the sofa, your body sliding down slowly until you were sitting on the floor, shoulders slumped, exhaustion written all over you. "Everyone has someone," you whispered. "Why... am I such a fucking loser?" you let out a short laugh after that.

Jake just sat there on his bed, staring at his phone.  He watched you like this without knowing how to respond.

He wanted to tell you it was okay, that you weren't whatever you thought you were in that moment, that you didn't have to sit there alone like that. He wanted to apologize too—for all the times you tried to talk to him and he shut down, for how absent he must've seemed, how useless he felt now thinking back on it.

Most of all, he wanted to tell you that you had him.

Action speaks louder than words, right? If you thought you were lonely, then he'd prove you wrong—not by saying it, because he clearly couldn't, but by doing something, anything that might reach you in a way his words never could. So he started small, practical, something he could control. If you were hungry, then he'd cook.

"I—I always... uh... cook food f-for dinner..." he managed to say when you walked in. His heart was pounding so loudly it made it hard to hear himself think. He saw the way you paused mid-step before turning your head just slightly, not fully facing him. Jake's gaze dropped instantly, locking somewhere near the floor, his fingers twitching uselessly at his side.

"I-If you want to eat," he added quickly, the words stumbling over each other in his rush to get them out before he lost the nerve entirely, "uh... it's on the table..." His voice faded at the end. He didn't wait for your response and before you had the chance to say anything, he turned and walked off quickly.

By the time he reached his room, he was practically speed-walking, shutting the door behind him a little too fast before leaning back against it with an exhale. "No..." he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair as he tried to calm himself down, his pulse still racing from something as simple as speaking to you. He paced once, twice, restless energy buzzing under his skin, before grabbing his phone. The familiar motion steadied him a little as he connected to Bumble again, pulling up the camera feed with shaky anticipation.

The moment the screen lit up and he saw you sitting at the table, actually eating eagerly, without hesitation—something in his chest loosened all at once. A wide smile spread across his face. He leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the screen. He had spent hours researching what athletes usually ate, scrolling through articles and videos, and seeing you enjoying it without knowing any of that, made it feel worth it in a way he hadn't expected.

Jake kept cooking for you after that. Sometimes you came home later than usual, the house already dark and settled, and he'd just leave the food covered on the table without saying anything. And every morning, when he stepped into the kitchen and saw the empty tupperware neatly rinsed and the dishes cleaned and set aside, something in him eased just enough to carry him through the day.

"Sooo, you're not actually talking? That's lame," Heeseung said one afternoon, watching Jake from across the scattered parts on the floor. "You're seriously not even gonna try talking to her?" he added, tilting his head slightly, like he was waiting for Jake to say something less disappointing.

Jake paused mid-motion, the screwdriver hovering awkwardly in his hand as he stared down at the loose panel he'd been working on. "Uh..." he started, hesitating as his eyes flicked up briefly toward Heeseung before dropping back down just as quickly. He shifted his shoulders in a small shrug. "I think it's okay...? People don't need conversations all the time," he said.

Heeseung made a face immediately before he pushed himself forward and sat down next to Jake on the floor. "Are you even hearing yourself?" he asked, brows raised as he nudged one of the scattered tools aside with his foot. "You'd rather just... what, keep cooking for her like some silent fucking ghost? That's it?" He leaned back on his hands, glancing at Jake from the side. "Why don't you try something normal for once? Like eating together at the table?"

"I-It's not needed," Jake replied quickly, a bit too defensive as his grip tightened slightly around the screwdriver. "What are you even pointing at?"

"I swear that girl likes you," Heeseung said, sitting up straighter now. "You literally told me she asked if you had a girlfriend, right? People don't just ask that shit for no reason. She wouldn't even bring it up if she wasn't interested."

Jake just stared at him, his mind spinning in slow, uneven circles as he tried to process what Heeseung was saying. It didn't line up cleanly in his head. His lips parted slightly like he was about to respond, but nothing came out, instead, he reached for the water bottle beside him, unscrewing the cap just to have something to do.

"For you to even sit at the same table, you need to ask her to eat dinner with you," Heeseung continued. "And to do that without fucking it up, you need courage—and a script. Yeah, a script," he added, nodding to himself. His fingers tapped lightly against his knee as he spoke, already thinking steps ahead while Jake was still stuck at the starting point.

Jake paused mid-sip, the bottle hovering awkwardly in the air as he slowly turned his head to look at him, eyes narrowing just slightly in confusion. Heeseung, meanwhile, looked completely serious.

"Let's practice some, okay?" he said, already shifting closer. "But when you say it, don't mumble like that—say it straight, no stuttering, and looook..." he dragged the word out, lifting a finger for emphasis, "at the person's eyes when you're talking. That part is important."

Jake swallowed slowly, nodding once. He lifted the bottle again, taking another quick drink but then Heeseung reached out suddenly, grabbing Jake by the shoulder and pulling him just enough to face him directly. "Practice it with me," he said, eyes locking onto Jake's with zero hesitation.

Jake barely lasted a second.

The moment their eyes met, something in him short-circuited completely. The water he'd just taken in stayed in his mouth for a split second too long before it came spilling out in the worst possible way—right onto Heeseung's face.

"You fucker," Heeseung hissed, he wiped his face with the back of his hand, water dripping down his jaw and onto his shirt. He lunged forward, grabbing Jake by the collar and immediately hooking an arm around his neck, choking him.

The next day, Jake decided he should've just ignored everything Heeseung said. All of it. The advice, the assumptions, the stupid "script"—it all felt ridiculous now that he was actually thinking about it on his own. It wasn't necessary. He didn't need to prove anything, didn't need to suddenly change how things were going between you and him. Things were... working, in their own quiet way. He had his routine, you had yours, and there was no risk of him messing it up as long as he didn't push it any further.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to settle into that thought again.

Sigh.

You were so fucking pretty.

He clicked his tongue softly in frustration, shifting his weight where he stood in the kitchen. Maybe... maybe inviting you to eat together wouldn't be that bad. He swallowed, his chest tightening slightly as he stared down at the food he'd already prepared, his fingers flexing at his side like he was trying to gather whatever courage Heeseung kept talking about.

"H-Hey."

The word came out before he could stop it. You had just gotten back from practice, heading straight toward your room without really looking around. Jake set the plate down carefully on the table. Eye contact, he remembered. Right. His shoulders tensed slightly as he forced himself to look up when you paused.

And for a moment, he actually held your gaze. Really held it.

The way your eyes locked onto his without hesitation, clear and focused in a way that made his chest tighten instantly. You were even prettier up close! And just like that, it became too much. His gaze broke, darting off to the side as his composure slipped, the brief confidence he had collapsing under the weight of it.

"Let's—I-I cooked dinner," he said quickly, the words tumbling over each other as he gestured vaguely toward the table, his hand a little stiff. "There's a-a lot, so l-let's share."

The moment you sat down and really talk. All of Jake nervousness and loud mind begun to be quiet.

Oh—and it really... felt nice.

Talking to you about random things—music, mostly—like Cigarettes After Sex, of all things, wasn't something he ever pictured himself doing out loud, but it just... happened. And then the next day, you came back holding a bottle of chocolate almond milk, setting it down in front of him, and he just stared at it for a second, genuinely thrown off. For him?! You bought it... for him? there was no way—you knew his favorite drink without him ever saying it!

And fuck, you were cute too. In the little things he kept catching himself noticing more and more. The way you reacted to food, especially the ones he cooked, wasn't something you tried to hide or tone down, and he liked that more than he expected. You weren't picky, didn't hesitate, didn't pretend—you just ate, genuinely, like you enjoyed it without overthinking it. And that smile you always had while eating. Damnnn. You were cute. You were really fucking pretty.

And somehow, without either of you pointing it out, things started to settle into something new. You and him eating together when your schedules lined up, sitting across from each other at the table. Conversations came easier now, sometimes you'd watch movies after, sometimes you'd just sit there, talking about nothing in particular. But most of the time, it circled back to the same thing—eating. You ate, and he cooked. Over and over again. He cooked, cooked, and kept cooking.

Well... of course, with everything he'd been doing lately, someone was bound to question it eventually—even if he hadn't properly questioned it himself yet. From the outside, the things he was doing maybe it didn't look that simple.

"And you're doing all of that because...?" Heeseung asked.

"Because... I'm a... good roommate?" Jake replied almost immediately, the words coming out before he had time to think them through.

"You mean you're doing all of that because... you want to be a good roommate?" Heeseung repeated, his eyebrow lifting even higher as he stared at him. Jake glanced at him briefly, then looked away, his gaze drifting upward like he might find a better answer somewhere above them.

"...Yes?" he said again.

"Dude?" Heeseung's voice jumped, he straightened up, staring at Jake like he'd just said something completely insane. "What do you mean you cook for her all the time, talk with her, watch movies with her—just because you want to be a good roommate? You're literally leading her on."

"Leading her on... on what?" Jake asked, his brows pulling together slightly, the confusion in his voice genuine as he turned back to look at him.

"Leading her on into thinking you like her," Heeseung shot back immediately, his hands coming up as he gestured. "Do you not like her at all?"

...

Jake didn't answer right away. His thoughts slowed, circling around the word. It felt too big, too defined. He knew you were attractive, that wasn't even a question. You were cool, confident in ways he couldn't replicate, and there was a part of him that looked up to you without fully realizing it at first. But stepping past that, into something more specific—it didn't come easily to him.

Was he actually leading you on?

Suddenly he remember his last relationship back in high school. The awkwardness, the pressure, the way everything had fallen apart in a way that left him feeling small, like he'd completely mishandled something he wasn't ready for in the first place. He remembered the expectations he couldn't meet, the quiet disappointment that followed—and how it all ended with him promising himself he wouldn't put himself, or anyone else, through that again.

Maybe that's why he rejected your invite to watch your finals game.

At the time, it felt like the right decision. It was better this way, it would stop you from expecting anything from him, stop things from becoming something more complicated than he could handle. If you didn't hope for anything, you wouldn't be disappointed.

Later that day, after class, when he stopped by to grab food for what he half-considered a small, quiet way to celebrate for you anyway, he saw the ticket. Crumpled in the trashcan . Jake paused mid-step, the takeout bag hanging loosely in his hand as he stared at it.

And just like that, the certainty he'd been holding onto didn't feel so...solid anymore.

What the hell was he even doing? Building you stupid little lego flowers, cooking for you almost every day, sitting across from you and actually talking—even if it took everything in him just to keep the words coming. What was the point of all that? What was he trying to get out of it? Good roommate? That sounds ridiculous!

A good roommate remembers details.

Because Jake remembered things—too many things. He hadn't cared much about sports before, never bothered to look into it beyond surface-level noise, but you... you were something else.

You were everywhere.

Articles, photos, interviews—your name kept showing up in places he didn't expect. A second-year student from Basic Education, sure—but that wasn't the part that stuck. It was everything else. The way sports journalists talked about you like you were something unpredictable, something hard to pin down. The libero who didn't just receive but shut down plays, you who managed to block one of the most well-known spikers from another university! And your high school team? Representing the region at nationals!

Because you never talked about it.

Not once. You never bragged and yet there it was, laid out in front of him in article after article. MVP awards, recognition, comments about your presence on the court—how your looks alone distracted opponents, how your movements were unpredictable enough to throw off entire plays, how you stayed focused on keeping the ball alive no matter what. With the school reputation, you were often called as a Decelis Vampire with your great speed and agility. It didn't sound like the same person who sat across from him eating quietly, smiling over the food he made!

Sports were complicated but you?

You were so fucking cool.

That's why he felt so fucking dumb—so unbelievably dumb for letting things get this far without stopping himself sooner. Every small thing he did stacked up until it stopped being simple and started turning into this mess he didn't know how to handle. Heeseung had warned him and Jake brushed it off as if it didn't apply to him—but now it all circled back.

Living with you, being around you like this, letting things blur—it created tension he wasn't equipped to deal with. Because if he let himself go any further, if he actually gave in to those impulses—to the urge of wanting more, to get closer, to touch, to kiss, to do things he knew he wouldn't be able to take back—he'd regret it. He knew he would.

So avoiding you felt like the only right decision left after having sex. He knows it wasn't fair but Jake has been good at avoiding things, especially confrontation, because he knew how those situations ended for him.

But he underestimated you.

Because of course you weren't just going to let it sit like that. Of course you were going to push, to corner him when he thought he could quietly slip away from it. And that was exactly the kind of situation he wasn't ready to face—the kind where there was no escape, no easy way out.

"Talk to me, fuck it!" you snapped suddenly, your voice breaking as it rose. Jake flinched hard, his shoulders tensing as the sound hit him that made his thoughts scatter even more. Why would you do that? Why would you push him into something he clearly couldn't handle?

Because the truth was—he didn't even fully understand what he felt.

"Sorry... Jake... please," you said again, your voice dropping, almost pleading in a way that made something twist in his chest. Your hands were still there to hold onto him but he moved them gently, guided them off him.

"I like you too much, is that wrong?" you asked.

Yeah.

It is wrong.

You shouldn't feel that way about someone like him, not when he knew he couldn't give you what you deserved. Jake didn't deserve you.

"S-sorry..." he said, shaking his head slightly, his gaze fixed somewhere else, anywhere but your face. "I—I... I don't think I feel the same way, that's why I—I feel guilty... about what happened... sorry."

That's what he felt.

That's what he told himself he felt.

The sound of plastic hitting the floor suddenly made him cut through his thoughts. You got those for him.

And before he could even react—before he could say anything—you were already moving, already turning away and walking out, leaving everything behind.

Jake stood there, frozen, staring at the scattered toys on the floor. His chest felt tight, his thoughts loud and empty at the same time, a heavy stone settling deep in his gut as though he wants to vomit.

Because it felt like his world just... crashed. And the worst part? It felt like he had just lied straight through his teeth...Even though he knew, somewhere deep down, he had tried to be honest.

"You're an asshole." Heeseung didn't even hesitate when he said it. Jake clenched his teeth immediately, his jaw tightening as his eyes shut, trying to ignore everything around him. But it didn't help. All he could see was your tear-streaked face and it kept replaying, over and over again.

Yeah. He knew.

He'd known the moment the words left his mouth, the moment you dropped those stupid fucking toys and walked out without looking back. Guilt stayed in his chest, making it hard to think straight without it twisting everything. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He told himself he was avoiding problems, preventing something worse from happening—but it felt like he just created something worse instead.

Maybe he should just switch buildings again. He was ashamed. He hurt you, badly, and he didn't even mean to—but intent didn't change shit.

But then—

If he left... who the hell would be there for you?

Who would take care of you in the small ways he'd gotten used to? Who would cook, who would notice the little things, who would sit across from you at the table? Would you just find another roommate? Probably. Someone better. Someone who could actually talk without shutting down, someone who wouldn't say the wrong thing at the worst possible moment... What the fuck is he thinking right now?

Did he... actually like you?

Jake frowned slightly, his brows pulling together. Did he like you because you remembered something as small as his favorite milk without him ever saying it out loud? Because you talked a lot, filling spaces he usually left empty, and somehow that didn't annoy him the way it should've? Was it because you were pretty and because people looked at you like you were something hard to reach? Or was it the way you balanced that—how you could be intimidating on the court, but still soft in these quiet, unguarded moments he got to see?

None of it felt... enough.

Or maybe it felt too scattered, too shallow when he tried to list it out like that. Because liking someone was supposed to be deeper than this, wasn't it?

"Hi! We are from Decelis Sport Management! We're handing out flyers to support the Women's Volleyball team—they're leaving the city next month!" A small group stood near the cafeteria entrance, passing out glossy flyers one by one. "If you want to be part of the VIP section with the Decelis Band, feel free to stop by our office!" one of them added, extending a flyer toward a passing student who barely hesitated before taking it.

Jake paused mid-motion, his hand hovering over his notebook as his attention shifted without him meaning to. His eyes locked onto the flyer in someone else's hand—the bold colors, the team name printed across it. Across from him, Heeseung noticed immediately, his brows lifting as he followed Jake's line of sight, then slowly leaned back in his chair, expression flattening.

"What?" Heeseung said, lips twitching just slightly as he tilted his head. "Interested in watching?"

"H-Huh?" Jake snapped out of it quickly, his head turning toward Heeseung as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. He looked back down at his blueprint right after. "No..." he muttered.

"So are we watching Decelis vs. Isabella again?" a nearby student chimed in, leaning over slightly to look at the flyer with interest. "You gonna buy for Day 3?"

"Of course Decelis is making it to Day 3, have you seen their defense?" his friend shot back immediately, already slinging his bag over his shoulder as he stood up. "Come on, let's just grab tickets for all three days now before they sell out." He didn't even hesitate, already walking off with the flyer in hand.

Jake stayed quiet. His eyes flickered up again, catching another glimpse of the flyers being passed around. He doesn't care. He doesn't care.

He found himself standing in front of the Sports Management office later that day, stuck in the middle of a long, slow-moving line. Jake kept his head slightly lowered, shoulders tense, eyes avoiding anyone who might recognize him. Because if Heeseung found out about this he'd never hear the end of it. Probably get smacked in the head too.

"What am I doing..." he muttered under his breath, shifting his weight awkwardly as the line moved forward inch by inch.

To distract himself, Jake glanced toward the bulletin board nearby, his eyes scanning over the countless posters and printed articles pinned up in messy layers. Interviews, game highlights, team features—it was all there. Huh Yunjin—the captain. Aeri Uchinaga. Ning Yizhuo — middle blockers. Faces he'd seen in passing, names mentioned in articles he skimmed through,  most of it—

Most of it was you.

Photos of you mid-play, interviews where your expression looked calmer, more composed than he'd ever seen in person. It filled the space in a way that made it impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend you were just... normal, just his roommate. Jake stared longer, his chest tightening with every second he didn't look away.

Oh God.

Jake likes you.

The thoughts slammed into him, so hard and disorienting, like someone had cracked him across the head without warning— No... something did actually hit his head.

"—Oh! S-sorry!" a guy with glasses and messy brown hair blurted out, his voice pitching up in panic as his bag swung awkwardly and smacked straight into Jake's head, his hand coming up instinctively to rub the spot as he blinked a few times. The guy looked mortified, clutching his strap.

Every weak explanation he used to convince himself otherwise—it all crumbled in that moment. Because no matter how much he tried to deny it, no matter how many times he told himself it wasn't that deep.

It all fell apart the second he showed up here, standing in line like an idiot, pretending this was just curiosity.

It all fell apart the second he decided to go to your game, even though he didn't understand shit about volleyball, even though he had no real reason to be there—except you.

And it completely shattered the moment he saw you cry.

It fucking hurt.

"Y-You're bleeding?! H-How is that possible?!" the guy suddenly stammered, his voice jumping in panic as he pointed straight at Jake's face. Jake blinked, confused for a second before lifting his hand again, only now noticing the faint smear of red against his fingers. His brows pulled together slightly, still slow to react, while the guy behind him gasped loudly, grabbing onto his friend's shoulder.

"W-What the hell?! Did you put this in my bag, Keonho?!" the guy who hit him earlier yelped, frantically unzipping his bag and pulling out a chunk of stone that definitely didn't belong there. The guy turned to the other boy beside him, who immediately started denying it just as loudly. The two of them spiraled into a messy argument right there in line, drawing attention from a few others.

His focus had already drifted.

His eyes moved past them, scanning the rest of the line, taking in the small details he hadn't noticed before. People were talking excitedly about you—your last game, your plays, your reputation. The way they spoke about you wasn't just any casual conversation. It was admiration.

There were so many people here for you.

People who weren't awkward. People who didn't hesitate. People who would actually step forward instead of pulling back.

Jake's gaze drifted back to the boy in front of him, still panicking over the situation, completely unaware of the way Jake was staring right through him. Because even then, his attention wasn't fully there—

There were people better than him.

And wasn't that what you deserved?

Someone who would take care of you properly, not just in small, quiet ways but openly, confidently. Someone who would love you without second-guessing every word, someone who would cherish you without needing to hide behind half-efforts.

If you found someone like that... he'd step back.

He'd admire you from a distance, the way everyone else here probably already did, without expecting anything in return. And yeah, if that person hurt you, it would fucking hurt him too. But if that person treated you right—if they gave you everything... That would destroy him.

Because deep down, he knew—

He could've been that person too.

No—fuck that. He wasn't going to just stand there and accept that kind of ending! That felt worse—way worse—than anything else he'd been afraid of. Now that Jake knew, now that the feeling had a name, there was no way he could pretend it didn't exist anymore. Oh my God—he liked you.

Jake let out a sudden laugh, sound like a little unhinged as he stepped forward without thinking. The boy in front of him barely had time to react before Jake grabbed his shoulder, gripping it, his eyes a little too bright. "Thank you," he said, smiling wide in a way that didn't quite match the situation, ignoring the faint line of blood still trailing down the side of his face. "Fuck—thank you!"

The two guys stared at him like he'd lost it—and maybe he had, a little — Before they could even process what was happening, he reached out, snatched the ticket straight from the boy's hand who he saw at the ID was named as Juhoon, and stepped back.

He pushed through the line without looking back, ignoring the confused voices behind him.

Jake wasn't suddenly different.

He still struggled to talk. Still froze at the wrong moments. Still didn't know how to say things the way he meant them.

And even if he didn't know how to say it yet, even if the words never came out right—he wasn't going to just disappear and let things end like that. He'd have to face you again, one way or another, and deal with whatever came with it.

Not perfectly.

But honestly—this time, for real.

"Why is there always some kind of event in Decelis? And why the hell are we attending another seminar?" you muttered under your breath with clear irritation as you shifted your weight in line. The hallway outside the Audio Visual Room felt suffocating, packed too tight with bodies and noise, the air barely moving as heat clung stubbornly to your skin. You closed your eyes for a second, exhaling sharply through your nose, trying to ignore the way your shirt stuck to your back and how every inch of space felt invaded. Students around you fanned themselves with whatever they had—folders, papers, even their hands—but it barely helped. "For what?" you added under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, your patience already running thin.

"Hey! Hey!"

You cracked one eye open at the familiar voice, already knowing who it was before you even turned your head. Karina stood a few feet away in the opposite line, somehow managing to look energized despite the heat, waving at you like she hadn't just walked into a human oven. Your lines moved in opposite directions, slowly dragging both of you closer until you met halfway. You gave her a look—half disbelief, half annoyance—because honestly, how the hell was she still that cheerful in this kind of weather?

"Did you see Ningning at the end of the line?" she asked immediately.

You blinked at her, unimpressed. "What kind of question is that? It sounds like we're not seeing each other later for training or something," you shot back with sarcasm as you wiped at the sweat gathering near your temple. Your mood had already dipped, and she wasn't helping.

Karina just laughed, completely unfazed, pointing at your face before pulling out her small turbo fan and aiming it straight at you. The sudden blast of air hit your skin instantly. "Come on, smile!" she teased, her grin widening as she watched your expression soften just a bit. "We're heading to Santiago next week! Aren't you excited?!"

You made a face at that, forcing a weak smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, mostly because the heat was still unbearable and your patience was already gone. Before you could say anything else, your lines started moving again, pulling you apart just as quickly as you'd met. The cool air from her fan disappeared instantly, leaving you with nothing but the same suffocating warmth. You huffed again, this time breathing through your mouth as you tilted your head back slightly, trying to catch whatever little air you could.

"Oh my—hi! Hey—! That's the legendary vampire of Decelis!"

You groaned quietly, dragging a hand down your face as you already knew exactly who that was before even looking. Turning your head slightly, you spotted Ningning, Giselle, and Winter near the edge of the other line, all of them way too loud, way too energetic for this kind of environment. They waved like they hadn't seen you in years, calling out just enough to grab attention from people nearby.

"What the fuck did you all take to have that kind of energy?" you muttered under your breath as you stepped closer when your lines aligned again. Ningning immediately reached out, offering you a pack of gummy bears.

"The weather's so nice, what do you mean?!" Ningning said, completely serious, which only made you stare at her harder. "We saw the band earlier—I'm excited to see Karina do her serve with them!"

"D-E-C-E-L-I-S! GO! GO! GO! GO!" Winter and Giselle suddenly broke into the university chant, and completely unbothered by the stares they were getting. You looked at all three of them with a flat, unimpressed expression, not even trying to match their energy.

"Come on, have a little life! Fix your face!" Winter said, pointing directly at you before reaching over to wipe the sweat from your forehead. "What if someone confesses to you and you look like that? They'll remember that face forever."

You scoffed lightly, brushing her hand away as your line started moving again, pulling you forward inch by inch with the rest of the crowd. "Then they should've picked a better time," you muttered, rolling your eyes as the heat continued to cling to you. By the time you finally reached the doors of the AVR, your patience was hanging by a thread. But the second you stepped inside, the cool air hit you all at once and you almost groaned from relief. You and your classmates didn't waste time, quickly settling at the back near the AC unit, claiming the best spot before anyone else could. It took a few long, dragging minutes before the seminar actually started.

You leaned your face into your palm, elbow pressed against the armrest as you stared blankly toward the front of the room. The spokesperson clicked through slides that looked painfully dull, filled with text that didn't even try to be engaging. Around you, the quiet wasn't peaceful, broken occasionally by soft whispers or the very obvious sound of someone snoring a few seats away. Your eyelids started to droop slightly, blinking slower as your attention slipped further away from whatever was being said. Your thoughts drifted elsewhere—like food. What would they even have after training later? Something decent, hopefully. Or maybe not. Then your mind jumped again, landing on what Karina said earlier—Santiago. Meals. You wondered what they'd serve there, silently hoping it wouldn't be bland, dry, or just straight-up disappointing. You missed good food. Real food. You exhaled quietly. God, you were so fucking bored.

"I guess all of us believe in horoscopes and luck, aren't we?" the spokesperson's voice cut through your thoughts. There was a scattered response from the audience—some murmurs, a few half-hearted replies—and she let out a small chuckle like she expected it. "I see some of us don't..."

You didn't move, your expression unchanged as you stared forward, barely processing the question.

"I guess we can say that fortune happens for a reason," she went on, gesturing lightly with her hands as she paced a little across the front. "It doesn't necessarily mean it's bad, right? Some people believe that fortune favors good people, or that you have to do certain things to gain luck..." She paused briefly, her smile softening just a bit. "But sometimes, what we call bad luck or misfortune—it's just a way of letting us make mistakes."

She let out a small breath, her expression calm as she looked over the room. "Because what is a person," she added, "without flaws or mistakes?"

God, this is so fucking boring. You shifted in your seat, jaw tightening slightly as you stared at the front, not even pretending to listen anymore. Your stomach twisted faintly—not even out of hunger at this point, but just the need to do something else. So you stood up, already preparing a half-assed excuse about needing to pee, not even caring if it sounded convincing. But instead of just letting you slip out quietly, one of the organizers immediately stepped in, lowering their voice as they gestured toward the side. "You can use the bathroom backstage," they said politely. You blinked at them, unimpressed. What the fuck? Why was everything so damn controlled here?

You let out a quiet huff, resisting the urge to argue as you turned and made your way toward the indicated path. The walk felt longer than it should've, your footsteps muted against the flooring as you passed behind the curtains, the noise from the seminar dulling slightly the further you went. You scratched your head absentmindedly, shoulders a little tense as you caught one of the organizers briefly watching you pass. You met their gaze for a second, giving them a look that said yeah, I'm actually going to the bathroom, relax, before looking away again. It felt stupid, the whole thing—like even stepping out for a second needed supervision.

The moment you pushed past the curtain into the backstage area, the atmosphere shifted. It was quieter here, less suffocating, the hum of equipment replacing the droning voice from the seminar. You immediately reached for your phone, already opening your messages and texting Karina without hesitation—how many fucking hours is this seminar again? Your thumbs moved quickly. You leaned against the wall, exhaling sharply as your thoughts spiraled again. Luck. Fortune. Fate. Why were people so obsessed with that shit?It just felt repetitive. Empty. You'd been unlucky most of your life—so what, was that the universe teaching you something? Letting you "grow"? You almost scoffed at your own thoughts.

"O-Oh."

The voice came out of nowhere that make you freeze mid-thought. Your body stiffened instantly, your head turning slightly to the side as your heart picked up faster than you wanted it to.

Jake was sitting near the technical setup, half-hidden behind equipment, like he'd been there the whole time and you just didn't notice.

"H-Hi," you said quickly, forcing your tone to sound casual, like your chest wasn't suddenly tight for no reason. What the fuck was wrong with you? You already knew how this went. You liked him—fine. But he didn't like you back. He made that clear. So why the hell was your heart still reacting like this? It was annoying! You looked at him for a second too long before forcing your gaze away, but it didn't stop your brain from noticing everything anyway—his messy brown hair, the way his glasses sat slightly crooked, those wide eyes that never seemed to know where to settle, his lips pressed together. Even the way his oversized white shirt sat under that black jacket—it all just... fit in a way that pissed you off.

You huffed quietly, trying to steady yourself as you pointed vaguely toward the other side. "I was about to use the bathroom," you said. "You part of the organizers?" Why the fuck were you even talking? You should've just walked!

"Uh... yeah..." Jake replied, eyes flickering toward you before immediately darting away again. "The whole Engineering department... we're volunteering." His words came out uneven, like he wasn't fully confident in them, and for a brief second, both of you glanced at each other—

—and looked away at the same time.

"Ah..." you responded, as you dropped your gaze back to your phone, your thumb moving aimlessly across the screen just to have something to do. You weren't even reading anything—just scrolling, unlocking, locking it again—anything to avoid looking at him for too long. The silence stretched awkwardly between you, uncomfortable in a way that made your shoulders tense slightly. You could still feel his presence there, just a few steps away, like it was pressing in on you even without him saying anything.

"D-Do you need a-anything more?" he asked, his voice hesitant, uneven, like he wasn't even sure if he should be speaking at all.

You let out a quiet sigh, shaking your head quickly without looking up. "No," you replied shortly, already done with whatever this interaction was supposed to be. There wasn't anything left to say—at least, not anything you were willing to entertain right now. So you slipped your phone into your pocket, turning slightly toward the curtain again, reaching for the fabric as you prepared to head back into the AVR. Walking away was always easier.

"W-Wait, please."

You paused, your fingers tightened slightly around the curtain as you stopped, your back still facing him, your body going still even as your thoughts immediately tensed. Shocked by the sudden call.

"I-I—..." he started, his voice catching on itself, like the words refused to come out properly. You heard the faint rustling of paper behind you, something unfolding, shifting in his hands. Slowly, you turned your head, then your body, just enough to look back.

Jake stood there, holding a folded piece of paper that he was now struggling to keep steady. His hands were shaking—actually shaking—as he tried to open it properly, his other hand repeatedly wiping against his pants like they wouldn't stop sweating. He looked... off. Nervous in a way that felt more intense than usual, like he'd been building up to this moment for a while and was now barely holding it together.

"I know I have treated you t-this badly and t-there's no such an e-excuse for that action..." he read, his voice stumbling over the words, each one forced out.

What... the hell was he doing?

Your expression didn't change. Not immediately. You just stood there, staring at him, your face flat, unreadable despite the quiet shock settling in your chest. It didn't match the situation—didn't match the way he looked, the way his hands gripped the paper tighter when he finally glanced up at you.

And when his eyes met your completely unimpressed expression—his fingers tightened even more around the paper, the edges crinkling under the pressure like he might just tear it apart without meaning to. For a second, it looked like he was going to keep reading, like he'd force himself through whatever he had written no matter how bad it got. But then something shifted. His jaw clenched, his grip snapped—and the paper crumpled in his hands. Your lips parted slightly, not quite a reaction, not quite indifference either—just caught somewhere in between as you watched him abandon whatever script he thought would save him.

"I'm sorry," he said. It came out raw this time, stripped of the careful structure he was trying to follow earlier. "I'm so sorry for pushing you away after...that," he continued, the words coming faster now, like he didn't trust himself to stop. "I'm so sorry for hurting you... and I'm so sorry for being a coward." His eyes stayed on yours this time, not darting away, not avoiding like he always did—and that alone felt off, enough to make you stay still without realizing it. But his hands betrayed everything else, wiping over his sides again and again, like he couldn't get rid of the sweat.

"I'm so... sorry for taking too long to realize my feelings for you."

You didn't move. Didn't speak. You just stared at him, your mind lagging a second behind everything he just said. It didn't settle right away—it couldn't. Not when it sounded like something you weren't expecting to hear again, not from him.

"I—I really don't know how to talk without fumbling," Jake continued. He dragged a hand up to his hair, scratching at it in frustration, his shoulders tense in a way that made it obvious how hard this was for him. "My thoughts..." he trailed off, almost whining under his breath, like he didn't even know how to explain what was going on in his head. And that's when you noticed his eyes were glassy now, the faint shine of tears building up faster than he could control.

"It's a lot," he admitted. "I—I wish... whatever my mind says every time you talk, every time you share something..." He sniffed, his nose scrunching slightly as he tried to steady himself, but it didn't really work. "I wish you could hear that instead." His fingers curled slightly at his sides, restless. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

"Because..." he swallowed, his voice dipping just slightly as his eyes stayed locked on yours, refusing to look away now. "I really like you."

Your breath caught immediately, the shift so sudden it almost hurt, your lungs stuttering as if they didn't know how to adjust. Your mouth opened on, ready to respond—ready to question, to say something—but he didn't give you the chance.

"I know it's sudden," Jake rushed out, panic bleeding into his voice as he stepped forward. "I know I hurt you—yes, I hurt you, I-I-I..." His voice faltered, catching on itself as his thoughts tangled, his mouth parting again before nothing came out for a second. He swallowed hard, forcing it through. "I like you a lot, please," he added, more desperate now. "I like you in a way that doesn't... shut up." And then he moved closer again.

"Jake—"

"I want to be your boyfriend!" he blurted out, louder this time, cutting straight through you before you could even finish his name. It was like he didn't even think before saying them. "I want to be the man for you!" he continued, his voice shaking but determined. "I know you're probably thinking I'm not in the right mind for wanting this after everything I did, after all of that—but those things, they just made me realize how much I actually... wanted to be there." His breath came uneven, his chest rising as he tried to keep going. "With you. Around you. Talking—even if I suck at it."

"Wait—"

"You're so pretty it hurts!" he cut in again. "I realized it even before all this—I like cooking for you, I want to be the only one cooking for you. I also like feeding your fish, I—" He paused for half a second, just enough for something worse to slip out. "I love staring at you through Bumble—"

"You're Bumble—?"

"—I love everything about you!" he rushed over you again, not even realizing what he just admitted, completely overriding your question. His face flushed deeper, his hands clenching as he stepped closer again without thinking. "I can be someone you need," he said as though he was trying to convince both you and himself at the same time. "I can take care of you properly, not just... small things, not just hiding behind stuff like cooking or fixing things. I can actually be there, I swear."

His voice cracked slightly, but he didn't stop. "I know I'm late. I know I already fucked this up once," he said, his breathing stayed uneven. "I-I don't have any experience in relationships. I don't even know what I'm doing half the time," he admitted. "But I know I can be someone who shows up to your every tournament—"

Your eyes widened immediately at that, the words hitting you harder than expected. You never told him that. "Jake, I think you need to shut up—"

"I can be someone who listens," he pushed on, cutting over you again, his voice desperate but weirdly hopeful at the same time. "Someone who wouldn't freak out when you're exhausted or pissed or quiet. Someone who'd talk to you through the hard days," he added, a shaky smile forming despite the tears still slipping down his cheeks, his hand coming up to wipe them away messily. "I can learn what you like, what you need—I can—" he stumbled again, words spilling faster again than his brain could filter them. "I'm not experienced at sex at all though, but I—I can learn! I can fuck you hard to knock those stress— I can do that!—"

You moved faster than him this time. Your hand shot up, covering his mouth firmly before he could finish whatever the hell he was about to say next. "Jake..." you said, your eyes locking onto his immediately.

He froze. Completely. His body went still under your touch, his wide eyes staring at you like you just put him in place, a soft and almost stupidly affectionate shining in his stare. And for a second, neither of you moved—your hand still pressed over his mouth, his breath warm against your palm.

"You accidentally pressed the speaker for the backstage, you idiot," you hissed. Your hand was still half-frozen in front of his face, your embarrassment crawling up your neck as the realization fully sank in. From the other side of the curtain, the sudden silence from the spokesperson had already been replaced by laughter, whistles, loud cheering echoing from the AVR like the entire room had just turned into a stadium. Your stomach dropped even further at the thought of everyone hearing whatever Jake had just been saying.

God, you were so embarrassed. Worse than embarrassed—this was catastrophic. You could still hear fragments of reactions outside, like people replaying the moment for entertainment, and it only made your face burn hotter. Jake, meanwhile, had gone completely still for a split second before abruptly pulling your hand away from his mouth like he'd finally rebooted.

"I like you," he said again, suddenly firm, like the embarrassment outside didn't even register anymore. "Let me? Let me prove my feelings to you?" He stepped closer again, not in a rush, but with intent. "Let me prove that I deserve a second chance?"

"Jake, aren't you embarrassed?" you whispered urgently, leaning in just enough to keep your voice from carrying, your eyes darting toward the curtain where the noise was still going. "Press that button and we'll talk later—just stop the audio first—" You were trying to salvage whatever dignity was left in this situation, your tone a mix of panic and disbelief. "It's a yes but press those buttons—"

"I like you!" Jake repeated suddenly, cutting through your sentence again—but this time he laughed right after, like the chaos outside somehow made everything lighter instead of worse. Your eyes shut for a brief second, overwhelmed by the sheer absurdity of it all, but you couldn't ignore the way your chest tightened at the sound. "I like you so much!" he added, louder than before, like he couldn't contain it anymore.

That was when the door to the backstage swung open.

"Sim Jaeyun." The voice was strict that instantly enough to kill whatever remaining chaos was left in the room. The dean stood there, eyes locking onto Jake like a warning shot. "Office. Now."

You covered your face with both hands, mortified all over again as the reality of everything hit at once. Jake, however, didn't look away from you—not even for a second. He stood there, biting his lip slightly, eyes still fixed on you like the dean wasn't even the main concern. You peeked through your fingers just in time to see it—him still looking at you like that, like nothing else mattered.

And somehow, against all, you smiled. Just a little.

Jake saw it immediately. His expression softened, a small, breathless laugh slipping out of him like he couldn't help it. But then the dean cleared their throat again, sharper this time, and Jake straightened instantly, forcing himself to move. Still, even as he turned to leave, his eyes lingered on you one last time before he finally followed after the dean.

The controversy of what happened spread faster than you expected, like someone had lit a match and thrown it straight into dry grass.

Your group chat blew up almost instantly, messages stacking, names tagging you repeatedly. Even Karina's name popped up more than once, her messages sitting there unanswered alongside everyone else's, but you didn't feel like responding to any of it. When you showed up for training later, you acted normal enough—smiling faintly, shrugging when people nudged you for answers, letting them complain when you stayed quiet. But it was obvious, even to them, that something had shifted in you. You weren't irritated anymore. If anything, you felt... lighter.

By the time you got back home, you slowly pushed the apartment door open, not expecting anything unusual, and paused the moment your eyes landed on him. Jake was in the kitchen, moving carefully between the stove and counter. Soft music played in the background—Cigarettes After Sex. For a second, it felt like déjà vu, like your life had looped back. But this time, it's more real.

"So you give him a second chance and it's all good?" Karina's words echoed in your head. Of course not. It wasn't that simple. It couldn't be that simple after everything that happened. You stayed still near the doorway for a moment longer, just watching him move around the kitchen like he wasn't even aware of how much your world had tilted in the past day. He didn't look up right away. He just kept cooking, focused.

But it wasn't "all good." Not yet.

You were still figuring him out again, piece by piece, like retracing steps you once ran through too fast. There was hesitation in it, still uncertainty. But now there was something else too. An understanding. He likes you. You like him. That much was no longer buried under confusion or denial.

Maybe it wouldn't fall apart the way you once feared. Maybe it wouldn't be as complicated as it looked from the outside. Or maybe it would be exactly that—and you'd still choose to stay in it anyway. The thought of horoscopes, luck, fate drifted back into your mind again. Fine. Maybe they didn't control anything—but they nudged things in directions you weren't always ready for. The universe didn't have to be loud about it. Sometimes it just placed people in your path and let everything else unravel from there.

Without needing certainty yet, you stepped inside anyway.

"Me Gustas Tu."

Jake always like the stars.

He found himself thinking about how they didn't need to be closer to matter—they just existed, shining anyway, without asking for anything back. It reminded him of how some things in life just... stayed.

He likes fire too.

Not the kind that destroyed things carelessly, but the kind that spread slowly, beautifully, like it had intention behind every movement. The kind that didn't just burn—it transformed, left traces, changed the space it touched. He thought about how it looked when it moved, unpredictable but alive, impossible to ignore once you noticed it.

He likes the sea. The rain. Things that never really stop moving.

And if he had to turn all of that into something—if he had to explain what it felt like when you were around—it wouldn't come out neatly. It would probably sound messy, like him. Maybe he'd say you were like the brightest star he couldn't stop looking at. Or maybe he'd say you were like fire—something that made him burn. Or maybe he'd compare you to the sea, endless and overwhelming in the best way, pulling him in even when he should stay back.

Silly Jake—he really couldn't stop thinking about you, could he?

It was almost annoying how constant it had become, like your presence didn't need you physically there anymore to take up space in his head. Every small pause in his day somehow circled back to you, as if his thoughts had quietly rearranged themselves. Realizing that even silence now felt different when you weren't part of it.

The Volleyball Team had already made their way to Santiago City for the Regional Tournament, and Jake found himself trailing behind the group with a distracted mind. He stared down at his phone more than once, rereading your message that said you had arrived safely at your destination. It was just a normal update—but he kept looking at it anyway. You two weren't anything official yet, not even close enough for anything sweet, still stuck in that uncertain thing of figuring each other out. And before you left, things had been awkward again, the kind of awkward that made conversations shorter than they needed to be. Still, despite all of that, he missed you.

And that was the part that frustrated him the most.

Did everything that happened recently make him more desperate, or just more aware? He didn't even know anymore. It was like the absence of you had made everything louder—his thoughts, his habits, even the smallest pauses in his routine. He found himself wanting things he didn't used to think about before, like hearing your voice without a reason, or seeing you just standing there. God, he sounded pathetic in his own head. A total loser, really, the kind he would've rolled his eyes at if it was someone else.

Jake was almost restless for the entire three days, like his body had forgotten how to sit still without thinking about you. At one point, he ended up just staring at your fish tank for nearly an hour, watching the small movements. It was ridiculous, honestly, the way his attention kept drifting back to anything even remotely connected to you. You were busy the whole time—training, interviews, constant schedules—only messaging him late at night right before you slept, and even then it was brief, tired updates. Your phone had even been grounded by your coach at one point, and Jake nearly dropped his own phone in the bathroom when it suddenly rang with your notification tone. Jake was pathetic, and he knew it.

By the time the university bus was heading to Santiago, Jake had already made himself the first one there, sitting far too early with a bag that he kept checking unnecessarily. He dragged Heeseung along too, who looked half-dead already, yawning nonstop while leaning against his neck pillow. The rest of the group was still boarding, but Jake didn't care much about that part—his mind was already elsewhere, looping back to you even as the city started fading behind the bus windows. The road stretched out ahead, scenery shifting in slow motion, but all he could think about was seeing you again in person. It made him sit straighter without realizing it.

Jake is a loser and Jake is pathetically in love with you.

"I-I heard there's a lot of strong offense on the other team," Jake suddenly said as he leaned closer to the window, watching the scenery blur past. "I'm actually worried about her... what if they hit too hard and she gets bruises again?" he added, already picturing things he had no control over.

Heeseung beside him just let out another long, tired yawn, slouching deeper into his seat. "It's part of the competition, Jake," Heeseung replied flatly, voice dry and uninterested, like he'd answered this kind of concern too many times already. (He actually did)

Jake didn't seem reassured.

"Do you think I can talk to her after one of the matches?" he continued anyway, ignoring the lack of enthusiasm beside him. "Do you think they'll let them eat properly? What if the food is bad? I packed extra food too, and a first aid kit—just in case, so I can help if her hands get worse." He said it all in one breath.

Heeseung only yawned again, louder this time, barely even looking at him. "The sports management already said we're not allowed to talk to the team, Jake," he said lazily. "Not even pictures unless they don't make it to Day Three—which, honestly, I doubt."

Jake's lips pressed together slightly, his shoulders sinking just a little at that. By the time the bus finally arrived at the hotel, Jake was already holding his phone again, thumbs hovering over the screen before he typed out a quick message telling you that the university cheering squad had arrived safely and would be ready for the match. The hotel itself was only walking distance from the stadium—close enough that just knowing you were somewhere nearby made his chest tighten stupidly all over again. But your reply never came. Jake stared at the unread message for a few seconds longer than necessary before locking his phone with a quiet sigh. Of course you were busy. It was your first match, your focus should be there. Still, it didn't stop the anxious feeling crawling around in him anyway.

"Stop fidgeting," Heeseung muttered later as they handed over their tickets to the organizers, watching Jake bounce his leg nonstop while they waited to be stamped in. The entire stadium already felt loud before they even reached their seats, filled with students, chants, instruments, and that made Jake's ears ring almost immediately. They ended up seated near the front together with the band and the cheering squad, surrounded by noise that felt overwhelming enough to swallow him whole. Jake rubbed at his ear absentmindedly, trying to adjust to the volume, but the second his eyes landed on the court—on you—everything else faded anyway.

"Dude, sit down! She's not going anywhere," Heeseung hissed under his breath after Jake practically stood up the second he spotted you. He grabbed Jake's sleeve and forced him back into his seat before he embarrassed himself further. Jake awkwardly fixed his posture, shoulders stiff as he looked toward the court again—and then your head turned in his direction.

For one terrifying second, your eyes met his. Jake smiled immediately, awkward, his braces flashing while his entire face heated up from the attention. You only gave him a small smile in return before going right back to stretching like nothing happened. That tiny interaction alone was enough to make his chest feel full.

Heeseung was right about one thing though—the university wasn't exaggerating when they invested so much into Decelis' Women's Volleyball Team. Jake barely understood the game itself, but even he could tell the difference in level almost immediately. The coordination, the defense, the sheer pressure your team put onto the other side. The match didn't even last an hour before it was over, the crowd exploding into cheers while Jake sat there stunned, staring at the scoreboard like he couldn't believe how quickly everything ended.

And then, just as fast as it ended— you were gone again.

The sports organizers immediately started ushering the cheering squads and students toward the exits before anyone could crowd around the athletes. Jake instinctively stood again, craning his neck over people's shoulders, tiptoeing just to catch one more glimpse of you. He spotted you briefly near the sidelines, shaking hands and getting congratulated by the opposing team before staff quickly surrounded your group again, escorting all of you away toward the restricted areas.

Jake's shoulders dropped immediately after. Jake is pathetic. And right now, Jake felt fucking miserable.

That was exactly what happened on Day Two. Jake barely even noticed Santiago City despite everyone else talking about how beautiful it was, how lively the streets were at night, how there were places they should visit before heading home. None of it stayed in his attention for more than a second because his eyes kept falling back to his phone every few minutes. You would appear at the court for a couple of intense hours, completely alive, and then disappear again. Jake wasn't even allowed to properly approach you. Not a greeting. Not a quick conversation. Nothing. He was expected to just sit there like a normal supporter and wait for Day Three like everyone else. But Jake already knew what would happen tomorrow too—maybe you'd win, the crowd would swarm, organizers would rush your team away again, and he'd end up watching your back disappear for another fucking day. The thought alone was enough to make him restless.

By the time they got back to the hotel that night, Jake looked like he was losing his mind slowly. He kept rolling around on the bed, flipping his pillow over, grabbing his phone every two minutes only to stare at the same screen with no new notifications. His leg bounced nonstop, fingers fidgeting against his stomach while his thoughts kept circling back to you again and again. Heeseung eventually got fed up with the constant movement and straight-up kicked Jake's ass from the other bed.

"For fuck's sake, stop moving!" Heeseung groaned, half-asleep and irritated as hell. "You're making the entire bed shake."

Jake only huffed under his breath, glaring briefly before grabbing his bag and quietly leaving the room instead. Staying still clearly wasn't happening tonight.

Jake was determined now. Tomorrow was the finals, and it was already 10:17 PM. There was no way your team was still doing heavy training this late, right? Maybe you were already asleep. Maybe not. Maybe you were still stuck in some team meeting or recovery session. Jake didn't know, and the not knowing was making him itch. So against all common sense, he made his way toward the other venue building where the sports organizers and volleyball teams were staying. He walked carefully, shoulders tense, sneaking around like he was committing an actual crime before crouching near the grassy area outside when he heard voices nearby. He stayed there awkwardly for almost ten whole minutes, slapping mosquitoes and insects away from his arms while trying not to make any noise.

"Did that bitch literally threaten you?" a voice snapped somewhere ahead. "Just because they won last year doesn't mean we can't beat their ass tomorrow!"

"Giselle," another voice sighed immediately after. "Be the bigger person."

Jake instantly lowered himself further into the grass, nearly flattening his face into the ground before carefully peeking upward. Your team!

His eyes immediately found you among them without even trying.

You walked quietly beside the others, wearing oversized training clothes while lazily eating from a cup of ice cream, your expression tired. You scooped another spoonful slowly before lowering it again, staring into the cup like your mind was somewhere else entirely. Even looking exhausted, even standing half-awake— Jake still thought you looked so so so pretty.

"No, because why the hell would they threaten Yunjin and then give you a dirty look too?" Winter complained loudly, pointing at you with disbelief still written all over her face.

You only shrugged one shoulder lazily, taking another bite of ice cream like it genuinely didn't bother you. "Probably because I stared back," you muttered flatly.

"That's not helping your intimidation allegations," Ningning snorted from the side.

Jake had to physically press his lips together to stop himself from smiling too hard into the grass like a complete fucking idiot.

"I can't wait to beat their ass tomorrow!" Rei shouted dramatically, pumping her fist into the air. Jake stayed crouched awkwardly near the bushes, trying to remain hidden while still watching you from afar like a complete creep. His knees were starting to hurt from squatting too long, insects still attacking him from every direction, but he ignored all of it because you were right there. Then, in the middle of shifting his weight slightly—

Crack. Jake accidentally stepped on a dry branch.

Your entire team immediately went quiet. Jake froze so hard he almost stopped breathing, eyes widening as every single head turned toward the dark garden area where he was hiding.

"D-Did you guys hear that?!" Karina squeaked instantly, grabbing onto Winter's arm dramatically while looking around in panic.

The girls started screaming over each other almost immediately, some backing away while others started speed-walking toward the entrance. Jake slapped both hands over his mouth to stop himself from making another sound, shoulders tense while he watched the group scatter in pure confusion.

"T-there's a bear!"

"Shut up, why would a bear be here?!"

"Then what the fuck was that?!"

Jake stayed completely still for what felt like forever after they disappeared inside, barely even blinking as he listened carefully to make sure nobody was coming back with security.

Then suddenly he heard a one pair of footsteps approaching slowly. Jake squeezed his eyes shut briefly, already preparing himself mentally for getting caught by some staff member or organizer.

"Jake," your voice called quietly through the dark. "Did you know that if you get caught, the sports organizers would probably ban you from joining tournament cheering teams forever?"

Jake's eyes immediately opened again. He slowly peeked his head upward from behind the bushes and found you standing there alone now, arms crossed loosely while staring down at him. He stood up quickly, brushing grass and dirt off his pajama pants awkwardly before giving you the most painfully guilty smile possible.

"H-Hi."

"Hi," you replied, a small half-smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

Jake scratched the back of his head immediately, avoiding your eyes for a second before forcing himself to look again. "U-Uh... I couldn't sleep," he explained quickly, stumbling over the excuse. "T-That's why I went for a walk... you know..."

You stared at him flatly for a second, eyes slowly moving over his messy hair, oversized hoodie, his bag, and pajama pants that still had grass stuck to them. "How did you even get inside?" you asked finally, brows raising slightly in disbelief.

Jake let out an awkward little laugh under his breath. "Heh..." He rubbed his neck sheepishly. "I... climbed the back gate."

Your lips twitched immediately before you burst out laughing. It caught Jake completely off guard. He stood there frozen, staring at you while your shoulders shook lightly. His chest tightened stupidly at the sight. God, you looked so good laughing at him. Honestly, if this was what it took, Jake felt like he'd climb ten more fucking gates just to hear you laugh like that again.

"Why?" you asked between laughs.

Jake bit the inside of his cheek, his face already turning red under the dim lights. "I..." He hesitated for half a second before forcing himself through it anyway. "I wanted to see you," he admitted quietly.

You blinked at him. "Eh?" Your laughter faded as you tilted your head slightly. "You saw me during the tournament though. Besides, tomorrow's literally the last day. What's the catch?"

Jake immediately started fidgeting again, rubbing his palms repeatedly against his pajama pants like he didn't know where to place his nervous energy. "I miss you," he blurted out quickly before he could overthink it. The second the words left his mouth, his entire face heated up even more. God, that sounded corny as hell. Jake felt like some pathetic high schooler confessing to his crush behind the gym after class.

You stared at him quietly for a moment after that. At the way he kept fumbling with his hands. At the way he couldn't stay still. At the way he looked so genuinely nervous despite already confessing to you in front of an entire auditorium days ago. Cute. So fucking cute.

Your gaze slowly lifted away from him afterward, drifting upward toward the sky above the hotel grounds. The night had settled calmly over Santiago, the stars faint but visible around the huge glowing moon hanging overhead. The breeze was cooler now compared to the daytime heat, soft enough to make the leaves around the garden rustle quietly.

"The moon is beautiful, right?" you asked suddenly, softer in a way that made Jake immediately straighten.

"Huh?" He blinked before quickly following your gaze upward. "Ah—yeah. Right." He nodded awkwardly, staring at the moon, trying very hard to process what was happening.

But while he looked upward, you looked at him instead. At the way the moonlight softened his features, the way his messy hair moved slightly with the wind, the nervousness still written all over his face despite trying to hide it. A small smile slowly formed onto your lips before you finally called his name again.

"Jake."

Jake turned toward you immediately, almost too quickly, eyes wide and attentive as if he'd been waiting for you to say something else.

"I miss you too."

Jake stiffened instantly before the biggest smile slowly spread across his face, so wide it almost looked ridiculous. He looked down for a second, biting his lip like he was trying to stop himself from grinning too hard, but it clearly wasn't working. Even the tips of his ears were red now. God, he looked so stupidly happy over four words.

Somehow, the two of you ended up sitting together on one of the benches in the garden afterward. The awkwardness was still there, but it no longer felt painful. You found yourself telling him random things about your day without even realizing it—complaining about the freezing showers in the athlete dorms, the way Giselle almost started a fight earlier, how your coach yelled at the team because someone forgot their jersey during practice.

Jake listened to every single word carefully.

And somewhere in the middle of your rambling, he suddenly started pulling snacks out of his bag one after another. "W-What?" he mumbled shyly when you stared at the pile forming beside him. "I thought... maybe the food here sucks."

"You packed this much?" you snorted, staring at the ridiculous amount of food. Chips, bread, bottled drinks, chocolate bars, even packed containers wrapped carefully inside towels to keep warm.

Jake only shrugged awkwardly. "I thought you might get hungry."

Now your legs were comfortably stretched across his lap while the both of you shared snacks. Jake sat there quietly rubbing mint oil carefully onto the bruises forming around your calves and hands after today's match, his touch gentle despite how concentrated he looked. His brows furrowed slightly every time his fingers passed over darker bruises.

"Does this hurt?" he asked softly at one point, thumbs carefully pressing against your calf.

"A little," you admitted honestly before shoving another chip into your mouth.

Jake immediately eased the pressure after that. The silence afterward felt comfortable enough that your thoughts wandered again, eyes lifting toward the dark sky while the cold minty feeling spread across your sore skin. "Do you think people lose because they don't train enough?" you asked suddenly. "Or just because that's their fate?"

Jake's hands paused briefly on your leg before continuing slower this time. You huffed softly, tossing another chip into your mouth while staring at the stars. "If we lose tomorrow... does that mean we didn't work hard enough?" you continued. "Or maybe fortune just doesn't favor us."

Jake hummed quietly under his breath, clearly thinking carefully before answering. His eyes lifted toward the sky for a second too before he looked back down at your legs again. "I..." He hesitated slightly. "I guess that's what life is?"

You turned your head toward him while he continued massaging your calf slowly. "Life is unfair," he murmured quietly. "But that's just... how it works sometimes. We don't always hold the fortune. We don't always hold our own fate either." His fingers slowed absentmindedly against your skin. "Some people work hard and still lose. Some people barely try and somehow still win."

The breeze shifted softly around the two of you, carrying the distant sounds of traffic somewhere outside the hotel grounds. You looked at him carefully for a moment before asking quietly— "Do you believe in luck?"

Jake paused for a moment. His hand slowed slightly on your skin before he gave a small shrug of his shoulder. "I don't know?" he admitted honestly. "Sometimes it makes sense, sometimes it doesn't." He glanced down at your leg again while continuing to massage it gently. "But I got my horoscope read once... they said luck favors me," he added with a faint, awkward smile. "Dunno if it's true though."

That familiar half-smile formed on his face again after he said it. You stared at him quietly while he focused back on your bruises, fingers pressing lightly in slow, careful circles. In that moment, something in your chest tightened again. It felt stupid and obvious all at once, like your thoughts had already made up their mind. An unlucky you sitting here beside someone who casually talked about luck like it followed him around. What were the odds of that, really?

Ooooh, you're foolishly in love with this boy.

You exhaled softly. "I guess I just need to stick with you," you muttered with a small, almost teasing smile

The stadium was completely packed, like the entire city had decided to squeeze itself into one arena just to watch this match. The energy felt heavier too, everyone already knew this wasn't going to be an easy game. Jake could feel his ears ringing nonstop from the overlapping chants, drums, and screams echoing from every direction. Compared to Day One and Day Two, today felt sharper somehow. Heeseung, sitting beside him, kept laughing at the absurdity of it all—especially how the Decelis band and Isabella's band had basically turned into competing sound systems, blasting music louder and louder just to outdo each other while waiting for the teams to arrive.

"Today we are here to witness another rough battle in the Region!" the commenator announced through the speakers.

The crowd immediately exploded into noise again, shaking the entire structure. Jake flinched slightly at the volume, but he didn't look away from the court even for a second. The introductions began, one team after another stepping into the court under flashing lights and roaring applause. When Isabella's team was introduced, something about the atmosphere shifted.

"It's them! It's them! Oh my God, it's going to start!" the cheering squad beside them squealed loudly, practically jumping in their seats.

Your team walked out. The moment you appeared with the rest of the players, the crowd somehow got even louder, people waving banners, shouting names, and snapping photos like crazy. You moved confidently across the court, waving casually at the audience.

The moment your eyes landed on his direction, Jake reacted instantly without even thinking. He yanked off his hoodie in one quick motion, revealing the shirt underneath that had your face printed on it. For a split second, the entire section near him went quiet in shock. Your mouth literally fell open on the court, frozen mid-step, while even Heeseung slowly turned his head toward him with disbelief.

Jake caught sight of your lips curling into a bright smile as you stretched on the court, rolling your shoulders and loosening your arms. Without even realizing it, Jake found himself smiling too.

The game started almost immediately after introductions. Isabella's team was exactly what everyone warned about, a way that made every rally feel like a fight for survival. The difference between the two teams was small on the scoreboard, but on the court it felt massive, like every point was being ripped out instead of earned easily. Jake could feel himself tensing up more and more with each exchange, leaning forward in his seat without realizing it, breath catching every time the ball flew too close to your side. And every single time you dove—actually threw yourself across the floor to save a point—Jake reacted like he was the one getting hit. Ouch!

He grabbed Heeseung's arm at one point without thinking, squeezing too hard as he watched you slide across the court to receive a brutal spike. "Oh my God—she's gonna break something!" Jake muttered under his breath. You just got up like it was nothing, brushing your hands off and getting right back into position like your body didn't even register pain the same way normal people did.

"D-E-C-E-L-I-S! GO! GO! GO! GO!" Jake and Heeseung shouted together every time your team scored. He barely even noticed his voice getting hoarse, or the way his hands kept clenching the balloon tighter every time you made a play. All he knew was that you were out there, and everything else in the world felt like it was moving too fast to matter except that.

In the middle of the match break, Jake stayed frozen in his seat, eyes locked on your back as you stood near the sidelines. The number nine on your jersey stood out clearly. Your coach was talking to you at a steady pace, gesturing toward the court while you drank water from your bottle, nodding along with full focus even though your attention still seemed half on the ongoing match. Jake noticed everything—the way your shoulders rose and fell with controlled breathing, the way your grip tightened slightly around the bottle, and especially the way your eyes kept drifting back toward his direction every few seconds.

Something about it made his entire body feel strange.

The atmosphere in the stadium was still heavy, but inside Jake's chest everything suddenly felt... lighter. He didn't fully understand it, just that his thoughts slowed down in the middle of all the noise, like someone had briefly turned the volume of the world down just enough for him to breathe properly. Even his grip on the balloon loosened slightly without him noticing. And then, just as you turned away from your coach and started walking back toward the court, you gave him a soft smile.

Outside of this moment, people might've laughed at him for it, told him he was just being stupidly emotional, maybe just too deep in whatever this feeling was. They'd probably say it was just excitement, or he was just being corny in love. But Jake knew it wasn't that simple. It didn't feel chaotic the way nerves usually did.

It felt like the universe was saying something without using words.

He watched you step back onto the court, adjusting your position, rolling your shoulders once like you were resetting yourself completely. The light caught your face again, the sweat, the focus, the calm intensity in your eyes that made you look even more unreal than before. Pretty wasn't even enough of a word for it anymore in his head—it didn't feel big enough. Jake swallowed slightly, and his chest still felt oddly calm despite everything happening around him.

If passing down luck was possible, he'd give it all to you without hesitation.

But then again... you didn't look like someone who needed it.

Jake leaned forward slightly again, eyes tracking your movement as the whistle signaled the return of play.

Because deep down, he already knew it. One hundred percent. You were going to win.

"Oh ho ho ho! The Decelis Vampire is everywhere!"

The commentator's dramatic voice echoed through the stadium the moment you made another impossible receive, earning an explosion of screams from the audience. Jake breathed out shakily from his seat, fingers tightening around the edge of the banner resting on his lap as he stared at the scoreboard again. The difference between the two teams was still small enough to keep everyone tense, but something had clearly shifted after the last timeout. The second the whistle cut through the court again, Decelis moved like a completely different beast—every point started stacking one after another until even Isabella's side looked rattled trying to keep up.

You barely even felt your body anymore at this point.

The ball flew toward your side again and your feet moved before your thoughts could catch up, reacting after nearly two hours of nonstop rallies. Your hips still throbbed from the brutal spike you received earlier. Your knees burned too. Your shoulders felt heavy. One hour and forty minutes of constant passing, diving, receiving, running—it was exhausting enough to make your vision blur briefly every time the whistle paused.

You wanted to lie down. Just for a little while.

You turned your head for during the rotation shift and your eyes immediately found Jake again in the crowd. He wasn't screaming now like the others. He was sitting there quietly, staring at you with that same soft expression that always made your chest feel strangely warm no matter how exhausted you were. His hoodie was gone, exposing that ridiculous shirt with your face on it while his glasses reflected the lights.

And suddenly, more than resting— you wanted to go home. Home with him.

God knew what Jake probably sacrificed just to be here. You knew how sensitive he was with noise, how he usually avoided crowds because they overwhelmed him too quickly. He probably already missed his strict eight o'clock sleep schedule too, and judging from the dark circles faintly visible under his eyes even from the court, he was definitely running on pure determination alone right now.

Your chest tightened briefly at the thought.

Then the ball came flying toward your side again.

You inhaled sharply through your nose and threw yourself forward immediately, diving hard against the court floor to receive it cleanly before it could touch down. The impact stung violently against your body, but the sharp whistle blowing right after mixed instantly with the deafening screams erupting around the stadium.

"With the score of 58 and 61!" the announcer shouted over the roaring crowd. "Decelis advances their way to Nationals!"

Your teammates screamed immediately, some collapsing onto the floor while others tackled each other into hugs near the net. But while everyone else got swept into the excitement, you pushed yourself upright almost immediately, one hand clutching your hip as the pain shot through your side. Your entire body ached violently now that the adrenaline was wearing off, but you barely paid attention to it. Your eyes were already searching through the crowd.

Searching for one person.

Jake froze in his seat the second he realized you were walking directly toward his section.

At first, he genuinely thought maybe you were heading somewhere else. Maybe toward the cheering squad. Maybe toward your managers. But then you kept coming closer, eyes locked onto him so directly that his stomach immediately flipped hard enough to make him dizzy. Jake stood up hesitantly, nearly fumbling the balloon in his hands in panic.

"H-Hey—what are you—"

One of the sports organizers instantly moved when they noticed you approaching the spectator bounds, clearly about to stop Jake from stepping forward too far. But before they could say anything else, Heeseung grabbed the organizer by the shoulder with a grin already forming on his face.

"About fucking time." Heeseung snorted.

Jake barely even processed any of it, because the next thing he knew— you grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him.

Hard.

The entire stadium around him exploded louder somehow, a mixture of screaming, cheering, and scandalized reactions crashing together while cameras immediately started flashing toward your direction. Jake's brain completely short-circuited on the spot. His eyes widened for half a second in pure shock before he melted into it almost instantly, hands shakily grabbing your waist despite how badly they trembled.

He kissed you back immediately. Like he'd been wanting to do it forever.

The kiss wasn't neat either. It was breathless and messy. Jake could barely think properly through the pounding in his chest, through the warmth of your lips against his, through the realization that this was actually happening in front of thousands of people. Somewhere behind him, Heeseung was screaming like a maniac while the Decelis cheering squad lost their minds completely.

The moment the kiss broke, reality crashed back into your body all at once. The sharp pain shot through your hips agin, forcing a quiet wince out of you as your hand immediately clutched at your waist. Jake noticed instantly. His entire expression changed from happiness to panic in less than a second, hands carefully moving to steady you before you could lose your balance.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately as he held you closer against him.

"I want to go home," you muttered quietly instead, your forehead falling against the side of his neck as your body sagged closer to him.

Jake's breath caught instantly. The simple weight of you leaning into him like that nearly made his heart stop despite the worry crawling all over him. He adjusted his hold carefully around your waist, supporting more of your weight without even thinking about it.

"Let's get your hips checked by the medic first," he said softly, already glancing around for staff. "Y-You landed hard earlier..."

But before he could keep rambling nervously, you whisper tiredly against his neck. "I didn't expect to feel this much for you, Jake."

Everything inside him went warm, so suddenly that he physically felt it in his chest, that overwhelming fluttering sensation exploding all over again until his stomach twisted painfully with it. Jake swallowed hard, blinking rapidly behind his glasses while trying to process the words properly. God, you were going to kill him like this.

Carefully, almost shyly now despite the public eyes around you, Jake leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against your forehead. "Me too...me too." His hand rubbed gently against your side afterward, thumb moving in slow comforting strokes while he silently lifted his other hand to signal one of the medics nearby for assistance.

EPILOGUE

It took you a long time to actually sit down and reflect on everything that had happened.

For years, you kept convincing yourself that luck was random—that some people were simply born under better stars while others just had to survive whatever scraps the universe threw at them.

Unlucky with money, unlucky in your love life, unlucky in your sex life.

Things never came easily for you. Even when people admired you—your skills, your looks, your confidence on the court—they never really saw the exhausting parts underneath it. The loneliness. The constant feeling that you always had to fight twice as hard just to keep your head above water while pretending you were doing perfectly fine. Maybe that was why you became so cynical about all those stupid talks about fate, fortune, and luck. Maybe it was easier to roll your eyes and call everything bullshit rather than admit that deep down, you were terrified the universe simply wasn't built in your favor.

But maybe luck wasn't random at all.

When you really thought about it, you had spent so much time expecting disappointment that you stopped recognizing the good things while they were happening. You focused too hard on what was missing instead of what stayed. Sure, being broke sucked. It absolutely fucking sucked. And no amount of positive thinking magically fixed empty wallets, bruised feelings, or difficult lives. But somewhere along the way, you realized you had also started carrying your own unhappiness like proof that life owed you something cruel.

Maybe you lacked optimism. Maybe you lacked faith in anything getting better because the universe kept throwing the same shit at you over and over again until you got tired of trying to hope differently. That feeling was valid too. You had every reason to become guarded after everything. Every reason to distrust happiness when it rarely stayed long enough before. But lucky people... they weren't always lucky because life was easier for them. Sometimes they were lucky because they allowed themselves to reach for things anyway. To risk failure. To risk doing something. Even when they are afraid. 

"Open! Open! Daily cleaning at 9:00 AM!"

A long groan dragged out of your throat as the tiny robotic voice echoed outside the bedroom for what felt like the tenth time already. The curtains were still completely shut, the blackout fabric drowning the room in soft darkness despite the late morning sun outside, and you had been enjoying every second of sleeping. The apartment was comfortable and so warm, and honestly, you would rather die than get out of bed right now. But the damn robot kept knocking itself repeatedly against the door with persistence, its tiny speaker chirping louder every few seconds.

"Jake," you mumbled sleepily, eyes still closed as you reached behind you to tap the arm wrapped tightly around your waist, his legs tangled carelessly with yours beneath the blanket. You felt him stir a little, burying his face deeper into the back of your neck while muttering something under his breath, but the knocking outside only continued. "Jake, make Mo stop," you complained softly, but instead of moving, he only tightened his hold around you and pulled you closer against his chest with a sleepy little sigh.

"Open! Open! Daily cleaning at 9:00 AM!"

"Jake, baby," you called again, dragging the word out this time while lightly smacking his wrist. He groaned lowly against your shoulder, clearly refusing to leave the bed, and his hand slowly slipped underneath your shirt just to lazily trace circles against your stomach. The touch made you exhale softly despite yourself.

Outside, the robot continued its relentless banging, but Jake ignored it completely, pressing slow kisses against the side of your neck instead. His morning voice came out quieter than usual, rough and soft all at once as he whispered, "Can I touch?"

You groaned again but gave him a small nod anyway. The second he got permission, his hand slid higher, squeezing gently at your chest while his lips continued wandering across your skin with lazy affection. You tilted your head back slightly, giving him more room, and he took full advantage of it immediately, kissing along your jaw before lifting his sleepy eyes toward you. His glasses were missing somewhere on the nightstand, his brown hair sticking out everywhere. "Kiss, please," he whispered lazily, already leaning closer before you could even answer.

You kissed him just to shut him up.

Jake immediately melted into it with a soft whine. His lips moved slowly against yours, still half-asleep, but it quickly deepened when his hand tightened around your waist and pulled you on top of him. The blanket shifted around your tangled bodies while the robot outside continued yelling about cleaning schedules. Jake kissed like he was addicted to it now, messy and affectionate and greedy all at once. Even after years together, he still kissed you with the same overwhelming softness that made your chest ache.

And honestly, both of you already knew one thing for sure. Jake absolutely loved kissing you.

"Open! Open! Daily cleaning at 9:00 AM!"

You groaned softly against Jake's lips before finally pulling away from the kiss, your forehead still resting briefly against his while you tried to gather enough energy to function properly. "Open the door for Mo," you muttered lazily as you pushed lightly at Jake's chest to make him move. Jake only huffed in protest, clearly offended at being forced out of bed, scratching messily at his hair before reaching around blindly for his glasses on the nightstand.

You stayed sprawled across the bed while watching him stand up with slow sleepy movements. His oversized white shirt hung loosely over his frame, exposing his legs beneath the thin black shorts he had thrown on before sleeping, and you couldn't help staring for a second as he shuffled toward the door. The moment he opened the bedroom door, Mo immediately rolled inside without hesitation, spinning once before beginning its programmed cleaning route across the floor.

"You seriously need to stop adopting Heeseung's robots," you complained while sitting up properly, stretching your arms above your head until your back cracked pleasantly. "We can literally clean by ourselves."

Jake yawned loudly while adjusting his glasses up the bridge of his nose, already turning around to drag himself back toward the bed with clear intentions of trapping you there again. Before he could grab your waist, you quickly stood up and reached for your shorts from the floor. "Jake, it's already nine," you reminded him while pulling them on. "Training starts at one. I still need to fix my stuff and prepare."

A long miserable whine immediately left his throat at that.

Jake had become even clingier than before. Not that you were complaining. Things had changed between the two of you. Jake no longer slept exactly at eight in the evening because most nights ended with both of you curled together on the couch watching movies until late, stealing kisses during slow scenes, or getting distracted halfway through and stumbling into the bedroom instead (sex). You did feel a little guilty sometimes since he used to be so strict with his routines, but Jake always brushed it off immediately whenever you brought it up.

Honestly, the man acted like a giant koala now.

The second you moved too far away from him, he would cling right back onto your side without shame. While you were fixing your hair in front of the mirror, Jake wrapped both arms around your waist from behind again, pressing his face against your shoulder while Mo continued cleaning nearby. "Stay in bed," he mumbled weakly against your skin, still sounding sleepy. You snorted softly at the feeling of him practically hanging his whole weight onto you, but your hand still reached up automatically to fix the messy strands of his hair away from his glasses.

"You say that every morning," you muttered.

"Because every morning you leave me," Jake replied dramatically, tightening his hold around your waist while you laughed quietly under your breath.

Your eyes drifted past Jake's shoulder toward the wall, landing on the collection of medals, framed certificates, and trophies lined neatly across the shelves. Some were old awards from high school, others were from university tournaments, and a few still had ribbons tangled together because you had been too lazy to organize them properly after Nationals. Jake had insisted on displaying every single one of them anyway, even the participation plaques you thought looked ugly. You smiled quietly to yourself before looking back at your boyfriend standing in front of you,. Sometimes it still hit you unexpectedly—how impossible this whole thing used to feel.

Who could thought? You had your six months of sharing an apartment with someone who barely looked you in the eyes.

Back then, you genuinely thought Jake would remain nothing more than the quiet engineering student that have an addiction to legos and hot wheels. And now? Now he stood in your apartment kitchen every morning half-asleep while cooking your meals, whining whenever you left the bed too early, kissing your forehead.

Jake became your person.

You stepped closer and pressed a quick kiss against his lips before walking past him toward the living room. Jake immediately followed after you without hesitation, dragging his feet lazily across the floor while scratching the back of his neck. You crouched beside the fish tank to feed your fish while listening to the familiar sounds of him moving around the kitchen behind you. Jake had developed this habit of cooking both your breakfast and lunch every single training day no matter how many times you told him he didn't have to. He always answered the same way too.

"I want to."

After feeding the fish, you returned to your bedroom to finish packing your things for training, tossing extra clothes and towels into your duffel bag while mentally checking your schedule for the day. You were halfway through folding your jersey when something bumped gently against your ankle. Looking down, you immediately recognized the small robot staring up at you with glowing blue eyes.

Bumble tilted slightly like it was waiting for attention, the tiny camera blinking while its mechanical voice chirped softly. "Hi!"

"Jake, the food," you called out immediately while staring directly at the robot's camera.

You heard his laugh from the kitchen almost instantly.

A few seconds later, Jake appeared in your doorway with that stupid soft smile on his face, walking straight toward you just to lean down and steal another kiss. He adjusted the whistle hanging around your neck afterward, fingers brushing gently against your skin before stepping back. "Ay yay, captain," he teased quietly, earning an immediate scoff from you despite the smile pulling at your lips.

Nationals still sat heavily in your chest sometimes.

Third place. Not first. Not the championship everyone had dreamed about during those exhausting practices and sleepless nights. It had hurt watching the seniors cry after the final match, hurt even more realizing that people like Karina, Winter, Ryujin, Yeji, and Yunjin were really leaving now that graduation had finally caught up to them. Every practice lately carried this strange emptiness that you still hadn't fully adjusted to. You missed them badly if you were being honest. No future teammates, no future victories, no future season would ever replace the bond all of you built together.

But endings did not always mean loss. That was something life had slowly forced you to understand.

After finishing your packing, you wandered out of your room and toward Jake's almost absent one out of pure habit. The door was slightly open already. It had honestly been a while since Jake actually slept here properly considering he spent nearly every night tangled in your bed instead. Still, the room looked painfully like him—organized in his own way and filled with little traces of the things he loved.

Your eyes drifted toward the transparent shelves mounted carefully against the wall. Hot Wheels lined up in neat rows beside completed Lego builds he had spent hours working on during stressful nights, some of them gifts from you, others things he proudly bought himself after passing difficult projects or exams. Mo sat charging quietly near his desk now beside scattered engineering blueprints, and one of your old volleyball wristbands was looped carelessly around its antenna. You smiled softly at the sight before dropping yourself onto his bed with a tired sigh, sinking into the familiar mattress while staring up at the ceiling.

It only took a few seconds before the bed dipped beside you.

Jake crawled in next to you without a word, immediately wrapping his arms around your waist. His chin rested against your shoulder while his legs tangled with yours. "It's honestly useless renting a separate room when you basically live in my bed now," you muttered with amusement while turning slightly toward him. Jake only hummed quietly in agreement, tightening his hold around you instead of denying it. "And both of us are graduating soon too... oh my God."

No more university tournaments. No more scrambling through deadlines and practices and late-night study sessions with Jake. Life was shifting again, slowly moving forward whether you were ready or not. For a moment the room fell quiet and when you looked back at Jake, you noticed him staring at you strangely.

You frowned slightly under the weight of his gaze. "Is there a problem?"

"I love you," he said immediately, without hesitation, like breathing.

The words came out so naturally now compared to before. No stuttering. No panic. No fumbling over syllables while avoiding eye contact. Jake said it softly but confidently, eyes fixed completely on yours. Your expression softened almost instantly, and you moved closer to wrap your arms around him properly. "I love you too, silly," you murmured while caressing his cheek gently with your thumb.

Jake leaned into your touch immediately.

"Remember when you told me before..." he started quietly. "About not knowing what to do after volleyball?" Your brows lifted slightly at the sudden topic change, but you nodded anyway while continuing to stroke his hair back from his forehead. Jake swallowed before continuing. "I wanted to say a lot back then. I just couldn't." He laughed weakly at himself before looking back at you again. "But you can literally do anything. You could teach, or coach, or maybe start some weird fish business—"

You snorted softly.

"Jake," you interrupted with a smile. "I already told you. I'm planning to continue volleyball professionally. I'm aiming for the league now. I'm not stopping."

"—Or maybe..." Jake suddenly cut in quietly.

His arms loosened around you.

"Live with me."

Your smile faltered slightly in confusion as you slowly pushed yourself upright on the bed. Jake followed your movement immediately, but instead of sitting beside you again, he slid off the mattress completely. Your eyes widened the second you realized what he was doing.

Jake was kneeling on the floor.

"Jake," you said slowly, staring at him in complete disbelief while your heartbeat immediately started climbing into your throat. He looked nervous all over again for the first time in years, hands visibly shaking while he pushed his glasses higher up his nose. His cheeks were already bright red, his breathing uneven, but he still kept looking directly at you despite how terrified he obviously was.

Then he reached into his pocket.

"Oh my God," you whispered instantly.

"I have a proposition to make," Jake breathed out nervously. His fingers shook so badly while opening the small velvet box that you were half afraid he was going to drop it onto the floor entirely. But the second the lid flipped open, your breath caught hard in your throat. A ring rested inside, and the sight of it hit you so suddenly that your eyes immediately started burning with tears.

Jake noticed instantly and panicked a little.

"I-I will support you through everything," he rushed out quickly, voice trembling while he looked up at you from the floor. "Your league, internationals, all of it. I swear I will. I-I'll keep loving you, deeply, openly..." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his own eyes glossy now behind his glasses. "I know you'll probably think this is too early—"

"Jake, no," you interrupted immediately, shaking your head so fast your vision blurred slightly. The tears were already slipping down your cheeks now, but he misunderstood the reaction immediately because of course he did. Jake's face fell for a split second, panic flashing all over his expression before he hurriedly continued speaking again.

"But it doesn't mean we have to do everything immediately," he said quickly, almost pleading now as he shifted closer on his knees toward the bed. "I just... I want a future with you... Live with me? Not as roommates anymore, but really with me. As my lover. My person." His voice softened shakily near the end, his eyes refusing to leave yours despite how emotional he looked now. "And someday... as my wife."

The room suddenly felt too small for your heartbeat. For a second, all you could do was stare at him kneeling there beside the bed—the same quiet boy who once could barely survive a single conversation with you now looking at you like you were the center of every future he wanted. Jake's hands were still trembling around the ring box while he waited, breathing unevenly, clearly trying not to completely spiral if you stayed silent too long.

A wet laugh escaped your mouth suddenly as you wiped your tears with the back of your hand. "You're so fucking unfair," you whispered shakily, which immediately made Jake look even more nervous. His lips parted like he was about to apologize again, but before he could spiral into another overthinking breakdown, you grabbed his face with both hands.

"Jake," you said softly.

He froze completely beneath your touch.

"You are already my home."

Jake's eyes widened so much it almost made you laugh again through your tears. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again uselessly while staring at you like he couldn't process what he was hearing. You smiled weakly before leaning down until your forehead rested against his.

"Yes," you whispered.

Jake blinked once. "...Yes?" he repeated weakly, sounding completely stunned.

"Yes, idiot," you laughed through your tears, and the second the words fully registered in his brain, Jake let out the most broken, overwhelmed noise you had ever heard from him before immediately grabbing your waist and pulling you into him. The ring box nearly fell from his hands from how hard he hugged you, his face burying against your stomach while his entire body shook with relieved laughter.

"Oh my God," he kept mumbling breathlessly against you. "Oh my God, oh my God..."

You buried your fingers into his messy hair while laughing softly yourself, overwhelmed and emotional and ridiculously happy all at once. Jake pulled back just enough to shakily slide the ring onto your finger, his hands still trembling the entire time. The moment it settled perfectly in place, he stared at it like he genuinely couldn't believe it was real.

Then his eyes slowly lifted back toward you again. "My fiancée," he whispered, sounding completely in awe of the words alone.

Unlucky with money, unlucky in your love life, unlucky in your sex life. The same "bad luck" that used to follow you around had somehow led you here anyway, step by step, mistake by mistake, person by person.

Those were bad luck. And bad luck is temporary.

You smile and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against Jake's forehead. Ha, you're not out of luck either, aren't you?

You have Jake. Your good bestest luck.

And a good bestest luck lasted a lifetime.

NOTE: you reached the end, yay! thank you for loving the lucky family! (reader, jake, whitey, pinky, bumble, guppy and mo hehe) :) this is not really my best story but i definitely enjoy writing nerd jekjek and building their world! i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoy writing. love lots!!! - shi

[hoonieful]

CAKE! BEER! CHICKEN! WE ARE CELEBRATING

[mssishipi]

OUT OF LUCK— SJY

Money, sex, and a lifetime of feeling like luck was never really on your side—until the universe decided to fuck with you in the most inconvenient way possible. What started as simple coexisting turned into something more when you paid a little too much attention to your quiet, awkward, painfully responsible roommate—who, on paper, is a complete fucking loser. But, hey, he’s not that bad! In which Sim Jaeyun becomes the only genuinely good, unfairly lucky thing that’s ever happened to you… and just like everything else in your life, good things have a way of slipping right through your fingers. So now you have to figure it out, fix it, or risk losing the only thing that ever felt right before you run Out of Luck.

2: FORTUNE'S FAVOR

content tags and warnings: roommate au! romantic comedy, jake is an engineering student x volleyball varsity player reader, light angst, angst and fluff and fluff and a happy ending! complicated feelings, mentions of SUPERTITIOUS BELIEFS, tarot reading, luck, fate etc! 10k wc of reader avoiding jake and the rest will be jake 's pov (he yap and yap), mentions of social anxiety and self harm, jake is such an awkward introverted baby he needs a hug i swear, jake is yearning :(, embarassment, 2nd hand embarassment, public confession, awkward erm moments, jake is secretly a simp and he's pathetic, slice of life, kissing hehe. ft. heeseung as jake's best supportive friend, 02z as jake's hs friend, kazuha as jake's ex gf, karina, ryujin, other kpop idol as reader's volleyball team, robots and fish as side characters. mild smut: masturbation, still MDNI! (WC:34.6K)

Fate is a power believed to predetermine events, some unavoidable bullshit that people love to hold onto when things go wrong. A little explanation so they don't have to admit that sometimes things just fall apart because people make stupid choices, or because shit just happens for no good reason at all.

And right now? You think fate is complete fucking nonsense.

If fate was real, then maybe you wouldn't have been dumb enough to let things spiral the way they did. Maybe you would've stopped yourself before crossing the line.

Maybe if people weren't idiots, if they just paid attention for one goddamn second, things wouldn't end up worse than they needed to be. Like, for example—if someone didn't decide to throw a basketball straight to your fucking face like they had zero brain cells to work with.

Geez. Fate. Luck. Doom. What kind of bullshit logic even ties those things together? The more you think about it, the more it just pisses you off. People are so fucking dumb sometimes, acting like everything is written in the stars when half of it is just bad decisions stacked on top of each other.

"Hehe... I'm so sorry."

You glance at Karina from where you're sitting on the bench, an ice pack pressed against your already bruised nose, your face still sore from everything that's happened over the past few days. Her hand hovers mid-air, like she wants to check on you but isn't sure if you'll snap at her or brush her off.

She just got back from Japan and of course, Ryujin had already filled her in. Not just about how, three days into recovery of your accident, some dumbass from the basketball team managed to add another bruise to your already fucked-up nose during practice like it was some kind of sick joke.

But also that you got your heart broken. Well. You didn't want to tell her. You didn't want to tell anyone, if you were being honest. Saying it out loud makes it real in a way that just thinking about it doesn't. It turns it into something people can react to, something they can pity, something they can talk about. And you're not in the mood for that shit.

So you just exhale slowly, leaning back a bit, eyes drifting away from her. "It's fine," you mutter. Karina doesn't look convinced. She's not stupid. But for once, she doesn't push immediately. Thankfully.

She lowers her hand slowly, sitting down beside you, her shoulder brushing lightly against yours and you know exactly what she's trying to do—comfort, soften the edges, make it easier for you to crack open and talk. But you don't. You just let out a quiet sigh, leaning back slightly as if nothing about this is affecting you. You let her stay there because it's easier than pushing her away and dealing with the questions that would follow. You've always been good at this anyway—pretending. Acting like you're fine.

And weeks pass like that. Quietly. You make it a point—no, a fucking mission—that you and that man-who-shouldn't-be-named never cross paths.

You adjust your schedule, leaving earlier, coming home later, avoiding the living room at certain hours, listening for any sign that he's around before stepping out of your room. It's exhausting, honestly, but you do it anyway because the alternative—seeing him, talking to him, pretending like nothing happened or worse, acknowledging it—feels ten times worse.

You even considered moving out at one point, scrolling through listings late at night, checking dorm prices, calculating your budget over and over again like maybe the numbers would magically change.

They didn't.

Because you're broke. Like, actually fucking broke. Rent is insane, dorms are worse, and on top of that, your training for regionals has been eating up your time and energy like crazy. Your appetite has doubled—no, tripled—and now you can't go a day without stuffing yourself full or you start feeling like shit. And all your money? Gone. Straight into food. Food, food, and more fucking food.

You click your tongue in annoyance just thinking about it, dragging a hand down your face. Fuck this. Why did that man even cook for you so much before? Why did he set that stupid standard? Now your body's used to actual meals, and you can't even go back to your old habits without feeling like you're dying. It's irritating. It's inconvenient. It's— NO. You cut the thought off before it goes somewhere else.

You swore you wouldn't like anyone anymore. That shit is done. Over! Finished!

And honestly? All those stupid things people made you believe in? Complete bullshit. The grapes you ate during New Year's for luck? Fucking scam. The bracelet they made you wear in February because it's supposed to bring love or whatever the hell? Garbage. You should've thrown it away the moment you got it. And that horoscope reading? "2026 will be your year"—yeah, right. Biggest scam of them all!

"I miss you, please don't be angry at me!"

Karina wraps herself around you from behind, her arms locking tight around your shoulders. The impact makes you jolt forward slightly, your whole body stiffening as irritation immediately flashes across your face. You try to pry her off, fingers digging into her forearms.

"What's with you? I'm not angry, the hell?" you scoff, twisting your shoulder and swatting at her arm, but it does nothing. If anything, she tightens her hold, pressing her cheek against yours.

"I know you would say that," she whines, dragging every word out dramatically, completely unfazed by your resistance. Her voice softens just a little as she nuzzles closer. "But there's some kind of tension you have with me. I can feel it. I promise I'm not gonna push you with some other guy again, just talk to meeee."

"Karina!" you snap. You twist harder this time, trying to break free, your voice rising with both annoyance and disbelief. "I am not angry, what the—?!"

But she doesn't let go. "Really?" she shoots back immediately, her tone shifting to show she's not buying your shit. Her arms stay locked around you as she leans her chin on your shoulder, peeking at your face. "Then why won't you talk to me?"

"I'm not talking to anyone because I'm broken-hearted!" you fire back with sarcasm. You stop struggling for a second, your hands dropping uselessly to her arms as you huff out a breath. "Of course it's normal to be this way! You're the one who pushed me, remember?"

"Huhuhu, I'm so sorry!" Karina immediately wails, completely switching gears as she stomps her foot against the ground while still hugging you. The movement jostles both of you, but she doesn't loosen her grip. "Promise, I'll help you get over him. God, I hate him!" Her voice sharpens, her real irritation slipping through. "Do you want me to sabotage his project?! I heard his club is organizing some event with Architecture. Just say it. I'll definitely do it!"

You finally manage to grab her wrists and yank her arms off you, turning around to face her fully with a look that screams what the fuck is wrong with you. "No—what the fuck?" you snap, staring at her like she just suggested arson instead of whatever the hell that was. You roll your eyes, dragging a hand through your hair as you try to calm yourself again. "I just want to focus on Regionals. Just... don't mention him anymore." Your voice drops a little. "It's better to move on when I don't have updates or news."

Karina watches you for a second, her expression softening as she processes that, then she nods slowly. "Soooo... are we good?" she asks, immediately looping her arm around yours again.

You click your tongue, glancing at her from the corner of your eye. "Of course we are always good. What's with you?"

"You sure?" she presses, squinting at you like she's trying to catch you slipping.

"Yes."

"Then I have a gift for ya!" Her mood flips instantly again, energy shooting back up as she lets go and starts digging through one of her paper bags.

You watch her with mild suspicion, arms crossing over your chest as you wait—and then your expression completely breaks when she pulls out a clear plastic bag filled with water... and a tiny fish swimming inside.

"What the—"

"My guppy gave birth and I don't have a tanks anymore!" she beams proudly, holding it up like it's the best gift in the world. The fish wiggles inside the bag. "Take this as a gift for ya. It will help you clear your mind!"

"No. What the fuck?!" you hiss immediately, recoiling slightly. Your brows knit together in pure disbelief, staring at the tiny creature. "Karina, I'm not taking responsibility for a living thing right now—are you insane?!"

But she just grins wider, already trying to shove the bag toward you anyway.

And that was how you ended up bringing a fish

You are absolutely, undeniably, one hundred percent going to fucking kill Karina.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen, one hand gripping the plastic bag with a tiny fish inside, while your phone is awkwardly wedged between your shoulder and your ear. You open cabinets with your free hand, shoving things aside in search of anything that could pass as a container. It's 3:00 in the fucking afternoon, the heat pressing down on you like you are in hell, sweat already forming at the back of your neck. The aircon hums uselessly somewhere behind you, doing absolutely nothing. Why the hell is it not cooling? Is it broken? Did someone mess with it? Did he— NO.

"The fuck?!" you snap out loud when the call suddenly drops, the silence hitting immediately after Karina's last words—calm down, guppy don't need oxygen——before cutting off completely. You pull the phone away, glaring at the screen. No signal nor an Internet.

Of course! Jake is the one assigned to the internet payment. You remember clearly—you left the damn money on the center table days ago where he couldn't miss it. And now this? No connection, no help, no fucking instructions on how to keep this tiny living thing alive.

"God! The worst roommate ever!" you mutter under your breath, shoving your phone onto the counter with more force than necessary. Worst roommate! Worst fucking roommage! Not paying that damn internet, overheating the air conditioner since he was the one who is staying so damn long in the living room, rejecting your feelings— Hold on. Stop. Moving on remember?

You exhale sharply, like you're physically pushing the thought out of your system, and look back down at the plastic bag in your hands. The tiny fish wiggles inside, completely unbothered by your internal crisis, its small body flicking through the water.

"How am I supposed to know how to build your environment?!" you hiss at it. You let out a long breath, shoulders dropping slightly. "Okay... okay..." you mutter to yourself, trying to calm the fuck down. It's just a fish. A tiny, stupid fish. People take care of these things all the time. You can't be that incompetent.

You finally grab a glass jar from the cabinet, a clean one, at least, and set it down on the counter. It's not ideal, probably, but it's better than leaving it in a plastic bag forever like some kind of moving takeout.

Your eyes wander, and they land on that stupid little robot sitting lifelessly on the edge of the table. An idea sparks, ask Bumble for help! Of course! Jake's little tech toy could totally—well, theoretically—make this easier. You lean down, plastic bag in one hand, glass jar in the other, carefully lowering the fish into the water. The liquid sloshes around, tiny ripples forming, and the fish flicks its tail nervously.

Your fingers hover over the robot, hesitating a moment because the thing looks impossibly flat and dumb, and yet... Jake had somehow made it work before. How? How the fuck did he do that?

"Bumble, open," you command. The robot doesn't move. Not a single servo whir, not even a twitch. You frown, crouching lower to get a better look at it, poking at the flat surface with your fingertip. Nothing. You blink at it, confusion mixing with irritation as the anger starts to simmer back up again, fueled by the memory of that stupid, infuriating boy who made it work so effortlessly. His stupid braces flashing whenever he smiled, that crooked, perfect grin, his stupid, clueless, nerdy self who somehow made everything look so easy. Stupid boy.

You can't help it. You shake the robot lightly, as if your rage can transfer through it, make it activate, make it do something other than sit there mocking you.

"Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" you hiss under your breath, frustration bubbling past the point of reason.

You can almost feel the heat of your blood rising in your cheeks, your heart hammering faster than it should over a stupid fish and a stupid robot. And yet, beneath all that —why are you this bitter? NoOOo! It's valid! He's a fucking idiot. That robot is a fucking idiot. And yet—and yet—you can't stop thinking about him, about the way he made you laugh, the way he made you feel, the way he lingered in your thoughts like a permanent ghost.

"Stupid, useless robot," you mutter under your breath, your grip tightening around Bumble. You shake it again. "Why the fuck won't you open? What, are you trying to act like your owner too? Just shut down and ignore people?"

The sudden creak of the door makes your whole body jolt. You stiffen instantly, your heart jumping straight to your throat as your head snaps toward the entrance. Jake was frozen in place, just a few steps inside, like he didn't expect to see you either. His hand is still on the doorknob, the other clutching his bag loosely. His eyes flicker—first to Bumble in your hands, then to the jar on the counter with the fish awkwardly floating inside, then finally to you. And when his gaze settles on your face, it stays.

You see it happen in real time—the shift. His eyes widen, and it pisses you off. He takes in the fading bruises along your cheek, the slight discoloration near your nose, the healing cut on your chin with its visible stitch. His brows knit together, concern flashing across his face so quickly it almost looks painful, like he doesn't know what to do with it. "W-What happened?" he asks, voice stumbling over itself as his hand lifts halfway, like reaching toward your face before stopping mid-air.

That—that right there—makes your chest twist wrong.

You straighten up immediately, forcing your expression to do it's own neutral controlled thing, dropping Bumble back. You avoid his eyes like they burn, turning your attention back to the fish. Geez. Two fucking weeks. Two weeks of silence, of avoidance, of pretending he didn't exist—and now he wants to ask questions like he still has the right? Like nothing happened?

"When are you planning to pay for the Wi-Fi?" you cut in flatly. You keep your back partially turned to him, fiddling with the jar, adjusting the plastic inside even though it's already fine. "I already left the payment."

There's a pause behind you. You can even feel it without even looking — the hesitation, the shift in his breathing, the way he probably opens his mouth and then closes it again like he always fucking does.

"Uh... I was actually busy... that's why..." he answers as he steps further inside and lets his bag drop to the floor.

You let out a small, humorless scoff under your breath, still not looking at him. Busy. Of course he was busy. Bet he was also busy avoiding you.

"Right," you mumble, eyes fixed on the water in the jar, watching the fish move in slow, careless circles.

"Are you... okay?—"

Your head turns sharply, eyes locking onto him with a glare. "Why the fuck do you even care if I'm not?" you shoot back. But just as quickly, you feel that ugly edge, that bitterness creeping. Shit you hate it. You hate how it makes you sound. You hate how it makes you feel like the one who's losing control.

So you pull back. You look away first, breaking eye contact and reach for your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. The jar with the fish inside the plastic crinkles softly as you pull it close to your chest. "Just..." you click your tongue, your jaw tightening as you force your tone back. "Pay that damn Wi-Fi."

You walk past him without waiting for a response, your shoulder brushing the air near him but never quite touching. Your hand grips the doorknob of your room, pausing for just a second before you push it open.

You inhale deeply, and without turning back, you add, "and fix the AC." Then you step inside and shut the door behind you.

Silence follows immediately. You lean back against the door, eyes squeezing shut. "Stupid boy," you mutter under your breath, your voice cracking just slightly despite your effort to keep it together. You drag a hand down your face, exhaling sharply, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on you. You really wish you could rewind everything. Back to when things were simple. When you were just minding your own damn business, not expecting anything, not hoping for anything. No stupid feelings.

Because what the hell were you even thinking? A fairytale? Really? You let out a dry, almost bitter laugh, shaking your head as you push yourself off the door and move further into your room. "What could possibly go right with a man disguised as a loving prince?" you mutter. "They're all the same. Fucking villains." You huff, running a hand through your hair. "Witches, even. Pretending to be kind, then dragging you down, poisoning you—"

You stop mid-step, blinking at yourself like you just caught your own bullshit. "...Why the fuck are you thinking about fairytales again?" you mutter, almost annoyed.

And you need to place this fucking fish outside your room!

You threw yourself into training as though it was the only thing keeping you from completely losing your shit.

Regionals wasn't just some school-level game anymore, you carried your city's name on your back whether you liked it or not. The drills were stricter, harsher, less forgiving. Coaches didn't care if your legs were shaking or your lungs felt like they were about to collapse; they pushed anyway, barked orders like you were machines instead of people. It was exhausting, and so brutal, kind of relentless—and somehow, you welcomed it. Because every second your body ached, every moment your mind focused on the game, it left less room for him.

Unluckily—luckily—you weren't stuck in one place either. The team moved from city to city, different courts, different environments, different faces. New people, new opponents, new distractions. You met players who were just as aggressive, just as desperate to win, some even worse. It forced you to stay sharp, forced you to adapt.

At night, when your body finally gave out and you collapsed into unfamiliar beds, there was barely enough energy left in you to think. Barely enough energy to remember anything, and yet... somehow, in those quiet moments right before sleep took you, your mind still slipped. Back to him.

One night while packing your things for another early call time, your hands moving automatically as you zipped your bag. Your thoughts drifted. What is Jake even doing right now?

You frowned, shoving your clothes harder into your bag like that would shove the thought away too. Before you left the apartment earlier that week, the fridge was nearly empty. Barely anything inside except leftovers that didn't look touched and random shit that didn't make sense together. It's not like you were cooking. Hell, you barely ate at home anymore. You never even did heathy groceries in the first place. That was always—

You stopped.

Is he eating properly now? Is he still organizing everything like some obsessive little nerd? Or did he just... stop?

Oh, dude. What the actual fuck! You shake your head, physically rejecting the thought. Why the hell do you even care? Why does it matter if he's eating or starving or turning into a complete mess? He made his choice.

"...Yeah, right," you mutter under your breath.

Because the truth is simple, and it pisses you off more than anything—you still like him.

Despite everything. Despite how he looked you in the eye and said he didn't feel the same. Despite how fucking humiliating that moment was. The feeling didn't just disappear. It didn't magically shut off like a switch. It stayed, always clinging to you no matter how much you tried to drown it out with training, exhaustion, or distance. It's normal. Feelings don't just go away overnight. You're not broken for still thinking about him.

...Are you crazy?

Not really. You've always been like this—your mind drifting back to things you once liked, replaying moments like they meant more than they probably did. You remember those stupid, simple days when it was just a harmless crush. When you'd catch yourself staring at him across the room, noticing the way his braces flashed when he smiled, how his eyes would light up behind his glasses whenever he talked about something he liked. It was easy back then. It was safe... nothing is complicated

And yeah—fuck it—you're not blind. He's not ugly. Not even close.

But the moment that thought settles, your expression twists, your own bitterness creeping back in like a bad habit you can't shake. Your mood shifts so fast it almost gives you whiplash. One second you're remembering something soft, the next you're clenching your jaw, your hands curling into fists. "God, how I hate nerds..." you mutter. "Stupid, fucking... face." You let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand through your hair as you lean back, staring at the ceiling.

Because no matter how good he looked, no matter how nice he seemed—You still kind of want to punch him. Hard.

"This card represents the burning love that you have right now. The two of you will communicate well, and maybe in the near future, both of you will not take the same path—but it will not be a reason for any separation. Either way, the fire around you will ignite and make your relationship stronger."

"Awww."

A chorus of coos makes your eye twitch. Rei actually sniffs, her hand hovering over her chest as her eyes glued to the three cards laid out in front of her. You stand there, arms loosely crossed, staring at the whole thing with a thinly veiled cringe, your lips pressing into a line as you take in the scene. The setup is just a small booth with a cloth-covered table, a deck of worn-out cards. It's part of the open house happening around Decelis, booths were scattered everywhere — whatever. You only ended up here because your coaches had some sudden emergency meeting, leaving you all with a free hour to waste. And somehow, this is where your team decided to spend it.

"Is that legit-legit?" Winter asks, wiggling her eyebrows as she leans closer to the table. The rest of your teammates crowd around too, forming a semi-circle, their attention completely hooked. You can already tell this is about to go south for you. They look too entertained.

"Take what resonates, leave what doesn't," the tarot reader replies calmly. You bet she said that line a hundred times already today. "I am just reading the cards and interpreting what it says."

"Well then," Winter grins, clearly already plotting something, "I'll pay three dollars and read my friend's love life!" Before you can even react, she drops the money into the jar and without hesitation, shoves you forward into the seat right in front of the table.

"Huh—?"

You barely get the chance to protest before hands are suddenly everywhere. Winter, Giselle, Ningning, and Karina are all close in, clapping their hands over your mouth, pushing you down into the chair as they giggle. "Don't ruin it!" "Just sit!" "We're curious!" they whisper loudly over each other, completely ignoring your muffled protests.

You glare at them, trying to pry their hands off, but they're annoyingly persistent. The tarot reader raises an eyebrow at the display but doesn't comment. Instead, she calmly begins shuffling the deck, her eyes flicking toward you for a brief moment—like she's assessing you, reading more than just your face. The cards slide smoothly between her fingers. Eventually, your teammates let go, though they stay close, practically leaning over your shoulders, their eyes glued to the table like.

Three cards are drawn and placed carefully in front of you. Two upright. One reversed.

You finally manage to sit properly, rubbing your jaw where they had covered your mouth, shooting them one last annoyed look before your attention drifts—despite yourself—back to the cards. You don't even believe in this shit.

"I see..." the girl starts, she leans slightly forward, studying the spread. Her brows knit together just a little, like something caught her attention. "Your partner is a very loving person... with genuine feelings."

Your nostrils flare almost immediately, your lips parting as your face twists into disbelief and annoyance. You don't even bother hiding it, and the way you can already feel the shift around you too—the girls who were leaning in with excitement just seconds ago are now deflating, their interest dropping as fast as it came. There's a collective sigh, obvious with disappointment. Of course. Because what partner? You don't have one. Everyone here knows that. This is exactly why you don't believe in this shit. It's all vague, all bullshit.

"The images around the cards represent someone who pays close attention to you... someone who puts in a lot of effort," the girl continues, unfazed by the obvious shift in energy. Your teammates exchange looks but no one interrupts her. Not yet. Well, there's still that tiny thread of curiosity keeping them quiet.

And then, unexpectedly, she pulls another card.

"Is your partner a Scorpio?"

"Hm." You respond flatly, barely even thinking about it, your attention already drifting as you inspect your nails.

"Right..." she murmurs anyway. "You're lucky. He is intensely passionate and deeply loyal to you—incredibly loyal and devoted. The kind of person who gives everything, but expects the same level of commitment in return."

You let out a short, dry snort at that, the word lucky hitting your ears wrong. Lucky? Yeah, fucking right. Every person who reads zodiac signs, tarot cards, whatever the hell this is—they always say the same shit.

"As expected with this reversed card," she continues, tapping the last one lightly, "it also reflects your partner's nature. Hesitant to open up. Someone who tests potential partners before fully letting them in... That's all!"

"God, I can't believe I wasted my three dollars," Winter mutters under her breath, already turning away with an annoyed huff. "She doesn't even have a boyfriend."

There's a ripple of agreement, the group starting to lose interest completely now, the moment clearly not living up to their expectations. One by one, they begin to shift away from the table, their attention already drifting to the next booth.

You don't move right away. Your eyes stay on the cards, before snorting. You push yourself up to the chair, breaking whatever stupid spell you almost fell into.

"Hope you had a long, healthy, happy relationship. Both of you deserve it. Thank you!" the girl chirps, already reaching for her jar. You watch her fingers flick through the bills. You huff under your breath, shaking your head as you step away.

Loving? Effort? Loyal? Hesitant? And what the fuck was that—Scorpio? You roll your eyes hard enough it almost hurts. You don't even know someone who's a Scorpio. Not a single one. The whole thing was a scam, and somehow people were eating that shit up like it was gospel. Good for them. Couldn't be you.

Your attention shifts fast—thank fuck!—dragged away by something actually worth your time. Wagyu barbecue. Your eyes light up, stepping closer like you're being pulled in. "Holy shit," you mutter under your breath, staring at the display, the marbling on the meat, the way it sizzles on the grill. And then you squint slightly. "That's a black sausage?" you mumble, half-confused, half-intrigued.

Food. At least food makes sense. You shift your weight, already pulling out money, already thinking about how that three dollars should've gone here instead of that tarot bullshit. You take a bite of something you bought, chewing absentmindedly, letting the flavors comfort you.

"What's with ya booth?" you ask casually as you drift along with your team, your voice blending into the noise as you hop from one stall to another, not really caring about anything except eating and not thinking. You clutch your food, biting, chewing, swallowing, moving. The others are loud, curious, energetic, and you are actually keeping up with them, as long as you have your food.

"Oh! The Civil Engineering Booth! What's the catch?!" Winter suddenly calls out.

Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, your throat burning as you cough, eyes watering as you bend slightly forward, one hand clutching your chest. "Shit—" you rasp, trying to breathe,  but it's already too late. Because when you look up, he's there.

Jake was standing right there!

Your mouth falls open slightly, breath catching again but for a completely different reason this time. He looks... different. Not drastically, not in a way that anyone else would probably point out, but you see it. Of course you fucking do, duh. His hair's a bit longer now, falling just slightly differently around his face, softening him in a way that makes your chest tighten. He's wearing this gray long sleeve under a blue polo, something that looks weird, considering the hot weather... Of course it is weird! But it doesn't. On him, it just works. It always fucking works. There's a camera slung over his nape too, resting against his chest.

Fuck. Your heart stutters. It actually fucking stutters. God, why is he so handsome, you wanna cry — STOP!

"Uh... we now have some kind of, you know... furniture and displays around your house?" Jake says, voice a little shaky, and you can hear it even from where you're standing. You hate that you can still recognize every little change in his tone. His eyes flick around, scanning the group, pausing briefly on jerseys, on faces—getting closer, closer—

And when you realize he's about to look at you— You turn your back, shoulders stiffening as you stare straight ahead. Your grip tightens around your food, knuckles whitening slightly as your heart starts pounding like it's trying to break out of your chest.

Stupid. Why the fuck did you turn your back? Your jersey has your surname printed on it! Dumb bitch!

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, internally cursing yourself out. Great. Fucking great. Out of all the booths, all the places, all the fucking timing—this is where you end up. You can feel it crawling under your skin, that restless, suffocating awareness that he's right there, that if you just turn your head a little, you'd see him clearly.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Karina whispers beside you. Her eyes are on you and it pisses you off a little because it means you're not hiding it as well as you thought. You don't answer immediately. You just stare ahead, blinking and forcing your breathing to even out.

"—Wow! A zodiac sign bracelet?! Where did you bought it?!" Winter suddenly blurts out, loud as hell. Just like that, the attention shifts, your teammates swarming forward like curious idiots, drawn to something shiny and new.

Jake attention is split. He's opening his lips to answer but his eyes keep dragging back to your turned back.

"I-It's fine. We had an agreement that we stick together so when we go back we don't have to message those who is missing—" you whisper back to Karina quickly. It sounds reasonable. It is reasonable.

"Uh... my friend from the Art Major booth, gave it to me..." Jake answers, still looking back and fourth to you.

"What sign is this again?" Giselle asks, reaching out to touch his wrist and raising it up to observe the bracelet.

"It's a— uh... a Scorpio." Jake replies.

"It's so obvious, babe! God, you are such a dumb sometimes." Ningning snorts.

"Shut it, girls! Well, Mr. uhh..." Rei cuts in, she squints down at the tag clipped to his shirt, leaning just a little too close. "Jake! Mr. Jake," she repeats with a grin, clapping her hands. "Can you take a picture of us as a team? We're off to Regionals in the next few weeks! And we look so fresh. Maybe we could use it for the journalist page if they upload a good luck post!"

Jake's attention was being dragged away again, redirected, and forced into your teammates again.

"Uh... sure..." Jake answers, his voice hesitant, or maybe it's just you hearing it differently now.

You don't turn. You don't dare turn. But you can imagine him nodding slightly, adjusting that stupid camera strap on his shoulder, probably pushing his glasses up out of habit.

"Great! Are you gonna upload it on your page?" Rei continues without missing a beat, already hyped and already moving.

"...The creatives are..." he starts, clearly trying to explain.

"That's great!" Rei cuts him off anyway, not even caring about the details, and turning her attention back to the group.

When is this gonna fucking end?

You shift your weight, foot tapping against the ground in small, impatient movements to distract you from the other thing—the bigger thing—you're trying so hard not to face. God! You can feel your teammates moving, adjusting, forming some kind of formation.

"Hello?! Number 9?!" Rei suddenly calls out, her voice snapping directly at you.

Fuck you! You want to curse out loud.

You inhale slowly, forcing your neutral expression before turning to move, not fully facing him yet, not looking at him, just stepping into position.

You settle at the side, arms crossing loosely, trying to make yourself smaller, less noticeable—

"Stop— what are you doing?!" Winter hisses immediately, grabbing your arm and dragging you without hesitation. "You should be in the middle! You're a libero and you had a different color of your jersey!" She pushes you right into the center.

Your feet plant as your body going stiff for a split second. You're right in front now, visible and now exposed. You were absolutely going to kill your teammates.

You don't look at him. You keep your gaze forward, somewhere just above the lens.

Jake bites his lip awkwardly, adjusting his stance behind the camera, fingers fumbling just slightly as he brings it up.

"Okay... uhm..." he mutters, trying to gather everyone's attention. "Just— stay still..."

Your chest tightens. You don't know why this feels harder than confronting him. You've faced him before. You've yelled at him. You've cried in front of him!

Standing here, pretending like nothing happened while he looks at you through a lens— God, this feels worse!

"Smile," he says.

You let yourself look straight at the camera, at the lens, at him behind it. Your lips lift automatically, forming a smile you've practiced a thousand times for games and pictures.

One second. Two. Five. Ten.

There's this weird stretch of silence beneath the noise, like something's off, like the moment isn't ending when it should. You don't move at first, still holding the pose out of habit, but then your brows knit slightly, your smile starting to falter at the edges. He's not lowering the camera. He's just... there. Watching through the lens like he forgot what he was supposed to do next.

"Uh... is it finished?" Ryujin finally asks, confused, a little impatient as she shifts her weight beside you.

That's when Jake seems to snap out of it.

"Oh—... sorry. Yes, we'll just upload it later," he says quickly, his voice stumbling over itself as he lowers the camera in a rush. He doesn't look at anyone because he turns his back almost immediately.

Your smile drops the second the camera is no longer pointed at you.

"Thank you!" your teammates chorus, already moving on, already distracted, their attention bouncing to the next booth.

"He looks so familiar, right? Had he participated or watched on VIP?" one of them asks absentmindedly as they walk.

You glance at Karina, and she's already looking at you. There's a split second where neither of you say anything. Her lips press together, holding it in, not saying shit for once, and you mirror it, your own mouth tightening as you look away first.

You bury it.

You bury him under the loud whistle of your coach that keeps ripping through the air and it's trying to split your skull open. Training hits harder than usual, or maybe it just feels that way because you're forcing yourself not to think about anything else. Your body moves on—run, receive, dive, stand, repeat. You're tired.

The coaches don't give a shit.

"Again!" the whistle blows, and you barely have time to straighten your back before another ball comes flying at you. Your arms sting from the impact, your knees burn from the constant drops, and your breathing is uneven, chest heaving as you try to keep up. They said you already had your break. One whole hour earlier, like that was supposed to be enough to carry you through the rest of this hell. Fucking hell.

You try to sneak a second to grab your water because your throat dry as shit, your hand already reaching for the bottle. You tilt it, barely getting a sip—

The coach slowly called out your name. You freeze mid-action, glancing up slowly. He was staring at you with his arm crossed, an obvious disappointment carried in his eyes.

You lower the bottle immediately, swallowing hard, your shoulders straightening as you put it down. "Sorry," you mutter under your breath, even if he didn't ask for it, even if he didn't say shit. You already know.

You're fucked.

"Oh my God! I can't imagine what will be the training if we actually win that and proceed to National. I'm gonna die," Ningning whines later as she collapses onto the bench like her soul just left her body.

You barely respond. You're sitting there, hunched slightly, pressing an ice pack against your bruised arm, then your thigh, then somewhere near your ribs where it hurts the most. The punishment was stupid. Straight up stupid. The coach made the team aim at you like you were some kind of target practice, all because you slipped up.

Dull throbs spreading under your skin, your body overly aware of every ache, every sting. It's not unbearable. But it's a lot.

"I'm so sorry," Karina says. She wraps her arms around you carefully, her hand hovering before gently touching one of your bruises.

You huff quietly, shifting a little but not pulling away. "It's okay," you mumble with your tired voice. You adjust the ice again, pressing it harder this time. "I just want to go home."

God, your body feels like absolute shit. Every step on the way home feels heavier than the last, like your muscles are dragging behind you instead of actually working with you. Your shoulders ache, your thighs burn, your arms feel like they've been beaten raw—and honestly, they kind of have. All you can think about is food. Then sleep—eight hours minimum, ten if the universe suddenly decides to stop screwing you over with morning classes. Maybe even a massage, yeah, that sounds fucking perfect, you'll drag Karina and Ryujin to a spa, waste money you probably shouldn't, just to feel human again.

By the time you get back to the apartment, your brain is running on fumes. You don't even bother turning on all the lights, just enough to see where you're going before you drop your bag onto the sofa with a dull thud. It's already 7:45 PM, you don't make it any further than the living room before you just... collapse. Your body gives in immediately, sinking into the couch, your head tilting back as you stare blankly ahead.

That's when you see it the jar. It was sitting there on the table like it's been waiting for you this whole time.

"...Oh, shit," you mutter under your breath, pushing yourself up just enough to look at it properly. The guppy swims lazily inside, existing in its own tiny world while you've been out getting your ass handed to you for days straight. You slide down from the couch to the floor, dragging yourself closer until you're sitting there, elbows on the table, your head almost resting against it as you stare at the fish.

"You're getting fat," you mumble, eyes half-lidded as you watch it move in slow circles. Your finger taps lightly against the glass. "Are you eating well?" you ask again, like it's actually going to answer you. You let out a quiet, tired laugh, shaking your head slightly. "Who's feeding you? That nerd is feeding you?"

You keep staring, your gaze softening despite yourself. "You better not have some kind of attachment issues," you add, "or you'll end up swimming in the river." Another quiet huff of laughter leaves you, but it's weak, fading quickly as exhaustion starts to take over again.

Your eyes slowly close. You don't even notice the small movement behind you. Bumble moves slowly, navigating its way toward you. It bumps lightly against your leg.

Bump. You don't react. It pauses, tilting slightly, then nudges you again, a little firmer this time, its rounded head pressing against your calf like it's trying to get your attention.

Bump. Still nothing. Your breathing has already evened out, your body too tired to respond, your mind slipping somewhere between awake and asleep.

"Hi?" it chirps. It waits patiently its little frame angled toward you like it expects something back. But you don't move. Not even a twitch.

After a few seconds of nothing, Bumble shifts, turning its body slowly toward the hallway, toward that door—the one that isn't yours, then it starts bumping into it. Soft, repetitive taps against the wood. The sound blends into your half-conscious state, like it's happening underwater.

The door creaks open.

And everything after that feels... wrong. Or maybe not wrong... just unreal. Your body feels too heavy, like it's sinking or like gravity suddenly decided to double its pull on you. Your thoughts drift in fragments, slipping away before they can form properly. Did you pass out?

It feels like a fever dream. Like you're floating, but also not. Like your body is there, but your mind is somewhere else entirely.

Cold. It's cold. There's something cold against you. It presses gently, carefully, and your body reacts before your brain does, leaning into it without hesitation. Your eyes try to open but they can't. Your limbs are now unresponsive, but the sensation continues, there was something so smooth brushing against your skin. It moves along your hair first, fingers...no, something like fingers—threading lightly through it, pushing it away from your face. Then your temple. Then your cheekbone.

Good. It feels good. You let out the faintest breath, your body instinctively leaning closer, chasing that touch without even realizing it. Your head tilts slightly, giving in, surrendering to the sensation. You need more.

When you wake up the next morning, the first thing that hits you isn't confusion—it's just this dull, heavy awareness that your body still fucking hurts. Your eyes crack open slowly, light slipping in through the curtains, and you blink at the ceiling like you're trying to remember something important... but nothing comes. There's no clear memory of how you got here, no moment of climbing into bed, no dragging yourself under the covers. You just... woke up here. Lying flat on your back, blanket half-thrown over your legs like you'd been placed there instead of settling in yourself.

You stare at it for a second. Then you shrug it off.

God, you don't even have the energy to question it.

What matters is—you actually slept. Your muscles still ache, your bruises still sting when you stretch, but it's manageable. "Fuck... I could've slept more," you mumble under your breath, dragging a hand over your face as you sit up slowly, joints protesting but not as violently as yesterday. You swing your legs off the bed, feet hitting the floor, and just sit there for a moment, letting yourself exist before the day starts kicking your ass again.

Routine pulls you out of your room without much thought.

You end up in the living room, eyes automatically landing on the jar sitting on the table. The guppy swims lazily inside, completely fine. You crouch down, tapping the glass lightly before feeding it, watching it dart toward the food.

"Geez, you're greedy," you mutter, a small huff leaving your nose.

Your gaze shifts slightly—to the side, and there you saw Bumble.  Sitting there quietly beside the jar, completely still.

You stare at it for a second. "...Weird," you mumble under your breath, brows pulling together slightly. Your shoulders lift in a small shrug, brushing it off. "Whatever."

You stand up, grabbing your things, pushing the thought aside as quickly as it came. There's no point overthinking stupid shit this early in the morning.

"Morning!" Rei greets the second you step into the court, her voice bright despite the early hour as she stretches her arms above her head.

"Morning... what's for breakfast?" you ask lazily, dropping your bag onto the bench before stretching your arms out.

"Hm?" Rei glances at you, thinking for a second before her face lights up. "I think 7/11 just restocked their Spam Kimchi Fried Rice, want to get some?"

You pause mid-stretch, considering it for half a second. "Okay... that's tolerable," you say with a small nod. "Let's grab some after stretching."

More of your teammates trickle in, chatter overlapping, energy building as you all go through warm-ups. By the time you finish, the decision is already made—food first.

The convenience store is crowded as usual, cold air hitting your skin the second you step inside, a welcome contrast to the heat outside. You grab a slurpee almost immediately, sipping from it as your teammates scatter around, grabbing whatever they want, talking over each other like always.

"Oh!" Karina suddenly exclaims, pointing toward a standee near the entrance. "They got Park Jongseong standee!"

You glance over briefly, unimpressed, sipping your drink. "Who the fuck is Park Jongseong?" you mutter, already looking away.

Karina gasps. "God, are you that outdated?! Park Jongseong is a rising actor! He's studying in Decelis and about to graduate!"

"Good for him," you mumble, clearly not giving a shit, taking another sip.

"Oh—look, the Engineering posted our photos!" Rei suddenly says, grabbing your attention as she waves her phone around.

All of you crowd around her immediately, squeezing in, shoulders bumping as you lean closer to see. The group photo pops up first. When Winter swipes to the next photo, her thumb dragging across the cracked screen with zero care, Karina gasps. Your brows knit together immediately.

"What?" you mutter, stepping closer, leaning in just enough to see the phone without fully committing to caring. But then you do see it—and... the fuck?

Ningning whined, completely missing the shift in your expression. "It's so unfair! How come you're always the favorite of photographers and sport journalists?!" she complains, nudging your shoulder.

You didn't even answer at all. Your eyes stay glued to the screen, locked onto that photo. It's you. Just you. Not the team, not the formation, not even a candid group moment—it's fucking you. Zoomed in. Cropped so tightly that Karina's arm is barely visible at the edge, Ryujin completely gone. You're smiling in it, relaxed, unaware. It's not a stolen blurry shot either—it's clear, it was focused... Intentional.

"What the fuck..." you breathe out.

Karina leans closer, squinting. "The man who took our photo isn't even a photographer or a sports journalist," she mutters, more to herself now, her voice dropping as her brain starts connecting dots you don't even want to acknowledge. "Oh God..." Her head slowly turns toward you, eyes widening.

"Don't start," you cut in immediately, your glare snapping to her before she can even open her mouth properly. You already know. You fucking know what she's about to say, and you're not in the mood for it.

But of course, Karina being Karina, she doesn't stop. "He likes you!" she blurts out anyway, her finger practically stabbing toward the screen.

Your jaw clenches so tight it almost hurts. "Are you fucking serious right now?" you snap, heat rising up your neck, not even sure if it's anger or something else. "I told you. He literally said he doesn't feel the same. Did you forget that part or—"

"Who likes who?" Giselle suddenly cuts in, sliding into the conversation, eyes bouncing between you and Karina with interest.

"Wait... so you had a talking stage but it failed? Tell us more!" Winter jumps in right after, leaning forward with way too much excitement, completely missing—or ignoring—the way your expression tightens.

Your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out at first. It's like the questions start stacking too fast, overlapping, tangling together until you can't even grab one to respond to. The noise builds again—voices piling on top of each other, reactions, assumptions, teasing—and suddenly it feels too loud for something that should've stayed quiet.

"So that guy who took our photo was the one you said that won't talk to you?" Ryujin adds, her brows lifting as she studies your face more carefully, like she's trying to confirm something she already suspects.

"...Wait," another voice cuts through. "You know Jake?" Yunjin asks with confusion as she looks at Ryujin first, then shifts her gaze to you. There's a pause, a beat where her expression sharpens slightly. "You know Jake?" she repeats.

Your mouth goes dry instantly. That name, coming from someone else, hits different. Your thoughts trip over each other, questions forming faster than you can process. How does she know him? Why does she sound like that? Why does it suddenly feel like you're missing a part of the story?

"Who's Jake?" Giselle tries to jump back in, but Ningning immediately slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide like she just realized this isn't just casual gossip anymore.

"J-Just... my roommate," you manage to say, the words coming out more stiff than you intend, your grip tightening around your drink again.

"So you know the guy that took our photo and didn't say anything about him?" Karina presses, throwing her hands up in disbelief.

Before you can even respond, Yunjin lets out a short, disbelieving scoff, stepping in. She raises her brows, one hand lifting slightly as she gestures midair. "It's so random to bring him up, duh?" she says in a mocking tone. "And he's boring as hell. What do you want me to say? How he dated one of my best friends in high school and completely turned into a distant asshole with zero emotional intelligence?"

"Ohhhh," the girls around you gasp almost in sync at the gossip.

Your stomach twists, you remember that conversation the way he mentioned he dated someone before, how it "didn't work out." He didn't elaborate. You didn't push. It felt unnecessary back then.

"Oh my," Yunjin continues, shaking her head like she's already over the topic, even though she's the one who dropped the bomb. "I didn't know you'd fall for that whole nerdy, quiet, introverted charm thing too." Her lips press. "He's a good guy, sure. I'll give him that. But he's not a good partner."

Your fingers loosen slightly around your cup. You find yourself staring at nothing—some random spot past Rei's shoulder, past the glass doors, past everything—because your mind is already somewhere else. Back to the quiet moments, the stupid small things, it pisses you off, because it shouldn't matter this much. It wasn't even anything official. It wasn't even real, right?

"It was just like a one-time thing," you say, forcing your voice to come out normal. You shrug one shoulder, like it's nothing. "He's just my roommate." Your lips stretch into something that resembles a smile. "I didn't like him that much. Don't worry, girls."

The silence that follows lasts barely a second before it gets filled again. "Well, you better not like him!" Ningning cuts in quickly, narrowing her eyes at you. She nudges your shoulder, then slaps your back lightly, the others chiming in with similar reactions. "With Yunjin's side story background, he's not a perfect match for you!"

"Yeah, seriously," Winter adds, shaking her head like she's already made up her mind about him. "We don't support bad decisions."

You nod along anyway, letting them have it, letting them believe it. It's easier that way.

But Karina doesn't let it go. "Wait—no, that doesn't make sense," she hisses, leaning closer to you. "It was obvious that he likes you!" Her finger taps against Rei's phone again, like she needs to remind you of the evidence sitting right there. "I mean, look at that picture alone! That's not normal!"

You roll your eyes. "It's just a picture, Karina. Stop overthinking—"

"And what if he does?" Ryujin suddenly cuts in. She flicks Karina's forehead lightly, making her hiss in protest. "Stop pushing her again if it's just going to hurt her more."

Karina frowns, rubbing her forehead, but she doesn't argue back immediately. Ryujin's gaze shifts to you. "It doesn't matter if he likes her or not," she continues. "He already caused enough damage." She pauses for a second, like she's choosing her words carefully, but the bluntness is still there. "He's not man enough to stand by whatever the hell he's feeling right now."

You let out a small breath through your nose, shaking your head like you're brushing it all off, even if it doesn't actually go away. Whatever. They're right. All of them, in their own loud, messy way—they're right. You shouldn't be this stressed over something that was never even labeled, never even defined. It wasn't a relationship. It wasn't anything serious. It was just... something that happened. Something that ended. That should be it.

He made his point right there, standing in front of you. It shouldn't matter anymore after that. It should've killed whatever stupid hope was growing inside you before it even had the chance to become something real.

So why the fuck does it still hurt like this? You're just lonely. That's it, right? That's the easiest explanation. You got used to him being there—his presence, his voice, the small routines you didn't even notice forming until they were gone. You got used to someone paying attention, even in his awkward, quiet way. Of course it's going to feel empty now. Of course it's going to sting.

It doesn't mean it was love. You're just lonely.

Feed the fish, eat a lot of protein, train until your legs feel like they're about to give out, drag yourself to class, pretend you're listening, go home, sleep like you're dead. Avoid Jake.

Feed the fish, eat a lot of protein, train harder, push through the soreness, ignore the bruises blooming under your skin, keep your head down, don't think too much. Avoid Jake.

Feed the fish, eat a lot of protein, train, study, sleep, avoid Jake.

"I know you're busy but the... uh... water bill payment is due..."

Oh. Right.

Bills. Responsibilities. Actual life shit that doesn't revolve around your messy, unresolved feelings. Not everything is about you spiraling over some guy who couldn't even look you in the eye after fucking you.

You click your tongue softly under your breath and bend down to tie your shoelaces, using the motion as an excuse to avoid looking at him. Your fingers move quickly,  even if your chest feels tight again just from his presence being this close. Without thinking too much about it, you reach into your wallet and pull out crumpled bills, extending your hand toward him without lifting your gaze.

"Here," you mutter, handing him the fifteen dollars.

There's a split second where your hand lingers midair, and you mentally curse yourself for even noticing it. You pull back immediately, wiping your palm against your shorts. Your eyes drop back to your wallet, flipping it open again out of habit—and that's when it hits you. It's fucking empty. Well, not completely empty, but close enough. You stare at it longer than you should, your brows knitting together slightly. All that extra food, all the random shit you've been buying just to distract yourself—it adds up.

You don't even realize Jake's looking at it too. When you finally glance up and catch him staring, your expression shifts instantly. You snap the wallet shut and clear your throat like you've been caught doing something embarrassing.

"That would be enough, right?" you say nonchalantly, like you didn't just expose how broke you are. You sling your training bag over your shoulder, adjusting the strap. "I mean, I'm mostly at the city meet anyway. I didn't even use water for, like, almost two weeks."

Jake blinks behind his glasses. His gaze flickers from your face to your bag, then back again. "Y-Yeah... sure," he answers.

You're the one who looks away first. "Okay," you say quickly, already stepping back. "I'll get going." You turn slightly, ready to leave.

"Actually—"

His voice stops you mid-step. You pause, slowly, you turn your head, glancing back at him over your shoulder, one brow lifting just slightly, your expression already guarded like you're expecting something you won't like.

"N-N-Nothing," he stutters, the word tripping over itself the second your eyes meet his.

He folds into himself again. His shoulders draw inward, his posture shrinking like a snail going back to it's shell. His gaze drops almost as quickly as it met yours.

You purse your lips, holding back whatever reaction tries to surface, and give him a small, absent nod instead. For a brief moment, his eyes linger on your face, like he's searching for something in your expression that isn't there anymore. That's the part that hits him the hardest—that look you used to give him when things were still normal, when you were still figuring each other.

Are you... okay now?

The door shuts behind you. Jake doesn't move right away. He just stands there, staring at the empty space where you were a second ago.

Then suddenly, like something inside him snaps, he steps back and lets his head hit the wall. His breath comes out uneven, his fingers curling into fists before loosening again, like he doesn't even know what to do with his own body. Then he does it again. And again. And again. Each impact a little harder. Why can't he talk? Why the fuck can't he just say something when it matters?

His jaw tightens, teeth grinding as frustration builds in his chest. He pulls back once more and this time hits the wall harder than before, the sting shooting through his skull—and that's when it hits him. A flash of memory flodded into his mind.

Suddenly, he's not here anymore. Suddenly, he's back at high school.

"I know I'm not like the best partner either," Kazuha says. Jake's mouth goes dry as he stares at her, his brain lagging behind the moment like it's refusing to process what's happening.

It's a random Tuesday. And yet here she is, standing in front of him, ending something he didn't even realize was breaking.

"You're a good guy, Jake," she continues, her hands clasped together in front of her. "I appreciate and love every moment we spent with each other. Thank you for that..." She pauses. "But it's better if we part ways."

Her words just... float there, Jake goes completely still. His shoulders draw in, shrinking instinctively, an action he always do if he's trying to make himself smaller. His eyes flicker away from her for a second, scanning the space around them—the hallway, the passing students, the distant chatter. What if they were listening?

His fingers start fidgeting again, restless, rubbing against each other over and over. His heart is beating too fast. His head is too loud. There are too many thoughts forming all at once, piling up, overlapping, choking each other out before they can even become words.

"Are you..." Kazuha starts, her brows pulling together slightly as she looks at him. "...not gonna say anything?"

Jake looks at her then. Her eyes are glossy—not crying, not yet, but close enough. Waiting. Expecting something. Anything.

And fuck, he wants to say something. He wants to ask why. Wants to understand what he did wrong. Wants to tell her he tried—that he followed everything right, didn't he? He carried her bag, walked her home, remembered dates, bought flowers during monthsaries, gave her chocolates even when he didn't know if she liked them. He paid attention. He listened. He stayed. He liked her. Wasn't that... enough?

The words pile up in his throat, pressing, pushing, demanding to be let out—but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes. His mind goes blank.

Completely, fucking blank. Jake swallows, his hands starting to sweat, his fingers twitching uselessly at his sides. Panic creeps in, tightening around his chest as the silence stretches too long. He knows he should speak. He knows this is the moment. He knows if he says nothing, it's going to end like this.

And still, he can't. His lips part slightly, but instead of words, all that comes out is a shallow breath. His gaze drops, unable to hold hers any longer, and slowly, almost helplessly, he shakes his head.

Not because he doesn't care. But because he doesn't know how to say that he does.

"Bro, you fumbled a baddie so bad. Tsk, tsk, tsk."

Sunghoon's leaning back on the bench. The ice rink behind them glows under harsh white lights. It's normal. Everything is normal.

Except Jake. He's sitting there, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground. Jay walks in not long after, still dressed from whatever commercial shoot he just wrapped up, dropping his bag beside them. He takes one look at Jake and already knows something's off, his brows pulling together slightly before he exhales.

"You don't even try to chase her?" Jay asks. He leans forward a bit. "You know girls like that. If you show any effort, she might come back."

Jake doesn't respond. His gaze stays locked on the floor. His fingers twitch again, restless, picking at nothing, repeating the same useless motion over and over.

"Actually..." Sunghoon cuts in, shifting his posture as he glances between them. "You know ballet and figure skates train together, right? I overheard something..."

Jake's fingers pause for a second.

"...like uh..." Sunghoon continues, scratching the back of his neck, "she said you don't initiate anything. Like—holding hands, saying stuff... you're just too quiet." He glances at Jake briefly before looking away again. "She said she doesn't feel the 'love'." He even does the air quotes, emphasizing the word.

Jake's chest tightens, but he still doesn't move.

"I mean, I can see you putting in effort," Sunghoon adds quickly, like he's trying to balance it out. He leans over and throws an arm around Jake's shoulder, giving him a brief squeeze. "You do shit. You're there. That counts." He exhales, shaking his head. "Social media standards are ruining relationships, I swear."

"No, don't say that," Jay glares at Sunghoon. "Of course women are sensitive. Sometimes they just... misunderstand actions if we don't say anything. That's normal."

"Yeah, but that's what they call 'words of affirmation', right?" Sunghoon scoffs, pulling his arm back. "What if our Jekjek here just sucks at that? Not everyone's built like that." He shrugs, leaning back again. "They should accept that too. We're not all gonna be talking sweet 24/7. That shit's exhausting."

"Yes, we can," Jay replies without missing a beat, "If we love our girl, we can." His eyes flicker to Sunghoon briefly. "You're just saying that because you're not in a relationship."

"Hey—"

Ever since he was a child, Jake already knew there was something off about the way he spoke—or more like, the way he couldn't. It wasn't that he didn't have thoughts. Fuck, his head was always loud, always full of things he wanted to say, things he wanted to ask, things he wanted to explain. But the moment it had to pass through his mouth, it got stuck somewhere in his throat, tangled, choked out before it could even become words.

He remembers it too clearly, standing in front of the class, small hands clenched at his sides, his teacher smiling patiently while the rest of the room just... waited. Five minutes. A full five minutes of silence just because he couldn't say his own name. He could feel their eyes on him, hear the faint shifting of chairs, the quiet whispers starting to build. His mouth opened, closed, opened again—but nothing came out except shaky breaths. It felt like drowning without water.

And yet... he wasn't bullied.

That's the part he always comes back to. He was lucky. Somehow, he was lucky. The kids didn't tear him apart for it, didn't laugh in his face the way he feared they would. Some of them even waited for him, awkwardly, patiently, like they didn't mind the silence as much as he did. He carried that with him growing up—that quiet kind of relief. By the time he reached high school, he even managed to find people who stayed. Friends who filled in the gaps when he couldn't speak fast enough, who didn't push him too hard when he shut down. He had Sunghoon. He had Jay. He had... something close to normal.

And somehow, somehow, he even got lucky enough to have a pretty girlfriend. Pretty, warm, expressive—everything he wasn't. Someone who chose him despite the way his words always came out broken, incomplete, late. It felt unreal. Like he had somehow skipped steps, like life handed him something he didn't fully know how to hold. But he tried, he really did. In the ways he knew how.

He remembers the Art Therapy sessions clearly too. The therapist had a soft voice that didn't rush him, didn't pressure him into speaking when he couldn't. If you can't say it, they told him once, show it. There are other ways to communicate. And Jake held onto that.

Now it feels like a fucking lie. Because if that was enough... then why does it keep ending like this?

Maybe out of all things, love was the most unlucky thing he'd ever stumble into. Everything else in his life had eventually fallen into place—his academics were solid, his routines were structured, his small circle of friends stayed consistent. He knew what to expect, knew how to function, knew how to exist without fucking things up too badly. It wasn't perfect, but it was stable. He was content with that kind of life, the kind where nothing felt too overwhelming, where nothing demanded more from him than what he could actually give.

And somewhere along the way, after high school, after that quiet, unresolved breakup that still lingered in the back of his head, Jake made a decision without really announcing it to anyone.

He wasn't going to fall in love again.

Not because he didn't believe in it but because he clearly didn't know how to do it right.

"And with that, Number 9 saves the day with her vampire speed! Decelis Academy earns another point!"

Jake remember he was 18, on his 12th Grade. The gym was loud that day, packed with students, and huge energy that Jake wasn't used to being around. He didn't even plan on being there. Jay practically dragged him along, insisting it would be "good exposure" or whatever reason he came up with as the school ambassador. Jake didn't argue. He just followed, sitting stiffly on the bleachers, hands resting awkwardly on his knees as he tried to ignore how overwhelming everything felt.

Until he saw you.

It was sudden. Like his brain just locked onto you without asking for permission. A beautiful you in a white jersey and short shorts.

You were already in motion when his eyes found you, your body low to the ground as you received the ball. Your movements were sharp but fluid, fast in a way that made it hard to follow. One second you were on one side of the court, the next you were diving—literally throwing yourself onto the floor without hesitation, arms stretched out, saving a ball that should've been impossible to reach.

Jake blinked. Then leaned forward slightly without realizing it.

You got back up like it didn't hurt. And then it kept happening. You ran. You slid. You split just to receive the ball with your foot, and the crowd lost it. Your teammates shouted your name, your energy feeding into theirs, your presence pulling the entire court together like you were the center of it all. There was nothing hesitant about you. Every move you made had purpose, had confidence, had this raw, fearless intensity that Jake couldn't even begin to understand.

You looked... unreal. Not just pretty. Not just attractive. You looked alive in a way he had never seen before.

Your hair stuck slightly to your face from sweat, your jersey clinging just enough to show the strain of your movements, your legs marked with faint bruises like proof of how hard you played—and still, you kept going. You jumped, arms raised, eyes locked on the ball like nothing else in the world mattered in that moment.

Jake couldn't look away. It's just admiration. Nothing more. The kind of thing people feel when they see someone good at something, someone... bright in a way that makes the rest of the room feel dimmer. That's all it is.

Jake had no plans to actually talk to you. No plans to get closer.

Because it was funny, almost ridiculous, to even imagine it. You—this gorgeous varsity player everyone seemed to orbit around—talking to him? Someone who usually blended into the background unless someone actively looked at him.

When the game finally ended, the noise of the crowd didn't immediately fade. Jake followed Jay down from the bleachers toward the court level. People were already gathering around, phones out.

And there you were. Right in the middle of it.

Jake remembers that part clearly—not just seeing you, but watching you. The way your eyes moved around like you were trying to process the sudden attention instead of expecting it. You looked slightly confused, as if you didn't fully understand why everyone was crowding you. There was a faint awkwardness in the way you smiled, rubbing the back of your neck as people kept approaching.

"Can we take a picture?"

"Just one more!"

"Hey, great game!"

And you didn't refuse any of it. You just... accepted it. Laughing awkwardly here and there, nodding too quickly sometimes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as your teammates got pulled into other groups of students. You weren't dismissive. You weren't annoyed. You didn't act like it was a burden. You just went along with it, like it hadn't fully registered yet that this level of attention was normal for you.

Little kids tugging at your sleeve. Students from other schools calling your name. Boys—more boys than Jake expected—hovering nearby, waiting for their turn like it was something they had to earn.

Jay nudged him. "Want to take a picture with her?" he asks casually. Jake's eyes almost widen immediately. His entire body stiffens for a second. Heat creeps up his neck as he quickly shakes his head.

"H-Huh?" he stutters, voice cracking slightly, before he shakes his head more firmly this time. "N-No."

Jay just grins at him like he already knows. "Come on," Jay says, tapping his back lightly, dragging him forward with easy confidence. "Let's take a picture. She might get famous internationally one day. Did you see her skills?"

Jake doesn't answer. But his feet still move. His eyes—no matter how many times he tries to pull them away—keep drifting back toward you. It's frustrating in a quiet way, like his focus is being stolen without permission. Every time he looks away, he ends up looking right back again.

"Hey, my name is Jay. Nice game, by the way."

Jay steps forward first as he approaches you, holding out a hand. Jake lingers half a step behind him, suddenly aware of everything—his posture, his breathing, the fact that he probably looks like he doesn't belong anywhere near this interaction. You turn toward them, still slightly flushed from the match. Even like this, even when you're clearly tired, there's something about you that doesn't soften. Beautiful. God, you were do damn beautiful.

"Hi, Jay. Thank you? I guess?" You give a small smile, polite but slightly awkward.

Oh God. Up close, it's worse. Not in a bad way—no, not even close. You're intimidating, so fucking pretty! Jake can feel himself shrinking without moving. It doesn't make sense logically—he's taller than you, standing right there, physically closer than most people in the crowd—but mentally, he feels small, your presence fills the space too easily. Like there's no room left for him to exist normally inside it.

"Mind if we take a picture?" Jay asks again, gesturing lightly between the three of you.

"Sure."

Jay immediately shifts closer, guiding the position. And then it happens, you lift your arm and swing it around Jake's back as you settle into place for the photo.

Jake freezes for half a second. Your hand is warm through the fabric of his shirt, you're completely unbothered. But to him, it feels like something entirely different—like a switch being flipped inside his brain. His posture stiffens immediately, shoulders locking up, breath catching slightly as he tries very hard not to react in a way that would make this weird.

But you don't seem to notice. You're just standing there, in the middle of them, smiling naturally now as the camera is raised. Jay is talking about angles or something, adjusting positions, but Jake can barely process it. His mind is too focused on the fact that you are there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hear breathe. Close enough that if he turned his head slightly, he would be looking directly at you instead of trying not to.

And somehow—completely out of character for him—Jake finds himself smiling.

The camera clicks.

And for a fraction of a second, everything feels suspended—like the world pauses just long enough for him to exist in that moment without overthinking it.

Afterward, Jay steps back, already shifting into casual conversation again, but Jake stays still for a beat longer. His eyes flick briefly toward you again, then away, then back again like a broken reflex he can't fix.

This is nothing. He will eventually forget you. He is sure of that. This feeling—whatever it is—temporary.

Years passed, and Jake ended up exactly where everyone expected him to be—Engineering, decent grades, still had a stable routine. He had a scholarship that eased the financial pressure on his parents. His life, for the most part, had become structured in a way he could actually manage: classes, assignments, study sessions. His parents were still supportive, calling every now and then, reminding him to take care of himself.

Sunghoon was still skating, still grinding through competitions under Decelis. Jay, on the other hand, had started shifting into modeling, acting, random opportunities that slowly turned into actual industry attention. It was strange watching them all move forward in different directions while still somehow staying within reach. Jake stayed in touch with them.

The only thing that didn't quite fit into place was the dorm situation inside Decelis.

It was strict. Too strict in some ways, and ironically not strict enough in others. There were rules—curfews, schedules, restrictions—but somehow the environment still felt messy. People breaking curfew, doors opening and closing late at night, voices echoing down hallways when he was trying to study. His sleep schedule was constantly getting disrupted, his focus breaking at the worst possible times. He couldn't properly revise after a certain hour, couldn't rest when he needed to, couldn't even sit in silence without someone disturbing it in some way.

The only dormmate he had ever managed to properly communicate with was Heeseung.

They weren't close in a dramatic sense, but they understood each other in a way that made living together tolerable. Same academic field, similar mindset—a little detached from the noise around them. Heeseung was the kind of person who could spend hours building something without feeling the need to fill the silence with unnecessary conversation.

"Apartment complex on the streets of the Avenue," Heeseung said one afternoon, barely looking up from the small robot he was dismantling on his desk. "There's a lot of listings for people looking for roommates. Pros—two to three rooms, so you can have your own space."

Jake listened quietly from his bed, one hand resting on his notes, the other scrolling lazily on his phone without really absorbing anything. He tilted his head slightly at the explanation, already interested at the idea.

"Cons," Heeseung continued, pausing to adjust a tiny wire, "it's expensive. And there's like a ninety percent chance you end up with a girl roommate."

Jake blinked. Then looked up properly. "What's wrong with having a girl roommate?" he asked, genuinely confused, like he had missed a very important piece of information somewhere in the logic.

Heeseung finally glanced at him, expression flat, like this was obvious information that didn't need elaboration. "Tension will be too high," he said simply, shrugging one shoulder as he went back to his work. "You might fuck and then everything gets complicated emotionally."

Jake stared at him for a second."...What?"

Heeseung didn't even react much, just continued tightening a screw. "It happens."

Jake leaned back slightly, processing that in the most literal, disconnected way possible. His brain tried to compute it like a formula—input, output, consequence—but it didn't really connect to anything in his actual life experience. He had never thought about roommates in that way. Never even considered that possibility as something that could happen just because two people shared a space.

All he wanted was simple.

A place where he could breathe. A place where no one slammed doors at midnight, where he could actually study before eight without interruptions, where silence wasn't something he had to fight for. The gender of the roommate didn't matter to him.

"Isn't it better than five guys in a dorm anyway?" Jake muttered after a moment, more to himself than to Heeseung. "At least it's quieter."

Heeseung gave a short hum in response, still focused on the robot in his hands. "Probably."

Oh boy—Jake should've listened to Heeseung's cons.

Because the moment he signed the roommate application, everything somehow spiraled into something wayyyyy more complicated. Peace was all he wanted. That was all it was supposed to be. But then reality hit in a way he didn't calculate for, because he didn't know—he genuinely didn't know—that the roommate he'd been assigned was you, until the interview.

And the worst part was how his eyes kept betraying him. He'd look away too late, glance too long, get caught in places he shouldn't be looking at all. Your body, it was like how visible everything felt to him. And yeah—your ass included.

God, you looked different. It was accumulation. Your arms—stronger, more defined, muscle sitting tight under your skin. Your back was broader, posture solid, like you were always mid-motion even when you were just standing there reaching for something in the kitchen. It made sense. You were an athlete. This was normal. Of course, you train, you look like that. That's just how bodies works.

Every interaction made it worse, not better. There was no adjustment period, no gradual easing into comfort, he was stuck being watched even when you weren't looking at him.

The day you walked into the living room and caught him sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scattered Lego pieces, he felt the spike of embarrassment that didn't fade. You didn't even say anything weird, just paused, looked, maybe a little curious. But to Jake, it meant too much.

Same with the time your eyes drifted over his Hot Wheels lined up on the shelf. It wasn't judgment, not really, but his brain filled in the gaps anyway.

And then the conversations—if they could even be called that. Something as stupid as the water bill turned into a full-body experience for him. Words sticking, fingers twitching, shifting his weight like he couldn't find a stable position to stand in. He'd rehearse sentences in his head and still mess them up the second they came out. And every time, without fail, there was that lingering thought afterward: You thinks he's weird. Or worse—you knows he's a loser.

No. People could think whatever they wanted; it didn't change anything... But this didn't sit the same way. Not when it came to you. Because for some reason, he didn't want you filing him away like that, reducing him to the guy sitting on the floor snapping LEGO pieces together or lining up Hot Wheels. There was more.

If he could just say it properly, without his words tripping over themselves, he could explain it. He could tell you about his grades, how he ranked near the top without making noise about it, how he could cook actual meals. He could show you something real.

But instead, all of that stayed stuck in his head, piling up into this silent, useless argument that never reached his mouth. And —why did it even matter enough for him to sit there mentally listing reasons like he had something to prove to you?!

"Wow, lucky you."

Heeseung's mouth literally dropping open as Jake pointed toward the massive tarpulin hanging across campus with your face printed on it.

"She's my roommate."

Heeseung looked back at him, then at the tarpulin again. But Jake... Jake didn't react the same way. His posture straightened just a little. His expression shifted without him realizing it, mouth pulling into something that edged too close to pride—almost arrogant, like he had some kind of claim. He didn't even notice it happening. Didn't catch the way the idea of being linked to you—even in something as basic as living in the same apartment—make him feel good.

"So, did you two fuck?" a question that exactly the kind of thing Heeseung would throw out without thinking twice. And just like that, whatever expression Jake had dropped instantly.

"N-No, what the—?!" Jake voice cracking slightly as his face heated up in seconds. The flush spread across his cheeks, down his neck, his brain short-circuiting in the worst way possible because his thoughts betrayed him, flashing something he didn't ask for. He physically flinched, hand coming up to smack the side of his own head like he could knock it out. "What the hell are you even saying?"

"I embarrassed myself because she caught me messing with Whitey," he added quickly as he shot Heeseung a glare, redirecting the conversation to something else. The robot sat unfinished in his mind.

Heeseung didn't miss a beat. "Okay," he snorted, shaking his head with a grin, "good to know you are never gonna get fucked by that girl."

Of course not.

You were intimidating—still intimidating in the exact same way you were the last time he saw you a year ago, except now it felt worse because you were closer. It wasn't just that you were attractive. It was the way it came with presence that made it hard to relax around you. Your eyes didn't help either— too easy to get lost in if he looked too long. And that was the problem. He wanted to look, to hold it for more than a second, to prove to himself he could act normal—but every time he tried, something in him pulled back too fast.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" You ask him too blunt as he just handle you the advance payment.

"H-huh?" His face went red almost instantly, color blooming across his cheeks as he fumbled with the fabric of his pajama pants, wiping his hands over and over. "I—I don't have..." he said quietly, trailing off as if the sentence itself embarrassed him.

Wait—why would you even ask that? Followed by another question. Are you... interested? Or just curious? That didn't make sense. There was no reason for you to be interested. He barely talked to you, barely functioned normally around you. So why ask? Unless it didn't mean anything. Unless he was reading into it again. It was random. You weren't even that close, barely past basic conversations....

Jake tried not to think about it, tried to force his attention onto anything else, but you cut straight through that fragile effort by suddenly starting another conversation, casually asking what you both should order for dinner while he adjusted Whitey. You were so fucking close. It is overwhelming, scrambling his thoughts. Oh fuck. You were too close—it was going to make him lose his goddamn mind, and all he could think, over and over, was how you smelled—sweet, distracting, pretty, pretty, pretty.

He was barely breathing, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like looking at you directly might short-circuit him. "Uh... I already ate," he repeated, voice dropping smaller.

"Oh."

Before you could say something, he stood abruptly, movement jerky, still refusing to meet your eyes as he pointed vaguely toward his room. "I—I need to, uh... I have something to do," he said, bowing slightly out of pure habit before retreating.

The moment the door shut behind him, Jake nearly let out a broken whine, his hands went straight to his hair, fingers gripping hard. He exhaled shakily, trying to calm himself, but it wasn't working. His dick was fucking hard— it got fucking hard!

And the third time you initiated something, Jake swore he was probably seconds away from going completely brain dead. He'd been crouched over another half-disassembled robot that Heeseung had dropped off earlier. You appeared again, stepping into his space. Jake would never forget the way you set the ramen down beside him with those pretty smile, and how easily you started talking about your life like none of the tension from before had ever existed.

"Sometimes I wish I was smart instead of just... sport-inclined," you admitted with a half-laugh, slumping your shoulders for emphasis. "Like, what the hell am I supposed to do after I decide I'm done with volleyball?"

Jake wanted to respond. He wanted to tell you that being sport-inclined wasn't something lesser, that there was nothing wrong with it, nothing lacking or incomplete about who you were. He wanted to say he envied you, in a way—your strength, the way you moved through things without hesitating, how you seemed fearless and independent in ways he couldn't quite reach. He wanted to tell you that if you ever got tired of volleyball, there were still so many things waiting for you, paths you could take without losing yourself—but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

"I'm done for now," you said abruptly, when you notice he isn't talking, you clacked your chopsticks against the plastic before snapping the lid shut, forcing a smile that felt stiff on your face. You stood, shoved the ramen into the fridge with more force and retreated to your room, closing the door behind you.

Jake stayed exactly where he was, staring at nothing, and again, he let out a frustrated exhale, dragging a hand down his face.

When you stopped talking to him, Jake felt it like something collapsing inward. The last time you asked him anything beyond the bare minimum was when he'd come out of the shower early, and you'd only glanced his way long enough to ask if he was done. And after that... nothing. You slipped back into your usual colder distant self—only asking about rent, keeping your eyes anywhere but on him, cutting off any chance for conversation before it could no even start.

"Well, what do you expect?" Heeseung scoffed from across the room, not even bothering to look up at first as he leaned back in his chair, one leg stretched out while he worked on programming the robot in front of him—Bumble, Jake's old Grade 12 project that he'd decided to mess with again. "She's basically just talking to a wall, you want her to keep trying? You think you're that special?" He finally glanced over then, eyebrow raised, unimpressed.

"No! I—I understand her," Jake shot back quickly, his shoulders slumping almost immediately after as if the effort alone drained him. His hands fidgeted uselessly in his lap, fingers curling and uncurling as he struggled to keep his thoughts from tangling. "I just... I wish I could talk about things too... you know... like, actually say stuff... share..." His voice trailed off toward the end, shrinking.

"Booo," Heeseung dragged out mockingly, not missing a beat as he tilted his head back with exaggerated disappointment. "Stop wishing and actually try for once. Jesus, it's not that deep." He flicked a small tool across the desk toward Jake, though it stopped short, clattering uselessly against the surface. "You're just making excuses at this point."

"Why would I?" Jake asked, stubborn in a way that felt more defensive than confident, his gaze dropping to the floor. "It's better this way."

Heeseung's eyebrow lifted slightly at that. And the truth was, Jake had already accepted it—accepted that talking, is... super hard . His social anxiety had settled into him so deeply that the people around him had just adapted, learned to expect less, learned not to wait for him to say anything. Sometimes he wished it wasn't like that, wished he could just... function normally, speak without overthinking every word—but wishing didn't change anything, and he knew it.

So who the hell was he kidding? Himself, apparently.

Because the moment he started working on improving Bumble—adding a small camera, linking it directly to his phone so he could control what it saw and how it moved—he found himself doing something he couldn't even justify. Sitting on his bed, phone in hand, staring at the screen like an idiot while waiting for the front door to open. It was 7:30 PM. You usually got home around that time. The second he heard the faint click of the lock, he straightened up instantly, heart kicking a little harder as his eyes locked onto the live feed.

The door opened, and there you were—stepping inside, unaware and Jake immediately triggered the robot.

"Hi," he said softly into his phone, knowing the word would come out through Bumble in that slightly distorted.

He stayed hidden where he was, safely out of sight, using the robot as a shield between him and you. On the screen, you paused, your expression shifting into confusion as you looked down at Bumble, clearly not suspecting anything, because why the hell would you? To you, it was just a small, harmless robot—not him.

Jake let out a quiet, breathy giggle, biting down on his fist to keep himself from smiling too wide as he watched you respond. Sometimes you greeted it back, and other times you crouched down, kneeling in front of Bumble as your fingers gently brushed over its surface. And every time you did, you ended up looking straight into the camera without realizing it—your eyes filling his screen so suddenly it made his chest tighten. God, your eyes were so fucking beautiful. You were so beautiful. He kicked his feet lightly against the edge of his bed, barely containing the energy buzzing through him, his grin hidden behind his hand as he watched you a little longer than he probably should have.

One time, Jake watched you through his screen as you stepped into your room and quietly closed the door behind you. He lingered there for a moment, thumb hovering over the controls before he slowly guided Bumble away, sending it rolling through the hallway in slow, absent circles.

He kept moving, turning corners, drifting past furniture with no real direction. But then your door creaked open again, and Jake reacted instantly, fingers tightening as he jerked the controls, turning Bumble around so fast it almost tipped before he steadied it and followed you.

The movement was too uncoordinated—he wasn't paying attention to anything except you—and his phone slipped right out of his hand, dropping straight onto his face with a sharp, painful smack.

"Nghh—!" he choked out, the impact rattling his teeth as one of the brackets on his braces snapped loose, sending a jolt of pain through his jaw. But he barely had time to even react, because the screen was still on, angled just enough for him to see.

You were in the kitchen now, dressed in short shorts and a loose crop top that rode up just enough when you moved, exposing more than he'd ever seen before.

You bent slightly over the counter, focused on your phone while absentmindedly eating snacks, completely unaware of the tiny camera pointed in your direction. From that angle—he could see the curve of your body so clearly it made his head spin, the fabric of your shorts riding up just enough to reveal the soft outline of your ass.

"No..." he breathed, his chest tightening as his eyes stayed glued to the screen.

His gaze flickered downward for a second, and that only made it worse, because his body had already reacted before he could stop it. His dick was hard. Fucking hard.

"No—no, no..." he muttered under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a second like it might erase the image that was already stuck in his mind. His face throbbed where the phone had hit him, his teeth aching from the loose bracket he knew would cost a shit ton to fix, but none of that compared to the way his body refused to calm down.

"I'm sorry," he whined under his breath, almost desperate as he grabbed his phone again with shaky hands. He didn't even look properly this time—just caught a brief, blurry glimpse of you still there on the screen before he fumbled with the controls and shut Bumble off completely. The feed cut to black instantly, leaving him staring at his own reflection instead, wide-eyed and flushed, breathing unevenly.

Jake's hands moved quickly, tugging his pajama pants down in a rush. He hadn't even bothered with boxers, and the cool air hitting his skin only made everything feel more intense than it already was. His toes curled against the sheets as his hand wrapped around himself, eyes squeezing shut like that might dull the image burned into his head—but it didn't, not even a little.

If anything, it made it worse, the memory replaying in fragments, the way you bent slightly, the way your body looked so fucking sexy.

His breathing turned uneven until it was harder to control as his grip tightened on his cock. The thought of grabbing his phone again, to open Bumble, tempting. But it feels morally wrong, of course he has a conscience!

A quiet whine slipping out as the image of you catching him—actually realizing what he'd been doing with Bumble—flashed through his head.

"Oh God," he breathed, the words breaking unevenly as his stomach clenched hard at the thought. Why is he getting off at the thought of being caught?! Now he really felt like a fucking weirdo.

His hand stilled for a second before he reached blindly for his phone, unlocking it with clumsy fingers as he opened his messages with Heeseung. His friend had always had this habit—sending pictures of you from games, from practice, from random moments on the court. Jake used to ignore them, but now, he was actually looking, thumb dragging slowly across the screen as he took them in one by one, most of them taken by sports journalists and reposted on the university page.

He kept scrolling faster now, a restless feeling building under his skin as his patience thinned, his hands are getting faster until his eyes landed on one that made him stop completely.

A selfie. He didn't know where the hell Heeseung got it, but there you were, up close, biting lightly onto your medal with a small, tired smile, sweaty and hair slightly messy like it had been taken right after a game. Jake stared at it longer than he should have, his chest rising and falling unevenly, his fingers working through the tip, spreading the precum. God. He wish you could also bite him, everywhere, his neck, his lips, his nippl— bite WHAT?!

His head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering for a second as he exhaled through his teeth. "Haaa..." he whispered again, his gaze locked onto the screen as everything else faded out around him.

After a few uneven breaths and one last helpless glance at your photo, his body finally gave in to the overwhelming tension he'd been holding onto for too long, his dick keep twitching as it spurts continous cum on his stomach.

He was slumped there in silence, staring at the screen like he didn't know what to do with himself anymore.

heeseung | lol why'd you ❤️ react now to the picture i've sent 2 months ago????

heeseung | that sweaty picture haha nice taste😏

heeseung | you're welcome

Jake's entire face flushed instantly, the heat crawling up from his neck to his ears. It felt wrong, no it's actually wrong! You and him barely even talked, what the fuck is he thinking?! Jake let out a frustrated groan before tossing his phone across the room without even looking, the device hitting the floor near his desk.

It's just attraction. You were pretty—that wasn't something he could deny, not even if he tried—and his body reacting like that... it wasn't unusual, not really. He knew that. He knew it was a normal response!

Jake grew restless as the days dragged on, a quiet agitation settling into him that he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried to distract himself. He kept checking the time without realizing it, his focus slipped whenever he tried to work on anything else. But also, it didn't still change the fact that he is looking forward to one specific moment every night.

Well, greeting you through Bumble had turned into a routine.

But one day, that routine cracked without warning. The second Bumble rolled into the living room and the camera adjusted, Jake's small, anticipatory smile faded instantly, his entire expression dropping. You were sitting there, not moving the way you usually did, not reacting the way he expected.

You were crying. His hands lifted slightly toward the screen without thinking, fingers hovering uselessly in the air, as if he could do anything at all from where he was.

You leaned back against the sofa, your body sliding down slowly until you were sitting on the floor, shoulders slumped, exhaustion written all over you. "Everyone has someone," you whispered. "Why... am I such a fucking loser?" you let out a short laugh after that.

Jake just sat there on his bed, staring at his phone.  He watched you like this without knowing how to respond.

He wanted to tell you it was okay, that you weren't whatever you thought you were in that moment, that you didn't have to sit there alone like that. He wanted to apologize too—for all the times you tried to talk to him and he shut down, for how absent he must've seemed, how useless he felt now thinking back on it.

Most of all, he wanted to tell you that you had him.

Action speaks louder than words, right? If you thought you were lonely, then he'd prove you wrong—not by saying it, because he clearly couldn't, but by doing something, anything that might reach you in a way his words never could. So he started small, practical, something he could control. If you were hungry, then he'd cook.

"I—I always... uh... cook food f-for dinner..." he managed to say when you walked in. His heart was pounding so loudly it made it hard to hear himself think. He saw the way you paused mid-step before turning your head just slightly, not fully facing him. Jake's gaze dropped instantly, locking somewhere near the floor, his fingers twitching uselessly at his side.

"I-If you want to eat," he added quickly, the words stumbling over each other in his rush to get them out before he lost the nerve entirely, "uh... it's on the table..." His voice faded at the end. He didn't wait for your response and before you had the chance to say anything, he turned and walked off quickly.

By the time he reached his room, he was practically speed-walking, shutting the door behind him a little too fast before leaning back against it with an exhale. "No..." he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair as he tried to calm himself down, his pulse still racing from something as simple as speaking to you. He paced once, twice, restless energy buzzing under his skin, before grabbing his phone. The familiar motion steadied him a little as he connected to Bumble again, pulling up the camera feed with shaky anticipation.

The moment the screen lit up and he saw you sitting at the table, actually eating eagerly, without hesitation—something in his chest loosened all at once. A wide smile spread across his face. He leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the screen. He had spent hours researching what athletes usually ate, scrolling through articles and videos, and seeing you enjoying it without knowing any of that, made it feel worth it in a way he hadn't expected.

Jake kept cooking for you after that. Sometimes you came home later than usual, the house already dark and settled, and he'd just leave the food covered on the table without saying anything. And every morning, when he stepped into the kitchen and saw the empty tupperware neatly rinsed and the dishes cleaned and set aside, something in him eased just enough to carry him through the day.

"Sooo, you're not actually talking? That's lame," Heeseung said one afternoon, watching Jake from across the scattered parts on the floor. "You're seriously not even gonna try talking to her?" he added, tilting his head slightly, like he was waiting for Jake to say something less disappointing.

Jake paused mid-motion, the screwdriver hovering awkwardly in his hand as he stared down at the loose panel he'd been working on. "Uh..." he started, hesitating as his eyes flicked up briefly toward Heeseung before dropping back down just as quickly. He shifted his shoulders in a small shrug. "I think it's okay...? People don't need conversations all the time," he said.

Heeseung made a face immediately before he pushed himself forward and sat down next to Jake on the floor. "Are you even hearing yourself?" he asked, brows raised as he nudged one of the scattered tools aside with his foot. "You'd rather just... what, keep cooking for her like some silent fucking ghost? That's it?" He leaned back on his hands, glancing at Jake from the side. "Why don't you try something normal for once? Like eating together at the table?"

"I-It's not needed," Jake replied quickly, a bit too defensive as his grip tightened slightly around the screwdriver. "What are you even pointing at?"

"I swear that girl likes you," Heeseung said, sitting up straighter now. "You literally told me she asked if you had a girlfriend, right? People don't just ask that shit for no reason. She wouldn't even bring it up if she wasn't interested."

Jake just stared at him, his mind spinning in slow, uneven circles as he tried to process what Heeseung was saying. It didn't line up cleanly in his head. His lips parted slightly like he was about to respond, but nothing came out, instead, he reached for the water bottle beside him, unscrewing the cap just to have something to do.

"For you to even sit at the same table, you need to ask her to eat dinner with you," Heeseung continued. "And to do that without fucking it up, you need courage—and a script. Yeah, a script," he added, nodding to himself. His fingers tapped lightly against his knee as he spoke, already thinking steps ahead while Jake was still stuck at the starting point.

Jake paused mid-sip, the bottle hovering awkwardly in the air as he slowly turned his head to look at him, eyes narrowing just slightly in confusion. Heeseung, meanwhile, looked completely serious.

"Let's practice some, okay?" he said, already shifting closer. "But when you say it, don't mumble like that—say it straight, no stuttering, and looook..." he dragged the word out, lifting a finger for emphasis, "at the person's eyes when you're talking. That part is important."

Jake swallowed slowly, nodding once. He lifted the bottle again, taking another quick drink but then Heeseung reached out suddenly, grabbing Jake by the shoulder and pulling him just enough to face him directly. "Practice it with me," he said, eyes locking onto Jake's with zero hesitation.

Jake barely lasted a second.

The moment their eyes met, something in him short-circuited completely. The water he'd just taken in stayed in his mouth for a split second too long before it came spilling out in the worst possible way—right onto Heeseung's face.

"You fucker," Heeseung hissed, he wiped his face with the back of his hand, water dripping down his jaw and onto his shirt. He lunged forward, grabbing Jake by the collar and immediately hooking an arm around his neck, choking him.

The next day, Jake decided he should've just ignored everything Heeseung said. All of it. The advice, the assumptions, the stupid "script"—it all felt ridiculous now that he was actually thinking about it on his own. It wasn't necessary. He didn't need to prove anything, didn't need to suddenly change how things were going between you and him. Things were... working, in their own quiet way. He had his routine, you had yours, and there was no risk of him messing it up as long as he didn't push it any further.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to settle into that thought again.

Sigh.

You were so fucking pretty.

He clicked his tongue softly in frustration, shifting his weight where he stood in the kitchen. Maybe... maybe inviting you to eat together wouldn't be that bad. He swallowed, his chest tightening slightly as he stared down at the food he'd already prepared, his fingers flexing at his side like he was trying to gather whatever courage Heeseung kept talking about.

"H-Hey."

The word came out before he could stop it. You had just gotten back from practice, heading straight toward your room without really looking around. Jake set the plate down carefully on the table. Eye contact, he remembered. Right. His shoulders tensed slightly as he forced himself to look up when you paused.

And for a moment, he actually held your gaze. Really held it.

The way your eyes locked onto his without hesitation, clear and focused in a way that made his chest tighten instantly. You were even prettier up close! And just like that, it became too much. His gaze broke, darting off to the side as his composure slipped, the brief confidence he had collapsing under the weight of it.

"Let's—I-I cooked dinner," he said quickly, the words tumbling over each other as he gestured vaguely toward the table, his hand a little stiff. "There's a-a lot, so l-let's share."

The moment you sat down and really talk. All of Jake nervousness and loud mind begun to be quiet.

Oh—and it really... felt nice.

Talking to you about random things—music, mostly—like Cigarettes After Sex, of all things, wasn't something he ever pictured himself doing out loud, but it just... happened. And then the next day, you came back holding a bottle of chocolate almond milk, setting it down in front of him, and he just stared at it for a second, genuinely thrown off. For him?! You bought it... for him? there was no way—you knew his favorite drink without him ever saying it!

And fuck, you were cute too. In the little things he kept catching himself noticing more and more. The way you reacted to food, especially the ones he cooked, wasn't something you tried to hide or tone down, and he liked that more than he expected. You weren't picky, didn't hesitate, didn't pretend—you just ate, genuinely, like you enjoyed it without overthinking it. And that smile you always had while eating. Damnnn. You were cute. You were really fucking pretty.

And somehow, without either of you pointing it out, things started to settle into something new. You and him eating together when your schedules lined up, sitting across from each other at the table. Conversations came easier now, sometimes you'd watch movies after, sometimes you'd just sit there, talking about nothing in particular. But most of the time, it circled back to the same thing—eating. You ate, and he cooked. Over and over again. He cooked, cooked, and kept cooking.

Well... of course, with everything he'd been doing lately, someone was bound to question it eventually—even if he hadn't properly questioned it himself yet. From the outside, the things he was doing maybe it didn't look that simple.

"And you're doing all of that because...?" Heeseung asked.

"Because... I'm a... good roommate?" Jake replied almost immediately, the words coming out before he had time to think them through.

"You mean you're doing all of that because... you want to be a good roommate?" Heeseung repeated, his eyebrow lifting even higher as he stared at him. Jake glanced at him briefly, then looked away, his gaze drifting upward like he might find a better answer somewhere above them.

"...Yes?" he said again.

"Dude?" Heeseung's voice jumped, he straightened up, staring at Jake like he'd just said something completely insane. "What do you mean you cook for her all the time, talk with her, watch movies with her—just because you want to be a good roommate? You're literally leading her on."

"Leading her on... on what?" Jake asked, his brows pulling together slightly, the confusion in his voice genuine as he turned back to look at him.

"Leading her on into thinking you like her," Heeseung shot back immediately, his hands coming up as he gestured. "Do you not like her at all?"

...

Jake didn't answer right away. His thoughts slowed, circling around the word. It felt too big, too defined. He knew you were attractive, that wasn't even a question. You were cool, confident in ways he couldn't replicate, and there was a part of him that looked up to you without fully realizing it at first. But stepping past that, into something more specific—it didn't come easily to him.

Was he actually leading you on?

Suddenly he remember his last relationship back in high school. The awkwardness, the pressure, the way everything had fallen apart in a way that left him feeling small, like he'd completely mishandled something he wasn't ready for in the first place. He remembered the expectations he couldn't meet, the quiet disappointment that followed—and how it all ended with him promising himself he wouldn't put himself, or anyone else, through that again.

Maybe that's why he rejected your invite to watch your finals game.

At the time, it felt like the right decision. It was better this way, it would stop you from expecting anything from him, stop things from becoming something more complicated than he could handle. If you didn't hope for anything, you wouldn't be disappointed.

Later that day, after class, when he stopped by to grab food for what he half-considered a small, quiet way to celebrate for you anyway, he saw the ticket. Crumpled in the trashcan . Jake paused mid-step, the takeout bag hanging loosely in his hand as he stared at it.

And just like that, the certainty he'd been holding onto didn't feel so...solid anymore.

What the hell was he even doing? Building you stupid little lego flowers, cooking for you almost every day, sitting across from you and actually talking—even if it took everything in him just to keep the words coming. What was the point of all that? What was he trying to get out of it? Good roommate? That sounds ridiculous!

A good roommate remembers details.

Because Jake remembered things—too many things. He hadn't cared much about sports before, never bothered to look into it beyond surface-level noise, but you... you were something else.

You were everywhere.

Articles, photos, interviews—your name kept showing up in places he didn't expect. A second-year student from Basic Education, sure—but that wasn't the part that stuck. It was everything else. The way sports journalists talked about you like you were something unpredictable, something hard to pin down. The libero who didn't just receive but shut down plays, you who managed to block one of the most well-known spikers from another university! And your high school team? Representing the region at nationals!

Because you never talked about it.

Not once. You never bragged and yet there it was, laid out in front of him in article after article. MVP awards, recognition, comments about your presence on the court—how your looks alone distracted opponents, how your movements were unpredictable enough to throw off entire plays, how you stayed focused on keeping the ball alive no matter what. With the school reputation, you were often called as a Decelis Vampire with your great speed and agility. It didn't sound like the same person who sat across from him eating quietly, smiling over the food he made!

Sports were complicated but you?

You were so fucking cool.

That's why he felt so fucking dumb—so unbelievably dumb for letting things get this far without stopping himself sooner. Every small thing he did stacked up until it stopped being simple and started turning into this mess he didn't know how to handle. Heeseung had warned him and Jake brushed it off as if it didn't apply to him—but now it all circled back.

Living with you, being around you like this, letting things blur—it created tension he wasn't equipped to deal with. Because if he let himself go any further, if he actually gave in to those impulses—to the urge of wanting more, to get closer, to touch, to kiss, to do things he knew he wouldn't be able to take back—he'd regret it. He knew he would.

So avoiding you felt like the only right decision left after having sex. He knows it wasn't fair but Jake has been good at avoiding things, especially confrontation, because he knew how those situations ended for him.

But he underestimated you.

Because of course you weren't just going to let it sit like that. Of course you were going to push, to corner him when he thought he could quietly slip away from it. And that was exactly the kind of situation he wasn't ready to face—the kind where there was no escape, no easy way out.

"Talk to me, fuck it!" you snapped suddenly, your voice breaking as it rose. Jake flinched hard, his shoulders tensing as the sound hit him that made his thoughts scatter even more. Why would you do that? Why would you push him into something he clearly couldn't handle?

Because the truth was—he didn't even fully understand what he felt.

"Sorry... Jake... please," you said again, your voice dropping, almost pleading in a way that made something twist in his chest. Your hands were still there to hold onto him but he moved them gently, guided them off him.

"I like you too much, is that wrong?" you asked.

Yeah.

It is wrong.

You shouldn't feel that way about someone like him, not when he knew he couldn't give you what you deserved. Jake didn't deserve you.

"S-sorry..." he said, shaking his head slightly, his gaze fixed somewhere else, anywhere but your face. "I—I... I don't think I feel the same way, that's why I—I feel guilty... about what happened... sorry."

That's what he felt.

That's what he told himself he felt.

The sound of plastic hitting the floor suddenly made him cut through his thoughts. You got those for him.

And before he could even react—before he could say anything—you were already moving, already turning away and walking out, leaving everything behind.

Jake stood there, frozen, staring at the scattered toys on the floor. His chest felt tight, his thoughts loud and empty at the same time, a heavy stone settling deep in his gut as though he wants to vomit.

Because it felt like his world just... crashed. And the worst part? It felt like he had just lied straight through his teeth...Even though he knew, somewhere deep down, he had tried to be honest.

"You're an asshole." Heeseung didn't even hesitate when he said it. Jake clenched his teeth immediately, his jaw tightening as his eyes shut, trying to ignore everything around him. But it didn't help. All he could see was your tear-streaked face and it kept replaying, over and over again.

Yeah. He knew.

He'd known the moment the words left his mouth, the moment you dropped those stupid fucking toys and walked out without looking back. Guilt stayed in his chest, making it hard to think straight without it twisting everything. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He told himself he was avoiding problems, preventing something worse from happening—but it felt like he just created something worse instead.

Maybe he should just switch buildings again. He was ashamed. He hurt you, badly, and he didn't even mean to—but intent didn't change shit.

But then—

If he left... who the hell would be there for you?

Who would take care of you in the small ways he'd gotten used to? Who would cook, who would notice the little things, who would sit across from you at the table? Would you just find another roommate? Probably. Someone better. Someone who could actually talk without shutting down, someone who wouldn't say the wrong thing at the worst possible moment... What the fuck is he thinking right now?

Did he... actually like you?

Jake frowned slightly, his brows pulling together. Did he like you because you remembered something as small as his favorite milk without him ever saying it out loud? Because you talked a lot, filling spaces he usually left empty, and somehow that didn't annoy him the way it should've? Was it because you were pretty and because people looked at you like you were something hard to reach? Or was it the way you balanced that—how you could be intimidating on the court, but still soft in these quiet, unguarded moments he got to see?

None of it felt... enough.

Or maybe it felt too scattered, too shallow when he tried to list it out like that. Because liking someone was supposed to be deeper than this, wasn't it?

"Hi! We are from Decelis Sport Management! We're handing out flyers to support the Women's Volleyball team—they're leaving the city next month!" A small group stood near the cafeteria entrance, passing out glossy flyers one by one. "If you want to be part of the VIP section with the Decelis Band, feel free to stop by our office!" one of them added, extending a flyer toward a passing student who barely hesitated before taking it.

Jake paused mid-motion, his hand hovering over his notebook as his attention shifted without him meaning to. His eyes locked onto the flyer in someone else's hand—the bold colors, the team name printed across it. Across from him, Heeseung noticed immediately, his brows lifting as he followed Jake's line of sight, then slowly leaned back in his chair, expression flattening.

"What?" Heeseung said, lips twitching just slightly as he tilted his head. "Interested in watching?"

"H-Huh?" Jake snapped out of it quickly, his head turning toward Heeseung as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. He looked back down at his blueprint right after. "No..." he muttered.

"So are we watching Decelis vs. Isabella again?" a nearby student chimed in, leaning over slightly to look at the flyer with interest. "You gonna buy for Day 3?"

"Of course Decelis is making it to Day 3, have you seen their defense?" his friend shot back immediately, already slinging his bag over his shoulder as he stood up. "Come on, let's just grab tickets for all three days now before they sell out." He didn't even hesitate, already walking off with the flyer in hand.

Jake stayed quiet. His eyes flickered up again, catching another glimpse of the flyers being passed around. He doesn't care. He doesn't care.

He found himself standing in front of the Sports Management office later that day, stuck in the middle of a long, slow-moving line. Jake kept his head slightly lowered, shoulders tense, eyes avoiding anyone who might recognize him. Because if Heeseung found out about this he'd never hear the end of it. Probably get smacked in the head too.

"What am I doing..." he muttered under his breath, shifting his weight awkwardly as the line moved forward inch by inch.

To distract himself, Jake glanced toward the bulletin board nearby, his eyes scanning over the countless posters and printed articles pinned up in messy layers. Interviews, game highlights, team features—it was all there. Huh Yunjin—the captain. Aeri Uchinaga. Ning Yizhuo — middle blockers. Faces he'd seen in passing, names mentioned in articles he skimmed through,  most of it—

Most of it was you.

Photos of you mid-play, interviews where your expression looked calmer, more composed than he'd ever seen in person. It filled the space in a way that made it impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend you were just... normal, just his roommate. Jake stared longer, his chest tightening with every second he didn't look away.

Oh God.

Jake likes you.

The thoughts slammed into him, so hard and disorienting, like someone had cracked him across the head without warning— No... something did actually hit his head.

"—Oh! S-sorry!" a guy with glasses and messy brown hair blurted out, his voice pitching up in panic as his bag swung awkwardly and smacked straight into Jake's head, his hand coming up instinctively to rub the spot as he blinked a few times. The guy looked mortified, clutching his strap.

Every weak explanation he used to convince himself otherwise—it all crumbled in that moment. Because no matter how much he tried to deny it, no matter how many times he told himself it wasn't that deep.

It all fell apart the second he showed up here, standing in line like an idiot, pretending this was just curiosity.

It all fell apart the second he decided to go to your game, even though he didn't understand shit about volleyball, even though he had no real reason to be there—except you.

And it completely shattered the moment he saw you cry.

It fucking hurt.

"Y-You're bleeding?! H-How is that possible?!" the guy suddenly stammered, his voice jumping in panic as he pointed straight at Jake's face. Jake blinked, confused for a second before lifting his hand again, only now noticing the faint smear of red against his fingers. His brows pulled together slightly, still slow to react, while the guy behind him gasped loudly, grabbing onto his friend's shoulder.

"W-What the hell?! Did you put this in my bag, Keonho?!" the guy who hit him earlier yelped, frantically unzipping his bag and pulling out a chunk of stone that definitely didn't belong there. The guy turned to the other boy beside him, who immediately started denying it just as loudly. The two of them spiraled into a messy argument right there in line, drawing attention from a few others.

His focus had already drifted.

His eyes moved past them, scanning the rest of the line, taking in the small details he hadn't noticed before. People were talking excitedly about you—your last game, your plays, your reputation. The way they spoke about you wasn't just any casual conversation. It was admiration.

There were so many people here for you.

People who weren't awkward. People who didn't hesitate. People who would actually step forward instead of pulling back.

Jake's gaze drifted back to the boy in front of him, still panicking over the situation, completely unaware of the way Jake was staring right through him. Because even then, his attention wasn't fully there—

There were people better than him.

And wasn't that what you deserved?

Someone who would take care of you properly, not just in small, quiet ways but openly, confidently. Someone who would love you without second-guessing every word, someone who would cherish you without needing to hide behind half-efforts.

If you found someone like that... he'd step back.

He'd admire you from a distance, the way everyone else here probably already did, without expecting anything in return. And yeah, if that person hurt you, it would fucking hurt him too. But if that person treated you right—if they gave you everything... That would destroy him.

Because deep down, he knew—

He could've been that person too.

No—fuck that. He wasn't going to just stand there and accept that kind of ending! That felt worse—way worse—than anything else he'd been afraid of. Now that Jake knew, now that the feeling had a name, there was no way he could pretend it didn't exist anymore. Oh my God—he liked you.

Jake let out a sudden laugh, sound like a little unhinged as he stepped forward without thinking. The boy in front of him barely had time to react before Jake grabbed his shoulder, gripping it, his eyes a little too bright. "Thank you," he said, smiling wide in a way that didn't quite match the situation, ignoring the faint line of blood still trailing down the side of his face. "Fuck—thank you!"

The two guys stared at him like he'd lost it—and maybe he had, a little — Before they could even process what was happening, he reached out, snatched the ticket straight from the boy's hand who he saw at the ID was named as Juhoon, and stepped back.

He pushed through the line without looking back, ignoring the confused voices behind him.

Jake wasn't suddenly different.

He still struggled to talk. Still froze at the wrong moments. Still didn't know how to say things the way he meant them.

And even if he didn't know how to say it yet, even if the words never came out right—he wasn't going to just disappear and let things end like that. He'd have to face you again, one way or another, and deal with whatever came with it.

Not perfectly.

But honestly—this time, for real.

"Why is there always some kind of event in Decelis? And why the hell are we attending another seminar?" you muttered under your breath with clear irritation as you shifted your weight in line. The hallway outside the Audio Visual Room felt suffocating, packed too tight with bodies and noise, the air barely moving as heat clung stubbornly to your skin. You closed your eyes for a second, exhaling sharply through your nose, trying to ignore the way your shirt stuck to your back and how every inch of space felt invaded. Students around you fanned themselves with whatever they had—folders, papers, even their hands—but it barely helped. "For what?" you added under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, your patience already running thin.

"Hey! Hey!"

You cracked one eye open at the familiar voice, already knowing who it was before you even turned your head. Karina stood a few feet away in the opposite line, somehow managing to look energized despite the heat, waving at you like she hadn't just walked into a human oven. Your lines moved in opposite directions, slowly dragging both of you closer until you met halfway. You gave her a look—half disbelief, half annoyance—because honestly, how the hell was she still that cheerful in this kind of weather?

"Did you see Ningning at the end of the line?" she asked immediately.

You blinked at her, unimpressed. "What kind of question is that? It sounds like we're not seeing each other later for training or something," you shot back with sarcasm as you wiped at the sweat gathering near your temple. Your mood had already dipped, and she wasn't helping.

Karina just laughed, completely unfazed, pointing at your face before pulling out her small turbo fan and aiming it straight at you. The sudden blast of air hit your skin instantly. "Come on, smile!" she teased, her grin widening as she watched your expression soften just a bit. "We're heading to Santiago next week! Aren't you excited?!"

You made a face at that, forcing a weak smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, mostly because the heat was still unbearable and your patience was already gone. Before you could say anything else, your lines started moving again, pulling you apart just as quickly as you'd met. The cool air from her fan disappeared instantly, leaving you with nothing but the same suffocating warmth. You huffed again, this time breathing through your mouth as you tilted your head back slightly, trying to catch whatever little air you could.

"Oh my—hi! Hey—! That's the legendary vampire of Decelis!"

You groaned quietly, dragging a hand down your face as you already knew exactly who that was before even looking. Turning your head slightly, you spotted Ningning, Giselle, and Winter near the edge of the other line, all of them way too loud, way too energetic for this kind of environment. They waved like they hadn't seen you in years, calling out just enough to grab attention from people nearby.

"What the fuck did you all take to have that kind of energy?" you muttered under your breath as you stepped closer when your lines aligned again. Ningning immediately reached out, offering you a pack of gummy bears.

"The weather's so nice, what do you mean?!" Ningning said, completely serious, which only made you stare at her harder. "We saw the band earlier—I'm excited to see Karina do her serve with them!"

"D-E-C-E-L-I-S! GO! GO! GO! GO!" Winter and Giselle suddenly broke into the university chant, and completely unbothered by the stares they were getting. You looked at all three of them with a flat, unimpressed expression, not even trying to match their energy.

"Come on, have a little life! Fix your face!" Winter said, pointing directly at you before reaching over to wipe the sweat from your forehead. "What if someone confesses to you and you look like that? They'll remember that face forever."

You scoffed lightly, brushing her hand away as your line started moving again, pulling you forward inch by inch with the rest of the crowd. "Then they should've picked a better time," you muttered, rolling your eyes as the heat continued to cling to you. By the time you finally reached the doors of the AVR, your patience was hanging by a thread. But the second you stepped inside, the cool air hit you all at once and you almost groaned from relief. You and your classmates didn't waste time, quickly settling at the back near the AC unit, claiming the best spot before anyone else could. It took a few long, dragging minutes before the seminar actually started.

You leaned your face into your palm, elbow pressed against the armrest as you stared blankly toward the front of the room. The spokesperson clicked through slides that looked painfully dull, filled with text that didn't even try to be engaging. Around you, the quiet wasn't peaceful, broken occasionally by soft whispers or the very obvious sound of someone snoring a few seats away. Your eyelids started to droop slightly, blinking slower as your attention slipped further away from whatever was being said. Your thoughts drifted elsewhere—like food. What would they even have after training later? Something decent, hopefully. Or maybe not. Then your mind jumped again, landing on what Karina said earlier—Santiago. Meals. You wondered what they'd serve there, silently hoping it wouldn't be bland, dry, or just straight-up disappointing. You missed good food. Real food. You exhaled quietly. God, you were so fucking bored.

"I guess all of us believe in horoscopes and luck, aren't we?" the spokesperson's voice cut through your thoughts. There was a scattered response from the audience—some murmurs, a few half-hearted replies—and she let out a small chuckle like she expected it. "I see some of us don't..."

You didn't move, your expression unchanged as you stared forward, barely processing the question.

"I guess we can say that fortune happens for a reason," she went on, gesturing lightly with her hands as she paced a little across the front. "It doesn't necessarily mean it's bad, right? Some people believe that fortune favors good people, or that you have to do certain things to gain luck..." She paused briefly, her smile softening just a bit. "But sometimes, what we call bad luck or misfortune—it's just a way of letting us make mistakes."

She let out a small breath, her expression calm as she looked over the room. "Because what is a person," she added, "without flaws or mistakes?"

God, this is so fucking boring. You shifted in your seat, jaw tightening slightly as you stared at the front, not even pretending to listen anymore. Your stomach twisted faintly—not even out of hunger at this point, but just the need to do something else. So you stood up, already preparing a half-assed excuse about needing to pee, not even caring if it sounded convincing. But instead of just letting you slip out quietly, one of the organizers immediately stepped in, lowering their voice as they gestured toward the side. "You can use the bathroom backstage," they said politely. You blinked at them, unimpressed. What the fuck? Why was everything so damn controlled here?

You let out a quiet huff, resisting the urge to argue as you turned and made your way toward the indicated path. The walk felt longer than it should've, your footsteps muted against the flooring as you passed behind the curtains, the noise from the seminar dulling slightly the further you went. You scratched your head absentmindedly, shoulders a little tense as you caught one of the organizers briefly watching you pass. You met their gaze for a second, giving them a look that said yeah, I'm actually going to the bathroom, relax, before looking away again. It felt stupid, the whole thing—like even stepping out for a second needed supervision.

The moment you pushed past the curtain into the backstage area, the atmosphere shifted. It was quieter here, less suffocating, the hum of equipment replacing the droning voice from the seminar. You immediately reached for your phone, already opening your messages and texting Karina without hesitation—how many fucking hours is this seminar again? Your thumbs moved quickly. You leaned against the wall, exhaling sharply as your thoughts spiraled again. Luck. Fortune. Fate. Why were people so obsessed with that shit?It just felt repetitive. Empty. You'd been unlucky most of your life—so what, was that the universe teaching you something? Letting you "grow"? You almost scoffed at your own thoughts.

"O-Oh."

The voice came out of nowhere that make you freeze mid-thought. Your body stiffened instantly, your head turning slightly to the side as your heart picked up faster than you wanted it to.

Jake was sitting near the technical setup, half-hidden behind equipment, like he'd been there the whole time and you just didn't notice.

"H-Hi," you said quickly, forcing your tone to sound casual, like your chest wasn't suddenly tight for no reason. What the fuck was wrong with you? You already knew how this went. You liked him—fine. But he didn't like you back. He made that clear. So why the hell was your heart still reacting like this? It was annoying! You looked at him for a second too long before forcing your gaze away, but it didn't stop your brain from noticing everything anyway—his messy brown hair, the way his glasses sat slightly crooked, those wide eyes that never seemed to know where to settle, his lips pressed together. Even the way his oversized white shirt sat under that black jacket—it all just... fit in a way that pissed you off.

You huffed quietly, trying to steady yourself as you pointed vaguely toward the other side. "I was about to use the bathroom," you said. "You part of the organizers?" Why the fuck were you even talking? You should've just walked!

"Uh... yeah..." Jake replied, eyes flickering toward you before immediately darting away again. "The whole Engineering department... we're volunteering." His words came out uneven, like he wasn't fully confident in them, and for a brief second, both of you glanced at each other—

—and looked away at the same time.

"Ah..." you responded, as you dropped your gaze back to your phone, your thumb moving aimlessly across the screen just to have something to do. You weren't even reading anything—just scrolling, unlocking, locking it again—anything to avoid looking at him for too long. The silence stretched awkwardly between you, uncomfortable in a way that made your shoulders tense slightly. You could still feel his presence there, just a few steps away, like it was pressing in on you even without him saying anything.

"D-Do you need a-anything more?" he asked, his voice hesitant, uneven, like he wasn't even sure if he should be speaking at all.

You let out a quiet sigh, shaking your head quickly without looking up. "No," you replied shortly, already done with whatever this interaction was supposed to be. There wasn't anything left to say—at least, not anything you were willing to entertain right now. So you slipped your phone into your pocket, turning slightly toward the curtain again, reaching for the fabric as you prepared to head back into the AVR. Walking away was always easier.

"W-Wait, please."

You paused, your fingers tightened slightly around the curtain as you stopped, your back still facing him, your body going still even as your thoughts immediately tensed. Shocked by the sudden call.

"I-I—..." he started, his voice catching on itself, like the words refused to come out properly. You heard the faint rustling of paper behind you, something unfolding, shifting in his hands. Slowly, you turned your head, then your body, just enough to look back.

Jake stood there, holding a folded piece of paper that he was now struggling to keep steady. His hands were shaking—actually shaking—as he tried to open it properly, his other hand repeatedly wiping against his pants like they wouldn't stop sweating. He looked... off. Nervous in a way that felt more intense than usual, like he'd been building up to this moment for a while and was now barely holding it together.

"I know I have treated you t-this badly and t-there's no such an e-excuse for that action..." he read, his voice stumbling over the words, each one forced out.

What... the hell was he doing?

Your expression didn't change. Not immediately. You just stood there, staring at him, your face flat, unreadable despite the quiet shock settling in your chest. It didn't match the situation—didn't match the way he looked, the way his hands gripped the paper tighter when he finally glanced up at you.

And when his eyes met your completely unimpressed expression—his fingers tightened even more around the paper, the edges crinkling under the pressure like he might just tear it apart without meaning to. For a second, it looked like he was going to keep reading, like he'd force himself through whatever he had written no matter how bad it got. But then something shifted. His jaw clenched, his grip snapped—and the paper crumpled in his hands. Your lips parted slightly, not quite a reaction, not quite indifference either—just caught somewhere in between as you watched him abandon whatever script he thought would save him.

"I'm sorry," he said. It came out raw this time, stripped of the careful structure he was trying to follow earlier. "I'm so sorry for pushing you away after...that," he continued, the words coming faster now, like he didn't trust himself to stop. "I'm so sorry for hurting you... and I'm so sorry for being a coward." His eyes stayed on yours this time, not darting away, not avoiding like he always did—and that alone felt off, enough to make you stay still without realizing it. But his hands betrayed everything else, wiping over his sides again and again, like he couldn't get rid of the sweat.

"I'm so... sorry for taking too long to realize my feelings for you."

You didn't move. Didn't speak. You just stared at him, your mind lagging a second behind everything he just said. It didn't settle right away—it couldn't. Not when it sounded like something you weren't expecting to hear again, not from him.

"I—I really don't know how to talk without fumbling," Jake continued. He dragged a hand up to his hair, scratching at it in frustration, his shoulders tense in a way that made it obvious how hard this was for him. "My thoughts..." he trailed off, almost whining under his breath, like he didn't even know how to explain what was going on in his head. And that's when you noticed his eyes were glassy now, the faint shine of tears building up faster than he could control.

"It's a lot," he admitted. "I—I wish... whatever my mind says every time you talk, every time you share something..." He sniffed, his nose scrunching slightly as he tried to steady himself, but it didn't really work. "I wish you could hear that instead." His fingers curled slightly at his sides, restless. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

"Because..." he swallowed, his voice dipping just slightly as his eyes stayed locked on yours, refusing to look away now. "I really like you."

Your breath caught immediately, the shift so sudden it almost hurt, your lungs stuttering as if they didn't know how to adjust. Your mouth opened on, ready to respond—ready to question, to say something—but he didn't give you the chance.

"I know it's sudden," Jake rushed out, panic bleeding into his voice as he stepped forward. "I know I hurt you—yes, I hurt you, I-I-I..." His voice faltered, catching on itself as his thoughts tangled, his mouth parting again before nothing came out for a second. He swallowed hard, forcing it through. "I like you a lot, please," he added, more desperate now. "I like you in a way that doesn't... shut up." And then he moved closer again.

"Jake—"

"I want to be your boyfriend!" he blurted out, louder this time, cutting straight through you before you could even finish his name. It was like he didn't even think before saying them. "I want to be the man for you!" he continued, his voice shaking but determined. "I know you're probably thinking I'm not in the right mind for wanting this after everything I did, after all of that—but those things, they just made me realize how much I actually... wanted to be there." His breath came uneven, his chest rising as he tried to keep going. "With you. Around you. Talking—even if I suck at it."

"Wait—"

"You're so pretty it hurts!" he cut in again. "I realized it even before all this—I like cooking for you, I want to be the only one cooking for you. I also like feeding your fish, I—" He paused for half a second, just enough for something worse to slip out. "I love staring at you through Bumble—"

"You're Bumble—?"

"—I love everything about you!" he rushed over you again, not even realizing what he just admitted, completely overriding your question. His face flushed deeper, his hands clenching as he stepped closer again without thinking. "I can be someone you need," he said as though he was trying to convince both you and himself at the same time. "I can take care of you properly, not just... small things, not just hiding behind stuff like cooking or fixing things. I can actually be there, I swear."

His voice cracked slightly, but he didn't stop. "I know I'm late. I know I already fucked this up once," he said, his breathing stayed uneven. "I-I don't have any experience in relationships. I don't even know what I'm doing half the time," he admitted. "But I know I can be someone who shows up to your every tournament—"

Your eyes widened immediately at that, the words hitting you harder than expected. You never told him that. "Jake, I think you need to shut up—"

"I can be someone who listens," he pushed on, cutting over you again, his voice desperate but weirdly hopeful at the same time. "Someone who wouldn't freak out when you're exhausted or pissed or quiet. Someone who'd talk to you through the hard days," he added, a shaky smile forming despite the tears still slipping down his cheeks, his hand coming up to wipe them away messily. "I can learn what you like, what you need—I can—" he stumbled again, words spilling faster again than his brain could filter them. "I'm not experienced at sex at all though, but I—I can learn! I can fuck you hard to knock those stress— I can do that!—"

You moved faster than him this time. Your hand shot up, covering his mouth firmly before he could finish whatever the hell he was about to say next. "Jake..." you said, your eyes locking onto his immediately.

He froze. Completely. His body went still under your touch, his wide eyes staring at you like you just put him in place, a soft and almost stupidly affectionate shining in his stare. And for a second, neither of you moved—your hand still pressed over his mouth, his breath warm against your palm.

"You accidentally pressed the speaker for the backstage, you idiot," you hissed. Your hand was still half-frozen in front of his face, your embarrassment crawling up your neck as the realization fully sank in. From the other side of the curtain, the sudden silence from the spokesperson had already been replaced by laughter, whistles, loud cheering echoing from the AVR like the entire room had just turned into a stadium. Your stomach dropped even further at the thought of everyone hearing whatever Jake had just been saying.

God, you were so embarrassed. Worse than embarrassed—this was catastrophic. You could still hear fragments of reactions outside, like people replaying the moment for entertainment, and it only made your face burn hotter. Jake, meanwhile, had gone completely still for a split second before abruptly pulling your hand away from his mouth like he'd finally rebooted.

"I like you," he said again, suddenly firm, like the embarrassment outside didn't even register anymore. "Let me? Let me prove my feelings to you?" He stepped closer again, not in a rush, but with intent. "Let me prove that I deserve a second chance?"

"Jake, aren't you embarrassed?" you whispered urgently, leaning in just enough to keep your voice from carrying, your eyes darting toward the curtain where the noise was still going. "Press that button and we'll talk later—just stop the audio first—" You were trying to salvage whatever dignity was left in this situation, your tone a mix of panic and disbelief. "It's a yes but press those buttons—"

"I like you!" Jake repeated suddenly, cutting through your sentence again—but this time he laughed right after, like the chaos outside somehow made everything lighter instead of worse. Your eyes shut for a brief second, overwhelmed by the sheer absurdity of it all, but you couldn't ignore the way your chest tightened at the sound. "I like you so much!" he added, louder than before, like he couldn't contain it anymore.

That was when the door to the backstage swung open.

"Sim Jaeyun." The voice was strict that instantly enough to kill whatever remaining chaos was left in the room. The dean stood there, eyes locking onto Jake like a warning shot. "Office. Now."

You covered your face with both hands, mortified all over again as the reality of everything hit at once. Jake, however, didn't look away from you—not even for a second. He stood there, biting his lip slightly, eyes still fixed on you like the dean wasn't even the main concern. You peeked through your fingers just in time to see it—him still looking at you like that, like nothing else mattered.

And somehow, against all, you smiled. Just a little.

Jake saw it immediately. His expression softened, a small, breathless laugh slipping out of him like he couldn't help it. But then the dean cleared their throat again, sharper this time, and Jake straightened instantly, forcing himself to move. Still, even as he turned to leave, his eyes lingered on you one last time before he finally followed after the dean.

The controversy of what happened spread faster than you expected, like someone had lit a match and thrown it straight into dry grass.

Your group chat blew up almost instantly, messages stacking, names tagging you repeatedly. Even Karina's name popped up more than once, her messages sitting there unanswered alongside everyone else's, but you didn't feel like responding to any of it. When you showed up for training later, you acted normal enough—smiling faintly, shrugging when people nudged you for answers, letting them complain when you stayed quiet. But it was obvious, even to them, that something had shifted in you. You weren't irritated anymore. If anything, you felt... lighter.

By the time you got back home, you slowly pushed the apartment door open, not expecting anything unusual, and paused the moment your eyes landed on him. Jake was in the kitchen, moving carefully between the stove and counter. Soft music played in the background—Cigarettes After Sex. For a second, it felt like déjà vu, like your life had looped back. But this time, it's more real.

"So you give him a second chance and it's all good?" Karina's words echoed in your head. Of course not. It wasn't that simple. It couldn't be that simple after everything that happened. You stayed still near the doorway for a moment longer, just watching him move around the kitchen like he wasn't even aware of how much your world had tilted in the past day. He didn't look up right away. He just kept cooking, focused.

But it wasn't "all good." Not yet.

You were still figuring him out again, piece by piece, like retracing steps you once ran through too fast. There was hesitation in it, still uncertainty. But now there was something else too. An understanding. He likes you. You like him. That much was no longer buried under confusion or denial.

Maybe it wouldn't fall apart the way you once feared. Maybe it wouldn't be as complicated as it looked from the outside. Or maybe it would be exactly that—and you'd still choose to stay in it anyway. The thought of horoscopes, luck, fate drifted back into your mind again. Fine. Maybe they didn't control anything—but they nudged things in directions you weren't always ready for. The universe didn't have to be loud about it. Sometimes it just placed people in your path and let everything else unravel from there.

Without needing certainty yet, you stepped inside anyway.

"Me Gustas Tu."

Jake always like the stars.

He found himself thinking about how they didn't need to be closer to matter—they just existed, shining anyway, without asking for anything back. It reminded him of how some things in life just... stayed.

He likes fire too.

Not the kind that destroyed things carelessly, but the kind that spread slowly, beautifully, like it had intention behind every movement. The kind that didn't just burn—it transformed, left traces, changed the space it touched. He thought about how it looked when it moved, unpredictable but alive, impossible to ignore once you noticed it.

He likes the sea. The rain. Things that never really stop moving.

And if he had to turn all of that into something—if he had to explain what it felt like when you were around—it wouldn't come out neatly. It would probably sound messy, like him. Maybe he'd say you were like the brightest star he couldn't stop looking at. Or maybe he'd say you were like fire—something that made him burn. Or maybe he'd compare you to the sea, endless and overwhelming in the best way, pulling him in even when he should stay back.

Silly Jake—he really couldn't stop thinking about you, could he?

It was almost annoying how constant it had become, like your presence didn't need you physically there anymore to take up space in his head. Every small pause in his day somehow circled back to you, as if his thoughts had quietly rearranged themselves. Realizing that even silence now felt different when you weren't part of it.

The Volleyball Team had already made their way to Santiago City for the Regional Tournament, and Jake found himself trailing behind the group with a distracted mind. He stared down at his phone more than once, rereading your message that said you had arrived safely at your destination. It was just a normal update—but he kept looking at it anyway. You two weren't anything official yet, not even close enough for anything sweet, still stuck in that uncertain thing of figuring each other out. And before you left, things had been awkward again, the kind of awkward that made conversations shorter than they needed to be. Still, despite all of that, he missed you.

And that was the part that frustrated him the most.

Did everything that happened recently make him more desperate, or just more aware? He didn't even know anymore. It was like the absence of you had made everything louder—his thoughts, his habits, even the smallest pauses in his routine. He found himself wanting things he didn't used to think about before, like hearing your voice without a reason, or seeing you just standing there. God, he sounded pathetic in his own head. A total loser, really, the kind he would've rolled his eyes at if it was someone else.

Jake was almost restless for the entire three days, like his body had forgotten how to sit still without thinking about you. At one point, he ended up just staring at your fish tank for nearly an hour, watching the small movements. It was ridiculous, honestly, the way his attention kept drifting back to anything even remotely connected to you. You were busy the whole time—training, interviews, constant schedules—only messaging him late at night right before you slept, and even then it was brief, tired updates. Your phone had even been grounded by your coach at one point, and Jake nearly dropped his own phone in the bathroom when it suddenly rang with your notification tone. Jake was pathetic, and he knew it.

By the time the university bus was heading to Santiago, Jake had already made himself the first one there, sitting far too early with a bag that he kept checking unnecessarily. He dragged Heeseung along too, who looked half-dead already, yawning nonstop while leaning against his neck pillow. The rest of the group was still boarding, but Jake didn't care much about that part—his mind was already elsewhere, looping back to you even as the city started fading behind the bus windows. The road stretched out ahead, scenery shifting in slow motion, but all he could think about was seeing you again in person. It made him sit straighter without realizing it.

Jake is a loser and Jake is pathetically in love with you.

"I-I heard there's a lot of strong offense on the other team," Jake suddenly said as he leaned closer to the window, watching the scenery blur past. "I'm actually worried about her... what if they hit too hard and she gets bruises again?" he added, already picturing things he had no control over.

Heeseung beside him just let out another long, tired yawn, slouching deeper into his seat. "It's part of the competition, Jake," Heeseung replied flatly, voice dry and uninterested, like he'd answered this kind of concern too many times already. (He actually did)

Jake didn't seem reassured.

"Do you think I can talk to her after one of the matches?" he continued anyway, ignoring the lack of enthusiasm beside him. "Do you think they'll let them eat properly? What if the food is bad? I packed extra food too, and a first aid kit—just in case, so I can help if her hands get worse." He said it all in one breath.

Heeseung only yawned again, louder this time, barely even looking at him. "The sports management already said we're not allowed to talk to the team, Jake," he said lazily. "Not even pictures unless they don't make it to Day Three—which, honestly, I doubt."

Jake's lips pressed together slightly, his shoulders sinking just a little at that. By the time the bus finally arrived at the hotel, Jake was already holding his phone again, thumbs hovering over the screen before he typed out a quick message telling you that the university cheering squad had arrived safely and would be ready for the match. The hotel itself was only walking distance from the stadium—close enough that just knowing you were somewhere nearby made his chest tighten stupidly all over again. But your reply never came. Jake stared at the unread message for a few seconds longer than necessary before locking his phone with a quiet sigh. Of course you were busy. It was your first match, your focus should be there. Still, it didn't stop the anxious feeling crawling around in him anyway.

"Stop fidgeting," Heeseung muttered later as they handed over their tickets to the organizers, watching Jake bounce his leg nonstop while they waited to be stamped in. The entire stadium already felt loud before they even reached their seats, filled with students, chants, instruments, and that made Jake's ears ring almost immediately. They ended up seated near the front together with the band and the cheering squad, surrounded by noise that felt overwhelming enough to swallow him whole. Jake rubbed at his ear absentmindedly, trying to adjust to the volume, but the second his eyes landed on the court—on you—everything else faded anyway.

"Dude, sit down! She's not going anywhere," Heeseung hissed under his breath after Jake practically stood up the second he spotted you. He grabbed Jake's sleeve and forced him back into his seat before he embarrassed himself further. Jake awkwardly fixed his posture, shoulders stiff as he looked toward the court again—and then your head turned in his direction.

For one terrifying second, your eyes met his. Jake smiled immediately, awkward, his braces flashing while his entire face heated up from the attention. You only gave him a small smile in return before going right back to stretching like nothing happened. That tiny interaction alone was enough to make his chest feel full.

Heeseung was right about one thing though—the university wasn't exaggerating when they invested so much into Decelis' Women's Volleyball Team. Jake barely understood the game itself, but even he could tell the difference in level almost immediately. The coordination, the defense, the sheer pressure your team put onto the other side. The match didn't even last an hour before it was over, the crowd exploding into cheers while Jake sat there stunned, staring at the scoreboard like he couldn't believe how quickly everything ended.

And then, just as fast as it ended— you were gone again.

The sports organizers immediately started ushering the cheering squads and students toward the exits before anyone could crowd around the athletes. Jake instinctively stood again, craning his neck over people's shoulders, tiptoeing just to catch one more glimpse of you. He spotted you briefly near the sidelines, shaking hands and getting congratulated by the opposing team before staff quickly surrounded your group again, escorting all of you away toward the restricted areas.

Jake's shoulders dropped immediately after. Jake is pathetic. And right now, Jake felt fucking miserable.

That was exactly what happened on Day Two. Jake barely even noticed Santiago City despite everyone else talking about how beautiful it was, how lively the streets were at night, how there were places they should visit before heading home. None of it stayed in his attention for more than a second because his eyes kept falling back to his phone every few minutes. You would appear at the court for a couple of intense hours, completely alive, and then disappear again. Jake wasn't even allowed to properly approach you. Not a greeting. Not a quick conversation. Nothing. He was expected to just sit there like a normal supporter and wait for Day Three like everyone else. But Jake already knew what would happen tomorrow too—maybe you'd win, the crowd would swarm, organizers would rush your team away again, and he'd end up watching your back disappear for another fucking day. The thought alone was enough to make him restless.

By the time they got back to the hotel that night, Jake looked like he was losing his mind slowly. He kept rolling around on the bed, flipping his pillow over, grabbing his phone every two minutes only to stare at the same screen with no new notifications. His leg bounced nonstop, fingers fidgeting against his stomach while his thoughts kept circling back to you again and again. Heeseung eventually got fed up with the constant movement and straight-up kicked Jake's ass from the other bed.

"For fuck's sake, stop moving!" Heeseung groaned, half-asleep and irritated as hell. "You're making the entire bed shake."

Jake only huffed under his breath, glaring briefly before grabbing his bag and quietly leaving the room instead. Staying still clearly wasn't happening tonight.

Jake was determined now. Tomorrow was the finals, and it was already 10:17 PM. There was no way your team was still doing heavy training this late, right? Maybe you were already asleep. Maybe not. Maybe you were still stuck in some team meeting or recovery session. Jake didn't know, and the not knowing was making him itch. So against all common sense, he made his way toward the other venue building where the sports organizers and volleyball teams were staying. He walked carefully, shoulders tense, sneaking around like he was committing an actual crime before crouching near the grassy area outside when he heard voices nearby. He stayed there awkwardly for almost ten whole minutes, slapping mosquitoes and insects away from his arms while trying not to make any noise.

"Did that bitch literally threaten you?" a voice snapped somewhere ahead. "Just because they won last year doesn't mean we can't beat their ass tomorrow!"

"Giselle," another voice sighed immediately after. "Be the bigger person."

Jake instantly lowered himself further into the grass, nearly flattening his face into the ground before carefully peeking upward. Your team!

His eyes immediately found you among them without even trying.

You walked quietly beside the others, wearing oversized training clothes while lazily eating from a cup of ice cream, your expression tired. You scooped another spoonful slowly before lowering it again, staring into the cup like your mind was somewhere else entirely. Even looking exhausted, even standing half-awake— Jake still thought you looked so so so pretty.

"No, because why the hell would they threaten Yunjin and then give you a dirty look too?" Winter complained loudly, pointing at you with disbelief still written all over her face.

You only shrugged one shoulder lazily, taking another bite of ice cream like it genuinely didn't bother you. "Probably because I stared back," you muttered flatly.

"That's not helping your intimidation allegations," Ningning snorted from the side.

Jake had to physically press his lips together to stop himself from smiling too hard into the grass like a complete fucking idiot.

"I can't wait to beat their ass tomorrow!" Rei shouted dramatically, pumping her fist into the air. Jake stayed crouched awkwardly near the bushes, trying to remain hidden while still watching you from afar like a complete creep. His knees were starting to hurt from squatting too long, insects still attacking him from every direction, but he ignored all of it because you were right there. Then, in the middle of shifting his weight slightly—

Crack. Jake accidentally stepped on a dry branch.

Your entire team immediately went quiet. Jake froze so hard he almost stopped breathing, eyes widening as every single head turned toward the dark garden area where he was hiding.

"D-Did you guys hear that?!" Karina squeaked instantly, grabbing onto Winter's arm dramatically while looking around in panic.

The girls started screaming over each other almost immediately, some backing away while others started speed-walking toward the entrance. Jake slapped both hands over his mouth to stop himself from making another sound, shoulders tense while he watched the group scatter in pure confusion.

"T-there's a bear!"

"Shut up, why would a bear be here?!"

"Then what the fuck was that?!"

Jake stayed completely still for what felt like forever after they disappeared inside, barely even blinking as he listened carefully to make sure nobody was coming back with security.

Then suddenly he heard a one pair of footsteps approaching slowly. Jake squeezed his eyes shut briefly, already preparing himself mentally for getting caught by some staff member or organizer.

"Jake," your voice called quietly through the dark. "Did you know that if you get caught, the sports organizers would probably ban you from joining tournament cheering teams forever?"

Jake's eyes immediately opened again. He slowly peeked his head upward from behind the bushes and found you standing there alone now, arms crossed loosely while staring down at him. He stood up quickly, brushing grass and dirt off his pajama pants awkwardly before giving you the most painfully guilty smile possible.

"H-Hi."

"Hi," you replied, a small half-smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

Jake scratched the back of his head immediately, avoiding your eyes for a second before forcing himself to look again. "U-Uh... I couldn't sleep," he explained quickly, stumbling over the excuse. "T-That's why I went for a walk... you know..."

You stared at him flatly for a second, eyes slowly moving over his messy hair, oversized hoodie, his bag, and pajama pants that still had grass stuck to them. "How did you even get inside?" you asked finally, brows raising slightly in disbelief.

Jake let out an awkward little laugh under his breath. "Heh..." He rubbed his neck sheepishly. "I... climbed the back gate."

Your lips twitched immediately before you burst out laughing. It caught Jake completely off guard. He stood there frozen, staring at you while your shoulders shook lightly. His chest tightened stupidly at the sight. God, you looked so good laughing at him. Honestly, if this was what it took, Jake felt like he'd climb ten more fucking gates just to hear you laugh like that again.

"Why?" you asked between laughs.

Jake bit the inside of his cheek, his face already turning red under the dim lights. "I..." He hesitated for half a second before forcing himself through it anyway. "I wanted to see you," he admitted quietly.

You blinked at him. "Eh?" Your laughter faded as you tilted your head slightly. "You saw me during the tournament though. Besides, tomorrow's literally the last day. What's the catch?"

Jake immediately started fidgeting again, rubbing his palms repeatedly against his pajama pants like he didn't know where to place his nervous energy. "I miss you," he blurted out quickly before he could overthink it. The second the words left his mouth, his entire face heated up even more. God, that sounded corny as hell. Jake felt like some pathetic high schooler confessing to his crush behind the gym after class.

You stared at him quietly for a moment after that. At the way he kept fumbling with his hands. At the way he couldn't stay still. At the way he looked so genuinely nervous despite already confessing to you in front of an entire auditorium days ago. Cute. So fucking cute.

Your gaze slowly lifted away from him afterward, drifting upward toward the sky above the hotel grounds. The night had settled calmly over Santiago, the stars faint but visible around the huge glowing moon hanging overhead. The breeze was cooler now compared to the daytime heat, soft enough to make the leaves around the garden rustle quietly.

"The moon is beautiful, right?" you asked suddenly, softer in a way that made Jake immediately straighten.

"Huh?" He blinked before quickly following your gaze upward. "Ah—yeah. Right." He nodded awkwardly, staring at the moon, trying very hard to process what was happening.

But while he looked upward, you looked at him instead. At the way the moonlight softened his features, the way his messy hair moved slightly with the wind, the nervousness still written all over his face despite trying to hide it. A small smile slowly formed onto your lips before you finally called his name again.

"Jake."

Jake turned toward you immediately, almost too quickly, eyes wide and attentive as if he'd been waiting for you to say something else.

"I miss you too."

Jake stiffened instantly before the biggest smile slowly spread across his face, so wide it almost looked ridiculous. He looked down for a second, biting his lip like he was trying to stop himself from grinning too hard, but it clearly wasn't working. Even the tips of his ears were red now. God, he looked so stupidly happy over four words.

Somehow, the two of you ended up sitting together on one of the benches in the garden afterward. The awkwardness was still there, but it no longer felt painful. You found yourself telling him random things about your day without even realizing it—complaining about the freezing showers in the athlete dorms, the way Giselle almost started a fight earlier, how your coach yelled at the team because someone forgot their jersey during practice.

Jake listened to every single word carefully.

And somewhere in the middle of your rambling, he suddenly started pulling snacks out of his bag one after another. "W-What?" he mumbled shyly when you stared at the pile forming beside him. "I thought... maybe the food here sucks."

"You packed this much?" you snorted, staring at the ridiculous amount of food. Chips, bread, bottled drinks, chocolate bars, even packed containers wrapped carefully inside towels to keep warm.

Jake only shrugged awkwardly. "I thought you might get hungry."

Now your legs were comfortably stretched across his lap while the both of you shared snacks. Jake sat there quietly rubbing mint oil carefully onto the bruises forming around your calves and hands after today's match, his touch gentle despite how concentrated he looked. His brows furrowed slightly every time his fingers passed over darker bruises.

"Does this hurt?" he asked softly at one point, thumbs carefully pressing against your calf.

"A little," you admitted honestly before shoving another chip into your mouth.

Jake immediately eased the pressure after that. The silence afterward felt comfortable enough that your thoughts wandered again, eyes lifting toward the dark sky while the cold minty feeling spread across your sore skin. "Do you think people lose because they don't train enough?" you asked suddenly. "Or just because that's their fate?"

Jake's hands paused briefly on your leg before continuing slower this time. You huffed softly, tossing another chip into your mouth while staring at the stars. "If we lose tomorrow... does that mean we didn't work hard enough?" you continued. "Or maybe fortune just doesn't favor us."

Jake hummed quietly under his breath, clearly thinking carefully before answering. His eyes lifted toward the sky for a second too before he looked back down at your legs again. "I..." He hesitated slightly. "I guess that's what life is?"

You turned your head toward him while he continued massaging your calf slowly. "Life is unfair," he murmured quietly. "But that's just... how it works sometimes. We don't always hold the fortune. We don't always hold our own fate either." His fingers slowed absentmindedly against your skin. "Some people work hard and still lose. Some people barely try and somehow still win."

The breeze shifted softly around the two of you, carrying the distant sounds of traffic somewhere outside the hotel grounds. You looked at him carefully for a moment before asking quietly— "Do you believe in luck?"

Jake paused for a moment. His hand slowed slightly on your skin before he gave a small shrug of his shoulder. "I don't know?" he admitted honestly. "Sometimes it makes sense, sometimes it doesn't." He glanced down at your leg again while continuing to massage it gently. "But I got my horoscope read once... they said luck favors me," he added with a faint, awkward smile. "Dunno if it's true though."

That familiar half-smile formed on his face again after he said it. You stared at him quietly while he focused back on your bruises, fingers pressing lightly in slow, careful circles. In that moment, something in your chest tightened again. It felt stupid and obvious all at once, like your thoughts had already made up their mind. An unlucky you sitting here beside someone who casually talked about luck like it followed him around. What were the odds of that, really?

Ooooh, you're foolishly in love with this boy.

You exhaled softly. "I guess I just need to stick with you," you muttered with a small, almost teasing smile

The stadium was completely packed, like the entire city had decided to squeeze itself into one arena just to watch this match. The energy felt heavier too, everyone already knew this wasn't going to be an easy game. Jake could feel his ears ringing nonstop from the overlapping chants, drums, and screams echoing from every direction. Compared to Day One and Day Two, today felt sharper somehow. Heeseung, sitting beside him, kept laughing at the absurdity of it all—especially how the Decelis band and Isabella's band had basically turned into competing sound systems, blasting music louder and louder just to outdo each other while waiting for the teams to arrive.

"Today we are here to witness another rough battle in the Region!" the commenator announced through the speakers.

The crowd immediately exploded into noise again, shaking the entire structure. Jake flinched slightly at the volume, but he didn't look away from the court even for a second. The introductions began, one team after another stepping into the court under flashing lights and roaring applause. When Isabella's team was introduced, something about the atmosphere shifted.

"It's them! It's them! Oh my God, it's going to start!" the cheering squad beside them squealed loudly, practically jumping in their seats.

Your team walked out. The moment you appeared with the rest of the players, the crowd somehow got even louder, people waving banners, shouting names, and snapping photos like crazy. You moved confidently across the court, waving casually at the audience.

The moment your eyes landed on his direction, Jake reacted instantly without even thinking. He yanked off his hoodie in one quick motion, revealing the shirt underneath that had your face printed on it. For a split second, the entire section near him went quiet in shock. Your mouth literally fell open on the court, frozen mid-step, while even Heeseung slowly turned his head toward him with disbelief.

Jake caught sight of your lips curling into a bright smile as you stretched on the court, rolling your shoulders and loosening your arms. Without even realizing it, Jake found himself smiling too.

The game started almost immediately after introductions. Isabella's team was exactly what everyone warned about, a way that made every rally feel like a fight for survival. The difference between the two teams was small on the scoreboard, but on the court it felt massive, like every point was being ripped out instead of earned easily. Jake could feel himself tensing up more and more with each exchange, leaning forward in his seat without realizing it, breath catching every time the ball flew too close to your side. And every single time you dove—actually threw yourself across the floor to save a point—Jake reacted like he was the one getting hit. Ouch!

He grabbed Heeseung's arm at one point without thinking, squeezing too hard as he watched you slide across the court to receive a brutal spike. "Oh my God—she's gonna break something!" Jake muttered under his breath. You just got up like it was nothing, brushing your hands off and getting right back into position like your body didn't even register pain the same way normal people did.

"D-E-C-E-L-I-S! GO! GO! GO! GO!" Jake and Heeseung shouted together every time your team scored. He barely even noticed his voice getting hoarse, or the way his hands kept clenching the balloon tighter every time you made a play. All he knew was that you were out there, and everything else in the world felt like it was moving too fast to matter except that.

In the middle of the match break, Jake stayed frozen in his seat, eyes locked on your back as you stood near the sidelines. The number nine on your jersey stood out clearly. Your coach was talking to you at a steady pace, gesturing toward the court while you drank water from your bottle, nodding along with full focus even though your attention still seemed half on the ongoing match. Jake noticed everything—the way your shoulders rose and fell with controlled breathing, the way your grip tightened slightly around the bottle, and especially the way your eyes kept drifting back toward his direction every few seconds.

Something about it made his entire body feel strange.

The atmosphere in the stadium was still heavy, but inside Jake's chest everything suddenly felt... lighter. He didn't fully understand it, just that his thoughts slowed down in the middle of all the noise, like someone had briefly turned the volume of the world down just enough for him to breathe properly. Even his grip on the balloon loosened slightly without him noticing. And then, just as you turned away from your coach and started walking back toward the court, you gave him a soft smile.

Outside of this moment, people might've laughed at him for it, told him he was just being stupidly emotional, maybe just too deep in whatever this feeling was. They'd probably say it was just excitement, or he was just being corny in love. But Jake knew it wasn't that simple. It didn't feel chaotic the way nerves usually did.

It felt like the universe was saying something without using words.

He watched you step back onto the court, adjusting your position, rolling your shoulders once like you were resetting yourself completely. The light caught your face again, the sweat, the focus, the calm intensity in your eyes that made you look even more unreal than before. Pretty wasn't even enough of a word for it anymore in his head—it didn't feel big enough. Jake swallowed slightly, and his chest still felt oddly calm despite everything happening around him.

If passing down luck was possible, he'd give it all to you without hesitation.

But then again... you didn't look like someone who needed it.

Jake leaned forward slightly again, eyes tracking your movement as the whistle signaled the return of play.

Because deep down, he already knew it. One hundred percent. You were going to win.

"Oh ho ho ho! The Decelis Vampire is everywhere!"

The commentator's dramatic voice echoed through the stadium the moment you made another impossible receive, earning an explosion of screams from the audience. Jake breathed out shakily from his seat, fingers tightening around the edge of the banner resting on his lap as he stared at the scoreboard again. The difference between the two teams was still small enough to keep everyone tense, but something had clearly shifted after the last timeout. The second the whistle cut through the court again, Decelis moved like a completely different beast—every point started stacking one after another until even Isabella's side looked rattled trying to keep up.

You barely even felt your body anymore at this point.

The ball flew toward your side again and your feet moved before your thoughts could catch up, reacting after nearly two hours of nonstop rallies. Your hips still throbbed from the brutal spike you received earlier. Your knees burned too. Your shoulders felt heavy. One hour and forty minutes of constant passing, diving, receiving, running—it was exhausting enough to make your vision blur briefly every time the whistle paused.

You wanted to lie down. Just for a little while.

You turned your head for during the rotation shift and your eyes immediately found Jake again in the crowd. He wasn't screaming now like the others. He was sitting there quietly, staring at you with that same soft expression that always made your chest feel strangely warm no matter how exhausted you were. His hoodie was gone, exposing that ridiculous shirt with your face on it while his glasses reflected the lights.

And suddenly, more than resting— you wanted to go home. Home with him.

God knew what Jake probably sacrificed just to be here. You knew how sensitive he was with noise, how he usually avoided crowds because they overwhelmed him too quickly. He probably already missed his strict eight o'clock sleep schedule too, and judging from the dark circles faintly visible under his eyes even from the court, he was definitely running on pure determination alone right now.

Your chest tightened briefly at the thought.

Then the ball came flying toward your side again.

You inhaled sharply through your nose and threw yourself forward immediately, diving hard against the court floor to receive it cleanly before it could touch down. The impact stung violently against your body, but the sharp whistle blowing right after mixed instantly with the deafening screams erupting around the stadium.

"With the score of 58 and 61!" the announcer shouted over the roaring crowd. "Decelis advances their way to Nationals!"

Your teammates screamed immediately, some collapsing onto the floor while others tackled each other into hugs near the net. But while everyone else got swept into the excitement, you pushed yourself upright almost immediately, one hand clutching your hip as the pain shot through your side. Your entire body ached violently now that the adrenaline was wearing off, but you barely paid attention to it. Your eyes were already searching through the crowd.

Searching for one person.

Jake froze in his seat the second he realized you were walking directly toward his section.

At first, he genuinely thought maybe you were heading somewhere else. Maybe toward the cheering squad. Maybe toward your managers. But then you kept coming closer, eyes locked onto him so directly that his stomach immediately flipped hard enough to make him dizzy. Jake stood up hesitantly, nearly fumbling the balloon in his hands in panic.

"H-Hey—what are you—"

One of the sports organizers instantly moved when they noticed you approaching the spectator bounds, clearly about to stop Jake from stepping forward too far. But before they could say anything else, Heeseung grabbed the organizer by the shoulder with a grin already forming on his face.

"About fucking time." Heeseung snorted.

Jake barely even processed any of it, because the next thing he knew— you grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him.

Hard.

The entire stadium around him exploded louder somehow, a mixture of screaming, cheering, and scandalized reactions crashing together while cameras immediately started flashing toward your direction. Jake's brain completely short-circuited on the spot. His eyes widened for half a second in pure shock before he melted into it almost instantly, hands shakily grabbing your waist despite how badly they trembled.

He kissed you back immediately. Like he'd been wanting to do it forever.

The kiss wasn't neat either. It was breathless and messy. Jake could barely think properly through the pounding in his chest, through the warmth of your lips against his, through the realization that this was actually happening in front of thousands of people. Somewhere behind him, Heeseung was screaming like a maniac while the Decelis cheering squad lost their minds completely.

The moment the kiss broke, reality crashed back into your body all at once. The sharp pain shot through your hips agin, forcing a quiet wince out of you as your hand immediately clutched at your waist. Jake noticed instantly. His entire expression changed from happiness to panic in less than a second, hands carefully moving to steady you before you could lose your balance.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately as he held you closer against him.

"I want to go home," you muttered quietly instead, your forehead falling against the side of his neck as your body sagged closer to him.

Jake's breath caught instantly. The simple weight of you leaning into him like that nearly made his heart stop despite the worry crawling all over him. He adjusted his hold carefully around your waist, supporting more of your weight without even thinking about it.

"Let's get your hips checked by the medic first," he said softly, already glancing around for staff. "Y-You landed hard earlier..."

But before he could keep rambling nervously, you whisper tiredly against his neck. "I didn't expect to feel this much for you, Jake."

Everything inside him went warm, so suddenly that he physically felt it in his chest, that overwhelming fluttering sensation exploding all over again until his stomach twisted painfully with it. Jake swallowed hard, blinking rapidly behind his glasses while trying to process the words properly. God, you were going to kill him like this.

Carefully, almost shyly now despite the public eyes around you, Jake leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against your forehead. "Me too...me too." His hand rubbed gently against your side afterward, thumb moving in slow comforting strokes while he silently lifted his other hand to signal one of the medics nearby for assistance.

EPILOGUE

It took you a long time to actually sit down and reflect on everything that had happened.

For years, you kept convincing yourself that luck was random—that some people were simply born under better stars while others just had to survive whatever scraps the universe threw at them.

Unlucky with money, unlucky in your love life, unlucky in your sex life.

Things never came easily for you. Even when people admired you—your skills, your looks, your confidence on the court—they never really saw the exhausting parts underneath it. The loneliness. The constant feeling that you always had to fight twice as hard just to keep your head above water while pretending you were doing perfectly fine. Maybe that was why you became so cynical about all those stupid talks about fate, fortune, and luck. Maybe it was easier to roll your eyes and call everything bullshit rather than admit that deep down, you were terrified the universe simply wasn't built in your favor.

But maybe luck wasn't random at all.

When you really thought about it, you had spent so much time expecting disappointment that you stopped recognizing the good things while they were happening. You focused too hard on what was missing instead of what stayed. Sure, being broke sucked. It absolutely fucking sucked. And no amount of positive thinking magically fixed empty wallets, bruised feelings, or difficult lives. But somewhere along the way, you realized you had also started carrying your own unhappiness like proof that life owed you something cruel.

Maybe you lacked optimism. Maybe you lacked faith in anything getting better because the universe kept throwing the same shit at you over and over again until you got tired of trying to hope differently. That feeling was valid too. You had every reason to become guarded after everything. Every reason to distrust happiness when it rarely stayed long enough before. But lucky people... they weren't always lucky because life was easier for them. Sometimes they were lucky because they allowed themselves to reach for things anyway. To risk failure. To risk doing something. Even when they are afraid. 

"Open! Open! Daily cleaning at 9:00 AM!"

A long groan dragged out of your throat as the tiny robotic voice echoed outside the bedroom for what felt like the tenth time already. The curtains were still completely shut, the blackout fabric drowning the room in soft darkness despite the late morning sun outside, and you had been enjoying every second of sleeping. The apartment was comfortable and so warm, and honestly, you would rather die than get out of bed right now. But the damn robot kept knocking itself repeatedly against the door with persistence, its tiny speaker chirping louder every few seconds.

"Jake," you mumbled sleepily, eyes still closed as you reached behind you to tap the arm wrapped tightly around your waist, his legs tangled carelessly with yours beneath the blanket. You felt him stir a little, burying his face deeper into the back of your neck while muttering something under his breath, but the knocking outside only continued. "Jake, make Mo stop," you complained softly, but instead of moving, he only tightened his hold around you and pulled you closer against his chest with a sleepy little sigh.

"Open! Open! Daily cleaning at 9:00 AM!"

"Jake, baby," you called again, dragging the word out this time while lightly smacking his wrist. He groaned lowly against your shoulder, clearly refusing to leave the bed, and his hand slowly slipped underneath your shirt just to lazily trace circles against your stomach. The touch made you exhale softly despite yourself.

Outside, the robot continued its relentless banging, but Jake ignored it completely, pressing slow kisses against the side of your neck instead. His morning voice came out quieter than usual, rough and soft all at once as he whispered, "Can I touch?"

You groaned again but gave him a small nod anyway. The second he got permission, his hand slid higher, squeezing gently at your chest while his lips continued wandering across your skin with lazy affection. You tilted your head back slightly, giving him more room, and he took full advantage of it immediately, kissing along your jaw before lifting his sleepy eyes toward you. His glasses were missing somewhere on the nightstand, his brown hair sticking out everywhere. "Kiss, please," he whispered lazily, already leaning closer before you could even answer.

You kissed him just to shut him up.

Jake immediately melted into it with a soft whine. His lips moved slowly against yours, still half-asleep, but it quickly deepened when his hand tightened around your waist and pulled you on top of him. The blanket shifted around your tangled bodies while the robot outside continued yelling about cleaning schedules. Jake kissed like he was addicted to it now, messy and affectionate and greedy all at once. Even after years together, he still kissed you with the same overwhelming softness that made your chest ache.

And honestly, both of you already knew one thing for sure. Jake absolutely loved kissing you.

"Open! Open! Daily cleaning at 9:00 AM!"

You groaned softly against Jake's lips before finally pulling away from the kiss, your forehead still resting briefly against his while you tried to gather enough energy to function properly. "Open the door for Mo," you muttered lazily as you pushed lightly at Jake's chest to make him move. Jake only huffed in protest, clearly offended at being forced out of bed, scratching messily at his hair before reaching around blindly for his glasses on the nightstand.

You stayed sprawled across the bed while watching him stand up with slow sleepy movements. His oversized white shirt hung loosely over his frame, exposing his legs beneath the thin black shorts he had thrown on before sleeping, and you couldn't help staring for a second as he shuffled toward the door. The moment he opened the bedroom door, Mo immediately rolled inside without hesitation, spinning once before beginning its programmed cleaning route across the floor.

"You seriously need to stop adopting Heeseung's robots," you complained while sitting up properly, stretching your arms above your head until your back cracked pleasantly. "We can literally clean by ourselves."

Jake yawned loudly while adjusting his glasses up the bridge of his nose, already turning around to drag himself back toward the bed with clear intentions of trapping you there again. Before he could grab your waist, you quickly stood up and reached for your shorts from the floor. "Jake, it's already nine," you reminded him while pulling them on. "Training starts at one. I still need to fix my stuff and prepare."

A long miserable whine immediately left his throat at that.

Jake had become even clingier than before. Not that you were complaining. Things had changed between the two of you. Jake no longer slept exactly at eight in the evening because most nights ended with both of you curled together on the couch watching movies until late, stealing kisses during slow scenes, or getting distracted halfway through and stumbling into the bedroom instead (sex). You did feel a little guilty sometimes since he used to be so strict with his routines, but Jake always brushed it off immediately whenever you brought it up.

Honestly, the man acted like a giant koala now.

The second you moved too far away from him, he would cling right back onto your side without shame. While you were fixing your hair in front of the mirror, Jake wrapped both arms around your waist from behind again, pressing his face against your shoulder while Mo continued cleaning nearby. "Stay in bed," he mumbled weakly against your skin, still sounding sleepy. You snorted softly at the feeling of him practically hanging his whole weight onto you, but your hand still reached up automatically to fix the messy strands of his hair away from his glasses.

"You say that every morning," you muttered.

"Because every morning you leave me," Jake replied dramatically, tightening his hold around your waist while you laughed quietly under your breath.

Your eyes drifted past Jake's shoulder toward the wall, landing on the collection of medals, framed certificates, and trophies lined neatly across the shelves. Some were old awards from high school, others were from university tournaments, and a few still had ribbons tangled together because you had been too lazy to organize them properly after Nationals. Jake had insisted on displaying every single one of them anyway, even the participation plaques you thought looked ugly. You smiled quietly to yourself before looking back at your boyfriend standing in front of you,. Sometimes it still hit you unexpectedly—how impossible this whole thing used to feel.

Who could thought? You had your six months of sharing an apartment with someone who barely looked you in the eyes.

Back then, you genuinely thought Jake would remain nothing more than the quiet engineering student that have an addiction to legos and hot wheels. And now? Now he stood in your apartment kitchen every morning half-asleep while cooking your meals, whining whenever you left the bed too early, kissing your forehead.

Jake became your person.

You stepped closer and pressed a quick kiss against his lips before walking past him toward the living room. Jake immediately followed after you without hesitation, dragging his feet lazily across the floor while scratching the back of his neck. You crouched beside the fish tank to feed your fish while listening to the familiar sounds of him moving around the kitchen behind you. Jake had developed this habit of cooking both your breakfast and lunch every single training day no matter how many times you told him he didn't have to. He always answered the same way too.

"I want to."

After feeding the fish, you returned to your bedroom to finish packing your things for training, tossing extra clothes and towels into your duffel bag while mentally checking your schedule for the day. You were halfway through folding your jersey when something bumped gently against your ankle. Looking down, you immediately recognized the small robot staring up at you with glowing blue eyes.

Bumble tilted slightly like it was waiting for attention, the tiny camera blinking while its mechanical voice chirped softly. "Hi!"

"Jake, the food," you called out immediately while staring directly at the robot's camera.

You heard his laugh from the kitchen almost instantly.

A few seconds later, Jake appeared in your doorway with that stupid soft smile on his face, walking straight toward you just to lean down and steal another kiss. He adjusted the whistle hanging around your neck afterward, fingers brushing gently against your skin before stepping back. "Ay yay, captain," he teased quietly, earning an immediate scoff from you despite the smile pulling at your lips.

Nationals still sat heavily in your chest sometimes.

Third place. Not first. Not the championship everyone had dreamed about during those exhausting practices and sleepless nights. It had hurt watching the seniors cry after the final match, hurt even more realizing that people like Karina, Winter, Ryujin, Yeji, and Yunjin were really leaving now that graduation had finally caught up to them. Every practice lately carried this strange emptiness that you still hadn't fully adjusted to. You missed them badly if you were being honest. No future teammates, no future victories, no future season would ever replace the bond all of you built together.

But endings did not always mean loss. That was something life had slowly forced you to understand.

After finishing your packing, you wandered out of your room and toward Jake's almost absent one out of pure habit. The door was slightly open already. It had honestly been a while since Jake actually slept here properly considering he spent nearly every night tangled in your bed instead. Still, the room looked painfully like him—organized in his own way and filled with little traces of the things he loved.

Your eyes drifted toward the transparent shelves mounted carefully against the wall. Hot Wheels lined up in neat rows beside completed Lego builds he had spent hours working on during stressful nights, some of them gifts from you, others things he proudly bought himself after passing difficult projects or exams. Mo sat charging quietly near his desk now beside scattered engineering blueprints, and one of your old volleyball wristbands was looped carelessly around its antenna. You smiled softly at the sight before dropping yourself onto his bed with a tired sigh, sinking into the familiar mattress while staring up at the ceiling.

It only took a few seconds before the bed dipped beside you.

Jake crawled in next to you without a word, immediately wrapping his arms around your waist. His chin rested against your shoulder while his legs tangled with yours. "It's honestly useless renting a separate room when you basically live in my bed now," you muttered with amusement while turning slightly toward him. Jake only hummed quietly in agreement, tightening his hold around you instead of denying it. "And both of us are graduating soon too... oh my God."

No more university tournaments. No more scrambling through deadlines and practices and late-night study sessions with Jake. Life was shifting again, slowly moving forward whether you were ready or not. For a moment the room fell quiet and when you looked back at Jake, you noticed him staring at you strangely.

You frowned slightly under the weight of his gaze. "Is there a problem?"

"I love you," he said immediately, without hesitation, like breathing.

The words came out so naturally now compared to before. No stuttering. No panic. No fumbling over syllables while avoiding eye contact. Jake said it softly but confidently, eyes fixed completely on yours. Your expression softened almost instantly, and you moved closer to wrap your arms around him properly. "I love you too, silly," you murmured while caressing his cheek gently with your thumb.

Jake leaned into your touch immediately.

"Remember when you told me before..." he started quietly. "About not knowing what to do after volleyball?" Your brows lifted slightly at the sudden topic change, but you nodded anyway while continuing to stroke his hair back from his forehead. Jake swallowed before continuing. "I wanted to say a lot back then. I just couldn't." He laughed weakly at himself before looking back at you again. "But you can literally do anything. You could teach, or coach, or maybe start some weird fish business—"

You snorted softly.

"Jake," you interrupted with a smile. "I already told you. I'm planning to continue volleyball professionally. I'm aiming for the league now. I'm not stopping."

"—Or maybe..." Jake suddenly cut in quietly.

His arms loosened around you.

"Live with me."

Your smile faltered slightly in confusion as you slowly pushed yourself upright on the bed. Jake followed your movement immediately, but instead of sitting beside you again, he slid off the mattress completely. Your eyes widened the second you realized what he was doing.

Jake was kneeling on the floor.

"Jake," you said slowly, staring at him in complete disbelief while your heartbeat immediately started climbing into your throat. He looked nervous all over again for the first time in years, hands visibly shaking while he pushed his glasses higher up his nose. His cheeks were already bright red, his breathing uneven, but he still kept looking directly at you despite how terrified he obviously was.

Then he reached into his pocket.

"Oh my God," you whispered instantly.

"I have a proposition to make," Jake breathed out nervously. His fingers shook so badly while opening the small velvet box that you were half afraid he was going to drop it onto the floor entirely. But the second the lid flipped open, your breath caught hard in your throat. A ring rested inside, and the sight of it hit you so suddenly that your eyes immediately started burning with tears.

Jake noticed instantly and panicked a little.

"I-I will support you through everything," he rushed out quickly, voice trembling while he looked up at you from the floor. "Your league, internationals, all of it. I swear I will. I-I'll keep loving you, deeply, openly..." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his own eyes glossy now behind his glasses. "I know you'll probably think this is too early—"

"Jake, no," you interrupted immediately, shaking your head so fast your vision blurred slightly. The tears were already slipping down your cheeks now, but he misunderstood the reaction immediately because of course he did. Jake's face fell for a split second, panic flashing all over his expression before he hurriedly continued speaking again.

"But it doesn't mean we have to do everything immediately," he said quickly, almost pleading now as he shifted closer on his knees toward the bed. "I just... I want a future with you... Live with me? Not as roommates anymore, but really with me. As my lover. My person." His voice softened shakily near the end, his eyes refusing to leave yours despite how emotional he looked now. "And someday... as my wife."

The room suddenly felt too small for your heartbeat. For a second, all you could do was stare at him kneeling there beside the bed—the same quiet boy who once could barely survive a single conversation with you now looking at you like you were the center of every future he wanted. Jake's hands were still trembling around the ring box while he waited, breathing unevenly, clearly trying not to completely spiral if you stayed silent too long.

A wet laugh escaped your mouth suddenly as you wiped your tears with the back of your hand. "You're so fucking unfair," you whispered shakily, which immediately made Jake look even more nervous. His lips parted like he was about to apologize again, but before he could spiral into another overthinking breakdown, you grabbed his face with both hands.

"Jake," you said softly.

He froze completely beneath your touch.

"You are already my home."

Jake's eyes widened so much it almost made you laugh again through your tears. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again uselessly while staring at you like he couldn't process what he was hearing. You smiled weakly before leaning down until your forehead rested against his.

"Yes," you whispered.

Jake blinked once. "...Yes?" he repeated weakly, sounding completely stunned.

"Yes, idiot," you laughed through your tears, and the second the words fully registered in his brain, Jake let out the most broken, overwhelmed noise you had ever heard from him before immediately grabbing your waist and pulling you into him. The ring box nearly fell from his hands from how hard he hugged you, his face burying against your stomach while his entire body shook with relieved laughter.

"Oh my God," he kept mumbling breathlessly against you. "Oh my God, oh my God..."

You buried your fingers into his messy hair while laughing softly yourself, overwhelmed and emotional and ridiculously happy all at once. Jake pulled back just enough to shakily slide the ring onto your finger, his hands still trembling the entire time. The moment it settled perfectly in place, he stared at it like he genuinely couldn't believe it was real.

Then his eyes slowly lifted back toward you again. "My fiancée," he whispered, sounding completely in awe of the words alone.

Unlucky with money, unlucky in your love life, unlucky in your sex life. The same "bad luck" that used to follow you around had somehow led you here anyway, step by step, mistake by mistake, person by person.

Those were bad luck. And bad luck is temporary.

You smile and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against Jake's forehead. Ha, you're not out of luck either, aren't you?

You have Jake. Your good bestest luck.

And a good bestest luck lasted a lifetime.

NOTE: you reached the end, yay! thank you for loving the lucky family! (reader, jake, whitey, pinky, bumble, guppy and mo hehe) :) this is not really my best story but i definitely enjoy writing nerd jekjek and building their world! i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoy writing. love lots!!! - shi

[mssishipi]

OUT OF LUCK— SJY

Money, sex, and a lifetime of feeling like luck was never really on your side—until the universe decided to fuck with you in the most inconvenient way possible. What started as simple coexisting turned into something more when you paid a little too much attention to your quiet, awkward, painfully responsible roommate—who, on paper, is a complete fucking loser. But, hey, he’s not that bad! In which Sim Jaeyun becomes the only genuinely good, unfairly lucky thing that’s ever happened to you… and just like everything else in your life, good things have a way of slipping right through your fingers. So now you have to figure it out, fix it, or risk losing the only thing that ever felt right before you run Out of Luck.

2: FORTUNE'S FAVOR

content tags and warnings: roommate au! romantic comedy, jake is an engineering student x volleyball varsity player reader, light angst, angst and fluff and fluff and a happy ending! complicated feelings, mentions of SUPERTITIOUS BELIEFS, tarot reading, luck, fate etc! 10k wc of reader avoiding jake and the rest will be jake 's pov (he yap and yap), mentions of social anxiety and self harm, jake is such an awkward introverted baby he needs a hug i swear, jake is yearning :(, embarassment, 2nd hand embarassment, public confession, awkward erm moments, jake is secretly a simp and he's pathetic, slice of life, kissing hehe. ft. heeseung as jake's best supportive friend, 02z as jake's hs friend, kazuha as jake's ex gf, karina, ryujin, other kpop idol as reader's volleyball team, robots and fish as side characters. mild smut: masturbation, still MDNI! (WC:34.6K)

Fate is a power believed to predetermine events, some unavoidable bullshit that people love to hold onto when things go wrong. A little explanation so they don't have to admit that sometimes things just fall apart because people make stupid choices, or because shit just happens for no good reason at all.

And right now? You think fate is complete fucking nonsense.

If fate was real, then maybe you wouldn't have been dumb enough to let things spiral the way they did. Maybe you would've stopped yourself before crossing the line.

Maybe if people weren't idiots, if they just paid attention for one goddamn second, things wouldn't end up worse than they needed to be. Like, for example—if someone didn't decide to throw a basketball straight to your fucking face like they had zero brain cells to work with.

Geez. Fate. Luck. Doom. What kind of bullshit logic even ties those things together? The more you think about it, the more it just pisses you off. People are so fucking dumb sometimes, acting like everything is written in the stars when half of it is just bad decisions stacked on top of each other.

"Hehe... I'm so sorry."

You glance at Karina from where you're sitting on the bench, an ice pack pressed against your already bruised nose, your face still sore from everything that's happened over the past few days. Her hand hovers mid-air, like she wants to check on you but isn't sure if you'll snap at her or brush her off.

She just got back from Japan and of course, Ryujin had already filled her in. Not just about how, three days into recovery of your accident, some dumbass from the basketball team managed to add another bruise to your already fucked-up nose during practice like it was some kind of sick joke.

But also that you got your heart broken. Well. You didn't want to tell her. You didn't want to tell anyone, if you were being honest. Saying it out loud makes it real in a way that just thinking about it doesn't. It turns it into something people can react to, something they can pity, something they can talk about. And you're not in the mood for that shit.

So you just exhale slowly, leaning back a bit, eyes drifting away from her. "It's fine," you mutter. Karina doesn't look convinced. She's not stupid. But for once, she doesn't push immediately. Thankfully.

She lowers her hand slowly, sitting down beside you, her shoulder brushing lightly against yours and you know exactly what she's trying to do—comfort, soften the edges, make it easier for you to crack open and talk. But you don't. You just let out a quiet sigh, leaning back slightly as if nothing about this is affecting you. You let her stay there because it's easier than pushing her away and dealing with the questions that would follow. You've always been good at this anyway—pretending. Acting like you're fine.

And weeks pass like that. Quietly. You make it a point—no, a fucking mission—that you and that man-who-shouldn't-be-named never cross paths.

You adjust your schedule, leaving earlier, coming home later, avoiding the living room at certain hours, listening for any sign that he's around before stepping out of your room. It's exhausting, honestly, but you do it anyway because the alternative—seeing him, talking to him, pretending like nothing happened or worse, acknowledging it—feels ten times worse.

You even considered moving out at one point, scrolling through listings late at night, checking dorm prices, calculating your budget over and over again like maybe the numbers would magically change.

They didn't.

Because you're broke. Like, actually fucking broke. Rent is insane, dorms are worse, and on top of that, your training for regionals has been eating up your time and energy like crazy. Your appetite has doubled—no, tripled—and now you can't go a day without stuffing yourself full or you start feeling like shit. And all your money? Gone. Straight into food. Food, food, and more fucking food.

You click your tongue in annoyance just thinking about it, dragging a hand down your face. Fuck this. Why did that man even cook for you so much before? Why did he set that stupid standard? Now your body's used to actual meals, and you can't even go back to your old habits without feeling like you're dying. It's irritating. It's inconvenient. It's— NO. You cut the thought off before it goes somewhere else.

You swore you wouldn't like anyone anymore. That shit is done. Over! Finished!

And honestly? All those stupid things people made you believe in? Complete bullshit. The grapes you ate during New Year's for luck? Fucking scam. The bracelet they made you wear in February because it's supposed to bring love or whatever the hell? Garbage. You should've thrown it away the moment you got it. And that horoscope reading? "2026 will be your year"—yeah, right. Biggest scam of them all!

"I miss you, please don't be angry at me!"

Karina wraps herself around you from behind, her arms locking tight around your shoulders. The impact makes you jolt forward slightly, your whole body stiffening as irritation immediately flashes across your face. You try to pry her off, fingers digging into her forearms.

"What's with you? I'm not angry, the hell?" you scoff, twisting your shoulder and swatting at her arm, but it does nothing. If anything, she tightens her hold, pressing her cheek against yours.

"I know you would say that," she whines, dragging every word out dramatically, completely unfazed by your resistance. Her voice softens just a little as she nuzzles closer. "But there's some kind of tension you have with me. I can feel it. I promise I'm not gonna push you with some other guy again, just talk to meeee."

"Karina!" you snap. You twist harder this time, trying to break free, your voice rising with both annoyance and disbelief. "I am not angry, what the—?!"

But she doesn't let go. "Really?" she shoots back immediately, her tone shifting to show she's not buying your shit. Her arms stay locked around you as she leans her chin on your shoulder, peeking at your face. "Then why won't you talk to me?"

"I'm not talking to anyone because I'm broken-hearted!" you fire back with sarcasm. You stop struggling for a second, your hands dropping uselessly to her arms as you huff out a breath. "Of course it's normal to be this way! You're the one who pushed me, remember?"

"Huhuhu, I'm so sorry!" Karina immediately wails, completely switching gears as she stomps her foot against the ground while still hugging you. The movement jostles both of you, but she doesn't loosen her grip. "Promise, I'll help you get over him. God, I hate him!" Her voice sharpens, her real irritation slipping through. "Do you want me to sabotage his project?! I heard his club is organizing some event with Architecture. Just say it. I'll definitely do it!"

You finally manage to grab her wrists and yank her arms off you, turning around to face her fully with a look that screams what the fuck is wrong with you. "No—what the fuck?" you snap, staring at her like she just suggested arson instead of whatever the hell that was. You roll your eyes, dragging a hand through your hair as you try to calm yourself again. "I just want to focus on Regionals. Just... don't mention him anymore." Your voice drops a little. "It's better to move on when I don't have updates or news."

Karina watches you for a second, her expression softening as she processes that, then she nods slowly. "Soooo... are we good?" she asks, immediately looping her arm around yours again.

You click your tongue, glancing at her from the corner of your eye. "Of course we are always good. What's with you?"

"You sure?" she presses, squinting at you like she's trying to catch you slipping.

"Yes."

"Then I have a gift for ya!" Her mood flips instantly again, energy shooting back up as she lets go and starts digging through one of her paper bags.

You watch her with mild suspicion, arms crossing over your chest as you wait—and then your expression completely breaks when she pulls out a clear plastic bag filled with water... and a tiny fish swimming inside.

"What the—"

"My guppy gave birth and I don't have a tanks anymore!" she beams proudly, holding it up like it's the best gift in the world. The fish wiggles inside the bag. "Take this as a gift for ya. It will help you clear your mind!"

"No. What the fuck?!" you hiss immediately, recoiling slightly. Your brows knit together in pure disbelief, staring at the tiny creature. "Karina, I'm not taking responsibility for a living thing right now—are you insane?!"

But she just grins wider, already trying to shove the bag toward you anyway.

And that was how you ended up bringing a fish

You are absolutely, undeniably, one hundred percent going to fucking kill Karina.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen, one hand gripping the plastic bag with a tiny fish inside, while your phone is awkwardly wedged between your shoulder and your ear. You open cabinets with your free hand, shoving things aside in search of anything that could pass as a container. It's 3:00 in the fucking afternoon, the heat pressing down on you like you are in hell, sweat already forming at the back of your neck. The aircon hums uselessly somewhere behind you, doing absolutely nothing. Why the hell is it not cooling? Is it broken? Did someone mess with it? Did he— NO.

"The fuck?!" you snap out loud when the call suddenly drops, the silence hitting immediately after Karina's last words—calm down, guppy don't need oxygen——before cutting off completely. You pull the phone away, glaring at the screen. No signal nor an Internet.

Of course! Jake is the one assigned to the internet payment. You remember clearly—you left the damn money on the center table days ago where he couldn't miss it. And now this? No connection, no help, no fucking instructions on how to keep this tiny living thing alive.

"God! The worst roommate ever!" you mutter under your breath, shoving your phone onto the counter with more force than necessary. Worst roommate! Worst fucking roommage! Not paying that damn internet, overheating the air conditioner since he was the one who is staying so damn long in the living room, rejecting your feelings— Hold on. Stop. Moving on remember?

You exhale sharply, like you're physically pushing the thought out of your system, and look back down at the plastic bag in your hands. The tiny fish wiggles inside, completely unbothered by your internal crisis, its small body flicking through the water.

"How am I supposed to know how to build your environment?!" you hiss at it. You let out a long breath, shoulders dropping slightly. "Okay... okay..." you mutter to yourself, trying to calm the fuck down. It's just a fish. A tiny, stupid fish. People take care of these things all the time. You can't be that incompetent.

You finally grab a glass jar from the cabinet, a clean one, at least, and set it down on the counter. It's not ideal, probably, but it's better than leaving it in a plastic bag forever like some kind of moving takeout.

Your eyes wander, and they land on that stupid little robot sitting lifelessly on the edge of the table. An idea sparks, ask Bumble for help! Of course! Jake's little tech toy could totally—well, theoretically—make this easier. You lean down, plastic bag in one hand, glass jar in the other, carefully lowering the fish into the water. The liquid sloshes around, tiny ripples forming, and the fish flicks its tail nervously.

Your fingers hover over the robot, hesitating a moment because the thing looks impossibly flat and dumb, and yet... Jake had somehow made it work before. How? How the fuck did he do that?

"Bumble, open," you command. The robot doesn't move. Not a single servo whir, not even a twitch. You frown, crouching lower to get a better look at it, poking at the flat surface with your fingertip. Nothing. You blink at it, confusion mixing with irritation as the anger starts to simmer back up again, fueled by the memory of that stupid, infuriating boy who made it work so effortlessly. His stupid braces flashing whenever he smiled, that crooked, perfect grin, his stupid, clueless, nerdy self who somehow made everything look so easy. Stupid boy.

You can't help it. You shake the robot lightly, as if your rage can transfer through it, make it activate, make it do something other than sit there mocking you.

"Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" you hiss under your breath, frustration bubbling past the point of reason.

You can almost feel the heat of your blood rising in your cheeks, your heart hammering faster than it should over a stupid fish and a stupid robot. And yet, beneath all that —why are you this bitter? NoOOo! It's valid! He's a fucking idiot. That robot is a fucking idiot. And yet—and yet—you can't stop thinking about him, about the way he made you laugh, the way he made you feel, the way he lingered in your thoughts like a permanent ghost.

"Stupid, useless robot," you mutter under your breath, your grip tightening around Bumble. You shake it again. "Why the fuck won't you open? What, are you trying to act like your owner too? Just shut down and ignore people?"

The sudden creak of the door makes your whole body jolt. You stiffen instantly, your heart jumping straight to your throat as your head snaps toward the entrance. Jake was frozen in place, just a few steps inside, like he didn't expect to see you either. His hand is still on the doorknob, the other clutching his bag loosely. His eyes flicker—first to Bumble in your hands, then to the jar on the counter with the fish awkwardly floating inside, then finally to you. And when his gaze settles on your face, it stays.

You see it happen in real time—the shift. His eyes widen, and it pisses you off. He takes in the fading bruises along your cheek, the slight discoloration near your nose, the healing cut on your chin with its visible stitch. His brows knit together, concern flashing across his face so quickly it almost looks painful, like he doesn't know what to do with it. "W-What happened?" he asks, voice stumbling over itself as his hand lifts halfway, like reaching toward your face before stopping mid-air.

That—that right there—makes your chest twist wrong.

You straighten up immediately, forcing your expression to do it's own neutral controlled thing, dropping Bumble back. You avoid his eyes like they burn, turning your attention back to the fish. Geez. Two fucking weeks. Two weeks of silence, of avoidance, of pretending he didn't exist—and now he wants to ask questions like he still has the right? Like nothing happened?

"When are you planning to pay for the Wi-Fi?" you cut in flatly. You keep your back partially turned to him, fiddling with the jar, adjusting the plastic inside even though it's already fine. "I already left the payment."

There's a pause behind you. You can even feel it without even looking — the hesitation, the shift in his breathing, the way he probably opens his mouth and then closes it again like he always fucking does.

"Uh... I was actually busy... that's why..." he answers as he steps further inside and lets his bag drop to the floor.

You let out a small, humorless scoff under your breath, still not looking at him. Busy. Of course he was busy. Bet he was also busy avoiding you.

"Right," you mumble, eyes fixed on the water in the jar, watching the fish move in slow, careless circles.

"Are you... okay?—"

Your head turns sharply, eyes locking onto him with a glare. "Why the fuck do you even care if I'm not?" you shoot back. But just as quickly, you feel that ugly edge, that bitterness creeping. Shit you hate it. You hate how it makes you sound. You hate how it makes you feel like the one who's losing control.

So you pull back. You look away first, breaking eye contact and reach for your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. The jar with the fish inside the plastic crinkles softly as you pull it close to your chest. "Just..." you click your tongue, your jaw tightening as you force your tone back. "Pay that damn Wi-Fi."

You walk past him without waiting for a response, your shoulder brushing the air near him but never quite touching. Your hand grips the doorknob of your room, pausing for just a second before you push it open.

You inhale deeply, and without turning back, you add, "and fix the AC." Then you step inside and shut the door behind you.

Silence follows immediately. You lean back against the door, eyes squeezing shut. "Stupid boy," you mutter under your breath, your voice cracking just slightly despite your effort to keep it together. You drag a hand down your face, exhaling sharply, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on you. You really wish you could rewind everything. Back to when things were simple. When you were just minding your own damn business, not expecting anything, not hoping for anything. No stupid feelings.

Because what the hell were you even thinking? A fairytale? Really? You let out a dry, almost bitter laugh, shaking your head as you push yourself off the door and move further into your room. "What could possibly go right with a man disguised as a loving prince?" you mutter. "They're all the same. Fucking villains." You huff, running a hand through your hair. "Witches, even. Pretending to be kind, then dragging you down, poisoning you—"

You stop mid-step, blinking at yourself like you just caught your own bullshit. "...Why the fuck are you thinking about fairytales again?" you mutter, almost annoyed.

And you need to place this fucking fish outside your room!

You threw yourself into training as though it was the only thing keeping you from completely losing your shit.

Regionals wasn't just some school-level game anymore, you carried your city's name on your back whether you liked it or not. The drills were stricter, harsher, less forgiving. Coaches didn't care if your legs were shaking or your lungs felt like they were about to collapse; they pushed anyway, barked orders like you were machines instead of people. It was exhausting, and so brutal, kind of relentless—and somehow, you welcomed it. Because every second your body ached, every moment your mind focused on the game, it left less room for him.

Unluckily—luckily—you weren't stuck in one place either. The team moved from city to city, different courts, different environments, different faces. New people, new opponents, new distractions. You met players who were just as aggressive, just as desperate to win, some even worse. It forced you to stay sharp, forced you to adapt.

At night, when your body finally gave out and you collapsed into unfamiliar beds, there was barely enough energy left in you to think. Barely enough energy to remember anything, and yet... somehow, in those quiet moments right before sleep took you, your mind still slipped. Back to him.

One night while packing your things for another early call time, your hands moving automatically as you zipped your bag. Your thoughts drifted. What is Jake even doing right now?

You frowned, shoving your clothes harder into your bag like that would shove the thought away too. Before you left the apartment earlier that week, the fridge was nearly empty. Barely anything inside except leftovers that didn't look touched and random shit that didn't make sense together. It's not like you were cooking. Hell, you barely ate at home anymore. You never even did heathy groceries in the first place. That was always—

You stopped.

Is he eating properly now? Is he still organizing everything like some obsessive little nerd? Or did he just... stop?

Oh, dude. What the actual fuck! You shake your head, physically rejecting the thought. Why the hell do you even care? Why does it matter if he's eating or starving or turning into a complete mess? He made his choice.

"...Yeah, right," you mutter under your breath.

Because the truth is simple, and it pisses you off more than anything—you still like him.

Despite everything. Despite how he looked you in the eye and said he didn't feel the same. Despite how fucking humiliating that moment was. The feeling didn't just disappear. It didn't magically shut off like a switch. It stayed, always clinging to you no matter how much you tried to drown it out with training, exhaustion, or distance. It's normal. Feelings don't just go away overnight. You're not broken for still thinking about him.

...Are you crazy?

Not really. You've always been like this—your mind drifting back to things you once liked, replaying moments like they meant more than they probably did. You remember those stupid, simple days when it was just a harmless crush. When you'd catch yourself staring at him across the room, noticing the way his braces flashed when he smiled, how his eyes would light up behind his glasses whenever he talked about something he liked. It was easy back then. It was safe... nothing is complicated

And yeah—fuck it—you're not blind. He's not ugly. Not even close.

But the moment that thought settles, your expression twists, your own bitterness creeping back in like a bad habit you can't shake. Your mood shifts so fast it almost gives you whiplash. One second you're remembering something soft, the next you're clenching your jaw, your hands curling into fists. "God, how I hate nerds..." you mutter. "Stupid, fucking... face." You let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand through your hair as you lean back, staring at the ceiling.

Because no matter how good he looked, no matter how nice he seemed—You still kind of want to punch him. Hard.

"This card represents the burning love that you have right now. The two of you will communicate well, and maybe in the near future, both of you will not take the same path—but it will not be a reason for any separation. Either way, the fire around you will ignite and make your relationship stronger."

"Awww."

A chorus of coos makes your eye twitch. Rei actually sniffs, her hand hovering over her chest as her eyes glued to the three cards laid out in front of her. You stand there, arms loosely crossed, staring at the whole thing with a thinly veiled cringe, your lips pressing into a line as you take in the scene. The setup is just a small booth with a cloth-covered table, a deck of worn-out cards. It's part of the open house happening around Decelis, booths were scattered everywhere — whatever. You only ended up here because your coaches had some sudden emergency meeting, leaving you all with a free hour to waste. And somehow, this is where your team decided to spend it.

"Is that legit-legit?" Winter asks, wiggling her eyebrows as she leans closer to the table. The rest of your teammates crowd around too, forming a semi-circle, their attention completely hooked. You can already tell this is about to go south for you. They look too entertained.

"Take what resonates, leave what doesn't," the tarot reader replies calmly. You bet she said that line a hundred times already today. "I am just reading the cards and interpreting what it says."

"Well then," Winter grins, clearly already plotting something, "I'll pay three dollars and read my friend's love life!" Before you can even react, she drops the money into the jar and without hesitation, shoves you forward into the seat right in front of the table.

"Huh—?"

You barely get the chance to protest before hands are suddenly everywhere. Winter, Giselle, Ningning, and Karina are all close in, clapping their hands over your mouth, pushing you down into the chair as they giggle. "Don't ruin it!" "Just sit!" "We're curious!" they whisper loudly over each other, completely ignoring your muffled protests.

You glare at them, trying to pry their hands off, but they're annoyingly persistent. The tarot reader raises an eyebrow at the display but doesn't comment. Instead, she calmly begins shuffling the deck, her eyes flicking toward you for a brief moment—like she's assessing you, reading more than just your face. The cards slide smoothly between her fingers. Eventually, your teammates let go, though they stay close, practically leaning over your shoulders, their eyes glued to the table like.

Three cards are drawn and placed carefully in front of you. Two upright. One reversed.

You finally manage to sit properly, rubbing your jaw where they had covered your mouth, shooting them one last annoyed look before your attention drifts—despite yourself—back to the cards. You don't even believe in this shit.

"I see..." the girl starts, she leans slightly forward, studying the spread. Her brows knit together just a little, like something caught her attention. "Your partner is a very loving person... with genuine feelings."

Your nostrils flare almost immediately, your lips parting as your face twists into disbelief and annoyance. You don't even bother hiding it, and the way you can already feel the shift around you too—the girls who were leaning in with excitement just seconds ago are now deflating, their interest dropping as fast as it came. There's a collective sigh, obvious with disappointment. Of course. Because what partner? You don't have one. Everyone here knows that. This is exactly why you don't believe in this shit. It's all vague, all bullshit.

"The images around the cards represent someone who pays close attention to you... someone who puts in a lot of effort," the girl continues, unfazed by the obvious shift in energy. Your teammates exchange looks but no one interrupts her. Not yet. Well, there's still that tiny thread of curiosity keeping them quiet.

And then, unexpectedly, she pulls another card.

"Is your partner a Scorpio?"

"Hm." You respond flatly, barely even thinking about it, your attention already drifting as you inspect your nails.

"Right..." she murmurs anyway. "You're lucky. He is intensely passionate and deeply loyal to you—incredibly loyal and devoted. The kind of person who gives everything, but expects the same level of commitment in return."

You let out a short, dry snort at that, the word lucky hitting your ears wrong. Lucky? Yeah, fucking right. Every person who reads zodiac signs, tarot cards, whatever the hell this is—they always say the same shit.

"As expected with this reversed card," she continues, tapping the last one lightly, "it also reflects your partner's nature. Hesitant to open up. Someone who tests potential partners before fully letting them in... That's all!"

"God, I can't believe I wasted my three dollars," Winter mutters under her breath, already turning away with an annoyed huff. "She doesn't even have a boyfriend."

There's a ripple of agreement, the group starting to lose interest completely now, the moment clearly not living up to their expectations. One by one, they begin to shift away from the table, their attention already drifting to the next booth.

You don't move right away. Your eyes stay on the cards, before snorting. You push yourself up to the chair, breaking whatever stupid spell you almost fell into.

"Hope you had a long, healthy, happy relationship. Both of you deserve it. Thank you!" the girl chirps, already reaching for her jar. You watch her fingers flick through the bills. You huff under your breath, shaking your head as you step away.

Loving? Effort? Loyal? Hesitant? And what the fuck was that—Scorpio? You roll your eyes hard enough it almost hurts. You don't even know someone who's a Scorpio. Not a single one. The whole thing was a scam, and somehow people were eating that shit up like it was gospel. Good for them. Couldn't be you.

Your attention shifts fast—thank fuck!—dragged away by something actually worth your time. Wagyu barbecue. Your eyes light up, stepping closer like you're being pulled in. "Holy shit," you mutter under your breath, staring at the display, the marbling on the meat, the way it sizzles on the grill. And then you squint slightly. "That's a black sausage?" you mumble, half-confused, half-intrigued.

Food. At least food makes sense. You shift your weight, already pulling out money, already thinking about how that three dollars should've gone here instead of that tarot bullshit. You take a bite of something you bought, chewing absentmindedly, letting the flavors comfort you.

"What's with ya booth?" you ask casually as you drift along with your team, your voice blending into the noise as you hop from one stall to another, not really caring about anything except eating and not thinking. You clutch your food, biting, chewing, swallowing, moving. The others are loud, curious, energetic, and you are actually keeping up with them, as long as you have your food.

"Oh! The Civil Engineering Booth! What's the catch?!" Winter suddenly calls out.

Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, your throat burning as you cough, eyes watering as you bend slightly forward, one hand clutching your chest. "Shit—" you rasp, trying to breathe,  but it's already too late. Because when you look up, he's there.

Jake was standing right there!

Your mouth falls open slightly, breath catching again but for a completely different reason this time. He looks... different. Not drastically, not in a way that anyone else would probably point out, but you see it. Of course you fucking do, duh. His hair's a bit longer now, falling just slightly differently around his face, softening him in a way that makes your chest tighten. He's wearing this gray long sleeve under a blue polo, something that looks weird, considering the hot weather... Of course it is weird! But it doesn't. On him, it just works. It always fucking works. There's a camera slung over his nape too, resting against his chest.

Fuck. Your heart stutters. It actually fucking stutters. God, why is he so handsome, you wanna cry — STOP!

"Uh... we now have some kind of, you know... furniture and displays around your house?" Jake says, voice a little shaky, and you can hear it even from where you're standing. You hate that you can still recognize every little change in his tone. His eyes flick around, scanning the group, pausing briefly on jerseys, on faces—getting closer, closer—

And when you realize he's about to look at you— You turn your back, shoulders stiffening as you stare straight ahead. Your grip tightens around your food, knuckles whitening slightly as your heart starts pounding like it's trying to break out of your chest.

Stupid. Why the fuck did you turn your back? Your jersey has your surname printed on it! Dumb bitch!

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, internally cursing yourself out. Great. Fucking great. Out of all the booths, all the places, all the fucking timing—this is where you end up. You can feel it crawling under your skin, that restless, suffocating awareness that he's right there, that if you just turn your head a little, you'd see him clearly.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Karina whispers beside you. Her eyes are on you and it pisses you off a little because it means you're not hiding it as well as you thought. You don't answer immediately. You just stare ahead, blinking and forcing your breathing to even out.

"—Wow! A zodiac sign bracelet?! Where did you bought it?!" Winter suddenly blurts out, loud as hell. Just like that, the attention shifts, your teammates swarming forward like curious idiots, drawn to something shiny and new.

Jake attention is split. He's opening his lips to answer but his eyes keep dragging back to your turned back.

"I-It's fine. We had an agreement that we stick together so when we go back we don't have to message those who is missing—" you whisper back to Karina quickly. It sounds reasonable. It is reasonable.

"Uh... my friend from the Art Major booth, gave it to me..." Jake answers, still looking back and fourth to you.

"What sign is this again?" Giselle asks, reaching out to touch his wrist and raising it up to observe the bracelet.

"It's a— uh... a Scorpio." Jake replies.

"It's so obvious, babe! God, you are such a dumb sometimes." Ningning snorts.

"Shut it, girls! Well, Mr. uhh..." Rei cuts in, she squints down at the tag clipped to his shirt, leaning just a little too close. "Jake! Mr. Jake," she repeats with a grin, clapping her hands. "Can you take a picture of us as a team? We're off to Regionals in the next few weeks! And we look so fresh. Maybe we could use it for the journalist page if they upload a good luck post!"

Jake's attention was being dragged away again, redirected, and forced into your teammates again.

"Uh... sure..." Jake answers, his voice hesitant, or maybe it's just you hearing it differently now.

You don't turn. You don't dare turn. But you can imagine him nodding slightly, adjusting that stupid camera strap on his shoulder, probably pushing his glasses up out of habit.

"Great! Are you gonna upload it on your page?" Rei continues without missing a beat, already hyped and already moving.

"...The creatives are..." he starts, clearly trying to explain.

"That's great!" Rei cuts him off anyway, not even caring about the details, and turning her attention back to the group.

When is this gonna fucking end?

You shift your weight, foot tapping against the ground in small, impatient movements to distract you from the other thing—the bigger thing—you're trying so hard not to face. God! You can feel your teammates moving, adjusting, forming some kind of formation.

"Hello?! Number 9?!" Rei suddenly calls out, her voice snapping directly at you.

Fuck you! You want to curse out loud.

You inhale slowly, forcing your neutral expression before turning to move, not fully facing him yet, not looking at him, just stepping into position.

You settle at the side, arms crossing loosely, trying to make yourself smaller, less noticeable—

"Stop— what are you doing?!" Winter hisses immediately, grabbing your arm and dragging you without hesitation. "You should be in the middle! You're a libero and you had a different color of your jersey!" She pushes you right into the center.

Your feet plant as your body going stiff for a split second. You're right in front now, visible and now exposed. You were absolutely going to kill your teammates.

You don't look at him. You keep your gaze forward, somewhere just above the lens.

Jake bites his lip awkwardly, adjusting his stance behind the camera, fingers fumbling just slightly as he brings it up.

"Okay... uhm..." he mutters, trying to gather everyone's attention. "Just— stay still..."

Your chest tightens. You don't know why this feels harder than confronting him. You've faced him before. You've yelled at him. You've cried in front of him!

Standing here, pretending like nothing happened while he looks at you through a lens— God, this feels worse!

"Smile," he says.

You let yourself look straight at the camera, at the lens, at him behind it. Your lips lift automatically, forming a smile you've practiced a thousand times for games and pictures.

One second. Two. Five. Ten.

There's this weird stretch of silence beneath the noise, like something's off, like the moment isn't ending when it should. You don't move at first, still holding the pose out of habit, but then your brows knit slightly, your smile starting to falter at the edges. He's not lowering the camera. He's just... there. Watching through the lens like he forgot what he was supposed to do next.

"Uh... is it finished?" Ryujin finally asks, confused, a little impatient as she shifts her weight beside you.

That's when Jake seems to snap out of it.

"Oh—... sorry. Yes, we'll just upload it later," he says quickly, his voice stumbling over itself as he lowers the camera in a rush. He doesn't look at anyone because he turns his back almost immediately.

Your smile drops the second the camera is no longer pointed at you.

"Thank you!" your teammates chorus, already moving on, already distracted, their attention bouncing to the next booth.

"He looks so familiar, right? Had he participated or watched on VIP?" one of them asks absentmindedly as they walk.

You glance at Karina, and she's already looking at you. There's a split second where neither of you say anything. Her lips press together, holding it in, not saying shit for once, and you mirror it, your own mouth tightening as you look away first.

You bury it.

You bury him under the loud whistle of your coach that keeps ripping through the air and it's trying to split your skull open. Training hits harder than usual, or maybe it just feels that way because you're forcing yourself not to think about anything else. Your body moves on—run, receive, dive, stand, repeat. You're tired.

The coaches don't give a shit.

"Again!" the whistle blows, and you barely have time to straighten your back before another ball comes flying at you. Your arms sting from the impact, your knees burn from the constant drops, and your breathing is uneven, chest heaving as you try to keep up. They said you already had your break. One whole hour earlier, like that was supposed to be enough to carry you through the rest of this hell. Fucking hell.

You try to sneak a second to grab your water because your throat dry as shit, your hand already reaching for the bottle. You tilt it, barely getting a sip—

The coach slowly called out your name. You freeze mid-action, glancing up slowly. He was staring at you with his arm crossed, an obvious disappointment carried in his eyes.

You lower the bottle immediately, swallowing hard, your shoulders straightening as you put it down. "Sorry," you mutter under your breath, even if he didn't ask for it, even if he didn't say shit. You already know.

You're fucked.

"Oh my God! I can't imagine what will be the training if we actually win that and proceed to National. I'm gonna die," Ningning whines later as she collapses onto the bench like her soul just left her body.

You barely respond. You're sitting there, hunched slightly, pressing an ice pack against your bruised arm, then your thigh, then somewhere near your ribs where it hurts the most. The punishment was stupid. Straight up stupid. The coach made the team aim at you like you were some kind of target practice, all because you slipped up.

Dull throbs spreading under your skin, your body overly aware of every ache, every sting. It's not unbearable. But it's a lot.

"I'm so sorry," Karina says. She wraps her arms around you carefully, her hand hovering before gently touching one of your bruises.

You huff quietly, shifting a little but not pulling away. "It's okay," you mumble with your tired voice. You adjust the ice again, pressing it harder this time. "I just want to go home."

God, your body feels like absolute shit. Every step on the way home feels heavier than the last, like your muscles are dragging behind you instead of actually working with you. Your shoulders ache, your thighs burn, your arms feel like they've been beaten raw—and honestly, they kind of have. All you can think about is food. Then sleep—eight hours minimum, ten if the universe suddenly decides to stop screwing you over with morning classes. Maybe even a massage, yeah, that sounds fucking perfect, you'll drag Karina and Ryujin to a spa, waste money you probably shouldn't, just to feel human again.

By the time you get back to the apartment, your brain is running on fumes. You don't even bother turning on all the lights, just enough to see where you're going before you drop your bag onto the sofa with a dull thud. It's already 7:45 PM, you don't make it any further than the living room before you just... collapse. Your body gives in immediately, sinking into the couch, your head tilting back as you stare blankly ahead.

That's when you see it the jar. It was sitting there on the table like it's been waiting for you this whole time.

"...Oh, shit," you mutter under your breath, pushing yourself up just enough to look at it properly. The guppy swims lazily inside, existing in its own tiny world while you've been out getting your ass handed to you for days straight. You slide down from the couch to the floor, dragging yourself closer until you're sitting there, elbows on the table, your head almost resting against it as you stare at the fish.

"You're getting fat," you mumble, eyes half-lidded as you watch it move in slow circles. Your finger taps lightly against the glass. "Are you eating well?" you ask again, like it's actually going to answer you. You let out a quiet, tired laugh, shaking your head slightly. "Who's feeding you? That nerd is feeding you?"

You keep staring, your gaze softening despite yourself. "You better not have some kind of attachment issues," you add, "or you'll end up swimming in the river." Another quiet huff of laughter leaves you, but it's weak, fading quickly as exhaustion starts to take over again.

Your eyes slowly close. You don't even notice the small movement behind you. Bumble moves slowly, navigating its way toward you. It bumps lightly against your leg.

Bump. You don't react. It pauses, tilting slightly, then nudges you again, a little firmer this time, its rounded head pressing against your calf like it's trying to get your attention.

Bump. Still nothing. Your breathing has already evened out, your body too tired to respond, your mind slipping somewhere between awake and asleep.

"Hi?" it chirps. It waits patiently its little frame angled toward you like it expects something back. But you don't move. Not even a twitch.

After a few seconds of nothing, Bumble shifts, turning its body slowly toward the hallway, toward that door—the one that isn't yours, then it starts bumping into it. Soft, repetitive taps against the wood. The sound blends into your half-conscious state, like it's happening underwater.

The door creaks open.

And everything after that feels... wrong. Or maybe not wrong... just unreal. Your body feels too heavy, like it's sinking or like gravity suddenly decided to double its pull on you. Your thoughts drift in fragments, slipping away before they can form properly. Did you pass out?

It feels like a fever dream. Like you're floating, but also not. Like your body is there, but your mind is somewhere else entirely.

Cold. It's cold. There's something cold against you. It presses gently, carefully, and your body reacts before your brain does, leaning into it without hesitation. Your eyes try to open but they can't. Your limbs are now unresponsive, but the sensation continues, there was something so smooth brushing against your skin. It moves along your hair first, fingers...no, something like fingers—threading lightly through it, pushing it away from your face. Then your temple. Then your cheekbone.

Good. It feels good. You let out the faintest breath, your body instinctively leaning closer, chasing that touch without even realizing it. Your head tilts slightly, giving in, surrendering to the sensation. You need more.

When you wake up the next morning, the first thing that hits you isn't confusion—it's just this dull, heavy awareness that your body still fucking hurts. Your eyes crack open slowly, light slipping in through the curtains, and you blink at the ceiling like you're trying to remember something important... but nothing comes. There's no clear memory of how you got here, no moment of climbing into bed, no dragging yourself under the covers. You just... woke up here. Lying flat on your back, blanket half-thrown over your legs like you'd been placed there instead of settling in yourself.

You stare at it for a second. Then you shrug it off.

God, you don't even have the energy to question it.

What matters is—you actually slept. Your muscles still ache, your bruises still sting when you stretch, but it's manageable. "Fuck... I could've slept more," you mumble under your breath, dragging a hand over your face as you sit up slowly, joints protesting but not as violently as yesterday. You swing your legs off the bed, feet hitting the floor, and just sit there for a moment, letting yourself exist before the day starts kicking your ass again.

Routine pulls you out of your room without much thought.

You end up in the living room, eyes automatically landing on the jar sitting on the table. The guppy swims lazily inside, completely fine. You crouch down, tapping the glass lightly before feeding it, watching it dart toward the food.

"Geez, you're greedy," you mutter, a small huff leaving your nose.

Your gaze shifts slightly—to the side, and there you saw Bumble.  Sitting there quietly beside the jar, completely still.

You stare at it for a second. "...Weird," you mumble under your breath, brows pulling together slightly. Your shoulders lift in a small shrug, brushing it off. "Whatever."

You stand up, grabbing your things, pushing the thought aside as quickly as it came. There's no point overthinking stupid shit this early in the morning.

"Morning!" Rei greets the second you step into the court, her voice bright despite the early hour as she stretches her arms above her head.

"Morning... what's for breakfast?" you ask lazily, dropping your bag onto the bench before stretching your arms out.

"Hm?" Rei glances at you, thinking for a second before her face lights up. "I think 7/11 just restocked their Spam Kimchi Fried Rice, want to get some?"

You pause mid-stretch, considering it for half a second. "Okay... that's tolerable," you say with a small nod. "Let's grab some after stretching."

More of your teammates trickle in, chatter overlapping, energy building as you all go through warm-ups. By the time you finish, the decision is already made—food first.

The convenience store is crowded as usual, cold air hitting your skin the second you step inside, a welcome contrast to the heat outside. You grab a slurpee almost immediately, sipping from it as your teammates scatter around, grabbing whatever they want, talking over each other like always.

"Oh!" Karina suddenly exclaims, pointing toward a standee near the entrance. "They got Park Jongseong standee!"

You glance over briefly, unimpressed, sipping your drink. "Who the fuck is Park Jongseong?" you mutter, already looking away.

Karina gasps. "God, are you that outdated?! Park Jongseong is a rising actor! He's studying in Decelis and about to graduate!"

"Good for him," you mumble, clearly not giving a shit, taking another sip.

"Oh—look, the Engineering posted our photos!" Rei suddenly says, grabbing your attention as she waves her phone around.

All of you crowd around her immediately, squeezing in, shoulders bumping as you lean closer to see. The group photo pops up first. When Winter swipes to the next photo, her thumb dragging across the cracked screen with zero care, Karina gasps. Your brows knit together immediately.

"What?" you mutter, stepping closer, leaning in just enough to see the phone without fully committing to caring. But then you do see it—and... the fuck?

Ningning whined, completely missing the shift in your expression. "It's so unfair! How come you're always the favorite of photographers and sport journalists?!" she complains, nudging your shoulder.

You didn't even answer at all. Your eyes stay glued to the screen, locked onto that photo. It's you. Just you. Not the team, not the formation, not even a candid group moment—it's fucking you. Zoomed in. Cropped so tightly that Karina's arm is barely visible at the edge, Ryujin completely gone. You're smiling in it, relaxed, unaware. It's not a stolen blurry shot either—it's clear, it was focused... Intentional.

"What the fuck..." you breathe out.

Karina leans closer, squinting. "The man who took our photo isn't even a photographer or a sports journalist," she mutters, more to herself now, her voice dropping as her brain starts connecting dots you don't even want to acknowledge. "Oh God..." Her head slowly turns toward you, eyes widening.

"Don't start," you cut in immediately, your glare snapping to her before she can even open her mouth properly. You already know. You fucking know what she's about to say, and you're not in the mood for it.

But of course, Karina being Karina, she doesn't stop. "He likes you!" she blurts out anyway, her finger practically stabbing toward the screen.

Your jaw clenches so tight it almost hurts. "Are you fucking serious right now?" you snap, heat rising up your neck, not even sure if it's anger or something else. "I told you. He literally said he doesn't feel the same. Did you forget that part or—"

"Who likes who?" Giselle suddenly cuts in, sliding into the conversation, eyes bouncing between you and Karina with interest.

"Wait... so you had a talking stage but it failed? Tell us more!" Winter jumps in right after, leaning forward with way too much excitement, completely missing—or ignoring—the way your expression tightens.

Your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out at first. It's like the questions start stacking too fast, overlapping, tangling together until you can't even grab one to respond to. The noise builds again—voices piling on top of each other, reactions, assumptions, teasing—and suddenly it feels too loud for something that should've stayed quiet.

"So that guy who took our photo was the one you said that won't talk to you?" Ryujin adds, her brows lifting as she studies your face more carefully, like she's trying to confirm something she already suspects.

"...Wait," another voice cuts through. "You know Jake?" Yunjin asks with confusion as she looks at Ryujin first, then shifts her gaze to you. There's a pause, a beat where her expression sharpens slightly. "You know Jake?" she repeats.

Your mouth goes dry instantly. That name, coming from someone else, hits different. Your thoughts trip over each other, questions forming faster than you can process. How does she know him? Why does she sound like that? Why does it suddenly feel like you're missing a part of the story?

"Who's Jake?" Giselle tries to jump back in, but Ningning immediately slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide like she just realized this isn't just casual gossip anymore.

"J-Just... my roommate," you manage to say, the words coming out more stiff than you intend, your grip tightening around your drink again.

"So you know the guy that took our photo and didn't say anything about him?" Karina presses, throwing her hands up in disbelief.

Before you can even respond, Yunjin lets out a short, disbelieving scoff, stepping in. She raises her brows, one hand lifting slightly as she gestures midair. "It's so random to bring him up, duh?" she says in a mocking tone. "And he's boring as hell. What do you want me to say? How he dated one of my best friends in high school and completely turned into a distant asshole with zero emotional intelligence?"

"Ohhhh," the girls around you gasp almost in sync at the gossip.

Your stomach twists, you remember that conversation the way he mentioned he dated someone before, how it "didn't work out." He didn't elaborate. You didn't push. It felt unnecessary back then.

"Oh my," Yunjin continues, shaking her head like she's already over the topic, even though she's the one who dropped the bomb. "I didn't know you'd fall for that whole nerdy, quiet, introverted charm thing too." Her lips press. "He's a good guy, sure. I'll give him that. But he's not a good partner."

Your fingers loosen slightly around your cup. You find yourself staring at nothing—some random spot past Rei's shoulder, past the glass doors, past everything—because your mind is already somewhere else. Back to the quiet moments, the stupid small things, it pisses you off, because it shouldn't matter this much. It wasn't even anything official. It wasn't even real, right?

"It was just like a one-time thing," you say, forcing your voice to come out normal. You shrug one shoulder, like it's nothing. "He's just my roommate." Your lips stretch into something that resembles a smile. "I didn't like him that much. Don't worry, girls."

The silence that follows lasts barely a second before it gets filled again. "Well, you better not like him!" Ningning cuts in quickly, narrowing her eyes at you. She nudges your shoulder, then slaps your back lightly, the others chiming in with similar reactions. "With Yunjin's side story background, he's not a perfect match for you!"

"Yeah, seriously," Winter adds, shaking her head like she's already made up her mind about him. "We don't support bad decisions."

You nod along anyway, letting them have it, letting them believe it. It's easier that way.

But Karina doesn't let it go. "Wait—no, that doesn't make sense," she hisses, leaning closer to you. "It was obvious that he likes you!" Her finger taps against Rei's phone again, like she needs to remind you of the evidence sitting right there. "I mean, look at that picture alone! That's not normal!"

You roll your eyes. "It's just a picture, Karina. Stop overthinking—"

"And what if he does?" Ryujin suddenly cuts in. She flicks Karina's forehead lightly, making her hiss in protest. "Stop pushing her again if it's just going to hurt her more."

Karina frowns, rubbing her forehead, but she doesn't argue back immediately. Ryujin's gaze shifts to you. "It doesn't matter if he likes her or not," she continues. "He already caused enough damage." She pauses for a second, like she's choosing her words carefully, but the bluntness is still there. "He's not man enough to stand by whatever the hell he's feeling right now."

You let out a small breath through your nose, shaking your head like you're brushing it all off, even if it doesn't actually go away. Whatever. They're right. All of them, in their own loud, messy way—they're right. You shouldn't be this stressed over something that was never even labeled, never even defined. It wasn't a relationship. It wasn't anything serious. It was just... something that happened. Something that ended. That should be it.

He made his point right there, standing in front of you. It shouldn't matter anymore after that. It should've killed whatever stupid hope was growing inside you before it even had the chance to become something real.

So why the fuck does it still hurt like this? You're just lonely. That's it, right? That's the easiest explanation. You got used to him being there—his presence, his voice, the small routines you didn't even notice forming until they were gone. You got used to someone paying attention, even in his awkward, quiet way. Of course it's going to feel empty now. Of course it's going to sting.

It doesn't mean it was love. You're just lonely.

Feed the fish, eat a lot of protein, train until your legs feel like they're about to give out, drag yourself to class, pretend you're listening, go home, sleep like you're dead. Avoid Jake.

Feed the fish, eat a lot of protein, train harder, push through the soreness, ignore the bruises blooming under your skin, keep your head down, don't think too much. Avoid Jake.

Feed the fish, eat a lot of protein, train, study, sleep, avoid Jake.

"I know you're busy but the... uh... water bill payment is due..."

Oh. Right.

Bills. Responsibilities. Actual life shit that doesn't revolve around your messy, unresolved feelings. Not everything is about you spiraling over some guy who couldn't even look you in the eye after fucking you.

You click your tongue softly under your breath and bend down to tie your shoelaces, using the motion as an excuse to avoid looking at him. Your fingers move quickly,  even if your chest feels tight again just from his presence being this close. Without thinking too much about it, you reach into your wallet and pull out crumpled bills, extending your hand toward him without lifting your gaze.

"Here," you mutter, handing him the fifteen dollars.

There's a split second where your hand lingers midair, and you mentally curse yourself for even noticing it. You pull back immediately, wiping your palm against your shorts. Your eyes drop back to your wallet, flipping it open again out of habit—and that's when it hits you. It's fucking empty. Well, not completely empty, but close enough. You stare at it longer than you should, your brows knitting together slightly. All that extra food, all the random shit you've been buying just to distract yourself—it adds up.

You don't even realize Jake's looking at it too. When you finally glance up and catch him staring, your expression shifts instantly. You snap the wallet shut and clear your throat like you've been caught doing something embarrassing.

"That would be enough, right?" you say nonchalantly, like you didn't just expose how broke you are. You sling your training bag over your shoulder, adjusting the strap. "I mean, I'm mostly at the city meet anyway. I didn't even use water for, like, almost two weeks."

Jake blinks behind his glasses. His gaze flickers from your face to your bag, then back again. "Y-Yeah... sure," he answers.

You're the one who looks away first. "Okay," you say quickly, already stepping back. "I'll get going." You turn slightly, ready to leave.

"Actually—"

His voice stops you mid-step. You pause, slowly, you turn your head, glancing back at him over your shoulder, one brow lifting just slightly, your expression already guarded like you're expecting something you won't like.

"N-N-Nothing," he stutters, the word tripping over itself the second your eyes meet his.

He folds into himself again. His shoulders draw inward, his posture shrinking like a snail going back to it's shell. His gaze drops almost as quickly as it met yours.

You purse your lips, holding back whatever reaction tries to surface, and give him a small, absent nod instead. For a brief moment, his eyes linger on your face, like he's searching for something in your expression that isn't there anymore. That's the part that hits him the hardest—that look you used to give him when things were still normal, when you were still figuring each other.

Are you... okay now?

The door shuts behind you. Jake doesn't move right away. He just stands there, staring at the empty space where you were a second ago.

Then suddenly, like something inside him snaps, he steps back and lets his head hit the wall. His breath comes out uneven, his fingers curling into fists before loosening again, like he doesn't even know what to do with his own body. Then he does it again. And again. And again. Each impact a little harder. Why can't he talk? Why the fuck can't he just say something when it matters?

His jaw tightens, teeth grinding as frustration builds in his chest. He pulls back once more and this time hits the wall harder than before, the sting shooting through his skull—and that's when it hits him. A flash of memory flodded into his mind.

Suddenly, he's not here anymore. Suddenly, he's back at high school.

"I know I'm not like the best partner either," Kazuha says. Jake's mouth goes dry as he stares at her, his brain lagging behind the moment like it's refusing to process what's happening.

It's a random Tuesday. And yet here she is, standing in front of him, ending something he didn't even realize was breaking.

"You're a good guy, Jake," she continues, her hands clasped together in front of her. "I appreciate and love every moment we spent with each other. Thank you for that..." She pauses. "But it's better if we part ways."

Her words just... float there, Jake goes completely still. His shoulders draw in, shrinking instinctively, an action he always do if he's trying to make himself smaller. His eyes flicker away from her for a second, scanning the space around them—the hallway, the passing students, the distant chatter. What if they were listening?

His fingers start fidgeting again, restless, rubbing against each other over and over. His heart is beating too fast. His head is too loud. There are too many thoughts forming all at once, piling up, overlapping, choking each other out before they can even become words.

"Are you..." Kazuha starts, her brows pulling together slightly as she looks at him. "...not gonna say anything?"

Jake looks at her then. Her eyes are glossy—not crying, not yet, but close enough. Waiting. Expecting something. Anything.

And fuck, he wants to say something. He wants to ask why. Wants to understand what he did wrong. Wants to tell her he tried—that he followed everything right, didn't he? He carried her bag, walked her home, remembered dates, bought flowers during monthsaries, gave her chocolates even when he didn't know if she liked them. He paid attention. He listened. He stayed. He liked her. Wasn't that... enough?

The words pile up in his throat, pressing, pushing, demanding to be let out—but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes. His mind goes blank.

Completely, fucking blank. Jake swallows, his hands starting to sweat, his fingers twitching uselessly at his sides. Panic creeps in, tightening around his chest as the silence stretches too long. He knows he should speak. He knows this is the moment. He knows if he says nothing, it's going to end like this.

And still, he can't. His lips part slightly, but instead of words, all that comes out is a shallow breath. His gaze drops, unable to hold hers any longer, and slowly, almost helplessly, he shakes his head.

Not because he doesn't care. But because he doesn't know how to say that he does.

"Bro, you fumbled a baddie so bad. Tsk, tsk, tsk."

Sunghoon's leaning back on the bench. The ice rink behind them glows under harsh white lights. It's normal. Everything is normal.

Except Jake. He's sitting there, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground. Jay walks in not long after, still dressed from whatever commercial shoot he just wrapped up, dropping his bag beside them. He takes one look at Jake and already knows something's off, his brows pulling together slightly before he exhales.

"You don't even try to chase her?" Jay asks. He leans forward a bit. "You know girls like that. If you show any effort, she might come back."

Jake doesn't respond. His gaze stays locked on the floor. His fingers twitch again, restless, picking at nothing, repeating the same useless motion over and over.

"Actually..." Sunghoon cuts in, shifting his posture as he glances between them. "You know ballet and figure skates train together, right? I overheard something..."

Jake's fingers pause for a second.

"...like uh..." Sunghoon continues, scratching the back of his neck, "she said you don't initiate anything. Like—holding hands, saying stuff... you're just too quiet." He glances at Jake briefly before looking away again. "She said she doesn't feel the 'love'." He even does the air quotes, emphasizing the word.

Jake's chest tightens, but he still doesn't move.

"I mean, I can see you putting in effort," Sunghoon adds quickly, like he's trying to balance it out. He leans over and throws an arm around Jake's shoulder, giving him a brief squeeze. "You do shit. You're there. That counts." He exhales, shaking his head. "Social media standards are ruining relationships, I swear."

"No, don't say that," Jay glares at Sunghoon. "Of course women are sensitive. Sometimes they just... misunderstand actions if we don't say anything. That's normal."

"Yeah, but that's what they call 'words of affirmation', right?" Sunghoon scoffs, pulling his arm back. "What if our Jekjek here just sucks at that? Not everyone's built like that." He shrugs, leaning back again. "They should accept that too. We're not all gonna be talking sweet 24/7. That shit's exhausting."

"Yes, we can," Jay replies without missing a beat, "If we love our girl, we can." His eyes flicker to Sunghoon briefly. "You're just saying that because you're not in a relationship."

"Hey—"

Ever since he was a child, Jake already knew there was something off about the way he spoke—or more like, the way he couldn't. It wasn't that he didn't have thoughts. Fuck, his head was always loud, always full of things he wanted to say, things he wanted to ask, things he wanted to explain. But the moment it had to pass through his mouth, it got stuck somewhere in his throat, tangled, choked out before it could even become words.

He remembers it too clearly, standing in front of the class, small hands clenched at his sides, his teacher smiling patiently while the rest of the room just... waited. Five minutes. A full five minutes of silence just because he couldn't say his own name. He could feel their eyes on him, hear the faint shifting of chairs, the quiet whispers starting to build. His mouth opened, closed, opened again—but nothing came out except shaky breaths. It felt like drowning without water.

And yet... he wasn't bullied.

That's the part he always comes back to. He was lucky. Somehow, he was lucky. The kids didn't tear him apart for it, didn't laugh in his face the way he feared they would. Some of them even waited for him, awkwardly, patiently, like they didn't mind the silence as much as he did. He carried that with him growing up—that quiet kind of relief. By the time he reached high school, he even managed to find people who stayed. Friends who filled in the gaps when he couldn't speak fast enough, who didn't push him too hard when he shut down. He had Sunghoon. He had Jay. He had... something close to normal.

And somehow, somehow, he even got lucky enough to have a pretty girlfriend. Pretty, warm, expressive—everything he wasn't. Someone who chose him despite the way his words always came out broken, incomplete, late. It felt unreal. Like he had somehow skipped steps, like life handed him something he didn't fully know how to hold. But he tried, he really did. In the ways he knew how.

He remembers the Art Therapy sessions clearly too. The therapist had a soft voice that didn't rush him, didn't pressure him into speaking when he couldn't. If you can't say it, they told him once, show it. There are other ways to communicate. And Jake held onto that.

Now it feels like a fucking lie. Because if that was enough... then why does it keep ending like this?

Maybe out of all things, love was the most unlucky thing he'd ever stumble into. Everything else in his life had eventually fallen into place—his academics were solid, his routines were structured, his small circle of friends stayed consistent. He knew what to expect, knew how to function, knew how to exist without fucking things up too badly. It wasn't perfect, but it was stable. He was content with that kind of life, the kind where nothing felt too overwhelming, where nothing demanded more from him than what he could actually give.

And somewhere along the way, after high school, after that quiet, unresolved breakup that still lingered in the back of his head, Jake made a decision without really announcing it to anyone.

He wasn't going to fall in love again.

Not because he didn't believe in it but because he clearly didn't know how to do it right.

"And with that, Number 9 saves the day with her vampire speed! Decelis Academy earns another point!"

Jake remember he was 18, on his 12th Grade. The gym was loud that day, packed with students, and huge energy that Jake wasn't used to being around. He didn't even plan on being there. Jay practically dragged him along, insisting it would be "good exposure" or whatever reason he came up with as the school ambassador. Jake didn't argue. He just followed, sitting stiffly on the bleachers, hands resting awkwardly on his knees as he tried to ignore how overwhelming everything felt.

Until he saw you.

It was sudden. Like his brain just locked onto you without asking for permission. A beautiful you in a white jersey and short shorts.

You were already in motion when his eyes found you, your body low to the ground as you received the ball. Your movements were sharp but fluid, fast in a way that made it hard to follow. One second you were on one side of the court, the next you were diving—literally throwing yourself onto the floor without hesitation, arms stretched out, saving a ball that should've been impossible to reach.

Jake blinked. Then leaned forward slightly without realizing it.

You got back up like it didn't hurt. And then it kept happening. You ran. You slid. You split just to receive the ball with your foot, and the crowd lost it. Your teammates shouted your name, your energy feeding into theirs, your presence pulling the entire court together like you were the center of it all. There was nothing hesitant about you. Every move you made had purpose, had confidence, had this raw, fearless intensity that Jake couldn't even begin to understand.

You looked... unreal. Not just pretty. Not just attractive. You looked alive in a way he had never seen before.

Your hair stuck slightly to your face from sweat, your jersey clinging just enough to show the strain of your movements, your legs marked with faint bruises like proof of how hard you played—and still, you kept going. You jumped, arms raised, eyes locked on the ball like nothing else in the world mattered in that moment.

Jake couldn't look away. It's just admiration. Nothing more. The kind of thing people feel when they see someone good at something, someone... bright in a way that makes the rest of the room feel dimmer. That's all it is.

Jake had no plans to actually talk to you. No plans to get closer.

Because it was funny, almost ridiculous, to even imagine it. You—this gorgeous varsity player everyone seemed to orbit around—talking to him? Someone who usually blended into the background unless someone actively looked at him.

When the game finally ended, the noise of the crowd didn't immediately fade. Jake followed Jay down from the bleachers toward the court level. People were already gathering around, phones out.

And there you were. Right in the middle of it.

Jake remembers that part clearly—not just seeing you, but watching you. The way your eyes moved around like you were trying to process the sudden attention instead of expecting it. You looked slightly confused, as if you didn't fully understand why everyone was crowding you. There was a faint awkwardness in the way you smiled, rubbing the back of your neck as people kept approaching.

"Can we take a picture?"

"Just one more!"

"Hey, great game!"

And you didn't refuse any of it. You just... accepted it. Laughing awkwardly here and there, nodding too quickly sometimes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as your teammates got pulled into other groups of students. You weren't dismissive. You weren't annoyed. You didn't act like it was a burden. You just went along with it, like it hadn't fully registered yet that this level of attention was normal for you.

Little kids tugging at your sleeve. Students from other schools calling your name. Boys—more boys than Jake expected—hovering nearby, waiting for their turn like it was something they had to earn.

Jay nudged him. "Want to take a picture with her?" he asks casually. Jake's eyes almost widen immediately. His entire body stiffens for a second. Heat creeps up his neck as he quickly shakes his head.

"H-Huh?" he stutters, voice cracking slightly, before he shakes his head more firmly this time. "N-No."

Jay just grins at him like he already knows. "Come on," Jay says, tapping his back lightly, dragging him forward with easy confidence. "Let's take a picture. She might get famous internationally one day. Did you see her skills?"

Jake doesn't answer. But his feet still move. His eyes—no matter how many times he tries to pull them away—keep drifting back toward you. It's frustrating in a quiet way, like his focus is being stolen without permission. Every time he looks away, he ends up looking right back again.

"Hey, my name is Jay. Nice game, by the way."

Jay steps forward first as he approaches you, holding out a hand. Jake lingers half a step behind him, suddenly aware of everything—his posture, his breathing, the fact that he probably looks like he doesn't belong anywhere near this interaction. You turn toward them, still slightly flushed from the match. Even like this, even when you're clearly tired, there's something about you that doesn't soften. Beautiful. God, you were do damn beautiful.

"Hi, Jay. Thank you? I guess?" You give a small smile, polite but slightly awkward.

Oh God. Up close, it's worse. Not in a bad way—no, not even close. You're intimidating, so fucking pretty! Jake can feel himself shrinking without moving. It doesn't make sense logically—he's taller than you, standing right there, physically closer than most people in the crowd—but mentally, he feels small, your presence fills the space too easily. Like there's no room left for him to exist normally inside it.

"Mind if we take a picture?" Jay asks again, gesturing lightly between the three of you.

"Sure."

Jay immediately shifts closer, guiding the position. And then it happens, you lift your arm and swing it around Jake's back as you settle into place for the photo.

Jake freezes for half a second. Your hand is warm through the fabric of his shirt, you're completely unbothered. But to him, it feels like something entirely different—like a switch being flipped inside his brain. His posture stiffens immediately, shoulders locking up, breath catching slightly as he tries very hard not to react in a way that would make this weird.

But you don't seem to notice. You're just standing there, in the middle of them, smiling naturally now as the camera is raised. Jay is talking about angles or something, adjusting positions, but Jake can barely process it. His mind is too focused on the fact that you are there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hear breathe. Close enough that if he turned his head slightly, he would be looking directly at you instead of trying not to.

And somehow—completely out of character for him—Jake finds himself smiling.

The camera clicks.

And for a fraction of a second, everything feels suspended—like the world pauses just long enough for him to exist in that moment without overthinking it.

Afterward, Jay steps back, already shifting into casual conversation again, but Jake stays still for a beat longer. His eyes flick briefly toward you again, then away, then back again like a broken reflex he can't fix.

This is nothing. He will eventually forget you. He is sure of that. This feeling—whatever it is—temporary.

Years passed, and Jake ended up exactly where everyone expected him to be—Engineering, decent grades, still had a stable routine. He had a scholarship that eased the financial pressure on his parents. His life, for the most part, had become structured in a way he could actually manage: classes, assignments, study sessions. His parents were still supportive, calling every now and then, reminding him to take care of himself.

Sunghoon was still skating, still grinding through competitions under Decelis. Jay, on the other hand, had started shifting into modeling, acting, random opportunities that slowly turned into actual industry attention. It was strange watching them all move forward in different directions while still somehow staying within reach. Jake stayed in touch with them.

The only thing that didn't quite fit into place was the dorm situation inside Decelis.

It was strict. Too strict in some ways, and ironically not strict enough in others. There were rules—curfews, schedules, restrictions—but somehow the environment still felt messy. People breaking curfew, doors opening and closing late at night, voices echoing down hallways when he was trying to study. His sleep schedule was constantly getting disrupted, his focus breaking at the worst possible times. He couldn't properly revise after a certain hour, couldn't rest when he needed to, couldn't even sit in silence without someone disturbing it in some way.

The only dormmate he had ever managed to properly communicate with was Heeseung.

They weren't close in a dramatic sense, but they understood each other in a way that made living together tolerable. Same academic field, similar mindset—a little detached from the noise around them. Heeseung was the kind of person who could spend hours building something without feeling the need to fill the silence with unnecessary conversation.

"Apartment complex on the streets of the Avenue," Heeseung said one afternoon, barely looking up from the small robot he was dismantling on his desk. "There's a lot of listings for people looking for roommates. Pros—two to three rooms, so you can have your own space."

Jake listened quietly from his bed, one hand resting on his notes, the other scrolling lazily on his phone without really absorbing anything. He tilted his head slightly at the explanation, already interested at the idea.

"Cons," Heeseung continued, pausing to adjust a tiny wire, "it's expensive. And there's like a ninety percent chance you end up with a girl roommate."

Jake blinked. Then looked up properly. "What's wrong with having a girl roommate?" he asked, genuinely confused, like he had missed a very important piece of information somewhere in the logic.

Heeseung finally glanced at him, expression flat, like this was obvious information that didn't need elaboration. "Tension will be too high," he said simply, shrugging one shoulder as he went back to his work. "You might fuck and then everything gets complicated emotionally."

Jake stared at him for a second."...What?"

Heeseung didn't even react much, just continued tightening a screw. "It happens."

Jake leaned back slightly, processing that in the most literal, disconnected way possible. His brain tried to compute it like a formula—input, output, consequence—but it didn't really connect to anything in his actual life experience. He had never thought about roommates in that way. Never even considered that possibility as something that could happen just because two people shared a space.

All he wanted was simple.

A place where he could breathe. A place where no one slammed doors at midnight, where he could actually study before eight without interruptions, where silence wasn't something he had to fight for. The gender of the roommate didn't matter to him.

"Isn't it better than five guys in a dorm anyway?" Jake muttered after a moment, more to himself than to Heeseung. "At least it's quieter."

Heeseung gave a short hum in response, still focused on the robot in his hands. "Probably."

Oh boy—Jake should've listened to Heeseung's cons.

Because the moment he signed the roommate application, everything somehow spiraled into something wayyyyy more complicated. Peace was all he wanted. That was all it was supposed to be. But then reality hit in a way he didn't calculate for, because he didn't know—he genuinely didn't know—that the roommate he'd been assigned was you, until the interview.

And the worst part was how his eyes kept betraying him. He'd look away too late, glance too long, get caught in places he shouldn't be looking at all. Your body, it was like how visible everything felt to him. And yeah—your ass included.

God, you looked different. It was accumulation. Your arms—stronger, more defined, muscle sitting tight under your skin. Your back was broader, posture solid, like you were always mid-motion even when you were just standing there reaching for something in the kitchen. It made sense. You were an athlete. This was normal. Of course, you train, you look like that. That's just how bodies works.

Every interaction made it worse, not better. There was no adjustment period, no gradual easing into comfort, he was stuck being watched even when you weren't looking at him.

The day you walked into the living room and caught him sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scattered Lego pieces, he felt the spike of embarrassment that didn't fade. You didn't even say anything weird, just paused, looked, maybe a little curious. But to Jake, it meant too much.

Same with the time your eyes drifted over his Hot Wheels lined up on the shelf. It wasn't judgment, not really, but his brain filled in the gaps anyway.

And then the conversations—if they could even be called that. Something as stupid as the water bill turned into a full-body experience for him. Words sticking, fingers twitching, shifting his weight like he couldn't find a stable position to stand in. He'd rehearse sentences in his head and still mess them up the second they came out. And every time, without fail, there was that lingering thought afterward: You thinks he's weird. Or worse—you knows he's a loser.

No. People could think whatever they wanted; it didn't change anything... But this didn't sit the same way. Not when it came to you. Because for some reason, he didn't want you filing him away like that, reducing him to the guy sitting on the floor snapping LEGO pieces together or lining up Hot Wheels. There was more.

If he could just say it properly, without his words tripping over themselves, he could explain it. He could tell you about his grades, how he ranked near the top without making noise about it, how he could cook actual meals. He could show you something real.

But instead, all of that stayed stuck in his head, piling up into this silent, useless argument that never reached his mouth. And —why did it even matter enough for him to sit there mentally listing reasons like he had something to prove to you?!

"Wow, lucky you."

Heeseung's mouth literally dropping open as Jake pointed toward the massive tarpulin hanging across campus with your face printed on it.

"She's my roommate."

Heeseung looked back at him, then at the tarpulin again. But Jake... Jake didn't react the same way. His posture straightened just a little. His expression shifted without him realizing it, mouth pulling into something that edged too close to pride—almost arrogant, like he had some kind of claim. He didn't even notice it happening. Didn't catch the way the idea of being linked to you—even in something as basic as living in the same apartment—make him feel good.

"So, did you two fuck?" a question that exactly the kind of thing Heeseung would throw out without thinking twice. And just like that, whatever expression Jake had dropped instantly.

"N-No, what the—?!" Jake voice cracking slightly as his face heated up in seconds. The flush spread across his cheeks, down his neck, his brain short-circuiting in the worst way possible because his thoughts betrayed him, flashing something he didn't ask for. He physically flinched, hand coming up to smack the side of his own head like he could knock it out. "What the hell are you even saying?"

"I embarrassed myself because she caught me messing with Whitey," he added quickly as he shot Heeseung a glare, redirecting the conversation to something else. The robot sat unfinished in his mind.

Heeseung didn't miss a beat. "Okay," he snorted, shaking his head with a grin, "good to know you are never gonna get fucked by that girl."

Of course not.

You were intimidating—still intimidating in the exact same way you were the last time he saw you a year ago, except now it felt worse because you were closer. It wasn't just that you were attractive. It was the way it came with presence that made it hard to relax around you. Your eyes didn't help either— too easy to get lost in if he looked too long. And that was the problem. He wanted to look, to hold it for more than a second, to prove to himself he could act normal—but every time he tried, something in him pulled back too fast.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" You ask him too blunt as he just handle you the advance payment.

"H-huh?" His face went red almost instantly, color blooming across his cheeks as he fumbled with the fabric of his pajama pants, wiping his hands over and over. "I—I don't have..." he said quietly, trailing off as if the sentence itself embarrassed him.

Wait—why would you even ask that? Followed by another question. Are you... interested? Or just curious? That didn't make sense. There was no reason for you to be interested. He barely talked to you, barely functioned normally around you. So why ask? Unless it didn't mean anything. Unless he was reading into it again. It was random. You weren't even that close, barely past basic conversations....

Jake tried not to think about it, tried to force his attention onto anything else, but you cut straight through that fragile effort by suddenly starting another conversation, casually asking what you both should order for dinner while he adjusted Whitey. You were so fucking close. It is overwhelming, scrambling his thoughts. Oh fuck. You were too close—it was going to make him lose his goddamn mind, and all he could think, over and over, was how you smelled—sweet, distracting, pretty, pretty, pretty.

He was barely breathing, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like looking at you directly might short-circuit him. "Uh... I already ate," he repeated, voice dropping smaller.

"Oh."

Before you could say something, he stood abruptly, movement jerky, still refusing to meet your eyes as he pointed vaguely toward his room. "I—I need to, uh... I have something to do," he said, bowing slightly out of pure habit before retreating.

The moment the door shut behind him, Jake nearly let out a broken whine, his hands went straight to his hair, fingers gripping hard. He exhaled shakily, trying to calm himself, but it wasn't working. His dick was fucking hard— it got fucking hard!

And the third time you initiated something, Jake swore he was probably seconds away from going completely brain dead. He'd been crouched over another half-disassembled robot that Heeseung had dropped off earlier. You appeared again, stepping into his space. Jake would never forget the way you set the ramen down beside him with those pretty smile, and how easily you started talking about your life like none of the tension from before had ever existed.

"Sometimes I wish I was smart instead of just... sport-inclined," you admitted with a half-laugh, slumping your shoulders for emphasis. "Like, what the hell am I supposed to do after I decide I'm done with volleyball?"

Jake wanted to respond. He wanted to tell you that being sport-inclined wasn't something lesser, that there was nothing wrong with it, nothing lacking or incomplete about who you were. He wanted to say he envied you, in a way—your strength, the way you moved through things without hesitating, how you seemed fearless and independent in ways he couldn't quite reach. He wanted to tell you that if you ever got tired of volleyball, there were still so many things waiting for you, paths you could take without losing yourself—but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

"I'm done for now," you said abruptly, when you notice he isn't talking, you clacked your chopsticks against the plastic before snapping the lid shut, forcing a smile that felt stiff on your face. You stood, shoved the ramen into the fridge with more force and retreated to your room, closing the door behind you.

Jake stayed exactly where he was, staring at nothing, and again, he let out a frustrated exhale, dragging a hand down his face.

When you stopped talking to him, Jake felt it like something collapsing inward. The last time you asked him anything beyond the bare minimum was when he'd come out of the shower early, and you'd only glanced his way long enough to ask if he was done. And after that... nothing. You slipped back into your usual colder distant self—only asking about rent, keeping your eyes anywhere but on him, cutting off any chance for conversation before it could no even start.

"Well, what do you expect?" Heeseung scoffed from across the room, not even bothering to look up at first as he leaned back in his chair, one leg stretched out while he worked on programming the robot in front of him—Bumble, Jake's old Grade 12 project that he'd decided to mess with again. "She's basically just talking to a wall, you want her to keep trying? You think you're that special?" He finally glanced over then, eyebrow raised, unimpressed.

"No! I—I understand her," Jake shot back quickly, his shoulders slumping almost immediately after as if the effort alone drained him. His hands fidgeted uselessly in his lap, fingers curling and uncurling as he struggled to keep his thoughts from tangling. "I just... I wish I could talk about things too... you know... like, actually say stuff... share..." His voice trailed off toward the end, shrinking.

"Booo," Heeseung dragged out mockingly, not missing a beat as he tilted his head back with exaggerated disappointment. "Stop wishing and actually try for once. Jesus, it's not that deep." He flicked a small tool across the desk toward Jake, though it stopped short, clattering uselessly against the surface. "You're just making excuses at this point."

"Why would I?" Jake asked, stubborn in a way that felt more defensive than confident, his gaze dropping to the floor. "It's better this way."

Heeseung's eyebrow lifted slightly at that. And the truth was, Jake had already accepted it—accepted that talking, is... super hard . His social anxiety had settled into him so deeply that the people around him had just adapted, learned to expect less, learned not to wait for him to say anything. Sometimes he wished it wasn't like that, wished he could just... function normally, speak without overthinking every word—but wishing didn't change anything, and he knew it.

So who the hell was he kidding? Himself, apparently.

Because the moment he started working on improving Bumble—adding a small camera, linking it directly to his phone so he could control what it saw and how it moved—he found himself doing something he couldn't even justify. Sitting on his bed, phone in hand, staring at the screen like an idiot while waiting for the front door to open. It was 7:30 PM. You usually got home around that time. The second he heard the faint click of the lock, he straightened up instantly, heart kicking a little harder as his eyes locked onto the live feed.

The door opened, and there you were—stepping inside, unaware and Jake immediately triggered the robot.

"Hi," he said softly into his phone, knowing the word would come out through Bumble in that slightly distorted.

He stayed hidden where he was, safely out of sight, using the robot as a shield between him and you. On the screen, you paused, your expression shifting into confusion as you looked down at Bumble, clearly not suspecting anything, because why the hell would you? To you, it was just a small, harmless robot—not him.

Jake let out a quiet, breathy giggle, biting down on his fist to keep himself from smiling too wide as he watched you respond. Sometimes you greeted it back, and other times you crouched down, kneeling in front of Bumble as your fingers gently brushed over its surface. And every time you did, you ended up looking straight into the camera without realizing it—your eyes filling his screen so suddenly it made his chest tighten. God, your eyes were so fucking beautiful. You were so beautiful. He kicked his feet lightly against the edge of his bed, barely containing the energy buzzing through him, his grin hidden behind his hand as he watched you a little longer than he probably should have.

One time, Jake watched you through his screen as you stepped into your room and quietly closed the door behind you. He lingered there for a moment, thumb hovering over the controls before he slowly guided Bumble away, sending it rolling through the hallway in slow, absent circles.

He kept moving, turning corners, drifting past furniture with no real direction. But then your door creaked open again, and Jake reacted instantly, fingers tightening as he jerked the controls, turning Bumble around so fast it almost tipped before he steadied it and followed you.

The movement was too uncoordinated—he wasn't paying attention to anything except you—and his phone slipped right out of his hand, dropping straight onto his face with a sharp, painful smack.

"Nghh—!" he choked out, the impact rattling his teeth as one of the brackets on his braces snapped loose, sending a jolt of pain through his jaw. But he barely had time to even react, because the screen was still on, angled just enough for him to see.

You were in the kitchen now, dressed in short shorts and a loose crop top that rode up just enough when you moved, exposing more than he'd ever seen before.

You bent slightly over the counter, focused on your phone while absentmindedly eating snacks, completely unaware of the tiny camera pointed in your direction. From that angle—he could see the curve of your body so clearly it made his head spin, the fabric of your shorts riding up just enough to reveal the soft outline of your ass.

"No..." he breathed, his chest tightening as his eyes stayed glued to the screen.

His gaze flickered downward for a second, and that only made it worse, because his body had already reacted before he could stop it. His dick was hard. Fucking hard.

"No—no, no..." he muttered under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a second like it might erase the image that was already stuck in his mind. His face throbbed where the phone had hit him, his teeth aching from the loose bracket he knew would cost a shit ton to fix, but none of that compared to the way his body refused to calm down.

"I'm sorry," he whined under his breath, almost desperate as he grabbed his phone again with shaky hands. He didn't even look properly this time—just caught a brief, blurry glimpse of you still there on the screen before he fumbled with the controls and shut Bumble off completely. The feed cut to black instantly, leaving him staring at his own reflection instead, wide-eyed and flushed, breathing unevenly.

Jake's hands moved quickly, tugging his pajama pants down in a rush. He hadn't even bothered with boxers, and the cool air hitting his skin only made everything feel more intense than it already was. His toes curled against the sheets as his hand wrapped around himself, eyes squeezing shut like that might dull the image burned into his head—but it didn't, not even a little.

If anything, it made it worse, the memory replaying in fragments, the way you bent slightly, the way your body looked so fucking sexy.

His breathing turned uneven until it was harder to control as his grip tightened on his cock. The thought of grabbing his phone again, to open Bumble, tempting. But it feels morally wrong, of course he has a conscience!

A quiet whine slipping out as the image of you catching him—actually realizing what he'd been doing with Bumble—flashed through his head.

"Oh God," he breathed, the words breaking unevenly as his stomach clenched hard at the thought. Why is he getting off at the thought of being caught?! Now he really felt like a fucking weirdo.

His hand stilled for a second before he reached blindly for his phone, unlocking it with clumsy fingers as he opened his messages with Heeseung. His friend had always had this habit—sending pictures of you from games, from practice, from random moments on the court. Jake used to ignore them, but now, he was actually looking, thumb dragging slowly across the screen as he took them in one by one, most of them taken by sports journalists and reposted on the university page.

He kept scrolling faster now, a restless feeling building under his skin as his patience thinned, his hands are getting faster until his eyes landed on one that made him stop completely.

A selfie. He didn't know where the hell Heeseung got it, but there you were, up close, biting lightly onto your medal with a small, tired smile, sweaty and hair slightly messy like it had been taken right after a game. Jake stared at it longer than he should have, his chest rising and falling unevenly, his fingers working through the tip, spreading the precum. God. He wish you could also bite him, everywhere, his neck, his lips, his nippl— bite WHAT?!

His head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering for a second as he exhaled through his teeth. "Haaa..." he whispered again, his gaze locked onto the screen as everything else faded out around him.

After a few uneven breaths and one last helpless glance at your photo, his body finally gave in to the overwhelming tension he'd been holding onto for too long, his dick keep twitching as it spurts continous cum on his stomach.

He was slumped there in silence, staring at the screen like he didn't know what to do with himself anymore.

heeseung | lol why'd you ❤️ react now to the picture i've sent 2 months ago????

heeseung | that sweaty picture haha nice taste😏

heeseung | you're welcome

Jake's entire face flushed instantly, the heat crawling up from his neck to his ears. It felt wrong, no it's actually wrong! You and him barely even talked, what the fuck is he thinking?! Jake let out a frustrated groan before tossing his phone across the room without even looking, the device hitting the floor near his desk.

It's just attraction. You were pretty—that wasn't something he could deny, not even if he tried—and his body reacting like that... it wasn't unusual, not really. He knew that. He knew it was a normal response!

Jake grew restless as the days dragged on, a quiet agitation settling into him that he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried to distract himself. He kept checking the time without realizing it, his focus slipped whenever he tried to work on anything else. But also, it didn't still change the fact that he is looking forward to one specific moment every night.

Well, greeting you through Bumble had turned into a routine.

But one day, that routine cracked without warning. The second Bumble rolled into the living room and the camera adjusted, Jake's small, anticipatory smile faded instantly, his entire expression dropping. You were sitting there, not moving the way you usually did, not reacting the way he expected.

You were crying. His hands lifted slightly toward the screen without thinking, fingers hovering uselessly in the air, as if he could do anything at all from where he was.

You leaned back against the sofa, your body sliding down slowly until you were sitting on the floor, shoulders slumped, exhaustion written all over you. "Everyone has someone," you whispered. "Why... am I such a fucking loser?" you let out a short laugh after that.

Jake just sat there on his bed, staring at his phone.  He watched you like this without knowing how to respond.

He wanted to tell you it was okay, that you weren't whatever you thought you were in that moment, that you didn't have to sit there alone like that. He wanted to apologize too—for all the times you tried to talk to him and he shut down, for how absent he must've seemed, how useless he felt now thinking back on it.

Most of all, he wanted to tell you that you had him.

Action speaks louder than words, right? If you thought you were lonely, then he'd prove you wrong—not by saying it, because he clearly couldn't, but by doing something, anything that might reach you in a way his words never could. So he started small, practical, something he could control. If you were hungry, then he'd cook.

"I—I always... uh... cook food f-for dinner..." he managed to say when you walked in. His heart was pounding so loudly it made it hard to hear himself think. He saw the way you paused mid-step before turning your head just slightly, not fully facing him. Jake's gaze dropped instantly, locking somewhere near the floor, his fingers twitching uselessly at his side.

"I-If you want to eat," he added quickly, the words stumbling over each other in his rush to get them out before he lost the nerve entirely, "uh... it's on the table..." His voice faded at the end. He didn't wait for your response and before you had the chance to say anything, he turned and walked off quickly.

By the time he reached his room, he was practically speed-walking, shutting the door behind him a little too fast before leaning back against it with an exhale. "No..." he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair as he tried to calm himself down, his pulse still racing from something as simple as speaking to you. He paced once, twice, restless energy buzzing under his skin, before grabbing his phone. The familiar motion steadied him a little as he connected to Bumble again, pulling up the camera feed with shaky anticipation.

The moment the screen lit up and he saw you sitting at the table, actually eating eagerly, without hesitation—something in his chest loosened all at once. A wide smile spread across his face. He leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the screen. He had spent hours researching what athletes usually ate, scrolling through articles and videos, and seeing you enjoying it without knowing any of that, made it feel worth it in a way he hadn't expected.

Jake kept cooking for you after that. Sometimes you came home later than usual, the house already dark and settled, and he'd just leave the food covered on the table without saying anything. And every morning, when he stepped into the kitchen and saw the empty tupperware neatly rinsed and the dishes cleaned and set aside, something in him eased just enough to carry him through the day.

"Sooo, you're not actually talking? That's lame," Heeseung said one afternoon, watching Jake from across the scattered parts on the floor. "You're seriously not even gonna try talking to her?" he added, tilting his head slightly, like he was waiting for Jake to say something less disappointing.

Jake paused mid-motion, the screwdriver hovering awkwardly in his hand as he stared down at the loose panel he'd been working on. "Uh..." he started, hesitating as his eyes flicked up briefly toward Heeseung before dropping back down just as quickly. He shifted his shoulders in a small shrug. "I think it's okay...? People don't need conversations all the time," he said.

Heeseung made a face immediately before he pushed himself forward and sat down next to Jake on the floor. "Are you even hearing yourself?" he asked, brows raised as he nudged one of the scattered tools aside with his foot. "You'd rather just... what, keep cooking for her like some silent fucking ghost? That's it?" He leaned back on his hands, glancing at Jake from the side. "Why don't you try something normal for once? Like eating together at the table?"

"I-It's not needed," Jake replied quickly, a bit too defensive as his grip tightened slightly around the screwdriver. "What are you even pointing at?"

"I swear that girl likes you," Heeseung said, sitting up straighter now. "You literally told me she asked if you had a girlfriend, right? People don't just ask that shit for no reason. She wouldn't even bring it up if she wasn't interested."

Jake just stared at him, his mind spinning in slow, uneven circles as he tried to process what Heeseung was saying. It didn't line up cleanly in his head. His lips parted slightly like he was about to respond, but nothing came out, instead, he reached for the water bottle beside him, unscrewing the cap just to have something to do.

"For you to even sit at the same table, you need to ask her to eat dinner with you," Heeseung continued. "And to do that without fucking it up, you need courage—and a script. Yeah, a script," he added, nodding to himself. His fingers tapped lightly against his knee as he spoke, already thinking steps ahead while Jake was still stuck at the starting point.

Jake paused mid-sip, the bottle hovering awkwardly in the air as he slowly turned his head to look at him, eyes narrowing just slightly in confusion. Heeseung, meanwhile, looked completely serious.

"Let's practice some, okay?" he said, already shifting closer. "But when you say it, don't mumble like that—say it straight, no stuttering, and looook..." he dragged the word out, lifting a finger for emphasis, "at the person's eyes when you're talking. That part is important."

Jake swallowed slowly, nodding once. He lifted the bottle again, taking another quick drink but then Heeseung reached out suddenly, grabbing Jake by the shoulder and pulling him just enough to face him directly. "Practice it with me," he said, eyes locking onto Jake's with zero hesitation.

Jake barely lasted a second.

The moment their eyes met, something in him short-circuited completely. The water he'd just taken in stayed in his mouth for a split second too long before it came spilling out in the worst possible way—right onto Heeseung's face.

"You fucker," Heeseung hissed, he wiped his face with the back of his hand, water dripping down his jaw and onto his shirt. He lunged forward, grabbing Jake by the collar and immediately hooking an arm around his neck, choking him.

The next day, Jake decided he should've just ignored everything Heeseung said. All of it. The advice, the assumptions, the stupid "script"—it all felt ridiculous now that he was actually thinking about it on his own. It wasn't necessary. He didn't need to prove anything, didn't need to suddenly change how things were going between you and him. Things were... working, in their own quiet way. He had his routine, you had yours, and there was no risk of him messing it up as long as he didn't push it any further.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to settle into that thought again.

Sigh.

You were so fucking pretty.

He clicked his tongue softly in frustration, shifting his weight where he stood in the kitchen. Maybe... maybe inviting you to eat together wouldn't be that bad. He swallowed, his chest tightening slightly as he stared down at the food he'd already prepared, his fingers flexing at his side like he was trying to gather whatever courage Heeseung kept talking about.

"H-Hey."

The word came out before he could stop it. You had just gotten back from practice, heading straight toward your room without really looking around. Jake set the plate down carefully on the table. Eye contact, he remembered. Right. His shoulders tensed slightly as he forced himself to look up when you paused.

And for a moment, he actually held your gaze. Really held it.

The way your eyes locked onto his without hesitation, clear and focused in a way that made his chest tighten instantly. You were even prettier up close! And just like that, it became too much. His gaze broke, darting off to the side as his composure slipped, the brief confidence he had collapsing under the weight of it.

"Let's—I-I cooked dinner," he said quickly, the words tumbling over each other as he gestured vaguely toward the table, his hand a little stiff. "There's a-a lot, so l-let's share."

The moment you sat down and really talk. All of Jake nervousness and loud mind begun to be quiet.

Oh—and it really... felt nice.

Talking to you about random things—music, mostly—like Cigarettes After Sex, of all things, wasn't something he ever pictured himself doing out loud, but it just... happened. And then the next day, you came back holding a bottle of chocolate almond milk, setting it down in front of him, and he just stared at it for a second, genuinely thrown off. For him?! You bought it... for him? there was no way—you knew his favorite drink without him ever saying it!

And fuck, you were cute too. In the little things he kept catching himself noticing more and more. The way you reacted to food, especially the ones he cooked, wasn't something you tried to hide or tone down, and he liked that more than he expected. You weren't picky, didn't hesitate, didn't pretend—you just ate, genuinely, like you enjoyed it without overthinking it. And that smile you always had while eating. Damnnn. You were cute. You were really fucking pretty.

And somehow, without either of you pointing it out, things started to settle into something new. You and him eating together when your schedules lined up, sitting across from each other at the table. Conversations came easier now, sometimes you'd watch movies after, sometimes you'd just sit there, talking about nothing in particular. But most of the time, it circled back to the same thing—eating. You ate, and he cooked. Over and over again. He cooked, cooked, and kept cooking.

Well... of course, with everything he'd been doing lately, someone was bound to question it eventually—even if he hadn't properly questioned it himself yet. From the outside, the things he was doing maybe it didn't look that simple.

"And you're doing all of that because...?" Heeseung asked.

"Because... I'm a... good roommate?" Jake replied almost immediately, the words coming out before he had time to think them through.

"You mean you're doing all of that because... you want to be a good roommate?" Heeseung repeated, his eyebrow lifting even higher as he stared at him. Jake glanced at him briefly, then looked away, his gaze drifting upward like he might find a better answer somewhere above them.

"...Yes?" he said again.

"Dude?" Heeseung's voice jumped, he straightened up, staring at Jake like he'd just said something completely insane. "What do you mean you cook for her all the time, talk with her, watch movies with her—just because you want to be a good roommate? You're literally leading her on."

"Leading her on... on what?" Jake asked, his brows pulling together slightly, the confusion in his voice genuine as he turned back to look at him.

"Leading her on into thinking you like her," Heeseung shot back immediately, his hands coming up as he gestured. "Do you not like her at all?"

...

Jake didn't answer right away. His thoughts slowed, circling around the word. It felt too big, too defined. He knew you were attractive, that wasn't even a question. You were cool, confident in ways he couldn't replicate, and there was a part of him that looked up to you without fully realizing it at first. But stepping past that, into something more specific—it didn't come easily to him.

Was he actually leading you on?

Suddenly he remember his last relationship back in high school. The awkwardness, the pressure, the way everything had fallen apart in a way that left him feeling small, like he'd completely mishandled something he wasn't ready for in the first place. He remembered the expectations he couldn't meet, the quiet disappointment that followed—and how it all ended with him promising himself he wouldn't put himself, or anyone else, through that again.

Maybe that's why he rejected your invite to watch your finals game.

At the time, it felt like the right decision. It was better this way, it would stop you from expecting anything from him, stop things from becoming something more complicated than he could handle. If you didn't hope for anything, you wouldn't be disappointed.

Later that day, after class, when he stopped by to grab food for what he half-considered a small, quiet way to celebrate for you anyway, he saw the ticket. Crumpled in the trashcan . Jake paused mid-step, the takeout bag hanging loosely in his hand as he stared at it.

And just like that, the certainty he'd been holding onto didn't feel so...solid anymore.

What the hell was he even doing? Building you stupid little lego flowers, cooking for you almost every day, sitting across from you and actually talking—even if it took everything in him just to keep the words coming. What was the point of all that? What was he trying to get out of it? Good roommate? That sounds ridiculous!

A good roommate remembers details.

Because Jake remembered things—too many things. He hadn't cared much about sports before, never bothered to look into it beyond surface-level noise, but you... you were something else.

You were everywhere.

Articles, photos, interviews—your name kept showing up in places he didn't expect. A second-year student from Basic Education, sure—but that wasn't the part that stuck. It was everything else. The way sports journalists talked about you like you were something unpredictable, something hard to pin down. The libero who didn't just receive but shut down plays, you who managed to block one of the most well-known spikers from another university! And your high school team? Representing the region at nationals!

Because you never talked about it.

Not once. You never bragged and yet there it was, laid out in front of him in article after article. MVP awards, recognition, comments about your presence on the court—how your looks alone distracted opponents, how your movements were unpredictable enough to throw off entire plays, how you stayed focused on keeping the ball alive no matter what. With the school reputation, you were often called as a Decelis Vampire with your great speed and agility. It didn't sound like the same person who sat across from him eating quietly, smiling over the food he made!

Sports were complicated but you?

You were so fucking cool.

That's why he felt so fucking dumb—so unbelievably dumb for letting things get this far without stopping himself sooner. Every small thing he did stacked up until it stopped being simple and started turning into this mess he didn't know how to handle. Heeseung had warned him and Jake brushed it off as if it didn't apply to him—but now it all circled back.

Living with you, being around you like this, letting things blur—it created tension he wasn't equipped to deal with. Because if he let himself go any further, if he actually gave in to those impulses—to the urge of wanting more, to get closer, to touch, to kiss, to do things he knew he wouldn't be able to take back—he'd regret it. He knew he would.

So avoiding you felt like the only right decision left after having sex. He knows it wasn't fair but Jake has been good at avoiding things, especially confrontation, because he knew how those situations ended for him.

But he underestimated you.

Because of course you weren't just going to let it sit like that. Of course you were going to push, to corner him when he thought he could quietly slip away from it. And that was exactly the kind of situation he wasn't ready to face—the kind where there was no escape, no easy way out.

"Talk to me, fuck it!" you snapped suddenly, your voice breaking as it rose. Jake flinched hard, his shoulders tensing as the sound hit him that made his thoughts scatter even more. Why would you do that? Why would you push him into something he clearly couldn't handle?

Because the truth was—he didn't even fully understand what he felt.

"Sorry... Jake... please," you said again, your voice dropping, almost pleading in a way that made something twist in his chest. Your hands were still there to hold onto him but he moved them gently, guided them off him.

"I like you too much, is that wrong?" you asked.

Yeah.

It is wrong.

You shouldn't feel that way about someone like him, not when he knew he couldn't give you what you deserved. Jake didn't deserve you.

"S-sorry..." he said, shaking his head slightly, his gaze fixed somewhere else, anywhere but your face. "I—I... I don't think I feel the same way, that's why I—I feel guilty... about what happened... sorry."

That's what he felt.

That's what he told himself he felt.

The sound of plastic hitting the floor suddenly made him cut through his thoughts. You got those for him.

And before he could even react—before he could say anything—you were already moving, already turning away and walking out, leaving everything behind.

Jake stood there, frozen, staring at the scattered toys on the floor. His chest felt tight, his thoughts loud and empty at the same time, a heavy stone settling deep in his gut as though he wants to vomit.

Because it felt like his world just... crashed. And the worst part? It felt like he had just lied straight through his teeth...Even though he knew, somewhere deep down, he had tried to be honest.

"You're an asshole." Heeseung didn't even hesitate when he said it. Jake clenched his teeth immediately, his jaw tightening as his eyes shut, trying to ignore everything around him. But it didn't help. All he could see was your tear-streaked face and it kept replaying, over and over again.

Yeah. He knew.

He'd known the moment the words left his mouth, the moment you dropped those stupid fucking toys and walked out without looking back. Guilt stayed in his chest, making it hard to think straight without it twisting everything. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He told himself he was avoiding problems, preventing something worse from happening—but it felt like he just created something worse instead.

Maybe he should just switch buildings again. He was ashamed. He hurt you, badly, and he didn't even mean to—but intent didn't change shit.

But then—

If he left... who the hell would be there for you?

Who would take care of you in the small ways he'd gotten used to? Who would cook, who would notice the little things, who would sit across from you at the table? Would you just find another roommate? Probably. Someone better. Someone who could actually talk without shutting down, someone who wouldn't say the wrong thing at the worst possible moment... What the fuck is he thinking right now?

Did he... actually like you?

Jake frowned slightly, his brows pulling together. Did he like you because you remembered something as small as his favorite milk without him ever saying it out loud? Because you talked a lot, filling spaces he usually left empty, and somehow that didn't annoy him the way it should've? Was it because you were pretty and because people looked at you like you were something hard to reach? Or was it the way you balanced that—how you could be intimidating on the court, but still soft in these quiet, unguarded moments he got to see?

None of it felt... enough.

Or maybe it felt too scattered, too shallow when he tried to list it out like that. Because liking someone was supposed to be deeper than this, wasn't it?

"Hi! We are from Decelis Sport Management! We're handing out flyers to support the Women's Volleyball team—they're leaving the city next month!" A small group stood near the cafeteria entrance, passing out glossy flyers one by one. "If you want to be part of the VIP section with the Decelis Band, feel free to stop by our office!" one of them added, extending a flyer toward a passing student who barely hesitated before taking it.

Jake paused mid-motion, his hand hovering over his notebook as his attention shifted without him meaning to. His eyes locked onto the flyer in someone else's hand—the bold colors, the team name printed across it. Across from him, Heeseung noticed immediately, his brows lifting as he followed Jake's line of sight, then slowly leaned back in his chair, expression flattening.

"What?" Heeseung said, lips twitching just slightly as he tilted his head. "Interested in watching?"

"H-Huh?" Jake snapped out of it quickly, his head turning toward Heeseung as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. He looked back down at his blueprint right after. "No..." he muttered.

"So are we watching Decelis vs. Isabella again?" a nearby student chimed in, leaning over slightly to look at the flyer with interest. "You gonna buy for Day 3?"

"Of course Decelis is making it to Day 3, have you seen their defense?" his friend shot back immediately, already slinging his bag over his shoulder as he stood up. "Come on, let's just grab tickets for all three days now before they sell out." He didn't even hesitate, already walking off with the flyer in hand.

Jake stayed quiet. His eyes flickered up again, catching another glimpse of the flyers being passed around. He doesn't care. He doesn't care.

He found himself standing in front of the Sports Management office later that day, stuck in the middle of a long, slow-moving line. Jake kept his head slightly lowered, shoulders tense, eyes avoiding anyone who might recognize him. Because if Heeseung found out about this he'd never hear the end of it. Probably get smacked in the head too.

"What am I doing..." he muttered under his breath, shifting his weight awkwardly as the line moved forward inch by inch.

To distract himself, Jake glanced toward the bulletin board nearby, his eyes scanning over the countless posters and printed articles pinned up in messy layers. Interviews, game highlights, team features—it was all there. Huh Yunjin—the captain. Aeri Uchinaga. Ning Yizhuo — middle blockers. Faces he'd seen in passing, names mentioned in articles he skimmed through,  most of it—

Most of it was you.

Photos of you mid-play, interviews where your expression looked calmer, more composed than he'd ever seen in person. It filled the space in a way that made it impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend you were just... normal, just his roommate. Jake stared longer, his chest tightening with every second he didn't look away.

Oh God.

Jake likes you.

The thoughts slammed into him, so hard and disorienting, like someone had cracked him across the head without warning— No... something did actually hit his head.

"—Oh! S-sorry!" a guy with glasses and messy brown hair blurted out, his voice pitching up in panic as his bag swung awkwardly and smacked straight into Jake's head, his hand coming up instinctively to rub the spot as he blinked a few times. The guy looked mortified, clutching his strap.

Every weak explanation he used to convince himself otherwise—it all crumbled in that moment. Because no matter how much he tried to deny it, no matter how many times he told himself it wasn't that deep.

It all fell apart the second he showed up here, standing in line like an idiot, pretending this was just curiosity.

It all fell apart the second he decided to go to your game, even though he didn't understand shit about volleyball, even though he had no real reason to be there—except you.

And it completely shattered the moment he saw you cry.

It fucking hurt.

"Y-You're bleeding?! H-How is that possible?!" the guy suddenly stammered, his voice jumping in panic as he pointed straight at Jake's face. Jake blinked, confused for a second before lifting his hand again, only now noticing the faint smear of red against his fingers. His brows pulled together slightly, still slow to react, while the guy behind him gasped loudly, grabbing onto his friend's shoulder.

"W-What the hell?! Did you put this in my bag, Keonho?!" the guy who hit him earlier yelped, frantically unzipping his bag and pulling out a chunk of stone that definitely didn't belong there. The guy turned to the other boy beside him, who immediately started denying it just as loudly. The two of them spiraled into a messy argument right there in line, drawing attention from a few others.

His focus had already drifted.

His eyes moved past them, scanning the rest of the line, taking in the small details he hadn't noticed before. People were talking excitedly about you—your last game, your plays, your reputation. The way they spoke about you wasn't just any casual conversation. It was admiration.

There were so many people here for you.

People who weren't awkward. People who didn't hesitate. People who would actually step forward instead of pulling back.

Jake's gaze drifted back to the boy in front of him, still panicking over the situation, completely unaware of the way Jake was staring right through him. Because even then, his attention wasn't fully there—

There were people better than him.

And wasn't that what you deserved?

Someone who would take care of you properly, not just in small, quiet ways but openly, confidently. Someone who would love you without second-guessing every word, someone who would cherish you without needing to hide behind half-efforts.

If you found someone like that... he'd step back.

He'd admire you from a distance, the way everyone else here probably already did, without expecting anything in return. And yeah, if that person hurt you, it would fucking hurt him too. But if that person treated you right—if they gave you everything... That would destroy him.

Because deep down, he knew—

He could've been that person too.

No—fuck that. He wasn't going to just stand there and accept that kind of ending! That felt worse—way worse—than anything else he'd been afraid of. Now that Jake knew, now that the feeling had a name, there was no way he could pretend it didn't exist anymore. Oh my God—he liked you.

Jake let out a sudden laugh, sound like a little unhinged as he stepped forward without thinking. The boy in front of him barely had time to react before Jake grabbed his shoulder, gripping it, his eyes a little too bright. "Thank you," he said, smiling wide in a way that didn't quite match the situation, ignoring the faint line of blood still trailing down the side of his face. "Fuck—thank you!"

The two guys stared at him like he'd lost it—and maybe he had, a little — Before they could even process what was happening, he reached out, snatched the ticket straight from the boy's hand who he saw at the ID was named as Juhoon, and stepped back.

He pushed through the line without looking back, ignoring the confused voices behind him.

Jake wasn't suddenly different.

He still struggled to talk. Still froze at the wrong moments. Still didn't know how to say things the way he meant them.

And even if he didn't know how to say it yet, even if the words never came out right—he wasn't going to just disappear and let things end like that. He'd have to face you again, one way or another, and deal with whatever came with it.

Not perfectly.

But honestly—this time, for real.

"Why is there always some kind of event in Decelis? And why the hell are we attending another seminar?" you muttered under your breath with clear irritation as you shifted your weight in line. The hallway outside the Audio Visual Room felt suffocating, packed too tight with bodies and noise, the air barely moving as heat clung stubbornly to your skin. You closed your eyes for a second, exhaling sharply through your nose, trying to ignore the way your shirt stuck to your back and how every inch of space felt invaded. Students around you fanned themselves with whatever they had—folders, papers, even their hands—but it barely helped. "For what?" you added under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, your patience already running thin.

"Hey! Hey!"

You cracked one eye open at the familiar voice, already knowing who it was before you even turned your head. Karina stood a few feet away in the opposite line, somehow managing to look energized despite the heat, waving at you like she hadn't just walked into a human oven. Your lines moved in opposite directions, slowly dragging both of you closer until you met halfway. You gave her a look—half disbelief, half annoyance—because honestly, how the hell was she still that cheerful in this kind of weather?

"Did you see Ningning at the end of the line?" she asked immediately.

You blinked at her, unimpressed. "What kind of question is that? It sounds like we're not seeing each other later for training or something," you shot back with sarcasm as you wiped at the sweat gathering near your temple. Your mood had already dipped, and she wasn't helping.

Karina just laughed, completely unfazed, pointing at your face before pulling out her small turbo fan and aiming it straight at you. The sudden blast of air hit your skin instantly. "Come on, smile!" she teased, her grin widening as she watched your expression soften just a bit. "We're heading to Santiago next week! Aren't you excited?!"

You made a face at that, forcing a weak smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, mostly because the heat was still unbearable and your patience was already gone. Before you could say anything else, your lines started moving again, pulling you apart just as quickly as you'd met. The cool air from her fan disappeared instantly, leaving you with nothing but the same suffocating warmth. You huffed again, this time breathing through your mouth as you tilted your head back slightly, trying to catch whatever little air you could.

"Oh my—hi! Hey—! That's the legendary vampire of Decelis!"

You groaned quietly, dragging a hand down your face as you already knew exactly who that was before even looking. Turning your head slightly, you spotted Ningning, Giselle, and Winter near the edge of the other line, all of them way too loud, way too energetic for this kind of environment. They waved like they hadn't seen you in years, calling out just enough to grab attention from people nearby.

"What the fuck did you all take to have that kind of energy?" you muttered under your breath as you stepped closer when your lines aligned again. Ningning immediately reached out, offering you a pack of gummy bears.

"The weather's so nice, what do you mean?!" Ningning said, completely serious, which only made you stare at her harder. "We saw the band earlier—I'm excited to see Karina do her serve with them!"

"D-E-C-E-L-I-S! GO! GO! GO! GO!" Winter and Giselle suddenly broke into the university chant, and completely unbothered by the stares they were getting. You looked at all three of them with a flat, unimpressed expression, not even trying to match their energy.

"Come on, have a little life! Fix your face!" Winter said, pointing directly at you before reaching over to wipe the sweat from your forehead. "What if someone confesses to you and you look like that? They'll remember that face forever."

You scoffed lightly, brushing her hand away as your line started moving again, pulling you forward inch by inch with the rest of the crowd. "Then they should've picked a better time," you muttered, rolling your eyes as the heat continued to cling to you. By the time you finally reached the doors of the AVR, your patience was hanging by a thread. But the second you stepped inside, the cool air hit you all at once and you almost groaned from relief. You and your classmates didn't waste time, quickly settling at the back near the AC unit, claiming the best spot before anyone else could. It took a few long, dragging minutes before the seminar actually started.

You leaned your face into your palm, elbow pressed against the armrest as you stared blankly toward the front of the room. The spokesperson clicked through slides that looked painfully dull, filled with text that didn't even try to be engaging. Around you, the quiet wasn't peaceful, broken occasionally by soft whispers or the very obvious sound of someone snoring a few seats away. Your eyelids started to droop slightly, blinking slower as your attention slipped further away from whatever was being said. Your thoughts drifted elsewhere—like food. What would they even have after training later? Something decent, hopefully. Or maybe not. Then your mind jumped again, landing on what Karina said earlier—Santiago. Meals. You wondered what they'd serve there, silently hoping it wouldn't be bland, dry, or just straight-up disappointing. You missed good food. Real food. You exhaled quietly. God, you were so fucking bored.

"I guess all of us believe in horoscopes and luck, aren't we?" the spokesperson's voice cut through your thoughts. There was a scattered response from the audience—some murmurs, a few half-hearted replies—and she let out a small chuckle like she expected it. "I see some of us don't..."

You didn't move, your expression unchanged as you stared forward, barely processing the question.

"I guess we can say that fortune happens for a reason," she went on, gesturing lightly with her hands as she paced a little across the front. "It doesn't necessarily mean it's bad, right? Some people believe that fortune favors good people, or that you have to do certain things to gain luck..." She paused briefly, her smile softening just a bit. "But sometimes, what we call bad luck or misfortune—it's just a way of letting us make mistakes."

She let out a small breath, her expression calm as she looked over the room. "Because what is a person," she added, "without flaws or mistakes?"

God, this is so fucking boring. You shifted in your seat, jaw tightening slightly as you stared at the front, not even pretending to listen anymore. Your stomach twisted faintly—not even out of hunger at this point, but just the need to do something else. So you stood up, already preparing a half-assed excuse about needing to pee, not even caring if it sounded convincing. But instead of just letting you slip out quietly, one of the organizers immediately stepped in, lowering their voice as they gestured toward the side. "You can use the bathroom backstage," they said politely. You blinked at them, unimpressed. What the fuck? Why was everything so damn controlled here?

You let out a quiet huff, resisting the urge to argue as you turned and made your way toward the indicated path. The walk felt longer than it should've, your footsteps muted against the flooring as you passed behind the curtains, the noise from the seminar dulling slightly the further you went. You scratched your head absentmindedly, shoulders a little tense as you caught one of the organizers briefly watching you pass. You met their gaze for a second, giving them a look that said yeah, I'm actually going to the bathroom, relax, before looking away again. It felt stupid, the whole thing—like even stepping out for a second needed supervision.

The moment you pushed past the curtain into the backstage area, the atmosphere shifted. It was quieter here, less suffocating, the hum of equipment replacing the droning voice from the seminar. You immediately reached for your phone, already opening your messages and texting Karina without hesitation—how many fucking hours is this seminar again? Your thumbs moved quickly. You leaned against the wall, exhaling sharply as your thoughts spiraled again. Luck. Fortune. Fate. Why were people so obsessed with that shit?It just felt repetitive. Empty. You'd been unlucky most of your life—so what, was that the universe teaching you something? Letting you "grow"? You almost scoffed at your own thoughts.

"O-Oh."

The voice came out of nowhere that make you freeze mid-thought. Your body stiffened instantly, your head turning slightly to the side as your heart picked up faster than you wanted it to.

Jake was sitting near the technical setup, half-hidden behind equipment, like he'd been there the whole time and you just didn't notice.

"H-Hi," you said quickly, forcing your tone to sound casual, like your chest wasn't suddenly tight for no reason. What the fuck was wrong with you? You already knew how this went. You liked him—fine. But he didn't like you back. He made that clear. So why the hell was your heart still reacting like this? It was annoying! You looked at him for a second too long before forcing your gaze away, but it didn't stop your brain from noticing everything anyway—his messy brown hair, the way his glasses sat slightly crooked, those wide eyes that never seemed to know where to settle, his lips pressed together. Even the way his oversized white shirt sat under that black jacket—it all just... fit in a way that pissed you off.

You huffed quietly, trying to steady yourself as you pointed vaguely toward the other side. "I was about to use the bathroom," you said. "You part of the organizers?" Why the fuck were you even talking? You should've just walked!

"Uh... yeah..." Jake replied, eyes flickering toward you before immediately darting away again. "The whole Engineering department... we're volunteering." His words came out uneven, like he wasn't fully confident in them, and for a brief second, both of you glanced at each other—

—and looked away at the same time.

"Ah..." you responded, as you dropped your gaze back to your phone, your thumb moving aimlessly across the screen just to have something to do. You weren't even reading anything—just scrolling, unlocking, locking it again—anything to avoid looking at him for too long. The silence stretched awkwardly between you, uncomfortable in a way that made your shoulders tense slightly. You could still feel his presence there, just a few steps away, like it was pressing in on you even without him saying anything.

"D-Do you need a-anything more?" he asked, his voice hesitant, uneven, like he wasn't even sure if he should be speaking at all.

You let out a quiet sigh, shaking your head quickly without looking up. "No," you replied shortly, already done with whatever this interaction was supposed to be. There wasn't anything left to say—at least, not anything you were willing to entertain right now. So you slipped your phone into your pocket, turning slightly toward the curtain again, reaching for the fabric as you prepared to head back into the AVR. Walking away was always easier.

"W-Wait, please."

You paused, your fingers tightened slightly around the curtain as you stopped, your back still facing him, your body going still even as your thoughts immediately tensed. Shocked by the sudden call.

"I-I—..." he started, his voice catching on itself, like the words refused to come out properly. You heard the faint rustling of paper behind you, something unfolding, shifting in his hands. Slowly, you turned your head, then your body, just enough to look back.

Jake stood there, holding a folded piece of paper that he was now struggling to keep steady. His hands were shaking—actually shaking—as he tried to open it properly, his other hand repeatedly wiping against his pants like they wouldn't stop sweating. He looked... off. Nervous in a way that felt more intense than usual, like he'd been building up to this moment for a while and was now barely holding it together.

"I know I have treated you t-this badly and t-there's no such an e-excuse for that action..." he read, his voice stumbling over the words, each one forced out.

What... the hell was he doing?

Your expression didn't change. Not immediately. You just stood there, staring at him, your face flat, unreadable despite the quiet shock settling in your chest. It didn't match the situation—didn't match the way he looked, the way his hands gripped the paper tighter when he finally glanced up at you.

And when his eyes met your completely unimpressed expression—his fingers tightened even more around the paper, the edges crinkling under the pressure like he might just tear it apart without meaning to. For a second, it looked like he was going to keep reading, like he'd force himself through whatever he had written no matter how bad it got. But then something shifted. His jaw clenched, his grip snapped—and the paper crumpled in his hands. Your lips parted slightly, not quite a reaction, not quite indifference either—just caught somewhere in between as you watched him abandon whatever script he thought would save him.

"I'm sorry," he said. It came out raw this time, stripped of the careful structure he was trying to follow earlier. "I'm so sorry for pushing you away after...that," he continued, the words coming faster now, like he didn't trust himself to stop. "I'm so sorry for hurting you... and I'm so sorry for being a coward." His eyes stayed on yours this time, not darting away, not avoiding like he always did—and that alone felt off, enough to make you stay still without realizing it. But his hands betrayed everything else, wiping over his sides again and again, like he couldn't get rid of the sweat.

"I'm so... sorry for taking too long to realize my feelings for you."

You didn't move. Didn't speak. You just stared at him, your mind lagging a second behind everything he just said. It didn't settle right away—it couldn't. Not when it sounded like something you weren't expecting to hear again, not from him.

"I—I really don't know how to talk without fumbling," Jake continued. He dragged a hand up to his hair, scratching at it in frustration, his shoulders tense in a way that made it obvious how hard this was for him. "My thoughts..." he trailed off, almost whining under his breath, like he didn't even know how to explain what was going on in his head. And that's when you noticed his eyes were glassy now, the faint shine of tears building up faster than he could control.

"It's a lot," he admitted. "I—I wish... whatever my mind says every time you talk, every time you share something..." He sniffed, his nose scrunching slightly as he tried to steady himself, but it didn't really work. "I wish you could hear that instead." His fingers curled slightly at his sides, restless. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

"Because..." he swallowed, his voice dipping just slightly as his eyes stayed locked on yours, refusing to look away now. "I really like you."

Your breath caught immediately, the shift so sudden it almost hurt, your lungs stuttering as if they didn't know how to adjust. Your mouth opened on, ready to respond—ready to question, to say something—but he didn't give you the chance.

"I know it's sudden," Jake rushed out, panic bleeding into his voice as he stepped forward. "I know I hurt you—yes, I hurt you, I-I-I..." His voice faltered, catching on itself as his thoughts tangled, his mouth parting again before nothing came out for a second. He swallowed hard, forcing it through. "I like you a lot, please," he added, more desperate now. "I like you in a way that doesn't... shut up." And then he moved closer again.

"Jake—"

"I want to be your boyfriend!" he blurted out, louder this time, cutting straight through you before you could even finish his name. It was like he didn't even think before saying them. "I want to be the man for you!" he continued, his voice shaking but determined. "I know you're probably thinking I'm not in the right mind for wanting this after everything I did, after all of that—but those things, they just made me realize how much I actually... wanted to be there." His breath came uneven, his chest rising as he tried to keep going. "With you. Around you. Talking—even if I suck at it."

"Wait—"

"You're so pretty it hurts!" he cut in again. "I realized it even before all this—I like cooking for you, I want to be the only one cooking for you. I also like feeding your fish, I—" He paused for half a second, just enough for something worse to slip out. "I love staring at you through Bumble—"

"You're Bumble—?"

"—I love everything about you!" he rushed over you again, not even realizing what he just admitted, completely overriding your question. His face flushed deeper, his hands clenching as he stepped closer again without thinking. "I can be someone you need," he said as though he was trying to convince both you and himself at the same time. "I can take care of you properly, not just... small things, not just hiding behind stuff like cooking or fixing things. I can actually be there, I swear."

His voice cracked slightly, but he didn't stop. "I know I'm late. I know I already fucked this up once," he said, his breathing stayed uneven. "I-I don't have any experience in relationships. I don't even know what I'm doing half the time," he admitted. "But I know I can be someone who shows up to your every tournament—"

Your eyes widened immediately at that, the words hitting you harder than expected. You never told him that. "Jake, I think you need to shut up—"

"I can be someone who listens," he pushed on, cutting over you again, his voice desperate but weirdly hopeful at the same time. "Someone who wouldn't freak out when you're exhausted or pissed or quiet. Someone who'd talk to you through the hard days," he added, a shaky smile forming despite the tears still slipping down his cheeks, his hand coming up to wipe them away messily. "I can learn what you like, what you need—I can—" he stumbled again, words spilling faster again than his brain could filter them. "I'm not experienced at sex at all though, but I—I can learn! I can fuck you hard to knock those stress— I can do that!—"

You moved faster than him this time. Your hand shot up, covering his mouth firmly before he could finish whatever the hell he was about to say next. "Jake..." you said, your eyes locking onto his immediately.

He froze. Completely. His body went still under your touch, his wide eyes staring at you like you just put him in place, a soft and almost stupidly affectionate shining in his stare. And for a second, neither of you moved—your hand still pressed over his mouth, his breath warm against your palm.

"You accidentally pressed the speaker for the backstage, you idiot," you hissed. Your hand was still half-frozen in front of his face, your embarrassment crawling up your neck as the realization fully sank in. From the other side of the curtain, the sudden silence from the spokesperson had already been replaced by laughter, whistles, loud cheering echoing from the AVR like the entire room had just turned into a stadium. Your stomach dropped even further at the thought of everyone hearing whatever Jake had just been saying.

God, you were so embarrassed. Worse than embarrassed—this was catastrophic. You could still hear fragments of reactions outside, like people replaying the moment for entertainment, and it only made your face burn hotter. Jake, meanwhile, had gone completely still for a split second before abruptly pulling your hand away from his mouth like he'd finally rebooted.

"I like you," he said again, suddenly firm, like the embarrassment outside didn't even register anymore. "Let me? Let me prove my feelings to you?" He stepped closer again, not in a rush, but with intent. "Let me prove that I deserve a second chance?"

"Jake, aren't you embarrassed?" you whispered urgently, leaning in just enough to keep your voice from carrying, your eyes darting toward the curtain where the noise was still going. "Press that button and we'll talk later—just stop the audio first—" You were trying to salvage whatever dignity was left in this situation, your tone a mix of panic and disbelief. "It's a yes but press those buttons—"

"I like you!" Jake repeated suddenly, cutting through your sentence again—but this time he laughed right after, like the chaos outside somehow made everything lighter instead of worse. Your eyes shut for a brief second, overwhelmed by the sheer absurdity of it all, but you couldn't ignore the way your chest tightened at the sound. "I like you so much!" he added, louder than before, like he couldn't contain it anymore.

That was when the door to the backstage swung open.

"Sim Jaeyun." The voice was strict that instantly enough to kill whatever remaining chaos was left in the room. The dean stood there, eyes locking onto Jake like a warning shot. "Office. Now."

You covered your face with both hands, mortified all over again as the reality of everything hit at once. Jake, however, didn't look away from you—not even for a second. He stood there, biting his lip slightly, eyes still fixed on you like the dean wasn't even the main concern. You peeked through your fingers just in time to see it—him still looking at you like that, like nothing else mattered.

And somehow, against all, you smiled. Just a little.

Jake saw it immediately. His expression softened, a small, breathless laugh slipping out of him like he couldn't help it. But then the dean cleared their throat again, sharper this time, and Jake straightened instantly, forcing himself to move. Still, even as he turned to leave, his eyes lingered on you one last time before he finally followed after the dean.

The controversy of what happened spread faster than you expected, like someone had lit a match and thrown it straight into dry grass.

Your group chat blew up almost instantly, messages stacking, names tagging you repeatedly. Even Karina's name popped up more than once, her messages sitting there unanswered alongside everyone else's, but you didn't feel like responding to any of it. When you showed up for training later, you acted normal enough—smiling faintly, shrugging when people nudged you for answers, letting them complain when you stayed quiet. But it was obvious, even to them, that something had shifted in you. You weren't irritated anymore. If anything, you felt... lighter.

By the time you got back home, you slowly pushed the apartment door open, not expecting anything unusual, and paused the moment your eyes landed on him. Jake was in the kitchen, moving carefully between the stove and counter. Soft music played in the background—Cigarettes After Sex. For a second, it felt like déjà vu, like your life had looped back. But this time, it's more real.

"So you give him a second chance and it's all good?" Karina's words echoed in your head. Of course not. It wasn't that simple. It couldn't be that simple after everything that happened. You stayed still near the doorway for a moment longer, just watching him move around the kitchen like he wasn't even aware of how much your world had tilted in the past day. He didn't look up right away. He just kept cooking, focused.

But it wasn't "all good." Not yet.

You were still figuring him out again, piece by piece, like retracing steps you once ran through too fast. There was hesitation in it, still uncertainty. But now there was something else too. An understanding. He likes you. You like him. That much was no longer buried under confusion or denial.

Maybe it wouldn't fall apart the way you once feared. Maybe it wouldn't be as complicated as it looked from the outside. Or maybe it would be exactly that—and you'd still choose to stay in it anyway. The thought of horoscopes, luck, fate drifted back into your mind again. Fine. Maybe they didn't control anything—but they nudged things in directions you weren't always ready for. The universe didn't have to be loud about it. Sometimes it just placed people in your path and let everything else unravel from there.

Without needing certainty yet, you stepped inside anyway.

"Me Gustas Tu."

Jake always like the stars.

He found himself thinking about how they didn't need to be closer to matter—they just existed, shining anyway, without asking for anything back. It reminded him of how some things in life just... stayed.

He likes fire too.

Not the kind that destroyed things carelessly, but the kind that spread slowly, beautifully, like it had intention behind every movement. The kind that didn't just burn—it transformed, left traces, changed the space it touched. He thought about how it looked when it moved, unpredictable but alive, impossible to ignore once you noticed it.

He likes the sea. The rain. Things that never really stop moving.

And if he had to turn all of that into something—if he had to explain what it felt like when you were around—it wouldn't come out neatly. It would probably sound messy, like him. Maybe he'd say you were like the brightest star he couldn't stop looking at. Or maybe he'd say you were like fire—something that made him burn. Or maybe he'd compare you to the sea, endless and overwhelming in the best way, pulling him in even when he should stay back.

Silly Jake—he really couldn't stop thinking about you, could he?

It was almost annoying how constant it had become, like your presence didn't need you physically there anymore to take up space in his head. Every small pause in his day somehow circled back to you, as if his thoughts had quietly rearranged themselves. Realizing that even silence now felt different when you weren't part of it.

The Volleyball Team had already made their way to Santiago City for the Regional Tournament, and Jake found himself trailing behind the group with a distracted mind. He stared down at his phone more than once, rereading your message that said you had arrived safely at your destination. It was just a normal update—but he kept looking at it anyway. You two weren't anything official yet, not even close enough for anything sweet, still stuck in that uncertain thing of figuring each other out. And before you left, things had been awkward again, the kind of awkward that made conversations shorter than they needed to be. Still, despite all of that, he missed you.

And that was the part that frustrated him the most.

Did everything that happened recently make him more desperate, or just more aware? He didn't even know anymore. It was like the absence of you had made everything louder—his thoughts, his habits, even the smallest pauses in his routine. He found himself wanting things he didn't used to think about before, like hearing your voice without a reason, or seeing you just standing there. God, he sounded pathetic in his own head. A total loser, really, the kind he would've rolled his eyes at if it was someone else.

Jake was almost restless for the entire three days, like his body had forgotten how to sit still without thinking about you. At one point, he ended up just staring at your fish tank for nearly an hour, watching the small movements. It was ridiculous, honestly, the way his attention kept drifting back to anything even remotely connected to you. You were busy the whole time—training, interviews, constant schedules—only messaging him late at night right before you slept, and even then it was brief, tired updates. Your phone had even been grounded by your coach at one point, and Jake nearly dropped his own phone in the bathroom when it suddenly rang with your notification tone. Jake was pathetic, and he knew it.

By the time the university bus was heading to Santiago, Jake had already made himself the first one there, sitting far too early with a bag that he kept checking unnecessarily. He dragged Heeseung along too, who looked half-dead already, yawning nonstop while leaning against his neck pillow. The rest of the group was still boarding, but Jake didn't care much about that part—his mind was already elsewhere, looping back to you even as the city started fading behind the bus windows. The road stretched out ahead, scenery shifting in slow motion, but all he could think about was seeing you again in person. It made him sit straighter without realizing it.

Jake is a loser and Jake is pathetically in love with you.

"I-I heard there's a lot of strong offense on the other team," Jake suddenly said as he leaned closer to the window, watching the scenery blur past. "I'm actually worried about her... what if they hit too hard and she gets bruises again?" he added, already picturing things he had no control over.

Heeseung beside him just let out another long, tired yawn, slouching deeper into his seat. "It's part of the competition, Jake," Heeseung replied flatly, voice dry and uninterested, like he'd answered this kind of concern too many times already. (He actually did)

Jake didn't seem reassured.

"Do you think I can talk to her after one of the matches?" he continued anyway, ignoring the lack of enthusiasm beside him. "Do you think they'll let them eat properly? What if the food is bad? I packed extra food too, and a first aid kit—just in case, so I can help if her hands get worse." He said it all in one breath.

Heeseung only yawned again, louder this time, barely even looking at him. "The sports management already said we're not allowed to talk to the team, Jake," he said lazily. "Not even pictures unless they don't make it to Day Three—which, honestly, I doubt."

Jake's lips pressed together slightly, his shoulders sinking just a little at that. By the time the bus finally arrived at the hotel, Jake was already holding his phone again, thumbs hovering over the screen before he typed out a quick message telling you that the university cheering squad had arrived safely and would be ready for the match. The hotel itself was only walking distance from the stadium—close enough that just knowing you were somewhere nearby made his chest tighten stupidly all over again. But your reply never came. Jake stared at the unread message for a few seconds longer than necessary before locking his phone with a quiet sigh. Of course you were busy. It was your first match, your focus should be there. Still, it didn't stop the anxious feeling crawling around in him anyway.

"Stop fidgeting," Heeseung muttered later as they handed over their tickets to the organizers, watching Jake bounce his leg nonstop while they waited to be stamped in. The entire stadium already felt loud before they even reached their seats, filled with students, chants, instruments, and that made Jake's ears ring almost immediately. They ended up seated near the front together with the band and the cheering squad, surrounded by noise that felt overwhelming enough to swallow him whole. Jake rubbed at his ear absentmindedly, trying to adjust to the volume, but the second his eyes landed on the court—on you—everything else faded anyway.

"Dude, sit down! She's not going anywhere," Heeseung hissed under his breath after Jake practically stood up the second he spotted you. He grabbed Jake's sleeve and forced him back into his seat before he embarrassed himself further. Jake awkwardly fixed his posture, shoulders stiff as he looked toward the court again—and then your head turned in his direction.

For one terrifying second, your eyes met his. Jake smiled immediately, awkward, his braces flashing while his entire face heated up from the attention. You only gave him a small smile in return before going right back to stretching like nothing happened. That tiny interaction alone was enough to make his chest feel full.

Heeseung was right about one thing though—the university wasn't exaggerating when they invested so much into Decelis' Women's Volleyball Team. Jake barely understood the game itself, but even he could tell the difference in level almost immediately. The coordination, the defense, the sheer pressure your team put onto the other side. The match didn't even last an hour before it was over, the crowd exploding into cheers while Jake sat there stunned, staring at the scoreboard like he couldn't believe how quickly everything ended.

And then, just as fast as it ended— you were gone again.

The sports organizers immediately started ushering the cheering squads and students toward the exits before anyone could crowd around the athletes. Jake instinctively stood again, craning his neck over people's shoulders, tiptoeing just to catch one more glimpse of you. He spotted you briefly near the sidelines, shaking hands and getting congratulated by the opposing team before staff quickly surrounded your group again, escorting all of you away toward the restricted areas.

Jake's shoulders dropped immediately after. Jake is pathetic. And right now, Jake felt fucking miserable.

That was exactly what happened on Day Two. Jake barely even noticed Santiago City despite everyone else talking about how beautiful it was, how lively the streets were at night, how there were places they should visit before heading home. None of it stayed in his attention for more than a second because his eyes kept falling back to his phone every few minutes. You would appear at the court for a couple of intense hours, completely alive, and then disappear again. Jake wasn't even allowed to properly approach you. Not a greeting. Not a quick conversation. Nothing. He was expected to just sit there like a normal supporter and wait for Day Three like everyone else. But Jake already knew what would happen tomorrow too—maybe you'd win, the crowd would swarm, organizers would rush your team away again, and he'd end up watching your back disappear for another fucking day. The thought alone was enough to make him restless.

By the time they got back to the hotel that night, Jake looked like he was losing his mind slowly. He kept rolling around on the bed, flipping his pillow over, grabbing his phone every two minutes only to stare at the same screen with no new notifications. His leg bounced nonstop, fingers fidgeting against his stomach while his thoughts kept circling back to you again and again. Heeseung eventually got fed up with the constant movement and straight-up kicked Jake's ass from the other bed.

"For fuck's sake, stop moving!" Heeseung groaned, half-asleep and irritated as hell. "You're making the entire bed shake."

Jake only huffed under his breath, glaring briefly before grabbing his bag and quietly leaving the room instead. Staying still clearly wasn't happening tonight.

Jake was determined now. Tomorrow was the finals, and it was already 10:17 PM. There was no way your team was still doing heavy training this late, right? Maybe you were already asleep. Maybe not. Maybe you were still stuck in some team meeting or recovery session. Jake didn't know, and the not knowing was making him itch. So against all common sense, he made his way toward the other venue building where the sports organizers and volleyball teams were staying. He walked carefully, shoulders tense, sneaking around like he was committing an actual crime before crouching near the grassy area outside when he heard voices nearby. He stayed there awkwardly for almost ten whole minutes, slapping mosquitoes and insects away from his arms while trying not to make any noise.

"Did that bitch literally threaten you?" a voice snapped somewhere ahead. "Just because they won last year doesn't mean we can't beat their ass tomorrow!"

"Giselle," another voice sighed immediately after. "Be the bigger person."

Jake instantly lowered himself further into the grass, nearly flattening his face into the ground before carefully peeking upward. Your team!

His eyes immediately found you among them without even trying.

You walked quietly beside the others, wearing oversized training clothes while lazily eating from a cup of ice cream, your expression tired. You scooped another spoonful slowly before lowering it again, staring into the cup like your mind was somewhere else entirely. Even looking exhausted, even standing half-awake— Jake still thought you looked so so so pretty.

"No, because why the hell would they threaten Yunjin and then give you a dirty look too?" Winter complained loudly, pointing at you with disbelief still written all over her face.

You only shrugged one shoulder lazily, taking another bite of ice cream like it genuinely didn't bother you. "Probably because I stared back," you muttered flatly.

"That's not helping your intimidation allegations," Ningning snorted from the side.

Jake had to physically press his lips together to stop himself from smiling too hard into the grass like a complete fucking idiot.

"I can't wait to beat their ass tomorrow!" Rei shouted dramatically, pumping her fist into the air. Jake stayed crouched awkwardly near the bushes, trying to remain hidden while still watching you from afar like a complete creep. His knees were starting to hurt from squatting too long, insects still attacking him from every direction, but he ignored all of it because you were right there. Then, in the middle of shifting his weight slightly—

Crack. Jake accidentally stepped on a dry branch.

Your entire team immediately went quiet. Jake froze so hard he almost stopped breathing, eyes widening as every single head turned toward the dark garden area where he was hiding.

"D-Did you guys hear that?!" Karina squeaked instantly, grabbing onto Winter's arm dramatically while looking around in panic.

The girls started screaming over each other almost immediately, some backing away while others started speed-walking toward the entrance. Jake slapped both hands over his mouth to stop himself from making another sound, shoulders tense while he watched the group scatter in pure confusion.

"T-there's a bear!"

"Shut up, why would a bear be here?!"

"Then what the fuck was that?!"

Jake stayed completely still for what felt like forever after they disappeared inside, barely even blinking as he listened carefully to make sure nobody was coming back with security.

Then suddenly he heard a one pair of footsteps approaching slowly. Jake squeezed his eyes shut briefly, already preparing himself mentally for getting caught by some staff member or organizer.

"Jake," your voice called quietly through the dark. "Did you know that if you get caught, the sports organizers would probably ban you from joining tournament cheering teams forever?"

Jake's eyes immediately opened again. He slowly peeked his head upward from behind the bushes and found you standing there alone now, arms crossed loosely while staring down at him. He stood up quickly, brushing grass and dirt off his pajama pants awkwardly before giving you the most painfully guilty smile possible.

"H-Hi."

"Hi," you replied, a small half-smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

Jake scratched the back of his head immediately, avoiding your eyes for a second before forcing himself to look again. "U-Uh... I couldn't sleep," he explained quickly, stumbling over the excuse. "T-That's why I went for a walk... you know..."

You stared at him flatly for a second, eyes slowly moving over his messy hair, oversized hoodie, his bag, and pajama pants that still had grass stuck to them. "How did you even get inside?" you asked finally, brows raising slightly in disbelief.

Jake let out an awkward little laugh under his breath. "Heh..." He rubbed his neck sheepishly. "I... climbed the back gate."

Your lips twitched immediately before you burst out laughing. It caught Jake completely off guard. He stood there frozen, staring at you while your shoulders shook lightly. His chest tightened stupidly at the sight. God, you looked so good laughing at him. Honestly, if this was what it took, Jake felt like he'd climb ten more fucking gates just to hear you laugh like that again.

"Why?" you asked between laughs.

Jake bit the inside of his cheek, his face already turning red under the dim lights. "I..." He hesitated for half a second before forcing himself through it anyway. "I wanted to see you," he admitted quietly.

You blinked at him. "Eh?" Your laughter faded as you tilted your head slightly. "You saw me during the tournament though. Besides, tomorrow's literally the last day. What's the catch?"

Jake immediately started fidgeting again, rubbing his palms repeatedly against his pajama pants like he didn't know where to place his nervous energy. "I miss you," he blurted out quickly before he could overthink it. The second the words left his mouth, his entire face heated up even more. God, that sounded corny as hell. Jake felt like some pathetic high schooler confessing to his crush behind the gym after class.

You stared at him quietly for a moment after that. At the way he kept fumbling with his hands. At the way he couldn't stay still. At the way he looked so genuinely nervous despite already confessing to you in front of an entire auditorium days ago. Cute. So fucking cute.

Your gaze slowly lifted away from him afterward, drifting upward toward the sky above the hotel grounds. The night had settled calmly over Santiago, the stars faint but visible around the huge glowing moon hanging overhead. The breeze was cooler now compared to the daytime heat, soft enough to make the leaves around the garden rustle quietly.

"The moon is beautiful, right?" you asked suddenly, softer in a way that made Jake immediately straighten.

"Huh?" He blinked before quickly following your gaze upward. "Ah—yeah. Right." He nodded awkwardly, staring at the moon, trying very hard to process what was happening.

But while he looked upward, you looked at him instead. At the way the moonlight softened his features, the way his messy hair moved slightly with the wind, the nervousness still written all over his face despite trying to hide it. A small smile slowly formed onto your lips before you finally called his name again.

"Jake."

Jake turned toward you immediately, almost too quickly, eyes wide and attentive as if he'd been waiting for you to say something else.

"I miss you too."

Jake stiffened instantly before the biggest smile slowly spread across his face, so wide it almost looked ridiculous. He looked down for a second, biting his lip like he was trying to stop himself from grinning too hard, but it clearly wasn't working. Even the tips of his ears were red now. God, he looked so stupidly happy over four words.

Somehow, the two of you ended up sitting together on one of the benches in the garden afterward. The awkwardness was still there, but it no longer felt painful. You found yourself telling him random things about your day without even realizing it—complaining about the freezing showers in the athlete dorms, the way Giselle almost started a fight earlier, how your coach yelled at the team because someone forgot their jersey during practice.

Jake listened to every single word carefully.

And somewhere in the middle of your rambling, he suddenly started pulling snacks out of his bag one after another. "W-What?" he mumbled shyly when you stared at the pile forming beside him. "I thought... maybe the food here sucks."

"You packed this much?" you snorted, staring at the ridiculous amount of food. Chips, bread, bottled drinks, chocolate bars, even packed containers wrapped carefully inside towels to keep warm.

Jake only shrugged awkwardly. "I thought you might get hungry."

Now your legs were comfortably stretched across his lap while the both of you shared snacks. Jake sat there quietly rubbing mint oil carefully onto the bruises forming around your calves and hands after today's match, his touch gentle despite how concentrated he looked. His brows furrowed slightly every time his fingers passed over darker bruises.

"Does this hurt?" he asked softly at one point, thumbs carefully pressing against your calf.

"A little," you admitted honestly before shoving another chip into your mouth.

Jake immediately eased the pressure after that. The silence afterward felt comfortable enough that your thoughts wandered again, eyes lifting toward the dark sky while the cold minty feeling spread across your sore skin. "Do you think people lose because they don't train enough?" you asked suddenly. "Or just because that's their fate?"

Jake's hands paused briefly on your leg before continuing slower this time. You huffed softly, tossing another chip into your mouth while staring at the stars. "If we lose tomorrow... does that mean we didn't work hard enough?" you continued. "Or maybe fortune just doesn't favor us."

Jake hummed quietly under his breath, clearly thinking carefully before answering. His eyes lifted toward the sky for a second too before he looked back down at your legs again. "I..." He hesitated slightly. "I guess that's what life is?"

You turned your head toward him while he continued massaging your calf slowly. "Life is unfair," he murmured quietly. "But that's just... how it works sometimes. We don't always hold the fortune. We don't always hold our own fate either." His fingers slowed absentmindedly against your skin. "Some people work hard and still lose. Some people barely try and somehow still win."

The breeze shifted softly around the two of you, carrying the distant sounds of traffic somewhere outside the hotel grounds. You looked at him carefully for a moment before asking quietly— "Do you believe in luck?"

Jake paused for a moment. His hand slowed slightly on your skin before he gave a small shrug of his shoulder. "I don't know?" he admitted honestly. "Sometimes it makes sense, sometimes it doesn't." He glanced down at your leg again while continuing to massage it gently. "But I got my horoscope read once... they said luck favors me," he added with a faint, awkward smile. "Dunno if it's true though."

That familiar half-smile formed on his face again after he said it. You stared at him quietly while he focused back on your bruises, fingers pressing lightly in slow, careful circles. In that moment, something in your chest tightened again. It felt stupid and obvious all at once, like your thoughts had already made up their mind. An unlucky you sitting here beside someone who casually talked about luck like it followed him around. What were the odds of that, really?

Ooooh, you're foolishly in love with this boy.

You exhaled softly. "I guess I just need to stick with you," you muttered with a small, almost teasing smile

The stadium was completely packed, like the entire city had decided to squeeze itself into one arena just to watch this match. The energy felt heavier too, everyone already knew this wasn't going to be an easy game. Jake could feel his ears ringing nonstop from the overlapping chants, drums, and screams echoing from every direction. Compared to Day One and Day Two, today felt sharper somehow. Heeseung, sitting beside him, kept laughing at the absurdity of it all—especially how the Decelis band and Isabella's band had basically turned into competing sound systems, blasting music louder and louder just to outdo each other while waiting for the teams to arrive.

"Today we are here to witness another rough battle in the Region!" the commenator announced through the speakers.

The crowd immediately exploded into noise again, shaking the entire structure. Jake flinched slightly at the volume, but he didn't look away from the court even for a second. The introductions began, one team after another stepping into the court under flashing lights and roaring applause. When Isabella's team was introduced, something about the atmosphere shifted.

"It's them! It's them! Oh my God, it's going to start!" the cheering squad beside them squealed loudly, practically jumping in their seats.

Your team walked out. The moment you appeared with the rest of the players, the crowd somehow got even louder, people waving banners, shouting names, and snapping photos like crazy. You moved confidently across the court, waving casually at the audience.

The moment your eyes landed on his direction, Jake reacted instantly without even thinking. He yanked off his hoodie in one quick motion, revealing the shirt underneath that had your face printed on it. For a split second, the entire section near him went quiet in shock. Your mouth literally fell open on the court, frozen mid-step, while even Heeseung slowly turned his head toward him with disbelief.

Jake caught sight of your lips curling into a bright smile as you stretched on the court, rolling your shoulders and loosening your arms. Without even realizing it, Jake found himself smiling too.

The game started almost immediately after introductions. Isabella's team was exactly what everyone warned about, a way that made every rally feel like a fight for survival. The difference between the two teams was small on the scoreboard, but on the court it felt massive, like every point was being ripped out instead of earned easily. Jake could feel himself tensing up more and more with each exchange, leaning forward in his seat without realizing it, breath catching every time the ball flew too close to your side. And every single time you dove—actually threw yourself across the floor to save a point—Jake reacted like he was the one getting hit. Ouch!

He grabbed Heeseung's arm at one point without thinking, squeezing too hard as he watched you slide across the court to receive a brutal spike. "Oh my God—she's gonna break something!" Jake muttered under his breath. You just got up like it was nothing, brushing your hands off and getting right back into position like your body didn't even register pain the same way normal people did.

"D-E-C-E-L-I-S! GO! GO! GO! GO!" Jake and Heeseung shouted together every time your team scored. He barely even noticed his voice getting hoarse, or the way his hands kept clenching the balloon tighter every time you made a play. All he knew was that you were out there, and everything else in the world felt like it was moving too fast to matter except that.

In the middle of the match break, Jake stayed frozen in his seat, eyes locked on your back as you stood near the sidelines. The number nine on your jersey stood out clearly. Your coach was talking to you at a steady pace, gesturing toward the court while you drank water from your bottle, nodding along with full focus even though your attention still seemed half on the ongoing match. Jake noticed everything—the way your shoulders rose and fell with controlled breathing, the way your grip tightened slightly around the bottle, and especially the way your eyes kept drifting back toward his direction every few seconds.

Something about it made his entire body feel strange.

The atmosphere in the stadium was still heavy, but inside Jake's chest everything suddenly felt... lighter. He didn't fully understand it, just that his thoughts slowed down in the middle of all the noise, like someone had briefly turned the volume of the world down just enough for him to breathe properly. Even his grip on the balloon loosened slightly without him noticing. And then, just as you turned away from your coach and started walking back toward the court, you gave him a soft smile.

Outside of this moment, people might've laughed at him for it, told him he was just being stupidly emotional, maybe just too deep in whatever this feeling was. They'd probably say it was just excitement, or he was just being corny in love. But Jake knew it wasn't that simple. It didn't feel chaotic the way nerves usually did.

It felt like the universe was saying something without using words.

He watched you step back onto the court, adjusting your position, rolling your shoulders once like you were resetting yourself completely. The light caught your face again, the sweat, the focus, the calm intensity in your eyes that made you look even more unreal than before. Pretty wasn't even enough of a word for it anymore in his head—it didn't feel big enough. Jake swallowed slightly, and his chest still felt oddly calm despite everything happening around him.

If passing down luck was possible, he'd give it all to you without hesitation.

But then again... you didn't look like someone who needed it.

Jake leaned forward slightly again, eyes tracking your movement as the whistle signaled the return of play.

Because deep down, he already knew it. One hundred percent. You were going to win.

"Oh ho ho ho! The Decelis Vampire is everywhere!"

The commentator's dramatic voice echoed through the stadium the moment you made another impossible receive, earning an explosion of screams from the audience. Jake breathed out shakily from his seat, fingers tightening around the edge of the banner resting on his lap as he stared at the scoreboard again. The difference between the two teams was still small enough to keep everyone tense, but something had clearly shifted after the last timeout. The second the whistle cut through the court again, Decelis moved like a completely different beast—every point started stacking one after another until even Isabella's side looked rattled trying to keep up.

You barely even felt your body anymore at this point.

The ball flew toward your side again and your feet moved before your thoughts could catch up, reacting after nearly two hours of nonstop rallies. Your hips still throbbed from the brutal spike you received earlier. Your knees burned too. Your shoulders felt heavy. One hour and forty minutes of constant passing, diving, receiving, running—it was exhausting enough to make your vision blur briefly every time the whistle paused.

You wanted to lie down. Just for a little while.

You turned your head for during the rotation shift and your eyes immediately found Jake again in the crowd. He wasn't screaming now like the others. He was sitting there quietly, staring at you with that same soft expression that always made your chest feel strangely warm no matter how exhausted you were. His hoodie was gone, exposing that ridiculous shirt with your face on it while his glasses reflected the lights.

And suddenly, more than resting— you wanted to go home. Home with him.

God knew what Jake probably sacrificed just to be here. You knew how sensitive he was with noise, how he usually avoided crowds because they overwhelmed him too quickly. He probably already missed his strict eight o'clock sleep schedule too, and judging from the dark circles faintly visible under his eyes even from the court, he was definitely running on pure determination alone right now.

Your chest tightened briefly at the thought.

Then the ball came flying toward your side again.

You inhaled sharply through your nose and threw yourself forward immediately, diving hard against the court floor to receive it cleanly before it could touch down. The impact stung violently against your body, but the sharp whistle blowing right after mixed instantly with the deafening screams erupting around the stadium.

"With the score of 58 and 61!" the announcer shouted over the roaring crowd. "Decelis advances their way to Nationals!"

Your teammates screamed immediately, some collapsing onto the floor while others tackled each other into hugs near the net. But while everyone else got swept into the excitement, you pushed yourself upright almost immediately, one hand clutching your hip as the pain shot through your side. Your entire body ached violently now that the adrenaline was wearing off, but you barely paid attention to it. Your eyes were already searching through the crowd.

Searching for one person.

Jake froze in his seat the second he realized you were walking directly toward his section.

At first, he genuinely thought maybe you were heading somewhere else. Maybe toward the cheering squad. Maybe toward your managers. But then you kept coming closer, eyes locked onto him so directly that his stomach immediately flipped hard enough to make him dizzy. Jake stood up hesitantly, nearly fumbling the balloon in his hands in panic.

"H-Hey—what are you—"

One of the sports organizers instantly moved when they noticed you approaching the spectator bounds, clearly about to stop Jake from stepping forward too far. But before they could say anything else, Heeseung grabbed the organizer by the shoulder with a grin already forming on his face.

"About fucking time." Heeseung snorted.

Jake barely even processed any of it, because the next thing he knew— you grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him.

Hard.

The entire stadium around him exploded louder somehow, a mixture of screaming, cheering, and scandalized reactions crashing together while cameras immediately started flashing toward your direction. Jake's brain completely short-circuited on the spot. His eyes widened for half a second in pure shock before he melted into it almost instantly, hands shakily grabbing your waist despite how badly they trembled.

He kissed you back immediately. Like he'd been wanting to do it forever.

The kiss wasn't neat either. It was breathless and messy. Jake could barely think properly through the pounding in his chest, through the warmth of your lips against his, through the realization that this was actually happening in front of thousands of people. Somewhere behind him, Heeseung was screaming like a maniac while the Decelis cheering squad lost their minds completely.

The moment the kiss broke, reality crashed back into your body all at once. The sharp pain shot through your hips agin, forcing a quiet wince out of you as your hand immediately clutched at your waist. Jake noticed instantly. His entire expression changed from happiness to panic in less than a second, hands carefully moving to steady you before you could lose your balance.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately as he held you closer against him.

"I want to go home," you muttered quietly instead, your forehead falling against the side of his neck as your body sagged closer to him.

Jake's breath caught instantly. The simple weight of you leaning into him like that nearly made his heart stop despite the worry crawling all over him. He adjusted his hold carefully around your waist, supporting more of your weight without even thinking about it.

"Let's get your hips checked by the medic first," he said softly, already glancing around for staff. "Y-You landed hard earlier..."

But before he could keep rambling nervously, you whisper tiredly against his neck. "I didn't expect to feel this much for you, Jake."

Everything inside him went warm, so suddenly that he physically felt it in his chest, that overwhelming fluttering sensation exploding all over again until his stomach twisted painfully with it. Jake swallowed hard, blinking rapidly behind his glasses while trying to process the words properly. God, you were going to kill him like this.

Carefully, almost shyly now despite the public eyes around you, Jake leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against your forehead. "Me too...me too." His hand rubbed gently against your side afterward, thumb moving in slow comforting strokes while he silently lifted his other hand to signal one of the medics nearby for assistance.

EPILOGUE

It took you a long time to actually sit down and reflect on everything that had happened.

For years, you kept convincing yourself that luck was random—that some people were simply born under better stars while others just had to survive whatever scraps the universe threw at them.

Unlucky with money, unlucky in your love life, unlucky in your sex life.

Things never came easily for you. Even when people admired you—your skills, your looks, your confidence on the court—they never really saw the exhausting parts underneath it. The loneliness. The constant feeling that you always had to fight twice as hard just to keep your head above water while pretending you were doing perfectly fine. Maybe that was why you became so cynical about all those stupid talks about fate, fortune, and luck. Maybe it was easier to roll your eyes and call everything bullshit rather than admit that deep down, you were terrified the universe simply wasn't built in your favor.

But maybe luck wasn't random at all.

When you really thought about it, you had spent so much time expecting disappointment that you stopped recognizing the good things while they were happening. You focused too hard on what was missing instead of what stayed. Sure, being broke sucked. It absolutely fucking sucked. And no amount of positive thinking magically fixed empty wallets, bruised feelings, or difficult lives. But somewhere along the way, you realized you had also started carrying your own unhappiness like proof that life owed you something cruel.

Maybe you lacked optimism. Maybe you lacked faith in anything getting better because the universe kept throwing the same shit at you over and over again until you got tired of trying to hope differently. That feeling was valid too. You had every reason to become guarded after everything. Every reason to distrust happiness when it rarely stayed long enough before. But lucky people... they weren't always lucky because life was easier for them. Sometimes they were lucky because they allowed themselves to reach for things anyway. To risk failure. To risk doing something. Even when they are afraid. 

"Open! Open! Daily cleaning at 9:00 AM!"

A long groan dragged out of your throat as the tiny robotic voice echoed outside the bedroom for what felt like the tenth time already. The curtains were still completely shut, the blackout fabric drowning the room in soft darkness despite the late morning sun outside, and you had been enjoying every second of sleeping. The apartment was comfortable and so warm, and honestly, you would rather die than get out of bed right now. But the damn robot kept knocking itself repeatedly against the door with persistence, its tiny speaker chirping louder every few seconds.

"Jake," you mumbled sleepily, eyes still closed as you reached behind you to tap the arm wrapped tightly around your waist, his legs tangled carelessly with yours beneath the blanket. You felt him stir a little, burying his face deeper into the back of your neck while muttering something under his breath, but the knocking outside only continued. "Jake, make Mo stop," you complained softly, but instead of moving, he only tightened his hold around you and pulled you closer against his chest with a sleepy little sigh.

"Open! Open! Daily cleaning at 9:00 AM!"

"Jake, baby," you called again, dragging the word out this time while lightly smacking his wrist. He groaned lowly against your shoulder, clearly refusing to leave the bed, and his hand slowly slipped underneath your shirt just to lazily trace circles against your stomach. The touch made you exhale softly despite yourself.

Outside, the robot continued its relentless banging, but Jake ignored it completely, pressing slow kisses against the side of your neck instead. His morning voice came out quieter than usual, rough and soft all at once as he whispered, "Can I touch?"

You groaned again but gave him a small nod anyway. The second he got permission, his hand slid higher, squeezing gently at your chest while his lips continued wandering across your skin with lazy affection. You tilted your head back slightly, giving him more room, and he took full advantage of it immediately, kissing along your jaw before lifting his sleepy eyes toward you. His glasses were missing somewhere on the nightstand, his brown hair sticking out everywhere. "Kiss, please," he whispered lazily, already leaning closer before you could even answer.

You kissed him just to shut him up.

Jake immediately melted into it with a soft whine. His lips moved slowly against yours, still half-asleep, but it quickly deepened when his hand tightened around your waist and pulled you on top of him. The blanket shifted around your tangled bodies while the robot outside continued yelling about cleaning schedules. Jake kissed like he was addicted to it now, messy and affectionate and greedy all at once. Even after years together, he still kissed you with the same overwhelming softness that made your chest ache.

And honestly, both of you already knew one thing for sure. Jake absolutely loved kissing you.

"Open! Open! Daily cleaning at 9:00 AM!"

You groaned softly against Jake's lips before finally pulling away from the kiss, your forehead still resting briefly against his while you tried to gather enough energy to function properly. "Open the door for Mo," you muttered lazily as you pushed lightly at Jake's chest to make him move. Jake only huffed in protest, clearly offended at being forced out of bed, scratching messily at his hair before reaching around blindly for his glasses on the nightstand.

You stayed sprawled across the bed while watching him stand up with slow sleepy movements. His oversized white shirt hung loosely over his frame, exposing his legs beneath the thin black shorts he had thrown on before sleeping, and you couldn't help staring for a second as he shuffled toward the door. The moment he opened the bedroom door, Mo immediately rolled inside without hesitation, spinning once before beginning its programmed cleaning route across the floor.

"You seriously need to stop adopting Heeseung's robots," you complained while sitting up properly, stretching your arms above your head until your back cracked pleasantly. "We can literally clean by ourselves."

Jake yawned loudly while adjusting his glasses up the bridge of his nose, already turning around to drag himself back toward the bed with clear intentions of trapping you there again. Before he could grab your waist, you quickly stood up and reached for your shorts from the floor. "Jake, it's already nine," you reminded him while pulling them on. "Training starts at one. I still need to fix my stuff and prepare."

A long miserable whine immediately left his throat at that.

Jake had become even clingier than before. Not that you were complaining. Things had changed between the two of you. Jake no longer slept exactly at eight in the evening because most nights ended with both of you curled together on the couch watching movies until late, stealing kisses during slow scenes, or getting distracted halfway through and stumbling into the bedroom instead (sex). You did feel a little guilty sometimes since he used to be so strict with his routines, but Jake always brushed it off immediately whenever you brought it up.

Honestly, the man acted like a giant koala now.

The second you moved too far away from him, he would cling right back onto your side without shame. While you were fixing your hair in front of the mirror, Jake wrapped both arms around your waist from behind again, pressing his face against your shoulder while Mo continued cleaning nearby. "Stay in bed," he mumbled weakly against your skin, still sounding sleepy. You snorted softly at the feeling of him practically hanging his whole weight onto you, but your hand still reached up automatically to fix the messy strands of his hair away from his glasses.

"You say that every morning," you muttered.

"Because every morning you leave me," Jake replied dramatically, tightening his hold around your waist while you laughed quietly under your breath.

Your eyes drifted past Jake's shoulder toward the wall, landing on the collection of medals, framed certificates, and trophies lined neatly across the shelves. Some were old awards from high school, others were from university tournaments, and a few still had ribbons tangled together because you had been too lazy to organize them properly after Nationals. Jake had insisted on displaying every single one of them anyway, even the participation plaques you thought looked ugly. You smiled quietly to yourself before looking back at your boyfriend standing in front of you,. Sometimes it still hit you unexpectedly—how impossible this whole thing used to feel.

Who could thought? You had your six months of sharing an apartment with someone who barely looked you in the eyes.

Back then, you genuinely thought Jake would remain nothing more than the quiet engineering student that have an addiction to legos and hot wheels. And now? Now he stood in your apartment kitchen every morning half-asleep while cooking your meals, whining whenever you left the bed too early, kissing your forehead.

Jake became your person.

You stepped closer and pressed a quick kiss against his lips before walking past him toward the living room. Jake immediately followed after you without hesitation, dragging his feet lazily across the floor while scratching the back of his neck. You crouched beside the fish tank to feed your fish while listening to the familiar sounds of him moving around the kitchen behind you. Jake had developed this habit of cooking both your breakfast and lunch every single training day no matter how many times you told him he didn't have to. He always answered the same way too.

"I want to."

After feeding the fish, you returned to your bedroom to finish packing your things for training, tossing extra clothes and towels into your duffel bag while mentally checking your schedule for the day. You were halfway through folding your jersey when something bumped gently against your ankle. Looking down, you immediately recognized the small robot staring up at you with glowing blue eyes.

Bumble tilted slightly like it was waiting for attention, the tiny camera blinking while its mechanical voice chirped softly. "Hi!"

"Jake, the food," you called out immediately while staring directly at the robot's camera.

You heard his laugh from the kitchen almost instantly.

A few seconds later, Jake appeared in your doorway with that stupid soft smile on his face, walking straight toward you just to lean down and steal another kiss. He adjusted the whistle hanging around your neck afterward, fingers brushing gently against your skin before stepping back. "Ay yay, captain," he teased quietly, earning an immediate scoff from you despite the smile pulling at your lips.

Nationals still sat heavily in your chest sometimes.

Third place. Not first. Not the championship everyone had dreamed about during those exhausting practices and sleepless nights. It had hurt watching the seniors cry after the final match, hurt even more realizing that people like Karina, Winter, Ryujin, Yeji, and Yunjin were really leaving now that graduation had finally caught up to them. Every practice lately carried this strange emptiness that you still hadn't fully adjusted to. You missed them badly if you were being honest. No future teammates, no future victories, no future season would ever replace the bond all of you built together.

But endings did not always mean loss. That was something life had slowly forced you to understand.

After finishing your packing, you wandered out of your room and toward Jake's almost absent one out of pure habit. The door was slightly open already. It had honestly been a while since Jake actually slept here properly considering he spent nearly every night tangled in your bed instead. Still, the room looked painfully like him—organized in his own way and filled with little traces of the things he loved.

Your eyes drifted toward the transparent shelves mounted carefully against the wall. Hot Wheels lined up in neat rows beside completed Lego builds he had spent hours working on during stressful nights, some of them gifts from you, others things he proudly bought himself after passing difficult projects or exams. Mo sat charging quietly near his desk now beside scattered engineering blueprints, and one of your old volleyball wristbands was looped carelessly around its antenna. You smiled softly at the sight before dropping yourself onto his bed with a tired sigh, sinking into the familiar mattress while staring up at the ceiling.

It only took a few seconds before the bed dipped beside you.

Jake crawled in next to you without a word, immediately wrapping his arms around your waist. His chin rested against your shoulder while his legs tangled with yours. "It's honestly useless renting a separate room when you basically live in my bed now," you muttered with amusement while turning slightly toward him. Jake only hummed quietly in agreement, tightening his hold around you instead of denying it. "And both of us are graduating soon too... oh my God."

No more university tournaments. No more scrambling through deadlines and practices and late-night study sessions with Jake. Life was shifting again, slowly moving forward whether you were ready or not. For a moment the room fell quiet and when you looked back at Jake, you noticed him staring at you strangely.

You frowned slightly under the weight of his gaze. "Is there a problem?"

"I love you," he said immediately, without hesitation, like breathing.

The words came out so naturally now compared to before. No stuttering. No panic. No fumbling over syllables while avoiding eye contact. Jake said it softly but confidently, eyes fixed completely on yours. Your expression softened almost instantly, and you moved closer to wrap your arms around him properly. "I love you too, silly," you murmured while caressing his cheek gently with your thumb.

Jake leaned into your touch immediately.

"Remember when you told me before..." he started quietly. "About not knowing what to do after volleyball?" Your brows lifted slightly at the sudden topic change, but you nodded anyway while continuing to stroke his hair back from his forehead. Jake swallowed before continuing. "I wanted to say a lot back then. I just couldn't." He laughed weakly at himself before looking back at you again. "But you can literally do anything. You could teach, or coach, or maybe start some weird fish business—"

You snorted softly.

"Jake," you interrupted with a smile. "I already told you. I'm planning to continue volleyball professionally. I'm aiming for the league now. I'm not stopping."

"—Or maybe..." Jake suddenly cut in quietly.

His arms loosened around you.

"Live with me."

Your smile faltered slightly in confusion as you slowly pushed yourself upright on the bed. Jake followed your movement immediately, but instead of sitting beside you again, he slid off the mattress completely. Your eyes widened the second you realized what he was doing.

Jake was kneeling on the floor.

"Jake," you said slowly, staring at him in complete disbelief while your heartbeat immediately started climbing into your throat. He looked nervous all over again for the first time in years, hands visibly shaking while he pushed his glasses higher up his nose. His cheeks were already bright red, his breathing uneven, but he still kept looking directly at you despite how terrified he obviously was.

Then he reached into his pocket.

"Oh my God," you whispered instantly.

"I have a proposition to make," Jake breathed out nervously. His fingers shook so badly while opening the small velvet box that you were half afraid he was going to drop it onto the floor entirely. But the second the lid flipped open, your breath caught hard in your throat. A ring rested inside, and the sight of it hit you so suddenly that your eyes immediately started burning with tears.

Jake noticed instantly and panicked a little.

"I-I will support you through everything," he rushed out quickly, voice trembling while he looked up at you from the floor. "Your league, internationals, all of it. I swear I will. I-I'll keep loving you, deeply, openly..." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his own eyes glossy now behind his glasses. "I know you'll probably think this is too early—"

"Jake, no," you interrupted immediately, shaking your head so fast your vision blurred slightly. The tears were already slipping down your cheeks now, but he misunderstood the reaction immediately because of course he did. Jake's face fell for a split second, panic flashing all over his expression before he hurriedly continued speaking again.

"But it doesn't mean we have to do everything immediately," he said quickly, almost pleading now as he shifted closer on his knees toward the bed. "I just... I want a future with you... Live with me? Not as roommates anymore, but really with me. As my lover. My person." His voice softened shakily near the end, his eyes refusing to leave yours despite how emotional he looked now. "And someday... as my wife."

The room suddenly felt too small for your heartbeat. For a second, all you could do was stare at him kneeling there beside the bed—the same quiet boy who once could barely survive a single conversation with you now looking at you like you were the center of every future he wanted. Jake's hands were still trembling around the ring box while he waited, breathing unevenly, clearly trying not to completely spiral if you stayed silent too long.

A wet laugh escaped your mouth suddenly as you wiped your tears with the back of your hand. "You're so fucking unfair," you whispered shakily, which immediately made Jake look even more nervous. His lips parted like he was about to apologize again, but before he could spiral into another overthinking breakdown, you grabbed his face with both hands.

"Jake," you said softly.

He froze completely beneath your touch.

"You are already my home."

Jake's eyes widened so much it almost made you laugh again through your tears. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again uselessly while staring at you like he couldn't process what he was hearing. You smiled weakly before leaning down until your forehead rested against his.

"Yes," you whispered.

Jake blinked once. "...Yes?" he repeated weakly, sounding completely stunned.

"Yes, idiot," you laughed through your tears, and the second the words fully registered in his brain, Jake let out the most broken, overwhelmed noise you had ever heard from him before immediately grabbing your waist and pulling you into him. The ring box nearly fell from his hands from how hard he hugged you, his face burying against your stomach while his entire body shook with relieved laughter.

"Oh my God," he kept mumbling breathlessly against you. "Oh my God, oh my God..."

You buried your fingers into his messy hair while laughing softly yourself, overwhelmed and emotional and ridiculously happy all at once. Jake pulled back just enough to shakily slide the ring onto your finger, his hands still trembling the entire time. The moment it settled perfectly in place, he stared at it like he genuinely couldn't believe it was real.

Then his eyes slowly lifted back toward you again. "My fiancée," he whispered, sounding completely in awe of the words alone.

Unlucky with money, unlucky in your love life, unlucky in your sex life. The same "bad luck" that used to follow you around had somehow led you here anyway, step by step, mistake by mistake, person by person.

Those were bad luck. And bad luck is temporary.

You smile and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against Jake's forehead. Ha, you're not out of luck either, aren't you?

You have Jake. Your good bestest luck.

And a good bestest luck lasted a lifetime.

NOTE: you reached the end, yay! thank you for loving the lucky family! (reader, jake, whitey, pinky, bumble, guppy and mo hehe) :) this is not really my best story but i definitely enjoy writing nerd jekjek and building their world! i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoy writing. love lots!!! - shi

[ryo-so-swag]

Graduation is two weeks away, and you’re set on losing your virginity before it’s over. But as you push your limits with Sion, the unspoken rules that have governed your friendship with Yushi for five years begin to fail. You realize the "do something that scares me" entry on your bucket list wasn't about having sex at all—it was about the moment the safety of your friendship dissolved, forcing you to see Yushi for who he’s truly been all along.

╰┈➤ tags: non-idol au, best friends to lovers, fluff, they’re 19, WC: 15.8k

warnings: first time, jealousy, oral (fem receiving), mutual masturbation, breastplay, p in v (protected!), they’re so freaked out, reader is horny and impatient, actually making love if you squint

“We should make a list.”

Yushi looks up from his textbook. “Mh?”

“A bucket list,” You clarify, your cheeks flushing as you fidget with the edge of the book. “I mean, we’re graduating in exactly two weeks, and there are still so many things we haven’t done. We haven’t really lived high school.”

“You don’t live high school. You just survive it, y/n.” He shakes his head, returning his eyes back down to the dense paragraphs of his book.

You watch him, annoyed by how easily he remains untouched by the urgency pulling at you.

It frustrates you how he can just retreat into his own quiet corner, completely unfazed by it all, while your own mind is spinning with the countdown of your final days. You sigh, leaning across the desk to press your palm flat against the cover of his textbook and snap it shut.

Under the weight of your hand, Yushi finally stills.

“I’m just saying.” Your voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Aren’t there things you want to do before leaving this shithole? Things you won’t ever be able to do once we’re out there in the real world?”

The book sits trapped beneath your palm, but he makes no move to reclaim it. Instead, he watches the way the golden light catches on the edge of the wood—silent, as if he wants to gather it up, seize it, and keep it tucked away in his pockets forever as a memory. A still ache fills your chest as you watch him. You realize how quickly this morning light will fade into afternoon blues, and how these stolen moments before the bells ring are already narrowing down to zero.

You push the ticking clock of graduation out of your mind for a second, and focus on the steady rhythm of his breathing right across from you—even though you already begin to miss the version of him that belongs only to this room.

“Maybe,” He finally breaks the silence, his voice trailing off as if he is letting the thought truly settle between you. “I kind of want to stage a protest at graduation. Steal a golf cart, drive it across the stage while the principal is mid-speech. Go out with a bang.”

“Oh?” You let out a soft laugh, the sound bright against the heavy memories of this classroom. “I was thinking of something a little more lowkey, like maybe just showing up, but if you’ve already got the getaway vehicle picked out...”

You turn in your chair, crouching down to unzip your backpack. Yushi watches you, his quiet gaze unreadable. You can't tell if he genuinely resents the distraction, or if he's simply caught off guard by the restless energy you've brought into his world. Pulling out a stray, slightly crumpled piece of paper, you smooth it flat against the worn wood of the table.

“Let’s make a proper list,” You say, clicking your pen. You look up at him, your gaze thick with expectation.

Yushi just stares back at you, his expression entirely empty like a clean page waiting for you to write the first line.

You roll your eyes and the tension breaks just a little. “Okay, fine, I’ll start. I want us to have an all-night movie marathon. No sleeping allowed. Your turn.”

The quiet air between you shifts as he finally lets the weight of your seriousness settle. He looks at you, and there it is—that sudden, unspoken understanding that he sees the restless countdown echoing in your head. For the first time, he is willing to meet you in it.

“Let’s watch the sunset,” He says, letting the words drift softly across the table. “Somewhere high up, where we can see the whole town turn to dark.”

“I like that.”

Even as time pulls the world toward tomorrow, there is no one else you would rather stay beside as the day draws to a close. So you just sit there, your shoulder brushing against his, stealing another minute from a world that won't stop moving.

A sharp ache settles into the spaces between your ribs. You look at his face, trying to memorize every line of it, the exact tilt of his head, silently pulling the moment taut and stretching this fragile present as far as it can go.

The truth is that you aren’t ready to let go just yet. Yushi has claimed a place in your life despite the short time you've known him. He stepped into your world so quietly and completely that it feels as though he has always been there, filling up the empty spaces before you even knew how to name them.

You clear your throat. “My turn. I want to buy myself something completely frivolous.”

The corners of Yushi’s mouth perk up. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. A pair of really hideous earrings.”

“You don’t even have your ears pierced.”

“That’s the whole point, Yushi.” You say, emphasizing each word before dissolving into a soft laugh.

Yushi smiles then, and his features yield to the moment just as a stray beam of sun hits his face. The glow seems to spill from him—and suddenly, the morning light flares against the glass, painting the empty classroom in strokes of warmth that make the world outside fade completely away.

“Come on,” You say softly, the words barely more than a murmur as your shoulder gently brushes against his. “Give me more.”

As Yushi takes the paper and pen into his hands, you feel your heart sink and swell all at once. The room falls still—the only sound the faint scratching of the pen before he lays it down between you.

“Start a new tradition?” You read aloud.

Yushi nods, though his expression carries a flicker of uncertainty. “Yeah. Something just for us. Something we keep doing, no matter where we go for college or how messy things get.”

A tradition means a promise to keep going, even when college changes everything. It is exactly what you have been too afraid to ask for. Still, you look up from the ink to his face, where the morning light still catches the edge of his jaw, and feel the ache behind your ribs finally begin to soften.

“Okay,” Your whisper steadies as you meet his gaze.

Yushi can be frustratingly guarded, but underneath the silence, there’s precision to the way he cares. He doesn’t always use words to say it, but he has a way of noticing the tiny things you think go unseen—the invisible shifts in your posture when you feel exposed, and the wordless truths you try to keep to yourself.

When he passes the paper back to you, your hand wavers over the blank space. You know exactly what you want to write, but the thought of seeing it in ink makes your pulse quicken. Putting it on the page would make it real—and once the words are there, in indelible ink, everything changes.

“What?” Yushi asks, tilting his head as if trying to decode the sudden hesitation in your eyes.

“Promise you won’t laugh at me?”

“I didn’t laugh when you confidently gave a five-minute presentation in English class with your sweater on completely backward and inside out.” Yushi counters. “I don’t think anything could top that.”

A small smile breaks through your nerves as you shake your head. He had definitely let out a quiet snort back then, but you love the effort he is making to ease your mind.

“I want to do something that scares me.” You murmur.

Yushi leans in close and slides his chair toward yours, shrinking the room around you until the tension in your shoulders fades away. “Like what?”

Your fingers trace the cool plastic of the pen, then your grip tightens, stalling before the nib can even brush the page. You could back down—the idea was yours, after all—but a resolute voice at the back of your brain is pulling at you to be brave. It’s a fragile thing, this unspoken truth hanging heavily between you. You know Yushi will not mock you, yet you remain suspended on the edge of your own hesitation between the thought and the ink.

To write the words down is to admit who you are becoming.

You are nineteen now, standing on the precipice of everything that comes next. There is an unshakable gravity to growing up, and to the dire terror of letting someone else see the parts of you that you keep hidden—but the regret of never knowing feels infinitely heavier. You do not want to leave high school without that kind of understanding.

The words leave your lips before your mind can pull them back.

“I want to have sex.”

A hot flush creeps up your neck and paints your cheeks an undeniable red. This was a mistake, you think almost instantly, as a sudden panic anchors itself in your chest. You brace yourself for the inevitable—for Yushi to break into a grin, to crack a joke, or to hide behind his usual dry wit to save you both from the awkwardness.

But Yushi swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply against the sudden stillness. He parts his lips as if to say something, but the words dissolve before they can form, and the laughter you expected entirely vanishes. Instead, his gaze drops and traces the familiar lines of your world. His eyes flicker toward the school logo stitched over your chest, and from there, they drift down to your hands as you nervously twist the pen in your lap.

The air between you bends, growing dense with a warmth that coats your skin like early summer fever. He remains perfectly still, yet the atmosphere around him begins to press close. A faint rippling breaks through his composure, and you can sense the change in the air like the first press of wind before a storm. His breathing turns shallow, and the familiar mask of his mockery melts from his face. His eyes lock onto yours like a needle finding north, though it is unclear just how deeply your words have marked him.

A long moment passes before Yushi finally lets the quiet fall away.

“Having sex is like, the one thing you can still do out there in the adult world.”

“I know, but it’s different.” You say, taking a deep breath to steady the fluttering in your chest. “I just want to have some experience before college. That’s all.”

Yushi nods, though the tight line of his mouth betrays his skepticism. “Nobody cares about those things in the real world. If somebody really likes you, they won’t give a crap if you’re inexperienced.”

Your lips pull into a slight pout. “I’m scared of looking clueless at college. You know how guys get with girls who haven't had a boyfriend yet. Plus… I want to know how it feels. Don't you?"

His eyes lock onto yours with the pull of a tide that drowns out every thought he dares not say, and leaves you to drown in a silence of your own making. The single second stretches into an eternity as he silently weighs the risk of laying his mind bare, before the tension in his jaw melts into something softer.

“Of course I’m curious,” He confesses, his voice dropping into a near-whisper cadence. “But I’m not going to rush this just because everyone else is. I want to wait until it feels right.”

An anxious urge pulls you forward even as your instincts warn you to draw back. Your spine teeters in a tense tilt, locked between wanting to know and wanting to look away. You look for any sign of what he's thinking, but find nothing worth holding on to—Yushi only ever offers the words, and hoards the depth to himself.

“And how do you know if it’s right?”

A gentle expression dawns on Yushi’s face just as the morning sun caresses him, gilding the curve of his mouth in amber light. Without even realizing, the warmth tugs at your lips and pulls them upward to mirror his own. It feels like you’re sharing a moment that belongs only to the two of you—until the frigid voice of rationality steps in, whispering that it doesn't mean anything more.

Yushi is a friend. Just a friend.

Still, he holds your eyes just a beat longer than he usually does. There is an unmistakable tenderness there, so plain for you to see—the kind of unfiltered affection that strips away his usual distance and leaves your heart tripping over its own rhythm.

“I’ll just know.”

You are on a mission.

You know exactly what you have to do, even if Yushi doesn’t entirely agree with your methods, or the ultimate scope of what you are chasing. Truly, ever since that conversation in the empty classroom a few days ago, you haven't been able to think about anything else. Taking that leap is just a normal part of growing up. It is a path so many others have already walked, and yet it feels like a monumental rite of passage to you, even if the rest of the world treats it as routine.

You want the experience for yourself—not because everyone else is doing it, but because you are tired of just wondering what lies on the other side of that threshold. You want to feel that rush for yourself. So, so badly.

The plan is simple: you show up at Sion’s party in a top that pulls and lifts until your chest looks like an invitation, and you wait for someone to get lost in the shadowed dunes between one breast and the other.

Yushi just shakes his head when you lay out the night like it’s a high-stakes heist. He mutters that you're taking a step backward by dressing for an audience, but his logic is just cold salt against the feverish hum of your skin. You aren’t here to entertain his lecture when your pulse is already aimed toward the prize—a night where you feel bold and reckless enough to chase the heat of being wanted and the ache of being ruined.

The plan is already in motion, and you don’t care that Yushi went dead silent the second you stepped out of your front door. You don’t care that he hasn't looked at you once since he started the car, his knuckles white against the steering wheel as if the space between the seats has suddenly become impossible to navigate. Whatever storm is brewing on his side of the car is just a hollow echo compared to your reflection, where your tits spill over the edges of that top like a sacred invitation waiting for the right pair of hands to claim it.

(And if Yushi’s gaze founders in your cleavage when you’re applying another layer of gloss, you don’t notice at all. You never do, anyway.)

When you arrive at the party, the room is already a sea of moving bodies. You recognize faces from the high school hallways, classmates waving at you and Yushi with drinks clutched tightly in their hands. The music is loud enough that you feel the bass deep in your chest—an overwhelming intrusion, but exactly what you need. It serves as a physical reminder that you are standing here, wide awake, burning so desperately with life.

You catch sight of Sion, and your focus narrows onto him like he is your chosen prey for the evening. Beside you, Yushi goes still. You don't have to say a word for him to register the tension in your shoulders—he simply absorbs the shift, the way he always does, and silently closes the space between you.

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret.” His whisper sends waves of shivers right through you. Before the sensation even has time to settle, his palm finds the bare skin above your skirt and takes root there, firmly, as if the touch is the only thing keeping you from dissolving entirely into the noise.

Yushi gives you one last look that is laden with hesitation, yet stripped of the softness he usually holds for you. And right then, even in the shadows of the house, you don’t need clarity to know the ground has just given away beneath your feet. The fierce chasm in his eyes pools darker than the room itself.

You nod anyway and wait, tracking Yushi until he's folded back into the crowd before you turn your heels toward Sion. You don’t even know why you do it—this hesitation, this lingering. Part of you wants to make sure he isn’t left alone for the rest of the night, and the rest just needs him far enough away that he won't see the mistake you're about to make.

By the time you reach Sion, your lips curve into a wide smile that tilts more into a smirk.

It’s no secret Sion is good-looking. There’s a natural authority to his presence that draws every eye and cradles him at the center of the room while everyone else blurs around him. You don’t particularly feel that pull yourself, but that doesn't stop you from appreciating that he was handed a winning hand by biology itself. Sion’s good looks are a fact, an objective truth acknowledged by the entire school body—and a detail you’re more than willing to turn in your favor right now.

“Hey,”

You say, the word coming out a little too stiffly. A little too rushed. A wave of self-consciousness washes over you instantly, and you regret the awkwardness the exact second it leaves your mouth.

“Oh, y/n! I was hoping you’d come.” Sion says, and there's a sudden brightness in his expression that's impossible to miss. He shifts on his feet, leaning toward you as he gestures toward a line of bottles. “Let me pour you a drink.”

Leaning against the kitchen counter, you watch him reach for the glasses with a practiced ease—but even as you take in the brilliant sight, you're entirely immune to his effect.

There’s no magic in the way the veins in his hands grow distinct and tense as he reaches for the bottle. You don't feel a single thing when he manufactures a flimsy excuse just to reach out and tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Your heart remains perfectly still even when he takes your glass, fitting his mouth over the exact, shimmering stain of your lip gloss without breaking eye contact once. It’s irritating, almost—how much you wish your heart would hammer against your ribs when his hand begins tracing causal circles against your skin.

There’s no rush, none of the excitement you thought you’d feel—just pure remorse that settles over you like a long evening shadow, swallowing every last bit of your warmth.

Sion’s lips press against yours, testing the waters before he pulls you in deeper with more purpose. You go through the motions as you kiss him back, even though the moment feels too rushed, too hollow. It’s frustrating how easily it falls apart against the weight of the expectations you spent the whole school year imagining.

Sion has clearly done this before, yet his touch feels entirely superficial, like he’s afraid to let his guard down and leave a real impression. His hands hover and shift against your waist, never quite finding where to rest and lacking any real intent. It coaxes a frustrated groan from your throat—a sound he misinterprets completely as a green light to draw you closer.

The urge to wedge distance between your bodies makes your eyes flicker open, but every intention evaporates the moment you catch sight of Yushi watching from across the room. While the rest of his friends sway to the beat of the music, Yushi stands completely still, his eyes fixed solely on you. Even from across the crowded room, you see the sharp clench of his jaw the second Sion’s hand brushes against your cheek.

It isn't the first time Yushi has kept a protective eye on you at a party, ready to offer an easy escape if things go sideways—but tonight, there are deeper undercurrents to his vigilance. The warm solace of your best friend is gone, overwritten by a severe coldness you can’t decipher. But the more you look at him the more the restlessness at the base of your stomach—the one that hadn't stirred at all while Sion touched you—flares to life.

It’s a rush of pure adrenaline, and it has nothing to do with the sloppy, uncoordinated kisses Sion is forcing on your lips.

It is just Yushi, you remind yourself. Your Yushi, the person who knows you better than anyone else—yet, he is watching you with a gravity that means nothing and everything all at once.

Pushing your hands against Sion, you finally force enough distance to break apart. If this is everything you’ve ever wanted, why does drawing in a breath taste like absolute freedom? Like it’s the only good thing that’s happened all night? You glimpse the confusion on Sion’s face and the shape of an apology bending his mouth—one you don't actually hear, but feel settling over you all the same.

Right now, you can't string a single thought together. All you can see, all you can focus on, is the tight clench of Yushi’s jaw while someone else’s mouth is crowded against yours, and the gaze he fixes on you, burning, almost obsessive, as if it’s taking him every ounce of his control not to step in and rip Sion away from you.

As if your very breath belongs to him.

Your feet move toward a precise location before you’ve even had a chance to think your actions through. It’s muscle memory—an instinctual, inescapable pull that always draws you back to Yushi whenever the world starts to feel like too much. But this time, as you weave through the sea of dancing bodies, you feel a spark of anger ignite at your fingertips.

He ruined it—partially, technically. Without taking so much as a single step toward you, Yushi managed to completely shatter the moment. He has no clue that a single look from him made you feel more alive than Sion’s kiss ever could, and he can’t know either.

To tell him the truth is to cross a line you can never, ever step back over. Yushi is your best friend, of all people. The one person you can’t afford to lose. To give the attraction a name is to strike a match against your history and watch everything you’ve ever built together go up in flames. As you close the distance between you, the reality sinks in—this friendship is the only safe ground you have left, and you aren't ready to lose it.

“Checked it off your list already?”

He tries to pass it off as a joke, but his tone gives him away. It doesn't sound like casual sarcasm to your ears. If anything, it sounds like a raw nerve being struck—as if watching you with someone else is a bitter pill he's being forced to swallow.

He doesn't even spare you a glance as he speaks.

His shoulders are squared toward the rest of your friends, carving out a space that completely excludes you as if you’ve become invisible to the only person you're actually looking at.

You should be glad he isn’t looking at you right now, not after the way his gaze burned through you while you were with Sion. But you aren't. Because even just catching the edge of his jaw in the dim light makes you fall apart anyway.

“What is wrong with you tonight?” You press, stepping closer so he can hear you over the music.

Yushi’s expression tightens. He keeps his eyes fixed on the scuffed floorboards, refusing to meet your gaze. “What are you talking about?”

“Really? You don’t know?” The words burst from you, the tension of the past few days finally bubbling over. “You criticized me. You tried to talk me out of this. You groaned in frustration every time I even mentioned how I wanted tonight to go, and then you just stood there, staring me down. It feels like you’ve been doing everything in your power to ruin my night.”

He lets out a dry snort but says nothing, keeping his lips tightly sealed. His eyes deliberately wander to the ceiling, and that's the exact moment your frustration finally boils over.

“You won't even look at me,” The words come out quieter and more vulnerable than you meant them to be. You step directly into his personal space, forcing him to acknowledge you. He flinches back half a step, and for the first time, the impenetrable wall he usually keeps between you looks ready to crack.

“Why are you so mad at me?”

“I just—” He stops himself short, shaking his head as if trying to physically stop the wrong words from escaping. He draws in a slow breath, his jaw flexing as he forces himself not to look at you. “I don't understand why you’re in such a hurry to lose your virginity to someone who doesn't even matter to you.”

You blink, tilting your head as you try to process his words. For some obscure reason, a part of you actually wants it to be jealousy. You want his words to bite a little, because at least then you'd know for sure that the idea of anyone else touching you actually gets to him.

“Do I have to run a list of names by you first?” The words are sharp with disbelief. “Just wait for you to point at who you approve of? Is that how this works now, Yushi?”

And finally, his head snaps toward you, snaring you in a look so intense it locks you right in place. You’ve wanted him to look at you all night, but now that he is, you find yourself suddenly wishing he'd look away. It’s less of a victory and more a trap. There is nowhere left for you to hide, no casual excuse to fall back on—just the suffocating weight of his attention holding you hostage right there in the open.

He shakes his head. When he speaks again, his voice drops to a low, strained warning. “Drop it. We’re not doing this tonight. Not here.”

“I don’t want to fight either,” The annoyance in your voice is sharp enough to cut through the noise of the room. You cross your arms over your chest, putting up a wall of your own. “I just want to know what's going on in your head right now. Because you are clearly holding back.”

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you take another step forward, directly into his orbit where he doesn't have room to push you away.

“Tell me, Yushi. Why does it matter so much to you if my first time is with someone I don’t know that well? Why are you so hung up on who I’m with?” You throw the question right at him, refusing to back down. “It’s my business. You don’t get to decide what’s good for me, and you definitely don’t get to be this pissed off at me for kissing someone else when you aren't even... we aren't even like that.”

A heavy silence falls between you even as your bones continue to pulse with the vibrations of the music. Around you, the party rages on, but the air right here has gone stagnant and suffocating. Everything else starts to blur at the edges, until the music and the voices fade into a meaningless hum in the background. Suddenly, he’s the only person that matters and the only thing that fills your senses.

“Exactly.” He whispers.

“What?”

“Exactly,” He repeats, finally looking right into your eyes. His voice is tight with a confession he’s fought against making. “It’s your business, and I shouldn’t butt in. I shouldn’t have a single say in it. But seeing you with someone else is driving me out of my mind, and I just don't know how to turn that off.”

The anger drains out of him, but its sting is replaced by a look that is far heavier, and far more exposed. His eyes seem to darken as his pupils open up, swallowing the color of his eyes until they look nothing but a deep, dark pool.

A gasp stalls in your throat as an electric current seems to pass right through your veins. It’s as if you’ve spent your whole life circling a silent fire, and now that the heat has finally caught you, you’re too close to do anything but let it burn you.

A dark strand of hair falls across his forehead, and you crave the simple touch of brushing it back where it belongs. But you can’t move. You stand rooted to the spot, caught in a wave of hunger and longing. All you can do is trace the familiar lines of his face—the curve of his brow, the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips.

Every fragmented memory and stray thought suddenly aligns, forming a picture that makes a terrifying amount of sense, until—

Oh.

You've looked at him every day for five years, yet right now, he is so breathtaking it feels like it's stealing the air right out of your lungs.

“Yushi,” The sound barely escapes you.

Yushi shakes his head, regret clouding his expression as he tries to pull away.

“I’m sorry.” He says, trying to step back. “It’s not my place to say those things. Just forget I even said them. I’ll ask Riku to drop you off later. Really, I’m so sor—”

You finally regain control of your muscles, stepping forward to cut him off mid sentence. Your palm curves right against the chiseled line of his jaw and the soft skin of his cheek, your fingers almost trembling as if the moment were fragile glass that a single breath could break. He is several inches taller than you, yet in this tiny pocket of space that is yours alone, he seems to pull inward, folding directly into your hand—and suddenly, you are the only two people left in this world.

You press your forehead right against his chin, letting your eyes close as the warmth of his breath brushes against your skin.

What am I doing? The logical part of your brain whispers, but the rest of you is too busy noticing how the static in your head has finally gone quiet. It’s the first time in nineteen years you haven't felt like you were just passing through.

“Be honest with me, Yushi.” You whisper. “Please.”

Yushi’s hand comes up to cup your waist, sinking into the dip you’ve been unconsciously carving for him since the start—a hollow you didn't even know was empty until his palm pressed home. He’s never touched you there, yet your skin recognizes his touch like its own.

There is no hesitation, no searching for permission or testing the air. His skin recognizes yours, too, as if it were a missing piece of himself he’s been searching for in the dark.

His thumb drags a quiet circle over your lower rib, etching his name into your flesh with a reverence that makes your heart stutter. It feels so incredibly right—not just the touch, or the way he’s so close your atoms almost crush into his, but the terrifying, unavoidable truth that everything you’ve ever wanted has always been right in front of you.

“You could’ve asked me,” he murmurs against your forehead, his fingers lightly caressing the side of your neck. “If you wanted to do this so badly, you could’ve just asked me. I matter to you.”

“You said you didn’t want to rush things.” Your voice shakes just enough to betray how much he affects you. “You said you were waiting for the right moment. How was I supposed to get anything from that? I’m not a mind reader, Yushi. I didn't know you wanted me to just ask.”

Yushi looks down at you, and his expression is so raw and exposed it makes your own heart ache.

“What else was I supposed to say? That I’ve never wanted anyone in my entire life as much as I want you? That the thought of someone else holding you makes me sick?”

“You’re an idiot.” You murmur, the words coming out more like a confession than a reprimand. “I’ve been trying to figure out why you were acting so weird, and this is it? You’ve just been... keeping this in?”

You look at him, and you realize that everything you thought you knew about him is officially outdated. The boy you grew up with has been replaced by someone much more complicated, and much more dangerous to your heart.

You feel like an idiot for missing all the signs, but you can't even process his confession because you're too busy dealing with your own—the fact that you want everything with him, of him, a piece of information you only discovered three seconds ago and have no idea what to do with.

“I didn't think I had a choice… I thought if I said it, I’d ruin everything. And I wasn't ready to lose you just because I couldn't keep my head straight.”

His hand finds your cheek, and the contact is so much heavier than it used to be. His thumb drags slowly over your lower lip, the touch so heavy with restraint it’s almost painful. It’s so obvious he’s still trying to hold himself back, even though the truth is out in the open. You can see it in the way his jaw is set, in the way his fingers twitch against your skin—like he’s terrified that if he stops being careful for even a second, he’ll lose control completely.

“I’m done hiding how I feel, y/n. I tried to be smart about it, to wait for the right time, but I can’t stay quiet for another second. It’s too much. I’m at a point where I’d rather just be honest and lose you than keep lying to your face every single day.”

Seriously, you feel so stupid for not understanding before, but you don't have time to dwell on the past. Not when he’s looking at you like this.

I want him.

The thought is loud, drowning out every doubt you’ve ever had. You don’t want to talk anymore. You don't want to explain. You just need to kiss him—right now, right here, before he has the chance to pull away.

“Yushi,” You lean into his space, refusing to give him an inch of distance to hide in. This is happening, and you aren't waiting for permission anymore. You’re going to kiss him. You just have to. “Shut up.”

The thread between you finally pulls taut, and you don’t think twice before catching the collar of his shirt and closing every distance that has ever set you apart.

When your lips finally meet his, the ache you’ve been carrying finally grounds itself. This kiss is nothing like the one you shared with Sion. There is no shallow imitation of what you think you should feel, or awkward searching for a rhythm that simply isn't there. Yushi’s mouth finds yours with a precision that makes your vision blur and your insides turn upside down.

His tongue slides in with tender certainty, brushing against yours as if all your history is now something you can actually touch. His hands slip onto the bare skin beneath the hem of your shirt. You catch your breath, and as he pulls you closer, you swear you feel his heart beat in your own chest.

Kissing Yushi is natural the same way taking a breath is—something instinctive you do without thinking just to stay alive. It’s so effortless that you don't realize how much you needed it until it has entirely consumed you.

You pull back just enough to breathe, but you stay right there, unwilling to put any real distance between you. When your eyes lock with his, you both break into wide, helpless smiles that reshape fears into certainties.

“I never wanted to ruin your night,” He pecks your lips gently as he murmurs. “As a matter of fact, I wanted you to succeed in your plans. I thought if you did, I could finally forget about all of this and move on. Guess I’m not the best at hiding it, am I?”

A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest and vibrates right against your lips, before he pulls back just enough to lock his eyes onto you. At last, he allows himself to drink in the sight of you.

His gaze drags down the length of your body, taking you in completely for the first time all night as if he’s trying to memorize every single line. He is entirely transfixed, the memory of your kiss still fresh on his lips. You are drowning in the same feverish energy, watching him lose himself in the soft curves of your chest.

There is a terrifying sanctity in the way he stares, tracing your lines with the agonizing precision of a sculptor carving your likeness into marble. And as you inhale the thick atmosphere, your breasts rising and straining the fabric of the top, you realize you have become his gravity—that at any moment, he might succumb and let the earth take him whole. It’s a personal triumph that the mere sight of you robs the air from his lungs and bruises his composure so much that the last pillar of his restraint finally buckles.

“You look incredible, by the way.” He maps the goosebumps on your lower back, his fingers trembling in a stark betrayal of his steady gaze. His mouth ghosts over the sensitive landscape of your neck, pressing a kiss slow enough to draw a broken shiver from your throat.

“You are so fucking hot it’s actually a problem.” He rasps against your skin. “I had to keep my eyes on the floor because I knew the second I saw you, I’d get rock hard in front of everyone.”

Your fingers knot into the fabric of his shirt as a molten weight pools deep in your belly. He hasn't even touched you yet—he is only looking, and it is enough to unravel you completely.

“You don’t have to hide it.” Rising to your tiptoes, you let your lips ghost over the shell of his ear, leaving a trail of ardor before pressing a lingering kiss that feels like a benediction. “You can look at me. I want to see you break.”

A guttural groan breaks from his chest—the kind of sound that’s slow and thick with the pleasure of indulging in your perfect geometry. There’s something feral and so infuriatingly hot about the wreckage you’ve made of him.

You watch the way his hair, once parted with precision, now betrays the evidence of your fingers where they clutched at him—as if he were the merciless thief of your balance and the only tether keeping you from total collapse all at once.

You tilt your head, your gaze wandering from his eyes to his lips. “So, am I allowed to ask you now? Because I just checked that list you were so worried about... and there’s only your name on it.”

“You want this so bad, mh?” An amused curve touches his lips, not quite a smile, but enough to show he understands exactly what he's doing to you.

He wears that smirk like a challenge, but you don’t let it fool you. The real power rests in your hands right now, and the sudden darkening of his eyes proves he knows it, too. You don’t even bother defending yourself against his pointed accusation. You just move closer, pressing your skin close enough to let the truth of his own body answer for him.

The hard line of his arousal brushes against your stomach, leaving a trailing fever in its wake that makes it clear he’s done for. Smirk or no smirk.

He tilts his hips into yours as a groan catches in his throat—and just like that, the tables turn. You’re the one flaunting the victory, and he’s the one left breathless by it.

“And you don’t?”

Yushi brushes his thumb gently over your lips, tracing the dampness he left there as if he’s trying to seal the memory of the kiss. “You sure about this?”

“Yes, Yushi.” You huff a frustrated breath. “If you don’t put your hands on me right now, I’m going home to do it myself. And I’ll be thinking of how much you’re missing out on while I do it.”

“Jesus, that’s so hot.” He draws in a slow breath, finally looking around the crowded room that, for the last ten minutes, had felt miles away. “My place is closer. Unless you’re really into the idea of getting naked in Sion’ bedroom?”

Your gaze drifts upward for a brief, exasperated second. “Your house sounds perfect.”

You turn your back on the crowd, shutting out the rumble of the music and the sea of familiar faces. The moment you step outside, the crisp night air brushes against your skin like a clean slate. You make your way to the car in a breathless rush, so giddy and laughing with reckless joy. He even swings the door open for you, but stops just long enough to steal a quick kiss. The brief thought of saying goodbye to the others flickers in your mind, but it vanishes just as quickly.

Nothing else matters now except the two of you, and the cosmic perfection of his hand wrapped in yours.

You pull each other close the second you cross his threshold, your hands tangling as though you’ve spent a lifetime apart. He guides you up the stairs, kissing you breathless the entire way. It’s the kind of desperate, head-spinning want that ignites teenagers in love—and perhaps that’s exactly what you are, even if neither of you has found the words to say it yet.

In the dark, Yushi’s hand finds the handle and turns it easily. You’ve been in this room a hundred times before—to pore over books, to get lost in the glow of a movie, and simply let the days unfold around you—but as the door swings open and closes behind the two of you, the familiar walls feel completely altered.

You’ve spent a hundred lifetimes here, but in none of them were you this close to forgetting your name. Yushi traps you against the door and starves your lungs of oxygen as his hand slides under your shirt to claim every inch of you. When his tongue finds the rhythm of yours, you realize it isn’t this room that has changed.

It’s only you, finally catching up to him as the moonlight transforms the familiar space into something more private and new.

Yushi pulls back, just enough to stare, and in the ink-dark of his eyes, you could swear you see the stars themselves beginning to glimmer.

“You’re so beautiful, y/n. I’ve had this exact moment memorized in my head, but it doesn’t even compare to the real thing.”

You hold his gaze, and just like that, everything clicks into place. The faint light reflecting in the dark of his gaze wakes you up completely, as though you've been blind until this exact second.

The world around you sharpens, and you realize that until this moment, you had only ever been looking at the shadows of things.

“It’s kind of silly, and I'm almost afraid to say it out loud, but I just realized… even when I'm not thinking about it, my eyes are always searching for you the second I walk in.”

Your confession pulls a beaming smile from Yushi. He threads his fingers through your hair, softly, as if you're made of something too good to be real. “Mh, is that right? And here I thought you were just staring at the wall."

When your lips meet again, you draw in that newfound clarity like your first breath of air.

One of his hands comes up to cup your jaw gently, while his thumb brushes your cheekbone as if to prove you aren't just a figment of his imagination. A soft groan escapes him when he realizes you are very much real—and so is this moment, along with the truths spoken in the space of a breath.

The world shrinks down to the rhythm of his heartbeat, the tender friction of his mouth, and the familiar taste of Dr. Pepper and something much more than a friendship on his lips.

Before the sudden rush of movement even registers, Yushi sinks into the mattress and draws you flat against his chest. Your hands find the steady line of his shoulders to brace your weight, and you lean in further, refusing to lose the connection even for a second. You aren't letting him go.

You follow him down in a heartbeat, chasing the touch of his lips as helplessly as a sailor lured by sirens—giving in so completely that not an ounce of resistance remains.

You don’t notice the skirt bunching higher until his clothed erection strikes too close to home, finding the exact center of your heat through the thin silk of your lace. The feeling that follows is even sweeter and more consuming than anything you had ever imagined, and you find yourself pursuing it once more, chafing your panties against his hard cock just to invite the ache in all over again.

“Y/n,” He moans against your lips, his voice thin and so desperate. His hands lock onto your hips to press you closer, anchoring you to his lap as the friction of his denim wakes every nerve in your skin and sends a jolt of electricity through you. It is almost too much to bear, nearly bordering on overwhelming—and yet, the night is only just offering up its first secrets.

“Y/n,” He repeats and his voice rings out with a roughness that startles you. “I’m not gonna last much longer if you keep moving like that.”

You graze his earlobe between your teeth, watching as another moan rushes out of him. What a beautiful sight he is, so beautifully wrecked and desperate for your touch alone.

“You like it?”

“You have no idea.” He groans, his eyes shut tight. “I’ve never been so fucking hard before.”

You push him back until his back meets the mattress, and the truth strikes you just as quickly as he falls back—his presence has never been more spellbinding. He bows to your every whim without a single word like the moon fading into the first rays of the sun, offering up all his control just to be near you—because he trusts you more than anyone else in the world, and there is no one else he would ever let see him this way.

Yushi is yours as much as the roots belong to the earth beneath them, for the present, for tomorrow, and for all the days that follow.

He’s handed you everything—the power to save him or break him completely—and the thrill of having that choice makes it almost impossible to breathe. To you, this is the most intoxicating part of all.

“Take off my skirt.”

The skirt pools around your hips the second it’s unfastened, and you’re shrugging it off and kicking it aside, too focused on the way his hands are searing you to care where it lands. They tremble as they reach down to find the edge of your lace. The air stagnates between you as his fingers drift lower and lower, straying from the fabric to the warm skin of your hips with a confidence that draws a wet sound from you. His touch is barely a whisper, almost not there at all, yet every point of contact feels like it’s etching a trail on your skin.

He flips you in one swift motion, and the bed creaks lightly as he claims the space above you. He leaves you no room for breath before he starts licking and nipping your neck with the intention to leave a mark. Even as the world blurs, you find yourself leaning into the sensation rather than drawing away.

You cannot think past the throbbing heat in your core, or the way Yushi’s erection is hovering inches away and brushing against you with every breath he takes.

His hand travels down to cup your clothed folds, and you know you’re irrevocably lost to him the moment you realize your breath has left you completely.

“God, Y/n. Look how much you want me already.”

His pressure against your lace increases, and another sharp gasp breaks from your lungs.

“Stop teasing me, Yushi.” You mean to sound firm, you really do, but the protest dissolves into a breathy sound that betrays your composure entirely.

Yushi carries on without the slightest hesitation—teasing the straps of your top, watching you squirm again, tugging them down.

Your boobs bounce as the fabric abandons your chest entirely. The top was too flawless to interrupt with extra layers anyway—though now that you’re standing in the aftermath of your own choices, you’re questioning whether that decision was a blessing or a curse.

You try to bring your arms up to shield yourself, but Yushi is too quick, holding your wrists down and leaving you completely exposed to him. Time seems to stretch thin as he watches you in quiet adoration, drinking you in for the first time. He rivets his eyes on every curve and line as if he's trying to burn this exact moment into his mind forever—like he’s afraid the morning light will change your mind and make you wish you’d never let the walls fall down between you.

You’d never let that happen, clearly. Not when he's looking at you like you’re his entire word and the most beautiful thing he’s ever discovered.

He draws near until there is no air left between him and your nipple. He gives it a tentative lick that makes you shiver—then whatever hesitation he had melts, and he begins flicking his tongue against your nipple with a much more confident sweep. You back arches off the bed, your hands reaching out instinctively for an anchor until your fingers tangle into the thick strands of his hair.

“Yushi,” You cry out, your eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure spreads all over you. “It feels so good.”

“You have no idea,” He groans, a rough sound in the back of his throat as he hovers over your lips. “I’ve spent every night for the last year dreaming of this. Having you right here, in my bed. Looking like this just for me."

And since that sound of it clearly wasn't enough to thaw you out, he pinches your other nipple.

“Yushi, please—”

“Please what, y/?” His thumb hooks into your waistband and tugs it enough to make your back curve.

What a fucking tease. Honestly, he should win an award for that level of torture.

“Tell me what you want, y/n. Use those pretty lips of yours. Let me hear you say it.”

“I want you. Everything.” The words finally find their way past the knot in your throat. “Take off your damn shirt and fuck me like it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t need to be told twice. He rips the shirt over his head in one fluid motion and tosses it carelessly across the room without ever breaking eye contact.

You had seen fragments of him before—a sliver of bare skin in the library when he stretched—but seeing him bare still sends jolts through your veins. His time on the track team has clearly paid off, and you are reaping every single benefit.

He’s all silver light and sharp angles in the dark. Your hands find the curve of his waist, and the skin there feels like burnished marble—so firm and scorched that it’s almost impossible to believe he’s real. You wonder how you went this long without knowing exactly how he felt.

“Like what you see?” A teasing smirk curves his lips when he catches you staring.

Your heart drums against your ribs as the color floods your face. You really, really do, but you force the flush down. You aren't about to let a simple smirk derail your focus. His pants are still on, and the simple fact alone irritates you. Still, you follow the contours of his torso with your touch, watching the muscles tighten as he draws his head back.

“I’ll fill out the opinion survey right after you make me come.”

A soft laugh escapes him—a melody meant for you only—and he leans in close again. There’s an urgency in the way his lips crash against yours, but you sink into him without a single complaint. When his mouth parts from yours to trail a path down to your chest, you find yourself pouting, already missing the press of his lips.

Yushi’s lips follow the line of your sternum, moving lower and lower until he’s kissing the sensitive skin just below your belly button. His breath hits the edge of your panties, and your legs twitch involuntarily.

“Please, Yushi. Touch me.”

You feel the rough graze of his knuckles against your skin as your panties are drawn down entirely.

“Finally.” He mutters, then he leans forward, his hand sliding under your thighs to pull you exactly where he wanted you.

The agonizing wait ends as his tongue finally strokes your cunt, softly at first, then with a staggering pressure.

“Yushi—”

He glances up at you for a fleeting second, his gaze dark and clouded with heat, before he dives back in again. He settles into a pace that hits exactly where you need it most, his nose stroking a sensitive spot as his head angles to test your responses. He is so methodical that it’s maddening. Every one of his movements is calculated, and the precision of it leaves you as nothing more than a whimpering mess.

Hearing you say his name is the last bit of permission he needs. He reacts instantly, his hands locking onto your legs to root the both of you as he chases you towards your high.

Every flicker of his tongue and suction against your wetness amplifies the warmth inside your folds. His rhythm remains unwavering even as one hand wanders higher to circle your nipple and as the other prepares to slide a single finger inside you. The sensation is so sharp and singular that it feels like there’s an actual electric current humming beneath your bones.

Your breath hitches into a fractured cry as you dig your heels into the mattress, trying to find an anchor while the pleasure threatens to spin you out of orbit.

“Yes, right there.”

You’re certain you can’t handle more until that slight curl of his finger proves you wrong and sends your head thumping back into the pillow. He picks up the pace, his thumb and finger working in perfect unison until you feel like the walls of your throat are starting to close in.

You can feel your muscles clench with every thrust of his finger, and pull taut with every lick of his tongue. You’re so close, and you feel your fingers knot in his hair, too. You’re unsure if you’re trying to pull him closer or shove him away, but you’ve stopped caring which.

“You taste so good.” He mumbles, licking up and sucking every inch of you.

Every touch is a pointed reminder and bitter strike meant only for you. He doesn’t need words to tell you this is personal. There’s a vengeful implication to his focus that he won’t let up until he’s proven that no one else can dismantle you quite like this. Not Sion, not anyone else who has ever tried to claim a piece of you.

Just him.

He feels you tighten around him, and instead of slowing down, he pushes further. He slides a second finger, stretching you just enough to make your breath hitch in a high gasp. His tongue teases your wetness once more before marking an indecent path upwards with a mixture of his saliva and your own tears.

You can’t see the state you’re in, but you can read it in the way he lingers—the way he studies the wreckage of your composure with a satiated hunger.

“You’re so fucking hot. So tight and wet for me.” He moves his fingers again, pushing them exactly where you’re aching the most. Your pupils blow wide, swallowing the moonlight, and the world goes silent as your hearing cuts to static. “Do you hear yourself, y/n?”

“This has been in my head since the day you wrote that stupid list and added losing my virginity to it.” He leans down to nip at your earlobe, his hand keeping the same torturous pace. “Everytime I saw you, I wondered if you’d make these sounds for me. If you’d look at me like this while I’m inside you.”

With one more curl of his finger, he reaches into the center of your heat and pulls—your name, your past, everything but him vanishes in an instant.

“Tell me.” He urges, his free thumb circling your clitoris. “Tell me you’re mine right now.”

You wish you had the breath to say it—to choke out sounds that aren’t moans and give him the last thing he hasn’t wrenched from you yet. Yes, Yushi, I’m yours, you’d confess. Entirely, irrevocably yours. But your throat is too strangled by your own heartbeat to let the words pass.

When he hooks his fingers deeper, the world blurs into a dizzying swirl of color. You know you’re at your limit—only one breath away from coming apart in his hand, the release rushing up to meet you.

“That’s it.” His voice breaks. “Right there. Give it to me, y/n.”

Pleasure claims you with a force that snaps your spine into a violent curve and that rips a cry from your throat. It isn’t a pretty sound, but it’s yours—as naked and raw as the state he’s left you in. The world whites out as the release crashes over you in relentless waves, and by the time the room stops spinning, you are humming with a frantic current.

Yushi doesn’t slide his fingers right out, but he eases back progressively, lingering long enough to absorb every aftershock that ripples through you. It’s almost humiliating how instinctively you seek him out, tucking yourself into the crook of his neck as if you could burrow beneath his skin and never have to face the world again.

As if you could seek a home in the very person who just dismantled you.

You lie there, no more than a collection of tremors and raw nerves, staring into the dark as you try to remember the simple mechanics of a breath. The blur in your vision recedes enough for Yushi’s cast of features to sharpen back into reality. Even now, spent and shivering, you find the energy to be annoyed.

You are bare and broken in his hands, yet he’s still standing there in a simple pair of jeans he hasn’t bothered to take off, looking too put-together and merciless for someone who was fingers deep inside you just seconds ago.

At least his eyes bleed the truth. They’ve always been your favorite thing, but right now you’re finally able to read the tremor of longing within his darkened irises—the kind of wordless admission that he hasn't walked away from this half as cleanly as he wants you to believe.

You want to be furious.

Hell, Yushi is looking at you like he is picking through the pieces of himself he broke inside of you, but the way your heart softens in spite of yourself is what makes you truly want to scream. His composure is almost an insult you’re desperate to tear away. You decide in a heartbeat that if you are to be destroyed, you are taking him with you.

You find his mouth again in a messy tangle of teeth and a lethal sort of focus. Yushi lets out a startled sound—something halfway between a grunt and a groan—before framing your face with his hands and collapsing into the kiss. His hands are soft against your cheeks, but the rest of him is a lie. No matter how much he tries to mask it, his erection is throbbing and begging for your touch.

“Your turn.” You manage to mumble against his lips. “Please, Yushi, let me take care of you.”

You claw back the last of your strength to hoist yourself up, determined to drag him out of his denim whether it takes you hours or seconds to get there. Yushi doesn't lift a finger to assist, letting you struggle with the buckle as he revels in the sight of your determination. He looks smitten, almost—like he’s a king realizing he’d rather be your subject instead. Despite the tension in his frame, a tender smile is still haunting his mouth.

A frustrated huff escapes you, your brow knitting together as you focus on the buckle. It’s a small, mundane gesture, one he’s seen a thousand times in a thousand different lights. Right now, it only seems to make Yushi’s gaze smolder and darken with a terrifying amount of adoration.

“You’re doing fine.” His eyes track your clumsy moves near his waistband. Truly, he’s so sweet and horny you wish you didn't find it so beautiful. “Take your time, y/n. I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s such a devastating dichotomy—his body is trembling with the need to shed the last piece of clothing, but he watches your frustrated movements with a look of such profound fondness that you realize he’d willingly endure this torment indefinitely, as long as it’s your hands that are the cause of it.

In the end, your stubbornness wins out when the leather yields with a clink. Your eyes flash with a wicked light as they find him.

“There,” Your hands are already sliding from the leather to the cool metal of the button when you speak again. “Found it.”

Yushi lets out a laugh that sounds almost shattered with relief. His hands drop to your waist, dragging you close to steal another kiss. “Yeah, you definitely did.”

The room is quiet when you finally pop the button and slowly work the zipper down. You can feel his entire body ignite and shiver under your touch as your knuckles guide the denim past his hips. Once the denim hits the floor in a muted thud, a sharp hiss escapes his teeth—it could be the bite of the air or the way your hands are lighting a fuse across his skin, but it doesn't matter. You're far past the point of asking questions, and solely devoted to the architecture of his undoing.

You refuse to look away when your thumbs find their way to the hem, slipping beneath to caress the marked lines you were admiring just a few minutes ago. You are operating on instinct alone, and the clumsy reality of it should be mortifying—but the way he looks at you turns your hesitation into something more precious, as if your lack of experience is the most sincere thing you have ever given him. Which it is, technically.

A part of you anticipates a frigid vastness when the last barrier drops to the floor, but the trust is much simpler—without a single layer to shield you, your fears have nothing left to cling to.

This you and him, skin to skin, existing in the raw way you always have—just with no clothes on. Yushi is so close that you swear your erratic heartbeats have found a common rhythm in the midst of this madness. You want to stop time right here, where his bare skin glimmers with adoration and the fragile distance between reality and consequences hasn’t closed yet.

This moment, this man, is a sacred place where the world cannot reach you until you decide to let it in—but you have no intention of opening the door. You don’t want anyone to see Yushi as bare and helpless as he is right now.

In this perfect vulnerability, he belongs to you only.

He cups your jaw, forcing you to drown in his gaze. “Go ahead. You can touch me."

You take him at his word. Your hand curves around his erection with caution, and goes motionless when Yushi traps a startled breath behind his teeth.

You let your palm linger, applying a soft pressure that makes his hips instinctively tilt toward you and his erection bump against your bare stomach. His eyes flutter shut as if heavy with a lifetime’s worth of relief, and the thought beats violently against your ribs—I’m yours only if you’re mine too.

His cock is big and warm against your palm, its pulse echoing deep within your own blood until you cannot tell his life from yours. He throws his head back in a mixture of pleasure and utter helplessness, and his mouth opens to spill only broken moans and profanities. His every feeling is yours, too.

You stroke the precum on his tip with your thumb, feeling the walls of cock vibrate against you. Words and air are beyond him now, but his reactions tell you everything—that you are his world, his reason to crumble, and that his body has no other name to speak.

“I can’t believe you’ve never done this before.” He manages to choke out.

You offer a small, knowing smile he can’t see, your hand tightening just slightly as you slide back down the length of him. Leaning in closer, breath warm against his ear, the rhythm of your hand doesn't falter for even a second. It’s ironic, really, that after five years of knowing you, he’s still caught off guard by the things you're capable of.

"Maybe I've just been practicing this moment in my head.”

He grunts. “Fucking hell, y/n. If this is you practicing, I don’t think I’m going to survive the real thing."

Suddenly, a thrill of confidence surges through you at the sight—the calmest man you know, now completely broken for you. You pick up the pace just a little, testing this new power and watching the way his jaw clamps shut as he tries to hold onto the last threads of his composure.

"You’re killing me.” His hips arch into your hands as your thumb teases his tip. “Five years of friendship and I had no idea you were hiding this."

The distance vanishes as you capture his next breath, answering the five years of skirting around each other with a single kiss. Below, your hand continues moving up and down the length of his cock with a more confident friction.

His fingers find your waist and dig into your hips as if he’s trying to pull you even closer, to merge the two versions of you—the boy who always knows how to make you laugh and the girl who now knows exactly how to make him lose his breath.

In one lunging blur of motion, he shifts his weight. His hands move from your hips to your shoulders, and before you can even draw a breath, the world spins off its axis. Any lingering control slips into a distant memory the second the mattress welcomes you again. He braces his hands on either side of your head, his length hovering over your wetness in pure torture.

“Need to suck you off,” You mumble, reaching out for his erection again.

Yushi shakes his head. “Another time.”

“But—”

His calloused hands slide up your arms to lace his fingers with yours, locking your hands above your head. The sheer possessiveness of the move leaves your heart slamming against your lungs like it’s trying to break free.

“No.” He tentatively grinds his length against your thigh, watching you squirm under the teasing touch. The feeling is so sudden, so profoundly good, that he loses the grip on your hands. “I want to make you feel good. Let me have you.”

Everything familiar about him seems honed to a sharp point in this light. There is no trace of the man who brought you coffee or listened to your rants, but this Yushi—this hot, dangerous Yushi—here is no stranger either.

He is simply the version that’s been waiting in the shadows of every conversation you’ve ever had—just the mirror of a truth that was always simmering under the surface. And as it turns out, the fiery version of him is the one you can't look away from.

“I’m yours.” The knot finally gives way, and you realize no other confession has ever flowed from you with such effortless grace. “You can have me. You always have.”

He drops his forehead against yours, almost relieved, almost incredulous, and the simplicity of it eclipses the sudden chill of your bare skin. He lingers so close you can feel the heat of his breath, but he keeps that final inch of distance between his lips and yours.

“Tell me you won't regret this in the morning. Tell me you don’t want this just to cross it out of your stupid list. I need to know this is… that this is actually you and me.”

Your fingers brush a stray lock of hair from his eyes. “The list doesn’t matter anymore. I want you, Yushi. I promise.”

Yushi’s shoulders drop as a shuddering breath escapes him. He leans into the contact, eyes shuttered, like a man who can finally let his lungs expand.

“Okay.” He breathes against your lips, his hand sliding down to find yours as he locks your fingers together. “Okay.”

He reaches for the nightstand, though his movements are tangled and stripped of the cool poise he usually wears. His fingers tremble so violently that the condom packet slips from his grip twice.

“Dammit.” He hisses, a deep flush staining his face. He breathes through his teeth, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle pinches.

You can’t stifle the laugh that bubbles up, not from a place of cruelty—let’s be honest, cruelty would be impossible here—but because he looks so unexpectedly adorable even in the middle of this rush.

You bite your lips to stop the smile from spreading all over your features. “Where did you even get that? I thought we were both new to this.”

Yushi freezes, looking down at the condoms in his hand. “Riku gave it to me. A joke for my birthday. Said I might actually get lucky someday.”

“So… did you ever plan on using it?”

Yushi chest rumbles against yours. “I figured the damn thing would expire before I ever got this close to you.”

A strange tenderness settles in your chest as you watch his fingers quiver. You are so captivated by every inch of him, but the reality doesn't strike with a blow. It is a soft landing, more like, as if your heart is finally exhaling a name it has known forever. Oh, there you are. I didn’t realize I’d been searching until right now.

“Here,” Your hand meets his quivering ones and gently claims the packet from his hold. “Let me.”

Yushi tracks your steady hands as they tear the plastic open with hardly any effort, and if he notices the wild thrumming in your chest, he keeps the observation to himself. Your lips stretch into a genuine smile as you roll the condom down his length—you don't mean to taut, but his dick reacts to you anyway. Seeing you so collected while he teeters on the edge seems to break him more than the physical contact itself.

Your eyes flicker up to meet his. “There.”

Yushi stays speechless. He doesn't even inhale for a lingering second, until he leans down to claim your mouth in a kiss that carries the weight of trust and vows all at once.

He sinks into the space between your legs, his fingers interlacing with yours on the rumpled bedding that smells of salt and skin.

He laces your fingers together so tightly it is impossible to tell where your hands part, then adjusts his tip firmly against your wet folds. He holds himself at the brink, slowly collecting your juice up and down, making a torture of the proximity.

“Yushi,” You whine, trying to pull him down and force him to finish what he started. “Please, don’t do this. Everything is already too much.”

“Do what, baby? I’m just following orders. You’re the one who told me not to rush.” He shifts again, watching your head thrash against the pillow. “You said to make it like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

The way he says it, and that familiar glint sharpened by a new hunger, makes it impossible to hold a single thought.

“You’re... enjoying this way too much.” You manage to choke out, your fingers digging into his muscles. You attempt an annoyed tone, but it breaks into a strained admission. “I liked you better when you were too shy to even look me in the face.”

He probes your cunt slightly before slipping back out. You bite your lip until the sharp taste of iron hits your tongue. Then he traces the sting with a slow swipe, erasing the blood with his saliva, igniting your insides.

“That version of me didn't know what he was missing.” He mutters against your lips. “And he definitely didn't know how good it would feel to have you right here.”

His thumb soaks up a drop of your milk and vanishes between his lips, where he can taste the salt. There was no exaggeration in his claim, then—he really had pictured all of this and scribbled his deepest desires into the margins of his every thought. You suddenly regret not writing that list years ago.

“Look at me.” He commands softly, tilting your chin upward until his eyes are the only thing left to see.

“I want you to remember exactly how it feels.” He inserts one finger, and your eyes slide shut, as if you need the dark to handle its pounding.

“I want you to remember how much I want you right now.” He slides in another finger, surprised by the pliancy of your skin, and how easily your walls give way now, leaving more room for him to occupy.

You know you could shatter under this friction alone. You’re still throbbing and reeling from the dexterity of his fingers just minutes ago, and it won’t take much for him to lead you back to that high—but falling apart beneath his hands isn't enough right now.

You’re hungry for the real thing.

“Yushi,” Your eyes are so glossy with tears and pleasure when they flutter open again. “Just fuck me already.”

He aligns his tip, and finally, he sinks into you. Everything else in the room—your shared history, the furniture, the very air you’re breathing—simply dissolves into nothing. You let out a sound halfway between a moan and a sob as your body stretches to accommodate his breadth. The feeling is a little overwhelming and more than exquisite, and a breath catches in a way you’ve never felt before at the sensation of being entirely inhabited—not just physically by his cock, but by feelings you weren't prepared to hold.

It’s a calibration of the soul, a relief of being known right down to the marrow. You’ve spent years scripting this moment, but none of those fantasies prepared you for losing track of yourself.

Yushi doesn't move for a long moment, just stays there, buried deep within you, his forehead dropping to press against yours as he too tries to catch his breath.

"God," He cries, the word more of a prayer than a sound. He pulls his head back just enough to force you to look at him again. "I knew... I knew it would be a lot. But I didn't think it would feel like this."

You’re hyper aware of everything—the pressure of the bed against your arched back, the taste of him in the air you breathe, and the white-hot pulse radiating from his every point of contact. Yushi sounds wrecked, too, his breath labored and uneven, the sound of one year of restraint cracking at last.

“Y/n?” He searches your eyes, his thumb tracing a gentle line over your cheekbone. “Tell me you’re okay. I need to know from you... if I can move.”

Your head bobs in a frantic affirmative. God, you couldn’t have chosen anyone better to lose your virginity to.

“I’m better than okay. Please… just move, Yushi. Don’t make me wait another second."

The sound of his name and the frantic seal of a permission wring a growl from deep in his chest. The first few pushes are slow, almost hesitant. Then he finds the perfect cadence that lay claim of every inch of the space you’ve opened for him, leaving you breathless and blind to everything but him. Your breath breaks into stutters, falling into perfect alignment with the frantic thud of your heart and the perfect rhythm of his cock slamming against your walls.

Your daydreams were trifling compared to this—none of them nearly as hot, and none so utterly all-consuming.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there in a way that’s half-caress, half-claim. He’s memorizing you in motion—the curve of your throat, the way your breath hitches into a specific, broken melody, and the desperate clench of your body around him that begs him not to slow down.

“You’re so beautiful like this. Look at me.”

When your eyes flutter open, Yushi already there, looking down at you with a shattering intensity that makes you realize he is seeing and consuming in the same breath. He isn’t hiding anything anymore. His year of silent desperation is visible in the way he trembles against you and clings to your every breath, as if he’s begging to be consumed even though his body is the one dictating the control.

He waits until he is sure he has every bit of your attention, until you’re finally his, then begins to move with a precision so intentional it feels like he’s rewriting your nervous system.

"I want you to see exactly who is doing this to you," He hisses, his voice dropping into a low, more possessive tone. "I want to be the only thing you can see, the only thing you can feel."

You can feel the heat radiating between your bodies and the sweat slicking your skin where you meet. Every movement makes you feel stripped bare and vulnerable, yet it’s in that very closeness that you’ve never felt more connected to him.

“You are.” You whisper back, your voice breaking as you arch your back to meet his next surge. “"Yushi... it’s always been you. Even when I tried to look away, it was always you."

The room has shrunk to the edges of the bed, the air grown heavy and humid with the fever of your bodies and the crushing gravity of everything you’ve finally admitted. You watch the change take hold—the way your words land like a match to dry wood, igniting a raw fire in his gaze that burns through the last of his hesitation and says he is finally, completely yours.

"Just... don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

Yushi takes your plea and runs with it, his movements shedding their precision for something relentless as he stops asking for permission and starts taking what he’s craved for years. He abandons the slow tempo for a momentum that demands everything you have, stripping away the world outside the room until you’re nothing but sensation.

Each time he bottoms out against you, the shock waves travel the length of your nerves, leaving a trail of fire that forces your body to coil and your toes to dig into the sheets.

“Just like that.” He chokes out, his voice a broken moan as he hits a perfect depth.

Midway through the blur of his weight and your own breathless gasps, a solitary realization rings out, clear and unwavering beneath the noise. You look at him and see the map of your last five years written in the lines of his face, and a profound relief washes through you, as if every breath you’ve taken until now was just a rehearsal for this one.

This is the man who has held every version of you for half a decade, and there is a fierce, but mostly quiet triumph in the realization that it’s finally Yushi—that he is the one to claim the parts of you no one else has ever touched.

After years of guarding your heart and holding your breath, the fact that it’s Yushi who is finally having you feels like the only right answer—like the final, perfect note in a melody you’ve been humming since the day you met.

He catches the shift immediately—the way your eyes lose their guard even as your muscles tighten instinctively around his length. His weight settles deeper, each strike more certain than the last, as if he is trying to leave an imprint of himself that will never fade from your skin.

He is pulling you into a territory you’ve never known, and as you lock your ankles behind his back to draw him in, you realize there is no one else you would trust to lead you there.

It was always going to be him. It just had to be.

Yushi moves like a man possessed by a single goal, his weight coming down harder and faster until the air between you vanishes and he’s finally taking up all the space you’ve protected for so long. He releases your hands only to frame your face, his palms trembling as they press against your skin. He leans in until your breath becomes his, his lips hovering close enough to steal the moans you can no longer contain.

"Don't let go. Stay right here with me. I've got you... I've always had you."

The world begins to fracture at the edges as a wave of heat starts to coil deep in your core, tighter and tighter until it’s all you can feel. Your spine curves like a bow, fingers clawing at the muscle of his back to tether him close, refusing to let a single inch of space remain as you pull him into the same chaos that’s breaking over you.

"I know," He groans, a sound of pure, beautiful surrender. "I'm right there. Look at me... just look at me."

Every lungful of air stutters in his chest as he drives forward with a thrust, so singular, yet so total it feels like he’s trying to bury the last five years inside you. Your name breaks from him in a way you’ve never heard, a sound that resonates through your very marrow, starting at the soles of your feet and climbing until it hums against the crown of your head.

As he reaches his peak, the vibration of that sound sinks into your skin, etching itself into your memory with a heat that feels like it will never truly cool. Every time he stifled your name in the past now feeds the power of this single cry. It’s the kind of sound of a man who no longer has to wonder.

The syllables catch and tear as they leave him—a vibration that tells you exactly how much he has loved you while your backs were turned to one another.

You can feel the fine tremors in his arms as he keeps himself braced over you, his skin slick and hot where it presses against yours. He makes no move to retreat, instead surrendering to the gravity that pulls him closer until your foreheads lock. The tremors racking his frame begin to mirror your own, until the shaking is no longer two separate things, but one.

He shifts just slightly, and the involuntary pulse of his cock sends a fresh spark through your nerves. "Don't move yet. I just... I need a second. I don't want to leave you yet."

You reach up, your own hands still unsteady as you brush a damp lock of hair from his forehead. "I'm not going anywhere, Yushi.”

You stay threaded together in the quiet—his leg hooked firmly over yours to keep you close, your fingers still tightly wound into his shoulders, as if your body hasn’t yet realized it’s safe to let go. The tremors are still there, faint, humming deep in your bones that refuse to calm, even as your breathing finally begins to slow.

Yushi lingers as long as he can, forehead resting against yours, unwilling to let even a sliver of air break the total connection between you.

Then he begins to move away, breaking the contact inch by inch. The sensation feels startling against your skin, and a cool draft to rush into the space where your heat had been fused together just a second before. His eyelids drift shut for a heartbeat as he collapses into the space beside you. Even in his exhaustion, his grip remains firm, his arms looped around you in a way that tells you he isn't planning on letting the distance back in.

“I don't think I'm ever going to be able to look at this bed the same way.” A soft chuckle breaks from his chest as he tries to summon a ghost of your old banter, desperate to find a familiar footing in this new silence.

A soft kiss lands against your hair, and his arm draws you in just a little bit tighter with the kind of certainty that feels far more permanent than a simple hug.

“You okay? I didn’t… I wasn’t too much, was I?”

You let your head sink further into the hollow of his shoulder, closing your eyes just to savor the lingering warmth of his skin against yours. You’ve thrown your arms around him a thousand times before, mostly just to see him roll his eyes, but the sharp edge of your mockery has blunted entirely. His playful resistance has bled out of the room, too, leaving something much more vulnerable in its place.

Truthfully, you don’t know how you’ll manage to exist in the spaces where he isn't.

Now that you’ve felt this, him, the idea of being far from his reach feels less like distance and more like a total deprivation of air.

“Shut up, it was perfect. It was everything I’ve been waiting for.”

“Good.” He kisses your temple. “Because I’m pretty sure my legs aren’t going to work for at least three to five business days.”

Then, he clears his throat.

“So, the list.”

You sink your teeth into his shoulder with a playful nip. Everything from that day in the classroom feels blurred and small now—the blue uniforms, the nervous twitch of a pen, the weight of your own shame. It’s hard to believe you ever existed in that world at all, but even as everything changes, you’re still you.

You shake your head. “You care about that list more than I do at this point… which is rich, considering you laughed at me for even making it.”

Yushi’s jaw sets in that fake-indignant way you know so well. “I’m just curious if the rest of the list still stands now that the most important thing is crossed off… and for the record, I didn’t laugh, y/n. Not once. I was just… surprised.”

“Nice try, but you’re not charming your way out of this one. The list is still on. If anything, I’m adding more to it now.”

All of a sudden, the playful light in his eyes flickers and dies out. His expression flattens, and the sudden intensity of his stare forbids you from looking away.

“Hey,” You prod his shoulder gently, trying to coax back the smirk that was just there. “You’ve gone all quiet. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

He looks away for a second. “You said you wanted experience before college… and I tried, you know?”

“I tried to be the supportive best friend who cheered you on while you were flirting and going out with other men. But seeing you actually move toward that with Sion earlier…” A small, frustrated smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m reading everything wrong. That damn list has messed with my head.”

You hold his face steady, ensuring he can’t look away from the truth. “You aren’t misreading this, Yushi. I didn’t like the way things were going with Sion, either. He wasn’t what I wanted. In fact... the only time my heart actually raced when he kissed me was when I knew you were watching.”

All the air seems to leave him at once. His eyes lock onto yours, flickering with a stunned kind of silence as your words sink in. But as that initial shock fades, his focus narrows, and then he’s looking at you like you’ve just handed him the keys to your heart and asked him to be its sole guardian.

“Yeah… sorry about that. Not my proudest moment. His hands were all over you and I just… I couldn't think. I couldn't even look away. And when he kissed you—” He winces, his jaw tightening as if he’s tasting something bitter. He shutters his eyes for a moment. “You know what, let’s just bury that. I’ve replayed that scene enough times to last a lifetime. I’m over it.

Then he opens them again, fixing them on you with a look that is both a plea and a warning. “If you’re ever planning to flirt with someone else again, give me fair warning so I can walk into the ocean and never come back.”

You stare at him, half-tempted to shake him. Is it a lifelong condition, or did the after-sex shock actually scramble his brain?

“Yushi,”

There’s something almost comical about it—he’s spent five years deciphering your every thought, yet he hasn't pieced together that he’s the partner in every new goal you've written down on your list. You can’t tell if his sudden bout of naivety is a defense mechanism or if he’s simply choosing to be this thick on purpose. Either way, it makes you want to press your lips to his until the logic finally clicks into place for him.

“You’re being an idiot.” You weave your fingers through his hair. “I have no intention of flirting with anyone else. I’m not… I’m not going to college to go on some hunt for a guy who reminds me of you. That’s exhausting. I want the real thing.”

Your fingers go still in his hair as the last of the tension leaves your body. The scary part of this—the vulnerability, the fears, the inevitable change—simply stops fighting you. You’ve spent so long preparing for a collision that never came. Now, the air is still, and the threat is gone. You don’t have to steel your nerves or find the right words. You just have to close this distance.

You just have to lean in and let the silence of the room be filled by the honesty of your heart.

“I’m not interested in the experience if you aren't part of it.”

The confession is quiet—and as the words leave your lips, the scary thing stops being so scary. Just like that.

“I want you, Yushi. I want us.”

Yushi draws in a ragged breath, and for a second, time itself seems to stutter. The air between you is so thick with repression and relief that it feels like a physical hindrance—until he finally shatters it, leaning in to claim the us you just promised him. When he finally touches his lips to yours, it’s with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

The kiss is a homecoming—an unhurried, gentle discovery that feels less like a beginning and more like a long-awaited return.

One hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to press you closer, while his other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against him until there’s no air left between you.

Every see you tomorrow and every get home safe you’ve ever had was just a stepping stone leading to this. It’s honest, it’s so incredibly right, and it feels like finally finding the center of your world.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, resting his forehead against yours in this sweet silence. The distant roar of a car reminds you that time hasn't actually stopped, even if it feels like it has. But as Yushi’s hand slides to the nape of your neck, pulling you back into his warmth, the sound fades into insignificance.

Let the world keep moving. For the first time in your life, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You press a chaste kiss to the skin of his chest. “I’m sorry it took us having sex for me to figure out my feelings for you.”

Yushi makes a low, contented sound and tilts your chin up, his eyes softened by a longing you’ve never seen directed at anyone else. He brushes a stray hair from your face, his thumb lingering against your cheek.

“All good. We got here eventually.”

You lie there in the quiet, limbs tangled and hearts intertwined, as your history molds into something more permanent and solid. You think of the world outside, of the people sifting through strangers hoping for a miracle, and realize how close you came to joining them.

And then, you think of how easily Yushi could have drifted into the static of your past, if you hadn't reached out and held on to the future. Yushi has always had a way of receding into the background, existing in the quiet spaces where most people forget to look. He has never demanded to be noticed, which makes it all the more ironic that he’s the only thing you’ve ever truly seen.

As you sink into the moonlight with him, you’re just glad that through all those years the blue of his uniform never got washed in the sea of students.

“Also,” Yushi smirks, his thumb tracing a playful line down your arm in a way that suggests he’s about to break the tension with something ridiculous. “About the opinion survey… I expect at least five stars for customer service and a very detailed review of your overall experience.”

You roll your eyes, your smile breaking into a genuine laugh. You’re so glad it’s him. Not a stranger, not a placeholder—just the boy who used to lose his breath whenever your eyes met his behind the velvet curtains of a middle school stage.

“Go to sleep, Yushi.”

It took five years of being Yushi’s friend to build the house, and only one night of honesty to realize you’d been living in it all along.

𝒻low ‹𝟹:: i def didn’t plan on it being so long but OH WELL. Those two kind of developed free will and started doing things out of my control. There will be a part 2… but as for when it arrives, that is entirely up to the fickle deities of my academic career. Expect the sequel either tomorrow or in three to five business years

tags: @seok-nmi @yvshi @rnjunluvr @hahaechans @markiesfatbooty @luvsion @lexi212 @enairama @mekistime @emislove @opiummnights @markgalaxia @nohuyck

[kpop-bbg]

[mssishipi]

OUT OF LUCK— SJY

Money, sex, and a lifetime of feeling like luck was never really on your side—until the universe decided to fuck with you in the most inconvenient way possible. What started as simple coexisting turned into something more when you paid a little too much attention to your quiet, awkward, painfully responsible roommate—who, on paper, is a complete fucking loser. But, hey, he’s not that bad! In which Sim Jaeyun becomes the only genuinely good, unfairly lucky thing that’s ever happened to you… and just like everything else in your life, good things have a way of slipping right through your fingers. So now you have to figure it out, fix it, or risk losing the only thing that ever felt right before you run Out of Luck.

1: AGAINST THE ODDS

content tags and warnings: roommate au! romantic comedy, jake is an engineering student x volleyball varsity player reader, ANGST for this chapter! profanities, jake has braces! hopeless romantic reader (she almost get off), internal conflict, jake is such an awkward introverted baby (he likes lego and collects hot-wheels), burning slowburn (slow pacing i swear), superstitious beliefs, lots of awkward erm moments, jake is secretly a simp, reader is pathetic, ft. karina, other kpop idols and robots as side characters. explicit content (smut): sub! jake, virginity loss, handjob, lots of kissing, grinding, unprotected sex. (WC: 35.2K)

Unlucky with money, unlucky in your love life, unlucky in your sex life too, which felt like a cruel fucking trifecta to kick off 2026.

As if the universe had taken one look at you and decided to stack the odds just to see how much you could take before cracking. You rang in the new year under the table eating grapes, promising yourself things would get better even though you didn't really believe it, because every year started the same way—broke, tired, horny, and stuck pretending you had your shit together when you absolutely didn't.

Well... this year, your varsity scholarship barely did more than keep you enrolled, covering tuition and some little allowance, nothing else, which meant every other expense came straight out of your pocket, and college was already draining you dry without rent, utilities, groceries, and all the other bullshit that came with trying to survive in the city.

You worked your ass off, trained until your muscles screamed, counted every dollar like it might disappear if you didn't watch it closely enough, and still it never felt like enough, the numbers never quite lining up no matter how careful you were. Living alone had been a nice idea, but it died fast once you actually looked at the prices, reality slapping you hard enough that you didn't bother pretending anymore.

That was how you ended up scanning roommate listings with a pit in your stomach, sitting through awkward interviews, nodding politely while doing mental math in your head, telling yourself you could deal with almost anyone if it meant splitting the bills and not drowning.

That was how you ended up with a roommate. Andddd your roommate was a boy named Sim Jaeyun.

"Is he like so handsome and hot?" Karina yelled as she spiked the ball straight at you, and you dropped to your knees on the covered court to receive it. "Most people fall in love with their roommates! Take it as a chance—remember when Coach made you eat grapes under the table during New Year's? They said you'd meet your true love within the year. It's a sign!"

No. What the fuck.

Because Sim Jaeyun was... different, and that was putting it nicely. Geeky was the first word that always popped into your head whenever you thought about him, followed closely by awkward as hell, because the first time you met him during that short, painfully quiet interview, he stuttered through half his sentences and wouldn't stop fidgeting with his hands like they had a mind of their own, tapping, twisting, pulling at his sleeves until you wondered if he was going to vibrate right out of the chair.

Still, annoyingly enough, he was better than most of the people who applied—clean record, stable background, no weird red flags on paper—which was how he made the cut despite the whole mess of nerves.

The first week really sealed it for you, though, because when you came back from training one night, you found him sprawled on the living room floor for hours, surrounded by Lego pieces, carefully snapping them together with this intense focus, and you just stood there for a moment, eyebrow twitching, face twisting before you could stop yourself. You weren't trying to be judgmental—at least that's what you told yourself—but watching a grown man play with Legos like that weirded you the fuck out, and the word loser lodged itself in your brain whether you liked it or not.

Sometimes you'd pass by his room and sneak a glance inside, catching sight of his tiny model cars lined up neatly on a shelf, perfectly arranged, and every time it made your stomach tighten with secondhand embarrassment, because this was the guy you were stuck sharing a space with, the supposed "true love" the universe was trying to shove into your life, and you already knew there was no fucking way.

"Come on, tell me more about this roommate of yours, why are you so quiet about it? It's been like five months," Karina laughed, and you couldn't help yourself as you spiked the ball straight toward her face, irritation snapping through your arm, only for her to catch it effortlessly and fling it right back at you like it was nothing.

You scoffed as you received it, rolling your shoulders, already annoyed at how easily she brushed you off.

"It's nothing special like you're trying to romanticize, okay?" you shot back. "All I know is he's an engineering major with this weird-ass Lego and tiny car obsession, and whenever he actually talks—which is rare as hell—it's always about practical shit like the rent, the electricity bill, or some absentminded 'hi' if we happen to cross paths at the exact right second."

"Oooh, a nerdy type?" Karina teased, eyes lighting up as she bounced on her feet, clearly enjoying this way too much. "So he's not that talkative? Why don't you try asking him more?"

"Why would I?" you shot back, eyebrow lifting just as the shrill sound of the coach's whistle cut through the air, making both of you snap your heads toward the court as he signaled for a break.

You grabbed your towel and water bottle, walking alongside Karina toward the bench, sweat clinging to your skin while she kept running her mouth like she always did.  "Because it's for the thrill," she continued, lowering her voice only slightly, hands hovering in the air as if she were pitching some grand idea. "I mean, you literally told us you want to get laid but you don't do hookups, so hello? The opportunity is right there in your fucking apartment. Grab it. So you don't have to masturbate all the time."

"Jesus, no," you muttered, unscrewing your bottle and taking a long drink, water spilling down your chin as you scoffed. "I bet that man is a fucking virgin," you added without hesitation, already pushing off the bench and heading back toward the court as the break ended, trying to leave the whole conversation behind with your towel tossed over your shoulder.

"And what if he was?" Karina shouted after you. "Are you not curious at all? You're not even talking about it, and it's a man. It's a big deal!"

You clenched your jaw as you took your position, telling yourself to shut it out, to focus on the ball, the court, the rhythm of your body moving the way it always had, but her words slipped under your skin anyway.

It wasn't like Sim Jaeyun—Jake, as he awkwardly introduced himself—was unattractive, and that realization annoyed you even more, because technically, objectively, he had the kind of face people trusted without thinking twice. Innocent-looking, pale skin that never seemed to tan no matter how much time passed, a pointed nose, plump lips that curved into an almost shy smile, and those stupid braces flashing whenever he talked about something painfully mundane like daily water consumption, as if that was the most important thing in the world.

And fuck, speaking of masturbation, that thought made you shift uncomfortably because you did it—a lot—at least you used to, but somewhere along the line it had stopped, and you couldn't even pinpoint when or why. Maybe it was the brutal training schedule, the constant exhaustion, your body collapsing into bed every night without energy for anything else, or maybe it was the fact that you were now living with a boy, his quiet presence seeping into your routines in ways you didn't want to think about too closely... wait NO, you were not going to let Karina's words worm their way into your head, not when you had bigger priorities, like finally getting some long-overdue "me time" with your own body. You'd barely had the space to breathe, let alone touch yourself properly, and now there was the added complication of sharing an apartment with a guy.

Thin walls, shared spaces, the constant awareness that someone else existed just a few steps away made everything feel awkward and exposed, like privacy had become this fragile thing you had to tiptoe around. But then... why the fuck were you letting his weird shy-boy aura control what you did with your own body in your own apartment? Get a grip. It was 2026, for fuck's sake, and women didn't have to shrink themselves or pretend they didn't have needs, didn't want pleasure, didn't get horny. It wasn't embarrassing to want it, to crave it, to take care of yourself, and you refused to feel guilty about it. You decided right then that you were masturbating tonight, no excuses, no letting some awkward roommate situation dictate your life.

When you got home, you dumped your bag by the door and locked yourself in your room, kicking off your shoes and collapsing onto the bed, trying to force your muscles to relax and your mind to shut the hell up.

Jake was just some innocent presence in your thoughts, nothing more, but... maybe he really was some timid little virgin. He was so damn quiet, so careful, that doing something dirty under the same roof almost felt wrong, like you were corrupting the space just by wanting it. And of course, the more you tried not to think about him, the more firmly he lodged himself in your head, sooo stubborn and intrusive.

"Shit," you breathed, shifting on the bed as your fingers slid between your thighs, touching yourself slowly. "Stop thinking, stop thinking, fuck," you whispered, eyes squeezing shut, but the moment you did, your brain betrayed you, flashing an image of him sitting in the living room, hunched over his stupid Lego sets, completely absorbed and unaware.

Your eyes flew open when you felt how wet you were getting, heat pooling low in your belly, because suddenly the idea of getting off in the same space where he always sat, that couch where he spent hours building his little towers, started to turn you on. You imagined yourself sprawled there instead, hand buried between your thighs, touching yourself openly while he sat just a few feet away, quiet and focused, oblivious or maybe not, and the image sent a dirty thrill through you that made your breath hitch. What the fuck?!

"Weirdo," you thought, jaw tightening as your fingers moved faster. You're a fucking weirdo, and yet you didn't stop, didn't pull your hand away, because your body didn't give a shit about shame.

You let out a soft, broken sound as your hand finally slid where the tension had been coiling all night, nudging your underwear aside, your pulse spiking when your brain betrayed you again with the idea of him noticing, of him catching you in the act, the possibility alone pouring gasoline on an already reckless fire. You couldn't stop imagining his reaction if he walked in and saw you sprawled on the couch, touching yourself without shame—eyes blown wide, jaw slack, stuttering over some useless apology while his ears burned red—or worse, the thought that he wouldn't even realize what you were doing, that he'd sit there beside you completely oblivious while your body unraveled, sent an uneasy shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with pleasure.

Dude? You barely even talked to him. You shared a space, not a life, and your brain choosing this to fixate on made you feel unhinged in the most irritating way.

"Shit," you muttered out loud, dragging yourself back into reality when a sudden noise broke through your haze. Some kind of rummaging echoing from outside your room.

Your eyebrows knitted together in irritation as you shoved yourself off the bed, fixing your clothes, wiping your hands and padded across the floor. When you opened the door and stepped into the living room, the sight waiting for you, Jake was face down on the floor, his arms spread out. And circling nearby, bumping into his side, was a little round vacuum robot, whirring around.

This was it. This was the image your brain had been spiraling over all night. You stared at him for a long second, annoyance with disbelief, and the tension draining out of you in one sharp exhale. What a fucking loser.

"Uhh, hey," you said. You walked a little closer, looking down at him with your arms crossed. "Are you okay?" Your eyes flicked toward the robot, then back to him. "Where the hell did that come from?"

Jake pushed himself up on his elbows, his hair messy and sticking to his forehead, his glasses tilted crooked on his face. His cheeks were red—whether from embarrassment or just hitting the floor, you couldn't tell. "Ah... uh... my friend gave it to me," he muttered quickly. He didn't look up at you once, his eyes glued to the floor as if meeting your gaze would make him combust. "I-It's, uh... I fixed it. There's still an error but... uhhh, it would help us clean... you know."

You narrowed your eyes at the little robot, watching it bump clumsily against the leg of the table, circle around for a second, and then slam itself into the same spot again.

"Uh... I thought these things were supposed to, like, go the other way when they hit something?" You raised your eyebrow, arms folded as you leaned against the wall, still focused on the thing rolling around.

"It's still not fixed," Jake admitted under his breath, his tone shrinking down even more. He sat himself upright, knees bent, scratching at the back of his head. "W-Wait, I... I'll just turn it off."

You watched him scramble toward the robot, his movements frantic, It almost made you laugh, how hard he tried not to fuck up while he was clearly already fucking up. His shoulders were tense, his breath a little quick, and you could practically feel how badly he wanted this scene to end and you thought he was some kind of idiot.

The thing was, after that day, your eyes didn't really stop following him.

Okaaay, it was nothing, just the result of sharing the same damn space with another person, bound to notice shit when you lived under the same roof, and if anyone was to blame, it was Karina and her big mouth planting stupid ideas in your head. Still, it felt like some traitorous part of your brain had started recording him without permission, filing away details you had no reason to care about, noticing patterns you definitely didn't ask for.

In the mornings, when you dragged yourself out of bed half-dead and sore, there he was in the kitchen, quiet as always, pouring chocolate almond milk into a mug and sipping it like some kind of kid who never grew out of comfort drinks. No coffee, no energy drink, no caffeine-fueled desperation like a normal college student, just fucking chocolate almond milk, and it made you wrinkle your nose every time because who the hell does that and survives?

When you mentioned it to Karina one day during warm-ups, she didn't even hesitate. "Okay, I bet his cum tastes good," she said casually, and you stopped mid–jumping jack, staring at her like she'd lost her goddamn mind, heat crawling up your neck despite yourself.

That was also when you started noticing his schedule, because it was painfully predictable in a way that almost felt unsettling. Out of the apartment by eight, back by five, every single day, like his life ran on rails and deviation wasn't an option, and when you realized he actually went to bed at eight in the fucking evening, you nearly laughed out loud. Nobody did that. Nobody except him, apparently, which finally explained why the apartment was always dark and dead silent when you stumbled home late, and why that stupid little sign taped to the wall—Please don't turn the lights on—existed at all. He actually lived by that shit!

"Isn't he so cute and healthy?!" Karina cooed the second you mentioned it, pinching your cheeks between her fingers like you were some kind of toy, and you immediately scoffed, swatting her hand away with a slap. She laughed, completely unfazed, while you rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, already regretting ever opening your mouth in the first place.

You were absolutely going to blame her for all of this, because if she hadn't started running her mouth about your roommate like he was some kind of rare fucking specimen, none of these thoughts would've taken root. What was so malicious about having a boy roommate anyway? It wasn't a love story, it wasn't fate, it wasn't some goddamn porn plot waiting to happen— and you were getting real tired of your own brain trying to spin it into something bigger than it was, especially when you were flat on your back staring at the ceiling, hands resting on your stomach, forcing yourself to breathe like everything was normal.

"Uh... h-hello..." Three soft knocks landed on your door, followed by another quiet, hesitant "hi," and your chest tightened instantly, irritation floating with the fact that of course it had to be him, the very devil that had been squatting in your thoughts nonstop.

You sighed, staring up at the ceiling for a beat longer like maybe ignoring him would make him disappear, but then another knock came, a little firmer this time, and your eyebrow twitched as annoyance finally won out. You sat up with a sharp movement, clicked your tongue, and stood, swinging the door open hard, only to be met with Jake standing there with his shoulders hunched in that familiar way, back slightly scrunched, an awkward smile tugging at his lips.

"Hi..." he mumble as he scratched at the back of his neck, and your eyes dropped immediately, not out of kindness but because you didn't feel like dealing with his face yet, landing instead on his feet.

Dinosaur slippers. Bright, stupid dinosaur slippers, tapping softly against the floor as he shifted his weight.

"I-I wanted to give you the advance payment... u-uh..." he trailed off, fumbling with something in his hands, and you just stood there, watching him struggle.

He finally managed to hold it out to you, bills slightly wrinkled, that same awkward smile glued to his lips, and your eyes betrayed you by drifting up instead of staying where they should've been. Pointed nose, plump lips, the shine of his braces catching the light when he swallowed nervously—fuck, this was absolutely Karina's fault, because somehow, without warning, he looked more attractive than he ever had before.

"Jake," you said, scratching at your ear and straightening your posture, refusing to look directly at him as you took the money from his hand, your fingers brushing his for half a second too long, your heartbeat kicking stupidly hard at the contact.

"Hm?" he responded softly, and you bit your lip, finally lifting your gaze to him, your brain screaming at you to shut up while your mouth had other plans. Ask him something normal... just a question— casual, harmless question— because you were only... a little interested, and that didn't mean shit.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, blunt and way too direct, and you mentally slapped yourself immediately, because great, now you sounded like the weird one.

"H-huh?" His face went red almost instantly, color blooming across his cheeks as he fumbled with the fabric of his pajama pants, wiping his hands over and over. "I—I don't have..." he said quietly, trailing off as if the sentence itself embarrassed him.

You pressed your lips together and looked away, nodding like that was nothing to react to, crossing your arms and staring down at the floor before glancing back up at him again. "You haven't had anyone?" Fuck, stupid, dumb decision! You cursed yourself again, because apparently you'd lost all sense tonight.

"Uh... I had one b-back in high school," he admitted, eyes still avoiding yours. "But it didn't work."

"Ah," you nodded, forcing a neutral tone you didn't entirely feel, shifting your weight as you stood there in the doorway with money in your hand, suddenly aware that what started as an annoying, harmless question had cracked something open, and now neither of you seemed quite sure how to close it again.

You weren't even sure how you managed to fall asleep that night, because the embarrassment clung to you heavier than exhaustion ever did, replaying the scene over and over until your head hurt. When morning came, you stayed in your room longer than usual, listening for movement outside, making damn sure he wasn't in the living room or the kitchen or anywhere you might accidentally run into him, because the thought of seeing his face after that made your stomach knot. You slipped out only when the apartment was quiet, grabbing your things and leaving like a coward.

Stupid. Idiot. So fucking dumb. You and him barely talked, and suddenly you were asking personal questions like you had any right to them. What the hell would he think? That you were weird? Desperate? Bored? You groaned to yourself, dragging a hand down your face as you walked, already hating how much space the whole thing was taking up in your head.

"This is all your fault," you snapped later, shoving Karina's shoulder as you told her what happened, only for her to burst out laughing.

"Admit it," she said, grinning wide. "You're interested. I mean, something pushed you to talk to him and even ask personal shit."

"It wouldn't be like that if you weren't planting ideas in my head," you hissed back, glaring at her, pointing at your head.

"Oh, dear, dear," she mocked, shaking her head as she leaned in and traced stupid little hearts over your chest with her finger. "You wouldn't be affected at all if it wasn't already there. Stop denying it and just accept it fully."

"Let's think about progress," she continued, clearly enjoying this way too much. "Next time, talk to him more. Ask what songs he listens to, what food he likes—"

"Shut up," you cut in immediately, heat crawling up your neck as you folded your arms tighter. "It's embarrassing."

"No. Listen to me," Karina said, grabbing your shoulder and physically turning you back toward her like she wasn't about to let you escape this. "He's single. And I swear I don't even know him, but from everything you've told me, he's perfect for you. When you see him, don't act all awkward and twitchy. Be confident. Stand straight. Shoulders back. Don't cross your arms like you're about to fight someone." She started counting on her fingers. "Maintain eye contact—even though he won't, that's your advantage. Smile a little. Ask him something normal, like what he's working on, or why he drinks chocolate almond milk, or anything. And if he stutters? Don't jump in. Let him finish. Let him drown a little."

You stared at her with your lips pursed, face twisted in pure secondhand embarrassment. "And why exactly should I listen to you?"

"Because I'm right," she said instantly. Then she tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Is he your type or not?"

You swallowed. "No. What the fuck."

She didn't miss a beat. "But would you fuck him?"

Silence, your brain running in useless circles while Karina just watched you like she already knew the answer. You exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. "...Why... not," you muttered.

You hated how much her words stuck with you, hated how they pushed at something you'd been trying to ignore, because when you got home from practice later that evening, there he was in the living room.

Jake was sitting on the floor, legs folded awkwardly as he unscrewed the little vacuum robot, fiddling with its insides before setting it down and watching it.

The moment it rolled in your direction, you saw him stiffen, shoulders tightening before he forced that same awkward smile onto his face.

You paused, heart thudding harder than necessary, Karina's voice echoing in your head, and forced yourself to do exactly what she'd said. You lifted your chin, met his eyes even when he almost looked away, and spoke first.

"Hi," you said, steadying your voice as you held the eye contact.

"Hi," he replied softly, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed, hands hovering uselessly near the robot.

Your gaze drifted to the little vacuum circling around aimlessly, bumping once against the wall before correcting itself. "...So it's fixed now?" you asked casually, even as you swallowed the lump forming in your throat.

"Y-Yeah," he nodded quickly. "D-Don't worry, it's just a battery issue. It w-won't affect the electric bill."

Of course that was his first concern. You huffed internally, dropped your bag onto the table, and before you could overthink it, you walked straight over and sat down next to him on the floor. Close. He stiffened instantly, shoulders locking up as he subtly scooted a few inches away, trying—and failing—to make it look natural.

"Have you had dinner?" you asked, keeping your tone light, like Karina's voice wasn't screaming instructions in your head. "I was thinking of ordering something. You wanna check?"

Normal. This was normal. Roommates did this shit all the time. It wasn't weird unless someone made it weird.

"Uh—I already a-ate—"

"What about chicken?" you cut, sitting up straighter as you scrolled through your phone and angled it toward him, a poor excuse to lean closer. "Or burgers? Wait—shit, I'm actually on a diet right now. Are you okay with veggies?"

You waited, and... nothing. When you finally looked at him, you realized he was barely breathing, blinking like he'd forgotten how, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like looking at you directly might short-circuit him. "Uh... I already ate," he repeated, voice dropping smaller.

"Oh."

Before you could recover, he stood abruptly, movement jerky, still refusing to meet your eyes as he pointed vaguely toward his room. "I—I need to, uh... I have something to do," he said, bowing slightly out of pure habit before retreating, the door opening and closing with a soft final click.

You stared at the door for a long second before letting your phone drop onto the table, sinking back with a long sigh. Fuck. That went great.

"Maybe he just got overwhelmed?" Karina said the next day, eyebrows raised as she watched you slump forward, elbows on your knees, retelling the disaster. "You did tell me you kind of talk a lot. Or he's just shy as hell."

"What if he thinks I'm weird?" you muttered, rubbing a hand over your face, trying to replay everything from his side.

"No," she said immediately. "Absolutely not. We will try again. Casual questions only. Like... ask about the weather. It's raining today, right?"

And you did. You actually tried. You walked fast all the way home, phone clutched in your hand as you kept checking the time, timing it just right for when Jake was usually in the living room. 6:39 p.m. You fumbled with your keys, nearly tripping over your own feet as you pushed the door open, breath a little too rushed, and thank fuck—there he was, sitting on the couch, eyes glued to the TV.

You pretended to stretch your shoulders as you stepped inside, rolling your neck like you were just another exhausted student coming home, your jersey lifting slightly and revealing more of your black shorts than necessary.

"It's so rainy, fuck," you complained aloud. "I didn't bring an umbrella, so I ran all the way from the university. God, my body hurts," you added, letting out a small groan with your eyes closed, even though it was a lie—you ran because training went overtime and because you didn't want to miss another chance to talk to him.

Silence.

When he didn't respond, you cracked one eye open, then the other, glancing toward him only to find him still completely fixated on the TV, posture relaxed, attention fully absorbed. Your mouth fell open slightly, irritation bubbling up, and when you drifted a little closer to your room under the excuse of passing by. That was when you finally caught what he was watching—some kind of documentary, planets and stars filling the screen, a calm narrator talking about galaxies, gravity, and shit you barely remembered from high school.

You paused, blinking. Seriously? This was his way of relaxing? Sitting there quietly, absorbing new information like it was entertainment? You scoffed under your breath, suddenly feeling stupid, because now talking about the weather felt painfully dumb in comparison, like small talk he wouldn't even care about. Without another word, you turned and went into your room, shutting the door a little harder and dropping onto your bed before forcing yourself to open your notes and study for quizzes you barely cared about.

"Don't give up," Karina said firmly, gripping your shoulders when you sagged forward on the bench, this rare break finally giving you room to breathe after weeks of nonstop training with the city-wide university tournament looming over your head.

"He can barely look at me," you snapped, pointing at yourself, teeth gritted in frustration.

"Because you're too hot and beautiful," she shot back without missing a beat. "He's overwhelmed. He's probably thinking you're so so hot that his brain is literally short-circuiting every time you talk to him. Think about it—it's been a long time since his last relationship." She smoothed your hair like she was calming a feral animal, tone softening.

You both went quiet after that, and you stared off to the side, chewing on the thought despite yourself. Right. Maybe he really was just awkward because it'd been a long time. Maybe you were coming on too strong without realizing it. You needed to be subtle, calmer, casual, like you didn't give a shit even if part of you very clearly did. Play it cool.

That night, you came home with two cups of ramen swinging lightly from your hand, your chest rose and fell from the walk up the stairs, shoulders finally dropping in relief when you stepped inside and saw Jake in the living room. He was crouched on the floor again, tools scattered around him as he fiddled with another robot you'd never seen before, while the stupid circular vacuum from before rolled lazily around the room.

"Hi," you said, still catching your breath.

He looked up at you, eyes wide and innocent for half a second before that familiar awkward smile kicked in, forced and shy all at once, and fuck, the sight of it irritated you because he was unfairly cute in a way that made no sense. "Hi," he replied softly.

You lifted the two ramen cups and walked toward the table, setting your bag down as casually as you could manage. "I bought two," you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. "Got my daily sports allowance and wanted to treat myself... then I thought of you." You shuffled the plastic lids, pretending to be more focused on that than the way his attention locked onto you. "You're probably hungry, right?"

You didn't wait for his answer. You slid one of the ramen cups toward him and finally met his eyes, holding his gaze just long enough to make your point clear without saying it outright, your mouth curling into a small smile. "...Right?"

"U-Uh... t-thank you," he whispered as he shrank in on himself, shoulders curling forward while he opened the container. He flashed you that same awkward, almost childish smile again, and fuck, he's really really so cute.

You sat across from him at the table, the two of you eating in silence, the only sounds the soft slurp of noodles and the faint hum of the appliances around you. You poked at your ramen with your chopsticks more than you actually ate, stealing glances at him while he chewed, trying to find an opening that didn't feel forced, something that wouldn't send him running again. "Soo..." you started, dragging the word out like a test. "You're a scholar too?"

Jake nodded before he even spoke, eyes lifting briefly before darting away again. "Yes," he said.

You nodded back like you were genuinely interested, leaning your elbow on the table. "How much allowance do they give you?" you asked. "Or is it the same as mine? I heard academic scholars can apply outside the university too, like government stuff."

He nodded again, eyes flicking up to you for half a second before he went back to biting his noodles, slurping softly like that was easier than talking. You kept going anyway, because silence made your skin crawl. "Sometimes I wish I was smart instead of just... sport-inclined," you admitted with a half-laugh, slumping your shoulders for emphasis. "Like, what the hell am I supposed to do after I decide I'm done with volleyball?"

You looked at him, waiting, hoping, and the silence stretched out so long it felt loud, ringing in your ears until you swore you could hear imaginary crickets chirping in your head. Embarrassment crept up your neck, heat blooming as you realized this was it again—you talking, oversharing, filling space while he stayed quiet.

"I'm done for now," you said abruptly, clacking your chopsticks against the plastic before snapping the lid shut, forcing a smile that felt stiff on your face. You stood, shoved the ramen into the fridge with more force and retreated to your room, closing the door behind you.

Bitch, you thought, dropping onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. All you ever do is embarrass yourself!

The next morning, Sunday dragged itself, and the only thing on your schedule was volleyball training, which somehow made it worse. Your body ached in that familiar, dull way, muscles stiff and protesting as you forced yourself out of bed and into the living room to pack your bag, movements sluggish. You were halfway through shoving your gear inside when you realized the bathroom door was open, steam drifting lazily into the hallway, and you froze mid-motion when he stepped out.

Jake stood there with a towel slung over his shoulder, hair still damp and sticking up in odd places, dressed in his usual comfortable home clothes like it was any other morning, and for a split second your brain short-circuited. What the hell? It was Sunday. He never woke up early on Sundays!

The sight of him caught you so off guard that your mouth moved before your thoughts caught up. "A-Are you done?" you asked, forcing a stiff smile and immediately wanting to slap yourself for stuttering like an idiot.

He nodded, eyes sliding away from yours almost instantly, stepping past you with that small, polite bow he always did. The air felt weirdly tight after he passed, and you stood there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the bathroom door.

By the time you were on the court with Karina, dropping your bag down beside hers and joining her for stretches. "I swear he's not interested," you muttered, brow scrunched as you stretched out your legs. "I might just give up."

"Wow," Karina replied dryly, glancing at you. "Good morning to you too."

You rolled your eyes and pushed into a half split, focusing on your breathing. "Everything is your fault," you went on, shifting your weight, arching your back to stretch deeper. "And yeah, okay, I admit he's cute and attractive and whatever, but—ugh." You abandoned the stretch altogether, dropping onto the floor and flailing your hands in frustration. "He won't even talk to me, no matter what I try or what you tell me to do."

"Maybe because—" Karina started.

"No," you cut her off immediately, rubbing your face. "I'm done. Why am I even doing this?" You weren't sure if the question was meant for her or yourself, and that uncertainty only made it worse.

You didn't even know what you wanted—maybe you wanted him in your bed, maybe you were just bored, lonely, horny, maybe you wanted a boyfriend, or maybe you just wanted something to break the monotony of your days.

Fuck, you honestly didn't know.You pushed yourself up to your feet with a sharp exhale, forcing your shoulders back as training began, telling yourself this was it, that you were un-crushing him, that whatever weird hold he'd had on your thoughts was gone. You just needed to focus, sweat it out, forget the way he'd looked that morning, forget the way your chest had tightened for no good reason, and move the hell on!

And so you went back to not caring about him—or at least you tried to. You kept things strictly transactional, clipped conversations that revolved around rent, water bills, electrical bills, and nothing else, the kind of exchanges that didn't require eye contact or emotion or the risk of awkward pauses. You timed your routines carefully, stayed in your room more, wore your headphones even when nothing was playing.

Somehow, though, the apartment got weirder instead of quieter.

At some point, there were suddenly two circular vacuum robots roaming the place, one pink and one white, bumping lazily into furniture like bored pets, and then there was a third one that made you pause the first time you saw it. This one had a small screen instead of a blank surface, animated eyes blinking as it rolled around the house, looping endlessly in wide, slow circles like it was patrolling its territory. It was unsettling in a way you couldn't quite explain, especially the way it behaved whenever you came home.

The first time it happened, you stepped through the front door, already halfway to your room when the robot rolled toward you, stopping just short of your feet. Its eyes widened slightly on the screen, focusing on you, and then a soft, robotic voice chimed, "Hi."

You stopped, stared at it, and after a second of confused silence, answered back without thinking. "Hi," you muttered, eyebrows knitting together as you watched it blink like it was pleased with the response. You shook your head and went to your room.

But it kept happening. Every time you came home after training at 7:30, without fail, the robot would find you, roll closer, look up at you with those stupid animated eyes, and greet you. "Hi." Over and over again, like some kind of programmed acknowledgment that you existed, and it annoyed you! Part of you wondered why a machine noticed you more consistently than the person who built it?

Whatever.

When tournament month finally hit, it felt less like a schedule and more like a slow, grinding punishment that refused to end. Hell week stretched into hell weeks, days bleeding into each other until your body stopped distinguishing between soreness and exhaustion, and your mind lived in a constant fog of drills, scrimmages, ice packs, and shouted instructions. Your team kept winning—somehow—defeating other universities one after another, which meant you qualified for the next rounds, which also meant more training, longer hours, heavier pressure. Victory didn't feel like relief anymore; it felt like another door slamming shut behind you.

After one match, you stood on the edge of the court, hands on your hips, chest heaving as you watched people filter out of the bleachers. Couples laughed, friends clapped each other on the back, families waved and called out names, and you wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to just be normal—to be a regular college student who watched sports for fun instead of bleeding for it, who cheered and went home without their knees screaming or shoulders burning. Would life be easier that way? Would you have more space in your head for things that weren't survival and performance and pushing yourself past your limits?

And then your thoughts drifted further. Would you have found a lover by now? If your life wasn't so wrapped up in training? Someone you met in a theory class, bonding over shared misery and late-night study sessions, or someone introduced through friends, a clean, easy connection that didn't feel so fucking complicated.

The idea made your chest tighten, and you frowned at yourself, annoyed. Why were you suddenly like this? Why so emotional, so restless? Were you really that lonely? What the hell was wrong with being single anyway? You'd been fine before. You had friends. You had people to talk to. You weren't isolated!

Except you knew it wasn't the same. You watched your teammates get swallowed into hugs after the match, hands squeezing shoulders, foreheads pressed together, quiet comfort exchanged even without words, and you felt it then—a sharp, stupid ache. While they leaned into someone else's warmth, you retreated to the back room alone, wiping sweat off your face, peeling off your jersey, changing in silence. Maybe this was just who you were—someone who got jealous not because you lacked people, but because everyone else seemed to have that person, someone to lean on when their body gave out, when the day finally caught up with them.

By the time you dragged yourself home, your limbs felt heavy, movements are sluggish as you kicked off your shoes and let the door shut behind you. The familiar hums filling the space as the robots whirled around the floor, doing their endless loops. One of them—the one with the animated eyes—rolled toward you like it always did, eyes blinking up at you before that same neutral voice chimed.

"Hi."

"Hi," you replied automatically. Normally you would've gone straight to your room, but lately Jake had been staying holed up behind his door, and the living room felt strangely empty without him.

You dropped your bag, pulled a beer from it, popped it open, and took a long drink before letting yourself sink down onto the floor. The robot lingered nearby, hovering like it was waiting for something.

You stared at it for a second, exhaled slowly, and shook your head. "Do you know how to say anything besides hi?" you asked it quietly.

The robot blinked, its animated eyes widening and shrinking in a way that almost felt intentional, and you huffed out a weak smile despite yourself. Your fingers hovered over its smooth, round surface, stopping just short of touching it. "I don't really know shit about these things," you muttered, gesturing vaguely at it, "but aren't you supposed to be, like... a comfort robot or something? The kind people put on their desks so they don't feel so damn alone." You tilted your head, squinting at it. "But you're round. And you roll. You're like... a vacuum with feelings."

The robot blinked again.

You took another sip of your beer, the bitterness sitting heavy on your tongue. "I think I'm so lonely I might cry," you admitted, voice cracking just a little as a hiccup slipped out of you. You set the beer aside and started peeling off your protective gear, fingers clumsy, dropping the pads onto the floor one by one. Bruises bloomed across your skin—dark, ugly marks layered over older ones.

"I don't want to be a libero anymore," you said flatly, staring down at your legs. "God, why am I not rich? Or smart? Or just... lucky for once."

You looked back at the robot, its eyes fixed on you like it was actually listening. "I wish I had someone," you continued. "Someone who'd hug me after games. Someone I could talk to when training's over and my body feels like it's about to give out." You scoffed and lifted a finger, pointing at it like you were lecturing. "You know my teammates? Let me introduce you, since apparently you're the only thing paying attention right now."

"So there's Karina," you said, holding up one finger. "She's our setter, loud as hell, always running her mouth, and yeah—she's dating the basketball captain." Another finger. "Rei's the youngest, dating some art dancer who comes to all her games and cries like a baby." Another. "Giselle's gay, she's in a relationship, and Ningning's with her. I swear they fight all the time, but it's kinda cute because they're both middle blockers and stubborn as shit." You kept going, listing names, relationships, connections, until your hand dropped back into your lap. "Winter—well, that's not even her real name. And Yunjin, Yuna, Yeji, Ryujin... all in relationships."

You leaned back against the sofa, sliding down slightly as you sat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling like it might have answers. "Everyone has someone," you whispered.

"Why... am I such a fucking loser?" you laughed, the sound is too loud in the quiet apartment, echoing for a second before it died out. The laugh collapsed in on itself, and you buried your face in your hands, shoulders shaking as tears burned behind your eyes. You didn't bother wiping them away when they spilled over, there was no one around to see you break—just a robot blinking back at you, silently witnessing everything you'd been holding in for far too long.

"I want someone," you choked out into your palm, the words are so ugly and bare, pathetic in a way that hurt to admit out loud. You dragged your hands down your face and looked at the robot again, eyes wet, vision blurry. "God, that sounded so fucking sad," you laughed weakly.

"Maybe you should ask your owner to build me one of those realistic human robots." You sniffed, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "Ask him to make one for me, yeah? Since apparently I can't even talk to him like a normal person."

Your laugh came again, tears still sliding down your cheeks as you shook your head. You leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling, words spilling out now that you'd opened the floodgates. "I want him to make me a boyfriend with high emotional intelligence," you said bitterly, counting it off in your head like a stupid wish list. "Someone who'd cook me healthy meals that actually fit my training, because finding decent food is a nightmare. Someone who'd show up to every tournament, even the shitty ones, and cheer for me."

Your voice dropped. "Someone who'd listen. Someone who wouldn't freak out when I'm exhausted or pissed or quiet. Someone who'd talk to me through the hard days instead of making me feel like I'm too much." You swallowed, chest tight, then let out a shaky breath. "And yeah," you added, snorting through your tears, "someone who'd fuck me hard enough to knock the stress out of my body and make me forget everything else for a while. How does that sound, huh?"

For a second, there was only the low hum of the apartment. Then the robot's screen shifted, animated eyes changing as a little emoticon popped up—round, pink, unmistakably blushing.

Your eyes widened. Then you burst out laughing, real laughter this time. "No fucking way," you said between laughs, wiping at your face. "Did you just blush at that?" You leaned closer, still grinning like an idiot through tear-streaked cheeks. "Are you programmed with PG-13 only or what?"

The robot blinked once, then shook its round body side to side like it was offended. You gasped dramatically, pointing at it. "Oh my god. You are judging me." You sniffed, then tilted your head. "Okay, smartass. What does the fox say?"

The screen flickered. Suddenly the robot's eyes morphed into exaggerated fox eyes, whiskers popping up on either side as its little screen started wobbling in place.

"Tingining-ngining-ngining."

You choked on your own laughter, hands slapping against the floor as you doubled over. "No—no way—stop," you wheezed, laughing harder as the robot kept dancing, completely unbothered. Tears streamed down your face again, but this time they were from laughing so hard your chest hurt.

You stayed there for hours after that, talking absolute nonsense to it, asking stupid questions, daring it to do random shit, reacting like it was some kind of miracle instead of a rolling piece of metal with a screen. At some point your words slowed, your body sagged, and without even realizing it, you slid down where you sat, head resting against the sofa, eyes finally drifting shut.

Morning came and you woke up confused, the first thing you registered being how soft everything felt. You were lying on the sofa, not the floor like you remembered, a blanket pulled up around you, tucked snugly enough. You blinked, staring at the ceiling, then shifted slightly and froze. Your skin felt... warm. Not sore in the usual way. When you pushed the blanket aside, you saw neat bandages wrapped around your bruises, carefully placed, clean, and faintly scented with something herbal that made your muscles relax just breathing it in.

"What the fuck..." you murmured, sitting up slowly. Your head wasn't pounding. You weren't dizzy. You definitely weren't drunk enough to forget doing this. You glanced around the living room, heart starting to thump harder as pieces didn't line up. The robot sat docked in its corner, screen dark. The apartment was quiet—too quiet.

You dragged the blanket tighter around yourself, staring at your own hands. Did you do this? No. You would've remembered bandaging yourself. And the smell, so warm, so clean, so comforting—it wasn't yours. Your chest fluttered uncomfortably. Of course you weren't stupid. You weren't that fucking oblivious. Someone had moved you. Someone had carefully lifted your dead weight off the floor, arranged you on the sofa, wrapped a blanket around you like you were fragile instead of a grown woman who could bench half the team. Someone had cleaned you up, bandaged your bruises, and let you sleep it off instead of waking you or leaving you there like a mess. And there was really only one person in that apartment who would've done it.

Jake.

Jake.

Heat start crawling up your neck as your brain started filling in the blanks you didn't want answers to. Why the fuck would he do that? You stared down at the bandages again, fingers hovering over them. You didn't remember waking up. You didn't remember him touching you. It was only a beer, sure, but you'd been emotional, rambling, spilling your guts to a robot like a lunatic.

God. What if you'd talked in your sleep? What if you'd laughed too loud, cried harder, said something you shouldn't have? Worse—what if you'd drunkenly confessed how fucking lonely you were, how badly you wanted someone, how much you'd been thinking about him without ever meaning to? The thought made your face burn. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You couldn't look at him after that. You didn't even try.

For the next few days, you turned into a ghost in your own apartment, timing everything around him without even meaning to. Training ended at 6:30, but you didn't go home until eleven, sometimes closer to midnight, killing time wherever you could—late dinners, extra stretching or workouts, pointless walks—until you finally started crashing at Ryujin's place in the next building over. Her couch became familiar, her fridge raided, her complaints ignored. Anything to avoid running into him in the living room, anything to avoid seeing that awkward smile and wondering what the fuck he knew about you now.

Your head wasn't in the game either, and it showed.

"You seriously need to stop pulling faces on court," Ryujin said one afternoon, shoving her phone in your face while you were still catching your breath. Sweat dripped down your temples as you squinted at the screen, instantly recognizing the photo—your body low in a squat, eyes sharp, eyebrow raised, jaw set like you were ready to kill someone. The sports journalist had caught you mid-focus, mid-intimidation, and it was already blowing up on the university page.

"What do you want me to do?" you snapped, irritated, pushing the phone away. "Smile at the other team?"

"At least look... approachable?" she said, shrugging. "I mean, that's your default face, yeah, but you know when I first met you, I thought you hated me."

You glanced at her, pausing.

"You didn't talk to me for weeks when I joined," she continued, stretching her calves casually. "I legit thought I pissed you off somehow. Then one day you just asked me to grab lunch with you like nothing happened, and that's when I realized you were actually nice. Just... intense."

You scoffed, rubbing the back of your neck. "That's just how I am."

Unfortunately for you, that day lined up perfectly with everyone else having a life. Ryujin had a date with her girlfriend, Karina was off doing couple shit with hers, and you were left with too much energy and nowhere to dump it. You went to the gym even though training had ended early, pushing yourself through another pointless workout just to avoid going home, until your muscles finally protested enough to force you to stop. By the time you dragged yourself back to the apartment, it was already 7:04 PM.

You unlocked the door and stepped inside, pretending to be deeply invested in your phone as you kicked off your shoes and slid them into the rack beside your roommate's. The apartment was calm in that familiar way, and right on cue, there he was— Jake was fresh out of the bathroom, towel slung loosely over his shoulder, wearing those ridiculous dinosaur slippers. Seven o'clock. Of course. You could already tell he was winding down, getting ready for his absurdly early bedtime.

Your eyes met for half a second. You looked away immediately, pulse kicking hard against your ribs. You walked past him like you didn't care, thumb scrolling mindlessly through takeout apps you weren't even reading, already reaching for your bedroom doorknob when his voice stopped you.

"I—I always... uh... cook food f-for dinner..."

You froze, fingers tightening around the knob as your brain scrambled to process what you'd just heard. You turned your head slightly, not fully facing him, afraid that if you did your face would give you away. He was standing a few steps behind you, shoulders tense, eyes glued somewhere near the floor.

"I-If you want to eat," he added quickly, words tripping over each other, "uh... it's on the table..."

Before you could say anything—before you could even decide what the hell you wanted to say—he retreated, practically speed-walking into his room and shutting the door.

You stood there in the hallway, hand still on the doorknob, staring at nothing. What the fuck was that?

You could order takeout. Obviously. That had been the plan. But this was the first time he'd actually initiated anything. Was this his way of talking to you? Of trying? Why were you even overthinking this? It was just food. Fucking food. "Get a grip," you muttered, yanking off your varsity jacket and tossing it over the chair. Curiosity won anyway. You walked toward the table and lifted the food cover, already telling yourself it was just about saving money, nothing else.

Your mouth watered instantly. In front of you was a Chicken breast that are perfectly cooked. Sweet potato, roasted just enough. Steamed broccoli, still bright green, not soggy, not sad. This is kind of meal athletes killed themselves. The kind of meal you'd complained about not having time or money to prep a hundred times. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me," you whispered. This was exactly what your body needed. You might've laughed if you weren't so close to crying. After weeks of exhaustion, shitty schedules, loneliness you pretended didn't exist, here was this quiet, nerdy, awkward roommate who barely looked you in the eye—coincedently cooking the perfect post-training dinner.

You didn't even bother pretending to be civilized about it. You dropped into the chair and dug in like you hadn't eaten in days, shoveling food into your mouth with zero shame, chewing fast, shoulders finally loosening as real fuel hit your system. The chicken was tender, the sweet potato was so soft, the broccoli exactly how you liked it, and you were too busy inhaling everything to notice the soft whirring near your feet.

"Hi," the robot chirped, rolling up beside your chair like it always did.

You waved it off vaguely, mouth full, head down, focused on the plate. It didn't even cross your mind then that the robot hadn't been greeting you lately when you came home past midnight, that it used to roll toward you every time. You were too hungry, too focused, too busy scraping the plate clean to notice anything beyond the food in front of you.

The next day, you came home a little earlier than usual, around eight. Training had been brutal, your legs shaking by the time you unlocked the door, and you were already mentally preparing yourself for instant noodles or whatever garbage you could throw together without collapsing. Instead, you stopped short.

Another meal sat on the table.

This time it was tofu stir-fry with rice, still covered, steam faintly trapped beneath the lid. The robot sat docked beside the table like it was guarding the food, screen dark, finally resting. You glanced toward the sink and noticed a single plate already washed and set aside—proof that Jake had eaten earlier. Your stomach growled embarrassingly loud.

You didn't overthink it. You just sat down and ate, quietly this time. God's perfect, it was convenience. Timing. Coincidence. That he probably cooked in bulk and didn't want leftovers to go bad. You definitely didn't think about how the portions were always just right for you, or how the meals lined up perfectly with your training load.

And then it kept happening.

The next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Sometimes you came home early and ate while he was already locked in his room. Sometimes you came home late and the food was still there, waiting. You rarely saw him. You rarely spoke. But you ate. Every night.

Every night, no matter what time you came home, there was food waiting. Always balanced. Always exactly what your body needed, like someone had been paying attention—really paying attention—to what an exhausted athlete needed to survive. You stopped ordering takeout without even realizing it. Your fridge stayed full longer. Your energy during training didn't crash as hard. Your muscles recovered faster.

"You're gaining weight," your coach said one afternoon, flipping through his clipboard as he read off numbers.

Your heart jumped. "Huh? Is that a bad thing?" you asked, nerves creeping up your spine.

He raised an eyebrow, then snorted. "No. It's a good thing." He looked up at you, "I've been telling you to eat more for months. Looks like you're finally listening." He closed the clipboard and stepped closer, ruffling your hair roughly. "Finals are coming up. You need more muscle if you want to keep up your defense."

You laughed awkwardly, nodding along.  Don't think about it too much. Don't think about it too much. Don't think about it too much. It's healthy, right? That's all that matters. Your body feels better, stronger, steadier during drills. You don't feel like you're about to collapse halfway through practice anymore. Whatever you're eating is exactly what your body needs. Exactly what it's been begging for. And yeah—fuck—it's also exactly what your heart didn't know it was starving for, but you're not touching that thought. Not with a ten-foot pole.

"What if he's purposely cooking too much so you'll eat?" Karina had said earlier, lips curled into that wicked smile she always wore when she knew she was poking at something sensitive.

No. Absolutely not. You refused to let that sink in. You wouldn't let her words crawl under your skin and set everything on fire again. Roommates do this shit. People share food. People are nice without ulterior motives. It's normal. It's fucking normal. Just because you're a hopeless romantic doesn't mean you get to project that onto someone who's clearly just... kind. Assuming otherwise would make things awkward again, and you were done with awkward.

With training dismissed early that day, you stopped by the grocery store on your way home, wandering the aisles without much thought until something familiar caught your eye. Chocolate almond milk. The same brand. The one he always drank in the mornings. You stared at it for a second longer before grabbing and tossing it into your basket.

You got home at 5:30 PM sharp.

The smell of savory cooking hit you the moment you stepped inside. Jake stood in the kitchen wearing an apron, moving carefully between the counter and the stove. Soft music played in the background, Cigarettes After Sex, of all things.

When he noticed you, he startled like he'd been caught. His eyes widened, body jerking awkwardly as he took a step back, then forward, clearly unsure what to do with himself. "Y-You're h-here— wait—"

"Groceries," you said quietly, cutting him off before he could spiral, offering a small smile as you set the plastic bag on the table. You pulled out the carton of almond milk and held it up slightly. "I bought you this."

He stared at it, his mouth fell open just a little, eyes flicking from the carton to your face and back again, cheeks already starting to color.

"I've been eating your food for a week," you added, shrugging lightly, forcing your voice to stay steady. "Consider it a thank you."

"T-Thank you," he whispered, eyes flicking up to yours for half a second before he turned his back, shoulders hunching slightly as he went back to stirring whatever was on the stove.

You busied yourself with the groceries, unloading them one by one. Yogurts into the fridge. Vegetables in the crisper. Almond milk placed carefully on the shelf where you'd seen his before. When you were done, you grabbed your bag, already planning to retreat to your room and give both of you space, because that was safer.

"H-Hey." His voice stopped you mid-step.

You turned around slowly, heart doing that stupid stutter again, and found him standing by the table with two plates in his hands. He set them down carefully, and for a moment he actually held your gaze. Really held it. The eye contact made something like an electric flicker through you that you almost looked away first—but then he broke it, eyes darting off to the side like he'd just realized what he was doing.

"Let's— I-I cooked dinner," he said, words tumbling over each other. "There's a-a lot, so l-let's share."

Fuck. You swallowed, nodded, and quietly took a seat across from him before your mouth could betray you by saying something stupid. You both served yourselves rice in silence, the clink of utensils and the low hum of the music filling the space between you. The food was good and for a few minutes you just ate, letting the tension settle instead of fighting it.

"You listen to CAS?" you asked eventually, nodding toward the speaker.

He froze for a split second, shoulders tensing. "Y-Yeah," he said softly. "I... uh... it helps me focus. And... relax." He glanced up at you, then away again, fingers tightening around his chopsticks. "Y-You?"

"Casual listener," you replied, reaching for the rice bowl again without thinking, scooping out another generous serving and plopping it onto your plate. "I prefer loud music. Like, really loud." You shrugged, already chewing as you talked, words slightly muffled because that was just how you ate. "It helps me focus during workouts, especially during hard training days. Phonk music, mostly. Some of my teammates are into it, so I kinda adopted it." You rambled on, barely realizing how much food you'd shoved into your mouth, cheeks full, posture relaxed in a way you hadn't been around him before.

There was a brief pause, you were still chewing when Jake quietly leaned forward and placed the last slice of meat onto your plate. The movement made you stop mid-bite. Your eyes dropped to the food, then lifted slowly to him, finding him watching you with that same awkward concentration, lips pressed together before they curved into a small, uncertain smile.

"I-I listen to music similar to CAS," he continued, voice gaining a bit of momentum like he was warming up. "A-And wave to earth too, b-because it helps me calm my mind. Makes it easier to sleep early." He scratched the back of his neck, clearly rambling now, which somehow made it worse in the best way.

Your brain short-circuited. Fully. You stared at him for a second too long, then forced yourself to finish chewing, swallowing slowly as you tried to get your thoughts back in order.

"I—" you started, then stopped, laughing awkwardly under your breath. "Yeah. That... checks out." You gestured vaguely with your chopsticks. "I mean, I noticed you go to bed at eight." You let out another small laugh, embarrassment creeping in fast. "That stupid sign on the wall finally made sense."

His ears turned red almost instantly. "S-Sorry," he blurted out. "I didn't mean to be... annoying."

"It's not annoying," you said immediately, a little too fast, shaking your head like your life depended on clearing that up. The last thing you wanted was for him to retreat back into himself again. "It's just... different." You hesitated, then added more softly, "Kinda impressive, actually. Most college students have completely fucked body clocks and awful habits." You snorted lightly. "Speaking from experience."

He nodded, relief loosening his shoulders just a bit. "Uh... yeah. I-I try not to pick up bad habits," he said. "I-I value time a lot. What we do and what we eat affects how our body p-performs." He gestured vaguely at the table, at the food. "If I get sick, a-a lot of time gets w-wasted."

You stared at him, chopsticks paused halfway to your mouth.

Okay. What the fuck. This guy went to bed at eight, didn't drink caffeine, cooked balanced meals, and talked wisely about time and health. Made you want to smack yourself for ever writing him off as just some awkward nerd with Lego sets and robots. You could feel it now, that pull in your chest, that annoying curiosity digging deeper, urging you to peel back more layers you hadn't even known were there.

And God help you, he was talking. Actually talking. To you.

"Yeah," you said, finally swallowing your bite. "You're right." You leaned back slightly in your chair, lips twitching as you tried to play it off. "Teach me your ways, then. I clearly need your level of dedication." What the fuck are you saying?

He blinked, then let out a small, surprised sound that might've been a laugh. "I-I'm not that dedicated," he said quickly, waving a hand like he was swatting the idea away. "Just... organized."

"Sure," you replied, smirking faintly. "That's what all disciplined people say."

He ducked his head, embarrassed again, but this time it was lighter in the air. Less tension.

And it made it really fucking hard to pretend you didn't care.

The next day proved that. You didn't even linger after training like you usually did. No extra laps, no pointless cooldowns, no killing time just to avoid going home. You showered, changed, and headed straight back, heart thudding with a stupid mix of anticipation and denial. When you opened the apartment door, the familiar sounds of the soft whirr of the robot vacuums roaming the floor and the muted clatter of pans from the kitchen greeted you immediately. He was cooking again!

"I bought apples," you said, setting the bag down on the table.

Jake glanced over his shoulder, offered you a quiet, "Hi," paired with that same awkward smile that somehow felt less awkward every time you saw it. He turned back to the stove, setting down plates—rice, and vegetable soup. And yeah, his dinners were always exactly what you were supposed to be eating after training. Jackpot was an understatement.

"Is it okay if I eat with you?" you asked, already pulling out a chair and sitting down like you'd made the decision before finishing the sentence. "I mean, you cook for yourself."

"Of course... I-It's okay," he said quickly, nodding.

You watched him a little too closely, waiting, hoping he'd say more instead of retreating into silence. He hesitated, eyes flicking toward you, then away, lips parting as if he was debating with himself. "I-I've been cooking more these days," he admitted. "B-Because... uh... I was thinking of gaining weight myself, b-but I think my appetite c-can't really keep up."

"Ohhh," you said, snapping your fingers. "Yeah, that makes sense." You leaned forward, already getting animated without realizing it. "You're gonna need a loooot of protein for that. My coach never shuts up about it, especially for me. Defense needs muscle, apparently." You laughed lightly, rambling now, turning toward him with an easy smile as you scooped soup straight into your rice. "My budget's always shit though, so I rely on protein powders and gym meals."

He nodded slowly, listening, before going quiet again and digging into his food. Somehow, that quiet didn't feel awkward. It felt comfortable.

You didn't notice how relaxed you looked, how your shoulders dropped, how your expression softened as you ate. You didn't notice how naturally you mirrored his pace, slowing down, breathing easier. You definitely didn't notice the way your heart jumped when he picked up one of the apples you'd bought, peeled it carefully, and slid it onto your plate without a word.

Your pulse spiked, so stupid and fast. "Thanks," you murmured, suddenly very aware of him sitting across from you, of how close this all felt without crossing any lines.

God, don't read into it too much. You told yourself that firmly. He's just nice. He's your roommate. He cooks. He shares. He listens.

But fuck—how were you not supposed to like him when he made space for you so quietly, when being around him started to feel like rest?

"It felt nice," you sighed, sprawled flat on the court with your arms stretched above your head. Sweat cooled against your skin as the basketball players ran laps around you. Karina sat beside you, legs crossed, phone in hand, thumbs flying across the screen. She glanced down at you, eyebrows lifting slowly, curiosity sharpening her expression as she clocked how distant you looked.

"What exactly feels nice?" she asked, frowning. "Because it sure as hell isn't sharing the court with these fuckers. Our training schedule's been cut all week." She tilted her chin toward the far end of the court, where her boyfriend was jogging past, shirt clinging to him. She grimaced. "Look at him. I bet he smells like an ass."

You huffed out a weak laugh but didn't move, eyes fixed on the ceiling lights glowing overhead. "It just... feels nice," you repeated. Your voice dipped as the thought finally slipped out. "Am I really that lonely that I start liking someone just because they pay a little attention to me?" You swallowed, jaw tightening. "I mean, I already knew I was fucked the moment I caught myself thinking about him while touching myself, and we hadn't even had a proper conversation. Just you, planting bullshit ideas in my head like a menace."

"Oh my God," Karina gasped, dropping her phone instantly. She rolled onto the floor beside you, mirroring your position but turning onto her side to face you, eyes wide and way too excited for your liking. "Is this about your cute nerd roommate again?"

You didn't answer. You kept staring at the lights, blinking slowly, letting the words tumble out because once they started, it felt impossible to stop. "He cooks extra food without making it a thing," you said. "Like it's nothing. And I eat it. And sometimes I talk. Just starting dumb shit about my day. And that night I passed out on the floor, he carried me to the couch and wrapped my bruises, and I woke up with bandages that actually helped." Your throat tightened. "So what, Karina? Am I really that pathetic for feeling like this?"

Karina stared at you for a long moment, her teasing expression finally softening. She reached out and poked your forehead. "First of all, shut up," she said gently. "Second of all, you're not pathetic. You're human." She sighed and lay back, hands folded on her stomach. "You're exhausted. You train like a beast, you carry your team, and you come home to an empty room most nights. Of course small kindness feels huge right now."

You turned your head slightly, finally looking at her. "But what if I'm just projecting?" you asked. "What if I'm clinging to scraps because I don't want to feel alone anymore?"

"That's called being aware," she replied. "Not desperate." She nudged your shoulder. "And listen to me. You're not imagining things out of nowhere. He didn't have to cook extra. He didn't have to move you. He didn't have to take care of your bruises. Those are choices." She paused, then added carefully, "Does that mean he's in love with you? No. But it means you're not crazy for feeling something."

You exhaled slowly, chest easing just a little. "I don't even know what I want," you admitted. "I just know it feels... safe. And that scares the shit out of me."

Karina smiled softly. "Good. It should scare you a little. That means it matters. Lmao." She squeezed your hand. "Just don't rush it. Let it breathe. You're allowed to want someone. You're allowed to be taken care of sometimes."

You smiled faintly to yourself. Right. Don't rush. Go with the flow. Let it breathe. Jake probably had no idea what was spiraling around in your head anyway. You could keep this normal, no stupid fantasies. There was nothing to lose if you kept it like that... right?

"You can call them Whitey, Pinky, and Bumble," Jake said casually, gesturing toward the living room.

You followed his hand. The two vacuum robots were roaming around like usual, bumping gently into chair legs and correcting themselves. The pink one spun lazily near the couch, the white one hovered closer to the dining table, and Bumble—the one with the animated eyes—was docked near the TV, screen dimmed as she recharged.

You almost snorted. It was stupid how endearing it felt. Any other time, with any other guy, you'd probably be weirded the fuck out. But with Jake? It just slid into place too easily, like another quiet, odd piece of him you were already getting used to. White robot: Whitey. Pink robot: Pinky. And Bumble... because apparently it's soft blue glow reminded him of a bumblebee.

"That's... very on the nose," you said, lips twitching as Whitey rolled dangerously close to your foot. You shifted your leg, and the robot obediently veered away. "Does your course actually teach you this stuff, or are you just secretly a scientist?"

Jake let out a small, embarrassed laugh. "Uh... I'm a civil engineer," he said, rubbing the back of his ear. "B-But I have a friend. He's... uh... computer and electrical engineering." He hesitated, words tangling like they always did when he tried to explain himself. "We... sometimes make things."

You leaned back against the chair, listening.

"Bumble was... uh..." He paused, glancing toward the robot like he was checking if she could hear him. "She was supposed to be a vacuum robot for desks. It was for our Grade 12 STEM research. But our teacher said vacuum robots were too common, and we... didn't know enough about coding back then." He shrugged awkwardly. "So we just... continued it anyway. Changed her design. That's why she's small."

Oh.

You blinked. Of course he had friends like that. Smart, curious, building things just because they could. Of course he carried projects from years ago instead of throwing them away. And of course he called the robot she, like she was a person, or a pet, or something he cared about.

"That's actually kind of impressive," you said honestly, eyes flicking back to Bumble. "You kept working on her even after the project ended."

Jake's shoulders lifted slightly, then dropped. "I... didn't want to waste it," he said quietly. "Time, I mean."

And there it was again, that quiet, infuriatingly gentle way he treated time and effort, like both were fragile things you weren't supposed to waste or throw around carelessly. God, he was cute.

You hated how easily it slipped past your defenses, how your brain kept screaming don't read into it while your body already had its own stupid opinions. Still, you couldn't deny it anymore, not even to yourself. Something had shifted. Maybe a door cracked open, maybe you'd just stopped bracing so hard, but suddenly there was space between you that didn't feel awkward or tense. It felt... safe. Comfortable. Like you didn't have to perform or fill the silence for once. And the fucked up part was, what you'd said earlier was true.

It really did feel nice.

"I... cook for breakfast," he said one morning while you were tying your shoes, backpack already slung over your shoulder, half-awake and mentally preparing yourself to survive another long day. "D-do you want to eat before you go?"

You should've said no. You almost always grabbed coffee and whatever sad snack you could find on campus, ate standing up, rushed through everything like your life. But you just nodded, sitting at the table in the early morning light, eating something warm and balanced while he moved quietly around the kitchen, you realized your shoulders weren't tight for once. You weren't rushing. You weren't thinking about the next thing you had to do.

It felt nice. Way too nice.

Later that week, after a practice match wrapped up earlier than expected, you found yourself standing outside his door, heart beating faster than it should've over something so stupid. You knocked anyway. When he opened the door a minute later, one earphone dangling loose, hair slightly messy, that familiar awkward smile creeping onto his face, you almost chickened out.

"Am I... disturbing you or something?" you asked, forcing a casual tone that didn't quite hide the nerves twisting in your gut. He shook his head, and you felt the tension in your shoulders finally ease.

"Uh... I was just fixing my books," he said. "Why?"

You took a breath, then another. "I bought snacks. Chips and stuff," you said, holding up the bag. "I was just wondering if you... wanted to watch a movie with me."

Immediately your brain started spiraling, tearing you apart for how you phrased it. Too direct. Too demanding. You should've softened it, given him an out, made it sound like an optional, no-pressure thing. God, what if this was crossing some invisible roommate line? You braced yourself for rejection, already rehearsing how you'd laugh it off, how you'd pretend you weren't embarrassed if he said no. You told yourself it was fine. You hoped he'd be gentle about it if he did.

"Uh, sure," he said after a beat, smiling that shy, crooked smile. "Let me fix my things quick."

You ended up on the couch together, a polite distance between you, snacks spread across the table. 50 First Dates played on the screen, and even though some scenes were objectively funny, you found yourself holding back, afraid of laughing too loud. You were hyperaware of everything—your posture, the way you chewed, the way your knee bounced slightly with leftover adrenaline.

Then Jake laughed, mouth full of chips, a soft, unguarded sound that slipped out before he could stop it. You froze, turning to look at him, watching the way his shoulders hunched as he laughed, how genuine it was, how unfiltered. And fuck. Something loosened in you. You smiled before you could stop yourself, then laughed too.

It felt nice, and you weren't used to nice things sticking around without demanding something in return.

Jake wasn't some mystery anymore, not really, at least not on paper. Third-year Civil Engineering student, double scholar, university-funded and government-backed, the kind of résumé that made professors nod approvingly and parents brag to relatives. President's Lister every damn semester, GWA floating between 1.27 and 1.46. You learned these things not because he bragged—he never did—but because papers were left on the table, emails popped up on his phone screen when it lit up, certificates tucked neatly into folders he handled with care. He was impressive in a way that didn't shove itself in your face.

As a roommate, Jake was... steady. Organized without being controlling, balanced in a way that made you painfully aware of how messy your own routines were. He slept at eight, woke up early, moved through the apartment. You noticed small things you shouldn't have been paying attention to, like how he liked sour candy and kept a stash hidden in one drawer, how his fingers fidgeted when he was nervous or thinking too hard, how he couldn't leave broken things alone. A loose screw, a cracked hinge —he'd insist it was still usable, still salvageable, like throwing something away felt wrong to him on a fundamental level. Sometimes you wondered if that applied to people too, if he believed everything and everyone could be fixed if you just gave it enough patience.

You noticed more than you meant to. Jake liked stars, documentaries about space that played quietly in the background while he worked, liked the ocean even though he rarely talked about it, liked anything that revolved around science or math or systems that made sense. It was almost funny how predictable he was once you paid attention, how comforting that predictability became without you realizing it. You caught yourself syncing your schedule around his without meaning to, coming home earlier, lingering longer, listening for his footsteps like it mattered whether he was there or not.

It felt nice going home to someone, where the apartment didn't feel empty when you unlocked the door. Having someone to talk to, even if the conversations were simple and sometimes awkward, felt like relief after days filled with noise and expectations. Having someone prepare meals that actually made your body feel better instead of worse, someone who noticed when you were too tired to cook and never made you feel guilty for it, felt dangerously close to being taken care of. And doing nothing together—sitting on opposite ends of the couch, eating in silence, watching something stupid, sharing space without pressure.

"There's a typhoon coming up, and God help me with this heavy rainfall," Ryujin groaned dramatically, flopping onto the gym bleachers with her hands pressed against her temples. You could hear the rain hammering against the roof above. "My body is so fucking sore, finals are coming, and you're telling me I still have to endure a goddamn storm outside?" Her voice cracked at the end.

"You all act as if we're not aiming for nationals," Giselle said, bouncing the ball with an almost lazy precision, her eyes flicking sideways at the group of basketball players lounging at the edge of the court. They were obnoxiously loud, laughing and showing off, and Giselle's glare could've frozen them mid-air if that were even possible. She tossed the ball in your direction,  and you tightened your grip, flexing your fingers around the ball, feeling the familiar pressure in your palms that meant focus—control. You set yourself, crouched low, and spiked it with everything you had.

"They are already giving out tickets for the finals," Rei whined from the sidelines, dragging her towel across her shoulders as she leaned against the wall. "My boyfriend won't shut up because everyone is hyped about it. It's gonna sell out in like, five minutes." You snorted because, as usual, she was dramatic about everything, and as usual, you were the only one sitting there without someone to care or argue or plan with.

"Coach gave us tickets for our friends, right? Only two each! I need three for my boyfriend and his friends. Can some of you spare an extra?" Winter demanded, arms flailing slightly as she leaned toward Ningning and Giselle. "Giselle, give me yours! Ningning, come on, you're on our team!"

"No. We're giving them to our other friends," Ningning said sharply, slapping Winter's hands away.

"Not fair! I'll treat you to Taco Bell if you just give me one!" Winter snapped back. The rest of the team was clustered around, debating, negotiating, trading possibilities.

"Winter," you muttered, rolling your eyes even as you adjusted your feet and tossed the ball into the air, "just take my tickets. I don't have friends to give them to anyway." You tossed the volleyball up and down in your hands, practicing your set.

You could feel her gaze burning on you, even though you weren't looking directly. "Really?! Like, both of your tickets?" she pressed, a note of disbelief in her voice.

You barely had time to nod before the ball smacked you straight in the face, ricocheting sideways, and suddenly your brain betrayed you. Out of nowhere, an image of Jake popped into your head—his stupid braces smile, the one that twisted your stomach every time you saw it, the one that made you stupidly aware of your own heartbeat and that little thrill you always swore wasn't there. You blinked, flustered, and hit the ball again, flinching slightly as the team waited.

"Actually... just one," you said quickly, fumbling for a way to sound casual. Karina let out a sharp whistle behind you, and Winter's lips pouted in mock outrage. "I was... planning to give it to my... friend," you added, stumbling over the lie.

"Wow, suddenly you have a friend!" Winter exclaimed with mock indignation, "but fine, that's cool! You promise that one is mine, no taking it back, ha!"

If you asked him to watch your game... would that be too personal? It wasn't like you were asking him to cheer for you, or scream your name from the stands, or wait for you after with flowers and sweaty hugs like your teammates' partners did. It was just a game. An outdoor thing... Still, it felt like crossing some invisible line, like letting him see a part of your life that didn't exist inside shared rent. Letting him see you as more than just his roommate who ate his food and sat beside him on the couch.

You told yourself not to overthink it, even though overthinking was already happening at full speed. It was normal. He was your roommate. You talked now. You shared meals. Of course you'd invite him. That's what normal people did, right? That's what people who weren't emotionally fucked did.

The thunder cracked overhead and rain poured down by the time you got home, your clothes damp, your muscles aching, your head buzzing with too many thoughts, the familiar hum of the TV filling the space. Jake was on the couch, exactly where you half-expected him to be, watching one of his documentaries, posture straightening the second he noticed you. You dropped your bag onto the table and rolled your shoulders.

"Hi," he said softly, eyes flicking up to meet yours before darting away again.

"Hi," you replied, sitting down beside him with that same respectful distance you'd both somehow agreed on without ever discussing it. Your eyes drifted to the screen, absorbing nothing of whatever science-heavy topic was playing.

The silence stretched, like both of you were waiting for permission to speak.

"I made salad earlier—" "Are you interested in sports—"

You both stopped at the exact same time, voices colliding awkwardly in the air. You turned toward him, mouth slightly open, blinking in surprise, and he mirrored you perfectly, eyes wide behind his glasses.

"You first," you said, exhaling a short laugh to break the tension.

He cleared his throat, nodding toward the dining table. "I made salad earlier. If you want to... I didn't expect you to be here early, so I didn't get to cook dinner right away..." His words tumbled out unevenly.

"Ah," you leaned back, glancing down at your feet. "It's okay. Coach said we should go home early to relax anyway. I'll eat it later. Thank you." Your voice softened without you meaning it to.

Another pause settled in. The documentary kept playing, some distant narration about oceans or planets or whatever, but neither of you were listening anymore. "So..." he started, breath hitching slightly as he stared at the floor. "What were you saying?"

This was it. Your chest tightened as you inhaled deeply, bracing yourself, forcing the words out before you could chicken out. "Are you interested in watching the tournament finals on the 24th?" you asked, eyes flicking toward him before darting away again. "I have a ticket, and I figured I could give it to you... if you want to."

The seconds that followed felt cruelly loud. You could hear the clock ticking, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, the rain still hammering outside. You stared at the floor, then at him, then anywhere but his face, mentally preparing yourself for whatever came next.

"I'm—" he began, and you looked at him despite yourself. His mouth opened and closed like he was searching for the right words, hands fidgeting in his lap. Another beat passed, then another. "T-thank you," he said finally, voice quiet, apologetic. "But I'm not really into that... especially with big crowds. S-sorry." He squeezed his eyes shut afterward, like he was bracing for impact.

Oh.

Of course. It made sense. Crowds, noises, people—it was everything he avoided. You'd known that before you even asked. The game would start at six-thirty, probably end close to eight if it dragged on, loud and packed and overwhelming. Saying yes would've been completely out of character for him.

You forced a small nod, a smile you hoped looked convincing. "It's okay," you said quickly. "I figured. Just thought I'd ask."

And that should've been the end of it. You'd tried. You'd done the brave thing. That was enough. So why did disappointment settle in your chest anyway. Why did it sting more than you expected, like you'd been quietly hoping for something you had no right to hope for?

     You were considered lucky, at least according to every bullshit horoscope Karina ever forced you to listen to during some booth event you never even wanted to attend. Apparently, the stars loved you. Apparently, fate had a soft spot for you. She once read aloud that you were supposed to fall down a flight of stairs when you were four years old, crack your head open, ruin everything before it even began, but some divine intervention stepped in and said no, not today. You survived childhood without dramatic tragedy, without scars that people could point at and say, see, that's where it all went wrong.

Back in elementary school, during tryouts, you didn't even know what defense really meant. You just knew you were fast, stubborn, and didn't like backing down when something came flying at you. Everyone else flinched, screamed, covered their faces, cried when the ball hit too hard. When the coach spiked it straight toward you, you reacted without thinking, arms locking, wrists steady. The ball bounced back clean, and just like that, you were a libero. Just like that, people said you were lucky, like it wasn't your reflexes, your pain tolerance, your refusal to be scared that made it happen.

Because luck, real luck, was supposed to feel good, and most of the time it didn't. On the court, when you spiked and the middle blockers mistimed their jump and sent the ball out of bounds, earning your team the point, you didn't feel joy. You just reset your stance and waited for the next play.

When allowance day came and you counted your money and realized you had just enough left to afford ramen for the week, people called you lucky, joked about your budgeting skills. You weren't happy then either. You were relieved, maybe, but relief tasted nothing like happiness.

And when your teammates whispered about how lucky you were for hooking up with that handsome men's volleyball player, the one everyone drooled over, they didn't know he was gay and spiraling through an identity crisis, and they sure as hell didn't know how awkward and hollow the sex was. They envied you. You lay there afterward staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but discomfort and regret, wondering how something everyone hyped up could feel so fucking empty.

You were unlucky in the kind of life you wanted but couldn't seem to reach, no matter how many points you saved, how many games you won, how many scholarships you earned. You worked hard, you pushed your body past exhaustion, you sacrificed sleep and weekends and normal college shit, and yet when it came to the softer parts of living, the parts people took for granted, you always seemed to come up short. Love didn't land where it was supposed to. Comfort felt temporary, like something borrowed that could be taken back at any moment.

"God, aren't they being misogynistic?" Karina's voice exploded through your phone, echoing slightly because someone else in the group call was yelling at the same time. It was already past 10:36 in the evening and the Viber group call lit up your screen, faces popping in and out, voices overlapping, screenshots being spammed into the chat. One of them showed the Men's Volleyball Team's group chat from your university, their messages dripping with mockery, acting like your qualification to the finals was some kind of joke. Saying you wouldn't survive Men's Volleyball, telling you to stop being egoistic, laughing about how you "wouldn't even win against them" if you played on their side.

You turned the volume down as you started packing your things for tomorrow. Your mind was tired, body sore, and halfway through, you remembered your other bag was still in the living room. You scratched behind your ear and stood, phone still pressed between your shoulder and cheek, listening to the call as you padded out of your room. You didn't turn on the main lights, already knowing Jake would be asleep by now.

"I mean, it's completely different when it comes to force, agility, speed," you said calmly. "But skills? That's not gendered. The best response is no response. Their egos are just bruised because they didn't qualify. With that attitude, I doubt they ever will." You sighed softly, ducking into the living room and kneeling by your bag. "God help those boys."

"Like?!" Giselle yelled through the phone, her face practically vibrating with rage on your screen. "They're being fucking misogynistic! Did you see their group chat? They're mocking you specifically for being fierce during matches! Look at this shit—'I can't wait for them to lose tomorrow, let's see if her fierce face stays then.' Bitch, I'm about to throw hands. Tell me to do something and I will."

You lowered the volume again, a small laugh slipping out despite yourself. Honestly, if you were being real, you didn't care that much. Not because it wasn't wrong, but because you were too damn tired to give their words any big deal. You started pulling unnecessary things out of your gym bag, tossing wrappers and old tape into the bin. Men talking shit was practically background noise at this point.

Then your hand froze. The ticket slipped into view between your fingers. You held it there, two fingers pinching the corner, staring at it like it might say something back. The girls were still yelling in the background, voices overlapping, insults flying freely now.

"They're giving small dick energy," Yunjin chimed in loudly. "I mean, it's obvious. There's literally no imprint when they wear gray shorts."

You barely reacted. Your eyes stayed on the ticket, chest tight, thoughts drifting somewhere else entirely. Jake's awkward smile. His quiet apologies. The way he'd shut his eyes when he said no, like he hated disappointing you even when he hadn't done anything wrong. Sighs, he is so cute.

Without letting yourself think any further, you opened the bin and dropped the ticket inside. You grabbed your bag, stood up, and walked back into your room, shutting the door behind you with careful quiet.

When finals finally rolled around, you found yourself moving in circles, literally and figuratively, as the coach herded you into a tight formation at center court. Everyone's hands were linked, fingers brushing, gripping just enough to feel grounded. The coach, in his usual way, told you all to close your eyes and "ask the universe for guidance."

You closed your eyes, not because you believed in any divine intervention, not really. You were too much of a realist for that. Still, it felt nice, comforting even, to pretend. To hope. To imagine the universe leaned in and whispered, Yeah, you can do this. You will win, but not because of luck—because you earned it. Your shoulders loosened slightly, the tension in your jaw softening as you let yourself breathe into the ritual, even as every fiber of your body screamed with exhaustion from training.

Around you, the girls were buzzing with energy, eyes closed but faces alight, humming a silent rhythm of anticipation. Their drive from yesterday had carried over—Karina's fist clenched in quiet determination, Giselle bouncing slightly on her heels, Winter rocking back on the balls of her feet like she was about to launch herself forward. You felt a twinge of envy—how easy it seemed for them to throw themselves into hope, to lean on belief, even if it was in some hokey pre-game ritual. You, meanwhile, were caught in this weird limbo between wanting to believe in the magic of it and knowing, deep down, that you relied on nothing but your own hands and legs to make anything happen.

Hm.

What else could tonight bring? Maybe a good meal after? You glanced at your teammates, at the VIP section with its flowers and loud supporters, thinking about how nice it would be if someone threw a bouquet your way too. Not that you deserved one—hell, your muscles were probably going to scream at you tomorrow regardless. You almost snorted at yourself. Ridiculous. Wanting someone to soothe your sore body, to run a hand over a knot in your shoulder, to be there after everything, like it was some kind of reward for existing.

You could picture the universe rolling its eyes if it were a person. Slapping you upside the head. Really? You want that too? Just for surviving a volleyball match?

The corners of your lips twitched into a small, ironic smile as you closed your eyes again. You tried not to think about Jake—the way he cooked extra portions, the way he smiled awkwardly when he handed them to you. Not that it had anything to do with the universe or magic or divine intervention. Not really. And yet, as your fingers brushed against the hands of your teammates, as your legs trembled in anticipation of the first whistle, a tiny, secret part of you hoped he was somewhere out there, watching or thinking of you, maybe even wishing for you in his quiet, careful way. Geez, so out of reach.

The whistle blew.

Finals was hell in the most honest way possible, finals dragged on longer than your lungs wanted and demanded more than your body should reasonably give. It was the most intense match of the season, not just because of the score, but because of what was hanging over everyone's heads. Regionals. You didn't just want it, you needed it. You had refused to back down this far. You were not about to stop now, not when nationals were just one brutal step closer.

The crowd roared every time you sprinted out of bounds, every time you threw your body after that fucking ball like it owed you money. You barely felt the sting when your chest slammed against the floor after a dive, only thinking it as something to deal with later. Adrenaline was pumping so hard your heartbeat felt louder than the whistles, louder than the screams. You pushed yourself up, sweat blurring your vision as you glanced at the other team, then back at your own. Everyone looked wrecked. Knees bent, hands on thighs, jerseys soaked through. You were all running on fumes and stubbornness at this point.

Your chest heaved as you sucked in air, the scoreboard flashing in the corner of your vision. Big mistake. Numbers swam in your head. Forty. Thirty-nine. Too close. Way too close. The noise pressed in on you from every direction, cheers crashing over your thoughts until it felt like your skull might split open. Fuck. Don't look. Don't think. You needed to make it into regionals. Regionals. You needed to make it—

Huh?

Your eyes flicked to the VIP section without meaning to, drawn by something that didn't belong. Someone stiff. Someone painfully familiar. For half a second, your brain refused to process it, like it was some fucked-up hallucination brought on by exhaustion. But no. He was real. Sitting there in a Type D university uniform, shoulders tense, posture straight like he didn't know what to do with himself in a place this loud, this crowded. Jake. Your nerdy, early-sleeping, crowd-hating roommate. And in his left hand, of all things, he was holding a blue balloon.

What the fuck was Jake doing here?

Your heart stuttered, not from the game this time, but from the sheer wrongness of it. It was past eight!

When his gaze finally met yours, it was like the rest of the gym dropped out of existence. He gave you that same awkward, painfully familiar smile, the one that always looked like it was halfway between nervous and sincere. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand and waved. The crowd was deafening, chants and stomping and whistles crashing over each other, but somehow you still caught it. His lips moved, barely forming the words, but you read them clear as day.

Bring it home.

Your throat closed. Championship. He meant championship. And fuck, you didn't know how something so simple could rearrange you from the inside out. People always said liking someone made you stupid, made you corny, made you weak. Maybe it did. Because suddenly your chest felt too full, like someone had plugged you straight into a charger you didn't even know you were running on empty from. You dragged your eyes back to the court, licked your dry lips, tried to flatten your expression—but it was useless. The smile crept up anyway. You were smiling. Inside the fucking court. In the middle of finals. Like an idiot.

The whistle blew again, and instead of dread, something hot surged through you. You felt full. Fueled. Like the last hours of exhaustion had been replaced with pure, reckless purpose. Your legs moved before you thought, sprinting, cutting, diving. You hit the floor hard, again and again, arms burning as you popped the ball up just in time. The pain was there, sure, but it didn't slow you down.

You got up grinning, clapping for your teammates, shouting encouragement you never fucking shouted before.

They stared at you like you'd lost your mind. Probably because you had. You never did this shit. You were the quiet one, the focused one, the one who saved the ball and moved on. But now you were smiling at them, slapping hands, nodding like yeah, we've fucking got this. And weirdly, it worked.

You planted your feet again, wiping your sweaty palms against your shorts, lungs burning as you bent into position.

For regionals. For your team. For the boy in the VIP section holding a blue balloon like an idiot, who had no fucking idea he'd just become your lucky charm.

The serve came flying toward you.

And you didn't miss.

Your arms burned as the ball ricocheted cleanly upward, exactly where it needed to go—and then the whistle screamed through the gym. For half a second, everything froze. Your lungs forgot how to work. Your legs locked like they'd finally decided they were done carrying you.

"And just like that, with the score of 50–43, Decelis Academy earns the champion title!"

The roar hit you like a fucking wave. It crashed into your chest, into your ears, into your bones. Your knees buckled, and if your teammates hadn't swarmed you immediately, you would've kissed the floor right there. Arms wrapped around you, lifting you up, spinning you, screaming into your hair. You screamed too hands flying to your face as tears spilled without permission. Your body shook, adrenaline still screaming even though the fight was over.

You did it. You fucking did it! The students from your university went feral in the stands, chants echoing, banners waving. Someone shoved a towel over your shoulders, someone else slapped your back hard enough to knock the air out of you. When they finally set you down, your legs wobbled like jelly, barely holding your weight. The trophy hadn't even been handed out yet, the awards still being organized, but your chest was already too full. Too loud. Too alive.

And then your eyes went to the bleachers.

He was standing. Not sitting stiff anymore, not hiding behind his shoulders—standing, gripping the rail. Your nerdy little roommate. Your heart did that stupid thing again, skipping like it always did around him. Without thinking, without waiting, your feet moved on their own, carrying you toward him.

"Hi," you said when you reached him, breathless, sweaty, grinning like a fucking idiot.

"Hi," he replied, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were shining. Bright. Wide. Almost overwhelmed. "Y-You looked so cool," he said, words tumbling out faster than usual. "With all the defense, and the jumps, and the spikes, and the serves—" His hands moved as he spoke, clumsy little gestures like he was trying to reenact the whole game at once.

Your heart softened so hard it almost hurt. You laughed. "It's already nine," you said, teasing, tilting your head. "You're supposed to be asleep."

He smiled and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "I couldn't miss something s-so cool," he admitted. "I don't know what other words to use, but... losing an hour or two of sleep is worth it." Then his brows pulled together, concern slipping in. "You dived really hard though. Does it hurt?" He pressed a hand to his own chest like he felt it too.

You laughed again, shaking your head. This—this was the longest he'd ever talked to you without tripping over himself, and fuck, it was endearing as hell. "It's no big deal," you said lightly, tapping your foot against the ground. "I'm trained for that." Then, quieter, more honest, "Thanks for watching. It... feels nice. Knowing someone out there was actually watching me."

You glanced away, embarrassed by your own sincerity, then looked back just as he reached down and pulled something up from behind his chair.

Your heart fucking stopped.

The universe had jokes, apparently. Personal ones.

"Uh... f-for you," he said, holding it out with both hands. "For bringing pride to the Academy. And for... being the coolest roommate ever." He let out a nervous laugh. It was a LEGO bouquet. Big colorful bouquet, wrapped in pink. Painfully thoughtful. Flowers that wouldn't die. Flowers that fit him perfectly.

Your vision blurred before you even realized what was happening. You didn't think and didn't hesitate. You just moved—vaulting forward, ignoring the metal barrier between the court and the bleachers, throwing yourself straight into him. Your face buried against his neck. You clutched the bouquet awkwardly as your other arm wrapped around him like you were afraid he'd disappear.

He froze at first, breath hitching, body stiff with surprise.

Then—slowly, carefully—his free arm came around your waist. It was hesitant in that painfully sincere way, like he was asking permission without words. His hand pressed flat against your back, warm through the thin fabric of your jersey, and after a second it began to move—small, slow circles that comforted you, that reached somewhere deep inside your chest and eased something you didn't even realize had been clenched for years.

"Thank you," you whispered, voice breaking despite your effort to hold it together.

The tears still came anyway. It felt nice—no, it felt right. You trained your body to take hits, to throw yourself into floors, to stand tall and hard and unshakable. But here you were, soft as hell for a boy who held you like you might shatter if he squeezed too hard.

You slowly pulled back from the hug, and the distance between you was barely anything. Too close. Intimate in a way that made your breath hitch. You noticed everything at once—how sharp his nose was up close, how full his lips were when he wasn't biting them, how his skin smelled clean and familiar. Your arms were still looped around him, your fingers resting against his back and you were staring at his face like your brain had short-circuited.

His cheeks were flushed red, eyes wide, frozen.

"S-sorry," you blurted, snapping back to reality and pulling away.

Before the silence could swallow you whole, your teammates shouted your name, waving you over, yelling about awards and photos and medals. You swallowed hard, nodding as you stepped back, heart still beating stupidly fast.

You hesitated, then handed him the LEGO bouquet. "Hold this for me?" you said, already half-turning away before he could answer.

As you walked back toward the court, you bit down on your lip so hard it almost hurt, trying to stop the grin that threatened to split your face open. You swung your arms back and forth like that might shake the feeling out of your system. It didn't help. Not even a little. You could already imagine Karina's smug, knowing smile from a mile away.

Sure enough—

"Care to introduce us to your companion?" Karina teased, nudging you with her shoulder as medals were placed around your neck.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning.

The celebration dragged on—photos, cheers, teammates getting swallowed by their partners, hugs turning into kisses, laughter spilling everywhere. When it finally became too much, you slipped away from the crowd.

And Jake was still there. Sitting on the bench. Waiting. Like he hadn't even considered leaving without you.

"Let's go home?" you asked softly, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, suddenly very aware of how tired your body was now that the adrenaline was fading.

He nodded immediately and stood up, a little too fast. His gaze dropped to your bag, then back up to you, then away again. He gestured vaguely toward it, fingers twitching at his side.

You frowned slightly. "Hm?" you asked, lifting your head to look at him, confused.

"Uh..." He scratched the back of his head, lips pressing together like he was debating something internally. His ears were already red. Without waiting for your response, he stepped closer and carefully took the bag from your shoulder, sliding the strap off you and onto himself instead. He left you holding only the LEGO bouquet.

"Oh," you said, letting out a small, awkward laugh.

You glanced around at the lingering crowd, then back at him, then anywhere but directly at his face.  You swung your upper half just to bleed off the urge to scream, or laugh, or do something completely unhinged like grab his hand or kiss his stupid, careful mouth. Your heart was still racing, your muscles still buzzing, and now this—this quiet, domestic kind of care—was hitting you harder.

The silence between you stretched as you walked back to the apartment. It wasn't awkward, not really, but it was loud in its own way. You could feel every unsaid thing vibrating in the air. You wanted to say something—anything—but every possible sentence felt like a trap you'd fall into and embarrass yourself with. So you stayed quiet. Let your footsteps match his. Let the city noise do the talking for you.

When you finally stepped inside the apartment, you froze.

The table was covered in foil and containers—different shapes, different sizes, way more food than two people needed. And there, lined up neatly in the living room like little soldiers, were Whitey, Pinky, and Bumble, powered down, silent for once, which means only one thing. Jake had been here before the finals. Long before.

Your brain immediately went to war with itself.

Did he cook all of this before going to your game? Where the hell did he even get the ticket? How did he manage his time—his precious, carefully scheduled time—to cook this much? Did he order it instead? Was this planned? Was this normal?

Why did he watch your game?

You watched him set your bag down gently on the couch. He moved toward the table, fumbling with the food covers, suddenly clumsy again.

"Uh... y'know, I—I wasn't supposed to watch," he started, almost rushed. "I ordered a bunch of meals for you to eat after, but... I—" He stopped himself, staring at the food like it might give him the right words. He scratched at his ear, shoulders curling inward. "Uh... I..."

"Thank you," you said, cutting him off gently before he could spiral any further.

He looked at you with wide eyes, you smiled at him and nodded as you sat down in the living room, the tension easing just enough to breathe again.

As usual, you ate in silence. And as usual, you ate comfortably around him. Shoving food into your mouth, muttering little "mm" sounds between bites, nodding at how good everything tasted, even closing your eyes like you were savoring.

And God, Jake really was the best roommate you'd ever accidentally asked the universe for.

If you thought about it too long, he felt like the only lucky thing that had ever landed in your life without strings attached. How being around him made you happy. How you didn't have to plan your words or armor yourself up. How you could be tired, bruised, vulnerable, and still be met with care instead of judgment.

When you finally finished eating, you leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "Thank you for the meal!" you said brightly, reaching out and slapping his back in a burst of affection.

Jake arched forward slightly and let out a soft whine, clearly not expecting it.

"Shit—sorry!" you laughed immediately, panic and amusement colliding as you rubbed the spot you'd hit. "I forget you're not built like one of my teammates."

He huffed out a shy laugh, shaking his head, ears red again.

By the time everything was packed up and wiped down, it was already past eleven. There were no leftovers—of course there weren't. Your body had burned through everything like fuel dumped straight into a fire. You stretched your arms over your head and volunteered to wash the dishes, half-joking that it was the least you could do after eating like a starved animal. Jake protested at first,  shaking his head and mumbling something about it being fine, but after a bit of back and forth he gave in, hovering awkwardly nearby like he wasn't sure whether to help or get out of your way.

You worked side by side in silence, the comfortable kind this time. Plates clinking, water running. It felt domestic in a way that made you uneasy.

When you finished and wiped your hands dry, you crouched near Bumble, who was shut down and charging by the wall. It felt weird that it didn't greet you tonight. You had half a mind to flick it on just to hear that familiar robotic "Hi." You wanted to tell it everything—that you won, that you were heading to regionals, that you earned a title you'd bled for. That somehow—against all odds—you were developing feelings for its awkward, gentle owner without even meaning to. You snorted softly at yourself and patted Bumble's rounded top "I'll tell you tomorrow," you whispered, like it could hear you.

You grabbed a towel and headed to the bathroom. The hot water hit your skin and you hissed, muscles screaming in protest, bruises blooming darker under the steam. You leaned your forehead against the tile and let yourself breathe, replaying flashes of the night—Jake in the crowd, the balloon, the Lego bouquet, his arms around you. Fuck. You shook your head hard, rinsed off, and wrapped the towel around yourself before your thoughts went somewhere dangerous.

When you stepped back into the living room, hair damp and towel slung over your shoulder, you expected the lights to be dimmed and Jake to be long asleep like usual.

Instead, you froze.

He was still there, crouched near the wall, focused on powering down the vacuum robots one by one. Whitey and Pinky blinked to life, then began their slow, looping rounds across the floor, humming softly.

"Oh," you said before you could stop yourself. "You're... still not asleep."

Jake glanced up, startled, then pushed himself to his feet. "Y-Yeah," he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "I... uh... I needed to shut them down properly. They, um... run better if I don't leave it for the morning."

You nodded and sat down on the couch, absently rubbing your hair with the towel, watching Whitey bump gently into the leg of the coffee table before redirecting itself. Your body sank into the cushions, heavy and spent, but your mind was still buzzing.

"Thanks," you added quietly, not looking at him. "For... everything. Tonight."

It suddenly sounded too intimate, too loaded, and you immediately regretted not cushioning it with a joke or some careless shrug. You could almost predict what would happen next—his shoulders stiffening, that polite little cough, the retreat.

Sure enough, you heard him clear his throat, footsteps padding toward his room, and you exhaled slowly. Do not be stupid about it.

The door clicked shut. You were already settling deeper into the couch, telling your heart to calm the fuck down, when the door opened again. You frowned, lifting your head just in time to see Jake step back into the living room with a small cloth in his hand. He didn't look at you right away. Instead, he moved to the refrigerator, rummaging around. You watched him with a crease between your brows, confused.

When he turned back around, your breath caught. He crossed the space between you without rushing, then knelt down in front of the couch. Your eyes widened as he gently took hold of your foot, so careful, his gaze fixed on the angry bruises blooming along your shin and ankle. Up close, they looked worse—swollen, and darkening.

"Wait—you don't have to," you blurted, heat rushing up your neck. You reached for him instinctively, fingers closing around his wrist as if to stop him, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was.

He shook his head before you could pull away. "J-Just... let me," he said quietly, his voice steadier than you'd ever heard it. "Please."

The word please was was sincere. Caring. Like this was something he wanted to do, not something he felt obligated to offer. Your grip loosened without you even realizing it, fingers slipping from his wrist as you gave a small nod, surrendering.

The cloth was cool when it touched your skin, and you hissed softly before the ache eased just enough to make you sag back against the couch. Jake worked carefully, dabbing, not pressing too hard, his movements slow like he was afraid of hurting you. You watched him from above, the way his brows knitted in concentration, the way his thumb hovered before every touch as if silently asking permission.

In that moment, with your legs aching and your heart doing stupid, hopeful things, you felt it clearly—like the universe had finally thrown you a bone. You swallowed, blinking back the sudden sting behind your eyes, and let yourself wish—just a little—that this wasn't the end of it. That maybe, if you were brave enough, it could become something more.

The rain was relentless, hammering down on the campus like it wanted to wash everything away. You weren't supposed to be here—technically, the university might announce a suspension for this one-day anniversary celebration, and yet, here you were, dragged into anywhere by your batchmates. Booths sprawled across the open field, tents flapping violently in the wind, people shouting over the rainfall, trying to make their sales, their events, their little festivals matter despite the downpour. Your mind was flying, your focus already zeroed in on the smell of food wafting through the air.

Your batchmates were bouncing around like hyperactive ping-pong balls, dragging you to every booth, explaining every club, organization, or activity. You smiled, nodded, occasionally talking back, but your attention was already elsewhere. You made a beeline for the food tents, because at least there you could indulge without pretending to care too much about the rest of. You handed over your allowance, little coins and bills disappearing faster than you could count, but it didn't matter. You were eating! You were alive!

"This is Caramelized Banana! It's a banana with melted sugar on top. We also have banana wrapped, no sugar, or with sugar, and you can dip it in our chocolate syrup! It's a recipe popular in the Philippines—" You nodded, intrigued despite yourself, and bought one, your teeth sinking into the warm sweetness. You didn't even mind the vendor's continued spiel, too busy savoring the sticky sugar sliding down your fingers.

"Nachos with a lot of melted cheese! Would you like that? Buy here, come!" Oh, cheese. You couldn't say no. You grabbed it, scarfed down the gooey chips, and licked your fingers. The crowd barely mattered, the wet grass barely mattered—you had your food and that was enough.

"Nasi Goreng, originated from Malaysia, and we also have Murtabak with curry dipping sauce—" One you hadn't tried before, hm, promising. You bought it anyway, letting the unfamiliar spice surprise you.

You wandered, hands overloaded with plates, cups, skewers, dripping food and drink. You smiled at familiar faces, waved at acquaintances, all without really stopping, just enjoying the simple pleasure of eating. But then, of course, you saw Karina, by the Engineering booth. And just like some magnetic pull, she was staring right at you, that big, wide, infuriatingly cheerful grin on her face.

Your first instinct was to turn on your heel and walk fast, hoping she wouldn't catch up. Ha. Of course, she did, slinging an arm around your shoulder and tugging you in the direction she wanted.

"Come on," she sing-songed, leaning heavily into you. "You're really not interested in the Engineering booths? That's wild." She grinned, nuzzling her nose against your cheek in that infuriatingly intimate way she had. "I saw your cute little roommate earlier, you know. Passing papers to the Grade 12 students. He looked all serious and responsible. Wanna say hi? Let's go say hi."

You huffed through the banana cue still in your mouth, your cheeks hollowing as you chewed. Three days had passed since the finals, three days of rest and light training, but your mind was still a battlefield. Thoughts of him kept creeping in, and the more you tried to ignore them, the louder they became. You wanted to avoid him—yes, goddamn yes—but at the same time, every fiber of you ached to see him, to be near him, to steal a moment that wasn't really yours.

Karina jabbed your side playfully again, practically dragging you forward, and you let yourself be led, cheeks flaming hotter with each step. Your stomach was twisting like a knot of nerves and excitement as she maneuvered you through the rain-slicked paths, past other tents, right to the Engineering booth where Jake was standing. Flyers were scattered across the table, little models of buildings precariously balanced on top, and he was carefully carrying one in his hands.

"O-Oh, hi," he stammered when his gaze landed on you. You forced a small, awkward smile and waved, trying to look casual, though your knees threatened to buckle under the intensity of your own heartbeat. His eyes flicked to Karina, who was grinning and waving energetically at him, and you could feel her elbows nudging you forward with impatience.

"Hi! I'm Karina, her friend!" she chirped, pointing at you. She looped her arms around yours in a sort of gesture, pressing her hip gently against yours, signaling you to do something—anything—so you wouldn't freeze completely.

"Hi, I'm Jake..." he said, his words catching slightly as he placed the tiny building models on the table with deliberate care, his gaze snapping back to you immediately. Karina squealed again, poking your side for emphasis, and you could barely focus on anything except the way his eyes met yours.

The past three days, he had been almost invisible in the apartment, buried in whatever work the booth had demanded. You had tried to cook dinner once, thinking maybe it would be a way to reach out, but you burned the rice, cursing yourself under your breath. After that, you'd stuck to ordering takeout, leaving it neatly on the table for him, only to be met with his quiet thanks and a promise to sleep early because of his busy schedule. Talking to him directly had always been this impossible thing, a wall of nerves and hesitation that you could never figure out how to scale.

"Uh..." you said finally. "What's around your booth?" You felt Karina pinch your back sharply, a mischievous jab reminding you to ask more, not less.

"M-Mostly, just models and blueprints of b-buildings. N-nothing special, sorry—our plan was to encourage the Grade 12 students to enroll in our c-courses... that's why..."

You nodded, staring at the mini-building he had just placed down, but your gaze inevitably wandered to his hands. White, slender, pale hands, veiny in the softest, most perfect way. Hands that looked like they could build worlds or crush them, delicate and capable at the same time. You swallowed hard, blinking, your mind wandering to impossible thoughts—holding those hands, wrapping yours around them. It was infuriating how unfairly perfect he was in every little way, how nothing about him seemed flawed, nothing you could grasp onto to stop yourself from melting quietly inside.

"The fuck are you doing? Ask him more!" Karina hissed into your ear, breaking through your daze and making you jump slightly.

"Uh... you want some food?" you blurted, holding up the banana cue you still had, dipping it in chocolate sauce with trembling hands. Your fingers shook as you offered it to him, locking eyes with his as if your courage depended on it. You could see the sudden widening of his eyes behind his glasses, a tiny flare of surprise that made your stomach twist. "It's a banana with sugar... I roamed around the area and ate all of their food. Haha..." You tried to laugh lightly, hoping it sounded casual instead of awkward.

Jake's hands were still slightly dusty from handling the models, and he rubbed them awkwardly on his pants. "Uh... D-Do you have alcohol wipes or—"

"It's okay, just take a bite. I'll hold it for you," you said quickly, forcing your voice calm even though your heart was hammering. Your feet tapped nervously against the ground as you leaned slightly forward, the tiniest tremor of excitement running up your spine.

Then he leaned forward, slowly, cautiously, and took a bite. Your fingers tightened around the stick as you watched him, the small tunnel of the booth around you fading until all you could see was him. Karina's muffled clap from the side snapped you briefly back, and you caught her giving you a sly thumbs-up, eyes closed in encouragement as if saying, Finally, you're doing it.

God, Jake is so handsome it knocks the air clean out of you. Your brain short-circuits in the dumbest way possible, every thought evaporating until there's nothing left but him—standing there, biting into your food. You watch his lips close around the banana, the faint shine of chocolate at the corner of his mouth, the way his jaw moves when he chews. He nods softly, murmuring a quiet thanks, his palm hovering over his mouth as if he's embarrassed to be seen enjoying it too much.

You don't move. You barely breathe. It's humiliating how sensitive you suddenly feel to everything—how close he is, how warm the air feels between you, how one small movement from him makes your stomach flip. Seconds pass, maybe minutes, you're not sure. Then Jake looks up and catches you staring, really staring, and your chest tightens painfully because fuck, you didn't even try to hide it.

Karina, bless her soul, steps in before you can combust on the spot. "Jake? Right?" she says brightly, already reaching out to clap a hand on his shoulder. He jumps a little at the contact, stiff as a board. "Actually, my friend Sangwon—you know Sangwon? Yeah? He's an engineer. He's gonna take over the booth with Leo in a bit." She gestures wildly behind her, where Sangwon and Leo are walking past with drinks in their hands. "What if you two just roam around the area? My friend here is a loner," she adds, squeezing your arm hard, "and it might be nice for you to walk instead of being stuck here all day, hmm?"

Jake freezes completely, eyes darting between Karina and you. Sangwon and Leo stop mid-step, staring at Karina. "Are you fucking with me?" Sangwon mutters, incredulous. Leo just blinks, mouth open.

"Shut up," Karina snaps without looking at them.

"Actually—" you finally manage to speak, like you just woke up from a dream. You clear your throat and glance at Jake, trying not to melt under the way his attention snaps back to you instantly. "I saw at the other booth... the sponsored one... they were selling Hot Wheels."

"Really?!" Jake's eyes widen so much they practically light up behind his glasses. The shift is immediate and endearing as hell, all his stiffness melting into pure, unfiltered excitement. "Like... the die-cast ones? Or the limited edition—" He cuts himself off, realizing he's rambling.

You smile before you can stop yourself. You don't even know what are the die cast or the limited editions but— "I think I saw some limited ones," you say. "Near the food stalls."

Karina grins, "see?" she declares. "Go. Walk. Talk. I'll handle the booth." She physically pushes Jake a step away from the table, then nudges you forward too.

Jake hesitates, fingers twitching at his sides, then looks at you like he's asking permission without saying it. "I-If... if you don't mind," he says quietly.

You shrug, pretending your heart isn't slamming against your ribs. "Yeah. I don't mind."

And just like that, you're walking side by side, away from the booth. Your shoulders almost brush, close enough that you're hyper-aware of it, but neither of you moves away.

"How do you know I like Hot Wheels?" Jake asks after a moment.

You shrug, like it's nothing, like it didn't take weeks of quiet observation to notice. "Dunno," you say casually. "Every time I talk about rent or bills and you open your door, I just... notice the tiny cars." You glance at him, then gesture vaguely behind you. "They're lined up. Organized. Very... you."

He lets out a small, embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. You continue before you can second-guess yourself. "But you kinda like everything, right? Stars. Oceans. Dinosaurs. All that science stuff." You pause, then add, "There's a lot of booths here that reminded me of you." The moment the words leave your mouth, you bite your lip.

"Really?" he says, stopping for half a second just to look at you properly. Not a quick glance—an actual look. His eyes search your face like he's checking if you're joking, if this is some kind of tease. When he realizes you're not, his ears turn red almost instantly. "Let's take a look then," he adds, a little brighter.

You nod, grateful for the excuse to look away, and guide him toward the booth you spotted earlier. The Hot Wheels stand is crowded with students leaning over glass cases, bright lights reflecting off tiny polished cars. Rows and rows of them—limited editions, old-school designs, racing models, cartoonish ones.

"Oh my God," Jake breathes. The words slip out before he can stop them, and you swear you've never seen him look so openly excited. He leans closer to the glass, hands clasped behind his back like a kid trying not to press his face against a window. "Th-This is— I've never seen this many in one place."

You watch him instead of the cars. The way his eyes light up, the way he rocks slightly on his heels, trying to contain himself. It hits you then—this is what it looks like when someone feels safe enough to be fully themselves.

"These ones are rare," you say, pointing at a row near the back, pretending you know more than you do. "I heard people were lining up early for them."

Jake leans in closer, his arm brushing yours accidentally. "Y-Yeah," he says, "I've only seen pictures of these online."

You're not even really looking at the cars anymore. You're watching him—how his focus sharpens, how his shoulders loosen, how this small joy pulls him out of his shell. Then, without thinking too much about it, he reaches out and lightly wraps his fingers around your forearm. "C-Come here," he murmurs, already tugging you a step to the side. "Take a look at this."

He points at a single car nestled among the others. "That one," he says, "It's a Super Treasure Hunt. See the 'TH' logo?" He leans closer to the glass, his grip on you tightening just a fraction. "They don't make a lot of them. People s-search for years sometimes."

"And... what about it?" you ask, heat creeps up your neck. Your cheeks flush, not just from the closeness, but from the way he's still holding you—thumb resting against your skin. You don't pull away. You don't want to.

Jake finally realizes what he's doing and stiffens slightly, his fingers twitching like he's about to let go. "S-Sorry," he starts, panicking, "I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," you cut in quickly, turning your arm just enough that his hand stays where it is. You meet his eyes. "You're excited. I get it."

His mouth opens, then closes, then he lets out a small, breathy laugh. "I, uh... I just—" He swallows. "I think it's c-cool. When something small means that much."

You smile without thinking, slow and soft, nodding along. Yeah. Totally relatable. Your life has been built on small things that meant everything.

You and him end up roaming around the booths despite the shit weather, rain misting the air and soaking the edges of banners and tents. For once, you don't care. For once, you're not rushing, not counting time, not worrying about training schedules or what comes next. And really—this is the first time you see him like this. Not just Jake-the-roommate, or Jake-the-awkward-genius, but Jake letting himself exist out loud.

"It's my first time roaming around this much," he says, eyes wide as he takes everything in. His hand is still loosely wrapped around your arm. "Wow... I think there's a lot more compared to last year." His other hand is full of paper bags from the Hot Wheels booth.

You hum, letting him talk, letting him lead, and he really does. He points things out with this quiet excitement that sneaks up on you. The biology booth makes him stop dead in his tracks. "And that one—" he says, tugging you closer, voice lifting despite himself. "They're doing dissections. Look, that's a scorpion—see how detailed it is? And they patched it up themselves. That's so cool." His words tumble over each other, hands moving.

Then he's already dragging you again, apologizing under his breath but smiling all the same, pulling you toward a booth filled with wires, blinking LEDs, half-built machines. You figure it's IT or robotics—something adjacent to his world. His eyes light up immediately, pupils blown wide.

"This one—" he says, pointing at a small rectangular robot with tiny arms and legs. "It's an emo robot. Originally meant to sit on desks." He wiggles his finger in front of it, and the robot mirrors the motion, its digital eyes shifting expressions. Jake laughs under his breath, soft and fond. "I wanted one before, but it was expensive. So maybe Bumble can be an improvisation." He glances at you. "Someday... what do you think?"

You look at the robot, then back at him, then shake your head lightly. "I think I like Bumble more," you say honestly. "She greets me. Judges me silently."

He snorts before he can stop himself, clapping a hand over his mouth. And God—there it is again. That sound. That real laugh. It makes something warm bloom in your chest.

"Y-Yeah," he says, smiling openly now. "She does that."

And somehow, after that, everything loosens. The tension you didn't even realize you were carrying melts into the background as the two of you keep walking, drifting from booth to booth, laughing more than you expect to. It's awkward, yeah—there are pauses, stutters, moments where you both talk at once and then stop—but it's the good kind. He points at everything like a kid seeing the world for the first time, rambling about random facts, half-formed theories, things he read once and never forgot. And you listen. Really listen. Not because you feel like you have to, but because hearing him talk like this feels... comforting.

You catch yourself smiling for no damn reason, nodding along while he explains why certain materials work better in buildings or why he likes models more than finished structures. He talks with his hands, fingers fidgeting when he gets excited, eyes lighting up in a way that makes your chest ache a little.

"They said after this," you say eventually, glancing up at the sky, "judging by the weather, the government might suspend classes." The clouds above are heavy and gray, the wind sharp enough to bite through your clothes.

You're halfway through the walk back when the sky finally gives up pretending. Rain pours down all at once, soaking you in seconds. You both stop, startled, then look at each other like idiots before breaking into a run. Jake hugs the paper bags to his chest, trying—and failing—to shield them with his body.

"Oh no—!" he yelps, slipping slightly, and you grab his arm without thinking, dragging him forward.

You fumble with your keys at the door, hands slick and shaking, rain blurring your vision as you finally get it open. The two of you stumble inside, slamming the door shut behind you, breathing hard. For a second there's just the sound of rain pounding against the walls and your own uneven breaths.

Then you look at each other.

And you both lose it.

Laughter bursts out of you, echoing through the apartment. Water drips from your hair, down your face, soaking your clothes. Jake's curls are plastered to his forehead, his glasses fogged, his braces flashing as he grins and pushes his wet hair back with his palm.

God. He looks ridiculous. And beautiful.

Your chest feels warm, too full, as you watch him walk over and carefully set the bags on the couch like he's still worried about them, even now. He glances back at you, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, still smiling like this moment.

"We should immediately shower and change our clothes," he said, voice still a little breathless from laughing.

By the time you wrapped yourself in a towel and crawled into bed, your body finally gave in. The government suspension announcement came not long after. Continuous heavy rainfall. Classes canceled. City on standby. You stared at the window instead, watching water race down the glass in uneven lines, your mind is finally quiet. Just an unfamiliar sense of peace.

You didn't even realize how long you'd been lying there until a soft knock pulled you out of it.

It was too early for you to feel human again, too early to leave the bed—but of course, it was Jake. Standing at your door, holding a bowl with both hands. "Uh... I made b-breakfast," he said. "Porridge. With egg." He hesitated, then added, "If you're hungry."

God. You could live like this forever.

After washing the dishes together—your hands bumping once, both of you apologizing at the same time—you leaned against the counter, watching him wipe the table with careful strokes.

"Do you think it'll take weeks?" you asked, glancing at your phone. "Another typhoon's coming, right? Friday, I think."

He shrugged, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Dunno. Our profs already sent some online activities." He paused, then added, almost apologetic, "I still have to study."

"Sucks to be you," you said, grinning. "I just wanna be lazy all day. But also... being lazy gets boring fast."

He lifted his head then, eyes flicking up to meet yours. There was a brief pause, like he was debating with himself, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "Wanna b-build a Lego with me?"

Oh fuck. Your heart did that stupid thing again—jumping, twisting. You nodded anyway, too fast, too eager. "Yeah," you said. "Sure. Why not."

That was how you ended up on the living room floor, legs folded awkwardly, backs against the couch, Lego pieces scattered everywhere. Jake sat close—but not too close—careful in the way he always was, knees tucked in, sleeves pushed up as his fingers worked with quiet focus. He explained things as he went, apologizing every time he thought he was talking too much, which only made you want to hear more. You kept stealing glances at him, the way his brow furrowed when a piece didn't fit, the little hum he made under his breath when he figured it out.

And it didn't stop there.

The next morning, the rain was still relentless, hammering against the windows with no mercy, wind howling. You were half-awake, wrapped in a blanket, when Jake hovered near the couch, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Uh... do you wanna watch a series?" he asked, holding his tablet. "I—I started it last week. It's... kinda long."

You agreed before your brain could catch up, again.

That's how you ended up watching a chess series together, bodies sunk into the couch, knees occasionally brushing. You didn't understand half of it, but you liked the way he watched—leaning forward, eyes sharp, fully absorbed. You pointed at the screen when the female lead pulled off some insane move, eyebrows raised. "I don't get how it works," you said honestly, "but she's cool as hell."

He smiled at that, a real one, eyes lighting up. "Y-Yeah. She is." He hesitated, then added, softer, "She's really smart."

Hours slipped by without either of you noticing. Episodes blurred together. You asked questions, most of them are dumb ones, sometimes ones that made him pause and think. When the character lost a crucial match, you frowned at the screen. "Why did she lose?"

Jake straightened a bit. "B-Because she got checkmated," he said gently. "There's... rules. A lot of patterns. Math, too." He leaned forward, pointing at the paused screen. "Her queen is trapped here. If she moves it, her king's exposed. No safe squares left."

You nodded slowly, pretending you understood more than you did, eyes flicking between the screen and him. He kept explaining anyway, hands moving as he talked, sketching invisible boards in the air.

Night fell without ceremony. The rain didn't let up. At some point, you realized your head had tipped onto his shoulder, your body was warm and heavy against his side. He stiffened for half a second, then relaxed, breathing evening. Neither of you said anything. The show kept playing. Your eyes drifted shut.

Another morning arrived with rain slamming against the windows like it was angry at the city itself. The wind howled, rattling the glass hard enough that it felt alive. Your phone buzzed with the announcement before you even checked the time: University Suspension — Classes Cancelled Until Further Notice. You stared at the screen for a second, then let yourself fall back against the couch with a breathy laugh. Trapped. Stuck. Whatever word people wanted to use. You didn't mind it. Not when being stuck meant him.

What surprised you most was him. Jake, who used to barely look at you without stuttering himself into knots, was the one filling the space now. He suggested things quietly but confidently—movies, games, stupid little activities that somehow filled the hours without feeling forced. He brought out board games you didn't even know he owned, set up playlists that hummed softly in the background. It was like once the outside world paused, he stepped forward like this was where he belonged.

"Wow," you said, staring down at the chessboard. "I can't believe we were just watching a chess series, and now we're actually playing." You picked up a random piece—no idea what it was—and shoved it forward. "This is unfair. I couldn't even comprehend a single rule."

You glanced up at Jake, expecting a laugh or at least a smug look, but he was focused—elbows on his knees, chin tilted down, eyes fixed on the board and cute as hell.

"You can't place it there," he said calmly, reaching out before you could protest. His fingers brushed yours as he lifted the piece you'd just moved, the contact brief but electric, like your skin had suddenly woken up. He shifted it to another square, "I can eat you."

You froze. He froze too. Then his eyes widened, panic flashing across his face as he realized what he'd just said. "Y–Your piece," he corrected quickly, voice dropping, ears turning red. "I mean. The piece. I'll take it."

You stared at him for a second. And then you laughed, leaning back on your hands as the sound spilled out of you. "Holy shit," you said, grinning. "Buy me dinner first, nerd."

He let out a strangled sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand as his shoulders shook. "I—I didn't mean it like that," he muttered, mortified.

"I know," you said, still smiling. You leaned forward again, elbows resting on your knees, eyes dropping to the board like you were suddenly very invested in this stupid little war of wooden pieces. Your fingers traced the edge of a pawn absentmindedly. "But I don't mind..."

"Mind... what?" he asked, tentative, eyes flicking up to you and then away again like he was afraid of what he might see on your face.

You didn't even give yourself time to overthink it, you were just done pretending you didn't feel this pull. "You eating me." —and your mouth moved before your brain could chicken out. Fuck. You were flirting. You were actually, openly flirting.

Jake froze like you'd hit a pause button on him. His hand hovered over one of his pieces, then he snapped back to life and shoved it forward a little too fast, the wood clacking loudly against the board. You leaned forward too, mirroring him, reaching for one of your pieces and sliding it closer to his side of the board, deliberately slow, deliberately close. You lifted your eyes to his face, watching the way his blush deepened, spreading from his ears down his neck.

"My piece," you added quickly, lips twitching. "I mean." You pulled it back with a grin that told him you absolutely did not mean just that.

He swallowed hard as he moved again, taking your piece this time, fingers trembling just slightly. You caught the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he gulped, the way his jaw tightened like he was trying very hard to keep it together. God, he was cute like this—unraveled but trying, flustered but still playing, still sitting there with you instead of running for his room.

"I—I..." he started, then stopped, exhaling through his nose. "I know," he said finally, like he was bracing himself. "Your turn."

You didn't move right away. You just looked at the board, then at him, heart thudding harder than it had any right to over a chess game and a few words loaded with way too much meaning. Slowly, you picked up a piece and nudged it forward, smiling faintly to yourself as if you were enjoying how this felt far more than you should.

"Okie," you said lightly, then—just to be an asshole—you shoved another random chess piece forward. Jake scratched his head, blinking at the board.

"You can't move it from the back to the front, it's the Queen. You're exposing it," he said, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. You almost laughed at how serious he was, brows furrowed, already reaching out to fix your mistake.

The next few hours blurred into him lecturing you about chess pieces, strategies, positioning, endgames, openings—things you half-listened to while watching the way his hands moved.

It didn't shock you at all that most of your pieces were eaten, one by one, until the board looked pitiful on your side. He leaned back slightly, studying it, then glanced up at you. "You're cornered," he said, almost apologetic.

"Sucks," you muttered, staring at your lonely queen. You tilted your head, eyes flicking up to his. "But I'm facing your queen. Is it not a checkmate?"

Jake blinked. Once. Twice. Then he leaned forward again, squinting at the board, lips parted in concentration. You watched him closely, the way his shoulders tensed, the way he bit his lower lip without realizing it. After a long moment, he froze, realization dawning on his face. "...Shit," he breathed.

You grinned, resting your chin on your palm. "Guess I win."

"Y-You didn't even know what you were doing!" he said.

"Nah!" You clapped your hands loudly, then you pointed straight at him like you'd just defeated a final boss. "You lose, loser!" You stuck your tongue out without shame, leaning into the childish victory. 

You pushed yourself up from the floor and climbed onto the couch, ignoring the scattered chess pieces. You did a slow spin, arms swaying dramatically, hips moving just enough to be obnoxious. "Bow to your champion!" you declared, laughing at your own stupidity as you were trying to annoy him. But you stopped mid-twirl. 

Jake wasn't annoyed, he wasn't scrambling to defend himself. He was just staring at you. A wide smile stretched across his face, braces flashing. His eyes were bright, crinkled at the corners, completely unguarded. He looked at you like you were something entertaining and precious at the same time.

Your stomach flipped. The teasing energy drained out of you in an instant. You stepped down from the couch and sat back on the floor across from him, suddenly more aware of the space between you. The chessboard sat abandoned, pieces knocked over like the game didn't matter anymore. 

"So," you said, clearing your throat as you folded your legs under you. You tilted your head slightly, trying to keep the playful tone even though your pulse had started racing. "Do winners have a prize?"

Jake's smile softened immediately. He looked down at his hands, then rubbed the back of his ear, and right on cue, the tips turned red. He pressed his lips together, then bit the lower one gently like he was thinking too hard. His feet shuffled against the floor, restless, nervous energy buzzing off him.

At first, you weren't sure what he was thinking. Maybe he thought you meant snacks. Maybe he was calculating some logical reward system in his head. But the longer he stayed quiet, the more your mind spiraled. Is he thinking what you're thinking? Or are you just being delusional? Your heart pounded louder, drowning out the rain for a second. He kept biting his lip, glancing up at you and then away again. His fingers curled into the fabric of his sweatpants.

"I—" he started, then stopped. He inhaled slowly, steadying himself. "What kind of prize?" he asked.

You leaned forward just slightly, enough that your knees were only inches away from his. "I don't know," you said, watching his face carefully. "You're the one who lost."

His eyes lifted to yours, and this time, he didn't look away. The storm outside continued raging, wind howling, rain pounding relentlessly, but inside, everything was suspended in this quiet, dangerous pause. You could see the conflict in his expression—the nervousness, the want, the restraint. He swallowed again. "I can... cook?" he offered, almost shyly. "Or... d-do the dishes for a week?"

You stared at him for a second. And then you laughed softly, shaking your head. Of course he would offer something practical. Of course he'd default to taking care of you in the safest way possible. "You're such a nerd," you murmured.

He smiled again, uncertain. "Is that... not okay?"

You looked up at the ceiling, pretending to think about it. Your teeth caught your lower lip as your mind spiraled. If you say this, you're crossing the line. If you say this, you're not just flirting anymore—you're stepping over that invisible boundary that kept things safe. If you say this, you might lose the easy mornings, the quiet dinners — But then again... what the hell were you so scared of?

"What about a kiss?" you asked, finally looking back at him, forcing your voice to stay steady. You watched it happen in real time—the shift in his face. His eyes widened just slightly, then softened, then panicked. Color bloomed across his cheeks, spreading down his neck in a slow, undeniable flush. His lips parted like he was about to speak, but no sound came out. For a second, you regretted it.

"Forget it," you said quickly, nerves snapping at you. You moved to stand, heart racing, ready to laugh it off, ready to run before you saw rejection in his eyes. But you didn't get far when a firm hand wrapped around your wrist. It wasn't rough, but it wasn't hesitant either. It caught you mid-motion and pulled you back down with enough strength to surprise you. A small yelp escaped your throat, cut short when you felt his lips against yours.

Your eyes flew open. Jake's were closed, brows slightly furrowed like he was concentrating too hard. His lips were soft—warmer than you expected. He kissed you like he did everything else: carefully at first, uncertain. You could feel the inexperience in the way he tilted his head a little too abruptly, the way his mouth moved like he wasn't sure what rhythm to follow.

Your shock melted fast. You closed your eyes and leaned in properly this time, pushing the chessboard out of the way with a clatter of wooden pieces hitting the floor. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping them, feeling the solid warmth beneath his shirt. He let out the smallest, breathy sound against your mouth, half a whine, half a gasp.

The cold wind outside rattled the windows, but the room felt like it was closing in, warm with the sound of your breathing mixing together. You moved your lips more deliberately, guiding the kiss, pressing closer. When you brushed your tongue lightly against his bottom lip—slow, asking—he froze for a split second before he opened up. A quiet, shaky moan slipped from him as you deepened it, tasting him, feeling the way his hands tightened around your waist. His fingers dug in just enough to make you aware of them.

Still kissing him, you shifted your weight and swung a leg over, settling onto his lap without breaking contact. He inhaled sharply into your mouth at the movement, his grip adjusting to keep you steady. You could feel how tense he was beneath you, how his whole body seemed lit up by every point of contact. Your hands slid from his shoulders to the back of his neck, fingers threading lightly into his hair. You pulled him closer, and this time, he responded without pause—kissing you back with more confidence. A sharp gasp escaped you when his grip on your waist tightened suddenly, pulling your body flush against his. The pressure of him beneath the thin fabric of his pajama pants was obvious. Your head spun so fast you didn't even think about pulling away for air. It felt like your bodies had turned into magnets, stuck together with a force neither of you had the will to fight.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

Your hips shifted slowly, a roll meant to test him. You refused to break the kiss, and when the heat between your legs pressed directly against the tense outline beneath you, a quiet moan slipped from your throat before you could stop it. The sound vibrated between your mouths. That was when Jake broke the kiss.

Your lips chased his, catching his bottom lip between your teeth before he could pull too far away. The separation was reluctant, both of you breathing hard like you'd just sprinted a mile. Your chest rose and fell rapidly while you stayed seated on his lap, fingers still tangled in his hair like you might drag him back if he dared move too far.

"What— why?" you asked, your voice still shaky and breathless.

Jake's face was flushed a deep red, spreading from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. His glasses had fogged slightly from the heat between you. For a second he just stared at you, then he shook his head once, almost frustrated, and pulled his glasses off. Without much care he tossed them somewhere toward the floor beside the couch where they landed with a faint clatter. Before you could even react, his hands returned to you and he leaned forward again, capturing your mouth in another kiss.

This one was different. There was nothing hesitant about it anymore. His grip on your waist was firmer, fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. A small squeal escaped you when he suddenly stood, lifting you effortlessly like you weighed nothing. The sudden movement made your arms tighten around his neck while your legs wrapped around his waist, locking you against him. The new position pressed your bodies together even closer, heat building fast between you as he carried you across the room without breaking the kiss for more than a second.

Your mind tried to catch up, tried to ask what the hell was about to happen next, but the thought dissolved the moment his mouth found yours again. Overthinking felt impossible now. The only thing that mattered was the feeling of his lips, the warmth of his hands, the way your pulse pounded in your ears. You had spent too long ignoring the tension between you, pretending it wasn't there.

Right now you didn't care about tomorrow, or consequences, or whatever awkwardness might follow.

Right now you just wanted him.

Jake's breathing had turned uneven by the time your mouth drifted away from his lips. Your kisses trailed along the corner of his mouth, brushing his cheek before moving down to his jaw. You nipped lightly at the warm skin there, feeling the way his body tensed beneath your hold. One of his hands slid up your back while the other steadied you against him, fingers flexing slightly like he wasn't entirely sure where to touch first. "Where?" he whispered.

The word barely made it out before your teeth grazed his skin again. You could feel his pulse under your lips. You didn't answer, instead, you dragged your mouth slowly along his jaw toward his ear, letting the silence stretch while his grip on you tightened almost unconsciously. Your fingers brushed through the hair at the back of his neck again, tugging making him inhale sharply.

Then you finally murmured your answer against his ear. "Your room"

Your cunt fluttered at the sound of your own words, heat pooling wet as a low, long whine escaped him. You barely had time to register the sensation before you were being carried again, the familiar weightless surge of being lifted making your stomach knot with anticipation and arousal. The world blurred around you, furniture and light flashing past as he moved. You tried to hold onto something, but there was nothing to hold onto except him. Every nerve ending in your body was awake, every touch of his hand, every movement of his body against yours, sending sparks you didn't even know you could feel.

When he finally lowered you onto the bed, it was gentle despite the desperation in his hold. His hands guided you, careful, cradling your head like you were made of something fragile he didn't want to break. The bed beneath you was soft, yielding under your weight, but somehow it didn't lessen the intimacy of the moment—the way he leaned over you, holding you steady, letting you both pause before the next wave hit. You froze for a heartbeat, just staring at him.

Seeing Jake without his glasses was like seeing him stripped bare in a way you hadn't noticed before. His eyes were glossy and brilliant, gleaming with something almost otherworldly. There was a kind of intensity in them, like the stars he loved to watch in those documentaries he'd obsess over, but alive, raw, and focused entirely on you. You could see a storm of desire and confusion, clarity and hesitation all tangled up behind those shining orbs, and even though you didn't understand all of it, it made something coil tight in your chest. 

You just leaned in, pressing your lips against him, trailing soft, hungry kisses across his nose, the tip of his chin, the curve of his cheeks, letting your hands wander freely over the hard lines of his triceps, feeling the muscle tense and flex under your touch.

"Still with me?" you whispered, your teeth grazing his jaw as you tugged lightly, testing him, teasing him, feeling the shiver roll down his spine. Your hands drifted to his, guiding them up your body, threading his fingers through the fabric of your shirt, pressing them to your chest. "Is this okay?" you asked, your eyes locked on his, searching, and needing him to answer without words.

Jake gasped sharply, chest rising and falling, his eyes wide, pupils blown, and the flush spreading across his face so deep it looked almost painful. His cock twitched insistently beneath his pajama pants. Every nerve in his body screamed for more, as if your hands on him had awakened something he had been holding back. You moved slowly, coaxing him, rubbing him through the fabric, kneading the hard length of him in small, teasing motions while letting your fingers drift over the edges of his hips and down the side of his thighs. At first, his hands hovered uncertainly, until he finally mirrored you, sliding over your chest, kneading your breasts softly, fingers gentle yet unsteady.

A shared whine broke through your lips almost without thought. You couldn't bear the waiting any longer. Your hands fumbled at your top, ripping it free along with the bra in one shameless movement. The sudden freedom of your bare skin against the cool air made you shiver, and you felt him lean closer immediately, drawing in your scent as if it intoxicated him. He found the confidence to follow your earlier movements, pressing his mouth to your jaw, nibbling in small, sharp bites that made you wince, pulling a low moan from your chest despite the sting.

"Pretty," he whispered in a way that made you question if you'd imagined it. "So... so, pretty." He repeated it, a breathless chant, before diving back into your lips with renewed hunger.

You lost track of time, swallowed whole by the rhythm of his mouth and the press of his body against yours. His arms wrapped tighter around you, fingers pressing against your back and shoulders. Your bare breasts brushed against the fabric of his shirt, and the friction made your stomach coil tight with heat. You wanted more—you wanted all of it—but you were afraid to ask, afraid that if you broke the kiss to say so, he would retreat into awkwardness and the fragile tension you'd built would shatter. So instead, you cut the kiss abruptly, pressing the back of his head against your chest, guiding him where you wanted without speaking.

"Nghh," you moaned, tilting your head back, arching your back, letting him explore freely. His lips closed around your nipple, sucking with the inexperience of someone trying to mimic what they thought they should do. It was awkward but it sent shocks through your body. You felt him adapt, he swirled his tongue over your areola, teasing, learning, feeling. You guided one of his hands into your other breast, holding the back of his palm against your skin as he kneaded gently, and your eyes closed, lost in sensation.

He seemed to catch every nuance in your reactions, every small gasp that slipped out of your mouth, every tremor that ran through your body when he touched the right spot. His tongue flicked slowly between your nipples while his thumbs moved in steady circles around them, rough pads grazing the sensitive skin again and again. The sensation made your breath hitch sharply, another helpless gasp leaving your throat as your fingers curled into his hair. Jake stayed there for a long moment, almost stubborn about it, alternating between sucking, licking, and pressing soft kisses against your chest.

Eventually he pulled away, his lips lingering for a second before he leaned back up to capture your mouth again.

Oh boy, Jake must really love kissing.

You dragged him closer, one hand gripping the back of his neck while your body shifted beneath him. Your hips rolled upward without thinking, pressing into him, searching for friction. The kiss quickly turned messy as both of you started moving at the same time, your bodies grinding together clumsily on the bed. Each time your hips pushed up you felt the hard pressure of him through the fabric between you, and the contact made a low sound rumble from his chest.

"Re... move," you muttered between kisses, the word breaking apart as your lips kept bumping into his. Your fingers tugged impatiently at his shirt, pulling at the fabric.

Jake let out another strained whine before pulling away. He fumbled with his clothes quickly, clearly not thinking about grace or neatness. His shirt disappeared first, tossed somewhere beside the bed, and then his hands went straight for the waistband of his pajama pants. In his rush he dragged them down together with his boxers, pushing the fabric down his hips in one impatient motion.

"Oh..." you whispered before you could stop yourself, your body shifting backward slightly against the mattress.

Jake stood there for a second, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling while he looked at you, trying to read your reaction. But your attention had already dropped lower. Your gaze locked on him, on the obvious heat and color of his cock, the flushed pink that leaned almost red under the soft light in the room. You could see the veins along the base, the damp shine at the tip where precum had already gathered. It looked almost angry, twitching slightly with each breath he took.

How the hell had Jake—your awkward, nerdy, always-overthinking roommate—been hiding something like that?

Jake noticed where you were looking. His shoulders shifted awkwardly and his hand moved as if he wanted to cover himself, the embarrassment creeping back onto his face. But before he could actually hide anything, you moved. You pushed yourself up onto your knees on the mattress and reached forward, catching his wrist and pulling it aside. Your other hand slid forward immediately after, your palm wrapping around his cock.

"No— ahh—" Jake's head tipped back the moment your hand closed around him.

You felt the warmth of it against your palm, and your fingers tightened slightly without thinking. His reaction made you reach up with your free hand, grabbing lightly at the back of his neck and pulling him down toward you again. Your lips crashed back into his before he could say anything else. The angle was awkward now, with him half leaning over you and most of his weight pressing down onto the mattress while your hand stayed wrapped around him. His hips kept shifting forward, brushing against your palm. You deepened the kiss, your mouth moving slowly against his while your hand finally started to move. Your grip circled him carefully at first, sliding upward and then back down in a slow motion as you tested the rhythm.

Jake's moan burst straight into your mouth. His entire body jerked in response, hips twitching sharply against your hand. His legs tensed, muscles tightening as if he'd been hit with a sudden wave of sensation he wasn't prepared for. The sound he made this time was even more desperate, muffled by the kiss.

And then you felt the sudden spurt against your hand, the unmistakable wetness as his body reacted faster than either of you expected. Your movement slowed automatically, your mind catching up with what had just happened.

Oh... Oh.

Jake pulled away from your mouth so suddenly, his breath ragged and uneven as he immediately buried his face into the crook of your neck. The movement was clumsy like he was trying to disappear somewhere inside you. His entire body collapsed forward, and you swore the air left your lungs for a second under the full weight of him. He wasn't holding himself up anymore—he was just draped over you, chest pressed to yours, arms braced awkwardly on either side of your shoulders. You could feel how hot his skin was, how fast his heart was pounding against you. One of his hands quickly grabbed your wrist and gently pulled your hand away from him. He didn't say anything. He just breathed hard against your neck, warm bursts of air brushing your skin while his body stayed tense.

A small patch of warmth spreading slowly against your neck. At first you thought it was just his breath, or sweat from how heated everything had gotten but — "Are you..." you paused, confused, one hand coming up to touch his back carefully, fingers brushing along his spine. "Crying?"

"Sorry I cum too fast," he whimpered into your neck, his voice muffled and shaking as he buried his face deeper against your skin. His head shook slightly as he said it, the motion rubbing his cheek against you.

Your eyes widened immediately. "Hey—no, it's okay, shhh, stop—" You started patting his back quickly, almost awkwardly, because the sudden shift in mood caught you completely off guard. His shoulders trembled under your hands as his quiet crying turned louder, broken breaths hitching against your skin. You didn't even understand what exactly had upset him so much — like, he was still hard, twitching against your thigh.

"Shhh, stop crying," you said again, your palm moving slowly up and down his back in an attempt to calm him. Your fingers traced small circles between his shoulder blades, trying to soothe him.

"So—sorry," he hiccupped, the word breaking apart in his throat. His arms slid fully around your back now, hugging you tightly.

"I told you, it's fine," you murmured, your voice gentler now. You kept rubbing his back while staring up at the ceiling, trying to piece together what the hell had just happened in the last few minutes. "It's really fine. You don't have to freak out about it." After a moment you hesitated before asking carefully, "Do you want to stop—"

"No."

The answer came out as a strained whine before you could even finish the question. His voice cracked around the word, his hips shifted again against yours, the movement dragging his still-hard cock against your thigh through the mess he'd already made. The mattress creaked softly beneath both of you as his weight shifted forward, his body clinging to yours. He held onto you tighter, arms wrapped around your back, face still buried deep in your neck like he couldn't bear the embarrassment of looking at you.

You stared at the ceiling for a second, processing the situation, then exhaled sharply and shoved at his shoulders. "Okay— move."

With more strength than he expected, you pushed him back, forcing him to roll off you so you could sit up. The sudden shift made him blink in confusion, his hair messy and his face still flushed as he stared at you. You tossed your hair back over your shoulder, chest rising and falling as you quickly reached down and tugged your bottoms off your hips. The fabric peeled away easily, damp where your arousal had soaked through, and you didn't even bother hiding it. Jake watched the entire thing, his chest still heaving as his eyes dragged over your body.

Swinging your leg over him, you straddled his hips and settled directly over his shaft. The moment your weight pressed down, he sucked in a sharp breath and shut his eyes tight, his head tipping back against the pillow. Your panties were still clinging to you, the wet patch obvious against the thin fabric as you slowly started grinding your hips down against him. The friction made your stomach tighten immediately, your clit dragging over his cock with every slow roll of your hips.

"First time?" you asked, like you weren't currently rubbing your soaked panties all over his cock. Your hands braced on the mattress on either side of his shoulders as you leaned forward slightly, adjusting your rhythm. You rolled your hips in small circles, testing different angles, letting the pressure build while watching his reactions closely.

Jake nodded quickly, eyes still shut. His hands moved to your hips automatically, gripping them tight.

Your movements sped up a little and the change in pace made him whine louder, the sound escaping his throat in a helpless, high note that made your stomach flutter. His fingers dug into your skin, nails pressing hard into the soft flesh of your hips, and you actually winced at the pressure. His entire body tensed beneath you, thighs tightening, his breathing breaking into uneven gasps.

And then it happened again. His hips jerked sharply upward with another loud whine, the movement uncontrolled as he came.

"Ahh— sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Please, please, please—" he panicked immediately, his eyes snapping open wide. Fresh tears were already shining in them again as his body trembled beneath you. His cock twitched visibly between your thighs, another small spurt of cum leaking from the flushed tip as he tried to catch his breath. The poor guy looked like he was having a full crisis.

Meanwhile, you just moaned. The friction hadn't stopped for you. Your hips had kept moving through his entire meltdown, chasing the pressure building between your legs. 

Your hands moved to push his hand away from your hips so you could pull back, assuming his frantic "please" meant he was getting overwhelmed.

But his hands didn't let go. Not even a little. Instead, his grip tightened. You blinked in confusion as he actively tried to guide your hips again, pulling you forward so your soaked panties slid against his cock once more. The thing was still hard—still angry and flushed and twitching despite the fact that he had already finished twice in less than a few minutes.

What the hell? How can this man cum so fast yet still not go soft?

"Please, please, please," he whined again, his voice breaking as he suddenly sat up. His arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling your body flush against his chest as he started guiding your hips with both hands. The motion forced your grinding to continue, your soaked panties dragging over the sensitive head of his cock again and again. Each pass made him shudder violently. His breath kept catching in his throat, little helpless sounds escaping him every time your hips rolled forward. The mattress creaked beneath you with every movement, the room filled with the mix of his shaky whining and your heavier breathing.

Still wrapped in his arms, you shifted slightly in his lap. One hand slid down between your bodies and hooked into the side of your panties, dragging the damp fabric aside.

The moment your bare cunt brushed against his cock, Jake's reaction was loud, a broken moan tearing out of him, you leaned forward quickly and kissed him hard to shut him up, swallowing the noise before it could get any louder.

If he kept whining like that—face flushed, voice trembling—you were pretty sure you'd lose control just from hearing him. Fuck. His mouth was warm and messy against yours, his breathing still shaking as your hips kept moving slowly against him.

Your hand slipped down to his cock, fingers wrapping around it again. He wasn't fully soft, not even close, but there was still a slight give to him under your palm. You pulled back from the kiss just enough for both of you to breathe, your foreheads almost touching while your breaths mixed together. Your eyes stayed locked on his as you guided him between your legs.

Slowly, deliberately, you started rubbing the length of him against your cunt, dragging the tip along your slick folds. Your hand moved with controlled rhythm, sliding him up and down, occasionally letting the head bump against your entrance before pulling him away again.

"Lay down for me," you murmured. You guided him backward onto the mattress, one hand pressing lightly against his chest until he sank into the pillows. Your own body hovered above him as you stayed straddled over his hips. You were painfully wet by now, your stomach tight with the need for friction that grinding alone hadn't been able to satisfy. Even so, you stayed patient with him. Your fingers brushed over his face, pushing some messy strands of hair away from his forehead before trailing down his cheek. You kept eye contact the whole time, your hand gliding over his chest.

Slowly, you lowered yourself. The first contact made your mouth fall open slightly. The tip of him pressed against you, and you paused there for a moment just to breathe. Your legs trembled faintly as you started easing yourself down inch by inch. Jake's whining came back louder than before, almost helpless as his hands shot up to grip your hips. His head spun with the sensation, ears ringing as the tight heat of your pussy slowly took him in. Meanwhile your breathing grew heavier the further you sank down, your body adjusting to the stretch.

By the time you were fully seated on him, he was hard again, completely, filling you while your thighs trembled on either side of his hips.

"F–fuck," you muttered under your breath, biting down on your lower lip as you braced your hands against his chest. You lifted your hips slightly, letting a little of him slide out before lowering yourself again in a slow, controlled motion. The stretch made your face tighten, your brows pulling together as you focused more on the building pleasure than the sharp edge of discomfort from his size. "Fuck... fuck, fuck!"

Jake looked like he was barely holding himself together beneath you. A faint vein stood out along his forehead, his teeth pressing into his lip as he tried to keep quiet. He was clearly trying to control himself, trying not to lose it too fast again. But your hips told a different story. The way you moved, the sight of your body rising and lowering on top of him, the expression on your face as you adjusted to the feeling—it all dragged him closer to the edge again.

"Wait— wait... ahh," he groaned suddenly. Your hands slid from his chest down toward his knees as you shifted your weight, adjusting your position slightly. The new angle changed the way he felt inside you, and Jake let out another broken sound the moment you started moving again. You rolled your hips carefully at first, searching for the spot that felt right, letting your body experiment with the motion until the pressure finally lined up the way you needed.

A loud moan tore out of you as your hips sped up without thinking, your body chasing the sensation as you kept hitting the same spot again and again. Jake reacted just as quickly, sitting up to distract himself, his mouth finding your chest as he pressed against you. His arms wrapped around your back while his tongue dragged over your nipples, the contact making your whining grow louder with every movement.

Your vision blurred slightly as the sensation kept building, the pressure inside your body tightening in slow, relentless waves that refused to ease up. It felt like sparks were going off behind your eyes, tiny bursts of light flickering every time your hips dropped back down onto him. You were riding him harder now without even realizing it. The bed creaked beneath both of you with every movement, your thighs burning as they worked to keep you balanced while your body chased the pressure building deep in your stomach. Each roll of your hips dragged another broken breath from your lungs, your fingers tightening against his shoulders as the heat between your legs kept climbing higher.

Jake suddenly bit down on your breast. The sharp sting hit at the same moment his body jerked beneath you. His cock throbbed hard inside you as he came again, another hot pulse spilling deep while his hips twitched helplessly under your weight.

"Shit!" you cried out, the sudden jolt of sensation ripping straight through your body.

Jake only answered with a muffled whine against your chest, his mouth still pressed to your skin, hot bursts of air hitting your breast while his teeth loosened and his lips dragged weakly over the spot he'd bitten. His shoulders trembled under your hands, and you could feel the way his body struggled to handle the sensation as it moved through him.

Your hips didn't stop moving even with his body shaking under you, you kept rocking against him, your body chasing the last stretch of the high that hadn't quite broken yet. The movement forced more small sounds out of him, soft whines and broken breaths that vibrated directly into your chest where his face stayed buried. The heat between you felt overwhelming, your bodies still pressed close together while the tension inside you continued to wind tighter and tighter.

"Little more... little more— please," you breathed out as the pressure finally climbed to the edge.

Your legs trembled where they were wrapped around his hips, muscles tightening as the feeling crested higher. Your arms slid up around his shoulders, pulling him closer into you while your body reacted, tightening around him as the sensation finally tipped over. Your hips stuttered slightly but didn't stop, still rocking against him as the wave rolled through your body.

For a moment everything felt hot and heavy and loud in your head. What almost made you laugh, though, was the fact that Jake still hadn't stopped. His cock was still twitching inside you while your body clenched around him, another weak pulse followed the last. It felt like you were still milking him dry while your body finished riding out the tail end of your own high.

"Hah..." you breathed out shakily, your hips slowed, your body still moving slightly while you tried to steady yourself. Your chest rose and fell unevenly, lungs dragging in deep breaths as the tension slowly drained from your muscles. The moment stretched out quietly around you, the room filled only with the sound of both of you breathing and the faint rustle of sheets under your shifting weight.

Eventually your strength gave out. Your body leaned forward, pressing closer to him as the last of the tension faded from your limbs. You tilted your head down and brushed a soft kiss against his lips. It lingered there for a second, both of you still catching your breath as his mouth responded weakly beneath yours.

As your body finally relaxed, you let yourself slump forward and collapse gently against his shoulder, your cheek resting against his skin while your chest rose and fell heavily. Jake stayed still beneath you, arms loose around your back as you feel the world around you collapsed.

Sometimes, the universe had a sick sense of humor. It let you taste something so perfect just long enough for you to believe in it, only to remind you the next morning that happiness wasn't something you were allowed to hold on to without consequences. Maybe that was the lesson life kept trying to shove down your throat. Not every good moment turns into a good life.

Luck was temporary, a fleeting thing people grabbed with desperate hands. It felt real when it happened—bright and full and intoxicating—but it never stayed long. Because every time the universe handed you something good, there was always that lurking feeling in the back of your head that a disaster was waiting right around the corner, ready to collect the price.

You woke up to the sound of wind slamming violently against the windows. The glass rattled in its frame, branches scraping somewhere outside like fingers clawing at the walls. You groaned under your breath and rolled onto your back, one hand dragging lazily across your face before scratching the back of your head. Your body felt heavy, muscles loose from sleep, your brain foggy as hell. For a moment everything felt blurry—your surroundings, your thoughts, the slow realization creeping in that something wasn't quite right. Then you stretched your arms above your head, arching your back slightly, and your eyes opened fully.

You weren't in your room. The ceiling looked different. Your stomach flipped when the memory from last night flickered somewhere in the back of your mind... And Jake wasn't beside you.

"Huh?" you muttered to yourself, the confusion hitting you all at once. You sat up quickly, the blanket sliding down to your lap as you scanned the room. His desk lamp was off, the room dim except for the gray light leaking through the curtains from the storm outside. That was when you noticed the small pill sitting neatly on the bedside table beside a glass of water.

You reached for it slowly, fingers curling around the foil packet as your eyes squinted to read the label. Plan B. You stared at it for a long moment, turning it between your fingers. You were still dressed in your own clothes—same shirt, same shorts from yesterday. The apartment was quiet except for the storm raging outside, and when you glanced toward the corner of the room, you noticed the power strip lights were dead.

No electricity. Ah...right. The storm. You rubbed your face with one hand and slid out of the bed, walking over to the window to push it shut more firmly. The wind was forcing cold air through the cracks, when you finished, you stepped into the hallway and padded slowly toward the living room.

"Hey," you sighed in relief the moment you saw him.

Jake stood near the kitchen counter, quietly cleaning up the snack wrappers and empty cups left behind from earlier.

Your shoulders relaxed instantly at the sight of him. You walked closer. "Just clean it in the morning. It's really dark in here. You could trip on something." Your hand reached out automatically, fingers brushing his shoulder in a familiar, comfortable gesture. "I mean it's like—what—11:45 PM? Let's just go back to bed—"

"Uh." He cut you off. Your smile faded immediately when he gently removed your hand from his shoulder without even looking at you. He tossed the trash bag into the bin, his back stiff as he turned slightly away. It felt like someone had flipped a switch.

No, worse. It felt like everything had reset back to the beginning.

"Jake?" you said carefully. You stepped toward him, but before you could say anything else, he brushed past you and walked straight down the hallway. The door to his room shut with a quiet click, and you were left standing there in the middle of the living room. Confused. Frozen.

"Jake?" you called again, your voice smaller now as you walked toward his door. Your chest tightened, questions crashing into your head all at once.

What did you do? Everything had felt fine. More than fine. You were laughing, he looked happy. You were happy. So what the hell changed?

Maybe he was just overwhelmed. Maybe this was new to him. Jake wasn't the type of guy who would just shut someone out after something that intimate... right? Right?

You rested your hand lightly against the door, staring at the wood like you could see through it. "I'll give you time," you said quietly through the door. "Just... talk to me, okay?"

But he never did. The next morning came, then the day after that, and then the days kept piling on top of each other. Every time you knocked on his door, there was no answer. Sometimes you tried the doorknob just in case, hoping maybe it had been left unlocked by accident, but it never was. Always locked. Always shut. You would linger in the living room longer than usual, pretending to scroll through your phone or watch something, just waiting for the sound of his door opening. It never happened.

When classes started again, the pattern became obvious. Jake would leave ridiculously early, long before you even woke up. His shoes would be gone from the rack by the door, his bag missing from the chair. Sometimes the only proof he'd even been home was the faint smell of his almond milk lingering in the kitchen or the clean plate drying on the rack. And Sundays—God, Sundays were the worst. That used to be the one day he was always around, fixing something in the apartment, tinkering with his stupid robots or cooking meals. Now you would wake up, step into the living room, and the place would feel hollow.

You never found him there anymore. And every night before eight, the same thing happened. His room stayed dark and empty. Is he avoiding you? Dumbass. Of course he is. How naive could you be to pretend you hadn't noticed already? The signs were right there! He wasn't busy. He wasn't overwhelmed. He was avoiding you.

You didn't fucking understand. That was the worst part. If he had said something—anything—you could've dealt with it. You could've argued with him, yelled at him, laughed it off if it turned out to be something stupid. But this silence? This cowardly disappearing act? It drove you insane.

You wanted to talk to him.

Hell, you wanted to curse him out.

After you had sex, that's it? That's fucking it? What the hell was going on inside his head? You kept replaying that night over and over in your mind, trying to find the moment where everything went wrong. The chess game. The teasing. The kiss. The way he had looked at you like he wanted you just as much as you wanted him.

You're n0t dumb, you refuse to be dumb. You are fucking sure he felt that pull too. You are not delusional, right? You felt it! You fucking felt it in your hands, in your body, in your soul.

"I had sex," you said flatly, staring into nothing.

Ryujin barely reacted at first, just giving you a quick side glance as she continued bouncing the  against the wall. It was the start of regional training, but your head was somewhere else entirely. Karina was off in Japan, living her best life, leaving you here dealing with whatever the hell this was. Figures. Of course she'd disappear right when you actually needed someone to scream at.

"Congrats?" Ryujin finally said, catching the ball and tossing it lightly in her hands. "What's with the long face?"

You watched the ball leave her hand again, hit the wall, bounce back in the same rhythm. You shrugged, forcing your shoulders to move like it didn't matter. "I don't know. He's not talking to me."

Ryujin's lips pressed into a thin line as she caught the ball again, this time pausing for a second before throwing it harder. "He?" she repeated, tone already shifting into something judgmental. "As usual. Men are usually like that. Don't expect anything from them, really—"

"He—" you cut her off. You exhaled hard, running your hand through your hair as your irritation flared up. "He is not like those other men." And the way you said it was defensive. You weren't letting her lump him into that category. Not him.

"I'm his first," you added, like you were trying to convince both her and yourself at the same time. "It must've been... awkward for him. I don't know. Maybe he didn't like it, maybe that's why he's avoiding me. I'm sure—"

Your hand pressed against your chest, fingers gripping your shirt like you could physically hold onto the feeling buried there. You turned to look at her fully now, your expression tighter, more serious than before.

"I'm sure he likes me," you said, voice lower, more vulnerable than you wanted it to be. "But... why won't he talk to me?"

Ryujin stared at you for a long second, like she was trying to figure out how deep you were already in before deciding how hard she needed to hit you with reality. Then she let out a sharp sigh. She crouched down in front of you, dropping the ball to the floor where it rolled a little before settling between her feet, forgotten.

"Look," she started, hands lifting and gesturing in the air like she was trying to physically piece her thoughts together. "I—I'm not good at this shit, okay? I don't do... whatever the hell this is." She paused, sucking in a breath before pointing straight at you. "I like girls. I don't deal with men and their bullshit. But you—" her finger jabbed lightly toward your chest again. "Did you seriously just let your guard down with a man because you think he's not like the rest of those fuckers?"

"You don't get it—" you tried to cut in, frustration rising immediately, your brows pulling together as your hands clenched at your sides, you had to defend Jake.

"I do not," she shot back just as fast, her voice is sharp as her words, it was cutting right through you. She straightened slightly but stayed crouched in front of you, her eyes locked onto yours. "I'm not the one who got fucked and then ghosted. That's you."

For a second you couldn't even respond. Your jaw tightened, your throat going dry, but she didn't stop.

"You're the one who knows him," she continued. "You're the one who keeps telling me all this shit about how he's different, how he's nice or whag." She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly. "So yeah, I'm gonna say whatever the hell I want because you're the one feeding me all of that, and now you're sitting here confused like this came out of nowhere."

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as her words started sinking in deeper than you wanted them to. Because she wasn't entirely wrong. Even Karina would say that to your face even though she started this all. Because,look at you. What the hell happen to you?

"But he's not like that," you insisted again, though your voice wasn't as strong this time. "He wouldn't just... use me and leave. That's not him."

Ryujin tilted her head slightly, studying your face like she was trying to decide if you actually believed that or if you were just desperately clinging to it.

"Then what is it?" she asked. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly like that."

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, ready to defend him again—but nothing came out. Because you didn't know.

Your mind scrambled for an explanation, something that made sense, something that fit the version of Jake you had built in your head. The quiet guy who cooked for you, who stayed up to watch your games, who held you gently like you mattered.

That Jake wouldn't just disappear. Right?

"He's not... confident," you said finally, grasping at something, anything. "He overthinks. He gets overwhelmed. Maybe he just doesn't know what to do after... after everything."

Ryujin didn't immediately respond. She just watched you. "Okay," she said after a moment, nodding slowly. "Let's say you're right. Let's say he's just overwhelmed or confused or whatever the hell excuse you want to give him." She leaned forward a little, her gaze narrowing. "Then why isn't he talking to you?"

Right...

"Because if he actually liked you the way you think he does," she continued, "he wouldn't just leave you hanging like this. He'd at least try. Even if he's awkward. Even if he's bad at it. He'd try."

Your chest tightened again, your fingers curling into your shirt as you looked away from her, your thoughts spiraling.

You hated how that made sense.

"I'm not saying he doesn't like you," Ryujin added, exhaling as she picked the ball back up and held it loosely in her hands. "But liking someone and actually doing something about it? Two very different things."

Then she tossed the ball lightly toward you, snapping you out of your thoughts.

"Talk to him," she said simply.

You blinked, catching it automatically.

"He's avoiding me," you muttered, the frustration creeping back in.

"Then corner him," she shot back without hesitation. "You're telling me you can chase down a ball flying out of bounds but you can't corner that one?"

Ryujin stood up fully now, rolling her shoulders before glancing down at you one last time.

"Stop overthinking what he feels," she added,"You're already doing enough of that for the both of you. Just get your answer straight from him."

She paused, then added— "And if he still runs? Then you'll know exactly what kind of guy he is."

Your steps were sharp and fast as you made your way back to the apartment. The towel hung loosely over your shoulder, damp from training, your hair still slightly wet from sweat, as your mind was too busy running in circles, replaying his silence, replaying that night over and over until it made your chest feel tight.

You weren't going to let this drag on anymore.

Your grip tightened around the plastic bag in your hand, the thin material crinkling loudly as your fingers dug into it. You inhaled deeply like you were preparing yourself for something bigger than just a conversation. Maybe this was it—the point where everything either made sense or completely fell apart.

You weren't even sure which one you were more afraid of.

You exhaled sharply and stopped in front of your door, staring at it for a second longer. You didn't believe in fate. But right now, you found yourself hoping—just a little—that whatever the hell this was would finally lead somewhere. That all this confusion, all this frustration, wouldn't just end in nothing.

You pushed the door open with another exhale and there he was.

Jake stood in the living room, slightly hunched over as he turned on the robots one by one. Whitey buzzed to life first, then Pinky, while Bumble sat near the TV, its faint light flickering on. The scene looked so normal, so painfully familiar, like nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

He froze the second he saw you. His eyes widened behind his glasses, his whole body going stiff. Your jaw tightened. Of course he looked shocked. You weren't supposed to be here this early. You were supposed to be at training, sweating it out, you had just ran away from your training when it was supposed to be a short fucking break.

Your gaze didn't leave him, watching every small movement as he scrambled slightly. His hand hovered awkwardly near the table, his body already shifting like he was about to move—probably toward his room, probably to shut the door again, probably to run.

Not this time. Before he could even take a full step, you moved.

Your feet carried you across the room in seconds, your hand shooting out to grab his shoulder and shove him back before he could react. His back hit the wall, the impact making him wince, a strained sound slipping past his lips as his body tensed. "H-Hurts..." he muttered, teeth clenching as his eyes squeezed shut for a second.

And yeah, for a split second, you felt it—that flicker of guilt in your chest. But it didn't last. Your hands pressed harder against his shoulders, keeping him there, pinning him in place before he could even think about slipping away again. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he stiffened under your touch, but he didn't push you off. He didn't try to fight back.

"Let's talk, Jake." Your voice came out firm, leaving no room for excuses this time.

His eyes opened slowly, meeting yours, and you saw it again. That same look. Conflicted. Overwhelmed.

"I—" he started, his voice catching immediately, like the words got stuck somewhere in his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure, restless, like he didn't know where to put them or what to do with them.

You leaned in just slightly. "No," you cut him off, shaking your head. "You don't get to 'I—' your way out of this again."Your grip on his shoulders tightened just a bit. "You've been avoiding me for days," you continued. "Locked doors, leaving early, disappearing on weekends—what the hell is that, Jake?"

He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering away from yours for a second before snapping back, like he couldn't decide where to look. "I wasn't—" he tried again, weaker this time.

"You were," you cut in immediately, your expression is pained. "Don't lie to me. Not now."

Silence fell between you for a moment, filled only by the faint whirring of the robots moving around the floor like nothing was happening.

Your chest rose and fell with a deep breath before you forced the words out. "Was it a mistake?" you asked, eyes locked on him, searching for anything—any reaction, any sign that this wasn't all in your head.

The silence stretched for a second too long, and you pushed again, your voice tightening despite yourself. "Because if it was," you continued, "then just say it. Don't do this shit where you pretend I don't exist."

Jake didn't answer. He didn't even look at you.

His head stayed slightly turned away, his gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder like you weren't even there. You watched his lips press together, then part slightly as he bit down on the inside of it, nervous and restless. His fingers twitched at his sides, fidgeting in that familiar way you used to find endearing—tapping against his thigh, curling and uncurling like he didn't know what to do with them.

Now it just pissed you off.

"Jake," you whispered, your voice dropping. Your hand moved without thinking, fingers brushing against his cheek, turning his face toward you despite the resistance. His skin was warm under your touch, his jaw tense, and when his eyes finally met yours, it only made your chest ache more. "Those things we did... was it just a mistake?" you asked again. "Talk to me. I— I thought we... we were going somewhere." Your voice faltered, breaking in the middle of your sentence. "Is it... just me?"

You hated how the quetion made you sound so small.

You didn't even realize you were crying until a tear slipped down your cheek, warm against your skin.

"I like you too much," you admitted, your voice trembling now, barely holding together. "Is that wrong?" You sniffed, your lips shaking as you tried to keep yourself from completely falling apart in front of him. But Jake—he still wasn't saying anything. He wasn't moving. He wasn't even looking at you properly anymore, his gaze dropping again like he couldn't handle it.

Like he couldn't handle you.

"Talk to me, please," you said again, more desperate this time. Your fingers tapped lightly against his cheek, not harsh, just enough to get his attention, to pull him back to you. You leaned forward until your forehead pressed against his, your eyes closing as your tears kept falling, your grip on his face tightening just a little like you were afraid he'd slip away if you let go. "Just... say something," you whispered, your breath uneven, your whole body tense with the wait.

Maybe he just needed time.

Maybe he wasn't good with words.

Maybe he just needed a push.

But how long were you supposed to wait?

"Talk to me, fuck it!" you suddenly snapped, your voice breaking as it rose, the frustration and hurt finally spilling over. Your hands dropped from his face back to his shoulders, gripping him again, harder this time. You felt him flinch under your touch, his body trembling slightly as he shook his head.

"Sorry... Jake... please," you muttered again, your voice dropping back down, almost pleading now. Your grip loosened without you realizing it, your fingers slipping from his shoulders as something cold settled in your chest. The moment his hands gently moved yours away—careful, hesitant, but firm enough to create distance—it felt like everything just... stopped.

Like the world paused right there.

"I like you too much, is that wrong?" you repeated, but this time it came out emptier. Your arms fell to your sides, your gaze dropping to the floor because you couldn't keep looking at him anymore. "It's pathetic," you let out a weak, humorless breath. "And I'm still here, choosing to be open about it, getting fucking desperate over you." Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as you forced yourself to look up again, your eyes glassy but steady. "Tell me... do I really not mean anything to you?"

You lifted your hand slightly, pointing at his chest, right over his heart.Your throat felt tight, dry, like every word you were about to say had to claw its way out, and still, you forced it. You needed to hear it. Needed him to say it straight instead of hiding behind silence. Needed something solid, even if it fucking hurt.

"S-sorry." He shook his head, not even meeting your eyes, and that alone felt worse than anything he could've said. "I—I... I don't think I feel the same way, that's why I-I feel guilty... on what happen... Sorry." The words stumbled out of him, broken and unsure, but they landed heavy, each one hitting you like a punch you didn't even try to dodge.

You were the one who dropped your head this time, your gaze falling to the floor as your mouth parted slightly, like you were about to say something—but nothing came out. Your ears started ringing loud, drowning out everything else. Everything blurred into this distant, muted noise while your mind tried to catch up, tried to process what the fuck he just said. It didn't make sense. It didn't line up with anything you felt, anything you thought you saw in him. Your chest tightened, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls like your body forgot how to do something as basic as breathing.

"Sorry..." he said again, softer this time, like repeating it would somehow make it better, like it would fix anything. It didn't. It just made your vision blur more, tears spilling out faster than you could stop them, your face heating up with it as you stood there, stuck, unable to move forward or back.

"T-The things you d-did? T-The things w-we did?" Your voice cracked, stuttering over itself as you tried to piece together something that would make this make sense. But it didn't. None of it fucking did. Bullshit. This was bullshit. You were still denying it even as it was being shoved right in your face, because accepting it felt worse than anything else. What was he even saying? That it meant nothing? That you meant nothing? That all of that—every look, every touch—was just... what? A mistake?

"I-I just want to be a g-good roommate b-because I-I can't b-be vocal like a normal person... Uh... I'm sorry—" He kept going, stumbling through his explanation, but it only made your head spin more, your frustration bubbling up underneath the hurt. His words felt disconnected, like excuses that didn't match what actually happened between you.

"We had sex." You cut through it, your voice barely above a whisper, but it hit harder than anything else you said. Your eyes darted anywhere but at him—walls, floor, the stupid edge of the table—like maybe one of them would give you an answer, something to hold onto. But there was nothing. Just that same suffocating silence pressing in around you.

"I-I'm s-sorry, really. P-Please." His foot tapped nervously against the floor, the sound sharp and repetitive, grating against your already fraying nerves.

You shook your head slowly, the motion weak, almost disbelieving, as the plastic bag slipped from your hand without you even noticing. It hit the floor with a soft crumple before spilling open, the Hot Wheels cars tumbling out and scattering across the tiles.

Jake's eyes dropped immediately, widening as he stared at the mess, his chest tightening visibly. But you didn't follow his gaze. You couldn't. Your focus stayed unfixed, your steps already moving backward as your fists clenched and unclenched at your sides, your body didn't know what to do with all the shit building up inside you.

"Sorry." The word left your mouth, not even sounding like it belonged to you. It wasn't clear what you were apologizing for anymore—your feelings, your assumptions, yourself—but it was the only thing you could manage before turning away.

You walked out, leaving everything behind. The hallway felt narrow, too suffocating, like the walls were closing in the longer you stayed there, so you kept moving, one step after another, not even caring where the hell you were going as long as it was away. Your breathing was uneven, chest rising too fast, like you couldn't get enough air no matter how hard you tried.

You sniffled harshly, dragging the back of your hand across your face, smearing tears you couldn't seem to fucking stop. It was frustrating—annoying as hell—because you hated crying like this.

"Stop," you muttered under your breath. "Just fucking stop." But it didn't listen. The tears kept coming, blurring your vision until everything in front of you looked warped and unstable.

By the time you reached the stairwell, your steps had already turned sloppy, careless. You barely held onto the railing, your grip loose, your focus shot. Your eyes stung, your nose clogged, your head pounding with everything you were trying—and failing—to process. You took a step down, then another, too fast, too unsteady—

—and your foot slipped.

"Shit!" The curse tore out of you as your body lurched forward, your balance completely gone. You didn't even have time to catch yourself before you went down hard, your back hitting first, then your shoulder, then your face grazing against the edge of a step. The impact knocked the air out of you, an ugly sound leaving your throat as pain shot through your body.

For a moment, you just stayed there, sprawled awkwardly on the cold concrete, your body stunned. The pain registered slowly—your back aching, your limbs sore, your face throbbing—but none of it hit as hard as what was already twisting inside your chest. It was dull compared to that. Almost nothing.

You pushed yourself up slowly, wincing as your body protested, your hand pressing against the floor for support. Warm liquid dripped down over your lips, and when you touched your nose, your fingers came away stained red. Blood. Of course. You let out a weak, humorless breath, almost a laugh but not quite, your shoulders shaking for all the wrong reasons.

You just... gave up.

You dragged yourself to the side, leaning heavily against the wall, your body curling in on itself like you were trying to make yourself smaller, less visible, less there. Your palm covered your face, but it didn't do shit to muffle the sound that came out of you—a broken, shaky whine that turned into full-on crying before you could stop it. Your chest hurt, your throat burned, your head spun, and everything—everything—felt like too much.

It fucking hurt.

Not just your body, not just the sting on your face or the soreness creeping into your muscles.

You were that lonely, weren't you? A pathetic loser crying in a stairwell because she got rejected. Because she let herself believe something that wasn't even real to begin with.

You let out a shaky breath, your hand tightening against your face as if you could press the thought away. "I told you so," you muttered to yourself. You sounded fucking ridiculous. Delusional, even. Thinking it meant something. Thinking he meant something.

Of course you were the one who initiated it. Of course you were the one who crossed the line first. Sex in college was normal—casual, meaningless, easy to walk away from. People did it all the time!

You fucking hated it. Because you weren't built for that.

In the end, it all lined up, didn't it?

Unlucky with money. Unlucky with sex. Unlucky with love.

You let out a weak, broken laugh that dissolved immediately into another sob, your body curling tighter against the wall as if that would hold you together.

What were the odds?

You were still right where you started.

Alone.

[hoonieful]

Get me a cig and everclear right now

[onriyuview]

sweet

genre: smut, 18+ mdni

wc: 1.9k

summary: yushi’s first time with you means letting you tell him what to do, resulting in the sweetest softest sex with the sweetest softest boyfriend of yours

cw: inexperienced/virgin bf!yushi, established relationship, slight corruption, oral (f receiving), fingering, mentions of kissing and making out, protected pinv sex (wrap it pls), hair pulling (m receiving), sweet/dirty talk, eye contact, pet names (baby, pretty girl)

a/n: requested here and here! i love yushi so much i had to write something self indulgent and sweet for him… sorry this took so long, i wanted it to be perfect °՞(ᗒᗣᗕ;)՞°

your boyfriend yushi isn’t experienced in bed, but he has you to guide him. and lucky for you, he’s always been a fast learner.

you’re the source of a lot of his firsts— his first kiss, his first time dry humping, his first makeout session. he loves experiencing firsts with you, and lucky for him, today’s the day he gets to eat you out and fuck you.

the moment he finally settles between your legs, he thinks he’s dreaming. he’s never seen pussy with his own eyes, let alone this close to his face. just your scent alone sends blood rushing to both his head and his cock.

“you wanna taste me, baby?” you ask, smiling down at him. he nods shyly, his hands planted on your hips as he’s staring up at you from where he’s laying eye-level with your bare heat. “go ahead then.”

he kitten licks at you, unsure of where to place his tongue. he curiously brings a hand up to spread your lips apart, his eyes widening at the sight in front of him.

the first swipe of his flattened tongue on your folds has his eyes shutting, a soft moan escaping his lips at the sweet tang. he’s never tasted anything like you, but he knows he could (and will gladly) get used to it.

he starts moving with more confidence, your reactions and noises egging him on and letting him know he’s doing a good job at pleasuring you. he figures out you like it when he sucks on your clit the most, but you give him a good response when he fucks his tongue in your hole too.

the longer yushi’s between your legs, the more he realizes how responsive and vocal you are. he quickly goes from uncertain of how to touch you to fixated on hitting all the right spots in order to hear your sweet words of praise fall upon his ears.

you feel like you’re floating, your eyes squeezing shut and your head falling back against your pillow with every new sensation your boyfriend gives you.

your hands fly to his hair, tugging gently and bucking your hips up to grind your heat against his face, a whine leaving you when he fucks his tongue into you just right. this only makes him dig his own hips into the mattress, rutting into it to relieve the ache in his cock from being so turned on at every sound you make.

yushi’s mouth is attached to your pussy like a magnet, and he only pulls away to replace his tongue with his thumb at your clit to ask if he’s doing a good job.

“does it feel good? can you tell me what else to do? jus’ wanna make you feel good,” he asks between the kisses he places around your heat, in which you respond with raspy hums and frantic nods to reassure him he’s doing amazing.

“you can put a finger in me, baby,” you mumble to him, one of your hands fisting at the sheets as you bite your lip at the sight of your arousal coating the bottom half of his face.

he’s nodding at your words as he experimentally pushes the tip of his pointer finger in your weeping hole, his eyes focusing in on the way you suck his finger in.

he’s moaning with you as his hips rut down on the bed again, his eyes lifting back up to yours as he more confidently starts to thrust his finger in and out of you.

“add another one f’ me,” you encourage him after a bit, your cheeks getting warmer as you realize he’s getting himself off while eating you out. “and you can suck on my clit at the same ti-” you’re cut off by your own moan as his mouth reattaches itself to your sensitive bud once more, not needing to be told twice.

your boyfriend gets ahead of himself, not caring to stop his ministrations on your hole and your clit, ignoring your cries for him to slow down because all he wanted to do was make you cum so bad.

your orgasm hits you like a truck, the band in your lower belly snapping so hard it has your body writhing and your hands tugging at his hair, your body not knowing if you wanted him to keep going because it felt so good or stop because you were starting to get overstimulated.

he laps up every last drop of your cum so it doesn’t go to waste, only opening his eyes to look at you when you’ve seemingly come down from the high he helped you ride out with more shallow thrusts of his fingers and softer kitten licks at your clit.

“yushi,” you whine, pulling him up to you by his hair. “you did so good for me,” you praise him as a blush makes its way across his cheeks all the way to his ears. “where’d you learn how to do all that? are you sure this was your first time?”

“sorry,” he blushes. “you just tasted so good i couldn’t help it…” he admits meekly, letting you cover his face in soft kisses. you finally notice the weight of his dick against your thigh and you frown at him.

“you wanna fuck me now? is that what you want?” you ask, the sweet tone of your voice contrasting your words, still holding his face in your hands. he nods as best as he can, his big pleading eyes staring down at you as his cheeks flush even brighter than before.

reaching over to your nightstand, he grabs the box of condoms from the drawer. still asking himself if this was a dream, he fumbles around with one of the foil packets, nearly dropping it out of nervousness before finally tearing it open.

he can feel your eyes on him, making him blush in embarrassment, and turns away to give his aching length a few more pumps before rolling the latex on himself.

yushi then fixes his attention back on your still-weeping pussy, using his fingers to spread the mixture of your arousal and his spit around. he carefully inserts his pointer finger, reveling at your reaction— your furrowed brows and the hiss escaping your lips making him bite his own.

“don’t tease,” you pout at him, hands reaching out for him to come toward you.

he slots himself between your legs, grabbing the base of his cock and lining himself up with your hole, disregarding your request of not teasing and running the head of his dick along your folds which makes you buck your hips up toward him and bite your lip in anticipation.

“baby please,” you plead, making him look up at you. his infamous soft smile makes its way to his lips as he looks at your desperate face.

“i got you pretty girl,” he blushes, surprising even himself at his confidence and choice of words before pushing himself into you.

you both moan at the initial feeling of him sinking into your warmth, the stretch of your walls sending your eyes rolling to the back of your head and yushi’s bottom lip between his teeth.

it was better than yushi could even imagine. fingering you in preparation only gave him a taste of what your pussy would feel like wrapped around his cock.

your boyfriend’s eyes flicker between your eyes and where the two of you connect, his jaw slack in awe of how you look sucking him in.

“b-baby,” he stutters out. “feels s’good ohmygod,” blabbering at how impossibly tight you are around him, his head dropping into your neck as he pushes himself further.

your hisses of discomfort turn into moans of pleasure as he finally buries his member fully inside of you, your eyes losing focus at the feeling of being so full of him. he lets out a groan, your warm and snug walls being entirely way too much for him.

“are you okay, baby?” yushi’s asking as he pulls away from your neck, eyes scanning your face and kissing the worried wrinkles of your furrowed brows. “please can i move?” he’s almost whimpering, not entirely sure if he’ll be able to last once he starts thrusting.

“mhm,” you hum, nodding and pulling him into a kiss and moaning into his mouth at the friction of his cock dragging along your walls. your reaction has him picking up the pace, desperate to get more out of you.

your pussy’s sucking him in and it makes his head spin, pulling away from the kiss as heavy pants leave his mouth at the delicious friction against his cock, finally giving his throbbing member some relief.

“how are you so- fuck. s-so tight and warm?” yushi asks shakily in awe, his breath uneven and shallow.

his head dips once more, his mouth latching onto your nipple as he distracts himself from cumming too quickly. this only makes you unconsciously clench around him and he moans, his mouth not daring to leave your skin.

“gonna cum if you keep doing that,” he whines against your nipple.

the stimulation against your tits sends your back arching, pushing them further into his mouth. knowing he was close, your hand moves down to rub at your clit in time with his thrusts.

“yeah? you gonna cum for me baby?” you ask sweetly, encouraging your boyfriend, not wanting to draw out his orgasm for too long because you know how nervous he’s been this whole time.

“mhm,” he whimpers as he releases your nipple from his mouth, his head going back to bury into the crook of your neck, his quick breaths hot against the skin there.

his hips are stuttering and his thrusts have long lost their rhythm at this point, your boyfriend messily grinding against you now.

“yushi,” you breathe out, pulling him up and closer to you with your free hand. his eyes are almost glazed over, the thoughts behind them fuzzy as he continues to clumsily fuck you. “kiss me.”

he complies without hesitation, crashing his lips onto yours sloppily. your teeth are bumping, tongues hastily brushing against one another, moans getting lost in each other’s mouths as you both cum.

yushi’s hips still as he fills the condom, your pulsing walls helping to milk him through his orgasm.

as you both catch your breath, he moves to pull out of you, the loss of contact making you hiss as he groans.

he removes the rubber and ties it, tossing it in the trash before collapsing and putting his full body weight on you, making you complain in the form of a whine.

“you’re all sweaty,” you scrunch your nose at the feeling of warm and sweaty skin-to-skin with your boyfriend, but don’t do anything to stop him.

he pulls his head back slightly, looking at you before kissing your lips softly once, then scatters more kisses all over your face.

he stops abruptly, looking at you with a serious face. your eyes widen in confusion, unsure of what his next words would be.

“you did cum… right?” he asks, raising an eyebrow skeptically and making you giggle.

“yes baby, i did. you did a great job,” you reassure him before reciprocating his kisses, not being able to help the grin that spreads across your face as he sighs in relief, finally meeting you in another sugary sweet kiss.

tags: @rikupid @sminiac @be-my-sunrise ♡

a/n: thank you to my baes @rikupid and @hazyhae for beta reading mwah ily ♡

[hoonieful]

THIS IS SO EFFING CUTE

[boynextdoors]

˖*⋆｡˚𖦹࣪˖ ִֶָ⋆｡°✩ buldakboggeumya

[jaylaxies]

EYES DON’T LIE

PAIRING: brother’s best friend!jay x fem!reader

GENRE/CW: smut, angst, fluff if you squint, porn with plot, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), semi-public sex, car sex, shower sex, oral (fem receiving), fingering, marking, dry humping, slight choking, making out, multiple orgasms, mentions of jealousy, possessiveness, mentions of racing, smoking, drugs, cops. lmk if i missed anything!

WORD COUNT: 26.5k words

SYNOPSIS: You return home after three years of exile only to find your brother’s cocky best friend Jay still acting like he belongs more than you ever did. What starts as pure hatred and endless fighting quickly turns into something dangerously addictive, but the real question is, how long before you stop pretending you want him gone?

A/N: hihi loves <3 happy jay birth omgg <3 all likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated! it keeps me motivated! iloveyou all and happy reading <3

Familiarity was a curse you couldn’t quite grasp.

Being trapped into a series of situations where non-familiar grounds made you feel more at ease than the comfort of your home messed you up more than you’d like to admit, granted, you wanted to label it as the worst experience of your life. Was it because it made you miserable for three years of your life—the life where you were supposed to be enjoying your Uni like a normal young adult? 

Or because your family sent you away with simply one thing in mind—your uncanny behaviour, which only stemmed with neglect they provided you with, so, who was to blame for this?

The answer was clear in their faces, filled with tremendous guilt of not being able to take the right decision. Three years had passed by, and it was time for you to be home. It was faintly surprising when you found your favourite childhood dishes ready on the table—your brother pulling you into a hug that you couldn’t quite accept without feeling awkward. Sunghoon despised what the situation had come down to, but he was ready to give you the time to adjust. 

Your parents were the next to engulf you in a bigger embrace, “we missed you,” your dad mumbled, making you chuckle at the fact that it was indeed too late to say it. 

“Have you not been eating well?” Your mother asked, scanning your face with such delicacy—reminding you of your childhood. 

“I have,” you replied simply, trying to get out of the situation without causing more drama, “I’ll go freshen up first.”

You moved past them swiftly, grabbing your luggage, but your brother was quicker to carry it to your room, oh wow, now everyone wished to be nice to you? You bit the inside of your cheek, walking up to your room, completely missing the presence of another person in the house as he chose to stare at you from the sidelines.  

The place was different now, having undergone a few renovations here and there, but your room remained untouched to maintain the sanctity of it. Nothing had really changed per se, but everything had. Yet, you had the luxury to find humour in it, in privacy at least, because your mouth worked faster than your brain in public. Which is exactly why you took your sweet time to rest in your room, till a solid knock on your door took away that peace. 

You were pissed, reading the well decorated journal you’d somehow managed to keep when you still had the gentle thoughts within you. Now? Not so much. Each turn of the page had you laughing—mourning the person you used to be and what you got roped into, finger caressing every word of that one page which you wanted to rip apart, but also shove it deep into your memory, not wanting to face the consequences of relieving it. 

Regardless, you stood up with a groan, expecting it to be your brother calling you for dinner simply because you had lost the track of your time wrapped up in the blue coloured bubble. You didn’t even realize you had a nasty frown on your face as you managed to open the door with too much force. 

“Welcome back.” 

The scoff that left your mouth was loud, coming across the man, the voice you didn’t wish to hear again. Of course he was here, why were you even surprised when this man was more a part of your family than you were? He fit in perfectly, as if he was the child your parents had wanted all along. 

He leaned against the door with ease, running a hand through his hair, feigning boredom at your reaction of absolute disbelief, the cockiness surrounded him like spikes, reaching close enough to pop that very bubble you’d been resting in, and you hated it, you hated him for taking away everything you’d never gotten a chance to explore. 

Jay stared at you without any shame, as if you’d been the one intruding his me time, making you shake your head, tongue poking your cheek with annoyance bubbling through. It was the same look he had a few years back, when you’d try to act tough in front of him and he’d see straight through it in seconds, and the worst part was that he still looked just as sure of himself now, like three years hadn’t done a thing to shake his confidence in knowing you, if he knew you at all, that is. 

“Your parents must’ve kicked you out of your place, granted you still spend all your time here, like a dog we didn’t ask for,” you crossed your arms, watching him sucking on a lollipop with amusement, as if he knew you’d snap the second you’d see him. 

“You sure about that?” He whispered, stepping in as you stood in your place, not wanting to provide him with the satisfaction of getting to you, “y’know, this dog knows this house better than you do.”

It was to provoke you, yes, but that was enough to make you laugh in his face, unimpressed at the new low he’d sunk to. 

“Yeah, so fucking move, or did you forget how the doors work while I was gone?” You deadpan. 

“No, but I did forget how bad your attitude issues are,” he raised his brows, “thought you’d come back more gentle, dainty even.”

“Aw? Sorry Mr. Park I’m not altering my personality to fit yours, go find someone else to bother.” You provided him with a clipped smile that held no respect whatsoever, not that he deserved it anyway. 

He lets go of the lollipop with a smack, wetting his bottom lip as he stared at you yet again, as if pondering on whether he should push more or just see you break without saying anything, because gosh—you hadn’t changed at all, those years away meant absolutely nothing, if anything, you’d gotten worse with your walls up high, having no space to break in, no, now you talked back freely, effectively pushing him out physically and emotionally.

It was a given that he wasn’t going to move, and you rolled your eyes at the audacity of this man who just happened to be your brother’s best friend. With how close they were, anyone could’ve mistaken them for being boyfriends. When he still didn’t move, didn’t speak, you started pushing the door shut in his face. 

You barely register his arm coming full force to hold the door open, not budging, making you realize that he had indeed changed, that once lanky nerd now stood up straight and strong, veins prominent on his pathetically big arms. You try again, and he laughs, he actually fucking laughs out loud at the poor attempt, vaguely surprised at how you’re not holding back, you genuinely want him gone. 

“Y/N! Jay!” You mom calls out from the kitchen, and your hold falters at how she took your name first—a thing that you did not expect. 

It’s stupid, really, the way your grip loosens like that, like your body reacted before your pride could catch up, and you hate that he notices it, because of course he does, of course his eyes drop for half a second to your hand on the door and then back to your face as he stood right in front of you, stopping the door before it hits you. 

“Fucking leave already,” you muttered, head hurting now as you turned around. 

He chuckled, “what? Gave up already?”

“You can’t be that bored, Jay,” you sighed, “go bother your boyfriend instead.”

Just as you walked outside, you felt his hand wrapping around your wrist, pulling you back against his chest—something you did not expect, a groan leaving your mouth at the impact, barely registering the movement at first, “the fuck?” 

“Are you gonna leave again?” He murmured, breathing against the shell of your ear. 

You thrashed in his hold, “let me go before I call Hoon,” you clenched your jaw, warning him but he found it amusing. 

“C’mon, I mean no harm here, yeah? Just answer my question and you get to go, baby,” he whispered, you could hear the smile in his voice. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” You managed to push him off, chest heaving. 

“Park Jongseong,” he shrugged, and you were annoyed at how he didn’t lose composure no matter what he did. 

“Yeah no fucking shit idiot,” you sneered, “and you have no right to ask me that when you were the damn reason why I had to leave in the first place.”

That was the first time he diverted his gaze, that being enough of a reaction for you cause god, you did hate him and had no intentions of letting him get in your way again. If you could, you’d just slap him off his high horse and watch him fall with nothing but pure satisfaction on your face, and just like him, you wouldn’t feel an ounce of guilt within you. 

“Dinner’s getting cold!” Your mother called again, the clatter of cutlery following, making your head hurt even further. 

Jay cleared his throat first, stepping back as if nothing had just happened, running a hand through his hair, staring at you with the same infuriating ease that got you worked up—not in a good way, never in a good way, and you simply scoffed at the lack of reply, as if he didn’t admit to your accusation by any means. 

But his eyes said it all. 

“After you,” he gestured toward the stairs, jaw tight. 

You stared at him for a second too long, clicking your tongue before brushing past him without another word, making sure to bump into him hard enough he stumbles back, eyes still on your figure heading downstairs, “ah—fuck,” he mumbled under his breath. 

Things weren’t any better at the dining table with Jay sitting right in front of you, grinning at the joke your father made. It was endearing how your family tried to make everything seem okay, but it wasn’t a one day process and they seemed to realize it too.

“There you are,” Sunghoon had said, smiling, standing up slightly as if he might hug you again before thinking better of it, ruffling your hair as if that was any better, earning a punch on his arm for messing up your hair, still happy to have you around finally, initiating small talk. 

“How was the Uni?” You father asked, granted you had stopped contacting them after a while.

“It was busy,” you replied, and technically you weren’t lying, the classes did keep you busy, amongst the other activities you took part in. 

You stiffened the second you felt a feeling creep up your leg, a slow brush against your ankle. It happened again, more deliberate this time, his shoe nudging lightly against your calf before retreating as though he were gauging your reaction. You kept your expression blank, lifting your glass calmly, eyes fixed ahead at the man who made your blood boil. 

Across from you, Jay looked perfectly composed, nodding at something your father had said, offering a quiet laugh to humour everyone. If anyone looked at him, they would see nothing unusual, of course, they trusted him too much anyway. 

“Don’t,” you mouthed, jerking your chin forward to the food so that he focused on eating. 

His grin widened, and you swore you were one touch away from kicking him, which surprise surprise, is exactly what you did when his leg started trailing up, and you fucking hated how a shiver went up your spine at that measly touch, a choked laugh leaving your mouth as he grimaced.

Sunghoon paused mid sentence at the sound that slipped out of you, brows lifting. “What?”

You cleared your throat quickly, lifting your glass to drink some juice, “nothing.”

Jay had already withdrawn his leg, adjusting in his seat as if nothing had happened, glaring at you right after and didn’t bother sparing him a glance.

“How were your grades?” Your father asked.

“Good,” you replied, even though they had seen your grades already. 

“We’re proud of you,” your mother said softly.

The words sat strangely in your chest. You nodded once, not trusting yourself to elaborate further, and fuck, why were you so emotional today? All over the place and it was just your first day back.

Under the table, Jay’s foot nudged yours again, not teasing this time, just a brief press before he pulled away. You looked up sharply, but he was already listening to Sunghoon, expression composed, as though he hadn’t done anything at all, asshole. 

You set your fork down soon after, “I’m tired.”

“You barely ate,” your mother frowned.

“I’m fine, mum, the food was amazing, thank you.”

You stood before anyone could insist otherwise. Sunghoon looked like he wanted to follow, but he stayed seated when you shook your head lightly. As you stepped into the hallway, you heard the scrape of a chair a moment later.

Jay’s voice came quietly from behind you, “that kick hurt y’know?”

You didn’t turn around, “you should’ve learned by now.”

After getting no reply, you started walking again, ready to sleep, mull over your day and frost into dreamland, shaking Jay’s scent off your mind and body, but he didn’t want that. 

“Stay,” he said finally, softer than before, “at least this time.”

Your fingers tightened around the railing as you climbed the stairs, eyes closing at the tone, “that depends on me, not you,” you replied without looking back.

And you left him standing there, jaw clenched at how ignorant and distant you’d been, and he knew that he deserved it. 

Two days had went by and you were frustrated being confined in your room, it was your own decision yes, however it was better than going down and interacting with the man who had forgotten he had his own home to go back to. It did get better when your mother had come up to check up on you—and fuck, you missed being taken care of, missed being the daughter who was loved unconditionally each passing day. 

However, Jay was adamant about bothering you, the lunch being full of him reminiscing about the old days, to the point he made your father bring out old albums just so he could see how you were as a kid. It was odd how he smiled at a certain picture of you and Sunghoon playing in the tent house you owned, but you knew better to mistake it for fondness, he was too good at acting anyway. 

He was simply there to bother you. 

Sunghoon was leaving for a competition, and you did your best to wish him luck, the happiness clear on his face at the statement. 

Which brings you back to now—the dinner was done, and Jay had left somewhere, thank fucking god. But now, you were bored. It was that familiar itch you had, your fingers tightening around your phone as you scrolled through your contacts that you’d never bothered to delete all this while. It was valid, right? To let loose every few days, to meet up with old friends. 

Nipping at your bottom lip, you pulled up the chat, not expecting the reply to come as fast as it did. 

You: alive?  Jake: who’s this

You rolled your eyes, as if this man would ever delete your number. 

You: you’re so fucking annoying jake Jake: that’s what you get for leaving me  You: so dramatic, i’m back Jake: as in, back in the town? You: yes obvi Jake: yeah? and you didn’t bother telling me?

You could picture it clearly, him smirking at the phone, leaning back with a chuckle. It was easier for you to smile at it too. 

You: now i did Jake: where are you? be ready in ten  You: home, be quick 

So, you were actually doing it again, and you didn’t care, a smirk pulling at your lips, grabbing your leather jacket as you changed into something that fit your image better, applying a layer of makeup, knowing it would Jake fifteen minutes to reach, having done it before, way too many times that your body remembered the thrill of it all. Without bothering to turn on the lights, you slipped outside into the cold air, thankful for the absence of Jay who usually sat around the living room at this hour. 

The low rumble of  a bike cut through the quiet before you even saw the headlights, that familiar sound rolling down the street, Jake slowed near the curb, one foot dropping to the ground as he pushed his visor up, eyes landing on you without surprise, and you knew he sported that lazy smile under the helmet. 

He let out a short breath through his nose, “so it’s true, you’re back.”

“Unfortunately,” you replied, stepping closer, “you came quick.”

His gaze dropped briefly to your jacket, your makeup, then back to your face, something unreadable flickering there before he handed you the spare helmet, which you wore without thinking twice. 

“I was nearby,” he answered, which was an absolute lie and both of you knew it.

You climbed on behind him without another word, hands settling at his waist as he pulled away from the curb, the ride swallowed conversation whole, wind cutting through the quiet yet familiar streets slipping into darker roads until the city was distant. And god you smiled, living in the present and radiating happiness that even Jake could feel. 

He slowed near the warehouse, parking off to the side where the line of cars broke unevenly along the road. The building looked dead from the outside, but the bass leaked through the walls, the ground faintly trembling under your boots when you stepped off, going inside while he stayed close, watching you take a drink from someone without even asking what it was.

A lot of people were pleasantly surprised seeing you back, pulling you into hugs, inquiring about the shit that went down. 

“You haven’t changed,” he murmured, and you shook your head, taking a big sip to feel that warmth around your throat.

“Neither have you,” you replied, though you didn’t look back when you said it, because you found something far more interesting barely hidden behind all those intoxicated bodies. 

Of fucking course—the man you’d been trying to escape was already here, a hypocrite through and through. He gave you so much shit for surrounding yourself with this crowd as if he wasn’t still an active part of it too. To no one’s surprise, he was staring at you, a scoff leaving your mouth as you focused back on Jake. 

“Will he ever leave you alone? He even joined racing because of you back then.” He asked, leaning in. 

“I fucking hope he does. I swear, out of all places, he just had to be here? Two minutes and he’s gonna come pick a fight with you,” you sighed. 

“Two minutes? He’s already walking over,” Jake smirked, straightening his jacket at the new arrival, and god you did feel the warmth of him approaching, standing right beside you. 

“You didn’t even last a week,” Jay said smoothly, and you gripped the glass tighter, biting the inside of your cheek. Who was he to even keep tabs on you? 

“Yeah, so? Gonna go and snitch again?” You turned to look at him, taking another sip of the awfully strong drink. 

He chuckled but there was no humour behind it, “you’re coming home with me,” he muttered under his breath. 

“Says who?” You asked, incredulous at his ability to never shut up, especially when he made decisions for you as if he had any right to do so. 

Jay didn’t answer immediately, which was rare for him, his gaze lingering on your face like he was trying to find something familiar there and coming up short every time, because as familiar as the setting was, you had changed. The music boomed around you, people brushing past without noticing the tension sitting between the three of you.

“You don’t belong here,” he said quietly, sighing finally in hopes that you’ll listen for once. 

You let out a dry laugh, tilting your head slightly as you looked at him. “And you do?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“That’s exactly what you meant, that’s how you’ve always been.”

Jake shifted beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours, presence warm as always, him being someone you could truly trust. You didn’t miss the way Jay noticed it, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the brief flicker in his eyes that disappeared almost instantly, well, this was the only place where he lost composure. 

“She’s not going anywhere,” Jake said lightly, just stating it with a shrug. 

Jay finally looked at him properly then, “I wasn’t talking to you,” he replied.

Jake gave him yet another shrug with an amused smile, unfazed by his hostility, and you could feel the irritation building in Jay in quiet layers. He exhaled slowly through his nose, attention returning to you. 

“You’ll regret this,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear it.

You smiled without warmth, “then I’ll deal with it, not you.”

That seemed to be the point where something in him gave up trying to reason, his expression settling back into something distant in a way that felt worse than anger. He held your gaze for one last second before stepping back, making it clear he was done trying, watching Jake’s arm on your waist as his tongue poked his cheek, walking away. 

He wasn’t even putting up a fight, and somehow managed to sour your mood further, but you let Jake take over and dance with you, taking your mind off of the man who had left a few minutes back. Time moved strangely after it, and you weren’t sure how long you’d been there, catching up with your friend, but you realized it was late when you took another puff of the joint you and Jake shared, only to hear sirens blazing outside. 

“Oh fuck,” you muttered. 

Someone had warned the police, making people surge towards the exit without much care about shoving each other. Jake’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, “come on,” he nodded, and you just followed him, but it was useless with how everyone had jammed the exit. 

A hand shoved into your shoulder from behind and you stumbled forward, catching yourself against Jake’s arm, the movement twisting your ankle at a strange angle when you tried to steady your weight. Pain shot up fast and sharp, stealing your breath. 

Jake felt you tense up immediately. “Hey.”

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, but your step faltered again when he tried to move you forward. You were, in fact, not fine by any means. 

Which is why you found yourself at the police station alongside Jake, who’d refused to leave you behind. It was rather funny if you took your mind off what would happen if your family came to know about this ordeal. You’d chosen to call Sunghoon despite knowing he wasn’t in the city, and it did not end well—not because he was angry, but he was scared, and that was worse. 

You ended the call before he could ask anything else, before the concern in his voice could turn into questions you didn’t want to answer, especially when he knew exactly what was going on, staring at the dark screen for a moment longer than necessary. 

“He’s worried, y’know? I’m not close with him, but he did shut everyone out after you left,” Jake broke the silence as you both curled up in the corner of the cell. 

“Didn’t bother reaching out regardless, I was waiting,” you chuckled, and Jake pulled you into a half hug with a dull ache in your ankle, talking about everything and he was probably the only person you could truly confide in. 

Which is why you didn’t notice someone staring at you with the intensity that could burn holes. He looked disappointed, especially with how you had a smile on your face even after this—especially curling up around Jake as if you were sitting on your bed and not in the police station. He knew this would happen. 

You only noticed Jay when Jake’s voice faltered mid-sentence, eyes on him now, jaw clenching as to build the walls around you yet again. He simply waited for the officer to open the door. 

“Here he comes playing your knight in shining armour again,” Jake mumbled, pulling you closer under his gaze. 

“I’m fucking screwed, he’s gonna tell everyone,” you sighed, body heating up as you remembered how it went the last time. 

“Not this time, trust me,” Jake muttered into your ear.

The officer was quick to tell how Jay had been gracious enough to bail out you and Jake? You stood carefully, the pressure on your ankle sending a sharp protest upward before dulling into something manageable. Jake’s hand hovered at your back for balance, but Jay was already there, fingers closing lightly around your forearm firmly, preventing the stumble you would never admit might happen.

“Weight off it,” he said quietly, making Jake roll his eyes and honestly, you didn’t have it in you to argue any further, signing the paperwork without much chatter, stepping outside finally which had you realizing just how suffocating it was to be inside. 

“Get home yourself,” Jay nodded towards Jake, grabbing your hand, pulling you towards his car. 

“For fucks sake, she’s hurt,” Jake groaned, having had enough of this attitude, taking you to the car instead, “be careful.” 

This couldn’t be happening at four in the morning, you didn’t wish to think about it, and you certainly didn’t wish to see the look on Jay’s face, who only opened the door and waited, eyes lowering down to your ankle which seemed to be swollen—and he cussed cause fuck he shouldn’t have left you alone. What would Sunghoon say? 

“Text me, okay?” Jake asked and you nodded, squeezing his hand and thanking him. 

You chose to look out the window, “Hoon called you then?” You asked, a few minutes after he started driving, nearing home. 

“Yeah,” he replied, eyes on the road. 

It was clear he didn’t wish to speak further, and you shook your head, “you didn’t have to come anyway,” you seethed out.

“You’re unbelievable—getting into trouble and what do I get? Not even a thank you?” 

“Oh i’m sorry, you wanna be thanked? I didn’t ask you to come here, Jay,” you replied, nails digging into your palm. 

“Well, I still fucking did.” He was frustrated, steering the car into the parking, stopping now, staring at you, “I always will.”

“What—” 

He got out before you could even ask what he meant by it. Well, that was intense, your eyes closing as you leaned against the seat. The door on his side shut harder than necessary, the sound echoing through the quiet street, and you stayed exactly where you were, fingers still curled against your palm. He came around to your side a moment later, opening the door. 

“I can get myself out,” you muttered, shifting forward. 

“Yeah, whatever,” he replied, stepping closer when you limped, and it was humiliating the way his warm arm closed around you, “stop fighting everything.” 

“I’m not—” 

You were braced up against the car for the second before Jay decided that he’d had enough, he was tired. His arm slid behind your back, and under your knees in one swift movement that left you breathless more from shock than anything else. He lifted you like it was nothing, walking ahead. 

“Put me down,” you snapped immediately, fingers gripping the front of his jacket with a fear of falling down. 

“Walk then,” he said flatly, not slowing.

“You’re so—” you cut yourself off, jaw tightening, because struggling would only make you look worse and you already hated the position you were in. His hold was firm, and fuck, it was so annoyingly careful, and you could feel the tension in him, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he refused to look at you as he carried you up the steps.

The front door opened with a quiet click and he stepped inside, nudging it shut behind him with his foot. The house was dark and silent, your parents were asleep. He didn’t really speak as he carried you through the hallway, and you just hoped he didn’t feel how your heart was beating out of your chest. 

He didn’t slow down until he reached your door, shoulder nudging it open because his hands were still holding you, and the quiet inside your room felt too normal for how loud your pulse still was. He lowered you onto the edge of the bed without a word. 

The second your balance settled, he stepped back enough to put space between you and whatever had passed in the car earlier.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, fingers braced against the mattress, ankle throbbing and you wondered how it all went so fucking wrong. His attention dropped straight to your feet, to the heels still strapped on despite the pain. 

You moved first, reaching down when you saw him doing it, you have had enough for the night, “I can take them off.”

His hand closed lightly around your wrist before you could touch the buckle, “don’t,” he said quietly. 

You stared at him for a second, irritation flaring again but you didn’t pull away, watching how different he looked with shorter hair, jawline sharper now. He crouched in front of you, fingers moving to the strap, undoing it as his fingers caressed the skin over the swell gently, a focused pout on his face which looked cute, juxtaposing the feeling within him—and gosh you could never call him that to his face. The clasp clicked open finally, and he slid the heels off slowly, one at a time, setting them aside near the wall instead of dropping them where he was.

It was such a small, stupid detail and it made your throat feel tight for no reason you wanted to examine.

“Happy?” You muttered, leaning back slightly, watching him instead of the ceiling.

“No,” he replied, already standing again, turning and leaving because he knew if he stayed a second longer, he’d overstep the boundaries. 

You took in a deep breath once he was gone, “he’s crazy,” you mumbled to yourself, “crazy, crazy, crazy.” 

For a moment you just breathed and wondered why he was always around, why didn’t he let you forget about his existence, why did he have to be so awful about his presence, and act so fucking nice when you were vulnerable, actions never matching his words. You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring at nothing until the door opened again, softer this time, like he was making sure not to wake anyone.

He didn’t turn the light on. The faint spill of dim lights from the hallway followed him in, enough to see the towel in his hand, already damp around the edges where the ice pressed through the fabric. You pushed yourself upright a little before he even said anything, because of course he would come back, because of course he wouldn’t just leave it alone.

He set the ice on the bedside table first, then looked at you properly for the first time since the car, “move,” he said quietly.

“Jay, why are you doing this?” You asked, shifting your leg toward him without arguing this time, too tired to fight something that would happen anyway. His hand slid under your ankle just long enough to lift it, settling the cold against the swelling with careful pressure. The chill made you inhale sharply.

He didn’t comment on it, or on the question you asked, he just adjusted the towel once, making sure it stayed in place before letting go.

“You didn’t have to come back,” you said after a moment, voice lower now. 

“I know.”

You almost laughed, because he kept saying that like it explained anything, typical Jay—him and his two word replies.

He stayed where he was for a few seconds longer than necessary, caressing the softness of your skin, then straightened, hands falling uselessly at his sides before he shoved them into his pockets like he needed somewhere to put them to ground himself, because whatever was happening felt way too serious, too intimate. 

“You should sleep,” he said.

“You should go home,” you replied automatically.

His jaw shifted slightly, like he almost said something else, then decided against it, “yeah,” he said finally.

He moved to the door, paused with his hand resting against the frame, and for a second you thought he might turn around, might finish whatever sentence he’d left hanging downstairs, but just as usual, he didn’t. 

“Jay,” you called out before you could stop yourself, making him stop and turn around, “will you tell my—my parents?”

He chuckled, cause why did he even bother to expect you saying any other thing, “I won’t.”

“Thank you,” you replied, looking elsewhere, “for everything, for the night.”

Turns out, you still could surprise him with nice words. 

You missed the way the corner of his lip twitched before he nodded, leaving yet again. The hallway light disappeared when he closed the door behind him, leaving only the faint cold against your ankle and the quiet hum of the house settling back into place.

You lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling again, body finally heavy enough to believe the night was over. The space he’d left behind didn’t feel empty, yet it was unfinished in a way that indicated how it wasn’t the end, just the start. 

You woke up to a very concerned Sunghoon, barely realizing it was nearing evening and you’d so easily slept through the day. What you didn’t expect was to see Sunghoon rushing back home, nearly in tears at the thought of you being in trouble. 

“Are you okay? Hurt anywhere? Fuck—”

“Sunghoon—I’m okay,” you gulped, sitting up straight, gasping when he pulled you into a warm hug. 

“I’m sorry, won’t leave you alone again,” Sunghoon mumbled, all his brotherly instincts coming back. 

He remembered that day when he was seven and you’d thrown a tantrum, wanting to visit the park and feed the ducks. He had taken the responsibility to take you out without informing your parents about it, and he felt the most guilty little kid alive when you fell down and scraped your knee—he was scared. It didn’t compare to the day when your parents found out about your drug usage and illegal racings, even though he was just as clueless, he hated himself for not convincing your parents enough to let you stay. 

He called you each day for the first month, but once he started with his own uni lectures, it was hard to do so—and when he tried again, you’d given up, feeling abandoned. 

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, clearly regretting a lot. 

Your bottom lip quivered, and at that point, it was you coddling Sunghoon as he went on describing how much he’d tried to stop your parents, how he missed his sister, each word making your chest tighten with sadness. That conversation was really important, especially with Sunghoon practically begging for forgiveness and you accepting his apology, trying to turn a new leaf. However, him saying he wouldn’t let you go out alone made you groan before you both started chuckling. 

Jay watched it all happen, the door being slightly ajar, smiling without even processing any bit of it. This was the second time he’d seen you truly smile after coming back, he didn’t like that the first one was with Jake of all people. Jay rushed to leave the second he saw Sunghoon standing up, almost tripping in the process, but he somehow managed. 

It was easier to lie to the family after having Sunghoon onboard with you, as he’d promised to not tell anyone. Your excuse? You tripped in the bathroom. As horrendous it sounds, it was plausible, and well, you got extra chicken nuggets for dinner! Alongside the absence of Jay, who had apparently gone back home to get some work done, which is why the house was more silent than you’d like to admit. 

The extra nuggets didn’t do much cause by the time the house settled, the ache in your leg had deepened into a heavy pressure that made sleep feel irritating. You tried to sleep an hour before giving up, and gosh—even standing up took effort because of your ankle. You waited until the dizziness passed, then eased your weight onto your good leg and moved toward the door, keeping one hand along the wall for balance.

The hallway was dark, the kitchen darker. You were a few steps from the counter when your foot slid slightly on the tile, just enough for your balance to be tipped forward, and you could barely make out what to reach out for in the darkness.

Then a warm hand caught your arm, another steadying your waist, holding you steady, and a bit too close for your liking—making you yelp in surprise. 

“Shh, calm the fuck down,” Jay muttered as you breathed hard, pushing him off of you, which did not work out. 

“The fuck are you doing here? Mum said you went back home,” you huffed.

“Plans change,” he hummed, the vibration of his chest rumbling against your side because god, he was still holding you that close. He didn’t even sound apologetic, just bored as usual, “and lucky for you I did, or you’d be face-planting into the linoleum right now.”

You tried to wrench your arm out of his grip, but his fingers only tightened—reminding you of that irritating strength he’d developed while you were gone. “I didn’t ask for your help. I was fine.” 

“Sure. So you asked your mum where I went?” He smirked, catching on to what you’d mentioned. 

“Oh fuck no, they just told me without having to ask,” you muttered, lying because, you did in fact as them about it. You started moving, trying to get out of his grip.  

“Stop squirming, Y/N. You’re going to hurt yourself more, and I’m not explaining to Sunghoon why his sister is crying on the floor at three in the morning.”

“I’m not crying,” you hissed, though the throb in your ankle was making your eyes water. You pushed at his chest again, palms flat against the hard muscle that shouldn't have felt so warm through his shirt. “Let go, Jay. Seriously.”

“Fine.”

He didn’t step back. Instead, his hands slid from your waist to your hips, and before you could even process the indignity of it, he hoisted you up. You gasped, hands instinctively clutching his shoulders for purchase as he made you sit on the kitchen counter with effortless ease.

“You’re such a dick,” you whispered, though the bite was lacking because your heart was hammering against your ribs—from the scare, you told yourself. Definitely just the scare.

“And you’re welcome,” he countered smoothly, stepping into the space between your knees before you could close them. It was a rather possessive move, trapping you against the granite. He leaned in, one hand resting on the counter beside your thigh, trapping you in. “Now, are you down here for water, or were you planning to escape again?”

You couldn’t see him, but your eyes had adjusted enough to gather his silhouette, the sharpness of his jawline. He smelled like mint and that faint, expensive tobacco scent he seemed to carry now, intoxicating in the small space.

Without having to answer, Jay gathered that you were hungry when he heard that small rumble from your stomach, and he found it funny when you moved in embarrassment, but he didn’t let you move. 

“Classy,” he murmured, his thumb grazing the side of your hip, a ghost of a touch, “I take it the dinner wasn’t enough.”

“Shut up,” you hissed, face burning. You tried to shove at his chest again, but it was like pushing a brick wall, “I swear I’ll scream and Sunghoon will kill you if he sees us like this.”

“Like what? Like you’re enjoying spending time with his best friend?” The words were a whisper, dangerously close to your ear, sending a shiver down your spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold kitchen tiles. He didn’t wait for you to answer—didn’t give you the satisfaction of stuttering out a denial. Instead, he finally pulled back, the loss of his body heat leaving you feeling strangely exposed in the dark.

Jay had already grabbed two packs of ramen, and you wondered just how well versed he was with the kitchen to be doing all this in darkness. 

“I’m going back to bed.”

“Try it,” he challenged, not even looking at you. “You hop one step on that ankle and I’ll tie you to the counter. Don’t test me, Y/N. I’m fucking tired.”

You stayed put, seething, watching the way his shirt pulled taut across his shoulders as he cracked an egg into the boiling water with one hand. It was annoying how competent he was. How very steady.

A few minutes later, he was done. He didn’t bother with bowls. He grabbed the pot handle and two pairs of chopsticks, balancing a water bottle under his arm, leaving you in the dark, asking you to stay put as he went upstairs to keep the food in—your room?

“We’re moving,” he stated, walking back toward you now. 

“I can eat here. It’s a fucking kitchen.”

“And your parents’ bedroom is directly above us. Unless you want to explain why we’re having a midnight feast together, we’re going to your room.” He said, stepping into your personal space again. 

“I can walk,” you insisted, sliding your good leg off the counter, “I don’t need you to—”

“You can limp,” he corrected, cutting you off. “And I’m not waiting for you to drag yourself down the hallway.”

Before you could even plant your feet, he moved. One arm hooked behind your knees, the other around your waist, and he swept you up against his chest like you weighed absolutely nothing. You gasped, hands instinctively clutching his shirt, your face buried in the crook of his neck. That scent flooded your senses, and you hated it, hated him.

“Put me down, you jerk,” you whispered harshly, though you didn’t struggle. You couldn’t when his grip was practically iron. 

“Shut up,” he grunted, kicking the kitchen door open. He carried you down the dark hallway with ease, he went straight to your room, maneuvering you through the door before kicking it shut with his heel.

The way he dropped you on the bed was gentle, keeping in mind your bruised ankle, grabbing the pot he kept on the table.

“Eat,” he ordered, placing the steaming pot on a magazine in the center of your duvet.

“I’m not eating out of the pot with you,” you glared, though the spicy steam was making your mouth water.

“Suit yourself.” Jay climbed onto the bed opposite you, sitting cross-legged. He claimed his side of the mattress with an arrogance that made your blood boil, his knee knocking against yours, he didn’t pull back.

He took a bite, chewing slowly, eyes locked on yours. “More for me.” He shrugged. 

Your stomach growled again, louder this time. Jay smirked around his chopsticks, and gosh, was it embarrassing. 

“Fine,” you snapped, snatching the other pair from the tray. You leaned in, fighting for space over the small pot. “Move your big head.”

“Watch your elbows,” he muttered, but he shifted slightly, just enough to let you in.

“You’re hogging the egg,” you accused, eyeing the single poached egg floating in the chili oil. You reached for it, Jay’s chopsticks clattered against yours instantly.

“I cooked, I eat,” he murmured, not even looking up.

“I’m the injured party here—I need protein for healing!” You shoved his hand aside, or tried to, leaning in further, “give it up, Jay.”

“Make me,” he challenged, his voice dropping an octave, slipping from annoyed to amused.

You huffed, abandoning strategy for speed, and lunged. You managed to snag the yolk, but before you could pull back, Jay’s hand shot out. He didn’t grab the chopsticks—he grabbed your wrist.

The contact was electric. His fingers wrapped around your pulse point, halting you mid-air. The sudden stop made you gasp, and you looked up, ready to snap at him—but the words died in your throat. He wasn't looking at the food, he was looking at you. He had leaned in to block you, and now his face was terrifyingly close, eyes dark, dilated in the dim light, tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. The playful arrogance was gone, replaced by that heavy, suffocating intensity that gave you goosebumps.

“You are,” he whispered, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of your inner wrist, “such a brat.”

“And you’re a fucking bully,” you breathed back, but you didn’t pull your hand away. Your heart was thudding so hard against your ribs you were sure he could hear it in the silence.

Jay’s gaze dropped to your lips, the air between you thickened, charged with three years of resentment and something else you couldn’t quite name. He leaned forward, just a fraction of an inch, and your breath hitched.

“Jay,” you exhaled, a warning or an invitation? You weren’t sure which at this point. 

He tilted his head, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second as if he was fighting for control, or maybe losing it. His face was so close now that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against the corner of your mouth, his voice rough, “tell me to get out.”

You stared at him, lips parted, your brain screaming at you to push him away, to dump the noodles on his lap, to do something. But your body was frozen, leaning into his gravity. You stayed silent as his lips brushed against yours, just barely, but enough to make you gasp, the silence only making it worse. 

Just then, the sudden vibration of your phone against your thigh brought you back to reality, as you both froze, especially Jay who stared at the lit up screen displaying Jake’s name, making him pull back in annoyance. He didn’t say a word as he slid off the bed, standing up and smoothing his shirt down with a jerky motion, his face twisting into that cold, unreadable mask you hated.

“Jay, wait—”

“Answer it,” he cut you off, his voice flat. He didn’t look at you. He was already retreating, putting distance between you like the last five minutes hadn’t happened, “don’t let me keep you.”

You blinked, the whiplash of his mood making your head spin. You grabbed the phone just to stop the buzzing, silencing it, but your eyes were glued to his back. He stopped at the door, one hand gripping the frame, knuckles white.

A sudden, stupid urge to provoke him bubbled up—maybe to get a reaction.

“You know,” you started, forcing a breathless laugh as you leaned back against the headboard, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re jealous.”

You waited for the retort, the scoff, the keep dreaming, princess.

But Jay didn’t say anything. He didn’t even turn around, just stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind him with a soft, final click, leaving you alone in the dark with a silenced phone and a heart that was beating way too fast.

The door clicked shut behind Jay, yet he didn’t have it in him to walk away just yet. His hand hovered over the cold brass handle, knuckles white, as he stood frozen in the hallway, listening to the silence on the other side. He half-expected—maybe half-hoped—that you would chase after him, fling the door open, and yell something bratty that would give him an excuse to turn around and finish what he started.

But of course, you didn’t. 

Instead, he heard the faint thud of your phone hitting the mattress, followed by a heavy, frustrated sigh. Jake.

The name twisted in his gut like a knife, and it was ugly. It wasn’t jealousy—he told himself, forcing his feet to move, forcing his breath to even out. He wasn’t jealous of a guy who looked like he peaked in high school. It was just annoyance. By the time he reached his own room (well, guest room), slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame, he had convinced himself that the heat pooling low in his stomach was nothing but anger. You were a problem to be managed, not a temptation to be indulged, and gosh, he was done slipping.

It was when you entered the kitchen the next morning, things began to get worse. Jay didn’t even look at you, didn’t pass a snarky comment, nor did he bother bringing up what had almost happened last night. In fact, Jay didn’t even look up from his coffee. Apparently he thought silent treatment would help, and boy did he stretch it—for four whole days. 

He became a ghost in your own fucking house. If you walked into a room, he walked out. When your mother asked him to help you change the ice pack because you were struggling to balance, he did it without a word. He knelt at your feet, his hands warm and efficient on your skin, but he stared at the wall the entire time. He didn’t tease you about your swollen foot. He didn’t thumb the sensitive skin of your arch like he had in your bedroom. He simply acted like he was doing his job, which he didn’t even need to do actually. 

It effectively drove you insane. 

You tried to provoke him. You played music too loud, you wore the short shorts he hated, you even talked loudly on the phone to Jake in the living room, laughing at jokes that werent exactly funny, just to see if his jaw would tick.

Jay just turned the volume up on the TV, his expression bored, completely unmoved, so unbothered. 

He was denying you the one thing you craved more than his kindness—his attention. He was starving you out, weaponizing his indifference to put you back in your place, and the worst part was, it was working. The silence made the memory of his breath on your lips feel like a hallucination, making you question if he had ever looked at you with anything other than annoyance.

By the fifth night, the itch under your skin was unbearable. Your ankle could finally hold weight. The swelling was gone, leaving only a stiff ache when you turned too fast, but you were done being the invalid, and you were absolutely done being ignored.

If Jay wanted to pretend you were invisible after the shit he pulled then you were going to make sure you were the only thing he could see, ditching the sweatpants for a pair of shorts and a cute tank top, just casual enough for dinner. The roasted chicken smelled amazing for sure, the light conversation going on as Sunghoon urged you to sit next to him. 

And then there was Jay, looking infuriatingly at ease with his hair styled back, specs on, clad in a black button up with sleeves rolled up for the Uni presentation he had for some module earlier today. He didn’t bother looking up when you entered—of fucking course. 

“Finally,” your mother smiled, gesturing to the empty chair across from Jay. “We were waiting for you. Leg feeling better?”

“Much better,” you said, your voice clear and bright. You pulled the chair out—the wood scraping loudly against the floorboards, a jarring sound that made Sunghoon wince—and sat down, “I think I’m fully healed, actually.”

Jay’s gaze remained fixed on the water jug in the center of the table. He reached out and poured himself a glass.

“That’s great news,” your father beamed, passing you a plate.

“It means I can finally go out again,” you replied, locking your eyes on Jay’s profile. “Catch up on everything I missed.”

Jay took a sip of his water, not reacting as he placed the glass down with a soft clink and turned to your mother. “The chicken tastes excellent, Mrs. Park.”

Oh the fucking audacity.

You stabbed a piece of potato with your fork. He was really going to do this? He was really going to sit three feet away from you, in your house, eating your food, and act like you were a ghost? Two could play a game. And you remembered exactly how he played it. 

You pressed your toes against the side of his calf, just above his sock line, making him freeze mid bite, jaw tightening but you didn’t stop, dragging your foot up slowly, mimicking the exact move he had pulled on you the night you returned. 

“So, Jay,” you said, your voice dripping with innocent sweetness, “You’ve been quite busy working on the presentation, how’d it go?” 

Jay set his fork down, clearing his throat, reaching for his water again, but his eyes stayed glued to your father, “uh—yeah. It went pretty well.” 

You hummed, nodding as you pressed harder, digging your arch into the muscle of his calf. He flinched—a tiny jerk of his leg that rattled the table.  

“Everything okay, Jay?” Sunghoon asked, mouth full of potatoes.  

“Fine,” Jay gritted out, his voice tight. 

You almost laughed, letting your foot slide higher, hooking your toes behind his knee. Jay choked on his water. He coughed, slamming the glass down a little too hard, water sloshing over the rim. Your mother looked concerned, reaching over to pat his back, but Jay waved her off, his face flushing and god it was amusing. 

He shot a glare across the table—finally. It was brief and filled with a warning that made you shiver. Stop it.

You smiled back, taking a calm sip of your juice. Make me.

He tried to shift his leg away, but the table legs boxed him in. He tried to trap your foot between his ankles, clamping down hard, but you were quicker. You slipped free, grazing the inside of his thigh—dangerously high—before retreating to his shin. His composure was cracking. You could see the strain in his shoulders, the way his knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table.

He stood up abruptly, “I’m done,” he mumbled, “I forgot I have a deadline for an assignment.”

Everyone sat there all confused, especially Sunghoon with a comical expression on his face, “what is his problem?” He asked. 

“I’ll go check on him,” you rolled your eyes, knowing that Sunghoon won’t get up mid dinner, he liked food way too much to abandon it midway. 

You followed him upstairs, knowing he’d be in the guest bathroom, opening the door without knocking. Jay was standing at the sink, gripping the marble edge so hard the veins on his pathetically big arms popped out. His head was hung low, shoulders bunched, his breathing heavy and ragged in the small, tiled space.

“That was a fast exit, Jongseong,” you smirked, leaning against the doorframe before closing the door behind you with a small click. 

Jay looked at you, his bored, indifferent mask now gone, replaced with this dark look you knew so well. He took two long strides, invading your space until your back hit the cold tiles of the wall. 

“You think you’re so brave when there’s a tablecloth to hide behind, huh?” He hissed, his voice dropping, sending a shiver straight up your spine. He slammed his hand against the wall next to your head, trapping you, “you spent all of dinner trying to get a rise out of me. Well, here I am. What now, Y/N?”

“Was just asking about your presentation,” you shrugged even though your heart was hammering against your ribs, “or were you too distracted by my foot to remember that?” 

Jay let out a dry, humorless laugh, his face inches from yours, “ah—you want to play games, baby? Fine. But you’re all talk, y’know?”

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his thumb grazing your chin to tilt your face up harshly. “Touch me right now. No table, no parents, no Sunghoon to distract you. Prove you aren’t just a brat looking for something you can’t even handle.”

He expected you to chicken out, but instead, you reached out—hand flattening against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his black button-up. You could feel the frantic rhythm of his heart beneath your palm—matching yours beat for beat. You didn’t stop there, sliding your hand upward, your thumb brushing over his pulse point at the base of his throat before gripping the back of his neck, pulling him down just that extra inch. 

“I’m not scared, Jay,” you whispered against his lips, and for a second you even forgot what was the purpose behind this, just what exactly did you wish to achieve here? But that didn’t stop you, “are you?”

“You have no fucking idea,” he rasped out, voice breaking as he leaned his forehead against yours, “how much I wanna ruin you right now.”

Jay swore he heard you whimper, something you stopped before it could get out, but the way your thighs pressed together was a dead giveaway. 

“Then do it,” you challenged, trying to sound normal, “if you’re not scared, then fucking do it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, the last syllable barely left your lips before his restraint shattered. He didn’t lean in, he came full force, one hand tangling into your hair to yank your head back, exposing the expanse of your throat, while the other arm slammed against the door behind you, muttering something like fuck it. 

His mouth crashing onto yours, a gasp leaving your mouth at the taste of him, the sound swallowed by his mouth as his tongue swept inside, deepening the kiss with a starving rhythm that made your knees buckle instantly, gripping your waist harder, fingers digging into your skin through the thin fabric of your top. 

“This what you want?” He groaned against your lips, biting down on the bottom one before soothing it with a gentle swipe of his tongue, “want me to kiss you? Teach you some manners? Do more, hm?” 

You couldn’t answer, couldn’t think past the friction of his thigh slotting between yours with a pressure that made you whimper for real this time. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down, needing to be closer, needing to erase the distance he’d kept between you with nothing but heat, because this didn’t mean anything. 

“You’re shaking,” Jay mumbled, tilting your head before slotting his lips onto yours again, “because you know you want me.”

“I don’t,” you lied, the denial breathless and weak against his mouth, but your body betrayed you instantly. You arched into him, a desperate move that brought your hips flush against his, the friction sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

“Liar,” Jay hissed, his hand leaving your waist to slide down the curve of your spine, gripping your ass. He hauled you up, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist, pinning you against the door so that every inch of you was at his mercy, “you’re dripping for it. I can feel it.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, sucking hard enough to leave a mark that would scream his name to anyone who looked. One hand kept you anchored to him, fingers digging into your flesh, while the other slid under the hem of your tank top. 

“Is this better?” He rasped, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast, teasing just barely, enough to make you whimper his name, “Is this the attention you were begging for at dinner? Being pinned up in a bathroom like a desperate little thing?”

“Jay, please,” you moaned, your head falling back against the wood, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him harder against you. You didn’t know if you were begging him to stop or to never let go.

“Please what?” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes blown wide and dark with a hunger that looked terrifyingly like—love? His hand moved higher, cupping you through the thin fabric of your bra, his thumb flicking over the hardened peak, “please stop? Or please ruin you?”

He didnt bother waiting for an answer, kissing you again, messy and wet, swallowing your cries as he ground his hips against yours, the hard ridge of him pressing against your cunt. It was too much—the sensation of his hands on your skin, the taste of him, the overwhelming, suffocating reality that you belonged to him completely in this moment.

The pleasure was a sharp, blinding spike that cut through the anger, but right behind it was the terror. He was consuming you. He was taking everything you had to give and breaking you down until you were nothing but a trembling mess in his arms, and the worst part was, he knew it. He was in control, and you were unraveling. The realization hit you like a fucking slap.

You shoved at his shoulders, a frantic, jerky movement born of sudden panic.

“Stop,” you choked out, breaking the kiss with a ragged gasp.

Jay froze, his chest heaving against yours, his lips red and swollen, glossy with your spit. He looked dazed, like a man waking up from a fever dream, his hand still possessively claiming the curve of your breast under your shirt.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, scrambling down from his hold, your legs shaking.

“Y/N—”

You pulled the door open and fled into the hallway, running for your room, leaving him standing alone in the clinical white light, the wreckage of his composure—and yours, scattered all over the floor.

You weren’t sure if you even got a wink of sleep last night, especially when you were sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was a stupid decision to push him, because now you could only think about the kiss—which was weird granted it wasn’t your first, yet it felt like one. You groaned, throwing the duvet off your overheated body and dragging yourself to the vanity mirror.

The reflection that stared back was a mess—hair tangled, lips still swollen and bitten red, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, but your gaze dropped lower, and your breath hitched. 

It was a bruise, actually, it was a possessive stamp that screamed Park Jongseong. You traced it with a trembling finger, flinching slightly at the tenderness, oh this fucking man had given you a hickey. With a deep sigh, you grabbed your old journal from the nightstand, scribbling down every bit of your dilemma, right after the page where you’d written out your past feelings for your brother’s best friend—something you felt before he snitched on you.  

You slammed the notebook shut, shoving it deep into the drawer as if the leather cover could contain the messy, bleeding ink of your confession. You barely had time to splash cold water on your face and throw on an oversized hoodie—hoping the fabric was thick enough to hide the evidence—before the chaos of your parents leaving filtered up the stairs.

“Y/N! We’re heading out!” Your mother called from the foyer. 

You dragged yourself downstairs, watching your parents taking their suitcase out, now standing by the open door with Sunghoon, who looked only half-awake in his sweatpants.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Your father asked, adjusting his cufflinks. “The Kims would love to see you. It’s been years.” He continues, but you genuinely didn’t wish to attend any wedding full of relatives who’d love to dissect your life. 

“I’m sure,” you lied smoothly, “i’ll just spend time with Hoon.”

“Alright, sweetie. There’s food in the fridge. Be good,” your mother kissed your cheek, oblivious to the fact that being good was the last thing on your mind after last night, but it felt nice, being taken care of and not abandoned again. 

Your parents finally left, warning Sunghoon to take care of you and the house. “Finally,” he mumbled, yawning. “I thought they’d never leave. Do we have any—woah.” He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening as they locked onto your neck.

You froze. You had forgotten to pull the hood up. The hoodie had slipped, just enough to show the bruise on your neck. 

“What is that?” Sunghoon asked, his voice dropping an octave, the sleepy brother persona vanishing instantly, “is that a hickey?”

“It’s nothing,” you snapped, pulling the fabric up frantically, “I burned myself with the curling iron.”

“That is not a burn, Y/N,” Sunghoon scoffed, looking at you with a mix of disbelief and protective annoyance. Then, his expression darkened. “Did Jake do that? When did you even meet him? Did you sneak out again?”

“Oh my gosh—no! Just shut up, shush.” You put your hand on his mouth but he didn’t stop. 

“I knew it,” he muttered, pacing away from you, running a hand through his hair. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you go out with him. That prick. I’m going to kill him.”

“Kill who?”

Jay stood there. He looked wrecked as if he hadn’t slept much either. He looked at Sunghoon pacing, gaze flickering to you right after, then to the hand you still had clamped over your neck.

“Jake,” Sunghoon spat out, gesturing vaguely at you, “he gave her a hickey. Can you believe the audacity?”

Jay’s eyes snapped to you, “Is that so?” He asked, stepping fully into the room. He didn’t look at Sunghoon. He stared straight at you, challenging you to lie, “Jake gave you that?”

“Y’know, it doesn’t even matter,” you hissed. 

“It does, I need to meet him,” Sunghoon still paced around, now with a toast in his mouth, “and knock some sense into him—when did you even meet him again? Call him right now.”

That is exactly how you found yourself calling Jake, ignoring sharp glares coming from Jay who was leaning against the kitchen island with his arms crossed, looking like he wanted to snap the phone in half with his mind.

“Hey, baby,” Jake picked up on the second ring, his voice raspy, likely just waking up. “Everything okay? Miss me?”

“Not really,” you muttered with a small smile, turning your back on Jay’s burning gaze to whisper into the receiver. “Sunghoon saw the burn mark on my neck, and uh—he thinks it’s you. He wants to talk, just tell him the truth.”

“Oh,” Jake paused, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice, “so I’m taking the fall for your secret boyfriend? Jay perhaps? Damn, you’re cheating on me already?”

“Never say that again, okay? Now please get your ass here,” you mumbled. 

“I’ll come by the evening, hm? I have some errands to run,” Jake replied, unbothered by the fact that Sunghoon wanted to kill him. 

And so, you said your goodbyes and announced how Jake will come by the evening, much to Jay’s dismay as he walked closer before you could run again. 

“This is fucking ridiculous, you’re gonna let him take the credit for my work?” 

“It’s not credit dumbass,” you whispered back, leaning away from him as Sunghoon finally stopped pacing to glare at the both of you, “It’s a cover story. Unless you want to explain to my brother why his best friend had his tongue down my throat in the bathroom last night?”

“What are you two whispering about?” Sunghoon demanded, narrowing his eyes, and you rolled yours, going back to your room to, well, dissociate until it was evening and Jake was about to come.

Sunghoon marched to the door, pulling it open before Jake could even knock. You followed nervously, with Jay trailing behind, leaning against the archway with dark eyes. Jake stood on the porch, helmet under his arm, looking effortlessly cool in his leather jacket. He blinked at Sunghoon’s aggressive stance, then offered a lazy, charming grin that made your stomach flip—mostly because you knew Jay was watching it.

“Where is it?” Sunghoon demanded immediately, pointing at your neck where your hoodie was pulled up tight, “did you do that?”

Jake looked from Sunghoon’s furious face to your terrified one, and finally to Jay. Jay’s expression was terrifying, as if he was daring Jake to say yes. 

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Jake said smoothly, stepping inside, completely ignoring the death glare from the corner, “but I come bearing gifts.” He held up a plastic bag. “And the new Mario Tennis Fever, if you’re not scared of losing, that is.”

Sunghoon faltered, his eyes darting from the plastic bag to Jake’s face. The protective brother act cracked down the middle, revealing the competitive gamer underneath who had been complaining about that specific game being sold out for weeks.

Just like that, the trial was over.

You stood in the hallway, blinking at the sudden shift in energy, while Jay let out a dark, disbelief-filled exhale from the corner. He looked like he wanted to murder someone, and since Sunghoon was currently plugging in the console, his eyes landed on you. 

“You’re sitting with me,” Jay muttered, grabbing you along with him. He steered you toward the plush leather sofa in the back of the room, shoving you into the corner cushion before dropping down right next to you. And he meant right next to you.

The sofa was huge, big enough for four people, but Jay sat so close that his thigh pressed heavily against yours, he spread his legs, claiming the space with an arrogant entitlement that forced you to shrink back, effectively boxing you in between the armrest and his hard, imposing frame. Sunghoon and Jake were already lost to the world, sitting cross-legged on the rug three feet away, screaming as the game menu music blasted through the speakers.

“I’m serving first!” Sunghoon yelled, aggressive competitive mode fully activated.

“In your dreams, Park!” Jake shot back, laughing.

Jay let out a sharp, derisive exhale through his nose, slumping back against the cushions. He crossed his arms over his chest, his dark eyes boring into the back of Jake’s head with enough intensity to burn a hole through his skull.

“This is my hell,” he deadpanned, “stuck in a room with two idiots fighting over a virtual tennis ball.”

“They’re having fun,” you whispered back, keeping your eyes glued to the screen, terrified that if you looked at him, you’d do something stupid like lean in. “You should try it sometime.”

“I am having fun,” Jay murmured, and the tone of his voice sent a shiver straight down your spine.

He uncrossed his arms, draping along the back of the sofa behind your head—casual to anyone watching, but to you, it felt like a cage closing shut. His fingers began to toy with the fabric of your hoodie near your shoulder, an idle motion that was maddeningly distracting.

“Nice shot, Jake!” You blurted out as Jake’s character scored, desperate to break the suffocating tension Jay was building.

The hand on your shoulder tightened instantly.

“Don’t,” Jay warned, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in. 

“Don’t what?” you hissed, glancing nervously at Sunghoon’s back.

“Don’t cheer for him,” he whispered, his hand sliding up from your shoulder to the nape of your neck. His thumb slipped under the heavy cotton of your hood, finding the warm skin there, pressing directly against the sensitive spot right next to the bruise he’d left. “Don’t smile at him. And don’t act like you aren’t thinking about whose hand is on you right now.”

“Jay—”

His fingers stroked the bruise, a possessive, claiming touch that made your breath hitch in your throat. Sunghoon and Jake were screaming about a tie-breaker, completely oblivious to the fact that Jay was dismantling you inches away from them.

“Does he know?” Jay asked, his voice dropping, “does your little fake boyfriend know that the mark under this hoodie is shaped like my mouth? Or does he think you got it from a curling iron too?”

You turned your head to glare at him, but it was a mistake. He was too close. His eyes were dark, dilated, and focused entirely on your lips.

“He knows enough,” you lied, trying to sound brave.

“He knows nothing,” Jay corrected, his thumb digging in slightly, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through your system.

“Jay!” Sunghoon shouted suddenly, making you jump. “Pizza’s here! Go get it, I’m in a match.”

He kept his gaze locked on you, a cruel, satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he saw the flush rising on your cheeks. He pulled his hand out from under your hood slowly, letting his knuckles drag against your spine one last time before standing up, “saved by the bell,” he murmured, walking past you to get the door.

The reprieve was short-lived. When the boxes were sprawled open on the coffee table, the dynamic shifted from the sofa to the floor. You tried to sit next to Jake, hoping for a buffer, but Jay was faster. He slid into the empty space between you and the wall, his long legs sprawling out to cage you in.

“Move over,” you muttered, nudging his knee.

“Make me,” Jay replied, taking a slice of pepperoni without looking at you.

Under the concealment of the low table, while Sunghoon and Jake argued about the merits of pineapple on pizza, Jay’s hand dropped to your thigh. It wasn’t a gentle touch. His palm was heavy and hot, gripping the flesh just above your knee with a possessiveness that made your breath hitch.

“So, Y/N,” Jake asked, leaning in, “the fuck is Jay up to?” He asked, staring at Jay’s hand. 

“Uh—I,” you stammered, your mind going blank as Jay’s thumb began to stroke the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, inching higher with every word you spoke.

“Need an escape? Or do you like it?” Jake asked with a smirk. 

You glared at him, but he just took a bite of his pizza, his eyes dancing with dark amusement. The friction of Jay’s hand against your jeans was becoming unbearable, a secret heat building low in your belly that had nothing to do with the food.

“I need some air,” you blurted out, scrambling up before his hand could go any higher.

You didn’t wait for a response. You grabbed your hidden pack of cigarettes from your pocket and bolted for the back patio, sliding the glass door shut behind you. The cool night air hit your flushed face, a welcome relief from the suffocating tension inside. You fumbled with the lighter, the flame illuminating your shaking hands as you took a drag, the nicotine hitting your system with a dizzying rush.

You barely got the second drag in before the door slid open again. You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. The scent of tobacco and expensive cologne washed over you before he even spoke.

“I thought we agreed on you stopping this,” Jay’s voice was low, coming from right behind you.

Before you could react, he reached over your shoulder and plucked the cigarette from your fingers. But instead of crushing it, he brought it to his own lips, taking a slow, deep drag while staring at your profile.

“I needed it,” you whispered, refusing to look at him.

“You didn’t need this,” Jay murmured, exhaling a cloud of smoke, stepping closer, crowding you against the railing until your hips dug into the cold metal. “You needed to escape because you couldn’t handle me touching you while he was right there.”

“You’re delusional,” you snapped, turning to face him.

“Am I?” Jay challenged, flicking the cigarette into the garden below. He gripped the railing on either side of you, trapping you in the circle of his arms. “You were trembling at the table, Y/N. You think because he’s in the other room, you’re safe? I could bend you over this railing right now, and by the time he paused the game to look for you, you’d already be finished getting the best pleasure of your life.”

“You wouldn’t,” you challenged, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you instantly, “Sunghoon is ten feet away. The glass is right there.”

“And yet,” Jay murmured, stepping in until his body was flush against yours, pressing you so hard into the wrought iron that the metal bit into your lower back, “you’re not pushing me away, princess.”

He didn’t wait for a retort. His hand slid from the railing to your throat, his thumb pressing directly over the bruise he’d left, pulsing with a steady, heavy rhythm. The contact was electric, a live wire connecting his possession to your submission.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered softly, his eyes dropping to your lips.

When you hesitated, he used his grip on your jaw to tilt your head back, his other hand sliding down your spine to grip your hip, fingers digging into the denim. He crashed his mouth onto yours, and this time, it tasted of the smoke he’d stolen from you and the dark, bitter desire he’d been marinating in all evening. 

He kissed you like he was trying to erase the very idea of Jake from your mind, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a possessive, rhythmic cadence that made your knees buckle. You gasped, the sound swallowed by his mouth, and he took advantage of it, grinding his hips against yours in a slow, deliberate friction that made a jolt of pure heat shoot straight to your core.

“Tell me who you belong to," he groaned against your lips, biting down on your bottom lip hard enough to sting, “say it.”

“Not you,” you whimpered, your hands clutching the lapels of his jacket, “never you.” 

“So pretty when you’re in denial,” he spat against your mouth, his hand sliding aggressively between your thighs, the denim of your jeans the only thing saving you from his fingers as he grounded the heel of his palm against your center with a pressure that made your vision white out, “If I don’t own you, why are you trembling? Why are you so wet you’re ruining these shorts?”

You choked on a sob, your head falling back, exposing your throat to him. He took it, burying his face in the crook of your neck, sucking a fresh mark right over the old one, claiming you all over again while his hand worked a rhythm against your seam that made your knees give out completely.

“Tell Sunghoon, tell Jake. Scream for them right now, Y/N. Let them see you like this, hm? Desperate and dripping for the man you claim you hate.”

He waited, his hand still applying that maddening friction, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. He gave you the chance, he gave you the out, and you didn’t take it, you couldn’t. You just gripped his jacket tighter, your nails digging into his shoulders, surrendering to the humiliating truth that your body had chosen him long before your mind ever would.

“That’s what I thought,” Jay whispered, the cruelty in his voice mixed with a terrifying tenderness.

He pulled away abruptly, the loss of his heat leaving you gasping and cold in the night air. He didn’t look back at the mess he’d made of you, didn’t offer a hand to steady you as you slumped against the railing. He just smoothed down his jacket, fixed his hair in the reflection of the glass door, and slid it open.

“Better hurry up,” he called over his shoulder, his voice terrifyingly normal as the sound of the game flooded back out. “Pizza’s getting cold.”

“I actually like your boyfriend, I approve,” Sunghoon nodded once you composed yourself and sat down yet again. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you blurted out.

Sunghoon paused, a slice of pepperoni halfway to his mouth, blinking in confusion. “What? But the neck thing—the hickey?”

“He’s just—ugh, I told you that’s from the curling iron,” you muttered, refusing to look at Jake, who was currently grinning like the cat who got the canary. You focused intently on the grain of the coffee table, anything to avoid the eyes, “and he’s just flirty. I haven’t seen him in three years, Sunghoon. We aren’t dating.”

Jake clutched his chest, feigning a dramatic heart attack, slumping slightly against the sofa. “Wounded, truly. And here I thought we had something special. I brought you video games and everything.”

You risked a glance at Jay. He wasn’t looking at Sunghoon or Jake, he was looking right at you. He sat back against the sofa, legs spread with that infuriating arrogance, slowly chewing his pizza. He didn’t look angry anymore, he looked—satisfied? He knew. He knew exactly why you were denying it. It wasn’t for Sunghoon’s benefit, It was submission, a direct answer to the question he’d forced out of you against the railing. Not him. You were denying Jake because Jay’s touch was still burning on your skin, because five minutes ago you were begging him not to stop.

“Well,” Sunghoon shrugged, chewing thoughtfully, completely oblivious to basically everything, “he’s cool anyway! You should date him, just keep the circle small. Plus, he’s better than those other guys you used to hang out with.”

“I’m not dating anyone,” you snapped, grabbing a slice of cold pizza just to have something to do with your trembling hands. 

“Suit yourself,” Jake hummed, leaning in closer, his arm brushing yours just to test your reaction, and well, Jay’s reaction, “but I’m still the favourite.”

He reached out, his thumb grazing your cheekbone, “you’ve got a little smudge right—”

Jay dropped his glass onto the table forcefully, the sound was sharp, silencing the room instantly.

“You’re practically crowding her,” Jay said, “back off, Jake. She needs to eat.”

Jake froze, his smile stiffening at the edges. Sunghoon looked between them, brow furrowed, sensing the sudden spike in temperature but misinterpreting the source.

“Relax, Jay,” Jake laughed, though it sounded hollow. He pulled his hand back, surrendering the space, holding his palms up in mock surrender, “just trying to help.”

“Just saying,” Jay murmured, picking up his glass again.

He took a slow sip, his gaze sliding over the rim of the glass to lock onto yours, looking at your swollen lips, then down to your hands shaking around the pizza crust, and a ghost of a smirk touched his lips.

“She looks exhausted,” Jay finished smoothly, his voice dropping an octave, “let her breathe.”

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. He was protecting you. Wait, was he actually? Oh no—he was claiming you right in front of them. 

And God help you, you liked it.

The rain had been hammering against the floor-to-ceiling windows for six hours straight now, which was honestly horrible since you were stuck dreading the fact that you couldn’t go out, it was kind of a relentless, suffocating downpour that made the house feel less like a home and more like a cage. 

It was just past 1:00 AM on Friday.

Sunghoon had gone up hours ago, mumbling something about his class tomorrow, which was odd because why does he have classes on Saturday? But that left you alone in the sprawling, dim living room. You were sitting on the plush rug, your back pressed against the base of the sofa, knees pulled up to your chest. The only light came from the faint, ambient glow of the garden lights filtering through the rain, casting long, distorted shadows across the hardwood floor.

In your hand, a heavy crystal glass rested against your knee. You took a slow sip, letting the amber liquid coat your tongue before swallowing. It helped unclasp the knot of anxiety that had been tightening there all day. It was the good stuff, the twenty-year-old single malt your father kept hidden in the back of the mahogany cabinet, reserved for, well, business deals and celebrations. You weren’t really celebrating, just trying to numb the static in your head.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw it—the flash of Jay’s eyes on the balcony, the way his hand had looked wrapped around your throat—large, veined, and god terrifyingly possessive. The way he had looked at you when you denied Jake, as if he had reached into your chest and pulled the truth out of your beating heart.

Not him.

You hated that you had said it, you hated that you had given him that satisfaction. But mostly, you hated that sitting here, in the dark, with the taste of expensive whiskey on your lips, you were waiting for him.

“That’s a waste of a good vintage.”

The voice was low, wrapping around you in the darkness, and you didn’t react, just tipping the glass back, finishing the swallow before lowering it to your knee, staring steadfastly at the rain-streaked glass.

“I’m not wasting it,” you muttered, “I’m appreciating it. Go away, Jay.”

You expected him to lecture you saying put the glass down, Y/N. Instead, you heard the soft clink of crystal against crystal.

Jay walked around the sofa, coming into your peripheral vision, and for a change, he wasn’t wearing his stiff button-down, no styled hair, no watch. He was in a loose gray t-shirt that hung off his broad shoulders and black sweatpants that sat low on his hips. His hair was damp, falling into his eyes, messy and unkempt in a way that made him look somehow prettier. 

He sank down onto the floor next to you, leaving barely a foot of space between your arms—but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. He held up his own glass next to yours. 

“I didn’t ask you to stop,” he murmured, taking a slow sip, his eyes fixed on the window, “just said don’t waste it. Sip it, hm?”

You turned your head to look at him, suspicion narrowing your eyes, “since when do you encourage my so called bad habits? I thought your job was to police me or whatever.”

“My job is to keep you safe,” he corrected calmly, resting his head back against the sofa cushion and closing his eyes, “If a drink keeps you from climbing out the window and breaking your other ankle, then I’ll pour it for you myself.”

“I’m not going to climb out the window,” you huffed, turning back to the view, though your grip on the glass tightened, “it’s raining anyway.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not a child.”

“Debatable.”

“Shut up.”

He chuckled, and you sat in silence for a long time, just the relentless drumming of the rain and the occasional rhythmic clink of ice shifting in the glasses, but your heart felt warm. It was terrifyingly domestic. This was your enemy, this man was your snitch, this was the man who had ruined your life three years ago. And yet, sitting here in the dark, stripped of the audience and the expectations, the hatred felt rather heavy. You were so tired of carrying it.

“You’re shaking,” Jay said.

He hadn’t even opened his eyes, but somehow he knew—he always knew.

“I’m cold,” you lied, taking another sip.

“Yeah sure. You’re a liar,” he countered softly.

He opened his eyes then, turning his head on the cushion to look at you, watching you for a moment, tracing the line of your profile, the curve of your neck, the way your fingers curled around the glass.

“Why are you down here, Jay?” You whispered, “you have a whole house to avoid me in.”

“Maybe I’m tired of avoiding you,’ he said simply.

The honesty knocked the wind out of you, making you gulp. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, looking away, heart hammering. 

“You’re just bored—you like having a punching bag. You like proving that you’re better than me.”

“Is that what you think this is?” Jay shifted, turning his body fully toward you, “you think I enjoy fighting with you?”

“Oh please, you seem to love it,” you muttered into your glass, “you practically vibrate with joy every time you get to tell me what a disappointment I am.”

“I don’t think you’re a disappointment, Y/N.”

You looked up, eyes wide, searching his face for the lie, for the sarcasm, only to find that he wasn’t really joking about it, not this time. 

“Don’t,” you warned, your voice trembling, “don’t do that, don’t pretend like you care.”

“I’m not pretending.”

He reached out for you, and you flinched instinctively, making him pause, his hand hovering in the air between you. A flicker of something pained crossed his face, there and gone in a second. He waited, giving you the chance to pull away. When you didn’t move, he continued the movement, but slower this time. His fingers brushed against your temple, tucking that same loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles grazed your cheekbone—a touch so agonizingly gentle it made your breath hitch in your throat.

His hand didn’t pull away. His thumb rested on your jaw, the calloused pad of his finger ghosting over the corner of your mouth.

“You’re still swollen,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough timbre that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

“And whose fault is that?” You breathed, turning your face slightly into his palm without meaning to. You were starving for this, you hated him, but god, you were starving for him to touch you like you weren’t a mistake.

“Yours,” he replied, but the word was a caress, “for making me go crazy.”

The air between you thickened, the whiskey making you brave, making you soft. You looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the way his eyes dropped to your lips, the way his pupils blew wide, swallowing the iris.

“I hate you,” you whispered, but it lacked its usual bite, sounding more like a plea.

“I know,” Jay whispered back, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip, tugging it slightly, “tell me again.”

“I hate you.”

“Good.”

He leaned in, just an inch. The scent of him filled your senses, drowning out the logic that screamed at you to run. You found yourself leaning forward too, the magnetic pull of three years of obsession dragging you in. You wanted him to kiss you. You wanted him to erase the last three years with his mouth.

Thump.

A heavy footstep creaked on the floorboards directly above you. Sunghoon rolling over in bed.

The sound shattered the world like glass.

Jay pulled back instantly, the loss of his touch physical, leaving your skin cold and aching. He cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet room, and grabbed his glass, downing the rest of the liquid in one swallow.

The mask slammed back into place. The vulnerability vanished behind a wall of composed indifference, though you saw the tension in his jaw, the way his knuckles were white around the glass.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he said, his voice tight, rough with regret. He stood up, towering over you again, putting miles of distance between you in a single second, “Sunghoon has an early lecture tomorrow. He insists on taking you with him.”

“Jay—” you started, reaching out, your hand trembling.

“Go to sleep, Y/N,” he cut you off, refusing to look at you, “before one of us does something stupid, again.”

He turned and walked away toward the guest room, the darkness swallowing him up, leaving you sitting on the floor with a half-empty glass of whiskey and a heart that was beating fast enough to bruise.

The morning light was harsh, unfiltered, and utterly unforgiving as it streamed through the kitchen windows, burning your retinas. You sat at the kitchen island, nursing a black coffee that tasted horrendous, wearing oversized sunglasses to hide the fact that you had stared at the ceiling till 4 AM, replaying the way Jay’s thumb had felt on your lip.

Sunghoon was bustling around the kitchen, shoving textbooks into his bag, looking annoyingly fresh-faced and energetic.

“Come on, let’s go,” Sunghoon said, tapping the counter with a spoon, “I have a lecture in twenty minutes and if I’m late, Professor Kim will burn me alive. And you—” he pointed the spoon at you, “—are not leaving my sight.”

“I am not a child, Hoon,” you groaned, dropping your head onto your folded arms, “I can stay home, I won’t burn it down. I promise not to let any boys in.”

“Last time I left you alone, you ended up in a police station,” Sunghoon countered cheerfully, tossing an apple at you, you caught it blindly, “get in the car.”

You looked up, ready to argue, but your eyes landed on the doorway.

Jay was leaning against the frame, keys in hand.

He was back in his armor, a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows to reveal the veins in his forearms, black slacks, hair styled to perfection. He looked immaculate, he looked like he hadn’t spent the night drinking whiskey on the floor with you, he almost looked like a stranger.

He caught your eye, his expression being blank, bored even.

“Let’s go," Jay said coolly, spinning the keys on his finger, “traffic is going to be hell.”

You grabbed your bag, scowling as you walked past him, making sure to bump his shoulder hard enough to be annoying but not hard enough to start a fight.

“You’re in my way,” you muttered.

“As I’ll always be,” he murmured instantly, low enough that only you could hear.

You suppressed a shiver and marched to the car.

The ride was suffocating, Sunghoon sat in the front passenger seat, talking about his lectures for the day while you sat in the back, staring at the back of Jay’s head. You watched his eyes in the rearview mirror and he was watching you back. Every time you looked up, he was there, checking on you, his gaze heavy and unreadable.

When you finally pulled up to the University, the campus was a chaotic sea of students. It was loud, crowded, and overwhelming. You stepped out of the car, adjusting your bag, feeling small and out of place in your leather jacket and boots among the sea of polished students.

“Okay,” Sunghoon said, checking his watch as he slammed the door, “I have to go to the biochem lab. Guests aren’t allowed inside, please stay safe here.”

“So I can wait in the car?” You asked hopefully.

“No,” Jay answered before Sunghoon could. He locked the car, pocketing the keys, “it’s too hot inside. Just wait on the bench near the quad. It’s right in front of the building. We’ll be sixty minutes.”

“Sixty minutes?” You groaned, leaning against the car, “I’ll die of boredom.”

“Stay put,” Jay ordered, stepping into your personal space. He reached out and fixed the collar of your jacket, a gesture that looked brotherly to anyone watching but felt possessive to you, “don’t wander off, don’t talk to strangers, and don’t make me come find you.”

“Yes, dad,” you rolled your eyes, slapping his hand away.

Jay’s lip twitched, but he didn’t smile, “be good.”

He turned and walked away with Sunghoon, the two of them disappearing into the crowd of students.

You sat on the bench, sighing, pulling your phone out to doom-scroll. You lasted about ten minutes before the boredom became unbearable. You stood up to stretch your legs, pacing a small circle around the bench, kicking at a loose stone, then a guy approached you when you least expected it. 

“Excuse me?”

You stopped kicking the loose gravel, looking up to find a guy in a navy windbreaker standing there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he was debating whether to run or stay.

“I know this is random,” he started, offering a lopsided, dimpled grin that was charming, “but I saw you waiting and I just thought—are you a student here? Or maybe waiting for somebody?”

You let out a breath, offering him a polite smile, the kind you used to let people down gently, “I’m just waiting for my brother, he has a terrible concept of time.”

“Ah—I’m Jungwon by the way,” he offered, stepping a little closer, confident but not aggressive, “if your brother doesn’t show up, or if you get tired of waiting, maybe I could get your number? There’s a decent coffee spot around the corner, way comfy than this curb.”

You blinked, realizing he was harmless, just a guy shooting his shot, so you softened your expression slightly, “I’m not interested, sorry, but thanks for the offer, Jungwon.”

“Ah, worth a try,” he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck, seemingly unbothered. “Have a good day, then.”

“You too,” you replied, keeping the small, friendly smile on your face as he turned to walk away. 

Then the air pressure dropped, a sudden shift in the atmosphere that made the hair on your arms stand up, and you turned your head toward the main building to see Jay standing at the top of the concrete stairs. He was about forty yards away, with Sunghoon next to him checking his watch, completely oblivious, but Jay was motionless, one hand jammed deep into his pocket and the other gripping his phone so hard his knuckles were bleached white.

He wasn’t looking at Jungwon, he was looking at you. He had seen the exchange, the lean in, the easy body language, but mostly he had seen the smile, that soft, unguarded expression you had offered a total stranger, a look you hadn’t given Jay in three years.

“Finally,” you muttered as they reached the car, trying to ignore the knot forming in your stomach.

Jay didn’t even look at you, walking past you like you were invisible, unlocking the car with a sharp chirp and sliding into the driver’s seat without a word. The drive home was a masterclass in suffocation, Sunghoon chattering about his lab partner and filling the void while Jay drove with a dangerous focus, refusing to turn on the radio or check the rearview mirror, just staring at the asphalt while radiating a cold, dark silence. 

The atmosphere in the house was no better, it was worse.

For hours, Jay orchestrated a silence so loud it rattled the windows, existing as a ghost in your periphery. If you entered the kitchen to grab water, he would immediately set his glass down and walk out without a word. If you sat on the couch, he would stand up and move to the armchair, angling his body away from you as if your very existence offended him. It was a stark, violent contrast to the blurred lines of last night.

Last night, the air between you had been thick with whiskey and reckless candor, his knee knocking against yours under the table, his eyes tracking the movement of your throat when you laughed. Last night, he had poured your drink with this soft attentiveness, looking at you like he wanted to devour you.

Tonight, he looked at you like he wanted to erase you.

By 9:00 PM, the toxicity was choking you, the whiplash of his mood swings making your skin crawl. You couldn’t breathe in the living room anymore, the air too thick with his unspoken judgment and the memory of how warm he had been only twenty-four hours ago. You stormed into the garage, the motion-sensor light flickering on to reveal the sleek, matte-black body of your motorcycle, and you were surprised to see how your parents hadn’t thrown it away. 

You yanked the tarp off, dust motes dancing in the harsh overhead light. You grabbed your helmet from the shelf, your hands shaking with a mix of adrenaline and fury, and zipped up your leather jacket, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet concrete space. You needed wind, you needed speed, you needed to outrun the headache Jay was giving you.

Straddling the bike, you kicked the stand up and turned the key. The dashboard lit up, and you hit the ignition, the engine roaring to life with a guttural growl. You walked the bike down the driveway, the heavy tires crunching over the gravel, the exhaust puffing white clouds into the cold night air. You were just about to kick it into gear when a shadow detached itself from the porch.

“Turn it off.” Jay stepped into the ring of amber light cast by the streetlamp. He was still in his clothes from earlier, looking pissed, his eyes fixed on the revving engine with cold disapproval.

“Oh now you’re talking to me? Move, Jay,” you snapped, flipping your visor up so he could see the glare in your eyes, your gloved hands gripping the clutch.

“It’s late,” he stated, his voice flat, “and you’re not riding alone. It’s not safe.”

“I didn’t ask for permission.” You revved the engine, “and I’m certainly not asking you. You’ve been treating me like a ghost for six hours, you don’t get to pretend you give a damn about my safety.”

“I’m not pretending,” he said, stepping right into your path. He reached out and grabbed the center of the handlebars, “I’m just not letting you run off just because you’re in a mood.”

“I’m in a mood?” You let out a sharp, disbelief-filled scoff, “I’m leaving because you’re impossible. Last night you were fine, and today you’re looking at me like I committed a felony. I don’t even know what I did, Jay.”

He didn’t answer immediately. His jaw locked tight, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He looked down at your hands on the grips, then back up to your face, his gaze darkening.

“You’re too loose,” he muttered, the criticism slipping out low, “you let people get too comfortable too fast.”

You froze, the engine purring beneath you. Too comfortable? You hadn’t seen a soul all evening except him and Sunghoon. Unless. The realization clicked into place. The wait at the university, Jungwon, the polite smile you gave him when you turned him down.

“Wait.” You leaned forward over the tank, searching his face, “Is that what this is? You saw that guy at the pickup spot?”

Jay didn’t say anything, but his eyes narrowed, giving him away completely.

“You’re kidding,” you scoffed, the absurdity of it hitting you, “you’ve been acting like a psycho all night because I didn’t tell a stranger to go to hell? You’re fucking jealous—oh my god.”

“I’m not jealous,” he snapped, the denial coming too fast, “I just don’t like watching you be naive.”

“You are,” you challenged, pointing a gloved finger at his chest, “you’re jealous, Jay. And it’s pathetic.”

He stared at you, his chest heaving slightly, caught in the lie but refusing to fold. He didn’t move and didn’t bother defending himself further. He just tightened his grip on the bike, his knuckles turning white, staring at you with an intensity that said everything his pride wouldn’t let him speak.

“Get off the bike,” he warned. 

“No,” you retorted, done playing his games.

You shifted your weight, kicking the bike into neutral for a split second to stare him down. You looked back at the empty passenger seat behind you, then back to him with a dare carved into your expression.

“I’m leaving, Jay,” you warned, your voice steady over the purr of the engine, “so either hop on or fuck off.”

Jay scoffed, but did he have any choice? You were too stubborn for your own good and so, he snatched the helmet from the rack, shoving it over his head, not bothering with the clasp. He swung a leg over the seat behind you, the bike dipping aggressively under his sudden, heavy weight.

The suspension groaned, and suddenly the space was gone. His chest pressed flush against your back, a wall of solid, suffocating heat that cut right through your leather jacket. His thighs clamped against yours, locking you in, and his arms wound around your waist, his hands gripping your stomach not to hold on, but to restrain.

“Drive,” he commanded, his voice muffled by the helmet but vibrating directly against your spine, “before I drag you off this thing myself.” 

You didn’t hesitate, a scoff leaving your lips as you kicked the bike, the rear tire spinning on the gravel, spitting stones before biting into the asphalt. You launched forward, the G-force throwing Jay back against the sissy bar before his grip tightened, crushing the air out of your lungs.

You drove just how you felt, it was angry, tearing through the suburban streets, banking the bike so low on the turns that the footpegs scraped the pavement, sending showers of orange sparks dying in the wind. You pushed the RPMs into the red, the engine screaming, weaving through the late-night traffic with a recklessness that bordered on a death wish.

You wanted him to be scared. You wanted him to tap your shoulder, to beg you to slow down, but Jay didn’t flinch, he knew you liked speed, and how reckless you got with it. He just knew he had to be here, providing some kind of anchor to it.

Twenty minutes of adrenaline-fueled chaos later, you skidded into the empty lot of the old industrial park near the river—a wasteland of concrete and shipping containers. You killed the engine while the bike was still rolling, letting it jerk to a halt. Silence crashed down instantly, ringing in your ears.

You kicked the stand down and shoved his hands off your waist. You swung your leg over and ripped your helmet off, gasping for air, the cold night hitting your sweat-dampened skin. Jay was already off the bike, slamming his helmet onto the seat, his hair messy, his eyes wild.

“What the hell was that?” He snapped, voice rough as he stared at you being so normal about it.

“That’s called a bike ride, Jay,” you shot back, trying to appear calm, but you weren’t even close to it. 

“That was not riding, you have a fucking death wish,” he said, stepping closer and into your personal space before you could even process your bearings.

“Aw, you’re scared, hm? You wanted to come along, Jay, you knew very well what you were getting into.” 

“I knew you liked to speed, but fucking hell—i didn’t think you’d lose your mind like that,” he hissed, eyes dark and fixed on yours—he looked as if he wished to shake you and pull you into a hug at the same damn time, “all this cause what? You’re pissed at me.”

“I’m pissed because you’ve been a ghost all day!” You yelled, the frustration finally boiling over, stinging behind your eyes. You stepped closer, your boots scuffing against his, refusing to back down, “honestly, what even do you want Jay? You treat me like I’m some problem, yet you keep looking right through me for hours, and then you hop on my bike and act like you’re my shadow? Pick a side, Jay!”

He opened his mouth to bark back, his jaw locked so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek, but then he just—stopped. He saw the way your hands were shaking against the side of your legs, the way your chest was heaving not just from anger, but from the adrenaline crash that was about to hit you like a freight train. The fire in his eyes changed—shifting from pure rage to a heavy, exhausted sort of focus.

“Shh,” he muttered, the sound rough and low.

“Don’t shh me, I’m not done—”

“I said shh.” He didn’t give you a choice. He reached out, his fingers locking around your wrist with a grip that was absolute. He simply ended up pulling you toward the low concrete barrier that lined the river’s edge.

He sat down first, the heavy fabric of his jeans brushing against the stone, and before you could even think about sitting next to him, he tugged you forward by the waist, pulling you directly down onto his lap.

“Jay, let go, I’m not doing this,” you grumbled, trying to twist away, but his arms wound around you like iron bands, locking you against his chest.

“Just stay put,” he commanded, his voice muffled against the shoulder of your leather jacket. He sounded wrecked. He didn’t let go of your hand, either; he caught it, interlacing his fingers with yours and pinning them against his thigh.

You tried to yank your hand back once, then twice, “I’m serious, Jay. Let go.” You weren’t sure if you even wanted that, especially when this moment felt too intimate for two people who claimed to hate each other.

“No.” He squeezed tighter. “You’re still shaking, just stay still.”

You let out a sharp, frustrated breath, rigid against him, but the cold wind off the river was starting to bite, and his body was radiating a heat that soaked right through your jacket. You eventually slumped against him, the fight draining out of you as you rested your head near his neck, surrounded by the scent of his cologne and the lingering smell of exhaust.

For a long time, the only sound was the wind coming off the black water and the faint, metallic tick-tick-tick of the bike cooling down behind you. The adrenaline had completely burned out of your system, leaving you feeling hollowed out and heavy. Jay didn’t move, his thumb just kept tracing a slow, repetitive line over the knuckles of your gloved hand, a steady rhythm that matched the heartbeat thudding against your spine.

“I wasn’t going to crash, you know,” you murmured, hating how small your voice sounded.

You felt him let out a slow, jagged breath, “could’ve fooled me,” he muttered, his voice rough.

“I’m not stupid, Jay. I wouldn’t do that shit with you sitting at the back, and you know it.”

The rhythmic movement of his thumb paused, “so you’d do it without me? Are you hearing yourself right now?” His voice held anger but it came out rather quiet, which was scary, “is it because you are pissed, huh? Because of what happened earlier.”

You pulled back just a fraction, frowning at the side of his neck, “what happened earlier? You mean you acting like I didn’t exist for six straight hours?”

“You know what I mean,” he finally turned his head, his eyes were dark in the dim light of the lot, searching your face, “the guy at the coffee cart.”

You let out a dry, tired scoff, shaking your head slightly, this was incredulous, “are we really doing this? He just asked for my number, Jay. I didn’t even give it to him.”

“But you smiled at him,” he said it like an accusation, but it lacked the vicious bite from your argument, It just sounded heavy. 

You stared at him, the realization slowly washing over the lingering anger in your chest. The brooding, the silent treatment, the way he’d gripped you on the bike like he was terrified of letting go, “you were jealous of a smile? Jay, what’s wrong with you?”

Jay swallowed hard, his jaw clenching, not bothering to lie this time, “I hated it,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a rasp, “seeing him get to talk to you like it was nothing—like he didn’t have to wade through three years of absolute hell just to get you to look at him, you don’t even look at me unless it’s to fight back.”

You stared at him, pulling your hand free from his, but instead of pulling away, you rested your palm against his chest, pissed still because he was the one who riled you up each time, calm because communication was a foreign concept when it concerned you both.

“Jay,” you said softly, “you irritate me so fucking much, then you want me to smile at you when you ignore me?” Jay groaned at this, yet you continued, “and yes I tried to run cause i was tired of this back and forth, but you won’t even let me drive, you piss me off I swear.”

He leaned forward, shifting your position now, resting his forehead heavily against yours. His eyes fluttered shut as he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since the university, “don’t do it again,” he breathed against your skin, not even sure if it was about the guy or the speeding, or well, both, “don’t drive like that when I’m right here.”

“Then don’t freeze me out,” you countered, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer with words. He just shifted his grip, one hand sliding up your back to press you a fraction closer, holding you there until the last of the tremors finally left your hands, staring at you as you rested against his chest, looking so pretty, so peaceful, and Jay swears he’d have done anything to have you back like this.

His eyes drifted back to your lips, gulping before he looked elsewhere.

Eventually, he pulled back, the cold air rushing in to fill the space between you. He looked exhausted. He reached out, his fingers brushing the zipper of your jacket before dropping to your hip, where your keys were clipped.

“Give me the keys,” he said quietly.

You didn’t argue, you unclipped them and dropped them into his waiting palm. Jay stood up, bringing you with him. He swung his leg over the front of the bike, taking the driver’s seat. You climbed on behind him, the dynamic instantly shifting. You wrapped your arms around his waist, sliding your hands into the front pocket of his hoodie, and pressed your cheek flat against his back, and Jay was just glad you couldn’t see his face at the moment.

He kicked the engine to life, and the ride home was entirely different. He drove with a smooth, protective precision, his body naturally leaning to shield you from the worst of the wind. By the time he pulled into the garage and killed the engine, sealing you both in the warm, amber light, the hostility was gone. He stayed seated, resting his hands on his thighs, and covered your hands with his own.

“We’re home,” he whispered into the quiet.

“Yeah,” you murmured back, squeezing his waist. And for the first time all day, it actually felt like it.

The heavy, amber light of the garage clicked off, plunging the space into darkness, but the warmth between you didn’t fade as you both finally stepped off the bike and walked inside. The mudroom was quiet, the sleeping house wrapping around you, but the suffocating hostility that had choked you for the past three years was completely gone.

Jay stopped at the base of the stairs. He didn’t walk past you. He turned, his dark eyes searching your face in the shadows. Before you could even think to put your walls back up, he stepped into your space and wrapped his arms around you.

You let out a shaky breath, your hands hesitantly coming up to grip the soft cotton of his hoodie as you buried your face in his chest. Your heart did a violent, frantic stutter against your ribs, a sudden swarm of butterflies erupting in your stomach. It felt painfully nostalgic and terrifyingly real.

He pressed his cheek to the top of your head, holding you tight enough that you could feel the steady, heavy thud of his own heartbeat mirroring yours, “I’m tired of fighting you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice stripped of all its armor.

“I’m tired too,” you whispered into his chest.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand slid up to cup your face, his thumb brushing along your jawline—agonizingly soft, before he leaned down. The kiss was slow, barely a press of his lips against yours, sweet and hesitant. It wasn’t fueled by anger or jealousy really, it was a quiet apology for the last six hours, and maybe the last three years.

When he pulled away, he kept his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet hallway, “tomorrow,” he promised, “no more running, princess,  we’ll figure this out, yeah? We’ll talk.”

“Tomorrow,” you agreed softly, leaning into his touch for one last heartbeat before he finally let you go upstairs, eyes not leaving you till the door of your room closed with a soft thud, him trying his best to bite his lip, not letting the goofy smile spread on his face.

The next morning felt entirely different. You woke up without that familiar dread sitting on your chest, instead, the butterflies were back, fluttering wildly at the thought of facing him. You actually took your time getting dressed, catching yourself smiling at the mirror as you replayed the soft press of his lips and the absolute certainty in his voice. You were ready for that talk, you were ready to finally put the bitterness away.

When you walked downstairs, however, Jay was already gone. Sunghoon was in a complete panic, tearing through the kitchen looking for his notes for a weekend seminar. Before you could even ask where Jay had gone, Sunghoon had practically dragged you into the passenger seat of his car, on a fucking Sunday, insisting he couldn’t leave you home alone and that dropping off his project would only take twenty minutes.

You didn’t mind the detour honestly, leaning against a concrete planter in the campus quad while Sunghoon ran inside, letting the crisp morning air wash over you. You were mindlessly looking around, but your thoughts kept drifting back to the hallway. To the way your heart had hammered when he kissed you. To the undeniable feeling that after three years of hell, you were finally on the verge of something beautiful.

You allowed yourself a small, secret smile, fingertips absently tracing the faint bruise still hidden beneath the collar of your hoodie. Then your gaze caught on a familiar silhouette across the quad.

Jay stood near the library steps, sleeves of his black button-up rolled to the elbows, the morning light catching the sharp line of his jaw. He was not alone. A girl lingered close beside him—long dark hair swaying as she laughed at something he said, her hand resting lightly on his forearm in a gesture that spoke of easy familiarity. She leaned in as she spoke, the kind of effortless closeness that made something sharp and unwelcome twist deep in your gut.

Moments later Sunghoon reappeared, project folder tucked securely under his arm, his expression already easing into its usual relaxed state, “all done,” he said, nodding toward the car, “let’s head back before I remember I have another deadline breathing down my neck.”

You swallowed, keeping your voice deliberately light and casual as you gestured with your chin, “who’s that with Jay?”

Sunghoon followed your gaze and let out a low, knowing chuckle, shaking his head as if the sight were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, “that’s his girlfriend, Professor Kim’s daughter, Mina. Jay’s been stuck tutoring her for weeks now. You know how it is with him and these academic obligations.” He ruffled your hair in that familiar, protective way, already steering you back toward the car, “c’mon, let’s get you home.”

Girlfriend, tutor, Professor’s daughter. The words blurred together into the same bitter refrain—he had already moved on. Then why was he even actively chasing you? Why did he kiss you? None of it made any sense. 

You offered Sunghoon a tight, reassuring smile and slid back into the passenger seat, the morning air suddenly too sharp against your skin. The entire drive home passed in silence on your end while he rambled about his seminar. Your mind had already raced far ahead, heart pounding harder than the engine.

The house had fallen into the deep, heavy silence of true night by the time the waiting finally broke you.

You had spent the hours after returning home drifting through the rooms like a ghost, ears tuned to every distant engine hum on the street, every faint creak of the front door. Jay never came back even when the clock ticked past midnight, the lights in Sunghoon’s room eventually went out. The whole house grew still, leaving only the low tick of the clock and the unbearable weight in your chest.

Girlfriend. 

The word wouldn’t leave you, it wrapped around the memory of his desperate kiss until the contradiction felt like it would split you open. Why chase you so fiercely if he already had someone else? Why kiss you like you were air and he was drowning, only to vanish the very next day?

You were exhausted by the hope, exhausted by letting him unravel everything you had spent three years rebuilding.

At half past three you stood up in the dark, pulled on your leather jacket, and slipped downstairs without a sound. The back door clicked shut behind you like a quiet goodbye, right now you only needed your bike. You swung a leg over, kicked the engine to life, and twisted the throttle hard.

The wind slammed into your face, cold and merciless, ripping the tears from your eyes before they could fall. You leaned forward and let the road swallow you whole, chasing the only thing that had ever made the ache feel smaller.

You didn’t look back at the house, not even once.

The city thinned out behind you, streetlights stretching into long ribbons of gold as the road opened up. Every mile felt like another promise you were breaking—to yourself, to the fragile peace you had tried to rebuild. But peace had never felt like enough when Jay was involved, it never had.

Headlights flared in your mirror, bright and unrelenting. At first you thought it was just another late-night driver, then the black car surged forward, pulling level with you on the empty stretch of road—Jay’s car.

Your stomach dropped, he leaned across the console, window down, hair wild from the wind rushing through the cabin. His face was tight with panic and something darker, something that looked too much like fear.

“Y/N!” His shout cut through the combined thunder of engines, “slow the fuck down! Pull over!”

You clenched your jaw and twisted the throttle harder, the bike surging forward. The wind whipped his voice away, but you heard the raw edge in it. He matched your speed effortlessly, one hand white-knuckled on the wheel. “Stop the bike—you’re going to get yourself killed!”

The accusation in your chest finally tore free, “go home to her!” You screamed back, voice cracking against the night, “your girlfriend, your student, whatever the hell she is! I’m done being the one you chase when it’s convenient!”

Jay’s expression shattered, “what? Who?”

“I saw you at the uni!”

It took a few seconds, but Jay eventually realized, “she’s not my girlfriend! Mina is Professor Kim’s daughter—I’m only tutoring her because he’s writing my recommendation letter. That’s fucking it. I was driving home from her place when I saw you fly past, pull over, damn it!”

The words should have softened something inside you, but they only fed the storm. You were too raw, too tired of half-truths and disappearing acts. “Liar!” You shouted, the wind snatching the sound. 

“Fine—whoever wins the next mile decides. If I win, you’ll talk to me, If you win—leave me alone forever. Deal?”

You didn’t even hesitate, “deal.”

The road became nothing but speed and fury. Your bike screamed beneath you, tires eating asphalt, the world narrowing to the white lines blurring past. Jay’s car roared beside you, dangerously close, his engine fighting for every inch. You leaned lower, pushing harder than you ever had, tiredness creeping up, but also reckless that matched Jay’s desperation—which made him faster. His car shot ahead, cutting sharply in front of you and slamming on the brakes.

Tires shrieked, as your bike fishtailed wildly. You fought the handlebars, skidding to a stop inches from his rear bumper, the sudden silence ringing in your ears like a gunshot.

You ripped the helmet off and hurled it to the ground, legs shaking as you dismounted. Jay was already out of the car, door hanging open, chest heaving.

“You almost got us both killed,” he yelled, stalking toward you across the empty road.

“Good!” Your voice cracked, raw and trembling with everything you’d held back for years, “maybe if I’d actually crashed you’d finally feel it—what it’s like to be left standing there wondering why the hell you even mattered to someone.”

Jay’s steps faltered for half a second, rain already starting to fall in fat, cold drops that darkened his shirt. He kept coming anyway, stopping so close you could see the way his jaw worked, the frantic rise and fall of his chest. “You think I don’t feel that every single day?” His voice was hoarse, cracking, “you think I haven’t spent the last three years replaying that night I told your parents everything, wondering how the fuck it all went so wrong?”

You shoved at his chest, hard enough that he rocked back on his heels, but he didn’t step away, “then why disappear again? Why kiss me like I’m the only person you’ve ever wanted and then spend the whole next day with somebody else? I waited for you, Jay. I sat in that dark house like an idiot while you were off doing whatever the hell you do with Professor’s perfect daughter.”

“I wasn’t with her like that!” The words tore out of him, loud and desperate, rain now pouring steadily between you, “Mina is just some girl whose dad is holding my entire future in his hands. He asked me to tutor her because she’s failing and he knows I need that recommendation letter. That’s all it is. I was driving home from her place when I saw you fly past on that damn bike. I wasn’t choosing her. I was literally coming back to you.”

You laughed, but it sounded more like a sob, “coming back to me? You always say that. You always make it sound like I’m the one running when you’re the one who—”

“I never meant for you to leave!” Jay shouted, voice breaking completely. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead, water streaming down his face, but he didn’t blink. “I told your parents about the races because I was terrified, Y/N. You were getting in too deep and I panicked. I thought they’d ground you, talk to you, anything but send you away for three fucking years. I begged them. I told them it was my fault too, that I should’ve stopped you sooner, that’s literally fucking why I joined in too, you know it—you literally fucking know it. I sat in your living room and cried like a fucking kid while they packed your bags. And every single day since you left I’ve hated myself for it.”

His hands came up to grip your shoulders, not hard, but like he needed to hold onto something real, “I’ve only ever liked you. Always. Even when you hated me, even when you looked at me like I was the reason your whole life fell apart. It’s been you—only you.”

You opened your mouth to throw it all back at him, the years, the silence, the way he still made you feel small—but Jay didn’t give you the chance. The second your lips parted he surged forward, crashing his mouth against yours mid-retort.

The kiss was messy and frantic, all teeth and desperation and three years of everything you’d both swallowed down. Rain poured over you both, soaking your clothes, making his shirt cling to the hard lines of his chest as he backed you against the car. One of his hands slid into your wet hair, gripping tight, the other pressed flat against your lower back, pulling you flush against him until you could feel every shaky breath he took. You kissed him back just as wildly, nails digging into his shoulders, tasting rain and salt and the raw edge of his apology.

He groaned into your mouth when you bit his lip, the sound low and broken, and the tension between you snapped into something hotter, heavier. Your soaked bodies slid together, hips pressing instinctively, his thigh nudging between yours as the rain hammered down around you like it was trying to wash everything away.

When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against yours, his voice was wrecked and trembling.

“Don’t run from me again,” he whispered, thumb brushing a raindrop from your  cheek with a gentleness that made your chest hurt. “Please, baby—just stay.”

You opened your mouth to throw it back at him, but Jay kept going, voice cracking louder over the downpour, “and that night, years ago, when the cops came—I got on a bike too. I raced straight into their path, drew every single one of them after me so you could get out clean. I risked everything because I couldn’t stand the thought of you getting caught.”

Your breath caught hard, eyes widening in genuine shock, “you what?”

Jay’s hands came up to grip your arms, fingers digging in like he was afraid you’d vanish, “I never meant for you to leave,” he said, voice raw and desperate, almost pleading, “I thought they’d just ground you, talk some sense into you. I begged them not to send you away, I told them it was my fault, that I should’ve protected you better. I’ve only ever liked you, Y/N. Only you. Even when you looked at me like I was the enemy, even when I hated myself for what I did.”

You tried to speak, tried to tell him it still hurt, that it didn’t erase the years, but the words barely formed before Jay surged forward and slotted his lips against yours—hard, cutting off whatever you were about to say.

The kiss was messy and urgent, rain pouring between your mouths as his lips moved against yours like he was trying to pour every regret straight into you. You gasped into it, and he swallowed each fucking sound, one hand sliding into your soaked hair, the other gripping your waist hard enough to pull your body flush against his. His soaked shirt clung to his chest, the heat of his skin burning through the cold fabric as he pressed you back against the car.

“I’ve only ever wanted you,” he mumbled against your lips, voice wrecked, before kissing you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your knees weak, “every fucking day.”

You tried to pull back to breathe, to argue, but he chased your mouth instantly, kissing you again, slower this time but no less desperate, hips rolling into yours with a slow, deliberate grind that made heat flare low in your belly despite the freezing rain.

“Jay—” you managed between kisses, voice shaky, but he cut you off again, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his hand slipped under the hem of your jacket, palm hot against the bare skin of your lower back.

“Don’t,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, rain dripping from his lashes, “don’t push me away right now, I can’t take it.”

Your fingers tightened in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. The rain hammered down around you, soaking every inch of you both, but all you could feel was the frantic thud of his heart against yours, the way his thigh pressed between your legs, the desperate way his mouth kept finding yours like he was scared this moment would disappear.

“I never stopped wanting you,” he whispered between kisses, “not for one second.”

The words cracked something deep inside your chest, a raw, aching fracture that had been waiting three long years to split open. You kissed him back harder, teeth nipping at his bottom lip, tasting rain and the faint salt of everything you’d both buried for so long. Jay’s hands slid down your sides, fingers digging into the heavy, rain-soaked leather of your jacket as if he needed to hold onto something solid before he lost his mind. The denim of your jeans was plastered to your thighs, cold and heavy, clinging uncomfortably, but the heat radiating from his body burned straight through the wet fabric. 

You grind against his thigh without thinking, a needy little sound escaping your throat. Jay groaned, low and rough, and pressed his leg firmer between your legs, giving you something solid to ride as the rain poured harder. His hands slipped under the hem of your jacket, palms hot against the rain-chilled skin of your waist, then higher, cupping your tits through your soaked shirt. Your nipples were already tight from the cold and the adrenaline, and when his thumbs circled them slowly, you moaned into his mouth, hips rolling harder, chasing the friction he was offering.

“Jay—” you gasped, voice shaky and raw, barely audible over the roar of the rain, “I was so fucking angry at you, I still am, but I—”

He cut you off with another deep kiss, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, filthy drag that made heat pool low in your belly despite the freezing rain, “I know,” he murmured against your lips, breath hot and ragged, “I know I hurt you, I know I fucked everything up. But right now—let me fix it. Let me make you feel good. Please, baby, I need to taste you.”

You nodded, barely able to speak, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs. Jay dropped to his knees right there on the wet road. Puddles splashed around him, soaking his jeans instantly, but he didn’t care. Rain streamed down his sharp features—dark eyes locked on you with raw hunger, water tracing the sharp line of his jaw, strands of wet hair plastered to his forehead. He looked up at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, and for him, that was true.

His fingers worked the button of your jeans open with shaking hands, then dragged the heavy, rain-soaked denim down your thighs along with your panties. The cold night air hit your bare skin, making you shiver violently, but Jay’s warm palms steadied your hips as he peeled the clinging fabric away, taking his time, kissing every new inch of skin he revealed. He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, leather jacket creaking with the movement, and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, then higher, breath ghosting hot over your core.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, voice hoarse with need, “been thinking about this—dreaming about it every single night.”

The first slow drag of his tongue up your slit pulled a broken moan from deep in your throat. He licked you like he had all the time in the world, savoring every inch, groaning against your folds as if the taste of you was better than anything he’d ever had. Rain dripped from his lashes onto your skin, cold little shocks that only made the heat of his tongue feel sharper, more overwhelming. He circled your clit with the flat of his tongue, then sucked it into his mouth, gentle at first, then with more pressure, more hunger.

“Jay—oh god—” your hand flew to his wet hair, fingers twisting tight as your other palm slapped against the car roof for balance. The rain kept pouring, running in rivulets down your stomach and mixing with the slick heat between your legs. Your leather jacket felt heavier with every second, water streaming off the shoulders and down your back, but all you could focus on was the way Jay’s sharp jaw worked against your thigh as he devoured you, the way his tongue flicked and swirled and pressed.

He slid two fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep while his tongue flicked faster. The stretch was perfect, the wet sounds of his mouth and fingers mixing obscenely with the roar of the rain. He added a third finger, scissoring you open slowly, carefully, like he was learning every part of you for the first time, like he wanted to memorize how you felt around him.

“You’re so wet,” he groaned against you, voice vibrating through your core. “All for me. Fuck, I love how you taste. I could stay here all night, just like this, making you come over and over until you can’t even stand.”

You whimpered, hips jerking against his face. The rain made everything slicker, colder, more intense. Jay’s fingers pumped steadily, curling against that spot inside you that made sparks explode behind your eyes as he sucked your clit harder, moaning like he was the one falling apart, like tasting you was undoing him completely.

“I’m—Jay, I’m gonna—” your voice broke, thighs shaking around his head, leather jacket creaking as you tried to hold yourself upright.

“C’mon, let go for me,” he rasped, not stopping for a second, “let me feel it, baby. I want it all, right on my tongue.”

The orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing hard and sudden and overwhelming. Your back arched against the car, a loud, broken moan tearing from your throat as you came on his tongue and fingers, thighs clamping around his head, body shaking violently. Jay kept licking you through it, gentler now, drawing it out, prolonging every aftershock until your legs were trembling so badly he had to stand and catch you, pressing you back against the car with his body.

He kissed you immediately, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss was slower this time, deeper, his hands cupping your face like you were something precious.

“You okay?” He whispered against your lips, voice soft but still rough with need, “tell me if it’s too much. I’ll stop if you need me to.”

You shook your head, breathing hard, fingers still tangled in his wet hair, “It’s not too much, I want more. Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop.”

Jay’s eyes darkened, something almost feral flashing across his sharp features. He kissed you again, slower, like he was savouring every second, then dropped back down to his knees without another word. This time he was even more deliberate—tongue tracing lazy, teasing patterns over your clit while three fingers pumped deep and steady inside you. 

“Jay—fuck, that feels so good,” you gasped, voice cracking. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop, need it.”

He hummed against you, the vibration making you jolt, “I’m not stopping until you cum again. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

He curled his fingers just right, sucking your clit into his mouth at the same time, and the second orgasm built faster, sharper, coiling tight in your belly. Your hips rocked against his face, leather jacket creaking, rain pouring down your body as you chased the feeling, completely lost in the heat of his mouth and the cold rain and the way he was touching you like he never wanted to stop.

“I’m close—Jay, I’m so close—”

“Come on, baby,” he murmured, voice muffled against your pussy, “let go, I’ve got you, cum for me.”

You came again with a sharp cry, thighs shaking violently around his shoulders, the pleasure so intense it bordered on overwhelming, wave after wave crashing through you until you were trembling and oversensitive and barely able to stand. Jay worked you through it, tongue gentle now, fingers slowing until you were a shaking, gasping mess against the car.

When he finally stood, his sharp jaw was glistening with you and rain. He kissed you slow and deep, hands cupping your face like you were something precious.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered against your mouth, voice wrecked, “so fucking perfect.”

You were still catching your breath, legs weak, when he pulled you closer, forehead pressed to yours under the pouring rain. The rain kept falling, cold and steady, but the heat between you two felt like it could burn the whole world down.

Jay’s hands trembled as he helped you toward the open back door, “inside,” he rasped, voice wrecked, “now—I need you.”

You barely had time to nod before he guided you into the cramped backseat. The space was ridiculously tight—his broad shoulders brushed the roof, his knees dug into the leather, and there was almost no room to move. But the moment the door slammed shut behind you, the world narrowed to nothing but the two of you. The windows fogged instantly from the heat of your bodies, turning the glass opaque, the rain a constant heavy roar on the roof that sealed you both in your own private storm.

Jay settled between your spread thighs in missionary, his sharp jaw clenched tight, dark eyes locked on yours in the dim, foggy light. Rain still dripped from his hair onto your chest. Your jeans were tangled around one ankle, your leather jacket half-off and sticking to the seat, but none of it mattered. He braced one hand beside your head, the other gently cupping your face.

“We don’t have a condom,” he said again, voice low and serious even now, thumb stroking your cheek, “I can stop, I can pull out—whatever you want, baby. Just tell mw.”

You shook your head, pulling him down by the back of his neck, “I don’t care,” you whispered, honest and aching, “I don’t want anything between us, please, Jay—I need you inside me.”

Something in his expression shattered—raw hunger and relief and so much love it made your chest hurt. He kissed you deeply, then reached down to free himself. His cock was heavy and thick, flushed dark at the tip and already leaking. You swallowed hard at the sight.

Jay stroked himself once, eyes never leaving your face, “we’ll go slow,” he promised, voice strained, “tell me if it’s too much. I’ve got you, baby.”

He lined himself up and pressed the head against your entrance. The stretch was immediate and intense—he was big, thicker than you’d expected, and even after everything he’d done with his mouth and fingers the burn made you gasp. He pushed in just the tip, then stopped, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.

“Breathe for me,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, “that’s it—you’re doing so good, so fucking good for me.”

You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders through the wet shirt, “Jay—you’re so big. Fuck—”

“I know,” he murmured, voice shaking with restraint, “I’ve got you, just relax, hm? Let me in, baby.”

He eased in another inch, slow and careful, eyes locked on yours the whole time. The car was so cramped that every tiny movement made the leather creak beneath you as the rain hammered the roof. The fogged windows trapped the heat and the scent of rain-soaked leather and sex. Your soaked jeans were still tangled around one ankle, your leather jacket half-off and sticking to the seat, but none of it mattered. Another inch. You gasped, thighs trembling around his hips.

“Talk to me,” Jay breathed, pausing again, thumb stroking your cheek, “does it hurt?”

“A little,” you admitted, voice small and honest, “but don’t stop. I want it.”

He groaned softly and kissed you again, deep and slow, as he pushed in further. It took long, careful minutes — every inch earned with kisses and whispers and his thumb circling your clit to help you relax. When he finally bottomed out, buried to the hilt inside you, you both let out shaky, broken moans.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered against your neck, voice cracking, “you feel—perfect. So warm around me, I can’t believe this is real.”

He stayed still for a long moment, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours while the rain continued its endless rhythm on the roof. Then he started moving, slow, deep rolls of his hips that made the car rock gently beneath you. Every thrust dragged against that spot inside you that made sparks burst behind your eyes.

You wrapped your legs around his waist as best you could in the tight space, pulling him closer, “Jay—harder,” you gasped, “I can take it, please.”

He gave it to you, still careful at first, but deeper, faster, the wet slap of skin and the creak of leather mixing with your moans and the roar of the rain outside. His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together above your head as he fucked you.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice raw, “I need to see you.”

You did, and in that cramped, fogged-up car, with the rain pouring down around you, you reached your high again—hard, clenching around him, crying out his name like it was the only word you knew. Jay followed soon after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a broken groan, hips stuttering, face pressed into your neck like he never wanted to let go.

He stayed there, still inside you, breathing hard against your skin while the rain continued its endless rhythm on the roof. Neither of you moved for a long time.

He stayed there, still buried deep inside you, breathing hard against your neck while the rain hammered the roof like it was trying to drown out the world. The fogged windows had turned the car into a small, steamy cocoon, the leather seats slick beneath your bodies, the air thick with the scent of rain, leather, and sex. Jay’s sharp jaw rested against your collarbone, his breath hot and uneven, one hand still laced with yours above your head like he couldn’t bear to let go even for a second.

Eventually he lifted his head, dark eyes soft but still burning as they met yours in the dim light, “you okay?” he whispered, voice hoarse, “did I hurt you?”

You shook your head, a shaky, breathless laugh escaping you, “no—it was perfect. You were perfect, but I’m not done with you yet.”

Jay’s eyebrows lifted, that familiar cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth even now, “oh? Greedy tonight, are we?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, pushing at his chest until he sat back against the seat. The cramped space made it awkward, but you didn’t care. You swung one leg over him and straddled his lap, settling on top of him in the tight backseat. The position put you in control and you liked it. You reached between you, wrapping your hand around his thick, still-hard cock, stroking him slowly. Jay hissed, head falling back against the seat, sharp jaw tight as he watched you with dark, hooded eyes.

“Fuck, baby—you’re really gonna ride me like this?” He groaned, hands gripping your hips, fingers digging into the wet denim, “after everything, you still wanna be in charge?”

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his ear, “you had your turn,” you whispered, voice bratty and breathless, “now it’s mine—unless you’re scared you can’t handle it.”

Jay laughed, low and rough, but his grip on your hips tightened, “scared? Of you? Never, but if you think you can take all of me again so soon, go ahead. Show me what you’ve got.”

You lined him up and sank down slowly, the stretch still intense even after everything. You gasped, thighs trembling as you took him inch by inch, the cramped space forcing you to stay close, chest to chest. Jay’s hands stayed on your hips, guiding you but not forcing, his breath hitching every time you sank lower.

“Easy, my love,” he murmured, voice strained, “don’t rush it. You’re so fucking tight around me—fuck, just like that.”

“Shut up,” you hissed, even as you moaned, sinking further. “You’re so big it’s ridiculous. How the hell do you fit?”

Jay’s sharp jaw clenched, a smirk flashing across his face, “you’re the one who wanted it raw, remember? No complaining now, princess. Take it.”

You bottomed out with a broken moan, both of you cursing under your breath. For a moment you just sat there, forehead pressed to his, breathing the same air, the rain still hammering the roof like white noise. Then you started moving slow, rolling your hips in teasing circles at first, testing the angle, feeling every thick inch of him inside you. Jay groaned, hands sliding under your jacket to grip your bare waist, thumbs digging in hard enough to leave marks.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed, eyes dark as he watched you ride him, “so pretty when you’re on top of me like this. Taking every inch like you were made for it.”

You picked up the pace, rising and sinking faster, the wet slap of skin mixing with the creak of leather and the roar of the rain, “don’t get cocky,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, “you’re the one who’s been chasing me for days. Who’s the desperate one now?”

Jay laughed, but it came out broken as you ground down hard, “me. I’m the desperate one. Always have been for you.” He thrust up to meet you, making you cry out, “but you’re the one who ran out here in the middle of the night just to get fucked by me, so who’s really desperate?”

“Asshole,” you moaned, but you rode him harder, bouncing properly now, the angle hitting that perfect spot with every drop. The car rocked noticeably, the fogged windows completely opaque, the confined space making every movement more intense.

Jay’s hands roamed, one sliding up to squeeze your breast, the other gripping your ass to help you move, “yeah? Call me an asshole when you cream all over my cock, hm? That’s my girl.”

You leaned forward, biting his neck, making him hiss, even though you fucking loved hearing that, “your girl? You wish. You don’t get to claim me after disappearing on me again.”

He groaned, hips snapping up harder, “too bad, baby—I’m claiming you right now. Every inch of this pussy is mine, say it.”

You laughed breathlessly, even as you clenched around him, “make me.”

Jay cursed, one hand tangling in your wet hair, tugging your head back so he could kiss you filthy and deep while you kept riding him. The kiss was all tongue and teeth, messy and angry and perfect. You kept moving, rolling and bouncing, the leather creaking beneath you, the rain a constant roar that made everything feel even more private.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned against your mouth, “so wet, I can feel you dripping down my balls, baby. You’re making such a mess.”

“Shut up,” you moaned, but your hips stuttered, the dirty words going straight to your core, “you talk too much.”

“And you love it,” he shot back, smirking, “you love when I tell you how good you’re taking me. How deep I am inside you. How no one else will ever feel this good to you again.”

You rode him harder, chasing the edge, thighs burning but refusing to slow down, “you’re so fucking full of yourself.”

“Yeah?” He thrust up sharply, making you cry out, “you’re the one who’s full of me right now, baby.”

You came with a loud, broken moan, nails raking down his chest, body shaking as the orgasm crashed through you. Jay followed right after, groaning your name as he spilled deep inside you again, hips stuttering, arms wrapping tight around your waist like he never wanted to let go.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with rain and sweat. The rain was still hammering the roof, the car still fogged up, the world outside completely forgotten.

After a long minute Jay kissed the top of your head, voice soft but still rough, “we should probably head home—but first, your bike.”

You lifted your head, still dazed, “shit—my bike.”

He smiled, small and tired, and kissed you gently, “It’ll be safe. No one uses this road at night. I’ll come back for it first thing in the morning myself, I promise. Right now I just need to get you home with me. Where you belong.”

You nodded, melting into him, “hmm—take me home.”

The drive was quiet and peaceful. The rain tapped softly against the windshield, the wipers moving in a gentle rhythm. Jay didn’t say much at first, just held you closer whenever the car turned a corner, like he was afraid the night might steal you away again. The warmth of his body seeped through your damp clothes, chasing away the last traces of the cold rain. Every so often his thumb would press a little firmer on your thigh, a silent reminder that he was really here, that this was real, that you were with him.

When he finally pulled into the driveway, the house was dark and still. He turned off the engine and turned to you, leaning in to kiss you slow and sweet, like he had all the time in the world now, smiling into the kiss.

Inside, you left a trail of wet clothes behind you as he led you to the bathroom. He turned the shower on hot, steam quickly filling the small space. He undressed you with gentle hands, peeling the soaked leather jacket from your shoulders, then your shirt, then the heavy jeans that had clung to your legs all night. Every touch was careful, reverent even. He stepped under the shower with you, pulling you against his chest, the hot water cascading over both of you like a fresh start.

His hands soaped your skin slowly, washing away the rain, the road, the fear. He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, murmuring soft things between each touch. The water made everything feel warmer, safer, more intimate. He lifted you gently, your back against the tiled wall, legs wrapping around him, and slid into you slow and deep. There was no rush this time, just long, tender strokes, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked as he moved inside you. You moaned softly into his mouth, clinging to him, the steam and the heat and the love making everything feel safe and overwhelming all at once. You came with his name on your lips, soft and trembling, and he followed right after, spilling inside you with a quiet groan, holding you close like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held.

Afterwards he dried you with a warm towel, wrapped you in one of his big hoodies, and carried you to your bed. He tucked you under the blankets and climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms. You curled against his chest, his hand stroking your back in slow, soothing strokes. The room was quiet except for the distant sound of rain against the window. Jay’s fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, his breath warm against your hair. After a long moment he spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you,” he said softly, the words slipping out like they’d been waiting years to be said, “I love you, Y/N—I’ve loved you for so long. Even when I thought I’d lost you forever, even when I thought you hated me. I love you.”

Your heart started beating out of your chest, heat creeping up your neck. You lifted your head to look at him, fingers tracing the line of his sharp jaw in the dark, “I love you too,” you whispered, the words coming out easy and true, “I love you, Jay. I never stopped, not even when it hurt.”

Jay’s breath caught. He searched your eyes for a second, almost disbelieving, “you don’t have to say it back just because I did, baby,” he said quietly, voice gentle, “I know I hurt you. I know it’s going to take time. You don’t have to say it if you’re not ready.”

You smiled softly and cupped his cheek, “I’m ready,” you told him, voice steady and full of warmth, “I mean it, I love you.”

Jay’s eyes softened completely, and he leaned in to kissed you slow and deep, like he was pouring every feeling into it. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again, a small, grateful smile on his lips.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, but there was no sadness in it—only quiet wonder, “but I’m going to spend every day trying to.”

You smiled against his chest, already drifting off in the safety of his arms, “good, because I’m not going anywhere.”

With that softness surrounding your being, you both fell asleep in each other’s warmth, smiles never leaving your faces. Jay watched you sleep, planting a soft kiss on your forehead as he tightened his hold on you, drifting into the dreamland. 

So, when the next morning you woke up to an empty bed, you wondered if it was truly a dream, or a joke of some sort. The spot beside you was cold, panic hitting you instantly. Your heart slammed against your ribs as you sat up, clutching the sheet to your chest. Had he left? 

That’s when the door creaked open.

Jay stepped in, hair messy, wearing the same clothes from last night, now dry. He was holding a key in one hand and your helmet in the other, and when he saw your face all wide-eyed, worried, a little scared—his expression softened immediately.

“Hey, baby,” he said gently, setting the helmet down and crossing the room in two strides. He climbed onto the bed and pulled you into his arms, kissing you slow and deep, like he was trying to erase the fear, “I’m right here, I just went to get your bike before anyone else could. It’s safe in the garage now, yeah? I’m not going anywhere, my love, I promise.”

You melted into the kiss, fingers curling into his shirt, the panic fading under the warmth of his mouth as he got under the covers with you again.

Right then the door opened again.

“Y/N?” Sunghoon’s voice called out as he stepped inside, still half-asleep, rubbing his eyes, “what do you want for breakfast—”

He stopped dead when he took in the scene in front of him—you and Jay frozen, lips still inches apart, bodies tangled under the sheet, Jay’s hand still cupping your face. It would have been rather comical how Sunghoon’s eyes had widened, but nothing seemed funny at the given moment.

You and Jay looked at him, then at each other, the words leaving your mouth at the same time.

“Oh no.” 

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[nephynes]

IN THE HOUSE OF PARK ──.୨ৎ park sunghoon one shot

Being married to Park Sunghoon was simply defined by polite distance and a perfectly curated public image. Who would’ve thought all it would take to fracture that was a single overhead conversation?

nsfw warnings ── he’s so pathetic i want him, angst if you’re..? unprotected sex, virginity loss, oral (f rec), messy eater hoon, squirting, big dick hoon, he gets a little mean, creampie, fingering, slight breeding/pregancy kink, praise, mild verbal degradation, size difference, power exchange, overstimulation, sexual frustration, slow burn (kinda), let me know if i missed any.

word count ── 7.3k

Your arranged marriage with the Park Sunghoon had always been a work of art in his opinion, when he married you about twenty six months ago, it was with the detached logic of a merger. He provided you the legacy and the financial fortress while you provided the grace a woman married to him needed to have—you were flawless and the maternal warmth for the child you had brought into the world via surrogacy was indeed the cherry on top of your beautiful marriage on paper.

For the first year and a half, he really was content. You were like roommates who shared a last name and a common goal. He worked at his family firm and you managed the house and the social calendar.

Then, Sunghoon began working from his home office more frequently and the distance he had carefully maintained started to collapse. It was like suddenly, you weren't just a figure at the other end of the dining table. You were now a constant and vibrant presence in his periphery. He'd be mid call with clients in another country and see you through the glass doors, sitting in the sun drenched morning room with a cup of tea, looking so serene it made his own chest ache with a sudden envy for your peace.

He’d see you with the baby, your hair pulled back as you laugh at something the child did, it was a side of you he never saw under the harsh lights of a ballroom. He’d see you headed to the home gym in those form fitting yoga sets that highlighted exactly how much he had been missing by staying at the office until midnight.

The professionalism he prided himself on was starting to fray.

One afternoon, you tapped on his office door dressed to go out with an elegant tailored coat draped over your shoulders, looking every bit the sophisticated wife of a high ranking man.

"Sunghoon? I'm headed out to Mrs Yang’s ladies brunch we discussed. I've made sure the nurse has everything for the evening," you said softly, standing in the doorway. "I'll likely be back after you've had dinner."

He looked up from his monitors, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses. For a split second, the urge to tell you not to go and to stay here, the urge to tell you to sit in the chair opposite him and to just be was so overwhelming he almost spoke it. He wanted to ask you what you did when you weren't being his wife, he wanted to know what you thought about when you were alone in this massive house.

"I see," he managed with a low voice. He cleared his throat and adjusted his collar as if it were suddenly too tight. "Enjoy yourself. Don't feel rushed."

"Thank you, Sunghoon," you replied with that same cordial smile you'd given him for a year and a half.

As you turned to leave, the scent of your perfume lingered in the room, and Sunghoon felt a wave of genuine panic. He was falling in love with his own wife—a woman he had treated like a business partner for over six hundred days, yet he didn't know how to bridge the gap without breaking the perfect arrangement you had built together. He was a man who handled billions of dollars with ease and yet he found himself completely paralyzed by the idea of asking you to stay for dinner just because he liked the way you breathed.

Days later, he walked out of his office, originally intending to simply check on the baby in the nursery, but the sight of the hallway bathroom your preferred door ajar and the sound of your voice drifting from inside stopped him in his tracks. He stood in the hallway, the thick carpet muffling his presence as he heard the unmistakable splashing of water and the clear sound of a voice on speakerphone.

"I still can't wrap my head around it, girl. I’ll tell you that for free," your friend's voice echoed through the bathroom. "You’re like the blueprint of the perfect society wife...and you're a married virgin…with a kid. How does it feel, honestly?"

Sunghoon swore his heart skipped a few beats, his hand grabbing the wall for balance. A virgin? The logic of his world shifted until he felt dizzy. He had assumed, given your poise and the ease with which you navigated adulthood, that your past was just as lived in as his own.

He heard you giggle and it was a light sound he rarely heard in his presence. "You can't miss something you've never had," you replied and he could almost picture the shrug of your shoulders. Then, your voice dropped into a conspiratorial, slightly dirty tone that sent lightening straight to his gut. "Besides, it's not like I'm exactly suffering. I just rub my clit a little when I'm feeling particularly aroused and that usually does it for me. It's efficient."

The mental image of you alone in your bed a few doors from his, touching yourself because of a need he hadn't even considered you had, was almost too much to process. He felt a sudden, sharp spike of arousal but he also wanted to throw up.

"I just don't know how you two do it," your friend laughed. "Living in that house together, looking like that."

"It's easy, really," you said and the nonchalance in your voice hit him like a punch to the gut. "I'm pretty sure Sunghoon has a mistress. Some girl in a penthouse that he pays for to keep him satisfied. It makes sense, really. He's a man with needs and he's certainly not getting it here."

You sounded...relieved, you sounded like the idea of him being with someone else was somehow a weight off your shoulders, like it was a logical solution to a problem you didn't want to solve.

He felt a surge of rage even down to his fingertips, he didn't have a mistress. What he did have was a mountain of work and a growing obsession with the woman currently dismissing him as some predictable cliché. The fact that you thought so little of his character or perhaps so little of your own appeal, made him want to barge into the room and show you exactly how satisfied he wasn't.

But he stood there instead, letting his knuckles turn white as he fought the urge to kick the door open and confront you. He wanted to tell you that there was no penthouse, no other girl and that the only person he wanted to satisfy him was the one currently applying toner and joking about her virginity. He stayed rooted to the spot cause he couldn’t bring himself to move an inch, the cordial roommate facade had finally shattered beyond repair. He wasn't just a husband in name anymore, he was now a man who had been challenged and he was finally ready to break the rules of your arrangement.

"I mean, look at him," you continued, your voice taking on a wistful quality that Sunghoon had never been privy to. "I'm not blind. I've definitely fantasized about it. He's incredibly attractive and if he ever actually tried...well, I wouldn't exactly say no. But that's never going to happen, so whatever. It's better this way."

"I don't know," your friend hummed in a more suggestive tone. "With those shoulders and the way he carries himself? He looks like he could probably fuck you mid air without breaking a sweat. I've seen him lift your baby's heavy ass stroller like it was a feather."

You let out a genuine laugh that echoed through the bathroom. "Stop! You're going to make it weird the next time I have to see him at dinner."

The sound of your footsteps approaching the door snapped him out of his trance, the adrenaline spike was instantaneous, it made him bolt down the hallway with his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that no board meeting had ever achieved. He stopped a few doors down, quickly smoothing his shirt and taking a deep breath just as you stepped out into the corridor in a silk robe.

He turned back toward you, timing it perfectly so it looked like he was just making his way from the nursery toward the stairs. You nearly bumped into him, your eyes widening in mild surprise. You looked fresh, your skin glowing from your skincare routine and for the first time, Sunghoon didn't bother to stop his eyes from dropping to your lips.

"Oh! Hello, Sunghoon," you said and he couldn't help but notice how your voice returned to that perfectly modulated tone. There wasn't a hint of the dirty girl he'd just heard on the phone.

"I didn't realize you were still upstairs. Have you had lunch yet? I can have the kitchen prepare something for you if you're planning on staying in the office for the afternoon."

You looked at him with such sweet, domestic concern, asking if he'd eaten as if you hadn't just spent the last ten minutes psychoanalyzing his sex life and debating his physical strength with your little friend.

He stared at you, eyes dark and searching. He knew the united front was still there but now he also knew what was hiding behind it. He knew you wanted him, he knew you were just waiting for him to move. And most importantly, he knew you were his—completely untouched and entirely misinformed about where he spent his nights.

"I haven't," he finally said before he took a half step closer, encroaching on your personal space just enough to see your smile shake. "Perhaps you'll join me? I think it's time we had a conversation that isn't about some stupid society event."

"Oh. Uh—What do you mean, Sunghoon?"

"What do I mean?" he repeated, the discipline that had defined his entire life for nearly thirty years finally snapping. He had never been good at keeping secrets—his integrity was too rigid and his conscience too loud. The words didn't just tumble out, they literally erupted. "I mean I don't have a mistress, Y/n. I haven't even looked at another woman, let alone touched one, since the day our families sat us down in that boardroom to discuss this arrangement."

You stood frozen, the blood draining from your face as the weight of his words hit you. The realization that he had been standing right there and had heard every shameful, intimate detail of your phone call made your ears ring.

"The idea of a woman in a penthouse somewhere is...it's preposterous. I've spent every night in this house, working myself to exhaustion just so I wouldn't have to face the fact that I'm sharing a roof with a woman I'm fucking terrified to touch."

"Sunghoon, I—" You let out a hysterical burst of laughter, your hands coming up to cover your mouth. It was clearly a nervous reflex, an attempt to bridge the sudden, terrifying gap of vulnerability between you. "It was a joke! It was just…just girl talk! I was just...my friend was being silly and I was just playing along. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to imply—"

"I don't care about your apology," he interrupted, his voice thick with a desperate honesty. He stepped further into your space, forcing you to look up at him. "I heard it all. I heard that you think I'm off with some mistress while I'm actually in my office, three doors down from you, trying to figure out how to be half a decent husband to a woman I do not want to lose."

He paced a small circle, his hand raking through his perfectly styled hair until it was a mess. "I failed you. I've lived in this house for so long thinking I was being good man and instead, I've left my wife wondering if she's enough. I didn't know you were a virgin. I didn't know you were waiting."

He stopped and looked at you, his eyes now burning with a mix of shame and agonizing heat. "You want to talk about efficiency? You want to talk about rubbing your clit to get it over with?" He let out a cold self deprecating sound. "I spent twenty minutes in the shower this morning jerking off like a goddamn teenager because I saw you in that green yoga set and I couldn't breathe. I do it every single day, sometimes twice a day. I do it because I'm so goddamn in love with you that I don't know how to function and I thought—I thought if I touched you, I'd break the only peace you had in this marriage."

"You drive me fucking insane, Y/n."

The silence that followed was charged with the sudden collapse of two years months of pretension. Your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your whole body.

"And as for your friend's little comment..." his gaze dropped in a way that made your knees go weak. He closed the remaining distance, his large hands coming up to grip your waist, his thumbs hooking into the belt of your robe. "Yes. I am more than strong enough to fuck you mid air. I am strong enough to do anything you want, for as long as you want it. Just...please. Don't think so lowly of me. Don't think I'd ever seek out a substitute for the only woman I've ever truly wanted."

He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot against your lips and now there was only him, trembling with two years worth of suppressed worship, waiting for you to tell him that the fantasies weren't just talk.

You didn't have the words to bridge the gap he'd just torn open, so you did the only thing that felt right, standing up on your tiptoes and looping your arms around his neck to press your lips to his.

It was a clumsy, hesitant kiss, the only other time you'd felt his mouth on yours was that brief peck at the altar when you got married. You didn't know how to move your lips against his or where to put your tongue but the moment you made contact, he let out a deep groan like a man who had been starving and was finally offered a feast.

He didn't wait, sliding his large hands from your waist to your thighs and hiking you up, your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist and you felt the sheer, solid strength your friend had just joked about. He carried you blindly toward your suite, his mouth never leaving yours, tongue growing hungrier and more authoritative as he realized you were leaning into him.

You shrugged the silk robe off your shoulders, letting it pool on the tile like discarded skin. When your back finally hit the mattress, the sheets were cool compared to the heat radiating of Sunghoon’s body as he loomed over you. He had his weight propped on his forearms with his whole body trembling.

He looked down at you with untamed lust. He reached out with his thumb to trace the line of your lower lip, which was now swollen and red from his kiss.

"I have wanted this every single second since I met you," he confessed in a trembling voice, he was shaking with the effort of holding himself back. He was a man of logic and even now, at the edge of his control, he still needed to be sure. "I am going to be as gentle or as rough as you want but I need you to understand...once I start, I'm not going to want to stop. If you have any doubts—if you want me to wait another year, another hour—you have to say it right now."

He lowered himself just an inch, his nose brushing against yours, the scent of his expensive cologne and masculine heat overwhelming your senses.

"Tell me," he commanded softly, his hand shifting down to rest flat against your stomach, right above the lace of your panties. "Do you want your husband, Y/n? Because I am yours. Every part of me."

He took your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours, and began a slow tour of his body. He guided your palm over the hard line of his jaw, down the column of his throat where his pulse was thrashing and across the broad expanse of his chest. "Look at me," he pleaded desperately. "Every inch of this, every thought in my head...belongs to you. I've been holding it all for you."

He slid your hand further down, past the ridges of his stomach, until your palm was pressed firmly against the straining length of his cock trapped behind his trousers. You gasped cause the size and heat of him stole the air from your lungs but as you instinctively curled your fingers around him, Sunghoon shook his head. "Not yet," he murmured with a hungry smirk on his lips. "I haven’t even started worshipping you yet. I just want to taste you first."

He moved so gracefully, sliding down the length of your body until he was laid between your knees and with a decisive tug, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and dragged them down your legs.

The sudden rush of cool air against your heated skin made you shiver, you’d spent so long hiding yourself, playing the role of the composed and dutiful wife, that the reality of Sunghoon staring directly at your most intimate parts made you feel shameful. You immediately tried to clamp your thighs shut with a whimper of shyness escaping you.

"No," Sunghoon rumbled, his large hands clamping onto your knees and forcing them wide. "Don't hide from me. I've spent all this time imagining exactly what you looked like right here."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your inner thighs, making the fine hairs on your skin stand up. He didn’t just look, though, he reached out and used his thumbs to gently spread your pussy lips apart. The sight of your center so slick and swollen made his pupils dilate until his eyes were almost entirely black. He watched in a trance as a fresh wave of wetness gushed out, a clear testament to how much his words had affected you.

"Look how much you want me," he whispered with triumph, not waiting one more minute before swiping his tongue upward in a long stroke that gathered every drop of your sweetness. The sensation was so intense and so direct that your hips jerked off the bed in a violent twitch. You let out a high pitched cry, immediately tangling your fingers in his dark hair as he settled in, his tongue moving with devastating pressure that told you he wasn't going anywhere until he'd tasted every bit of the pleasure he'd been denied.

Sunghoon was entirely too methodical, he was treating your body with the same terrifyingly focused certainty he brought to everything else in his life. He buried his face between your thighs, his nose pressing into your clit as his tongue focused on your leaking hole, he ate you out with a hunger that was almost feral, his tongue flat and firm as it licked long strokes from your opening all the way to your clit.

The sounds filling the room were the wet slapping of his mouth against you mixed with the broken whines you were letting out. He already had you babbling nonsense, your hands gripping his shoulders, then his hair, then the sheets, your head thrashing as he drank you in. You were so sensitive that every flick of his tongue felt like a bolt of electricity, making your thighs tremble uncontrollably and he didn’t seem to care that the mixture of his saliva and your overflowing wetness was now drooling down his chin to his skin, he was being so messy in a way you’d never expected.

He paused for a split second to look up at you through his dark lashes with his face glistening with your slickness. "You're so tight my tongue can’t even go in a little," he rasped. "Can I put a finger in? Just one?"

"Yes—yes, please, Sunghoon," you wailed, suddenly desperate for any kind of fullness.

He still didn't rush it, he took his long middle finger and slowly probed at your entrance with it. You were so wet that he slid in with a soft squelch, the intrusion feeling entirely too massive against your unused walls. You gasped, your eyes rolling back as you felt him stretching you from the inside, he pushed deeper until his knuckles brushed against your folds.

Then, he hooked his finger upward and moment he found that one textured spot on your anterior wall, your entire body stiffened. You bucked against his hand, your hips lifting off the mattress in a frantic search for more pressure. "Mm. It’s there, right?" You couldn’t stop the way you pulsed around his single finger. "Fuck, you’re so responsive."

He started a come hither motion with his finger, while simultaneously lowering his mouth back down to your clit. He was multi tasking with a lethal expertise—his finger hitting that internal spot with every curl while his lips created a vacuum around your sensitive nub.

The combination was too much and before you could help it, you were screaming into the quiet of the mansion, your toes curling as you felt the first tidal wave of an orgasm building in your gut. He sucked harder, his tongue swirling in circles around your clit while his finger stayed hammering and massaging into you until you were nothing but a shaking mess of pleasure. You felt your walls start to contract, milking his finger as you experienced a climax so intense you actually saw spots, your body completely surrendered to the man who had spent your entire marriage so far pretending he didn't want to ruin you just like this.

"Sunghoon, please—don't stop, don't stop!" You were nearly hyperventilating, your voice cracking as you begged him to keep up the relentless pace. The internal pressure from his finger and the tension of his mouth were weaving together into a rush so fervent it was almost painful. "I've never...I've never felt like this, I'm going to—"

You were choking out the words, shocked by how quickly your body had reached its limit. After over two years of nothing but your own careful touch, Sunghoon's extreme competence was hitting you like a freight train. You were on the precipice with your muscles vibrating from the exertion of holding on, when suddenly, a new and terrifying sensation washed over you.

It felt like a build up in your bladder, it was a sudden and very heavy fullness that made you panic. "Sunghoon, wait! Stop, stop!" you gasped, your hands flying to his head to try and pull him away. "I think...I think I'm going to pee. Oh my god, Sunghoon, let go!"

You were absolutely mortified, the woman who prided herself on her perfect composure was about to humiliate herself in front of the man who had just confessed his love for her. You tried to clamp your legs shut, to scramble away from him on the sheets but Sunghoon was an immovable force.

He didn't budge. Instead, he shifted his grip and his large hands locked onto your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide open for him. He looked up at you with his face wet and a knowing smirk on his lips. "Don't hold back, baby. Give it to me. Give it all to me."

He didn't give you a choice, diving back down and tracing his tongue over your clit with a more violent speed while his finger hooked deep and hard into that spongy spot.

The dam snapped and you let out a strangled sob as you completely lost control of your body. You weren’t just cumming like you did alone in your bed, your pussy erupted like a geyser. A hot gush of fluid sprayed out of you, drenching his face, his lips and even the hands that were holding you open. It felt amazing, like a release so profound it felt like every nerve in your body was being cleansed but the moment the initial wave subsides, horror quickly took over.

You collapsed back against the pillows, sobbing and shaking from how hard he had just made you cum and pure embarrassment, your face buried in your hands. "I'm so sorry!" You wailed, the humiliation ruining the afterglow. "I'm so sorry, Sunghoon, I didn't mean to...I ruined it."

Sunghoon didn't look upset or angry, he gently sat back on his heels, wiping a stray drop of your sweetness from his cheek with his thumb before licking it off with a swipe of his tongue. He looked like a feral thing that had just been given exactly what it wanted.

"It’s okay, my love," he cooed, his eyes burning with such a beautiful passion. He crawled back up the bed, pressing over you once more, his scent now unmistakably mixed with yours. "That was you cumming for your husband. And if you think I'm disgusted, you clearly haven't been paying attention to a word I said. I want every single drop of you."

Sunghoon's focus softened, though the heat behind his eyes didn’t faded. He drew closer and you could see his face still shimmering with the evidence of your release. "Do you want to taste yourself?" he whispered against your lips.

You could only nod, your voice lost to the haze of the afterglow and he crashed his mouth against yours, a possessive kiss that tasted of salt and you. It was a physical claim, a bridge between your bodies that shattered the last of your shyness. When he pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, he sounded breathless. "I love you. God, I love you so much. I've been dying in this house for twenty six months."

"I—I love you too, Sunghoon."

He kissed you again, a little more tenderly this time but the friction of his body against yours was a reminder of the unfinished business straining against his clothes.

Boldness, fueled by the euphoria of your climax took over and your hands trembled the moment you reached down, your fingers reaching blindly to the button of his linen pants. You pried it open and when the fabric gave way, you slid your hand beneath the waistband to cup him over his boxers.

Sunghoon let out a hoarse groan, his head snapping back. He suddenly grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away with a look of excruciating containment. "Don't," he forced out, his jaw ticking. "Don't start something you can't finish, my love. If you…If you touch me like that, I'm not going to be able to be gentle."

You looked up at him with your pupils blown wide. "Please fuck me," you whispered, the words feeling heavy and electric on your tongue. "I want my husband to fuck me. Now."

Sunghoon froze a little, a startled laugh breaking from his chest. "I had no idea my little wife was so vulgar," he jested, his eyes dancing with a delighted light. "I like it. I like it a lot."

He moved with a heightened energy, kicking off his pants and discarding his shirt in a matter of seconds. You sat up, your hands reaching for the hem of your silk slip that had been pushed up and pulled it over your head.

As the fabric fell away, leaving you completely bare in the soft light of the bedroom, Sunghoon stopped. He looked at your chest, his stare tracing the swell of your breasts.

"Fuck," he breathed, the word sounding like a raw exhaled prayer. He looked like a man seeing a miracle for the first time. "I truly don’t know how I lasted this long. I must be stronger than I thought. You really are perfect...my beautiful wife."

He crawled back over you, finally pressing the weight of his bare chest into yours. The immense, solid mass of him was consuming in the best way possible. He pinned your wrists above your head, feeling his cock heavy and hot against your thigh. "I really hope I can live up to your fantasies."

Sunghoon's breath was dragging in a way that betrayed his own desperation as soon as he settled between your thighs. He didn't just shove himself in—he was carefully obsessive, even now. He took the blunt head of his weeping cock and dragged it upward, tracing the line of your slit until he was circling your clit with the hardened tip of his length.

He was massive and now that he was pressed against your entrance, you realized he was easily twice as thick as the finger that had just had you screaming, if not thrice. The reality of what was about to happen made your breath come in short bursts and your thighs trembled against his hips.

"You're shaking," he whispered, his voice thick with a mix of concern and uncontrollable hunger. He stopped the teasing friction, resting his weight on his forearms as he looked down at you. "Look at me. It...it might hurt a little at first. I'm trying to be careful but you're so damn small."

"I know," you whimpered, nodding as you reached up to grip his biceps. "I know, just...please."

He nodded once, his jaw tightening as he lined himself up with your sopping hole and pushed forward slowly. You felt the initial stretch, the instant sting of your body being forced to accommodate him. It was more painful than you'd imagined, like a searing ache that made you gasp and arch your back off the bed, unintentionally digging your nails into the skin of his shoulders as you clung to him like a lifeline.

"Hmpf, Sunghoon—wait, wait," you cried into his neck, your body instinctively tensing up against the massive intrusion.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, my love." He was so sweet, immediately slowing down his movement and staying right there with his forehead pressed against yours as he rained soft kisses over your eyelids and cheeks. "Just breathe. You have to relax for me. Please let me in, baby."

He waited patiently, even though his own body was shaking with the thought of not just taking what he wanted. He spoke to you in a low, soothing hum, words of praise and love that started to dull the sharp edges of the pain. "You're so tight, baby," he groaned in a pained sound that escaped him cause you couldn’t stop the way your muscles clenched around him. "It's like you're trying to snap my—shit—my cock off. I can barely move, you're squeezing me so hard."

Slowly but surely, the sting faded into something dull. You took a deep breath, consciously trying to sink into the mattress and open up for him. As you relaxed, he felt the shift and inched forward again—just a fraction of an inch at a time. It was a slow conquest and finally with one last, deep thrust of his hips, he bottomed out.

You let out a shaky exhale, feeling the weight of him kissing your cervix, filling every possible corner of your body. The ache was gone, overtaken by a staggering sense of fullness that made you feel connected to him in a way that went beyond the physical.

"There," he sounded completely taken apart. He stayed buried deep inside you, his chest panting against yours as he watched your face. "I'm all the way in. How does it feel? Tell me you're okay."

"It's...so big," you trembled, your legs locking around his waist to keep him right where he was. "I feel so full with you."

He let out a sigh of a laugh, his eyes dilating as he realized the hardest part was finally over.

Sunghoon was a man of absolute control but having you pinned beneath him and hearing your body finally accept him was pushing him to his limits. He started with a little grind of his hips, rotating against your sensitive core with a push that forced you to feel every ridged inch of his girth. He was so unhurried, watching the pain melt into a foggy and heavy lidded pleasure.

Once your pained whimpers dissolved into needy moans, the last of his restraint snapped just a little and he reached down to grab your ankle and hook your leg over his broad shoulder, opening you up even further. The new angle allowed him to drive in deeper, his hips snapping forward a little faster than before.

"Sunghoon...oh god, Sunghoon," you moaned, thrashing your head against the sheets, the perfect wife persona you wore stripped away until there was nothing left but your raw honesty. "It's so deep inside me...I love it! I love you—I love your cock so much, it feels so big inside me...please, don't stop."

The utter vulgarity of your praise for him, coming from the woman he thought was untouchable made his pace shatter into something more erratic. He let out a hurt groan, while hitting all the right spots with every wet thrust, the sound of your skin slapping together echoing in the silent room.

"Shut up." The words escaped him in dangerous growl before he leaned down to bite at the junction of your neck and shoulder. He didn't actually want you to stop but the way you were talking, the way you were worshipping him as he took your innocence was making his vision go dark. "If you keep talking like that, I'm going to lose it. I'm going to finish in ten seconds if you don't shut your mouth."

But he didn't slow down. If anything, your words made him meaner and his thrusts turned into deep pounds that had him bottoming out inside you. He was obsessed with the way you were stretching for him, the way your walls were milking him with every sob that fell from your lips. He was no longer the polite or distant husband, he became a man possessed and determined to make sure that the first time you ever felt a man would be a sensation that burned his name into your very soul.

Sunghoon grabbed your other leg and threw it over his shoulder until you were folded practically in half, your hips tilted high and vulnerable. He leaned his full weight down, pinning you into the mattress with his broad chest. In this position, he was able to fuck you even deeper with each thud so wet that it left you struggling to breathe.

He paused for a second, his face inches from yours to kiss you with a messy hunger before pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. "Tell me," he commanded in a way that settled deep in your bones. "Who owns this pussy? Who owns every inch of you?"

"You!" you screamed immediately, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back as he gave you fast and punishing thrusts. "You...my husband! Only you, Sunghoon!"

He let out a groan and his pace turned a little depraved. He was slamming into you faster now, his large hands reaching down to squeeze at your breast and pinch your nipples before sliding down to your waist and digging his thumbs into your hips to keep you from moving away.

"And whose cock?" he growled, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he snapped his hips forward again and again until all you could hear was the wetness of your pussy as the fucked into you. "Whose big cock is fucking you right now? Whose length is stretching you out and making you feel this good?"

"Yours!" you sobbed hard, your whole body shaking against the sheets cause another wave of overstimulation crashed over you. "It's yours...Sunghoon's cock! My husband's cock is fucking me so good...please, Sunghoon, more! Fuck me harder! I think I’ll cum like this!"

The sound of your voice, so broken and begging for him was driving him insane but he didn't say another word, he just buried his face in the crook of your neck and fucked his cock imto you with everything he had, intent on leaving his mark on the wife who finally and truly belonged to him.

Sunghoon's breathing had devolved into a series of pointed stutters, his entire body was wound tight with a tension so profound it was as if his muscles might snap. He felt the quivering of your walls, so tight, hot and slick, squeezing around him in a yearning drive that milked him for everything he had, it told him exactly how close you were to cumming again while the wet slide of his girth pushed him closer to a total loss of control.

He pulled your legs even tighter against his shoulders, manhandling you until his chest was crushing yours and his heartbeat thundered against your ribs like a war drum. He looked down at you, his eyes nearly black with a visceral purpose, watching your face crumble into an expression of ecstasy.

"Sunghoon, I'm—I'm gonna—" you almost screamed, dragging your nails down his back and leaving scratches that he doesn't even feel.

"I can feel it, my love," he growled so deep it was practically a snarl. He slowed his pace for a fraction of a second but only so he could drive in with a force that made the entire bed frame groan under his weight. "You're so tight for me. You're perfect."

As the first ripples of your orgasm began to seize your muscles, Sunghoon leaned in until his lips were pressed hard against yours. "Let's have another baby," he nearly pleaded, the thought seemingly ripping out of his soul in the heat of the moment. The man of logic was dead and gone and in his place was a husband so obsessed with the idea of his own legacy growing inside the woman he loved. "Not like last time. No surrogates. I—oh fuck—I want it to be us. I want to see your belly grow because of me...I want to see you pregnant so bad it's driving me mad."

The aching honesty in his voice, combined with the way he was brushing your cervix with every word, sent you over the cliff before you could even realize it was happening. You let out a shattered cry, cumming so hard it was almost violent, your body gripping down on him like a vice with a strength that nearly brought him to his knees.

"Fuck, please," he whined, his control clearly dissolving into a thousand pieces. He didn't pull back or even think about it. He gave one last soul shaking thrust and buried himself to the absolute hilt, letting out a long whine, releasing months of repressed longing and love deep inside you.

He stayed inside you, his heaviness pinning you to the mattress while his forehead rested against yours cause his body wouldn’t stop shuddering with the strength of his orgasm. The room was silent except for the sound of your shared breathing and the thudding of his heart as he waited for the tremors in his thighs to subside.

"Mine," he whispered against your swollen lips. "You're finally, finally mine."

When he finally began to move, it was with a gentle slowness—a deliberate retreat that made you whimper at the loss of his incredible size. He moved with a reverence that bordered on worship, careful not to chafe your sensitive walls as he slid out, the dripping sliding sound of his departure echoed in the quiet suite.

When he pulled himself out completely, the physical evidence of his devotion began to overflow. You felt the warm spurt of his cum escaping your pussy, Sunghoon didn't look away, he couldn’t. All he could do was watch satisfied, then he reached out his large hand trembling slightly and used his fingers to sweep the excess cum back toward your opening, his touch alternating between firm pressure and a light, teasing graze that made your nerve endings sizzle.

"Look at what I did to you," he sounded pleased, "Look at how much of me you're holding."

He didn't stop there, now driven by a need that seemed to have only been stirred by the act itself, he shifted lower once more. He knelt between your quivering thighs, dark eyes fixed on your swollen center and without a word of warning, he dived back in, his tongue sweeping over your folds in possessive strokes that gathered every bit of the messy cocktail of your combined fluids.

After the blunt force of his cock, the focus of his tongue again felt like a live wire against your skin. "Hoon, please...I can't," you cried helplessly, your hands tugged on his damp hair as you tried to push him away even as your hips bucked upward to meet him. "I'm too sensitive, I can't take any more—"

"Yes, you can," he growled against your skin, voice muffled by your thighs. He looked up at you, his beautiful face now mask of lust and adoration, totally drenched in the proof of your shared pleasure. "I want to feel it again. Cum on my face again, my love. Come on."

He ignored your half hearted protests and lapped and slurped at your pussy. He used his thumbs to stretch you wide to see more his cum slide out of your pussy, only to lap it up again. He sucked and ate you in with a burning need, his movements so strong it felt like he was trying to pull your very soul through your skin.

The build up was instantaneous and just as violent and it made your vision blur, made the world narrow down to the throb of just your husband’s mouth and the eager command in his voice. You felt that familiar wave climbing in your gut again, the dam of your composure finally and permanently shattered.

"Sunghoon!" you screamed, your fingers digging into his scalp as your body stiffened into a bow for the third time. You sobbed his name in a broken voice as you spiraled into another climax that felt like it would never end. Sunghoon stayed right there, taking in your juices, his eyes closed while he savored the taste of you cumming for him again.

When he was finally satisfied and you lay limp and slightly sobbing against the pillows, Sunghoon crawled back up the bed and pulled you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin and wrapping his limbs around you, anchoring you to him. The dutiful wife and the composed husband were gone—there was only the two of you now, tangled together in the wreckage of years of silence, finally whole.

Sunghoon's hold on you tightened, his arms were like a protective weight that seemed resolved to never let an inch of space come between your bodies again. He pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of your shampoo mixed with the musk of your joint exertion.

The silence of the mansion, which once felt cold and even cavernous, now felt like a sanctuary—a little private world where the rigid expectations of your families and the careful choreography of your social lives couldn't reach you. "We have a lot of time to make up for," he said to you, pulling back just enough to look at you, rubbing his thumb over your cheek with a tenderness that made your heart ache. The golden light of the bedroom caught the sharp line of his jaw and the softened, now vulnerable expression in his eyes—a look he had never shown to anyone but you.

nene’s note ── i’ve alwaysssss wanted to try the arranged marriage trope and recently two of my friends got together because of an overheard phone call! could you imagine! y’all know i love feedback! enjoy!💕

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[hoonieful]

I'm gonna bust