in which you’ve always thought jungwon was the cutest out of all your younger brother’s friends.
pairing: yang jungwon x fem!reader
warnings: smut MDNI, reader is a couple years older, reader is niki’s older sister, lowkey pathetic jungwon, alcohol consumption, dry humping, nipple play, pussy eating, face sitting, face riding, unprotected sex, finger sucking, cumming inside.
sunoo — 6:19 p.m.
hey guys, is there any way we can do the party at someone else’s place? my roommate is sick :/
jungwon, trying to focus on his homework, couldn’t help but glance down at his phone vibrating on his desk, scanning the message sent in his friends group chat.
sunghoon — 6:20 p.m.
you want to move the party that’s in 2 hours to someone else’s place? 😭
sunoo — 6:20 p.m.
i can’t help that he got sick 🙄
sunghoon — 6:21 p.m.
well we can’t do it here it’s a fucking mess
niki — 6:22 p.m.
we can do it at mine ig. my sister is visiting but she probably won’t mind.
jungwon read all the messages without responding, the last one making his heart skip a beat.
fuck, he thought to himself. why did sunoo’s dumb roommate have to be sick? he didn’t want the party to be at niki’s—not if his older sister was going to be there.
jungwon had a problem when it came to you. he couldn’t speak. whenever he saw you, he lost all ability to talk or function like a regular human being. you were too—what was a good word? perfect, he supposed.
he was not in the mood to be humiliating himself in front of you like he always did. he’d had enough of it.
jungwon — 6:25 p.m.
you know im not feeing that good either guys :(
probs gonna have to skip the party
sunghoon — 6:25 p.m.
liar.
jungwon scoffed.
jungwon — 6:26 p.m.
IM NOT LYING.
sunghoon — 6:26 p.m.
you’re not truthing.
sunoo — 6:26 p.m.
truthing 😭
niki — 6:27 p.m.
jungwon you’re fine just come.
y/n will probs just be in her room anyway.
unfortunately, all of jungwon’s friends knew about his little issue when it came to y/n. they all just happened to have been around whenever he’d gone mute in front of her, laughing quietly at his misery.
jungwon — 6:28 p.m.
it’s not just about y/n.
niki — 6:28 p.m.
right…
so i’ll see you ALL at 8.
jungwon sighed, turning his phone off and redirecting his attention back to his homework. but he couldn’t focus anymore, not when he knew he had to see you in just a couple of hours.
-
with one last deep breath, jungwon turned the knob and pushed the door open, letting himself into niki’s apartment.
the party wasn’t anything huge. it was mostly just his close friend group getting together to celebrate jay’s birthday, along with a few other strays. still, there was more people than jungwon expected when he walked in.
he beelined to the kitchen where he assumed the rest of his friends would be. sure enough, he was right.
“jungwon!” jay exclaimed, already drunk as he threw his arms around the younger.
“hey,” jungwon said with a laugh, patting jay’s back. “happy birthday.”
“here, won,” jake said, shoving a red solo cup into jungwon’s hand. “this is jay’s specialty cocktail of the night.”
“what’s in it?” jungwon wondered, bringing the cup up to his lips.
as soon as the liquid hit his tongue, he realized that it tasted like poison and immediately began to cough it back up, choking on the drink. it was easily the most disgusting thing he’d ever consumed—like straight rubbing alcohol.
“um…” jake trailed off, “a little bit of everything.”
jungwon huffed once he came down from his cough attack, dumping the rest of the drink into the sink before finding a beer in the fridge.
he was about to head out into the living room to see if there was anyone else he knew out there when he heard an all too familiar voice.
“happy birthday, jay!”
you.
you suddenly were in the kitchen, pulling jay into a birthday hug, and once that was over, you turned to greet jungwon.
“hey jungwon,” you said, offering him a simple wave instead of a hug because even you knew that would send him into cardiac arrest. “it’s good to see you.”
it’d been a few months since he’d last seen you, and you looked even better than he remembered.
“oh,” jungwon said, laughing uncomfortably.
oh. oh? jungwon wished someone would throw a brick at his head. was that seriously the best he could come up with? he could’ve told you it was good to see you too, but instead, all that came out was “oh.”
niki burst out laughing at the interaction, causing the rest of his friends to join in. you scolded them, scowling at each of them for laughing at jungwon, but jungwon was speeding out of the kitchen before he could dwell on it.
five minutes. he hasn’t even made it five minutes at the party without completely humiliating himself.
out in the living room, he took a long swig from his beer, hoping it would kick in quickly.
-
sure enough, the beer did kick in quickly. the first beer, along with the second, third, and the fourth one that he was nursing out on niki's balcony.
overlooking the distant city lights, jungwon swallowed the rest of what was left in the bottle and set it on the table, his head spinning by that point.
the city stared back at him, a blur of bright lights going in and out of focus. he leaned his head against the wall, shutting his eyes to try and ground himself. he didn’t hear the sliding door open and close behind him.
“hey, you okay?”
his eyes shot open. he didn’t even need to see to know it was you. your voice was recognizable, to him at least.
you placed a firm hand on his shoulder, looking at him with concern.
“mmm,” he hummed, nodding his heavy head. “all good.”
“you sure?” you asked.
“just…” he trailed off, too close to you and too drunk to properly speak. “um. dizzy. kinda.”
that’s it, jungwon, one word at a time. god, he hoped he was drunk enough that by morning, he’d forget about what was undoubtedly about to be another humiliating experience.
“let me get you some water.”
just as quickly as you were there, you were gone. but then you were back again, now with a bottle of cold water, which you opened for jungwon before handing it to him.
“here,” you said. “try and drink the whole thing.”
jungwon brought the bottle up to his lips, downing the entire thing in just a few large gulps, all because you told him to. not even that you told him to, but merely that you suggested it, and he aimed to please.
“that should help you sober up pretty soon,” you said, eyes following his movements as he brought the bottle down from his lips, setting it on the ground alongside his empty beer bottle.
“thank you,” he managed to say. and then, since he was so proud of himself for having been able to utter a sentence in front of you, he continued. “why’d you come out here?”
you snickered at the bluntness of his question, and of course, jungwon wished he had just kept his mouth shut.
“i just needed a breather,” you told him. “i was gonna go to the guest room, but it seemed like it was already occupied.”
by that, you meant that two random people were in there hooking up. you wouldn’t be sleeping in that bed tonight, that was for sure.
“oh,” jungwon said. “how long are you visiting for?”
“a few more days,” you said, “then back to school.”
jungwon knew he probably wasn’t even going to see you again after the party, but he already dreaded seeing you go.
he hummed in acknowledgment, slowly losing the rush of confidence he had where he knew what to say to you and could actually say it out loud.
“what about you?” you asked, keeping it going for him. “when do you and the others go back to school?”
both college students, but at different schools. your school was about an hour and a half away, while jungwon’s and his friends was right there in the city where they lived.
“same as you, i think,” jungwon responded. “a few days.”
you nodded. it was then that he finally felt like his head wasn’t spinning a hundred miles an hour anymore. with the dizziness gone, he was able to look over at you, standing beside him.
his heart seemed to stop for just a moment. you were so pretty, even in the dark with only the lighting from the city illuminating your face. you were so close, too, closer than jungwon thought.
“what?” you asked, realizing he was staring at you.
“nothing, sorry,” he responded quickly, turning the other way again.
you chuckled under your breath.
“you’re so cute,” you said.
you said it, you really did. jungwon almost thought that maybe he heard you wrong, or even drunkenly made it up in his mind, but no. you just told him he was cute. so cute.
“oh,” he said, because what else would he say?
“i think you’re the cutest out of niki’s friends, you know,” you told him.
now, he was pretty sure you were drunk, too. why else would you be telling him all this?
“really?” he asked, truly not believing you.
“yeah,” you answered, smiling over at him. “easily.”
“even cuter than sunghoon?” he was pushing it, he knew.
you laughed, throwing your head back so the hair fell away from your face, and he could see all of it. he could see those sparkling eyes and the smile that he had to mirror himself.
“yeah, even cuter than sunghoon,” you confirmed.
jungwon swiped his hand over his mouth, like he was trying to erase his smile.
“can i tell him you said that?” he asked.
again, you laughed, and jungwon couldn’t believe he was doing it. he was having a conversation with you and making you laugh all at the same time.
so maybe he’d figured it out. maybe to be around you, he just had to be drunk.
“yeah, as long as you don’t tell niki,” you said.
“what, he’d be mad?” jungwon asked.
you shrugged, taking another swig from your drink.
“i don’t know—probably,” you replied. “you know how younger siblings can be.”
jungwon decided not to tell you that in his family, he was the younger sibling. he was on a good streak with you now, and didn’t want to fuck it up in any way.
“yeah,” he said instead. “totally.”
you swallowed the rest of your drink and set it down.
“it’s freezing out here,” you said. “i’m gonna head inside. you coming?”
jungwon glanced in through the window. all the people in there, the music vibrating through the walls—he’d much rather stay outside there, alone with you. but you were going in, and he wanted to be where you were.
“yeah,” he said.
the two of you walked back into the apartment together. there were more people in there now than when jungwon had first gone outside, so it was only a minute once you both were back inside that you got separated.
jungwon ended up at the beer pong table with his friends, and had no idea where you’d gone. so, that was it. he finally had one good conversation with you after all these years.
he’d take it. maybe it was enough to redeem himself after all the times he’d embarrassed himself before.
-
wrong.
the party was over and mostly everyone was gone. the only people at niki’s apartment now was jungwon, niki, jake, jay, and you.
it was the middle of the night and jungwon was passed out on the couch.
“awww, he’s drooling,” someone said, and it jolted him awake.
his eyes blinked open, his vision blurry for a moment before he could make out jay and niki standing next to the couch where he slept. outside the window, it was dark. it was still the middle of the night.
“what are you guys doing?” he asked groggily, wiping the drool off his chin with the back of his hand.
“taking jake to the hospital,” jay said. “he got too drunk and fell down the stairs.”
it was then that jungwon glanced past jay and niki and saw you and jake sitting at the bottom of the stairs. you were wrapping his hand, and jake was wincing in pain.
“what the fuck,” jungwon said, forcing himself to sit up.
“yeah, we just wanted to let you know before we left,” niki explained. “so you wouldn’t be confused if you woke up and no one was here.”
“i’ll stay,” you spoke up, setting jake’s hand in his own lap once you were done wrapping it.
“you’re not coming?” jake pouted.
“no, it’s the middle of the night,” you said. “i don’t see why all of us should go.”
you had a point, but that meant it would just be you and jungwon. alone. in niki’s apartment. alone. alone!
jungwon wasn’t drunk anymore. how was he supposed to be around you alone? how was he supposed to talk to you and act normal?
he had no time to figure it out because niki and jay were then hauling jake out the door, carrying practically all of the drunk man’s body weight out to the car.
you let out a long sigh, cleaning up the bandaid wrappers and antiseptic spray you’d used on jake.
“sorry they woke you,” you said. “i tried to tell them not to. you can go back to sleep.”
“it’s okay,” jungwon assured. “i guess i was really out. i didn’t even hear him fall down the stairs.”
you chuckled to yourself, making your way to the kitchen.
“i’m gonna make some tea,” you told him. “you want some?”
“um, yes, please,” jungwon replied, forcing himself off the couch and following you into the kitchen.
he sat at one of the barstools, desperately trying to fix his hair while your back was turned.
you put the kettle on and prepared two mugs for tea. jungwon’s eyes flickered over to the time on the microwave: 4:18 a.m.
he tried to think of something to say to fill the silence.
“did you end up finding a place to sleep?” he wondered.
“i took niki’s bed and made him sleep on the floor,” you answered. “you made the couch look pretty comfy, though.”
the kettle began to squeal, so you took it off the heat and poured the hot water into the mugs.
“i honestly don’t remember how i got there,” jungwon admitted, rubbing his forehead trying to recall.
“me, jay, and niki had to carry you there,” you told him with a laugh.
jungwon’s face flushed.
“oh,” he said. “that’s embarrassing.”
“no,” you dismissed, sliding the mug of tea in front of him. “it was fine. you were cute.”
again. that was twice now that you’d called him cute, and he was sure you weren’t drunk anymore. so you were sober, and you called him cute, and you knew it.
jungwon didn’t know how to act.
“you said that twice,” he informed.
“yeah,” you said. “well, it’s true.”
jungwon swallowed, staring down into his cup of tea. you were standing on the other side of the counter, watching him with a gentle smile.
he wondered what you meant when you called him cute. cute as in your younger brother’s best friend cute, or cute as in good looking, hot-cute?
“how do you see me?” he asked because he had to know.
“you want me to say it a third time?” you asked.
“i know, cute, but cute how?” he wondered.
you took a small sip of tea.
“i guess cute isn’t the right word,” you said. “i think you’re hot.”
jungwon’s stomach dropped like he’d just gone down a hill on a rollercoaster. he could feel the dryness in his mouth, the ability to speak creeping away from him.
he quickly took a sip of tea, hoping it would give him the moisture his voice needed to say what he wanted to say.
“i think you’re hot too,” he managed.
“i know,” you replied with a smile.
of course you knew.
“i guess i didn’t do too good a job of hiding it,” he said shyly into his mug.
you were making your way around the counter then, coming closer to him.
“i always thought it was sweet how you’d act around me,” you told him. “i wondered if you’d ever make a move.”
jungwon gulped, dark eyes watching you until you were standing right next to him.
“did you want me to?” he asked, voice shaking ever so slightly, and he hoped you didn’t catch it.
your eyes scanned his face, flickering down to his lips and back up to his eyes.
“yeah,” you admitted. “and i still do.”
jungwon found the ounce of courage he had tucked away in the depths of his body, and declared that now was the time to use it.
he hopped down from the barstool, standing directly in front of you. he loomed over you, a few inches taller, so you had to tilt you head up to look at him.
he brought his hand to your face and pulled you in, bringing your lips together. you were quick to snake your arms around his neck, tilting your head to the side to feel his lips even closer.
the noise that left jungwon upon feeling your mouth on his was an embarrassing one—a pathetic moan that left no doubt how badly he’d been wanting this. how badly he’d been wanting you and always had.
his lips felt like they were tingling when you pulled apart. they were swollen, he was sure, and he watched you with sparkling eyes, waiting to see what you were going to say.
“come on.”
and then you began walking back to the living room. jungwon, naturally, was quick to follow.
you sat down on the couch, and jungwon sat next to you, and then you moved onto his lap and began kissing him again. he was already embarrassingly hard, and he hoped to god you couldn’t feel his cock twitch when you moved to straddle him.
of course, you could. you began rutting back and forth on him, slowly grinding down on his lap and drawing out heavenly moans and whimpers from the overheated man under you.
“is that good?” you asked in his ear, peppering kisses along his jaw.
jungwon gripped your waist a little too tight, needing to stabilize himself.
“yeah,” he answered, voice cracking. “it’s so good, y/n.”
you smiled against his skin, suctioning your lips on his neck, nibbling on the skin there until you pulled back, and there was a pretty bruise contrasting with his pale skin.
you pulled back for a moment to rid yourself of your shirt, and since you were starting to undress, jungwon did the same. he wondered how far you were going to go with him. he would’ve done just about anything you asked him to.
“you wanna take it off?” you asked him, hooking your finger under your bra strap.
jungwon felt like he was going to pass out. he reached behind your back and unhooked your bra with a single hand, watching without so much as a blink as it slid down your arms and onto the floor, revealing your tits to him.
he groaned, immediately leaning into latch onto your nipple. you exhaled, bringing your hand into his thick black hair, slowly moving back and forth on his lap again as he swirled his tongue around your nipple, his spare hand coming up to rub your other one.
“mmmm, wonie,” you moaned. “t-that’s so good.”
nothing pleased him more than making you feel good, he soon discovered. every moan, whimper, or mewl of his name coming from you as he sucked on your nipple encouraged him to keep going, wanting to make you feel as good as he possibly could.
he stayed there for a few minutes longer, eventually switching to wrap his pretty pink lips around your other nipple. when he glanced up at your face, he found your head was tossed back, tits bouncing softly from the effort of dry humping him.
he grabbed your hips, abruptly stopping you from rubbing yourself on him because the sight of you was getting him close. too close. so close that he could’ve cum right there in his pants, but he’d suffered enough humiliation when it came to you throughout the years. he wasn’t going to cum before he even got the chance to fuck you.
“wanna taste you,” he said through an exhale. “can i?”
you smiled and nodded, standing up from his leg to pull your pants down. he stared at you in your flimsy little panties, keeping his eyes glued to your body as he moved to lay down on the couch.
he watched you slide your panties down your legs, and step out of them, leaving you completely naked right there in front of him.
“on my face,” he pleaded. “please.”
you raised an eyebrow as you approached him on the couch.
“okay, wonie,” you said. “i didn’t know you had it in you.”
you planted your knees on either side of his head, hovering over his face. jungwon swore his mouth was watering at the sight of your pussy. it was so pretty, he thought, prettier than he could’ve ever imagined on his own. and the fact that he was about to taste it for the first time. he couldn’t think about it too long, still do dangerously close to coming undone.
slowly lowering yourself down onto his face, jungwon grabbed your thighs to steady you and darted his tongue out, licking a firm strip up from the bottom of your pussy to the top.
the moment his tongue came in contact with you, you gasped, your hips twitching from the sensation. needing something to hold onto to keep yourself balanced, you grabbed onto the plush end of the couch, but jungwon was quick to pry your hands off the couch, bringing them down into his hair instead.
you pulled his hair as his tongue explored your pussy, circling your clit and rubbing up and down your slit. your thighs clamped around the side of his face and jungwon couldn’t help but moan because he loved it all so much, the vibrations of it shooting through your core.
he was the happiest he’d ever been, he was sure. you tasted so good, and you were so wet and warm on his face, practically dripping juices down his face. he felt like he was losing his composure, his tongue slippery and sloppy as he lapped at your folds.
“oh my god, won,” you cried out, choking on a sob. “you’re so fucking good at that.”
he thought about how easy it was to be good at something he loved to do. he hoped with every fiber of his being that this wouldn’t be the last time he has you on his face. he wanted it to be the first of many, to please you so good now that all you’ll want is him over and over again.
he squeezed your thighs, feeling them tremble in his hold as his lips suctioned around your clit. you were ever so softly moving your hips back and forth on his face, and with a little encouragement, he urged you to ride his face harder, to use him as much as you wanted.
he guided your hips back and forth to ride his tongue, the tip of his nose bumping your clit, which only added to the already overwhelming pleasure.
you gasped and moaned and writhed on top of him, your body overheated and tingly. deep in your gut, you could feel that knot building and building, drawing you closer and closer.
“wonnie,” you sobbed. “i’m close.”
he hummed, continuing his work which felt similar to magic from just how unreal and good it felt. he swirled his tongue around your cunt, pressing his face into it, eyes shut and eyebrows furrowed in concentration. he needed it, needed you to cum all over his face.
within the next minute, you were gone. the knot unraveled and your body tensed as you let go, your pussy tightening around his tongue. your jaw went slack, eyes rolling back, your body trembling and twitching. jungwon eagerly lapped at your excess arousal, his tongue coaxing more and more out of you, milking out your orgasm.
“oh my god,” you squealed, feeling like it was hitting you for hours.
you couldn’t remember the last time you’d cum so hard, and you surely never suspected it would by your younger brothers best friend being the one to bring it out of you.
you tiredly climbed down from his face and sat down, looking over at him. his lips were red, glistening with your arousal. his chin too, and you were almost embarrassed about how big of a mess you made on his face.
trailing your eyes down his body, they landed on his cock, which was straining against his pajama pants. it actually looked painful how tight they were, how hard he was.
“do you want…help with that?” you asked.
jungwon perked up at the idea of you touching him, or better yet, getting to fuck it out on you.
he nodded.
“yeah, i…i wanna…” he trailed off shyly.
“wanna what?” you asked, already reaching over to hook your fingers into his waistband.
“wanna fuck you,” he admitted, letting you slide the pants down, his cock springing out.
you felt a pang of desire in your stomach at the sight of his cock. it was so pretty with its pink tip, shiny with smeared precum, and long veiny. the choice of having it inside you was an instant yes.
you switched positions with him, being the one to lay down on your back now. jungwon stared down at you, naked before him on the couch, looking up at him with your legs spread, ready to take him.
he felt dizzy as he lined himself up with your pussy, which was still drenched and warm from your previous orgasm. he pushed in, head spinning at your warm, soft walls clamped around him, sucking him in further.
“holy shit,” he mumbled, feeling, once again, dangerously close to cumming.
he had to stay still for a moment until the feeling went away, until he could move without busting his load prematurely.
you bit your lip, staring up at him as he finally began to pull out about halfway, then push back in, fucking you nice and deep.
“nghh, yes, wonie,” you mewled. “that feels so fucking good.”
“you’re so fucking warm,” he gushed, holding your legs up around his waist as he quickened his pace. “and tight, and soft.”
you smiled at his babbling. it was clear how attracted he was to you based on how far gone he was, how hard his cock was inside you.
his thrusts got faster and faster, and he didn’t know where to look. didn’t know whether to focus his attention of your flushed face, your bouncing tits, or at the spot where his cock was moving like a piston in and out of your pussy.
he brought his hand up to your face, caressing your cheek.
“you’re so f-fucking pretty,” he said. “you feel so good.”
you placed your hand on top of his and brought it to your lips. his thumb brushed over your bottom lip, and you swiped your tongue over the tip. jungwon twitched inside you, feeling your wet tongue swirl around his finger.
he pushed his thumb in your mouth and groaned when you closed your lips around it, sucking on it like you were sucking a cock. you blinked up at him as you did it, your eyes glistening from the intense pleasure.
jungwon was fucking you harder by the second, slamming into you so hard that the couch was creaking every time. your legs flailed around his waist as he raced to get you to cum again. he was close, so so close, but didn’t want to cum until he made you do it again.
he pulled his thumb from your mouth and, wet from your tongue, brought it down to your clit. he rubbed it in loose, messy circles, watching you with dark eyes to gauge if you were almost there.
then, without warning, your body tensed and you slapped a hand over your mouth, muffling the sounds of your desperate cries. he could feel your cunt tightening around his cock, and you were cumming again, sobbing through it.
jungwon thrusted just once more before he was following, releasing his heavy, warm load inside you. his jaw fell slack, a vein in his neck throbbing from the exertion. he held you tightly as he fucked his hips forward in little intervals, milking out his climax.
he came what felt like buckets, and he was almost embarrassed by how long it seemed to go on, how much he had to give you. finally, it ended, and he pulled out, collapsing onto the thin bit of space next to you.
for a couple of minutes, neither of you said anything. jungwon actually started growing nervous, convincing himself that you weren’t saying anything because you regretted what you just did with him.
but then, he turned to look at you, and found that you’d fallen asleep. and he smiled, pulling you into his chest before falling asleep himself.
-
it was bright now in the living room when jungwon woke up. and there you were, still sleeping soundly, curled up on his chest.
and then he heard the key in the front door and the muffled voices of his friends. his eyes widened, and he quickly shook you awake, shoving your clothes into your hands and getting redressed himself.
“the fucking key won’t go in,” he heard jay say, just on the other side of the door.
you, half asleep but realizing what was happening, quickly got dressed.
by the time the door opened, you and jungwon were dressed and sitting on far opposite ends of the couch.
jay, niki, and jake came stumbling in the door, looking exhausted after a long night of drinking that ended in the hospital.
“hey,” you greeted, standing up to approach them. “did they get you all stitched up, jake?”
“yeah,” jake said, pouting. “i hate needles, so it was really scary.”
“aww, the poor baby hates needles,” niki teased.
“shut the hell up,” jake scowled.
“did you guys just wake up?” jay wondered, looking between you and jungwon.
“yep,” jungwon answered, trying his best not to seem suspicious. “just slept through the night and woke up.”
jay raised an eyebrow.
“okay?” he said. “well, thanks for the party, guys. it was definetely a…memorable birthday.”
“yeah,” you agreed, your eyes sparkling as you exchanged a glance with jungwon. “it was.”
˚ ༘♡ ⋆。˚ sim jake “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”
━━ PLEASE JUST TAKE MY SISTER OUT.
(🦮) After seventeen years of surviving his older sister’s constant supervision, Riki Nishimura decides you need a hobby. Preferably one that is tall, charming, and costs him a hundred bucks a week.
paid! jake x fem! reader
˗ˏˋ brother’s friend, paid dating, he falls first, slow burn, romcom, highschool au BUT THEY'RE NOT MINORS they're 19 and 20, mean reader, patient jake, little angst, fluff, smut, porn with plot, crack, profanity, unprotected sex, oral sex, f receiving, MDNI !
inspired by 10 things i hate about you !
wc: 30451
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 (but can be a standalone)
Riki was seventeen years old, which by legal law, he understood there were certain things he wasn't supposed to do. He wasn't allowed to drink, gamble, or just make any life-altering decisions with the judgment of someone whose brain was still developing. It was, no doubt, very reasonable and he never tried to argue.
What he didn't understand though, were your laws.
No smoking, drinking, piercing, tattoos.
No driving without adult supervision.
No going out past 10PM.
No girlfriends until eighteen.
No accepting rides from people he didn't know.
No staying out without answering his phone.
The worst part was that none of these rules came from his father — a man who, at first glance, seemed exactly like the kind of parent who'd enforce discipline, high standards, high expectations, strict curfews, and strict grades. Except he wasn’t.
These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that — his terrifying older sister that’s also been known as a heinous bitch. You somehow managed to be nineteen years old and forty-seven years old at the same time, right after hearing Beyonce talk about girls running the world, and ultimately decided to make it your entire personality.
You remembered appointments, you knew where every important document in the house was, you made sure groceries appeared in the fridge, and you knew the hardware store. That was a good thing, especially since your Mother is a long story and has been gone from the picture since you turned eleven. It should be a good thing, because while your father forgot that he was meant to be a parent, you managed to step into the role for the then nine-year-old boy.
The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life.
"Don’t drink." you state.
Riki looks up from his phone, brows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion. "Why?"
You roll your eyes. "Because you're seventeen."
He stands up, his hands raised in even more confusion. "So are half the people going!"
You didn't even look up from your laptop, just continued on with your academic duties as the poster-child and perfect student you exactly are. Everything that Riki isn’t (he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s actually glad he isn’t as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."
He groans. "It's a party."
You narrow your gaze at him. "Then leave at nine-thirty."
He had barely been there twenty minutes before somebody handed him a drink and accepted it immediately. He didn't even know what was in it, but it was blue and it was something that would give you an MI, which practically made every sense for him to take it.
A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow — what the fuck?!"
Riki turned around to find Jay looking unimpressed and clearly annoyed, arms crossed like he was already embodying your spirit for you. “Your sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.” he says.
Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. “Good thing she isn’t here.”
“Wow, someone’s bold.” Jungwon snickers.
Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. “I can already count the amount of times she’ll call me tonight because you won’t be answering your phone.”
The worst part was that none of them were exaggerating. Most people heard the words overprotective older sister and pictured somebody mildly annoying that decided the takeouts. You were something else entirely, you were a mean person with good intentions, who treated Riki like a highly intelligent houseplant that couldn't be trusted unsupervised. Which, admittedly, was only a little unfair.
Jake looks significantly less invested in the conversation than everyone else, which makes sense considering he'd never actually met you before. He knew who you were, obviously. He had seen you around school a handful of times, though only in fragments, passing through hallways with your books tucked against your chest, standing behind podiums during assembly speeches, moving through student events with a clipboard in hand, and occasionally appearing in Riki’s house whenever his friends came over, though never long enough for Jake to understand what everyone meant when they talked about you like you were a natural disaster.
You didn’t hover during those visits, maybe because Riki was already home and therefore safely within the borders of your net, which meant Jake never had any firsthand evidence of the so-called atrocity people kept describing, no grand personal encounter with the hornless devil of a woman they swore you were. To him, you were just Riki’s older sister, put-together, sharper than most people, and clearly the kind of girl who knew how to keep things from falling apart.
He shrugs as if the entire conversation had been blown wildly out of proportion. “Honestly, she can’t be that bad.”
They all try and fail to hide the biggest smiles, until Riki finally let out a laugh so unhinged it sounded like Jake had just said the stupidest thing ever invented. “You’ve never met her, then.”
Jake frowned. “I mean, she just sounds responsible.”
That only made the laughter worse, because how exactly did someone describe you without sounding dramatic? How did anyone explain a girl who could build furniture, schedule doctor’s appointments, cook dinner, maintain perfect grades, and still somehow have enough energy left to lecture her younger brother about road safety, curfew, peer pressure, and why riding in a car with anyone named Jay was apparently a preventable tragedy?
“She’s like…” Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasn’t a normal word for you, only some abstract painting of red and black, wrathful but organized, terrifying but color-coded.
Jay stepped in with both hands raised, like he was trying to translate a myth. “Imagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.”
“And a planner,” Riki added immediately, “and a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friends’ locations. She has everyone’s number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure I’m actually where I said I was.”
Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesn’t think you’re that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged.
The thing was, if anyone could survive you, it would probably be Jake. He was patient enough, he was also the kind of person teachers liked, parents trusted, classmates voted for, and strangers somehow ended up telling their life stories because he was just so easy-going. He was responsible enough to get good grades without making it his entire personality.
It was weird how the two of you had somehow never interacted despite orbiting the same school, same academic events, same kind of reputation, and yet somehow the universe had kept you separated for years. Now potentially united because of a very dumb idea.
Riki takes another sip of his drink while the idea starts taking shape. If Jake was as patient as he seemed, maybe he could handle you, if Jake could handle you, maybe he could distract you, and if somebody distracted you — Riki's life would finally begin.
Riki clears his throat, staring directly at Jake, with the kind of focus that makes Jake slowly lower his cup and narrow his eyes in suspicion.
"Why are you looking at me like tha —"
“Have you ever considered dating my sister?”
Jake simply stares, because a question that insane and honest has never landed on him before. The more Riki thinks about it, the better the idea becomes, which is unfortunate for everyone in the room because his expression slowly shifts from impulsive desperation to genuine, terrifying conviction.
“No.”
“Why not?” Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.
Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. “Because she’s your sister.”
Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”
Jake shakes his head, “What?”
“Take her out,” Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. “Dinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she can’t govern my life.”
And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. “Look, she’s always busy. Always. If she’s not studying, she’s doing house stuff, and if she’s not doing house stuff, she’s worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.”
“I’m not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,” Jake says, though his voice has lost some of its earlier horror.
Riki stares at him for a long second, and whatever dignity he has left seems to lose the fight somewhere between desperation and the thought of another month spent being interrogated. So he will compensate. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,”
Unfortunately, the offer is not completely ridiculous in the financial sense. Your father might have forgotten how to parent somewhere along the way, but he had certainly remembered how to compensate for it by making sure money was never a scarce resource in the household. You're both pretty spoiled.
Jake was not desperate, of course, and he was not exactly suffering in the financial department either, because the Sim family had enough money for philanthropy. He did not need a hundred bucks a week, did not need to be paid to sit across from a girl at dinner, and definitely did not need to accept what was less like a favor and more like an internship. Still, there was something almost offensively easy about the idea of it — a challenge.
The proposition is ridiculous, the girl in question sounds even more ridiculous, and yet the more Riki talks about you, the more Jake finds himself wondering what kind of person could make everyone so terrified.
Jake exhales slowly, then shakes his head like he is disappointed in himself before finishing the rest of his drink. “When do I start?”
By the time the party began thinning out and people started calling rides home, Riki had graduated from slightly irresponsible to actively incapable of functioning like a normal human being. By his fifth blue drink, he started a speech about oppression that was very clearly about you and was dangerously starting to sound like a prick to the hard-earned established feminism that Jungwon had to cover his mouth. Jake was also unfortunately present for all of it, because he has to drive Riki home.
"You're a good man, Jake."
"I'm aware."
"No, like, a really good man."
"Thank you."
"The best."
Jake adjusts his grip on him, while Riki is leaning heavily against his shoulder, forcing most of his weight onto the former as they make their way up the front path of your house. Every few seconds he stumbles, nearly dragging both of them into the bushes.
"You know what my problem is?" Riki asks. "My sister."
Like he managed to summon you with a single call, the front door opens. And for the first time in his life, Jake finally sees you and not as a passing figure. The first thing he noticed was that you looked nothing like the distant, polished version of yourself he had seen around school. Those glimpses had always been quick and incomplete, a neat figure behind a podium during assemblies with your hair done properly and your expression fixed into something polite enough. Standing on your front porch at midnight, however, your hair loose, a few loose strands escaping around your face, and you're in sleeping clothes. The porch light caught the irritation on your face clearly, and you exactly had a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin a person’s confidence.
Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. “You’re dead.” you said, voice flat enough.
Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. “See?”
Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.
“I told you not to drink,” you said, already stepping forward.
“Technically,” Riki started. “You said I couldn’t drink too much, and I think —”
“No.”
Riki shut his mouth, which Jake found impressive considering he had spent the entire car ride arguing. You reached them and immediately took over, not gently, but not aggressively either. One second Jake was supporting most of Riki’s weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brother’s arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.
“You are seventeen years old,” you muttered. “Seventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.”
Riki groaned and sagged against you, deciding, with the cruelty only younger brothers possessed, to become completely boneless. You nearly stumbled beneath his weight, and your annoyance sharpened so visibly that Jake almost took half a step back. “Stand properly,” you snapped. “I swear to God, Riki.”
“Uh,” Jake said, because apparently he was articulate, just not under porch lights and direct eye contact.
You paused, like you had forgotten he was there, then turned your head just enough to look at him. “What?”
“I can help.” The words left his mouth before he could fully decide whether he meant them, and for the first time that night, your attention shifted from Riki to him.
It lasted maybe two seconds, three if he was being generous, but it was enough for Jake to finally get a proper look at you and realize, with a strange and deeply inconvenient sense of betrayal, that nobody had mentioned the tyrant had pretty eyes.
You looked at him like he was another problem that had arrived, taking in his face, his clothes, and his car behind him. Your expression did not soften, in fact, it became even more unimpressed. “No,” you said. “I’ve got him,”
You turned away before he could say anything else. The door closed a moment later, leaving Jake alone on the porch with the cool night air, and the silence of having been dismissed by a girl who had barely given him enough time to become charming.
For several seconds, he just stared at the closed door.
That was it? That was his grand introduction to the infamous sister everyone had sworn was some terrible, unbearable monster? He had spent the entire night hearing stories about you, had driven your drunk brother home, had offered to help, and all he got in return was a death sentence aimed at Riki, two seconds of eye contact, and a rejection so cold.
Wow. Okayyy.
You’re sitting alone beneath one of the trees lining the courtyard, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a planner open on your lap. Your attention is fixed on whatever system of color-coding you have, your neat cursive filling the page in careful lines. Even from across the courtyard, you look overwhelming. The Miu Miu loafers, the Bottega Veneta resting beside you, like you were deliberately trying to repel anyone who didn’t belong in the same tax bracket as your family.
Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.
“Hey.”
You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize they’re doing it, because he has the sort of face that makes friendliness look charming instead of invasive. Your eyes move from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes, slow and blatantly judgmental, before returning to his face.
He waits, yet you close your planner, stand up, pick up your bag, and leave.
For a second, he just stands there while every gear in his brain grinds to a halt. Nobody has ever dismissed him that cleanly and efficiently, like he had been a minor scheduling conflict you decided to remove from your day. Obviously, he follows. You hear his footsteps behind you but you don’t react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still don’t give him so much as a glance.
“So that’s how this is gonna be?” he asks, amused despite himself. “You pretending you don’t hear me?”
You finally look over briefly. “Hi.”
Jake practically lights up at that; his smile widening, eyes brightening like he has just won something ridiculous, considering all you did was say hi. Still, he takes it as progress, watching your profile as you keep walking with your attention already returned to your planner.
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember me?”
That barely gets your attention. “Yes, Jake Sim,” you say, your voice stays perfectly even. “You’re one of Riki’s friends.”
The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. “So you do know me.”
You only look back down at your planner as he flashes another smile, the one that usually makes people start talking, or laughing, or tucking their hair behind their ear because what is anyone supposed to do with all of Jake Sim’s attention? Unfortunately, you aren’t looking at him at all.
He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Have you always been this friendly?”
“No.”
He frowns. “So it’s personal.”
“No.”
Before he can decide whether to be offended or impressed, you push open the door to a classroom. He follows one step too close, only for you to stop at the threshold and turn around, leaving him outside. Your eyes land on him properly, sharp and unreadable, and his thoughts stumble over themselves for half a second.
“What exactly do you need?” you ask. Your tone is calm, but somehow it feels like an insult wearing perfume.
Technically speaking, he needs nothing. This becomes obvious the longer he stands there saying absolutely nothing, and from the way your eyes narrow, you reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. “If you’re looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,” you say politely, “I suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.”
He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. “Although,” you add, giving him one last slow once-over, “the nurse’s building might be more appropriate.”
For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.
You are not. You offer him the smallest smile imaginable, neither warm nor friendly, but decorative at best. Then you shut the door directly in his face — which, for the record, is the second time you have done that since he met you. He stands there, staring at the wood, while inside the classroom he can already hear you speaking to someone else in a perfectly normal voice, as if he had never existed at all.
Jake spots you three days later in the library, clearly because he was looking, but this time he has a plan, and for some reason, he still believes plans work on you.
Afternoon sunlight slips through the tall windows and stretches across the desks in pale strips, and Jake finds you near the history section, seated at a wide table with your laptop open and your papers arranged so neatly. Your curls are pinned back from your face, loose pieces framing your cheeks, your eyeshadow soft and precise in a way that makes you look even more put together. You are highlighting something when he sees you, chin resting lightly on your hand, completely absorbed and completely unreachable.
Naturally, he walks straight toward you. The chair across from yours screeches when he pulls it back, loud enough that two people at another table look up. Your eyes lift immediately, widening at the earsplitting sound before narrowing at him with such open irritation that he almost feels proud for earning a reaction at all.
“What are you doing?” you ask, voice low.
Jake drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who has already survived two doors being shut in his face and is somehow eager for a third. “Studying.”
Your gaze moves from him, to the empty table behind him, to the empty seats beside you, then back to him. The silence that follows is not confused, just judgmental. “And you chose the only occupied table in this section?"
“It had the best lighting.”
“It has me.”
“Exactly.”
You stare at him for another second, face unreadable except for the small, unimpressed lift of your brows. Then you look back down at your notes, clearly deciding he is not worth the strain of further expression. For about twelve seconds, Jake pretends to open his textbook for a real reason — flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. “Can you help me with something?” he whispers.
You don’t look up. “No.”
Jake’s mouth parts slightly, then closes. He has been rejected before, technically, but never with so little effort. It bothers him more than it should, especially when you do not even look pleased with yourself. You simply continue highlighting, lips slightly parted in concentration, as if dismissing him is just another item on your to-do list.
“Fine,” he says, leaning back. “I need help with economics.”
Your highlighter stops moving, and for one hopeful second, Jake thinks he finally got you. Then your eyes lift from the page, slow and suspicious. “You got a ninety-four.”
He blinks. “So?”
“You have the second-highest grade in the class.”
“You know my grade?”
“I’m the TA,” you say flatly. “That isn’t special.”
It lands with embarrassing accuracy. His smile falters for half a second before he recovers and leans forward again, lowering his voice like the two of you are sharing a secret. “Maybe I want to be first.”
This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. “No,” you say, “Because I’m first.”
The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. “Then I definitely need your notes.”
“You need attention,” you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. “There’s a difference.”
You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. “You ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly aren’t wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.” Your eyes lift to his again. “It’s not.”
Jake stares at you. Around you, the library stays quiet, and the air feels suddenly too still, like everyone else has been kind enough not to watch him being quietly dismantled. He tries to laugh it off. “Wow.”
“You asked for help.”
“I asked for economics.”
“And I gave you something useful.”
His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it — the worst part of it all. Usually, he has a joke, a grin, a way to make people soften, but with you, every easy thing he reaches for turns useless in his hand.
You begin packing your papers into your bag with that same infuriating grace, not rushed, not flustered, not even angry. You stand, bag over your shoulder, eyes catching the light when you tilt your head slightly. “Also, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isn’t your ego.” Then you walk away.
For a long moment, Jake just sits there, staring at the library doors after they close behind you. The silence settles back into place around him, heavy and humiliating. He exhales slowly and comes to one devastating conclusion: he can’t do this.
“Come on, dude! It’s barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!” Riki practically begs on his knees.
Jake frowns from the other edge of the pool table as he chalks the cue, the crumpled bills still existing somewhere in his pocket because, technically speaking, he hadn't earned them. At this point, the arrangement felt less like a job and more like repeated exposure therapy that would actively ruin his psychological welfare rather than heal it.
“No.”
Riki stares. “No? Jake.”
“No.”
Across, Jungwon looks up after his turn in billiards, with the expression of someone witnessing a familiar trainwreck but still expecting it from a mileway anyway. “What happened?”
Jake isn’t entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: you’re impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute — but actually a pain in the ass.
“She’s difficult,” Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasn’t surprising at all, I mean it’s you.
“She doesn't want anything,” he adds. “There's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation — or literally anything.” Jake scoffs. “And she doesn't.” he exclaims, coming out more frustrated than he intended, resulting in a miscue.
Social interactions followed a pattern and Jake knew that well, even if he wasn’t the most outgoing person on this planet, he still spent his entire life understanding that pattern. With you, it felt like throwing pebbles at a castle wall that decides public embarrassment for his punishment. Normally, being Jake Sim worked. He was hot, smiley, handsome, smart, well-spoken, and had great, healthy hair too. You treated all of that the same way you'd treat a weather report; filed away and forgotten before opening up an umbrella.
The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. You’re nineteen years old and somehow functioning as a parent, a student, a volunteer, and whatever terrifying responsibilities that you could have stowed in that pink planner. There was probably a reason you looked perpetually exhausted, and why every conversation felt like you were mentally checking a to-do list. Also probably why you looked at Jake the way someone looked at a pop-up advertisement — unnecessary.
“Please,” Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. “Just keep trying.”
Jake groans. “No.”
“Please.”
Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows he’s going to lose this argument. Not through Riki’s annoying persuasion, but because somewhere between getting his face ignored at the Humanities building and getting dissected in the library, Jake had become painfully curious. Every interaction left him feeling like he'd only managed to scratch the surface of an entire unearthing no one yet has discovered. He hated that a lot, the mysteries and the unfinished conversations because you just can’t seem to bear him.
Most of all, of course, he hated that he was already wondering where he'd find you next.
A few days later, Jake finds himself in a bookstore three blocks away from campus, flipping through a poetry collection he absolutely does not want to buy. His teacher has insisted on physical copies because apparently PDFs are destroying the educational experience, while Jake personally believes the educational experience would improve significantly if the book cost less than a decent meal.
The bookstore is small, old, and crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves. It smells like paper, dust, and someone’s grandmother’s living room. He is still pretending to care about Shakespeare when the front door chimes, and he barely looks up until he hears your voice. You step inside with a headband pushing your hair back, still dressed like you came from school, except this version of you looks nothing like the girl he has been trying and failing to understand. For one thing, you are smiling, which isn’t polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.
“Hi, Mrs. Park,” you greet.
The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. “There you are.”
Jake stares because, apparently, his brain has decided blinking is no longer necessary. A fat orange cat sprawled across the counter lifts its head when you approach, and you reach over to scratch beneath its chin. The cat melts instantly, stretching into your hand while you coo at it under your breath. He has seen you annoyed, composed, sharp, and dismissive, but this version of you, smiling at an old woman and whispering sweet nonsense to a cat, feels almost impossible to place beside the girl from campus.
It startles him how much he wants to keep watching.
After telling Mrs. Park you are only going to browse, you turn toward the shelves and move right into his aisle. Jake steps back instinctively, half-hidden behind a row of books, but the sensible part of him lasts for about four seconds before he decides, unfortunately, to bother you.
“You come here often?” he asks, leaning against the shelf like this is a normal thing to say and not the opening line of someone who has clearly run out of better ideas.
Your hand pauses on the spine of a novel, expression already rising from irritation. Slowly, you look at him, then around the aisle, then back at his face. “What are you doing here?”
He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. “To read books.”
You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew how to read.”
His face shifts into immediate offense. “I know how to read.”
You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. “Coloring books don’t count.”
He laughs under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like he is trying very hard not to look too entertained. Or annoyed at how plainly rude you are without masking it. “Wow,” he mutters, following after you. “For the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.”
You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. “Percy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?”
His eyebrows lift. “All I’m hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.”
Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Right, how exciting it is to bond over a children’s fantasy series.”
“Well,” he says, smiling. “It’s a start.”
You turn away, but he catches the tiny pause in your movement, the almost-smile you refuse to let happen. It feels ridiculous, how much that small reaction does to him even though he has won games in front of cheering crowds and accepted medals in crowded auditoriums, yet somehow, getting half a smile out of you in a dusty bookstore feels more victorious. “Since we’re apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?”
You just stare at him, brows drawn together, lips parted slightly, as if you are trying to understand what series of events in his life has led him to think that was an appropriate thing to say to you. “No,” you say.
The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. “What? Why not?”
“I have coffee at home.”
For a second, he just stands there, disbelieved and a little done. You turn back to the shelf like the matter is settled, fingers skimming over another row of spines while he processes the fact that you have somehow rejected him without remorse or politeness.
“That’s not the point,” he says.
You scoff. “Then why did you ask?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. “Because most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.”
You hum, still not looking at him. “Then you should have asked that.” You reach for a book on the higher shelf, and when you glance at him again, there is the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes.
He laughs under his breath, and this time, he doesn’t even bother hiding how entertained he is. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable.”
“Fine,” he says, straightening a little. “Go out with me?”
You stop moving for barely a second, but Jake sees the tiny pause in your hand against the shelf, the way your face goes still like the question landed somewhere you didn’t expect. For once, he doesn’t grin.
Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. “No,” you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. “Read your book.”
Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that it’s the poetry collection he came here for.
By the time he looks back up, you’re already walking away, but not before he catches the smallest curve at the corner of your mouth. And, unfortunately for him, that feels a lot like a maybe.
The annual charity gala occupied all three floors of the Grand Ballroom, transforming an expensive venue into something that looked less like an event and more like a display of wealth (though, yes, it is). Guests emerged draped in custom couture and tailored suits, while somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played softly enough not to interrupt conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead in cascading tiers, fresh floral arrangements towered from the center of each table (imported blooms flown in specifically for the event, you coined in the suggestion of peonies). Waiters moved soundlessly between guests carrying silver trays lined with champagne flutes.
You had spent your entire life in diamond rooms where people discussed acquisitions over appetizers and spoke about money like it was weather. You'd sat beside CEOs at dinner because they were family friends, and investors shared laughter with your father over barbecue in your backyard. Without the pretense of acting remotely impressed, you boredly made your way through the halls as you passed by familiar faces. You smile, greet, remember names, and pretend you enjoy hearing about quarterly growth projections — your father did tell you to learn from what the older ones tell you, but now you learn to breathe deeply through your nostrils so as to not yawn.
The Elie Saab Spring 2003 gown skimmed against your legs as you moved through the ballroom, pale fabric catching the chandelier light whenever you turned. It was just something your father had pulled from storage for tonight, another piece of old couture that had spent more time preserved in garment bags than actually being worn. The fabric itched, the fit was annoyingly snug around your hips, and entirely wasted on you considering all you could think about how little room it left for dessert.
You'd just escaped a conversation about market expansion into the rural regions of the country when you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
"Wow."
You freeze immediately. Because you know that voice. Know it well enough that your eyes roll before you even turn around. Jake Sim stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, looking entirely too entertained by something.
Specifically you.
"What?" The question leaves you sharper than intended, but he has always had a talent for earning it.
His gaze sweeps over you once, slowly. It isn’t enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."
You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like he’s finally used to it and finds it amusing rather than frightening.
For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching guests drift across the ballroom that it almost looks normal — respectable, even, as if you’re two people attending the same charity gala with poise and tact instead of a high school bizarrerie of a situation this has become.
"You clean up well." His gaze drifts back to you for a brief second before returning to the ballroom.
You turn so quickly towards him he actually laughs. "I always clean up well."
"Right."
"I do."
He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to smile. You take a sip of champagne as he steals a glass from a passing waiter, mirroring your movement to sip from his. "What are you doing here?" you shoot back under your breath.
He blinks at the question, looking almost offended on behalf of his own presence. "Are you asking why I'm at a charity event," he begins slowly, "or are you accusing me of stalking you?"
You practically glare at him but quickly shift to a warm smile when a familiar older face greets you, wrinkly and your father’s acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "I’m starting to think it's reached concerning levels."
That earns you a look — a long, disbelieving stare. He gestures vaguely to himself, as though presenting evidence before a jury, and that he clearly belongs here about as much as anyone else in attendance. "Come on." he chuckles as his eyebrows rise. "I look like this and your conclusion is that I trespassed just to see you?"
You hate how your eyes give in to immediately flicking toward him because, God, he's annoyingly right.
The black suit fits him unfairly well. His hair, usually left to do whatever it wants, has actually been styled for once, pushed neatly away from his face save for a single strand that has somehow escaped and fallen across his forehead. Standing beneath the chandeliers with a champagne glass in hand, he looks less like the guy who regularly shows up during the most random times and a prince, unfortunately.
You clear your throat and look away before that thought can do any more damage. "You make it hard not to think that way."
You almost forgot just how affluent the Sim’s are — that is, in your defense, was just a detail you overlooked. He isn't some random idiot who keeps appearing in your life through increasingly unlikely circumstances, his family name actually appears in newspapers and annual reports and conversations your father has over dinner.
You drain the rest of your champagne before he can say anything. "Well," you say, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from your gown, "it's been lovely speaking with you, Mr. Sim." The title earns an immediate snort, and you continue before he can interrupt. "Please extend my regards to your family." Satisfied with yourself, you offer him the sort of polished smile that had been drilled into you and turn to leave, as you’ve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.
A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. “There you are.”
You turn at the sound of your father’s voice and immediately straighten. It happens before you can stop it, your spine aligning, your expression smoothing, every loose, irritated part of you folding back into place like a napkin at a five-star restaurant. “Hi, Dad.”
He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. “You’ve been doing well tonight,” he says.
The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who it’s coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. “Thank you,” you say.
His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. “Where’s Riki?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your champagne glass. The room remains warm with bodies and lights and expensive alcohol, but somehow you feel cold all at once. “He probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workload’s been heavy.”
Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because it’s disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. “You’re his older sister,” he says. “You know how he is. You should have made sure he came.”
For a second, you only stare at him, at the neat way he fixed his hair and made his collar. Somewhere near the stage, the host tests the microphone and the feedback screeches faintly through the room. “I can’t force him to come,” you say carefully.
Your father’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve never had a problem controlling him before.”
Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didn’t care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. “He’s seventeen, he’s going to be careless — that’s expected. But you know better.” he looks at you this time. “So do better.”
For a moment, you can’t speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone else’s failures. “I should talk to some friends,” you say as you take a step back.
Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. “Good.”
You turn before your face can betray anything and walk away, heels clicking against the marble floor. By the time you reach the hallway leading away from the ballroom, irritation has burned through whatever hurt came first — your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you can’t say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as you’re pulled backward, your shoes skidding slightly against the polished floor before another hand steadies you just enough to keep you from stumbling.
Then you look up to see Jake.
“What the hell?” you hiss.
He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. “Okay, bad approach.”
You stare at him, breath uneven. “Are you insane?”
“A little,” he admits. “But I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.”
Your expression shifts before you can stop it. “Move,” you say, trying to step past him.
However, he doesn’t move. “You need air,” he says.
“I need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.”
His mouth twitches. “Fair.”
You narrow your eyes again. “Then move.”
He glances behind him toward a side door at the end of the corridor and you follow. Beyond it, you can see the faint spill of garden lights through the glass, and when you look back at him, you can see the words in his eyes. “Two minutes,” he says.
“No.”
“Then one.”
“Jake.”
“You can yell at me outside.”
You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didn’t just hand you responsibility for a brother he barely remembered to parent. Instead, when Jake gently reaches for your wrist again, you let him anyway.
The garden outside is cooler, quieter, and beautiful. Tall hedges line the stone pathway, trimmed carefully beneath strings of warm lights while white roses climb the trellises, their petals pale and some aging. The distant sound of the ballroom fades behind the closed door until it becomes nothing but a muffled noise as you walk further.
The cold reaches you almost immediately, slipping through the thin fabric of your gown and settling against your skin, but you refuse to shiver in front of him. For a while, neither of you says anything as you only tighten your arms around yourself, pretending it’s irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like he’s debating whether saying anything will get him killed faster than staying quiet. Then, with both hands tucked into his pant pockets, he nods toward the stone path. “Walk with me?”
You stare at him, unimpressed, but eventually follow because the alternative is going back inside and smiling until your face cracks in half. The two of you move beneath the garden lights in silence, your heels clicking softly against stone while his steps stay slower than usual, like he’s matching your pace without making it obvious. You keep your arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the roses ahead, while Jake walks beside you with his hands still buried in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it.
Which lasts forty-seven seconds.
“Riki told me he wasn’t going.”
Every strange thing that had happened to you recently could be traced back to your brother tonight. When you open your eyes again, Jake is looking ahead, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Right. You’re friends.” you say as you remember. “So he just tells you things.”
He shrugs. “Occasionally.”
“About me?”
He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. “Not that much.” He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. “Him not showing up must be why you’re upset?” he says carefully.
You turn your head slowly and he immediately lifts both hands, palms out, although the smile pulling at his mouth ruins the surrender. “I’m just asking.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Well, yes.”
You stare at him for a second longer, trying very hard to remain annoyed. Unfortunately, Jake has this terrible habit of making honesty look harmless. Although, he is very much a threat, maybe not the loud or dramatic kind, but the sort that slips past defenses because it smiles and asks questions and walks slower beside you when your feet are hurting.
You look away first, only for him to take that as permission, because he continues. “Let me guess. Your dad’s pissed because he didn’t show up.”
“No.” Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. “You’re shitty at guessing.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting the challenge. “Then maybe it’s the champagne. Bad year?”
You give him a look. “It’s champagne.”
“So yes.”
“No.”
“Is it the gown? You keep tugging at it.”
Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. “I am not.”
“You are.”
You glare at him, but there’s a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. “There it is.”
“There’s nothing.”
“Well, I think there is something. The garden’s very enchanted tonight.” he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.
“You are so annoying,” you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.
“I’ve been told.”
“Frequently, I hope.” You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing flute glass anymore. It irritates you a little that he helped without doing anything grand, only so much as walking beside you, filling the silence with stupid guesses, making it impossible for you to fully sink into whatever your father had left behind.
He looks at you again. “Is it one of the donors?”
“No.”
“Board member?”
“No.”
Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, “Or maybe it’s about a guy.”
Your head snaps up. “A guy?”
He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesn’t look directly at you. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a boyfriend.”
You actually laugh, disbelieving. “A boyfriend?”
“A shitty boyfriend,” he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. “Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe he’s the reason you look so grumpy in couture.”
You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesn’t say anything, and because he doesn’t say anything, you look back to see he’s looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.
“Good.”
Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. “Good?”
His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”
“You’re being weird.”
He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. “How?”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Explaining it would mean admitting that you noticed the difference between his usual and this one; it would mean admitting that you were paying attention to the boy that’s making space for himself in your life, little by little. So instead, you do the mature thing of looking away and walking.
He hums, pleased with himself, and the sound makes your hands tighten around your arms again without the cold having to do with it at all. For a few steps, neither of you speaks as the garden path curves around a fountain, water spilling quietly over stone. Out here, your hair has loosened from its pins and the night air has cooled your cheeks after learning warmth a little too much tonight.
“You know,” he says after a while, softer now, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.”
Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. “I didn’t ask.”
For once, he doesn’t tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesn’t turn your sentence into something lighter just because he can. He only keeps walking beside you in silence, letting the water from the fountain grow louder as you near it. You almost wish he would say something annoying, just so that it would give you something to swat at, something easy to roll your eyes over, something that didn’t require you to stand there with all the ugly feelings still sitting in your chest like stones.
A bench sits just in front of the fountain, tucked between two rose trellises and half-hidden from the ballroom windows. One second you’re walking, the next you’re lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like you’re trying to hold yourself together through posture alone. He stops a few feet away and after a careful pause, he sits on the opposite end of the bench, far enough that there’s a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.
He isn’t looking back when you look at him, his hands are clasped loosely in front of him as he stares at his fidgeting fingers instead, giving you the sort of space he knows you need. The kindness of it is small. A boy sitting a respectful distance away from you in a garden at a charity gala, saying nothing while you pretend you don’t feel miserable.
You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether you’ll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You don’t even know him like that because he’s not your friend; he’s Riki’s friend, an irritating hallway apparition, a boy who somehow knows too much and still not enough.
Your eyes stay on the building across the garden, right where you both came from. When you speak, your voice is quieter. “It’s not just because Riki didn’t show up.”
Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. “I told him about tonight,” you say. “I reminded him. I even texted him this morning.” Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. “And he didn’t come. Which is annoying, yes, but it’s also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.”
The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. “I don’t do it for fun,” you say, almost under your breath. “The controlling thing.”
You hate that word and how easily people use it, like it explains everything, like you woke up one day and decided being difficult was easier. “I don’t know how to parent,” you admit. “I know he’s my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.”
Jake does not interrupt, he only looks at you, steady and quiet, and that makes it worse because it makes you want to keep talking. “My mom’s a long story, and my dad…” You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “He pays for things. He’s not cruel. He just doesn’t know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when he’s sick and pretending he isn’t.”
You look down at your hands. “He doesn’t know who to call when Riki doesn’t answer his phone.” Your throat tightens. “And I do.” The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. “I just did what I thought was right. I’m not a mom. I don’t know what I’m doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I haven’t been trying since I was eleven.”
For a moment, Jake doesn’t say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all that’s left is something quieter, something you don’t quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.
He looks down at your hands. “Is that why you’re upset tonight?”
You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, “Is that why you’re upset every day?”
The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it.
Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. “Okay.”
You huff, wiping beneath your eye quickly before anything can happen there. Somehow sitting beside Jake Sim in the cold garden after admitting the worst parts of yourself feels less humiliating than it should. Maybe because he hasn’t moved closer, even though some terrible, traitorous part of you wonders what would happen if he did. Instead, he stays on his side of the bench, careful and warm from a distance.
You look at him finally. “Do people really think I’m a bitch?”
He freezes instantly, so immediate that you sigh for even asking. His eyes flick to you, then away, then back again, like he is suddenly trying to navigate a conversation with several live wires tucked into it.
You raise your brows, but you’re smiling. “So yes.”
“No.”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. “I mean, I don’t think that.”
You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. “Okay, so what did you think?”
His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were scary.” He looks at you, then immediately adds, “I still think you’re scary.”
Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. “You’re scared of me?” You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesn’t quite work.
His mouth tilts. “The first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.”
A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. “You should’ve stopped then.”
“I considered it.” He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. “But then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.”
Your head snaps toward him. For a second, he looks like he wants to physically pull the words back into his mouth after saying it too easily and comfortably, like the memory had been sitting there the whole time and slipped out before he could decide. He exhales, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. “I saw it,” he admits. “You were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...” He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. “You looked different.”
Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. “So you were watching me.”
He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. “I know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.”
You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. “And you remembered the cat’s name?”
“You called him Chicken.”
“Because his name is Chicken.”
“Which is insane, by the way.”
You almost smile at that, but you press it down immediately. Unfortunately, Jake sees the attempt; fortunately, he has enough survival instinct not to mention it, and to choose his words with more care this time. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to look less angry.” His gaze flicks to yours.
You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. “So you watched me because I looked less angry?”
“No,” he says, then pauses. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” He exhales, looking down at his hands. “Everyone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, well,” you say, looking away first, “I wasn’t exactly making myself likable.”
His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. “I’m not saying you made it easy.” His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. “I’m saying I still wanted to get to know you.”
For once, you don’t have anything sharp to say back. You study him, searching for the joke, the little loophole where he gets to wriggle away from accountability. But he only sits there on the far end of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, looking embarrassed enough that it almost feels unfair to keep glaring. The two of you listen to the fountain where water spills over stone, soft and repetitive, while the ballroom continues humming in the distance like another life waiting for you to come back and behave.
“You know,” you say slowly, “normal people introduce themselves.”
He glances at you. “I did.”
You give him a look. “You followed me through campus.”
“I said hey.”
“That is not an introduction, that was stalking.”
He laughs, and you roll your eyes, though the smile threatening the corner of your mouth makes the whole thing less convincing than you probably want it to be. He turns his body slightly toward you, still careful not to crowd your space, his expression shifting into something softer beneath the amusement.
“Okay,” he says. “Then let me redo it.”
He straightens a little, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket like he is preparing for something far more formal than a conversation beside you. It should look ridiculous, but then he looks at you with an earnestness that makes your guard hesitate before you can stop it.
“Hi,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Jake Sim. I’m Riki’s friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, I’m good at math, and I’m apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.”
You stare at him. Surprised. Confused. Heart fluttering a little.
His smile softens, but he keeps going, quieter now, like the next part matters more than the joke. “I also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.”
“You are annoying,” you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.
“I know.” His smile grows a little. “But I’m trying to be less annoying.”
“Unlikely.”
“Probably,” he admits. “But I’d still like to try.”
For a second after that, neither of you says anything. Your hand slips out of his, and both of you look away at almost the same time, like you’re both processing that you’ve just held hands. Jake clears his throat and fixes his posture, sitting up straighter as if that might undo the way his smile is still refusing to leave his face.
“Well,” you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, “you’re the first person who’s actually lasted this long with me.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. “Most people usually give up before this part.”
His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. “Because you push them away?”
You huff out a small laugh. “Friends, mostly.” Then your mouth twists, like you’re deciding whether to soften the words or not. “Apparently, people can’t handle a heinous bitch for very long.”
He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. “What?”
He shakes his head once, like he’s amused by something private. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
His gaze lifts to yours again. There’s a strange look on his face now, which isn’t teasing exactly, but not shy either.
Then he says, “I’m not trying to be your friend.”
The sentence lands so cleanly that, for one impossible second, your entire brain goes quiet. You stare at him and Jake stares back.
Somewhere behind the doors, people are still drinking champagne and discussing donations and waiting for you to return as the version of yourself they understand, while here, on this bench, Jake Sim has just said something far too simple to be misunderstood.
Your mouth parts slightly. “What?”
His confidence seems to flicker only after he realizes he has actually said it out loud and not something he kept in his head. His ears go faintly red, but he doesn’t look away, keeping his legs crisscrossed on the bench like an idiot prince, looking at you like he knows exactly what he meant and is terrified by it anyway.
“I mean,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. “I mean, I can be. Your friend.”
“That is not what you said.”
“I know.”
“You said you weren’t trying to be my friend.”
“I know what I said.”
Your face feels hot. Horribly, unmistakably hot.
His eyes drop for half a second to your mouth before returning to your face so quickly you almost think you imagined it. You look away first because if you keep looking at him, something very stupid is going to happen to your composure.
You clear your throat. “I should go back.”
His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah.”
You expected a joke, a dramatic sigh, maybe some irritating line about how tragic it is that society needs you more than he does. Instead, he only nods and begins unfolding himself from the bench. “You’re not going to convince me to stay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. “Do you want me to?”
He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. “I mean,” he says, “I can. But I can also walk you back.”
You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. “Fine.”
His mouth curves. “Fine?”
“Yes.”
He laughs under his breath, and you hate that you smile. You stand carefully from the bench, smoothing the skirt of your gown with both hands, only to freeze to find the pale fabric is stained. It’s not ruined, necessarily, but definitely marked where the garden path must have turned soft near the fountain, with a faint smear of mud that darkens the edge of the gown, and when you glance down at your shoes, the thin straps and pointed toes have flecks of dirt on them. You’ve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Riki’s friend, exposing everything you’ve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your father’s charity gala.
“I can’t walk back in like this.” you can only sigh.
He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. “Do you want me to carry you?”
You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. “What?”
His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. “Sorry. I mean, not like that. I just meant because of the mud, and your heels, and the dress, and the path is kind of wet. It might get worse. Aren’t your feet tired?”
You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. “I can carry you back.” The correction is soft, because it’s not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. It’s an offer.
“In front of everyone?”
“No,” he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. “Not everyone. There’s another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.”
You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. “I’m not letting you carry me.”
“Okay.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and this time you don’t try to hide it anymore.
The two of you start down the side path slowly, your steps careful over the damp stone and softer patches of grass. The garden seems colder now as the breeze slips beneath the thin fabric of your gown, crawling across your bare shoulders until you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasn’t just betrayed you in front of the most observant boy alive.
One second he is walking beside you in his perfectly fitted black suit, and the next, warm fabric settles around you, heavy and soft, falling over your bare shoulders with a carefulness that makes your breath catch. You stop walking, letting his hands hover for half a second near your shoulders to make sure the jacket doesn’t slide off before he pulls them back.
You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. “You’re going to get cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re in a dress shirt.”
“And you’re shivering.”
“I was not.” You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer.
“Just wear it.”
The two of you continue toward the side entrance, slower than necessary, slower than you have ever been. Your gown brushes against the grass, stained hem gathered slightly in one hand, while his jacket hangs around your shoulders.
You should worry about the mud, the whispers, your father, the fact that Jake Sim’s jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you haven’t cared even though the vintage and expensive dress you wear is dirty. Instead, you laugh again when your heel sinks slightly into the damp ground. Your heels click against the marble as you step back into the hallway, the sound suddenly too clean after the wet grass and stone path outside. You can already hear the faint swell of conversation beyond the ballroom doors waiting at the end like a mouth full of gold light and noise; the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the entire world you are supposed to return to with your posture fixed and your expression arranged.
You reach for his jacket before you can think too much about it. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing the fabric where your hands had been. You smooth the front of your gown, trying to rebuild yourself enough to step back inside. “If you tell anyone what happened...”
“I won’t,” he says, before you even finish. “I won’t.” he repeats, softer.
For some reason, you believe him immediately. So you nod once, gathering yourself before pushing the doors open. The warmth and noise rushes back in at once, golden light spilling over your face as you step into the room again.
It takes less than a minute for your father to find you, and once he does, his eyes move over you, first your hair, then the faint mud near your dress, then your shoes. His brows draw together. “What happened to you?”
Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. “I had a bit too much champagne,” you say lightly.
By the time you returned to your room that night, the mud had already dried along the hem of your gown, your hair had loosened almost completely from its pins, and even though Jake Sim’s jacket had been returned before either of you stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of it still seemed to sit stubbornly across your shoulders — surreal until beneath the covers.
That was the irritating part, really. Things were supposed to end when they ended. Jackets were returned, doors were opened, conversations were folded away with the rest of the evening, but the garden did not leave with the night, nor did the memory of him sitting across from you on the bench, careful with the distance, looking at you like he had seen the worst parts and somehow decided they were not enough to scare him away.
Neither of you talked about it after. Not properly.
There were moments where it almost happened, which was perhaps worse than if nothing had happened at all, because the next morning at school, when you saw him across the courtyard with Riki and the others, laughing at something Jay said, his eyes found yours through the movement of students and sunlight, and for one strange second, the entire campus seemed to narrow into the space between you — before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.
Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, that’s all) for you. And it’s inconvenient.
At first, that is the only word he lets himself use, because it sounds harmless enough. It is easier to call you inconvenient than admit that somewhere between a porch light, a bookstore cat, and a garden bench, his original reason for approaching you has started to rot quietly in the back of his conscience.
Riki had paid him.
Not in a serious way, or in a way any adult would consider legally binding or morally sophisticated, but still enough that Jake sometimes thinks about the crumpled bills and feels something unpleasant crawl under his skin. At the beginning, it had meant a task, this whole idea of keeping you occupied so Riki could have room to breathe. You were a challenge then, a sharp-tongued older sister with a reputation, a schedule, a glare that could salt the earth, and a list of rules for a brother who needed to survive for his benefit.
It was getting harder to think of you as a job when you showed him what you thought were the ugliest parts of yourself, and he could only think you still looked pretty.
He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
“Bro,” Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. “I need you to take my sister out tonight.”
He pauses with one hand still on Layla’s leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jake’s starting to think that Riki’s a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. “What?”
“You know,” Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. “Our deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.”
Jake’s expression flattens. “What plans?”
“A date.”
There is silence — one awkward silence.
Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, “Does your sister know?”
“No, obviously not.”
“Riki.”
“It’s not bad,” Riki insists immediately. “I’m just going out with this girl from school, and I’ll be home early, but if my sister’s home and I’m not, she’s gonna start calling people and asking questions again. It’s part of her rules that I’m not allowed to date ‘til I’m eighteen.”
Jake rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the shape of the problem and disliking how familiar it has become. Especially not when he was just trying to control his little growing trouble that made up of you and your pretty eyes and adorable smile. “So your solution is to make me distract her.”
“I pay a hundred bucks a week for that!”
Jake almost laughs, because three weeks ago he might have been amused enough to play along with the joke, but now the whole thing sits differently in his chest. There is the old agreement, of course, the stupid one made at a party over drinks and Riki’s desperation, but there is also the garden, your face under the lights, your voice beside the fountain, your hand taking his jacket before you stepped back into the ballroom, and the way you had looked at him like you did not know whether to trust him but might have wanted to.
“I’m not doing this because you asked,” Jake says.
Riki makes a confused sound. “But I did ask.”
“I know.” Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. “I’m saying if I take her somewhere, it’s because I want to.”
Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, “Oh.”
By the time evening settles over the city, you are in your room with your hair clipped back and a half-finished movie open in front of you when your phone lights up with Jake’s name, which is already annoying because he has apparently become someone whose name makes your attention trip over itself before you can discipline it with strict rules and bad parenting.
You stare at the screen for two rings. Then you answer. “What?”
There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “Hi to you too.”
His voice slips through the speaker in a way that makes your room feel a little more warm than it did a second ago. You hate that he can do that now, that he can enter a space and rearrange the air without even being physically present, as though your life has become embarrassingly vulnerable to boys with good timing and probably bad intentions, because who calls at 9PM?
You lean back against your headboard. “Why are you calling me?”
“Because I’m going to the night market across town,” he says. “There are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,”
You cock a brow at relevance. “Okay?”
“Come with me.”
The sentence is too simple. Not do you want to come, or are you free, or any kind of question you can fold neatly into an excuse and return unopened.
Your fingers tighten around your phone. “No.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and you expect him to push immediately, because that is usually what he does. He appears in hallways, sits at your library table, follows you through conversations until you leave, but now he only lets your answer sit there for a second.
Then he says, “Okay.”
You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely. “Then why are you still calling?” you ask.
On the other end, there is a small pause.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I don’t really want to hang up yet.”
The movie keeps playing in front of you, bright colors moving across your laptop screen, but the sound has become nothing. You stare at the monitor instead, and try to ignore the way your face has warmed.
“That’s a terrible reason,” you say quietly.
“Yeah.” he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. “I just thought you might like it.”
You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he can’t see your face. “You sound nervous.”
He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, “I am nervous. A little.”
You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. “Why?”
Then, quieter, “Because I asked you to come with me and you said no.” he lets out a soft chuckle, like he can’t believe himself for what he’s about to say, “But I’m going to be there,” he says. “And I’d rather go with you.”
There it is again, that careless honesty of his, the kind that does not ask for anything too loudly. Despite the oddity of the situation, your brain is less of a shamble than it is mellowed out — which you should probably question and panic about. Later.
You stare at your laptop for a long second. And for reasons you cannot fathom, you wonder what’s so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. “How far is it?”
He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. “Across town,” he says carefully. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”
You still for a moment, playing with your blankets in between your fingers while you think this through. And like he can sense your hesitance, he helps you. “Give me one hour,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll take you home.”
You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re very confident for someone I haven’t technically agreed to go out with.”
The silence that follows is immediate as your eyes open wide, just realizing it at the exact same time he does. You sit up straighter, heat rushing to your face because you didn’t mean it like that. “I mean go out to the market.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know.”
Fifteen minutes later, you step out of the house in comfortable clothes, locking the door behind you before you can think too hard about the fact that you came out at all. The night air hits your face immediately, cooler than expected, and you hug your arms loosely around yourself as your eyes find him near the curb.
Jake is leaning against his car with his hands in his pants pockets, head slightly lowered, looking unfairly casual in a hoodie layered beneath a jacket, his hair falling over his forehead like he did not spend even one second thinking about how he looked before coming here. Which is ridiculous, because some people look better when they try, but Jake Sim has apparently been designed by nature to look the most when he appears completely unaware of himself.
His gaze travels over you once, slow to take you in. You usually look like you’ve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight you’re in sweatpants and a fitted tank top beneath a jacket, hair loose, face bare. He looks at you like he is taking in the fact that you came downstairs for him.
“What?” you ask, already defensive.
He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. “You look cute.”
You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. “You’re weird.”
“I’ve heard.”
“You can’t just say things like that.”
He opens the passenger door and looks at you, smiling in a way that is trying to be innocent and failing by a devastating margin. “Get in.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re bossy tonight.”
“Please get in,” he corrects, still smiling.
You stare at him for another second, mostly because your pride requires a brief fight before surrender, then walk past him and slide into the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible. He closes the door once you are settled, and through the window, you catch the small smile he tries to hide as he circles around the front of the car.
The ride’s quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden — it makes you feel warm despite how cold the night is. You look out the window, watching streetlights slide over the glass, trying not to notice how different this feels from every other time you have been near him. The night market appears before you in scattered pieces first, a line of cars, a spill of warm lights, people crossing the street in groups, then the whole thing opens up beyond the parking area in a bright, crowded stretch of stalls and food trucks and lanterns strung overhead.
You step out of the car and immediately pause, because it’s loud and crowded, which means it’s not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves — which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.
You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. “This is busy.”
He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. “Yeah.” He laughs, but softly, and when you look at him, he is already looking at you with that careful smile again, the one that does not make fun of you for being cautious. He looks at the crowd, then back at you, and for a second you think he might offer to leave, which would be considerate and therefore deeply inconvenient, but instead he reaches over and gives the sleeve of your jacket a small tug.
“Come on,” he says.
Before you can decide whether to argue, he starts walking, slow enough that you can follow without feeling dragged into the crowd. You hesitate for another second, but then the smell of something fried and warm cuts through the smoke, and your stomach chooses betrayal.
At first, you keep maneuvering to avoid everyone. You move through the crowd with shoulders turning at sharp angles, arms tucked close, stepping aside whenever someone comes too near. He notices after the third time you dodge a stranger by nearly stepping into a potted plant.
He laughs and you sigh without looking at him. “People have no spatial awareness.”
“People are walking.”
“Badly.”
Jake looks like he is trying very hard not to enjoy you, which makes the smile on his face even worse. You are halfway past a food truck with skewers smoking over a grill when you stop so abruptly that Jake nearly walks into you.
He catches himself at the last second. “What?”
You are staring at a small stall tucked between two larger ones, steam curling from bamboo baskets stacked in neat towers while a woman behind the counter folds dumplings quickly with practiced hands.
“I’ve been craving dumplings.”
The sentence leaves you softer than intended, and his expression changes in a way you do not have time to analyze because you are already in front of the stall. He follows without comment. A few minutes later, the two of you are walking again, slower this time, both eating from your trays with the market moving around you in bright, noisy pieces.
For a while, neither of you says anything, though it is not uncomfortable. You take another bite, then he glances at you. “Do you want a drink with that?”
You nod, mouth still full, and he’s already turning toward a nearby cooler display. He comes back with two cheap glass soda pops, the kind with bright labels and caps that need to be opened on the side of the stall counter, and hands one to you without making a thing of it.
You take it, fingers brushing condensation. “Thanks.”
“Was that gratitude?”
You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink.
You walk with him after that, and slowly, your shoulders unintentionally begin to loosen. The crowd is still loud, still too close, still full of strangers with elbows and sauce and terrible directional instincts, but it becomes less unbearable now. He notices when your attention starts catching, but he never comments, which is the only reason you allow yourself to drift toward a booth crowded with little trinkets and charms. There are cats, dogs, bears, strawberries, cherries, tiny books, moons, stars, and one orange cat keychain with a round face and a deeply unimpressed expression.
You pretend your decision is practical, of course, like owning a tiny orange cat charm is somehow a necessary purchase. He watches quietly while you pay, your expression focused and pleased in a way that makes him look away for half a second because apparently he has some survival instincts left.
You attach it to your bag immediately. He looks at it, then at the rest of the display, and his mouth twitches. “That one looks like you.” You follow his gaze to a small cat charm with narrowed eyes, pointed ears, and an expression so deeply displeased it almost feels personally designed to insult you.
Your face flattens. “No, it does not.”
He picks it up. “It does.”
You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. “See? Same expression.” he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.
“Put it back.”
Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. “Why did you buy that?”
He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. “Come on.”
“No, why did you buy it?”
“I liked it.” He keeps walking, and you have to follow because the crowd is moving again. For some reason the gesture bothers you more than the teasing does.
The next booth that caught your attention is almost obnoxiously catered to your weaknesses, with neat stacks of sticker sheets, tiny memo pads, washi tape, highlighters in soft colors, planner tabs, bookmarks, stamps, and pens arranged in little acrylic containers. You stop so completely that Jake has to step aside to avoid blocking a passing couple.
For the next several minutes, you become very busy with the most random things, all as Jake stands slightly behind you, holding his soda and yours because at some point you handed it to him without looking, and he accepts this responsibility without saying anything. The two of you keep walking after, and you look more relaxed now than you did at the entrance, less like you are bracing for the world to touch you and more like you have forgotten that you disliked it. You stop at stalls, drift toward anything cute or useful, and Jake continues to follow at your side with no complaint, carrying your soda when you need both hands and slowing whenever you slow.
Then, just as you lean slightly toward a booth selling handmade bookmarks and tiny pressed-flower frames, a pair of kids comes rushing through the gap between stalls, chasing each other with glowing toys in their hands. He moves before thinking, his hand finds the space near your lower back, hovering as he shifts closer to keep the children from bumping into you. His other arm angles subtly between you and the crowd, and he looks over his shoulder just long enough to make sure they pass without catching your side.
You do not notice because you are too busy looking at a bookmark with a little painted cat on it. For some reason, that makes him smile to himself as he lets his hand fall away before you can feel the absence of it.
You turn to him a second later, holding up the bookmark. “This is cute.”
He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. “Yeah.”
At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didn’t even notice at first, but then the path in front of you disappears almost entirely, swallowed by families, couples, groups of students, people stopping without warning, people cutting through gaps that do not exist — just people. For a moment, both of you stand at the edge of the crowd, watching everyone press forward in a messy current of shoulders and laughter and swinging shopping bags.
You sigh. “This is ridiculous.”
He looks thoughtful for a second, then makes a decision you do not see coming at all. His arm lifts slightly, hovering behind your shoulders, and you immediately turn your head to look at him.
Jake, to his credit, only looks mildly nervous. “It’s practical.”
Your eyes narrow. “Is it?”
He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. “There are a lot of people.”
He presses his lips together, fighting a smile, but his arm stays there, careful and waiting rather than assuming. It should not feel like such a big thing, but it does, mostly because he looks like he is giving you every chance to refuse. “You don’t have to,” he says after a second, already starting to lower his arm.
You hate that the consideration makes it worse. So before you can think too much about it, you roll your eyes and step closer, letting his arm settle around your shoulders like this is somehow the most casual thing in the world (it is not). Jake goes very still for half a second, like he did not actually expect you to allow it, and the brief pause is so obvious that your face warms immediately.
“This is practical,” you say, staring straight ahead.
“Yeah,” he answers, voice lower than before. “Very practical.”
You glance up at him despite yourself, and he is already looking away, but the corner of his mouth is lifted, and his ears have gone faintly pink beneath the market lights.
“Are you blushing?” you ask.
Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. “No.”
“You are.”
“It’s cold.”
You should move away after that because the path opens slightly, enough for you to walk without being separated, and there is no official reason for his arm to stay around your shoulders anymore. But he keeps it there, loose enough that you can step away anytime, steady enough that no one can push between you.
So you stay.
He walks half a step beside you, not dragging you, only guiding when the crowd tightens again. His shoulder angles gently through the busiest parts, his arm drawing you closer whenever someone cuts too near, and each time it happens, your side brushes against him.
You stare ahead and try to remember that this is for crowd navigation, nothing else. Then someone with a swinging tote bag steps backward without looking, and Jake reacts before you do, pulling you in carefully until your shoulder presses against his chest for one quick, breathless second.
“Sorry,” he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. “You okay?”
You nod too quickly. “Fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
You hate how much easier it becomes after that. Not the crowd, because the crowd is still awful, still shifting and pressing and stopping without warning, but moving through it with him is easier. He notices gaps before you do, and he shifts when people come too close. At some point, without asking, he takes the unfinished cake cup from your hand too, tucking the little wooden spoon beneath the lid and holding it in his free hand like carrying your dessert is normal.
You do not protest, and that is the truly alarming part. For once, your brain gets to go quiet. Not completely, of course, because you are still you, but some strict part of you loosens just enough to let him lead. It should bother you more. It does bother you. But it also feels good.
By the time you finally return to the car, the one hour has become more than one hour by a margin neither of you mentions — you both had stopped checking the time altogether.
He only opens the passenger door for you, takes your bags long enough for you to get in comfortably, then hands them back once you are settled like this is all very normal. You start to think that’s the kind of person who knows where your hands are too full and fixes it without asking (which is bad because it detangles the wires in your brain). The drive back is quiet because you’re both tired, and the city slips past the windows in streaks of light while you sit with your head turned slightly toward the glass. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed now, his eyes on the road.
When he finally pulls up outside your house, you both sit there. Then Jake unbuckles first, getting out already, and by the time you open your door, he is already there with your things gathered carefully in his arms.
“I can carry my own stuff,”
“I know.”
He hands you the paper bag first, then the little pouch from the trinket stall, then your phone, which you had somehow left in the cup holder without realizing. With your things in your hands, you stand across the passenger door while he leans back against it, spine resting against the car, hands slipping into his pockets after he has nothing left to hand you. He is closer like this, enough that the porch light catches the tired softness around his eyes.
Jake looks at you for a moment, and for once, he does not seem like he is trying to come up with anything clever. Then his voice goes soft. “Did you have fun?”
You look down at the paper bag in your arms, thinking that you could say it was fine, or tolerable, or simply that dumplings were good. Instead, you think about his hand around yours in the crowd, his laugh when you dragged him away from the flowers, the way he never made you feel strange for relying on someone.
“A little,” you say.
His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. “A little?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
“I feel greedy.”
Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. “I had fun,” he says and you hold his gaze.
Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. “You’re very easy to entertain then,” you say.
“Only tonight.”
“Because of the market?”
“Sure.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “What was it then?”
He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. “You really wanna know?” he asks.
You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. “No.” because you know what he’ll say, and it feels dangerous to hear it out loud.
He laughs softly, head still leaned back against the window, the porch light catching the slope of his cheek and the tired softness in his eyes. For a second, he looks less like someone trying to win an argument and more like someone who would be perfectly fine just standing there with you until the night runs out. “I figured.”
You lift the paper bag in your hand. “The dumplings were good.”
He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. “I’ll take it,” he says. Then he straightens slowly, pushing himself off the car like he has finally accepted that the night has to end, but even after he says, “I should go,” he does not actually move.
You nod. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moves.
You should say goodnight, walk up the steps, unlock the door, and pretend the whole drive home had not gone quiet in a way that felt different from tiredness. But your feet stay planted near the passenger side, your bags looped awkwardly over your fingers, your phone pressed against the paper bag in your arms. The porch light spills softly over the driveway, catching the side of Jake’s face, and he looks tired in the gentlest way, hair slightly messy from the night air, hoodie sitting loose on his shoulders, eyes still on you like he is waiting for something without wanting to ask for it.
That is the worst part: he does not push, he does not tease, he does not make some stupid comment that would make it easier for you to roll your eyes and leave. He just stands there, patient in a way that makes your chest tighten.
“You should go,” you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.
His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”
“You’re not going.”
“Neither are you.”
You look away first, irritated by the truth of it. This is awful.
It is awful because you are used to handling things yourself, used to needing no one, used to being sharp enough that people stop trying. And then Jake Sim shows up, too warm, too persistent, too easy to like when he stops trying so hard, and suddenly your own brain feels like it has been rearranged.
He watches your face, his smile fading into something softer. “What is it?”
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“Okay.”
He says it like he believes you have the right to keep it, and somehow that makes it harder to keep anything at all. You glance at him again, and he is still there, hands tucked into his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, giving you every chance to go inside.
You hate that. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.
“You’re thinking really loud,” he says quietly.
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re very annoying.”
“I’ve heard.”
“No.” You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “You’ve been very inconvenient.”
He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. “Inconvenient?”
You hate that he genuinely does not seem to understand. It makes the whole thing worse, somehow, because of course he would stand there looking at you like that, soft-eyed and patient, after spending the entire night making it harder and harder for you to pretend he was still just Riki’s friend.
“Yes,” you say, almost sharply. “Inconvenient.”
His mouth opens, probably to ask another stupid question, but you cannot handle another second of him being careful with you. So you drop your bags at your feet, step forward before you can change your mind, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him down.
Then you kiss him.
He goes completely still beneath your hands, so still that your heart drops almost immediately. The courage leaves you as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp rush of embarrassment that burns all the way up your neck. You pull away before he can even react, fingers slipping from his hoodie as your eyes fall anywhere but his face.
“I —” You swallow, already stepping back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have —”
But you’re already turning before you can finish. You barely make it half a step before his hand catches your wrist, gentle but certain. The next second, he turns you back toward him, and you stumble straight into his chest.
Jake is looking at you now like he has finally caught up with himself. His hands find your waist, careful for only a heartbeat before his grip firms, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back. It is warm and firm and breathless, like he is making up for the second he lost, like he cannot believe you almost walked away again.
Your hands grab at his hoodie again, more out of surprise than anything, and he leans into you just enough that the whole world seems to narrow down to his chest against yours, his fingers at your waist, and the quiet night around you. He towers closer, holding you tighter when your knees buckle underneath you, especially when a gasp slips out of your lips and his tongue enters your mouth.
When he finally pulls back, he does not go far. For a moment, both of you just stand there, close and silent, breathing unevenly under the porch light. Then Jake lets out the smallest, stunned laugh, his forehead pressed against yours.
“You have no idea,” he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. “How long I’ve wanted you to stop walking away from me.”
For once, there is no sharp answer on your tongue, no insult, no eye roll, no clean little exit you can use to save yourself from the way he is looking at you. There is only Jake and you.
“You froze,” you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.
His laugh comes out breathless. “You surprised me.”
“That’s your excuse?”
His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. “That’s my apology.”
You lift your chin slightly. “It wasn’t very good.”
His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before coming back to yours, and this time, the smile he gives you is softer than it is teasing.
“Then let me do better,”
You barely have time to pretend you are annoyed before he kisses you again. This one is slower at first, like he is giving you the chance to pull away, but your hands are already gripping his hoodie and pulling him closer before either of you can pretend otherwise. You feel him smile against your lips as he deepens the kiss.
When you part again, your face is warm, his hair is a little messed up from where your fingers had caught in it, and both of you are breathing like the night has tilted beneath your feet.
You look toward the door, then back at him, suddenly shy now that the night has become quiet again. “Do you want to come in?”
His gaze lifts to yours, and the look on his face changes so quickly it makes your breath catch. The teasing is gone now, the stunned smile from earlier fading into something quieter, heavier, like he understands exactly what you just asked and is trying very hard not to make you regret saying it.
For once, he does not say anything clever. He only looks at you and nods.
You unlock the front door carefully, as if the sound itself might become suspicious, then step inside with him following after you. The house is dim, only the soft light over the staircase left on, and for a second the two of you stand in the entryway like you have smuggled the whole night in with you.
He closes the door quietly behind him as you slip off your shoes. Neither of you says anything, but when you glance back, he is already looking at you. You step toward him first, his expression shifting like he has not fully learned what to do with you when you are the one closing the distance. For once, he does not move first. He only stands there, still and watching, as your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. You pull him in and his breath catches softly, then you reach up and kiss him again. He responds after half a second of surprise, hands lifting to your waist, like even now he is keeping some part of himself gentle.
The kiss is still sweet, still careful, but there is less hesitation in it this time. Your hand stays fisted in his jacket, and when he leans closer, you feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses you back properly.
He pulls away just enough to breathe, his face still close, eyes warm and slightly dazed in a way that makes your stomach turn uselessly soft. “You’re getting very bold,” he whispers.
You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. “Are you complaining?”
His smile breaks wider. “No. I’m not.” Then he kisses you again before you can argue, which is unfair because arguing has been your only reliable defense against him and he has apparently discovered a much better strategy. His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, not pushing, only holding you close enough that you forget to keep track of where the hallway ends and where he begins.
Somehow, between one kiss and the next, your back meets the front door. You do not notice right away because all you notice is him, the warmth of his mouth, the careful way he keeps slowing down like he is reminding himself to let you breathe, the way his thumb shifts at your waist when your fingers tighten in his jacket. The whole house is quiet around you, but your heart is being so loud it feels impossible that he cannot hear it.
Then he pulls back just enough for his words to brush against your mouth. “I want to be your boyfriend.”
You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, “Think you can wait a little bit more?”
His expression softens immediately. The shift is quick; the want in his face makes room for patience again, how fast he understands. He nods once, small and serious, his hands loosening at your waist like he would let go the second you asked him to. “I can wait,” he says quietly.
And he looks like he means it. Like he would stand there in your hallway with your lipstick slightly smudged on his mouth, with his heart in his hands, and let you kiss him while still waiting for you to decide what to do with it. Like he would take every almost, every maybe, every not yet, and still look at you like you are not being cruel for needing time.
Your hands slide up from his jacket to his hair, fingers threading carefully through the soft strands at the back of his head, and his eyes flutter like that small touch just ruined whatever patience he had left. You lean in again and he goes still for one startled breath before he melts into it, a quiet laugh slipping against your mouth as he realizes, too late, that you were not saying no. Your hands stay curled in his jacket, keeping him close, and this kiss feels different from the others, still soft, still careful, but warmer now, more certain, like an answer you are not ready to say out loud.
When you pull away (barely), he is smiling so openly that you almost regret letting him have this much evidence. His smile turns stupidly happy. “That sounds like a yes.”
“It sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.”
He laughs, quiet and breathless, and does exactly that. Somewhere between the hallway and the kiss after that, the two of you become very bad at making responsible decisions.
In whispered laughs and careful footsteps up the stairs, with your hand around his wrist and him following behind you like he is trying not to smile too loudly. The house stays dim around you, every creak in the floorboards suddenly dramatic enough. By the time you reach your room, your heart is doing something ridiculous again. You open the door slowly, letting the faint light from the hallway spill over your bed, your desk, the half-finished planner still open from earlier, the ordinary pieces of your life that suddenly feel less ordinary with him stepping into them behind you. He looks around for half a second, not nosy, just quietly taking it in.
You step toward him before he can say anything worse, catching the front of his jacket again, and he lets you pull him down with an ease that makes your stomach turn soft. The kiss starts as a way to shut him up, or at least that is what you tell yourself, but then his hands find the small of your back to steady you, careful and familiar now, and suddenly the room feels smaller.
You back up without thinking, until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, and he stops immediately. He pulls away just enough to look at you. “Okay?”
You hate that he asks. You love that he asks.
Instead of answering, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and tug him gently. He follows, careful even when he looks like every bit of caution in him is being tested. The bed dips beneath both of you, your knees brushing first, then your hands finding his jacket again, pulling him close enough that he has no choice but to lean over you when you lie back against the pillows.
For a second, he just looks at you. It is almost funny, how still he goes, hands planted beside your shoulder like he has forgotten what to do with himself now that you are the one inviting him closer. His eyes move over your face, not rushing anywhere else, and something about that makes your chest feel warmer.
“You’re overthinking,” you whisper.
Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. “Yeah.”
“You usually have more to say.”
His smile appears, small and helpless, before he leans down and kisses you again. It is still gentle and careful, but being this close makes everything feel bigger. The quiet room, the faint light from the hallway, the warmth of him above you and being in between your legs, the way his breath catches when your fingers slip to the back of his neck.
He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. “Still okay?” he whispers.
You nod, but he does not move immediately, like he wants the answer to be something you choose twice. So you smile, softer than you mean to. “I’m okay.” The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.
“You’re very careful.”
His mouth lifts faintly. “With you? Yeah.”
You look away for half a second, because that is a terrible sentence to hear while he is this close. He sees it, the way the gears turn inside your head, the way you’re suddenly pushing his jacket off him and your knees are tightening against his waist. He swallows, struggling as he keeps himself over you, trying not to dive into something he’s not sure you want.
Except, you do. And it is very obvious.
You pull him down again, kissing until you know you’ve bruised his plump lips, until his tongue finally slips into your warm mouth as you make a sound against him. You gasp when you feel his hips press in between your thighs and his breath hitches, like he’s in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.
“God,” he lets out an airy and startled laugh, “What the fuck.”
He hates that he really likes the way his growing bulge is pressing against your ass. The warmth of his body makes you so needy, embarrassingly enough, though you only pull him closer. “Why are you so far away?” you whine.
“We should probably stop,” he says, but it comes out more like a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping for a second.
But you frown. You grind your ass against his hips, feeling the imprint of his cock. “Your dick says otherwise,” God, you are so mean, and he loves it.
A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh that’s pressed against his waist, squeezing the soft fat there. You practically melt at the sight of veiny hand smoothing over the skin, until the tips of his fingers carefully disappear into the fabric of your shorts. You squirm against him and he shoots his eyes back up at you, eyebrows furrowed down to his lids.
“I don’t have a condom,” he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.
You smile, evil and insatiable. “I don’t care.”
He sighs, disbelieving of how you’ve completely turned to a 180. “I’m trying to be good,” he says. “You’re making it impossible.” Yet he slips his shirt off his body, exposing the toned muscles of his abs, the deep grooves carved. His chest is flat and broad, expanding to the sculpted arms that are solid without looking heavy, just all quiet strength.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “And I will.” right before he bows down to kiss you again. His tongue brushes into your mouth, meeting yours as your hands find the privilege of slithering down his exposed skin, fingers grazing against the muscles that twitch from your soft touch.
He kisses your cheek next, then your jaw, until his lips reach the soft skin of your neck. He sucks there, until it’s littered with hickeys. “This isn’t good, baby,” he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way he’s quickly losing composure.
He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. “Arms up,” you follow, staring into his eyes once he takes it off you. His hand slides to your back, leaning down a little where his lips ghosts above your forehead, then presses a kiss there as he unclasps your bra, the black material slipping off you. You grow a little shy, lips pressing to a line while your own arms curl around yourself. He chuckles softly, then reaches for your wrists with careful fingers and gently uncrosses them. “Where did all that attitude go now, hm?” he murmurs before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then another just above it, slow enough to make your breath catch.
He circles your arms back around his neck and you pull him closer to you, so he presses a soft kiss to your lips right before he bends down to your chest. “You’re making this too easy,” he whispers. “I thought you liked arguing with me.” You can only bite down on your bottom lip when he takes your perked nipple into his mouth, all wet and warm, before he sucks and bites down gently.
“Shut up.” you somehow still manage, and you can feel him smile against your breast.
His tongue swirls around the bud before he pulls away, then takes the other one into his mouth next. After he fondles your breasts, caressing you gently but firmly, he moves down your belly, his soft tongue trailing down your skin slowly. He presses kisses on the swell of it, smiling when you tense against him. His large, veiny hands tightens on your waist, attempting to memorize the way the dip feels under his palms. They find your hips next, thumb teasing the hem of your thin shorts, slipping into the fabric just to feel how soft you can get underneath.
“Miss Attitude is so fucking soft,” he murmurs. “They have no idea.”
He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. You’re already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know it’d mark.
He can smell how sweet you are, your wetness glistening with so much arousal. He looks over you, sharp eyes through the hoods, like he wants to make sure you’re watching him. “I’ve got you.” Then, because he’s so cruel and careful at the same time, he presses soft kisses on your folds first. Then he kisses your clit next, a deep breath spilling out of you, your hands locking through his hair, attempting to pull him closer.
He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. “Fuck, Jake, come on,” you practically whimper.
With a prideful grin, he pins your thighs back against the bed. Then he buries his face into your cunt, his tongue laps inside your folds like you’re his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like he’s mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.
“Oh my God — Jake, fuck —” Your eyes shoot to your ceiling before your eyelids shut. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your pussy, his moans muffled while yours echo in your bedroom. He stuffs his face in, tongue slurping your entrance before his lips latch onto your clit next, sucking it dry. Your fingers tug at his roots, while your thighs threaten to clench around his head.
He pushes his long tongue into your hole next, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clip as he buries himself deeper, making sure to coat his face with your sweetness and his saliva. He thinks he can do this until the sun sets again and again, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head.
He shakes his head slightly, just drinking your juices and moaning into your cunt, not being able to have enough of you. When he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily and you’re pouting, unsure why he’s stopping. Though the sight’s going to kill you still anyway, black hair soaked in sweat, brushing over his eyes while his plump pink lips and chin glisten with your juices.
“I want more, please…” you sigh, attempting to reach for him.
His hand lowers from your thigh to your cunt now, thumb gently grazing over your clit before spreading the folds apart. Practically glimmering with how drenched you are, he teases by pushing his thumb in and pulling back right after. He watches your face, at the way your brows knit together and how you flush into a puddle for him.
He smiles, all of his teeth showing, before he leans back down. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Then he inserts his middle finger in, impossibly longer than yours, stealing a gasp from your throat when he pushes his digits so deep inside, reaching his pink knuckles.
The squelch of your walls squeezing around him should be sin, as he feels just how soft you are. He sneaks another one in, two fingers buried deep into your pussy that you clench so tightly. “S-shit — s-so fucking good…”
“Fuck,” he huffs a chuckle. “So tight. How would my cock fit you?”
He licks his lips, swallowing the remnants of you from his mouth. Then he dives back down, open mouth attaching on your clit while his thick fingers pull, push, and curl inside you. Your legs spread for him while you whine his name as if in a desperate prayer.
He continues to retract his digits before pushing it all back inside, carefully picking up the pace with the thrusts. He sucks on your clit hard, the sheer overstimulation of both his mouth and hand working on your pussy makes you a whining mess, loud and fucked, that you have to cover your mouth with your palm.
Though it’s no use, your brother definitely knows now just who’s fucking you with just his fingers and tongue. After a few more thrusts, the tips of his fingers touches that spot that makes your cunt clench tighter and your spine curve against your sheets.
“I-I’m gonna cum — Jake, c-cumming —” He drinks up all your liquid but then abruptly pulls back, fingers leaving your entrance and his mouth detaching with a wet pop, leaving you so bare.
You feel empty without him filling you up, that you’ve got to open your eyes and look over your breasts and belly, where he sits up, adjusting his weight on his knees while his face and fingers are sopping with your arousal, somehow still making you embarrassed. He licks it off clean, making sure not to waste any of you that you’ve given to him, and you sheepishly curl a little in your bed.
He leans forward now, propping himself on his hands as he hovers over you. Your hands reach up to soothe over the muscles of his traps, warm and bulky under your palms, before you find his hair again, stroking through the black locks. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you mumble, soft and spent.
Jake only has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grinning, eyes soft with the kind of fondness that makes you want to look away. Your gaze falls on the veins protruding from his arms, trailing up to his elbows that you just have to turn away again because is his dick just as veiny? When you look back up at him, there’s something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like he’s looking at the prettiest thing he’s ever been allowed to keep close. Without any words, he leans down, kissing you again, soft but firm, but he presses you deeper into the bed.
He lifts your leg again, spreading you wider than your dignity lets you, taking your thigh against his hip before he jerks forward, pushing his clothed bulge against your exposed pussy. Your kiss stutters and he pauses a little, pulling away suddenly to let out a shaky breath. “S-shit…”
You whine, weak but pitched. “Take it out, Jake, please,” You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.
He doesn’t even argue this time, he just nods, breath uneven, eyes fixed on yours like whatever fight he had left in him disappeared the second you said his name. His hand finds your waist like he’s been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. “Okay.”
He lets go of you for a bit to push his sweatpants off, revealing his boner so prominent and practically hanging in his boxers. You can see his hands shaking a little as he takes his boxers off next, before throwing them into a corner of the room.
His cock practically springs forward to you, desperate and leaking. He’s thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.
You don’t even pretend you’re not staring anymore, and you don’t notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. You’ve never really considered yourself a sex addict, much less even lustful, but the way your pussy throbs at the sight of his pretty cock makes you think maybe you’ve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how it’d slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.
“No condom, baby, I’m so sorry,” His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. “I’ll pull out, I promise.”
“I don’t give a fuck, Jake,” you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. “I need you inside me, please — “
If his cock wasn’t twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, he’d probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But he’s no better than you, so he adjusts himself forward, leaning once again before aligning the head against your pussy. He nudges your clit, a gasp tumbling from his mouth at the contact.
“It will only hurt for a second,” he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. “Breathe, baby, okay?” You nod, biting down your lip.
You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. He’s breathing heavily, taking one final inhale before he pushes forward and lets the head of his cocks slide past your folds, meeting your gummy walls. You gasp as the stretch, making you tense up and clench around him.
“Fuck, t-that’s so tight — ah —” Jake’s forehead rests against yours, the feeling of your pussy squeezing him in, practically sucking his cock inside until you feel him brushing your cervix. He finally sinks in fully, and all he can think about is trying not to fucking cum right now. Not even 10 seconds in and he’s gone like a horny loser, but seeing you so spread open just for him is undoing him anyway.
He sets a pace, slow to stretch you out, having to bury his head against your neck just to suppress his groans, shallow thrusts getting deeper and deeper. The way his member touches rubs on your walls draws the prettiest whines from you, his name coming out as uneasy breaths as his rhythm picks up. Your hands thread through his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and so his veiny hand settles beside your head, balancing himself on top of you. You claw at his back when his tongue slips into your mouth, his thrusts growing faster.
“J-Jake,” you whimper, just as he pins your thighs down the bed. Your legs spreading wider pretty much heightens the feeling in your pussy, letting you feel his cock as he begins to pound into you. He shifts slightly, grinding on that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back and whine his name again.
“Y-you’re clenching — shit, you’re clenching too hard, baby —” he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Your brain is short-circuiting and your skin is on fire, hot coil tightening in your abdomen. He continues rutting into you, bodies warm and sweaty, while your nails dig deep into his back. “I-I’m coming, Jake — fuck, I’m — “
He steals your mouth for another kiss when you finish, your orgasm striking through you, pussy clenching tight around his dick as you feel white ropes spill into you, full and so fucking hot. “S-shit…” he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure.
Jake rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath while his hand caresses your waist so firmly, soothing the skin up and down like a lover. His panting slow down, breathing matching yours as the height of your drives lower, his twitching cock coming to a stop inside you. He pulls out, drawing a wince from him, his cum oozing from your hole as he does.
“Fuck,” he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.
“I did not fucking mean to,” he clears his throat before looking back up at you, “cum in you.”
You hit his arm without any real force, a tired smile etching on your face as you pull him back down. He kisses you, and you try not to melt at how slow he does it, at how much deeper it is compared to the others. When he pulls away, he presses a softer one on your forehead. He straightens on his knees, sharp yet weary eyes looking over your naked body, enjoying every dip and curve, hand somehow never separating from your thighs and hips. You get sheepish, despite it all, giving a quiet groan when he admires you shamelessly. “Stop staring,”
He can only smile, his hand reaching for yours in which you give. His thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your fingers before leaning over to kiss your forehead. He kisses near your temple after, voice low when he speaks again. “I’m gonna go to the store.”
Your brows draw slightly, “Now?”
“Yeah,” he gives you a sly smile, “For Plan B.”
You give him a look, but it barely has any strength behind it. Then you laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous it sounds. Jake gives you a look back, brows lifting slightly. “What?”
Before you can give a proper answer, you sit up and place your palms against his shoulders, pushing him down the bed. He follows obediently, eyes on yours as you find yourself climbing on top of him, legs bracketing either side of his hips once he’s laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.
“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.
Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Boyfriend, hm?” you hum as your hands feel his abs underneath your palms, taut at your touch.
Jake throws his head back, Adam's apple bobbing before he mutters a quiet curse. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Your face heats, not being able to stop the smile that creeps to you. Your hands slide to his chest, and your ass rubs against his hardened length, a soft moan coming out of you when it slides against your wet folds.
“Later, okay?” is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat.
The next few days have been… a turn.
Not an immediate one, because you are not the kind of person who wakes up one morning and becomes soft just because a boy fucked you to make your thoughts trip over themselves. It starts with stupid things, like letting Jake carry the heavier paper bag when you leave the convenience store instead of wrestling it back from him on principle, or handing him your empty cup before you can think too hard about why your fingers already moved toward him, or looking up from your phone in a parking lot and realizing he has already stepped to the side closest to the road.
The first few times, you still fight it, naturally, and there are moments when you hear your own voice sharpen before you can stop it, asking him whether he thinks you are incapable of holding a bag, opening a door, ordering your own drink, or to even function as a person, but Jake never flinches when your tone gets mean. He never waits for you to become easier. He only looks at you with that patience of his, and says, “I know you can,” like your competence was never in question, and the entire point is not that you cannot do it yourself, but that someone else can do it for you too.
You are used to being needed, to people looking at you when something breaks, when Riki disappears, when your father needs something handled, and you are used to stepping in so quickly. Needing someone has always felt too close to failing, and depending on someone has always felt like handing them a knife and hoping they do not use it on you, but Jake does not treat your reliance like victory, does not look smug when you finally stop arguing, does not make a monument out of every time you let him help. He just helps, and it gives you nothing to push against.
The hot stuff hasn’t ended either. At first, you both did try to be normal for the sake of your upheld pride of refusing to be easy, even to your own boyfriend, and his respect for your decision. It does come to an end right after 4 days it happened, when he comes over again and your father’s never home and Riki’s somewhere you don’t know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean he’d end up pounding into you. Or that you graciously ride him so well that he has to run to the store for Plan B again.
Jake never ever made you feel like you have to do things for him, nor did he ever urge you to have sex with him. There were a few occasions though, when you two might have went against your own moral code when he fucked you in his car in the school parking lot — did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.
You might have had a hidden trait that’s been opened after a few nights together. There were a lot of moments when Jake had to take a pause because he genuinely gets scared at how you look at his cock, all excited and famished (sorry for the lack of better term). And his nose, just before he lies down on your bed and lets you sit his face.
You never have prioritized sex, nor did you think there was anything good about having a wet pussy 24/7 other than it was pure lust. You did, however, also find out that you really liked being pushed against Jake’s desk and fucked at the back.
After that, things get a little more cliche, of course. You start expecting his hand at the small of your back when a hallway gets crowded, start assuming he will keep track of where you left your phone, when you start sending him photos of readings with a single question mark and receive back highlighted screenshots, voice notes, and brief explanations. You start asking him to pick you up without building a whole argument on why it’s practical. You start trusting him with the ugly middle parts of your day, not only the polished version you usually hand people.
Then, because you are still princess-y, petty you, you also start getting annoyed when he does not anticipate things fast enough.
One evening he sits beside you at a café and does not immediately take the extra books from your arms because he is answering Sunghoon’s text, and you feel offended — makes no sense, of course. Now you stand there with your books pressing into your chest, glaring at the side of his head until he finally looks up and pauses. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His gaze drops to the books, then returns to your face, and the slow realization that crosses his expression is so unbearable. Jake reaches for them anyway, careful enough to give you time to refuse, smug enough that you want to kick him, and when you let him take the stack from your arms, he murmurs, “My bad, baby. I’ll be faster next time.”
With Riki, the change makes him jump quietly (of course) in glee. You do not stop worrying, because that would require medical intervention, but you stop overthinking every hour. Sometimes you don’t ask where he is until he tells you first. Riki starts texting more because the texts no longer feel like constant interrogation, and you start responding less as you remember that seventeen is not the same as helpless.
Then one day passes without you talking to him at all. You do not realize it until you are brushing your teeth and your phone lights up with a message from Riki that only says, alive btw. You stare at it for a long second, toothpaste foaming at your mouth, and the first thing you feel is panic because how did you go an entire day without checking — someone will kill you, for sure, right? Then the panic fades into the shape of relief. He is fine, he told you, comfortably at that too.
When you tell Jake later, expecting him to make some joke, he only nods and says, “That’s good.” then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You did good.”
You don’t have to be soft all at once, nor do you have to surrender your sharpness just to wake up as some easier version of yourself because someone decided to stay. Embarrassingly, it makes your brain turn off when your boyfriend takes the problem from your hands and solves it before you can turn it into another reason to hate yourself. You can still be competent, still be difficult, still be the girl who knows what to do in a crisis, while also being the girl who lets Jake highlight her readings, carry her books, order her coffee, pull her away, and hold her against his chest when she finally remembers it’s okay to be tired.
He does not make you less capable, he just makes you less alone with it. Most importantly, he does not act like the softer version of you is the only one worth liking.
Jake and Riki manage to convince you to go to a house party on a Friday night, which doesn’t take much, weirdly enough.
Riki starts first, of course, he says you never do anything fun, which makes you refuse again. Jake, unfairly, does not argue the same way, who only leans against your kitchen counter with one hand curled around a glass of water, watching you over the rim with that calm expression he gets when he knows you are already halfway annoyed. He tells you “it does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. I’ll stay with you the whole time if you want me to”, and if you hate how kind he is. Which makes you say yes.
The house is already full by the time you get there, music pressing through the walls before Jake even parks. Cars line both sides of the street, voices spilling through the open windows, laughter breaking over the bass in uneven bursts — you’re not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something you’re used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in.
Then Jake’s hand settles at the small of your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low enough when he leans down to you.
You look at the room in front of you, then at Riki, who is already greeting someone. “This is loud.”
“Because that’s how parties usually work,” Jake’s mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. “But we can leave.”
That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jake’s thoughtfulness except either accept it or be a bitch about it and watch him keep being thoughtful anyway. You glance away before he can catch whatever your face is doing and mutter, “We’ll stay.”
He gets you a drink from the kitchen, not from one of the abandoned cups on the counter but from an unopened bottle in the cooler, twisting the cap and you take it without arguing.
His friends find you almost immediately. Jungwon lifts his brows when he sees you beside Jake, then smiles. Sunoo says your name with delighted surprise, Jay gives you an exaggeratedly respectful nod that makes you narrow your eyes, and Sunghoon and Heeseung offers you a small, careful smile. They are nicer than you expected them to be, or maybe they have always been nice and you were too busy seeing them as Riki’s friends (with connotation, at that).
Jake does not leave your side at first, and tries to make sure not to make you feel tense. He notices when the kitchen gets too crowded and nudges you toward the living room without making you feel like he is moving you. He notices when someone you barely know tries to pull you into a conversation you clearly do not want and cuts in so smoothly that they don’t even realize.
For a while, you stay like that, your back against his front, his mouth near your ear every now and then as he leans down to murmur things meant only for you. His eyes flick toward Jay guarding the snack table like a personal estate, toward some boy near the speakers dancing with more confidence than rhythm. You laugh quietly at first, then more openly later on, your head tipping back slightly against his shoulder for half a second as you both judge people’s tipsy decisions.
Someone nearby starts setting up beer pong on a long table, cups arranged into triangles, people crowding around with immediate excitement. You take one look at the cups, the ball bouncing once against the floor, the wet ring marks on the table, and the enthusiasm dies on your face so visibly that Jake folds forward against your shoulder with silent laughter.
You stop paying attention to the shape of the night, and your guard lowers enough for the party to become just a party, not a list of potential disasters. With his hand on your hip, even when Riki’s off your field of view, you’re less anxious.
He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I’ll just get another drink.”
For a minute, you stand alone near the edge of the living room, watching him disappear through the crowd. You decide to find his friends, partly because they are people you know now, partly because you are not yet the kind of girl who can stand alone in a house full of strangers.
The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someone’s car keys and stepping out into the night air. The music dulls behind the walls as you walk down the porch steps and follow the narrow side path around the house. You only remember seeing Jungwon and the others near the backyard earlier, and going through the side seems easier than forcing yourself through the crowd. The side of the house is dim except for the spill of light coming from the backyard, and voices grow clearer the closer you get.
A voice says something you do not catch, followed by a louder laugh, and you stop before fully turning the corner, half-hidden behind the hedge lining the side yard. You do not mean to listen, but you hear Riki first. “Dude, I’m just saying,” he says, laughing carelessly. “I should’ve done this months ago.”
Someone snorts, Jay, probably. “You mean hiring Jake?”
Your steps slow before you fully reach them, deciding to still behind a stupid bush.
Riki laughs again. “I mean, clearly the money worked.”
“He really put those hundreds to use, huh?”
There is laughter, easy, stupid, and thoughtless laughter from boys who have no idea that the joke is standing right there, turning rigid again.
“Taming the lion,” someone says.
Your throat goes dry as the laughter grows again, freezing completely when someone says your name next.
The scary sister, the impossible girl, the controlling bitch with a curfew and a brother who apparently thought your entire life could be negotiated down to a payment and one patient boy you thought saw you differently — yet each memory with him reaches backward for a new shape, forming into one joke shared by teenage schemes.
Someone inside says, “Nah, but seriously, Jake deserves a raise. She actually smiles now.”
Riki says something you cannot fully make out, but it does not matter because your mind has already started blurring.
Then Jake’s voice cuts through, appearing through the patio door. “Hey, have you guys seen her?”
“There he is,” Jay says, too loud, too cheerful. “Man of the hour.”
“What?” Jake asks, distracted.
Then there is the sound of palms meeting, boys greeting him the way boys do, easy and stupid and physical. Someone daps him up, someone else claps his shoulder, someone mentions how great he did for convincing you to go to a party.
“Congrats, bro,” one of them says, laughing. “Hundreds well spent.”
Jake does not speak. Maybe he is processing, maybe his face has changed in some way you cannot see yet. Maybe, he would push the hand off his shoulder and tell them to shut up. But you do not get that far, because you turn a little to see him, and his eyes finally lift past them and land on you.
He sees you standing there, one hand around the bottle he opened for you, your face completely still. For one impossible second, you look at him and he looks back.
And it is awful, how quickly his expression breaks, because it isn’t confusion nor innocence, just the face of someone who knows. His eyes widen, his mouth parts slightly, and panic moves across his face so plainly that it feels like another admission you’re not supposed to hear.
Behind him, Riki turns and the color drains from his face when he sees you. Your name leaves Jake’s mouth once, low and ruined but you’re already stepping away.
You turn and walk.
Someone laughs from the inside, someone trying to go to the back bumps your shoulder and apologizes, but you do not answer. It’s a little shitty how your whole body feels strangely calm now, the way it does in emergencies, when adrenaline doesn’t need you moving your feet to handle something first.
You can hear Jake behind you, cursing under his breath, sharp and panicked, nothing like the careful voice he used when he told you to let him take care of you.
“Wait,” he calls, closer now. “Please, just wait.”
The front yard is crowded, so you shove through them and into the night air with your lungs burning and your hands cold around the bottle you forgot to leave behind. The street outside is quieter, only then do you realize how badly you needed it, how trapped you had been inside that house with all those walls and all that laughter and every memory of Jake rearranging itself into something ugly.
You make it halfway down the front path before his hand catches your wrist, not hard but you pull away like it burns.
He stops in front of you, breathing unevenly, hair messier than before, eyes wide in a way you used to love, but now it only makes something sharp twist in your chest. Behind him, Riki stumbles out onto the porch, face pale, panic written all over him like a child finally realizing the stove is hot after touching it, even after you told him no.
Jake takes half a step forward, then thinks better of it. “I can explain.” His jaw tightens. “It’s not what they made it sound like.”
“Really?” Your voice stays calm. “Because it sounded like my brother paid you to distract me, and your friends think you deserve congratulations for doing it well.”
Jake’s face goes white. Riki moves down one step. “It was my idea.”
You look at him then, not with the sharp little look you usually give him when he says something stupid, but actually look at him. For one strange second, he looks like the nine-year-old boy who used to stand in your doorway, the one who would deny crying even while his eyes were swollen, the one you learned how to comfort while you comforted yourself because mom is gone and dad is never home.
That is what does it, your eyes water before you can stop them. “You paid someone to get me out of the way?”
He shakes his head too quickly. “No. I just wanted you to have something else,” he says, and the words come out in a rush now, messy and panicked. “I thought if you were busy, if you were happy, maybe you’d stop worrying about me all the time. I didn’t know how else to get you to stop. You never listen to me. You never believe me.”
Your eyes return to Jake, and the worst thing is that part of you still wants him to fix it. Some pathetic, exhausted, newly softened part of you wants him to say the exact right thing, wants him to reach for the memory of every night you trusted him and pull it back from the edge.
You hate that part of yourself instantly. You hate that it exists because of him.
“Is that true?” you ask.
His eyes flick down, then back to your face, desperate now. “At first,” he says, voice rough. “At first, yes, but it stopped being that.”
You stare at him.
“But I gave the money back,” he continues, voice rough. “I told him I was done. I told him I didn’t want any part of it anymore.”
Your throat tightens. “After I slept with you?”
He goes still.
That is the answer.
You stare at him, waiting for him to save it anyway, because some stupid part of you still wants him to. You wait for him to say no, to say you got it wrong, to say there was some other version of the story where he did not let you give him that much of yourself before telling you the truth. But Jake only looks at you with his mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and ruined, and every second he does not speak feels like another hand closing around your throat.
You shake your head once. “You let me think,” your voice is low and calm, “that for once, someone just wanted to be there. You let me trust you with the parts of myself I don’t even like,” you say. “And you knew. You knew what they didn’t.”
The gala. You see the memory land in him, the garden lights, the fountain, your stupid dress, the way you sat on the far end of a bench and told him things you barely knew how to tell yourself. Your mother being gone, your father being absent, Riki being more yours than he should have been. You remember how carefully he listened, how he stayed far enough not to scare you off, how safe his silence felt then, how you laughed with him because he saw you and didn’t think you were cruel at all.
He takes a step toward you. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking around it. “I should have told you that night. I know I should have.”
“I thought you chose me,” you say.
“I did.” His eyes go red. “I did choose you.”
Your mouth trembles once, then stills. “For a hundred bucks?”
He looks like the words hit him somewhere physical.
“No,” he says, too quickly, too desperately. “No, not like that.”
You nod once, not because you believe him, but because your body needs to do something other than fall apart in front of them. “I want to go home.”
Jake straightens immediately. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”
You turn away from him and reach for your phone with shaking fingers. “No.”
His breath catches. “Please.”
You unlock your screen and open the app, feeling stupid because you can’t see through the blur as you type it in.
“I can drive you,” he says, voice quieter now.
You keep your eyes on the street until the headlights appear at the end of the road, the car pulling toward the curb. You get inside and do not look back.
You hate men.
Enough that you can prepare a presentation on the subject with credible sources, historical examples, and a conclusion about betrayal as a gendered epidemic. Evidence would be your absent father, your fraudulent ex-boyfriend, your seventeen year old brother, and his demonic friends.
Hating your brother is inconvenient because he lives in your house, eats your food, leaves his stuff everywhere, and now lives without you telling him what to do. For the first time in years, you do not ask what the hell he’s up to anymore. You simply sit at the kitchen island with your laptop open, spoon in hand, eating directly out of a tub of ice cream at seven in the morning.
Historically, you have always cracked first when it comes to him. Historically, you cannot help yourself. Historically, your entire body starts to prepare for anything if it concerns Riki.
But history is dead. Men killed it.
Jake is hard to ignore only because he is not physically in the house, which means he tries to get creative. He texts first, of course, just once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day — because he knows exactly how to overwhelm you. Then he leaves an iced latte with your name on top of your desk in one of your classes. You stare at it on your desk for a full minute, before you give it to your seatmate.
By the fourth day, you have finished the second tub of ice cream — not your proudest moment, but it is also not your worst, which says more about your week than your character. You have attended classes with perfect notes, no late submission, reorganized your planner, ignored messages from Jake, and pretended not to notice that Riki has started texting you when he arrives places without being asked.
On Friday night, Riki finds you on the couch in your oldest pajamas, hair tied messily back, third tub of ice cream open on the coffee table, watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures with the blank focus.
“Jake’s been driving me from and to school,” he says carefully.
Your spoon pauses in the ice cream, before you resume. Onscreen, a glowing fish drifts through the dark, hideous and peaceful, which feels aspirational. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then sets his bag down properly.
“I’m sorry,” he says but does not step closer. “I know sorry doesn’t fix it. I just wanted to say it.”
You keep staring at the television, where the ugly little fish continues glowing alone in the dark, refusing to pay him any mind.
By Saturday morning, Riki had started acting like a ghost. He moves quietly around the house, closes cabinets softly, and pe picks up his shoes before you can even see them. At one point, you find him wiping the kitchen counter after making toast, which is very disturbing.
At school, Jake looks worse than he ever did. He waits by your classroom once, but you walk past him without slowing down, your expression polished into something calm. He says your name but you keep walking, because you refuse to give pieces of yourself to men, more than you already have.
Riki has also learned that you are not going to pack his lunch, remind him about assignments, ask whether he has practice, or save him from his own time management. This would be liberating for him if freedom did not apparently require the ability to know where his own socks are.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and your eyes slide toward the screen, just long enough to see Jake’s name there before the notification fades and the room goes dim again. A few seconds later, there is a knock on your door. It does not open but Riki’s voice breaks through. “Jake’s here,” he says. “He has food. He said he’ll wait ten minutes, and if you don’t come down, he’ll leave.”
Riki stays there for another second, clearly wanting to say something else, but maybe he has learned enough to know that pushing right now would only make you worse. For a while, you do not move and only tell yourself you are not thinking about it, that you do not care what food Jake brought, whether it is something you like, whether it’s because he’s making sure you ate.
At eight minutes, you sit up.
At nine, your feet touch the floor.
At ten, you stay where you are.
Then outside, his car starts. You sit at the edge of your bed with your hands curled into the blanket, listening until the sound disappears completely down the street.
The week passes, and you remain committed to silence. You do not speak to Jake. You do not speak to Riki unless it is absolutely necessary.
That night, Riki knocks on your door. You do not answer, but unfortunately, he opens the door anyway and stops at the sight of you buried in bed, laptop balanced near your knees, looking at him like you have been for the past weeks: exasperated.
“What?”
He stays by the doorway, one hand still on the knob. “I’m hungry.”
You stare at him for a second, then look back at your screen. “Then order something.”
“I don’t want delivery.”
“Then make something.”
“I want to go out.”
You pause, because that is exactly the kind of sentence he used to say before you started the lectures about curfew, rides, locations, and whether he had enough sense to come home alive. This time, you only shrug against your pillows. “Then go out.”
Riki shifts his weight. “No,” he says, quieter. “With you.”
You keep your eyes on your laptop, even though the movie has become impossible to follow, because looking at him would mean seeing guilt, probably; hope, maybe. Both would be extremely inconvenient because you learned to soften when he used it.
“It’s late,” you say.
“I know.”
“And you have Jake, apparently.”
He flinches a little, and the guilt on his face finally becomes too obvious to ignore. You hate that it still gets to you, how young he looks when he is sorry, like some part of him has folded back into the boy who used to stand outside your room when he was scared and he had no one else but his older sister.
He swallows. “I don’t want Jake.”
You hate men. You hate your brother. You hate that the sentence works.
With a long, irritated sigh, you close your laptop. “Get your shoes.”
The drive is quiet, Riki sits in the passenger seat with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, looking out the window instead of at you. You keep both hands on the wheel and do not ask if he has eaten lunch, even though the question sits on your tongue the entire way there. The diner is still open when you pull up, its neon sign glowing red against the dark.
When the food comes, the table fills with baskets and paper-lined plates, greasy burgers, fries, and mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce in a plastic cup between you. Riki burns his fingers because he has never once believed in waiting, and you call him an idiot before you can stop yourself. The two of you eat in silence after that — not the awful one from the house, but not comfortable either. It sits between you, filling the space while both of you act invested in fries and melted cheese.
Then Riki clears his throat. “I have a girlfriend.” Your hand freezes halfway to the basket.
For a second, the entire diner seems to mute itself around that one sentence. You look up slowly, genuinely caught off guard, and Riki looks terrified in the way only someone who has been hiding something huge.
“What?”
He shifts in his seat. “I have a girlfriend.”
You lean back against the red vinyl booth, trying to process this new piece of information without immediately becoming the girl who asks for her full name, address, grades, family background, and emergency contact. The questions rise anyway: Who is she? How long? Does she treat you well? Does she know you are stupid? Does she have standards? Does she encourage you to drink blue things at parties? Does she know about dad?
Riki looks down at his plate. “When Jake started taking you out, I was also taking her out.” His fingers pick at the edge of the paper liner. “That’s why I wanted more time and freedom. I know that doesn’t make what I did okay.”
You look at him, face unreadable.
“It was bad,” he says, before you can say it for him. “I know it was bad. But something good came out of it too. You were happier. I know you hate hearing that, but you were. You weren’t always watching me like something bad was about to happen. You went out and laughed and you had someone.”
You look down at the untouched mozzarella stick in front of you. “Right,” you say quietly. “So much for a hundred bucks.”
Riki’s face falls. “No,” he says, then stops himself because even he knows he cannot deny the beginning. “I know I can’t decide which parts hurt for you, but I thought I was helping both of us. That doesn’t make me right, I know that. But please don’t think that I wasn’t considering you along the way — because I did, I really did.”
The answer is too ready, too practiced, and for a moment you think that maybe he’s being foolish again. But now that you’re looking at him, you realize that he’s old enough to make cruel decisions, young enough to look shattered when he finally understands.
“I know you wanted me to stop controlling you,” you say. “I know I was too much.”
He exhales, miserable. “Okay. Sometimes. But not because you were bad. You raised me,” he says, quieter now. “And I hated it because I wanted you to just be my sister, but I also knew you were the only one checking. That’s why it felt so messed up all the time.” He wipes his palms on his hoodie. “I’m sorry I made you feel like something I had to escape.”
The waitress passes by with a coffee pot, and both of you sit there pretending you can steal breathe without feeling hot wax at the back of your throat. You reach for a mozzarella stick because your hands need something to do, and Riki pushes the marinara closer without thinking.
You dip the mozzarella stick and take a bite. “I’m still mad,” you say. “But I’d like to meet your girlfriend.”
For a second, he just stares at you, like he is not sure he heard you correctly. Then his face shifts, slowly, carefully, into the smallest smile. “Okay.”
For the first time all week, your mouth almost curves. The rest of dinner is still quiet, but not as sharp. He tells you her name eventually, softly, and you do not ask for details yet, only nodding. Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. You make it three steps toward the car before Riki stops behind you.
“I really am sorry,” he says.
When you turn around, his eyes are red, standing there with his shoulders tight and his face crumpling despite how hard he is trying to hold it together. The sight pulls at something old and exhausted inside you, the same place that has always answered him before pride can interrupt.
“Riki,” you say, but it comes out cracking.
He shakes his head, wiping his face too fast. “I’m sorry. I know I ruined it. I know. I’m sorry.”
You cross the space before either of you can think too hard about it and pull him into a hug.
For a second, he is taller than you and somehow still the little boy from your doorway, the one who had no one else, the one you loved badly because nobody taught you how to do it gently. His arms come around you tight, and the first sob he lets out breaks something open in your chest.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
“Fuck you too,” he says, crying harder.
“You’re so stupid.”
“A dumbass, I know.”
You hold him tighter anyway. Eventually, he pulls back first, wiping his face with his sleeve. His nose is running slightly, and he looks so devastated that you almost call him gross just to make the moment easier.
“I don’t get to tell you what to do,” he says.
You look at him, already tired. “Great start.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “Especially not about Jake.”
Your face changes before you can stop it. He sees it and immediately raises both hands a little, like he is approaching an animal with a history of biting. “I’m not defending what happened. I’m not. But,” he continues carefully, “he did give the money back.”
Your eyes narrow at him.
“I know that doesn’t fix it,” he says quickly. “I know it doesn’t make the beginning less awful. I just… I was there, and I saw when it changed.”
The words sit there, too quiet and too heavy for the sidewalk outside a diner. You do not answer, only staring past him toward the parking lot, where your car waits under the lamppost.
He swallows. “At first, he was doing it because I asked him to. Then he started asking me things about you. What books you liked, where you went after school, if you were always that tired.” His voice gets smaller. “And then he stopped asking me altogether.”
Your throat tightens, which is infuriating.
“He didn’t need me anymore,” he says. “Not for you.”
“Riki.”
“I know. I’ll stop.” He wipes his face again, then nods like he is trying to obey before you even say anything mean. “I just wanted you to know that part.”
You stare at him for a long second.
“And what am I supposed to do with that?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Get mad — at me, at him, at dad too. Do nothing. Eat more ice cream. I just don’t want you to think every good part was fake. Because I know I messed it up, and he messed it up, but you were happy. And I don’t think that was fake.”
You hate him a little for saying it.
You hate him more because it makes you think.
The worst part has never been that Jake lied and everything after became nothing. The worst part is that it still feels real and they happened, regardless the truths and the lies, the half-truths and wrong intentions. All of it still sits somewhere inside you, refusing to rot properly no matter how badly the beginning wronged it.
You wipe under your eye with your knuckle. “You’re very annoying.”
“I know.”
You sniff, looking away before your face can crumple again. “I’m not forgiving him just because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I’m not forgiving you either. Not yet.”
“I know.”
You look at him.
He looks back, eyes still wet, but this time he does not look like he expects you to fix it for him. He only stands there, accepting it, which feels new enough to hurt.
Then he says, quietly, “But can I still ride home with you?”
Your mouth almost curves.
“Unfortunately,” you say, walking toward the car.
That night, you cannot sleep.
It is annoying, because you are exhausted enough to sleep. Your body is tired, your eyes hurt, and your head has been heavy since you drove home from the diner. Still, you lie there staring at the ceiling, turning one thought over and over until it stops feeling like a thought and starts feeling like a pulse breathing beneath your weight — your brother’s words alive there.
You hate that Riki said it and that he might be right. You hate that all week, even through the anger, you still kept thinking about Jake when you made coffee, when you passed the hallway where he used to wait.
You are still in your sleep shorts, an old shirt, and house slippers when you grab your car keys. You do not bother changing, which should have been your first sign that you are not making a dignified decision at all. You only go downstairs without turning on too many lights, and leave before you can talk yourself into being a sensible woman.
The drive to Jake’s house feels longer than it should.
When you pull up near the curb, you keep your hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the front of his house like it might tell you what the hell you are doing here. Yet it only sits there, quiet and expensive and familiar.
The front door opens when you’re about to reverse. Jake steps out with his keys in one hand, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, his hair messy and soft around the mouth in the way you used to love. Still the boy who made you feel, for the first time in years. He locks the door behind him and turns toward his car, already halfway down the path when he sees you.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then, because apparently you have already abandoned all pride tonight, you get out of your car. The cold hits your legs immediately, so you hug your arms around yourself and stand there on the sidewalk in slippers, trying to look like a person who’ll stand on this and not someone whose feelings drove her here.
“Where are you going?” you ask.
His hand tightens slightly around his keys. “Store.”
You nod once. “Right.”
“I was just going to buy something,” he adds, quieter, like even he knows that does not matter.
You nod again, because now that you are here, you have no idea what comes after arriving — which is excessively dumb. The whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous; you in your sleep clothes and him standing by his car.
“Okay,” you say, then you turn back toward your car.
You barely make it one step before he says your name, not loud nor desperate, just in that Jake way that makes your knees buck and feet stop.
He takes one careful step forward. “What are you doing here?”
You keep your eyes on your car door. “I don’t know.” The answer is embarrassing because it is true, and you’re glad you can’t see his reaction.
“Okay.”
You almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You look back at him with enough courage. “Riki talked to me.”
He goes still.
“I’m not here because of that,” you say quickly.
“Okay.”
“I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“And you still hurt me.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I know.”
You look away, because his face is making this harder. “I don’t even know why I drove here.”
He’s quiet for a long second, still careful as to not step on a mine. Then he says, “I was hoping you would.” He looks almost embarrassed by the honesty, but he does not take it back, not even when you look back at him. “I just kept thinking maybe one day you’d show up, or text, or yell at me, or anything.” His mouth pulls faintly, but it is not really a smile.
“That’s pathetic,” you say, but your voice has no bite.
He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I know.”
You hate how gentle the night feels around the two of you, how gentle he still is, how easier it is to stand here than it was to stay in your room while your throbbing heart gnaws on your ribcage. You hate that even now, after everything, being near him makes some part of you calm.
Your fingers curl against your own arms, holding yourself tighter, because if you don’t, you might do something worse. Like forgive too fast or maybe even slap him or admit the thing sitting in your chest that looks a lot like a picture of you two.
Jake moves slowly, just before he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the way his mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something and knows better than to crowd you with it.
“I tried,” you say, barely above a whisper. You blink hard, still looking down. “Not thinking about you.”
He does not answer.
“I tried being angry enough that it would cancel everything else out,” you continue, and the words start coming before you can stop them. “I tried making all of it ugly. I tried telling myself that every good thing only happened because of a bad reason.”
Your voice shakes, and you hate it, but you keep going. “But it didn’t work.” You finally look up at him, and his eyes are already on you, wide and quiet and so full of hope because that’s just who he is. Your own mouth trembles once before you still it.
“I can’t not be in love with you, Jake.”
For one terrifying second, he says nothing, and your face burns so badly that you almost step back. But then his expression breaks, not with panic this time, not like the party after you find out — just something like relief and careful in one.
He says your name so quietly it barely reaches you. He lifts his hand slightly, then stops.
“Can I?” he asks.
You know what he means and you should say no — but instead, you nod once. His hand closes around your elbow softly, barely a grip at first, before he pulls you toward him.
You step forward before you can decide not to, and then you are close enough to feel the warmth of him through the cold night air. His hand slides from your elbow to your arm, then pauses there, carefully first. His eyes search your face, and you hate that he still looks at you like that, like all that matters to him is not to hurt you.
“You can still be mad,” he says quietly. He swallows, his thumb moving once against your sleeve. “I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to stop being hurt just because you still love me.”
You look down, because that is the exact kind of thing that makes your chest go weak in a way you cannot afford. “Then what are you asking?”
He is quiet for a second, and when he answers, his voice is lower, rougher. “For whatever part of you drove here.”
Your eyes lift to his, just to see he’s nervous after saying it, knowing it’s too honest and too close to wanting too much. But he does not take it back, his hand still on your arm, gentle enough that you could pull away, firm enough that you know he does not want you to.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
His mouth barely moves, not quite a smile. “Good.”
“You’re unfair because you hurt me, and then you still know how to hold me like this.” Your voice turns softer, more frustrated than sharp.
His face changes. “I don’t know how to hold you any other way.”
For a second, you just stare at him, feeling your anger and your want and your stupid, impossible love all sitting inside your chest together, refusing to separate into anything clean and correct. You reach for him first, your fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, but he goes still and his breath hitches.
Your fingers tighten. “I hate the way I don’t hate you.”
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it sounds too shaky to be amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll take that.”
You blink. “What?”
He looks down at your hand, then back at you, and his mouth does this stupid little almost-smile that makes your chest hurt. “I mean, it’s not ideal,” he says carefully. “But it’s better than you hating me normally.”
You glare at him, but it barely has any strength. “You’re not funny.”
“I know.” His eyes stay on you. “I’m nervous.”
He swallows, his hand hovering near your arm like he wants to touch you and is trying very hard to behave. The silence after that is small, not empty. You can hear the faint sound of a car passing somewhere down the street, the soft buzz of the porch light, the uneven way he breathes when you still do not let go of his hoodie.
Then Jake says, quieter, “I kept thinking about what I’d say if you ever looked at me again.”
The smallest, most traitorous shift at the corner of your mouth. His eyes drop to your mouth, lasting half a second before he looks back up, but it is enough to make your face warm. You swallow, “And what did you come up with?”
He stares at you like the answer should be easy, but now that you are standing in front of him, hand still curled in his hoodie, it looks like every version he practiced has abandoned him. His mouth parts once, then he lets out a quiet breath. He tilts his head down, close enough that his nose brushes yours first, and your breath catches anyway.
“I want you,” he says.
He swallows, eyes still on yours, voice lower now. “No deal, no money, no Riki asking me to.” His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but he looks too nervous to fully let it happen.
For a second, you forget how to be angry properly.
Even after everything, he says things too simply, too honestly, like he does not know that a few words can walk straight past every wall you spent weeks rebuilding. You stare at him, close enough to see the way his lashes lower when his eyes flick to your mouth againe
“You’re very annoying,” you whisper, because anything softer would ruin you completely.
His mouth twitches, but his eyes do not leave yours. “Then be annoyed at me,” he says quietly.
His hand finally settles against your arm. “Be mad at me. Yell at me if you want. Look at me like you hate me.” His voice drops a little, and something in it turns almost helpless. His face is close enough now that you can see how badly he is trying not to look at your mouth again. “To my face,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “So at least I know you’re still there.”
You forget your slippers, your car parked badly by the curb, the fact that you drove here with no plan and no dignity. All you can focus on is the boy in front of you, looking at you as he says your anger is better than your absence, and even the worst version of you would be easier to survive than no version at all.
For a second, you only stare at him, and then, because your body has apparently lost all sense of loyalty to your anger, you laugh. Just something that slips out because Jake Sim is standing in front of you looking genuinely wrecked over the possibility of you never glaring at him again, and somehow that is the stupidest, most unfairly sweet thing he could have said.
His eyes flicker, like the sound surprises him. “What?”
“You’re very stupid,” you whisper.
His mouth softens. “Yeah.”
You shake your head, but your fingers are still curled in his hoodie. You hate that your whole body seems to understand him before your brain can decide what to do, because all week you have been telling yourself to stay angry, stay away, stay untouched, and then he says one stupid honest thing and you are standing here in slippers, holding onto him like you were always going to come back.
His hand shifts at your arm, careful still. “I won’t ask for more than you want to give me.”
You tug him down and then your mouth is on his.
The kiss is soft at first because he makes it soft, because even now, even with your fingers pulling at his hoodie and your face tilted up to his, he still kisses you like he is waiting for you to change your mind. Then his hand slips from your arm to your waist, warm and steady, and he kisses you back like he has been trying not to think about doing this for weeks and failing every single day. He does not rush, does not take too much, but the relief in him is obvious in the way his breath leaves against your mouth, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly at your side like he cannot believe you are letting him hold you again.
Then he takes one step forward without thinking, and you take one back because he is close and warm and kissing him is already making your brain fuzzy. Your slipper catches the edge of the curb before either of you notices and you stumble. A small gasp slips into the kiss, immediately followed by a laugh you try and fail to swallow. His arm tightens around your waist at once, pulling you back against him before you can lose your balance properly, and he breaks the kiss only enough to look down between you.
“Careful,” he breathes, like he has any right to sound concerned when he is the entire reason you forgot how sidewalks work.
He kisses you again before you can complain further, and this time it is less careful, tugging at his hoodie until he has to bend closer. The cold air slips around your legs, and your car is still parked badly by the curb.
When you pull away, barely, Jake follows for half a second before stopping himself. His eyes open slowly, and the look on his face is so dazed and soft that your own face heats.
“Do you want to go somewhere?”
You blink. “Right now?”
“Yeah.” His thumb moves once at your waist. “I mean, not as a date if you don’t want it to be a date. Or it can be. Or it can be something else. I don’t know.” He winces slightly. “I’m doing badly again.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “Very badly.”
For a second, he only looks at you, still smiling a little, then he tilts his head like he has decided to be brave in the worst possible way. “I’m buying. I have cash.” he says. “Got it from some dumb seventeen-year-old who asked me to take his sister out.”
Your jaw drops. He starts laughing before you can even form a sentence, and that makes it worse. “Oh my God.” You immediately turn away from him, deeply offended, and manage half a step before his hand catches your wrist, enough to stop you before you can escape with what little dignity you have left.
“Okay, sorry,” he says, but he is still laughing.
Your back meets his chest, his arm slips around your waist again, and his laugh drops into something softer near your ear.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “Bad joke.”
His hand slides down from your wrist to your fingers, and before you can say anything else, he lifts your hand. His lips press softly against your knuckles, and every insult waiting on your tongue disappears like it never had a chance.
You hate him. You hate him a lot.
You sigh, like this is a great sacrifice and not exactly what you want. “Fine.” His smile grows. “But if you mention the money again, I’m breaking up with you. Again.”
He nods seriously. “Okay. No more money jokes. I can’t afford to lose my girlfriend twice.”
summary: what would you do when your bias offers you an NDA?
warnings: verydom!jungkook x shy!submissive reader, explicit sexual content, clit rubbing, pussy eating, blow job, squirting, edging, spitting, dom/sub dynamic, daddy, heavy degradation, dirty talk, multiple positions, detailed smut, jk is very mean, oral sex, mirror sex, slapping, choking, pussy slapping, anal, rimming, nipple play, praising, dumbfication, usage of slut/whore, cum eating, marking, mentions of oc being his toy, multiple orgasms, rough sex, mentions of sex doll, crying, overstimulation, fingering, nipple slapping, penetrative sex, hair pulling, creampie.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
“Please, please, please!” you whispered to yourself, fingers crossed tightly as you stared at the three screens in front of you.
Your laptop. Your phone. Your tablet.
Your eyes were glossy with hope and adrenaline, your feet thumping uncontrollably beneath your chair, a thin layer of sweat forming despite the air-conditioned room wrapping around you in cold comfort.
This was your first time buying concert tickets. Despite being a long-time fan, this was your only chance—because you had finally gathered enough money to secure one.
You had prepared three Weverse accounts under your name and your parents’ names, carefully reserving each slot so you could slip into the presale the moment it opened. You had already studied how fast tickets sold out in other countries—the quickest being around ten minutes. Ten minutes of chaos, of people like you refreshing, praying, losing.
You bit your lip hard enough to feel it sting. You were still in the queue when the screen suddenly shifted, dragging you into a loading page that refused to move. Thirty minutes had already passed, and all three accounts were still stuck.
“Fuck!”
Your eyes widened when two of your accounts abruptly showed session timeout.
With shaky hands, you tried to navigate through it, but everything lagged—hesitating, freezing, slipping away from your control. You cursed under your breath, glancing at your laptop—the only one still holding on, still alive.
Your vision started to blur at the edges. The chances of getting a ticket were thinning by the second, dissolving right in front of you.
“Please, just this one…” you whispered to yourself, eyes locked on the screen with fragile, breaking hope.
Your eyes widened when the screen finally moved.
No Tickets Available.
Just like that, your hopes were crushed.
You slowly looked up at the posters on your walls, the albums stacked neatly on your shelves, the plushies scattered across your bed, and the ARMY Bomb you had recently bought, displayed beside your BTS McDonald’s figurines.
Tears began falling uncontrollably from your eyes, like a flood breaking through something you could no longer hold together. The realization settled in—heavy, final—that you wouldn’t get to see them.
Your lips quivered as you quickly sank onto your bed, pulling your favorite pink cooky plushie close to your chest. You cried into it, letting everything spill out with an aching, exhausted heart.
Your parents tried to comfort you. They knew how much this meant. They had witnessed your journey growing up—how you stayed up all night waiting for comebacks, how you saved every bit of money just to buy new albums, how you would drop everything the moment a Weverse Live started, how you bought multiple happy meals just to complete all the toys, how you binge-watched their content and replayed Run BTS episodes whenever you had free time.
They had seen it all.
How deeply you adored and loved your bias…
Jungkook.
You appreciated how your parents tried to look for tickets online for you, but the number of scams you’d heard about from resellers made you hesitate. Prices were tripled—far beyond your budget. You didn’t want to burden them, even when they insisted they were willing to cover the extra cost.
You were still a student, after all. You told them it was okay—that they should just save the money for your college instead.
“What if you just check in to the hotel they’re staying at? Girl, imagine!” your best friend Mina suggested.
The hot coffee you ordered had already gone cold. The concert was next month, and Mina was now throwing ridiculous ideas at you on how you could possibly see BTS. The supposed study session in the coffee shop had long been forgotten the moment you mentioned the upcoming concert.
“I doubt it. There’s usually no news about it because of their privacy… sometimes I only find out once they’ve already checked in or when they do a Weverse live.”
Mina rolled her eyes. “I’m sure there’s at least some news if you really dig into it. How many days is the concert?”
“Two days. And even if I wanted to stalk their hotel, I’m sure a lot of fans would do that too—and the next thing you know, the hotel is fully booked.” you pouted.
You were being realistic. The chances of seeing them at their hotel—or even getting a room there—were slim. With the number of fans camping out and others researching nonstop, you had almost zero chance.
“Do you want to see them or not? Come on, I’ll book a room with you!” she nudged your shoulders, wiggling her brows as she sipped her caramel macchiato.
You chuckled softly. “Of course I do, but I swear, Mina, it’s harder than you think…”
Mina groaned, stomping her feet. “Ugh, fine! But watching the concert online is really fucking boring when you know they’re literally in the same country as you.”
You sighed. Mina wasn’t really a fan, but she knew how much you loved BTS. When she found out you hadn’t secured a ticket, she had been the first to suggest the most ridiculous ideas—stalking their hotel, camping outside the arena, chasing anything that even remotely felt possible.
After a few months since the presale, it had been a hard pill to swallow—but you had finally accepted it. You wouldn’t get to see them. Even if Mina’s ideas lingered at the back of your mind, you knew better. The chances were too low. You’d rather stay at home, wear your cooky pajamas, and stream the concert online in peace.
Still… there were the sleepless nights.
The what-ifs that refused to leave you alone.
What if you had attended the concert? What if you had somehow booked the same hotel? What if you caught a glimpse of their van outside the arena?
Being a fan for almost a decade, you knew those kinds of scenarios only happened in fictional stories. Seeing Jungkook on a random day was like finding a bag of cash in a public restroom stall—completely impossible.
Though… still, a small part of you never fully stopped hoping.
“Also, isn’t our country their last stop?” Mina said, already searching for dates and details on her phone.
“Yeah… that’s why I actually had enough money and time… but I guess luck just wasn’t on my side,” you murmured bitterly, glancing around the busy coffee shop as if the noise could somehow quiet the ache settling in your chest.
Mina suddenly froze, her eyes widening. “Wait—since it’s the last stop… don’t you think they’ll stay longer? Maybe for a few more days, like… I don’t know, rest?”
You had already thought about it—but how on earth would you ever know their whereabouts? You’d only find out once they were already there, or when they went live. And since it would be after the concert, you were certain they’d want to rest, to disappear into privacy for a while.
“Mina… it’s okay. I swear, I’ll be fine.” you assured her, her ideas now more amusing than anything else.
Until your lunch break ended, Mina kept babbling—throwing out unrealistic scenarios straight out of books and fanfics. You laughed at her what-ifs, at the corny places her imagination kept taking you.
You knew she wasn’t doing it to be silly.
She was doing it because she knew you. Knew how badly you wanted to see them. Knew how quiet you’d become once the concert actually started.
So, as your best friend, Mina had decided something else entirely.
A short out-of-town trip. While BTS was in the country. A way for you both to disappear for a while, to breathe, to rest from studies, from expectations, from everything—including the concert you couldn’t attend.
“Mina! Why didn’t you tell me?” Your eyes widened in shock when you saw the cottage number and the dates.
Mina had booked a five-day beach trip, complete with daily activities that made your head spin just reading them.
“Don’t worry, you can bring your laptop so you can still stream the concert.” she snickered, handing you the itinerary.
“Mina! That’s not what I meant—this is too much,” you groaned.
She giggled, already sitting comfortably on your bed while you scanned through the list she had prepared. “Oh, come on. It’ll be fun! Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve had a girls’ trip.”
You pouted at her, still in disbelief—but the resistance didn’t last. A smile slipped through as you pulled her into a hug anyway. “You and your ideas,” you chuckled.
“Bring cute clothes! Let’s take lots of pics—I want to update my IG!” she said excitedly.
You grinned. “Let’s go shopping tomorrow. My treat.”
Mina shrieked. “God, yes! Let’s go!”
The upcoming concert was still on your mind, but you were also busy preparing for the trip with Mina. You were excited—the small distraction keeping you from spiraling into a full breakdown over not being able to see BTS.
Wearing a cute sundress and brown sandals, you and Mina finally checked in. It was Day 1 of the concert. You had already set an alarm for the online stream later, a quiet kind of excitement settling in at the thought that, at the very least, you had the privilege of watching it while sipping fresh coconut by the sea breeze.
“Why the fuck are you reapplying your lip gloss?” Mina asked when she caught you touching up your makeup right before the concert started.
“To look cute while watching Jungkook,” you giggled, turning your ARMY Bomb on.
After dinner, you and Mina sat on a bench by the sand, your pocket Wi-Fi, laptop, and earphones already set up beside you.
Mina rolled her eyes. “That’s crazier than my ideas.”
You chuckled softly, eyes already fixed on the screen as the countdown began. Your heart raced like you were inside the stadium with them—like the distance didn’t exist at all.
When the concert finally started, Mina had to walk away because you were screaming too loudly, jumping from your seat and almost knocking over the coconut shake on the table.
“Girl, let me walk around and find a cute guy. Your shrieks are lowkey scaring me.” Mina laughed when she came back and saw you on the verge of tears, fanning yourself like you might actually pass out.
“Okay, oka—oh my gosh! They’re performing Dimple! Oh my gosh!” you shouted, already lost in it again.
For two days, you were completely gone in it—fangirling nonstop, fully absorbed in every moment. It was only on Day 3, when Mina had planned actual activities, that you finally stepped away from the screen. Until then, you had spent your time watching, rewatching, and reposting edits like the world outside didn’t exist.
“He’s so hot—I can’t believe he wore that gray shirt. It looked so good on him,” you babbled, telling Mina everything about the concert details and the surprise songs they performed.
The two-night concert had ended like a whirlwind, yet you were still floating on cloud nine. While Mina had been busy taking pictures and scouting for cute guys, you had been replaying everything in your head—taking screenshots, saving edits, and reliving every moment in real time like you couldn’t let it go.
Mina was just happy you enjoyed it. She even swore she almost thought you were going to have a heart attack when you shrieked so loudly after Jungkook lifted his shirt and revealed his abs. Your gallery probably had ten copies of that exact moment.
“And! Guess what!” you said, munching on your breakfast as you wiggled your eyebrows at her.
“Hmm… Jungkook showed his dick?”
“Mina!” Your cheeks burned as you nearly choked on the waffles you were eating.
Mina laughed, casually pointing her fork at you. “That would be good though.”
You shook your head quickly, your face still hot. “I mean—would want that—but guess what! He sang the chorus of Still With You in acapella!” you babbled again, as if Mina would fully grasp the weight of it.
For your third day, you and Mina were supposed to ride a yacht. You were already getting dressed when Mina suddenly squealed behind you, hurriedly tying the strap of her sandal.
“He replied! Oh my gosh, he’s treating me to dinner!” Mina said excitedly, quickly glancing at the mirror you were using to fix your hair.
“Huh? Who?”
“This guy I met while you were watching the concert! He wants to see me again!” She showed you her phone.
Your brows furrowed. “He’s inviting you to his cottage later?” you said, reading the message.
Mina’s eyes widened as she looked back at her phone. “Fuck! What should I do?”
“Wait… so you’re not going on the yacht with me?” you concluded.
Mina smiled cheekily, biting her lip. “Well… he’s cute and… hot…”
You raised a brow. “Make sure he’s really hot,” you chuckled, fixing your hair again in front of the mirror—when Mina suddenly squealed and hugged you from behind.
“Promise I’ll make it up to you! You’re the best!” she grinned, already moving back to the bed to grab her bag.
Mina had booked this trip for you, and you wanted her to enjoy it too. Even though she originally planned it as a girls’ trip, you had spent most of it absorbed in the concert. She had always supported your whims without hesitation—and now it was your turn to support hers.
“Why are you bringing that duffel bag?” you asked, amused at the amount of clothes she was packing.
Mina wiggled her brows. “Gotta be prepared, y’know.”
She walked towards the door, fixing her neckline one last time.
You grinned. “Text me when you’re heading back!”
“Yes, ma’am!” she giggled, throwing you a flying kiss before hurrying out.
The sheer amount of clothes Mina brought made it obvious—she probably wouldn’t be back tonight. You sighed softly, glancing down at your short pink floral dress, your hair tied in a half ponytail.
You still had two days left of the trip, but today was the first time it truly settled in. For the past two days, you had been completely immersed in the concert—no time to walk along the shore, no quiet moments to watch the sunset.
Now, it was finally your time to unwind.
Although you were tempted to doom-scroll edits again, you forced yourself up instead, deciding to follow the planned activity for the day and step outside.
-
“Number 9! Calling for all passengers on Yacht 9!”
You hurried over to the line, double-checking the receipt number Mina had reserved for you.
There were only a few people waiting—some couples and a small group of friends. You didn’t really mind being alone. If anything, you needed this time to unwind, to breathe, to exist without noise pressing in on you.
“Ticket, please!” the man in a white uniform said.
You handed it over, offering a polite smile before stepping onto the yacht.
A few groups had already settled in—holding bottles of champagne, chatting softly, taking pictures against the open sea. You made your way towards the main deck, where a small group of friends sat around a table filled with snacks and laughter.
Based on the crowd, you felt relieved it wasn’t too packed—maybe around twenty-thirty people scattered across the space, enough to feel lively but not overwhelming.
Soft music drifted through the air as the yacht moved gently along the waves. The salt of the sea lingered in every breath you took, calming something in you without you even realizing it needed calming.
You wandered towards a long table filled with food, your short dress and hair swaying slightly with the breeze.
There were different kinds of pastries, a large charcuterie board, bottles of wine and champagne catching the light, stacks of beer lined neatly at one end, and a few bags of chips scattered casually beside them.
Mina had definitely booked a nice yacht. You smiled to yourself, genuinely happy that you could finally relax and enjoy this moment—with good food, fresh air, and a quiet kind of peace you hadn’t realized you needed.
You grabbed a bag of potato chips and a bottle of wine, scanning the area for a place to sit until you spotted a vacant lounger on the sun deck.
“Perfect!” you mumbled excitedly when you noticed no one else had claimed that area.
Carefully placing your bag, chips, and wine down, you quickly took a photo to update Mina.
“Let’s sit here!”
You were still busy snapping pictures when a small group—maybe four or five people—settled in beside you.
You weren’t really paying attention at first, but in your peripheral vision, you noticed they had brought an impressive amount of snacks with them.
You opened your chips and leaned back on the sun lounger. When you heard the sharp crack of a beer can opening, curiosity tugged at you, and you glanced over briefly.
It was a group of Korean men, older than you—probably in their mid-30s to 40s. Some wore black shades, already laughing as they settled into their drinks, their voices easy and relaxed.
They must be on vacation. This beach was a tourist spot, after all.
You turned your attention back to your chips, letting the sun warm your skin as you sank into the view. The group beside you wasn’t loud—they mostly talked about the scenery and the food, occasionally breaking into laughter over the activities they had tried earlier.
The world felt slow again, almost suspended in that gentle rhythm of waves and wind.
You were busy sipping your wine when you suddenly felt it—an unmistakable stare.
The group beside you was still laughing, their voices blending into the soft noise of the sea, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was looking at you.
These men were older, and for a brief moment, unease crept in.
You sneaked a glance over your shoulder and noticed the broad-built man in sunglasses staring straight ahead—past you.
Does he want potato chips or—
With a slight frown, you followed his line of sight properly this time.
He wasn’t looking at you.
He was looking at your bag on the table.
My bag?
When he realized you were looking back at him, he quickly turned away, though the shift in his posture told you he was still thinking. Still aware.
Confused, you glanced down at your bag again.
It was just a simple beige tote bag. Nothing special. Nothing worth staring at.
You shrugged it off. It must’ve been a mistake. Besides, he was wearing sunglasses—maybe he was just spacing out, looking into nothing.
Munching on your chips again, you noticed him typing on his phone, suddenly more focused, as if he had detached himself from the conversation entirely.
You almost laughed to yourself, thinking he might actually be searching something about your bag online.
A strange thought—but harmless.
With a deep, content sigh, you leaned back again, the warmth of the sun and the rhythm of the waves slowly pulling you under.
And somewhere between the breeze and the quiet, you didn’t notice when your eyes finally closed.
By the time you woke up, it was already sunset.
The bottle of wine beside you was empty, and the small group that had been next to you earlier was gone. The sea breeze had turned cooler now—soft and comforting—while the sound of waves blended with the distant chatter of guests still enjoying the evening.
You stretched lightly and sat up.
Some people were still dancing, some chatting, others taking pictures against the fading orange sky. You still had a few hours left before the yacht returned to shore.
Grabbing your leftover chips and the empty bottle of wine, you frowned when something small caught your attention beside your bag.
A paper.
Leaning in slightly, you picked it up—and realized it was a calling card.
Looking around, you didn’t see the group of Koreans anymore. You assumed the calling card must’ve come from them, especially given the Korean name and number printed on it.
Still… you were confused. Why would he leave his calling card?
Walking slowly along the yacht, you felt a slight dizziness from the wine lingering in your system. You tossed the empty chip bag and bottle aside, your eyes still scanning the space for any sign of the group you had seen earlier. The air had turned colder now, your short dress offering little protection against the breeze brushing against your skin.
Curiosity got the better of you—and maybe the alcohol gave you just enough courage.
You decided to dial the number.
“Yoboseyo?” a deep voice answered.
You swallowed. “Hello? I-Is this Song Hobeom?”
A brief sigh came through the line. “Yes?”
Confusion crept in when he didn’t immediately recognize you as the person from the sun lounger. You hesitated for a moment. Did he really hand out his calling card just like that?
“Uh, I was the one sitting on the sun lounger by the main deck. I think you left your calling card at my table?” you said, biting your lip as nerves slowly settled in.
You had no idea what he wanted—and yet here you were, calling him back.
“Oh, right. Thank you for calling back, ma’am. May I know when you are free? I would like to discuss something with you.” he said in a formal tone.
Huh?
Confusion was written all over your face.
You walked towards the bow of the yacht, trying to escape the soft music and distant chatter, holding the phone closer to your ear.
“Uhm… may I know what for? This is a bit confusing.” You looked around again, but there was still no trace of the group from earlier. They must’ve already left.
“It is a bit confidential, ma’am. But don’t worry, I will give you a short background once we meet.”
You groaned under your breath. “I’m sorry, but can’t you just tell me this over the phone?”
You didn’t want to sound rude, but you didn’t know this man. It was already strange enough that he wanted to meet in person to “discuss something.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we may need to discuss this face-to-face to ensure the call is not being recorded. If you prefer, you may set the time and place.” he said formally.
What the actual fuck.
You rolled your eyes. This was bullshit—it sounded like a scam. Some foreign guy trying to trick people before disappearing back to his country.
“Sorry, but I’m not interested. Thank you.”
You ended the call immediately.
You weren’t stupid enough to meet a stranger like that. You had only been curious, nothing more—but the moment he refused to explain anything over the phone, something in you clicked.
Suspicion.
And you weren’t taking that chance.
You were about to walk back to the main deck when your phone beeped with a new message. You thought it was Mina, but the moment you recognized the country code, you immediately rolled your eyes.
What does he want?
You instantly regret calling his number. Opening the message, you saw that he had sent a file.
“I swear if this has a virus,” you mumbled.
You were about to tap it when another message came in.
Song Hobeom: The file can only be viewed once. Any form of screenshot or screen recording will be detected and notified. Please contact me again if you wish to proceed after reading the contract.
Song Hobeom: Please do not share this file or inform anyone about this matter. This is strictly confidential. Thank you.
Fucking hell?
You snorted softly, finding his messages almost ridiculous. It sounded like a joke—like he genuinely believed you’d get “in trouble” for forwarding whatever this was.
With a small smirk, you already decided you’d tell Mina about it later. You were definitely not falling for some scam. You’d open it, see whatever nonsense it was, and then block him right after.
With a sheepish grin, you tapped the file anyway… your heart giving a small, restless thump as the screen began to load.
What if it’s a jump scare?
Your brows slowly furrowed when the title finally appeared in bold capital letters:
NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT
What?
You quickly scanned the document, reading faster and faster—until your eyes landed on a name that made your heart jolt.
“W-What the actual fuck?!” you gasped in shock. A few people turned to look at you, but you didn’t care. Your attention was completely locked on your phone.
You were starting to hyperventilate. You wanted to close it, to breathe, to think—but it was a view-once file. Your hands trembled as the alcohol from earlier wore off almost instantly, replaced by something sharper.
“This is not real… no freaking way,” you whispered weakly, quickly texting him back with shaking fingers.
No second thoughts—you typed immediately, afraid he might block you or change his mind.
You: I am free tomorrow at around 1 PM. Let’s meet by the coast area near the bar.
Song Hobeom: Noted, ma’am. Thank you for cooperating.
-
You never thought you would find yourself in a situation like this.
You chose a spot with very few people around. It was a nice sunny day, but your face already felt warm—nervous, alert, almost buzzing with anticipation.
Wearing a white floral dress, brown strappy sandals, and sunglasses, you called Mina beforehand and told her you’d be skipping the snorkeling activity for the day. You wanted to tell her the truth, but she didn’t question it when you said you just wanted to swim and relax by the ocean instead.
She told you she wouldn’t be back for tonight, giggling about the cute guy she had met. She kept talking, but your mind was elsewhere the entire time.
Honestly, you were relieved she wouldn’t be back soon. Given the terms written in the file, you needed time alone.
Or this opportunity—whatever it really was—might slip right through your fingers.
“Are you listening to me? You’re like… spacing out, girl!” Mina chuckled.
Your face immediately heated up. “Oh! A-Am I? I was just thinking about buying this merch, and it’s a bit expensive, so I was wondering if I should buy the whole set or just Jungkook’s edition.” you rambled quickly.
Mina laughed, shaking her head. “Just buy it all! Gosh! Anyways, so I went to this island…”
You bit your lip. She believed it.
She continued ranting, and you did your best to follow along, nodding at the right moments, forcing yourself to stay present. You had to hide this—or you’d be screwed.
“Do you want to order, ma’am?”
You looked up at the waiter and nearly froze when, for a split second, you thought it was Song Hobeom standing in front of you.
You were thirty minutes early.
Last night, you hadn’t slept at all—spending hours searching for the man behind the calling card. And what you found had hit you like a truck.
He wasn’t just some random foreign stranger.
He was BTS’s manager.
The weight of the NDA had settled in slowly at first… then all at once.
The same Song Hobeom you had seen on the yacht… was the same man now appearing across articles and videos all over the internet.
“No, thank you. I’ll order later,” you politely declined. You didn’t think you could eat or drink anything at this point.
The waiter nodded and left you alone.
You let out a quiet sigh, glancing at your phone to check the time. Closing your eyes for a moment, you tried to steady your breathing—slow, controlled. You couldn’t afford to panic right now. Not here. Not yet.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.”
The familiar deep voice made your eyes snap open.
He was finally here.
He approached in a composed, almost professional manner, as if this were a business meeting rather than something that had your entire morning spiraling. Black shirt, gray board shorts, black shades. Calm, unreadable.
Your gaze narrowed slightly when you noticed the large iPad and brown envelope in his hands.
You immediately stood up, quickly straightening your dress before offering your hand.
“G-Good day, uh… h-have a seat, please.” you gestured, waiting until he sat down before you did.
“Have you eaten, Ms…?” he asked, pausing as if waiting for your full name.
“Oh, it’s Y/N L/N. I a-already had lunch,” you stammered, your heart racing as you finally introduced yourself.
He smiled and nodded. “That’s good to hear. I’m Song Hobeom, the manager of Bangtan Sonyeondan.”
He opened the brown envelope and showed you its contents. Like a startled kitten, you carefully took the papers.
“Have you read the file I sent you?” he asked casually, while opening his iPad.
You immediately nodded. “Y-Yes, uh… but I only scanned it quickly.”
It was true—you had replied almost instantly because you were scared he might unsend it or take it back.
He nodded. “Alright. Let me explain this to you thoroughly. Before proceeding, we require a Non-Disclosure Agreement to protect the privacy and safety of our artist. This agreement simply means that any information you may see, hear, or experience during your time with us—such as the artist’s location, conversations, or personal details—must remain confidential and cannot be shared with others, posted online, or discussed publicly,” he said in a formal, business-like tone.
You nodded quickly. “Y-Yes, I didn’t tell anyone!” you replied immediately.
He gave another nod, turning the iPad towards you to display the contract details. Then he began walking you through each section, one by one, in calm, structured explanations.
“Ms. Y/N, the NDA does not take away your rights or force you to do anything. It only ensures mutual privacy,” he stated, and you found yourself listening closely, agreeing more than questioning. The moment you had texted back was already a sign—you had chosen to proceed.
“Once signed, the confidentiality rules will remain in effect for the period stated in the document, and breaking the agreement could result in legal consequences.”
“I understand! I-I have researched how NDAs work as well.”
You bit your lip the moment you said it, suddenly realizing how desperate you sounded. You wanted to ask so many questions—why you, of all people, why this situation had landed in your lap—but you were too focused, too eager to get to the part that mattered most now.
Signing that damn contract.
That was your priority.
“Good. If you have any questions or concerns, I want you to feel comfortable asking before signing—”
“No questions! I’ll s-sign,” you blurted out, cheeks warming as excitement slipped through your tone.
Mr. Song chuckled lightly and nodded before handing you an expensive-looking pen.
“Alright, please double-check the terms and conditions. Take your time, Ms. Y/N.”
But you didn’t.
Not really.
Before you even properly reread the contract, you signed it—like your life depended on it. A shy, almost embarrassed smile formed on your lips as you finished.
He looked amused, like this wasn’t his first time seeing this reaction. As if he was already familiar with how quickly people surrendered to these documents.
Then he handed you the iPad for another copy.
Scrolling quickly, you signed again without hesitation.
Your eyes flickered over your own name—and then, for a brief second, your heart stuttered when you saw the name of the artist involved.
Jeon Jungkook.
Mr. Song explained the terms and conditions again. You listened eagerly, a little calmer now that you had finally secured the contract.
“Thank you for signing, Ms. Y/N. Please remember to keep everything discussed and experienced confidential as agreed,” he said with a polite smile, handing you another calling card. “Mr. Jeon will be the one to contact you directly after this for any further coordination.”
You stared at the calling card—Jungkook’s name and number printed on it—your eyes widening in shock.
This cannot be real.
-
“Ugh! I want to cry!”
You stared at yourself in the mirror, now back in your cottage, pacing in front of it like a maniac.
You had one night. One fucking night with him.
The date stated in the contract was after your vacation ended. You were already stressing about what to tell Mina for extending your stay, what to say to your professors, your parents—because you had clearly told them your trip only lasted until next week.
Jungkook hadn’t contacted you yet. It was still too early. You had no idea if he was even on the island already. The only thing you knew was that you were supposed to meet him in Executive Cottage 3 at 8 PM next week.
You still couldn’t believe it.
You had always thought NDAs were just myths—fantasies spun by fans who imagined idols risking everything for a single private encounter.
Sure, you had heard rumors that things like this might actually happen… but you never thought you would experience it yourself—with your own bias, Jeon Jungkook.
It felt unreal. Worse—or better—than a concert. One-on-one. Up close. No distance at all.
Your cheeks warmed at the memory of the agreement, your heart picking up speed at the thought. It almost scared you how much you didn’t want to wake up in case this was all just a dream.
Sometimes you found yourself lightly slapping your cheek, as if reality still refused to fully sink in.
For months, you had been depressed over missing the ticket, and now—out of nowhere—you had the opportunity, the privilege, to meet your bias in private.
Now it made sense.
It was their last concert. Their managers were staying here to rest… and for what? To arrange potential NDAs?
Last night, after Mina’s call, you had spent hours deep in research—so deep it felt less like curiosity and more like you were preparing a thesis you somehow needed to defend. You searched everything: how NDAs worked, how participants were chosen, what would happen if you told someone, and a dozen other questions that only made your head spin the longer you read.
There was no hesitation anymore.
The moment you confirmed that Song Hobeom was actually their legitimate manager, something in you fully locked in. Any lingering doubt that the contract might be fake—or some elaborate prank—disappeared instantly.
It was real.
And you had already signed it.
Your excitement had gone through the roof.
Even though you wanted to tell Mina so badly, your eagerness to meet Jungkook was far stronger. You couldn’t risk it.
“Huh? Why?” Mina questioned when she returned the next day and you immediately told her about extending your stay.
“I just want to relax more, you know… I didn’t realize the sea was this calming,” you smiled, trying to sound convincing.
You and Mina were now getting ready for the snorkeling activity. After dinner, you had decided you would break the news properly.
“Are you lying to me?” Mina raised a brow.
You went pale. “N-No, I j-just really wanted to sta—”
“You met a cute guy, didn’t you?” Mina accused, squinting at you.
You blinked, caught completely off guard by her conclusion. She knew you weren’t the type to extend a trip like this—especially with school starting next week—unless, of course, it was for BTS.
Or a cute guy.
“W-Well…”
Mina giggled. “Ha! That’s why we’re besties!”
Maybe a little white lie wasn’t so bad.
Mina told you she couldn’t extend her stay anyway since she had a presentation due next week. Even though she wanted to stay longer, you reassured her you’d be fine—and that you just wanted some alone time with your “cute guy.”
Yeah.
Cute guy.
-
The following days felt like a whirlwind. You enjoyed your last activities with Mina, all while quietly trying to keep it together every time the agreement flashed back into your mind and sent your thoughts spiraling.
When the last day came, you practically rushed Mina into the van just to get a proper goodbye out before she left.
Tomorrow was finally the day.
And yet, Jungkook still hadn’t contacted you.
The day before, you had already gone through a medical examination—another requirement of the NDA. You were honestly surprised at how professional it all was, how organized everything felt despite how unreal the situation still seemed in your head.
It was almost ridiculous how seriously you had started taking everything.
You shaved your entire body. Scrubbed yourself religiously every night. Applied lotion more than usual. Even started doing small morning workouts after meals, as if preparation alone could somehow calm your nerves.
“Hi, Jungkookie!” you practiced in front of the mirror, batting your eyelashes.
“Fuck! Why did I do that?” you immediately cringed, shaking your head.
You tried again, this time forcing a different tone.
“So… how was the concert?”
“I’m honored to be chosen.”
“Do I just lay here?”
“I love you. You’re my everything.”
You groaned and covered your face completely.
You had no idea what to expect. The thought of meeting Jungkook was overwhelming in every possible way—like your brain couldn’t decide whether to freeze, panic, or completely shut down.
And honestly, you were starting to worry you might faint… or embarrass yourself beyond recovery the moment it actually happened.
The contract stated “private meeting,” and you weren’t exactly Sherlock, so it wasn’t hard to conclude that it involves fucking. Especially considering they required a medical examination—surely not for a simple chat.
You almost screamed when your phone beeped with a message.
Jungkook: Hi Y/N, see you tomorrow at 8!
“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!” you jumped onto your bed, staring at the text like it wasn’t real.
His message was so casual, completely different from the formal, business-like tone Song Hobeom used. It almost made it feel even more surreal.
“What should I reply… oh my gosh.”
You bit your lip, carefully choosing your words so you wouldn’t mess anything up.
You: See you, Kookie!
-
The cottage was larger than yours—an executive unit reserved for upper-class guests—with soft ambient lighting, a private veranda, a small plunge pool, a carefully kept garden, a few hammocks swaying gently in the breeze, and direct access to the beach.
This area felt different. Quieter. More secluded. Tucked away from the other cottages scattered across the busy island.
You had expected to be guided by bodyguards, but there was no one. No visible security, no presence at all. It felt intentional—like the meeting was meant to be so private that even protection would disrupt it.
Wearing a lilac wrap dress, white glittery doll shoes, and your hair curled neatly at the ends, you slowly made your way towards the cottage.
Your fingers hesitated before pressing the keycard Mr. Song had given you last week. The soft beep that followed made your nerves spike instantly—a quiet confirmation that you had arrived, and that you were allowed inside.
Once the door opened, you stepped in.
You were immediately met with a spacious bedroom featuring a king-sized bed, a lounge area, a large wooden door that likely led to the bathroom, and wide tinted windows with sliding doors that opened directly to a full view of the sea.
You stood there for a moment, taking it all in with wide eyes.
Carefully, you placed your bag beside the bed and began walking around the space, your curiosity slowly building. On the table, you noticed a selection of pastries and a neatly arranged meal set waiting, untouched.
“Hey.”
You gasped, your eyes snapping towards the bathroom door as the man you only saw on screens stepped out.
Jungkook wore nothing but a white towel wrapped around his waist, his hair still damp, droplets of water trailing down his neck and collarbones as he ran a smaller towel through his hair.
Your lips parted slightly. Fuck.
He walked toward the coffee table first, casually lifting the silver cloche to check the prepared dinner as if nothing about this moment carried any weight at all.
But for you, everything had just short-circuited.
Jungkook—right there in front of you. Real. Close. Breathing the same air.
You had seen him countless times on screens, in edited clips and fan videos—but none of that had prepared you for this. In person, his presence felt heavier, more grounded. His frame looked broader, more defined. The tattoos you had only ever glimpsed before were now fully visible under the soft lighting, detailed and striking in a way that made your thoughts scatter instantly.
Even his voice—when he spoke—carried a calm, effortless depth that made your mind go blank before it could catch up.
All the lines you had practiced disappeared completely.
You were speechless.
Frozen.
He was real.
You couldn’t believe he was real.
“Have you eaten?” he asked, turning towards you while still holding the cloche.
Your mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. You stood near the couch like you’d been rooted in place, completely caught off guard.
A quiet chuckle left him as he noticed your reaction. He set the lid back down and began walking towards you.
Your breath hitched when he closed the distance. His fresh scent—clean, minty, just out of the shower—wrapped around you, sharpening your senses in an instant.
“Relax,” Jungkook said softly, his tone calm and steady as he gently placed a hand on your arm.
The touch was light. Grounding.
Warmth spread through your skin immediately, like your body had finally registered his presence all at once.
You nodded too quickly, blinking as if that could reset your brain. Your heart was pounding so hard you were convinced it had to be audible.
Jungkook smiled slightly, looking down at you. “Hmm, look at me.” he said when you kept avoiding eye contact.
You tried—but the moment your eyes lifted, you almost froze again.
Dark doe eyes met yours, steady and unreadable, holding you in place. His right hand lifted your chin just as you instinctively tried to look away again.
“Sit down on the couch for me, mhm?” he said gently, guiding you down with an easy, controlled calm.
You were so nervous, looking up at him like a shy deer. All the conversations you had prepared were completely forgotten—you were mentally blocked.
Jungkook tilted his head at you, still standing as he looked down at your form. “You okay, pretty girl?”
Your cheeks turned crimson at the compliment, and you nodded again like you had lost your voice.
Jungkook chuckled, crouching down to get to your eye level. “Talk to me, baby. Wanna hear you.”
“H-Hi,” you said in a small voice, almost choking on the words.
“Hmm, louder.” Jungkook whispered, raising a brow at you.
You gulped harshly, squeezing your own hands in nervousness. “H-Hi, Jungkook. Nice to meet you.” you said, a little clearer this time.
Jungkook smiled, sitting beside you. “There you go. Good job, baby.” he praised. “So polite.”
You smiled back shyly, your breath hitching when he took your hands—hands you hadn’t even realized you were squeezing so tightly.
“Baby, you’ll hurt yourself doing that…” he said gently, holding your hands and lightly tracing over the faint marks you had left on your skin.
“O-Oh, uhm…”
“Do you want to eat first? What do you want to do?” he asked softly, studying your nervous expression.
He was so calm, so composed, so sweet—it made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t quite explain. You bit your lip under his attention, suddenly hyper-aware of every small movement you made.
His gaze briefly dropped to your lips. He swallowed subtly, something shifting in his expression for just a moment before he looked back up at you again.
“W-Whatever y-you want to do…”
Jungkook raised a brow at you, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah?”
You nodded quickly. “Yes…”
Jungkook straightened up, his gaze briefly dropping over your short dress, lingering for a moment before he looked back at the table.
“There’s a bunch of pastries you might want to try. Do you like sweets?” he said softly, opening the glass lids of the desserts in front of you.
You smiled shyly, eyes shifting towards the neatly arranged food. “Yes, I like c-cookies.”
Jungkook smiled, reaching for the tray of cookies with different flavors—chocolate chip, walnut, matcha, red velvet, and more you couldn’t even name at a glance.
You kept your eyes fixed on the cookies, forcing yourself not to look at him, especially with how near he was.
“I’ve tried walnut and matcha,” he said, pointing at a few of them.
You pouted and picked the flavor he suggested. He smiled when you chose the matcha, carefully placing the tray back down on the table.
“Do you want milk?” he asked, pointing at the bottle beside the pastries.
You nodded, taking a small bite while he poured a glass for you.
“Thank you…” you said with a shy smile.
He smiled back and stood up to get dressed while you focused on eating the cookies. When he came back, he was wearing a white shirt and black comfy shorts. He sat beside you and took a cookie for himself as well.
Jungkook was patient, sweet, and gentle with you. He occasionally asked about your hobbies, your likes, your favorite food, and small details that only your parents and Mina usually knew.
With a soft, hesitant voice, you slowly opened up—talking about how you became a BTS fan, how long you had followed them, and how much you liked him.
He listened closely, never interrupting, only asking follow-up questions like he was genuinely interested.
His eyes followed your lips whenever you spoke, then shifted to your eyes whenever you looked away. And every time your voice got smaller, he leaned in slightly, as if trying not to miss a single word—especially when you talked about him.
Neither of you mentioned the NDA.
It felt, strangely, like you were simply there to spend time with him.
You honestly thought he wouldn’t talk much, given how shy you were—but Jungkook was unexpectedly patient, giving you space to settle in and feel comfortable around him.
But then
You were giggling about his travel story with Jimin when you noticed his tattooed hands slowly settling around your waist.
“A-And what did he do?” you asked, a little startled.
Jungkook had been talking about some of their personal trips with the members. You were surprised by how open he was with you—the way he spoke during his Weverse lives was exactly the same in person: charming, funny, and easy to talk to.
You hadn’t expected him to answer your small, silly questions, but he was attentive, responding to everything like you had known each other for years. You felt, strangely, at ease.
He pouted slightly, suddenly distracted by the lace ruffles at the hem of your dress, his fingers lightly brushing and playing with them.
“Used all his perfume to spray it on the huge bug.” he chuckled lowly, his eyes still lowered towards your dress.
You giggled, imagining the chaos. “Did the bug get killed?”
Jungkook slowly looked at you, his eyes a little heavy-lidded, his hands still idly playing with the hem of your dress.
“Hmm, no.” he rasped.
Your eyes widened when he pulled you closer, his left arm circling your waist to steady you. His right tattooed hand lifted both your legs across his lap.
“You smell good.” he murmured closely, fingers now toying with the ribbons of your wrap dress.
You gulped harshly, your hands resting awkwardly on his arm for balance. Up close, he could see the details of your makeup—light glitter dusted across your cheeks and eyelids, pink gloss on your lips, a soft blush deepening from warmth, and lashes curled with a hint of mascara.
He lifted a loose strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear, then let his fingers trail lightly along your cheek.
“You dolled up for me?” he said lightly, tilting his head.
His tone had shifted—less careful now, more playful… almost teasing.
“Y-Yes… do you like it?” you asked shyly. It had taken you hours to finish your makeup, hours to pick a dress and style your hair. You were almost embarrassed when you saw that he looked so fresh and handsome after the shower, while you had taken an eternity to get ready.
Jungkook poked the inside of his cheek. He held your face with one hand, almost squishing both of your cheeks. His touch was gentle, but the way he tilted your head to examine your face made you feel weird.
Made you feel wet.
“I do,” he said lowly. “I like the glitters.”
You smiled, a bit more confident now. “Really?” you said happily, leaning a little closer to him. “Matches my doll shoes right?” You moved your toes up and down.
Jungkook nodded, his lazy eyes staring at you, then down at your dress. His hands traced slow circles on your bare thighs, making you tingly.
“I noticed something though…”
“Hmm, what?” you tilted your head curiously.
He pouted. “Your dress has no glitters, babygirl.” He slightly held the end of your dress, as if examining the texture.
You pouted. “Yeah…” You looked down. “B-But—”
Your thoughts were interrupted when he softly kissed your cheek.
“Hmm…” He slowly held the ribbons of your dress, and with one hand, he untied the knot.
“W-Wait—” you gasped, eyes widening when you saw what he was doing.
“It has no glitters, baby… doesn't match your pretty little shoes and makeup." he said in a mocking tone, removing your dress from your shoulders.
“Jungkook…” you said softly, cheeks growing hot under his gaze.
Licking his lower lip, his gaze dropped to your body.
The soft swell of your breasts was hugged perfectly by the white bra you were wearing, matching the delicate fabric of your panties. The small white ribbon resting between your breasts and the top of your underwear caught his attention—something so simple, yet enough to make his cock tighten.
You looked… soft, so pretty, too cute. Ready to be ruined by him.
His hands slowly moved to the straps of your bra “Oh baby…” he said in a cooing tone. “This doesn’t have glitters as well.” He said it like it was a problem. His fingers hooked onto the straps before pulling them away from your skin—only to let them snap back in place, the sting blooming lightly against you.
You were speechless. The way he talked to you, the way he looked at you, the way he played with you—it made your body heat up, a quiet rush of warmth settling low in your stomach.
Your instinct was to cover yourself, but the way he raised a brow at you made you hesitate, a shiver running through you instead. You blinked slowly, caught between nerves and awareness you couldn’t quite name.
“Jungkook, t-this is embarrassing.” you said in a small voice.
You thought you could be confident—years of reading fanfictions had convinced you of that. You were certain you could fuck him better, that you could show him what you were capable of. Make him feel good. Please him. Make him happy.
You had been so sure of yourself—so full of it, even—thinking you could give him the best night of his life.
But the moment he touched you, your mind went completely blank. All rational thoughts slipped away, leaving you flustered and unsure of yourself, shrinking back into a shy, overwhelmed version of you.
Jungkook chuckled sarcastically. You gasped when he suddenly pulled your hair, his lips reaching under your ear to whisper.
“You signed up for this, didn’t you?” he rasped, his lips grazing your earlobe.
You squealed, his dominance eating you alive. His sweet, teasing tone was gone; the way he pulled your hair closer made you shiver.
“Y-Yes,” you bit your lip. You felt his lips move down your neck, his hot breath tickling you.
“Hmm… do you want me to elaborate on what we’re doing here?” he said in a tone like he was talking to a child. You gasped when he slightly bit your neck.
“Sorry, I was j-just—”
He removed your bra quickly, tossing it somewhere before his fingers grazed near the swell of your breast, teasing you.
“Use your pretty little brain, baby, come on…” he said harshly, suddenly pinching your nipples, making you whimper.
Jungkook raised his head to look at you, his pupils dilated. The way he swallowed harshly when he saw your round breast and pink nipples made him leak.
“Do you know…” he whispered under your ear. “How bad…” He slightly slapped your nipple, soothing it afterward by rolling it gently between his fingers. “I wanted to fuck you?”
“J-Jungkook-”
“Look at you… you’ll let me do whatever I want, right?”
You shut your eyes tightly…followed by a slow nod, stunned by his words and actions.
He raised a brow, eyes dropping to your nipples. Your vision almost slipped when he suddenly spat on them, using his fingers to spread it over your breast.
“Yeah? You’ll let me use you?” he said in a low voice, his hands now trailing down the garters of your underwear. “Like a pretty little, sparkly slut that your are.’’
You knew what he wanted—it had been clear from the very beginning. It had already been hours, and you were still shy and hesitant. You wanted this too, but you were scared to make the first move, scared to say or do something that might turn him off.
He, on the other hand, had been patient from the start—letting you settle in, letting you eat, letting you relax, asking you what you wanted, giving you time without rushing you.
You didn’t realize the way his eyes darkened the moment you entered his room—the way they wandered down the valley of your breasts, the way they roamed over your dress that hugged your curves— showing the swell of your hips, the way his gaze followed the pout of your lips. The way your cute little glitters and doll shoes made you look like a proper little slut for him to use.
It’s been more than a year.
Jungkook had been busy with tour, with the group’s latest comeback. He had been working endlessly—promoting their new songs, filming content for a variety of brands, updating his Instagram and TikTok daily for ARMYs, practicing nonstop to show his best on tour. His schedule had been packed for over a year since their comeback.
Now that the tour had finally come to an end, it was his time to relax and unwind.
Jungkook’s stamina was unreal. Despite his busy schedule, there were times he would ask his manager to arrange private, strictly confidential meetings through NDAs.
Unfortunately, their latest tour had been much bigger, making it harder for his manager to coordinate anything outside of his packed schedule. Because of that, for the past months, Jungkook had been letting all of his sexual frustrations by himself.
It started in 2017. At first, he was the one personally choosing and approving everything himself, but after a few years—once his fame and schedule became even more intense—his manager took over the process. It became less personal and more structured, handled carefully behind the scenes.
With his level of fame, everything had to be treated with strict confidentiality and formal documentation.
For years, all the NDAs Jungkook had been involved with stayed quiet—carefully kept private, out of fear of the consequences, but also lingering with the hope of another night with him.
He was a man, after all. With his busy schedule and global fame, there was no room for commitment or long-term relationships. Everything in his life moved too fast, too publicly, too tightly controlled.
Because of that, he relied on brief, private arrangements—carefully managed and kept out of the public eye—to relieve stress and maintain some sense of personal balance amid his packed schedule.
It was almost like something carefully curated over time. He didn’t have a specific type, but his manager knew him well enough to anticipate what he was comfortable with. Over the years, everything had become more structured—quiet introductions, formal agreements, and strict confidentiality before anything could proceed.
After the tour, Jungkook had been particularly insistent on arranging an NDA soon. The long schedule and constant pressure had built up, and he needed a way to release the pent up sexual frustration.
When the team decided to extend their stay in the country after the final stop, his manager quietly began looking into possible private, strictly confidential arrangements handled under NDAs.
It wasn’t urgent—more of a routine precaution when they had extended time in one location. In most cases, it was beneficial if the person involved was already an ARMY, since familiarity with boundaries and expectations made things easier. Over time, most of the people who signed were fans in one way or another, while others were simply individuals who happened to be in the right place at the right time and agreed to the confidentiality terms.
Jungkook himself rarely interfered with the process. He trusted his manager to handle the details, especially during tours and rare breaks when privacy mattered more than anything else. The goal was simple: rest, recovery, and avoiding unnecessary exposure.
That was why his manager moved discreetly when he saw you—subtly noting your presence, your behavior, and your isolation from the crowd before eventually placing a small calling card on your table.
When Jungkook saw you standing in front of him, frozen like a deer caught in headlights, all his rational thoughts slipped away for a moment. You looked so sweet, ready to be used.
Jungkook was unbearably horny.
He wasn’t the type to extend another night, even with a potential NDA—but he was the type who wouldn’t stop fucking you once you stepped into his space. The kind who fucked hard. The kind who took control and dominated you without hesitation. The kind who would leave marks—bruises that lingered long after the night ended. Whether you were the shy type or the bold type, you would fold once he touches you, once he pulls your hair and manoeuvres your body to his own liking.
He’s mean when he fucks, praising you in a degrading way… though he would always start off sweet, to ease the tension, with his usual kind self and bunny smiles.
But, afterwards?
He would fuck you like a dirty whore, play with you like a little toy, use you like a cum dump.
When he noticed how hesitant and vulnerable you were, he took the lead by making sure you were comfortable at first. But his patience was running thin. Your sweet scent engulfed his senses—your soft voice and small giggles, your shy smile and twinkling eyes—it all made his cock twitch.
It had been months—too long without a proper release. At first, he wanted to take his sweet time with you, but your hesitance and shy demeanor were driving him crazy. Jungkook wanted to bend you over and fuck your unused holes, wanted to wrap his hands around your neck, wanted to fuck your pretty mouth until you were gagging and crying for him, wanted to feel your warm pussy wrapped around him until he could no longer think straight.
He forcefully ripped your underwear, leaving red marks on your thighs. Your body was now fully exposed to him.
“Pretty girl,” he mused, when his gaze dropped at your pussy, you instinctively closed your legs.
He gripped your thighs, forcing them open so he could look at your cunt. “Pretty little pussy.” he whispered, staring at your cunt with a faint shine visible from your wetness. “Acting so shy yet your pussy is soaking.”
“Jungkook, p-please…” you pleaded, slightly moving your legs.
“Aww, a few moments ago you wouldn’t let me see you. Now you’re pleading, hmm?” he cooed.
Your breath hitched when his index finger traced the slit of your cunt, gathering your juices.
“Oh, t-that’s—” you whimpered.
You were long gone.
He was making you so wet and turned on. Not that you weren’t already—your shyness was already getting the best of you—but the moment he took the lead, whatever composure you had left began to slip away. Your thoughts scattered, your attention narrowing to him alone, your body reacting in a way that made you feel both overwhelmed and helplessly aware of him.
Your eyes widened when he licked the finger that had gathered your wetness, staring at you while his tongue rolled over it.
“Hmm, you taste so good.” his finger, now wet with saliva, went back down your cunt to gather your juices again, bringing it to his mouth to taste it once more.
“Do you taste yourself?”
“N-No, I haven’t,” you admitted shyly.
He placed his wet finger on your lip. “Open,” he said sharply, like he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
You slowly opened your mouth, his finger immediately sliding in so you could taste yourself.
“That’s it… twirl your tongue, baby.” You obediently twirled your tongue around his finger, your saliva dripping down his hand messily. His cock twitched at the sight, he pulled his finger from your mouth with a soft pop.
“Get on the bed and spread your legs.” slapping your thigh lightly to urge you up.
You were almost dizzy, his words barely registering in your mind… you stood up, almost stumbling, but Jungkook caught your waist firmly.
“Careful, baby.” he chuckled lowly, your cheeks heating up in response.
Your legs felt weak as you made your way to the bed, Jungkook following behind. When you bent down to remove your doll shoes, he held your arm to stop you.
“Leave them.”
“O-Okay,” your brows furrowed, slowly sitting on the bed with your doll shoes still on.
Jungkook raised a brow at you. “Raise your legs on the bed.”
“But my shoes…” you pouted.
Jungkook chuckled, crouching down to level with your face. “It has glitters, baby. No need to remove it.”
You blinked slowly, the realization settling in as you recalled his earlier comment about your dress and undergarments not having any glitter details.
Raising your feet, you let your doll shoes rest on the mattress. Your legs were folded as you adjusted yourself, your wet cunt fully exposed under his gaze.
Jungkook’s hand moved absently over his shorts as he looked at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his attention fixed on your wet pussy. “Spread wider, baby. Hold your ankles for me.”
You spread your legs wider, holding your ankles, making yourself open for him. Your juices leaked down onto the mattress, giving him a clear view. Your cheeks and neck turned red from what you were doing for him.
“That’s it, wider.” he groaned, removing his shirt and shorts in one go. Your arms almost gave out when you saw him naked in front of you.
He was so huge—his cock red and veiny, precum leaking from the tip, his hand gripping himself, rolling the foreskin, pumping more wetness onto his mushroom head.
Jungkook moved closer, looking down at your cunt while palming himself shamelessly. “Do you like how I touch my cock?’’
You whimpered when his other hand went down to you, his middle finger sliding into your hole easily. The wet squelching sound filled the room.
“Slut,” he whispered.
Using your wetness, he spread it around his cock like lubricant, mixing it with his precum. “You’re so wet baby, my good little whore.”
You whined, your arms growing tired from the position. When you tried to let go of your ankles, Jungkook slapped your pussy.
“Keep them open,” he said harshly, squeezing his cock tighter, releasing more precum at the tip.
“Let me see your pretty holes, yeah?” His cheeks hollowed as he gathered saliva and spat onto your exposed cunt, letting it drip inside your wanting hole.
“Jungkook, p-please… I can’t anymore,” you whined, your body clenching around nothing. You wanted him to touch you.
“Shh, be a good doll and stay still, yeah?” he groaned, spitting down on his cock, spreading it along his shaft as he pumped faster while looking at you.
It was so overwhelming—the way he looked at you while touching himself made you so wet.
“P-Please, t-touch me.” you pleaded, your eyes glossy with need, whining when you felt more of your juices spill onto the bed.
Jungkook groaned, “Be a good fucking slut and watch me touch my cock.”
It was obscenely dirty—watching him touch his cock so fast, his gaze locked on your pussy. Every now and then, he’d gather your slick with his fingers, spreading it along his length, making himself even wetter, even more desperate.
And just when it looked like he was about to cum—he stopped.
His hand tightened around the tip, squeezing just enough to hold himself back, dragging the moment out, edging himself with a restraint that only made it worse.
“Fuck!” he quickly kneeled down in front of you, his face now very close to your pussy. When you looked down, your eyes fluttered when you saw him staring closely at your twitching hole.
“You look so tight,” he groaned, his finger tracing your cunt lightly.
“Koo…” you moaned, already shaking from the contact.
He kissed your inner thigh, occasionally biting the soft skin to leave marks. When you were already getting too whiny, he leaned in closer, his tongue pushing inside you.
“Oh, Jungkook—” you moaned loudly, the feeling of his hot tongue inside your hole making you quiver. He was pushing his tongue so deep, like he wanted to collect all your juices.
“Mhm,” he moaned, the vibration giving soft pulses down your clit. He collected all your juices, sucking them as much as possible, going deeper and deeper just to spit it right back up on your swollen clit.
“Oh my gosh—” you whimpered. He was making you as messy as possible. When he wrapped his lips around your clit to suck, you almost saw stars from the pleasure, the sensation pulsating through your whole body making you roll your eyes back.
“You like that?” he murmured while sucking your clit, his tatted finger going inside your hole, releasing more juices from you.
You nodded almost instantly, holding your ankle tighter. When he nipped harshly on your clit, you almost dropped your legs, shaking from how good his lips and tongue felt. He looked up at you, still sucking your clit while inserting another finger inside you, instantly brushing your sensitive spot.
The way his middle and ring finger brushed your g-spot made your clit pulse. With the pressure of his lips around your clit, you were close to cumming.
“Jungkook, I-I’m gonna…”
“Go ahead baby, wanna eat your cum,” he whispered against your cunt, sucking harder, his fingers moving aggressively inside you.
You were shaking. When you felt your high building, you almost pushed him away, letting go of your ankles to grip his hair.
“Jungkook! S-Stop,” you pleaded weakly. The pleasure was too much, too intense. His pace did not falter, his hand pressing your lower stomach down.
When he removed his fingers, you thought he was done, but he immediately rubbed your clit in circles, spitting down on your hood while holding your wriggling body in place.
You moaned loudly… his fingers, his mouth, his spit—all of it pushed you over the edge. You came so hard you almost fainted.
He still didn’t stop- you were overstimulated, trying to push him away, but he wouldn’t let you, drawing more release out of you. The pressure of his fingers dragged you into another climax, making you squirt messily around him, splashing his face, his neck, his body.
“S-stop, please Koo…” you cried, shaking uncontrollably as you squirted again. His fingers still didn’t stop. His dark eyes stayed fixed on your swollen pussy, amusement etched across his face.
“Messy girl, good job baby.” he cooed, giving your pussy a light slap to coax out the remaining slick.
Your cheeks were wet with tears, your body weak from orgasm. He leaned down, holding your cheeks gently to make you look at him.
“Poor baby, let me wipe your tears, hmm?”
He leaned down, licking your tears slowly, his hot tongue dragging wetly across your cheeks.
You whimpered, your body barely holding itself together. His lips moved down to your nipple, sucking the hard bud softly, while his other hand caressed your other breast, pinching and rolling your nipples.
His throbbing cock grinds against your spent pussy, his swollen tip smearing messily against your slit, spreading his precum all over your cunt.
“Koo…” you said softly, still tired and hazy from your release.
His mouth moved to your other nipple, his teeth tugging slightly, making you gasp. You were certain you would have bruises—the way he sucked your nipple mirrored how he had sucked your clit, lingering just enough to draw a reaction, coating it in spit before taking it fully into his mouth.
“Baby, can you feel how hard I am for you?” he whispered, his cock grinding slowly against your wet pussy, his tip brushing your clit… making you wetter again. “Do you know how long I wanted to fuck a nice warm pussy?” He grabbed your neck, your lips parting instinctively. He took the chance to spit into your mouth, leaning down to slip his tongue in messily, swallowing your moans and protests. His grip tightened each time you whimpered.
“Been touching my hard cock for months baby,” His movements were slow, deliberate—drawing arousal back into your body. “Need your tight pussy so bad.” The way he rolled his hips against you, the way he silenced you with his tongue so no protests could leave your mouth.
“You wanted this?” he groaned against your lips, releasing your neck only to squeeze your breast harshly.
“Ouch, Koo—”
“Answer me,” he said sharply, tapping your right cheek.
“I w-want this,” you said with glossy eyes, small hands gripping his arm tightly.
He tilted his head at you. “Yeah? You wanted to be fucked like a slut don’t you?” he taunted, sitting up to squeeze his cock, teasing himself by twirling his index finger over his tip. “Are you a slut? hmm?”
You nodded weakly. “Would do anything for y-you.’’ you said shyly.
Jungkook raised a brow, standing up at the edge of the bed. “Come here then, crawl to me.”
It was degrading, the way he treats you like a slut for him to use… yet it makes you wetter, makes you hornier. You crawl towards him like a good whore, looking up at him with pleading, sparkly eyes. Your makeup is ruined, your hair disheveled, your doll shoes still intact, making you look like a ruined sex doll.
“Good girl, now wrap your hands around my cock.” he rasped, holding the base out for you. When your small, shaky hands felt his veiny shaft, you almost came again. It twitched in your grip, hard and flushed red at the tip.
He groaned. “Spit on it, baby. Make it nice and wet for me.”
You spat on his cock, spreading it around the base before moving your hands up and down, rolling the foreskin as you worked him. He moaned loudly, head tipping back, jaw clenched, sweat forming across the expanse of his chest.
“That’s it, what a good little whore.” he praised, caressing your hair.
You tried your best to make him feel good. You raised your other hand, spitting into your palm and spreading it together with his precum.
Jungkook groaned at the sight. Using both of your hands, you made a twisting motion along his length, looking up at him like a good girl.
“I w-want you,” you said with a bit of confidence.
Jungkook cursed under his breath. “Suck my cock.” He slapped your hands away, then pulled your hair, forcing you to take his cock into your mouth. His breath hitched when he felt you gag around him, your nose pressed against his pelvis, your eyes turning watery.
“Take it,” he groaned harshly, guiding your head up and down like you were his personal fleshlight. You tried your best to take him, even though he was so big in your mouth, his tip hitting the back of your throat.
It was sloppy and nasty. Your tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock, tracing the mushroom tip while you hollowed your cheeks and sucked hard. Spit and precum was leaking down your chin, your eyes glossy and red, the way you twirled your tongue to trace the veins of his cock made him groan.
“Hands behind your back,” he panted.
You immediately did what he said, your body fully under his control. When he pushed deeper, your face pressed against his pubic hair. You choked, saliva and precum bubbling at the corners of your mouth, you want to tap his leg, the air in your lungs limited.
“You look so pretty with my cock- fuck! I’m gonna cum.” he grunted, keeping you close until you felt the liquid heat spreading inside your throat. He forced you to swallow, keeping your face snug against his pelvis so not a single drop would spill.
When he released your head, you almost collapsed onto the bed. Your eyes were red, your mouth slightly bruised, and your neck ached from the way he had angled your face. Due to exhaustion, you let him maneuver your body, pushing you down and flipping you over.
“Bend over, baby. I’m not done using you.”
He was still hard, giving his cock a few more pumps before guiding it towards your pussy.
“Open your pussy, baby. Be a useful slut and spread yourself for me.”
With weak hands, you reached back to spread yourself for him, opening your folds. Your wetness leaked down your inner thighs.
“Look at you. You just came, yet your pussy already wants more… dripping all over my sheets like a whore.” he said mockingly.
You whimpered. “P-please, f-fuck me.” You were almost crying, your arms tired and your body aching from the position, but you wanted to please him so badly, wanted him to use you till you could no longer take it anymore.
Jungkook chuckled behind you. You thought he would tease you again, but you gasped when he suddenly pushed his cock inside you. Despite your earlier orgasm, the stretch was still painful, making you scream into the sheets.
“You’re so tight, fuck.” he groaned, looking down at his cock getting swallowed by your tight pussy.
He leaned down, pressing your head down further, his cock pushing deeper and deeper, making you squirm in both pleasure and pain.
“Fucking slut, so tight around daddy.” he whispered, your face buried in the sheets.
You clenched around him, whining against the mattress.
“Oh, you like that?” he taunted, pushing deeper until he reached your g-spot.
You could feel every drag of his cock inside you—his veins, his mushroom tip. The stretch was so good you were close to cumming, clenching around him as he fucked you deeper.
“Stop that, baby, I’m gonna cum.” he almost laughed, pulling your hair up so he could see your face. “Want to fuck you for hours, baby. I’m gonna use your tiny hole till daddy can’t release cum anymore. Do you want that?”
You whimpered, “Yes, d-daddy.”
He groaned harshly; the way you called him made him even hornier. He pulled out and shifted down on his side, pulling your body snug against his chest, your back pressed against him. “Keep your legs up,” he whispered, holding his cock and directing it against your leaking hole.
You didn’t expect to be fucked by Jungkook sideways. He held your waist while driving his hard cock into you, your legs spread wide in the air as his lips nipped harshly at your neck.
“Feels so g-good, daddy.” you moaned, your body bouncing slightly from the force of the way he was fucking you.
Jungkook bit your neck, his hands moving down to rub your clit. “Uhuh, daddy’s gonna fill you with so much cum and you’re gonna hold it like a good girl.’’
You moaned, trying to bite your moans back, but Jungkook slapped your clit harshly. “Moan louder,” he groaned, his balls hitting your ass as he pushes his cock all the way out just to push it harder all the way in.
“J-Jungkook.” you moaned, eyes rolling back.
“Louder.”
“Jungkook!” you moaned louder.
“Good girl,” he chuckled behind you, his fingers coming back down to rub your clit again.
You could feel your cum dripping down your thighs, the loud squelching sound of his cock fucking into your pussy and his deep groans pushing you to the edge. When he gave your clit a good rub, you came all over his cock, your pussy clenching around his girth, releasing so much cum. You held his wrist to stop him, your thighs shaking—you were certain you almost drooled from the deep pulses your cunt was producing.
Jungkook groaned behind you. You gasped weakly when he removed himself inside your twitching pussy, your cum leaking onto the mattress, but he immediately lowered his head to catch your cum, wasting no drop.
“I c-cant, too much!” you cried.
Jungkook held your thighs firmly, slurping all your juices like a starved man. When he raised his head, his chin and nose were wet from your arousal. Using both his index fingers, he opened your hood, exposing your puffy clit. He leaned down to suck it, and you gasped when you felt your cum and his warm saliva spreading.
“Oh daddy,” you moaned, another wave of pleasure rolling through your body.
He looked up at you, his tongue giving kitten licks on your clit. “Are you daddy’s good girl?” he murmured against it, his thumb circling the bud, the dual sensation making you lose your mind. “Do you like how daddy eats your pussy?”
“Yes daddy, it f-feels nice.”
“Nice?” Jungkook chuckled, sucking his thumb before rubbing his spit all over your clit. “Is this nice?” he mocked, looking at your bud as it looked so swollen and pink.
“Describe nice for me,” he growled before standing up, carrying you with him. Your thighs wrapped around his waist as he walked beside the large mirror. Using both of his hands, he held your ass and pushed his cock inside your used hole, using almost no strength to lift your body just to push you up and down around his hard cock.
You could see your reflection in the mirror—the way he used your body to pleasure himself, the way his biceps flexed every time he pushed and pulled you against him. He carried you like a feather, your body like a used, fucked-up sex doll.
“Is this… nice?” he mocked you, his lips parted as he looked at your pleasured face. He could feel your juices dripping down his muscular thighs. He chuckled at you. “Too dumb to answer, baby? Is my cock making you feel so good?”
You squealed, gripping his arms tightly as your body bounced up and down. He was going so fast, his hips snapping against you, pushing up while forcing you down, the tip of his cock hitting your cervix.
“Gonna cum, baby. Would you hold my cum inside like what I taught you?” he panted, his thrusts getting sloppy, his eyes hazy.
“Y-Yes daddy.”
Jungkook groaned, his hands gripping your ass hard, enough that it hurt. His cock drilled in so deep that you whimpered when he pulled your body close, forcing you down as he spilled all of his warm cum inside you. He groaned beside your ear, biting your neck through his intense orgasm, balls deep and snug against your ass. Your legs were shaking; you felt so full. You tried to move, but his grip was too strong. You could feel all of his cum filling your pussy, and it was so much that you could feel some of it dripping down your legs.
You thought he was done when he removed his cock inside you. Your legs wobbled as he quickly set you down on the bed, his hands palming your pussy as if to keep his cum inside you. Your eyes almost went out of their sockets when you saw that he was still hard.
“Raise your legs,” he rasped, gripping his cock from the base as he spread the cum that was left on his girth.
When you weakly raised your legs, he could see how much cum was inside your pussy, threatening to spill out.
“Touch yourself, push my cum deeper,” he said with serious eyes while staring at your hole.
Your eyes widened. “J-Jungkook, t-thats-”
‘’Come on baby, daddy’s waiting.”
You gulped harshly. He was slowly rubbing his swollen cock, teasing the tip while waiting for you to move. Your small hand slowly reached down to your hole, pushing his cum deeper, but some of it spilled onto the bed. You tried your best to push it in further, but your past orgasm was still overstimulating you.
“Like this, d-daddy?’’ you said shyly.
Jungkook groaned, staring at his cum in your tight hole. “Good job baby, can you add another finger for me?”
You added another finger. It was a lot easier to push his cum deeper, but your pussy was getting sensitive. You were whimpering—the fact that he was just staring at you while rubbing his mushroom tip made you chase another high you didn’t even realize was coming. The pad of your fingers brushing against your g-spot with his cum felt so good, forcing you into another mind-blowing orgasm. The fact that you came just from pushing his cum deeper felt so dirty.
“Oh my gosh, I-fuck..” you were convulsing. You removed your fingers, trying to close your thighs shut, but Jungkook held your legs. He quickly inserted his hard cock, you were still pulsating and the feeling of his cock replacing your fingers extended your orgasm, your wet pussy clenching and unclenching around his cock.
“Fuck you feel so good, Daddy didn’t stretch you enough huh? You’re still fucking tight.” he growled, his hips making a rolling motion as his fingers pinched your nipples harshly.
Your tongue was almost out, your pussy still quivering, your clit so sensitive that even the feeling of his pubic hair brushing against it felt incredibly intense.
“Gonna fuck that tight little pussy till your loose, so that everytime you touch yourself your fingers would be too small for your gaping hole.” he grunted, his hands holding both of your wrists above your head, his other hand gripping your throat. He was fucking you so hard that your body was bouncing up. He crouched down to lick your sweaty neck, then moved down to your underarm, licking your sweat messily. You tried to move your arms, but his hold was firm, licking your other underarm and creating a huge wet mess.
“I-I’m close,” you choked, chasing another orgasm, overwhelmed by how many times you had come—you were certain your pussy would be numb after this.
“Hold it, you slut.” he bit the swell of your breast causing you to scream.
He held your body up, then laid down on the bed while holding your waist, placing you on top of him.
“Ride my cock.”
Desperate for release, you positioned your body in front of him, but Jungkook stopped you.
“On your back, babygirl.” he tapped your thighs.
Your cheeks reddened as you positioned your body with your back facing him. When you sank down, you immediately moaned, your ass against his lower stomach. The stretch felt so good, the veins on his cock filling your spongey walls perfectly.
“That’s it, make daddy proud.” he groaned, holding your waist while you moved up and down on him. Your legs were aching, but you didn’t care. When you felt his right tattooed hand slapping your ass, you almost came.
“You look so pretty.” you heard him whisper, his hand caressing your ass, your brows furrowed when his hand went deeper. “Lower your body for me.”
Confused and a bit dazed, you lowered your body while still riding him. You shrieked loudly when his fingers played with your exposed rim, circling around the hole. You held his thighs, squeezing them hard when he tried to push his thumb in, the stretch making you shiver.
“Would you let me fuck you here, baby?’’ he whispered, pushing this thumb deeper, your tight walls swallowing him.
You haven’t done that before—you can’t even imagine it. He was the first man who touched you there. You were in so deep that you desperately nodded, clenching around his cock as the thought excited you.
He chuckled, “You’re so dirty baby, gonna let me fill all your holes hmm?”
You nodded again. “Yes, only for you J-Jungkook.”
“Yeah? you love me that much huh? I bet you hump your little cooky plushies thinking it’s my hard cock instead.”
He removed his thumb from your ass just to insert his middle and index finger, causing you to scream at the stretch. "Tell me baby, how many times have you masturbated huh?" Your movements slowed down from the sensation.
“Do you fantasize about me? Fantasize about your bias fucking your slutty holes?’’ he taunted, pushing his fingers deeper, his hips pushing up to meet your thrusts.
It was embarrassing; you didn’t answer, afraid to admit the dirty things you did every time you thought of Jungkook—afraid to admit how dirty you were behind your shy demeanor and innocent looks. You liked him so much, idolized him for years, dreamed about meeting him, dreamed about attending his concert, and in your most hidden fantasies… you dreamed about being his girlfriend, what it feels like to be loved by him, to be fucked by him.
“Hmm, baby? I bet you do,” he chuckled.
He removed his fingers, slapping your ass cheeks, then flipping you down onto the bed. “My dirty little girl, touching her little holes while thinking about her bias.”
You couldn’t maintain eye contact, your fingers fiddling with the sheets when he went down to grind his cock against your pussy, both of his arms beside your head.
“Aww baby, are you shy?” he cooed, pushing his cock inside you, trying to find the angle that hits your spot.
You pouted, your eyes a bit hesitant. He held your cheeks so you would look at him. “Don’t worry… daddy’s here, I’m gonna fuck you so good and make your dreams come true.”
He spit into your parted mouth, urging you to swallow before fucking mercilessly into your tight hole. He held your thighs, almost folding you in half. Your pussy was so stretched and swollen. He leaned down to whisper moans in your ear, his movements so fast you were impressed by his stamina at this point.
“Cum with me baby,” he panted, his thrusts getting sloppy, his mushroom tip hitting the right spot.
Jungkook forced you into another orgasm. You thought you wouldn’t cum, but your pussy was pulsating so badly, his cock still drilling inside you.
He let out a strained growl, his breathing turning heavier with each passing second. When you felt him cumming, he removed his cock from your pussy… quickly inserting it into your other unused hole.
You screamed loudly, the stretch sudden and painful… you could feel his cock pushing his cum deep inside your ass, the sensation making you shake and cry. When you tried to move, he held your waist tightly, balls snug so he could keep his warm cum inside.
He kissed your cheek, “So good for me, so pretty, so tight.” he whispered.
You thought he was done, but when he kissed you hard, his tongue dominating yours, you realized he wasn’t fully sated yet. He pulled you onto the nearest table, bending you over, your hands gripping it for support.
“Lift your leg here, baby,” he instructed, lifting your other leg so you were exposed to him.
The memories were hazy—you remembered him fucking you on the table while your cheeks burned red from the way he pushed you down. You could see the reflection in the mirror, your doll shoes still intact, the table wet from your drool. After that, he fucked your breasts, urging you to suck the tip like a good little whore.
Every time you thought he was done, he would pull you back again, whispering dirty praises about how you were such a good slut for him. His stamina was so impressive, and you were also impressed that you managed to stay awake the whole time.
Even when he was washing you up, he was very sweet, washing your hair and body, yet his fingers were still trailing down your swollen pussy. You protested, but he told you not to worry, saying, “Don’t worry baby, I’m gonna rub the pain away,” while rubbing your pussy in slow circles, causing you to release another orgasm in the shower.
Before you drifted off to sleep, you felt him spreading your legs, whispering. “Last one pretty girl, let me leave you a present when you wake up, yeah? All nice and wet in the morning.”
It felt almost unreal—like something pulled from a dream you weren’t fully ready to believe had happened.
When you woke up, Jungkook was no longer there.
Your body felt heavy, drained in a way that made even small movements difficult. You shifted under the covers, blinking slowly as reality started to settle in piece by piece.
The room was quiet. Still.
When you sat up, your gaze fell to your doll shoes placed neatly nearby.
You stared at them for a long moment, your chest tightening in a way you couldn’t quite explain. A quiet reminder that last night had not been a dream.
You weakly stood up, wearing a comfy oversized shirt you were certain was his. Walking over to the table, you noticed a set of breakfast meals laid out—eggs, waffles, bacon, fruits, and a pitcher of orange juice.
Still a bit dazed, you sat down on the couch and stared at the food in front of you, your mind struggling to catch up with reality. Last night still felt distant, almost unreal—like something your brain hadn’t fully accepted yet. But every time you shifted slightly and felt the marks on your skin, the memory returned sharply.
It was real.
You knew the rules. You would never see him again, you would never contact him again, and anything that happened that night would stay with you—carried quietly, taken to your grave.
Your eyes grew teary, not because you regretted it, but because some part of you wished it didn’t end so quickly.
Wished it lasted longer.
You knew better—that you and him were not in a fairytale. You wouldn’t be the special girl who eventually ends up with him. You weren’t inside some ridiculous fanfiction where he would text you afterward, telling you he missed you, that he wanted to see you again, that he might even love you. Pure fiction.
Looking at the food in front of you, your eyes caught a small folded paper tucked beside the plate.
When you opened it, you had expected something sweet—maybe a cute note, maybe his number. You already knew the number he used wasn’t personal anyway, just an exclusive one-night line tied to the NDA.
“Dollshoes.”
It was written quickly, but you recognized his handwriting immediately.
You looked around and spotted a paper bag beside the bed. You stood up at once, walking towards it, your hands already shaking before you even reached it.
Carefully, you opened it.
Inside was a pair of glittery doll shoes.
You searched for a note, but there was none.
You pouted slightly, your heart still skipping at the small gesture. It wasn’t much—but it was something. At least he had left something for you.
It had been months since that night, but you would never forget it.
You told no one—not Mina, not anyone, not even in passing. You were almost afraid that speaking it out loud would make it less real… or worse, make you forget it entirely, reducing it to something that only felt like a dream.
Over the months, something else slowly clicked into place.
While reviewing your notes one day, your eyes drifted absentmindedly to your tote bag. Only then did you notice the small cooky keychain attached to it.
It had to have been what his manager saw.
A quiet sense of relief settled in you then—knowing that despite changing bags since that day, you had never taken it off.
You also tried to think harder—why did he give you a pair of doll shoes? Does he do that with all his hookups? Does he give them a farewell gift too after sleeping with them?
The thought left a strange mix in your chest. A little sadness. A little jealousy you couldn’t quite justify.
And yet, the doll shoes still felt like a strong reminder that you were once his—like he gave you something so you wouldn’t forget him.
Sometimes you would even wonder if everything that happened was only your imagination. His manager’s contact number, Jungkook’s number—gone from your phone. The NDA had included a strict no-contact clause, and everything tied to that night had disappeared with it.
Afterward, you didn’t see them anymore, and you had no idea whether they had even stayed in the country or left immediately.
The moment the marks on your body began to fade, you almost cried—like something of him was slowly slipping away from you too.
Wearing the doll shoes he gave you, you sat in a nice outdoor coffee shop with your laptop and a hot latte.
It had been almost a year.
Despite the beautiful view around you, your attention was fixed on your screen. You were writing a paper—your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment longer than necessary, like they understood something you didn’t want to admit.
You had been careful. Writing the details with precaution.
You changed the places, the countries, the names. You rewrote reality until it no longer belonged to anyone but you. Until it couldn’t be traced back—not to him, not to that night, not to the NDA that should have never felt real in the first place.
You even made sure to hide it in plain sight.
Just another fanfiction.
Just another story.
Just enough to protect yourself.
Just enough to protect him.
Your foot tapped lightly beneath the table, uneven, restless. A habit you picked up a year ago. A habit you never lost.
And then you wrote it—the memory still too fresh to feel like a memory at all.
“Please, please, please!” you whispered to yourself, fingers crossed tightly as you stared at the three screens in front of you.
And for a brief second—you wondered if anyone would believe it was just fiction.
pairing: Yang Jungwon x f!reader (reader is older than Jungwon)
synopsis: you thought working as a producer for Enhypen would be fun. hardworking artists who treat their staff respectfully, so respectfully they make sure you feel comfortable and relaxed. Jungwon in specific takes great care of that. Preferable in-between your legs.
content warnings: explicit!language, explicit!content, smut, oral sex (f receiving), pussyaddict!jungwon, squirting, heavy overstimulation, messy messy messy eater, typos! Not proofread
You have always been a workaholic. Not because you need the money, not because you need to impress anyone anymore at this point, but simply because you love your job.
You feel blessed, every day, for being able to live out your dream and spread your music across the world, even if it’s someone else singing it. You have been working as a producer for the kpop industry for about two years now and now, finally, you kind of settled for a specific group you would be working for more frequently. Enhypen was kind of the perfect choice, the ideal group to work for. The boys were well-mannered, polite and overall easy to work with. And of course, incredibly handsome as well.
You’ve only been permanently working for them for about two months now and you’re currently preparing demos for the next comeback.
“Fuck”, your scream echoes through the entire studio and is soon followed by the sound of your fist slamming onto the desk in front of you.
file couldn’t be saved.
file couldn’t be saved.
file couldn’t be saved.
“No, no, no!” You grunt in frustration. This is the second time already, that this happens to you and although you try your best to refresh your screen or redownload the projects, your hard work is lost and you know it. It’s already night by now and you’ve been working on this for the past 5 hours. 5 hours of work down the drain because of your old, stupid laptop.
You’re so deep in your frustration and anger, you don’t even notice the door to your studio slowly opening. Like some ghost entering unnanounced, but instead it’s Jungwon’s head bopping around the corner.
You don’t want him to see you like this. Jungwon’s always been exceptionally sweet to you. So considered and gentle, just like the proper, good leader that he was. He was cute too, in a playful, almost childlike way. But he isn’t a child, he is a man and you’ve already noticed that a bit too much especially lately.
Even in your frustration you can’t deny the fact that he looks so hot in his grey sweatpants and tightly fitted black shirt. And those glasses he’s wearing. They make him look like a hot nerd. You’re so distracted by his looks, you almost forget about the misery you’re in. Until his voice pulls you back into reality. He’s standing right in front of you now and closes the door behind him.
“What’s wrong, Noona?” He asks you in a soft tone. You find it cute when he calls you that, so you chuckle softly even though you feel like crying.
“My laptop acted up once again and now my works have been deleted, but it’s okay, I’ll just redo them.”, you try to cheer yourself up but fail miserably and Jungwon immediately senses it by the look in your eyes. He sighs in frustration too as he looks back and forth between you and the laptop in front of you, trying to figure out a way to help you, but he can’t. He doesn’t know much about composing, not the way you do anyway.
And he really admires you for that. He never wanted to admit it to you, but he was actually the person that had talked their ceo into hiring you permanently.
“I’m really sorry that happened, Noona. If you want I can stay here with you, so you’re not alone”, he suggests with a smile on his face. He looks even cuter like that, with his dimples and squeezed eyes. “Oh, you’re probably tired, so go home, Jungwonah, I got this”, you assure him but Jungwon insists by already sitting down next to you. If he’s being honest with himself, he just wants to watch you as you work.
And that’s what he does. He watches you so attentively as you lock back into your work and try to recreate the files you’ve lost. His head rests on his hand comfortably as he studies the serious expressions on your face:
The way you furrow your eyebrows and push your hair back. The way your head bops to the rhythm, the way you clench your jaw when you’re uncertain about specific sounds. You look so hot, Jungwon thinks and he feels his ears heating up right away. When he’s assured that you’re not noticing his piercing eyes on you, he allows his eyes to wander down your neck to your cleavage. You’re only wearing a black top, a tight one that hugs your round tits perfectly. Jungwon can’t help but bite down his lower lip as he watches them jiggle a bit as you move in your chair.
You truly don’t notice him. You’re a workaholic, after all. Once you’re locked into the music you’re creating, a bomb could go off next to you and you wouldn’t notice. That’s probably why you barely noticed how you accidentally dropped the pen you’ve been holding in your hand for no particular reason.
But Jungwon does right away so he gets up.
“It’s ok, just leave it”, you assure him absentmindedly but Jungwon is already on his knees, looking for the pen underneath your desk and that’s finally when your attention shifts a bit. Because how can THAT possibly be left unnoticed? Jungwon crawling underneath you, right in front of your legs. You try not to look down, try to keep your mind from shifting to forbidden places, forbidden thoughts. But again, how is that even possible? For a moment you’re worried. Jungwon shouldn’t be down there in front of you when you’re wearing a skirt that he could easily peak under. That would be entirely inappropriate of him. But… why is it turning you on so much?
“I got it!”, Jungwon suddenly exclaims in a cheerful chant and you meet his eyes when you look down. He’s on all fours right in front of you, cat eyes darting up at you, looking at you through his lashes. He’s smiling so proudly and you hope he can’t see that the heat has already risen to your cheeks. The position the two of you are in is… risky, to say the least. Dangerous and Jungwon finally notices it too.
Your knees are right in front of him and if only you parted your legs.. just a bit. The two of you seem frozen for a moment, unable to move and that’s when a very tempting thought crosses the boy’s mind. He wants to comfort you, right? He wants you to relax after losing your precious files. As an artist, it’s his job to make his coworkers feel comfortable… feel good to work with him.
He doesn’t even notice how he slowly starts to lick his lips but you do. Fuck, you think to yourself. That just looked so fucking hot. That tongue, that pink, soft tongue with the little slit in the middle. He must be so skilled with that - no. You stop yourself. You cannot think about such things, not when it’s about Yang fucking Jungwon.
“You… thank you for picking it up”, you mumble almost inaudible because you fear you might accidentally let out those ridiculous thoughts. And you hope that he takes this as a call to get back up but he stays right there, so all you could do is focus back on your laptop. Which is entirely impossible with Jungwon right there in front of you on his knees.
“Your legs must hurt from sitting around all day, Y/n noona”, Jungwon suddenly whispers and you can sense the shift in his voice right away. You’re still a musician after all. There’s an airiness to his voice, a soft groan almost. And it’s gotten lower, darker, more… lingering, yet almost seductive. No, it’s definitely seductive.
You hear it and you feel it in the way you suddenly feel his fingers on your legs, running them up and down. His hands feel so good and he’s not wrong after all: your legs do feel a bit numb from sitting around all day. You’re still not looking down but you can feel his breath hitting against your knees so you know he’s shifted closer to you, causing you to immediately clutch your legs together even more. The friction is relieving and that’s when you feel you have long started to get wet and you wonder if Jungwon is doing this because he’s noticed it. Maybe he’s already seen your juices leaking through the thin fabric of your slip or he’s already smelt their sweet scent.
Nevertheless, you feel so embarrassed, you can’t even think about ever meeting his eyes again. Why is he not getting up again…? You ask yourself again and again and again.
His hands continue to run up and down your lower legs until he begins digging his fingers into your soft skin. He’s massaging your calves now and he’s loving the way you’re obviously avoiding to look at him. He’s enjoying the view of your tits from below too much anyway. He can’t see underneath your skirt yet but he wants to, he will eventually, he knows it. He knows it because you’re not stopping him. He would make this count and entirely unforgettable for you because he’s already thinking ahead to the times he would repeat this very action. And many other actions.
It doesn’t take long for his fingers to wander up but they stop at the hem of your skirt. Then he waits for your approval and when you finally look down again, he feels as if his heart jump out of his chest. The look in your eyes screams pure sex, you can’t deny it. He’s riled you up just by massaging your legs, you feel pathetic but you also don’t want to let this opportunity go to waste. How many times will you find an idol between your legs again? Especially one you like as much as you like Jungwon.
“What are you doing?” You whisper in a serious tone but both Jungwon and you know that you’re not intended to stop him. Jungwon’s head is already between your legs now, with your knees on both of his head’s sides, but your skirt is still covering your clothed core. Jungwon grins now. He feels at his rightful place: right there underneath you, on all fours, about to eat you out like you’re his last meal. He truly has to stop himself from drooling onto the floor at the thought of tasting you just once. Oh he can already picture your pretty pussy. Oh, how he would dive right in there, bury his entire face in your womanhood until he’s suffocating. His cock feels like it’s about to explode in his pants. At this point he’s so hard it hurts.
“I want to help you relax, Y/n. You’ve been working so hard for us, the least I can do is return the favour.” Jungwon speaks in such a low tone, you’re actually surprised and it turns you on even more. He starts letting his finger dance over the fabric of your skirt. He doesn’t intend on taking it off, that would just cost him unnecessary time. So instead, he folds it up enough to finally reveal your panties. And they’re SOAKED. You haven’t even realised how much more juice has seeped past your lips. You can hear him inhale deeply and you can hear him do it too.
Jungwon closes his eyes as he inhales once again, taking in as much scent as he can and he immediately starts grinning. Just from the smell he can tell he’s about to have a FEAST. Everything this man does is so fucking hot to you, the impatience inside of you keeps growing and growing. Well, the impatience between your legs is.
Jungwon leans forward now, pressing his nose against the wetness of your underwear and you gasp in shock but all he does is snicker and inhale your scent yet again. You’ve never seen a man do that. The vibrations of his little laughter immediately send shivers down your spine and ring against your swollen clit that already demands to be touched, but Jungwon takes his sweet time. You can tell he takes eating pussy very seriously and it only excites you that much more. With one hasty move, he’s pulled your slip all the way down to your ankles but once again, he doesn’t bother wasting time on taking them off all the way because slowly, he is starting to become the impatient one. He has to taste you now, there’s no way around it.
Jungwon wraps his arms around your legs from below and lifts them up over his shoulders immediately, which causes you to shift downwards in your chair, causing his core to be pressed against his chin already, just like he had planned.
The first thing he does is twirl his tongue around your entire womanhood in a big circle. Another approach no man has ever done with you. For Jungwon, it’s truly about collecting all those juices with his tongue, as if he’s trying to swoop them up.
A moan leaves your lips already and you immediately press a hand to your lips. You didn’t expect him to be THIS good already and he hasn’t even started fully yet. Jungwon snickers once again.
“Fuck, you taste amazing Noona!”, Jungwon praises against your lips but he’s still looking up into your eyes past your folded skirt and that’s when you giggle a bit. He looks forbiddingly cute like that, even when he’s eating you out. Then he pulls back a little to lick his lips as if he’s just eaten a very luxurious dinner. Now that his curiosity is killed, he wants to take his time to truly pamper you slowly and romantically, like you deserve. So he starts to press sweet kisses to your inner thighs, but it actually only pisses you off.
“Quit teasing, didn’t you say you want to help me relax, Jungwonah?”, you grunt in frustration and try to shift to press your pussy back against his lips which only makes the cheeky boy laugh devilishly. Oh, he’s a tease. You’ve always known that.
“Forgive me, Noona”, he says before licking up a long stripe from your entrance over your juice-coated lips all the way up to your clit. That’s when you squirm once and he knows where your sweet spot is right away. He focuses on your clit right away and starts to twirl his tongue around it. His tongue dances almost as well as he does. That magic muscle inside of his mouth, it drives you crazy. He’s so precise with his licks, yet so sloppy at the same time. He’s drooling onto your already oozing pussy, so he slurps up your wetness again and again inbetween kitten-licks. Your moans fill the room that is already used to music, but certainly none of this kind. In a twisted way, you think about how insane this sound would go in a song. The sound of jungwon groaning against your cunt, mixing with his slurping and sucking and licking.
Jungwon is desperate. Desperate for your juices, desperate to eat you out and it’s very clear: he’s not doing this for you. It’s not about just getting you off, it’s not about GIVING. HE needs that even more than you do. To be between your legs, to eat your juices until he’s satisfied - which he never is.
He’s completely high on your juices by now and he’s still only focusing on your clit. His head is bobbing and shaking from side to side, up and down repeatedly, again and again and again and he’s getting faster too. You’re completely overstimulated already, you’ve never felt anything like this before. You would’ve never thought this sweet, young, hardworking leader would know how to eat pussy THIS WELL. Your hand sneaks into his hair on its own but Jungwon doesn’t mind. In fact, he even lets a desperate cry, a whimper accidentally slip his mouth when you gentle pull on it and press him closer to your core.
What sends him over the edge is when you start grinding your pussy against his face, running it against his nose and chin and all he has to do is stick out his tongue to occasionally dip past your folds inside your entrance. He doesn’t care that you’re already coating his face with your juices - in fact: he wants you to soak it as well. And still, his eyes never leave yours. He loves to study the way your face twitches or your mouth open and he adores when you frown like that as you moan his name which also gets louder and louder.
“Jungwonah…”, you whine for more as you feel your orgasm slowly nearing and he gets it immediately. He wraps his arm around your thighs now to hold you in place, but his free hand is already at your entrance, with both his index and middle finger fiddling with your folds while his incredibly skilled tongue is already focused on your clit again. He changes between licking and sucking at the sensitive bud, but what trips you over the edge is when he slowly starts pushing the two digits past your entrance right into you. You twitch inside your seat as much as you can, but Jungwon’s grip around your thighs is tight, so all you can do is sit through it. Literally.
Jungwon doesn’t waste any time again and starts fucking into you, with his fingers slightly curling up to meet the rigged spot right above your entrance, your g-spot. He’s so fucking skilled, it blows your mind once again. As he’s thrusting into you with no mercy at a speed that doesn’t give you time to attempt to muffle your loud cries, he’s still licking eagerly at your clit. His head is shaking like crazy now and that’s when you feel it.
Your legs cramp around his neck, your stomach sinks and your entire body tenses up as your own orgasm washes over you with no warning. You bend your back so much, you’re almost lying on his shoulders only.
“Ahh- Jung- Jungwon!”, you cum with his name on your lips, just like he’s wanted you to but Jungwon doesn’t think about stopping even when your release has long spilled into his ever-hungry mouth. No, in fact, he’s still twirling his tongue all around your clit so sloppily now, your legs start to shake as your try to push him off because you’re pussy is already so sensitive from your intense orgasm.
“Please- please I can’t…”, you whimper as you continue to try to push him off with your entire lower body shaking around his head and that’s when, at least, Jungwon pulls his pussy-juices soaked fingers out of you. But he only does that to wrap his other arm around your legs as well to hold you even steadier as he dives in even more.
He’s truly just making out with your sore pussy by now and you’re screaming and squirming, there’s even a tear or two escaping your eyes and the orgasms just never end. Your body is on fire, struck by lightning, you’ve truly never felt anything like this ever before and Jungwon only laughs as your juices finally gush out of you right into his face, on his tongue and against lips. He’s gotten exactly what he’s wanted ever since you’ve started working for them and that’s FINALLY when he gently puts your legs down and moves back just enough for you to see the mess you’ve made out of him.
Your juices are all over his glasses, he can barely see through them anymore but he doesn’t care. No, he wanted that and you know it.
There’s juice dripping from his chin, juice dripping from his lips that he’s licking now and he looks so fucking proud it’s leaving you speechless.
In fact, all you can do is focus on collecting your breath for now. There are still single moans escaping your lips from time to time, but you feel completely destroyed. You feel like your body is on fire while being made out of jelly.
“Feeling relaxed, Noona?”, Jungwon asks smiling proudly as he cleans his glasses on his shirt after he’s gotten up again and you’re still there half lying on the chair that is ALSO soaked in your releases and you don’t even notice how the boy has sneakily stuffed your soaked panties into the pocket of his sweatpants.
summary : A teasing brat, a soft dom, and a night full of mess.
genre : smut
warning(s) : overstimulation, face-sitting, squirting, spit, fingering, face-riding, pussy grinding on abs, brat x soft dom dynamic, cock worship, deep penetration, crying during sex, praise + light degradation, dumbification, aftercare, feeding water post-orgasm, creampie. Let me know if I missed anything!
Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!
🪐smut under the cut 🪐
The moment your back hits the mattress, you already know you’re in for it.
Seonghwa doesn’t even say a word. Just stands at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, head tilted like he’s trying to figure out what kind of punishment best fits your crime — which, for the record, was simply whispering “you’re so slow, grandpa” when he took more than five seconds to unbutton his shirt.
Your legs kick a little in the air as you giggle, pretending innocence.
“Hwaaa, come on~ don’t look at me like that…”
He lets out a soft exhale through his nose, not quite a laugh, but definitely not amusement either. “Grandpa?” he echoes, slowly crawling onto the bed like a lion cornering prey. “I haven’t even touched you yet and you’re already mouthing off?”
You squeal when he grabs your ankle, pulling you down toward him with one smooth yank.
“Hwa—! You’re being mean—”
“You called me a grandpa, baby,” he cuts you off with that maddeningly calm voice. His fingers tug at your shorts, slipping them down with ease. “But look at you. Dripping like you need me more than air.”
You want to argue, throw a comeback, something—but the moment the cold air kisses your soaked panties, your thighs twitch on instinct, traitorous.
Seonghwa smiles. Not the sweet smile he gives you when he makes you coffee in the morning, or kisses your forehead when you’re sleepy. No, this one is dark. Mischievous. Dangerous in the most delicious way.
“You gonna behave?” he murmurs, thumb brushing the wet patch forming between your legs.
You pout, hips squirming just a little. “M’not that bad…”
“Mm.” He hums like he’s not convinced. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck the attitude out of you.”
And just like that, his head disappears between your thighs.
Your fingers barely graze the sheets before he’s already settled between your thighs — pushing them open, kissing the inside of your knee like he’s being gentle, but his eyes burn with something else entirely.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs, breath hot against your inner thigh. “You start wiggling and squirming, I’ll just tie you up instead.”
You let out a breathy laugh, but it catches in your throat the second his mouth presses over the soaked fabric of your panties. No teasing. No slow build. He groans into it like he’s been starving, tongue immediately dragging along the soaked cotton.
“Oh my god—Hwa,” you whine, hips jumping.
His hands fly up instantly—one across your lower belly, pinning you down; the other gripping your thigh with a bruising promise.
“Still, baby,” he warns, voice low and sticky. “I haven’t even started yet.”
With maddening precision, he pulls your panties aside, exposing your soaked folds to the cool air—and then warmer heat.
His tongue.
It starts with one, slow, filthy drag — a long, purposeful lick from your entrance to your clit, and it’s wet. Messy. Loud. The kind of sound that makes your toes curl, your chest stutter.
“Oh—Hwa—fuck—”
“You taste so fucking good,” he growls, barely pulling back before diving in again. His spit drips from his lips as he laps at you hungrily, tongue flattening then curling, dragging up and down until your thighs shake. “How are you this wet already? What kind of mess are you planning to make for me, huh?”
Your back arches with a whimper, fingers flying into his hair for anything to anchor you.
Then he spits.
Right onto your cunt.
A thick, warm string that lands directly on your clit, and you sob — full-body, high-pitched, like it knocked the air out of you. He doesn’t even wait. Rubs the spit in with the flat of his tongue, circular motions that leave you twitching.
“You’re drooling,” he chuckles darkly, glancing up at your flushed face. “Pretty baby can’t handle a little tongue?”
“I’m gonna die—” you gasp, high-pitched and whiny.
“Then die for me, baby,” he murmurs with a smirk before he shoves his tongue in.
The way he fucks you with it, deep and slow, alternating between curling inside and sucking on your clit like he’s trying to ruin every future orgasm you’ll ever have.
The pressure in your belly builds fast. Too fast.
“Hwa—Hwa, I’m gonna—”
He doesn’t stop. Not for a second. In fact, he groans into you, the vibrations tipping you right over.
You scream when it hits — legs jerking, hips stuttering, liquid gushing out of you as your vision goes white. You squirt hard, soaking his face, and all Seonghwa does is moan like it’s the best reward in the world.
And then?
Then he doesn’t stop.
Tongue lapping up every drop, fingers suddenly slipping in to stretch you open more, curling just right.
You try to close your legs, but he pushes them apart. “We’re not done yet, baby. You wanted to run your mouth, remember?” he pants, face soaked with your slick. “Now be good and cum again for me. Squirt again. Make it messier this time.” he whispers against your cunt, fingers sliding in smoothly right after your orgasm leaves you twitching. “So fucking pretty when you squirt all over me. Think you can do it again?”
You try to answer. You really try.
But all you can let out is a choked sob and a breathless, “Hwaaa—s’too much—!”
He grins.
That stupid, gorgeous, smug grin.
“Too much?” he teases, crooking his fingers inside you just right, angling upward until he hits that devastating spot again and again and again. “You say that, but this slutty pussy keeps sucking me in like you need it.”
Your thighs twitch again. He doesn’t even bother holding you down this time — just lets your hips writhe, lets your body jerk as your slick runs down the inside of your legs. His mouth glistens, cheeks shiny with your mess. And when you manage to lift your dazed eyes, that’s when you see it—
He’s grinning as your juices drip down his chin.
“You made such a mess,” he says, almost in awe. “Let’s make it worse.”
His pace speeds up. Wet sounds fill the room—obscene, echoing. His fingers pump hard and fast, curl deep, then scissor slightly just to watch your thighs fly open and twitch again.
“Hwa—ohmygod—fuckfuckfuck—” You sob, back arching as your eyes roll.
You squirt again—harder this time, right into his face. A splash across his cheek, chin, the tip of his nose. His tongue darts out, licking some of it off with a soft moan.
“Fucking perfect,” he mutters. “Wanna bottle it. Want you dripping all over me every fucking night.”
Your whole body’s trembling, oversensitive, dumbed out—until you feel him pause.
Then—slowly—he brings his soaked fingers up to your lips, sticky and dripping. “Open,” he says, voice lower than before.
You hesitate, dazed.
He taps your lip. “Be a good girl.”
And you obey.
He pushes his fingers into your mouth—your own taste coating your tongue, salty and slick, messy from your orgasm. He groans when your lips wrap around them, when your tongue swirls over his knuckles like you’ve gone cockdrunk off his hand.
“Fuck… you look so pretty like this. Sucking my fingers after I made you squirt all over my face.”
You whimper around them, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes as your hips twitch again—like your body doesn’t even know how to stop reacting to him.
He leans closer, kissing your cheek tenderly.
Then he licks a stripe up the side of your face, whispering right against your ear—
“Bet you’ll let me do it again, won’t you? Make you squirt a third time just so I can drink it this time.”
You’re panting.
Barely conscious. Barely alive. Your thighs are soaked, your voice is hoarse, your brain’s not even stringing full thoughts together—just babbling nonsense through tear-lined lashes.
But then his hands are on your hips.
“C’mere,” he whispers.
You blink slowly, dazed. “Wha—?”
He pulls you up—gentle but firm—guiding your thighs toward his face. “Up here, baby. Come sit on it.”
You let out a strangled whimper. “I-I can’t—Hwa—too much, I’m gonna break—”
“You’re not gonna break,” he says with a dark little smile. “You’re gonna ride. Now come up here and fuck my face like the needy little brat you are.”
Your cunt pulses just from those words.
So you do. Wobbly and wet, you crawl forward and straddle his face, thighs shaking on either side of his head. He doesn’t wait—not even a second. Just drags his tongue up your slit with a deep, needy groan that vibrates straight into your core.
“Oh my god—” you cry, your hands flying to the headboard as your hips jerk forward. “Hwa—Hwa, fuck—!”
He moans into you, hands gripping your ass tight, pulling you down harder against his face. There’s no space to breathe. No air between you. Just your soaked cunt grinding against his tongue and the obscene wet noises of him slurping you up like he’s trying to drink every drop.
Your hips move on their own. Grinding, rocking, chasing that sharp edge again even though you’re already so far gone. His tongue flicks against your clit, fast and filthy, while he fucks two fingers back inside you from below—curling, pumping—
Then he spits.
Right onto your clit again, mid-lick.
You scream. No build-up. Just full-body twitching, a gush of slick releasing again, pouring onto his mouth as you squirt across his chin and neck.
But he doesn’t stop.
If anything, he groans like it’s better than heaven, like your squirt is feeding him. He’s drenched. It’s dripping down his throat, into his hair, his lashes soaked with it—but his tongue stays relentless, licking and sucking like you’re his only purpose.
You’re sobbing, whimpering, brain-fucked into a spiral. “I-I can’t—s’too much—f-fuck I’m gonna—Hwa—please—”
He pulls back just for a second, spit-slick lips glistening, eyes dark and wild.
“Don’t you dare stop moving,” he rasps, voice hoarse from moaning into your pussy. “You ride me like you want it. Wanna feel you cum again on my tongue, baby. Wanna drown in it.”
You whine like you’ve lost control of your entire body.
But you move.
You grind harder, faster—facefucking him, completely shameless now, your hips bouncing with wet, sloppy sounds as his tongue fucks up into you, fingers curling, his mouth messy and hungry—
Until you break.
You cum again.
Harder than before. Screaming his name, sobbing, gasping for air as your vision blacks out for a second from the intensity. Your squirt gushes down over his face, and he lets it, mouth open, drinking what he can while the rest drips down his cheeks and into the pillows.
When you finally collapse forward, trembling and crying, he’s panting under you — lips red and swollen, hair soaked with your slick.
“Fuck…” he whispers, kissing the inside of your thigh softly. “You’re so fucking perfect when you cum like that. So messy. So ruined. My beautiful little slut.”
Your whole body’s still twitching — but instead of flopping down beside him, you crawl lower.
Right over his chest.
Seonghwa watches you with a lazy, soaked smirk. His hair is sticking to his forehead, his entire face glistening with your cum, lips swollen from your pussy, but still — he watches like he knows you’re not finished.
He’s sprawled on the bed, shirt half open, abs flexing beneath you with every breath. And your slick? Still dripping.
“What are you doing now, hm?” he asks, voice low and gravelly.
You don’t answer — not with words. Just sink your hips down and grind your messy cunt along the ridges of his abs. Soaking him. Leaving sticky, shiny trails over his skin with every little rock of your hips.
He hisses.
“Fucking hell…”
You whimper on purpose. Soft, bratty. “You’re so… hard, baby,” you murmur, grinding again — letting your puffy folds press right against the line of muscle below his ribs. “S-so strong… feels so good under me…”
His jaw clenches.
“Are you trying to break me?” he growls. “Is that it? You wanna tease me until I lose it?”
You giggle breathlessly, leaning forward to kiss the corner of his mouth — sweetly, innocently — while your hips roll again. “You can take it, right? Big boy?”
And that’s it.
With one swift, rough move, he grabs your hips and flips you onto your back, pinning you with his weight. His cock slaps against your inner thigh — flushed, thick, leaking, angry from being ignored for too long.
“I spoil you too fucking much,” he mutters, lining himself up at your entrance, guiding the thick head through your soaked folds. “Now look what you did to me. Look what you made me.”
You whimper, legs wrapping around his waist, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“You wanted cock so bad?” he growls, voice breaking as he pushes in, thick head stretching you open inch by inch. “Fucking take it, baby.”
You scream — back arching as he fills you. He’s big. Heavy. And he goes in deep without stopping, until you’re gasping, whimpering, clinging to him like you might lose your mind.
“God, you’re so tight…” he groans, hips snapping once just to feel you spasm around him. “So fucking wet. You like teasing me just to get ruined, huh? You like making me fuck you stupid?”
You nod. Fast. Dumb. Crying. “Yes—yes, please—ruin me—need it so bad, baby—”
He fucks you hard.
Deep, full thrusts that knock the air out of your lungs. His cock kisses your cervix with every push, making your mouth fall open, your brain turn to soup. Your nails scratch down his back. You’re moaning so loud now, wet noises echoing between you both, slick coating your thighs, his cock, the sheets.
“Such a messy little brat,” he pants, staring down at the way your tits bounce with every thrust. “You ride my face, grind on my abs, and then look at me like you’re innocent.”
You cry out again when he angles his hips just right—rubbing your g-spot with every stroke.
“Cum again,” he growls, leaning close, biting your bottom lip. “Squirt all over my cock, baby. Wanna feel you soak me. Be a good girl and fuckin’ let go.”
And just like that — it hits.
You convulse under him, nails clawing his shoulders, legs wrapped tight as you squirt again — all over his cock, your body wracked with trembles as the orgasm rips through you. He moans loud as you gush around him, then fucks you through it, greedy, obsessive.
“Fucking mine,” he breathes. “All mine. Look how dumb you get on my dick. So fucking pretty…”
You barely hear him.
Your body’s limp. Eyes glassy. Brain fuzzy with pleasure.
And Seonghwa just slows his thrusts, cups your face gently, kissing your cheeks as his cock pulses inside you. “Shh… I got you, baby. Gonna cum deep inside this perfect pussy now. You want it, don’t you? Wanna be filled up?”
You nod like you’re drunk on him.
“Good girl,” he whispers, hips rolling one last time as he buries himself, groaning your name like a prayer while he spills inside you.
You don’t even remember how your legs untangle.
One second, you're flat on your back, twitching and crying through your orgasm with his cum dripping out of you—
The next, you're being scooped into warm arms.
Seonghwa presses gentle kisses across your collarbone as he lifts you, bridal-style, ignoring how soaked both your thighs are, how his cock’s still half-hard and messy between you.
“You okay, baby?” he murmurs, voice soft, thumb brushing your cheek. “Still with me?”
You nod—barely.
More like a sleepy nuzzle into his chest.
He chuckles quietly, carrying you across the room, carefully laying you on fresh sheets. Then, he disappears for just a moment—
And comes back with a cold bottle of water.
“Drink,” he says, crouching down beside the bed. His fingers guide the rim of the bottle to your lips, slow and careful. “You squirted like a fountain, princess. Gotta refill you.”
You whimper softly, but sip.
The cold water hits your throat like heaven. You gulp it down greedily, and he smiles like he’s proud—like watching you drink is the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.
“That’s my good girl,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead between sips. “Such a mess. You’re all sticky, baby… all over me. Look.”
He pulls back slightly and shows you: his abs, still glistening with the trail you left when you grinded on him. His mouth? Still shiny from when you sat on his face. The smirk on his lips? Deadly.
You cover your face with both hands, whining through your fingers.
“Nuh-uh,” he says sweetly, pulling your hands down. “Don’t hide. You’re beautiful like this.”
His voice drops to a tender murmur, and he leans down to kiss your thighs—one, then the other—slow, almost reverent. “You did so well for me. Let me clean you up, okay?”
You nod, still glassy-eyed, still overwhelmed.
He wipes between your thighs with a warm, wet cloth, so gently it almost makes you cry again. Every little touch is patient, delicate — like he’s handling something precious. He kisses your knees, massages your hips, brushes damp hair away from your temples.
“I didn’t mean to fuck you that dumb,” he murmurs, chuckling under his breath. “But you were teasing me so much, baby. What was I supposed to do?”
You let out a hoarse giggle. Barely audible. But your smile is soft, satisfied.
When he finally crawls into bed with you, he pulls the blanket up over your legs, snuggles in behind you, and curls an arm around your waist, his chest pressed to your back.
“Tomorrow,” he whispers into your ear, “you’re not allowed to walk. I’m carrying you everywhere.”
You hum, sleepy.
He kisses your shoulder.
“…And maybe next time,” he adds with a grin, “you ride my face and my cock in the same session. For science.”
You groan into the pillow.
He laughs.
And pulls you closer like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
a/n: is this my comeback? maybe idk,,, this came to me at 8 am when talking to @jaylaxies my beloved. idk why am I nervous but also excited. please enjoy, reblog and give feedbacks 😚🥹
wc: a bit over 2k.
cw: bff! jake. oral f! receiving, jake calling himself jakey, convincing reader to let him eat her out, kind of manipulating jake? use of the word pussy, cunt and cunnie. a lot.
the way jake is looking at you right now makes you feel like you’ve just admitted to never seeing the sun. his head is tilted, a slow incredulous smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he leans back against your headboard. he doesn’t say anything at first, just lets the silence stretch until your skin starts to prickle with a sudden misplaced sense of shame.
"ever?" he finally repeats, the word dropping like a heavy weight. his voice is low, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "not even once, princess? you’re really telling me no one has ever put their face between those pretty thighs?"
"it’s not a big deal, jake," you mutter, looking everywhere but at him as you pick at a loose thread on your duvet. your face is burning, the heat creeping up your neck. "i just… it’s never come up. i’ve been fine without it."
he doesn’t let it go. he’s already moving, crawling across the mattress with a predatory sort of grace. he crowds into your personal space, his presence suddenly overwhelming. "fine? 'fine' is for a mediocre meal or a boring movie. 'fine' isn't what you're supposed to be feeling when someone should be worshiping you," he leans down to nudge his nose along your covered slit, inhaling the scent of your dampening heat. "...worshipping this perfect perfect cunt."
he reaches out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw to force your gaze back to his. "such a pity...," he whispers, sounding genuinely sympathetic. "everyone else is out here getting ruined, feeling the slow fuck of a warm wet tongue.., experiencing what it’s like to actually lose their mind because its hitting just the right spot, and you’re just… sitting here... left out? don't you feel like you're missing the best part of being alive?"
"i mean, i guess when you put it like that..." you trail off, your breath hitching. his hand slides down to your knee, slowly inching your legs apart. you know that you should probably move, but you feel paralyzed by the way he’s looking at you. "jakey, what are you doing?"
"shh princess, i'm just helping you realize how deprived you are," he murmurs, his eyes darkening as he ignores your half-hearted protest. "i bet you don't even know how sensitive you are down there,, bet you have no idea how much of a mess you'd make if someone who actually knew what they were doing decided to take care of you"
he gazes up at you, eyes still holding that pitying gaze. how ironic that the man you claim to know and can read like the back of your hand — like an open book– you fail to notice how those usually soft warm eyes are dark, pupils dilated with a raw hunger.
"you deserve to know, don't you? it’s almost a crime to keep such a sweet little pussy like yours waiting this long... you have a pretty pussy, don't you princess?"
"i... i don't know," you stammer, your head spinning from his cologne and the low vibration of his voice. you feel small, caught in the loop of him telling you how much you've been missing– how much your poor pretty pussy has been missing. "is it really that different?"
"it's everything," he says, his tone shifting into something far filthier. before you can process the shift, he’s hooking his arms under your knees, dragging you toward the edge of the bed. your heart hammers against your ribs, but your body feels heavy and compliant.
"jake, wait—" you start, but the words die in your throat as he drops to his knees on the floor, settling right between your spread legs.
he looks up at you from below, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "what kind of person will I be if I deprive my sweet girl of this? just relax for your best friend, okay? I'm just gonna show you what everyone's been raving about... that's it baby. let jakey see that pretty pussy. promise it'll feel so good"
"jake, please..." you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets as you look down at him.
"god, look at you...look at this perfect pussy. i'm gonna make you regret every second you spent without my mouth on you."
his hands are heavy on your inner thighs, his knuckles dragging slowly upward until they’re brushing against the very edge of your panties. you let out a shaky breath, your hips involuntarily lifting off the mattress as you look down at him.
"jake, i—"
"i'm gonna eat you so good you'll forget your own name, princess. gonna lick every inch of this pretty little cunnie until you’re begging me to never stop,, you have no idea how loud you’re about to scream for me"
he doesn’t go straight for the center. instead, he uses the flat of his finger pads to trace the outer seams of your underwear, circling closer and closer until he’s pressing firmly against your clit through the thin fabric. you let out a sharp, surprised moan, your head hitting the pillow behind you.
"look at that," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on the way you're reacting. "one touch and you’re already trembling. you’ve really been missing out on this, haven’t you? all that wasted time."
he hooks two fingers into the waistband, tugging the silk aside to expose you fully to the cool air and his hungry gaze. he doesn't use his tongue yet; instead, he curls his hand into a loose fist and uses his smooth knuckles to rub slow, agonizing circles over your sensitive nub. the pressure is blunt and intense, making your toes curl and your breath hitch in broken stutters.
"jake, please, it's—it's too much," you gasp, your hands flying down to grip his wrists, but he doesn't budge.
"nuh uh... it's not enough," he corrects you, a dark, playful glint in his eyes. "i'm barely even started with you. you’re so sensitive, princess. i bet if i just keep doing this, you’ll be soaking my hand in no time."
he increases the pressure, his knuckles rolling over you with a rhythm that makes your vision go blurry. just as you think you might snap, he leans forward and replaces the friction with the sudden, searing heat of his tongue. the first long, wet stroke from your bottom to your top makes you scream his name, your back arching off the bed.
"there she is," he chuckles against your skin, the vibration sent straight through your nervous system. he starts to lap at you with broad, greedy strokes, his tongue flat and firm. "god, you taste so much better than i even imagined. and you're so wet for me already. did you know you were gonna be this much of a mess the second your best friend put his mouth on you?"
he starts to get more intricate, using the tip of his tongue to flick rapidly against your clit while his finger pads spread your folds wide, exposing every sensitive inch to his teasing. he’s relentless, swirling his tongue around the opening of your cunt before darting it inside just a little, then retreating to focus on your peak again.
"you like that, don't you?" he murmurs, pulling back just an inch to see your wrecked expression. "little cunt twitching against my lips... you’re doing so good for your first time, princess. but i want to see you completely come apart. i want to feel you pulsing against my tongue while i'm buried in you."
his voice contimues to vibrate against your skin with every squeeze of your thighs around his head, as he looks up at your wrecked expression. "you’ve been walking around this whole time not knowing you could feel like this. It’s a fucking tragedy, princess."
he doesn't give you a second to recover, leaning back in, his hands sliding under your ass to tilt your hips up, offering you to him completely. he starts using his tongue in long, slow, agonizingly wet laps that start at the very bottom and drag all the way up over your clit, flicking the sensitive bud at the end of every stroke.
"jakey, please—I can't—" you sob out, your fingers tangling in his hair, trying to either pull him closer or push him away, you don't even know anymore.
"shh baby.. you can, can't you?," he murmurs, his hot breath ghosting over your drenched skin. "for me hmm? for your jakey? you're gonna take every bit of this. wanna make you feel how much better my mouth is than anything you could've done for yourself..."
he decides to shift his technique, his tongue narrowing into a sharp point as he begins to focus entirely on your clit, swirling around it with dizzying speed. at the same time, he presses the knuckles of his other hand against your opening, rubbing firmly in a way that makes you feel stretched and full even without him being inside you.
"so tight,, so fucking perfect..." he mutters, his words muffled against you. "and you’re dripping for me...god,, look at how much of a mess you’re making on my face, baby. a fucking natural at this, princess"
after wat feels like both hours and seconds somehow, the pressure finally starts to build behind your eyes, a tension in your lower stomach that feels like a cord being pulled tighter and tighter. you’re shaking now, your legs twitching against his shoulders as he relentlessly pursues your peak, adamant on making you not see the stars, but the fucking big bang behind your clenched shut eyes.
"that's it, baby... almost there, want you to feel it.." he encourages, his voice dropping into a filthy, demanding tone. "i can feel your pulse right here on my tongue... my sweet sweet girl about to cum on her best friend's face,, such a dirty baby for me, for her jakey..."
"I want to—please, jakey.. wanna cum,!" you scream, your voice breaking as the first wave of heat crashes over you.
he lets out a dark triumphant hum and sucks your clit into his mouth, his tongue swirling frantically while his knuckles press hard into your entrance. the world explodes into white light. your hips jerking violently, muscles clenching around nothing as you sob his name, the orgasm rolling through you in heavy, rhythmic pulses.
"fuck,, just like that, take it," he growls, refusing to pull away, his tongue continuing to tease you through the aftershocks until you’re practically limp. "that’s exactly how you’re supposed to look for me... my dirty girl"
the peak of your orgasm begins to settle into a heavy, throbbing ache, but jake doesn't pull away. he keeps his face buried right there, his breath hot against your soaking wet skin as you try to catch your breath, your chest heaving.
"look at you," he murmurs, his voice muffled by your thighs. "all sensitive and shaking. You didn't even know you could make a mess like this, did you?"
before you can even stammer out a response, you feel the soft, fluttering sensation of his tongue again. this time, it’s not the demanding, rhythmic pressure from before,, slow, shallow kitten licks—short, dainty strokes that barely graze the surface of your swollen clit and the sensitive folds, fluttering at the slightest of touch.
"jake... stop, it’s too much," you gasp, your hips instinctively trying to twitch away from the overstimulation. the sensation is so light it's almost agonizing, making your nerves scream in a way that’s entirely different from the initial climax.
"i'm just cleaning you up, princess," he chuckles, his hands tightening their grip on your ass to keep you pinned right where he wants you. "you’re so sensitive now, aren't you?"
he continues the teasing licks, moving up and down the length of your slit, occasionally pausing to press soft, lingering kisses against the hood of your clit. the contrast between the wet, rough texture of his tongue and the soft pressure of his lips is driving you insane. he’s worshipping you, his mouth moving with a terrifyingly gentle precision that makes you feel even more exposed than when he was being rough.
"you taste like you were made for me, baby.. made for your precious jakey," he whispers against your skin, lips dragging over your folds. he blows a puff of cool air over the wetness, making you cry out and arch your back. "does that feel good? having your best friend kiss every inch of this pretty little cunt?
he hums, the vibration rattling through your bones as he nuzzles his face into you, inhaling your scent deeply. "gonna spend the rest of the night making sure you never forget what this feels like. got so much more to show my girl."
─── we can uh-uh in it, while you drive it real far ⋆˚꩜｡
OR where you hooked up with the top f1 driver without knowing it.
pairing: f1 driver!jay x f!reader
content + warnings: one night stand, smut, porn with plot, not proofread, car sex, just... filth, unprotexted p in v (wrap it before you tap it!), fingering, he picks up the phone in the middle of sex (gulp), oral (m receiving), cum eating, he's a head pusher, riding, a little bit of choking, just overall messy - lmk if i missed anything!
word count: 2.2k / 2,236
bea speaks! i HAD to write a short smut for this photo of jay like cleanup on aisle MY PANTS
🏁 ˚.ೃ࿔*:･
YOUR FRIENDS ARE SCREAMING OVER THE MUSIC, waving their drinks like trophies in celebration at the fact that you finally broke up with your boyfriend.
You laugh, tossing your hair back and letting the energy wash over the sting of the past few weeks. Freedom has never felt this intoxicating.
You settle at the bar, balacing a highball on one hand while scrolling through your phone with the other.
That's when you notice him.
Not like him, like your ex.
Him.
He leans against the far end of the bar, scanning the crowd like he owns the place, drink in hand, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Your chest skips when you realize he was looking back at you. The subtle tilt of his head, that flicker of amusement in his eyes. He already knows the game you're about to play.
"You come here often?" he calls over the bass of the music as he strides toward you.
You roll your eyes, smirking before you can even stop yourself. "No. But freedom tastes better than I thought."
"Getting over someone?" he asks, voice low enough that it only reaches you. "Or are you just celebrating that you finally realized you're better than them?"
You blink, caught off guard. "Careful, you're dangerously close to giving me a complex."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. "Complexes are my specialty."
Your fingers curl around your drink. "I'll keep that in mind."
He leans on the bar beside you now, a smirk still plastered across his face. The way his proximity makes your pulse spike is infuriating. You’re supposed to be unattached, untouchable, free. And yet here he is, making it impossible.
“You always this… trouble?” he teases, eyes dark, scanning you like he’s memorizing every curve, every reaction.
“Maybe I just like to test limits,” you reply, tilting your head back slightly, meeting his gaze with equal fire.
His smirk grows. “Limits, huh? I think we could… uh… push them together.”
You choke back a laugh, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. Dangerous, thrilling, stupid heat. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he says, leaning closer, voice low and intimate, barely over the music. “I think we could make things… interesting.”
Your heart thuds. The air between you feels suddenly tighter, charged. And even though part of your brain screams don’t do it, the rest of you leans in.
“Interesting how?” you ask, trying to sound casual but failing.
He smirks, one eyebrow raised. “Follow me. I’ll show you.”
Before you can process, he’s holding out his hand. Your pulse hammers in your ears. The crowd, the lights, the bass—all fade into background noise as your mind screams, what the hell am I doing?
He guides you out of the club, the night air hitting your damp skin like a shock. You blink against the streetlights, and that’s when you see it: a Lamborghini.
A sleek, gleaming, impossible sports car idling at the curb, headlights cutting through the dark like it’s alive. Your jaw drops.
“Oh my god…” you whisper, heart racing.
He leans casually against it, like it’s just another accessory, like this is all perfectly normal. “Get in,” he says, hand extended.
You hesitate, half in awe, half in disbelief. “Wait… is this… yours?”
He tilts his head, smirk widening. “Maybe. What’s it to you?”
Your brain freezes, but you slide in anyway when he opens the door. When you settle in, he drives off a bit to the end of the parking lot where it was empty. Every time you looked over at him, you could feel the space between your legs get hot.
You glance over, eyes wide, pulse hammering. “You… you could literally ruin me in this car, you know that?”
He leans closer, voice low and teasing. “Oh, I know. And I plan to.”
Giving you no time to react, his lips are immediately on yours as his hand cups your face. His lips are soft and insistent against yours. When you let out a small whimper, his hand tangles in your hair and pulls your head back slightly.
The leather seats smell new and expensive, mixing with his cologne that makes your head spin.
"Fuck, you're hot."
He pulls you back in again, kissing you deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours. Your hands end up on his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath his silk button-up.
He shifts in the driver seat, pulling you onto his lap without breaking the kiss. You're straddling him now, the leather seat creaking softly as you grind against him.
One of his hands slide up your thigh and under your dress, fingers pressing into your warm skin.
"You trying to kill me?" he murmurs against your lips, breath hot. "Keep grinding like that."
You roll your hips instinctively, and he groans low in his throat. His grips tightens on your thighs, guiding your movement as his hand grips the base of your neck.
"Tell me your name," he breathes between kisses, teeth grazing your bottom lip. "Wanna know who I'm fucking in my Lambo."
You almost let out a moan, but held yourself together.
"You first," you whisper, pressing your forehead against his. His eyes are dark, jaw tightening.
"Jay." His thumb traces your jawline slowly. "Now yours."
His hips buck up against yours once, testing, nd you feel he's already hard beneath you. You moan your name against him, eyes fluttering closed as he starts kissing down your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse point. His hands roam your body possessively, one squeezing your ass when he completely slides your dress up to hike at your stomach.
Jay's teeth sink into your collarbone and you gasp. "Pretty name for a pretty girl."
He continues to kiss down your chest as his fingers run along the hem of your panties. He pulls it back just enough to snap it back.
You start to unbutton his shirt, eager to feel his toned chest with your bare hands. His fingers work quickly to unhook your bra and push the straps down your shoulders. He pauses, taking a moment to admire you before his mouth latches onto your nipple, sucking and biting gently. His hands grip your hips tightly as he rocks his hard length against you through his tight trousers.
"Jay, don't tease," you whimper, tangling your fingers through his hair as he continues to suck on your nipple, biting down harder when you grind a little too hard.
"Impatient, aren't you?" His voice is rough as he pulls back, eyes dark with lust. He pushes your thighs further apart with his, hands slipping between them to touch you through your soaked panties. You gasp when he lightly presses on your clothed clit.
"Fuck, you're already this wet?"
You nod, already submissive under his touch. His fingers slide beneath your panties, sliding them through your folds to lather your wetness. He lets out a quiet groan before pushing two fingers into you without warning.
His phone buzzes on the dashboard, but you hold his hand in place, keeping him there. "Don't."
He gives you a sly smirk, picking up his phone and answering it as his fingers continue to plow through you. You gasp quietly, hands flying up to cover your mouth.
"Hello?"
While you continue to grind on his fingers as he curls them, he gives you a slight smirk, loving how much you're enjoying this.
"Oh, don't worry. I'm just chilling in my car. Needed a break from the loud club," he chuckles darkly, keeping eye contact with you.
Your hips twitch as he starts picking up the pace, his thumb rubbing your clit, adding onto the pleasure.
"Yeah... no, dude. I just wanted some space alone," he continues on the phone. A quiet moan escapes your lips, causing Jay to stop. You whimper at the loss of movement, grinding your hips hard against his fingers, almost bouncing yourself up and down.
Jay continues pumping his fingers into you, curling his fingers just slow enough to get you drooling.
"Okay, I gotta go now. Bye."
His thumb presses hard on your clit as he throws his phone to the side, his lips moving to your ear, licking it with precision. You let out a whine, your thighs squeezing around his wrist as your orgasm crashes into you. He catches your mouth with his, fingers still slowly pumping inside of you as you clench around him.
He pulls out his fingers and the wet sound is embarrassingly loud. He holds up his glistening hand, smirking as you watch him bring it to his lips. He licks his fingers clean without breaking eye contact, the gesture filthy.
"My turn now," you whisper, hands flying towards his belt, but he catches you in a kiss again so you can taste yourself on his tongue. A moment passes, then you climb back over to the passenger seat. You lean over, unbuckling his belt as his cock springs free. He leans his head back against the headrest to watch you play with him.
He lets out a low groan when you gently touch his cock, his hands reaching over to roam your back. You start stroking him slowly, squeezing gently every time his hips jerk. He watches you through hooded eyes, jaw tight.
When your mouth wraps around him, his hand fists your hair and pushes you down a little deeper. His back arches off the seat, thighs tensing under you.
You pull back slightly and give his tip a few kitten licks before going down again, feeling him in the back of your throat. The thought of you taking him so well made him instinctively buck his hips, thrusting into your mouth gently.
"You take me so well, baby," he moans, hand gripping tighter around your hair. His voice is strained as you continue to suck him off, but then he stops you, pulling your head back.
"Need to be inside you."
His eyes were blown, watching the string of saliva connect from his red, mushroom tip to your glistening lips. You look up at him through your wet lashes, and he felt himself cum a little to the view.
He wraps his hands around your hips and pulls you back over to straddle him again. His cock is hard and leaking against your stomach as he gently kneads your boobs, latching onto your nipple. You grab his hard length, sliding it through your wet folds, teasing him before positioning him at your entrance.
You both look down as you watch his cock slowly disappear into you, the slick sounds of your juices echoing too loudly. His hands find your hips, pushing you down onto him roughly. A loud moan escapes from between your lips as you hold onto his shoulder as an anchor.
You gasp as he starts to thrust up into you, hips slamming against yours. His free hand comes to cup around your neck, bringing you in for another rough kiss, tongue immediately intruding your mouth.
"You always do this?" you pull away just enough to ask.
He doesn't answer. He just pulls your knees up so your feet are flat on the seat, the angle making him hit deeper inside you.
"Don't get to do this much."
He kisses your mouth hungrily, biting your lip hard as he continues to fucks into you relentlessly.
"I'm so close," you moan out as he starts thrusting erratically. His hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back to leave hot kisses on your neck. When he bites on your neck, the knot in your stomach tightens, your vision turning white. He loses control at your loud moan, hips snapping up brutally as he comes deep inside of you with a groan.
"Holy fuck," he breathes out as his dick twitches, continuing to leak inside of you. He pulls you in for one last kiss as he helps you off of his dick, watching his thick cream drip out of you and soaking the seat.
The next day, you're sitting in the car with your friend Minjeong as you made your way to the F1 tournament. Having sex with Jay yesterday still engraved your mind, and you couldn't stop thinking about how he fucked you until you were sore.
Literally, Minjeong asked if you twisted an ankle at the club last night.
When you arrive at the F1 circuit, you follow your friend inside, not really caring for the event. You more-so came because she needed a plus-one since another friend bailed today.
She immediately drags you to the paddock entrance where fans were already crowding behind the barriers, waiting for the drivers to arrive. Luckily, you were able to find a spot right behind the bars on the side.
Minutes passed and finally all the drivers were walking out. Even though you didn't necessarily like F1, just the adrenaline of knowing you were able to say hi to some of them made you happy.
When the last driver walked out, the crowd got louder—if that was even possible—and you turn your head to look.
Jay.
He walks out, smiling and waving at the crowd when he locks eyes with yours. It lasted longer than a few seconds, but you knew he was thinking about last night too.
Minjeong turned to you, grabbing your arm and shaking you as she screams.
Jake begged for you to go on a plane ride with him as the co-pilot. You bring your 3 year old daughter who does a great job at keeping your flight anxieties at bay, despite this being her first time on a plane.
pairing: pilot dad!jake x mom fem!reader
genre: married au, fluff, angst-ish
warnings: mentions of throwing up, flight/plane anxiety, fluff, think this is it!
a/n: if anyone reads this, I hope it can make you feel at least a bit better given the situations with enha rn. enhypen is 7.
Marry a pilot they said, it’ll be fun, they said. Jake had booked a trip to Australia for your third wedding anniversary. At first, he was going to plan something small–a simple gathering for family and friends to be invited to, but when he was informed that he was listed to fly a plane to Australia, coincidentally a few days before your anniversary, he begged you to fly on his plane instead.
“It won’t be that bad, baby. I’ll be flying the plane along with an awesome crew, doesn’t that make you feel at least a bit better?” He had told you, yet, you were still hesitant.
Your fear of flying planes wasn't new. When you were a child you would scream, cry, or even throw up. You haven’t been on a plane since you were twelve.
You had met Jake through your older brother. They were both in an Aerospace Academy and he immediately introduced Jake to your family.
Much to your surprise, the both of you hit it off immediately. You were known to be quite shy and timid around new people, but Jake made conversations feel like you didn’t need to prove something or impress–all you had to do was be in the moment.
Currently, you’re sitting in the bedroom on the brand new fluffy rug your mother bought for you, headphones covering your ears, and you’re glaring at the suitcase that lays open in front of you.
You should have finished packing by now, but each time you pick up an item to pack, you’re welcomed by a wave of anxiety.
You see movement in the corner of your eye–looking to your right you find your daughter scooting towards you from her toys.
You give her a small, yet nervous smile. “Mommy’s a little nervous, I hope you’re braver than I am.” Picking her up once she gets close enough, you sit her in your lap towards you.
She looks up at you with big, gorgeous puppy eyes that always reminds you of Jake. Everything about her is a spitting copy of her father. She has his energetic personality, his kindness, and his manners.
Your daughter may be only three, but she is very smart for her age. She plays well with other kids and is always so willing to share one of her toys and comfort others.
One time, you and Jake were watching a movie about a dog finding its way back home, you had
shed a few tears and your daughter–who sat next to you, perked up at the sound of your sniffles and climbed on your lap, burying her face into your chest in an attempt to hug your tears away.
For a child so young, she is very emotionally intelligent. You’re so thankful of the person she’s grown into so far.
She giggles as you kiss her forehead before taking your headphones off–as you do so, you see Jake walk into the room. He’s wearing a black hoodie and grey sweatpants. He sighs, noticing that you’ve still not packed your suitcase yet.
The flight wasn’t until later tonight, but with Jake being one of the pilots, he’s required to be at the airport early to prepare for the flight, which means you have to be there early too.
He crouches down in front of your suitcase and points at the emptiness of it–watching as you hide your face behind your daughter.
He shakes his head in amusement. “I thought we talked about this. The deal was that I get the car ready and you’d pack Princess’ things along with your own,” he reminds.
You play with the strands of your daughter’s hair, meeting his eyes nervously. “I’m just,” you pause, holding on to your daughter tighter. “Not sure what’s going to happen if I step on that plane.” Anxiety takes over your last sentence, Jake’s eyes soften and he moves the suitcase in front of you to get closer.
Of course Jake knows about your fear of planes, every time you see one in the sky you look at it in fear of it falling. He also knows about your past experiences on board, which is why he wants this flight to go as smoothly as possible for you and your daughter.
He places his hands on your knees as his eyes meet your nervous ones.
“The only thing that’s going to happen is that you’ll hear me talk about some safety precautions. I promise that I’ll do everything in my power to keep you both safe, you know that baby,” he explains.
You sigh shakily, nodding to his words.
“I know you’re scared, but I’m really happy that I get to have you two on my flight,” he softly ruffles your daughter’s hair, chuckling when she giggles and swats his hand away. “Everything will be okay,” he promises.
Jake begins helping you pack, every few minutes he reassures you or explains how planes work to keep you calm.
Him talking you through your anxious thoughts started to work–until you got to the airport.
------
Jake parted ways with you to complete his security screening process as he wasn’t required to go through passenger tsa. Luckily, he had informed you on what to expect from security, so it wasn’t as bad as you had thought it would be.
Jake sends you a text saying that he finished his security check and is going to change into his uniform. You reply with where you’re located and he reacts with a thumbs up emoji.
Taking a deep inhale, you look up from your phone–you didn’t realise how confusing airports could be. The huge and obnoxious space doesn’t necessarily help.
You subconsciously pull your daughter closer to your leg, it seems like she can feel your anxiety begin to rise. Her grip on your hand tightens as she pulls you into a direction where there aren’t many people.
The action would have made you laugh if you weren’t so overwhelmed by your surroundings.
Your daughter brings you to a wall next to the restrooms. She tells you to sit on the floor and you listen.
“Are you okay, mommy?” She asks quietly. You bite your lip in embarrassment. Weren’t you supposed to be the calm one here?
You smile sadly. “I’m just a little scared, baby. That’s all,” you say truthfully, knowing she would be able to see through any of your lies.
She tilts her head to the side in confusion–her eyes widen as she turns her body towards the big windows across the airport.
“Are you scared of planes, mommy?” She points to the planes outside. Of course she figured it out. You wonder if the people walking past you two think you’re just as obvious as you feel.
You nod slowly, watching as she curls up next to you, gently grabbing your hand to put it on her cheek.
To anyone else, it could look like she’s just clingy, tired, or bored. But to you, it’s her telling you that you’re safe.
It’s her own way of speaking without words; a special gesture that gives you the confidence that left you.
You don’t cry–no, not here, not now. But later on the plane, in the bathroom, in Australia–it doesn’t matter. You will remember the way your three year old calmed her mother down like it was just another day.
Giving her a quick kiss on her cheek as you bring yourselves to standing. “I love you, Princess. Thank you for helping me out. That was very brave of you,” you softly run your fingers through her hair as she hugs your stomach.
“Let’s go get on that plane, shall we?” The sentence left your mouth stronger than you thought it ever would. Your daughter gives you a soft smile and holds your hand.
Thanks to her, the walk to your gate number wasn’t dreadful at all. In fact, along the way she kept pointing out the stores and restaurants that she would like to visit with you and Jake one day.
You’re just thankful that she was giving you distractions upon distractions.
—
It’s been fifteen minutes since you boarded the plane. When you entered, the flight attendants gave your daughter a stuffed, pink glittery mouse that looked awfully familiar to the one she has at home.
“The co-pilot wanted us to ensure that the mouse was delivered to the right kiddo,” one of them says. Winking as your daughter gasps excitedly.
“Daddy brought my mouse! I totally forgot her at home!” You smile at her, gently guiding her to walk forward as you quietly thank the woman who handed over her mouse.
You find your seats and get settled in. Neither of you had a carry-on so that made things easier–just two backpacks and a medium sized blanket, which you handed over to your daughter.
“It’s a little chilly, get comfy.” You help her unfold it carefully. By the time you’re done you hear a voice crackle through the overhead speakers–it’s no other than your husband.
“G’day, everyone–or g’night, I should say,” Jake chuckles. “Thank you for flying with us this evening, my name is Jake and I am happy to announce that I will be your co-pilot for tonight.”
Your daughter perks up at the sound of her father. Turning to you, she lightly shakes your arm in excitement.
“Before we go over safety procedures, I’d like to give a quick shout out to two of my favorite people in the world who are joining us. My wife and my daughter are seated in row 7, seats A and B. It’s an absolute honor to fly them to Australia, I love you both.” He finishes. All the passengers are clapping their hands, amused by the announcement.
You blush in embarrassment. Of course Jake would publicly announce something like that.
“I love you too, daddy!” Your daughter stands on her seat as she yells. Everyone around you coos at her and you quickly tug her down to sit. You cover your face in embarrassment–but you couldn’t be any happier.
The fears you had earlier weren’t fully gone, but it was manageable.
You’re incredibly lucky to have an amazing family who loves you so much.
-ˋˏ⚘ genre: neighbors to lovers · single dad au · fluff · angst · smut · found family · slow burn
-ˋˏ⚘ summary: You have lived in apartment 3B for two years. You know your neighbors the way you know background characters — familiar, unremarkable, just part of the scenery. Which is why it’s strange that you’ve never properly noticed the man in 3A. Until 6:58 on a Tuesday morning when someone knocks on your door and you open it to find not him, but her. Small. Round-cheeked. Duck pajamas. Absolutely certain of herself. You fall for his daughter first. Jake is just the complication that comes after. But god, what a complication.
-ˋˏ⚘ word count: 21.1k
-ˋˏ⚘ content warnings: explicit sexual content, penetrative sex, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, praise kink, soft dom/sub undertones, strong language, single parent theme, child abandonment (mother leaving), brief parental guilt, an absent parent reappearing, emotional manipulation attempt, jealousy, mention of custody, legal procedure, alcohol, crying, found family theme, a toddler who will ruin your life in the best way
-ˋˏ⚘ song: You Are The Best Thing by Ray LaMontage
-ˋˏ⚘ authors note: i started this fic because i wanted to write a soft single dad jake but the mia took over everything, she was supposed to be a supporting character but how can i make someone that cute not a main. she picked reader first and she always knew and i think that’s the whole story. jake deserved softness. reader deserved to be chosen. mia deserved a mama who showed up. everyone got what they deserved. if you’re reading this — thank you. comments, reblogs, feedback and likes keep me writing and i am so serious about that. enjoy💛
-ˋˏ⚘ my masterlist
You have lived in Apartment 3B of Wattle Grove Building for two years. You know Mrs. Kim in 1A leaves her recycling out on the wrong day every single week without fail. You know the guy in 2C plays guitar badly but enthusiastically every Sunday morning. You know the building super Danny will fix anything you need as long as you leave a coffee outside your door first.
You know your neighbors the way you know background characters in a movie you’ve seen too many times. Familiar. Unremarkable. Just part of the scenery.
Which is why it’s strange that you’ve never properly noticed the man in 3A. You’ve seen him, obviously. In passing. At the mailboxes. Once in the car park when you were both leaving at the same time and did that awkward thing where you both reached for the door simultaneously and then laughed and said sorry at the same time. He’s tall. Dark hair. Has a nice face in the vague way that you register nice faces without really looking at them.
He moved in about eight months ago. Keeps to himself. Quiet. You’ve never heard a peep through the wall you share, which you appreciate deeply after two years of listening to the previous tenant’s aggressive taste in late night television. You know his name is Jake because it’s on the mailbox.
That’s it. That’s the extent of your knowledge of the man in 3A. Until 6:58 on a Tuesday morning when someone knocks on your door.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You are not a morning person. You are, in fact, the opposite of a morning person. You are someone who sets four alarms and ignores three of them and considers getting out of bed before eight a personal attack. Your first class doesn’t start until ten. You were planning to sleep until at least eight thirty, mainline coffee until nine, and leave with approximately four minutes to spare.
So when someone knocks on your door at 6:58 AM you lie there for a full thirty seconds convincing yourself you imagined it. Then it happens again. Small. Rhythmic. Insistent. knock knock knock
You groan into your pillow. Drag yourself upright. Pull on the hoodie hanging off your desk chair and shuffle to the door, hair catastrophic, eyes barely open, prepared to be deeply unpleasant to whoever is on the other side.
You open the door. There is no one there. You blink. Look left. Look right. The hallway is empty and quiet and— “Hi.”
You look down. There is a child sitting on the floor outside your door. She is approximately three years old, round-cheeked and bright-eyed, wearing a yellow pajama set covered in tiny ducks. Her dark hair is escaping from two lopsided pigtails. She has a serious expression on her face like she has somewhere important to be and is merely pausing here briefly.
She is, without any competition, the most adorable thing you have ever seen in your entire life. You stare at her. She stares back. “Hi,” she says again, very patient, like she’s giving you time to catch up.
“Hi,” you manage. “Um. Who are you?”
She considers this question with great seriousness. “Mia.”
“Okay. Hi Mia.” You look up and down the empty hallway again. “Where did you come from?” She points at the door directly across from yours. 3A. “Are you—” You crouch down to her level. “Did you come out of your apartment by yourself?”
“Mr. Bunny is lost,” she explains, as if this answers everything. And apparently, in her world, it does. She stands up, remarkably steady on her feet for someone so small, and peers past you into your apartment with undisguised curiosity. “Is he in there?”
“Is who— Mr. Bunny? I don’t think so, sweetheart. I haven’t seen any—”
“Can I look?”
“I— well—” She’s already walking past you into your apartment.
You stand in your doorway, blinking slowly, watching a three year old you have never met toddle into your living room and start investigating with the focused energy of a tiny detective. She checks under the coffee table. Behind the couch cushions. She picks up one of your throw pillows, examines it, puts it back. “He’s not here,” she announces, sounding genuinely disappointed.
“I’m sorry.” You’re fully awake now, adrenaline doing what four alarms couldn’t. “Mia, does your dad know where you are?”
She looks at you. Blinks. And then, for the first time, something flickers across her face that isn’t complete confidence. Something small and uncertain. “Daddy’s sleeping,” she says quietly.
Oh no. Oh no.
“Okay,” you say, very carefully, going into full calm adult mode even though internally you are having a minor crisis. “Okay, that’s okay. Let’s go wake daddy up, yeah?”
You take her hand — she gives it to you immediately, tiny fingers wrapping around yours with complete trust, and something in your chest does something weird and unexpected — and you walk her across the hall to 3A.
You knock. Nothing. You knock louder. A crash. Muffled swearing. Footsteps. The door flies open.
Jake Sim, your neighbor from 3A, looks absolutely terrible. He’s in gray sweatpants and no shirt, hair destroyed, eyes wild with the specific panic of a parent who has woken up to find their child missing. There’s a pillow crease down his left cheek. He looks like a man who has just experienced the worst thirty seconds of his life.
He looks down at Mia standing beside you, her hand still in yours, looking up at him with the expression of someone who has done absolutely nothing wrong. The relief that crosses his face is so profound it’s almost painful to witness. “Mia.” His voice comes out wrecked. He drops to his knees right there in the doorway, gathering her up, holding her against his chest. She pats his back tolerantly. “Mia, I— you can’t— how did you—”
“I was looking for Mr. Bunny,” she explains into his shoulder, very reasonable.
“You can’t leave the apartment by yourself, baby, I’ve told you—”
“But Mr. Bunny—”
“I don’t care about Mr. Bunny right now—”
“Daddy.” She pulls back to look at him, deeply offended. “Mr. Bunny cares.”
You press your lips together very hard to keep from smiling. Jake looks up at you over Mia’s head, and he looks so mortified you almost feel sorry for him. Almost. It would be easier to feel sorry for him if he didn’t look — even rumpled and panicked and creased from sleep — really quite unfairly attractive. You file that observation away to examine later, when a child is not present.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m so, so sorry, she’s never done this before, I don’t know how she got the door open—”
“She knocked,” you tell him. “Very politely.”
He closes his eyes briefly. “Oh god.”
“I used my reaching stool,” Mia informs him helpfully. “For the handle.”
“We’re getting rid of the reaching stool,” Jake tells her.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Daddy, no—”
“Mia.” He pulls back to look at her properly, and his voice goes soft but serious. “You scared me. Really scared me, okay? You cannot leave without waking me up first. Ever. Do you understand?”
She looks at him. Her lip wobbles, just slightly. “I just wanted Mr. Bunny.”
“I know, baby.” He pulls her back in, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I know. But you have to wake me up. Promise me.”
“Promise,” she mumbles into his neck.
He holds her for another moment, and you feel like you’re witnessing something private. Something that belongs to them. You take a small step back. “I’ll let you—”
“Wait.” Jake stands, Mia on his hip, and looks at you with an expression that’s somehow equal parts exhausted and sincere. “I really am sorry. And thank you. Genuinely, thank you for— I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if she’d gone downstairs instead of just across the hall.”
“She was perfectly safe,” you say. “She was very focused on her investigation.”
“Mr. Bunny is lost,” Mia reminds both of you gravely.
“We’ll find him,” Jake tells her. Then to you: “I’m Jake, by the way. Since apparently we’ve been neighbors for eight months and I’ve never actually introduced myself, which is—”
“Terrible,” you supply.
“Yeah.” He winces. “Yeah, it really is. I’m sorry about that too.”
“Y/N,” you tell him. “3B.”
“I know. I’ve seen your name on the mailbox.” He shifts Mia on his hip. She has turned to look at you with renewed interest, the Mr. Bunny crisis temporarily suspended. “I kept meaning to knock and introduce myself properly but then time just—”
“It does that,” you agree.
He smiles. It’s a tired smile, still coming down from the panic, but it’s genuine. It does something to his face that you also file away for later. Mia is still staring at you. “You have pretty hair,” she announces.
“Mia—” Jake starts.
“Thank you,” you tell her seriously. “Yours is very pretty too.”
She reaches up and touches one of her lopsided pigtails, considering. “Daddy did it,” she says, with the tone of someone being very diplomatic about a disappointing situation.
You look at Jake. He looks back at you. The pigtails are genuinely quite bad. “I’m working on it,” he says.
“We could—” You stop yourself. You don’t even know this man. You’ve spoken to him for approximately four minutes. “Never mind.”
“No, what?”
“I was just going to say I could show you. If you wanted. It’s not— it’s easy once you know the trick.” You gesture vaguely. “But you probably have things to—”
“I would love that,” Jake says immediately. “Genuinely. Every morning is a disaster. She came home from daycare last week and her teacher had written a note that said ‘we love Mia’s creative hairstyles’ and I’m pretty sure that was a polite way of saying—”
“Daddy can’t do hair,” Mia explains to you, very straightforward.
“I cannot do hair,” Jake confirms.
You laugh. Actually laugh, fully awake now, standing in the hallway at seven in the morning in your old hoodie with your own hair catastrophic, and it surprises you a little. How easy it is. How natural. “Come over tomorrow morning,” you find yourself saying. “Before daycare. I’ll show you a couple of things.”
Jake looks at you like you’ve offered him something much more significant than a hair tutorial. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” You crouch down to Mia’s level. “I hope you find Mr. Bunny.”
She studies you with those serious dark eyes. Then she reaches out and puts her small hand on your cheek, very gentle, the way toddlers sometimes do when they’re deciding something important about you. “You’re nice,” she declares.
“So are you,” you tell her. She nods, satisfied, like this has confirmed something she already suspected.
Then she tucks her face back into Jake’s neck, done with the interaction, and Jake gives you a helpless sort of smile over her head. “Thank you,” he says again. “Really.”
“Anytime.” You stand up and take a step back toward your own door. “And Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe put a chain lock on. Up high. Before tonight.”
He looks at the door. Looks at Mia. Looks back at you with the expression of a man who has just realized how many things there are to think about when you’re doing this alone. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, good call.”
You don’t go back to sleep. You make coffee and sit on your couch and think about the way Mia put her hand on your cheek like she was taking your measure. The way she gave you her hand without hesitating, tiny fingers trusting yours completely.
The way Jake held her when he found her safe. Like she was the most important thing in the world, which she obviously was, which was obvious in every single line of his body.
You think about his apartment, which you caught a glimpse of through the open door. The small pair of shoes by the entrance. The sticker on the light switch at toddler height. The general chaos of someone who is managing, but only just. You think about the note from the daycare teacher and the terrible pigtails and the way he said I’m working on it without a single drop of self pity.
You finish your coffee. Make another one. You have a feeling that next door is going to become a lot more complicated than background noise and a name on a mailbox.
You’re not sure yet if that’s a good thing. But when you close your eyes you can still feel the ghost of small fingers wrapped around yours and you think— yeah. Yeah, you’re probably already in trouble.
Mr. Bunny turns up two days later. He is in the freezer. Neither Jake nor Mia can explain how he got there.
You laugh about it for five minutes straight when Jake texts you, and then you look at your phone and realize you’ve been texting your neighbor for two days like it’s completely normal and you’ve known him for years. You put your phone down. Pick it up again. Type back: at least he’s preserved.
Jake sends back a string of crying laughing emojis and then: Mia wants me to tell you that Mr. Bunny says thank you for looking for him
You smile so hard your face hurts. You are, you realize, completely and utterly done for. And you haven’t even properly met him yet.
The hair tutorial happens on Wednesday morning. You hear them before you see them — Mia’s voice carrying clearly through the wall at seven fifteen, a stream of cheerful commentary about something, Jake’s lower voice responding, the particular domestic chaos of someone trying to get a toddler ready for daycare on a schedule. Then a knock at your door.
You open it to find Jake holding Mia like a football under one arm, a hairbrush in his free hand, and the expression of a man who has already lost this morning’s battle comprehensively.
Mia is upside down and completely unbothered. “Hi,” she says, from her inverted position.
“Hi,” you say. You step back and open the door wider. “Come in.”
They troop inside, Jake setting Mia down on her feet in your living room where she immediately begins a thorough reinvestigation of the space, picking up where she left off two days ago. She examines your bookshelf. Touches the small succulent on your windowsill very gently with one finger. “Plant,” she observes.
“His name is Gerald,” you tell her.
She looks at you. Looks at Gerald. Looks back at you with the gravity of someone receiving important information. “Hi Gerald,” she says politely. Jake makes a sound that might be him trying not to laugh.
“Okay.” You take the hairbrush from him. “Sit her up on the couch and I’ll show you.”
What follows is twenty minutes that you will think about for the rest of the week for reasons you can’t entirely explain.
Mia sits between your knees on the couch, remarkably patient once she’s settled, holding Gerald the succulent in her lap because she asked and you said yes and Jake gave you a look that suggested he has learned to pick his battles. You work through her hair slowly, showing Jake each step — how to section it, how to hold the hair so it doesn’t pull, how to make the pigtails sit even.
He watches with the focused attention of someone who is genuinely trying to learn this. Not just nodding along but asking questions, asking you to slow down, watching your hands. At one point he leans in close to see what you’re doing and you’re very aware of how near he is and the fact that he smells like clean laundry and something warm underneath.
You focus on Mia’s hair. “The trick,” you tell him, “is that you do both sides before you tie either one off. Otherwise the first one pulls when you do the second.”
“That’s what I’ve been doing wrong,” he says. He sounds genuinely relieved, like you’ve solved something that’s been bothering him for months. Which, apparently, you have. “I couldn’t work out why they always went lopsided.”
“They were very lopsided,” Mia agrees pleasantly.
“Thanks, Mia.”
“You’re welcome, Daddy.”
You finish, tying off the second pigtail with the elastic, and smooth a hand over her hair. Perfect and even and neat. She reaches up and touches them carefully. “Pretty?” she asks.
“Very pretty,” you confirm.
She twists to look up at you, satisfied. Then she holds Gerald out. “You can have him back.”
“Thank you for taking care of him.”
“He was scared,” she explains seriously. “He doesn’t know me yet.” She places him very carefully back on the windowsill, patting the pot once. “It’s okay Gerald. I’m nice.”
Jake is watching his daughter with this expression — quiet and soft and a little undone at the edges — and when he catches you looking at him he clears his throat and looks away. Picks up the hairbrush from the cushion beside him. “Right,” he says. “We should get going. Daycare at eight.”
“Nooooo,” Mia says, without any real conviction. She’s already moving toward the door with the pragmatic acceptance of someone who knows the schedule.
“Thank you,” Jake says to you. He means it. You can tell he means it in that way where the words are bigger than they sound. “Seriously. This was—”
“It’s just pigtails.”
“It’s not just—” He stops. Starts again. “She talks about you. Since Tuesday. You’re the pretty lady from across the hall.”
Your face warms. “That’s very generous of her.”
“She’s got good taste.” He says it simply, matter of fact, and then looks slightly like he didn’t mean to say it quite like that. “I mean— she’s a good judge of character. Generally.”
“Y/N,” Mia calls from the doorway where she is putting her shoes on the wrong feet with great confidence.
“Yeah?”
She looks up at you. “Will you be here tomorrow?”
Something squeezes in your chest. “Yeah, I’ll be here.”
She nods, satisfied, like this is settled. Like you have made a commitment and she is holding you to it. Then she holds her foot up at Jake. “Daddy. Shoes.”
Jake crouches down to fix them, and you lean against your doorframe and watch, and you think about what Liv said to you once about knowing when something is going to change your life. How you can feel it sometimes. The specific weight of a moment that’s about to matter.
You feel it now, watching Jake tie his daughter’s shoes in your doorway at seven forty in the morning while she holds your door handle for balance and hums something tuneless to herself. You feel it, and you file it away with everything else, and you tell yourself it’s too early for any of this and you need coffee.
You leave cookies outside 3A that afternoon. You don’t examine why. You made a batch because you were stress baking about an assignment and you made too many and they were just sitting there and Jake mentioned once — in the mailbox, months ago, one of those nothing conversations you’d forgotten until now — that Mia liked anything with chocolate.
You leave them outside the door in a container with a post it note that says for Mia (and you, if you want) and then you go back inside and finish your assignment and don’t think about it.
At nine fifteen that night your phone buzzes: jake 3a: she ate four before I could stop her and is now absolutely feral and won’t sleep. I’m blaming you
You grin at your phone. you: that’s fair
jake 3a: they were really good though like genuinely really good. Did you make them from scratch?
you: yes
jake 3a: of course you did
jake 3a: I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means, that came out weird. I just mean they were better than anything I could make. I’m a terrible baker.
you: how terrible?
jake 3a: I made Mia a birthday cake in August and it came out flat and she cried
you: oh no
jake 3a: not because of the cake. She thought it was funny. She cried laughing. It was actually one of the best moments of my life which probably tells you everything about my standards right now
You’re smiling at your phone like an idiot. you: I’ll make the cake next time. You send it before you’ve fully decided to, and then stare at it. It’s October. You’ve just committed to being in this man’s life until at least next August.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. jake 3a: you really don’t have to
you: I want to. she told Gerald not to be scared because she was nice. I feel like she deserves a good birthday cake.
jake 3a: yeah she really does
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
The drawing appears under your door on Thursday morning. You almost step on it when you come out of your bedroom, a folded piece of paper on your doormat. You pick it up and unfold it and find a crayon drawing — several figures of varying heights and proportions, all labeled in Jake’s handwriting because Mia clearly directed and he transcribed.
Mia. Daddy. Gerald. Mr Bunny. And then, on the end, slightly larger than the others, with yellow crayon hair: Y/N. She’s drawn you into her family portrait.
You stand in your kitchen holding a crayon drawing with yellow-haired you standing next to a rectangle that is apparently Gerald and you feel something crack open in your chest so softly and so completely that you have to sit down.
You take a photo of it. You put the original on your fridge. You text Jake a photo of it on the fridge and he doesn’t respond for ten minutes and when he does it just says: jake 3a: she worked on it for an hour last night
jake 3a: kept starting over because she wanted to get your hair right
You stare at that message for a long time. you: tell her I love it
jake 3a: she’s going to lose her mind. also she asked if you want to come to the park with us Saturday
Three dots. Then: jake 3a: I want that too, for what it’s worth. If you’re free.
You look at the drawing on your fridge. Yellow-haired you, standing in a row with Mia and Daddy and Gerald and Mr. Bunny like you’ve always been there. you: I’m free Saturday
Saturday at the park is easy in a way that surprises you. You’d half expected it to be awkward — the three of you, still essentially strangers, trying to fill silence in an open space. But Mia eliminates the possibility of silence entirely. She has opinions about the swings (good), the slide (excellent, requires multiple repetitions), and the ducks by the small pond at the park’s edge (deeply suspicious, do not approach).
“They’re just ducks,” Jake tells her.
“They’re watching,” she says.
“They’re not watching.”
“Daddy.” She gives him a very patient look. “They are watching.”
Jake looks at you. You shrug. “They do look pretty focused,” you offer.
He points at you. “Don’t encourage her.”
Mia takes your hand and pulls you toward the swings, away from the ducks and away from Jake’s protests, and you go because she’s three and determined and her hand is in yours and you’ve decided that’s reason enough for basically anything at this point.
You push her on the swings while Jake sits on the bench nearby, and you watch him watching the two of you. He has his elbows on his knees and his face is open in a way you’re starting to learn is rare for him — in a crowd or with strangers he goes carefully neutral, pleasant but contained. But here, watching Mia go higher and higher and shriek with delight, he looks unguarded. Younger, somehow. Like something in him relaxes when it’s just the three of you. “Higher!” Mia demands.
“You’re already very high,” you tell her.
“Higher.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Please.”
“Nice try.”
She cackles. Pure delighted toddler sound, head thrown back. And you find yourself laughing too, pushing her at this very reasonable height, and when you look over at Jake he’s smiling at you with an expression you don’t quite have a name for yet. You look away first.
After the swings, Mia finds a stick, which becomes the most important object in the world for the next twenty minutes. She examines rocks. She makes Jake carry her on his shoulders. She falls asleep on the walk home with her cheek on his head and one fist clutching his jacket, completely unconscious, utterly trusting.
Jake walks carefully, holding her legs, talking to you in a low voice so he doesn’t wake her. “She doesn’t do this with many people,” he says.
“Fall asleep?”
“Trust people.” He adjusts his grip on her. “She’s friendly, obviously, she’ll talk to anyone. But she doesn’t— she doesn’t hold hands with people she doesn’t know. She doesn’t draw people.” He pauses. “She drew you in four days.”
You don’t know what to say to that. So you say, “she’s special.”
“Yeah.” His voice is quiet. “She really is.”
You walk in silence for a moment, the easy kind. “How long has it been?” you ask. “Just the two of you.”
He doesn’t tense the way you half expect him to. Just exhales, slow and steady. “Since she was four months old. Her mom left.” He says it flat, without bitterness, which somehow makes it worse. Like he’s had a long time to practice saying it that way. “Just— left. Packed a bag while I was at work. By the time I got home it was just us.”
“Jake—”
“It’s fine now.” He glances at you sideways. “It wasn’t, for a long time. But it’s fine now. It’s good, actually. It’s really good.” He looks up at Mia’s sleeping face. “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I didn’t know it was possible to love someone this much.”
You look at him. At the way he holds her. At the careful tenderness of it. “She knows,” you say softly. He looks at you. “That she’s loved like that. You can tell.” You hold his gaze. “She knows.”
Something moves through his expression. Quick and unguarded and gone before you can name it. “Thanks,” he says quietly.
You walk the rest of the way home in comfortable silence, Mia asleep above you, the afternoon sun going golden through the trees lining the street. It is, you think, a very good Saturday.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
It becomes a routine without either of you deciding it should. Wednesday mornings, Jake knocks with the hairbrush. You do Mia’s hair while she holds Gerald and narrates her thoughts about the day ahead. Jake makes coffee in your kitchen like he knows where everything is, which after three weeks he does.
Saturdays are the park, or the farmers market two streets over, or just the three of you on one of your balconies eating whatever Jake has cooked because it turns out that while he cannot bake to save his life he is an genuinely excellent cook and he seems to enjoy having someone to cook for.
Evenings sometimes, when Mia’s in bed and Jake knocks quietly and you sit on his couch and watch something and talk about nothing in particular until one of you falls asleep.
It is domestic and soft and easy. It is also, you are increasingly aware, becoming something that would hurt to lose.
Mia calls you her Y/N now. Not just Y/N. Her Y/N, possessive and certain, the way she says her daddy and her Mr. Bunny and her Gerald. You are hers in her taxonomy of the world and the certainty of it does something to your chest every single time.
She tells the woman at the bakery you buy her the jam scroll she likes every Saturday. She tells a child at the park. She tells Mrs. Kim from 1A who coos and looks between you and Jake with an expression that makes Jake find something fascinating to look at on the middle distance.
You’re folding laundry in your apartment on a Thursday evening, three weeks in, when Jake knocks. You open the door. He’s holding two containers of leftover pasta, still warm. He holds one out. “Made too much,” he says.
You take it. Step back to let him in. This is how it goes now. “Mia asleep?” you ask.
“Out cold. She had daycare and then apparently spent an hour reorganizing her stuffed animals by color.” He sits on your couch. “It took everything she had.”
You sit beside him, open the pasta. It’s good — it’s always good. “Did the reorganization meet her standards?”
“She made me come and approve it before bed.” He pauses. “Mr. Bunny is in the orange section even though he’s gray.”
“He has warm undertones,” you say seriously.
Jake looks at you. Starts laughing. Not the polite laugh of someone being friendly but the real one, the one that takes over his whole face, and you’ve been cataloguing that laugh for weeks now, the way it comes out surprised sometimes like he forgot he was allowed to do it.
You’re laughing too, both of you over toddler stuffed animal color theory at eight PM with pasta containers in your laps, and when the laughter settles it leaves something warm and quiet in its place.
Jake is looking at you. Not the quick sideways glances you’ve been trading for weeks. Really looking, steady and open, and you feel it the way you feel a change in weather. The pressure of it. The way the air shifts. “Y/N,” he says.
“Yeah?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks down at his pasta container, turning it in his hands. “Nothing. Never mind. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
He looks at you again and this time he doesn’t look away. “I really like spending time with you.”
You hold his gaze. “I really like spending time with you too.”
“I haven’t—” He exhales. “I haven’t wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. Maybe ever. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
The honesty of it lands softly. No performance, no deflection. Just him, telling you the truth. “I don’t either,” you say. “But I don’t think I want to stop.”
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he leans in, slow and deliberate, giving you every opportunity to pull back. You don’t pull back.
His mouth finds yours, gentle at first, questioning, and then you lean into it and it stops being a question. It’s warm and unhurried and it tastes like the pasta and something underneath that is just him, and when you finally break apart you’re both quiet, foreheads almost touching.
“Okay,” he says softly.
“Okay,” you agree.
He pulls back just slightly. His expression is open and a little nervous and more serious than the moment requires, or maybe exactly as serious as it requires. “I need to say something,” he says.
“Okay.”
“If we—” He pauses, choosing his words. “Whatever this is. Whatever it becomes. Mia comes first. Always. That’s non negotiable for me. I need you to know that going in.”
You look at him. At the set of his jaw, the quiet certainty in his eyes. A man who has built his whole life around a three year old with lopsided pigtails and a stuffed rabbit and absolute confidence in the people she decides are hers. “Jake,” you say.
“Yeah.”
“I know.” You hold his gaze. “I love her. She’s— she put her hand on my face the first morning and I was gone. I was completely gone.” You shake your head a little. “I think I fell for her before I even fell for you.”
Something moves across his face. Deep and quiet and undone.“Yeah?” he says, and his voice is rough at the edges.
“Yeah.” He kisses you again. Softer this time. Like something has been settled, like the last lock has clicked open. His hand comes up to cup your jaw and you lean into it and outside the window the city is doing whatever cities do at eight o’clock on a Thursday and in here it is warm and quiet and it feels, very specifically, like the beginning of something.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
The first time Mia is at the babysitter’s overnight, it’s an accident.
Not the overnight part — that’s planned. Sandy, Mia’s regular babysitter three streets over, has been asking for weeks if she can have Mia for a sleepover because her own grandchildren are visiting and Mia and the youngest, a boy named Theo, have formed the specific intense friendship that only exists between toddlers who have decided they are best friends after forty five minutes together at a playground.
Jake agrees because Mia asks with her whole body, bouncing on her toes, and because Sandy has been his lifeline for two and a half years and he trusts her completely. What’s accidental is what happens after.
He drops Mia off at four on a Friday afternoon. You’re not there — you have a late class — but when you get home at six thirty and knock on 3A because it’s become reflex, Jake opens the door and the apartment is quiet in a way it never is.
You’ve been in this apartment dozens of times now. You know its sounds. The particular creak of the second floorboard in the hall. The way the kitchen tap needs an extra turn to stop dripping. The constant ambient noise of Mia — her commentary, her singing, her negotiations with various stuffed animals about bedtime.
The silence is enormous. “Weird, right?” Jake says, reading your face.
“Really weird.” You step inside. “How long has she been gone?”
“Two hours.” He closes the door. “I’ve cleaned the whole apartment and reorganized the pantry and I don’t know what to do with myself.”
You look at the pantry, which is indeed immaculate. You look at Jake, who is in dark jeans and a simple white t-shirt and looks simultaneously very attractive and genuinely a little lost. “Have you eaten?” you ask.
“No.”
“Cook me something.”
Something in him settles. He moves into the kitchen, and you sit on the counter the way you’ve started doing, and he makes pasta — different from the other night, something with lemon and herbs — and you open the wine you brought from your apartment and it is easy, it is so easy, the way everything with him has become easy without you noticing it happening.
You eat at his kitchen table. You talk about your classes and his current project — branding for a new café opening in the city — and the book you’ve both apparently been meaning to read for months and never have. You talk about Mia, because you always talk about Mia, about the things she’s said recently that have floored you both. “She told me yesterday,” Jake says, “that she wants to be a paleontologist.”
“She’s three.”
“I know. I asked her what a paleontologist was and she said ‘a person who finds old bones’ and I have no idea where she learned that word.”
“That’s— that’s genuinely impressive.”
“She then said she also wants to be a cat.” He takes a sip of wine. “So. Range.” You’re laughing, and he’s laughing, and the kitchen is warm and the wine is good and at some point the laughter fades and you’re just looking at each other in the quiet.
It’s been two weeks since the kiss on your couch. Two weeks of nothing changing and everything changing — the same routine, the same easy rhythm, but with this new current running underneath it. His hand finding yours sometimes. The way he says goodbye now, at the door, that takes longer than it used to. The awareness of him that hums in your chest constantly, warm and insistent.
You haven’t had a night without Mia before. You’re both aware of it. “Y/N,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Can I—” He stops. Starts again. His jaw works slightly, that tell you’ve learned. “I’ve been thinking about this. About us. And I want to— I want to do this properly. Take you on an actual date, not just—” He gestures at the table, the apartment, the comfortable domesticity of it. “Not just this. You deserve—”
“Jake.” You set down your glass. “I like this.”
“I know, but—”
“I mean I really like this.” You hold his gaze. “I don’t need a restaurant. I don’t need— I just want you. This. Whatever this is.” He looks at you for a long moment.
Then he pushes back from the table and crosses to you and kisses you like he’s been thinking about it all evening, one hand cupping your jaw, the other finding your waist. You slide off the counter and into him and he makes a low sound against your mouth that does something devastating to your concentration. “Stay tonight,” he says against your lips.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay.”
You end up on his bed.
It happens slowly, the way things happen when there’s no rush, when the whole night stretches ahead and neither of you is going anywhere. He takes his time, unhurried and thorough, like he wants to learn you. Like you’re something worth learning.
He lays you back against his pillows and looks at you for a moment, just looks, and something about being seen like that — careful and wanting and completely focused — makes heat pool low in your stomach before he’s even touched you. “Hi,” he says softly.
“Hi,” you say back.
He leans down and kisses you again, and it’s different from the doorway kisses and the couch kisses. Deeper. More deliberate. His hand slides up your side, pushing your shirt up, warm palm against your skin, and you shiver.“Cold?” he murmurs.
“Opposite.” He smiles against your mouth. Keeps moving, finding the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms and let him pull it off. He sits back to look at you, and his expression is so openly appreciative, so uncomplicated in its wanting, that you feel heat rise to your face.
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
“Don’t what?”
“Look away.” His thumb traces your collarbone. “I want to look at you.” You keep his gaze. He keeps his.
He gets rid of his own shirt and you run your hands up his chest, his stomach, the way you’ve been wanting to since— longer than you’ll admit. He’s warm and solid and he watches your face as you touch him like your expression is telling him something important.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing.” He catches your hands, pins them gently above your head, leans down to press his mouth to your jaw. Your neck. The soft skin below your ear. “Just thinking about how long I’ve been wanting this.”
“How long?”
He mouths at your pulse point and you gasp, arching up. “Longer than I should admit,” he murmurs. “Probably since the morning with Mia. You opened the door half asleep with terrible hair and you crouched down and talked to her like she was a real person and I thought—” He lifts his head to look at you. “I thought I was in serious trouble.”
“Your daughter was upside down under your arm,” you manage.
“I know. Terrible timing.” He releases your wrists, hands moving to the button of your jeans. “Is this okay?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
He undresses you slowly, pressing his mouth to each new piece of skin like punctuation. The inside of your wrist. Your hip. The soft skin of your inner thigh that makes you grip the sheets and breathe out his name. He looks up at you from there, chin resting on your thigh, expression somewhere between fond and wrecked. “Jake—”
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “Okay? I’ve got you.” And then his mouth is on you and your head falls back and you stop being able to think in complete sentences.
He takes his time the way he does everything — with complete attention, reading every sound you make, every shift of your hips, adjusting until he finds exactly what makes you come apart. He slides one finger inside you and then two, curling them just right while his tongue works your clit in slow, devastating circles, and you fist your hand in his hair and try to remember how to breathe.
“Jake— fuck— I’m—”
He doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t change what he’s doing. Just keeps that perfect steady rhythm like he has all the time in the world, like getting you there is the only thing on his agenda, and you come with your thighs clamped around his head and his name on your lips and it crashes through you in waves that don’t seem to stop.
He works you through every second of it, only easing off when you tug at his hair, oversensitive and shaking.
He moves up your body, pressing a kiss to your stomach, your sternum, your mouth. You can taste yourself on him and somehow that makes heat flare through you all over again. “Hi,” he says again, soft and amused.
“You,” you manage, “are very good at that.”
“Yeah?” He looks pleased.
“Don’t get smug about it.”
“I’m not smug.” He is a little smug. You find you don’t mind. “You okay?”
“More than okay.” You reach up, pull him down to kiss him properly, deep and unhurried. “Your turn.”
You get his jeans off, and his boxers, and you wrap your hand around him and he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking slightly.“Sorry—”
“Don’t apologize,” you tell him. You stroke him slowly, learning the weight of him, and he drops his forehead to yours and just breathes. “Tell me what you like.”
“That,” he says roughly. “Exactly that. Just—” He covers your hand with his, adjusts the pressure slightly. “Yeah. Like that.”
You watch his face — the way his jaw goes tight, the way his eyes flutter. He’s trying to stay composed and not quite managing it and you find that incredibly satisfying. “Y/N.” His voice has gone rough. “I want— can I—”
“Yes,” you say. “Please.”
He reaches into his nightstand drawer. You take the condom from him and roll it on yourself, slowly, which makes him close his eyes and exhale hard through his nose.“You’re going to kill me,” he says.
“You’ll be fine.”
He settles between your thighs and you feel him there, pressing in, and you both go still for a moment. He pushes forward, slow and careful, watching your face, and the stretch of him makes you exhale hard, fingers pressing into his shoulders. He stops halfway, checking. “Good?” he asks.
“So good.” You shift your hips, urging him on. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t stop. He seats himself fully and you both breathe through it, foreheads together, and then he starts to move and everything else falls away.
He fucks you slowly at first, deep and thorough, finding the angle that makes you gasp and then staying with it. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and you make a sound that you’d be embarrassed about in any other context.“There?” he asks.
“There,” you confirm breathlessly.
He keeps going. Steady and focused and impossibly good, hitting that spot inside you on every stroke while his thumb works you in tight circles, and you can already feel it building again, embarrassingly fast. “Jake— fuck— already—”
“Let go,” he says against your temple. “I want to feel you.”
You come clenching around him, and he groans deep in his chest, the rhythm stuttering, and you feel him follow you over with your name on his lips, buried deep, shaking.
Afterward you lie tangled together in the quiet. He traces absent patterns on your arm. You listen to his heartbeat slow. “Hey,” he says eventually.
“Hey.”
“That was—”
“Yeah.” You tilt your head up. “It really was.” He presses a kiss to your hair. You feel him smile against it.
Outside, the city is doing its Friday night thing, indifferent and ongoing. In here the lamp is warm and the sheets are soft and Jake’s heartbeat is steady under your cheek and you think about the drawing on your fridge and the hand on your cheek and Mr. Bunny in the freezer and all the ordinary extraordinary things that have built this without you quite realizing. “Stay,” he says.
“I’m already here.”
“I mean—” He tightens his arm around you. “Stay. Not just tonight.”
You’re quiet for a moment. “You’re going to have to define that.”
“I know.” His thumb moves slow on your arm. “I’m working up to it.”
“Okay.” You settle back against him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Mia comes home at eleven the next morning. You’re still there.
You’re in Jake’s kitchen making coffee, wearing his hoodie and your underwear, when the front door opens and Sandy’s voice floats through — “here we are, my love, home sweet home” — and small feet thunder down the hall.
Mia appears in the kitchen doorway. She takes in the scene. You, in her daddy’s hoodie. The two coffee cups. The general evidence of your presence. Her face does something complicated and then completely simple. “My Y/N,” she says, delighted, and launches herself at your legs.
You crouch down and catch her, and she wraps around you like a koala, warm and sleep-soft and smelling like Sandy’s house, and you hold her and look up at Jake in the doorway and he’s looking at the two of you with that expression again. The one that’s bigger than his face can hold.
“Hi baby,” you say into Mia’s hair. “How was Theo’s?”
“We found a worm,” she says. “His name is Dave.”
“Did you bring Dave home?”
“Sandy said no.” A pause. “I think that was wrong.”
“Dave is probably very happy in Sandy’s garden.”
She considers this. “Okay.” Then, muffled against your shoulder: “Are you staying for breakfast?”
You look at Jake. He holds your gaze, steady and warm. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m staying for breakfast.”
Mia pulls back, satisfied. “Daddy makes good eggs.”
“I know he does.”
“You can sit next to me.”
“I would love that.”
She takes your hand and tows you toward the table with the authority of someone who has decided how this morning is going to go, and Jake moves to the stove, and outside the kitchen window the Saturday morning is doing its soft unhurried thing, and this— this is everything.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
The weeks that follow are the best of your life. You don’t say that out loud. It feels too large, too exposed. But it’s true in the quiet way that the truest things are — not dramatic, not announced, just sitting solidly in your chest every time you’re aware of it.
The three of you fall into a rhythm so natural it’s almost hard to remember the before. Jake knocks on your door with the hairbrush and leaves with coffee. You come to theirs for dinner more nights than not. Mia insists on showing you everything — every drawing, every discovery, every development in the ongoing organization of her stuffed animal collection.
The farmers market becomes yours. Every Saturday, the three of you. Mia on Jake’s shoulders, small hands wrapped in his hair, pointing imperiously at things she wants to examine. You buy her a sunflower from the flower stall in week two and she carries it home with both hands like it’s precious, and after that it becomes the thing — every week, a sunflower for Mia, who has decided they are her favorite and cannot be argued with on this point.
Jake watches you with her constantly. You catch him doing it — that soft unguarded look — and he doesn’t stop when you catch him, just holds your gaze until you look away first, which you always do because the directness of it does something to your chest that you haven’t found words for yet.
Mia tells her daycare teacher about you. You know this because Jake texts you a screenshot of a drawing she brought home — the same configuration as before, Mia Daddy Gerald Mr Bunny Y/N, but this time you and Jake are holding hands.
jake 3a: her teacher asked who the people were, she said ‘that’s my daddy and my Y/N they’re in love’
You stare at the message. you: she’s three
jake 3a: three and apparently very perceptive
you: what did you tell the teacher
jake 3a: I said she wasn’t wrong
You put your phone face down on the desk and press both hands over your face and sit there for a full minute. Then you pick it up. you: jake
jake 3a: yeah?
you: are you in love with me
A pause. Longer than usual. Your heart does something complicated in the silence. jake 3a: I’ve been trying to find the right moment to say it properly not over text but yes, very much yes. I have been for a while
jake 3a: is that okay?
You read it three times. you: yes, it’s very okay. also I love you too
jake 3a: yeah?
you: yeah
jake 3a: okay, good. I’m going to say it properly tonight with Mia asleep so she doesn’t narrate it
you: she would absolutely narrate it
jake 3a: she would make it about herself somehow
you: she would bring Mr Bunny as a witness
jake 3a: he’d be very moved
You’re smiling so hard your face hurts, alone in your apartment at two in the afternoon, and you think about the morning you opened your door and found a small person sitting on your doormat in duck pajamas looking for her rabbit.
You think about tiny fingers in yours on the way back across the hall. You think about you’re nice delivered with complete certainty by someone who had known you for four minutes.
That night, after Mia is asleep, Jake says it properly. Standing in the kitchen, cup of tea going cold on the counter, both of you knowing it’s coming and neither of you in any rush because there’s no need to rush anymore.
“I love you,” he says. Simple and direct. “I love you and I love that she loves you and I don’t want to do any of this without you.”
“I love you too,” you say. “Both of you. The whole— all of it. Everything.”
He kisses you there in the kitchen and it tastes like coming home, which is a thing you didn’t know kitchens could taste like until now.
Later, in his bed, you press your face into his shoulder and listen to the particular quiet of the apartment at night — the creak of the building, the distant city, the soft sound of Mia breathing through the baby monitor on the nightstand. “Hey,” Jake says quietly. “You know what Mia asked me today?”
“What?”
“She asked if you were going to live with us.”
Your heart turns over. “What did you tell her?”
“I said I hoped so.” He tilts his head to look down at you. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’s okay.” He pulls you closer. You close your eyes. Outside, a siren somewhere. The building settling. Mia’s breathing through the monitor, slow and even and completely safe.
In here, you think. Everything is in here. You never see it coming. That’s the thing about a knock at the door when you’re happy. You don’t brace for it. You don’t clock the risk. You’re just— there. In the warm. Thinking about nothing that isn’t good.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
It’s a Sunday. Mia is at Sandy’s. Not overnight this time — just the afternoon, a regular arrangement while Jake works on a deadline.
Except Jake finished his deadline by noon and texted you and you came over and the afternoon became the best kind of afternoon, the kind that starts with coffee and talking and turns into something else entirely when Mia isn’t home, when there’s nowhere to be and no particular reason to leave the bedroom.
You’re in his bed. Late afternoon light coming gold through the curtains. His hand on your back tracing lazy patterns on your spine. You’re boneless and warm and half thinking about nothing and half thinking about whether Mia will want to show you the worm situation at Sandy’s when Jake picks her up.
“Sandy said she asked to bring Dave home three more times,” Jake says, like he’s reading your mind.
“Persistent.”
“She gets it from somewhere.” His hand moves up to the back of your neck, squeezing gently. “You hungry?” “Not yet.”
“Okay.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “We’ve got a couple of hours before I pick her up.” You hum. He pulls you closer. The afternoon light shifts.
Then someone knocks at the door. Jake’s hand stills on your back. “Expecting anyone?” you ask.
“No.” He frowns slightly. “Sandy would call.” He sits up, reaching for his t-shirt. “Probably Danny about the tap.”
You stretch out across the warm space he’s left, drowsy and content, listening to his footsteps down the hall. The sound of the door opening. Silence.
Not the brief silence of oh hi Danny it’s fine. A longer silence. A loaded one.
Then a voice you don’t recognize — a woman’s voice, careful and slightly uncertain — saying his name. “Jake.”
You go very still.
Jake says nothing for a long moment. When he speaks his voice is completely flat in a way you’ve never heard from him before. Like all the warmth has been removed surgically. “What are you doing here?”
“I just— I wanted to—” The woman’s voice. “Can I come in?”
“No. How did you find me?”
“Your mum. She didn’t— she thought I knew the address, I think. I don’t think she realized—”
“Why are you here.” Not a question. A demand.
A pause. “I want to see her,” the woman says. “I want to see Mia.”
The name lands in the apartment like something dropped. You sit up slowly, pulling the sheet around yourself, and the drowsy warmth of the afternoon has gone completely. In its place something cold and alert.
“You need to leave,” Jake says.
“I know I don’t have the right to—”
“You left,” Jake says, and his voice is still flat, but underneath the flatness there is something enormous being held very carefully in check. “She was four months old and you left. You’ve been gone for three years. You don’t get to knock on my door and say you want to see her like it’s a reasonable thing to say.”
“I know.” The woman’s voice cracks slightly. “I know that. I just— Jake, please, I just want—”
“To see her? Or to see me?” Silence. “Yeah,” Jake says quietly. “That’s what I thought.”
You get up. Quietly. You find your clothes in the soft afternoon mess of the room, pull them on, and you stand in the hallway outside his bedroom door and you look at the front door.
She’s standing in the doorway. Tall, dark-haired, pretty in a way that might have been beautiful before whatever she’s been carrying got into her face. She’s looking at Jake with an expression that mixes guilt and want in proportions you don’t have to be a genius to read.
She sees you. Her eyes move over you — your rumpled clothes, Jake’s apartment behind you, the obvious geography of the afternoon — and something hardens in her expression that you recognize. The specific hardening of someone who wanted to find a door open and has found it closed.
Jake turns. He sees you in the hallway. Something moves through his face — protective, apologetic, something else underneath that you don’t have time to read. “Y/N,” he says. “Hi.” You keep your voice steady. “I’ll— I can go.”
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s okay.” You look at him clearly, trying to say with your eyes what you can’t say in front of her: I’m fine. I’m not going far. Handle this. “I’ll be across the hall.”
He holds your gaze. His jaw is set, his eyes tight at the corners, but he gives you the smallest nod.
You pick up your keys from the bowl by the door — yours, in the bowl by Jake’s door, which happened so gradually you can’t remember it beginning — and you step past the woman in the doorway without looking at her.
You go into 3B. You close the door. You sit on your couch and you listen to the muffled sound of voices through the wall, and you hold yourself very carefully together, and you wait.
You sit on your couch for forty minutes. You know because you watch the clock. Not obsessively — you’re not counting seconds — but every time your eyes drift to it another chunk of time has passed and the voices through the wall have not stopped.
You make tea you don’t drink. You open your laptop and close it again. You pick up your phone three times and put it down without texting anyone because what would you even say.
My boyfriend’s ex showed up. The one who left when their daughter was four months old. She’s been there forty minutes and I’m sitting in my apartment trying not to think about the way she looked at him.
You put your phone face down on the cushion beside you.
The thing is — and you know this, you do — you trust Jake. That’s not the part that’s making your chest tight. You’ve watched him for months now. You know who he is. You know the way he holds his daughter and the way he laughs and the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. You know he means what he says.
The part that’s making your chest tight is her face when she saw you. Not guilt. Not embarrassment at the intrusion. Something proprietary. Something that said what are you doing in my space even though she is the one who left. Even though she forfeited any claim to this apartment and this life and this man the day she packed a bag while her four month old daughter slept.
You’re familiar with that expression. You’ve worn it yourself, briefly, watching other women talk to Jake at the market or at the park. You know what it means. She wants him back. Mia is the reason she knocked. But she wants Jake back.
You’re still sitting with that when your phone buzzes. jake 3a: she’s gone, can you come back?
You’re across the hall before you’ve fully decided to move. He opens the door before you knock. He looks terrible. Not falling apart — Jake doesn’t fall apart, you’ve figured that out, he goes very still and very controlled when things get bad, which is almost worse — but there are lines around his eyes that weren’t there this morning and his jaw is set in that way that means he’s been holding something in for a while.
He steps back to let you in. Closes the door. You turn to face him and he looks at you for a moment like he’s checking that you’re real, that you’re still here, that the afternoon hasn’t completely dismantled itself. “You okay?” you ask.
“I should be asking you that.”
“I’m fine. I was across the hall.” You hold his gaze. “Are you okay?”
He exhales. Long and slow. Runs a hand through his hair. “She wants to see Mia. She says she’s been in therapy. That she’s been— working through things. That she made a mistake and she knows that and she just wants—” He stops. His jaw works. “She was here for forty minutes and Mia’s name came up maybe three times.”
Your stomach tightens. “What did the rest of it cover?” He looks at you with an expression that answers the question without words. “Jake—”
“I told her no,” he says. “To all of it. I told her— Mia doesn’t know her. She’s three years old, she has no memory of her, and showing up out of nowhere and announcing herself as her mother would be— I’m not doing that to her. I’m not letting someone walk in and blow up her world because they’ve decided they’re ready now.”
“That’s right,” you say quietly.
“Is it?” He looks genuinely uncertain, and that more than anything tells you how rattled he is. Jake is not an uncertain man. He’s careful, he’s considered, but when he’s decided something he holds it steady. Watching him doubt himself is unfamiliar and uncomfortable. “Because part of me thinks— she’s her mother. Biologically. Does Mia have a right to know her? At some point? And am I—”
“Jake.” You cross to him. Put your hand on his chest, flat over his heart, and look up at him. “You are the most present, devoted, thoughtful parent I have ever seen. You have been both of them for three years. Whatever you decide about this, it comes from that. Not from fear, not from jealousy. From knowing your daughter.” He looks down at you. His hand comes up to cover yours. “She’s not here because of Mia,” you say gently. “You know that.”
“Yeah.” His voice is rough. “Yeah, I know that.”
“So you handle the Mia question in your own time, with proper advice, on your terms. Not because she showed up at your door on a Sunday afternoon.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “When did you get so—”
“Wise?”
“I was going to say steady.”
“Same thing.” You press your palm flatter against his chest. “You’re okay. Mia’s okay. This is just— a thing that happened on a Sunday. It doesn’t have to be more than that right now.”
He looks at you for a long moment. Something in his face shifts — the held-in thing loosening slightly, the lines around his eyes easing. “I really love you,” he says quietly.
“I know.” You reach up, press your hand briefly to his jaw. “I love you too. Go get your daughter.”
He comes back with Mia at five thirty. You’re in his kitchen making dinner — you’d found pasta and vegetables and half a block of good parmesan and it seemed like the right thing to do, to be here, to have something warm happening when they got home.
Mia comes through the door at full speed, as always, and finds you at the stove and absolutely loses her mind with delight. “My Y/N is here!”
“Hi, my Mia.” She barrels into your legs and you crouch down and catch her, and over her head you watch Jake close the front door and lean against it for just a second, eyes closed. Like he’s taking a breath. Like he’s counting the things still here and finding them all present.
Then he opens his eyes and sees you watching him and something in his face goes soft. “Dave update,” Mia says urgently against your neck.
“Tell me everything.”
“Sandy said he moved.” Her voice is full of significance. “She doesn’t know where he went.”
“Dave is living his life.”
“That’s what Sandy said.” She pulls back to look at you. “I think he went to find his family.”
“That’s a very hopeful interpretation.”
“Worms have families,” she tells you solemnly. “Probably.”
“Definitely,” you agree.
Jake has moved into the kitchen. He comes up behind you — Mia still in your arms — and presses a kiss to the side of your head. Quick and quiet. Gratitude and love in a single gesture. “Smells good,” he says.
“Twenty minutes.”
“Can I help?”
“You can set the table.”
“I want to help,” Mia announces.
“You can put the napkins out,” you tell her, and she accepts this responsibility with great seriousness, and Jake sets her down and gets the napkins and she carries them to the table one at a time with both hands like they’re fragile, and Jake catches your eye across the kitchen and mouths thank you and you shake your head slightly because there’s nothing to thank you for.
You’re exactly where you want to be.
Later, after dinner, after Mia’s bath, after two bedtime stories and one negotiation about the structural integrity of a fort she wants to construct in the living room (tomorrow, baby, it’s bedtime), after small arms around your neck and a kiss pressed very seriously to your cheek and night my Y/N into the dark—
You and Jake sit on his couch in the quiet. He has his legs stretched out on the coffee table. You’re tucked into his side, his arm around you. The lamp is the only light. The apartment has the particular peace of a small child asleep in the next room. “She’s going to come back,” Jake says quietly.
“Probably.”
“I’m going to talk to a lawyer. Get clear on where things stand legally before she does.” His thumb moves on your arm. “She signed over custody voluntarily. I don’t think she has grounds for anything. But I want to know for certain.”
“That’s smart.”
“I don’t want Mia to know about this until I do. I don’t want her picking up on anything.”
“She won’t hear it from me.”
He turns his head to press a kiss to your hair. “I know.” You sit in the quiet for a moment. “She looked at you,” he says. “The way she looked at you when she saw you there.” His arm tightens slightly. “I need you to know that whatever she came here wanting, it was never going to— she left, Y/N. She made her choice. There’s nothing there.”
“I know that too.”
“I just—” He exhales. “I don’t want you to have any doubt. About this. About us.”
You lift your head to look at him. His face in the lamplight, tired and earnest and completely, simply honest. “I don’t,” you tell him. “Not even a little.”
He holds your gaze. “Good,” he says quietly. He kisses you softly, and you let yourself melt into it, and outside the window the night is doing its ordinary thing, indifferent and ongoing.
When you break apart you settle back against his shoulder. “Stay,” he says.
“Obviously,” you say. He pulls you closer.
In the next room, Mia sleeps, completely safe, completely loved, completely unaware that someone knocked on the door today and was turned away.
She’ll know, eventually. Jake will tell her, carefully, at the right time, in the right way. That’s the kind of father he is. But tonight she just sleeps. And you and Jake stay on the couch until you both drift off, warm and quiet and whole.
The lawyer’s name is Ms. Park and she is very thorough.
Jake comes back from the meeting on a Wednesday looking lighter than he has all week. He finds you in his kitchen — where you are most afternoons now, it’s become accepted fact — and he leans in the doorway and says:
“She has no legal standing. She relinquished custody voluntarily and completely. If she wants any kind of access she would have to apply through the courts and demonstrate sustained rehabilitation and it would be a long process with no guarantee.”
You set down the mug you’re washing. “Okay.”
“She came here once and I turned her away and she hasn’t come back.” He exhales. “I don’t think she’s going to pursue it. I think she came here for me and when that didn’t work—”
“She has no reason to stay.” You cross the kitchen to him. Put your hands on his chest. “How do you feel?”
He thinks about it genuinely, the way he does. “Relieved,” he says. “And— sad, a little. That it’s this way. That Mia doesn’t have—” He stops.
“She has you,” you say. “She has Sandy and Mrs. Kim and the daycare teachers who love her and Theo the worm friend and—” You meet his eyes. “She has me. For as long as you’ll both have me.”
Something moves through his face. “Forever, then,” he says simply.
Your heart turns over. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Forever works.”
He kisses you there in the kitchen and it tastes like relief and sunlight and something settled and permanent. From the doorway comes a small voice. “Are you kissing again?”
You break apart to find Mia standing in the hallway in her socks, Mr. Bunny under her arm, regarding you both with the patient exhaustion of someone who has seen this many times and has opinions. “Sorry,” Jake says, not sounding sorry at all.
“It’s fine,” Mia says, generous. “You can kiss. But after can we do the fort?”
“We can do the fort,” you confirm. She nods, satisfied. Turns and toddles back down the hall.
Jake looks at you. You look at Jake.“The fort,” he says. You nod in agreement and follow him and your daughter down the hall.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Three months later, Mia stops calling you my Y/N. She starts calling you mama.
It happens on a Tuesday. Not a special Tuesday. Not a significant one. Just an ordinary Tuesday in February where the sky is doing that flat grey thing it does in late summer when the heat hasn’t broken yet and everything feels slightly sticky and slow.
You’re doing her hair. The Wednesday morning routine has migrated — it’s every morning now, most mornings, because somewhere between October and February the question of which apartment are you sleeping in stopped being a real question. You’re here. You live here, functionally, in every way that matters except the technical one. Your toothbrush is here. A drawer is yours. Gerald the succulent has been relocated to the kitchen windowsill where he gets better light and Mia waters him every second day with great ceremony.
Jake is in the kitchen. Coffee is happening. Mia is between your knees on the couch, holding Mr. Bunny, and you’re doing two neat braids because she has decided braids are her preference this week and you’ve been practicing. “Tighter,” she instructs.
“If I go tighter it’ll pull.”
“I want tight braids.”
“You want braids that feel comfortable and also look good.”
She considers this negotiation. “Okay,” she concedes.
You keep going. She hums something to herself, swinging her feet, and you work through the second braid, and it’s quiet in the good way, the way that only exists when everyone in a space is completely comfortable. “Mama,” Mia says.
“Hmm?” You tie off the braid.
“Can I wear the yellow dress today?”
You’re reaching for the second hair tie when it lands.
Mama.
She said it like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural word in the world. Like she’s been saying it her whole life, which — you realize, with your heart doing something enormous and unsteady in your chest — maybe in her head she has been.
“Yeah,” you manage, and your voice comes out almost normal. “Yeah, baby, we can find the yellow dress.”
She scrambles off the couch and heads to her room, completely unbothered, Mr. Bunny trailing from one hand. You sit there. In the kitchen, the coffee maker finishes its cycle.
Jake appears in the doorway with two mugs, takes one look at your face, and stops. “What happened? Are you okay? What—”
“She called me mama,” you say.
The mugs go onto the coffee table. Jake sits beside you and looks at you with an expression that is doing the same enormous unsteady thing yours probably is. “Just now?”
“Just now.” Your voice is not quite steady. “She asked if she could wear the yellow dress and she called me mama and then she just— walked off. Like it was nothing.”
“Y/N—”
“I’m not upset.” You turn to him, urgent, needing him to understand. “I’m not— I’m not upset, Jake, I just—” You press a hand to your chest. “I don’t know what to do with this.”
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he takes your face in both hands, careful and deliberate, and presses his forehead to yours. “I do,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You say yes. That’s what you do. You just— say yes.”
From down the hall: “Found it!” A pause. “Mama, can you do the buttons?”
You close your eyes. “Okay,” you breathe. Yeah.” You open your eyes. Look at him. “Yeah. Okay.”
He kisses you, quick and soft, and then you get up and go down the hall to do the buttons on a yellow dress, and Jake stands in the living room doorway watching and the expression on his face is the most complete thing you’ve ever seen on a human being.
That night, after Mia is asleep, Jake asks you to move in. Not impulsively. Not as a reaction to the morning. You can tell he’s been thinking about it for a while — there’s a particular quality to his stillness when he’s been working up to something, and you’ve learned it the way you’ve learned all of him, gradually and permanently.
You’re on the couch. Late. The lamp on, the city quiet outside. His hand in yours. “Move in,” he says. You look at him. “Properly,” he says. “Not the drawer and the toothbrush. All of it. Gerald and everything.”
“Gerald’s already here.”
“I know.” The corner of his mouth moves. “Consider it a trial run.”
You look at your joined hands. At the apartment that has been yours in every meaningful sense for months. At the hallway where Mia is sleeping with Mr. Bunny and her color-organized stuffed animals and absolute certainty that you will be here in the morning. “Yeah,” you say.
“Yeah?”
“Obviously yeah, Jake.” You lean over and kiss him. “Obviously.”
He pulls you in and holds you there, and you feel him exhale slowly against your hair. “She’s going to lose her mind,” he says.
“She’s going to tell Gerald first.”
“She’s going to tell Gerald, then Mrs. Kim, then Sandy, then everyone at daycare.”
“In that order.”
“In that exact order.”
You’re both laughing, quiet so you don’t wake her, and it settles into something warm and certain. “Hey,” Jake says. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” You press your face into his shoulder. “Both of you. The whole thing.”
“The whole thing loves you back,” he says simply.
You tell Mia in the morning. Jake does it, at breakfast, with the careful measured approach of a man who has learned that toddlers receive important news better when they’re eating something. “Hey Mia. You know how Y/N stays here a lot?”
Mia looks up from her toast. Looks at you. Looks back at Jake. “Yes.”
“How would you feel if she stayed here all the time? Like, lived here. With us.”
Mia blinks. Puts down her toast. Looks at you with enormous serious eyes. “Like forever?” she asks.
“Like forever,” Jake confirms.
She stares at you for a long moment with the focused intensity of someone making a very important assessment.
Then she gets down from her chair, crosses to you, climbs into your lap uninvited and completely certain of her welcome, and wraps both arms around your neck. “Okay,” she says into your shoulder. “You can live here.”
“Thank you,” you manage, arms tight around her.
“Gerald will be happy,” she adds.
“He really will.”
She pulls back. Looks at your face. Puts her small hand on your cheek exactly the way she did on the very first morning, in the hallway, four months ago when she was looking for her rabbit. “Don’t cry,” she says kindly. “It’s good news.”
“I know.” You laugh, wet at the edges. “Happy tears.”
“Oh.” She considers this. “Okay.” Then, satisfied, she climbs back down, retrieves her toast, and resumes breakfast.
Jake is looking at you over her head with an expression that could power something. “Told you,” he mouths. You shake your head, still smiling, still blinking hard.
The whole thing loves you back. Yeah. Yeah it really does.
The move takes a weekend. It’s not a big move — your apartment was small and you’ve been migrating things gradually for months without meaning to — but there’s something significant about doing it officially. Carrying boxes across the hall. Hanging your clothes properly in the wardrobe. Arranging your books on the shelves beside Jake’s.
Mia supervises. She is a very involved supervisor, offering opinions on where everything should go and occasionally redirecting items she feels would be better placed in her room. You negotiate firmly on the throw blanket. You surrender the small lamp without a fight because she’s put it next to Mr. Bunny and it does look good there, objectively.
By Sunday evening the apartment is a comfortable chaos of rearrangement and you’re all sitting on the living room floor eating pizza from the box because no one has the energy to locate the table under the moving debris.
Mia is in your lap. Jake is beside you, shoulder to shoulder, pizza slice in hand, looking around the apartment that has shifted and expanded and settled into something new. “Looks different,” he says.
“Good different?”
He looks at you. “Yeah. Really good different.”
Mia tilts her head back to look up at you from your lap. “Can we build the fort now?”
“We live in a fort,” you tell her, gesturing at the surrounding box landscape.
Her eyes go wide. She looks around. Looks back at you. “We live in a fort,” she breathes.
“We live in a fort,” Jake confirms solemnly. She is overcome.
You and Jake look at each other over her head, laughing, and it is — this moment exactly, pizza and boxes and a delighted three year old and the lamp in the wrong place and Gerald on the windowsill — it is everything. Absolutely everything.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
A year later
The morning of the wedding, Mia wakes up at five forty-three AM. You know this because she comes and stands beside the bed and breathes on your face until you open your eyes. “It’s today,” she whispers.
“It is,” you confirm.
“I’m the flower girl.”
“You are.”
She absorbs this with great seriousness. Then: “I need to practice.”
“Mia, it’s not even six—”
“I need to practice.”
Jake makes a sound beside you that is him absolutely not laughing. You elbow him. “Okay,” you say. “But quietly. So we don’t wake the neighbors.”
She nods, solemn and focused, and turns and walks very slowly back down the hallway, scattering invisible petals with great ceremony, narrating under her breath — and then I walk here, and then here, and then I find mama—
You lie there in the early morning grey and stare at the ceiling and think about the word mama the way you have thought about it every day for the past year and a half. The way it still does something enormous to your chest. The way you don’t think it will ever stop.
Jake rolls toward you. Presses his face into your neck. “Morning,” he murmurs.
“Your daughter is practicing flower girl technique in the hallway.”
“She’s been planning this since we told her.” His arm comes around you. “She asked Sandy if she could practice at her house. She practiced at daycare. She made Theo be the groom so she could practice walking toward someone.”
“She’s extremely prepared.”
“She’s extremely her.” He presses a kiss to your jaw. “How are you feeling?”
“Good.” You turn to face him. His face in the early light, sleep-soft and certain and completely, permanently yours. “Really good. You?”
“Best day of my life,” he says simply. “After the day she was born. And the day you moved in. And the day you said yes when I asked.” He pauses. “Top five, at minimum.”
“That’s very good company.”
“You’re very good company.” He kisses you properly, slow and warm, and from the hallway comes the sound of small feet completing another practice lap.
“…and then I find mama, and she’s the prettiest—” You pull back from Jake, blinking hard. He looks at you. Reaches up and brushes his thumb under your eye, gentle.
“She’s not wrong,” he says.
“It’s five forty-five in the morning, I look terrible—”
“You look like the person I’m marrying today.” He holds your gaze. “Which means you look perfect.” You press your face into his shoulder and hold on for a moment.
From the hallway: “Okay I’m ready. Can we have breakfast now?”
Sandy comes at nine to take Mia for hair and getting dressed — a situation Mia has been anticipating with the focused excitement of someone who has been told she gets curls and a flower in her hair and has not stopped thinking about it since.
She submits to the process with remarkable patience, sitting very still while Sandy works, only turning her head twice to update you on developments. “It’s getting curlier,” she reports.
“I can see that.”
“Do I look like a princess?”
“You look exactly like a princess.” She nods, satisfied, and returns to stillness.
When it’s done she stands in front of the mirror in her small white dress — simple, with a yellow sash, because she requested yellow and you would move mountains before you’d say no to that — and looks at herself for a long, serious moment.“I look nice,” she concludes.
“You look incredible,” Sandy says.
“Yeah.” She turns to look at you. Her eyes go wide. “Mama. You look so pretty.”
You’re in your dress — simple, exactly what you wanted, nothing complicated — and your hair is done and you’re holding your bouquet and you’re trying very hard not to cry and failing slightly.“So do you,” you tell her.
She crosses to you. Reaches up and takes your hand, the way she did in a hallway a long time ago, completely certain of her welcome.“Don’t be nervous,” she tells you.
“I’m not nervous.”
“Good.” She squeezes your fingers. “Daddy loves you the most.”
“He loves you the most.”
She considers this with genuine fairness. “He loves us the same,” she decides. “Equal. Like a tie.”
“That’s exactly right.”
She nods. Pats your hand once, settling the matter. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s go get married.”
The venue is small and warm and full of people who love you.
Mrs. Kim is in the third row in her best jacket, already dabbing her eyes. Sandy is beside her. Jake’s parents flew in from Brisbane — his mother cried when she met you and his father shook your hand for a very long time and said thank you for making them happy and you’d had to excuse yourself to the bathroom for five minutes after that.
Your own family. Your friends. The people who have been the walls of your life. And at the end of the aisle, Jake.
In a dark suit, hands clasped in front of him, hair the way you like it. He’s talking quietly to the celebrant and then someone touches his arm and he looks up and sees Mia in the doorway.
His face does what it always does when he sees her. That open, completely unguarded thing. She waves at him. He waves back.
Then he sees you behind her and his face does something else entirely.
The music starts. Mia goes first. She has been told, approximately as many times as you can tell a four and a half year old anything, that flower girls walk slowly. Measured. Elegant. She lasts four steps.
Then she spots Jake at the end of the aisle and she goes — there is no other word for it — feral with excitement, sunflowers clutched in both fists, petals going in every direction except down, grinning so hard her whole face is the grin, half walking half skipping half something entirely her own.
“DADDY I FOUND HER” she announces at full volume to the entire assembled gathering. “I FOUND HER SHE’S HERE”
The room erupts. Not polite wedding laughter. Real laughter, the kind that comes from somewhere genuine, rippling through every row. Mrs. Kim is crying laughing. Sandy has her hand over her mouth. Jake’s mother is gripping his father’s arm.
Jake is crouching down to catch Mia as she reaches him, scooping her up, pressing a kiss to her chaotic curls, the flower in her hair somehow surviving the sprint. “Good job,” you hear him tell her.
“I practiced,” she says, very serious.
“I know you did, baby.” He sets her down. She takes her position with great dignity, as though the sprint did not happen, as though she has been standing here elegantly the entire time.
And then Jake looks up at you. You walk toward him. The room goes soft around the edges — not blurred, just quiet, the way things go when you’re paying attention to the only thing that matters. The faces on either side are warm and familiar and you see them without seeing them because you’re looking at Jake.
Jake, who opened his door on a panicked Tuesday morning and showed you his worst fear and his whole heart in the same thirty seconds.
Jake, who makes coffee before you ask and remembers every small thing and says what he means with a simplicity that still sometimes catches you off guard.
Jake, who watched you fall in love with his daughter before you fell in love with him and let it happen without trying to manage or protect or preempt it, because he trusted you, because he looked at you and knew.
You reach him. He takes your hand and holds it like he’s been holding it his whole life. “Hi,” he says quietly.
“Hi,” you say back.
Beside him, Mia has taken your other hand. She holds it with both of hers, feet planted, present and accounted for, witnessing this with the gravity it deserves.
The celebrant begins. The vows are Jake’s own words. You knew this. You wrote yours too, separately, privately, the way you’d agreed. But hearing them — in his voice, in this room, looking at his face — is different from knowing.
He talks about the morning Mia escaped into the hallway and how he stood in your doorway afterward watching you crouch down to his daughter’s level and felt something shift that he couldn’t name yet and didn’t try to.
He talks about Wednesday mornings with the hairbrush. About leftover pasta and late night texting and the drawing on the fridge.
He talks about the way you love Mia — not as a condition of loving him, not as an extension of it, but first, entirely and separately first, because that’s who you are.
She picked you, he says, before I had a chance to. And she has never once been wrong about anything important. Beside you, Mia straightens slightly at this. You feel her grip on your hand tighten.
I’m not a man who believed in easy, Jake says. I thought love was supposed to be something you work and worry at. And then you moved in across the hall and you were just — easy. Everything with you has just been easy. Not without difficulty. Not without fear. But easy the way breathing is easy. The way I can’t imagine not doing it. His voice has gone rough at the edges.
I love you. I loved you in October and I loved you in February and I love you today and I’m going to love you when Mia is grown and gone and it’s just us and I’m going to love you in every ordinary Tuesday that comes after this one because that’s where you live. In the ordinary Tuesdays. And I want every single one of them.
The room is very quiet. You are absolutely crying. You decided before today that you weren’t going to cry until after the vows at the earliest and you have failed completely. “Don’t cry,” Mia whispers, helpful. “It’s good news.”
Laughter moves through the room like a wave. Jake laughs too, wiping his eyes, and you laugh through yours, and it breaks the solemnity just enough, the way the best moments always do — serious and true and then suddenly full of light.
Your vows. You talk about duck pajamas and a stuffed rabbit and a small hand in yours in a hallway. You talk about a crayon drawing on a fridge and a child who put you in her family portrait before you knew you belonged there.
You talk about a man who carried his daughter on his shoulders through a farmers market and came home to make dinner and knocked on your door with leftover pasta and showed you what it looked like when someone decided that loving people well was the most important thing they could do.
You taught me that, you say. Both of you. You showed me what it looks like when love is a decision someone makes every single day without drama and without conditions. Mia does it for everyone she meets. You do it quietly and completely and I want to spend the rest of my life doing it back. You look at Jake.
I love you. I love our ordinary Tuesdays. I love Wednesday mornings and Saturday markets and bedtime stories and all the Gerald updates and every single version of this life we’ve built in an apartment across the hall from where I used to live alone. I love your daughter.
You look down at Mia. She is watching you with her whole face. Completely still, completely focused, taking this in with the seriousness it deserves.
She is the best thing, you say. She is the absolute best thing, and I promise her, today, in front of everyone who loves us, that I am here. I am not going anywhere. She is mine and I am hers and that is permanent and unconditional and nothing will ever change it.
Mia’s lip wobbles. Just slightly. You watch her decide, with great effort, not to cry, because she is a flower girl and flower girls are professionals and she has a reputation to maintain. She squeezes your hand instead. Very hard. You squeeze back.
I now pronounce you married.
Jake kisses you, and the room rises, and somewhere in the noise you hear Mia announce to no one in particular and everyone simultaneously:
“THAT’S MY MAMA NOW. THAT’S OFFICIALLY MY MAMA.”
And then, apparently satisfied that this has been adequately communicated, she inserts herself between the two of you and takes both your hands and holds on.
Jake looks at you over her head. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
The reception is everything. Mrs. Kim dances with Mia for forty-five minutes straight and neither of them stops. Sandy cries every time someone gives a speech. Jake’s father gives a toast that makes the whole room laugh and then immediately cry. Your own people hold you and tell you they knew, they always knew, from the moment you started talking about the little girl next door like she’d hung the moon.
Jake dances with Mia first — tradition, he’d decided, she gets the first dance — and you stand at the edge of the floor and watch her stand on his feet, both of them swaying to something slow, her head against his chest, his hand spanning her whole back.
You take a photo. You will look at that photo for the rest of your life.
Then he passes her off to his mother and comes to find you, hand extended, and you take it and let him pull you out onto the floor. “Hi wife,” he says, like he’s trying the word out.
“Hi husband.”
He smiles. Pulls you closer. “How’s it feel?”
“Same,” you say honestly. “Exactly the same. Just— more settled.”
“Yeah.” His hand moves on your back. “Like it’s been true for a while and now the paperwork caught up.”
“Exactly like that.”
You dance. The room moves around you, warm and full of people you love, and Mia is somewhere in it, probably telling someone about Dave the worm or Gerald or the structural integrity of forts, and it is — all of it, every piece — everything. All of it everything.
She falls asleep at nine fifteen. Mid-sentence, apparently — Jake’s mother told you later she was explaining the color organization system for the stuffed animals and then she simply stopped explaining and was asleep, curled in the chair with her flower crown half off and her shoes long since abandoned and the last of her sunflowers still in her hand.
Jake carries her out to the car at the end of the night, limp and certain and completely trusting the way only sleeping children are, and you tuck the seatbelt around her and push the flower crown gently back from her face. She doesn’t wake up.
She won’t remember being carried, won’t remember the drive home, won’t remember being tucked in. But in the morning she’ll wake up and come and stand at the side of your bed and breathe on your face until you open your eyes, and you’ll ask her how she slept and she’ll say good and you’ll ask if she had fun at the wedding and she’ll say yes I was the flower girl with the proprietary satisfaction of someone who performed their role excellently and knows it. And she’ll be right. She was, without any competition, the best part.
Later. Much later. His penthouse — your penthouse, it still catches you sometimes — quiet and dark except for the city light through the windows. Mia asleep down the hall. The flower crown on the kitchen counter. Your bouquet in a glass of water because you couldn’t throw it, it was too pretty.
Jake’s jacket over the chair. Your heels by the door. You and Jake on the couch the way you’ve been a hundred times before, his arm around you, your head on his shoulder, the easy comfortable weight of each other. “Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey.”
“Mia told Theo’s mum today that she picked you.”
You lift your head. “What?”
“At the reception. Apparently she walked up to Theo’s mum completely unprompted and said—” He’s smiling. “She said I picked her first. Before Daddy even knew.”
You stare at him. “She’s four and a half,” you say.
“I know. She’s extremely perceptive,” Jake says. “Always has been.”
You think about a Tuesday morning and duck pajamas and the end of a hallway. The hand on your cheek. You’re nice. The absolute certainty of it. The way she gave you her fingers without hesitating like she already knew. “She did pick me first,” you say softly.
“Yeah.” Jake presses a kiss to your hair. “She really did.”
The city does its quiet nighttime thing outside the windows. Down the hall, Mia sleeps. You and Jake stay where you are, warm and settled, in the ordinary extraordinary life you built one Tuesday at a time.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Three weeks later, on an ordinary Wednesday morning, Mia sits between your knees on the couch.
You’re doing her braids. Jake is in the kitchen. Coffee is happening. Gerald is on the windowsill. Mr. Bunny is in the orange section of the stuffed animal shelf. Everything exactly where it should be. “Mama,” Mia says.
“Hmm?”
“When I’m big can I be a flower girl again?”
“When you’re big you can be whatever you want.”
She considers this carefully. “I want to be a flower girl and a paleontologist and a cat.”
“All three?”
“On different days.”
“That seems manageable.” She nods, satisfied. Swings her feet.
From the kitchen, Jake: “Braids today?”
“Braids,” Mia confirms, with the authority of someone whose hair decisions are final. You finish the first one. Start the second. The morning does its ordinary thing around you.
Mia tilts her head back to look up at you, upside down, grinning. “I love you, mama.”
You smooth a hand over her hair. “I love you too, baby,” you say. “So much.” She rights herself. Goes back to swinging her feet.
Outside the window the morning is doing what mornings do, indifferent and ongoing and full of ordinary things.
In here it is warm. In here everyone is exactly where they are supposed to be. This is just the beginning. And it is everything.
synopsis : After playing your husband’s music video, your toddler recognizes Park Seonghwa on the screen and refuses to stop watching it—until his dad comes home and joins the chaos.
☆ ── tw. ; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, oral (f. receiving), established relationships, face riding (yeosang), overstimulation, squirting (yeosang), petnames, cum eating, public sex (seonghwa), praising, clit biting (wooyoung), teasing, multiple orgasms, strength kink (if you squint), semi-outside sex (wooyoung), lmk if I missed anything!!
성화 ── SEONGHWA
friday nights were always your favorite; classes ended early, leaving you with enough time to hang out with your ever-busy boyfriend. seonghwa had a love-hate relationship with being a stem major, but the one thing he would never trade in the world would be nights like tonight. when he could take you to the diner that was always open late, listen to you ramble about your week while the two of you ate, before making your way back to his car that was parked in the far back corner.
that spot had become your designated parking spot.
some nights, you would head back to either of your apartments and maybe watch a movie before going to sleep. but most nights turned into a heated intimacy scene in his backseat. tonight would be the latter, except seonghwa was desperate to have you on his tongue, claiming it's been far too long.
"pretty please, baby," seonghwa all but whined, his blonde hair sitting perfectly on his forehead, and you knew you'd give in—you've never been able to resist his boba eyes anyway. so that's exactly what happened, you gave in, and he now had you in the backseat, pajama pants and underwear discarded, and your ass resting on his chest, legs hanging over his shoulders.
a strangled gasp fell from your lips when seonghwa moved one hand to split your folds with his fingers, groaning at the sight of your weeping hole. his eyes bore into yours as he leaned down, blowing onto your drenched cunt. the sensation had your clit twitching and your walls clenching around nothing. you tried to move from him, but his grip was far too tight, keeping you right against him. then his lips latched onto your clit, eyes watching as your body jolted, a choked moan falling from your covered lips.
"h-hwa!" you cried out, hands flying out to grab something—anything. one caught his thigh, nails digging into his skin through his joggers, while the other grabbed the passenger seat. the way he devoured you was nothing short of a sloppy mess, wet squelching filled the car and causing your ears to ring. but it soon went to the back burner when his nose brushed against your twitching clit.
sparks danced across your vision as seonghwa hummed against you, sending vibration through your core and making your head spin, a loud cry tearing from your throat. he continued to eat you out like a feral animal, leaving your body trembling in his hold.
"fuck, hwa— ughh! oh god, baby," you cried out, head falling back as seonghwa's lips moved from your leaking slit to your swollen clit once more, sucking harshly. pleasure began to cloud your mind, the knot in the pit of your tummy growing tighter by the second and seonghwa knew—he always knew.
"cum, bunny, let me taste you," he spoke in a low growl against you, the vibration making your hips jump, but he kept you locked in place before diving right back in. tears flowed down your flushed face as your thighs trembled around his head.
"h-hwa…" you breathed out in a whimper, but when he pushed his tongue into your gummy walls, that thread snapped, and your arousal spurted out into his awaiting mouth. your body convulsed in his hold, eyes rolling back as more tears spilled down your face, and your legs shook around his head, threatening to snap shut if it weren’t for his hold. seonghwa, however, didn’t let up. no, he continued to devour you as if it were gonna be the last time he'd ever be able to do so.
"so fucking pretty," seonghwa groans against you, pulling a pitched moan from your swollen lips and your eyes rolling back. after making sure he got every last drop, he finally pulled away from you, letting your hips rest in his lap. however, if the bulge you felt underneath you was anything to go by, you wouldn't be making it back to either apartment any time soon.
여상 ── YEOSANG
what was supposed to be a pool party with all the members quickly turned into a solo party with you and yeosang. not that you minded spending time with your chestnut-haired boyfriend, but you spent so much time getting everything together, so it was only right that you were a little upset. now you were sitting on one of the lounge chairs, soaking in the sun while you watched yeosang swim in the pool. it didn't take long before the male noticed something was wrong, so he pulled himself from the water and made his way towards you.
you didn't notice him until he was crouching in front of you, his hands resting on your knees, sending a flurry of goosebumps across your skin. his expression was neutral, but you could see the underlying worry that pooled in his chocolate orbs.
"what's wrong, angel?" his voice was smooth, thumbs brushing over the inside of your knees, and your bottom lip jutted out in a small pout. the sight had yeosang's cock twitching to life in his trunks, and his grip grew just a hair tighter. however, you told him it was stupid, and he shook his head, allowing his hands to slide up to your hips, the action alone enough to send a storm of butterflies fluttering through your stomach.
"yeo…" you breathed out when his thumbs pressed down on your hipbone, successfully distracting you from what was making you so upset.
"let me distract you, baby," yeosang cooed, thumb sneaking under the string of your bikini bottoms, and heat bloomed in your gut. then all it took was a simple nod from you before he was sitting on the ground with his head laid back on the lounge cushions, your hips suspended in the air above his face. your glistening cunt just out of reach.
"sit angel." yeosang's voice was sweet, but you knew a warning when you heard one, and with slight hesitation, you began to lower yourself, but it wasn't quick enough for the brunette. his hands hooked around your thighs, pulling your pussy down to his eager mouth.
"yeo— fuck!" you cried out when his lips latched onto your aching clit, sucking harshly; waves of pleasure coursed through your body as he continued to work his mouth against you with precise vigor. you tried to keep your upper body lifted, knuckles turning a ghostly shade of white as you gripped the back of the lounge chair.
yeosang's movements weren't rushed. no, they were calculated and definite, because he knew how to work your body in order to have you teetering on the ledge. his fingers gripped your hips, stilling your movement as you began to rock against him, your sweet moans floating around him. a low growl reverberated through his chest and against your sopping cunt when your other hand found his head, tugging on his hair.
it wasn't long before you felt that familiar coil begin to tighten in the pit of your tummy, thighs shaking on either side of yeosang's head. he knew you were close, needing just a bit more of a push, so he pulled his tongue from your slit and brought it to your swollen clit. the sensation of the twirling muscle finally had you toppling over, broken cries falling from your lips.
"t-too— mphh! too much sangie," you moaned loudly, trying to pull your hips away from his face, but yeosang didn't care, his grip tightening and anchoring you in place. tears blurred your vision as your body hunched over in pleasure, white spots joining in at the edges.
yeosang hummed against you, loving the sweet taste of your release, and he didn't dare to let a single one go to waste. he continued to lap and suck at your sensitive cunt until you were dangling on the edge once more, but this one was different.
"go on, angel, make a mess." yeosang's voice was muffled, but the vibrations were enough, and your orgasm hit you like a freight train. your body jerked as your juices poured out in waves, loud cries falling from your lips. but yeosang just slurped up every last drop.
우영 ── WOOYOUNG
it was a camping trip with friends, spending time with each other after the stressful month that you all had. all of you were gathered by the fire after spending god who knows how long at the lake, swimming your cares away. you stayed huddled up to woooyung, soaking in his warmth where the fire failed, his arm wrapped around your waist while the other held a can.
he had been whispering absolute filth in your ear for the last twenty minutes, relishing in the way you began to squirm in your chair. you bit down on your tongue when his fingers grazed over the side of your boob, right where the skin was peeking out from underneath your swimsuit. then when you finally couldn't take anymore, you stood from your seat, excusing yourself to head to bed and stumbling towards your and wooyoung's shared tent.
it didn't take wooyoung all of ten minutes to join you, a wide smirk spreading on his lips when he found you lying out on the sleeping bag with nothing on.
without a word, he found himself between your thighs, tongue lapping at your leaking slit while his nose rubbed deliciously against your throbbing clit. his hands grip your thighs firmly as he breathes in your scent, groaning against you and making you whine softly.
"fuck you taste like heaven babydoll," he growls against you, teeth nipping lightly at your clit, causing your back to arch. your hand flew to your mouth, muffling the moans and cries of wooyoung's name. his tongue delves deeper into your folds, pushing past your entrance to let your arousal pool on his tongue.
you let out a muffled gasp, hips jerking in his hold, but he quickly pins you back down, forcing you to take it at the pace he was giving it to you. his tongue moves from your weeping entrance to your clit, drawing tight circles on the little button. your free hand flies down to his head, fingers threading through his dark locks and tugging.
"shit!" you choked out a gasp when he groaned against you, the vibrations made your whole body jolt, breaths coming out faster as you began to feel that knot in the pit of your stomach tighten. wooyoung hums at your taste, fingers digging into your thighs as he picks up the pace, eating you out like a man starved.
it took every last ounce of your willpower to keep your noises to a minimum so the others don't hear what's happening inside. but as the bridge of wooyoung's nose presses right against your aching clit you could feel that willpower diminishing rapidly. your fingers tightened in his hair as your back arched, pushing your hips just the slightest bit more into his face.
"w-woo— oh god," you moan behind your hand, tears beginning to sting in the corner of your eyes, and that coil in your tummy was so close to snapping.
wooyoung didn't let up his assault on your cunt, switching between sucking and kitten licking your clit and fucking your tight little hole with his tongue, easily finding the spot that had you seeing stars. a thin layer of sweat coats your skin, the moonlight glistening off it, and wooyoung bit back another groan.
"cum pretty girl, ya know you wanna," he murmurs against your clit before going right back to wrapping his lips around it, sucking harshly. then when he nips at it, your whole body shatters, a soundless moan falling from your lips while your fingers tug at wooyoung's raven hair.
wooyoung doesn't move an inch away from your pulsing pussy, if anything, he just delves deeper, lapping up everything greedily. the tears that had been sitting idle in your eyes broke free as your head fell back with a pitched whimper. you knew that once he started there was no stopping him until he—you—was satisfied.
synopsis : A cozy Christmas celebration takes an unexpected turn when a long-planned surprise becomes a life-changing promise.
genre : slice of life, fluff, romance, wholesome, soft christmas
warnings : none
author’s note : cldnt post this on time for christmas ystd bc i had an impromptu day trip so i didnt have any connection 😔 but enjoy this short mommy hwa oneshot 🤍
word count : 0.4k
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The house is alive in the way it only ever is on Christmas Eve.
Lights glow softly along the walls, the tree twinkling in the corner as laughter spills from the kitchen.
Your family is gathered around the dining table, friends squeezed in wherever there’s space, and Seonghwa is right beside you—warm, familiar, his hand resting lightly on your knee under the table.
You’re happy. Comfortable.
Completely unsuspecting.
“Okay, gifts!” your mom announces, clapping her hands together. “Before dessert melts.”
Groans and cheers mix together as everyone moves toward the tree. Seonghwa leans closer, his voice low.
“Are you ready?” he asks, eyes glittering in a way you don’t quite register.
“For what?” you laugh.
He just smiles.
One by one, gifts are passed around. Scarves, books, inside jokes wrapped in paper.
When it’s your turn, Seonghwa stands instead of handing you anything.
“I—uh,” he clears his throat, suddenly nervous.
That alone makes your heart stutter. Seonghwa doesn’t usually get nervous like this.
“I think… I should give this one properly.”
The room quiets. Your friends exchange looks. Your family watches with knowing smiles that make your stomach flip.
He kneels.
The world narrows instantly.
Seonghwa looks up at you, eyes shining, hands slightly trembling as he opens a small velvet box.
The ring catches the light from the tree, delicate and perfect.
“I know this wasn’t on your list,” he says softly, voice thick with emotion, “but loving you has been the greatest gift of my life.”
Your breath catches. Tears sting your eyes.
“You make ordinary days feel like celebrations,” he continues. “And I want every Christmas, every morning, every moment—if you’ll let me.”
He swallows, then smiles through it.
“Will you marry me?”
For half a second, you forget how to speak.
Then the room explodes—gasps, happy sobs, your friends already crying—but all you can see is him.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, Seonghwa.”
He stands, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms. The applause fades into the background as he presses his forehead to yours, laughing softly, overwhelmed.
“Merry Christmas,” he whispers.
You smile through tears, heart full, knowing that the best gift you’ll ever receive wasn’t under the tree at all.
[ Seonghwa x Fem!Reader ] — One shot, fluff — Ateez masterlist — wc: 1133
WARNINGS: established relationship, kisses, nothing, just really fluff lol
A/n: it’s almost Christmas guys🫶🏻 I wanted to write something better but I couldn’t, so I made a fluffy shot. It’s been a while since I wrote one lol. I should post the Yunho’s one shot in a few days tho
CHRISTMAS EVE had always carried a particular kind of quiet vibe in your shared apartment.
You were sitting on the floor, close enough that there was no clear line between where one ended and the other began. A small wooden table stood in front of them, low enough to allow them to tuck your legs under it, holding two forgotten mugs of hot chocolate that had long since gone lukewarm. A thick gray blanket was draped over your legs and around your shoulders, protecting them from the winter cold.
The Christmas tree stood just to their left, modest in size but dressed with care. Warm fairy lights curled around its branches, casting a soft glow that danced across the walls and reflected faintly in the window glass. Ornaments glimmered quietly, nothing too extravagant, just a few of red and gold decorations that you choose together a few weeks before. The lights brushed over your figures, outlining Seonghwa's profile and the curve of your cheek where it rested against his shoulder.
The tv played an old Christmas movie, one of those classics neither of you had actually paid attention to beyond the comforting familiarity of its soundtrack. The dialogue drifted in and out, blending with the faint hum of the heater and the occasional crackle from the tree lights. It was background noise, something to fill the silence without disturbing it.
Lego pieces were scattered across the table in front of you in a colorful, chaotic constellation. Some were neatly grouped by shape and color, others pushed aside with the careless sweep of a hand. Seonghwa sat cross-legged, slightly hunched forward, fully absorbed in what he was building. He held a small cluster of pieces between his fingers, his hands steady and precise as he worked.
His eyebrows were drawn together in concentration, a faint crease forming between them. The tip of his tongue peeked out from between his lips without him realizing, a habit he'd never quite managed to break when he focused too hard. The golden light from the tree caught in his dark hair, softening his features, making him look almost unreal.
You were tucked against him, your body angled toward his, your head resting comfortably on his shoulder. You were wearing one of his sweaters, the sleeves too long for your arms, the fabric heavy and warm with his scent still on it. It slipped slightly off one shoulder, exposing a hint of skin that Seonghwa pretended not to notice, though his awareness of your presence never truly faded.
Your eyes were closed, your breathing slow and even. You hummed softly, barely louder than a whisper, not even a real song, just a gentle sound tat came naturally. Every now and then, you shifted slightly, lifting your head just enough to press a small kiss to the side of his neck before settling back against him again.
Each kiss was brief, gentle, but it sent a quiet warmth through him every time. His shoulders would tense for the smallest moment before relaxing again, his lips curving into the faintest smile while he kept working. He didn't say anything, didn't look directly at you, but the way his posture softened spoke louder than words.
Minutes slipped by unnoticed. The movie changed scenes. The chocolate grew colder. The pile of Lego in front of you slowly diminished as Seonghwa assembled the pieces with careful attention, occasionally pausing to double-check the instructions before continuing.
Finally, he leaned back slightly, straightening his spine. A proud smile spread across his face as he examined his work one last time. In his hands was a Lego flower, cotton pink. The petals were carefully arranged, the stem sturdy and straight.
He turned toward you, the movement gentle so as not to disturb you too abruptly. You felt the shift and opened your eyes, blinking lazily as you looked up at him. For a moment, you just watched him, your expression soft and curious.
Seonghwa held the flower out to you, both hands cupping it as if it were something fragile and precious. His eyes flicked between the flower and your face, a hint of nervousness slipping through his otherwise calm demeanor.
«The most beautiful flower,» he said quietly, his voice low and sincere. «for the most beautiful girl in the world.»
The words settled between you, unembellished and earnest. Your lips parted in surprise, a soft laugh escaping your as warmth crept up your cheeks. You reached out and took the flower from his hands, your fingers brushing against his in the process.
«It's...» you paused, glancing down at it before looking back at him. Your smile widened.
You placed the flower carefully on your lap, as though it might fall apart if you weren't gentle enough. When you looked back at him, you found him watching you closely, his eyes bright and hopeful, waiting for your reaction with the open anticipation of a child showing off something they'd made with their whole heart.
Without saying anything, you lifted both hands and cupped his face, your palms warm against his cheeks. Your thumbs brushed lightly beneath his eyes as you leaned in, closing the small distance between you. You kissed him softly, your lips fitting against his in a way that felt familiar and deeply reassuring.
Seonghwa smiled into the kiss, a quiet chuckle escaping him as his hands came up to rest in your hair. His fingers threaded through the strands slowly, savoring the softness. He kissed you back just as gently, as if afraid to break the moment if he pressed too hard.
You laughed softly against his lips, the sound muffled by his mouth. «Thank you.» you murmured when you pulled back just enough to speak. «It's beautiful.»
His gaze lingered on your mouth, his smile turning a little shy as it always did when you kissed him. He bit his lower lip briefly, looking at your lips, a habit that appeared whenever he wanted to kiss you.
You noticed, of course. You always did. Your eyes flicked up to meet his. Without a word, you leaned in again, kissing him once more that night, that time deeper. Your arms slid around his neck, drawing him closer, enveloping him in your warmth.
He responded instinctively, one arm wrapping around your waist beneath the blanket, pulling you into his chest. The Lego pieces pressed uncomfortably against his knee, but he didn't care. All that mattered was the way you fitted against him, the way the world seemed to narrow down to the space you shared.
The movie continued to play in the background, its soundtrack swelling and fading without you notice. The Christmas tree lights flickered softly, casting gentle shadows over the room, over the two of you tangled together on the floor.
You hadn’t planned to tell him yet.
You told yourself you’d wait until tomorrow — or the weekend — or maybe next week, when your hands didn’t shake every time you thought about it. You wanted to process it alone first, to figure out how you felt. The excitement that tried to bloom was tangled up with a quiet, persistent fear that you couldn’t quite name.
Your career. His career. The timing. The spotlight. The endless, faceless opinions.
All of it pressed down on your chest like a weight you didn’t know how to lift.
So when Hongjoong walks through the door that evening — hair tied up, hoodie half-zipped, humming something under his breath — you paste on a small smile and hope he won’t notice.
He notices immediately.
He always does.
“Y/N,” he calls softly, eyes narrowing with that leader’s intuition that doesn’t miss a thing. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” you say too quickly. “Just tired.”
He raises a brow. “You said that yesterday. And the day before.”
Then he steps closer, leaning down until his face is inches from yours. “Something’s off. You’re not good at hiding things, you know that?”
Your heart stutters. You want to deflect, tease him, say you’re paranoid, but the truth is right there in your pocket, humming like static. You pull the small test out before you can think twice — two faint pink lines, glaringly alive under the soft living room light.
For a second, he doesn’t move. His eyes track the object, then flick to your face.
“Oh,” he breathes. Just that. Quiet. Careful. As if any louder and the world might tip off its axis.
You nod wordlessly, fingers twisting in your lap. “I found out this morning.”
His mouth opens, then closes again, like he’s trying to find the right words but none are big enough. He sits down beside you slowly, rubbing his palms against his knees.
“I—wow. Okay. Um.” He lets out a nervous laugh, the sound shaking with disbelief. “So… that’s… ours?”
You nod again. “Pretty sure.”
He stares ahead for a long moment, the silence stretching — not heavy, just full. You can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes, the dozen emotions fighting to be first. And then, finally, his lips curve. Not a grin. Not even a full smile. Just the faintest upward quirk, raw and sincere.
“Guess my whole ‘five-year plan’ just got a plot twist,” he murmurs.
You huff out a wet laugh, wiping at your eyes. “You’re taking this weirdly well.”
“I’m not,” he admits immediately, laughing softly too. “My brain’s doing cartwheels right now.”
Then he turns to you, eyes softening again. “But also… I don’t know. It feels—right? Scary, but right.”
Your throat tightens. The words spill before you can stop them. “I’m scared it’s going to ruin everything for you. For us. I know how much your work means to you, and I don’t want—”
“Hey.”
He interrupts gently, taking your hands in his. His touch is warm, steady. “You’re not ruining anything. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. This—” he glances at the test, voice dropping to a whisper “—this is just… something we’ll figure out together.”
You blink hard, trying to hold back tears. “You mean that?”
“I do.” He gives a small laugh, leaning his forehead against yours. “I mean, I’m terrified, don’t get me wrong. But I’m also… weirdly happy? Like, heart pounding, can’t breathe, holy shit happy.”
You let out a shaky laugh, half a sob, half a sigh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he says, pulling you gently into his arms. “But I’m your ridiculous.”
You stay like that for a while, the room quiet except for your mingled breaths. His hand finds the small of your back, tracing lazy circles — a silent promise. The kind that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud.
After a long while, he murmurs against your hair, “Guess I’ll have to start writing lullabies instead of love songs, huh?”
You laugh into his chest. “Please don’t make our kid your test audience.”
“Too late,” he grins, kissing the top of your head. “They’re getting a full album.”
You roll your eyes, but the warmth of his embrace seeps deep into your bones, untangling something that’s been wound too tight all day. And when he finally whispers, “We’ve got this, Y/N. I promise,” you almost believe it.
Almost.
But it’s enough for now.
Park Seonghwa
He’s in the kitchen when it happens. You’re trying to focus on cutting fruit, hands trembling just slightly, the knife slipping enough to nick your finger. It’s barely a scratch, but he’s there in an instant, wrapping your hand in a napkin like it’s the end of the world.
“Y/N,” he scolds softly, eyes wide with worry. “You need to be careful.”
“I’m fine,” you say, but your voice cracks halfway through the lie.
He freezes, that tiny sound slicing through him sharper than the knife did you. “Hey… what’s wrong?” His voice gentles, softer now, the way it always does when he’s trying to coax the truth out of you. “You’ve been somewhere else lately. I thought it was stress but… this isn’t just stress, is it?”
You shake your head, the napkin now uselessly damp with your tears. “No,” you whisper.
He sets the knife down, drying his hands carefully before turning back to you — patient, steady, his whole posture saying I’m here, it’s okay, take your time.
Your fingers fumble with your phone, pulling up the photo you took of the test earlier that morning. Two pink lines, clear and impossible to misread. You hold the screen out to him.
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. His eyes widen, lips parting just slightly. Then he looks back at you, disbelief softening into something that makes your chest ache. “You’re serious?”
You nod. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
His mouth trembles — not with fear, but with a wave of something deeper. He takes the phone gently, sets it aside, and cups your face in both hands. His thumbs brush away your tears before they can fall.
“Hey,” he whispers. “This is… this is a good thing, right?”
You want to say yes. You really do. But your voice comes out small. “I don’t know. What if it’s not? What if this changes everything?”
He tilts your chin up so you’ll meet his eyes. They’re shining now, already glassy with emotion. “It will change everything,” he admits quietly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s bad. It means it’s new. And maybe new can be beautiful too.”
The words hit something fragile inside you. You lean into his touch, letting his calm seep into you like sunlight. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead — one, then another, then one more for good measure.
“I’m scared,” you whisper.
He smiles, tears slipping free down his own cheeks. “Me too. I’ve never been more scared in my life.” He laughs wetly. “But also… I’ve never been happier. It’s weird.”
You huff a tearful laugh. “You’re crying.”
“So are you,” he says, voice gentle. “Guess we’re both hopeless.”
He pulls you into his arms then, holding you so tightly you can feel the rhythm of his heartbeat through his chest — steady, grounding, safe. He smells like coffee and laundry detergent and home.
“I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs into your hair. “Of both of you. Whatever you need, whenever you need it.”
You bury your face into his shoulder, a sob breaking loose before you can stop it. “You mean that?”
“I’ve never meant anything more.” He pulls back just enough to smile at you through his tears. “Guess I need to start practicing my dad jokes.”
You snort, half-laughing, half-crying. “Please don’t.”
“Too late,” he grins. “I’ve already got a few.”
You shake your head, but your heart feels lighter — still trembling, still scared, but no longer alone. Seonghwa kisses your temple once more, and you can feel him smiling against your skin.
And for the first time all day, the air doesn’t feel so heavy.
Jeong Yunho
You find out that telling Yunho something serious is a little like trying to have a heart-to-heart with a golden retriever mid-zoomies.
He bursts into the room carrying takeout and an energy that could light a city block. “Okay! I brought your favorite! And mine. And also something random I wanted to try because the picture looked good!”
He’s halfway through unpacking the food when he catches the look on your face. You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, the TV on but long forgotten, your expression frozen somewhere between terrified and tired.
The excitement falters. “...Hey. What’s wrong?”
You open your mouth, close it again. He sits down instantly, concern replacing his grin. “Y/N?” His hand finds your knee, warm and grounding. “Talk to me.”
You stare at him — all sunshine eyes and soft edges — and the words slip out before you can stop them. “I’m pregnant.”
There’s a heartbeat of silence. Then—
“What?”
It’s not disbelief so much as pure shock. His mouth opens and closes like he’s buffering. Then his eyes widen further, and suddenly his whole body jolts. “You’re pregnant?”
You nod, trying not to cry. “Yeah.”
He goes still. You can almost see the moment it hits him — the thought, the meaning, the reality. Then, in the most Yunho way possible, he claps a hand over his mouth, muffling a strangled laugh-sob. “Oh my God.”
You blink. “What?”
“I—” He bursts out laughing again, eyes shining with tears now. “I don’t know! I just—” He stands up, paces in a small circle, runs both hands through his hair. “I’m gonna be—holy shit.”
He looks back at you, face lit up like it’s Christmas morning. “Are you okay? You’re okay, right? You’ve eaten? Wait—should you be eating this?!” He starts snatching random takeout boxes away before realizing he has no idea which ones are “safe.”
You can’t help it — you laugh. A real, unguarded laugh. “Yunho—stop! It’s fine.”
He freezes mid-panicked motion, sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “Sorry. I just—wow. I’m freaking out.”
You take a slow breath. “I am too,” you admit quietly. “I don’t know how this will affect everything. The schedules, the group, your career—”
But before you can spiral further, he’s in front of you again, kneeling between your knees, hands resting gently on your thighs. His voice softens, the chaos dimming to something steady and sincere. “Hey. Look at me.”
You do.
“We’ll figure that out later, okay? Right now…” He hesitates, swallowing thickly. “Right now I’m just… really happy. Like, heart’s-going-to-burst happy.”
Tears sting your eyes again, but his smile holds you steady. He presses his forehead against yours, voice barely above a whisper. “You and me. We’ve already made something good out of everything that’s ever gone wrong. We can do this too.”
You nod, choking out a laugh. “You’re still crying.”
He laughs, too — big, bright, beautiful. “I can’t help it! I’m emotional!”
Then, in a move that is so Yunho it almost hurts, he leans down and presses a clumsy kiss to your stomach, grinning through his tears. “Hi, tiny human. I’m your dad. I cry a lot but I also make great pancakes.”
You groan. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know,” he says, still smiling. “But now I’m your ridiculous and theirs.”
You don’t realize you’re crying again until he’s wiping your cheeks with his thumbs, murmuring soft things between kisses — promises, laughter, fragments of joy. And somehow, in all his chaotic sincerity, the fear inside you loosens its grip.
Because if there’s anyone who can make even the scariest moment feel like home, it’s Jeong Yunho.
Kang Yeosang
You don’t even say it out loud at first.
He finds out by accident — or maybe it isn’t an accident, not really. You’ve been carrying the secret like a fragile thing, too heavy to keep but too tender to set down. And somehow, it slips out on an ordinary evening, in that way small truths often do.
You’re sitting on the floor, back against the couch, half-watching a movie neither of you are really paying attention to. Yeosang is behind you, methodically braiding your hair — something he does when he’s too tired to talk but still wants to be close.
He’s quiet, humming faintly under his breath, his fingers working through your hair with that unhurried care that always calms you down. But you can’t focus. You’ve been on edge all day, heartbeat loud in your chest, words stuck like stones in your throat.
When he notices your shoulders tense, he leans down slightly. “You’re quiet tonight,” he murmurs.
You almost laugh. “You say that like I’m usually loud.”
He smiles softly. “You’re quieter than your quiet.”
You bite your lip, hesitating. The words bubble up before you can stop them. “Yeosang, I need to tell you something.”
The hands in your hair pause. “Okay,” he says simply. No pressure, no panic. Just quiet readiness.
You shift around to face him, hands fidgeting in your lap. The words come out small, trembling. “I’m… pregnant.”
Silence.
It stretches, long and fragile. His eyes widen, flickering between your face and your hands, as if searching for confirmation, for proof that he heard you right.
“You’re serious?” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper.
You nod, throat tight. “I just found out. I’m still—” You take a shaky breath. “I’m still processing it.”
He blinks slowly, lips parting like he wants to speak but can’t find the words. For a long moment, he doesn’t move at all — just stares at you, expression unreadable. You start to panic, thinking maybe he’s upset, maybe this was too much.
But then, he exhales. A soft, trembling sound, like the world inside him is quietly rearranging itself.
“Can I—” He hesitates, voice breaking slightly. “Can I hold you?”
You nod, and he moves closer, arms wrapping around you gently, reverently, like he’s afraid you might break. His chin rests on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.
For a while, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t empty; it’s full. Full of wonder, fear, and the steady rhythm of his heart against your back.
When he finally pulls away, there’s a tear tracing down his cheek. You reach up to wipe it, but he catches your hand instead, pressing a kiss to your palm.
“I’m… surprised,” he admits softly. “But not unhappy. Just—” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Awed.”
You let out a breath that sounds a lot like a laugh. “Awed?”
He nods. “That something like this could happen. That we could make something like this.” His voice is quiet, reverent, but there’s a smile hidden in the edges of it. “You always tell me I don’t show emotions well. But right now, I feel like my heart’s too big for my body.”
Your throat tightens. “I was scared you’d be mad.”
He shakes his head slowly. “No. Never mad.” Then, a soft chuckle. “Maybe terrified. But in the best way.”
You lean into him, the two of you sinking back into the couch. His hand slips into yours, thumb tracing absent patterns over your skin.
After a while, he whispers, “I’ll do better. I’ll work harder. I want them to be proud of me.”
You smile through your tears. “They already will be.”
He squeezes your hand, gaze drifting to your stomach, a look of quiet wonder on his face — the kind that could make the whole world go still.
And in the hush of that moment, with the movie flickering in the background and his heartbeat steady against yours, you finally let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.
Choi San
You almost expect it — the way he feels everything too much.
San doesn’t do halfway. When he’s happy, the world glows. When he’s worried, he aches. And when you tell him this — when you finally let the words spill out — he reacts in a way that only San could.
It happens late, long after midnight. You’ve both just come back from a long day — he’s tired, hair still damp from his shower, hoodie hanging off one shoulder. You’re curled up in bed, staring at the ceiling, nerves buzzing under your skin.
He notices instantly. “Y/N,” he says softly, “you’re thinking too loud.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “Sorry.”
He sits beside you, pulling his legs up cross-legged. “You only say sorry like that when you’re about to drop a bomb.” His tone is teasing, but there’s a thread of concern woven through it. “What’s going on?”
You swallow hard. Your palms are sweaty. You were going to wait. But San’s gaze is so open — so safe — that the truth tumbles out before you can stop it.
“I’m pregnant.”
The room stills. The world stills.
For a full five seconds, he doesn’t breathe. His eyes widen, pupils blown like he’s just heard the most impossible thing in the universe. Then his lips part — no sound, just air.
And then, chaos.
“What— I— wait— you’re— I’m— we’re—” His words tangle together until he gives up completely, letting out the most broken, stunned laugh you’ve ever heard. “You’re serious?!”
You nod, half laughing, half crying now. “Yeah.”
He covers his mouth with both hands, eyes glassy, teetering between joy and sheer disbelief. “Oh my god. Oh my god.” He jumps up, paces once, twice — then spins back around, grabbing your face in both hands, voice shaking. “You’re really pregnant?”
“Yes!” you laugh, and he makes this small, helpless sound that’s half laugh, half sob.
And then he kisses you. Hard. Messy. Like he doesn’t know what else to do with all the feelings crashing through him. You feel the tremor in his hands, the wet press of his lashes when he pulls back.
“Holy shit,” he whispers against your lips. “We’re gonna have a baby.”
You nod, suddenly overwhelmed. “I’m scared, San.”
He freezes at that, all the wild joy in him softening to something tender. He sits back down, pulling you into his lap, one arm around your waist, the other tracing absent circles on your back. “I know,” he says quietly. “Me too.”
You rest your head against his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat racing against your ear.
“I keep thinking,” you whisper, “what if this changes everything? What if I ruin your career, or your image, or—”
“Hey.” His voice cuts through, firm but gentle. He leans back so you can see his eyes — shining, sincere. “You didn’t ruin anything. You gave me something. Something I didn’t even know I wanted this bad until right now.”
Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them. He kisses each one away, murmuring softly between each touch. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll be careful. We’ll protect this, okay?”
You nod against him, clutching his hoodie. “You’re really okay with this?”
He smiles, the kind that crinkles his eyes and breaks your heart a little. “Okay? I’m— I’m obsessed already.” He places a hand gently against your stomach, voice cracking with awe. “They’re in there. Half you, half me. I don’t even know them yet, but—” his throat tightens “—I love them already.”
You laugh wetly, trying to wipe your tears. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Obviously,” he says without hesitation, laughing softly. “You knew that before you said yes to me.”
He kisses you again, slower this time — a promise, not a reaction. And when he finally pulls back, he stays close, whispering against your forehead, “We’re gonna do this together, Y/N. I swear. You won’t have to be scared alone.”
You breathe out, a shaky sound that turns into a small, relieved laugh.
And when San wraps his arms around you, the world outside your little room — the noise, the pressure, the fear — all fades for a while. There’s just you, him, and the quiet miracle between your hands.
Song Mingi
It happens in the most Mingi way possible — out of nowhere, in public, with too many feelings all at once.
You’re sitting together on a park bench, sharing a paper cup of street tteokbokki as the sun dips behind the skyline. The air smells faintly of rain, the world soft and gold, and Mingi’s halfway through telling you a ridiculous story about something Jongho did during rehearsal when he notices you aren’t laughing.
He tilts his head, chopsticks pausing midair. “Hey. Where’d you go?”
You blink. “Huh?”
“You’re not listening.” His tone isn’t accusing — just curious, fond. “You’ve been all floaty lately.”
You stare down at the cup between you, steam curling in the air. Maybe it’s the quiet, or the way the light hits his face, or how safe he feels even in a crowd. But something in you decides this is the moment.
“I need to tell you something.”
That gets his attention. His brows draw together, chopsticks lowering slowly. “Okay…”
You take a breath, heart hammering. “I’m pregnant.”
He blinks once. Twice. Three times. The street sounds fade. Somewhere, a car horn honks distantly.
Then he laughs — too loudly, too suddenly, pure disbelief bursting out of him like static. “Wait. What?”
You half-smile, half-flinch. “Yeah.”
He stares at you, mouth still open, his laughter dying out as realization dawns. “You’re— you’re serious?”
You nod. “Very.”
Mingi’s face cycles through six emotions in five seconds — shock, joy, panic, awe, confusion, more panic — before settling on something that looks suspiciously like tears.
“Oh my god,” he whispers, voice trembling. “You’re serious.”
He sets the cup down, because his hands are shaking too much to hold it. Then he’s rubbing his face with both palms, laughing breathlessly between shaky exhales. “Okay. Okay. Uh—wow. That’s—wow.”
You can’t help laughing too, even through the tightness in your chest. “You keep saying wow.”
“Because—” He gestures helplessly. “What else am I supposed to say?! That’s—huge! That’s—baby-huge!”
That makes you laugh harder, the tension in your chest finally cracking. But then his voice drops suddenly, quieter. “You’re scared, huh?”
You nod before you can lie. “Yeah. A little.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the ground. The usual sparkle in his eyes is gone — replaced by something soft, serious. “I am too,” he admits. “I’m terrified. But…” He glances up, a wobbly smile tugging at his lips. “I’m also kind of stupidly happy right now. Like my brain doesn’t know what to do with it.”
You laugh wetly. “That sounds like you.”
He grins, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Yeah. Crying and laughing at the same time. That’s my brand.”
There’s a pause — quiet but not uncomfortable. A group of kids run past chasing a soccer ball, their laughter echoing through the park. Mingi watches them go, and something shifts in his face — something soft and aching.
“I’m gonna love them so much,” he says suddenly. His voice cracks on the last word. “Like… so much it’s gonna be annoying.”
You smile through your tears. “I already feel bad for them.”
He laughs again, reaching out to take your hand. His palm is warm, still trembling just a little. “I know this wasn’t part of the plan,” he says softly. “And I know you’re scared. But we’ll make it work, yeah? We always do.”
You squeeze his hand, the sunset painting both your faces in shades of amber and rose. “You mean it?”
He nods, sniffling, trying to smile but his eyes keep watering. “I mean it so much it hurts.”
He lets out another shaky laugh, brushing a tear off his own cheek. “You really had to tell me this in public, huh? Now I’m that guy crying over tteokbokki.”
You burst out laughing, leaning into his shoulder. “You’d be crying anyway.”
“True,” he says, squeezing your hand tighter. “But at least now it’s for a good reason.”
And when he finally kisses your temple — the simplest, softest touch — the fear in your chest doesn’t vanish, but it quiets. Because in that golden hour glow, surrounded by laughter and city noise, Mingi looks at you like he already sees the future.
And maybe, just maybe, you start to see it too.
Jung Wooyoung
It starts with noodles.
Because with Wooyoung, it always starts with food and ends with feelings.
It’s past midnight in the dorm kitchen — the world hushed except for the low hum of the fridge and the soft clink of chopsticks. You’re perched on the counter in one of his oversized shirts, watching him stir the pot with the seriousness of a Michelin chef. He hums to himself, head bobbing slightly to a song only he can hear.
“Why are you up so late?” you ask, voice still scratchy from sleep.
He shrugs, glancing back at you with that lazy grin. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d make us a snack. You shouldn’t be awake either, though. You need rest.”
Something about the way he says rest makes you frown. It’s gentle, careful — like he’s tiptoeing around something.
“Rest?” you echo. “You sound like my mom.”
He laughs, shoulders shaking. “Maybe I should. You’ve been looking tired lately.”
“I’m fine,” you say, too fast. He glances at you but doesn’t comment, just stirs the ramen again. The air smells like spice and something warm and safe.
You try to focus on the steam curling above the pot, but your thoughts are heavy. You haven’t told him yet — not because you don’t trust him, but because you love him too much. Because you know how he feels about responsibility, how seriously he takes care of everyone he loves. You didn’t want to see that sparkle in his eyes shift into worry.
He sets two bowls on the counter, slides one toward you. “Eat,” he says simply.
You pick at the noodles, appetite gone. The silence stretches, filled only by the faint rain tapping against the window.
Then, out of nowhere, he says softly, “You should be eating more anyway. You know… for two.”
You freeze. Your chopsticks clatter against the bowl. “What?”
His eyes go wide — too wide. “What?” he echoes instantly, way too defensive.
“Wooyoung.”
He winces, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Okay, wait, that came out wrong—”
“How long have you known?” you demand, voice somewhere between shock and disbelief.
He opens his mouth, closes it, then groans dramatically, dragging his hands down his face. “A while,” he admits finally, voice muffled through his palms. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything yet.”
You blink. “How—?”
“I found the test,” he blurts, hands shooting up in surrender. “I didn’t mean to! It fell out of your bag one morning and I just— I panicked! And then I thought, ‘Okay, she didn’t tell me yet, so she’s probably scared, so I’ll wait, I’ll give her time,’ but then—”
He gestures helplessly toward the ramen. “Apparently I can’t even keep one secret without it slipping out of my mouth like hot soup.”
You stare at him, caught somewhere between wanting to laugh and cry. “You knew this whole time?”
He nods, cheeks flushing. “Yeah.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
He shrugs helplessly. “I wanted you to tell me when you were ready. I didn’t want to pressure you. You already overthink everything — I didn’t want to make it worse.”
The lump in your throat grows too big to swallow. “I just… didn’t know how. I was scared.”
His expression softens instantly. He sets his bowl down and steps between your knees, hands resting carefully on your thighs. “Hey. Look at me.”
You do, and his eyes — bright, mischievous, usually full of teasing — are nothing but warm. “You’re allowed to be scared,” he says quietly. “But you don’t have to do it alone. You never have to.”
Tears sting your eyes. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad?” He laughs softly. “I’ve known for weeks, and all I’ve been doing is smiling like an idiot every time I look at you. Do you know how hard it’s been to not tell San?”
You snort through your tears. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.” He grins, wiping at your cheek with his thumb. “But I’m your ridiculous.”
You breathe out a shaky laugh, resting your forehead against his chest. He holds you there, arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid to let go.
“Guess I’ll have to learn how to cook more than ramen,” he murmurs into your hair.
“You’ll have to learn how to change diapers first,” you mumble, smiling against his shirt.
He laughs, low and warm. “Deal. But I’m still making ramen for both of you.”
You look up at him then — his grin soft and a little teary, the golden kitchen light wrapping around him like a promise — and suddenly, the fear doesn’t feel so big.
Because even when he’s clumsy, too honest, too loud, Wooyoung has always had a way of making life’s messiest moments feel like home.
Choi Jongho
The music is too loud.
Bass rattles through the floor, lights flash in dizzy colors, and laughter blends with the steady hum of chatter. You’re sitting at the end of the booth, a glass of soda in your hands while everyone else takes turns cheering and teasing each other over shots.
You smile when you’re supposed to, laugh when the moment calls for it — but your hands don’t stop shaking. The smell of alcohol makes your stomach twist.
Across the table, Jongho’s watching you.
He doesn’t say anything at first — just raises a brow when San tries to hand you a drink and you shake your head too quickly. You catch the brief furrow in his brow before he looks away, pretending to focus on the conversation. But you know him too well; he’s definitely noticed.
“Y/N, you okay?” he asks quietly a few minutes later, leaning close so you can hear him over the music.
“Yeah,” you say, smiling too wide. “Just tired.”
It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either. You’ve been holding it together for hours — laughing, nodding, pretending the lights and laughter don’t make your chest feel like it’s caving in.
But when the noise spikes again — a cheer, a glass shattering, someone calling for another round — something inside you cracks.
You mumble an excuse, slide out of the booth before anyone can stop you, and step outside. The cold night air hits you hard. You stumble into the alley beside the club, the music fading into a dull thump behind the walls.
You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel the chill against your cheeks.
You sink against the brick wall, breath shaking. Everything feels too big — the secret, the fear, the thought of what this means for you, for him, for everything you’ve built.
Then you hear footsteps.
“Y/N?”
His voice is softer out here — stripped of all the noise.
You turn, wiping at your face. “Jongho, go back inside. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t listen. He never does when you say that. He steps closer, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in your expression. “You’re not fine.”
You open your mouth, but no words come out. Just a choked sound that turns into a sob halfway through. He’s beside you in an instant, one hand hovering awkwardly near your shoulder before he finally settles it there — warm, grounding.
“Hey, hey. What’s going on?”
You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. The words feel too heavy, too fragile. But you can’t hold them anymore.
“I’m pregnant,” you whisper.
He freezes. For a second, all you hear is the muffled beat of the club and the rush of your own pulse.
Then, quietly: “You’re serious?”
You nod, eyes fixed on the wet pavement. “I didn’t mean to tell you like this. I just— I didn’t know what to do, and it’s been so much, and I feel sick, and I couldn’t—”
He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, silent but steady, until your words fall apart.
Then he exhales softly, a sound somewhere between surprise and understanding. “Okay.”
“Okay?” you repeat, voice small.
“Yeah.” He crouches down a little so he can meet your eyes. “Okay. We’ll figure it out. You don’t have to do this alone.”
You laugh weakly through your tears. “You always say that.”
“Because I mean it,” he says, a faint smile pulling at his lips. “And because it’s true.”
You blink at him, the tension in your chest loosening just a little. He looks calm — too calm for someone who’s just had his world flipped — but that’s always been Jongho’s way. Steady. Quietly strong.
He straightens up, offering his hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
You hesitate. “I don’t want to ruin your night.”
He rolls his eyes gently. “Y/N, you think I’m staying here while you’re crying in an alley? No chance.”
Something like a laugh escapes you — small, trembling. He smiles at that, the soft curve of it almost enough to make you cry again.
“Let’s go home,” he says. “We’ll stop for food on the way. Something warm, yeah?”
You nod, sliding your hand into his. His grip is firm, comforting.
As you walk back toward the street, the music fades completely, replaced by the rhythm of your footsteps and the quiet sound of his voice beside you.
“Hey,” he murmurs after a moment, glancing down at you. “You did the right thing telling me. I know it’s scary. But you’re not alone, okay?”
You look up at him — the glow from the streetlights catching the edge of his face — and for the first time that night, your chest feels a little lighter.
“Okay,” you whisper back.
He squeezes your hand gently. “Good. Now let’s go get some tteokbokki before you start crying again.”
You laugh, nudging him weakly. “You’re such an ass.”
He grins. “Yeah, but I’m your ass.”
And somehow, even in the cold, with your world spinning in a hundred directions, you believe him.
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